A LONDON LIFE

AND OTHER TALES

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A LONDON LIFE

THE PATAGONIA

THE LIAR

MRS. TEMPERLY

BY

HENRY JAMES

LondonMACMILLAN AND CO. AND NEW YORK1889

COPYRIGHT 1889

_BY_

HENRY JAMES

CONTENTS

 PAGE

A LONDON LIFE 1

THE PATAGONIA 159

THE LIAR 241

MRS. TEMPERLY 317

NOTE

The last of the following four Tales originally appeared under adifferent name. 

A LONDON LIFE

I

It was raining, apparently, but she didn't mind--she would put on stoutshoes and walk over to Plash. She was restless and so fidgety that itwas a pain; there were strange voices that frightened her--they threwout the ugliest intimations--in the empty rooms at home. She would seeold Mrs. Berrington, whom she liked because she was so simple, and oldLady Davenant, who was staying with her and who was interesting forreasons with which simplicity had nothing to do. Then she would comeback to the children's tea--she liked even better the last half-hour inthe schoolroom, with the bread and butter, the candles and the red fire, the little spasms of confidence of Miss Steet the nursery-governess, andthe society of Scratch and Parson (their nicknames would have made youthink they were dogs) her small, magnificent nephews, whose flesh was sofirm yet so soft and their eyes so charming when they listened tostories. Plash was the dower-house and about a mile and a half, throughthe park, from Mellows. It was not raining after all, though it hadbeen; there was only a grayness in the air, covering all the strong, rich green, and a pleasant damp, earthy smell, and the walks were smoothand hard, so that the expedition was not arduous. 

The girl had been in England more than a year, but there were somesatisfactions she had not got used to yet nor ceased to enjoy, and oneof these was the accessibility, the convenience of the country. Withinthe lodge-gates or without them it seemed all alike a park--it was allso intensely 'property. ' The very name of Plash, which was quaint andold, had not lost its effect upon her, nor had it become indifferent toher that the place was a dower-house--the little red-walled, iviedasylum to which old Mrs. Berrington had retired when, on his father'sdeath, her son came into the estates. Laura Wing thought very ill of thecustom of the expropriation of the widow in the evening of her days, when honour and abundance should attend her more than ever; but hercondemnation of this wrong forgot itself when so many of theconsequences looked right--barring a little dampness: which was the fatesooner or later of most of her unfavourable judgments of Englishinstitutions. Iniquities in such a country somehow always made pictures;and there had been dower-houses in the novels, mainly of fashionablelife, on which her later childhood was fed. The iniquity did not as ageneral thing prevent these retreats from being occupied by old ladieswith wonderful reminiscences and rare voices, whose reverses had notdeprived them of a great deal of becoming hereditary lace. In the park, half-way, suddenly, Laura stopped, with a pain--a moral pang--thatalmost took away her breath; she looked at the misty glades and thedear old beeches (so familiar they were now and loved as much as if sheowned them); they seemed in their unlighted December bareness consciousof all the trouble, and they made her conscious of all the change. Ayear ago she knew nothing, and now she knew almost everything; and theworst of her knowledge (or at least the worst of the fears she hadraised upon it) had come to her in that beautiful place, whereeverything was so full of peace and purity, of the air of happysubmission to immemorial law. The place was the same but her eyes weredifferent: they had seen such sad, bad things in so short a time. Yes, the time was short and everything was strange. Laura Wing was too uneasyeven to sigh, and as she walked on she lightened her tread almost as ifshe were going on tiptoe. 

At Plash the house seemed to shine in the wet air--the tone of themottled red walls and the limited but perfect lawn to be the work of anartist's brush. Lady Davenant was in the drawing-room, in a low chair byone of the windows, reading the second volume of a novel. There was thesame look of crisp chintz, of fresh flowers wherever flowers could beput, of a wall-paper that was in the bad taste of years before, but hadbeen kept so that no more money should be spent, and was almost coveredover with amateurish drawings and superior engravings, framed in narrowgilt with large margins. The room had its bright, durable, sociable air, the air that Laura Wing liked in so many English things--that of beingmeant for daily life, for long periods, for uses of high decency. Butmore than ever to-day was it incongruous that such an habitation, withits chintzes and its British poets, its well-worn carpets and domesticart--the whole aspect so unmeretricious and sincere--should have to dowith lives that were not right. Of course however it had to do onlyindirectly, and the wrong life was not old Mrs. Berrington's nor yetLady Davenant's. If Selina and Selina's doings were not an implicationof such an interior any more than it was for them an explication, thiswas because she had come from so far off, was a foreign elementaltogether. Yet it was there she had found her occasion, all theinfluences that had altered her so (her sister had a theory that she wasmetamorphosed, that when she was young she seemed born for innocence) ifnot at Plash at least at Mellows, for the two places after all had everso much in common, and there were rooms at the great house that lookedremarkably like Mrs. Berrington's parlour. 

Lady Davenant always had a head-dress of a peculiar style, original andappropriate--a sort of white veil or cape which came in a point to theplace on her forehead where her smooth hair began to show and thencovered her shoulders. It was always exquisitely fresh and was partlythe reason why she struck the girl rather as a fine portrait than as aliving person. And yet she was full of life, old as she was, and hadbeen made finer, sharper and more delicate, by nearly eighty years ofit. It was the hand of a master that Laura seemed to see in her face, the witty expression of which shone like a lamp through the ground-glassof her good breeding; nature was always an artist, but not so much of anartist as that. Infinite knowledge the girl attributed to her, and thatwas why she liked her a little fearfully. Lady Davenant was not as ageneral thing fond of the young or of invalids; but she made anexception as regards youth for the little girl from America, the sisterof the daughter-in-law of her dearest friend. She took an interest inLaura partly perhaps to make up for the tepidity with which she regardedSelina. At all events she had assumed the general responsibility ofproviding her with a husband. She pretended to care equally little forpersons suffering from other forms of misfortune, but she was capable offinding excuses for them when they had been sufficiently to blame. Sheexpected a great deal of attention, always wore gloves in the house andnever had anything in her hand but a book. She neither embroidered norwrote--only read and talked. She had no special conversation for girlsbut generally addressed them in the same manner that she found effectivewith her contemporaries. Laura Wing regarded this as an honour, but veryoften she didn't know what the old lady meant and was ashamed to askher. Once in a while Lady Davenant was ashamed to tell. Mrs. Berringtonhad gone to a cottage to see an old woman who was ill--an old woman whohad been in her service for years, in the old days. Unlike her friendshe was fond of young people and invalids, but she was less interestingto Laura, except that it was a sort of fascination to wonder how shecould have such abysses of placidity. She had long cheeks and kind eyesand was devoted to birds; somehow she always made Laura think secretlyof a tablet of fine white soap--nothing else was so smooth and clean. 

'And what's going on _chez vous_--who is there and what are theydoing?' Lady Davenant asked, after the first greetings. 

'There isn't any one but me--and the children--and the governess. '

'What, no party--no private theatricals? How do you live?'

'Oh, it doesn't take so much to keep me going, ' said Laura. 'I believethere were some people coming on Saturday, but they have been put off, or they can't come. Selina has gone to London. '

'And what has she gone to London for?'

'Oh, I don't know--she has so many things to do. '

'And where is Mr. Berrington?'

'He has been away somewhere; but I believe he is coming backto-morrow--or next day. '

'Or the day after?' said Lady Davenant. 'And do they never go awaytogether?' she continued after a pause. 

'Yes, sometimes--but they don't come back together. '

'Do you mean they quarrel on the way?'

'I don't know what they do, Lady Davenant--I don't understand, ' LauraWing replied, with an unguarded tremor in her voice. 'I don't think theyare very happy. '

'Then they ought to be ashamed of themselves. They have got everythingso comfortable--what more do they want?'

'Yes, and the children are such dears!'

'Certainly--charming. And is she a good person, the present governess?Does she look after them properly?'

'Yes--she seems very good--it's a blessing. But I think she's unhappytoo. '

'Bless us, what a house! Does she want some one to make love to her?'

'No, but she wants Selina to see--to appreciate, ' said the young girl. 

'And doesn't she appreciate--when she leaves them that way quite to theyoung woman?'

'Miss Steet thinks she doesn't notice how they come on--she is neverthere. '

'And has she wept and told you so? You know they are always crying, governesses--whatever line you take. You shouldn't draw them out toomuch--they are always looking for a chance. She ought to be thankful tobe let alone. You mustn't be too sympathetic--it's mostly wasted, ' theold lady went on. 

'Oh, I'm not--I assure you I'm not, ' said Laura Wing. 'On the contrary, I see so much about me that I don't sympathise with. '

'Well, you mustn't be an impertinent little American either!' herinterlocutress exclaimed. Laura sat with her for half an hour and theconversation took a turn through the affairs of Plash and through LadyDavenant's own, which were visits in prospect and ideas suggested moreor less directly by them as well as by the books she had been reading, aheterogeneous pile on a table near her, all of them new and clean, froma circulating library in London. The old woman had ideas and Laura likedthem, though they often struck her as very sharp and hard, because atMellows she had no diet of that sort. There had never been an idea inthe house, since she came at least, and there was wonderfully littlereading. Lady Davenant still went from country-house to country-houseall winter, as she had done all her life, and when Laura asked her shetold her the places and the people she probably should find at each ofthem. Such an enumeration was much less interesting to the girl than itwould have been a year before: she herself had now seen a great manyplaces and people and the freshness of her curiosity was gone. But shestill cared for Lady Davenant's descriptions and judgments, because theywere the thing in her life which (when she met the old woman from timeto time) most represented talk--the rare sort of talk that was not merechaff. That was what she had dreamed of before she came to England, butin Selina's set the dream had not come true. In Selina's set people onlyharried each other from morning till night with extravagantaccusations--it was all a kind of horse-play of false charges. When LadyDavenant was accusatory it was within the limits of perfectverisimilitude. 

Laura waited for Mrs. Berrington to come in but she failed to appear, sothat the girl gathered her waterproof together with an intention ofdeparture. But she was secretly reluctant, because she had walked overto Plash with a vague hope that some soothing hand would be laid uponher pain. If there was no comfort at the dower-house she knew not whereto look for it, for there was certainly none at home--not even with MissSteet and the children. It was not Lady Davenant's leadingcharacteristic that she was comforting, and Laura had not aspired to becoaxed or coddled into forgetfulness: she wanted rather to be taught acertain fortitude--how to live and hold up one's head even while knowingthat things were very bad. A brazen indifference--it was not exactlythat that she wished to acquire; but were there not some sorts ofindifference that were philosophic and noble? Could Lady Davenant notteach them, if she should take the trouble? The girl remembered to haveheard that there had been years before some disagreeable occurrences in_her_ family; it was not a race in which the ladies inveterately turnedout well. Yet who to-day had the stamp of honour and credit--of a pastwhich was either no one's business or was part and parcel of a fairpublic record--and carried it so much as a matter of course? She herselfhad been a good woman and that was the only thing that told in the longrun. It was Laura's own idea to be a good woman and that this would makeit an advantage for Lady Davenant to show her how not to feel too much. As regards feeling enough, that was a branch in which she had no need totake lessons. 

The old woman liked cutting new books, a task she never remitted to hermaid, and while her young visitor sat there she went through the greaterpart of a volume with the paper-knife. She didn't proceed veryfast--there was a kind of patient, awkward fumbling of her aged hands;but as she passed her knife into the last leaf she said abruptly--'Andhow is your sister going on? She's very light!' Lady Davenant addedbefore Laura had time to reply. 

'Oh, Lady Davenant!' the girl exclaimed, vaguely, slowly, vexed withherself as soon as she had spoken for having uttered the words as aprotest, whereas she wished to draw her companion out. To correct thisimpression she threw back her waterproof. 

'Have you ever spoken to her?' the old woman asked. 

'Spoken to her?'

'About her behaviour. I daresay you haven't--you Americans have such alot of false delicacy. I daresay Selina wouldn't speak to you if youwere in her place (excuse the supposition!) and yet she is capable----'But Lady Davenant paused, preferring not to say of what young Mrs. Berrington was capable. 'It's a bad house for a girl. '

'It only gives me a horror, ' said Laura, pausing in turn. 

'A horror of your sister? That's not what one should aim at. You oughtto get married--and the sooner the better. My dear child, I haveneglected you dreadfully. '

'I am much obliged to you, but if you think marriage looks to me happy!'the girl exclaimed, laughing without hilarity. 

'Make it happy for some one else and you will be happy enough yourself. You ought to get out of your situation. '

Laura Wing was silent a moment, though this was not a new reflection toher. 'Do you mean that I should leave Selina altogether? I feel as if Ishould abandon her--as if I should be a coward. '

'Oh, my dear, it isn't the business of little girls to serve asparachutes to fly-away wives! That's why if you haven't spoken to heryou needn't take the trouble at this time of day. Let her go--let hergo!'

'Let her go?' Laura repeated, staring. 

Her companion gave her a sharper glance. 'Let her stay, then! Only getout of the house. You can come to me, you know, whenever you like. Idon't know another girl I would say that to. '

'Oh, Lady Davenant, ' Laura began again, but she only got as far asthis; in a moment she had covered her face with her hands--she had burstinto tears. 

'Ah my dear, don't cry or I shall take back my invitation! It wouldnever do if you were to _larmoyer_. If I have offended you by the way Ihave spoken of Selina I think you are too sensitive. We shouldn't feelmore for people than they feel for themselves. She has no tears, I'msure. '

'Oh, she has, she has!' cried the girl, sobbing with an odd effect asshe put forth this pretension for her sister. 

'Then she's worse than I thought. I don't mind them so much when theyare merry but I hate them when they are sentimental. '

'She's so changed--so changed!' Laura Wing went on. 

'Never, never, my dear: _c'est de naissance_. '

'You never knew my mother, ' returned the girl; 'when I think ofmother----' The words failed her while she sobbed. 

'I daresay she was very nice, ' said Lady Davenant gently. 'It would takethat to account for you: such women as Selina are always easily enoughaccounted for. I didn't mean it was inherited--for that sort of thingskips about. I daresay there was some improper ancestress--except thatyou Americans don't seem to have ancestresses. '

Laura gave no sign of having heard these observations; she was occupiedin brushing away her tears. 'Everything is so changed--you don't know, 'she remarked in a moment. 'Nothing could have been happier--nothingcould have been sweeter. And now to be so dependent--so helpless--sopoor!'

'Have you nothing at all?' asked Lady Davenant, with simplicity. 

'Only enough to pay for my clothes. '

'That's a good deal, for a girl. You are uncommonly dressy, you know. '

'I'm sorry I seem so. That's just the way I don't want to look. '

'You Americans can't help it; you "wear" your very features and youreyes look as if they had just been sent home. But I confess you are notso smart as Selina. '

'Yes, isn't she splendid?' Laura exclaimed, with proud inconsequence. 'And the worse she is the better she looks. '

'Oh my child, if the bad women looked as bad as they are----! It's onlythe good ones who can afford that, ' the old lady murmured. 

'It was the last thing I ever thought of--that I should be ashamed, 'said Laura. 

'Oh, keep your shame till you have more to do with it. It's like lendingyour umbrella--when you have only one. '

'If anything were to happen--publicly--I should die, I should die!' thegirl exclaimed passionately and with a motion that carried her to herfeet. This time she settled herself for departure. Lady Davenant'sadmonition rather frightened than sustained her. 

The old woman leaned back in her chair, looking up at her. 'It would bevery bad, I daresay. But it wouldn't prevent me from taking you in. '

Laura Wing returned her look, with eyes slightly distended, musing. 'Think of having to come to that!'

Lady Davenant burst out laughing. 'Yes, yes, you must come; you are sooriginal!'

'I don't mean that I don't feel your kindness, ' the girl broke out, blushing. 'But to be only protected--always protected: is that a life?'

'Most women are only too thankful and I am bound to say I think you are_difficile_. ' Lady Davenant used a good many French words, in theold-fashioned manner and with a pronunciation not perfectly pure: whenshe did so she reminded Laura Wing of Mrs. Gore's novels. 'But you shallbe better protected than even by me. _Nous verrons cela. _ Only you muststop crying--this isn't a crying country. '

'No, one must have courage here. It takes courage to marry for such areason. '

'Any reason is good enough that keeps a woman from being an old maid. Besides, you will like him. '

'He must like me first, ' said the girl, with a sad smile. 

'There's the American again! It isn't necessary. You are too proud--youexpect too much. '

'I'm proud for what I am--that's very certain. But I don't expectanything, ' Laura Wing declared. 'That's the only form my pride takes. Please give my love to Mrs. Berrington. I am so sorry--so sorry, ' shewent on, to change the talk from the subject of her marrying. She wantedto marry but she wanted also not to want it and, above all, not toappear to. She lingered in the room, moving about a little; the placewas always so pleasant to her that to go away--to return to her ownbarren home--had the effect of forfeiting a sort of privilege ofsanctuary. The afternoon had faded but the lamps had been brought in, the smell of flowers was in the air and the old house of Plash seemed torecognise the hour that suited it best. The quiet old lady in thefirelight, encompassed with the symbolic security of chintz andwater-colour, gave her a sudden vision of how blessed it would be tojump all the middle dangers of life and have arrived at the end, safely, sensibly, with a cap and gloves and consideration and memories. 'And, Lady Davenant, what does _she_ think?' she asked abruptly, stoppingshort and referring to Mrs. Berrington. 

'Think? Bless your soul, she doesn't do that! If she did, the things shesays would be unpardonable. '

'The things she says?'

'That's what makes them so beautiful--that they are not spoiled bypreparation. You could never think of them _for_ her. ' The girl smiledat this description of the dearest friend of her interlocutress, but shewondered a little what Lady Davenant would say to visitors about _her_if she should accept a refuge under her roof. Her speech was after all aflattering proof of confidence. 'She wishes it had been you--I happen toknow that, ' said the old woman. 

'It had been me?'

'That Lionel had taken a fancy to. '

'I wouldn't have married him, ' Laura rejoined, after a moment. 

'Don't say that or you will make me think it won't be easy to help you. I shall depend upon you not to refuse anything so good. '

'I don't call him good. If he were good his wife would be better. '

'Very likely; and if you had married him _he_ would be better, andthat's more to the purpose. Lionel is as idiotic as a comic song, butyou have cleverness for two. '

'And you have it for fifty, dear Lady Davenant. Never, never--I shallnever marry a man I can't respect!' Laura Wing exclaimed. 

She had come a little nearer her old friend and taken her hand; hercompanion held her a moment and with the other hand pushed aside one ofthe flaps of the waterproof. 'And what is it your clothing costs you?'asked Lady Davenant, looking at the dress underneath and not giving anyheed to this declaration. 

'I don't exactly know: it takes almost everything that is sent me fromAmerica. But that is dreadfully little--only a few pounds. I am awonderful manager. Besides, ' the girl added, 'Selina wants one to bedressed. '

'And doesn't she pay any of your bills?'

'Why, she gives me everything--food, shelter, carriages. '

'Does she never give you money?'

'I wouldn't take it, ' said the girl. 'They need everything theyhave--their life is tremendously expensive. '

'That I'll warrant!' cried the old woman. 'It was a most beautifulproperty, but I don't know what has become of it now. _Ce n'est pas pourvous blesser_, but the hole you Americans _can_ make----'

Laura interrupted immediately, holding up her head; Lady Davenant haddropped her hand and she had receded a step. 'Selina brought Lionel avery considerable fortune and every penny of it was paid. '

'Yes, I know it was; Mrs. Berrington told me it was most satisfactory. That's not always the case with the fortunes you young ladies aresupposed to bring!' the old lady added, smiling. 

The girl looked over her head a moment. 'Why do your men marry formoney?'

'Why indeed, my dear? And before your troubles what used your father togive you for your personal expenses?'

'He gave us everything we asked--we had no particular allowance. '

'And I daresay you asked for everything?' said Lady Davenant. 

'No doubt we were very dressy, as you say. '

'No wonder he went bankrupt--for he did, didn't he?'

'He had dreadful reverses but he only sacrificed himself--he protectedothers. '

'Well, I know nothing about these things and I only ask _pour merenseigner_, ' Mrs. Berrington's guest went on. 'And after their reversesyour father and mother lived I think only a short time?'

Laura Wing had covered herself again with her mantle; her eyes were nowbent upon the ground and, standing there before her companion with herumbrella and her air of momentary submission and self-control, she mightvery well have been a young person in reduced circumstances applying fora place. 'It was short enough but it seemed--some parts of it--terriblylong and painful. My poor father--my dear father, ' the girl went on. Buther voice trembled and she checked herself. 

'I feel as if I were cross-questioning you, which God forbid!' said LadyDavenant. 'But there is one thing I should really like to know. DidLionel and his wife, when you were poor, come freely to yourassistance?'

'They sent us money repeatedly--it was _her_ money of course. It wasalmost all we had. '

'And if you have been poor and know what poverty is tell me this: has itmade you afraid to marry a poor man?'

It seemed to Lady Davenant that in answer to this her young friendlooked at her strangely; and then the old woman heard her say somethingthat had not quite the heroic ring she expected. 'I am afraid of so manythings to-day that I don't know where my fears end. '

'I have no patience with the highstrung way you take things. But I haveto know, you know. '

'Oh, don't try to know any more shames--any more horrors!' the girlwailed with sudden passion, turning away. 

Her companion got up, drew her round again and kissed her. 'I think youwould fidget me, ' she remarked as she released her. Then, as if thiswere too cheerless a leave-taking, she added in a gayer tone, as Laurahad her hand on the door: 'Mind what I tell you, my dear; let her go!'It was to this that the girl's lesson in philosophy reduced itself, shereflected, as she walked back to Mellows in the rain, which had now comeon, through the darkening park. 

II

The children were still at tea and poor Miss Steet sat between them, consoling herself with strong cups, crunching melancholy morsels oftoast and dropping an absent gaze on her little companions as theyexchanged small, loud remarks. She always sighed when Laura came in--itwas her way of expressing appreciation of the visit--and she was the oneperson whom the girl frequently saw who seemed to her more unhappy thanherself. But Laura envied her--she thought her position had more dignitythan that of her employer's dependent sister. Miss Steet had related herlife to the children's pretty young aunt and this personage knew thatthough it had had painful elements nothing so disagreeable had everbefallen her or was likely to befall her as the odious possibility ofher sister's making a scandal. She had two sisters (Laura knew all aboutthem) and one of them was married to a clergyman in Staffordshire (avery ugly part) and had seven children and four hundred a year; whilethe other, the eldest, was enormously stout and filled (it was a gooddeal of a squeeze) a position as matron in an orphanage at Liverpool. Neither of them seemed destined to go into the English divorce-court, and such a circumstance on the part of one's near relations struckLaura as in itself almost sufficient to constitute happiness. Miss Steetnever lived in a state of nervous anxiety--everything about her wasrespectable. She made the girl almost angry sometimes, by her drooping, martyr-like air: Laura was near breaking out at her with, 'Dear me, whathave you got to complain of? Don't you earn your living like an honestgirl and are you obliged to see things going on about you that youhate?'

But she could not say things like that to her, because she had promisedSelina, who made a great point of this, that she would never be toofamiliar with her. Selina was not without her ideas of decorum--very farfrom it indeed; only she erected them in such queer places. She was notfamiliar with her children's governess; she was not even familiar withthe children themselves. That was why after all it was impossible toaddress much of a remonstrance to Miss Steet when she sat as if she weretied to the stake and the fagots were being lighted. If martyrs in thissituation had tea and cold meat served them they would strikingly haveresembled the provoking young woman in the schoolroom at Mellows. Lauracould not have denied that it was natural she should have liked itbetter if Mrs. Berrington would _sometimes_ just look in and give a signthat she was pleased with her system; but poor Miss Steet only knew bythe servants or by Laura whether Mrs. Berrington were at home or not:she was for the most part not, and the governess had a way of silentlyintimating (it was the manner she put her head on one side when shelooked at Scratch and Parson--of course _she_ called them Geordie andFerdy) that she was immensely handicapped and even that they were. Perhaps they were, though they certainly showed it little in theirappearance and manner, and Laura was at least sure that if Selina hadbeen perpetually dropping in Miss Steet would have taken that discomforteven more tragically. The sight of this young woman's either real orfancied wrongs did not diminish her conviction that she herself wouldhave found courage to become a governess. She would have had to teachvery young children, for she believed she was too ignorant for higherflights. But Selina would never have consented to that--she would haveconsidered it a disgrace or even worse--a _pose_. Laura had proposed toher six months before that she should dispense with a paid governess andsuffer _her_ to take charge of the little boys: in that way she shouldnot feel so completely dependent--she should be doing something inreturn. 'And pray what would happen when you came to dinner? Who wouldlook after them then?' Mrs. Berrington had demanded, with a very shockedair. Laura had replied that perhaps it was not absolutely necessary thatshe should come to dinner--she could dine early, with the children; andthat if her presence in the drawing-room should be required the childrenhad their nurse--and what did they have their nurse for? Selina lookedat her as if she was deplorably superficial and told her that they hadtheir nurse to dress them and look after their clothes--did she wish thepoor little ducks to go in rags? She had her own ideas of thoroughnessand when Laura hinted that after all at that hour the children were inbed she declared that even when they were asleep she desired thegoverness to be at hand--that was the way a mother felt who really tookan interest. Selina was wonderfully thorough; she said something aboutthe evening hours in the quiet schoolroom being the proper time for thegoverness to 'get up' the children's lessons for the next day. LauraWing was conscious of her own ignorance; nevertheless she presumed tobelieve that she could have taught Geordie and Ferdy the alphabetwithout anticipatory nocturnal researches. She wondered what her sistersupposed Miss Steet taught them--whether she had a cheap theory thatthey were in Latin and algebra. 

The governess's evening hours in the quiet schoolroom would have suitedLaura well--so at least she believed; by touches of her own she wouldmake the place even prettier than it was already, and in the winternights, near the bright fire, she would get through a delightful courseof reading. There was the question of a new piano (the old one waspretty bad--Miss Steet had a finger!) and perhaps she should have to askSelina for that--but it would be all. The schoolroom at Mellows was nota charmless place and the girl often wished that she might have spenther own early years in so dear a scene. It was a sort of panelledparlour, in a wing, and looked out on the great cushiony lawns and apart of the terrace where the peacocks used most to spread their tails. There were quaint old maps on the wall, and 'collections'--birds andshells--under glass cases, and there was a wonderful pictured screenwhich old Mrs. Berrington had made when Lionel was young out ofprimitive woodcuts illustrative of nursery-tales. The place was asetting for rosy childhood, and Laura believed her sister never knewhow delightful Scratch and Parson looked there. Old Mrs. Berrington hadknown in the case of Lionel--it had all been arranged for him. That wasthe story told by ever so many other things in the house, which betrayedthe full perception of a comfortable, liberal, deeply domestic effect, addressed to eternities of possession, characteristic thirty yearsbefore of the unquestioned and unquestioning old lady whose sofas and'corners' (she had perhaps been the first person in England to havecorners) demonstrated the most of her cleverness. 

Laura Wing envied English children, the boys at least, and even her ownchubby nephews, in spite of the cloud that hung over them; but she hadalready noted the incongruity that appeared to-day between LionelBerrington at thirty-five and the influences that had surrounded hisyounger years. She did not dislike her brother-in-law, though sheadmired him scantily, and she pitied him; but she marvelled at the wasteinvolved in some human institutions (the English country gentry forinstance) when she perceived that it had taken so much to produce solittle. The sweet old wainscoted parlour, the view of the garden thatreminded her of scenes in Shakespeare's comedies, all that was exquisitein the home of his forefathers--what visible reference was there tothese fine things in poor Lionel's stable-stamped composition? When shecame in this evening and saw his small sons making competitive noises intheir mugs (Miss Steet checked this impropriety on her entrance) sheasked herself what _they_ would have to show twenty years later for theframe that made them just then a picture. Would they be wonderfully ripeand noble, the perfection of human culture? The contrast was before heragain, the sense of the same curious duplicity (in the literal meaningof the word) that she had felt at Plash--the way the genius of such anold house was all peace and decorum and the spirit that prevailed there, outside of the schoolroom, was contentious and impure. She had oftenbeen struck with it before--with that perfection of machinery which canstill at certain times make English life go on of itself with a statelyrhythm long after there is corruption within it. 

She had half a purpose of asking Miss Steet to dine with her thatevening downstairs, so absurd did it seem to her that two young womenwho had so much in common (enough at least for that) should sit feedingalone at opposite ends of the big empty house, melancholy on such anight. She would not have cared just now whether Selina did think such acourse familiar: she indulged sometimes in a kind of angry humility, placing herself near to those who were laborious and sordid. But whenshe observed how much cold meat the governess had already consumed shefelt that it would be a vain form to propose to her another repast. Shesat down with her and presently, in the firelight, the two children hadplaced themselves in position for a story. They were dressed like themariners of England and they smelt of the ablutions to which they hadbeen condemned before tea and the odour of which was but partly overlaidby that of bread and butter. Scratch wanted an old story and Parson anew, and they exchanged from side to side a good many powerfularguments. While they were so engaged Miss Steet narrated at hervisitor's invitation the walk she had taken with them and revealed thatshe had been thinking for a long time of asking Mrs. Berrington--if sheonly had an opportunity--whether she should approve of her giving them afew elementary notions of botany. But the opportunity had not come--shehad had the idea for a long time past. She was rather fond of the studyherself; she had gone into it a little--she seemed to intimate thatthere had been times when she extracted a needed comfort from it. Laurasuggested that botany might be a little dry for such young children inwinter, from text-books--that the better way would be perhaps to waittill the spring and show them out of doors, in the garden, some of thepeculiarities of plants. To this Miss Steet rejoined that her idea hadbeen to teach some of the general facts slowly--it would take a longtime--and then they would be all ready for the spring. She spoke of thespring as if it would not arrive for a terribly long time. She had hopedto lay the question before Mrs. Berrington that week--but was it notalready Thursday? Laura said, 'Oh yes, you had better do anything withthe children that will keep them profitably occupied;' she came verynear saying anything that would occupy the governess herself. 

She had rather a dread of new stories--it took the little boys so longto get initiated and the first steps were so terribly bestrewn withquestions. Receptive silence, broken only by an occasional rectificationon the part of the listener, never descended until after the tale hadbeen told a dozen times. The matter was settled for 'Riquet with theTuft, ' but on this occasion the girl's heart was not much in theentertainment. The children stood on either side of her, leaning againsther, and she had an arm round each; their little bodies were thick andstrong and their voices had the quality of silver bells. Their motherhad certainly gone too far; but there was nevertheless a limit to thetenderness one could feel for the neglected, compromised bairns. It wasdifficult to take a sentimental view of them--they would never take sucha view of themselves. Geordie would grow up to be a master-hand at poloand care more for that pastime than for anything in life, and Ferdyperhaps would develop into 'the best shot in England. ' Laura felt thesepossibilities stirring within them; they were in the things they said toher, in the things they said to each other. At any rate they would neverreflect upon anything in the world. They contradicted each other on aquestion of ancestral history to which their attention apparently hadbeen drawn by their nurse, whose people had been tenants forgenerations. Their grandfather had had the hounds for fifteenyears--Ferdy maintained that he had always had them. Geordie ridiculedthis idea, like a man of the world; he had had them till he went intovolunteering--then he had got up a magnificent regiment, he had spentthousands of pounds on it. Ferdy was of the opinion that this was wastedmoney--he himself intended to have a real regiment, to be a colonel inthe Guards. Geordie looked as if he thought that a superficial ambitionand could see beyond it; his own most definite view was that he wouldhave back the hounds. He didn't see why papa didn't have them--unless itwas because he wouldn't take the trouble. 

'I know--it's because mamma is an American!' Ferdy announced, withconfidence. 

'And what has that to do with it?' asked Laura. 

'Mamma spends so much money--there isn't any more for anything!'

This startling speech elicited an alarmed protest from Miss Steet; sheblushed and assured Laura that she couldn't imagine where the childcould have picked up such an extraordinary idea. 'I'll look into it--youmay be sure I'll look into it, ' she said; while Laura told Ferdy that hemust never, never, never, under any circumstances, either utter orlisten to a word that should be wanting in respect to his mother. 

'If any one should say anything against any of my people I would givehim a good one!' Geordie shouted, with his hands in his little bluepockets. 

'I'd hit him in the eye!' cried Ferdy, with cheerful inconsequence. 

'Perhaps you don't care to come to dinner at half-past seven, ' the girlsaid to Miss Steet; 'but I should be very glad--I'm all alone. '

'Thank you so much. All alone, really?' murmured the governess. 

'Why don't you get married? then you wouldn't be alone, ' Geordieinterposed, with ingenuity. 

'Children, you are really too dreadful this evening!' Miss Steetexclaimed. 

'I shan't get married--I want to have the hounds, ' proclaimed Geordie, who had apparently been much struck with his brother's explanation. 

'I will come down afterwards, about half-past eight, if you will allowme, ' said Miss Steet, looking conscious and responsible. 

'Very well--perhaps we can have some music; we will try somethingtogether. '

'Oh, music--_we_ don't go in for music!' said Geordie, with clearsuperiority; and while he spoke Laura saw Miss Steet get up suddenly, looking even less alleviated than usual. The door of the room had beenpushed open and Lionel Berrington stood there. He had his hat on and acigar in his mouth and his face was red, which was its common condition. He took off his hat as he came into the room, but he did not stopsmoking and he turned a little redder than before. There were severalways in which his sister-in-law often wished he had been very different, but she had never disliked him for a certain boyish shyness that was inhim, which came out in his dealings with almost all women. The governessof his children made him uncomfortable and Laura had already noticedthat he had the same effect upon Miss Steet. He was fond of hischildren, but he saw them hardly more frequently than their mother andthey never knew whether he were at home or away. Indeed his goings andcomings were so frequent that Laura herself scarcely knew: it was anaccident that on this occasion his absence had been marked for her. Selina had had her reasons for wishing not to go up to town while herhusband was still at Mellows, and she cherished the irritating beliefthat he stayed at home on purpose to watch her--to keep her from goingaway. It was her theory that she herself was perpetually at home--thatfew women were more domestic, more glued to the fireside and absorbed inthe duties belonging to it; and unreasonable as she was she recognisedthe fact that for her to establish this theory she must make herhusband sometimes see her at Mellows. It was not enough for her tomaintain that he would see her if he were sometimes there himself. Therefore she disliked to be caught in the crude fact of absence--to goaway under his nose; what she preferred was to take the next train afterhis own and return an hour or two before him. She managed this oftenwith great ability, in spite of her not being able to be sure when he_would_ return. Of late however she had ceased to take so much trouble, and Laura, by no desire of the girl's own, was enough in the confidenceof her impatiences and perversities to know that for her to have wished(four days before the moment I write of) to put him on a wrong scent--orto keep him at least off the right one--she must have had something moredreadful than usual in her head. This was why the girl had been sonervous and why the sense of an impending catastrophe, which had latelygathered strength in her mind, was at present almost intolerablypressing: she knew how little Selina could afford to be more dreadfulthan usual. 

Lionel startled her by turning up in that unexpected way, though shecould not have told herself when it would have been natural to expecthim. This attitude, at Mellows, was left to the servants, most of theminscrutable and incommunicative and erect in a wisdom that was foundedupon telegrams--you couldn't speak to the butler but he pulled one outof his pocket. It was a house of telegrams; they crossed each other adozen times an hour, coming and going, and Selina in particular lived ina cloud of them. Laura had but vague ideas as to what they were allabout; once in a while, when they fell under her eyes, she either failedto understand them or judged them to be about horses. There were animmense number of horses, in one way and another, in Mrs. Berrington'slife. Then she had so many friends, who were always rushing about likeherself and making appointments and putting them off and wanting to knowif she were going to certain places or whether she would go if they didor whether she would come up to town and dine and 'do a theatre. ' Therewere also a good many theatres in the existence of this busy lady. Lauraremembered how fond their poor father had been of telegraphing, but itwas never about the theatre: at all events she tried to give her sisterthe benefit or the excuse of heredity. Selina had her own opinions, which were superior to this--she once remarked to Laura that it wasidiotic for a woman to write--to telegraph was the only way not to getinto trouble. If doing so sufficed to keep a lady out of it Mrs. Berrington's life should have flowed like the rivers of Eden. 

III

Laura, as soon as her brother-in-law had been in the room a moment, hada particular fear; she had seen him twice noticeably under the influenceof liquor; she had not liked it at all and now there were some of thesame signs. She was afraid the children would discover them, or at anyrate Miss Steet, and she felt the importance of not letting him stay inthe room. She thought it almost a sign that he should have come there atall--he was so rare an apparition. He looked at her very hard, smilingas if to say, 'No, no, I'm not--not if you think it!' She perceived withrelief in a moment that he was not very bad, and liquor disposed himapparently to tenderness, for he indulged in an interminable kissing ofGeordie and Ferdy, during which Miss Steet turned away delicately, looking out of the window. The little boys asked him no questions tocelebrate his return--they only announced that they were going to learnbotany, to which he replied: 'Are you, really? Why, I never did, ' andlooked askance at the governess, blushing as if to express the hope thatshe would let him off from carrying that subject further. To Laura andto Miss Steet he was amiably explanatory, though his explanations werenot quite coherent. He had come back an hour before--he was going tospend the night--he had driven over from Churton--he was thinking oftaking the last train up to town. Was Laura dining at home? Was any onecoming? He should enjoy a quiet dinner awfully. 

'Certainly I'm alone, ' said the girl. 'I suppose you know Selina isaway. '

'Oh yes--I know where Selina is!' And Lionel Berrington looked round, smiling at every one present, including Scratch and Parson. He stoppedwhile he continued to smile and Laura wondered what he was so muchpleased at. She preferred not to ask--she was sure it was something thatwouldn't give _her_ pleasure; but after waiting a moment herbrother-in-law went on: 'Selina's in Paris, my dear; that's where Selinais!'

'In Paris?' Laura repeated. 

'Yes, in Paris, my dear--God bless her! Where else do you suppose?Geordie my boy, where should _you_ think your mummy would naturally be?'

'Oh, I don't know, ' said Geordie, who had no reply ready that wouldexpress affectingly the desolation of the nursery. 'If I were mummy I'dtravel. '

'Well now that's your mummy's idea--she has gone to travel, ' returnedthe father. 'Were you ever in Paris, Miss Steet?'

Miss Steet gave a nervous laugh and said No, but she had been toBoulogne; while to her added confusion Ferdy announced that he knewwhere Paris was--it was in America. 'No, it ain't--it's in Scotland!'cried Geordie; and Laura asked Lionel how he knew--whether his wife hadwritten to him. 

'Written to me? when did she ever write to me? No, I saw a fellow intown this morning who saw her there--at breakfast yesterday. He cameover last night. That's how I know my wife's in Paris. You can't havebetter proof than that!'

'I suppose it's a very pleasant season there, ' the governess murmured, as if from a sense of duty, in a distant, discomfortable tone. 

'I daresay it's very pleasant indeed--I daresay it's awfully amusing!'laughed Mr. Berrington. 'Shouldn't you like to run over with me for afew days, Laura--just to have a go at the theatres? I don't see why weshould always be moping at home. We'll take Miss Steet and the childrenand give mummy a pleasant surprise. Now who do you suppose she was with, in Paris--who do you suppose she was seen with?'

Laura had turned pale, she looked at him hard, imploringly, in the eyes:there was a name she was terribly afraid he would mention. 'Oh sir, inthat case we had better go and get ready!' Miss Steet quavered, betwixta laugh and a groan, in a spasm of discretion; and before Laura knew itshe had gathered Geordie and Ferdy together and swept them out of theroom. The door closed behind her with a very quick softness and Lionelremained a moment staring at it. 

'I say, what does she mean?--ain't that damned impertinent?' hestammered. 'What did she think I was going to say? Does she suppose Iwould say any harm before--before _her_? Dash it, does she suppose Iwould give away my wife to the servants?' Then he added, 'And I wouldn'tsay any harm before you, Laura. You are too good and too nice and I likeyou too much!'

'Won't you come downstairs? won't you have some tea?' the girl asked, uneasily. 

'No, no, I want to stay here--I like this place, ' he replied, verygently and reasoningly. 'It's a deuced nice place--it's an awfully jollyroom. It used to be this way--always--when I was a little chap. I was arough one, my dear; I wasn't a pretty little lamb like that pair. Ithink it's because you look after them--that's what makes 'em so sweet. The one in my time--what was her name? I think it was Bald or Bold--Irather think she found me a handful. I used to kick her shins--I wasdecidedly vicious. And do _you_ see it's kept so well, Laura?' he wenton, looking round him. ''Pon my soul, it's the prettiest room in thehouse. What does she want to go to Paris for when she has got such acharming house? Now can you answer me that, Laura?'

'I suppose she has gone to get some clothes: her dressmaker lives inParis, you know. '

'Dressmaker? Clothes? Why, she has got whole rooms full of them. Hasn'tshe got whole rooms full of them?'

'Speaking of clothes I must go and change mine, ' said Laura. 'I havebeen out in the rain--I have been to Plash--I'm decidedly damp. '

'Oh, you have been to Plash? You have seen my mother? I hope she's invery good health. ' But before the girl could reply to this he went on:'Now, I want you to guess who she's in Paris with. Motcomb saw themtogether--at that place, what's his name? close to the Madeleine. ' Andas Laura was silent, not wishing at all to guess, he continued--'It'sthe ruin of any woman, you know; I can't think what she has got in herhead. ' Still Laura said nothing, and as he had hold of her arm, shehaving turned away, she led him this time out of the room. She had ahorror of the name, the name that was in her mind and that wasapparently on his lips, though his tone was so singular, socontemplative. 'My dear girl, she's with Lady Ringrose--what do you sayto that?' he exclaimed, as they passed along the corridor to thestaircase. 

'With Lady Ringrose?'

'They went over on Tuesday--they are knocking about there alone. '

'I don't know Lady Ringrose, ' Laura said, infinitely relieved that thename was not the one she had feared. Lionel leaned on her arm as theywent downstairs. 

'I rather hope not--I promise you she has never put her foot in thishouse! If Selina expects to bring her here I should like half an hour'snotice; yes, half an hour would do. She might as well be seen with----'And Lionel Berrington checked himself. 'She has had at least fifty----'And again he stopped short. 'You must pull me up, you know, if I sayanything you don't like!'

'I don't understand you--let me alone, please!' the girl broke out, disengaging herself with an effort from his arm. She hurried down therest of the steps and left him there looking after her, and as she wentshe heard him give an irrelevant laugh. 

IV

She determined not to go to dinner--she wished for that day not to meethim again. He would drink more--he would be worse--she didn't know whathe might say. Besides she was too angry--not with him but withSelina--and in addition to being angry she was sick. She knew who LadyRingrose was; she knew so many things to-day that when she wasyounger--and only a little--she had not expected ever to know. Her eyeshad been opened very wide in England and certainly they had been openedto Lady Ringrose. She had heard what she had done and perhaps a gooddeal more, and it was not very different from what she had heard ofother women. She knew Selina had been to her house; she had animpression that her ladyship had been to Selina's, in London, though sheherself had not seen her there. But she had not known they were sointimate as that--that Selina would rush over to Paris with her. Whatthey had gone to Paris for was not necessarily criminal; there were ahundred reasons, familiar to ladies who were fond of change, ofmovement, of the theatres and of new bonnets; but nevertheless it wasthe fact of this little excursion quite as much as the companion thatexcited Laura's disgust. 

She was not ready to say that the companion was any worse, thoughLionel appeared to think so, than twenty other women who were hersister's intimates and whom she herself had seen in London, in GrosvenorPlace, and even under the motherly old beeches at Mellows. But shethought it unpleasant and base in Selina to go abroad that way, like acommercial traveller, capriciously, clandestinely, without givingnotice, when she had left her to understand that she was simply spendingthree or four days in town. It was bad taste and bad form, it was_cabotin_ and had the mark of Selina's complete, irremediablefrivolity--the worst accusation (Laura tried to cling to that opinion)that she laid herself open to. Of course frivolity that was neverashamed of itself was like a neglected cold--you could die of it morallyas well as of anything else. Laura knew this and it was why she wasinexpressibly vexed with her sister. She hoped she should get a letterfrom Selina the next morning (Mrs. Berrington would show at least thatremnant of propriety) which would give her a chance to despatch her ananswer that was already writing itself in her brain. It scarcelydiminished Laura's eagerness for such an opportunity that she had avision of Selina's showing her letter, laughing, across the table, atthe place near the Madeleine, to Lady Ringrose (who would bepainted--Selina herself, to do her justice, was not yet) while theFrench waiters, in white aprons, contemplated _ces dames_. It was newwork for our young lady to judge of these shades--the gradations, theprobabilities of license, and of the side of the line on which, orrather how far on the wrong side, Lady Ringrose was situated. 

A quarter of an hour before dinner Lionel sent word to her room thatshe was to sit down without him--he had a headache and wouldn't appear. This was an unexpected grace and it simplified the position for Laura;so that, smoothing her ruffles, she betook herself to the table. Beforedoing this however she went back to the schoolroom and told Miss Steetshe must contribute her company. She took the governess (the little boyswere in bed) downstairs with her and made her sit opposite, thinking shewould be a safeguard if Lionel were to change his mind. Miss Steet wasmore frightened than herself--she was a very shrinking bulwark. Thedinner was dull and the conversation rare; the governess ate threeolives and looked at the figures on the spoons. Laura had more than everher sense of impending calamity; a draught of misfortune seemed to blowthrough the house; it chilled her feet under her chair. The letter shehad in her head went out like a flame in the wind and her only thoughtnow was to telegraph to Selina the first thing in the morning, in quitedifferent words. She scarcely spoke to Miss Steet and there was verylittle the governess could say to her: she had already related herhistory so often. After dinner she carried her companion into thedrawing-room, by the arm, and they sat down to the piano together. Theyplayed duets for an hour, mechanically, violently; Laura had no ideawhat the music was--she only knew that their playing was execrable. Inspite of this--'That's a very nice thing, that last, ' she heard a vaguevoice say, behind her, at the end; and she became aware that herbrother-in-law had joined them again. 

Miss Steet was pusillanimous--she retreated on the spot, though Lionelhad already forgotten that he was angry at the scandalous way she hadcarried off the children from the schoolroom. Laura would have gone tooif Lionel had not told her that he had something very particular to sayto her. That made her want to go more, but she had to listen to him whenhe expressed the hope that she hadn't taken offence at anything he hadsaid before. He didn't strike her as tipsy now; he had slept it off orgot rid of it and she saw no traces of his headache. He was stillconspicuously cheerful, as if he had got some good news and were verymuch encouraged. She knew the news he had got and she might havethought, in view of his manner, that it could not really have seemed tohim so bad as he had pretended to think it. It was not the first timehowever that she had seen him pleased that he had a case against hiswife, and she was to learn on this occasion how extreme a satisfactionhe could take in his wrongs. She would not sit down again; she onlylingered by the fire, pretending to warm her feet, and he walked to andfro in the long room, where the lamp-light to-night was limited, stepping on certain figures of the carpet as if his triumph were alloyedwith hesitation. 

'I never know how to talk to you--you are so beastly clever, ' he said. 'I can't treat you like a little girl in a pinafore--and yet of courseyou are only a young lady. You're so deuced good--that makes it worse, 'he went on, stopping in front of her with his hands in his pockets andthe air he himself had of being a good-natured but dissipated boy; withhis small stature, his smooth, fat, suffused face, his round, watery, light-coloured eyes and his hair growing in curious infantile rings. Hehad lost one of his front teeth and always wore a stiff white scarf, with a pin representing some symbol of the turf or the chase. 'I don'tsee why _she_ couldn't have been a little more like you. If I could havehad a shot at you first!'

'I don't care for any compliments at my sister's expense, ' Laura said, with some majesty. 

'Oh I say, Laura, don't put on so many frills, as Selina says. You knowwhat your sister is as well as I do!' They stood looking at each other amoment and he appeared to see something in her face which led him toadd--'You know, at any rate, how little we hit it off. '

'I know you don't love each other--it's too dreadful. '

'Love each other? she hates me as she'd hate a hump on her back. She'ddo me any devilish turn she could. There isn't a feeling of loathingthat she doesn't have for me! She'd like to stamp on me and hear mecrack, like a black beetle, and she never opens her mouth but sheinsults me. ' Lionel Berrington delivered himself of these assertionswithout violence, without passion or the sting of a new discovery; therewas a familiar gaiety in his trivial little tone and he had the air ofbeing so sure of what he said that he did not need to exaggerate inorder to prove enough. 

'Oh, Lionel!' the girl murmured, turning pale. 'Is that the particularthing you wished to say to me?'

'And you can't say it's my fault--you won't pretend to do that, willyou?' he went on. 'Ain't I quiet, ain't I kind, don't I go steady?Haven't I given her every blessed thing she has ever asked for?'

'You haven't given her an example!' Laura replied, with spirit. 'Youdon't care for anything in the wide world but to amuse yourself, fromthe beginning of the year to the end. No more does she--and perhaps it'seven worse in a woman. You are both as selfish as you can live, withnothing in your head or your heart but your vulgar pleasure, incapableof a concession, incapable of a sacrifice!' She at least spoke withpassion; something that had been pent up in her soul broke out and itgave her relief, almost a momentary joy. 

It made Lionel Berrington stare; he coloured, but after a moment hethrew back his head with laughter. 'Don't you call me kind when I standhere and take all that? If I'm so keen for my pleasure what pleasure do_you_ give me? Look at the way I take it, Laura. You ought to do mejustice. Haven't I sacrificed my home? and what more can a man do?'

'I don't think you care any more for your home than Selina does. Andit's so sacred and so beautiful, God forgive you! You are all blind andsenseless and heartless and I don't know what poison is in your veins. There is a curse on you and there will be a judgment!' the girl went on, glowing like a young prophetess. 

'What do you want me to do? Do you want me to stay at home and read theBible?' her companion demanded with an effect of profanity, confrontedwith her deep seriousness. 

'It wouldn't do you any harm, once in a while. '

'There will be a judgment on _her_--that's very sure, and I know whereit will be delivered, ' said Lionel Berrington, indulging in a visibleapproach to a wink. 'Have I done the half to her she has done to me? Iwon't say the half but the hundredth part? Answer me truly, my dear!'

'I don't know what she has done to you, ' said Laura, impatiently. 

'That's exactly what I want to tell you. But it's difficult. I'll betyou five pounds she's doing it now!'

'You are too unable to make yourself respected, ' the girl remarked, notshrinking now from the enjoyment of an advantage--that of feelingherself superior and taking her opportunity. 

Her brother-in-law seemed to feel for the moment the prick of thisobservation. 'What has such a piece of nasty boldness as that to do withrespect? She's the first that ever defied me!' exclaimed the young man, whose aspect somehow scarcely confirmed this pretension. 'You know allabout her--don't make believe you don't, ' he continued in another tone. 'You see everything--you're one of the sharp ones. There's no usebeating about the bush, Laura--you've lived in this precious house andyou're not so green as that comes to. Besides, you're so good yourselfthat you needn't give a shriek if one is obliged to say what one means. Why didn't you grow up a little sooner? Then, over there in New York, itwould certainly have been you I would have made up to. _You_ would haverespected me--eh? now don't say you wouldn't. ' He rambled on, turningabout the room again, partly like a person whose sequences werenaturally slow but also a little as if, though he knew what he had inmind, there were still a scruple attached to it that he was trying torub off. 

'I take it that isn't what I must sit up to listen to, Lionel, is it?'Laura said, wearily. 

'Why, you don't want to go to bed at nine o'clock, do you? That's allrot, of course. But I want you to help me. '

'To help you--how?'

'I'll tell you--but you must give me my head. I don't know what I saidto you before dinner--I had had too many brandy and sodas. Perhaps I wastoo free; if I was I beg your pardon. I made the governess bolt--veryproper in the superintendent of one's children. Do you suppose they sawanything? I shouldn't care for that. I did take half a dozen or so; Iwas thirsty and I was awfully gratified. '

'You have little enough to gratify you. '

'Now that's just where you are wrong. I don't know when I've fanciedanything so much as what I told you. '

'What you told me?'

'About her being in Paris. I hope she'll stay a month!'

'I don't understand you, ' Laura said. 

'Are you very sure, Laura? My dear, it suits my book! Now you knowyourself he's not the first. '

Laura was silent; his round eyes were fixed on her face and she sawsomething she had not seen before--a little shining point which onLionel's part might represent an idea, but which made his expressionconscious as well as eager. 'He?' she presently asked. 'Whom are youspeaking of?'

'Why, of Charley Crispin, G----' And Lionel Berrington accompanied thisname with a startling imprecation. 

'What has he to do----?'

'He has everything to do. Isn't he with her there?'

'How should I know? You said Lady Ringrose. '

'Lady Ringrose is a mere blind--and a devilish poor one at that. I'msorry to have to say it to you, but he's her lover. I mean Selina's. Andhe ain't the first. '

There was another short silence while they stood opposed, and then Lauraasked--and the question was unexpected--'Why do you call him Charley?'

'Doesn't he call me Lion, like all the rest?' said her brother-in-law, staring. 

'You're the most extraordinary people. I suppose you have a certainamount of proof before you say such things to me?'

'Proof, I've oceans of proof! And not only about Crispin, but aboutDeepmere. '

'And pray who is Deepmere?'

'Did you never hear of Lord Deepmere? He has gone to India. That wasbefore you came. I don't say all this for my pleasure, Laura, ' Mr. Berrington added. 

'Don't you, indeed?' asked the girl with a singular laugh. 'I thoughtyou were so glad. '

'I'm glad to know it but I'm not glad to tell it. When I say I'm glad toknow it I mean I'm glad to be fixed at last. Oh, I've got the tip! It'sall open country now and I know just how to go. I've gone into it mostextensively; there's nothing you can't find out to-day--if you go to theright place. I've--I've----' He hesitated a moment, then went on: 'Well, it's no matter what I've done. I know where I am and it's a greatcomfort. She's up a tree, if ever a woman was. Now we'll see who's abeetle and who's a toad!' Lionel Berrington concluded, gaily, with someincongruity of metaphor. 

'It's not true--it's not true--it's not true, ' Laura said, slowly. 

'That's just what she'll say--though that's not the way she'll say it. Oh, if she could get off by your saying it for her!--for you, my dear, would be believed. '

'Get off--what do you mean?' the girl demanded, with a coldness shefailed to feel, for she was tingling all over with shame and rage. 

'Why, what do you suppose I'm talking about? I'm going to haul her upand to have it out. '

'You're going to make a scandal?'

'_Make_ it? Bless my soul, it isn't me! And I should think it was madeenough. I'm going to appeal to the laws of my country--that's what I'mgoing to do. She pretends I'm stopped, whatever she does. But that's allgammon--I ain't!'

'I understand--but you won't do anything so horrible, ' said Laura, verygently. 

'Horrible as you please, but less so than going on in this way; Ihaven't told you the fiftieth part--you will easily understand that Ican't. They are not nice things to say to a girl like you--especiallyabout Deepmere, if you didn't know it. But when they happen you've gotto look at them, haven't you? That's the way I look at it. '

'It's not true--it's not true--it's not true, ' Laura Wing repeated, inthe same way, slowly shaking her head. 

'Of course you stand up for your sister--but that's just what I wantedto say to you, that you ought to have some pity for _me_ and some senseof justice. Haven't I always been nice to you? Have you ever had so muchas a nasty word from me?'

This appeal touched the girl; she had eaten her brother-in-law's breadfor months, she had had the use of all the luxuries with which he wassurrounded, and to herself personally she had never known him anythingbut good-natured. She made no direct response however; she onlysaid--'Be quiet, be quiet and leave her to me. I will answer for her. '

'Answer for her--what do you mean?'

'She shall be better--she shall be reasonable--there shall be no moretalk of these horrors. Leave her to me--let me go away with hersomewhere. '

'Go away with her? I wouldn't let you come within a mile of her, if youwere _my_ sister!'

'Oh, shame, shame!' cried Laura Wing, turning away from him. 

She hurried to the door of the room, but he stopped her before shereached it. He got his back to it, he barred her way and she had tostand there and hear him. 'I haven't said what I wanted--for I told youthat I wanted you to help me. I ain't cruel--I ain't insulting--youcan't make out that against me; I'm sure you know in your heart thatI've swallowed what would sicken most men. Therefore I will say that youought to be fair. You're too clever not to be; _you_ can't pretend toswallow----' He paused a moment and went on, and she saw it was hisidea--an idea very simple and bold. He wanted her to side with him--towatch for him--to help him to get his divorce. He forbore to say thatshe owed him as much for the hospitality and protection she had in herpoverty enjoyed, but she was sure that was in his heart. 'Of courseshe's your sister, but when one's sister's a perfect bad 'un there's nolaw to force one to jump into the mud to save her. It _is_ mud, my dear, and mud up to your neck. You had much better think of her children--youhad much better stop in _my_ boat. '

'Do you ask me to help you with evidence against her?' the girlmurmured. She had stood there passive, waiting while he talked, coveringher face with her hands, which she parted a little, looking at him. 

He hesitated a moment. 'I ask you not to deny what you have seen--whatyou feel to be true. '

'Then of the abominations of which you say you have proof, you haven'tproof. '

'Why haven't I proof?'

'If you want _me_ to come forward!'

'I shall go into court with a strong case. You may do what you like. ButI give you notice and I expect you not to forget that I have given it. Don't forget--because you'll be asked--that I have told you to-nightwhere she is and with whom she is and what measures I intend to take. '

'Be asked--be asked?' the girl repeated. 

'Why, of course you'll be cross-examined. '

'Oh, mother, mother!' cried Laura Wing. Her hands were over her faceagain and as Lionel Berrington, opening the door, let her pass, sheburst into tears. He looked after her, distressed, compunctious, half-ashamed, and he exclaimed to himself--'The bloody brute, the bloodybrute!' But the words had reference to his wife. 

V

'And are you telling me the perfect truth when you say that CaptainCrispin was not there?'

'The perfect truth?' Mrs. Berrington straightened herself to her height, threw back her head and measured her interlocutress up and down; it isto be surmised that this was one of the many ways in which she knew shelooked very handsome indeed. Her interlocutress was her sister, and evenin a discussion with a person long since initiated she was not incapableof feeling that her beauty was a new advantage. On this occasion she hadat first the air of depending upon it mainly to produce an effect uponLaura; then, after an instant's reflection, she determined to arrive ather result in another way. She exchanged her expression of scorn (ofresentment at her veracity's being impugned) for a look of gentleamusement; she smiled patiently, as if she remembered that of courseLaura couldn't understand of what an impertinence she had been guilty. There was a quickness of perception and lightness of hand which, to hersense, her American sister had never acquired: the girl's earnest, almost barbarous probity blinded her to the importance of certainpleasant little forms. 'My poor child, the things you do say! Onedoesn't put a question about the perfect truth in a manner that impliesthat a person is telling a perfect lie. However, as it's only you, Idon't mind satisfying your clumsy curiosity. I haven't the least ideawhether Captain Crispin was there or not. I know nothing of hismovements and he doesn't keep me informed--why should he, poor man?--ofhis whereabouts. He was not there for me--isn't that all that needinterest you? As far as I was concerned he might have been at the NorthPole. I neither saw him nor heard of him. I didn't see the end of hisnose!' Selina continued, still with her wiser, tolerant brightness, looking straight into her sister's eyes. Her own were clear and lovelyand she was but little less handsome than if she had been proud andfreezing. Laura wondered at her more and more; stupefied suspense wasnow almost the girl's constant state of mind. 

Mrs. Berrington had come back from Paris the day before but had notproceeded to Mellows the same night, though there was more than onetrain she might have taken. Neither had she gone to the house inGrosvenor Place but had spent the night at an hotel. Her husband wasabsent again; he was supposed to be in Grosvenor Place, so that they hadnot yet met. Little as she was a woman to admit that she had been in thewrong she was known to have granted later that at this moment she hadmade a mistake in not going straight to her own house. It had givenLionel a degree of advantage, made it appear perhaps a little that shehad a bad conscience and was afraid to face him. But she had had herreasons for putting up at an hotel, and she thought it unnecessary toexpress them very definitely. She came home by a morning train, thesecond day, and arrived before luncheon, of which meal she partook inthe company of her sister and in that of Miss Steet and the children, sent for in honour of the occasion. After luncheon she let the governessgo but kept Scratch and Parson--kept them on ever so long in themorning-room where she remained; longer than she had ever kept thembefore. Laura was conscious that she ought to have been pleased at this, but there was a perversity even in Selina's manner of doing right; forshe wished immensely now to see her alone--she had something so seriousto say to her. Selina hugged her children repeatedly, encouraging theirsallies; she laughed extravagantly at the artlessness of their remarks, so that at table Miss Steet was quite abashed by her unusual highspirits. Laura was unable to question her about Captain Crispin and LadyRingrose while Geordie and Ferdy were there: they would not understand, of course, but names were always reflected in their limpid little mindsand they gave forth the image later--often in the most extraordinaryconnections. It was as if Selina knew what she was waiting for and weredetermined to make her wait. The girl wished her to go to her room, thatshe might follow her there. But Selina showed no disposition to retire, and one could never entertain the idea for her, on any occasion, that itwould be suitable that she should change her dress. The dress shewore--whatever it was--was too becoming to her, and to the moment, forthat. Laura noticed how the very folds of her garment told that she hadbeen to Paris; she had spent only a week there but the mark of her_couturière_ was all over her: it was simply to confer with this greatartist that, from her own account, she had crossed the Channel. Thesigns of the conference were so conspicuous that it was as if she hadsaid, 'Don't you see the proof that it was for nothing but _chiffons_?'She walked up and down the room with Geordie in her arms, in an accessof maternal tenderness; he was much too big to nestle gracefully in herbosom, but that only made her seem younger, more flexible, fairer in hertall, strong slimness. Her distinguished figure bent itself hither andthither, but always in perfect freedom, as she romped with her children;and there was another moment, when she came slowly down the room, holding one of them in each hand and singing to them while they lookedup at her beauty, charmed and listening and a little surprised at suchnew ways--a moment when she might have passed for some grave, antiquestatue of a young matron, or even for a picture of Saint Cecilia. Thismorning, more than ever, Laura was struck with her air of youth, theinextinguishable freshness that would have made any one exclaim at herbeing the mother of such bouncing little boys. Laura had always admiredher, thought her the prettiest woman in London, the beauty with thefinest points; and now these points were so vivid (especially herfinished slenderness and the grace, the natural elegance of everyturn--the fall of her shoulders had never looked so perfect) that thegirl almost detested them: they appeared to her a kind of advertisementof danger and even of shame. 

Miss Steet at last came back for the children, and as soon as she hadtaken them away Selina observed that she would go over to Plash--justas she was: she rang for her hat and jacket and for the carriage. Lauracould see that she would not give her just yet the advantage of aretreat to her room. The hat and jacket were quickly brought, but afterthey were put on Selina kept her maid in the drawing-room, talking toher a long time, telling her elaborately what she wished done with thethings she had brought from Paris. Before the maid departed the carriagewas announced, and the servant, leaving the door of the room open, hovered within earshot. Laura then, losing patience, turned out the maidand closed the door; she stood before her sister, who was prepared forher drive. Then she asked her abruptly, fiercely, but colouring with herquestion, whether Captain Crispin had been in Paris. We have heard Mrs. Berrington's answer, with which her strenuous sister was imperfectlysatisfied; a fact the perception of which it doubtless was that ledSelina to break out, with a greater show of indignation: 'I never heardof such extraordinary ideas for a girl to have, and such extraordinarythings for a girl to talk about! My dear, you have acquired afreedom--you have emancipated yourself from conventionality--and Isuppose I must congratulate you. ' Laura only stood there, with her eyesfixed, without answering the sally, and Selina went on, with anotherchange of tone: 'And pray if he _was_ there, what is there so monstrous?Hasn't it happened that he is in London when I am there? Why is it thenso awful that he should be in Paris?'

'Awful, awful, too awful, ' murmured Laura, with intense gravity, stilllooking at her--looking all the more fixedly that she knew how littleSelina liked it. 

'My dear, you do indulge in a style of innuendo, for a respectableyoung woman!' Mrs. Berrington exclaimed, with an angry laugh. 'You haveideas that when I was a girl----' She paused, and her sister saw thatshe had not the assurance to finish her sentence on that particularnote. 

'Don't talk about my innuendoes and my ideas--you might remember thosein which I have heard you indulge! Ideas? what ideas did I ever havebefore I came here?' Laura Wing asked, with a trembling voice. 'Don'tpretend to be shocked, Selina; that's too cheap a defence. You have saidthings to me--if you choose to talk of freedom! What is the talk of yourhouse and what does one hear if one lives with you? I don't care what Ihear now (it's all odious and there's little choice and my sweetsensibility has gone God knows where!) and I'm very glad if youunderstand that I don't care what I say. If one talks about youraffairs, my dear, one mustn't be too particular!' the girl continued, with a flash of passion. 

Mrs. Berrington buried her face in her hands. 'Merciful powers, to beinsulted, to be covered with outrage, by one's wretched little sister!'she moaned. 

'I think you should be thankful there is one human being--howeverwretched--who cares enough for you to care about the truth in whatconcerns you, ' Laura said. 'Selina, Selina--are you hideously deceivingus?'

'Us?' Selina repeated, with a singular laugh. 'Whom do you mean by us?'

Laura Wing hesitated; she had asked herself whether it would be best sheshould let her sister know the dreadful scene she had had with Lionel;but she had not, in her mind, settled that point. However, it wassettled now in an instant. 'I don't mean your friends--those of themthat I have seen. I don't think _they_ care a straw--I have never seensuch people. But last week Lionel spoke to me--he told me he _knew_ it, as a certainty. '

'Lionel spoke to you?' said Mrs. Berrington, holding up her head with astare. 'And what is it that he knows?'

'That Captain Crispin was in Paris and that you were with him. Hebelieves you went there to meet him. '

'He said this to _you_?'

'Yes, and much more--I don't know why I should make a secret of it. '

'The disgusting beast!' Selina exclaimed slowly, solemnly. 'He enjoysthe right--the legal right--to pour forth his vileness upon _me_; butwhen he is so lost to every feeling as to begin to talk to you in such away----!' And Mrs. Berrington paused, in the extremity of herreprobation. 

'Oh, it was not his talk that shocked me--it was his believing it, ' thegirl replied. 'That, I confess, made an impression on me. '

'Did it indeed? I'm infinitely obliged to you! You are a tender, lovinglittle sister. '

'Yes, I am, if it's tender to have cried about you--all these days--tillI'm blind and sick!' Laura replied. 'I hope you are prepared to meethim. His mind is quite made up to apply for a divorce. '

Laura's voice almost failed her as she said this--it was the first timethat in talking with Selina she had uttered that horrible word. She hadheard it however, often enough on the lips of others; it had beenbandied lightly enough in her presence under those somewhat austereceilings of Mellows, of which the admired decorations and mouldings, inthe taste of the middle of the last century, all in delicate plaster andreminding her of Wedgewood pottery, consisted of slim festoons, urns andtrophies and knotted ribbons, so many symbols of domestic affection andirrevocable union. Selina herself had flashed it at her with lightsuperiority, as if it were some precious jewel kept in reserve, whichshe could convert at any moment into specie, so that it would constitutea happy provision for her future. The idea--associated with her ownpoint of view--was apparently too familiar to Mrs. Berrington to be thecause of her changing colour; it struck her indeed, as presented byLaura, in a ludicrous light, for her pretty eyes expanded a moment andshe smiled pityingly. 'Well, you are a poor dear innocent, after all. Lionel would be about as able to divorce me--even if I were the mostabandoned of my sex--as he would be to write a leader in the _Times_. '

'I know nothing about that, ' said Laura. 

'So I perceive--as I also perceive that you must have shut your eyesvery tight. Should you like to know a few of the reasons--heaven forbidI should attempt to go over them all; there are millions!--why his handsare tied?'

'Not in the least. '

'Should you like to know that his own life is too base for words andthat his impudence in talking about me would be sickening if it weren'tgrotesque?' Selina went on, with increasing emotion. 'Should you like meto tell you to what he has stooped--to the very gutter--and thecharming history of his relations with----'

'No, I don't want you to tell me anything of the sort, ' Laurainterrupted. 'Especially as you were just now so pained by the licenseof my own allusions. '

'You listen to him then--but it suits your purpose not to listen to me!'

'Oh, Selina, Selina!' the girl almost shrieked, turning away. 

'Where have your eyes been, or your senses, or your powers ofobservation? You can be clever enough when it suits you!' Mrs. Berrington continued, throwing off another ripple of derision. 'And nowperhaps, as the carriage is waiting, you will let me go about myduties. '

Laura turned again and stopped her, holding her arm as she passed towardthe door. 'Will you swear--will you swear by everything that is mostsacred?'

'Will I swear what?' And now she thought Selina visibly blanched. 

'That you didn't lay eyes on Captain Crispin in Paris. '

Mrs. Berrington hesitated, but only for an instant. 'You are really tooodious, but as you are pinching me to death I will swear, to get awayfrom you. I never laid eyes on him. '

The organs of vision which Mrs. Berrington was ready solemnly to declarethat she had not misapplied were, as her sister looked into them, anabyss of indefinite prettiness. The girl had sounded them before withoutdiscovering a conscience at the bottom of them, and they had neverhelped any one to find out anything about their possessor except thatshe was one of the beauties of London. Even while Selina spoke Laura hada cold, horrible sense of not believing her, and at the same time adesire, colder still, to extract a reiteration of the pledge. Was it theasseveration of her innocence that she wished her to repeat, or only theattestation of her falsity? One way or the other it seemed to her thatthis would settle something, and she went on inexorably--'By our dearmother's memory--by our poor father's?'

'By my mother's, by my father's, ' said Mrs. Berrington, 'and by that ofany other member of the family you like!' Laura let her go; she had notbeen pinching her, as Selina described the pressure, but had clung toher with insistent hands. As she opened the door Selina said, in achanged voice: 'I suppose it's no use to ask you if you care to drive toPlash. '

'No, thank you, I don't care--I shall take a walk. '

'I suppose, from that, that your friend Lady Davenant has gone. '

'No, I think she is still there. '

'That's a bore!' Selina exclaimed, as she went off. 

VI

Laura Wing hastened to her room to prepare herself for her walk; butwhen she reached it she simply fell on her knees, shuddering, beside herbed. She buried her face in the soft counterpane of wadded silk; sheremained there a long time, with a kind of aversion to lifting it againto the day. It burned with horror and there was coolness in the smoothglaze of the silk. It seemed to her that she had been concerned in ahideous transaction, and her uppermost feeling was, strangely enough, that she was ashamed--not of her sister but of herself. She did notbelieve her--that was at the bottom of everything, and she had made herlie, she had brought out her perjury, she had associated it with thesacred images of the dead. She took no walk, she remained in her room, and quite late, towards six o'clock, she heard on the gravel, outside ofher windows, the wheels of the carriage bringing back Mrs. Berrington. She had evidently been elsewhere as well as to Plash; no doubt she hadbeen to the vicarage--she was capable even of that. She could pay'duty-visits, ' like that (she called at the vicarage about three times ayear), and she could go and be nice to her mother-in-law with her freshlips still fresher for the lie she had just told. For it was as definiteas an aching nerve to Laura that she did not believe her, and if she didnot believe her the words she had spoken were a lie. It was the lie, thelie to _her_ and which she had dragged out of her that seemed to thegirl the ugliest thing. If she had admitted her folly, if she hadexplained, attenuated, sophisticated, there would have been a differencein her favour; but now she was bad because she was hard. She had asurface of polished metal. And she could make plans and calculate, shecould act and do things for a particular effect. She could go straightto old Mrs. Berrington and to the parson's wife and his many daughters(just as she had kept the children after luncheon, on purpose, so long)because that looked innocent and domestic and denoted a mind without afeather's weight upon it. 

A servant came to the young lady's door to tell her that tea was ready;and on her asking who else was below (for she had heard the wheels of asecond vehicle just after Selina's return), she learned that Lionel hadcome back. At this news she requested that some tea should be brought toher room--she determined not to go to dinner. When the dinner-hour cameshe sent down word that she had a headache, that she was going to bed. She wondered whether Selina would come to her (she could forgetdisagreeable scenes amazingly); but her fervent hope that she would stayaway was gratified. Indeed she would have another call upon herattention if her meeting with her husband was half as much of aconcussion as was to have been expected. Laura had found herselflistening hard, after knowing that her brother-in-law was in the house:she half expected to hear indications of violence--loud cries or thesound of a scuffle. It was a matter of course to her that some dreadfulscene had not been slow to take place, something that discretion shouldkeep her out of even if she had not been too sick. She did not go tobed--partly because she didn't know what might happen in the house. Butshe was restless also for herself: things had reached a point when itseemed to her that she must make up her mind. She left her candlesunlighted--she sat up till the small hours, in the glow of the fire. What had been settled by her scene with Selina was that worse thingswere to come (looking into her fire, as the night went on, she had arare prevision of the catastrophe that hung over the house), and sheconsidered, or tried to consider, what it would be best for her, inanticipation, to do. The first thing was to take flight. 

It may be related without delay that Laura Wing did not take flight andthat though the circumstance detracts from the interest that should befelt in her character she did not even make up her mind. That was not soeasy when action had to ensue. At the same time she had not the excuseof a conviction that by not acting--that is by not withdrawing from herbrother-in-law's roof--she should be able to hold Selina up to her duty, to drag her back into the straight path. The hopes connected with thatproject were now a phase that she had left behind her; she had notto-day an illusion about her sister large enough to cover a sixpence. She had passed through the period of superstition, which had lasted thelongest--the time when it seemed to her, as at first, a kind ofprofanity to doubt of Selina and judge her, the elder sister whosebeauty and success she had ever been proud of and who carried herself, though with the most good-natured fraternisings, as one native to anupper air. She had called herself in moments of early penitence forirrepressible suspicion a little presumptuous prig: so strange did itseem to her at first, the impulse of criticism in regard to her brightprotectress. But the revolution was over and she had a desolate, lonelyfreedom which struck her as not the most cynical thing in the world onlybecause Selina's behaviour was more so. She supposed she should learn, though she was afraid of the knowledge, what had passed between thatlady and her husband while her vigil ached itself away. But it appearedto her the next day, to her surprise, that nothing was changed in thesituation save that Selina knew at present how much more she wassuspected. As this had not a chastening effect upon Mrs. Berringtonnothing had been gained by Laura's appeal to her. Whatever Lionel hadsaid to his wife he said nothing to Laura: he left her at perfectliberty to forget the subject he had opened up to her so luminously. This was very characteristic of his good-nature; it had come over himthat after all she wouldn't like it, and if the free use of the grayponies could make up to her for the shock she might order them every dayin the week and banish the unpleasant episode from her mind. 

Laura ordered the gray ponies very often: she drove herself all over thecountry. She visited not only the neighbouring but the distant poor, andshe never went out without stopping for one of the vicar's freshdaughters. Mellows was now half the time full of visitors and when itwas not its master and mistress were staying with their friends eithertogether or singly. Sometimes (almost always when she was asked) LauraWing accompanied her sister and on two or three occasions she paid anindependent visit. Selina had often told her that she wished her to haveher own friends, so that the girl now felt a great desire to show herthat she had them. She had arrived at no decision whatever; she hadembraced in intention no particular course. She drifted on, shutting hereyes, averting her head and, as it seemed to herself, hardening herheart. This admission will doubtless suggest to the reader that she wasa weak, inconsequent, spasmodic young person, with a standard notreally, or at any rate not continuously, high; and I have no desire thatshe shall appear anything but what she was. It must even be related ofher that since she could not escape and live in lodgings and paint fans(there were reasons why this combination was impossible) she determinedto try and be happy in the given circumstances--to float in shallow, turbid water. She gave up the attempt to understand the cynical _modusvivendi_ at which her companions seemed to have arrived; she knew it wasnot final but it served them sufficiently for the time; and if it servedthem why should it not serve her, the dependent, impecunious, toleratedlittle sister, representative of the class whom it behoved above all tomind their own business? The time was coming round when they would allmove up to town, and there, in the crowd, with the added movement, thestrain would be less and indifference easier. 

Whatever Lionel had said to his wife that evening she had foundsomething to say to him: that Laura could see, though not so much fromany change in the simple expression of his little red face and in thevain bustle of his existence as from the grand manner in which Selinanow carried herself. She was 'smarter' than ever and her waist wassmaller and her back straighter and the fall of her shoulders finer; herlong eyes were more oddly charming and the extreme detachment of herelbows from her sides conduced still more to the exhibition of herbeautiful arms. So she floated, with a serenity not disturbed by ageneral tardiness, through the interminable succession of herengagements. Her photographs were not to be purchased in the BurlingtonArcade--she had kept out of that; but she looked more than ever as theywould have represented her if they had been obtainable there. There weretimes when Laura thought her brother-in-law's formless desistence toofrivolous for nature: it even gave her a sense of deeper dangers. It wasas if he had been digging away in the dark and they would all tumbleinto the hole. It happened to her to ask herself whether the things hehad said to her the afternoon he fell upon her in the schoolroom had notall been a clumsy practical joke, a crude desire to scare, that of aschoolboy playing with a sheet in the dark; or else brandy and soda, which came to the same thing. However this might be she was obliged torecognise that the impression of brandy and soda had not again beengiven her. More striking still however was Selina's capacity to recoverfrom shocks and condone imputations; she kissed again--kissedLaura--without tears, and proposed problems connected with therearrangement of trimmings and of the flowers at dinner, ascandidly--as earnestly--as if there had never been an intenser questionbetween them. Captain Crispin was not mentioned; much less of course, sofar as Laura was concerned, was he seen. But Lady Ringrose appeared; shecame down for two days, during an absence of Lionel's. Laura, to hersurprise, found her no such Jezebel but a clever little woman with asingle eye-glass and short hair who had read Lecky and could give heruseful hints about water-colours: a reconciliation that encouraged thegirl, for this was the direction in which it now seemed to her best thatshe herself should grow. 

VII

In Grosvenor Place, on Sunday afternoon, during the first weeks of theseason, Mrs. Berrington was usually at home: this indeed was the onlytime when a visitor who had not made an appointment could hope to beadmitted to her presence. Very few hours in the twenty-four did shespend in her own house. Gentlemen calling on these occasions rarelyfound her sister: Mrs. Berrington had the field to herself. It wasunderstood between the pair that Laura should take this time for goingto see her old women: it was in that manner that Selina qualified thegirl's independent social resources. The old women however were not adozen in number; they consisted mainly of Lady Davenant and the elderMrs. Berrington, who had a house in Portman Street. Lady Davenant livedat Queen's Gate and also was usually at home of a Sunday afternoon: hervisitors were not all men, like Selina Berrington's, and Laura'smaidenly bonnet was not a false note in her drawing-room. Selina likedher sister, naturally enough, to make herself useful, but of late, somehow, they had grown rarer, the occasions that depended in any degreeupon her aid, and she had never been much appealed to--though it wouldhave seemed natural she should be--on behalf of the weekly chorus ofgentlemen. It came to be recognised on Selina's part that nature haddedicated her more to the relief of old women than to that of young men. Laura had a distinct sense of interfering with the free interchange ofanecdote and pleasantry that went on at her sister's fireside: theanecdotes were mostly such an immense secret that they could not be toldfairly if she were there, and she had their privacy on her conscience. There was an exception however; when Selina expected Americans shenaturally asked her to stay at home: not apparently so much becausetheir conversation would be good for her as because hers would be goodfor them. 

One Sunday, about the middle of May, Laura Wing prepared herself to goand see Lady Davenant, who had made a long absence from town at Easterbut would now have returned. The weather was charming, she had from thefirst established her right to tread the London streets alone (if shewas a poor girl she could have the detachment as well as thehelplessness of it) and she promised herself the pleasure of a walkalong the park, where the new grass was bright. A moment before shequitted the house her sister sent for her to the drawing-room; theservant gave her a note scrawled in pencil: 'That man from New York ishere--Mr. Wendover, who brought me the introduction the other day fromthe Schoolings. He's rather a dose--you must positively come down andtalk to him. Take him out with you if you can. ' The description was notalluring, but Selina had never made a request of her to which the girlhad not instantly responded: it seemed to her she was there for that. She joined the circle in the drawing-room and found that it consistedof five persons, one of whom was Lady Ringrose. Lady Ringrose was at alltimes and in all places a fitful apparition; she had described herselfto Laura during her visit at Mellows as 'a bird on the branch. ' She hadno fixed habit of receiving on Sunday, she was in and out as she liked, and she was one of the few specimens of her sex who, in Grosvenor Place, ever turned up, as she said, on the occasions to which I allude. Of thethree gentlemen two were known to Laura; she could have told you atleast that the big one with the red hair was in the Guards and the otherin the Rifles; the latter looked like a rosy child and as if he ought tobe sent up to play with Geordie and Ferdy: his social nickname indeedwas the Baby. Selina's admirers were of all ages--they ranged frominfants to octogenarians. 

She introduced the third gentleman to her sister; a tall, fair, slenderyoung man who suggested that he had made a mistake in the shade of histight, perpendicular coat, ordering it of too heavenly a blue. Thisadded however to the candour of his appearance, and if he was a dose, asSelina had described him, he could only operate beneficently. There weremoments when Laura's heart rather yearned towards her countrymen, andnow, though she was preoccupied and a little disappointed at having beendetained, she tried to like Mr. Wendover, whom her sister had comparedinvidiously, as it seemed to her, with her other companions. It struckher that his surface at least was as glossy as theirs. The Baby, whomshe remembered to have heard spoken of as a dangerous flirt, was inconversation with Lady Ringrose and the guardsman with Mrs. Berrington;so she did her best to entertain the American visitor, as to whom anyone could easily see (she thought) that he had brought a letter ofintroduction--he wished so to maintain the credit of those who had givenit to him. Laura scarcely knew these people, American friends of hersister who had spent a period of festivity in London and gone backacross the sea before her own advent; but Mr. Wendover gave her allpossible information about them. He lingered upon them, returned tothem, corrected statements he had made at first, discoursed upon themearnestly and exhaustively. He seemed to fear to leave them, lest heshould find nothing again so good, and he indulged in a parallel thatwas almost elaborate between Miss Fanny and Miss Katie. Selina told hersister afterwards that she had overheard him--that he talked of them asif he had been a nursemaid; upon which Laura defended the young man evento extravagance. She reminded her sister that people in London werealways saying Lady Mary and Lady Susan: why then shouldn't Americans usethe Christian name, with the humbler prefix with which they had tocontent themselves? There had been a time when Mrs. Berrington had beenhappy enough to be Miss Lina, even though she was the elder sister; andthe girl liked to think there were still old friends--friends of thefamily, at home, for whom, even should she live to sixty years ofspinsterhood, she would never be anything but Miss Laura. This was asgood as Donna Anna or Donna Elvira: English people could never callpeople as other people did, for fear of resembling the servants. 

Mr. Wendover was very attentive, as well as communicative; however hisletter might be regarded in Grosvenor Place he evidently took it veryseriously himself; but his eyes wandered considerably, none the less, tothe other side of the room, and Laura felt that though he had often seenpersons like her before (not that he betrayed this too crudely) he hadnever seen any one like Lady Ringrose. His glance rested also on Mrs. Berrington, who, to do her justice, abstained from showing, by the wayshe returned it, that she wished her sister to get him out of the room. Her smile was particularly pretty on Sunday afternoons and he waswelcome to enjoy it as a part of the decoration of the place. Whether orno the young man should prove interesting he was at any rate interested;indeed she afterwards learned that what Selina deprecated in him was thefact that he would eventually display a fatiguing intensity ofobservation. He would be one of the sort who noticed all kinds of littlethings--things she never saw or heard of--in the newspapers or insociety, and would call upon her (a dreadful prospect) to explain oreven to defend them. She had not come there to explain England to theAmericans; the more particularly as her life had been a burden to herduring the first years of her marriage through her having to explainAmerica to the English. As for defending England to her countrymen shehad much rather defend it _from_ them: there were too many--too many forthose who were already there. This was the class she wished tospare--she didn't care about the English. They could obtain an eye foran eye and a cutlet for a cutlet by going over there; which she had nodesire to do--not for all the cutlets in Christendom!

When Mr. Wendover and Laura had at last cut loose from the Schoolingshe let her know confidentially that he had come over really to seeLondon; he had time, that year; he didn't know when he should have itagain (if ever, as he said) and he had made up his mind that this wasabout the best use he could make of four months and a half. He had heardso much of it; it was talked of so much to-day; a man felt as if heought to know something about it. Laura wished the others could hearthis--that England was coming up, was making her way at last to a placeamong the topics of societies more universal. She thought Mr. Wendoverafter all remarkably like an Englishman, in spite of his saying that hebelieved she had resided in London quite a time. He talked a great dealabout things being characteristic, and wanted to know, lowering hisvoice to make the inquiry, whether Lady Ringrose were not particularlyso. He had heard of her very often, he said; and he observed that it wasvery interesting to see her: he could not have used a different tone ifhe had been speaking of the prime minister or the laureate. Laura wasignorant of what he had heard of Lady Ringrose; she doubted whether itcould be the same as what she had heard from her brother-in-law: if thishad been the case he never would have mentioned it. She foresaw that hisfriends in London would have a good deal to do in the way of telling himwhether this or that were characteristic or not; he would go about inmuch the same way that English travellers did in America, fixing hisattention mainly on society (he let Laura know that this was especiallywhat he wished to go into) and neglecting the antiquities and sights, quite as if he failed to believe in their importance. He would askquestions it was impossible to answer; as to whether for instancesociety were very different in the two countries. If you said yes yougave a wrong impression and if you said no you didn't give a right one:that was the kind of thing that Selina had suffered from. Laura foundher new acquaintance, on the present occasion and later, morephilosophically analytic of his impressions than those of her countrymenshe had hitherto encountered in her new home: the latter, in regard tosuch impressions, usually exhibited either a profane levity or atendency to mawkish idealism. 

Mrs. Berrington called out at last to Laura that she must not stay ifshe had prepared herself to go out: whereupon the girl, having noddedand smiled good-bye at the other members of the circle, took a moreformal leave of Mr. Wendover--expressed the hope, as an American girldoes in such a case, that they should see him again. Selina asked him tocome and dine three days later; which was as much as to say thatrelations might be suspended till then. Mr. Wendover took it so, andhaving accepted the invitation he departed at the same time as Laura. Hepassed out of the house with her and in the street she asked him whichway he was going. He was too tender, but she liked him; he appeared notto deal in chaff and that was a change that relieved her--she had sooften had to pay out that coin when she felt wretchedly poor. She hopedhe would ask her leave to go with her the way she was going--and thisnot on particular but on general grounds. It would be American, itwould remind her of old times; she should like him to be as American asthat. There was no reason for her taking so quick an interest in hisnature, inasmuch as she had not fallen under his spell; but there weremoments when she felt a whimsical desire to be reminded of the waypeople felt and acted at home. Mr. Wendover did not disappoint her, andthe bright chocolate-coloured vista of the Fifth Avenue seemed to surgebefore her as he said, 'May I have the pleasure of making my directionthe same as yours?' and moved round, systematically, to take his placebetween her and the curbstone. She had never walked much with young menin America (she had been brought up in the new school, the school ofattendant maids and the avoidance of certain streets) and she had veryoften done so in England, in the country; yet, as at the top ofGrosvenor Place she crossed over to the park, proposing they should takethat way, the breath of her native land was in her nostrils. It wascertainly only an American who could have the tension of Mr. Wendover;his solemnity almost made her laugh, just as her eyes grew dull whenpeople 'slanged' each other hilariously in her sister's house; but atthe same time he gave her a feeling of high respectability. It would berespectable still if she were to go on with him indefinitely--if shenever were to come home at all. He asked her after a while, as theywent, whether he had violated the custom of the English in offering herhis company; whether in that country a gentleman might walk with a younglady--the first time he saw her--not because their roads lay togetherbut for the sake of the walk. 

'Why should it matter to me whether it is the custom of the English? Iam not English, ' said Laura Wing. Then her companion explained that heonly wanted a general guidance--that with her (she was so kind) he hadnot the sense of having taken a liberty. The point was simply--andrather comprehensively and strenuously he began to set forth the point. Laura interrupted him; she said she didn't care about it and he almostirritated her by telling her she was kind. She was, but she was notpleased at its being recognised so soon; and he was still tooimportunate when he asked her whether she continued to go by Americanusage, didn't find that if one lived there one had to conform in a greatmany ways to the English. She was weary of the perpetual comparison, forshe not only heard it from others--she heard it a great deal fromherself. She held that there were certain differences you felt, if youbelonged to one or the other nation, and that was the end of it: therewas no use trying to express them. Those you _could_ express were notreal or not important ones and were not worth talking about. Mr. Wendover asked her if she liked English society and if it were superiorto American; also if the tone were very high in London. She thought hisquestions 'academic'--the term she used to see applied in the _Times_ tocertain speeches in Parliament. Bending his long leanness over her (shehad never seen a man whose material presence was so insubstantial, sounoppressive) and walking almost sidewise, to give her a properattention, he struck her as innocent, as incapable of guessing that shehad had a certain observation of life. They were talking about totallydifferent things: English society, as he asked her judgment upon it andshe had happened to see it, was an affair that he didn't suspect. Ifshe were to give him that judgment it would be more than he doubtlessbargained for; but she would do it not to make him open his eyes--onlyto relieve herself. She had thought of that before in regard to two orthree persons she had met--of the satisfaction of breaking out with someof her feelings. It would make little difference whether the personunderstood her or not; the one who should do so best would be far fromunderstanding everything. 'I want to get out of it, please--out of theset I live in, the one I have tumbled into through my sister, the peopleyou saw just now. There are thousands of people in London who aredifferent from that and ever so much nicer; but I don't see them, Idon't know how to get at them; and after all, poor dear man, what powerhave you to help me?' That was in the last analysis the gist of what shehad to say. 

Mr. Wendover asked her about Selina in the tone of a person who thoughtMrs. Berrington a very important phenomenon, and that by itself wasirritating to Laura Wing. Important--gracious goodness, no! She mighthave to live with her, to hold her tongue about her; but at least shewas not bound to exaggerate her significance. The young man forboredecorously to make use of the expression, but she could see that hesupposed Selina to be a professional beauty and she guessed that as thisproduct had not yet been domesticated in the western world the desire tobehold it, after having read so much about it, had been one of themotives of Mr. Wendover's pilgrimage. Mrs. Schooling, who must have beena goose, had told him that Mrs. Berrington, though transplanted, wasthe finest flower of a rich, ripe society and as clever and virtuous asshe was beautiful. Meanwhile Laura knew what Selina thought of FannySchooling and her incurable provinciality. 'Now was that a good exampleof London talk--what I heard (I only heard a little of it, but theconversation was more general before you came in) in your sister'sdrawing-room? I don't mean literary, intellectual talk--I suppose thereare special places to hear that; I mean--I mean----' Mr. Wendover wenton with a deliberation which gave his companion an opportunity tointerrupt him. They had arrived at Lady Davenant's door and she cut hismeaning short. A fancy had taken her, on the spot, and the fact that itwas whimsical seemed only to recommend it. 

'If you want to hear London talk there will be some very good going onin here, ' she said. 'If you would like to come in with me----?'

'Oh, you are very kind--I should be delighted, ' replied Mr. Wendover, endeavouring to emulate her own more rapid processes. They stepped intothe porch and the young man, anticipating his companion, lifted theknocker and gave a postman's rap. She laughed at him for this and helooked bewildered; the idea of taking him in with her had becomeagreeably exhilarating. Their acquaintance, in that moment, took a longjump. She explained to him who Lady Davenant was and that if he was insearch of the characteristic it would be a pity he shouldn't know her;and then she added, before he could put the question:

'And what I am doing is _not_ in the least usual. No, it is not thecustom for young ladies here to take strange gentlemen off to call ontheir friends the first time they see them. '

'So that Lady Davenant will think it rather extraordinary?' Mr. Wendovereagerly inquired; not as if that idea frightened him, but so that hisobservation on this point should also be well founded. He had enteredinto Laura's proposal with complete serenity. 

'Oh, most extraordinary!' said Laura, as they went in. The old ladyhowever concealed such surprise as she may have felt, and greeted Mr. Wendover as if he were any one of fifty familiars. She took himaltogether for granted and asked him no questions about his arrival, hisdeparture, his hotel or his business in England. He noticed, as heafterwards confided to Laura, her omission of these forms; but he wasnot wounded by it--he only made a mark against it as an illustration ofthe difference between English and American manners: in New York peoplealways asked the arriving stranger the first thing about the steamer andthe hotel. Mr. Wendover appeared greatly impressed with Lady Davenant'santiquity, though he confessed to his companion on a subsequent occasionthat he thought her a little flippant, a little frivolous even for heryears. 'Oh yes, ' said the girl, on that occasion, 'I have no doubt thatyou considered she talked too much, for one so old. In America oldladies sit silent and listen to the young. ' Mr. Wendover stared a littleand replied to this that with her--with Laura Wing--it was impossible totell which side she was on, the American or the English: sometimes sheseemed to take one, sometimes the other. At any rate, he added, smiling, with regard to the other great division it was easy to see--she was onthe side of the old. 'Of course I am, ' she said; 'when one _is_ old!'And then he inquired, according to his wont, if she were thought so inEngland; to which she answered that it was England that had made her so. 

Lady Davenant's bright drawing-room was filled with mementoes andespecially with a collection of portraits of distinguished people, mainly fine old prints with signatures, an array of precious autographs. 'Oh, it's a cemetery, ' she said, when the young man asked her somequestion about one of the pictures; 'they are my contemporaries, theyare all dead and those things are the tombstones, with the inscriptions. I'm the grave-digger, I look after the place and try to keep it a littletidy. I have dug my own little hole, ' she went on, to Laura, 'and whenyou are sent for you must come and put me in. ' This evocation ofmortality led Mr. Wendover to ask her if she had known Charles Lamb; atwhich she stared for an instant, replying: 'Dear me, no--one didn't meethim. '

'Oh, I meant to say Lord Byron, ' said Mr. Wendover. 

'Bless me, yes; I was in love with him. But he didn't notice me, fortunately--we were so many. He was very nice-looking but he was veryvulgar. ' Lady Davenant talked to Laura as if Mr. Wendover had not beenthere; or rather as if his interests and knowledge were identical withhers. Before they went away the young man asked her if she had knownGarrick and she replied: 'Oh, dear, no, we didn't have them in ourhouses, in those days. '

'He must have been dead long before you were born!' Laura exclaimed. 

'I daresay; but one used to hear of him. '

'I think I meant Edmund Kean, ' said Mr. Wendover. 

'You make little mistakes of a century or two, ' Laura Wing remarked, laughing. She felt now as if she had known Mr. Wendover a long time. 

'Oh, he was very clever, ' said Lady Davenant. 

'Very magnetic, I suppose, ' Mr. Wendover went on. 

'What's that? I believe he used to get tipsy. '

'Perhaps you don't use that expression in England?' Laura's companioninquired. 

'Oh, I daresay we do, if it's American; we talk American now. You seemvery good-natured people, but such a jargon as you _do_ speak!'

'I like _your_ way, Lady Davenant, ' said Mr. Wendover, benevolently, smiling. 

'You might do worse, ' cried the old woman; and then she added: 'Pleasego out!' They were taking leave of her but she kept Laura's hand and, for the young man, nodded with decision at the open door. 'Now, wouldn't_he_ do?' she asked, after Mr. Wendover had passed into the hall. 

'Do for what?'

'For a husband, of course. '

'For a husband--for whom?'

'Why--for me, ' said Lady Davenant. 

'I don't know--I think he might tire you. '

'Oh--if he's tiresome!' the old lady continued, smiling at the girl. 

'I think he is very good, ' said Laura. 

'Well then, he'll do. '

'Ah, perhaps _you_ won't!' Laura exclaimed, smiling back at her andturning away. 

VIII

She was of a serious turn by nature and unlike many serious people shemade no particular study of the art of being gay. Had her circumstancesbeen different she might have done so, but she lived in a merry house(heaven save the mark! as she used to say) and therefore was not drivento amuse herself for conscience sake. The diversions she sought were ofa serious cast and she liked those best which showed most the note ofdifference from Selina's interests and Lionel's. She felt that she wasmost divergent when she attempted to cultivate her mind, and it was abranch of such cultivation to visit the curiosities, the antiquities, the monuments of London. She was fond of the Abbey and the BritishMuseum--she had extended her researches as far as the Tower. She readthe works of Mr. John Timbs and made notes of the old corners of historythat had not yet been abolished--the houses in which great men had livedand died. She planned a general tour of inspection of the ancientchurches of the City and a pilgrimage to the queer places commemoratedby Dickens. It must be added that though her intentions were great heradventures had as yet been small. She had wanted for opportunity andindependence; people had other things to do than to go with her, so thatit was not till she had been some time in the country and till a goodwhile after she had begun to go out alone that she entered upon theprivilege of visiting public institutions by herself. There were someaspects of London that frightened her, but there were certain spots, such as the Poets' Corner in the Abbey or the room of the Elgin marbles, where she liked better to be alone than not to have the right companion. At the time Mr. Wendover presented himself in Grosvenor Place she hadbegun to put in, as they said, a museum or something of that sortwhenever she had a chance. Besides her idea that such places weresources of knowledge (it is to be feared that the poor girl's notions ofknowledge were at once conventional and crude) they were also occasionsfor detachment, an escape from worrying thoughts. She forgot Selina andshe 'qualified' herself a little--though for what she hardly knew. 

The day Mr. Wendover dined in Grosvenor Place they talked about St. Paul's, which he expressed a desire to see, wishing to get some idea ofthe great past, as he said, in England as well as of the present. Lauramentioned that she had spent half an hour the summer before in the bigblack temple on Ludgate Hill; whereupon he asked her if he mightentertain the hope that--if it were not disagreeable to her to goagain--she would serve as his guide there. She had taken him to see LadyDavenant, who was so remarkable and worth a long journey, and now heshould like to pay her back--to show _her_ something. The difficultywould be that there was probably nothing she had not seen; but if shecould think of anything he was completely at her service. They sattogether at dinner and she told him she would think of something beforethe repast was over. A little while later she let him know that acharming place had occurred to her--a place to which she was afraid togo alone and where she should be grateful for a protector: she wouldtell him more about it afterwards. It was then settled between them thaton a certain afternoon of the same week they would go to St. Paul'stogether, extending their ramble as much further as they had time. Lauralowered her voice for this discussion, as if the range of allusion hadhad a kind of impropriety. She was now still more of the mind that Mr. Wendover was a good young man--he had such worthy eyes. His principaldefect was that he treated all subjects as if they were equallyimportant; but that was perhaps better than treating them with equallevity. If one took an interest in him one might not despair of teachinghim to discriminate. 

Laura said nothing at first to her sister about her appointment withhim: the feelings with which she regarded Selina were not such as tomake it easy for her to talk over matters of conduct, as it were, withthis votary of pleasure at any price, or at any rate to report herarrangements to her as one would do to a person of fine judgment. Allthe same, as she had a horror of positively hiding anything (Selinaherself did that enough for two) it was her purpose to mention atluncheon on the day of the event that she had agreed to accompany Mr. Wendover to St. Paul's. It so happened however that Mrs. Berrington wasnot at home at this repast; Laura partook of it in the company of MissSteet and her young charges. It very often happened now that thesisters failed to meet in the morning, for Selina remained very late inher room and there had been a considerable intermission of the girl'searlier custom of visiting her there. It was Selina's habit to sendforth from this fragrant sanctuary little hieroglyphic notes in whichshe expressed her wishes or gave her directions for the day. On themorning I speak of her maid put into Laura's hand one of thesecommunications, which contained the words: 'Please be sure and replaceme with the children at lunch--I meant to give them that hour to-day. But I have a frantic appeal from Lady Watermouth; she is worse andbeseeches me to come to her, so I rush for the 12. 30 train. ' These linesrequired no answer and Laura had no questions to ask about LadyWatermouth. She knew she was tiresomely ill, in exile, condemned toforego the diversions of the season and calling out to her friends, in ahouse she had taken for three months at Weybridge (for a certainparticular air) where Selina had already been to see her. Selina'sdevotion to her appeared commendable--she had her so much on her mind. Laura had observed in her sister in relation to other persons andobjects these sudden intensities of charity, and she had said toherself, watching them--'Is it because she is bad?--does she want tomake up for it somehow and to buy herself off from the penalties?'

Mr. Wendover called for his _cicerone_ and they agreed to go in aromantic, Bohemian manner (the young man was very docile andappreciative about this), walking the short distance to the Victoriastation and taking the mysterious underground railway. In the carriageshe anticipated the inquiry that she figured to herself he presentlywould make and said, laughing: 'No, no, this is very exceptional; if wewere both English--and both what we are, otherwise--we wouldn't dothis. '

'And if only one of us were English?'

'It would depend upon which one. '

'Well, say me. '

'Oh, in that case I certainly--on so short an acquaintance--would not gosight-seeing with you. '

'Well, I am glad I'm American, ' said Mr. Wendover, sitting opposite toher. 

'Yes, you may thank your fate. It's much simpler, ' Laura added. 

'Oh, you spoil it!' the young man exclaimed--a speech of which she tookno notice but which made her think him brighter, as they used to say athome. He was brighter still after they had descended from the train atthe Temple station (they had meant to go on to Blackfriars, but theyjumped out on seeing the sign of the Temple, fired with the thought ofvisiting that institution too) and got admission to the old garden ofthe Benchers, which lies beside the foggy, crowded river, and looked atthe tombs of the crusaders in the low Romanesque church, with thecross-legged figures sleeping so close to the eternal uproar, andlingered in the flagged, homely courts of brick, with theirmuch-lettered door-posts, their dull old windows and atmosphere ofconsultation--lingered to talk of Johnson and Goldsmith and to remarkhow London opened one's eyes to Dickens; and he was brightest of allwhen they stood in the high, bare cathedral, which suggested a dirtywhiteness, saying it was fine but wondering why it was not finer andletting a glance as cold as the dusty, colourless glass fall uponepitaphs that seemed to make most of the defunct bores even in death. Mr. Wendover was decorous but he was increasingly gay, and thesequalities appeared in him in spite of the fact that St. Paul's wasrather a disappointment. Then they felt the advantage of having theother place--the one Laura had had in mind at dinner--to fall back upon:that perhaps would prove a compensation. They entered a hansom now (theyhad to come to that, though they had walked also from the Temple to St. Paul's) and drove to Lincoln's Inn Fields, Laura making the reflectionas they went that it was really a charm to roam about London under validprotection--such a mixture of freedom and safety--and that perhaps shehad been unjust, ungenerous to her sister. A good-natured, positivelycharitable doubt came into her mind--a doubt that Selina might have thebenefit of. What she liked in her present undertaking was the element ofthe _imprévu_ that it contained, and perhaps it was simply the samehappy sense of getting the laws of London--once in a way--off her backthat had led Selina to go over to Paris to ramble about with CaptainCrispin. Possibly they had done nothing worse than go together to theInvalides and Notre Dame; and if any one were to meet _her_ driving thatway, so far from home, with Mr. Wendover--Laura, mentally, did notfinish her sentence, overtaken as she was by the reflection that she hadfallen again into her old assumption (she had been in and out of it ahundred times), that Mrs. Berrington _had_ met Captain Crispin--the ideashe so passionately repudiated. She at least would never deny that shehad spent the afternoon with Mr. Wendover: she would simply say that hewas an American and had brought a letter of introduction. 

The cab stopped at the Soane Museum, which Laura Wing had always wantedto see, a compatriot having once told her that it was one of the mostcurious things in London and one of the least known. While Mr. Wendoverwas discharging the vehicle she looked over the important old-fashionedsquare (which led her to say to herself that London was endlessly bigand one would never know all the places that made it up) and saw a greatbank of cloud hanging above it--a definite portent of a summer storm. 'We are going to have thunder; you had better keep the cab, ' she said;upon which her companion told the man to wait, so that they should notafterwards, in the wet, have to walk for another conveyance. Theheterogeneous objects collected by the late Sir John Soane are arrangedin a fine old dwelling-house, and the place gives one the impression ofa sort of Saturday afternoon of one's youth--a long, rummaging visit, under indulgent care, to some eccentric and rather alarming oldtravelled person. Our young friends wandered from room to room andthought everything queer and some few objects interesting; Mr. Wendoversaid it would be a very good place to find a thing you couldn't findanywhere else--it illustrated the prudent virtue of keeping. They tooknote of the sarcophagi and pagodas, the artless old maps and medals. They admired the fine Hogarths; there were uncanny, unexpected objectsthat Laura edged away from, that she would have preferred not to be inthe room with. They had been there half an hour--it had grown muchdarker--when they heard a tremendous peal of thunder and became awarethat the storm had broken. They watched it a while from the upperwindows--a violent June shower, with quick sheets of lightning and arainfall that danced on the pavements. They took it sociably, theylingered at the window, inhaling the odour of the fresh wet thatsplashed over the sultry town. They would have to wait till it hadpassed, and they resigned themselves serenely to this idea, repeatingvery often that it would pass very soon. One of the keepers told themthat there were other rooms to see--that there were very interestingthings in the basement. They made their way down--it grew much darkerand they heard a great deal of thunder--and entered a part of the housewhich presented itself to Laura as a series of dim, irregularvaults--passages and little narrow avenues--encumbered with strangevague things, obscured for the time but some of which had a wicked, startling look, so that she wondered how the keepers could stay there. 'It's very fearful--it looks like a cave of idols!' she said to hercompanion; and then she added--'Just look there--is that a person or athing?' As she spoke they drew nearer to the object of her reference--afigure in the middle of a small vista of curiosities, a figure whichanswered her question by uttering a short shriek as they approached. Theimmediate cause of this cry was apparently a vivid flash of lightning, which penetrated into the room and illuminated both Laura's face andthat of the mysterious person. Our young lady recognised her sister, asMrs. Berrington had evidently recognised her. 'Why, Selina!' broke fromher lips before she had time to check the words. At the same moment thefigure turned quickly away, and then Laura saw that it was accompaniedby another, that of a tall gentleman with a light beard which shone inthe dusk. The two persons retreated together--dodged out of sight, as itwere, disappearing in the gloom or in the labyrinth of the objectsexhibited. The whole encounter was but the business of an instant. 

'Was it Mrs. Berrington?' Mr. Wendover asked with interest while Laurastood staring. 

'Oh no, I only thought it was at first, ' she managed to reply, veryquickly. She had recognised the gentleman--he had the fine fair beard ofCaptain Crispin--and her heart seemed to her to jump up and down. Shewas glad her companion could not see her face, and yet she wanted to getout, to rush up the stairs, where he would see it again, to escape fromthe place. She wished not to be there with _them_--she was overwhelmedwith a sudden horror. 'She has lied--she has lied again--she haslied!'--that was the rhythm to which her thought began to dance. Shetook a few steps one way and then another: she was afraid of runningagainst the dreadful pair again. She remarked to her companion that itwas time they should go off, and then when he showed her the way back tothe staircase she pleaded that she had not half seen the things. Shepretended suddenly to a deep interest in them, and lingered thereroaming and prying about. She was flurried still more by the thoughtthat he would have seen her flurry, and she wondered whether he believedthe woman who had shrieked and rushed away was _not_ Selina. If she wasnot Selina why had she shrieked? and if she was Selina what would Mr. Wendover think of her behaviour, and of her own, and of the strangeaccident of their meeting? What must she herself think of that? soastonishing it was that in the immensity of London so infinitesimallysmall a chance should have got itself enacted. What a queer place tocome to--for people like them! They would get away as soon as possible, of that she could be sure; and she would wait a little to give themtime. 

Mr. Wendover made no further remark--that was a relief; though hissilence itself seemed to show that he was mystified. They went upstairsagain and on reaching the door found to their surprise that their cabhad disappeared--a circumstance the more singular as the man had notbeen paid. The rain was still coming down, though with less violence, and the square had been cleared of vehicles by the sudden storm. Thedoorkeeper, perceiving the dismay of our friends, explained that the cabhad been taken up by another lady and another gentleman who had gone outa few minutes before; and when they inquired how he had been induced todepart without the money they owed him the reply was that thereevidently had been a discussion (he hadn't heard it, but the lady seemedin a fearful hurry) and the gentleman had told him that they would makeit all up to him and give him a lot more into the bargain. Thedoorkeeper hazarded the candid surmise that the cabby would make tenshillings by the job. But there were plenty more cabs; there would beone up in a minute and the rain moreover was going to stop. 'Well, that_is_ sharp practice!' said Mr. Wendover. He made no further allusion tothe identity of the lady. 

IX

The rain did stop while they stood there, and a brace of hansoms was notslow to appear. Laura told her companion that he must put her intoone--she could go home alone: she had taken up enough of his time. Hedeprecated this course very respectfully; urged that he had it on hisconscience to deliver her at her own door; but she sprang into the caband closed the apron with a movement that was a sharp prohibition. Shewanted to get away from him--it would be too awkward, the long, pottering drive back. Her hansom started off while Mr. Wendover, smilingsadly, lifted his hat. It was not very comfortable, even without him;especially as before she had gone a quarter of a mile she felt that heraction had been too marked--she wished she had let him come. Hispuzzled, innocent air of wondering what was the matter annoyed her; andshe was in the absurd situation of being angry at a desistence which shewould have been still angrier if he had been guiltless of. It would havecomforted her (because it would seem to share her burden) and yet itwould have covered her with shame if he had guessed that what she sawwas wrong. It would not occur to him that there was a scandal so nearher, because he thought with no great promptitude of such things; andyet, since there was--but since there was after all Laura scarcely knewwhat attitude would sit upon him most gracefully. As to what he might beprepared to suspect by having heard what Selina's reputation was inLondon, of that Laura was unable to judge, not knowing what was said, because of course it was not said to _her_. Lionel would undertake togive her the benefit of this any moment she would allow him, but how inthe world could _he_ know either, for how could things be said to him?Then, in the rattle of the hansom, passing through streets for which thegirl had no eyes, 'She has lied, she has lied, she has lied!' keptrepeating itself. Why had she written and signed that wanton falsehoodabout her going down to Lady Watermouth? How could she have gone to LadyWatermouth's when she was making so very different and so extraordinarya use of the hours she had announced her intention of spending there?What had been the need of that misrepresentation and why did she liebefore she was driven to it?

It was because she was false altogether and deception came out of herwith her breath; she was so depraved that it was easier to her tofabricate than to let it alone. Laura would not have asked her to givean account of her day, but she would ask her now. She shuddered at onemoment, as she found herself saying--even in silence--such things of hersister, and the next she sat staring out of the front of the cab at thestiff problem presented by Selina's turning up with the partner of herguilt at the Soane Museum, of all places in the world. The girl shiftedthis fact about in various ways, to account for it--not unconscious asshe did so that it was a pretty exercise of ingenuity for a nice girl. Plainly, it was a rare accident: if it had been their plan to spend theday together the Soane Museum had not been in the original programme. They had been near it, they had been on foot and they had rushed in totake refuge from the rain. But how did they come to be near it and aboveall to be on foot? How could Selina do anything so reckless from her ownpoint of view as to walk about the town--even an out-of-the-way part ofit--with her suspected lover? Laura Wing felt the want of properknowledge to explain such anomalies. It was too little clear to herwhere ladies went and how they proceeded when they consorted withgentlemen in regard to their meetings with whom they had to lie. Sheknew nothing of where Captain Crispin lived; very possibly--for shevaguely remembered having heard Selina say of him that he was verypoor--he had chambers in that part of the town, and they were eithergoing to them or coming from them. If Selina had neglected to take herway in a four-wheeler with the glasses up it was through some chancethat would not seem natural till it was explained, like that of theirhaving darted into a public institution. Then no doubt it would hangtogether with the rest only too well. The explanation most exact wouldprobably be that the pair had snatched a walk together (in the course ofa day of many edifying episodes) for the 'lark' of it, and for the sakeof the walk had taken the risk, which in that part of London, sodetached from all gentility, had appeared to them small. The last thingSelina could have expected was to meet her sister in such a strangecorner--her sister with a young man of her own!

She was dining out that night with both Selina and Lionel--a conjunctionthat was rather rare. She was by no means always invited with them, andSelina constantly went without her husband. Appearances, however, sometimes got a sop thrown them; three or four times a month Lionel andshe entered the brougham together like people who still had forms, whostill said 'my dear. ' This was to be one of those occasions, and Mrs. Berrington's young unmarried sister was included in the invitation. WhenLaura reached home she learned, on inquiry, that Selina had not yet comein, and she went straight to her own room. If her sister had been thereshe would have gone to hers instead--she would have cried out to her assoon as she had closed the door: 'Oh, stop, stop--in God's name, stopbefore you go any further, before exposure and ruin and shame come downand bury us!' That was what was in the air--the vulgarest disgrace, andthe girl, harder now than ever about her sister, was conscious of a morepassionate desire to save herself. But Selina's absence made thedifference that during the next hour a certain chill fell upon thisimpulse from other feelings: she found suddenly that she was late andshe began to dress. They were to go together after dinner to a couple ofballs; a diversion which struck her as ghastly for people who carriedsuch horrors in their breasts. Ghastly was the idea of the drive ofhusband, wife and sister in pursuit of pleasure, with falsity anddetection and hate between them. Selina's maid came to her door to tellher that she was in the carriage--an extraordinary piece of punctuality, which made her wonder, as Selina was always dreadfully late foreverything. Laura went down as quickly as she could, passed through theopen door, where the servants were grouped in the foolish majesty oftheir superfluous attendance, and through the file of dingy gazers whohad paused at the sight of the carpet across the pavement and thewaiting carriage, in which Selina sat in pure white splendour. Mrs. Berrington had a tiara on her head and a proud patience in her face, asif her sister were really a sore trial. As soon as the girl had takenher place she said to the footman: 'Is Mr. Berrington there?'--to whichthe man replied: 'No ma'am, not yet. ' It was not new to Laura that ifthere was any one later as a general thing than Selina it was Selina'shusband. 'Then he must take a hansom. Go on. ' The footman mounted andthey rolled away. 

There were several different things that had been present to Laura'smind during the last couple of hours as destined to mark--one or theother--this present encounter with her sister; but the words Selinaspoke the moment the brougham began to move were of course exactly thoseshe had not foreseen. She had considered that she might take this toneor that tone or even no tone at all; she was quite prepared for herpresenting a face of blankness to any form of interrogation and saying, 'What on earth are you talking about?' It was in short conceivable toher that Selina would deny absolutely that she had been in the museum, that they had stood face to face and that she had fled in confusion. Shewas capable of explaining the incident by an idiotic error on Laura'spart, by her having seized on another person, by her seeing CaptainCrispin in every bush; though doubtless she would be taxed (of courseshe would say _that_ was the woman's own affair) to supply a reason forthe embarrassment of the other lady. But she was not prepared forSelina's breaking out with: 'Will you be so good as to inform me if youare engaged to be married to Mr. Wendover?'

'Engaged to him? I have seen him but three times. '

'And is that what you usually do with gentlemen you have seen threetimes?'

'Are you talking about my having gone with him to see some sights? I seenothing wrong in that. To begin with you see what he is. One might gowith him anywhere. Then he brought us an introduction--we have to dosomething for him. Moreover you threw him upon me the moment hecame--you asked me to take charge of him. '

'I didn't ask you to be indecent! If Lionel were to know it he wouldn'ttolerate it, so long as you live with us. '

Laura was silent a moment. 'I shall not live with you long. ' Thesisters, side by side, with their heads turned, looked at each other, adeep crimson leaping into Laura's face. 'I wouldn't have believedit--that you are so bad, ' she said. 'You are horrible!' She saw thatSelina had not taken up the idea of denying--she judged that would behopeless: the recognition on either side had been too sharp. She lookedradiantly handsome, especially with the strange new expression thatLaura's last word brought into her eyes. This expression seemed to thegirl to show her more of Selina morally than she had ever yetseen--something of the full extent and the miserable limit. 

'It's different for a married woman, especially when she's married to acad. It's in a girl that such things are odious--scouring London withstrange men. I am not bound to explain to you--there would be too manythings to say. I have my reasons--I have my conscience. It was theoddest of all things, our meeting in that place--I know that as well asyou, ' Selina went on, with her wonderful affected clearness; 'but it wasnot your finding me that was out of the way; it was my finding you--withyour remarkable escort! That was incredible. I pretended not torecognise you, so that the gentleman who was with me shouldn't see you, shouldn't know you. He questioned me and I repudiated you. You may thankme for saving you! You had better wear a veil next time--one never knowswhat may happen. I met an acquaintance at Lady Watermouth's and he cameup to town with me. He happened to talk about old prints; I told him howI have collected them and we spoke of the bother one has about theframes. He insisted on my going with him to that place--fromWaterloo--to see such an excellent model. '

Laura had turned her face to the window of the carriage again; they werespinning along Park Lane, passing in the quick flash of other vehiclesan endless succession of ladies with 'dressed' heads, of gentlemen inwhite neckties. 'Why, I thought your frames were all so pretty!' Lauramurmured. Then she added: 'I suppose it was your eagerness to save yourcompanion the shock of seeing me--in my dishonour--that led you to stealour cab. '

'Your cab?'

'Your delicacy was expensive for you!'

'You don't mean you were knocking about in _cabs_ with him!' Selinacried. 

'Of course I know that you don't really think a word of what you sayabout me, ' Laura went on; 'though I don't know that that makes yoursaying it a bit less unspeakably base. '

The brougham pulled up in Park Lane and Mrs. Berrington bent herself tohave a view through the front glass. 'We are there, but there are twoother carriages, ' she remarked, for all answer. 'Ah, there are theCollingwoods. '

'Where are you going--where are you going--where are you going?' Laurabroke out. 

The carriage moved on, to set them down, and while the footman wasgetting off the box Selina said: 'I don't pretend to be better thanother women, but you do!' And being on the side of the house she quicklystepped out and carried her crowned brilliancy through thelong-lingering daylight and into the open portals. 

X

What do you intend to do? You will grant that I have a right to ask youthat. '

'To do? I shall do as I have always done--not so badly, as it seems tome. '

This colloquy took place in Mrs. Berrington's room, in the early morninghours, after Selina's return from the entertainment to which referencewas last made. Her sister came home before her--she found herselfincapable of 'going on' when Selina quitted the house in Park Lane atwhich they had dined. Mrs. Berrington had the night still before her, and she stepped into her carriage with her usual air of gracefulresignation to a brilliant lot. She had taken the precaution, however, to provide herself with a defence, against a little sister bristlingwith righteousness, in the person of Mrs. Collingwood, to whom sheoffered a lift, as they were bent upon the same business and Mr. Collingwood had a use of his own for his brougham. The Collingwoods werea happy pair who could discuss such a divergence before their friendscandidly, amicably, with a great many 'My loves' and 'Not for theworlds. ' Lionel Berrington disappeared after dinner, without holding anycommunication with his wife, and Laura expected to find that he hadtaken the carriage, to repay her in kind for her having driven off fromGrosvenor Place without him. But it was not new to the girl that hereally spared his wife more than she spared him; not so much perhapsbecause he wouldn't do the 'nastiest' thing as because he couldn't. Selina could always be nastier. There was ever a whimsicality in heractions: if two or three hours before it had been her fancy to keep athird person out of the carriage she had now her reasons for bringingsuch a person in. Laura knew that she would not only pretend, but wouldreally believe, that her vindication of her conduct on their way todinner had been powerful and that she had won a brilliant victory. Whatneed, therefore, to thresh out further a subject that she had choppedinto atoms? Laura Wing, however, had needs of her own, and her remainingin the carriage when the footman next opened the door was intimatelyconnected with them. 

'I don't care to go in, ' she said to her sister. 'If you will allow meto be driven home and send back the carriage for you, that's what Ishall like best. '

Selina stared and Laura knew what she would have said if she could havespoken her thought. 'Oh, you are furious that I haven't given you achance to fly at me again, and you must take it out in sulks!' Thesewere the ideas--ideas of 'fury' and sulks--into which Selina couldtranslate feelings that sprang from the pure depths of one's conscience. Mrs. Collingwood protested--she said it was a shame that Laura shouldn'tgo in and enjoy herself when she looked so lovely. 'Doesn't she looklovely?' She appealed to Mrs. Berrington. 'Bless us, what's the use ofbeing pretty? Now, if she had _my_ face!'

'I think she looks rather cross, ' said Selina, getting out with herfriend and leaving her sister to her own inventions. Laura had a vision, as the carriage drove away again, of what her situation would have been, or her peace of mind, if Selina and Lionel had been good, attachedpeople like the Collingwoods, and at the same time of the singularity ofa good woman's being ready to accept favours from a person as to whosebehaviour she had the lights that must have come to the lady in questionin regard to Selina. She accepted favours herself and she only wanted tobe good: that was oppressively true; but if she had not been Selina'ssister she would never drive in her carriage. That conviction was strongin the girl as this vehicle conveyed her to Grosvenor Place; but it wasnot in its nature consoling. The prevision of disgrace was now so vividto her that it seemed to her that if it had not already overtaken themshe had only to thank the loose, mysterious, rather ignoble tolerance ofpeople like Mrs. Collingwood. There were plenty of that species, evenamong the good; perhaps indeed exposure and dishonour would begin onlywhen the bad had got hold of the facts. Would the bad be most horrifiedand do most to spread the scandal? There were, in any event, plenty ofthem too. 

Laura sat up for her sister that night, with that nice question to helpher to torment herself--whether if she was hard and merciless in judgingSelina it would be with the bad too that she would associate herself. Was she all wrong after all--was she cruel by being too rigid? Was Mrs. Collingwood's attitude the right one and ought she only to propose toherself to 'allow' more and more, and to allow ever, and to smooththings down by gentleness, by sympathy, by not looking at them too hard?It was not the first time that the just measure of things seemed to slipfrom her hands as she became conscious of possible, or rather of veryactual, differences of standard and usage. On this occasion Geordie andFerdy asserted themselves, by the mere force of lying asleep upstairs intheir little cribs, as on the whole the proper measure. Laura went intothe nursery to look at them when she came home--it was her habit almostany night--and yearned over them as mothers and maids do alike over thepillow of rosy childhood. They were an antidote to all casuistry; forSelina to forget _them_--that was the beginning and the end of shame. She came back to the library, where she should best hear the sound ofher sister's return; the hours passed as she sat there, without bringinground this event. Carriages came and went all night; the soft shock ofswift hoofs was on the wooden roadway long after the summer dawn grewfair--till it was merged in the rumble of the awakening day. Lionel hadnot come in when she returned, and he continued absent, to Laura'ssatisfaction; for if she wanted not to miss Selina she had no desire atpresent to have to tell her brother-in-law why she was sitting up. Sheprayed Selina might arrive first: then she would have more time to thinkof something that harassed her particularly--the question of whether sheought to tell Lionel that she had seen her in a far-away corner of thetown with Captain Crispin. Almost impossible as she found it now to feelany tenderness for her, she yet detested the idea of bearing witnessagainst her: notwithstanding which it appeared to her that she couldmake up her mind to do this if there were a chance of its preventing thelast scandal--a catastrophe to which she saw her sister rushingstraight. That Selina was capable at a given moment of going off withher lover, and capable of it precisely because it was the greatestineptitude as well as the greatest wickedness--there was a voice ofprophecy, of warning, to this effect in the silent, empty house. Ifrepeating to Lionel what she had seen would contribute to preventanything, or to stave off the danger, was it not her duty to denouncehis wife, flesh and blood of her own as she was, to his furtherreprobation? This point was not intolerably difficult to determine, asshe sat there waiting, only because even what was righteous in thatreprobation could not present itself to her as fruitful or efficient. What could Lionel frustrate, after all, and what intelligent orauthoritative step was he capable of taking? Mixed with all that nowhaunted her was her consciousness of what his own absence at such anhour represented in the way of the unedifying. He might be at somesporting club or he might be anywhere else; at any rate he was not wherehe ought to be at three o'clock in the morning. Such the husband suchthe wife, she said to herself; and she felt that Selina would have akind of advantage, which she grudged her, if she should come in and say:'And where is _he_, please--where is he, the exalted being on whosebehalf you have undertaken to preach so much better than he himselfpractises?'

But still Selina failed to come in--even to take that advantage; yet inproportion as her waiting was useless did the girl find it impossible togo to bed. A new fear had seized her, the fear that she would never comeback at all--that they were already in the presence of the dreadedcatastrophe. This made her so nervous that she paced about the lowerrooms, listening to every sound, roaming till she was tired. She knew itwas absurd, the image of Selina taking flight in a ball-dress; but shesaid to herself that she might very well have sent other clothes away, in advance, somewhere (Laura had her own ripe views about the maid); andat any rate, for herself, that was the fate she had to expect, if notthat night then some other one soon, and it was all the same: to sitcounting the hours till a hope was given up and a hideous certaintyremained. She had fallen into such a state of apprehension that when atlast she heard a carriage stop at the door she was almost happy, inspite of her prevision of how disgusted her sister would be to find her. They met in the hall--Laura went out as she heard the opening of thedoor, Selina stopped short, seeing her, but said nothing--on accountapparently of the presence of the sleepy footman. Then she movedstraight to the stairs, where she paused again, asking the footman ifMr. Berrington had come in. 

'Not yet, ma'am, ' the footman answered. 

'Ah!' said Mrs. Berrington, dramatically, and ascended the stairs. 

'I have sat up on purpose--I want particularly to speak to you, ' Lauraremarked, following her. 

'Ah!' Selina repeated, more superior still. She went fast, almost as ifshe wished to get to her room before her sister could overtake her. Butthe girl was close behind her, she passed into the room with her. Lauraclosed the door; then she told her that she had found it impossible togo to bed without asking her what she intended to do. 

'Your behaviour is too monstrous!' Selina flashed out. 'What on earth doyou wish to make the servants suppose?'

'Oh, the servants--in _this_ house; as if one could put any idea intotheir heads that is not there already!' Laura thought. But she saidnothing of this--she only repeated her question: aware that she wasexasperating to her sister but also aware that she could not be anythingelse. Mrs. Berrington, whose maid, having outlived surprises, had goneto rest, began to divest herself of some of her ornaments, and it wasnot till after a moment, during which she stood before the glass, thatshe made that answer about doing as she had always done. To this Laurarejoined that she ought to put herself in her place enough to feel howimportant it was to _her_ to know what was likely to happen, so that shemight take time by the forelock and think of her own situation. Ifanything should happen she would infinitely rather be out of it--be asfar away as possible. Therefore she must take her measures. 

It was in the mirror that they looked at each other--in the strange, candle-lighted duplication of the scene that their eyes met. Selina drewthe diamonds out of her hair, and in this occupation, for a minute, shewas silent. Presently she asked: 'What are you talking about--what doyou allude to as happening?'

'Why, it seems to me that there is nothing left for you but to go awaywith him. If there is a prospect of that insanity----' But here Laurastopped; something so unexpected was taking place in Selina'scountenance--the movement that precedes a sudden gush of tears. Mrs. Berrington dashed down the glittering pins she had detached from hertresses, and the next moment she had flung herself into an armchair andwas weeping profusely, extravagantly. Laura forbore to go to her; shemade no motion to soothe or reassure her, she only stood and watched hertears and wondered what they signified. Somehow even the slightrefreshment she felt at having affected her in that particular and, asit had lately come to seem, improbable way did not suggest to her thatthey were precious symptoms. Since she had come to disbelieve her wordso completely there was nothing precious about Selina any more. But shecontinued for some moments to cry passionately, and while this lastedLaura remained silent. At last from the midst of her sobs Selina brokeout, 'Go away, go away--leave me alone!'

'Of course I infuriate you, ' said the girl; 'but how can I see you rushto your ruin--to that of all of us--without holding on to you anddragging you back?'

'Oh, you don't understand anything about anything!' Selina wailed, withher beautiful hair tumbling all over her. 

'I certainly don't understand how you can give such a tremendous handleto Lionel. '

At the mention of her husband's name Selina always gave a bound, and shesprang up now, shaking back her dense braids. 'I give him no handle andyou don't know what you are talking about! I know what I am doing andwhat becomes me, and I don't care if I do. He is welcome to all thehandles in the world, for all that he can do with them!'

'In the name of common pity think of your children!' said Laura. 

'Have I ever thought of anything else? Have you sat up all night to havethe pleasure of accusing me of cruelty? Are there sweeter or moredelightful children in the world, and isn't that a little my merit, pray?' Selina went on, sweeping away her tears. 'Who has made them whatthey are, pray?--is it their lovely father? Perhaps you'll say it's you!Certainly you have been nice to them, but you must remember that youonly came here the other day. Isn't it only for them that I am trying tokeep myself alive?'

This formula struck Laura Wing as grotesque, so that she replied with alaugh which betrayed too much her impression, 'Die for them--that wouldbe better!'

Her sister, at this, looked at her with an extraordinary cold gravity. 'Don't interfere between me and my children. And for God's sake cease toharry me!'

Laura turned away: she said to herself that, given that intensity ofsilliness, of course the worst would come. She felt sick and helpless, and, practically, she had got the certitude she both wanted and dreaded. 'I don't know what has become of your mind, ' she murmured; and she wentto the door. But before she reached it Selina had flung herself upon herin one of her strange but, as she felt, really not encouragingrevulsions. Her arms were about her, she clung to her, she coveredLaura with the tears that had again begun to flow. She besought her tosave her, to stay with her, to help her against herself, against _him_, against Lionel, against everything--to forgive her also all the horridthings she had said to her. Mrs. Berrington melted, liquefied, and theroom was deluged with her repentance, her desolation, her confession, her promises and the articles of apparel which were detached from her bythe high tide of her agitation. Laura remained with her for an hour, andbefore they separated the culpable woman had taken a tremendousvow--kneeling before her sister with her head in her lap--never again, as long as she lived, to consent to see Captain Crispin or to address aword to him, spoken or written. The girl went terribly tired to bed. 

A month afterwards she lunched with Lady Davenant, whom she had not seensince the day she took Mr. Wendover to call upon her. The old woman hadfound herself obliged to entertain a small company, and as she dislikedset parties she sent Laura a request for sympathy and assistance. Shehad disencumbered herself, at the end of so many years, of the burden ofhospitality; but every now and then she invited people, in order toprove that she was not too old. Laura suspected her of choosing stupidones on purpose to prove it better--to show that she could submit notonly to the extraordinary but, what was much more difficult, to theusual. But when they had been properly fed she encouraged them todisperse; on this occasion as the party broke up Laura was the onlyperson she asked to stay. She wished to know in the first place why shehad not been to see her for so long, and in the second how that youngman had behaved--the one she had brought that Sunday. Lady Davenantdidn't remember his name, though he had been so good-natured, as shesaid, since then, as to leave a card. If he had behaved well that was avery good reason for the girl's neglect and Laura need give no other. Laura herself would not have behaved well if at such a time she had beenrunning after old women. There was nothing, in general, that the girlliked less than being spoken of, off-hand, as a marriageablearticle--being planned and arranged for in this particular. It made toolight of her independence, and though in general such inventions passedfor benevolence they had always seemed to her to contain at bottom animpertinence--as if people could be moved about like a game of chequers. There was a liberty in the way Lady Davenant's imagination disposed ofher (with such an _insouciance_ of her own preferences), but she forgavethat, because after all this old friend was not obliged to think of herat all. 

'I knew that you were almost always out of town now, on Sundays--and sohave we been, ' Laura said. 'And then I have been a great deal with mysister--more than before. '

'More than before what?'

'Well, a kind of estrangement we had, about a certain matter. '

'And now you have made it all up?'

'Well, we have been able to talk of it (we couldn't before--withoutpainful scenes), and that has cleared the air. We have gone abouttogether a good deal, ' Laura went on. 'She has wanted me constantly withher. '

'That's very nice. And where has she taken you?' asked the old lady. 

'Oh, it's I who have taken her, rather. ' And Laura hesitated. 

'Where do you mean?--to say her prayers?'

'Well, to some concerts--and to the National Gallery. '

Lady Davenant laughed, disrespectfully, at this, and the girl watchedher with a mournful face. 'My dear child, you are too delightful! Youare trying to reform her? by Beethoven and Bach, by Rubens and Titian?'

'She is very intelligent, about music and pictures--she has excellentideas, ' said Laura. 

'And you have been trying to draw them out? that is very commendable. '

'I think you are laughing at me, but I don't care, ' the girl declared, smiling faintly. 

'Because you have a consciousness of success?--in what do they callit?--the attempt to raise her tone? You have been trying to wind her up, and you _have_ raised her tone?'

'Oh, Lady Davenant, I don't know and I don't understand!' Laura brokeout. 'I don't understand anything any more--I have given up trying. '

'That's what I recommended you to do last winter. Don't you rememberthat day at Plash?'

'You told me to let her go, ' said Laura. 

'And evidently you haven't taken my advice. '

'How can I--how can I?'

'Of course, how can you? And meanwhile if she doesn't go it's so muchgained. But even if she should, won't that nice young man remain?' LadyDavenant inquired. 'I hope very much Selina hasn't taken you altogetheraway from him. '

Laura was silent a moment; then she returned: 'What nice young man wouldever look at me, if anything bad should happen?'

'I would never look at _him_ if he should let that prevent him!' the oldwoman cried. 'It isn't for your sister he loves you, I suppose; is it?'

'He doesn't love me at all. '

'Ah, then he does?' Lady Davenant demanded, with some eagerness, layingher hand on the girl's arm. Laura sat near her on her sofa and looked ather, for all answer to this, with an expression of which the sadnessappeared to strike the old woman freshly. 'Doesn't he come to thehouse--doesn't he say anything?' she continued, with a voice ofkindness. 

'He comes to the house--very often. '

'And don't you like him?'

'Yes, very much--more than I did at first. '

'Well, as you liked him at first well enough to bring him straight tosee me, I suppose that means that now you are immensely pleased withhim. '

'He's a gentleman, ' said Laura. 

'So he seems to me. But why then doesn't he speak out?'

'Perhaps that's the very reason! Seriously, ' the girl added, 'I don'tknow what he comes to the house for. '

'Is he in love with your sister?'

'I sometimes think so. '

'And does she encourage him?'

'She detests him. '

'Oh, then, I like him! I shall immediately write to him to come and seeme: I shall appoint an hour and give him a piece of my mind. '

'If I believed that, I should kill myself, ' said Laura. 

'You may believe what you like; but I wish you didn't show your feelingsso in your eyes. They might be those of a poor widow with fifteenchildren. When I was young I managed to be happy, whatever occurred; andI am sure I looked so. '

'Oh yes, Lady Davenant--for you it was different. You were safe, in somany ways, ' Laura said. 'And you were surrounded with consideration. '

'I don't know; some of us were very wild, and exceedingly ill thoughtof, and I didn't cry about it. However, there are natures and natures. If you will come and stay with me to-morrow I will take you in. '

'You know how kind I think you, but I have promised Selina not to leaveher. '

'Well, then, if she keeps you she must at least go straight!' cried theold woman, with some asperity. Laura made no answer to this and LadyDavenant asked, after a moment: 'And what is Lionel doing?'

'I don't know--he is very quiet. '

'Doesn't it please him--his wife's improvement?' The girl got up;apparently she was made uncomfortable by the ironical effect, if not bythe ironical intention, of this question. Her old friend was kind butshe was penetrating; her very next words pierced further. 'Of course ifyou are really protecting her I can't count upon you': a remark notadapted to enliven Laura, who would have liked immensely to transferherself to Queen's Gate and had her very private ideas as to theefficacy of her protection. Lady Davenant kissed her and then suddenlysaid--'Oh, by the way, his address; you must tell me that. '

'His address?'

'The young man's whom you brought here. But it's no matter, ' the oldwoman added; 'the butler will have entered it--from his card. '

'Lady Davenant, you won't do anything so loathsome!' the girl cried, seizing her hand. 

'Why is it loathsome, if he comes so often? It's rubbish, his caring forSelina--a married woman--when you are there. '

'Why is it rubbish--when so many other people do?'

'Oh, well, he is different--I could see that; or if he isn't he ought tobe!'

'He likes to observe--he came here to take notes, ' said the girl. 'Andhe thinks Selina a very interesting London specimen. '

'In spite of her dislike of him?'

'Oh, he doesn't know that!' Laura exclaimed. 

'Why not? he isn't a fool. '

'Oh, I have made it seem----' But here Laura stopped; her colour hadrisen. 

Lady Davenant stared an instant. 'Made it seem that she inclines to him?Mercy, to do that how fond of him you must be!' An observation which hadthe effect of driving the girl straight out of the house. 

XI

On one of the last days of June Mrs. Berrington showed her sister a noteshe had received from 'your dear friend, ' as she called him, Mr. Wendover. This was the manner in which she usually designated him, butshe had naturally, in the present phase of her relations with Laura, never indulged in any renewal of the eminently perverse insinuations bymeans of which she had attempted, after the incident at the SoaneMuseum, to throw dust in her eyes. Mr. Wendover proposed to Mrs. Berrington that she and her sister should honour with their presence abox he had obtained for the opera three nights later--an occasion ofhigh curiosity, the first appearance of a young American singer of whomconsiderable things were expected. Laura left it to Selina to decidewhether they should accept this invitation, and Selina proved to be oftwo or three differing minds. First she said it wouldn't be convenientto her to go, and she wrote to the young man to this effect. Then, onsecond thoughts, she considered she might very well go, and telegraphedan acceptance. Later she saw reason to regret her acceptance andcommunicated this circumstance to her sister, who remarked that it wasstill not too late to change. Selina left her in ignorance till thenext day as to whether she had retracted; then she told her that she hadlet the matter stand--they would go. To this Laura replied that she wasglad--for Mr. Wendover. 'And for yourself, ' Selina said, leaving thegirl to wonder why every one (this universality was represented by Mrs. Lionel Berrington and Lady Davenant) had taken up the idea that sheentertained a passion for her compatriot. She was clearly conscious thatthis was not the case; though she was glad her esteem for him had notyet suffered the disturbance of her seeing reason to believe that LadyDavenant had already meddled, according to her terrible threat. Laurawas surprised to learn afterwards that Selina had, in London parlance, 'thrown over' a dinner in order to make the evening at the opera fit in. The dinner would have made her too late, and she didn't care about it:she wanted to hear the whole opera. 

The sisters dined together alone, without any question of Lionel, and onalighting at Covent Garden found Mr. Wendover awaiting them in theportico. His box proved commodious and comfortable, and Selina wasgracious to him: she thanked him for his consideration in not stuffingit full of people. He assured her that he expected but one otherinmate--a gentleman of a shrinking disposition, who would take up noroom. The gentleman came in after the first act; he was introduced tothe ladies as Mr. Booker, of Baltimore. He knew a great deal about theyoung lady they had come to listen to, and he was not so shrinking butthat he attempted to impart a portion of his knowledge even while shewas singing. Before the second act was over Laura perceived LadyRingrose in a box on the other side of the house, accompanied by a ladyunknown to her. There was apparently another person in the box, behindthe two ladies, whom they turned round from time to time to talk with. Laura made no observation about Lady Ringrose to her sister, and shenoticed that Selina never resorted to the glass to look at her. ThatMrs. Berrington had not failed to see her, however, was proved by thefact that at the end of the second act (the opera was Meyerbeer's_Huguenots_) she suddenly said, turning to Mr. Wendover: 'I hope youwon't mind very much if I go for a short time to sit with a friend onthe other side of the house. ' She smiled with all her sweetness as sheannounced this intention, and had the benefit of the fact that anapologetic expression is highly becoming to a pretty woman. But sheabstained from looking at her sister, and the latter, after a wonderingglance at her, looked at Mr. Wendover. She saw that he wasdisappointed--even slightly wounded: he had taken some trouble to gethis box and it had been no small pleasure to him to see it graced by thepresence of a celebrated beauty. Now his situation collapsed if thecelebrated beauty were going to transfer her light to another quarter. Laura was unable to imagine what had come into her sister's head--tomake her so inconsiderate, so rude. Selina tried to perform her act ofdefection in a soothing, conciliating way, so far as appealing eyebeamswent; but she gave no particular reason for her escapade, withheld thename of the friends in question and betrayed no consciousness that itwas not usual for ladies to roam about the lobbies. Laura asked her noquestion, but she said to her, after an hesitation: 'You won't be long, surely. You know you oughtn't to leave me here. ' Selina took no noticeof this--excused herself in no way to the girl. Mr. Wendover onlyexclaimed, smiling in reference to Laura's last remark: 'Oh, so far asleaving you here goes----!' In spite of his great defect (and it was hisonly one, that she could see) of having only an ascending scale ofseriousness, she judged him interestedly enough to feel a real pleasurein noticing that though he was annoyed at Selina's going away and notsaying that she would come back soon, he conducted himself as agentleman should, submitted respectfully, gallantly, to her wish. Hesuggested that her friends might perhaps, instead, be induced to come tohis box, but when she had objected, 'Oh, you see, there are too many, 'he put her shawl on her shoulders, opened the box, offered her his arm. While this was going on Laura saw Lady Ringrose studying them with herglass. Selina refused Mr. Wendover's arm; she said, 'Oh no, you staywith _her_--I daresay _he'll_ take me:' and she gazed inspiringly at Mr. Booker. Selina never mentioned a name when the pronoun would do. Mr. Booker of course sprang to the service required and led her away, withan injunction from his friend to bring her back promptly. As they wentoff Laura heard Selina say to her companion--and she knew Mr. Wendovercould also hear it--'Nothing would have induced me to leave her alonewith _you_!' She thought this a very extraordinary speech--she thoughtit even vulgar; especially considering that she had never seen theyoung man till half an hour before and since then had not exchangedtwenty words with him. It came to their ears so distinctly that Laurawas moved to notice it by exclaiming, with a laugh: 'Poor Mr. Booker, what does she suppose I would do to him?'

'Oh, it's for you she's afraid, ' said Mr. Wendover. 

Laura went on, after a moment: 'She oughtn't to have left me alone withyou, either. '

'Oh yes, she ought--after all!' the young man returned. 

The girl had uttered these words from no desire to say somethingflirtatious, but because they simply expressed a part of the judgmentshe passed, mentally, on Selina's behaviour. She had a sense ofwrong--of being made light of; for Mrs. Berrington certainly knew thathonourable women didn't (for the appearance of the thing) arrange toleave their unmarried sister sitting alone, publicly, at the playhouse, with a couple of young men--the couple that there would be as soon asMr. Booker should come back. It displeased her that the people in theopposite box, the people Selina had joined, should see her exhibited inthis light. She drew the curtain of the box a little, she moved a littlemore behind it, and she heard her companion utter a vague appealing, protecting sigh, which seemed to express his sense (her own correspondedwith it) that the glory of the occasion had somehow suddenly departed. At the end of some minutes she perceived among Lady Ringrose and hercompanions a movement which appeared to denote that Selina had come in. The two ladies in front turned round--something went on at the back ofthe box. 'She's there, ' Laura said, indicating the place; but Mrs. Berrington did not show herself--she remained masked by the others. Neither was Mr. Booker visible; he had not, seemingly, been persuaded toremain, and indeed Laura could see that there would not have been roomfor him. Mr. Wendover observed, ruefully, that as Mrs. Berringtonevidently could see nothing at all from where she had gone she hadexchanged a very good place for a very bad one. 'I can't imagine--Ican't imagine----' said the girl; but she paused, losing herself inreflections and wonderments, in conjectures that soon became anxieties. Suspicion of Selina was now so rooted in her heart that it could makeher unhappy even when it pointed nowhere, and by the end of half an hourshe felt how little her fears had really been lulled since that scene ofdishevelment and contrition in the early dawn. 

The opera resumed its course, but Mr. Booker did not come back. TheAmerican singer trilled and warbled, executed remarkable flights, andthere was much applause, every symptom of success; but Laura became moreand more unaware of the music--she had no eyes but for Lady Ringrose andher friend. She watched them earnestly--she tried to sound with herglass the curtained dimness behind them. Their attention was all for thestage and they gave no present sign of having any fellow-listeners. These others had either gone away or were leaving them very much tothemselves. Laura was unable to guess any particular motive on hersister's part, but the conviction grew within her that she had not putsuch an affront on Mr. Wendover simply in order to have a little chatwith Lady Ringrose. There was something else, there was some one else, in the affair; and when once the girl's idea had become as definite asthat it took but little longer to associate itself with the image ofCaptain Crispin. This image made her draw back further behind hercurtain, because it brought the blood to her face; and if she colouredfor shame she coloured also for anger. Captain Crispin was there, in theopposite box; those horrible women concealed him (she forgot howharmless and well-read Lady Ringrose had appeared to her that time atMellows); they had lent themselves to this abominable proceeding. Selinawas nestling there in safety with him, by their favour, and she had hadthe baseness to lay an honest girl, the most loyal, the most unselfishof sisters, under contribution to the same end. Laura crimsoned with thesense that she had been, unsuspectingly, part of a scheme, that she wasbeing used as the two women opposite were used, but that she had beenoutraged into the bargain, inasmuch as she was not, like them, aconscious accomplice and not a person to be given away in that mannerbefore hundreds of people. It came back to her how bad Selina had beenthe day of the business in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and how in spite ofintervening comedies the woman who had then found such words of injurywould be sure to break out in a new spot with a new weapon. Accordingly, while the pure music filled the place and the rich picture of the stageglowed beneath it, Laura found herself face to face with the strangeinference that the evil of Selina's nature made her wish--since she hadgiven herself to it--to bring her sister to her own colour by putting anappearance of 'fastness' upon her. The girl said to herself that shewould have succeeded, in the cynical view of London; and to her troubledspirit the immense theatre had a myriad eyes, eyes that she knew, eyesthat would know her, that would see her sitting there with a strangeyoung man. She had recognised many faces already and her imaginationquickly multiplied them. However, after she had burned a while with thisparticular revolt she ceased to think of herself and of what, asregarded herself, Selina had intended: all her thought went to the merecalculation of Mrs. Berrington's return. As she did not return, andstill did not, Laura felt a sharp constriction of the heart. She knewnot what she feared--she knew not what she supposed. She was so nervous(as she had been the night she waited, till morning, for her sister tore-enter the house in Grosvenor Place) that when Mr. Wendoveroccasionally made a remark to her she failed to understand him, wasunable to answer him. Fortunately he made very few; he waspreoccupied--either wondering also what Selina was 'up to' or, moreprobably, simply absorbed in the music. What she _had_ comprehended, however, was that when at three different moments she had said, restlessly, 'Why doesn't Mr. Booker come back?' he replied, 'Oh, there'splenty of time--we are very comfortable. ' These words she was consciousof; she particularly noted them and they interwove themselves with herrestlessness. She also noted, in her tension, that after her thirdinquiry Mr. Wendover said something about looking up his friend, if shedidn't mind being left alone a moment. He quitted the box and duringthis interval Laura tried more than ever to see with her glass what hadbecome of her sister. But it was as if the ladies opposite had arrangedthemselves, had arranged their curtains, on purpose to frustrate such anattempt: it was impossible to her even to assure herself of what she hadbegun to suspect, that Selina was now not with them. If she was not withthem where in the world had she gone? As the moments elapsed, before Mr. Wendover's return, she went to the door of the box and stood watchingthe lobby, for the chance that he would bring back the absentee. Presently she saw him coming alone, and something in the expression ofhis face made her step out into the lobby to meet him. He was smiling, but he looked embarrassed and strange, especially when he saw herstanding there as if she wished to leave the place. 

'I hope you don't want to go, ' he said, holding the door for her to passback into the box. 

'Where are they--where are they?' she demanded, remaining in thecorridor. 

'I saw our friend--he has found a place in the stalls, near the door bywhich you go into them--just here under us. '

'And does he like that better?'

Mr. Wendover's smile became perfunctory as he looked down at her. 'Mrs. Berrington has made such an amusing request of him. '

'An amusing request?'

'She made him promise not to come back. '

'Made him promise----?' Laura stared. 

'She asked him--as a particular favour to her--not to join us again. Andhe said he wouldn't. '

'Ah, the monster!' Laura exclaimed, blushing crimson. 

'Do you mean poor Mr. Booker?' Mr. Wendover asked. 'Of course he had toassure her that the wish of so lovely a lady was law. But he doesn'tunderstand!' laughed the young man. 

'No more do I. And where is the lovely lady?' said Laura, trying torecover herself. 

'He hasn't the least idea. '

'Isn't she with Lady Ringrose?'

'If you like I will go and see. '

Laura hesitated, looking down the curved lobby, where there was nothingto see but the little numbered doors of the boxes. They were alone inthe lamplit bareness; the _finale_ of the act was ringing and boomingbehind them. In a moment she said: 'I'm afraid I must trouble you to putme into a cab. '

'Ah, you won't see the rest? _Do_ stay--what difference does it make?'And her companion still held open the door of the box. Her eyes met his, in which it seemed to her that as well as in his voice there wasconscious sympathy, entreaty, vindication, tenderness. Then she gazedinto the vulgar corridor again; something said to her that if she shouldreturn she would be taking the most important step of her life. Sheconsidered this, and while she did so a great burst of applause filledthe place as the curtain fell. 'See what we are losing! And the last actis so fine, ' said Mr. Wendover. She returned to her seat and he closedthe door of the box behind them. 

Then, in this little upholstered receptacle which was so public and yetso private, Laura Wing passed through the strangest moments she hadknown. An indication of their strangeness is that when she presentlyperceived that while she was in the lobby Lady Ringrose and hercompanion had quite disappeared, she observed the circumstance withoutan exclamation, holding herself silent. Their box was empty, but Lauralooked at it without in the least feeling this to be a sign that Selinawould now come round. She would never come round again, nor would shehave gone home from the opera. That was by this time absolutely definiteto the girl, who had first been hot and now was cold with the sense ofwhat Selina's injunction to poor Mr. Booker exactly meant. It was worthyof her, for it was simply a vicious little kick as she took her flight. Grosvenor Place would not shelter her that night and would never shelterher more: that was the reason she tried to spatter her sister with themud into which she herself had jumped. She would not have dared to treather in such a fashion if they had had a prospect of meeting again. Thestrangest part of this remarkable juncture was that what ministered mostto our young lady's suppressed emotion was not the tremendous reflectionthat this time Selina had really 'bolted' and that on the morrow allLondon would know it: all that had taken the glare of certainty (and avery hideous hue it was), whereas the chill that had fallen upon thegirl now was that of a mystery which waited to be cleared up. Her heartwas full of suspense--suspense of which she returned the pressure, trying to twist it into expectation. There was a certain chance in lifethat sat there beside her, but it would go for ever if it should notmove nearer that night; and she listened, she watched, for it to move. Ineed not inform the reader that this chance presented itself in theperson of Mr. Wendover, who more than any one she knew had it in hishand to transmute her detestable position. To-morrow he would know, andwould think sufficiently little of a young person of _that_ breed:therefore it could only be a question of his speaking on the spot. Thatwas what she had come back into the box for--to give him hisopportunity. It was open to her to think he had asked for it--addingeverything together. 

The poor girl added, added, deep in her heart, while she said nothing. The music was not there now, to keep them silent; yet he remained quiet, even as she did, and that for some minutes was a part of her addition. She felt as if she were running a race with failure and shame; she wouldget in first if she should get in before the degradation of the morrow. But this was not very far off, and every minute brought it nearer. Itwould be there in fact, virtually, that night, if Mr. Wendover shouldbegin to realise the brutality of Selina's not turning up at all. Thecomfort had been, hitherto, that he didn't realise brutalities. Therewere certain violins that emitted tentative sounds in the orchestra;they shortened the time and made her uneasier--fixed her idea that hecould lift her out of her mire if he would. It didn't appear to provethat he would, his also observing Lady Ringrose's empty box withoutmaking an encouraging comment upon it. Laura waited for him to remarkthat her sister obviously would turn up now; but no such words fell fromhis lips. He must either like Selina's being away or judge it damningly, and in either case why didn't he speak? If he had nothing to say, why_had_ he said, why had he done, what did he mean----? But the girl'sinward challenge to him lost itself in a mist of faintness; she wasscrewing herself up to a purpose of her own, and it hurt almost toanguish, and the whole place, around her, was a blur and swim, throughwhich she heard the tuning of fiddles. Before she knew it she had saidto him, 'Why have you come so often?'

'So often? To see you, do you mean?'

'To see _me_--it was for that? Why have you come?' she went on. He wasevidently surprised, and his surprise gave her a point of anger, adesire almost that her words should hurt him, lash him. She spoke low, but she heard herself, and she thought that if what she said sounded to_him_ in the same way----! 'You have come very often--too often, toooften!'

He coloured, he looked frightened, he was, clearly, extremely startled. 'Why, you have been so kind, so delightful, ' he stammered. 

'Yes, of course, and so have you! Did you come for Selina? She ismarried, you know, and devoted to her husband. ' A single minute hadsufficed to show the girl that her companion was quite unprepared forher question, that he was distinctly not in love with her and was faceto face with a situation entirely new. The effect of this perception wasto make her say wilder things. 

'Why, what is more natural, when one likes people, than to come often?Perhaps I have bored you--with our American way, ' said Mr. Wendover. 

'And is it because you like me that you have kept me here?' Laura asked. She got up, leaning against the side of the box; she had pulled thecurtain far forward and was out of sight of the house. 

He rose, but more slowly; he had got over his first confusion. Hesmiled at her, but his smile was dreadful. 'Can you have any doubt as towhat I have come for? It's a pleasure to me that you have liked me wellenough to ask. '

For an instant she thought he was coming nearer to her, but he didn't:he stood there twirling his gloves. Then an unspeakable shame andhorror--horror of herself, of him, of everything--came over her, and shesank into a chair at the back of the box, with averted eyes, trying toget further into her corner. 'Leave me, leave me, go away!' she said, inthe lowest tone that he could hear. The whole house seemed to her to belistening to her, pressing into the box. 

'Leave you alone--in this place--when I love you? I can't dothat--indeed I can't. '

'You don't love me--and you torture me by staying!' Laura went on, in aconvulsed voice. 'For God's sake go away and don't speak to me, don'tlet me see you or hear of you again!'

Mr. Wendover still stood there, exceedingly agitated, as well he mightbe, by this inconceivable scene. Unaccustomed feelings possessed him andthey moved him in different directions. Her command that he should takehimself off was passionate, yet he attempted to resist, to speak. Howwould she get home--would she see him to-morrow--would she let him waitfor her outside? To this Laura only replied: 'Oh dear, oh dear, if youwould only go!' and at the same instant she sprang up, gathering hercloak around her as if to escape from him, to rush away herself. Hechecked this movement, however, clapping on his hat and holding thedoor. One moment more he looked at her--her own eyes were closed; thenhe exclaimed, pitifully, 'Oh Miss Wing, oh Miss Wing!' and stepped outof the box. 

When he had gone she collapsed into one of the chairs again and satthere with her face buried in a fold of her mantle. For many minutes shewas perfectly still--she was ashamed even to move. The one thing thatcould have justified her, blown away the dishonour of her monstrousoverture, would have been, on his side, the quick response ofunmistakable passion. It had not come, and she had nothing left but toloathe herself. She did so, violently, for a long time, in the darkcorner of the box, and she felt that he loathed her too. 'I loveyou!'--how pitifully the poor little make-believe words had quavered outand how much disgust they must have represented! 'Poor man--poor man!'Laura Wing suddenly found herself murmuring: compassion filled her mindat the sense of the way she had used him. At the same moment a flare ofmusic broke out: the last act of the opera had begun and she had sprungup and quitted the box. 

The passages were empty and she made her way without trouble. Shedescended to the vestibule; there was no one to stare at her and heronly fear was that Mr. Wendover would be there. But he was not, apparently, and she saw that she should be able to go away quickly. Selina would have taken the carriage--she could be sure of that; or ifshe hadn't it wouldn't have come back yet; besides, she couldn'tpossibly wait there so long as while it was called. She was in the actof asking one of the attendants, in the portico, to get her a cab, whensome one hurried up to her from behind, overtaking her--a gentleman inwhom, turning round, she recognised Mr. Booker. He looked almost asbewildered as Mr. Wendover, and his appearance disconcerted her almostas much as that of his friend would have done. 'Oh, are you going away, alone? What must you think of me?' this young man exclaimed; and hebegan to tell her something about her sister and to ask her at the sametime if he might not go with her--help her in some way. He made noinquiry about Mr. Wendover, and she afterwards judged that thatdistracted gentleman had sought him out and sent him to her assistance;also that he himself was at that moment watching them from behind somecolumn. He would have been hateful if he had shown himself; yet (in thislater meditation) there was a voice in her heart which commended hisdelicacy. He effaced himself to look after her--he provided for herdeparture by proxy. 

'A cab, a cab--that's all I want!' she said to Mr. Booker; and shealmost pushed him out of the place with the wave of the hand with whichshe indicated her need. He rushed off to call one, and a minuteafterwards the messenger whom she had already despatched rattled up in ahansom. She quickly got into it, and as she rolled away she saw Mr. Booker returning in all haste with another. She gave a passionatemoan--this common confusion seemed to add a grotesqueness to herpredicament. 

XII

The next day, at five o'clock, she drove to Queen's Gate, turning toLady Davenant in her distress in order to turn somewhere. Her old friendwas at home and by extreme good fortune alone; looking up from her book, in her place by the window, she gave the girl as she came in a sharpglance over her glasses. This glance was acquisitive; she said nothing, but laying down her book stretched out her two gloved hands. Laura tookthem and she drew her down toward her, so that the girl sunk on herknees and in a moment hid her face, sobbing, in the old woman's lap. There was nothing said for some time: Lady Davenant only pressed hertenderly--stroked her with her hands. 'Is it very bad?' she asked atlast. Then Laura got up, saying as she took a seat, 'Have you heard ofit and do people know it?'

'I haven't heard anything. Is it very bad?' Lady Davenant repeated. 

'We don't know where Selina is--and her maid's gone. '

Lady Davenant looked at her visitor a moment. 'Lord, what an ass!' shethen ejaculated, putting the paper-knife into her book to keep herplace. 'And whom has she persuaded to take her--Charles Crispin?' sheadded. 

'We suppose--we suppose----' said Laura. 

'And he's another, ' interrupted the old woman. 'And whosupposes--Geordie and Ferdy?'

'I don't know; it's all black darkness!'

'My dear, it's a blessing, and now you can live in peace. '

'In peace!' cried Laura; 'with my wretched sister leading such a life?'

'Oh, my dear, I daresay it will be very comfortable; I am sorry to sayanything in favour of such doings, but it very often is. Don't worry;you take her too hard. Has she gone abroad?' the old lady continued. 'Idaresay she has gone to some pretty, amusing place. '

'I don't know anything about it. I only know she is gone. I was with herlast evening and she left me without a word. '

'Well, that was better. I hate 'em when they make parting scenes: it'stoo mawkish!'

'Lionel has people watching them, ' said the girl; 'agents, detectives, Idon't know what. He has had them for a long time; I didn't know it. '

'Do you mean you would have told her if you had? What is the use ofdetectives now? Isn't he rid of her?'

'Oh, I don't know, he's as bad as she; he talks too horribly--he wantsevery one to know it, ' Laura groaned. 

'And has he told his mother?'

'I suppose so: he rushed off to see her at noon. She'll be overwhelmed. '

'Overwhelmed? Not a bit of it!' cried Lady Davenant, almost gaily. 'When did anything in the world overwhelm her and what do you take herfor? She'll only make some delightful odd speech. As for people knowingit, ' she added, 'they'll know it whether he wants them or not. My poorchild, how long do you expect to make believe?'

'Lionel expects some news to-night, ' Laura said. 'As soon as I knowwhere she is I shall start. '

'Start for where?'

'To go to her--to do something. '

'Something preposterous, my dear. Do you expect to bring her back?'

'He won't take her in, ' said Laura, with her dried, dismal eyes. 'Hewants his divorce--it's too hideous!'

'Well, as she wants hers what is simpler?'

'Yes, she wants hers. Lionel swears by all the gods she can't get it. '

'Bless me, won't one do?' Lady Davenant asked. 'We shall have somepretty reading. '

'It's awful, awful, awful!' murmured Laura. 

'Yes, they oughtn't to be allowed to publish them. I wonder if wecouldn't stop that. At any rate he had better be quiet: tell him to comeand see me. '

'You won't influence him; he's dreadful against her. Such a house as itis to-day!'

'Well, my dear, naturally. '

'Yes, but it's terrible for me: it's all more sickening than I canbear. '

'My dear child, come and stay with me, ' said the old woman, gently. 

'Oh, I can't desert her; I can't abandon her!'

'Desert--abandon? What a way to put it! Hasn't she abandoned you?'

'She has no heart--she's too base!' said the girl. Her face was whiteand the tears now began to rise to her eyes again. 

Lady Davenant got up and came and sat on the sofa beside her: she puther arms round her and the two women embraced. 'Your room is all ready, 'the old lady remarked. And then she said, 'When did she leave you? Whendid you see her last?'

'Oh, in the strangest, maddest, crudest way, the way most insulting tome. We went to the opera together and she left me there with agentleman. We know nothing about her since. '

'With a gentleman?'

'With Mr. Wendover--that American, and something too dreadful happened. '

'Dear me, did he kiss you?' asked Lady Davenant. 

Laura got up quickly, turning away. 'Good-bye, I'm going, I'm going!'And in reply to an irritated, protesting exclamation from her companionshe went on, 'Anywhere--anywhere to get away!'

'To get away from your American?'

'I asked him to marry me!' The girl turned round with her tragic face. 

'He oughtn't to have left that to you. '

'I knew this horror was coming and it took possession of me, there inthe box, from one moment to the other--the idea of making sure of someother life, some protection, some respectability. First I thought heliked me, he had behaved as if he did. And I like him, he is a very goodman. So I asked him, I couldn't help it, it was too hideous--I offeredmyself!' Laura spoke as if she were telling that she had stabbed him, standing there with dilated eyes. 

Lady Davenant got up again and went to her; drawing off her glove shefelt her cheek with the back of her hand. 'You are ill, you are in afever. I'm sure that whatever you said it was very charming. '

'Yes, I am ill, ' said Laura. 

'Upon my honour you shan't go home, you shall go straight to bed. Andwhat did he say to you?'

'Oh, it was too miserable!' cried the girl, pressing her face again intoher companion's kerchief. 'I was all, all mistaken; he had neverthought!'

'Why the deuce then did he run about that way after you? He was a bruteto say it!'

'He didn't say it and he never ran about. He behaved like a perfectgentleman. '

'I've no patience--I wish I had seen him that time!' Lady Davenantdeclared. 

'Yes, that would have been nice! You'll never see him; if he _is_ agentleman he'll rush away. '

'Bless me, what a rushing away!' murmured the old woman. Then passingher arm round Laura she added, 'You'll please to come upstairs with me. '

Half an hour later she had some conversation with her butler which ledto his consulting a little register into which it was his law totranscribe with great neatness, from their cards, the addresses of newvisitors. This volume, kept in the drawer of the hall table, revealedthe fact that Mr. Wendover was staying in George Street, Hanover Square. 'Get into a cab immediately and tell him to come and see me thisevening, ' Lady Davenant said. 'Make him understand that it interests himvery nearly, so that no matter what his engagements may be he must givethem up. Go quickly and you'll just find him: he'll be sure to be athome to dress for dinner. ' She had calculated justly, for a few minutesbefore ten o'clock the door of her drawing-room was thrown open and Mr. Wendover was announced. 

'Sit there, ' said the old lady; 'no, not that one, nearer to me. We musttalk low. My dear sir, I won't bite you!'

'Oh, this is very comfortable, ' Mr. Wendover replied vaguely, smilingthrough his visible anxiety. It was no more than natural that he shouldwonder what Laura Wing's peremptory friend wanted of him at that hour ofthe night; but nothing could exceed the gallantry of his attempt toconceal the symptoms of alarm. 

'You ought to have come before, you know, ' Lady Davenant went on. 'Ihave wanted to see you more than once. '

'I have been dining out--I hurried away. This was the first possiblemoment, I assure you. '

'I too was dining out and I stopped at home on purpose to see you. But Ididn't mean to-night, for you have done very well. I was quite intendingto send for you--the other day. But something put it out of my head. Besides, I knew she wouldn't like it. '

'Why, Lady Davenant, I made a point of calling, ever so long ago--afterthat day!' the young man exclaimed, not reassured, or at any rate notenlightened. 

'I daresay you did--but you mustn't justify yourself; that's just whatI don't want; it isn't what I sent for you for. I have something veryparticular to say to you, but it's very difficult. Voyons un peu!'

The old woman reflected a little, with her eyes on his face, which hadgrown more grave as she went on; its expression intimated that he failedas yet to understand her and that he at least was not exactly trifling. Lady Davenant's musings apparently helped her little, if she was lookingfor an artful approach; for they ended in her saying abruptly, 'I wonderif you know what a capital girl she is. '

'Do you mean--do you mean----?' stammered Mr. Wendover, pausing as if hehad given her no right not to allow him to conceive alternatives. 

'Yes, I do mean. She's upstairs, in bed. '

'Upstairs in bed!' The young man stared. 

'Don't be afraid--I'm not going to send for her!' laughed his hostess;'her being here, after all, has nothing to do with it, except that she_did_ come--yes, certainly, she did come. But my keeping her--that wasmy doing. My maid has gone to Grosvenor Place to get her things and letthem know that she will stay here for the present. Now am I clear?'

'Not in the least, ' said Mr. Wendover, almost sternly. 

Lady Davenant, however, was not of a composition to suspect him ofsternness or to care very much if she did, and she went on, with herquick discursiveness: 'Well, we must be patient; we shall work it outtogether. I was afraid you would go away, that's why I lost no time. Above all I want you to understand that she has not the least idea thatI have sent for you, and you must promise me never, never, never to lether know. She would be monstrous angry. It is quite my own idea--I havetaken the responsibility. I know very little about you of course, butshe has spoken to me well of you. Besides, I am very clever aboutpeople, and I liked you that day, though you seemed to think I was ahundred and eighty. '

'You do me great honour, ' Mr. Wendover rejoined. 

'I'm glad you're pleased! You must be if I tell you that I like you noweven better. I see what you are, except for the question of fortune. Itdoesn't perhaps matter much, but have you any money? I mean have you afine income?'

'No, indeed I haven't!' And the young man laughed in his bewilderment. 'I have very little money indeed. '

'Well, I daresay you have as much as I. Besides, that would be a proofshe is not mercenary. '

'You haven't in the least made it plain whom you are talking about, 'said Mr. Wendover. 'I have no right to assume anything. '

'Are you afraid of betraying her? I am more devoted to her even than Iwant you to be. She has told me what happened between you lastnight--what she said to you at the opera. That's what I want to talk toyou about. '

'She was very strange, ' the young man remarked. 

'I am not so sure that she was strange. However, you are welcome tothink it, for goodness knows she says so herself. She is overwhelmedwith horror at her own words; she is absolutely distracted andprostrate. '

Mr. Wendover was silent a moment. 'I assured her that I admireher--beyond every one. I was most kind to her. '

'Did you say it in that tone? You should have thrown yourself at herfeet! From the moment you didn't--surely you understand women wellenough to know. '

'You must remember where we were--in a public place, with very littleroom for throwing!' Mr. Wendover exclaimed. 

'Ah, so far from blaming you she says your behaviour was perfect. It'sonly I who want to have it out with you, ' Lady Davenant pursued. 'She'sso clever, so charming, so good and so unhappy. '

'When I said just now she was strange, I meant only in the way sheturned against me. '

'She turned against you?'

'She told me she hoped she should never see me again. '

'And you, should you like to see her?'

'Not now--not now!' Mr. Wendover exclaimed, eagerly. 

'I don't mean now, I'm not such a fool as that. I mean some day orother, when she has stopped accusing herself, if she ever does. '

'Ah, Lady Davenant, you must leave that to me, ' the young man returned, after a moment's hesitation. 

'Don't be afraid to tell me I'm meddling with what doesn't concern me, 'said his hostess. 'Of course I know I'm meddling; I sent for you here tomeddle. Who wouldn't, for that creature? She makes one melt. '

'I'm exceedingly sorry for her. I don't know what she thinks she said. '

'Well, that she asked you why you came so often to Grosvenor Place. Idon't see anything so awful in that, if you did go. '

'Yes, I went very often. I liked to go. '

'Now, that's exactly where I wish to prevent a misconception, ' said LadyDavenant. 'If you liked to go you had a reason for liking, and LauraWing was the reason, wasn't she?'

'I thought her charming, and I think her so now more than ever. '

'Then you are a dear good man. Vous faisiez votre cour, in short. '

Mr. Wendover made no immediate response: the two sat looking at eachother. 'It isn't easy for me to talk of these things, ' he said at last;'but if you mean that I wished to ask her to be my wife I am bound totell you that I had no such intention. '

'Ah, then I'm at sea. You thought her charming and you went to see herevery day. What then did you wish?'

'I didn't go every day. Moreover I think you have a very different ideain this country of what constitutes--well, what constitutes making love. A man commits himself much sooner. '

'Oh, I don't know what _your_ odd ways may be!' Lady Davenant exclaimed, with a shade of irritation. 

'Yes, but I was justified in supposing that those ladies did: they atleast are American. '

'"They, " my dear sir! For heaven's sake don't mix up that nasty Selinawith it!'

'Why not, if I admired her too? I do extremely, and I thought the housemost interesting. '

'Mercy on us, if that's your idea of a nice house! But I don't know--Ihave always kept out of it, ' Lady Davenant added, checking herself. Thenshe went on, 'If you are so fond of Mrs. Berrington I am sorry to informyou that she is absolutely good-for-nothing. '

'Good-for-nothing?'

'Nothing to speak of! I have been thinking whether I would tell you, andI have decided to do so because I take it that your learning it foryourself would be a matter of but a very short time. Selina has bolted, as they say. '

'Bolted?' Mr. Wendover repeated. 

'I don't know what you call it in America. '

'In America we don't do it. '

'Ah, well, if they stay, as they do usually abroad, that's better. Isuppose you didn't think her capable of behaving herself, did you?'

'Do you mean she has left her husband--with some one else?'

'Neither more nor less; with a fellow named Crispin. It appears it allcame off last evening, and she had her own reasons for doing it in themost offensive way--publicly, clumsily, with the vulgarest bravado. Laura has told me what took place, and you must permit me to express mysurprise at your not having divined the miserable business. '

'I saw something was wrong, but I didn't understand. I'm afraid I'm notvery quick at these things. '

'Your state is the more gracious; but certainly you are not quick if youcould call there so often and not see through Selina. '

'Mr. Crispin, whoever he is, was never there, ' said the young man. 

'Oh, she was a clever hussy!' his companion rejoined. 

'I knew she was fond of amusement, but that's what I liked to see. Iwanted to see a house of that sort. '

'Fond of amusement is a very pretty phrase!' said Lady Davenant, laughing at the simplicity with which her visitor accounted for hisassiduity. 'And did Laura Wing seem to you in her place in a house ofthat sort?'

'Why, it was natural she should be with her sister, and she alwaysstruck me as very gay. '

'That was your enlivening effect! And did she strike you as very gaylast night, with this scandal hanging over her?'

'She didn't talk much, ' said Mr. Wendover. 

'She knew it was coming--she felt it, she saw it, and that's what makesher sick now, that at _such_ a time she should have challenged you, whenshe felt herself about to be associated (in people's minds, of course)with such a vile business. In people's minds and in yours--when youshould know what had happened. '

'Ah, Miss Wing isn't associated----' said Mr. Wendover. He spoke slowly, but he rose to his feet with a nervous movement that was not lost uponhis companion: she noted it indeed with a certain inward sense oftriumph. She was very deep, but she had never been so deep as when shemade up her mind to mention the scandal of the house of Berrington toher visitor and intimated to him that Laura Wing regarded herself asnear enough to it to receive from it a personal stain. 'I'm extremelysorry to hear of Mrs. Berrington's misconduct, ' he continued gravely, standing before her. 'And I am no less obliged to you for yourinterest. '

'Don't mention it, ' she said, getting up too and smiling. 'I mean myinterest. As for the other matter, it will all come out. Lionel willhaul her up. '

'Dear me, how dreadful!'

'Yes, dreadful enough. But don't betray me. '

'Betray you?' he repeated, as if his thoughts had gone astray a moment. 

'I mean to the girl. Think of her shame!'

'Her shame?' Mr. Wendover said, in the same way. 

'It seemed to her, with what was becoming so clear to her, that anhonest man might save her from it, might give her his name and his faithand help her to traverse the bad place. She exaggerates the badness ofit, the stigma of her relationship. Good heavens, at that rate wherewould some of us be? But those are her ideas, they are absolutelysincere, and they had possession of her at the opera. She had a sense ofbeing lost and was in a real agony to be rescued. She saw before her akind gentleman who had seemed--who had certainly seemed----' And LadyDavenant, with her fine old face lighted by her bright sagacity and hereyes on Mr. Wendover's, paused, lingering on this word. 'Of course shemust have been in a state of nerves. '

'I am very sorry for her, ' said Mr. Wendover, with his gravity thatcommitted him to nothing. 

'So am I! And of course if you were not in love with her you weren't, were you?'

'I must bid you good-bye, I am leaving London. ' That was the onlyanswer Lady Davenant got to her inquiry. 

'Good-bye then. She is the nicest girl I know. But once more, mind youdon't let her suspect!'

'How can I let her suspect anything when I shall never see her again?'

'Oh, don't say that, ' said Lady Davenant, very gently. 

'She drove me away from her with a kind of ferocity. '

'Oh, gammon!' cried the old woman. 

'I'm going home, ' he said, looking at her with his hand on the door. 

'Well, it's the best place for you. And for her too!' she added as hewent out. She was not sure that the last words reached him. 

XIII

Laura Wing was sharply ill for three days, but on the fourth she made upher mind she was better, though this was not the opinion of LadyDavenant, who would not hear of her getting up. The remedy she urged waslying still and yet lying still; but this specific the girl foundwell-nigh intolerable--it was a form of relief that only ministered tofever. She assured her friend that it killed her to do nothing: to whichher friend replied by asking her what she had a fancy to do. Laura hadher idea and held it tight, but there was no use in producing it beforeLady Davenant, who would have knocked it to pieces. On the afternoon ofthe first day Lionel Berrington came, and though his intention washonest he brought no healing. Hearing she was ill he wanted to lookafter her--he wanted to take her back to Grosvenor Place and make hercomfortable: he spoke as if he had every convenience for producing thatcondition, though he confessed there was a little bar to it in his owncase. This impediment was the 'cheeky' aspect of Miss Steet, who wentsniffing about as if she knew a lot, if she should only condescend totell it. He saw more of the children now; 'I'm going to have 'em inevery day, poor little devils, ' he said; and he spoke as if thediscipline of suffering had already begun for him and a kind of holychange had taken place in his life. Nothing had been said yet in thehouse, of course, as Laura knew, about Selina's disappearance, in theway of treating it as irregular; but the servants pretended so hard notto be aware of anything in particular that they were like pickpocketslooking with unnatural interest the other way after they have cribbed afellow's watch. To a certainty, in a day or two, the governess wouldgive him warning: she would come and tell him she couldn't stay in sucha place, and he would tell her, in return, that she was a little donkeyfor not knowing that the place was much more respectable now than it hadever been. 

This information Selina's husband imparted to Lady Davenant, to whom hediscoursed with infinite candour and humour, taking a highlyphilosophical view of his position and declaring that it suited him downto the ground. His wife couldn't have pleased him better if she had doneit on purpose; he knew where she had been every hour since she quittedLaura at the opera--he knew where she was at that moment and he wasexpecting to find another telegram on his return to Grosvenor Place. Soif it suited _her_ it was all right, wasn't it? and the whole thingwould go as straight as a shot. Lady Davenant took him up to see Laura, though she viewed their meeting with extreme disfavour, the girl beingin no state for talking. In general Laura had little enough mind for it, but she insisted on seeing Lionel: she declared that if this were notallowed her she would go after him, ill as she was--she would dressherself and drive to his house. She dressed herself now, after afashion; she got upon a sofa to receive him. Lady Davenant left himalone with her for twenty minutes, at the end of which she returned totake him away. This interview was not fortifying to the girl, whoseidea--the idea of which I have said that she was tenacious--was to goafter her sister, to take possession of her, cling to her and bring herback. Lionel, of course, wouldn't hear of taking her back, nor wouldSelina presumably hear of coming; but this made no difference in Laura'sheroic plan. She would work it, she would compass it, she would go downon her knees, she would find the eloquence of angels, she would achievemiracles. At any rate it made her frantic not to try, especially as evenin fruitless action she should escape from herself--an object of whichher horror was not yet extinguished. 

As she lay there through inexorably conscious hours the picture of thathideous moment in the box alternated with the vision of her sister'sguilty flight. She wanted to fly, herself--to go off and keep going forever. Lionel was fussily kind to her and he didn't abuse Selina--hedidn't tell her again how that lady's behaviour suited his book. Hesimply resisted, with a little exasperating, dogged grin, her pitifulappeal for knowledge of her sister's whereabouts. He knew what shewanted it for and he wouldn't help her in any such game. If she wouldpromise, solemnly, to be quiet, he would tell her when she got better, but he wouldn't lend her a hand to make a fool of herself. Her work wascut out for her--she was to stay and mind the children: if she was sokeen to do her duty she needn't go further than that for it. He talked agreat deal about the children and figured himself as pressing thelittle deserted darlings to his bosom. He was not a comedian, and shecould see that he really believed he was going to be better and purernow. Laura said she was sure Selina would make an attempt to getthem--or at least one of them; and he replied, grimly, 'Yes, my dear, she had better try!' The girl was so angry with him, in her hot, tossingweakness, for refusing to tell her even whether the desperate pair hadcrossed the Channel, that she was guilty of the immorality of regrettingthat the difference in badness between husband and wife was so distinct(for it was distinct, she could see that) as he made his dry littleremark about Selina's trying. He told her he had already seen hissolicitor, the clever Mr. Smallshaw, and she said she didn't care. 

On the fourth day of her absence from Grosvenor Place she got up, at anhour when she was alone (in the afternoon, rather late), and preparedherself to go out. Lady Davenant had admitted in the morning that shewas better, and fortunately she had not the complication of beingsubject to a medical opinion, having absolutely refused to see a doctor. Her old friend had been obliged to go out--she had scarcely quitted herbefore--and Laura had requested the hovering, rustling lady's-maid toleave her alone: she assured her she was doing beautifully. Laura had noplan except to leave London that night; she had a moral certainty thatSelina had gone to the Continent. She had always done so whenever shehad a chance, and what chance had ever been larger than the present? TheContinent was fearfully vague, but she would deal sharply withLionel--she would show him she had a right to knowledge. He wouldcertainly be in town; he would be in a complacent bustle with hislawyers. She had told him that she didn't believe he had yet gone tothem, but in her heart she believed it perfectly. If he didn't satisfyher she would go to Lady Ringrose, odious as it would be to her to ask afavour of this depraved creature: unless indeed Lady Ringrose had joinedthe little party to France, as on the occasion of Selina's last journeythither. On her way downstairs she met one of the footmen, of whom shemade the request that he would call her a cab as quickly aspossible--she was obliged to go out for half an hour. He expressed therespectful hope that she was better and she replied that she wasperfectly well--he would please tell her ladyship when she came in. Tothis the footman rejoined that her ladyship _had_ come in--she hadreturned five minutes before and had gone to her room. 'Miss Frothinghamtold her you were asleep, Miss, ' said the man, 'and her ladyship said itwas a blessing and you were not to be disturbed. '

'Very good, I will see her, ' Laura remarked, with dissimulation: 'onlyplease let me have my cab. '

The footman went downstairs and she stood there listening; presently sheheard the house-door close--he had gone out on his errand. Then shedescended very softly--she prayed he might not be long. The door of thedrawing-room stood open as she passed it, and she paused before it, thinking she heard sounds in the lower hall. They appeared to subsideand then she found herself faint--she was terribly impatient for hercab. Partly to sit down till it came (there was a seat on the landing, but another servant might come up or down and see her), and partly tolook, at the front window, whether it were not coming, she went for amoment into the drawing-room. She stood at the window, but the footmanwas slow; then she sank upon a chair--she felt very weak. Just after shehad done so she became aware of steps on the stairs and she got upquickly, supposing that her messenger had returned, though she had notheard wheels. What she saw was not the footman she had sent out, but theexpansive person of the butler, followed apparently by a visitor. Thisfunctionary ushered the visitor in with the remark that he would callher ladyship, and before she knew it she was face to face with Mr. Wendover. At the same moment she heard a cab drive up, while Mr. Wendover instantly closed the door. 

'Don't turn me away; do see me--do see me!' he said. 'I asked for LadyDavenant--they told me she was at home. But it was you I wanted, and Iwanted her to help me. I was going away--but I couldn't. You look veryill--do listen to me! You don't understand--I will explain everything. Ah, how ill you look!' the young man cried, as the climax of thissudden, soft, distressed appeal. Laura, for all answer, tried to pushpast him, but the result of this movement was that she found herselfenclosed in his arms. He stopped her, but she disengaged herself, shegot her hand upon the door. He was leaning against it, so she couldn'topen it, and as she stood there panting she shut her eyes, so as not tosee him. 'If you would let me tell you what I think--I would do anythingin the world for you!' he went on. 

'Let me go--you persecute me!' the girl cried, pulling at the handle. 

'You don't do me justice--you are too cruel!' Mr. Wendover persisted. 

'Let me go--let me go!' she only repeated, with her high, quavering, distracted note; and as he moved a little she got the door open. But hefollowed her out: would she see him that night? Where was she going?might he not go with her? would she see him to-morrow?

'Never, never, never!' she flung at him as she hurried away. The butlerwas on the stairs, descending from above; so he checked himself, lettingher go. Laura passed out of the house and flew into her cab withextraordinary speed, for Mr. Wendover heard the wheels bear her awaywhile the servant was saying to him in measured accents that herladyship would come down immediately. 

Lionel was at home, in Grosvenor Place: she burst into the library andfound him playing papa. Geordie and Ferdy were sporting around him, thepresence of Miss Steet had been dispensed with, and he was holding hisyounger son by the stomach, horizontally, between his legs, while thechild made little sprawling movements which were apparently intended torepresent the act of swimming. Geordie stood impatient on the brink ofthe imaginary stream, protesting that it was his turn now, and as soonas he saw his aunt he rushed at her with the request that she would takehim up in the same fashion. She was struck with the superficiality oftheir childhood; they appeared to have no sense that she had been awayand no care that she had been ill. But Lionel made up for this; hegreeted her with affectionate jollity, said it was a good job she hadcome back, and remarked to the children that they would have greatlarks now that auntie was home again. Ferdy asked if she had been withmummy, but didn't wait for an answer, and she observed that they put noquestion about their mother and made no further allusion to her whilethey remained in the room. She wondered whether their father hadenjoined upon them not to mention her, and reflected that even if he hadsuch a command would not have been efficacious. It added to the uglinessof Selina's flight that even her children didn't miss her, and to thedreariness, somehow, to Laura's sense, of the whole situation that onecould neither spend tears on the mother and wife, because she was notworth it, nor sentimentalise about the little boys, because they didn'tinspire it. 'Well, you do look seedy--I'm bound to say that!' Lionelexclaimed; and he recommended strongly a glass of port, while Ferdy, notseizing this reference, suggested that daddy should take her by thewaistband and teach her to 'strike out. ' He represented himself in theact of drowning, but Laura interrupted this entertainment, when theservant answered the bell (Lionel having rung for the port), byrequesting that the children should be conveyed to Miss Steet. 'Tell hershe must never go away again, ' Lionel said to Geordie, as the butlertook him by the hand; but the only touching consequence of thisinjunction was that the child piped back to his father, over hisshoulder, 'Well, you mustn't either, you know!'

'You must tell me or I'll kill myself--I give you my word!' Laura saidto her brother-in-law, with unnecessary violence, as soon as they hadleft the room. 

'I say, I say, ' he rejoined, 'you _are_ a wilful one! What do you wantto threaten me for? Don't you know me well enough to know that ain't theway? That's the tone Selina used to take. Surely you don't want to beginand imitate her!' She only sat there, looking at him, while he leanedagainst the chimney-piece smoking a short cigar. There was a silence, during which she felt the heat of a certain irrational anger at thethought that a little ignorant, red-faced jockey should have the luck tobe in the right as against her flesh and blood. She considered himhelplessly, with something in her eyes that had never been therebefore--something that, apparently, after a moment, made an impressionon him. Afterwards, however, she saw very well that it was not herthreat that had moved him, and even at the moment she had a sense, fromthe way he looked back at her, that this was in no manner the first timea baffled woman had told him that she would kill herself. He had alwaysaccepted his kinship with her, but even in her trouble it was part ofher consciousness that he now lumped her with a mixed group of femalefigures, a little wavering and dim, who were associated in his memorywith 'scenes, ' with importunities and bothers. It is apt to be thedisadvantage of women, on occasions of measuring their strength withmen, that they may perceive that the man has a larger experience andthat they themselves are a part of it. It is doubtless as a provisionagainst such emergencies that nature has opened to them operations ofthe mind that are independent of experience. Laura felt the dishonour ofher race the more that her brother-in-law seemed so gay and bright aboutit: he had an air of positive prosperity, as if his misfortune hadturned into that. It came to her that he really liked the idea of thepublic _éclaircissement_--the fresh occupation, the bustle andimportance and celebrity of it. That was sufficiently incredible, but asshe was on the wrong side it was also humiliating. Besides, higherspirits always suggest finer wisdom, and such an attribute on Lionel'spart was most humiliating of all. 'I haven't the least objection atpresent to telling you what you want to know. I shall have made mylittle arrangements very soon and you will be subpoenaed. '

'Subpoenaed?' the girl repeated, mechanically. 

'You will be called as a witness on my side. '

'On your side. '

'Of course you're on my side, ain't you?'

'Can they force me to come?' asked Laura, in answer to this. 

'No, they can't force you, if you leave the country. '

'That's exactly what I want to do. '

'That will be idiotic, ' said Lionel, 'and very bad for your sister. Ifyou don't help me you ought at least to help her. '

She sat a moment with her eyes on the ground. 'Where is she--where isshe?' she then asked. 

'They are at Brussels, at the Hôtel de Flandres. They appear to like itvery much. '

'Are you telling me the truth?'

'Lord, my dear child, _I_ don't lie!' Lionel exclaimed. 'You'll make ajolly mistake if you go to her, ' he added. 'If you have seen her withhim how can you speak for her?'

'I won't see her with him. '

'That's all very well, but he'll take care of that. Of course if you'reready for perjury----!' Lionel exclaimed. 

'I'm ready for anything. '

'Well, I've been kind to you, my dear, ' he continued, smoking, with hischin in the air. 

'Certainly you have been kind to me. '

'If you want to defend her you had better keep away from her, ' saidLionel. 'Besides for yourself, it won't be the best thing in theworld--to be known to have been in it. '

'I don't care about myself, ' the girl returned, musingly. 

'Don't you care about the children, that you are so ready to throw themover? For you would, my dear, you know. If you go to Brussels you nevercome back here--you never cross this threshold--you never touch themagain!'

Laura appeared to listen to this last declaration, but she made no replyto it; she only exclaimed after a moment, with a certain impatience, 'Oh, the children will do anyway!' Then she added passionately, 'You_won't_, Lionel; in mercy's name tell me that you won't!'

'I won't what?'

'Do the awful thing you say. '

'Divorce her? The devil I won't!'

'Then why do you speak of the children--if you have no pity for them?'

Lionel stared an instant. 'I thought you said yourself that they woulddo anyway!'

Laura bent her head, resting it on the back of her hand, on the leathernarm of the sofa. So she remained, while Lionel stood smoking; but atlast, to leave the room, she got up with an effort that was a physicalpain. He came to her, to detain her, with a little good intention thathad no felicity for her, trying to take her hand persuasively. 'Dear oldgirl, don't try and behave just as _she_ did! If you'll stay quietlyhere I won't call you, I give you my honour I won't; there! You want tosee the doctor--that's the fellow you want to see. And what good will itdo you, even if you bring her home in pink paper? Do you candidlysuppose I'll ever look at her--except across the court-room?'

'I must, I must, I must!' Laura cried, jerking herself away from him andreaching the door. 

'Well then, good-bye, ' he said, in the sternest tone she had ever heardhim use. 

She made no answer, she only escaped. She locked herself in her room;she remained there an hour. At the end of this time she came out andwent to the door of the schoolroom, where she asked Miss Steet to be sogood as to come and speak to her. The governess followed her to herapartment and there Laura took her partly into her confidence. Therewere things she wanted to do before going, and she was too weak to actwithout assistance. She didn't want it from the servants, if only MissSteet would learn from them whether Mr. Berrington were dining at home. Laura told her that her sister was ill and she was hurrying to join herabroad. It had to be mentioned, that way, that Mrs. Berrington had leftthe country, though of course there was no spoken recognition betweenthe two women of the reasons for which she had done so. There was only atacit hypocritical assumption that she was on a visit to friends andthat there had been nothing queer about her departure. Laura knew thatMiss Steet knew the truth, and the governess knew that she knew it. This young woman lent a hand, very confusedly, to the girl'spreparations; she ventured not to be sympathetic, as that would pointtoo much to badness, but she succeeded perfectly in being dismal. Shesuggested that Laura was ill herself, but Laura replied that this was nomatter when her sister was so much worse. She elicited the fact that Mr. Berrington was dining out--the butler believed with his mother--but shewas of no use when it came to finding in the 'Bradshaw' which shebrought up from the hall the hour of the night-boat to Ostend. Laurafound it herself; it was conveniently late, and it was a gain to herthat she was very near the Victoria station, where she would take thetrain for Dover. The governess wanted to go to the station with her, butthe girl would not listen to this--she would only allow her to see thatshe had a cab. Laura let her help her still further; she sent her downto talk to Lady Davenant's maid when that personage arrived in GrosvenorPlace to inquire, from her mistress, what in the world had become ofpoor Miss Wing. The maid intimated, Miss Steet said on her return, thather ladyship would have come herself, only she was too angry. She wasvery bad indeed. It was an indication of this that she had sent back heryoung friend's dressing-case and her clothes. Laura also borrowed moneyfrom the governess--she had too little in her pocket. The latterbrightened up as the preparations advanced; she had never before beenconcerned in a flurried night-episode, with an unavowed clandestineside; the very imprudence of it (for a sick girl alone) was romantic, and before Laura had gone down to the cab she began to say that foreignlife must be fascinating and to make wistful reflections. She saw thatthe coast was clear, in the nursery--that the children were asleep, fortheir aunt to come in. She kissed Ferdy while her companion pressed herlips upon Geordie, and Geordie while Laura hung for a moment over Ferdy. At the door of the cab she tried to make her take more money, and ourheroine had an odd sense that if the vehicle had not rolled away shewould have thrust into her hand a keepsake for Captain Crispin. 

A quarter of an hour later Laura sat in the corner of arailway-carriage, muffled in her cloak (the July evening was fresh, asit so often is in London--fresh enough to add to her sombre thoughts thesuggestion of the wind in the Channel), waiting in a vain torment ofnervousness for the train to set itself in motion. Her nervousnessitself had led her to come too early to the station, and it seemed toher that she had already waited long. A lady and a gentleman had takentheir place in the carriage (it was not yet the moment for the outwardcrowd of tourists) and had left their appurtenances there while theystrolled up and down the platform. The long English twilight was stillin the air, but there was dusk under the grimy arch of the station andLaura flattered herself that the off-corner of the carriage she hadchosen was in shadow. This, however, apparently did not prevent her frombeing recognised by a gentleman who stopped at the door, looking in, with the movement of a person who was going from carriage to carriage. As soon as he saw her he stepped quickly in, and the next moment Mr. Wendover was seated on the edge of the place beside her, leaning towardher, speaking to her low, with clasped hands. She fell back in her seat, closing her eyes again. He barred the way out of the compartment. 

'I have followed you here--I saw Miss Steet--I want to implore you notto go! Don't, don't! I know what you're doing. Don't go, I beseech you. I saw Lady Davenant, I wanted to ask her to help me, I could bear it nolonger. I have thought of you, night and day, these four days. LadyDavenant has told me things, and I entreat you not to go!'

Laura opened her eyes (there was something in his voice, in his pressingnearness), and looked at him a moment: it was the first time she haddone so since the first of those detestable moments in the box at CoventGarden. She had never spoken to him of Selina in any but an honourablesense. Now she said, 'I'm going to my sister. '

'I know it, and I wish unspeakably you would give it up--it isn'tgood--it's a great mistake. Stay here and let me talk to you. '

The girl raised herself, she stood up in the carriage. Mr. Wendover didthe same; Laura saw that the lady and gentleman outside were nowstanding near the door. 'What have you to say? It's my own business!'she returned, between her teeth. 'Go out, go out, go out!'

'Do you suppose I would speak if I didn't care--do you suppose I wouldcare if I didn't love you?' the young man murmured, close to her face. 

'What is there to care about? Because people will know it and talk? Ifit's bad it's the right thing for me! If I don't go to her where elseshall I go?'

'Come to me, dearest, dearest!' Mr. Wendover went on. 'You are ill, youare mad! I love you--I assure you I do!'

She pushed him away with her hands. 'If you follow me I will jump offthe boat!'

'Take your places, take your places!' cried the guard, on the platform. Mr. Wendover had to slip out, the lady and gentleman were coming in. Laura huddled herself into her corner again and presently the train drewaway. 

Mr. Wendover did not get into another compartment; he went back thatevening to Queen's Gate. He knew how interested his old friend there, ashe now considered her, would be to hear what Laura had undertaken(though, as he learned, on entering her drawing-room again, she hadalready heard of it from her maid), and he felt the necessity to tellher once more how her words of four days before had fructified in hisheart, what a strange, ineffaceable impression she had made upon him: totell her in short and to repeat it over and over, that he had taken themost extraordinary fancy----! Lady Davenant was tremendously vexed atthe girl's perversity, but she counselled him patience, a long, persistent patience. A week later she heard from Laura Wing, fromAntwerp, that she was sailing to America from that port--a lettercontaining no mention whatever of Selina or of the reception she hadfound at Brussels. To America Mr. Wendover followed his young compatriot(that at least she had no right to forbid), and there, for the moment, he has had a chance to practise the humble virtue recommended by LadyDavenant. He knows she has no money and that she is staying with somedistant relatives in Virginia; a situation that he--perhaps toosuperficially--figures as unspeakably dreary. He knows further that LadyDavenant has sent her fifty pounds, and he himself has ideas oftransmitting funds, not directly to Virginia but by the roundabout roadof Queen's Gate. Now, however, that Lionel Berrington's deplorable suitis coming on he reflects with some satisfaction that the Court ofProbate and Divorce is far from the banks of the Rappahannock. 'Berrington _versus_ Berrington and Others' is coming on--but these arematters of the present hour. 

THE PATAGONIA

I

The houses were dark in the August night and the perspective of BeaconStreet, with its double chain of lamps, was a foreshortened desert. Theclub on the hill alone, from its semi-cylindrical front, projected aglow upon the dusky vagueness of the Common, and as I passed it I heardin the hot stillness the click of a pair of billiard balls. As 'everyone' was out of town perhaps the servants, in the extravagance of theirleisure, were profaning the tables. The heat was insufferable and Ithought with joy of the morrow, of the deck of the steamer, thefreshening breeze, the sense of getting out to sea. I was even glad ofwhat I had learned in the afternoon at the office of the company--thatat the eleventh hour an old ship with a lower standard of speed had beenput on in place of the vessel in which I had taken my passage. Americawas roasting, England might very well be stuffy, and a slow passage(which at that season of the year would probably also be a fine one) wasa guarantee of ten or twelve days of fresh air. 

I strolled down the hill without meeting a creature, though I could seethrough the palings of the Common that that recreative expanse waspeopled with dim forms. I remembered Mrs. Nettlepoint's house--she livedin those days (they are not so distant, but there have been changes) onthe water-side, a little way beyond the spot at which the Public Gardenterminates; and I reflected that like myself she would be spending thenight in Boston if it were true that, as had been mentioned to me a fewdays before at Mount Desert, she was to embark on the morrow forLiverpool. I presently saw this appearance confirmed by a light aboveher door and in two or three of her windows, and I determined to ask forher, having nothing to do till bedtime. I had come out simply to pass anhour, leaving my hotel to the blaze of its gas and the perspiration ofits porters; but it occurred to me that my old friend might very wellnot know of the substitution of the _Patagonia_ for the _Scandinavia_, so that it would be an act of consideration to prepare her mind. Besides, I could offer to help her, to look after her in the morning:lone women are grateful for support in taking ship for far countries. 

As I stood on her doorstep I remembered that as she had a son she mightnot after all be so lone; yet at the same time it was present to me thatJasper Nettlepoint was not quite a young man to lean upon, having (as Iat least supposed) a life of his own and tastes and habits which hadlong since drawn him away from the maternal side. If he did happen justnow to be at home my solicitude would of course seem officious; for inhis many wanderings--I believed he had roamed all over the globe--hewould certainly have learned how to manage. None the less I was veryglad to show Mrs. Nettlepoint I thought of her. With my long absence Ihad lost sight of her; but I had liked her of old; she had been a closefriend of my sisters; and I had in regard to her that sense which ispleasant to those who, in general, have grown strange or detached--thefeeling that she at least knew all about me. I could trust her at anytime to tell people what a respectable person I was. Perhaps I wasconscious of how little I deserved this indulgence when it came over methat for years I had not communicated with her. The measure of thisneglect was given by my vagueness of mind about her son. However, Ireally belonged nowadays to a different generation: I was more the oldlady's contemporary than Jasper's. 

Mrs. Nettlepoint was at home: I found her in her back drawing-room, where the wide windows opened upon the water. The room was dusky--it wastoo hot for lamps--and she sat slowly moving her fan and looking out onthe little arm of the sea which is so pretty at night, reflecting thelights of Cambridgeport and Charlestown. I supposed she was musing uponthe loved ones she was to leave behind, her married daughters, hergrandchildren; but she struck a note more specifically Bostonian as shesaid to me, pointing with her fan to the Back Bay--'I shall see nothingmore charming than that over there, you know!' She made me very welcome, but her son had told her about the _Patagonia_, for which she was sorry, as this would mean a longer voyage. She was a poor creature on shipboardand mainly confined to her cabin, even in weather extravagantly termedfine--as if any weather could be fine at sea. 

'Ah, then your son's going with you?' I asked. 

'Here he comes, he will tell you for himself much better than I am ableto do. '

Jasper Nettlepoint came into the room at that moment, dressed in whiteflannel and carrying a large fan. 

'Well, my dear, have you decided?' his mother continued, with some ironyin her tone. 'He hasn't yet made up his mind, and we sail at teno'clock!'

'What does it matter, when my things are put up?' said the young man. 'There is no crowd at this moment; there will be cabins to spare. I'mwaiting for a telegram--that will settle it. I just walked up to theclub to see if it was come--they'll send it there because they think thehouse is closed. Not yet, but I shall go back in twenty minutes. '

'Mercy, how you rush about in this temperature!' his mother exclaimed, while I reflected that it was perhaps _his_ billiard-balls I had heardten minutes before. I was sure he was fond of billiards. 

'Rush? not in the least. I take it uncommonly easy. '

'Ah, I'm bound to say you do, ' Mrs. Nettlepoint exclaimed, inconsequently. I divined that there was a certain tension between thepair and a want of consideration on the young man's part, arisingperhaps from selfishness. His mother was nervous, in suspense, wantingto be at rest as to whether she should have his company on the voyage orbe obliged to make it alone. But as he stood there smiling and slowlymoving his fan he struck me somehow as a person on whom this fact wouldnot sit very heavily. He was of the type of those whom other peopleworry about, not of those who worry about other people. Tall andstrong, he had a handsome face, with a round head and close-curlinghair; the whites of his eyes and the enamel of his teeth, under hisbrown moustache, gleamed vaguely in the lights of the Back Bay. I madeout that he was sunburnt, as if he lived much in the open air, and thathe looked intelligent but also slightly brutal, though not in a moroseway. His brutality, if he had any, was bright and finished. I had totell him who I was, but even then I saw that he failed to place me andthat my explanations gave me in his mind no great identity or at anyrate no great importance. I foresaw that he would in intercourse make mefeel sometimes very young and sometimes very old. He mentioned, as if toshow his mother that he might safely be left to his own devices, that hehad once started from London to Bombay at three-quarters of an hour'snotice. 

'Yes, and it must have been pleasant for the people you were with!'

'Oh, the people I was with----!' he rejoined; and his tone appeared tosignify that such people would always have to come off as they could. Heasked if there were no cold drinks in the house, no lemonade, no icedsyrups; in such weather something of that sort ought always to be keptgoing. When his mother remarked that surely at the club they _were_going he went on, 'Oh, yes, I had various things there; but you know Ihave walked down the hill since. One should have something at eitherend. May I ring and see?' He rang while Mrs. Nettlepoint observed thatwith the people they had in the house--an establishment reducednaturally at such a moment to its simplest expression (they wereburning-up candle-ends and there were no luxuries) she would not answerfor the service. The matter ended in the old lady's going out of theroom in quest of syrup with the female domestic who had appeared inresponse to the bell and in whom Jasper's appeal aroused no visibleintelligence. 

She remained away some time and I talked with her son, who was sociablebut desultory and kept moving about the room, always with his fan, as ifhe were impatient. Sometimes he seated himself for an instant on thewindow-sill, and then I saw that he was in fact very good-looking; afine brown, clean young athlete. He never told me on what specialcontingency his decision depended; he only alluded familiarly to anexpected telegram, and I perceived that he was probably not addicted tocopious explanations. His mother's absence was an indication that whenit was a question of gratifying him she had grown used to spare nopains, and I fancied her rummaging in some close storeroom, among oldpreserve-pots, while the dull maid-servant held the candle awry. I knownot whether this same vision was in his own eyes; at all events it didnot prevent him from saying suddenly, as he looked at his watch, that Imust excuse him, as he had to go back to the club. He would return inhalf an hour--or in less. He walked away and I sat there alone, conscious, in the dark, dismantled, simplified room, in the deep silencethat rests on American towns during the hot season (there was now andthen a far cry or a plash in the water, and at intervals the tinkle ofthe bells of the horse-cars on the long bridge, slow in the suffocatingnight), of the strange influence, half sweet, half sad, that abides inhouses uninhabited or about to become so--in places muffled andbereaved, where the unheeded sofas and patient belittered tables seem toknow (like the disconcerted dogs) that it is the eve of a journey. 

After a while I heard the sound of voices, of steps, the rustle ofdresses, and I looked round, supposing these things to be the sign ofthe return of Mrs. Nettlepoint and her handmaiden, bearing therefreshment prepared for her son. What I saw however was two otherfemale forms, visitors just admitted apparently, who were ushered intothe room. They were not announced--the servant turned her back on themand rambled off to our hostess. They came forward in a wavering, tentative, unintroduced way--partly, I could see, because the place wasdark and partly because their visit was in its nature experimental, astretch of confidence. One of the ladies was stout and the other wasslim, and I perceived in a moment that one was talkative and the othersilent. I made out further that one was elderly and the other young andthat the fact that they were so unlike did not prevent their beingmother and daughter. Mrs. Nettlepoint reappeared in a very few minutes, but the interval had sufficed to establish a communication (reallycopious for the occasion) between the strangers and the unknowngentleman whom they found in possession, hat and stick in hand. This wasnot my doing (for what had I to go upon?) and still less was it thedoing of the person whom I supposed and whom I indeed quickly anddefinitely learned to be the daughter. She spoke but once--when hercompanion informed me that she was going out to Europe the next day tobe married. Then she said, 'Oh, mother!' protestingly, in a tone whichstruck me in the darkness as doubly strange, exciting my curiosity tosee her face. 

It had taken her mother but a moment to come to that and to other thingsbesides, after I had explained that I myself was waiting for Mrs. Nettlepoint, who would doubtless soon come back. 

'Well, she won't know me--I guess she hasn't ever heard much about me, 'the good lady said; 'but I have come from Mrs. Allen and I guess thatwill make it all right. I presume you know Mrs. Allen?'

I was unacquainted with this influential personage, but I assentedvaguely to the proposition. Mrs. Allen's emissary was good-humoured andfamiliar, but rather appealing than insistent (she remarked that if herfriend _had_ found time to come in the afternoon--she had so much to do, being just up for the day, that she couldn't be sure--it would be allright); and somehow even before she mentioned Merrimac Avenue (they hadcome all the way from there) my imagination had associated her with thatindefinite social limbo known to the properly-constituted Boston mind asthe South End--a nebulous region which condenses here and there into apretty face, in which the daughters are an 'improvement' on the mothersand are sometimes acquainted with gentlemen resident in moredistinguished districts of the New England capital--gentlemen whosewives and sisters in turn are not acquainted with them. 

When at last Mrs. Nettlepoint came in, accompanied by candles and by atray laden with glasses of coloured fluid which emitted a cool tinkling, I was in a position to officiate as master of the ceremonies, tointroduce Mrs. Mavis and Miss Grace Mavis, to represent that Mrs. Allenhad recommended them--nay, had urged them--to come that way, informally, and had been prevented only by the pressure of occupations socharacteristic of her (especially when she was up from Mattapoisett justfor a few hours' shopping) from herself calling in the course of the dayto explain who they were and what was the favour they had to ask of Mrs. Nettlepoint. Good-natured women understand each other even when dividedby the line of topographical fashion, and our hostess had quicklymastered the main facts: Mrs. Allen's visit in the morning in MerrimacAvenue to talk of Mrs. Amber's great idea, the classes at the publicschools in vacation (she was interested with an equal charity to that ofMrs. Mavis--even in such weather!--in those of the South End) for gamesand exercises and music, to keep the poor unoccupied children out of thestreets; then the revelation that it had suddenly been settled almostfrom one hour to the other that Grace should sail for Liverpool, Mr. Porterfield at last being ready. He was taking a little holiday; hismother was with him, they had come over from Paris to see some of thecelebrated old buildings in England, and he had telegraphed to say thatif Grace would start right off they would just finish it up and bemarried. It often happened that when things had dragged on that way foryears they were all huddled up at the end. Of course in such a case she, Mrs. Mavis, had had to fly round. Her daughter's passage was taken, butit seemed too dreadful that she should make her journey all alone, thefirst time she had ever been at sea, without any companion or escort. _She_ couldn't go--Mr. Mavis was too sick: she hadn't even been able toget him off to the seaside. 

'Well, Mrs. Nettlepoint is going in that ship, ' Mrs. Allen had said; andshe had represented that nothing was simpler than to put the girl in hercharge. When Mrs. Mavis had replied that that was all very well but thatshe didn't know the lady, Mrs. Allen had declared that that didn't makea speck of difference, for Mrs. Nettlepoint was kind enough foranything. It was easy enough to know her, if that was all the trouble. All Mrs. Mavis would have to do would be to go up to her the nextmorning when she took her daughter to the ship (she would see her thereon the deck with her party) and tell her what she wanted. Mrs. Nettlepoint had daughters herself and she would easily understand. Verylikely she would even look after Grace a little on the other side, insuch a queer situation, going out alone to the gentleman she was engagedto; she would just help her to turn round before she was married. Mr. Porterfield seemed to think they wouldn't wait long, once she was there:they would have it right over at the American consul's. Mrs. Allen hadsaid it would perhaps be better still to go and see Mrs. Nettlepointbeforehand, that day, to tell her what they wanted: then they wouldn'tseem to spring it on her just as she was leaving. She herself (Mrs. Allen) would call and say a word for them if she could save ten minutesbefore catching her train. If she hadn't come it was because she hadn'tsaved her ten minutes; but she had made them feel that they must comeall the same. Mrs. Mavis liked that better, because on the ship in themorning there would be such a confusion. She didn't think her daughterwould be any trouble--conscientiously she didn't. It was just to havesome one to speak to her and not sally forth like a servant-girl goingto a situation. 

'I see, I am to act as a sort of bridesmaid and to give her away, ' saidMrs. Nettlepoint. She was in fact kind enough for anything and sheshowed on this occasion that it was easy enough to know her. There isnothing more tiresome than complications at sea, but she acceptedwithout a protest the burden of the young lady's dependence and allowedher, as Mrs. Mavis said, to hook herself on. She evidently had the habitof patience, and her reception of her visitors' story reminded me afresh(I was reminded of it whenever I returned to my native land) that mydear compatriots are the people in the world who most freely take mutualaccommodation for granted. They have always had to help themselves, andby a magnanimous extension they confound helping each other with that. In no country are there fewer forms and more reciprocities. 

It was doubtless not singular that the ladies from Merrimac Avenueshould not feel that they were importunate: what was striking was thatMrs. Nettlepoint did not appear to suspect it. However, she would in anycase have thought it inhuman to show that--though I could see that underthe surface she was amused at everything the lady from the South Endtook for granted. I know not whether the attitude of the younger visitoradded or not to the merit of her good-nature. Mr. Porterfield's intendedtook no part in her mother's appeal, scarcely spoke, sat looking at theBack Bay and the lights on the long bridge. She declined the lemonadeand the other mixtures which, at Mrs. Nettlepoint's request, I offeredher, while her mother partook freely of everything and I reflected (forI as freely consumed the reviving liquid) that Mr. Jasper had betterhurry back if he wished to profit by the refreshment prepared for him. 

Was the effect of the young woman's reserve ungracious, or was it onlynatural that in her particular situation she should not have a flow ofcompliment at her command? I noticed that Mrs. Nettlepoint looked at heroften, and certainly though she was undemonstrative Miss Mavis wasinteresting. The candle-light enabled me to see that if she was not inthe very first flower of her youth she was still a handsome girl. Hereyes and hair were dark, her face was pale and she held up her head asif, with its thick braids, it were an appurtenance she was not ashamedof. If her mother was excellent and common she was not common (notflagrantly so) and perhaps not excellent. At all events she would notbe, in appearance at least, a dreary appendage, and (in the case of aperson 'hooking on') that was always something gained. Is it becausesomething of a romantic or pathetic interest usually attaches to a goodcreature who has been the victim of a 'long engagement' that this younglady made an impression on me from the first--favoured as I had been soquickly with this glimpse of her history? Certainly she made no positiveappeal; she only held her tongue and smiled, and her smile correctedwhatever suggestion might have forced itself upon me that the spirit wasdead--the spirit of that promise of which she found herself doomed tocarry out the letter. 

What corrected it less, I must add, was an odd recollection whichgathered vividness as I listened to it--a mental association which thename of Mr. Porterfield had evoked. Surely I had a personal impression, over-smeared and confused, of the gentleman who was waiting atLiverpool, or who would be, for Mrs. Nettlepoint's _protégée_. I had methim, known him, some time, somewhere, somehow, in Europe. Was he notstudying something--very hard--somewhere, probably in Paris, ten yearsbefore, and did he not make extraordinarily neat drawings, linear andarchitectural? Didn't he go to a _table d'hôte_, at two francstwenty-five, in the Rue Bonaparte, which I then frequented, and didn'the wear spectacles and a Scotch plaid arranged in a manner which seemedto say, 'I have trustworthy information that that is the way they do itin the Highlands'? Was he not exemplary and very poor, so that Isupposed he had no overcoat and his tartan was what he slept under atnight? Was he not working very hard still, and wouldn't he be in thenatural course, not yet satisfied that he knew enough to launch out? Hewould be a man of long preparations--Miss Mavis's white face seemed tospeak to one of that. It appeared to me that if I had been in love withher I should not have needed to lay such a train to marry her. Architecture was his line and he was a pupil of the École des BeauxArts. This reminiscence grew so much more vivid with me that at the endof ten minutes I had a curious sense of knowing--by implication--a gooddeal about the young lady. 

Even after it was settled that Mrs. Nettlepoint would do everything forher that she could her mother sat a little, sipping her syrup andtelling how 'low' Mr. Mavis had been. At this period the girl's silencestruck me as still more conscious, partly perhaps because she deprecatedher mother's loquacity (she was enough of an 'improvement' to measurethat) and partly because she was too full of pain at the idea of leavingher infirm, her perhaps dying father. I divined that they were poor andthat she would take out a very small purse for her trousseau. Moreoverfor Mr. Porterfield to make up the sum his own case would have had tochange. If he had enriched himself by the successful practice of hisprofession I had not encountered the buildings he had reared--hisreputation had not come to my ears. 

Mrs. Nettlepoint notified her new friends that she was a very inactiveperson at sea: she was prepared to suffer to the full with Miss Mavis, but she was not prepared to walk with her, to struggle with her, toaccompany her to the table. To this the girl replied that she wouldtrouble her little, she was sure: she had a belief that she should provea wretched sailor and spend the voyage on her back. Her mother scoffedat this picture, prophesying perfect weather and a lovely time, and Isaid that if I might be trusted, as a tame old bachelor fairlysea-seasoned, I should be delighted to give the new member of our partyan arm or any other countenance whenever she should require it. Both theladies thanked me for this (taking my description only too literally), and the elder one declared that we were evidently going to be such asociable group that it was too bad to have to stay at home. She inquiredof Mrs. Nettlepoint if there were any one else--if she were to beaccompanied by some of her family; and when our hostess mentioned herson--there was a chance of his embarking but (wasn't it absurd?) he hadnot decided yet, she rejoined with extraordinary candour--'Oh dear, I dohope he'll go: that would be so pleasant for Grace. '

Somehow the words made me think of poor Mr. Porterfield's tartan, especially as Jasper Nettlepoint strolled in again at that moment. Hismother instantly challenged him: it was ten o'clock; had he by chancemade up his great mind? Apparently he failed to hear her, being in thefirst place surprised at the strange ladies and then struck with thefact that one of them was not strange. The young man, after a slighthesitation, greeted Miss Mavis with a handshake and an 'Oh, goodevening, how do you do?' He did not utter her name, and I could see thathe had forgotten it; but she immediately pronounced his, availingherself of an American girl's discretion to introduce him to her mother. 

'Well, you might have told me you knew him all this time!' Mrs. Mavisexclaimed. Then smiling at Mrs. Nettlepoint she added, 'It would havesaved me a worry, an acquaintance already begun. '

'Ah, my son's acquaintances----!' Mrs. Nettlepoint murmured. 

'Yes, and my daughter's too!' cried Mrs. Mavis, jovially. 'Mrs. Allendidn't tell us _you_ were going, ' she continued, to the young man. 

'She would have been clever if she had been able to!' Mrs. Nettlepointejaculated. 

'Dear mother, I have my telegram, ' Jasper remarked, looking at GraceMavis. 

'I know you very little, ' the girl said, returning his observation. 

'I've danced with you at some ball--for some sufferers by something orother. '

'I think it was an inundation, ' she replied, smiling. 'But it was a longtime ago--and I haven't seen you since. '

'I have been in far countries--to my loss. I should have said it was fora big fire. '

'It was at the Horticultural Hall. I didn't remember your name, ' saidGrace Mavis. 

'That is very unkind of you, when I recall vividly that you had a pinkdress. '

'Oh, I remember that dress--you looked lovely in it!' Mrs. Mavis brokeout. 'You must get another just like it--on the other side. '

'Yes, your daughter looked charming in it, ' said Jasper Nettlepoint. Then he added, to the girl--'Yet you mentioned my name to your mother. '

'It came back to me--seeing you here. I had no idea this was your home. '

'Well, I confess it isn't, much. Oh, there are some drinks!' Jasper wenton, approaching the tray and its glasses. 

'Indeed there are and quite delicious, ' Mrs. Mavis declared. 

'Won't you have another then?--a pink one, like your daughter's gown. '

'With pleasure, sir. Oh, do see them over, ' Mrs. Mavis continued, accepting from the young man's hand a third tumbler. 

'My mother and that gentleman? Surely they can take care of themselves, 'said Jasper Nettlepoint. 

'But my daughter--she has a claim as an old friend. '

'Jasper, what does your telegram say?' his mother interposed. 

He gave no heed to her question: he stood there with his glass in hishand, looking from Mrs. Mavis to Miss Grace. 

'Ah, leave her to me, madam; I'm quite competent, ' I said to Mrs. Mavis. 

Then the young man looked at me. The next minute he asked of the younglady--'Do you mean you are going to Europe?'

'Yes, to-morrow; in the same ship as your mother. '

'That's what we've come here for, to see all about it, ' said Mrs. Mavis. 

'My son, take pity on me and tell me what light your telegram throws, 'Mrs. Nettlepoint went on. 

'I will, dearest, when I've quenched my thirst. ' And Jasper slowlydrained his glass. 

'Well, you're worse than Gracie, ' Mrs. Mavis commented. 'She was firstone thing and then the other--but only about up to three o'clockyesterday. '

'Excuse me--won't you take something?' Jasper inquired of Gracie; whohowever declined, as if to make up for her mother's copious_consommation_. I made privately the reflection that the two ladiesought to take leave, the question of Mrs. Nettlepoint's goodwill beingso satisfactorily settled and the meeting of the morrow at the ship sonear at hand; and I went so far as to judge that their protracted stay, with their hostess visibly in a fidget, was a sign of a want ofbreeding. Miss Grace after all then was not such an improvement on hermother, for she easily might have taken the initiative of departure, inspite of Mrs. Mavis's imbibing her glass of syrup in little interspacedsips, as if to make it last as long as possible. I watched the girl withan increasing curiosity; I could not help asking myself a question ortwo about her and even perceiving already (in a dim and general way)that there were some complications in her position. Was it not acomplication that she should have wished to remain long enough toassuage a certain suspense, to learn whether or no Jasper were going tosail? Had not something particular passed between them on the occasionor at the period to which they had covertly alluded, and did she reallynot know that her mother was bringing her to _his_ mother's, though sheapparently had thought it well not to mention the circumstance? Suchthings were complications on the part of a young lady betrothed to thatcurious cross-barred phantom of a Mr. Porterfield. But I am bound to addthat she gave me no further warrant for suspecting them than by thesimple fact of her encouraging her mother, by her immobility, to linger. Somehow I had a sense that _she_ knew better. I got up myself to go, butMrs. Nettlepoint detained me after seeing that my movement would not betaken as a hint, and I perceived she wished me not to leave myfellow-visitors on her hands. Jasper complained of the closeness of theroom, said that it was not a night to sit in a room--one ought to be outin the air, under the sky. He denounced the windows that overlooked thewater for not opening upon a balcony or a terrace, until his mother, whom he had not yet satisfied about his telegram, reminded him thatthere was a beautiful balcony in front, with room for a dozen people. She assured him we would go and sit there if it would please him. 

'It will be nice and cool to-morrow, when we steam into the greatocean, ' said Miss Mavis, expressing with more vivacity than she had yetthrown into any of her utterances my own thought of half an hour before. Mrs. Nettlepoint replied that it would probably be freezing cold, andher son murmured that he would go and try the drawing-room balcony andreport upon it. Just as he was turning away he said, smiling, to MissMavis--'Won't you come with me and see if it's pleasant?'

'Oh, well, we had better not stay all night!' her mother exclaimed, butwithout moving. The girl moved, after a moment's hesitation; she roseand accompanied Jasper into the other room. I observed that her slimtallness showed to advantage as she walked and that she looked well asshe passed, with her head thrown back, into the darkness of the otherpart of the house. There was something rather marked, rather surprising(I scarcely knew why, for the act was simple enough) in her doing so, and perhaps it was our sense of this that held the rest of us somewhatstiffly silent as she remained away. I was waiting for Mrs. Mavis to go, so that I myself might go; and Mrs. Nettlepoint was waiting for her togo so that I might not. This doubtless made the young lady's absenceappear to us longer than it really was--it was probably very brief. Hermother moreover, I think, had a vague consciousness of embarrassment. Jasper Nettlepoint presently returned to the back drawing-room to get aglass of syrup for his companion, and he took occasion to remark that itwas lovely on the balcony: one really got some air, the breeze was fromthat quarter. I remembered, as he went away with his tinkling tumbler, that from _my_ hand, a few minutes before, Miss Mavis had not beenwilling to accept this innocent offering. A little later Mrs. Nettlepoint said--'Well, if it's so pleasant there we had better goourselves. ' So we passed to the front and in the other room met the twoyoung people coming in from the balcony. I wondered in the light ofsubsequent events exactly how long they had been sitting there together. (There were three or four cane chairs which had been placed there forthe summer. ) If it had been but five minutes, that only made subsequentevents more curious. 'We must go, mother, ' Miss Mavis immediately said;and a moment later, with a little renewal of chatter as to our generalmeeting on the ship, the visitors had taken leave. Jasper went down withthem to the door and as soon as they had gone out Mrs. Nettlepointexclaimed--'Ah, but she'll be a bore--she'll be a bore!'

'Not through talking too much--surely. '

'An affectation of silence is as bad. I hate that particular _pose_;it's coming up very much now; an imitation of the English, likeeverything else. A girl who tries to be statuesque at sea--that will acton one's nerves!'

'I don't know what she tries to be, but she succeeds in being veryhandsome. '

'So much the better for you. I'll leave her to you, for I shall be shutup. I like her being placed under my "care. "'

'She will be under Jasper's, ' I remarked. 

'Ah, he won't go--I want it too much. '

'I have an idea he will go. '

'Why didn't he tell me so then--when he came in?'

'He was diverted by Miss Mavis--a beautiful unexpected girl sittingthere. '

'Diverted from his mother--trembling for his decision?'

'She's an old friend; it was a meeting after a long separation. '

'Yes, such a lot of them as he knows!' said Mrs. Nettlepoint. 

'Such a lot of them?'

'He has so many female friends--in the most varied circles. '

'Well, we can close round her then--for I on my side knew, or used toknow, her young man. '

'Her young man?'

'The _fiancé_, the intended, the one she is going out to. He can't bythe way be very young now. '

'How odd it sounds!' said Mrs. Nettlepoint. 

I was going to reply that it was not odd if you knew Mr. Porterfield, but I reflected that that perhaps only made it odder. I told mycompanion briefly who he was--that I had met him in the old days inParis, when I believed for a fleeting hour that I could learn to paint, when I lived with the _jeunesse des écoles_, and her comment on this wassimply--'Well, he had better have come out for her!'

'Perhaps so. She looked to me as she sat there as if she might changeher mind at the last moment. '

'About her marriage?'

'About sailing. But she won't change now. '

Jasper came back, and his mother instantly challenged him. 'Well, _are_you going?'

'Yes, I shall go, ' he said, smiling. 'I have got my telegram. '

'Oh, your telegram!' I ventured to exclaim. 'That charming girl is yourtelegram. '

He gave me a look, but in the dusk I could not make out very well whatit conveyed. Then he bent over his mother, kissing her. 'My news isn'tparticularly satisfactory. I am going for _you_. '

'Oh, you humbug!' she rejoined. But of course she was delighted. 

II

People usually spend the first hours of a voyage in squeezing themselvesinto their cabins, taking their little precautions, either so excessiveor so inadequate, wondering how they can pass so many days in such ahole and asking idiotic questions of the stewards, who appear incomparison such men of the world. My own initiations were rapid, asbecame an old sailor, and so it seemed were Miss Mavis's, for when Imounted to the deck at the end of half an hour I found her there alone, in the stern of the ship, looking back at the dwindling continent. Itdwindled very fast for so big a place. I accosted her, having had noconversation with her amid the crowd of leave-takers and the muddle offarewells before we put off; we talked a little about the boat, ourfellow-passengers and our prospects, and then I said--'I think youmentioned last night a name I know--that of Mr. Porterfield. '

'Oh no, I never uttered it, ' she replied, smiling at me through herclosely-drawn veil. 

'Then it was your mother. '

'Very likely it was my mother. ' And she continued to smile, as if Iought to have known the difference. 

'I venture to allude to him because I have an idea I used to know him, 'I went on. 

'Oh, I see. ' Beyond this remark she manifested no interest in my havingknown him. 

'That is if it's the same one. ' It seemed to me it would be silly to saynothing more; so I added 'My Mr. Porterfield was called David. '

'Well, so is ours. ' 'Ours' struck me as clever. 

'I suppose I shall see him again if he is to meet you at Liverpool, ' Icontinued. 

'Well, it will be bad if he doesn't. '

It was too soon for me to have the idea that it would be bad if he did:that only came later. So I remarked that I had not seen him for so manyyears that it was very possible I should not know him. '

'Well, I have not seen him for a great many years, but I expect I shallknow him all the same. '

'Oh, with you it's different, ' I rejoined, smiling at her. 'Hasn't hebeen back since those days?'

'I don't know what days you mean. '

'When I knew him in Paris--ages ago. He was a pupil of the École desBeaux Arts. He was studying architecture. '

'Well, he is studying it still, ' said Grace Mavis. 

'Hasn't he learned it yet?'

'I don't know what he has learned. I shall see. ' Then she added:'Architecture is very difficult and he is tremendously thorough. '

'Oh, yes, I remember that. He was an admirable worker. But he must havebecome quite a foreigner, if it's so many years since he has been athome. '

'Oh, he is not changeable. If he were changeable----' But here myinterlocutress paused. I suspect she had been going to say that if hewere changeable he would have given her up long ago. After an instantshe went on: 'He wouldn't have stuck so to his profession. You can'tmake much by it. '

'You can't make much?'

'It doesn't make you rich. '

'Oh, of course you have got to practise it--and to practise it long. '

'Yes--so Mr. Porterfield says. '

Something in the way she uttered these words made me laugh--they were soserene an implication that the gentleman in question did not live up tohis principles. But I checked myself, asking my companion if sheexpected to remain in Europe long--to live there. 

'Well, it will be a good while if it takes me as long to come back as ithas taken me to go out. '

'And I think your mother said last night that it was your first visit. '

Miss Mavis looked at me a moment. 'Didn't mother talk!'

'It was all very interesting. '

She continued to look at me. 'You don't think that. '

'What have I to gain by saying it if I don't?'

'Oh, men have always something to gain. '

'You make me feel a terrible failure, then! I hope at any rate that itgives you pleasure--the idea of seeing foreign lands. '

'Mercy--I should think so. '

'It's a pity our ship is not one of the fast ones, if you areimpatient. '

She was silent a moment; then she exclaimed, 'Oh, I guess it will befast enough!'

That evening I went in to see Mrs. Nettlepoint and sat on her sea-trunk, which was pulled out from under the berth to accommodate me. It was nineo'clock but not quite dark, as our northward course had already taken usinto the latitude of the longer days. She had made her nest admirablyand lay upon her sofa in a becoming dressing-gown and cap, resting fromher labours. It was her regular practice to spend the voyage in hercabin, which smelt good (such was the refinement of her art), and shehad a secret peculiar to herself for keeping her port open withoutshipping seas. She hated what she called the mess of the ship and theidea, if she should go above, of meeting stewards with plates ofsupererogatory food. She professed to be content with her situation (wepromised to lend each other books and I assured her familiarly that Ishould be in and out of her room a dozen times a day), and pitied me forhaving to mingle in society. She judged this to be a limited privilege, for on the deck before we left the wharf she had taken a view of ourfellow-passengers. 

'Oh, I'm an inveterate, almost a professional observer, ' I replied, 'andwith that vice I am as well occupied as an old woman in the sun with herknitting. It puts it in my power, in any situation, to _see_ things. Ishall see them even here and I shall come down very often and tell youabout them. You are not interested to-day, but you will be to-morrow, for a ship is a great school of gossip. You won't believe the number ofresearches and problems you will be engaged in by the middle of thevoyage. '

'I? Never in the world--lying here with my nose in a book and neverseeing anything. '

'You will participate at second hand. You will see through my eyes, hangupon my lips, take sides, feel passions, all sorts of sympathies andindignations. I have an idea that your young lady is the person on boardwho will interest me most. '

'Mine, indeed! She has not been near me since we left the dock. '

'Well, she is very curious. '

'You have such cold-blooded terms, ' Mrs. Nettlepoint murmured. '_Elle nesait pas se conduire_; she ought to have come to ask about me. '

'Yes, since you are under her care, ' I said, smiling. 'As for her notknowing how to behave--well, that's exactly what we shall see. '

'You will, but not I! I wash my hands of her. '

'Don't say that--don't say that. '

Mrs. Nettlepoint looked at me a moment. 'Why do you speak so solemnly?'

In return I considered her. 'I will tell you before we land. And haveyou seen much of your son?'

'Oh yes, he has come in several times. He seems very much pleased. Hehas got a cabin to himself. '

'That's great luck, ' I said, 'but I have an idea he is always in luck. Iwas sure I should have to offer him the second berth in my room. '

'And you wouldn't have enjoyed that, because you don't like him, ' Mrs. Nettlepoint took upon herself to say. 

'What put that into your head?'

'It isn't in my head--it's in my heart, my _coeur de mère_. We guessthose things. You think he's selfish--I could see it last night. '

'Dear lady, ' I said, 'I have no general ideas about him at all. He isjust one of the phenomena I am going to observe. He seems to me a veryfine young man. However, ' I added, 'since you have mentioned last nightI will admit that I thought he rather tantalised you. He played withyour suspense. '

'Why, he came at the last just to please me, ' said Mrs. Nettlepoint. 

I was silent a moment. 'Are you sure it was for your sake?'

'Ah, perhaps it was for yours!'

'When he went out on the balcony with that girl perhaps she asked him tocome, ' I continued. 

'Perhaps she did. But why should he do everything she asks him?'

'I don't know yet, but perhaps I shall know later. Not that he will tellme--for he will never tell me anything: he is not one of those whotell. '

'If she didn't ask him, what you say is a great wrong to her, ' said Mrs. Nettlepoint. 

'Yes, if she didn't. But you say that to protect Jasper, not to protecther, ' I continued, smiling. 

'You _are_ cold-blooded--it's uncanny!' my companion exclaimed. 

'Ah, this is nothing yet! Wait a while--you'll see. At sea in generalI'm awful--I pass the limits. If I have outraged her in thought I willjump overboard. There are ways of asking (a man doesn't need to tell awoman that) without the crude words. '

'I don't know what you suppose between them, ' said Mrs. Nettlepoint. 

'Nothing but what was visible on the surface. It transpired, as thenewspapers say, that they were old friends. '

'He met her at some promiscuous party--I asked him about it afterwards. She is not a person he could ever think of seriously. '

'That's exactly what I believe. '

'You don't observe--you imagine, ' Mrs. Nettlepoint pursued. ' How do youreconcile her laying a trap for Jasper with her going out to Liverpoolon an errand of love?'

'I don't for an instant suppose she laid a trap; I believe she acted onthe impulse of the moment. She is going out to Liverpool on an errand ofmarriage; that is not necessarily the same thing as an errand of love, especially for one who happens to have had a personal impression of thegentleman she is engaged to. '

'Well, there are certain decencies which in such a situation the mostabandoned of her sex would still observe. You apparently judge hercapable--on no evidence--of violating them. '

'Ah, you don't understand the shades of things, ' I rejoined. 'Decenciesand violations--there is no need for such heavy artillery! I canperfectly imagine that without the least immodesty she should have saidto Jasper on the balcony, in fact if not in words--"I'm in dreadfulspirits, but if you come I shall feel better, and that will be pleasantfor you too. "'

'And why is she in dreadful spirits?'

'She isn't!' I replied, laughing. 

'What is she doing?'

'She is walking with your son. '

Mrs. Nettlepoint said nothing for a moment; then she broke out, inconsequently--'Ah, she's horrid!'

'No, she's charming!' I protested. 

'You mean she's "curious"?'

'Well, for me it's the same thing!'

This led my friend of course to declare once more that I wascold-blooded. On the afternoon of the morrow we had another talk, andshe told me that in the morning Miss Mavis had paid her a long visit. She knew nothing about anything, but her intentions were good and shewas evidently in her own eyes conscientious and decorous. And Mrs. Nettlepoint concluded these remarks with the exclamation 'Poor youngthing!'

'You think she is a good deal to be pitied, then?'

'Well, her story sounds dreary--she told me a great deal of it. She fellto talking little by little and went from one thing to another. She's inthat situation when a girl _must_ open herself--to some woman. '

'Hasn't she got Jasper?' I inquired. 

'He isn't a woman. You strike me as jealous of him, ' my companion added. 

'I daresay _he_ thinks so--or will before the end. Ah no--ah no!' And Iasked Mrs. Nettlepoint if our young lady struck her as a flirt. She gaveme no answer, but went on to remark that it was odd and interesting toher to see the way a girl like Grace Mavis resembled the girls of thekind she herself knew better, the girls of 'society, ' at the same timethat she differed from them; and the way the differences andresemblances were mixed up, so that on certain questions you couldn'ttell where you would find her. You would think she would feel as you didbecause you had found her feeling so, and then suddenly, in regard tosome other matter (which was yet quite the same) she would be terriblywanting. Mrs. Nettlepoint proceeded to observe (to such idlespeculations does the vanity of a sea-voyage give encouragement) thatshe wondered whether it were better to be an ordinary girl very wellbrought up or an extraordinary girl not brought up at all. 

'Oh, I go in for the extraordinary girl under all circumstances. '

'It is true that if you are _very_ well brought up you are notordinary, ' said Mrs. Nettlepoint, smelling her strong salts. 'You are alady, at any rate. _C'est toujours ça. _'

'And Miss Mavis isn't one--is that what you mean?'

'Well--you have seen her mother. '

'Yes, but I think your contention would be that among such people themother doesn't count. '

'Precisely; and that's bad. '

'I see what you mean. But isn't it rather hard? If your mother doesn'tknow anything it is better you should be independent of her, and yet ifyou are that constitutes a bad note. ' I added that Mrs. Mavis hadappeared to count sufficiently two nights before. She had said and doneeverything she wanted, while the girl sat silent and respectful. Grace'sattitude (so far as her mother was concerned) had been eminently decent. 

'Yes, but she couldn't bear it, ' said Mrs. Nettlepoint. 

'Ah, if you know it I may confess that she has told me as much. '

Mrs. Nettlepoint stared. 'Told you? There's one of the things they do!'

'Well, it was only a word. Won't you let me know whether you think she'sa flirt?'

'Find out for yourself, since you pretend to study folks. '

'Oh, your judgment would probably not at all determine mine. It's inregard to yourself that I ask it. '

'In regard to myself?'

'To see the length of maternal immorality. '

Mrs. Nettlepoint continued to repeat my words. 'Maternal immorality?'

'You desire your son to have every possible distraction on his voyage, and if you can make up your mind in the sense I refer to that will makeit all right. He will have no responsibility. '

'Heavens, how you analyse! I haven't in the least your passion formaking up my mind. '

'Then if you chance it you'll be more immoral still. '

'Your reasoning is strange, ' said the poor lady; 'when it was you whotried to put it into my head yesterday that she had asked him to come. '

'Yes, but in good faith. '

'How do you mean in good faith?'

'Why, as girls of that sort do. Their allowance and measure in suchmatters is much larger than that of young ladies who have been, as yousay, _very_ well brought up; and yet I am not sure that on the whole Idon't think them the more innocent. Miss Mavis is engaged, and she's tobe married next week, but it's an old, old story, and there's no moreromance in it than if she were going to be photographed. So her usuallife goes on, and her usual life consists (and that of ces demoisellesin general) in having plenty of gentlemen's society. Having it I meanwithout having any harm from it. '

'Well, if there is no harm from it what are you talking about and whyam I immoral?'

I hesitated, laughing. 'I retract--you are sane and clear. I am sure shethinks there won't be any harm, ' I added. 'That's the great point. '

'The great point?'

'I mean, to be settled. '

'Mercy, we are not trying them! How can _we_ settle it?'

'I mean of course in our minds. There will be nothing more interestingfor the next ten days for our minds to exercise themselves upon. '

'They will get very tired of it, ' said Mrs. Nettlepoint. 

'No, no, because the interest will increase and the plot will thicken. It can't help it. ' She looked at me as if she thought me slightlyMephistophelean, and I went on--'So she told you everything in her lifewas dreary?'

'Not everything but most things. And she didn't tell me so much as Iguessed it. She'll tell me more the next time. She will behave properlynow about coming in to see me; I told her she ought to. '

'I am glad of that, ' I said. 'Keep her with you as much as possible. '

'I don't follow you much, ' Mrs. Nettlepoint replied, 'but so far as I doI don't think your remarks are in very good taste. '

'I'm too excited, I lose my head, cold-blooded as you think me. Doesn'tshe like Mr. Porterfield?'

'Yes, that's the worst of it. '

'The worst of it?'

'He's so good--there's no fault to be found with him. Otherwise shewould have thrown it all up. It has dragged on since she was eighteen:she became engaged to him before he went abroad to study. It was one ofthose childish muddles which parents in America might prevent so muchmore than they do. The thing is to insist on one's daughter's waiting, on the engagement's being long; and then after you have got that startedto take it on every occasion as little seriously as possible--to make itdie out. You can easily tire it out. However, Mr. Porterfield has takenit seriously for some years. He has done his part to keep it alive. Shesays he adores her. '

'His part? Surely his part would have been to marry her by this time. '

'He has absolutely no money. '

'He ought to have got some, in seven years. '

'So I think she thinks. There are some sorts of poverty that arecontemptible. But he has a little more now. That's why he won't wait anylonger. His mother has come out, she has something--a little--and she isable to help him. She will live with them and bear some of the expenses, and after her death the son will have what there is. '

'How old is she?' I asked, cynically. 

'I haven't the least idea. But it doesn't sound very inspiring. He hasnot been to America since he first went out. '

'That's an odd way of adoring her. '

'I made that objection mentally, but I didn't express it to her. She metit indeed a little by telling me that he had had other chances tomarry. '

'That surprises me, ' I remarked. 'And did she say that _she_ had had?'

'No, and that's one of the things I thought nice in her; for she musthave had. She didn't try to make out that he had spoiled her life. Shehas three other sisters and there is very little money at home. She hastried to make money; she has written little things and painted littlethings, but her talent is apparently not in that direction. Her fatherhas had a long illness and has lost his place--he was in receipt of asalary in connection with some waterworks--and one of her sisters haslately become a widow, with children and without means. And so as infact she never has married any one else, whatever opportunities she mayhave encountered, she appears to have just made up her mind to go out toMr. Porterfield as the least of her evils. But it isn't very amusing. '

'That only makes it the more honourable. She will go through with it, whatever it costs, rather than disappoint him after he has waited solong. It is true, ' I continued, 'that when a woman acts from a sense ofhonour----'

'Well, when she does?' said Mrs. Nettlepoint, for I hesitatedperceptibly. 

'It is so extravagant a course that some one has to pay for it. '

'You are very impertinent. We all have to pay for each other, all thewhile; and for each other's virtues as well as vices. '

'That's precisely why I shall be sorry for Mr. Porterfield when shesteps off the ship with her little bill. I mean with her teethclenched. '

'Her teeth are not in the least clenched. She is in perfectgood-humour. '

'Well, we must try and keep her so, ' I said. 'You must take care thatJasper neglects nothing. '

I know not what reflection this innocent pleasantry of mine provoked onthe good lady's part; the upshot of them at all events was to make hersay--'Well, I never asked her to come; I'm very glad of that. It is alltheir own doing. '

'Their own--you mean Jasper's and hers?'

'No indeed. I mean her mother's and Mrs. Allen's; the girl's too ofcourse. They put themselves upon us. '

'Oh yes, I can testify to that. Therefore I'm glad too. We should havemissed it, I think. '

'How seriously you take it!' Mrs. Nettlepoint exclaimed. 

'Ah, wait a few days!' I replied, getting up to leave her. 

III

The _Patagonia_ was slow, but she was spacious and comfortable, andthere was a kind of motherly decency in her long, nursing rock and herrustling, old-fashioned gait. It was as if she wished not to presentherself in port with the splashed eagerness of a young creature. We werenot numerous enough to squeeze each other and yet we were not too few toentertain--with that familiarity and relief which figures and objectsacquire on the great bare field of the ocean, beneath the great brightglass of the sky. I had never liked the sea so much before, indeed I hadnever liked it at all; but now I had a revelation of how, in a midsummermood, it could please. It was darkly and magnificently blue andimperturbably quiet--save for the great regular swell of itsheart-beats, the pulse of its life, and there grew to be something soagreeable in the sense of floating there in infinite isolation andleisure that it was a positive satisfaction the _Patagonia_ was not aracer. One had never thought of the sea as the great place of safety, but now it came over one that there is no place so safe from the land. When it does not give you trouble it takes it away--takes away lettersand telegrams and newspapers and visits and duties and efforts, all thecomplications, all the superfluities and superstitions that we havestuffed into our terrene life. The simple absence of the post, when theparticular conditions enable you to enjoy the great fact by which it isproduced, becomes in itself a kind of bliss, and the clean stage of thedeck shows you a play that amuses, the personal drama of the voyage, themovement and interaction, in the strong sea-light, of figures that endby representing something--something moreover of which the interest isnever, even in its keenness, too great to suffer you to go to sleep. I, at any rate, dozed a great deal, lying on my rug with a French novel, and when I opened my eyes I generally saw Jasper Nettlepoint passingwith his mother's _protégée_ on his arm. Somehow at these moments, between sleeping and waking, I had an inconsequent sense that they werea part of the French novel. Perhaps this was because I had fallen intothe trick, at the start, of regarding Grace Mavis almost as a marriedwoman, which, as every one knows, is the necessary status of the heroineof such a work. Every revolution of our engine at any rate wouldcontribute to the effect of making her one. 

In the saloon, at meals, my neighbour on the right was a certain littleMrs. Peck, a very short and very round person whose head was envelopedin a 'cloud' (a cloud of dirty white wool) and who promptly let me knowthat she was going to Europe for the education of her children. I hadalready perceived (an hour after we left the dock) that some energeticstep was required in their interest, but as we were not in Europe yetthe business could not be said to have begun. The four little Pecks, inthe enjoyment of untrammelled leisure, swarmed about the ship as ifthey had been pirates boarding her, and their mother was as powerless tocheck their license as if she had been gagged and stowed away in thehold. They were especially to be trusted to run between the legs of thestewards when these attendants arrived with bowls of soup for thelanguid ladies. Their mother was too busy recounting to herfellow-passengers how many years Miss Mavis had been engaged. In theblank of a marine existence things that are nobody's business very soonbecome everybody's, and this was just one of those facts that arepropagated with a mysterious and ridiculous rapidity. The whisper thatcarries them is very small, in the great scale of things, of air andspace and progress, but it is also very safe, for there is nocompression, no sounding-board, to make speakers responsible. And thenrepetition at sea is somehow not repetition; monotony is in the air, themind is flat and everything recurs--the bells, the meals, the stewards'faces, the romp of children, the walk, the clothes, the very shoes andbuttons of passengers taking their exercise. These things grow at lastso insipid that, in comparison, revelations as to the personal historyof one's companions have a taste, even when one cares little about thepeople. 

Jasper Nettlepoint sat on my left hand when he was not upstairs seeingthat Miss Mavis had her repast comfortably on deck. His mother's placewould have been next mine had she shown herself, and then that of theyoung lady under her care. The two ladies, in other words, would havebeen between us, Jasper marking the limit of the party on that side. Miss Mavis was present at luncheon the first day, but dinner passedwithout her coming in, and when it was half over Jasper remarked that hewould go up and look after her. 

'Isn't that young lady coming--the one who was here to lunch?' Mrs. Peckasked of me as he left the saloon. 

'Apparently not. My friend tells me she doesn't like the saloon. '

'You don't mean to say she's sick, do you?'

'Oh no, not in this weather. But she likes to be above. '

'And is that gentleman gone up to her?'

'Yes, she's under his mother's care. '

'And is his mother up there, too?' asked Mrs. Peck, whose processes werehomely and direct. 

'No, she remains in her cabin. People have different tastes. Perhapsthat's one reason why Miss Mavis doesn't come to table, ' I added--'herchaperon not being able to accompany her. '

'Her chaperon?'

'Mrs. Nettlepoint--the lady under whose protection she is. '

'Protection?' Mrs. Peck stared at me a moment, moving some valued morselin her mouth; then she exclaimed, familiarly, 'Pshaw!' I was struck withthis and I was on the point of asking her what she meant by it when shecontinued: 'Are we not going to see Mrs. Nettlepoint?'

'I am afraid not. She vows that she won't stir from her sofa. '

'Pshaw!' said Mrs. Peck again. 'That's quite a disappointment. '

'Do you know her then?'

'No, but I know all about her. ' Then my companion added--'You don'tmeant to say she's any relation?'

'Do you mean to me?'

'No, to Grace Mavis. '

'None at all. They are very new friends, as I happen to know. Then youare acquainted with our young lady?' I had not noticed that anyrecognition passed between them at luncheon. 

'Is she yours too?' asked Mrs. Peck, smiling at me. 

'Ah, when people are in the same boat--literally--they belong a littleto each other. '

'That's so, ' said Mrs. Peck. 'I don't know Miss Mavis but I know allabout her--I live opposite to her on Merrimac Avenue. I don't knowwhether you know that part. '

'Oh yes--it's very beautiful. '

The consequence of this remark was another 'Pshaw!' But Mrs. Peck wenton--'When you've lived opposite to people like that for a long time youfeel as if you were acquainted. But she didn't take it up to-day; shedidn't speak to me. She knows who I am as well as she knows her ownmother. '

'You had better speak to her first--she's shy, ' I remarked. 

'Shy? Why she's nearly thirty years old. I suppose you know where she'sgoing. '

'Oh yes--we all take an interest in that. '

'That young man, I suppose, particularly. '

'That young man?'

'The handsome one, who sits there. Didn't you tell me he is Mrs. Nettlepoint's son?'

'Oh yes; he acts as her deputy. No doubt he does all he can to carry outher function. '

Mrs. Peck was silent a moment. I had spoken jocosely, but she receivedmy pleasantry with a serious face. 'Well, she might let him eat hisdinner in peace!' she presently exclaimed. 

'Oh, he'll come back!' I said, glancing at his place. The repastcontinued and when it was finished I screwed my chair round to leave thetable. Mrs. Peck performed the same movement and we quitted the saloontogether. Outside of it was a kind of vestibule, with several seats, from which you could descend to the lower cabins or mount to thepromenade-deck. Mrs. Peck appeared to hesitate as to her course and thensolved the problem by going neither way. She dropped upon one of thebenches and looked up at me. 

'I thought you said he would come back. '

'Young Nettlepoint? I see he didn't. Miss Mavis then has given him halfof her dinner. '

'It's very kind of her! She has been engaged for ages. '

'Yes, but that will soon be over. '

'So I suppose--as quick as we land. Every one knows it on MerrimacAvenue. Every one there takes a great interest in it. '

'Ah, of course, a girl like that: she has many friends. '

'I mean even people who don't know her. '

'I see, ' I went on: 'she is so handsome that she attracts attention, people enter into her affairs. '

'She _used_ to be pretty, but I can't say I think she's anythingremarkable to-day. Anyhow, if she attracts attention she ought to be allthe more careful what she does. You had better tell her that. '

'Oh, it's none of my business!' I replied, leaving Mrs. Peck and goingabove. The exclamation, I confess, was not perfectly in accordance withmy feeling, or rather my feeling was not perfectly in harmony with theexclamation. The very first thing I did on reaching the deck was tonotice that Miss Mavis was pacing it on Jasper Nettlepoint's arm andthat whatever beauty she might have lost, according to Mrs. Peck'sinsinuation, she still kept enough to make one's eyes follow her. Shehad put on a sort of crimson hood, which was very becoming to her andwhich she wore for the rest of the voyage. She walked very well, withlong steps, and I remember that at this moment the ocean had a gentleevening swell which made the great ship dip slowly, rhythmically, givinga movement that was graceful to graceful pedestrians and a more awkwardone to the awkward. It was the loveliest hour of a fine day, the clearearly evening, with the glow of the sunset in the air and a purplecolour in the sea. I always thought that the waters ploughed by theHomeric heroes must have looked like that. I perceived on thatparticular occasion moreover that Grace Mavis would for the rest of thevoyage be the most visible thing on the ship; the figure that wouldcount most in the composition of groups. She couldn't help it, poorgirl; nature had made her conspicuous--important, as the painters say. She paid for it by the exposure it brought with it--the danger thatpeople would, as I had said to Mrs. Peck, enter into her affairs. 

Jasper Nettlepoint went down at certain times to see his mother, and Iwatched for one of these occasions (on the third day out) and tookadvantage of it to go and sit by Miss Mavis. She wore a blue veil drawntightly over her face, so that if the smile with which she greeted mewas dim I could account for it partly by that. 

'Well, we are getting on--we are getting on, ' I said, cheerfully, looking at the friendly, twinkling sea. 

'Are we going very fast?'

'Not fast, but steadily. _Ohne Hast, ohne Rast_--do you know German?'

'Well, I've studied it--some. '

'It will be useful to you over there when you travel. '

'Well yes, if we do. But I don't suppose we shall much. Mr. Nettlepointsays we ought, ' my interlocutress added in a moment. 

'Ah, of course _he_ thinks so. He has been all over the world. '

'Yes, he has described some of the places. That's what I should like. Ididn't know I should like it so much. '

'Like what so much?'

'Going on this way. I could go on for ever, for ever and ever. '

'Ah, you know it's not always like this, ' I rejoined. 

'Well, it's better than Boston. '

'It isn't so good as Paris, ' I said, smiling. 

'Oh, I know all about Paris. There is no freshness in that. I feel as ifI had been there. '

'You mean you have heard so much about it?'

'Oh yes, nothing else for ten years. '

I had come to talk with Miss Mavis because she was attractive, but I hadbeen rather conscious of the absence of a good topic, not feeling atliberty to revert to Mr. Porterfield. She had not encouraged me, when Ispoke to her as we were leaving Boston, to go on with the history of myacquaintance with this gentleman; and yet now, unexpectedly, sheappeared to imply (it was doubtless one of the disparities mentioned byMrs. Nettlepoint) that he might be glanced at without indelicacy. 

'I see, you mean by letters, ' I remarked. 

'I shan't live in a good part. I know enough to know that, ' she went on. 

'Dear young lady, there are no bad parts, ' I answered, reassuringly. 

'Why, Mr. Nettlepoint says it's horrid. '

'It's horrid?'

'Up there in the Batignolles. It's worse than Merrimac Avenue. '

'Worse--in what way?'

'Why, even less where the nice people live. '

'He oughtn't to say that, ' I returned. 'Don't you call Mr. Porterfield anice person?' I ventured to subjoin. 

'Oh, it doesn't make any difference. ' She rested her eyes on me a momentthrough her veil, the texture of which gave them a suffused prettiness. 'Do you know him very well?' she asked. 

'Mr. Porterfield?'

'No, Mr. Nettlepoint. '

'Ah, very little. He's a good deal younger than I. '

She was silent a moment; after which she said: 'He's younger than me, too. ' I know not what drollery there was in this but it was unexpectedand it made me laugh. Neither do I know whether Miss Mavis took offenceat my laughter, though I remember thinking at the moment withcompunction that it had brought a certain colour to her cheek. At allevents she got up, gathering her shawl and her books into her arm. 'I'mgoing down--I'm tired. '

'Tired of me, I'm afraid. '

'No, not yet. '

'I'm like you, ' I pursued. 'I should like it to go on and on. '

She had begun to walk along the deck to the companion-way and I wentwith her. 'Oh, no, I shouldn't, after all!'

I had taken her shawl from her to carry it, but at the top of the stepsthat led down to the cabins I had to give it back. 'Your mother would beglad if she could know, ' I observed as we parted. 

'If she could know?'

'How well you are getting on. And that good Mrs. Allen. '

'Oh, mother, mother! She made me come, she pushed me off. ' And almost asif not to say more she went quickly below. 

I paid Mrs. Nettlepoint a morning visit after luncheon and another inthe evening, before she 'turned in. ' That same day, in the evening, shesaid to me suddenly, 'Do you know what I have done? I have askedJasper. '

'Asked him what?'

'Why, if _she_ asked him, you know. '

'I don't understand. '

'You do perfectly. If that girl really asked him--on the balcony--tosail with us. '

'My dear friend, do you suppose that if she did he would tell you?'

'That's just what he says. But he says she didn't. '

'And do you consider the statement valuable?' I asked, laughing out. 'You had better ask Miss Gracie herself. '

Mrs. Nettlepoint stared. 'I couldn't do that. '

'Incomparable friend, I am only joking. What does it signify now?'

'I thought you thought everything signified. You were so full ofsignification!'

'Yes, but we are farther out now, and somehow in mid-ocean everythingbecomes absolute. '

'What else _can_ he do with decency?' Mrs. Nettlepoint went on. 'If, asmy son, he were never to speak to her it would be very rude and youwould think that stranger still. Then _you_ would do what he does, andwhere would be the difference?'

'How do you know what he does? I haven't mentioned him for twenty-fourhours. '

'Why, she told me herself: she came in this afternoon. '

'What an odd thing to tell you!' I exclaimed. 

'Not as she says it. She says he's full of attention, perfectlydevoted--looks after her all the while. She seems to want me to know it, so that I may commend him for it. '

'That's charming; it shows her good conscience. '

'Yes, or her great cleverness. '

Something in the tone in which Mrs. Nettlepoint said this caused me toexclaim in real surprise, 'Why, what do you suppose she has in hermind?'

'To get hold of him, to make him go so far that he can't retreat, tomarry him, perhaps. '

'To marry him? And what will she do with Mr. Porterfield?'

'She'll ask me just to explain to him--or perhaps you. '

'Yes, as an old friend!' I replied, laughing. But I asked moreseriously, 'Do you see Jasper caught like that?'

'Well, he's only a boy--he's younger at least than she. '

'Precisely; she regards him as a child. '

'As a child?'

'She remarked to me herself to-day that he is so much younger. '

Mrs. Nettlepoint stared. 'Does she talk of it with you? That shows shehas a plan, that she has thought it over!'

I have sufficiently betrayed that I deemed Grace Mavis a singular girl, but I was far from judging her capable of laying a trap for our youngcompanion. Moreover my reading of Jasper was not in the least that hewas catchable--could be made to do a thing if he didn't want to do it. Of course it was not impossible that he might be inclined, that he mighttake it (or already have taken it) into his head to marry Miss Mavis;but to believe this I should require still more proof than his alwaysbeing with her. He wanted at most to marry her for the voyage. 'If youhave questioned him perhaps you have tried to make him feelresponsible, ' I said to his mother. 

'A little, but it's very difficult. Interference makes him perverse. Onehas to go gently. Besides, it's too absurd--think of her age. If shecan't take care of herself!' cried Mrs. Nettlepoint. 

'Yes, let us keep thinking of her age, though it's not so prodigious. And if things get very bad you have one resource left, ' I added. 

'What is that?'

'You can go upstairs. '

'Ah, never, never! If it takes that to save her she must be lost. Besides, what good would it do? If I were to go up she could come downhere. '

'Yes, but you could keep Jasper with you. '

'Could I?' Mrs. Nettlepoint demanded, in the manner of a woman who knewher son. 

In the saloon the next day, after dinner, over the red cloth of thetables, beneath the swinging lamps and the racks of tumblers, decantersand wine-glasses, we sat down to whist, Mrs. Peck, among others, takinga hand in the game. She played very badly and talked too much, and whenthe rubber was over assuaged her discomfiture (though not mine--we hadbeen partners) with a Welsh rabbit and a tumbler of something hot. Wehad done with the cards, but while she waited for this refreshment shesat with her elbows on the table shuffling a pack. 

'She hasn't spoken to me yet--she won't do it, ' she remarked in amoment. 

'Is it possible there is any one on the ship who hasn't spoken to you?'

'Not that girl--she knows too well!' Mrs. Peck looked round our littlecircle with a smile of intelligence--she had familiar, communicativeeyes. Several of our company had assembled, according to the wont, thelast thing in the evening, of those who are cheerful at sea, for theconsumption of grilled sardines and devilled bones. 

'What then does she know?'

'Oh, she knows that I know. '

'Well, we know what Mrs. Peck knows, ' one of the ladies of the groupobserved to me, with an air of privilege. 

'Well, you wouldn't know if I hadn't told you--from the way she acts, 'said Mrs. Peck, with a small laugh. 

'She is going out to a gentleman who lives over there--he's waitingthere to marry her, ' the other lady went on, in the tone of authenticinformation. I remember that her name was Mrs. Gotch and that her mouthlooked always as if she were whistling. 

'Oh, he knows--I've told him, ' said Mrs. Peck. 

'Well, I presume every one knows, ' Mrs. Gotch reflected. 

'Dear madam, is it every one's business?' I asked. 

'Why, don't you think it's a peculiar way to act?' Mrs. Gotch wasevidently surprised at my little protest. 

'Why, it's right there--straight in front of you, like a play at thetheatre--as if you had paid to see it, ' said Mrs. Peck. 'If you don'tcall it public----!'

'Aren't you mixing things up? What do you call public?'

'Why, the way they go on. They are up there now. '

'They cuddle up there half the night, ' said Mrs. Gotch. 'I don't knowwhen they come down. Any hour you like--when all the lights are out theyare up there still. '

'Oh, you can't tire them out. They don't want relief--like the watch!'laughed one of the gentlemen. 

'Well, if they enjoy each other's society what's the harm?' anotherasked. 'They'd do just the same on land. '

'They wouldn't do it on the public streets, I suppose, ' said Mrs. Peck. 'And they wouldn't do it if Mr. Porterfield was round!'

'Isn't that just where your confusion comes in?' I inquired. 'It'spublic enough that Miss Mavis and Mr. Nettlepoint are always together, but it isn't in the least public that she is going to be married. '

'Why, how can you say--when the very sailors know it! The captain knowsit and all the officers know it; they see them there--especially atnight, when they're sailing the ship. '

'I thought there was some rule----' said Mrs. Gotch. 

'Well, there is--that you've got to behave yourself, ' Mrs. Peckrejoined. 'So the captain told me--he said they have some rule. He saidthey have to have, when people are too demonstrative. '

'Too demonstrative?'

'When they attract so much attention. '

'Ah, it's we who attract the attention--by talking about what doesn'tconcern us and about what we really don't know, ' I ventured to declare. 

'She said the captain said he would tell on her as soon as we arrive, 'Mrs. Gotch interposed. 

'_She_ said----?' I repeated, bewildered. 

'Well, he did say so, that he would think it his duty to inform Mr. Porterfield, when he comes on to meet her--if they keep it up in thesame way, ' said Mrs. Peck. 

'Oh, they'll keep it up, don't you fear!' one of the gentlemenexclaimed. 

'Dear madam, the captain is laughing at you. '

'No, he ain't--he's right down scandalised. He says he regards us allas a real family and wants the family to be properly behaved. ' I couldsee Mrs. Peck was irritated by my controversial tone: she challenged mewith considerable spirit. 'How can you say I don't know it when all thestreet knows it and has known it for years--for years and years?' Shespoke as if the girl had been engaged at least for twenty. 'What is shegoing out for, if not to marry him?'

'Perhaps she is going to see how he looks, ' suggested one of thegentlemen. 

'He'd look queer--if he knew. '

'Well, I guess he'll know, ' said Mrs. Gotch. 

'She'd tell him herself--she wouldn't be afraid, ' the gentleman went on. 

'Well, she might as well kill him. He'll jump overboard. '

'Jump overboard?' cried Mrs. Gotch, as if she hoped then that Mr. Porterfield would be told. 

'He has just been waiting for this--for years, ' said Mrs. Peck. 

'Do you happen to know him?' I inquired. 

Mrs. Peck hesitated a moment. 'No, but I know a lady who does. Are yougoing up?'

I had risen from my place--I had not ordered supper. 'I'm going to takea turn before going to bed. '

'Well then, you'll see!'

Outside the saloon I hesitated, for Mrs. Peck's admonition made me feelfor a moment that if I ascended to the deck I should have entered in amanner into her little conspiracy. But the night was so warm andsplendid that I had been intending to smoke a cigar in the air beforegoing below, and I did not see why I should deprive myself of thispleasure in order to seem not to mind Mrs. Peck. I went up and saw a fewfigures sitting or moving about in the darkness. The ocean looked blackand small, as it is apt to do at night, and the long mass of the ship, with its vague dim wings, seemed to take up a great part of it. Therewere more stars than one saw on land and the heavens struck one morethan ever as larger than the earth. Grace Mavis and her companion werenot, so far as I perceived at first, among the few passengers who werelingering late, and I was glad, because I hated to hear her talked aboutin the manner of the gossips I had left at supper. I wished there hadbeen some way to prevent it, but I could think of no way but torecommend her privately to change her habits. That would be a verydelicate business, and perhaps it would be better to begin with Jasper, though that would be delicate too. At any rate one might let him know, in a friendly spirit, to how much remark he exposed the younglady--leaving this revelation to work its way upon him. Unfortunately Icould not altogether believe that the pair were unconscious of theobservation and the opinion of the passengers. They were not a boy and agirl; they had a certain social perspective in their eye. I was not veryclear as to the details of that behaviour which had made them (accordingto the version of my good friends in the saloon) a scandal to the ship, for though I looked at them a good deal I evidently had not looked atthem so continuously and so hungrily as Mrs. Peck. Nevertheless theprobability was that they knew what was thought of them--what naturallywould be--and simply didn't care. That made Miss Mavis out rathercynical and even a little immodest; and yet, somehow, if she had suchqualities I did not dislike her for them. I don't know what strange, secret excuses I found for her. I presently indeed encountered a needfor them on the spot, for just as I was on the point of going belowagain, after several restless turns and (within the limit where smokingwas allowed) as many puffs at a cigar as I cared for, I became awarethat a couple of figures were seated behind one of the lifeboats thatrested on the deck. They were so placed as to be visible only to aperson going close to the rail and peering a little sidewise. I don'tthink I peered, but as I stood a moment beside the rail my eye wasattracted by a dusky object which protruded beyond the boat and which, as I saw at a second glance, was the tail of a lady's dress. I bentforward an instant, but even then I saw very little more; that scarcelymattered, however, for I took for granted on the spot that the personsconcealed in so snug a corner were Jasper Nettlepoint and Mr. Porterfield's intended. Concealed was the word, and I thought it a realpity; there was bad taste in it. I immediately turned away and the nextmoment I found myself face to face with the captain of the ship. I hadalready had some conversation with him (he had been so good as to inviteme, as he had invited Mrs. Nettlepoint and her son and the young ladytravelling with them, and also Mrs. Peck, to sit at his table) and hadobserved with pleasure that he had the art, not universal on theAtlantic liners, of mingling urbanity with seamanship. 

'They don't waste much time--your friends in there, ' he said, noddingin the direction in which he had seen me looking. 

'Ah well, they haven't much to lose. '

'That's what I mean. I'm told _she_ hasn't. '

I wanted to say something exculpatory but I scarcely knew what note tostrike. I could only look vaguely about me at the starry darkness andthe sea that seemed to sleep. 'Well, with these splendid nights, thisperfection of weather, people are beguiled into late hours. '

'Yes. We want a nice little blow, ' the captain said. 

'A nice little blow?'

'That would clear the decks!'

The captain was rather dry and he went about his business. He had mademe uneasy and instead of going below I walked a few steps more. Theother walkers dropped off pair by pair (they were all men) till at lastI was alone. Then, after a little, I quitted the field. Jasper and hiscompanion were still behind their lifeboat. Personally I greatlypreferred good weather, but as I went down I found myself vaguelywishing, in the interest of I scarcely knew what, unless of decorum, that we might have half a gale. 

Miss Mavis turned out, in sea-phrase, early; for the next morning I sawher come up only a little while after I had finished my breakfast, aceremony over which I contrived not to dawdle. She was alone and JasperNettlepoint, by a rare accident, was not on deck to help her. I went tomeet her (she was encumbered as usual with her shawl, her sun-umbrellaand a book) and laid my hands on her chair, placing it near the stern ofthe ship, where she liked best to be. But I proposed to her to walk alittle before she sat down and she took my arm after I had put heraccessories into the chair. The deck was clear at that hour and themorning light was gay; one got a sort of exhilarated impression of fairconditions and an absence of hindrance. I forget what we spoke of first, but it was because I felt these things pleasantly, and not to torment mycompanion nor to test her, that I could not help exclaiming cheerfully, after a moment, as I have mentioned having done the first day, 'Well, weare getting on, we are getting on!'

'Oh yes, I count every hour. '

'The last days always go quicker, ' I said, 'and the last hours----'

'Well, the last hours?' she asked; for I had instinctively checkedmyself. 

'Oh, one is so glad then that it is almost the same as if one hadarrived. But we ought to be grateful when the elements have been so kindto us, ' I added. 'I hope you will have enjoyed the voyage. '

She hesitated a moment, then she said, 'Yes, much more than I expected. '

'Did you think it would be very bad?'

'Horrible, horrible!'

The tone of these words was strange but I had not much time to reflectupon it, for turning round at that moment I saw Jasper Nettlepoint cometowards us. He was separated from us by the expanse of the white deckand I could not help looking at him from head to foot as he drew nearer. I know not what rendered me on this occasion particularly sensitive tothe impression, but it seemed to me that I saw him as I had never seenhim before--saw him inside and out, in the intense sea-light, in hispersonal, his moral totality. It was a quick, vivid revelation; if itonly lasted a moment it had a simplifying, certifying effect. He wasintrinsically a pleasing apparition, with his handsome young face and acertain absence of compromise in his personal arrangements which, morethan any one I have ever seen, he managed to exhibit on shipboard. Hehad none of the appearance of wearing out old clothes that usuallyprevails there, but dressed straight, as I heard some one say. This gavehim a practical, successful air, as of a young man who would come bestout of any predicament. I expected to feel my companion's hand loosenitself on my arm, as indication that now she must go to him, and wasalmost surprised she did not drop me. We stopped as we met and Jasperbade us a friendly good-morning. Of course the remark was not slow to bemade that we had another lovely day, which led him to exclaim, in themanner of one to whom criticism came easily, 'Yes, but with this sort ofthing consider what one of the others would do!'

'One of the other ships?'

'We should be there now, or at any rate to-morrow. '

'Well then, I'm glad it isn't one of the others, ' I said, smiling at theyoung lady on my arm. My remark offered her a chance to say somethingappreciative and gave him one even more; but neither Jasper nor GraceMavis took advantage of the opportunity. What they did do, I perceived, was to look at each other for an instant; after which Miss Mavis turnedher eyes silently to the sea. She made no movement and uttered no word, contriving to give me the sense that she had all at once becomeperfectly passive, that she somehow declined responsibility. We remainedstanding there with Jasper in front of us, and if the touch of her armdid not suggest that I should give her up, neither did it intimate thatwe had better pass on. I had no idea of giving her up, albeit one of thethings that I seemed to discover just then in Jasper's physiognomy wasan imperturbable implication that she was his property. His eye met minefor a moment, and it was exactly as if he had said to me, 'I know whatyou think, but I don't care a rap. ' What I really thought was that hewas selfish beyond the limits: that was the substance of my littlerevelation. Youth is almost always selfish, just as it is almost alwaysconceited, and, after all, when it is combined with health and goodparts, good looks and good spirits, it has a right to be, and I easilyforgive it if it be really youth. Still it is a question of degree, andwhat stuck out of Jasper Nettlepoint (if one felt that sort of thing)was that his egotism had a hardness, his love of his own way an avidity. These elements were jaunty and prosperous, they were accustomed totriumph. He was fond, very fond, of women; they were necessary to himand that was in his type; but he was not in the least in love with GraceMavis. Among the reflections I quickly made this was the one that wasmost to the point. There was a degree of awkwardness, after a minute, inthe way we were planted there, though the apprehension of it wasdoubtless not in the least with him. 

'How is your mother this morning?' I asked. 

'You had better go down and see. '

'Not till Miss Mavis is tired of me. '

She said nothing to this and I made her walk again. For some minutes sheremained silent; then, rather unexpectedly, she began: 'I've seen youtalking to that lady who sits at our table--the one who has so manychildren. '

'Mrs. Peck? Oh yes, I have talked with her. '

'Do you know her very well?'

'Only as one knows people at sea. An acquaintance makes itself. Itdoesn't mean very much. '

'She doesn't speak to me--she might if she wanted. '

'That's just what she says of you--that you might speak to her. '

'Oh, if she's waiting for that----!' said my companion, with a laugh. Then she added--'She lives in our street, nearly opposite. '

'Precisely. That's the reason why she thinks you might speak; she hasseen you so often and seems to know so much about you. '

'What does she know about me?'

'Ah, you must ask her--I can't tell you!'

'I don't care what she knows, ' said my young lady. After a moment shewent on--'She must have seen that I'm not very sociable. ' Andthen--'What are you laughing at?'

My laughter was for an instant irrepressible--there was something sodroll in the way she had said that. 

'Well, you are not sociable and yet you are. Mrs. Peck is, at any rate, and thought that ought to make it easy for you to enter intoconversation with her. '

'Oh, I don't care for her conversation--I know what it amounts to. ' Imade no rejoinder--I scarcely knew what rejoinder to make--and the girlwent on, 'I know what she thinks and I know what she says. ' Still I wassilent, but the next moment I saw that my delicacy had been wasted, forMiss Mavis asked, 'Does she make out that she knows Mr. Porterfield?'

'No, she only says that she knows a lady who knows him. '

'Yes, I know--Mrs. Jeremie. Mrs. Jeremie's an idiot!' I was not in aposition to controvert this, and presently my young lady said she wouldsit down. I left her in her chair--I saw that she preferred it--andwandered to a distance. A few minutes later I met Jasper again, and hestopped of his own accord and said to me--

'We shall be in about six in the evening, on the eleventh day--theypromise it. '

'If nothing happens, of course. '

'Well, what's going to happen?'

'That's just what I'm wondering!' And I turned away and went below withthe foolish but innocent satisfaction of thinking that I had mystifiedhim. 

IV

'I don't know what to do, and you must help me, ' Mrs. Nettlepoint saidto me that evening, as soon as I went in to see her. 

'I'll do what I can--but what's the matter?'

'She has been crying here and going on--she has quite upset me. '

'Crying? She doesn't look like that. '

'Exactly, and that's what startled me. She came in to see me thisafternoon, as she has done before, and we talked about the weather andthe run of the ship and the manners of the stewardess and littlecommonplaces like that, and then suddenly, in the midst of it, as shesat there, _à propos_ of nothing, she burst into tears. I asked her whatailed her and tried to comfort her, but she didn't explain; she onlysaid it was nothing, the effect of the sea, of leaving home. I asked herif it had anything to do with her prospects, with her marriage; whethershe found as that drew near that her heart was not in it; I told herthat she mustn't be nervous, that I could enter into that--in short Isaid what I could. All that she replied was that she _was_ nervous, verynervous, but that it was already over; and then she jumped up and kissedme and went away. Does she look as if she had been crying?' Mrs. Nettlepoint asked. 

'How can I tell, when she never quits that horrid veil? It's as if shewere ashamed to show her face. '

'She's keeping it for Liverpool. But I don't like such incidents, ' saidMrs. Nettlepoint. 'I shall go upstairs. '

'And is that where you want me to help you?'

'Oh, your arm and that sort of thing, yes. But something more. I feel asif something were going to happen. '

'That's exactly what I said to Jasper this morning. '

'And what did he say?'

'He only looked innocent, as if he thought I meant a fog or a storm. '

'Heaven forbid--it isn't that! I shall never be good-natured again, 'Mrs. Nettlepoint went on; 'never have a girl put upon me that way. Youalways pay for it, there are always tiresome complications. What I amafraid of is after we get there. She'll throw up her engagement; therewill be dreadful scenes; I shall be mixed up with them and have to lookafter her and keep her with me. I shall have to stay there with her tillshe can be sent back, or even take her up to London. _Voyez-vous ça?_'

I listened respectfully to this and then I said: 'You are afraid of yourson. '

'Afraid of him?'

'There are things you might say to him--and with your manner; becauseyou have one when you choose. '

'Very likely, but what is my manner to his? Besides, I have saideverything to him. That is I have said the great thing, that he ismaking her immensely talked about. '

'And of course in answer to that he has asked you how you know, and youhave told him I have told you. '

'I had to; and he says it's none of your business. '

'I wish he would say that to my face. '

'He'll do so perfectly, if you give him a chance. That's where you canhelp me. Quarrel with him--he's rather good at a quarrel, and that willdivert him and draw him off. '

'Then I'm ready to discuss the matter with him for the rest of thevoyage. '

'Very well; I count on you. But he'll ask you, as he asks me, what thedeuce you want him to do. '

'To go to bed, ' I replied, laughing. 

'Oh, it isn't a joke. '

'That's exactly what I told you at first. '

'Yes, but don't exult; I hate people who exult. Jasper wants to know whyhe should mind her being talked about if she doesn't mind it herself. '

'I'll tell him why, ' I replied; and Mrs. Nettlepoint said she should beexceedingly obliged to me and repeated that she would come upstairs. 

I looked for Jasper above that same evening, but circumstances did notfavour my quest. I found him--that is I discovered that he was againensconced behind the lifeboat with Miss Mavis; but there was a needlessviolence in breaking into their communion, and I put off our interviewtill the next day. Then I took the first opportunity, at breakfast, tomake sure of it. He was in the saloon when I went in and was preparingto leave the table; but I stopped him and asked if he would give me aquarter of an hour on deck a little later--there was somethingparticular I wanted to say to him. He said, 'Oh yes, if you like, ' withjust a visible surprise, but no look of an uncomfortable consciousness. When I had finished my breakfast I found him smoking on the forward-deckand I immediately began: 'I am going to say something that you won't atall like; to ask you a question that you will think impertinent. '

'Impertinent? that's bad. '

'I am a good deal older than you and I am a friend--of many years--ofyour mother. There's nothing I like less than to be meddlesome, but Ithink these things give me a certain right--a sort of privilege. For therest, my inquiry will speak for itself. '

'Why so many preliminaries?' the young man asked, smiling. 

We looked into each other's eyes a moment. What indeed was his mother'smanner--her best manner--compared with his? 'Are you prepared to beresponsible?'

'To you?'

'Dear no--to the young lady herself. I am speaking of course of MissMavis. '

'Ah yes, my mother tells me you have her greatly on your mind. '

'So has your mother herself--now. '

'She is so good as to say so--to oblige you. '

'She would oblige me a great deal more by reassuring me. I am aware thatyou know I have told her that Miss Mavis is greatly talked about. '

'Yes, but what on earth does it matter?'

'It matters as a sign. '

'A sign of what?'

'That she is in a false position. '

Jasper puffed his cigar, with his eyes on the horizon. 'I don't knowwhether it's _your_ business, what you are attempting to discuss; but itreally appears to me it is none of mine. What have I to do with thetattle with which a pack of old women console themselves for not beingsea-sick?'

'Do you call it tattle that Miss Mavis is in love with you?'

'Drivelling. '

'Then you are very ungrateful. The tattle of a pack of old women hasthis importance, that she suspects or knows that it exists, and thatnice girls are for the most part very sensitive to that sort of thing. To be prepared not to heed it in this case she must have a reason, andthe reason must be the one I have taken the liberty to call yourattention to. '

'In love with me in six days, just like that?' said Jasper, smoking. 

'There is no accounting for tastes, and six days at sea are equivalentto sixty on land. I don't want to make you too proud. Of course if yourecognise your responsibility it's all right and I have nothing to say. '

'I don't see what you mean, ' Jasper went on. 

'Surely you ought to have thought of that by this time. She's engaged tobe married and the gentleman she is engaged to is to meet her atLiverpool. The whole ship knows it (I didn't tell them!) and the wholeship is watching her. It's impertinent if you like, just as I am, but wemake a little world here together and we can't blink its conditions. What I ask you is whether you are prepared to allow her to give up thegentleman I have just mentioned for your sake. '

'For my sake?'

'To marry her if she breaks with him. '

Jasper turned his eyes from the horizon to my own, and I found a strangeexpression in them. 'Has Miss Mavis commissioned you to make thisinquiry?'

'Never in the world. '

'Well then, I don't understand it. '

'It isn't from another I make it. Let it come from yourself--_to_yourself. '

'Lord, you must think I lead myself a life! That's a question the younglady may put to me any moment that it pleases her. '

'Let me then express the hope that she will. But what will you answer?'

'My dear sir, it seems to me that in spite of all the titles you haveenumerated you have no reason to expect I will tell you. ' He turned awayand I exclaimed, sincerely, 'Poor girl!' At this he faced me again and, looking at me from head to foot, demanded: 'What is it you want me todo?'

'I told your mother that you ought to go to bed. '

'You had better do that yourself!'

This time he walked off, and I reflected rather dolefully that the onlyclear result of my experiment would probably have been to make it vividto him that she was in love with him. Mrs. Nettlepoint came up as shehad announced, but the day was half over: it was nearly three o'clock. She was accompanied by her son, who established her on deck, arrangedher chair and her shawls, saw that she was protected from sun and wind, and for an hour was very properly attentive. While this went on GraceMavis was not visible, nor did she reappear during the whole afternoon. I had not observed that she had as yet been absent from the deck for solong a period. Jasper went away, but he came back at intervals to seehow his mother got on, and when she asked him where Miss Mavis was hesaid he had not the least idea. I sat with Mrs. Nettlepoint at herparticular request: she told me she knew that if I left her Mrs. Peckand Mrs. Gotch would come to speak to her. She was flurried and fatiguedat having to make an effort, and I think that Grace Mavis's choosingthis occasion for retirement suggested to her a little that she had beenmade a fool of. She remarked that the girl's not being there showed hercomplete want of breeding and that she was really very good to have putherself out for her so; she was a common creature and that was the endof it. I could see that Mrs. Nettlepoint's advent quickened thespeculative activity of the other ladies; they watched her from theopposite side of the deck, keeping their eyes fixed on her very much asthe man at the wheel kept his on the course of the ship. Mrs. Peckplainly meditated an approach, and it was from this danger that Mrs. Nettlepoint averted her face. 

'It's just as we said, ' she remarked to me as we sat there. 'It is likethe bucket in the well. When I come up that girl goes down. '

'Yes, but you've succeeded, since Jasper remains here. '

'Remains? I don't see him. '

'He comes and goes--it's the same thing. '

'He goes more than he comes. But _n'en parlons plus_; I haven't gainedanything. I don't admire the sea at all--what is it but a magnifiedwater-tank? I shan't come up again. '

'I have an idea she'll stay in her cabin now, ' I said. 'She tells meshe has one to herself. ' Mrs. Nettlepoint replied that she might do asshe liked, and I repeated to her the little conversation I had had withJasper. 

She listened with interest, but 'Marry her? mercy!' she exclaimed. 'Ilike the manner in which you give my son away. '

'You wouldn't accept that. '

'Never in the world. '

'Then I don't understand your position. '

'Good heavens, I have none! It isn't a position to be bored to death. '

'You wouldn't accept it even in the case I put to him--that of herbelieving she had been encouraged to throw over poor Porterfield?'

'Not even--not even. Who knows what she believes?'

'Then you do exactly what I said you would--you show me a fine exampleof maternal immorality. '

'Maternal fiddlesticks! It was she began it. '

'Then why did you come up to-day?'

'To keep you quiet. '

Mrs. Nettlepoint's dinner was served on deck, but I went into thesaloon. Jasper was there but not Grace Mavis, as I had half expected. Iasked him what had become of her, if she were ill (he must have thoughtI had an ignoble pertinacity), and he replied that he knew nothingwhatever about her. Mrs. Peck talked to me about Mrs. Nettlepoint andsaid it had been a great interest to her to see her; only it was a pityshe didn't seem more sociable. To this I replied that she had to beg tobe excused--she was not well. 

'You don't mean to say she's sick, on this pond?'

'No, she's unwell in another way. '

'I guess I know the way!' Mrs. Peck laughed. And then she added, 'Isuppose she came up to look after her charge. '

'Her charge?'

'Why, Miss Mavis. We've talked enough about that. '

'Quite enough. I don't know what that had to do with it. Miss Mavishasn't been there to-day. '

'Oh, it goes on all the same. '

'It goes on?'

'Well, it's too late. '

'Too late?'

'Well, you'll see. There'll be a row. '

This was not comforting, but I did not repeat it above. Mrs. Nettlepointreturned early to her cabin, professing herself much tired. I know notwhat 'went on, ' but Grace Mavis continued not to show. I went in late, to bid Mrs. Nettlepoint good-night, and learned from her that the girlhad not been to her. She had sent the stewardess to her room for news, to see if she were ill and needed assistance, and the stewardess cameback with the information that she was not there. I went above afterthis; the night was not quite so fair and the deck was almost empty. Ina moment Jasper Nettlepoint and our young lady moved past me together. 'I hope you are better!' I called after her; and she replied, over hershoulder--

'Oh, yes, I had a headache; but the air now does me good!'

I went down again--I was the only person there but they, and I wished tonot appear to be watching them--and returning to Mrs. Nettlepoint'sroom found (her door was open into the little passage) that she wasstill sitting up. 

'She's all right!' I said. 'She's on the deck with Jasper. '

The old lady looked up at me from her book. 'I didn't know you calledthat all right. '

'Well, it's better than something else. '

'Something else?'

'Something I was a little afraid of. ' Mrs. Nettlepoint continued to lookat me; she asked me what that was. 'I'll tell you when we are ashore, ' Isaid. 

The next day I went to see her, at the usual hour of my morning visit, and found her in considerable agitation. 'The scenes have begun, ' shesaid; 'you know I told you I shouldn't get through without them! Youmade me nervous last night--I haven't the least idea what you meant; butyou made me nervous. She came in to see me an hour ago, and I had thecourage to say to her, "I don't know why I shouldn't tell you franklythat I have been scolding my son about you. " Of course she asked me whatI meant by that, and I said--"It seems to me he drags you about the shiptoo much, for a girl in your position. He has the air of not rememberingthat you belong to some one else. There is a kind of want of taste andeven of want of respect in it. " That produced an explosion; she becamevery violent. '

'Do you mean angry?'

'Not exactly angry, but very hot and excited--at my presuming to thinkher relations with my son were not the simplest in the world. I mightscold him as much as I liked--that was between ourselves; but she didn'tsee why I should tell her that I had done so. Did I think she allowedhim to treat her with disrespect? That idea was not very complimentaryto her! He had treated her better and been kinder to her than most otherpeople--there were very few on the ship that hadn't been insulting. Sheshould be glad enough when she got off it, to her own people, to someone whom no one would have a right to say anything about. What was therein her position that was not perfectly natural? What was the idea ofmaking a fuss about her position? Did I mean that she took it tooeasily--that she didn't think as much as she ought about Mr. Porterfield? Didn't I believe she was attached to him--didn't I believeshe was just counting the hours until she saw him? That would be thehappiest moment of her life. It showed how little I knew her, if Ithought anything else. '

'All that must have been rather fine--I should have liked to hear it, ' Isaid. 'And what did you reply?'

'Oh, I grovelled; I told her that I accused her (as regards my son) ofnothing worse than an excess of good nature. She helped him to pass histime--he ought to be immensely obliged. Also that it would be a veryhappy moment for me too when I should hand her over to Mr. Porterfield. '

'And will you come up to-day?'

'No indeed--she'll do very well now. '

I gave a sigh of relief. 'All's well that ends well!'

Jasper, that day, spent a great deal of time with his mother. She hadtold me that she really had had no proper opportunity to talk over withhim their movements after disembarking. Everything changes a little, the last two or three days of a voyage; the spell is broken and newcombinations take place. Grace Mavis was neither on deck nor at dinner, and I drew Mrs. Peck's attention to the extreme propriety with which shenow conducted herself. She had spent the day in meditation and shejudged it best to continue to meditate. 

'Ah, she's afraid, ' said my implacable neighbour. 

'Afraid of what?'

'Well, that we'll tell tales when we get there. '

'Whom do you mean by "we"?'

'Well, there are plenty, on a ship like this. '

'Well then, we won't. '

'Maybe we won't have the chance, ' said the dreadful little woman. 

'Oh, at that moment a universal geniality reigns. '

'Well, she's afraid, all the same. '

'So much the better. '

'Yes, so much the better. '

All the next day, too, the girl remained invisible and Mrs. Nettlepointtold me that she had not been in to see her. She had inquired by thestewardess if she would receive her in her own cabin, and Grace Mavishad replied that it was littered up with things and unfit for visitors:she was packing a trunk over. Jasper made up for his devotion to hismother the day before by now spending a great deal of his time in thesmoking-room. I wanted to say to him 'This is much better, ' but Ithought it wiser to hold my tongue. Indeed I had begun to feel theemotion of prospective arrival (I was delighted to be almost back in mydear old Europe again) and had less to spare for other matters. It willdoubtless appear to the critical reader that I had already devoted fartoo much to the little episode of which my story gives an account, butto this I can only reply that the event justified me. We sighted land, the dim yet rich coast of Ireland, about sunset and I leaned on the edgeof the ship and looked at it. 'It doesn't look like much, does it?' Iheard a voice say, beside me; and, turning, I found Grace Mavis wasthere. Almost for the first time she had her veil up, and I thought hervery pale. 

'It will be more to-morrow, ' I said. 

'Oh yes, a great deal more. '

'The first sight of land, at sea, changes everything, ' I went on. 'Ialways think it's like waking up from a dream. It's a return toreality. '

For a moment she made no response to this; then she said, 'It doesn'tlook very real yet. '

'No, and meanwhile, this lovely evening, the dream is still present. '

She looked up at the sky, which had a brightness, though the light ofthe sun had left it and that of the stars had not come out. 'It _is_ alovely evening. '

'Oh yes, with this we shall do. '

She stood there a while longer, while the growing dusk effaced the lineof the land more rapidly than our progress made it distinct. She saidnothing more, she only looked in front of her; but her very quietnessmade me want to say something suggestive of sympathy and service. I wasunable to think what to say--some things seemed too wide of the mark andothers too importunate. At last, unexpectedly, she appeared to give memy chance. Irrelevantly, abruptly she broke out:

'Didn't you tell me that you knew Mr. Porterfield?'

'Dear me, yes--I used to see him. I have often wanted to talk to youabout him. '

She turned her face upon me and in the deepened evening I fancied shelooked whiter. 'What good would that do?'

'Why, it would be a pleasure, ' I replied, rather foolishly. 

'Do you mean for you?'

'Well, yes--call it that, ' I said, smiling. 

'Did you know him so well?'

My smile became a laugh and I said--'You are not easy to make speechesto. '

'I hate speeches!' The words came from her lips with a violence thatsurprised me; they were loud and hard. But before I had time to wonderat it she went on--'Shall you know him when you see him?'

'Perfectly, I think. ' Her manner was so strange that one had to noticeit in some way, and it appeared to me the best way was to notice itjocularly; so I added, 'Shan't you?'

'Oh, perhaps you'll point him out!' And she walked quickly away. As Ilooked after her I had a singular, a perverse and rather an embarrassedsense of having, during the previous days, and especially in speaking toJasper Nettlepoint, interfered with her situation to her loss. I had asort of pang in seeing her move about alone; I felt somehow responsiblefor it and asked myself why I could not have kept my hands off. I hadseen Jasper in the smoking-room more than once that day, as I passed it, and half an hour before this I had observed, through the open door, that he was there. He had been with her so much that without him she hada bereaved, forsaken air. It was better, no doubt, but superficially itmade her rather pitiable. Mrs. Peck would have told me that theirseparation was gammon; they didn't show together on deck and in thesaloon, but they made it up elsewhere. The secret places on shipboardare not numerous; Mrs. Peck's 'elsewhere' would have been vague and Iknow not what license her imagination took. It was distinct that Jasperhad fallen off, but of course what had passed between them on thissubject was not so and could never be. Later, through his mother, I had_his_ version of that, but I may remark that I didn't believe it. PoorMrs. Nettlepoint did, of course. I was almost capable, after the girlhad left me, of going to my young man and saying, 'After all, do returnto her a little, just till we get in! It won't make any difference afterwe land. ' And I don't think it was the fear he would tell me I was anidiot that prevented me. At any rate the next time I passed the door ofthe smoking-room I saw that he had left it. I paid my usual visit toMrs. Nettlepoint that night, but I troubled her no further about MissMavis. She had made up her mind that everything was smooth and settlednow, and it seemed to me that I had worried her and that she had worriedherself enough. I left her to enjoy the foretaste of arrival, which hadtaken possession of her mind. Before turning in I went above and foundmore passengers on deck than I had ever seen so late. Jasper was walkingabout among them alone, but I forebore to join him. The coast of Irelandhad disappeared, but the night and the sea were perfect. On the way tomy cabin, when I came down, I met the stewardess in one of the passagesand the idea entered my head to say to her--'Do you happen to know whereMiss Mavis is?'

'Why, she's in her room, sir, at this hour. '

'Do you suppose I could speak to her?' It had come into my mind to askher why she had inquired of me whether I should recognise Mr. Porterfield. 

'No, sir, ' said the stewardess; 'she has gone to bed. '

'That's all right. ' And I followed the young lady's excellent example. 

The next morning, while I was dressing, the steward of my side of theship came to me as usual to see what I wanted. But the first thing hesaid to me was--'Rather a bad job, sir--a passenger missing. '

'A passenger--missing?'

'A lady, sir. I think you knew her. Miss Mavis, sir. '

'_Missing?_' I cried--staring at him, horror-stricken. 

'She's not on the ship. They can't find her. '

'Then where to God is she?'

I remember his queer face. 'Well sir, I suppose you know that as well asI. '

'Do you mean she has jumped overboard?'

'Some time in the night, sir--on the quiet. But it's beyond every one, the way she escaped notice. They usually sees 'em, sir. It must havebeen about half-past two. Lord, but she was clever, sir. She didn't somuch as make a splash. They say she _'ad_ come against her will, sir. '

I had dropped upon my sofa--I felt faint. The man went on, liking totalk, as persons of his class do when they have something horrible totell. She usually rang for the stewardess early, but this morning ofcourse there had been no ring. The stewardess had gone in all the sameabout eight o'clock and found the cabin empty. That was about an hourago. Her things were there in confusion--the things she usually worewhen she went above. The stewardess thought she had been rather strangelast night, but she waited a little and then went back. Miss Mavishadn't turned up--and she didn't turn up. The stewardess began to lookfor her--she hadn't been seen on deck or in the saloon. Besides, shewasn't dressed--not to show herself; all her clothes were in her room. There was another lady, an old lady, Mrs. Nettlepoint--I would knowher--that she was sometimes with, but the stewardess had been with _her_and she knew Miss Mavis had not come near her that morning. She hadspoken to _him_ and they had taken a quiet look--they had huntedeverywhere. A ship's a big place, but you do come to the end of it, andif a person ain't there why they ain't. In short an hour had passed andthe young lady was not accounted for: from which I might judge if sheever would be. The watch couldn't account for her, but no doubt thefishes in the sea could--poor miserable lady! The stewardess and he, they had of course thought it their duty very soon to speak to thedoctor, and the doctor had spoken immediately to the captain. Thecaptain didn't like it--they never did. But he would try to keep itquiet--they always did. 

By the time I succeeded in pulling myself together and getting on, aftera fashion, the rest of my clothes I had learned that Mrs. Nettlepointhad not yet been informed, unless the stewardess had broken it to herwithin the previous few minutes. Her son knew, the young gentleman onthe other side of the ship (he had the other steward); my man had seenhim come out of his cabin and rush above, just before he came in to me. He _had_ gone above, my man was sure; he had not gone to the old lady'scabin. I remember a queer vision when the steward told me this--the wildflash of a picture of Jasper Nettlepoint leaping with a mad compunctionin his young agility over the side of the ship. I hasten to add that nosuch incident was destined to contribute its horror to poor GraceMavis's mysterious tragic act. What followed was miserable enough, but Ican only glance at it. When I got to Mrs. Nettlepoint's door she wasthere in her dressing-gown; the stewardess had just told her and she wasrushing out to come to me. I made her go back--I said I would go forJasper. I went for him but I missed him, partly no doubt because it wasreally, at first, the captain I was after. I found this personage andfound him highly scandalised, but he gave me no hope that we were inerror, and his displeasure, expressed with seamanlike plainness, was adefinite settlement of the question. From the deck, where I merelyturned round and looked, I saw the light of another summer day, thecoast of Ireland green and near and the sea a more charming colour thanit had been at all. When I came below again Jasper had passed back; hehad gone to his cabin and his mother had joined him there. He remainedthere till we reached Liverpool--I never saw him. His mother, after alittle, at his request, left him alone. All the world went above tolook at the land and chatter about our tragedy, but the poor lady spentthe day, dismally enough, in her room. It seemed to me intolerably long;I was thinking so of vague Porterfield and of my prospect of having toface him on the morrow. Now of course I knew why she had asked me if Ishould recognise him; she had delegated to me mentally a certainpleasant office. I gave Mrs. Peck and Mrs. Gotch a wide berth--Icouldn't talk to them. I could, or at least I did a little, to Mrs. Nettlepoint, but with too many reserves for comfort on either side, forI foresaw that it would not in the least do now to mention Jasper toher. I was obliged to assume by my silence that he had had nothing to dowith what had happened; and of course I never really ascertained what he_had_ had to do. The secret of what passed between him and the strangegirl who would have sacrificed her marriage to him on so short anacquaintance remains shut up in his breast. His mother, I know, went tohis door from time to time, but he refused her admission. That evening, to be human at a venture, I requested the steward to go in and ask himif he should care to see me, and the attendant returned with an answerwhich he candidly transmitted. 'Not in the least!' Jasper apparently wasalmost as scandalised as the captain. 

At Liverpool, at the dock, when we had touched, twenty people came onboard and I had already made out Mr. Porterfield at a distance. He waslooking up at the side of the great vessel with disappointment written(to my eyes) in his face--disappointment at not seeing the woman heloved lean over it and wave her handkerchief to him. Every one waslooking at him, every one but she (his identity flew about in a moment)and I wondered if he did not observe it. He used to be lean, he hadgrown almost fat. The interval between us diminished--he was on theplank and then on the deck with the jostling officers of thecustoms--all too soon for my equanimity. I met him instantly however, laid my hand on him and drew him away, though I perceived that he had noimpression of having seen me before. It was not till afterwards that Ithought this a little stupid of him. I drew him far away (I wasconscious of Mrs. Peck and Mrs. Gotch looking at us as we passed) intothe empty, stale smoking-room; he remained speechless, and that struckme as like him. I had to speak first, he could not even relieve me bysaying 'Is anything the matter?' I told him first that she was ill. Itwas an odious moment. 

THE LIAR

I

The train was half an hour late and the drive from the station longerthan he had supposed, so that when he reached the house its inmates haddispersed to dress for dinner and he was conducted straight to his room. The curtains were drawn in this asylum, the candles were lighted, thefire was bright, and when the servant had quickly put out his clothesthe comfortable little place became suggestive--seemed to promise apleasant house, a various party, talks, acquaintances, affinities, tosay nothing of very good cheer. He was too occupied with his professionto pay many country visits, but he had heard people who had more timefor them speak of establishments where 'they do you very well. ' Heforesaw that the proprietors of Stayes would do him very well. In hisbedroom at a country house he always looked first at the books on theshelf and the prints on the walls; he considered that these things gavea sort of measure of the culture and even of the character of his hosts. Though he had but little time to devote to them on this occasion acursory inspection assured him that if the literature, as usual, wasmainly American and humorous the art consisted neither of thewater-colour studies of the children nor of 'goody' engravings. Thewalls were adorned with old-fashioned lithographs, principally portraitsof country gentlemen with high collars and riding gloves: thissuggested--and it was encouraging--that the tradition of portraiture washeld in esteem. There was the customary novel of Mr. Le Fanu, for thebedside; the ideal reading in a country house for the hours aftermidnight. Oliver Lyon could scarcely forbear beginning it while hebuttoned his shirt. 

Perhaps that is why he not only found every one assembled in the hallwhen he went down, but perceived from the way the move to dinner wasinstantly made that they had been waiting for him. There was no delay, to introduce him to a lady, for he went out in a group of unmatched men, without this appendage. The men, straggling behind, sidled and edged asusual at the door of the dining-room, and the _dénouement_ of thislittle comedy was that he came to his place last of all. This made himthink that he was in a sufficiently distinguished company, for if he hadbeen humiliated (which he was not), he could not have consoled himselfwith the reflection that such a fate was natural to an obscure, struggling young artist. He could no longer think of himself as veryyoung, alas, and if his position was not so brilliant as it ought to behe could no longer justify it by calling it a struggle. He was somethingof a celebrity and he was apparently in a society of celebrities. Thisidea added to the curiosity with which he looked up and down the longtable as he settled himself in his place. 

It was a numerous party--five and twenty people; rather an odd occasionto have proposed to him, as he thought. He would not be surrounded bythe quiet that ministers to good work; however, it had never interferedwith his work to see the spectacle of human life before him in theintervals. And though he did not know it, it was never quiet at Stayes. When he was working well he found himself in that happy state--thehappiest of all for an artist--in which things in general contribute tothe particular idea and fall in with it, help it on and justify it, sothat he feels for the hour as if nothing in the world can happen to him, even if it come in the guise of disaster or suffering, that will not bean enhancement of his subject. Moreover there was an exhilaration (hehad felt it before) in the rapid change of scene--the jump, in the duskof the afternoon, from foggy London and his familiar studio to a centreof festivity in the middle of Hertfordshire and a drama half acted, adrama of pretty women and noted men and wonderful orchids in silverjars. He observed as a not unimportant fact that one of the pretty womenwas beside him: a gentleman sat on his other hand. But he went into hisneighbours little as yet: he was busy looking out for Sir David, whom hehad never seen and about whom he naturally was curious. 

Evidently, however, Sir David was not at dinner, a circumstancesufficiently explained by the other circumstance which constituted ourfriend's principal knowledge of him--his being ninety years of age. Oliver Lyon had looked forward with great pleasure to the chance ofpainting a nonagenarian, and though the old man's absence from table wassomething of a disappointment (it was an opportunity the less toobserve him before going to work), it seemed a sign that he was rather asacred and perhaps therefore an impressive relic. Lyon looked at his sonwith the greater interest--wondered whether the glazed bloom of hischeek had been transmitted from Sir David. That would be jolly to paint, in the old man--the withered ruddiness of a winter apple, especially ifthe eye were still alive and the white hair carried out the frosty look. Arthur Ashmore's hair had a midsummer glow, but Lyon was glad hiscommission had been to delineate the father rather than the son, inspite of his never having seen the one and of the other being seatedthere before him now in the happy expansion of liberal hospitality. 

Arthur Ashmore was a fresh-coloured, thick-necked English gentleman, buthe was just not a subject; he might have been a farmer and he might havebeen a banker: you could scarcely paint him in characters. His wife didnot make up the amount; she was a large, bright, negative woman, who hadthe same air as her husband of being somehow tremendously new; a sort ofappearance of fresh varnish (Lyon could scarcely tell whether it camefrom her complexion or from her clothes), so that one felt she ought tosit in a gilt frame, suggesting reference to a catalogue or aprice-list. It was as if she were already rather a bad though expensiveportrait, knocked off by an eminent hand, and Lyon had no wish to copythat work. The pretty woman on his right was engaged with her neighbourand the gentleman on his other side looked shrinking and scared, so thathe had time to lose himself in his favourite diversion of watching faceafter face. This amusement gave him the greatest pleasure he knew, andhe often thought it a mercy that the human mask did interest him andthat it was not less vivid than it was (sometimes it ran its success inthis line very close), since he was to make his living by reproducingit. Even if Arthur Ashmore would not be inspiring to paint (a certainanxiety rose in him lest if he should make a hit with her father-in-lawMrs. Arthur should take it into her head that he had now proved himselfworthy to _aborder_ her husband); even if he had looked a little lesslike a page (fine as to print and margin) without punctuation, he wouldstill be a refreshing, iridescent surface. But the gentleman fourpersons off--what was he? Would he be a subject, or was his face onlythe legible door-plate of his identity, burnished with punctual washingand shaving--the least thing that was decent that you would know him by?

This face arrested Oliver Lyon: it struck him at first as very handsome. The gentleman might still be called young, and his features wereregular: he had a plentiful, fair moustache that curled up at the ends, a brilliant, gallant, almost adventurous air, and a big shiningbreastpin in the middle of his shirt. He appeared a fine satisfied soul, and Lyon perceived that wherever he rested his friendly eye there fellan influence as pleasant as the September sun--as if he could makegrapes and pears or even human affection ripen by looking at them. Whatwas odd in him was a certain mixture of the correct and the extravagant:as if he were an adventurer imitating a gentleman with rare perfectionor a gentleman who had taken a fancy to go about with hidden arms. Hemight have been a dethroned prince or the war-correspondent of anewspaper: he represented both enterprise and tradition, good mannersand bad taste. Lyon at length fell into conversation with the ladybeside him--they dispensed, as he had had to dispense at dinner-partiesbefore, with an introduction--by asking who this personage might be. 

'Oh, he's Colonel Capadose, don't you know?' Lyon didn't know and heasked for further information. His neighbour had a sociable manner andevidently was accustomed to quick transitions; she turned from her otherinterlocutor with a methodical air, as a good cook lifts the cover ofthe next saucepan. 'He has been a great deal in India--isn't he rathercelebrated?' she inquired. Lyon confessed he had never heard of him, andshe went on, 'Well, perhaps he isn't; but he says he is, and if youthink it, that's just the same, isn't it?'

'If _you_ think it?'

'I mean if he thinks it--that's just as good, I suppose. '

'Do you mean that he says that which is not?'

'Oh dear, no--because I never know. He is exceedingly clever andamusing--quite the cleverest person in the house, unless indeed you aremore so. But that I can't tell yet, can I? I only know about the peopleI know; I think that's celebrity enough!'

'Enough for them?'

'Oh, I see you're clever. Enough for me! But I have heard of you, ' thelady went on. 'I know your pictures; I admire them. But I don't thinkyou look like them. '

'They are mostly portraits, ' Lyon said; 'and what I usually try for isnot my own resemblance. '

'I see what you mean. But they have much more colour. And now you aregoing to do some one here?'

'I have been invited to do Sir David. I'm rather disappointed at notseeing him this evening. '

'Oh, he goes to bed at some unnatural hour--eight o'clock or somethingof that sort. You know he's rather an old mummy. '

'An old mummy?' Oliver Lyon repeated. 

'I mean he wears half a dozen waistcoats, and that sort of thing. He'salways cold. '

'I have never seen him and never seen any portrait or photograph ofhim, ' Lyon said. 'I'm surprised at his never having had anythingdone--at their waiting all these years. '

'Ah, that's because he was afraid, you know; it was a kind ofsuperstition. He was sure that if anything were done he would diedirectly afterwards. He has only consented to-day. '

'He's ready to die then?'

'Oh, now he's so old he doesn't care. '

'Well, I hope I shan't kill him, ' said Lyon. 'It was rather unnatural inhis son to send for me. '

'Oh, they have nothing to gain--everything is theirs already!' hiscompanion rejoined, as if she took this speech quite literally. Hertalkativeness was systematic--she fraternised as seriously as she mighthave played whist. 'They do as they like--they fill the house withpeople--they have _carte blanche_. '

'I see--but there's still the title. '

'Yes, but what is it?'

Our artist broke into laughter at this, whereat his companion stared. Before he had recovered himself she was scouring the plain with herother neighbour. The gentleman on his left at last risked anobservation, and they had some fragmentary talk. This personage playedhis part with difficulty: he uttered a remark as a lady fires a pistol, looking the other way. To catch the ball Lyon had to bend his ear, andthis movement led to his observing a handsome creature who was seated onthe same side, beyond his interlocutor. Her profile was presented to himand at first he was only struck with its beauty; then it produced animpression still more agreeable--a sense of undimmed remembrance andintimate association. He had not recognised her on the instant onlybecause he had so little expected to see her there; he had not seen heranywhere for so long, and no news of her ever came to him. She was oftenin his thoughts, but she had passed out of his life. He thought of hertwice a week; that may be called often in relation to a person one hasnot seen for twelve years. The moment after he recognised her he felthow true it was that it was only she who could look like that: of themost charming head in the world (and this lady had it) there could neverbe a replica. She was leaning forward a little; she remained in profile, apparently listening to some one on the other side of her. She waslistening, but she was also looking, and after a moment Lyon followedthe direction of her eyes. They rested upon the gentleman who had beendescribed to him as Colonel Capadose--rested, as it appeared to him, with a kind of habitual, visible complacency. This was not strange, forthe Colonel was unmistakably formed to attract the sympathetic gaze ofwoman; but Lyon was slightly disappointed that she could let _him_ lookat her so long without giving him a glance. There was nothing betweenthem to-day and he had no rights, but she must have known he was coming(it was of course not such a tremendous event, but she could not havebeen staying in the house without hearing of it), and it was not naturalthat that should absolutely fail to affect her. 

She was looking at Colonel Capadose as if she were in love with him--aqueer accident for the proudest, most reserved of women. But doubtlessit was all right, if her husband liked it or didn't notice it: he hadheard indefinitely, years before, that she was married, and he took forgranted (as he had not heard that she had become a widow) the presenceof the happy man on whom she had conferred what she had refused to_him_, the poor art-student at Munich. Colonel Capadose appeared to beaware of nothing, and this circumstance, incongruously enough, ratherirritated Lyon than gratified him. Suddenly the lady turned her head, showing her full face to our hero. He was so prepared with a greetingthat he instantly smiled, as a shaken jug overflows; but she gave him noresponse, turned away again and sank back in her chair. All that herface said in that instant was, 'You see I'm as handsome as ever. ' Towhich he mentally subjoined, 'Yes, and as much good it does me!' Heasked the young man beside him if he knew who that beautiful beingwas--the fifth person beyond him. The young man leaned forward, considered and then said, 'I think she's Mrs. Capadose. '

'Do you mean his wife--that fellow's?' And Lyon indicated the subjectof the information given him by his other neighbour. 

'Oh, is _he_ Mr. Capadose?' said the young man, who appeared very vague. He admitted his vagueness and explained it by saying that there were somany people and he had come only the day before. What was definite toLyon was that Mrs. Capadose was in love with her husband; so that hewished more than ever that he had married her. 

'She's very faithful, ' he found himself saying three minutes later tothe lady on his right. He added that he meant Mrs. Capadose. 

'Ah, you know her then?'

'I knew her once upon a time--when I was living abroad. '

'Why then were you asking me about her husband?'

'Precisely for that reason. She married after that--I didn't even knowher present name. '

'How then do you know it now?'

'This gentleman has just told me--he appears to know. '

'I didn't know he knew anything, ' said the lady, glancing forward. 

'I don't think he knows anything but that. '

'Then you have found out for yourself that she is faithful. What do youmean by that?'

'Ah, you mustn't question me--I want to question you, ' Lyon said. 'Howdo you all like her here?'

'You ask too much! I can only speak for myself. I think she's hard. '

'That's only because she's honest and straightforward. '

'Do you mean I like people in proportion as they deceive?'

'I think we all do, so long as we don't find them out, ' Lyon said. 'Andthen there's something in her face--a sort of Roman type, in spite ofher having such an English eye. In fact she's English down to theground; but her complexion, her low forehead and that beautiful closelittle wave in her dark hair make her look like a glorified_contadina_. '

'Yes, and she always sticks pins and daggers into her head, to increasethat effect. I must say I like her husband better: he is so clever. '

'Well, when I knew her there was no comparison that could injure her. She was altogether the most delightful thing in Munich. '

'In Munich?'

'Her people lived there; they were not rich--in pursuit of economy infact, and Munich was very cheap. Her father was the younger son of somenoble house; he had married a second time and had a lot of little mouthsto feed. She was the child of the first wife and she didn't like herstepmother, but she was charming to her little brothers and sisters. Ionce made a sketch of her as Werther's Charlotte, cutting bread andbutter while they clustered all round her. All the artists in the placewere in love with her but she wouldn't look at 'the likes' of us. Shewas too proud--I grant you that; but she wasn't stuck up nor youngladyish; she was simple and frank and kind about it. She used to remindme of Thackeray's Ethel Newcome. She told me she must marry well: it wasthe one thing she could do for her family. I suppose you would say thatshe _has_ married well. '

'She told _you_?' smiled Lyon's neighbour. 

'Oh, of course I proposed to her too. But she evidently thinks soherself!' he added. 

When the ladies left the table the host as usual bade the gentlemen drawtogether, so that Lyon found himself opposite to Colonel Capadose. Theconversation was mainly about the 'run, ' for it had apparently been agreat day in the hunting-field. Most of the gentlemen communicated theiradventures and opinions, but Colonel Capadose's pleasant voice was themost audible in the chorus. It was a bright and fresh but masculineorgan, just such a voice as, to Lyon's sense, such a 'fine man' ought tohave had. It appeared from his remarks that he was a very straightrider, which was also very much what Lyon would have expected. Not thathe swaggered, for his allusions were very quietly and casually made; butthey were all too dangerous experiments and close shaves. Lyon perceivedafter a little that the attention paid by the company to the Colonel'sremarks was not in direct relation to the interest they seemed to offer;the result of which was that the speaker, who noticed that _he_ at leastwas listening, began to treat him as his particular auditor and to fixhis eyes on him as he talked. Lyon had nothing to do but to looksympathetic and assent--Colonel Capadose appeared to take so muchsympathy and assent for granted. A neighbouring squire had had anaccident; he had come a cropper in an awkward place--just at thefinish--with consequences that looked grave. He had struck his head; heremained insensible, up to the last accounts: there had evidently beenconcussion of the brain. There was some exchange of views as to hisrecovery--how soon it would take place or whether it would take place atall; which led the Colonel to confide to our artist across the tablethat _he_ shouldn't despair of a fellow even if he didn't come round forweeks--for weeks and weeks and weeks--for months, almost for years. Heleaned forward; Lyon leaned forward to listen, and Colonel Capadosementioned that he knew from personal experience that there was really nolimit to the time one might lie unconscious without being any the worsefor it. It had happened to him in Ireland, years before; he had beenpitched out of a dogcart, had turned a sheer somersault and landed onhis head. They thought he was dead, but he wasn't; they carried himfirst to the nearest cabin, where he lay for some days with the pigs, and then to an inn in a neighbouring town--it was a near thing theydidn't put him under ground. He had been completely insensible--withouta ray of recognition of any human thing--for three whole months; had nota glimmer of consciousness of any blessed thing. It was touch and go tothat degree that they couldn't come near him, they couldn't feed him, they could scarcely look at him. Then one day he had opened his eyes--asfit as a flea!

'I give you my honour it had done me good--it rested my brain. ' Heappeared to intimate that with an intelligence so active as his theseperiods of repose were providential. Lyon thought his story verystriking, but he wanted to ask him whether he had not shammed alittle--not in relating it, but in keeping so quiet. He hesitatedhowever, in time, to imply a doubt--he was so impressed with the tone inwhich Colonel Capadose said that it was the turn of a hair that theyhadn't buried him alive. That had happened to a friend of his inIndia--a fellow who was supposed to have died of jungle fever--theyclapped him into a coffin. He was going on to recite the further fate ofthis unfortunate gentleman when Mr. Ashmore made a move and every onegot up to adjourn to the drawing-room. Lyon noticed that by this time noone was heeding what his new friend said to him. They came round oneither side of the table and met while the gentlemen dawdled beforegoing out. 

'And do you mean that your friend was literally buried alive?' askedLyon, in some suspense. 

Colonel Capadose looked at him a moment, as if he had already lost thethread of the conversation. Then his face brightened--and when itbrightened it was doubly handsome. 'Upon my soul he was chucked into theground!'

'And was he left there?'

'He was left there till I came and hauled him out. '

'_You_ came?'

'I dreamed about him--it's the most extraordinary story: I heard himcalling to me in the night. I took upon myself to dig him up. You knowthere are people in India--a kind of beastly race, the ghouls--whoviolate graves. I had a sort of presentiment that they would get at himfirst. I rode straight, I can tell you; and, by Jove, a couple of themhad just broken ground! Crack--crack, from a couple of barrels, and theyshowed me their heels, as you may believe. Would you credit that I tookhim out myself? The air brought him to and he was none the worse. Hehas got his pension--he came home the other day; he would do anythingfor me. '

'He called to you in the night?' said Lyon, much startled. 

'That's the interesting point. Now _what was it_? It wasn't his ghost, because he wasn't dead. It wasn't himself, because he couldn't. It wassomething or other! You see India's a strange country--there's anelement of the mysterious: the air is full of things you can't explain. '

They passed out of the dining-room, and Colonel Capadose, who went amongthe first, was separated from Lyon; but a minute later, before theyreached the drawing-room, he joined him again. 'Ashmore tells me who youare. Of course I have often heard of you--I'm very glad to make youracquaintance; my wife used to know you. '

'I'm glad she remembers me. I recognised her at dinner and I was afraidshe didn't. '

'Ah, I daresay she was ashamed, ' said the Colonel, with indulgenthumour. 

'Ashamed of me?' Lyon replied, in the same key. 

'Wasn't there something about a picture? Yes; you painted her portrait. '

'Many times, ' said the artist; 'and she may very well have been ashamedof what I made of her. '

'Well, I wasn't, my dear sir; it was the sight of that picture, whichyou were so good as to present to her, that made me first fall in lovewith her. '

'Do you mean that one with the children--cutting bread and butter?'

'Bread and butter? Bless me, no--vine leaves and a leopard skin--a kindof Bacchante. '

'Ah, yes, ' said Lyon; 'I remember. It was the first decent portrait Ipainted. I should be curious to see it to-day. '

'Don't ask her to show it to you--she'll be mortified!' the Colonelexclaimed. 

'Mortified?'

'We parted with it--in the most disinterested manner, ' he laughed. 'Anold friend of my wife's--her family had known him intimately when theylived in Germany--took the most extraordinary fancy to it: the GrandDuke of Silberstadt-Schreckenstein, don't you know? He came out toBombay while we were there and he spotted your picture (you know he'sone of the greatest collectors in Europe), and made such eyes at itthat, upon my word--it happened to be his birthday--she told him hemight have it, to get rid of him. He was perfectly enchanted--but wemiss the picture. '

'It is very good of you, ' Lyon said. 'If it's in a great collection--awork of my incompetent youth--I am infinitely honoured. '

'Oh, he has got it in one of his castles; I don't know which--you knowhe has so many. He sent us, before he left India--to return thecompliment--a magnificent old vase. '

'That was more than the thing was worth, ' Lyon remarked. 

Colonel Capadose gave no heed to this observation; he seemed to bethinking of something. After a moment he said, 'If you'll come and seeus in town she'll show you the vase. ' And as they passed into thedrawing-room he gave the artist a friendly propulsion. 'Go and speak toher; there she is--she'll be delighted. '

Oliver Lyon took but a few steps into the wide saloon; he stood there amoment looking at the bright composition of the lamplit group of fairwomen, the single figures, the great setting of white and gold, thepanels of old damask, in the centre of each of which was a singlecelebrated picture. There was a subdued lustre in the scene and an airas of the shining trains of dresses tumbled over the carpet. At thefurthest end of the room sat Mrs. Capadose, rather isolated; she was ona small sofa, with an empty place beside her. Lyon could not flatterhimself she had been keeping it for him; her failure to respond to hisrecognition at table contradicted that, but he felt an extreme desire togo and occupy it. Moreover he had her husband's sanction; so he crossedthe room, stepping over the tails of gowns, and stood before his oldfriend. 

'I hope you don't mean to repudiate me, ' he said. 

She looked up at him with an expression of unalloyed pleasure. 'I am soglad to see you. I was delighted when I heard you were coming. '

'I tried to get a smile from you at dinner--but I couldn't. '

'I didn't see--I didn't understand. Besides, I hate smirking andtelegraphing. Also I'm very shy--you won't have forgotten that. Now wecan communicate comfortably. ' And she made a better place for him on thelittle sofa. He sat down and they had a talk that he enjoyed, while thereason for which he used to like her so came back to him, as well as agood deal of the very same old liking. She was still the least spoiledbeauty he had ever seen, with an absence of coquetry or any insinuatingart that seemed almost like an omitted faculty; there were moments whenshe struck her interlocutor as some fine creature from an asylum--asurprising deaf-mute or one of the operative blind. Her noble pagan headgave her privileges that she neglected, and when people were admiringher brow she was wondering whether there were a good fire in herbedroom. She was simple, kind and good; inexpressive but not inhuman orstupid. Now and again she dropped something that had a sifted, selectedair--the sound of an impression at first hand. She had no imagination, but she had added up her feelings, some of her reflections, about life. Lyon talked of the old days in Munich, reminded her of incidents, pleasures and pains, asked her about her father and the others; and shetold him in return that she was so impressed with his own fame, hisbrilliant position in the world, that she had not felt very sure hewould speak to her or that his little sign at table was meant for her. This was plainly a perfectly truthful speech--she was incapable of anyother--and he was affected by such humility on the part of a woman whosegrand line was unique. Her father was dead; one of her brothers was inthe navy and the other on a ranch in America; two of her sisters weremarried and the youngest was just coming out and very pretty. She didn'tmention her stepmother. She asked him about his own personal history andhe said that the principal thing that had happened to him was that hehad never married. 

'Oh, you ought to, ' she answered. 'It's the best thing. '

'I like that--from you!' he returned. 

'Why not from me? I am very happy. '

'That's just why I can't be. It's cruel of you to praise your state. ButI have had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of your husband. Wehad a good bit of talk in the other room. '

'You must know him better--you must know him really well, ' said Mrs. Capadose. 

'I am sure that the further you go the more you find. But he makes afine show, too. '

She rested her good gray eyes on Lyon. 'Don't you think he's handsome?'

'Handsome and clever and entertaining. You see I'm generous. '

'Yes; you must know him well, ' Mrs. Capadose repeated. 

'He has seen a great deal of life, ' said her companion. 

'Yes, we have been in so many places. You must see my little girl. Sheis nine years old--she's too beautiful. '

'You must bring her to my studio some day--I should like to paint her. '

'Ah, don't speak of that, ' said Mrs. Capadose. 'It reminds me ofsomething so distressing. '

'I hope you don't mean when _you_ used to sit to me--though that maywell have bored you. '

'It's not what you did--it's what we have done. It's a confession I mustmake--it's a weight on my mind! I mean about that beautiful picture yougave me--it used to be so much admired. When you come to see me inLondon (I count on your doing that very soon) I shall see you lookingall round. I can't tell you I keep it in my own room because I love itso, for the simple reason----' And she paused a moment. 

'Because you can't tell wicked lies, ' said Lyon. 

'No, I can't. So before you ask for it----'

'Oh, I know you parted with it--the blow has already fallen, ' Lyoninterrupted. 

'Ah then, you have heard? I was sure you would! But do you know what wegot for it? Two hundred pounds. '

'You might have got much more, ' said Lyon, smiling. 

'That seemed a great deal at the time. We were in want of the money--itwas a good while ago, when we first married. Our means were very smallthen, but fortunately that has changed rather for the better. We had thechance; it really seemed a big sum, and I am afraid we jumped at it. Myhusband had expectations which have partly come into effect, so that nowwe do well enough. But meanwhile the picture went. '

'Fortunately the original remained. But do you mean that two hundred wasthe value of the vase?' Lyon asked. 

'Of the vase?'

'The beautiful old Indian vase--the Grand Duke's offering. '

'The Grand Duke?'

'What's his name?--Silberstadt-Schreckenstein. Your husband mentionedthe transaction. '

'Oh, my husband, ' said Mrs. Capadose; and Lyon saw that she coloured alittle. 

Not to add to her embarrassment, but to clear up the ambiguity, whichhe perceived the next moment he had better have left alone, he went on:'He tells me it's now in his collection. '

'In the Grand Duke's? Ah, you know its reputation? I believe it containstreasures. ' She was bewildered, but she recovered herself, and Lyon madethe mental reflection that for some reason which would seem good when heknew it the husband and the wife had prepared different versions of thesame incident. It was true that he did not exactly see Everina Brantpreparing a version; that was not her line of old, and indeed it was notin her eyes to-day. At any rate they both had the matter too much ontheir conscience. He changed the subject, said Mrs. Capadose must reallybring the little girl. He sat with her some time longer andthought--perhaps it was only a fancy--that she was rather absent, as ifshe were annoyed at their having been even for a moment atcross-purposes. This did not prevent him from saying to her at the last, just as the ladies began to gather themselves together to go to bed:'You seem much impressed, from what you say, with my renown and myprosperity, and you are so good as greatly to exaggerate them. Would youhave married me if you had known that I was destined to success?'

'I did know it. '

'Well, I didn't'

'You were too modest. '

'You didn't think so when I proposed to you. '

'Well, if I had married you I couldn't have married _him_--and he's sonice, ' Mrs. Capadose said. Lyon knew she thought it--he had learned thatat dinner--but it vexed him a little to hear her say it. The gentlemandesignated by the pronoun came up, amid the prolonged handshaking forgood-night, and Mrs. Capadose remarked to her husband as she turnedaway, 'He wants to paint Amy. '

'Ah, she's a charming child, a most interesting little creature, ' theColonel said to Lyon. 'She does the most remarkable things. '

Mrs. Capadose stopped, in the rustling procession that followed thehostess out of the room. 'Don't tell him, please don't, ' she said. 

'Don't tell him what?'

'Why, what she does. Let him find out for himself. ' And she passed on. 

'She thinks I swagger about the child--that I bore people, ' said theColonel. 'I hope you smoke. ' He appeared ten minutes later in thesmoking-room, in a brilliant equipment, a suit of crimson foulardcovered with little white spots. He gratified Lyon's eye, made him feelthat the modern age has its splendour too and its opportunities forcostume. If his wife was an antique he was a fine specimen of the periodof colour: he might have passed for a Venetian of the sixteenth century. They were a remarkable couple, Lyon thought, and as he looked at theColonel standing in bright erectness before the chimney-piece while heemitted great smoke-puffs he did not wonder that Everina could notregret she had not married _him_. All the gentlemen collected at Stayeswere not smokers and some of them had gone to bed. Colonel Capadoseremarked that there probably would be a smallish muster, they had hadsuch a hard day's work. That was the worst of a hunting-house--the menwere so sleepy after dinner; it was devilish stupid for the ladies, even for those who hunted themselves--for women were so extraordinary, they never showed it. But most fellows revived under the stimulatinginfluences of the smoking-room, and some of them, in this confidence, would turn up yet. Some of the grounds of their confidence--not all ofthem--might have been seen in a cluster of glasses and bottles on atable near the fire, which made the great salver and its contentstwinkle sociably. The others lurked as yet in various improper cornersof the minds of the most loquacious. Lyon was alone with ColonelCapadose for some moments before their companions, in variedeccentricities of uniform, straggled in, and he perceived that thiswonderful man had but little loss of vital tissue to repair. 

They talked about the house, Lyon having noticed an oddity ofconstruction in the smoking-room; and the Colonel explained that itconsisted of two distinct parts, one of which was of very greatantiquity. They were two complete houses in short, the old one and thenew, each of great extent and each very fine in its way. The two formedtogether an enormous structure--Lyon must make a point of going all overit. The modern portion had been erected by the old man when he boughtthe property; oh yes, he had bought it, forty years before--it hadn'tbeen in the family: there hadn't been any particular family for it to bein. He had had the good taste not to spoil the original house--he hadnot touched it beyond what was just necessary for joining it on. It wasvery curious indeed--a most irregular, rambling, mysterious pile, wherethey every now and then discovered a walled-up room or a secretstaircase. To his mind it was essentially gloomy, however; even themodern additions, splendid as they were, failed to make it cheerful. There was some story about a skeleton having been found years before, during some repairs, under a stone slab of the floor of one of thepassages; but the family were rather shy of its being talked about. Theplace they were in was of course in the old part, which contained afterall some of the best rooms: he had an idea it had been the primitivekitchen, half modernised at some intermediate period. 

'My room is in the old part too then--I'm very glad, ' Lyon said. 'It'svery comfortable and contains all the latest conveniences, but Iobserved the depth of the recess of the door and the evident antiquityof the corridor and staircase--the first short one--after I came out. That panelled corridor is admirable; it looks as if it stretched away, in its brown dimness (the lamps didn't seem to me to make muchimpression on it), for half a mile. '

'Oh, don't go to the end of it!' exclaimed the Colonel, smiling. 

'Does it lead to the haunted room?' Lyon asked. 

His companion looked at him a moment. 'Ah, you know about that?'

'No, I don't speak from knowledge, only from hope. I have never had anyluck--I have never stayed in a dangerous house. The places I go to arealways as safe as Charing Cross. I want to see--whatever there is, theregular thing. _Is_ there a ghost here?'

'Of course there is--a rattling good one. '

'And have you seen him?'

'Oh, don't ask me what _I've_ seen--I should tax your credulity. I don'tlike to talk of these things. But there are two or three as bad--thatis, as good!--rooms as you'll find anywhere. '

'Do you mean in my corridor?' Lyon asked. 

'I believe the worst is at the far end. But you would be ill-advised tosleep there. '

'Ill-advised?'

'Until you've finished your job. You'll get letters of importance thenext morning, and you'll take the 10. 20. '

'Do you mean I will invent a pretext for running away?'

'Unless you are braver than almost any one has ever been. They don'toften put people to sleep there, but sometimes the house is so crowdedthat they have to. The same thing always happens--ill-concealedagitation at the breakfast-table and letters of the greatest importance. Of course it's a bachelor's room, and my wife and I are at the other endof the house. But we saw the comedy three days ago--the day after we gothere. A young fellow had been put there--I forget his name--the housewas so full; and the usual consequence followed. Letters atbreakfast--an awfully queer face--an urgent call to town--so very sorryhis visit was cut short. Ashmore and his wife looked at each other, andoff the poor devil went. '

'Ah, that wouldn't suit me; I must paint my picture, ' said Lyon. 'But dothey mind your speaking of it? Some people who have a good ghost arevery proud of it, you know. '

What answer Colonel Capadose was on the point of making to this inquiryour hero was not to learn, for at that moment their host had walked intothe room accompanied by three or four gentlemen. Lyon was consciousthat he was partly answered by the Colonel's not going on with thesubject. This however on the other hand was rendered natural by the factthat one of the gentlemen appealed to him for an opinion on a pointunder discussion, something to do with the everlasting history of theday's run. To Lyon himself Mr. Ashmore began to talk, expressing hisregret at having had so little direct conversation with him as yet. Thetopic that suggested itself was naturally that most closely connectedwith the motive of the artist's visit. Lyon remarked that it was a greatdisadvantage to him not to have had some preliminary acquaintance withSir David--in most cases he found that so important. But the presentsitter was so far advanced in life that there was doubtless no time tolose. 'Oh, I can tell you all about him, ' said Mr. Ashmore; and for halfan hour he told him a good deal. It was very interesting as well as veryeulogistic, and Lyon could see that he was a very nice old man, to haveendeared himself so to a son who was evidently not a gusher. At last hegot up--he said he must go to bed if he wished to be fresh for his workin the morning. To which his host replied, 'Then you must take yourcandle; the lights are out; I don't keep my servants up. '

In a moment Lyon had his glimmering taper in hand, and as he was leavingthe room (he did not disturb the others with a good-night; they wereabsorbed in the lemon-squeezer and the soda-water cork) he rememberedother occasions on which he had made his way to bed alone through adarkened country-house; such occasions had not been rare, for he wasalmost always the first to leave the smoking-room. If he had not stayedin houses conspicuously haunted he had, none the less (having theartistic temperament), sometimes found the great black halls andstaircases rather 'creepy': there had been often a sinister effect, tohis imagination, in the sound of his tread in the long passages or theway the winter moon peeped into tall windows on landings. It occurred tohim that if houses without supernatural pretensions could look so wickedat night, the old corridors of Stayes would certainly give him asensation. He didn't know whether the proprietors were sensitive; veryoften, as he had said to Colonel Capadose, people enjoyed theimpeachment. What determined him to speak, with a certain sense of therisk, was the impression that the Colonel told queer stories. As he hadhis hand on the door he said to Arthur Ashmore, 'I hope I shan't meetany ghosts. '

'Any ghosts?'

'You ought to have some--in this fine old part. '

'We do our best, but _que voulez-vous_?' said Mr. Ashmore. 'I don'tthink they like the hot-water pipes. '

'They remind them too much of their own climate? But haven't you ahaunted room--at the end of my passage?'

'Oh, there are stories--we try to keep them up. '

'I should like very much to sleep there, ' Lyon said. 

'Well, you can move there to-morrow if you like. '

'Perhaps I had better wait till I have done my work. '

'Very good; but you won't work there, you know. My father will sit toyou in his own apartments. '

'Oh, it isn't that; it's the fear of running away, like that gentlemanthree days ago. '

'Three days ago? What gentleman?' Mr. Ashmore asked. 

'The one who got urgent letters at breakfast and fled by the 10. 20. Didhe stand more than one night?'

'I don't know what you are talking about. There was no suchgentleman--three days ago. '

'Ah, so much the better, ' said Lyon, nodding good-night and departing. He took his course, as he remembered it, with his wavering candle, and, though he encountered a great many gruesome objects, safely reached thepassage out of which his room opened. In the complete darkness it seemedto stretch away still further, but he followed it, for the curiosity ofthe thing, to the end. He passed several doors with the name of the roompainted upon them, but he found nothing else. He was tempted to try thelast door--to look into the room of evil fame; but he reflected thatthis would be indiscreet, since Colonel Capadose handled the brush--as a_raconteur_--with such freedom. There might be a ghost and there mightnot; but the Colonel himself, he inclined to think, was the mostmystifying figure in the house. 

II

Lyon found Sir David Ashmore a capital subject and a very comfortablesitter into the bargain. Moreover he was a very agreeable old man, tremendously puckered but not in the least dim; and he wore exactly thefurred dressing-gown that Lyon would have chosen. He was proud of hisage but ashamed of his infirmities, which however he greatly exaggeratedand which did not prevent him from sitting there as submissive as ifportraiture in oils had been a branch of surgery. He demolished thelegend of his having feared the operation would be fatal, giving anexplanation which pleased our friend much better. He held that agentleman should be painted but once in his life--that it was eager andfatuous to be hung up all over the place. That was good for women, whomade a pretty wall-pattern; but the male face didn't lend itself todecorative repetition. The proper time for the likeness was at the last, when the whole man was there--you got the totality of his experience. Lyon could not reply that that period was not a real compendium--you hadto allow so for leakage; for there had been no crack in Sir David'scrystallisation. He spoke of his portrait as a plain map of thecountry, to be consulted by his children in a case of uncertainty. Aproper map could be drawn up only when the country had been travelled. He gave Lyon his mornings, till luncheon, and they talked of manythings, not neglecting, as a stimulus to gossip, the people in thehouse. Now that he did not 'go out, ' as he said, he saw much less of thevisitors at Stayes: people came and went whom he knew nothing about, andhe liked to hear Lyon describe them. The artist sketched with a finepoint and did not caricature, and it usually befell that when Sir Daviddid not know the sons and daughters he had known the fathers andmothers. He was one of those terrible old gentlemen who are a repositoryof antecedents. But in the case of the Capadose family, at whom theyarrived by an easy stage, his knowledge embraced two, or even three, generations. General Capadose was an old crony, and he remembered hisfather before him. The general was rather a smart soldier, but inprivate life of too speculative a turn--always sneaking into the City toput his money into some rotten thing. He married a girl who brought himsomething and they had half a dozen children. He scarcely knew what hadbecome of the rest of them, except that one was in the Church and hadfound preferment--wasn't he Dean of Rockingham? Clement, the fellow whowas at Stayes, had some military talent; he had served in the East, hehad married a pretty girl. He had been at Eton with his son, and he usedto come to Stayes in his holidays. Lately, coming back to England, hehad turned up with his wife again; that was before he--the old man--hadbeen put to grass. He was a taking dog, but he had a monstrous foible. 

'A monstrous foible?' said Lyon. 

'He's a thumping liar. '

Lyon's brush stopped short, while he repeated, for somehow the formulastartled him, 'A thumping liar?'

'You are very lucky not to have found it out. '

'Well, I confess I have noticed a romantic tinge----'

'Oh, it isn't always romantic. He'll lie about the time of day, aboutthe name of his hatter. It appears there are people like that. '

'Well, they are precious scoundrels, ' Lyon declared, his voice tremblinga little with the thought of what Everina Brant had done with herself. 

'Oh, not always, ' said the old man. 'This fellow isn't in the least ascoundrel. There is no harm in him and no bad intention; he doesn'tsteal nor cheat nor gamble nor drink; he's very kind--he sticks to hiswife, is fond of his children. He simply can't give you a straightanswer. '

'Then everything he told me last night, I suppose, was mendacious: hedelivered himself of a series of the stiffest statements. They stuck, when I tried to swallow them, but I never thought of so simple anexplanation. '

'No doubt he was in the vein, ' Sir David went on. 'It's a naturalpeculiarity--as you might limp or stutter or be left-handed. I believeit comes and goes, like intermittent fever. My son tells me that hisfriends usually understand it and don't haul him up--for the sake of hiswife. '

'Oh, his wife--his wife!' Lyon murmured, painting fast. 

'I daresay she's used to it. '

'Never in the world, Sir David. How can she be used to it?'

'Why, my dear sir, when a woman's fond!--And don't they mostly handlethe long bow themselves? They are connoisseurs--they have a sympathy fora fellow-performer. '

Lyon was silent a moment; he had no ground for denying that Mrs. Capadose was attached to her husband. But after a little he rejoined:'Oh, not this one! I knew her years ago--before her marriage; knew herwell and admired her. She was as clear as a bell. '

'I like her very much, ' Sir David said, 'but I have seen her back himup. '

Lyon considered Sir David for a moment, not in the light of a model. 'Are you very sure?'

The old man hesitated; then he answered, smiling, 'You're in love withher. '

'Very likely. God knows I used to be!'

'She must help him out--she can't expose him. '

'She can hold her tongue, ' Lyon remarked. 

'Well, before you probably she will. '

'That's what I am curious to see. ' And Lyon added, privately, 'Mercy onus, what he must have made of her!' He kept this reflection to himself, for he considered that he had sufficiently betrayed his state of mindwith regard to Mrs. Capadose. None the less it occupied him nowimmensely, the question of how such a woman would arrange herself insuch a predicament. He watched her with an interest deeply quickenedwhen he mingled with the company; he had had his own troubles in life, but he had rarely been so anxious about anything as he was now to seewhat the loyalty of a wife and the infection of an example would havemade of an absolutely truthful mind. Oh, he held it as immutablyestablished that whatever other women might be prone to do she, of old, had been perfectly incapable of a deviation. Even if she had not beentoo simple to deceive she would have been too proud; and if she had nothad too much conscience she would have had too little eagerness. It wasthe last thing she would have endured or condoned--the particular thingshe would not have forgiven. Did she sit in torment while her husbandturned his somersaults, or was she now too so perverse that she thoughtit a fine thing to be striking at the expense of one's honour? It wouldhave taken a wondrous alchemy--working backwards, as it were--to producethis latter result. Besides these two alternatives (that she sufferedtortures in silence and that she was so much in love that her husband'shumiliating idiosyncrasy seemed to her only an added richness--a proofof life and talent), there was still the possibility that she had notfound him out, that she took his false pieces at his own valuation. Alittle reflection rendered this hypothesis untenable; it was too evidentthat the account he gave of things must repeatedly have contradicted herown knowledge. Within an hour or two of his meeting them Lyon had seenher confronted with that perfectly gratuitous invention about the profitthey had made off his early picture. Even then indeed she had not, sofar as he could see, smarted, and--but for the present he could onlycontemplate the case. 

Even if it had not been interfused, through his uneradicated tendernessfor Mrs. Capadose, with an element of suspense, the question would stillhave presented itself to him as a very curious problem, for he had notpainted portraits during so many years without becoming something of apsychologist. His inquiry was limited for the moment to the opportunitythat the following three days might yield, as the Colonel and his wifewere going on to another house. It fixed itself largely of course uponthe Colonel too--this gentleman was such a rare anomaly. Moreover it hadto go on very quickly. Lyon was too scrupulous to ask other people whatthey thought of the business--he was too afraid of exposing the woman heonce had loved. It was probable also that light would come to him fromthe talk of the rest of the company: the Colonel's queer habit, both asit affected his own situation and as it affected his wife, would be afamiliar theme in any house in which he was in the habit of staying. Lyon had not observed in the circles in which he visited any markedabstention from comment on the singularities of their members. Itinterfered with his progress that the Colonel hunted all day, while heplied his brushes and chatted with Sir David; but a Sunday intervenedand that partly made it up. Mrs. Capadose fortunately did not hunt, andwhen his work was over she was not inaccessible. He took a couple oflongish walks with her (she was fond of that), and beguiled her at teainto a friendly nook in the hall. Regard her as he might he could notmake out to himself that she was consumed by a hidden shame; the senseof being married to a man whose word had no worth was not, in herspirit, so far as he could guess, the canker within the rose. Her mindappeared to have nothing on it but its own placid frankness, and when helooked into her eyes (deeply, as he occasionally permitted himself todo), they had no uncomfortable consciousness. He talked to her again andstill again of the dear old days--reminded her of things that he had not(before this reunion) the least idea that he remembered. Then he spoketo her of her husband, praised his appearance, his talent forconversation, professed to have felt a quick friendship for him andasked (with an inward audacity at which he trembled a little) whatmanner of man he was. 'What manner?' said Mrs. Capadose. 'Dear me, howcan one describe one's husband? I like him very much. '

'Ah, you have told me that already!' Lyon exclaimed, with exaggeratedruefulness. 

'Then why do you ask me again?' She added in a moment, as if she were sohappy that she could afford to take pity on him, 'He is everythingthat's good and kind. He's a soldier--and a gentleman--and a dear! Hehasn't a fault. And he has great ability. '

'Yes; he strikes one as having great ability. But of course I can'tthink him a dear. '

'I don't care what you think him!' said Mrs. Capadose, looking, itseemed to him, as she smiled, handsomer than he had ever seen her. Shewas either deeply cynical or still more deeply impenetrable, and he hadlittle prospect of winning from her the intimation that he longedfor--some hint that it had come over her that after all she had betterhave married a man who was not a by-word for the most contemptible, theleast heroic, of vices. Had she not seen--had she not felt--the smile goround when her husband executed some especially characteristicconversational caper? How could a woman of her quality endure that dayafter day, year after year, except by her quality's altering? But hewould believe in the alteration only when he should have heard _her_lie. He was fascinated by his problem and yet half exasperated, and heasked himself all kinds of questions. Did she not lie, after all, whenshe let his falsehoods pass without a protest? Was not her life aperpetual complicity, and did she not aid and abet him by the simplefact that she was not disgusted with him? Then again perhaps she _was_disgusted and it was the mere desperation of her pride that had givenher an inscrutable mask. Perhaps she protested in private, passionately;perhaps every night, in their own apartments, after the day's hideousperformance, she made him the most scorching scene. But if such sceneswere of no avail and he took no more trouble to cure himself, how couldshe regard him, and after so many years of marriage too, with theperfectly artless complacency that Lyon had surprised in her in thecourse of the first day's dinner? If our friend had not been in lovewith her he could have taken the diverting view of the Colonel'sdelinquencies; but as it was they turned to the tragical in his mind, even while he had a sense that his solicitude might also have beenlaughed at. 

The observation of these three days showed him that if Capadose was anabundant he was not a malignant liar and that his fine faculty exerciseditself mainly on subjects of small direct importance. 'He is the liarplatonic, ' he said to himself; 'he is disinterested, he doesn't operatewith a hope of gain or with a desire to injure. It is art for art and heis prompted by the love of beauty. He has an inner vision of what mighthave been, of what ought to be, and he helps on the good cause by thesimple substitution of a _nuance_. He paints, as it were, and so do I!'His manifestations had a considerable variety, but a family likeness ranthrough them, which consisted mainly of their singular futility. It wasthis that made them offensive; they encumbered the field ofconversation, took up valuable space, converted it into a sort ofbrilliant sun-shot fog. For a fib told under pressure a convenient placecan usually be found, as for a person who presents himself with anauthor's order at the first night of a play. But the supererogatory lieis the gentleman without a voucher or a ticket who accommodates himselfwith a stool in the passage. 

In one particular Lyon acquitted his successful rival; it had puzzledhim that irrepressible as he was he had not got into a mess in theservice. But he perceived that he respected the service--that augustinstitution was sacred from his depredations. Moreover though there wasa great deal of swagger in his talk it was, oddly enough, rarely swaggerabout his military exploits. He had a passion for the chase, he hadfollowed it in far countries and some of his finest flowers werereminiscences of lonely danger and escape. The more solitary the scenethe bigger of course the flower. A new acquaintance, with the Colonel, always received the tribute of a bouquet: that generalisation Lyon verypromptly made. And this extraordinary man had inconsistencies andunexpected lapses--lapses into flat veracity. Lyon recognised what SirDavid had told him, that his aberrations came in fits or periods--thathe would sometimes keep the truce of God for a month at a time. Themuse breathed upon him at her pleasure; she often left him alone. Hewould neglect the finest openings and then set sail in the teeth of thebreeze. As a general thing he affirmed the false rather than denied thetrue; yet this proportion was sometimes strikingly reversed. Very oftenhe joined in the laugh against himself--he admitted that he was tryingit on and that a good many of his anecdotes had an experimentalcharacter. Still he never completely retracted nor retreated--he divedand came up in another place. Lyon divined that he was capable atintervals of defending his position with violence, but only when it wasa very bad one. Then he might easily be dangerous--then he would hit outand become calumnious. Such occasions would test his wife'sequanimity--Lyon would have liked to see her there. In the smoking-roomand elsewhere the company, so far as it was composed of his familiars, had an hilarious protest always at hand; but among the men who had knownhim long his rich tone was an old story, so old that they had ceased totalk about it, and Lyon did not care, as I have said, to elicit thejudgment of those who might have shared his own surprise. 

The oddest thing of all was that neither surprise nor familiarityprevented the Colonel's being liked; his largest drafts on a scepticalattention passed for an overflow of life and gaiety--almost of goodlooks. He was fond of portraying his bravery and used a very big brush, and yet he was unmistakably brave. He was a capital rider and shot, inspite of his fund of anecdote illustrating these accomplishments: inshort he was very nearly as clever and his career had been very nearlyas wonderful as he pretended. His best quality however remained thatindiscriminate sociability which took interest and credulity for grantedand about which he bragged least. It made him cheap, it made him even ina manner vulgar; but it was so contagious that his listener was more orless on his side as against the probabilities. It was a privatereflection of Oliver Lyon's that he not only lied but made one feelone's self a bit of a liar, even (or especially) if one contradictedhim. In the evening, at dinner and afterwards, our friend watched hiswife's face to see if some faint shade or spasm never passed over it. But she showed nothing, and the wonder was that when he spoke she almostalways listened. That was her pride: she wished not to be even suspectedof not facing the music. Lyon had none the less an importunate vision ofa veiled figure coming the next day in the dusk to certain places torepair the Colonel's ravages, as the relatives of kleptomaniacspunctually call at the shops that have suffered from their pilferings. 

'I must apologise, of course it wasn't true, I hope no harm is done, itis only his incorrigible----' Oh, to hear that woman's voice in thatdeep abasement! Lyon had no nefarious plan, no conscious wish topractise upon her shame or her loyalty; but he did say to himself thathe should like to bring her round to feel that there would have beenmore dignity in a union with a certain other person. He even dreamed ofthe hour when, with a burning face, she would ask _him_ not to take itup. Then he should be almost consoled--he would be magnanimous. 

Lyon finished his picture and took his departure, after having workedin a glow of interest which made him believe in his success, until hefound he had pleased every one, especially Mr. And Mrs. Ashmore, when hebegan to be sceptical. The party at any rate changed: Colonel and Mrs. Capadose went their way. He was able to say to himself however that hisseparation from the lady was not so much an end as a beginning, and hecalled on her soon after his return to town. She had told him the hoursshe was at home--she seemed to like him. If she liked him why had shenot married him or at any rate why was she not sorry she had not? If shewas sorry she concealed it too well. Lyon's curiosity on this point maystrike the reader as fatuous, but something must be allowed to adisappointed man. He did not ask much after all; not that she shouldlove him to-day or that she should allow him to tell her that he lovedher, but only that she should give him some sign she was sorry. Insteadof this, for the present, she contented herself with exhibiting herlittle daughter to him. The child was beautiful and had the prettiesteyes of innocence he had ever seen: which did not prevent him fromwondering whether she told horrid fibs. This idea gave him muchentertainment--the picture of the anxiety with which her mother wouldwatch as she grew older for the symptoms of heredity. That was a niceoccupation for Everina Brant! Did she lie to the child herself, abouther father--was that necessary, when she pressed her daughter to herbosom, to cover up his tracks? Did he control himself before the littlegirl--so that she might not hear him say things she knew to be otherthan he said? Lyon doubted this: his genius would be too strong forhim, and the only safety for the child would be in her being too stupidto analyse. One couldn't judge yet--she was too young. If she shouldgrow up clever she would be sure to tread in his steps--a delightfulimprovement in her mother's situation! Her little face was not shifty, but neither was her father's big one: so that proved nothing. 

Lyon reminded his friends more than once of their promise that Amyshould sit to him, and it was only a question of his leisure. The desiregrew in him to paint the Colonel also--an operation from which hepromised himself a rich private satisfaction. He would draw him out, hewould set him up in that totality about which he had talked with SirDavid, and none but the initiated would know. They, however, would rankthe picture high, and it would be indeed six rows deep--a masterpiece ofsubtle characterisation, of legitimate treachery. He had dreamed foryears of producing something which should bear the stamp of thepsychologist as well as of the painter, and here at last was hissubject. It was a pity it was not better, but that was not _his_ fault. It was his impression that already no one drew the Colonel out more thanhe, and he did it not only by instinct but on a plan. There were momentswhen he was almost frightened at the success of his plan--the poorgentleman went so terribly far. He would pull up some day, look at Lyonbetween the eyes--guess he was being played upon--which would lead tohis wife's guessing it also. Not that Lyon cared much for that however, so long as she failed to suppose (as she must) that she was a part ofhis joke. He formed such a habit now of going to see her of a Sundayafternoon that he was angry when she went out of town. This occurredoften, as the couple were great visitors and the Colonel was alwayslooking for sport, which he liked best when it could be had at otherpeople's expense. Lyon would have supposed that this sort of life wasparticularly little to her taste, for he had an idea that it was incountry-houses that her husband came out strongest. To let him go offwithout her, not to see him expose himself--that ought properly to havebeen a relief and a luxury to her. She told Lyon in fact that shepreferred staying at home; but she neglected to say it was because inother people's houses she was on the rack: the reason she gave was thatshe liked so to be with the child. It was not perhaps criminal to drawsuch a bow, but it was vulgar: poor Lyon was delighted when he arrivedat that formula. Certainly some day too he would cross the line--hewould become a noxious animal. Yes, in the meantime he was vulgar, inspite of his talents, his fine person, his impunity. Twice, byexception, toward the end of the winter, when he left town for a fewdays' hunting, his wife remained at home. Lyon had not yet reached thepoint of asking himself whether the desire not to miss two of his visitshad something to do with her immobility. That inquiry would perhaps havebeen more in place later, when he began to paint the child and shealways came with her. But it was not in her to give the wrong name, topretend, and Lyon could see that she had the maternal passion, in spiteof the bad blood in the little girl's veins. 

She came inveterately, though Lyon multiplied the sittings: Amy wasnever entrusted to the governess or the maid. He had knocked off poorold Sir David in ten days, but the portrait of the simple-faced childbade fair to stretch over into the following year. He asked for sittingafter sitting, and it would have struck any one who might have witnessedthe affair that he was wearing the little girl out. He knew betterhowever and Mrs. Capadose also knew: they were present together at thelong intermissions he gave her, when she left her pose and roamed aboutthe great studio, amusing herself with its curiosities, playing with theold draperies and costumes, having unlimited leave to handle. Then hermother and Mr. Lyon sat and talked; he laid aside his brushes and leanedback in his chair; he always gave her tea. What Mrs. Capadose did notknow was the way that during these weeks he neglected other orders:women have no faculty of imagination with regard to a man's work beyonda vague idea that it doesn't matter. In fact Lyon put off everything andmade several celebrities wait. There were half-hours of silence, when heplied his brushes, during which he was mainly conscious that Everina wassitting there. She easily fell into that if he did not insist ontalking, and she was not embarrassed nor bored by it. Sometimes she tookup a book--there were plenty of them about; sometimes, a little way off, in her chair, she watched his progress (though without in the leastadvising or correcting), as if she cared for every stroke thatrepresented her daughter. These strokes were occasionally a little wild;he was thinking so much more of his heart than of his hand. He was notmore embarrassed than she was, but he was agitated: it was as if in thesittings (for the child, too, was beautifully quiet) something wasgrowing between them or had already grown--a tacit confidence, aninexpressible secret. He felt it that way; but after all he could not besure that she did. What he wanted her to do for him was very little; itwas not even to confess that she was unhappy. He would besuperabundantly gratified if she should simply let him know, even by asilent sign, that she recognised that with him her life would have beenfiner. Sometimes he guessed--his presumption went so far--that he mightsee this sign in her contentedly sitting there. 

III

At last he broached the question of painting the Colonel: it was nowvery late in the season--there would be little time before the generaldispersal. He said they must make the most of it; the great thing was tobegin; then in the autumn, with the resumption of their London life, they could go forward. Mrs. Capadose objected to this that she reallycould not consent to accept another present of such value. Lyon hadgiven her the portrait of herself of old, and he had seen what they hadhad the indelicacy to do with it. Now he had offered her this beautifulmemorial of the child--beautiful it would evidently be when it wasfinished, if he could ever satisfy himself; a precious possession whichthey would cherish for ever. But his generosity must stop there--theycouldn't be so tremendously 'beholden' to him. They couldn't order thepicture--of course he would understand that, without her explaining: itwas a luxury beyond their reach, for they knew the great prices hereceived. Besides, what had they ever done--what above all had _she_ever done, that he should overload them with benefits? No, he was toodreadfully good; it was really impossible that Clement should sit. Lyonlistened to her without protest, without interruption, while he bentforward at his work, and at last he said: 'Well, if you won't take itwhy not let him sit for me for my own pleasure and profit? Let it be afavour, a service I ask of him. It will do me a lot of good to paint himand the picture will remain in my hands. '

'How will it do you a lot of good?' Mrs. Capadose asked. 

'Why, he's such a rare model--such an interesting subject. He has suchan expressive face. It will teach me no end of things. '

'Expressive of what?' said Mrs. Capadose. 

'Why, of his nature. '

'And do you want to paint his nature?'

'Of course I do. That's what a great portrait gives you, and I shallmake the Colonel's a great one. It will put me up high. So you see myrequest is eminently interested. '

'How can you be higher than you are?'

'Oh, I'm insatiable! Do consent, ' said Lyon. 

'Well, his nature is very noble, ' Mrs. Capadose remarked. 

'Ah, trust me, I shall bring it out!' Lyon exclaimed, feeling a littleashamed of himself. 

Mrs. Capadose said before she went away that her husband would probablycomply with his invitation, but she added, 'Nothing would induce me tolet you pry into _me_ that way!'

'Oh, you, ' Lyon laughed--'I could do you in the dark!'

The Colonel shortly afterwards placed his leisure at the painter'sdisposal and by the end of July had paid him several visits. Lyon wasdisappointed neither in the quality of his sitter nor in the degree towhich he himself rose to the occasion; he felt really confident that heshould produce a fine thing. He was in the humour; he was charmed withhis _motif_ and deeply interested in his problem. The only point thattroubled him was the idea that when he should send his picture to theAcademy he should not be able to give the title, for the catalogue, simply as 'The Liar. ' However, it little mattered, for he had nowdetermined that this character should be perceptible even to the meanestintelligence--as overtopping as it had become to his own sense in theliving man. As he saw nothing else in the Colonel to-day, so he gavehimself up to the joy of painting nothing else. How he did it he couldnot have told you, but it seemed to him that the mystery of how to do itwas revealed to him afresh every time he sat down to his work. It was inthe eyes and it was in the mouth, it was in every line of the face andevery fact of the attitude, in the indentation of the chin, in the waythe hair was planted, the moustache was twisted, the smile came andwent, the breath rose and fell. It was in the way he looked out at abamboozled world in short--the way he would look out for ever. Therewere half a dozen portraits in Europe that Lyon rated as supreme; heregarded them as immortal, for they were as perfectly preserved as theywere consummately painted. It was to this small exemplary group that heaspired to annex the canvas on which he was now engaged. One of theproductions that helped to compose it was the magnificent Moroni of theNational Gallery--the young tailor, in the white jacket, at his boardwith his shears. The Colonel was not a tailor, nor was Moroni's model, unlike many tailors, a liar; but as regards the masterly clearness withwhich the individual should be rendered his work would be on the sameline as that. He had to a degree in which he had rarely had it beforethe satisfaction of feeling life grow and grow under his brush. TheColonel, as it turned out, liked to sit and he liked to talk while hewas sitting: which was very fortunate, as his talk largely constitutedLyon's inspiration. Lyon put into practice that idea of drawing him outwhich he had been nursing for so many weeks: he could not possibly havebeen in a better relation to him for the purpose. He encouraged, beguiled, excited him, manifested an unfathomable credulity, and hisonly interruptions were when the Colonel did not respond to it. He hadhis intermissions, his hours of sterility, and then Lyon felt that thepicture also languished. The higher his companion soared, the moregyrations he executed, in the blue, the better he painted; he couldn'tmake his flights long enough. He lashed him on when he flagged; hisapprehension became great at moments that the Colonel would discover hisgame. But he never did, apparently; he basked and expanded in the finesteady light of the painter's attention. In this way the picture grewvery fast; it was astonishing what a short business it was, comparedwith the little girl's. By the fifth of August it was pretty wellfinished: that was the date of the last sitting the Colonel was for thepresent able to give, as he was leaving town the next day with his wife. Lyon was amply content--he saw his way so clear: he should be able to doat his convenience what remained, with or without his friend'sattendance. At any rate, as there was no hurry, he would let the thingstand over till his own return to London, in November, when he wouldcome back to it with a fresh eye. On the Colonel's asking him if hiswife might come and see it the next day, if she should find aminute--this was so greatly her desire--Lyon begged as a special favourthat she would wait: he was so far from satisfied as yet. This was therepetition of a proposal Mrs. Capadose had made on the occasion of hislast visit to her, and he had then asked for a delay--declared that hewas by no means content. He was really delighted, and he was again alittle ashamed of himself. 

By the fifth of August the weather was very warm, and on that day, whilethe Colonel sat straight and gossiped, Lyon opened for the sake ofventilation a little subsidiary door which led directly from his studiointo the garden and sometimes served as an entrance and an exit formodels and for visitors of the humbler sort, and as a passage forcanvases, frames, packing-boxes and other professional gear. The mainentrance was through the house and his own apartments, and this approachhad the charming effect of admitting you first to a high gallery, fromwhich a crooked picturesque staircase enabled you to descend to thewide, decorated, encumbered room. The view of this room, beneath them, with all its artistic ingenuities and the objects of value that Lyon hadcollected, never failed to elicit exclamations of delight from personsstepping into the gallery. The way from the garden was plainer and atonce more practicable and more private. Lyon's domain, in St. John'sWood, was not vast, but when the door stood open of a summer's day itoffered a glimpse of flowers and trees, you smelt something sweet andyou heard the birds. On this particular morning the side-door had beenfound convenient by an unannounced visitor, a youngish woman who stoodin the room before the Colonel perceived her and whom he perceivedbefore she was noticed by his friend. She was very quiet, and she lookedfrom one of the men to the other. 'Oh, dear, here's another!' Lyonexclaimed, as soon as his eyes rested on her. She belonged, in fact, toa somewhat importunate class--the model in search of employment, and sheexplained that she had ventured to come straight in, that way, becausevery often when she went to call upon gentlemen the servants played hertricks, turned her off and wouldn't take in her name. 

'But how did you get into the garden?' Lyon asked. 

'The gate was open, sir--the servants' gate. The butcher's cart wasthere. '

'The butcher ought to have closed it, ' said Lyon. 

'Then you don't require me, sir?' the lady continued. 

Lyon went on with his painting; he had given her a sharp look at first, but now his eyes lighted on her no more. The Colonel, however, examinedher with interest. She was a person of whom you could scarcely saywhether being young she looked old or old she looked young; she had atany rate evidently rounded several of the corners of life and had a facethat was rosy but that somehow failed to suggest freshness. Neverthelessshe was pretty and even looked as if at one time she might have sat forthe complexion. She wore a hat with many feathers, a dress with manybugles, long black gloves, encircled with silver bracelets, and very badshoes. There was something about her that was not exactly of thegoverness out of place nor completely of the actress seeking anengagement, but that savoured of an interrupted profession or even of ablighted career. She was rather soiled and tarnished, and after she hadbeen in the room a few moments the air, or at any rate the nostril, became acquainted with a certain alcoholic waft. She was unpractised inthe _h_, and when Lyon at last thanked her and said he didn't wanther--he was doing nothing for which she could be useful--she repliedwith rather a wounded manner, 'Well, you know you _'ave_ 'ad me!'

'I don't remember you, ' Lyon answered. 

'Well, I daresay the people that saw your pictures do! I haven't muchtime, but I thought I would look in. '

'I am much obliged to you. '

'If ever you should require me, if you just send me a postcard----'

'I never send postcards, ' said Lyon. 

'Oh well, I should value a private letter! Anything to Miss Geraldine, Mortimer Terrace Mews, Notting 'ill----'

'Very good; I'll remember, ' said Lyon. 

Miss Geraldine lingered. 'I thought I'd just stop, on the chance. '

'I'm afraid I can't hold out hopes, I'm so busy with portraits, ' Lyoncontinued. 

'Yes; I see you are. I wish I was in the gentleman's place. '

'I'm afraid in that case it wouldn't look like me, ' said the Colonel, laughing. 

'Oh, of course it couldn't compare--it wouldn't be so 'andsome! But I dohate them portraits!' Miss Geraldine declared. 'It's so much bread outof our mouths. '

'Well, there are many who can't paint them, ' Lyon suggested, comfortingly. 

'Oh, I've sat to the very first--and only to the first! There's manythat couldn't do anything without me. '

'I'm glad you're in such demand. ' Lyon was beginning to be bored and headded that he wouldn't detain her--he would send for her in case ofneed. 

'Very well; remember it's the Mews--more's the pity! You don't sit sowell as _us_!' Miss Geraldine pursued, looking at the Colonel. 'If _you_should require me, sir----'

'You put him out; you embarrass him, ' said Lyon. 

'Embarrass him, oh gracious!' the visitor cried, with a laugh whichdiffused a fragrance. 'Perhaps _you_ send postcards, eh?' she went on tothe Colonel; and then she retreated with a wavering step. She passed outinto the garden as she had come. 

'How very dreadful--she's drunk!' said Lyon. He was painting hard, buthe looked up, checking himself: Miss Geraldine, in the open doorway, hadthrust back her head. 

'Yes, I do hate it--that sort of thing!' she cried with an explosion ofmirth which confirmed Lyon's declaration. And then she disappeared. 

'What sort of thing--what does she mean?' the Colonel asked. 

'Oh, my painting you, when I might be painting her. '

'And have you ever painted her?'

'Never in the world; I have never seen her. She is quite mistaken. '

The Colonel was silent a moment; then he remarked, 'She was verypretty--ten years ago. '

'I daresay, but she's quite ruined. For me the least drop too muchspoils them; I shouldn't care for her at all. '

'My dear fellow, she's not a model, ' said the Colonel, laughing. 

'To-day, no doubt, she's not worthy of the name; but she has been one. '

'_Jamais de la vie!_ That's all a pretext. '

'A pretext?' Lyon pricked up his ears--he began to wonder what wascoming now. 

'She didn't want you--she wanted me. '

'I noticed she paid you some attention. What does she want of you?'

'Oh, to do me an ill turn. She hates me--lots of women do. She'swatching me--she follows me. '

Lyon leaned back in his chair--he didn't believe a word of this. He wasall the more delighted with it and with the Colonel's bright, candidmanner. The story had bloomed, fragrant, on the spot. 'My dear Colonel!'he murmured, with friendly interest and commiseration. 

'I was annoyed when she came in--but I wasn't startled, ' his sittercontinued. 

'You concealed it very well, if you were. '

'Ah, when one has been through what I have! To-day however I confess Iwas half prepared. I have seen her hanging about--she knows mymovements. She was near my house this morning--she must have followedme. '

'But who is she then--with such a _toupet_?'

'Yes, she has that, ' said the Colonel; 'but as you observe she wasprimed. Still, there was a cheek, as they say, in her coming in. Oh, she's a bad one! She isn't a model and she never was; no doubt she hasknown some of those women and picked up their form. She had hold of afriend of mine ten years ago--a stupid young gander who might have beenleft to be plucked but whom I was obliged to take an interest in forfamily reasons. It's a long story--I had really forgotten all about it. She's thirty-seven if she's a day. I cut in and made him get rid ofher--I sent her about her business. She knew it was me she had to thank. She has never forgiven me--I think she's off her head. Her name isn'tGeraldine at all and I doubt very much if that's her address. '

'Ah, what is her name?' Lyon asked, most attentive. The details alwaysbegan to multiply, to abound, when once his companion was welllaunched--they flowed forth in battalions. 

'It's Pearson--Harriet Pearson; but she used to call herselfGrenadine--wasn't that a rum appellation? Grenadine--Geraldine--the jumpwas easy. ' Lyon was charmed with the promptitude of this response, andhis interlocutor went on: 'I hadn't thought of her for years--I hadquite lost sight of her. I don't know what her idea is, but practicallyshe's harmless. As I came in I thought I saw her a little way up theroad. She must have found out I come here and have arrived before me. Idaresay--or rather I'm sure--she is waiting for me there now. '

'Hadn't you better have protection?' Lyon asked, laughing. 

'The best protection is five shillings--I'm willing to go that length. Unless indeed she has a bottle of vitriol. But they only throw vitriolon the men who have deceived them, and I never deceived her--I told herthe first time I saw her that it wouldn't do. Oh, if she's there we'llwalk a little way together and talk it over and, as I say, I'll go asfar as five shillings. '

'Well, ' said Lyon, 'I'll contribute another five. ' He felt that this waslittle to pay for his entertainment. 

That entertainment was interrupted however for the time by the Colonel'sdeparture. Lyon hoped for a letter recounting the fictive sequel; butapparently his brilliant sitter did not operate with the pen. At anyrate he left town without writing; they had taken a rendezvous for threemonths later. Oliver Lyon always passed the holidays in the same way;during the first weeks he paid a visit to his elder brother, the happypossessor, in the south of England, of a rambling old house with formalgardens, in which he delighted, and then he went abroad--usually toItaly or Spain. This year he carried out his custom after taking a lastlook at his all but finished work and feeling as nearly pleased with itas he ever felt with the translation of the idea by the hand--always, asit seemed to him, a pitiful compromise. One yellow afternoon, in thecountry, as he was smoking his pipe on one of the old terraces he wasseized with the desire to see it again and do two or three things moreto it: he had thought of it so often while he lounged there. The impulsewas too strong to be dismissed, and though he expected to return to townin the course of another week he was unable to face the delay. To lookat the picture for five minutes would be enough--it would clear upcertain questions which hummed in his brain; so that the next morning, to give himself this luxury, he took the train for London. He sent noword in advance; he would lunch at his club and probably return intoSussex by the 5. 45. 

In St. John's Wood the tide of human life flows at no time very fast, and in the first days of September Lyon found unmitigated emptiness inthe straight sunny roads where the little plastered garden-walls, withtheir incommunicative doors, looked slightly Oriental. There wasdefinite stillness in his own house, to which he admitted himself by hispass-key, having a theory that it was well sometimes to take servantsunprepared. The good woman who was mainly in charge and who cumulatedthe functions of cook and housekeeper was, however, quickly summoned byhis step, and (he cultivated frankness of intercourse with hisdomestics) received him without the confusion of surprise. He told herthat she needn't mind the place being not quite straight, he had onlycome up for a few hours--he should be busy in the studio. To this shereplied that he was just in time to see a lady and a gentleman who werethere at the moment--they had arrived five minutes before. She had toldthem he was away from home but they said it was all right; they onlywanted to look at a picture and would be very careful of everything. 'Ihope it is all right, sir, ' the housekeeper concluded. 'The gentlemansays he's a sitter and he gave me his name--rather an odd name; I thinkit's military. The lady's a very fine lady, sir; at any rate there theyare. '

'Oh, it's all right, ' Lyon said, the identity of his visitors beingclear. The good woman couldn't know, for she usually had little to dowith the comings and goings; his man, who showed people in and out, hadaccompanied him to the country. He was a good deal surprised at Mrs. Capadose's having come to see her husband's portrait when she knew thatthe artist himself wished her to forbear; but it was a familiar truth tohim that she was a woman of a high spirit. Besides, perhaps the lady wasnot Mrs. Capadose; the Colonel might have brought some inquisitivefriend, a person who wanted a portrait of _her_ husband. What were theydoing in town, at any rate, at that moment? Lyon made his way to thestudio with a certain curiosity; he wondered vaguely what his friendswere 'up to. ' He pushed aside the curtain that hung in the door ofcommunication--the door opening upon the gallery which it had been foundconvenient to construct at the time the studio was added to the house. When I say he pushed it aside I should amend my phrase; he laid his handupon it, but at that moment he was arrested by a very singular sound. Itcame from the floor of the room beneath him and it startled himextremely, consisting apparently as it did of a passionate wail--a sortof smothered shriek--accompanied by a violent burst of tears. OliverLyon listened intently a moment, and then he passed out upon thebalcony, which was covered with an old thick Moorish rug. His step wasnoiseless, though he had not endeavoured to make it so, and after thatfirst instant he found himself profiting irresistibly by the accident ofhis not having attracted the attention of the two persons in the studio, who were some twenty feet below him. In truth they were so deeply and sostrangely engaged that their unconsciousness of observation wasexplained. The scene that took place before Lyon's eyes was one of themost extraordinary they had ever rested upon. Delicacy and the failureto comprehend kept him at first from interrupting it--for what he sawwas a woman who had thrown herself in a flood of tears on hercompanion's bosom--and these influences were succeeded after a minute(the minutes were very few and very short) by a definite motive whichpresently had the force to make him step back behind the curtain. I mayadd that it also had the force to make him avail himself for furthercontemplation of a crevice formed by his gathering together the twohalves of the _portière_. He was perfectly aware of what he wasabout--he was for the moment an eavesdropper, a spy; but he was alsoaware that a very odd business, in which his confidence had been trifledwith, was going forward, and that if in a measure it didn't concern him, in a measure it very definitely did. His observation, his reflections, accomplished themselves in a flash. 

His visitors were in the middle of the room; Mrs. Capadose clung to herhusband, weeping, sobbing as if her heart would break. Her distress washorrible to Oliver Lyon but his astonishment was greater than his horrorwhen he heard the Colonel respond to it by the words, vehementlyuttered, 'Damn him, damn him, damn him!' What in the world had happened?Why was she sobbing and whom was he damning? What had happened, Lyon sawthe next instant, was that the Colonel had finally rummaged out hisunfinished portrait (he knew the corner where the artist usually placedit, out of the way, with its face to the wall) and had set it up beforehis wife on an empty easel. She had looked at it a few moments andthen--apparently--what she saw in it had produced an explosion of dismayand resentment. She was too busy sobbing and the Colonel was too busyholding her and reiterating his objurgation, to look round or look up. The scene was so unexpected to Lyon that he could not take it, on thespot, as a proof of the triumph of his hand--of a tremendous hit: hecould only wonder what on earth was the matter. The idea of the triumphcame a little later. Yet he could see the portrait from where he stood;he was startled with its look of life--he had not thought it somasterly. Mrs. Capadose flung herself away from her husband--she droppedinto the nearest chair, buried her face in her arms, leaning on a table. Her weeping suddenly ceased to be audible, but she shuddered there as ifshe were overwhelmed with anguish and shame. Her husband remained amoment staring at the picture; then he went to her, bent over her, tookhold of her again, soothed her. 'What is it, darling, what the devil isit?' he demanded. 

Lyon heard her answer. 'It's cruel--oh, it's too cruel!'

'Damn him--damn him--damn him!' the Colonel repeated. 

'It's all there--it's all there!' Mrs. Capadose went on. 

'Hang it, what's all there?'

'Everything there oughtn't to be--everything he has seen--it's toodreadful!'

'Everything he has seen? Why, ain't I a good-looking fellow? He has mademe rather handsome. '

Mrs. Capadose had sprung up again; she had darted another glance at thepainted betrayal. 'Handsome? Hideous, hideous! Not that--never, never!'

'Not _what_, in heaven's name?' the Colonel almost shouted. Lyon couldsee his flushed, bewildered face. 

'What he has made of you--what you know! _He_ knows--he has seen. Everyone will know--every one will see. Fancy that thing in the Academy!'

'You're going wild, darling; but if you hate it so it needn't go. '

'Oh, he'll send it--it's so good! Come away--come away!' Mrs. Capadosewailed, seizing her husband. 

'It's so good?' the poor man cried. 

'Come away--come away, ' she only repeated; and she turned toward thestaircase that ascended to the gallery. 

'Not that way--not through the house, in the state you're in, ' Lyonheard the Colonel object. 'This way--we can pass, ' he added; and he drewhis wife to the small door that opened into the garden. It was bolted, but he pushed the bolt and opened the door. She passed out quickly, buthe stood there looking back into the room. 'Wait for me a moment!' hecried out to her; and with an excited stride he re-entered the studio. He came up to the picture again, and again he stood looking at it. 'Damnhim--damn him--damn him!' he broke out once more. It was not clear toLyon whether this malediction had for its object the original or thepainter of the portrait. The Colonel turned away and moved rapidly aboutthe room, as if he were looking for something; Lyon was unable for theinstant to guess his intention. Then the artist said to himself, belowhis breath, 'He's going to do it a harm!' His first impulse was to rushdown and stop him; but he paused, with the sound of Everina Brant's sobsstill in his ears. The Colonel found what he was looking for--found itamong some odds and ends on a small table and rushed back with it to theeasel. At one and the same moment Lyon perceived that the object he hadseized was a small Eastern dagger and that he had plunged it into thecanvas. He seemed animated by a sudden fury, for with extreme vigour ofhand he dragged the instrument down (Lyon knew it to have no very fineedge) making a long, abominable gash. Then he plucked it out and dashedit again several times into the face of the likeness, exactly as if hewere stabbing a human victim: it had the oddest effect--that of a sortof figurative suicide. In a few seconds more the Colonel had tossed thedagger away--he looked at it as he did so, as if he expected it to reekwith blood--and hurried out of the place, closing the door after him. 

The strangest part of all was--as will doubtless appear--that OliverLyon made no movement to save his picture. But he did not feel as if hewere losing it or cared not if he were, so much more did he feel that hewas gaining a certitude. His old friend _was_ ashamed of her husband, and he had made her so, and he had scored a great success, even thoughthe picture had been reduced to rags. The revelation excited him so--asindeed the whole scene did--that when he came down the steps after theColonel had gone he trembled with his happy agitation; he was dizzy andhad to sit down a moment. The portrait had a dozen jagged wounds--theColonel literally had hacked it to death. Lyon left it where it was, never touched it, scarcely looked at it; he only walked up and down hisstudio, still excited, for an hour. At the end of this time his goodwoman came to recommend that he should have some luncheon; there was apassage under the staircase from the offices. 

'Ah, the lady and gentleman have gone, sir? I didn't hear them. '

'Yes; they went by the garden. '

But she had stopped, staring at the picture on the easel. 'Gracious, howyou _'ave_ served it, sir!'

Lyon imitated the Colonel. 'Yes, I cut it up--in a fit of disgust. '

'Mercy, after all your trouble! Because they weren't pleased, sir?'

'Yes; they weren't pleased. '

'Well, they must be very grand! Blessed if I would!'

'Have it chopped up; it will do to light fires, ' Lyon said. 

He returned to the country by the 3. 30 and a few days later passed overto France. During the two months that he was absent from England heexpected something--he could hardly have said what; a manifestation ofsome sort on the Colonel's part. Wouldn't he write, wouldn't he explain, wouldn't he take for granted Lyon had discovered the way he had, as thecook said, served him and deem it only decent to take pity in somefashion or other on his mystification? Would he plead guilty or would herepudiate suspicion? The latter course would be difficult and make aconsiderable draft upon his genius, in view of the certain testimony ofLyon's housekeeper, who had admitted the visitors and would establishthe connection between their presence and the violence wrought. Wouldthe Colonel proffer some apology or some amends, or would any word fromhim be only a further expression of that destructive petulance which ourfriend had seen his wife so suddenly and so potently communicate to him?He would have either to declare that he had not touched the picture orto admit that he had, and in either case he would have to tell a finestory. Lyon was impatient for the story and, as no letter came, disappointed that it was not produced. His impatience however was muchgreater in respect to Mrs. Capadose's version, if version there was tobe; for certainly that would be the real test, would show how far shewould go for her husband, on the one side, or for him, Oliver Lyon, onthe other. He could scarcely wait to see what line she would take;whether she would simply adopt the Colonel's, whatever it might be. Hewanted to draw her out without waiting, to get an idea in advance. Hewrote to her, to this end, from Venice, in the tone of theirestablished friendship, asking for news, narrating his wanderings, hoping they should soon meet in town and not saying a word about thepicture. Day followed day, after the time, and he received no answer;upon which he reflected that she couldn't trust herself to write--wasstill too much under the influence of the emotion produced by his'betrayal. ' Her husband had espoused that emotion and she had espousedthe action he had taken in consequence of it, and it was a completerupture and everything was at an end. Lyon considered this prospectrather ruefully, at the same time that he thought it deplorable thatsuch charming people should have put themselves so grossly in the wrong. He was at last cheered, though little further enlightened, by thearrival of a letter, brief but breathing good-humour and hinting neitherat a grievance nor at a bad conscience. The most interesting part of itto Lyon was the postscript, which consisted of these words: 'I have aconfession to make to you. We were in town for a couple of days, the 1stof September, and I took the occasion to defy your authority--it wasvery bad of me but I couldn't help it. I made Clement take me to yourstudio--I wanted so dreadfully to see what you had done with him, yourwishes to the contrary notwithstanding. We made your servants let us inand I took a good look at the picture. It is really wonderful!''Wonderful' was non-committal, but at least with this letter there wasno rupture. 

The third day after Lyon's return to London was a Sunday, so that hecould go and ask Mrs. Capadose for luncheon. She had given him in thespring a general invitation to do so and he had availed himself of itseveral times. These had been the occasions (before he sat to him) whenhe saw the Colonel most familiarly. Directly after the meal his hostdisappeared (he went out, as he said, to call on _his_ women) and thesecond half-hour was the best, even when there were other people. Now, in the first days of December, Lyon had the luck to find the pair alone, without even Amy, who appeared but little in public. They were in thedrawing-room, waiting for the repast to be announced, and as soon as hecame in the Colonel broke out, 'My dear fellow, I'm delighted to seeyou! I'm so keen to begin again. '

'Oh, do go on, it's so beautiful, ' Mrs. Capadose said, as she gave himher hand. 

Lyon looked from one to the other; he didn't know what he had expected, but he had not expected this. 'Ah, then, you think I've got something?'

'You've got everything, ' said Mrs. Capadose, smiling from hergolden-brown eyes. 

'She wrote you of our little crime?' her husband asked. 'She dragged methere--I had to go. ' Lyon wondered for a moment whether he meant bytheir little crime the assault on the canvas; but the Colonel's nextwords didn't confirm this interpretation. 'You know I like to sit--itgives such a chance to my _bavardise_. And just now I have time. '

'You must remember I had almost finished, ' Lyon remarked. 

'So you had. More's the pity. I should like you to begin again. '

'My dear fellow, I shall have to begin again!' said Oliver Lyon with alaugh, looking at Mrs. Capadose. She did not meet his eyes--she had gotup to ring for luncheon. 'The picture has been smashed, ' Lyoncontinued. 

'Smashed? Ah, what did you do that for?' Mrs. Capadose asked, standingthere before him in all her clear, rich beauty. Now that she looked athim she was impenetrable. 

'I didn't--I found it so--with a dozen holes punched in it!'

'I say!' cried the Colonel. 

Lyon turned his eyes to him, smiling. 'I hope _you_ didn't do it?'

'Is it ruined?' the Colonel inquired. He was as brightly true as hiswife and he looked simply as if Lyon's question could not be serious. 'For the love of sitting to you? My dear fellow, if I had thought of itI would!'

'Nor you either?' the painter demanded of Mrs. Capadose. 

Before she had time to reply her husband had seized her arm, as if ahighly suggestive idea had come to him. 'I say, my dear, thatwoman--that woman!'

'That woman?' Mrs. Capadose repeated; and Lyon too wondered what womanhe meant. 

'Don't you remember when we came out, she was at the door--or a littleway from it? I spoke to you of her--I told you about her. Geraldine--Grenadine--the one who burst in that day, ' he explained toLyon. 'We saw her hanging about--I called Everina's attention to her. '

'Do you mean she got at my picture?'

'Ah yes, I remember, ' said Mrs. Capadose, with a sigh. 

'She burst in again--she had learned the way--she was waiting for herchance, ' the Colonel continued. 'Ah, the little brute!'

Lyon looked down; he felt himself colouring. This was what he had beenwaiting for--the day the Colonel should wantonly sacrifice some innocentperson. And could his wife be a party to that final atrocity? Lyon hadreminded himself repeatedly during the previous weeks that when theColonel perpetrated his misdeed she had already quitted the room; but hehad argued none the less--it was a virtual certainty--that he had onrejoining her immediately made his achievement plain to her. He was inthe flush of performance; and even if he had not mentioned what he haddone she would have guessed it. He did not for an instant believe thatpoor Miss Geraldine had been hovering about his door, nor had theaccount given by the Colonel the summer before of his relations withthis lady deceived him in the slightest degree. Lyon had never seen herbefore the day she planted herself in his studio; but he knew her andclassified her as if he had made her. He was acquainted with the Londonfemale model in all her varieties--in every phase of her development andevery step of her decay. When he entered his house that Septembermorning just after the arrival of his two friends there had been nosymptoms whatever, up and down the road, of Miss Geraldine'sreappearance. That fact had been fixed in his mind by his recollectingthe vacancy of the prospect when his cook told him that a lady and agentleman were in his studio: he had wondered there was not a carriagenor a cab at his door. Then he had reflected that they would have comeby the underground railway; he was close to the Marlborough Roadstation and he knew the Colonel, coming to his sittings, more than oncehad availed himself of that convenience. 'How in the world did she getin?' He addressed the question to his companions indifferently. 

'Let us go down to luncheon, ' said Mrs. Capadose, passing out of theroom. 

'We went by the garden--without troubling your servant--I wanted to showmy wife. ' Lyon followed his hostess with her husband and the Colonelstopped him at the top of the stairs. 'My dear fellow, I _can't_ havebeen guilty of the folly of not fastening the door?'

'I am sure I don't know, Colonel, ' Lyon said as they went down. 'It wasa very determined hand--a perfect wild-cat. '

'Well, she _is_ a wild-cat--confound her! That's why I wanted to get himaway from her. '

'But I don't understand her motive. '

'She's off her head--and she hates me; that was her motive. '

'But she doesn't hate me, my dear fellow!' Lyon said, laughing. 

'She hated the picture--don't you remember she said so? The moreportraits there are the less employment for such as her. '

'Yes; but if she is not really the model she pretends to be, how canthat hurt her?' Lyon asked. 

The inquiry baffled the Colonel an instant--but only an instant. 'Ah, she was in a vicious muddle! As I say, she's off her head. '

They went into the dining-room, where Mrs. Capadose was taking herplace. 'It's too bad, it's too horrid!' she said. 'You see the fatesare against you. Providence won't let you be so disinterested--paintingmasterpieces for nothing. '

'Did _you_ see the woman?' Lyon demanded, with something like asternness that he could not mitigate. 

Mrs. Capadose appeared not to perceive it or not to heed it if she did. 'There was a person, not far from your door, whom Clement called myattention to. He told me something about her but we were going the otherway. '

'And do you think she did it?'

'How can I tell? If she did she was mad, poor wretch. '

'I should like very much to get hold of her, ' said Lyon. This was afalse statement, for he had no desire for any further conversation withMiss Geraldine. He had exposed his friends to himself, but he had nodesire to expose them to any one else, least of all to themselves. 

'Oh, depend upon it she will never show again. You're safe!' the Colonelexclaimed. 

'But I remember her address--Mortimer Terrace Mews, Notting Hill. '

'Oh, that's pure humbug; there isn't any such place. '

'Lord, what a deceiver!' said Lyon. 

'Is there any one else you suspect?' the Colonel went on. 

'Not a creature. '

'And what do your servants say?'

'They say it wasn't _them_, and I reply that I never said it was. That'sabout the substance of our conferences. '

'And when did they discover the havoc?'

'They never discovered it at all. I noticed it first--when I came back. '

'Well, she could easily have stepped in, ' said the Colonel. 'Don't youremember how she turned up that day, like the clown in the ring?'

'Yes, yes; she could have done the job in three seconds, except that thepicture wasn't out. '

'My dear fellow, don't curse me!--but of course I dragged it out. '

'You didn't put it back?' Lyon asked tragically. 

'Ah, Clement, Clement, didn't I tell you to?' Mrs. Capadose exclaimed ina tone of exquisite reproach. 

The Colonel groaned, dramatically; he covered his face with his hands. His wife's words were for Lyon the finishing touch; they made his wholevision crumble--his theory that she had secretly kept herself true. Evento her old lover she wouldn't be so! He was sick; he couldn't eat; heknew that he looked very strange. He murmured something about it beinguseless to cry over spilled milk--he tried to turn the conversation toother things. But it was a horrid effort and he wondered whether theyfelt it as much as he. He wondered all sorts of things: whether theyguessed he disbelieved them (that he had seen them of course they wouldnever guess); whether they had arranged their story in advance or it wasonly an inspiration of the moment; whether she had resisted, protested, when the Colonel proposed it to her, and then had been borne down byhim; whether in short she didn't loathe herself as she sat there. Thecruelty, the cowardice of fastening their unholy act upon the wretchedwoman struck him as monstrous--no less monstrous indeed than the levitythat could make them run the risk of her giving them, in her righteousindignation, the lie. Of course that risk could only exculpate her andnot inculpate them--the probabilities protected them so perfectly; andwhat the Colonel counted on (what he would have counted upon the day hedelivered himself, after first seeing her, at the studio, if he hadthought about the matter then at all and not spoken from the purespontaneity of his genius) was simply that Miss Geraldine had reallyvanished for ever into her native unknown. Lyon wanted so much to quitthe subject that when after a little Mrs. Capadose said to him, 'But cannothing be done, can't the picture be repaired? You know they do suchwonders in that way now, ' he only replied, 'I don't know, I don't care, it's all over, _n'en parlons plus_!' Her hypocrisy revolted him. Andyet, by way of plucking off the last veil of her shame, he broke out toher again, shortly afterward, 'And you _did_ like it, really?' To whichshe returned, looking him straight in his face, without a blush, apallor, an evasion, 'Oh, I loved it!' Truly her husband had trained herwell. After that Lyon said no more and his companions forboretemporarily to insist, like people of tact and sympathy aware that theodious accident had made him sore. 

When they quitted the table the Colonel went away without comingupstairs; but Lyon returned to the drawing-room with his hostess, remarking to her however on the way that he could remain but a moment. He spent that moment--it prolonged itself a little--standing with herbefore the chimney-piece. She neither sat down nor asked him to; hermanner denoted that she intended to go out. Yes, her husband had trainedher well; yet Lyon dreamed for a moment that now he was alone with hershe would perhaps break down, retract, apologise, confide, say to him, 'My dear old friend, forgive this hideous comedy--you understand!' Andthen how he would have loved her and pitied her, guarded her, helped heralways! If she were not ready to do something of that sort why had shetreated him as if he were a dear old friend; why had she let him formonths suppose certain things--or almost; why had she come to his studioday after day to sit near him on the pretext of her child's portrait, asif she liked to think what might have been? Why had she come so near atacit confession, in a word, if she was not willing to go an inchfurther? And she was not willing--she was not; he could see that as helingered there. She moved about the room a little, rearranging two orthree objects on the tables, but she did nothing more. Suddenly he saidto her: 'Which way was she going, when you came out?'

'She--the woman we saw?'

'Yes, your husband's strange friend. It's a clew worth following. ' Hehad no desire to frighten her; he only wanted to communicate the impulsewhich would make her say, 'Ah, spare me--and spare _him_! There was nosuch person. '

Instead of this Mrs. Capadose replied, 'She was going away from us--shecrossed the road. We were coming towards the station. '

'And did she appear to recognise the Colonel--did she look round?'

'Yes; she looked round, but I didn't notice much. A hansom came alongand we got into it. It was not till then that Clement told me who shewas: I remember he said that she was there for no good. I suppose weought to have gone back. '

'Yes; you would have saved the picture. '

For a moment she said nothing; then she smiled. 'For you, I am verysorry. But you must remember that I possess the original!'

At this Lyon turned away. 'Well, I must go, ' he said; and he left herwithout any other farewell and made his way out of the house. As he wentslowly up the street the sense came back to him of that first glimpse ofher he had had at Stayes--the way he had seen her gaze across the tableat her husband. Lyon stopped at the corner, looking vaguely up and down. He would never go back--he couldn't. She was still in love with theColonel--he had trained her too well. 

MRS. TEMPERLY

I

'Why, Cousin Raymond, how can you suppose? Why, she's only sixteen!'

'She told me she was seventeen, ' said the young man, as if it made agreat difference. 

'Well, only _just_!' Mrs. Temperly replied, in the tone of graceful, reasonable concession. 

'Well, that's a very good age for me. I'm very young. '

'You are old enough to know better, ' the lady remarked, in her soft, pleasant voice, which always drew the sting from a reproach, and enabledyou to swallow it as you would a cooked plum, without the stone. 'Why, she hasn't finished her education!'

'That's just what I mean, ' said her interlocutor. 'It would finish itbeautifully for her to marry me. '

'Have you finished yours, my dear?' Mrs. Temperly inquired. 'The way youyoung people talk about marrying!' she exclaimed, looking at theitinerant functionary with the long wand who touched into a flame thetall gas-lamp on the other side of the Fifth Avenue. The pair werestanding, in the recess of a window, in one of the big public rooms ofan immense hotel, and the October day was turning to dusk. 

'Well, would you have us leave it to the old?' Raymond asked. 'That'sjust what I think--she would be such a help to me, ' he continued. 'Iwant to go back to Paris to study more. I have come home too soon. Idon't know half enough; they know more here than I thought. So it wouldbe perfectly easy, and we should all be together. '

'Well, my dear, when you do come back to Paris we will talk about it, 'said Mrs. Temperly, turning away from the window. 

'I should like it better, Cousin Maria, if you trusted me a littlemore, ' Raymond sighed, observing that she was not really giving herthoughts to what he said. She irritated him somehow; she was so full ofher impending departure, of her arrangements, her last duties andmemoranda. She was not exactly important, any more than she was humble;she was too conciliatory for the one and too positive for the other. Butshe bustled quietly and gave one the sense of being 'up to' everything;the successive steps of her enterprise were in advance perfectly clearto her, and he could see that her imagination (conventional as she wasshe had plenty of that faculty) had already taken up its abode on one ofthose fine _premiers_ which she had never seen, but which by instinctshe seemed to know all about, in the very best part of the quarter ofthe Champs Elysées. If she ruffled him envy had perhaps something to dowith it: she was to set sail on the morrow for the city of his affectionand he was to stop in New York, where the fact that he was but halfpleased did not alter the fact that he had his studio on his hands andthat it was a bad one (though perhaps as good as any use he should putit to), which no one would be in a hurry to relieve him of. 

It was easy for him to talk to Mrs. Temperly in that airy way aboutgoing back, but he couldn't go back unless the old gentleman gave himthe means. He had already given him a great many things in the past, andwith the others coming on (Marian's marriage-outfit, within threemonths, had cost literally thousands), Raymond had not at present theface to ask for more. He must sell some pictures first, and to sell themhe must first paint them. It was his misfortune that he saw what hewanted to do so much better than he could do it. But he must really tryand please himself--an effort that appeared more possible now that theidea of following Dora across the ocean had become an incentive. Inspite of secret aspirations and even intentions, however, it was notencouraging to feel that he made really no impression at all on CousinMaria. This certitude was so far from agreeable to him that he almostfound it in him to drop the endearing title by which he had hithertoaddressed her. It was only that, after all, her husband had beendistantly related to his mother. It was not as a cousin that he wasinterested in Dora, but as something very much more intimate. I know notwhether it occurred to him that Mrs. Temperly herself would never givehis displeasure the benefit of dropping the affectionate form. She mightshut her door to him altogether, but he would always be her kinsman andher dear. She was much addicted to these little embellishments of humanintercourse--the friendly apostrophe and even the caressing hand--andthere was something homely and cosy, a rustic, motherly _bonhomie_, inher use of them. She was as lavish of them as she was really careful inthe selection of her friends. 

She stood there with her hand in her pocket, as if she were feeling forsomething; her little plain, pleasant face was presented to him with amusing smile, and he vaguely wondered whether she were fumbling for apiece of money to buy him off from wishing to marry her daughter. Suchan idea would be quite in keeping with the disguised levity with whichshe treated his state of mind. If her levity was wrapped up in the airof tender solicitude for everything that related to the feelings of herchild, that only made her failure to appreciate his suit moredeliberate. She struck him almost as impertinent (at the same time thathe knew this was never her intention) as she looked up at him--her tinyproportions always made her throw back her head and set somethingdancing in her cap--and inquired whether he had noticed if she gave twokeys, tied together by a blue ribbon, to Susan Winkle, when thatfaithful but flurried domestic met them in the lobby. She was thinkingonly of questions of luggage, and the fact that he wished to marry Dorawas the smallest incident in their getting off. 

'I think you ask me that only to change the subject, ' he said. 'I don'tbelieve that ever in your life you have been unconscious of what youhave done with your keys. '

'Not often, but you make me nervous, ' she answered, with her patient, honest smile. 

'Oh, Cousin Maria!' the young man exclaimed, ambiguously, while Mrs. Temperly looked humanely at some totally uninteresting people who camestraggling into the great hot, frescoed, velvety drawing-room, where itwas as easy to see you were in an hotel as it was to see that, if youwere, you were in one of the very best. Mrs. Temperly, since herhusband's death, had passed much of her life at hotels, where sheflattered herself that she preserved the tone of domestic life free fromevery taint and promoted the refined development of her children; butshe selected them as well as she selected her friends. Somehow theybecame better from the very fact of her being there, and her childrenwere smuggled in and out in the most extraordinary way; one never metthem racing and whooping, as one did hundreds of others, in the lobbies. Her frequentation of hotels, where she paid enormous bills, was part ofher expensive but practical way of living, and also of her theory that, from one week to another, she was going to Europe for a series of yearsas soon as she had wound up certain complicated affairs which haddevolved upon her at her husband's death. If these affairs had draggedon it was owing to their inherent troublesomeness and implied no doubtof her capacity to bring them to a solution and to administer the veryconsiderable fortune that Mr. Temperly had left. She used, in asuperior, unprejudiced way, every convenience that the civilisation ofher time offered her, and would have lived without hesitation in alighthouse if this had contributed to her general scheme. She was now, in the interest of this scheme, preparing to use Europe, which she hadnot yet visited and with none of whose foreign tongues she wasacquainted. This time she was certainly embarking. 

She took no notice of the discredit which her young friend appeared tothrow on the idea that she had nerves, and betrayed no suspicion that hebelieved her to have them in about the same degree as a sound, productive Alderney cow. She only moved toward one of the numerous doorsof the room, as if to remind him of all she had still to do beforenight. They passed together into the long, wide corridor of the hotel--avista of soft carpet, numbered doors, wandering women and perpetualgaslight--and approached the staircase by which she must ascend again toher domestic duties. She counted over, serenely, for his enlightenment, those that were still to be performed; but he could see that everythingwould be finished by nine o'clock--the time she had fixed in advance. The heavy luggage was then to go to the steamer; she herself was to beon board, with the children and the smaller things, at eleven o'clockthe next morning. They had thirty pieces, but this was less than theyhad when they came from California five years before. She wouldn't havedone that again. It was true that at that time she had had Mr. Temperlyto help: he had died, Raymond remembered, six months after thesettlement in New York. But, on the other hand, she knew more now. Itwas one of Mrs. Temperly's amiable qualities that she admitted herselfso candidly to be still susceptible of development. She never professedto be in possession of all the knowledge requisite for her career; notonly did she let her friends know that she was always learning, but sheappealed to them to instruct her, in a manner which was in itself anexample. 

When Raymond said to her that he took for granted she would let him comedown to the steamer for a last good-bye, she not only consentedgraciously but added that he was free to call again at the hotel in theevening, if he had nothing better to do. He must come between nine andten; she expected several other friends--those who wished to see thelast of them, yet didn't care to come to the ship. Then he would see allof them--she meant all of themselves, Dora and Effie and Tishy, and evenMademoiselle Bourde. She spoke exactly as if he had never approached heron the subject of Dora and as if Tishy, who was ten years of age, andMademoiselle Bourde, who was the French governess and forty, wereobjects of no less an interest to him. He felt what a long pull heshould have ever to get round her, and the sting of this knowledge wasin his consciousness that Dora was really in her mother's hands. In Mrs. Temperly's composition there was not a hint of the bully; but none theless she held her children--she would hold them for ever. It was notsimply by tenderness; but what it was by she knew best herself. Raymondappreciated the privilege of seeing Dora again that evening as well ason the morrow; yet he was so vexed with her mother that his vexationbetrayed him into something that almost savoured of violence--a factwhich I am ashamed to have to chronicle, as Mrs. Temperly's own urbanitydeprived such breaches of every excuse. It may perhaps serve partly asan excuse for Raymond Bestwick that he was in love, or at least that hethought he was. Before she parted from him at the foot of the staircasehe said to her, 'And of course, if things go as you like over there, Dora will marry some foreign prince. '

She gave no sign of resenting this speech, but she looked at him forthe first time as if she were hesitating, as if it were not instantlyclear to her what to say. It appeared to him, on his side, for a moment, that there was something strange in her hesitation, that abruptly, by aninspiration, she was almost making up her mind to reply that Dora'smarriage to a prince was, considering Dora's peculiarities (he knew thather mother deemed her peculiar, and so did he, but that was preciselywhy he wished to marry her), so little probable that, after all, oncesuch a union was out of the question, _he_ might be no worse thananother plain man. These, however, were not the words that fell fromMrs. Temperly's lips. Her embarrassment vanished in her clear smile. 'Doyou know what Mr. Temperly used to say? He used to say that Dora was thepattern of an old maid--she would never make a choice. '

'I hope--because that would have been too foolish--that he didn't sayshe wouldn't have a chance. '

'Oh, a chance! what do you call by that fine name?' Cousin Mariaexclaimed, laughing, as she ascended the stair. 

II

When he came back, after dinner, she was again in one of the publicrooms; she explained that a lot of the things for the ship were spreadout in her own parlours: there was no space to sit down. Raymond washighly gratified by this fact; it offered an opportunity for strollingaway a little with Dora, especially as, after he had been there tenminutes, other people began to come in. They were entertained by therest, by Effie and Tishy, who was allowed to sit up a little, and byMademoiselle Bourde, who besought every visitor to indicate her a remedythat was _really_ effective against the sea--some charm, some philter, some potion or spell. 'Never mind, ma'm'selle, I've got a remedy, ' saidCousin Maria, with her cheerful decision, each time; but the Frenchinstructress always began afresh. 

As the young man was about to be parted for an indefinite period fromthe girl whom he was ready to swear that he adored, it is clear that heought to have been equally ready to swear that she was the fairest ofher species. In point of fact, however, it was no less vivid to him thanit had been before that he loved Dora Temperly for qualities which hadnothing to do with straightness of nose or pinkness of complexion. Herfigure was straight, and so was her character, but her nose was not, andPhilistines and other vulgar people would have committed themselves, without a blush on their own flat faces, to the assertion that she wasdecidedly plain. In his artistic imagination he had analogies for her, drawn from legend and literature; he was perfectly aware that she struckmany persons as silent, shy and angular, while his own version of herpeculiarities was that she was like a figure on the _predella_ of anearly Italian painting or a mediæval maiden wandering about a lonelycastle, with her lover gone to the Crusades. To his sense, Dora had butone defect--her admiration for her mother was too undiscriminating. Anardent young man may well be slightly vexed when he finds that a younglady will probably never care for him so much as she cares for herparent; and Raymond Bestwick had this added ground for chagrin, thatDora had--if she chose to take it--so good a pretext for discriminating. For she had nothing whatever in common with the others; she was not ofthe same stuff as Mrs. Temperly and Effie and Tishy. 

She was original and generous and uncalculating, besides being full ofperception and taste in regard to the things _he_ cared about. She knewnothing of conventional signs or estimates, but understood everythingthat might be said to her from an artistic point of view. She was formedto live in a studio, and not in a stiff drawing-room, amid upholsteryhorribly new; and moreover her eyes and her voice were both charming. Itwas only a pity she was so gentle; that is, he liked it for himself, buthe deplored it for her mother. He considered that he had virtuallygiven that lady his word that he would not make love to her; but hisspirits had risen since his visit of three or four hours before. Itseemed to him, after thinking things over more intently, that a waywould be opened for him to return to Paris. It was not probable that inthe interval Dora would be married off to a prince; for in the firstplace the foolish race of princes would be sure not to appreciate her, and in the second she would not, in this matter, simply do her mother'sbidding--her gentleness would not go so far as that. She might remainsingle by the maternal decree, but she would not take a husband who wasdisagreeable to her. In this reasoning Raymond was obliged to shut hiseyes very tight to the danger that some particular prince might not bedisagreeable to her, as well as to the attraction proceeding from whather mother might announce that she would 'do. ' He was perfectly awarethat it was in Cousin Maria's power, and would probably be in herpleasure, to settle a handsome marriage-fee upon each of her daughters. He was equally certain that this had nothing to do with the nature ofhis own interest in the eldest, both because it was clear that Mrs. Temperly would do very little for _him_, and because he didn't care howlittle she did. 

Effie and Tishy sat in the circle, on the edge of rather high chairs, while Mademoiselle Bourde surveyed in them with complacency the resultsof her own superiority. Tishy was a child, but Effie was fifteen, andthey were both very nice little girls, arrayed in fresh travellingdresses and deriving a quaintness from the fact that Tishy was alreadyarmed, for foreign adventures, with a smart new reticule, from whichshe could not be induced to part, and that Effie had her finger in her'place' in a fat red volume of _Murray_. Raymond knew that in a generalway their mother would not have allowed them to appear in thedrawing-room with these adjuncts, but something was to be allowed to thefever of anticipation. They were both pretty, with delicate features andblue eyes, and would grow up into worldly, conventional young ladies, just as Dora had not done. They looked at Mademoiselle Bourde forapproval whenever they spoke, and, in addressing their motheralternately with that accomplished woman, kept their two languagesneatly distinct. 

Raymond had but a vague idea of who the people were who had come to bidCousin Maria farewell, and he had no wish for a sharper one, though sheintroduced him, very definitely, to the whole group. She might makelight of him in her secret soul, but she would never put herself in thewrong by omitting the smallest form. Fortunately, however, he was notobliged to like all her forms, and he foresaw the day when she wouldabandon this particular one. She was not so well made up in advanceabout Paris but that it would be in reserve for her to detest the periodwhen she had thought it proper to 'introduce all round. ' Raymonddetested it already, and tried to make Dora understand that he wishedher to take a walk with him in the corridors. There was a gentleman witha curl on his forehead who especially displeased him; he made childishjokes, at which the others laughed all at once, as if they had rehearsedfor it--jokes _à la portée_ of Effie and Tishy and mainly about them. These two joined in the merriment, as if they followed perfectly, asindeed they might, and gave a small sigh afterward, with a littlefactitious air. Dora remained grave, almost sad; it was when she wasdifferent, in this way, that he felt how much he liked her. He hated, ingeneral, a large ring of people who had drawn up chairs in the publicroom of an hotel: some one was sure to undertake to be funny. 

He succeeded at last in drawing Dora away; he endeavoured to give themovement a casual air. There was nothing peculiar, after all, in theirwalking a little in the passage; a dozen other persons were doing thesame. The girl had the air of not suspecting in the least that he couldhave anything particular to say to her--of responding to his appealsimply out of her general gentleness. It was not in her companion'sinterest that her mind should be such a blank; nevertheless hisconviction that in spite of the ministrations of Mademoiselle Bourde shewas not falsely ingenuous made him repeat to himself that he would stillmake her his own. They took several turns in the hall, during which itmight still have appeared to Dora Temperly that her cousin Raymond hadnothing particular to say to her. He remarked several times that heshould certainly turn up in Paris in the spring; but when once she hadreplied that she was very glad that subject seemed exhausted. The youngman cared little, however; it was not a question now of making anydeclaration: he only wanted to be with her. Suddenly, when they were atthe end of the corridor furthest removed from the room they had left, hesaid to her: 'Your mother is very strange. Why has she got such an ideaabout Paris?'

'How do you mean, such an idea?' He had stopped, making the girl standthere before him. 

'Well, she thinks so much of it without having ever seen it, or reallyknowing anything. She appears to have planned out such a great lifethere. '

'She thinks it's the best place, ' Dora rejoined, with the dim smile thatalways charmed our young man. 

'The best place for what?'

'Well, to learn French. ' The girl continued to smile. 

'Do you mean for her? She'll never learn it; she can't. '

'No; for us. And other things. '

'You know it already. And _you_ know other things, ' said Raymond. 

'She wants us to know them better--better than any girls know them. '

'I don't know what things you mean, ' exclaimed the young man, ratherimpatiently. 

'Well, we shall see, ' Dora returned, laughing. 

He said nothing for a minute, at the end of which he resumed: 'I hopeyou won't be offended if I say that it seems curious your mother shouldhave such aspirations--such Napoleonic plans. I mean being just a quietlittle lady from California, who has never seen any of the kind of thingthat she has in her head. '

'That's just why she wants to see it, I suppose; and I don't know whyher being from California should prevent. At any rate she wants us tohave the best. Isn't the best taste in Paris?'

'Yes; and the worst. ' It made him gloomy when she defended the old lady, and to change the subject he asked: 'Aren't you sorry, this last night, to leave your own country for such an indefinite time?'

It didn't cheer him up that the girl should answer: 'Oh, I would goanywhere with mother!'

'And with _her_?' Raymond demanded, sarcastically, as MademoiselleBourde came in sight, emerging from the drawing-room. She approachedthem; they met her in a moment, and she informed Dora that Mrs. Temperlywished her to come back and play a part of that composition ofSaint-Saens--the last one she had been learning--for Mr. And Mrs. Parminter: they wanted to judge whether their daughter could manage it. 

'I don't believe she can, ' said Dora, smiling; but she was moving awayto comply when her companion detained her a moment. 

Are you going to bid me good-bye?'

'Won't you come back to the drawing-room?'

'I think not; I don't like it. '

'And to mamma--you'll say nothing?' the girl went on. 

'Oh, we have made our farewell; we had a special interview thisafternoon. '

'And you won't come to the ship in the morning?'

Raymond hesitated a moment. 'Will Mr. And Mrs. Parminter be there?'

'Oh, surely they will!' Mademoiselle Bourde declared, surveying theyoung couple with a certain tactful serenity, but standing very close tothem, as if it might be her duty to interpose. 

'Well then, I won't come. '

'Well, good-bye then, ' said the girl gently, holding out her hand. 

'Good-bye, Dora. ' He took it, while she smiled at him, but he saidnothing more--he was so annoyed at the way Mademoiselle Bourde watchedthem. He only looked at Dora; she seemed to him beautiful. 

'My dear child--that poor Madame Parminter, ' the governess murmured. 

'I shall come over very soon, ' said Raymond, as his companion turnedaway. 

'That will be charming. ' And she left him quickly, without looking back. 

Mademoiselle Bourde lingered--he didn't know why, unless it was to makehim feel, with her smooth, finished French assurance, which had themanner of extreme benignity, that she was following him up. He sometimeswondered whether she copied Mrs. Temperly or whether Mrs. Temperly triedto copy her. Presently she said, slowly rubbing her hands and smiling athim:

'You will have plenty of time. We shall be long in Paris. '

'Perhaps you will be disappointed, ' Raymond suggested. 

'How can we be--unless _you_ disappoint us?' asked the governess, sweetly. 

He left her without ceremony: the imitation was probably on the part ofCousin Maria. 

III

'Only just ourselves, ' her note had said; and he arrived, in his naturalimpatience, a few moments before the hour. He remembered his CousinMaria's habitual punctuality, but when he entered the splendid _salon_in the quarter of the Parc Monceau--it was there that he had found herestablished--he saw that he should have it, for a little, to himself. This was pleasing, for he should be able to look round--there wereadmirable things to look at. Even to-day Raymond Bestwick was not surethat he had learned to paint, but he had no doubt of his judgment of thework of others, and a single glance showed him that Mrs. Temperly had'known enough' to select, for the adornment of her walls, half a dozenimmensely valuable specimens of contemporary French art. Her choice ofother objects had been equally enlightened, and he remembered what Dorahad said to him five years before--that her mother wished them to havethe best. Evidently, now they had got it; if five years was a long timefor him to have delayed (with his original plan of getting off so soon)to come to Paris, it was a very short one for Cousin Maria to have takento arrive at the highest good. 

Rather to his surprise the first person to come in was Effie, now socomplete a young lady, and such a very pretty girl, that he scarcelywould have known her. She was fair, she was graceful, she was lovely, and as she entered the room, blushing and smiling, with a littlefloating motion which suggested that she was in a liquid element, shebrushed down the ribbons of a delicate Parisian _toilette de jeunefille_. She appeared to expect that he would be surprised, and as if tojustify herself for being the first she said, 'Mamma told me to come;she knows you are here; she said I was not to wait. ' More than once, while they conversed, during the next few moments, before any one elsearrived, she repeated that she was acting by her mamma's directions. Raymond perceived that she had not only the costume but several other ofthe attributes of a _jeune fille_. They talked, I say, but with acertain difficulty, for Effie asked him no questions, and this made himfeel a little stiff about thrusting information upon her. Then she wasso pretty, so exquisite, that this by itself disconcerted him. It seemedto him almost that she had falsified a prophecy, instead of bringing oneto pass. He had foretold that she would be like this; the onlydifference was that she was so much more like it. She made no inquiriesabout his arrival, his people in America, his plans; and they exchangedvague remarks about the pictures, quite as if they had met for the firsttime. 

When Cousin Maria came in Effie was standing in front of the firefastening a bracelet, and he was at a distance gazing in silence at aportrait of his hostess by Bastien-Lepage. One of his apprehensions hadbeen that Cousin Maria would allude ironically to the difference therehad been between his threat (because it had been really almost athreat) of following them speedily to Paris and what had in factoccurred; but he saw in a moment how superficial this calculation hadbeen. Besides, when had Cousin Maria ever been ironical? She treated himas if she had seen him last week (which did not preclude kindness), andonly expressed her regret at having missed his visit the day before, inconsequence of which she had immediately written to him to come anddine. He might have come from round the corner, instead of from New Yorkand across the wintry ocean. This was a part of her 'cosiness, ' herfriendly, motherly optimism, of which, even of old, the habit had beennever to recognise nor allude to disagreeable things; so that to-day, inthe midst of so much that was not disagreeable, the custom would ofcourse be immensely confirmed. 

Raymond was perfectly aware that it was not a pleasure, even for her, that, for several years past, things should have gone so ill in New Yorkwith his family and himself. His father's embarrassments, of whichMarian's silly husband had been the cause and which had terminated ingeneral ruin and humiliation, to say nothing of the old man's 'stroke'and the necessity, arising from it, for a renunciation on his own partof all present thoughts of leaving home again and even for a partialrelinquishment of present work, the old man requiring so much of hispersonal attention--all this constituted an episode which could not failto look sordid and dreary in the light of Mrs. Temperly's high success. The odour of success was in the warm, slightly heavy air, which seemeddistilled from rare old fabrics, from brocades and tapestries, from thedeep, mingled tones of the pictures, the subdued radiance of cabinetsand old porcelain and the jars of winter roses standing in soft circlesof lamp-light. Raymond felt himself in the presence of an effect inregard to which he remained in ignorance of the cause--a mystery thatrequired a key. Cousin Maria's success was unexplained so long as shesimply stood there with her little familiar, comforting, upward gaze, talking in coaxing cadences, with exactly the same manner she hadbrought ten years ago from California, to a tall, bald, bending, smilingyoung man, evidently a foreigner, who had just come in and whose nameRaymond had not caught from the lips of the _maître d'hôtel_. Was hejust one of themselves--was he there for Effie, or perhaps even forDora? The unexplained must preponderate till Dora came in; he found hecounted upon her, even though in her letters (it was true that for thelast couple of years they had come but at long intervals) she had toldhim so little about their life. She never spoke of people; she talked ofthe books she read, of the music she had heard or was studying (a wholepage sometimes about the last concert at the Conservatoire), the newpictures and the manner of the different artists. 

When she entered the room three or four minutes after the arrival of theyoung foreigner, with whom her mother conversed in just the accentsRaymond had last heard at the hotel in the Fifth Avenue (he was obligedto admit that she gave herself no airs; it was clear that her successhad not gone in the least to her head); when Dora at last appeared shewas accompanied by Mademoiselle Bourde. The presence of this lady--hedidn't know she was still in the house--Raymond took as a sign thatthey were really dining _en famille_, so that the young man was eitheran actual or a prospective intimate. Dora shook hands first with hercousin, but he watched the manner of her greeting with the other visitorand saw that it indicated extreme friendliness--on the part of thelatter. If there was a charming flush in her cheek as he took her hand, that was the remainder of the colour that had risen there as she cametoward Raymond. It will be seen that our young man still had an eye forthe element of fascination, as he used to regard it, in this quiet, dimly-shining maiden. 

He saw that Effie was the only one who had changed (Tishy remained yetto be judged), except that Dora really looked older, quite as much olderas the number of years had given her a right to: there was as littledifference in her as there was in her mother. Not that she was like hermother, but she was perfectly like herself. Her meeting with Raymond wasbright, but very still; their phrases were awkward and commonplace, andthe thing was mainly a contact of looks--conscious, embarrassed, indirect, but brightening every moment with old familiarities. Hermother appeared to pay no attention, and neither, to do her justice, didMademoiselle Bourde, who, after an exchange of expressive salutationswith Raymond began to scrutinise Effie with little admiring gestures andsmiles. She surveyed her from head to foot; she pulled a ribbonstraight; she was evidently a flattering governess. Cousin Mariaexplained to Cousin Raymond that they were waiting for one morefriend--a very dear lady. 'But she lives near, and when people live nearthey are always late--haven't you noticed that?'

'Your hotel is far away, I know, and yet you were the first, ' Dorasaid, smiling to Raymond. 

'Oh, even if it were round the corner I should be the first--to come to_you_!' the young man answered, speaking loud and clear, so that hiswords might serve as a notification to Cousin Maria that his sentimentswere unchanged. 

'You are more French than the French, ' Dora returned. 

'You say that as if you didn't like them: I hope you don't, ' saidRaymond, still with intentions in regard to his hostess. 

'We like them more and more, the more we see of them, ' this ladyinterposed; but gently, impersonally, and with an air of not wishing toput Raymond in the wrong. 

'_Mais j'espère bien!_' cried Mademoiselle Bourde, holding up her headand opening her eyes very wide. 'Such friendships as we form, and, I maysay, as we inspire! _Je m'en rapporte à Effie_', the governesscontinued. 

'We have received immense kindness; we have established relations thatare so pleasant for us, Cousin Raymond. We have the _entrée_ of so manycharming homes, ' Mrs. Temperly remarked. 

'But ours is the most charming of all; that I will say, ' exclaimedMademoiselle Bourde. 'Isn't it so, Effie?'

'Oh yes, I think it is; especially when we are expecting the Marquise, 'Effie responded. Then she added, 'But here she comes now; I hear hercarriage in the court. '

The Marquise too was just one of themselves; she was a part of theircharming home. 

'She _is_ such a love!' said Mrs. Temperly to the foreign gentleman, with an irrepressible movement of benevolence. 

To which Raymond heard the gentleman reply that, Ah, she was the mostdistinguished woman in France. 

'Do you know Madame de Brives?' Effie asked of Raymond, while they werewaiting for her to come in. 

She came in at that moment, and the girl turned away quickly without ananswer. 

'How in the world should I know her?' That was the answer he would havebeen tempted to give. He felt very much out of Cousin Maria's circle. The foreign gentleman fingered his moustache and looked at him sidewise. The Marquise was a very pretty woman, fair and slender, of middle age, with a smile, a complexion, a diamond necklace, of great splendour, anda charming manner. Her greeting to her friends was sweet and familiar, and was accompanied with much kissing, of a sisterly, motherly, daughterly kind; and yet with this expression of simple, almost homelysentiment there was something in her that astonished and dazzled. Shemight very well have been, as the foreign young man said, the mostdistinguished woman in France. Dora had not rushed forward to meet herwith nearly so much _empressement_ as Effie, and this gave him a chanceto ask the former who she was. The girl replied that she was hermother's most intimate friend: to which he rejoined that that was not adescription; what he wanted to know was her title to this exaltedposition. 

'Why, can't you see it? She is beautiful and she is good. '

'I see that she is beautiful; but how can I see that she is good?'

'Good to mamma, I mean, and to Effie and Tishy. '

'And isn't she good to you?'

'Oh, I don't know her so well. But I delight to look at her. '

'Certainly, that must be a great pleasure, ' said Raymond. He enjoyed itduring dinner, which was now served, though his enjoyment was diminishedby his not finding himself next to Dora. They sat at a small round tableand he had at his right his Cousin Maria, whom he had taken in. On hisleft was Madame de Brives, who had the foreign gentleman for aneighbour. Then came Effie and Mademoiselle Bourde, and Dora was on theother side of her mother. Raymond regarded this as marked--a symbol ofthe fact that Cousin Maria would continue to separate them. He remainedin ignorance of the other gentleman's identity, and remembered how hehad prophesied at the hotel in New York that his hostess would give upintroducing people. It was a friendly, easy little family repast, as shehad said it would be, with just a marquise and a secretary ofembassy--Raymond ended by guessing that the stranger was a secretary ofembassy--thrown in. So far from interfering with the family tone Madamede Brives directly contributed to it. She eminently justified theaffection in which she was held in the house; she was in the highestdegree sociable and sympathetic, and at the same time witty (there wasno insipidity in Madame de Brives), and was the cause of Raymond'smaking the reflection--as he had made it often in his earlieryears--that an agreeable Frenchwoman is a triumph of civilisation. Thisdid not prevent him from giving the Marquise no more than half of hisattention; the rest was dedicated to Dora, who, on her side, though incommon with Effie and Mademoiselle Bourde she bent a frequent, interested gaze on the splendid French lady, very often met our youngman's eyes with mute, vague but, to his sense, none the less valuableintimations. It was as if she knew what was going on in his mind (it istrue that he scarcely knew it himself), and might be trusted to clearthings up at some convenient hour. 

Madame de Brives talked across Raymond, in excellent English, to CousinMaria, but this did not prevent her from being gracious, evenencouraging, to the young man, who was a little afraid of her andthought her a delightful creature. She asked him more questions abouthimself than any of them had done. Her conversation with Mrs. Temperlywas of an intimate, domestic order, and full of social, personalallusions, which Raymond was unable to follow. It appeared to beconcerned considerably with the private affairs of the old French_noblesse_, into whose councils--to judge by the tone of theMarquise--Cousin Maria had been admitted by acclamation. Every now andthen Madame de Brives broke into French, and it was in this tongue thatshe uttered an apostrophe to her hostess: 'Oh, you, _ma toute-bonne_, you who have the genius of good sense!' And she appealed to Raymond toknow if his Cousin Maria had not the genius of good sense--the wisdom ofthe ages. The old lady did not defend herself from the compliment; shelet it pass, with her motherly, tolerant smile; nor did Raymond attemptto defend her, for he felt the justice of his neighbour's description:Cousin Maria's good sense was incontestable, magnificent. She took anaffectionate, indulgent view of most of the persons mentioned, and yether tone was far from being vapid or vague. Madame de Brives usuallyremarked that they were coming very soon again to see her, she did themso much good. 'The freshness of your judgment--the freshness of yourjudgment!' she repeated, with a kind of glee, and she narrated thatEléonore (a personage unknown to Raymond) had said that she was a womanof Plutarch. Mrs. Temperly talked a great deal about the health of theirfriends; she seemed to keep the record of the influenzas and neuralgiasof a numerous and susceptible circle. He did not find it in him quite toagree--the Marquise dropping the statement into his ear at a moment whentheir hostess was making some inquiry of Mademoiselle Bourde--that shewas a nature absolutely marvellous; but he could easily see that toworld-worn Parisians her quiet charities of speech and manner, withsomething quaint and rustic in their form, might be restorative andsalutary. She allowed for everything, yet she was so good, and indeedMadame de Brives summed this up before they left the table in saying toher, 'Oh, you, my dear, your success, more than any other that has evertaken place, has been a _succès de bonté_! Raymond was greatly amused atthis idea of Cousin Maria's _succès de bonté_: it seemed to himdelightfully Parisian. 

Before dinner was over she inquired of him how he had got on 'in hisprofession' since they last met, and he was too proud, or so he thought, to tell her anything but the simple truth, that he had not got on verywell. If he was to ask her again for Dora it would be just as he was, anhonourable but not particularly successful man, making no show of luresand bribes. 'I am not a remarkably good painter, ' he said. 'I judgemyself perfectly. And then I have been handicapped at home. I have had agreat many serious bothers and worries. '

'Ah, we were so sorry to hear about your dear father. '

The tone of these words was kind and sincere; still Raymond thought thatin this case her _bonté_ might have gone a little further. At any ratethis was the only allusion that she made to his bothers and worries. Indeed, she always passed over such things lightly; she was an optimistfor others as well as for herself, which doubtless had a great deal todo (Raymond indulged in the reflection) with the headway she made in asociety tired of its own pessimism. 

After dinner, when they went into the drawing-room, the young man notedwith complacency that this apartment, vast in itself, communicated withtwo or three others into which it would be easy to pass withoutattracting attention, the doors being replaced by old tapestries, loopedup and offering no barrier. With pictures and curiosities all over theplace, there were plenty of pretexts for wandering away. He lost no timein asking Dora whether her mother would send Mademoiselle Bourde afterthem if she were to go with him into one of the other rooms, the sameway she had done--didn't she remember?--that last night in New York, atthe hotel. Dora didn't admit that she remembered (she was too loyal toher mother for that, and Raymond foresaw that this loyalty would be asource of irritation to him again, as it had been in the past), but heperceived, all the same, that she had not forgotten. She raised nodifficulty, and a few moments later, while they stood in an adjacent_salon_ (he had stopped to admire a bust of Effie, wonderfully living, slim and juvenile, the work of one of the sculptors who are the pride ofcontemporary French art), he said to her, looking about him, 'How hasshe done it so fast?'

'Done what, Raymond?'

'Why, done everything. Collected all these wonderful things; becomeintimate with Madame de Brives and every one else; organised herlife--the life of all of you--so brilliantly. '

'I have never seen mamma in a hurry, ' Dora replied. 

'Perhaps she will be, now that I have come, ' Raymond suggested, laughing. 

The girl hesitated a moment 'Yes, she was, to invite you--the moment sheknew you were here. '

'She has been most kind, and I talk like a brute. But I am liable to doworse--I give you notice. She won't like it any more than she didbefore, if she thinks I want to make up to you. '

'Don't, Raymond--don't!' the girl exclaimed, gently, but with a look ofsudden pain. 

'Don't what, Dora?--don't make up to you?'

'Don't begin to talk of those things. There is no need. We can go onbeing friends. '

'I will do exactly as you prescribe, and heaven forbid I should annoyyou. But would you mind answering me a question? It is very particular, very intimate. ' He stopped, and she only looked at him, saying nothing. So he went on: 'Is it an idea of your mother's that you shouldmarry--some person here?' He gave her a chance to reply, but still shewas silent, and he continued: 'Do you mind telling me this? Could itever be an idea of your own?'

'Do you mean some Frenchman?'

Raymond smiled. 'Some protégé of Madame de Brives. '

Then the girl simply gave a slow, sad head-shake which struck him as thesweetest, proudest, most suggestive thing in the world. 'Well, well, that's all right, ' he remarked, cheerfully, and looked again a while atthe bust, which he thought extraordinarily clever. 'And haven't _you_been done by one of these great fellows?'

'Oh dear no; only mamma and Effie. But Tishy is going to be, in a monthor two. The next time you come you must see her. She remembers youvividly. '

'And I remember her that last night, with her reticule. Is she alwayspretty?'

Dora hesitated a moment. 'She is a very sweet little creature, but sheis not so pretty as Effie. '

'And have none of them wished to do you--none of the painters?'

'Oh, it's not a question of me. I only wish them to let me alone. '

'For me it would be a question of you, if you would sit for me. But Idaresay your mother wouldn't allow that. '

'No, I think not, ' said Dora, smiling. 

She smiled, but her companion looked grave. However, not to pursue thesubject, he asked, abruptly, 'Who is this Madame de Brives?'

'If you lived in Paris you would know. She is very celebrated. '

'Celebrated for what?'

'For everything. '

'And is she good--is she genuine?' Raymond asked. Then, seeing somethingin the girl's face, he added: 'I told you I should be brutal again. Hasshe undertaken to make a great marriage for Effie?'

'I don't know what she has undertaken, ' said Dora, impatiently. 

'And then for Tishy, when Effie has been disposed of?'

'Poor little Tishy!' the girl continued, rather inscrutably. 

'And can she do nothing for you?' the young man inquired. 

Her answer surprised him--after a moment. 'She has kindly offered toexert herself, but it's no use. '

'Well, that's good. And who is it the young man comes for--the secretaryof embassy?'

'Oh, he comes for all of us, ' said Dora, laughing. 

'I suppose your mother would prefer a preference, ' Raymond suggested. 

To this she replied, irrelevantly, that she thought they had better goback; but as Raymond took no notice of the recommendation she mentionedthat the secretary was no one in particular. At this moment Effie, looking very rosy and happy, pushed through the _portière_ with the newsthat her sister must come and bid good-bye to the Marquise. She wastaking her to the Duchess's--didn't Dora remember? To the _balblanc_--the _sauterie de jeunes filles_. 

'I thought we should be called, ' said Raymond, as he followed Effie;and he remarked that perhaps Madame de Brives would find somethingsuitable at the Duchess's. 

'I don't know. Mamma would be very particular, ' the girl rejoined; andthis was said simply, sympathetically, without the least appearance ofdeflection from that loyalty which Raymond deplored. 

IV

'You must come to us on the 17th; we expect to have a few people andsome good music, ' Cousin Maria said to him before he quitted the house;and he wondered whether, the 17th being still ten days off, this mightnot be an intimation that they could abstain from his society untilthen. He chose, at any rate, not to take it as such, and called severaltimes in the interval, late in the afternoon, when the ladies would besure to have come in. 

They were always there, and Cousin Maria's welcome was, for eachoccasion, maternal, though when he took leave she made no allusion tofuture meetings--to his coming again; but there were always othervisitors as well, collected at tea round the great fire of logs, in thefriendly, brilliant drawing-room where the luxurious was no enemy to thecasual and Mrs. Temperly's manner of dispensing hospitality recalled toour young man somehow certain memories of his youthful time: visits inNew England, at old homesteads flanked with elms, where a talkative, democratic, delightful farmer's wife pressed upon her company rusticviands in which she herself had had a hand. Cousin Maria enjoyed theservices of a distinguished _chef_, and delicious _petits fours_ wereserved with her tea; but Raymond had a sense that to complete theimpression hot home-made gingerbread should have been produced. 

The atmosphere was suffused with the presence of Madame de Brives. Shewas either there or she was just coming or she was just gone; her name, her voice, her example and encouragement were in the air. Other ladiescame and went--sometimes accompanied by gentlemen who looked worn out, had waxed moustaches and knew how to talk--and they were sometimesdesignated in the same manner as Madame de Brives; but she remained theMarquise _par excellence_, the incarnation of brilliancy and renown. Theconversation moved among simple but civilised topics, was not dull and, considering that it consisted largely of personalities, was notill-natured. Least of all was it scandalous, for the girls were alwaysthere, Cousin Maria not having thought it in the least necessary, inorder to put herself in accord with French traditions, to relegate herdaughters to the middle distance. They occupied a considerable part ofthe foreground, in the prettiest, most modest, most becoming attitudes. 

It was Cousin Maria's theory of her own behaviour that she did in Parissimply as she had always done; and though this would not have been acomplete account of the matter Raymond could not fail to notice the goodsense and good taste with which she laid down her lines and the quiet_bonhomie_ of the authority with which she caused the tone of theAmerican home to be respected. Scandal stayed outside, not simplybecause Effie and Tishy were there, but because, even if Cousin Mariahad received alone, she never would have received evil-speakers. Indeed, for Raymond, who had been accustomed to think that in a generalway he knew pretty well what the French capital was, this was a strange, fresh Paris altogether, destitute of the salt that seasoned it for mostpalates, and yet not insipid nor innutritive. He marvelled at CousinMaria's air, in such a city, of knowing, of recognising nothing bad: allthe more that it represented an actual state of mind. He used to wondersometimes what she would do and how she would feel if some day, inconsequence of researches made by the Marquise in the _grand monde_, sheshould find herself in possession of a son-in-law formed according toone of the types of which _he_ had impressions. However, it was notcredible that Madame de Brives would play her a trick. There weremoments when Raymond almost wished she might--to see how Cousin Mariawould handle the gentleman. 

Dora was almost always taken up by visitors, and he had scarcely anydirect conversation with her. She was there, and he was glad she wasthere, and she knew he was glad (he knew that), but this was almost allthe communion he had with her. She was mild, exquisitely mild--this wasthe term he mentally applied to her now--and it amply sufficed him, withthe conviction he had that she was not stupid. She attended to the tea(for Mademoiselle Bourde was not always free), she handed the _petitsfours_, she rang the bell when people went out; and it was in connectionwith these offices that the idea came to him once--he was rather ashamedof it afterward--that she was the Cinderella of the house, the domesticdrudge, the one for whom there was no career, as it was useless for theMarquise to take up her case. He was ashamed of this fancy, I say, andyet it came back to him; he was even surprised that it had not occurredto him before. Her sisters were neither ugly nor proud (Tishy, indeed, was almost touchingly delicate and timid, with exceedingly prettypoints, yet with a little appealing, old-womanish look, as if, small--very small--as she was, she was afraid she shouldn't grow anymore); but her mother, like the mother in the fairy-tale, was a _femmeforte_. Madame de Brives could do nothing for Dora, not absolutelybecause she was too plain, but because she would never lend herself, andthat came to the same thing. Her mother accepted her as recalcitrant, but Cousin Maria's attitude, at the best, could only be resignation. Shewould respect her child's preferences, she would never put on the screw;but this would not make her love the child any more. So Raymondinterpreted certain signs, which at the same time he felt to be veryslight, while the conversation in Mrs. Temperly's _salon_ (this was itspreponderant tendency) rambled among questions of bric-à-brac, of whereTishy's portrait should be placed when it was finished, and the currentprices of old Gobelins. _Ces dames_ were not in the least above thediscussion of prices. 

On the 17th it was easy to see that more lamps than usual had beenlighted. They streamed through all the windows of the charming hotel andmingled with the radiance of the carriage-lanterns, which followed eachother slowly, in couples, in a close, long rank, into the fine sonorouscourt, where the high stepping of valuable horses was sharp on thestones, and up to the ruddy portico. The night was wet, not with adownpour, but with showers interspaced by starry patches, which onlyadded to the glitter of the handsome, clean Parisian surfaces. The_sergents de ville_ were about the place, and seemed to make theoccasion important and official. These night aspects of Paris in the_beaux quartiers_ had always for Raymond a particularly festiveassociation, and as he passed from his cab under the wide permanent tincanopy, painted in stripes like an awning, which protected the lowsteps, it seemed to him odder than ever that all this establishedprosperity should be Cousin Maria's. 

If the thought of how well she did it bore him company from thethreshold, it deepened to admiration by the time he had been half anhour in the place. She stood near the entrance with her two elderdaughters, distributing the most familiar, most encouraging smiles, together with hand-shakes which were in themselves a whole system ofhospitality. If her party was grand Cousin Maria was not; she indulgedin no assumption of stateliness and no attempt at graduated welcomes. Itseemed to Raymond that it was only because it would have taken too muchtime that she didn't kiss every one. Effie looked lovely and just alittle frightened, which was exactly what she ought to have done; and henoticed that among the arriving guests those who were not intimate(which he could not tell from Mrs. Temperly's manner, but could fromtheir own) recognised her as a daughter much more quickly than theyrecognised Dora, who hung back disinterestedly, as if not to challengetheir discernment, while the current passed her, keeping her littlesister in position on its brink meanwhile by the tenderest smallgesture. 

'May I talk with you a little, later?' he asked of Dora, with only afew seconds for the question, as people were pressing behind him. Sheanswered evasively that there would be very little talk--they would allhave to listen--it was very serious; and the next moment he had receiveda programme from the hand of a monumental yet gracious personage whostood beyond and who had a silver chain round his neck. 

The place was arranged for music, and how well arranged he saw later, when every one was seated, spaciously, luxuriously, without pushing orover-peeping, and the finest talents in Paris performed selections atwhich the best taste had presided. The singers and players were allstars of the first magnitude. Raymond was fond of music and he wonderedwhose taste it had been. He made up his mind it was Dora's--it was onlyshe who could have conceived a combination so exquisite; and he said tohimself: 'How they all pull together! She is not in it, she is not ofit, and yet she too works for the common end. ' And by 'all' he meantalso Mademoiselle Bourde and the Marquise. This impression made him feelrather hopeless, as if, _en fin de compte_, Cousin Maria were too largean adversary. Great as was the pleasure of being present on an occasionso admirably organised, of sitting there in a beautiful room, in astill, attentive, brilliant company, with all the questions oftemperature, space, light and decoration solved to the gratification ofevery sense, and listening to the best artists doing their best--happilyconstituted as our young man was to enjoy such a privilege as this, thetotal effect was depressing: it made him feel as if the gods were noton his side. 

'And does she do it so well without a man? There must be so many detailsa woman can't tackle, ' he said to himself; for even counting in theMarquise and Mademoiselle Bourde this only made a multiplication ofpetticoats. Then it came over him that she _was_ a man as well as awoman--the masculine element was included in her nature. He was surethat she bought her horses without being cheated, and very few men coulddo that. She had the American national quality--she had 'faculty' in asupreme degree. 'Faculty--faculty, ' the voices of the quartette ofsingers seemed to repeat, in the quick movement of a composition theyrendered beautifully, while they swelled and went faster, till the thingbecame a joyous chant of praise, a glorification of Cousin Maria'spractical genius. 

During the intermission, in the middle of the concert, people changedplaces more or less and circulated, so that, walking about at this time, he came upon the Marquise, who, in her sympathetic, demonstrative way, appeared to be on the point of clasping her hostess in her arms. 'Décidément, ma bonne, il n'y a que vous! C'est une perfection----' heheard her say. To which, gratified but unelated, Cousin Maria replied, according to her simple, sociable wont: 'Well, it _does_ seem quite asuccessful occasion. If it will only keep on to the end!'

Raymond, wandering far, found himself in a world that was mainly quitenew to him, and explained his ignorance of it by reflecting that thepeople were probably celebrated: so many of them had decorations andstars and a quiet of manner that could only be accounted for by renown. There were plenty of Americans with no badge but a certain finenegativeness, and _they_ were quiet for a reason which by this time hadbecome very familiar to Raymond: he had heard it so often mentioned thathis country-people were supremely 'adaptable. ' He tried to get hold ofDora, but he saw that her mother had arranged things beautifully to keepher occupied with other people; so at least he interpreted thefact--after all very natural--that she had half a dozen fluttered younggirls on her mind, whom she was providing with programmes, seats, ices, occasional murmured remarks and general support and protection. When theconcert was over she supplied them with further entertainment in theform of several young men who had pliable backs and flashing breastpinsand whom she inarticulately introduced to them, which gave her stillmore to do, as after this serious step she had to stay and watch allparties. It was strange to Raymond to see her transformed by her motherinto a precocious duenna. Him she introduced to no young girl, and heknew not whether to regard this as cold neglect or as highconsideration. If he had liked he might have taken it as a sweetintimation that she knew he couldn't care for any girl but her. 

On the whole he was glad, because it left him free--free to get hold ofher mother, which by this time he had boldly determined to do. Theconception was high, inasmuch as Cousin Maria's attention was obviouslyrequired by the ambassadors and other grandees who had flocked to do herhomage. Nevertheless, while supper was going on (he wanted none, andneither apparently did she), he collared her, as he phrased it tohimself, in just the right place--on the threshold of the conservatory. She was flanked on either side with a foreigner of distinction, but hedidn't care for her foreigners now. Besides, a conservatory was meantonly for couples; it was a sign of her comprehensive sociability thatshe should have been rambling among the palms and orchids with a doubleescort. Her friends would wish to quit her but would not wish to appearto give way to each other; and Raymond felt that he was relieving themboth (though he didn't care) when he asked her to be so good as to givehim a few minutes' conversation. He made her go back with him into theconservatory: it was the only thing he had ever made her do, or probablyever would. She began to talk about the great Gregorini--how it had beentoo sweet of her to repeat one of her songs, when it had really beenunderstood in advance that repetitions were not expected. Raymond had nointerest at present in the great Gregorini. He asked Cousin Mariavehemently if she remembered telling him in New York--that night at thehotel, five years before--that when he should have followed them toParis he would be free to address her on the subject of Dora. She hadgiven him a promise that she would listen to him in this case, and nowhe must keep her up to the mark. It was impossible to see her alone, but, at whatever inconvenience to herself, he must insist on her givinghim his opportunity. 

'About Dora, Cousin Raymond?' she asked, blandly and kindly--almost asif she didn't exactly know who Dora was. 

'Surely you haven't forgotten what passed between us the evening beforeyou left America. I was in love with her then and I have been in lovewith her ever since. I told you so then, and you stopped me off, but yougave me leave to make another appeal to you in the future. I make itnow--this is the only way I have--and I think you ought to listen to it. Five years have passed, and I love her more than ever. I have behavedlike a saint in the interval: I haven't attempted to practise upon herwithout your knowledge. '

'I am so glad; but she would have let me know, ' said Cousin Maria, looking round the conservatory as if to see if the plants were allthere. 

'No doubt. I don't know what you do to her. But I trust that to-day youropposition falls--in face of the proof that we have given you of mutualfidelity. '

'Fidelity?' Cousin Maria repeated, smiling. 

'Surely--unless you mean to imply that Dora has given me up. I havereason to believe that she hasn't. '

'I think she will like better to remain just as she is. '

'Just as she is?'

'I mean, not to make a choice, ' Cousin Maria went on, smiling. 

Raymond hesitated a moment. 'Do you mean that you have tried to make hermake one?'

At this the good lady broke into a laugh. 'My dear Raymond, how littleyou must think I know my child!'

'Perhaps, if you haven't tried to make her, you have tried to preventher. Haven't you told her I am unsuccessful, I am poor?'

She stopped him, laying her hand with unaffected solicitude on his arm. '_Are_ you poor, my dear? I should be so sorry!'

'Never mind; I can support a wife, ' said the young man. 

'It wouldn't matter, because I am happy to say that Dora has somethingof her own, ' Cousin Maria went on, with her imperturbable candour. 'Herfather thought that was the best way to arrange it. I had quiteforgotten my opposition, as you call it; that was so long ago. Why, shewas only a little girl. Wasn't that the ground I took? Well, dear, she'solder now, and you can say anything to her you like. But I do think shewants to stay----' And she looked up at him, cheerily. 

'Wants to stay?'

'With Effie and Tishy. '

'Ah, Cousin Maria, ' the young man exclaimed, 'you are modest aboutyourself!'

'Well, we are all together. Now is that all? I _must_ see if there isenough champagne. Certainly--you can say to her what you like. Buttwenty years hence she will be just as she is to-day; that's how I seeher. '

'Lord, what is it you do to her?' Raymond groaned, as he accompanied hishostess back to the crowded rooms. 

He knew exactly what she would have replied if she had been aFrenchwoman; she would have said to him, triumphantly, overwhelmingly:'Que voulez-vous? Elle adore sa mère!' She was, however, only aCalifornian, unacquainted with the language of epigram, and her answerconsisted simply of the words: 'I am sorry you have ideas that make youunhappy. I guess you are the only person here who hasn't enjoyedhimself to-night. '

Raymond repeated to himself, gloomily, for the rest of the evening, 'Elle adore sa mère--elle adore sa mère!' He remained very late, andwhen but twenty people were left and he had observed that the Marquise, passing her hand into Mrs. Temperly's arm, led her aside as if for someimportant confabulation (some new light doubtless on what might be hopedfor Effie), he persuaded Dora to let the rest of the guests depart inpeace (apparently her mother had told her to look out for them to thevery last), and come with him into some quiet corner. They found anempty sofa in the outlasting lamp-light, and there the girl sat downwith him. Evidently she knew what he was going to say, or rather shethought she did; for in fact, after a little, after he had told her thathe had spoken to her mother and she had told him he might speak to_her_, he said things that she could not very well have expected. 

'Is it true that you wish to remain with Effie and Tishy? That's whatyour mother calls it when she means that you will give me up. '

'How can I give you up?' the girl demanded. 'Why can't we go on beingfriends, as I asked you the evening you dined here?'

'What do you mean by friends?'

'Well, not making everything impossible. '

'You didn't think anything impossible of old, ' Raymond rejoined, bitterly. 'I thought you liked me then, and I have even thought sosince. '

'I like you more than I like any one. I like you so much that it's myprincipal happiness. '

'Then why are there impossibilities?'

'Oh, some day I'll tell you!' said Dora, with a quick sigh. 'Perhapsafter Tishy is married. And meanwhile, are you not going to remain inParis, at any rate? Isn't your work here? You are not here for me only. You can come to the house often. That's what I mean by our beingfriends. '

Her companion sat looking at her with a gloomy stare, as if he weretrying to make up the deficiencies in her logic. 

'After Tishy is married? I don't see what that has to do with it. Tishyis little more than a baby; she may not be married for ten years. '

'That is very true. '

'And you dispose of the interval by a simple "meanwhile"? My dear Dora, your talk is strange, ' Raymond continued, with his voice passionatelylowered. 'And I may come to the house--often? How often do you mean--inten years? Five times--or even twenty?' He saw that her eyes werefilling with tears, but he went on: 'It has been coming over me littleby little (I notice things very much if I have a reason), and now Ithink I understand your mother's system. '

'Don't say anything against my mother, ' the girl broke in, beseechingly. 

'I shall not say anything unjust. That is if I am unjust you must tellme. This is my idea, and your speaking of Tishy's marriage confirms it. To begin with she has had immense plans for you all; she wanted each ofyou to be a princess or a duchess--I mean a good one. But she has had togive _you_ up. '

'No one has asked for me, ' said Dora, with unexpected honesty. 

'I don't believe it. Dozens of fellows have asked for you, and you haveshaken your head in that divine way (divine for me, I mean) in which youshook it the other night. '

'My mother has never said an unkind word to me in her life, ' the girldeclared, in answer to this. 

'I never said she had, and I don't know why you take the precaution oftelling me so. But whatever you tell me or don't tell me, ' Raymondpursued, 'there is one thing I see very well--that so long as you won'tmarry a duke Cousin Maria has found means to prevent you from marryingtill your sisters have made rare alliances. '

'Has found means?' Dora repeated, as if she really wondered what was inhis thought. 

'Of course I mean only through your affection for her. How she worksthat, you know best yourself. '

'It's delightful to have a mother of whom every one is so fond, ' saidDora, smiling. 

'She is a most remarkable woman. Don't think for a moment that I don'tappreciate her. You don't want to quarrel with her, and I daresay youare right. '

'Why, Raymond, of course I'm right!'

'It proves you are not madly in love with me. It seems to me that foryou _I_ would have quarrelled----'

'Raymond, Raymond!' she interrupted, with the tears again rising. 

He sat looking at her, and then he said, 'Well, when they _are_married?'

'I don't know the future--I don't know what may happen. '

'You mean that Tishy is so small--she doesn't grow--and will thereforebe difficult? Yes, she _is_ small. ' There was bitterness in his heart, but he laughed at his own words. 'However, Effie ought to go offeasily, ' he went on, as Dora said nothing. 'I really wonder that, withthe Marquise and all, she hasn't gone off yet. This thing, to-night, ought to do a great deal for her. '

Dora listened to him with a fascinated gaze; it was as if he expressedthings for her and relieved her spirit by making them clear andcoherent. Her eyes managed, each time, to be dry again, and now asomewhat wan, ironical smile moved her lips. 'Mamma knows what shewants--she knows what she will take. And she will take only that. '

'Precisely--something tremendous. And she is willing to wait, eh? Well, Effie is very young, and she's charming. But she won't be charming ifshe has an ugly appendage in the shape of a poor unsuccessful Americanartist (not even a good one), whose father went bankrupt, for abrother-in-law. That won't smooth the way, of course; and if a prince isto come into the family, the family must be kept tidy to receive him. 'Dora got up quickly, as if she could bear his lucidity no longer, but hekept close to her as she walked away. 'And she can sacrifice you likethat, without a scruple, without a pang?'

'I might have escaped--if I would marry, ' the girl replied. 

'Do you call that escaping? She has succeeded with you, but is it a partof what the Marquise calls her _succès de bonté_?'

'Nothing that you can say (and it's far worse than the reality) canprevent her being delightful. '

'Yes, that's your loyalty, and I could shoot you for it!' he exclaimed, making her pause on the threshold of the adjoining room. 'So you thinkit will take about ten years, considering Tishy's size--or want ofsize?' He himself again was the only one to laugh at this. 'Your motheris closeted, as much as she can be closeted now, with Madame de Brives, and perhaps this time they are really settling something. '

'I have thought that before and nothing has come. Mamma wants somethingso good; not only every advantage and every grandeur, but every virtueunder heaven, and every guarantee. Oh, she wouldn't expose them!'

'I see; that's where her goodness comes in and where the Marquise isimpressed' He took Dora's hand; he felt that he must go, for sheexasperated him with her irony that stopped short and her patience thatwouldn't stop. 'You simply propose that I should wait?' he said, as heheld her hand. 

'It seems to me that you might, if _I_ can. ' Then the girl remarked, 'Now that you are here, it's far better. '

There was a sweetness in this which made him, after glancing about amoment, raise her hand to his lips. He went away without taking leave ofCousin Maria, who was still out of sight, her conference with theMarquise apparently not having terminated. This looked (he reflected ashe passed out) as if something might come of it. However, before he wenthome he fell again into a gloomy forecast. The weather had changed, thestars were all out, and he walked the empty streets for an hour. Tishy's perverse refusal to grow and Cousin Maria's conscientiousexactions promised him a terrible probation. And in those intolerableyears what further interference, what meddlesome, effective pressure, might not make itself felt? It may be added that Tishy is decidedly adwarf and his probation is not yet over. 

THE END

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