Amabel Channice

BY

Anne Douglas Sedgwick

AUTHOR OF "THE RESCUE, " "PATHS OF JUDGEMENT, " "A FOUNTAINSEALED, " ETC. 

NEW YORK The Century Co. 1908

Copyright, 1908, by THE CENTURY CO. 

_Published October, 1908_

THE DE VINNE PRESS

AMABEL CHANNICE

I

Lady Channice was waiting for her son to come in from the garden. Theafternoon was growing late, but she had not sat down to the table, though tea was ready and the kettle sent out a narrow banner of steam. Walking up and down the long room she paused now and then to look at thebowls and vases of roses placed about it, now and then to look out ofthe windows, and finally at the last window she stopped to watchAugustine advancing over the lawn towards the house. It was a grey stonehouse, low and solid, its bareness unalleviated by any grace of ornamentor structure, and its two long rows of windows gazed out resignedly at atame prospect. The stretch of lawn sloped to a sunken stone wall; beyondthe wall a stream ran sluggishly in a ditch-like channel; on the leftthe grounds were shut in by a sycamore wood, and beyond were flatmeadows crossed in the distance by lines of tree-bordered roads. It wasa peaceful, if not a cheering prospect. Lady Channice was fond of it. Cheerfulness was not a thing she looked for; but she looked for peace, and it was peace she found in the flat green distance, the far, reticentripple of hill on the horizon, the dark forms of the sycamores. Her onlyregret for the view was that it should miss the sunrise and sunset; inthe evenings, beyond the silhouetted woods, one saw the golden sky; butthe house faced north, and it was for this that the green of the lawnwas so dank, and the grey of the walls so cold, and the light in thedrawing-room where Lady Channice stood so white and so monotonous. 

She was fond of the drawing-room, also, unbeautiful and grave to sadnessthough it was. The walls were wainscotted to the ceiling with ancientoak, so that though the north light entered at four high windows theroom seemed dark. The furniture was ugly, miscellaneous andinappropriate. The room had been dismantled, and in place of the formerdrawing-room suite were gathered together incongruous waifs and straysfrom dining- and smoking-room and boudoir. A number of heavy chairspredominated covered in a maroon leather which had cracked in places;and there were three lugubrious sofas to match. 

By degrees, during her long and lonely years at Charlock House, LadyChannice had, at first tentatively, then with a growing assurance in herlimited sphere of action, moved away all the ugliest, most trivialthings: tattered brocade and gilt footstools, faded antimacassars, dismal groups of birds and butterflies under glass cases. When she satalone in the evening, after Augustine, as child or boy, had gone to bed, the ghostly glimmer of the birds, the furtive glitter of a glass eyehere and there, had seemed to her quite dreadful. The removal of thecases (they were large and heavy, and Mrs. Bray, the housekeeper, hadlooked grimly disapproving)--was her crowning act of courage, and eversince their departure she had breathed more freely. It had been easierto dispose of all the little colonies of faded photographs that stood oncabinets and tables; they were photographs of her husband's family andof his family's friends, people most of whom were quite unknown to her, and their continued presence in the abandoned house was due toindifference, not affection: no one had cared enough about them to putthem away, far less to look at them. After looking at them for someyears, --these girls in court dress of a bygone fashion, huntsmen holdingcrops, sashed babies and matrons in caps or tiaras, --Lady Channice hadcared enough to put them away. She had not, either, to ask for Mrs. Bray's assistance or advice for this, a fact which was a relief, forMrs. Bray was a rather dismal being and reminded her, indeed, of thestuffed birds in the removed glass cases. With her own hands sheincarcerated the photographs in the drawers of a heavily carved bureauand turned the keys upon them. 

The only ornaments now, were the pale roses, the books, and, above herwriting-desk, a little picture that she had brought with her, awater-colour sketch of her old home painted by her mother many yearsago. 

So the room looked very bare. It almost looked like the parlour of aconvent; with a little more austerity, whitened walls and a few thickvelvet and gilt lives of the saints on the tables, the likeness wouldhave been complete. The house itself was conventual in aspect, and LadyChannice, as she stood there in the quiet light at the window, lookednot unlike a nun, were it not for her crown of pale gold hair that shonein the dark room and seemed, like the roses, to bring into it thebrightness of an outer, happier world. 

She was a tall woman of forty, her ample form, her wide bosom, thefalling folds of her black dress, her loosely girdled waist, suggesting, with the cloistral analogies, the mournful benignity of a bereavedMadonna. Seen as she stood there, leaning her head to watch her son'sapproach, she was an almost intimidating presence, black, still, andstately. But when the door opened and the young man came in, when, notmoving to meet him, she turned her head with a slight smile of welcome, all intimidating impressions passed away. Her face, rather, as itturned, under its crown of gold, was the intimidated face. It wascuriously young, pure, flawless, as though its youth and innocence hadbeen preserved in some crystal medium of prayer and silence; and if thenun-like analogies failed in their awe-inspiring associations, theyremained in the associations of unconscious pathos and unconsciousappeal. Amabel Channice's face, like her form, was long and delicatelyample; its pallor that of a flower grown in shadow; the mask a littleover-large for the features. Her eyes were small, beautifully shaped, slightly slanting upwards, their light grey darkened under goldenlashes, the brows definitely though palely marked. Her mouth was palecoral-colour, and the small upper lip, lifting when she smiled as shewas smiling now, showed teeth of an infantile, milky whiteness. Thesmile was charming, timid, tentative, ingratiating, like a young girl's, and her eyes were timid, too, and a little wild. 

"Have you had a good read?" she asked her son. He had a book in hishand. 

"Very, thanks. But it is getting chilly, down there in the meadow. Andwhat a lot of frogs there are in the ditch, " said Augustine smiling, "they were jumping all over the place. "

"Oh, as long as they weren't toads!" said Lady Channice, her smilelighting in response. "When I came here first to live there were so manytoads, in the stone areas, you know, under the gratings in front of thecellar windows. You can't imagine how many! It used quite to terrify meto look at them and I went to the front of the house as seldom aspossible. I had them all taken away, finally, in baskets, --not killed, you know, poor things, --but just taken and put down in a field a mileoff. I hope they didn't starve;--but toads are very intelligent, aren'tthey; one always associates them with fairy-tales and princes. "

She had gone to the tea-table while she spoke and was pouring theboiling water into the teapot. Her voice had pretty, flute-like ups anddowns in it and a questioning, upward cadence at the end of sentences. Her upper lip, her smile, the run of her speech, all would have made onethink her humorous, were it not for the strain of nervousness that onefelt in her very volubility. 

Her son lent her a kindly but rather vague attention while she talked tohim about the toads, and his eye as he stood watching her make the teawas also vague. He sat down presently, as if suddenly remembering why hehad come in, and it was only after a little interval of silence, inwhich he took his cup from his mother's hands, that something elseseemed to occur to him as suddenly, a late arriving suggestion from herspeech. 

"What a horribly gloomy place you must have found it. "

Her eyes, turning on him quickly, lost, in an instant, their uncertaingaiety. 

"Gloomy? Is it gloomy? Do you feel it gloomy here, Augustine?"

"Oh, well, no, not exactly, " he answered easily. "You see I've alwaysbeen used to it. You weren't. "

As she said nothing to this, seeming at a loss for any reply, he went onpresently to talk of other things, of the book he had been reading, aheavy metaphysical tome; of books that he intended to read; of a letterthat he had received that morning from the Eton friend with whom he wasgoing up to Oxford for his first term. His mother listened, showing acareful interest usual with her, but after another little silence shesaid suddenly:

"I think it's a very nice place, Charlock House, Augustine. Your fatherwouldn't have wanted me to live here if he'd imagined that I could findit gloomy, you know. "

"Oh, of course not, " said the young man, in an impassive, pleasantvoice. 

"He has always, in everything, been so thoughtful for my comfort andhappiness, " said Lady Channice. 

Augustine did not look at her: his eyes were fixed on the sky outsideand he seemed to be reflecting--though not over her words. 

"So that I couldn't bear him ever to hear anything of that sort, " LadyChannice went on, "that either of us could find it gloomy, I mean. Youwouldn't ever say it to him, would you, Augustine. " There was a note atonce of urgency and appeal in her voice. 

"Of course not, since you don't wish it, " her son replied. 

"I ask you just because it happens that your father is coming, " LadyChannice said, "tomorrow;--and, you see, if you had this in your mind, you might have said something. He is coming to spend the afternoon. "

He looked at her now, steadily, still pleasantly; but his colour rose. 

"Really, " he said. 

"Isn't it nice. I do hope that it will be fine; these Autumn days are souncertain; if only the weather holds up we can have a walk perhaps. "

"Oh, I think it will hold up. Will there be time for a walk?"

"He will be here soon after lunch, and, I think, stay on to tea. "

"He didn't stay on to tea the last time, did he. "

"No, not last time; he is so very busy; it's quite three years since wehave had that nice walk over the meadows, and he likes that so much. "

She was trying to speak lightly and easily. "And it must be quite a yearsince you have seen him. "

"Quite, " said Augustine. "I never see him, hardly, but here, you know. "

He was still making his attempt at pleasantness, but something hard andstrained had come into his voice, and as, with a sort of helplessness, her resources exhausted, his mother sat silent, he went on, glancing ather, as if with the sudden resolution, he also wanted to make very sureof his way;--

"You like seeing him more than anything, don't you; though you areseparated. "

Augustine Channice talked a great deal to his mother about outsidethings, such as philosophy; but of personal things, of their relation tothe world, to each other, to his father, he never spoke. So that hisspeaking now was arresting. 

His mother gazed at him. "Separated? We have always been the best offriends. "

"Of course. I mean--that you've never cared to livetogether. --Incompatibility, I suppose. Only, " Augustine did not smile, he looked steadily at his mother, "I should think that since you are sofond of him you'd like seeing him oftener. I should think that since heis the best of friends he would want to come oftener, you know. "

When he had said these words he flushed violently. It was an echo of hismother's flush. And she sat silent, finding no words. 

"Mother, " said Augustine, "forgive me. That was impertinent of me. It'sno affair of mine. "

She thought so, too, apparently, for she found no words in which to tellhim that it was his affair. Her hands clasped tightly in her lap, hereyes downcast, she seemed shrunken together, overcome by his tactlessintrusion. 

"Forgive me, " Augustine repeated. 

The supplication brought her the resource of words again. "Of course, dear. It is only--I can't explain it to you. It is very complicated. But, though it seems so strange to you, --to everybody, I know--it isjust that: though we don't live together, and though I see so little ofyour father, I do care for him very, very much. More than for anybody inthe world, --except you, of course, dear Augustine. "

"Oh, don't be polite to me, " he said, and smiled. "More than for anybodyin the world; stick to it. "

She could but accept the amendment, so kindly and, apparently, solightly pressed upon her, and she answered him with a faint, a gratefulsmile, saying, in a low voice:--"You see, dear, he is the noblest personI have ever known. " Tears were in her eyes. Augustine turned away hisown. 

They sat then for a little while in silence, the mother and son. 

Her eyes downcast, her hands folded in an attitude that suggested someinner dedication, Amabel Channice seemed to stay her thoughts on thevision of that nobility. And though her son was near her, the thoughtswere far from him. 

It was characteristic of Augustine Channice, when he mused, to gazestraight before him, whatever the object might be that met his unseeingeyes. The object now was the high Autumnal sky outside, crossed onlyhere and there by a drifting fleet of clouds. 

The light fell calmly upon the mother and son and, in their stillness, their contemplation, the two faces were like those on an old canvas, preserved from time and change in the trance-like immutability of art. In colour, the two heads chimed, though Augustine's hair was vehementlygold and there were under-tones of brown and amber in his skin. But theoval of Lady Channice's face grew angular in her son's, broader and moredefiant; so that, palely, darkly white and gold, on their deepbackground, the two heads emphasized each other's character by contrast. Augustine's lips were square and scornful; his nose ruggedly bridged;his eyes, under broad eyebrows, ringed round the iris with a line ofvivid hazel; and as his lips, though mild in expression, were scornfulin form, so these eyes, even in their contemplation, seemed fierce. Calm, controlled face as it was, its meaning for the spectator was ofsomething passionate and implacable. In mother and son alike one felt acapacity for endurance almost tragic; but while Augustine's would be theendurance of the rock, to be moved only by shattering, his mother's wasthe endurance of the flower, that bends before the tempest, unresisting, beaten down into the earth, but lying, even there, unbroken. 

II

The noise and movement of an outer world seemed to break in upon therecorded vision of arrested life. 

The door opened, a quick, decisive step approached down the hall, and, closely following the announcing maid, Mrs. Grey, the local squiress, entered the room. In the normal run of rural conventions, Lady Channiceshould have held the place; but Charlock House no longer stood for whatit had used to stand in the days of Sir Hugh Channice's forbears. Mrs. Grey, of Pangley Hall, had never held any but the first place and aconsciousness of this fact seemed to radiate from her competentpersonality. She was a vast middle-aged woman clad in tweed and leather, but her abundance of firm, hard flesh could lend itself to the roughestexigences of a sporting outdoor life. Her broad face shone like a ripeapple, and her sharp eyes, her tight lips, the cheerful creases of herface, expressed an observant and rather tyrannous good-temper. 

"Tea? No, thanks; no tea for me, " she almost shouted; "I've just had teawith Mrs. Grier. How are you, Lady Channice? and you, Augustine? What aman you are getting to be; a good inch taller than my Tom. Reading asusual, I see. I can't get my boys to look at a book in vacation time. What's the book? Ah, fuddling your brains with that stuff, still, areyou? Still determined to be a philosopher? Do you really want him to bea philosopher, my dear?"

"Indeed I think it would be very nice if he could be a philosopher, "said Lady Channice, smiling, for though she had often to evade Mrs. Grey's tyranny she liked her good temper. She seemed in her reply tofloat, lightly and almost gaily above Mrs. Grey, and away from her. Mrs. Grey was accustomed to these tactics and it was characteristic of hernot to let people float away if she could possibly help it. This matterof Augustine's future was frequently in dispute between them. Her feetplanted firmly, her rifle at her shoulder, she seemed now to take aim ata bird that flew from her. 

"And of course you encourage him! You read with him and study with him!And you won't see that you let him drift more and more out of practicallife and into moonshine. What does it do for him, that's what I ask?Where does it lead him? What's the good of it? Why he'll finish as afusty old don. Does it make you a better man, Augustine, or a happierone, to spend all your time reading philosophy?"

"Very much better, very much happier, I find:--but I don't give it allmy time, you know, " Augustine answered, with much his mother's manner oflight evasion. He let Mrs. Grey see that he found her funny; perhaps hewished to let her see that philosophy helped him to. Mrs. Grey gave upthe fantastic bird and turned on her heel. 

"Well, I've not come to dispute, as usual, with you, Augustine. I'vecome to ask you, Lady Channice, if you won't, for once, break throughyour rules and come to tea on Sunday. I've a surprise for you. An oldfriend of yours is to be of our party for this week-end. Lady Elliston;she comes tomorrow, and she writes that she hopes to see something ofyou. "

Mrs. Grey had her eye rather sharply on Lady Channice; she expected tosee her colour rise, and it did rise. 

"Lady Elliston?" she repeated, vaguely, or, perhaps, faintly. 

"Yes; you did know her; well, she told me. "

"It was years ago, " said Lady Channice, looking down; "Yes, I knew herquite well. It would be very nice to see her again. But I don't think Iwill break my rule; thank you so much. "

Mrs. Grey looked a little disconcerted and a little displeased. "Nowthat you are growing up, Augustine, " she said, "you must shake yourmother out of her way of life. It's bad for her. She lives here, quitealone, and, when you are away--as you will have to be more and more, forsome time now, --she sees nobody but her village girls, Mrs. Grier and mefrom one month's end to the other. I can't think what she's made of. Ishould go mad. And so many of us would be delighted if she would drop into tea with us now and then. "

"Oh, well, you can drop in to tea with her instead, " said Augustine. Hismother sat silent, with her faint smile. 

"Well, I do. But I'm not enough, though I flatter myself that I'm a gooddeal. It's unwholesome, such a life, downright morbid and unwholesome. One should mingle with one's kind. I shall wonder at you, Augustine, ifyou allow it, just as, for years, I've wondered at your father. "

It may have been her own slight confusion, or it may have been somethingexasperating in Lady Channice's silence, that had precipitated Mrs. Greyupon this speech, but, when she had made it, she became very red andwondered whether she had gone too far. Mrs. Grey was prepared to go far. If people evaded her, and showed an unwillingness to let her be kind tothem--on her own terms, --terms which, in regard to Lady Channice, werevery strictly defined;--if people would behave in this unbecoming andungrateful fashion, they only got, so Mrs. Grey would have put it, whatthey jolly well deserved if she gave them a "stinger. " But Mrs. Grey didnot like to give Lady Channice "stingers"; therefore she now became redand wondered at herself. 

Lady Channice had lifted her eyes and it was as if Mrs. Grey saw wallsand moats and impenetrable thickets glooming in them. She answered forAugustine: "My husband and I have always been in perfect agreement onthe matter. "

Mrs. Grey tried a cheerful laugh;--"You won him over, too, no doubt. "

"Entirely. "

"Well, Augustine, " Mrs. Grey turned to the young man again, "I don'tsucceed with your mother, but I hope for better luck with you. You're aman, now, and not yet, at all events, a monk. Won't you dine with us onSaturday night?"

Now Mrs. Grey was kind; but she had never asked Lady Channice to dinner. The line had been drawn, firmly drawn years ago--and by Mrs. Greyherself--at tea. And it was not until Lady Channice had lived forseveral years at Charlock House, when it became evident that, in spiteof all that was suspicious, not to say sinister, in her situation, shewas not exactly cast off and that her husband, so to speak, admitted herto tea if not to dinner, --it was not until then that Mrs. Grey voiced atonce the tolerance and the discretion of the neighbourhood and said:"They are on friendly terms; he comes to see her twice a year. We cancall; she need not be asked to anything but tea. There can be no harm inthat. "

There was, indeed, no harm, for though, when they did call in Mrs. Grey's broad wake, they were received with gentle courtesy, they weremade to feel that social contacts would go no further. Lady Channice hadbeen either too much offended or too much frightened by the years ofostracism, or perhaps it was really by her own choice that she adoptedthe attitude of a person who saw people when they came to her but whonever went to see them. This attitude, accepted by the few, was resentedby the many, so that hardly anybody ever called upon Lady Channice. Andso it was that Mrs. Grey satisfied at once benevolence and curiosity inher staunch visits to the recluse of Charlock House, and could feelherself as Lady Channice's one wholesome link with the world that shehad rejected or--here lay all the ambiguity, all the mystery that, foryears, had whetted Mrs. Grey's curiosity to fever-point--that hadrejected her. 

As Augustine grew up the situation became more complicated. It was feltthat as the future owner of Charlock House and inheritor of his mother'sfortune Augustine was not to be tentatively taken up but decisivelyseized. People had resented Sir Hugh's indifference to Charlock House, the fact that he had never lived there and had tried, just before hismarriage, to sell it. But Augustine was yet blameless, and Augustinewould one day be a wealthy not an impecunious squire, and Mrs. Grey hadsaid that she would see to it that Augustine had his chance. "Apparentlythere's no one to bring him out, unless I do, " she said. "His father, itseems, won't, and his mother can't. One doesn't know what to think, or, at all events, one keeps what one thinks to oneself, for she is a good, sweet creature, whatever her faults may have been. But Augustine shallbe asked to dinner one day. "

Augustine's "chance, " in Mrs. Grey's eye, was her sixth daughter, Marjory. 

So now the first step up the ladder was being given to Augustine. 

He kept his vagueness, his lightness, his coolly pleasant smile, lookingat Mrs. Grey and not at his mother as he answered: "Thanks so much, butI'm monastic, too, you know. I don't go to dinners. I'll ride over someafternoon and see you all. "

Mrs. Grey compressed her lips. She was hurt and she had, also, somedifficulty in restraining her temper before this rebuff. "But you go todinners in London. You stay with people. "

"Ah, yes; but I'm alone then. When I'm with my mother I share her life. "He spoke so lightly, yet so decisively, with a tact and firmness beyondhis years, that Mrs. Grey rose, accepting her defeat. 

"Then Lady Elliston and I will come over, some day, " she said. "I wishwe saw more of her. John and I met her while we were staying with theBishop this Spring. The Bishop has the highest opinion of her. He saidthat she was a most unusual woman, --in the world, yet not of it. Onefeels that. Her eldest girl married young Lord Catesby, you know; a verybrilliant match; she presents her second girl next Spring, when I doMarjory. You must come over for a ride with Marjory, soon, Augustine. "

"I will, very soon, " said Augustine. 

When their visitor at last went, when the tramp of her heavy boots hadreceded down the hall, Lady Channice and her son again sat in silence;but it was now another silence from that into which Mrs. Grey's shotshad broken. It was like the stillness of the copse or hedgerow when thesportsmen are gone and a vague stir and rustle in ditch or underbrushtells of broken wings or limbs, of a wounded thing hiding. 

Lady Channice spoke at last. "I wish you had accepted for the dinner, Augustine. I don't want you to identify yourself with my peculiarities. "

"I didn't want to dine with Mrs. Grey, mother. "

"You hurt her. She is a kind neighbour. You will see her more or lessfor all of your life, probably. You must take your place, here, Augustine. "

"My place is taken. I like it just as it is. I'll see the Greys as Ialways have seen them; I'll go over to tea now and then and I'll rideand hunt with the children. "

"But that was when you were a child. You are almost a man now; you are aman, Augustine; and your place isn't a child's place. "

"My place is by you. " For the second time that day there was a new notein Augustine's voice. It was as if, clearly and definitely, for thefirst time, he was feeling something and seeing something and as if, though very resolutely keeping from her what he felt, he was, whenpushed to it, as resolutely determined to let her see what he saw. 

"By me, dear, " she said faintly. "What do you mean?"

"She ought to have asked you to dinner, too. "

"But I would not have accepted; I don't go out. She knows that. Sheknows that I am a real recluse. "

"She ought to have asked knowing that you would not accept. "

"Augustine dear, you are foolish. You know nothing of these littlefeminine social compacts. "

"Are they only feminine?"

"Only. Mere crystallised conveniences. It would be absurd for Mrs. Grey, after all these years, to ask me in order to be refused. "

There was a moment's silence and then Augustine said: "Did she ever askyou?"

The candles had been lighted and the lamp brought in, making the cornersof the room look darker. There was only a vague radiance about thechimney piece, the little candle-flames doubled in the mirror, and thebright circle where Lady Channice and her son sat on either side of thelarge, round table. The lamp had a green shade, and their faces were inshadow. Augustine had turned away his eyes. 

And now a strange and painful thing happened, stranger and more painfulthan he could have foreseen; for his mother did not answer him. Thesilence grew long and she did not speak. Augustine looked at her at lastand saw that she was gazing at him, and, it seemed to him, with helplessfear. His own eyes did not echo it; anger, rather, rose in them, coldfierceness, against himself, it was apparent, as well as against theworld that he suspected. He was not impulsive; he was not demonstrative;but he got up and put his hand on her shoulder. "I don't mean to tormentyou, like the rest of them, " he said. "I don't mean to ask--and berefused. Forget what I said. It's only--only--that it infuriates me. --Tosee them all. --And you!--cut off, wasted, in prison here. I've beenseeing it for a long time; I won't speak of it again. I know that thereare sad things in your life. All I want to say, all I wanted to saywas--that I'm with you, and against them. "

She sat, her face in shadow beneath him, her hands tightly claspedtogether and pressed down upon her lap. And, in a faltering voice thatstrove in vain for firmness, she said: "Dear Augustine--thank you. Iknow you wouldn't want to hurt me. You see, when I came here to live, Ihad parted--from your father, and I wanted to be quite alone; I wantedto see no one. And they felt that: they felt that I wouldn't lead theusual life. So it grew most naturally. Don't be angry with people, orwith the world. That would warp you, from the beginning. It's a goodworld, Augustine. I've found it so. It is sad, but there is suchbeauty. --I'm not cut off, or wasted;--I'm not in prison. --How can yousay it, dear, of me, who have you--and _him_. "

Augustine's hand rested on her shoulder for some moments more. Liftingit he stood looking before him. "I'm not going to quarrel with theworld, " he then said. "I know what I like in it. "

"Dear--thanks--" she murmured. 

Augustine picked up his book again. "I'll study for a bit, now, in myroom, " he said. "Will you rest before dinner? Do; I shall feel more easyin my conscience if I inflict Hegel on you afterwards. "

III

Lady Channice did not go and rest. She sat on in the shadowy room gazingbefore her, her hands still clasped, her face wearing still its look offear. For twenty years she had not known what it was to be without fear. It had become as much a part of her life as the air she breathed and anypeace or gladness had blossomed for her only in that air: sometimes shewas almost unconscious of it. This afternoon she had become conscious. It was as if the air were heavy and oppressive and as if she breathedwith difficulty. And sitting there she asked herself if the time wascoming when she must tell Augustine. 

What she might have to tell was a story that seemed strangelydisproportionate: it was the story of her life; but all of it thatmattered, all of it that made the story, was pressed into one year longago. Before that year was sunny, uneventful girlhood, after it grey, uneventful womanhood; the incident, the drama, was all knotted into oneyear, and it seemed to belong to herself no longer; she seemed aspectator, looking back in wonder at the disaster of another woman'slife. A long flat road stretched out behind her; she had journeyed overit for years; and on the far horizon she saw, if she looked back, thesmoke and flames of a burning city--miles and miles away. 

Amabel Freer was the daughter of a rural Dean, a scholarly, scepticalman. The forms of religion were his without its heart; its heart was hermother's, who was saintly and whose orthodoxy was the vaguest symbolicsystem. From her father Amabel had the scholar's love of beauty inthought, from her mother the love of beauty in life; but her loves hadbeen dreamy: she had thought and lived little. Happy compliance, happyconfidence, a dawn-like sense of sweetness and purity, had filled hergirlhood. 

When she was sixteen her father had died, and her mother in thefollowing year. Amabel and her brother Bertram were well dowered. Bertram was in the Foreign Office, neither saintly nor scholarly, likehis parents, nor undeveloped like his young sister. He was a capable, conventional man of the world, sure of himself and rather suspicious ofothers. Amabel imagined him a model of all that was good and lovely. Thesudden bereavement of her youth bewildered and overwhelmed her; hercapacity for dependent, self-devoting love sought for an object andlavished itself upon her brother. She went to live with an aunt, herfather's sister, and when she was eighteen her aunt brought her toLondon, a tall, heavy and rather clumsy country girl, arrested ratherthan developed by grief. Her aunt was a world-worn, harassed woman; shehad married off her four daughters with difficulty and felt the need ofa change of occupation; but she accepted as a matter of course the dutyof marrying off Amabel. That task accomplished she would go to bed everynight at half past ten and devote her days to collecting coins andenamels. Her respite came far more quickly than she could have imaginedpossible. Amabel had promise of great beauty, but two or three yearswere needed to fulfill it; Mrs. Compton could but be surprised when SirHugh Channice, an older colleague of Bertram's, a fashionable andcharming man, asked for the hand of her unformed young charge. Sir Hughwas fourteen years Amabel's senior and her very guilelessness no doubtattracted him; then there was the money; he was not well off and helived a life rather hazardously full. Still, Mrs. Compton could hardlybelieve in her good-fortune. Amabel accepted her own very simply; hercompliance and confidence were even deeper than before. Sir Hugh was themost graceful of lovers. His quizzical tenderness reminded her of herfather, his quasi-paternal courtship emphasized her instinctive trust inthe beauty and goodness of life. 

So at eighteen she was married at St. George's Hanover Square and wore awonderful long satin train and her mothers lace veil and her mother'spearls around her neck and hair. A bridesmaid had said that pearls wereunlucky, but Mrs. Compton tersely answered:--"Not if they are such goodones as these. " Amabel had bowed her head to the pearls, seeing them, with the train, and the veil, and her own snowy figure, vaguely, stillin the dreamlike haze. Memories of her father and mother, and of thedear deanery among its meadows, floating fragments of the poetry herfather had loved, of the prayers her mother had taught her in childhood, hovered in her mind. She seemed to see the primrose woods where she hadwandered, and to hear the sound of brooks and birds in Spring. A vaguesmile was on her lips. She thought of Sir Hugh as of a radiance lightingall. She was the happiest of girls. 

Shortly after her marriage, all the radiance, all the haze was gone. Ithad been difficult then to know why. Now, as she looked back, shethought that she could understand. 

She had been curiously young, curiously inexperienced. She had expectedlife to go on as dawn for ever. Everyday light had filled her withbleakness and disillusion. She had had childish fancies; that herhusband did not really love her; that she counted for nothing in hislife. Yet Sir Hugh had never changed, except that he very seldom madelove to her and that she saw less of him than during their engagement. Sir Hugh was still quizzically tender, still all grace, all deference, when he was there. And what wonder that he was little there; he had awide life; he was a brilliant man; she was a stupid young girl; inlooking back, no longer young, no longer stupid, Lady Channice thoughtthat she could see it all quite clearly. She had seemed to him a sweet, good girl, and he cared for her and wanted a wife. He had hoped that bydegrees she would grow into a wise and capable woman, fit to help andornament his life. But she had not been wise or capable. She had beenlonely and unhappy, and that wide life of his had wearied and confusedher; the silence, the watching attitude of the girl were inadequate toher married state, and yet she had nothing else to meet it with. She hadnever before felt her youth and inexperience as oppressive, but theyoppressed her now. She had nothing to ask of the world and nothing togive to it. What she did ask of life was not given to her, what she hadto give was not wanted. She was very unhappy. 

Yet people were kind. In especial Lady Elliston was kind, the loveliest, most sheltering, most understanding of all her guests or hostesses. LadyElliston and her cheerful, jocose husband, were Sir Hugh's nearestfriends and they took her in and made much of her. And one day when, ina fit of silly wretchedness, Lady Elliston found her crying, she had puther arms around her and kissed her and begged to know her grief and tocomfort it. Even thus taken by surprise, and even to one so kind, Amabelcould not tell that grief: deep in her was a reticence, a sense ofvalues austere and immaculate: she could not discuss her husband, evenwith the kindest of friends. And she had nothing to tell, really, but ofherself, her own helplessness and deficiency. Yet, without her telling, for all her wish that no one should guess, Lady Elliston did guess. Hercomfort had such wise meaning in it. She was ten years older thanAmabel. She knew all about the world; she knew all about girls and theirhusbands. Amabel was only a girl, and that was the trouble, she seemedto say. When she grew older she would see that it would come right;husbands were always so; the wider life reached by marriage would atonein many ways. And Lady Elliston, all with sweetest discretion, had askedgentle questions. Some of them Amabel had not understood; some she had. She remembered now that her own silence or dull negation might haveseemed very rude and ungrateful; yet Lady Elliston had taken no offence. All her memories of Lady Elliston were of this tact and sweetness, thispenetrating, tentative tact and sweetness that sought to understand andhelp and that drew back, unflurried and unprotesting before rebuff, ready to emerge again at any hint of need, --of these, and of her greatbeauty, the light of her large clear eyes, the whiteness of her throat, the glitter of diamonds about and above: for it was always in her mostfestal aspect, at night, under chandeliers and in ball-rooms, that shebest remembered her. Amabel knew, with the deep, instinctive sense ofvalues which was part of her inheritance and hardly, at that time, partof her thought, that her mother would not have liked Lady Elliston, would have thought her worldly; yet, and this showed that Amabel wasdeveloping, she had already learned that worldliness was compatible withmany things that her mother would have excluded from it; she could seeLady Elliston with her own and with her mother's eyes, and it waspuzzling, part of the pain of growth, to feel that her own was alreadythe wider vision. 

Soon after that the real story came. The city began to burn and smokeand flames to blind and scorch her. 

It was at Lady Elliston's country house that Amabel first met PaulQuentin. He was a daring young novelist who was being made much ofduring those years; for at that still somewhat guileless time to bedaring had been to be original. His books had power and beauty, and hehad power and beauty, fierce, dreaming eyes and an intuitive, suddensmile. Under his aspect of careless artist, his head was a little turnedby his worldly success, by great country-houses and flattering greatladies; he did not take the world as indifferently as he seemed to. Success edged his self-confidence with a reckless assurance. He was anardent student of Nietzsche, at a time when that, too, was to beoriginal. Amabel met this young man constantly at the dances and countryparties of a season. And, suddenly, the world changed. It was not dawnand it was not daylight; it was a wild and beautiful illumination liketorches at night. She knew herself loved and her own being becameprecious and enchanting to her. The presence of the man who loved herfilled her with rapture and fear. Their recognition was swift. He toldher things about herself that she had never dreamed of and as he toldthem she felt them to be true. 

To other people Paul Quentin did not speak much of Lady Channice. Heearly saw that he would need to be discreet. One day at Lady Elliston'sher beauty was in question and someone said that she was too pale andtoo impassive; and at that Quentin, smiling a little fiercely, remarkedthat she was as pale as a cowslip and as impassive as a young Madonna;the words pictured her; her fresh Spring-like quality, and the peace, asof some noble power not yet roused. 

In looking back, it was strange and terrible to Lady Channice to see howlittle she had really known this man. Their meetings, their talkstogether, were like the torchlight that flashed and wavered and onlyfitfully revealed. From the first she had listened, had assented, toeverything he said, hanging upon his words and his looks and livingafterward in the memory of them. And in memory their significance seemedso to grow that when they next met they found themselves far nearer thanthe words had left them. 

All her young reserves and dignities had been penetrated and dissolved. It was always themselves he talked of, but, from that centre, he wavedthe torch about a transformed earth and showed her a world of thoughtand of art that she had never seen before. No murmur of it had reachedthe deanery; to her husband and the people he lived among it was a merespectacle; Quentin made that bright, ardent world real to her, andserious. He gave her books to read; he took her to hear music; he showedher the pictures, the statues, the gems and porcelains that she hadbefore accepted as part of the background of life hardly seeing them. From being the background of life they became, in a sense, suddenly itsobject. But not their object--not his and hers, --though they talked ofthem, looked, listened and understood. To Quentin and Amabel this beautywas still background, and in the centre, at the core of things, weretheir two selves and the ecstasy of feeling that exalted and terrified. All else in life became shackles. It was hardly shock, it was more likesome immense relief, when, in each other's arms, the words of love, solong implied, were spoken. He said that she must come with him; that shemust leave it all and come. She fought against herself and against himin refusing, grasping at pale memories of duty, honour, self-sacrifice;he knew too well the inner treachery that denied her words. But, lookingback, trying not to flinch before the scorching memory, she did not knowhow he had won her. The dreadful jostle of opportune circumstance; herhusband's absence, her brother's;--the chance pause in the empty Londonhouse between country visits;--Paul Quentin following, finding herthere; the hot, dusty, enervating July day, all seemed to have pushedher to the act of madness and made of it a willess yielding rather thana decision. For she had yielded; she had left her husband's house andgone with him. 

They went abroad at once, to France, to the forest of Fontainebleau. Howshe hated ever after the sound of the lovely syllables, hated the memoryof the rocks and woods, the green shadows and the golden lights whereshe had walked with him and known horror and despair deepening in herheart with every day. She judged herself, not him, in looking back; eventhen it had been herself she had judged. Though unwilling, she had beenas much tempted by herself as by him; he had had to break down barriers, but though they were the barriers of her very soul, her longing hearthad pressed, had beaten against them, crying out for deliverance. Shedid not judge him, but, alone with him in the forest, alone with him inthe bland, sunny hotel, alone with him through the long nights when shelay awake and wondered, in a stupor of despair, she saw that he wasdifferent. So different; there was the horror. She was the sinner; nothe. He belonged to the bright, ardent life, the life without social bondor scruple, the life of sunny, tolerant hotels and pagan forests; butshe did not belong to it. The things that had seemed external things, barriers and shackles, were the realest things, were in fact the innerthings, were her very self. In yielding to her heart she had destroyedherself, there was no life to be lived henceforth with this man, forthere was no self left to live it with. She saw that she had cut herselfoff from her future as well as from her past. The sacred past judged herand the future was dead. Years of experience concentrated themselvesinto that lawless week. She saw that laws were not outside things; thatthey were one's very self at its wisest. She saw that if laws were to bebroken it could only be by a self wiser than the self that had made thelaw. And the self that had fled with Paul Quentin was only a passionate, blinded fragment, a heart without a brain, a fragment judged andrejected by the whole. 

To both lovers the week was one of bitter disillusion, though forQuentin no such despair was possible. For him it was an attempt at joyand beauty that had failed. This dulled, drugged looking girl was notthe radiant woman he had hoped to find. Vain and sensitive as he was, hefelt, almost immediately, that he had lost his charm for her; that shehad ceased to love him. That was the ugly, the humiliating side of thetruth, the side that so filled Amabel Channice's soul with sickness asshe looked back at it. She had ceased to love him, almost at once. 

And it was not guilt only, and fear, that had risen between them andseparated them; there were other, smaller, subtler reasons, littlesnakes that hissed in her memory. He was different from her in otherways. 

She hardly saw that one of the ways was that of breeding; but she feltthat he jarred upon her constantly, in their intimacy, their helpless, dreadful intimacy. In contrast, the thought of her husband had been withher, burningly. She did not say to herself, for she did not know it, herexperience of life was too narrow to give her the knowledge, --that herhusband was a gentleman and her lover, a man of genius though he were, was not; but she compared them, incessantly, when Quentin's words andactions, his instinctive judgments of men and things, made her shrinkand flush. He was so clever, cleverer far than Hugh; but he did notknow, as Sir Hugh would have known, what the slight things were thatwould make her shrink. He took little liberties when he should have beenreticent and he was humble when he should have been assured. For he wasoften humble; he was, oddly, pathetically--and the pity for him added tothe sickness--afraid of her and then, because he was afraid, he grewangry with her. 

He was clever; but there are some things cleverness cannot reach. Whathe failed to feel by instinct, he tried to scorn. It was not thepatrician scorn, stupid yet not ignoble, for something hardly seen, hardly judged, merely felt as dull and insignificant; it was thecorroding plebeian scorn for a suspected superiority. 

He quarrelled with her, and she sat silent, knowing that her silence, her passivity, was an affront the more, but helpless, having no word tosay. What could she say?--I do love you: I am wretched: utterly wretchedand utterly destroyed. --That was all there was to say. So she sat, dullylistening, as if drugged. And she only winced when he so far forgothimself as to cry out that it was her silly pride of blood, thearistocratic illusion, that had infected her; she belonged to the castethat could not think and that picked up the artist and thinker to amuseand fill its vacancy. --"We may be lovers, or we may be performingpoodles, but we are never equals, " he had cried. It was for him Amabelhad winced, knowing, without raising her eyes to see it, how his facewould burn with humiliation for having so betrayed his consciousness ofdifference. Nothing that he could say could hurt her for herself. 

But there was worse to bear: after the violence of his anger came theviolence of his love. She had borne at first, dully, like the slave shefelt herself; for she had sold herself to him, given herself over boundhand and foot. But now it became intolerable. She could notprotest, --what was there to protest against, or to appeal to?--but shecould fly. The thought of flight rose in her after the torpor of despairand, with its sense of wings, it felt almost like a joy. She could flyback, back, to be scourged and purified, and then--oh far away she sawit now--was something beyond despair; life once more; life hidden, crippled, but life. A prayer rose like a sob with the thought. 

So one night in London her brother Bertram, coming back late to hisrooms, found her sitting there. 

Bertram was hard, but not unkind. The sight of her white, fixed facetouched him. He did not upbraid her, though for the past week he hadrehearsed the bitterest of upbraidings. He even spoke soothingly to herwhen, speechless, she broke into wild sobs. "There, Amabel, there. --Yes, it's a frightful mess you've made of things. --When I think ofmother!--Well, I'll say nothing now. You have come back; that issomething. You _have_ left him, Amabel?"

She nodded, her face hidden. 

"The brute, the scoundrel, " said Bertram, at which she moaned anegation. --"You don't still care about him?--Well, I won't question younow. --Perhaps it's not so desperate. Hugh has been very good about it;he's helped me to keep the thing hushed up until we could make sure. Ihope we've succeeded; I hope so indeed. Hugh will see you soon, I know;and it can be patched up, no doubt, after a fashion. "

But at this Amabel cried:--"I can't. --I can't. --Oh--take me away. --Letme hide until he divorces me. I can't see him. "

"Divorces you?" Bertram's voice was sharp. "Have you disgracedpublicly--you and us? It's not you I'm thinking of so much as the familyname, father and mother. Hugh won't divorce you; he can't; he shan't. After all you're a mere child and he didn't look after you. " But thiswas said rather in threat to Hugh than in leniency to Amabel. 

She lay back in the chair, helpless, almost lifeless: let them do withher what they would. 

Bertram said that she should spend the night there and that he would seeHugh in the morning. And:--"No; you needn't see him yet, if you feel youcan't. It may be arranged without that. Hugh will understand. " And thiswas the first ray of the light that was to grow and grow. Hugh wouldunderstand. 

She did not see him for two years. 

All that had happened after her return to Bertram was a blur now. Therewere hasty talks, Bertram defining for her her future position, one ofdignity it must be--he insisted on that; Hugh perfectly understood herwish for the present, quite fell in with it; but, eventually, she musttake her place in her husband's home again. Even Bertram, intent as hewas on the family honour, could not force the unwilling wife upon themerely magnanimous husband. 

Her husband's magnanimity was the radiance that grew for Amabel duringthese black days, the days of hasty talks and of her journey down toCharlock House. 

She had never seen Charlock House before; Sir Hugh had spoken of thefamily seat as "a dismal hole, " but, on that hot July evening of herarrival, it looked peaceful to her, a dark haven of refuge, like thepromise of sleep after nightmare. 

Mrs. Bray stood in the door, a grim but not a hostile warder: Amabelfelt anyone who was not hostile to be almost kind. 

The house had been hastily prepared for her, dining-room anddrawing-room and the large bedroom upstairs, having the same outlookover the lawn, the sycamores, the flat meadows. She could see herselfstanding there now, looking about her at the bedroom where gaiety andgauntness were oddly mingled in the faded carnations and birds ofparadise on the chintzes and in the vastness of the four-poster, thetowering wardrobes, the capacious, creaking chairs and sofas. Everythingwas very clean and old; the dressing-table was stiffly skirted in darnedmuslins and near the pin-cushion stood a small, tight nosegay, Mrs. Bray's cautious welcome to this ambiguous mistress. 

"A comfortable old place, isn't it, " Bertram had said, looking about, too; "You'll soon get well and strong here, Amabel. " This, Amabel knew, was said for the benefit of Mrs. Bray who stood, non-committal andobservant just inside the door. She knew, too, that Bertram wasdepressed by the gauntness and gaiety of the bedroom and even moredepressed by the maroon leather furniture and the cases of stuffed birdsbelow, and that he was at once glad to get away from Charlock House andsorry for her that she should have to be left there, alone with Mrs. Bray. But to Amabel it was a dream after a nightmare. A strange, desolate dream, all through those sultry summer days; but a dream shotthrough with radiance in the thought of the magnanimity that had sparedand saved her. 

And with the coming of the final horror, came the final revelation ofthis radiance. She had been at Charlock House for many weeks, and it wasmid-Autumn, when that horror came. She knew that she was to have a childand that it could not be her husband's child. 

With the knowledge her mind seemed unmoored at last; it wavered andswung in a nightmare blackness deeper than any she had known. In herphysical prostration and mental disarray the thought of suicide was withher. How face Bertram now, --Bertram with his tenacious hopes? How faceher husband--ever--ever--in the far future? Her disgrace lived and shewas to see it. But, in the swinging chaos, it was that thought that kepther from frenzy; the thought that it did live; that its life claimedher; that to it she must atone. She did not love this child that was tocome; she dreaded it; yet the dread was sacred, a burden that she mustbear for its unhappy sake. What did she not owe to it--unfortunateone--of atonement and devotion?

She gathered all her courage, armed her physical weakness, her wanderingmind, to summon Bertram and to tell him. 

She told him in the long drawing-room on a sultry September day, leaningher arms on the table by which she sat and covering her face. 

Bertram said nothing for a long time. He was still boyish enough to feelany such announcement as embarrassing; and that it should be told himnow, in such circumstances, by his sister, by Amabel, was nearlyincredible. How associate such savage natural facts, lawless andunappeasable, with that young figure, dressed in its trousseau whitemuslin and with its crown of innocent gold. It made her suddenly seemolder than himself and at once more piteous and more sinister. For amoment, after the sheer stupor, he was horribly angry with her; thencame dismay at his own cruelty. 

"This does change things, Amabel, " he said at last. 

"Yes, " she answered from behind her hands. 

"I don't know how Hugh will take it, " said Bertram. 

"He must divorce me now, " she said. "It can be done very quietly, can'tit. And I have money. I can go away, somewhere, out of England--I'vethought of America--or New Zealand--some distant country where I shallnever be heard of; I can bring up the child there. "

Bertram stared at her. She sat at the table, her hands before her face, in the light, girlish dress that hung loosely about her. She was fragileand wasted. Her voice seemed dead. And he wondered at the unhappycreature's courage. 

"Divorce!" he then said violently; "No; he can't do that;--and he hadforgiven already; I don't know how the law stands; but of course youwon't go away. What an idea; you might as well kill yourself outright. It's only--. I don't know how the law stands. I don't know what Hughwill say. "

Bertram walked up and down biting his nails. He stopped presently beforea window, his back turned to his sister, and, flushing over the words, he said: "You are sure--you are quite sure, Amabel, that it isn't Hugh'schild. You are such a girl. You can know nothing. --I mean--it may be amistake. "

"I am quite sure, " the unmoved voice answered him. "I do know. "

Bertram again stood silent. "Well, " he said at last, turning to herthough he did not look at her, "all I can do is to see how Hugh takesit. You know, Amabel, that you can count on me. I'll see after you, andafter the child. Hugh may, of course, insist on your parting from it;that will probably be the condition he'll make;--naturally. In that caseI'll take you abroad soon. It can be got through, I suppose, withoutanybody knowing; assumed names; some Swiss or Italian village--" Bertrammuttered, rather to himself than to her. "Good God, what an odiousbusiness!--But, as you say, we have money; that simplifies everything. You mustn't worry about the child. I will see that it is put into safehands and I'll keep an eye on its future--. " He stopped, for hissister's hands had fallen. She was gazing at him, still dully--for itseemed that nothing could strike any excitement from her--but with acurious look, a look that again made him feel as if she were much olderthan he. 

"Never, " she said. 

"Never what?" Bertram asked. "You mean you won't part from the child?"

"Never; never, " she repeated. 

"But Amabel, " with cold patience he urged; "if Hugh insists. --My poorgirl, you have made your bed and you must lie on it. You can't expectyour husband to give this child--this illegitimate child--his name. Youcan't expect him to accept it as his child. "

"No; I don't expect it, " she said. 

"Well, what then? What's your alternative?"

"I must go away with the child. "

"I tell you, Amabel, it's impossible, " Bertram in his painful anxietyspoke with irritation. "You've got to consider our name--my name, myposition, and your husband's. Heaven knows I want to be kind to you--doall I can for you; I've not once reproached you, have I? But you must bereasonable. Some things you must accept as your punishment. Unless Hughis the most fantastically generous of men you'll have to part from thechild. "

She sat silent. 

"You do consent to that?" Bertram insisted. 

She looked before her with that dull, that stupid look. "No, " shereplied. 

Bertram's patience gave way, "You are mad, " he said. "Have you noconsideration for me--for us? You behave like this--incredibly, in mymother's daughter--never a girl better brought up; you go off withthat--that bounder;--you stay with him for a week--goodheavens!--there'd have been more dignity if you'd stuck to him;--youchuck him, in one week, and then you come back and expect us to do asyou think fit, to let you disappear and everyone know that you'vebetrayed your husband and had a child by another man. It's mad, I tellyou, and it's impossible, and you've got to submit. Do you hear? Willyou answer me, I say? Will you promise that if Hugh won't consent tofathering the child--won't consent to giving it his name--won't consentto having it, as his heir, disinherit the lawful children he may have byyou--good heavens, I wonder if you realize what you are asking!--willyou promise, I say, if he doesn't consent, to part from the child?"

She did look rather mad, her brother thought, and he remembered, withdiscomfort, that women, at such times, did sometimes lose their reason. Her eyes with their dead gaze nearly frightened him, when, after all hisviolence, his entreaty, his abuse of her, she only, in an unchangedvoice, said "No. "

He felt then the uselessness of protestation or threat; she must betreated as if she were mad; humored, cajoled. He was silent for a littlewhile, walking up and down. "Well, I'll say no more, then. Forgive mefor my harshness, " he said. "You give me a great deal to bear, Amabel;but I'll say nothing now. I have your word, at all events, " he lookedsharply at her as the sudden suspicion crossed him, "I have your wordthat you'll stay quietly here--until you hear from me what Hugh says?You promise me that?"

"Yes, " his sister answered. He gave a sigh for the sorry relief. 

That night Amabel's mind wandered wildly. She heard herself, in thelonely room where she lay, calling out meaningless things. She tried tocontrol the horror of fear that rose in her and peopled the room withphantoms; but the fear ran curdling in her veins and flowed about her, shaping itself in forms of misery and disaster. "No--no--poorchild. --Oh--don't--don't. --I will come to you. I am your mother. --Theycan't take you from me. "--this was the most frequent cry. 

The poor child hovered, wailing, delivered over to vague, unseen sorrow, and, though a tiny infant, it seemed to be Paul Quentin, too, in somedreadful plight, appealing to her in the name of their dead love to savehim. She did not love him; she did not love the child; but her heartseemed broken with impotent pity. 

In the intervals of nightmare she could look, furtively, fixedly, aboutthe room. The moon was bright outside, and through the curtains a pallidlight showed the menacing forms of the two great wardrobes. The fourposts of her bed seemed like the pillars of some vast, alien temple, andthe canopy, far above her, floated like a threatening cloud. Oppositeher bed, above the chimney-piece, was a deeply glimmering mirror: if shewere to raise herself she would see her own white reflection, rising, ghastly. --She hid her face on her pillows and sank again into the abyss. 

Next morning she could not get up. Her pulses were beating at feverspeed; but, with the daylight, her mind was clearer. She could summonher quiet look when Mrs. Bray came in to ask her mournfully how she was. And a little later a telegram came, from Bertram. 

Her trembling hands could hardly open it. She read the words. "All iswell. " Mrs. Bray stood beside her bed. She meant to keep that quiet lookfor Mrs. Bray; but she fainted. Mrs. Bray, while she lay tumbled amongthe pillows, and before lifting her, read the message hastily. 

From the night of torment and the shock of joy, Amabel brought anextreme susceptibility to emotion that showed itself through all herlife in a trembling of her hands and frame when any stress of feelingwas laid upon her. 

After that torment and that shock she saw Bertram once, and only once, again;--ah, strange and sad in her memory that final meeting of theirlives, though this miraculous news was the theme of it. She was still inbed when he came, the bed she did not leave for months, and, though soweak and dizzy, she understood all that he told her, knew the onesupreme fact of her husband's goodness. He sent her word that she was tobe troubled about nothing; she was to take everything easily andnaturally. She should always have her child with her and it should bearhis name. He would see after it like a father; it should never know thathe was not its father. And, as soon as she would let him, he would comeand see her--and it. Amabel, lying on her pillows, gazed and gazed: hereyes, in their shadowy hollows, were two dark wells of sacred wonder. Even Bertram felt something of the wonder of them. In his new gladnessand relief, he was very kind to her. He came and kissed her. She seemed, once more, a person whom one could kiss. "Poor dear, " he said, "you havehad a lot to bear. You do look dreadfully ill. You must get well andstrong, now, Amabel, and not worry any more, about anything. Everythingis all right. We will call the child Augustine, if it's a boy, aftermother's father you know, and Katherine, if it's a girl, after hermother: I feel, don't you, that we have no right to use their own names. But the further away ones seem right, now. Hugh is a trump, isn't he?And, I'm sure of it, Amabel, when time has passed a little, and you feelyou can, he'll have you back; I do really believe it may be managed. This can all be explained. I'm saying that you are ill, a nervousbreakdown, and are having a complete rest. "

She heard him dimly, feeling these words irrelevant. She knew that Hughmust never have her back; that she could never go back to Hugh; that herlife henceforth was dedicated. And yet Bertram was kind, she felt that, though dimly feeling, too, that her old image of him had growntarnished. But her mind was far from Bertram and the mitigations heoffered. She was fixed on that radiant figure, her husband, her knight, who had stooped to her in her abasement, her agony, and had lifted herfrom dust and darkness to the air where she could breathe, --and blesshim. 

"Tell him--I bless him, "--she said to Bertram. She could say nothingmore. There were other memories of that day, too, but even more dim, more irrelevant. Bertram had brought papers for her to sign, saying: "Iknow you'll want to be very generous with Hugh now, " and she had raisedherself on her elbow to trace with the fingers that trembled the wordshe dictated to her. 

There was sorrow, indeed, to look back on after that. Poor Bertram diedonly a month later, struck down by an infectious illness. He was not tosee or supervise the rebuilding of his sister's shattered life, and theanguish in her sorrow was the thought of all the pain that she hadbrought to his last months of life: but this sorrow, after the phantoms, the nightmares, was like the weeping of tears after a dreadful weepingof blood. Her tears fell as she lay there, propped on her pillows--forshe was very ill--and looking out over the Autumn fields; she wept forpoor Bertram and all the pain; life was sad. But life was good andbeautiful. After the flames, the suffocation, it had brought her here, and it showed her that radiant figure, that goodness and beauty embodiedin human form. And she had more to help her, for he wrote to her, a fewdelicately chosen words, hardly touching on their own case, his andhers, but about her brother's death and of how he felt for her in herbereavement, and of what a friend dear Bertram had been to himself. "Some day, dear Amabel, you must let me come and see you" it ended; and"Your affectionate husband. "

It was almost too wonderful to be borne. She had to close her eyes inthinking of it and to lie very still, holding the blessed letter in herhand and smiling faintly while she drew long soft breaths. He was alwaysin her thoughts, her husband; more, far more, than her coming child. Itwas her husband who had made that coming a thing possible to lookforward to with resignation; it was no longer the nightmare of desolateflights and hidings. 

And even after the child was born, after she had seen its strange littleface, even then, though it was all her life, all her future, it held thesecond place in her heart. It was her life, but it was from her husbandthat the gift of life had come to her. 

She was a gentle, a solicitous, a devoted mother. She never looked ather baby without a sense of tears. Unfortunate one, was her thought, andthe pulse of her life was the yearning to atone. 

She must be strong and wise for her child and out of her knowledge ofsin and weakness in herself must guide and guard it. But in heryearning, in her brooding thought, was none of the mother's rapturousfolly and gladness. She never kissed her baby. Some dark associationmade the thought of kisses an unholy thing and when, forgetting, sheleaned to it sometimes, thoughtless, and delighting in littleness andsweetness, the dark memory of guilt would rise between its lips andhers, so that she would grow pale and draw back. 

When first she saw her husband, Augustine was over a year old. Sir Hughhad written and asked if he might not come down one day and spend anhour with her. "And let all the old fogies see that we are friends, " hesaid, in his remembered playful vein. 

It was in the long dark drawing-room that she had seen him for the firsttime since her flight into the wilderness. 

He had come in, grave, yet with something blithe and unperturbed in hisbearing that, as she stood waiting for what he might say to her, seemedthe very nimbus of chivalry. He was splendid to look at, too, tall andstrong with clear kind eyes and clear kind smile. 

She could not speak, not even when he came and took her hand, and said:"Well Amabel. " And then, seeing how white she was and how she trembled, he had bent his head and kissed her hand. And at that she had brokeninto tears; but they were tears of joy. 

He stood beside her while she wept, her hands before her face, justtouching her shoulder with a paternal hand, and she heard him saying:"Poor little Amabel: poor little girl. "

She took her chair beside the table and for a long time she kept herface hidden: "Thank you; thank you;" was all that she could say. 

"My dear, what for?--There, don't cry. --You have stopped crying? There, poor child. I've been awfully sorry for you. "

He would not let her try to say how good he was, and this was a relief, for she knew that she could not put it into words and that, withoutwords, he understood. He even laughed a little, with a gracefulembarrassment, at her speechless gratitude. And presently, when theytalked, she could put down her hand, could look round at him, while sheanswered that, yes, she was very comfortable at Charlock House; yes, noplace could suit her more perfectly; yes, Mrs. Bray was very kind. 

And he talked a little about business with her, explaining thatBertram's death had left him with a great deal of management on hishands; he must have her signature to papers, and all this was done withthe easiest tact so that naturalness and simplicity should grow betweenthem; so that, in finding pen and papers in her desk, in asking whereshe was to sign, in obeying the pointing of his finger here and there, she should recover something of her quiet, and be able to smile, even, alittle answering smile, when he said that he should make a businesswoman of her. And--"Rather a shame that I should take your money likethis, Amabel, but, with all Bertram's money, you are quite a bloatedcapitalist. I'm rather hard up, and you don't grudge it, I know. "

She flushed all over at the idea, even said in jest:--"All that I haveis yours. "

"Ah, well, not all, " said Sir Hugh. "You must remember--other claims. "And he, too, flushed a little now in saying, gently, tentatively;--"MayI see the little boy?"

"I will bring him, " said Amabel. 

How she remembered, all her life long, that meeting of her husband andher son. It was the late afternoon of a bright June day and the warmsmell of flowers floated in at the open windows of the drawing-room. Shedid not let the nurse bring Augustine, she carried him down herself. Hewas a large, robust baby with thick, corn-coloured hair and a solemn, beautiful little face. Amabel came in with him and stood before herhusband holding him and looking down. Confusion was in her mind, amingling of pride and shame. 

Sir Hugh and the baby eyed each other, with some intentness. And, as thesilence grew a little long, Sir Hugh touched the child's cheek with hisfinger and said: "Nice little fellow: splendid little fellow. How old ishe, Amabel? Isn't he very big?"

"A year and two months. Yes, he is very big. "

"He looks like you, doesn't he?"

"Does he?" she said faintly. 

"Just your colour, " Sir Hugh assured her. "As grave as a little king, isn't he. How firmly he looks at me. "

"He is grave, but he never cries; he is very cheerful, too, and well andstrong. "

"He looks it. He does you credit. Well, my little man, shall we befriends?" Sir Hugh held out his hand. Augustine continued to gaze athim, unmoving. "He won't shake hands, " said Sir Hugh. 

Amabel took the child's hand and placed it in her husband's; her ownfingers shook. But Augustine drew back sharply, doubling his arm againsthis breast, though not wavering in his gaze at the stranger. 

Sir Hugh laughed at the decisive rejection. "Friendship's on one side, till later, " he said. 

 * * * * *

When her husband had gone Amabel went out into the sycamore wood. It wasa pale, cool evening. The sun had set and the sky beyond the sycamoreswas golden. Above, in a sky of liquid green, the evening star shonesoftly. 

A joy, sweet, cold, pure, like the evening, was in her heart. Shestopped in the midst of the little wood among the trees, and stoodstill, closing her eyes. 

Something old was coming back to her; something new was being given. Thememory of her mother's eyes was in it, of the simple prayers taught herby her mother in childhood, and the few words, rare and simple, of thepresence of God in the soul. But her girlish prayer, her girlish thoughtof God, had been like a thread-like, singing brook. What came to her nowgrew from the brook-like running of trust and innocence to a wideningriver, to a sea that filled her, over-flowed her, encompassed her, inwhose power she was weak, through whose power her weakness was upliftedand made strong. 

It was as if a dark curtain of fear and pain lifted from her soul, showing vastness, and deep upon deep of stars. Yet, though this thatcame to her was so vast, it made itself small and tender, too, like theflowers glimmering about her feet, the breeze fanning her hair andgarments, the birds asleep in the branches above her. She held out herhands, for it seemed to fall like dew, and she smiled, her faceuplifted. 

 * * * * *

She did not often see her husband in the quiet years that followed. Shedid not feel that she needed to see him. It was enough to know that hewas there, good and beautiful. 

She knew that she idealised him, that in ordinary aspects he was ahappy, easy man-of-the-world; but that was not the essential; theessential in him was the pity, the tenderness, the comprehension thathad responded to her great need. He was very unconscious of aims orideals; but when the time for greatness came he showed it as naturallyand simply as a flower expands to light. The thought of him henceforthwas bound up with the thought of her religion; nothing of rapture orecstasy was in it; it was quiet and grave, a revelation of holiness. 

It was as if she had been kneeling to pray, alone, in a dark, devastatedchurch, trembling, and fearing the darkness, not daring to approach theunseen altar; and that then her husband's hand had lighted all the hightapers one by one, so that the church was filled with radiance and thedivine made manifest to her again. 

Light and quietness were to go with her, but they were not to banishfear. They could only help her to live with fear and to find lifebeautiful in spite of it. 

For if her husband stood for the joy of life, her child stood for itssorrow. He was the dark past and the unknown future. What she shouldfind in him was unrevealed; and though she steadied her soul to theacceptance of whatever the future might bring of pain for her, the senseof trembling was with her always in the thought of what it might bringof pain for Augustine. 

IV

Lady Channice woke on the morning after her long retrospect bringingfrom her dreams a heavy heart. 

She lay for some moments after the maid had drawn her curtains, lookingout at the fields as she had so often looked, and wondering why herheart was heavy. Throb by throb, like a leaden shuttle, it seemed toweave together the old and new memories, so that she saw the pattern ofyesterday and of today, Lady Elliston's coming, the pain that Augustinehad given her in his strange questionings, the meeting of her husbandand her son. And the ominous rhythm of the shuttle was like the footfallof the past creeping upon her. 

It was more difficult than it had been for years, this morning, to quietthe throb, to stay her thoughts on strength. She could not pray, for herthoughts, like her heart, were leaden; the whispered words carried nomessage as they left her lips; she could not lift her thought to followthem. It was upon a lesser, a merely human strength, that she foundherself dwelling. She was too weak, too troubled, to find the swiftnessof soul that could soar with its appeal, the stillness of soul where thedivine response could enter; and weakness turned to human help. Thethought of her husband's coming was like a glow of firelight seen atevening on a misty moor. She could hasten towards it, quelling fear. There she would be safe. By his mere presence he would help and sustainher. He would be kind and tactful with Augustine, as he had always been;he would make a shield between her and Lady Elliston. She could see nosky above, and the misty moor loomed with uncertain shapes; but shecould look before her and feel that she went towards security andbrightness. 

Augustine and his mother both studied during the day, the same studies, for Lady Channice, to a great extent, shared her son's scholarlypursuits. From his boyhood--a studious, grave, yet violent little boy hehad been, his fits of passionate outbreak quelled, as he grew older, bythe mere example of her imperturbability beside him--she had thus sharedeverything. She had made herself his tutor as well as his guardianangel. She was more tutor, more guardian angel, than mother. 

Their mental comradeship was full of mutual respect. And thoughAugustine was not of the religious temperament, though his mother'sinstinct told her that in her lighted church he would be a respectfullooker-on rather than a fellow-worshipper, though they never spoke ofreligion, just as they seldom kissed, Augustine's growing absorption inmetaphysics tinged their friendship with a religious gravity andcomprehension. 

On three mornings in the week Lady Channice had a class for the oldervillage girls; she sewed, read and talked with them, and was fond ofthem all. These girls, their placing in life, their marriages andbabies, were her most real interest in the outer world. During the restof the day she gardened, and read whatever books Augustine might bereading. It was the mother and son's habit thus to work apart and todiscuss work in the evenings. 

Today, when her girls were gone, she found herself very lonely. Augustine was out riding and in her room she tried to occupy herself, fearing her own thoughts. It was past twelve when she heard the sound ofhis horse's hoofs on the gravel before the door and, throwing a scarfover her hair, she ran down to meet him. 

The hall door at Charlock House, under a heavy portico, looked out upona circular gravel drive bordered by shrubberies and enclosed by highwalls; beyond the walls and gates was the high-road. An interval ofsunlight had broken into the chill Autumn day: Augustine had riddenbareheaded and his gold hair shone as the sun fell upon it. He looked, in his stately grace, like an equestrian youth on a Greek frieze. And, as was usual with his mother, her appreciation of Augustine's nobilityand fineness passed at once into a pang: so beautiful; so noble; and soshadowed. She stood, her black scarf about her face and shoulders, andsmiled at him while he threw the reins to the old groom and dismounted. 

"Nice to find you waiting for me, " he said. "I'm late this morning. Toolate for any work before lunch. Don't you want a little walk? You lookpale. "

"I should like it very much. I may miss my afternoon walk--your fathermay have business to talk over. "

They went through the broad stone hall-way that traversed the house andstepped out on the gravel walk at the back. This path, running below thedrawing-room and dining-room windows, led down on one side to the woods, on the other to Lady Channice's garden, and was a favourite place oftheirs for quiet saunterings. Today the sunlight fell mildly on it. Arift of pale blue showed in the still grey sky. 

"I met Marjory, " said Augustine, "and we had a gallop over PangleyCommon. She rides well, that child. We jumped the hedge and ditch at thefoot of the common, you know--the high hedge--for practice. She goesover like a bird. "

Amabel's mind was dwelling on the thought of shadowed brightness andMarjory, fresh, young, deeply rooted in respectability, seemed suddenlymore significant than she had ever been before. In no way Augustine'sequal, of course, except in that impersonal, yet so important matter ofroots; Amabel had known a little irritation over Mrs. Grey's openmanoeuvreings; but on this morning of rudderless tossing, Marjoryappeared in a new aspect. How sound; how safe. It was of Augustine'sinsecurity rather than of Augustine himself that she was thinking as shesaid: "She is such a nice girl. "

"Yes, she is, " said Augustine. 

"What did you talk about?"

"Oh, the things we saw; birds and trees and clouds. --I pour informationupon her. "

"She likes that, one can see it. "

"Yes, she is so nice and guileless that she doesn't resent my pedantry. I love giving information, you know, " Augustine smiled. He looked abouthim as he spoke, at birds and trees and clouds, happy, humorous, clasping his riding crop behind his back so that his mother heard itmake a pleasant little click against his gaiter as he walked. 

"It's delightful for both of you, such a comradeship. "

"Yes; a comradeship after a fashion; Marjory is just like a nice littleboy. "

"Ah, well, she is growing up; she is seventeen, you know. She is morethan a little boy. "

"Not much; she never will be much more. "

"She will make a very nice woman. "

Augustine continued to smile, partly at the thought of Marjory, andpartly at another thought. "You mustn't make plans, for me and Marjory, like Mrs. Grey, " he said presently. "It's mothers like Mrs. Grey whospoil comradeships. You know, I'll never marry Marjory. She is a nicelittle boy, and we are friends; but she doesn't interest me. "

"She may grow more interesting: she is so young. I don't make plans, dear, --yet I think that it might be a happy thing for you. "

"She'll never interest me, " said Augustine. 

"Must you have a very interesting wife?"

"Of course I must:--she must be as interesting as you are!" he turnedhis head to smile at her. 

"You are not exacting, dear!"

"Yes, I am, though. She must be as interesting as you--and as good; elsewhy should I leave you and go and live with someone else. --Though forthat matter, I shouldn't leave you. You'd have to live with us, youknow, if I ever married. "

"Ah, my dear boy, " Lady Channice murmured. She managed a smile presentlyand added: "You might fall in love with someone not so interesting. Youcan't be sure of your feelings and your mind going together. "

"My feelings will have to submit themselves to my mind. I don't knowabout 'falling'; I rather dislike the expression: one might 'fall' inlove with lots of people one would never dream of marrying. It wouldhave to be real love. I'd have to love a woman very deeply before Iwanted her to share my life, to be a part of me; to be the mother of mychildren. " He spoke with his cheerful gravity. 

"You have an old head on very young shoulders, Augustine. "

"I really believe I have!" he accepted her somewhat sadly humorousstatement; "and that's why I don't believe I'll ever make a mistake. I'drather never marry than make a mistake. I know I sound priggish; butI've thought a good deal about it: I've had to. " He paused for a moment, and then, in the tone of quiet, unconfused confidence that always filledher with a sense of mingled pride and humility, he added:--"I havestrong passions, and I've already seen what happens to people who allowfeeling to govern them. "

Amabel was suddenly afraid. "I know that you would always be--goodAugustine; I can trust you for that. " She spoke faintly. 

They had now walked down to the little garden with its box borders andwere wandering vaguely among the late roses. She paused to look at theroses, stooping to breathe in the fragrance of a tall white cluster: itwas an instinctive impulse of hiding: she hoped in another moment tofind an escape in some casual gardening remark. But Augustine, unsuspecting, was interested in their theme. 

"Good? I don't know, " he said. "I don't think it's goodness, exactly. It's that I so loathe the other thing, so loathe the animal I know inmyself, so loathe the idea of life at the mercy of emotion. "

She had to leave the roses and walk on again beside him, steelingherself to bear whatever might be coming. And, feeling that unconsciousaccusation loomed, she tried, as unconsciously, to mollify and evade it. 

"It isn't always the animal, exactly, is it?--or emotion only? It isromance and blind love for a person that leads people astray. "

"Isn't that the animal?" Augustine inquired. "I don't think the animalbase, you know, or shameful, if he is properly harnessed and kept in hisplace. It's only when I see him dominating that I hate and fear him so. And, " he went on after a little pause of reflection, "I especially hatehim in that form;--romance and blind love: because what is that, really, but the animal at its craftiest and most dangerous? what is romance--Imean romance of the kind that jeopardizes 'goodness'--what is it but themost subtle self-deception? You don't love the person in the true senseof love; you don't want their good; you don't want to see them put inthe right relation to their life as a whole:--what you want is sensationthrough them; what you want is yourself in them, and their absorption inyou. I don't think that wicked, you know--I'm not a monk or even apuritan--if it's the mere result of the right sort of love, a happyglamour that accompanies, the right sort; it's in its place, then, andcan endanger nothing. But people are so extraordinarily blind aboutlove; they don't seem able to distinguish between the real and thefalse. People usually, though they don't know it, mean only desire whenthey talk of love. "

There was another pause in which she wondered that he did not hear theheavy throbbing of her heart. But now there was no retreat; she must goon; she must understand her son. "Desire must enter in, " she said. 

"In its place, yes; it's all a question of that;" Augustine replied, smiling a little at her, aware of the dogmatic flavour of his ownutterances, the humorous aspect of their announcement, to her, byhim;--"You love a woman enough and respect her enough to wish her to bethe mother of your children--assuming, of course, that you consideryourself worthy to carry on the race; and to think of a woman in such away is to feel a rightful emotion and a rightful desire; anything elsemakes emotion the end instead of the result and is corrupting, I'm sureof it. "

"You have thought it all out, haven't you"; Lady Channice steadied hervoice to say. There was panic rising in her, and a strange anger madepart of it. 

"I've had to, as I said, " he replied. "I'm anything but self-controlledby nature; already, " and Augustine looked calmly at his mother, "I'dhave let myself go and been very dissolute unless I'd had this ideal ofmy own honour to help me. I'm of anything but a saintly disposition. "

"My dear Augustine!" His mother had coloured faintly. Absurd as it was, when the reality of her own life was there mocking her, the bald wordswere strange to her. 

"Do I shock you?" he asked. "You know I always feel that you _are_ asaint, who can hear and understand everything. "

She blushed deeply, painfully, now. "No, you don't shock me;--I am onlya little startled. "

"To hear that I'm sensual? The whole human race is far too sensual in myopinion. They think a great deal too much about their sexualappetites;--only they don't think about them in those termsunfortunately; they think about them veiled and wreathed; that's why weare sunk in such a bog of sentimentality and sin. "

Lady Channice was silent for a long time. They had left the garden, andwalked along the little path near the sunken wall at the foot of thelawn, and, skirting the wood of sycamores, had come back to the broadgravel terrace. A turmoil was in her mind; a longing to know and see; aterror of what he would show her. 

"Do you call it sin, that blinded love? Do you think that the famouslovers of romance were sinners?" she asked at last; "Tristan andIseult?--Abélard and Héloise?--Paolo and Francesca?"

"Of course they were sinners, " said Augustine cheerfully. "What did theywant?--a present joy: purely and simply that: they sacrificed everythingto it--their own and other people's futures: what's that but sin? Thereis so much mawkish rubbish talked and written about such persons. Theywere pathetic, of course, most sinners are; that particular sin, ofcourse, may be so associated and bound up with beautifulthings;--fidelity, and real love may make such a part of it, that peopleget confused about it. "

"Fidelity and real love?" Lady Channice repeated: "you think that theyatone--if they make part of an illicit passion?"

"I don't think that they atone; but they may redeem it, mayn't they? Whydo you ask me?" Augustine smiled;--"You know far more about these thingsthan I do. "

She could not look at him. His words in their beautiful unconsciousnessappalled her. Yet she had to go on, to profit by her own trance-likestrength. She was walking on the verge of a precipice but she knew thatwith steady footsteps she could go towards her appointed place. She mustsee just where Augustine put her, just how he judged her. 

"You seem to know more than I do, Augustine, " she said: "I've notthought it out as you have. And it seems to me that any great emotion ismore of an end in itself than you would grant. But if the illicitpassion thinks itself real and thinks itself enduring, and provesneither, what of it then? What do you think of lovers to whom thathappens? It so often happens, you know. "

Augustine had his cheerful answer ready. "Then they are stupid as wellas sinful. Of course it is sinful to be stupid. We've learned that fromPlato and Hegel, haven't we?"

The parlour-maid came out to announce lunch. Lady Channice was spared ananswer. She went to her room feeling shattered, as if great stones hadbeen hurled upon her. 

Yes, she thought, gazing at herself in the mirror, while she untied herscarf and smoothed her hair, yes, she had never yet, with all heragonies of penitence, seen so clearly what she had been: a sinner: astupid sinner. Augustine's rigorous young theories might set too inhumanan ideal, but that aspect of them stood out clear: he had put, in bald, ugly words, what, in essence, her love for Paul Quentin had been: he hadstripped all the veils and wreaths away. It had been self; self, blindin desire, cruel when blindness left it: there had been no real love andno fidelity to redeem the baseness. A stupid sinner; that, her son hadtold her, was what she had been. The horror of it smote back upon herfrom her widened, mirrored eyes, and she sat for a moment thinking thatshe must faint. 

Then she remembered that Augustine was waiting for her downstairs andthat in little more than an hour her husband would be with her. Andsuddenly the agony lightened. A giddiness of relief came over her. Hewas kind: he did not judge her: he knew all, yet he respected her. Augustine was like the bleak, stony moor; she must shut her eyes andstumble on towards the firelight. And as she thought of that nearingbrightness, of her husband's eyes, that never judged, never grew hard orfierce or remote from human tolerance, a strange repulsion from her sonrose in her. Cold, fierce, righteous boy; cold, heartless theories thatone throb of human emotion would rightly shatter;--the thought wasalmost like an echo of Paul Quentin speaking in her heart to comforther. She sprang up: that was indeed the last turn of horror. If she wasnot to faint she must not think. Action alone could dispel the whirlingmist where she did not know herself. 

She went down to the dining-room. Augustine stood looking out of thewindow. "Do come and see this delightful swallow, " he said: "he'sskimming over and over the lawn. "

She felt that she could not look at the swallow. She could only walk toher chair and sink down on it. Augustine repelled her with hischeerfulness, his trivial satisfactions. How could he not know that shewas in torment and that he had plunged her there. This involuntaryinjustice to him was, she saw again, veritably crazed. 

She poured herself out water and said in a voice that surprisedherself:--"Very delightful, I am sure; but come and have your lunch. Iam hungry. "

"And how pale you are, " said Augustine, going to his place. "We stayedout too long. You got chilled. " He looked at her with the solicitudethat was like a brother's--or a doctor's. That jarred upon her rackednerves, too. 

"Yes; I am cold, " she said. 

She took food upon her plate and pretended to eat. Augustine, sheguessed, must already feel the change in her. He must see that she onlypretended. But he said nothing more. His tact was a further turn to theknot of her sudden misery. 

 * * * * *

Augustine was with her in the drawing-room when she heard the wheels ofthe station-fly grinding on the gravel drive; they sounded very faintlyin the drawing-room, but, from years of listening, her hearing had grownvery acute. 

She could never meet her husband without an emotion that betrayed itselfin pallor and trembling and today the emotion was so marked thatAugustine's presence was at once a safeguard and an anxiety; beforeAugustine she could be sure of not breaking down, not bursting intotears of mingled gladness and wretchedness, but though he would keep herfrom betraying too much to Sir Hugh, would she not betray too much tohim? He was reading a review and laid it down as the door opened: shecould only hope that he noticed nothing. 

Sir Hugh came in quickly. At fifty-four he was still a very handsome manof a chivalrous and soldierly bearing. He had long limbs, broadshoulders and a not yet expanded waist. His nose and chin were clearlyand strongly cut, his eyes brightly blue; his moustache ran to decisivelittle points twisted up from the lip and was as decorative as anepaulette upon a martial shoulder. Pleasantness radiated from him, andthough, with years, this pleasantness was significant rather of hisgeneral attitude than of his individual interest, though his movementshad become a little indolent and his features a little heavy, thesechanges, to affectionate eyes, were merely towards a more pronouncedgeniality and contentedness. 

Today, however, geniality and contentment were less apparent. He lookedslightly nipped and hardened, and, seeming pleased to find a fire, hestood before it, after he had shaken hands with his wife and withAugustine, and said that it had been awfully cold in the train. 

"We will have tea at half past four instead of five today, then, " saidAmabel. 

But no, he replied, he couldn't stop for tea: he must catch thefour-four back to town: he had a dinner and should only just make it. 

His eye wandered a little vaguely about the room, but he brought it backto Amabel to say with a smile that the fire made up for the loss of tea. There was then a little silence during which it might have been inferredthat Sir Hugh expected Augustine to leave the room. Amabel, too, expected it; but Augustine had taken up his review and was readingagain. She felt her fear of him, her anger against him, grow. 

Very pleasantly, Sir Hugh at last suggested that he had a littlebusiness to talk over. "I think I'll ask Augustine to let us have a halfhour's talk. "

"Oh, I'll not interfere with business, " said Augustine, not lifting hiseyes. 

The silence, now, was more than uncomfortable; to Amabel it wassuffocating. She could guess too well that some latent enmity wasexpressed in Augustine's assumed unconsciousness. That Sir Hugh wassurprised, displeased, was evident; but, when he spoke again, after alittle pause, it was still pleasantly:--"Not with business, but withtalk you will interfere. I'm afraid I must ask you. --I don't often havea chance to talk with your mother. --I'll see you later, eh?"

Augustine made no reply. He rose and walked out of the room. 

Sir Hugh still stood before the fire, lifting first the sole of one bootand then the other to the blaze. "Hasn't always quite nice manners, hashe, the boy"; he observed. "I didn't want to have to send him out, youknow. "

"He didn't realize that you wanted to talk to me alone. " Amabel feltherself offering the excuse from a heart turned to stone. 

"Didn't he, do you think? Perhaps not. We always do talk alone, youknow. He's just a trifle tactless, shows a bit of temper sometimes. I'venoticed it. I hope he doesn't bother you with it. "

"No. I never saw him like that, before, " said Amabel, looking down asshe sat in her chair. 

"Well, that's all that matters, " said Sir Hugh, as if satisfied. 

His boots were quite hot now and he went to the writing-desk drawing acase of papers from his breast-pocket. 

"Here are some of your securities, Amabel, " he said: "I want a few moresignatures. Things haven't been going very well with me lately. I'd beawfully obliged if you'd help me out. "

"Oh--gladly--" she murmured. She rose and came to the desk. She hardlysaw the papers through a blur of miserable tears while she wrote hername here and there. She was shut out in the mist and dark; he wasn'tthinking of her at all; he was chill, preoccupied; something wasdispleasing him; decisively, almost sharply, he told her where to write. "You mustn't be worried, you know, " he observed as he pointed out thelast place; "I'm arranging here, you see, to pass Charlock House over toyou for good. That is a little return for all you've done. It's not avalueless property. And then Bertram tied up a good sum for the child, you know. "

His speaking of "the child, " made her heart stop beating, it brought thepast so near. --And was Charlock House to be her very own? "Oh, " shemurmured, "that is too good of you. --You mustn't do that. --Apart fromAugustine's share, all that I have is yours; I want no return. "

"Ah, but I want you to have it"; said Sir Hugh; "it will ease myconscience a little. And you really do care for the grim old place, don't you. "

"I love it. "

"Well, sign here, and here, and it's yours. There. Now you are mistressin your own home. You don't know how good you've been to me, Amabel. "

The voice was the old, kind voice, touched even, it seemed, with anunwonted feeling, and, suddenly, the tears ran down her cheeks as, looking at the papers that gave her her home, she said, faltering:--"Youare not displeased with me?--Nothing is the matter?"

He looked at her, startled, a little confused. "Why my deargirl, --displeased with you?--How could I be?--No. It's only theseconfounded affairs of mine that are in a bit of a mess just now. "

"And can't I be of even more help--without any returns? I can be soeconomical for myself, here. I need almost nothing in my quiet life. "

Sir Hugh flushed. "Oh, you've not much more to give, my dear. I've takenyou at your word. "

"Take me completely at my word. Take everything. "

"You dear little saint, " he said. He patted her shoulder. The door waswide; the fire shone upon her. She felt herself falling on her kneesbefore it, with happy tears. He, who knew all, could say that to her, with sincerity. The day of lowering fear and bewilderment opened tosudden joy. His hand was on her shoulder; she lifted it and kissed it. 

"Oh! Don't!"--said Sir Hugh. He drew his hand sharply away. There wasconfusion, irritation, in his little laugh. 

Amabel's tears stood on scarlet cheeks. Did he not understand?--Did hethink?--And was he right in thinking?--Shame flooded her. What girlishimpulse had mingled incredibly with her gratitude, her devotion?

Sir Hugh had turned away, and as she sat there, amazed with her suddensuspicion, the door opened and Augustine came in saying:--"Here is LadyElliston, Mother. "

V

Lady Elliston helped her. How that, too, brought back the past to Amabelas she rose and moved forward, before her husband and her son, to greetthe friend of twenty years ago. 

Lady Elliston, at difficult moments, had always helped her, and this wasone of the most difficult that she had ever known. Amabel forgot hertears, forgot her shame, in her intense desire that Augustine shouldguess nothing. 

"My very dear Amabel, " said Lady Elliston. She swept forward and tookboth Lady Channice's hands, holding them firmly, looking at herintently, intently smiling, as if, with her own mastery of thesituation, to give her old friend strength. "My dear, dear Amabel, " sherepeated: "How good it is to see you again. --And how lovely you are. "

She was silken, she was scarfed, she was soft and steady; as in thepast, sweetness and strength breathed from her. She was competent todeal with most calamitous situations and to make them bearable, to makethem even graceful. She could do what she would with situations: Amabelfelt that of her now as she had felt it years ago. 

Her eyes continued to gaze for a long moment into Amabel's eyes before, as softly and as steadily, they passed to Sir Hugh who was againstanding before the fire behind his wife. "How do you do, " she then saidwith a little nod. 

"How d'ye do, " Sir Hugh replied. His voice was neither soft nor steady;the sharpness, the irritation was in it. "I didn't know you were downhere, " he said. 

Over Amabel's shoulder, while she still held Amabel's hands, LadyElliston looked at him, all sweetness. "Yes: I arrived this morning. Iam staying with the Greys. "

"The Greys? How in the dickens did you run across them?" Sir Hugh askedwith a slight laugh. 

"I met them at Jack's cousin's--the nice old bishop, you know. They aretiresome people; but kind. And there is a Grey _fils_--the oldest--whomPeggy took rather a fancy to last winter, --they were hunting together inYorkshire;--and I wanted to look at him--and at the place!--"--LadyElliston's smile was all candour. "They are very solid; it's not a badplace. If the young people are really serious Jack and I might considerit; with three girls still to marry, one must be very wise andreasonable. But, of course, I came really to see you, Amabel. "

She had released Amabel's hands at last with a final soft pressure, and, as Amabel took her accustomed chair near the table, she sat down nearher and loosened her cloak and unwound her scarf, and threw back herlaces. 

"And I've been making friends with your boy, " she went on, looking up atAugustine:--"he's been walking me about the garden, saying that youmustn't be disturbed. Why haven't I been able to make friends before?Why hasn't he been to see me in London?"

"I'll bring him someday, " said Sir Hugh. "He is only just grown up, yousee. "

"I see: do bring him soon. He is charming, " said Lady Elliston, smilingat Augustine. 

Amabel remembered her pretty, assured manner of saying anypleasantness--or unpleasantness for that matter--that she chose to say;but it struck her, from this remark, that the gift had grown a littlemechanical. Augustine received it without embarrassment. Augustinealready seemed to know that this smiling guest was in the habit ofsaying that young men were charming before their faces when she wantedto be pleasant to them. Amabel seemed to see her son from across thewide chasm that had opened between them; but, looking at his figure, suddenly grown strange, she felt that Augustine's manners were 'nice. 'The fact of their niceness, of his competence--really it matched LadyElliston's--made him the more mature; and this moment of motherlyappreciation led her back to the stony wilderness where her son judgedher, with a man's, not a boy's judgment. There was no uncertainty inAugustine; his theories might be young; his character was formed; hisjudgments would not change. She forced herself not to think; but to lookand listen. 

Lady Elliston continued to talk: indeed it was she and Augustine who didmost of the talking. Sir Hugh only interjected a remark now and thenfrom his place before the fire. Amabel was able to feel a further changein him; he was displeased today, and displeased in particular, now, withLady Elliston. She thought that she could understand the vexation forhim of this irruption of his real life into the sad little corner ofkindness and duty that Charlock House and its occupants must representto him. He had seldom spoken to her about Lady Elliston; he had seldomspoken to her about any of the life that she had abandoned in abandoninghim: but she knew that Lord and Lady Elliston were near friends still, and with this knowledge she could imagine how on edge her husband mustbe when to the near friend of the real life he could allow an evensharper note to alter all his voice. Amabel heard it sadly, with a senseof confused values: nothing today was as she had expected it to be: andif she heard she was sure that Lady Elliston must hear it too, andperhaps the symptom of Lady Elliston's displeasure was that she talkedrather pointedly to Augustine and talked hardly at all to Sir Hugh: hereyes, in speaking, passed sometimes over his figure, rested sometimes, with a bland courtesy, on his face when he spoke; but Augustine wastheir object: on him they dwelt and smiled. 

The years had wrought few changes in Lady Elliston. Silken, soft, smiling, these were, still, as in the past, the words that describedher. She had triumphantly kept her lovely figure: the bright brown hair, too, had been kept, but at some little sacrifice of sincerity: LadyElliston must be nearly fifty and her shining locks showed no sign offading. Perhaps, in the perfection of her appearance and manner, therewas a hint of some sacrifice everywhere. How much she has kept, was thefirst thought; but the second came:--How much she has given up. Yes;there was the only real change: Amabel, gazing at her, somewhat as a nungazes from behind convent gratings at some bright denizen of the outerworld, felt it more and more. She was sweet, but was she not tooskilful? She was strong, but was not her strength unscrupulous? As shelistened to her, Amabel remembered old wonders, old glimpses of motivesthat stole forth reconnoitring and then retreated at the hint of rebuff, graceful and unconfused. 

There were motives now, behind that smile, that softness; motives behindthe flattery of Augustine, the blandness towards Sir Hugh, the visit toherself. Some of the motives were, perhaps, all kindness: Lady Ellistonhad always been kind; she had always been a binder of wounds, adispenser of punctual sunlight; she was one of the world's powerfullybenignant great ladies; committees clustered round her; her words ofassured wisdom sustained and guided ecclesiastical and politicalorganisations; one must be benignant, in an altruistic modern world, ifone wanted to rule. It was not a cynical nun who gazed; Lady Ellistonwas kind and Lady Elliston loved power; simply, without a sense ofblame, Amabel drew her conclusions. 

There were now lapses in Lady Elliston's fluency. Her eyes restedcontemplatively on Amabel; it was evident that she wanted to see Amabelalone. This motive was so natural a one that, although Sir Hugh seemeddetermined, at the risk of losing his train, to stay till the lastminute, he, too, felt, at last, its pressure. 

His wife saw him go with a sense of closing mists. Augustine, now moreconsiderate, followed him. She was left facing her guest. 

Only Lady Elliston could have kept the moment from being openly painfuland even Lady Elliston could not pretend to find it an easy one; but shedid not err on the side of too much tact. It was so sweetly, so gravelythat her eyes rested for a long moment of silence on her old friend, soquietly that they turned away from her rising flush, that Amabel feltold gratitudes mingling with old distrusts. 

"What a sad room this is, " said Lady Elliston, looking about it. "Is itjust as you found it, Amabel?"

"Yes, almost. I have taken away some things. "

"I wish you would take them all away and put in new ones. It might bemade into a very nice room; the panelling is good. What it needs isJacobean furniture, fine old hangings, and some bits of glass andporcelain here and there. "

"I suppose so. " Amabel's eyes followed Lady Elliston's. "I never thoughtof changing anything. "

Lady Elliston's eyes turned on hers again. "No: I suppose not, " shesaid. 

She seemed to find further meanings in the speech and took it up againwith: "I suppose not. It's strange that we should never have met in allthese years, isn't it. "

"Is it strange?"

"I've often felt it so: if you haven't, that is just part of youracceptance. You have accepted everything. It has often made me indignantto think of it. "

Amabel sat in her high-backed chair near the table. Her hands weretightly clasped together in her lap and her face, with the light fromthe windows falling upon it, was very pale. But she knew that she wascalm; that she could meet Lady Elliston's kindness with an answeringkindness; that she was ready, even, to hear Lady Elliston's questions. This, however, was not a question, and she hesitated for a moment beforesaying: "I don't understand you. "

"How well I remember that voice, " Lady Elliston smiled a little sadly:"It's the girl's voice of twenty years ago--holding me away. Can't we befrank together, now, Amabel, when we are both middle-aged women?--atleast I am middle-aged. --How it has kept you young, this strange lifeyou've led. "

"But, really, I do not understand, " Amabel murmured, confused; "I didn'tunderstand you then, sometimes. "

"Then I may be frank?"

"Yes; be frank, of course. "

"It is only that indignation that I want to express, " said LadyElliston, tentative no longer and firmly advancing. "Why are you here, in this dismal room, this dismal house? Why have you let yourself becloistered like this? Why haven't you come out and claimed things?"

Amabel's grey eyes, even in their serenity always a little wild, widenedwith astonishment. "Claimed?" she repeated. "What do you mean? Whatcould I have claimed? I have been given everything. "

"My dear Amabel, you speak as if you had deserved this imprisonment. "

There was another and a longer silence in which Amabel seemed slowly tofind meanings incredible to her before. And her reception of them wasexpressed in the changed, the hardened voice with which she said: "Youknow everything. I've always been sure you knew. How can you say suchthings to me?"

"Do not be angry with me, dear Amabel. I do not mean to offend. "

"You spoke as though you were sorry for me, as though I had beeninjured. --It touches him. "

"But, " Lady Elliston had flushed very slightly, "it does touch him. Iblame Hugh for this. He ought not to have allowed it. He ought not tohave accepted such misplaced penitence. You were a mere child, and Hughneglected you shamefully. "

"I was not a mere child, " said Amabel. "I was a sinful woman. "

Lady Elliston sat still, as if arrested and spell-bound by theunexpected words. She seemed to find no answer. And as the silence grewlong, Amabel went on, slowly, with difficulty, yet determinedly opposingand exposing the folly of the implied accusation. "You don't seem toremember the facts. I betrayed my husband. He might have cast me off. Hemight have disgraced me and my child. And he lifted me up; he shelteredme; he gave his name to the child. He has given me everything I have. You see--you must not speak of him like that to me. "

Lady Elliston had gathered herself together though still, it wasevident, bewildered. "I don't mean to blame Hugh so much. It was yourfault, too, I suppose. You asked for the cloister, I know. "

"No; I didn't ask for it. I asked to be allowed to go away and hidemyself. The cloister, too, was a gift, --like my name, my undishonouredchild. "

"Dear, dear Amabel, " said Lady Elliston, gazing at her, "how beautifulof you to be able to feel like that. "

"It isn't I who am beautiful"; Amabel's lips trembled a little now andher eyes filled suddenly with tears. Tears and trembling seemed to bringhardness rather than softening to her face; they were like a chillbreeze, like an icy veil, and the face, with its sorrow, was like awinter's landscape. 

"He is so beautiful that he would never let anyone know or understandwhat I owe him: he would never know it himself: there is somethingsimple and innocent about such men: they do beautiful thingsunconsciously. You know him well: you are far nearer him than I am: butyou can't know what the beauty is, for you have never been helpless anddisgraced and desperate nor needed anyone to lift you up. No one canknow as I do the angel in my husband. "

Lady Elliston sat silent. She received Amabel's statements steadily yetwith a little wincing, as though they had been bullets whistling pasther head; they would not pierce, if one did not move; yet an involuntarycompression of the lips and flutter of the eyelids revealed a ratherrigid self-mastery. Only after the silence had grown long did sheslightly stir, move her hand, turn her head with a deep, careful breath, and then say, almost timidly; "Then, he has lifted you up, Amabel?--Youare happy, really happy, in your strange life?"

Amabel looked down. The force of her vindicating ardour had passed fromher. With the question the hunted, haunted present flooded in. Happy?Yesterday she might have answered "yes, " so far away had the pastseemed, so forgotten the fear in which she had learned to breathe. Todaythe past was with her and the fear pressed heavily upon her heart. Sheanswered in a sombre voice: "With my past what woman could be happy. Itblights everything. "

"Oh--but Amabel--" Lady Elliston breathed forth. She leaned forward, then moved back, withdrawing the hand impulsively put out. --"Why?--Why?--"she gently urged. "It is all over: all passed: all forgotten. Don't--ahdon't let it blight anything. "

"Oh no, " said Amabel, shaking her head. "It isn't over; it isn'tforgotten; it never will be. Hugh cannot forget--though he hasforgiven. And someday, I feel it, Augustine will know. Then I shalldrink the cup of shame to the last drop. "

"Oh!--" said Lady Elliston, as if with impatience. She checked herself. "What can I say?--if you will think of yourself in this preposterousway. --As for Augustine, he does not know and how should he ever know?How could he, when no one in the world knows but you and I and Hugh. "

She paused at that, looking at Amabel's downcast face. "You notice whatI say, Amabel?"

"Yes; that isn't it. He will guess. "

"You are morbid, my poor child. --But do you notice nothing when I saythat only we three know?"

Amabel looked up. Lady Elliston met her eyes. "I came today to tell you, Amabel. I felt sure you did not know. There is no reason at all, now, why you should dread coming out into the world--with Augustine. You needfear no meetings. You did not know that he was dead. "

"He?"

"Yes. He. Paul Quentin. "

Amabel, gazing at her, said nothing. 

"He died in Italy, last week. He was married, you know, quite happily;an ordinary sort of person; she had money; he rather let his work go. But they were happy; a large family; a villa on a hill somewhere;pictures, bric-à-brac and bohemian intellectualism. You knew of hismarriage?"

"Yes; I knew. "

The tears had risen to Lady Elliston's eyes before that stricken, ashenface; she looked away, murmuring: "I wanted to tell you, when we werealone. It might have come as such an ugly shock, if you were unprepared. But, now, there is no danger anymore. And you will come out, Amabel?"

"No;--never. --It was never that. "

"But what was it then?"

Amabel had risen and was looking around her blindly. 

"It was. --I have no place but here. --Forgive me--I must go. I can't talkany more. "

"Yes; go; do go and lie down. " Lady Elliston, rising too, put an armaround her shoulders and took her hand. "I'll come again and see you. Iam going up to town for a night or so on Tuesday, but I bring Peggy downhere for the next week-end. I'll see you then. --Ah, here is Augustine, and tea. He will give me my tea and you must sleep off your headache. Your poor mother has a very bad headache, Augustine. I have tried her. Goodbye, dear, go and rest. "

VI

An hour ago Augustine had found his mother in tears; now he found herbeyond them. He gave her his arm, and, outside in the hall, prepared tomount the stairs with her; but, shaking her head, trying, with miserableunsuccess, to smile, she pointed him back to the drawing-room and to hisduties of host. 

"Ah, she is very tired. She does not look well, " said Lady Elliston. "Iam glad to see that you take good care of her. "

"She is usually very well, " said Augustine, standing over the tea-traythat had been put on the table between him and Lady Elliston. "Let'ssee: what do you have? Sugar? milk?"

"No sugar; milk, please. It's such a great pleasure to me to meet yourmother again. "

Augustine made no reply to this, handing her her cup and the plate ofbread and butter. 

"She was one of the loveliest girls I have ever seen, " Lady Ellistonwent on, helping herself. "She looked like a Madonna--and acowslip. --And she looks like that more than ever. " She had paused for amoment as an uncomfortable recollection came to her. It was Paul Quentinwho had said that: at her house. 

"Yes, " Augustine assented, pleased, "she does look like a cowslip; sheis so pale and golden and tranquil. It's funny you should say so, " hewent on, "for I've often thought it; but with me it's an association ofideas, too. Those meadows over there, beyond our lawn, are full ofcowslips in Spring and ever since I can remember we have picked themthere together. "

"How sweet"; Lady Elliston was still a little confused, by her blunder, and by his words. "What a happy life you and your mother must have had, cloistered here. I've been telling your mother that it's like acloister. I've been scolding her a little for shutting herself up in it. And now that I have this chance of talking to you I do very much want tosay that I hope you will bring her out a little more. "

"Bring her out? Where?" Augustine inquired. 

"Into the world--the world she is so fitted to adorn. It's ridiculousthis--this fad of hers, " said Lady Elliston. 

"Is it a fad?" Augustine asked, but with at once a lightness anddistance of manner. 

"Of course. And it is bad for anyone to be immured. "

"I don't think it has been bad for her. Perhaps this is more the worldthan you think. "

"I only mean bad in the sense of sad. "

"Isn't the world sad?"

"What a strange young man you are. Do you really mean to say that youlike to see your mother--your beautiful, lovely mother--imprisoned inthis gloomy place and meeting nobody from one year's end to the other?"

"I have said nothing at all about my likes, " said Augustine, smiling. 

Lady Elliston gazed at him. He startled her almost as much as his motherhad done. What a strange young man, indeed; what strange echoes of hisfather and mother in him. But she had to grope for the resemblances toPaul Quentin; they were there; she felt them; but they were difficult tosee; while it was easy to see the resemblances to Amabel. His father waslike a force, a fierceness in him, controlled and guided by an influencethat was his mother. And where had he found, at nineteen, thatassurance, an assurance without his father's vanity or his mother'sselflessness? Paul Quentin had been assured because he was so absolutelysure of his own value; Amabel was assured because, in her own eyes, shewas valueless; this young man seemed to be without self-reference orself-effacement; but he was quite self-assured. Had he some mentaltalisman by which he accurately gauged all values, his own included? Heseemed at once so oddly above yet of the world. She pulled herselftogether to remember that he was, only, nineteen, and that she had hadmotives in coming, and that if these motives had been good they were nowbetter. 

"You have said nothing; but I am going to ask you to say something"; shesmiled back at him. "I am going to ask you to say that you will take meon trust. I am your friend and your mother's friend. "

"Since when, my mother's?" Augustine asked. His amiability of aspectremained constant. 

"Since twenty years. "

"Twenty years in which you have not seen your friend. "

"I know that that looks strange. But when one shuts oneself away into acloister one shuts out friends. "

"Does one?"

"You won't trust me?"

"I don't know anything about you, except that you have made my motherill and that you want something of me. "

"My dear young man I, at all events, know one thing about you veryclearly, and that is that I trust you. "

"I want nothing of you, " said Augustine, but he still smiled, so thathis words did not seem discourteous. 

"Nothing? Really nothing? I am your mother's friend, and you wantnothing of me? I have sought her out; I came today to see andunderstand; I have not made her ill; she was nearly crying when we cameinto the room, you and I, a little while ago. What I see and understandmakes me sad and angry. And I believe that you, too, see and understand;I believe that you, too, are sad and angry. And I want to help you. Iwant you, when you come into the world, as you must, to bring yourmother. I'll be waiting there for you both. I am a sort offairy-godmother. I want to see justice done. "

"I suppose you mean that you are angry with my father and want to seejustice done on him, " said Augustine after a pause. 

Again Lady Elliston sat suddenly still, as if another, an unexpectedbullet, had whizzed past her. "What makes you say that?" she asked aftera moment. 

"What you have said and what you have seen. He had been making her cry, "said Augustine. He was still calm, but now, under the calm, she heard, like the thunder of the sea in caverns deep beneath a placid headland, the muffled sound of a hidden, a dark indignation. 

"Yes, " she said, looking into his eyes; "that made me angry; and that heshould take all her money from her, as I am sure he does, and leave herto live like this. "

Augustine's colour rose. He turned away his eyes and seemed to ponder. 

"I do want something of you, after all; the answer to one question, " hesaid at last. "Is it because of him that she is cloistered here?"

In a flash Lady Elliston had risen to her emergency, her opportunity. She was grave, she was ready, and she was very careful. 

"It was her own choice, " she said. 

Augustine pondered again. He, too, was grave and careful She saw how, making use of her proffered help, he yet held her at a distance. "Thatdoes not answer my question, " he said. "I will put it in another way. Isit because of some evil in his life that she is cloistered?"

Lady Elliston sat before him in one of the high-backed chairs; the lightwas behind her: the delicate oval of her face maintained its steadyattitude: in the twilit room Augustine could see her eyes fixed verystrangely upon him. She, too, was perhaps pondering. When at last shespoke, she rose in speaking, as if her answer must put an end to theirencounter, as if he must feel, as well as she, that after her answerthere could be no further question. 

"Not altogether, for that, " she said; "but, yes, in part it is becauseof what you would call an evil in his life that she is cloistered. "

Augustine walked with her to the door and down the stone passageoutside, where a strip of faded carpet hardly kept one's feet from thecold. He was nearer to her in this curious moment of their parting thanhe had been at all. He liked Lady Elliston in her last response; it wasnot the wish to see justice wreaked that had made it; it was mere truth. 

When they had reached the hall door, he opened it for her and in thefading light he saw that she was very pale. The Grey's dog-cart wasgoing slowly round and round the gravel drive. Lady Elliston did notlook at him. She stood waiting for the groom to see her. 

"What you asked me was asked in confidence, " she said; "and what I havetold you is told in confidence. "

"It wasn't new to me; I had guessed it, " said Augustine. "But yourconfirmation of what I guessed is in confidence. "

"I have been your father's life-long friend, " said Lady Elliston; "He isnot an evil man. "

"I understand. I don't misjudge him. "

"I don't want to see justice done on him, " said Lady Elliston. The groomhad seen her and the dog-cart, with a brisk rattle of wheels, drew up tothe door. "It isn't a question of that; I only want to see justice done_for_ her. "

All through she had been steady; now she was sweet again. "I want tofree her. I want you to free her. And--whenever you do--I shall bewaiting to give her to the world again. "

They looked at each other now and Augustine could answer, with anothersmile; "You are the world, I suppose. "

"Yes; I am the world, " she accepted. "The actual fairy-godmother, with amagic wand that can turn pumpkins into coaches and put Cinderellas intotheir proper places. "

Augustine had handed her up to her seat beside the groom. He tucked herrug about her. If he had laid aside anything to meet her on her ownground, he, too, had regained it now. 

"But does the world always know what _is_ the proper place?" was hisfinal remark as she drove off. 

She did not know that she could have found an answer to it. 

VII

Amabel was sitting beside her window when her son came in and the faceshe turned on him was white and rigid. 

"My dear mother, " said Augustine, coming up to her, "how pale you are. "

She had been sitting there for all that time, tearless, in a stupor ofmisery. Yes, she answered him, she was very tired. 

Augustine stood over her looking out of the window. "A little walkwouldn't do you good?" he asked. 

No, she answered, her head ached too badly. 

She could find nothing to say to him: the truth that lay so icily uponher heart was all that she could have said: "I am your guilty mother. Irobbed you of your father. And your father is dead, unmourned, unloved, almost forgotten by me. " For that was the poison in her misery, to knowthat for Paul Quentin she felt almost nothing. To hear that he had diedwas to hear that a ghost had died. 

What would Augustine say to her if the truth were spoken? It was now alooming horror between them. It shut her from him and it shut him away. 

"Oh, do come out, " said Augustine after a moment: "the evening's sofine: it will do you good; and there's still a bit of sunset to beseen. "

She shook her head, looking away from him. 

"Is it really so bad as that?"

"Yes; very bad. "

"Can't I do anything? Get you anything?"

"No, thank you. "

"I'm so sorry, " said Augustine, and, suddenly, but gravely, deliberately, he stooped and kissed her. 

"Oh--don't!--don't!" she gasped. She thrust him away, turning her faceagainst the chair. "Don't: you must leave me. --I am so unhappy. "

The words sprang forth: she could not repress them, nor the gush ofmiserable tears. 

If Augustine was horrified he was silent. He stood leaning over her fora moment and then went out of the room. 

She lay fallen in her chair, weeping convulsively. The past was withher; it had seized her and, in her panic-stricken words, it had thrusther child away. What would happen now? What would Augustine say? Whatwould he ask? If he said nothing and asked nothing, what would he think?

She tried to gather her thoughts together, to pray for light andguidance; but, like a mob of blind men locked out from sanctuary, thepoor, wild thoughts only fled about outside the church and fumbled atthe church door. Her very soul seemed shut against her. 

She roused herself at last, mechanically telling herself that she mustgo through with it; she must dress and go down to dinner and she mustfind something to say to Augustine, something that would make what hadhappened to them less sinister and inexplicable. 

--Unless--it seemed like a mad cry raised by one of the blind men in thedark, --unless she told him all, confessed all; her guilt, her shame, thetruths of her blighted life. She shuddered; she cowered as the cry cameto her, covering her ears and shutting it out. It was mad, mad. She hadnot strength for such a task, and if that were weakness--oh, with a longbreath she drew in the mitigation--if it were weakness, would it not bea cruel, a heartless strength that could blight her child's life too, inthe name of truth. She must not listen to the cry. Yet strangely it hadechoed in her, almost as if from within, not from without, the dark, deserted church; almost as if her soul, shut in there in the darkness, were crying out to her. She turned her mind from the sick fancy. 

Augustine met her at dinner. He was pale but he seemed composed. Theyspoke little. He said, in answer to her questioning, that he had quiteliked Lady Elliston; yes, they had had a nice talk; she seemed veryfriendly; he should go and see her when he next went up to London. 

Amabel felt the crispness in his voice but, centered as she was in herown self-mastery, she could not guess at the degree of his. 

After dinner they went into the drawing-room, where the old, ugly lampadded its light to the candles on the mantel-piece. 

Augustine took his book and sat down at one side of the table. Amabelsat at the other. She, too, took a book and tried to read; a little timepassed and then she found that her hands were trembling so much that shecould not. She slid the book softly back upon the table, reaching outfor her work-bag. She hoped Augustine had not seen, but, glancing up athim, she saw his eyes upon her. 

Augustine's eyes looked strange tonight. The dark rims around the irisseemed to have expanded. Suddenly she felt horribly afraid of him. 

They gazed at each other, and she forced herself to a trembling, meaningless smile. And when she smiled at him he sprang up and came toher. He leaned over her, and she shrank back into her chair, shuttingher eyes. 

"You must tell me the truth, " said Augustine. "I can't bear this. _He_has made you unhappy. --_He_ comes between us. "

She lay back in the darkness, hearing the incredible words. 

"He?--What do you mean?"

"He is a bad man. And he makes you miserable. And you love him. "

She heard the nightmare: she could not look at it. 

"My husband bad? He is good, more good than you can guess. What do youmean by speaking so?"

With closed eyes, shutting him out, she spoke, anger and terror in hervoice. 

Augustine lifted himself and stood with his hands clenched looking ather. 

"You say that because you love him. You love him more than anything oranyone in the world. "

"I do. I love him more than anyone or anything in the world. How haveyou dared--in silence--in secret--to nourish these thoughts against theman who has given you all you have. "

"He hasn't given me all I have. You are everything in my life and he isnothing. He is selfish. He is sensual. He is stupid. He doesn't knowwhat beauty or goodness is. I hate him, " said Augustine. 

Her eyes at last opened on him. She grasped her chair and raisedherself. Whose hands were these, desecrating her holy of holies. Herson's? Was it her son who spoke these words? An enemy stood before her. 

"Then you do not love me. If you hate him you do not love me, "--heranger had blotted out her fear, but she could find no other than thesechildish words and the tears ran down her face. 

"And if you love him you cannot love me, " Augustine answered. Hisself-mastery was gone. It was a fierce, wild anger that stared back ather. His young face was convulsed and livid. 

"It is you who are bad to have such false, base thoughts!" his mothercried, and her eyes in their indignation, their horror, struck at him, accused him, thrust him forth. "You are cruel--and hard--andself-righteous. --You do not love me. --There is no tenderness in yourheart!"--

Augustine burst into tears. "There is no room in your heart for me!--"he gasped. He turned from her and rushed out of the room. 

 * * * * *

A long time passed before she leaned forward in the chair where she hadsat rigidly, rested her elbows on her knees, buried her face in herhands. 

Her heart ached and her mind was empty: that was all she knew. It hadbeen too much. This torpor of sudden weakness was merciful. Now shewould go to bed and sleep. 

It took her a long time to go upstairs; her head whirled, and if she hadnot clung to the baluster she would have fallen. 

In the passage above she paused outside Augustine's door and listened. She heard him move inside, walking to his window, to lean out into thenight, probably, as was his wont. That was well. He, too, would sleeppresently. 

In her room she said to her maid that she did not need her. It took herbut a few minutes tonight to prepare for bed. She could not even braidher uncoiled hair. She tossed it, all loosened, above her head as shefell upon the pillow. 

She heard, for a little while, the dull thumping of her heart. Herbreath was warm in a mesh of hair beneath her cheek; she was too sleepyto put it away. She was wakened next morning by the maid. Her curtainswere drawn and a dull light from a rain-blotted world was in the room. 

The maid brought a note to her bedside. From Mr. Augustine, she said. 

Amabel raised herself to hold the sheet to the light and read:--

"Dear mother, " it said. "I think that I shall go and stay with Wallacefor a week or so. I shall see you before I go up to Oxford. Try toforgive me for my violence last night. I am sorry to have added to yourunhappiness. Your affectionate son--Augustine. "

Her mind was still empty. "Has Mr. Augustine gone?" she asked the maid. 

"Yes, ma'am; he left quite early, to catch the eight-forty train. "

"Ah, yes, " said Amabel. She sank back on her pillow. "I will have mybreakfast in bed. Tea, please, only, and toast. "--Then, the long habitof self-discipline asserting itself, the necessity for keeping strength, if it were only to be spent in suffering:--"No, coffee, and an egg, too. "

She found, indeed, that she was very hungry; she had eaten nothingyesterday. After her bath and the brushing and braiding of her hair, itwas pleasant to lie propped high on her pillows and to drink her hotcoffee. The morning papers, too, were nice to look at, folded on hertray. She did not wish to read them; but they spoke of a firmlyestablished order, sustaining her life and assuring her of ample pillowsto lie on and hot coffee to drink, assuring her that bodily comfortswere pleasant whatever else was painful. It was a childish, a stillstupefied mood, she knew, but it supported her; an oasis of thefamiliar, the safe, in the midst of whirling, engulfing storms. 

It supported her through the hours when she lay, with closed eyes, listening to the pour and drip of the rain, when, finally deciding toget up, she rose and dressed very carefully, taking all her time. 

Below, in the drawing-room, when she entered, it was very dark. The firewas unlit, the bowls of roses were faded; and sudden, childish tearsfilled her eyes at the desolateness. On such a day as this Augustinewould have seen that the fire was burning, awaiting her. She foundmatches and lighted it herself and the reluctantly creeping brightnessmade the day feel the drearier; it took a long time even to warm herfoot as she stood before it, leaning her arm on the mantel-piece. 

It was Saturday; she should not see her girls today; there was relief inthat, for she did not think that she could have found anything to say tothem this morning. 

Looking at the roses again, she felt vexed with the maid for having leftthem there in their melancholy. She rang and spoke to her almost sharplytelling her to take them away, and when she had gone felt the tears risewith surprise and compunction for the sharpness. 

There would be no fresh flowers in the room today, it was raining toohard. If Augustine had been here he would have gone out and found hersome wet branches of beech or sycamore to put in the vases: he knew howshe disliked a flowerless, leafless room, a dislike he shared. 

How the rain beat down. She stood looking out of the window at thesodden earth, the blotted shapes of the trees. Beyond the nearestmeadows it was like a grey sheet drawn down, confusing earth and sky andshutting vision into an islet. 

She hoped that Augustine had taken his mackintosh. He was very forgetfulabout such things. She went out to look into the bleak, stone hall hungwith old hunting prints that were dimmed and spotted with age and damp. Yes, it was gone from its place, and his ulster, too. It had been aconsidered, not a hasty departure. A tweed cloak that he often wore ontheir walks hung there still and, vaguely, as though she soughtsomething, she turned it, looked at it, put her hands into the worn, capacious pockets. All were empty except one where she found somewithered gorse flowers. Augustine was fond of stripping off the goldenblossoms as they passed a bush, of putting his nose into the handful offragrance, and then holding it out for her to smell it, too:--"Is itapricots, or is it peaches?" she could hear him say. 

She went back into the drawing-room holding the withered flowers. Theirfragrance was all gone, but she did not like to burn them. She held themand bent her face to them as she stood again looking out. He would bynow have reached his destination. Wallace was an Eton friend, a niceboy, who had sometimes stayed at Charlock House. He and Augustine wereperhaps already arguing about Nietzsche. 

Strange that her numbed thoughts should creep along this path of custom, of maternal associations and solicitudes, forgetful of fear and sorrow. The recognition came with a sinking pang. Reluctantly, unwillingly, hermind was forced back to contemplate the catastrophe that had befallenher. He was her judge, her enemy: yet, on this dismal day, how shemissed him. She leaned her head against the window-frame and the tearsfell and fell. 

If he were there, could she not go to him and take his hand and saythat, whatever the deep wounds they had dealt each other, they neededeach other too much to be apart. Could she not ask him to take her back, to forgive her, to love her? Ah--there full memory rushed in. Her heartseemed to pant and gasp in the sudden coil. Take him back? When it washer steady fear as well as her sudden anger that had banished him, hethought he loved her, but that was because he did not know and it wasthe anger rather than the love of Augustine's last words that came toher. He loved her because he believed her good, and that imaginarygoodness cast a shadow on her husband. To believe her good Augustine hadbeen forced to believe evil of the man she loved and to whom they bothowed everything. 

He had said that he was shut out from her heart, and it was true, andher heart broke in seeing it. But it was by more than the sacred lovefor her husband that her child was shut out. Her past, her guilt, waswith her and stood as a barrier between them. She was separated from himfor ever. And, looking round the room, suddenly terrified, it seemed toher that Augustine was dead and that she was utterly alone. 

VIII

She did not write to Augustine for some days. There seemed nothing thatshe could say. To say that she forgave him might seem to put aside tooeasily the deep wrong he had done her and her husband; to say that shelonged to see him and that, in spite of all, her heart was his, seemedto make deeper the chasm of falseness between them. 

The rain fell during all these days. Sometimes a pale evening sunsetwould light the western horizon under lifted clouds and she could walkout and up and down the paths, among her sodden rose-trees, or down intothe wet, dark woods. Sometimes at night she saw a melancholy starshining here and there in the vaporous sky. But in the morning the greysheet dropped once more between her and the outer world, and the soundof the steady drip and beat was like an outer echo to her innerwretchedness. 

It was on the fourth day that wretchedness turned to bitterrestlessness, and that to a sudden resolve. Not to write, not even tosay she forgave, might make him think that her heart was still hardenedagainst him. Her fear had blunted her imagination. Clearly now she saw, and with an anguish in the vision, that Augustine must be suffering too. Clearly she heard the love in his parting words. And she longed so tosee, to hear that love again, that the longing, as if with suddenimpatience of the hampering sense of sin, rushed into words that mightbring him. 

She wrote:--"My dear Augustine. I miss you very much. Isn't this dismalweather. I am feeling better. I need not tell you that I do forgive youfor the mistake that hurts us both. " Then she paused, for her heartcried out "Oh--come back soon"; but she did not dare yield to that cry. She hardly knew that, with uncertain fingers, she only repeatedagain:--"I miss you very much. Your affectionate mother. "

This was on the fourth day. 

On the afternoon of the fifth she stood, as she so often stood, lookingout at the drawing-room window. She was looking and listening, detachedfrom what she saw, yet absorbed, too, for, as with her son, thiswatchfulness of natural things was habitual to her. 

It was still raining, but more fitfully: a wind had risen and against ascudding sky the sycamores tossed their foliage, dark or pale by turnsas the wind passed over them. A broad pool of water, dapplingincessantly with rain-drops, had formed along the farther edge of thewalk where it slanted to the lawn: it was this pool that Amabel waswatching and the bobbin-like dance of drops that looked like littleglass thimbles. The old leaden pipes, curiously moulded, that ran downthe house beside the windows, splashed and gurgled loudly. The noise ofthe rushing, falling water shut out other sounds. Gazing at the dancingthimbles she was unaware that someone had entered the room behind her. 

Suddenly two hands were laid upon her shoulders. 

The shock, going through her, was like a violent electric discharge. Shetingled from head to foot, and almost with terror. "Augustine!" shegasped. But the shock was to change, yet grow, as if some alien forcehad penetrated her and were disintegrating every atom of her blood. 

"No, not Augustine, " said her husband's voice: "But you can be glad tosee me, can't you, Amabel?"

He had taken off his hands now and she could turn to him, could see hisbright, smiling face looking at her, could feel him as somethingwonderful and radiant filling the dismal day, filling her dismal heart, with its presence. But the shock still so trembled in her that she didnot move from her place or speak, leaning back upon the window as shelooked at him, --for he was very near, --and putting her hands upon thewindow-sill on either side. "You didn't expect to see me, did you, " SirHugh said. 

She shook her head. Never, never, in all these years, had he come again, so soon. Months, always, sometimes years, had elapsed between hisvisits. 

"The last time didn't count, did it, " he went on, in speech vague anddesultory yet, at the same time, intent and bright in look. "I was sobothered; I behaved like a selfish brute; I'm sure you felt it. And youwere so particularly kind and good--and dear to me, Amabel. "

She felt herself flushing. He stood so near that she could not moveforward and he must read the face, amazed, perplexed, incredulous of itsjoy, yet all lighted from his presence, that she kept fixed on him. Forah, what joy to see him, to feel that here, here alone of all the world, was she safe, consoled, known yet cared for. He who understood all as noone else in the world understood, could stand and smile at her likethat. 

"You look thin, and pale, and tired, " were his next words. "What haveyou been doing to yourself? Isn't Augustine here? You're not alone?"

"Yes; I am alone. Augustine is staying with the Wallace boy. "

With the mention of Augustine the dark memory came, but it was now ofsomething dangerous and hostile shut away, yes, safely shut away, bythis encompassing brightness, this sweetness of intent solicitude. Sheno longer yearned to see Augustine. 

Sir Hugh looked at her for some moments, when, she said that she wasalone, without speaking. "That is nice for me, " he then said. "But howmiserable, --for you, --it must have been. What a shame that you shouldhave been left alone in this dull place, --and this wretched weather, too!--Did you ever see such weather. " He looked past her at the rain. 

"It has been wretched, " said Amabel; but she spoke, as she felt, in thepast: nothing seemed wretched now. 

"And you were staring out so hard, that you never heard me, " He camebeside her now, as if to look out, too, and, making room for him, shealso turned and they looked out at the rain together. 

"A filthy day, " said Sir Hugh, "I can't bear to think that this is whatyou have been doing, all alone. "

"I don't mind it, I have the girls, on three mornings, you know. "

"You mean that you don't mind it because you are so used to it?"

She had regained some of her composure:--for one thing he was besideher, no longer blocking her way back into the room. "I like solitude, you know, " she was able to smile. 

"Really like it?"

"Sometimes. "

"Better than the company of some people, you mean?"

"Yes. "

"But not better than mine, " he smiled back. "Come, do encourage me, andsay that you are glad to see me. "

In her joy the bewilderment was growing, but she said that, of course, she was glad to see him. 

"I've been so bored, so badgered, " said Sir Hugh, stretching himself alittle as though to throw off the incubus of tiresome memories; "andthis morning when I left a dull country house, I said to myself: Why notgo down and see Amabel?--I don't believe she will mind. --I believe that, perhaps, she'll be pleased. --I know that I want to go very much. --Sohere I am:--very glad to be here--with dear Amabel. "

She looked out, silent, blissful, and perplexed. 

He was not hard; he was not irritated; all trace of vexed preoccupationwas gone; but he was not the Sir Hugh that she had seen for all thesetwenty years. He was new, and yet he reminded her of something, and thememory moved towards her through a thick mist of years, moved like alight through mist. Far, sweet, early things came to her as its heralds;the sound of brooks running; the primrose woods where she had wanderedas a girl; the singing of prophetic birds in Spring. The past had nevercome so near as now when Sir Hugh--yes, there it was, the fair, farlight--was making her remember their long past courtship. And a shudderof sweetness went through her as she remembered, of sweetness yet ofunutterable sadness, as though something beautiful and dead had beenshown to her. She seemed to lean, trembling, to kiss the lips of abeautiful dead face, before drawing over it the shroud that must coverit for ever. 

Sir Hugh was silent also. Her silence, perhaps, made him conscious ofmemories. Presently, looking behind them, he said:--"I'm keeping youstanding. Shall we go to the fire?"

She followed him, bending a little to the fire, her arm on themantel-shelf, a hand held out to the blaze. Sir Hugh stood on the otherside. She was not thinking of herself, hardly of him. Suddenly he tookthe dreaming hand, stooped to it, and kissed it. He had released itbefore she had time to know her own astonishment. 

"You did kiss mine, you know, " he smiled, leaning his arm, too, on themantel-shelf and looking at her with gaily supplicating eyes. "Don't beangry. "

The shroud had dropped: the past was gone: she was once more in thepresent of oppressive, of painful joy. 

She would have liked to move away and take her chair at some distance;but that would have looked like flight; foolish indeed. She summoned hercommon-sense, her maturity, her sorrow, to smile back, to say in a voiceshe strove to make merely light: "Unusual circumstances excused me. "

"Unusual circumstances?"

"You had been very kind. I was very grateful. "

Sir Hugh for a moment was silent, looking at her with his intent, interrogatory gaze. "You are always kind to me, " he then said. "I amalways grateful. So may I always kiss your hand?"

Her eyes fell before his. "If you wish to, " she answered gravely. 

"You frighten me a little, do you know, " said Sir Hugh. "Please don'tfrighten me. --Are you really angry?--_I_ don't frighten you?"

"You bewilder me a little, " Amabel murmured. She looked into the fire, near tears, indeed, in her bewilderment; and Sir Hugh looked at her, looked hard and carefully, at her noble figure, her white hands, thegold and white of her leaning head. He looked, as if measuring thedegree of his own good fortune. 

"You are so lovely, " he then said quietly. 

She blushed like a girl. 

"You are the most beautiful woman I know, " said Sir Hugh. "There is noone like you, " He put his hand out to hers, and, helplessly, she yieldedit. "Amabel, do you know, I have fallen in love with you. "

She stood looking at him, stupefied; her eyes ecstatic and appalled. 

"Do I displease you?" asked Sir Hugh. 

She did not answer. 

"Do I please you?" Still she gazed at him, speechless. 

"Do you care at all for me?" he asked, and, though grave, he smiled alittle at her in asking the question. How could he not know that, foryears, she had cared for him more than for anything, anyone?

And when he asked her this last question, the oppression was too great. She drew her hand from his, and laid her arms upon the mantel-shelf andhid her face upon them. It was a helpless confession. It was a helplessappeal. 

But the appeal was not understood, or was disregarded. In a moment herhusband's arms were about her. 

This was new. This was not like their courtship. --Yet, it remindedher, --of what did it remind her as he murmured words of victory, claspedher and kissed her? It reminded her of Paul Quentin. In the midst of theamazing joy she knew that the horror was as great. 

"Ah don't!--how can you!--how can you!" she said. 

She drew away from him but he would not let her go. 

"How can I? How can I do anything else?" he laughed, in easy yet excitedtriumph. "You do love me--you darling nun!"

She had freed her hands and covered her face: "I beg of you, " sheprayed. 

The agony of her sincerity was too apparent. Sir Hugh unclasped hisarms. She went to her chair, sat down, leaned on the table, stillcovering her eyes. So she had leaned, years ago, with hidden face, intelling Bertram of the coming of the child. It seemed to her now thather shame was more complete, more overwhelming. And, though itoverwhelmed her, her bliss was there; the golden and the black streamsran together. 

"Dearest, --should I have been less sudden?" Sir Hugh was beside her, leaning over her, reasoning, questioning, only just not caressing her. "It's not as if we didn't know each other, Amabel: we have beenstrangers, in a sense;--yet, through it all--all these years--haven't wefelt near?--Ah darling, you can't deny it;--you can't deny you love me. "His arm was pressing her. 

"Please--" she prayed again, and he moved his hand further away, beyondher crouching shoulder. 

"You are such a little nun that you can't bear to be loved?--Is that it?But you'll have to learn again. You are more than a nun: you are abeautiful woman: young; wonderfully young. It's astonishing how like agirl you are. "--Sir Hugh seemed to muse over a fact that allured. "Andhowever like a nun you've lived--you can't deny that you love me. "

"You haven't loved me, " Amabel at last could say. 

He paused, but only for a moment. "Perhaps not: but, " his voice had nowthe delicate aptness that she remembered, "how could I believe thatthere was a chance for me? How could I think you could ever come tocare, like this, when you had left me--you know--Amabel. "

She was silent, her mind whirling. And his nearness, as he leaned overher, was less ecstasy than terror. It was as if she only knew her love, her sacred love again, when he was not near. 

"It's quite of late that I've begun to wonder, " said Sir Hugh. "Stupidass of course, not to have seen the jewel I held in my hand. But you'veonly showed me the nun, you darling. I knew you cared, but I never knewhow much. --I ought to have had more self-conceit, oughtn't I?"

"I have cared. You have been all that is beautiful. --I have cared morethan for anything. --But--oh, it could not have been this. --This wouldhave killed me with shame, " said Amabel. 

"With shame? Why, you strange angel?"

"Can you ask?" she said in a trembling voice. 

His hand caressed her hair, slipped around her neck. "You nun; yousaint. --Does that girlish peccadillo still haunt you?"

"Don't--oh don't--call it that--call me that!--"

"Call you a saint? But what else are you?--a beautiful saint. What otherwoman could have lived the life you've lived? It's wonderful. "

"Don't. I cannot bear it. "

"Can't bear to be called a saint? Ah, but, you see, that's just why youare one. "

She could not speak. She could not even say the only answering word: asinner. Her hands were like leaden weights upon her brows. In thedarkness she heard her heart beating heavily, and tried and tried tocatch some fragment of meaning from her whirling thoughts. 

And as if her self-condemnation were a further enchantment, her husbandmurmured: "It makes you all the lovelier that you should feel like that. It makes me more in love with you than ever: but forget it now. Let memake you forget it. I can. --Darling, your beautiful hair. I rememberit;--it is as beautiful as ever. --I remember it;--it fell to yourknees. --Let me see your face, Amabel. "

She was shuddering, shrinking from him. --"Oh--no--no. --Do you notsee--not feel--that it is impossible--"

"Impossible! Why?--My darling, you are my wife;--and if you love me?--"

They were whirling impossibilities; she could see none clearly but onethat flashed out for her now in her extremity of need, bright, ominous, accusing. She seized it:--"Augustine. "

"Augustine? What of him?" Sir Hugh's voice had an edge to it. 

"He could not bear it. It would break his heart. "

"What has he to do with it? He isn't all your life:--you've given himmost of it already. "

"He is, he must be, all my life, except that beautiful part that youwere:--that you are:--oh you will stay my friend!"--

"I'll stay your lover, your determined lover and husband, Amabel. Darling, you are ridiculous, enchanting--with your barriers, yourscruples. " The fear, the austerity, he felt in her fanned his ardour toflame. His arms once more went round her; he murmured words oflover-like pleading, rapturous, wild and foolish. And, though her love, her sacred love for him was there, his love for her was a nightmare toher now. She had lost herself, and it was as though she lost him, whilehe pleaded thus. And again and again she answered, resolute andtormented:--"No: no: never--never. Do not speak so to me. --Do not--I begof you. "

Suddenly he released her. He straightened himself, and moved away fromher a little. Someone had entered. 

Amabel dropped her hands and raised her eyes at last. Augustine stoodbefore them. 

Augustine had on still his long travelling coat; his cap, beaded withraindrops, was in his hand; his yellow hair was ruffled. He had enteredhastily. He stood there looking at them, transfixed, yet not astonished. He was very pale. 

For some moments no one of them spoke. Sir Hugh did not move furtherfrom his wife's side: he was neither anxious nor confused; but his facewore an involuntary scowl. 

The deep confusion was Amabel's. But her husband had released her; nolonger pleaded; and with the lifting of that dire oppression therealities of her life flooded her almost with relief. It was impossible, this gay, this facile, this unseemly love, but, as she rejected and putit from her, the old love was the stronger, cherished the more closely, in atonement and solicitude, the man shrunk from and repulsed. And inall the deep confusion, before her son, --that he should find her so, almost in her husband's arms, --a flash of clarity went through her mindas she saw them thus confronted. Deeper than ever between her andAugustine was the challenge of her love and his hatred; but it was thatsacred love that now needed safeguards; she could not feel it when herhusband was near and pleading; Augustine was her refuge from oppression. 

She rose and went to him and timidly clasped his arm. "Dear Augustine, Iam so glad you have come back. I have missed you so. "

He stood still, not responding to her touch: but, as she held him, helooked across the room at Sir Hugh. "You wrote you missed me. That's whyI came. "

Sir Hugh now strolled to the fire and stood before it, turning to faceAugustine's gaze; unperturbed; quite at ease. 

"How wet you are dear, " said Amabel. "Take off this coat. "

Augustine stripped it off and flung it on a chair. She could hear hisquick breathing: he did not look at her. And still it seemed to her thatit was his anger rather than his love that protected her. 

"He will want to change, dearest, " said Sir Hugh from before the fire. "And, --I want to finish my talk with you. "

Augustine now looked at his mother, at the blush that overwhelmed her asthat possessive word was spoken. "Do you want me to go?"

"No, dear, no. --It is only the coat that is wet, isn't it. Don't go: Iwant to see you, of course, after your absence. --Hugh, you will excuseus; it seems such a long time since I saw him. You and I will finish ourtalk on another day. --Or I will write to you. "

She knew what it must look like to her husband, this weak recourse tothe protection of Augustine's presence; it looked like bashfulness, afurther feminine wile, made up of self-deception and allurement, aputting off of final surrender for the greater sweetness of delay. Andas the reading of him flashed through her it brought a strange pang ofshame, for him; of regret, for something spoiled. 

Sir Hugh took out his watch and looked at it. "Five o'clock. I told thestation fly to come back for me at five fifteen. You'll give me sometea, dearest?"

"Of course;--it is time now. --Augustine, will you ring?"

The miserable blush covered her again. 

The tea came and they were silent while the maid set it out. Augustinehad thrown himself into a chair and stared before him. Sir Hugh, verymuch in possession, kept his place before the fire. Catching Amabel'seye he smiled at her. He was completely assured. How should he not be?What, for his seeing, could stand between them now?

When the maid was gone and Amabel was making tea, he came and stood overher, his hands in his pockets, his handsome head bent to her, talkinglightly, slightly jesting, his voice pitched intimately for her ear, yetnot so intimately that any unkindness of exclusion should appear. Augustine could hear all he said and gauge how deep was an intimacy thatcould wear such lightness, such slightness, as its mask. 

Augustine, meanwhile, looked at neither his mother nor Sir Hugh. Turnedfrom them in his chair he put out his hand for his tea and stared beforehim, as if unseeing and unhearing, while he drank it. 

It was for her sake, Amabel knew, that Sir Hugh, raising his voicepresently, as though aware of the sullen presence, made a little effortto lift the gloom. "What sort of a time have you had, Augustine?" heasked. "Was the weather at Haversham as bad as everywhere else?"

Augustine did not turn his head in replying:--"Quite as bad, I fancy. "

"You and young Wallace hammered at metaphysics, I suppose. "

"We did. "

"Nice lad. "

To this Augustine said nothing. 

"They're such a solemn lot, the youths of this generation, " said SirHugh, addressing Amabel as well as Augustine: "In my day we neverbothered ourselves much about things: at least the ones I knew didn't. Awfully empty and frivolous. Augustine and his friends would havethought us. Where we used to talk about race horses they talk about theAbsolute, --eh, Augustine? We used to go and hear comic-operas and theygo and hear Brahms. I suppose you do go and hear Brahms, Augustine?"

Augustine maintained his silence as though not conceiving that thesportive question required an answer and Amabel said for him that he wasvery fond of Brahms. 

"Well, I must be off, " said Sir Hugh. "I hope your heart will ache everso little for me, Amabel, when you think of the night you've turned meout into. "

"Oh--but--I don't turn, you out, "--she stammered, rising, as, in a gayfarewell, he looked at her. 

"No? Well, I'm only teasing. I could hardly have managed to stay thistime--though, --I might have managed, Amabel--. I'll come again soon, very soon, " said Sir Hugh. 

"No, " her hand was in his and she knew that Augustine had turned hishead and was looking at them:--"No, dear Hugh. Not soon, please. I willwrite. " Sir Hugh looked at her smiling. He glanced at Augustine; thenback at her, rallying her, affectionately, threateningly, determinedly, for her foolish feints. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "Write, if you want to; but I'm coming, " he said. He nodded to Augustineand left the room. 

IX

It was, curiously enough, a crippling awkwardness and embarrassment thatAmabel felt rather than fear or antagonism, during that evening and themorning that followed. Augustine had left the room directly after SirHugh's departure. When she saw him again he showed her a face resolutelymute. It was impossible to speak to him; to explain. The main facts hemust see; that her husband was making love to her and that, however deepher love for him, she rejected him. 

Augustine might believe that rejection to be for his own sake, mightbelieve that she renounced love and sacrificed herself from a maternalsense of duty; and, indeed, the impossibility of bringing that love intoher life with Augustine had been the clear impossibility that hadflashed for her in her need; she had seized upon it and it had armed herin her reiterated refusal. But how tell Augustine that there had beenmore than the clear impossibility; how tell him that deeper thanrenouncement was recoil? To tell that would be a disloyalty to herhusband; it would be almost to accuse him; it would be to show Augustinethat something in her life was spoiled and that her husband had spoiledit. So perplexed, so jaded, was she, so tossed by the conflictingcurrents of her lesser plight, that the deeper fears were forgotten: shewas not conscious of being afraid of Augustine. 

The rain had ceased next morning. The sky was crystalline; the wet earthglittered in Autumnal sunshine. 

Augustine went out for his ride and Amabel had her girls to read with. There was a sense of peace for her in finding these threads of her lifeunknotted, smooth and simple, lying ready to her hand. 

When she saw Augustine at lunch he said that he had met Lady Elliston. 

"She was riding with Marjory and her girl. "

"Oh, she is back, then. " Amabel was grateful to him for his everydaytone. 

"What is Lady Elliston's girl like?"

"Pretty; very; foolish manners I thought; Marjory looked bewildered byher. "

"The manners of girls have changed, I fancy, since my day; and she isn'ta boy-girl, like our nice Marjory, either?"

"No; she is a girl-girl; a pretty, forward, conceited girl-girl, " saidthe ruthless Augustine. "Lady Elliston is coming to see you thisafternoon; she asked me to tell you; she says she wants a long talk. "

Amabel's weary heart sank at the news. 

"She is coming soon after lunch, " said Augustine. 

"Oh--dear--"--. She could not conceal her dismay. 

"But you knew that you were to see her again;--do you mind so much?"said Augustine. 

"I don't mind. --It is only;--I have got so out of the way of seeingpeople that it is something of a strain. "

"Would you like me to come in and interrupt your talk?" asked Augustineafter a moment. 

She looked across the table at him. Still, in her memory, preoccupiedwith the cruelty of his accusation, it was the anger rather than thelove of his parting words the other day that was the more real. He hadbeen hard in kindness, relentless in judgment, only not accusing her, not condemning her, because his condemnation had fixed on the innocentand not on the guilty--the horror of that, as well as the other horror, was between them now, and her guilt was deepened by it. But, as shelooked, his eyes reminded her of something; was it of that fancied crywithin the church, imprisoned and supplicating? They were like that cryof pain, those eyes, the dark rims of the iris strangely expanding, andher heart answered them, ignorant of what they said. 

"You are thoughtful for me, dear; but no, " she replied, "it isn'tnecessary for you to interrupt. "

He looked away from her: "I don't know that it's not necessary, " hesaid. After lunch they went into the garden and walked for a little inthe sunlight, in almost perfect silence. Once or twice, as though fromthe very pressure of his absorption in her he created some intention ofspeech and fancied that her lips had parted with the words, Augustineturned his head quickly towards her, and at this, their eyes meeting, asit were over emptiness, both he and she would flush and look away again. The stress between them was painful. She was glad when he said that hehad work to do and left her alone. 

Amabel went to the drawing-room and took her chair near the table. Asense of solitude deeper than she had known for years pressed upon her. She closed her eyes and leaned back her head, thinking, dimly, that now, in such solitude as this, she must find her way to prayer again. Butstill the door was closed. It was as if she could not enter without ahuman hand in hers. Augustine's hand had never led her in; and she couldnot take her husband's now. 

But her longing itself became almost a prayer as she sat with closedeyes. This would pass, this cloud of her husband's lesser love. When heknew her so unalterably firm, when he saw how inflexibly the old loveshut out the new, he would, once more, be her friend. Then, feeling himnear again, she might find peace. The thought of it was almost peace. Even in the midst of yesterday's bewildered pain she had caught glimpsesof the old beauty; his kindly speech to Augustine, his making of easefor her; gratitude welled up in her and she sighed with the relief ofher deep hope. To feel this gratitude was to see still further beyondthe cloud. It was even beautiful for him to be able to "fall in love"with her--as he had put it: that the manifestations of his love shouldhave made her shrink was not his fault but hers; she was a nun; becauseshe had been a sinner. She almost smiled now, in seeing so clearly thatit was on her the shadow rested. She could not be at peace, she couldnot pray, she could not live, it seemed to her, if he were reallyshadowed. And after the smile it was almost with the sense of dewfalling upon her soul that she remembered the kindness, the chivalrousprotection that had encompassed her through the long years. He was herfriend, her knight; she would forget, and he, too, would forget that hehad thought himself her lover. 

She did not know how tired she was, but her exhaustion must have beengreat, for the thoughts faded into a vague sweetness, then were gone, and, suddenly opening her eyes, she knew that she had fallen asleep, sitting straightly in her chair, and that Lady Elliston was looking ather. 

She started up, smiling and confused. "How absurd of me:--I have beensleeping. --Have you just come?"

Lady Elliston did not smile and was silent. She took Amabel's hand andlooked at her; she had to recover herself from something; it may havebeen the sleeping face, wasted and innocent, that had touched her toodeeply. And her gravity, as of repressed tears, frightened Amabel. Shehad never seen Lady Elliston look so grave. "Is anything the matter?"she asked. For a moment longer Lady Elliston was silent, as thoughreflecting. Then releasing Amabel's hand, she said: "Yes: I thinksomething is the matter. "

"You have come to tell me?"

"I didn't come for that. Sit down, Amabel. You are very tired, moretired than the other day. I have been looking at you for a long time. --Ididn't come to tell you anything; but now, perhaps, I shall havesomething to tell. I must think. "

She took a chair beside the table and leaned her head on her handshading her eyes. Amabel had obeyed her and sat looking at her guest. 

"Tell me, " Lady Elliston said abruptly, and Amabel today, more than ofsweetness and softness, was conscious of her strength, "have you beenhaving a bad time since I saw you? Has anything happened? Has anythingcome between you and Augustine? I saw him this morning, and he's beensuffering, too: I guessed it. You must be frank with me, Amabel; youmust trust me: perhaps I am going to be franker with you, to trust youmore, than you can dream. "

She inspired the confidence her words laid claim to; for the first timein their lives Amabel trusted her unreservedly. 

"I have had a very bad time, " she said: "And Augustine has had a badtime. Yes; something has come between Augustine and me, --many things. "

"He hates Hugh, " said Lady Elliston. 

"How can you know that?"

"I guessed it. He is a clever boy: he sees you absorbed; he sees yourdevotion robbing him; perhaps he sees even more, Amabel; I heard thismorning, from Mrs. Grey, that Hugh had been with you, again, yesterday. Amabel, is it possible; has Hugh been making love to you?"

Amabel had become very pale. Looking down, she said in a hardly audiblevoice; "It is a mistake. --He will see that it is impossible. "

Lady Elliston for a moment was silent: the confirming of her ownsuspicion seemed to have stupefied her. "Is it impossible?" she thenasked. 

"Quite, quite impossible. "

"Does Hugh know that it is impossible?"

"He will. --Yesterday, Augustine came in while he was here;--I could notsay any more. "

"I see: I see"; said Lady Elliston. Her hand fell to the table now andshe slightly tapped her finger-tips upon it. There was an ominous rhythmin the little raps. "And this adds to Augustine's hatred, " she said. 

"I am afraid it is true. I am afraid he does hate him, and how terriblethat is, " said Amabel, "for he believes him to be his father. "

"By instinct he must feel the tie unreal. "

"Yet he has had a father's kindness, almost, from Hugh. "

"Almost. It isn't enough you know. He suspects nothing, you think?"

"It is that that is so terrible. He doesn't suspect me: he suspects him. He couldn't suspect evil of me. It is my guilt, and his ignorant hatredthat is parting us. " Amabel was trembling; she leaned forward andcovered her face with her hands. 

The very air about her seemed to tremble; so strange, so incrediblystrange was it to hear her own words of helpless avowal; so strange tofeel that she must tell Lady Elliston all she wished to know. 

"Parting you? What do you mean? What folly!--what impossible folly! Amother and a son, loving each other as you and Augustine love, partedfor that. Oh, no, " said Lady Elliston, and her own voice shook a little:"that can't be. I won't have that. "

"He would not love me, if he knew. "

"Knew? What is there for him to know? And how should he know? You won'tbe so mad as to tell him?"

"It's my punishment not to dare to tell him--and to see my cowardicecast a shadow on Hugh. "

"Punishment? haven't you been punished enough, good heavens! Cowardice?it is reason, maturity; the child has no right to your secret--it isyours and only yours, Amabel. And if he did know all, he could not judgeyou as you judge yourself. "

"Ah, you don't understand, " Amabel murmured: "I had forgotten to judgemyself; I had forgotten my sin; it was Augustine who made me remember; Iknow now what he feels about people like me. "

Again Lady Elliston controlled herself to a momentary silence and againher fingers sharply beat out her uncontrollable impatience. "I live in aworld, Amabel, " she said at last, "where people when they use the word'sin, ' in that connection, know that it's obsolete, a mere decorativesymbol for unconventionality. In my world we don't have your cloisteredblack and white view of life nor see sin where only youth and trust andimpulse were. If one takes risks, one may have to pay for them, ofcourse; one plays the game, if one is in the ring, and, of course, youmay be put out of the ring if you break the rules; but the rules arethose of wisdom, not of morality, and the rule that heads the list is:Don't be found out. To imagine that the rules are anything more thanmatters of social convenience is to dignify the foolish game. It is afoolish game, Amabel, this of life: but one or two things in it areworth having; power to direct the game; freedom to break its rules; andlove, passionate love, between a man and woman: and if one is strongenough one can have them all. "

Lady Elliston had again put her hand to her brow, shielding her eyes andleaning her elbow on the table, and Amabel had raised her head and satstill, gazing at her. 

"You weren't strong enough, " Lady Elliston went on after a little pause:"You made frightful mistakes: the greatest, of course, was in runningaway with Paul Quentin: that was foolish, and it was, if you like tocall foolishness by its obsolete name, a sin. You shouldn't have gone:you should have stayed: you should have kept your lover--as long as youwanted to. "

Again she paused. "Do I horrify you?"

"No: you don't horrify me, " Amabel replied. Her voice was gentle, almostmusing; she was absorbed in her contemplation. 

"You see, " said Lady Elliston, "you didn't play the game: you made amess of things and put the other players out. If you had stayed, andkept your lover, you would have been, in my eyes, a less loveable but awiser woman. I believe in the game being kept up; I believe in thesocial structure: I am one of its accredited upholders"; in the shadowof her hand, Lady Elliston slightly smiled. "I believe in the family, the group of shared interests, shared responsibilities, sharedopportunities it means: I don't care how many lovers a woman has if shedoesn't break up the family, if she plays the game. Marriage is a socialcompact and it's the woman's part to keep the home together. If sheseeks love outside marriage she must play fair, she mustn't be anembezzling partner; she mustn't give her husband another man's childrento support and so take away from his own children;--that's thieving. Thesocial structure, the family, are unharmed, if one is brave and wise. Love and marriage can rarely be combined and to renounce love is tocripple one's life, to miss the best thing it has to give. You, at allevents, Amabel, may be glad that you haven't missed it. What, after all, does our life mean but just that, --the power and feeling that one getsinto it. Be glad that you've had something. "

Amabel, answering nothing, contemplated her guest. 

"So, as these are my views, imagine what I feel when I find you here, like this"; Lady Elliston dropped her hand at last and looked about her, not at Amabel: "when I find you, in prison, locked up for life, byyourself, because you were lovably unwise. It's abominable, it'sshameful, your position, isolated here, and tolerated, looked askance atby these nobodies. --Ah--I don't say that other women haven't paid evenmore heavily than you've done; I own that, to a certain extent, you'veescaped the rigours that the game exacts from its victims. But there wasno reason why you should pay anything: it wasn't known, never reallyknown--your brother and Hugh saw to that;--you could have escapedscot-free. "

Amabel spoke at last: "How, scot-free?" she asked. 

Lady Elliston looked hard at her: "Your husband would have taken youback, had you insisted. --You shouldn't have fallen in with his plans. "

"His plans? They were mine; my brother's. "

"And his. Hugh was glad to be rid of the young wife he didn't love. "

Again Amabel was trembling. "He might have been rid of her, altogetherrid of her, if he had cared more for power and freedom than for pity. "

"Power? With not nearly enough money? He was glad to keep her money andbe rid of her. If you had pulled the purse-strings tight you might havemade your own conditions. "

"I do not believe you, " said Amabel; "What you say is not true. Myhusband is noble. "

Lady Elliston looked at her steadily and unflinchingly. "He is notnoble, " she said. 

"What have you meant by coming here today? You have meant something! Iwill not listen to you! You are my husband's enemy;"--Amabel halfstarted from her chair, but Lady Elliston laid her hand on her arm, looking at her so fixedly that she sank down again, panic-stricken. 

"He is not noble, " Lady Elliston repeated. "I will not have you wasteyour love as you have wasted your life. I will not have this illusion ofhis nobility come between you and your son. I will not have him comenear you with his love. He is not noble, he is not generous, he is notbeautiful. He could not have got rid of you. And he came to you with hislove yesterday because his last mistress has thrown him over--and hemust have a mistress. I know him: I know all about him: and you don'tknow him at all. Your husband was my lover for over twenty years. "

A long silence followed her words. It was again a strange picture ofarrested life in the dark room. The light fell quietly upon the twofaces, their stillness, their contemplation--it seemed hardly moreintent than contemplation, that drinking gaze of Amabel's; the draughtof wonder was too deep for pain or passion, and Lady Elliston's eyesyielded, offered, held firm the cup the other drank. And the silencegrew so long that it was as if the twenty years flowed by while theygazed upon each other. 

It was Lady Elliston's face that first showed change. She might havebeen the cup-bearer tossing aside the emptied cup, seeing in the slowdilation of the victim's eyes, the constriction of lips and nostrils, that it had held poison. All--all had been drunk to the last drop. Deathseemed to gaze from the dilated eyes. 

"Oh--my poor Amabel--" Lady Elliston murmured; her face was strickenwith pity. 

Amabel spoke in the cramped voice of mortal anguish. --"Before he marriedme. "

"Yes, " Lady Elliston nodded, pitiful, but unflinching. "He married youfor your money, and because you were a sweet, good, simple child whowould not interfere. "

"And he could not have divorced me, because of you. "

"Because of me. You know the law; one guilty person can't divorceanother. No one knew: no one has ever known: he and Jack have remainedthe best of friends:--but, of course, with all our care, it's beensuspected, whispered. If I'd been less powerful the whispers might haveblighted me: as it was, we thought that Bertram wasn't altogetherunsuspecting. Hugh knew that it would be fatal to bring the matter intocourt;--I will say for Hugh that, in spite of the money, he wanted to. He could have married money again. He has always been extremelycaptivating. When he found that he would have to keep you, the money, ofcourse, did atone. I suppose he has had most of your money by now, " saidLady Elliston. 

Amabel shut her eyes. "Wasn't he even sorry for me?" she asked. 

Lady Elliston reflected and a glitter was in her eye; vengeance as wellas justice armed her. "He is not unkind, " she conceded: "and he wassorry after a fashion: 'Poor little girl, ' I remember he said. Yes, hewas very tolerant. But he didn't think of you at all, unless he wantedmoney. He is always graceful in his direct relations with people; he istactful and sympathetic and likes things to be pleasant. But he doesn'tmind breaking your heart if he doesn't have to see you while he is doingit. He is kind, but he is as hard as steel, " said Lady Elliston. 

"Then you do not love him any longer, " said Amabel. It was not aquestion, only a farther acceptance. 

And now, after only the slightest pause, Lady Elliston proved how deep, how unflinching was her courage. She had guarded her illicit passion allher life; she revealed it now. "I do love him, " she said. "I have neverloved another man. It is he who doesn't love me. "

From the black depths where she seemed to swoon and float, like adrowsy, drowning thing, the hard note of misery struck on Amabel's ear. She opened her eyes and looked at Lady Elliston. Power, freedom, passion: it was not these that looked back at her from the bereft andhaggard eyes. "After twenty years he has grown tired, " Lady Ellistonsaid; and her candour seemed as inevitable as Amabel's had been: eachmust tell the other everything; a common bond of suffering was betweenthem and a common bond of love, though love so differing. "I knew, ofcourse, that he was often unfaithful to me; he is a libertine; but I wasthe centre; he always came back to me. --I saw the end approaching aboutfive years ago. I fought--oh how warily--so that he shouldn't dream Iwas afraid;--it is fatal for a woman to let a man know she isafraid, --the brutes, the cruel brutes, "--said Lady Elliston;--"how welove them for their fear and pleading; how our fear and pleading hardensthem against us. " Her lips trembled and the tears ran down her cheeks. "I never pleaded; I never showed that I saw the change. I kept him, foryears, by my skill. But the odds were too great at last. It was a yearago that he told me he didn't care any more. He was troubled, a littleembarrassed, but quite determined that I shouldn't bother him. Sincethen it has been another woman. I know her; I meet her everywhere; verybeautiful; very young; only married for three years; a heartless, rapacious creature. Hugh has nearly ruined himself in paying herjeweller's bills and her debts at bridge. And already she has thrown himover. It happened only the other day. I knew it was happening when I sawhim here. I was glad, Amabel; I longed for him to suffer; and he will. He is a libertine of most fastidious tastes and he will not find manymore young and beautiful women, of his world, to run risks for him. He, too, is getting old. And he has gone through nearly all his ownmoney--and yours. Things will soon be over for him. --Oh--but--I lovehim--I love him--and everything is over for me. --How can I bear it!"

She bent forward on her knees and convulsive sobs shook her. 

Her words seemed to Amabel to come to her from a far distance; theyechoed in her, yet they were not the words she could have used. How dimwas her own love-dream beside this torment of dispossession. What--who--had she loved for all these years? She could not touch or seeher own grief; but Lady Elliston's grief pierced through her. She leanedtowards her and softly touched her shoulder, her arm, her hand; she heldthe hand in hers. The sight of this loss of strength and dignity was anactual pain; her own pain was something elusive and unsubstantial; itwandered like a ghost vainly seeking an embodiment. 

"Oh, you angel--you poor angel!" moaned Lady Elliston. "There: that'senough of crying; it can't bring back my youth. --What a fool I am. Ifonly I could learn to think of myself as free instead of maimed and leftby the wayside. It is hard to live without love if one has always hadit. --But I have freed you, Amabel. I am glad of that. It has been acruel, but a right thing to do. He shall not come to you with hisshameless love; he shall not come between you and your boy. You shan'tmisplace your worship so. It is Augustine who is beautiful and noble; itis Augustine who loves you. You aren't maimed and forsaken; thank heavenfor that, dear. "

Lady Elliston had risen. Strong again, she faced her life, took up thereins, not a trace of scruple or of shame about her. It did not enterher mind to ask Amabel for forgiveness, to ask if she were despised orshrunk from: it did not enter Amabel's mind to wonder at the omission. She looked up at her guest and her lifted face seemed that of thedrowned creature floating to the surface of the water. 

"Tell me, Amabel, " Lady Elliston suddenly pleaded, "this is not going toblacken things for you; you won't let it blacken things. You will live;you will leave your prison and come out into the world, with yoursplendid boy, and live. "

Amabel slightly shook her head. 

"Oh, why do you say that? Has it hurt so horribly?"

Amabel seemed to make the effort to think what it had done. She did notknow. The ghost wailed; but she could not see its form. 

"Did you care--so tremendously--about him?"--Lady Elliston asked, andher voice trembled. And, for answer, the drowned eyes looked up at herthrough strange, cold tears. 

"Oh, my dear, my dear, " Lady Elliston murmured. Her hand was still inAmabel's and she stood there beside her, her hand so held, for a long, silent moment. They had looked away from each other. 

And in the silence each knew that it was the end and that they would seeeach other no more. They lived in different planets, under differentlaws; they could understand, they could trust; but a deep, transparentchasm, like that of the ether flowing between two divided worlds, madethem immeasurably apart. 

Yet, when she at last gently released Amabel's hand, drawing her ownaway. Lady Elliston said: "But, --won't you come out now?"

"Out? Where?" Amabel asked, in the voice of that far distance. 

"Into the world, the great, splendid world. "

"Splendid?"

"Splendid, if you choose to seize it and take what it has to give. "

After a moment Amabel asked: "Has it given you so much?"

Lady Elliston looked at her from across the chasm; it was not dark, itheld no precipices; it was made up only of distance. Lady Elliston saw;but she was loyal to her own world. "Yes, it has, " she said. "I'velived; you have dreamed your life away. You haven't even a reality tomourn the loss of. "

"No, " Amabel said; she closed her eyes and turned her head away againstthe chair; "No; I have lived too. Don't pity me. "

X

It was past five when Augustine came into the empty drawing-room. Teawas standing waiting, and had been there, he saw, for some time. He rangand asked the maid to tell Lady Channice. Lady Channice, he heard, waslying down and wanted no tea. Lady Elliston had gone half an hourbefore. After a moment or two of deliberation, Augustine sat down andmade tea for himself. That was soon over. He ate nothing, looking with avague gaze of repudiation at the plate of bread and butter and thecooling scones. 

When tea had been taken away he walked up and down the room quickly, pausing now and then for further deliberation. But he decided that hewould not go up to his mother. He went on walking for a long time. Thenhe took a book and read until the dressing-bell for dinner rang. 

When he went upstairs to dress he paused outside his mother's door, asshe had paused outside his, and listened. He heard no sound. He stoodstill there for some moments before lightly rapping on the door. "Who isit?" came his mother's voice. "I; Augustine. How are you? You are comingdown?"

"Not tonight, " she answered; "I have a very bad headache. "

"But let me have something sent up. " After a moment his mother's voicesaid very sweetly; "Of course, dear. " And she added "I shall be allright tomorrow. "

The voice sounded natural--yet not quite natural; too natural, perhaps, Augustine reflected. Its tone remained with him as something disturbingand prolonged itself in memory like a familiar note strung to a queer, forced pitch, that vibrated on and on until it hurt. 

After his solitary meal he took up his book again in the drawing-room. He read with effort and concentration, his brows knotted; his youngface, thus controlled to stern attention, was at once vigilant for outerimpressions and absorbed in the inner interest. Once or twice he lookedup, as a coal fell with a soft crash from the fire, as a thin creepertapped sharply on the window pane. His mother's room was above thedrawing-room and while he read he was listening; but he heard nofootsteps. 

Suddenly, dim, yet clear, came another sound, a sound familiar, thoughso rare; wheels grinding on the gravel drive at the other side of thehouse. Then, loud and startling at that unaccustomed hour, the old hallbell clanged through the house. 

Augustine found himself leaning forward, breathing quickly, his bookhalf-closed. At first he did not know what he was listening for or whyhis body should be tingling with excitement and anger. He knew a momentlater. There was a step in the hall, a voice. All his life Augustine hadknown them, had waited for them, had hated them. Sir Hugh was backagain. 

Of course he was back again, soon, --as he had promised in the tone ofmastery. But his mother had told him not to come; she had told him notto come, and in a tone that meant more than his. Did he not know?--Didhe not understand?

"No, dear Hugh, not soon. --I will write. "--Augustine sprang to his feetas he entered the room. 

Sir Hugh had been told that he would not find his wife. His face woreits usual look of good-temper, but it wore more than its usual look ofindifference for his wife's son. "Ah, tell Lady Channice, will you, " hesaid over his shoulder to the maid. "How d'ye do, Augustine:" and, asusual, he strolled up to the fire. 

Augustine watched him as he crossed the room and said nothing. The maidhad closed the door. From his wonted place Sir Hugh surveyed the youngman and Augustine surveyed him. 

"You know, my dear fellow, " said Sir Hugh presently, lifting the sole ofhis boot to the fire, "you've got devilish bad manners. You aredevilishly impertinent, I may tell you. "

Augustine received the reproof without comment. 

"You seem to imagine, " Sir Hugh went on, "that you have some particularright to bad manners and impertinence here, in this house; but you'remistaken; I belong here as well as you do; and you'll have to accept thefact. "

A convulsive trembling, like his mother's, passed over the young man'sface; but whereas only Amabel's hands and body trembled, it was themuscles of Augustine's lips, nostrils and brows that were affected, andto see the strength of his face so shaken was disconcerting, painful. 

"You don't belong here while I'm here, " he said, jerking the words outsuddenly. "This is my mother's home--and mine;--but as soon as you makeit insufferable for us we can leave it. "

"_You_ can; that's quite true, " Sir Hugh nodded. 

Augustine stood clenching his hands on his book. Now, unconscious ofwhat he did, he grasped the leaves and wrenched them back and forth ashe stood silent, helpless, desperate, before the other's intimation. SirHugh watched the unconscious violence with interest. 

"Yes, " he went on presently, and still with good temper; "if you makeyourself insufferable--to your mother and me--you can go. Not that Iwant to turn you out. It rests with you. Only, you must see that youbehave. I won't have you making her wretched. "

Augustine glanced dangerously at him. 

"Your mother and I have come to an understanding--after a great manyyears of misunderstanding, " said Sir Hugh, putting up the other sole. "I'm--very fond of your mother, --and she is, --very fond of me. "

"She doesn't know you, " said Augustine, who had become livid while theother made his gracefully hesitant statement. 

"Doesn't know me?" Sir Hugh lifted his brows in amused inquiry; "My dearboy, what do you know about that, pray? You are not in all your mother'ssecrets. "

Augustine was again silent for a moment, and he strove for self-mastery. "If I am not in my mother's secrets, " he said, "she is not in yours. Shedoes not know you. She doesn't know what sort of a man you are. You havedeceived her. You have made her think that you are reformed and that thethings in your life that made her leave you won't come again. Butwhether you are reformed or not a man like you has no right to come neara woman like my mother. I know that you are an evil man, " saidAugustine, his face trembling more and more uncontrollably; "And mymother is a saint. "

Sir Hugh stared at him. Then he burst into a shout of laughter. "Youyoung fool!" he said. 

Augustine's eyes were lightnings in a storm-swept sky. 

"You young fool, " Sir Hugh repeated, not laughing, a heavier stressweighting each repeated word. 

"Can you deny, " said Augustine, "that you have always led a dissolutelife? If you do deny it it won't help you. I know it: and I've notneeded the echoes to tell me. I've always felt it in you. I've alwaysknown you were evil. "

"What if I don't deny it?" Sir Hugh inquired. 

Augustine was silent, biting his quivering lips. 

"What if I don't deny it?" Sir Hugh repeated. His assumption ofgood-humour was gone. He, too, was scowling now. "What have you to saythen?"

"By heaven, --I say that you shall not come near my mother. "

"And what if it was not because of my dissolute life she left me? Whatif you've built up a cock-and-bull romance that has no relation toreality in your empty young head? What then? Ask your mother if she leftme because of my dissolute life, " said Sir Hugh. 

The book in Augustine's wrenching hands had come apart with a crack andcrash. He looked down at it stupidly. 

"You really should learn to control yourself--in every direction, mydear boy, " Sir Hugh remarked. "Now, unless you would like to wreak yourtemper on the furniture, I think you had better sit down and be still. Ishould advise you to think over the fact that saints have been knownbefore now to forgive sinners. And sinners may not be so bad as yourinnocence imagines. Goodbye. I am going up to see your mother. I amgoing to spend the night here. "

Augustine stood holding the shattered book. He gazed as stupidly at SirHugh as he had gazed at it. He gazed while Sir Hugh, who kept a ratherwary eye fixed on him, left the fire and proceeded with a leisurely paceto cross the room: the door was reached and the handle turned, beforethe stupor broke. Sir Hugh, his eyes still fixed on his antagonist, sawthe blanched fury, the start, as if the dazed body were awakening tosome insufferable torture, saw the gathering together, the leap:--"Youfool--you young fool!" he ground between his teeth as, with a clash ofthe half-opened door, Augustine pinned him upon it. "Let me go. Do youhear. Let me go. " His voice was the voice of the lion-tamer, hushedbefore danger to a quelling depth of quiet. 

And like the young lion, drawing long breaths through dilated-nostrils, Augustine growled back:--"I will not--I will not. --You shall not go toher. I would rather kill you. "

"Kill me?" Sir Hugh smiled. "It would be a fight first, you know. "

"Then let it be a fight. You shall not go to her. "

"And what if she wants me to go to her. --Will you kill her first, too--"--The words broke. Augustine's hand was on his throat. Sir Hughseized him. They writhed together against the door. "You mad-man!--Youdamned mad-man!--Your mother is in love with me. --I'll put you out ofher life--"--Sir Hugh grated forth from the strangling clutch. 

Suddenly, as they writhed, panting, glaring their hatred at each other, the door they leaned on pushed against them. Someone outside was turningthe handle, was forcing it open. And, as if through the shocks andflashes of a blinding, deafening tempest, Augustine heard his mother'svoice, very still, saying: "Let me come in. "

XI

They fell apart and moved back into the room. Amabel entered. She wore along white dressing-gown that, to her son's eyes, made her more thanever look her sainted self; she had dressed hastily, and, on hearing thecrash below, she had wrapped a white scarf about her head and shoulders, covering her unbound hair. So framed and narrowed her face was that of ashrouded corpse: the same strange patience stamped it; her eyes, only, seemed to live, and they, too, were patient and ready for any doom. 

Quietly she had closed the door, and standing near it now she looked atthem; her eyes fell for a moment upon Sir Hugh; then they rested onAugustine and did not leave him. 

Sir Hugh spoke first. He laughed a little, adjusting his collar and tie. 

"My dear, --you've saved my life. Augustine was going to batter my brainsout on the door, I fancy. "

She did not look at him, but at Augustine. 

"He's really dangerous, your son, you know. Please don't leave me alonewith him again, " Sir Hugh smiled and pleaded; it was with almost his ownlightness, but his face still twitched with anger. 

"What have you said to him?" Amabel asked. 

Augustine's eyes were drawing her down into their torment. --Unfortunateone. --That presage of her maternity echoed in her now. His stern youngface seemed to have been framed, destined from the first for thisforeseen misery. 

Sir Hugh had pulled himself together. He looked at the mother and son. And he understood her fear. 

He went to her, leaned over her, a hand above her shoulder on the door. He reassured and protected her; and, truly, in all their story, it hadnever been with such sincerity and grace. 

"Dearest, it's nothing. I've merely had to defend my rights. Will youassure this young firebrand that my misdemeanours didn't force you toleave me. That there were misdemeanours I don't deny; and of course youare too good for the likes of me; but your coming away wasn't my fault, was it. --That's what I've said. --And that saints forgive sinners, sometimes. --That's all I want you to tell him. "

Amabel still gazed into her son's eyes. It seemed to her, now that shemust shut herself out from it for ever, that for the first time in allher life she saw his love. 

It broke over her; it threatened and commanded her; it implored andsupplicated--ah the supplication beyond words or tears!--Selflessnessmade it stern. It was for her it threatened; for her it prayed. 

All these years the true treasure had been there beside her, while sheworshipped at the spurious shrine. Only her sorrow, her solicitude hadgone out to her son; the answering love that should have cherished andencompassed him flowed towards its true goal only when it was too late. He could not love her when he knew. 

And he was to know. That had come to her clearly and unalterably whileshe had leaned, half fallen, half kneeling, against her bed, dying, itseemed to her, to all that she had known of life or hope. 

But all was not death within her. In the long, the deadly stupor, herpower to love still lived. It had been thrown back from its deep channeland, wave upon wave, it seemed heaped upon itself in some narrow abyss, tormented and shuddering; and at last by its own strength, rather thanby thought or prayer of hers, it had forced an outlet. 

It was then as if she found herself once more within the church. Darkness, utter darkness was about her; but she was prostrated beforethe unseen altar. She knew herself once more, and with herself she knewher power to love. 

Her life and all its illusions passed before her; by the truth thatirradiated the illusions, she judged them and herself and saw what mustbe the atonement. All that she had believed to be the treasure of herlife had been taken from her; but there was one thing left to her thatshe could give:--her truth to her son. When that price was paid, hewould be hers to love; he was no longer hers to live for. He shouldfound his life on no illusions, as she had founded hers. She must sethim free to turn away from her; but when he turned away it would not beto leave her in the loneliness and the terror of heart that she hadknown; it would be to leave her in the church where she could pray forhim. 

She answered her husband after her long silence, looking at her son. 

"It is true, Augustine, " she said. "You have been mistaken. I did notleave him for that. "

Sir Hugh drew a breath of satisfaction. He glanced round at Augustine. It was not a venomous glance, but, with its dart of steely intention, itpaid a debt of vengeance. "So, --we needn't say anything more about it, "he said. "And--dearest--perhaps now you'll tell Augustine that he may goand leave us together. "

Amabel left her husband's side and went to her chair near the table. Astrange calmness breathed from her. She sat with folded hands anddowncast eyes. 

"Augustine, come here, " she said. 

The young man came and stood before her. 

"Give me your hand. "

He gave it to her. She did not look at him but kept her eyes fixed onthe ground while she clasped it. 

"Augustine, " she said, "I want you to leave me with my husband. I musttalk with him. He is going away soon. Tomorrow--tomorrow morning early, I will see you, here. I will have a great deal to say to you, my dearson. "

But Augustine, clutching her hand and trembling, looked down at her sothat she raised her eyes to his. 

"I can't go, till you say something, now, Mother;"--his voice shook asit had shaken on that day of their parting, his face was livid andconvulsed, as then;--"I will go away tonight--I don't know that I canever return--unless you tell me that you are not going to take himback. " He gazed down into his mother's eyes. 

She did not answer him; she did not speak. But, as he looked into them, he, too, for the first time, saw in them what she had seen in his. 

They dwelt on him; they widened; they almost smiled; they deeplypromised him all--all--that he most longed for. She was his, her son's;she was not her husband's. What he had feared had never threatened himor her. This was a gift she had won the right to give. The depth of herrepudiation yesterday gave her her warrant. 

And to Amabel, while they looked into each other's eyes, it was as if, in the darkness, some arching loveliness of dawn vaguely shaped itselfabove the altar. 

"Kiss me, dear Augustine, " she said. She held up her forehead, closingher eyes, for the kiss that was her own. 

Augustine was gone. And now, before her, was the ugly breaking. But mustit be so ugly? Opening her eyes, she looked at her husband as he stoodbefore the fire, his wondering eyes upon her. Must it be ugly? Why couldit not be quiet and even kind?

Strangely there had gathered in her, during the long hours, the garneredstrength of her life of discipline and submission. It had sustained herthrough the shudder that glanced back at yesterday--at the corruptionthat had come so near; it had given sanity to see with eyes ofcompassion the forsaken woman who had come with her courageous, revengeful story; it gave sanity now, as she looked over at her husband, to see him also, with those eyes of compassionate understanding; he wasnot blackened, to her vision, by the shadowing corruption, but, in hisway, pitiful, too; all the worth of life lost to him. 

And it seemed swiftest, simplest, and kindest, as she looked over athim, to say:--"You see--Lady Elliston came this afternoon, and told meeverything. "

Sir Hugh kept his face remarkably unmoved. He continued to gaze at hiswife with an unabashed, unstartled steadiness. "I might have guessedthat, " he said after a short silence. "Confound her. "

Amabel made no reply. 

"So I suppose, " Sir Hugh went on, "you feel you can't forgive me. "

She hesitated, not quite understanding. "You mean--for having marriedme--when you loved her?"

"Well, yes; but more for not having, long ago, in all these years, foundout that you were the woman that any man with eyes to see, any man notblinded and fatuous, ought to have been in love with from thebeginning. "

Amabel flushed. Her vision was untroubled; but the shadow hovered. Shewas ashamed for him. 

"No"; she said, "I did not think of that. I don't know that I haveanything to forgive you. It is Lady Elliston, I think, who must try andforgive you, if she can. "

Sir Hugh was again silent for a moment; then he laughed. "You dearinnocent!--Well--I won't defend myself at her expense. "

"Don't, " said Amabel, looking now away from him. 

Sir Hugh eyed her and seemed to weigh the meaning of her voice. 

He crossed the room suddenly and leaned over her:--"Amabel darling, --whatmust I do to atone? I'll be patient. Don't be cruel and punish me for toolong a time. "

"Sit there--will you please. " She pointed to the chair at the other sideof the table. 

He hesitated, still leaning above her; then obeyed; folding his arms;frowning. 

"You don't understand, " said Amabel. "I loved you for what you neverwere. I do not love you now. And I would never have loved you as youasked me to do yesterday. "

He gazed at her, trying to read the difficult riddle of a woman'sperversity. "You were in love with me yesterday, " he said at last. 

She answered nothing. 

"I'll make you love me again. "

"No: never, " she answered, looking quietly at him. "What is there in youto love?"

Sir Hugh flushed. "I say! You are hard on me!"

"I see nothing loveable in you, " said Amabel with her inflexiblegentleness. "I loved you because I thought you noble and magnanimous;but you were neither. You only did not cast me off, as I deserved, because you could not; and you were kind partly because you are kind bynature, but partly because my money was convenient to you. I do not saythat you were ignoble; you were in a very false position. And I hadwronged you; I had committed the greater social crime; but there wasnothing noble; you must see that; and it was for that I loved you. "

Sir Hugh now got up and paced up and down near her. 

"So you are going to cast me off because I had no opportunity forshowing nobility. How do you know I couldn't have behaved as youbelieved I did behave, if only I'd had the chance? You know--you arehard on me. "

"I see no sign of nobility--towards anyone--in your life, " Amabelanswered as dispassionately as before. 

Sir Hugh walked up and down. 

"I did feel like a brute about the money sometimes, " heremarked;--"especially that last time; I wanted you to have the house asa sort of salve to my conscience; I've taken almost all your money, youknow; it's quite true. As to the rest--what Augustine calls mydissoluteness--I can't pretend to take your view; a nun's view. " Helooked at her. "How beautiful you are with that white round your face, "he said. "You are like a woman of snow. "

She looked back at him as though, from the unhesitating steadiness ofher gaze, to lend him some of her own clearness. 

"Don't you see that it's not real? Don't you see that it's because yousuddenly find me beautiful, and because, as a woman of snow, I allureyou, that you think you love me? Do you really deceive yourself?"

He stared at her; but the ray only illumined the bewilderment of hisdispossession. "I don't pretend to be an idealist, " he said, stoppingstill before her; "I don't pretend that it's not because I suddenly findyou beautiful; that's one reason; and a very essential one, I think; butthere are other reasons, lots of them. Amabel--you must see that my lovefor you is an entirely different sort of thing from what my love for herever was. "

She said nothing. She could not argue with him, nor ask, as if for acheap triumph, if it were different from his love for the latermistress. She saw, indeed, that it was different now, whatever it hadbeen yesterday. Clearly she saw, glancing at herself as at an object inthe drama, that she offered quite other interests and charms, that herattractions, indeed, might be of a quality to elicit quite newsentiments from Sir Hugh, sentiments less shadowing than those ofyesterday had been. And so she accepted his interpretation in silence, unmoved by it though doing it full justice, and for a little while SirHugh said nothing either. He still stood before her and she no longerlooked at him, but down at her folded hands that did not tremble at alltonight, and she wondered if now, perhaps, he would understand hersilence and leave her. But when, in an altered voice, he said: "Amabel;"she looked at him. 

She seemed to see everything tonight as a disembodied spirit might seeit, aware of what the impeding flesh could only dimly manifest; and shesaw now that her husband's face had never been so near beauty. 

It did not attain it; it was, rather, as if the shadow, lifting entirelyfor a flickering moment, revealed something unconscious, somethingalmost innocent, almost pitiful: it was as if, liberated, he saw beautyfor a moment and put out his hands to it, like a child putting out itshands to touch the moon, believing that it was as near to him, and aseasily to be attained, as pleasure always had been. 

"Try to forgive me, " he said, and his voice had the broken note of a sadchild's voice, the note of ultimate appeal from man to woman. "I'm apoor creature; I know that. It's always made me ashamed--to see how youidealise me. --The other day, you know, --when you kissed my hand--I washorribly ashamed. --But, upon my honour Amabel, I'm not a bad fellow atbottom, --not the devil incarnate your son seems to think me. Somethingcould be made of me, you know;--and, if you'll forgive me, and let metry to win your love again;--ah Amabel--"--he pleaded, almost withtears, before her unchangingly gentle face. And, the longing to touchher, hold her, receive comfort and love, mingling with the newreverential fear, he knelt beside her, putting his head on her knees andmurmuring: "I do so desperately love you. "

Amabel sat looking down upon him. Her face was unchanged, but in herheart was a trembling of astonished sadness. 

It was too late. It had been too late--from the very first;--yet, ifthey could have met before each was spoiled for each;--before life hadset them unalterably apart--? The great love of her life was perhaps notall illusion. 

And she seemed to sit for a moment in the dark church, dreaming of thedistant Spring-time, of brooks and primroses and prophetic birds, and oflove, young, untried and beautiful. But she did not lay her hand on SirHugh's head nor move at all towards him. She sat quite still, lookingdown at him, like a Madonna above a passionate supplicant, pitiful butserene. 

And as he knelt, with his face hidden, and did not hear her voice norfeel her touch, with an unaccustomed awe the realisation of herremoteness from him stole upon Sir Hugh. 

Passion faded from his heart, even self-pity and longing faded. Heentered her visionary retrospect and knew, like her, that it was toolate; that everything was too late; that everything was really over. And, as he realised it, a chill went over him. He felt like a strayedreveller waking suddenly from long slumber and finding himself alone indarkness. 

He lifted his face and looked at her, needing the reassurance of herhuman eyes; and they met his with their remote gentleness. For a longmoment they gazed at each other. 

Then Sir Hugh, stumbling a little, got upon his feet and stood, halfturned from her, looking away into the room. 

When he spoke it was in quite a different voice, it was almost the old, usual voice, the familiar voice of their friendly encounters. 

"And what are you going to do with yourself, now, Amabel?"

"I am going to tell Augustine, " she said. 

"Tell him!" Sir Hugh looked round at her. "Why?"

"I must. "

He seemed, after a long silence, to accept her sense of necessity assufficient reason. "Will it cut him up very much, do you think?" heasked. 

"It will change everything very much, I think, " said Amabel. 

"Do you mean--that he will blame you?--"

"I don't think that he can love me any longer. "

There was no hint of self-pity in her calm tones and Sir Hugh could onlyformulate his resentment and his protest--and they were bitter, --by amuttered--"Oh--I say!--I say!--"

He went on presently; "And will you go on living here, perhaps alone?"

"Alone, I think; yes, I shall live here; I do not find it dismal, youknow. "

Sir Hugh felt himself again looking reluctantly into darkness. "But--howwill you manage it, Amabel?" he asked. 

And her voice seemed to come, in all serenity, from the darkness; "Ishall manage it. "

Yes, the awe hovered near him as he realised that what, to him, meantdarkness, to her meant life. She would manage it. She had managed tolive through everything. 

A painful analogy came to increase his sadness;--it was like havingbefore one a martyr who had been bound to rack after rack and stillmaintained that strange air of keeping something it was worth whilebeing racked for. Glancing at her it seemed to him, still morepainfully, that in spite of her beauty she was very like a martyr; thatqueer touch of wildness in her eyes; they were serene, they were evensweet, yet they seemed to have looked on horrid torments; and thosewhite wrappings might have concealed dreadful scars. 

He took out his watch, nervously and automatically, and looked at it. Hewould have to walk to the station; he could catch a train. 

"And may I come, sometimes, and see you?" he asked. "I'll not botheryou, you know. I understand, at last. I see what a blunder--an uglyblunder--this has been on my part. But perhaps you'll let me be yourfriend--more really your friend than I have ever been. "

And now, as he glanced at her again, he saw that the gentleness wasremote no longer. It had come near like a light that, in approaching, diffused itself and made a sudden comfort and sweetness. She was tooweary to smile, but her eyes, dwelling gently on him, promised himsomething, as, when they had dwelt with their passion of exiled love onher son, they had promised something to Augustine. She held out herhand. "We are friends, " she said. 

Sir Hugh flushed darkly. He stood holding her hand, looking at it andnot at her. He could not tell what were the confused emotions thatstruggled within him; shame and changed love; awe, and broken memoriesof prayers that called down blessings. It was "God bless you, " that hefelt, yet he did not feel that it was for him to say these words to her. And no words came; but tears were in his eyes as, in farewell, he bentover her hand and kissed it. 

XII

When Amabel waked next morning a bright dawn filled her room. Sheremembered, finding it so light, that before lying down to sleep she haddrawn all her curtains so that, through the open windows, she might see, until she fell asleep, a wonderful sky of stars. She had not looked atthem for long. She had gone to sleep quickly and quietly, lying on herside, her face turned to the sky, her arms cast out before her, just asshe had first lain down; and so she found herself lying when she waked. 

It was very early. The sun gilded the dark summits of the sycamores thatshe could see from her window. The sky was very high and clear, and long, thin strips of cloud curved in lessening bars across it. The confusedchirpings of the waking birds filled the air. And before any thought hadcome to her she smiled as she lay there, looking at and listening to thewakening life. 

Then the remembrance of the dark ordeal that lay before her came. It waslike waking to the morning that was to see one on the scaffold: but, with something of the light detachment that a condemned prisoner mightfeel--nothing being left to hope for and the only strength demandedbeing the passive strength to endure--she found that she was thinkingmore of the sky and of the birds than of the ordeal. Some hours laybetween her and that; bright, beautiful hours. 

She put out her hand and took her watch which lay near. Only six. Augustine would not expect to see her until ten. Four long hours: shemust get up and spend them out of doors. 

It was too early for hot water or maids; she enjoyed the flowing shocksof the cold and her own rapidity and skill in dressing and coiling upher hair. She put on her black dress and took her black scarf as acovering for her head. Slipping out noiselessly, like a truantschool-girl, she made her way to the pantry, found milk and bread, andate and drank standing, then, cautiously pushing bolts and bars, steppedfrom the door into the dew, the sunlight, the keen young air. 

She took the path to the left that led through the sycamore wood, andcrossing the narrow brook by a little plank and hand rail, passed intothe meadows where, in Spring, she and Augustine used to pick cowslips. 

She thought of Augustine, but only in that distant past, as a littlechild, and her mind dwelt on sweet, trivial memories, on the toys he hadplayed with and the pair of baby-shoes, bright red shoes, square-toed, with rosettes on them, that she had loved to see him wear with hislittle white frocks. And in remembering the shoes she smiled again, asshe had smiled in hearing the noisy chirpings of the waking birds. 

The little path ran on through meadow after meadow, stiles at thehedges, planks over the brooks and ditches that intersected this flat, pastoral country. She paused for a long time to watch the birds hoppingand fluttering in a line of sapling willows that bordered one of thesebrooks and at another stood and watched a water-rat, unconscious of hernearness, making his morning toilette on the bank; he rubbed his earsand muzzle hastily, with the most amusing gesture. Once she left thepath to go close to some cows that were grazing peacefully; theirbeautiful eyes, reflecting the green pastures, looked up at her withserenity, and she delighted in the fragrance that exhaled from theirbroad, wet nostrils. 

"Darlings, " she found herself saying. 

She went very far. She crossed the road that, seen from Charlock House, was, with its bordering elm-trees, only a line of blotted blue. And allthe time the light grew more splendid and the sun rose higher in thevast dome of the sky. 

She returned more slowly than she had gone. It was like a dream thiswalk, as though her spirit, awake, alive to sight and sound, smiling andchildish, were out under the sky, while in the dark, sad house theheavily throbbing heart waited for its return. 

This waiting heart seemed to come out to meet her as once more she sawthe sycamores dark on the sky and saw beyond them the low stone house. The pearly, the crystalline interlude, drew to a close. She knew that inpassing from it she passed into deep, accepted tragedy. 

The sycamores had grown so tall since she first came to live at CharlockHouse that the foliage made a high roof and only sparkling chinks of skyshowed through. The path before her was like the narrow aisle of acathedral. It was very dark and silent. 

She stood still, remembering the day when, after her husband's firstvisit to her, she had come here in the late afternoon and had known themingled revelation of divine and human holiness. She stood still, thinking of it, and wondered intently, looking down. 

It was gone, that radiant human image, gone for ever. The son, to whomher heart now clung, was stern. She was alone. Every prop, every symbolof the divine love had been taken from her. But, so bereft, it was not, after the long pause of wonder, in weakness and abandonment that shestood still in the darkness and closed her eyes. 

It was suffering, but it was not fear; it was longing, but it was notloneliness. And as, in her wrecked girlhood, she had held out herhands, blessed and receiving, she held them out now, blessed, thoughsacrificing all she had. But her uplifted face, white and rapt, was nowwithout a smile. 

Suddenly she knew that someone was near her. 

She opened her eyes and saw Augustine standing at some little distancelooking at her. It seemed natural to see him there, waiting to lead herinto the ordeal. She went towards him at once. 

"Is it time?" she said. "Am I late?"

Augustine was looking intently at her. "It isn't half-past nine yet, " hesaid. "I've had my breakfast. I didn't know you had gone out till justnow when I went to your room and found it empty. "

She saw then in his eyes that he had been frightened. He took her handand she yielded it to him and they went up towards the house. 

"I have had such a long walk, " she said. "Isn't it a beautiful morning. "

"Yes; I suppose so, " said Augustine. As they walked he did not take hiseyes off his mother's face. 

"Aren't you tired?" he asked. 

"Not at all. I slept well. "

"Your shoes are quite wet, " said Augustine, looking down at them. 

"Yes; the meadows were thick with dew. "

"You didn't keep to the path?"

"Yes;--no, I remember. "--she looked down at her shoes, trying, obediently, to satisfy him, "I turned aside to look at the cows. "

"Will you please change your shoes at once?"

"I'll go up now and change them. And will you wait for me in thedrawing-room, Augustine. "

"Yes. " She saw that he was still frightened, and remembering how strangeshe must have looked to him, standing still, with upturned face andoutstretched hands, in the sycamore wood, she smiled at him:--"I amwell, dear, don't be troubled, " she said. 

In her room, before she went downstairs, she looked at herself in theglass. The pale, calm face was strange to her, or was it the story, nowon her lips, that was the strange thing, looking at that face. She sawthem both with Augustine's eyes; how could he believe it of that face. She did not see the mirrored holiness, but the innocent eyes looked backat her marvelling at what she was to tell of them. 

In the drawing-room Augustine was walking up and down. The fire wasburning cheerfully and all the windows were wide open. The room lookedits lightest. Augustine's intent eyes were on her as she entered. "Youwon't find the air too much?" he questioned; his voice trembled. 

She murmured that she liked it. But the agitation that she sawcontrolled in him affected her so that she, too, began to tremble. 

She went to her chair at one side of the large round table. "Will yousit there, Augustine, " she said. 

He sat down, opposite to her, where Sir Hugh had sat the night before. Amabel put her elbows on the table and covered her face with her hands. She could not look at her child; she could not see his pain. 

"Augustine, " she said, "I am going to tell you a long story; it is aboutmyself, and about you. And you will be brave, for my sake, and try tohelp me to tell it as quickly as I can. "

His silence promised what she asked. 

"Before the story, " she said, "I will tell you the central thing, thething you must be brave to hear. --You are an illegitimate child, Augustine. " At that she stopped. She listened and heard nothing. Thencame long breaths. 

She opened her eyes to see that his head had fallen forward and wasburied in his arms. "I can't bear it. --I can't bear it--" came in gasps. 

She could say nothing. She had no word of alleviation for his agony. Only she felt it turning like a sword in her heart. 

"Say something to me"--Augustine gasped on. --"You did that for him, too. --I am his child. --You are not my mother. --" He could not sob. 

Amabel gazed at him. With the unimaginable revelation of his love camethe unimaginable turning of the sword; it was this that she mustdestroy. She commanded herself to inflict, swiftly, the further blow. 

"Augustine, " she said. 

He lifted a blind face, hearing her voice. He opened his eyes. Theylooked at each other. 

"I am your mother, " said Amabel. 

He gazed at her. He gazed and gazed; and she offered herself to thecrucifixion of his transfixing eyes. 

The silence grew long. It had done its work. Once more she put her handsbefore her face. "Listen, " she said. "I will tell you. "

He did not stir nor move his eyes from her hidden face while she spoke. Swiftly, clearly, monotonously, she told him all. She paused at nothing;she slurred nothing. She read him the story of the stupid sinner fromthe long closed book of the past. There was no hesitation for a word; nouncertainty for an interpretation. Everything was written clearly andshe had only to read it out. And while she spoke, of her girlhood, hermarriage, of the man with the unknown name--his father--of her flightwith him, her flight from him, here, to this house, Augustine satmotionless. His eyes considered her, fixed in their contemplation. 

She told him of his own coming, of her brother's anger and dismay, ofSir Hugh's magnanimity, and of how he had been born to her, her child, the unfortunate one, whom she had felt unworthy to love as a childshould be loved. She told him how her sin had shut him away and madestrangeness grow between them. 

And when all this was told Amabel put down her hands. His stillness hadgrown uncanny: he might not have been there; she might have been talkingin an empty room. But he was there, sitting opposite her, as she hadlast seen him, half turned in his seat, fallen together a little asthough his breathing were very slight and shallow; and his dilated eyes, strange, deep, fierce, were fixed on her. She shut the sight out withher hands. 

She stumbled a little now in speaking on, and spoke more slowly. Sheknew herself condemned and the rest seemed unnecessary. It only remainedto tell him how her mistaken love had also shut him out; to tell, slightly, not touching Lady Elliston's name, of how the mistake had cometo pass; to say, finally, on long, failing breaths, that her sin hadalways been between them but that, until the other day, when he had toldher of his ideals, she had not seen how impassable was the division. "And now, " she said, and the convulsive trembling shook her as shespoke, "now you must say what you will do. I am a different woman fromthe mother you have loved and reverenced. You will not care to be withthe stranger you must feel me to be. You are free, and you must leaveme. Only, " she said, but her voice now shook so that she could hardlysay the words--"only--I will always be here--loving you, Augustine;loving you and perhaps, --forgive me if I have no right to that, even--hoping;--hoping that some day, in some degree, you may care for meagain. "

She stopped. She could say no more. And she could only hear her ownshuddering breaths. 

Then Augustine moved. He pushed back his chair and rose. She waited tohear him leave the room, and leave her, to her doom, in silence. 

But he was standing still. 

Then he came near to her. And now she waited for the words that would beworse than silence. 

But at first there were no words. He had fallen on his knees beforeher; he had put his arms around her; he was pressing his headagainst her breast while, trembling as she trembled, hesaid:--"Mother--Mother--Mother. "

All barriers had fallen at the cry. It was the cry of the exile, thebanished thing, returning to its home. He pressed against the heart towhich she had never herself dared to draw him. 

But, incredulous, she parted her hands and looked down at him; and stillshe did not dare enfold him. 

"Augustine--do you understand?--Do you still love me?--"

"Oh Mother, " he gasped, --"what have I been to you that you can ask me!"

"You can forgive me?" Amabel said, weeping, and hiding her face againsthis hair. 

They were locked in each other's arms. 

And, his head upon her breast, as if it were her own heart that spoke toher, he said:--"I will atone to you. --I will make up to you--foreverything. --You shall be glad that I was born. "