THE GREY LADYBY HENRY SETON MERRIMAN. 

 "The dog that snapt the shadow, dropt the bone. "

CONTENTS

BOOK THE FIRST

I. TWO IN THE FIELD. II. A MAN DOWN. III. A SEA DOG. IV. PURGATORIO. V. THE VALLEY OF REPOSE. VI. AN ACTOR PASSES OFF THE STAGE. VII. IN THE STREET OF THE PEACE. VIII. THE DEAL. IX. CUT FOR PARTNERS. X. THE GAME OPENS. XI. SHIPS UPON THE SEA. XII. A SHUFFLE. XIII. A CHOICE. XIV. A QUATRE. XV. DON QUIXOTE. XVI. BROKEN. 

BOOK THE SECOND

I. BITS OF LIFE. II. A COMPACT. III. BAFFLED. IV. FOR THE HIGHEST BIDDER. V. THE TEAR ON THE SWORD. VI. THE COUNT STANDS BY. VII. A VOYAGE. VIII. A GREAT FIGHT. IX. THE EDITOR'S ROOM. X. THE CURTAIN LOWERS. XI. "MILKSOP". XII. THE END OF THE "CROONAH. "XIII. AT D'ERRAHA AGAIN. XIV. THE COUNT'S STORY. 

BOOK THE FIRST. 

CHAPTER I. TWO IN THE FIELD. 

 Qui n'accepte pas le regret n'accepte pas la vie. 

The train technically known as the "Flying Dutchman, " tearingthrough the plains of Taunton, and in a first-class carriage bythemselves, facing each other, two boys. 

One of these boys remembers the moment to this day. A journeyaccomplished with Care for a travelling companion usually adheres tothe wheels of memory until those wheels are still. Grim Care waswith these boys in the railway carriage. A great catastrophe hadcome to them. A FitzHenry had failed to pass into her Majesty'sNavy. Back and back through the generations--back to the days whenEngland had no navy--she had always been served at sea by aFitzHenry. Moreover, there had always been a Henry of that name onthe books. Henry, the son of Henry, had, as a matter of course, gone down to the sea in a ship, had done his country's business inthe great waters. 

There was, if they could have looked at it from a racial point ofview, one small grain of consolation. The record was not even nowsnapped--for Henry had succeeded, Luke it was who had failed. 

Henry sat with his back to the engine, looking out over the flatmeadow-land, with some moisture remarkably like a tear in eithereye. The eyes were blue, deep, and dark like the eastern horizonwhen the sun is setting over the sea. The face was brown, and oval, and still. It looked like a face that belonged to a race, somethingthat had been handed down with the inherent love of blue water. Itis probable that many centuries ago, a man with features such asthese, with eyes such as these, and crisp, closely curling hair, hadleaped ashore from his open Viking boat, shouting defiance to theBriton. 

This son of countless Henrys sat and thought the world was hollow, with no joy in it, and no hope, because Luke had failed. 

We are told that there shall be two in the field, that the one shallbe taken and the other left. But we have yet to learn why, in ourlimited vision, the choice seems invariably to be mistaken. We haveyet to learn why he who is doing good work is called from the field, leaving there the man whose tastes are urban. 

Except for the sake of the record--and we cannot really be expectedin these busy times to live for generations past or yet unborn--except for the record it would have been more expedient that Henryshould fail and Luke succeed. Everybody knew this. It was thecommon talk on board the Britannia. Even the examiners knew it. Luke himself was aware of it. But there had always been a fatalityabout Luke. 

And now, when it was quite apparent that Luke was a sailor andnothing else, the Navy would have none of him. Those who knew him--his kindly old captain and others--averred that, with a strict andunquestionable discipline, Luke FitzHenry could be made a first-class officer and a brilliant sailor. No one quite understood him, not even his brother Henry, usually known as Fitz. Fitz did notunderstand him now; he had not understood him since the fatal noticehad been posted on the broad mainmast, of which some may wot. Hedid not know what to say, so, like the wise old Duke, he saidnothing. 

In the meantime the train raced on. Every moment brought themnearer to London and to the Honourable Mrs. Harrington. 

Fitz seemed to be realising this, for he glanced uneasily at hisbrother, whose morose, sullen face was turned resolutely towards thewindow. 

"She'll be a fool, " he said, "if she does not give you anotherchance. "

"I would not take it, " answered Luke mechanically. 

He was darker than his brother, with a longer chin and a peculiartwist of the lips. His eyes were lighter in colour, and rather tooclose together. A keen observer would have put him down as a boywho in manhood might go wrong. The strange thing was that no onecould have hesitated for a moment in selecting Luke as the clevererof the two. 

Fitz paused. He was not so quick with his tongue as with his limbs. He knew his brother well enough to foresee the effect of failure. Luke FitzHenry was destined to be one of those unfortunate men whofail ungracefully. 

"Do not decide in too great a hurry, " said Fitz at length, ratherlamely. "Don't be a fool!"

"No, it has been decided for me by my beastly bad luck. "

"It WAS bad luck--deuced bad luck. "

They had bought a packet of cigarettes at Exeter, but that outwardsign of manhood lay untouched on the seat beside Fitz. It almostseemed as if manhood had come to them both in a more serious formthan a swaggering indulgence in tobacco. 

The boys were obviously brothers, but not aggressively twins. ForLuke was darker than Fitz, and somewhat shorter in stature. 

It is probable that neither of them had ever seriously contemplatedthe possibility of failure for one and not for the other. Neitherhad ever looked onward, as it were, into life to see himself therewithout the other. The life that they both anticipated was thatlife on the ocean wave, of which home-keeping poets sing soeloquently; and it had always been vaguely taken for granted that nogreat difference in rank or success could sever them. Fitz was toosimple-minded, too honest to himself, to look for great honours inhis country's service. He mistrusted himself. Luke mistrustedProvidence. 

Such was the difference between these two boys--the thin end of awedge of years which, spreading out in after days, turned each lifeinto a path of its own, sending each man inexorably on his separateway. 

These two boys were almost alone in the world. Their mother haddied in giving them birth. Their father, an old man when hemarried, reached his allotted span when his sons first donned HerMajesty's brass buttons, and quietly went to keep his watch below. Discipline had been his guiding star through life, and when Deathcalled him he obeyed without a murmur, trusting confidently to theNaval Department in the first place, and the good God in the second, to look after his boys. 

That the late Admiral FitzHenry had sorely misplaced his confidencein the first instance was a fact which the two boys were now calledupon to face alone in their youthful ignorance of the world. Fitzwas uneasily conscious of a feeling of helplessness, as if some all-powerful protector had suddenly been withdrawn. Their two lives hadbeen pre-committed to the parental care of their country, and now italmost took their breath away to realise that Luke had no suchprotector. 

His was the pride that depreciates self. During the last twenty-four hours Fitz had heard him boast of his failure, holding it upwith a singularly triumphant sneer, as if he had always distrustedhis destiny and took a certain pleasure in verifying his ownprognostications. There are some men who find a satisfaction in badluck which good fortune could never afford them. 

In a large house in Grosvenor Gardens two ladies were at that samemoment speaking of the FitzHenrys. It was quite easy to see thatthe smaller lady of the two was the mistress of the house, as alsoof that vague abstract called the situation. She sat in the mostcomfortable chair, which was, by the way, considerably too spaciousfor her, and there was a certain aggressive sense of possessionabout her attitude and manner. 

Had she been a man, one would have said at once that here was anouveau riche, ever heedful of the fact that the big room and allthe appurtenances thereof were the fruits of toil and perseverance. There was a distinct suggestion of self-manufacture about Mrs. Harrington--distinct, that is to say, to the more subtle-minded. For she was not vulgar, neither did she boast. But the expressionof her keen and somewhat worldly countenance betokened the intentionof holding her own. 

The Honourable Mrs. Harrington was not only beautifully dressed, butknew how to wear her clothes en grande dame. 

"Yes, " she was saying, "Luke has failed to pass off the Britannia. It is a rare occurrence. I suppose the boy is a fool. "

Mrs. Harrington was rather addicted to the practice of calling otherpeople names. If the butler made a mistake she dubbed him an idiotat once. She did not actually call her present companion, Mrs. Ingham-Baker, a fool, possibly because she considered the fact tooapparent to require note. 

Mrs. Ingham-Baker, stout and cringing, smoothed out the piece ofsilken needlework with which she moved through life, and glanced ather companion. She wanted to say the right thing. And Mrs. Harrington was what the French call "difficult. " One could nevertell what the right thing might be. The art of saying it is, moreover, like an ear for music, it is not to be acquired. And Mrs. Ingham-Baker had not been gifted thus. 

"And yet, " she said, "their father was a clever man--as I have beentold. "

"By whom?" inquired Mrs. Harrington blandly. 

Mrs. Ingham-Baker paused in distress. 

"I wonder who it was, " she pretended to reflect. 

"So do I, " snapped Mrs. Harrington. 

Mrs. Ingham-Baker's imagination was a somewhat ponderous affair, and, when she trusted to it, it usually ran her violently down asteep place. She concluded to say nothing more about the lateAdmiral FitzHenry. 

"The boy, " said Mrs. Harrington, returning to the hapless Luke, "hashad every advantage. I suppose he will try to explain matters whenhe comes. I could explain it in one word--stupidity. "

"Perhaps, " put in Mrs. Ingham-Baker nervously, "the brains have allgone to the other brother, Henry. It is sometimes so with twins. "

Mrs. Harrington laughed rather derisively. 

"Stupid woman to have twins, " she muttered. 

This was apparently one of several grievances against the late Mrs. FitzHenry. 

"They have a little money of their own, have they not?" inquiredMrs. Ingham-Baker, with the soft blandness of one for whom money hasabsolutely no attraction. 

"About enough to pay their washerwoman. "

There was a pause, and then Mrs. Ingham-Baker heaved a little sigh. 

"I am sure, dear, " she said, "that in some way you will be rewardedfor your great kindness to these poor orphan boys. "

She shook her head wisely, as if reflecting over the numerous casesof rewarded virtue which had come under her notice, and the actionmade two jet ornaments in her cap wobble, in a ludicrous manner, from side to side. 

"That may be, " admitted the lady of the house, "though I wish I feltas sure about it as you do. "

"But then, " continued Mrs. Ingham-Baker, in a low and feeling tone, "you always were the soul of generosity. "

The "soul of generosity" gave an exceedingly wise little smile--almost as if she knew better--and looked up sharply towards thedoor. At the same moment the butler appeared. 

"Mr. Pawson, ma'am, " he said. 

The little nod with which this information was received seemed toindicate that Mr. Pawson had been expected. 

Beneath her black curls Mrs. Ingham-Baker's beady eyes were verymuch on the alert. 

"In the library, James, " said Mrs. Harrington--and the two jetornaments bending over the silken needlework gave a little throb ofdisappointment. 

"Mr. Pawson, " announced the lady of the house, "is the legal lightwho casts a shadow of obscurity over my affairs. "

And with that she left the room. 

As soon as the door was closed Mrs. Ingham-Baker was on her feet. She crossed the room to where her hostess's key-basket and otherbelongings stood upon a table near the window. She stood lookingeagerly at these without touching them. She even stooped down toexamine the address of an envelope. 

"Mr. Pawson!" she said, in a breathless whisper. "Mr. Pawson--whatdoes that mean? Can she be going to alter her--no! But--yes, itmay be! Perhaps Susan knows. "

Mrs. Ingham-Baker then rang the bell twice, and resumed her seat. 

Presently an aged servant came into the room. It was easy to see ata glance that she was a very old woman, but the years seemed toweigh less on her mind than on her body. 

"Yes, " she said composedly. 

"Oh--eh, Susan, " began Mrs. Ingham-Baker almost cringingly. "I rangbecause I wanted to know if a parcel has come for me--a parcel offloss-silk--from that shop in Buckingham Palace Road, you know. "

"If it had come, " replied Susan, with withering composure, "it wouldhave been sent up to you. "

"Yes, yes, of course I know that, Susan. But I thought that perhapsit might have been insufficiently addressed or something--that youor Mary might have thought that it was for Mrs. Harrington. "

"She don't use floss silks, " replied the imperturbable Susan. 

"I was just going to ask her about it, when she was called away bysome one. I think she said that it was her lawyer. "

"Yes, Mr. Pawson. "

Susan's manner implied--very subtly and gently--that her place inthis pleasant house was more assured than that of Mrs. Ingham-Baker, and perhaps that stout diplomatist awoke to this implication, forshe pulled herself up with considerable dignity. 

"I hope that nothing is wrong, " she said, in a tone that wasintended to disclaim all intention of discussing such matters with amenial. "I should be sorry if Mrs. Harrington was drawn into anylegal difficulty; the law is so complicated. "

Susan was engaged in looking for a speck of dust on the mantelpiece, not for its own intrinsic value, but for the sake of Mary's future. She had apparently no observation of value to offer upon the vexedsubject of the law. 

"I was rather afraid, " pursued Mrs. Ingham-Baker gravely, "that Mrs. Harrington might be unduly incensed against that poor boy, LukeFitzHenry; that in a moment of disappointment, you know, she mightbe making some--well, some alteration in her will to the detrimentof the boy. "

Susan stood for a moment in front of the lady, with a strange littlesmile of amusement among the wrinkles of her face. 

"Yes, that may be, " she said, and quietly left the room. 

CHAPTER II. A MAN DOWN. 

 Caress the favourites, avoid the unfortunate, and trust nobody. 

The atmosphere of Mrs. Harrington's drawing-room seemed to absorbthe new-found manhood of the two boys, for they came forward shyly, overawed by the consciousness of their own boots, by the convictionthat they carried with them the odour of cigarette smoke andfailure. 

"Well, my dears, " said the Honourable Mrs. Harrington, suddenlysoftened despite herself by the sight of their brown young faces. "Well, come here and kiss me. "

All the while she was vaguely conscious that she was surprisingherself and others. She had not intended to treat them thus. Mrs. Harrington was a woman who had a theory of life--not a theory totalk about, but to act upon. Her theory was that "heart" is allnonsense. She looked upon existence here below as a series ofcontracts entered into with one's neighbour for purposes of mutualenjoyment or advantage. She thought that life could be put down inblack and white. Which was a mistake. She had gone through fiftyyears of it without discovering that for the sake of some memory--possibly a girlish one--hidden away behind her cold grey eyes, shecould never be sure of herself in dealing with man or boy whosebeing bore the impress of the sea. 

The strange thing was that she had never found it out. We speakpityingly of animals that do not know their own strength. Which ofus knows his own weakness? There was a man connected with Mrs. Harrington's life, one of the contractors in black and white, whohad found out this effect of a brown face and a blue coat upon awoman otherwise immovable. This man, Cipriani de Lloseta, whocontemplated life, as it were, from a quiet corner of the dresscircle, kept his knowledge for his own use. 

Fitz and Luke obeyed her invitation without much enthusiasm. Theywere boyish enough to object to kissing on principle. They thenshook hands awkwardly with Mrs. Ingham-Baker, and drifted togetheragain with that vague physical attraction which seems to qualifytwins for double harness on the road of life. There was troubleahead of them; and without defining the situation, like soldierssurprised, they instinctively touched shoulders. 

It was the psychological moment. There was a little pause, duringwhich Mrs. Harrington seemed to stiffen herself, morally andphysically. Had she not stiffened herself, had she only allowedherself, as it were, to go--to call Luke to her and comfort him andsympathise with him--it would have altered every life in that room, and others outside of it. Even blundering, cringing, foolish Mrs. Ingham-Baker would have acted more wisely, for she would havefollowed the dictates of an exceedingly soft, if shallow, heart. 

"I had hoped for a more satisfactory home-coming than this, " saidMrs. Harrington in her hardest voice. When she spoke in this tonethere was the faintest suggestion of a London accent. 

Fitz made a little movement, a step forward, as if she had beenunconsciously approaching the brink of some danger, and he wished towarn her. The peculiar twist in Luke's lips became momentarily morevisible, and he kept his deep, despondent eyes fixed on thespeaker's face. 

There are two kinds of rich women. The one spends her money indoing good, the other pays it away to gratify her love of power. Ofthe Honourable Mrs. Harrington it was never reported that she waslavish in her charities. 

"I think, " she said, "that I ought to tell you that I have beenpaying the expenses of your education almost entirely. I was in noway bound to do so. I took charge of you at your father's deathbecause I--because he was a true friend to me. I do not grudge themoney, but in return I expected you to work hard and get on in yourprofession. "

She stiffened herself with a rustling sound of silk, proudlyconscious of injured virtue, full of the charity that exacteth ahigh interest. 

"We did our best, " replied Fitz, with a simple intrepidity whichrather spoilt the awesomeness of the situation. 

"I am not speaking to you, " returned the lady. "You have worked andhave passed your examination satisfactorily. You are not clever--Iknow that; but you have managed to get into the Navy, where yourfather was before you, and your grandfather before him. I have nodoubt you will give satisfaction to your superior officers. I wastalking to Luke. "

"We all knew that, " said Luke, in a dangerous voice, which triteobservation she chose to ignore. 

"You have had equal advantages, " pursued the dispenser of charity. "I have shown no favour; I have treated you alike. It had been myintention to do so all your lives and after my death. "

Mrs. Ingham-Baker was so interested at this juncture that she leantforward with parted lips, listening eagerly. The Honourable Mrs. Harrington allowed herself the plebeian pleasure of returning thestare with a questioning glance which broke off into a little laugh. 

"Have you, " she continued, addressing Luke directly, "any reason tooffer for your failure--beyond the usual one of bad luck?"

Luke looked at her in a lowering way and made no reply. Had Mrs. Harrington been a poor woman, she would have recognised that the boywas at the end of his tether. But she had always been surrounded--as such women are--by men, and more especially by women, who wouldswallow any insult, any insolence, so long as it was gilded. Theworld had, in fact, accepted the Honourable Mrs. Harrington becauseshe could afford to gild herself. 

"It was bad luck, and nothing else, " burst out Fitz, heedless of hersarcastic tones. "Luke is a better sailor than I am. But he alwayswas weak in his astronomy, and it all turned on astronomy. "

"I should imagine it all turned on stupidity, " said Mrs. Harrington. 

"I'm stupid, if you like, " said Fitz; "Luke isn't. Luke is clever;ask any chap on board!"

"I do not need to ask any chap on board, " said Mrs. Harrington. "Myown common sense tells me that he is clever. He has proved it. "

"It's like a woman--to hit a fellow when he's down, " said Luke, withhis hands deep in his pockets. 

He turned to Mrs. Ingham-Baker for sympathy in this sentiment, andthat soft-hearted lady deemed it expedient to turn hastily away, avoiding his glance, denying all partisanship. 

Mrs. Ingham-Baker was not a person given to the disguise of her ownfeelings. She was plausible enough to the outer world. To herselfshe was quite frank, and hardly seemed to recognise this as theevent she had most desired. It is to be presumed that her heart waslike her physical self, a large, unwieldy thing, over which she hadnot a proper control. The organ mentioned had a way of tripping herup. It tripped her now, and she quite forgot that this quarrel wasprecisely what she had wanted for years. She had looked forward toit as the turning-point in her daughter Agatha's fortunes. 

Mrs. Ingham-Baker had, in fact, wondered more than a thousand timeswhy the Honourable Mrs. Harrington should do all for the FitzHenrysand nothing for Agatha. She did not attempt to attribute reasons. She knew her sex too well for that. She merely wondered, whichmeans that she cherished a question until it grew into a grievance. The end of it she knew would be a quarrel. This might not comeuntil the FitzHenrys should have grown to man's estate and man'sprivilege of quarrelling with his female relatives about theyouthful female relative of some other person. But it would come, surely. Mrs. Ingham-Baker, the parasite, knew her victim, Mrs. Harrington, well enough to be sure of that. 

And now that this quarrel had arisen--much sooner than she couldhave hoped--providentially brought about by an astronomicalexamination-paper, Mrs. Ingham-Baker was forced to face thehumiliating fact that she felt sorry for Luke. 

It would have been different had Agatha been present, but thatingenious maiden was at school at Brighton. Had her daughter beenin the room, Mrs. Ingham-Baker's motherly instinct would havenarrowed itself down to her. But in the absence of her own child, Luke's sorry plight appealed to that larger maternal instinct whichmakes good women in unlikely places. 

Mrs. Ingham-Baker was, however, one of the many who learn to curbthe impulse of a charitable intention. She looked out of thewindow, and pretended not to notice that the culprit had addressedhis remark to her. To complete this convenient deafness she gave asimulated little cough of abstraction, which entirely gave her away. 

Mrs. Harrington chose to ignore Luke's taunt. 

"And, " she inquired sweetly, "what do you intend to do now?"

Quite suddenly the boy turned on her. 

"I intend, " he cried, "to make my own life--whatever it may be. IfI am starving I will not come to you. If half-a-crown would saveme, I would rather die than borrow it from you. You think that youcan buy everything with your cursed money. You can't buy me. Youcan't buy a FitzHenry. You--you can't--"

He gave a little sob, remembered his new manhood--that sudden, complete manhood which comes of sorrow--pulled himself up, andwalked to the door. He opened it, turned once and glanced at hisbrother, and passed out of the room. 

So Luke FitzHenry passed out into his life--a life which he was tomake for himself. Passionate--quick to love, to hate, to suffer;deep in his feeling, susceptible to ridicule or sarcasm--an orphan. The stairs were dark as he went down them. 

Mrs. Harrington gave a little laugh as the door closed behind him. She had always been able to repurchase the friendship of herfriends. 

Fitz made a few steps towards the door before her voice arrestedhim. "Stop!" she cried. 

He paused, and the old sense of discipline that was in his bloodmade him obey. He thought that he would find Luke upstairs on thebed with his face buried in his folded arms, as he had found him ascore of times during their short life. 

"I think you are too hard on him, " he answered hotly. "It is badenough being ploughed, without having to stand abuse afterwards. "

"My dear, " said Mrs. Harrington, "just you come here and sit besideme. We will leave Luke to himself for a little. It is much better. Let him think it out alone. "

What was there in this fair-haired boy's demeanour, voice, or beingthat appealed to Mrs. Harrington, despite her sterner self?

So Fitz was pacified by the lady's gentler manner, and consented toremain. He made good use of his time, pleading Luke's cause, explaining his bad fortune, and modestly disclaiming any credit tohimself for having succeeded where his brother failed. But all thewhile the boy was restless, eager to get away and run upstairs toLuke, who he felt sure was living years in every moment, as childrendo in those griefs which we take upon ourselves to call childish. 

At last he rose. 

"May I go now?" he asked. 

"Yes, if you like. But do not bring Luke to me until he is preparedto apologise for his ingratitude and rudeness. "

"What a dear boy he is!" ejaculated Mrs. Ingham-Baker almost beforethe door was closed. "So upright and honest and straightforward. "

"Yes, " answered Mrs. Harrington, with a sigh of anger. 

"He will be a fine man, " continued Mrs. Ingham-Baker. "I shall diequite happy if my Agatha marries such a man as Henry will be. "

Mrs. Harrington glanced at her voluminous friend rather critically. 

"You do not look like dying yet, " she said. 

Mrs. Ingham-Baker put her head on one side and looked resigned. 

"One never knows, " she answered. "It is a great responsibility, Marian, to have a daughter. "

"I should imagine, from what I have seen of Agatha, that the childis quite capable of taking care of herself. "

"Yes, " answered the fond mother, "she is intelligent. But a girl isso helpless in the world, and when I am gone I should feel happierif I knew that my child had a good husband, such as Fitz, to takecare of her. "

Neither of these ladies being of the modern school of femininelearning, the vague theology underlying this remark was allowed topass unnoticed. 

Mrs. Harrington drummed with her thin wrinkled fingers on the arm ofher chair, and waited with a queer anticipatory little smile for herfriend to proceed. 

"But, of course, " continued Mrs. Ingham-Baker, blundering into thelittle feminine snare, "a naval man can scarcely marry. They arealways so badly off. I suppose poor Fitz will not be able tosupport a wife until he is quite middle-aged. "

"That remains to be seen, " said Mrs. Harrington, with a gleam in herhard grey eyes, and Mrs. Ingham-Baker pricked her finger. 

"I am sure, " said the latter lady unctuously, when she had had timeto think it out, "I am sure I should be content for her to live veryquietly if I only knew that she had married a good man. I alwayssay that riches do not make happiness. "

"Yes, a number of people say that, " answered Mrs. Harrington, and atthe same moment Fitz burst into the room. 

"Aunt Marian, " he cried, "he has gone!"

"Who has gone?" asked the lady of the house coldly. "Please closethe door. "

"Luke! He has gone! He went straight out of the house, and thebutler does not know where he went to! It is all your fault, AuntMarian; you had no right to speak to him like that! You know youhadn't. I am going to look for him. "

"Now, do not get excited, " said Mrs. Harrington soothingly. "Justcome here and listen to me. Luke has behaved very badly. He hasbeen idle and stubborn on board the Britannia. He has been rude andungrateful to me. "

She found she had taken the boy's hand, and she dropped it suddenly, as if ashamed of showing so much emotion. 

"I am not going to have my house upset by the tantrums of a bad-tempered boy. It is nearly dinner time. Luke is sure to come back. If he is not back by the time we have finished dinner I will sendone of the men out to look for him. He is probably sulking in somecorner of the gardens. "

Seeing that Fitz was white with anxiety, she forgot herself so muchas to draw him to her again. 

"Now, Fitz, " she said, "you must obey me and leave me to manage Lukein my own way. I know best. Just go and dress for dinner. Lukewill come back--never fear. "

But Luke did not come back. 

CHAPTER III. A SEA DOG. 

 There is one that slippeth in his speech, but not from hisheart. 

The glass door of the dining-room of the Hotel of the Four Nationsat Barcelona was opened softly, almost nervously, by a shock-headedlittle man, who peered into the room. 

One of the waiters stepped forward and drew out a chair. 

"Thank ye--thank ye, " said the new-comer, in a thick though pleasantvoice. 

He looked around, rather bewildered--as if he had never seen a tabled'hote before. It almost appeared as if a doubt existed in his mindwhether or not he was expected to go and shake hands with some onepresent, explaining who he was. 

As, however, no one appeared to invite this confidence he took thechair offered and sat gravely down. 

The waiter laid the menu at his side, and the elderly diner, whoseface and person bespoke a seafaring life, gazed politely at it. Hewas obviously desirous of avoiding hurting the young man's feelings, but the card puzzled as much as it distressed him. 

Observing with the brightest of blue eyes the manners and customs ofhis neighbours, the old sailor helped himself to a little wine fromthe decanter set in front of him, and filled up the glass withwater. 

The waiter drew forward a small dish of olives and anothercontaining slices of red sausage of the thickness, consistency, andflavour of a postage stamp. The Englishman looked dubiously atthese delicacies and shook his head--still obviously desirous ofgiving no offence. Soup was more comprehensible, and the sailorconsumed his portion with a non-committing countenance. But thefish, which happened to be of a Mediterranean savour--served inlittle lumps--caused considerable hesitation. 

"Is it slugs?" inquired the mariner guardedly--as if open toconviction--in a voice that penetrated half the length of the table. 

The waiter explained in fluent Castilian the nature of the dish. 

"I want to know if it's slugs, " repeated the sailor, with a stoutsimplicity. 

One or two commercial travellers, possessing a smattering ofEnglish, smiled openly, and an English gentleman seated at the sideof the inquirer leant gravely towards him. 

"That is a preparation of fish, " he explained. "You won't find itat all bad. "

"Thank you, sir, " replied the old man, helping himself with an airof relief which would have been extremely comic had it been shorn ofits pathos. "I am afraid, " he went on confidentially, "of gettin'slugs to eat. I'm told that they eat them in these parts. "

"This, " replied the other, with stupendous gravity, "is not the slugseason. Besides, if you did get 'em, I dare say you would bepleasantly surprised. "

"Maybe, maybe! Though I don't hold by foreign ways. "

Such was the beginning of a passing friendship between two men whohad nothing in common except their country; for one was a peer ofthe realm, travelling in Spain for the transaction of his ownprivate affairs, or possibly for the edification of his own privatemind, and the other was Captain John Thomas Bontnor, late of theBritish mercantile service. 

Being a simple-minded person, as many seamen are, Captain Bontnorsought to make himself agreeable. 

"This is the first time, " he said, "that I have set foot in Spain, though I've heard the language spoken, having sailed in the SpanishMain, and down to Manilla one voyage likewise. It is a strange-sounding language, I take it--a lot of jabbering and not muchsense. "

He spoke somewhat slowly, after the manner of one who had always hada silent tongue until grey hairs came to mellow it. 

The young man, his hearer, looked slightly distressed, as if he wassuppressing some emotion. He was rather a vacuous-looking youngman--startlingly clean as to countenance and linen. He was shaven, and had he not been distinctly a gentleman, he might have been agroom. He apparently had a habit of thrusting forward his chin forthe purpose of scratching it pensively with his forefinger. Thiselegant trick probably indicated bewilderment, or, at all events, aslight mystification--he had recourse to it now--on the question ofthe Spanish language. 

"Well, " he answered gravely, "if you come to analyse it, I dare saythere is as much sense in it as in other languages--when you knowit, you know. "

"Yes, " murmured the captain, with a glowing sense of satisfaction athis own conversational powers. He felt he was becoming quite asociety man. 

"But, " pursued the hereditary legislator, "it's tricky--deucedtricky. The nastiest lot of irregular verbs I've come across yet. Still, I get along all right. Worst of it is, you know, that whenI've got a sentence out all right with its verbs and things, I'm notin a fit state to catch the answer. "

"Knocks you on to your beam-ends, " suggested Captain Bontnor. 

"Yes. "

Lord Seahampton settled his throat more comfortably in his spotlesscollar, and proceeded to help himself to a fourth mutton cutlet. 

"Staying here long?" he inquired. 

"No, not long, " answered Captain Bontnor slowly, as if meditating;then suddenly he burst into his story. "You see, sir, " he said, "I'm getting on in years, and I'm not quite the build for foreigntravel. It sort of flurries me. I'm a bit past it. I'm not herefor pleasure, you know. "

This seemed to have the effect of sending Lord Seahampton off into abrown study--not apparently of great value so far as depth ofthought was concerned. He looked as if he were wondering whether hehimself was in Barcelona for pleasure or not. 

"No, " he murmured encouragingly, "It is like this, " pursued Captain Bontnor, confidentially. "Mysister, Amelia Ann, married above her. "

"Very much to her credit, " said Lord Seahampton, with a stolid faceand a twinkle in his eye. "And--"

"Died. "

"Dear, dear!"

"Yes, " pursued the captain, "she died nineteen years ago, leaving alittle girl. He's dead now--Mr. Challoner. He's my brother-in-law, but I call him Mr. Challoner, because he's above me. "

"I trust he is, " said Lord Seahampton, cheerfully, with a glance atthe painted ceiling. "I trust he is. "

The captain chuckled. "I mean in a social way, " he explained. "Andnow he's dead, his daughter Eve is left quite alone in the world, and she telegraphed for me. She is living in the Island ofMajorca. "

"Ah!"

The kindly old blue eyes flashed round on his companion's face. 

"Do you know it?"

The peer thrust forward his chin and spoilt what small claims he hadto good looks. 

"No; I've heard of it, though. I know of a wom--a lady, who haslarge estates there--a Mrs. Harrington. "

"The Honourable Mrs. Harrington is a sort of relation of my niece's, Miss Challoner. I call her Miss Challoner, although she is myniece, because she is above me. "

His lordship glanced at the ceiling again. 

"I mean she is a lady. And I'm going to Majorca to fetch her. Atleast, I'm trying to get there, but I cannot somehow find out aboutthe boat. They're a bit irregular, it seems, and this stupidjabbering of theirs does flurry me so. Now, what's this? Eh?Pudding, is it? Well, it doesn't look like it. No, thank ye!"

The poor old man was soon upset by insignificant trifles, and afterhe had given way to a little burst of petulance like this, he had astrange, half pathetic way of staring straight in front of him for afew seconds, as if collecting himself again. 

It happened that Lord Seahampton was a good-natured young man, withrather a soft heart, such as many horsey persons possess. Somethingin Captain Bontnor touched him; some simple British quality which hewas pleased to meet with, thus, in a foreign land. 

"Look here, " he said, "I'll go out with you afterwards and find outall about the boat, take your ticket, and fix the whole thing up. "

"I'm sure you're very kind, " began the old sailor hesitatingly. Hefumbled at his necktie for a moment with unsteady, weather-beatenhands. "But I shouldn't like to trespass on your time. I take ityou're here for pleasure?"

Lord Seahampton smiled. 

"Yes, I'm here for pleasure; that's what I'm in the world for. "

Still Captain Bontnor hesitated. 

"You might meet some of your friends, " he began tentatively, "in thestreets, you know. " He paused and looked down at his own hands; heturned one palm up, showing the faint tattoo on the wrist. "I'monly a rough seafaring man, " he went on. "They might think itstrange--might wonder whom you had picked up. "

The spotless collar seemed to be very uncomfortable. 

"I've always made a practice, " mumbled Lord Seahampton, ratherincoherently, "of letting my friends think what they damned wellplease. May I ask your name?"

"Bontnor's my name. Captain Bontnor, at your service. "

"My name's Seahampton. "

Captain Bontnor turned and looked at him. 

"Yes, I'm Lord Seahampton. "

"Oh!" ejaculated Captain Bontnor, under his breath. His socialfacilities did not quite rise to an occasion like this. 

"As soon as you've finished, " went on his companion ratherhurriedly, "we'll go out and look up these steamer people. MissChalloner will be anxious for you to get there as soon as you can. "

"Yes, yes!"

The captain laid aside his napkin and began to show signs of gettingflurried again. 

"Her name is Eve, " he said, in the hurried way which was ratherpathetic. "Now, I wonder what I should call her. Poor young thing!if she's distressed about her father's death--which is only natural, I'm sure--it would sound a bit chilly like to call her MissChalloner. What do you think, Mr. --eh--er--Lord--sir?"

"Well, I think I should call her Eve--it's a pretty name--and takeher by the hand, and--yes, I think I'd kiss her. Especially if shewas a nice-looking girl, " he added for his own personal edificationas he preceded his companion into the hall. 

He was fumbling in the tail pocket of his short tweed coat as hewent. In the hall he turned. 

"Got anything to smoke?" he asked, in his most abrupt manner, as ifthe cut of his collar did not allow of verbosity. 

The old man shyly produced some cigars in a leather case, which hadnever been of great value, even in the far-off days of its youth. 

"I hardly like to offer them to you, " he said slowly. "T--they'renot expensive, and I couldn't explain to the young woman what Iwanted. "

"Rather like the look of them, " said Lord Seahampton, taking one andcutting the end off with a certain show of eagerness. This youngman's reputation for personal bravery was a known quantity on thehunting-field. "Old sailors, " he continued, "generally know goodtobacco. "

And all the while he had half-a-dozen of the best Havanas in hispocket. Some instinct, which he was much too practical to define, and possibly too stupid to detect, told him that this was one ofthose occasions where it is much more blessed to receive than togive. 

"And so, " continued Captain Bontnor, as they were walking down theshady side of that noisiest street in the world, the Rambla, "and soyou would just call her Eve, if you was me?"

"I should. "

"Remember that she is a lady, you know. Quite a lady. "

"I am remembering that, " replied the peer stolidly; "that's why I amof the opinion just expressed. "

Captain Bontnor gave a little sigh of relief, as if one of his manydifficulties had been removed. At the same time he glancedfurtively towards the inexpensive cigar, which was affordingdistinct if somewhat exaggerated enjoyment. 

Together they walked down the broad street and turned along thequay. And here Captain Bontnor found himself talking quite easilyand affably about palm-trees and tramways, and other matters oflocal interest, to the first peer whom he had ever seen in theflesh. 

Out of sheer good nature, and with a vague question in his mind asto whether Miss Challoner knew what sort of help she had called in, Lord Seahampton obtained the necessary information--no easy matterin this country--and took the necessary ticket. Ticket andinformation alike were obtained from a grave gentleman who smoked acigarette, and did the honours of his little office as if it hadbeen a palace--showing no desire to sell the ticket, and takingpayment as if he were conferring a distinct favour. 

The steamer left that same afternoon, and Lord Seahampton sent hisprotege back rejoicing to the hotel to pack up. Then the youthfulpeer bestowed the remainder of the cheap cigar on an individual inreduced circumstances and lighted one of his own. He was quiteunconscious of having done a good action. Such actions are supposedto bring their own reward, but experience suggests that it is bestnot to count upon anything of a tangible nature. 

CHAPTER IV. PURGATORIO. 

 Like lutes of angels, touched so near Hell's confines, that the damned can hear. 

Time: Five o'clock in the afternoon. Five o'clock, that is to say, by the railway time. There is another time in Barcelona--the towntime, to wit--which differs from the hour of the iron road by thirtyminutes or thereabouts. But then the town time is Spanish, that isto say that no one takes any notice of it. For into Spanish lifetime comes but little. If one wishes to catch a train--but, by theway, in Spain we do not catch, we take the train--a subtledifference--if then we wish to take the train, we arrive at thestation three-quarters of an hour before the time indicated fordeparture, and there we make our arrangements with due dignity. 

Place: The Rambla, which for those who speak alien tongues has anArabic sound, and tells us that this, the finest promenade in theworld, was once a sandy river-bed. Here now the grave caballeropromenades himself from early morning to an eve that knows no dew. 

Priest and peasant, the great lady and the gentleman who sells one aglass of water for a centimo, brush past each other. The great ladyis dressed in black, as all Spanish ladies are, and on her head shewears the long-lived mantilla, which will last our time and the timeof our grandsons. The humbler women-folk wear bright handkerchiefsin place of the mantilla; in dress they affect bright colours. 

With the sterner sex, the line of demarcation is equally distinct. There is the man who wears the peasant's blouse, and the man whowears the cloak. 

It is with one of the latter that we have to deal--a tall, graveman, with quiet eyes and a long, pointed chin. The air is chilly, and this promenader's black cloak is thrown well over the shoulder, displaying the bright-coloured lining of velvet, which is all therelief the Spaniard allows his sombre self. 

The caballero's face is brown, as of one whose walk is not alwaysbeneath the shady trees. The expression of it is chastened. Onesees the history of a country in the faces of its men. In thisthere is the history of a past, it is the face of a man living in abygone day. He notes the interest of the moment with gravesurprise, but his life is behind him. 

This man has the Spaniard's thoughtful interest in a trifle. Hepauses to note the number of the sparrows, as thick as leaves uponthe trees. He carefully unfolds his cloak, gives the loose end alittle shake, and casts it skilfully over his shoulder, so that itfalls across his back, and, hanging there, displays the brightlining. He pauses to watch the result of an infantile accident. The baby picks itself up and brushes the dust from its diminutivefrock with all the earnestness of early youth. And the cavalierwalks on. 

All this with a contemplative grandeur of demeanour worthy of largerif not better things. 

In the roadway at the side of the broad promenade a carriage andpair followed this gentleman--carriage and horses which werebeautiful even in this land of horses. For this was Cipriani deLloseta de Mallorca, a great man in Barcelona, if he wished it, agreater in his own little island of Majorca, whether he wished it ornot. 

Leading out of this same fascinating Rambla, to the left, up towardsthe impenetrable fortress of Juich--impenetrable excepting once, andthen it was the pestilent Englishman, as usual--leading then to theleft is the Calle de la Paz. In the Street of the Peace there is ahouse, on the left hand also, into the door of which one could notonly drive a coach and four, but eke a load of straw. Moreover, thedriver could go to sleep and leave it to the horses, for there isplenty of space. This is the Casa Lloseta, the town residence sincetime immemorial of the family of that name. There are servants atthe door, there are servants on the broad marble staircase, thereare servants everywhere! for the Spaniard is unapproachable in thegentle art of leaving things to others. In the patio, or marblecourtyard, there plays a monotonous little fountain, peacefullyplashing away the sunny hours. 

In England el Senor Conde de Lloseta de Mallorca would be lookedupon as a mystery, because he lived in a large house by himself;because it was not known what his tastes might be; because theinterviewer interviewed him not, and because the Society rags had noopportunity of describing his drawing-room. 

In Spain things are different. If the count chose to live in hisown cellar, his neighbours would shrug their shoulders and throw theend of their capes well over to the back. That was surely thebusiness of the count. 

Moreover, Cipriani de Lloseta was not the sort of man of whom it iseasy to ask questions. His was the pride of pride, which is a viceunbreakable. When the Moors went to Majorca in the eighth centurythey found Llosetas there, and Llosetas were left behind eighthundred years later, when the southern conqueror was driven back tohis dark land. Among his friends it is known that Cipriani deLloseta lived alone because he was faithful to the memory of onewho, but for the hand of God, would have lived with him until shewas an old woman, filling, perhaps, the great gloomy house in theCalle de la Paz with the prattle of children's voices, with theclatter of childish feet in the marble passages. 

The younger women looked at him surreptitiously, and asked eachother what sort of wife this must have been; while their eldersshrugged their ample shoulders with a strange little Cataloniancontraction of the eyes, and said -

"It is not so much the woman herself as that which the man makesher. "

For they are wise, these stout and elderly ladies. They were onceyoung, and they learnt the lesson. 

This man, Cipriani de Lloseta, leads a somewhat lonely life, inasmuch as he associates but little with the men of his rank andstation. It is, for instance, known that he walks on the Rambla, but no one of any importance whatever, no one that is likely torecognise him, is aware of the fact that another favourite promenadeof his is the Muelle de Ponente, that forsaken pier where the stoneworks are and where no one ever promenades. Here Cipriani deLloseta walks gravely in the evening--to be more precise, on Tuesdayor Friday evening--about five o'clock, when the boat sails forMajorca. 

He stands, a lonely, cloaked figure, at the end of the long stonepier, and his dark Spanish eyes rest on the steamer as it glidesaway into the darkening east and south. 

Often, often this man watches the boats depart, but he never goeshimself. Often, often he gazes out in his chastened, impenetrablesilence over the horizon, as if seeking to pierce the distance andlook on the bare heights of the far-off island. 

For there, over the glassy smoothness of the horizon, behind thoselittle grey clouds, is Majorca--and Lloseta. 

Lloseta, a bare, brown village, standing on the hillside, as if ithad economically crept up there among the pines, so as to leaveavailable for cultivation every inch of the wonderful soil of theplain. Below, the vast fertile plateau, tilled like a garden, liesto the westward, while to the east the rising undulations terminatein the bare uplands of Inca. Olive-trees cover the plain like anarmy, trees that were planted by the Moors a thousand years ago. 

Amid the rugged heights of the mountains, here at their highest, andin the fastness of a gorge, lies Lloseta itself. 

From the heights above a subtle invigorating odour of marjoram, rosemary, lavender, growing wild like heather, comes down to minglewith the more languid breath of tropic plant and flower. 

Such is Lloseta--a home to live for, to die for, to dream of whenaway from it. As a man is dreaming of it now, just across thathundred miles of smooth sea, on the end of the Muelle de Ponente atBarcelona, He is always dreaming of it--in Spain, where he is a Spaniard--inEngland, where he might be an Englishman. It is not every one of uswho has a home from whence his name is derived, who signs hisletters with a word that is marked upon the map. 

Such is Cipriani of that name, who has now left the Rambla and iswandering along the deserted pier. 

The steamer has loosed its moorings, is slowly picking its way outof the crowded harbour, and it will pass the pier-head by the timethat Cipriani de Lloseta reaches that point. 

The man walks slowly, cloaked to the mouth, for the evening breezeis chilly. He gravely descends the steps and begins to walk on thelittle path around the circular tower at the end of the pier. Heusually stands at the very end, so as to be as near to Majorca aspossible, one might almost think. 

He gravely walks on, and quite suddenly he comes upon a youthfulBriton smoking a cigar and dangling a thick stick. 

"Ah!" the two men exclaim. 

"What are you doing in Barcelona?" asks the Spaniard. 

"The devil only knows, my dear man. I don't. "

"I hope he had nothing to do with your coming here--idle hands, youknow. "

The Englishman sat gravely down on a small granite column andreflected. 

"No, " he answered after a pause, "it was not that. I left Englandbecause I wanted to get away from--Well, from an old woman who wantsme to marry her daughter. I went to Monte Carlo, and, if you don'tmind my saying so, I'm hanged if she didn't follow me, bringing thepoor girl with her. "

The Spaniard smiled gravely. 

"A willing victim!"

"No, Lloseta, you're wrong there. That's the beastly part of it. That girl, sir, was actually shivering with fright one night whenthe old woman managed to leave us on the terrace together. Some oneelse, you know!"

The dark eyes looking across towards Majorca were not pleasant tocontemplate. 

"However, " pursued the ingenuous parti, "I spoke to her as one mighthave done to another chap, you know. I said, 'You're frightened ofsomething. ' She didn't answer. 'You're afraid that I'm going toask you to marry me. ' 'Yes, ' she answered. 'Well, I'm not. I'mnot such a cad. ' And after that we got on all right. She wouldhave told who it was if I had let her. Two days later I sloped offhere. Spain choked her off--the old lady, I mean. "

Lloseta laughed, and the young man began to think that he had saidsomething rude. 

"She did not know what a nice place it is, " he added, with atransparency which did no harm. "Yes, you're right. The devil hadsomething to do with my coming here. Match-making old women are thedevil. "

He paused and attended to his cigar. The steamer passed within ahundred yards of them. 

The Englishman nodded towards it. 

"Steamer's going to Majorca, " he said. 

Lloseta nodded his head. 

"Yes, " he answered gravely, "I know. "

"I came down to see it off!"

The Spaniard looked at him sharply. 

"Why?" he asked. 

"I know an old chap on board--going across to fetch an English girl, a Miss Challoner. Her father's dead. "

Lloseta said nothing. Presently he turned to go, and as they walkedback together he arranged to send a carriage for the Englishman andhis luggage to bring him to the big house in the Street of thePeace, which he explained with a shadowy smile was more comfortablethan the hotel. 

"So, " he said to himself, as he walked towards his vast home alone, "so the Caballero Challoner is dead. They are passing off the stageone by one. "

CHAPTER V. THE VALLEY OF REPOSE. 

 A home where exiled angels might forbear Awhile to moan for paradise. 

There is a valley far up in the mountains behind the ancient city ofPalma--the Val d'Erraha. Some thousand years ago the Arabs foundthis place. After toils and labours, and many battles by sea andland, a roaming sheikh settled here, calling it El Rahah--theRepose. 

He dug a well--for where the Moor has been there is always sparklingwater--he planted olive trees, and he built a mill. The well isthere to-day; the olive trees, old and huge and gnarled as are noother olive trees on the earth, yield their yearly crop unceasingly;the mill grinds the Spaniard's corn to-day. 

In the Val d'Erraha there stands a house--a rambling, ungainly Farm, as such are called in Majorca. It runs off at strange angles, presenting a broken face to all points of the compass. From adistance it rather resembles a village, for the belfry of the littlechapel is visible and the buildings seem to be broken up anddivided. On closer inspection it is found to be self-contained, anda nearer approach discloses the fact that it presents to the worldfour solid walls, and that it is only to be entered by an archedgateway. 

In the centre of the open patio stands the Moorish well, surrounded, overhung by orange trees. This house could resist a siege--indeed, it was built for that purpose; for the Moorish pirates made raids onthe island almost within the memory of living persons. 

Such is the Casa d'Erraha--the House of Repose. It stands with itsback to the pine slopes, looking peacefully down the valley, overterraces where grow the orange, the almond, the fig, the lemon, theolive; and far below, where the water trickles, the feathery bamboo. 

The city of Palma is but a few miles away, in its strong thirteenth-century restriction within high ramparts. It has its cathedral, itscourt-house--all the orthodox requirements of a city, and, moreover, it is the capital of the whilom kingdom of Majorca. King Jaime isdead and gone. Majorca, after many vicissitudes, has settled downinto an obscure possession of Spain; and to the old-world ways ofthat country it has taken very kindly. 

But with the unwritten history of Majorca we have little to do, andwe have much with the Casa d'Erraha and the owner thereof--a plainEnglishman of the name of Challoner--the last of his line, the thirdof his race, to own the Casa d'Erraha. 

Edward Challoner lay on his bed in the large room overlooking thevalley and the distant sea. In the House of Repose he lay awaitingthe call to a longer rest than earthly weariness can secure. Thegrave old Padre of the neighbouring village of St. Pablo stood nearthe bed. Eve Challoner had sent for him, with the instinct thatmakes us wish to be seen off on a long journey by a good man, ofwhatsoever creed or calling. 

At times the old priest gently patted the hand of Eve Challoner asshe stood by his side. 

Climate and country and habit have a greater influence over thehuman frame than we ever realise. Eve Challoner had been subject tothese subtle influences to a rare extent. Tall and upright, clad inblack, as all Spanish ladies are, she was English and yet Spanish. Of a clear white, her skin was touched slightly by the sun and thewarm air which blows ever from the sea, blow which way it may acrossthe little island. 

Romance tells of Andalusian beauty, of Catalonian grace--and insober British earnest (a solid thing) there are few more beautifulwomen than high-born Spanish ladies. Eve Challoner had caughtsomething--some trick of the head--which belongs to Spain alone. Her eyes had a certain northern vivacity of glance, a smallsomething which is noticeable enough in Southern Europe, though weshould hardly observe it in England, for it means education. In thematter of learning, be it noted in passing, the ladies of thePeninsula are not so very far above their duskier sisters of theharem farther east. 

The girl's eyes were dull now, with a sort of surprised anguish, forsorrow had come to her before its time. The man lying on the bedbefore her had not reached the limit of his years. Quite suddenly, twelve hours before, he had complained of a numb feeling in hishead, and the voice he spoke in was thick and strange. In asurprisingly short time Edward Challoner was no longer himself--nolonger the cynical, polished gentleman of the world--but a hard-breathing, inert deformity, hardly human. From that time to this hehad never spoken, and Heaven knew there was enough for him to say. Death had caught him unawares as, after all, he generally does catchus. There were several things to set in order as usual; for it isonly in books and on the stage that folks make a graceful exit, clearing up the little mystery, forgiving the wrongs, boasting withfeeble voice of the good they have done--with lowering tone and softmusic slowly working together to the prompter's bell. It is not inreal life that dying men find much time to prattle about their ownsouls. They usually want all their breath for those they leavebehind. And who knows! Perhaps those waiting on the other sidethink no worse of the man who dies fearing for others and not forhimself. 

In Edward Challoner's paralysed brain there was a great wish tospeak to his daughter, but the words would not come. He looked atthose around him with a dreary indistinctness as from a distance, almost as if he had begun his long journey and was looking back fromafar. 

And so the afternoon wore on to the short southern twilight, and thegoat-bells came tinkling up from the valley--for nature must haveher way though men may die, and milking-time rules through all thechanges. 

While the light failed over the land two men were riding through itas fast as horse could lay hoof to the ground. They were on thesmall road running from the Soller highway up to the Val d'Erraha, and he who led the way seemed to know every inch of it. This wasHenry FitzHenry, and his companion, ill at ease in a Spanish saddle, was the doctor of Her Majesty's gunboat Kittiwake. 

Four months earlier, by one of those chances which seem no chancewhen we look back to them, the Kittiwake had broken down on leavingthe anchorage of Port Mahon. Towed back by a consort, she had beenthere ever since, awaiting some necessary pieces of machinery to bemade in England and sent out to her. Hearing by chance that thenavigating lieutenant of the Kittiwake was Henry FitzHenry--usuallyknown as Fitz--Mr. Challoner had written to Minorca from the largerisland, introducing himself as the Honourable Mrs. Harrington'scousin, and offering what poor hospitality the Val d'Erraha had todispense. 

In a little island there is not very much to talk about, and thegossips of Majorca had soon laid hold of Fitz. They said that theEnglish senorita up at the Casa d'Erraha had found a lover, and afine, handsome one at that; else, they opined, why should thisEnglish sailor thrash his boat through any weather from Cuidadela inMinorca to Soller in Majorca, riding subsequently from that smalland lovely town over the roughest country in the island to theValley of Repose as if the devil were at his heels. That was onlytheir way of saying it, for they knew as well as any of us that lovein front can make us move more quickly than ever the devil frombehind. 

At Alcudia they watched his boat labour through the evil seas. Thewind was never too boisterous for him, the waves never too high. 

"It is, " they said, "the English mariner from Mahon going to see theSenorita Challoner. Ah! but he has a firm hand. "

And they smiled dreamily with their deep eyes, as knowing the maladythemselves. 

This time there had been two figures clad in black oilskins in thestern of the long white boat. Two horses had been ordered by cableto be ready at Soller instead of one. For Eve Challoner hadtelegraphed to her countrymen at Port Mahon when this strange andhorrid numbness seized her father. 

The sun was setting behind the distant line of the sea when Fitz andhis companion urged their tired horses up the last slope to the Casad'Erraha. Within the gateway Mrs. Baines, the only English servantin this English house, was awaiting them. She curtsied in an old-fashioned way to the doctor, who had not seen an Englishwoman's facefor two years and more, and asked him to follow her. Fitz did notoffer to accompany them--indeed, he made it quite obvious that hedid not want to do so. Two of the vague attendants who are alwaysto be found in their numbers about the doorway and stableyard of aSpanish country-house took the horses, and Fitz wandered round thepatio to the southern door which led to the terrace. 

There was not very much change in Henry FitzHenry since we saw himin Mrs. Harrington's drawing-room six years earlier. The promise ofthe boy had been fulfilled by the man, and here was a quietEnglishman, chiefly remarkable for a certain directness of purposewhich was his, and seemed to pervade his being. Here was one whohad commanded men--who had directed skilled labour for the siximpressionable years of his life. And he who directs skilled labouris apt to differ in manner, in thought and habit, from him whosecommands are obeyed mechanically. 

The naval officer is a man of detail--he tells others to do thatwhich they know he can do better himself. 

They said on board the Kittiwake, which was a small ship, thatFitz, --"old" Fitz, they used to call him--was too big for aseafaring life. In height, he was nearly six feet--six feet ofspare muscle and bone--such a man as one sees on the north-eastcoast of England, the east coast of Scotland, or the west coast ofNorway--anywhere, in fact, where the Vikings passed. 

The deep blue eyes had acquired a certain quiet which had beenabsent in the boyish face--the quiet that comes of a burden on theheart; of the certain knowledge that the burden can never beremoved. Luke's life was not the only one that had been spoiled byan examination paper. Examination papers have spoilt more livesthan they have benefited. A twin brother is something more than abrother, and Fitz went through life as if one side of him wassuffering a dull, aching pain. The face of this man walking aloneon the terrace of the House of Repose was not happy. Perhaps it wastoo strong for complete happiness--some men are so, and others aretoo wise. This was the face, not of a very wise or a brilliant man, but of one who was strong and simple--something in the nature of agranite rock. Sandstone is more easily shaped into a thing ofbeauty, but it is also the sandstone that is worn by weather, whilea deep mark cut on granite stays there till the end. 

Fitz had no intention of going upstairs. He was not a man to takethe initiative in social matters. His instinct told him that if Evewanted him she would send for him. She had cabled to him to bringthe doctor. He had brought the doctor, and now he went out on theterrace to "stand by, " as he put it to himself, for further orders. If, as the gossips averred, he was the Senorita's lover, he deemedit wiser to relinquish that position just now. 

As a matter of fact, however, no word of love had passed betweenthem. 

Fitz was standing by the low wall of the terrace looking down intothe hazy, dim depths of the valley, when the further orders which heawaited came to him. 

Hearing a light step on the pavement behind him, he turned, andfaced Eve, who was running towards him. 

"Will you come upstairs?" she said. "I think he wants to see you. "

"Certainly, " he answered. 

She had hurried out, but they walked back rather slowly. Nevertheless, they did not seem to have anything to say to eachother. 

When they entered the room upstairs together, a faint little smilefull of wisdom hovered for a second round the old priest's clean-shaven lips. 

The dying man had evidently wanted something or some one. The oldpriest knew human nature, hence the little shadowy smile called upby Eve's transparently partial interpretation of her father'sdesire. 

Edward Challoner looked at him, but did not appear to recognise hisface. It seemed that he had left the earth so far behind now thatthe faces of those walking on it were no longer distinguishable. 

He gave a little half-pettish groan, and a stillness came over theroom. 

The old padre and the doctor, who did not know a word of any commonlanguage, exchanged a glance, and in a very business-like way, as ofone whose trade it was, the priest got down upon his knees. Thenthe doctor, half-shyly, approached Eve, and taking her by the arm, led her gently out of the room. 

Fitz stayed where he was, standing by the dead man, looking down atthe priest's bowed head, while the bell of the little chapelattached to the Casa d'Erraha told the valley that a good man hadgone to his rest. 

CHAPTER VI. AN ACTOR PASSES OFF THE STAGE. 

 We pass; the path that each man trod Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds. 

The priest was the first to speak. 

"You are his friend, I also; but we are of different nations. "

He paused, drawing the sheet up over the dead man's face. 

"He was not of my Church. You have your ways; will you make thearrangements?"

"Yes, " replied Fitz simply, "if you like. "

"It is better so, my son"--the padre took a pinch of snuff--"because--he was not of my Church. You will stay here, you and yourfriend. She, the Senorita Eve, cannot be left alone, with hergrief. "

He spoke Spanish, knowing that the Englishman understood it. 

They drew down the blinds and passed out on to the terrace, wherethey walked slowly backwards and forwards, talking over the futureof Eve and of the Casa d'Erraha. 

In Spain, as in other southern lands, they speed the parting guest. Two days later Edward Challoner was laid beside his father andgrandfather in the little churchyard in the valley below the Casad'Erraha. And who are we that we should say that his chance ofreaching heaven was diminished by the fact that part of the RomanCatholic burial service was read over him by a Spanish priest?

Fitz had telegraphed to Eve's only living relative, Captain Bontnor, and Fitz it was who stayed on at the Casa d'Erraha until thatmariner should arrive; for the doctor was compelled to return to hisship at Port Mahon, and the priest never slept in another but hisown little vicarage house. 

And in the Casa d'Erraha was enacted at this time one of thosestrange little comedies that will force themselves upon a tragicstage. Fitz deemed it correct that he should avoid Eve as much aspossible, and Eve, on the other hand, feeling lonely and miserable, wanted the society of the simple-minded young sailor. 

"Why do you always avoid me?" she asked suddenly on the eveningafter the funeral. He had gone out on to the terrace, and thithershe followed him in innocent anger, without afterthought. She stoodbefore him with her slim white hands clasped together, restingagainst her black dress, a sombre, slight young figure in themoonlight, looking at him with reproachful eyes. 

He hesitated a second before answering her. She was only nineteen;she had been born and brought up in the Valley of Repose amidst thesimple islanders. She knew nothing of the world and its ways. AndFitz, with the burden of the unique situation suddenly thrust uponhim, was, in his chivalrous youthfulness, intensely anxious to avoidgiving her anything to look back to in after years when she shouldbe a woman. He was tenderly solicitous for the feelings which wouldcome later, though they were absent now. 

"Because, " he answered, "I am not good at saying things. I don'tknow how to tell you how sorry I am for you. "

She turned away and looked across to the hills at the other side ofthe valley, a rugged outline against the sky. 

"But I know all that, " she said softly, "without being told. "

A queer smile passed over his sunburnt face, as if she hadunintentionally and innocently made things more difficult for him. 

"And, " she continued, "it is--oh, so lonely. "

She made an almost imperceptible little movement towards him. Likethe child that she was, she was yearning for sympathy and comfort. "I know--I know, " he said. 

Outward circumstance was rather against Fitz. A clear, odorousSpanish night, the young moon rising behind the pines, a thousanddreamy tropic scents filling the air. And Eve, half tearful, whollylovable, standing before him, innocently treading on dangerousground, guilelessly asking him to love her. 

She, having grown almost to womanhood, pure as the flowers of thefield, ignorant, a child, knew nothing of what she was doing. Shemerely gave way to the instinct that was growing within her--theinstinct that made her turn to this man, claiming his strength, histenderness, his capability, as given to him for her use and for herhappiness. 

"You must not avoid me, " she said. "Why do you do it? Have I doneanything you dislike? I have no one to speak to, no one whounderstands, but you. There is the padre, of course--and nurse; butthey do not understand. They are--so OLD! Let me stay here withyou until it is time to go to bed, will you?"

"Of course, " he answered quietly. "If you care to. To-morrow Ishould think we shall hear from your uncle. He may come by the boatsailing from Barcelona to-morrow night. It will be a good thing ifhe does; you see, I must get back to my ship. "

"You said she would not be ready for sea till next month. "

"No, but there is discipline to be thought of. "

He looked past her, up to the stars, with a scrutinising maritimeeye, recognising them and naming them to himself. He did not meether eyes--dangerous, tear-laden. 

"There is something the matter with you, " she said. "You aredifferent. Yes, you want my uncle to come the day after to-morrow--you want to go away to Mahon as soon as you can. I-- Oh, Fitz, Idon't want to be a coward!"

She stood in front of him, clenching her little fists, forcing backthe tears that gleamed in the moonlight. He did not dare to ceasehis astronomical observations. 

"I WON'T be a coward--if you will only speak. If you will tell mewhat it is. "

Then Fitz told his first deliberate lie. 

"I have had bad news, " he said, "about my brother Luke. I amawfully anxious about him. "

He did it very well; for his motive was good. And we may take itthat such a lie as this is not writ very large in the Book. 

The girl paused for a little, and then deliberately wiped the tearsfrom her eyes. 

"How horribly selfish I have been!" she said. "Why did you not tellme sooner? I have only been thinking of my own troubles ever since--ever since poor papa-- I am a selfish wretch! I hate myself!Tell me about your brother. "

And so they walked slowly up and down the moss-grown terrace--alonein this wonderful tropic night--while he told her the little tragedyof his life. He told the story simply, with characteristic gaps inthe sequence, which she was left to fill up from her imagination. 

"I shall not like Mrs. Harrington, " said Eve, when the story wastold. "I am glad that she cannot come much into my life. My fatherwanted me to go and stay with her last summer, but I would not leavehim alone, and for some reason he would not accept the invitationfor himself. Do you know, Fitz, I sometimes think there is a past--some mysterious past--which contained my father and Mrs. Harringtonand a man--the Count de Lloseta. "

"I have seen him, " put in Fitz, "at Mrs. Harrington's often. "

The girl nodded her head with a quaint little assumption ofshrewdness and deep suspicion. 

"My father admired him--I do not know why. And pitied himintensely--I do not know why. "

"He was always very nice to me, " answered Fitz, "but I neverunderstood him. "

Talking thus they forgot the flight of time. It sometimes happensthus in youth. And the huge clock in the stable yard striking tenaroused Eve suddenly to the lateness of the hour. 

"I must go, " she said. "I am glad you told me about--Luke. I feelas if I knew you better and understood--a little more. Good-night. "

She left him on the terrace, and walked sorrowfully away to thehouse which could never be the same again. 

Fitz watched her slight young form disappear through an opendoorway, and then he became lost in the contemplation of the distantsea, lying still and glass-like in the moonlight. He was looking tothe north, and it happened that from that same point of the compassthere was coming towards him the good steamer Bellver, on whose deckstood a little shock-headed man--Captain Bontnor. 

There is a regular service of steamers to and from the Island ofMajorca to the mainland, and, in addition, steamers make voyageswhen pressure of traffic may demand. The Bellver was making one ofthese supplemental journeys, and her arrival was not looked for atPalma. 

Eve and Fitz were having breakfast alone in the gloomy roomovershadowed by the trailing wings of the Angel of Death, when theservant announced a gentleman to see the senorita. The senoritarequested that the gentleman might approach, and presently therestood in the doorway the quaintest little figure imaginable. 

Captain Bontnor, with a certain sense of the fitness of things, hadput on his best clothes for this occasion, and it happened that themost superior garment in his wardrobe was a thick pilot-jacket, which stood out from his square person with solid angularity. Hehad brushed his hair very carefully, applying water to compass asmoothness which had been his life-long and hitherto unattained aim. His shock hair--red turning to grey--stood up four inches from hishonest, wrinkled face. It was unfortunate that his best garmentsshould have been purchased for the amenities of a northern climate. His trousers were as stiff as his jacket, and he wore a decorousblack silk tie as large as a counterpane. 

He stood quaintly bowing in the doorway, his bright blue eyes veiledwith shyness and a pathetic dumb self-consciousness. 

"Please come in, " said Eve in Spanish, quite at a loss as to whothis might be. 

Then Fitz had an inspiration. Something of the sea seemed to bewafted from the older to the younger sailor. 

"Are you Captain Bontnor?" he asked, rising from the table. 

"Yes, sir, yes! That's my name!"

He stood nervously in the doorway, mistrusting the parquet-floor, mistrusting himself, mistrusting everything. 

Fitz went towards him holding out his hand, which the captain tookafter a manfully repressed desire to wipe his own broad palm on theseam of his trousers. 

"Then you are my uncle?" said Eve, coming forward. 

"Yes, miss, I'm afraid--that is--yes, I'm your uncle. You see--I'monly a rough sort of fellow. "

He came a little nearer and held his arms apart, looking down at hisown person in humble deprecation. 

Eve was holding out her hand. He took it with a vague, deep-rootedchivalry, and she, stooping, very deliberately kissed him. 

This seemed rather to bewilder the captain, for he shook hands againwith Fitz. 

"I-- " he began, nodding into Fitz's face. "You are--eh? I didn'texpect--to see--I didn't know--"

At that moment Eve saw. It came to her in a flash, as most thingsdo come to women. She even had time to doubt the story about Luke. 

"This, " she said, with crimson cheeks, "is Mr. FitzHenry of theKittiwake. He kindly came to us in our trouble. You will have tothank him afterwards--uncle. "

"And in the meantime I expect you want breakfast?" put in Fitz, carefully avoiding Eve. 

"Yes, " added the girl, "of course. Sit down. No, here!"

"Thankye--thankye, miss--my dear, I mean. Oh, anything'll do forme. A bit of bread and a cup o' tea. I had a bit and a sup onboard before she sheered alongside the quay. "

He looked round rather helplessly, wondering where he should put hishat--a solid, flat-crowned British affair. Eve took it from him andlaid it aside. 

Captain Bontnor sat very stiffly down. His square form did not seemto lose any of its height by the change of position, and with astiff back he looked admiringly round the room, waiting like a childat a school treat. 

As the meal progressed he grew more at ease, telling them of thelittle difficulties of his journey, avoiding with a tact not alwaysfound inside a better coat all mention of the sad event which hadcaused him to take this long journey after his travelling days weredone. 

That which set him at ease more than all else was the fact, atlength fully grasped, that Fitz was, like himself, a sailor. Hereat least was a topic upon which he could converse with any man. General subjects only were discussed, as if by tacit consent. Nomention was made of the future until this was somewhat rudelybrought before their notice by the announcement that a secondvisitor desired to see the senorita. 

With a more assured manner than that of his predecessor, a small, dark man came into the room, throwing off his cloak and handing itto the servant. He bowed ceremoniously and with true Spanish graceto Eve, with less ceremony and more dignity to the two men. 

"I beg that your excellency will accept the sympathy of my deepestheart, " he said. "I regret to trouble you so soon after the greatloss sustained by your excellency, indeed, by the whole island ofMajorca. But it is a matter of business. Such things cannot bedelayed. Have I your excellency's permission to proceed?"

"Certainly, senor. "

The man's clean-shaven face was like a mask. The expressions seemedto come and go as if worked by machinery. Sympathy was turned off, and in its place Polite-Attention-to-Business appeared. From underhis arm he drew a leather portfolio, which he placed upon the table. 

"The affairs of the late Cavalier Challoner were perhaps known toyour excellency?"

"No; I knew nothing of my father's affairs. "

Sympathy seemed to be struggling behind "Polite-Attention-to-Business, " while for a moment a real look of distress flitted overthe parchment face. He paused for an instant, reflecting while heassorted his papers. 

"I am, " he said, "the lawyer of his excellency the Count deLloseta. "

Eve and Fitz exchanged a glance, and as silence was kept the lawyerwent on. 

"Three generations ago, " he said, "a Count de Lloseta, thegrandfather of this present excellency, made over on 'rotas' theestate and house known as the Val d'Erraha to the grandfather of thelate Cavalier Challoner--a Captain Challoner, one of Admiral Byng'smen. "

Again he paused, arranging his papers. 

"The Majorcan system 'rotas' is known to your excellency?"

"No, senor. "

"On this system an estate is made over for one or two or threegenerations by the proprietor to the lessee who farms or sublets theland, and in lieu of rent hands over to the proprietor a certainproportion of the crops. Does your excellency follow me?"

Eve did not answer at once. Then the lawyer's meaning seemed todawn upon her. 

"Then, " she said, "the Casa d'Erraha never belonged to my father?"

"Never"--with a grave bow. 

"And I have nothing--nothing at all! I am penniless?"

The lawyer looked from her to Fitz, who was standing beside herlistening to the conversation, but not offering to take part in it. 

"Unless your excellency has private means--in England, perhaps. "

"I do not know--I know nothing. And we must leave the Casad'Erraha. When, senor? Tell me when. "

The lawyer avoided her distressed eyes. 

"Well, " he said slowly, "the law is rather summary. I--yourexcellency understands I only do my duty. I am not the principal. I have no authority whatever--except the law. "

"You mean that I must go at once?"

The lawyer's parchment face was generously expressive of grief now. 

"Excellency, the lease terminated at the death of the late CaballeroChalloner. "

Eve stood for a moment, breathing hard. Fate seemed suddenly tohave turned against her at every point. At this moment CaptainBontnor made bold--one could see him doing it--to take her hand. 

"My dear, " he said, "I don't quite understand what this foreigngentleman and you are talkin' about. But if it's trouble, dear, ifit's trouble--just let me try. "

CHAPTER VII. IN THE STREET OF THE PEACE. 

 Measure thy life by loss instead of gain, Not by the wine drunk, but the wine poured forth. 

"MY DEAR MISS CHALLONER, --I learn that you are in Barcelona, and atthe same time I find with some indignation that my lawyer inMallorca, with a deplorable excess of zeal, has been acting withoutmy orders in respect to the property of the Val d'Erraha. I hastento place myself and possessions at your disposition, and take theliberty of writing to request an interview, instead of calling onyou at your hotel, for reasons which you will readily understand, knowing as you do the gossiping ways of hotels. As an old friend ofyour father's, and one who moved and lived in neighbourlyintercourse with him before your birth, and before the deplorabledeath of your mother, I now waive ceremony, and beg that you andyour uncle will come and take tea with me this afternoon at myhumble abode in the 'Calle de la Paz. '--Believe me, dear MissChalloner, yours very sincerely, "CIPRIANI DE LLOSETA DE MALLORCA. "

Eve read this letter in her room in the Hotel of the Four Nations atBarcelona. She had only been on the mainland twenty-four hours whenit was delivered to her by a servant of the Count's, who came to herapartment and delivered it into her own hands, as is the custom ofSpanish servants. 

Eve Challoner had grown older during the last few days. She hadbeen brought face to face with life as it really is, and not as wedream it in the dreams of youth. She was not surprised to receivethis letter, although she had no idea that the Count de Lloseta wasin Spain. But the varying emotions of the last week had, as itwere, undermined the confident hopefulness with which we lookforward when we are young, and sometimes when we are old, to themanagement of our own lives here below. She was beginning tounderstand certain terms which she had heard applied to humanexistence, and to which she had hitherto attached no special meaningas relating to herself. More especially did she understand at thistime that life may be compared to a stream, for she was vaguelyconscious of drifting she knew not whither. 

Fitz had come suddenly into her life; Captain Bontnor had come intoit; and now this man, Cipriani de Lloseta, seemed to be assertinghis right to come into it too. And she did not know quite what todo with them all. She had never, in the quiet, dreamy days of heryouth, pictured a life with any of these men in it, and the futurewas suddenly tremendous, unfathomable. There were vastpossibilities in it of misery, of danger, of difficulty; and behindthese a vague, new feeling of a possible happiness far exceeding thehappiness of her peaceful childhood. 

Without consulting her uncle, who had gone out into the street towalk backwards and forwards before the door, as he had walkedbackwards and forwards on his deck for forty years, she sat down andaccepted the Count's informal invitation. She seemed to do itwithout reflection, as if impelled thereto by something strongerthan pro or con, as if acknowledging the Spaniard's right to comeinto her life, bringing to bear upon it an influence which she neverattempted to fathom. 

Thus it came about that Eve and Captain Bontnor found themselvesawaiting their host in the massive, gloomy drawing-room of thePalace in the Calle de la Paz at five o'clock that afternoon. 

Captain Bontnor had learnt a great deal during the last few days;among other things he had learnt to love his niece with a simple, dog-like devotion, which had a vein of pathos in it for those whosee such things. He placed himself well behind Eve, and lookedaround him with a wondering awe. 

"I think, my dear, " he said, "that it would have been better if youhad come alone. I--you know I am getting too old to learn mannersnow--eh--he! he! Yes. Having been so long at sea, you know. "

"I think the sea teaches men manners, uncle, " said Eve, with alittle smile which he did not understand. "At any rate, " she wenton, touching his rough sleeve affectionately, "it teaches themsomething that I like. "

"Does it, now? What, now? Tell me. "

"I do not know, " answered the girl, as if speaking to herself, andat this moment the door was opened. The man who came in was ofmedium height, with a long, narrow face, and singularly patienteyes. 

"I should have known you, " he said, approaching Eve, and holding outhis hand. "You do not remember your mother? I do, however. Youare like her--and she was a good woman. And this is CaptainBontnor--your uncle. "

He shook hands with the old sailor without the faintest flicker ofsurprise at his somewhat incongruous appearance. 

"I am glad, " he said suavely, "to make Captain Bontnor'sacquaintance. "

He turned to draw forward a chair, and the light from the high, barred window falling full on his head, betrayed the fact that hishair, close cut as an English soldier's, was touched and fleckedwith grey. His lithe youthfulness of frame rather surprised Eve, who knew him to be a contemporary of her father's. 

"It is very good of you to come, " he went on in a low voice. "Itook the privilege of the elder generation, you see! Captain, praytake that chair. "

He did the honours with a British ease of manner, strangely touchedby a Spanish dignity. 

"When I heard of your great bereavement, " he said, turning to Evewith a grave bow, "I ought perhaps to have gone to Mallorca at onceto offer you what poor assistance was in my power. Butcircumstances, over which I had no control, prevented my doing so. My offer of help is tardy, I know, but it is none the less sincere. "

"Thank you, " replied Eve, conscious of a feeling of pleasantreliance in this new-found ally. "But I have good friends--thePadre Fortis, my uncle, and--a friend of ours, Mr. FitzHenry. "

"Of the Kittiwake--at Mahon?"

"Yes. "

"I have the pleasure of knowing Mr. FitzHenry, " murmured the Count. "Now, " he said, with a sudden smile which took her by surprise byreason of the alteration it made in the whole man, "will you do me agreat favour?"

"I should like to, " answered Eve, with some hesitation. 

"And you?" said the Count, turning to Captain Bontnor. 

"Oh yes, " replied that sailor bluntly, "if it's possible. "

"I want you, " continued the Count de Lloseta, "to forget that thisis the first time we meet, and to look upon me as a friend--one ofthe most intimate--of your father. "

"My father, " said the girl, "always spoke of you as such. "

"Indeed, I am glad of that. Now, tell me, who have you in the worldbesides Captain Bontnor?"

"I have no one. But--"

"We was thinking, " put in the Captain, in ungrammatical haste, "thatEve would come and live with me. It isn't a grand house--just alittle cottage. But such as it is, she'll have a kindly welcome. "

"And, I have no doubt, a happy home", added the Count, with one ofhis dark smiles. "I was merely wondering whether Miss Challonerintended to live in the Casa d'Erraha or to let it?"'

Eve looked up in surprise, and Captain Bontnor's blue eyes wanderedfrom her face to the dark and courteous countenance of Cipriani deLloseta. 

"Perhaps, " continued the Spaniard imperturbably, "you have not yetmade up your mind on the subject. "

"But the Casa d'Erraha does not belong to me, " said Eve, and CaptainBontnor wagged his head in confirmation. "Your own lawyer explainedto me that my father only held it on 'rotas. '"

"My own lawyer, my dear young lady, thereby proved himself an ass. "

"But, " said Eve, somewhat mystified, "the Val d'Erraha belongs toyou, and you must know it. I have no title-deeds--I have nothing. "

"Except possession, which is nine points of the law. Will you taketea, and cream? I do not know how many points the law has, but onewould naturally conclude that nine is a large proportion of thewhole. "

While he spoke he was pouring out the tea. He handed a cup to herwith a grave smile, as if the matter under discussion were one of asmall and passing importance. 

"I suppose, " he added, "you have learnt to love the Casa d'Erraha. It is a place--a place one might easily become attached to. Do youknow"--he turned his back to her, busying himself with the silverteapot--"Lloseta?" he added jerkily. 

"Yes. My father and I used to go there very often. "

"Ah--" He waited--handing Captain Bontnor a cup of tea in silence. But Eve was not thinking of Lloseta; she was thinking of the Casad'Erraha. 

"My father did not speak to me of his affairs, " she said. "He wasnaturally rather reserved, and--and it was very sudden. "

"Yes. So I learnt. That indeed is my excuse for intruding myselfupon your notice at this time. I surmised that my poor friend'saffairs had been left in some confusion. He was too thorough agentleman to be competent in affairs. I thought that perhaps mysmall influence and my diminutive knowledge of Majorcan law--theRoman law, in point of fact--might be of some use to you. "

"Thank you, " she answered; "I think we settled everything before weleft the island, although we did not see Senor Pena, your lawyer. I--the Casa d'Erraha belongs to you!" she added, suddenly descendingto feminine reiteration. 

"Prove it, " said the Count quietly. 

"I cannot do that. "

He shrugged his shoulders with a smile. 

"Then, " he said, "I am afraid you cannot shift your responsibilityto my shoulders. "

The girl looked at him with puzzled young eyes. He stood beforeher, dignified, eminently worthy of the great name he bore--asolitary, dark-eyed, inscrutable man, whose whole being subtlysuggested hopelessness and an empty life. She shook her head. 

"But I cannot accept the Casa d'Erraha on those terms. "

The Count drew forward a chair and sat down. 

"Listen, " he said, with an explanatory forefinger upheld. "Threegenerations ago two men made a verbal agreement in respect to theestate of the Val d'Erraha. To-day no one knows what that agreementwas. It may have been the ordinary 'rotas' of Minorca. It may not. In those days the English held Minorca; my ancestor may thereforehave been indebted to your great-grandfather, for we have some smallestates in Minorca. You know what the islands are to-day. They aretwo hundred years behind Northern Europe. What must they have beena hundred and twenty years ago? We have no means of finding outwhat passed between your great-grandfather and my grandfather. Weonly know that three generations of Challoners have lived in theCasa d'Erraha, paying to the Counts of Lloseta a certain proportionof the product of the estate. I do not mind telling you that thesmallness of that proportion does away with the argument that theagreement was the ordinary 'rotas' of the Baleares. We knownothing--we can prove nothing. If you claimed the estate I mightpossibly wrest it from you--not by proof, but merely because theinsular prejudice against a foreigner would militate against you ina Majorcan court of law. I cannot legally force you to hold theestate of the Val d'Erraha. I can only ask you as the daughter ofone of my best friends to accept the benefit of a very small doubt. "

Eve hesitated. What woman would not?

Captain Bontnor set down his cup very gravely on the table. 

"I don't rightly understand, " he said sturdily, "this 'rotas'business. But it seems to me pretty plain that the estate neverbelonged to my late brother-in-law. Now what I say is, if the placebelongs by right to Miss Challoner she'll take it. If it don't;well, then it don't, and she can't accept it as a present fromanybody. Much obliged to you all the same. "

The Count laughed pleasantly. 

"My dear sir, it is not a present. "

The Captain stuffed his hands very deeply into his pockets. 

"Then it's worse--it's charity. And she has no need of that. Thankye all the same, " he replied. 

He stared straight in front of him with a vague and rather painfulsuggestion of incapability that sometimes came over him. He waswondering whether he was doing right in this matter. 

"If, " he added, half to himself, as a sort of afterthought on thecrying question of ways and means--"if it comes to that, I can go tosea again. There's plenty would be ready to give me a ship. "

The Count was still smiling. 

"There is no question, " he said, "of charity. What has MissChalloner done that I should offer her that? I am in ignorance asto her affairs. I do not know the extent of her income. "

"As far as we can make out, " said Eve gently, "there is nothing. But I can work. I thought that my knowledge of Spanish might enableme to make a living. "

"No, " said Captain Bontnor, "I'm d--- I mean I should not like youto go governessing, my dear. "

The Count was apparently reflecting. 

"I have a compromise to propose, " he said, addressing himself toEve. "If we place the property in the hands of a third person--youknow the value of land in Majorca--to farm and tend; if at the endof each year the profits be divided between us?"

But Eve's suspicions were aroused, and her woman's instinct took herfurther than did Captain Bontnor's sturdy sense of right and wrong. 

"I am afraid, " she said, rising from her chair, "that I must refuse. I--I think I understand why papa always spoke of you as he did. Iam very grateful to you. I know now that you have been trying togive me D'Erraha. It was a generous thing to do--a most generousthing. I think people would hardly believe me if I told them. Ican only thank you; for I have no possible means of proving to youhow deeply I feel it. Somehow"--she paused, with tears and a sadlittle smile in her eyes--"somehow it is not the gift that Iappreciate so much as--as your way of trying to give it. "

The Spaniard spread out his two hands in deprecation. 

"My child, " he murmured gently, "I have not another word to say. "

CHAPTER VIII. THE DEAL. 

 Oh, the little more, and how much it is! And the little less, and what worlds away!

A howling gale of wind from the south-east, and driving snow anddarkness. The light of Cap Grisnez struggling out over theblackness of the Channel, and the two Foreland lights twinklingfeebly from their snow-clad heights. A night to turn in one's bedwith a sleepy word of thanksgiving that one has a bed to turn in, and no pressing need to turn out of it. 

The smaller fry of Channel shipping have crept into Dungeness or theDowns. Some of them have gone to the bottom. Two of them arebreaking up on the Goodwins. 

The Croonah Indian liner is pounding into it all, with white decksand whistling shrouds. The passengers are below in their berths. Some of them--and not only the ladies--are sending up littleshamefaced supplications to One who watches over the traveller inall places and at all times. 

And on the bridge of the Croonah a man all eyes and stern resolveand maritime instinct. A man clad in his thickest clothes, and overall of them his black oilskins. A man with three hundred livesdepending upon his keen eyes, his knowledge, and his judgment. Aman whose name is Luke FitzHenry. 

The captain has gone below for a few minutes to thaw, leaving theship to FitzHenry. He does it with an easy conscience--as easy, that is, as the maritime conscience can well be in a gale of wind, with the Foreland lights ahead and infinite possibilities allaround. The captain drinks his whisky and hot water with a certainslow appreciation of the merits of that reprehensible solution, andglances at the aneroid barometer on the bulkhead of his cabin. 

Overhead, on the spidery bridge, far up in the howling night, LukeFitzHenry, returning from the enervating tropics, stares sternlyinto the night, heedless of the elemental warfare. For LukeFitzHenry has a grudge against the world, and people who have thattake a certain pleasure in evil weather. 

"The finest sailor that ever stepped, " reflects the captain of hissecond officer--and he no mean mariner himself. 

The Croonah had groped her way up Channel through a snowstorm ofthree days' duration, and the brunt of it had fallen by right ofseniority on the captain and his second officer. Luke FitzHenry wasindefatigable, and, better still, he was without enthusiasm. Herewas the steady, unflinching combativeness which alone can master theelements. Here was the true genius of the sea. 

With his craft at his fingers' ends, Luke had that instinct ofnavigation by which some men seem to find their way upon thetrackless waters. There are sailors who are no navigators just asthere are hunting men who cannot ride. There are navigators whowill steer you from London to Petersburg without taking a sight, from the Thames to the Suez Canal without looking at their sextant. Such a sailor as this was Luke FitzHenry. Perfectly trained, heassimilated each item of experience with an insatiable greed forknowledge--and it was all maritime knowledge. He was a sailor andnothing else. But it is already something--as they say in France--to be a good sailor. 

Luke FitzHenry was a man of middle height, sturdy, with broadshoulders and a slow step. His clean-shaven face was a long oval, with pessimistic, brooding eyes--eyes that saw everything except thesmall modicum of good which is in all human things, and to this theywere persistently blind. Taking into consideration the small, setmouth, it was eminently a pugnacious face--a face that might easilydegenerate to the coarseness of passion in the trough of a losingfight. But, fortunately, Luke's lines were cast upon the greatwaters, and he who fights the sea must learn to conquer, not bypassionate effort, but by consistent, cool resolve. Those whoworked with him feared him, and in so doing learnt the habit of hisways. The steersman, with one eye on the binnacle, knew alwayswhere to find him with the other; for Luke hardly moved during hisentire watch on deck. He took his station at the starboard end ofthe narrow bridge when he came on duty, and from that spot he rarelymoved. These little things betray a man, if one only has thepatience to piece them together. 

Those who go down to the sea in ships, and even those who take theirpleasure on the great water, know the relative merits of the man whogoes to his post and stays there, and of him who is all over theship and restless. 

Luke was standing now like a statue--black and gleaming amid theuniversal grey of the winter night, and his deep eyes, cat-like, pierced the surrounding gloom. 

Here was a man militant. A man who must needs be fightingsomething, and Fate, with unusual foresight, had placed him in aposition to fight Nature. Luke FitzHenry rather revelled in a nightsuch as this--the gloom, the horror, and the patent danger of itsuited his morose, combative nature. He loved danger and difficultywith the subtle form of love which a fighting man experiences for arelentless foe. 

From light to light he pushed his intrepid way through the darknessand the bewildering intricacies of the Downs, and in due time, inthe full sunlight of the next day, the Croonah sidled alongside thequay in the Tilbury Dock. The passengers, with their new livesbefore them, stumbled ashore, already forgetting the men who, smoke-begrimed and weary, had carried these lives within their handsduring the last month or more. They crowded down the gangway andleft Luke to go to his cabin. 

There were two letters lying on the little table. One from Fitz atMahon, the other in a handwriting which Luke had almost forgotten. He turned it over with the subtle smile of a man who has a grudgeagainst women. But he opened it before the other. 

"DEAR LUKE, --I am glad to hear from Fitz that you are making yourway in the Merchant Service. He tells me that your steamer, theCroonah, has quite a reputation on the Indian route, and yourfellow-officers are all gentlemen. I shall be pleased to see you todinner the first evening you have at your disposal. I dine atseven-thirty. --Believe me, yours very truly, MARIAN HARRINGTON. 

"P. S. --I shall deem it a favour if you will come in dress clothes, as I have visitors. "

And, strange to say, it was the feminine stab in the postscript thatsettled the matter. Luke sat down and wrote out a telegram at once, accepting Mrs. Harrington's invitation for the same evening. 

When he rang the bell of the great house in Grosvenor Gardens atprecisely half-past seven that evening, he was conscious of acertain sense of elation. He was quite sure of himself. 

He thought that the large drawing-room was empty when the butlerushered him into it, and some seconds elapsed before he discernedthe form of a young lady in a deep chair near the fire. 

The girl turned her head and rose from the chair with a smile and acertain grace of manner which seemed in some indefinite way to havebeen put on with her evening dress. For a moment Luke gazed at her, taken aback. Then he bowed gravely, and she burst into a merrylaugh. 

"How funny!" she cried. "You do not know me?"

"No-o-o, " he answered, searching his mind. For he was a passengersailor, and many men and women crossed his path during the year. 

She came forward with a coquettish little laugh and placed herselfbeneath the gas, inviting his inspection, sure of herself, confidentin her dressmaker. 

She was small and very upright, with a peculiarly confident carriageof the head, which might indicate determination or, possibly, a mereresolution to get her money's worth. Her hair, perfectly dressed, was of the colour of a slow-worm. She called it fair. Her enemiessaid it reminded them of snakes. Her eyes were of a darker shade ofashen grey, verging on hazel. Her mouth was mobile, with thin lipsand an expressive corner--the left-hand corner--and at this momentit suggested pert inquiry. Some people thought she had anexpressive face, but then some people are singularly superficial intheir mode of observation. There was really no power of expressingany feeling in the small, delicately cut face. It all lay in themouth, in the left-hand corner thereof. 

"Well?" she said, and Luke's wonder gradually faded into admiration. 

"I give it up, " he answered. 

She shrugged her shoulders in pretended disgust. 

"You are not polite, " she said, with a glance at his stalwart personwhich might have indicated that there were atoning merits. "I mustsay you are not polite, Luke. I do not think I will tell you. Itwould be still more humiliating to learn that you have forgotten myexistence. "

"You cannot be Agatha!" he exclaimed. 

"Can I not? It happens that I AM Agatha Ingham-Baker--at yourservice!"

She swept him a low curtsey and sailed away to the mantelpiece, thereby giving him the benefit of the exquisite fit of her dress. She stood with one arm on the mantel-shelf, looking back at him overher shoulder, summing him up with a little introspective nod. 

"I should like to know why I cannot be Agatha, " she asked, with thatkeen feminine scent for a personality which leads to the uttering ofso much nonsense, and the brewing of so much mischief. 

"I never thought--" he began. 

"Yes?"

He laughed and refused to go any farther, although she certainlymade the way easy for him. 

"In fact, " she said mockingly, "you are disappointed. You neverexpected me to turn out such a horrid--"

"You know it isn't that, " he interrupted, with a flash of his gloomyeyes. 

"Not now, " she said quietly, glancing towards the door. "I hearMrs. Harrington coming downstairs. You can tell me afterwards. "

Luke turned on his heel and greeted Mrs. Harrington with quite apleasant smile, which did not belong to her by rights, but to thegirl behind him. 

Fitz had been away for two years. Mrs. Harrington in makingovertures of peace to Luke had been prompted by the one consistentmotive of her life, self-gratification. She was tired of theobsequious society of persons like the Ingham-Bakers, whom shementally set down as parasites. There is a weariness of the fleshthat comes to rich women uncontrolled. They weary of their ownpower. Tyranny palls. Mrs. Harrington was longing to be thwartedby some one stronger than herself. The FitzHenrys even in theirboyhood had, by their sturdy independence, their simple, seamanlikeself-assertion, touched some chord in this lone woman's heart whichwould not vibrate to cringing fingers. 

She had sent for Luke because Fitz was away. She wanted to bethwarted. She would have liked to be bullied. And also there wasthat subtle longing for the voice, the free gesture, the heartymanliness of one whose home is on the sea. 

As Luke turned to greet her with the rare smile on his face he wasmarvellously like Fitz. He was well dressed. There was not theslightest doubt that this was a gentleman. Nay, more, he lookeddistinguished. And above all, he carried himself like a sailor. Sothe reconciliation was sudden and therefore complete. Areconciliation to be complete must be sudden. It is too delicate athing to bear handling. 

Luke had come intending to curse. He began to feel like staying tobless. He was quite genial and pleasant, greeting Mrs. Ingham-Bakeras an old friend, and thereby distinctly upsetting that lady'smental equilibrium. She had endeavoured to prevent this meeting, because she thought it was not fair to Fitz. She noted the approvalwith which Mrs. Harrington's keen eyes rested on the young sailor, and endeavoured somewhat obviously to draw Agatha's attention to itby frowns and heavily significant nods, which her dutiful daughterignored. 

Mrs. Harrington glanced impatiently at the clock. 

"That stupid Count is late, " she said. 

"Is the Count de Lloseta coming?" asked Mrs. Ingham-Baker eagerly. 

From the strictly impartial standpoint of a mother she felt surethat the Count admired Agatha. 

"Yes, " answered Mrs. Harrington, with a cynical smile. 

And Mrs. Ingham-Baker, heedless of the sarcasm, was already engagedin an exhaustive examination of Agatha's dress. She crossed theroom and delicately rectified some microscopic disorder of thesnake-like hair. With a final glance up and down, she crossed herarms at her waist and looked complacently towards the door. 

The Count came in, and failed to realise the hope that apparentlybuoyed Mrs. Ingham-Baker's maternal heart. He did not strike anattitude or cover his dazzled eyes when they rested on Agatha. Hemerely came forward with his gravest smile and uttered the pleasantfictions appropriate to the occasion. Mrs. Ingham-Baker was markedin her gracious reception of the Spaniard, and the hostess watchedher effusions with a queer little smile. 

At dinner Mrs. Ingham-Baker was opposite to the Count, who seemedpreoccupied and somewhat absent-minded. Her attention was dividedbetween an anticipatory appreciation of Mrs. Harrington's cook andan evident admiration for her own daughter. 

"Agatha was just saying, " observed the stout lady between the candleshades, "that we had not seen the Count de Lloseta for quite a longtime. Only yesterday, was it not, dear?"

Agatha acquiesced. 

"The loss, " answered the Count, "is mine. But it is more than madegood by the news that my small absence was noted. I have beenabroad. "

Mrs. Harrington at the end of the table looked up sharply, and a fewdrops of soup fell from her upraised spoon with a splash. 

"In Spain?" she asked. 

"In Spain. "

CHAPTER IX. CUT FOR PARTNERS. 

 Beware equally of a sudden friend and a slow enemy. 

A wise man had said of Cipriani de Lloseta that had he not been aCount he would have been a great musician. He had that singularfacility with any instrument which is sometimes given to musicalpersons in recompense for voicelessness. The Count spoke like onewho could sing, but his throat was delicate, and so the world lost agreat singer. Of most instruments he spoke with a half-concealedcontempt. But of the violin he said nothing. He was not a man toturn the conversational overflow upon self-evident facts. 

He invariably brought his violin to Grosvenor Gardens when Mrs. Harrington invited him, in her commanding way, to dine. It amusedMrs. Harrington to accompany his instrument on the piano. Her musicwas of the accompanying order. It was heartless and correct. Someof us, by the way, have friends of this same order, and, like Mrs. Harrington's music, they are not in themselves either interesting orpleasant. 

The piano stood in the inner drawing-room, and thither the Count andMrs. Harrington repaired when the gentlemen had joined the ladies. In the larger drawing-room Luke was fortunate enough to secure aseat near to Agatha--quite near, and a long way from Mrs. Ingham-Baker, digestively asleep in an armchair. 

He did not exactly know how this arrangement was accomplished--itseemed to come. Possibly Agatha knew. 

Mrs. Harrington struck a keynote and began playing the prelude of apiece well known to them both. 

"Why did you not tell me that you were going to Spain?" she askedsomewhat tersely, under cover of her own chords. 

"Had I known that it would interest you--" murmured De Lloseta, tightening his bow. There was a singular gleam in his eye. Thegleam that one sees in the eye of a dog which has been thrashed, telling the wise that one day the dog will turn. 

"I am always interested, " said the grey lady slowly, "in Spain--andeven in Mallorca. "

She used the Spanish name of the island with the soft roll in thethroat that English people rarely acquire. He was prepared for it, standing with raised bow, looking past her iron-grey head to themusic. She glanced back over her shoulder into his face with thecruel cat-like love of torture that some people possess. Far awayin the distant wisdom of Providence it had been decreed that thiswoman should have no child less clever than herself to tease intohopelessness. 

The Spaniard laid his magic bow to the strings, leaving her tofollow. He tucked the violin against his collar with a littlecaressing motion of his chin, and in a few moments he seemed toforget all else than the voice of the instrument. There are a fewmusicians who can give to a violin the power of speech. They canmake the instrument tell some story--not a cheery tale, but ratherlike the story that dogs tell us sometimes--a story which seems tohave a sequence of its own, and to be quite intelligible to itsteller; but to us it is only comprehensible in part, like a talethat is told dramatically in a tongue unknown. 

The Count stood up and played with no fine frenzy, no rolling eyes, no swaying form; for such are the signs of a hopeless effort, hungout by the man who has heard the story and tries in vain to tell ithimself. 

Even Agatha was outdone, for Luke drifted off into absent-mindedness, and after a little effort she left him to return at hisown time. She listened to the music herself, but it did not seem totouch her. For sound ascends, and this was already above AgathaIngham-Baker's head. The piece over, Mrs. Harrington selectedanother. 

"You did not go across to Mallorca?" she inquired, in a voice thatdid not reach the other room. "No, " he answered, "I did not goacross to Mallorca. "

He stepped back a pace to move a chair which was too near to him, and the movement made it impossible for her to continue theconversation without raising her voice. She countered at once byrising and laying the music aside. 

"I am too tired for more, " she said. "You must ask Agatha toaccompany you. She plays beautifully. I have it from her mother!"

Mrs. Harrington stood for a moment looking into the other room. Luke and Agatha were talking together with some animation. 

"I have been very busy lately, " she said conversationally. "Perhapsyou have failed to notice that I have had this room redecorated?"

He looked round the apartments with a smile, which somehow conveyeda colossal contempt. "Very charming, " he said. 

"It was done by a good man and cost a round sum. " She paused, looking at him with a mocking glance. "In fact, I am rather in needof money. My balance at the bank is not so large as I could wish. "

The Count's dark eyes rested on her face with the small gleam intheir depths which has already been noted. 

"I am not good at money matters, " he said. "But, so far as Irecollect, you have already exceeded our--"

"Possibly. "

"And, unless my memory plays me false, there was a distinct promisethat this should not occur again. Perhaps a lady's promise--"

"Possibly. "

The Count contented himself with a derisive laugh beneath hisbreath, and waited for her to speak again. This she did as shemoved towards the other room. 

"I think five hundred pounds would suffice--at present. Agatha, "she continued, raising her voice, "come and play the Count'saccompaniment. He finds fault with me to-night"

"No. I only suggested a little piu lento! You take it too fast. "

"Ah! Well, I want to talk to Luke. Come, Agatha. "

"I tremble at the thought of my own temerity, " said Miss Ingham-Baker, as she seated herself on a music-stool with a great rustle ofsilks and considerable play of her white arms. 

"Are you bold?" inquired the Count, with impenetrable suavity. 

"I am--to attempt your accompaniments. I expect to be found faultwith. "

"It will at all events be a novelty, " he answered, setting the musicin order. 

The Spaniard opened the music-book and indicated the page. Agathadashed at it with characteristic confidence, and the voice of theviolin came singing softly into the melody. It was a betterperformance than the last. Agatha's playing was much less correct, but as she went on she forgot herself, and she put something intothe accompaniment which Mrs. Harrington had left out. It was nottime, neither was it a stricter attention to the composer'sinstructions. It was only a possibility, after all. 

In the other room Mrs. Ingham-Baker slumbered still. Mrs. Harrington, unmoved in her grey silk dress, was talking with herusual incisiveness, and Luke was listening gravely. When the piecewas done, Mrs. Harrington said over her shoulder -

"Go on. You get on splendidly together. "

And she returned to her conversation with Luke. 

The Count looked through his music. 

"How devoted she is to her nephews!" said Agatha, tapping the ivorykeyboard with a dainty finger. 

"Yes. "

"And apparently to both alike. "

There was a little flicker beneath the Count's lowered eyelids. 

"Apparently so, " he answered, with assumed hesitation. 

Agatha continued playfully, tapping the ivory notes with her middlefinger--the others being gracefully curled. 

"You speak as if you doubted the impartiality. "

"I am happy to say I always doubt a woman's impartiality. "

She laughed and drew the stool nearer to the piano. It would havebeen easier to drift away into the conversational channel of vaguegenerality which he opened up. He waited with some curiosity. 

"Do you think there is a preference?" she said, falling into hissmall trap. 

"Ah! There you ask me something that is beyond my poor powers ofdiscrimination. Mrs. Harrington does not wear her feelings on hersleeve. She is difficult. "

"Very, " admitted Agatha, with a little sigh. 

"I am naturally interested in the FitzHenrys, " she went on after alittle pause, with baffling frankness. "You see, we were childrentogether. "

"So I understand. I too am interested in them--merely because Ilike them. "

"I am afraid, " continued Agatha, tentatively turning the pages ofthe music which he had set before her, speaking as if she was onlyhalf thinking of what she was saying--"I am afraid that Mrs. Harrington is the sort of person to do an injustice. She almosttold my mother that she intended to leave all her money to one ofthem. "

Again that little flicker of the Count's patient eyelids. 

"Indeed!" he said. "To which one?"

Agatha shrugged her shoulders and began playing. "That is not somuch the question. It is the principle--the injustice--that oneobjects to. "

"Of course, " murmured De Lloseta, with a little nod. "Of course. "

They went on playing, and in the other room Mrs. Harrington talkedto Luke. Mrs. Ingham-Baker appeared to slumber, but her friend andhostess suspected her of listening. She therefore raised her voiceat intervals, knowing the exquisite torture of unsatisfiedcuriosity, and Mrs. Ingham-Baker heard the word "Fitz, " and themagic syllables "money, " more than once, but no connecting phrase tosoothe her aching mental palate. 

"And is your life a hard one?" Mrs. Harrington was asking. She hadbeen leading up to this question for some time--inviting hisconfidence, seeking the extent of her own power. A woman is notcontent with possessing power; she wishes to see the evidence of itin the lives of others. 

"No, " answered Luke, unconsciously disappointing her; "I cannot saythat it is. "

He was strictly, sternly on his guard. There was not the faintestpossibility of his ever forgiving this woman. 

"And you are getting on in your career?"

"Yes, thank you. "

Mrs. Harrington's grey eyes rested on his face searchingly. 

"Perhaps I could help you, " she said, "with my small influence, or--or by other means. "

"Thank you, " he said again without anger, serene in his completeindependence. 

Mrs. Harrington frowned. A dream passed through her mind--a greatdesire. What if she could crush this man's pride? For his sixyears' silence had never ceased to gall her. What if she couldhumble him so completely that he would come asking the help she socarelessly offered?

With a woman's instinct she hit upon the only possible means ofattaining this end. She did not pause to argue that a nature suchas Luke's would never ask anything for itself--that it is preciselysuch as he who have no pride when they ask for another, sacrificingeven that for that other's sake. 

Following her own thoughts, Mrs. Harrington looked pensively intothe room where Agatha was sitting. The girl was playing, with alittle frown of concentration. The wonderful music close to her earwas busy arousing that small possibility. Agatha did not know thatany one was looking at her. The two pink shades of the pianocandles cast a becoming light upon her face and form. 

Mrs. Harrington's eyes came surreptitiously round. Luke also waslooking at Agatha. And a queer little smile hovered across Mrs. Harrington's lips. The dream was assuming more tangibleproportions. Mrs. Harrington began to see her way; already herinordinate love of power was at work. She could not admit even toherself that Luke FitzHenry had escaped her. Women never know whenthey have had enough. 

"How long are you to be in London?" she asked, with a suddenkindness. 

"Only a fortnight. "

"Well, you must often come and see me. I shall have the Ingham-Bakers staying with me a few weeks longer. It is dull for poorAgatha with only two old women in the house. Come to lunch to-morrow, and we can do something in the afternoon. "

"Thank you very much, " said Luke. 

"You will come?"

"I should like nothing better. "

And so the music went on--and the game. Some played a losing gamefrom the beginning, and others played without quite knowing thestake. Some held to certain rules, while others made the rules asthey went along--as children do--ignorant of the tears that mustinevitably follow. But Fate placed all the best cards in Mrs. Harrington's hand. 

Luke and the Count Cipriani de Lloseta went out of the housetogether. They walked side by side for some yards while a watchfulhansom followed. 

"Can I give you a lift?" said De Lloseta at length. "I am goingdown to the Peregrinator's. "

"Thanks, no. I shall go straight to my rooms. I have not had myclothes off for three nights. "

"Ah, you sailors! I am going down to have my half-hour over a bookto compose my mind. "

"Do you read much?"

De Lloseta called the cab with a jerk of his head. Before steppinginto it he looked keenly into his companion's face. 

"Yes, a good deal. I read somewhere, lately, that it is never wiseto accept favours from a woman; she will always have more than hermoney's worth. Good-night. "

And he drove away. 

CHAPTER X. THE GAME OPENS. 

 Ce qu'on dit a l'etre a qui on dit tout n'est pas la moitie dece qu'on lui cache. 

Agatha sent her maid to bed and sat down before her bedroom fire tobrush her hair. 

Miss Ingham-Baker had, only four years earlier, left a fashionableSouth Coast boarding-school fully educated for the battle of life. There seem to be two classes of young ladies' boarding-schools. Inthe one they are educated with a view of faring well in this world, in the other the teaching mostly bears upon matters connected withthe next. In the last-mentioned class of establishment the youngpeople get up early and have very little material food to eat. SoMrs. Ingham-Baker wisely sent her daughter to the worldly school. This astute lady knew that girls who get up very early to attendpublic worship in the dim hours, and have poor meals during the day, do not as a rule make good matches. They have no time to do theirhair properly, and are not urged so much thereto as to punctualityat compline, or whatever the service may be. And it is thus thatthe little habits are acquired, and the little habits make thewoman, therefore the little habits make the match. Quod eratdemonstrandum. 

So Agatha was sent to a worldly school, where they promenaded in theKing's Road, and were taught at an early age to recognise the glanceof admiration when they saw it. They were brought up to desire niceclothes, and to wear the same stylishly. On Sunday they worebonnets, and promenaded with additional enthusiasm. Their youthfulbacks were straightened out by some process which the writer, nothaving been educated at a girls' school, cannot be expected todetail. They were given excellent meals at healthy hours, and thereprehensible habits of the lark were treated with contumely. Theywere given to understand that it was good to be smart always, andeven smarter at church. Religious fervour, if it ran to limpness ofdress, or form, or mind, was punishable according to law. Awholesome spirit of competition was encouraged, not in the taking ofmany prizes, the attending of many services, or the acquirement ofmuch Euclid, but in dress, smartness, and the accomplishments. 

"My girls always marry!" Miss Jones was wont to say with acomplacent smile, and mothers advertised it. 

Agatha had been an apt pupil. She came away from Miss Jones afinished article. Miss Jones had indeed looked in vain for Agatha'sname in that right-hand column of the Morning Post where fashionablearrangements are noted, and in the first column of the Times, wherefurther social events have precedence. But that was entirelyAgatha's fault. She came, and she saw, but she had not hithertoseen anything worth conquering. So many of her school friends hadmarried on the impulse of the moment for mere sentimental reasons, remaining as awful and harassed warnings in suburban retreats whererents are moderate and the census on the flow. If there was onething Miss Jones despised more than love in a cottage, it was thatintangible commodity in a suburban villa. 

Agatha, in a word, meant to do well for herself, and she was dimlygrateful to her mother for having foreseen this situation andprovided for it by a suitable education. 

She was probably thinking over the matter while she brushed herhair, for she was deeply absorbed. There was a knock at the door--atimid, deprecatory knock. 

"Oh, come in!" cried Agatha. 

The door opened and disclosed Mrs. Ingham-Baker, stout and cringing, in a ludicrous purple dressing-gown. 

"May I come and warm myself at your fire, dear?" she inquiredhumbly; "my own is so low. "

"That, " said Agatha, "is because you are afraid of the servants. "

Mrs. Ingham-Baker closed the door and came towards the fire withsurreptitious steps. It would not be truthful to say that she cameon tiptoe, her build not warranting that mode of progression. Agatha watched her without surprise. Mrs. Ingham-Baker always movedlike that in her dressing-gown. Like many ladies, she put onstealth with that garment. 

"How beautifully the Count plays!" said the mother. 

"Beautifully!" answered Agatha. 

And neither was thinking of Cipriani de Lloseta. 

Mrs. Ingham-Baker gave a little sigh, and contemplated her wool-workbedroom slippers with an affection which their appearance certainlydid not warrant. There was a suggestion of bygone defeats in sighand attitude--defeats borne with the resignation that followeth onhabit. 

"I don't believe, " she said, "that he will ever marry again. "

The girl tossed her pretty head. 

"I shouldn't think any one would have him!"

She was not of the campaigners who admit defeat. Mrs. Ingham-Bakersighed again, and put out the other slipper. 

"He must be very rich!--a palace in Barcelona--a palace!"

"Other people have castles in Spain, " replied Agatha, without any ofthat filial respect which our grandmothers were pleased to affect. There was nothing old-fashioned or effete about Agatha--she was, onthe contrary, essentially modern. 

The elder lady did not catch the allusion, and dived deep intothought. She supposed that Agatha had met and danced with otherrich Spaniards, and could have any one of them by the mere raisingof her little finger. Her attitude towards her daughter was that ofan old campaigner who, having done well in a bygone time, has thegood sense to recognise the deeper science of a modern warfare, being quite content with a small command in the rear. 

To carry out the simile, she now gathered from this conversationalreconnaissance that the younger and abler general at the front wasabout to alter the object of attack. She had, in fact, come in notto warm, but to inform herself. 

"Mrs. Harrington seemed to take to Luke, " said Agatha, behind herhair. 

"Yes, " answered Mrs. Ingham-Baker, proceeding carefully, for she waswell in hand--"wonderfully so! Poor Fitz seems to stand a very goodchance of being cut out. "

"Fitz will have to look after himself, " opined the young lady. "Didshe say anything to you after I came to bed? I came away onpurpose. "

Mrs. Ingham-Baker glanced towards the door, and drew her dressing-gown more closely round her. 

"WELL, " she began volubly, "of course I said what a nice fellow Lukewas, so manly and simple, and all that. And she quite agreed withme. I said that perhaps he would get on after all and not bringdisgrace upon all her kindness. "

"What do you mean by THAT?" inquired Agatha. 

"I don't know, my dear, but I said it. And she said she hoped so. Then I asked her if she knew what his wages or salary, or whateverthey are called, amounted to, and what his prospects are. She saidshe knew nothing about his salary, but that his prospects were quitea different matter. I pretended I did not know what she meant. Soshe gave a little sigh and said that one could not expect to livefor ever. I said that I was sure I wished some people could, andshe smiled in a funny way. "

"You do not seem to have done it very well, " the younger and morescientific campaigner observed coldly. 

"Oh, but it was all right, Agatha dear. I understand her so well. And I said I was sure that Luke would deserve anything he got; thatof course it was different for Fitz, because his life is all set outstraight before him. And she said I was quite right. "

The report was finished, and Agatha sat for some moments with thebrush on her lap looking into the fire with the deep thoughtfulnessof a cool tactician. 

"I am SURE he was struck with you, " said the mother fervently. 

After all she was only fit for a very small command very far in therear. She never saw the singular light in Agatha's eyes. 

"Do you think so?" said the girl, half dreamily. 

"I am sure of it. "

Agatha began brushing her hair again. 

"What makes you think so?" she inquired through the snaky canopy. 

"He never took his eyes off you when you were playing the Count'saccompaniment. "

The girl suddenly rose and went to the dressing-table. The candlesthere were lighted, one on each side of the mirror. Agatha saw thather mother was still admiring her bedroom slippers. Then she lookedat the reflection of her own face with the smooth hair hangingstraight down over either shoulder. She gazed long and curiously asif seeking something in the pleasant reflection. 

"Did she say anything more about Fitz?" she asked suddenly, with anobvious change of the subject which Mrs. Ingham-Baker did notattempt to understand. She was not a subtle woman. 

"Nothing. "

Agatha came back and sat down. 

"And you are quite sure she said exactly what you have told me, about not expecting to live for ever. "

"Quite. "

Then followed a long silence. A belated cab rattled past beneaththe windows. There was apparently a cowl on the chimney connectedwith Agatha's room, for at intervals a faint groaning sound came, apparently from the fireplace. 

Agatha leant forward with her chin on her two hands, her elbows onher knees. Her hair hung almost to the ground. She was lookinginto the coals with thoughtful eyes. The elder tactician waited inrespectful silence. 

"Suppose-- " said the girl suddenly, and stopped. 

"Yes, my darling. "

"Suppose we accept the Danefords' invitation?"

"To go to Malta?"

"Yes, to go to Malta. "

Mrs. Ingham-Baker fell into a puzzled, harassed reverie. Thismodern warfare was so complicated. The younger, keener tacticiandid not seem to demand an answer to her supposition. She proceededto follow out the train of her own thoughts in as complete anabsorption as if she had been alone in the room. 

"The voyage, " she said, "would be a pleasant change if we selected agood boat. "

Mrs. Ingham-Baker reflected for a moment. 

"We might go in the Croonah with Luke, " she then observed timidly. 

"Ye-es. "

And after a little while Mrs. Ingham-Baker rose and bade herdaughter good-night. 

Agatha remained before the fire in the low chair with her faceresting on her two hands, and who can tell all that she wasthinking? For the thoughts of youth are very quick. They aredifferent from the thoughts of maturity, inasmuch as they risehigher into happiness and descend deeper into misery. AgathaIngham-Baker knew that she had her own life to shape, with only suchblundering, well-meant assistance as her mother could give her. Shehad found out that the world cannot pause to help the stricken, orto give a hand to the fallen, but that it always has leisure tocringe and make way for the successful. 

Other girls had been successful. Why should not she? And if--andif -

The next morning at breakfast Mrs. Ingham-Baker took an opportunityof asking Mrs. Harrington if she knew Malta. 

"Malta, " answered the grey lady, "is a sort of Nursery India. Ihave known girls marry at Malta, but I have known more who wereobliged to go to India. "

"That, " answered Mrs. Ingham-Baker, "is exactly what I am afraidof. "

"Having to go on to India?" inquired Mrs. Harrington, looking overher letters. 

"No. I am afraid that Malta is not quite the place one would liketo take one's daughter to. "

"That depends, I should imagine, upon the views one may haverespecting one's daughter, " answered the lady of the housecarelessly. 

At this moment Agatha came in looking fresh and smart in a tweeddress. There was something about her that made people turn in thestreets to look at her again. For years she had noted this withmuch satisfaction. But she was beginning to get a little tired ofthe homage of the pavement. Those who turned to glance a secondtime never came back to offer her a heart and a fortune. She wasperhaps beginning faintly to suspect that which many of us know--namely, that she who has the admiration of many rarely has the loveof one; and if by chance she gets this, she never knows its valueand rarely keeps it. 

"I was just asking Mrs. Harrington about Malta, dear, " exclaimedMrs. Ingham-Baker. "It is a nice place, is it not, Marian?"

"I believe it is. "

"And somehow I quite want to go there. I can't think why, " saidMrs. Ingham-Baker volubly. "It would be so nice to get a littlesunshine after these grey skies, would it not, dear?"

Agatha gave a little shiver as she sat down. 

"It would be very nice to feel really warm, " she said. "But thereis the horrid sea voyage. "

"I dare say you would enjoy that very much after the first twodays, " put in Mrs. Harrington. 

"Especially if we select a nice large boat--one of those with twofunnels?" put in Mrs. Ingham-Baker. "Now I wonder what boat wecould go by?"

"Luke's, " suggested Mrs. Harrington, with cynical curtness. Therewas a subtle suggestion of finality in her tone, a tiniest note ofweariness which almost said -

"Now we have reached our goal. "

"I suppose, " said Mrs. Ingham-Baker doubtfully, "that it is really afine vessel?"

"So I am told. "

"I really expect, " put in Agatha carelessly, "that one steamer is asgood as another. "

Mrs. Harrington turned on her like suave lightning. 

"But one boat is not so well officered as another, my dear!" shesaid. 

Agatha--not to be brow-beaten, keen as the older fencer--looked Mrs. Harrington straight in the face. 

"You mean Luke, " she said. "Of course I dare say he is a goodofficer. But one always feels doubtful about trusting one'sfriends--does one not?"

"One does, " answered Mrs. Harrington, turning to her letters. 

CHAPTER XI. SHIPS UPON THE SEA. 

 All such things touch secret strings For heavy hearts to bear. 

"And you don't seem to care. "

Agatha smiled a little inward smile of triumph. 

"Don't I?" she answered, with a sidelong glance beneath her lashes. 

Luke stared straight in front of him with set lips. He looked adangerous man to trifle with, and what woman can keep her hands outof such danger as this?

They were walking backwards and forwards on the broad promenade deckof the Croonah, and the Croonah was gliding through the grey watersof the Atlantic. To their left lay the coast of Portugal smiling inthe sunshine. To their right the orb of day himself, loweringcloudless to the horizon. Ahead, bleak and lonely, lay the dreadBurlings. The maligned Bay of Biscay lay behind, and already alarge number of the passengers had plucked up spirit to leave thecabin stairs, crawling on deck to lie supine in long chairs and talkhopefully of calmer days to come. 

Agatha had proved herself to be a good sailor. She walked besideLuke FitzHenry with her usual dainty firmness of step and confidenceof carriage. Luke himself--in uniform--looked sternly in earnest. 

They had been talking of Gibraltar, where the Croonah was to touchthe next morning, and Luke had just told Agatha that he could not goashore with her and Mrs. Ingham-Baker. 

"Don't I?" the girl reiterated with a little sigh. 

"Well, it does not sound like it. "

"The truth is, " said Agatha, "that I have an inward conviction thatit would only be more trouble than it is worth. "

"What would be more trouble than it is worth?"

"Going ashore. "

"Then you will not go?" he asked eagerly. 

"I think not, " she answered, with demure downcast eyes. 

And Luke FitzHenry was the happiest man on board the Croonah. Therewas no mistaking her meaning. Luke, who knew himself to be apessimist--a man who persistently looked for ill-fortune--felt thather meaning could not well be other than that she preferredremaining on board because he could not go ashore. 

The dinner bell rang out over the quiet decks, and, with a familiarlittle nod, Agatha turned away from her companion. 

The next morning saw the Croonah speeding past Trafalgar's heights. There was a whistling breeze from the west; and over the mountainsof Tarifa and the far gloomy fastness of Ceuta hung clouds andsqualls. The sea, lashed to white flecks, raced through thestraits, and every now and then a sharp shower darkened the face ofthe waters. There was something forbidding and mysterious in thescene, something dark and foreboding over the coast-line of Africa. All eyes were fixed on the Rock, now slowly appearing from behindthe hills that hide Algeciras. 

Luke was on duty on the bridge, motionless at his post. It was asimple matter to these mariners to make for the anchorage ofGibraltar, and Luke was thinking of Agatha. He was recalling athousand little incidents which came back with a sudden warm thrillinto his heart, the chilled, stern heart of a disappointed man. Hewas recollecting words that she had said, silences which she hadkept, glances which she had given him. And all told him the samething. All went to the core of his passionate, self-consumingheart. 

The bay now lay before him, dotted here and there by close-reefedsails. A few steamers lay at anchor, and, beyond the old Mole, black coal hulks peacefully stripped of rigging. Suddenly Lukelifted the lid of the small box affixed to the rail in front of himand sought his glasses. For some seconds he looked through thebinoculars fixedly in the direction of the Mole. Then he movedtowards the captain. 

"That is the Kittiwake, " he said. 

"Thought it looked like her!" replied the captain, intent on his ownaffairs. 

Luke went back to his post. The Kittiwake! And he was not glad. It was that that puzzled him. He was not glad. He was going to seeFitz after many years, and twins are different from other brothers. They usually see more of each other all through life. They arenecessary to each other. Fitz and Luke had always corresponded asregularly as their roaming lives allowed. But for three years theyhad never met. 

Luke stood with beating heart, his eyes fixed on the trim rakish-looking little gunboat lying at anchor immediately off the Mole. Hewas suddenly breathless. His light oil-skins oppressed him. Therewas a vague feeling within him that he had only begun to live withinthe last two weeks--all before that had been merely existence. Andnow he was living too quickly, without time to define his feelings. But the sensations were real enough. It does not take long toacquire a feeling. 

After all he was not glad. His attention was required for a fewmoments to carry out an order, and he returned to his thought. Hedid not, however, think it out. He only knew that if Agatha had notbeen on board the Croonah he would have been breathlessly impatientto see his brother. Therefore he did not want Agatha and Fitz tomeet. And yet Fitz was quite different from other men. There wasno harm in Fitz, and surely he could be trusted to see Agatha for afew hours without falling in love with her, without making Agathalove him. 

Yet--Fitz had always succeeded where he, Luke, had failed. Fitz hadalways the good things of life. It was all luck. It had been luckfrom the very beginning. Another order required the secondofficer's full mind and attention. There were a thousand matters tobe attended to, for the Croonah was enormous, unwieldy. 

In the execution of his duties Luke began presently to forgethimself. He did not attempt to define his thoughts. He did noteven reflect that he knew so little of his brother that this meetingcould not possibly cause him this sudden uneasiness, this forebodingcare, from THAT side of the question. He did not fear for Fitz tomeet Agatha, he really dreaded Agatha seeing Fitz. 

The Croonah moved into her anchorage with that gentle strength whichin a large steamer seems to indicate that she is thinking about itand doing it all herself. For in these days there is no shouting, no call of boatswain's whistle; and the ordinary observer hardlynotices the quiet deus ex machina, the man on the bridge. 

Hardly had the anchor splashed home with a rattle of cable thatvibrated through the ship, when a small white boat shot out frombehind the smart Kittiwake, impelled by the short and regular beatof ten oars. There was a man seated in the stern enveloped in alarge black boat cloak--for Gibraltar harbour is choppy when thewesterly breezes blow--a man who looked the Croonah up and down witha curious searching eye. The boat shot alongside the vast steamer--the bowman neatly catching a rope that was thrown to him--and theofficer clambered up the swaying gangway. 

He pushed his way gently through the passengers, the cloak flyingpartially open as he did so and displaying Her Majesty's uniform. He treated all these people with that patient tolerance whichbelongs to the mariner when dealing with landsmen. They were somany sheep penned up in a conveyance. Well-dressed sheep, headmitted tacitly by the withdrawal of his dripping cloak from theircontact, but he treated them in the bulk, failing to notice one morethan another. He utterly failed to observe Agatha Ingham-Baker, dainty and fresh in blue serge and a pert sailor hat. She knew himat once, and his want of observation was set down in her mindagainst him. She did not want him to recognise her. Not at all. She merely wanted him to look at her, and then to look again--tothrow a passing crumb of admiration to her greedy vanity, whichlived on such daily food. 

Fitz, intent on his errand, pushed his way towards the steps leadingup through the awning to the bridge. He seemed to know by somesailor instinct where to find it. He paused at the foot of the ironsteps to give an order to the man who followed at his heel, and theattitude was Luke's. The onlookers saw at a glance who this mustbe. The resemblance was startling. There was merely Luke FitzHenryover again, somewhat fairer, a little taller, but the same man. 

The captain gave a sudden bluff laugh when Fitz emerged on thelittle spidery bridge far above the deck. 

"No doubt who you are, sir, " he said, holding out his hand. 

Then he stepped aside, and the two brothers met. They said nothing, merely shaking hands, and Luke's eyes involuntarily went to thesmart, simple uniform half hidden by the cloak. Fitz saw the glanceand drew his cloak hastily round him. It was unfortunate. 

And this was their meeting after three years. 

"By George!" exclaimed Fitz, after a momentary pause, "she IS a fineship!"

Luke rested his hands on the white painted rail--almost a caress tothe great steamer--and followed the direction of his brother'sglance, "Yes, " he admitted slowly, "yes, she is a good boat. "

And then his deep eyes wandered involuntarily towards the tinyKittiwake--smart, man-of-war-like at her anchorage--and a suddensharp sigh broke from his lips. He had not got over it yet. Henever would. 

"So you have got away, " he went on, "from Mahon at last?"

"Yes, " answered Fitz. 

"I should think you have had enough of Minorca to last you the restof your life, " said Luke, looking abruptly down at the quarrellingboatmen and the tangle of tossing craft beneath them. 

"It is not such a bad place as all that, " replied Fitz. "I--Irather like it. "

There was a little pause, and quite suddenly Luke said -

"The Ingham-Bakers are on board. "

It would almost seem that these twin minds followed each other intothe same train of thought. Fitz frowned with an air ofreflectiveness. 

"The Ingham-Bakers, " he said. "Who are they?"

Luke gave a little laugh which almost expressed a sudden relief. 

"Don't you remember?" he said. "She is a friend of Mrs. Harrington's, and--and there is Agatha, her daughter. "

"I remember--stout. Not the daughter, the old woman, I mean. Oh--yes. Where are they going?"

"To Malta. "

It was perfectly obvious, even to Luke, that the Ingham-Bakers'immediate or projective destination was a matter of the utmostindifference to Fitz, who was more interested in the Croonah than inher passengers. 

They were both conscious of an indefinite feeling of disappointment. This meeting after years of absence was not as it should be. Something seemed to stand between them--a shadow, a myth, a tinydistinction. Luke, with characteristic pessimism, saw it first--felt its chill, intangible presence before his less subtle-mindedbrother. Then Fitz saw it, and, as was his habit, he went at itunhesitatingly

"Gad!" he explained, "I am glad to see you, old chap. Long time, isn't it, since we saw each other? You must come back with me, andhave lunch or something. The men will be awfully glad to make youracquaintance. You can look over the ship, though she is not much tolook at, you know! Not up to this. She is a fine ship, Luke! Whatcan she steam?"

"She can do her twenty, " answered the second officer of the Croonah, indifferently. 

"Yes, she looks it. Well, can you get away now?"

Luke shook his head. 

"No, " he answered almost ungraciously, "I can't leave the ship. "

"What! Not to come and look over the Kittiwake?" Fitz's face fellvisibly. He did not seem to be able to realise that any one shouldbe equal to relinquishing without a murmur the opportunity oflooking over the Kittiwake. 

"No, I am afraid not. We have our discipline too, you know. Besides, we are rather like railway guards. We must keep up totime. We shall be under way by two o'clock. "

Fitz pressed the point no further. He had been brought up todiscipline since childhood--moreover, he was rather clever in asimple way, and he had found out that it would be no pleasure but apain to Luke to board a ship flying the white ensign. 

"Can I stay on board to lunch with you?" he asked easily. "Goodnessonly knows when we shall run against each other again. It was themerest chance. We only got in last night. I was just going ashoreto report when we saw the old Croonah come pounding in. That"--hepaused and drew his cloak closer--"is why I am in my war-paint! Weare going straight home. "

"Stay by all means, " said Luke. 

Fitz nodded. 

"I suppose, " he added as an afterthought, "that I ought to pay myrespects to Mrs. Ingham-Baker?"

Luke's face cleared suddenly. Fitz had evidently forgotten aboutAgatha. 

"I will ask them to lunch with us in my cabin, " he said. 

And presently they left the bridge. 

In due course Fitz was presented to the Ingham-Bakers, and Agathawas very gracious. Fitz looked at her a good deal. Simply becauseshe made him. She directed all her conversation and eke her brighteyes in his direction. He listened, and when necessary he laughed ajolly resounding laugh. How could she tell that he was drawingcomparisons all the while? It is the simple-minded men who puzzlewomen most. Whenever Luke's face clouded she swept away thegathering gloom with some small familiar attention--some referenceto him in her conversation with Fitz which somehow brought himnearer and set Fitz further off. 

Suddenly, on hearing that Fitz hoped to be in England within a week, Mrs. Ingham-Baker fell heavily into conversation. 

"I am afraid, " she said, "that you will find our dear Mrs. Harrington more difficult to get on with than ever. In fact--he, he!--I almost feel inclined to advise you not to try. But I supposeyou will not be much in London?"

Fitz looked at her with clear, keen blue eyes. 

"I expect to be there some time, " he answered. "I hope to stay withMrs. Harrington. "

Mrs. Ingham-Baker glanced at Agatha, and returned somewhat hastilyto her galantine of veal. 

Agatha was drumming on the table with her fingers. 

CHAPTER XII. A SHUFFLE. 

 To love is good, no doubt, but you love best A calm safe life, with wealth and ease and rest. 

The Croonah ran round Europa Point into fine weather, and the wiseold captain--who felt the pulse of the saloon with unerring touch--deemed it expedient to pin upon the board the notice of a ball to begiven on the following night. There was considerable worldlyknowledge in this proceeding. The passengers still had the air ofEurope in their lungs, the energy of Europe in their limbs. Nothingpulls a ship full of people together so effectually as a ball. Nothing gives such absorbing employment to the female mind whichwould otherwise get into hopeless mischief. Besides they had beenat sea five days, and the captain knew that more than one ingenuousmaiden, sitting in thoughtful idleness about the decks, was lost invague forebodings as to the creases in her dresses ruthlessly packedaway in the hold. 

The passengers were, in fact, finding their sea-legs, which, fromthe captain's point of view, meant that the inner men and the outerwomen would now require and receive a daily increasing attention. So he said a word to the head cook, and to the fourth officer hemuttered -

"Let the women have their trunks!"

When, on the evening of the ball, Agatha appeared at the door of hermother's cabin, that good lady's face fell. 

"What, dear? Your old black!"

"Yes, dear, my old black, " replied the dutiful daughter. She wasarranging a small bouquet of violets in the front of her dress--abouquet she had found in her cabin when she went to dress. Lukehad, no doubt, sent ashore for them at Gibraltar--and there wassomething of the unknown, the vaguely possible, in his manner ofplacing them on her tiny dressing-table, without a word ofexplanation, which appealed to her jaded imagination. 

There was some suggestion of recklessness about Agatha, which hermother almost detected--something which had never been suggested inthe subtler element of London drawing-room. The girl spoke in ashort, sharp way which was new to the much-snubbed rear-commander. Agatha still had this when Luke asked her for a dance. 

"Yes, " she answered curtly, handing him the card and avoiding hiseyes. 

He stepped back to take advantage of the light of a swinginghurricane lamp, and leant against the awning which had been closedin all round. 

"How many may I have?" he asked. 

She continued to look anywhere except in his direction. Then quitesuddenly she gave a little laugh. 

"All. "

"What?" he added, with a catch in his breath. 

"You may have them all. "

There was a pause; then Agatha turned with a half-mocking smile, andlooked at him. For the first time in her life she was reallyfrightened. She had never seen passion in a man's face before. Itwas the one thing she had never encountered in the daily round ofsocial effort in London. Not an evil passion, but the strongpassion of love, which is as rare in human beings as is genius. Hewas standing in a conventional attitude, holding her programme--andthat which took the girl's breath away lay in his eyes alone. 

She could not meet his look, for she felt suddenly quite puny andsmall and powerless. She realised in that flash of thought thatthere was a whole side of life of which she had never suspected theexistence. After all, she was learning the lesson that millions ofwomen have to learn before they quite realise what life is. 

She smiled nervously, and looked hard at the little card in hisstrong, still hands--wondering what she had done. She saw him writehis name opposite five or six dances. Then he handed her the card, and left her with a grave bow--left her without a word ofexplanation, to take his silence and explain it if she could. Thatsense of the unknown in him, which appealed so strongly to her, seemed to rise and envelop her in a maze of thought and imaginationwhich was bewildering in its intensity--thrilling with a new life. 

When he came back later to claim his first dance, he was quietlypolite, and nothing else. They danced until the music stopped, andAgatha knew that she had met her match in this as in other matters. 

The dancers trooped out to the dimly-lighted deck, while thequartermaster raised the awning to allow the fresh air to circulate. Luke and Agatha went with the rest, her hand resting unsteadily onhis sleeve. She had never felt unsteady like this before. She wasconscious, probably for the first time in her life, of a strange, creeping fear. She was distinctly afraid of the first words thather partner would say when they were alone. Spread out over thebroad deck the many passengers seemed but a few. It was almostsolitude--and Agatha was afraid of solitude with Luke. Yet she hadselected a dress which she knew would appeal to him. She haddressed for him--which means something from a woman's point of view. She had welcomed this ball with a certain reckless throb ofexcitement, not for its own sake, but for Luke's. The unerringinstinct of her vanity had not played her false. She had succeeded, and now she was afraid of her success. There is a subtle fear inall success, and an indefinite responsibility. 

Luke knew the ship. He led the way to a deserted corner of thedeck, with a deliberation which set Agatha's heart beating. 

"What did you mean when you said I could have all the dances?" askedLuke slowly. His eyes gleamed deeply as he looked down at her. AndAgatha had no answer ready. 

She stood before him with downcast eyes--like a chidden child whohas been meddling with danger. 

And suddenly his arms were round her. She gave a little gasp, butmade no attempt to escape from him. This was all so different, sonew to her. There was something in the strong salt air blowing overthem which seemed to purify the world and raise them above thesordid cares thereof. There was something simple and strong andprimitive in this man--at home on his own element, all filled withthe strength of the ocean--mastering her, claiming her as if byforce. 

"What did you mean?" he asked again. 

She pushed him away, and turning stood beside him with her two handsresting on the rail, her back turned towards him. 

"Oh, Luke, " she whispered at length, "I can't be poor--I CAN'T--Ican't. You do not know what it is. It has always been such astruggle--there is no rest in it. "

It is said that women can raise men above the world. How often dothey bring them down to it when they are raising themselves!

And Luke's love was large enough to accept her as she was. 

"And if I were not poor?" he asked, without any of the sullen pridethat was his. 

She answered nothing, and he read her silence aright. 

"I will become rich, " he said, "somehow. I do not care how. Iwill, I will--Agatha!"

She did not dare to meet his eyes. 

"Come, " she said. "Come--let us go back. "

They danced together again, but Agatha refused to sit anywhere butbeneath the awning. While they were dancing they did not speak. Henever took his eyes off her, and she never looked at him. 

Then, just as he was, with a pilot jacket exchanged for his dresscoat, Luke had to go on duty on the bridge. While he stood there, far above the lighted decks, alone at his post in the dark, keen andwatchful, still as a statue, the sound of the dance music rose upand enveloped him like the echo of a happy dream. 

Presently the music ceased, and the weary dancers went below, leaving Luke FitzHenry to his own thoughts. 

All the world seemed to be asleep except these two men--onemotionless on the bridge, the other alert in the dimly lightedwheelhouse. The Croonah herself seemed to slumber with the regularbeating of a great restless heart far down in her iron being. 

The dawn was now creeping up into the eastern sky, touching the faceof the waters with a soft, pearly light. A few straight streaks ofcloud became faintly outlined. The moon looked yellow anddeathlike. 

Luke stood watching the rise of a new day, and with it there seemedto be rising within him a new life. 

Beneath his feet, in her dainty cabin, Agatha Ingham-Baker saw thatdawn also. She was standing with her arms folded on the upper berthbreast high. She had been standing there an hour. She was alone inthe cabin, for Luke had secured separate rooms for the two ladies. 

Agatha had not moved since she came down from the ball. She did notseem to be thinking of going to bed. The large square port-hole wasopen, and the cool breeze fluttered the lace of her dress, stirringthe dead violets at her breast. 

Her finely cut features were set with a look of strongdetermination. "I can't--I can't be poor, " she was repeating toherself with a mechanical monotony. 

CHAPTER XIII. A CHOICE. 

 'Tis better far to love and be poor, Than be rich with an empty heart. 

Mrs. Harrington was sitting in the great drawing-room in GrosvenorGardens, alone. The butler was fuming and cleaning plate in hispantry. The maid was weeping in the workroom. Mrs. Harrington hadhad a busy afternoon. 

"'Tis always thus when she's alone in the house, " the cook had said, with a grandiosity of style borrowed from the Family Herald. It iseasy for the cook to be grandiose when the butler and the lady's-maid are in trouble. Thus philosophy walketh in at the back door. 

Mrs. Harrington's sharp grey face twitched at times with a certainrestlessness which was hers when she had no one at hand to bully. She could not concentrate her attention on the newspaper she held inher hands, and at intervals her eyes wandered over the room insearch of something to find fault with. She made the mistake commonto persons under such circumstances--she forgot to look in themirror. Mrs. Harrington was tired of herself. She wished someonewould call. At the same time she felt a cordial dislike to all herfriends. 

It was a hopelessly grey afternoon early in December, and every onewas out of London. Mrs. Harrington had a certain circle of friends--middle-aged or elderly women, rich like herself, lonely likeherself--whom she despised. They all rather disliked each other, these women, but they visited nevertheless. They dined togetherseriously; keeping in mind the cook, and watchful over the wine. But the majority of these ladies had gone away for the winter. TheRiviera was created for such. 

Mrs. Harrington, however, never went abroad in the winter. She saidthat she had travelled too much when she was younger--in thelifetime of her husband--to care about it now. The HonourableGeorge Henry Harrington had, in fact, lived abroad for financialreasons, and the name was not of sweet savour in the nostrils ofhotel-keepers. The married life referred to occasionally in coldtones by the Honourable Mrs. Harrington had been of that order whichis curtly called "cat and dog, " and likewise "hand to mouth. "

Therefore Mrs. Harrington avoided the Continent. She could easily, of her affluence, have paid certain large debts which she knew to beoutstanding, but she held a theory that dead men owe nothing. Andwith this theory she lubricated an easy-going conscience. 

The mistress of the large house in Grosvenor Gardens was wonderingdiscontentedly what she was going to do with herself until tea-time, when she heard the sound of a bell ringing far down in the basement. Despite the grand drawing-room, despite the rich rustle of her greysilk dress, this great lady peeped from behind the curtain, and sawa hansom cab. 

A few minutes later the door was thrown open by the angry butler. 

"Miss Challoner--Captain Bontnor. "

Eve came in, and at her heels Captain Bontnor, who sheered off as itwere from the butler, and gave him a wide berth. 

Mrs. Harrington could be gracious when she liked. She liked now, and she would have kissed her visitor had that young lady shown anydesire for such an honour. But there was a faint reflex of Spanishceremony in Eve Challoner, of which she was probably unaware. A fewyears ago it would not have been noticeable, but to-day we are hail-fellow-well-met even with ladies--which is a mistake, on the part ofthe ladies. 

"So you received my letter, my dear, " said Mrs. Harrington. 

"Yes, " replied Eve. "This is my uncle--Captain Bontnor. "

Mrs. Harrington had the bad taste to raise her eyebrowsinfinitesimally, and Captain Bontnor saw it. 

"How do you do?" said Mrs. Harrington, with a stiff bow. 

"I am quite well, thank you, marm, " replied the sailor, with moreaplomb than Eve had yet seen him display. 

Without waiting to hear this satisfactory intelligence, Mrs. Harrington turned to Eve again. She evidently intended to ignoreCaptain Bontnor systematically and completely. 

"You know, " she said, "I am related to your father--"

"By marriage, " put in Captain Bontnor, with simple bluntness. Hewas brushing his hat with a large pocket-handkerchief. 

"And I have pleasant recollections of his kindness in past years. Istayed with him at the Casa d'Erraha more than once. I was stayingthere when--well, some years ago. I think you had better come andlive with me until your poor father's affairs have been put inorder. "

Captain Bontnor raised his head and ceased his operations on thedusty hat. His keen old eyes, full of opposition, were fixed onEve's face. He was quite ready to be rude again, but women know howto avoid these shallow places better than men, with a policy whichis not always expedient perhaps. 

"Thank you, " replied Eve. "Thank you very much, but my uncle haskindly offered me a home. "

Mrs. Harrington's grey face suggested a scorn which she apparentlydid not think it worth while to conceal from a person who wiped theinside of his hat with his pocket-handkerchief in a lady's presence. 

"But, " she said coldly, "I should think that your uncle cannot failto see the superior advantages of the offer I am now making you, from a social point of view, if from no other. "

"I do see them advantages, marm, " said the captain bluntly. Helooked at Eve with something dog-like peering from beneath hisshaggy eyebrows. 

"Of course, " continued Mrs. Harrington, ignoring the confession, "you have been brought up as a lady, and are accustomed torefinement, and in some degree to luxury. "

"You needn't make it any plainer, marm, " blurted out CaptainBontnor. "I don't need you to tell me that my niece is above me. Idon't set up for bein' anything nor what I am. There's not much ofthe gentleman about me. But--"

He paused, and half turned towards Eve. 

"But, 'cording to my lights, I'm seeking to do my duty towards theorphan child of my sister Amelia Ann. "

"Not overlooking the fact, I suppose, that the orphan child of yoursister Amelia Ann has a very fair income of her own. "

Captain Bontnor smiled blandly, and smoothed his hat with hissleeve. 

"Not overlooking that fact, marm, " he said, "if you choose to takeit so. "

Mrs. Harrington turned to Eve again with a faint reflex of heroverbearing manner towards the Ingham-Bakers and other persons whofound it expedient to submit. 

"You will see at a glance, " she said, "that it is impossible for youto live with Captain Bontnor. "

"I have already accepted his kind offer, " returned the girl. "Thankyou, nevertheless. "

"But, " said Mrs. Harrington, "that was before you knew that I wasready to make a home for you. "

Captain Bontnor had turned away. He blew his nose so loudly thatMrs. Harrington frowned. There was something trumpet-like anddefiant in the sound. Opposition had ever a strange effect on thisspoilt woman. She liked it, as serving to enhance the value of thewish which she rarely failed to gratify in the end. 

"You must remember your position, " she continued. "These are verydemocratic days, when silly people think that all men are equal. Alady is nevertheless still a lady, and a gentleman a gentleman, though one does not often meet them. I wish you to come and livewith me. "

Eve's dark eyes flashed suddenly. She glanced at her uncle, andsaid nothing. 

"A girl with money is a ready dupe to designing persons, " added Mrs. Harrington. 

"I am saved that danger, for I have no money, " replied Eve. 

"Nonsense, child! I know the value of land in Mallorca. I seealready that you are being deceived. "

She glanced significantly towards the captain, who was again smilingblandly. 

"The matter has been fully gone into, " explained Eve, "by competentpersons. The Val d'Erraha does not belong to me. It was held by myfather only on 'rotas'--the Minorcan form of lease--and it has nowbeen returned to the proprietor. "

Mrs. Harrington's keen face dropped. She prided herself upon beinga woman of business, and as such had always taken a deep interest inthe affairs of other people. It is to be presumed that women have alarger mental grasp than men. They crave for more business whenthey are business-like, and thus by easy steps descend to mereofficiousness. 

Eve's story was so very simple and, to the ears of one who had knownher father, so extremely likely, that Mrs. Harrington had for themoment nothing to say. She knew the working of the singular systemon which land is to this day held in tenure in Majorca and Minorca, and there was no reason to suppose that there was any mistake ordeception respecting the estate of the Val d'Erraha. 

A dramatist of considerable talent, who is not sufficiently studiedin these modern times, has said that a man in his time plays manyparts. He left it to be understood that a woman plays only one. The business woman is the business woman all through her life--sheis never the charitable lady, even for a moment. 

Mrs. Harrington had wished to have the bringing out of a beautifulheiress. She had no desire to support a penniless orphan. Thematter had, in her mind, taken the usual form of a contract in blackand white. Mrs. Harrington would supply position and a suitablehome--Eve was to have paid for her own dresses--chosen by the eldercontractor--and to have filled gracefully the gratifying, if hollow, position of a young person of means looking for a husband. 

Mrs. Harrington's business habits had, in fact, kept her fully aliveto the advantages likely to accrue to herself; and the small factthat Eve was penniless reduced these advantages to a mythical rewardin the hereafter. And business people have not time to think of thehereafter. 

It is possible that simple old Captain Bontnor in part divined thesethoughts in the set grey eyes, the grey wrinkled face. 

"You'll understand, marm, " he said, "that my niece will not be in aposition to live the sort o' life"--he paused, and looked round thevast room, quite without admiration--"the sort o' life you're livin'here. She couldn't keep up the position. "

"It would not be for long, " said Mrs. Harrington, already weighingan alternative plan. She looked critically at Eve, noting, with theappraising eye of a middle-aged woman of the world, the grace of herstraight young form, the unusual beauty of her face. "If you couldmanage to allow her sufficient to dress suitably for one season, Idare say she would make a suitable marriage. "

Eve turned on her with a flash of bright dark eyes. "Thank you; Ido not want to make a suitable marriage. "

Captain Bontnor laid his hand on her arm. 

"My dear, " he said, "don't take any heed of her. She doesn't knowany better. I have heard tell of such women, but"--he looked roundthe room--"I did not look to meet with one in a house like this. Idid not know they called themselves ladies. "

Mrs. Harrington gasped. She lived in a world where people thinksuch things as these, but do not say them. Captain Bontnor, on theother hand, had not yet encountered a person of whom he was so muchafraid as to conceal a hostile opinion, should he harbour such. 

He was patting Eve's gloved hand as if she had been physically hurt, and Eve smiled down into his sympathetic old face. It is a singularfact that utter worldliness in a woman seems to hurt women less thanit does men. 

Mrs. Harrington, with frigid dignity, ignored Captain Bontnor, andaddressed herself exclusively to Eve. 

"You must be good enough to remember, " she said, "that I canscarcely have other motives than those of kindness. "

A woman is so conscious of the weak links in her chain of argument, that she usually examines them publicly. 

"I do remember that, " replied Eve, rather softened by the greyloneliness of this woman's life--a loneliness which seemed to besitting on all the empty chairs--"and I am very grateful to you. Ithink, perhaps, my uncle misunderstood you. But--"

"Yes--but--"

"Under the circumstances, I think it will be wiser for me to accepthis kind offer, and make my home with him. I hope to be able tofind some work which will enable me to--to help somewhat towards thehousehold expenses. "

Mrs. Harrington shrugged her shoulders. 

"As you like, " she said. "After a few months of a governess's lifeperhaps you may reconsider your decision. I know--"

She was going to say that she knew what it was, but she recollectedherself in time. 

"I know, " she said instead, "girls who have lived such lives. "

With the air of Spain Eve Challoner seemed to have inhaled some ofthe Spanish pride, which is as a stone wall against which charityand pity may alike beat in vain. From her superior height the girllooked down on the keen-faced little woman. 

"I am not in a position to choose, " she said. "I am prepared forsome small hardships. "

Mrs. Harrington turned to ring the bell. With the sudden capricewhich her money had enabled her to cultivate, she had taken a likingto Eve. 

"You will have some tea?" she said. 

Eve turned to thank her, and suddenly her heart leaped to herthroat. She caught her breath, and did not answer for a moment. 

"Thank you, " she said; and her eyes stole back to the mantelpiece, where a large photograph of Fitz seemed to watch her with a quiet, thoughtful smile. 

The whole room appeared to be different after that. Mrs. Harringtonseemed to be a different woman--the world seemed suddenly to be asmaller place and less lonely. 

During the remainder of the short visit they talked of indifferenttopics, while Captain Bontnor remained silent. Mrs. Harrington'scaprice grew stronger, and before tea was over she said -

"My dear, if you will not come and live with me, at all events makeuse of me. Your uncle will, no doubt, have to make some smallchanges in his household. I propose that you stay with me a week orten days, until he is ready for you. "

This with a slight conciliatory bow towards Captain Bontnor, whostared remorselessly at the clock. 

"Thank you; I should very much like to, " said Eve, mindful of themantelpiece. 

CHAPTER XIV. A QUATRE. 

 There is so much that no one knows, So much unreached that none suppose. 

"I want you to put on a nice dress to-night. I have two friendscoming to dine. "

Eve looked up from the book she was reading, and Mrs. Harringtontempered her curt manner of expressing her wishes with a rare smile. She often did this for Eve's benefit, almost unconsciously. In someindefinite way she was rather afraid of this girl. 

"I will do my best, " answered Eve, her mind only half weaned fromthe pages. 

She had been ten days in the house, and the somewhat luxuriouscomfort of it appealed to a faintly developed love of peace and easewhich had been filtered into her soul with the air of a Southernland. She had found it easier to get on with Mrs. Harrington thanshe at first anticipated. Her nature, which was essentiallywomanly, had in reality long craved for the intimate sympathy andintercourse which only another woman could supply. There wassomething indolent and restful in the very atmosphere of the housethat supplied a distinct want in the motherless girl's life. Therewere a number of vague possibilities of trouble in the world, halfperceived, half divined by Eve; which possibilities Mrs. Harringtonseemed capable of meeting and fending off. 

It was all indefinite and misty, but Eve felt at rest, and, as itwere, under protection, in the house of this hard, cold woman of theworld. 

"It can only be a black one, " the girl answered. 

"Yes; but people don't know what a black dress is until they haveseen one that has been made in Spain. "

Eve did not return at once to her book. She was, in fact, thinkingabout her dress--being in no way superior to such matters. 

When she came down into the drawing-room, an hour later, she foundawaiting her there the two men about whom she thought most. 

Cipriani de Lloseta and Fitz were standing on the hearthrugtogether. Mrs. Harrington had not yet come down. They came forwardtogether, the Count taking her hand first, with his courteous bow. Fitz followed, shaking hands in silence, with that simplicity whichshe had learned to look for and to like in him. 

"I wonder, " said Eve, "why Mrs. Harrington did not tell me that youwere the two friends she expected to dinner?"

The Count smiled darkly. 

"Perhaps our hostess does not know that we have met before--" hebegan; and stopped suddenly when the door opened, and the rustle ofMrs. Harrington's silk dress heralded her coming. 

Her quick eyes flashed over them with a comprehensive appreciationof the situation. 

"You all seem to know each other, " she said sharply. "I knew thatFitz had been of some service to you at D'Erraha; but I was notaware that you knew the Count de Lloseta. "

"The Count de Lloseta was very kind to me at Barcelona--on a matterof business, " explained Eve innocently. 

Mrs. Harrington turned upon the Spaniard quickly, but neverthelesstoo late to catch the warning frown which he had directed towardsEve. Mrs. Harrington looked keenly into his face, which was blandlyimperturbable. 

"Then you are the owner of D'Erraha?"

"I am. "

Mrs. Harrington gave a strange little laugh. 

"What a rich man you are!" she said. "Come! Let us go to dinner. "

She took the Count's arm, and led the way to the dining-room. Shewas visibly absent-minded at first, as if pondering over somethingwhich had come as a surprise to her. Then she woke from herreverie, and, turning to Fitz, said -

"And what do you think of the Baleares?"

"I like them, " returned Fitz curtly. 

He thought it was bad taste thus to turn the conversation upon asubject which could only be painful to Eve. He only thought of Eve, and therefore did not notice the patient endurance of the Count'sface. 

De Lloseta was taking his soup with a slow concentration of hisattention upon its flavour, as if trying not to hear theconversation. Mrs. Harrington looked sharply at him, and in doingso failed to intercept a glance, exchanged by Fitz and Eve acrossthe table. 

"Why are you here?" Fitz seemed to be asking. 

And Eve reassured him by a little smile. 

"There is one advantage in your long exile at Mahon, " pursued thehostess inexorably. "It must have been economical. You could nothave wanted money there. "

Fitz laughed. 

"Hardly so Arcadian as that, " he said. 

The Count looked up. 

"I suppose, " he said, "that the port where one does not want moneyis yet to be discovered?"

Mrs. Harrington, sipping her sherry, glanced at the speaker. 

"Surely, " she said lightly, "you are talking of what you knowabsolutely nothing. "

"Pardon me"--without looking up. 

Mrs. Harrington laughed. 

"Ah, " she said, "we three know too much about you to believe that. Now, what can a lone man like you want with money?"

"A lone man may happen to be saddled with a name of--well, of somerepute--an expensive luxury. "

"And you think that a great name is worth spending a fortune upon, like a garden, merely to keep it up?"

"I do. "

"You think it worth all that?"

The dark, inscrutable eyes were raised deliberately to her face. 

"Assuredly you must know that I do, " he said. 

Mrs. Harrington laughed, and changed the subject. She knew thisman's face well, and her knowledge told her that he was at the endof his patience. 

"So you saw Luke at Gibraltar?" she said, turning to Fitz. 

"Yes, for a short time. I had never seen the Croonah before. Sheis a fine ship. "

"So I understand. So fine, indeed, that two friends of mine, theIngham-Bakers, were induced to go to Malta in her. There is nolimit now to feminine enterprise. Mothers are wonderful, and theirdaughters no less so. N'est-ce pas, Senor?"

"All ladies are wonderful!" said the Count, with a grave bow. "Theyare as the good God made them. "

"I don't agree with you there, " snapped Mrs. Harrington. "So yousaw the Ingham-Bakers also, Fitz?"

"Yes; they lunched with us. "

"And Agatha was very pleasant, no doubt?"

"Very. "

"She always is--to men. The Count admires her greatly. She makeshim do so. "

"She has an easy task, " put in De Lloseta quietly. It almost seemedthat there was some feeling about Agatha between these two people. 

"You know, " Mrs. Harrington went on, addressing herself to Fitz, "that Luke and I have made it up. We are friends now. "

Fitz did not answer at once. His face clouded over. Seen thus inanger, it was almost a hard face, older and somewhat worn. Heraised his eyes, and they as suddenly softened, for Eve's eyes hadmet them, and she seemed to understand. 

"I am not inclined to discuss Luke, " he said quietly. 

"My dear, I did not propose doing so, " answered Mrs. Harrington, andher voice was so humble and conciliatory that De Lloseta looked upfrom his plate, from one face to the other. 

That Mrs. Harrington should accept this reproof thus humbly seemedto come as a surprise to them all, except Fitz, who went on eatinghis dinner with a singular composure. 

It would appear that Mrs. Harrington had been put out of temper bysome small incident at the beginning of the dinner, and, like aspoilt child, proceeded to vent her displeasure on all and sundry. In the same way she would no doubt have continued, unless spokensharply to, as Fitz had spoken. 

For now her manner quite changed, and the rest of the meal passedpleasantly enough. Mrs. Harrington now devoted herself to herguests, and as carefully avoided dangerous subjects as she hadhitherto appeared to seek them. 

After dinner she asked the Count to tune his violin, while sheherself prepared to play his accompaniment. 

Fitz lighted the candles and set the music ready with a certainneatness of hand rarely acquired by landsmen, and then returned tothe smaller drawing-room, where Eve was seated by the fire, needlework in hand. 

He stood for a moment leaning against the mantelpiece. Perhaps hewas waiting for her to speak. Perhaps he did not realise how muchthere was in his long, silent gaze. 

"How long have you been here?" he asked, when the music began. 

"Ten days, " she answered, without looking up. 

"But you are not going to live here?"--with some misgiving. 

"Oh no. I am going to live with my uncle in Suffolk. "

He moved away a few steps to pick up a fallen newspaper. Presentlyhe came back to her, resuming his former position at the corner ofthe mantelpiece. 

It was Eve who spoke next--smoothing out her silken trifle ofneedlework and looking at it critically. 

"I never thanked you, " she said, "for all your kindness to me atD'Erraha. You were a friend in need. "

It was quite different from what it had been at D'Erraha. Possiblyit was as different as were the atmospheres of the two places. Eveseemed to have something of London in the reserve of her manner--theeasy insincerity of her speech. She was no longer a girl untaintedby worldliness--sincere, frank, and open. 

Fitz was rather taken aback. 

"Oh, " he answered, "I could not do much. There was really nothingthat I could do except to stand by in case I might be wanted. "

Eve took up her needle again. 

"But, " she said, "that is already something. It is often a greatcomfort, especially to women, to know that there is some one'standing by, ' as you call it, in case they are wanted. "

She gave a little laugh, and then suddenly became quite grave. Therecollection of a conversation they had had at D'Erraha had flashedacross her memory, as recollections do--at the wrong time. Theconversation she remembered was recorded at the time--it was almostword for word with this, but quite different. 

Fitz was looking at her with his impenetrable simplicity. 

"Will you oblige me, " he said, "by continuing to look upon me inthat light?"

She had bent her head rather far over her work as he spoke, and ashe said the last five words her breath seemed to come with a littlecatch, as if she had pricked her finger. 

The musicians were just finishing a brilliant performance, andbefore answering Fitz she looked round into the other room, nodded, smiled, and thanked them. Then she turned to him, still speaking inthe light and rather indifferent tone which was so new to him, andsaid -

"Thank you very much, but of course I have my uncle. How--how longwill you be--staying on shore? You deserve a long leave, do younot?"

"Yes, I suppose I do, " said Fitz absently. He had evidentlylistened more to the voice than the words. He forgot to answer thequestion. But she repeated it. 

"How long do you get?" she asked, hopelessly conversational. 

"About three weeks. "

"Is that all? Ah! here is tea. I wonder whether I ought to offerto pour it out!"

But Mrs. Harrington left the piano, and said that her sight wasfailing her. She had had enough music. 

During the rest of the evening Fitz took one or two opportunities oflooking at Eve to discover, if he could, what the difference wasthat he found in her. He had left a girl in Majorca--he found awoman in London. That was the whole difference; but he did notsucceed in reducing it to so many words. He had passed most of hislife at sea among men. He had not, therefore, had much opportunityof acquiring that doubtful knowledge--the knowledge of women--theonly item, by the way, which men will never include among thesciences of existence. Already they know more about the stars thanthey do about women. Even if Fitz had possessed this knowledge hewould not have turned it to account. The wisest fail to do that. We only make use of our knowledge of women in the study of thosewomen with whom other men have to do. 

"Fitz has grown rather dull and stupid, " said Mrs. Harrington, whenthe two guests had taken their leave. 

Eve was folding up her work, and did not answer. 

"Was he like that in Mallorca?" continued the grey lady. 

"Oh--I think so. He was very quiet always. "

CHAPTER XV. DON QUIXOTE. 

 They also serve who only stand and wait. 

"Come down to my club and have a cigar!"

The Count stood under a yellow lamp enveloped in his fur-lined coat, looking with heavy, deep-browed eyes at his young companion. 

Fitz paused. The Count had been kind to Eve. Fitz had noticed hismanner towards the girl. He liked Cipriani de Lloseta--as many did--without knowing why. 

"Thanks, " he said, "I should like to. "

The Count's club was a small and a very select one. It was a clubwith a literary tendency. The porter who took charge of their coatshad the air of a person who read the heavier monthly reviews. Helooked upon Fitz, as a man of outdoor tastes, with some misgiving. 

The Count led the way up to the luxurious silent smoking-room, wherea few foreign novels and a host of newspapers littered the tables. 

As they entered the room a man looked up from his paper with someinterest. He was a peculiar-looking man, with a keen face, streakedby suffering--a face that was always ready to wince. This man was ahumorist, but he looked as if his own life had been a tragedy. Hecontinued to look at De Lloseta and Fitz with a quiet scrutiny whichwas somewhat remarkable. It suggested the scrutiny of a woman whois taking notes of another's dress. 

More particularly perhaps he watched the Count, and the keen eyeshad a reflective look, as if they were handing that which they saw, back to the brain behind them for purpose of storage. 

The Count met his eyes and nodded gravely. With a little nod and asudden pleasant smile the other returned to the perusal of hisevening paper. 

Cipriani de Lloseta drew forward a deep chair, and with a courteousgesture invited Fitz to be seated. He took a similar chair himself, and then leant forward, cigar-case in hand. 

"You know Mallorca, " he said. 

Fitz took a cigar. 

"Yes, " he answered, turning and looking into the Count's face with acertain honest interest. He was thinking of what Eve had said aboutthis man. "Yes--I know Mallorca. "

The Count struck a match and lighted his cigar with the air of aconnoisseur. 

"I am always glad, " he said conversationally, "to meet any one whoknows Mallorca. It--was my home. Perhaps you knew?"

And through the blue smoke the quick dark eyes flashed a glance. 

"I saw your name--on the map, " returned Fitz. 

The Count gave a little Spanish deprecatory nod and wave of thehand, indicating that it was no fault of his that an historical nameshould have attached itself to him. 

"Do you take whisky--and soda?" inquired the Count. 

"Thanks. "

De Lloseta called the waiter and gave the order with a slight touchof imperiousness which was one of the few attributes that stampedhim as a Spaniard. The feudal taint was still running in his veins. 

"Tell me, " he went on, turning to Fitz again, "what you know of theisland--what parts of it--and what you did there. "

In some ways Fitz was rather a simple person. 

"Oh!" he answered unconsciously. "I went to D'Erraha mostly. Iused to sail across from Ciudadela to Soller--along the coast, youknow. "

"And from Soller?"

"From Soller I rode by the Valdemosa road, and then across themountain and through that narrow valley up to the Val d'Erraha. "

The Count was smoking thoughtfully. 

"And you were happy there?" he said. 

Fitz looked pensively into his long tumbler. 

"Yes. "

"I also, " said the Count. Then he seemed to remember his duties ashost. "Is that cigar all right?" he asked. 

"I think it is the best I have ever smoked, " replied Fitz quietly;and the Count smiled. 

The two men sat there in a long silence--each thinking his ownthoughts. They were just the sort of men to do it. No other butCipriani de Lloseta would have sat with that perfect composure, wrapt in an impenetrable Spanish silence, providing with gravedignity such a very poor evening's entertainment. And Fitz seemedquite content. He leant back, gravely smoking the good cigar. There seemed to be some point of complete sympathy between them--possibly the little sunlit island of the Mediterranean where theyhad both been happy. 

The poem of a man's life is very deeply hidden, and civilisation isthe covert. The immediate outcome of civilisation is reserve and--nous voila. Are we not increasing our educational facilities with ablind insistence day by day? One wonders what three generations ofcheap education will do for the world. Already a middle-aged mancan note the slackening of the human tie. Railway directors, andother persons whose pockets benefit by the advance of civilisation, talk a vast deal of rubbish about bringing together the peoples ofthe world. You can connect them, but you cannot bring themtogether. Moreover, a connection is sometimes a point ofdivergence. In human affairs it is more often so than otherwise. 

True, a generation lay between these two men, but it was not thatthat tied their tongues. It was partially the fact that Cipriani deLloseta had moved with the times--had learnt, perhaps, too well, toacquire that reserve which is daily becoming more noticeable amongmen. 

Nevertheless, it was he who spoke first. 

"I asked you to come and smoke a cigar with me for a purpose, " hesaid. 

Fitz nodded. 

"Yes, " he answered; "I thought so. "

A shadowy smile acknowledged this simple statement of a simple fact. The Count leant forward on his seat, resting his somewhat hollowcheek on his hand and his elbow on the arm of his chair. 

"Some years ago, " he said, "before you were born, I passed througha--well, a bad time. One of those times, I take it, when a manfinds out the difference between a friend and an acquaintance. Thecircumstances would not interest you. They are essentiallypersonal. Some men, and many women--I am not cynical, that is thelast resource of one who has himself to blame, I am merely stating afact--many women turned their backs upon me. There was, however, one man--an Englishman--who held to me with that unflinching courageof his own opinion which makes an Englishman what he is. I acceptednothing from him at the time. In fact, he could do nothing for me. I think he understood. An Englishman and a Spaniard have much incommon. He is dead now. It was Challoner. "

Fitz nodded. The Count changed his position slightly. 

"I want you to use what influence you have with Miss Challoner. Sheis proud. "

Fitz made no attempt to disclaim the implied influence. 

"Yes, " he said; "I know. "

And he looked at the end of his cigar with a deep interest. The manwho loves a proud woman loves her pride. He is also a happy man, because her pride will kill her vanity, and it is a woman's vanitythat spoils a husband's love. 

"It would be a great satisfaction to me, " the Count went on, "to payoff in some small degree the debt of gratitude which I never evenacknowledged to Challoner. Eve"--he paused, and repeated the namewith a certain sense of enjoyment--"Eve is not fully equipped withworldly wisdom. Thank God, for I hate a worldly-wise woman. She ishardly old enough or--plain enough to fight her own battles. "

Fitz gave a sudden, sharp sigh, which made the Count pause for amoment. 

"You also have received kindness from Challoner, " went on the elderman, after a short silence. 

Fitz nodded comprehensively. 

"And, like myself, " the Count continued, rather quickly, "you arenaturally interested in his daughter, and sorry for her in her greatchange of circumstances. Now, it has occurred to me that togetherwe might do something towards helping her. You know her better thanI do. I only know that she is proud. "

"Very much to her credit, " put in Fitz, looking fixedly at his ownboots. 

"Entirely so. And I respect her for it. Unfortunately, assistancecould hardly come from you--a young man. Whereas, I might be hergrandfather. "

He looked up with a smile--keen, black-haired, lithe of frame--ayoung man in appearance. 

"We might help each other, " he added, "you and I, quite alone. Captain Bontnor is a very worthy old fellow, but--" and he shruggedhis shoulders. "We cannot leave her to the wayward charity of acapricious woman!" he added, with sudden bluntness. 

He looked rather wonderingly at Fitz, who did not respond to thissuggestion, as he had expected him to do. The coalition seemed sonatural and so eminently practical, and yet the sailor sat coldlylistening to each proposition as it fell from his companion's lips, weighing it, sifting it with a judicial, indifferent apathy. 

The Count de Lloseta threw himself back in his chair, and awaited, with all the gravity of his race, the pleasure of his companion. Atlength Fitz spoke, rather deliberately. 

"I think, " he said, "you mistake the footing upon which I stand withrespect to Miss Challoner. I shall be most happy to do all in mypower; but I tell you frankly that it does not amount to much. I amindebted to her indirectly for some very pleasant visits toD'Erraha; her father was very kind to me. Hardly sufficient towarrant anything that would look like interference on my part. "

The Count was too discreet a man to press the point any further. 

"All this unfortunate difficulty would have been easily averted hadI been less stupid. I shall never cease to regret it. "

He spoke conversationally, flicking the end of his cigar neatly intothe fire, and without looking at Fitz. 

"I never foresaw the natural tendency of lawyers to complicate theaffairs of life. My man in Palma was unfortunately zealous. "

Fitz nodded. 

"Yes, " he said, "I was there. "

Cipriani de Lloseta glanced at him sharply. 

"I am glad of that, " he said. "It was very stupid of me. I oughtto have telegraphed to him to hold his tongue. "

"But Miss Challoner could not have accepted the Val d'Erraha as apresent?"

"Oh yes, she could, if she had not known. These little things areonly a matter of sentiment. "

Fitz leant forward, looking into the Count's face without attemptingto conceal his surprise. 

"Do you mean to say you would have given it to her?" he asked. 

"No; I should have paid it to her in settlement of a debt which Iowed to her father. "

The Count moved rather uneasily in his chair. His eyes fell beforehis companion's steady gaze. 

"Another matter of sentiment, " suggested Fitz. 

De Lloseta shrugged his shoulders. 

"If you will. "

They lapsed into silence again. The Count was puzzled by Fitz, asFitz in his turn had been puzzled earlier in the evening by Eve. Itwas merely the old story of woman the incomprehensible, and man thesuperior--the lord of the universe--puzzled, completely mystified, made supremely miserable or quite happy by her caprice of a moment. 

It was a small thing that stood between these two men, preventingthem from frankly co-operating in the scheme which both had atheart. It was nothing but the tone of a girl's voice, the studiedsilence of a girl's eyes, which had once been eloquent. 

It was getting late. A discreet clock on the mantelpiece declaredthe hour of midnight in deliberate cathedral chime. Fitz looked up, but he did not move. He liked Cipriani de Lloseta. He had beenprepared to do so, and now he had gone further than he had intended. He wanted him to go on talking about Eve, for he thirsted in hisdumbly enduring way for more details of her life. But he would notrevert to the subject. Rather than that he would go on enduring. 

While they were sitting thus in silence, the only other occupant ofthe room--the man with the pain-drawn face--rose from his seat, helping his legs with unsteady hands upon either arm of the chair. He threw the paper down carelessly on the table, and came across theroom towards the Count de Lloseta. He was a surprisingly tall manwhen he stood up; for in his chair he seemed to sink into himself. His hair was grey--rather long and straggly--his eyes hazel, lookingthrough spectacles wildly. His cheeks were very hollow, his chinsquare and bony. Here was a man of keen nerves and quick to suffer. 

"Well, " he said to Lloseta, "I haven't seen you for some time. "

"I've been away. "

The tall man looked down at him with the singular scrutiny alreadymentioned. 

"Spain?"

"Spain. "

He turned away with a little nod, but stopped before he had gonemany paces. 

"And when are you going to write those sketches of Spanish life?" heasked, with a cheery society laugh, which sounded ratherincongruous. "Never, I suppose. Well, the loss is mine. Good-night, Lloseta. "

He went away without looking back. 

"Do you know who that is?" the Count asked Fitz when the door wasclosed. 

Fitz had risen, with his eye on the clock. 

"No. But I seem to know his face. "

The Count looked up with a smile. 

"You ought to. That was John Craik. "

CHAPTER XVI. BROKEN. 

 The Powers Behind the world that make our griefs our gains. 

The small town of Somarsh, in Suffolk, consists of one streetrunning up from the so-called harbour. At one end is the railway-station; at the other the harbour and the sea, and that is Somarsh. There are records that in days gone by--in the days of east coastprosperity--there was a Mayor of Somarsh, or Southmarsh, as it wasthen written. But Ichabod!

All Somarsh was in the street one morning after Fitz had gone to seaagain, and those of the women who were not talking loudly wereweeping softly. The boats were not in yet, but the weather wasfine, and the still, saffron sea was dotted with brown sails. Therewas nothing wrong with the boats. 

No; the trouble was on shore, as it mostly is. It came not from thesea, but from men. It was pinned upon the door of Merton's Bank inthe High Street. Its form was unintelligible, for the wording ofthe notice was mostly outside the Suffolk vocabulary. There wassomething written in a clerkly hand about the withdrawal of"financial facilities necessitating a stoppage of payment pendingreconstruction. "

But the people in the street were saying that Merton's was "broke. "The constable said so, and he was a recognised authority on matterspertaining to dry land and the law. The door was locked on theinside, the shutters were up, the blinds down, as if mourning thedeath of a good East county credit. 

"And them a drivin' behind their two horses, " said one old weather-beaten fisherman, who was suspected of voting on the wrong side atelectioneering time. 

Some shook their heads, but the word went no farther, for the manwho does his business on the great waters has a vast respect forancient institutions. And Merton's had been a good bank for manygenerations. 

"P'raps, " said an old woman who had nothing to lose--for the sea hadeven kept her corpses from her--"p'raps what they say 'boutreconstruction may be all right. But here comes the capt'n. "

The crowd turned like one man and watched the advent of CaptainBontnor. 

The old man was dressed in his best pilot cloth suit. He had wornit quite recklessly for the last month, ever since Eve had come tolive with him. He had been interrupted in his morning walk--hisquarter-deck tramp--forty times the length of his own railing infront of Malabar Cottage. The postman bringing letters for Eve, hadtold him that there was trouble down in the town, and that he wouldlikely be wanted. 

When he saw where the crowd was stationed he caught his breath. 

"No, " he said aloud to himself, "no, it can't be Merton's. "

And when he joined the townspeople they saw that his sunburnt, rugged face was grey as ashes. 

"Mates, " he said, "what is it?"

"Merton's is broke--Merton's is broke!" they answered, clearing away for him to read the notice for himself. In Somarsh CaptainBontnor was considered quite a scholar. As such he might, perhaps, have deciphered the clerkly handwriting in a shorter time than henow required, but on the east coast a reputation is not easilyshaken. 

They waited for the verdict in silence. After five minutes heturned round and his face gave some of them a shock. His kindlyblue eyes had a painfully puzzled, incompetent look, which had oftencome across them in Barcelona and in London. But in Somarsh onlyEve was familiar with it. 

"Yes, mates, " he said, falling back into his old seafaringvernacular, forgetful of his best suit, "yes, shipmates, as far as Irightly understand it, the bank's broken. And--and there's some ofus that's ruined men. "

He stood for a moment looking straight in front of him--looking veryold and not quite fit for life's battle. Then he moved away. 

"I'll just go and tell my niece, " he said. 

They watched him stump away--sturdy, unbroken, upright--still a man. 

"It's a hard end to a hard life, " said the old woman who hadsuggested hope; and being only human, they fell to discussing theevent from the point at which it affected their own lives. 

Malabar Cottage stood at the top end of the High Street--almost byitself--looking out over the little green plot of common land, wherethe coastguard flagpost stands towards the sea. It was a low-roofed, solidly built cottage--once a coastguard station, butsuperseded in the heyday of east coast smuggling by a larger stationfurther up the hill. There was a little garden in front, which thecaptain kept himself, growing such old-fashioned flowers as werecontent with his ignorant handling. The white jasmine ran riot overthe portico. 

Eve had apparently received a letter of some importance, for she wasstanding at the gate waiting for him. She ran out hatless to seehim on his quarter-deck, and to her surprise found him not. Shesoon saw him coming, however, and to beguile the time fell toreading her letter a second time, with a little frown, as if thecaligraphy gave her trouble. 

She did not look up until he was quite close. 

"Uncle, " she cried, "what is the matter?"

He gave a smile, which was painfully out of place on his blufffeatures--it was wan and twisted. 

"Nothing, my dearie; nothing. "

He fumbled at the gate, and she had to find the latch for him. 

"Just come below--I mean indoors, my dear. I've had some news. Idare say it will be all right--but just at first, you understand, itis a little--keen. "

He bustled through the porch, and Eve followed him. She watched himhang up his old straw hat, standing on tiptoe with a grunt, as washis wont. 

"I must unship that peg and put it a bit lower, " he said, as he hadsaid a hundred times before. 

Then he went into the little dining-room and sat somewhat heavilydown, with his two hands resting on his knees. He looked puzzled. 

"Truth is, my dear, " he said breathlessly, "I don't seem to take tothis long-shore life. I--I rather think of going back to sea. There's plenty will give me a ship. And I want you to keep thiscottage nice for me, dearie, against my coming home. "

He paused, looking round the room with a poor simulation of interestat the quaint ornaments and curiosities which he had brought homefrom different parts of the world. He looked at the ceiling and thecarpet--anywhere, in fact, except at Eve. Then he pushed hisfingers through his thick grey hair, making it stand on end in aludicrous manner. 

"I've got all my bits of things collected here--just bits of things--oh, dear!--oh, dear--Eve, my child, I wonder why the Almighty'sgone and done this?"

Eve was already sitting on the arm of his chair, stroking back hishair with her tender fingers. 

"What is it, uncle?" she asked. "Tell me. "

"Merton's, " he answered. "Merton's, and them so safe!"

"Is it only money?" cried Eve. "Is that all?"

"Yes, " he answered rather wearily, "that's all. But it's moneythat's took me fifty-five years to make. "

"And had you it all in Merton's Bank?"

"Yes, dearie, all. "

"But are you sure they have failed--that there is no mistake?"

"Quite sure. I've read it myself pinned on the door, and theshutters up, like a thing you read of in the newspapers. No, it'sright. There's not often a mistake about bad news. "

Eve bent over him very tenderly and kissed him. He was holding herhand between his, patting it gently with his rough, weather-beatenfingers. He was looking straight in front of him with that painfullook of helplessness which had earned him the friendship of LordSeahampton in Barcelona. 

"But, " said the girl at length, "you cannot go to sea again. "

She knew that he would never get a ship, for his seamanship, likeall other things that were his, was hopelessly superannuated. Hewas not fit to be trusted with a ship--no owner would dream of it, no crew would sail under him. 

"There's men, " said the captain humbly, "who learnt their seamanshipfrom me--who sailed under me--p'raps one of them would give me aberth as first mate or even second mate under him--for a shipmatethey would do it. "

Captain Bontnor had fallen behind the times even in his sentiments. He did not know that in these days of short voyages, of Seamen'sUnions, and Firemen's Friendlies and Stokers' Guilds, a shipmate isno longer a special friend--the tie is broken, as are many otherties, by the advance of education. 

Then the old man pulled himself together, and smiled bravely at hisniece. 

"It is not for myself that I'm worrying, " he said, "but for you. Idon't quite see my way clear yet. It's sort of sharp and sudden. Icannot get the poor Mertons out of my head--people that have beenaccustomed to their carriages and all. It's hard for them! Yousee, what they say is that their financial facilities have beenwithdrawn, and I dare say nobody is to blame. It is just what theycall the hand of God, in a bill of lading--just the hand of God. "

"Yes, dear, " answered Eve. "And now I am going to serve out a glassof sherry; you want it after your quick walk. That is what you didat sea, you served it out, did you not?"

"He, he! yes, dearie; that is it. "

His rugged hand shook as he drank the wine. 

"Only, " he went on, after wiping his moustache vigorously with a redpocket-handkerchief--"only it was rum, dearie--rum, you know, forheavy weather. It puts heart into the men. "

His face suddenly clouded over again. 

"And we've run into heavy weather, haven't we? Just the hand ofGod. "

"Finish the glass, " said Eve, and she stood over him while he drankthe wine. 

"And now, " she went on, "listen to me. I have had a very importantletter, which could hardly have come at a more opportune moment. Infact, I think we may call it also . . . What they say in a bill oflading. "

She opened the letter, as if about to read it aloud, and on glancingthrough she seemed to change her mind. 

"It is from Mrs. Harrington, " she said. "It is a very kind letter. "

She looked at her uncle, whose face had suddenly hardened. Heseemed to be schooling himself to hear something unpleasant. 

"Ay!" he muttered, "ay! I suppose she'll get her way now. I supposeI can't hope to keep you now. She'll get you--she'll get you. "

"Then I think you are a very mean old man!" exclaimed Eve. "I don'tbelieve you are a sailor at all. You are what you call a land-lubber, if you think that I am the sort of person to accept yourkindness when you are prosperous, and then--and then when heavyweather comes to go away and leave you. "

The old man smiled rather wanly, and fumbled with the red pocket-handkerchief. 

"As it happens, Mrs. Harrington does not ask me to go and stay withher--she asks me--" She paused and laid her hand on his shouldergently. "She asks me--to accept money. "

Captain Bontnor sat upright. 

"Ay-y-y, " he said, "charity. "

"Yes, " said Eve quietly, "charity; and I'm going to accept it. "

Captain Bontnor scratched his head. His manners were not, as hasalready been stated, remarkable for artificiality or superficialrefinement. He screwed up his features as if he were swallowingsomething nasty. 

"Read me the letter, " he said. 

Eve opened the missive again, and looked at it. 

"She puts it very nicely, " she said. "She asks if you will permitme to accept a dress allowance from a rich woman who does not alwaysspend her money discreetly. "

It must be admitted that Mrs. Harrington's nice way of putting itlost nothing by its transmission through Eve's lips. 

Thus poor Charity creeps in wherever she can shelter. She is notproud. She does not ask to be accepted for her own sake; thoughHeaven knows she frequently is. She masquerades in any costume--sheaccepts the humiliation of any disguise. She is ready to be castdown before swine, or raised high before the eyes of fools. She isused as a tool or a stepping-stone--the humble handmaid of the tuft-hunter and the toady. She is dragged through the mire of the slumsto the dwellings of the wealthy and idle. She is hounded up anddown the world--the plaything of Fashion, the trap of the unwary, the washerwoman of the unclean who wish to try the paths of virtue--for a change. And she is still Charity, and she lives strong andpure in herself. It has been decreed that we shall ever have thepoor beside us, and so long shall we also possess those who live onthem. 

Charity begetteth charity, and it was for Charity's sake that EveChalloner took the bitter bread to herself, and accepted Mrs. Harrington's offer. 

Her own pride lay between her and this woman whom she knew to becapricious, uncertain, lacking the quality of justice. Her dutytowards Captain Bontnor lay between her and high Heaven. 

So Eve Challoner learnt her first lesson in that school where we allare called to study sooner or later--the school of Adversity; wheresome of us pass creditably, whilst others are ploughed, and a few--avery few--take honours. 

BOOK THE SECOND. 

CHAPTER I. BITS OF LIFE. 

 Some far-off touch Of greatness, to know well I am not great. 

The local house-agent anticipated no difficulty in letting MalabarCottage, furnished, at a good weekly rental; and in due course adreamy clergyman, with a wife who was anything but dreamy, came andsaw and hired. The wide-awake wife was so interested in Eve thatshe forgot to settle several details which came to her mindafterwards. Her curiosity was so aroused that the special cupiditybelonging to the wife of the dreamy clergyman was for the momentallayed, and she forgot to drive a hard bargain. 

Moreover, Eve's manner was not exactly encouraging to the would-bebargainer. A stupendous ignorance of the tricks of furnished house-letting, combined with a certain lofty contempt for details, acquired in Spain, where such contempt is thoroughly understood, completely baffled the clergyman's wife. She concluded that Eve wasa very stupid and ignorant girl, a poor housekeeper, and anincompetent woman of the world; and yet she was afraid of her, simply because she did not understand her. Jews, poor men's wives, and other persons who live by haggling, have a subtle fear of thosewho will not haggle. 

So Malabar Cottage was let; and in due time the sad day arrived whenCaptain Bontnor had to bid farewell to his "bits of things. " These"bits of things" were in reality bits of his life--and a human lifeis not so long nor so interesting an affair that we can affordlightly to break off any portion, to throw it away, or even to letit out on hire. 

Captain Bontnor wandered rather disconsolately round the rooms afterbreakfast, and as Eve was with him he gave her a short inventory ofthese pieces of his life. 

"That there harpoon, " he said, pointing to a rusty relic on the wallabove the mantelpiece, "was given to me by the finest whalingcaptain that ever found his way into the North water. When I firstwent to sea I thought I'd like to be a whaler; but two voyagessettled that fancy. I'm told they shoot their harpoons out of a gunnowadays--poor sport that! And there's no sport like whalin'. Twothousand pounds at one end of a line and your own life at the other--that's finer sport than these Cockney partridge-shooters know of. 

"And that's my seal-pick--many a seal have I killed with that. Thatthere's the portrait of the True Love, three-masted schooner, builtat Littlehampton by Harvey. Sailed second mate, first mate, andmaster in her, I did. Then she was sold; and a lubber went and--andthrew her on the Kentish Knock in a south-easterly gale. She was apretty ship! I felt the loss as if she'd been my sweetheart--thepretty little True Love!

"That string of shells was given to me by a shipmate--old CharlieSams--to bring home for his wife. He picked 'em up on the beachabove James Town. Took yellow Jack, he did, and died in my arms--and he only had the shells to send to his young wife and a bit of ababy he was always botherin' and talkin' about. I did two crossvoyages, and one of them round the Horn, before I got home, and Icouldn't find the woman, she having moved. So when I left the sea, I just hung them up in case she happened to come along by chance andsee them with his portrait underneath. That's Charlie Sams--a bitbrown and faded. She won't come along now, I suppose. It is amatter of fifty-five years since Charlie died. "

As he wandered round the house, so he wandered on in hisreminiscences, until Eve led him out of the front door. He took hishat from the peg which he had been intending to unship and refix ata lower level for the last fifteen years, and followed her meeklyinto the garden. He paused to pick up some yellow jasmine leaveswhich had withered in the warmth of the May sun and fallen on thedoorstep. Then he looked back longingly. 

"You see, " said Eve cheerfully, "it is only for a few months. Wecan always let it in the summer like this, and live luxuriously onour rent in the winter. "

He threw back his shoulders and smiled bravely, trying to banish thethought of his "bits of things. "

"Yes, dearie, it's only for a few months--only for a few months. "

And they both knew that they could not hope to live in MalabarCottage again--not, at all events, on the rent paid by theclergyman's wife. 

They had taken lodgings in a small house near the harbour, which, asEve pointed out, was much more convenient for the shops; and, besides, they could now buy their fish out of the boats. This lasttheory she propounded with a grave assumption of housekeepingknowledge which did not fail to impress Captain Bontnor. 

The whole town knew of the captain's misfortune, and half thecitizens of Somarsh shared in it. Only those who had saved nothinglost nothing, for Merton's was the only bank on the coast; and morethan one old fisherman--bent with rheumatism, crippled by thehardships of a life spent half in the water, half on it--saw hissavings--the fruit of long toilsome years--go to pay the Londontradesmen a part of what young Merton owed them. It was the old, oft-repeated tale of over-education. A country banker's son sent topublic school and university to be educated out of country bankingand into nothing else. 

Captain Bontnor was quite penniless. During his long life he hadsaved nearly four thousand pounds, and this sum he had placed ondeposit with the Somarsh bankers, living very comfortably on theinterest. The whole of this was absorbed--a mere drop in thefinancial ocean. 

Mrs. Harrington had asked Eve to accept a dress allowance of fortypounds a year, and Eve accepted--for her uncle. Besides this shehad a little ready money--the result of the sale of the contents ofthe Casa d'Erraha. A person who looked like a butler or a major-domo had gone over from Barcelona to Palma to attend this sale; andthe local buyers laughed immoderately at him in their sleeves. Hewas, they opined, a mule--he did not know the value of things, andpaid double for all he bought. 

But the proceeds of the sale did not amount to much. Eve knew thatsomething must be done. The money would soon be exhausted, and theycould not live on the dress allowance. Since the failure of thebank, Captain Bontnor's mental grasp had seemed less reliable thanever, and Eve had kept these things to herself. 

The captain's one servant--an aged female--who ruined his digestionand neglected her dusting, was prevailed upon to return to herpeople, and Eve and her uncle settled down to their restricted lifein the lodgings which were so conveniently near the fishing harbour. 

The captain was too old to break off his habits of life, so hewalked his quarter-deck tramp, backwards and forwards beneath thewindow on the clean pavement of the High Street, which broadened outto the harbour. He went down to meet the boats, where he was ever awelcome onlooker, and he never came back without fish for which nopayment had been taken. 

He usually met the postman when he was keeping his watch on deck--beneath the little bay-window--and if there was a letter for Eve, hewould pause in front of the house, and hand it through the opensash. 

He did this one morning after they had been in the lodgings a month, and he had not added two turns to the regulation forty before Evecalled to him. He bustled in at the door, hung his old straw hat ona peg, which was likewise too high, and went into the littleparlour. As he was smoking, he stood in the doorway, for he had notyet got over his immense respect for the niece who was above him. 

"Yes, dearie?" he said. "What to do now?"

Eve was standing near the window, holding a letter in her hand. 

"Listen!" she said, and spreading out her elbows she read grandly -

"'MADAM, --I like your Spanish Notes and Sketches; but I cannot putin number one until I see number two. Send me more, or, betterstill, if convenient, when you are next in town, do me the honour ofcalling here. --Yours very truly--'

"Now listen, uncle. "

"Yes, dear!"

 "'Yours very truly, "'JOHN CRAIK. '"

"Lor!" ejaculated Captain Bontnor, "the gentleman that writes. "

Eve handed him the letter, which he held, awestruck, with the tip ofhis thumb and finger. 

"He doesn't write very well--he, he!" he added, with a chuckle. "I'm afraid it's no good my trying to read it without my glasses. "

He blinked at the crabbed spidery caligraphy, and handed the letterback. 

"It is signed John Craik, but Providence held the pen, " said Eve. "If this letter had not come I should have had to leave you, uncle. I should have had to go and be a governess. And I do not want toleave you. "

The old man's eyes filled suddenly, as old eyes sometimes will. Hestuffed his pipe into his pocket and took her two hands in his, patting them tenderly. 

He did not speak for some time, but stood blinking back the tears. 

"Then God bless John Craik!" he said. "God bless him. "

They sat down to talk this thing over, forgetful of the captain'spipe, which burnt a hole in the lining of his coat. There was somuch to be discussed. Eve had written a certain number of shortessays--painfully conscious all the while of their simplicity andfaultiness. She did not know that so long as a person has hissubject at his finger-ends, simplicity is rather to be commendedthan otherwise. It is the half-informed who are verbose. She hadwritten simply of the simple life which she knew so well. She haddepicted Spanish daily life from the keenly instinctive standpointof a woman's observation; and only a week before she had sent asingle essay--marked number one--to the editor of the Commentator, John Craik. 

She had written for money, and made no disguise of her motive. Herewas no literary lady with all the recognised adjuncts except theliterature. She did not write in order that she might talk ofhaving written. She did not talk in such flowing periods and withsuch overbearing wisdom that insincere friends in sheer wearinesswere called upon to suggest that she should and could write. 

In sending her first small attempt to John Craik she had notforwarded therewith a long explanatory letter, which reticence hadmade him read the manuscript. 

Eve read the great man's letter a second time, while the captainscratched his head and watched her. 

"And, " he said meekly, "what do you think of doing?"

Eve looked up with a happy smile. 

"What he tells me, " she answered. "Oh, I am so glad, uncle; Icannot tell you how glad I am. "

The captain shuffled awkwardly on his feet. 

"I'm more than glad, " he said. "I'm sorter proud. "

He pulled down his coat and walked to the window. 

"Yes, " he said, looking out into the street. "That's it. I'mproud. It's a great gift--writin'. A great gift. "

Eve laughed. 

"Oh!" she answered. "I'm afraid that I have no gift. It is a very, very minute talent. That is all. I always liked books, but I havenot the gift for writing them. "

Captain Bontnor never thought Eve was a great authoress. In hissimple way this man had a vast deal of discrimination, as simplepeople often have. It is the oversubtle man who makes the mostegregious mistakes, because most of us have not time to be subtle. He never suspected Eve of being a great authoress, and he neverattributed to her any desire to attain that doubtful pinnacle offame. But he saw very plainly the immense advantage to be gatheredin this time from her talent. In his simplicity he hoped thatsomething would turn up for him to do, in a world which has no pitynor charity for that which is old, effete, and out of fashion. 

"Yes, " he said, after deep thought, "we must do what he tells us. There's no harm in that. "

Eve laughed. 

"I thought, " she said, "that we understood pride in Spain andMallorca; but I have never met such a proud caballero as you. "

She was standing behind him where he stood, looking grimly out ofthe window, her two hands resting on his broad shoulders. 

"I suppose, " she went on, "that you have once or twice humbled yourpride so much as to accept a ship when it was offered you. You saidthat there are plenty who would give you a command now. John Craikis giving me a ship, that is all. "

The captain nodded. 

"Yes, " he said, "that's it, that's it. You've got your first ship. "

CHAPTER II. A COMPACT. 

 Prends moy tel que je suy. 

The tendency of the age is to peep behind the scenes. The world isgrowing old, and human nature is nearly worn through; we arebeginning to see the bare bones of it. But a strange survival ofyouthfulness is that remarkable fascination of the unseen--thedesire to get behind the scenes and see the powder for ourselves. If a man makes his livelihood by lifting horses and other heavyobjects from the earth, we immediately wish to know details of hisprivate life, and an obliging journalist interviews him. If anotherwrite a book, we immediately wish to know how he does it, where, when, and why. We also like to see his portrait on the fly-leaf--orHE likes to see it there. 

Eve Challoner was lamentably behind the spirit of the age in thatshe did not know how she wrote a series of articles destined toattain renown. But as she never went out to meet the interviewer, he never came to her. She fell into a habit of going out for longwalks by herself, and in the course of these peregrinations shenaturally acquired the custom of thinking about her writing. 

During these long walks Captain Bontnor remained at home alone, orjoined a knot of fellow-mariners on the green in front of thereading-room. When Eve came home with her mind full of matter to beset down on paper he discreetly went to keep his watch on deck--backwards and forwards on the pavement in front of the window. Ateach turn the old sailor paused to cast his eyes over the wholehorizon, after the manner of mariners, as if he were steeringSomarsh across the North Sea. 

Thus uncle and niece glided imperceptibly into that mode of lifewhich is called humdrum, and which some wise people consider thebest mode of getting through existence. Sketch number two waswritten, rewritten, liked, hated, and finally sent to John Craik, with a letter explaining that the writer lived in Suffolk, and couldnot for the moment make it convenient to go to London. John Craikwas a busy man. He made no answer, and in a few days the proof ofsketch number one arrived, with a little printed notice ofinstructions as to correcting and returning. Of all fleetingglamours that of the proof-sheet is assuredly lightest on the wing, and Eve duly hated her own works in print, as we all do hate ourfirst triumphs. Afterwards we get resigned--much as we growresigned to the face we see in the looking-glass. 

At this time Captain Bontnor conceived the idea that it wasincumbent upon him to take up seriously, though late in life, thehigher walks of literature. 

"Now, " he said to Eve one evening, when the first proof had beenalmost wept over, "now, dearie, what author would you recommend to aman who has a natural likin' for reading, but owing to thecircumstances of his life has had no opportunity of cultivatin' histaste?"

"Well, uncle, a good deal would depend upon his inclination--whetherhe liked poetry or fiction, or serious reading. "

"Of course, of course, " acceded Captain Bontnor, pressing thetobacco into his pipe with his thumb; "I am taking that intoconsideration. There's all sorts to be had now, ain't there--poetryand fiction and novels? I am not sure that the style would mattermuch, so long--so long as the print was nice and clear. "

Eve duly gave her opinion without pressing the question too closely, and while she was out on her long walks Captain Bontnor laboriouslycultivated his neglected taste. He sat in the window-seat with muchgravity, and more than made up in application for the youthfulquickness which he lacked. He resolutely refused to look up fromhis book when he heard the alternate thud and stump which announcedthe passage down to the harbour of his particular crony, MarkStandon, whose other leg had been buried at sea. He kept thedictionary beside him, and when the writer used a word of sonorousring and obscure meaning he gravely looked it out. 

The first time that Mr. Standon saw his friend thus engaged he stoodon the pavement and expressed his surprise with more force thanelegance; whereupon Captain Bontnor went out and explained to himexactly how it stood. So marked was the old sailor's influence onthe social affairs at Somarsh that there was a notable revival ofliterary taste and discussion at the corner of the Lifeboat House, where the local intellect assembled. 

Captain Bontnor was engaged one day in the study of an author calledDickens, to whose works he had not yet found time to devote his fullattention, when a strange footstep on the pavement made him look up. It certainly was not Standon's halting gait, and a lack of iron nailcertified to the fact that it was no Somarsh man. The captainlooked over his spectacles and saw Cipriani de Lloseta studying thenumbers on the doors as he came down the quiet little street. 

The sight gave the old sailor rather a shock. He abandoned thestudy of Mr. Dickens and took off his spectacles. Then he scratchedhis head--always an ominous sign. His first instinct was to go andopen the door; then he remembered that the new-comer was a noblemanwho lived in a palace, and that he himself was indirectly agentleman, inasmuch as he lived in the same house as a lady--hisniece. So he sat still and allowed the landlady to open the door. 

When Cipriani de Lloseta was ushered into the tiny room he found thecaptain half-bowing on the hearthrug. 

"Captain Bontnor, " he said, with all the charm of manner which washis, "this is a pleasure. "

The captain shook hands, and with the rough hospitality of the cabindrew forward his own armchair, which the Count took at once. 

"When last we met, " he said, "I had the privilege of receiving youat my house in Barcelona--a poor dark place in a narrow street. Nowhere you have a sea-view. "

"But this is not my house, " said Captain Bontnor, feelingunaccountably at ease with this nobleman. "Malabar Cottage isfarther up the hill. I've got all my bits of things up there. "

"Indeed. It would have given me pleasure to see them. I learntfrom a mutual--friend, Mrs. Harrington, of your change of address. "

Captain Bontnor looked at him keenly; and who shall say that therough old man did not appreciate the refined tact of his visitor?

"I've had losses, " he said. 

The Count nodded shortly. He was drawing off his gloves. 

"I do not know, " he said conversationally, "if it has been yourexperience, but for myself I have found that reverses of fortune arenot without some small consolation. They prove the friendship ofone's friends. "

The captain reflected. 

"Yes, " he said, "you're right, Mr. --I mean Count--and--and bringsthe good out of women. "

"Women!" the Count repeated gravely. "You refer to Miss Challoner--I see signs of her presence in this room. Is she out?"

"Yes--I am afraid she is. " He glanced nervously at the clock. "Sheis not likely to be in for an hour and more yet. "

"I am sorry, " said the Count; "but also I am rather glad. I shallthus have an opportunity of asking your opinion upon one or twomatters--between men of the world, you know. "

"I am afraid my opinion is not of much value, sir, except it's aboutschooners--I always sailed in schooners. "

The Count nodded gravely. 

"In my country, " he said, "we usually go in for brigs; they findthem easier to handle. But you know Mallorca--you have seen foryourself. "

The captain was not listening; he was looking at the modest lodging-house sideboard. 

"I was wondering, " he explained, with a transparent simplicity whichwas perhaps as good as that which is called good breeding, "whetheryou would take a glass of sherry wine. "

"I should like nothing better, " said the Count. "It will give mepleasure to take a glass of wine with you. "

Quietly, imperceptibly, De Lloseta set Captain Bontnor at his ease, and at the same time he mastered him. They spoke of indifferenttopics--topics which, however, were well within the captain'sknowledge of the world. Then suddenly the Count laid aside thesocial mask which he wore with such consummate ease. 

"I came down to Somarsh, " he said, "because I am deeply distressedat your reverse of fortune. I came to see you, captain, becausewhen I had the pleasure of meeting you at Barcelona I saw you to bea just man, and one to whom one could speak openly. I am a richman--you understand. Need I say more?"

Captain Bontnor blinked uncertainly. 

"No, " he answered, "I'm thinkin' it isn't necessary. "

"Not between men of the world, " urged Cipriani de Lloseta. "It isnot for your sake. I would not insult you in such a way. It is forEve. For a woman's sake a man may easily sacrifice his pride. "

The captain nodded and glanced at the clock. He had not fullyrealised until that moment how dependent he was upon his niece. 

"You know, " continued the Count, following up his advantage, "allthe somewhat peculiar circumstances of the case. Do you think thereis any chance of Eve's reconsidering her decision?"

The captain shook his head. 

"No, " he answered bluntly, "I don't. Since she came back fromLondon--" he paused. 

"Yes, since she came back from London?" suggested the Count. 

"She seems more determined than ever. "

The Count was looking at him keenly. 

"Then, " he said, "you also have noticed a change. "

Captain Bontnor shuffled in his seat and likewise in his speech. 

"I suppose, " he said, "that she has grown into a woman. Adversity'sdone it. "

"Yes, " said the Count, "your observations seem to me to be correct. I had the pleasure of seeing her once or twice when she was stayingat Mrs. Harrington's; but I did not refer to the question raised atmy house in Barcelona, because I noticed the change to which youallude. Instead, I attempted to gain the co-operation andassistance of a mutual friend, Henry FitzHenry. "

Cipriani de Lloseta paused and looked at his companion, who in turngazed stolidly at the fire. 

"And I received a rebuff, " added the Count. He waited for somelittle time, but Captain Bontnor had no comment to offer, so DeLloseta went on: "Challoner was one of my best friends. I do notfeel disposed to let the matter drop, more especially now that youhave been compelled to leave Malabar Cottage. I propose entreatingMiss Challoner to reconsider her decision. Will you help me?"

"Yes, " answered Captain Bontnor, "I will. "

"Then tell me if Eve has accepted assistance from Mrs. Harrington?"

"Yes, she has. "

The Count swore softly in Spanish. 

"I am sorry for that, " he said aloud. "I am superstitious. I havea theory that Mrs. Harrington's money is apt to be a curse to thoseupon whom it is bestowed. "

"Mrs. Harrington's no friend of mine, " said Captain Bontnor; and DeLloseta, who was looking out of the window, smiled somewhat grimly. 

"Perhaps, " he said after a little pause, "perhaps you will allow meto claim the privilege which you deny to her?"

"Yes, " answered Captain Bontnor awkwardly; "yes, if you care to. "

"Thanks. I see Miss Challoner--Eve--coming. I count on yourassistance. "

Eve paused on the threshold in astonishment at the sight of theCount de Lloseta and her uncle in grave discourse over a glass ofsherry. 

"You!" she said. "You here!"

And he wondered why she suddenly lost colour. 

"I, " he answered, "I--here to pay my respects. "

Eve gave a little gasp of relief. For a moment she was off herguard--with a dangerous man watching her. 

"I thought you had bad news, " she said. 

And Cipriani de Lloseta knew that this was a woman whose heart wasat sea. 

"No, " he answered; "I merely came to quarrel. "

He drew forward a chair, and Eve sat down. 

"We shall always quarrel, " he went on, "unless you are kind. Let usbegin at once and get it over, because I want to stay to lunch. Will you reconsider your decision with respect to the Val d'Erraha?"

Eve shook her head and looked at her uncle. 

"No, " she answered; "I cannot do that. Not now. "

"Some day?" he suggested. 

"Not now, " repeated the girl; and, looking up, her face suddenlybecame grave, as if reflecting the expression in the dark Spanisheyes bent upon her. 

"You are cruel!" he said. 

"I am young--"

"Is it not the same thing?"

"And I can work, " added Eve. 

"Yes, " he said. "But in my old-fashioned way I am prejudicedagainst a lady working. In the days of women's rights ladies areapt to forget the charm of white hands. "

Eve made no answer. 

"Then it is not peace?"

"No, " she answered, with a smile; "not yet. "

She was standing beside Captain Bontnor, with her hand on hisshoulder. 

"Uncle and I, " she added, "are not beaten yet. "

Cipriani de Lloseta smiled darkly. 

"Will you promise me one thing, " he said; "that when you are beatenyou will come to me before you go to any one else?"

"Yes, " answered Eve, "I think we can promise that. "

CHAPTER III. BAFFLED. 

 He conquers who awaits the end. 

Fortune fixed her wayward fancy on the first sketch that Evecontributed to the Commentator. Wayward, indeed, for Eve herselfknew that it was not good, and in the lettered quiet of theeditorial sanctum John Craik smiled querulously to himself. JohnCraik had a supreme contempt for the public taste, but he knewexactly what it wanted. He was like a chef smiling over his madedishes. He did not care for the flavour himself, but his palate wassubtle enough to detect the sweet or bitter that tickled hismaster's tongue. He served the public faithfully, with a twisted, cynic smile behind his spectacles--for John Craik had a family tofeed. He knew that Eve's work was only partially good--true woman'swork that might cease to flow at any moment. But he detected theundeniable originality of it, and the public palate likes a novelflavour. 

So deeply versed was he in worldly knowledge, so thoroughly had hegauged the critic, the journalist, and the public, that before heunfolded a newspaper he could usually foresee the length, thenature, and the literary merit of the criticism. He knew that thetendency of the age is to acquire as much knowledge as possible in ashort time. He looked upon the world as a huge kindergarten, andthe Commentator as its school-book. It was good that the world'sknowledge of its own geography should be extended, but the worldmust not be allowed to detect the authority of the usher's voice. There are a lot of people who, like women at a remnant sale, goabout the paths of literature picking up scraps which do not match, and never can be of the slightest use. It was John Craik's businessto set out his remnant counter to catch these wandering gleaners, and Eve sent him her wares by a lucky chance at the moment when hewanted them. 

The editor of the Commentator was sitting in his deep chair beforethe fire one morning about eleven o'clock, when the clerk, whosebusiness it was to tell glib lies about his chief, brought him acard. 

"Lloseta, " said Craik aloud to himself. "Ask him to come up. "

"The man who ought to have written the Spanish sketches, " hecommented, when the clerk had left. 

The Count came into the room with a certain ease of manner subtlyindicative of the fact that it was not the first time that he hadvisited it. He shook hands and waited until the clerk had closedthe door. 

There was a copy of the month's Commentator on the table. DeLloseta took it up and opened it at the first page. 

"Who wrote that?" he asked, holding out the magazine. 

Craik laughed--a sudden boyish laugh--but he held his sides thewhile. 

"You not only beard the lion in his den, but you ask him to tell youthe tricks of his trade, " he said. "Sit down, all the same. Youdon't mind my pipe, do you?"

The Spaniard sat down and sought a cigarette-case in his waistcoatpocket with a deliberation that made his companion fidget in hischair. 

"You asked me to write those sketches, " said the Count pleasantly. "I delayed and you gave the order to some one else. Assuredly Ihave a certain right to ask who my supplanter is. "

"None whatever, my dear Lloseta. I did not give the order for thosesketches--they came. "

"From whom?"

"Ah!"

"You will not tell me?"

"My dear man, I cannot. The smell of printing ink is not good for aman's morals. Leave me my unsullied honour. "

The Count had lighted his cigarette. He looked keenly at hiscompanion's deeply-lined face, and the blue smoke floated betweenthem. 

"There are not many people who could have written that article, " hesaid. "For the few English who know Spain like that are known tothe natives. And no Spaniard would have dared to write it. "

John Craik laughed, and while he was laughing his eyes were graveand full of keen observation. 

"Then you admit that it is true, " he said. 

"Yes, " answered the Count; "it is true--all of it. The writer knowsmy country as few Englishmen--or WOMEN know it. "

John Craik was leaning back in his deep chair an emaciated, pain-stricken form. His calm grey eyes met the quick glance, and did notfall nor waver. 

"Then you will not tell me?"

"No. But why are you so anxious to know?"

The Count smoked for a few seconds in silence. 

"I will tell you, " he said suddenly, "in confidence. "

Craik nodded, and settled himself again in his chair. He was a veryfidgety man. 

"It is not the first article that I care about, " explained DeLloseta. "It is that which is behind it. This"--he laid his handon the page--"is my own country, the north and east of Spain, thewildest part of the Peninsula, the home of the Catalonians, who havealways been the leaders in strife and warfare. It is the countryfrom whence my family has its source. All that is written aboutCatalonia or the Baleares must necessarily refer in part to me andmine. This writer may know too much. "

"I think, " said John Craik, "that I can guarantee that if the writerdoes know too much, the Commentator shall not be the channel throughwhich the knowledge will reach the public. "

"Thanks; but--can you guarantee it? Can you guarantee that thepublic interest, being aroused by these articles, may not ask forfurther details, which details might easily be given elsewhere, insomething less--respectable--than the Commentator?"

"My dear sir, one would think you had a crime on your conscience. "

Cipriani de Lloseta smiled--such a smile as John Craik had neverseen before. 

"I have many, " he answered. "Who has not?"

"Yes; they accumulate as life goes on, do they not?"

"What I fear, " went on De Lloseta, "is the idle gossip which obtainsin England under the pleasant title of 'Society Notes, ' 'BoudoirChat, ' and other new-fangled vulgarities. In Spain we have notthat. "

"Then Spain is the Promised Land. "

"Your Society journalists may talk of the English nobility, thoughthe aristocracy that fills the 'Society Notes' is almost invariablythe aristocracy of yesterday. But I want to keep the Spanishfamilies out of it if possible--the names that were there beforeprinting was invented. "

"Printing and education are too cheap nowadays, " said John Craik. "They are both dangerous instruments in the hands of fools, and itis the fool who goes to the cheap market. But you need not beafraid of the Society papers. It is only those who wish to beadvertised who find themselves there. "

De Lloseta's thoughts had gone back to the Commentator. He pickedup the magazine and was looking over the pages of the Spanisharticle. 

"It is clever, " he said. "It is very clever. "

Craik nodded, after the manner of one who had formed his own opinionand intended to abide by it. He was a gentle-mannered man in theordinary intercourse of life, but on the battlefield of letters hewas a veritable Coeur-de-Lion. He quailed before no man. 

"You know, " said the Count, "there are only two persons who couldhave written this--and they are women. If it is the one, I fearnothing; if the other, I fear everything. "

"Then, " said John Craik, shuffling in his chair, "fear nothing. "

De Lloseta looked at him sharply. 

"I could force you to tell a lie by mentioning the name of the womanwho wrote this, " he said. 

"Then don't!" said John Craik. "I lie beautifully!"

"No, I will not. But I will ask you to do something for me instead:let me read the proofs of these as they are printed. "

For exactly two seconds John Craik pondered. 

"I shall be happy to do that, " he said. "I will let you know whenthe proof is ready. You must come here and read it in this room. "

Cipriani de Lloseta rose from his seat. 

"Thank you, " he said, holding out his hand. "I will not keep youfrom your work. You are doing a better action than you are awareof. "

He took the frail fingers in his grasp for a second and turned togo. Before the door closed behind him John Craik was at work again. 

So Eve Challoner's work passed through Cipriani de Lloseta's hand, and that nobleman came into her life from another point. It wouldseem that in whichsoever direction she turned, the Mallorcan waswaiting for her with his grave persistence, his kindly determinationto watch over her, to exercise that manly control over her lifewhich is really the chief factor of feminine happiness on earth--ifwomen only knew it. For all through Nature there are qualitiesgiven to the male for the sole advantage of the female, and thebeasts of the forest rise up in silent protest against the nonsensethat is talked to-day of woman's place in the world. We mayconsider the beasts of the field to advantage, for through all thechances and changes of education, of female emancipation, and thesubjection of the weaker sort of man, there will continue to run tothe end of time the one grand principle that the male is there toprotect the female and the female to care for her young. 

Cipriani de Lloseta thus late in life seemed to have found anobject. Eve Challoner, while bringing back the past with a flood ofrecollections--for she seemed to carry the air of Mallorca with her--had so far brought him to the present that for the first time sincethirty years and more he began to be interested in the life that wasaround him. 

He suspected--nay, he almost knew--that Eve had written the articlein the Commentator which had attracted so much attention. JohnCraik had to a certain extent baffled him. He had called on theeditor of the great periodical in the hope of gleaning some detail--some little scrap of information which would confirm his suspicion--but he had come away with nothing of value excepting the promisethat the printed matter should pass through his hands before itreached the public. 

Even if he was mistaken, and this proved after all to be the work ofMrs. Harrington, the fact of the proof being offered to his scrutinywas in itself an important safeguard. This, however, was only asecondary possibility. He knew that Eve had written this thing, andhe wished to have the opportunity of correcting one or two smallmistakes which he anticipated, and which he felt that he himselfalone could rectify. 

In the meantime John Craik was scribbling a letter to Eve in hisminute caligraphy. 

"DEAR MADAM" (he wrote), "Your first article is, I am glad to say, attracting considerable attention. It is absolutely necessary thatI should see you, with a view of laying down plans for furthercontributions. Please let me know how this can be arranged. Yourstruly, "JOHN CRAIK. "

And at the same time another man, to whom all these things were ofparamount importance--to whom all that touched Eve's life was as ifit touched his own--was reading the Commentator. Fitz, on his wayhome from the Mediterranean, to fill the post of navigating-lieutenant to a new ironclad at that time fitting out at Chatham, bought the Commentator from an enterprising newsagent given tomaritime venture in Plymouth harbour. The big steamer only stayedlong enough to discharge her mails, and Fitz being a sailor did notgo ashore. Instead, he sat on a long chair on deck and read theCommentator. He naturally concluded that at last Cipriani deLloseta had acceded to John Craik's wish. 

The Ingham-Bakers had come home from Malta and were at this timestaying with Mrs. Harrington in London. Agatha had of late taken toreading the newspapers somewhat exhaustively. She read such columnsas are usually passed over by the majority of womankind--such asnaval intelligence and those uninteresting details of maritimeaffairs printed in small type, and stated to emanate from Lloyd's, wherever that vague source may be. 

From these neglected corners of the Morning Post Agatha Ingham-Bakerhad duly learnt that Henry FitzHenry had been appointed navigating-lieutenant to the Terrific, lying at Chatham, which wouldnecessitate his leaving the Kittiwake at Gibraltar and returning toEngland at once. She also read that the Indian liner Croonah hadsailed from Malta for Gibraltar and London, with two hundred andfive passengers and twenty-six thousand pounds in specie. 

And John Craik had written to Eve to come to London, where she had apermanent invitation to stay with Mrs. Harrington. 

From over the wide world these people seemed to be drifting togetherlike leaves upon a pond--borne hither and thither by some unseencurrent, swirled suddenly by a passing breath--at the mercy of windand weather and chance, each occupied in his or her small dailylife, looking no further ahead than the next day or the next week. And yet they were drifting surely and steadily towards each other, driven by the undercurrent of Fate, against which the strongest willmay beat itself in vain. 

CHAPTER IV. FOR THE HIGHEST BIDDER. 

 Let thine eyes look right on. 

"How handsome Fitz looks in his uniform!" Mrs. Ingham-Baker said, with that touch of nervous apprehension which usually affected alloriginal remarks addressed by her to Mrs. Harrington. 

Mrs. Ingham-Baker had been to Malta and back, but the wonders of thedeep had failed to make a wiser woman of her. If one wishes to gainanything by seeing the world, it is best to go and look at it earlyin life. 

"Yes, " answered Mrs. Harrington, with a glance in the direction ofAgatha, the only other occupant of the drawing-room--"yes; he is agood-looking young fellow. "

Agatha was reading the Globe, sitting upright and stiff, for she waswearing a new ball-dress. 

"I think, " went on Mrs. Ingham-Baker volubly, "that I have neverseen a naval uniform before--in a room close at hand, you know. Ofcourse, on board the Croonah the officers wore a sort of uniform, but they had not a sword. "

Agatha turned over her newspaper impatiently. Mrs. Harrington waslistening with an air of the keenest interest, which might have beensarcastic. 

"Poor Luke had not quite so much gold braid--"

Agatha looked up, and Mrs. Ingham-Baker collapsed. 

"I should think, " she added, after some nervous shufflings in herseat, "that a sword is a great nuisance. Should you not think so, Marion dear?"

"I do not know, " replied Mrs. Harrington; "I never wore one. "

Mrs. Ingham-Baker laughed eagerly at herself, after the manner ofpersons who cannot afford to keep up a decent self-respect. 

"But I always rather think, " she went on, with an apprehensiveglance towards her daughter, "that a sword is out of place in adrawing-room, or--or anywhere where there are carpets, you know. "

"I thought you had never seen one before, " put in Agatha, withoutlooking up from her newspaper. "In a room--close at hand, youknow. "

"No--no, of course not; but I knew, dear, that they were worn. Ofcourse, in warfare it is different. "

"In warfare, " said Mrs. Harrington patiently, "they are usuallysupposed to come in rather handy. "

"Yes--he-he!" acquiesced Mrs. Ingham-Baker, adjusting a bracelet onher arm with something approaching complacency. She thought shebegan to see daylight through the conversational maze in which--withthe best intentions--she had involved herself. "But I was onlythinking that for a lady's drawing-room I think I like Luke's quietblack clothes just as much. "

"I am glad of that, " said Mrs. Harrington; "because I expect youwill see several other men in the same dress this evening. "

Mrs. Harrington had got up a party to go to the great naval ball ofthe season--a charity ball. Her party consisted of the Ingham-Bakers and the FitzHenrys, and for the first time for eight yearsthe twin brothers met in the house in Grosvenor Gardens. They wereat this moment in the dining-room together, where they had been leftby their hostess with a kindly injunction to finish the port wine, duly tempered--as was all Mrs. Harrington's kindness--byinstructions not to smoke. 

Agatha's feelings were rather mixed, so, like a wise young woman ofthe world, she read the evening paper with great assiduity andrefused to think. 

The evening had been one of comparisons. Fitz and Luke had cometogether, for they were sharing rooms in Jermyn Street. Fitz, smart, upright, essentially a naval officer and an unquestionablegentleman. Luke, a trifle browner, more weather-beaten, with afaint, subtle suggestion of a rougher life. Fitz, easy, good-natured, calmly sure of himself--utterly without self-consciousness. Luke, conscious of inferior grade, not quite at ease, jealously onthe alert for the comparison. 

And Agatha had known from the first moment that in the eyes of theworld--and Mrs. Harrington looked through those eyes--there was nocomparison. Fitz carried all before him. All except Agatha. Thegirl was puzzled. Luke could not be compared with Fitz, and thewhole world did not compare with Luke. She was fully awake to thecontradiction, and she could not reconcile her facts. She had beenvery properly brought up at the Brighton Boarding School, receivinga good, practical, modern, nineteenth-century education--acurriculum of solid facts culled from the latest school books, fromwhich Love had very properly been omitted. 

And now, as she pretended to read the Globe Agatha was puzzlingvaguely and numbly over the contradictions that come into humanexistence with the small adjunct called love. She was wondering howit was that she saw Luke's faults and the thousand ways in which hewas inferior to his brother, and yet that with all these to stay himup Fitz did not compare with Luke. After all, there must have beensome small defect in the education which she had received, forinstead of thinking these futile things she ought to have beenattempting to discover--as was her mother at that moment--which ofthe two brothers seemed more likely to inherit Mrs. Harrington'smoney. 

Agatha's thoughts went back to the moment on the deck of theCroonah, when the sea breeze swept over her and Luke, and thestrength of it, the simple, open force, seemed to be part and parcelof him--of the strong arms around her in which she was content tolie quiescent. She wondered for a moment whether it had all beentrue. 

For Agatha Ingham-Baker was essentially human and womanly, in thatshe was, and ever would be, a creature of possibilities. She tookup her long gloves and began slowly to draw them on. They werequite new, and she smoothed them with a distinct satisfaction, underwhich there brooded the sense of a new possibility. In all hercalculations of life--and these had been many--she had never thoughtof the possibility of misery. She buttoned the gloves, she drewthem cunningly up over her rounded arms, and she wondered whethershe was going to be a miserable woman all her life. She saw herselfsuddenly with those inward eyes which are sometimes vouchsafed to usmomentarily, and she saw Misery--in its best dress. 

She looked up as Fitz and Luke came into the room. Luke's eyes wereonly for her. Fitz, with the unconcealed absorption which was oftenhis, absolutely ignored her presence. And the little incidentroused something contradictory in Agatha--something evil and, alas!feminine. She awoke to the very matter-of-factness of the presentmoment, and she determined to make a conquest of Fitz. 

Agatha was not quite on her guard, and Mrs. Harrington's cold greyeyes were alert. It had once been this lady's intention to useAgatha as a means of subjecting Luke to her own capricious will--Agatha being the alternative means where money had failed. She hadalmost forgotten this when Luke came into the room with eyes onlyfor Agatha--and the girl was looking at Fitz. 

"I suppose, Agatha, " said Mrs. Harrington, "you will not be at aloss for partners to-night? You will know plenty of dancing men?"

"Oh, I suppose so, " replied Agatha indifferently. She turned overher newspaper and retreated, as it were, behind her first line ofdefence--the sure line of audacious silence. 

"The usual throng?"

"The usual throng, " answered Agatha imperturbably. 

Luke was biting his nails impatiently. His jealousy was patent toany woman. Fitz was talking to Mrs. Ingham-Baker. 

"I should advise you young men to secure your dances now, " continuedMrs. Harrington, with her usual fatal persistence. "Once Agathagets into the room she will be snapped up. "

Fitz turned round with his good-natured smile--the smile thatindicates a polite attention to an indifferent conversation--andMrs. Ingham-Baker was free to thrust in her awkward oar. Shesplashed in. 

"Oh, I am sure she will not let herself be snapped up to-night; willyou, dear?"

"That, no doubt, depends upon the snapper, " put in Mrs. Harrington, looking--perhaps by accident--at Fitz. "Fitz, " she went on, "comehere and tell me all about your new ship. I hope you are proud--Iam. I am often laughed at for a garrulous old woman when I begintalking of you!"

She glanced aside at Mrs. Ingham-Baker, who was beaming on Fitz, asthe simple-hearted beam on the rising sun. 

"Yes, " said the stout lady, "we are all so delighted. Agatha wasonly saying yesterday that your success was wonderful. She wasquite excited about it. "

The fond mother looked invitingly towards her daughter with a smilethat said as plainly as words -

"There you are! I have cleared the stage for you--step in and scorea point. "

But Agatha did not respond. 

"I suppose it is a steamer, " continued Mrs. Ingham-Baker eagerly. "A steam man-of-war. "

"Yes, " replied Fitz, with perfect gravity, "a steam man-of-war. "

"The Horrible--or the Terrible, is it not?"

"The Terrific. "

There was an account of the new war-ship in the evening paper whichAgatha had laid aside, and Fitz was impolitely glancing at thiswhile he spoke. The journal gave the names of the officers. Fitzwas wondering whether Eve Challoner ever saw the Globe. 

Mrs. Ingham-Baker became lost in a maternal fit of admiration. Shewas looking at Agatha with her head on one side. At intervals sheglanced towards Fitz--an inviting glance, as if to draw hisattention to the fact that one of Nature's most perfect productionswas waiting to gladden his vision. 

"Look!" that little glance seemed to say. "Look at Agatha. IS shenot lovely?"

But Fitz was still wondering whether Eve was in the habit of readingthe Globe. He often wondered thus about her daily habits, trying topicture, in his ignorant masculine way, the hours and minutes of agirl's daily existence. 

Mrs. Ingham-Baker could not stand this waste of his time andAgatha's dress. 

"What do you think of the frock?" she asked Mrs. Harrington, in awhisper which was audible to every one in the room. 

"It is very pretty, " replied the hostess, who happened to be in agood humour. Dress possessed a small corner of her cold heart. Itwas one of very few weaknesses. It was almost a redeeming point ina too man-like character. Her own dresses were always perfect, usually of the richest silk--and grey. Hence she was known as theGrey Lady, and only a few--for Society has neither time nor capacityfor thought--wondered whether the colour had penetrated to her soul. 

The two now became engaged in a technical conversation, which wasonly interrupted by the arrival of tea. Luke and Agatha weretalking about Malta. She was telling him that their friends inValetta had invited them to go again next year, and the Croonah wasmentioned. 

While the hostess was attending to the teapot, Mrs. Ingham-Bakertook the opportunity of disturbing Fitz--of stirring him up, so tospeak, and making him look at Agatha. 

"Do you think you would have recognised your old playmate if you hadmet her accidentally--to-night, for instance, at the ball?" sheasked. 

Again the inviting glance toward her daughter, to which Fitznaturally responded. It was too obvious to ignore. 

"No; I do not think so, " he replied, going back in his mind to therecollection of a thin-legged little girl with lank hair. 

Mrs. Ingham-Baker's proud eyes rested complacently on her offspring. 

"Do you like her dress?" she asked in a whisper--only audible tohim. But Agatha knew the gist of it. The arm and shoulder nearestto them gave a little jerk of self-consciousness. 

"Very pretty, " replied Fitz; and Mrs. Ingham-Baker stored the remarkaway for future use. For all she knew--or all she wanted to know--it might refer to Agatha's self. 

"I am afraid I shall lose her, you know--horribly afraid, " whisperedMrs. Ingham-Baker, knowing the value of competition in all things. 

Fitz looked genuinely sympathetic, and glanced at Agatha again, wondering what disease had marked her for its own. Mrs. Ingham-Baker thought fit to explain indirectly, as was her wont. 

"She is very much admired, " she said under her breath, with a sighand a lugubrious shake of the head. 

"Oh, " murmured Fitz, with a smile. 

"Yes, " answered Mrs. Ingham-Baker. She heaved a sigh, observed adecent pause, and then added, "Does it surprise you?"

"Not in the least. It is most natural. "

"You think so--really?"

"Of course I do, " answered Fitz. 

There was another little pause, and Mrs. Ingham-Baker then said, ina tone of friendly confidence -

"I advise you to secure your dances early. She will be engagedthree deep in a very short time--a lot of mere boys she does notwant to dance with. "

Fitz thanked her fervently, and went to help Mrs. Harrington. 

Mrs. Ingham-Baker sat back in her chair, well pleased with herself. Like many of her kind, she began the social campaign with theinitial error of underrating her natural foes--young men. 

CHAPTER V. THE TEAR ON THE SWORD. 

 But over all things brooding slept The quiet sense of something lost. 

Agatha was singularly uncertain of herself. If it had not been forher education--at the Brighton school they had taught her that tearsare not only idle, but also harmful to the complexion--she wouldhave felt inclined to weep. 

There was something wrong about the world this evening, and she didnot know what it was. Little things irritated her--such as thecreak of Mrs. Harrington's rich silk dress as that lady breathed. Agatha almost hated Fitz, without knowing why. She wanted Luke tocome and speak to her, and yet the necessity of limiting theirconversation to mere social platitudes made her hope that he wouldnot do so. 

At length she rose to go and make her last preparations for theball. The old habit was so strong upon her that unconsciously shegave a little swing of the hips to throw her skirt out--to showherself to the greatest advantage in the perfect dress. There was atiny suggestion of the thoroughbred horse in the paddock--as therealways is in the attitude of some young persons, though they wouldnot be grateful were one to tell them of it--a certain bridling, asleek step, and a lamentably obvious search for the eye ofadmiration. Fitz opened the door for her, and she gave him a glanceas she passed him--a preliminary shot to find the range, as it were--to note which way the wind blew. 

In the dimly-lighted hall Agatha suddenly became aware of a hotsensation in the eyelids. The temperature of the tear of vexationis a high one. As she passed towards the staircase, her glance wasattracted by a sword, bright of hilt, dark of sheath. Fitz's sword, lying with his white gloves on the table, where he had laid them oncoming into the house. The footman had drawn the blade an inch orso from the sheath--to look at the chasing--to handle the steel thatdeals in warfare with all the curiosity of one whose business liesamong the knives of peace. 

Agatha paused and looked at the tokens of Fitz's calling. Shethought of Luke, who had no sword. And the hot unwonted tear fellon the blade. 

All the evening Mrs. Harrington had been marked in her attention toFitz. It was quite obvious that he was--for the moment, at allevents--the favoured nephew. And Mrs. Ingham-Baker noted thesethings. 

"My dear, " she whispered to Agatha, when they were waiting in thehall for their hostess, "it is Fitz, of course. I can see that withhalf an eye. "

Agatha shrugged her shoulders in a rude manner, suggesting almostthat her mother was deprived of more reliable means of observationthan the moiety mentioned. 

"What is Fitz?" she asked, with weary patience. 

"Well, I can only tell you that she has called him 'dear' twice thisevening, and I have never heard her do the same to Luke. "

"A lot Luke cares!" muttered Agatha scornfully, and her mother, whose sense of logic did not run to the perception that Luke'sfeelings were beside the question, discreetly collapsed into hervoluminous wraps. 

She was, however, quite accustomed to be treated thus withcontumely, and then later to see her suggestions acted upon--afeminine consolation which men would do well to take untothemselves. As soon as they entered the ball-room, Mrs. Ingham-Baker, with that supernatural perspicacity which is sometimes foundin stupid mothers, saw that Agatha was refusing her usual partners. She noted her daughter's tactics with mingled awe and admiration, both of which tributes were certainly deserved. She saw Agatha lookstraight through one man at the decorations on the wall behind; shesaw her greet an amorous youth of tender years with a semi-maternalair of protection which at once blighted his hopes, cured hispassion, and made him abandon the craving for a dance. Agatha wasevidently reserving herself and her programme for some specialpurposes, and she did it with a skill bred of long experience. 

Luke was the first to come and ask for a dance--nay, he demanded it. 

"Do you remember the last time we danced together?" he asked, as hewrote on her card. 

"Yes, " she replied, in a voice which committed her to nothing. Shedid not look at him, but past him; to where Fitz was talking to Mrs. Harrington. 

But he was not content with that. He retained the card and stood infront of her, waiting with suppressed passion in every muscle, waiting for her to meet his eyes. 

At last, almost against her will, she did, and for one brief momentshe was supremely happy. It was only, however, for a moment. Sent, apparently, by a very practical Providence to save her from herself, a young man blustered good-naturedly through the crowd and plantedhimself before her with a cheery aplomb which seemed to indicate hissupposition that in bringing her his presence he brought the desireof her heart and the brightest moment of the evening. 

"Well, Agatha, " he said, in that loud voice which, with all duedeference, usually marks the Harrovian, "how many have you got forme? No rot now! I want my share, you know, eh?"

Heedless of Luke's scowling presence, he held out his hand, encasedin a very tight glove, asking with a good-natured jerk of the headfor her programme. 

"Is your wife here?" asked Agatha, smilingly relinquishing her card. 

"Wife be blowed!" he answered heartily. "Why so formal? Of courseshe's here, carrying on with all the young 'uns as usual. She's asfit as paint. But she won't like to be called stiff names. Whydon't you call her Maggie?"

Agatha smiled and did not explain. She doubtless had a good reasonfor the unusually formal inquiry, and she glanced at Luke to seethat his brow had cleared. 

Then suddenly some instinct, coming she knew not whence, and leadingto consequences affecting their three lives, made her introduce thetwo men. 

"Mr. Carr, " she said, "Mr. FitzHenry. You may be able to get eachother partners. Besides, you have an interest in common. "

The two men bowed. 

"Are you a sailor?" inquired Luke, almost pleasantly. With WillieCarr it was difficult to be stiff and formal. 

"Not I; but I'm interested in shipping--not the navy, you know--merchant service. I'm something in the City, like the young man onthe omnibus, eh?"

"I'm in the merchant service, " answered Luke. 

"Ah! What ship?"

"The Croonah. "

"Croonah, " repeated Carr, hastily scribbling his name on Agatha'sprogramme. "Fine ship; I know her well by name. Know 'em all onpaper, you know. I'm an insurance man--what they call a doctor--Lloyd's and all that; missing ships, overdue steamers, hedging anddodging, and the inner walks of marine insurance--that's yourstruly. Croonah's a big value, _I_ know. "

He looked up keenly over Agatha's engagement card. The look was notquite in keeping with his bluff and open manners. Moreover, a manwho is, so to speak, not in keeping with himself is one who requireswatching. 

"Yes, she is a fine ship, " answered Luke, with a momentary thoughtof the Terrific. 

"Tell me, " went on Carr, confidentially plucking Luke's sleeve, "when she is going to the bottom, and I'll do a line for you--makeyour fortune for you. You'd not be the first man who has come tome, with his hair hardly dry, for a cheque. "

Luke laughed and went away in answer to Mrs. Harrington's beckoningfinger. 

Fitz was coming towards Agatha and her companion. 

"Holloa!" exclaimed Carr, "I'm blowed if here is not a secondedition of the same man. "

"His brother, " explained Agatha, who saw Fitz coming, although shewas apparently looking the other way. 

"Royal Navy, " muttered Carr. 

"Yes. "

"Then I'm off. Can't get on with Royal Navy men, somehow. "

With a jovial nod and something remarkably near a wink, Willie Carrleft her, shouldering his way through the crowd with that good-natured boisterousness of manner which is accepted by the world forhonesty. 

Agatha was looking the other way when Fitz came to her, and he wasforced to touch her and repeat his desire to be accorded a dancebefore she became aware of his proximity. 

"Certainly, " she answered rather carelessly, "if you want one. I--"--she paused with infinite skill and looked down at her own dress--"I thought I had displeased you. "

Fitz looked slightly surprised. 

"What an absurd thing to think!" he said rather lamely. 

She glanced up with pert coquetry. 

"Then it was only oblivion or indifference. "

"What was only oblivion or indifference?" he asked, still smiling ashe compared cards. 

"Your very obvious delay in coming, " she answered. "Consideringthat we have known each other since we were children, it is onlynatural that I should want to dance with you. "

"Considering that we have known each other since we were children, "he said, repeating her words and tone, "may I have a third?"

"Yes, " with a frank nod. "And"--she paused, and looking round sawLuke going away in the opposite direction with Mrs. Harrington--"andwill you take me to have some coffee now? I am engaged for thisdance, but no matter. "

Fitz gave her his arm and turned to hitch his sword higher. He madesure that the blade was well home, shutting in the little red spotof gathering rust--a tear. 

When they had at length passed through the eager crowd and found aresting-place in a smaller room, Agatha looked up at Fitz as hehanded her her coffee, and did not pretend to hide the admirationwith which she regarded him. 

"You know, " she said, "you are a great favourite with Mrs. Harrington. "

"She is always very kind to me. "

Fitz was a difficult person to gossip with by reason of his quietdirectness of manner. He had a way of abruptly finishing his speechwithout the usual lowering of the voice. And it is just that smalldrop of half a tone that invites further confidence. In such smallmatters as these lies the secret of conversational success, and bysuch trivial tricks of the tongue we are daily and hourly deceived. The man or the woman who lowers the tone at the end of speech defersto the listener's opinion, and usually receives it. The manner withwhich Fitz broke off led his listener to believe that he was notattending to the conversation. Agatha therefore baited her hookmore heavily. 

"Like many women, she thinks that sailors are superior to the restof mankind, " she said, with just enough lightness of tone to beconverted into a screen if necessary. But she heaved a little sighbefore she drank her coffee. 

Fitz had not decided whether all this referred to himself or toLuke. He hoped that Agatha had, so to speak, brought her guns tobear upon him, because of himself he was sure, of Luke he wasdoubtful. As a matter of curiosity he pursued the conversation. 

"And you, " he said, "look upon such mistaken persons with themingled pity and contempt that they deserve?"

"No, " she answered, with audacious calmness, as she rose and passedbefore him; "for I think the same. "

She cleverly deprived him of the opportunity of answering, andpushed her way through the crowd alone, allowing him to follow. 

Before she danced with him again, she danced with Luke, and herhumour seemed to have undergone a change. 

There are some men who, like salmon, never go back. They push on, and that which they have gained they hold to though it cost themtheir lives. Luke FitzHenry was one of these, and Agatha found thatin the London ball-room she could take back nothing that she hadgiven on board the Croonah. Luke, it is to be presumed, had old-fashioned theories which have fallen into disuse in these practicalmodern days wherein we flirt for one night only, for a day, for aweek, according to convenience. He could not lay aside the voyageto Malta and that which occurred then as a matter of the past; andAgatha, surprised and at a loss, did not seem to know how to makehim do so. 

She learnt with a new wonder that the rest of this ball--namely, that part of his programme which did not refer to her, the dances hewas to dance with partners other than herself--counted as nothing. For him this ball was merely herself. There was not another womanin the room--for him. He told her this and other things. Moreover, the sound of it was quite new to her. For the modern young man doesnot make serious love to such women as Agatha Ingham-Baker. 

CHAPTER VI. THE COUNT STANDS BY. 

 La discretion d'un homme est d'autant plus grande qu'on luidemande davantage. 

"I want you to ask me to dinner!"

The Count de Lloseta bowed as he made this remark, and looked at hiscompanion with a smile. 

At times Mrs. Harrington gave way to a momentary panic in respect toCipriani de Lloseta--when she was not feeling very well, perhaps. Her situation seemed to be somewhat that of a commander holding animpregnable position against a cunning foe. For every position ofsuch a nature is impenetrable only so long as it can meet and defyeach new engine of warfare that is brought against it. And one daythe fatal engine is invented. 

Mrs. Harrington looked into his face with a flicker in her drawngrey eyes. Then she gave a little laugh which was not quite freefrom uneasiness. 

"Why?" she asked sardonically. "Have you fallen in love with someone at last?"

She knew that this taunt would hurt him. Besides, she liked tothrow it at the memory of a woman whom she had hated--Cipriani deLloseta's dead wife. 

"I should like to be of your party to-night, " he said quietly. 

She gave another scornful laugh, with that ring of malice in itwhich thrills in the voice of some elderly women when they speak ofyoung girls. 

"Eve is to be of our party to-night, " she said. "Ah--that would betoo absurd--a new Adam! You! But, mind you, Agatha will be heretoo. You will have to be careful how you play your cards, Don Juan!However, we dine at eight, and I shall be glad to see you. "

De Lloseta took up his hat and stick. With Mrs. Harrington, andwith no one else perhaps in London, he still observed the stiffSpanish manner. He bowed without offering to shake hands, and lefther. 

Mrs. Harrington--cold, calculating, essentially worldly--looked atthe closed door with deep speculation in her eyes. They were hardeyes, such as are only to be seen in a woman's face; for an old manhas usually picked up a little charity somewhere on the road throughlife. 

Then she looked at a hundred-pound note which he had tossed acrossthe table to her with a silent Catalonian contempt earlier in theproceedings. 

"I thought he was rather easy to manage, " she said, examining thenote. "I thought he wanted something. He has paid this--for hisdinner. "

The Count moreover appeared to consider the entertainment cheap atthe price, if his manner was to be relied upon. For he entered thedrawing-room at eight o'clock the same evening with an unusuallypleasant air of anticipatory enjoyment. He shook hands quite gailywith Mrs. Ingham-Baker, who bridled stoutly, and thought that he wasa very distinguished-looking man despite his dark airs. He receivedAgatha's careless nod and shake of the hand with a murmuredpoliteness; with Eve he shook hands in silence. Then he turnedrather suddenly upon Fitz and held out his hand gravely. 

"I congratulate you, " he said. "When I last had the pleasure ofseeing you, I did not suspect that I was entertaining a great manunawares--you were too humble. "

Fitz involuntarily glanced towards Eve, knowing that the speaker hada second meaning. Eve was watching the Count rather curiously, asif wondering how he would greet Fitz. Every one in the room waslooking at the Count de Lloseta; for this quiet-spoken Spaniard wasa distinct factor in the life of each one of them. 

They fell to talking of commonplace matters, and presently Mrs. Harrington rustled in. The servants were only awaiting her arrivalto announce that dinner was ready. 

She looked round. 

"We are short of men, " she said. "We miss Luke, do we not?"

She looked straight at Agatha, who returned her stare with audaciousimperturbability. It was only Luke's presence that unsteadied her. When he was away, she could hold her own against the world. 

"I have never seen Luke, " said Eve to the Count, who had beencommanded to offer her his arm. "I am so sorry to have missed him. "

Agatha, who was in front, beneath them on the stairs, turned andlooked up at her with a strange smile. She either did not heed theCount, or she undervalued his powers of observation. 

"You would undoubtedly have liked him, " said the Spaniard. 

At the table there was considerable arranging of the seats, andfinally De Lloseta was placed at one side with Mrs. Ingham-Baker, while the two girls sat side by side opposite to them. 

Fitz was at the foot of the table. 

In the course of conversation the Spaniard leant across and said toAgatha -

"Have you seen this month's Commentator, Miss Ingham-Baker?"

An unaccountable silence fell upon the assembled guests. EveChalloner's face turned quite white. Her eyes were lowered to herplate. No one looked at her except the Count, and his glance wasmomentary. 

"Yes--and of course I have read the Spanish sketch. I suppose everyone in London has! It makes me want to go to Spain. "

Mrs. Ingham-Baker bridled and glanced at the Spaniard. Agatha mightbe a countess yet--a foreign one, but still a countess. Fitz waslooking at De Lloseta. He naturally concluded that it was he whohad written the article. He was still watching his face when theSpaniard turned to him and said -

"And you, Fitz? You know something about the matter too!"

And Eve Challoner betrayed herself completely. No one happened tobe looking at her except Cipriani de Lloseta, and he saw that notonly had she written the celebrated articles, but that she lovedFitz. Fitz's opinion was the only one worth hearing. In heranxiety to hear it, she quite forgot to guard her secret. 

"Yes, " answered Fitz, wondering what De Lloseta was leading up to. "I have read them both, of course. I hope there are more. The manknows what he is writing about. "

"He does, " said the Count, smiling across the table at Eve. 

The girl was moistening her lips, which seemed suddenly to havebecome dry and feverish. Her hands were trembling. She hadevidently been terribly afraid of the opinion so innocently asked bythe Spaniard. 

De Lloseta changed the subject at once. He had found out all thathe wanted to know, and more. He had no intention of forcing aconfidence upon Eve. 

The burthen of the conversation fell upon his shoulders. Fitz, nogreat talker at any time, was markedly quiet. He had nothing tooffer for the general delectation. His remarks upon all subjectsmooted were laconic and valueless. The duties as temporary hostoccupied him for the moment, and his thoughts were obviouslyelsewhere. His attitude towards Eve had been friendly, but ratherreserved. There was no suggestion of sulkiness, but on the otherhand he had failed to take advantage of one or two opportunitieswhich she had given him of referring to the past and to any mutualobligations or common interests they had had therein. It happenedthat Agatha had heard her give him these openings, and had noticedhis lack of enterprise. 

Agatha Ingham-Baker had long before conceived a strange suspicion--namely, that Eve and Fitz loved each other. She had absolutelynothing to base her suspicions upon, not so much even as the gossipsof Majorca. And nevertheless her suspicions throve, as such do, andgrew into conviction. 

Agatha had come down early to the drawing-room on purpose toestablish her right over Fitz. She found De Lloseta in the hall, and he followed her into the room. Whenever she attempted todemonstrate her right to the attention of the only young man presentby one of those little glances or words with which women hurt eachother, De Lloseta seemed to step in, intercepting with his darksmile. At dinner, when Fitz was absent-minded, Agatha managed toshow the others that she alone could follow him into the land of hisreflections and call him back from thence. But on severaloccasions, when she was about to turn to him with a smile which wasespecially reserved for certain young men under certaincircumstances, Cipriani de Lloseta spoke to her and spoilt the smallmanoeuvre. 

Eve saw it all. She saw more than the acute Spaniard. Firstly, because she was a woman. Secondly, because she loved Fitz. Thirdly, because the inken curse was hers in a small degree, andpeople who dabble in ink often wade deep into human nature. 

CHAPTER VII. A VOYAGE. 

 And hence one master passion in the breast, Like Aaron's serpent, swallows all the rest. 

Life is, after all, a matter of habit. In those families whererapid consumption is hereditary, the succeeding generations seem toget into the habit of dying early. They take it, without complaint, as a matter of course. Sailors and other persons who lead a roughand hazardous life seem also to acquire this philosophy ofexistence. Luke FitzHenry went to sea again on the day appointedfor the Croonah to leave London, without so much as a snarl at Fate. 

It was a great wrench to him to leave Agatha again so soon, in thefirst full force of his passion. But he left her almost happily. His love for her was rising up and filling his whole existence. Andit is not those lives that are frittered away in a thousand pastimesthat are happy. It is the strong life wholly absorbed by one greatinterest, be it love or be it merely money-making. 

Luke had hitherto been rather an aimless man. He was a brilliantsailor, not because he set himself to the task, but merely becauseseamanship was born in him, together with a dogged steadiness ofnerve and a complete fearlessness. It was so easy to be a goodsailor that he had not even the satisfaction of having to make aneffort. His heart was empty. He had indeed the sea, but his loveof it was unconscious. Away from it, he was ill at ease; on itsbreast, he was not actively happy--he was merely at home. But hehad no career. He had no great prize to aim for, and his combativenature required one. He had no career to make, for he was alreadynear the summit of the humble ladder on which Fate had set his feet. 

Then came Agatha, and the empty heart was filled with a dangeroussuddenness. 

The pain which this parting caused him had something of pleasure init. There are some men and many women who doubt love unless itbring actual pain with it. Luke had always mistrusted fate, and hadlove brought happiness with it he would probably have doubted itsgenuineness. He hugged all his doubts, his jealousies, hispassionate thoughts to himself. He had nothing to cling to. Agathahad never told him that she loved him. But she was for him soentirely apart from all other women that it seemed necessary that healso should not be as other men for her. Not much for a lover tolive upon during four or five months!

Agatha had given him a photograph of herself--a fashionable picturein an affected pose in evening dress--but she had absolutely refusedto write. This photograph Luke put into a frame, and as soon as theCroonah was out of dock he hung it up in his little cabin. Hisservant saw it and recognised the fair passenger of a former voyage, but he knew his place and his master too well to offer any comment. 

Unlike the ordinary young man, whose thoughts are lightly turned tolove, Luke was no worse a sailor for his self-absorption. All hiscare, all his keen, fearless judgment were required; for the Croonahran through a misty channel into a boisterous Atlantic. 

He stood motionless at his post, as was his wont, keen and alert forthe moment, but living in the past. He saw again Mrs. Harrington'sdrawing-room as he had last seen it, with Agatha sitting in a lowchair near the fire, while Mrs. Harrington wrote at her desk, andMrs. Ingham-Baker read the Times. 

"I have come, " he remembered saying, "to bid you good-bye. "

He heard again the rustle of Mrs. Ingham-Baker's newspaper, andagain he saw the look in Agatha's eyes as they met his. He wouldremember that look to the end of his life; he was living on it now. Agatha, in her rather high-pitched society tones, was the first tospeak. 

"If I were a sailor, " she said, "I would never say good-bye. It isbetter to drop in and pay a call; at the end one might casuallymention the words. "

"Oh! we grow accustomed to it, " Luke answered. 

"Do you?" the girl inquired, with an enigmatical smile, and heranswer was in his eyes. She did not want him to grow accustomed tosaying farewell to her. 

Luke FitzHenry was not inclined to sociability--the stronger sort ofman rarely is. On board the Croonah he was usually consideredmorose and self absorbed. He did his duty, and in this was secondto no man on board; but he was content to get the passengers totheir destination, looking upon the Croonah as a mere conveyance fora certain number of chattering, gossiping, mischief-making live-stock. He utterly failed in his social duties; he did not cultivatethe art of making his ship a sort of floating "hydro". 

The boisterous weather kept the decks fairly select until Gibraltarhad been left behind in the luminous haze that hangs over the mouthof the Mediterranean in a westerly breeze. But in the smootherwaters of the Southern seas the passengers plucked up courage, andone morning at breakfast Luke perceived a tall, heavy-shouldered mannodding vigorously, and wiping his mouth with a napkin, which hesubsequently waved with friendly jocularity. 

"Morning--morning!" he cried. 

"Good morning, " replied Luke, passing to his seat at the after-endof the saloon. He had recognised the man at once, although he hadonly exchanged a few words with him in a crowded ball-room. Everything connected with Agatha, however remotely, seemed toengrave itself indelibly on his mind. This was Willie Carr, the manto whom Agatha had introduced him at the naval orphanage ball. Willie Carr was on board the Croonah, evidently quite at home, andbound for India, for he was seated at the Indian table. 

It was not necessary for Luke to make inquiries about thispassenger, because his brother officers soon began to speak of him. By some means Carr made himself popular among the officers, andgradually began to enjoy privileges denied to his fellow passengers. He frequently visited the engine-room, and was always to be seenafter meals in, or in the neighbourhood of, the smoking-room, inconversation with one or other of the Croonah's officers, who weregenerally found to be smoking Carr's cigars. 

Despite many obvious and rather noisy overtures of friendship, LukeFitzHenry held aloof until the Aden light was left behind. Hesucceeded in limiting his intercourse to an exchange of passingremarks on the weather until the Croonah had rounded Pointe de Galleand was heading northwards. Then arose circumstances which broughtthem together, and possibly served Willie Carr's deliberate purpose. 

Carr was travelling without his wife--he was the sort of man whodoes travel without his wife. She, poor woman, had made one initialmistake, namely, in marrying him, and such mistakes are sometimespaid for by a life of atonement to the gods. She remained at hometo care for an ever-increasing family on a small housekeepingallowance, which was not always paid. 

This wife was the only point in his favour which had presenteditself to Luke's mind, for the latter resented a certain tone ofeasy familiarity, which Agatha seemed to take as a matter of course. 

Luke was afraid of being questioned about Agatha, and he thereforekept Carr at a respectful distance. He harboured no personaldislike towards the man, whose bluff and honest manner made himpopular among his fellows. 

It was the evening of the first day in the Bay of Bengal that asteamer passed the Croonah, running south, and flying a string ofsignals. The Croonah replied, and the homeward-bound vesseldisappeared in the gathering twilight with her code flags stillflying. 

"What did she say?" asked the passengers. 

"Nothing, " replied the officers; "only the weather. It is thechange of the monsoon. "

At dinner the captain was remarkably grave; he left the table early, having eaten little. The officers were reticent, as was their wont. Luke FitzHenry, it was remarked and remembered afterwards, aloneappeared to be in good spirits. 

After dinner a busybody in the shape of a too intelligent youngcoffee-planter, who possessed an aneroid barometer, brought thatinstrument to the smoking-room with a scared face. The needle wasdeflected to a part of the dial which the intelligent young planterhad hitherto considered to be merely ornamental and not intended forpractical use. His elders and betters told him to put it away andnot to tell the ladies. Then they continued smoking; but they knewthat they had just seen such a barometer as few men care to lookupon. 

The word "cyclone" was whispered in one corner of the cabin, and awhite-moustached general was understood to mutter -

"Damned young fool!" as he pulled at his cheroot. 

The whisperer did not hear the remark, and went on to give furtherinformation on atmospheric disturbances. Suddenly the field-officerjumped to his feet. 

"Look here, sir!" he cried. "If we are in for a cyclone, I trustthat we know how to behave as men--and die as men, if need be! Butdon't let us have any whispering in corners, like a lot ofschoolgirls. We are in the care of good men, and all we have to dois to obey orders, and--damn it, sir!--to remember we'reEnglishmen!"

The general walked out of the smoking-saloon, and the first sightthat greeted his eyes was Luke FitzHenry, quick, keen, andsupernaturally calm, standing over a group of Malay sailors who werehard at work getting in awnings. The white-haired soldier stood andwatched with the grim silence which he had showed to death beforenow. He was of the Indian army. He had led the black man tovictory and death, and he knew to a nerve the sensitive Asiaticorganisation. He saw that it was good and not for the first time henoted the sheep-like dependence with which the black men groupedthemselves round their white leader, watching his face, taking theircue in expression, in attitude, even in their feelings from him. 

"Good man, " muttered the general to himself. 

He stood there alone while the ship was stripped of every awning, while the decks were cleared of all that hamper which makes thepassenger an encumbrance at sea. There was no shouting, noconfusion, no sign of fear. In a marvellously short time the broaddecks were lying bare and clear, all loose things were stowed awayor made fast, and the Croonah stood ready for her great fight. 

All the while an arc of black cloud had been growing on the horizon. There was not a breath of wind. From the engine-rooms the thud ofthe piston-rods came throbbing up with a singular distinctness. Thearc of cloud had risen halfway to the meridian. There were streaksin it--streaks of yellow on black. Far away to the north, at thepoint of contact with the horizon, a single waterspout rose like ablack pillar from sea to cloud. Dwellers in the cool and temperatezones would have thought that the end of the world was about tocome. Men, standing quite still, felt the drops of perspirationtrickling beneath their ears. The air taken into the lungs seemedpowerless to expand them. The desire to take a deeper breath wasconstant and oppressive. 

A quartermaster brought a message to the general that he must gobelow or else come up to the lower bridge. He could not stay wherehe was. The captain said that the cyclone might break at anymoment. The old soldier nodded, and made his way to the lowerbridge. Before he had been there long he was joined by Carr, whocarried a mackintosh over his arm. The two men nodded. The generalrather liked Carr. He was a Harrovian, and the general's son was atHarrow. 

"Going to see it out on deck?" he inquired. 

"Rather. I'm not going to be drowned like a rat in a trap!" repliedCarr, jovial still, and brave. 

Luke came to the bridge and took up his position by the side of thecaptain. No one spoke. 

From the distant horizon--from the north where the waterspout stillwas--a long groan floated over the water. There was a green line onthe black surface of the ocean, dark green flecked with white; itwas spreading over the sea, and coming towards them. Luke turnedand said one word to the quartermaster. The man went to thewheelhouse and brought out three long black oilskin coats--two forthe captain and Luke, the other for himself. 

The groan, like that of an animal in pain, was repeated. It seemedfarther off. Then a sound like the escape of steam from an enginecame apparently from the sky. 

Luke said something to the captain, and pointed with his right hand. They consulted together in a whisper, and the captain made a signalto the two steersmen motionless in the wheelhouse. The well-greasedchains ran smoothly, and the great black prow of the Croonah creptslowly round the horizon pointing out to sea, away from the land. Ceylon lay astern of them in the darkness which was almost likenight. 

The captain and Luke stood side by side on the little bridge, farabove the deck. They had exchanged their gold-braided caps forsou'westers. The outline of their black forms was justdistinguishable against the sky. They were looking straight aheadinto the yellow streaks, out over the flecked sea. And not a breathof wind stirred the leaden atmosphere. 

Looking down on the broad decks, it would seem at first that theywere deserted, but as the eye became accustomed to the gloom, menstanding like shadows could be perceived here and there--at theirposts--waiting. 

All the skylights had been doubly tarpaulined. Some of them hadbeen strengthened with battens lashed transversely over the canvas. All that mortal brain could devise mortal hand had done. The restwas with God. 

The decks were quite dark, for the skylights were covered, eventhose of the engine-room, and the men at work down there in thestifling heat knew not what the next moment might bring. They hadnothing to guide them as to the moment when the hurricane wouldstrike the ship. For the last five minutes they had been holding onto their life-rails with both hands, expecting to be thrown amongthe machinery at every second. 

Still there was no breath of wind. The darkness was less intense. A yellow glow seemed to be behind the cloud. 

Then a strange feeling of being drawn upward came to all, and strongmen gasped for breath. It was only for a moment. But the sensationwas that the air was being sucked up to the sky, leaving a vacuum onthe face of the waters. 

Suddenly the captain's voice startled the night, rising trumpet-likeabove the hiss of the steam. 

"Stand BY!" he cried. 

Luke looked down to the lower bridge. 

"You had better hold on to something, " he called, and as he spokethe hurricane struck the Croonah. It can only be described as apushing smack. She rolled slowly over before it, and it seemed thatshe would never stop. 

CHAPTER VIII. A GREAT FIGHT. 

 Who knows? The man is proven by the hour. 

The sea seemed to rise up and fall on the disabled ship with a wildfury. There was a strange suggestion of passion in every wave as itcrashed over the bulwarks. In the roar of the hurricane there was afaint sound of crackling wood. The deck was at an angle of thirty. The port boats on their davits were invisible; they were underwater. If the Croonah righted quickly those boats would break uplike old baskets. 

The two men on the lower bridge stood on the uprights of the rail, leaning against the deck as against a wall. The crackling soundlike breaking matchwood seemed to come from above. Carr looked upand saw the captain and Luke at the wheel. The wheelhouse hadcollapsed like a card house; it had simply been blown away, and oneof the helmsmen with it. The other was lying huddled up at thelower end of the narrow bridge. 

For a moment the darkness lifted and the survivors saw a weirdsight. One of the starboard boats, attached to the davit by onlyone fall, was held by the wind like a flag straight out over thedeck. Already two men were clambering to the upper bridge to takethe place of the helmsmen who were dead. Relieved from the wheel, Luke dragged himself up to the ladder leading from the upper to thelower deck. A few moments later they saw him cutting with a hatchetat the ropes holding the boat to the davit. There were four, for itwas a heavy boat, held by a double block. He cut two at a stroke:the others ran out instantly. The boat disappeared to leeward likea runaway hat, and fell with a splash into the foaming sea. 

The Croonah seemed to feel the relief. She rose a little towindward, but her lee-rail was still under water. Down in thescuppers, in the tangle of ropes and splintered wood, sundry darkforms, looking more like bundles of dirty rags than anything else, rolled and tossed helplessly. These were dead and drowning men. Already the European sailors were at work, some cutting away uselesstop-hamper, others attempting to drag the terror-stricken Malays toa place of comparative safety. Luke FitzHenry took command of thesemen, as was his duty, working like one of them, with infinitedaring. He could only communicate with his captain by signs, speechbeing impossible. It was a seaman's fight. Each man did that whichseemed to him expedient for the safety of the ship. The Croonah wasfully equipped for fine weather--for cleaning brasses and swabbingdecks and bending awnings; but for bad weather--notably for acyclone--she was perilously undermanned. Half of the native crewwere paralysed by fear, many were killed, others drowned from a mereincapacity to hold on. 

The other officers of the ship had their hands more than full. Thedoctor was below in the saloon surrounded by a babel of shriekingwomen and white-faced men; the engineers were on watch at theirdeadly posts in the heart of the ship. 

Carr turned and clambered down the iron ladder to the upper deck. He was half a sailor and quite an Englishman. Moreover he came fromHarrow, where they teach a certain bull-dog courage. 

Luke, working half blinded by spray and salt water, presently founda strong man working at his side. Together they cut away thesubmerged boats, standing to their waists in water, at infiniteperil of their lives; together they made their way forward to helpthe chief officer and his devoted gang, who were cutting away theforemast and the wreckage of forward boats. 

Through the long hours of the night these dauntless men workedunceasingly, and--incongruous practical details--the stewardsbrought them food at stated intervals, while two men served outspirits all the while. Slowly, inch by inch, they righted the ship, bringing her stubborn prow gradually into the wind; and all thewhile the engines throbbed, all the while the grimy stokersshovelled coal into the furnaces, all the while the engineers stoodand watched their engines. 

Dawn broke on a terrific sea and a falling wind. The night was overand the dread Bay had had her thousand lives and more, for a cyclonesimply wipes out the native craft like writing on a slate. TheCroonah had been right through the corner of the worst cyclone of ageneration. Luke crawled back to the bridge where the captainstood, as he had stood all night, motionless. Sheer skill and agreat experience had pulled the Croonah through. 

When the danger was past those who were on deck saw a man in shirtand trousers only, his grey hair ruffled, his clothes glued to hislimbs by perspiration, emerge from the bowels of the ship. He cameon deck, passed by those who scarce knew him without his gold braid, and slowly climbed the ladder to the bridge. There, in the earlymorning light, the two men who had saved three hundred lives--thecaptain and the chief engineer--silently shook hands. 

"I had to keep you down there for the safety of the ship, " said thecaptain gruffly. 

"All right, old man, I knew that. "

The old engineer turned and looked fore and aft over the wreckeddecks with a curious smile as if he had come back from anotherworld. 

While they stood there the saloon doors were opened and a haggardrow of faces peered out. A quarter-master held the passengers back, for the decks were unsafe. Railings and bulwarks were gone, boatssmashed, awning stanchions twisted and bent. No landsmen could betrusted to move safely amid such confusion. 

And all the while the engines throbbed, and the Croonah held proudlyon her course to the north--battered, torn, and sore stricken, yet avictor. 

After changing their clothes, Luke and Carr breakfasted together atthe after-end of the second officer's table in the saloon. With acertain humour the captain allowed of no relaxation in thediscipline of the ship. The breakfast bell was rung at the usualtime, the meal was served with the usual profusion, even the menuswere written as carefully as ever; and some good ladies opined thatthe captain must be a godless man, because forsooth he did notcringe beneath the wing of the passing Angel of Death. 

"I am glad I saw that, " said Carr, neat and clean, hearty andsmiling as usual. 

Luke looked up from a generous plate. He thought that Carr wasindulging in bravado, but he relinquished this opinion when he sawthe man's face and his helping of bacon and eggs. Carr seemed tohave enjoyed the cyclone, as he had no doubt enjoyed many a game offootball in his youth, and many a spin across country later. Forthis man kept his hunters. He was moved thereto by that form ofself-respect which urges some men to live like gentlemen, to, asthey express it, "do themselves well, " whether their mere monetarycircumstances allow of it or no; and some one usually pays for thesephilosophers--that is the annoying part of it. 

"By gad! I didn't think it could blow like that, though!" Carr wenton, with his mouth full. 

"I don't think it can often, " replied Luke. He could not helpliking this man, despite his first prejudice against him. Besides, they had stood shoulder to shoulder, with death around them, andsuch moments draw differing men together. It is the required touchof Nature, this same death, which frightens us before it comes andseems so gentle when it is here. 

"I always wanted to see a cyclone, " went on Carr conversationally, "and now I'm satisfied. I have had enough. I shouldn't have caredfor more. Pass, cyclones!"

"It is not many men who have your laudable thirst for experience, "said Luke. "It is rather a strenuous form of pleasure. "

"Pleasure!" answered Carr, with one of his sharp glances. "Pleasure, be d--d! It's business, sir, business. I mean to makemoney out of cyclones. "

"How? Bottle them up and make them turn a windmill?"

"No, sir. "

Carr turned round to make sure that he could not be overheard. 

"No, sir. Your idea is not bad in the main, though hardlypracticable. No. I know a dodge worth two of that! I told youbefore that I am in the marine insurance line. Now, the funny partof the marine insurance line is that the majority of the men engagedin it do not know their business. Now I propose to teach thesegentlemen their business. "

"Will they thank you for it?" asked Luke. 

"They'll pay me for it, which is better, by a long chalk! Ha, ha!Butter, please. "

"And what have cyclones got to do with it?"

Again one of the sharp glances which sat so strangely on Carr's opencountenance. 

"I understand there is a science of cyclones, " he said quietly. 

"Yes. "

"Which means that you chaps knew what was coming forty-eight hoursago?"

"Yes, " replied Luke. 

"That that steamer flying signals yesterday was talking to you aboutit?"

"Yes. "

"And that when you got into it you knew exactly whereabout you werein it; where the centre was, and which was the shortest way out ofit, to get clear away from the vortex and beyond the axis line, soas not to get into it again?"

"Yes. You're quite a Fitzroy. "

Carr winked cheerily. 

"And all this is a certainty?"

"A dead certainty, " replied Luke. "It is a science. "

Carr laid down his knife and fork. 

"Suppose, " he said, "that the next cyclone sends forty ships tokingdom come, and I've got a line of five hundred or a thousandinsured on every one of them. I'll study these jolly old cyclones. It will be easy enough to know about when they'll be coming. Whenone is about I'll have a line on every ship at sea between Colomboand Penang--do you see? I'll get a man on the coast here to watchthe weather. When there's a cyclone in the Bay of Bengal he willwire me home one word, 'Milksop, ' or 'Spongecake, ' or something softand innocent. I'll do the rest, my boy. "

Luke was only pretending to eat. The desire to make money wasstrong upon him--as indeed were all his desires--it was almost apassion; for money meant Agatha, and Agatha had grown to be the oneabsorbing passion of his heart. Agatha had been at the back of thesuperhuman fight which he had waged all night against death. Agathawas behind Carr's words. The thought of her was tempting himthrough the man's arguments. 

"But what will you insure?" he asked. 

"Profit, " replied Carr, in a whisper. "It is done every day--policyproof of interest--the fools!"

"What is policy proof of interest?"

"It means that they admit your insurance to be valid, whether youhave anything on board the ship or not. It is not legal, but theyknow it when they sign the policy; and they know that it would ruinthem if they refused to pay an 'honour policy. ' I tell you theydon't know their business and they have no combination. They alldistrust each other, and tell lies to each other about their profitsand their losses. If I insure profit I have only to say that Ishall lose money if the ship does not reach her destination anddeliver her cargo safely. The cargo may be mine; I may be buying itor selling it; no one can tell, and the underwriters don't ask. They pocket their premium, and if they have to pay, and think theyhave been rooked, they keep it to themselves, because each man isagainst his neighbour. "

"But do they know nothing about cyclones?" inquired Luke. 

"My good sir, they hardly know the difference between Calcutta andBombay. Half of them think that a cyclone and a monsoon are thesame thing, and not one in ten could tell you the difference betweena brig and a barquentine. "

Luke gave a little half-convinced laugh. The man was so open andhonest that his arguments had nothing underhand or crafty in them. 

"It sounds very simple, " he said. 

"It is; d--d simple! So are the underwriters; but that is not ourbusiness. You see, FitzHenry, in all commerce there are a certainnumber of fools for the wise men to outwit. In marine insurancethere are a large number. All insurance is nothing but a bet, andbetting is a matter of intelligence. We bring more intelligence tobear upon it than the other chap, therefore we win. "

He helped himself to marmalade with a jaunty hand. Luke hardlynoticed the easy transition from "I" to "we. " He had had nointention of suggesting a partnership in this easy manner of makingmoney, but the partnership seemed to have formed itself. 

"But--" Carr paused, holding in the air an emphatic spoon. "But, myboy, we want capital, we want to lay our hands on fifty thousandpounds. "

"I am afraid I could not lay my hand on fifty thousand pence, " saidLuke. 

Carr glanced at him sharply. There was a little pause while Carrate marmalade and toast. 

"Oh yes, you could, " he said in a low tone. "Between us we couldraise fifty thousand as easy as winking. "

As if to demonstrate the facility of the latter, he looked up andclosed his left eye confidentially. 

"You're a sailor, " he went on to say, "and a ripping good one atthat. You know the perils of the deep, as the parsons say. Itwouldn't be hard for you to tell when the Croonah was running into atight place like yesterday. All you have to do is to wire home oneword to me. My telegraphic address is 'Simple, London. ' Say youwire home 'Milksop. ' We could fix on 'Milksop'; it sounds soinnocent! In twenty-four hours I'd have fifty thousand done on theCroonah in London, Glasgow, Liverpool, New York, Paris, and Germany--spread about, you know. In four or five days the Croonah goes tothe bottom, and we scoop in, your name never appearing--see?"

There was a little pause. 

"See?" repeated Carr, in little more than a whisper. Luke lookedup. He met Carr's eyes and knew that he was dealing with a villain. The strange part of it was that he felt no anger. He could not freehis mind from the thought of Agatha. There was one corner of thesteamer which was almost sacred to him--the little space behind thedeckhouse where he had held Agatha in his arms for one moment ofintense happiness--where she told him that she could not be poor. 

Carr rose and threw down his table napkin with a certain grand airwhich was his. 

"It would be the making of you, " he said. "It is worth thinkingabout. "

He threw back his shoulders--a trick common enough with stronglybuilt men who incline to stoutness--nodded, and left him. He passeddown the length of the saloon, seeking his cigar-case in the pocketof his coat, exchanging loud and hearty greetings with those amongthe passengers whom he knew. He was popular on account of the openBritish frankness which he cultivated, and which is supposed to bethe outward sign of an honest heart. He seemed to be thinking ofhis great scheme no longer, but he left Luke to brood over it--totry and chase the word "Milksop" from his brain, where it seemed tobe indelibly engraved. 

He left Luke to fight against a great temptation alone and heavilyhandicapped, for Luke FitzHenry was held as in a vice by hispassionate love for Agatha. It is not all men who can love. It isonly a few who are capable of a deep passion. This is as rare asgenius. A man of genius is usually a failure in all except his ownspecial line. The man who can and does love passionately must be agood man indeed if his love do not make a villain of him. 

CHAPTER IX. THE EDITOR'S ROOM. 

 The greater man, the greater courtesy. 

The Count de Lloseta and John Craik were sitting together in theeditorial room of the Commentator. 

It was a quiet room, with double windows and a permanent odour oftobacco smoke. An empty teacup stood on the table by John Craik'selbow. 

"Name of God!" Cipriani de Lloseta had ejaculated when he saw it. "At eleven o'clock in the morning!"

"Must stir the brain up, " was the reply. 

"I would not do it with a teaspoon, " De Lloseta had answered, andthen he sat down to correct the proof of Eve's fourth article on"Spain and Spanish Life. "

They had been sitting thus together for half an hour in friendlysilence, only broken by an occasional high-class Spanish anathemahurled at the head of the printer. 

"A dog's trade!" ejaculated De Lloseta at last, leaning back andthrowing down his pen, "a dog's trade, my friend!"

"It is mine, " replied Craik, without looking up. In fiction he wascelebrated for a certain smartness of dialogue. His printedconversations were pretty displays of social sword-play. It hadbecome a sort of habit with him to thrust and parry quickly; but thesudden smile on his lined face, the kindly glance from behind thespectacles, always took away the sting and demonstrated that it wasmere "copy, " to fill up the dull columns of life and throw in asparkle here and there. 

"Have you finished?" he inquired. 

"Yes, thank Heaven! I was not intended for a literary calling. That is number four, and I am not paid--I am not paid; there liesthe sting. "

"Number four, yes; two published and two in hand, " replied JohnCraik. His mind was busy elsewhere; it was with the creatures ofhis own imagination, living their lives, rejoicing with them, sorrowing with them. 

The Count rose and walked gravely to the hearthrug, holding theproof-sheets in his hand. 

"Number four, " he reiterated. "Will they go on, my friend?"

John Craik looked up sharply. 

"No. "

"How many more will you accept?"

"Two more at the outside, making six in all. The public is like agreedy child, it must be stopped before it makes itself sick. Nausea leaves a lasting distaste for that which preceded it. "

The Count nodded. 

"And this worldly wisdom--is it the editor or the man who speaks?"

"The editor. The editor is a man who lives by saying 'No. '"

"And you will say 'No' to any more from this--writer's pen?"

"To any more about Spain I most certainly shall. "

The Count reflected. What little light the London day afforded fellfull upon his long narrow face, upon the pointed Velasquez chin, thereceding iron-grey hair brushed straight back. 

"And the fact that the writer is supporting herself and a worn-outold uncle by her pen will make no difference?"

John Craik hesitated for a moment. 

"Not the least, " he then said. "You seem to know the writer. "

"I do, and I am interested in her. "

"A lady?" John Craik was dotting his i's with the contemplativenessof artistic finish. 

"Essentially so. "

"And poor?"

"Yes, and proud as--"

"A Spaniard, " suggested John Craik. 

"If you will. It is a vice which has almost become a virtue inthese democratic days. "

John Craik looked up. 

"I will do what I can, Lloseta, " he said. "But she is not a greatwriter, and will never become one. "

"I know that. Some day she will become a great lady, or I knownothing of them. "

Craik was still busy touching up his manuscript. 

"I have never seen her, " he said. "But the impression I receivedfrom her manuscripts is that she is a girl who has lived a simplelife among a simple people. She has seen a great deal of nature, out-of-door nature, which is pure, and cannot be too deeply studied. She has seen very little of human nature, which is not so pure as itmight be. That is her chief charm of style, a high-minded purity. She does not describe the gutter and think she is writing of thestreet. By the way, I am expecting her here" (he paused, and lookedat the clock on the mantelpiece) "in exactly two minutes. "

The Count rose quickly and took his hat. As he extended his hand tosay "Good-bye" there was a rap at the door. The discreet youth whotold John Craik's falsehoods for him came in and handed his master aslip of paper with a name written thereon. 

Craik read the inscription, crumpled up the paper, and threw it intothe waste-paper basket. 

"In one minute, " he said, and the liar withdrew. 

Cipriani de Lloseta, with a quiet deliberation which was sometimesalmost dramatic, stooped over the paper basket and recovered thecrumpled slip of paper. He did not unfold it, but held it out, crushed up in his closed fist. 

"Miss Eve Challoner, " he said. 

John Craik nodded. 

De Lloseta laughed and threw the paper into the fire. 

"I must not be seen. Where do you propose to put me?"

"Go upstairs instead of down, " replied John Craik, as if he had beenasked the same question before. "Wait on the next landing until youhear this door close; you may then escape in safety. "

"Thanks--good-bye. "

"Good-bye. "

When Eve entered the room, John Craik was writing. He rose with abow savouring of a politer age than ours, and held out his hand. 

"At last, " he said, "I have prevailed upon you to come and see me. Will you sit down? The chair is shabby, but great men and womenhave sat in it. "

He spoke pleasantly, with his twisted laugh, and when Eve was seatedhe sat slowly, carefully down again. He was thinking not so much ofwhat he was saying as of his hearer. He saw that Eve was undeniablybeautiful--the man saw that. The novelist saw that she was probablyinteresting. As he had just stated, great women had sat in the samechair, and it was John Craik's impulse to save Eve from that samegreatness. He had, since a brilliant youth at Oxford, been steeped, as it were, in literature. He had known all the great men andwomen, and he held strong views of his own. These were probablyerroneous--many women will think so--but he held to them. They werebased on experience, which is not always the case with viewsexpressed in print and elsewhere. John Craik held that greatness isnot good for women. That it is not for their own happiness, heknew. That it is not for the happiness of those around them, hekeenly suspected. Some of Eve's celebrated predecessors in thatchair had not quite understood John Craik. All thought that he wasnot sufficiently impressed--not, that is, so impressed by them asthey were themselves when they reflected upon their own renown. 

He looked at Eve quickly, rubbing his hands together. 

"May I, as an old man, ask some impertinent questions?" he inquired, with a cheerfulness which sat strangely on the wan face. 

"Yes. "

"Why do you write?" he said. "Take time; answer me afterreflection. "

Eve reflected while the great editor stared into the fire. 

"To make money, " she answered at last. 

He looked up, and saw that she was answering in simple good faith. 

"That is right. "

He did not tell her that he was sick and tired of the jargon of artfor art's sake, literature for literature's sake. He did not tellthat--practical man of the world that he was--he had no faith inliterary art; that he believed the power of writing to be a gift andnothing else; that the chief art in literature is that which isunconscious of itself. 

"Do you feel within yourself the makings of a great author?"

Eve laughed, a sudden girlish laugh, which made John Craik reducehis estimate of her age by five years. 

"No, " she answered. 

He sat up and looked at her with a kind admiration. 

"You are refreshing, " he said, "very, especially to a man who hasseen stout and elderly females sit in that same chair and statetheir conviction that they were destined to be George Eliots orCharlotte Brontes, women who had written one improper or irreligiousnovel, which had obtained a certain success in the foolish circles. "

"Do you think I have, " asked Eve, "the--the makings of an income?"

John Craik reflected. 

"A small one, " he said bluntly. 

"That is all I want. "

Craik raised his eyebrows. 

"And renown, " he said, "do you want that?"

"Not in the least, except for its intrinsic value. "

Craik banged his hand down on the arm of his chair and laughedaloud. 

"This is splendid!" he cried. "I have never met such a practicalperson. Then you would be content to work for a sufficient incomewithout ever being known to the world?"

"Yes, provided that the work was genuine and not given to me out ofmere charity. "

The editor of the Commentator looked at her gravely. He hadsuddenly remembered Cipriani de Lloseta. 

"Oh, you are proud!" he said. 

Eve laughed with a negative shake of the head. 

"Not more than other people, " she answered. 

"Not more than other people. Well, we will have it so. And notambitious. "

"No, I think not. "

"You may thank God for that, " said John Craik, half to himself. "Anambitious woman is not a pleasant person. "

There was a little pause, during which John Craik rubbed his chinreflectively with his bony fingers. 

"And now, " he said, "that I know something about you, I will tellyou why I asked you to be good enough to come and see me. To beginwith, I am an old man; you can see that for yourself. I am a martyrto rheumatism, and I frequently suffer from asthma, otherwise Ishould have done myself the pleasure of calling on you. I wanted tosee you, because lady authors are uncertain creatures. A largemajority of them have nothing better to do, and therefore write. Others do not care for the money, but they do most decidedly for therenown. The nudge and whisper of society is nectar to them. Othersagain are brilliant in flashes and dull in long periods. Few, veryfew are content to work with their pen as their poorer sisters areforced to work with their needles. In that lies the secret of themore permanent success of men journalists and men authors. Thejournalism and the authorship are not the men, but merely thebusiness of their lives. Now will you be content to work hard andsteadily without any great hope of renown--to work, in fact, anonymously for a small but certain income?"

"Yes, " answered Eve, without hesitation. 

Craik nodded his head gravely and thoughtfully. He was too deeplyexperienced to fall into the error of thinking that Eve wasdifferent from other women. He did not for a moment imagine that hehad secured in her a permanent subscriber to the Commentator--possibly he did not want her as such. He was merely doing a gooddeed--no new thing to him, although his right hand hardly knew whathis left was doing. He liked Eve, he admired her, and wasinterested in her. Cipriani de Lloseta he was deeply interested in, and he knew, with the keen instinct of the novelist, that he wasbeing drawn into one of those romances of real life which exists inthe matter-of-fact nineteenth century atmosphere that we breathe. 

So Eve Challoner left John Craik's office an independent woman forthe time being, and the charity was so deeply hidden that her ever-combative pride had failed to detect it. 

CHAPTER X. THE CURTAIN LOWERS. 

 The shadow, cloaked from head to foot, Who keeps the keys of all the creeds. 

As she walked back to Grosvenor Gardens, Eve reflected with somesatisfaction that the Ingham-Bakers had left Mrs. Harrington'shospitable roof. From this shelter they had gone forth into a worldwhich is reputed cold, and has nevertheless some shelter still forsuch as are prepared to cringe to the overbearing, to flatter thevain, to worship riches. 

Eve wanted time to think over her new position, to reflect withsatisfaction over her new independence, for the Caballero Challoner, if he had bequeathed little else, had left to her a very activepride. She knew so little of the world that she never paused towonder why John Craik should have made her a proposal which couldhardly be beneficial to himself. She was innocent enough to thinkthat the good things of this world are given just where and whenthey are wanted. 

Captain Bontnor was the chief object of her thoughts, and she wasalready dreaming of restoring him to Malabar Cottage and his bits ofthings. So engrossed was she in these reflections, that she noticednothing unusual in the face of the butler who opened the door whichhad shut upon Luke FitzHenry some years before. 

"I'm glad you're back, miss, " he said gravely. 

Something in his tone--cold and correct--caught Eve's attention. 

"Why?" she asked, and a consoling knowledge that the Terrific wassafe in Chatham Dockyard leapt into her mind. 

"Mrs. Harrington's been took rather bad, miss. "

The man's manner said more than his words. Eve hurried upstairs toMrs. Harrington's bedroom. She tapped at the door and went inwithout waiting. There was a strong smell of ammonia in the air. The blinds were half lowered, and in the dim light Eve did not seevery clearly. Presently, from the depths of a huge four-poster bed, she descried a pair of keen eyes--the face of Mrs. Harrington. Theface, the eyes, the mind were alive, the body was stricken; it wasalmost dead already. Mrs. Harrington looked down at the shapelesslimbs beneath the coverlet with something like fear in her eyes, something of the expression of a dog that has been run over. Thiswoman meant to die hard. 

Eve knew little of life, but she was no stranger to death. Sherecognised our last enemy in the grey face beneath the canopy of thefour-poster. 

"Where have you been so long, child?" said Mrs. Harringtonquerulously, "leaving me to these fools of servants. I have beenunwell, but I'm better now. They've sent for the doctor. I shallbe better presently. I have no pain, only--only a sort ofnumbness. "

She looked down at her left hand, which lay outside the coverlet, and fear was in her eyes. She had defied men too long to be afraidof God, but she did not want to die; she had too keen an enjoymentfor the good things of this world. 

Eve came to the bedside. 

Mrs. Harrington's face was drawn together in anger. She was annoyedthat Death should have come for her, and, true to herself, sheinsulted him by deliberately ignoring his presence. There wassomething defiant in her cold eyes still, something unbeaten, although she knew that there was no one on her side. The generalfeeling was against her. So far as the world was concerned, Deathcould have her. 

Eve turned away from the bed and faced the doctor, who was cominginto the room with Mrs. Harrington's maid. No one displayed theslightest emotion. A selfish life and a happy death are rarelyvouchsafed to the same person. The doctor did not ask Eve to stay, so she went downstairs and wrote to Fitz, sending the note round tohis rooms in Jermyn Street by a servant. It was the second time inher life that she had sent for Fitz. 

When the doctor came downstairs, Eve went out into the hall. Hepointed with his finger to the room from which she came, andfollowed her back there. He was a middle-aged man, educated to thefinger-tips--all science and no heart. 

"Are you a relation of Mrs. Harrington's?" he inquired. 

"We are distantly connected, " answered Eve. 

The doctor was not giving much attention to her answer. He had ahabit of tapping his teeth with his thumbnail, which made Evedislike him at sight. 

"Has she any one else?" he asked. "Any one who--cares?"

He was quite without the intention of being rude but he was absorbedin his profession, and had a large practice. He wanted to go. 

"She has a nephew. I have sent for him. "

The doctor nodded. He glanced at Eve, then he said quietly -

"She will live about an hour. She wants me to come again and bringanother man. I will do it, although it is useless. There are somethings money cannot buy. "

With a quick mechanical smile he was gone. 

Eve went upstairs again to the room where Mrs. Harrington wasfighting her last fight. As she passed up the stairs, she noticedtwo letters on the hall table awaiting postage; one was addressed toMrs. Ingham-Baker, the other to Luke, at Malta. 

Mrs. Harrington had ordered the blinds to be pulled up, and thedaylight showed her face to be little changed. It had always beengrey; the shadows on it now were grey; the eyes were active andbright. It was only the body that was dying; Mrs. Harrington's mindwas bright and keen as ever. 

"That doctor is a fool, " she said. "I have told him to come backand bring Sir James Harlow with him. And will you please send andtell Fitz that I should like to see him? You must arrange to stayon a few days until I am better. Captain Bontnor will have to dowithout you. My servants are not to be trusted alone. I shall wantyou to keep them in order; they require a tight reign. "

"I have sent for Fitz, " said Eve. 

"Why?" snapped Mrs. Harrington. "To come and make love to you?Leave that to Agatha. She has been teaching them both to do thatfor the last three years. Her idea is to marry the one who gets mymoney. I've known that all along. "

Eve's dark eyes hardened suddenly. She could not believe what thedoctor had told her five minutes earlier. Five minutes--one-twelfthpart of Mrs. Harrington's life ebbed away. 

"Pray do not talk like that, " said the girl quietly. 

Mrs. Harrington's cold grey eyes fell before Eve's glance of mingledwonder and contempt; her right hand was feebly plucking at thecounterpane. 

Far below, in the basement, a bell rang, and soon after there was astep on the stairs. 

"Who is that?" inquired Mrs. Harrington. 

"Fitz. "

The dying woman was looking at the door with an unwonted longing inher eyes. 

"You seem to know his step, " she said, with a jealous laugh. 

Eve said nothing. The door opened, and Fitz came in. 

Mrs. Harrington was the first to speak. 

"I am not well this morning, dear, " she said. "I sent for youbecause I have a few things I want you to do for me. "

"Pleasure, " murmured Fitz, glancing at Eve. He either did not knowhow ill Mrs Harrington was, or he did not care. It is probable thatthese two persons now at the dying woman's bed were the only twopeople who would be in any degree sorry at her death. 

Eve, with a woman's instinct, busied herself with the pillow--withthe little adjuncts of a sick-room which had already found their wayto the bedside. She looked at Mrs. Harrington's face, saw the hardeyes fixed on Fitz, and something in the glance made her leave theroom. 

"Just leave me alone, " the dying woman said peevishly as Eve wentaway; "I don't want a lot of people bothering about. "

But Fitz stayed, and when Eve had closed the door the sudden look ofcunning that came over the faded face did not appear to surprisehim. 

"Quick!" whispered Mrs. Harrington, "quick! I do not believe I amdying, as that doctor said I was, but it is better to make sure. Open the left-hand drawer in the dressing-table; you will find mykeys. "

Fitz obeyed her, bringing the bunch of keys, rusty and black frombeing concealed in a thousand different hiding-places. 

"Now, " she said, "open that desk; it was--your father's. Bring ithere. Be quick! Some one may come. "

Her shrivelled fingers fumbled hastily among some old papers. Finally she found an envelope, brown with age, on which was written, in her own spidery handwriting, "Recipe for apple jelly. "

She thrust the envelope into Fitz's hands, and he smilingly read thesuperscription. 

"That's nothing, " she explained sharply; "that's only for theservants. One cannot be too careful. Inside there is some money. I saved it up. It will help to furnish your new cabin. "

"Thank you, " said Fitz, looking critically at the envelope. "But--"

"You must take it, " she interrupted; "it is the only money I eversaved. " She broke off with a malicious laugh. "All these foolsthought I was rich, " she went on. "They have been scheming andplotting to get my money. There is no money. That is all there is. You and Luke were the only two who never thought about it. You areboth like your father. Here, shut the desk up again. Put it backon the table. Now hide the keys--left-hand corner, under the box ofhairpins. "

Fitz obeyed her and came back towards the bed. His large mind felta sudden contempt for this petty and mean woman. He did notunderstand her, and the contempt he felt for her in some way hurthim. He was afraid of what she was going to say next. 

"But, " she said, "if I get better you must give me the money back. "

Fitz gave a little laugh. Something prompted him to open theenvelope and look at the contents. There were five notes of tenpounds each. The rich Mrs. Harrington of Grosvenor Gardens hadsaved fifty pounds, and she lay on her death-bed watching Fitz countthis vast hoard with a quiet deliberation. In its way it was atragedy--the grimmest of all--for its dominant note was thecontemptibility of human nature. 

"I do not want the money. I should not keep it under anycircumstances. "

"What would you do with it?" she asked sharply. 

"Give it to a charity. "

"No, no, you must not do that; they are all swindles!"

In her eagerness she tried to sit up, and fell back with a puzzledlook on her face, as if some one had struck her. 

"Here, " she gasped, "give it to me! give it to me!"

She clutched the envelope in her unsteady hands, and suddenly herjaw dropped. 

Fitz ran to the door. On the stairs were the two doctors, followedclosely by Eve. In a moment the doctors were at the bedside. 

"Yes, " said one of them--the younger of the two--and he glanced athis watch. "I gave her an hour. "

The elder man took the dead woman's hand in his. He released theenvelope from her grasp and read the superscription, "Recipe forapple jelly. " With a grave smile he handed the envelope to Eve asFitz took her out of the room. 

They went downstairs together, and both were thinking of D'Erraha. They went into the library, which was silent and gloomy. Fitz hadnot spoken yet, but she seemed to understand his silence, just asshe had understood it once before. She had told him then. She didnot do so now. 

Eve was not thinking of the dead woman upstairs. This death came toher only as a faint reflection of the one great grief which had cuther life in two--as great griefs do. She was perhaps wondering howit was that Fitz seemed always to come to her at those moments whenshe could not do without him. She was more probably not thinking atall, but resting as it were in the sense of complete safety andprotection which this man's presence gave her. 

There was a little silence, broken only by the sound of streettraffic faintly heard through the plate-glass windows. Fitz waslooking at her, his blue eyes grave and searching. This was not aman to miss his opportunity, this youngest commander on the list. 

"Eve, " he said, "I used to think at D'Erraha that you cared for me. "

"I have always cared for you, " she answered, with a queer littlesmile, half bold, half shy. 

So Love came in at the windows as Death crept up the stairs. 

Before long they heard the doctors go away, but they heeded not. They only forgot each other when Cipriani de Lloseta came into theroom. The Spaniard's quick eyes read something in Eve's face. Helooked sharply at Fitz, but he said nothing of what he saw. 

"So our dear lady has been taken from us, " he said quietly, with anupward jerk of the head. 

Fitz nodded. Cipriani de Lloseta walked to the window and quietlydrew down the blind. 

"So falls the curtain, " he said, "on the little drama of my humblelife. "

He turned and looked from one to the other with that sudden warmthof love which either of them seemed able to draw from him. 

"Some day, " he said, "I will tell you--you two--the story, but notnow. "

He stepped forward and raised Eve's fingers to his lips. A quaint, half-Spanish grace marked the picture of Southern chivalry. 

"My child, " said Lloseta, "may Heaven always bless you!" And heleft them. 

CHAPTER XI. "MILKSOP". 

 What have we made each other?

The cathedral bells were calling good Papists to their morningdevotion as the Croonah moved into Valetta harbour. No sooner didher black prow appear between the pier heads than a score of boatsleft the steps, their rowers gesticulating, quarrelling, laughingamong themselves with Maltese vivacity. 

One boat, flying the Croonah's houseflag, made its way moreleisurely through the still, clear water. This boat was bringingmails to the Croonah, and in the letter-bag Mrs. Harrington's lastmissive to Luke had found its place. This letter had been posted bythe well-trained footman while Eve and Fitz stood at Mrs. Harrington's bedside. Before it was stamped at the district officethe hand that wrote it was still. And it contained mischief. Evenafter her death Mrs. Harrington brought trouble to the man whoselife she had spoilt by her caprice. The letter ran -

"DEAR LUKE, --Just a line to tell you that you may bring yourportmanteau straight up to Grosvenor Gardens when your ship arrivesin London. I read of your fortunate escape from the cyclone, andcongratulate you. I dare say I shall be having a few friends tostay when you are with me, so you need not fear dulness. Yoursaffectionately, "MARIAN HARRINGTON. 

"P. S. --I always suspect you of having, consciously or unconsciously, possessed yourself of the affections of a young lady who shall benameless. A word to the wise: make good use of your opportunities, for there are other aspirants in the field--a certain brilliantyoung naval officer not unknown to you. Moreover his chance appearsto be a good one. You must waste no more time. "

It happened that Luke FitzHenry was in a dangerous mood when he readthis letter. He had been up half the night. The captain had beencross-grained and unreasonable. Even the mildest of us has hismoments of clear-sightedness when he sees the world and thehollowness thereof. Luke saw this and more when he had read Mrs. Harrington's evil communication. He seemed to have reached the endof things, when his present life became no longer tolerable. Itmust be remembered that this man was passionate and very resolute. Moreover he had been handicapped from the beginning of his life by atendency to go wrong. He was not a good subject for ill-fortune. 

It was his duty to go ashore with papers to be delivered at theagent's office. He delivered his papers and then he went to thecable office. He telegraphed the single word "Milksop" to WillieCarr in London. When he got back to the Croonah, worn out, dirty, and morose, the passengers were not yet astir. He had anunsatisfactory breakfast, and went to his cabin for a few hours'necessary sleep. He had given way to a great temptation, not as theweak give way, on the spur of the moment, with hesitation, but as astrong man--strong, even in his weaknesses. 

He did it after mature deliberation--did it thoroughly andcarefully, without the least intention of regretting it afterwards. He was desperate and driven. He could not think of life withoutAgatha, and he did not see why he should be called upon to do so. Ill fortune had dogged him from his childhood. He had borne it all, morosely but without a murmur. He was going to turn at last. TheCroonah must go. She was well insured, he knew that. That thecargo was fully covered against loss he could safely suppose. As tothe passengers and the crew, none of them should suffer; he thoughthe was a clever enough sailor for that. 

So he laid him down in his little cabin to sleep, while the sun roseover the blue Mediterranean, while some passengers went ashore andothers came on board, while the single word "Milksop" was spelt overa continent; and he was still sleeping when the anchor was jerked upfrom its muddy bed, and the watchers on pier and harbour lookedtheir last on the grand old Croonah. 

A breeze was blowing out in the open, one of those bright westerlybreezes that bring a breath of the Atlantic into the Mediterranean, and often make the short passage from Malta to Gibraltar the worstpart of the voyage from India to the Channel. 

None of the passengers took any interest in the morose secondofficer, and few of them remarked his absence from table during thetwo days' passage. The Croonah arrived at Gibraltar after dark, took her mails and passengers on board, and proceeded down theStraits about eight o'clock in the evening. It was late autumn, andthe breeze from the cool Atlantic still hurried in over the parchedlands of Africa and Southern Europe. 

Tarifa light was sighted and left twinkling behind. Trafalgarstared out of the darkness ahead, and in its turn was left behind. A few of the passengers had recovered their Mediterranean ill-usagesufficiently to dine in the Straits, but the Atlantic swell soonsent them below. The decks were deserted, for many of these peoplewere returning to England after long years in India, and the firstchill northern breeze they met made them shiver while it delightedthem. 

Luke FitzHenry was on the bridge from eight o'clock till midnight, motionless at his post--a mere navigating machine, respected andfeared by all who worked with him, understood of none. 

When midnight came he exchanged a few words with the first officer, and together they superintended the shaking out of the foresailsbefore the watch went below. The wind was on the quarter, strongand steady. Almost immediately the good steamer felt the canvas, leaning gently over to leeward, adding another mile to her greatspeed. The sea was black, and the air seemed to be full of thesounds of waves breaking and hissing. Ahead the mast-head and theside-lights shone down on the face of the waters and lighted up anoccasional white-capped wave. In the air, brisk and masterful, there was a sense of purpose and tension which sailors understand, while mere printed words cannot convey it to landsmen. It was avery dark night. 

"St. Vincent, " said Luke tersely, as he turned to leave the bridge. The first officer, a man grown old at his post, followed thedirection of his junior's gaze, but some seconds elapsed before hedistinguished the light twinkling feebly low down on the horizon. 

Luke went to his cabin and lay down on his berth all dressed. Hewas due on the bridge again at four o'clock. The Croonah sailed bytime-table, subjecting the winds and seas, as the great steamshipsdo nowadays. Luke FitzHenry had calculated this to a minute beforehe telegraphed the single word "Milksop" to Willie Carr in London. 

He was on the bridge a few minutes before eight bells rang, andfound the captain. He knew his chief's customs. He knew that thiswise old sailor was in the habit of accumulating as much sleep inhis brain as possible before passing Ushant light, because he livedon the bridge when the Croonah had once turned eastward up theChannel. Whenever the captain took a night's rest, he broke it atfour o'clock, at the change of the watch. He stood muffled in a bigcoat over his pyjamas, and exchanged a few words with hissubordinates. After the first officer had gone below, Luke went tohis post at the starboard end of the bridge, while the captainwalked slowly backwards and forwards. They remained thus for halfan hour. The ship was all quiet. The breeze had fallen a little. There was as yet no sign of daybreak towards the east. A steamerpassed, showing a red light and a white mast-head light. 

Presently the captain paused in his walk near to Luke. 

"Call me, " he said, "when you raise the Burling light. "

Luke answered with a monosyllable, and the elder sailor went towardsthe ladder. 

No one had heard the order given. Luke followed him to the ladder, and watched him go down into the darkness. They had sailed togethersix years in fair weather and foul; they had fought and conquered acyclone in the Bay together from that bridge; but Agatha Ingham-Baker was stronger than these things. Woman is the strongest thingin a man's life. 

There was still no sign of daylight, no faintest gleam in theeastern sky, when the Burling light was sighted right ahead. Thelook-out on the forecastle did not "sing out" the lights on boardthe Croonah, but sent a companion aft to the bridge with the report. This was done for the comfort of the passengers. 

Luke altered the course half a point. From the wheel-house the mencould not see the light, which was hidden by the fore-mast. Lukewent aft and looked at the patent log. His calculations were allcorrect. He glanced at his watch--he had to go to the wheel-houseto do this, and the binnacle-lights showed his face to be still andpale. He moved and had the air of a man upon whose shoulders animmense responsibility was weighing. He was going to wreck theCroonah, but he had two hundred and ninety lives to save. Hecarefully studied the eastern sky. He did not want daylight yet. 

The Burling light is not a very big one--not so big, some marinersthink, as it should be. It is visible twenty-five miles away; butLuke's knowledge told him that in thick and misty weather, such ashovers over this coast in a westerly wind, the glare of therevolving lamp could not be distinguished at a greater distance thanten or twelve miles. 

The Croonah raced on, a ship full of sleeping human beings. Therecame a faint blue tinge into the eastern sky, a gleam over theeastern sea. 

The Burling light--an eye looking round into the darkness, seemingto open and shut sleepily--grew brighter and brighter. It was rightahead! it rose as they approached it until it stood right above thebowsprit. 

Then Luke FitzHenry changed the course. The Croonah turned herblunt prow half a point out into the Atlantic, and she raced on; shepassed by Burling Island, leaving the slowly winking eye on herstarboard quarter. Ahead lay the complete darkness of the north-west horizon. 

Luke stood at his post, his eyes hidden by his binoculars. He wasstudying the horizon in front of him--in front of the Croonah. There was a little lump on the horizon, like the top of a mountainsticking out of the sea; this he knew to be the rock called theGreat Farilhao. Again he altered the course, still seeking theAtlantic, another quarter point to the west. He was going to passthe Great Farilhao as he had passed the Burling, within a stone'sthrow. This he actually did, the rugged outline of the barren rockstanding out sharply against the eastern sky. There was now nothingahead; the horizon lay before him, clear, unbroken. 

Luke moved a few paces. He went and stood by the engine-roomtelegraph. The engines throbbed merrily, but the steamer was stillasleep. There was no sound but the thud of the piston-rods and thewhispering swirl of the water lashed by the huge screw. 

The Croonah raced on, her sails set, her engines working at fullspeed. Suddenly Luke FitzHenry grasped the handle of the engine-room signal. He wrenched it to one side--"Stand by. " Instantly thegong answered, "Stand by. " "Half speed ahead. "

And half speed ahead it was. Luke FitzHenry was clever even in hiscrime; he had three hundred lives to save. He stood motionless as astatue, gazing at the smooth unbroken water in front of him; hegrasped the rail and set his teeth; he stood well back with his feetfirmly planted. And there was a grinding crash. The Croonah seemedto climb up into the air, then she stopped dead, and below--insideher--there was a long, rumbling crash, as if all that was inside herhad been cast forward in confusion. She had run on to the sunkenrocks that lie north-west of the Farilhoes. 

A great silence followed and immediately the pattering of bare feet. A confused murmuring of voices rose from the saloon gangway--abuzzing sound, like that of a hive disturbed. A single voice rosein a shriek of mortal terror, and immediately there followed achorus of confused shouts. 

Luke already had his lips at the speaking-tube. He was telling theengineer on watch to steam ahead; he knew the danger of the Croonahslipping back into deep water and sinking. 

In a marvellously short time the decks were thronged with people, some standing white-faced and calm in the dim light of earlymorning; others, mad with terror, rushing from side to side. 

The strange part of it was that Luke remained alone on the bridge. The captain and the other officers were busy with the passengers. The second officer remained motionless at his post; he commanded thesteersman by a wave of the arm to stay at the wheel, although heknew that the Croonah would never answer her helm again; hertravelling days were done. 

In the dim light now increasing momentarily, Luke FitzHenry lookeddown upon the wildly confused decks and saw discipline slowly assertitself. He saw the captain commanding by sheer force of individualpower; he saw the quartermasters form in line across the deck anddrive the passengers farther aft, leaving room to get out the boats. 

In a few moments--in a marvellously short space of time--the work ofsaving life began. A boat was lowered, the crew slipped into theirplaces, and a certain number of lady passengers were hastily handeddown the gangway. The first boat eased away. The oars were thrownout. It was off, and some of the passengers cheered. One can nevertell what men, especially Englishmen, may do when they actually seedeath face to face. The boat was headed to the south-east, towardsthe Carreiro do Mosteiro, on Burling Island, the only possiblelanding-place. 

Luke felt a touch on his arm and turned sharply. It was aquartermaster, breathless but cool. 

"Captain wants you, sir. I'll take the bridge. "

Luke turned to obey orders. 

"Keep her steaming full speed ahead, " he said, jerking his headtowards the engine-room telegraph. 

"Ay, sir, " the man replied. 

"Until the water gets to the furnaces, " he added to himself, "andthen we're dead men. "

Luke ran lightly down the iron ladder to the lower bridge, which wasdeserted. From thence he made his way aft to the quarter-deck. Ashe passed the saloon staircase he ran against two women; one wasdragging the other, or attempting to do so, towards the group ofpassengers huddled together amidships. 

"You go, " the younger woman was saying, "if you want to. I willwait. "

Luke stopped. The elder woman was apparently wild with terror. Shehad not even stopped to put on a dressing-gown. Her thin grey hairfluttered in the breeze. She was stout and an object of ridiculeeven with death clutching at her. 

"Go on, mother, " said the younger woman, with contempt in her voice. 

"Agatha!" cried Luke. "You here?"

"Yes; we came on board at Malta. "

CHAPTER XII. THE END OF THE "CROONAH". 

 Our life is given us as a blank; Ourselves must make it blest or curst. 

A man came running along and clutched at Luke's arm. 

"Captain wants you, sir, immediate!" he cried. 

"All right, " answered Luke. "Here, take this lady and put her intoa boat. "

Mrs. Ingham-Baker was clinging to him. 

"Luke, " she said firmly, "you must provide us with a lifeboat--asafe one. I will not stand this neglect. "

"Here!" cried Luke to the man. "Take her away. "

"You come along o' me, marm, " said the man, with a twinkle in hiseye. "I'll pervide ye with a lifeboat, bless yer heart!"

And in the dim light of the saloon stairhead lamp, Luke and Agathawere left facing each other. 

"Why did you not let me know you were coming?" he asked sharply. Helooked round with haggard eyes; they were quite alone. 

"I had no time. We just caught the boat by an hour. "

She was singularly quiet. Both of them seemed to forget that everymoment lost increased the danger of their position. 

"Why did you come?" he asked. 

She looked at him, and there was that in her eyes that makes menmad. 

"Because I could not stay away from you. "

His breath came sharply with a catch. 

For a few moments they forgot such things as life and death. Theydid more, they defied death; for surely such love as this isstronger than the mere end of life. Again it was the possibility ofsomething good and something strong that lurked hidden behind theworldliness of Agatha Ingham-Baker, and Luke FitzHenry, of all men, alone had the power of bringing that possibility to the surface. 

All around them the wind moaned and shrieked through the rigging;the waves, beating against the sheer side of the doomed Croonah, filled the air with a sound of great foreboding--the deep voice ofan elemental power that knows no mercy. Within twenty feet of themmen and women were struggling like dumb and driven animals for barelife--struggling, shouting, quarrelling over a paltry precedence ofa minute or so in going to the boats; within a hundred yards ofthem, out over the dark waters, Agatha's mother, thrown from anoverturned boat, was struggling her last struggle, with her sillyold face turned indignantly up to heaven. But they saw none ofthese things. 

All the good men were wanted for the boats, and the captain, withtwo officers only and a few stewards, defended the gangway againstthe rush of the panic-stricken native crew. 

"FitzHenry! FitzHenry!" the old captain shouted. "For God's sake, come here!" For Luke alone was dreaded by the lascars. 

But Luke and Agatha heeded nothing. These people, these lives, werenothing to them, for a passionate love is the acme of selfishness. 

They heard the sounds, however; they heard the captain calling forthe man who had never failed him. 

"I wrecked her for you, " said Luke, in Agatha's hungry ears. "I didit all for you. "

And at last the woman's vanity was satisfied; it was thrown a sopthat would suffice for its eternal greed. Luke had done this thingfor her. She was quick enough to guess how and why, for she knewWillie Carr. She knew that good ships are thrown away for money'ssake. The Croonah had been thrown away for her sake--the Croonah, the patient, obedient servant to Luke's slightest word, almost ananimal in its mechanical intelligence, filling that place in thesailor's heart that some men reserve for their horses and others fortheir wives. Women have been jealous of a ship before now. Eve wasjealous of the Terrific; Agatha had always been jealous of theCroonah. And now the ship had been thrown away for her, and withhis ship Luke had cast away his unrivalled reputation as a seaman, his honour as a gentleman, his conscience. He was a criminal, athief, a murderer for Agatha's sake. She, true to her school, toher generation, to her training, was proud of it; for she was one ofthose unhappy women who will not have their lovers love honour more. 

There was a sudden roar far down in the bowels of the vessel, andimmediately volumes of steam issued from every skylight. Theinrushing sea had broken down the bulk-heads, the water had reachedthe engine-rooms. In an instant Luke was alive to the danger--thegood sailor that was within the man all awake. His trained ears andthe tread of his feet on the deck told him that the screw was still. 

"Come, " he cried to Agatha, "you must get away in the next boat. "

But Agatha resisted his arm. That which had hitherto been merepertness in her manner and carriage had suddenly grown into a strongdetermination. The woman was cool and fearless. 

"Not without you, " she answered. "I will not leave the ship untilyou do. "

"I must stay till the last, " he said. 

She looked at him with a little smile, for women love courage, though it sometimes frightens them. She never dreamt of danger toeither of them. Her trust in Luke was all-sufficient, withoutreserve, without hesitation. 

"Then I will stay too. "

For a moment his iron nerve--a nerve which had deliberately plannedall this destruction--wavered. 

"Why did you not let me know you were coming?" he asked desperately. 

"I had no time, " she answered, with a singular shortness, for shecould not tell him that a letter from Mrs. Harrington to her mother--the companion to that received by Luke at Valetta--had broughtabout this sudden decision. She could not tell him that, egged onby a transparent hint from Mrs. Harrington that Luke was to be herheir, she and her mother had taken the first boat to Malta; that shehad deliberately planned to marry him for the money that was to behis. Such a confession was impossible at that time; with his armsstill round her, the mere thought of it nauseated her. For amoment, she saw herself as others had seen her--a punishment whichfor some women is quite sufficient. 

At this moment a man came running along the deck--the samequartermaster who had taken charge of Mrs. Ingham-Baker. He was aman of no nerves whatever, and of considerable humour. 

"Any more ladies?" he was shouting as he ran. "Any more for theshore?"

He laughed at his own conceit as he ran--the same fearless laughwith which he sent Mrs. Ingham-Baker down the gangway to her death. He paused, saw Luke and Agatha standing together beneath the lamp. 

"Captain's callin' you like hell!" he cried. "Engine-room's full. The old ship's got it this time, sir. "

"All right, I know, " answered Luke curtly; and the man ran on, shouting as he went. 

At this moment the Croonah gave a shiver, and Luke looked roundhastily. He ran to the rail and looked over with a quick sailor'sglance fore and aft. He turned towards Agatha again, but before hecould reach her the steamer gave a lurch over to starboard. Thedeck seemed to rise between them. For a moment Agatha stood abovehim, then she half ran, half fell, down the short steep incline intohis arms. Luke was ready for her, with one foot against the rail--for the deck was at an angle of thirty and more; no one could standon it. He caught her deftly, and the breeze whirling round thedeck-house blew her long hair across his face. 

She never changed colour. There was the nucleus of a good andstrong woman somewhere in Agatha Ingham-Baker. She clung to herlover's arms and watched his face with a faith that nothing couldshake. Thus they stood during three eternal seconds while theCroonah seemed to hesitate, poised on the brink. Then the greatsteamer slowly slid backwards, turning a little as she did so. 

There was a sickening sound of gurgling water. The Croonah wasafloat, but only for a few seconds. There was no time to loweranother boat, and all on board knew it. There were not manyremaining, for the passengers had all left the ship--the stokers, the engineers. Amidships the captain stood, surrounded by hisofficers and a few European sailors--faithful to the end. They hadonly one boat left, and that was forward, half under water--out ofthe question. So they stood and waited for the ship to sink beneaththem. 

In the distance, on the rough sea, now grey in the light of a sullendawn, two boats were approaching, having landed their human freighton Burling Island. 

"Now, my lads, " cried the captain, "if any of you are feeling likegoing overboard, over you go. "

One man slowly took off his coat. He stooped down and unlaced hisboots, while the others watched him. It seemed to take him hours. The bows of the great steamer were almost buried in the broken seas;her stern was raised high in the air, showing the screw and therudder. 

The man who preferred to swim for it looked round with a strangesmile into the quiet, rough faces of his undismayed companions. Itseemed to be merely a choice of deaths. 

"Well, mates, " he said, "so long!"

He dived overboard and swam slowly away. 

Luke watched him speculatively. He knew that had he been alone hecould have saved himself quite easily. With Agatha his chances wereless certain. Agatha it was who had spoilt his careful calculation. Without conceit--for he was a stubbornly self-depreciating man--heknew that his absence from his captain's side had just made thedifference--the little difference between life and death--to twentyor thirty people. Had he been beside the captain and the otherofficers the native crew would have worked quietly and intrepidly;there would have been time for all hands to leave the Croonah beforeshe slipped back into deep water. 

The great steamer rolled slowly from side to side, like a helplessdumb animal in death agony, but she never righted herself, her deckswere never level. At length she gave a roll to leeward and failedto recover herself. From some air-shaft there came a ceaselesswhistle, deep and sonorous, like the emission of air from thebunghole of a beer-barrel. The engines were quite still, even thesteam had ceased to rise. 

Luke stood holding Agatha with one arm. He was watching the twoboats making their way through the choppy sea towards them, andAgatha was watching his face. 

The Croonah was now lying right over on her beam ends. Luke wasstanding on the wire network of the rail. Suddenly he threw himselfbackwards, and as they fell through space Agatha heard the captain'svoice quite distinctly, as from the silence of another world. 

"She's going!" he cried. 

They struck the water together, Luke undermost, as he had intended. Agatha shut her eyes and clung to him. They seemed to go down anddown. Then suddenly she heard Luke's voice. 

"Take a breath, " he gasped short and sharp. His voice wassingularly stern. 

With his disengaged hand he put her hair from her face. She openedher eyes and saw him smiling at her; she saw a huge piece ofwreckage poised on the edge of a wave over his head; she saw itfall; she felt the shock of it. 

Luke's arm lost its hold; he rolled over feebly in the water, theblood running down his face, a sudden sense of sleep in his brain. He awoke again to find himself swimming mechanically, and opened hiseyes. Close to him something white was floating half under water. Spread out over the surface of the wave Agatha's long hair rose andfell like seaweed, almost within his grasp. It was like a horriblenightmare. He tried to reach it, but his arms were powerless; hecould not make an inch of progress; he could only keep himselfafloat. Agatha's face was under water. On the rise of a wave hesaw her little bare foot; it was quite still. He knew that she wasdead, and the blessed sleepiness took him again, dragging him down. 

 . . . . . 

So the last of the Croonah was her good name written large on ayellow telegram form, nailed to the panel of the room technicallyknown as the Chamber of Horrors at Lloyd's. 

Around this telegram a group of grave-faced men stood in silence, orwith muttered words of surprise. 

"The Croonah!" they said, "the Croonah!" as if a pillar of theirfaith had fallen. For once no one had a theory: no carpet marinercould explain this thing. 

Against the jamb of the window, behind them all, Willie Carr stoodleaning. 

"Done anything on her?" some one asked him. 

"Yes, bad luck, " he answered. "Had friends on her, too. "

It was a long and expansive telegram, giving the list of the lost, twenty-nine in all, and among the names were mentioned Mrs. Ingham-Baker and her daughter. 

"Ship in charge of second officer, " said the telegram. And lowerdown, at the foot of the fatal list: "Second officer picked upunconscious. Doing well. "

Suddenly Willie Carr moved, and, turning his back somewhat hastily, looked out of the window. 

Fitz had just come into the dreary, fateful little room, conductedthither by the Admiralty agent. He read the telegram carefully frombeginning to end. 

"Luke on the Burlings!" he muttered, as he turned to go. "Luke! Ican't understand it. He must have been mad!"

And after all Fitz only spoke the truth; but it was a madness towhich we are all subject. 

CHAPTER XIII. AT D'ERRAHA AGAIN. 

 There is no statute so sublime As Love's in all the world; and e'en to kiss The pedestal is still a better bliss Than all ambitions. 

Three years later Eve was sitting on the terrace of the Casad'Erraha. It was late autumn, and we who live in Northern latitudesdo not quite realise what the autumn of Southern Europe is. Artistsand others interested in the beauties of nature love a dry summerfor the autumn that is sure to follow it. In Spain and in theislands of the Mediterranean every summer is dry, and every autumnis beautiful. 

The Casa d'Erraha has not changed in any way--nothing changes in theBalearics. The same soft Southern odours creep up from the valleyto battle with the strong resinous scent of the pines that crown themountains. 

Eve had been a year in D'Erraha--the whole of her married life. TheCount de Lloseta placed the house at their disposal for thehoneymoon. Fitz and she came to stay a month; they had remainedtwelve. It is often so in Majorca. A number of Spaniards came sixhundred years ago--nine families; the nine names are there to-day. 

Fitz had taken D'Erraha on the Minorcan rotas lease, so the oldvalley, the old house, was his. 

Eve was not alone on the terrace, for a certain small gentleman, called Henry Cyprian FitzHenry, a prospective sailor, lay in a pinkand perfect slumber on her lap. Henry Cyprian fully appreciated thevalley of repose. 

Eve was reading a letter--a lamentable scrawl, by the way--obviouslythe work of a hand little used to the pen. 

"My dearie, " the letter ran; and it bore the address--MalabarCottage, Somarsh, Suffolk. 

"MY DEARIE, --Please thank your good husband for his letter to meannouncing the birth of your son. I hope the little man is doingwell. Make a sailor of him. Being one myself I have hadopportunity of noticing seafaring men under different circumstances, and I have never had an occasion to be ashamed of a shipmate, onlyexcepting when he was drunk, which is human, so to speak. Thankingthe captain kindly for his inquiries, I have to advise that all isgoing well at Malabar Cottage. The cottage keeps taut and staunch;and now that my old shipmate Creary has joined me, we keep to theweather side of the butcher's bill without any difficulty. We pullalong on a even keel wonderfully well, Creary being a good-naturedman, and as pleasant a shipmate as one could wish. He has broughthis bits of things with him, and alongside of mine they make ahomely look. I miss your voice about the house, and sometimes Ifeel a bit lonely, but being a rough seafaring man I know thatMalabar Cottage was hardly fit for a lady like yourself. The Countde Lloseta has twice been down to see me, sitting affable down toour bit of lunch with us and making Creary laugh till he choked. Idon't rightly understand how it was that the Count and your goodhusband the captain (R. N. ) fixed up my money affairs, getting somuch of it back from Merton's while others haven't had a halfpenny. I asked the Count to explain, which he did at some length. But Ididn't rightly understand it, never having had a good head forfigures, though I could always work out my sums near enough to fixher position on the chart at mid-day. I take it that Mr. Llosetahas got a gift for financials, leastwise he pays me my money mostregular, and last time there was two pounds more. I am sure I oughtto feel thankful that I have such good friends, and people, too, somuch above me. I understand that the Count de Lloseta is going outto Majorca this autumn. He is a good man. --Your affectionate uncle, "WILLIAM JOHN BONTNOR (Master). "

Eve read this effusion with a queer little smile which had no mirthin it. She folded the letter carefully and laid it aside for herhusband to see when he returned. Then she fell into a reverie, looking down over the great silent valley that lay between her andthe sea. She had been out into the world and had come back toD'Erraha again. In the world she had had a somewhat singularexperience. She had never loved a woman, she had never known awoman's love. One man after another had come into her life, passingacross the field of her mental vision when it was most susceptibleto impression, each influencing her life in his own way, each lovingher in his own way, each claiming her love. Here was a woman, themother of a boy, whose every thought had been formed by men, whoseknowledge had been acquired from men, whose world was a world ofmen. She would not have known what to do with a daughter, so Fatehad sent her a son. From the Caballero Challoner to Fitz, from Fitzto Captain Bontnor, from Captain Bontnor to John Craik, and fromCraik back to Fitz, this, with Cipriani de Lloseta ever coming andgoing, in and out, had been Eve FitzHenry's life. 

These men had only taught her to be a woman, as men ever do; butfrom them she had acquired the broader way of taking life, thelarger way of thinking, which promised well for Henry Cyprian lyingasleep on her lap. 

She was thinking of these men, for all they had taught her, of allshe had learnt from them without their knowing it, when one of themcame to her. Fitz had dismounted in the patio and came walkingsomewhat stiffly through to the terrace. He had been out all day ona distant part of the D'Erraha property, for he combined the farmerand the sailor. He had applied for a year's leave after havingserved his country for fifteen. The year had run into fifteenmonths, and there was talk of the time when he should go to sea nolonger. 

Fitz had changed little. The cloud, however, that had formerly hungas it were in his eyes had vanished. Eve had driven it away, slowlyand surely. Perhaps Henry Cyprian had something to do in the matteralso by pushing his uncle Luke out of the place he had hithertooccupied in Fitz's heart. Luke had voluntarily relinquished theplace to a certain degree. He had left England three years beforeto seek his fortune in other seas, and Fortune had come to him asshe often does when she is sought half-heartedly. Luke commandedone of the finest war-ships afloat, but she sailed under the Chileanflag. 

"Letters, " said Fitz. 

Eve smiled and handed him Captain Bontnor's epistle. She watchedhis face as he read--she had a trick of watching her husband's face. This was a hopelessly taciturn man, but Eve seemed to understandhim. 

There was another letter unopened and addressed to Fitz. He took itup and opened it leisurely, after the manner of one who has all hewants and looks for nothing by post. 

Eve saw his face brighten with surprise. He read the letterthrough, and then he handed it to her. 

"Lloseta, " he said, "is coming. He is in Barcelona. "

Eve read the letter. She leant back in her deep chair with apensiveness, a faint suggestion of weariness bespeaking the end of aconvalescence, which was perhaps climatic. 

"I have never understood the Count, " she said. "There are so manypeople one does not understand. "

She broke off with a little laugh, half impatient. 

"Yes, " said her husband quietly. "Whom are you thinking of?"

"Agatha. "

Fitz was gazing at the fine quartz gravel beneath his feet. 

"Agatha cared for Luke, " he said. 

A faint flicker of anxiety passed across Eve's eyes--the mention ofLuke's name always brought it. She had never seen this twinbrother--this shadow as it were of Fitz's life--and it had beenslowly borne in upon her--perhaps Henry Cyprian had taught her--thatthere is a tie between twins which no man can gauge nor tell whitherit may lead. 

"Yes, " she said quietly, "I know. "

"How do you know? Did she tell you?"

Eve smiled. 

"No; but I knew long ago. I do not think she was good, Fitz, butthat was good in her--quite good. People say that it sometimessaves men. It often saves women. I think it is better for a girlto have no mother at all than to have a foolish mother, much better, I am sure of it. "

"Women like Mrs. Ingham-Baker, " said Fitz gruffly, "do more harm inthe world than women who are merely bad. She made Agatha what shewas, and Agatha made Luke throw away the Croonah. "

"But the Court decided that it was an unusual current, " said Eve, who had followed every word of the official inquiry. 

Fitz shrugged his shoulders. 

"He threw the ship away, " he said. "Sailors like Luke do not getwrecked on the Burlings. "

Eve did not pursue the subject, for this was the shadow on herhappiness. It has been ruled that we are not to be quite happyhere, and those are happiest who have a shadow that comes fromoutside--from elsewhere than from themselves or their own love. 

Eve, womanlike, had thought of these things, analysing them as womendo, and she recognised the shadow frankly. She was too intelligent, too far-sighted to expect perfect bliss, but she knew that she hadas near an approach to it as is offered for human delectation, neutralised as it was by that vague regret which is only thereflection of the active sorrows of others. 

Fitz had handed the Count's letter to his wife. She read it slowlyand allowed it to drop. As it fluttered to her lap she caught sightof some writing on the back. 

"Did you see the postscript?" she asked. 

"No. "

She turned the letter and read aloud. 

"I saw Craik just before I left. He was, I think, in better health. His mind is much too brilliant, his brain too active, his humour tookeen to be that of a sick man. When I told him your good news hequite forgot to be rheumatic. 'Glad to hear it, glad to hear it, 'he said. 'She was much too good to be a mere writing woman. ' Bythe way, I imagine Eve never learnt that all the Spanish articles, except the first, passed through my hands as well as Craik's beforepublication. I knew who wrote them, and am still one of theirprofoundest admirers, but, like John Craik, I am well content thatthe gifted author should turn her attention to other things, notablyto my godson, to whom salutations. Did either of you ever meetyoung Lord Seahampton, an excellent fellow, with the appearance of acleanly groom and the heart of a true knight? He was killed whileriding a steeplechase last week. I regret him deeply. He was oneof my few friends. "

Eve laid the letter down with a little sigh, a species of sigh whichshe reserved for Cipriani de Lloseta. 

"He is a nineteenth-century Quixote, " she said. "No one ever knowswhat good he may be doing. "

Then they fell to talking of this man, of what he had done and whathe had left undone. They guessed at what he had suffered, and ofthe suffering which he had spared others they knew a little; but ofhis own feelings they were ignorant, his motives they only knew inpart. His life had been lived out to a certain extent before them, but they knew nothing of it; it was a mere superficies withoutperspective, and Eve, woman-like, wanted to put a background to it. 

"But why, " she persisted, from the height of her own happiness, which had apparently been so easy to reach, "why does he lead such alonely, gloomy life? Why has he so few friends? Why does he notcome and live at Lloseta instead of in the gloomy palace in theCalle de la Paz?"

"His life is all whys, " answered Fitz; "it is one big note ofinterrogation. He said that some day he would tell us; no doubt hewill. "

"Yes; perhaps so. "

Eve reflected, and again she indulged in a short sigh. 

"And after he has told us there will be nothing to be done, that isthe worst of it; there will be nothing to be done, Fitz. "

"There never has been anything to be done, " replied Fitz slowly, aswas his wont. "That has been the keynote of his life as long as Ihave known him. If there had been anything to do, you may be surethat De Lloseta would have done it. "

Eve was bending over the small beginnings of a man lying supine onher knees. She drew Henry Cyprian's wraps closer around himpreparatory to taking him indoors. 

"Then his is surely the saddest life imaginable, " she said. 

CHAPTER XIV. THE COUNT'S STORY. 

 And yet I know That tears lie deep in all I do. 

The pine forests on the mountain-tops were beginning to gather thedarkness as the Count de Lloseta rode up the last slope to the Casad'Erraha. The sun had just set behind the rocky land that hidesMiramar from D'Erraha. A stillness seemed to be creeping down fromthe mountain to the valley. The wind had gone down with the sun. 

The Count rode alone beneath the gloom of the maritime pines whichgrow to their finest European stature on the northern slope ofD'Erraha. He had been in the saddle all day; but Cipriani deLloseta was a Spaniard, and a Spaniard is a different man when hehas thrown his leg across a horse. The suave indolence of mannerseems to vanish, the courtly indifference, the sloth andcontemplativeness which stand as a bar between our northern natureand the peninsular habit. De Lloseta was a fine horseman--even inSpain, the nation of finest horsemen in the world; also he was onMajorcan soil again. He had landed at Palma that morning from theBarcelona steamer, and he had found Fitz awaiting him with a servantand a led horse on the quay. 

There was a strangely excited gleam in De Lloseta's dark eyes whichFitz did not fail to notice. The Count looked around over the darkwild faces of his countrymen and met no glance of recognition, forhe had been absent forty years. Then he raised his eyes to the oldcity towering on the hillside above them, the city that has notchanged these six hundred years, and he smiled a wan smile. 

"I have brought a horse for you, " said Fitz, "either to ride back toD'Erraha with me now or to take you to Lloseta, should you care togo direct there. Eve has packed up some lunch for you in thesaddle-bag if you think of going to Lloseta first. "

The Count nodded. 

"Yes, " he said, "that is like Eve; she would think of such things. "

He went up to the horse, patted it, measured the length of thestirrup-leather, and then turned to Fitz. 

"I will go to Lloseta, " he said. "It is only natural after fortyyears. I will be with you by seven o'clock to-night at D'Erraha. "

Fitz did not offer to accompany him, and Cipriani de Lloseta rodethat strange ride alone; unknown, an outcast in his own land, herode through the most fertile valley in the world, of which everytree was dear to him; and no man knew his thoughts. The labourersin the fields, men and women, brown, sunburnt, half Moorish, whollysimple and natural, paused in their toil and looked wonderingly atthe lonely horseman; the patient mules walking their ceaseless roundat the Moorish wells blinked lazily at him; the eagles of Llosetaswept slowly round in a great circle far above the old castle, asthey had swept in his childhood, and he looked up at them with hisstrange patient smile. He pushed the great olive-wood gate open andpassed into the terraced garden, all overgrown, neglected, mournful. It was a strange home-coming, with no one near to see. 

He spent the whole day at Lloseta engaged in the very practical workof employing men to labour at the garden and in the house. It was, he said, his intention to come back to his "possession, " as theseMajorcan country houses are called, to inhabit it the larger part ofthe year, and to pass the remaining winter months at his palace inPalma. 

In the afternoon he mounted his horse, and in the evening, as hasbeen said, he reached D'Erraha. 

A servant must have been watching his approach, for the large doorwas thrown open and he rode into the patio. Fitz was here towelcome him; and behind him Eve, with Henry Cyprian in her arms. Noone spoke. It was rather singular. The Count dismounted. He tookoff his hat and held it in the Spanish mode in his hand while heshook hands with Fitz and Eve. He looked round the patio. He notedthe old marble well, yellow with stupendous age, the orange treesclustering over it, the palms and the banana trees, then he smiledat Eve. 

"After many years, " he said. 

There was a little pause. 

"I should have wished to see your father, " he said, "amidst thesesurroundings. "

Eve gave a little nod. From long association with men she hadlearnt a manlike reticence. She moved a little towards the openarchway leading through to the terrace. 

"We have some tea, " she said, "waiting for you. Will you come tothe terrace?"

He followed her, while the servant led the tired horse away. 

They sat at the northern end of the terrace, where the garden-chairsalways stood, and before, beneath, all around them rose and fell thefinest of all the fine Majorcan scenery--scenery which only Sardiniacan rival in Europe. 

Eve poured out his tea, which he drank, and set the cup aside. 

They all knew that the time had come for the Count de Lloseta totell his story--to redeem the promise made to Eve and Fitz long ago, before they were married. 

Cipriani de Lloseta leant back in his deep garden-chair nursing onebooted leg over the other. He was dusty and travel-stained, but thenatural hardiness of his frame seemed to be more apparent than everin his native land, on his native mountains. 

"My poor little tale, " he said; "you will have it?"

"Yes, " said Eve; and Fitz nodded. 

Cipriani de Lloseta did not look at them, but down into thegathering blue of the valley beneath them. His quiet, patient eyesnever turned elsewhere during his narrative, as if he were tellingthe story to the valley and the hills. 

"When I was quite a young man everything was too prosperous with me. I was rich, I had health and liberty and many friends; life wasaltogether too simple and easy for me. Before I was twenty-one Imet my dear Rosa and fell in love with her. Here again it was tooeasy, too convenient. Fate is cruellest when she is too kind. Theparents wished it. The two families were equally old, equally rich;and lastly Rosa--Rosa was kind enough to be--kind to me. "

He paused, pensively rubbing his clean-shaven chin with hisforefinger, his long profile was turned towards Eve, standing outlike brown marble against the gloom of the valley. Eve wonderedabout this woman, this Rosa, who had been forty years in her grave. She wondered what manner of woman this must have been to have keptthe love of a man through all these years by a mere memory, but shedid not wonder that Rosa had been kind. 

"She saw things in me that do not exist, " Cipriani de Lloseta wenton quietly. "It is so with women when--and men may thank God thatit is so. "

He gave a little laugh, unpleasant to the ear--the laugh of a manwho has been right down to the bottom of life and comes up againwith a sneer. 

Eve and Fitz made no sign. This story was like wine that has lainforgotten in the dark for many years, it needed careful handling. Henry Cyprian turned on his silken cushion, and opening his greatdark eyes watched the speaker with that infantine steadfastness ofgaze which may perchance see more than we suspect. 

"We were married"--he paused and gave a jerk of the head towardsPalma, behind him to the left--"in the cathedral, and were quitehappy. At that time the Harringtons were living, or rather staying, in this house with your good father. Neither of you ever saw theHonourable George Harrington; your loss is infinitesimal. For somereason they began to come to Lloseta a good deal--some reason ofMrs. Harrington's. She was always a singular woman, with a reasonfor all that she did, which I, in my old-fashioned way, do not thinkgood in a woman. She disliked my wife. I could see that throughher affectionate ways. I do not know why. Men cannot understandthese things. Rosa was very beautiful. "

Eve, who was watching his face, gave a little nod--a mental nod, asit were, for her own edification. It is possible that she, being awoman, understood. 

"Finally they came to stay a few days--you know the Spanishhospitality. She forced it on us against our will. I wasparticularly averse to it because of--Rosa. I wanted to be quietlyat Lloseta. We intended to live almost entirely in Majorca. Wewanted our children to be Majorcans, and especially a son. TheHarringtons stayed longer than we invited them for. They were well-bred adventurers. I have met many such in English country houses--people who shoot, and fish, and hunt at the expense of others. Itsuited them to stay at Lloseta, and they did so. They were peoplewho got the best of everything by asking for it--by looking upon itin a well-bred way as their right. I did not mind that, but Iwanted them to go, on account of Rosa. Also I disliked the woman'smanner towards myself; it altered when Rosa was not there, youunderstand. We have a word for it in Spain, but I will not say itbecause the woman is dead. "

There was a rasping sound as he drew his first and second fingersacross his closely shaven chin. It is a singular thing that cynicsusually reserve their keenest shafts for women. 

"At last I informed Rosa that they must be told to go, and Rosa wasvery angry. It was her pride--the pride of a new-fledged hostess, of a young matron. She was Spanish, and hot tempered. Myinhospitality was terrible to her, and she spoke sharply. I wasquicker to feel and to act then than I am now. I answered her. Iwould not give way, thinking, as I was, of the son we hoped for. Itwas nothing, but we raised our voices. In the heat of the argumentI lifted my hand. Rosa thought that I was going to strike her--astrange mistake. She stepped back and fell. You know our marblefloors. She struck her temple against the floor, and she lay quitestill. I heard a sound, and turning, saw Mrs. Harrington in thedoorway. She had been listening; she had seen everything. Rosanever recovered consciousness; she died. It was terribly easy forher to die. It was equally hard for me to continue living. Mrs. Harrington helped me in my great sorrow to a certain extent, but shewould not help me by going away. Then, as soon as Rosa was buried, she told me that unless I gave her money she would tell all Spainthat I had murdered my wife. At first I did not understand. I didnot know that God had created women such as this. But she made hermeaning quite clear. Indeed to do this thoroughly, she hinted tothe neighbours that she knew more than she had disclosed. AllMajorca would turn its back upon me--all except Challoner. I paidthe woman. I have paid her ever since, and I do not regret it. What else could I do? After many generations of honour anduprightness I could not let the name of Lloseta fall into the handsof a low woman such as Mrs. Harrington. I had to pay heavily, butit was still cheap. I saved the name. No breath of dishonour hasreached the name of De Lloseta de Mallorca. I got her out ofMajorca, and my old friend Challoner set himself the task ofsilencing the gossips. But I found that I had to leave Lloseta--forthe name's sake I quitted my home. "

He spread out his hands with a patient gesture of resignation. 

"Such has been my life, " he went on. "It has been spent inpreserving the name unspotted, in paying Mrs. Harrington, and inpraying the good God to make her life unhappy and short. In Hisgreater wisdom He prolonged her life, but it was never a happy one, for God is just. I am the last of the Llosetas. The name will die, but it has lived for six hundred years, and it dies as it lived--unspotted--one of the great names of the world. "

He broke off with a little laugh. 

"Spanish pride, " he said. "I must beg your indulgence. My life youknow. It has not been a happy one. I have never forgotten Rosa; Ihave never even tried. I have had several objects however in life;it has not been uninteresting. One of the chief of these objectshas been to repay to a minute extent the true friendship of my dearChalloner. He was a friend in need. He taught me to look upon theEnglish as the finest race of men on this planet. I may be wrong, but I shall adhere to my opinion. In my small way I attempted torepay in part to Challoner's daughter all that I owed to him; but Ionly ran against a pride as strong, as sensitive as my own. Mychild, you did quite right!"

He turned to Eve, smiling his patient smile. 

"And now, " he went on, "I shall have my way after all. "

He laid his hand on Henry Cyprian, who was conscientiously puttingthe Valley of Repose to its best use. 

"After all, this little caballero was born at D'Erraha. D'Erraha ishis; is it not so?"

And Eve, giving up her pride to him--casting it down before hisloftier pride--came round to his chair, and bending over, kissed himsilently.