A MODERN CHRONICLE

By Winston Churchill

Volume 8. 

CHAPTER XVI

IN WHICH A MIRROR IS HELD UP

Spring came to Highlawns, Eden tinted with myriad tender greens. Yellow-greens, like the beech boughs over the old wall, and gentleblue-greens, like the turf; and the waters of the lake were blue andwhite in imitation of the cloud-flecked sky. It seemed to Honora, as shesat on the garden bench, that the yellow and crimson tulips could notopen wide enough their cups to the sun. 

In these days she looked at her idol, and for the first time believed itto be within her finite powers to measure him. She began by askingherself if it were really she who had ruined his life, and whether hewould ultimately have redeemed himself if he had married a woman whom theworld would have recognized. Thus did the first doubt invade her heart. It was of him she was thinking still, and always. But there was thedoubt. If he could have stood this supreme test of isolation, of theworld's laughter and scorn, although it would have made her own heavyburden of responsibility heavier, yet could she still have rejoiced. Thathe should crumble was the greatest of her punishments. 

Was he crumbling? In these months she could not quite be sure, and shetried to shut her eyes when the little pieces fell off, to remind herselfthat she must make allowances for the severity of his disappointment. Spring was here, the spring to which he had so eagerly looked forward, and yet the listlessness with which he went about his work was apparent. Sometimes he did not appear at breakfast, although Honora clung withdesperation to the hour they had originally fixed: sometimes Mr. Manningwaited for him until nearly ten o'clock, only to receive curt dismissal. He went off for long rides, alone, and to the despair of the groombrought back the horses in a lather, with drooping heads and heavingsides; one of them he ruined. He declared there wasn't a horse in thestable fit to give him exercise. 

Often he sat for hours in his study, brooding, inaccessible. She had thetennis-court rolled and marked, but the contests here werepitifully-unequal; for the row of silver cups on his mantel, engravedwith many dates, bore witness to his athletic prowess. She wrote for abook on solitaire, but after a while the sight of cards becamedistasteful. With a secret diligence she read the reviews, and sent fornovels and memoirs which she scanned eagerly before they were begun withhim. Once, when she went into his study on an errand, she stood for aminute gazing painfully at the cleared space on his desk where once hadlain the papers and letters relative to the life of General AngusChiltern. 

There were intervals in which her hope flared, in which she tasted, fearfully and with bated breath, something that she had not thought toknow again. It was characteristic of him that his penitence was neverspoken: nor did he exhibit penitence. He seemed rather at such timesmerely to become normally himself, as one who changes personality, apparently oblivious to the moods and deeds of yesterday. And theseoccasions added perplexity to her troubles. She could not reproach him--which perhaps in any event she would have been too wise to do; but shecould not, try as she would, bring herself to the point of a discussionof their situation. The risk, she felt, was too great; now, at least. There were instances that made her hope that the hour might come. 

One fragrant morning Honora came down to find him awaiting her, and toperceive lying on her napkin certain distilled drops of the springsunshine. In language less poetic, diamonds to be worn in the ears. Thewheel of fashion, it appeared, had made a complete revolution since theearly days of his mother's marriage. She gave a little exclamation, andher hand went to her heart. 

"They are Brazilian stones, " he explained, with a boyish pleasure thatawoke memories and held her speechless. "I believe it's very difficult, if not impossible, to buy them now. My father got them after the war andI had them remounted. " And he pressed them against the pink lobes of herears. "You look like the Queen of Sheba. "

"How do you know?" she asked tremulously. "You never saw her. "

"According to competent judges, " he replied, "she was the most beautifulwoman of her time. Go upstairs and put them on. "

She shook her head. An inspiration had come to her. 

"Wait, " she cried. And that morning, when Hugh had gone out, she sent forStarling and startled him by commanding that the famous Lowestoft set beused at dinner. He stared at her, and the corners of his mouth twitched, and still he stood respectfully in the doorway. 

"That is all, Starling. "

"I beg pardon, madam. How--how many will there be at the table?"

"Just Mr. Chiltern and I, " she replied. But she did not look at him. 

It was superstition, undoubtedly. She was well aware that Starling hadnot believed that the set would be used again. An extraordinary order, that might well have sent him away wondering; for the Lowestoft had beenreserved for occasions. Ah, but this was to be an occasion, a festival!The whimsical fancy grew in her mind as the day progressed, and shelonged with an unaccustomed impatience for nightfall, and anticipationhad a strange taste. Mathilde, with the sympathetic gift of her nation, shared the excitement of her mistress in this fete. The curtains in thepink bedroom were drawn, and on the bed, in all its splendour of lace androses, was spread out the dinner-gown-a chef-d'oeuvre of MadameBarriere's as yet unworn. And no vulgar, worldly triumph was it to adorn. 

Her heart was beating fast as she descended the stairway, bright spots ofcolour flaming in her cheeks and the diamonds sparkling in her ears. Aprima donna might have guessed her feelings as she paused, a littlebreathless on the wide landing under the windows. She heard a footstep. Hugh came out of the library and stood motionless, looking up at her. Buteven those who have felt the silence and the stir that prefaces theclamorous applause of the thousands could not know the thrill that swepther under his tribute. She came down the last flight of steps, slowly, and stopped in front of him. 

"You are wonderful, Honora!" he said, and his voice was not quite undercontrol. He took her hand, that trembled in his, and he seemed to beseeking to express something for which he could find no words. Thus maythe King have looked upon Rosamond in her bower; upon a beauty createdfor the adornment of courts which he had sequestered for his eyes alone. 

Honora, as though merely by the touch of his hand in hers, divined histhought. 

"If you think me so, dear, " she whispered happily, "it's all I ask. "

And they went in to dinner as to a ceremony. It was indeed a ceremonyfilled for her with some occult, sacred, meaning that she could not putinto words. A feast symbolical. Starling was sent to the wine-cellar tobring back a cobwebbed Madeira near a century old, brought out on rareoccasions in the family. And Hugh, when his glass was filled, looked athis wife and raised it in silence to his lips. 

She never forgot the scene. The red glow of light from the shaded candleson the table, and the corners of the dining room filled with gloom. Theold butler, like a high priest, standing behind his master's chair. Thelong windows, with the curtains drawn in the deep, panelled arches; thecarved white mantelpiece; the glint of silver on' the sideboard, with itswine-cooler underneath, --these, spoke of generations of respectabilityand achievement. Would this absorbed isolation, this marvellous wild loveof theirs, be the end of it all? Honora, as one detached, as a ghost inthe corner, saw herself in the picture with startling clearness. When shelooked up, she met her husband's eyes. Always she met them, and in them aquestioning, almost startled look that was new. "Is it the earrings?" sheasked at last. "I don't know, " he answered. "I can't tell. They seem tohave changed you, but perhaps they have brought out something in yourface and eyes I have never seen before. "

"And--you like it, Hugh?"

"Yes, I like it, " he replied, and added enigmatically, "but I don'tunderstand it. "

She was silent, and oddly satisfied, trusting to fate to send moremysteries. 

Two days had not passed when that restlessness for which she watched sonarrowly revived. He wandered aimlessly about the place, and flared upinto such a sudden violent temper at one of the helpers in the fieldsthat the man ran as for his life, and refused to set foot again on any ofthe Chiltern farms. In the afternoon he sent for Honora to ride with him, and scolded her for keeping him waiting. And he wore a spur, and pressedhis horse so savagely that she cried out in remonstrance, although atsuch times she had grown to fear him. 

"Oh, Hugh, how can you be so cruel!"

"The beast has no spirit, " he said shortly. "I'll get one that has. "

Their road wound through the western side of the estate towards mistyrolling country, in the folds of which lay countless lakes, and at lengththey caught sight of an unpainted farmhouse set amidst a white cloud ofapple trees in bloom. On the doorstep, whittling, sat a bearded, unkemptfarmer with a huge frame. In answer to Hugh's question he admitted thathe had a horse for sale, stuck his knife in the step, rose, and went offtowards the barn near by; and presently reappeared, leading by a halter amagnificent black. The animal stood jerking his head, blowing and pawingthe ground while Chiltern examined him. 

"He's been ridden?" he asked. 

The man nodded. 

Chiltern sprang to the ground and began to undo his saddle girths. Asudden fear seized Honora. 

"Oh, Hugh, you're not going to ride him!" she exclaimed. 

"Why not? How else am I going to find out anything about him?"

"He looks--dangerous, " she faltered. 

"I'm tired of horses that haven't any life in them, " he said, as helifted off the saddle. 

"I guess we'd better get him in the barn, " said the farmer. 

Honora went behind them to witness the operation, which was not devoid ofexcitement. The great beast plunged savagely when they tightened thegirths, and closed his teeth obstinately against the bit; but the farmerheld firmly to his nose and shut off his wind. They led him out from thebarn floor. 

"Your name Chiltern?" asked the farmer. 

"Yes, " said Hugh, curtly. 

"Thought so, " said the farmer, and he held the horse's head. 

Honora had a feeling of faintness. 

"Hugh, do be careful!" she pleaded. 

He paid no heed to her. His eyes, she noticed, had a certain feverishglitter of animation, of impatience, such as men of his type must wearwhen they go into battle. He seized the horse's mane, he put his foot inthe stirrup; the astonished animal gave a snort and jerked the bridlefrom the farmer's hand. But Chiltern was in the saddle, with kneespressed tight. 

There ensued a struggle that Honora will never forget. And although shenever again saw that farm-house, its details and surroundings come backto her in vivid colours when she closes her eyes. The great horse inevery conceivable pose, with veins standing out and knotty musclestwisting in his legs and neck and thighs. Once, when he dashed into theapple trees, she gave a cry; a branch snapped, and Chiltern emerged, still seated, with his hat gone and the blood trickling from a scratch onhis forehead. She saw him strike with his spurs, and in a twinkling horseand rider had passed over the dilapidated remains of a fence and wereflying down the hard clay road, disappearing into a dip. A reverberatingsound, like a single stroke, told them that the bridge at the bottom hadbeen crossed. 

In an agony of terror, Honora followed, her head on fire, her heartpounding faster than the hoof beats. But the animal she rode, though agood one, was no match for the great infuriated beast which she pursued. Presently she came to a wooded corner where the road forked thrice, andbeyond, not without difficulty, --brought her sweating mare to a stand. The quality of her fear changed from wild terror to cold dread. A hermitthrush, in the wood near by, broke the silence with a song inconceivablysweet. At last she went back to the farm-house, hoping against hope thatHugh might have returned by another road. But he was not there. Thefarmer was still nonchalantly whittling. 

"Oh, how could you let any one get on a horse like that?" she cried. 

"You're his wife, ain't you?" he asked. 

Something in the man's manner seemed to compel her to answer, in spite ofthe form of the question. 

"I am Mrs. Chiltern, " she said. 

He was looking at her with an expression that she found incomprehensible. His glance was penetrating, yet here again she seemed to read compassion. He continued to gaze at her, and presently, when he spoke, it was asthough he were not addressing her at all. 

"You put me in mind of a young girl I used to know, " he said; "seems likea long time ago. You're pretty, and you're young, and ye didn't know whatyou were doin, ' I'll warrant. Lost your head. He has a way of gittin''em--always had. "

Honora did not answer. She would have liked to have gone away, but thatwhich was stronger than her held her. 

"She didn't live here, " he explained, waving his hand deprecatinglytowards the weather-beaten house. "We lived over near Morrisville in themdays. And he don't remember me, your husband don't. I ain't surprised. I've got considerable older. "

Honora was trembling from head to foot, and her hands were cold. 

"I've got her picture in there, if ye'd like to look at it, " he said, after a while. 

"Oh, no!" she cried. "Oh, no!"

"Well, I don't know as I blame you. " He sat down again and began towhittle. "Funny thing, chance, " he remarked; "who'd a thought I shouldhave owned that there hoss, and he should have come around here to rideit?"

She tried to speak, but she could not. The hideous imperturbability ofthe man's hatred sickened her. And her husband! The chips fell in silenceuntil a noise on the road caused them to look up. Chiltern was comingback. She glanced again at the farmer, but his face was equallyincapable, or equally unwilling, to express regret. Chiltern rode intothe dooryard. The blood from the scratch on his forehead had crossed histemple and run in a jagged line down his cheek, his very hair (as she hadsometimes seen it) was damp with perspiration, blacker, kinkier; his eyeshard, reckless, bloodshot. So, in the past, must he have emerged fromdozens of such wilful, brutal contests with man and beast. He had beatenthe sweat-stained horse (temporarily--such was the impression Honorareceived), but she knew that he would like to have killed it for itsopposition. 

"Give me my hat, will you?" he cried to the farmer. 

To her surprise the man obeyed. Chiltern leaped to the ground. 

"What do you want for him?" he demanded. 

"I'll take five hundred dollars. "

"Bring him over in the morning, " said Chiltern, curtly. 

They rode homeward in silence. Honora had not been able to raise hervoice against the purchase, and she seemed powerless now to warn herhusband of the man's enmity. She was thinking, rather, of the horror ofthe tragedy written on the farmer's face, to which he had given her thekey: Hugh Chiltern, to whom she had intrusted her life and granted herall, had done this thing, ruthlessly, even as he had satisfied to-day hisunbridled cravings in maltreating a horse! And she thought of that otherwoman, on whose picture she had refused to look. What was the essentialdifference between that woman and herself? He had wanted them both, hehad taken them both for his pleasure, heedless of the pain he might causeto others and to them. For her, perhaps, the higher organism, had beenreserved the higher torture. She did not know. The vision of the girl inthe outer darkness reserved for castaways was terrible. 

Up to this point she had, as it were, been looking into one mirror. Nowanother was suddenly raised behind her, and by its aid she beheld not asingle, but countless, images of herself endlessly repeated. How manyothers besides this girl had there been? The question gave her theshudder of the contemplation of eternity. It was not the first timeHonora had thought of his past, but until today it had lacked reality;until to-day she had clung to the belief that he had been misunderstood;until to-day she had considered those acts of his of the existence ofwhich she was collectively aware under the generic term of wild oats. Hehad had too much money, and none had known how to control him. Now, through this concrete example of another's experience, she was given tounderstand that which she had strangely been unable to learn from herown. And she had fancied, in her folly, that she could control him!Unable as yet to grasp the full extent of her calamity, she rode on byhis side, until she was aware at last that they had reached the door ofthe house at Highlawns. 

"You look pale, " he said as he lifted her off her horse. The demon inhim, she perceived, was tired. 

"Do I?"

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing, " she answered. 

He laughed. 

"It's confoundedly silly to get frightened that way, " he declared. "Thebeast only wants riding. "

Three mornings later she was seated in the garden with a frame of fancywork. Sometimes she put it down. The weather was overcast, langourous, and there was a feeling of rain in the air. Chiltern came in through thegaffe, and looked at her. 

"I'm going to New York on the noon train, " he said. 

"To New York?"

"Yes. Why not?"

"There's no reason why you shouldn't if you wish to, " she replied, pickingup her frame. 

"Anything I can get you?" he asked. 

"No, thank you. "

"You've been in such a deuced queer mood the last few days I can't makeyou out, Honora. "

"You ought to have learned something about women by this time, " she said. 

"It seems to me, " he announced, "that we need a little livening up. "

CHAPTER XVII

THE RENEWAL OF AN ANCIENT HOSPITALITY

There were six letters from him, written from a club, representing theseven days of his absence. He made no secret of the fact that his visitto the metropolis was in the nature of a relaxation and a change ofscene, but the letters themselves contained surprisingly littleinformation as to how he was employing his holiday. He had encounteredmany old friends, supposedly all of the male sex: among them--mostwelcome of surprises to him!--Mr. George Pembroke, a boon companion atHarvard. And this mention of boon companionship brought up to Honora asufficiently vivid idea of Mr. Pembroke's characteristics. The extent ofher knowledge of this gentleman consisted in the facts that he was abachelor, a member of a prominent Philadelphia family, and that time hungheavy on his hands. 

One morning she received a telegram to the effect that her husband wouldbe home that night, bringing three people with him. He sent his love, butneglected to state the names and sexes of the prospective guests. And shewas still in a quandary as to what arrangements to make when Starlingappeared in answer to her ring. 

"You will send the omnibus to the five o'clock train, " she said. "Therewill be three extra places at dinner, and tea when Mr. Chiltern arrives. "

Although she strove to speak indifferently, she was sure from the way theold man looked at her that her voice had not been quite steady. Of lateher curious feeling about him had increased in intensity; and many times, during this week she had spent alone, she had thought that his eyes hadfollowed her with sympathy. She did not resent this. Her world having nowcontracted to that wide house, there was a comfort in knowing that therewas one in it to whom she could turn in need. For she felt that she couldturn to Starling; he alone, apparently, had measured the full depth ofher trouble; nay, had silently predicted it from the beginning. Andto-day, as he stood before her, she had an almost irresistible impulse tospeak. Just a word-a human word would have been such a help to her! Andhow ridiculous the social law that kept the old man standing there, impassive, respectful, when this existed between them! Her tragedy washis tragedy; not in the same proportion, perhaps; nevertheless, he hadthe air of one who would die of it. 

And she? Would she die? What would become of her? When she thought of thelong days and months and years that stretched ahead of her, she felt thather soul would not be able to survive the process of steady degradationto which it was sure to be subjected. For she was a prisoner: theuttermost parts of the earth offered no refuge. To-day, she knew, was tosee the formal inauguration of that process. She had known torture, butit had been swift, obliterating, excruciating. And hereafter it was to beslow, one turn at a time of the screws, squeezing by infinitesimaldegrees the life out of her soul. And in the end--most fearful thought ofall--in the end, painless. Painless! She buried her head in her arms onthe little desk, shaken by sobs. 

How she fought that day to compose herself, fought and prayed! Prayedwildly to a God whose help, nevertheless, she felt she had forfeited, whowas visiting her with just anger. At half-past four she heard thecarriage on the far driveway, going to the station, and she went down andwalked across the lawn to the pond, and around it; anything to keepmoving. She hurried back to the house just in time to reach the hall asthe omnibus backed up. And the first person she saw descend, after Hugh, was Mrs. Kame. 

"Here we are, Honora, " she cried. "I hope you're glad to see us, and thatyou'll forgive our coming so informally. You must blame Hugh. We'vebrought Adele. "

The second lady was, indeed, none other than Mrs. Eustace Rindge, formerly Mrs. Dicky Farnham. And she is worth--even at this belated stagein our chronicle an attempted sketch, or at least an attemptedimpression. She was fair, and slim as a schoolgirl; not very tall, notexactly petite; at first sight she might have been taken for aparticularly immature debutante, and her dress was youthful and rathermannish. Her years, at this period of her career, were in truth but twoand twenty, yet she had contrived, in the comparatively brief time sinceshe had reached the supposed age of discretion, to marry two men andbuild two houses, and incidentally to see a considerable portion of whatis known as the world. The suspicion that she was not as innocent as adove came to one, on closer inspection, as a shock: her eyes were tired, though not from loss of sleep; and her manner--how shall it be describedto those whose happy lot in life has never been to have made theacquaintance of Mrs. Rindge's humbler sisters who have acquired--morecoarsely, it is true--the same camaraderie? She was one of those forwhom, seemingly, sex does not exist. Her air of good-fellowship with menwas eloquent of a precise knowledge of what she might expect from them, and she was prepared to do her own policing, --not from any deep moralconvictions. She belonged, logically, to that world which is disposed totake the law into its own hands, and she was the possessor of fivemillions of dollars. 

"I came along, " she said to Honora, as she gave her hand-bag to afootman. "I hope you don't mind. Abby and I were shopping and we ran intoHugh and Georgie yesterday at Sherry's, and we've been together eversince. Not quite that--but almost. Hugh begged us to come up, and theredidn't seem to be any reason why we shouldn't, so we telephoned down toBanbury for our trunks and maids, and we've played bridge all the way. Bythe way, Georgie, where's my pocket-book?"

Mr. Pembroke handed it over, and was introduced by Hugh. He looked atHonora, and his glance somehow betokened that he was in the habit oflooking only once. He had apparently made up his mind about her before hesaw her. But he looked again, evidently finding her at variance with apreconceived idea, and this time she flushed a little under his stare, and she got the impression that Mr. Pembroke was a man from whom fewsecrets of a certain kind were hid. She felt that he had seized, at asecond glance, a situation that she had succeeded in hiding from thewomen. He was surprised, but cynically so. He was the sort of person whohad probably possessed at Harvard the knowledge of the world of a Tammanypolitician; he had long ago written his book--such as it was--and closedit: or, rather, he had worked out his system at a precocious age, and ithad lasted him ever since. He had decided that undergraduate life, freedfrom undergraduate restrictions, was a good thing. And he did not, evenin these days, object to breaking something valuable occasionally. 

His physical attributes are more difficult to describe, so closely werethey allied to those which, for want of a better word, must be calledmental. He was neither tall nor short, he was well fed, but hard, hisshoulders too broad, his head a little large. If he should have happenedto bump against one, the result would have been a bruise--not for him. His eyes were blue, his light hair short, and there was a slight baldnessbeginning; his face was red-tanned. There was not the slightest doubtthat he could be effectively rude, and often was; but it was evident, forsome reason, that he meant to be gracious (for Mr. Pembroke) to Honora. Perhaps this was the result of the second glance. One of his name had notlacked, indeed, for instructions in gentility. It must not be thoughtthat she was in a condition to care much about what Mr. Pembroke thoughtor did, and yet she felt instinctively that he had changed his greetingbetween that first and second glance. 

"I hope you'll forgive my coming in this way, " he said. "I'm an oldfriend of Hugh's. "

"I'm very glad to have Hugh's friends, " she answered. 

He looked at her again. 

"Is tea ready?" inquired Mrs. Kame. "I'm famished. " And, as they walkedthrough the house to the garden, where the table was set beside the stoneseat: "I don't see how you ever can leave this place, Honora. I've alwayswanted to come here, but it's even more beautiful than I thought. "

"It's very beautiful, " said Honora. 

"I'll have a whiskey and soda, if I may, " announced Mrs. Rindge. "Openone, Georgie. "

"The third to-day, " said Mr. Pembroke, sententiously, as he obeyed. 

"I don't care. I don't see what business it is of yours. "

"Except to open them, " he replied. 

"You'd have made a fortune as a barkeeper, " she observed, dispassionately, as she watched the process. 

"He's made fortunes for a good many, " said Chiltern. 

"Not without some expert assistance I could mention, " Mr. Pembrokeretorted. 

At this somewhat pointed reference to his ancient habits, Chilternlaughed. 

"You've each had three to-day yourselves, " said Mrs. Rindge, in whosebosom Mr. Pembroke's remark evidently rankled, "without counting thoseyou had before you left the club. "

Afterwards Mrs. Kame expressed a desire to walk about a little, aproposal received with disfavour by all but Honora, who as hostessresponded. 

"I feel perfectly delightful, " declared Mrs. Rindge. "What's the use ofmoving about?" And she sank back in the cushions of her chair. 

This observation was greeted with unrestrained merriment by Mr. Pembrokeand Hugh. Honora, sick at heart, led Mrs. Kame across the garden andthrough the gate in the wall. It was a perfect evening of early June, thegreat lawn a vivid green in the slanting light. All day the cheerfulmusic of the horse-mowers had been heard, and the air was fragrant withthe odour of grass freshly cut. The long shadows of the maples andbeeches stretched towards the placid surface of the lake, dimpled hereand there by a fish's swirl: the spiraeas were laden as with freshlyfallen snow, a lone Judas-tree was decked in pink. The steep pasturesbeyond the water were touched with gold, while to the northward, on thedistant hills, tender blue lights gathered lovingly around the copses. Mrs. Kame sighed. 

"What a terrible thing it is, " she said, "that we are never satisfied!It's the men who ruin all this for us, I believe, and prevent ourenjoying it. Look at Adele. "

Honora had indeed looked at her. 

"I found out the other day what is the matter with her. She's madly inlove with Dicky. "

"With--with her former husband?"

"Yes, with poor little innocent Dicky Farnham, who's probably stillcongratulating himself, like a canary bird that's got out of a cage. Somehow Dicky's always reminded me of a canary; perhaps it's his name. Isn't it odd that she should be in love with him?"

"I think, " replied Honora, slowly, "that it's a tragedy. "

"It is a tragedy, " Mrs. Kame hastily agreed. "To me, this case is one ofthe most incomprehensible aspects of the tender passion. Adele's idea ofexistence is a steeplechase with nothing but water-jumps, Dicky's toloiter around in a gypsy van, and sit in the sun. During his briefmatrimonial experience with her, he nearly died for want of breath--orrather the life was nearly shaken out of him. And yet she wants Dickyagain. She'd run away with him to-morrow if he should come within hailingdistance of her. "

"And her husband?" asked Honora. 

"Eustace? Did you ever see him? That accounts for your question. He onlyleft France long enough to come over here and make love to her, and heswears he'll never leave it again. If she divorces him, he'll have tohave alimony. "

At last Honora was able to gain her own room, but even seclusion, thoughpreferable to the companionship of her guests, was almost intolerable. The tragedy of Mrs. Rindge had served--if such a thing could be--toenhance her own; a sudden spectacle of a woman in a more advanced stageof desperation. Would she, Honora, ever become like that? Up to thepresent she felt that suffering had refined her, and a great love hadburned away all that was false. But now--now that her god had turned toclay, what would happen? Desperation seemed possible, notwithstanding theawfulness of the example. No, she would never come to that! And sherepeated it over and over to herself as she dressed, as though tostrengthen her will. 

During her conversation with Mrs. Kame she had more than once suspected, in spite of her efforts, that the lady had read her state of mind. ForMrs. Kame's omissions were eloquent to the discerning: Chiltern'srelatives had been mentioned with a casualness intended to imply that nobreach existed, and the fiction that Honora could at any moment take upher former life delicately sustained. Mrs. Kame had adaptably chosen theattitude, after a glance around her, that Honora preferred Highlawns tothe world: a choice of which she let it be known that she approved, whiledeploring that a frivolous character put such a life out of the questionfor herself. She made her point without over-emphasis. On the other hand, Honora had read Mrs. Kame. No very careful perusal was needed to convinceher that the lady was unmoral, and that in characteristics she resembledthe chameleon. But she read deeper. She perceived that Mrs. Kame wasconvinced that she, Honora, would adjust herself to the new conditionsafter a struggle; and that while she had a certain sympathy in thestruggle, Mrs. Kame was of opinion that the sooner it was over with thebetter. All women were born to be disillusionized. Such was the key, atany rate, to the lady's conduct that evening at dinner, when she cappedthe anecdotes of Mr. Pembroke and Mrs. Rindge and even of Chiltern withothers not less risque but more fastidiously and ingeniously suggestive. The reader may be spared their recital. 

Since the meeting in the restaurant the day before, which had resulted inHugh's happy inspiration that the festival begun should be continuedindefinitely at Highlawns, a kind of freemasonry had sprung up betweenthe four. Honora found herself, mercifully, outside the circle: for suchwas the lively character of the banter that a considerable adroitness wasnecessary to obtain, between the talk and--laughter, the ear of thecompany. And so full were they of the reminiscences which had beencrowded into the thirty hours or so they had spent together, that hercomparative silence remained unnoticed. To cite an example, Mr. Pembrokewas continually being addressed as the Third Vice-president, an allusionthat Mrs. Rindge eventually explained. 

"You ought to have been with us coming up on the train, " she cried toHonora; "I thought surely we'd be put off. We were playing bridge in thelittle room at the end of the car when the conductor came for ourtickets. Georgie had 'em in his pocket, but he told the man to go away, that he was the third vice-president of the road, and we were hisfriends. The conductor asked him if he were Mr. Wheeler, or some suchname, and Georgie said he was surprised he didn't know him. Well, the manstood there in the door, and Georgie picked up his hand and made ithearts--or was it diamonds, Georgie?"

"Spades, " said that gentleman, promptly. 

"At any rate, " Mrs. Rindge continued, "we all began to play, although wewere ready to blow up with laughter, and after a while Georgie lookedaround and said, 'What, are you there yet?' My dear, you ought to haveseen the conductor's face! He said it was his duty to establish Georgie'sidentity, or something like that, and Georgie told him to get off at thenext station and buy Waring's Magazine--was that it, Georgie?"

"How the deuce should I know?"

"Well, some such magazine. Georgie said he'd find an article in it on theRailroad Kings and Princes of America, and that his picture, Georgie's, was among the very first!" At this juncture in her narrative Mrs. Rindgeshrieked with laughter, in which she was joined by Mrs. Kame and Hugh;and she pointed a forefinger across the table at Mr. Pembroke, who wenton solemnly eating his dinner. "Georgie gave him ten cents with which tobuy the magazine, " she added a little hysterically. "Well, there was afrightful row, and a lot of men came down to that end of the car, and wehad to shut the door. The conductor said the most outrageous things, andGeorgie pretended to be very indignant, too, and gave him the ticketsunder protest. He told Georgie he ought to be in an asylum for thecriminally insane, and Georgie advised him to get a photograph album ofthe high officials of the railroad. The conductor said Georgie's picturewas probably in the rogue's gallery. And we lost two packs of cards outof the window. "

Such had been the more innocent if eccentric diversions with which theyhad whiled away the time. When dinner was ended, a renewal of the bridgegame was proposed, for it had transpired at the dinner-table that Mrs. Rindge and Hugh had been partners all day, as a result of which there wasa considerable balance in their favour. This balance Mr. Pembroke waspalpably anxious to wipe out, or at least to reduce. But Mrs. Kameinsisted that Honora should cut in, and the others supported her. 

"We tried our best to get a man for you, " said Mrs. Rindge to Honora. "Didn't we, Abby? But in the little time we had, it was impossible. Theonly man we saw was Ned Carrington, and Hugh said he didn't think you'dwant him. "

"Hugh showed a rare perception, " said Honora. 

Be it recorded that she smiled. One course had been clear to her from thefirst, although she found it infinitely difficult to follow; she wasdetermined, cost what it might, to carry through her part of the affairwith dignity, but without stiffness. This is not the place to dwell uponthe tax to her strength. 

"Come on, Honora, " said Hugh, "cut in. " His tone was of what may betermed a rough good nature. She had not seen him alone since his return, but he had seemed distinctly desirous that she should enjoy thefestivities he had provided. And not to yield would have been to betrayherself. 

The game, with its intervals of hilarity, was inaugurated in the library, and by midnight it showed no signs of abating. At this hour the originalfour occupied the table for the second time, and endurance has itslimits. The atmosphere of Liberty Hall that prevailed made Honora'sretirement easier. 

"I'm sure you won't mind if I go to bed, " she said. "I've been so used tothe routine of--of the chickens. " She smiled. "And I've spent the day inthe open air. "

"Certainly, my dear, " said Mrs. Kame; "I know exactly how one feels inthe country. I'm sure it's dreadfully late. We'll have one more rubber, and then stop. "

"Oh, don't stop, " replied Honora; "please play as long as you like. "

They didn't stop--at least after one more rubber. Honora, as she lay inthe darkness, looking through the open square of her window at the silverstars, heard their voiced and their laughter floating up at intervalsfrom below, and the little clock on her mantel had struck the hour ofthree when the scraping of chairs announced the breaking up of the party. And even after that an unconscionable period elapsed, beguiled, undoubtedly, by anecdotes; spells of silence--when she thought they hadgone--ending in more laughter. Finally there was a crash of breakingglass, a climax of uproarious mirth, and all was still. . . 

She could not have slept much, but the birds were singing when shefinally awoke, the sunlight pouring into her window: And the hands of herclock pointed to half-past seven when she rang her bell. It was a reliefto breakfast alone, or at least to sip her coffee in solitude. And thedew was still on the grass as she crossed the wide lawn and made her wayaround the lake to the path that entered the woods at its farther end. She was not tired, yet she would have liked to have lain down under thegreen panoply of the forest, where the wild flowers shyly raised sweetfaces to be kissed, and lose herself in the forgetfulness of an eternalsleep; never to go back again to an Eden contaminated. But when shelingered the melody of a thrush pierced her through and through. At lastshe turned and reluctantly retraced her steps, as one whose hour ofreprieve has expired. 

If Mrs. Rindge had a girlish air when fully arrayed for the day, shelooked younger and more angular still in that article of attire known asa dressing gown. And her eyes, Honora remarked, were peculiarly bright:glittering, perhaps, would better express the impression they gave; asthough one got a glimpse through them of an inward consuming fire. Herlaughter rang shrill and clear as Honora entered the hall by the reardoor, and the big clock proclaimed that the hour was half-past eleven. Hugh and Mr. Pembroke were standing at the foot of the stairs, gazingupward. And Honora, following their glances, beheld the two ladies, inthe negligee referred to above, with their elbows on the railing of theupper hall and their faces between their hands, engaged in a livelyexchange of compliments with the gentlemen. Mrs. Kame looked sleepy. 

"Such a night!" she said, suppressing a yawn. "My dear, you did well togo to bed. "

"And to cap it all, " cried Mrs. Rindge, "Georgie fell over backwards inone of those beautiful Adam chairs, and there's literally nothing left ofit. If an ocean steamer had hit it, or a freight tram, it couldn't havebeen more thoroughly demolished. "

"You pushed me, " declared Mr. Pembroke. 

"Did I, Hugh? I barely touched him. "

"You knocked him into a cocked hat, " said Hugh. "And if you'd been inthat kimono, you could have done it even easier. "

"Georgie broke the whole whiskey service, --or whatever it is, " Mrs. Rindge went on, addressing Honora again. "He fell into it. "

"He's all right this morning, " observed Mrs. Kame, critically. 

"I think I'll take to swallowing swords and glass and things in public. Ican do it so well, " said Mr. Pembroke. 

"I hope you got what you like for breakfast, " said Honora to the ladies. 

"Hurry up and come down, Adele, " said Hugh, "if you want to look over thehorses before lunch. "

"It's Georgie's fault, " replied Mrs. Rindge; "he's been standing in thedoor of my sitting-room for a whole half-hour talking nonsense. "

A little later they all set out for the stables. These buildings atHighlawns, framed by great trees, were old-fashioned and picturesque, surrounding three sides of a court, with a yellow brick wall on thefourth. The roof of the main building was capped by a lantern, the homeof countless pigeons. Mrs. Rindge was in a habit, and one by one thesaddle horses were led out, chiefly for her inspection; and she seemed toHonora to become another woman as she looked them over with a criticaleye and discussed them with Hugh and O'Grady, the stud-groom, and talkedabout pedigrees and strains. For she was renowned in this department ofsport on many fields, both for recklessness and skill. 

"Where did you get that brute, Hugh?" she asked presently. 

Honora, who had been talking to Pembroke, looked around with a start. Andat the sight of the great black horse, bought on that unforgettable day, she turned suddenly faint. 

"Over here in the country about ten miles, " Chiltern was saying. "I heardof him, but I didn't expect anything until I went to look at him lastweek. "

"What do you call him?" asked Mrs. Rindge. 

"I haven't named him. "

"I'll give you a name. "

Chiltern looked at her. "What is it?" he said. 

"Oblivion, " she replied:

"By George, Adele, " he exclaimed, "you have a way of hitting it off!"

"Will you let me ride him this afternoon?" she asked. 

"I'm a--a candidate for oblivion. " She laughed a little and her eyesshone feverishly. 

"No you don't, " he said. "I'm giving you the grey. He's got enough in himfor any woman--even for you: And besides, I don't think the black everfelt a side saddle, or any other kind, until last week. "

"I've got another habit, " she said eagerly. "I'd rather ride him astride. I'll match you to see who has him. "

Chiltern laughed. 

"No you don't, " he repeated. "I'll ride him to-day, and consider itto-morrow. "

"I--I think I'll go back to the house, " said Honora to Pembroke. "It'srather hot here in the sun. "

"I'm not very keen about sunshine, either, " he declared. 

At lunch she was unable to talk; to sustain, at least, a conversation. That word oblivion, which Mrs. Rindge had so aptly applied to the horse, was constantly on her lips, and it would not have surprised her if shehad spoken it. She felt as though a heavy weight lay on her breast, andto relieve its intolerable pressure drew in her breath deeply. She waswild with fear. The details of the great room fixed themselves indeliblyin her brain; the subdued light, the polished table laden with silver andglass, the roses, and the purple hot-house grapes. All this seemed insome way to be an ironic prelude to disaster. Hugh, pausing in hisbadinage with Mrs. Rindge, looked at her. 

"Cheer up, Honora, " he said. 

"I'm afraid this first house-party is too much for her, " said Mrs. Kame. 

Honora made some protest that seemed to satisfy them, tried to rallyherself, and succeeded sufficiently to pass muster. After lunch theyrepaired again to the bridge table, and at four Hugh went upstairs tochange into his riding clothes. Five minutes longer she controlledherself, and then made some paltry excuse, indifferent now as to whatthey said or thought, and followed him. She knocked at his dressing-roomdoor and entered. He was drawing on his boots. "Hello, Honora, " he said. 

Honora turned to his man, and dismissed him. 

"I wish to speak to Mr. Chiltern alone. "

Chiltern paused in his tugging at the straps, and looked up at her. 

"What's the matter with you to-day, Honora?" he asked. "You looked likethe chief mourner at a funeral all through lunch. "

He was a little on edge, that she knew. He gave another tug at the boot, and while she was still hesitating, he began again. 

"I ought to apologize, I know, for bringing these people up withoutnotice, but I didn't suppose you'd object when you understood hownaturally it all came about. I thought a little livening up, as I said, wouldn't, hurt us. We've had a quiet winter, to put it mildly. " Helaughed a little. "I didn't have a chance to see you until this morning, and when I went to your room they told me you'd gone out. "

"Hugh, " she said, laying her hand on his shoulder. "It isn't the guests. If you want people, and they amuse you, I'm--I'm glad to have them. Andif I've seemed to be--cold to them, I'm sorry. I tried my best--I mean Idid not intend to be cold. I'll sit up all night with them, if you like. And I didn't come to reproach you, Hugh. I'll never do that--I've got noright to. "

She passed her hand over her eyes. If she had any wrongs, if she hadsuffered any pain, the fear that obsessed her obliterated all. In spiteof her disillusionment, in spite of her newly acquired ability to see himas he was, enough love remained to scatter, when summoned, her pride tothe winds. 

Having got on both boots, he stood up. 

"What's the trouble, then?" he asked. And he took an instant's hold ofher chin--a habit he had--and smiled at her. 

He little knew how sublime, in its unconscious effrontery, his questionwas! She tried to compose herself, that she might be able to presentcomprehensively to his finite masculine mind the ache of today. 

"Hugh, it's that black horse. " She could not bring herself to pronouncethe name Mrs. Rindge had christened him. 

"What about him?" he said, putting on his waistcoat. 

"Don't ride him!" she pleaded. "I--I'm afraid of him--I've been afraid ofhim ever since that day. 

"It may be a foolish feeling, I know. Sometimes the feelings that hurtwomen most are foolish. If I tell you that if you ride him you willtorture me, I'm sure you'll grant what I ask. It's such a little thingand it means so much--so much agony to me. I'd do anything for you--giveup anything in the world at your slightest wish. Don't ride him!"

"This is a ridiculous fancy of yours, Honora. The horse is all right. I've ridden dozens of worse ones. "

"Oh, I'm sure he isn't, " she cried; "call it fancy, call it instinct, call it anything you like--but I feel it, Hugh. That woman--Mrs. Rindge--knows something about horses, and she said he was a brute. "

"Yes, " he interrupted, with a short laugh, "and she wants to ride him. "

"Hugh, she's reckless. I--I've been watching her since she came here, andI'm sure she's reckless with--with a purpose. "

"You're morbid, " he said. "She's one of the best sportswomen in thecountry--that's the reason she wanted to ride the horse. Look here, Honora, I'd accede to any reasonable request. But what do you expect meto do?" he demanded; "go down and say I'm afraid to ride him? or that mywife doesn't want me to? I'd never hear the end of it. And the firstthing Adele would do would be to jump on him herself--a little wisp of awoman that looks as if she couldn't hold a Shetland pony! Can't you seethat what you ask is impossible?"

He started for the door to terminate a conversation which had alreadybegun to irritate him. For his anger, in these days, was very near thesurface. She made one more desperate appeal. 

"Hugh--the man who sold him--he knew the horse was dangerous. I'm sure hedid, from something he said to me while you were gone. "

"These country people are all idiots and cowards, " declared Chiltern. "I've known 'em a good while, and they haven't got the spirit of mongreldogs. I was a fool to think that I could do anything for them. They'rekind and neighbourly, aren't they?" he exclaimed. "If that old rascalflattered himself he deceived me, he was mistaken. He'd have beenmightily pleased if the beast had broken my neck. "

"Hugh!"

"I can't, Honora. That's all there is to it, I can't. Now don't cut upabout nothing. I'm sorry, but I've got to go. Adele's waiting. "

He came back, kissed her hurriedly, turned and opened the door. Shefollowed him into the hallway, knowing that she had failed, knowing thatshe never could have succeeded. There she halted and watched him go downthe stairs, and stand with her hands tightly pressed together: voicesreached her, a hurrah from George Pembroke, and the pounding of hoofs onthe driveway. It had seemed such a little thing to ask!

But she did not dwell upon this, now, when fear was gnawing her: how shehad humbled her pride for days and weeks and months for him, and how hehad refused her paltry request lest he should be laughed at. Herreflections then were not on his waning love. She was filled with theterror of losing him--of losing all that remained to her in the world. Presently she began to walk slowly towards the stairs, descended them, and looked around her. The hall, at least, had not changed. She listened, and a bee hummed in through the open doorway. A sudden longing forcompanionship possessed her-no matter whose; and she walked hurriedly, asthough she were followed, through the empty rooms until she came uponGeorge Pembroke stretched at full length on the leather-covered lounge inthe library. He opened his eyes, and got up with alacrity. 

"Please don't move, " she said. 

He looked at her. Although his was not what may be called a sympathetictemperament, he was not without a certain knowledge of women;superficial, perhaps. But most men of his type have seen them in despair;and since he was not related to this particular despair, what finerfeelings he had were the more easily aroused. It must have been clear toher then that she had lost the power to dissemble, all the clearerbecause of Mr. Pembroke's cheerfulness. 

"I wasn't going to sleep, " he assured her. "Circumstantial evidence isagainst me, I know. Where's Abby? reading French literature?"

"I haven't seen her, " replied Honora. 

"She usually goes to bed with a play at this hour. It's a horrid habit--going to bed, I mean. Don't you think? Would you mind showing me abouta little?"

"Do you really wish to?" asked Honora, incredulously. 

"I haven't been here since my senior year, " said Mr. Pembroke. "If theold General were alive, he could probably tell you something of thatvisit--he wrote to my father about it. I always liked the place, althoughthe General was something of a drawback. Fine old man, with no memory. "

"I should have thought him to have had a good memory, " she said. 

"I have always been led to believe that he was once sent away fromcollege in his youth, --for his health, " he explained significantly. "Noman has a good memory who can't remember that. Perhaps the battle ofGettysburg wiped it out. "

Thus, in his own easy-going fashion, Mr. Pembroke sought to distract her. She put on a hat, and they walked about, the various scenes recallingincidents of holidays he had spent at Highlawns. And after a while Honorawas thankful that chance had sent her in this hour to him rather than toMrs. Kame. For the sight, that morning of this lady in her dressing-gownover the stairway, had seemingly set the seal on a growing distaste. Herfeeling had not been the same about Mrs. Rindge: Mrs. Kame's actionssavoured of deliberate choice, of an inherent and calculating wickedness. 

Had the distraction of others besides himself been the chief business ofMr. Pembroke's life, he could not have succeeded better that afternoon. He must be given this credit: his motives remain problematical; at lengthhe even drew laughter from her. The afternoon wore on, they returned tothe garden for tea, and a peaceful stillness continued to reign aboutthem, the very sky smiling placidly at her fears. Not by assuring herthat Hugh was unusual horseman, that he had passed through many dangersbeside which this was a bagatelle, could the student of the feminine byher side have done half so well. And it may have been that his successencouraged him as he saw emerging, as the result of his handiwork, anunexpectedly attractive--if still somewhat serious-woman from the gloomthat had enveloped her. That she should still have her distrait momentswas but natural. 

He talked to her largely about Hugh, of whom he appeared sincerely fond. The qualities which attracted Mr. Pembroke in his own sex were somewhatpeculiar, and seemingly consisted largely in a readiness to drop thebusiness at hand, whatever it might be, at the suggestion of a friend todo something else; the "something else, " of course, to be the conceptionof an ingenious mind. And it was while he was in the midst of an anecdoteproving the existence of this quality in his friend that he felt a suddenclutch on his arm. 

They listened. Faintly, very faintly, could be heard the sound of hoofbeats; rapid, though distant. 

"Do you hear?" she whispered, and still held his arm. 

"It's just like them to race back, " said Pembroke, with admirablenonchalance. 

"But they wouldn't come back at this time--it's too early. Hugh alwaystakes long rides. They started for Hubbard's--it's twelve miles. "

"Adele changes her mind every minute of the day, " he said. 

"Listen!" she cried, and her clutch tightened. The hoof beats grewlouder. "It's only one--it's only one horse!"

Before he could answer, she was already halfway up the garden pathtowards the house. He followed her as she ran panting through thebreakfast room, the dining room, and drawing-room, and when they reachedthe hall, Starling, the butler, and two footmen were going out at thedoor. A voice--Mrs. Kame's--cried out, "What is it?" over the stairs, butthey paid no heed. As they reached the steps they beheld the slightfigure of Mrs. Rindge on a flying horse coming towards them up thedriveway. Her black straw hat had slipped to the back of her neck, herhair was awry, her childish face white as paper. Honora put her hand toher heart. There was no need to tell her the news--she had known thesemany hours. 

Mrs. Rindge's horse came over the round grass-plot of the circle andplanted his fore feet in the turf as she pulled him up. She lurchedforward. It was Starling who lifted her off--George Pembroke stood byHonora. 

"My God, Adele, " he exclaimed, "why don't you speak?"

She was staring at Honora. 

"I can't!" she cried. "I can't tell you--it's too terrible! The horse--"she seemed to choke. 

It was Honora who went up to her with a calmness that awed them. 

"Tell me, " she said, "is he dead?"

Mrs. Rindge nodded, and broke into hysterical sobbing. 

"And I wanted to ride him myself, " she sobbed, as they led her up thesteps. 

In less than an hour they brought him home and laid him in the room inwhich he had slept from boyhood, and shut the door. Honora looked intohis face. It was calm at last, and his body strangely at rest. Thepassions which had tortured it and driven it hither and thither through awayward life had fled: the power gone that would brook no guiding hand, that had known no master. It was not until then that she fell upon him, weeping . . . . 

CHAPTER XVIII

IN WHICH MR. ERWIN SEEK PARIS

As she glanced around the sitting-room of her apartment in Paris oneSeptember morning she found it difficult, in some respects, to realizethat she had lived in it for more than five years. After Chiltern's deathshe had sought a refuge, and she had found it here: a refuge in which shemeant--if her intention may be so definitely stated--to pass theremainder of her days. 

As a refuge it had become dear to her. When first she had entered it shehad looked about her numbly, thankful for walls and roof, thankful forits remoteness from the haunts of the prying: as a shipwrecked castawayregards, at the first light, the cave into which he has stumbled into thedarkness-gratefully. And gradually, castaway that she felt herself to be, she had adorned it lovingly, as one above whose horizon the sails of hopewere not to rise; filled it with friends not chosen in a day, whosefaithful ministrations were not to cease. Her books, but only thoseworthy to be bound and read again; the pictures she had bought when shehad grown to know what pictures were; the music she had come to love forits eternal qualities--these were her companions. 

The apartment was in the old quarter across the Seine, and she had foundit by chance. The ancient family of which this hotel had once been thehome would scarce have recognized, if they had returned the part of itHonora occupied. The room in which she mostly lived was above the cornerof the quiet street, and might have been more aptly called a sitting-roomthan a salon. Its panels were the most delicate of blue-gray, fantastically designed and outlined by ribbings of blue. Some of themcontained her pictures. The chairs, the sofas, the little tabourets, wereupholstered in yellow, their wood matching the panels. Above the carvedmantel of yellowing marble was a quaintly shaped mirror extending to thehigh ceiling, and flanked on either side by sconces. The carpet was agolden brown, the hangings in the tall windows yellow. And in the morningthe sun came in, not boisterously, but as a well-bred and cheerful guest. An amiable proprietor had permitted her also to add a wrought-ironbalcony as an adjunct to this room, and sometimes she sat there on thewarmer days reading under the seclusion of an awning, or gazing at themysterious facades of the houses opposite, or at infrequent cabs orpedestrians below. 

An archway led out of the sitting-room into a smaller room, once theboudoir of a marquise, now Honora's library. This was in blue and gold, and she had so far modified the design of the decorator as to replace themirrors of the cases with glass; she liked to see her books. Beyond thelibrary was a dining room in grey, with dark red hangings; it overlookedthe forgotten garden of the hotel. 

One item alone of news from the outer world, vital to her, had drifted toher retreat. Newspapers filled her with dread, but it was from anewspaper, during the first year of her retirement, that she had learnedof the death of Howard Spence. A complication of maladies was mentioned, but the true underlying cause was implied in the article, and this hadshocked but not surprised her. A ferment was in progress in her owncountry, the affairs of the Orange Trust Company being investigated, andits president under indictment at the hour of his demise. Her feelings atthe time, and for months after, were complex. She had been moved to deeppity, for in spite of what he had told her of his business transactions, it was impossible for her to think of him as a criminal. That he had beenthe tool of others, she knew, but it remained a question in her mind howclearly he had perceived the immorality of his course, and of theirs. Hehad not been given to casuistry, and he had been brought up in a schoolthe motto of which he had once succinctly stated: the survival of thefittest. He had not been, alas, one of those to survive. 

Honora had found it impossible to unravel the tangled skein of theirrelationship, and to assign a definite amount of blame to each. She didnot shirk hers, and was willing to accept a full measure. That she haddone wrong in marrying him, and again in leaving him to marry anotherman, she acknowledged freely. Wrong as she knew this to have been, severely though she had been punished for it, she could not bring herselfto an adequate penitence. She tried to remember him as he had been atSilverdale, and in the first months of their marriage, and not as he hadafterwards become. There was no question in her mind, now that it wasgiven her to see things more clearly, that she might have tried harder, much harder, to make their marriage a success. He might, indeed, havedone more to protect and cherish her. It was a man's part to guard awoman against the evils with which she had been surrounded. On the otherhand, she could not escape the fact, nor did she attempt to escape it, that she had had the more light of the two: and that, though the taskwere formidable, she might have fought to retain that light and infusehim with it. 

That she did not hold herself guiltless is the important point. Many ofher hours were spent in retrospection. She was, in a sense, as one dead, yet retaining her faculties; and these became infinitely keen now thatshe was deprived of the power to use them as guides through life. Shefelt that the power had come too late, like a legacy when one is old. Andshe contemplated the Honora of other days--of the flesh, as though shewere now the spirit departed from that body; sorrowfully, poignantlyregretful of the earthly motives, of the tarnished ideals by which it hadbeen animated and led to destruction. 

Even Hugh Chiltern had left her no illusions. She thought of him at tuneswith much tenderness; whether she still loved him or not she could notsay. She came to the conclusion that all capacity for intense feeling hadbeen burned out of her. And she found that she could permit her mind torest upon no period of her sojourn at Grenoble without a sense of horror;there had been no hour when she had seemed secure from haunting terror, no day that had not added its mite to the gathering evidence of anultimate retribution. And it was like a nightmare to summon again thisspectacle of the man going to pieces under her eyes. The whole incidentin her life as time wore on assumed an aspect bizarre, incredible, as thefollies of a night of madness appear in the saner light of morning. Hergreat love had bereft her of her senses, for had the least grain ofsanity remained to her she might have known that the thing they attemptedwas impossible of accomplishment. 

Her feeling now, after four years, might be described as relief. Toemploy again the figure of the castaway, she often wondered why she ofall others had been rescued from the tortures of slow drowning and thrownup on an island. What had she done above the others to deservepreservation? It was inevitable that she should on occasions picture toherself the years with him that would have stretched ahead, even as thevision of them had come to her that morning when, in obedience to histelegram, she had told Starling to prepare for guests. Her escape hadindeed been miraculous!

Although they had passed through a ceremony, the conviction had nevertaken root in her that she had been married to Chiltern. The tie that hadunited her to him had not been sacred, though it had been no lessbinding; more so, in fact. That tie would have become a shackle. Herperception of this, after his death, had led her to instruct her attorneyto send back to his relatives all but a small income from his estate, enough for her to live on during her lifetime. There had been sometrouble about this matter; Mrs. Grainger, in particular, had surprisedher in making objections, and had finally written a letter which Honorareceived with a feeling akin to gratitude. Whether her own action hadsoftened this lady's feelings, she never understood; she had cherishedthe letter for its unexpectedly charitable expressions. Chiltern's familyhad at last agreed to accept the estate on the condition that the incomementioned should be tripled. And to this Honora had consented. Money hadless value than ever in her eyes. 

She lived here in Paris in what may be called a certain peace, made nodemands upon the world, and had no expectations from it. She was now inhalf mourning, and intended to remain so. Her isolation was of her ownchoice, if a stronger expression be not used. She was by no means anenforced outcast. And she was even aware that a certain sympathy for herhad grown up amongst her former friends which had spread to the colony ofher compatriots in Paris; in whose numbers there were some, by no meansunrecognized, who had defied the conventions more than she. HughChiltern's reputation, and the general knowledge of his career, had nodoubt aided to increase this sympathy, but the dignity of her conductsince his death was at the foundation of it. Sometimes, on her walks anddrives, she saw people bowing to her, and recognized friends oracquaintances of what seemed to her like a former existence. 

Such had been her life in Paris until a certain day in early September, amonth before this chapter opens. It was afternoon, and she was sitting inthe balcony cutting a volume of memoirs when she heard the rattle of acab on the cobbles below, and peered curiously over the edge of therailing. Although still half a block away, the national characteristicsof the passenger were sufficiently apparent. He was an American--of thatshe was sure. And many Americans did not stray into that quarter. Thelength of his legs, for one thing, betrayed him: he found the seat of thefiacre too low, and had crossed one knee over the other. Other and lesseasily definable attributes he did not lack. And as he leaned against thefaded blue cushions regarding with interest the buildings he passed, heseemed, like an ambassador, to convert the cab in which he rode intoUnited States territory. Then she saw that it was Peter Erwin. 

She drew back her head from the balcony rail, and tried to sit still andto think, but she was trembling as one stricken with a chill. The cabstopped; and presently, after an interval, his card was handed her. Sherose, and stood for a moment with her hand against the wall before shewent into the salon. None of the questions she had asked herself wereanswered. Was she glad to see him? and what would be his attitude towardsher? When she beheld him standing before her she had strength only topronounce his name. 

He came forward quickly and took her hand and looked down into her face. She regarded him tremulously, instinctively guessing the vital importanceof this moment for him; and she knew then that he had been lookingforward to it in mingled hope and dread, as one who gazes seaward after anight of tempest for the ship he has seen at dusk in the offing. What hadthe tempest done to her? Such was his question. And her heart leaped asshe saw the light growing in his eyes, for it meant much to her that heshould see that she was not utterly dismantled. She fell; his own handtremble as he relinquished hers. He was greatly moved; his voice, too, betrayed it. 

"You see I have found you, " he said. 

"Yes, " she answered; "--why did you come?"

"Why have I always come to you, when it was possible?" he asked. 

"No one ever had such a friend, Peter. Of that I am sure:'

"I wanted to see Paris, " he said, "before I grew too decrepit to enjoyit. "

She smiled, and turned away. 

"Have you seen much of it?"

"Enough to wish to see more. "

"When did you arrive?"

"Some time in the night, " he said, "from Cherbourg. And I'm staying at avery grand hotel, which might be anywhere. A man I crossed with on thesteamer took me there. I think I'd move to one of the quieter ones, theFrench ones, if I were a little surer of my pronunciation and thesubjunctive mood. "

"You don't mean to say you've been studying French!"

He coloured a little, and laughed. 

"You think it ridiculous at my time of life? I suppose you're right. Youshould have seen me trying to understand the cabmen. The way these peopletalk reminds me more of a Gatling gun than anything I can think of. Itcertainly isn't human. "

"Perhaps you have come over as ambassador, " she suggested. "When I sawyou in the cab, even before I recognized you, I thought of a bit of oursoil broken off and drifted over here. "

Her voice did not quite sustain the lighter note--the emotion his visitwas causing her was too great. He brought with him into her retreat notso much a flood of memories as of sensations. He was a man whose imagetime with difficulty obliterates, whose presence was a shining thing: soshe had grown to value it in proportion as she had had less of it. Shedid inevitably recall the last time she had seen him, in the littleWestern city, and how he had overwhelmed her, invaded her with doubts andaroused the spirit which had possessed her to fight fiercely for itsfoothold. And to-day his coming might be likened to the entrance of agreat physician into the room of a distant and lonely patient whom amidstwide ministrations he has not forgotten. She saw now that he had beenright. She had always seen it, clearly indeed when he had been besideher, but the spirit within her had been too strong, until now. Now, whenit had plundered her soul of treasures--once so little valued--it hadfled. Such were her thoughts. 

The great of heart undoubtedly possess this highest quality of thephysician, --if the statement may thus be put backhandedly, --and PeterErwin instinctively understood the essential of what was going on withinher. He appeared to take a delight in the fancy she had suggested; thathe had brought a portion of the newer world to France. 

"Not a piece of the Atlantic coast, certainly, " he replied. "One of themuddy islands, perhaps, of the Mississippi. "

"All the more representative, " she said. "You seem to have takenpossession of Paris, Peter--not Paris of you. You have annexed the seatof the Capets, and brought democracy at last into the Faubourg. "

"Without a Reign of Terror, " he added quizzically. 

"If you are not ambassador, what are you?" she asked. "I have expected atany moment to read in the Figaro that you were President of the UnitedStates. "

"I am the American tourist, " he declared, "with Baedeker for my Bible, who desires to be shown everything. And I have already discovered thatthe legend of the fabulous wealth of the Indies is still in force here. There are many who are willing to believe that in spite of my modestappearance--maybe because of it--I have sailed over in a galleon filledwith gold. Already I have been approached from every side by confidentialgentlemen who announced that they spoke English--one of them said'American'--who have offered to show me many things, and who havebetrayed enough interest in me to inquire whether I were married orsingle. "

Honora laughed. They were seated in the balcony by this time, and he hadthe volume of memoirs on his knee, fingering it idly. 

"What did you say to them?" she asked. 

"I told them I was the proud father of ten children, " he replied. "Thatseemed to stagger them, but only for a moment. They offered to take usall to the Louvre. "

"Peter, you are ridiculous! But, in spite of your nationality, you don'tlook exactly gullible. "

"That is a relief, " he said. "I had begun to think I ought to leave myaddress and my watch with the Consul General . . . . "

Of such a nature was the first insidious rupture of that routine she hadgrown to look upon as changeless for the years to come, of the life shehad chosen for its very immutable quality. Even its pangs of lonelinesshad acquired a certain sweet taste. Partly from a fear of a world thathad hurt her, partly from fear of herself, she had made her burrow deep, that heat and cold, the changing seasons, and love and hate might bethings far removed. She had sought to remove comparisons, too, from thelimits of her vision; to cherish and keep alive, indeed, such regrets asshe had, but to make no new ones. 

Often had she thought of Peter Erwin, and it is not too much to say thathe had insensibly grown into an ideal. He had come to represent to herthe great thing she had missed in life, missed by feverish searching inthe wrong places, digging for gold where the ground had glittered. And, if the choice had been given her, she would have preferred his spiritualto his bodily companionship--for a while, at least. Some day, when sheshould feel sure that desire had ceased to throb, when she should haveacquired an unshakable and absolute resignation, she would see him. It isnot too much to say, if her feeling be not misconstrued and stretched farbeyond her own conception of it, that he was her one remaining interestin the world. She had scanned the letters of her aunt and uncle forknowledge of his doings, and had felt her curiosity justified by acertain proprietorship that she did not define, faith in humankind, orthe lack of it, usually makes itself felt through one's comparativecontemporaries. That her uncle was a good man, for instance, had no sucheffect upon Honora, as the fact that Peter was a good man. And that hehad held a true course had gradually become a very vital thing to her, perhaps the most vital thing; and she could have imagined no greaterpersonal calamity now than to have seen him inconsistent. For there aresuch men, and most people have known them. They are the men who, unconsciously, keep life sweet. 

Yet she was sorry he had invaded her hiding-place. She had not yetachieved peace, and much of the weary task would have to be done overafter he was gone. 

In the meantime she drifted with astounding ease into another existence. For it was she, and not the confidential gentlemen, who showed PeterParis: not the careless, pleasure-loving Paris of the restaurants, but ofthe Cluny and the Carnavalet. The Louvre even was not neglected, and asthey entered it first she recalled with still unaccustomed laughter hisreply to the proffered services of the guide. Indeed, there was muchlaughter in their excursions: his native humour sprang from the same wellthat held his seriousness. She was amazed at his ability to strip a shamand leave it grotesquely naked; shams the risible aspect of which she hadnever observed in spite of the familiarity four years had given her. Someof his own countrymen and countrywomen afforded him the greatestamusement in their efforts to carry off acquired European"personalities, " combinations of assumed indifference and effrontery, andan accent the like of which was never heard before. But he was neitherbitter nor crude in his criticisms. He made her laugh, but he never madeher ashamed. His chief faculty seemed to be to give her the power tobehold, with astonishing clearness, objects and truths which had lainbefore her eyes, and yet hidden. And she had not thought to acquire anymore truths. 

The depth of his pleasure in the things he saw was likewise a revelationto her. She was by no means a bad guide to the Louvre and the Luxembourg, but the light in her which had come slowly flooded him with radiance atthe sight of a statue or a picture. He would stop with an exclamation andstand gazing, self-forgetful, for incredible periods, and she would watchhim, filled with a curious sense of the limitations of an appreciationshe had thought complete. Where during his busy life had he got thisthing which others had sought in many voyages in vain?

Other excursions they made, and sometimes these absorbed a day. It was awonderful month, that Parisian September, which Honora, when she allowedherself to think, felt that she had no right to. A month filled to thebrim with colour: the stone facades of the houses, which in certainlights were what the French so aptly call bleuatre; the dense greenfoliage of the horse-chestnut trees, the fantastic iron grills, the Arcde Triomphe in the centre of its circle at sunset, the wide shadedavenues radiating from it, the bewildering Champs Elysees, the bluewaters of the Seine and the graceful bridges spanning it, Notre Dameagainst the sky. Their walks took them, too, into quainter, forgottenregions where history was grim and half-effaced, and they speculated onthe France of other days. 

They went farther afield; and it was given them to walk together downgreen vistas cut for kings, to linger on terraces with the river farbelow them, and the roofs of Paris in the hazy distance; that Paris, sullen so long, the mutterings of which the kings who had sat there musthave heard with dread; that Paris which had finally risen in its wrathand taken the pleasure-houses and the parks for itself. 

Once they went out to Chantilly, the cameo-like chateau that standsmirrored in its waters, and wandered through the alleys there. Honora hadleft her parasol on the parapet, and as they returned Peter went to getit, while she awaited him at a little distance. A group was chattinggayly on the lawn, and one of them, a middle-aged, well-dressed manhailed him with an air of fellowship, and Peter stopped for a moment'stalk. 

"We were speaking of ambassadors the other day, " he said when he joinedher; "that was our own, Minturn. "

"We were speaking of them nearly a month ago, " she said. 

"A month ago! I can't believe it!" he exclaimed. 

"What did he say to you?" Honora inquired presently. 

"He was abusing me for not letting him know I was in Paris. "

"Peter, you ought to have let him know!"

"I didn't come over here to see the ambassador, " answered Peter, gayly. 

She talked less than usual on their drive homeward, but he did not seemto notice the fact. Dusk was already lurking in the courtyards and bywaysof the quiet quarter when the porter let them in, and the stone stairwayof the old hotel was almost in darkness. The sitting-room, with itsyellow, hangings snugly drawn and its pervading but soft light, was agrateful change. And while she was gone to--remove her veil and hat, Peter looked around it. 

It was redolent of her. A high vase of remarkable beauty, filled withwhite roses, stood on the gueridon. He went forward and touched it, andclosed his eyes as though in pain. When he opened them he saw herstanding in the archway. 

She had taken off her coat, and was in a simple white muslin gown, with ablack belt--a costume that had become habitual. Her age was thirty. Thetragedy and the gravity of her life during these later years had touchedher with something that before was lacking. In the street, in thegalleries, people had turned to look at her; not with impudent stares. She caught attention, aroused imagination. Once, the year before, she hadhad a strange experience with a well-known painter, who, in an impulsivenote, had admitted following her home and bribing the concierge. Hecraved a few sittings. Her expression now, as she looked at Peter, wasgraver than usual. 

"You must not come to-morrow, " she said. 

"I thought we were going to Versailles again, " he replied in surprise. "Ihave made the arrangements. "

"I have changed my mind. I'm not going. "

"You want to postpone it?" he asked. 

She took a chair beside the little blaze in the fireplace. 

"Sit down, Peter. I wish to say something to you. I have been wishing todo so for some time. "

"Do you object if I stand a moment?" he said. "I feel so much morecomfortable standing, especially when I am going to be scolded. "

"Yes, " she admitted, "I am going to scold you. Your conscience has warnedyou. "

"On the contrary, " he declared, "it has never been quieter. If I haveoffended; it is through ignorance. "

"It is through charity, as usual, " she said m a low voice. "If yourconscience be quiet, mine is not. It is in myself that I amdisappointed--I have been very selfish. I have usurped you. I have knownit all along, and I have done very wrong in not relinquishing youbefore. "

"Who would have shown me Paris?" he exclaimed. 

"No, " she continued, "you would not have been alone. If I had neededproof of that fact, I had it to-day--"

"Oh, Minturn, " he interrupted; "think of me hanging about an Embassy andtrying not to spill tea!" And he smiled at the image that presented. 

Her own smile was fleeting. 

"You would never do that, I know, " she said gravely. 

"You are still too modest, Peter, but the time has gone by when I can beeasily deceived. You have a great reputation among men of affairs, anunique one. In spite of the fact that you are distinctly American, youhave a wide interest in what is going on in the world. And you have anopportunity here to meet people of note, people really worth while fromevery point of view. You have no right to neglect it. "

He was silent a moment, looking down at her. She was leaning forward, hereyes fixed on the fire, her hands clasped between her knees. 

"Do you think I care for that?" he asked. 

"You ought to care, " she said, without looking up. "And it is my duty totry to make you care. "

"Honora, why do you think I came over here?" he said. 

"To see Paris, " she answered. "I have your own word for it. To--tocontinue your education. It never seems to stop. "

"Did you really believe that?"

"Of course I believed it. What could be more natural? And you have neverhad a holiday like this. "

"No, " he agreed. "I admit that. "

"I don't know how much longer you are going to stay, " she said. "You havenot been abroad before, and there are other places you ought to go. "

"I'll get you to make out an itinerary. "

"Peter, can't you see that I'm serious? I have decided to take matters inmy own hands. The rest of the time you are here, you may come to see metwice a week. I shall instruct the concierge. "

He turned and grasped the mantel shelf with both hands, and touched thelog with the toe of his boot. 

"What I told you about seeing Paris may be called polite fiction, " hesaid. "I came over here to see you. I have been afraid to say it untilto-day, and I am afraid to say it now. "

She sat very still. The log flared up again, and he turned slowly andlooked at the shadows in her face. 

"You-you have always been good to me, " she answered. "I have neverdeserved it--I have never understood it. If it is any satisfaction foryou to know that what I have saved of myself I owe to you, I tell you sofreely. "

"That, " he said, "is something for which God forbid that I should takecredit. What you are is due to the development of a germ within you, adevelopment in which I have always had faith. I came here to see you, Icame here because I love you, because I have always loved you, Honora. "

"Oh, no, not that!" she cried; "not that!"

"Why not?" he asked. "It is something I cannot help, something beyond mypower to prevent if I would. But I would not. I am proud of it, and Ishould be lost without it. I have had it always. I have come over to begyou to marry me. "

"It's impossible! Can't you see it's impossible?"

"You don't love me?" he said. Into those few words was thrown all thesuffering of his silent years. 

"I don't know what I feel for you, " she answered in an agonized voice, her fingers tightening over the backs of her white hands. "If reverencebe love--if trust be love, infinite and absolute trust--if gratitude belove--if emptiness after you are gone be a sign of it--yes, I love you. If the power to see clearly only through you, to interpret myself only byyour aid be love, I acknowledge it. I tell you so freely, as of yourright to know. And the germ of which you spoke is you. You have grownuntil you have taken possession of--of what is left of me. If I had onlybeen able to see clearly from the first, Peter, I should be another womanto-day, a whole woman, a wise woman. Oh, I have thought of it much. Thesecret of life was there at my side from the time I was able to pronounceyour name, and I couldn't see it. You had it. You stayed. You took dutywhere you found it, and it has made you great. Oh, I don't mean to speakin a worldly sense. When I say that, it is to express the highest humanquality of which I can think and feel. But I can't marry you. You mustsee it. "

"I cannot see it, " he replied, when he had somewhat gained control ofhimself. 

"Because I should be wronging you. "

"How?" he asked. 

"In the first place, I should be ruining your career. "

"If I had a career, " he said, smiling gently, "you couldn't ruin it. Youboth overestimate and underestimate the world's opinion, Honora. As mywife, it will not treat you cruelly. And as for my career, as you callit, it has merely consisted in doing as best I could the work that hascome to me. I have tried to serve well those who have employed me, and ifmy services be of value to them, and to those who may need me in thefuture, they are not going to reject me. If I have any worth in theworld, you will but add to it. Without you I am incomplete. "

She looked up at him wonderingly. 

"Yes, you are great, " she said. "You pity me, you think of myloneliness. "

"It is true I cannot bear to picture you here, " he exclaimed. "Thethought tortures me, but it is because I love you, because I wish to takeand shield you. I am not a man to marry a woman without love. It seems tome that you should know me well enough to believe that, Honora. Therenever has been any other woman in my life, and there never can be. I havegiven you proof of it, God knows. "

"I am not what I was, " she said, "I am not what I was. I have beendragged down. "

He bent and lifted her hand from her knee, and raised it to his lips, ahomage from him that gave her an exquisite pain. 

"If you had been dragged down, " he answered simply, "my love would havebeen killed. I know something of the horrors you have been through, asthough I had suffered them myself. They might have dragged down anotherwoman, Honora. But they have strangely ennobled you. "

She drew her hand away. 

"No, " she said, "I do not deserve happiness. It cannot be my destiny. "

"Destiny, " he repeated. "Destiny is a thing not understandable by finiteminds. It is not necessarily continued tragedy and waste, of that I amcertain. Only a little thought is required, it seems to me, to assure usthat we cannot be the judges of our own punishment on this earth. And ofanother world we know nothing. It cannot be any one's destiny to throwaway a life while still something may be made of it. You would bethrowing your life away here. That no other woman is possible, or evercan be possible, for me should be a consideration with you, Honora. WhatI ask of you is a sacrifice--will you make me happy?"

Her eyes filled with tears. 

"Oh, Peter, do you care so much as that? If--if I could be sure that Iwere doing it for you! If in spite--of all that has happened to me, Icould be doing something for you--!"

He stooped and kissed her. 

"You can if you will, " he said.