A Life's Morning

by

George Gissing

CONTENTS

 I AN UNDERGRADUATE AT LEISURE II BEATRICE REDWING III LYRICAL IV A CONFLICT OF OPINIONS V THE SHADOW OF HOME VI A VISITOR BY EXPRESS VII ON THE LEVELS VIII A STERNER WOOING IX CIRCUMSTANCE X AT THE SWORD'S POINT XI EMILY'S DECISION XII THE FINAL INTERVIEW XIII THE CUTTING OF THE KNOT XIV NEWS AND COMMENTS XV MRS. BAXENDALE'S QUESTS XVI RENUNCIATION XVII THEIR SEVERAL WAYS XVIII A COMPACT XIX THE COMPLETION OF MISCHANCE XX WILFRID THE LEGISLATOR XXI DANGEROUS RELICS XXII HER PATH IN THE SHADOW XXIII HER PATH IN THE LIGHT XXIV THE UNEXPECTED XXV A FAMILY CONCLAVE XXVI MID-DAY

CHAPTER I

AN UNDERGRADUATE AT LEISURE

Wilfrid Athel went down invalided a few days after the beginning ofTrinity term. The event was not unanticipated. At Christmas it had beenclear enough that he was overtaxing himself; his father remarked on thefact with anxiety, and urged moderation, his own peculiar virtue. Wilfrid, whose battle with circumstances was all before him, declined tobelieve that the body was anything but the very humble servant of thewill. So the body took its revenge. 

He had been delicate in childhood, and the stage of hardy naturalismwhich interposes itself between tender juvenility and the birth ofself-consciousness did not in his case last long enough to establish hisframe in the vigour to which it was tending. There was nothing sicklyabout him; it was only an excess of nervous vitality that would notallow body to keep pace with mind. He was a boy to be, intellectually, held in leash, said the doctors. But that was easier said than done. What system of sedatives could one apply to a youngster whoseimagination wrought him to a fever during a simple walk by the seashore, who if books were forcibly withheld consoled himself with thecomposition of five-act tragedies, interspersed with lyrics to which hesupplied original strains? Mr. Athel conceived a theory that suchexuberance of emotionality might be counterbalanced by studies of astrictly positive nature; a tutor was engaged to ground young Wilfrid inmathematics and the physical sciences. The result was that the tutor'senthusiasm for these pursuits communicated itself after a briefrepugnance to the versatile pupil; instincts of mastery became as vividin the study of Euclid and the chemical elements as formerly in thehumaner paths of learning; the plan had failed. In the upshot Wilfridwas sent to school; if that did not develop the animal in him, nothingwould. 

He was not quite three-and-twenty when the break-down removed him fromOxford. Going to Balliol with a scholarship, he had from the first beenmarked for great things, at all events by the measure of the schools. Removal from the system of home education had in truth seemed to answerin some degree the ends aimed at; the lad took his fair share of cricketand football, and kept clear of nervous crises. At the same time he madeextraordinary progress with his books. He acquired with extremefacility, and his ambition never allowed him to find content in a secondplace; conquest became his habit; he grew to deem it the order of naturethat Wilfrid Athel's name should come first in the list. Hence areputation to support. During his early terms at Balliol he fagged ashard as the mere dullard whose dear life depended upon a first class anda subsequent tutorship. What he would make of himself in the end wasuncertain; university distinctions would probably be of small moment tohim as soon as they were achieved, for already he spent the greaterportion of his strength in lines of study quite apart from thecurriculum, and fate had blessed him with exemption from sordid cares. He led in a set devoted to what were called advanced ideas; withoutflattering himself that he was on the way to solve the problem of theuniverse, he had satisfaction in reviewing the milestones which removedhim from the unconscious man, and already clutched at a measure ofpositive wisdom in the suspicion that lie might shortly have to layaside his school-books and recommence his education under otherteachers. As yet he was whole-hearted in the pursuit of learning. Theintellectual audacity which was wont to be the key-note of hisconversation did not, as his detractors held, indicate merebumptiousness and defect of self-measurement; it was simply the floridredundancy of a young mind which glories in its strength, and plays atvictory in anticipation. It was true that he could not brook thesemblance of inferiority; if it were only five minutes' chat in theQuad, he must come off with a phrase or an epigram; so those dullerheads who called Athel affected were not wholly without theirjustification. Those who shrugged their shoulders with the remark thathe was overdoing it, and would not last out to the end of the race, enjoyed a more indisputable triumph. One evening, when Athel was takingthe brilliant lead in an argument on 'Fate, free-will, foreknowledgeabsolute, ' his brain began to whirl, tobacco-smoke seemed to have dulledall the lights before his eyes, and he fell from his chair in afainting-fit. 

He needed nothing but rest; that, however, was imperative. Mr. Athelbrought him to London, and the family went down at once to their housein Surrey. Wilfrid was an only son and an only child. His father hadbeen a widower for nearly ten years; for the last three his house hadbeen directed by a widowed sister, Mrs. Rossall, who had twin girls. Mr. Athel found it no particular hardship to get away from town and pursuehis work at The Firs, a delightful house in the midst of Surrey'sfairest scenery, nor would Mrs. Rossall allow that the surrender of highseason cost her any effort. This lady had just completed herthirty-second year; her girls were in their tenth. She was comely andknew it, but a constitutional indolence had preserved her from becominga woman of fashion, and had nurtured in her a reflective mood, which, ifit led to no marked originality of thought, at all events contributed toan appearance of culture. At the time of her husband's death she was atthe point where graceful inactivity so often degenerates intoslovenliness. Mrs. Rossall's homekeeping tendencies and the growingchildhood of her twins tended to persuade her that her youth was gone;even the new spring fashions stirred her to but languid interest, andher music, in which she had some attainments, was all but laid aside. With widowhood began a new phase of her life. Her mourning wasunaffected; it led her to pietism; she spent her days in religiousobservance, and her nights in the study of the gravest literature. Shewould have entered the Roman Church but for her brother's interposition. The end of this third year of discipline was bringing about anotherchange, perhaps less obvious to herself than to those who marked hercourse with interest, as several people did. Her reading became lessascetic, she passed to George Herbert and the 'Christian Year, ' and byway of the decoration of altars proceeded to thought for her personaladornment. A certain journal of society which she had long ago abandonedbegan to show itself occasionally in her rooms, though only as yet byoversight left to view. She spoke with her brother on the subject ofcertain invitations, long neglected, and did not seem displeased when hewent beyond her own motion to propose the issuing of cards for adefinite evening. Then came Wilfrid's break-down. There was really noneed, said Mr. Athel, that she should transfer herself immediately tothe country, just when everybody was well settled in town. But Mrs. Rossall preferred to go; she was not sure that the juncture had not someconnection with her own spiritual life. And she maintained, on thewhole, a seemly cheerfulness. 

Mr. Athel was an Egyptologist of some distinction. Though not in personor manner suggestive of romantic antecedents, he had yet come by thistaste in a way which bordered on romance. Travelling in Southern Europeat about the age which Wilfrid had now reached, he had the good fortuneto rescue from drowning an Italian gentleman then on a tour in Greece. The Italian had a fair daughter, who was travelling with him, and her, after an acquaintance of a few weeks, Athel demanded by way ofrecompense. Her father was an enthusiastic student of Egyptianantiquities; the Englishman plied at one and the same time his wooingand the study of hieroglyphics, with marked success in both directions. The Mr. Athel who at that time represented parental authority, or at allevents claimed filial deference, was anything but pleased with the stephis son had taken; he was a highly respectable dealer in grain, and, after the manner of highly respectable men of commerce, would have hadhis eldest son espouse some countrywoman yet more respectable. It washis opinion that the lad had been entrapped by an adventurous foreigner. Philip Athel, who had a will of his own, wedded his Italian maiden, brought her to England, and fought down prejudices. A year or two laterhe was at work in Egypt, where lie remained for some twelve months; hisstudies progressed. Subsequently he published certain papers which wererecognised as valuable. Wilfrid found the amusement of his childhood inhis father's pursuit; he began to decipher hieratic not much later thanhe learned to read English. Scarabs were his sacred playthings, and bythe time of his going to school he was able to write letters home in ademotic which would not perhaps have satisfied Champollion or Brugsch, but yet was sufficiently marvellous to his schoolfellows and gratifyingto his father. 

For the rest, Philip Athel was a typical English gentleman. He enjoyedout-of-door sports as keenly as he did the pursuit of his study; he hadscarcely known a day's illness in his life, owing, he maintained, to thewisdom with which he arranged his day. Three hours of study was, heheld, as much as any prudent man would allow himself. He was always inexcellent spirits, ever ready to be of service to a friend, lived withmuch moderation on victuals of the best quality procurable, took hisautumnal holiday abroad in a gentlemanly manner. With something oftheoretic Radicalism in his political views, he combined a stout respectfor British social institutions; affecting to be above vulgarprejudices, he was in reality much prepossessed in favour of hereditaryposition, and as time went on did occasionally half wish that the lovehe had bestowed on his Italian wife had been given to some English ladyof 'good' family. He was liberal, frank, amiably autocratic in his home, apt to be peppery with inferiors who missed the line of perfect respect, candid and reasonable with equals or superiors. For his boy he reserveda store of manly affection, seldom expressing itself save in blufffashion; his sister he patronised with much kindness, though he despisedher judgment. One had now and then a feeling that his materialcircumstances aided greatly in making him the genial man he was, thatwith beef and claret of inferior quality he might not have beenaltogether so easy to get along with. But that again was an illustrationof the English character. 

We find the family assembling for breakfast at The Firs one delightfulmorning at the end of July. The windows of the room were thrown open, and there streamed in with the sunlight fresh and delicious odours, tonics alike of mind and body. From the Scotch firs whence the dwellingtook its name came a scent which mingled with wafted breath from theremoter heather, and the creepers about the house-front, the lovelybloom and leafage skirting the lawn, contributed to the atmosphere ofhealth and joy. It was nine o'clock. The urn was on the gleaming table, the bell was sounding, Mr. Athel stepped in straight from the lawn, fresh after his ten minutes' walk about the garden. Wilfrid Athelappeared at the same moment; he was dark-complexioned and had black, glossy hair; his cheeks were hollower than they should have been, but hehad not the aspect of an invalid. Mrs. Rossall glided into the roombehind him, fresh, fair, undemonstrative. Then came the twins, by namePatty and Minnie, delicate, with promise of their mother's English styleof beauty; it was very hard to distinguish them, their uncle hadhonestly given up the pretence long ago, and occasionally remonstratedwith his sister on the absurdity of dressing them exactly alike. Thelast to enter the room was the governess, Miss Emily Hood. 

Mr. Athel, having pronounced a grace, mentioned that he thought ofrunning up to town; did anybody wish to give him a commission? Mrs. Rossall looked thoughtful, and said she would make a note of two orthree things. 

'I haven't much faith in that porridge regimen, Wilf, ' remarked themaster of the house, as he helped himself to chicken and tongue. 'We arenot Highlanders. It's dangerous to make diet too much a matter oftheory. Your example is infectious; first the twins; now Miss Hood. Edith, do you propose to become a pervert to porridge?'

'I have no taste for it, ' replied his sister, who had becomeabsent-minded. 

'There's a certain dishonesty about it, moreover, ' Mr. Athel pursued. 'Porridge should be eaten with salt. Milk _and_ sugar--didn't I hear asuggestion of golden syrup, more honestly called treacle, yesterday?These things constitute evasion, self-deception at the least. In yourcase, Miss Hood, the regimen is clearly fruitful of ill results. '

'Of what kind, Mr. Athel?'

'Obviously it leads to diminution of appetite. You were in the habit ofeating a satisfactory breakfast; at present some two ounces of thatfarinaceous mess--'

'My dear Philip!' interposed Mrs. Rossall, still absently. 

I hold that I am within my rights, ' asserted her brother. 'If Miss Hoodgoes down into Yorkshire in a state of emaciation--'

Wilfrid and the twins showed amusement. 

'To begin with, ' pursued Mr. Athel, 'I hold that sweet food the firstthing in the morning is a mistake; the appetite is checked in anartificial way, and impaired. Even coffee--'

'You would recommend a return to flagons of ale?' suggested Wilfrid. 

'I am not sure that it wasn't better dietetically. '

Mrs. Rossall had taken an egg, but, after fruitlessly chipping at theshell throughout this conversation, put down her spoon and appeared toabandon the effort to commence her meal. Presently she broke silence, speaking with some diffidence. 

'I really think I will go to town with you, Philip, ' she said. 'I wantsome things you can't very well get me, and then I ought to go and seethe Redwings. I might persuade Beatrice to come to us for a day or two. '

'Do so by all means. You're quite sure, ' he added with a smile, 'that Icouldn't save you the trouble of the journey? I have no objection tovisiting the Redwings. '

'I think it will be better if I go myself, ' replied Mrs. Rossall, with afar-off look. 'I might call on one or two other people. '

Having decided this point, she found herself able to crack the egg. Theanticipation of her day in London made her quite gay throughout themeal. 

The carriage was at the door by ten o'clock, to drive to Dealing, thenearest station, some four miles away. The twins had gone upstairs withMiss Hood to their lessons, and Wilfrid was sauntering about the hall. His father paused by him on the way to the carriage. 

'What do you propose to do with yourself, Wilf?' lie asked. 

'Ride, I think. '

'Do. Go over to Hilstead and lunch there. Capital lunch they give you atthe inn; the last time I was there they cooked me one of the best chopsI ever ate. Oberon wants exercise; make a day of it. '

'Very well. '

'You're not looking quite so well, I'm afraid, ' remarked his father, with genuine solicitude in his tone. 'Haven't been reading, have you?'

'No. '

'No imprudences, mind. I must stop that porridge regimen; it doesn'tsuit you. Ready, Edith?' he shouted heartily at the foot of the stairs. 

Mrs. Rossall came down, buttoning her gloves. 

'If I were you, Wilf, ' she said, 'I'd go off somewhere for the day. Thetwins will only worry you. '

Wilfrid laughed. 

'I am going to eat unexampled chops at the "Waggoner" in Hilstead, ' hereplied. 

'That's right. Good-bye, my dear boy. I wish you'd get fatter. '

'Pooh, I'm all right. '

The landau rolled away. Wilfrid still loitered in the hall, a singularlook of doubt on his face. In a room above one of the twins was having amusic lesson; a certain finger-exercise was being drummed withpersistent endeavour at accuracy. 

'How can she bear that morning after morning?' the young man murmured tohimself. 

He took his straw hat and went round to the stables. Oberon was beinggroomed. Wilfrid patted the horse's sleek neck, and talked a little withthe man. At length he made up his mind to go and prepare for riding;Oberon would be ready for him in a few minutes. 

In the porch Patty ran to meet him. 

'Truant!' Wilfrid exclaimed. 'Have I caught you in the act of escape?'

'I was going to look for you, ' said the child, putting her arm throughhis and swinging upon him. 'We want to know if you'll be back forlunch. '

'Who wants to know?'

'I and Minnie and Miss Hood. '

'Oh, you are Patty, then, are you?'

This was an old form of joke. The child shook her dark curls with ahalf-annoyed gesture, but still swung on her cousin as he moved into thehouse. Wilfrid passed his arm about her playfully. 

'Can't you make up your mind, Wilf?' she asked. 

'Oh yes, my mind is quite made up, ' he replied, with a laugh. 

'And won't you tell me?'

'Tell you? Ah, about lunch. No, I shall not be back. '

'You won't? Oh, I am sorry. '

'Why are you sorry, indistinguishable little maiden?' he asked, drawingout one of her curls between his fingers, and letting it spring backagain into its circling beauty. 

'We thought it would be so nice, we four at lunch. '

'I am warned to avoid you. The tone of conversation would try my weakhead; I am not capable yet of intellectual effort. '

The little girl looked at him with puzzled eyes. 

'Well, it can't be helped, ' she said. 'I must go back to my lessons. '

She ran off, and Wilfrid went up to his dressing-room. When he camedown, Oberon was pawing the gravel before the door. He mounted and rodeaway. 

His spirits, which at first seemed to suffer some depression, tookvigour once more from the air of the downs. He put Oberon at a leap ortwo, then let the breeze sing in his ears as he was borne at a gallopover the summer land, golden with sunlight. In spite of his still wornlook, health was manifest in the upright vigour of his form, and in hiseyes gleamed the untroubled joy of existence. Hope just now was strongwithin him, a hope defined and pointing to an end attainable; he knewthat henceforth the many bounding and voiceful streams of his life wouldunite in one strong flow onward to a region of orient glory which shonebefore him as the bourne hitherto but dimly imagined. On, Oberon, on! Nospeed that would not lag behind the fore-flight of a heart's desire. Letthe stretch of green-shadowing woodland sweep by like a dream; let thefair, sweet meadow-sides smile for a moment and vanish; let the darkhill-summits rise and sink. It is the time of youth and hope, ofboundless faith in the world's promises, of breathless pursuit. 

Hilstead was gained long before lunch could be thought of. Wilfrid rodeon, and circled back towards the hostelry famous for chops about thehour of noon. He put up his horse, and strayed about the village tillhis meal was ready; after he had eaten it he smoked a cigar amonghollyhocks and sunflowers. Then impatience possessed him. He looked athis watch several times, annoyed to find that so little of the day wasspent. When he at last set forth again, it was to ride at walking pacein the direction of home. He reached a junction of roads, and waitedthere for several minutes, unable to decide upon his course. He ended bythrowing the reins on Oberon's neck. 

'Go which way you will, ' he said aloud. 

Oberon paced forward to the homeward route. 

'So be it. On, then! An hour will bring us to The Firs. '

The house was all but reached, when Wilfrid caught a glimpse of a strawhat moving into a heath-clad hollow a hundred yards from the road. Hepressed on. At the gate stood a gardener. 

'James, ' he cried, leaping down, 'take the horse to the stable, willyou?'

And, instead of going up to the house, he walked back in the directionhe had come till he reached the hollow in which the straw hat haddisappeared. Miss Hood sat on the ground, reading. She was about torise, but Wilfrid begged her not to move, and threw himself into areclining posture. 

'I saw you as I rode past, ' he said, in a friendly way. 'I suppose thetwins are straying?'

'They are at Greenhaws, ' was the reply, 'Mrs. Winter called for themimmediately after lunch. She will bring them back early in the evening. '

'Ah!'

He plucked sprigs of heather. Miss Hood turned to her book. 

'I've had a magnificent ride, ' Wilfrid began again. 'Surely there is nocountry in England so glorious as this. Don't you enjoy it?'

'Very much. '

'I have never seen the Yorkshire moors. The scenery, of course, is of amuch wilder kind?'

'I have not seen them myself, ' said the governess. 

'I thought you might have taken your holidays sometimes in thatdirection. '

'No. We used to go to a seaside place in Lincolnshire calledCleethorpes. I suppose you never heard of it?'

'I think not. '

Wilfrid continued to pluck heather, and let his eyes catch a glimpse ofher face now and then. Miss Hood was a year younger than himself, andhad well outgrown girlishness. She was of very slight build, lookedindeed rather frail; but her face, though lacking colour, had thefirmness of health. It was very broad at the forehead, and tapered downinto narrowness; the eyes seemed set at an unusual distance from eachother, though the nose was thin and of perfect form, its profile makingbut a slight angle away from the line of the brows. Her lips were large, but finely curved; the chin was prominent, the throat long. She had warmbrown hair. 

Few would at first sight have called her face beautiful, but none coulddeny the beauty of her hands. Ungloved at present, they lay on the openpages of the book, unsurpassable for delicate loveliness. When he didnot venture to look higher, Wilfrid let his eyes feed on the turn of thewrist, the faint blue lines and sinuous muscles, the pencilling aboutthe finger-joints, the delicate white and pink nails. 

Miss Hood was habitually silent when in the company of others than thechildren. When she replied to a question it was without timidity, but infew, well-chosen words. Yet her manner did not lack cheerfulness; sheimpressed no one as being unhappy, and alone with the twins she wasoften gay enough. She was self-possessed, and had the manners of a lady, though in her position this was rather to be observed in what sherefrained from doing than in what she did. Wilfrid had, on first meetingher, remarked to himself that it must imply a Certain force ofindividuality to vary so distinctly from the commonplace even under thedisadvantage of complete self-suppression; he had now come to understandbetter the way in which that individuality betrayed itself. 

'Shall you go to Cleethorpes this year?' was his next question. 

'I think not. I shall most likely pass the holidays at home. '

'And study electricity?'

In a former conversation she had surprised him by some unexpectedknowledge of the principles of electricity, and explained theacquirement by telling him that this subject was her father's favouritestudy. Wilfrid put the question now with a smile. 

'Yes, very likely, ' she replied, smiling also, but faintly. 'It gives myfather pleasure when I do so. '

'You have not a keen interest in the subject yourself?'

'I try to have. '

Her voice was of singular quality; if she raised it the effect was notagreeable, owing possibly to its lack of strength, but in low tones, such as she employed at present, it fell on the ear with a peculiarsweetness, a natural melody in its modulation. 

'The way in which you speak of your father interests me, ' said Wilfrid, leaning his chin upon his hand, and gazing at her freely. 'You seem sounited with him in sympathy. '

She did not turn her eyes to him, but her face gathered brightness. 

'In sympathy, yes, ' she replied, speaking now with more readiness. 'Ourtastes often differ, but we are always at one in feeling. We have beencompanions ever since I can remember. '

'Is your mother living?'

'Yes. '

Something in the tone of the brief affirmative kept Wilfrid from furtherquestioning. 

'I wonder, ' he said, 'what you think of the relations existing betweenmyself and my father. We are excellent friends, don't you think?Strange--one doesn't think much about such things till some occasionbrings them forward. Whether there is deep sympathy between us, Icouldn't say. Certainly there are many subjects on which I should notdream of speaking to him unless necessity arose; partly, I suppose, thatis male reserve, and partly English reserve. If novels are to betrusted, French parents and children speak together with much morefreedom; on the whole that must be better. '

She made no remark. 

'My father, ' he continued, 'is eminently a man of sense if I reflect onmy boyhood, I see how admirable his treatment of me has always been. Ifancy I must have been at one time rather hard to manage; I know I wasvery passionate and stubbornly self-willed. Yet he neither let me havemy own way nor angered me by his opposition. In fact, he made me respecthim. Now that we stand on equal terms, I dare say he has something ofthe same feeling towards myself. And So it comes that we are excellentfriends. '

She listened with a scarcely perceptible smile. 

'Perhaps this seems to you a curiously dispassionate way of treatingsuch a subject, ' Wilfrid added, with a laugh. 'It illustrates what Imeant in saying I doubted whether there was deep sympathy between us. Your own feeling for your father is clearly one of devotedness. Youwould think no sacrifice of your own wishes too great if he asked it ofyou. '

'I cannot imagine any sacrifice, which my father could ask, that Ishould refuse. '

She spoke with some difficulty, as if she wished to escape the subject. 

'Perhaps that is a virtue that your sex helps to explain, ' said Wilfrid, musingly. 

'You do not know, ' he added, when a bee had hummed between them for halfa minute, 'how constant my regret is that my mother did not live till Iwas old enough to make a friend of her. You know that she was anItalian? There was a sympathy taken out of my life. I believe I havemore of the Italian nature than the English, and I know my mother'spresence would be priceless to me now that I could talk with her. Whatunsatisfactory creatures we are as children, so imperfect, so deficient!It is worse with boys than with girls. Compare, for instance, the twinewith boys often. What coarse, awkward, unruly lumps of boisterousnessyoungsters mostly are at that age! I dislike boys, and more than everwhen I remember myself at that stage. What an insensible, ungrateful, brainless, and heartless brat I was!'

'You must be wrong in one respect, ' she returned, watching a largebutterfly. 'You could not have been brainless. '

'Oh, the foundation of tolerable wits was there, no doubt; but it isjust that undeveloped state that irritates me. Suppose I were now tenyears old, and that glorious butterfly before me; should I not leap atit and stick a pin through it--young savage? Precisely what a Hottentotboy would do, except that he would be free from the apish folly ofpretending a scientific interest, not really existing. I rejoice to havelived out of my boyhood; I would not go through it again for anythingshort of a thousand years of subsequent maturity. '

She just glanced at him, a light of laughter in her eyes. She wasabandoning herself to the pleasure of hearing him speak. 

'That picture of my mother, ' he pursued, dropping his voice again, 'doesnot do her justice. Even at twelve years old--(she died when I wastwelve)--I could not help seeing and knowing how beautiful she was. Ihave thought of her of late more than I ever did; sometimes I suffer apassion of grief that one so beautiful and lovable has gone and left amere dumb picture. I suppose even my memory of her will grow fainter andfainter, founded as it is on imperfect understanding, dim appreciation. She used to read Italian to me--first the Italian, then the English--andI thought it, as often as not, a bore to have to listen to her!Thank Heaven, I have the book she used, and can now go over the pieces, and try to recall her voice. '

The butterfly was gone, but the bee still hummed about them. The hotafternoon air was unstirred by any breeze. 

'How glad I am, ' Wilfrid exclaimed when he had brooded for a fewmoments, 'that I happened to see you as I rode past! I should havewandered restlessly about the house in vain, seeking for some one totalk to. And you listen so patiently. It is pleasant to be here and talkso freely of things I have always had to keep in my own mind. Look, dolook at that bastion of cloud over the sycamore! What glorious gradationof tints! What a snowy crown!'

'That is a pretty spray, ' he added, holding to her one that he hadplucked. 

She looked at it; then, as he still held It out, took it from him. Theexquisite fingers touched his own redder and coarser ones. 

'Have you friends in Dunfield?' he asked. 

'Friends?'

'Any real friend, I mean--any girl who gives you real companionship?'

'Scarcely that. '

'How shall you spend your time when you are not deep in electrics? Whatdo you mean to read these holidays?'

'Chiefly German, I think. I have only just begun to read it. '

'And I can't read it at all. Now and then I make a shot at the meaningof a note in a German edition of some classical author, every timefretting at my ignorance. But there is so endlessly much to do, and aday is so short. '

'Isn't it hateful, ' he broke forth, 'this enforced idleness of mine? Tothink that weeks and weeks go by and I remain just where I was, when theloss of an hour used to seem to me an irreparable misfortune. I havesuch an appetite for knowledge, surely the unhappiest gift a man can beendowed with it leads to nothing but frustration. Perhaps the appetiteweakens as one grows in years; perhaps the sphere of one's keenerinterests contracts; I hope it may be so. At times I cannot work--Imean, I could not--for a sense of the vastness of the field before me. I should like you to see my rooms at Balliol. Shelves have long sincerefused to take another volume; floor, tables, chairs, every spot isheaped. And there they lie; hosts I have scarcely looked into, many Ishall never have time to take up to the end of my days. '

'You have the satisfaction of being able to give your whole time tostudy. '

'There is precisely the source of dissatisfaction My whole time, andthat wholly insufficient. I have a friend, a man I envy intensely; hehas taken up the subject of Celtic literature; gives himself to it withsingle-heartedness, cares for nothing that does not connect itselftherewith; will pursue it throughout his life; will know more of it thanany man living. My despair is the universality of my interests. I canthink of no branch of study to which I could not surrender myself withenthusiasm; of course I shall never master one. My subject is thehistory of humanity; I would know everything that man has done orthought or felt. I cannot separate lines of study. Philology is apassion with me, but how shall I part the history of speech from thehistory of thought? The etymology of any single word will hold me forhours; to follow it up I must traverse centuries of human culture. Theytell me I have a faculty for philosophy, in the narrow sense of theword; alas! that narrow sense implies an exhaustive knowledge ofspeculation in the past and of every result of science born in our owntime Think of the sunny spaces in the world's history, in each of whichone could linger for ever I Athens at her fairest, Borne at hergrandest, the glorious savagery of Merovingian courts, the kingdom ofFrederick II. , the Moors in Spain, the magic of Renaissance Italy--tobecome a citizen of any one age means a lifetime of endeavour. It iseasy to fill one's head with names and years, but that only sharpens myhunger. Then there is the world of art; I would know every subtlestmelody of verse in every tongue, enjoy with perfectly instructed tasteevery form that man has carved or painted. I fear to enter museums andgalleries; I am distracted by the numberless desires that seize upon me, depressed by the hopelessness of satisfying them. I cannot even enjoymusic from the mere feeling that I do not enjoy it enough, that I havenot had time to study it, that I shall never get at its secret. .. . And when is one to live? I cannot lose myself in other men's activityand enjoyments. I must have a life of my own, outside the walls of alibrary. It would be easy to give up all ambition of knowledge, toforget all the joy and sorrow that has been and passed into nothingness;to know only the eternity of a present hour. Might one not learn more inone instant of unreflecting happiness than by toiling on to a mummiedage, only to know in the end the despair of never having lived?'

He again raised his eyes to her face. It was fixed in a cold, absentgaze; her lips hardened into severity, the pose of her head impressive, noble. Athel regarded her for several moments; she was revealing to himmore of her inner self than he had yet divined. 

'What are your thoughts?' he asked quietly. 

She smiled, recovering her wonted passiveness. 

'Have you not often much the same troubles?'

'They arc only for the mind which is strong enough to meet and overcomethem, ' she replied. 

'But look, my mind has given way already! I am imbecile. For ever Ishall be on the point of a break-down, and each successive one willbring me nearer to some final catastrophe--perhaps the lunaticasylum--who knows?'

'I should think, ' she said gravely, 'that you suggested a truth. Verylikely your mind will contract its range and cease to aim at theimpossible. '

'But tell me, have you not yourself already attained that wisdom? Whyshould you make pretences of feebleness which does not mark you? Youhave a mind as active as my own; I know that perfectly well. What isyour secret of contentment? Won't you help me in this miserable plight?'

'No, Mr. Athel, I have none but very ordinary powers of mind, andperhaps it is my recognition of that which keeps me contented. There isindeed one principle of guidance which I have worked out for myself--'

'Ah! And that?'

'It will not enlighten you, for it is only the choice of a natural andeasy course, seeing that difficult ones are closed. The literature oflearning is out of my reach, so I limit myself to the literature ofbeauty, and in this I try to keep to the best. '

'You are right, you are right! To know the masterpieces of literature, pure literature, poetry in its widest sense; that is the wise choice. Think; we feed ourselves with the secondhand wisdom of paltryphilosophisers and critics, and Shakespeare waits outside the door withthe bread of life. From Homer--Alas! you do not read Greek?'

She shook her head. 

'And you work at German! In Heaven's name change your languageforthwith! Why should you not know Greek? You _must_ know Greek! I willgive you books, I will advise you, show you the essentials to beginwith. There are still a few days before you go into Yorkshire; you canwork during the holidays on lines I shall set you; you can write andtell me your--'

He paused, for her face had lost its smile, and wore again that coldlyrespectful look which she seldom put off save in her privacy with thechildren. For the last quarter of an hour he had marked in her quiteanother aspect; the secret meanings of her face had half utteredthemselves in eye and lip. His last words seemed to recall her to theworld of fact. She made a slight movement and closed the book on herlap. 

'Greek is more than I can undertake, Mr. Athel, ' she said in a quietlydecided tone. 'I must be content with translations. '

'Translations You would not say that so calmly if you knew what you wererenouncing. Everything, everything in literature, I would give up tosave my Greek. You will learn it, I know you will; some day I shall hearyou read the hexameters as beautifully as you read English poetry to thegirls. Will you not begin if I beg you to?'

The elbow on which he rested moved a few inches nearer to her. He sawthe pearly shadows waver upon her throat, and her lips tremble intorigidity. 

'My time in the holidays will be very limited, ' she said. 'I haveundertaken to give some help to a friend who is preparing to become ateacher, and'--she tried to smile--'I don't think I must do more workwhilst at home than is really necessary. '

'No, that is true, ' Wilfrid assented unwillingly. 'Never mind, there isplenty of time. Greek will be overcome, you will see. When we are allback in town and the days are dull, then I shall succeed in persuadingyou. '

She looked about her as if with thought of quitting her place. Hercompanion was drawn into himself; he stroked mechanically with hisfinger-tips the fronds of bracken near him. 

'I suppose I shall go up again in October, ' he began. 'I wish there wereno necessity for it. '

'But surely it is your one desire?' the other replied in genuinesurprise. 

'Not to return to Oxford. A few months ago it would have been, but thiscrisis in my life has changed me. I don't think I shall adapt myselfagain to those conditions. I want to work in a freer way. I had apositive zeal even for examinations; now that seems tame--well, boyish. I believe I have outgrown that stage; I feel a reluctance to go back toschool. I suppose I must take my degree, and so on, but it will all beagainst the grain. '

'Your feeling will most likely alter when you have thoroughly recoveredyour health. '

'No, I don't think it will. Practically my health is all right. Youdon't, ' he added with a smile, 'regard me as an irresponsible person, whose feeble remarks are to be received with kind allowance?'

'No, I did not mean that. '

He gazed at her, and his face showed a growing trouble. 

'You do not take too seriously what I said just now about the weaknessof my mind? It would be horrible if you thought I had worked myself intoa state of amiable imbecility, and was incapable henceforth of acting, thinking, or speaking with a sound intellect. Tell me, say in plainwords that is not your way of interpreting me. '

He had become very much in earnest. Raising himself to a position inwhich he rested on one hand, lie looked straight into her face. 

'Why don't you reply? Why don't you speak?'

'Because, Mr. Athel, it is surely needless to say that I have no suchthought. '

'No, it is not needless; and even now you speak in a way which troublesme. Do not look away from me. What has my aunt told you about me?'

She turned her face to him. Her self-command was so complete that not athrob of her leaping heart betrayed itself in vein or muscle. She evenmet his eyes with a placid gaze which he felt as a new aspect of hercountenance. 

'Mrs. Rossall has never spoken to me of your health, ' she said. 

'But my father's jokes; he has a way of humorous exaggeration. You ofcourse understand that; you don't take seriously all he says?'

'I think I can distinguish between jest and earnest. '

'For all that, you speak of the recovery of my health as if I were stillfar from the wholly rational stand-point. So far from my being mentallyunsound, this rest has been a growing-time with me. Before, I didnothing but heap my memory with knowledge of hooks; now I have hadleisure to gather knowledge of a deeper kind. I was a one-sidedacademical monster; it needed this new sense to make me human. The oldcollege life is no longer my ideal; I doubt if it will be possible. Atany rate, I shall hurry over the rest of my course as speedily as maybe, that I may begin really to live. You must credit what I am saying; Iwant you to give me distinct assurance that you do so. If I have theleast doubt, it will trouble my mind in earnest. '

Miss Hood rose to her feet in that graceful effortless way of whichgirls have the secret. 

'You attribute a meaning to my words that I never thought of, ' she said, again in the distant respectful manner. 

Wilfrid also rose. 

'And you give me credit for understanding myself, for being as muchmaster of my mind as I am of my actions?'

'Surely I do, Mr. Athel. '

'You are going to the house? It is nearly five o'clock your consciencetells you that a civilised being must drink tea. I think I shall walkover to Greenhaws; I may as well save Mrs. Winter the trouble ofbringing back the children. '

He hesitated before moving away. 

'How little that cloud has changed its form! I should like to stay hereand watch it till sunset. In a week I suppose I shall be looking at somesuch cloud over Mont Blanc. And you, in Dunfield. '

'No, there we have only mill-smoke. '

She smiled, and passed from the hollow to the road. 

CHAPTER II

BEATRICE REDWING

Midway in breakfast next morning, at a moment when Mrs. Rossall wasdescribing certain originalities of drawing-room decoration observed onthe previous day at a house in town, the half-open door admitted a younglady who had time to glance round the assembled family before herpresence was observed. In appearance she was very interesting. The tintsof her fine complexion were warmed by exercise in the morning air, andher dark eyes brightened by pleasurable excitement; she carried her hatin her hand, and seemed to have been walking bare-headed, for there weresigns of wind-play in her abundant black hair. But neither face norattire suggested rusticity: the former was handsome, spirited, with ahint of uncommon things in its changeful radiance; the latter was theresult of perfect taste choosing at will among the season's costumes. Ather throat were fastened two blossoms of wild rose, with the dew stillon them, and the hand which held her lace-trimmed sunshade carried alsoa spray of meadow-sweet. 

Mr. Athel, looking up from the end of the table, was the first toperceive her. 

'_Guardami ben: ben son, ben son Beatrice_!' he exclaimed, rising andmoving from his place. 'But how in the world has she got here?'

'Beatrice!' cried Mrs. Rossall, following the general direction of eyes. 'Here already! But you surely haven't come from town this morning?'

'But indeed I have, ' was the reply, in a joyous voice, whose full, richquality took the ear captive. 'Will you let me sit down just as I am?Patty, here's a rose for you, and, Minnie, another for you. ' She tookthem from her dress. 'How do you do, Mr. Wilfrid?'

The governess was mentioned to her by name; Beatrice looked at hersteadfastly for a moment. 

'But how have you got here?' inquired Mrs. Rossall. 'You must have leftLondon at an unheard-of hour; and how have yen come from Dealing?'

'Clearly she has walked, ' said Mr. Athel. 'Don't you see the spoils ofher progress?'

'Oh yes, I have walked, ' replied the girl. 'I suppose I'm in a dreadfulstate towards the end I almost ran. I was so afraid lest I should missbreakfast, and you can't imagine how hungry I am. Is that oatmealporridge you are eating, Mr. Wilfrid? Oh, do let me have some; howdelicious it will be!'

'Nonsense, Beatrice, ' interposed Mrs. Rossall. 'Let Mr. Athel give yousome of that pate, or will you have--'

'I've been a vegetarian for a month, ' was the reply. 

'You don't mean it?'

'Most strictly. No--eggs are not permitted; only the feebler schoolallows them. You can't think how much better I have been in body andmind since I adopted the new diet. '

'But Whatever train did you start by?' pressed Mrs. Rossall. 

'Half-past six. I never can sleep these short summer nights. I was upabout five o'clock, and just as I was going to read I saw the railwaytime-table. I looked for the first train and determined to come by it. Iwrote a short note to let mother know what had become of me, then in aminute or two I got my things packed, and last of all stole out of thehouse to find a cab. Luckily, a policeman was just passing the door; hefound one for me in no time. Not a soul was up, so I dragged the trunkout on to the landing, and then made the cabman creep upstairs like aburglar to fetch it. Of course he thought I was running away; he enjoyedthe joke wonderfully; you should have seen his smile when I paid him atthe station. Perhaps you'll let them fetch my luggage before lunch?'

'But won't your mother be alarmed?' asked Mrs. Rossall. 

'Why should she? She knows I am very capable of taking care of myself. Iwouldn't have missed this walk for anything. I only lost my way once, and then, luckily, a farmer came driving along: he told me I had half amile more. I trebled his distance, which made it about right. '

'It's a good four miles from the station, ' remarked Mr. Athel. 

'Is it? If I hadn't been so hungry I shouldn't have minded as muchagain. You're not angry with me, Mrs. Rossall, for coming before I wasexpected?'

A curious note of irresponsible childishness came out now and then inher talk, as in this last question; it was the more noticeable for theair of maturity and self-possession which on the whole characterisedher. She continued to talk with much vivacity, making at the same time ahearty meal. Her place at the table was between Wilfrid and Patty; onthe opposite side sat Miss Hood and Minnie. As often as her eyes fellupon the governess's face, they rested there for a moment, searchingly, as if with endeavour to recall some memory. 

'Who is responsible for your vegetarianism?' Wilfrid asked. 'Is Mr. Cresset preaching the doctrine?'

'No, Mr. Cresset is not preaching the doctrine, ' was the reply, in atone which evidently contained reference to previous dissensions. 

'Surely there is nothing offensive in the suggestion?' remarked theyoung man mildly. 

'Yes, there is something offensive. Your references to Mr. Cresset arealways offensive. '

'You do me injustice. Aunt, I take you to witness, didn't I praiseungrudgingly a sermon of his we heard last Christmas?'

'I remember quite well, ' said Beatrice; 'you regarded it asextraordinary that anything good could come from that source, Mr. Athel, I take you to witness, wasn't that his tone?'

'Patty, ' interposed Mrs. Rossall, 'do change your place and sit betweenthose two; they never can be next each other without quarrelling. '

Breakfast drew out to unusual length. Miss Redwing was full of theseason's news, and Mrs. Rossall's reviving interest in such vanitiesscarcely affected concealment. Mr. Athel, too, though he supported ajesting tone, clearly enjoyed listening to the girl's vivacious commentson the world which amuses itself. Wilfrid talked less than usual. 

He and his father strolled together into the garden an hour later, andfound Beatrice reclining in a hammock which had recently been suspendedin a convenient spot. She had one hand beneath her head, the other helda large fan, with which she warded off stray flakes of sunlight fallingbetween the leaves. 

'Isn't this exquisite?' she cried. 'Let no one hint to me of stirringbefore lunch-time. I am going to enjoy absolute laziness. '

'I thought you would have preferred a gallop over the downs, ' said Mr. Athel. 

'Oh, we'll have that this afternoon; you may talk of it now, and I shallrelish it in anticipation. Or, better still, sit down and tell us oldstories about Egypt, and let us forget the age we live in. '

'What is amiss with the age?' inquired Mr. Athel, who stood smoking acigar and was in his wonted state of satisfaction with himself and theuniverse. 

'Everything is amiss. If you had been with me yesterday in a street Iwas visiting, not a quarter of a mile from home--But I'm going to forgetall that now. How deliciously warm it is here in the shade! I must havea hammock in our garden at Cowes. '

'When do you go back?' Mr. Athel asked. 

'In about a fortnight. It has done mother no end of good; don't youthink she looks remarkably well, Mrs. Rossall? I'm afraid she finds it alittle dull though. '

When his father had returned to the house, Wilfrid sat en the grass andrested his head against the arm of the low garden chair in which Mrs. Rossall was reclining. The sound of a grass-cutter alone mingled withthe light rustling of the trees. It was one of those perfect summermornings when the sun's rays, though streaming from a cloudless sky, aretempered by a gentle haze in the upper regions of the air, when thezenith has a tinge of violet and on the horizon broods a reddish mist. From this part of the garden only a glimpse of the house was visible; anupper window with white curtains, cool, peaceful. All else on every sidewas verdure and bloom. 

'Is it possible, ' Beatrice asked, when there had been silence for a fewmoments, 'that I can have met Miss Hood anywhere before to-day? Her faceis strangely familiar to me. '

'She has never been in London before she came to us, ' said Mrs. Rossall. 

'But you have relatives in Dunfield, I think?' remarked Wilfrid. 

'To be sure, ' said his aunt; 'she comes from Dunfield, in Yorkshire. Doyou think you can have met her there?'

'Ah, that explains it, ' Beatrice cried eagerly. 'I knew I had seen her, and I know now where it was. She gave lessons to my uncle's children. Isaw her when I was staying there the last time, three--no, four yearsago. I can't recall her by her name, but her face, oh, I remember it asclearly as possible. '

'What a memory you have, Beatrice!' said Mrs. Rossall. 

'I never forget a face that strikes me. '

'In what way did Miss Hood's face strike you?' Wilfrid asked, as if inidle curiosity, and with some of the banter which always marked his toneto Beatrice. 

'You would like some deep, metaphysical reason, but I am not advancedenough for that. I don't suppose I thought much about her at the time, but the face has stayed in my mind. But how old is she?'

'Two-and-twenty, ' said Mrs. Rossall, smiling. 

'A year older than myself; my impression was that she was more thanthat. I think I only saw her once; she was with us at lunch one day. Wespoke of her shyness, I remember; she scarcely said a word all thetime. '

'Yes, she is very shy, ' assented Mrs. Rossall. 

'That's a mistake, I think, aunt, ' said Wilfrid; 'shyness is quite adifferent thing from reticence. '

'Reticent, then, ' conceded the lady, with a smile to Beatrice. 'At allevents, she is very quiet and agreeable and well-bred. It is such a goodthing to have a governess who really seems well-bred; it does make it somuch easier to treat her with consideration. '

'Do the children like her?' Beatrice asked. 

'Very much indeed. And it's wonderful how she controls them; they arescatter-brained little creatures. '

'Will she go abroad with you?'

'Oh, no, I don't think that necessary. '

Wilfrid presently left the two to their gossip. The conversationnaturally turned to him. 

'How is his health?' Beatrice asked. 

'He seems quite recovered. I don't think there was ever anything tooccasion much alarm, but his father got frightened. I expect we shallbring him back from Switzerland as well as ever he was. '

'What ever has he done with himself the last two months?' mused thegirl. 

'Well, it has been rather hard to keep him occupied away from books. Hehas been riding a good deal, and smoking a good deal. '

'And talking a good deal?'

'Well, yes, Wilf is fond of talking, ' admitted Mrs. Rossall, 'but Idon't think he's anything like as positive as he was. He does now andthen admit that other people may have an opinion which is worthentertaining. Celia Dawlish was with us a fortnight ago; she declaredhim vastly improved. '

'She told him so?'

'No, that was in private to me. '

'But I think Celia and he always got on well together, ' said Beatrice inan idly meditative tone, moving the edge of her fan backwards andforwards a few inches above her face. 

A few minutes later, after a silence, she said--

'Do you know what I am thinking?'

'What?' asked Mrs. Rossall, with an air of interest. 

'That if I were to close my eyes and keep quiet I should very soon befast asleep. '

The other laughed at the unexpected reply. 

'Then why not do so, dear? It's warm enough; you couldn't take anyharm. '

'I suppose the walk has tired me. '

'But if you had no sleep last night? How is it you can't sleep, Iwonder? Is it the same when you are at Cowes?'

'No, only in London. Something troubles me; I feel that I have neglectedduties. I hear voices, as distinct as yours now, reproving me for myidle, frivolous life. '

'Nonsense! I am sure you are neither idle nor frivolous. Do doze off, ifyou can, dear; I'll go and get something to read. '

'You won't be angry with me?' the girl asked, in the tone of anaffectionate weary child. 

'I shall if you use ceremony with me. '

Beatrice sighed, folded her hands upon the fan, and closed her lids. When Mrs. Rossall returned from the house with a magazine and a lightshawl, the occupant of the hammock was already sound asleep. She threwthe shawl with womanly skill and gentleness over the shapely body. Whenshe had resumed her seat, she caught a glimpse of Wilfrid at a littledistance; her beckoned summons brought him near. 

'Look, ' she whispered, pointing to the hammock. 'When did you see aprettier picture?'

The young man gazed with a free smile, the expression of criticalappreciativeness. The girl's beauty stirred in him no mood but that. Sheslept with complete calm of feature the half-lights that came throughthe foliage made an exquisite pallor on her face, contrasting with thedark masses of her hair. Her bosom rose and fell in the softest sighing;her pure throat was like marble, and her just parted lips seemed to needa protector from the bees. .. . 

While she sleeps, let us learn a little more of her history. Somefive-and-twenty years previously, Alfred Redwing was a lecturer on Greekand Latin at a small college in the North of England, making shift tolive on a beggarly stipend. Handsome, pleasing, not quite thirty, he waswell received in such semblance of society as his town offered, and, inspite of his defects as a suitor, he won for his wife a certain MissBaxendale, the daughter of a well-to-do manufacturer. She brought him atonce a few hundreds a year, and lie pursued his college work in improvedspirits. His wife had two brothers; one had early gone to America, theother was thriving as a man of business in the town of Dunfield. WithLaurence Baxendale, who dated his very occasional letters from variousparts of the United States, the family might be said to have parted forgood; before leaving England he had got on ill terms with his father andbrother, and it was only a persistent affection for his sister thatcaused him to give any sign of himself year after year. When this sisterhad been Mrs. Redwing for about two years, she one day received anintimation from solicitors that Laurence was dead and had left her thewhole of a very considerable fortune, the product, mainly, of dealingsin lumber. Mr. And Mrs. Redwing in fact found themselves possessed ofnearly fourteen thousand a year, proceeding from most orderlyinvestments. This would naturally involve a change in their mode oflife. In the first place they paid a visit to America; then they settledin London, where, about the same time, their only child, Beatrice wasborn. A month after the child's coming into the world, the fatherwithdrew from it--into a private lunatic asylum. He had not been himselffrom the day when he heard of the fortune that had come to him; such anaccess of blessedness was not provided for in the constitution of hismind. Probably few men of his imaginative temperament and hardantecedents could have borne the change without some little unsettlingof mental balance; we are framed to endure any amount of ill, but haveto take our chance in the improbable event of vast joy befalling us. Poor Redwing conceived a suspicion that his wife desired to murder him;one night as she was following him into their bedroom, he suddenlyturned round, caught hold of her with violence, and flung her to theground, demanding the knife which he protested he had seen gleam in herhand. It was no longer safe to live with him; he was put underrestraint, and never again knew freedom. In less than a year he died, amoping maniac. 

Mrs. Redwing was an invalid thenceforth; probably it was only theexistence of her child that saved her life. An affection of the heart incourse of time declared itself, but, though her existence was believedto hang on a thread, she lived on and on, lived to see Beatrice grow towomanhood. She kept a small house in London, but spent the greater partof the year at home or foreign health-resorts. Her relatives hadsupposed that she would return to her own country, but Mrs. Redwing hadtastes which lacked gratification in a provincial manufacturing town. Without having achieved much positive culture, she had received from herhusband an impulse towards the development of certain higherpossibilities in her nature, and she liked the society of mentallyactive people. The state of her health alone withheld her from a secondmarriage; she was not a very patient invalid, and suffered keenly in thesense of missing the happiness which life had offered her. In the matterof her daughter's education she exercised much care. Doctrinal religionhad a strong hold upon her, and it was her solicitude that Beatriceshould walk from the first in the ways of Anglican salvation. Shedreaded the 'spirit of the age. ' With a better judgment in pureliterature than falls to the lot of most women--or men either--she yetbanished from her abode, wherever it might be anything that remotelysavoured of intellectual emancipation; her aesthetic leanings she deemedthe great temptation of her life, for she frankly owned to her friendsthat many things powerfully attracted her, which her con science badeher shun as dangerous. Her generosity made her a shining light in theworld which busies itself in the dispensing or receiving ofecclesiastical charity. The clerical element was very strong in thecircle that surrounded her. At the same time her worldly tastes did notgo altogether ungratified. She was very fond of music, and her unlimitedpowers in the provision of first-rate musical entertainment brought toher house acquaintances of a kind that would not otherwise have beenfound there. The theatre she tabooed, regarding this severity as anacceptable sacrifice, and not troubling to reflect what share herill-health had in rendering it a fairly easy one. In brief, she was awoman of a genial nature, whose inconsistencies were largely due to herinability to outgrow early conditions. 

Beatrice inherited her mother's mental restrictions, but was endowedwith a subtlety of nature, which, aided by her circumstances, made heryet more a being of inconsistencies and contradictions. Iii religion itwas not enough for her to conform; zeal drove her into the extremestforms of ritualistic observance. Nor did care for her personal salvationsuffice; the logic of a compassionate nature led her on to various formsof missionary activity; she haunted vile localities, ministering aliketo soul and body. At the same time she relished keenly the delights ofthe masquerading sphere, where her wealth and her beauty made her doublywelcome. From praying by the bedside of a costermonger's wife, she wouldspeed away to shine among the brightest in phantasmagoric drawing-rooms;her mother could seldom accompany her, but there was always some oneready to chaperon Beatrice Redwing. Once in the world from which thoughtis banished, she seemed as thoughtless as any. Her spiritual convictionsput no veto even upon dancing. Yet her mood at such times was not theentire self-abandonment of the girl who is born but to waltz. In spiteof the sanction of custom, she could not wholly suppress her virginalinstincts, and, however unconsciously, something in her nature helditself aloof. She led a life of indecision. Combining in herself suchcontradictory elements, she was unable to make close friendships. Herintimacy with Mrs. Rossall, which dated from her late childhood, was notthe perfect accord which may subsist between women of very differentcharacters, yet here she gave and received more sympathy than elsewhere. It was her frequent saying that she came to Mrs. Rossall's house whenshe wanted to rest. Here she could be herself, could pass withoutinterval from pietistic argument to chatter about her neighbours, couldindulge in impulses of confession as with no one else, could put off thestrain of existence which was the result of her conflicting impulses. But it was only during a portion of the year that she could have Mrs. Rossall's society at other times, though no one suspected it, shesuffered much from loneliness. With her mother she was in accord on thesubjects of religion and music, but even natural affection, blendingwith these sympathies, could not bring about complete unity in her homethere was the same lack that she experienced in the outer world. For allher versatility, she was not in appearance emotional; no one seemed lesslikely to be overcome by passion. Her enthusiasms fell short of the lastnote of sincerity. Perhaps it was on this account that she produced nostrong impression, in spite of her beauty. Her personality suffered onacquaintance from defect of charm. Was it a half-consciousness of thisthat led her now and then into the curious affectation of childishnessalready remarked? Did she feel unable to rely for pleasing upon thosegenuine possessions which for sonic reason could never advantageouslydisplay themselves?. .. . 

For more than an hour she slept. At her waking she found Minnie standingby her side. 

'Are your lessons over?' she asked, passing at once into fullconsciousness, without sign of having slept. 

The child replied that they were. 

'Where is Miss Hood?'

'In the summer-house. '

Beatrice rose, and they walked towards the summer-house together. It wasin a corner of the garden, hidden among acacias and laurels, a circularhut in the ordinary style. Patty and the governess were seated within. Beatrice entered, and took a scat with them. 

'Is your memory as good as my own, Miss Hood?' she said pleasantly. 'Doyou remember our meeting four years ago?'

The other regarded her with quiet surprise, and said she had norecollection of the meeting. 

'Not at Mr. Baxendale's, my uncle's, one day that you lunched with uswhen I was staying there?'

Miss Hood had wholly forgotten the circumstance. It served, however, forthe commencement of a conversation, which went en till Mrs. Rossall, finding the hammock deserted, was guided by the sound of voices to wherethe two girls and the children sat. 

In the afternoon there was a setting forth into the country. Mr. Atheldrove his sister and the children; Wilfrid and Beatrice accompanied themon horseback. The course to be pursued having been determined, theriders were not at pains to keep the carriage always within sight. 

'Why did Miss Hood decline to come?' Mr. Athel inquired, shortly afterthey had started. 

She gave no reason, Mrs. Rossall replied. 'It was her choice to stay athome. '

'Of course you asked her in a proper way?'

'Why, Philip, of course I did. '

'Miss Hood never alters her mind, ' remarked Patty. 

'Never, ' exclaimed the other twin with decision. 

'An admirable characteristic, ' commented their uncle, 'provided herdecision is right to begin with. '

Beatrice had just led off at a gallop; Wilfrid necessarily followed her. When the pace slackened they began to talk of Indifferent things. On thecrest of a hill, whence the carriage could be seen far away on the whiteroad, the girl reined in, and, turning to her companion, askedabruptly--

'What is your opinion of Miss Hood?'

'Why do you ask such a question?'

'Because I should like to know. She interests me, and you must have hadopportunities enough lately of studying her character?'

'Why does she interest you?'

'I can't say. I thought you might help me to discover the reason. Youhave often said that you liked women of strongly marked character. '

'How do you conclude that she is one?'

'I feel it; we were talking together before lunch. I don't think I likeher; I don't think she has principles. '

Wilfrid laughed. 

'Principles! The word is vague. You mean, no doubt, that she doesn'tseem to have commonplace prejudices. '

'That's just what I wanted you to say. '

She let her horse move on. The young man followed, his eyes gazingabsently before him, a smile fixed upon his lips. 

Beatrice looked over her shoulder. 

'Does she read the same kind of books that you do?'

'Unfortunately I read no books at all. '

She paused again to let him get to her side. 

'What a pity it can't continue!'

'What?'

'Your inability to read. '

'That is the kindest remark I have heard for a long time!' exclaimedWilfrid with a good-natured laugh. 

'Very likely it is, though you don't mean it. When you read, you onlypoison your mind. It is your reading that has made you what you are, without faith, without feeling. You dissect everything, you calculatemotives cynically, you have learnt to despise everyone who believes whatyou refuse to, you make your own intellect the centre of the world. Youare dangerous. '

'What a character! To whom am I dangerous?'

'To anyone whom it pleases you to tempt, in whom you find the beginningsof disbelief. '

'In brief, I have no principles?'

'Of course you have none. '

'In other words, I am selfish?'

'Intensely so. '

It was hard to discover whether she were in earnest. Wilfrid examinedher for a moment, and concluded that she must be. Her eyes were gleamingwith no mock seriousness, and there was even a slight quiver about herlips. In all their exchanges of banter he had never known her look andspeak quite as she did now. As he regarded her there came a flush to hercheek. She turned her head away and rode on. 

'And what moves you to visit me with this castigation at present, MissRedwing?' he asked, still maintaining his jesting tone. 

'I don't know, ' she answered carelessly. 'I felt all at once able to saywhat I thought. '

'Then you do really think all this?'

'Assuredly I do. '

He kept silence a little. 

'And you can't see, ' he began, rather more seriously, 'that you aredeplorably lacking in the charity which surely should be among _your_principles?'

'There are some things to which charity must not be extended. '

'Let us say, then, discretion, insight. ' He spoke yet more earnestly. 'You judge me, and, in truth, you know as little of me as anyone could. The attitude of your mind prevents you from understanding me in theleast; it prevents you from understanding any human being. You areconsumed with prejudice, and prejudice of the narrowest, most hopelesskind. Am I too severe?'

'Not more so than you have often been. Many a time you have told me howyou despised me. '

He was silent, then spoke impulsively. 

'Well, perhaps the word is not too strong; though it is not your veryself that I despise, but the ignorance and bigotry which possess you. Itis a pity; I believe you might be a woman of quite a different kind. '

'Of pronounced character?'

'Precisely. You are neither one thing nor another. You have told me whatyou think of me; shall I be equally frank and speak as if you were acollege friend? For at all events we _are_ friends. '

'I am not sure of that. '

'Oh, but I am; and we shall be friends none the worse for ingenuousnesson both sides. Look at the position in which you stand. One moment youarc a woman of the world, the next you run frantic with religious zeal, another turn and you are almost an artist, at your piano; when you aretired of all these you become, or try to become, a sort of _ingenue_. Inthe name of consistency, be one thing or another. You are quite mistakenin thinking that I despise religious enthusiasm in itself. Become averitable Beatrice, and I will venerate you infinitely. Give upeverything to work in London slums, and you shall have my warmestadmiration. But you are not sincere. '

'I am sincere!' she broke in, with more passion than he had everimagined her capable of uttering. 

'I cannot call it sincerity. It is impossible that you should besincere; you live in the latter end of the nineteenth century; theconditions of your birth and education forbid sincerity of this kind. '

'I am sincere, ' she repeated, but in a low voice, without looking athim. 

'On the other hand, ' lie proceeded, 'surrender yourself entirely to thelife of society, and I will still respect you. You are a beautifulwoman; you might be inexpressibly charming. Frankly recognise yourcapabilities, and cultivate your charm. Make a study of your loveliness;make it your end to be a queen in drawing-rooms. '

'You insult me. '

'I can't see that I do. There is nothing contemptible in such an aim;nothing is contemptible that is thorough. Or you have the third course. Pursue music with seriousness. Become a real artist; a public singer, let us say. No amateur nonsense; recognise that you have a superb voice, and that by dint of labour you may attain artistic excellence. You talkof getting up concerts in low parts of London, of humanising ruffians bythe influence of music. Pshaw! humanise humanity at large by devotion toan artistic ideal; the other aim is paltry, imbecile, charlatan. '

He tried to see her face; she rode on, holding it averted. 

'Follow any one of these courses, and you will make of yourself a truewoman. By trying to be a bit of everything you become insignificant. Napoleon the Great was a curse to mankind, but one thinks more of himthan of Napoleon the Little, who wasn't quite sure whether to be a curseor a blessing. There is a self in every one of us; the end of our lifeis to discern it, bring it out, make it actual. You don't yet know yourown self; you have not the courage to look into your heart and mind; youkeep over your eyes the bandage of dogmas in which you only halfbelieve. Your insincerity blights the natural qualities of yourintellect. You have so long tried to persuade yourself of the evil ofevery way of thinking save ecclesiastical dogmatism, that you cannotjudge fairly even those to whom you are most friendly. Cannot you seethat the world has outgrown the possibility of one universal religion?For good or for evil, each of us must find a religion in himself, andyou have no right whatever to condemn before you have understood. '

'You cannot say that you have any religion, ' she said, facing him. Hesaw to his astonishment that there had been tears in her eyes. 

'You cannot say that I have none. The radical fault of your uninstructedway of looking at things is that you imagine mankind and the world to bematters of such simple explanation. You learn by heart a few maxims, half a dozen phrases, and there is your key to every mystery. That isthe child's state of mind. You have never studied, you have neverthought. Your self-confidence is ludicrous; you and such as you do nothesitate to judge offhand men who have spent a long life in thepassionate pursuit of wisdom. You have no reverence. It is the fault youattribute to me, but wrongly; if you had ever brought an open mind toour conversations, you would have understood that my reverence even foryour ideal is not a wit less than your own; it is only that I see it inanother light. You say that I have no religion: what if I have not? Areone's final conclusions to be achieved in a year or two of earlymanhood? I have my inner voices, and I try to understand them. Oftenenough they are ambiguous, contradictory; I live in hope that theirbidding will become clearer. I search for meanings, try to understandmyself, strive after knowledge. '

'You might as well have been born a pagan. One voice has spoken; itsbidding is the sufficient and only guide. '

'Say rather that so it seems to you. Your inheritance of conviction isnot mine; your mode of reasoning and my own have nothing in common. Weinhabit different worlds. '

Beatrice let her eyes turn slowly to his face. The smile with which hemet her found no reflection on her countenance; her look was that of onewho realises a fatality. 

'Shall we join them?' she asked in a moment, nodding towards the far-offcarriage which was about to hide itself among trees. 

Wilfrid mused instead of answering. She began to ride on. 

'Stay one minute, ' he said. 'I have been anything but courteous in myway of speaking to you, but it was better to put off idle forms, was itnot?'

'Yes; I shall know henceforth what you think of me. '

'Not from this one conversation, if you mean that. '

'Well, it does not matter. '

'Perhaps not. Difference of opinion has fortunately little to do withold-standing kindness. '

'I am not sure that you are right, at all events when it has expresseditself in words of contempt. '

It was not resentment that her voice conveyed, but some thing whichWilfrid found it harder to bear. Her drooped eyelids and subdued toneindicated a humble pride, which the protest of her beauty made pathetic. 

'We will never speak of such things again, ' he said gently. 'Let me haveyour forgiveness. When we join them down there, they will laugh at usand say we have been quarrelling as usual; in future I think we mustn'tquarrel, we are both of us getting too old for the amusement. When yousing to us to-night, I shall remember how foolish I was even to pretendcontempt. '

'You will be thinking, ' she said, 'that I am a mere amateur. '

'If I do, I shall be an ungrateful wretch--and an insensible one, toboot. '

She rode down the hill without replying. 

CHAPTER III

LYRICAL

Miss Hood did not, of course, dine with the family. Though, as Mrs. Rossall said, it was a distinct advantage to have in the house agoverness whom one could in many respects treat as an equal, yet therewas naturally a limit, in this as in all other matters. We have not yet, either in fact or in sentiment, quite outgrown the social stage in whichpersonal hiring sets on the hired a stigma of servitude. Mrs. Rossallwas not unaware that, in all that concerned intellectual refinement, hergoverness was considerably superior to herself, and in personalrefinement not less a lady; but the fact of quarterly payments, spite ofall this, inevitably indicated a place below the salt. Mr. Athel, though, as we have seen, anxious to indulge himself in humane regardwhenever social regulations permitted, was the last man to suffer in hishousehold serious innovations upon traditional propriety. 

So Miss Hood--Emily, as she was called by the little group of peopleaway in Yorkshire, to whom she was other than a governess; Emily; as wewill permit ourselves to call her henceforth--always had the meal of teawith the children. After that the evening was her own, save that thetwins kept her company until their hour of bedtime. The school-room wasalso her sitting-room. After half-past eight in the evening she had itto herself, and there she passed many an hour of quiet content, playingsoftly on the piano, reading, dreaming. In the matter of books she waswell off; Mr. Athel and his sister had subscriptions at several Londonlibraries, and of these the governess was invited to make free use. Itwas some restraint upon her that her choice of reading always passedunder Mrs. Bossall's eyes, but not so much after the first few weeks. The widow was by this time well advanced in the resumption of purelymundane literature, and the really liberal tone which prevailed in thehouse removed apprehension in the pursuit of modern studies. For it wasrather an ideal towards which she was working than an attainment infact, that eclecticism of which she spoke to Wilfrid Athel. The monthlylibrary lists which came under her eyes offered many a sore temptation. She was true on the whole to her system; she did not read at random, andnever read frivolously; but a taste strongly directed to the best inliterature will find much in the work of our day, especially itscriticism, which is indispensable as guidance, or attractive by itssavour. This was not Emily's first access, fortunately, to the streamsof contemporary thought; already she had enjoyed and largely usedopportunities of the most various reading. She was able now to choosewith discretion, and in a great degree to make her study serve directlythe scheme of culture which she had devised for herself. 

Few governesses had so pleasant a life. Mrs. Rossall, supported by herbrother's views, imposed on her children a minimum of brain-work. Bodilyhealth was after all the first thing, especially in the case of girls. Acouple of hours' school in the morning, one hour given to preparation oflessons after tea--this for the present was deemed quite enough. 'Yourcompanionship throughout the day will always be forming their minds, 'Mrs. Rossall said in one of her earliest conversations with Emily; itwas pleasantly put, and truer than it would have been in the ease ofmany instructresses. The twins were not remarkably fond of theirlessons, but in Emily's hands they became docile and anxious to please. She had the art of winning their affection without losing control overthem; had Mrs. Bossall's rather languid habits of mind allowed her togive attention to the subject, she would have been struck with thesingular combination of tenderness and reverence which the twoentertained towards their teacher. Little laxities of behaviour aridphrase upon which their mother's presence would be no check, they didnot venture to allow themselves when with Emily; her only reproof was asteady gaze, eloquent of gentleness, but it proved quite sufficient. Thetwins were in truth submitting to the force of character. They felt itwithout understanding what it meant; one ether person in the houseexperienced the same influence, but in his case it led to reflection. 

Wilfrid was at Balliol when Miss Hood first arrived; he saw her for thefirst time when he came to town after his collapse. All hastened away toThe Firs together. Wilfrid suffered no positive illness; he shared inthe amusements of the family, and, with the exception of a good deal ofpishing and pshawing at the restraints put upon him, had the appearanceof one taking an ordinary holiday. There was undeniable truth inBeatrice Redwing's allusion to his much talking; without socialintercourse he would soon have become ill in earnest; association withintelligent--all the better if argumentative--people was anindispensable condition of his existence. In his later school, and earlycollege, days this tendency to give free utterance to his thoughts madehim not altogether the most delightful of companions to such as wereolder than himself; his undeniable cleverness and the stores ofknowledge he had already acquired needed somewhat more of the restraintof tact than his character at that time supplied. People occasionallycalled him a prig; now and then he received what the vernacular of youthterms 'a sitting upon. ' The saving feature of his condition was that heallowed himself to be sat upon gracefully; a snub well administered tohim was sure of its full artistic, and did not fail in its moral, effect: there was no vulgar insolence in the young fellow. What hereceived he could acknowledge that he deserved. A term or two at Balliolput this right; in mingling with some that were his equals, and one ortwo who were his superiors, he learned prudence in the regulation of hisspeech. 

For a brief time he perhaps talked not quite so much. When his 'set' wasformed, the currents of argument and rhetoric had once more free course, but they were beginning to flow less turbidly. His nature, as we know, was not merely vehement; he had the instincts of a philosophicalinquirer, and his intellect speedily outgrew the stage of callowness. When he came down for his first 'long' the change in him was so markedthat it astonished all who met him; that he appeared wholly unconsciousof the ripening he had undergone only made his development moreimpressive. He had gone away a boy, and returned a man. He talked noless than ever, but in a markedly improved tone. He was graver, moreseemly in the buoyant outbreaks in which he still occasionally indulged. One reason of his rapid maturing no doubt lay in the fact that he wasalready working too hard; his sprightliness was in a measure subdued bywear of tissue. His father was shrewd enough to suspect something ofthis, but it was difficult to interfere in any way. A month inSwitzerland seemed to set things right. On the present more seriousoccasion, it had been deemed better not to set forth on a journeyforthwith; perfect repose at the house in Surrey was all that wasadvised in the first instance. But it was clear that Wilfrid must havesome one to talk with. A succession of visits from such friends as wereavailable was speedily arranged. By the end of the first week, Wilfridhad accommodated himself to his circumstances. His fretting at theregulations imposed for his health almost ceased. At first this changewas viewed with suspicion, especially when he became more absorbed inreflectiveness, and seemed to have less taste for conversation. However, he was perfectly cheerful; there were no further symptoms to excitealarm. Nor did the brooding period last very long. The only permanentchange was that he ceased to grumble at his hard lot, and appeared tofind his position very tolerable. 

'It is the physical reaction, ' observed Mr. Athel to his sister. 'Thebody is indulging itself; recovery of health absorbs his energies. '

Opportunities for anything like sustained converse with Miss Hood, Wilfrid found very few and far between; only once before the long talkin the hollow had he been able to gratify his curiosity--perhapsalready some other feeling--in a dialogue of any intimacy. In asituation such as this, delicacy prescribed a very rigid discretion;Emily, moreover, was not facile of approach. Throughout the day she wasscarcely away from the children; of course he could and did oftenexchange words with her in the presence of the twins, but he felthimself held at a distance by a tact which was perfect; without unduereserve, without a shadow of unrefined manoeuvring, Emily limited theirintercourse in precisely the way that Mr. Athel or Mrs. Rossall wouldhave deemed becoming. Then there were almost always guests at the house. With prudent regard to the character of these visitors, Mrs. Rossallchose opportunities for inviting the governess to the drawing-roomduring the evening, but Emily was not wholly at her ease under suchconditions, and Wilfrid was withheld by only half-conscious motives fromtalking with her at these times. He shrank from subjecting himself toexamination whilst encouraging her to speak on the subjects he wouldnaturally choose; he felt, too, that she desired him not to address her, though this perception came to him in subtle ways of which he couldrender to himself no account. For all this, their acquaintance, naytheir intimacy, grew. If ever eyes habitually expressed aself-respecting frankness, if ever any were incapable of ignobleartifice, they were Emily's; yet as time went on Wilfrid began to longfor the casual meeting with her glance for the mere reason that he feltit as an exchange of words between her and himself. Thus it was that, when at length the first real conversation came, it seemed the sequel ofmany others, seemed so to both of them. They had divined each other;speech did but put the seal of confirmation on knowledge gained bymutual sympathy. 

It may be presumed that neither Mr. Athel nor Mrs. Rossall wasaltogether regardless of possibilities suggested by the abiding beneaththe same roof of an impetuous young man, forced into idleness, and agirl who was above the average in mental endowments, whilst, on thewhole, she might be considered interesting in appearance. They exchangedno remark on the subject; it was scarcely likely they should; but duringthe first few weeks both were observant. Their observations werereassuring to them. And indeed they had not anticipated trouble, for thesimple reason that both believed Wilfrid's affections to tend already ina marked direction, and one of which they altogether approved. That hewould some day take for his wife Beatrice Redwing was a conclusion uponwhich father and aunt had settled their minds; the conclusion wasreasonable enough, and well supported by such evidence as the easeadmitted. Mr. Athel had at an earlier period entertained certainmisgivings as to the desirability of such a marriage; misgivings whichhad reference to the disastrous story of the Redwing household; theconception of hereditary tendencies has become a strong force in ourtime, and pronounced madness in a parent cannot as easily be disregardedas it once was. But the advantages of the alliance were so considerable, its likelihood so indisputable, that prudence had scarcely fair play;besides, Beatrice had reached her twenty-first year without any sign ofmental trouble, and seemed as sound a girl as could anywhere bediscovered. The habitual sword-crossing between her and Wilfrid wasnaturally regarded as their mode of growing endeared to each other;their intellectual variances could not, by a sober gentleman ofeight-and-forty and by a young widow whose interest in the world wasreviving, be regarded as a bar to matrimony. 'Family, ' Beatrice wouldnot bring, but she was certain to inherit very large fortune, which, after all, means more than family nowadays. On the whole it was acapital thing for Wilfrid that marriage would be entered upon in sosmooth a way. Mr. Athel was not forgetful of his own course in thatmatter; he understood his father's attitude as he could not whenresisting it, and was much disposed to concede that there might havebeen two opinions as to his own proceeding five-and-twenty years ago. But for Beatrice, the young man's matrimonial future would have been tohis father a subject of constant apprehension; as it was, the situationlost much of its natural hazard. 

In Emily there was nothing that suggested sentimentality; rather onewould have thought her deficient in sensibility, judging from the toneof her conversation. She did not freely express admiration, even in theform of assent to what was said by others. To interpret her reticence asshyness was a misunderstanding, or a misuse of words, natural in thecase of an inexact observer like Mrs. Rossall. Four years ago, whenBeatrice met her in Dunfield, her want of self-confidence was pronouncedenough; she had at that time never quitted her provincial home, and wasin the anomalous position of one who is intellectually outgrowing veryrestricted social circumstances. The Baxendales were not wrong indiscussing her as shy. But that phase of her life was now left farbehind. Her extreme moderation was deliberate; it was her concession tothe fate which made her a governess. Courtesy and kindliness might leadthose whose bread she ate to endeavour occasionally to remove all showof social distinction; neither her temperament nor her sense ofcomeliness in behaviour would allow her to shrink from such advances, but she could not lose sight of the unreality of the situations to whichthey led. Self-respect is conditioned by the influence of circumstanceon character; in Emily it expressed itself as a subtle sensitiveness togrades of sympathy. She could not shut her eyes to the actuality ofthings; sincerity was the foundation of her being, and delicateappreciation of its degrees in others regulated her speech and demeanourwith an exactitude inappreciable by those who take life in a rough andready way. When engaged in her work of teaching, she was at ease; alonein the room which had been set apart for her, she lived in the freedomof her instincts; but in Mrs. Rossall's drawing-room she could only acta part, and all such divergence from reality was pain. It was not thatshe resented her subordination, for she was almost devoid of socialambitions and knew nothing of vulgar envy; still less did it come ofreasoned revolt against the artificial ordering of precedences; Emily'sthoughts did not tend that way. She could do perfect justice to theamiable qualities of those who were set above her; she knew nobitterness in the food which she duly earned; but, by no one's fault, there was a vein of untruth in the life she had to lead. To remindherself that such untruth was common to all lives, was an outcome of theconditions of society, did not help her to disregard it; nature hadendowed her with a stern idealism which would not ally itself withcompromise. She was an artist in life. The task before her, a task ofwhich in these days she was growing more and more conscious, was toconstruct an existence every moment of which should serve anall-pervading harmony. The recent birth within her of a new feeling wasgiving direction and vigour to the forces of her being; it had not asyet declared itself as a personal desire; it wrought only as animpassioned motive in the sphere of her intellectual aspirations, Sheheld herself more persistently apart from conventional intercourse; shewished it had been possible to keep wholly to herself in the hours whenher services were not demanded. Mr. Athel, who liked to express himselfto young people with a sort of paternal geniality, rallied her one dayon her excessive study, and bade her be warned by a notorious example. This had the effect of making her desist from reading in the presence ofother people. 

She had known much happiness during these two months at The Firs, happiness of a kind to dwell in the memory and be a resource in darkerdays. Though mere personal ease was little the subject of her thoughts, she prized for its effect upon her mind the air of graceful leisure, ofurbane repose, which pervaded the house. To compare The Firs with thatplain little dwelling on the skirts of a Yorkshire manufacturing townwhich she called her home, was to understand the inestimable advantageof those born into the material refinement which wealth can command, ofthose who breathe from childhood the atmosphere of liberal enjoyment, who walk from the first on clean ways, with minds disengaged fromanxiety of casual soilure, who know not even by domestic story thetrammels of sordid preoccupation. Thus it was with a sense of well-beingthat she stepped on rich carpets, let her eyes wander over the light anddark of rooms where wealth had done the bidding of taste, watched theneat and silent ministering of servants. These things to her meantpriceless opportunity, the facilitating of self-culture. Even the littleroom in which she sat by herself of evenings was daintily furnished;when weary with reading, it eased and delighted her merely to gaze atthe soft colours of the wall-paper, the vases with their growingflowers, the well-chosen pictures, the graceful shape of a chair; shenursed her appreciation of these Joys, resisted the ingress offamiliarity, sought daily for novel aspects of things become intimatelyknown. She rose at early hours that she might have the garden to herselfin all its freshness; she loved to look from her window into the calmdepth of the summer midnight. In this way she brought into consciousnessthe craving of her soul, made the pursuit of beauty a religion, grew towelcome the perception of new meaning in beautiful things with aspiritual delight. This was the secret of her life, which she guarded sojealously, which she feared even by chance to betray in the phrasings ofcommon intercourse. Wilfrid had divined it, and it was the secretinfluence of this sympathy that had led her to such unwonted franknessin their latest conversation. 

Mrs. Rossall had spoken to her of Beatrice Redwing's delightful singing, and had asked her to come to the drawing-room during the evening; havingdeclined the afternoon's drive, Emily did not feel able to neglect thisother invitation. The day had become sultry towards its close; when shejoined the company about nine o'clock, she found Beatrice with Mrs. Rossall sitting in the dusk by the open French windows, Mr. Athel in achair just outside, and Wilfrid standing by him, the latter pairsmoking. The sky beyond the line of dark greenery was still warm withafter-glow of sunset. 

Emily quietly sought a chair near Mrs. Rossall, from whom she received akind look. Mr. Athel was relating a story of his early wanderings inEgypt, with a leisurely gusto, an effective minuteness of picturing, theresult of frequent repetition. At the points of significance he wouldpause for a moment or two and puff life into his cigar. His anecdoteswere seldom remarkable, but they derived interest from the enjoymentwith which he told them; they impressed one with a sense of mentalsatisfaction, of physical robustness held in reserve, of life contentamong the good things of the world. 

'Shall we have lights?' Mrs. Rossall asked, when the story at lengthcame to an end. 

'Play us something first, ' said Beatrice. 'This end of twilight is sopleasant. '

Mrs. Rossall went to the piano, upon which still fell a glimmer fromanother window, and filled the room with harmony suiting the hour. Wilfrid had come in and seated himself on a couch in a dark corner; hisfather paced up and down the grass. Emily watched the first faint gleamof stars in the upper air. 

Then lamps and candles were brought in. Beatrice was seen to be dressedin dark blue, her hair richly attired, a jewelled cross below herthroat, her bosom and arms radiant in bare loveliness. Emily, at themoment that she regarded her, found herself also observed. Her own dresswas of warm grey, perfectly simple, with a little lace at the neck andwrists. Beatrice averted her eyes quickly, and made some laughing remarkto Mr. Athel. 

'I know you always object to sing without some musical preparation, 'said Mrs. Rossall, as she took a seat by the girl's side. 'I wonderwhether we ought to close the windows; are you afraid of the air?'

'Oh, leave them open!' Beatrice replied. 'It is so close. '

Her cheeks had a higher colour than usual; she lay back in the chairwith face turned upwards, her eyes dreaming. 

'You are tired, I am afraid, ' Mrs. Rossall said, 'in spite of your sleepin the hammock. The first day in the country always tires medreadfully. '

'Yes, I suppose I am, a little, ' murmured Beatrice. 

'Not too tired, I hope, to sing, ' said Wilfrid, coming from his couch inthe corner to a nearer seat. His way of speaking was not wholly natural;like his attitude, it had something constrained; he seemed to bedischarging a duty. 

'Observe the selfishness of youth, ' remarked Mr. Athel. 

'Age, I dare say, has its selfishness too in the present instance, ' wasMrs. Rossall's rejoinder. 

'To whom does that refer?' questioned her brother, jocosely. 

Beatrice turned her head suddenly towards Emily. 

'Shall I sing, Miss Hood?' she asked, with a touch of her _ingenue_manner, though the playfulness of her words rang strangely. 

'It will give me much pleasure to hear you, ' was the sober reply, comingafter an instant of embarrassment. 

Beatrice rose. Her movement across the room had a union of consciousstateliness and virgin grace which became her style of beauty; it was initself the introduction to fine music. Mrs. Rossall went to accompany. Choice was made of a solo from an oratorio; Beatrice never sangtrivialities of the day, a noteworthy variance from her habits in otherthings. In a little while, Wilfrid stirred to enable himself to seeEmily's face; it showed deep feeling. And indeed it was impossible tohear that voice and remain unmoved; its sweetness, its force, its skillwere alike admirable. Beatrice conversing was quite other than Beatricewhen she sang; music was her mode of self-utterance; from the firstsustained note it was felt that a difficulty of expression had beenovercome, and that she was saying things which at other times she couldnot, disclosing motives which as a rule the complexities of hercharacter covered and concealed, which were not clear to her ownconsciousness till the divine impulse gave them form. It was no shallownature that could pour forth this flood of harmony. The mere gift of asplendid voice, wrought to whatever degree of perfection, would notinvest with this rare power. In technical qualities she might have muchstill to learn, but the passionate poetry of her notes was what notraining could have developed, and it would never evince itself withmore impressiveness than to-night. 

It seemed frivolous to speak thanks. Wilfrid gazed out into the dark ofthe garden; Emily kept her eyes bent downward. She heard the rustle ofBeatrice's dress near her. Mr. Athel began to speak of the piece thesound of Beatrice's voice replying caused Emily at length to look up, and she met the dark eyes, still large with the joy of song. Her owngaze had a beautiful solemnity, a devout admiration, of which it wasimpossible to doubt the genuineness; Beatrice, observing it, smiled veryslightly before turning away again. 

A quarter of an hour after, Emily withdrew. Mrs. Rossall played alittle, and talk of an idle kind followed. Wilfrid was not disposed totake his usual part in conversation, and his casual remarks werescarcely ever addressed to Beatrice. Presently Mrs. Rossall wished torefer to the 'Spectator, ' which contained a criticism of a new pianistof whom there was much talk just then. 

'Have you had it, Wilf?' Mr. Athel asked, after turning over a heap ofpapers in vain. 

'Oh, the "Spectator, "' Wilfrid replied, rousing himself from absentness. 'Yes, I had it in the summer-house just before dinner; I believe I leftit there. Shall I fetch it?'

'It would serve you right if I said yes, ' admonished Mrs. Rossall. 'Inthe first place you had no business to be reading it--'

'I will go, ' Wilfrid said, rising with an effort. 

'No, no; it will do to-morrow. '

'May as well get it now, ' he said indifferently, and went out by thewindow. 

That part of the garden through which he walked lay in the shadow of thehouse; the sky was full of moonlight, but the moon itself was still low. A pathway between laurels led to the summer-house. Just short of thelittle building, he passed the edge of shade, and, before entering, turned to view the bright crescent as it hung just above the house-roof. Gazing at the forms of silvered cloud floating on blue depths, he hearda movement immediately behind him; he turned, to behold Emily standingin the doorway. The moon's rays shone full upon her; a light shawl whichseemed to have covered her head had slipped down to her shoulders, andone end was held in a hand passed over her breast. There was somethingin the attitude which strikingly became her; her slight figure lookedboth graceful and dignified. The marble hue of her face, thus gleamedupon, added to the statuesque effect; her eyes had a startled look, their lids drooped as Wilfrid regarded her. 

'You have been sitting here since you left us?' he asked, in a voiceattuned to the night's hush. 

'I was tempted to come out; the night is so beautiful. '

'It is. '

He uttered the assent mechanically; his eyes, like hers, had fallen, buthe raised them again to her face. It seemed to him in this moment theperfect type of spiritual beauty; the brow so broad and pure, the eyesfar-seeing in their maidenly reserve, the lips full, firm, of infiniterefinement and sweetness. He felt abashed before her, as he had neverdone. They had stood thus but a moment or two, yet it seemed long toboth. Emily stepped from the wooden threshold on to the grass. 

'Somebody wants the "Spectator, "' he said hurriedly. 'I believe I leftit here. '

'Yes, it is on the table. '

With a perfectly natural impulse, she quickly re-entered the house, toreach the paper she had seen only a minute ago. Without reflection, heart-beats stifling his thought, he stepped after her. The shadow madeher turn rapidly; a shimmer of silver light through the lattice-workstill touched her features; her lips were parted as if in fear. 

'Emily!'

He did not know that he had spoken. The name upon his tongue, a name hehad said low to himself often to-day and yesterday, was born of thethroe which made fire-currents of his veins, the passion which at theinstant seized imperiously upon his being. She could not see his face, and hers to him was a half-veiled glory, yet each knew the wild gaze, the all but terror, in the other's eyes, that anguish which indicates asupreme moment in life, a turning-point of fate. 

She had no voice. Wilfrid's words at length made way impetuously. 

'I thought I could wait longer, and try in the meanwhile to win yourkind thoughts for me; but I dare not part from you for so long, leavingit a mere chance that you will come back. I must say to you what itmeans, the hope of seeing you again. All the other desires of my lifeare lost in that. You are my true self, for which I shall seek in vainwhilst I am away from you. Can you give me anything--a promise of kindthought--a hope--to live upon till I see you?'

'I cannot come back. '

But for the intense stillness he could not have caught the words; theywere sighed rather than spoken. 

'Because I have said this?--Emily!'

He saw the white shape of her hand resting upon the table, and held itin his own, that exquisite hand which he had so often longed to touch;how cold it was! yet how soft, living! She made no effort to draw itaway. 

'I cannot say now what I wish to, ' he spoke hurriedly. 'I must see youto-morrow--you will not refuse? I _must_ see you! You are often out veryearly; I shall be at the hollow, where we talked yesterday, early, atseven o'clock--you will come? If the morning is not fine, then the dayafter. Emily, you will meet me?'

'I will meet you. '

He touched her fingers with his lips, took the paper, and hastened backto the house. His absence had not seemed long: it was only of fiveminutes. Reaching the open windows, he did not enter at once, but stoodthere and called to those within to come and admire the night; he felthis face hot and flushed. 

'What is there remarkable about the night?' asked Mr. Athel, saunteringforwards. 

'Come and look at this glorious moon, Miss Redwing, ' Wilfrid exclaimed, once more with the natural friendliness of his habitual tone to her. 

'It seems to have put you into excellent spirits, ' remarked Mrs. Rossall, as, followed by Beatrice, she approached the window. 'Have youfound the "Spectator?" that's the point. '

Wilfrid continued speaking in a raised voice, for it was just possible, he thought, that Emily might come this way round to enter, and he wishedher to be apprised of their presence. All went back into the room aftera few moments, and, as the air had grown cooler, the windows wereclosed. As Wilfrid seated himself in a dusky part of the room, henoticed that Beatrice was regarding him steadily. She had not spokensince his return, and did not do so till she presently rose to saygood-night. To Wilfrid she used no form of words, merely giving him herhand; that other had been so cold, how hot this was!

She laughed as she turned from him. 

'What is the source of amusement?' inquired Mr. Athel, who was standingby with his hands upon his hips. 

'Indeed I don't know, ' returned Beatrice, laughing again slightly. 'Isometimes laugh without cause. '

Emily had passed upstairs and gone to her bedroom but a moment before, treading with quick soundless steps. When Wilfrid left her in thesummer-house, she stood unmoving, and only after a minute or two changedher attitude by putting her palms against her face, as if in the gloomshe found too much light. It was a sensation of shame which came uponher, a tremor of maidenhood in re-living, swift instant by instant, allthat had just passed. Had she in any way aided in bringing about thatconfession? Had she done anything, made a motion, uttered a tone, whichbroke away the barrier between herself and him? When she could recoverself-consciousness, disembarrass herself of the phantom moments whichwould not fleet with the rest of time, it was scarcely joy which sheread in her heart; apprehension, dismay, lack of courage to look forwardbeyond this night, these oppressed her. Then, close upon the hauntingreality of his voice, his touch, came inability to believe what hadhappened. Had a transient dreamful slumber crept upon her as she sathere alone? So quickly had the world suffered re-creation, so magicalthe whelming of old days in a new order, so complete the change inherself. One word she knew which had power from eternity to do thesethings, and that word neither he nor she had uttered. But there was noneed, when the night spoke it in every beat of time. 

Fearful of being seen, she at length ventured to return to the house. Moonlight streamed full upon her bed; it would have irked her as yet totake off her clothes, she lay in the radiance, which seemed to touch herwith warm influences, and let her eyes rest upon the source of light. Then at length joy came and throned in her heart, joy that would matewith no anxious thought, no tremulous brooding. This was _her_ night!There might be other happy beings in the world to whom it was also thebeginning of new life, but in _her_ name was its consecration, hers thesupremacy of blessedness. Let the morrow wait on the hour of waking, ifindeed sleep would ever come; this moment, the sacred _now_, was allthat she could comprehend. 

She undressed at length, and even slept, fitfully, always to start intowakefulness with a sense of something to be thought upon, to berealised, to be done. The weariness of excitement perturbed her joy; themeeting which was to take place in a few hours became a nervouspreoccupation. The moonlight had died away; the cold light of dawn beganto make objects in the room distinct. Was it good to have consented soreadily to meet him? Nay, but no choice had been left her; his eagernesswould take no refusal; and it was impossible for things to remain asthey were, without calmer talk between them. It was her resource toremember his energetic will, his force of character; the happiness ofpassively submitting to what he might dictate; sure of his scrupuloushonour, his high ideal. Could she indeed have borne to go into exilefrom his presence, without a hope that this the noblest and mostaspiring life that had ever approached her might be something more thana star to worship? If wealth comes, we wonder how we drew breath inpoverty; yet we lived, and should have lived on. Let the gods bethanked, whom it pleases to clothe the soul with joy which issuperfluous to bare existence Might she not now hallow herself to be atrue priestess of beauty? Would not life be vivid with new powers andpossibilities? Even as that heaven was robing itself in glory ofsunrise, with warmth and hue which strengthened her again to overcomeanxieties. Was he waking? Was he impatient for the hour of his meetingwith her? She would stand face to face with him in the full Sunlightthis time, but with what deep humility! Should she be able to findwords? She had scarcely spoken to him, ever, as yet, and now there wasmore to say than hours of solitude would leave time for. She knew notwhether to bid the sun linger or speed. 

There was nothing unusual in her rising and going forth early, thoughperhaps she had never issued from the house quite so early as thismorning; it was not yet six o'clock when she gently closed thegarden-gate behind her, and walked along the road which led on to thecommon. The sun had already warmed the world, and the sheen of earth andheaven was at its brightest; the wind sweeping from the downs was likethe breath of creation, giving life to forms of faultless beauty. Emily's heart lacked no morning hymn; every sense revelled in that purejoy which is the poetry of praise. She wished it had been near the hourof meeting, yet again was glad to have time to prepare herself. Walking, she drank in the loveliness about her, marked the forms of trees, thelight and shade of heavy leafage, the blendings of colour by theroadside, the grace of remote distances; all these things she was makingpart of herself, that in memory they might be a joy for ever. It is theart of life to take each moment of mental joy, of spiritual openness, asthough it would never be repeated, to cling to it as a pearl of greatprice, to exhaust its possibilities of sensation. At the best, suchmoments will be few amid the fateful succession of common cares, oflassitudes, of disillusions. Emily had gone deep enough in thoughtalready to understand this; in her rapture there was no want ofdiscerning consciousness. If this morning were to be unique in her life, she would have gained from it all that it had to give. Those subtlefears, spiritual misgivings, which lurked behind her perceptions wouldagain have their day, for it was only by striving that she had attainedher present modes of thought; her nature concealed a darker strain, aninstinct of asceticism, which had now and again predominated, especiallyin the period of her transition to womanhood, when the materialconditions of her life were sad and of little hope. It was no spirit ofunreflective joy that now dwelt within her, but the more human happinessextorted from powers which only yield to striving. Hitherto her life'smorning had been but cold and grey; she had trained herself to expect nobreaking forth of gleams from the sober sky. This sudden splendour mightbe transitory. 

But who was that already standing by the hollow? Was it likely that hewould be later than she at the place of meeting! Emily stood with ashock of life at the gates of her heart. She tried to keep her eyesraised to his as she approached slowly, he with more speed. Would shenot after all find voice for the things she had to say?

Wilfrid came to her with bare head, and took her hand; no more than tookher hand, for he was in awe of the solemn beauty of her countenance. 

'You thought I should keep you waiting?' he asked in a low voicetrembling with joy. 'I have watched the sun rise. '

'The door had not been opened--'

'My window is not high above the ground, ' he answered, with an uncertainlaugh. 

They walked side by side over the heather, towards the beginning of awood, young fir trees mingling with gorse and bracken. Beyond was thedense foliage of older growths. He had again taken one of her hands, andso led her on. 

'Emily!'

She was able to look into his face for a moment, but the moving of herlips gave no sound. 

'I could not sleep, ' he went on, 'so I read of you till dawn in theKnightes Tale. It is a name I have always loved, sweet, musical, but ofdeep meaning. Will you not let me hear you speak, Emily?'

She uttered a few timid words, then they passed on in silence till thewood was all about them. 

'May I tell you the plan which I have made in the night?' he said, asthey stood on a spot of smooth turf, netted with sunlight. 'You leave usin two days. Before we start for London, I shall speak with my father, and tell him what has come about. You remember what I was saying abouthim the day before yesterday; perhaps it was with a half-thought ofthis--so daring I was, you see! I have no fear of his kindness, his goodsense. At the same time, it is right you should know that myindependence is assured; my grandfather left me far more than enough formere needs. By the summer of next year I shall be free of Oxford. I carelittle now for such honours as those; you have honoured me more than anyother voice has power to do. But my father would be disappointed if Idid not go on to the end, and do something of what is expected. Now youmust tell me freely is there absolute necessity for your maintainingyourself in the meanwhile, for your leaving home?'

'There is, ' she replied. 

'Then will you continue to teach the children as usual?'

She was touched with apprehension. 

'Gladly I would do so--but is it possible? Would you conceal from Mrs. Rossall--'

Wilfrid mused. 

'I meant to. But your instincts are truer than mine; say what you think. I believe my father would countenance it, for it involves no realdeceit. '

'If you wish it, ' Emily said, after a silence, in a low voice. 

'Of my aunt, ' pursued Wilfrid, 'I have just this degree of doubt. Shemight make difficulties; her ways of thinking differ often from ours. Yet it is far better that you should continue to live with us. I myselfshall scarcely ever be at home; it will not be as if I dwelt under theroof; I will make my visits as short as possible, not to trouble you. Icould not let you go to the house of other people--you to lackconsideration, perhaps to meet unkindness! Rather than that, you shallstay in your own home, or I will not return to Oxford at all. '

Emily stood in anxious thought. He drew a step nearer to her; seemedabout to draw nearer still, but checked himself as she looked up. 

'I fear we must not do that, ' she said. 'Mrs. Rossall would not forgiveme. '

Woman's judgment of woman, and worth much more than Wilfrid's rough andready scheming. 

Wilfrid smiled. 

'Then she also shall know, ' he exclaimed. 'She shall take nay view ofthis; I will not be gainsaid. What is there in the plan that commonsense can object to? Your position is not that of a servant; you arefrom the first our friend you honour us by the aid you give, efficientas few could make it. Yes, there shall be no concealment far better so. '

'You have no fear of the views they will take?'

'None!' he said, with characteristic decision. 'If they areunreasonable, absurd, our course is plain enough. You will be my wifewhen I ask you to, Emily?'

She faltered, and held her hand to him. 

'Is it worth while to go hack to Oxford?' he mused, caressing thefingers he had kissed. 

'Oh, yes; you must, ' Emily urged, with a sort of fear in her suddencourage. 'You must not disappoint them, your father, your friends. '

'My fair wise one!' he murmured, gazing rapturously at her. 'Oh, Emily, think what our life will be! Shall we not drain the world of its wisdom, youth of its delight! Hand in hand, one heart, one brain--what shallescape us? It was you I needed to give completeness to my thought anddesire. '

The old dream, the eternal fancy. This one, this and no other, chosenfrom out the myriads of human souls. Individuality the servant ofpassion; mysteries read undoubtingly with the eye of longing. Beadperhaps so truly; who knows?

She came nearer, imperceptibly, her raised face aglow like the morning. 

'Wilfrid--you believe--you know that I love you?'

The last word breathed out in the touching of lips with lips. What couldhe reply, save those old, simple words of tenderness, that smallvocabulary of love, common to child and man? The goddess that madeherself woman for his sake--see, did he not hold her clasped to him! Butshe was mute again. The birds sang so loudly round about them, utteredtheir hearts so easily, but Emily could only speak through silence. Andafterwards she knew there was so much she should have said. What matter?One cannot find tongue upon the threshold of the holy of holies. 

CHAPTER IV

A CONFLICT OF OPINIONS

Beatrice Redwing's visit only extended over the second day, and duringthat there was little, if any, separate conversation between her andWilfrid. The change in her from the free gaiety and restfulness of themorning of her arrival could not escape notice, though she affected acontinuance of the bright mood. Mr. Athel and his sister both observedher real preoccupation, as if of trouble, and mentally attributed it tosomething that had passed during the afternoon's ride. Mrs. Rossall didnot look for confidences. Beatrice would gossip freely enough of trivialexperiences, or of the details of faith and ritual, but the innermostveil of her heart was never raised; all her friends felt that, thoughthey could not easily have explained in what way they became consciousof this reserve, she seemed so thoroughly open, not to say so shallow. She left The Firs to return to town, and thence in a week or two went toCowes, a favourite abode of her mother's. 

The next day, Emily also left, journeying to London on her way to thenorth, Wilfrid and she had no second meeting; their parting was formal, in the family circle. Mr. Athel displayed even more than his usualurbanity; Mrs. Rossall was genuinely gracious; the twins made manypromises to write from Switzerland. Emily was self-possessed, butWilfrid read in her face that she was going through an ordeal. He feltthe folly of his first proposal, that she should play a part before Mrs. Rossall through the winter months. He decided, moreover, that no timeshould be lost in making the necessary disclosure to his father. Naturally it would be an anxious time with Emily till she had news fromhim. She had asked him to direct letters to the Dunfield post office, not to her home; it was better so for the present. 

Wilfrid, though anything but weakly nervous, was impatient of suspense, and, in face of a situation like the present, suffered from theexcitability of an imaginative temperament. He had by no means yetoutgrown the mood which, when he was a boy, made the anticipation of anydelight a physical illness. In an essentially feeble nature this extremesensibility is fatal to sane achievement; in Wilfrid it merely enforcedthe vigour of his will. As a child he used to exclaim that he _could_not wait; at present he was apt to say that he would not. He did not, invery truth, anticipate difficulties with his father, his conviction ofthe latter's reasonableness being strongly supported by immenseconfidence in his own powers of putting a case incontrovertibly. As hehad said to Emily, he could scarcely allow that deep affection for hisfather dwelt within him, nor did the nature of the case permit him tofeel exactly reverent; these stronger emotions were reserved for thememory of the parent who was long dead. He thought of his father withwarm friendliness, that temper which is consistent with clear perceptionof faults and foibles, which makes of them, indeed, an occasion for theadded kindliness of indulgence, and which, on the other hand, leavesperfect freedom in judgment and action. We know that it is for the mostpart a misfortune to be the son of a really great man, and for thereason that nature, so indifferent to the individual, makes thewell-being of each generation mainly consist in early predominance overthe generation which gave it birth. Wilfrid suffered no such exceptionalhardship. At three-and-twenty he felt himself essentially his father'ssuperior. He would not have exposed the fact thus crudely, for he wassusceptible to the comely order of things. The fact was a fact, andnature, not he, was responsible for it. That, and the circumstance ofhis material independence, would necessarily keep the ensuing interviewwell within the limits of urbane comedy. The young man smiled already atthe suggested comparison with his father's own choice in matrimony. Wilfrid had never had the details of that story avowedly represented tohim, but it was inevitable that he should have learnt enough to enablehim to reconstruct them with tolerable accuracy. 

Emily was gone long before the hour of luncheon. After that meal, Mr. Athel lit a cigar and went to a favourite seat in the garden. Mrs. Rossall was going with the twins to make a farewell call on neighbouringfriends. As soon as the carriage had left the house, Wilfrid sought hisfather, who was amusing himself with a review. 

'I thought you would have gone with your aunt, ' Mr. Athel remarked, after a glance to see who was approaching him. 

'I had an object in remaining behind, ' Wilfrid returned, composedly, seating himself on a camp-stool which he had brought out. 'I wished totalk over with you a matter of some importance. '

'Oh?'

Mr. Athel stroked his chin, and smiled a little. It occurred to him atonce that something relative to Beatrice was about to be disclosed. 

'What is it?' he added, throwing one leg over the other, and letting thereview lie open on his lap. 

'It concerns Miss Hood, ' pursued the other, assuming the same attitude, save that he had nothing to lean hack against. 'A day or two ago I askedher to engage herself to me, and she consented. '

Perhaps this was the simplest way of putting it. Wilfrid could not utterthe words with complete calmness; his hands had begun to tremble alittle, and his temples were hot. By an effort he kept his eyes steadilyfixed on his father's face, and what he saw there did not supplyencouragement to proceed in the genial tone with which he had begun. Mr. Athel frowned, not angrily, but as if not quite able to grasp what hadbeen told him. He had cast his eyes down. 

There was silence for a moment. 

'I have chosen the earliest moment for telling you of this, ' Wilfridcontinued, rather hurriedly. 'It was of course better to leave it tillMiss Hood had gone. '

On the father's face displeasure had succeeded to mere astonishment. 

'You could have told me few things that I should be so sorry to hear, 'were his first words, delivered in an undertone and with graveprecision. 

'Surely that does not express your better thought, ' said Wilfrid, towhom a hint of opposition at once gave the firmness he had lacked. 

'It expresses my very natural thought. In the first place, it is notpleasant to know that clandestine proceedings of this kind have beengoing on under my roof. I have no wish to say anything disrespectful ofMiss Hood, but I am disposed to think that she has mistaken hervocation; such talents for dissimulation would surely have pointed to--'

Mr. Athel had two ways of expressing displeasure. Where ceremony waswholly unnecessary, he gave vent to his feelings in an outburst ofhearty English wrath, not coarsely, for his instincts were invariablythose of a gentleman, but in the cultivated autocratic tone; anoffending. Groom, for instance, did not care to incur reproof a secondtime. Where this mode of utterance was out of place, he was apt to haverecourse to a somewhat too elaborate irony, to involve himself inphrases which ultimately led to awkward hesitations, with the effectthat he grew more heated by embarrassment. Had he been allowed toproceed, he would at present have illustrated this failing, for he hadbegun with extreme deliberation, smoothing the open pages with his righthand, rounding his words, reddening a little in the face. But Wilfridinterposed. 

'I must not let you speak or think of Miss Hood so mistakenly, ' he saidfirmly, but without unbecoming self-assertion. 'She could not possiblyhave behaved with more reserve to me than she did until, three days ago, I myself gave a new colour to our relations. The outward propriety whichyou admit has been perfectly genuine; if there is any blame in thematter--and how can there be any?--it rests solely upon me. I dare sayyou remember my going out to fetch the "Spectator, " after Miss Redwinghad been singing to us. By chance I met Miss Hood in the garden. I wasled to say something to her which made a longer interview inevitable;she consented to meet me on the common before breakfast, the followingmorning. These are the only two occasions which can be calledclandestine. If she has disguised herself since then, how could she havebehaved otherwise? Disguise is too strong a word; she has merely keptsilence. I need not inquire whether you fully believe what I say. '

'What you say, I believe, as a matter of course, ' replied Mr. Athel, whohad drummed with his fingers as he listened impatiently. 'It canscarcely alter my view of the position of things. Had you come to mebefore offering yourself to this young lady, and done me the honour ofasking my advice, I should in all probability have had a rather strongopinion to express; as it is, I don't see that there is anything left tobe said. '

'What would your opinion have been?' Wilfrid asked. 

'Simply that for an idle fancy, the unfortunate result of unoccupieddays, you were about to take a step which would assuredly lead to regretat least, very probably to more active repentance. In fact, I shouldhave warned you not to spoil your life in its commencement. '

'I think, father, that you would have spoken with too little knowledgeof the case. You can scarcely know Miss Hood as I do. I have studied hersince we came here, and with--well, with these results. '

Mr. Athel looked up with grave sadness. 

'Wilf, this is a deeply unfortunate thing, my boy. I grieve over it morethan I can tell you. I am terribly disappointed. Your position and yourhopes pointed to very different things. You have surprised me, too; Ithought your mind was already made up, in quite a different quarter. '

'You refer to Miss Redwing?'

'Naturally. '

'You have, indeed, been mistaken. It was impossible that I should thinkof her as a wife. I must have sympathy, intellectual and moral. With herI have none. We cannot talk without flagrant differences--differences ofa serious, a radical nature. Be assured that such a thought as thisnever occurred to Miss Redwing herself; her very last conversation withme forbids any such idea. '

Mr. Athel still drummed on the book, seemingly paying little heed to thespeaker. 

'You find sympathy in Miss Hood?' he asked suddenly, with a touch ofsarcasm. 

'The deepest. Her intellectual tendencies are the same as my own; shehas a mind which it refreshes and delights me to discover. Of coursethat is not all, but it is all I need speak of. I know that I havechosen well and rightly. '

'I won't be so old-fashioned, ' remarked Mr. Athel, still with subduedsarcasm, 'as to hint that some thought of me might have entered intoyour choosing' (did he consciously repeat his own father's words offive-and-twenty years back, or was it but destiny making him play hispart in the human comedy?) 'and, in point of fact' (perhaps the paralleltouched him at this point), 'you are old enough to judge the affair onits own merits. My wonder is that your judgment has not been sounder. Has it occurred to you that a young lady in Miss Hood's position wouldfind it at all events somewhat difficult to be unbiassed in her assentto what you proposed?'

'Nothing has occurred to me, ' replied Wilfrid, more shortly thanhitherto, 'which could cast a shadow of suspicion on her perfect truth. I beg that you will not suggest these things. Some day you will judgeher with better knowledge. '

'I am not sure of that, ' was the rejoinder, almost irritably uttered. 

'What do you mean by that, father?' Wilfrid asked in a lower tone. 

'I mean, Wilf, that I am not yet in the frame of mind to regard thechildren's governess as my daughter-in-law. Miss Hood may be all yousay; I would not willingly be anything but scrupulously just. The factremains that this is not the alliance which it became you to make. Itis, in a very pronounced sense, marrying beneath you. It is not easy forme to reconcile myself to that. '

It was Wilfrid's turn to keep silence. What became of his plans? Theywere hardly in a way to be carried out as he had conceived them. Agraver uneasiness was possessing him. Resolve would only grow byopposition, but there was more of pain in announcing an independentcourse than he had foreseen. 

'What are your practical proposals?' his father inquired, his mollifiedtone the result of observing that he had made a certain impression, forhe was distinctly one of the men who are to be overcome by yielding. 

'I had a proposal to make, but of such a kind that it is hardly worthwhile to speak of it. I shall have to reflect. '

'Let me hear what you were going to say. There's no harm in that, at allevents. '

'My idea was, that, with your consent and my aunt's, Miss Hood shouldreturn just as if nothing had happened, and continue to teach the twinstill next summer, when I should have done with Oxford. There appears tome to be nothing irrational or unseemly in such a plan. If she were ourcook or housemaid, there might be reasonable objections. As it is, itwould hardly involve a change even in your tone to her, seeing that youare in the habit of treating her as a lady, and with a certain degree offamiliar kindness. I confess I had anticipated no difficulties. We arenot a household of bigoted Conservatives; it is hard for me to imagineyou taking any line but that of an enlightened man who judges all thingsfrom the standpoint of liberal reflection. I suppose my own scorn ofprejudices is largely due to your influence. It is not easy to realiseour being in conflict on any matter involving calm reasonableness. '

In another this would have been a shrewd speech. Wilfrid was incapableof conscious artifice of this kind; this appeal, the very strongest hecould have made to his father, was urged in all sincerity, and derivedits force from that very fact. He possessed not a little of thepersuasive genius which goes to make an orator--hereafter to serve himin fields as yet undreamed of--and natural endowment guided his feelingin the way of most impressive utterance. Mr. Athel smiled in spite ofhimself. 

'And what about your aunt?' he asked. 'Pray remember that it is only bychance that Miss Hood lives under my roof. Do you imagine your auntequally unprejudiced?'

Mr. Athel was, characteristically, rather fond of side-glancings atfeminine weaknesses. An opportunity of the kind was wont to mellow hismood. 

'To be quite open in the matter, ' Wilfrid replied, 'I will own that myfirst idea was to take you alone into my confidence; to ask you to saynothing to Aunt Edith. Miss Hood felt that that would be impossible, andI see that she was right. It would involve deceit which it is not in hernature to practise. '

'You and Miss Hood have discussed us freely, ' observed the father, witha return to his irony. 

'I don't reply to that, ' said Wilfrid, quietly. 'I think you must giveme credit for the usual measure of self-respect; and Miss Hood does notfall short of it. '

The look which Mr. Athel cast at his son had in it something of pride. He would not trust himself to speak immediately. 

'I don't say, ' he began presently, with balancing of phrase, 'that yourplan is not on the face of it consistent and reasonable. Putting asidefor the moment the wretchedly unsatisfactory circumstances whichoriginate it, I suppose it is the plan which naturally suggests itself. But, of course, in practice it is out of the question. '

'You feel sure that aunt would not entertain it?'

'I do. And I don't see how I could recommend her to do so. '

Wilfrid reflected. 

'In that case, ' he said, 'I have only one alternative. I must give up myintention of returning to Oxford, and marry before the end of the year. '

The words had to his own ears a somewhat explosive sound. They wereuttered, however, and he was glad of it. A purpose thus formulated hewould not swerve from. Of that his father too was well aware. 

Mr. Athel rose from his seat, held the rolled-up magazine in both handsbehind his back, and took a turn across a few yards of lawn. Wilfrid satstill, leaning forward, watching his father's shadow. The shadowapproached him. 

'Wilf, is there no _via media_? Cannot Miss Hood remain at home for awhile? Are you going to throw up your career, and lay in a stock ofrepentance for the rest of your life?'

'I don't think you quite understand me, father. I contemplate no careerwhich could possibly be injured even by my immediate marriage. If youmean University honours--I care nothing about them. I would go throughthe routine just for the sake of completeness; it is her strong wishthat I should. But my future, most happily, does not depend on successof that kind. I shall live the life of a student, my end will beself-culture. And Miss Hood is unfortunately not able to remain at home. I say unfortunately, but I should have regarded it as preferable thatshe should continue in her position with us. You and aunt Edith wouldcome to know her, and the air of a home like ours would, I believe, suither better than that of her own. There is nothing in her work that mightnot be performed by any lady. '

'What do you know of her people?'

'Nothing, except that her father has scientific interests. It is plainenough, though, that they cannot be without refinement. No doubt theyare poor; we hardly consider that a crime. '

He rose, as if he considered the interview at an end. 

'Look here, ' said Mr. Athel, with a little bluffness, the result of adifficulty in making concessions; 'if Miss Hood returned to us, as youpropose, should you consider it a point of honour to go on with yourwork at Balliol as if nothing had happened, and to abstain fromcommunication with her of a kind which would make things awkward?'

'Both, undoubtedly. I could very well arrange to keep away from homeentirely in the interval. '

'Well, I think we have talked enough for the present. I have no kind ofsympathy with your position, pray understand that. I think you have madeabout as bad a mistake as you could have done. All the same, I willspeak of this with your aunt--'

'I think you had better not do that, ' interrupted Wilfrid, 'I mean withany view of persuading her. I am afraid I can't very well bring myselfto compromises which involve a confession of childish error. It isbetter I should go my own way. '

'Well, well, of course, if you take the strictly independent attitude--'

Mr. Athel took another turn on the lawn, his brows bent. It was thefirst time that there had ever been an approach to serious differencebetween himself and his son. The paternal instinct was strong in him, and it was inevitable that he should be touched by sympatheticadmiration of his past self as revived in Wilfrid's firm and dignifiedbearing. He approached the latter again. 

'Come to me in the study about ten to-night, will you?' he said. 

It was the end of the discussion for the present. 

Shortly after dinner, when coffee had been brought to the drawing-room, Wilfrid wandered out to the summer-house. Emily would be home by thistime. He thought of her. .. . 

'The deuce of it is, ' exclaimed Mr. Athel, conversing with his sister, 'that it's so hard to find valid objections. If he had proposed to marrya barmaid, one's course would be clear, but as it is--'

Mrs. Rossall had listened in silence to a matter-of-fact disclosure ofWilfrid's proceedings. In the commencement her attention had markeditself by a slight elevation of the brows; at the end she was cold andrather disdainful. Observation of her face had the result of confirmingher brother in the apologetic tone. He was annoyed at perceiving thatEdith would justify his prediction. 

'I am sorry to hear it, of course, ' were her first words, 'but I supposeWilfrid will act as he chooses. '

'Well, but this isn't all, ' pursued Mr. Athel, laying aside anaffectation of half-humorous indulgence which he had assumed. 'He hasurged upon me an extraordinary proposal. His idea is that Miss Hoodmight continue to hold her position here until he has taken his degree. '

'I am not surprised. You of course told him that such a thing was out ofthe question?'

'I said that _you_ would probably consider it so. '

'But surely--Do you hold a different view?'

'Really, I hold no views at all. I am not sure that I have got the rightfocus yet. I know that the plans of a lifetime are upset; I can't getmuch beyond that at present. '

Mrs. Rossall was deeply troubled. She sat with her eyes drooped, herlower lip drawn in. 

'Do you refer to any plan in particular?' she asked next. 

'Yes, I suppose I do. '

'I am very, very sorry for Beatrice, ' she said, in a subdued voice. 

'You think it will---'

Mrs. Rossall raised her eyebrows a little, and kept her air of painedmusing. 

'Well, what is to be done?' resumed her brother, always impatient ofmere negatives. 'He has delivered a sort of ultimatum. In the event ofthis proposal--as to Miss Hood's return--being rejected, he marries atonce. '

'And then goes back to Balliol?'

'No, simply abandons his career. '

Mrs. Rossall smiled. It was not in woman's nature to be uninterested bydecision such as this. 

'Do you despair of influencing him?' she asked. 

'Entirely. He will not hear of her taking another place in the interval, and it seems there are difficulties in the way of her remaining at home. Of course I see very well the objections on the surface to her comingback--'

'The objections are not on the surface at all, they are fundamental. Youare probably not in a position to see the ease as I do. Such a state ofthings would be ludicrous; we should all be playing parts in a farce. Hecannot have made such a proposal to her; she would have shown him atonce its absurdity. '

'But the fact of the matter is that she acceded to it, ' said Mr. Athel, with a certain triumph over female infallibility. 

'Then I think worse of her than I did, that's all. '

'I'm not at all sure that you are right in that, ' observed her brother, with an impartial air. 'Pray tell me your serious opinion of Miss Hood. One begins, naturally, with a suspicion that she has not been altogetherpassive in this affair. What Wilf says is, of course, nothing to thepoint; he protests that her attitude has been irreproachable. '

'Especially in making assignations for six o'clock in the morning. '

'Well, well, that is merely granting the issue; you are a trifle'illogical, Edith. '

'No doubt I am. You, on the other hand, seem to be very much of Wilf'sopinion. I am sorry that I can't do as you wish. '

'Well, we shall not gain anything by giving way to irritation. He mustbe told how matters stand, and judge for himself. '

As Mr. Athel was speaking, Wilfrid entered the room. Impatience hadovercome him. He knew of course that a discussion was in progressbetween his father and his aunt, and calm waiting upon other people'sdecisions was not in his nature. He came forward and seated himself. 

'I gather from your look, aunt, ' he began, when the others did not seemdisposed to break silence, 'that you take my father's view of what hehas been telling you. '

'I am not sure what your father's view is, ' was Mrs. Rossall's reply, given very coldly. 'But I certainly think you have proposed what isimpossible. '

'Yes, you are right, ' rejoined Wilfrid, to the surprise of both. 'Theplan was not well considered. Pray think no more of it. '

'What do you substitute?' his father inquired, after another longsilence. 

'I cannot say. ' He paused, then continued with some emotion, 'I wouldgladly have had your sympathy. Perhaps I fail to see the whole matter inthe same light as yourselves, but it seems to me that in the step I havetaken there is nothing that should cause lasting difference between us. I involve the family in no kind of disgrace--that, I suppose, youadmit?'

Mrs. Rossall made no answer. Mr. Athel moved uneasily upon his chair, coughed, seemed about to speak, but in the end said nothing. 

'I am afraid I shall not be able to leave England with you, ' continuedWilfrid, rising. 'But that fortunately need cause no change in yourplans. '

Mr. Athel was annoyed at his sister's behaviour. He had looked to herfor mediation; clearly she would offer nothing of the kind. She waswrapping herself in a cloak of offended dignity; she had withdrawn fromthe debate. 

'Come with me to my room, ' he said moving from his chair. 

'I think it will be better to have no further discussion, Wilfridreplied firmly, 'at all events to-night. '

'As you please, ' said his father, shortly. 

He went from the room, and Wilfrid, without further speech to his aunt, presently followed. 

CHAPTER V

THE SHADOW OF HOME

The house which was the end of Emily's journey was situated two milesoutside the town of Dunfield, on the high road going southward, justbefore it enters upon a rising tract of common land known as the Heath. It was one of a row of two-storied dwellings, built of glazed brick, each with a wide projecting window on the right hand of the front door, and with a patch of garden railed in from the road, the row being partof a straggling colony which is called Banbrigg. Immediately oppositethese houses stood an ecclesiastical edifice of depressing appearance, stone-built, wholly without ornament, presenting a corner to thehighway, a chapel-of-ease for worshippers unable to go as far asDunfield in the one direction or the village of Pendal in the other. Scattered about were dwelling-houses old and new; the former beingcottages of the poorest and dirtiest kind, the latter brick structuresof the most unsightly form, evidently aiming at constituting themselvesinto a thoroughfare, and, in point of fact, already rejoicing in thename of Regent Street. There was a public-house, or rather, as itfrankly styled itself in large letters on the window, a dram-shop; andthere were two or three places for the sale of very miscellaneousarticles, exhibiting the same specimens of discouraging stock throughoutthe year. At no season, and under no advantage of sky, was Banbrigg adelectable abode. Though within easy reach of country which was notwithout rural aspects, it was marked too unmistakably with the squalorof a manufacturing district. Its existence impressed one as casual; itwas a mere bit of Dunfield got away from the main mass, and havingbrought its dirt with it. The stretch of road between it and the bridgeby which the river was crossed into Dunfield had in its long, hardugliness something dispiriting. Though hedges bordered it here andthere, they were stunted and grimed; though fields were seen on thisside and on that, the grass had absorbed too much mill-smoke to exhibitwholesome verdure; it was fed upon by sheep and cows, seemingly turnedin to be out of the way till needed for slaughter, and by the sorriestof superannuated horses. The land was blighted by the curse of what wename--using a word as ugly as the thing it represents--industrialism. 

As the cab brought her along this road from Dunfield station, Emilythought of the downs, the woodlands, the fair pastures of Surrey. Therewas sorrow at her heart, even a vague tormenting fear. It would be hardto find solace in Banbrigg. 

Hither her parents had come to live when she was thirteen years old, herhome having previously been in another and a larger manufacturing town. Her father was a man marked for ill-fortune: it pursued him from hisentrance into the world, and would inevitably--you read it in hisface--hunt him into a sad grave. He was the youngest of a large family;his very birth had been an added misery to a household struggling withwant. His education was of the slightest; at twelve years of age he wasalready supporting himself, or, one would say, keeping himself above thepoint of starvation; and at three-and-twenty--the age when Wilfrid Athelis entering upon life in the joy of freedom--was ludicrously bankrupt, apetty business he had established being sold up for a debt somethingshort of as many pounds as he had years. He drifted into indefinitemercantile clerkships, an existence possibly preferable to that of thefourth circle of Inferno, and then seemed at length to have fallen upona piece of good luck, such as, according to a maxim of pathetic optimismwherewith he was wont to cheer himself, must come to every man sooner orlater--provided he do not die of hunger whilst it is on the way. Hemarried a schoolmistress, one Miss Martin, who was responsible for theteaching of some twelve or fifteen children of tender age, and who, whatwas more, owned the house in which she kept school. The result was thatJames Hood once more established himself in business, or rather inseveral businesses, vague, indescribable, save by those who are unhappyenough to understand such matters--a commission agency, a life insuranceagency and a fire insurance ditto, I know not what. Yet the semblance ofprosperity was fleeting. As if connection with him meant failure, hiswife's school, which she had not abandoned (let us employ negative termsin speaking of this pair), began to fall off; ultimately no school wasleft. It did in truth appear that Miss Martin had suffered something inbecoming Mrs. Hood. At her marriage she was five-and-twenty, fairlygood-looking, in temper a trifle exigent perhaps, sanguine, and capableof exertion; she could not claim more than superficial instruction, buttaught reading and writing with the usual success which attends teachersof these elements. After the birth of her first child, Emily, her moralnature showed an unaccountable weakening; the origin was no doubtphysical, but in story-telling we dwell very much on the surface ofthings; it is not permitted us to describe human nature too accurately. The exigence of her temper became something generally described by aharsher term; she lost her interest in the work which she hadunwillingly entrusted for a time to an assistant; she found theconditions of her life hard. Alas, they grew harder. After Emily, twochildren were successively born; fate was kind to them, and neithersurvived infancy. Their mother fell into fretting, into hysteria; somechange in her life seemed imperative, and at length she persuaded herhusband to quit the town in which they lived, and begin life anewelsewhere. Begin life anew! James Hood was forty years old; hepossessed, as the net result of his commercial enterprises, a capital ofa hundred and thirty pounds. The house, of course, could be let, andwould bring five-and-twenty pounds a year. This it was resolved to do. He had had certain dealings in Dunfield, and in Dunfield he would strikehis tent--that is to say, in Banbrigg, whence he walked daily to alittle office in the town. Rents were lower in Banbrigg, and it wasbeyond the range of certain municipal taxings. 

Mrs. Hood possessed still her somewhat genteel furniture. One articlewas a piano, and upon this she taught Emily her notes. It had been afairly good piano once, but the keys had become very loose. They werelooser than ever, now that Emily tried to play on them, on her returnfrom Surrey. 

Business did not thrive in Dunfield; yet there was more than ever needthat it should, for to neglect Emily's education would be to dealcruelly with the child--she would have nothing else to depend upon inher battle with the world. Poor Emily A feeble, overgrown child, needingfresh air, which she could not get, needing food of a better kind, justas unattainable. Large-eyed, thin-checked Emily; she, too, already inthe clutch of the great brute world, the helpless victim of acivilisation which makes its food of those the heart most pities. Howwell if her last sigh had been drawn in infancy, if she had lain withthe little brother and sister in that gaunt, grimy cemetery, under theshadow of mill chimneys! She was reserved for other griefs; forconsolations, it is true, but--

Education she did get, by hook or by crook; there was dire pinching topay for it, and, too well knowing this, the child strove her utmost touse the opportunities offered her. Each morning going into Dunfield, taking with her some sandwiches that were called dinner, walking homeagain by tea-time, tired, hungry--ah, hungry No matter the weather, shemust walk her couple of miles--it was at least so far to the school. Inwinter you saw her set forth with her waterproof and umbrella, thetoo-heavy bag of books on her arm; sometimes the wind and rain beatingas if to delay her--they, too, cruel. In summer the hot days tried herperhaps still more; she reached home in the afternoon well-nighfainting, the books were so heavy. Who would not have felt kindly toher? So gentle she was, so dreadfully shy and timid, her eyes so eager, so full of unconscious pathos. 'Hood's little girl, ' said the people onthe way who saw her pass daily, and, however completely strangers, theysaid it with a certain kindness of tone and meaning. A little thing thathappened one day--take it as an anecdote. On her way to school shepassed some boys who were pelting a most wretched dog, a poor, scraggybeast driven into a corner. Emily, so timid usually she could not raiseher eyes before a stranger, stopped, quivering all over, _commanded_them to cease their brutality, divine compassion become a heroism. Theboys somehow did her bidding, and walked on together. Emily stayedbehind, opened her bag, threw something for the dog to eat. It was halfher dinner. 

Her mind braced itself. She had a passionate love of learning; all bookswere food to her. Fortunately there was the library of the Mechanics'Institute; but for that she would have come short of mental sustenance, for her father had never been able to buy mole than a dozen volumes, andthese all dealt with matters of physical science. The strange things sheread, books which came down to her from the shelves with a thickness ofdust upon them; histories of Greece and Rome ('Not much asked for, these, ' said the librarian), translations of old classics, the Koran, Mosheim's 'Ecclesiastical History, ' works of Swedenborg, all the poetryshe could lay hands on, novels not a few. One day she asked for a bookon 'Gymnoblastic Hydroids'; the amazing title in the catalogue hadfilled her with curiosity; she must know the meaning of everything. Shewas not idle, Emily. 

But things in the home were going from bad to worse. When Emily wassixteen, her father scarcely knew where to look for each day's dinner. Something must be done. Activity took a twofold direction. First of all, Emily got work as a teacher in an infant's school. It was at her ownmotion; she could bear her mother's daily querulousness no longer; shemust take some step. She earned a mere trifle; but it was earning, instead of being a source of expense. And in the meantime she worked onfor certain examinations which it would benefit her to have passed. Thesecond thing done was that her father abandoned his office, and obtaineda place in the counting-house of a worsted-mill, under the firm ofDagworthy and Son. His salary was small, but the blessing of it was itscertainty; the precariousness of his existence had all but driven poorHood mad. There came a season of calm. Emily's sphere of work extendeditself; the school only took her mornings, and for the afternoon therewas proposed to her the teaching of the little Baxendales. TheBaxendales were well-to-do people; the father was, just then, mayor ofDunfield, the mother was related to the member of Parliament for thetown. We have had mention of them as connections of Beatrice Redwing. 

At nineteen she for the first time left home. Through the Baxendales sheobtained the position of governess in a family residing in Liverpool, and remained with them till she went to London, to the Athels. Thesethree years in Liverpool were momentous for her; they led her fromgirlhood to womanhood, and established her character. Her home was inthe house of a prosperous ship-owner, a Lancashire man, outwardly ablustering good-tempered animal, yet with an inner light which showeditself in his love of books and pictures, in his easy walking under theburden of self-acquired riches, in a certain generous freedom whichmarked his life and thoughts. His forename was Laurence: Emily, inletters to her father, used to call him Lorenzo the Magnificent, a titlewhich became him well enough. In the collection of works of art he wasreally great; he must have spent appalling sums annually on his picturegallery and the minor ornaments scattered about his house. He had apersonal acquaintance, through his pecuniary dealings, with the foremostartists of the day; he liked to proclaim the fact and describe the men. To Emily the constant proximity of these pictures was a pricelessadvantage; the years she spent among them were equivalent to auniversity course. Moreover, she enjoyed, as with the Athels later, afree command of books; here began her acquaintance with the most modernliterature, which was needful to set her thoughts in order, to throwinto right perspective her previous miscellaneous reading, and to markout her way in the future. Her instinctive craving for intellectualbeauty acquired a reflective consistency; she reformed her ideals, foundthe loveliness of much that in her immaturity had seemed barren, putaside, with gentle firmness, much that had appeared indispensable to hermoral life. The meanings which she attached to that word 'moral' largelymodified themselves, that they should do so was the note of herprogress. Her prayer was for 'beauty in the inward soul, ' which, if itgrew to be her conviction, was greatly--perhaps wholly--dependent onthe perception of external beauty. The development of beauty in the soulwould mean a life of ideal purity; all her instincts pointed to such alife; her passionate motives converged on the one end of spiritualchastity. 

One ever-present fear she had to strive with in her progress towardserene convictions. The misery of her parents' home haunted her, and byno effort could she expel the superstition that she had only escapedfrom that for a time, that its claws would surely overtake her and fixthemselves again in her flesh. Analysing her own nature, she discerned, or thought she did, a lack of independent vigour; it seemed as if shewere too reliant on external circumstances; she dreaded what mightfollow if their assistance were withdrawn. To be sure she had held hercourse through the countless discouragements of early years; but that, in looking back, seemed no assurance for the future; her courage, itappeared to her, had been of the unconscious kind, and might fail herwhen she consciously demanded it. As a child she had once walked in hersleep, had gone forth from the house, and had, before she was awakened, crossed the narrow footing of a canal-lock, a thing her nervousnesswould not allow her to do at other times. This became to her a figure. The feat she had performed when mere vital instinct guided her, shewould have failed in when attempting it with the full understanding ofits danger. Suppose something happened which put an end to herindependence--failure of health, some supreme calamity at home--couldshe hold on in the way of salvation? Was she capable of consciousheroism? Could her soul retain its ideal of beauty if environed byugliness?

The vice of her age--nay, why call it a vice?--the necessary issue ofthat intellectual egoism which is the note of our time, found as goodillustration in this humble life as in men and women who are themouthpieces of a civilisation. Pre occupied with problems of her ownrelation to the world, she could not enjoy without thought in the rear, ever ready to trouble her with suggestions of unreality. Her distressesof conscience were all the more active for being purely human; in hersoul dwelt an immense compassion, which, with adequate occasion, mightsecure to itself such predominance as to dwarf into inefficiency herreligion of culture. It was exquisite misery to conceive, as, from innerobservation, she so well could, some demand of life which would make herideals appear the dreams of bygone halcyon days, useless and worse amidthe threats of gathering tempest. An essentially human apprehension, beit understood. The vulgarities of hysterical pietism Emily had neverknown; she did not fear the invasion of such blight as that; the thoughtof it was noisome to her. Do you recall a kind of trouble that came uponher, during that talk in the hollow, when Wilfrid suggested the case ofher being called upon to make some great sacrifice in her father'sbehalf? It was an instance of the weakness I speak of; the fact ofWilfrid's putting forward such a thought had in that moment linked herto him with precious bonds of sympathy, till she felt as if he had seeninto the most secret places of her heart. She dreaded the force of hercompassionateness. That dog by the roadside; how the anguish of its eyeshad haunted her through the day I It was the revolt of her whole beingagainst the cruelty inherent in life. That evening she could not readthe book she had in hand; its phrases seemed to fall into triviality. Yet--she reasoned at a later time--it should not have been so; thehaggard gaze of fate should not daunt one; pity is but an element in thesoul's ideal of order, it should not usurp a barren sovereignty. It isthe miserable contradiction in our lot that the efficiency of theinstincts of beauty-worship waits upon a force of individualityattainable only by a sacrifice of sensibility. Emily divined this. So itwas that she came to shun the thought of struggle, to seek an abodeapart from turbid conditions of life. She was bard at work building forher soul its 'lordly pleasure-house, ' its Palace of Art. Could she, pooras she was, dependent, bound by such obvious chains to the gross earth, hope to abide in her courts and corridors for ever?. .. 

Friday was the day of her arrival at Banbrigg. On the Saturday afternoonshe hoped to enjoy a walk with her father; he would reach home from themill shortly after two o'clock, and would then have his dinner. Mrs. Hood dined at one, and could not bring herself to alter the hour forSaturday; it was characteristic of her. That there might be no culinarycares on Sunday morning, she always cooked her joint of meat on the lastday of the week; partaking of it herself at one o'clock, she cut slicesfor her husband and kept them warm, with vegetables, in the oven. Thiswas not selfishness in theory, however much it may have been so inpractice; it merely meant that she was unable to introduce variationinto a mechanical order; and, as her husband never dreamed ofcomplaining, Mrs. Hood could see in the arrangement no breach of thefitness of things, even though it meant that poor Hood never sat down toa freshly cooked meal from one end of the year to the other. To Emily itwas simply a detestable instance of the worst miseries she had to endureat home. Coming on this first day, it disturbed her much. She knew theuselessness, the danger, of opposing any traditional habit, but herappetite at one o'clock was small. 

Mrs. Hood did not keep a servant in the house; she engaged a charwomanonce a week, and did all the work at other times herself. This was notstrictly necessary; the expense of such a servant as would have answeredpurposes could just have been afforded; again and again Emily hadentreated to be allowed to pay a girl out of her own earnings. Mrs. Hoodsteadily refused. No, she had _once_ known what it was to have luxuriesabout her (that was naturally before her marriage), but those days weregone by. She thus entailed upon herself a great deal of labour, at oncerepugnant to her tastes and ill-suited to the uncertainty of her health, but all this was forgotten in the solace of possessing a standinggrievance, one obvious at all moments, to be uttered in a sigh, to beemphasised by the affectation of cheerfulness. The love which wasEmily's instinct grew chill in the presence of such things. 

Saturday was from of old a day of ills. The charwoman was in the house, and Mrs. Hood went about in a fatigued way, coming now and then to thesitting-room, sinking into a chair, letting her head fall back withclosed eyes. Emily had, of course, begged to be allowed to giveassistance, but her mother declared that there was nothing whatever shecould do. 

'Shut the door, ' she said, 'and then you won't hear the scrubbing soplainly. I can understand that it annoys you; I used to have the samefeeling, but I've accustomed myself. You might play something; it wouldkeep away your thoughts. '

'But I don't want to keep away my thoughts, ' exclaimed Emily, with alaugh. 'I want to help you so that you will have done the sooner. '

'No, no, my dear; you are not used to it. You'll tell me when you'd likesomething to eat if you get faint. '

'I am not likely to grow faint, mother, if I do nothing. '

'Well, well; I have a sinking feeling now and then, I thought you mightbe the same. '

Just when his dinner in the oven had had time to grow crusty, Mr. Hoodarrived. He was a rather tall man, of sallow complexion, with greyishhair. The peculiarly melancholy expression of his face was due to theexcessive drooping of his eyelids under rounded brows; beneath the eyeswere heavy lines; he generally looked like one who has passed through anight of sleepless grief. He wore a suit of black, which had for severalyears been his reserve attire, till it grew too seamy for use onSundays. The whole look of the man was saddening; to pass him in thestreet as a stranger was to experience a momentary heaviness of heart. He had very long slender fingers--Emily's matchless hand in arudimentary form--and it seemed to be a particular solicitude to keepthem scrupulously clean; he frequently examined them, and appeared tohave a pleasure in handling things in a dainty way--the pages of abook, for instance. When he smiled it was obviously with effort--apainful smile, for all that an exceedingly gentle one. In his voicethere was the same gentleness, a self-suppression, as it were; his wayof speaking half explained his want of success in life. 

Emily was standing at the window in expectation of his coming. As soonas he reached the iron gate in front of the house she ran to open thedoor for him. He did not quicken his step, even stopped to close thegate with deliberate care, but if his face could ever be said to lightup, it did so as he bent to the girl's kiss. She took his hat from him, and went to see that his dinner was made ready. 

'How fine it is!' he said in his subdued tone, when he came downstairsand stood by the table stroking his newly washed hands. 'Shall we have awalk before tea-time? Mother is too busy, I'm afraid. '

Mrs. Hood came into the room shortly, and seated herself in the usualway. 

'Did you bring the cake?' she asked, when her presence had causedsilence for a few moments. 

'The cake?' he repeated in surprise. 

'Didn't I ask you to bring a cake? I suppose my memory is going; I meantto, and thought I mentioned it at breakfast. I shall have nothing forEmily's tea. '

Emily protested that it was needless to get unusual things on heraccount. 

'We must do what we can to make you comfortable, my dear. I can't keep atable like that you are accustomed to, but that I know you don't expect. Which way are you going to walk this afternoon? If you pass a shop youmight get a cake, or buns, whichever you like. '

'Well, I thought we might have a turn over the Heath, ' said Mr. Hood. 'However, we'll see what we can do. '

A thought of some anxious kind appeared suddenly to strike Mrs. Hood;she leaned forward in her chair, seemed to listen, then started up andout of the room. 

Emily sat where she could not see her father eating; it pained, exasperated her to be by him whilst he made such a meal. He ate slowly, with thought of other things; at times his eye wandered to the window, and he regarded the sky in a brooding manner. He satisfied his hungerwithout pleasure, apparently with indifference. Shortly after threeo'clock the two started for their walk. Not many yards beyond the housethe road passed beneath a railway bridge, then over a canal, and at onceentered upon the common. The Heath formed the long side of a slowlyrising hill; at the foot the road divided itself into two branches, andthe dusty tracks climbed at a wide angle with each other. The one whichEmily and her father pursued led up to stone quarries, which had beenfor a long time in working, and, skirting these, to the level groundabove them, which was the end of the region of furze and bracken. Herebegan a spacious tract of grassy common; around it were houses ofpleasant appearance, one or two meriting the name of mansion. In one ofthem dwelt Mr. Richard Dagworthy, the mill-owner, in whosecounting-house James Hood earned his living. He alone represented thefirm of Dagworthy and Son; his father had been dead two years, and morerecently he had become a widower, his wife leaving him one child stillan infant. 

At the head of the quarries the two paused to look back upon Dunfield. The view from this point was extensive, and would have been interestingbut for the existence of the town itself. It was seen to lie in a broadvalley, along which a river flowed; the remoter districts werepleasantly wooded, and only the murkiness in the far sky told that a yetlarger centre of industry lurked beyond the horizon. Dunfield offered noprominent features save the chimneys of its factories and its finechurch, the spire of which rose high above surrounding buildings; overall hung a canopy of foul vapour, heavy, pestiferous. Take in yourfingers a spray from one of the trees even here on the Heath, and itstouch left a soil. 

'How I wish you could see the views from the hills in Surrey!' Emilyexclaimed when they had stood in silence. 'I can imagine nothing moredelightful in English scenery. It realises my idea of perfect ruralbeauty, as I got it from engravings after the landscape painters. Oh, you shall go there with me some day. '

Her father smiled and shook his head a little. 

'Perhaps, ' he said; and added a favourite phrase of his, 'while there islife there is hope. '

'Of course there is, ' rejoined Emily, with gaiety which was unusual inher. 'No smoke; the hills blue against a lovely sky! trees covered tothe very roots with greenness; rich old English homes and cottages--oh, you know the kind your ideal of a cottage--low tiled roofs, latticedwindows, moss and lichen and climbing flowers. Farmyards sweet with hay, and gleaming dairies. That country is my home!'

With how rich a poetry it clothed itself in her remembrance, the land ofmilk and honey, indeed, her heart's home. It was all but impossible tokeep the secret of her joy, yet she had resolved to do so, and herpurpose held firm. 

'I am very glad indeed that you are so happy there, ' sail her father, looking at her with that quiet absorption in another's mood of which hewas so capable. 'But it will be London through the winter. You haven'ttold me much about London; but then you were there so short a time. '

'But I saw much. Mrs. Rossall could not have been kinder; for the firstfew days it was almost as if I had been a visitor; I was takeneverywhere. '

'I should like to see London before I die, ' mused her father. 'Somehow Ihave never managed to get so far. '

'Oh, we will see it together some day. '

'There's one thing, ' said Mr. Hood, reflectively, 'that I wishespecially to see, and that is Holborn Viaduct. It must be a wonderfulpiece of engineering; I remember thinking it out at the time it wasconstructed. Of course you have seen it?'

'I am afraid not. We are very far away from the City. But I will go andsee it on the first opportunity. '

'Do, and send me a full description. '

His thoughts reverted to the views before them. 

'After all, this isn't so bad. There's a great advantage in living sonear the Heath. I'm sure the air here is admirable; don't you smell howfresh it is? And then, one gets fond of the place one's lived in foryears. I believe I should find it hard to leave Dunfield. '

Emily smiled gently. 

'I wonder, ' he pursued, 'whether you have the kind of feeling that cameto me just then? It struck me that, suppose anything happened that wouldenable us to go and live in another place, there would be a sort ofingratitude, something like a shabby action, in turning one's back onthe old spot. I don't like to feel unkind even to a town. '

The girl glanced at him with meaning eyes. Here was an instance of thesympathetic relations of which she had spoken to Wilfrid; in these wordswas disclosed the origin of the deepest sensibilities of her own nature. 

They pursued their walk, across the common and into a tree-shaded lane. Emily tried to believe that this at length was really the country; therewere no houses in view, meadows lay on either hand, the leafage wasthick. But it was not mere prejudice which saw in every object astruggle with hard conditions, a degeneration into coarseness, a blight. The quality of the earth was probably poor to begin with; the herbageseemed of gross fibre; one would not risk dipping a finger in the streamwhich trickled by the roadside, it suggested an impure source. Andbehold, what creatures are these coming along the lane, where onlyearth-stained rustics should be met? Two colliers, besmutted wretches, plodding homeward from the 'pit' which is half a mile away. Yes, theirpresence was in keeping with the essential character of the scene. 

'One might have had a harder life, ' mused Mr. Hood aloud, when thepitmen were gone by. 

'I think there's a fallacy in that, ' replied Emily. 'Their life isprobably not hard at all. I used to feel that pity, but I have reasonedmyself out of it. They are really happy, for they know nothing of theirown degradation. '

'By the bye, ' said her father presently, 'how is young Mr. Athel, theyoung fellow who had to come home from college?'

'He is quite well again, I think, ' was Emily's reply. 

'I suppose, poor fellow, he has a very weak constitution?'

'Oh no, I think not. '

'What is he studying for? Going into the Church?'

Emily laughed; it was a relief to do so. 

'Isn't it strange, ' she said, 'how we construct an idea of an unknownperson from some circumstance or piece of description? I see exactlywhat your picture of Mr. Athel is: a feeble and amiable young man, mostlikely with the shocking voice with which curates sometimes read thelessons--'

She broke off and laughed again. 

'Well, ' said her father, 'I admit I thought of him a little in thatway--I scarcely know why. '

'You could hardly have been further from the truth. Try to imagine theintellectual opposite of such a young man, and you--That will be farmore like Mr. Athel. '

'He isn't conceited? My want of experience has an unfortunate tendencyto make me think of young fellows in his position as unbearably vain. Itmust be so hard to avoid it. '

'Perhaps it is, if they have the common misfortune to be born withoutbrains. '

Other subjects engaged their attention. 

'When do you take your holiday, father?' Emily asked. 

'I think about the middle of this month. It won't be more than a week orten days. '

'Don't you think you ought to go to Cleethorpes, if only for a day ortwo?'

To suggest any other place of summer retreat would have been tooalarming. Mr. Hood's defect of imagination was illustrated in thismatter; he had been somehow led, years ago, to pay a visit toCleethorpes, and since then that one place represented for him theseaside. Others might be just as accessible and considerably moredelightful, but it did not even occur to him to vary. It would have costhim discomfort to do so, the apprehension of entering upon the unknown. The present was the third summer which had passed without his quittinghome. Anxiety troubled his countenance as Emily made the proposal. 

'Not this year, I think, ' he said, as if desirous of passing the subjectby. 

'Father, what possible objection can there be to my bearing the expenseof a week at Cleethorpes? You know how well I can afford it; indeed Ishould like to go; it is rather unkind of you to refuse. '

This was an old subject of discussion. Since Emily had lived away fromhome, not only her father, but her mother just as strenuously, hadrefused to take from her any of the money that she earned. It had beenher habit at first indirectly to overcome this resistance by means ofsubstantial presents in holiday time; but she found such seriousdiscomfort occasioned by the practice that most reluctantly she hadabandoned it. For the understanding of the Hoods' attitude in thismatter, it must be realised how deeply their view of life was colouredby years of incessant preoccupation with pecuniary difficulties. Thehideous conception of existence which regards each individual asfighting for his own hand, striving for dear life against every otherindividual, was ingrained in their minds by the inveterate bitterness oftheir own experience; when Emily had become a woman, and was gone forthto wrest from the adverse world her own subsistence, her right to whatshe earned was indefeasible, and affection itself protested against herbeing mulcted for their advantage. As for the slight additional expenseof her presence at home during the holidays, she must not be abovepaying a visit to her parents; the little inconsistency was amiableenough. Father and mother both held forth to her in the same tone: 'Youhave the battle of life before you; it is a terrible one, and the worldis relentless. Not only is it your right, but your very duty, to spareevery penny you can; for, if anything happened to prevent your earningmoney, you would become a burden upon us--a burden we would gladlystrive to bear, but the thought of which would be very hard foryourself. If, on the other hand, your mother were left a widow, thinkhow dreadful it would be if you could give her no assistance. You arewrong in spending one farthing more than your absolute needs require; tosay you do it in kindness to us is a mere mistake of yours. ' The logicwas not to be encountered; it was as irresistible as the socialconditions which gave it birth. Emily had abandoned discussion on thesepoints; such reasoning cost her sickness of heart. In practice sheobeyed her parents' injunctions, for she herself was hitherto only toowell aware of the fate which might come upon her in consequence of themost trifling mishap; she knew that no soul in the world save herparents would think it a duty to help her, save in the way of barecharity. Naturally her old point of view was now changed; it was thisthat led her to revive the discussion with her father, and to speak in atone which Mr. Hood heard with some surprise. 

'Next year, perhaps, Emily, ' he said. 'After Surrey, I don't think youcan really need another change. I am delighted to see how well you look. I, too, am remarkably well, and I can't help thinking your mother getsstronger. How do you find her looking?'

'Better than usual, I really think. All the same, it is clearlyimpossible for you and her to live on year after year without any kindof change. '

'Oh, my dear, we don't feel it. It's so different with older people; achange rather upsets us than otherwise. You know how nervous your mothergets when she is away from home. '

Their walk brought them round again to the top of the Heath. Mr. Hoodlooked at his watch, and found that it was time to be moving homewards. Tea was punctually at five. Mrs. Hood would take it ill if they werelate, especially on Saturday. 

As they walked across the smooth part of the upper common, looking atthe houses around, they saw coming towards them a gentleman followed bythree dogs. He was dressed in a light tweed suit, and brandished awalking-stick, as if animal spirits possessed him strongly. 

'Why, here comes Mr. Dagworthy, ' remarked Mr. Hood, in a low tone, though the other was still at a considerable distance. 'He generallygoes off somewhere on Saturday afternoon. What a man he is for dogs! Ibelieve he keeps twenty or thirty at the house there. '

Emily evinced just a little self-consciousness. It was possible that Mr. Dagworthy would stop to speak, for she had become, in a measure, acquainted with him in the preceding spring. She was at home then for afew weeks before her departure for London, and the Baxendales, who hadalways shown her much kindness, invited her to an evening party, atwhich Dagworthy was present. He had chatted with her on that occasion. 

Yes, he was going to speak. He was a man of five-and-thirty, robust, rather florid, with eyes which it was not disagreeable to meet, thoughthey gazed with embarrassing persistency, and a mouth which he wouldhave done well to leave under the natural shelter of a moustache; it wasat once hard and sensual. The clean-shaving of his face gave hisappearance a youthfulness to which his tone of speech did notcorrespond. 

'How do you do, Miss Hood? Come once more into our part of the world, then? You have been in London, I hear. '

It was the tone of a man long accustomed to have his own way in life, and not overmuch troubled with delicacies of feeling. His address couldnot be called disrespectful, but the smile which accompanied itexpressed a sort of good-natured patronage, perhaps inevitable in such aman when speaking to his clerk's daughter. The presence of the clerkhimself very little concerned him. He kept his eyes steadily on thegirl's face, examining her with complete frankness. His utterance wasthat of an educated man, but it had something of the Yorkshire accent, abroadness which would have distressed the ear in a drawing-room. 

Emily replied that she had been in London; it did not seem necessary toenter into details. 

'Pleasant afternoon, isn't it? Makes one want to get away to the moors. I suppose you will be off somewhere soon with your family, Mr. Hood?'

He would not have employed the formal prefix to his clerk's name but forEmily's presence; the father knew that, and felt grateful. 

'Not this year, I think, sir, ' he replied, with perfect cheerfulness. 

Of the three dogs that accompanied Dagworthy, one was a handsome collie. This animal came snuffing at Emily's hand, and involuntarily, gladperhaps to have a pretence for averting her face, she caressed the silkyears. 

'Fine head, isn't it, Miss Hood?' said Dagworthy at once, causing her toremove her hand quickly. 'Ay, but I've a finer collie than that. Justwalk in with me, will you?' he added, after a scarcely perceptiblepause. 'I always like to show off my dogs. You're in no hurry, Isuppose? Just come and have a look at the kennels. '

Emily was deeply annoyed, both because such a visit was in itselfdistasteful to her, and on account of the irritation which she knew thedelay would cause her mother. She did not for a moment expect her fatherto refuse; his position would not allow him to do so. Mr. Hood, in fact, murmured thanks, after a mere half glance at his daughter, and the threewalked together to Dagworthy's house, the entrance to which was notfifty yards from where they were standing. 

The dwelling was neither large nor handsome, but it stood in a finegarden and had an air of solid well-being. As soon as they had passedthe gates, they were met by a middle-aged woman carrying a child of twoyears old, an infant of wonderfully hearty appearance. At the sight ofits father it chuckled and crowed. Dagworthy took it from the woman'sarms, and began a game which looked not a little dangerous; withsurprising strength and skill, he tossed it up some feet into the air, caught it as it descended, tossed it up again. The child shrieked withdelight, for all that the swift descent positively stopped its breath, and made a hiatus in the screaming. 

'Theer, that's abaht enough, Mr. Richard, ' said the woman, in broaddialect, when the child had gone up half a dozen times; she was nervous, and kept holding out her arms involuntarily. 'Ah doan't ovver much fancythat kind o' laakin. What's more, he's allus reight dahn fratchy after aturn o' that. See nah, he'll nivver want you to stop. Do a' done nah, Mr. Richard. '

'Here you are then; take him in, and tell them I want some tea; say Ihave friends with me. '

The child was carried away, roaring obstreperously, and Dagworthy, laughing at the vocal power displayed, led the way round to the back ofthe house. Here had been constructed elaborate kennels; several dogswere pacing in freedom about the clean yard, and many more were chainedup. Much information was imparted to the visitors concerning the morenotable animals; some had taken prizes at shows, others were warrantedto do so, one or two had been purchased at fancy prices. Mr. Hood nowand then put a question, as in duty bound to do; Emily restricted herspeech to the absolutely necessary replies. 

Dagworthy conducted them into the house. It appeared to be furnished ina solid, old-fashioned way, and the ornaments, though few, were such asmight better have been dispensed with. Old Dagworthy had come to livehere some five-and-twenty years previously, having before that occupieda small house in conjunction with his mill. He had been one of the'worthies' of Dunfield, and in his time did a good deal of useful workfor the town. Personally, he was anything but amiable, being devoid ofeducation and refinement, and priding himself on his spirit ofindependence, which exhibited itself in mere boorishness. Thoughanything but miserly, he had, where his interests were concerned, anextraordinary cunning and pertinacity; he was universally regarded asone of the shrewdest men of business in that part of Yorkshire, andreport credited him with any number of remarkable meannesses. It waspopularly said that 'owd Dick Dagworthy' would shrink from no dirtytrick to turn a sixpence, but was as likely as not to give it away assoon as he had got it. His son had doubtless advanced the character ofthe stock, and, putting aside the breeding of dogs, possessed manytastes of which the old man had no notion; none the less, he wascredited with not a little of his father's spirit in business. Inpractical affairs he was shrewd and active; he never--as poor Hood mighthave testified--paid a man in his employ a penny more than there wasneed, and fell far short of the departed Dagworthy's generosity; to beat his mercy in a pecuniary transaction was to expect and to receivenone. For all that, there was something in the man which hinted atqualities beneath the surface; a glance, a tone, now and then, whichseemed on the point of revealing a hidden humanity. 

When he chose, he could be courteous; he was so at present, as herequested Emily and her father to seat themselves in a large homely roomwhich looked out upon the garden. The woman who had carried the childreappeared and poured out cups of tea. When she had left the room--

'I must ask you to excuse the roughness of my establishment, Miss Hood, 'he said. 'I have to make shift for the resent with Mrs. Jenkins. Sheisn't as refined as she might e, but she's been with us here for morethan twelve years, and I should be sorry to replace her with any otherservant. '

Pieces of bread and butter of somewhat undue solidity were offered. Emily 'declined anything but the cup of tea. She was very ill at ease, though she succeeded in suppressing any manifestation of it; Dagworthykept his gaze on her constantly. 

'Now I know you didn't care very much about the dogs, ' he said to herpresently. 'I think I've got something here that will be rather more inyour line. '

He brought from a corner of the room a large portfolio, set it upon achair in front of Emily, and exposed its contents. These were a numberof fine photographs of continental cathedrals and churches. 

'I bought these when I took my run through France and Germany lastyear, ' he explained. 'I've something of a turn for architecture, Ibelieve; at all events, I know I like a fine building, and I like tofind out all I can about it. '

He went through the collection, with remarks which proved that he hadcertainly attained a rudimentary knowledge of the subject, and that hisappreciation was often keen when his technical understanding might be atfault. 

'The worst of it is, ' he said, at one point, with a modesty which was anew feature in his conversation, 'I can't pronounce the names properly. Now, how do you read that, Miss Hood? To be sure; I know it when I hearit. Have you ever been in France?'

The negative reply came. 

'You'd like to see the old-fashioned streets in which some of thesechurches stand. '

As soon as it was possible to do so, Emily looked meaningly at herfather, and he, just as anxious to be on his way homeward, rose forleave-taking. Dagworthy offered no opposition; he went with them to thegates, and shook hands with both, then stood gazing after them as theywalked across the common. 

'Well, I never knew young Dagworthy anything like that before, ' said Mr. Hood, when they were at some distance from the gate. 'I couldn't believeit when he asked us to go into the house. '

'I'm afraid mother will be very uneasy, ' was Emily's reply. 

'Yes, my dear, I'm afraid she will; let's walk sharply. But he wasreally uncommonly pleasant; I shall think a good deal better of him thanI have done. '

This was the only aspect of the afternoon's adventure which presenteditself to Mr. Hood. Emily was divided between relief at having got awayfrom that persistent gaze and apprehension of what might meet them ontheir arrival at home. The latter feeling was only too well justified. Mrs. Hood sat in the kitchen, the window darkened. When speech was atlength elicited from her, it appeared that a headache to which she wassubject had come on in its severest form. Emily was at once active withremedies, not that any of those that she urged were likely to availthemselves, but because she was well aware that the more solicitude sheshowed the sooner her mother would resume her ordinary state. Mrs. Hoodbegged to be left to herself; let them have their tea and leave her inthe kitchen, she was best there, out of people's way; it would soon bebedtime, the evening was practically gone. In the course of half an hourshe was at length prevailed upon to come into the sitting-room, and evento taste a cup of tea. At first she had paid no attention to the reasonsalleged for the unpunctuality; little by little she began to askquestions on her own account, petulantly but with growing interest. Still, the headache was not laid aside, and all spent a very dolorousevening. 

In the relation these things have their humorous side; Emily may beexcused if she was slow to appreciate it. She knew very well that thecrisis meant for her father several days of misery, and perhaps in heryouthful energy she was disposed to make too little allowance for hermother, whose life had been so full of hardship, and who even now wassuffering from cares and anxieties the worst of which her daughter wasnot allowed to perceive. After the girl's early departure to her bedroomthe other two sat talking drearily; after one of her headaches Mrs. Hoodalways dwelt in conversation on the most wretched features of her life, with despairing forecast. Poor woman, there was little of a brighterkind to occupy her thoughts. Two occasions of grave anxiety were atpresent troubling her, and, though he spoke of them less, her husband inno less a degree. It had just been announced to them that at the ensuingChristmas their rent would be raised, and at the same time the tenantwho had for years occupied the house which they owned in the town ofBarnhill had given notice of departure. There was a certaingrotesqueness in the fact of James Hood being a proprietor of realestate. Twice an attempt had been made to sell the house in question, but no purchaser could be found; the building was in poor repair, wasconstantly entailing expense to the landlord, and, in the event of itsbecoming unoccupied, would doubtless wait long for another tenant. Thisevent had come about, or would in a couple of months, and the loss ofthat five-and-twenty pounds a year would make the difficulty ofexistence yet more desperate. Once more an attempt at sale must be made, in itself involving outlays which, however petty, could ill be borne;and to sell, even if it could be done, meant a serious loss of income. 

'What did it mean, do you think?' Mrs. Hood asked, recurring to thesubject of Dagworthy and his astonishing behaviour. She put the questiondispiritedly, not venturing to hope for a solution that would help herto a more cheerful frame of mind. 

Hood scarcely dared to utter the words which came into his mind. 

'You remember that they met at the Baxendales'--'

'How did Emily behave?' the mother next inquired. 

'She was very quiet. I don't think she liked it. We must bear in mindthe kind of society she is used to. Young Dagworthy won't seem of muchaccount to her, I fancy. '

'But he has had a good education, hasn't he?'

'Pretty good, I suppose. He confessed to us, though, that he couldn'tpronounce French words. '

'It's quite certain, ' said Mrs. Hood, 'he wouldn't have invited you inif you had been alone. '

'Certain enough, ' was the reply, in a tone wholly disinterested. 'But itmust have been just a fancy, a whim. Things of that kind don't happennowadays. '

'Not to us, at all events, ' murmured the other dejectedly. 

'Well, there must come what will, ' she added, leaning her head back oncemore, and losing interest in the subject. 'I hope nothing and expectnothing. '

Alas, these two sitting together in the dull little room, speaking indisjointed phrases of despondency, exchanging no look, no word of mutualkindness, had they not once loved each other, with the love of youth andhope? Had it not once been enough to sit through long evenings and catchwith eagerness each other's lightest word? Time had robbed them ofyouth, and the injustice of the world's order had starved love to lessthan a shadow of itself, to a more habit of common suffering. Tendermemories were buried in the grave of children whom the resources of everso modest a fortune would have kept alive; the present was a merestruggle to support existence, choking the impulses of affection. Onewould not murmur at the kindly order of life, whereby passion givesplace to gentle habitudes, and the fiery soul of youth tames itself tocomely gravity; but that love and joy, the delights of eager sense andof hallowed aspiration, should be smothered in the foul dust of a brutecombat for bread, that the stinted energies of early years should changethemselves to the blasted hopes of failing manhood in a world made illby human perverseness, this is not easily--it may be, not well--bornewith patience. Put money in thy purse; and again, put money in thypurse; for, as the world is ordered, to lack current coin is to lack theprivileges of humanity, and indigence is the death of the soul. 

CHAPTER VI

A VISITOR BY EXPRESS

It had been arranged that Emily should receive news from Wilfrid by thefirst post on Monday morning. Her father left home at half-past eight, and Emily, a little ashamed at so deceiving him, went into the town atthe same time on pretence of a desire to share his walk. Taking leave ofhim as soon as the mill was in sight, she walked towards thepost-office. At this early hour there was no one before the counter: sheovercame her nervousness and asked for letters. That which she expectedwas given to her, and at the same time a telegram. 

The sight of the telegram agitated her. Drawing aside, she opened it atonce. Wilfrid had despatched it the previous night from London. 'I shallbe in Dunfield at one o'clock to-morrow. Please leave a note for me atthe post-office, appointing any place of meeting at any time you like. Ishall find the place from your description. '

The letter, as she could perceive by feeling it, was long; there was nonecessity to open it until she reached home. But the note she must writeat once. In agitation which would scarcely allow her to reflect, sheleft the office and sought a small shop where she could procurenote-paper. On her way she devised a plan for meeting. In the shop whereshe made her purchase, she was permitted also to write the note. Havingstamped the envelope, she returned to the post-office, and, to make surethat no delay might disappoint Wilfrid, gave the letter into the handsof a clerk, who promised, with a smile, that it should at once be putinto the right place. Emily found the smile hard to bear, butfortunately she was unknown. 

Then she set forth homewards. Such news as this, that she would see andspeak with Wilfrid in a few hours, set self-command at defiance. Betweenjoy at the thought that even now he was nearing her, and fear of theevents which might have led him to such a step, she was swayed in atumult of emotion. She longed to open the letter, yet felt she could notdo so in the public roads. She tried to think whether any ill chancecould possibly interpose to prevent her being at the place of meeting;none was to be anticipated, unless, what was very unlikely, her mothershould propose to join her afternoon walk. But what could his comingmean? She feared that she understood too well. 

Often she had to check the over-haste of her pace, and the way seemedterribly long, but at length she was at home and close shut in herbedroom. The letter did not aid her to account for his coming; it hadbeen written late on Friday night, but made absolutely no reference towhat had passed between Wilfrid and his relations. It was a long andpassionate poem of his love, concerned not with outward facts, but withstates of feeling. Only at the end he had added a postscript, sayingthat he should write again on Monday. 

It was difficult to live through the morning. She felt that she must bebusy with her hands, and, her mother's objections notwithstanding, setherself resolutely to active housework. Her anxious feelings in this waytoned themselves to mere cheerfulness. She listened with unfailingpatience to the lengthily described details of domestic annoyances ofwhich Mrs. Hood's conversation chiefly consisted, and did her best toinfuse into her replies a tone of hopefulness, which might animatewithout betraying too much. The hours passed over, and at length it wastime to set forth. Mrs. Hood showed no desire to leave home. Emily, though foreseeing that she might again be late for tea, did not ventureto hint at such a possibility, but started as if for a short walk. 

Not much more than a mile from Banbrigg, in a direction away alike fromthe Heath and from Dunfield, is the village of Pendal, where stand theremains of an ancient castle. Very slight indeed are these relics, onewindow and some shapeless masses of defaced masonry being alone exposed;but a hill close beside them is supposed to cover more of the fabric, though history tells not how or when the earth was so heaped up. Thecircle of the moat is still complete, and generally contains water. Pendal Castle Hill, as the locality is called, is approached by a rusticlane leading from the village; it is enclosed like an ordinary meadow, and shadowed here and there with trees. On Sundays and holidays it is aresort much favoured by Dunfieldians; at other times its solitude is butlittle interfered with. Knowing this, Emily had appointed the spot forthe meeting. She had directed Wilfrid to take a train from Dunfield toPendal, and had described the walk up to the castle hill. 

He was not before her this time, and there were endless reasons for fearlest she should wait in vain. She remained standing on the inner side ofthe stile by which the field was entered, and kept her gaze on the pointwhere the lane turned. A long quarter of an hour passed, then of asudden the expected form appeared. 

There had been no train to Pendal at the right time; he had taken a mealat Dunfield station, and then had found a cab to convey him to thevillage. 

Wilfrid was very calm, only the gleam of his fine eyes showed hisdelight at holding her hands again. They walked to the side of the hillremote from the road. Wilfrid looked about him, and remarked that theplace was interesting. He seemed in no hurry to speak of what hadbrought him here; they walked hand in hand, like children. 'Emily'--andthen his name in return, with interchange of looks; was it not enoughfor some minutes?

'There is a fallen trunk, ' Wilfrid said, pointing to a remoter spot. 'Shall we sit there?'

'How well it has been managed, ' he exclaimed when they had seatedthemselves. 'You remember the fairy tales in which the old woman bidssome one go to a certain place and do such and such a thing andsomething is sure to happen? "And it befell just as the old woman hadsaid. "'

'And I am the old woman. They call her a witch in the stories. '

'A witch, yes; but so young and beautiful. What delight it was to findyour letter, dearest! What careful directions! I laughed at yourdreadful anxiety to make it quite, quite clear. Won't you take the gloveoff? How your hand trembles; no, I will unbutton it myself. '

He kissed the fingers lightly, and then held them pressed. 

'But why have you come all this distance, Wilfrid?'

'Would it not be enough if I said I had come to see you? What distancewould be too far for that?'

'But you were to have left England to-day?'

'So I was, but I shall not go--till you go with me, Emily. '

She looked at him with anxious eyes. 

'Well, I will tell you all there is to tell. In the first place, myfather and my aunt think that the plan of your returning to teach thelittle girls is not a very good one. '

He spoke with perfect cheerfulness, but firmly, as was his wont. Emily'seyes fell. 

'I have felt it myself, ' she said. 

'And so have I; so that we are happily all agreed. We talked it all overafter you had gone on Friday, and since then I have taken time to makeup my mind. I can see that you would be uncomfortable in the house undersuch conditions; at the same time it is certainly out of the questionthat you should go elsewhere; and so--come to London and let us bemarried as soon as the arrangements can be made. '

'I don't quite understand, Wilfrid. Do you mean that your fatherapproves this?'

'They all went off to-day. He knows, no doubt, what my intention is. Ina matter like this I must judge for myself. '

She was silent, then asked with apprehension, 'Has it caused trouble?'

'Of the kind which passes as soon as it has been well talked about, ' heanswered with a smile; 'nothing more serious. '

She could not meet his look. 

'And you wish not to return to Oxford?'

'I have done with that. I see now that to go back and play the schoolboywould have been impossible; all that is over and a new lifebeginning--you will be in readiness to come up as soon as I scud foryou?'

She looked in his face now with pleading. 

'It is too hasty, Wilfrid. It was better, far better, that we shouldwait till next year. Can it be your father's wish that your marriageshould take place in his absence? You know that I have no foolishdesires; the more simply everything is done the better it will pleaseme. But I would, I would have it done with your father's goodwill. Iforesaw his objections only too well; they are natural, it could not beotherwise; but I hoped that time would help. Let us wait!'

She closed both hands on his, and gazed at him steadily. 

'I think you must be guided by me, Emily, ' he replied, with his calmself-assertiveness. 'There is no reason why we should wait. My father isa man who very sensibly accepts the accomplished fact. His own marriage, I may tell you, was an affair of decision in the face of superficialobjections, and he will only think the better of me for following hisexample. You say, and I am sure, that you care nothing for the show of awedding; if you did, I should not be here at this moment. It is only forthat that we need postpone the marriage. I will take rooms till I canfind a house and have it made ready for us. '

Emily kept silence. She had released his hand. There were signs on herface of severe inward conflict. 

'Will you let me go and see your parents?' he asked. 'Shall our marriagetake place here? To me it is the same; I would only be ruled by yourchoice. May I go home with you now?'

'I would say yes if I could make up my mind to a marriage at once, ' sheanswered. 'Dear, let me persuade you. '

'The sound of your words persuades too strongly against their sense, Emily, ' he said tenderly. 'I will not put off our marriage a day longerthan forms make necessary. '

'Wilfrid, let me say what--'

'I have scraps of superstition in my nature, ' he broke in with a halflaugh. 'Fate does not often deal so kindly as in giving you to me; Idare not _seem_ even to hesitate before the gift. It is a test of theworth that is in us. We meet by chance, and we recognise each other;here is the end for which we might have sought a lifetime; we are notworthy of it if we hold back from paltry considerations. I dare notleave you, Emily; everything points to one result--the rejection of thescheme for your return, my father's free surrender of the decision tomyself, the irresistible impulse which has brought me here to you. Did Itell you that I rose in the middle of the night and went to CharingCross to telegraph? It would have done just as well the first thing inthe morning, but I could not rest till the message was sent. I will haveno appearances come between us; there shall be no pause till you bear myname and have entered my home; after that, let life do with us what itwill. '

Emily drank in the vehement flow of words with delight and fear. It wasthis virile eagerness, this force of personality, which had beforecharmed her thought into passiveness, and made her senses its subject;but a stronger motive of resistance actuated her now. In her humilityshe could not deem the instant gain of herself to be an equivalent tohim for what he would certainly, and what he might perchance, lose. Shefeared that he had disguised his father's real displeasure, and shecould not reconcile herself to the abrupt overthrow of all the purposesWilfrid had entertained before he knew her. She strove with all theenergy of her own strong character to withstand him for his good. 

'Wilfrid, let it at least be postponed till your father's return. If hismind is what you say, he will by then have fully accepted your views. Irespect your father. I owe him consideration; he is prejudiced againstme now, and I would gain his goodwill. Just because we are perfectlyindependent let us have regard for others; better, a thousand timesbetter, that he should be reconciled to our marriage before it takesplace than perforce afterwards. Is it for my constancy, or your own, that you fear?'

'I do not doubt your love, and my own is unalterable. I fearcircumstances; but what has fear to do with it; I wish to make you myown; the empire of my passion is all-subduing. I will not wait! If yourefuse me, I have been mistaken; you do not love me. '

'Those are only words, ' she answered, a proud smile lighting the troubleof her countenance. 'You have said that you do not doubt my love, and inyour heart you cannot. Answer me one question, Wilfrid: have you madelittle of your father's opposition, in order to spare me pain? Is itmore serious than you are willing to tell me?'

The temptation was strong to reply with an affirmative. If she believedhis father to be utterly irreconcilable, there could be no excuse forlingering; yet his nobler self prevailed, to her no word of falseness. 

'I have told you the truth. His opposition is temporary. When you are mywife he will be to you as to any wife I could have chosen, I amconvinced of it. '

'Then more than ever I entreat you to wait, only till his return toEngland. If you fail then, I will resist no longer. Show him this muchrespect, dearest; join him abroad now; let him see that you desire hiskindness. Is he not disappointed that you mean to break off your careerat Oxford? Why should you do that? You promised me--did you not promiseme, Wilfrid, that you would go on to the end?'

'I cannot! I have no longer the calmness, no longer the oldambitions, --how trivial they were!'

'And yet there will come a day when you will regret that you left yourcourse unfinished, just because you fell in love with a foolish girl. '

'Do not speak like that, Emily; I hate that way of regarding love! Mypassion for you is henceforth my life; if it is trifling, so is my wholebeing, my whole existence. There is no sacrifice possible for me that Ishould ever regret. Our love is what we choose to make it. Regard it asa foolish pastime, and we are no better than the vulgar crowd--we knowhow they speak of it. What detestable thoughts your words brought to mymind! Have you not heard men and women, those who have outlived suchglimpses of high things as nature ever sent them, making a jest of lovein young lives, treating it, from the height of their wisdom forsooth, as a silly dream of boys and girls? If we ever live to speak or thinklike that, it will indeed be time to have done with the world. Even as Ilove you now, my heart's darling, I shall love you when years ofintimacy are like some happy journey behind us, and on into the veryportal of death. Regret! How paltry all will seem that was not of theessence of our love! And who knows how short our time may be? When theend comes, will it be easy to bear, the thought that we lost one day, one moment of union, out of respect for idle prejudices which vanish assoon as they find themselves ineffectual? Will not the longest life beall too short for us?'

'Forgive me the words, dear. Love is no less sacred to me. '

Her senses were playing the traitor; or--which you will--were secondinglove's triumph. 

'I shall come home with you now, ' he said. 'You will let me?'

Why was he not content to win her promise? This proposal, by remindingher most strongly of the inevitable difficulties her marriage wouldentail, forced her again into resistance. 

'Not now, Wilfrid. I have not said a word of this; I must prepare themfor it. '

'You have not spoken of me?'

'I would not do so till I--till everything was more certain. '

'Certain!' he cried impatiently. 'Why do you torture me so, Emily? Whatuncertainty is there? Everything is uncertain, if you like to make itso. Is there something in your mind that I do not understand?'

'You must remember, Wilfrid, that this is a strange, new thing in mylife. It has come to me so suddenly, that even yet I cannot make it partof my familiar self. It has been impossible to speak of it to others. '

'Do you think I take it as a matter of course? Is your love less a magicgift to me? I wake in a terror lest I have only dreamed of it; but thenthe very truth comes back, and shall I make myself miserable withimagining uncertainties, when there need be none?'

Emily hesitated before speaking again. 

'I have told you very little about my home, ' she said. 'You know that weare very poor. '

She could not say it as simply as she wished; she was angry with herselfto recognise how nearly her feeling was one of shame, what a long habitof reason it needed to expel the unintelligent prejudice which the worldbestows at birth. 

'I could almost say I am glad of it, ' Wilfrid replied. 'We shall have itin our power, you and I, to help so much. '

'There are many reasons, ' she continued, too much occupied with herthoughts to dwell on what he said, 'why I should have time to prepare myfather and mother. You will let me write the things which it is not veryeasy to say. '

'Say what you will, and keep silence on what you will, Emily. I cannotgive so much consequence to these external things. You and I are livingsouls, and as such we judge each other. Shall I fret about thecircumstances in which chance has cased your life? As reasonable if Iwithdrew my love from you because one day the colour of your glove didnot please me. Time you need. You shall have it; a week, ten days. ThenI will come myself and fetch you, --or you shall come to London alone, asyou please. '

'Let it be till your father returns. '

'But he will be two months away. '

'You will join him in Switzerland. Your health requires it. '

'My health! Oh, how tired I am of that word! Spare it me, you at least, Emily. I am well in body and mind; your love would have raised me if Ihad lain at the point of death. I cannot leave England alone; I havemade up my mind that you shall go with me. Have I then no power topersuade you? You will not indeed refuse?'

He looked at her almost in despair. He had not anticipated more than thenatural hesitancy which he would at once overcome by force of passion. There was something terrible to him in the disclosure of a quiet forceof will equal to his own. Frustration of desire joined with irritatedinstincts of ascendency to agitate him almost beyond endurance. 

Emily gazed at him with pleading as passionate as his own need. 

'Do you distrust me?' he asked suddenly, overcome with an intolerablesuspicion. At the same moment he dropped her hand, and his gaze grewcold. 

'Distrust you?' She could not think that she understood him. 

'Do you fear to come to London with me?'

'Wilfrid?'

Her bosom heaved with passionate resentment of his thought. 

'Is _that_ how you understand my motives?' she asked, with tremulous, subdued earnestness, fixing upon him a gaze which he could not meet. 

'Yes, ' he answered, below his breath, 'in a moment when love of you hasmade me mad. '

He turned away, leaning with one hand upon the trunk. In the silencewhich followed he appeared to be examining the shapeless ruins, which, from this point of view, stood out boldly against the sky. 

'When was this castle destroyed?' he asked presently, in a steady voice. 

He received no answer, and turned his eyes to her again. Emily's facewas strung into a hard intensity. He laid his hand once more upon hers, and spoke with self-control. 

'You do not know the strength of a man's love. In that moment it touchedthe borders of hate. I know that your mind is incapable of such asuspicion; try to think what it meant to be possessed for an instant bysuch frenzy. '

'You felt able to hate me?' she said, with a shake in her voice whichmight have become either a laugh or a sob. 'Then there are things inlove that I shall never know. '

'Because your soul is pure as that of the angels they dream of. I couldnot love yen so terribly if you were not that perfection of womanhood towhich all being is drawn. Send me to do your bidding; I will have nowill but yours. '

How the light of rapture flashed athwart her face! It was hard for herto find words that would not seem too positive, too insubmissive. 

'Only till you have lived with your father in the thought of thisthing, ' she murmured, 'and until I have taught myself to bear myhappiness. Are we not one already, dear? Why should you needlessly makeyour life poorer by the loss--if only for a time--of all the oldkindnesses? I think, I know, that in a few days your mind will be thesame as my own. Do you remember how long it is since we first spoke toeach other?'

'Not so many days as make a week, ' he answered, smiling. 

'Is not that hard to believe? And hard to realise that the new world isstill within the old?'

'Sweet, still eyes--give to me seine of your wisdom! But you have aterrible way of teaching calmness. '

'You will go straight to the Continent, Wilfrid?'

'Only with one promise. '

'And that?'

'You will bow to my judgment when I return. '

'My fate shall be in your hands. '

They talked still, while the shadows of the ruins moved ever towardsthem. All the afternoon no footsteps had come near; it was the sight oftwo strangers which at length bade Emily think of the time. It was aftersix o'clock. 

'Wilfrid, I must go. My absence will seem so strange what fables I shallhave to invent on the way home. Do you know of any train that you canleave by?'

'No; it matters very little; I suppose there is a mail some timeto-night? I will go back to Dunfield and take my chance. '

'How tired you will be! Two such journeys in one day. '

'And a draught of the water of life between them. But even now there issomething more I ask for. '

'Something more?'

'One touch of the lips that speak so nobly. '

It was only then that her eyes gleamed for a moment through moisture. But she strengthened herself to face the parting, in spite of aheaviness at the heart like that which she had felt on leaving The Firs. She meant at first to go no further than the stile into the lane, andthere Wilfrid held out his hand. She used it to aid herself in steppingover. 

'I must go as far as Pendal station, ' she said. 'Then you can look atthe time-table, and tell me what train you will take. '

They walked the length of the lane almost in silence, glancing at eachother once or twice. At the village station, Wilfrid discovered that agood train left Dunfield shortly after nine o'clock. From Pendal toDunfield there would be a train in a quarter of an hour. 

They stood together under the station shed. No other passenger waswaiting, and the official had not yet arrived to open thebooking-office. 

'When shall I hear from you?' Emily asked, putting off from instant toinstant the good-bye, which grew ever harder to say. 

'In less than a week. I shall leave London early tomorrow morning. '

'But it will give you no time for rest. '

'I am not able to rest. Go as often as you can to the castle, that I maythink of you as sitting there. '

'I will go very often. '

She could not trust herself to utter more than a few words. As shespoke, the station-master appeared. They moved away to the head of thestairs by which Emily had to leave. 

'I shall see your train to-night as it passes Pendal, ' she said. 

Then there was the clasp of hands, and--good-bye. To Emily the way wasdark before her as she hurried onward. .. . 

Mrs. Hood had subsided into the calm of hitter resignation. Emily foundher in the kitchen, engaged in polishing certain metal articles, anoccupation to which she always had recourse when the legitimate work ofthe day was pretty well over. Years ago, Mrs. Hood had not lackedinterest in certain kinds of reading, but the miseries of her life hadkilled all that; the need of mechanical exertion was constantly uponher; an automatic conscience refused to allow her repose. When she heardEmily entering by the front door, a sickly smile fixed itself upon herlips, and with this she silently greeted the girl. 

'It is too bad of me, mother, ' Emily said, trying to assume playfulness, which contrasted strangely with an almost haggard weariness on her face. 'You will give me up as hopeless; I will promise, like the children, that it shall never happen again. '

'It is your holiday, my dear, ' was the reply, as Mrs. Hood went to stirthe fire. 'You must amuse yourself in your own way. '

'Of course you have had tea. I really want nothing till supper-time. '

'It was not worth while to make tea for one, ' said her mother, with asigh. 

'And you have had none? Then I will make it this minute. When willfather be home?'

'It is quite uncertain. He gets more and more irregular. '

'Why should he be kept so beyond the proper time? It is really too bad. '

'My dear, your father is never satisfied with doing his own work; he'salways taking somebody else's as well. Of course, they find that out, and they put upon him. I've talked and talked, but it's no use; Isuppose it'll go on in the same way to the end. '

Half an hour later Mr. Hood reached home, as usual, worn out. The lasthalf mile of the walk from Dunfield was always a struggle withexhaustion. He had to sit several minutes before he was able to goupstairs to refresh himself with cold water. 

'I met Mrs. Cartwright, ' he said, when an unexpected cup of tea fromEmily's hands had put him into good spirits. 'Jessie got home onSaturday, and wants you to go and see her, Emily. I half promised youwould call to-morrow morning. '

'Yes, I will, ' said Emily. 

'I don't think it's altogether right, ' remarked Mrs. Hood, 'that Emilyshould have to work in her holidays; and I'm sure it's all no use;Jessie Cartwright will never do any good if she has lessons from now toDoomsday. '

'Well, it's very necessary she should, ' replied Mr. Hood. 'How ever theylive as they do passes my comprehension. There was Mrs. Cartwrighttaking home fruit and flowers which cost a pretty penny, I'll be bound. And her talk! I thought I should never get away. There's one thing, shenever has any but good-natured gossip; I never leave her without feelingthat she is one of the best-hearted women I know. '

'I can't say that her daughters take after her, ' Mrs. Hood remarked, soothed, as always, by comment upon her acquaintances. 'Amy was here theother afternoon, and all the time she never ceased making fun of thosepoor Wilkinses; it really was all I could do to keep from telling hershe ought to be ashamed of herself. Mary Wilkins, at all events, makesno pretences; she may be plain, but she's a good girl, and stays at hometo do what's required of her. As for the Cartwright girls--well, weshall see what'll happen some day. It can't go on, that's quitecertain. '

'I don't think there's any real harm in them. They're thoughtless, butthen they're very young. They oughtn't to have so much of their own way. What's your opinion of Jessie, Emily? Do you think she'll ever be fit toteach?'

'She might, if she could live apart from her mother and sisters for atime. I think she'll have to come here for her lessons; it's out of thequestion to do anything at that house. '

It was Mr. Hood's habit to spend his evenings in a little room at thetop of the house, which he called his laboratory. It was furnished witha deal table, a couple of chairs, and some shelves. On the table was hisapparatus for the study of electricity, mostly the product of his owningenuity; also a number of retorts, crucibles, test-tubes, and thelike, wherewith he experimented chemically. The shelves exhibitedbottles and jars, and the dozen or so volumes which made his scientificlibrary. These tastes he had kept up from boyhood; there was somethingpathetic in the persistency with which he clung to the pretence ofserious study, though the physical fatigue which possessed him duringhis few hours of freedom would in any case have condemned him to meretrifling. Often he came upstairs, lit his lamp, and sat for a couple ofhours doing nothing more than play with his instruments, much as a childmight; at other times a sudden revival of zeal would declare itself, andhe would read and experiment till late in the night, always in fear ofthe inevitable lecture on his reckless waste of lamp-oil. In the wintertime the temperature of this garret was arctic, and fireplace there wasnone; still he could not intermit his custom of spending at least anhour in what he called scientific study, with the result that he went tobed numbed and shivering. It was but another illustration ofpossibilities rendered futile by circumstances. It was more than likelythat the man might, with fair treatment, have really done something inone or other branch of physics. To Emily, who strove to interest herselfin his subjects out of mere love and compassion, he appeared to havegained not a little knowledge of facts and theories. She liked toencourage herself in the faith that his attainments were solid as far asthey went, and that they might have been the foundation of goodindependent work; it helped her to respect her father. 

'Will you come up to-night, Emily?' he asked, with the diffidence whichhe always put into this request. 

She assented with apparent cheerfulness, and they climbed the stairstogether. The last portion of them was uncarpeted, and their footstepssounded with hollow echoes under the roof. It was all but dark by thistime; Mr. Hood found matches on the table and lit the lamp, whichilluminated the bare whitewashed walls and sloping ceiling with a drearydimness. There was no carpet on the floor, which creaked as they movedhere and there. When her father was on the point of drawing down theblind, Emily interposed. 

'Do you mind leaving it up, father?'

'Of course I will, ' he assented with a smile. 'But why?'

'The last daylight in the sky is pleasant to look at. '

On the landing below stood an old eight-day clock. So much service hadit seen that its voice was grown faint, and the strokes of each hourthat it gave forth were wheezed with intervals of several seconds. Itwas now striking nine, and the succession of long-drawn ghostly notesseemed interminable. 

The last daylight--how often our lightest words are omens!--faded out ofthe sky. Emily kept her eyes upon the windows none the less. She triedto understand what her father was saying sufficiently to put in a wordnow and then, but her sense of hearing was strained to its utmost forother sounds. There was no traffic in the road below, and the houseitself was hushed; the ticking of the old clock, performed with suchpainful effort that it ever seemed on the point of failing, was the onlysign of life outside the garret. At length Emily's ear caught a remoterushing sound; her father's low voice did not overcome it. 

'These compounds of nitrogen and oxygen, ' he was saying, 'are veryinteresting. Nitrous oxide, you know, is what they call Laughing Gas. You heat solid nitrate of ammonia, and that makes protoxide of nitrogenand water. '

The words conveyed no sense to her, though she heard them. The rushingsound had become a dull continuous thunder. Her eyes strained into thedarkness. Of a sudden the horizon flamed. A train was passing a quarterof a mile away, and the furnace-door of the engine had just been openedto feed the fire, whose strength sped the carriages to far-off London. Astreaming cloud of smoke reflected the glare; it was as though someflying dragon vomited crimson fumes. Involuntarily the girl half rosefrom her seat and pointed. 

'What is it?' asked her father, looking round. 'Ah! pretty sight thatfire on the smoke. Well, this protoxide of nitrogen, you see--'

CHAPTER VII

ON THE LEVELS

Not the least of many mysteries in the natural history of theCartwrights was, how they all managed to bestow themselves in the housewhich they occupied. To be sure, the family--omitting Mr. Cartwright, seldom at home--were all of one sex, which perhaps made the difficultyless insuperable; but the fact remained that Mrs. Cartwright and herfive grown-up daughters, together with a maid-servant, lived, moved, andhad their being in an abode consisting of six rooms, a cellar, and alumber closet. A few years ago they had occupied a much more roomydwelling on the edge of the aristocratic region of Dunfield; though notstrictly in St. Luke's--the Belgravia of the town--they of course spokeof it as if it were. A crisis in the fortunes of the family hadnecessitated a reduction of their establishment; the district in whichthey now dwelt was humbler, but then it could always be described as'near North Parade, you know'; North Parade being an equivalent ofMayfair. The uppermost windows commanded a view of the extensivecattle-market, of a long railway viaduct, and of hilly fields beyond. 

The five Misses Cartwright did not greatly relish the change; they weredisposed even to resist, to hold their ground on the verge of St. Luke's, to toll their father that he must do his duty and still maintainthem in that station of life for which they were clearly designed byProvidence. But Mr. Cartwright, after many cries of 'Wolf, ' foundhimself veritably at close quarters with the animal, and female argumenthad to yield to the logic of fact. 'Be thankful, ' exclaimed thehard-driven paterfamilias, when his long patience came to an end, 'thatwe haven't all to go to the Union. It 'll come to that yet, mark myword!' And, indeed, few people in Dunfield would have expressed surpriseat the actual incidence of this calamity. Mr. Cartwright was ostensiblya commercial traveller, but obviously he must have joined with this mainpursuit many odds and ends of money-making activity, seeing that thefamily kept out of debt, and still indulged themselves in extravaganceswhich many substantial households would have declared themselves unableto afford. If the town were visited by an opera company, or by somedramatic star going the round of the provinces, the Cartwrights weresure to have prominent seats, and to exhibit themselves in becomingcostume. If a bazaar were held, their ready-money was alwaysforthcoming. At flower shows, galas, croquet parties, they challengedcomparison with all who were not confessedly of the Dunfield _elite_. They regularly adorned their pew in the parish church, were liberal atoffertories, exerted themselves, not without expense, in the Sundayschool feast, and the like. How--cried all Dunfield--how in the name ofwonder was it done?

We are not concerned to probe the mystery; suffice it that the situationbe exhibited as it appeared to the eyes of the world. When theafore-mentioned crisis declared itself, though every one enjoyed theopportunity of exclaiming 'I told you so!' there were few who did notfeel really sorry for the Cartwrights, so little of envy mingled withthe incessant gossip of which the family were the subject. Mrs. Cartwright was held in more or less affection by every one who knew her. She was a woman of fifty, of substantial frame, florid, and somewhatmasculine in manner; a thorough Yorkshire-woman, her tone and demeanourwere marked by a frank good-nature which often exaggerated itself intobluffness, and was never consistent with the delicacy of refined taste, but which unmistakably evinced a sound and benevolent disposition. Whenher sharp temper was stirred--and her daughters gave it abundantexercise--she expressed herself in a racy and vigorous vernacular whichthere was no opposing; never coarse, never, in the large sense, unwomanly, she made her predominance felt with an emphasis which wouldfain have been rivalled by many of the mothers of Dunfield. Lavishlyindulgent to her girls, she yet kept them thoroughly in hand, and won, if not their tenderness, at all events their affection and respect. Thegirls themselves were not outwardly charming; Jessie, the youngest butone, had perhaps a certain claim to prettiness, but, like all hersisters, she was of coarse type. Their education had been of the mosthaphazard kind; their breeding was not a little defective; but a certaintact, common to the family, enabled them to make the very most ofthemselves, so that they more than passed muster among the middle-classyoung ladies of the town. As long as they sojourned on the borders ofSt. Luke's, nothing was farther from the thoughts of any one of themthan the idea that they might have to exert themselves to earn their ownliving; it was only of late that certain emphatic representations on thepart of their father had led Mrs. Cartwright to consider which of thegirls was good for anything. Amy, the eldest, had rather a weakconstitution; it was plain that neither in body nor in mind could she becalled upon to exert herself. Eleanor who came next, had musicalfaculties; after terrific family debates it was decided that she mustgive lessons on the piano, and a first pupil was speedily found. Barbarawas good for nothing whatever, save to spend money on her personaladornment; considering that she was the plainest of the family--hersisters having repeatedly decided the point--her existence appeared onthe whole singularly superfluous. Then came Jessie. Of Jessie her fatherhad repeatedly said that she was the only girl of his who had brains;those brains, if existent, must now be turned to account. But Jessie hadlong since torn up her school-books into curl-papers, and, as learningaccumulated outside her head, it vanished from the interior. When shedeclared that arithmetic was all but a mystery to her, and that she hadforgotten what French she ever knew, there was an unprecedented outbreakof parental wrath: this was the result of all that had been spent on hereducation! She must get it back as best she could, for, as sure as fate, she should be packed off as a governess. Look at Emily Hood: why, thatgirl was keeping herself, and, most likely, paying her mother'sbutcher's bill into the bargain, and her advantages had been fewer thanJessie's. After storms beyond description, Jessie did what her mothercalled 'buckle to, ' but progress was slight. 'You must get Emily Hood tohelp you when she comes home for her holidays, ' was Mrs. Cartwright'shopeful suggestion one night that the girl had fairly broken down andgiven way to sobs and tears. Emily was written to, and promised aid. Theremaining daughter, Geraldine, was held to be too young as yet forresponsible undertakings; she was only seventeen, and, besides, therewas something rather hopeful going on between her and young Baldwin, thesolicitor, who had just begun practice in Dunfield. So that, on thewhole, Geraldine's lot looked the most promising of all. 

In previous years; the family had never failed to betake themselves forthree weeks or so to Scarborough, or Whitby, or Bridlington; this yearthey had for the first time contented themselves with humblerrecreation; Mrs. Cartwright and four of the girls managed a week atIlkley, Jessie was fortunate enough to be invited to stay for afortnight with friends at the seaside. She was the latest to return. Emily being now at home, there was no longer an excuse for postponingstudy; books were procured, and Jessie, by way of preparation, endeavoured to fathom the abysses of her ignorance. 

We have heard Emily's opinion as to the possibility of studiousapplication in the house of the Cartwrights. Her own visits thither weremade as few as possible; she declared that she never came away without aheadache. In spite of restricted space, the Cartwrights found itimpossible to relinquish the habit of universal hospitality. As ifdiscontented with the narrow proportions of her own family, Mrs. Cartwright was never thoroughly at ease unless she had three or fourfriends to occupy every available square foot of floor in her diminutivesitting-room, and to squeeze around the table when meals were served. Invain did acquaintances hold apart from a sense of consideration, or timetheir visits when eating and drinking could scarcely be in question;they were given plainly to understand that their delicacy was anoffence, and that, if they stayed away, it would be put down to theirpride. It was almost impossible to hit an hour for calling at which thefamily would be alone; generally, as soon as the front door opened, theear of the visitor was assailed with laughter loud and long, withmultitudinous vociferation, Mrs. Cartwright's rich voice high above allothers. The room itself was a spectacle for men and gods. Not a memberof the family had the most rudimentary instinct of order; no article, whether of ornament or use, had its recognised station. Needlework layin heaps on table, chairs, and floor; you stretched out your legs toofar, and came in contact with a casual flower-vase, put down to be outof the way; you desired to open the piano, and had first to remove atray of wineglasses. To listen to the girls' conversation for fiveminutes was to understand their surroundings; they were hopelesslyfeather-brained, they chattered and gabbled with deafening persistency. If there was no good in their talk, there could scarcely be said to beany harm; they lived so completely on the surface of things that theyimpressed one as incapable even of a doubtful thought. One reason whyGeraldine was the only one who had yet definitely attracted a maleadmirer might lie in the fact that there was no air of femininity aboutthe girls, nothing whatever to touch the most susceptible imagination; aparcel of schoolboys would have been as provocative. And thisnotwithstanding that they talked incessantly of love-making, offlirtations, of the making and breaking of matches; it was the veryfreedom and shallowness of such gossip that made it wholly unexciting;their mother's presence put no check on the talk--she, indeed, was verymuch like her daughters in choice of subject--and the young men whofrequented the house joined in discussion of sexual entanglements with adisengaged air which, if it impugned their delicacy, at all eventsseemed to testify to practical innocence. 

Those young men! Dunfield was at that time not perhaps worse off in itssupply of marriageable males than other small provincial towns, but, tojudge from the extensive assortment which passed through theCartwrights' house, the lot of Dunfield maidens might beheld pathetic. They were not especially ignorant or vulgar, these budding townsmen, simply imbecile. One could not accuse them of positive faults, for theyhad no positive qualities, unless it were here and there a leaning tophysical fatuity. Their interests were concerned with the pettiest oflocal occurrences; their favouritisms and animosities were those ofovergrown infants. They played practical jokes on each other in the openstreets; they read the local newspapers to extract the feeblest ofgossip; they had a game which they called polities, and which consistedin badging themselves with blue or yellow, according to the choice oftheir fathers before them; they affected now and then to hauntbar-parlours and billiard-rooms, and made good resolutions when they hadsmoked or drunk more than their stomachs would support. If any Dunfieldschoolboy exhibited faculties of a kind uncommon in the town, he wasdespatched to begin life on a more promising scene; those who remained, who became the new generation of business men, of town councillors, ofindependent electors, were such as could not by any possibility havemade a living elsewhere. Those elders who knew Dunfield best could notpoint to a single youth of fair endowments who looked forward toremaining in his native place. 

The tone of Dunfield society was not high. 

No wonder that Emily Hood had her doubts as to the result of study takenup by one of the Cartwrights. Still, she held it a duty to give whathelp she could, knowing how necessary it was that Jessie should, ifpossible, qualify herself to earn a living. The first thing afterbreakfast on Tuesday morning she set forth to visit her friends. It wasnot quite ten o'clock when she reached the house, and she looked forwardwith some assurance of hope to finding the family alone. Jessie herselfopened the door, and Emily; passing at once into the sitting-room, discovered that not only had a visitor arrived before her, but this thevery person she would most have desired to avoid. Mr. Richard Dagworthywas seated in conversation with Mrs. Cartwright and her daughters orrather he had been conversing till Emily's arrival caused a momentarysilence. He had called thus early, on his way to the mill, to inquirefor Mr. Cartwright's present address having occasion to communicate withhim on business matters. 

The room was so small that Emily had a difficulty in reaching Mrs. Cartwright to shake hands with her, owing to Dagworthy's almost blockingthe only available way round the table. He stood up and drew back, waiting his turn for greeting; when it came, he assumed the manner of anold friend. A chair was found for Emily, and conversation, or whatpassed for such, speedily regathered volume. The breakfast things werestill on the table, and Miss Geraldine, who was always reluctant to riseof a morning, was engaged upon her meal. 

'You see what it's come to, Mr. Dagworthy, ' exclaimed the mother of thefamily, with her usual lack of reticence. 'Jessie can't or won't learnby herself, so she has to bother Emily to come and teach her. It's toobad, I call it, just in her holiday time. She looks as if she wanted torun about and get colour in her cheeks, don't _you_ think so?'

'Well, mother, ' cried Jessie, 'you needn't speak as if Emily was a childin short clothes. '

The other girls laughed. 

'I dare say Emily wishes she was, ' pursued Mrs. Cartwright. 'When you'relittle ones, you're all for being grown up, and when you _are_ grown up, then you see how much better off you were before, --that is, if you'vegot common sense. I wish my girls had half as much all put together asEmily has. '

'I'm sure I don't wish I was a child, ' remarked Geraldine, as she bither bread-and-butter. 

'Of course you don't, Geraldine, ' replied Dagworthy, who was on terms ofmuch familiarity with all the girls. 'If you were, your mother wouldn'tlet you come down late to breakfast, would she?'

'I never remember being in time for breakfast since I was born, ' criedthe girl. 

'I dare say your memory doesn't go far enough back, ' rejoined Dagworthy, with the smile of one who trifled from a position of superior age andexperience. 

Mrs. Cartwright laughed with a little embarrassment. Amy, the eldestgirl, was quick with an inquiry whether Emily had been as yet to theAgricultural Show, the resort at present of all pleasure-seekingDunfieldians. Emily replied that she had not, and to this subject thetalk strayed. Mr. Dagworthy had dogs on exhibition at the show. Barbarawanted to know how much he would take for a certain animal which hadcaptivated her; if she had some idea that this might lead to an offer ofthe dog as a present, she was doomed to disappointment, for Dagworthynamed his price in the most matter-of-fact way. But nothing had excitedso much interest in these young ladies as the prize pigs; they were inraptures at the incredible degree of fatness attained; they delighted torecall that some of the pigs were fattened to such a point that rollershad to be placed under their throats to keep their heads up and preventthem from being choked by the pressure of their own superabundant flesh. In all this conversation Dagworthy took his part, but not quite with thesame freedom as before Emily's arrival. His eyes turned incessantly inher direction, and once or twice he only just saved himself fromabsent-mindedness when a remark was addressed to him. It was withobvious reluctance that he at length rose to leave. 

'When are you all coming to see me?' he asked, as he stood smoothing hisfelt hat with the back of his hand. 'I suppose I shall have to give acroquet party, and have some of the young fellows, then you'll come fastenough. Old men like myself you care nothing about. '

'I should think not, indeed, ' replied Barbara the plain. 'Why, yourhair's going grey. If you didn't shave, you'd have had grey whiskerslong ago. '

'When I invite the others, ' he returned, laughing, 'you may consideryourself excepted. '

Amid delicate banter of this kind he took his departure. Of course hewas instantly the subject of clamorous chatter. 

'Will he really give a croquet party?' demanded one, eagerly. 

'Not he!' was the reply from another. 'It would cost him too much in teaand cakes. '

'Nonsense!' put in Mrs. Cartwright. 'He doesn't care for society, that'swhat it is. I believe he's a good deal happier living there by himselfthan he was when his wife was alive. '

'That isn't very wonderful, ' exclaimed Amy. 'A proud, stuck-up thing, she was! Served him right if she made him uncomfortable; he only marriedher because her people were grand. '

'I don't believe they ever go near him now, ' said the mother. 

'What did they quarrel about, mother?' asked Jessie. 'I believe he usedhis wife badly, that's the truth of it. '

'How do _you_ know what the truth of it is?' returned her mother, contemptuously. 'I know very well he did nothing of the kind; whateverhis faults are, he's not that sort of man. '

'Well, you must confess, mother, he's downright mean; and you've oftenenough said Mrs. Dagworthy spent more money than pleased him. I knowvery well I shouldn't like to be his wife. '

'You wait till he asks you, Jessie, ' cried Barbara, with sisterlyreproof. 

'I don't suppose he's very likely to ask any of you, ' said Mrs. Cartwright, with a laugh which was not very hearty. 'Now, Geraldine, _when_ are you going to have done your breakfast? Here's ten o'clock, and you seem as if you'd never stop eating. I won't have thisirregularity. Now tomorrow morning I'll have the table cleared at nineo'clock, and if you're not down you'll go without breakfast altogether, mind what I say. '

The threat was such an old one that Geraldine honoured it with not theleast attention, but helped herself abundantly to marmalade, which sheimpasted solidly on buttered toast, and consumed with much relish. 

'Now you've got Emily here, ' pursued Mrs. Cartwright, turning her attackupon Jessie, 'what are you going to do with her? Are you going to haveyour lessons in this room?'

'I don't know. What do _you_ say, Emily?'

Emily was clearly of Opinion that lessons under such conditions werelikely to be of small profit. 

'If it were not so far, ' she said, 'I should propose that you came to meevery other day; I should think that will be often enough. '

'Why, it's just as far for you to come here, ' exclaimed Mrs. Cartwright. 'If you're good enough to teach her--great, lazy thing that she is!--theleast she can do is to save you all the trouble she can. '

'I've got an idea, ' observed Jessie. 'Why shouldn't we have lessons inthe garden?'

'That's just as bad. Emily 'll have the same distance to walk. Don'thear of it, Emily; you make her come to Banbrigg!'

'I don't in the least mind the walk, ' Emily said. 'Perhaps we might takeit in turns, one lesson in the garden and the next at Banbrigg. '

After ten minutes' vociferous discussion, during which Emily held herpeace, this plan was eventually agreed upon. 

Jessie ran upstairs to prepare herself to go forth. 

'Now don't you let her waste your time, Emily, ' said Mrs. Cartwright, inthe girl's absence. 'If you see she's doing no good, just give it up. Idon't half like the thought of making you drudge in this way in yourholidays. I'm sure it's very kind of you to have offered to do it, andit's certain she'll mind you more than she would any one else. Shedoesn't care a scrap for all I say to her, though she knows well enoughit's as much as her father can do to keep things going at all. Therenever was such bad times in _my_ recollection! How are things in London?Did you hear much complaint?'

Emily found it hard to resist a smile at the thought of Mr. Athel or anyof those belonging to him indulging in complaints of this nature. 

'And what sort of people are they you've got with this time?' the otherwent on to ask. 'Do they treat you well?'

'Very well indeed. '

It would have been difficult for a stranger, comparing Emily, her toneand bearing, with the members of the Cartwright family, to believe thatshe came of the same class and had lived through her girlhood underprecisely similar conditions. So marked a difference could not butimpress even the Cartwrights themselves; the girls did not behave withentire freedom in her presence, and influences to which they wereanything but readily susceptible were apparent in the tone they adoptedin addressing her. In spite of themselves, they bowed to a superioritybut vaguely understood. Jessie, perhaps, exhibited less of thisinstinctive reverence than the others, although, in point of fact, herendowments were decidedly above those of her sisters; the reason being, no doubt, that acknowledged precedence in intellect had fostered in herthe worst kind of self-confidence. The girl was intolerably conceited. Emily almost disliked her; she would have found it a more agreeable taskto endeavour to teach any one of the more stupid sisters. It was in thecertainty of a couple of hours' moral suffering that she left the housewith Jessie. 

The garden which was to be the scene of study was ten minutes' walk awayfrom the house. To reach it, they had to pass along a road whichtraversed the cattle market, a vast area of pens, filled on one day ineach week with multitudes of oxen, sheep, and swine. Beyond the market, and in the shadow of the railway viaduct previously referred to, laythree or four acres of ground divided up by hedges into small gardens, leased by people who had an ambition to grow their own potatoes andcabbages, but had no plot attached to their houses. Jessie opened arough wooden door, made fast by a padlock, and, closing it again behindthem, led the way along a narrow path between high hedges, a secondwooden door was reached, which opened into the garden itself. This waslaid out with an eye less to beauty than to usefulness. In the centrewas a patch of grass, lying between two pear trees; the rest of theground was planted with the various requisites of the kitchen, and inone corner was a well. In the tool house were kept several Windsorchairs; two of these were now brought forth and placed on the grassbetween the pear trees. But Jessie was not disposed to apply herself onthe instant to the books which she had brought in a satchel; her firstoccupation was to hunt for the ripest gooseberries and currants, and totry her teeth in several pears which she knocked down with the handle ofa rake. When at length she seated herself, her tongue began to have itsway. 

'How I do dislike that Mr. Dagworthy!' she said, with transparentaffectation. 'I wonder what he came for this morning. He said he wantedfather's address, but I know that was only an excuse. He hasn't been tosee us for months. It was like his impudence to ever come at all, afterthe way he behaved when he married that stuck-up Miss Hanmer. '

'Will you tell me how many of these French exercises you have written?'Emily asked as soon as a pause gave her the opportunity. 

'Oh, I don't know, ' was the answer; 'about ten, I think. Do you know, Ireally believe he thinks himself good-looking? And he's as plain as hecan be. Don't you think so, Emily?'

'I really have no opinion. '

'It was strange he should come this morning. It was only yesterday I methim over there by the mill, '--Dagworthy's mill stood at one end of thecattle-market, --'and you can't think the impudent way he talked. And, oh, how did he know that you were going to give me lessons?'

'I can't say. '

'Well, he did know, somehow; I was astonished. Perhaps your father toldhim?'

'That is not very likely. '

'Well, he knew. I wonder who he'll marry next. You may depend upon it hedid treat his wife badly; everybody said so. If he were to propose tome, I should answer like that woman did to Henry the Eighth, you know. 'She tittered. 'I can't fancy marrying a man who's been married before, could you? I said that to Mrs. Tichborne one day, at Bridlington, andwhat do you think she answered? Oh, she said, they're the best husbands. Only a good-natured fool marries a second time. '

This was the kind of talk that Emily knew she would have to endure; itwas unutterably repugnant to her. She had observed in successiveholidays the growth of a spirit in Jessie Cartwright more distinctlyoffensive than anything which declared itself in her sisters' gabble, however irritating that might be. The girl's mind seemed to have beensullied by some contact, and previous indications disposed Emily tothink that this Mrs. Tichborne was very probably a source of evil. Shewas the wife of an hotel-keeper, the more vulgar for certainaffectations of refinement acquired during bar-maidenhood in London, andher intimacy with the Cartwrights was now of long standing. It wasJessie whom she specially affected; with her Jessie had just beenspending a fortnight at the seaside. The evil caught from Mrs. Tichborne, or from some one of similar character, did not associateitself very naturally with the silly _naivete_ which marked the girl;she had the air of assuming the objectionable tone as a mark ofcleverness. Emily could not trust herself to utter the kind of commentwhich would naturally have risen to her lips; it would be practicallyuseless, and her relations to Jessie were not such as could engenderaffectionate zeal in a serious attempt to overcome evil influences. Emily was not of the women whose nature it is to pursue missionaryenterprise; instead of calling forth her energies, a situation like thepresent threw her back upon herself; she sought a retreat from disgustin the sheltered purity of her own heart. Outwardly she became cold; herface expressed that severity which was one side of her character. 

'Don't you think it would be better if we made a beginning thismorning?' she said, as soon as another pause in the flow of chatter gaveher opportunity. 

'What a one you are for work!' Jessie protested. 'You seem to take to itnaturally, and yet I'm sure it isn't a natural thing. Just think ofhaving to muddle over French grammar at my age! And I know very well it'll never come to anything. Can you imagine me teaching? I always hatedschool, and I hate the thought of being a governess. It's different withyou; you're right down clever, and you make people take an interest inyou. But just think of me! Why I should be thought no more of than aservant. I suppose I should have to make friends with the milkman andthe butcher's boy; I don't see who else I should have to talk to. How'sa girl to get married if she spends all her time in a nursery teachingchildren grammar? You don't seem to care whether you're ever married ornot, but I do, and it's precious hard to have all my chances taken away. 

This was Jessie's incessant preoccupation; she could not talk for fiveminutes without returning to it. Herein she only exaggerated hersisters' habits of mind. The girls had begun to talk of 'sweethearts'and husbands before they were well out of the nursery. In earlier yearsEmily had only laughed at what she called such foolishness; she couldnot laugh now. Such ways of thinking and speaking were a profanation ofall she held holiest; words which she whispered in trembling to herheart were vulgarised and defiled by use upon these tinkling tongues; itwas blasphemy against her religion. 

Once more she endeavoured to fix the girl's thoughts on the work inhand, and by steady persistence conquered at length some semblance ofattention. But an hour proved the utmost limit of Jessie's patience, then her tongue got its way again, and the inevitable subjects wereresumed. She talked of the 'gentlemen' whose acquaintance, in a greateror less degree, she had made at the seaside; described their manoeuvresto obtain private interviews with her, repeated jokes of theirinvention, specified her favourites, all at headlong speed of disjointednarrative. Emily sat beneath the infliction, feeling that to go throughthis on alternate days for some weeks would be beyond her power. Shewould not rise and depart, for a gathering warmth within encouraged herto await a moment when speech would come to her aid. It did so atlength; her thought found words almost involuntarily. 

'Jessie, I'm afraid we shall not do much good if we always spend ourmornings like this!'

'Oh, but I thought we'd done enough for to-day. '

'Perhaps so, but--What I want to say is this. Will you, as a kindnessto me, forget these subjects when we are together? I don't mind whatelse you talk about, but stories of this kind make me fidgety; I feel asif I should be obliged to get up and run away. '

'Do you really mean it? You don't like me to talk about gentlemen? Whata queer girl you are, Emily! Why, you're not settling down to be an oldmaid at your age, are you?'

'We'll say so; perhaps that explains it. '

'Well, that's queer. I can't see, myself, what else there is to talkabout. Grammar's all very well when we're children, but it seems to methat what a grown-up girl has to do is to look out for a husband. Howyou can be satisfied with books'--the infinite contempt she put into theword!--'is more than I can make out. '

'But you will do what I ask, as a kindness? I am in earnest; I shall beafraid of seeing you if you can't help talking of such things. '

Jessie laughed extravagantly; such a state of mind was to her comicalbeyond expression. 

'You _are_ a queer one! Of course I'll do as you wish; you shan't hearme mention a single gentleman's name, and I'll tell all the others to becareful whenever you come. '

Emily averted her face; it was reddened with annoyance at the thought ofbeing discussed in this way by all the Cartwright household. 

'You can do that if you like, ' she said coldly, 'though it's no part ofmy wish. I spoke of the hours when we are together for study. '

'Very well, I won't say anything, ' replied the girl, who wasgood-natured enough beneath all her vulgarities. 'And now what shall wedo till dinner-time?'

'I must make the best of my way home. '

'Oh, nonsense! Why, you're going to have dinner with us; of course thatwas understood. '

Not by Emily, however. It cost a good deal of firmness, for theCartwrights one and all would lay hands on you rather than lose a guest;but Emily made good her escape. Once well on her way to Banbrigg, shetook in great breaths of free air, as if after a close and unwholesomeatmosphere. She cried mentally for an ounce of civet. There was uponher, too, that uneasy sense of shame which is apt to possess a reticentnature when it has been compelled, or tempted, to some unwonted freedomof speech. Would it not have been better, she asked herself, to merelyavoid the talk she found so hateful by resolutely advancing othertopics? Perhaps not; it was just possible that her words might bear somekind of fruit. But she wished heartily that this task of hopelessteaching had never been proposed to her; it would trouble her wakingevery other day, and disturb with a profitless annoyance the idealserenity for which she was striving. 

Yet it had one good result; her mother's follies and weaknesses werevery easy to bear in comparison, and, when the midday meal was over, sheenjoyed with more fulness the peace of her father's room upstairs, whereshe had arranged a table for her own work. Brilliant sunlight made thebare garret, with its outlook over the fields towards Pendal, a cheerfuland homelike retreat. Here, whilst the clock below wheezed and pantedafter the relentless hours, Emily read hard at German, or, when her mindcalled for rest, sheltered herself beneath the wing of some poet, whovoiced for her the mute hymns of her soul. But the most sacred hour waswhen her parents had gone to rest, and she sat in her bedroom, writingher secret thoughts for Wilfrid some day to read. She had resolved tokeep for him a journal of her inner life from day to day. In this wayshe might hope to reveal herself more truthfully than spoken words wouldever allow; she feared that never, not even in the confidence of theirmarried life, would her tongue learn to overcome the fear of its ownutterances. How little she had told him of herself, of her love! InSurrey she had been so timid; she had scarcely done more than allow himto guess her thoughts; and at their last meeting she had been compelledinto opposition of his purpose, so that brief time had been left forfree exchange of tenderness. But some day she would put this little bookof manuscript into his hands, and the shadowy bars between him and herwould vanish. She could only write in it late at night, when the stillvoice within spoke clearly amid the hush. The only sound from the outerworld was that of a train now and then speeding by, and that carried herthoughts to Wilfrid, who had journeyed far from her into othercountries. Emily loved silence, the nurse of the soul; the earliest andthe latest hours were to her most dear. It had never been to her eitheran impulse or a joy to realise the existence of the mass of mankind; shehad shrunk, after the first excitement, from the thronged streets ofLondon, passing from them with delight to the quiet country. Othersmight find their strength in the sense of universal human fellowship;she would fain live apart, kindly disposed to all, but understandingwell that her first duty was to tend the garden of her mind. That it wasalso her first joy was, by the principles of her religion, justificationin pursuing it. 

In a few days she obliged her mother to concede to her a share in thework of the house. She had nothing of the common feminine interest insuch work for its own sake, but it was a pleasure to lessen her mother'stoil. There was very little converse between them; for evidently theybelonged to different worlds. When Mrs. Hood took her afternoon'srepose, it was elsewhere than in the room where Emily sat, and Emilyherself did not seek to alter this habit, knowing that she often, quiteinvoluntarily, caused her mother irritation, and that to reduce theirintercourse as far as could be without marked estrangement was the bestway to make it endurable to both. But the evening hours she invariablydevoted to her father; the shortness of the time that she was able togive him was a reason for losing no moment of this communion. She knewthat the forecast of the evening's happiness sustained him through thelong day, and even so slight a pleasure as that she bestowed in openingthe door at his arrival, she would not willingly have suffered him tolose. It did not appear that Mrs. Hood reflected on this exclusiveattachment in Emily; it certainly troubled her not at all. This order inthe house was of long standing; it had grown to seem as natural aspoverty and hopelessness. Emily and her father reasoned as little abouttheir mutual affection; to both it was a priceless part of life, givento them by the same dark powers that destroy and deprive. It behovedthem to enjoy it while permitted to do so. 

Had she known the recent causes of trouble which weighed upon herparents, Emily would scarcely have been able to still keep her secretfrom them. The anxiety upon her father's face and her mother's ceaselesscomplaining were too familiar to suggest anything unusual. She had comehome with the resolve to maintain silence, if only because her marriageseemed remote and contingent upon many circumstances; and other reasonshad manifested themselves to her even before Wilfrid's visit. At anytime she would find a difficulty in speaking upon such a subject withher mother; strange though it may sound, the intimacy between them wasnot near enough to encourage such a disclosure, with all theexplanations it would involve. Nor yet to her father would she willinglyspeak of what had happened, until it became necessary to do so. Emily'ssense of the sanctity of relations such as those between Wilfrid andherself had, through so different a cause, very much the same effects aswhat we call false shame. The complex motives of virgin modesty had withher become a conscious sustaining power, a faith; of all beautifulthings that the mind could conceive, this mystery was the loveliest, andthe least capable of being revealed to others, however near, withoutdesecration. Perhaps she had been aided in the nurturing of this idealby her loneliness; no friend had ever tempted her to confidences; hergravest and purest thoughts had never been imparted to any. Thus she hadescaped that blunting of fine perceptions which is the all butinevitable result of endeavouring to express them. Not to speak of merevulgarity such as Jessie Cartwright exhibited, Emily's instinct shrankfrom things which usage has, for most people, made matters of course;the public ceremony of marriage, for instance, she deemed a barbarism. As a sacrament, the holiest of all, its celebration should, she felt, bein the strictest privacy; as for its aspect as a legal contract, letthat concession to human misery be made with the smallest, not thegreatest, violation of religious feeling. Thinking thus, it was naturalthat she should avail herself of every motive for delay. And in thatvery wretchedness of her home which her marriage would, she trusted, ina great measure alleviate, she found one of the strongest. Theatmosphere of sordid suffering depressed her; it was only by an effortthat she shook off the influences which assailed her sadder nature; attimes her fears were wrought upon, and it almost exceeded her power tobelieve in the future Wilfrid had created for her. The change from thebeautiful home in Surrey to the sad dreariness of Banbrigg had followedtoo suddenly upon the revelation of her blessedness. It indisposed herto make known what was so dreamlike. For the past became more dreadfulviewed from the ground of hope. Emily came to contemplate it as somehideous beast, which, though she seemed to be escaping its reach, mighteven yet spring upon her. How had she borne that past so lightly? Herfear of all its misery was at moments excessive. Looking at her unhappyparents, she felt that their lot would crush her with pity did she notsee the relief approaching. She saw it, yet too often trembled with themost baseless fears. She tried to assure herself that she had actedrightly in resisting Wilfrid's proposal of an immediate marriage, yetshe often wished her conscience had not spoken against it. Wilfrid's ownwords, though merely prompted by his eagerness, ceaselessly came back toher--that it is ill to refuse a kindness offered by fate, so seldomkind. The words were true enough, and their truth answered to thatmelancholy which, when her will was in abeyance, coloured her views oflife. 

But here at length was a letter from Wilfrid, a glad, encouragingletter. His father had concluded that he was staying behind in Englandto be married, and evidently would not have disturbed himself greatlyeven if such had been the case. All was going well. Nothing of the pastshould be sacrificed, and the future was their own. 

CHAPTER VIII

A STERNER WOOING

It was an unusual thing for the middle of August to find RichardDagworthy still in Dunfield. Through all the other months of the year hestuck closely to the mill, but the best three weeks of August were hisholiday; as a rule, he went to Scotland, sometimes in company with afriend, more often alone. In the previous year he had taken a widerflight, and made his first visit to the Continent, but this was notlikely to be repeated for some time. He always referred to it as more orless of a feat. The expense, to begin with, was greater than he couldreadily reconcile himself to, and the indulgence of his curiosity, notinactive, hardly compensated for his lack of ease amid the unfamiliarconditions of foreign travel. Richard represented an intermediate stageof development between the hard-headed operative who conquers wealth, and his descendant who shall know what use to make of it. Therein laythe significance of the man's life. 

Its pathos, moreover. Looking at him casually from the outside, onefound small suggestion of the pathetic in his hard face and brusquemanners; nearer companionship revealed occasional glimpses of a mood outof harmony with the vulgar pursuits and solicitudes which for the mostpart seemed to absorb him. One caught a hint of loneliness in hisexistence; his reticences, often very marked in the flow of hisunpolished talk, seemed to indicate some disappointment, and a disliketo dwell upon it. In point of fact, his life was rather lonely; his twosisters were married in other towns, and, since the death of his wife, he had held no communications with her relatives. The child was all hehad of family, and, though his paternal affections were strong, he wasnot the man to content his hours of leisure with gambols in a nursery. His dogs were doubtless a great resource, and in a measure made up tohim for the lack of domestic interests; yet there sometimes passed daysduring which he did not visit the kennels, always a sign to the servantsto beware of his temper, which at such seasons was easily roused tofury. The reputation he had in Dunfield for brutality of behaviour datedfrom his prosecution for violent assault by a groom, whom, in one of hisfits of rage, he had all but pounded to a jelly. The incident occurredearly in his married life, and was, no doubt, the origin of the veryprevalent belief that he had ruled his wife by similar methods. Dunfieldsociety was a little shy of him for some time after, until, indeed, bybecoming a widower, he presented himself once more in an interestinglight. Though he possibly brought about his wife's death by ill-usage, that did not alter the fact that he had a carriage and pair to offer tothe lady whom he might be disposed to make her successor. 

His marriage had been of a kind that occasioned general surprise, and, in certain circles, indignation. There had come to live, in one of thesmaller houses upon the Heath, a family consisting of a middle-aged ladyand her two daughters; their name was Hanmer, and their previous homehad been in Hebsworth, the large manufacturing town which is a sort ofmetropolis to Dunfield and other smaller centres round about. Mr. Hanmerwas recently dead; he had been a banker, but suffered grave losses in aperiod of commercial depression, and left his family poorly off. Variousreasons led to his widow's quitting Hebsworth; Dunfield inquirersnaturally got hold of stories more or less to the disgrace of thedeceased Mr. Hanmer. The elder of the two daughters Richard Dagworthymarried, after an acquaintance of something less than six months. Dunfield threw up its hands in amazement: such a proceeding on youngDagworthy's part was not only shabby to the families which had upon himthe claim of old-standing expectancy, but was in itself inexplicable. Miss Hanmer might be good-looking, but Richard (always called 'young' todistinguish him from his father) had surely outgrown such a veryinfantile reason of choice, when other attractions were, to the Dunfieldmind, altogether wanting. The Hanmers were not only poor, but, moreshameful still, positively 'stuck up' in their poverty. They cameoriginally from the south of England, forsooth, and spoke in an affectedway, pronouncing their vowels absurdly. Well, the consoling reflectionwas that his wife would soon make him see that she despised him, for ifever there was a thorough Yorkshireman, it was Richard. 

Dunfield comments on Mrs. Dagworthy seemed to find some justification inthe turn things took. Richard distinctly began to neglect those of hisold friends who smacked most of the soil; if they visited his house, hiswife received them with an affected graciousness which was sounmistakably 'stuck up' that they were in no hurry to come again, andher behaviour, when she returned visits, was felt to be so offensivethat worthy ladies--already prejudiced--had a difficulty in refrainingfrom a kind of frankness which would have brought about a crisis. Thetown was perpetually busy with gossip concerning the uncomfortablenessof things in the house on the Heath. Old Mr. Dagworthy, it was declared, had roundly bidden his son seek a domicile elsewhere, since jointoccupancy of the home had become impossible. Whether such a change wasin reality contemplated could never be determined; the old man's deathremoved the occasion. Mrs. Dagworthy survived him little more than halfa year. So there, said Dunfield, was a mistake well done with; and itwas disposed to let bygones be bygones. 

What was the truth of all this? That Dagworthy married hastily and foundhis wife uncongenial, and that Mrs. Dagworthy passed the last two yearsof her life in mourning over a fatal mistake, was all that could beaffirmed as fact, and probably the two persons most nearly concernedwould have found it difficult to throw more light upon the situation. Outwardly it was as commonplace a story as could be told; even theaccession of interest which would have come of Dagworthy's cruelty wasdue to the imagination of Dunfield gossips. Richard was miserable enoughin his home, and frequently bad-tempered, but his wife had nothing worsefrom him than an angry word now and then. After the first few months oftheir marriage, the two lived, as far as possible, separate lives; Mrs. Dagworthy spent the days with her mother and sister, Richard at themill, and the evenings were got through with as little friction as mightbe between two people neither of whom could speak half a dozen wordswithout irritating or disgusting the other. The interesting feature ofthe case was the unexpectedness of Dagworthy's choice. It evinced somuch more originality than one looked for in such a man. It was, indeed, the outcome of ambitions which were not at all clear to their possessor. Miss Hanmer had impressed him as no other woman had done, simply becauseshe had graces and accomplishments of a kind hitherto unknown to him;Richard felt that for the first time in his life he was in familiarintercourse with a 'lady. ' Her refined modes of speech, her littlepersonal delicacies, her unconscious revelation of knowledge which hedeemed the result of deep study, even her pretty and harmless witticismsat the expense of Dunfield dignitaries, touched his slumberingimagination with singular force. Miss Hanmer, speedily observing herpower, made the most of it; she was six-and-twenty, and poverty renderedher position desperate. Dagworthy at first amused her as a specimen ofthe wealthy boor, but the evident delight he found in her societyconstrained her to admit that the boor possessed the elements of goodtaste. The courtship was of rapid progress, the interests at stake beingso simply defined on either side, and circumstances presenting no kindof obstacle. The lady accepted him without hesitation, and triumphed inher good fortune. 

Dagworthy conceived that his end was gained; in reality it was thebeginning of his disillusion. It speedily became clear to him that hedid not really care for his wife, that he had been the victim of someself-deception, which was all the more exasperating because difficult tobe explained. The danger of brutality on his part really lay in thisfirst discovery of his mistake; the presence of his father in the housewas a most fortunate circumstance; it necessitated self-control at atime when it was hardest to maintain. Later, he was too much alteredfrom the elementary creature he had been to stand in danger of grosslyill-using his wife. His marriage developed the man surprisingly; it madehim self-conscious in a degree he could not formerly have conceived. Hehad fully believed that this woman was in love with him, and the beliefhad flattered him inexpressibly; to become aware that she regarded himwith disgust, only kept under by fear, was to receive light on manythings besides the personal relations between himself and her. If he hadnot in reality regarded her at any time with strong feeling, what hadmade him so bent on gaining her for his wife? To puzzle this over--theproblem would not quit his mind--was to become dimly aware of what hehad hoped for and what he had missed. It was not her affection: he feltthat the absence of this was not the worst thing he had to bear. Gradually he came to understand that he had been deceived byartificialities which mocked the image of something for which he reallylonged, and that something was refinement, within and without, a lifedirected by other motives and desires than those he had known, a spiritaiming at things he did not understand, yet which he would gladly havehad explained to him. There followed resentment of the deceit that hadbeen practised on him; the woman had been merely caught by his money, and it followed that she was contemptible. Instead of a higher, he hadwedded a lower than himself; she did not care even to exercise theslight hypocrisy by which she might have kept his admiration; thecruelest feature of the wrong he had suffered was that, by thedisclosure of her unworthiness, his wife was teaching him the real valueof that which he had aimed at blindly and so deplorably failed to gain. Dagworthy had a period almost of despair; it was then that, in an accessof fury, he committed the brutality which created so many myths abouthis domestic life. To be hauled into the police-court, and to be wellaware what Dunfield was saying about him, was not exactly an agreeableexperience, but it had, like his marriage, an educational value; he knewthat the thrashing administered to the groom had been a vicarious one, and this actively awakened sense of a possible inner meaning of thingswas not without its influence upon him. It was remarked that he heardthe imposition of his fine with a suppressed laugh. Dunfield, repeatingthe story with florid circumstance, of course viewed it as anillustration of his debauched state of mind; in reality the laugh cameof a perception of the solemn absurdity of the proceedings, and Richardwas by so much the nearer to understanding himself and the world. 

His wife's death came as an unhoped-for relief; he felt like a manbeginning the world anew. He had no leaning to melancholy, and aprolongation of his domestic troubles would not have made him lesshearty in his outward bearing, but the progress of time had developedelements in his nature which were scarcely compatible with a continuanceof the life he had been leading. He had begun to put to himself ominousquestions; such, for instance, as--What necessity was he under tomaintain the appearance of a cheerful domesticity? If things got just atrifle more unbearable, why should he not make for himself somewhereelse a new home? He was, it is true, startled at his own audacity, andonly some strangely powerful concurrence of motives--such as he was yetto know--could in reality have made him reckless. For the other featuresof his character, those which tended to stability, were still strongenough to oppose passions which had not found the occasion for theirfull development. He was not exactly avaricious, but pursuit of moneywas in him an hereditary instinct. By mere force of habit he stuckzealously to his business, and, without thinking much about his wealth, disliked unusual expenditure. His wife had taunted him with meanness, with low money-grubbing; the effect had been to make him all the moretenacious of habits which might have given way before other kinds ofreproof. So he had gone on living the ordinary life, to all appearanceswell contented, in reality troubled from time to time by a reawakeningof those desires which he had understood only to have them frustrated. He groped in a dim way after things which, by chance perceived, seemedto have a certain bearing on his life. The discovery in himself of aninterest in architecture was an instance; but for his visit to theContinent he might never have been led to think of the subject. Thenthere was his fondness for the moors and mountains, the lochs andislands, of the north. On the whole, he preferred to travel in Scotlandby himself; the scenery appealed to a poetry that was in him, if only hecould have brought it into consciousness. Already he had planned for thepresent August a tour among the Hebrides, and had made it out with hismaps and guidebooks, not without careful consideration of expense. Whydid he linger beyond the day on which he had decided to set forth?

For several days it had been noticed at the mill that he lackedsomething of his wonted attention in matters of business. Certainly hisoccupation about eleven o'clock one morning had little apparent bearingon the concerns of his office; he was standing at the window of hisprivate room, which was on the first floor of the mill, with a largefield-glass at his eyes. The glass was focussed upon the Cartwrights'garden, in which sat Jessie with Emily Hood. They were but a shortdistance away, and Dagworthy could observe them closely; he had done so, intermittently, for almost an hour, and this was the second morning thathe had thus amused himself. Yet, to judge from his face, when he turnedaway, amusement was hardly his state of mind; his features had ahard-set earnestness, an expression almost savage. And then he walkedabout the little room, regarding objects absently. 

Four days later he was again with his glass at the window; it wanted afew minutes of ten o'clock. Emily Hood had just reached the garden; hesaw her enter and begin to pace about the walks, waiting for Jessie'sarrival. Dagworthy of a sudden put the glass aside, took his hat, andhastened away from the mill. He walked along the edge of thecattle-market, till he came into the road by which Jessie must approachthe garden; he saw her coming, and went on at a brisk pace towards her. The girl was not hurrying, though she would be late; these lessons werebeginning to tax her rather too seriously; Emily was so exacting. Already she had made a change in the arrangements, whereby she savedherself the walk to Banbrigg; in the garden, too, it was much easier tofind excuses for trifling away time than when she was face to face withEmily at a table. So she came along the road at a very moderate pace, and, on seeing who it was that neared her, put on her pleasantest smile, doubly glad of the meeting; it was always something to try her deviceson Richard Dagworthy, and at present the chat would make a delay forwhich she could urge reasonable excuse. 

'The very person I wanted to meet!' Dagworthy exclaimed. 'You've savedme a run all the way up to your house. What are you doing this way?Going to school?'

He pointed to the books she carried. 

'Something like it, ' replied Jessie, with a wry movement of her lips. 'Why did you want to meet me, though?'

'Because I want you to do something for me--that is, if you will. But, really, where were you going? Perhaps you can't spare time?'

'I was going to the garden, ' she said, pointing in that direction. 'Ihave lessons there with Emily Hood. Beastly shame that I should have todo lessons, isn't it? I feel too old for that; I've got other things tothink about. '

She put her head on one side, and rustled the pages of a French grammar, at last throwing a glance at Richard from the corners of her eyes. 

'But do you expect Miss Hood to come soon?' Dagworthy asked, playing hispart very well, in spite of a nervousness which possessed him. 

'No doubt she's in the garden already. I've given her a key, so that ifshe gets there first--But what do you want me to do?'

'Why, I was going to ask you to walk to the station and meet the tenthirty-five train from Hebsworth. Your father will get in by it, Iexpect, and I want him to come and see me at once at the mill. '

'All right, ' Jessie exclaimed with eagerness, 'I'll go. Just let me runand tell Emily--'

Dagworthy was consulting his watch. 

'You've only bare time to get to the station, walking as quickly as youcan? Which is your garden? Let me go and tell her you are not coming. '

'Will you? The second door round the corner there, You'll have toapologize properly--I hope you know how to. '

This was Jessie's maidenly playfulness; she held out her hand, with manygraces, to take leave. 

'If he doesn't come, ' said Dagworthy, 'will you just walk over to themill to let me know?'

'I don't know that I shall; I don't think it would be proper. '

'Ho, ho! I like that! But you'll have to be off, or you'll never getthere in time. '

She ran away, rejoicing in her escape from the lesson, Of course shelooked back several times; the first glance showed her Dagworthy stillgazing after her, at the second she saw that he was walking towards thegarden. 

He pushed open the wooden door, and passed between the hedges; the nextdoor stood open, and he already saw Emily; she had seated herself underone of the pear trees, and was reading. As soon as his eyes discoveredher he paused; his hands clasped themselves nervously behind him. Thenhe proceeded more slowly. As soon as he stepped within the garden, Emilyheard his approach, and turned her head with a smile, expectant ofJessie, At the sight of Dagworthy the smile vanished instantly, shebecame noticeably pale, and at length rose with a startled motion. 

Dagworthy drew near to her; when close enough to hold out his hand, hecould no longer keep his eyes upon her face; they fell, and his visageshowed an embarrassment which, even in her confusion--her all butdread--Emily noticed as a strange thing. She was struggling to commandherself, to overcome by reason the fear which always attacked her inthis man's presence. She felt it as a relief to be spared the steadygaze which, on former meetings, he had never removed from her. 

'You are surprised to see me here?' he began, taking hold of the chairwhich Emily had risen from and swaying it backwards and forwards. Evenhis voice was more subdued than she had ever known it. 'I have come toapologise to you for sending Miss Cartwright to meet her father at thestation. I met her by chance just out there in the road, and as I wanteda messenger very badly I took advantage of her good-nature. But shewouldn't go unless I promised to come here and explain her absence. '

'Thank you, ' Emily replied, as naturally as she could. 'Will she stillcome back for her lesson, do you think?'

'I'm afraid not; she said I had better ask you to excuse her thismorning. '

Emily gathered up two or three books which lay on the other chair. 

'You find her rather troublesome to teach, I should be afraid, 'Dagworthy pursued, watching her every moment. 'Jessie isn't much forstudy, is she?'

'Perhaps she is a little absent now and then, ' replied Emily, saying thefirst thing that occurred to her. 

She had collected her books and was about to fasten a strap round them. 

'Do let me do that for you, ' said Dagworthy, and he forestalled herassent, which she would probably not have given, by taking the booksfrom her hands. He put up his foot on the chair, as if for theconvenience of doing the strapping on his knee, but before he hadfinished it he spoke again. 

'You are fond of teaching, I suppose?'

'Yes, I like it. '

She stood in expectant waiting, her hands held together before her, herhead just bent. The attitude was grace itself. Dagworthy raised his eyesslowly from her feet to her face. 

'But you wouldn't care to go on with it always?'

'I--I don't think about it, ' she replied, nervousness again seizing her. There was a new look in his eyes, a vehemence, a fervour, which shedared not meet after the first glance. He would not finish the strappingof the books, and she could not bid him do so. Had she obeyed herinstinct, she would have hastened away, heedless of anything but thedesire to quit his presence. 

'How long will your holidays be?' he asked, letting the books fall tothe chair, as if by accident. 

'Till the end of September, I think. '

'So long? I'm glad to hear that. You will come again some day to myhouse with your father, won't you?'

The words trembled upon his lips; it was not like his own voice, hecould not control it. 

'Thank you, Mr. Dagworthy, ' she replied. 

He bent to the books again, and this time succeeded in binding themtogether. As he fastened the buckle, drops of perspiration fell from hisforehead. 

Emily thanked him, and held forth her hand for the books. He took it inhis own. 

'Miss Hood--'

She drew her hand away, almost by force, and retreated a step; his faceterrified her. 

'I sent Jessie off on purpose, ' he continued. 'I knew you were here, andwanted to speak to you alone. Since I met you that day on the Heath, Ihave had no rest--I've wanted so to see you again. The other morning atthe Cartwrights' it was almost more than I could do to go away. I don'tknow what's come to me; I can't put you out of my thoughts for oneminute; I can't give my attention to business, to anything. I meant tohave gone away before now, but I've put it off, day after day; once ortwice I've all but come to your house, to ask to see you--'

He spoke in a hurried, breathless way, almost with violence; passion wasforcing the words from him, in spite of a shame which kept his face onfire. There was something boyish in the simplicity of his phrases; heseemed to be making a confession that was compelled by fear, and atlength his speech lost itself in incoherence. He stood with his eyesfixed on the ground; perspiration covered his face. 

'Mr. Dagworthy--'

Emily tried to break the intolerable silence. Her strength was answeringnow to the demand upon it; his utter abashment before her could not buthelp her to calmness. But the sound of her first word gave him voiceagain. 

'Let me speak first, ' he broke forth, now looking full at her. 'That'snothing of what I wanted to say; it sounds as if I wasn't man enough toknow my own mind. I know it well enough, and I must say all I have tosay, whilst you're here to listen to me. After all, you're only a girl;but if you'd come here straight from heaven, I couldn't find it harderto speak to you. '

'Mr. Dagworthy, don't speak like this--don't say more--I beg you not to!I cannot listen as you would wish me to. '

'You can't listen? But you don't know what I have to say still, ' heurged, with hasty entreaty, his voice softer. 'I'm asking nothing yet; Ionly want you to know how you've made me feel towards you. No feelingwill ever come to you like this that's come to me, but I want you toknow of it, to try and understand what it means--to try and think ofme. I don't ask for yes or no, it wouldn't be reasonable; you haven'thad to think of me in this way. But God knows how I shall live withoutyou; it would be the cruelest word woman ever said if you refused evento give me a hope. '

'I cannot--do hear me--it is not in my power to give you hope. '

'Oh, you say that because you think you must, because I have come to youso suddenly; I have offended you by talking in this way when we scarcelyknow each other even as friends, and you have to keep me at a distance;I see it on your face. Do you think there is a danger that I should beless respectful to you than I ought? That's because you don't understandme. I've spoken in rough, hasty words, because to be near you takes allsense from me. Look, I'm quieter now. What I ought to have said at firstis this. You're prejudiced against me; you've heard all sorts of tales;I know well enough what people say about me--well, I want you to know mebetter. We'll leave all other feelings aside. We'll say I just wish youto think of me in a just way, a friendly way, nothing more. It'simpossible for you to do more than that at first. No doubt even yourfather has told you that I have a hasty temper, which leads me to sayand do things I'm soon sorry for. It's true enough, but that doesn'tprove that I am a brute, and that I can't mend myself. You've heardthings laid to my charge that are false--about my doings in my ownhome--you know what I mean. Get to know me better, and some day I'lltell you the whole truth. Now it's only this I ask of you--be just tome. You're not a woman like these in Dunfield who talk and talk behindone's back; though I have seen so little of you, don't I know thedifference between you and them? I'm ignorant enough, compared with you, but I can feel what it is that puts you above all other women. It mustbe that that makes me mad to gain a kind word from you. One word--thatyou'll try to think of me; and I'll live on that as long as I can. '

The mere utterances help little to an understanding of the terribleforce of entreaty he put into this speech. His face, his hands, theposture of his body, all joined in pleading. He had cast off allshamefacedness, and spoke as if his life depended on the answer shewould return; the very lack of refinement in his tone, in hispronunciation of certain words, made his appeal the more pathetic. Withthe quickness of jealousy, he had guessed at the meaning there might liein Emily's reluctance to hear him, but he dared not entertain thethought; it was his passionate instinct to plead it down. Whatever itmight be that she had in mind, she must first hear him. As he spoke, hewatched her features with the eagerness of desire, of fear; to do so wasbut to inflame his passion. It was an extraordinary struggle between theforce of violent appetite and the constraint of love in the highersense. How the former had been excited, it would be hard to explain. Wilfrid Athel had submitted to the same influence. Her beauty was of thekind which, leaving the ordinary man untouched, addressed itself withthe strangest potency to an especially vehement nature here and there. Her mind, uttering itself in the simplest phrases, laid a spell uponcertain other minds set apart and chosen. She could not speak but thesoul of this rude mill-owner was exalted beyond his own intelligence. 

Forced to wait the end of his speech, Emily stood with her head bowed insadness. Fear had passed; she recognised the heart-breaking sincerity ofhis words, and compassionated him. When he became silent, she could notreadily reply. He was speaking again, below his breath. 

'You are thinking? I know how you can't help regarding me. Try only tofeel for me. '

'There is only one way in which I can answer you, ' she said; 'I owe itto you to hide nothing. I feel deeply the sincerity of all you havesaid, and be sure, Mr. Dagworthy, that I will never think of youunjustly or unkindly. But I can promise nothing more; I have alreadygiven my love. '

Her voice faltered before the last word, the word she would neverlightly utter. But it must be spoken now; no paraphrase would confirmher earnestness sufficiently. 

Still keeping her eyes on the ground, she knew that he had started. 

'You have promised to marry some one?' he asked, as if it were necessaryto have the fact affirmed in the plainest words before he could acceptit. 

She hoped that silence might be her answer. 

'Have you? Do you mean that?'

'I have. '

She saw that he was turning away from her, and with an effort she lookedat him. She wished she had not; his anguish expressed itself like anevil passion; his teeth were set with a cruel savageness. It was worsewhen he caught her look and tried to smile. 

'Then I suppose that's--that's the end, ' he said, as if he would make aneffort to joke upon it, though his voice all but failed in speaking thefew words. 

He walked a little apart, then approached her again. 

'You don't say this just to put me off?' he asked, with a roughnesswhich was rather the effect of his attempt to keep down emotion thanintentional. 

'I have told you the truth, ' Emily replied firmly. 

'Do other people know it? Do the Cartwrights?'

'You are the only one to whom I have spoken of it. '

'Except your father and mother, you mean?'

'They do not know. '

Though so troubled, she was yet able to ask herself whether his delicacywas sufficiently developed to enjoin silence. The man had made suchstrange revelation of himself, she felt unable to predict his course. Norefinement in him would now have surprised her; but neither would anyoutbreak of boorishness. He seemed capable of both. His next questionaugured ill. 

'Of course it is not any one in Dunfield?'

'It is not. '

Jealousy was torturing him. He was quite conscious that he should haverefrained from a single question, yet he could no more keep these backthan he could the utterance of his passion. 

'Will you--'

He hesitated. 

'May I leave you, Mr. Dagworthy?' Emily asked, seeing that he was notlikely to quit her. She moved to take the books from the chair. 

'One minute more. --Will you tell me who it is?--I am a brute to ask you, but--if you--Good God! How shall I bear this?'

He turned his back upon her; she saw him quiver. It was her impulse towalk from the garden, but she feared to pass him. 

He faced her again. Yes, the man could suffer. 

'Will you tell me who it is?' he groaned rather than spoke. 'You don'tbelieve that I should speak of it? But I feel I could bear it better; Ishould know for certain it was no use hoping. '

Emily could not answer. 

'It is some one in London?'

'Yes, Mr. Dagworthy, I cannot tell you more than that. Please do not askmore. '

'I won't. Of course your opinion of me is worse than ever. That doesn'tmatter much. --If you could kill as easily as you can drive a man mad, Iwould ask you to still have pity on me. --I'm forgetting: you want me togo first, so that you can lock up the garden. --Good-bye!'

He did not offer his hand, but cast one look at her, a look Emily neverforgot, and walked quickly away. 

Emily could not start at once homewards. When it was certain thatDagworthy had left the garden, she seated herself; she had need of restand of solitude to calm her thoughts. Her sensation was that of havingescaped a danger, the dread of which thrilled in her. Though fear hadbeen allayed for an interval, it regained its hold upon her towards theend of the dialogue; the passion she had witnessed was so rude, soundisciplined, it seemed to expose elementary forces, which, if need be, would set every constraint at defiance. It was no exaggeration to saythat she did not feel safe in the man's presence. The possibility ofsuch a feeling had made itself known to her even during the visit to hishouse; to find herself suddenly the object of his almost frenzied desirewas to realize how justly her instinct had spoken. This was not love, asshe understood it, but a terrible possession which might findassuagement in inflicting some fearful harm upon what it affected tohold dear. The Love of Emily's worship was a spirit of passionatebenignity, of ecstatic calm, holy in renunciations, pure unutterably insupreme attainment. Her knowledge of life was insufficient to allow herto deal justly with love as exhibited in Dagworthy; its gross side wastoo offensively prominent; her experience gave her no power of rightlyappreciating this struggle of the divine flame in a dense element. Living, and having ever lived, amid idealisms, she was too subjective inher interpretation of phenomena so new to her. It would have been easierfor her to judge impartially had she witnessed this passion directedtowards another; addressed to her, in the position she occupied, anyphase of wooing would have been painful; vehemence was nothing less thanabhorrent. Wholly ignorant of Dagworthy's inner life, and misled withregard to the mere facts of his outward behaviour, it was impossiblethat she should discern the most deeply significant features of the lovehe expressed so ill, impossible for her to understand that what would bebrutality in another man was in him the working of the very means ofgrace, could circumstances have favoured their action. One tribute herinstinct paid to the good which hid itself under so rude a guise; as shepondered over her fear, analysing it as scrupulously as she always didthose feelings which she felt it behoved her to understand once for all, she half discovered in it an element which only severe self-judgmentwould allow; it seemed to her that the fear was, in an infinitesimaldegree, of herself, that, under other conditions, she might have knownwhat it was to respond to the love thus offered her. For she neitherscorned nor loathed the man, notwithstanding her abhorrence of hispassion as devoted to herself. She wished him well; she even foundherself thinking over those women in Dunfield whom she knew, ifperchance one of them might seem fitted to make his happiness. None theless, it was terrible to reflect that she must live, perhaps for a longtime, so near to him, ever exposed to the risk of chance meetings, ifnot to the danger of a surprise such as to-day's for she could notassure herself that he would hold her answer final. One precaution shemust certainly take; henceforth she would never come to the garden savein Jessie's company. She wondered how Dagworthy had known of herpresence here, and it occurred to her to doubt of Jessie; could thelatter have aided in bringing about this interview? Dagworthy, confessing his own manoeuvre, would naturally conceal any conscious partin it that Jessie might have taken. 

Her spirits suffered depression as she communed thus with herself; allthe drearier aspects of her present life were emphasised; she longed, longed with aching of the heart for the day which should set her freefor ever from these fears and sorrows. Another secret would henceforthtrouble her. Would that it might remain a secret! If Jessie indeed knewof this morning's events, there was small likelihood that it wouldremain unknown to others; then the whole truth must be revealed. Wouldit not be better to anticipate any such discovery, to tell her fatherthis very day what had happened and why it was so painful to her? Yet tospeak of Dagworthy might make her father uneasy in his position at themill--would inevitably do so. Therein lay a new dread. Was Dagworthycapable of taking revenge upon her father? Oh surely, surely not!--Thewords passed her lips involuntarily. She would not, she could not, believe so ill of him; had he not implored her to do him justice?. .. 

When Mr. Hood returned from business on the following day, he broughtnews that Dagworthy had at last gone for his holiday. It was time, hesaid; Dagworthy was not looking himself; at the mill they had been inmortal fear of one of his outbreaks. 

'Did he speak harshly to you, father?' Emily was driven to ask, withvery slight emphasis on the 'you. '

'Fortunately, ' was the reply, with the sad abortive laugh which was Mr. Hood's nearest approach to mirth, 'fortunately he left me alone, andspoke neither well nor ill. He didn't look angry, I thought, so much asput out about something. '

Emily was relieved from one fear at least, and felt grateful toDagworthy. Moreover, by observation, she had concluded that Jessie couldnot possibly be aware of what had taken place in the garden. And nowDagworthy was likely to be away for three weeks. Her heart was lighteragain. 

CHAPTER IX

CIRCUMSTANCE

Dagworthy was absent not quite a fortnight, and he returned lookinganything but the better for his holiday. The wholesome colour of hischeeks had changed almost to sallowness those who met him in Dunfieldlooked at him with surprise and asked what illness he had beensuffering. At the mill, they did not welcome his re-appearance; histemper was worse than it had been since the ever-memorable week whichwitnessed his prosecution for assault and battery. At home, the servantsdid their best to keep out of his way, warned by Mrs. Jenkins. She, goodwoman, had been rash enough to bring the child into the dining-roomwhilst Dagworthy was refreshing himself with a biscuit and a glass ofwine upon his arrival; in a minute or two she retreated in high wrath. 

'Let him dom me, if he loikes, ' she went away exclaiming; 'ah'm ovverauld to care much abaht such fond tantrums; but when he gets agaate o'dommin his awn barn, it fair maaks my teeth dither ageean. The lad's ahton his 'eead. '

That was seven o'clock in the evening. He dined an hour later, and whenit was dark left the house. Between then and midnight he was constantlyin and out, and Mrs. Jenkins, who was kept up by her fears that 't'master' was seriously unwell, made at length another attempt to facehim. She knocked at the door of the sitting-room, having heard him entera minute or two before; no answer was vouchsafed, so she made bold toopen the door. Dagworthy was sitting with his head upon the table, hisarms stretched out; he appeared to be asleep. 

'Mr. Richard!' she said softly. 'Mr. Richard!'

He looked up. 'Well? What is it?'

'Yo' scahr'd me; ah thowt summat 'ad come to yo'. What's wrong wi' yo', Mr. Richard? You look as if you could hardly he'd your heead up. '

To her surprise he spoke quite calmly. 

'Yes, I've got a bit of a headache. Get me some hot water, will you?I'll have some brandy and go to bed. '

She began to advise other remedies, but Dagworthy speedily checked her. 

'Get me some hot water, I tell you, and go to bed yourself. What are youdoing up at this hour?'

He went to business at the usual time next morning, and it seemed as ifthe worst had blown over; at home he was sullen, but not violent. 

The third day after his return, on entering his office at the mill, hefound Hood taking down one of a row of old ledgers which stood thereupon a shelf. 

'What are you doing?' he asked abruptly, at the same time turning hisback upon the clerk. 

Hood explained that he was under the necessity of searching through theaccounts for several years, to throw light upon a certain transactionwhich was giving trouble. 

'All right, ' was the reply, as Dagworthy took his keys out to open hisdesk. 

A quarter of an hour later, he entered the room where Hood was busy overthe ledger. A second clerk was seated there, and him Dagworthy summonedto the office, where he had need of him. Presently Hood came to replacethe ledger he had examined, and took away the succeeding volume. A fewminutes later Dagworthy said to the clerk who sat with him--

'I shall have to go away for an hour or so. I'm expecting a telegramfrom Legge Brothers; if it doesn't come before twelve o'clock, you orHood must go to Hebsworth. It had better be Hood; you finish what you'reat. If there's no telegram, he must take the twelve-thirteen, and givethis note here to Mr. Andrew Legge; there'll be an answer. Mind you seeto this. '

At the moment when Dagworthy's tread sounded on the stairs, Mr. Hood wason the point of making a singular discovery. In turning a page of theledger, he came upon an envelope, old and yellow, which had evidentlybeen shut up in the hook for several years; it was without address andunsealed. He was going to lay it aside, when his fingers told him thatit contained something; the enclosure proved to be a ten-pound note, also old and patched together in the manner of notes that have been senthalf at a time. 

'Now I wonder how that got left there?' Hood mused. 'There's been raresearching for that, I'll be bound. Here's something to put our friendinto a better temper. '

He turned the note over once or twice, tried in vain to decipher ascribbled endorsement, then restored it to the envelope. With the letterin his hand, he went to the office. 

'Mr. Dagworthy out?' he asked of his fellow-clerk on looking round. 

The clerk was a facetious youth. He rose from his seat, seized a ruler, and began a species of sword-play about Hood's head, keeping up agrotesque dance the while. Hood bore it with his wonted patience, smiling faintly. 

'Mr. Dagworthy out?' he repeated, as soon as he was free fromapprehension of a chance crack on the crown. 

'He is, my boy. And what's more, there's a chance of your having a spreein Hebsworth. Go down on your knees and pray that no telegram from FootBrothers--I mean, Legge--arrives during the next five-and-twentyminutes. '

'Why?'

'If not, you're to takee this notee to Brother AndrewLeggee, --comprenez? The boss was going to send me, but he altered hismind, worse luck. '

'Twelve-thirteen?' asked Hood. 

'Yes. And now if you're in the mind, I'll box you for half adollar--what say?'

He squared himself in pugilistic attitude, and found amusement indelivering terrific blows which just stopped short of Hood's prominentfeatures. The latter beat a retreat. 

Twelve o'clock struck, and no telegram had arrived; neither hadDagworthy returned to the mill. Hood was indisposed to leave theenvelope to be given by other hands; he might as well have the advantageof such pleasure as the discovery would no doubt excite. So he put itsafely in his pocket-book, and hastened to catch the train, taking withhim the paper of sandwiches which represented his dinner. These he wouldeat on the way to Hebsworth. 

It was a journey of ten miles, lying at first over green fields, with acolliery vomiting blackness here and there, then through a region ofblight and squalor, finally over acres of smoke-fouled streets, amid theroar of machinery; a journey that would have crushed the heart in onefresh from the breath of heaven on sunny pastures. It was a slow train, and there were half a dozen stoppages. Hood began to eat his sandwichesat a point where the train was delayed for a few minutes by an adversesignal; a coal-pit was close by, and the smoke from the chimney blew inat the carriage windows, giving a special flavour to the bread and meat. There was a drunken soldier in the same compartment, who was beingbaited by a couple of cattle-drovers with racy vernacular not to berendered by the pen. Hood munched his smoky sandwich, and with his sadeyes watched the great wheel of the colliery revolve, and the trucksrise and descend. The train moved on again. The banter between the otherthree passengers was taking an angry turn; to escape the foul languageas far as possible, Hood kept his head at the window. Of a sudden thedrunken soldier was pushed against him, and before he could raise hishands, his hat had flown off on the breeze. 

He turned round with angry remonstrance. The soldier had fallen back onto the seat, and was grinning inanely; the drovers were enjoying thejoke beyond measure. 

'Theer, lad!' one of them cried. 'Tha's doon it nah! Tha'll a' to buyhim a new 'at for his 'eead, soon as we get i'to Hebs'orth. '

''Appen he's got no brass, ' suggested the other, guffawing. 

It was the case; the soldier had a copper or two at most. The drovers ofcourse held themselves free of responsibility. Hood felt in his ownpocket; but he was well aware that a shilling and three-halfpence wasall he carried with him--save the bank-note in his pocket-book. Yet itwas impossible to go through Hebsworth with uncovered head, or topresent himself hatless at the office of Legge Brothers. Already thetrain was slackening speed to enter the station. Would any hatter trusthim, on his representing whence he came? He feared not. Not the leastpart of his trouble was the thought of having to buy a new hat at all;such an expense was ill to be borne just now. Of course--he said tohimself, with dreary fatalism--a mishap is sure to come at the worsttime. It was the experience of his life. 

Hood was a shy man; it was misery to have attention drawn to himself asit naturally would be as soon as he stepped out on to the platform. Butthere was no help; with a last angry look at the drunken soldier, henerved himself to face the ordeal. As he walked hurriedly out of thecrowd, the cry 'Cab, sir?' fell upon his ears. Impossible to say how hebrought himself to such a pitch of recklessness, but in a moment he wasseated in a hansom, having bidden the driver take him to the nearesthatter's. The agony of embarrassment has driven shy men to strangeaudacities, but who ever dared more than this? _He would be compelled tochange the note_!

Whatever might be the cause, whether it was the sudden sense of refugefrom observation, or the long unknown pleasure of riding in a cab, as hesped along the streets he grew almost merry; at length he positivelylaughed at the adventure which had befallen him. It mattered nothingwhether he gave Dagworthy the money in a note or in change, and, onbeing told the story, his employer might even feel disposed to pay forthe hat. He _would_ pay for the hat! By the time the cab drew up, Hoodhad convinced himself of this. He was in better spirits than he had beenfor many a day. 

'Can you change me a ten-pound note?' were his first words to thehatter. 'If you can't, I must go elsewhere; I have nothing smaller. '

The salesman hesitated. 

'You want a silk hat?'

'Yes, but not an expensive one. '

A pen was brought, and Hood was requested to endorse the note. Whatsecurity--under the circumstances--such a proceeding could give, thehatter best knew; he appeared satisfied, and counted out his sovereigns. Hood paid the cabman, and walked off briskly towards the office of LeggeBrothers. 

He stopped in the middle of the pavement as if a shot had struck him. Supposing Dagworthy had no recollection of a ten-pound note having beenlost, nor of any note having been lost; and supposing it occurred to himthat he, Hood, had in reality found a larger sum, had invented the storyof the lost hat, and was returning a portion only of his discovery, togain the credit of honesty? Such an idea could only possess the brain ofa man whose life had been a struggle amid the chicaneries anddespicabilities of commerce; who knew that a man's word was nevertrusted where there could enter the slightest suspicion of an advantageto himself in lying; whose daily terror had been lest some error, someluckless chance, should put him within the nets of criminality. It isthe deepest curse of such a life as his that it directs the imaginationin channels of meanness, and preoccupies the thought with sordid fears. What would it avail him, in the present instance, to call the shopman towitness? The note, ten to one, would be paid away, and here also a man'sword was worth nothing. But Dagworthy might merely think such anaccusation: ay, that would be the worst. To lie henceforth undersuspicion of dishonesty: that meant, to lose his place before long, onsome pretence. 

And he felt that, in spite of absolute sincerity, he could not standbefore Dagworthy and tell his tale with the face and voice of an honestman, --felt it with a horrible certainty. In a man of Hood's character, this state of mind was perfectly natural. Not only was he weaklyconstructed, but his incessant ill-fortune had done him that last wrongwhich social hardship can inflict upon the individual, it, hadundermined his self-respect. Having been so often treated like a dog, hehad come to expect such treatment, and, what was worse, but feebly toresent it. He had lost the conscious dignity of manhood; nay, hadperhaps never possessed it, for his battle had begun at so early an age. The sense that he was wretchedly poor, and the knowledge that poverty isthe mother of degradation, made him at any moment a self-convictedcriminal; accused, however wrongly, it was inevitable that his faceshould be against him. To go to Dagworthy with sovereigns in his hand, and this story upon his lips, would be to invite suspicion by everystrongest sign of guilt. 

I am representing the poor fellow's thoughts and feelings. Whether ornot Dagworthy would really entertain such a suspicion is quite anothermatter. For the first time in his life, Hood had used for his ownpurposes money which did not belong to him; he did it under the pressureof circumstances, and had not time to reflect till the act wasirrevocable. Then this horror came upon him. Forgetting his errand, hedrew aside into a quieter street, and struggled with his anguish. Do youlaugh at him for his imbecility? Try first to understand him. 

But his business must be performed; with trembling limbs he hurriedonwards, and at length reached the office of Legge Brothers. The memberof the firm to whom the note which he bore was addressed had but a fewminutes ago left the place; he would return within an hour. How couldthe time be spent? He began to wander aimlessly about the streets. Inpassing a spot where scaffolding was erected before new buildings, thewish entered his mind that something might fall and crush him. Hethought of such an end as a blessed relief. 

A hand was laid upon his shoulder, and at the touch his heart leaped asthough it would burst his side. He turned and, with starting eyes, glared at the man before him, a perfect stranger, he thought. 

'Is it? Or isn't it? Hood, or his ghost?'

The man who spoke was of the shabbiest appearance, wearing an almostnapless high hat, a coloured linen shirt which should have been at thelaundress's, no neck-tie, a frock-coat with only one button, low shoesterribly down at heel; for all that, the most jovial-looking man, red-nosed, laughing. At length Hood was capable of recognising him. 

'Cheeseman! Well, who on earth would have expected to meet you!'

'I've followed you half along the street; couldn't be sure. Afraid Istartled you at last, old friend. '

They had known each other as young men, and it was now ten years atleast since they had met. They were companions in ill-hap, thedifference between them being that Cheeseman bore the buffets of theworld with imperturbable good humour; but then he had neither wife norchild, kith nor kin. He had tried his luck in all parts of England andin several other countries; casual wards had known him, and he hadgained a supper by fiddling in the streets. Many a beginning had hemade, but none led to anything; he seemed, in truth, to enjoy ahaphazard existence. If Cheeseman had possessed literary skill, thestory of his life from his own hand would have been invaluable; it is amisfortune that the men who are richest in 'material' are those whowould never dream of using it. 

They were passing a public-house; Cheeseman caught his friend by the armand, in spite of resistance, drew him in. 

'Two threes of gin hot, ' was his order. 'The old drink, Hood, my boy;the drink that has saved me from despair a thousand times. How manytimes have you and I kept up each other's pecker over a three of gin!You don't look well; you've wanted old Cheeseman to cheer you up. Thingsbad? Why, damn it, of course things are bad; when were they anythingelse with you and me, eh? Your wife, how is she? Remember me to her, will you? She never took to me, but never mind that. And the littlegirl? How's the little girl? Alive and well, please God?'

'Rather more than a little girl now, ' returned Hood. 'And doing well, I'm glad to say. She's a governess; has an excellent place in London. '

'You don't say so? I never was so glad to hear anything in my life! Ah, but Hood, you're leaving me behind, old friend; with the little girldoing so well you can't call yourself a poor devil; you can't, upon mysoul! I ought to have married; yes, I should ha' married long ago; it'ud a' been the making of me. It's the sole speculation, I do believe, that I haven't tried. Ah, but I've got something before me now! What sayyou to a patent fire-escape that any man can carry round his waist? Uponmy soul, I've got it! I'm going to London about it as soon as I can getmy fare; and that I shall have to-morrow, please God. '

'What brings you to Hebsworth?'

'I don't care much to talk about it in a public place, ' repliedCheeseman, with caution which contrasted comically with his loud tonehitherto. 'Only a little matter, but--Well, we'll say nothing about it;I may communicate with you some day. And you? Do you live here?'

Hood gave an account of his position. Under the influence of the glassof spirits, and of the real pleasure it gave him to see one of the veryfew men he had ever called friend, he had cast aside his cares for themoment. They went forth presently from the bar, and, after a few paces, Cheeseman took his friend by the coat collar and drew him aside, as ifto impart a matter of consequence. 

'Two threes of gin!' he said, with a roll of the eye which gave his facea singularly humorous expression. 'That's sixpence. A tanner, Hood, wasthe last coin I possessed. It was to have purchased dinner, a beefsteakpudding, with cabbage and potatoes; but what o' that? When you and Imeet, we drink to old times; there's no getting out of that. '

Hood laughed, for once in a really natural way. His usual abstemiousnessmade the gin potent. 

'Why, ' he said, 'I confess to feeling hungry myself; I've only had asandwich. Come along; we'll have dinner together. '

'You mean it, old friend?' cried the other, with irrepressible delight. 

'Of course I mean it. You don't think I'll let you spend your last coin, and send you off dinnerless? Things are bad, but not quite as bad asthat. I'm as hungry as a hunter; where is there an eating-house?'

They found one at a little distance. 

'It must be beefsteak pudding, Hood, ' whispered Cheeseman, as theyentered. 'I've set my heart on that. Whatever else you like, but abeefsteak pudding to start with. '

The article was procurable, smoking, juicy. Cheeseman made an incision, then laid down his knife and gloated over his plate. 

'Hood, ' he said, with much solemnity, 'you've done me many a kindness, old friend, but this caps all. I'm bound to you for life and death. Ishould have wandered about these streets a starving man. '

The other laughed still; he had a fit of laughter on him; he had notlaughed so since he was young. 

'Stout-and-mild is my drink, Hood, ' remarked Cheeseman, suggestively. 'It has body, and I need the support. '

They each had a pint, served in the native pewter. When Cheeseman hadtaken a deep draught he leaned forward across the table. 

'Hood, I don't forget it; never you believe that I forget it, howeverappearances may be against me?'

'Forget what?--give me the mustard, as soon as you can spare it; ha, ha!'

'That ten-pound note!'

Hood dropped his knife and fork. 

'What on earth's up? You look just like you did when I clapped you o'the shoulder. Your nerves are out of order, old friend. '

'Why, so they are. I know now what you mean; I couldn't for the life ofme think what you were talking about. '

'Don't think I forget it, ' pursued the other, after a mouthful. 

'It's twelve years last Easter since you lent me that ten-pound note, and it's been on my conscience ever since. But I shall repay it; neveryou fear but I'll repay it. Did I mention a fire-escape that any man canwear round his waist? Hush! wait a month or two. Let me make a note ofyour address whilst I think of it. This pudding's hot, but it's a faulton the right side, and time 'll mend it. You wouldn't mind, I daresay, being my agent for Dunfield--for the fire-escape, you know? I'llcommunicate with you, don't fear. '

A hot meal in the middle of the day was a luxury long unknown to Hood. Now and again the thought of what he was doing flashed across him, butmere bodily solace made his conscience dull. As the meal proceeded heeven began to justify himself. Was he never to know an hour's enjoyment?Was his life to be unbroken hardship? What if he had borrowed a fewshillings without leave; somehow difficulties would be got over; why, atthe very worst, Emily would gladly lend him a pound. He began to talk ofEmily, to praise her, to wax warm in the recounting of her goodness, heraffection. What man living had so clever and so loving a daughter!

'It's what I said, Hood, ' put in Cheeseman, with a shake of the head. 'You've left me behind. You've got into smooth water. The oldpartnership of ill-luck is broken up. Well, well! I ought to havemarried. It's been my one mistake in life. '

'Why, it's none too late yet, ' cried Hood, merrily. 

'None too late! Powers defend us! What have I got to marry on?'

'But the fire-escape?'

'Yes, yes, to be sure; the fire-escape! Well, we'll see; wait tillthings are set going. Perhaps you're right; perhaps it isn't too late. And, Hood--'

'Well?'

'You couldn't manage one single half-crown piece, could you? To be surethere's always an archway to be found, when night comes on, but I can'tpretend to like it. I always try to manage a bed at least once aweek--no, no, not if there's the least difficulty. Times are hard, Iknow. I'd rather say not another word about it. '

'Nonsense; take the half-crown and have done with it, Why, you'vecheered me up many a half-crownsworth; I feel better than I did. Don't Ilook it? I feel as if I'd some warmth in my body. What say you, Cheeseman? _One_ half-pint more?'

'Come, come, old friend; that's speaking feelingly. You shouldn't try mein that way, you know. I shouldn't like to suggest a pint, with a scrapof cheese. Eh? No, no; follow your own counsel, boy; half a pint be it. '

But the suggestion was accepted. Then at length it occurred to Hood thattime must be wearing away; he spoke of the obligation he was under tofinish his business and return to Dunfield as soon as possible. Cheeseman declared himself the last man to stand in the way of business. They left the eating-house and walked together part of the way to theoffice of Legge Brothers. 

'Old friend, I'm grateful to you, ' said Cheeseman, when at length theyparted. 'I've got your address, and you shall hear from me; I've anotion it won't be so long before we meet again. In any case it'sanother day to look back upon; I little thought of it when I spenttwopence-halfpenny on my breakfast this morning and left sixpence fordinner. It's a rum world, eh, Hood? Good-bye, and God bless you!'

Hood hurried on to the office, received his reply, and proceeded to thestation. He had more than half an hour to wait for a train. He took aseat in the waiting-room, and began to examine the money in his pocket, to ascertain exactly the sum he would have to replace. The deficitamounted to a little less than eighteen shillings. After all, it wasvery unlikely that Dagworthy would offer to bear the expense of the losthat. Say that a pound had to be restored. 

He was in the comfortable mood, following upon unusual indulgence of theappetite, in which the mind handles in a free and easy way the thoughtsit is wont to entertain with unquestionable gravity; when it has, as itwere, a slippery hold on the facts of life, and constructs a subjectiveworld of genial accommodations. A pound to restore; on the other hand, nine pounds in pocket. The sight of the sovereigns was working upon hisimagination, already touched to a warmer life than was its habit. Ninepounds would go a long way towards solving the financial difficulties ofthe year; it would considerably more than replace the lacking rent ofthe house in Barnhill; would replace it, and pay as well the increasedrent of the house at Banbrigg for twelve months to come. Looked at inthis way, the money became a great temptation. 

His wife--how explain to her such a windfall? For it was of courseimpossible to use it secretly. There was a way, seemingly of fate'sproviding. If only he could bring himself to the lie direct andshameless. 

After all, a lie that would injure no mortal. As far as Dagworthy wasconcerned, the money had long since become the property of nobody;Dagworthy did not even know that this sum existed; if ever missed, itmust have been put out of mind long ago. And very possibly it had neverbelonged to Dagworthy; some cashier or other clerk might just as wellhave lost it. Hood played with these speculations. He did not put tohimself the plain alternative: Shall I keep the money, or shall I giveit up? He merely let a series of reflections pass over his mind, as helay back on the cushioned seat, experiencing an agreeable drowsiness. Atthe moment of finding the note, he would have handed it over to hisemployer without a thought; it would perhaps not even have occurred tohim to regret that it was not his own. But during the last three hours asingular chain of circumstances had led to this result: it was just aspossible as not that Hood would keep the coins in his pocket and saynothing about them. 

It was time to go to the train. Almost with the first moving of thecarriages he fell into a doze. A sense of mental uneasiness roused himnow and then, but only for a few moments together; he slumbered on tillDunfield was reached. 

At the entrance to the mill he was in fierce conflict with himself. Asis usually the case in like circumstances, the sleepy journey hadresulted in bodily uneasiness; he had a slight headache, was thirsty, felt indisposed to return to work. When he had all but crossed thethreshold, he turned sharply back, and entered a little public-house afew yards away; an extraordinary thing for him to do, but he felt that asmall glass of spirits would help him to quieter nerves, or at allevents would sustain his unusual exhilaration till the interview withDagworthy was over. At the very door of the office he had not decidedwhether it should be silence or restitution. 

'That you, Hood?' Dagworthy asked, looking up from a letter he waswriting. 'Been rather a long time, haven't you?'

The tone was unusually indulgent. Hood felt an accession of confidence;he explained naturally the cause of his delay. 

'All right, ' was the reply, as Dagworthy took the note which hiscorrespondent had sent. 

Hood was in his own room, and--the money was still in his pocket. .. . 

He did not set out to walk home with his usual cheerfulness thatevening. His headache had grown worse, and he wished, wished at everystep he took, that the lie he had to tell to his wife was over and donewith. There was no repentance of the decision which, it seemed onlooking back, he had arrived at involuntarily. The coin which made hispocket heavy meant joy to those at home, and, if he got it wrongfully, the wrong was so dubious, so shadowy, that it vanished in comparisonwith the good that would be done. It was not--he said to himself--as ifhe had committed a theft to dissipate the proceeds, like that youngfellow who ran away from the Dunfield and County Bank some months ago, and was caught in London with disreputable associates. Here was aten-pound note lying, one might say, by the very roadside, and it wouldsave a family from privation. Abstractly, it was wrong; yes, it waswrong; but would abstract right feed him and pay his rent for the yearto come? Hood had reached this stage in his self-examination; hestrengthened himself by protest against the order of things. Hisheadache nursed the tendency to an active discontent, to which, as arule, his temperament did not lend itself. 

But there remained the telling of the lie. How he wished that Emily werenot at home! To lie before Emily, that was the hardest part of hisself-imposed task. He could not respect his wife, but before Emily, since her earliest companionship with him, he had watched his wordsscrupulously; as a little girl she had so impressed him with the purityof her heart that his love for her had been the nearest approach he everknew to the spirit of worship; and since her attainment of mental andmoral independence, his reverence for' her had not been unmixed withawe. When her eyes met his, he felt the presence of a natureindefinitely nobler than his own; not seldom he marvelled in his dim waythat such a one called him father. Could he ever after this day approachher with the old confidence? Nay, he feared her. His belief in herinsight was almost a superstition. Would she not read the falsehood uponhis face?

Strange state of mind; at one and the same time he wished that he hadthought of Emily sooner, and was glad that he had not. That weight inhis pocket was after all a joyous one, and to have been conscious ofEmily as he now was, might--would--have made him by so much a poorerman. 

She, as usual, was at the door to meet him, her face even ladder thanits wont, for this morning there had been at the post-office a letterfrom Switzerland. How she loved that old name of Helvetia, printed onthe stamps! Wilfrid wrote with ever fuller assurance that his father'smind was growing well-disposed, and Emily knew that he would not tellher other than the honest truth. For Wilfrid's scrupulous honesty shewould have vouched as--for her father's. 

'You look dreadfully worn out, ' she said, as Hood bent his head inentering. 

'I am, dear. I have been to Hebsworth, among other things. '

'Then I hope you had dinner there?'

He laughed. 

'I should think I had!'

It was one of Mrs. Hood's bad days; she refused to leave the kitchen. Emily had tried to cheer her during the afternoon, but in vain. Therehad been a misunderstanding with the next-door neighbour, that ladyhaving expressed herself rather decidedly with regard to an incursionmade into her premises by the Hoods' cat. 

'She speaks to me as if I was a mere working-woman, ' Mrs. Hoodexclaimed, when Emily endeavoured to soothe her. 'Well, and what else amI, indeed? There was a time when no one would have ventured to speakso. '

'Mother, how can you be troubled by what such a woman says?'

'Yes, I know I am in the wrong, Emily; you always make me see that. '

So Emily had retreated to the upper room, and Mrs. Hood, resentingneglect more even than contradiction, was resolved to sit in the kitchentill bedtime. 

Hood was glad when he heard of this. 

'If you'll pour out my tea, Emily, ' he said in an undertone, 'I'll goand speak to mother for a few moments. I have news that will pleaseher. '

He went into the kitchen and, in silence, began to count sovereigns downupon the table, just behind his wife, who sat over some sewing and hadnot yet spoken. At the ring of each coin his heart throbbed painfully. He fully realised, for the first time, what he had done. 

At the ring of the fifth sovereign Mrs. Hood turned her head. 

'What's that?' she asked snappishly. 

He went on counting till the nine were displayed. 

'What is it?' she repeated. 'Why do you fidget me so?'

'You'd never guess, ' Hood answered, laughing hoarsely. 'I had to go toHebsworth to-day, and who ever do you think I met there? Why, oldCheeseman. '

He paused. 

'And he--no, I'll never believe he paid his debt!' said his wife, withbitter congratulation. For years the name of Cheeseman had been gallupon her tongue; even now she had not entirely ceased to allude to him, when she wished to throw especial force of sarcasm into a reminiscenceof her earlier days. A woman's powers in the direction of envenomedmemory are terrible. 

'You have said it, ' was Hood's reply under his breath. 'It wasprovidential. What did I do, but go and lose my hat out of the window ofthe train--had it knocked off by a drunken fellow, in fact. But for thismoney I should have gone about Hebsworth bareheaded, and come home so, too. '

'A new hat! There's a pretty penny gone! Well, it's too much to hopethat any good luck should come without bad at the same time. '

'Well, now you won't fret so much about the rent, Jane?'

He laid his hand upon her shoulder. It was a movement of tenderness suchas had not come to him for years; he felt the need of sympathy; he couldhave begged her to give him a kind look. But she had resumed her sewing;her fingers were not quite steady, that was all. 

He left the money on the table and went to Emily in the sitting-room. She was sitting at the table waiting for him with her kindly eyes. 

'And what has the wise woman been doing all day?' he asked, trying invain to overcome that terrible fluttering at his side which caught hisbreath and made him feel weak. 

They talked for some minutes, then footsteps were heard approaching fromthe kitchen. Mrs. Hood entered with her sewing--she always took the verycoarsest for such days as this--and sat at a little distance from thetable. As the conversation had nothing to do with Cheeseman's debt, shegrew impatient. 

'Have you told Emily?' she asked. 

'No, I haven't. You shall do that. '

Hood tried to eat the while; the morsels became like sawdust in hismouth, and all but choked him. He tried to laugh; the silence whichfollowed his effort was ghastly to him. 

'You see, it never does to believe too ill of a man, ' he said, when hefound Emily's look upon him. 

Mrs. Hood grew mere at her ease, and, to his relief, began to talkfreely. Emily tortured him by observing that he had no appetite. Heexcused himself by telling of his dinner in Hebsworth, and, as soon aspossible, left the table. He went upstairs and hoped to find solitudefor a time in the garret. 

Emily joined him, however, before long. At her entrance he caught up thefirst bottle his hand fell upon, and seemed to be examining it. 

'What is that?' Emily asked, noticing his intentness, which in realityhad no meaning. 

'This? Oh, cyanide of potassium. I was looking--no, it's nothing. Willyou read me something for half an hour, Emily?'

By this means he would avoid talking, and he knew that the girl wasalways delighted by the request. She generally read poetry of a kind shethought might touch him, longing to establish more of intellectualsympathy between him and herself. So she did to-night. Hood scarcelyfollowed after the first line; he became lost in feverish brooding. Whenshe laid the volume down, he looked up and held out his hand to her. She, at all events, would not disregard his caress; indeed, Emily tookthe hand and kissed it. 

Then began one of the more intimate conversations which sometimes tookplace between them. Emily was driven now and then to endeavour to makeclear to him her inner life, to speak of her ideals, her intellectualconvictions. He listened always with an air of deep humility, verytouching in a parent before a child. Her meaning was often dark to hissight, but he strove hard to comprehend, and every word she uttered hadfor him a gospel sanction. To-night his thoughts strayed; her voice wasnothing but the reproach of his own soul; the high or tender words werebut an emphasis of condemnation, reiterated, pitiless. She was speakingthus out of her noble heart to him--him, the miserable hypocrite; hepretended to listen and to approve. His being was a loathed burden. 

If she had spoken thus last night, surely her voice would have dweltwith him through the hour of temptation. Oh, could it not be morningagain, and the day yet to live? The clock below wheezed out nine strokesas if in answer. 

CHAPTER X

AT THE SWORD'S POINT

Dagworthy in these days could scarcely be deemed a man, with humanity'splenitude of interacting motives, of contrasting impulses, of varyingaffections. He was become one passion, a personified appetite. He wentthrough his routine, at the mill and elsewhere, in a mechanical way; allthe time his instincts and habits subjugated themselves to the frenzywhich chafed at the centres of his life. In his face you saw themonomaniac. His eyes were bloodshot; his lips had a parched yellownessof tone; his skin seemed dry and burning. Through the day he talked, gave orders, wrote letters, and, by mere force of lifelong habit, muchin his usual way; at night he wandered about the Heath, now at a greatpace, driven by his passions, now loitering, stumbling. Between dark anddawn he was fifty times in front of the Hoods' house; he watched theextinguishing of the lights in window after window, and, when all weregone, made away with curses on his lips, only to return an hour later, to torture himself with conjecture which room might be Emily's. Hissufferings were unutterable. What devil--he groaned--had sent upon himthis torment? He wished he were as in former days, when the indifferencehe felt towards his wife's undeniable beauty had, as it seemed, involvedall womankind. In those times he could not have conceived a madness suchas this. How had it arisen? Was it a physical illness? Was it madness intruth, or the beginning of it? Why had it not taken him four months ago, when he met this girl at the Baxendales'? But he remembered that eventhen she had attracted him strangely; he had quitted the others to talkto her. He must have been prepared to conceive this frantic passion oncoming together with her again. 

Love alone, so felt and so frustrated, would have been bad enough; itwas the added pang of jealousy that made it a fierce agony. It was wellthat the man she had chosen was not within his reach; his mood was thatof a murderer. The very heat and vigour of his physical frame, thenative violence of his temper, disposed him to brute fury, if aninstinct such as this once became acute; and the imaginative energywhich lurked in him, a sort of undeveloped genius, was another source ofsuffering beyond that which ordinary men endure. He was a fine creaturein these hours, colossal, tragic; it needed this experience to bring outall there was of great and exceptional in his character. He was not ofthose who can quit the scene of their fruitless misery and findforgetfulness at a distance. Every searing stroke drove him moredesperately in pursuit of his end. He was further from abandoning it, now that he knew another stood in his way, than he would have been ifEmily had merely rejected him. He would not yield her to another man; heswore to himself that he would not, let it cost him and her what itmight. 

He had seen her again, with his glass, from the windows of the mill, hadscarcely moved his eyes from her for an hour. A hope came to him thatshe might by chance walk at evening on the Heath, but he wasdisappointed; Emily, indeed, had long shunned walks in that direction. He had no other means of meeting her, yet he anguished for a moment'sglimpse of her face. 

To-day he knew a cruel assuagement of his torture. He had returned fromhis short absence with a resolve to risk an attempt which was only notentirely base by virtue of the passion which inspired it, and itappeared to him that his stratagem had succeeded. Scruples he had indeedknown, but not at all of the weight they would have possessed for mostmen, and this not only because of his reckless determination to win byany means; his birth and breeding enabled him to accept meanness asalmost a virtue in many of the relations and transactions of life. Thetrickery and low cunning of the mercantile world was in his blood; itwould come out when great occasion saw use for it, even in the serviceof love. He believed it was leading him to success. Certainly the firstresult that he aimed at was assured, and he could not imagine asubsequent obstacle. He would not have admitted that he was wronging theman whom he made his tool; if honesty failed under temptation it washonesty's own look-out. Ten to one he himself would have fallen intosuch a trap, in similar circumstances; he was quite free frompharisaical prejudice; had he not reckoned on mere human nature indevising his plan? Nor would the result be cruel, for he had it in hispower to repay a hundredfold all temporary pain. There were no limits tothe kindness he was capable of, when once he had Emily for his wife; sheand hers should be overwhelmed with the fruits of his devotion. It wasto no gross or commonplace future that the mill-owner looked forward. There were things in him of which he was beginning to be conscious, which would lead him he could not yet see whither. Dunfield was no homefor Emily; he knew it, and felt that he, too, would henceforth have needof a larger circle of life. He was rich enough, and by transferring hisbusiness to other hands he could become yet richer, gaining freedom atthe same time. No disappointment would be in store for him as in hisformer marriage; looking back on that he saw now how boyish he had been, how easily duped. There was not even the excuse of love. 

He held her gained. What choice would she have, with the alternative tobe put before her? It was strange that, in spite of what should havebeen sympathetic intelligence, he made a slight account of that lovewhich, as she told him, she had already bestowed. In fact, he refused todwell upon the thought of it; it would have maddened him in earnest. Whocould say? It was very possible she had told him a falsehood; it wasquite allowable in any woman, to escape from a difficult position. Inhis heart he did not believe this, knowing her better, though hispractical knowledge of her was so slight; but it was one of the devicesby which he mitigated his suffering now and then. If the engagementexisted, it was probably one of those which contemplated years ofwaiting, otherwise why should she have kept silence about it at home? Inany case he held her; how could she escape him? He did not fear appealsto his compassion; against such assaults he was well armed. Emilypleading at his feet would not be a picture likely to induce him torelax his purpose. She could not take to flight, the very terms of hiscontrol restrained her. There might be flaws in his case, legallyspeaking, but the Hoods were in no position to profit by these, seeingthat, in order to do so, they must begin by facing ruin. Emily wasassuredly his. 

To-day was Friday. He knew, from talk with the Cartwrights, thatJessie's lessons were on alternate days, and as he had seen the two inthe garden this morning, there would be no lesson on the morrow. It wasnot easy to devise a plot for a private interview with Emily, yet hemust see her tomorrow, and of course alone. A few words with her wouldsuffice. To call upon her at the house would be only his last resource. He felt assured that she had not spoken to her parents of the scene inthe garden; several reasons supported this belief, especially thereflection that Emily would desire to spare her father the anxieties ofa difficult position. Taking this for granted, his relations with hermust still be kept secret in order to avoid risking his impunity in thetactics he counted upon. His hope was that she would leave the housealone in the course of the morning. 

It has been mentioned that a railway bridge crossed the road a shortdistance beyond the Hoods' house. On the embankment beyond this bridge, twenty or thirty yards from the road, was a cluster of small trees andshrubs, railed in from the grass which elsewhere grew upon the slope, and from the field at its foot. Here, just hidden behind a hawthorn bushand a climbing bramble, Dagworthy placed himself shortly before eighto'clock on Saturday morning, having approached the spot by a longcircuit of trespass; from this position he had a complete view of thehouse he wished to watch. He came thus early because he thought itpossible that Emily accompanied her father on his morning's walk intoDunfield; in which case he would follow at a distance, and find hisopportunity as the girl returned. There had been rain in the night, andhis passage through the bushes covered him with moisture; the thickgrass, too, in which he stood, was so wet that before long his feet grewdamp and cold. He was little mindful of bodily discomfort; never movinghis eyes for a moment from the door which would give Emily to his view, he knew nothing but the impatience which made it incredible that hiswatch could keep pace with time; he seemed to have been waiting forhours when yet it was only half-past eight. But at length the dooropened. He strained his sight across the distance, but with no reward. Hood left the house alone, and walked off quickly in the direction ofDunfield. 

He must wait. It might happen that Emily would not quit home at allduring the early part of the day, but he must wait on the chance. Hedreaded lest rain should fall, which would naturally keep her withindoors, but by nine o'clock the sky had cleared, and he saw the leavesabove him drying in the sunlight. Inactivity was at all timesintolerable to him to stand thus for hours was an exercise of impatientpatience which only his relentless passion made possible; his bodyyielded to a sort of numbness, whilst the suffering expectancy of hismind only grew keener. He durst not avert his eyes from the door for aninstant; his sight ached and dazzled. Still he waited. 

At eleven o'clock Emily came forth. A savage delight seized him as hewatched her cross the patch of garden. At the gate she hesitated amoment, then took the way neither to the Heath nor to Dunfield, butcrossed to the lane which led to Pendal. From his hiding-place Dagworthycould follow her so far, and with ecstasy he told himself that she mustbe going to the Castle Hill. She carried a book in her hand. 

At length he moved. His limbs had stiffened; it was with difficulty thathe climbed to the top of the embankment. Thence he could see the wholetrack of the lane, which went, indeed, almost parallel with the railwayline. He walked in the same direction, keeping at some distance behindEmily. Before reaching the village of Pendal, he had to cross a field, and enter the lane itself. There was now the danger that the girl mightlook back. But she did not. She was reading as she walked, and continuedto do so the whole way to the stile which led into the Castle Hill. Butnow it mattered little if she turned her head. 

He let her pass the stile, and himself paused before following. He wasagitated; that which he was about to do seemed harder than he hadimagined; he had a horrible fear lest his resolution might fail at thelast moment. The brute in him for an instant almost slept. The woman inthe field yonder was not only the object of his vehement desire; all thenobler possibilities of his nature united to worship her, as the highestand holiest he knew. In his heart was a subtle temptation, the voice ofvery love bidding him cast himself at her feet and sue but for the graceof so much human kindness as would make life without her endurable. Heremembered the self-abasement which had come upon him when he tried totell her of his love; the offering had seemed so gross, so unworthy tobe brought before her. Would it not be the same now? He dreaded herpower to protect herself, the secret might of purity which made himshrink at her steady gaze. But he had gone through much in the lastfortnight the brute forces had grown strong by habit of self-assertion. He looked up, and the fact that Emily had gone from his sight stung himinto pursuit. 

She was sitting where she had sat with Wilfrid, on the fallen tree; thebook lay at her side, and she was giving herself to memory. Treading onthe grass, he did not attract her attention till he almost stood beforeher; then she looked at him, and at once rose. He expected signs ofapprehension or embarrassment, but she seemed calm. She had accustomedherself to think of him, and could no longer be taken by surprise. Shewas self-possessed, too, in the strength of the thoughts which he haddisturbed. 

He fed his eyes upon her, and kept so long silent that Emily's cheekcoloured, and she half turned away. Then he spoke abruptly, yet withhumility, which the consciousness of his purpose could not overcome. 

'You know that I have been away since I saw you last. I tried to put youout of my mind. I couldn't do it, and I am driven back to you. '

'I hoped we should not meet again like this, Mr. Dagworthy, ' Emilyreplied, in a low voice, but firmly. She felt that her self-respect wasto be tested to the uttermost, but she was better able to controlherself than at the last interview. The sense of being passionatelysought cannot but enhance a woman's dignity in her own eyes, and Emilywas not without perception of the features in Dagworthy's characterwhich made him anything but a lover to be contemned. She dreaded him, and could not turn away as from one who tormented her out of mereill-breeding. 

'I cannot ask you to pardon me, ' he returned, 'for however often youasked me to leave you, I should pay no heed. I am here because I can'thelp myself; I mean what I say--I can't, I can't help it! Since you toldme there was no hope, I seem to have been in hell. These are not wordsto use to you--I know it. It isn't that I don't respect you, but becauseI must speak what I feel. Look--I am worn out with suffering; I feel asif it would take but a little more to kill me, strong man as I am. Youdon't think I find a pleasure in coming and facing that look you have? Idon't know that I ever saw the man I couldn't meet, but before you Ifeel--I can't put it into words, but I feel I should like to hide myface. Still, I have come, I have followed you here. It's more than I cando to give you up. '

At the last words he half sobbed. Her fear of him would not allow Emilyto feel deep distress, but she was awed by the terrible evidence of whathe endured. She could not at once find words for reply. 

'Will you sit down?' he said. 'I will stand here, but I have more to sayto you before I go. '

'Why should you say more?' Emily urged. 'Can you not think how verypainful it is to hear you speak in this way? What purpose can it serveto speak to me when I may not listen?'

'You must listen. I can't be sent away as you would another man; noother on earth can love you as I do, no one. No one would do for you allthat I would do. My love gives me a claim upon you. It is you that havebrought me to this state; a woman owes a man something who is driven madby her. I have a right to be here and to say all I feel. '

He was struggling with a dread of the words he had come to utter; a wildhope sprang in him that he might yet win her in other ways; he usedlanguage recklessly, half believing that his arguments would seem offorce. His passion was in the death-grapple with reason and humanity. 

'If your regard for me is so strong, ' Emily replied, 'should you notshrink from causing me pain? And indeed you have no such right as youclaim. Have I in any way sought to win your affection? Is it manly topress upon me a suit which you know it is out of my power to favour? Yousay you respect me; your words are not consistent with respect. I oweyou nothing, Mr. Dagworthy, and it is certainly my right to demand thatyou will cease to distress and trouble me. '

He stood with his eyes on the ground. 

'That is all you have to say?' he asked, almost sullenly. 

'What more can I say? Surely you should not have compelled me to sayeven so much. I appeal to your kindness, to your sense of what is duefrom a man to a woman, to let me leave you now, and to make no furtherattempt to see me. If you refuse, you take advantage of mypowerlessness. I am sure you are not capable of that. '

'Yes, I am capable of more than you think, ' he replied, the words comingbetween his teeth. His evil demon, not himself, was speaking; in findingutterance at length it made him deadly pale, and brought a cold sweat tohis brow. 'When you think afterwards of what I say now, remember that itwas love of you that made me desperate. A chance you little dream of hasput power into my hands, and I am going to use it. I care for nothing onthis earth but to make you my wife--and I can do so. '

Terror weighed upon her heart. His tone was that of a man who wouldstick at nothing, and his words would bear no futile meaning. Herthoughts were at once of her father; through him alone could he havepower over her. She waited, sick with agonised anticipation, for whatwould follow. 

'Your father--'

The gulf between purpose and execution once passed, he had become cruel;human nature has often enough exemplified the law in prominentinstances. As he pronounced the words, he eyed her deliberately, and, before proceeding, paused just long enough to see the anguish flutter inher breast. 

'Your father has been guilty of dishonesty; he has taken money from themill. Any day that I choose I can convict him. '

She half closed her eyes and shook, as if under a blow. Then the bloodrushed to her face, and, to his astonishment, she uttered a strangelaugh. 

'_That_ is your power over me!' she exclaimed, with all the scorn hervoice could express. 'Now I know that you are indeed capable of shamefulthings. You think I shall believe that of my father?'

Dagworthy knew what it was to feel despicable. He would, in this moment, have relinquished all his hope to be able to retract those words. He waslike a beaten dog before her; and the excess of his degradation made himbrutal. 

'Believe it or not, as you choose. All I have to say is that your fatherput into his pocket yesterday morning a ten-pound note of mine, which hefound in a ledger he took out of my room. He had to go to Hebsworth onbusiness, and there he changed the note to buy himself a new hat; I havea witness of it. When he came back hoof course had nothing to say aboutthe money; in fact, he had stolen it. '

She heard, and there came into her mind the story of Cheeseman's debt. That was of ten pounds. The purchase her father had been obliged tomake, of that also she had heard. Last night, and again this morning, her mother had incessantly marvelled at this money having been at lengthreturned; it was an incredible thing, she had said; only the sight ofthe coins could convince her of its truth. Emily's mind worked over thedetails of the previous evening with terrible rapidity and insight. Toher directly her father had spoken not a word of the repayment; he hadbidden her keep in another room while he informed her mother of it; hehad shown disinclination to return to the subject when, later, they allsat together. 'Well, here it is, ' he had said, 'and we'll talk no moreabout it. ' She heard those words exactly as they were spoken, and sheknew their tone was not natural; even at the time that had struck her, but her thought had not dwelt upon it. 

She almost forgot Dagworthy's presence; he and his threats were of smallaccount in this shaking of the depths of her nature. She was awakened byhis voice. 

'Do you think I am lying to you for my own purposes?'

'I cannot say, ' she answered, with unnatural calm. 'It is more likelythan that what you say is true. '

He, by now, had attained a self-control which would not desert him. Sofar in crime, there was no turning back; he could even enjoy theanticipation of each new move in the game, certain of winning. He couldbe cruel now for cruelty's sake; it was a form of fruition. 

'Well, ' he said, 'it is your own concern whether you believe me or not. If you wish for evidence, you shall have it, the completest. What I haveto say is this. From now till Monday morning your father is free. Whether I have him arrested then or not depends upon yourself. If youconsent to become my wife as soon as it is possible for us to bemarried, neither you nor he will ever hear another word of the matter. What's more, I will at once put him in a position of comfort. If yourefuse, there will be a policeman ready to arrest him as soon as hecomes to the mill; if he tries to escape, a warrant will be issued. Inany case he will be ruined. '

Then, after a pause--

'So you have till to-morrow night to make up your mind. You can eithersend me a note or come and see me; I shall be at home whenever youcome. '

Emily stood in silence. 

'I hope you quite understand what I mean, ' Dagworthy continued, as ifdiscussing an ordinary matter of business. 'No one will ever dream thatyour father has done anything to be ashamed of. After all, it is not soimpossible that you should marry me for my own sake;'--he said it withbitterness. 'People will see nothing to wonder at. Fortunately, no oneknows of that--of what you told me. Your father and mother will be easyfor the rest of their lives, and without a suspicion that there has beenanything but what appears on the surface. I needn't say how things arelikely to look in the other event. '

Still she stood silent. 

'I don't expect an answer now--'

Emily shook her head. 

'But, ' he continued, 'you mustn't leave it after to-morrow night. Itwill be too late. '

She began to move away from him. With a step or two he followed her; sheturned, with a passionate movement of repulsion, terror, and hatetransfiguring her countenance, made for the expression of all sweet andtender and noble things. 

Dagworthy checked himself, turned about, and walked quickly from theplace. 

CHAPTER XI

EMILY'S DECISION

Emily reached home a few minutes before dinner-time. Her mother came toher from the back of the house, where things were in Saturday tumult, speaking with a voice of fretful satisfaction. 

'I'd just given you up, and was wondering whether to let the meat spoilor begin dinner alone. '

'I am sorry to be late, mother. '

'No, you're not late, my dear, ' the mother admitted. 'It's only thatyou're a little uncertain, and when one o'clock draws on I can never bequite sure of you, if you're out. I must say I like punctuality, thoughI dare say it's an old-fashioned kind of thing. Which would you like, potatoes baked or boiled? I've got both, as I always think the bakedkeep better for your father. '

'Whichever you have yourself, mother. '

'Now, child, do make a choice! As if you couldn't say which you wouldprefer. '

'Boiled. '

'There now, you say that because you think there won't be enough of theothers. I know very well yen always like the baked, when I have them. Don't you, now, Emily?'

'Mother, which you like! What _does_ it matter?'

'Well, my dear, I'm sure I only wanted to please you, ' said Mrs. Hood, in her tone of patience under injury. 'I can't see why you should beangry with me. If I could give you more choice I would. No doubt you'reused to having potatoes done in all sorts of superior ways, butunfortunately I wasn't brought up as a cook--'

The strange look with which Emily was regarding her brought her to apause; her voice dropped. 

'Mother dear, ' said the girl, in a low and shaken tone, 'I am neitherfoolish nor unkind; do try to believe that. Something is troubling me. To-day let your choice be mine. '

Mrs. Hood moved away, and served the dinner in silence. 

'What is your trouble, my dear?' she asked presently. 'Can't you tellme?'

Emily shook her head. Her mother relapsed into thoughtfulness, and theyfinished their meal with little conversation. Mrs. Heed was just risingfrom the table, when there was a sound of some one opening the gatebefore the house; she looked to the window, and at once uttered anexclamation of astonishment. 

'Well! If that isn't--! He hasn't altered a bit all these years!'

'Who is it, mother?' Emily asked nervously. 

'Why, my dear, it's that man Cheeseman! The very idea of his cominghere! Now, mark my words, he's come to ask for that money back again, orfor some of it, at all events. It was just showing off, pretending topay it back; exactly like him! But if your father's foolish enough to doanything of the kind--There, he's knocking. I hoped never to see hisface again as long as I lived; how ever he can have the impudence tocome! I suppose I must let him in; but I'm sure I shan't offer him anydinner. '

Emily had risen from her chair, and was trembling with excitement. 

'Oh yes, mother, ' she cried, with a joy which astonished Mrs. Heed, 'wemust behave kindly to him. He paid father the money; we must rememberthat. '

'Well, you'll see if I'm net right. But I can't keep him standing at thedoor. Do untie this apron, Emily; I'm so nervous, I can't get at theknot. See, now, if he hasn't come for the money back again. '

'Never mind; he paid it! He paid it!'

'I can't understand you, child. What is there to be so pleased about?'

'Mother, do go to the door. Or shall I?'

The girl was overcome with a sudden light in utter darkness. She graspedat her mother's explanation of the visitor's arrival; unable, in herardour, to calculate probabilities, to review details. Dagworthy hadbeen guilty of a base falsehood; the man approached who could assure herof it. It was a plot, deeply planned. In some manner Dagworthy hadlearned what had happened to her father in Hebsworth, and had riskedeverything on the terror he could inspire in her. The coming of herfather's friend was salvation. 

She found herself clasping his hand warmly. 

'Well, Miss Hood, ' Cheeseman came in exclaiming, 'you may perhaps havehalf a recollection of me, when you're told who I am, but I'm quite sureI shouldn't have known you. Your good father was telling me about youyesterday; rare and proud he was to speak of you, too, and not withoutreason, I see. Mrs. Hoed, you've no need to complain of your for tune. Times have been hard, no doubt, but they've brought you a blessing. If Ihad a young lady such as this to look at me and call me father--well, well, it won't do to think of it. '

In spite of her determination, Mrs. Hoed was mollified into an offer ofdinner. Mr. Cheeseman affected to refuse, but at a word from Emily heallowed himself to be persuaded. The two sat with him, and listened tohis talk of bygone days. Emily's face was flushed; she kept her eyes onCheeseman as if his arrival were that of a long-hoped-for friend. Thevisitor abounded in compliments to mother and daughter alike. He ate, the while, with extreme heartiness, and at length drew from the table inthe most effusive mood. 

'Mrs. Hood, ' he said, leaning forward, 'I owe you an apology, manyapologies. You and your good husband in times long past did me a serviceof a very substantial kind. You thought I had forgotten it--yes, youcouldn't help but think it--'

'Oh, we won't talk about that, Mr. Cheeseman, ' interposed Mrs. Hood, notwithout a suggestion in her tone that she had indeed entertained thethought attributed to her. 

'Ah, but I can't help speaking of it, ' said Cheeseman, feelingly. 'MissHood, you probably don't know what I refer to; you were a very littlelady in those days. They were hard times with me; indeed, I've neverknown anything else. I was saying to your good father yesterday that hecould no longer talk of his ill-luck. Many a day he and I haveencouraged each other to face fortune, but that's all over for him; he'sgot his foot on firm ground, thank heaven! I'm still catching at straws, you see; I dare say it's a good deal my own fault; and then I never hada good wife to look after me, and a daughter growing up to teach meprudence. Well but, Miss Hood, I was saying that your father did me agreat service; he lent me what was a large sum for him in those days--'

'Not a little one even in these, Mr. Cheeseman, ' remarked Mrs. Hood. 

'Well, well, but in those times it was a thing few men in his positionwould have done. He lent me a ten-pound note, Miss Hood, and it's rightyou should know it. Years have gone by, years, and any one would thinkI'd kept out of the way to avoid paying the money back. I assure you, Mrs. Hood, and to you, Miss Hood, I give my solemn word of honour, thatI've never from that day to this had more money than would just keep mein bread and cheese and such poor clothing as this you see on me. Why, even yesterday, as no doubt your good father has told you, I had but asixpenny-piece in the world, but one coin of sixpence. Ah, you may welllook sad, my good young lady. Please God, you'll never know what thatmeans. But one sixpence had I, and but for my old friend I should havebeen hard driven to find a place of rest last night. Now do I look andspeak like an ungrateful man? Mrs. Hood, I've come here this day becauseI felt in duty bound to call on you, being so near. I didn't know youraddress, till that meeting by chance yesterday. When my old friend leftme, I got restless; I felt I must see you all again before I went south, as I hope to do--to-morrow, perhaps. I felt I must clear myself from thecharge of in gratitude; I couldn't live easy under it. It was too muchlike a piece of dishonesty, and that I've never yet been guilty of, forall I've gone through, and, please God, never shall. My old friend Hoodand I, in days even before he had the happiness to meet you, Mrs. Hood, we used to say to each other--Let luck do its worst, we'll live and diehonest men. And, thank heaven, we've kept our word; for an honester manthan James Hood doesn't walk the earth, and no one ever yet brought atrue charge of dishonesty against Alfred Cheeseman. '

He looked from mother to daughter. The former sat in helplessastonishment, gazing about her; Emily had hardened her face. 

'You find it a sad tale, ' Cheeseman proceeded. 'Why, so it is, dearladies. If ever I had owned a ten-pound note, over and above the priceof a loaf of bread and a night's lodging, it should have been put asidewith the name of James Hood written on the back of it, and somehow I'dhave found him out. And I say the same thing now. Don't think, Mrs. Hood, that I'm pleading my poverty as a way of asking you to forgive thedebt. The debt shall be paid; be assured of that. If I can only get toLondon, there's a prospect before me; I have a project which I explainedto my old friend yesterday. You shall have the money, and, what's more, you shall have interest--four per cent. Per annum. Oh yes, you shall. Only let me somehow get to London. '

The gate sounded again. 

'Emily, ' exclaimed Mrs. Hood, 'there's your father!'

She was pale, and the hand with which she pointed could not steadyitself. 

'Mother, ' said the girl, just above her breath, 'go! He is coming in!'

Mrs. Hood rose and left the room. Cheeseman could not but observe thatsome strange agitation possessed them both. Possibly he explained it bythe light of his own conscience. He sat, smiling at Emily ratheruneasily. Then, seeing that there was likely to be a delay before Hoodentered, he bent forward to speak confidentially. 

'Miss Hood, I see it in your face, you're as kind and warm-hearted asyour father is, and that's saying much. You won't think hardly of a poorfellow who oftener misses a dinner than gets one? Every word I've saidto you's as true as the light of heaven, And my only chance is to get toLondon. I've made an invention, and I feel sure I know a man who willbuy it of me. It took my last farthing to get here from Hebsworth. Youdon't think hardly of me? I don't drink, on my word I don't; it's sheerhard luck. Ah, if I had a home like this! It 'ud be like living in thegarden of Eden. Well, well!'

The door opened, and Hood came in, followed by his wife. He waslaughing, laughing loudly; the voice was so unlike his that this alonewould have caused Emily to gaze at him in astonishment. 

'So you've looked us up!' he exclaimed, holding out his hand. 'Why, youcouldn't have done better; I was sorry afterwards I hadn't asked you. Mywife tells me you've had dinner; you won't mind sitting by whilst I eat?And what do you think of Emily, eh? Grown a little since you saw herlast--ha, ha! So you've made up your mind to go to London? Emily haddinner? Why, of course you have; I was forgetting. Baked potatoes!Remember my old weakness for them baked, Cheeseman? We used to buy 'emin the street at night, halfpenny apiece, eh? Old man with one arm, remember? We used to hear him coming when he was half a mile off; what avoice! And the man who sold peas; remember him? "All 'ot! All 'ot!" Wewere lads then, eh, Cheeseman? Emily, just a mouthful, with butter? Letme tempt you. No?--What train did you come by?'

He talked ceaselessly. There was a spot of red in the midst of each ofhis sallow cheeks, and his eyes gleamed with excitement. On leaving themill a sudden thirst had come upon him, and he had quenched it with aglass of spirits at the first public-house he passed. Perhaps that hadsome part in his elation. 

Emily almost immediately withdrew and went up to her bedroom. Here shesat alone for more than an hour, in fear lest her mother should come tothe door. Then she heard the gate open, and, looking from the window, saw her father and his friend pass into the road and walk away together, the former still talking in an excited way. A minute or two later camethe knock which she dreaded. She opened the door, and her motherentered. 

'Emily, did you ever know your father so strange?' Mrs. Hood asked, in atone of genuine alarm. She had sunk upon a chair, and looked to the girlas if overcome with physical weakness. 'What can it all mean? When Iasked him why he had told that story about the money, he onlylaughed--said it was a joke, and he'd explain it all before long. Ican't think where the money came from! And now he's gone to pay thatman's fare to London, and no doubt to lend him more money too. '

Emily made no reply. She stood near the window, and looked out at theclouds which were breaking after a brief shower. 

'Wherever the money may have come from, ' pursued her mother, 'it's cruelthat it should go in this way. We never wanted it worse than we do now. It's my belief he's borrowed it himself; a nice thing to borrow forone's own needs, and then throw it away on such a good-for-nothing asthat. '

Emily turned and put a question quietly. 

'Are you in more than usual need of money?'

'Well, my dear, you know I always try to say as little about such thingsas I can, but now your father's been and borrowed--as of course he musthave done--there's no choice but to tell you. The house at Barnhill'sgoing to be empty at the end of the quarter, and our rent here's goingto be raised, and, all things coming together, we've had a good deal tomake us anxious. It's just like your father--wanting to make me believethat things are better than they really are; it always was his way, andwhat's the good of it I never could see. Of course he means it well, buthe'd far better have been open about it, and have told me what he wasgoing to do. '

Emily was shaken with agitation. 

'Mother!' she exclaimed, 'why have you both insisted on keeping silencebefore me about your difficulties? There was no kindness in it; you havedone me the cruelest wrong. Had I not money in plenty beyond what Ineeded? What if the future be uncertain? Has not the present its claims, and can your needs be separated from mine? Because you have succeeded inkeeping me apart from the troubles of your life, you--you andfather--have thought you had done a praiseworthy thing. Is it not badenough that one human being should be indifferent to the wants ofanother, just because they call each other strangers? Was it right tobring such a hateful spirit of independence into a home, between parentsand child? If the world is base and unjust, is not that a reason themore why we should draw ever more closely to each other, and be to eachother all that our power allows? Independent! Because I earned money andcould support myself, you have told me I must be independent, and leaveyou the same. That is the lesson that life has taught you. It is well tohave understanding for lessons of a deeper kind. '

'Well, my child, ' protested the mother, to whom the general tenor ofsuch reasoning was well-nigh as dark as its special application, 'wehave always felt we were doing our duty to you. At your age it is onlyright you should have your money for yourself; who knows when you maywant it? I don't think you should be angry with us, just because we'vefelt we'd rather put up with a little hardship now and then than haveyou feel some day we'd been a burden on you. I haven't complained, andI'm not complaining now. I'm sorry I came to speak to you about such athing. It seems as if you could never take a thing as I mean it. It'slike the potatoes at dinner; I meant to do you a kindness by giving youthe choice, and you flew out as if you hadn't patience with me. '

Emily kept her eyes upon the window. 

'How you can say, ' went on Mrs. Hood, 'that we've been cruel to you anddone you a wrong--I know we've very different ways of looking at mostthings, but where we've wronged you is more than I can understand. '

'You have taken from me, ' replied Emily, without moving her eyes, 'thepower to help you. I might have done much, now I can do nothing; andyour loss is mine. '

'No, indeed, it isn't, and shan't be, Emily. Your father and I havealways said that one thing, that you shouldn't suffer by us. What didyour father always say years ago? "Emily, " he said, "shall have a goodeducation, however we stint ourselves; then, when she grows up, she'llalways be able to keep herself from want, and our poverty won't matterto her. " And in that, at all events, he was right, and it's come aboutas he said. No, Emily, we're not going to be a burden to you, so don'tfear it. '

'Mother, will you let me be by myself a little? I will come down to youpresently. '

'Aren't you well, my dear?' the mother asked, with a mixture of offendedreserve and anxiety occasioned by the girl's voice and aspect. 

'I have a headache. I will rest till tea-time. '

Mrs. Hood had for a long time been unused to tend Emily with motherlyoffices; like her husband, she was not seldom impressed with awe of thisnature so apart from her own. That feeling possessed her now; beforeEmily's last words she moved away in silence and closed the door behindher gently. 

The irony of fate, coming out so bitterly in all that her mother hadsaid, was like a cold hand on Emily's heart. She sat again in the chairfrom which she had risen, and let her head lie back. Her vitality was ata low ebb; the movement of indignation against the cruelty which waswrecking her life had passed and left behind it a weary indifference. Happily she need not think yet. There were still some hours of respitebefore her; there was the night to give her strength. The daylight was aburden; it must be borne with what patience she could summon. But shelonged for the time of sacred silence. 

To a spirit capable of high exaltations, the hour of lassitude is aforetaste of the impotence of death. To see a purpose in the cold lightof intellectual conviction, and to lack the inspiring fervour which canglorify a struggle with the obstacles nature will interpose, is torealise intensely the rugged baldness of life stripped of illusion, lifeas we shall see it when the end approaches and the only voice thatconvinces tell us that all is vanity. It is the mood known by the artistwhen, viewing the work complete within his mind, his heart lacks its joyand his hand is cold to execute. Self-consciousness makes of life itselfa work of art. There are the blessed moments when ardour rises inpursuit of the ideal, when it is supreme bliss to strive and overcome;and there are the times of aching languor, when the conception is stillclear in every line, but the soul asks wearily--To what end? In Emily itwas reaction after the eagerness of her sudden unreasoning hope. Bodyand mind suffered beneath a burden of dull misery. Motives seemed weak;effort was weary and unprofitable; life unutterably mean. It couldscarcely be called suffering, to feel thus. 

She was roused by voices below, and, immediately after, her mother cameto her door again. 

'Isn't it vexatious?' Mrs. Hood whispered. 'Here are Jessie andGeraldine. I'm obliged to ask them to stay tea. Do you feel well enoughto come down?'

Emily went down at once, almost with a sense of relief, and presentedherself to the girls very much in her usual way. 

'Now, I know very well you don't want us, ' said Jessie, with hersprightly frankness. 'We shouldn't have thought of coming if it hadn'tbeen that we met Mr. Hood just this side of the bridge, and he forced usto come on; he said it wouldn't be very long before he was back himself. But of course we shan't stay tea, so it's no use--'

'Oh, of course not, ' put in Geraldine. 'We know Mrs. Hood's always fartoo busy on a Saturday afternoon. I didn't want to come; I told Jessieit would be far better to put it off till to-morrow--'

'All the same, ' resumed her sister, 'she wanted to see you very much. She's got something to tell you. Now you may as well get it out and donewith, Jerry; you needn't expect I'm going to help you. '

The two giggled together. 

'What is it, ' inquired Mrs. Hood. 'I daresay I could guess if I triedvery hard. Couldn't you, Emily?'

'Now then, Jerry, for the awful news, ' urged her sister. 

'No, _you'll_ have to tell, Jessie, ' said the other, giggling andblushing. 

'Well, I suppose one of us must. She's been and engaged herself to Mr. Baldwin. Of course we all knew--'

'Now, Jessie, you knew nothing of the kind!'

'Didn't I, though! Oughtn't she to be ashamed of herself, at her age, Mrs. Hood! I know what Emily's opinion is; she's simply disgusted. Lookat her, and see if she isn't. '

The gabble of the two girls was worthy of the occasion their tongueswent like mill-clappers. Whilst her mother busied herself in preparingtea, Emily sat and listened; fortunately there was little need for herto talk. To herself she seemed to be suffering a kind of trance, withoutdetriment to her consciousness. The chattering and grimacing girlsappeared before her as grotesque unrealities, puppets animated in somemarvellous way, and set to caricature humanity. She tried to realisethat one of them was a woman like herself, who had just consented to bea man's wife; but it was impossible to her to regard this as anythingbut an aping of things which at other times had a solemn meaning. Shefound herself gazing at Geraldine as one does at some singular piece ofmechanism with a frivolous purpose. And it was not only the individualsthat impressed her thus; these two represented life and the world. Shehad strange, cynical thoughts, imaginings which revolted her pure mindeven whilst it entertained them. No endeavour would shake off thisghastly clairvoyance. She was picturing the scene of Geraldine'sacceptance of the offer of marriage; then her thoughts passed on to theearly days of wedded life. She rose, shuddering, and moved about theroom; she talked to drive those images from her brain. It did buttransfer the sense of unreality to her own being. Where was she, andwhat doing? Had she not dreamed that a hideous choice had been setbefore her, a choice from which there was no escape, and which, whateverthe alternative she accepted, would blast her life? But that wassomething grave, earnest, and what place was there for eitherearnestness or gravity in a world where Geraldine represented womanhoodwooed and about to be wedded? There was but one way of stopping thegabble which was driving her frantic; she threw open the piano and beganto play, to play the first music that came into her mind. It was apassage from the Moonlight Sonata. A few moments, and the ghosts werelaid. The girls still whispered together, but above their voices thepure stream of music flowed with gracious oblivion. When Emily ceased, it was with an inward fervour of gratitude to the master and theinstrument, To know that, was to have caught once more the point of viewfrom which life had meaning. Now let them chatter and mop and mow; theecho of that music still lived around. 

Hood had not returned when they sat down to tea. Jessie began to askquestions about the strange-looking man they had met in company withhim, but Mrs. Hood turned the conversation. 

'I suppose you'll be coming with the same tale next, Jessie, ' she said, with reference to Geraldine. 

'Me, Mrs. Hood? No, indeed; I haven't had lessons from Emily fornothing. It's all very well for empty-headed chits like Jerry here, butI've got serious things to attend to. I'm like Emily, she and I arenever going to be married. '

'Emily never going to be married?' exclaimed Mrs. Hood, half seriously. 'Ah, you mustn't believe all Emily tells you. '

'Oh, she hasn't told me that herself, but I'm quite sure she would beoffended if any one thought her capable of such frivolity. '

'Emily will keep it to herself till the wedding-day, ' said Geraldine, with a mocking shake of the bead. 'She isn't one to go telling hersecrets. '

At this point Hood made his appearance. His wife paid no heed to him ashe entered; Emily glanced at him furtively. He had the look of a man whohas predetermined an attitude of easy good-humour, nor had the partingwith Cheeseman failed to prove an occasion for fresh recourse to thatfiery adjuvant which of a sudden was become indispensable to him. Wantof taste for liquor and lifelong habit of abstemiousness had hithertokept Hood the soberest of men; he could not remember to have felt thewarm solace of a draught taken for solace' sake since the days whenCheeseman had been wont to insist upon the glass of gin at theirmeetings, and then it had never gone beyond the single glass, for hefelt that his head was weak, and dreaded temptation. Four-and-twentyhours had wrought such a change in him, that already to enter apublic-house seemed a familiar act, and he calculated upon the courageto be begotten of a smoking tumbler. Previously the mere outlay wouldhave made him miserable, but the command of unearned coin was affectinghim as it is wont to affect poor men. The new aid given to Cheesemanleft a few shillings out of the second broken sovereign. Let the twopounds--he said to himself--be regarded as gone; eight remaineduntouched. For the odd shillings, let them serve odd expenses. So whenhe had purchased Cheeseman's ticket to King's Gross, he was free withsmall change at the station bar. At the last moment it occurred to himthat he might save himself a walk by going in the train as far asPendal. So it was here that the final parting had taken place. 

He seated himself with his legs across a chair, and began to talk toGeraldine of the interesting news which Jessie had just whispered to himwhen they met on the road. The character of his remarks was not quitewhat it would have been a day or two ago; he joked with more freedomthan was his custom. Studiously he avoided the eyes of his wife anddaughter. He declined to sit up to the table, but drank a cup of teawith his hands resting on the back of a chair. 

The Cartwright sisters were anxious to use the evening for a visit tocertain other friends; shortly after six o'clock they took theirdeparture. While Emily and Mrs. Hood were seeing them away at the door, Hood went upstairs to his laboratory. 

'Emily, come here, ' Mrs. Hood said, with anxious earnestness, leadingthe way back into the sitting-room. And, when the door was closed--

'My dear, what _is_ the matter with him? Don't you notice hisstrangeness?'

'Yes, mother, I do. '

'Can he have--It's a thing he never does! You know what I mean? ThatCheeseman has been taking him to a public-house; I am sure of it. '

Emily had had no such thought. To her a squalid horror clung about thesuggestion. To picture her father in such circumstances was to realise afresh fall into degradation, no doubt the inevitable consequence of thatshe already knew of. There was a painful stricture at her heart; a cryof despair all but found utterance. 

Her father's voice was calling from the stair-head--'Emily!' She dartedto the door in momentary terror and replied. 

'Will you come up?' Hood said; 'I want you. '

She ascended to the garret. Hood was standing with his back to thelittle window, so that his face was shadowed. Emily moved to the table, and, with her hands resting upon it, her eyes bent, stood waiting. 

'Emily, ' he began, still with a remnant of artificial pleasantry, thoughhis voice was not entirely under control, 'I want to explain thatmoney-matter to you. It doesn't look well; I am a good deal ashamed ofmyself; if I was a boy I should deserve a whipping for telling a fib, shouldn't I?'

It was impossible to make reply to such words. 

'The truth is this, ' he went on more nervously; 'we've been in a littledifficulty, your mother and I, that we didn't see any good in troublingyou about. In fact, there's a raising of rent, and one or two otherlittle things. When I was in Hebsworth yesterday I had an opportunity ofborrowing ten pounds, and I thought it better to do so. Then I metCheeseman, and it was his mention of the debt put into my head thestupid thought of trying to spare your mother anxiety. Of course, suchtricks never succeed; I might have known it. But there, that's the truthof the matter, and I'm easier now--now I've told it. '

Her heart bled for him, so dreadful to her ears was the choking of hisvoice upon the last words. At the same time she was hot with anguish ofshame. He stood before her a wretched culprit, hiding his guilt with lieupon lie; he, her father, whom she had reverenced so, had compassionatedso, whom she loved despairingly. She could not raise her head; she couldnot speak. She longed to spring to him and hold him in her arms, butother thoughts paralysed the impulse. Had there lain nothing in thebackground, had his falsehood, his weakness, been all, she could havecomforted and strengthened him with pure pity and love. But theconsciousness of what was before her killed her power to stead him inhis misery. She could not speak out her very thought, and to palter withsolemn words was impossible. Hypocrisy from her to him at thismoment--hypocrisy, however coloured with sincere feeling, would havesunk her in her own eyes beyond redemption. 

'Let us speak no more of it, father, ' she replied without raising herhead. 

He was sober enough now, and in her voice, her attitude, he read hishopeless condemnation. Between him and this high-hearted woman had conicthat which would never be removed; before her he was shamed to eternity. Never again could he speak with her of truth, of justice, of noble aims;the words would mock him. Never again could he take her kiss upon hislips without shrinking. Her way henceforth lay ever further from hisown. What part had she in a life become so base? What place had sheunder a roof dishonoured? If some day she wedded, his existence would beto her a secret shame. For--worst thought of all--it was whispered tohis conscience that she did not credit even what he now told her. Heseemed to himself to have betrayed the second untruth by his way ofspeaking it. In the silence which followed upon her words he heardpromptings of despair. How could he live in her presence from day today, not daring to meet her eyes? He looked back upon the years behindhim, and they seemed to overflow with peaceful happiness. Irretrievable, his yielding and his shame; irrecoverable, the conscious rectitudebartered so cheaply. He saw now that his life had held vast blessings, and they were for ever lost. 

Emily was speaking. 

'Do you wish to stay here this evening, father?'

'No, ' he answered hastily, 'I only called you up for--for that. '

Her heart reproached her with cruelty, but what remained save to leavehim to himself? They could not face each other, could not exchange anatural word. 

'Emily!'

She turned at the door. He had called her, but did not continue tospeak. 

'Yes, father?'

'It's only for to-night. You'll--you'll sit with me again as usual?'

'Oh, I hope so!'

A rush of tears had its way as she closed the door, something so deeplypathetic had there been in that appeal. It was the first time that hermisery had found this outlet; unable to calm herself at once, she turnedaside into her bedroom. Tears did not come to her readily; indeed, itwas years since she had shed them; the fit shook her with physicalsuffering. The weeping would not stay itself, and to force her sobs intosilence was almost beyond her power. She flung herself desperately bythe bedside, throwing out her arms in the effort to free her chest fromits anguishing constraint. 

In an hour she went down. Her mother was sitting miserably in thekitchen, and Emily, dreading to have to talk again, kept apart in theparlour. When it began to dusk, Hood descended, and supper was preparedfor in the usual way. There was small pretence of conversation, and, assoon as possible, Emily bade her parents good-night. It was long beforeshe heard them go to their room; they whispered together in passing herdoor. 

And now the solemn hours shed about her guardian silence, and she couldlisten to the voice of her soul. It was incredible that the morning ofthe day which was not yet dead had witnessed that scene between her andDagworthy on the Castle Hill; long spaces of featureless misery seem tostretch between. Perforce she had overborne reflection; one tormentcoming upon another had occupied her with mere endurance; it was asthough a ruthless hand tore from her shred after shred of the fairgarment in which she had joyed to clothe herself, while a voicemockingly bade her be in congruence with the sordid shows of the worldaround. For a moment, whilst Beethoven sang to her, she knew the lightof faith; but the dull mist crept up again and thickened. Weeping hadnot eased her bosom; she had only become more conscious of the load oftears surcharging it. Now she lay upon her bed in the darkness, hushingidle echoes of day, waiting upon the spirit that ever yet had comfortedand guided her. 

What, divested of all horror due to imagination, was the threat to whichher life lay subject? Dagworthy had it in his power to ruin her father, to blast his remaining years with a desolation to which the life-longstruggle with poverty would be the mere pleasantry of fate. She could nolonger entertain a doubt of the guilt the first suggestion of whichexcited her scornful laughter, and she knew it to be more than probablethat her father had yielded to temptation purposely put in his way. Shewas not unconscious of the power of reprisal which so gross a plot putinto her hands, though it was true that the secrecy Dagworthy hadmaintained in his intercourse with her left but her bare assertion forevidence against him. Yet the thought was profitless. Suppose he did notventure to prosecute on the charge of theft, none the less could he workthe ruin he menaced; mere dismissal from his employment, with mention ofthe cause to this and the other person, was all that was needed torender the wretched clerk an outcast, hopeless of future means oflivelihood, for ever disgraced in the eyes of all who knew him. She feltthe cruelty of which this man, whose passions she had so frenzied, wasreadily capable. She believed he would not spare her an item ofsuffering which it was in his power to inflict. She knew that appeal tohim was worse than useless, for it was only too clear that for her toapproach him was to inflame his resolution. Her instinctive fear of himwas terribly justified. 

With her alone, then, it lay to save her parents from the most dreadfulfate that could befal them, from infamy, from destitution, from despair. For, even if her father escaped imprisonment, it would be impossible forhim to live on in Dunfield, and how, at his age, was a new life to bebegun? And it was idle to expect that the last degradation would bespared him; his disgrace would involve her; Dagworthy's jealousy wouldnot neglect such a means of striking at her engagement. And Wilfrid mustneeds know; to Emily not even the possibility of hiding such a thingfrom him suggested itself. Could she become his wife with that stigmaupon her, bringing as dowry her beggared parents for him to support?

Did it mean that? Was this the thought that she had dreaded to facethroughout the day? Was it not only her father whose ruin was involved, and must she too bid farewell to hope?

She let those ghastly eyes stare from the darkness into her own, andtried to exhaust their horror. It overtaxed her courage with a smotheredcry of fear she sprang upright, and her shaking hands struck a flame tobring light into the room. Not once, but again and again, did the chillof terror pass through her whole frame. She caught a passing glimpse ofher image in the glass, and was fascinated into regarding it closely. 'You, who stand there in the pitiless night'--thus did thought speakwithin her--'you, poor human thing, with the death-white face and eyesstaring in all but distraction, is this the very end of the rapturousdream which has lulled you whilst destiny wrought your woe? Is it evennow too late to struggle? Is this the wild sorrow of farewell to love, the beginning of an anguish which shall torture your soul to death? Haveyou lost _him_?' For moments it was as though life fought with the lastand invincible enemy. On the spot where she had been standing she sankpowerless to her knees, clinging to the nearest object, her head fallingback. 

The clock outside her door struck one; how long the dull vibrationseemed to endure. She was conscious of it, though lying with all butpalsied faculties. It was the first of the divisions which marked herlong vigil; the hours succeeded each other quickly; between voice andvoice there seemed to pass but a single wave of surging thought. Buteach new warning of coming day found her nearer the calm of resolve. 

Look at this girl, and try to know her. Emily knew but one article ofreligion, and that bade her preserve, if need be, at the cost of life, the purity of her soul. This was the supreme law of her being. Thepieties of kindred were as strong in her as in any heart that ever beat, but respect for them Could not constrain her to a course which opposedthat higher injunction. Growing with her growth, nourished by thesubstance which developed her intellectual force, a sense of all thatwas involved in her womanhood had conic to be the guiding principle ofher existence. Imagine the great artist Nature bent upon the creation ofa soul which should hold in subtlest perfection of consciousness everyelement essential to the successive ideals of maiden, wife, mother, andthe soul of this girl is pictured. Her religion of beauty was thesymbolic expression of instincts wholly chaste; her body was to her atemple which preserved a sacred flame, and she could not conceiveexistence if once the shrine had suffered desecration. We are apt toattribute to women indiscriminately at least the outlines of thisconsciousness; for the vast majority it confuses itself with theprescriptions of a traditional dogma, if not with the mere prejudice ofsocial usage. For Emily no external dogma existed, and the tenor of herlife had aided her in attaining independence of ignoble dictation. Herviews were often strangely at variance with those of the social tribunalwhich sits in judgment on virtue and vice. To her, for instance, thewoman who sells herself with ecclesiastical sanction differed only indegree of impurity from her whose track is under the street-lamps. Shewas not censorious, she was not self-righteous; she spoke to no one ofthe convictions that ruled her, and to herself held them a mystery ofholiness, a revelation of high things vouchsafed she knew not whence norhow. Suppose her to have been heart-free at this juncture of her fate, think you she would have found it a whit less impossible to save herfather by becoming Dagworthy's wife. There was in her thought but oneparallel to this dire choice which lay before her: it was the meansoffered to Isabel of rescuing her brother Claudio. That passion ofpurity which fired Isabel's speech was the breath of Emily's life. Sheknew well that many, and women too, would spare no condemnation of whatthey would call her heartless selfishness; she knew that the paltriestconsiderations of worldly estate are deemed sufficient to exact from awoman the sacrifice now demanded of her. That was no law to Emily. Themoral sense which her own nature had developed must here alone controlher. Purity, as she understood it--the immaculate beauty of thesoul--was her religion: if other women would die rather than deny theobject of their worship, to her the ideal of chastity was worth no lessperfect a zeal. Far removed from the world which theorises, shepresented in her character a solution of the difficulties entertained bythose who doubtingly seek a substitute for the old religious sanctions. Her motives had the simplicity of elemental faith; they were indeed butthe primary instincts of womanhood exalted to a rare perfection andreflected in a consciousness of exceeding lucidity. 

The awakening of love in such a nature as this was, as it were, theadmission to a supreme sacrament. Here was the final sanction of thecreed that had grown from within. In the plighting of her troth toWilfrid Athel, Emily had, as she herself saw it, performed the mostsolemn and sacred act of her life; instead of being a mere preliminaryto a holy observance which should in truth unite them, it made thatlater formality all but trivial. It was the aspiration of her devoutesthours that this interchange of loving promise might keep its bindingsanctity for ever, that no touch of mutability might come upon her hearttill the last coldness stayed its heating. A second love appeared to herself-contradicted; to transfer to another those thoughts which hadwedded her soul to Wilfrid's would not merely be sin, it was animpossibility. Did he ever cease to cherish her--a thought at which shesmiled in her proud confidence--that could in nothing affect her lovefor him, which was not otherwise to be expressed than as the sum of herconsciousness. .. . 

The pale light of dawn began to glimmer through the window-blind. Emilygave it full admission, and looked out at the morning sky; faintest bluewas growing between streaks of cold grey. Her eyes ached from thefixedness of intense thought; the sweet broad brow was marble, thedisorder of her hair spoke of self-abandonment in anguish. She had nothought of seeking rest; very far from her was sleep and the blessednessof oblivion. She felt as though sleep would never come again. 

But she knew what lay before her; doubt was gone, and there onlyremained fear to shake her heart. A day and a night had to be livedthrough before she could know her fate, so long must she suffer thingsnot to be uttered. A day and a night, and then, perchance--nay, certainly--the vanguard of a vast army of pain-stricken hours. There wasno passion now in her thought of Wilfrid; her love had become thesternness of resolve which dreads itself. An hour ago her heart had beenpierced with self-pity in thinking that she should suffer thus so faraway from him, without the possibility of his aid, her sufferingundreamt by him. Now, in her reviving strength, she had something of themartyr's joy. If the worst came, if she had spoken to him her last wordof tenderness, the more reason that her soul should keep unsullied theimage of that bliss which was the crown of life. His and his only, hisin the rapture of ideal love, his whilst her tongue could speak, herheart conceive, his name. 

CHAPTER XII

THE FINAL INTERVIEW

On six days of the week, Mrs. Hood, to do her justice, made no show ofpiety to the powers whose ordering of life her tongue incessantlyaccused; if her mode of Sabbatical observance was bitter, theexplanation was to be sought in the mere force of habit dating fromchildhood, and had, indeed, a pathetic significance to one sufficientlydisengaged from the sphere of her acerbity to be able to judge fairlysuch manifestations of character. A rigid veto upon all things secular, a preoccupied severity of visage, a way of speaking which suggesteddifficult tolerance of injury, an ostentation of discomfort in bodilyinactivity--these were but traditions of happier times; to keep herSunday thus was to remind herself of days when the outward functions ofrespectability did in truth correspond to self-respect; and it isprobable that often enough, poor woman, the bitterness was not only onher face. As a young girl in her mother's home she had learnt that theChristian Sabbath was to be distinguished by absence of joy, and as shesat through these interminable afternoons, on her lap a sour little bookwhich she did not read, the easy-chair abandoned for one which hurt herback, the very cat not allowed to enter the room lest it should gambol, here on the verge of years which touch the head with grey, her life musthave seemed to her a weary pilgrimage to a goal of discontent. How faraway was girlish laughter, how far the blossoming of hope which shouldattain no fruitage, and, alas, how far the warm season of the heart, thewoman's heart that loved and trusted, that joyed in a newborn babe, andthought not of the day when the babe, in growing to womanhood, shouldhave journeyed such lengths upon a road where the mother might notfollow. 

Neither Hood nor his daughter went to church; the former generally spentthe morning in his garret, the latter helped herself against thedepression which the consciousness of the day engendered by playingmusic which respect would have compelled her to refrain from had hermother been present. The music was occasionally heard by an acquaintancewho for some reason happened to be abroad in church time, and Mrs. Hoodwas duly informed of the sad things done in her absence, but she had thegood sense to forbid herself interference with Emily's mode of spendingthe Sunday. She could not understand it, but her husband's indifferenceto religion had taught her to endure, and, in truth, her own zeal, as Ihave said, was not of active colour. Discussion on such subjects therehad never been. Her daughter, she had learnt to concede, was strangelyother than herself; Emily was old enough to have regard for her ownhereafter. 

Breakfast on Sunday was an hour later than on other days, and was alwaysa very silent meal. On the day which we have now reached it was perhapsmore silent than usual. Hood had a newspaper before him on the table;his wife wore the wonted Sabbath absentness, suggestive of a fear lestshe should be late for church; Emily made a show of eating, but the samediminutive slice of bread-and-butter lasted her to the end of the meal. She was suffering from a slight feverishness, and her eyes, unclosedthroughout the night, were heavy with a pressure which was not ofconscious fatigue. Having helped in clearing the table and ordering thekitchen, she was going upstairs when her mother spoke to her for thefirst time. 

'I see you've still got your headache, ' Mrs. Hood said, withplaintiveness which was not condolence. 

'I shall go out a little, before dinner-time, ' was the reply. 

Her mother dismally admitted the wisdom of the proposal, and Emily wentto her room. Before long the bell of the chapel-of-ease opposite beganits summoning, a single querulous bell, jerked with irregular rapidity. The bells of Pendal church sent forth a more kindly bidding, but theirmusic was marred by the harsh clanging so near at hand, Emily heard anddid not hear. When she had done housemaid's office in her room, she satpropping her hot brows, waiting for her mother's descent in readinessfor church. At the sound of the opening and closing bedroom door, sherose and accompanied her mother to the parlour. Mrs. Hood was in herusual nervous hurry, giving a survey to each room before departure, uttering a hasty word or two, then away with constricted features. 

The girl ascended again, and, as soon as the chapel bell had ceased itslast notes of ill-tempered iteration, began to attire herself hastilyfor walking. When ready, she unlocked a drawer and took from it anenvelope, of heavy contents, which lay ready to her hand. Then shepaused for a moment and listened. Above there was a light footfall, passing constantly hither and thither. Leaving the room with caution, she passed downstairs noiselessly and quitted the house by the backdoor, whence by a circuit she gained the road. Her walk was towards theHeath. As soon as she entered upon it, she proceeded rapidly--sorapidly, indeed, that before long she had to check herself and takebreath. No sun shone, and the air was very still and warm; to her itseemed oppressive. Over Dunfield hung a vast pile of purple cloud, against which the wreaths of mill smoke, slighter than on week-days, laywith a dead whiteness. The Heath was solitary; a rabbit now and thenstarted from a brake, and here and there grazed sheep. Emily had hereyes upon the ground, save when she looked rapidly ahead to measure theupward distance she had still to toil over. 

On reaching the quarry, she stayed her feet. The speed at which she hadcome, and an agitation which was increasing, made breathing so difficultthat she turned a few paces aside, and sat down upon a rough block ofstone, long since quarried and left unused. Just before her was a smallpatch of marshy ground, long grass growing about a little pool. A rookhad alighted on the margin, and was pecking about. Presently it rose onits heavy wings; she watched it flap athwart the dun sky. Then her eyefell on a little yellow flower near her feet, a flower she did not know. She plucked and examined it, then let it drop carelessly from her hand. 

The air was growing brown; a storm threatened. She looked about her witha hasty fear, then resumed her walk to the upper part of the Heath. Beaching the smooth sward, she made straight across it for Dagworthy'shouse. 

Crossing the garden, she was just at the front door, when it was opened, and by Dagworthy himself. His eyes fell before her. 

'Will you come this way?' he said, indistinctly. 

He led into the large sitting-room where he had previously entertainedEmily and her father. As soon as he had closed the door, he took eagersteps towards her. 

'You have come, ' he said. 'Something told me you would come thismorning. I've watched at the window for you. '

The assurance of victory had softened him. His voice was like that ofone who greets a loving mistress. His gaze clung to her. 

'I have come to bring you this!' Emily replied, putting upon the tablethe heavy envelope. 'It is the money we owe you. '

Dagworthy laughed, but his eyes were gathering trouble. 

'You owe me nothing, ' he said, affecting easiness. 

'How do you mean that?' Emily gave him a direct look. Her manner had nownothing of fear, nor even the diffidence with which she had formerlyaddressed him. She spoke with a certain remoteness, as if her businesswith him were formal. The lines of her mouth were hard; her heavy lidsonly half raised themselves. 

'I mean that you owe nothing of this kind, ' he answered, ratherconfusedly. His confidence was less marked; her look overcame his. 

'Not ten pounds?'

'Well, _you_ don't. ' He added, 'Whose is this money?'

'It is my own; I have earned it. '

'Does your father know you are paying it?'

He does not. I was not likely to speak to him of what you told me. Thereis the debt, Mr. Dagworthy; we have paid it, and now I will leave you. 

He examined her. Even yet he could not be sure that he understood. Inadmitting her, he had taken it for granted that she could come with butone purpose. It was but the confirmation of the certain hope in which hehad lived through the night. Was the girl a simpleton? Had she got itinto her head that repayment in this way discharged his hold upon herfather? It was possible; women are so ludicrously ignorant of affairs. He smiled, though darkly. 

'Why have you brought this money?' he asked. 

She was already moving nearer to the door. He put himself in her way. 

'What good do you imagine this is?'

'None, perhaps. I pay it because I wish to. '

'And--is it your notion that this puts your father straight? Do youthink this is a way out of his difficulty?'

'I have not thought that. But it was only to restore the money that Icame. '

There was silence. 

'Have you forgotten, ' he asked, half wonderingly, half with quietmenace, 'what I said to you yesterday?'

'You see my answer, ' said Emily, pointing hastily to the table. 'I oweyou that, but I can give you nothing more. ' Her voice quivered, as shecontinued, 'What you said to me yesterday was said without thought, oronly with evil thoughts. Since then you have had hours of reflection. Itis not in your power--it would be in the power of no man who is notutterly base and wicked--to repeat such words this morning. Mr. Dagworthy, I believe in the affection you have professed for me; feelingthat, you are incapable of dastardly cruelty. I will not believe yourtongue against yourself. In a moment of self-forgetfulness you spokewords which you will regret through your life, for they were inhuman, and were spoken to a defenceless girl. After hearing them, I cannot begyour mercy for my father but you know that misfortune which strikes himfalls also upon me. You have done me the greatest wrong that man can doto woman; you owe me what reparation is in your power. '

She had not thought to speak thus. Since daylight dawned her heart hadfelt too numb, too dead; barely to tell him that she had no answer tohis words was the purpose with which she had set out. The momentprompted her utterance, and words came without reflection. It was anoble speech, and nobly delivered; the voice was uncertain at times, butit betrayed no weakness of resolve, no dread of what might follow. Thelast sentences were spoken with a dignity which rebuked rather thansupplicated. Dagworthy's head bowed as he listened. 

He came nearer. 

'Do you think me, ' he asked, under his breath, 'a mere ignorant lout, who has to be shamed before he knows what's manly and what isn't? Do youthink because I'm a manufacturer, and the son of one, that I've nothought or feeling above my trade? I know as well as you can tell me, though you speak with words I couldn't command, that I'm doing a meanand a vile thing--there; hear me say it, Emily Hood. But it's not acruel thing. I want to compel you to do what, in a few years, you'll beglad of. I want you to accept love such as no other man can give you, and with it the command of pretty well everything you can wish for. Iwant to be a slave at your feet, with no other work in life than findingout your desires and satisfying them. You're not to be tempted withmoney, and I don't try to; but I value the money because it will give mepower to show my love. And mind what I say ask yourself if it isn'ttrue. If you hadn't been engaged already, you'd have listened to me; Ifeel that power in myself; I know I should have made you care for me byloving you as desperately as I do. I wouldn't have let you refuseme--you hear, Emily? Emily! Emily! Emily!--it does me good to call youby your name--I haven't done so before to-day, have I, Emily? Not acruel thing, because I offer you more than any man living can, more ofthat for which you care most, the life a highly educated woman canappreciate. You shall travel where you will; you shall buy books andpictures, and all else to your heart's content; and, after all, youshall love me. That's a bold word, but I tell you I feel the power in meto win your love. I'm not hateful to you, even now; you can't reallydespise me, for you know that whatever I do is for no mean purpose. There is no woman living like you, and to make you my wife I am preparedto do anything, however vile it seems. Some day you'll forgive it all, because some day you'll love me!'

It was speaking as he had never yet done. He assumed that his end waswon, and something of the triumph of passion endued his words with ajoyous fervour. Very possibly there was truth in much that he said, forhe spoke with the intense conviction which fulfils prophecies. But theonly effect was to force Emily back upon her cold defiance. 

'I am in your house, Mr. Dagworthy, ' she said, 'and you can compel me tohear whatever you choose to say. But I have no other answer than thatyou know. I wish to leave you. '

His flushed eagerness could not at once adapt itself to another tone. 

'No, you don't wish to leave me. You want to see that I am a man of myword, that I mean what I say, and am not afraid to stick to it. Emily, you don't leave me till you have promised to be my wife. You're a noblegirl. You wouldn't be frightened into yielding. And it isn't that way Iwant to have you. You're more now in my eyes than ever. It shall be lovefor love. Emily, you will marry me?'

What resources of passion the man was exhibiting! By forethought hecould have devised no word of these speeches which he uttered with suchvigour; it was not he who spoke, but the very Love God within him. Heasked the last question with a voice subdued in tenderness; his eyes hada softer fire. 

Emily gave her answer. 

'I would not marry you, though you stood to kill me if I refused. '

No bravado, no unmeasured vehemence of tone, but spoken as it would havebeen had the very weapon of death gleamed in his hand. 

He knew that this was final. 

'So you are willing that your father shall be put into the dock at thepolice-court to-morrow morning?'

'If you can do that, it must be so. '

'If I _can_? You know very well I have the power to, and you ought toknow by now that I stick at nothing. Go home and think about it. '

It is useless. I have thought. If you think still to make me yield bythis fear, it is better that you should act at once. I will tell you IfI were free, if I had the power to give myself to you in marriage, itwould make your threat of no more avail. I love my father; to you Icannot say more than that; but though I would give my life to save hisfrom ruin, I could not give--my father would not wish me, oh never!--mywoman's honour. You will find it hard to understand me, for you seem notto know the meaning of such words. '

She closed with stern bitterness, compelled to it by the tone of hislast bidding. A glorious beauty flashed in her face. Alas, Wilfrid Athelwould never know the pride of seeing thus the woman he knew so noble. But Wilfrid was in her heart; his soul allied itself with hers and gaveher double strength. Dagworthy had wrought for her that which in thenight's conflict she could not bring about by her own force; knowing, inthe face of utter despair, the whole depth of the love with which sheheld to her father, she could yet speak his doom with calmness, withclear intelligence that the sacrifice she was asked to make wasdisproportionate to the disaster threatened. 

He answered with cold decision. 

'It's you who don't know me. I've nothing more to say to you; you are atliberty to go. To-morrow your father will be before the magistrates. '

Emily moved to the door. The sound of the words had blanched her lips. She felt that, if she would keep hold upon her bodily strength, she mustbreathe the outer air. 

'Look here, I say, ' he exclaimed, stepping to the table. 'Take themoney. I've nothing to do with that. '

She made a motion with her hand, but hastened still and escaped. Once inthe garden she all but ran, thinking she heard his footsteps in pursuit, and smitten with that sudden terror which comes sometimes when a dangeris escaped. But she had gained the Heath, and it was certain now that hehad not tried to overtake her, a glance back showed her that no one wasin sight. She walked rapidly on, though her heart seemed about to burst, walked without pausing till she had reached the quarry. Here she sat onthe same stone as before. She was in dread of fainting; the anguish ofher leaping blood was intolerable; she had neither sight nor hearing. But the crisis of suffering passed; she let her head fall forward andburied it upon her lap. 

Perhaps for ten minutes she remained thus, then a great crash from thenear heavens caused her to look up. It was raining, had rained since shesat there, though she had not known it. In the little pool before hergreat drops splashed and made a miniature tempest. The yellow flower shehad plucked lay close by, and was beaten by the rain. It lightenedvividly, and there followed heavier thunder than before. 

She wished to shed tears--tears were choking her, but would not rise andshed themselves; she could only sob, aloud, hysterically. The words'Father' and 'Wilfrid' broke from her lips several times. Was therered-hot metal poured upon her forehead?

It cost her a great effort to rise and walk homewards. The rain streameddown, but she could no longer hasten. Still she reached the house beforeher mother's return from church, and she was glad of that. 

CHAPTER XIII

THE CUTTING OF THE KNOT

For the final failure of his plot Dagworthy was in no wise prepared. Hehad anticipated prolonged scenes, passionate pleadings, appeals to hisbetter nature, and to his shame; but that his threat should proveineffectual was not among his fears. Illustrating a well-known tendencyof human nature, his reckless egoism based its confidence on thepresumed existence of heroic self-devotion in his victim. Starting froma knowledge of the close affection between Emily and her father, thelogic of desire had abundant arguments to prove that the girl must andcould act in but one way. Dagworthy's was not an original mind; theself-immolation of daughters (not of sons) on their parents' behalf isamong vulgar conceptions of the befitting, and it is more than probablethat the mill-owner was half-consciously supported by precedents drawnfrom his readings in popular fiction. His imagination, as is commonlythe case, was only strong in the direction of his wishes; neglectingEmily's avowed attachment to an accepted lover--whose shadowiness madehim difficult to realise even as an obstacle--he dwelt persistently onthe thought of Hood's position, and found it impossible to imagine arefusal on Emily's part to avert from her father the direst ofcalamities. That other motive, the strength of which in Emily wasindependent of her plighted troth, was not within the range of hisconceptions; that a woman should face martyrdom rather than marrywithout love was a contingency alien to his experience and to thephilosophy wherewith nature had endowed him. In spite of the attributesof nobleness which so impressed him in the object of his love, Dagworthycould give no credit to the utterance of such a feeling. Whilst Emilyspoke, he was for the moment overcome by a vision of vague glories;reflecting on her words, he interpreted them as merely emphasising herdetermination to wed one only. Their effect was to give new food to hisjealousy. 

That solace of men's unconscious pessimism, the faith, patheticallyclung to, that in frustration of desire is the soul's health, is but tooapt to prove itself fallacious just where its efficiency would show mostglorious. Is there not lurking somewhere in your mind, not withstandingthe protests of your realistic intelligence, more than half a hope thatRichard Dagworthy will emerge radiant from the gulf into which hispassions have plunged him? For the credit of human nature! But what ifhuman nature oft establishes its credit by the failures over which weshake our heads? Of many ways to the resting-place of souls, the way ofaffliction is but one; cling, if it please you, to the assurance thatthis is the treading of the elect, instinct will justify itself in manyto whom the denial of a supreme need has been the closing of the upwardpath. Midway in his life, when slow development waited but occasion toestablish the possibilities of a passionate character, Dagworthyunderwent the trial destined to determine the future course of his life. One hesitates to impute it to him as a fault that he was not of theelect. A mere uneducated Englishman, hitherto balancing always betweenthe calls from above and from below, with one miserable delusion and itsconsequent bitterness ever active in his memory, he could make nodistinction between the objects which with vehemence he desired and thespiritual advantage which he felt the attainment would bring to him; andfor the simple reason that in his case no such distinction existed. Evenas the childhood of civilisation knows virtue only in the form of aconcrete deity, so to Dagworthy the higher life of which he was capabletook shape as a mortal woman, and to possess her was to fulfil hisbeing. With the certainty that she was beyond his reach came failure ofthe vital forces which promised so much. A pity for it flatters us poormortals to discern instances of the soul's independence of the body. Iwould it had been otherwise with Dagworthy; I have but to relate thefacts. It was no dark angel that had whispered to him through the hoursof his waiting for Emily's surrender. High aims, pure ambitions, werestronger in him than they ever had been; stronger than they ever wouldbe again. It was when Emily left him with those proud words of defiancethat the veritable demon took stand at his ear. The leaping, fruitfulsap of his being turned itself to gall. He sat with a brow of blackness;cruel projects worked in his brain. 

Not only had he lost her, but his loss was another's gain. The prickingof jealousy, for a while suspended, again became maddening. He had heardher say that she would die rather than be his wife; judge, then, whatmust be her love of the man she bud chosen. His desire now was to do herinjury, and his fiercest torment was the thought that he dared notfulfil the menace with which he had hoped to overwhelm her. If heprosecuted Hood, all the circumstances of the case would inevitably comeout; Emily had friends in Dunfield, and if her father's guilt were oncedisclosed, there would be no reason for her concealment of what hadhappened; facts like these put forward in mitigation of punishment wouldsupply the town with a fearful subject of comment--nay, was he safe fromthe clutch of the law? Of these things he had not troubled to think, soassured was he that the mere threat would suffice. From his presentpoint of view it was easy enough to see that the plot had been awretched piece of bungling; in failing of its end it became the projectof a simpleton. Had the girl herself been cool enough to see this? Didshe defy him in knowledge of the weakness of his position? Probably not;in that case she would have spoken differently she had granted, andclearly with sincerity, his power to do what he threatened. And then thefact remained that he could injure Hood irremediably by means short ofcriminal proceedings. Emily--his reasoning was accurate enough--had notbeen careful to distinguish between modes of injury, where each meantruin. 

What he dared to do, he would. He was acquainted with the wretched storyof struggle which had ended in Hood's taking refuge, as a clerk with amean salary, from the extremities of destitution. To dismiss the manafter private accusation would be to render his prospects worse thanever, for it was easy to whisper here and there the grounds ofdismissal. Emily's mouth would be closed by the necessity of keepingsecret her father's dishonesty. But this revenge fell short of hisappetite for cruelty; it would strike the girl herself only indirectly. And it was possible that her future husband might have it in his powerto give her parents aid. Yet he persuaded himself that the case wasotherwise; Emily's secrecy had impressed him with the belief that thematch she contemplated was anything but a brilliant one. Could he deviseno graver hurt? Through the Sunday afternoon and the night whichfollowed, he pondered ceaselessly on means of evil, delighted to fleshhis fangs even in imagination. Many a vile plan dwelt with him which heknew he durst not put into practice. Monday morning came and found himno further than the crime which had first suggested itself. Fevered witheagerness to accomplish that at least, he left home earlier than usual. It might be that the day would bring fresh counsel. 

To Emily the hours following upon her visit to the house on the Heathhad brought unnatural quietness. Physical suffering troubled her, butthe energies of her mind were for the time expended; the aching of herbrow involved thought in sluggishness. She did not shun her parents, andeven talked with them in a listless way; solitude would have beenirksome to her just now. For once she felt glad of her mother's way ofspending Sunday; to sit inactive was all that she desired. It wasunderstood that her head distressed her. 

In the afternoon, and again in the evening, the single bell of thechapel clanged for worshippers. Mrs. Hood was not in the habit ofattending service more than once in the day; she sat on her uneasychair, at times appearing to read, more often gazing out of the windows. The road had more traffic than on week-days, for it was the recreationof a certain class of Dunfieldians to drive out in parties to the Heath, either hiring a vehicle or using their own trade-carts. It would havebeen a consolation to observe that in the latter case the quadrupedemployed benefited by its owner's regard for his own interests; possiblyan acute spectator might have discerned gradations of inhumanity. To thecasual eye there showed but a succession of over-laden animals urged tothe utmost speed; the national predilection exhibiting itself crudely inthis locality. Towards nightfall the pleasure-seekers returned, drivingwith the heightened energy attributable to Bacchic inspiration, singing, shouting, exchanging racy banter with pedestrians. So the hours draggedwearily on, wheezed out, one after one, by the clock on the stairs. Hoodwas at no time fertile in topics of conversation; to-day he maintainedalmost unbroken silence. Tea was prepared, partaken of, removed; supper, three hours later. The day closed with rain and a rising wind. 

Emily heard it about the house as she lay through hours ofsleeplessness. At first a light slumber had come to her; it was brokenby the clock striking eleven. Probably she was roused at the firststroke, for, failing to count, the number seemed to her so interminablethat she started up and made to herself fretful complaint. Pain wasweakening her self-control; she found herself crying in a weary, desolate way, and could not stop her tears for a long time. The gusts ofwind went by her windows and bore their voices away on to the common, wailing and sobbing in the far distance; rain spattered the windows attimes. When her tears ceased, Emily hid her face in the pillow andmoaned; often she uttered Wilfrid's name. To-day she should by agreementhave written to him, but to do so had been impossible. He would beuneasy at her silence. Oh, bow could she ever write to him again? Whatmight happen to-morrow? At the thought, she held her breath and lay insilence. 

She rose in time for breakfast, but at the last moment could not bringherself to go down to the meal. To face her father was impossible. Hermother came to the door, and Emily answered her that she would lie foran hour or two longer, being still unwell. During the half-hour thatfollowed she sat listening intently to every sound in the house. Hood, having breakfasted, came upstairs and entered his room; when, a fewminutes later, he came out, his steps made a pause at her threshold. Herheart beat in sickening fear; she could not have found voice to reply tohim had he spoken. But he did not do so, and went downstairs. She heardhim open the front door, and sprang to the window to catch a glimpse ofhim. At the gate he turned and looked up to her window; his face wassorrowful. Emily held back that he might not see her; when it was toolate she could not understand this movement, and longed to wave him agood-bye. She threw up the sash; her father did not turn again. 

We follow him. Not very long after his arrival at the mill, Dagworthyhimself appeared. Hood's evil conscience led him to regard withapprehension every unusual event. Dagworthy's unwonted earliness wasstill troubling his mind, when a messenger summoned him to the privateroom. There was nothing extraordinary in this, but Hood, as he crossedthe passage, shook with fear; before knocking and pushing open the door, he dashed drops from his forehead with his hand. Dagworthy was alone, sitting at the desk. 

'Shut the door, ' he said, without turning his eyes from a letter he wasreading. 

The clerk obeyed, and stood for a full minute before anything more wasaddressed to him. He knew that the worst had come. 

Dagworthy faced half round. 

'One day early last week, ' he began, averting his eyes after a singleglance, 'I was looking over one of these ledgers'--he pointed to theshelf--'and left an envelope to mark a place. I forgot about it, andnow that I look, the envelope has gone. It contained a bank-note. Ofcourse you came across it in the course of your work. '

It was rather an assertion than a question. Whilst he was speaking, thecourage of despair had taken hold upon his hearer. Like the terribleflash of memory which is said to strike the brain of a drowning man, there smote on Hood's mind a vision of the home he had just quitted, ofall it had been and all it might still be to him. This was his life, andhe must save it, by whatever means. He knew nothing but that necessity;all else of consciousness was vague swimming horror. 

'No, sir, ' was his reply, given with perfect firmness, 'I found noenvelope. '

Dagworthy's coarse lips formed a smile, hard and cruel. He faced hisclerk. 

'Oh, you didn't?'

'In which ledger did you leave it, sir?' Hood asked, the dryness of histhroat rendering speech more difficult as he proceeded. Still, his eyewas fixed steadily on Dagworthy's face; it was life at stake. 'I havenot had them all. '

'I don't remember which it was, ' replied the other, 'and it doesn't muchmatter, since I happen to know the note. I dare say you remember buyinga new hat in Hebsworth last Friday?'

The love of inflicting pain for its own sake, an element of human natureonly overgrown by civilisation, was showing itself strongly inDagworthy. He was prolonging this scene. On his way to the mill he hadfelt that the task would be rather disagreeable; but we cannot nurturebaseness with impunity, and, face to face with a man under torture, heenjoyed the spectacle as he scarcely would have done a little while ago. Perhaps the feeling that his first blow at Emily was actually struckgave him satisfaction, which he dwelt upon. 

Hood made no reply to the question. He would not admit to himself thatthis was the end, but he had no voice. 

'You hear me?' Dagworthy reminded him. 

'Yes. I bought a hat. '

'And you paid for it with the note I have lost. I happen to know it. '

There was silence. 

'Well, you understand that under ordinary circumstances you would be atonce given in charge. ' Dagworthy spoke almost cheerfully. 'If I don't dothat it's out of consideration for your age and your family. But as youare not to be trusted, of course I can't continue to employ you. '

A wild hope sprang in Hood's eyes, and the rush of gratitude at hisheart compelled him to speak. 

'Oh, Mr. Dagworthy, you arc generous! You have always treated me withkindness; and this is how I repay you. It was base; I deserve no mercy. The temptation--' he grew incoherent; 'I have been driven hard by wantof money. I know that is no excuse. I had no intention at first oftaking the money; I came here to give it you; I should have done sowithout a thought of dishonesty, but you happened to be away. In goingto Hebsworth I lost my hat, and I had not enough money of my own to buyanother; I had to change the note--that was the temptation--I willreturn it. --But for this work here, I might by now have been in theworkhouse. Try, sir, to forgive my baseness; I cannot forgive myself. '

Dagworthy turned his face away. 

'Well, ' he said, with a wave of the hand, 'all that's too late. '

'Sir, ' Hood pursued, spurred by foresight of penury perhaps as much asby dread of having to explain his dismissal at home, for penury had beenhis relentless foe through life Sir, is it in vain to ask you to give meanother chance? I am not a dishonest man; never before has such atemptation come to me, and surely never would again. Will you--I entreatyou to think what it means--at my age--my wife--I ought to be contentwith thanking you for having spared me--how few would have done that!Let me continue to serve you--a lower salary--if it be ever solittle--till I have regained your confidence--'

Dagworthy was drumming with his fingers on the desk. Not for an instantdid he falter in his purpose, but it gave him pleasure to be thus prayedto. The employer of labour is not as a rule troubled with a livelyimagination; a pity, for it would surely gratify him to feel in itsfulness at times his power of life and death. Native defect and force ofhabit render it a matter of course that a small population should eat orstarve at his pleasure; possibly his resolution in seasons of strike isnow and then attributable to awakening of insight and pleasure inprolonging his role of hunger-god. Dagworthy appreciated his victim'sdespair all the more that it made present to him the wretchedness thatwould fall on Emily. Think not that the man was unashamed. Withdifficulty he could bring himself to meet Hood's look. But self-contemptmay well consist with perseverance in gratification of ignobleinstincts. 

When Hood ceased, there came this reply. 

'I shall not grant what you ask, simply because it is against myprinciples. I let you off, for it would do me no good to punish you, andcertainly, as regards yourself, the lesson will be enough. But I can'tkeep you in my employ, so we'll talk no more about it. You were going totake your holiday from the end of this week, I think? Very well, let itbe supposed that you begin to-day instead, and in a day or two write mea note giving up your place. '

This was not yielding on Dagworthy's part; it merely occurred to him asa way of protecting himself if there should be future need. 

Hood was standing with bent head; he seemed unable either to speak or todepart. 

'You may go, ' Dagworthy said. 

'Sir, --I may refer to you?' asked the wretched man, roused by thebidding. 

'No, I think not, ' was the calm reply. 'Unless, of course, you arewilling that I should state the plain facts of the case?'

Hood staggered from the room. .. . 

When Emily came down in the course of the morning, her appearance wassuch that her mother uttered an exclamation of alarm. 

'Why, child, you are like a ghost! Why didn't you stay in bed? I wasjust coming up to you, hoping you'd been asleep. I must go for Dr. Evansat once. '

Emily resisted. 

'But I certainly shall, say what you like. No headache would make youlook like that. And you're as feverish as you can be. Go up to bedagain; you hardly look, though, as if you could climb the stairs. I'llput on my things and go round. '

It was only by affecting anger that Emily could overcome her mother'spurpose. She did indeed feel ill, but to submit to treatment wasimpossible whilst this day lasted. Far worse than her bodily fever wasthe mental anguish which would not allow her to remain in one place formore than a few minutes at a time, and did not suffer the pretence ofoccupation. How would it come about? Was her father at this moment inthe hands of the police? How would the first news come to Banbrigg, andwhen? The sound of every vehicle on the road was an approaching terror;she was constantly at the window to watch the people who came near. Ithad seemed to her that she realised what this trial would be, yet heranticipations had fallen far below the experience of these fearfulhours. At instants, she all but repented what she had done, and askedherself if there was not even now a chance of somehow saving her father. The face which he had raised to the window as he left home smote herheart. Not a word of kindness had she spoken to him since Friday night. Oh, what inconceivable cruelty had possessed her, that she let him gothis morning without even having touched his hand! Could her mind endurethis? Was she not now and then near to delirium? Once she went to thewindow, and, to her horror, could see nothing; a blue and red misthovered before her eyes. It left her, but other symptoms of physicaldistress grew from hour to hour, and she dreaded lest strength to enduremight wholly forsake her before night came. She tried to picture herfather returning as usual; human pity might have spoken even inDagworthy's heart; or if not so, then he might have been induced toforbear by a hope of winning her gratitude. Very agony made her feelalmost capable of rewarding such mercy. For Wilfrid seemed now very faraway, and her love had fallen to the background; it was not the suprememotive of her being as hitherto. Would she suffer thus for Wilfrid? Thequestion forced itself upon her, and for reply she shuddered; such bondsseemed artificial compared with those which linked her to her father, the love which was coeval with her life. All feeling is so relative tocircumstances, and what makes so stable as the cement of habit?

In the early hours of the afternoon a lull of utter weariness relievedher; she lay upon the couch and all but slept; it was something betweensleep and loss of consciousness following on excessive pain. She awoketo find the doctor bending over her; Mrs. Hood had become so alarmedthat she had despatched a neighbour secretly on the errand. Emily waspassive, and by her way of speaking half disguised the worst features ofher state. Nevertheless, the order was given that she should go to bed. She promised to obey. 

'As soon as father comes, ' she said, when alone again with her mother. 'It cannot be long till his time. '

She would not yield beyond this. But the hour of return came, and herfather delayed. Then was every minute an eternity. No longer able tokeep her reclining position, she stood again by the window, and her eyeslost their vision from straining upon one spot, that at which Hood wouldfirst appear. She leaned her head upon the window-sill, and let her earstake their turn of watching; the first touch of a hand at the gate wouldreach her. But there came none. 

Can hours thus be lived through? Ah, which of us to whom time has notbeen a torment of hell? Is there no nether Circle, where dreadanticipation eternally prolongs itself, eternally varied with hope invain for ever?

Mrs. Hood had abandoned her useless protests; she came and sat by thegirl. 

'I've no doubt he's gone to the Walkers', ' she kept saying, namingacquaintances with whom Hood occasionally spent an evening. Then, 'Andwhy need you wait for him, my dear? Can't he go up and see you as soonas he gets in?'

'Mother, ' Emily said at last, 'will you go to the Walkers' and ask? Itis not really very far. Will you go?'

But, my child, it will take me at least an hour to walk there and back!I should only miss him on the way. Are you afraid of something?

'Yes, I am. I believe something has happened to him. '

'Those are your fancies. You are very poorly; it is cruel to me torefuse to go to bed. '

'Will you go, mother?--If you do not, I must; ill or not, I must go. '

She started to her feet. Her mother gazed at her in fear, --believing itthe beginning of delirium. 

'Emily, my dear child, ' she pleaded, laying her hand on the girl's arm, 'won't you come upstairs, --to please me, dear?'

'Mother, if you will go, I promise to lie here quietly till you return. '

'But it is impossible to leave you alone in the house. Look, now, it isnine o'clock; in half an hour, an hour at most, your father will beback. Why, you know how often he stays late when he gets talking. '

Emily was silent for a few minutes. Then she said--

'Will you ask Mrs. Hopkins to send her servant?'

'But think--the trouble it will be giving. '

'Will you do it? I wish it. Will you go and ask her I will give the girlmoney. '

'If you are so determined, of course I will ask her. But I'm sure--'

At length she left the room, to go out of the house by the back-door andcall at the neighbours'. Scarcely was she away, when Emily dartedupstairs, and in an instant was down again, with her hat and a cloak;another moment, and she was out in the road. She did not forget theterror her mother would suffer, on finding her gone; but endurance hadreached its limit. It was growing dark. After one look in the directionof Dunfield, she took the opposite way, and ran towards the Heath, rantill her breath failed and she had to drop into a quick walk. Once moreshe was going to the Upper Heath, and to the house which was the sourceof all her misery. When she reached the quarry it was quite dark at herapproach she saw the shape of a man move away into the shadow of thequarried rock, and an unreasoning fear spurred her past the spot. Fiveminutes more and she was at Dagworthy's gate. She rang the door-bell. 

The servant told her that Mr. Dagworthy was at home; she declined togive her name, but said she must see him at once. Speedily she was ledinto a room, where her enemy sat alone. 

He looked at her wonderingly, then with a deep flush--for now he surelyhad gained his end, --he advanced towards her without speaking. 

'Where is my father?' she asked; the voice which disabused him did notseem Emily's. 

'Isn't he at home?'

'He has not come home. What have you done?'

'Not come home?'

'Then he is free? He is safe--my father? You have spared him?'

Dagworthy inwardly cursed himself for shortsightedness. Were he but ableto answer 'Yes, ' would she not yield him anything? Why had he not madetrial of this policy? Or was it now too late? But Hoed had not returnedhome. The man had gone forth from him in despair. As he gazed at thegirl, a suspicion, all but a fear, touched him. Why should Hood remainaway from his house?

She was repeating her questions imploringly. 

'He is free, as far as I am concerned, Emily. '

'You have forgiven him? Oh, you have had that mercy upon us?'

'Sit down, and let us talk about it, ' said Dagworthy. 

She did not seem to notice that he had taken her hand; but the nextmoment he was holding her in his arm, and with a cry she broke away. 

'There are others in the house, ' she exclaimed, her wild, fearful eyesseeking other exit than that which he stopped. 'I must call for theirhelp. Can you not see that I am suffering--ill? Are you pitiless? Butno--no--for you have spared him!'

Dagworthy mastered himself, though it cost him something, and spoke withan effort at gentleness. 

'What thanks have you to give me, Emily?'

'My life's gratitude--but that will be your least reward. '

'Ay, but how is the gratitude going to be shown?'

Her keen sense found a fear in his manner of speaking. 

'You have not said a word to him, ' she asked, seeming to forget hisquestion. 

Of what ultimate use was it to lie? And she would not suffer him withinreach of her. 

'I couldn't very well help doing that, ' he replied, unable to resolvehow it were best to speak, and uttering the first words that came, carelessly. 

'Then he knows you have discovered--'

Her voice failed. Such explanation of her father's absence was a newterror. 

'Yes, he knows, ' Dagworthy answered, cruelty resuming its fascination. 'I couldn't keep him at the mill, you know, though I let him off hispunishment. '

'You dismissed him?'

'I did. It's not too late to have him back, and something better. '

'Let me go!' she said hoarsely. 

He moved from the door; sight of such misery vanquished even him. 

When she reached home, her mother was standing with two or threeneighbours in front of the house at the sight of Emily there wereexclamations of relief and welcome. 

'My child, where can you have been?' Mrs. Hood cried, following the girlwho passed the garden-gate without pausing. 

'Is father come?' was the reply. 

'No, not yet. But where have you been? Why, you were coming from theHeath, Emily, in the night air, and you so ill!'

'I have been to ask Mr. Dagworthy, ' Emily said in a tired voice. 'Heknows nothing of him. '

Her strength bore her into the parlour, then she sank upon the couch andclosed her eyes. Mrs. Hood summoned the help of her friends. Unresisting, with eyes still closed, silent, she was carried upstairsand laid in her bed. Her mother sat by her. Midnight came, and Hood didnot return. Already Mrs. Hood had begun to suspect something mysteriousin Emily's anxiety; her own fears now became active. She went to thefront door and stood there with impatience, by turns angry and alarmed. Her husband had never been so late. She returned to the bedroom. 

'Emily, are you awake, dear?'

The girl's eyes opened, but she did not speak. 

'Do you know any reason why your father should stay away?'

A slight shake of the head was the reply. 

The deepest stillness of night was upon the house. As Mrs. Hood seatedherself with murmured bewailing of such wretchedness, there sounded aheavy crash out on the staircase; it was followed by a peculiar ringingreverberation. Emily rose with a shriek. 

'My love--hush! hush!' said her mother. 'It's only the clock-weightfallen. How that does shake my nerves! It did it only last week, andgave me such a start. '

Grasping her mother's hand, the girl lay back, death-pale. The silencewas deeper than before, for not even the clock ticked. .. . 

Dagworthy could not sleep. At sunrise he had wearied himself so withvain efforts to lie still, that he resolved to take a turn across theHeath, and then rest if he felt able to. He rose and went into the stillmorning air. 

The Heath was beautiful, seen thus in the purple flush of the dawn. Hehad called forth a dog to accompany him, and the animal careered ingreat circles over the dewy sward, barking at the birds it started up, leaping high from the ground, mad with the joy of life. He ran a racewith it to the wall which bounded the top of the quarry. The exercisedid him good, driving from his mind shadows which had clung about it inthe night. Beaching the wall he rested his arms upon it, and looked overDunfield to the glory of the rising sun. The smoke of the mill-chimneys, thickening as fires were coaled for the day's work, caught delicatereflection from the sky; the lofty spire of the church seemed built ofsome beautiful rose-hued stone. The grassy country round about wore afresher green than it was wont to show; the very river, so foul inreality with the refuse of manufactures, gleamed like a pure current. 

Dagworthy's eyes fixed themselves on the horizon, and grew wide with thesense of things half understood. 

The dog had left him and was gone round into the quarry. A bark camefrom below. At a second bark Dagworthy looked down. The dog was snuffingat a man who lay between a big piece of quarried stone and a littlegrass-bordered pool. Asleep--was he? Yet it was not the attitude inwhich men sleep. The dog barked a third time. 

He left his position, and followed the circuit which would bring himdown to where the man lay. Whilst still a few yards off, he checkedhimself. If the man slept, his body was strangely distorted; one armseemed to be beneath him, the other was extended stiffly; the facelooked at the sky. A few steps, and Dagworthy, gazing upon the face, knew it. 

A cold shudder thrilled him, and he drew back. His foot struck againstsomething; it was a bottle. He picked it up, and read a word in largeprint on the white label. 

The temptation to look full into the face again was irresistible, thoughhorror shook him as he approached. The features were hideous, the eyesstarting from their sockets, the lips drawn back over the teeth. Heturned and walked away rapidly, followed by the dog, which roused thequarry echoes with its barking. 

'My God! I never thought of that. '

The words uttered themselves as he speeded on. Only at the garden-gatehe stayed, and then seemed to reflect upon what he should do. Thetemptation was to return into the house and leave others to spread thenews; there would be workmen in the quarry in less than an hour. Yet hedid not do this, but hurried past his own door to the house of a doctornot a hundred yards away. Him he called forth. .. . 

About midday a covered burden was brought in a cart to Banbrigg; thecart stopped before the Hoods' house, and two men, lifting the burden, carried it through the gate and to the door. Mrs. Hood had alreadyopened to them, and stood with her face half-hidden. The burden wastaken into the parlour, and placed upon the couch. The outline was thatof a man's form. 

In the kitchen were two women, neighbours; as soon as the men haddeparted, and the front door was closed, they stole forward, onesobbing, the other pale with fear. They entered the sitting-room, andMrs. Hood went in with them. She was strangely self-controlled. Allthree stood looking at the wrapped form, which was that of a man. 

'I shan't dare to look at him!' Mrs. Hood whispered. 'The doctor told meI wasn't to. Oh, my husband!'

With the sublime love of woman, conquering all dread, she dropped to herknees and laid her head on the pillow of the couch by the side of thathead so closely shrouded. 

'Thank God, Emily can't see this!' she groaned. 

'Hadn't I better go up to her?' one of the women asked. Both of themstood at a distance. 

'Yes, perhaps you had. But you'll be wanted at home. Stay with me aminute, then I'll lock this door and go up myself. '

At the sound of a hand on the door all turned with a movement ofsurprise and affright. There entered Emily, hurriedly dressed, her hairloose upon her shoulders. She looked round the room, withhalf-conscious, pitiful gaze, then upon her mother, then at the form onthe couch. She pointed to it. 

'He has come?'

Her voice was unearthly. The sound gave her mother strength to run toher, and throw her arms about her, sobbing, terror-stricken. 

She suffered herself to be led upstairs, and did not speak. 

CHAPTER XIV

NEWS AND COMMENTS

As a man who took the world as he found it, and on the whole found itwell worth accepting on such terms, Mr. Athel was not likely to allowhis annoyance with Wilfrid to threaten the habitual excellence of hisdigestion. His disappointment was real enough. When of a sudden Wilfridhad announced that he could not accompany the family party toSwitzerland, Mr. Athel was saved from undignified irresolution by ahearty outburst of temper, which saw him well over the Straits before itgave way to the natural reaction, under the influence of which he calledhimself a blockhead. He had, beyond a doubt, precipitated the marriage, when postponement was the only thing he really cared about. To abusehimself was one thing, the privilege which an Englishman is ready enoughto exercise; to have his thoughts uttered to him by his sister withfeminine neatness and candour was quite another matter. Mrs. Rossall hadin vain attempted to stem the flood of wrath rushing Channelwards. Overcome, she clad herself in meaning silence, until her brother, tooingenuous man, was compelled to return to the subject himself, and, towards the end of the journey, rashly gave utterance to half a wishthat he had not left 'that young fool' behind. Mrs. Rossall, herself alittle too impetuous when triumph was no longer doubtful, made suchpointed remarks on the neglect of good advice that the ire which wascooling shot forth flame in another direction. Brother and sisterarrived at Geneva in something less than perfect amity. Their realaffection for each other was quite capable of bearing not infrequentlythe strain of irritability on both sides. A day of mutual causticitieshad well prepared the ground for the return of good temper, when thearrival of Wilfrid, by astonishing both, hastened their completereconciliation. Wilfrid was mysterious; for a week he kept his counsel, and behaved as if nothing unusual had happened. By that time Mr. Athel'spatience had reached its limit; he requested to be told how mattersstood. Wilfrid, determined not to compromise his dignity by speakingfirst, but glad enough when his father broached the topic, related thestory of his visit to Dunfield. Possibly he laid needless emphasis onEmily's unselfish prudence. 

'I fail to see the striking meritoriousness of all that, ' Mr. Athelobserved, put into a good humour by the result, and consequentlyallowing himself a little captiousness. 'It merely means that shebehaved as any woman who respected herself would under thecircumstances. Your own behaviour, on the other hand--well, let itpass. '

'I don't see that I could have acted otherwise, ' said Wilfrid, toocontented to care about arguing the point. 

'You of course saw her parents?'

Wilfrid had given no detailed account of the way in which his interviewwith Emily had been obtained. He mentioned it now, his father listeningwith the frowning smile of a man who judges such puerilities from thestandpoint of comfortable middle age. 

The tone between them returned before long to the friendliness neverpreviously interrupted. Mr. Athel shortly wrote a letter to Mr. Baxendale of Dunfield, whom he only knew by name as Beatrice Redwing'suncle, and begged for private information regarding Emily's family. Hereceived a courteous reply, the details not of course wholly palatable, but confirmatory of the modest hopes he had entertained. This reply heshowed to his sister. Mrs. Rossall raised her eyebrows resignedly, andreturned the letter in silence. 

'What one expected, I suppose?' said Mr. Athel. 

'I suppose so. Mr. Baxendale probably thinks the man has been applyingfor a position in your pantry. '

'Well, I was obliged, you know, to hint at my reasons for seekinginformation. '

'You did? Then Beatrice knows all about it by this time. As well thatway as any other, I suppose. '

'We shall have to take the matter like reasonable beings, Edith, ' saidher brother, a trifle annoyed by her failure to countenance him. 

'Yes; but you seem anxious that I should rejoice. That would not be veryreasonable. '

Something warned Mr. Athel that he had better abstain from rejoinder. Hepursed his lips and walked away. 

Wilfrid had not spoken of the subject to his aunt since the disclosureat The Firs, and Mrs. Rossall was offended by his silence at least asmuch as by the prospect of his marrying Miss Hood. Clearly he regardedthe matter as no concern of hers, whereas a woman claims by naturalright a share in the matrimonial projects of all her male relatives withwhom she is on a footing of intimacy. Perhaps the main cause of herdispleasure in the first instance had been the fact that things shouldhave got to such a pass without her having as much as suspected theimminence of danger; she regarded Emily as one that had outwitted her. Dearly would she have liked to be able to meet her brother with theassertion that she had suspected it all along; the impossibility ofdoing so--not from conscientious scruples, but because in that case itwould clearly have been her duty to speak--exasperated herdisappointment at the frustration of the match she desired. Now that shewas getting used to the state of things, Wilfrid's behaviour to herbecame the chief ground of her offence. It seemed to her that at leasthe owed some kind of apology for the distress he had naturally causedher; in truth she would have liked him to undertake the task of winningher over to his side. Between her and her nephew there had never existeda warm confidence, and Wilfrid's present attitude was too much aconfirmation of the feeling she had experienced now and then, that hisaffection was qualified with just a little contempt. She was not, sheknew, a strong-minded woman, and on that very account cared more for thespecial dominion of her sex. Since Wilfrid had ceased to be ahobbledehoy, it would have become him to put a little more of thecourtier into his manner towards her. For are there not countries inwhich their degree of kin is no bar to matrimony? Mrs. Rossall was ofthe women who like the flavour of respectful worship in all men who areneither father, brother, nor son. Wilfrid had fallen short of this, andhence the affectation with which she had persisted in regarding him as aschoolboy. His latest exploits were vastly more interesting to her thananything he had done in academic spheres, and she suffered a sense ofexclusion in seeing him so determined to disregard her opinion. 

She persuaded him to row her cut one evening on a lake by which theywere spending a few days. Wilfrid, suspecting that she aimed at a_tete-a-tete_, proposed that his father should accompany them. Mrs. Rossall overruled the suggestion. 

'How wonderfully you are picking up, ' she said, after watching him pullfor a few minutes. 'Do you know, Wilf, your tendency is to stoutness; ina few years you will be portly, if you live too sedentary a life. '

He looked annoyed, and by so doing gratified her. She proceeded. 

'What do you think I overheard one of our spectacled friends say thismorning--"_Sehen Sie mal_, "--you were walking at a littledistance--"_da haben Sie das Muster des englischen Aristokraten_. _O, der gute, schlichte Junge_!"'

Wilfrid had been working up his German. He stopped rowing, red withvexation. 

'That is a malicious invention, ' he declared. 

'Nothing of the kind! The truth of the remark struck me. '

'I am obliged to you. '

'But, my dear boy, what is there to be offended at? The man envied youwith all his heart; and it is delightful to see you begin to look sosmooth about the cheeks. '

'I am neither an aristocrat, nor _schlicht_!'

'An aristocrat to the core. I never knew any one so sensitive on pointsof personal dignity, so intolerant of difference of opinion in others, so narrowly self-willed! Did you imagine yourself to have the air of ahero of romance, of the intense school?'

Wilfrid looked into her eyes and laughed. 

'That is your way of saying that you think my recent behaviourincongruous. You wish to impress upon me how absurd I look from theoutside?'

'It is my way of saying that I am sorry for you. '

He laughed again. 

'Then the English aristocrat is an object of your pity?'

'Certainly; when he gets into a false position. '

'Ah!--well, suppose we talk of something else. Look at the moon risingover that shoulder of the hill. '

'That, by way of proving that you are romantic. No, we won't talk ofsomething else. What news have you from England?'

'None, ' he replied, regarding the gleaming drops that fell from hissuspended oar. 

'And you are troubled that the post brings you nothing?'

'How do you know?'

'Your emotions are on the surface. '

He made no reply. 

'Ah!' Mrs. Rossall sighed, 'what a pity you are so independent. I oftenthink a man's majority ought to come ten years later than it does. Mostof you are mere boys till thirty at least, and you go and do things thatyou repent all the rest of your lives. Dare you promise to come to me inten years and tell me with complete frankness what you think of--acertain step?'

He smiled scornfully. 

'Certainly; let us register the undertaking. '

After pausing a moment, he continued with an outburst of vehemence--acharacteristic of Wilfrid's speech. 

'You illustrate a thought I have often had about women. The majority ofyou, at all events as you get into the world, have no kind of faith inanything but sordid motives. You are cynical beyond anything men canpretend to; you scoff at every suggestion of idealism. I suppose it isthat which makes us feel the conversation of most women of refinement sointolerably full of hypocrisies. Having cast away all faith, you cannotdispense with the show of it; the traditions of your sex must besupported. You laugh in your sleeves at the very things which aresupposed to constitute your claims to worship; you are worldly to thecore. Men are very Quixotes compared with you; even if they put oncynicism for show, they are ashamed of it within themselves. With you, fine feeling is the affectation. I have felt it again and again. Explainit now; defend yourself, if you can. Show me that I am wrong, and I willthank you heartily. '

'My word, what an arraignment!' cried Mrs. Rossall, between amusement athis boldness and another feeling which warmed her cheeks a little. 'Butlet us pass from broad accusation to particulars. I illustrate all theseshocking things--poor me! How do I illustrate them?'

'In the whole of your attitude towards myself of late. You pooh-pooh myfeelings, you refuse to regard me as anything but a donkey, you prophesythat in a year or two I shall repent having made a disinterestedmarriage. I observe the difference between your point of view and myfather's. The worst of it is you are sincere: the circumstances of thecase do not call upon you for an expression of graceful sentiments, andyou are not ashamed to show me how meanly you regard all that is highestand purest in life. '

'Shall I explain it? Women are very quick to get at realities, to seebelow the surface in conduct and profession. We become, you say, worldlyas soon as we get into the world. Precisely because we have to be sowide awake to protect ourselves. We instinctively know the differencebetween the ring of false and true, and as we hear the false so much theoftener Your charge against us of want of real feeling is the result ofyour ignorance of women; you don't see below the surface. '

'Well now, apply all this to the present instance. What has your insightdiscerned in my proposed marriage to cause you to regard it as a pieceof folly?'

'Simply this. You ally yourself with some one from a class beneath yourown. Such marriages very, very seldom prove anything but miserable, and_always_ bring a great many troubles. You will say that Miss Hood israised by education above the class in which she was born; but no doubtshe has relatives, and they can't be entirely got rid of. However, thatisn't the point I lay most stress on. '

'Well?'

'I am quite sure you will make her miserable. You are marrying tooyoung. Your character is not fixed. In a few years, before that, youwill want to get rid of her. '

'Well, that is at all events intelligible. And your grounds for thebelief?'

'You are inconstant, and you are ambitious. You might marry a woman froma class higher than your own, and when it is too late you willunderstand what you have lost. '

'Worldly advantages, precisely. '

'And how if your keen appreciation of worldly advantages results in yourwife's unhappiness?'

'I deny the keen appreciation, in your sense. '

'Of course you do. Come to me in ten years and tell me your opinion ofwomen's ways of thinking. '

This was the significant part of their conversation. Wilfrid came toland confirmed in his views; Mrs. Rossall, with the satisfaction ofhaving prophesied uncomfortable things. 

She had a letter on the following morning on which she recognisedBeatrice Redwing's bend. To her surprise, the stamp was of Dunfield. Itproved that Beatrice was on a visit to the Baxendales. Her mother, priorto going to the Isle of Wight, had decided to accept an invitation to ahouse in the midland counties which Beatrice did not greatly care tovisit; so the latter had used the opportunity to respond to a summonsfrom her friends in the north, whom she had not seen for four years. Beatrice replied to a letter from Mrs. Rossall which had been forwardedto her. 

After breakfast, Mrs. Rossall took her brother aside, and pointed out tohim a paragraph in Beatrice's letter. It ran thus:--

'A very shocking thing has happened, which I suppose I may mention, asyou will necessarily hear of it soon. Miss Hood's father has committedsuicide, poisoned himself; he was found dead on a common just outsidethe town. Nobody seems to know any reason, unless it was trouble of apecuniary kind. Miss Hood is seriously ill. The Baxendales send daily tomake inquiries, and I am afraid the latest news is anything but hopeful. She was to have dined with us here the day after her father's death. '

There was no further comment; the writer went on to speak of certainpeculiarities in the mode of conducting service at St. Luke's church. 

Mr. Athel read, and, in his manner, whistled low. His sister lookedinterrogation. 

'I suppose we shall have to tell him, ' said the former. 'Probably he hasno means of hearing. '

'I suppose we must. He has been anxious at not receiving letters heexpected. '

'How do you know?'

'I had a talk with him last night. '

'Ah, so I thought. The deuce take it! Of course he'll pack off on themoment. What on earth can have induced the man to poison himself?'

Such a proceeding was so at variance with Mr. Athel's views of life thatit made him seriously uncomfortable. It suggested criminality, or atleast lunacy, both such very unpleasant things to be even remotelyconnected with. Poverty he could pardon, but suicide was reallydisreputable. From the philosophic resignation to which he had attained, he fell back into petulance, always easier to him than grave protest. 

'The deuce take it!' he repeated. 

Mrs. Rossall pointed to the words reporting Emily's condition at thetime of writing. 

'That was more than two days ago, ' she said meaningly. 

'H'm!' went her brother. 

'Will you tell him?'

'I suppose I must. Yes, it is hardly allowable even to postpone it. Where is he?'

Wilfrid was found in the hotel garden. 

'Your aunt has had a letter from Beatrice, ' Mr. Athel began, with theawkwardness of a comfortable Englishman called upon to break bad news. 'She is staying in Dunfield. '

'Indeed?'

'There's something in the letter you ought to know. '

Wilfrid looked anxiously. 

'It appears that Miss Hood's father has--don't let it be a shock toyou--has just died, and died, in fact, by his own hands. '

'Has killed himself?' Wilfrid exclaimed, turning pale. 

'Yes, I am sorry to say that is the report. Miss Hood is naturallysuffering from--from the shocking occurrence. '

'She is ill?' Wilfrid asked, when he had examined his father's face fora moment. 

'Yes, I am afraid she is. Beatrice gives no details. '

'You are not keeping anything from me?'

'Indeed, nothing. The words are that she is ill, and, it is feared, seriously. '

'I must go at once. '

It was said with quiet decision. Wilfrid consulted his watch, and walkedrapidly to the hotel. He had to wait a couple of hours, however, beforehe could start on his journey, and he spent the time by himself. Hisfather felt he could be of no use, and Mrs. Rossall found a difficultyin approaching her nephew under such circumstances. 

'You will telegraph?' Mr. Athel said, at the station, by way ofexpressing himself sympathetically. 

The train moved away; and the long, miserable hours of travelling had tobe lived through. Wilfrid's thoughts were all the more anxious from hisignorance of the dead man's position and history. Even yet Emily hadsaid very little of her parents in writing to him; he imagined allmanner of wretched things to connect her silence with this catastrophe. His fears on her own account were not excessive; the state of vigoroushealth into which he had grown during late weeks perhaps helped him toavoid thoughts of a desperate kind. It was bad enough that she lay ill, and from such a cause; he feared nothing worse than illness. But hisuneasiness increased as time went on; the travelling seemed intolerablytardy. He had to decide what his course would be on reaching Dunfield, and decision was not easy. To go straight to the house might result inpainful embarrassments; it would at all events be better first to makeinquiries elsewhere. Could he have recourse to Beatrice? At first thesuggestion did not recommend itself, but nothing better came into hismind, and, as his impatience grew, the obstacles seemed so trifling thathe overlooked them. He remembered that the address of the Baxendales wasunknown to him; but it could easily be discovered. Yes, he would gostraight to Beatrice. 

Reaching London at ten o'clock in the morning, he drove directly toKing's Cross, and pursued his journey northwards. Though worn withfatigue, excitement would not allow him more than a snatch of sleep nowand then. When at length he stepped out at Dunfield, he was in sorryplight. He went to an hotel, refreshed himself as well as he could, andmade inquiry about the Baxendales' address. At four o'clock he presentedhimself at the house, and sent in a card to Beatrice. 

The Baxendales lived in St. Luke's, which we already know as thefashionable quarter of Dunfield. Their house stood by itself, with highwalls about it, enclosing a garden; at the door were stone pillars, thelower half painted a dull red. It seemed the abode of solid people, nottroubled with scruples of taste. It was with surprise that Wilfrid foundhimself in a room abundantly supplied with books and furnished inlibrary fashion. His state of mind notwithstanding, he glanced along afew shelves, discovering yet more unexpected things, to wit, philosophical works. Unfortunately the corners of the room showed bustsof certain modern English statesmen: but one looks for weaknesseseverywhere. 

Beatrice entered, rustling in a light, shimmery dress. Her faceexpressed embarrassment rather than surprise; after the first exchangeof glances, she avoided his eager look. Her hand had lain but coldly inhis. Wilfrid, face to face with her, found more difficulty in speakingthan he had anticipated. 

'I have come directly from Switzerland, ' he began. 'You mentioned in aletter to my aunt that--'

His hesitation of a moment was relieved by Beatrice. 

'You mean Miss Hood's illness, ' she said, looking down at her hands, which were lightly clasped on her lap. 

'Yes. I wish for news. I thought it likely you might know--'

Probably it was the effect of his weariness; he could not speak in hisusual straightforward way; hesitancy, to his own annoyance, made gapsand pauses in his sentences. 

'We heard this morning, ' Beatrice said, looking past his face to thewindow, 'that she is better. The danger seems to be over. '

'There has been danger?'

'The day before yesterday she was given up. '

'So ill as that. ' Wilfrid spoke half to himself, and indeed it cost himan effort to make his voice louder. He began, 'Can you tell me--' andagain paused. 

'Have you heard nothing from any other quarter?' Beatrice asked, after asilence of almost a minute. 

He looked at her, wondering what she knew of his relations to Emily. Itwas clear that his interest occasioned her no surprise. 

'I came away immediately on hearing what your letter contained. There isno one else with whom I could communicate. I hesitated to go to thehouse, not knowing--Will you tell me what you know of this horribleevent?'

Beatrice stroked one hand with the other, and seemed to constrainherself to lock up and to speak. 

'I myself know nothing but the fact of Mr. Hood's death. It took placesome ten days ago, on Monday of last week. I arrived here on theWednesday. '

'Of course there was an inquest--with what results?'

'None, beyond the verdict of suicide. No definite cause could bediscovered. It is said that he suffered from very narrow means. His bodywas found by Mr. Dagworthy. '

'Who is Mr. Dagworthy?'

'I thought you probably knew, ' returned Beatrice, glancing quickly athim. 'He was employed by Mr. Dagworthy as clerk in a manufactory. He hadjust left for his summer holiday. '

'What evidence did his employer give?'

'He only stated that Mr. Hood had been perfectly regular andsatisfactory at his work. '

'Then in truth it is a mystery?'

'Mr. Baxendale thinks that there had been a long struggle with poverty, quite enough to account for the end. '

Wilfrid sat in gloomy silence. He was picturing what Emily must haveendured, and reproaching himself for not having claimed a right to herentire confidence, when it was in his power to make that hard pathsmooth, and to avert this fearful misery. Looking up at length, he metthe girl's eyes. 

'I need not explain myself to you, Beatrice, ' he said, finding at last anatural tone, and calling her by her Christian name because he had muchneed of friendly sympathy. 'You appear to know why I have come. '

She answered rather hurriedly. 

'I should not have known but for something that Mrs. Baxendale told me. Mr. Athel wrote a short time ago to ask for information aboutthem--about the Hoods. '

'He wrote?'

Wilfrid heard it with a little surprise, but without concern. 

'Do you know whether Mrs. Hood is alone--with her?' he went on to ask. 

'I believe so. '

'And she is better?' He added quickly, 'Has she proper attendance? Haveany friends been of aid?'

'The Baxendales have shown much kindness. My aunt saw her yesterday. '

'Will it be long before she is able to leave her room, do you know?'

'I am not able to say. Mrs. Baxendale hopes you will go upstairs and seeher; she can tell you more. Will you go?'

'But is she alone? I can't talk with people. '

'Yes, she is alone, quite. '

He rose. The girl's eyes fixed themselves on him again, and she said:

'You look dreadfully tired. '

'I have not slept, I think, since I left Thun. '

'You left them all well?' Beatrice asked, with a change in her voice, from anxious interest which would have veiled itself, to the tone of onedischarging a formal politeness. 

Wilfrid replied with a brief affirmative, and they ascended the stairstogether to a large and rather dim drawing-room, with a scent of earthand vegetation arising from the great number of growing plants arrangedabout it. Beatrice presented her friend to Mrs. Baxendale, and at oncewithdrew. 

The lady with whom Wilfrid found himself talking was tall and finelymade, not very graceful in her bearing, and with a large face, thesingular kindness of which speedily overcame the first sense ofdissatisfaction at its plainness. She wore a little cap of lace, andfrom her matronly costume breathed a pleasant freshness, akin to theactivity of her flame. Having taken the young man's hand at greeting, she held it in both her own, and with large, grey eyes examined his faceshrewdly. Yet neither the action nor the gaze was embarrassing toWilfrid he felt, on the contrary, something wonderfully soothing in thepressure of the warm, firm hands, and in her look an invitation to therepose of confidence which was new in his experience of women--anexperience not extensive, by the bye, though his characteristicgeneralisations seemed to claim the opposite. He submitted from thefirst moment to an influence maternal in its spirit, an influence whichhis life had lacked, and which can perhaps only be fully appreciatedeither in mature reflection upon a past made sacred by death, or on ameeting such as this, when the heart is open to the helpfulness ofdisinterested sympathy. Mrs. Baxendale's countenance was grave enough tosuit the sad thoughts with which she sought to commune, yet showed anunder-smile, suggesting the consolation held in store by one much athome in the world's sorrows. As she smiled, each of her cheeks dimpledsoftly, and Wilfrid could not help noticing the marvellous purity of hercomplexion, as well as the excellent white teeth just visible betweenher lips. 

'So you have come all the way from Switzerland, ' she said, leading himto a chair, and seating herself by him. Her voice had a touch ofmasculine quality, even as her shape and features, but it chainedattention, and impressed as the utterance of a large and strong nature. 'You are tired, too, with travel; I can see that. When did you reachDunfield?'

'Half an hour ago. '

'And you came here at once. Beatrice and I were on the point of going toHebsworth this afternoon; I rejoice that we did not. I'm continuallyafraid lest she should find the house dull. My husband and myself arealone. My eldest girl was married three months ago, my younger one isjust gone to Germany, and my son is spending half a year in the UnitedStates; the mother finds herself a little forsaken. It was really morethan kind of Beatrice to come and bury herself with me for a week ortwo. '

She passed by tactful transition to the matter in hand. 

'Wasn't it a strange link that she should meet Miss Hood at your house!She has been so saddened. I never yet knew any one who could talk withEmily without feeling deep interest in her. My daughter Louisa, I amconvinced, will never forget what she owes to her teacher She and myyoungest child used to be Miss Hood's pupils--perhaps you have heard?My own Emily--she is dead--was passionately fond of her namesake; shetalked of her among the last words she ever spoke, poor little mite. '

'Miss Redwing tells me you saw her yesterday, ' Wilfrid said. 

'Yes, for the first time. '

'Was she conscious?'

'Quite. But I was afraid to talk to her more than a minute or two; eventhat excited her too much. I fear you must not let her know yet of yourpresence. '

'I am glad I knew nothing of this till the worst was over. From the wayin which she spoke of her father I should have feared horrible things. Did you know him with any intimacy?'

'Only slightly, I am sorry to say. The poor man seems to have had a veryhard life; it is clear to me that sheer difficulty in making ends meetdrove him out of his senses. Are you a student of political economy?'she asked suddenly, looking into Wilfrid's face with a peculiar smile. 

'I am not. Why do you ask?'

'It is the one subject on which my husband and I hold no truce. Mr. Baxendale makes it one of his pet studies, whilst I should like to makea bonfire of every volume containing such cruel nonsense. You must know, Mr. Athel, that I have an evil reputation in Dunfield; my views are helddangerous; they call me a socialist. Mr. Baxendale, when particularlyangry, offers to hire the hall in the Corn Exchange, that I may say mysay and henceforth spare him at home. Now think of this poor man. He hada clerkship in a mill, and received a salary of disgraceful smallness;he never knew what it was to be free of anxiety. The laws of politicaleconomy will have it so, says my husband; if Mr. Hood refused, therewere fifty other men ready to take the place. He couldn't have lived atall, it seems, but that he owned a house in another town, which broughthim a few pounds a year. I can't talk of such things with patience. Here's my husband offering himself as a Liberal candidate for Dunfieldat the election coming on. I say to him: What are you going to do if youget into Parliament? Are you going to talk political economy, and makebelieve that everything is right, when it's as wrong as can be? If so, Isay, you'd better save your money for other purposes, and stay where youare. He tells me my views are impracticable; then, I say, so much theworse for the world, and so much the more shame for every rich man whofinds excuses for such a state of things. It is dreadful to think ofwhat those poor people must have gone through. They were so perfectlyquiet under it that no one gave a thought to their position. When Emilyused to come here day after day, I've often suspected she didn't haveenough to eat, yet it was impossible for me to ask questions, it wouldhave been called prying into things that didn't concern me. '

'She has told me for how much kindness she is indebted to you, ' Wilfridsaid, with gratitude. 

'Pooh! What could I do? Oh, don't we live absurdly artificial lives? Nowwhy should a family who, through no fault of their own, are in the mostwretched straits, shut themselves up and hide it like a disgrace? Don'tyou think we hold a great many very nonsensical ideas about self-respectand independence and so on? If I were in want, I know two or threepeople to whom I should forthwith go and ask for succour; if theythought the worse of me for it, I should tell them they ought to beashamed of themselves. We act, indeed, as if we ourselves had made theworld and were bound to pretend it an admirable piece of work, without ascrew loose anywhere. I always say the world's about as bad a place asone could well imagine, at all events for most people who live in it, and that it's our plain duty to help each other without grimacings. Thedeath of this poor man has distressed me more than I can tell you; itdoes seem such a monstrously cruel thing. There's his employer, a mancalled Dagworthy, who never knew what it was to be withoutluxuries, --I'm not in the habit of listening to scandal, but I believethere's a great deal of truth in certain stories told about hisselfishness and want of feeling. I consider Mr. Dagworthy this poorman's murderer; it was his bounden duty to see that a man in hisemployment was paid enough to live upon, --and Mr. Hood was not. Imaginewhat suffering must have brought about such an end as this. A sadcase, --say people. I call it a case of crime that enjoys impunity. '

Wilfrid listened gloomily. The broad question stirred him to no strongfeeling, but the more he heard the more passionate was his longing tobear Emily away from the scenes of such a past. With what devotion wouldhe mould his life to the one task of healing her memory! Yet he knew itmust be very long before her heart could recover from the all but deadlywound it had received. A feeling which one may not call jealousy, --thatwere too inhuman, --but still one of the million forms which jealousyassumes to torture us, drove him to ask himself what the effect of sucha crisis in her life might be on Emily's love for him. There wouldalways remain in her inmost soul one profound sadness in which he had nopart, and which by its existence would impugn the supremacy of that bondwhich united him and her. 

'How does Mrs. Hood bear it?' he asked, when he found Mrs. Baxendaleagain examining his face. 

'I think Emily's illness has been her great help, --poor creatures thatwe are, needing one great grief to balance another. But she seems in avery weak state; I didn't like her look yesterday. '

'Will you describe her to me?' asked Wilfrid. 

'She is not the kind of mother you would give to Emily. I'm afraid hermiserable life has told upon her greatly, both in mind and body. '

'Emily never spoke of her, though so often of her father. '

'That is what I should have expected. Still, you must not think herquite unworthy. She speaks as an educated woman, and is certainly verydevoted. '

'What of her present position? She must be in extreme difficulties. '

'No, she wants nothing for the present. Friends have been very anxiousto help her. That's what I say, --only let your misery drive you out ofthe world, and people will find out all at once how very easily theymight have saved you. A hundredth part of the interest that has beenshown in the family since poor Mr. Hood's death would have found endlessways of making his life very different. All sorts of people havesuddenly discovered that he really was a very deserving man, and thatsomething ought long since to have been done for him. I don't know whathas been told you of his history. He was once in independent business; Idon't know exactly what. It was only utter failure that drove him to themiserable clerkship. How admirable it was of a man in such circumstancesto have his daughter so well educated!'

Wilfrid smiled. 

'Emily, ' he said with gentle fervour, 'would have found her own way. '

'Ah, don't depreciate his care!' Mrs. Baxendale urged. 'You'll find outby degrees what a great deal of heathen doubt there is in me; amongother things, I am impressed by the power of circumstances. Emily wouldalways have been a remarkable girl, no doubt; but, without hereducation, you and I should not have been talking about her like this, even if we had known her. We can't dispense with these aids; that'swhere I feel the cruelty of depriving people of chances. Men and womengo to their graves in wretchedness who might have done noble things withan extra pound a week to live upon. It does not sound lofty doctrine, does it? But I have vast faith in the extra pound a week. Emily had theadvantage of it, however it was managed. I don't like to think of her asshe might have been without it. What was it Beatrice called meyesterday? A materialist; yes, a materialist. It was a reproach, thoughshe said it in the kindest way; I took it as a compliment. We can't getout of the world of material; how long will the mind support itself onan insufficient supply of dry bread?'

Wilfrid's intellectual sympathies were being aroused by his new friend'soriginal way of talking. He began to feel a keen satisfaction at havingher near him in these troubles. 

'Do you think, ' he asked, returning to his immediate needs, 'that Imight write to her?'

'Not yet; you mustn't think of it yet. '

'Does Mrs. Hood--' he hesitated. 'Do you think Emily has told hermother--has spoken to her of me?'

Mrs. Baxendale looked surprised. 'I can't say; I took it for granted. '

'I wonder why she was reluctant to do so?' Wilfrid said, alreadyspeaking with complete freedom. 'Her father cannot have known; it wouldhave relieved his worst anxieties; he would surely never have beendriven to such things. '

'No; I think not. The poor girl will feel that, I fear. I suppose onecan get a glimpse of her reasons for keeping silence?' She gave Wilfrida friendly glance as she spoke. 

'How glad I am, ' he exclaimed, 'to be able to talk to you! I should havebeen in the utmost difficulties. Think of my position if I had beenwithout a friend in the town. Then, indeed, but for Miss Redwing Ishould have heard nothing even yet. '

'She wrote to you?'

'Not to me; she mentioned the matter in a letter to my aunt, Mrs. Rossall. '

'Did Beatrice--you let me question?--did she know?'

'Only, she says, in consequence of a letter my father addressed to Mr. Baxendale. '

The lady smiled again. 

'I ask because Beatrice is now and then a little mysterious to me. Ispoke to her of that letter in the full belief that she must haveknowledge of the circumstances. She denied it, yet, I thought, as if itwere a matter of conscience to do so. '

'I think it more than likely that my aunt had written to her on thesubject. And yet--no; she would not have denied it to you. That wouldbe unlike her. '

'Yes, I think it would. '

Mrs. Baxendale mused. Before she spoke again a servant entered the roomwith tea. 

'You will be glad of a cup, I am sure, ' said the lady. 'And now, what doyou propose to do? Shall you return to London?'

'Oh, no! I shall stay in Dunfield till I am able to see her. '

'Very well. In that case you will not refuse our hospitality. The longeryou stay the better pleased I shall be. '

She would hear of no difficulties. 

'I wouldn't ask you, ' she said, 'if I were not able to promise you anydegree of privacy you like. A sitting-room is at your disposal--beggingto be occupied since my boy Charlie went away. My husband is over headand ears in electioneering business, foolish man, and I can't tell youhow I feel the need of someone to talk to on other subjects than themanufacture of votes. Where is your luggage?'

Wilfrid named the hotel. 

'It shall be fetched. And now I'll ask my niece to come and pour out teafor us. '

With the entrance of Beatrice the conversation naturally took adifferent turn. She heard with becoming interest of Wilfrid'sestablishment as a guest, and, after a little talk of Mrs. Rossall andthe twins, led to the subject of certain 'revivalist' meetings thenbeing held in Dunfield, an occasion of welcome excitement to such of theinhabitants as could not absorb themselves in politics. Mrs. Baxendaleseemed to regard the religious movement dispassionately, and related astory she had from her husband of a certain prominent townsman driven tosuch a pass by his wife's perpetual absence from home on revivalistexpeditions, that he at length fairly turned the key on her in herbedroom, and through the keyhole bade her stay there till she hadremembered her domestic duties. He was that night publicly prayed for ata great meeting in the Corn Exchange as one who, not content with losinghis own soul, did his best to hold back others from the way of grace. 

Beatrice affected to pay no heed to this anecdote. 

'What is your side in politics?' she asked Wilfrid. 'Here we are alleither Blues or Yellows. '

'What do they represent?' Wilfrid inquired. 

'Oh, you shouldn't ask that, ' said Mrs. Baxendale. 'Yellow is yellow, and Blue, blue; nothing else in the world. I think it an excellent ideato use colours. Liberal and Conservative suggest ideas; names, therefore, quite out of place in Dunfield politics--or any otherpolitics, I dare say, if the truth were known. My husband is a Yellow. It pleases him to call himself a Liberal, or else a Radical. He may havebeen a few months ago; now he's a mere Yellow. I tell him he's inserious danger of depriving himself of two joys; in another month acloudless sky and the open sea will he detestable to him. '

'But what are you, Mr. Athel?' Beatrice asked. 'A Liberal or aConservative? I should really find it hard to guess. '

'In a Yellow house, ' he replied, 'I am certainly Yellow. '

'Beatrice is far from being so complaisant, ' said Mrs. Baxendale. 'Shedetests our advanced views. '

'Rather, I know nothing of them, ' the girl replied. The quiet air withwhich she expressed her indifference evinced a measure of spiritualpride rather in excess of that she was wont to show. Indeed, her mannerthroughout the conversation was a little distant to both her companions. If she jested with Wilfrid it was with the idleness of one condescendingto subjects below the plane of her interests. To her aunt she was rathercourteous than affectionate. 

Whilst they still sat over tea, Mr. Baxendale came in. Like his wife, hewas of liberal proportions, and he had a face full of practicalsagacity; if anything, he looked too wide awake, a fault of shrewd men, constitutionally active, whose imagination plays little part in theirlives. He wore an open frock-coat, with much expanse of shirt-front. Thefore part of his head was bald, and the hair on each side was brushedforward over his ears in a manner which gave him a singular appearance. His bearing was lacking in self-possession; each of his remarks wasfollowed by a short laugh, deprecatory, apologetic. It seemed impossibleto him to remain in a state of bodily repose, even with a cup of tea inhis hand he paced the room. Constantly he consulted his watch--not thathe had any special concern with the hour, but from a mere habit ofnervousness. 

He welcomed the visitor with warmth, at the same time obviouslysuppressing a smile of other than merely polite significance: then hebegan at once to speak of electioneering matters, and did so, pacing thecarpet, for the next half hour. Wilfrid listened with such show ofinterest as he could command; his thoughts were elsewhere, and wearinesswas beginning to oppress him. 

Shortly after dinner fatigue passed the point at which it could bestruggled against. Long waking, the harassment of fears at lengthconsoled, and the exhaustion consequent upon his journey, besieged himwith invincible drowsiness. Mrs. Baxendale, observing it, begged him todiscard ceremony and go to rest. Gladly he suffered himself to be led tohis room; once there, he could not note the objects about him; the veryeffort of taking off his clothes was almost beyond his strength. Sleepwas binding his brows with oblivion, and relaxing every joint. Hisdearest concerns were nothing to him; with a wave of the hand he wouldhave resigned an eternity of love; cry to him blood-chilling horrors, and his eyelids would make no sign. The feather-softness moulded itselfto his limbs; the pillows pressed a yielding coolness to his cheek; hissenses failed amid faint fresh odours. Blessed state! How enviable aboveall waking joys the impotence which makes us lords of darkness, thesilence which suffers not to reach our ears so much as an echo of thefarce of life. 

CHAPTER XV

MRS. BAXENDALE'S QUESTS

A servant went to Banbrigg each morning for tidings; Emily, so thereport said, moved steadily towards recovery. On the second day afterWilfrid's arrival Mrs. Baxendale took him with her in the brougham, andlet him wait for her whilst she made a call upon Mrs. Hood; Wilfrid sawan upper window of which the blind was down against the sun, and wouldgladly have lingered within sight of it. Beatrice had excused herselffrom accompanying the two. 

'I believe, ' Mrs. Baxendale said on the way, 'she has gone to somespecial service at St. Luke's. ' She was mistaken, though Beatrice had intruth been diligent at such services of late. 'Now there, ' she added, 'is a kind of infatuation I find it difficult even to understand. Howcan a girl of her sense and education waste her time in that way? Don'tthink I have no religious belief, Mr. Athel; I'm not strong-mindedenough for that. But this deliberate working of oneself into a state ofnervous excitement seems to me, to speak plainly, indecent. Dr. Wardle, with whom I chat rather wickedly now and then, tells me the revivals arequite a windfall, subsequently, to him and his brethren. And, do youknow, I begin to see bad results even in my niece. I certainly wouldn'thave had her down just at this time if I had suspected her leanings thatway. Didn't you notice how absent she was last night, and again atbreakfast this morning? All revival, I assure you. '

'It's the want of a serious interest in life, ' remarked Wilfrid, remembering, with a smile, a certain conversation between Beatrice andhimself. 

'Then it's so inconsistent, ' continued the lady, 'for--you won't abusemy confidence--a more worldly girl I never knew. In her heart I amconvinced she thinks nothing so important as the doings of fashionablesociety. She asked me, the first day she was here, how I livedwithout--what was it? I quite forget, but some paper or other which isfull of what they call fashionable intelligence. "My dear, " I said, "Iknow none of those people, and care not one grain of salt about theirflutterings hither and thither, their marryings and givings illmarriage, their dresses and their--never mind what. " And what do youthink she answered? "But you will care when my name begins to bementioned. " And she went off with--just so much--toss of the head; youknow how Beatrice does it. Well, I suppose she really does to me anhonour by coming down to my poor dull house; no doubt she's verybrilliant in the world I know nothing about. I suppose you have seen herat her best? She won't waste her graces upon me, wise girl; onlythe--you know the movement--when I've shown my ignorance now and then. Did you ever dance with her?'

'Oh, yes; frequently. '

'I should like to see her in a ball-room. Certainly there are few girlsmore handsome; I suppose that is admitted?'

'Certainly; she queens it everywhere. '

'And her singing is lovely! Do you know a thought I often have? When Ihear her singing it seems to me as if she were not quite the same personas at other times; she affects me, I can't quite tell you how; it's asort of disenchantment to talk to her immediately afterwards. '

Wilfrid liked Mrs. Baxendale the more, the more he talked with her; in aday or two the confidence between them was as complete as if theiracquaintance had been life-long. With her husband, too, he came to be onan excellent footing. Mr. Baxendale got him into the library when theladies retired for the night, and expatiated for hours on the details ofhis electoral campaign. At first Wilfrid found the subject tedious, butthe energy and bright intelligence of the man ended by stirring hisinterest in a remarkable way. It was new to Wilfrid to be in conversewith such a strenuously practical mind; the element of ambition in him, of less noble ambition which had had its share in urging him to academictriumphs, was moved by sympathetic touches; he came to understand theenthusiasm which possessed the Liberal candidate, began to be concernedfor his success, to feel the stirrings of party spirit. He aidedBaxendale in drawing up certain addresses for circulation, and learnedthe difference between literary elegance and the tact which gets at theear of the multitude. A vulgar man could not have moved him in this way, and Baxendale was in truth anything but vulgar. Through his life he hadbeen, on a small scale, a ruler of men, and had ruled with conspicuoussuccess, yet he had preserved a native sincerity and wrought under theguidance of an ideal. Like all men who are worth anything, either inpublic or private, he possessed a keen sense of humour, and was tooawake to the ludicrous aspects of charlatanry to fall into the pits itoffered on every band. His misfortune was the difficulty with which heuttered himself; even when he got over his nervousness, words came tohim only in a rough-and-tumble fashion; he sputtered and fumed and beathis forehead for phrases, then ended with a hearty laugh at his owninarticulateness, Something like this was his talk in the library ofnights:

'There's a man called Rapley, an old-clothes dealer--fellow I can't gethold of. He's hanging midway--what do you call it?--trimming, with aneye to the best bargain. Invaluable, if only I could get him, but ascoundrel. Wants pay, you know; do anything for pay; win the electionfor me without a doubt, if only I pay him; every blackguard in Dunfieldhand and glove with him. Now pay I won't, yet I'm bound to get that man. Talked to him yesterday for two hours and thirty-five minutes by theparish church clock, just over his shop--I mean the clock is. The fellowhasn't a conviction, yet he can talk you blue; if I had his powers ofspeech--there it is I fail, you see. I have to address a meetingtomorrow; Rapley 'll be up at me, and turn me inside out. He'd do asmuch for the other man, if only I'd pay him. That isn't my idea; I'mgoing to win the election clean-handed; satisfaction in looking back onan honest piece of work; what? I'll have another talk with himto-morrow. Now look at this map of the town; I've coloured it with muchcare. There you see the stronghold of the Blues. I'm working thatdistrict street by street--a sort of moral invasion. No humbug; I set myface against humbug. If a man's a rogue, or a sot, or a dirty rascal, Iwon't shake hands with him and pretend--you know--respect, friendship, how are your wife and children, so on. He's a vote, and I've only todeal with him as a vote. Can he see that two and two make four? Good;I'm at him by that side. There are my principles; what have you to urgeagainst them? He urges damned absurdities. Good; I _prove_ to him thatthey are damned absurdities. '

At times Wilfrid managed to lead the talk to other subjects, such aswere suggested by the books around the room. Baxendale had read not alittle, and entirely in the spheres of fact and speculation. Politicaleconomy and all that appertained to it was his speciality, but he wasremarkably strong in metaphysics. Wilfrid had flattered himself that hewas tolerably familiar with the highways of philosophy, but Baxendalemade him feel his ignorance. The man had, for instance, read Kant withextraordinary thoroughness, and discussed him precisely as he did hiselectioneering difficulties; the problems of consciousness he attackedwith hard-headed, methodical patience, with intelligence, moreover, which was seldom at fault. Everything that bore the appearance of a knotto be unravelled had for him an immense attraction. In mere mentalcalculation his power was amazing. He took Wilfrid over his manufactoryone day, and explained to him certain complicated pieces of machinery;the description was not so lucid as it might have been, owing to lack ofwords, but it manifested the completest understanding of things which tohis companion were as hard as the riddle of the universe. His modesty, withal, was excessive; to Wilfrid's humane culture he deferred at alltimes; for all the learning which lay outside his own sphere he hadboundless reverence. Wilfrid's gain by him was not only of a pleasantpersonal acquaintance; the intercourse extended his views, and inparticular gave direction to much that had hitherto been vaguepotentiality in his character. In more than one sense this visit toDunfield was to prove a turning point in his life. 

Beatrice, in the meantime, held herself apart; Wilfrid had never beforefelt himself so little at ease in her presence. It was as though theshort time which had elapsed since their last meeting had effected apermanent change in their mutual relations. Previously their intercoursehad gone as far in familiarity as was possible if it were not to takequite a new colour; now all at once this past seemed to go for nothing. Beatrice was the active source of change. She was deliberately--he couldnot doubt it--extending the distance between them, annulling bygoneintimacy, shifting into ineffective remoteness all manner of commonassociations. Things she would formerly have understood at a half-wordshe now affected to need to have explained to her. He was 'Mr. Athel' toan extent he had never been before; and even of his relatives she spokewith a diminished familiarity. She emphasised at every moment thecharacteristics which were alien to his sympathies, talked of the'revival' _ad nauseam_, or changed with alarming suddenness from that totopics of excessive frivolousness. Wilfrid little by little ceased toconverse with her, in the real sense of the word; he even feltuncomfortable in her presence. And Mrs. Baxendale had clear eyes for atall events the outward features of the situation. 

On the fifth day of Wilfrid's presence in the house, Beatrice took theopportunity of being alone with her aunt to observe that she must gosouthwards by a certain train next morning. 

'Oh, surely not!' protested Mrs. Baxendale. 'I can't spare you yet. Andyour mother is still in Berkshire. '

'Yes, but that makes no difference to me, you know, ' said Beatrice. 'I'moften at home by myself. Indeed I must go to-morrow. '

'Won't you stay if I beg you? It's four years since you were here, andwho knows how long it will be before I entrap you again. You've alreadythreatened me, you know, with the peerage, and I'm very sure you won'tdeign to honour me when that day comes. Now, there's a good girl--to theend of the week at least. '

It seemed as though Beatrice would persist. 

'Now, if it were not such an unlikely thing, ' said her aunt, 'I shouldbe disposed to think it was Mr. Athel who is driving you away. '

'Mr. Athel!' the girl exclaimed, almost haughtily, and with a flushwhich disappeared as rapidly as it came, leaving the lovely face with atouch of exquisite paleness. 

'I mean, ' said Mrs. Baxendale quickly, averting her honest eyes, 'that Ifear he has offended you. '

'How can Mr. Athel have offended me?' Beatrice asked, with a certainseverity. 

'I thought perhaps--a remark he made last night on the revival. '

Mrs. Baxendale felt ill at ease. Her first sentence had beeninconsiderate; she knew it as soon as it was uttered, and indeed did notquite see what could have induced her to make such a remark. She had notthe habit of nice conversation which endows with complete command of thetongue. But her wits had, as you see, come to her rescue. 

'Mr. Athel's opinions on that subject are not likely to offend me, 'Beatrice replied, with the shadow of a smile. 

'I am so afraid lest he should suspect anything of the kind. I am sureit would grieve him dreadfully. '

The girl laughed outright, though not with much joyousness. 

'Mr. Athel be grieved for such a cause! My dear aunt, you don't knowhim. He's as little sensitive as any man could be. Why, he holds it aduty to abuse people who do things he counts foolish. '

'You exaggerate, ' returned her aunt, with a smile. 

Beatrice continued, vivaciously. 

'Oh, you don't know him as well as I do. We used to be alwayswrangling--in the days of my simplicity. I have been marvelling at hisforbearance; it would have been nothing wonderful if he had called me anidiot. Frankness of that kind is the mark of his friendship--haven'tyou found that out? Hasn't he taken occasion yet to inform you that yourlife is conducted on an utterly mistaken principle, that you are shallowand inefficient, that you are worse than useless in the world, andought, if properly constituted, to be a torment to yourself? None ofthese things he has said? Oh, then you are not admitted to Mr. Athel'sintimacy; you are not of the inner circle. '

She spoke with a kind of reckless gaiety, a mocking merriment which herrich voice and command of facial expression made very effective. Itstartled her hearer, who, when the girl ceased, took one of her handsand patted it kindly. 

'Why then, ' she said, 'I have been altogether mistaken; for I did reallythink he had offended you. But now I'm sure you'll stay--won't you?'

'Rather than you should think I run away from Mr. Athel's highcensure--certainly. '

Then she became silent, and shortly left the room. Mrs. Baxendale sat byherself musing. 

She was a woman given to thoughtfulness, for all that she used hertongue freely when with those she liked. She did not greatly seek suchsociety as Dunfield had to offer, and partly on that account, partlyowing to alarms excited by her caustic comments on matters of popularinterest, the ladies of the town left her abundance of leisure. She usedit well. Though not a highly-educated woman, she read constantly, andbooks of a solid kind. Society in Dunfield had its book club, and Mrs. Baxendale enjoyed the advantage of choosing literature which herfellow-members were very willing to let her keep as long as she liked. Beatrice derived much amusement from her aunt's method of reading. Beatrice, with the run of Mr. Mudie's catalogues, would havehalf-a-dozen volumes in her lap at the same time, and as often as notget through them--_tant bien que mal_--in the same day. But to theprovincial lady a book was a solid and serious affair. To read a chapterwas to have provided matter for a day's reflection; the marker was putat the place where reading had ceased, and the book was not re-openedtill previous matter had been thoroughly digested and assimilated. Itwas a slow method, but not without its advantages, I assure you. 

Perhaps to relieve her worthy aunt of any lingering anxiousness, Beatrice, throughout the day, wore an appearance of much contentment, and to Wilfrid was especially condescending, even talking with himfreely on a subject quite unconnected with her pet interests. Thatevening two gentlemen, politicians, dined at the house; Beatrice, undercover of their loud discussions in the drawing-room, exchanged certainremarks with Wilfrid. 

'My aunt was so good as to apologise to me on your behalf this morning, 'she began. 

'Apologise? What have I been guilty of?'

'Oh, nothing. She doesn't appreciate the freemasonry between us. Itoccurred to her that your remarks on my--well, my predilections, mighthave troubled me. Judge how amused I was!'

She did not look at him from the first, and appeared to be examining, even whilst she spoke, a book of prints. 

'I sincerely hope, ' Wilfrid replied, 'that I have uttered no thoughtlesspiece of rudeness. If I have, I beg you to forgive me. '

She glanced at him. He appeared to speak seriously, and it was the kindof speech he would never have dreamed of making to her in former days, at all events in this tone. 

'You know perfectly well, ' she answered, with slow voice, bending tolook more closely at a page, 'that you never said anything to me whichcould call for apology. '

'I am not so sure of that, ' Wilfrid replied, smiling. 

'Then take my assurance now, ' said Beatrice, closing her book, andrising to move towards her aunt. As she went, she cast a look back, alook of curious blankness, as if into vacancy. 

She sang shortly after, and the souls of the politicians were stirredwithin them. For Wilfrid, he lay back with his eyes closed, his heartborne on the flood of music to that pale-windowed room of sickness, whose occupant must needs be so sadly pale. The security he felt in theknowledge that Emily grew better daily made him able to talk cheerfullyand behave like one without preoccupation, but Emily in truth was neverout of his mind. He lived towards the day when he should kneel at herfeet, and feel once more upon his forehead those cold, pure lips. Andthat day, as he believed, was now very near. 

To her aunt's secret surprise, Beatrice allowed the end of the week tocome and go without any allusion to the subject of departure. It was allthe more strange, seeing that the girl's show of easy friendliness withWilfrid had not lasted beyond the day; she had become as distant andself-centred as before. But on the morning of the following Tuesday, asMrs. Baxendale sat reading not long after breakfast, Beatrice enteredthe room in her light travelling garb, and came forward, buttoning herglove. 

'You are going out?' Mrs. Baxendale asked, with some misgiving. 

'Yes--to London. They are calling a cab. You know how I dislikepreparatory miseries. '

Her aunt kept astonished silence. She looked at the girl, then down ather book. 

'Well, ' she said at length, 'it only remains to me to remember the oldproverb. But when is the train? Are you off this moment?'

'The train leaves in five-and-twenty minutes. May I disturb uncle, doyou think?'

'Ah, now I understand why you asked if he would be at home through themorning. I'll go and fetch him. '

She went quickly to the library. Mr. Baxendale sat there alone. 

'Beatrice is going, ' she said, coming behind his chair. 'Will you comeand say good-bye?'

Mr. Baxendale jumped up. 

'Going? Leaving?'

His wife nodded. 

'Why? What is it? You haven't quarrelled with her about theprayer-meetings?'

'No. It's a fancy of hers, that's all. Come along; she's only twentyminutes to catch the train. '

When they reached the drawing-room, Beatrice was not there. Upon Mrs. Baxendale's withdrawal she had gone to Wilfrid's door and knocked at it. Wilfrid was pacing about in thought. It surprised him to see who hisvisitor was; yet more, when she advanced to him with her hand extended, saying a simple 'Good-bye. '

'Good-bye? Wherefore?'

Her attire explained. Beatrice possessed the beauty of form and facewhich makes profit of any costume; in the light-brown cape, and hat tomatch, her tall, lithe figure had a womanly dignity which suited wellwith the unsmiling expressiveness of her countenance. The 'good-bye' wasuttered briefly and without emphasis, as one uses any insignificant formof speech. 

Wilfrid resolved at once to accept her whim; after all, it was butanother instance of frequent eccentricities. 

'Who is going to the station with you?' he asked. 

'No one. I hate partings on the platform. '

She moved away almost as far as the door, then turned again. 

'You will be in town before going back to Oxford?'

Wilfrid hesitated. 

'Oh, never mind, ' she said; and was gone. 

Ten minutes later Wilfrid went to the drawing-room. Mr. And Mrs. Baxendale were talking together; they became silent as he entered. 

'Has Miss Redwing gone?' he asked. 

'She took leave of you, didn't she?' replied the lady. 

'Yes. But it was So unprepared for, I half thought it might be a joke. '

'Oh, she's fond of these surprises, ' Mrs. Baxendale said, in a tone ofgood-natured allowance. 'On the whole I sympathise with her; I myselfprefer not to linger over such occasions. '

Later in the day Mrs. Baxendale drove out to Banbrigg, this time alone. On her return, she sought Wilfrid and found him in his room. There wasconcern on her face. 

'I have heard something very painful from Mrs. Hood, ' she began. 'Itseems that Emily is in ignorance of her father's death. '

Wilfrid looked at her in astonishment. 

'I told you, ' Mrs. Baxendale pursued, 'that she had not been altogetherwell just before it happened, but it now appears that the dreadfulincident of her entering the room just when the body was brought in musthave taken place when she was delirious. The poor woman has had nosuspicion of that; but it is proved by Emily's questions, now that shebegins to talk. Of course it makes a new anxiety. Mrs. Hood has notdared to hint at the truth, but it cannot be concealed for long. '

'But this is most extraordinary, ' Wilfrid exclaimed, 'What, then, wasthe origin of her illness?'

'That is the mystery. Mrs. Hood's memory seems to be confused, but I gother to allow that the feverish symptoms were declared even the nightbefore the death was known. I hardly like to hint it, but it reallyseemed to me as if she were keeping something back. One moment she saidthat Emily had been made ill by anxiety at her father's lateness incoming home that night, and the next she seemed, for some reason, unwilling to admit that it was so. The poor woman is in a sad, sadstate, and no wonder. She wishes that somebody else might tell Emily thetruth; but surely it will come most easily from her. '

Wilfrid was deeply distressed. 

'It is the very worst that still remains, ' he said, 'and we thought theworst was over. What does the doctor say? Can she bear it yet? It isimpossible to let her continue in ignorance. '

It was at length decided that Mrs. Baxendale should visit the doctor, and hear his opinion. She had got into her mind a certain distrust ofMrs. Hood, and even doubted whether Emily ought to be left in her handsduring convalescence; there was clearly no want of devotion on themother's part, but it appeared to Mrs. Baxendale that the poor woman hadbeen overtaxed, and was herself on the point of illness, perhaps ofmental failure. From going well things had suddenly taken an anxiousturn. 

CHAPTER XVI

RENUNCIATION

When Emily returned from the wastes of ravaged mind, and while yet theimages of memory were hardly distinguished from the ghosts of deliriousdream, the picture that haunted her with most persistency, with anobjective reality the more impressive the clearer her thought became, was one which she could least comprehend or account for. She saw lyingbefore her a closely muffled form, the outline seeming to declare itthat of a man. The struggle of new-born consciousness was to associatesuch a vision with the events which had preceded her illness. Perchancefor a day, perchance only for an hour, however long the unmeasuredtransition from darkness to the dawn of self-knowledge, she suffered theoppression of this mechanical questioning. At length the presence of hermother by the bedside became a fact, and it led on to the thought of herfather. Her eyes moved in search for him. 

The act of speech, in health a mere emphasis of thought, was only to beattained by repetition of efforts; several times she believed herself tohave spoken whilst silence still pressed her lips. Only when therecollection of her last waking day was complete, and when the absenceof her father from the room linked itself to memory of her anguishedwaiting for him, did she succeed in uttering the words which representedher fear. Her mother was bending over her, aware of the new light in herquestioning eyes. 

'Where's father?' Emily asked. 

'You shall see him, dear, ' was the reply. 'Don't speak. '

'He came home?'

'Yes, he came home. '

Emily fell back into thought; this great fear allayed, the only now, like an angel coming from afar over dark waters, past continued torebuild itself within her mind. And now, there gleamed the image of herlove. It had been expelled from memory by the all-possessing woe ofthose last hours; it returned like a soothing warmth, an assuagement ofpain. As though soul-easing music sounded about her, she again lost herhold on outward things and sank into a natural sleep. 

Mrs. Hood feared the next waking. The question about her father, sheattributed to Emily's incomplete command of her faculties, for she hadnot doubted that the muffled figure on the couch had been consciouslyseen by the girl and understood. Yet with waking the error prolongeditself; it became evident at length that Emily knew nothing of hercoming down to the sitting-room, and still had to learn that her fatherno longer lived. It was a new suffering under which the poor woman gaveway. Already her natural affliction was complicated with a sense ofpainful mysteries; in her delirium, Emily had uttered words which therewas no explaining, but which proved that there had been some hiddenconnection between her mental trouble and her father's failure to returnat the usual hour. Dagworthy's name she had spoken frequently, and withwords which called to mind the sum of money her father had somehowprocured. Mrs. Hood had no strength to face trials such as these. Aslong as her child's life seemed in danger, she strove with a mother'spredominant instinct to defend it; but her powers failed as Emily passedout of peril. Her outlook became blank; physical exhaustion joined withmental suffering began to render her incapable of further efforts. Fortunately, Mrs. Baxendale perceived this in time. A nurse wasprovided, in addition to the one who had assisted Mrs. Hood, and themother became herself the object of care. 

Emily had been told that her father was ill, but this fiction it wassoon impossible to maintain. Three days after the last reportedconversation between Wilfrid and Mrs. Baxendale, it was determined thatthe latter must take upon herself the office of telling Emily the truth. Mrs. Hood implored her to do so; the poor mother was sinking into astate which scarcely left her the command of her mind, and, though shecould not sustain the duty herself, it was her harassing desire that itmight quickly be performed. So at length the revelation was made, madewith all the forbearance and strengthening tenderness of which astrong-souled woman is capable. But the first syllables prepared Emilyfor the whole truth. A secret dread, which she had not dared to confessto herself on that last evening, though probably it brought about thecrisis in her suffering, and which the false assurances recently givenher had perhaps not wholly overcome, rushed forth as soon as evil washinted at. The softened statement that her father had been stricken downby a natural malady did not for a moment deceive her. She closed hereyes; the pillows which supported her were scarcely whiter than herface. But she was soon able to speak with perfect self-control. 

'Was he brought home wrapped in something?' she asked. 'With his facecovered?'

'He was, Emily. '

'How and where did I see him? For I know I did see him. '

'Your mother has told me that you rose from your bed, and went to theroom below. She did not realise that you were unconscious; she believedthat you knew of this. '

This was her dread vision. As if to protect herself from it, she raisedher hand and laid it across her eyes. Then it fell again to thecoverlet--thin, flower-like hand, which in its translucency of fleshseemed to have been created by spirit for its chosen abode. 

When silence had lasted some moments--

'Now that I know he is dead, ' Emily resumed--oh, the sad music of thelast word!--'I can bear to hear the manner of it without disguise. Willyou tell me the whole truth, Mrs. Baxendale?'

It was spoken like herself. Ever clinging to sincerity, ever ready toface the truth of things, in how many a matter of less moment had thegirl spoken with just this directness, inspiring respect in all whoheard her clear, candid voice. 

Mrs. Baxendale sank her eyes, and hesitated. 

'He died by his own hand, ' Emily said, below her breath. 

The lady kept silence. Emily again closed her eyes, and, as she so lay, felt warm lips touch her forehead. 

Mrs. Baxendale believed for a moment that the sufferer had lostconsciousness, but the utterance of her name caused Emily to raise herlids. 

'Why did he do this?' she asked, regarding her friend fixedly. 

'No one can say, dear. '

Emily drew a deep sigh; a gleam passed over her face. 

'There was an inquest?' she asked. 

'Yes. '

'Is it possible for me to see a newspaper in which it was reported?'

'If you really desire it, ' said Mrs. Baxendale, with hesitation. 

'I do; I wish to read it. Will you do me that great kindness?'

'I will bring it you in a day or two. But would it not be better todelay--'

'Is there anything, ' Emily asked quickly, 'that you have kept from me?'

'Nothing; nothing. '

'Then I need not put off reading it. I have borne the worst. '

As Mrs. Baxendale left the house, she was passed at a short distancealong the road by a man on horseback. This rider gave a sign to thecoachman to stop, and a moment after presented himself at the window ofthe brougham. It was Dagworthy; he wished to have news of Mrs. And MissHood. The lady gave him full information. 

'I fear I could not see Mrs. Hood?' Dagworthy said. 

'Oh, she is far too ill!' was the reply. 

Having assured himself on this point, Dagworthy took his leave, and, when the carriage was remote, rode to the house. He made fast the reinsto the gate, entered, and knocked at the door. A girl who didsubordinate work for the nurses opened. 

'I want you, ' Dagworthy said, 'to give this note at once to Miss Hood. You understand?--to Miss Hood. Will you do so?'

'I will, sir. '

He went away, and, immediately after, Emily was reading these lines:

'I wish to tell you that no one has heard, and no one ever will, of thecircumstances you would desire to have unknown. I send this as soon asyou are able to receive it. You will know from whom it comes. '

She knew, and the message aided her. The shook of what she had justheard was not, in its immediate effect, as severe as others had fearedit would be. Perhaps Emily's own sojourn at the gates of death lessenedthe distance between her and him who had passed them; perhaps the vastmisery which lay behind her, the darkness threatening in the future, brought first to her mind death's attribute of deliverance. This, in thehours that followed, she strove to dwell upon nothing could touch herfather now, he was safe from trouble. But, as the current in her veinsgrew warmer, as life held her with a stronger hand and made her oncemore participant in his fears and desires, that apparition of themotionless veiled form haunted her with access of horror. If she sleptit came into her dreams, and her waking thoughts strove with hideouswilfulness to unmuffle that dead face. When horror failed, its place wastaken by a grief so intense that it shook the fabric of her being. Shehad no relapse in health, but convalescence was severed from all itsnatural joys; she grew stronger only to mourn more passionately. Inimagination she followed her father through the hours of despair whichmust have ensued on his interview with Dagworthy. She pictured hisstruggle between desire to return home, to find comfort among those heloved, and the bitter shame which forbade it. How had he spent the time?Did he wander out of the town to lonely places, until daylight failed?Did he then come back under the shadow of the night, come back all butto the very door of his dwelling, make one last effort to face thosewithin, pass on in blind agony? Was he on the heath at the very hourwhen she crossed it to go to Dagworthy's house? Oh, had that been hisfigure which, as she hurried past, she had seen moving in the darknessof the quarry?

A pity which at times grew too vast for the soul to contain absorbed herlife, the pity which overwhelms and crushes, which threatens reason. That he should have lived through long years of the most patientendurance, keeping ever a hope, a faith, so simple-hearted, so void ofbitter feeling, so kindly disposed to all men--only to be vanquished atlength by a moment of inexplicable weakness, only to creep aside, andhide his shame, and die. Her father, whom it was her heart's longing totend and cherish through the brighter days of his age--lying there inhis grave, where no voice could reach him, remote for ever from thesolace of loving kindness, his death a perpetuation of woe. The crueltyof fate had exhausted itself; what had the world to show more pitifulthan this?

No light ever came to her countenance; no faintest smile ever touchedher lips. Through the hours, through the days, she lay heedless ofthings around her, solely occupied with the past, with affliction, withremorse. Had it not been in her power to save him? A word from her, andat this moment he would have been living in cheerfulness such as he hadnever known. She would have had but to turn her head, and his smilewould have met her; the rare laugh, so touching to her always, wouldhave become less rare; his struggles would have been over. She hadwilled that he should die, had sent him forth relentlessly to his lasttrial, to his forsaken end. Without a leave-taking he had gone forth;his last look had been at her blank windows. That hour was passed intoeternity, and with it the better part of her life. 

On the first day that she rose from her bed, she went, with the nurse'said, to her mother's room. What she saw there was a new shock; hermother's face had aged incredibly, and wore a look of such feebleintelligence that to meet her eyes was more than painful. Upon theartificial maintenance of her strength throughout Emily's illness hadfollowed a collapse of the vital powers; it seemed doubtful whether shewould ever regain her normal state of mind and body. She knew herdaughter, and, when Emily kissed her, the muscles of her haggard facecontracted in what was meant for a smile; but she could not use hervoice above a whisper, and her words were seldom consequent. 

Two days later Mrs. Baxendale again paid a visit. Emily was sitting inher bed-room, unoccupied, on her countenance the sorrow-stricken gravitywhich never quitted it. The visitor, when she had made her inquiries, seemed to prepare herself to speak of some subject at once important andcheerful. 

'For a fortnight, ' she said, 'I have had staying with me someone whomyou will be glad to hear of--your nearest friend. '

Emily raised her eyes slowly to the speaker's face; clearly sheunderstood, but was accustoming herself to this unexpected relationbetween Mrs. Baxendale and Wilfrid. 

'Mr. Athel came from Switzerland as soon as he heard of your illness. '

'How did he hear?' Emily inquired, gravely. 

'My niece, Miss Redwing, whom you knew, happened to be visiting me. Shewrote to Mrs. Rossall. '

Emily was silent. The lines of her mouth showed a slight tremor, but nocolour sought her cheeks. The news was affecting her strongly, but onlyin the way in which she now received every impression; physical weaknesshad the effect of reducing outward demonstration of feeling, and herspiritual condition favoured passiveness. 

'He has asked me to give you a letter, Emily, ' pursued Mrs. Baxendale, saddened by the sight of such intense sadness. 

Emily took the letter, and laid it on a table near her, murmuring herthanks. 

'He is well?' she asked, as the other did not speak. 

'Quite; his holiday has completely restored him. You can't think howglad I am to have come to know him, and to have him near me. Suchexcellent friends we are! You can think how anxious he has been; and hisfather scarcely less so. The inquiries have been constant. The othershave just got home; Mr. Athel had a letter from London this morning. Thelittle girls send you a message; I believe you will find the letterenclosed. '

At the mention of the twins, the slightest smile came upon Emily's lips. 

'You are fond of them, I see, ' said the lady. 'That they ire fond ofyou, needs no telling. Oh, and Clara writes from Germany to ask if shemay write to you yet. Shall I let her?'

A few more words, and Mrs. Baxendale rose. Emily retained her hand. 

'You have not yet had from me one word of gratitude, Mrs. Baxendale, 'she said. 'Indeed, I have no words in which to thank you. '

The lady kissed her forehead, pressed the thin hand again, and went fora few moments to Mrs. Hood's room before departing. 

It was nearly an hour before Emily took up the letter to open it. Whenat length she did so, she found that it covered only a small sheet ofnotepaper. Enclosed was a letter from Mr. Athel, announcing the family'sarrival in London, asking in a kind tone for the latest news, andrepeating the message from the twins of which Mrs. Baxendale had spoken. Wilfrid wrote with admirable delicacy and feeling; he forgot himselfwholly in her affliction, and only in those simplest words which canstill be made the most powerful uttered the tenderness which he hopedmight speak some comfort to her heart. He did not ask to see her; wouldshe not bid him come to her in her own good time? And only if herstrength rendered it quite easy, he begged for one word of reply. Mrs. Baxendale would visit her again very shortly, and to her the answercould be given. 

Emily returned the writings to their envelope, and sat through the dayas she had sat since morning, scarcely ever moving, without heed ofthings that were said or done in the room. Before quitting the chair forher bed, she went to spend a quarter of an hour by her mother, whosehand she held throughout the time. Mrs. Hood lay in the same state ofsemi-consciousness alternating with sleep. In the night she generallywandered a little. But she did not seem to suffer pain. 

To-night Emily could not sleep; hitherto her rest had been profoundbetween sunset and early morning. As she had sat through the day, so shelay now, her eyes fixed in the same intent gaze, as on somethingunfolding itself before her. When the nurses had ceased to move about, the house was wrapped in a stillness more complete than of old, for theclock had not been touched since the night when the weight fell. In theroom you might have heard now and then a deep sigh, such sigh as comesfrom a soul overcharged. 

Mrs. Baxendale allowed one day to intervene, then came again. She didnot directly speak of Wilfrid, and only when she sat in significantsilence, Emily said:

'To-morrow I shall go downstairs. Will you ask Mr. Athel to come and seeme?'

'Gladly I will. At what hour shall he come?'

'I shall be down by eleven. '

Later in the day, Mrs. Cartwright and Jessie called. Hitherto Emily hadbegged that no one might be admitted save Mrs. Baxendale; she felt itwould be unkindness to refuse her friends any longer, and the visitorscame up and sat for a while with her. Both were awed by the face whichmet them; they talked scarcely above a whisper, and were sadly troubledby the necessity of keeping a watch upon their tongues. 

Emily was now able to descend the stairs without difficulty. The firstsight of the little parlour cost her a renewal of her keenest suffering. There was the couch on which his dead body had been placed; that thechair in which he always rested after tea before going up to thelaboratory; in a little frame on the mantelpiece was his likeness, anold one and much faded. She moved about, laying her hand on this objectand that; she took the seat by the window where she had waited eachevening, till she saw him at the gate, to rise at once and open to him. She had not shed tears since that last day of his life, and now it wasonly a passing mist that dimmed her eyes. Her sorrow was not of the kindwhich so relieves itself. 

She had come down early, in order to spend some time in the room beforeWilfrid's arrival. She sat in her father's chair, once more in theattitude of motionless brooding. But her countenance was not asself-controlled as during the past days; emotions, struggles, at workwithin her found their outward expression. At times she breathedquickly, as if in pain; often her eyes closed. In her worn face, thefeatures marked themselves with strong significance; it was beauty of akind only to be felt by a soul in sympathy with her own. To others shewould have appeared the image of stern woe. The gentleness which hadbeen so readily observable beneath her habitual gravity was absorbed inthe severity of her suffering and spiritual conflicts; only a touchingsuggestion of endurance, of weakness bearing up against terriblefatality, made its plea to tenderness. Withal, she looked no older thanin the days of her happiness; a young life, a young heart, smitten withunutterable woe. 

When the sound of the opening gate made itself heard, she lay back for amoment in the very sickness of pain it recalled the past so vividly, andchilled her heart with the fear of what she had now before her. Shestood, as soon as the knock came at the front door, and kept the sameposition as Wilfrid entered. 

He was startled at the sight of her, but in an instant was holding bothher hands, gazing deep into her eyes with an ecstasy of tenderness. Hekissed her lips, and, as he did so, felt a shudder in the hands hepressed. A few whispered words were all that he could speak; Emily keptsilence. Then he sat near to her; her hand was still in his, but gave nosign of responsive affection, and was very cold. 

'It was kind to let me see you so soon, ' he said. Her fixed look of hardsuffering began to impress him painfully, even with a kind of fear. Emily's face at this moment was that of one who is only half sensible towords spoken. Now she herself spoke for the first time. 

'You will forgive me that I did not write. It would have been better, perhaps; it would have been easier to me. Yet why should I fear to sayto you, face to face, what I have to say?'

The last sentence was like self-questioning uttered aloud; her eyes werefixed on him, and with appeal which searched his heart. 

'Fear to say to me?' Wilfrid repeated, gravely, though withoutapprehension. 'Has your suffering made strangers of us?'

'Not in the way you mean, but it has so changed my life that I cannotmeet you as I should have done. ' Her utterance quickened; her voice lostits steadiness. 'Will you be very generous to me--as good and noble asit is in your heart to be? I ask you to give me back my promise--torelease me. 

'Emily!'

He gazed at her in bewilderment. His thought was that she was notherself; her manner since his entrance seemed to confirm it; thetortured lines of her face seemed to express illusory fears. 

'Emily! Do you know what you say, dearest?'

'Yes; I know what I say, and I know how hard you find it to believe me. If I could explain to you what it is that makes this change, you wouldnot wonder at it, you would understand, you would see that I am doingthe only thing I can do. But I cannot give you my reasons; that must bemy sad secret to the end of my life. You feel you have a claim to hearthe truth; indeed, indeed, you have; but you will be forbearing andgenerous. Release me, Wilfrid; I ask it as the last and greatest proofof the love you gave me. '

He rose with a gesture of desperation. 

'Emily, I cannot bear this! You are ill, my own darling; I should havewaited till you were stronger. I should have left you more time to turnyour thoughts to me from these terrible things you have passed through. 'He flung himself by her side, grasping her hands passionately. 'Dearone, how you have suffered! It kills me to look into your face. I won'tspeak; let me only stay by you, like this, for a few minutes. Will notmy love calm you--love the purest and tenderest that man ever felt? Iwould die to heal your heart of its grief!'

With a great sob of uttermost anguish, she put back his hands, rose fromthe chair, and stood apart. Wilfrid rose and gazed at her in dread. Hadthe last calamity of human nature fallen upon her? He looked about, asif for aid. Emily read his thoughts perfectly; they helped her to adesperate composure. 

'Wilfrid, ' she said, 'do I speak like one not in her perfect mind?'

'I cannot say. Your words are meaningless to me. You are not the Emily Iknew. '

'I am not, ' was her sad answer. 'If you can bring yourself to believethat truth, you will spare yourself and me. '

'What do you mean when you say that?' he asked, his voice intensified insuppression. 'If you are in full command of yourself, if your memoryholds all the past, what can have made of you another being? We dare notplay with words at a time such as this. Tell me at least one thing. Do Iknow what it was that caused your illness?'

'I don't understand you. '

Her eyes examined him with fear. 

'I mean, Emily--was it solely due to that shock you received? Or wasthere any previous distress?'

'Has anything led you to think there was?' she asked, urgently. 

'Mrs. Baxendale tells me you--Emily, why have I to pain you in thisway?'

'But tell me--tell me What did she say?'

'That on coming to yourself you did not know of your father's death. '

'It is true; I did not. My illness began before. '

Wilfrid stood with his eyes on the ground. 

'Tell me, again, ' she said. 'What else did Mrs. Baxendale say?'

'Nothing. Her surprise when she heard this from your mother was as greatas mine when it was repeated to me. '

'It is true, ' Emily repeated, more calmly, as if relieved. 'I don't tryto conceal that there is a reason I may not speak of. Will you notbelieve that it is strong enough to change my life? If I did not tellyou this, you might indeed refuse to listen to me, thinking I was notmyself. I cannot tell you more--I cannot, I cannot!'

She pressed her palms upon her forehead; it throbbed with pain scarcelyto be borne. Wilfrid, after a moment of wretched hesitation, saidgravely:

'What _you_ forbid me to ask, I may not even wish to know. I have cometo regard your will as the seal upon everything that is true and right. Knowing this, seeing me here before you with my best hopes at stake, doyou tell me that something has happened which makes the bond between usof no effect, which lays upon you a duty superior to that of the pledgeyou gave me?'

She met his gaze, and answered firmly, 'I do. '

'Some duty, ' he continued, with quivering voice, 'compared with whichthe sacredness of our love is nothing?'

She trembled from head to foot; then, as if clutching at a last help, said:

'I do not love you. '

And she waited with her head bowed. Wilfrid, taking up his hat, went toher and offered his hand. When hers was given:

'Raise your eyes and look at me, Emily. '

She did so. 

'You are still in the shadow of a great grief, and it may well be thatall other things seem trivial. I wish to respect you to the uttermost, and I will try to conceive that there is a motive high enough to justifyyou. But those last words must be repeated--when time has come to youraid--before I can regard them as final. '

He released her hand, and left her. .. . 

What was her first sensation, when the door had closed, then the gatewithout, and Wilfrid in very deed was gone? Was it hopeless misery, failure, dread foresight of the life which she still must live? Ratherher mood was that of the martyr who has held firm to the last wrench oftorture, who feels that agony is overcome and fear of self surpassed. This possibility had there ever been in Emily, though associating withsuch variant instincts. Circumstances had brought the occasion whichweighed one part of her nature against the other, and with this result. 

You may not judge her coldly; yet it is possible to indicate thosepoints which connect her enthusiasm of sacrifice with the reasonings andemotions of the impartial mind. In the moment that she heard of herfather's self-destruction, she knew that her own destiny was cast; thestruggle with desire, with arguments of her self-love, with claims ofothers, this also she foresaw and measured. Her resolve came of theinteraction of intense feeling, feeling which only process of time couldreduce from its morbid predominance, and that idealism which was thekeynote of her personality. It was not that she condemned herself forhaving refused to pay the price which would have saved her father; shemay have done so in her wildest paroxysms of grief, but in the silenceswhich ensued she knew that there is an arbiter above natural affection, and that not with impunity could a life be purchased by the death of asoul. She had refused; it might be she would still have refused had sheforeseen the worst; but could she move on over her father's body to alife of joy? Not only did piety forbid it; the compassionate voice ofher heart cried against what she deemed such cruelty. Her father wasdead; nothing that she did henceforth would concern him for good or ill;none the less in her eyes was his claim upon her, the claim of one shehad tenderly loved calling to her for pity from that desolate grave. Which of us entirely out-reasons that surviving claim of the beloveddead? Which of us would, in his purest hour, desire to do so? She couldnot save him, but, as she valued her most precious human privileges, shedared not taste the fruits of life of which he was for ever robbed. Between her and happiness loomed that agonising face, She mightdisregard it, might close her eyes and press on, might live down the oldsacred pity and give herself to absorbing bliss what would be the truevalue of that she gained? Nay, it was idle to affect that she had thechoice. She felt that the first memory of that face in the midst ofenjoyment would break her heart. Those last dark hours of his she mustlive and relive in her own mind. Dead? He was dead? Oh, did not thevery tones of his voice linger in the rooms where she sat? Could she notsee him enter, hold to her his hand, bend and kiss her? Did she notfancy constantly that his foot sounded on the floor above her, up in thebare little room, where she had parted from him unkindly? Why, deathmeant but little, for at any moment he was in truth standing by her. Years of unhappiness, and then to be put aside and forgotten as soon asthe heavy clods of earth had fallen upon him? To think of that was to bedriven almost to madness by the impotence of grief. Rather than allow ajoy to tempt her thought, she would cast life from her and be hiscompanion in that narrow home. 

And her character brought it about that the very strength of her lovefor Wilfrid acted as another impulse to renunciation. Which had been thestronger motive in her refusal to sacrifice herself--the preservation ofher chaste womanhood, or the inability to give up him she loved? Couldshe, at the tribunal of her conscience, affirm that her decision hadheld no mixture of the less pure? Nay, had she not known that revolt ofself in which she had maintained that the individual love was supreme, that no title of inferiority became it? She saw now more clearly thanthen the impossibility of distinguishing those two motives, or ofweighing the higher and the lower elements of her love. One way therewas, and one way only, of proving to herself that she had not fallenbelow the worthiness which purest love demanded, that she had indeedoffered to Wilfrid a soul whose life was chastity--and that must beutterly to renounce love's earthly reward, and in spirit to be faithfulto him while her life lasted. The pain of such renunciation was twofold, for did she not visit him with equal affliction? Had she the right to dothat? The question was importunate, and she held it a temptation of herweaker self. Wilfrid would bear with her. He was of noble nature, andher mere assurance of a supreme duty would outweigh his personalsuffering. On him lay no obligation of faithfulness to his first love; aman, with the world before him, he would, as was right, find another toshare his life. To think that was no light test of steadfastness inEmily the image of Wilfrid loving and loved by another woman wrung thesinews of her heart. That she must keep from her mind; that was morethan her strength could face and conquer. It should be enough to lovehim for ever, without hope, without desire. Faithfulness would cost herno effort to purify herself in ideal devotion would be her sustenance, her solace. 

What of her religion of beauty, the faith which had seen its end in thenourishment of every instinct demanding loveliness within and without?What of the ideal which saw the crown of life in passion triumphant, which dreaded imperfectness, which allowed the claims of sense equallywith those of spirit, both having their indispensable part in thecomplete existence? Had it not conspicuously failed where religionshould be most efficient? She understood now the timidity which had everlurked behind her acceptance of that view of life. She had never beenable entirely to divest herself of the feeling that her exaltation inbeauty-worship was a mood born of sunny days, that it would fail amidshocks of misfortune and prove a mockery in the hour of the soul's direneed. It shared in the unreality of her life in wealthy houses, amid theluxury which appertained only to fortune's favourites, which surroundedher only by chance. She had presumptuously taken to herself the religionof her superiors, of those to whom fate allowed the assurance of peace, of guarded leisure wherein to cultivate the richer and sweeter flowersof their nature. How artificial had been the delights with which shesoothed herself! Here, all the time, was the reality; here in this poorhome, brooded over by the curse of poverty, whence should come shame andwoe and death. What to her now were the elegance of art, the lovelinessof nature? Beauty had been touched by mortality, and its hues were ofthe corpse, of the grave. Would the music of a verse ever again fill herwith rapture? How meaningless were all such toys of thought to one whosepath lay through the valley of desolation!

Thus did Emily think and feel in this sombre season, the passionateforce of her imagination making itself the law of life and the arbiterof her destiny. She could not take counsel with time; her temperamentknew nothing of that compromise with ardours and impulses which is thewisdom of disillusion. Circumstances willed that she should suffer bythe nobleness of her instincts those endowments which might in a happierlot have exalted her to such perfection of calm joy as humanity mayattain, were fated to be the source of misery inconceivable by naturesless finely cast. 

CHAPTER XVII

THEIR SEVERAL WAYS

As Wilfrid quitted the house, the gate was opened by Jessie Cartwright, who, accompanied by one of her sisters, was bringing Emily some finegrapes, purchased, in the Cartwright manner, without regard to expense. The girls naturally had their curiosity excited by the stranger ofinteresting, even of aristocratic, appearance, who, as he hurried by, east at them a searching look. 

'Now, who ever may that be?' murmured Jessie, as she approached thedoor. 

'A doctor, I dare say, ' was her sister's suggestion. 

'A doctor! Not he, indeed. He has something to do with Emily, dependupon it. '

The servant, opening to them, had to report that Miss Hood was toounwell to-day to receive visitors. Jessie would dearly have liked to askwho it was that apparently had been an exception, but even she lackedthe assurance necessary to the putting of such a question. The girlsleft their offering, and went their way home; the stranger affordedmatter for conversation throughout the walk. 

Wilfrid did not go straight to the Baxendales'. In his distracted statehe felt it impossible to sit through luncheon, and he could notimmediately decide how to meet Mrs. Baxendale, whether to take her intohis confidence or to preserve silence on what had happened. He was notsure that he would be justified in disclosing the details of such aninterview; did he not owe it to Emily to refrain from submitting heraction to the judgment of any third person? If in truth she were stillsuffering from the effects of her illness, it was worse than unkind torepeat her words; if, on the other hand, her decision came of adequatemotives, or such as her sound intelligence deemed adequate, was itpossible to violate the confidence implied in such a conversationbetween her and himself? Till his mind had assumed some degree ofcalmness, he could not trust himself to return to the house. Turningfrom the main road at a point just before the bridge over the river, hekept on the outskirts of the town, and continued walking till he hadalmost made the circuit of Dunfield. His speed was that of a man whohastened with some express object; his limbs seemed spurred to activityby the gallop of his thoughts. His reason would scarcely accept theevidence of consciousness that he had indeed just heard such things fromEmily's lips; it was too monstrous for belief; a resolute incredulitysustained him beneath a blow which, could he have felt it to be meant invery earnest, would have deprived him of his senses. She did not, shecould not, know what she had said! Yet she spoke with such cruelappearance of reasoning earnestness; was it possible for a diseased mindto assume so convincingly the modes of rational utterance? Whatconceivable circumstances could bring her to such a resolution? Herwords, 'I do not love you, ' made horrible repetition in his ears; it wasas though he had heard her speak them again and again. _Could they betrue_? The question, last outcome of the exercise of his imagination onthe track of that unimaginable cause, brought him to a standstill, physically and mentally. Those words had at first scarcely engaged histhought; it was her request to be released that seriously concerned him;that falsehood had been added as a desperate means of gaining her end. Yet now, all other explanations in vain exhausted, perforce he gave heedto that hideous chime of memory. It was not her father's death thatcaused her illness that she admitted, Had some horrible complicationintervened, some incredible change come upon her, since he left England?He shook off this suggestion as blasphemy. Emily? His high-souled Emily, upon whose faith he would stake the breath of his life? Was his ownreason failing him?

Worn out, he reached the house in the middle of the afternoon, and wentto his own sitting-room. Presently a servant came and asked whether hewould take luncheon. He declined. Lying on the sofa, he still tormentedhimself with doubt whether he might speak with Mrs. Baxendale. That ladyput an end to his hesitation by herself coming to his room. He sprangup. 

'Don't move, don't move!' she exclaimed in her cheery way. 'I have onlycome to ask why you resolve to starve yourself. You can't have had lunchanywhere?'

'No; I am not hungry. '

'A headache?' she asked, looking at him with kind shrewdness. 

'A little, perhaps. '

'Then at all events you will have tea. May I ask them to bring it here?'

She went away, and, a few minutes after her return, tea was brought. 

'You found Emily looking sadly, I'm afraid?' she said, with one of theprovincialisms which occasionally marked her language. 

'Yes, ' Wilfrid replied; 'she looked far too ill to be up. '

He had seated himself on the sofa. His hands would not hold the tea-cupsteadily; he put it down by his side. 

'I fear there is small chance of her getting much better in that houseof illness, ' said Mrs. Baxendale, observing his agitation. 'Can't wepersuade her to go somewhere? Her mother is in excellent hands. '

'I wish we could, ' Wilfrid replied, clearly without much attention tohis words. 

'You didn't propose anything of the kind?'

He made no answer. A short silence intervened, and he felt there was nochoice but to declare the truth. 

'The meeting was a very painful one, ' he began. 'It is difficult tospeak to you about it. Do you think that she has perfectlyrecovered?--that her mind is wholly--'

He hesitated; it was dreadful to be speaking in this way of Emily. Thesound of his voice reproached him; what words would not appear brutal insuch a case?

'You fear--?'

Wilfrid rose and walked across the room. It seemed impossible to speak, yet equally so to keep his misery to himself. 

'Mrs. Baxendale, ' he said at length, 'I am perhaps doing a very wrongthing in telling you what passed between us, but I feel quite unable todecide upon any course without the aid of your judgment. I am in aterrible position. Either I must believe Emily to speak withoutresponsibility, or something inexplicable, incredible, has come to pass. She has asked me to release her. She says that something has happenedwhich makes it impossible for her ever to fulfil her promise, somethingwhich must always remain her secret, which I may not hope to understand. And with such dreadful appearance of sincerity--such a face of awfulsuffering--'

His voice failed. The grave concern on Mrs. Baxendale's visage was notencouraging. 

'Something happened?' the latter repeated, in low-toned astonishment. 'Does she offer no kind of explanation?'

'None--none, ' he added, 'that I can bring myself to believe. '

Mrs. Baxendale could only look at him questioningly. 

'She said, ' Wilfrid continued, pale with the effort it cost him tospeak, 'that she has no longer any affection for me. '

There was another silence, of longer endurance than the last. Wilfridwas the first to break it. 

'My reason for refusing to believe it is, that she said it when she haddone her utmost to convince me of her earnestness in other ways, andsaid it in a way--How is it possible for me to believe it? It is onlytwo months since I saw her on the Castle Hill. '

'I thought you had never been here before?'

'I have never spoken to you of that. I came and left on the same day, Itwas to see her before I went to Switzerland. '

'I am at a loss, ' said Mrs. Baxendale. 'I can only suggest that she hashad a terrible shock, and that her recovery, or seeming recovery, hasbeen too rapid. Yet there is no trace of wandering in her talk with me. '

'Nor was there to-day. She was perfectly rational. Think of one's beingdriven to hope that she only _seemed_ so!'

'Did you speak of correspondence?'

'No. I said that I could not agree to what she asked of me until she hadrepeated it after a time. I left her scarcely knowing what I spoke. Whatshall I do? How can I remain in doubt such as this? I said I wished foryour help, yet how can you--how can anyone--help me? Have Iunconsciously been the cause of this?'

'Or has anyone else consciously been so?' asked the lady, with meaning. 

'What? You think--? Is it possible?'

'You only hinted that your relatives were not altogether pleased. '

Wilfrid, a light of anger flashing from his eyes, walked rapidly thelength of the room. 

'She admitted to me, ' he said, in a suppressed voice, 'that her illnessbegan before her father's death. It was not that that caused it. Youthink that someone may have interfered? My father? Impossible! He is aman of honour; he has written of her in the kindest way. '

But there was someone else. His father was honourable; could the same besaid of Mrs. Rossall? He remembered his conversation with her on thelake of Thun; it had left an unpleasant impression on his mind--underthe circumstances, explicable enough. Was his aunt capable of dastardlybehaviour? The word could scarcely be applied to a woman's conduct, andthe fact that it could not made disagreeably evident the latitudeconceded to women in consideration of their being compelled to carry onwarfare in underhand ways. Suppose an anonymous letter. Would not Mrs. Rossall regard that as a perfectly legitimate stratagem, if she had sether mind on resisting this marriage? Easy, infinitely easy was it tobelieve this, in comparison with any other explanation of Emily'sbehaviour. In his haste to seize on a credible solution of thedifficulty, Wilfrid did not at first reflect that Emily was a veryunlikely person to be influenced by such means, still more unlikely thatshe should keep such a thing secret from him. It must be remembered, however, that the ways of treachery are manifold, and the idea had onlypresented it to his mind in the most indefinite form. As it was, itdrove him almost to frenzy. He could not find a calm word, nor was itindeed possible to communicate to Mrs. Baxendale the suspicion whichoccupied him. She, watching him as he stood at a distance, all butforgot her anxious trouble in admiration of the splendid passion whichhad transformed his features. Wilfrid looked his best when thusstirred--his best, from a woman's point of view. The pale cast ofthought was far from him; you saw the fiery nature asserting itself, andwondered in what direction these energies would at length find scope. Mrs. Baxendale, not exactly an impressionable woman, had a moment ofabsent-mindedness. 

'Come here and sit down, ' she said, the motherly insistance of the tonepossibly revealing her former thought. 

He threw himself on the couch. 

'Of course, ' she continued, 'this must remain between Emily and yourselfmy own relations to her must be precisely as they have been, as if I hadheard nothing. Now I think we may conclude that the poor girl isperfectly aware of what she is doing, but I no more than yourselfbelieve her explanation. In some way she has come to regard it as a dutyto abandon you. Let Emily once think it a duty, and she will go throughwith it if it costs her life; so much I know of her; so much it is easyto know, if one has the habit of observing. May I advise you? Do not tryto see her again, but write briefly, asking her whether the mystery shespoke of in any way connects itself with you. You will know how to putit so as to exact the answer you require. Suppose you write such a noteat once; I will send it as soon as it is ready. You are in the tormentof doubts; no misery as bad as that. Does this plan recommend itself toyou?'

'Yes; I will write. '

'Then I will take myself off whilst you do so. Ring the bell and sendfor me as soon as you are ready. It is only half-past four; Emily willhave your letter in an hour, and surely will reply at once. '

The letter was written, at greater length perhaps than was quitenecessary, and Mrs. Baxendale speeded it on its way. Wilfrid begged thathe might be excused from attendance at the dinner-table. 

'By all means, ' was Mrs. Baxendale's reply. 'The more so that we havepoliticians again, and I fear you would not be in the mood to make funof them as you did the other night. '

'Make fun of them? No, I was in earnest. I got interested in theirsubjects, and found I had more to say than I thought. '

'Well, well; that is your politeness. Now lie down again, poor boy. Butyou must promise to cat what I send you; we have quite enough illness onour hands, remember. '

'I may have the answer before then, ' Wilfrid said, moodily. 

He had; it came in less than two hours from the messenger's departure. He was alone when the servant brought it to him. Emily wrote:--

'Wilfrid, --The change is in myself, in my heart, in my life. Nothinghave I heard against you; nothing have I imagined against you; theinfluence of which I spoke is in no way connected with you. Let this, Iimplore you, be final. Forgive me, forgive me, that I seem to inflictpain on you so heedlessly. I act as I must; my purpose is unchangeable. '

Having been apprised of the messenger's return, Mrs. Baxendale enteredWilfrid's room as soon as she had dressed for dinner. He sat at thetable, the letter lying open before him. As Mrs. Baxendale approached, he held the sheet to her. 

'Then my last conjecture is fruitless, ' she said, letting her hand fall. 'We cannot doubt her word. '

'Doubt it? No. There is nothing for me but to believe all she said. '

He let his face fall upon his hands; the bitterness of fate was enteringhis inmost heart. 

'No, no, you shall not give way, ' said his friend, just touching hisfingers. 'It all looks very sad and hopeless, but I will not believe itis hopeless. Refuse to believe that one worst thing, the only thing forwhich there is no remedy. Come, defy yourself to believe it! You arestrong enough for that; there is manhood in you for anything that isworth bearing, however hard. '

He could not reply to her encouragement; who cannot devise words ofexhortation? and what idler than such words when the heart agonises?

'Try and listen to me, Wilfrid. If I make you angry with me, it isbetter than abandoning yourself to despondency. I firmly believe thatthis is a matter which time will bring right. Emily is acting hastily; Iam convinced of that. Time is on your side; try and accept him as afriend. We are not living in a novel; there are no such things asmysteries which last a lifetime. Your part is to draw upon all themanliness you own, to have faith in yourself, and to wait. Have faith inher, too; there are few like her; some day you will see that this onlymade her better worth winning. --Now answer me a question. '

Wilfrid raised his head. 

'Do you not in your heart believe that she is incapable of folly orwrongheadedness?'

'I believe that no truer woman lives. '

'And rightly, be sure of it. Believing that, you know she cannot breakher word to you without some reason which you would yourself say wasgood and sufficient. She imagines she has such a reason; imagines it inall sincerity. Time will show her that she has been in error, and shewill confess it. She has all her faculties, no doubt, but a trial suchas this leads her to see things in ways we cannot realise. '

'You forget that it is _not_ this shock that has so affected her. '

'Wilfrid, remember that her father's death is itself mysterious. She mayknow more of what led to it than anyone else does. She may very wellhave foreseen it; it may have distracted her, the cause, whatever itwas. She could not disclose anything--some secret, perhaps--that nearlyconcerned her father; you know how strong were the ties between them. '

Perhaps it was inevitable that a suggestion of this kind shouldultimately offer itself. Wilfrid had not hit upon the idea, for he hadfrom the first accepted without reflection the reasons for Hood'ssuicide which were accepted by everyone who spoke of the subject. Mrs. Baxendale only delivered herself of the thought in fervour ofkindly-devised argument. She paused, reviewing it in her mind, but didnetlike to lay more stress upon it. Wilfrid, also thoughtful, keptsilence. 

'Now, there's the gong, ' Mrs. Baxendale continued, 'and I shall have togo to the politicians. But I think I _have_ given you a grain ofcomfort. Think of a prosy old woman inciting _you_ to endure for thesake of the greatest prize you can aim at? Keep saying to yourself thatEmily cannot do wrong; if she did say a word or two she didn'tmean--well, well, we poor women! Go to bed early, and we'll talk againafter breakfast to-morrow. '

She gave him her hand, and hurried away. Even in his wretchedness, Wilfrid could not but follow her with his eyes, and _feel_ somethinglike a blessing upon her strong and tender womanhood. 

Fortunate fellow, who had laid behind him thus much of his earthlyjourney without one day of grave suffering. Ah, something he should havesacrificed to the envious gods, some lesser joy, that the essentialhappiness of his life might be spared him. Wilfrid had yet to learn thatevery sun which rises for us in untroubled sky is a portent ofinevitable gloom, that nature only prolongs our holiday to make thejourney-work of misery the harder to bear. He had enjoyed the way of hiswill from childhood upwards; he had come to regard himself as exemptfrom ill-fortune, even as he was exempt from the degradation of materialneed; all his doings had prospered, save in that little matter of hisovertaxed health, and it had grown his habit to map the future with agenerous hand, saying: Thus and thus will I take my conquering course. Knowing love for the first time, he had met with love in return, love tothe height of his desire, and with a wave of the hand he had swept thetrivial obstacles from his path. Now that the very sum of his exultantyouth offered itself like a wine-cup to his lips, comes forth themysterious hand and spills relentlessly that divine draught. See how heturns, with the blaze of royal indignation on his brow I Who of gods ormen has dared thus to come between him and his bliss? He is not wont tobe so thwarted; he demands that the cup shall be refilled and broughtagain; only when mocking laughter echoes round him, when it is but tooplain that the spirits no longer serve him, that where he most desireshis power is least, does his resentment change by cold degrees to thatchill anguish of the abandoned soul, which pays the debt of so many anhour of triumph. For the moment, words of kindness and sustaining hopemight seem to avail him; but there is the night waiting in ambush forhis weakness, that season of the sun's silence, when the body denuded ofvestment typifies the spirit's exposure to its enemies. Let him livethrough his fate-imposed trial in that torture-chamber of ancientdarkness. He will not come forth a better man, though perchance a wiser;wisdom and goodness are from of old at issue. Henceforth he will haveeyes for many an ugly spot in his own nature, hidden till now by theveil of happiness. Do not pity him; congratulate him rather that theinevitable has been so long postponed. 

He put on a bold face at breakfast next morning, for he could notsuppose that Mrs. Baxendale would feel any obligation to keep his secretfrom her husband, and it was not in his character to play the knight ofthe dolorous visage. You saw the rings round his eyes, but he was ableto discuss the latest electioneering intelligence, and even to utter oneor two more of those shrewd remarks by which he had lately been provingthat politics were not unlikely to demand more of his attention someday. But he was glad when he could get away to the drawing-room, toawait Mrs. Baxendale's coming. He tried to read in a volume of Boswellwhich lay out; at other times the book was his delight, now it had thesucculence of a piece of straw. He was in that state of mind when fiveminutes of waiting is intolerable. He had to wait some twenty beforeMrs. Baxendale appeared. Only a clinging remnant of common-sense kepthim from addressing her sourly. Wilfrid was not eminently patient. 

'Well, what counsel has sleep brought?' she asked, speaking as if shehad some other matter on her mind--as indeed she had--a slightdifficulty which had just arisen with the cook. 

'I should not be much advanced if I had depended upon sleep, ' Wilfridreplied cheerlessly. Always sensitive, he was especially so at thismoment, and the lady seemed to him unsympathetic. He should have allowedfor the hour; matters involving sentiment should never be touched tillthe day has grown to ripeness. The first thing in the morning a poet iscapable of mathematics. 

'I fear you are not the only one who has not slept, ' said Mrs. Baxendale. 

Wilfrid, after waiting in vain, went on in a tone very strange to him:

'I don't know what to do; I am incapable of thought. Another night likethe last will drive me mad. You tell me I must merely wait; but I cannotbe passive. What help is there? How can I kill the time?'

Mrs. Baxendale was visibly harder than on the previous evening. Ahalf-smile caused her to draw in her lips; she played with thewatch-chain at her girdle. 

'I fear, ' she said, 'we have done all that can be done. Naturally youwould find it intolerable to linger here. '

'I must return to London?'

'Under any other circumstances I should be the last to wish it, but Isuppose it is better that you should. '

He was prepared for the advice, but unreason strove in him desperatelyagainst the facts of the situation. It was this impotent quarrel withnecessity which robbed him of his natural initiative and made Mrs. Baxendale wonder at his unexpected feebleness. To him it seemedsomething to stand his ground even for a few minutes. He could haveeased himself with angry speech. Remember that he had not slept, andthat his mind was sore with the adversary's blows. 

'I understand your reluctance, ' Mrs. Baxendale pursued. 'It's like asurrendering of hope. But you know what I said last night; I could onlyrepeat the same things now. Don't be afraid; I will not. '

'Yes, ' he murmured, 'I must go to London. '

'It would be far worse if you had no friend here. You shall hear from meconstantly. You have an assurance that the poor thing can't run away. '

In the expressive vulgar phrase, Wilfrid 'shook himself together. ' Hebegan to perceive that his attitude lacked dignity; even in our miserywe cannot bear to appear ignoble. 

'I will leave you to-day, ' he said, more like his old self. 'But thereare other things that we must speak of. What of Emily's practicalposition?'

'I don't think we need trouble about that. Mr. Baxendale tells me he hasno doubt that the house in Barnhill can be sold at all events for a sumthat will leave them at ease for the present. As soon as Mrs. Hood getsbetter, they must both go away. You can trust me to do what can bedone. '

'It is my fear that Emily will find it difficult to accept yourkindness. '

'It will require tact. Only experience can show what my course must be. '

'I sincerely hope the house _will_ be sold. Otherwise, the outlook isdeplorable. '

'I assure you it will be. My husband does not give up anything he hasonce put his hand to. '

'I shall keep my own counsel at home, ' Wilfrid said. 

'Do so, certainly. And you will return to Oxford?'

'I think so. I shall find it easier to live there--if, indeed, I canlive anywhere. '

'I had rather you hadn't added that, ' said Mrs. Baxendale withgood-natured reproof. 'You know that you will only work the harder justto forget your trouble. That, depend upon it, is the only way of killingthe time, as you said; if we strike at him in other ways we only succeedin making him angry. '

'Another apophthegm, ' said Wilfrid, with an attempt at brightness. 'Youare the first woman I have known who has that gift of neatness inspeech. '

'And you are the first man who ever had discernment enough to complimentme on it. After that, do you think I shall desert your cause?'

Wilfrid made his preparations forthwith, and decided upon a train earlyin the afternoon. At luncheon, Mr. Baxendale was full of good-naturedregrets that his visit could not be prolonged till the time of theelection--now very near. 

'When your constituents have sent you to Westminster, ' said Wilfrid, 'Ihope you will come and report to me the details of the fight?'

So he covered his retreat and retrieved in Mrs. Baxendale's eyes hisweakness of the morning. She took him to the station in her brougham, but did not go on to the platform. Their parting was very like that oflovers, for it ended with mutual promises to 'write often. ' Mrs. Baxendale was down-hearted as she drove home--in her a most unusualthing. 

Two days later she went to Banbrigg, carrying the satisfactory news thatat last a sale of the Barnhill property had been negotiated. To Emilythis intelligence gave extreme relief; it restored her independence. Having this subject to speak of made the meeting easier on both sidesthan it could otherwise have been. Emily was restlessly anxious to takeupon herself the task of nursing her mother; with the maid to help her, she declared herself able to bear all responsibilities, and persisted sostrongly that Mrs. Baxendale had no choice but to assent to the nursewho had remained being withdrawn. She could understand the need ofactivity which possessed the girl, but had grave fears of the result ofan undertaking so disproportioned to her strength. 

'Will you promise me, ' she said, 'to give it up and get help if you findit is trying you excessively?'

'Yes, ' Emily replied, 'I will promise that. But I know I shall be betterfor the occupation. '

'And you will let me still come and see you frequently?'

'I should miss you very much if you ceased to, ' was Emily's answer. 

Both felt that a difficulty had been surmounted, though they looked atit from different sides. 

October passed, and the first half of November. Mrs. Hood had not risenfrom her bed, and there seemed slight chance that she ever would; shewas sinking into hopeless imbecility. Emily's task in that sick-room wasone which a hospital nurse would have found it burdensome to support;she bore it without a sign of weariness or of failure in physicalstrength. Incessant companionship with bodily disease was the leastoppressive of her burdens; the state of her mother's mind afflicted herfar more. Occasionally the invalid would appear in full possession ofher intellect, and those were the hardest days; at such times she wasincessantly querulous; hours long she lay and poured forth complaintsand reproaches. When she could speak no more for very weariness, shemoaned and wept, till Emily also found it impossible to check the tearswhich came of the extremity of her compassion. The girl was superhumanin her patience; never did she speak a word which was not of perfectgentleness; the bitterest misery seemed but to augment the tenderness ofher devotion. Scarcely was there an hour of the day or night that shecould claim for herself; whilst it was daylight she tended the suffererceaselessly, and her bed was in the same room, so that it often happenedthat she lay down only to rise before she could sleep. Her task waslighter when her mother's mind strayed from the present; but even thenMrs. Hood talked constantly, and was irritated if Emily failed inattention. The usual subject was her happiness in the days before hermarriage; she would revive memories of her school, give long accounts ofher pupils, even speak of proposals of marriage which she had had thepleasure of declining. At no time did she refer to Hood's death, butoften enough she uttered lamentations over the hardships in which hermarriage had resulted, and compared her lot with what it might have beenif she had chosen this or that other man. Emily was pained unspeakablyby this revelation of her mother's nature, for she knew that it was idleto explain such tendencies of thought as the effect of disease; it was, in truth, only the emphasising of the faults she had always found it sohard to bear with. She could not understand the absence of a single noteof affection or sorrow in all these utterances, and the fact was indeedstrange, bearing in mind Mrs. Hood's outburst of loving grief when herhusband was brought home, and the devotedness she had shown throughoutEmily's illness. Were the selfish habits of years too strong for thosebetter instincts which had never found indulgence till stirred by thesupreme shock? Thinking over the problem in infinite sadness, this wasthe interpretation with which Emily had to satisfy herself, and she sawin it the most dreadful punishment which a life-long fault could haveentailed. 

Though to her mother so sublimely forbearing, in her heart she knew toowell the bitterness of revolt against nature's cruelty; her own causesof suffering became almost insignificant in her view of the tragedy oflife. Was not this calamity upon her surviving parent again a result ofher own action? Was it possible to avoid a comparison between thisblasted home and the appearance it might at this moment have presentedif she had sacrificed herself? What crime had she ever been guilty ofthat such expiation could be demanded of her? She mocked at her miseryfor so questioning; as if causes and effects were to be thus discernedin fate's dealings. Emily had never known the phase of faith which findscomfort in the confession of native corruptness, nor did the desolationof her life guide her into that orthodox form of pessimism. She was notconscious of impurity, and her healthy human intelligence could only seeinjustice in the woe that had befallen her. From her childhood up shehad striven towards the light, had loved all that is beautiful, hadworshipped righteousness; out of this had it issued that her life wassunk in woe unfathomable, hopeless of rescue for ever. She was thesacrifice of others' wrong-doing; the evil-heartedness of one man, thethoughtless error of another, had brought this upon her. 

Her character, like the elemental forces of earth, converted tobeneficent energy the burden of corruption thrust upon it. Active atfirst because she dreaded the self-communings of idleness, she found inher labour and her endurance sources of stern inspiration; herindestructible idealism grasped at the core of spiritual beauty in alife even such as this. She did not reason with herself hysterically ofevil passions to be purified by asceticism, of mysterious iniquities tobe washed out in her very life's blood; but the great principles ofdevotion and renunciation became soothing and exalting presences, beforewhich the details of her daily task lost their toilsome or revoltingaspect in a hallowed purpose. Her work was a work of piety, not only tothe living, but to the beloved dead. If her father could know of whatshe was now doing, he would be comforted by it; if he knew that she didit for his sake it would bring him happiness. This truth she saw: thatthough life be stripped of every outward charm there may yet remain inthe heart of it, like a glorious light, that which is the source of allbeauty--Love. She strove to make Love the essence of her being. Hermother, whom it was so hard to cherish for her own sake, she would andcould love because her father had done so; that father, whose onlyexistence now was in her own, she loved with fervour which seemed togrow daily. Supreme, fostered by these other affections, exalted by theabsence of a single hope for self, reigned the first and last love ofher woman-soul. Every hard task achieved for love's sake rendered her inthought more worthy of him whom she made the ideal man. He would neverknow of the passion which she perfected to be her eternal support; but, as there is a sense of sweetness in the thought that we may be held dearby some who can neither come near us nor make known to us theirgood-will, so did it seem to Emily that from her love would go forth asecret influence, and that Wilfrid, all unknowing, would be blest by herfaithfulness. 

CHAPTER XVIII

A COMPACT

On the last day of the year, a Sunday, Dagworthy sat by his fireside, alone; luncheon had been removed, and decanters stood within his reach. But the glass of wine which he had poured out, on turning to the firehalf an hour ago, was still untasted, the cigar, of which he had cut theend, was still between his fingers, unlighted. For the last three monthsour friend had not lacked matter for thought; to do him justice, he hadexercised his mind upon it pretty constantly. To-day he had receivednews which gave a fresh impulse to his rumination. 

Dagworthy had never, since the years of early manhood, cared much forany of the various kinds of society open to him in Dunfield, and hisfailure to show himself at the houses of his acquaintance for weekstogether occasioned no comment; but during these past three months hehad held so persistently aloof that people had at length begun to askfor an explanation--at all events, when the end of the political turmoilgave them leisure to think of minor matters once more. The triumphantreturn of Mr. Baxendale had naturally led to festive occasions; at onedinner at the Baxendales' house Dagworthy was present, but, as itseemed, in the body only. People who, in the provincial way, made oldjokes last a very long time, remarked to each other with a smile thatDagworthy appeared to be in a mood which promised an item of interest inthe police reports before long. One person there was who had specialreason for observing him closely that evening, and even for inducing himto converse on certain subjects; this was Mrs. Baxendale. A day or twopreviously she had heard a singular story from a friend of hers, whichoccupied her thought not a little. It interested her to discover howDagworthy would speak of the Hood family, if led to that topic. He didnot seem to care to dwell upon it, and the lady, after her experiment, imagined that it had not been made altogether in vain. 

With that exception Dagworthy had kept to his mill and his house. It wasseldom that he had a visitor, and those persons who did call couldhardly feel that they were desired to come again. Mrs. Jenkins, of theDone tongue, ruled in the household, and had but brief interviews withher master; provided that his meals were served at the proper time, Dagworthy cared to inquire into nothing that went on--outside hiskennels--and even those he visited in a sullen way. His child hescarcely saw; Mrs. Jenkins discovered that to bring the 'bairn' into itsfather's presence was a sure occasion of wrath, so the son and heir tooklessons in his native tongue from the housekeeper and her dependents, and profited by their instruction. Dagworthy never inquired about theboy's health. Once when Mrs. Jenkins, alarmed by certain symptoms ofinfantine disorder, ventured to enter the dining-room and broach thesubject, her master's reply was: 'Send for the doctor then, can't you?'He had formerly made a sort of plaything of the child when in the moodfor it; now he was not merely indifferent--the sight of the boy angeredhim. His return home was a signal for the closing of all doors betweenhis room and the remote nursery. Once, when he heard crying he hadsummoned Mrs. Jenkins. 'If you can't stop that noise, ' he said, 'or keepit out of my hearing, I'll send the child to be taken care of inHebsworth, or somewhere else further off, and then I'll shut up thehouse and send you all about your business. So just mind what I say. '

Of late it had become known that he was about to take a partner into hisbusiness, a member of the Legge family--a name we remember. Dunfieldiansdiscussed the news, and revived their pleasure in speculating on the sumtotal of Dagworthy's fortune. But it was as one talks of possible minesof treasure in the moon; practical interest in the question couldscarcely be said to exist, for the chance of Dagworthy's remarriageseemed remoter than ever. The man was beginning to be one of thosefigures about whom gathers the peculiar air of mystery which ultimatelyleads to the creation of myths. Let him live on in this way for anothertwenty years, and stories would be told of him to children in thenursery. The case of assault and battery, a thing of the far past, wouldprobably develop into a fable of manslaughter, of murder; his wife'sdeath was already regarded very much in that light, and would class himwith Bluebeard; his house on the Heath would assume a forbidding aspect, and dread whispers would be exchanged of what went on there under theshadow of night. Was it not already beginning to be remarked by hisneighbours that you met him wandering about lonely places at unholyhours, and that he shunned you, like one with a guilty conscience? Lethim advance in years, his face lose its broad colour, his hair growscant and grey, his figure, per chance, stoop a little, his eyes acquirethe malignity of miserly old age--and there you have the hero of aDunfield legend. Even thus do such grow. 

But he is sitting by his fireside this New Year's Eve, still a youngman, still fresh-coloured, only looking tired and lonely, and, in fact, meditating an attempt to recover his interest in life. He had admitted apartner to his business chiefly that he might be free to quit Yorkshirefor a time, and at present he was settling affairs to that end. Thisafternoon he expected a visit from Mr. Cartwright, who had been servinghim in several ways of late, and who had promised to come and talkbusiness for an hour. The day was anything but cheerful; at times astray flake of snow hissed upon the fire; already, at three o'clock, shadows were invading the room. 

He heard a knock at the front door, and, supposing it to be Cartwright, roused himself. As he was stirring the fire a servant announced--insteadof the father, the daughter. Jessie Cartwright appeared. 

'Something amiss with your father?' Dagworthy asked, shaking hands withher carelessly. 

'Yes; I'm sorry to say he has such a very bad sore-throat that hecouldn't possibly come. Oh, what an afternoon it is, to be sure!'

'Why did _you_ come?' was Dagworthy's not very polite Inquiry. 'Itwasn't so important as all that. Walked all the way?'

'Of course. I'm afraid the wet 'll drip off my cloak on to the floor. '

'Take it off, then, and put it here by the fire to dry. '

He helped her to divest herself, and hung the cloak on to the back of achair. 

'You may as well sit down. Shall I give you a glass of wine?'

'Oh, indeed, no! No, thank you!'

'I think you'd better have one, ' he said, without heeding her. 'Isuppose you've got your feet wet? I can't very well ask you to take yourshoes off. '

'Oh, they're not wet anything to speak of, ' said Jessie, settlingherself in a chair, as if her visit were the most ordinary event. Shewatched him pour the wine, putting on the face of a child who is goingto be treated to something reserved for grown-up persons. 

'What do they mean by sending you all this distance in such weather?'Dagworthy said, as he seated himself and extended his legs, resting anelbow on the table. 

'They didn't send me. I offered to come, and mother wouldn't hear ofit. '

'Well--?'

'Oh, I just slipped out of the room, and was off before anyone could getafter me. I suppose I shall catch it rarely when I get back. But wewanted to know why you haven't been to see us--not even on ChristmasDay. Now that, you know, was too bad of you, Mr. Dagworthy. I said youmust be ill. Have you been?'

'Ill? No. '

'Oh!' the girl exclaimed, upon a sudden thought. 'That reminds me. Ireally believe Mrs. Hood is dead; at all events all the blinds were downas I came past. '

'Yes, ' was the reply, 'she is dead. She died early this morning. '

'Well, I never! Isn't poor Emily having a shocking Christmas! I declare, when I saw her last week, she looked like a ghost, and worse. '

Dagworthy gazed at the fire and said nothing. 

'One can't be sorry that it's over, ' Jessie went on, 'only it's sodreadful, her father and mother dead almost at the same time. I'm sureit would have killed me. '

'What is she going to do?' Dagworthy asked, slowly, almost as ifspeaking to himself. 

'Oh, I daresay it 'll be all right as soon as she gets over it, youknow. She's a lucky girl, in one way. '

'Lucky?' He raised his head to regard her. 'How?'

'Oh well, that isn't a thing to talk about. And then I don't knowanything for certain. It's only what people say you know. '

'_What_ do people say?' he asked, impatiently, though without much signof active interest. It was rather as if her manner annoyed him, than thesubject of which she spoke. 

'I don't see that it can interest you. '

'No, I don't see that it can. Still, you may as well explain. '

Jessie sipped her wine. 

'It's only that they say she's engaged. '

'To whom?'

'A gentleman in London--somebody in the family where she was teaching. '

'How do you know that?' he asked, with the same blending of indifferenceand annoyed persistency. 

'Why, it's only a guess, after all. One day Barbara and I went to seeher, and just as we got to the door, out comes a gentleman we'd neverseen before. Of course, we wondered who he was. The next day mother andI were in the station, buying a newspaper, and there was the samegentleman, just going to start by the London train. Mother rememberedshe'd seen him walking with Mrs. Baxendale in St. Luke's, and then wefound he'd been staying with the Baxendales all through Emily'sillness. '

'How did you find it out? You don't know the Baxendales. '

'No, but Mrs. Gadd does, and she told us. '

'What's his name?'

'Mr. Athel--a queer name, isn't it?'

Dagworthy was silent. 

'Now you're cross with me, ' Jessie exclaimed. 'You'll tell me, like youdid once before, that I'm no good but to pry into other people'sbusiness. '

'You may pry as much as you like, ' was the murmured reply. 

'Just because you don't care what I do?'

'Drink your wine and try to be quiet just for a little. '

'Why?'

He made no answer, until Jessie asked--

'Why does it seem to interest you so much?'

'What?--all that stuff you've been telling me? I was thinking ofsomething quite different. '

'Oh!' exclaimed the girl, blankly. 

There was a longer silence. Jessie let her eyes stray about the room, stealing a glance at Dagworthy occasionally. Presently he rose, pokedthe fire with violence, and drank his own wine, which had been waitingso long. 

'I must have out the carriage to send you back, ' he said, going to thewindow to look at the foul weather. 

'The carriage, indeed!' protested the girl, with a secret joy. 'You'lldo no such thing. '

'I suppose I shall do as I choose, ' he remarked, quietly. Then he cameand rang the bell. 

'You're not really going to--?'

A servant answered, and the carriage was ordered. 

'Well, certainly that's one way of getting rid of me, ' Jessie observed. 

'You can stay as long as you please. '

'But the carriage will be round. '

'Can't I keep it waiting half through the night if I choose? I've doneso before now. I suppose I'm master in my own house. '

It was strictly true, that, of the carriage. Once the coachman had beenfive minutes late on an evening when Dagworthy happened to beill-tempered. He bade the man wait at the door, and the waiting lastedthrough several hours. 

The room was growing dusk. 

'Aren't you very lonely here?' Jessie asked, an indescribable change inher voice. 

'Yes, I suppose I am. You won't make it any better by telling me so. '

'I feel sorry. '

'I dare say you do. '

'Of course you don't believe me. All the same, I _do_ feel sorry. '

'That won't help. '

'No?--I suppose it won't. '

The words were breathed out on a sigh. Dagworthy made no answer. 

'I'm not much better off, ' she continued, in a low-spirited voice. 

'Nonsense!' he ejaculated, roughly, half turning his back on her. 

Jessie fumbled a moment at her dress; then, succeeding in getting herhandkerchief out, began to press it against her eyes furtively. Strangely, there was real moisture to be removed. 

'What's the matter with you?' Dagworthy asked with surprise. 

She no longer attempted concealment, but began to cry quietly. 

'What the deuce has come to you, Jessie?'

'You--you--speak very unkindly to me, ' she sobbed. 

'Speak unkindly? I didn't know it. What did I say?'

'You won't believe when I say I'm sorry you feel lonely. '

'Why, confound it, I'll believe as much as you like, if it comes tothat. Put that handkerchief away, and drink another glass of wine. '

She stood up, and went to lean on the mantelpiece, hiding her face. Whenhe was near her again, she continued her complaints in a low voice. 

'It's so miserable at home. They want me to be a teacher, and how can I?I never pretended to be clever, and if I'd all the lessons under thesun, I should never be able to teach French--and--arithmetic--and thosethings. But I wish I could; then I should get away from home, and seenew people. There's nobody I care to see in Dunfield--nobody but one--'

She stopped on a sob. 

'Who's that?' Dagworthy asked, looking at her with a singularexpression, from head to foot. 

She made no answer, but sobbed again. 

'What Christmas presents have you had?' was his next question, irrelevant enough apparently. 

'Oh, none--none to speak of--a few little things. What do I care forpresents? You can't live on presents. '

'Can't live on them? Are things bad at home?'

'I didn't mean that. But of course they're bad; they're always badnowadays. However, Barbara's going to be married in a week; she'll beone out of the way. And of course I haven't a dress fit to be seen infor the wedding. '

'Why then, get a dress. How much will it cost?' He went to awriting-table, unlocked a drawer, and took out a cheque-book. 'Nowthen, ' he said, half jestingly, half in earnest, 'what is it to be?Anything you like to say--I'll write it. '

'As if I wanted money!'

'I can give you that. I don't see what else I can do. It isn't to bedespised. '

'No, you can do nothing else, ' she said, pressing each cheek with herhandkerchief before putting it away. 'Will you help me on with my cloak, Mr. Dagworthy?'

He took it from the chair, and held it for her. Jessie, as if byaccident, approached her face to his hand, and, before he saw herpurpose, kissed his hard fingers. Then she turned away, hiding her face. 

Dagworthy dropped the garment, and stood looking at her. He had a halfcontemptuous smile on his lips. At this moment it was announced that thecarriage was coming round. Jessie caught at her cloak, and threw it overher shoulders. Then, with sunk head, she offered to shake hands. 

'No use, Jessie, ' Dagworthy remarked quietly, without answering hergesture. 

'Of course, I know it's no use, ' she said in a hurried voice of shame. 'I know it as well as you can tell me. I wish I'd never come. '

'But you don't act badly, ' he continued. 

'What do you mean?' she exclaimed, indignation helping her to raise hereyes for a moment. 'I'm not acting. '

'You don't mean anything by it--that's all. '

'No, perhaps not. Good-bye. '

'Good-bye. I'm going away before very long. I dare say I shan't see youagain before then. '

'Where are you going to?'

'Abroad. '

'I suppose you'll bring back a foreign wife, ' she said with sadscornfulness. 

'No, I'm not likely to do that. I shouldn't wonder if I'm away for sometime, though--perhaps a couple of years. '

'Years!' she exclaimed in astonishment. 

He laughed. 

'That startles you. I shan't be back in time for your wedding, you see. '

She sobbed again, averting her face. 

'I shan't ever be married. I'm one of those wretched things nobody evercares for. '

'You'll have to show you deserve it. Why, you couldn't give your wordand keep it for two years. '

Through this extraordinary scene Dagworthy was utterly unlike himself. It was as if a man suffering physical agony should suddenly begin tojest and utter wild mirth; there was the same unreality in hisbehaviour. Throughout it all the lines of his face never lost theirimpress of gloom. Misery had its clutch upon him, and he was driven byan inexplicable spirit of self-mockery to burlesque the subject of hisunhappiness. He had no sense of responsibility, and certain instinctswere strongly excited, making a kind of moral intoxication. 

Jessie answered his question with wide eyes. 

'I couldn't?--Ah!'

She spoke under her breath, and with sincerity which was not a littleamusing. 

'It's New Year's Eve, isn't it?' Dagworthy pursued, throwing out hiswords at random. 'Be here this day two years--or not, as you like. I'mgoing to wander about, but I shall be here on that day--that is, if I'malive. You won't though. Good-bye. '

He turned away from her, and went to the 'window. Jessie moved a littlenearer. 

'Do you mean that?' she asked. 

'Mean it?' he repeated, 'why, yes, as much as I mean anything. Be off;you're keeping that poor devil in the snow. '

'Mr. Dagworthy, I shall be here, and you daren't pretend to forget, orto say you weren't in earnest. '

He laughed and waved his hand. 

'Be off to your carriage!'

Jessie moved to the door reluctantly; but he did not turn again, and shedeparted. 

CHAPTER XIX

THE COMPLETION OF MISCHANCE

Upon Emily had fallen silence. The tongue which for three months hadincessantly sounded in her ears, with its notes of wailing, ofupbraiding, of physical pain, of meaningless misery, was at rest forever. As she stood beside the grave--the grave whose earth had not hadtime to harden since it received her father--she seemed still to hearthat feeble, querulous voice, with its perpetual iteration of her ownname; the casting of clay upon the coffin made a sound not half so real. Returning home, she went up to the bedroom with the same hurried stepwith which she had been wont to enter after her brief absences. The bedwas vacant; the blind made the air dim; she saw her breath rise beforeher. 

There remained but a little servant-girl, who, coming to thesitting-room to ask about meals, stood crying with her apron held to hereyes. Emily spoke to her almost with tender kindness. Her own eyes hadshed but few tears; she only wept on hearing those passages read which, by their promise of immortal life, were to her as mockery of her grief. She did not venture to look into the grave's mouth she dreaded lestthere might be visible some portion of her father's coffin. 

Mrs. Baxendale, the Cartwrights, and one or two other friends hadattended the funeral. At Emily's request no one accompanied her home. Mrs. Baxendale drove her to the door, and went on to Dunfield. 

The last link with the past was severed--almost, it seemed, the lastlink with the world. A sense of loneliness grew about her heart; shelived in a vast solitude, whither came faintest echoes of lamentation, the dying resonance of things that had been. It could hardly be calledgrief, this drawing off of the affections, this desiccation of thefamiliar kindnesses which for the time seemed all her being. She forcedherself to remember that the sap of life would flow again, that lovewould come back to her when the hand of death released her from itscruel grip; as yet she could only be sensible of her isolation, herforlorn oneness. It needs a long time before the heart can companiononly with memories. About its own centre it wraps such warm folds ofkindred life. Tear these away, how the poor heart shivers in itsnakedness. 

She was alone. It no longer mattered where she lived, for her allianceshenceforth were only of the spirit. She must find some sphere in whichshe could create for herself a new activity, for to sit in idleness wasto invite dread assaults. The task of her life was an inward one, buther nature was not adapted to quiescence, and something must replace thetask which had come to an end by her mother's death. Already she hadshaped plans, and she dared not allow needless time to intervene beforepractically pursuing them. 

In the evening of that day Mrs. Baxendale again came to Banbrigg. Shefound Emily with writing materials before her. Her object in coming wasto urge Emily to quit this lonely house. 

'Come and stay with me, ' she entreated. 'You shall be as unmolested ashere; no one but myself shall ever come near you. Emily, I cannot gohome and sleep with the thought of you here alone. '

'You forget, ' Emily replied, 'that I have in reality lived alone for along time; I do not feel it as you imagine. No, I must stay here, butnot for long. I shall at once find a teacher's place again. '

'That is your intention?'

'Yes. I shall sell the furniture, and ask the landlord to find anothertenant as soon as possible. But till I go away I wish to live in thishouse. '

Mrs. Baxendale knew that Emily's projects were not to be combated like agirl's idle fancies. She did not persevere, but let sad silence be heranswer. 

'Would you in no case stay in Dunfield?'

'No; I must leave Dunfield. I don't think I shall find it difficult toget employment. '

Mrs. Baxendale had never ventured to ask for the girl's confidence, noreven to show that she desired it. Emily was more perplexing to her nowthan even at the time of Wilfrid Athel's rejection. She consoled herselfwith the thought that a period of active occupation was no doubt thebest means of restoring this complex nature to healthy views of life;that at all events it was likely to bring about an unravelling of themysteries in which her existence seemed to have become involved. Youcould not deal with her as with other girls; the sources of her strengthand her weakness lay too deep; counsel to her would be a useless, animpertinent, interference with her grave self-guiding. Mrs. Baxendalecould but speak words of extreme tenderness, and return whence she hadcome. On going away, she felt that the darkest spot of night was overthat house. 

Emily lived at Banbrigg for more than three weeks. After the first fewdays she appeared to grow lighter in mind; she talked more freely withthose who came to see her, and gladly accepted friendly aid in littlepractical matters which had to be seen to. Half-way between Banbrigg andDunfield lay the cemetery; there she passed a part of every morning, sometimes in grief which opened all the old wounds, more often inconcentration of thought such as made her unaware of the passage oftime. The winter weather was not severe; not seldom a thin gleam ofsunshine would pass from grave to grave, and give promise of spring inthe said reign of the year's first month. Emily was almost the onlyvisitor at the hour she chose. She had given directions for the raisingof a stone at the grave-head; as yet there was only the newly-soddedhillock. Close at hand was a grave on which friends placed hot-houseflowers, sheltering them beneath glass. Emily had no desire to expressher mourning in that way; the flower of her love was planted where itwould not die. 

But she longed to bring her time of waiting to an end. The steps she hadas yet taken had led to nothing. She had not requested Mrs. Baxendale tomake inquiries for her, and her friend, thinking she understood thereason, did not volunteer assistance, nor did she hear any particularsof the correspondence that went on. Ultimately, Emily communicated withher acquaintances in Liverpool, who were at once anxious to serve her. She told them that she would by preference find a place in a school. Andat length they drew her attention to an advertisement which seemedpromising; it was for a teacher in a girls' school near Liverpool. Abrief correspondence led to her being engaged. 

She was in perfect readiness to depart. For a day or two she had notseen Mrs. Baxendale, and, on the afternoon before the day of her leavingBanbrigg, she went to take leave of her friends. It was her intention tovisit Mrs. Baxendale first, then to go on to the Cartwrights'. As itrained, she walked to Pendal and took train for Dunfield. 

At Dunfield station she was delayed for some moments in leaving thecarriage by travellers who got out before her with complexities ofbaggage. To reach the exit of the station she had to cross the line by abridge, and at the foot of this bridge stood the porter who collectedtickets. As she drew near to him her eyes fell upon a figure movingbefore her, that of a young man, wearing thick travelling apparel andcarrying a bag. She did not need to see his face, yet, as he stopped togive up his ticket, she caught a glimpse of it. The train by which shehad travelled had also brought Wilfrid to Dunfield. 

She turned and walked to a little distance away from the foot of thestairs. There was no room that she could enter on this platform. Shedropped her black veil, and seated herself on a bench. In truth she hada difficulty in standing, her body trembled so. 

For five minutes she remained seated, calming herself and determiningwhat course to take. She held it for certain that Wilfrid had come atMrs. Baxendale's bidding. But would he go to that house first, orstraight to her own? With the latter purpose he would probably have leftthe train at Pendal. She would have time to get home before he couldcome. At this moment a train was entering the station on the other side. She hurried over the bridge, and, without stopping to obtain a ticket, entered a carriage. 

It was not without dread lest Wilfrid might have already arrived, and bewaiting within for her return that she approached the house door. Herfears were groundless. The servant told her that no one had called. 

'If anyone should call this evening, ' she said, 'I cannot see them. Youwill say that I shall not be able to see anyone--anyone, whoever itis--till to-morrow morning. '. .. 

At this same hour, Mrs. Baxendale, entering a shop in Dunfield, foundDagworthy making purchases. 

'I shall not see you again for a long time, ' he said, as he was leaving. 'I start to-morrow on a long journey. '

'Out of England?'

He did not specify his route, merely said that he was going far fromEngland. They shook hands, and Mrs. Baxendale was left with a musingexpression on her face. She turned her eyes to the counter; the purchasefor which Dagworthy had just paid was a box of ladies' gloves. Theshopman put them aside, to be made into a parcel and sent away. 

When, half an hour later, she reached home, she was at once informedthat Mr. Athel was in the drawing-room. The intelligence caused her tobite her lower lip, a way she had of expressing the milder form ofvexation. She went first to remove her walking apparel, and did nothasten the process. When she at length entered the drawing-room Wilfridwas pacing about in his accustomed fashion. 

'You here?' she exclaimed, with a dubious shake of the head. 'Why sosoon?'

'So soon! The time has gone more quickly with you than with me, Mrs. Baxendale. '

Clearly he had not spent the last three months in ease of mind. Hisappearance was too like that with which he had come from Oxford on theoccasion of his break-down. 

'I could bear it no longer, ' he continued. 'I cannot let her go awaywithout seeing her. '

'You will go this evening?'

'Yes, I must. You have nothing hopeful to say to me?'

Mrs. Baxendale dropped her eyes, and answered, 'Nothing. ' Then sheregarded him as if in preface to some utterance of moment, but after allkept silence. 

'Has she heard of anything yet?'

'I believe not. I have not seen her since Tuesday, and then she told meof nothing. But I don't ask her. '

'I know--you explained. I think you have done wisely. How is she?'

'Well, seemingly. '

He let his feeling get the upper hand. 

'I can't leave her again without an explanation. She _must_ tell meeverything. Have I not a right to ask it of her? I can't live on likethis; I do nothing. The days pass in misery of idleness. If only in pityshe will tell me all. '

'Don't you think it possible, ' Mrs. Baxendale asked, 'that she hasalready done so?'

He gazed at her blankly, despairingly. 

'You have come to believe that? Her words--her manner--seem to provethat?'

'I cannot say certainly. I only mean that you should be prepared tobelieve if she repeated it. '

'Yes, if she repeats it. I shall have no choice. Well, I wished to seeyou first; I will go to Banbrigg at once. '

Mrs. Baxendale seemed reluctant to let him go, yet at length she did. Hewas absent an hour and a half. At his return Mrs. Baxendale had friendswith her in the drawing room. Wilfrid ascertained it from the servant, and said that he would go to the sitting-room he had formerly occupied, and wait there till the lady was alone. 

She came to him before very long, and learnt that he had not been ableto see Emily; the servant had told him that she could see no one tillthe next morning. 

Mrs. Baxendale sighed. 

'Then you must wait. '

'Yes, I must wait. '

He passed the night at the house. Mr. Baxendale was in London, parliamentarily occupied. At eleven next morning he went again toBanbrigg. Again he was but a short time absent, and in his face, as heentered the drawing-room, Mrs. Baxendale read catastrophe. 

'She has gone!' he said. 'She left very early this morning. The girl hasno idea where she has gone to, but says she won't return--that she hasleft for good. What does this mean?'

'What does it mean?' the lady repeated musingly. 'I wonder, I wonder. '

'She knew I called yesterday; I left my name. She has gone to avoid me. '

'That may be. But all her preparations were evidently made. '

'But it may not be true. The girl of course would say whatever she wasbidden to. I don't believe that she has really gone. '

'I do, ' said Mrs. Baxendale, with quiet significance. 

'On what grounds? You know more than you will tell me. Is there no onewith common humanity? Why do you plot against me? Why won't you tell mewhat you know?'

'I will, if you sit down there and endeavour to command yourself. Thatis, I will tell you certain things that I have heard, and something thatI have seen. Then we will reason about them. '

Wilfrid's brow darkened. He prepared to listen. 

'About six weeks ago, ' the lady began, 'I went to see a friend of mine, a lady who was recovering from an illness, someone who knows Emily, though not intimately. In her illness she was nursed by the same womanwho helped poor Mrs. Hood when Emily was in her fever. This woman, itappears, was induced to talk about Emily, and gave it as a secret thatEmily's illness had something to do with an attachment between her andMr. Dagworthy, her father's employer. Her grounds for believing thiswere, first of all, the fact of Emily frequently uttering his name inher delirium, with words which seemed to refer to some mystery betweenthem; then the circumstance of Mr. Dagworthy's having, shortly after, left a note at the house, with special injunctions to the servant thatit should be given into Emily's own hands. This story, you may imagine, surprised me not a little. A few days later Mr. Dagworthy dined with us, and I took an opportunity of talking with him; it seemed to me certainthat Emily had some special place in his thoughts. I know, too, that hewas particularly anxious throughout the time of her illness, and that ofher mother. '

The listener was paralysed. 

'Why have you kept this from me?' he asked, indignation blending withhis misery. 

'Because it was no better than gossip and speculation. I had no right toreport such things--at all events, so it seemed to me. Now I am going toadd something which may be the wildest error, but which cannot troubleyou much if you imagine that the story is true. Yesterday, just before Icame home to find you here, I met Mr. Dagworthy by chance in a draper'sshop, and he told me that he was going away to-day, leaving England. '

'To-day?'

'Yes. And I saw that he had been buying a box of ladies' gloves. '

'What do you mean?' Wilfrid stammered out. 

'I know that he has no female relatives--except his wife's, who live inanother part of England, and are on bad terms with him. '

'His _wife_--you said?'

'His late wife; he is a widower. Now we may be imagining in the silliestway, but--'

'But why--' Wilfrid checked himself. 'Do I understand you? You thinkEmily has gone with him--has gone to be married to him?'

'It is almost impossible seriously to think it. '

'And you think she would shrink from being married here?'

'For one or two reasons--at all events, so soon. '

'But is it possible to believe that she deliberately deceived you--madea pretence of seeking employment?'

'I can't say. She never gave me any details of what she was doing. Another thing--she would not come to stay with me after her mother'sfuneral. Mr. Dagworthy lives on the Heath, only just beyond Banbrigg. You see to what things we can be led, if we begin interpreting shadows;but Emily is a mystery to me, and, as I have begun, I must gossip to youall I know. '

Mrs. Baxendale was certainly doing more in the way of gossipingconjecture than perhaps she had ever done before; the occasion excitedher, and that coincidence of Dagworthy's purchase, together with hisdeparture this very day, struck her with a force which unsettled herusual balance of thought. Wilfrid was as ready to believe; to him therewas a certain strange relief in feeling that he had at length reachedthe climax of his sufferings. He had only to give credence to Emily'sown words. She had said that a change had come in her heart, in herlife, and that she no longer loved him. Understand it he of course couldnot, nor ever would, unless he lost all faith in woman's honour. 

'But this can be either confirmed or refuted speedily, ' he exclaimed. 'Can you not make inquiries of this Mr. Dagworthy's friends? If theyknow nothing yet, they will soon hear from him. '

'Yes, I can make such inquiries. But he has a peculiar reputation inDunfield; I think he scarcely has an intimate friend. '

'Well, there is, at all events, Emily herself. If this story isbaseless, she will be writing to you. '

'I think so. Again we must wait. Poor Wilfrid! from my heart I feel foryou!'

It was decided that Wilfrid should remain in Dunfield for a day or two, till news might be obtained. News came, however, sooner than wasanticipated. In the afternoon a letter was delivered, posted by Emily atPendal in the morning. She wrote to Mrs. Baxendale to say that she hadleft to take a place in a school; then continued:

'I have a reason for leaving suddenly. A reason you will understand. Ishould have come to say good-bye to you yesterday, but somethinghappened to prevent me. The same reason has decided me to keep secreteven from you, my dear and honoured friend, the place to which I amgoing; in time you shall hear from me, for I know I cannot haveforfeited your love, though I fear I have given you pain. Think of mewith forbearance. I do what I _must_ do. '

That was all. No word for Wilfrid. 

'This proves it, ' Wilfrid said, with bitter coldness. 'All she says isfalse. She does what she is ashamed of, and lies to conceal it for a fewdays or weeks. '

'Do not let us even yet be sure, ' said Mrs. Baxendale, who wasrecovering her calmer judgment. 

'I _am_ sure! Why should she keep the place secret? She fears that Ishould follow her? Could she not anywhere keep me off by her merebidding? Have I been brutally importunate? What secret can exist thatshe might not disclose to me--that she was not bound to disclose? Ithought her incapable of a breath of falsehood, and she must havedeceived me from the first, from the very first!'

'Wilfrid, that is impossible. I cannot abandon my faith in Emily. New youspeak in this way, it convinces me that we are wrong, utterly andfoolishly mistaken. I believe what she says here; she has _not_ gonewith him. '

Wilfrid laughed scornfully. 

'It is too late; I can't twist my belief so quickly. I do not need thatkind of comfort; far easier to make up my mind that I have always beenfooled--as I have!'

He was beyond the stage at which reasoning is possible; reaction, infull flood, beat down the nobler features of his mind and swamped himwith the raging waters of resentment. 

So here was a myth well on its way to establishment. For no one couldafford Mrs. Baxendale satisfactory news of Dagworthy. She would not takethe only step which remained, that of openly avowing to his partner theinformation she desired to obtain, and getting him to make inquiries hispartner appeared to be the only person in direct communication withDagworthy. It had to be remembered that Emily's own statement might betrue; she must not be spoken of lightly. It was said that Mr. Legge, thepartner, pooh-poohed the idea that Dagworthy was secretly married. ButMr. Legge might know as little as other people. 

There were circles in Dunfield in which another and quite a differentmyth grew up around the name of Emily Hood. The Cartwrights originatedit. They too had received a mysterious note of farewell, and theirinterpretation was this Emily, they held, had gone to London, there tobe happily married to a certain Mr. Athel, a gentleman of aristocraticappearance and enormously wealthy. Mrs. Baxendale heard this story nowand again; she neither affirmed nor contradicted. Jessie Cartwrightreflected much on Emily's slyness in keeping her affairs so secret. Shewas not as envious as she would have been but for a certain compactwhich she was determined should not--if it lay in her power to preventit--be some day laughed away as a mere joke. And had she not received, on the very eve of Dagworthy's departure, a box of gloves, which couldonly come from one person?

The second myth holds its ground, I believe, to the present day. Themore mischievous fable was refuted before very long, but only when ithad borne results for Wilfrid practically the same as if it had been atruth. 

CHAPTER XX

WILFRID THE LEGISLATOR

Let time and change do their work for six years and six months, theirbuilding and their destroying, their ripening for love, their ripeningfor death. Then we take our way to the Capital, for, behold, it ismid-season; the sun of late June is warm upon the many-chariotedstreets, upon the parks where fashion's progress circles to the 'IoTriumphe' of regardant throngs, even upon the quarters where life knowsbut one perennial season, that of toil. The air is voiceful; every housewhich boasts a drawing-room gathers its five o'clock choir; everytheatre, every concert-room resounds beneath the summer night; in thehalls of Westminster is the culmination of sustained utterance. There, last night, the young member for a Surrey borough made his maidenspeech; his name, Mr. Wilfrid Athel. 

The speech was better reported than such are wont to be, for itcontained clever things, and quite surprisingly resembled in its tone ofeasy confidence and its mastery of relevant facts the deliverances ofmen of weight in politics. It had elicited a compliment from a leader ofthe opposing party; it had occasioned raisings of the eyebrows incapable judges, and had led to remarks that a young man so singularlyself-possessed, so agreeably oracular, so remarkably long-headed, mightbe expected, in the course of some five-and-twenty years, to go far. Hewas, to be sure, a child--not yet thirty--but there were older childrenin the House decidedly of less promise. Mr. Wilfrid Athel might go home, and, if he could, go to sleep, in the assurance that his career hadopened. 

The next day, a Saturday, this finished little piece of talk was thestarting-point of a vast amount of less coherent speech in adrawing-room within sight of Kensington's verdure. Here Mrs. AshleyBirks did her friends the honour of receiving them; a lady well regardedin certain discriminating circles. A widow formerly, she had now beentwo years married to a barrister new in silk. We have the pleasure ofknowing her; for she once bore the name of Mrs. Rossall. 

At half-past five Mrs. Ashley Birks' drawing-room contained some twodozen people, mostly ladies. Two of the gentlemen present are notwithout interest for us. He whom you observe standing, so to speak, thefocus of a concave mirror of three gracious dames, with his backsomewhat difficultly bent, as if under ordinary circumstances he wouldbe as upright as any Briton who owes not a penny, with very wholesomecheeks and lips which move in and out as he forms his well-roundedperiods, is, of course, Mr. Athel the elder; he plays with hiswatch-guard, and is clearly in hearty mood, not at all disliking thethings that are being said about a certain member of the legislature. The other is as emphatically an Englishman, but of a different type; hisclothes are good, but he does not wear them with grace; he is tall andsolidly built, but he walks awkwardly, and is not quite at home amongthese gracious ladies of the silvern tongue, having much difficulty inexpressing himself on subjects which he perfectly understands, andabsolutely without faculty for speech on subjects unfamiliar to him. When we saw him last he was in the heat of a contested election; therehas been another election since then, but Mr. Baxendale still representsDunfield. 

You see his wife at a little distance, still the same smooth-skinned, well-preserved lady, with goodness declaring itself upon her large andhomely features. For three years now she has been in the habit ofspending her three months in town, finding it lonely in Dunfield, andeven nourishing a late ambition, which has not been altogether futile;for there re people who have a peculiar liking for the little room inwhich she holds her modest gatherings. She is talking at present with alady who, by her costume, is of the house, a lady of someseven-and-twenty years or a little more, and strikingly beautiful. Beatrice Redwing has not yet changed her name, though often enoughsolicited to do so; when her mother died, now rather more than a yearago, she willingly accepted the shelter of Mrs. Ashley Birks' roof, asshe would else have had to live alone. In one respect she has notchanged, her dress is exquisite; but to judge from her expression as shetalks, she has become somewhat graver. Visitors have a special reasonfor regarding her with glances of curiosity and admiration. Though knownto be extremely wealthy, it was rumoured that she was about to appearbefore the public as a vocalist, having prepared herself by a longcourse of the most rigid study. Her first appearance was looked forwardto as an event of note in the musical world, for her native gifts wereunusual, and the results of her training proportionately significant. 

'It must be very gratifying to you, ' Mrs. Baxendale had said, as shecame to a chair by her niece and began to talk of Wilfrid's success. 

'Yes, I am glad of it, ' was the quiet reply. 

'Will he be here this afternoon?'

'I'm not sure; I think so. Ah, there he is!'

For at that moment had come the announcement of the name they had ontheir lips. Beatrice's exclamation was made in a very subdued voice, butshe moved slightly in her chair, and it was not within her resources tosubdue the glister of her dark eyes and the warmth softly expanding uponher cheek. Mrs. Birks floated towards her nephew with airs ofrightly-tuned welcome; she could not, of course, make much of him, buther very familiarity made graceful claim to a share in his glory. Wilfrid was sensibly changed during the years we have allowed to passsilently by. To begin with, he had grown a beard. His health seemedfinally to have established itself on a sound basis; his cheeks weregrowing sunny, and he showed the proportions of a very complete man. Atthe present moment, his consciousness of regards fixed upon himheightened his colour; his fine eyes danced in light; he checked asmile, and spoke sparingly here and there. One part of his naturerevelled in the joy of this foretaste of distinction; he had lookedforward to it, had laboured for it, its sweetness was beyond alltelling. Triumph had been his aim as a schoolboy; he held it fittingthat as a man he should become prominent amongst his fellows. This ofpolitics was the easiest way. To be sure, he told himself that it was away he would once have sneered at, that it was to rub shoulders with menaltogether his inferiors in culture, that, had he held to the ideals ofhis youth, a longer, a wearier course would have been his, and thechance of a simpler, nobler crown. But he had the gift of speech, and byan effort could absorb himself as completely in blue-books as in thepages of historian or poet. An hour such as this was the first of hisrewards. 

Two there were in this assembly who turned their eyes upon him withadoration which could scarcely have fallen short of Wilfrid's utmostdemands. They were his cousins, Minnie and Patty Rossall. The twins were'out, ' very sweet girls, still too delicate in health, shadows of eachother. Had they regarded Wilfrid as a mere mortal, both would have beendying for love of him; as it was they drooped before him the veiled eyesof worshippers; a word from him made their pulses tingle blissfullythroughout the day. Such was their mutual love, that each schemed to winhis kindness for the other, his brotherly kindness, for they neverthought, had never dared to think, of anything else. Wilfrid was verygracious to them both. 

He shook hands with Beatrice, but neither spoke. After a few words withMrs. Baxendale, he passed on to other ladies. Wilfrid's manner was nowall that could be desired in a young man who, destined to succeed inpolitics, would naturally make a figure in society. He was pliant, hestruck the note of good-breeding, he was unsurpassed in phrasing; withladies who chose to be 'superior, ' he could find exactly the right tone, keeping clear of pedantry, yet paying her with whom he spoke thecompliment of uttering serious opinions. With the more numerous class ofladies, who neither were nor affected to be anything but delightfulchatterboxes, he could frolic on the lightest airs of society gossip. Hewas fast making of himself an artist in talk; woe to him, if he began todiscover that exertion of his brain was waste of time, since his moreobvious ends could be gained equally well without it. As yet, thoughhints of such a mood had come to him, he did not give way to thetemptations of loquacious idleness; he still worked, and purposed towork still harder. Just of late he had spent a good deal of time inrooms not exactly arranged for purposes of study--but for this there wasa special reason. 

An hour later, when most of the visitors were departed, he went toBeatrice's corner of the room. 

'When shall I call for you?' he asked, standing before her. 

'Oh, but you will dine here?'

She leaned forward, looking up into his face. The gaze would haveintoxicated most men; Wilfrid kept his calm smile. 

'No, I am sorry to say I can't, ' was his reply. 'I have things to see toat home. Will 8. 15 do?'

'Quite well; I need not be at the hall before a quarter to nine. '

His father came up. 

'Walking my way, Wilf?'

'Yes, and in a hurry. I think we must have a hansom. '

Father and son still lived together, in the same house as formerly. After a brief stretch of pavement, they hailed a conveyance. 

'Going to St. James's Hall, I suppose?' Mr. Athel asked, as they droveon. 

Wilfrid gave an affirmative. 

'Is it the last time?'

The other laughed. 

'I can't say. I fear it troubles you. '

Mr. Athel had, we know, long passed the time when the ardours of youthput him above the prejudices of the solid Englishman. When it was firstannounced to him that Beatrice was going to sing on a public platform, he screwed up his lips as if something acid had fallen upon them; hescarcely credited the story till his own eyes saw the girl's name inprint. 'What the deuce!' was his exclamation. 'It would be all very wellif she had to do it for her living, but she certainly owes it to herfriends to preserve the decencies as long as there is no need to violatethem. ' The reasons advanced he utterly refused to weigh. Since thenevents had come to pass which gave him even a nearer interest in MissRedwing, and his protests had grown serious. 

'Why, yes, ' he answered now, 'it does trouble me, and not a little. Ivery strongly advise you to put an end to it. Let her sing in herfriends' houses; there's no objection to that. But to have her nameon--great heavens!--on placards! No, no; it must stop, Wilf. Every dayit becomes more imperative. Your position demands that she should becomea private lady. '

Wilfrid knew well that the question could not be argued, and, in hissecret mind, there was just a little tendency to take his father's view. He would never have allowed this shade of thought to appear in hisspeech; but was he not an Englishman and a member of Parliament?

This which had come about was inevitable. After his departure fromDunfield on that winter day, when his life seemed crushed, he had for along time not even sought to hear of Emily. He did not write to Mrs. Baxendale, and from her had no letters. Correspondence between them onlyrecommenced some ten months later, when Wilfrid had finally left Oxford, and then there was no mention on either side of the old troubles. Wilfrid began by writing that he had thoughts of taking up politics; hisfather advised him to the step, and other friends seconded therecommendation. 'I really believe I can talk, ' he said, and Mrs. Baxendale smiled at the confession. Three months more went by; thenWilfrid at length asked plainly whether Emily had sent any news ofherself, or whether the suspicions had proved grounded. The reply wasthis:--

'As I knew perfectly well, as soon as I came to my senses, Emily hadtold us the truth. I heard from her for the first time nearly half ayear ago, but, as she appealed to my honour not to disclose the place ofher abode, I thought it needless to speak to you on the subject beforeyou yourself seemed desirous of hearing. She is teaching in a school, and I am convinced that the story we together concocted was based onsome utter mistake; I don't think she was ever related to that man inthe way we thought. But it is more than probable that there was somemystery about her father's death, in which Mr. D. Was concerned. Icannot imagine what it could be. Something it was which, to Emily'smind, imposed upon her a necessity of breaking her engagement. I havespoken to her of you, have asked her directly if she still thinks herdecision final; she assures me most solemnly that it is. I thereforeadvise you once for all to accept this; I am convinced she will neverwaver. Try to forget her; there is no choice. I don't think I am likelyto see her again for a very long time, if ever, and our correspondencewill be very slight, for I know she wishes it so. Let this, then, closea sad, sad story. '

There was indeed no choice, as far as outward relations went, but soprofound a passion was not to be easily outgrown. The view which makesfirst love alone eternally valid derives from a conception of the natureof love which, out of the realm of poetry, we may not entertain; but itsometimes happens that the first love is that which would at any periodof life have been the supreme one, and then it doubtless attains aspecial intensity of hold from the fact of its being allied with theearliest outburst of physical passion. Above all it is thus if theattachment has been brought about by other charms than those of merepersonal beauty. Emily could not be called beautiful, in the ordinaryacceptation of the word; for all that, her face grew to possess forWilfrid a perfection of loveliness beyond anything that he would everagain see in the countenance of fairest woman. Had he been markedlysusceptible to female beauty, it is certain that he would have fallen inlove with Beatrice Redwing long before he ever saw Emily, for Beatricewas fair to look upon as few girls are. He had not done so; he hadscarcely--a strange thing--been tempted to think of doing so. That is tosay, it needed something more to fire his instincts. The first fiveminutes that he spent in Emily's presence made him more conscious ofwomanhood than years of constant association with Beatrice. This love, riveting itself among the intricacies of his being, could not be tornout, and threatened to resist all piecemeal extraction. Wilfrid regainedthe command of his mind, and outwardly seemed recovered beyond alldanger of relapse; but he did not deceive himself into believing thatEmily was henceforth indifferent to him. He knew that to stand againbefore her would be to declare again his utter bondage, body and soul. He loved her still, loved her as his life; he desired her aspassionately as ever. She was not often in his thoughts no more is theconsciousness of the processes whereby our being supports itself. But hehad only to let his mind turn to her, and he scoffed at the hope thatany other could ever be to him what Emily had been, and was, and wouldbe. 

He saw very little of Beatrice, but it came to his ears that her lifehad undergone a change in several respects, that she spent hours dailyin strenuous study of music, and was less seen in the frivolous world. No hint of the purpose Beatrice secretly entertained ever reached himtill, long after, the purpose became action. He felt that she shunnedhim, and by degrees he thought he understood her behaviour. Wilfrid hadnone of the vulgarest vanity; another man would long ago have suspectedthat this beautiful girl was in love with him; Wilfrid had remainedabsolutely without a suspicion of the kind. He had always taken in goodfaith her declared aversion for his views; he had believed that hernature and his own were definitely irreconcilable. This wasattributable, first of all to his actual inexperience in life, then tothe seriousness with which he held those views which Beatrice voweddetestable. He, too, was an idealist, and, in many respects, destined toremain so throughout his life; for he would never become, on the onehand, the coldly critical man who dissects motives--his own and those ofothers--to the last fibre, nor yet the superficial cynic who professes, and half-believes, that he can explain the universe by means of a fewmaxims of cheap pessimism. So he took, and continued to take, Beatrice'sutterances without any grain of scepticism, and consequently held it forcertain that she grew less friendly to him as she grew older. 

Was it Mrs. Baxendale or Mrs. Birks who at length gave him the hintwhich set his mind at work in another direction? Possibly both about thesame time, seeing that it was the occasion of Mrs. Baxendale's firstmaking acquaintance with his aunt that dated the beginning of newreflections In Wilfrid. One or other of these ladies--of course it wasmanaged so delicately that he really could not have determined to whichof them he owed the impulse--succeeded in suggesting to him that he hadmissed certain obvious meanings in Beatrice's behaviour whilst heresided with her at Dunfield. Certainly, when he looked back at thosedays from his present standpoint, Beatrice did appear to have conductedherself singularly, the mode of her departure and leave-taking beingabove all curious. Was it possible that--? The question formed itself atlast, and was the beginning of conviction. He sought Beatrice's society, at first merely for the sake of resolving his doubts, and behold, she nolonger shrank from him as formerly. Of course he might take it forgranted that she knew the details of his story, seeing that her closestintimates, Mrs. Baxendale and Mrs. Birks, were ignorant of none of them. Had she, then, waited for signs of his freedom? Did his revival of theold tone in their conversations strike her as something meant to besignificant, meant to convey to her certain suggestions? It was so inpoint of fact, and Wilfrid could not be long, his eyes now open, withoutconvincing himself that the girl loved him ardently, that it cost herstruggles with herself to avoid a revelation of her feeling. How did itaffect him?

Naturally, he was flattered. It afforded another instance of hislordship among men; a woman whom others longed for desperately and invain was his when he chose to extend his hand to her. He saw, too, anappropriateness in the chance which offered him such a wife; Beatricewas in harmony with the future to which he aspired. Her property joinedto his would make him so wealthy that he might aim almost at anything;political and social progress would aid each other, both rapid. Beatricewas in many respects brilliant; there was no station that she would notbecome; she had the tastes and habits of society. He compared her withhis career; she represented worldly success, the things which glitter onthe outside--action, voice; even her magnificent powers of song he usedas parallel--the gods forgive him!--to his own forensic abilities. Supposing he must marry early, and not rather expect the day when hemight bid for a partner from a rank considerably above his own, Beatricewas clearly the one wife for him. She would devote herself with ardourto his worldly interests--for he began to understand that thedivergence of her expressed views meant little in comparison with herheart's worship--and would enable him immediately to exchange the socialinferiority of bachelor life for the standing of a man with his own verysubstantial roof-tree; she would have her drawing-room, which might bemade a _salon_, where politics and art might rule alternately. 

This was doing injustice to Beatrice, and Wilfrid felt it; but it wasthus he regarded her as in distinction from the woman who should havebeen his wife. She typified his chosen career; that other path which hadlain open to him, the path of intellectual endeavour, of idealismincompatible with loud talk, of a worship which knew no taint oftime-serving, that for ever was represented by the image of the woman hehad lost. Her memory was encompassed with holiness. He never heard thename she bore without a thrill of high emotion, the touch of exaltedenthusiasm; 'Emily' was written in starlight. Those aspects of her facewhich had answered to the purest moments of his rapturous youth were aspresent as if she had been his daily companion. He needed no picture torecall her countenance; often he had longed for the skill of an artist, that he might portray that grave sweetness, that impassioned faith, tobe his soul's altar-piece. Lost, lost! and, with her, lost theuncompromising zeal of his earliest manhood. Only too consciously he haddescended to a lower level; politics tempted him because they offered afield in which he could exercise his most questionable faculty, and earnwith it a speedy return of the praise to which he was so susceptible. Itmarks his position to state that, when politics began seriously to holdhis thoughts, he was with difficulty able to decide to which party heshould attach himself. To be sure, if names could be taken assufficient, he was a Liberal, a Radical; but how different hisinterpretation of such titles from that they bore to men of affairs!Respect for the masses he had none; interest in their affairs he hadnone either. On the other hand, the tone of uninstructedConservatism--that is to say, of the party so stamped--he altogetherdespised. The motive which ultimately decided him to declare himself aLiberal was purely of sentiment; he remembered what Mrs. Baxendale hadsaid about the hardships of poor Hood, and consequently allied himselfwith those who profess to be the special friends of the toilingmultitude. 

From the first he talked freely with Beatrice of his projects; he evenexaggerated to her the cynicism with which he framed and pursued them. He could never have talked in this way to Emily. With Beatrice the tonedid not injure him in the least, partly because she did not take italtogether seriously, yet more owing to the habit of mind whereby womenin general subordinate principle to the practical welfare of theindividual. If Wilfrid found a sphere for the display of his talents, Beatrice eared nothing to dwell upon abstract points. Politics were arecognised profession for gentlemen, and offered brilliant prizes; thatwas enough. She was pleased, on the whole, that his line should be oneof moderation; it was socially advantageous; it made things pleasantwith friends of the most various opinions. That Wilfrid took her intohis confidence was to her a great happiness. In secret she felt it wouldbe the beginning of closer intimacy, of things which women--heaven bepraised!--esteem of vastly more importance than intellectual convictionsor the interest of party. 

But it was long, very long, before Wilfrid could bring himself to passthe line which separates friendship from lovemaking. Of passion hisnature had no lack, but it seemed to be absorbed in memory; he shrankfrom the thought of using to another those words he had spoken to Emily. One of the points of intense secret sympathy between Emily and himselfwas this chastity of temperament. Constitutionally incapable of vice, heheld in repugnance even that degree of materialism in the view of sexualrelations which is common to men who have grown their beards. Not onlyhad a coarse word never passed his lips; he intensely disliked thefrivolous way of discussing subjects which to him were more sacred thanany other. When he had decided with himself that it was his destiny towed Beatrice, he had a positive fear of taking this step from whichthere would be no return. Before he could do so, he must have utterlybroken with the past, and how could that ever be I He had not evenmoments of coldness in his thought of Emily; it was beyond his power toforesee the day when she would have become to him a mere symbol ofsomething that was. Suppose that some day, when married, he again mether? In spite of everything, he did not believe that she had ceased tolove him; somewhere she still kept her faith, martyred by theincomprehensible fate which had torn her from his arms. To meet heragain would be to forget every tie save that holiest which made one ofhis spirit and of hers. 

One day--it was during the second season which Mrs. Baxendale passed inLondon--he went to his friend and asked her where Emily was. Mrs. Baxendale was too quick for him; Wilfrid thought he had put his questionunexpectedly, but the lady was ready for such a question at any moment, and she replied, with appearance of absolute sincerity, that she had noknowledge of Emily's place of abode. 

'Where was she last--when you last heard from her?' Wilfrid asked, insurprise at an answer so unanticipated. 

Mrs. Baxendale named a town in Yorkshire. She had begun with acalculated falsehood, and had no scruple in backing it up by others. 

'What can it concern you, Wilfrid?' she continued. 'Shall I confess myweakness? I mentioned your name in a letter to her; the result was thiscomplete ending of our correspondence. Now, will not even that satisfyyou?'

He did not doubt what he was told; Mrs. Baxendale's character forveracity stood high. It was solely out of regard for Wilfrid that sheallowed herself to mislead him, for by this time it seemed obvious thatBeatrice was drawing near to her reward, and Mrs. Baxendale, withpardonable error, took this last inquiry about Emily for a piece ofconscientiousness, which, once satisfied, Wilfrid would hold on hiscourse to a happy haven. 'She has given him up, ' was herself-justification. 'Beatrice now would suffer no less than she hasdone. '

'Then tell me one thing more, ' Wilfrid pursued. 'What has become of thatman Dagworthy?'

'That I can easily do. Long ago he married a young lady of Dunfield. '

'Then what did it mean? what _did_ it mean?'

Mrs. Baxendale merely shook her head. 

A few months later, Beatrice astonished everyone by her first appearanceas a public singer. Wilfrid had as little anticipated such a step as anyother of Beatrice's friends. What was about to happen only became knowna day or two in advance. Mrs. Ashley Birks was paralysed with horror;she implored, she reasoned, she put on her face of cold anger. Mr. Athelcried 'What the deuce!' and forthwith held a serious colloquy with hisson. Wilfrid experienced a certain joy, only tempered with anxiety as tothe result of the experiment. If it proved a success, he felt that theeffect upon himself would be to draw him nearer to Beatrice; but it mustbe a great success. He calculated on imaginative influences as other mendo on practical issues. Beatrice, acknowledged as more than an amateur, perchance publicly recognised as really a great singer, would impresshim in a new way; he might overcome his impartial way of regarding her. The result, outwardly, answered his fullest hopes. Beatrice had not idlyrisked what would have been a deplorable fiasco; she had theencouragement of those who did not speak in vain, and her ambition hadfired itself as she perceived the results of her conscientious labour. Her nervousness throughout the day of the concert was terrible, butlittle less than her life depended on the result, and at the hour oftrial she was strong to conquer. Very far behind her, as she stepped outto that large audience, were the dilettante successes of drawing-roomand charitable concerts; she smiled at all that flow; since then she hadunlearnt so much and wrought with such humility. But what she strove forwas won; she knew it in the grasp of Wilfrid's hand when he led her toher carriage. Her veil was down; behind it she was sobbing. 

'Am I nothing more than a frivolous woman now?' she said, leaning to himfrom the carriage. 

Wilfrid could make no answer, and she was whirled away from him. 

He went to her the next day, and asked her to be his wife. Beatricelooked him in the face long and steadily. Then she asked:

'Do you love me, Wilfrid?'

'I love you. '

Another word trembled on her tongue, but the temptation of her bliss wastoo great; the contained ardour of long years had its way, sweepingdoubt and memory before it. 

'For your sake I have done it all. What do I care for a whole world'spraise, compared with one word of recognition from you! You remember themorning when you told me of my faults, when we all but seemed toquarrel? Ah! I have faults in abundance still, but have I not done onething worth doing, done it thoroughly, as net everyone could? I am notonly a woman of the world, of society and fashion? Do I not know howcontemptible that is? But only you could raise me above it. '

He left her, in a bewildered state; she had excited, impassioned him;but how strange it all was after those other scenes of love! It seemedso of the earth; the words he had spoken rang over again in his ears, and stirred his blood to shame. He could not say whether in truth heloved her or not; was it enough to feel that he could cherish her withmuch tenderness, and intoxicate himself in gazing on her perfect face?Women are so different! Emily had scarcely spoken when he made known toher his love; could he ever forget that awe-struck face, dimly seen inthe moonlight? Her words to the end had been few; it was her eyes thatspoke. Beatrice was noble, and had a heart of gold; was there not heavenin that ardour of hers, if only it had been his soul's desire?Henceforth it must be; she loved him, and he must not wrong her. Alas!the old name, the old name alone, was still star-written. .. . 

He passed with her the afternoon of each Sunday. Mrs. Birks' house was alarge one, and Beatrice had abundance of room to herself. ThitherWilfrid took his way on the Sunday which we have reached, the dayfollowing his drawing-room triumph. Already he was a little ashamed ofhimself; he was experiencing again the feeling which had come over himafter his first speech to a political meeting. As he went home thatnight, a demon in his head kept crying 'Clap-trap! clap-trap!' and therewas no silencing the voice. He had talked to the intelligence of themob. Now his talk had been addressed to--the representatives of the mob;if the demon did not cry so loudly, it was only because he was weary ofhis thankless task. 

Beatrice was a superb coquette--but only for the man she loved. Forthese Sunday afternoons she attired herself divinely; Wilfrid had learntto expect a new marvel at each of his comings. To-day she wore herfavourite colour, a dark-blue. Her rising to meet him was that of aqueen who bath an honoured guest. The jewels beneath her long darklashes were as radiant as when first she heard him say, 'I love you. 'All the impulses of her impetuous character had centred on this one endof her life. Her eccentricities had tamed themselves in the longdiscipline of frustrated desire. The breath of her body was love. Abouther stole a barely perceptible perfume, which invaded the senses, whichwrapped the heart in luxury. 

Wilfrid dropped on one knee before her and kissed her hand. 

'You are in a happy mood, ' Beatrice said. 'Who has been telling you thelast flattery?'

'I have seen no one to-day. If I look happy--should I not?'

She drew her finger along the line of his eyebrow. 

'How does your picture get on?'

'I have to give two sittings next week. Thank goodness they are thelast. '

'Oh! why wasn't it in time for the Academy! But it must go next year. '

Wilfrid laughed as he seated himself opposite to her. 

'I am not sure, after all, that you are happy, ' she said, leaning herhead a little aside as she gazed at him. 'Now you are thoughtful. Isuppose you will be more and more thoughtful. '

'Deep on his front engravenDeliberation sat, and public care--'

quoted Wilfrid, with a little wrying of the lips. 'This, you know, isone of the penalties of greatness. '

She seemed about to rise, but it was only to slip forward and sink uponher knees by his side, her arms embracing him. It was like the fall offair waters, so gracefully impulsive, so self-abandoning. 

'Not one kiss to-day?' she murmured, her voice like the dying of aflute. 

And she raised to him a face lit from the inmost sanctuary of love. 

'You are as beautiful, ' he said, 'as any woman of whom fable ever told. Your beauty frightens me. It is sometimes more than human--as though theloveliest Greek goddess suddenly found breath and colour and the lightof eyes. '

Beatrice threw her head far back, laughing silently; he saw the laughterdance upon her throat. 

'My love! my own!' she whispered. 'Say you love me!'

'Dearest, I love you!'

'Ah! the words make my heart flutter so! I am glad, glad that I havebeauty; but for that you would never have loved me. Let me hide my faceas I tell you. I used to ask myself whether I was not really fairer thanother women--I thought--I hoped! But you were so indifferent. Wilfrid, how long, how long I have loved you! I was quite a young girl when Iloved you first. That, I said, shall be my husband, or I will never haveone. And I knew so little how to win your thought. How ashamed it makesme to think of things I said and did in those days!'

She was silent, leaning her head against his shoulder. 

'Do you ever think of me as I was at Dunfield?' she asked presently, with timid utterance, hardly above her breath, risking what she hadnever yet dared. 

'No, ' he answered, 'I think of the present. '

His voice was a little hard, from the necessity of commanding it. 

'You did not know that I loved you then? Think of me! Pity me!'

He made no answer. Beatrice spoke again, her face veiled against him, her arms pressing closer. 

'You love me with perfect love? I have your whole heart?'

'I love you only, Beatrice. '

'And with love as great as you ever knew? Say that to me--Wilfrid, saythat!' She clung to him with passion which was almost terrible. 'Forgiveme! Only remember that you are my life, my soul! I cannot have less thanthat. '

He would have been cased in triple brass if music such as this had notmelted into his being. He gave her the assurance she yearned for, and, in giving it, all but persuaded himself that he spoke the very truth. The need of affirming his belief drew from him such words as he had thesecret of; Beatrice sighed in an anguish of bliss. 

'Oh, let me die now! It is only for this that I have lived. '

Wilfrid had foreseen and dreaded this questioning. From any woman it wassooner or later to be expected, and Beatrice was as exacting as she waspassionate. She knew herself, and strove hard to subdue thesecharacteristics which might be displeasing to Wilfrid; her years ofhopelessness, of perpetual self-restraint, were of aid to her now; threemonths had passed without a word from her which directly revived the oldsorrows. Her own fear of trenching on indiscretion found an ally inWilfrid's habitual gravity; her remark, at their meeting, on his moodwas in allusion to a standing pleasantry between them; she hadcomplained that he seldom looked really happy in her presence. It wastrue; his bearing as a rule was more than sober. Beatrice tormentedherself to explain this. He was not in ordinary intercourse sopersistently serious, though far more so than he had been in earlieryears, the change dating, as Beatrice too well had marked, from the timeof his supreme misery. With the natural and becoming gravity of matureage there mingled a very perceptible strain of melancholy. You felt itin his laugh, which was seldom hearty; it made his sprightliness insocial hours more self-conscious than it might have been. Beatrice hadalways felt towards him a very real humility, even when the goading ofher unrequited love drove her into a show of scornful opposition. Herself conscious of but average intelligence, and without studiousinclinations, she endowed him with acquisitions as vast as they werevague to her discernment; she knew that it would always lie beyond herpower to be his intellectual companion. Therefore she desired to bebefore everything womanly in his eyes, to make the note of puresentiment predominate in their private relations to each other. She hadbut won him by her artistic faculty; she could not depend upon that toretain and deepen his affection. Her constant apprehension was lestfamiliarity should diminish her charm in his eyes. Wilfrid was no lesscritical than he had ever been; she suspected that he required much ofher. Did he seek more than she would eventually be able to give? Was sheexhausting the resources of her personal charm? Such thoughts as thesemade curious alternations in her manner towards him; one day she wouldendeavour to support a reserve which should surpass his own, another shelost herself in bursts of emotion. The very care which she bestowed uponher personal appearance was a result of her anxiety on this point; inthe last resort she knew herself to be beautiful, and to her beauty hewas anything but insensible. Yet such an influence was wretchedlyinsufficient; she must have his uttermost love, and never yet had sheattained full assurance of possessing it. 

Little did Wilfrid suspect the extent to which her thoughts wereoccupied with that faint, far-off figure of Emily Hood. It was herdespair that she had known Emily so slightly; she would have desired tostudy to the depths the woman who had possessed such a secret of power. In personal charm Emily could not compare with her; and yet--thedistinction struck her hard--that was perhaps only true if personalcharm merely meant charm of person, for she herself had experiencedsomething of the strange impressiveness which men--men ofimagination--submitted to in Emily's presence. Where did it lie, thismagic? It was indefinite, indefinable; perhaps a tone of the voicerepresented it, perhaps a smile--which meant, of course, that it wasinseparable from her being, from her womanhood. Could one attribute toEmily, even after the briefest acquaintance, a thought, an instinct, which conflicted with the ideal of womanly purity? Was not herloveliness of the soul? Moreover, she was intellectual beyond ordinarywomen; for Wilfrid that must have been a rich source of attraction. Scarcely less than the image of Wilfrid himself was that of Emily ahaunting presence in Beatrice's life. Recently she had spoken of herboth with Mrs. Birks and Mrs. Baxendale; it cost her something to do so, but both of these had known Emily with intimacy, and might perhaps tellher more than she herself remembered or could divine. Mrs. Birks wasdisposed to treat Emily with little seriousness. 

'You make the strangest mistake, ' she said, 'if you think that wasanything but a boy's folly. To be sure the folly got very near the pointof madness--that was because opposition came in its way. Wilfrid hasfor years thought as little of her as of the man in the moon's wife--ifhe has one. You are surely not troubling yourself--what?'

Beatrice had thereupon retired into herself. 

'You misunderstand me, ' she said, rather coldly. 'It was only arecollection of something that had seemed strange to me at the time. '

Mrs. Baxendale held another tone, but even she was not altogethersincere--naturally it was impossible to be so. To begin with, she gaveBeatrice to understand, even as she had Wilfrid, that she had now forsome time lost sight of Emily, and, consequently, that the latter wasless actually interesting to her than was in fact the case. With heraunt Beatrice could be more unreserved; she began by plainly askingwhether Mrs. Baxendale thought Wilfrid's regret had been of longendurance--a woman in Beatrice's position clearly could not, in talkingto another, even suppose the case that the regret still endured. Heraunt honestly replied that she believed he had suffered long andseverely. 

'But, ' she added, with characteristic tact, 'I did not need thisinstance, my dear, to prove to me that a first love may be only apreparation for that which is to last through life. I could tell youstories--but I haven't my grandmother's cap on at present. '

(Mrs. Baxendale was, in truth, a grandmother by this time, and professedto appreciate the authority she derived from the circumstance. )

That had drawn Beatrice out. 

'She was strong-minded?'

'Or very weak, I really don't know which. '

'Yes, ' mused Beatrice, 'she was a problem to you. You never troubledyourself to puzzle over my character, aunt. '

'When a stream is of lovely clearness, Beatrice, we do not find it hardto determine the kind of ground it flows over. '

'I will owe you a kiss for that, ' said the girl, blushing hot with veryjoy. 'But you are a flatterer, dear aunt, and just now I am very humblein spirit. I think great happiness should make us humble, don't you? Ifind it hard to make out my claim to it. '

'Be humble still, dear, and the happiness will not be withdrawn. '

'I do like to talk with you, ' Beatrice replied. 'I never go away withoutsomething worth thinking of. '

Humility she strove to nourish. It was a prime virtue of woman, and'would sweeten her being. Unlike Emily, she was not inspired with anardent idealism independently of her affections; with love had begun herconscious self-study, and love alone exalted her. Her many frivoloustendencies she had only overcome by dint of long endeavour to approachWilfrid's standard. If in one way this was an item of strength, inanother it indicated a very real and always menacing weakness. Havinggained that to which her every instinct had directed itself, she madethe possession of her bliss an indispensable factor of life; to lose itwould be to fall into nether darkness, into despair of good. So widowed, there would be no support in herself; she knew it, and the knowledge atmoments terrified her. Even her religious convictions, once very realand strong, had become subordinate; her creed--though she durst notconfess it--was that of earthly love. Formerly she had been thrown backon religious emotion as a solace, an anodyne; for that reason thetendencies inherited from her mother had at one time reached a climax offanaticism. Of late years, music had been her resource, the moreefficient in that it ministered to hope. By degrees even her charitableactivity had diminished; since her mother's death she had abandoned thehabit of 'district visiting. ' As confidence of the one supremeattainment grew in her, the mere accessories of her moral life wereallowed to fall away. She professed no change of opinion, indeed under. Went none, but opinion became, as with most women, distinct frompractice. She still pretended to rejoice as often as she persuadedWilfrid to go to church, but it was noticeable that she willinglyallowed his preference for the better choral services, and seemed totake it for granted that the service was only of full efficacy whenperformed together with her. .. . 

'Let me die now! It is only for this that I have lived!'

The cry came from her very heart. For once Wilfrid had been overcome, had thrown off his rather sad-coloured wooing, had uttered such words asher soul yearned for. Yet she had scarcely time to savour her rapturebefore that jealousy of the past mingled itself with the sensation. Evensuch words as these he must have used to _her_, and had they notperchance come more readily to his lips? Was he by nature so reserved?Or, the more probable thing, was it that she failed at other times toinspire him? How had _she_ been used to behave, to speak?

In her incessant brooding upon the details of Wilfrid's first affection, Beatrice had found one point which never lost its power to distract her;it was the thought of all the correspondence that must have passedbetween him and Emily. What had become of those letters? Had they beenmutually returned? It was impossible to discover. Not even to her auntcould she put such a question as that; and it might very well be thatMrs. Baxendale knew nothing certainly. If the story as she, Beatrice, had heard it was quite accurate, it seemed natural to suppose that Emilyhad requested to have her letters returned to her when she declared thatthe engagement must be at an end; but Wilfrid had refused to accept thatdeclaration, and would he not also have refused to let the writing whichwas so precious to him leave his hands? In that case he probably had theletters still; perhaps he still read them at times. Would it bepossible, even after marriage, to speak of such a subject with Wilfrid?She had constantly tried to assure herself that, even if he had kept thepledges through all these years, a sense of honour would lead Wilfrid todestroy them when he gave and received a new love. In moments when itwas her conscious effort to rise to noble heights, to be as pure a womanas that other--for Beatrice never sought the base comfort of refusingto her rival that just homage--she 'would half persuade herself that nodoubt lingered in her mind; it was right to destroy the letters, andwhatever was right Wilfrid must have done. But she could not live at allhours in that thin air; the defects of her blood were too enduring. Jealousy came back from its brief exile, and was more insinuating thanever, its suggestions more maddening. By a sort of reaction, thesethoughts assailed her strongly in the moments which followed heroutburst of passion and Wilfrid's response. Yet she could not--durstnot--frame words to tell him of her suffering. It was to risk too much;it might strike a fatal blow at his respect for her. Even those lastwords she had breathed with dread, involuntarily; already, perhaps, shehad failed in the delicacy he looked for, and had given him matter fordisagreeable thought as soon as he left her. She rose at length from herkneeling attitude, and leaned back in her chair with a look of troublescarcely veiled. 

Wilfrid did not notice it; he had already begun to think of othermatters. 

'Beatrice, ' he began, 'there's a subject I have avoided speaking of, thinking you might perhaps be the first to mention it. Do you wish tocontinue your singing?'

She smiled, and did not seem to attach great importance to the question. 

'It is for you to decide, ' she answered. 'You know why I began it; I amready to say my farewell whenever you bid me. '

'But what is your own feeling? I suppose you would in any case cease atour marriage?'

'You are not ashamed of it?'

'It is true, ' he replied humorously, 'that I am a member of the BritishHouse of Commons, but I beg you won't think too meanly of me. I protestthat I have still something of my old self. '

'That means you are rather proud than ashamed. How' long, ' she went onto ask, lowering her eyes, 'is the British House of Commons likely tosit?'

'Probably the talk will hold out for some seven or eight weeks longer. '

'May I sing the two remaining engagements, if I take no more afterthose?'

'To be sure, you must. Let it stand so, then. '

She fell back into her brooding. 

'Now I, too, have something to ask, ' she said, after a short silence. 

'Whatever you ask is already granted. '

'Don't be too hasty. It's more than you think. '

'Well?'

'I want you to give me some work to do for you--to let me come and sitwith you in your study some mornings and 'write things for you. '

Wilfrid laughed cheerily. 

'If I had a regard for my dignity, ' he said, 'I certainly shouldn't letyou. What will become of my pretence of work when you are let into thesecrets? But come, by all means. You shall digest a blue-book for me. '

'When? To-morrow morning?'

'If you will. '

Beatrice was satisfied. 

CHAPTER XXI

DANGEROUS RELICS

'Beatrice is coming to act as my secretary this morning, ' Wilfrid saidto his father, as they sat at breakfast on Monday. 

'Is she?' remarked Mr. Athel, drily. 'It had struck me that you were notvery busy just now, ' he added, by way of natural comment. 

The junior smiled. 

'By the way, she has only two more engagements--then it ceases. '

'I am glad to hear it, ' said his father, with much satisfaction. 

'After all, ' observed Wilfrid, 'you must remember that everyone knowsshe doesn't sing for a living. Art, you know, is only contemptible whenit supports the artist. '

'Well, well, file your epigrams by all means; but we live in the world, Wilf. Criticise as smartly as you like; the danger only begins when youact upon your convictions. '

At half-past ten Beatrice arrived. She came into the study with amorning colour on her cheeks, threw off her mantle and hat, and letWilfrid draw off her gloves, which somehow took a long time in thedoing. She was full of bright, happy talk, most of it tending to showthat she had already given the attention to the morning's 'leaders'which was becoming in a politician's betrothed. 

'Do you smoke whilst you are at work?' she asked, descending from thosehigh themes. 

'I allow myself a few cigarettes. '

'Cigarettes? Surely that is too frivolous an accompaniment!'

'O, it is only when I am musing upon the arguments of the Opposition. '

'I see. ' Beatrice took the reply quite seriously. 'But where is theblue-book you want me to digest?'

Wilfrid shook his head, looking at her with a smile. 

'You think me incompetent? But at least try me. I shan't spoilanything. '

'An illustration drawn from the art of millinery, I imagine. '

'Don't be unkind. I'm afraid you wouldn't let me write your letters?'

'By Jove! an excellent idea. Here's one of the free and independentelectors of G--writes to ask what my views are on the subject ofcompulsory vaccination. Do pen a reply and I'll sign it. '

'But what am I to say?'

'The ghost of Jenner alone knows I offer it as an opportunity to showyour fitness for this post. You have applied to me for work, Miss--MissRedwing, I think your name is?' He assumed the air of one applied to. 

'It is, sir. '

'Come, come; that's far too jaunty. You don't at all understand theposition of the person applying for work. You must be profoundlydepressed; there must be half a tear in your eye; you must look hungry. '

'O dear--I had such an excellent breakfast!'

'Which clearly disqualifies you for the post you seek. However, Miss--Miss Redwing, I think you said?'

'I did, sir. '

'Vastly better. The applicant must always be a little ashamed of hisname; they learn that, you know, from the way in which they areaddressed by employers. Well, I'll give you a hint. Tell him he's anass, or he wouldn't have needed to ask my opinion. '

'I am to put that into parliamentary language?'

'Precisely. '

'And say nothing more definite?'

'Really Miss--Miss Redwing, I begin to doubt the genuineness of yourtestimonials. You surely have learnt that the first essential of the artof public letter-writing is to say nothing whatever in as convincing amanner as possible. '

'But if I tell him he's a--a donkey?'

'You fear it will be deviating into truth. There's something in that. Say, then, that the matter is occupying my gravest attention, and that Ihope to be able to reply definitely in the course of a few weeks. '

'Very well. Where may I sit? But I can't use a quill, dear boy. '

'Miss Redwing!'

'Oh, I forgot myself. Have you a nice, fine point, not too hard?'

'Let me see. '

Wilfrid unlocked one of the drawers in his desk. As he drew it out, Beatrice stole to him, and peeped into the drawer. 

'How neat, Wilfrid!' she exclaimed. 'What a pretty pocket-book that islying there. Do let me look at it. '

It was a morocco case, with an elastic band round it. Beatrice stretchedher hand towards it, but he arrested her movement. 

'No, no, ' he said, playfully, 'we can't have prying. Here are the pens. '

'But do let me look at the case, Wilfrid. '

He began to close the drawer. Beatrice laid her hand on it. 

'My aunt gave it me, long ago, ' Wilfrid said, as if to dismiss thesubject. 'Mind! I shall trap your fingers. '

'I'm sure you won't do that. But I do want to see it. The smell ofmorocco is so delicious. Just one whiff of it. '

'Then you want to smell it, not to see it. If you're good, you shallbefore you go away. '

'No, but now!--Wilfrid!'

He was pretending to squeeze her fingers in the shutting of the drawer. She would not undo her grasp. 

'Why mayn't I, Wilfrid?'

She looked at him. His expression was graver than became the incident;he was trying to smile, but Beatrice saw that his eyes and lips wereagitated. 

'Why mayn't I?' she repeated. 

'Oh, if you insist, ' he exclaimed, moving back a step or two, 'of courseyou may. '

She took up the case, and looked at it on either side. 

'There are letters in it?' she said, without raising her eyes. 

'Yes, I believe there are letters in it. '

'Important, I suppose?'

'I daresay; I suppose I had some reason for putting them there. '

He spoke with apparent indifference, and turned to light a cigarette. Beatrice put back the case, and closed the drawer. 

'Here is note-paper, ' Wilfrid said, holding some to her. 

She took it in silence, and seated herself. Wilfrid at tempted to pursuethe jest, but she could not reply. She sat as if about to 'write; hereyes were drooped, and her mouth had set itself hard. Wilfrid affectedto turn over papers in search for something, still standing before thetable. 

'You find it difficult to begin, ' he said. 'Pray call him "dear sir. "Society depends upon that "dear. "'

'A word easily used, ' remarked Beatrice, in a low' voice, as if she werethinking. 

He cast a glance at her, then seated himself. He was at the side of thetable, she at the end. After a moment of silence, she leaned forward tohim. 

'Wilfrid, ' she said, trying to smile, 'what letters are those, dear?'

'Of what possible moment can that be to you, Beatrice?'

'It seems--I can't help thinking they are--letters which you valueparticularly. Might I not know?'

He looked away to the window. 

'Of course, if you tell me I am rude, ' Beatrice continued, pressing herpen's point upon the table, 'I have no answer. '

'Well, yes, ' he replied at length, as if having taken a resolve, 'theyare letters of--that I have put apart for a special reason. And now, shall we forget them?'

His tone was not altogether suave; about his nostrils there was asuspicion of defiance. He forced himself to meet her gaze steadily; theeffort killed a smile. 

'We will cease to speak of them, ' Beatrice answered, implying adistinction. 

A minute later he saw' that she laid down her pen and rose. He looked upinquiringly. 

'I don't feel able to do anything this morning, ' she said. 

Wilfrid made no reply. She went to the chair on which her hat and mantlelay. 

'You are not going?' he asked, in a tone of surprise. 

'I think so; I can't be of use to you, ' she added, impulsively; 'I havenot your confidence. '

He let her throw the mantle over her shoulders. 

'Beatrice, surely this is not the result of such a trifle? Look!' Hepulled open the drawer once more and threw the pocket-hook on to thetable. 'Suppose that had lain there when you came into this room alone. Should you have opened it and examined the contents?'

'I should not--you know it. '

'Very well. You would simply have taken it for granted that I was to betrusted to look after my own affairs, until I asked someone else's aidor advice. Is not that the case at present?'

A man more apt at dissimulation would have treated the matter from thefirst with joking irony, and might have carried his point, though withdifficulty. Wilfrid had not the aptitude, to begin with, and he wasgravely disturbed. His pulses were throbbing; scarcely could he steadyhis voice. He dreaded a disclosure of what might well be regarded asthrowing doubt upon his sincerity, the more so that he understood inthis moment how justifiable such a doubt would be. After the merrimentof a few minutes ago, this sudden shaking of his nerves was the harderto endure. It revived with painful intensity the first great agitationsof his life. His way of speaking could not but confirm Beatrice'ssuspicions. 

'We are not exactly strangers to each other, ' she said, coldly. 

'No, we are not; yet I think I should have forborne to press you on anymatter you thought it needless to speak of. '

She put on her hat. Wilfrid felt his anger rising--our natural emotionwhen we are disagreeably in the wrong, yet cannot condemn the causewhich has made us so. He sat to the table again, as if his part in thediscussion were at an end. 

Beatrice stood for some moments, then came quickly to his side. 

'Wilfrid, have you secrets from me?' she asked, the tremor of her voicebetraying the anguish that her suspicions cost her. 'Say I amill-mannered. It was so, at first; I oughtn't to have said anything. Butnow it has become something different. However trifling the matter, Ican't bear that you should refuse to treat me as yourself. There isnothing, nothing I could keep from you. I have not a secret in my lifeto hide from you. It is not because they are letters--or not only that. You put a distance between us you say there are affairs of yours inwhich I have no concern. I cannot bear that! If I leave you, I shallsuffer more than you dream. I thought we were one. Is not your love ascomplete as mine?'

He rose and moved away, saying--

'Open it! Look at the letters!'

'No, that I can't do. What can it be that troubles you so? Are theyletters that I _ought_ not to see?'

He could bear it no longer. 

'Yes, ' he answered, brusquely, 'I suppose they are. '

'You mean that you have preserved letters which, as often as you openthat drawer, remind you of someone else?--that you purposely keep themso near your hand?'

'Beatrice, I had no right to destroy them. '

'No right!' Her eyes flashed, and her tongue trembled with its scorn. 'You mean you had no wish. '

'If I had no right, I could scarcely have the wish. '

Wilfrid was amazed at his own contemptible quibbling, but in truth hewas not equal to the occasion. He could not defend himself in choicephrases; in a sort of desperate carelessness he flung out the firstretort that offered itself. He was on the point of throwing overeverything, of declaring that all must be at an end between them; yetcourage failed for that. Nor courage only; the woman before him was verygrand in her indignation, her pale face was surpassingly beautiful. Thepast faded in comparison with her; in his heart he doubted of its power. 

Beatrice was gazing at him in resentful wonder. 

'Why have you done this?' she asked. 'Why did you come to me and speakthose words? What necessity was there to pretend what you did not feel?'

He met her eyes. 

'I have not spoken falsely to you, ' he said, with calmness which did notstrengthen the impression his words were meant to convey. 

'When you said that you loved me? If it were true, you could not haveborne to have those letters under your eyes. You say you had no right todestroy them. You knew that it was your duty to do so. _Could_ you havekept them?'

Wilfrid had become almost absent-minded. His heart was torn in two ways. He wished to take the letters from their case and destroy them at once;probably it was masculine pride which now kept him from doing it. 

'I think you must believe what I say, Beatrice, ' was his answer. 'I amnot capable of deliberately lying to you. '

'You are not. But you are capable of deceiving yourself; I accuse you ofnothing more. You have deceived yourself, and I have been the cause ofit; for I had so little of woman's pride that I let you see my love; itwas as if I begged for your love in return. My own heart should havetaught me better; there can be no second love. You pitied me!'

Wilfrid was in no state of mind to weigh phrases; at a later time, whenhe could look back with calmness, and with the advantage of extendedknowledge, he recognised in these words the uttermost confession of loveof 'which a woman is capable. In hearing them, he simply took them as areproach. 

'If such a thing had been possible, ' he said, 'it would have been ahorrible injustice to you. I asked you to be my wife because I lovedyou. The existence of these letters is no proof that I misunderstood myown feeling. There are many things we cannot explain to another on themoment. You must judge the facts as you will, but no hasty and obviousjudgment will hit the truth. '

She was not listening to him. Her eyes were fixed upon the letters, andover her heart there crept a desire which all but expelled otherfeeling, a desire to know what was there written. She would have givenher hand to be alone in the room with that pocket-book, now that sheknew what it contained; no scruple would have withheld her. Theimpossibility that her longing could ever be satisfied frenzied her withjealousy. 

'I will leave you with them, ' she exclaimed, speaking her' thought. 'Youdo not want me; I come between you and her. Read, and forget me; readthem once more, and see then if you do not understand yourself. I knownow why you have often been so cold, why it cost you an effort to replyto me. You shall never have that trouble again. '

She moved to quit the room. Wilfrid called her. 

'Beatrice! Stay and listen to me. These letters are nothing, and meannothing; Stay, and see me burn them. '

Irrational as it was, she could not bear to see them destroyed. In herdistracted mind there was a sort of crazy hope that he would at lastgive them to her to burn; she might even perhaps have brought herself totake them away. 

'That is childish, ' she said. 'You know them by heart; the burning ofthe paper would alter nothing. '

'Then I can say and do no more. '

It had been like a rending of his heartstrings to offer to destroy thesememories of Emily, though he at the same time persuaded himself that, once done, he would be a stronger and a happier man. In truth, they hadmade the chief strength of the link between him and the past; every daythey had reminded him how much of the old feeling lingered in his being;the sanctity with which these relics were invested testified to theholiness of the worship which had bequeathed them. He had not opened thecase since his betrothal to Beatrice, and scarcely a day passed that hedid not purpose hiding it somewhere away for ever--not destroying. Beatrice's answer to his offer caused him half to repent that he hadmade it. He turned away from her. 

She, after looking at the pocket-book still for some moments, seemed toforce herself away. He heard her open the door, and did not try to stayher. 

Half an hour later, Wilfrid restored the letters to their place in thedrawer. If they were to be destroyed, it must now be in Beatrice'spresence. With something like joy he turned the key upon them, feelingthat they were preserved, that the last farewell was once againpostponed. Wilfrid was not a very strong man where sacrifice 'wasdemanded of him. 

He neither saw nor heard from Beatrice till the evening of the followingday. Then it happened that they had to dine at the same house. Onmeeting her in the drawing-room, he gave her his hand as usual; hersreturned no pressure. She seemed as cheerful as ever in her talk withothers; him she kept apart from. He could not make up his mind to write. She had refused to accept such proof of his sincerity as it wag in hispower to offer, and Wilfrid made this an excuse--idle as he knew it tobe--for maintaining a dignified silence. Dignified, he allowed himselfto name it; yet he knew perfectly well that his attitude had one veryignoble aspect, since he all but consciously counted upon Beatrice'slove to bring her back to his feet. He said to himself: Let herinterpret my silence as she will; if she regard it as evidence ofinability to face her--well, I make no objection. The conviction all thewhile grew in him that he did veritably love her, for he felt that, butfor his knowledge of her utter devotedness, he would now be in fear lesthe should lose her. Such fear need not occupy a thought; a word, and sheflew to him. He enjoyed this sense of power; to draw out themisunderstanding a little would make reconciliation all the pleasanter. Then the letters should flame into ashes, and with them vanish even theregret for the blessedness they had promised. 

Wednesday morning, and still no letter from Beatrice. Mr. Athel jokedabout her speedy resignation of the secretaryship. Wilfrid joined in thejoke, and decided that he would wait one more day, knowing not what aday might bring forth. 

CHAPTER XXII

HER PATH IN THE SHADOW

Yielding to the urgency of Beatrice, who was supported in her entreatyby Mrs. Birks, Wilfrid had, a little ere this, consented to sit for hisportrait to an artist, a friend of the family, who had already made avery successful picture of Beatrice herself. The artist resided atTeddington. Wilfrid was due for a sitting this Wednesday morning, and hewent down into the country, intending to be back for lunch and the Houseof Commons. But the weather was magnificent, and, the sitting over, truant thoughts began to assail the young legislator. Bushey Park was athand, with its chestnut avenue leading to Hampton Court. A ramble ofindefinite duration was, in his present frame of mind, much moreattractive than the eloquence of independent members. He determined totake a holiday. 

A very leisurely stroll across the park brought him to the King's Arms, and the sight of the hostelry suggested pleasant thoughts of sundryrefreshing viands and cooling liquors. He entered and lunched. It was aholiday, and a truant holiday; he allowed himself champagne. When hecame forth again, his intention to stroll through the galleries of thePalace had given way before the remembered shadow of the chestnuts; hereturned to the park, and, after idly watching the fish in the shallowwater of the round lake, strayed away into cool retreats, where thegrass irresistibly invited to recumbency. He threw himself down, and lethis eyes dream upon the delicate blades and stalks and leafage which oneso seldom regards. If he chose to gaze further, there were fair tractsof shadowed sward, with sunny gleamings scattered where the trees werethinner, and above him the heaven of clustering leaves, here ofimpenetrable dark-green, there translucent-golden. A rustling whisper, in the air and on the ground, was the only voice that came thither. 

He had set himself to think of Beatrice. He purposed writing her a longletter to-night, wherein he would do his best to make her understand thelight in which the past appeared to him, and how little those memorieshad to do with the present and its love and its duty. To be sure, hecould not use the words of very truth. He would much have preferred tospeak with unflinching honesty, to confess that he had, even of late, often dwelt on the thought of Emily with tenderness, with something ofheart-ache; but that the new love had, for all that, triumphed over theold, and would henceforth grow to perfectness. But the character ofBeatrice would not allow this; in her, feeling was too predominant overintellect; she could not recognise in this very frankness the assuranceof an affection which would end by being no less than the utmost shedemanded. He had to seek for subtleties of explanation, for ingenuitiesof argument, which, unsatisfactory as they seemed to himself, might yet, he thought, help her to the reconciliation he knew she desired. He wasscarcely less anxious for it. For Beatrice he would never know thatlimitless passion, that infinite yearning alike of spirit and of sense, which had been his love for Emily; but she was very dear to him, andwith all his heart he desired to make her happiness. He imaged herbeauty and her talent with pride which made his veins warmer. Herhusband, he would be loyal to his last breath. Community of life wouldestablish that intimate alliance of heart and soul which every yearmakes more enduring. Were they not young flesh and blood, he and she?And could a bodiless ghost come between them, a mere voice oflong-vanished time, insubstantial, unseizable, as the murmur in thesechestnut-leaves?

He grew tired of the attitude which at first had been reposeful, androse to wander further. Someone else, it seemed, had been tempted tothis quiet corner, away from the road; a woman was walking at a littledistance, and reading as she walked. The thought passed through his mindthat a woman never looked more graceful than when walking with her headbent over a book. When he looked that way again, he found that she hadcome much nearer, still very intent upon her reading. She had, in truth, a comely figure, one which suggested a face of the nobler kind. Shewould look up presently. 

Did not that form, that movement as she walked, stir memories? Yes, hehad known someone who might well have paced thus beneath spreadingtrees, with her eyes upon a book of poetry; not unlike this stranger, outwardly. In what black, skyless, leafless town was she pursuing herlonely life?--Lonely? why should it be so? Emily could not go on her waywithout meeting one whom her sweetness and her power would enthral, andthe reasons, whatever they were, that had forbidden her marriage six orseven years ago, were not likely to resist time. He tried to hope thatthe happier lot had by this solaced her. Do we not change so? His ownlove--see how it had faded!

Half purposely, he had turned so as to pass near the reader. At thedistance of a few yards from her, he stayed his step. A little nearershe came, then something made her aware of his presence. She raised hereyes, the eyes of Emily Hood. 

Her hands fell, one still holding the book open. He, who was preparedalready, could watch her countenance change from placid, if grave, thought, to the awakening of surprise, to startled recognition; he couldsee the colour die upon her cheeks, flee from her lips; he could observethe great heartthrobs which shook her and left her bosom quivering. Hedid not uncover his head; conventional courtesies have their season. Itseemed very long before they ceased to look into each other's eyes, butat length hers fell. 

'Is it possible that you are living in London?' were Wilfrid's firstwords. He could affect no distance of manner. To him all at once it wasas though they had parted a few days ago. 

'Yes, ' she answered simply. 'In a far part of London. '

'And we meet here, where I seemed to find myself by the merest chance. Isaw a stranger in the distance, and thought of yourself; I knew you longbefore you looked up from your reading. '

Emily tried to smile. 

'How little you are changed!' Wilfrid continued, his voice keeping stillits awed quietness, with under-notes of feeling. 'Rather, you are notchanged at all. '

It was not true, but in the few minutes that he had gazed at her, pastand present had so blended that he could not see what another would havenoticed. Emily was appreciably older, and ill-health had set marks uponher face. A stranger looking at her now would have found it hard toimagine her with the light of joy in her eyes; her features had setthemselves in sorrow. Her cheeks were very thin; her eyes were dark andsunken. Wilfrid saw only the soul in her gaze at him, and that was as ithad ever been. 

She was unable to speak; Wilfrid found words. 

'Do you often walk here? Is your home near?'

'Not very near. I came by the river, ' she answered. 

'I am very glad that I have met you. ' The words sounded insufficient, but Wilfrid was by this time at battle with himself, and succeeded insaying less than he felt. 'You will let me walk on a little way withyou? We can't shake hands at once and say good-bye, can we, after such along time?'

He spoke in the tone one uses to jest over bygone sadness. Emily made noverbal answer, but walked along by his side. 

'You still have your old habits, ' he said, casting an eye at the book. 'Are your tastes still the same, I wonder?'

'It is Dante, ' she replied. 

The name brought another to Wilfrid's consciousness; he averted his eyesfor a moment, but spoke again without much delay. 

'Still faithful to the great names. This is a lovely place to make one'sstudy. Were you here when the chestnuts flowered?'

'Yes, once or twice. '

'I did not see them this year. And you have been walking here so often, 'he added, wondering again, half to himself. 'I have been to Teddingtonseveral times lately, but only today came into the park. '

'I have not been here for a month, ' Emily said, speaking at length withmore case. The shock had affected her physically more than she hadallowed to be seen; it was only now that her voice was perfectly at hercommand. Her face remained grave, but she spoke in a tone free fromsuggestion of melancholy. 'I teach in a school, and to-day there is aholiday. '

'Do you live at the school?'

'No. I have my own lodgings. '

He was on the point of asking whether Mrs. Baxendale knew she was inLondon, but it seemed better to suppress the question. 

'Have you been there long?' he asked instead. 

'Half a year. '

As he kept silence, Emily continued with a question, the first she hadput. 

'What have you chosen for your life's work?'

Wilfrid could not overcome the tendency of blood to his cheeks. He wasmore than half ashamed to tell her the truth. 

'You will laugh at me, ' he said. 'I am in Parliament. '

'You are? I never see newspapers. '

She added it as if to excuse herself for not being aware of his publicactivity. 

'Oh, I am still far from being a subject of leading-articles, ' Wilfridexclaimed. 'Indeed, I gave you no answer to your question. My life'swork is non-existent. All my old plans have come to nothing, and I haveformed no new ones, no serious plans. My life will be a failure, Isuppose. '

'But you aim at success in politics?'

'I suppose so. I was thinking of the other things we used to speak of. '

Emily hazarded a glance at him, as if to examine him again in this newlight. 

'You used to say, ' she continued, 'that you felt in many ways suited fora political life. '

'Did I? You mean at home, when I talked in a foolish way. It was not myserious thought. I never said it to you. '

She murmured a 'No. ' They walked on in silence. 

'You didn't read Italian then, ' Wilfrid said. 'You, I feel sure, havenot wasted your time. How much you must have read since we talked overour favourite authors. '

'I have tried to keep up the habit of study, ' Emily replied, unaffectedly, 'but of course most of my time is occupied in teaching. '

Their walk had brought them from under the trees, and the lake was justbefore them. 

'I will go on to the bridge, ' Emily said. 'The boat I return by willleave shortly. '

She spoke as if expecting him to take leave of her. Wilfrid inwardlybade himself do so. He had seen her, had talked with her; what more foreither? Yet it was beyond his power to stand here and see her walk awayfrom him. Things were stirring in his heart and mind of which he refusedto take cognisance; he would grant nothing more than a sense of pleasurein hearing once again a voice which had so long been buried, and therewas no harm in that. Was not his strongest feeling merely surprise athaving met her thus? Even yet he found a difficulty in realising that itwas she with whom he spoke; had he closed his eyes and then looked roundfor her in vain it would only have appeared the natural waking fromintense reverie. Why not dream on as long as he might?

'May I not walk as far as the bridge with you?' he asked. 'If I were notafraid of being tiresome I should even like to go by the boat; it wouldbe the pleasantest way of getting back to town. '

'Yes, it is pleasant on the river, ' Emily said rather absently. 

They pursued their walk together, and conversed still much in the sameway. Wilfrid learned that her school was in Hammersmith, a largeday-school for girls; he led her to speak of the subjects she taught, and of her pupils. 

'You prefer it, ' he asked, 'to private teaching?'

'I think so. '

Once on the boat their talk grew less consecutive; the few words theyexchanged now and then were suggested by objects or places passed. Atlength even these remarks ceased, and for the last half-hour they heldsilence. Other people close by were talking noisily. Emily sat with bothhands holding the book upon her lap, her eyes seldom moving from a pointdirectly before her. Wilfrid glanced at her frequently. He was moreobservant now of the traces of bodily weakness in her; he saw how meagreshe had become, how slight her whole frame was. At moments it cost him aserious effort to refrain from leaning to her and whispering words--heknew not what--something kind, something that should change her fixedsadness. Why had he forced his company upon her? Certainly he broughther no joy, and presently he would take leave of her as any slightacquaintance might; how otherwise? It would have been better to partthere by the lake where she offered the occasion. 

The steamer reached Hammersmith. Only at this last moment he seemed tounderstand where he was and with whom, that Emily was sitting by him, invery deed here by his side, and directly would be gone--he knew notwhither--scarcely to be met again. The silence between them had come ofthe difficulty they both had in realising that they were together, ofthe dreaminess so strange an event had cast upon them. Were they to fallapart again without a word, a sign? A sign of what, forsooth?

Wilfrid moved with her to the spot at which she would step from thedeck; seeing him follow, Emily threw back one startled glance. The nextmoment she again turned, holding out her hand. He took it, held it, pressed it; nothing could restrain that pressure; his muscles closedupon her slight fingers involuntarily. Then he watched her walkhurriedly from the landing-stage. .. . 

Her we follow. She had a walk of nearly half an hour, which brought herat length to one of the streets of small lodging-houses which abound inthis neighbourhood, and to a door which she opened with her latch-key. She went upstairs. Here two rooms were her home. That which looked uponthe street was furnished in the poor bare style which the exterior ofthe dwelling would have led one to expect. A very hideous screen ofcoloured paper hid the fireplace, and in front of the small oblongmirror--cracked across one corner--which stood above the mantelpiecewere divers ornaments such as one meets with in poor lodging-houses;certain pictures about the walls completed the effect of vulgarity. 

Emily let herself sink upon the chintz-covered couch, and lay back, closing her eyes; she had thrown off her hat, but was too weary, tooabsent in thought, to remove her mantle. Her face was as colourless asif she had fainted; she kept one hand pressed against her heart. Unconsciously she had walked home with a very quick step, and quickmovement caused her physical suffering. She sat thus for a quarter of anhour, when there came a tap at the door. 

Her landlady entered. 

'Oh, I thought, Miss Hood, ' she began, 'you'd maybe rung the bell asusual, and I hadn't heard it. I do sometimes think I'm getting a littlehard of hearing; my husband tell me of it. Will you have the tea made?'

'Thank you, Mrs. Willis, ' Emily replied, rising. 

She opened a low cupboard beside the fireplace, took out a tea-pot, andput some tea into it. 

'You'd have a long walk, I suppose, ' continued the woman, 'anddelightful weather for it, too. But you must mind as you don't over-tireyourself. You don't look very strong, if I may say it. '

'Oh, I am very well, ' was the mechanical reply. 

After a few more remarks the landlady took away the teapot. Emily thendrew out a cloth from the cupboard, and other things needful for herevening meal. Presently the tea-pot returned filled with hot water. Emily was glad to pour out a cup and drink it, but she ate nothing. In ashort time she rang the bell to have the things removed. This time alittle girl appeared. 

'Eh, Miss, ' was the exclamation of the child, on examining the state ofthe table, 'you haven't eaten nothing!'

'No, I don't want anything just now, Milly, ' was the quiet reply. 

'Shall I leave the bread and butter out?'

'No, thank you. I'll have some later. '

'Is there anything I could get you, Miss?'

'Nothing, Milly. Take the things away, there's a good girl. '

Emily had seated herself on the couch again; when the girl was gone shelay down, her hands beneath her head. Long, long since she had had somuch to think of as to-night. 

At first she had found Wilfrid a good deal altered. He looked so mucholder; his bearded face naturally caused that. But before he had spokentwenty words how well she knew that the change was only of appearance. His voice was a little deeper, but the tone and manner of his speakingcarried her back to the days when they had first exchanged words whenshe was a governess at The Firs in Surrey, and Wilfrid was theinteresting young fellow who had overworked himself at college. Thecircumstances of to-day's meeting had reproduced something of thetimidity with which he had approached her when they were strangers. Thisafternoon she had scarcely looked into his eyes, but she felt their gazeupon her, and felt their power as of old--ah, fifty-fold stronger!

Was he married? It was more than possible. Nothing had escaped himinconsistent with that, and he was not likely to speak of it directly. It would account for the nature of his embarrassment in talking withher; her keen insight distinguished something more than the hesitationwhich common memories would naturally cause. And that pressure of thehand at parting which had made her heart leap with such agony, mightwell be his way of intimating to her that this meeting would have nosequel. Was it to be expected that he should remain unmarried? Had shehoped it?

It could not be called hope, but for two or three years something hadgrown in her which made life a succession of alternating longings anddespairs. For Emily was not so constituted that the phase of thought andfeeling which had been brought about by the tragedy of her home couldperpetuate itself and become her normal consciousness. When she fledfrom Dunfield she believed that the impulses then so strong wouldprevail with her to the end of her life, that the motives which werethen predominant in her soul would maintain their ruling force for ever. And many months went by before she suspected that her imagination haddeceived her; imagination, ever the most potent factor of her being, thesource alike of her strength and her weakness. But there came a day whenthe poignancy of her grief was subdued, and she looked around her upon aworld more desolate than that in which she found herself on the day ofher mother's burial. She began to know once more that she was young, andthat existence stretched before her a limitless tract of barrenendurance. 

The rare natures which are in truth ruled by the instinct ofrenunciation, which find in the mortification of sense a spring ofunearthly joy brimming higher with each self-conquest, may experiencetemptation and relapse, but the former is a new occasion for the armingof the spirit, and the latter speedily leads to a remorse which is thestrongest of all incentives to ascetic struggle. Emily had not upon herthe seal of sainthood. It was certain that at some point of her lifeasceticism would make irresistible claim upon the strongholds of herimagination; none the less certain that it would be but for a time, thatit would prove but a stage in her development. To her misfortune theoccasion presented itself in connection with her strongest nativeaffections, and under circumstances which led her to an irretrievableact. Had she been brought up in a Roman Catholic country she woulddoubtless have thrown herself into a convent, finding her stern joy inthe thought that no future wavering was possible. Attempting to make aconvent of her own mind, she soon knew too well that her efforts mockedher, that there was in her an instinct stronger than that ofrenunciation, and that she had condemned herself to a life of futilemisery. 

Her state of mind for the year following her father's death was morbid, little differing from madness; and she came at length to understandthat. When time had tempered her anguish, she saw with clear eyes thather acts had been guided by hallucination. Never would sorrow for herparents cease to abide with her, but sorrow cannot be the sustenance ofa life through those years when the mind is strongest and the sensationsmost vivid. Had she by her self-mortification done aught to pleasurethose dear ones who slept their last sleep? It had been the predominantfeature of her morbid passion to believe that piety demanded such asacrifice. Grief may reach such a point that to share the uttermost fateof the beloved one seems blessedness; in Emily's mind that moment ofsupreme agony had been protracted till unreasoning desire took to itselfthe guise of duty. Duty so represented cannot maintain its sanction whenthe wounds of nature grow towards healing. 

She strove with herself. The reaction she was experiencing seemed to hera shameful weakness. Must she cease to know the self-respect which comesof conscious perseverance in a noble effort? Must she standself-condemned, an ignoble nature, incapable of anything good andgreat--and that, after all her ambitions? Was she a mere waif, at themercy of the currents of sense? Never before had she felt thiscondemnation of her own spirit. She had suffered beyond utterance, butever with a support which kept her from the last despair; of her anguishhad come inspiration. Now she felt herself abandoned of all spiritualgood. She came to loathe her life as a polluted stream. The image ofWilfrid, the memory of her lost love, these grew to be symbols of herbaseness. It was too much to face those with whom daily duty brought herin contact; surely they must read in her face the degradation of whichshe was conscious. As much as possible she kept apart from all, nursingher bitter self-reproach. 

Then it was that she sought relief in the schemes which naturally occurto a woman thus miserable. She would relinquish her life as a teacher, and bury her wretchedness beneath physical hardship. There was anguishenough in the world, and she would go to live in the midst of it, wouldundertake the hardest and most revolting tasks in some infirmary: thusmight she crush out of herself the weakness which was her disgrace. Itremained only a vision. That which was terribly real, the waste and woeof her heart, grew ever. 

She yielded. Was not the true sin this that she tried to accomplish--theslaying of the love which cried so from her inmost being? Glimpses ofthe old faith began to be once more vouchsafed her; at moments she knewthe joy of beautiful things. This was in spring-time. Living in thegreat seaport, she could easily come within sight of the blue line whereheaven and ocean met, and that symbol of infinity stirred once more theyearnings for boundless joy which in bygone days she had taught herselfto accept as her creed. Supposing that her father had still knowledge ofthe life she led, would it make him happy to know that she had deprivedherself of every pleasure, had for his sake ruined a future which mighthave been so fair? Not thus do we show piety to the dead; rather inbinding our brows with every flower our hands may cull, and in drinkingsunlight as long as the west keeps for us one gleam. 

She had destroyed herself. Joy could arise to her from but one source, and that was stopped for ever. For it never came to Emily as thefaintest whisper that other love than Wilfrid's might bless her life. That was constancy which nothing could shake; in this she would neverfall from the ideal she had set before herself. She no longer tried tobanish thoughts of what she had lost; Wilfrid was a companion at allhours far more real than the people with whom she had to associate. Shehad, alas, destroyed his letters she had destroyed the book in which shewrote the secrets of her heart that he might some day read them. Thelack of a single thing that had come to her from him made the moreterribly real the severance of his life from hers. She anguished withouthope. 

Then there came to her the knowledge that her bodily strength wasthreatened by disease. She had fainting fits, and in the comfortadministered by those about her she read plainly what was meant to beconcealed. At times this was a relief; at least she might hope to bespared long years of weary desolation, and death, come when he might, would be a friend. In other hours the all but certainty of her doom wasa thought so terrible that reason well-nigh failed before it. Was thereno hope for her for ever, nothing but the grave to rest her tired heart?Why had fate dealt with her so cruelly? She looked round and saw noneupon whom had fallen a curse so unrelieved. 

At last the desire to go once more to the south of England grewoverpowering. If she could live in London, she felt it might console herto feel that she was near Wilfrid; he would not seem, as now, in a worldutterly remote. Perchance she might one day even see him. If she hadknowledge of the approach of death, Wilfrid would not refuse to come andsee her at the last, and with her hand in his how easy it would be todie. She sought for means of supporting herself in London; she still hadmoney saved from that which the sale of her father's house had broughther, but she did not wish to use more of this than she could help, keeping it for a certain cherished purpose. After many months offruitless endeavour, she found a place in a school in Hammersmith. .. . 

And Wilfrid had sat by her, had looked at her with something of the oldtenderness, had pressed her hand as no one else would. Far into thenight she lay thinking over every word he had spoken. Sometimes shewept--poor Emily! He had not asked her where she lived; for thatdoubtless there was good reason. But it was much to have seen him thisonce. Again she wept, saying to herself that she loved him, --that he waslost to her, --that she must die. 

CHAPTER XXIII

HER PATH IN THE LIGHT

That Wilfrid did not at the last moment leap on shore and follow Emilyseemed to him less the result of self-control than obedience to outwardrestraint; it was as though an actual hand lay on his shoulder and heldhim back. He went back to his seat, and again fell into dreaminess. 

The arrival of the boat at Chelsea pier reminded him that he must land;thence he drove home. On reaching the house he found Mrs. Birks there;she had called to see his father, and was in the hall on the point ofleaving as he entered. She stepped up to him, and spoke in a low voice. 

'What is the matter with Beatrice?'

'The matter? How?'

'She seems out of sorts. Come round and see her, will you?'

'I really can't just now, ' Wilfrid replied. 'Do you mean that she is notwell?'

'Something seems to be upsetting her. Why can't you come and see her?'

'I can't this evening. I have an engagement. '

'Very well. But you had better come soon, I think. '

'I don't understand you, ' said Wilfrid, with some show of impatience. 'Is she ill?'

'Not exactly ill, I suppose. Of course I mustn't interfere. No doubt youunderstand. '

'I will come as soon as I can, ' Wilfrid said. And he added, 'Hasshe--spoken to you about anything?'

'I wish she had. She will speak neither to me nor to anyone else. It istoo bad, Wilf, if you let her fret herself into a fever. She is just thegirl to do it, you know. '

She nodded, smiled, and went off. Wilfrid, having committed himself toan engagement, loitered about in his dressing-room for a while, then, without seeing his father, betook himself to his club and dined there. After passing the early part of the evening in an uncomfortable way, with the help of newspapers and casual conversation, he went home againand shut himself in his study. 

He sat long, without attempting to do anything. About midnight he roseas if to leave the room, but, instead of doing so, paced the floor for afew minutes; then he opened a certain drawer in his writing-table, andtook out the morocco case which contained Emily's letters. He slippedoff the band. The letters were still in their envelopes, and lay in theorder in which he had received them. He drew forth the first and beganto read it. He read them all. 

Till the early daybreak he remained in the room, sometimes walkingabout, sometimes seating himself to re-read this letter and that. Twenty-four hours ago these written words would have touched his heartindeed, but only as does the memory of an irrecoverable joy; he couldhave read them, and still have gone to meet Beatrice as usual, or withbut a little more than his ordinary reserve in her presence. It wasotherwise now. The very voice had spoken again, and its tones lingeringwith him made the written characters vocal; each word uttered itself asit met his eye; Emily spoke still. The paper was old, the ink faded, butthe love was of this hour. He grew fevered, and it was the fever ofyears ago, which had only been in appearance subdued; it had lurkedstill in his blood, and now asserted itself with the old dire mastery. 

He marvelled that he had suffered her to leave him without even learningwhere she lived. He could not understand what his mood had been, whatmotives had weighed with him. He had not been conscious of a severestruggle to resist a temptation; the temptation had not, in fact, yetformed itself. What was her own thought? She had answered his questionsfreely, perhaps would have told him without hesitation the address ofher lodgings. Clearly she no longer sought to escape him. But that, hereminded himself, was only the natural response to his own perfectlycalm way of speaking; she could not suggest embarrassments when it washis own cue to show that he felt none. She was still free, it seemed, but what was her feeling towards him? Did she still love him? Was themysterious cause which had parted them still valid?

When already it was daylight, he went upstairs and lay down on the bed;he was weary, but not with the kind of weariness that brings sleep. Hismind was occupied with plans for discovering where Emily lived. Mrs. Baxendale had professed to have lost sight of her; Wilfrid saw now thatthere was a reason for concealing the truth, and felt that in allprobability his friend had misled him; in any case, he could not applyto her. Was there a chance of a second meeting in the same place? Emilywas sure to be free on Saturday afternoon; but only in one case wouldshe go to the park again--if she desired to see him, and imagined acorresponding desire on his side. And that was an unlikely thing;granting she loved him, it was not in Emily's character to scheme thus, under the circumstances. 

Yet why had she chosen to come and live in London?

Beatrice he had put out of his thoughts. He did not do it deliberately;he made no daring plans; simply he gave himself over to the rising floodof passion, without caring to ask whither it would bear him. Though itfevered him, there was a luxury in the sense of abandonment once more todesire which suffered no questioning. That he had ever really lovedBeatrice he saw now to be more than doubtful; that he loved Emily was ascertain as that he lived. To compare the images of the two women was toset side by side a life sad and wan with one which bloomed like a royalflower, a face whose lines were wasted by long desolation with one whoseloveliness was the fit embodiment of supreme joy. But in the former hefound a beauty of which the other offered no suggestion, a beauty whichappealed to him with the most subtle allurements, which drew him as withsiren song, which, if he still contemplated it, would inspire him withrecklessness. He made no effort to expel it from his imagination; everyhour it was sweeter to forget the facts of life and dream of what mightbe. 

Through this day and that which followed he kept away from home, onlyreturning late at night. No more news of Beatrice came. He saw that hisfather regarded him with looks of curiosity, but only conversation ofthe wonted kind passed between them. When Saturday arrived he was nolonger in doubt whether to pursue the one faint hope of finding Emilyagain in Bushey Park; the difficulty was to pass the time till noon, before which it was useless to start. He was due for the last sitting inthe studio at Teddington, but that was an ordeal impossible to gothrough in his present state of mind. He went to Hampton by train, lunched again at the King's Arms, though but hastily, and at lengthreached the spot in the park where his eyes had discovered Emilyreading. 

It was not such a day as Wednesday had been; the sun shoneintermittently, but there was threatening of rain. A vehicle now andthen drove along the avenue taking holiday-makers to the Palace, and, near the place where Wilfrid walked, a party was picnicking under thetrees. But he in vain sought for one who wandered alone, one who, in thedistance, could move him to uncertain hope. 

Why had he come? Suppose he did again meet Emily, what had he to say toher? Long and useless waiting naturally suggested such thoughts, and theanswer to them was a momentary failing at the heart, a touch of fear. Was he prepared to treat this temporary coldness between Beatrice andhimself as a final rupture? Was his present behaviour exactly that of aman who recognises rules of honour? If he had no purpose in wishing tosee Emily but the satisfaction of a desire about which he would notreason, was it not unqualified treachery in which he was involvinghimself, treachery to two women and to one of them utter cruelty? Heturned to walk towards the lake, desperate that his hope had failed, andat the same time--strange contradiction--glad in the thought that, having once yielded, he might overcome his madness. He passed the lake, and reached the exit from the park. At the same moment Emily wasentering. 

Her face expressed an agony of shame; she could not raise her eyes, could not speak. She gave him her hand mechanically, and walked on withher looks averted. Her distress was so unconcealed that it pained himacutely. He could not find words till they had walked a distance oftwenty or thirty yards. Then he said:

'I came purposely to-day, in the hope that you might by chance be here. Do I annoy you?'

She half turned her face to him, but the effort to speak was vain. 

A still longer silence followed. Wilfrid knew at length what he haddone. That utterance of his had but one meaning, Emily's mute replyadmitted of but one interpretation. His eyes dazzled; his heart beatviolently. A gulf sank before him, and there was no longer choice but toplunge into it. He looked at his companion, and--farewell the solidground. 

'Emily, is it your wish that I should leave you?'

She faced him, moved her lips, motioned 'no' with her head. She was likeone who is led to death. 

'Then I will not leave you. Let us walk gently on; you shall speak to mewhen you feel able. '

He cared for no obstacle now. She was come back to him from the dead, and to him it was enough of life to hold her. Let the world go; let allspeak of him as they would; this pale, weary-eyed woman shouldhenceforth represent existence to him. He would know no law but thebidding of his sovereign love. 

She spoke. 

'Have I fallen in your eyes?'

'You have always been to me the highest, and will be whilst I live. '

They had passed into the shadow of the trees; he took her hand and heldit. The touch seemed to strengthen her, for she looked at him again andspoke firmly. 

'Neither was my coming without thought of you. I had no hope that youwould be here, no least hope, but I came because it was here I had seenyou. '

'Since Wednesday, ' Wilfrid returned, 'I have read your letters manytimes. Could you still speak to me as you did then?'

'If you could believe me. '

'You said once that you did not love me. '

'It was untrue. '

'May you tell me now what it was that came between us?'

She fixed upon him a gaze of sad entreaty, and said, under her breath, 'Not now. '

'Then I will never ask. Let it be what it might; your simple word thatyou loved me is all I need. '

'I will tell you, ' Emily replied, 'but I cannot now. It seemed to me atthe time that that secret would have to die with me; I thought so till Imet you here. Then I knew that, if you still loved me and had beenfaithful to me so long, I could say nothing to myself which I might notspeak to you. My love for you has conquered every other love andeverything that I believed my duty. '

'Is it so, Emily?' he asked, with deepest tenderness. 

'When I tell you all, you will perhaps feel that I have proved my ownweakness. I will conceal from you nothing I have ever thought; you willsee that I tried to do what my purest instincts urged, and that I havebeen unable to persevere to the end. Wilfrid--'

'My own soul!'

'When I tell you all that happened at that time, I shall indeed speak toyou as if your soul and mine were one. It may be wrong to tell you--youmay despise me for not keeping such things a secret for ever. I cannottell whether I am right or wrong to do this. Is your love like mine?'

'I would say it was greater, if you were not so above me in all things. '

'Wilfrid, I was dying in my loneliness. It would not have been hard todie, for, if I was weak in everything else, at least my love for youwould have grown to my last breath. If I speak things which I shouldonly prove in silence, it is that you may not afterwards judge mehardly. '

'You shall tell me, ' Wilfrid replied, 'when you are my wife. Till then Iwill hear nothing but that you are and always have been mine. '

They came to a great tree about the trunk of which had been built acircular seat. The glades on every side showed no disturbing approach. 

'Let us sit here, ' said Wilfrid. 'We have always talked with each otherin the open air, haven't we?'

He drew her to him and kissed her face passionately. It was thesatisfying of a hunger of years. With Beatrice his caresses had seldombeen other than playful; from the first moment of re-meeting with Emily, he had longed to hold her to his heart. 

'Can I hope to keep you now? You won't leave me again, Emily?'

'If I leave you, Wilfrid, it will be to die. '

Again he folded her in his arms, and kissed her lips, her cheeks, hereyes. She was as weak as a trembling flower. 

'Emily, I shall be in dread through every moment that parts us. Will youconsent to whatever I ask of you? Once before I would have taken you andmade you my wife, and if you had yielded we should have escaped all thislong misery. Will you now do what I wish?'

She looked at him questioningly. 

'Will you marry me as soon as it can possibly be? On Monday I will dowhat is necessary, and we can be married on Wednesday. This time youwill not refuse?'

'Wednesday?'

'Yes. One day only need intervene between the notice and the marriage;it shall be at the church nearest to you. '

'Wilfrid, why do you--'

Fear had taken hold upon her she could not face the thought. Wilfridchecked her faint words with his lips. 

'I wish it, ' he said, himself shaken with a tempest of passion whichwhelmed the last protest of his conscience. 'I shall scarcely tearmyself from you even till then. Emily, Emily, what has my life beenwithout your love? Oh, you will be the angel that raises me out of theignoble world into which I have fallen! Hold me to you--make me feel andbelieve that you have saved me! Emily, my beautiful, my goddess! let meworship you, pray to you! Mine now, mine, love, for ever and ever!

She burst into tears, unable to suffer this new denizen of her heart, the sure and certain hope of bliss. He kissed away the tears as theyfell, whispering love that was near to frenzy. There came a Bob thatshook her whole frame, then Wilfrid felt her cheek grow very coldagainst his; her eyes were half closed, from her lips escaped a faintmoan. He drew back and, uncertain whether she had lost consciousness, called to her to speak. Her body could not fall, for it rested against ahollow part of the great trunk. The faintness lasted only for a fewmoments; she once more gazed at him with the eyes of infinite sadness. 

'It is so hard to bear happiness, ' were her first words. 

'My dearest, you are weak and worn with trouble. Oh, we will soon leavethat far behind us. Are you better, my lily? Only give me your hands tohold, and I will be very still. Your hands are so light; they weigh nomore than leaves. Do you suffer, dear?'

'A little pain--there;' she touched her heart. 

Wilfrid looked into her face anxiously. 

'Have you often that pain?'

'No, not often. I don't feel it now. Wilfrid! Every day I have spokenthat name, have spoken it aloud. '

'So have I often spoken yours, dear. '

They gazed at each other in silence. 

'And it is to be as I wish?' Wilfrid said gently. 

'So very soon?'

'So very long! This is only Saturday. If I had known this morning, itcould have been on Monday. '

'Your wife, Wilfrid? Really your wife?'

'How your voice has changed! Till now you spoke so sadly. Those wordsare like the happiest of our old happy time. Three long days to bepassed, but not one day more. You promise me?'

'I do your bidding, now and always, always!'

For the moment she had forgotten everything but love and love's rapture. It was as though life spread before her in limitless glory; she thoughtnothing of the dark foe with whose ever-watchful, ever-threateningpresence she had become so familiar. 

They talked long; only the lengthening and deepening shadow of the treesreminded them at length that hours had passed whilst they sat here. 

'The boat will have gone, ' Emily said. 

'Never mind. We will get a conveyance at the hotel. And you must haverefreshment of some kind. Shall we see what they can give us to eat atthe King's Arms? To be sure we will. It will be our first mealtogether. '

They rose. 

'Emily!'

'Yes, Wilfrid?'

'I can trust you? You will not fail me?'

'Not if I am living, Wilfrid. '

'Oh, but I shall of course see you before Wednesday. To-morrow isSunday--'

He checked himself. Sunday was the day he always gave to Beatrice. Buthe durst not think of that now. 

'On Sunday there are so many people about, ' he continued. 'Will you comehere again on Monday afternoon?'

Emily promised to do so. 

'I will write to you to-morrow, and again a letter for Tuesday, givingyou the last directions. But I may have to see you on Tuesday. May Icall at your lodgings?'

'If you need to. Surely you may? My--my husband?'

'My wife!'

They walked to the hotel, and thence, when dusk was falling, started todrive homewards. They stopped at the end of Emily's street, and Wilfridwalked with her to the door. 

'Till Monday afternoon, ' he said, grasping her hand as if he clung to itin fear. 

Then he found another vehicle. It was dark when he reached home. 

CHAPTER XXIV

THE UNEXPECTED

Late in the evening Wilfrid received a visit from his father. Mr. Athelhad dined with his sister, and subsequently accompanied his nieces to aconcert. Beatrice should have sung, but had broken her engagement on theplea of ill-health. 

'Been at home all the evening?' Mr. Athel began by asking. 

'I got home late, ' Wilfrid answered, rising from his chair. 

His father had something to say which cost him hesitation. He walkedabout with his hands between the tails of his coat. 

'Seen Beatrice lately?' he inquired at length. 

'No; not since last Monday. '

'I'm afraid she isn't well. She didn't sing to-night. Didn't dine withus either. '

Wilfrid kept silence. 

'Something wrong?' was his father's next question. 

'Yes, there is. '

'I'm sorry to hear that. '

Wilfrid went to the fireplace and leaned his arm upon the mantelpiece. As he did not seem disposed to speak, his father continued--

'Nothing serious, I hope?'

'Yes; something serious. '

'You don't mean that? Anything you can talk about?'

'I'm afraid not. I shall go and see Beatrice as usual tomorrow. I may beat liberty to tell you after that, though probably not for a few days. '

Mr. Athel looked annoyed. 

'I hope this is not of your doing, ' he said. 'They tell me the girl iscausing them a good deal of anxiety. For the last few days she has beensitting alone, scarcely touching food, and refusing to speak to anyone. If this goes on she will be ill. '

Wilfrid spoke hoarsely. 

'I can't help it. I shall see her to-morrow. '

'All right, ' observed his father, with the impatience which was his wayof meeting disorders in this admirable universe. 'Your aunt asked me totell you this; of course I can do no more. '

Wilfrid made no reply, and Mr. Athel left him. 

It was an hour of terrible suffering that Wilfrid lived through beforehe left the study and went to lay his head on the pillow. He had notthought very much of Beatrice hitherto; the passion which had spurredhim blindly on made him forgetful of everything but the end his heartdesired. Now that the end was within reach, he could consider what itwas that he had done. He was acting like a very madman. He could nothope that any soul would regard his frenzy even with compassion; on allsides he would meet with the sternest condemnation. Who would recognisehis wife? This step which he was taking meant rupture with all hisrelatives, perchance with all his friends; for it would be universallydeclared that he had been guilty of utter baseness. His career wasruined. It might happen that he would have to leave England with Emily, abandoning for her sake everything else that he prized. 

How would Beatrice bear the revelation? Mere suspense had made her ill;such a blow as this might kill her. Never before had he been consciouslyguilty of an act of cruelty or of wrong to any the least valued of thosewith whom he had dealt; to realise what his treachery meant to Beatricewas so terrible that he dared not fix his thought upon it. Her love forhim was intense beyond anything he had imagined in woman; Emily hadnever seemed to him possessed with so vehement a passion. Indeed he hadoften doubted whether Emily's was a passionate nature; at times she wasalmost cold--appeared so, in his thought of her--and never had shegiven way to that self-forgetful ardour which was so common in Beatrice. Sweat broke out upon his forehead as he saw the tragic issues to whichhis life was tending. There was no retreat, save by a second act ofapostasy so unspeakably shameful that the brand of it would drive him toself-destruction. He had made his choice, or had been driven upon it bythe powers which ruled his destiny; it only remained to have the courageof his resolve and to defy consequences. At least it was in no less acause than that of his life's one love. There was no stamp of turpitudeon the end for which he would sacrifice so much and occasion so muchmisery. 

He passed the time in his own rooms till the afternoon of the followingday; then, at the customary hour, he set forth to visit Beatrice. Wouldshe see him? In his heart he hoped that she would refuse to; yet hedreaded lest he should be told that she was too unwell. It was a newthing in Wilfrid's experience to approach any door with shame and dread;between his ringing the bell and the servant's answer he learnt 'wellwhat those words mean. 

He was admitted as usual, the servant making no remark. As usual, he wasled to Beatrice's room. 

She was sitting in the chair she always occupied, and was dressed withthe accustomed perfection. But her face was an index to the sufferingsshe had endured this past week. As soon as the door had closed, shestood to receive him, but not with extended hand. Her eyes were fixedupon him steadily, and Wilfrid, with difficulty meeting them, experienced a shook of new fear, a kind of fear he could not accountfor. Outwardly she was quite calm; it was something in her look, anindefinable suggestion of secret anguish, that impressed him so. He didnot try to take her hand, but, having laid down his hat, came near toher and spoke as quietly as he could. 

'May I speak to you of what passed between us last Monday?'

'How can we avoid speaking of it?' she replied, in a low voice, her eyesstill searching him. 

'I ought to have come to see you before this, ' Wilfrid continued, takingthe seat to which she pointed, whilst she also sat down. 'I could not. '

'I have been expecting you, ' Beatrice said, in an emotionless way. 

The nervous tension with which he had come into her presence had yieldedto a fit of trembling. Coldness ran along his veins; his tongue refusedits office; his eyes sank before her gaze. 

'I felt sure you would come to-day, ' Beatrice continued, with the sameabsence of pronounced feeling. 'If not, I must have gone to your house. What do you wish to say to me?'

'That which I find it very difficult to say. I feel that after whathappened on Monday we cannot be quite the same to each other. I fear Isaid some things that were not wholly true. '

Beatrice seemed to be holding her breath. Her face was marble. She satunmoving. 

'You mean, ' she said at length, 'that those letters represented morethan you were willing to confess?'

It was calmly asked. Evidently Wilfrid had no outbreak of resentment tofear. He would have preferred it to this dreadful self-command. 

'More, ' he answered, 'than I felt at the time. I spoke no word ofconscious falsehood. '

'Has anything happened to prove to you what you then denied?'

He looked at her in doubt. Could she in any way have learnt what hadcome to pass? Whilst talking, he had made up his mind to disclosenothing definitely; he would explain his behaviour merely as arisingfrom doubt of himself. It would make the rest easier for her to bearhereafter. 

'I have read those letters again, ' he answered. 

'And you have learnt that you never loved me?'

He held his eyes down, unable to utter words. Beatrice also was silentfor a long time. At length she said--

'I think you are keeping something from me?'

He raised his face. 

'Has nothing else happened?' she asked, with measured tone, a littlesad, nothing more. 

The truth was forced from him, and its utterance gave him a relief whichwas in itself a source of new agitation. 

'Yes, something else has happened. '

'I knew it. '

'How did you--?'

'I felt it. You have met her again. '

Again he was speechless. Beatrice asked--

'Does she live in London?'

'She does. '

'You have met her, and have--have wished that you were free?'

'Beatrice, I have done worse. I have acted as though I were free. '

She shook, as if a blow had fallen upon her. Then a smile came to herlips. 

'You have asked her again to be your wife?'

'I have. '

'And she has consented?'

'Because I deceived her at the same time that I behaved dishonourably toyou. '

She fixed upon him eyes which had a strange inward look, eyes veiledwith reverie, vaguely troubled, unimpassioned. It was as though shecalmly readjusted in her own mind the relations between him and herself. The misery of Wilfrid's situation was mitigated in a degree by merewonder at her mode of receiving his admissions. This interview was nological sequence upon the scene of a week ago; and the issue then hadbeen, one would have thought, less provocative of demonstration thanto-day's. 

Directness once more armed her gaze, and again he was powerless to meetit. Still no resentment, no condemnation. She asked--

'It is your intention to marry soon?'

He could not reply. 

'Will you let me see you once more before your marriage?' she continued. 'That is, if I find I wish it. I am not sure. I may or may not. '

It was rather a debate with herself than an address to him. 

'May I leave you now, Beatrice?' he said, suddenly. 'Every drop of bloodin me is shame-heated. In telling you this, I have done something whichI thought would be beyond my force. '

'Yes, ' she murmured, 'it will be better if we part now. '

She rose and watched him as he stepped to the table and took his hat. There was a moment's hesitation on either side, but Beatrice did notoffer her hand. She stood superbly, as a queen might dismiss one fromwhom her thoughts were already wandering. He bowed, with inwardself-mockery, and left her. 

Some hours later, when already the summer evening had cloaked itself, Wilfrid found himself wandering by the river, not far from Hammersmith. The influence of a great water flowing from darkness into darkness wasstrong upon him; he was seeking for a hope in the transitoriness of allthings earthly. Would not the hour come when this present anguish, thisblood-poisoning shame, would have passed far away and have left no mark?Was it not thinking too grandiosely to attribute to the actions of sucha one as himself a tragic gravity? Was there not supernal laughter atthe sight of him, Wilfrid Athel, an English gentleman, a member of theLower House of the British Parliament, posing as the arbiter ofdestinies? What did it all come to? An imbroglio on the threshold ofmatrimony; a temporary doubt which of two women was to enjoy the honourof styling herself Mrs. Athel. The day's long shame led to thiscompleteness of self-contempt. As if Beatrice would greatly care! Why, in his very behaviour he had offered the cure for her heartburn; and hercalmness showed how effective the remedy would be. The very wife whom heheld securely had only been won by keeping silence; tell her the storyof the last few days, and behold him altogether wifeless. He laughedscornfully. To this had he come from those dreams which guided him whenhe was a youth. A commonplace man, why should he not have commonplaceexperiences?

He had walked in this direction with the thought of passing beneathEmily's window before he returned home, yet, now that he was not morethan half an hour's walk from her, he felt weary and looked aside for astreet which should lead him to the region of vehicles. As he did so, henoticed a woman's form leaning over the riverside parapet at a shortdistance. A thought drew him nearer to her. Yes, it was Emily herself. 

'You were coming to see me?' she asked. 

Love in a woman's voice--what cynicism so perdurable that it will bearagainst that assailant? In the dusk, he put her gloved hand against hislips, and the touch made him once more noble. 

'I had meant to, beautiful, but it seemed too late, and I was just onthe point of turning back. You always appear to me when I most needyou. '

'You wanted to speak to me, Wilfrid?'

'When do I not? My life seems so thin and poor; only your breath givesit colour. Emily, I shall ask so much of you. I have lost all faith inmyself; you must restore it. '

They stood close to each other, hand in hand, looking down at the darkflow. 

'If I had not met you, Wilfrid, ' she said, or whispered, 'I think my endmust have been there--there, below us. I have often come here at night. It is always a lonely place, and at high tide the water is deep. '

His hand closed upon hers with rescuing force. 

'I am carrying a letter, ' Emily continued, 'that I was going to postbefore I went in. I will give it you now, and I am glad of theopportunity; it seems safer. I have written what I feel I could neversay to you. Read it and destroy it, and never speak of what itcontains. '

She gave him the letter, and then he walked with her homewards. 

On the morrow, shortly after breakfast, he was sitting in his study, when a knock came at the door. He bade enter, and it was Beatrice. Shecame towards him, gave her hand mechanically, and said--

'Can you spare me a few minutes?'

He placed a chair for her. Her eyes had not closed since they lastlooked at him; he saw it, though the expression of her features was notweariness. 

'There is one thing, Wilfrid, that I think I have a right to ask you. Will you tell me why she left you, years ago?'

Her tone was that of one continuing a conversation. There might havebeen no break between yesterday and to-day. We cannot always gather fromthe voice what struggle has preceded utterance. 

Wilfrid turned away. On the table lay that letter of Emily's; he hadread it many times, and was reading it when the knock disturbed him. With a sudden movement, he took up the sheet of paper and held it toBeatrice. 

'It is there--the reason. I myself have only known it a few hours. Readthat. I have no right to show it you--and no right to refuse. '

Beatrice held the letter for a brief space without turning her eyes uponit. Wilfrid walked to a distance, and at length she read. Emily hadrecounted every circumstance of her father's death, and told the historyof her own feelings, all with complete simplicity, almost coldly. Onlyan uncertainty in the hand-writing here and there showed the sufferingit had cost her to look once more into the very eyes of the past. Yet itwas of another than herself that she wrote; she felt that even in hermemory of woe. 

They faced each other again. Beatrice's eyes were distended; theirdepths lightened. 

'I am glad! I am glad you met her before it was too late!'

Her voice quivered upon a low, rich note. Such an utterance was theoutcome of a nature strong to the last limit of self-conquest. Wilfridheard and regarded her with a kind of fear; her intensity passed to him;he trembled. 

'I have nothing to pardon, ' she continued. 'You were hers long before mylove had touched your heart. You have tried to love me; but this hascome soon enough to save us both. '

And again--

'If I did not love you, I should act selfishly; but self is all gonefrom me. In this moment I could do greater things to help you tohappiness. Tell me; have you yet spoken to--to the others?'

'To no one. '

'Then do not. It shall all come from me. No one shall cast upon you ashadow of blame. You have done me no wrong; you were hers, and youwronged her when you tried to love me. I will help you--at least I canbe your friend. Listen; I shall see her. It shall be I who have broughtyou together again--that is how the shall all think of it. I shall seeher, and as your friend, as the only one to whom you have yet spoken. Doyou understand me, Wilfrid? Do you see that I make the future smooth forher and you? She must never know what _we_ know, And the others--theyshall do as I will; they shall not dare to speak one word against you. What right have they, if _I_ am--am glad?'

He stood in amaze. It was impossible to doubt her sincerity; her face, the music of her voice, the gestures by which her eagerness expressedherself, all were too truthful. What divine nature had lain hidden inthis woman! He gazed at her as on a being more than mortal. 

'How can I accept this from you?' he asked hoarsely. 

'Accept? How can you refuse? It is my right, it is my will! Would yourefuse me this one poor chance of proving that my love was unselfish? Iwould have killed myself to win a tender look from you at the lastmoment, and you shall not go away thinking less of me than I deserve. You know already that I am not the idle powerless woman you once thoughtme; you shall know that I can do yet more. If _she_ is noble in youreyes, can _I_ consent to be less so?'

Passion the most exalted possessed her. It infected Wilfrid. He feltthat the common laws of intercourse between man and woman had here noapplication; the higher ground to which she summoned him knew noauthority of the conventional. To hang his head was to proclaim his ownlittleness. 

'You are not less noble, Beatrice, ' his voice murmured. 

'You have said it. So there is no longer a constraint between us. Howsimple it is to do for love's sake what those who do not know love thinkimpossible. I will see her, then the last difficulty is removed. Thatletter has told me where she lives. If I go there to-day, I shall findher?'

'Not till the evening, ' Wilfrid replied under his breath. 

'When is your marriage?'

He looked at her without speaking. 

'Very soon? Before the end of the session?'

'The day after to-morrow. '

She was white to the lips, but kept her eyes on him steadily. 

'And you go away at once?'

'I had thought'--he began; then added, 'Yes, at once; it is better. '

'Yes, better. Your friend stays and makes all ready for your return. Perhaps I shall not see you after to-day, for that time. Then we are toeach ether what we used to be. You will bring her to hear me sing? Ishall not give it up now. '

She smiled, moved a little away from him, then turned again and gave herhand for leave-taking. 

'Wilfrid!'

'Beatrice?'

'She would not grudge it me. Kiss me--the last time--on my lips!'

He kissed her. When the light came again to his eyes, Beatrice had gone. 

In the evening Emily sat expectant. Either Wilfrid would come or therewould be a letter from him; yes, he would come; for, after reading whatshe had written, the desire to speak with her must be strong in him. Shesat at her window and looked along the dull street. 

She had spent the day as usual--that is to say, in the familiar schoolroutine; but the heart she had brought to her work was far other thanthat which for long years had laboriously pulsed the flagging moments ofher life. Her pupils were no longer featureless beings, the sole end ofwhose existence was to give trouble; girl-children and budding womanhoodhad circled about her; the lips which recited lessons made unconsciousmusic; the eyes, dark or sunny, laughed with secret foresight of love tocome. Kindly affection to one and all grew warm within her; what hadbeen only languid preferences developed in an hour to little less thanattachments, and dislikes softened to pity. The girls who gave promiseof beauty and tenderness she looked upon with the eyes of a sister;their lot it would be to know the ecstasy of whispered vows, to give andto receive that happiness which is not to be named lest the gods becomeenvious. Voices singing together in the class practice which had everbeen a weariness, stirred her to a passion of delight; it was the choralsymphony of love's handmaidens. Did they see a change in her? Emilyfancied that the elder girls looked at each other and smiled andexchanged words in an undertone--about her. 

It was well to have told Wilfrid all her secrets, yet in the impatienceof waiting she had tremors of misgiving; would he, perchance, think asshe so long had thought, that to speak to anyone, however near, of thatbygone woe and shame was a sin against the pieties of nature, least ofall excusable when committed at the bidding of her own desires? He wouldnever breathe to her a word which could reveal such a thought, butWilfrid, with his susceptibility to the beautiful in character, hisnature so intensely in sympathy with her own, might more or lessconsciously judge her to have fallen from fidelity to the high ideal. Could he have learnt the story of her life, she still persevering on herwidowed way, would he not have deemed her nobler? Aid against thissubtlety of conscience rose in the form of self-reproof administered bythat joyous voice of nature which no longer timidly begged a hearing, but came as a mandate from an unveiled sovereign. With what right, pray, did she desire to show in Wilfrid's eyes as other than she was? Thatpart in life alone becomes us which is the very expression of ourselves. What merit can there be in playing the votary of an ascetic convictionwhen the heart is bursting with its stifled cry for light and warmth, for human joy, for the golden fruit of the tree of life? She had beensincere in her renunciation; the way of worthiness was to cherish asincerity as complete now that her soul flamed to the bliss which fateonce more offered her. 

The hours passed slowly; how long the night would be if Wilfrid neitherwrote to her nor came. But he had written; at eight o'clock the gladsignal of the postman drew her to the door of her room where she stoodtrembling whilst someone went to the letter-box, and--oh, joy! ascendedthe stairs. It was her letter; because her hands were too unsteady tohold it for reading, she knelt by a chair, like a child with a newpicture-book, and spread the sheet open. And, having read it twice, shelet her face fall upon her palms, to repeat to herself the words whichdanced fire-like b re her darkened eyes. He wrote rather sadly, but shewould not have had it otherwise, for the sadness was of love's innermostheart, which is the shrine of mortality. 

As Emily knelt thus by the chair there came another knock at thehouse-door, the knock of a visitor. She did not hear it, nor yet the tapat her own door which followed. She was startled to consciousness by herlandlady's voice. 

'There's a lady wishes to see you, Miss Hood. '

'A lady?' Emily repeated in surprise. Then it occurred to her that itmust be Mrs. Baxendale, who knew her address and was likely to be inLondon at this time of the year. 'Does she give any name?'

No name. Emily requested that the visitor should be introduced. 

Not Mrs. Baxendale, but a face at first barely remembered, then growingwith suggestiveness upon Emily's gaze until all was known save the nameattached to it. A face which at present seemed to bear the pale signs ofsuffering, though it smiled; a beautiful visage of high meanings, impressive beneath its crown of dark hair. It smiled and still smiled;the eyes looked searchingly. 

'You do not remember me, Miss Hood?'

'Indeed, I remember you--your face, your voice. But your name--? You areMrs. Baxendale's niece. '

'Yes; Miss Redwing. '

'O, how could I forget!'

Emily became silent. The eyes that searched her so were surely kind, butit was the time of fears. Impossible that so strange a visit should beunconnected with her fate. And the voice thrilled upon her strung nervesominously; the lips she watched were so eloquent of repressed feeling. Why should this lady come to her? Their acquaintance had been so veryslight. 

She murmured an invitation to be seated. 

'For a moment, ' returned Beatrice, 'you must wonder to see me. But Ithink you remember that I was a friend of the Athels. I am come with Mr. Athel's leave--Mr. Wilfrid. '

Emily was agitated and could not smooth her features. 

'Oh, don't think I bring you bad news!' pursued the other quickly, leaning a little forward and again raising her eyes. She had droppedthem on the mention of Wilfrid's name. 'I have come, in fact, to put Mr. Athel at ease in his mind. ' She laughed nervously. 'He and I have beenclose friends for a very long time, indeed since we were all butchildren, and I--he--you won't misunderstand? He has told me--me aloneas yet--of what has happened, of the great good fortune that has come tohim so unexpectedly. If you knew the terms of our friendship you wouldunderstand how natural it was for him to take me into his confidence, Miss Hood. And I begged him to let me visit you, because'--again shelaughed in the same nervous way--'because he was in a foolish anxietylest you might have vanished; I told him it was best that he should havethe evidence of a very practical person's senses that you were reallyhere and that he hadn't only dreamt it. And as we did know each other, you see--You will construe my behaviour kindly, will you not?'

'Surely I will, Miss Redwing, ' Emily responded warmly. 'How else could Imeet your own great kindness?'

'I feared so many things; even at the door I almost turned away. Thereseemed so little excuse for my visit. It was like intruding upon you. But Mr. Athel assured me that I should not be unwelcome. '

Emily, overcome by the sense of relief after her apprehensions, gavefree utterance to the warm words in which her joy voiced itself. Sheforgot all that was strange in Beatrice's manner or attributed it merelyto timidity. Sympathy just now was like sunshine to her; she could notinquire whence or why it came, but was content to let it bathe her inits divine solace. 

'If you knew how it has flattered me!' Beatrice continued, with asemblance of light-hearted goodness which her hearer had no thought ofcriticising. 'It is the final proof of Mr. Athel's good opinion. Youknow his poor opinion of conventional people and conventional behaviour. He is determined that no one shall be told till--till afterWednesday--making me the sole exception, you see. But seriously I amglad he did so, and that I have been able to meet you again just at thistime. Now I can assure him that you are indeed a living being, and thatthere is no danger whatever of your disappearing. '

Emily did not join the musical laugh, but her heart was full, and shejust laid her hand on that of Beatrice. 

'It was only for a moment, ' the latter said, rising as she felt thetouch. 'This is no hour for paying visits, and, indeed, I have to hurryback again. I should like to--only to say that you have my very kindestwishes. You forgive my coming; you forgive my hastening away so?'

'I feel I ought to thank you more, ' broke from Emily's lips. 'To me, believe, it is all very like a dream. O, it was kind of you to come! Youcan't think, ' she added, with only apparent irrelevance, 'how often Ihave recalled your beautiful singing; I have always thought of you withgratitude for that deep pleasure you gave me. '

'O, you shall hear me sing again!' laughed Beatrice. 'Ask Mr. Athel totell you something about that. Indeed, it must be good-bye. '

They took each other's hands, but for Emily it was not sufficient; shestepped nearer, offering her lips. 

Beatrice kissed her. 

CHAPTER XXV

A FAMILY CONCLAVE

At eleven o'clock on Wednesday morning Beatrice called at the Athels'house. Receiving the expected information that Wilfrid was not at home, she requested that Mr. Athel senior might not be disturbed and went toWilfrid's study. 

Alone in the room, she took from her hand-bag a little packet addressedto Wilfrid on which she had written the word 'private, ' and laid it onthe writing-table. 

She appeared to have given special attention to her toilet this morning;her attire was that of a lady of fashion, rich, elaborate, devised withconsummate art, its luxury draping well the superb form wherein blendedwith such strange ardour the flames of heroism and voluptuousness. Hermoving made the air delicate with faint perfume; her attitude as shelaid down the packet and kept her hand upon it for a moment wasself-conscious, but nobly so; if an actress, she was cast by nature forthe great parts and threw her soul into the playing of them. 

She lingered by the table, touching objects with the tips of her glovedfingers, as if lovingly and sadly; at length she seated herself inWilfrid's chair and gazed about the room with languid, wistful eyes. Herbosom heaved; once or twice a sigh trembled to all but a sob. She lostherself in reverie. Then the clock near her chimed silverly half-pasteleven. Beatrice drew a deep breath, rose slowly, and slowly went fromthe room. 

A cab took her to Mrs. Baxendale's. That lady was at home and alone, reading in fact; she closed her book as Beatrice entered, and a placidsmile accompanied her observation of her niece's magnificence. 

'I was coming to make inquiries, ' she said. 'Mrs. Birks gave me adisturbing account of you yesterday. Has your headache gone?'

'Over, all over, ' Beatrice replied quietly. 'They make too much of it. '

'I think it is you who make too little of it. You are wretchedly pale. '

'Am I? That will soon go. I think I must leave town before long. Adviseme; where shall I go?'

'But you don't think of going before--?'

'Yes, quite soon. '

'You are mysterious, ' remarked Mrs. Baxendale, raising her eyebrows alittle as she smiled. 

'Well, aunt, I will be so no longer. I want to cross-examine you, if youwill let me. Do you promise to answer?'

'To the best of my poor ability. '

'Then the first question shall be this, --when did you last hear ofEmily Hood?'

'Of Emily Hood?'

Mrs. Baxendale had the habit of controlling the display of her emotions, it was part of her originality. But it was evident that the questionoccasioned her extreme surprise, and not a little trouble. 

'Yes, will you tell me?' said Beatrice, in a tone of calm interest. 

'It's a strange question. Still, if you really desire to know, I heardfrom her about six months ago. '

'She was in London then?'

Mrs. Baxendale had quite ceased to smile. When any puzzling matteroccupied her thought she always frowned very low; at present her frownindicated anxiety. 

'What reason have you to think she was in London, Beatrice?'

'Only her being here now. '

Beatrice said it with a show of pleasant artfulness, holding her headaside a little and smiling into her aunt's eyes. Mrs. Baxendale relaxedher frown and looked away. 

'Have you seen her lately?' Beatrice continued. 

'I have not soon her for years. '

'Ah! But you have corresponded with her?'

'At very long intervals. '

Before Beatrice spoke again, her aunt resumed. 

'Don't lay traps for me, my dear. Suppose you explain at once yourinterest in Emily Hood's whereabouts. '

'Yes, I wish to do so. I have come to you to talk about it, aunt, because I know you take things quietly, and just now I want a littlehelp of the kind you can give. You have guessed, of course, what I amgoing to tell you, --part of it at least. Wilfrid and she have met. '

'They have met, ' repeated the other, musingly, her face still ratheranxious. 'In what way?'

'By chance, pure chance. '

'By chance? It was not, I suppose, by chance that you heard of themeeting?'

'No. Wilfrid told me of it. He told me on Sunday--'

Her voice was a little uncertain. 

'Give me your hand, dear, ' said Mrs. Baxendale. 'There, now tell me therest. '

Beatrice half sobbed. 

'Yes, I can now more easily, ' she continued, with hurried utterance. 'Your hand is just what I wanted; it is help, dear help. But you mustn'tthink I am weak; I could have stood alone. Yes, he told me on Sunday. And that of course was the end. '

'At his desire?'

'His and mine. He was honest with me. It was better than suchdiscoveries when it would have been too late. '

'And he is going to marry her?'

'They were married an hour ago. '

Mrs. Baxendale looked with grave inquiry into Beatrice's face. Incredulity was checked by what she saw there. She averted her eyesagain, and both were silent for awhile. 

'So it is all well over, you see, ' Beatrice said at length, trying atlight-heartedness. 

'Over, it seems. As to the well or ill, I can't say. '

'Surely well, ' rejoined Beatrice. 'He loves her, and he would never haveloved me. We can't help it. She has suffered dreadful things; you see itin her face. '

'Her face?'

'I went to see her on Monday evening, ' Beatrice explained, withsimplicity, though her lips quivered. 'I asked leave of Wilfrid to doso; he had told me all her story, as he had just heard it from herself, and I--indeed I was curious to see her again. Then there was anotherreason. If I saw her and brought her to believe that Wilfrid and I weremerely intimate friends, as we used to be--how much easier it would makeeverything. You understand me, aunt?'

Mrs. Baxendale was again looking at her with grave, searching eyes, eyeswhich began to glimmer a little when the light caught them. Beatrice'shand she held pressed more and more closely in both her own. She made noreply to the last question, and the speaker went on with a voice whichlost its clearness, and seemed to come between parched lips. 

'You see how easy that makes everything? I want your help, of course; Itold Wilfrid that this was how I should act. It is very simple; let ussay that I prefer to be thought an unselfish woman: anyone can bejealous and malicious. You are to think that I care as little as itwould seem; I don't yet know how I am to live, but of course I shall, itwill come in time. It was better they should be married in this way. Then he must come back after the holidays, and everything be smooth forhim. That will be our work, yours and mine, dear aunt. You understandme? You will talk to Mrs. Birks; it will be better from you; and thenMr. Athel shall be told. Yes, it is hard for me, but perhaps not quitein the way you think. I don't hate her, indeed I don't. If you knew thatstory, which you never can I No, I don't hate her. I kissed her, aunt, with my lips--indeed. She couldn't find me out; I acted too well forthat. But I couldn't have done it if I had hated her. She is so alteredfrom what she was. You know that I liked her years ago. She interestedme in a strange, strange way; it seems to me now that I foresaw how herfate would be connected with mine. I knew that Wilfrid loved her beforeanyone else had dreamt of such a thing. Now promise your help. '

'Have they gone away?' her aunt asked. 

'I don't know. It is likely. '

Her face went white to the lips; for a moment she quivered. 

'Beatrice, stay with me, ' said Mrs. Baxendale. 'Stay 'with me here for aday or two. '

'Willingly. I wished it. Mrs. Birks is all kindness, but I find it hardto talk, and she won't let me be by myself. Don't think I am ill--no, indeed no! It's only rest that I want. It seems a long time sinceSunday. But you haven't yet promised me, aunt. It will be much harder ifI have to do everything myself. I promised him that everything should bemade smooth. I want to show him that my--that my love was worth having. It's more than all women would do, isn't it, aunt? Of course it isn'tonly that; there's the pleasure of doing something for him. And hecannot help being grateful to me as long as he lives. Suppose I had goneand told her She would never have married him. She was never beautiful, you know, and now her face is dreadfully worn, but I think I understandwhy he loves her. Of course you cannot know her as well as I do. And youwill help me, aunt?'

'Are you perfectly sure that they have been married this morning?' Mrs. Baxendale asked, with quiet earnestness. 

'Sure, quite sure. '

'In any other case I don't know whether I should have done as you wish. '

'You would have tried to prevent it? Oh no, you are too wise! After allthis time, and he loves her as much as ever. Don't you see how foolishit would be to fret about it? It is fete, that's all. You know we allhave our fate. Do you know what I used to think mine would he? I fearedmadness; my poor father--But I shall not fear that now; I have gonethrough too much; my mind has borne it. But I must have rest, and I canonly rest if I know that you are helping me. You promise?'

'I will do my best, dear. '

'And your best is best indeed, aunt. You will go to Mrs. Birks and tellher where I am? The sooner you speak to her the better. I will lie down. If you knew how worn-out I feel!'

She rose, but stood with difficulty. Mrs. Baxendale put her arm abouther and kissed her cheek. Then she led her to another room. 

Tension in Beatrice was nearing the point of fever. She had begun theconversation with every appearance of calmness; now she was only to besatisfied by immediate action towards the end she had in view, everysuccessive minute of delay was an added torment. She pressed her aunt togo to Mrs. Birks forthwith; that alone could soothe her. Mrs. Baxendaleyielded and set out. 

But it was not to Mrs. Birks that she paid her first visit. Though itwas clear that Beatrice firmly believed all she said, Mrs. Baxendalecould not accept this as positive assurance; before taking upon herselfto announce such a piece of news she felt the need of some furthertestimony. She had a difficulty in reconciling precipitate action ofthis kind with Wilfrid's character as it had of late years developeditself; political, even social, ambition had become so pronounced in himthat it was difficult to imagine him turning with such sudden vehemencefrom the path in which every consideration of interest would tend tohold him. The best of women worship success, and though Mrs. Baxendalewell knew that Wilfrid's aims had suffered a degradation, she could not, even apart from her feeling for Beatrice, welcome his return to the highallegiance of former days, when it would surely check or altogetherterminate a brilliant career. The situation had too fantastic a look. Could it be that Beatrice was suffering from some delusion? Had a chancediscovery of Emily Hood's proximity, together perhaps with someambiguous behaviour on Wilfrid's part, affected her mind? It was anextreme supposition, but on the whole as easy of acceptance as the storyBeatrice had poured forth. 

In pursuit of evidence Mrs. Baxendale drove to the Athels'. It was aboutluncheon-time. She inquired for Wilfrid, and heard with mingled feelingsthat he was at home. She found him in his study; he had before him alittle heap of letters, the contents of a packet he had found on histable on entering a quarter of an hour before. 

Mrs. Baxendale regarded him observantly. The results of her examinationled her to come to the point at once. 

'I have just left Beatrice, ' she said. 'She has been telling me anextraordinary story. Do you know what it was?'

'She has told you the truth, ' Wilfrid replied, simply. 

'And you were married this morning?'

Wilfrid bent his head in assent. 

Mrs. Baxendale seated herself. 

'My dear Wilfrid, ' were her next words, 'you have been guilty of what iscommonly called a dishonourable action. '

'I fear I have. I can only excuse myself by begging you to believe thatno other course was open to me. I have simply cut a hard knot. It wasbetter than wasting my own life and others' lives in despair at itshopelessness. '

Wilfrid was collected. The leap taken, he felt his foot once more onfirm ground. He felt, too, that he had left behind him much of which hewas heartily ashamed. He was in no mood to feign an aspect ofcontrition. 

'You will admit, ' observed the lady, 'that this Cutting of the knotmakes a rather harsh severance. '

'It would be impertinent to say that I am sorry for Beatrice. Herbehaviour to me has been incredibly magnanimous, and I feel sure thather happiness as well as my own has been consulted. I don't know in whatsense she has spoken to you--'

'Very nobly, be sure of it. '

'I can only thank her and reverence her. '

Mrs. Baxendale remained for a moment in thought. 

'Well, ' she resumed, 'you know that it is not my part to make uselessscenes. I began with my hardest words, and they must stand. Beatricewill not die of a broken heart, happily, and if your wife is one half asnoble you are indeed a fortunate man. Perhaps we had better talk no moreat present; it is possible you have acted rightly, and I must run norisk of saying unkind things. Is your father informed?'

'Not yet. '

'You are leaving town?'

'This afternoon. '

'To go to a distance?'

'No. I shall be in town daily. '

'You doubtless inform your father before you leave?'

'I shall do so. '

'Then we will say good-bye. '

Mrs. Baxendale gave her hand. She did not smile, but just shook her headas she looked Wilfrid steadily in the face. 

It was later in the afternoon when she called upon Mrs. Birks. She wasconducted to that lady's boudoir, and there found Mr. Athel senior incolloquy with his sister. The subject of the conversation wasunmistakable. 

'You know?' asked Mrs. Birks, with resignation, as soon as the door wasclosed behind the visitor. 

'I have come to talk it over with you. '

Mr. Athel was standing with his hands clasped behind him; he was ratherredder in the face than usual, and had clearly been delivering himselfof ample periods. 

'Really, Mrs. Baxendale, ' he began, 'I have a difficulty in expressingmyself on the subject. The affair is simply monstrous. It indicates aform of insanity. I--uh--I--uh--in truth I don't know from what point tolook at it. '

'Where is Beatrice?' Mrs. Birks asked. 

'She will stay with me for a day or two, ' replied Mrs. Baxendale. 

'How--how is she?' inquired Mr. Athel, sympathetically. 

'Upset, of course, but not seriously, I hope. '

'Really, ' Mrs. Birks exclaimed, 'Wilfrid might have had someconsideration for other people. Hero are the friendships of a lifetimebroken up on his account. '

'I don't know that that is exactly the point of view, ' remarked herbrother, judicially. 'One doesn't expect such things to seriouslyweigh--I mean, of course, when there is reason on the man's side. Whatdistresses me is the personal recklessness of the step. '

'Perhaps that is not so great as it appears, ' put in Mrs. Baxendale, quietly. 

'You defend him?' exclaimed Mrs. Birks. 

'I'm not sure that I should do so, but I want to explain how Beatriceregards it. '

'_She_ defends him?' cried Mr. Athel. 

'Yes, she does. At present there is only one thing I fear for her, andthat is a refusal on your part to carry out her wishes. Beatrice hasmade up her mind that as little trouble as possible shall result. Ibring, in fact, the most urgent request from her that you, Mr. Athel, and you, Mrs. Birks, will join in a sort of conspiracy to make thingssmooth for Wilfrid. She desires--it is no mere whim, I believe herhealth depends upon it--that no obstacle whatever may be put in the wayof Wilfrid's return to society with his wife. We are to act as thoughthis old engagement had come to an end by mutual agreement, and asapproving the marriage. This is my niece's serious desire. '

'My dear Mrs. Baxendale!' murmured the listening lady. 'How veryextraordinary! Are you quite sure--'

'Oh, this surely is out of the question, ' broke in her brother. 'ThatBeatrice should make such a request is very admirable, but I--uh--Ireally--'

Mr. Athel paused, as if expecting and hoping that someone would defeathis objections. 

'I admit it sounds rather unreal, ' pursued Mrs. Baxendale, 'butfortunately I can give you good evidence of her sincerity. She hasvisited the lady who is now Mrs. Athel, and that with the expresspurpose of representing herself as nothing more than a friend ofWilfrid's. You remember she had a slight acquaintance with Miss Hood. After this I don't see how we can refuse to aid her plan. '

'She visited Miss Hood?' asked Mrs. Birks, with the mild amazement of alady who respects her emotions. 'Does Wilfrid know that?'

'Beatrice asked his permission to go. '

'This is altogether beyond me, ' confessed Mr. Athel, drawing down hiswaistcoat and taking a turn across the room. Of course, if they havebeen amusing themselves with a kind of game, well, we have nothing to dobut to regret that our invitation to join in it has come rather late. For my own part, I was disposed to take a somewhat more serious view. Ofcourse it's no good throwing away one's indignation. I--uh--but what isyour own attitude with regard to this proposal, Mrs. Baxendale?'

'I think I must be content to do my niece's bidding, ' said the ladyaddressed. 

'There's one thing, it seems to me, being lost sight of, ' came from Mrs. Birks, in the disinterested tone of a person who wishes to deliver withall clearness an unpleasant suggestion. 'We are very much in the dark asto Miss Hood's--I should say Mrs. Athel's--antecedents. You yourself, 'she regarded Mrs. Baxendale, 'confess that her story is very mysterious. If we are asked to receive her, really--doesn't this occur to you?'

At this moment the door opened and amid general silence Beatrice cameforward. Mrs. Birks rose quickly and met her. Mrs. Baxendale understoodat a glance what had brought her niece here. Agitation had growninsupportable. It was not in Beatrice's character to lie still whilstothers decided matters in which she had supreme interest. The moredifficult her position the stronger she found herself to support it. Theculmination of the drama could not be acted with her behind the scenes. 

Mrs. Birks, with a whispered word or two, led her to a seat. Beatricelooked at her aunt, then at Mr. Athel. The proud beauty of her face wasnever more impressive. She smiled as if some pleasant trifle were underdiscussion. 

'I heard your voice as I came in, ' she said to Mrs. Birks, bendingtowards her gracefully. 'Were you on my side?'

'I'm afraid not, dear, just then, ' was the reply, given in acorresponding tone of affectionateness. 

'You will tell me what you were saying?'

Mr. Athel looked as uncomfortable as even an English gentleman can insuch a situation. Mrs. Baxendale seemed to be finding amusement inobserving him. The lady appealed to plucked for a moment at her sleeve. 

'May I make a guess?' Beatrice pursued. 'It had something to do with theprivate circumstances of the lady Mr. Wilfrid Athel has married?'

'Yes, Beatrice, it had. '

'Then let me help you over that obstacle, dear Mrs. Birks. I have heardfrom herself a full explanation of what you are uneasy about, and if Iwere at liberty to repeat it you would know that she has been dreadfullyunhappy and has endured things which would have killed most women, allbecause of her loyalty and purity of heart. I think I may ask you togive as much effect to my words as if you knew everything. Mrs. Athel isin every respect worthy to become a member of your family. '

Her voice began to express emotion, 'Mr. Athel, _you_ are not against me? It is so hard to find no sympathy. I have set my heart on this. Perhaps I seem to ask a great deal, butI--have I not some little--'

'My dear Miss Redwing, ' broke in Mr. Athel then, correcting himself, 'Mydear Beatrice, no words could convey the anxiety I feel to be of serviceto you. You see how difficult it is for me to speak decidedly, but Iassure you that I could not possibly act in opposition to your expresseddesire. Perhaps it would be better for me to withdraw. I am sure theseladies--'

His speech hung in mid-air, and he stood nervously tapping his fingerswith his eyeglass. 

'No, please remain, ' exclaimed Beatrice. 'Aunt, you are not against me?Mrs. Birks, you won't refuse to believe what I have told you?'

The two ladies glanced at each other. In Mrs. Baxendale's look there wasappeal. 

'Indeed, I believe you implicitly, my dear Beatrice, ' said Mrs. Birks. 'My brother is the one to decide. You are mistaken in thinking I opposeyour wish. How could I?'

The last words were very sweetly said. With a smile which did not passbeyond her lips, Beatrice rose from her seat and held her hand to Mr. Athel. 

'Then it is understood? When Wilfrid brings his wife to you, you receiveher with all kindness. I have your promise?'

Mr. Athel drew himself up very straight, pressed the offered hand andsaid:

'It shall be as you wish. ' . .. 

Beatrice returned with Mrs. Baxendale. Her desire to be alone wasrespected during the rest of the day. Going to her the last thing atnight, her aunt was reassured; weariness had followed upon nervousstrain, and the beautiful eyes seemed longing for sleep. 

But in the morning appearances were not so hopeful. The night had afterall been a troubled one: Beatrice declined breakfast and, having dressedwith effort, lay on a sofa, her eyes closed. 

At noon Mrs. Baxendale came near and said gently:

'Dear, you are not going to be ill?'

The sufferer stirred a little, looked in her aunt's face, rose to asitting position. 

'Ill?' She laughed in a forced way. 'O, that would never do! Ill afterall? Why, that would spoil everything. Are you going out this morning?'

'Certainly not. I should only have done some idle shopping. '

'Then you shall do the shopping, and I will go with you. Yes, yes, Iwill go! It is the only way. Let us go where we shall see people; I wishto. I will be ready in five minutes. '

'But, Beatrice--. '

'O, don't fear my looks; you shall see if I betray myself! Quick, quick, --to Regent Street, Bond Street, where we shall gee people! Ishall be ready before you. '

They set forth, and Beatrice had no illness. 

CHAPTER XXVI

MID-DAY

Once more at The Firs. Wilfrid had decided to make this his abode. Itwas near enough to London to allow of his going backwards and forwardsas often as might be necessary; his father's town house offered themeans of change for Emily, and supplied him with a _pied-a-terre_ intime of session. By limiting his attendance at the House as far asdecency would allow, he was able to enjoy with small interruption thequiet of his home in Surrey, and a growing certainty that the life ofthe present Parliament would be short encouraged him in looking forwardto the day when politics would no longer exist for him. 

He and Emily established themselves at The Firs towards the end ofDecember, having spent a week with Mr. Athel on their return from theContinent. Emily's health had improved, but there was no likelihood thatshe would ever be other than a delicate flower, to be jealously guardedfrom the sky's ruder breath by him to whom she was a life within life. Ambition as he formerly understood it had no more meaning for Wilfrid;the fine ardour of his being rejected grosser nourishment and burned inaltar-flame towards the passion-pale woman whom he after all calledwife. Emily was an unfailing inspiration; by her side the nobler zeal ofhis youth renewed itself; in the light of her pure soul he saw the worldas poetry and strove for that detachment of the intellect which in Emilywas a gift of nature. 

She, Emily--Emily Athel, as she joyed to write herself--moved in her newsphere like a spirit humbled by victory over fate. It was a mild winter;the Surrey hills were tender against the brief daylight, and gardensbreathed the freshness of evergreens. When the sun trembled over thelandscape for a short hour, Emily loved to stray as far as that hollowon the heath where she had sat with Wilfrid years ago, and heard him forthe first time speak freely of his aims and his hopes. That spot wassacred; as she stood there beneath the faint blue of the winter sky, allthe exquisite sadness of life, the memory of those whom death had led tohis kindly haven, the sorrows of new-born love, the dear heartache forwoe passed into eternity, touched the deepest fountains of her natureand made dim her eyes. She would not have had life other than it wasgiven to her, for she had learned the secrets of infinite passion in thesunless valleys of despair. 

She rested. In the last few months she had traversed a whole existence;repose was needful that she might assimilate all her new experiences andrange in due order the gifts which joy had lavishly heaped upon her. Theskies of the south, the murmur of blue seas on shores of glorious name, the shrines of Art, the hallowed scenes where earth's greatest haveloved and wrought, these were no longer a dream with her bodily eyes shehad looked upon Greece and Italy, and to have done so was aconsecration, it cast a light upon her brows. 'Talk to me of Rome;'those were always her words when Wilfrid came to her side in theevening. 'Talk to me of Rome, as you alone can. ' And as Wilfrid recalledtheir life in the world's holy of holies, she closed her eyes for thefull rapture of the inner light, and her heart sang praise. 

Wilfrid was awed by his blessedness. There were times when he scarcelydared to take in his own that fine-moulded hand which was the symbol oflife made perfect; Emily uttered thoughts which made him fear to profaneher purity by his touch. She realised to the uttermost his ideal ofwomanhood, none the less so that it seemed no child would be born of herto trouble the exclusiveness of their love. He clad her in queenlygarments and did homage at her feet. Her beauty was all for him, forthough Emily could grace any scene she found no pleasure in society, andthe hours of absence from home were to Wilfrid full of anxiety toreturn. All their plans were for solitude; life was too short for morethan the inevitable concessions to the outside world. 

But one morning in February, Emily's eye fell upon an announcement inthe newspaper which excited in her a wish to go up to town. Among thelist of singers at a concert to be given that day she had caught thename of Miss Beatrice Redwing. It was Saturday; Wilfrid had no occasionfor leaving home and already they had enjoyed in advance the twounbroken days. 

'But I should indeed like to hear her, ' Emily said, 'and she seems tosing so rarely. '

'She has only just returned to England, ' Wilfrid remarked

They had heard of Beatrice having been in Florence a week or two priorto their own stay there. She was travelling with the Baxendales. Emilywas anxious to meet her, and Wilfrid had held out a hope that this mightcome about in Italy, but circumstances had proved adverse. 

'Have you seen her?' Emily inquired. 

Her husband had not. He seemed at first a little disinclined to go upfor the concert, but on Emily's becoming silent he hastened to give acheerful acquiescence. 

'Couldn't we see her to-morrow?' she went on to ask. 

'No doubt we can. It's only the facing of my aunt's drawing-room on aSunday afternoon. '

'O, surely that is needless, Wilfrid? Couldn't we go and see herquietly? She would be at home in the morning, I should think. '

'I should think so. We'll make inquiries to-night. '

They left home early in the afternoon and procured tickets on their wayfrom the station to Mr. Athel's. Their arrival being quite unexpected, they found that Mr. Athel had loft town for a day or two. It was allthat Emily needed for the completing of her pleasure; her father-in-lawwas scrupulously polite in his behaviour to her, but the politeness fella little short as yet of entire ease, and conversation with him involvedeffort. She ran a risk of letting Wilfrid perceive the gladness withwhich she discovered an empty house; he did, in fact, attribute to itstrue cause the light-heartedness she showed as they sat together atdinner, and smiled to think that he himself shared in the feeling ofrelief. There were reasons why he could not look forward to the eveningwith unalloyed happiness, but the unwonted gaiety which shone on Emily'sface, and gave a new melody to her voice, moved him to tenderness andgratitude. He felt that it would be well to listen again to the music ofthat strong heart whose pain had been his bliss. He overcame his ignobleanxieties and went to the concert as to a sacred office. 

Their seats, owing to lateness in applying for them, were not in thebest part of the hall; immediately behind them was the first row of acheaper section, and two men of indifferent behaviour were seated therewithin ear-shot; they were discussing the various names upon theprogramme as if for the enlightenment of their neighbours. When Emilyhad been sitting for a few minutes, she found that it had been unwise toleave her mantle in the cloak-room; there was a bad draught. Wilfridwent to recover it. Whilst waiting, Emily became aware that the menbehind her were talking of Miss Redwing; she listened. 

'She's married, I think, eh?' said one. 

'Was to have been, you mean. Why, wasn't it you told me the story? O no, it was Drummond. Drummond knows her people, I think. '

'What story, eh?'

'Why, she was to have married a Member of Parliament; what the deuce washis name? Something that reminded me of a race-horse, I remember. Was itBlair? No--Athel! That's the name. '

'Why didn't it come off, then?'

'Oh, the honourable member found somebody he liked better. '

It was not the end of the conversation, but just then the conductor rosein his place and there was 'hushing. ' Wilfrid returned at the samemoment. He noticed that Emily shivered as he put the covering on hershoulders. When he was seated she looked at him so strangely that heasked her in a whisper what was the matter. Emily shook her head andseemed to fix her attention on the music. 

Beatrice Redwing was the third singer to come forward. Whilst she sangEmily frequently looked at her husband. Wilfrid did not notice it, hewas absorbed in listening. Towards the end Emily, too, lost thought ofeverything save the magic with which the air was charged. There wasvociferous demand for an encore and Beatrice gave another song. 

When the mid-way interval was reached Emily asked her husband if hewould leave the hall. She gave no reason and Wilfrid did not questionher. When they were in the carriage she said the draught had been toosevere. Wilfrid kept silence; he was troubled by inexplicablemisgivings. 

Servants hastened to light the drawing-room on their arrival earlierthan was expected. Emily threw off her wraps and seated herself near thefire. 

'Do you suffer from the chill?' Wilfrid asked, approaching her as ifwith diffidence. 

She turned her face to him, gazing with the sadness which was so muchmore natural to her than the joy of two hours ago. 

'It was not the draught that made me come away, ' she said with gentledirectness. 'I must tell you what it was, Wilfrid. I cannot keep any ofmy thoughts from you. '

'Tell me, ' he murmured, standing by her. 

She related the substance of the conversation she had overheard, alwayskeeping her eyes on him. 

'Is it true?'

'It is true, Emily. '

Between him and her there could be no paltry embarrassments. A directquestion touching both so deeply could be answered only in one way. IfEmily had suffered from a brief distrust, his look and voice, sorrowfulbut frank as though he faced Omniscience, restored her courage at once. There might be grief henceforth, but it was shared between them. 

He spoke on and made all plain. Then at the last:

'I felt it to be almost impossible that you should net some day know. Icould not tell you, perhaps on her account as much as on my own. But nowI may say what I had no words for before. She loved me, and I believedthat I could return her love. When I met you, how could I marry her? Astranger sees my conduct--you have heard how. It is you who alone canjudge me. '

'And she came to me in that way, ' Emily murmured. 'She could not onlylose _you_, but give her hand to the woman who robbed her!'

'And take my part with everyone, force herself to show a bright face, doher best to have it understood that it was she herself who broke off themarriage--all this. '

'Dare I go to her, Wilfrid? Would it be cruel to go to her? I wish tospeak--oh, not one word that would betray my knowledge, but to say thatI love her. Do you think I may go?'

'I cannot advise you, Emily. Wait until the morning and do then what youthink best. '

She decided to go. Beatrice still lived with Mrs. Birks, and it wasprobable that she would be alone on Sunday morning. It proved to be so. 

Wilfrid waited more than an hour for Emily's return. When at length sheentered to him, he saw that there was deep content on her countenance. Emily embraced her husband and laid her head upon his breast. He couldhear her sigh gently. 

'She wishes to see you, Wilfrid. '

'She received you kindly?'

'I will tell you all when I have had time to think of it. But she wassorry you did not come with me. Will you go? She will be alone thisafternoon. '

They held each other in silence. Then Emily, raising an awed face, askedsoftly:

'Where does she find her strength? Is her nature so spotless thatself-sacrifice is her highest joy? Wilfrid, I could have asked pardon ather feet; my heart bled for her. '

'Dearest, you least of all should wonder at the strength which comes ofhigh motive. '

'Oh, but to surrender you to another and to witness that other'shappiness! Was not my self-denial perhaps a form of selfishness? I onlyshrank from love because I dreaded the reproaches of my own heart; I didgood to no one, was only anxious to save myself. She--I dare not thinkof it! My nature is so weak. Take your love from me and you take mylife. '

Wilfrid's heart leaped with the wild joy of a mountain torrent. 

'She will not always be alone, ' he said, perhaps with the readiness ofthe supremely happy to prophesy smooth things for all. There came theanswer of gentle reproach:

'After loving you, Wilfrid?'

'Beautiful, that is how it seems to you. There is second love, oftentruer than the first. '

'Then the first was not love indeed! If I had never seen you again, whatmeaning would love have ever had for me apart from your name? I onlydreamed of it till I knew you, then it was love first and last. Wilfrid, my own, my husband--my love till I die!' . .. .