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AN UNPARDONABLE LIAR

by

GILBERT PARKER

Author of _Seats of the Mighty_, _The Battle of the Strong_, etc. 

ChicagoCharles H. Sergel Company

1900

CHAPTER I. 

AN ECHO. 

 "O de worl am roun an de worl am wide-- O Lord, remember your chillun in de mornin! It's a mighty long way up de mountain side, An day aint no place whar de sinners kin hide, When de Lord comes in de mornin. "

With a plaintive quirk of the voice the singer paused, gayly flicked thestrings of the banjo, then put her hand flat upon them to stop thevibration and smiled round on her admirers. The group were applaudingheartily. A chorus said, "Another verse, please, Mrs. Detlor. "

"Oh, that's all I know, I'm afraid, " was the reply. "I haven't sung it foryears and years, and I should have to think too hard--no, no, believe me, I can't remember any more. I wish I could, really. "

A murmur of protest rose, but there came through the window faintly yetclearly a man's voice:

 "Look up an look aroun, Fro you burden on de groun"--

The brown eyes of the woman grew larger. There ran through her smile akind of frightened surprise, but she did not start nor act as if thecircumstance were singular. 

One of the men in the room--Baron, an honest, blundering fellow--startedtoward the window to see who the prompter was, but the host--of intuitiveperception--saw that this might not be agreeable to their entertainer andsaid quietly: "Don't go to the window, Baron. See, Mrs. Detlor is going tosing. "

Baron sat down. There was an instant's pause, in which George Hagar, thehost, felt a strong thrill of excitement. To him Mrs. Detlor seemed in adream, though her lips still smiled and her eyes wandered pleasantly overthe heads of the company. She was looking at none of them, but her bodywas bent slightly toward the window, listening with it, as the deaf anddumb do. 

Her fingers picked the strings lightly, then warmly, and her voice rose, clear, quaint and high:

 "Look up an look aroun, Fro you burden on de groun, Reach up an git de crown, When de Lord comes in de mornin-- When de Lord comes in de mornin!"

The voice had that strange pathos, veined with humor, which marks mostnegro hymns and songs, so that even those present who had never heard anAmericanized negro sing were impressed and grew almost painfully quiet, till the voice fainted away into silence. 

With the last low impulsion, however, the voice from without began againas if in reply. At the first note one of the young girls present made astart for the window. Mrs. Detlor laid a hand upon her arm. "No, " shesaid, "you will spoil--the effect. Let us keep up the mystery. "

There was a strange, puzzled look on her face, apparent most to GeorgeHagar. The others only saw the lacquer of amusement, summoned for themoment's use. 

"Sit down, " she added, and she drew the young girl to her feet and passedan arm round her shoulder. This was pleasant to the young girl. It singledher out for a notice which would make her friends envious. 

It was not a song coming to them from without--not a melody, but a kind ofchant, hummed first in a low sonorous tone, and then rising and falling inweird undulations. The night was still, and the trees at the window gaveforth a sound like the monotonous s-sh of rain. The chant continued forabout a minute. While it lasted Mrs. Detlor sat motionless and her handslay lightly on the shoulders of the young girl. Hagar dropped his foot onthe floor at marching intervals--by instinct he had caught at the meaningof the sounds. When the voice had finished, Mrs. Detlor raised her headtoward the window with a quick, pretty way she had, her eyes much shadedby the long lashes. Her lips were parted in the smile which had made bothmen and women call her merry, amiable and fascinating. 

"You don't know what it is, of course, " she said, looking round, as thoughthe occurrence had been ordinary. "It is a chant hummed by the negrowoodcutters of Louisiana as they tramp homeward in the evening. It ispretty, isn't it?"

"It's a rum thing, " said one they called the Prince, though AlpheusRichmond was the name by which his godmother knew him. "But who's thegentleman behind the scenes--in the greenroom?"

As he said this he looked--or tried to look--knowingly at Mrs. Detlor, for, the Prince desired greatly to appear familiar with people and thingstheatrical, and Mrs. Detlor knew many in the actor and artist world. 

Mrs. Detlor smiled in his direction, but the smile was not reassuring. Hewas, however, delighted. He almost asked her then and there to ride withhim on the morrow, but he remembered that he could drive much better thanhe could ride, and, in the pause necessary to think the matter out, thechance passed--he could not concentrate himself easily. 

"Yes. Who is it?" said the young girl. 

"Lord, I'll find out, " said the flaring Alpheus, a jeweled hand at histie as he rose. 

But their host had made up his mind. He did not know whether Mrs. Detlordid or did not recognize the voice, but he felt that she did not wish thematter to go farther. The thing was irregular if he was a stranger, and ifhe were not a stranger it lay with Mrs. Detlor whether he should bediscovered. 

There was a curious stillness in Mrs. Detlor's manner, as though she werewaiting further development of the incident. Her mind was in a whirl ofmemories. There was a strange thumping sensation in her head. Yet who wasto know that from her manner?

She could not help flashing a look of thanks to Hagar when he steppedquickly between the Prince and the window and said in what she called hislight comedy manner:

"No, no, Richmond. Let us keep up the illusion. The gentleman has done usa service; otherwise we had lost the best half of Mrs. Detlor's song. We'll not put him at disadvantage. "

"Oh, but look here, Hagar, " said the other protestingly as he laid hishand upon the curtains. 

Few men could resist the quiet decision of Hagar's manner, though he oftenlaughed that, having but a poor opinion of his will as he knew it, andbelieving that he acted firmness without possessing it, save where he waspurely selfish. He put his hands in his pockets carelessly, and said in alow, decisive tone, "Don't do it, if you please. "

But he smiled, too, so that others, now gossiping, were unaware that thewords were not of as light comedy as the manner. Hagar immediately began ageneral conversation and asked Baron to sing "The Banks o' Ben Lomond, "feeling sure that Mrs. Detlor did not wish to sing again. Again she senthim a quick look of thanks and waved her fingers in protest to those whowere urging her. She clapped her hands as she saw Baron rise, and theothers, for politeness sake, could not urge her more. 

 * * * * *

For the stranger. Only the morning of that day he had arrived at thepretty town of Herridon among the hills and moors, set apart for the idleand ailing of this world. Of the world literally, for there might be seenat the pump-room visitors from every point of the compass--Hindoogentlemen brought by sons who ate their legal dinners near Temple Bar;invalided officers from Hongkong, Bombay, Aden, the Gold Coast andotherwhere; Australian squatters and their daughters; attaches of foreignembassies; a prince from the Straits Settlements; priests without numberfrom the northern counties; Scotch manufacturers; ladies wearied from theLondon season; artists, actors and authors, expected to do at inopportunetimes embarrassing things, and very many from Columbia, happy land, whogo to Herridon as to Westminster--to see the ruins. 

It is difficult for Herridon to take its visitors seriously, and quite asdifficult for the visitors to take Herridon seriously. That is what thestranger thought as he tramped back and forth from point to point throughthe town. He had only been there twelve hours, yet he was familiar withthe place. He had the instincts and the methods of the true traveler. Henever was guilty of sightseeing in the usual sense. But it was his habitto get general outlines fixed at once. In Paris, in London, he had taken amap, had gone to some central spot, and had studied the cities from there;had traveled in different directions merely to get his bearings. Afterthat he was quite at home. This was singular, too, for his life had beenof recent years much out of the beaten tracks of civilization. He got theoutlines of Herridon in an hour or two, and by evening he could have drawna pretty accurate chart of it, both as to detail and from the point of abirdseye view at the top of the moor. 

The moor had delighted him. He looked away to all quarters and saw hilland valley wrapped in that green. He saw it under an almost cloudless sky, and he took off his hat and threw his grizzled head back with a boyishlaugh. 

"It's good--good enough!" he said. "I've seen so much country all on edgethat this is like getting a peep over the wall on the other side--theother side of Jordan. And yet that was God's country with the sun on it, as Gladney used to say--poor devil!"

He dropped his eyes from the prospect before him and pushed the sod andling with his foot musingly. "If I had been in Gladney's place, would Ihave done as he did, and if he had been in my place would he have done asI did? One thing is certain, there'd have been bad luck for both of us, this way or that, with a woman in the equation. He was a fool--that's theway it looked, and I was a liar--to all appearances, and there's no heavenon earth for either. I've seen that all along the line. One thing is sure, Gladney has reached, as in his engineering phrase he'd say, the line ofsaturation, and I the line of liver, thanks be to London and its joys!And now for sulphur water and--damnation!"

This last word was not the real end to the sentence. He had, whilelighting his cigar, suddenly remembered something. He puffed the cigarfiercely and immediately drew out a letter. He stood looking at it for aminute and presently let go a long breath. 

"So much for London and getting out of my old tracks! Now, it can't go foranother three days, and he needing the dollars. * * * I'll read it overagain anyhow. " He took it out and read:

"Cheer up, and get out of the hospital as soon as you can and come overyourself. And remember in the future that you can't fool about the fireescapes of a thirteen story flat as you can a straight foothill of theRockies or a Lake Superior silver mine. Here goes to you $1, 000 (perdraft), and please to recall that what's mine is yours, and what's yoursis your own, and there's a good big sum that'll be yours, concerning whichlater. But take care of yourself, Gladney. You can't drown a mountain withthe squirt of a rattlesnake's tooth; you can't flood a memory with cognac. I've tried it. For God's sake don't drink any more. What's the use? Smilein the seesaw of the knives. You can only be killed once, and, believe me, there's twice the fun in taking bad luck naked, as it were. Do youremember the time you and I and Ned Bassett, the H. B. Company's man, struck the camp of bloods on the Gray Goose river? How the squaw lied andsaid he was the trader that dropped their messenger in a hot spring, andthey began to peel Ned before our eyes? How he said as they drew the firstchip from his shoulder, 'Tell the company, boys, that it's according tothe motto on their flag, Pro Pelle Cutem--Skin For Skin?' How the womanbacked down, and he got off with a strip of his pelt gone? How themedicine man took little bits of us and the red niggers, too, and put themon the raw place and fixed him up again? Well, that's the way to do it, and if you come up smiling every time you get your pound of flesh one wayor another. Play the game with a clear head and a little insolence, Gladney, and you won't find the world so bad at its worst. 

"So much for so much. Now for the commission you gave me. I'd rather ithad been anything else, for I think I'm the last man in the world for dutywhere women are concerned. That reads queer, but you know what I mean. Imean that women puzzle me, and I'm apt to take them too literally. If Ifound your wife, and she wasn't as straightforward as you are, JackGladney, I'd as like as not get things in a tangle. You know I thought itwould be better to let things sleep--resurrections are uncomfortablethings mostly. However, here I am to do what's possible. What have I done?Nothing. I haven't found her yet. You didn't want me to advertise, and Ihaven't. She hasn't been acting for a long time, and no one seems to knowexactly where she is. She was traveling abroad with some people calledBranscombes, and I'm going to send a letter through their agent. We shallsee. 

"Lastly, for business. I've floated the Aurora company with a capital of$1, 000, 000, and that ought to carry the thing for all we want to do. So bejoyful. But you shall have full particulars next mail. I'm just off toHerridon for the waters. Can you think it, Gladney--Mark Telford, late ofthe H. B. C, coming down to that? But it's a fact. Luncheons and dinners inLondon, E. C. , fiery work, and so it's stand by the halyards for badweather! Once more, keep your nose up to the wind, and believe that I amalways, " etc. 

He read it through, dwelling here and there as if to reconsider, and, whenit was finished, put it back into his pocket, tore up the envelope and letit fall to the ground. Presently he said: "I'll cable the money over andsend the letter on next mail. Strange that I didn't think of cablingyesterday. However, it's all the same. "

So saying, he came down the moor into the town and sent his cable, thenwent to his hotel and had dinner. After dinner he again went for a walk. He was thinking hard, and that did not render him less interesting. Hewas tall and muscular, yet not heavy, with a lean dark face, keen, steadyeyes, and dignified walk. He wore a black soft felt hat and a red silksash which just peeped from beneath his waistcoat--in all, striking, yetnot bizarre, and notably of gentlemanlike manner. What arrested attentionmost, however, was his voice. People who heard it invariably turned tolook or listened from sheer pleasure. It was of such penetrating clearnessthat if he spoke in an ordinary tone it carried far. Among the Indians ofthe Hudson Bay company, where he had been for six years or more, he hadbeen known as Man of the Gold Throat, and that long before he was calledby the negroes on his father's plantation in the southern states LittleMarse Gabriel, because Gabriel's horn, they thought, must be like hisvoice--"only mo' so, an dat chile was bawn to ride on de golden mule. "

You would not, from his manner or voice or dress have called him anAmerican. You might have said he was a gentleman planter from Cuba or Javaor Fiji, or a successful miner from Central America who had more than atouch of Spanish blood in his veins. He was not at all the type from oversea who are in evidence at wild west shows, or as poets from a westernIlion, who ride in the Row with sombrero, cloak and Mexican saddle. Indeed, a certain officer of Indian infantry, who had once picked up someirregular French in Egypt and at dinner made remarks on Telford'spersonal appearance to a pretty girl beside him, was confused when Telfordlooked up and said to him in admirable French: "I'd rather not, but Ican't help hearing what you say, and I think it only fair to tell you so. These grapes are good. Shall I pass them? Poole made my clothes, andLincoln is my hatter. Were you ever in Paris?"

The slow, distinct voice came floating across the little table, and ladieswho that day had been reading the last French novel and could interpretevery word and tone smiled slyly at each other or held themselves still tohear the sequel; the ill-bred turned round and stared; the parvenu sittingat the head of the table, who had been a foreign buyer of some Londonfirm, chuckled coarsely and winked at the waiter, and Baron, theAfrikander trader, who sat next to Telford, ordered champagne on thestrength of it. The bronzed, weather worn face of Telford showedimperturbable, but his eyes were struggling with a strong kind of humor. The officer flushed to the hair, accepted the grapes, smiled foolishly, and acknowledged--swallowing the reflection on his accent--that he hadbeen in Paris. Then he engaged in close conversation with the young ladybeside him, who, however, seemed occupied with Telford. This quiet, keenyoung lady, Miss Mildred Margrave, had received an impression, not of thekind which her sex confide to each other, but of a graver quality. Shewas a girl of sympathies and parts. 

The event increased the interest and respect felt in the hotel for thisstranger. That he knew French was not strange. He had been well educatedas a boy and had had his hour with the classics. His godmother, who hadbeen in the household of Prince Joseph Bonaparte, taught him French fromthe time he could lisp, and, what was dangerous in his father's eyes, filled him with bits of poetry and fine language, so that he knew Heine, Racine and Beranger and many another. But this was made endurable to thefather by the fact that, by nature, the boy was a warrior and ascapegrace, could use his fists as well as his tongue, and posed as aNapoleon with the negro children in the plantation. He was leader of therevels when the slaves gathered at night in front of the huts and made ajoy of captivity and sang hymns which sounded like profane music hallsongs, and songs with an unction now lost to the world, even asShakespeare's fools are lost--that gallant company who ran a thread oftragedy through all their jesting. 

Great things had been prophesied for this youth in the days when he satupon an empty treacle barrel with a long willow rod in his hand, a cockedhat on his head, a sword at his side--a real sword once belonging to alittle Bonaparte--and fiddlers and banjoists beneath him. His father onsuch occasions called him Young King Cole. 

All had changed, and many things had happened, as we shall see. But onething was clear--this was no wild man from the west. He had claims to beconsidered, and he was considered. People watched him as he went down overthe esplanade and into quiet streets. The little occurrence at the dinnertable had set him upon a train of thoughts which he had tried to avoid formany years. On principle he would not dwell on the past. There was nocorrosion, he said to himself, like the memory of an ugly deed. But theexperiences of the last few days had tended to throw him into the past, and for once he gave himself up to it. 

Presently there came to him the sound of a banjo--not an unusual thing atHerridon. It had its mock negro minstrels, whom, hearing, Telford wasanxious to offend. This banjo, he knew at once, was touched by fingerswhich felt them as if born on them, and the chords were such as are onlybrought forth by those who have learned them to melodies of the south. Hestopped before the house and leaned upon the fence. He heard the voice goshivering through a negro hymn, which was among the first he had everknown. He felt himself suddenly shiver--a thrill of nervous sympathy. Hisface went hot and his hands closed on the palings tightly. He stole intothe garden quietly, came near the window and stood still. He held hismouth in his palm. He had an inclination to cry out. 

"Good God!" he said in a whisper. "To hear that off here after all theseyears!" Suddenly the voice stopped. There was a murmur within. It came tohim indistinctly. "She has forgotten the rest, " he said. Instantly andalmost involuntarily he sang:

 "Look up an look aroun, Fro you burden on de groun. "

Then came the sequel as we described, and his low chanting of the negrowoodcutter's chant. He knew that any who answered it must have lived thelife he once lived in Louisiana, for he had never heard it since he hadleft there, nor any there hum it except those who knew the negroes well. Of an evening, in the hot, placid south, he had listened to it comefloating over the sugarcane and through the brake and go creeping weirdlyunder the magnolia trees. He waited, hoping, almost wildly--he knew it wasa wild hope--that there would be a reply. There was none. But presentlythere came to him Baron's crude, honest singing:

 "For you'll take the high road, and I'll take the low road, And I'll be in Scotland before you; But I and my true love will never meet again On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Ben Lomond. "

Telford drew in his breath sharply, caught his mustache between his teethsavagely for a minute, then let it go with a run of ironical laughter. Helooked round him. He saw in the road two or three people who had beenattracted by the music. They seemed so curious merely, so apathetic--hisfeelings were playing at full tide. To him they were the idle, intrusivespectators of his trouble. All else was dark about him save where on thehill the lights of the Tempe hotel showed, and a man and woman, his armround her, could be seen pacing among the trees. Telford turned away fromthis, ground his heel into the turf and said: "I wish I could see who sheis. Her voice? It's impossible. " He edged close to the window, where alight showed at the edge of the curtains. Suddenly he pulled up. 

"No. Whoever she is I shall know in time. Things come round. It's almostuncanny as it stands, but then it was uncanny--it has all been so sincethe start. " He turned to the window again, raised his hat to it, walkedquickly out into the road and made his way to the View hotel. As he cameupon the veranda Mildred Margrave passed him. He saw the shy look ofinterest in her face, and with simple courtesy he raised his hat. Shebowed and went on. He turned and looked after her; then, shaking his headas if to dismiss an unreasonable thought, entered and went to his room. 

About this time the party at Hagar's rooms was breaking up. There had beenmore singing by Mrs. Detlor. She ransacked her memory for half rememberedmelodies--whimsical, arcadian, sad--and Hagar sat watching her, outwardlyquiet and appreciative, inwardly under an influence like none he had everfelt before. When his guests were ready, he went with them to their hotel. He saw that Mrs. Detlor shrank from the attendance of the Prince, whoinsisted on talking of the "stranger in the greenroom. " When they arrivedat the hotel, he managed, simply enough, to send the lad on some missionfor Mrs. Detlor, which, he was determined, should be permanent so far asthat evening was concerned. He was soon walking alone with her on theterrace. He did not force the conversation, nor try to lead it to theevent of the evening, which, he felt, was more important than othersguessed. He knew also that she did not care to talk just then. He hadnever had any difficulty in conversation with her--they had a singularrapport. He had traveled much, seen more, remembered everything, was shyto austerity with people who did not interest him, spontaneous with thosethat did, and yet was never--save to serve a necessary purpose--a hailfellow with any one. He knew that he could be perfectly natural with thiswoman--say anything that became a man. He was an artist withoutaffectations, a diplomatic man, having great enthusiasm and some outercynicism. He had started life terribly in earnest before the world. He hadchanged all that. In society he was a nervous organism gone cold, adeliberate, self-contained man. But insomuch as he was chastened ofenthusiasm outwardly he was boyishly earnest inwardly. 

He was telling Mrs. Detlor of some incident he had seen in South Africawhen sketching there for a London weekly, telling it graphically, incisively--he was not fluent. He etched in speech; he did not paint. Shelooked up at him once or twice as if some thought was running parallelwith his story. He caught the look. He had just come to the close of hisnarrative. Presently she put out her hand and touched his arm. 

"You have great tact, " she said, "and I am grateful. "

"I will not question your judgment, " he replied, smiling. "I am glad thatyou think so, and humbled too. "

"Why humbled?" she laughed softly. "I can't imagine that. "

"There are good opinions which make us vain, others which make us anxiousto live up to them, while we are afraid we can't. "

"Few men know that kind of fear. You are a vain race. "

"You know best. Men show certain traits to women most. "

"That is true. Of the most real things they seldom speak to each other, but to women they often speak freely, and it makes one shudder--till oneknows the world, and gets used to it. "

"Why shudder?" He guessed the answer, but he wanted, not from merecuriosity, to hear her say it. 

"The business of life they take seriously--money, position, chieflymoney. Life itself--home, happiness, the affections, friendship--is anincident, a thing to juggle with. "

"I do not know you in this satirical mood, " he answered. "I need time toget used to it before I can reply. "

"I surprise you? People do not expect me ever to be either serious or--orsatirical, only look to me to be amiable and merry. 'Your only jig-maker, 'as Hamlet said--a sprightly Columbine. Am I rhetorical?"

"I don't believe you are really satirical, and please don't think meimpertinent if I say I do not like your irony. The other character suitsyou, for, by nature, you are--are you not?--both merry and amiable. Therest"--

"'The rest is silence. ' * * * I can remember when mere living wasdelightful. I didn't envy the birds. That sounds sentimental to a man, doesn't it? But then that is the way a happy girl--a child--feels. I donot envy the birds now, though I suppose it is silly for a worldly womanto talk so. "

"Whom, then, do you envy?"

There was a warm, frank light in her eyes. "I envy the girl I was then. "

He looked down at her. She was turning a ring about on her fingerabstractedly. He hesitated to reply. He was afraid that he might saysomething to press a confidence for which she would be sorry afterward. She guessed what was passing in his mind. 

She reached out as if to touch his arm again, but did not, and said: "Iam placing you in an awkward position. Pardon me. It seemed to me for amoment that we were old friends--old and candid friends. "

"I wish to be an old and candid friend, " he replied firmly. "I honor yourfrankness. "

"I know, " she added hastily. "One is safe--with some men. "

"Not with a woman?"

"No woman is safe in any confidence to any other woman. All women are moreor less bad at heart. "

"I do not believe that as you say it. "

"Of course you do not--as I say it. But you know what I mean. Women arecreatures of impulse, except those who live mechanically and have losteverything. They become like priests then. "

"Like some priests. Yet, with all respect, it is not a confessional Iwould choose, except the woman was my mother. "

There was silence for a moment, and then she abruptly said: "I know youwish to speak of that incident, and you hesitate. You need not. Yet thisis all I can tell you. Whoever the man was he came from Tellaire, theplace where I was born. "

She paused. He did not look, but he felt that she was moved. He wascurious as to human emotions, but not where this woman was concerned. 

"There were a few notes in that woodcutter's chant which were added tothe traditional form by one whom I knew, " she continued. 

"You did not recognize the voice?"

"I cannot tell. One fancies things, and it was all twelve years ago. "

"It was all twelve years ago, " he repeated musingly after her. He waseager to know, yet he would not ask. 

"You are a clever artist, " she said presently. "You want a subject for apicture. You have told me so. You are ambitious. If you were a dramatist, I would give you three acts of a play--the fourth is yet to come; but youshall have a scene to paint if you think it strong enough. "

His eyes flashed. The artist's instinct was alive. In the eyes of thewoman was a fire which sent a glow over all her features. In herself shewas an inspiration to him, but he had not told her that. "Oh, yes, " washis reply, "I want it, if I may paint you in the scene. "

"You may paint me in the scene, " she said quietly. Then, as if it suddenlycame to her that she would be giving a secret into this man's hands, sheadded, "That is, if you want me for a model merely. "

"Mrs. Detlor, " he said, "you may trust me, on my honor. "

She looked at him, not searchingly, but with a clear, honest gaze such asone sees oftenest in the eyes of children, yet she had seen theduplicities of life backward and said calmly, "Yes, I can trust you. "

"An artist's subject ought to be sacred to him, " he said. "It becomeshimself, and then it isn't hard--to be silent. "

They walked for a few moments, saying nothing. The terrace was fillingwith people, so they went upon the veranda and sat down. There were nochairs near them. They were quite at the end. 

"Please light a cigar, " she said with a little laugh. "We must not lookserious. Assume your light comedy manner as you listen, and I will wearthe true Columbine expression. We are under the eyes of the curious. "

"Not too much light comedy for me, " he said. "I shall look forbidding lestyour admirers bombard us. "

They were quiet again. 

"This is the story, " she said at last, folding her hands before her. "No, no, " she added hastily, "I will not tell you the story, I will try andpicture one scene. And when I have finished, tell me if you don't think Ihave a capital imagination. " She drew herself up with a little gesture ofmockery. "It is comedy, you know. 

"Her name was Marion Conquest. She was beautiful--they said that of herthen--and young, only sixteen. She had been very happy, for a man saidthat he loved her, and she wore his ring on her finger. One day, while shewas visiting at a place far from her home, she was happier than usual. Shewished to be by herself to wonder how it was that one could be so happy. You see, she was young and did not think often. She only lived. She took ahorse and rode far away into the woods. She came near a cottage among thetrees. She got off her horse and led it. Under a tree she saw a man and awoman. The man's arm was round the woman. A child four or five years oldwas playing at their feet--at the feet of its father and mother. * * * Thegirl came forward and faced the man--the man she had sworn to marry. As Isaid, his ring was on her finger. "

She paused. People were passing near, and she smiled and bowed once ortwice, but Hagar saw that the fire in her eyes had deepened. 

"Is it strong enough for your picture?" she said quietly. 

"It is as strong as it is painful. Yet there is beauty in it, too, for Isee the girl's face. "

"You see much in her face, of course, for you look at it as an artist. You see shame, indignation, bitterness--what else?"

"I see that moment of awe when the girl suddenly became a woman--as theserious day breaks all at once through the haze of morning. "

"I know you can paint the picture, " she said, "but you have no model forthe girl. How shall you imagine her?"

"I said that I would paint you in the scene, " he answered slowly. 

"But I am not young, as she was; am not--so good to look at. "

"I said that I saw beauty in the girl's face. I can only see it throughyours. "

Her hands clasped tightly before her. Her eyes turned full on him for aninstant, then looked away into the dusk. There was silence for a long timenow. His cigar burned brightly. People kept passing and repassing on theterrace below them. Their serious silence was noticeable. 

"A penny for your thoughts, " she said gayly, yet with a kind ofwistfulness. 

"You would be thrown away at the price. "

These were things that she longed yet dreaded to hear. She was not free(at least she dreaded so) to listen to such words. 

"I am sorry for that girl, God knows!" he added. 

"She lived to be always sorry for herself. She was selfish. She couldhave thrived on happiness. She did not need suffering. She has beenmerry, gay, but never happy. "

"The sequel was sad?"

"Terribly sad. "

"Will you tell me--the scene?"

"I will, but not to-night. " She drew her hands across her eyes andforehead. "You are not asking merely as the artist now?" She knew theanswer, but she wanted to hear it. 

"A man who is an artist asks, and he wishes to be a friend to that woman, to do her any service possible. "

"Who can tell when she might need befriending?"

He would not question further. She had said all she could until she knewwho the stranger was. 

"I must go in, " she said. "It is late. "

"Tell me one thing. I want it for my picture--as a key to the mind of thegirl. What did she say at that painful meeting in the woods--to the man?"

Mrs. Detlor looked at him as if she would read him through and through. Presently she drew a ring from her finger slowly and gave it to him, smiling bitterly. 

"Read inside. That is what she said. "

By the burning end of his cigar he read, "You told a lie. "

At another hotel a man sat in a window looking out on the esplanade. Hespoke aloud. 

"'You told a lie, ' was all she said, and as God's in heaven I've neverforgotten I was a liar from that day to this. "

CHAPTER II. 

THE MEETING. 

The next morning George Hagar was early at the pump-room. He found itamusing to watch the crowds coming and going--earnest invalids and thatmost numerous body of middle aged, middle class people who have noparticular reason for drinking the waters, and whose only regimen isgetting even with their appetites. He could pick out every order at aglance--he did not need to wait until he saw the tumblers at their lips. Now and then a dashing girl came gliding in, and, though the draft wasnoxious to her, drank the stuff off with a neutral look and well bredindifference to the distress about her. Or in strode the privatesecretary of some distinguished being in London, S. W. He invariablycarried his glass to the door, drank it off in languid sips as he leanedindolently against the masonry, and capped the event by purchasing a rosefor his buttonhole, so making a ceremony which smacked of federating theworld at a common public drinking trough into a little fete. Or there werethe good priests from a turbulent larruping island, who with cheeksblushing with health and plump waistcoats came ambling, smiling, to theirthirty ounces of noisome liquor. Then, there was Baron, the bronzed, idling, comfortable trader from Zanzibar, who, after fifteen years of hideand seek with fever and Arabs and sudden death--wherewith were all mannerof accident and sundry profane dealings not intended for The Times orExeter hall, comes back to sojourn in quiet "Christom" places, a lamb intemper, a lion at heart, an honest soul who minds his own business, isenemy to none but the malicious, and lives in daily wonder that the winehe drank the night before gets into trouble with the waters drunk in themorning. And the days, weeks and months go on, but Baron remains, havingseen population after population of water drinkers come and go. He wasthere years ago. He is there still, coming every year, and he does notknow that George Hagar has hung him at Burlington House more than once, and he remembers very well the pretty girl he did not marry, who also, onone occasion, joined the aristocratic company "on the line. "

This young and pretty girl--Miss Mildred Margrave--came and went thismorning, and a peculiar, meditative look on her face, suggesting somerecent experience, caused the artist to transfer her to his notebook. Herstep was sprightly, her face warm and cheerful in hue, her figureexcellent, her walk the most admirable thing about her--swaying, graceful, lissom--like perfect dancing with the whole body. Her walk was immediatelymerged into somebody else's--merged melodiously, if one may say so. A mancame from the pump-room looking after the girl, and Hagar remarked asimilar swaying impulsion in the walk of both. He walked as far as thegate of the pump-room, then sauntered back, unfolded a newspaper, closedit up again, lit a cigar, and, like Hagar, stood watching the crowdabstractedly. He was an outstanding figure. Ladies, as they waited, occasionally looked at him through their glasses, and the Duchess ofBrevoort thought he would make a picturesque figure for a reception--shewas not less sure because his manner was neither savage nor suburban. George Hagar was known to some people as "the fellow who looks back ofyou. " Mark Telford might have been spoken of as "the man who looks throughyou, " for, when he did glance at a man or woman, it was with keendirectness, affecting the person looked at like a flash of light to theeye. It is easy to write such things, not so easy to verify them, but anyone that has seen the sleuthlike eyes of men accustomed to dealing withdanger in the shape of wild beasts or treacherous tribes or still moretreacherous companions, and whose lives depend upon their feeling forperil and their unerring vigilance can see what George Hagar saw in MarkTelford's looks. 

Telford's glance went round the crowd, appearing to rest for an instant onevery person, and for a longer time on Hagar. The eyes of the two men met. Both were immediately puzzled, for each had a sensation of somesubterranean origin. Telford immediately afterward passed out of the gateand went toward the St. Cloud gardens, where the band was playing. For atime Hagar did not stir, but idled with his pencil and notebook. Suddenlyhe started, and hurried out in the direction Telford had gone. 

"I was an ass, " he said to himself, "not to think of that at first. "

He entered the St. Cloud gardens and walked round the promenade a fewtimes, but without finding him. Presently, however, Alpheus Richmond, whose beautiful and brilliant waistcoat and brass buttons with monogramadorned showed advantageously in the morning sunshine, said to him: "Isay, Hagar, who's that chap up there filling the door of the summer house?Lord, rather!"

It was Telford. Hagar wished for the slightest pretext to go up theunfrequented side path and speak to him, but his mind was too excited todo the thing naturally without a stout pretext. Besides, though he admiredthe man's proportions and his uses from an artistic standpoint, he did notlike him personally, and he said that he never could. He had instinctivelikes and dislikes. What had startled him at the pump-room and had madehim come to the gardens was the conviction that this was the man to playthe part in the scene which, described by Mrs. Detlor, had been arrangingitself in a hundred ways in his brain during the night--the centralfigures always the same, the details, light, tone, coloring, expression, fusing, resolving. Then came another and still more significant thought. On this he had acted. 

When he had got rid of Richmond, who begged that he would teach him how toarrange a tie as he did--for which an hour was appointed--he determined, at all hazards, to speak. He had a cigar in his pocket, and though tosmoke in the morning was pain and grief to him, he determined to ask for amatch, and started. He was stopped by Baron, whose thoughts being muchwith the little vices of man, anticipated his wishes and offered him alight. In despair Hagar took it, and asked if he chanced to know who thestranger was. Baron did know, assuring Hagar that he sat on thegentleman's right at the same table in his hotel, and was qualified tointroduce him. Before they started he told the artist of the occurrence ofthe evening before, and further assured him of the graces of Miss MildredMargrave. "A pearl, " he said, "not to be reckoned by loads of ivory, norjolly bricks of gold, nor caravans of Arab steeds, nor--come and havedinner with me to-night, and you shall see. There, what do you say?"

Hagar, who loved the man's unique and spontaneous character as only anartist can love a subject in which he sees royal possibilities, consentedgladly, and dropped a cordial hand on the other's shoulder. The hand wasdragged down and wrenched back and forth with a sturdy clasp, in time to aroll of round, unctuous laughter. Then Baron took him up hurriedly, andintroduced him to Telford with the words: "You two ought to know eachother. Telford, traveler, officer of the Hudson's Bay company, et cetera;Hagar, artist, good fellow, et cetera. "

Then he drew back and smiled as the two men, not shaking hands as heexpected, bowed, and said they were happy to meet. The talk began with theremark by Hagar on the panorama below them, "that the thing was amusing ifnot seen too often, but the eternal paddling round the band stand was toomuch like marionettes. "

"You prefer a Punch and Judy to marionettes?" asked Telford. 

"Yes, you get a human element in a Punch and Judy tragedy. Besides, ithas surprises, according to the idiosyncrasy of the man in the greenroom. "He smiled immediately, remembering that his last words plagiarized Mr. Alpheus Richmond. 

"I never miss a Punch and Judy if I'm near it, " said Telford. "I enjoy thesardonic humor with which Punch hustles off his victims. Hislight-heartedness when doing bloody deeds is the true temper. "

"That is, if it must be done, to do it with a grin is--"

"Is the most absolute tragedy. "

Hagar was astonished, for even the trader's information that Telford spokeexcellent French, and had certainly been a deal on red carpet in his time, did not prepare him for the sharply incisive words just uttered. Yet itwas not incongruous with. Telford's appearance--not even with the red sashpeeping at the edge of his waistcoat. 

They came down among the promenaders, and Baron being accosted by someone, he left the two together, exacting anew the promise from Hagarregarding dinner. 

Presently Hagar looked up, and said abruptly, "You were singing outside mywindow last night. "

Telford's face was turned away from him when he began. It came slowlytoward him. The eyes closed steadily with his, there was no excitement, only cold alertness. 

"Indeed? What was I singing?"

"For one thing, the chant of the negro woodcutters of Louisiana. "

"What part of Louisiana?"

"The county of Tellavie chiefly. "

Telford drew a long breath, as though some suspense was over, and thensaid, "How did you know it was I?"

"I could scarcely tell you. I got the impression--besides, you are theonly man I've seen in Herridon who looks likely to know it and the songwhich you prompted. "

"Do I look like a southerner--still? You see I've been in an arcticcountry five years. "

"It is not quite that. I confess I cannot explain it. "

"I hope you did not think the thing too boorish to be pardoned. On theface of it it was rude to you--and the lady also. "

"The circumstance--the coincidence--was so unusual that I did not stop tothink of manners. "

"The coincidence--what coincidence?" said Telford, watching intently. 

But Hagar had himself well in hand. He showed nothing of his suspicions. "That you should be there listening, and that the song should be one whichno two people, meeting casually, were likely to know. "

"We did not meet, " said Telford dryly. 

They watched the crowd for a minute. Presently he added, "May I ask thename of the lady who was singing?"

There was a slight pause, then, "Certainly--Mrs. Fairfax Detlor. "

Though Telford did not stir a muscle the bronze of his face went grayish, and he looked straight before him without speaking. At last he said in aclear, steady voice, "I knew her once, I think. "

"I guessed so. "

"Indeed? May I ask if Mrs. Detlor recognized my voice?"

"That I do not know, but the chances are she did not; if you failed torecognize hers. "

There was an almost malicious desire on Hagar's part to play upon thisman--this scoundrel, as he believed him to be--and make him wince stillmore. A score of things to say or do flashed through his mind, but he gavethem up instantly, remembering that it was his duty to consider Mrs. Detlor before all. But he did say, "If you were old friends, you will wishto meet her, of course. "

"Yes. I have not seen her in many years. Where is she staying?"

"At the Tempe hotel. I do not know whether you intend to call, but I wouldsuggest your not doing so to-day--that is, if you wish to see her and notmerely leave your card--because she has an engagement this morning, andthis afternoon she is going on an excursion. "

"Thank you for the generous information. " There was cool irony in thetone. "You are tolerably well posted as to Mrs. Detlor's movements. "

"Oh, yes, " was the equally cool reply. "In this case I happen to know, because Mrs. Detlor sits for a picture at my studio this morning, and Iam one of the party for the excursion. "

"Just so. Then will you please say nothing to Mrs. Detlor about having metme? I should prefer surprising her. "

"I'm afraid I can make no promise. The reason is not sufficient. Surprises, as you remarked about Punch and Judy, are amusing, but they mayalso be tragical. "

Telford flashed a dark, inquiring look at his companion, and then said:"Excuse me, I did not say that, though it was said. However, it is nomatter. We meet at dinner, I I suppose, this evening. Till then!"

He raised his hat with a slight sweeping motion--a little mocking excessin the courtesy--and walked away. 

As he went Hagar said after him between his teeth, "By Heaven, you arethat man!"

These two hated each other at this moment, and they were men of mightafter their kind. The hatred of the better man was the greater. Not from asense of personal wrong, but--

Three hours later Hagar was hard at work in his studio. Only those whoknew him intimately could understand him in his present mood. His pale, brooding, yet masculine face was flushed, the blue of his eyes was almostblack, his hair, usually in a Roman regularity about his strong brow, wasdisorderly. He did not know the passage of time. He had had no breakfast. He had read none of his letters--they lay in a little heap on hismantelpiece--he was sketching upon the canvas the scene which hadpossessed him for the past ten or eleven hours. An idea was being born, and it was giving him the distress of bringing forth. Paper after paper hehad thrown away, but at last he had shaped the idea to please his severecritical instinct, and was now sketching in the expression of the girl'sface. His brain was hot, his face looked tired, but his hand was steady, accurate and cool--a shapely hand which the sun never browned, and he wasa man who loved the sun. 

He drew back at last. "Yes, that's it, " he said. "It's right, right. Hisface shall come in later. But the heart of the thing is there. "

The last sentence was spoken in a louder tone, so that some one behind himheard. It was Mrs. Detlor. She had, with the young girl who had sat at herfeet the evening before, been shown into the outer room, had playfullyparted the curtains between the rooms and entered. She stood for a momentlooking at the sketch, fascinated, thrilled. Her yes filled with tears, then went dry and hot, as she said in a loud whisper, "Yes, the heart ofthe thing is there. "

Hagar turned on her quickly, astonished, eager, his face shining with alook superadded to his artistic excitement. 

She put her finger to her lip, and nodded backward to the other room. Heunderstood. "Yes, I know, " he said, "the light comedy manner. " He wavedhis hand toward the drawing. "But is it not in the right vein?"

"It is painfully, horribly true, " she said. She looked from him to thecanvas, from the canvas to him, and then made a little pathetic gesturewith her hands. "What a jest life is!"

"A game--a wonderful game, " he replied, "and a wicked one, when there isgambling with human hearts. "

Then he turned with her toward the other room. As he passed her to drawaside the curtain she touched his arm with the tips of her fingers solightly--as she intended--that he did not feel it. There was a mute, confiding tenderness in the action more telling than any speech. Thewoman had had a brilliant, varied, but lonely life. It must still belonely, though now the pleasant vista of a new career kept opening andclosing before her, rendering her days fascinating yet troubled, hernights full of joyful but uneasy hours. The game thus far had gone againsther. Yet she was popular, merry and amiable!

She passed composedly into the other room. Hagar greeted the young girl, gave her books and papers, opened the piano, called for some refreshmentsand presented both with a rose from a bunch upon the table. The young girlwas perfectly happy to be allowed to sit in the courts without and amuseherself while the artist and his model should have their hour with penciland canvas. 

The two then went to the studio again, and, leaving the curtain drawnback, Hagar arranged Mrs. Detlor in position and began his task. He stoodlooking at the canvas for a time, as though to enter into the spirit of itagain; then turned to his model. She was no longer Mrs. Detlor, but hissubject, near to him as his canvas and the creatures of his imagination, but as a mere woman in whom he was profoundly interested (that at least)an immeasurable distance from him. He was the artist only now. 

It was strange. There grew upon the canvas Mrs. Detlor's face, all thewoman of it, just breaking through sweet, awesomely beautiful, girlishfeatures; and though the work was but begun there was already thatluminous tone which artists labor so hard to get, giving to the face aweird, yet charming expression. 

For an hour he worked, then he paused. "Would you like to see it?" hesaid. 

She rose eagerly, and a little pale. He had now sketched in moredistinctly the figure of the man, changed it purposely to look more likeTelford. She saw her own face first. It shone out of the canvas. She gavea gasp of pain and admiration. Then she caught sight of Telford's figure, with the face blurred and indistinct. 

"Oh!" she said with a shudder. That--that is like him. How could youknow?"

"If that is the man, " he said, "I saw him this morning. Is his name MarkTelford?"

"Yes, " she said, and sank into a chair. Presently she sprang to her feet, caught up a brush and put it into his hand. "Paint in his face. Quick!Paint in his face. Put all his wickedness there. "

Hagar came close to her. "You hate him?" he said, and took the brush. 

She did not answer by word, but shook her head wearily, as to some one faroff, expressing neither yes nor no. 

"Why?" he said quietly--all their words had been in low tones, that theymight not be heard--"why, do you wear that ring, then?"

She looked at her hand with a bitter, pitiful smile. "I wear it in memoryof that girl who died very young"--she pointed to the picture--"and toremind me not to care for anything too much lest it should prove to be alie. " She nodded softly to the picture. "He and she are both dead; otherpeople wear their faces now. "

"Poor woman!" he said in a whisper. Then he turned to the canvas and, after a moment, filled in from memory the face of Mark Telford, shewatching him breathlessly, yet sitting very still. 

After some minutes he drew back and looked at it. 

She rose and said: "Yes, he was like that; only you have added what I sawat another time. Will you hear the sequel now?"

He turned and motioned her to a seat, then sat down opposite to her. 

She spoke sadly. "Why should I tell you? I do not know, except that itseemed to me you would understand. Yet I hope men like you forget what isbest forgotten; and I feel--oh, do you really care to hear it?"

"I love to listen to you. "

"That girl was fatherless, brotherless. There was no man with any right tostand her friend at the time--to avenge her--though, God knows, she wishedfor no revenge--except a distant cousin who had come from England to seeher mother and herself; to marry her if he could. She did not know hismotives; she believed that he really cared for her; she was young, andshe was sorry for his disappointment. When that thing happened"--her eyeswere on the picture, dry and hard--"he came forward, determined--so hesaid--to make the deceiver pay for his deceit with his life. It seemedbrave, and what a man would do, what a southerner would do. He was anEnglishman, and so it looked still more brave in him. He went to the man'srooms and offered him a chance for his life by a duel. He had broughtrevolvers. He turned the key in the door and then laid the pistols he hadbrought on the table. Without warning the other snatched up a small swordand stabbed him with it. He managed to get one of the revolvers, fired, and brought the man down. The man was not killed, but it was a long timebefore he--Mark Telford there--was well again. When he got up, the girl"--

"Poor girl!"

"When he got up the girl was married to the cousin who had periled hislife for her. It was madness, but it was so. "

Here she paused. The silence seemed oppressive. Hagar, divining herthought, got up, went to the archway between the rooms and asked the younggirl to play something. It helped him, he said, when he was thinking howto paint. He went back. 

Mrs. Detlor continued. "But it was a terrible mistake. There was avaluable property in England which the cousin knew she could get byproving certain things. The marriage was to him a speculation. When shewaked to that--it was a dreadful awakening--she refused to move in thematter. Is there anything more shameful than speculation in flesh andblood--the heart and life of a child?--he was so much older than she! Lifeto her was an hourly pain--you see she was wild with indignation andshame, and alive with a kind of gratitude and reaction when she marriedhim. And her life? Maternity was to her an agony such as comes to fewwomen who suffer and live. If her child--her beautiful, noble child--hadlived, she would, perhaps, one day have claimed the property for itssake. This child was her second love and it died--it died. "

She drew from her breast a miniature. He reached out and, firsthesitating, she presently gave it into his hand. It was warm--it had lainon her bosom. His hand, generally so steady, trembled. He raised theminiature to his own lips. She reached out her hand, flushing greatly. 

"Oh, please, you must not!" she said. 

"Go on, tell me all, " he urged, but still held the miniature in his handfor a moment. 

"There is little more to tell. He played a part. She came to know howcoarse and brutal he was, how utterly depraved. 

"At last he went away to Africa--that was three years ago. Word came thathe was drowned off the coast of Madagascar, but there is nothing sure, andthe woman would not believe that he was dead unless she saw him so or someone she could trust had seen him buried. Yet people call her a widow--whowears no mourning" (she smiled bitterly) "nor can until"--

Hagar came to his feet. "You have trusted me, " he said, "and I will honoryour confidence. To the world the story I tell on this canvas shall be myown. "

"I like to try and believe, " she said, "that there are good men in theworld. But I have not done so these many years. Who would think that ofme?--I who sing merry songs, and have danced and am gay--how well we wearthe mask, some of us!"

"I am sure, " he said, "that there are better days coming for you. On mysoul I think it. "

"But he is here, " she said. "What for? I cannot think there will beanything but misery when he crosses my path. "

"That duel, " he rejoined, the instinct of fairness natural to an honorableman roused in him; "did you ever hear more than one side of it?"

"No; yet sometimes I have thought there might be more than one side. Fairfax Detlor was a coward; and whatever that other was, "--she nodded tothe picture--"he feared no man. "

"A minute!" he said "Let me make a sketch of it. "

He got to work immediately. After the first strong outlines she rose, cameto him and said, "You know as much of it as I do--I will not stay anylonger. "

He caught her fingers in his and held them for an instant. "It is brutalof me. I did not stop to think what all this might cost you. "

"If you paint a notable picture and gain honor by it, that is enough, " shesaid. "It may make you famous. " She smiled a little wistfully. "You arevery ambitious. You needed, you said to me once, a simple but powerfulsubject which you could paint in with some one's life' blood--that soundsmore dreadful than it is * * * well? * * * You said you had beensuccessful, but had never had an inspiration"--

"I have one!"

She shook her head. "Never an inspiration which had possessed you as youought to be to move the public * * * well? * * * do you think I havehelped you at all? I wanted so much to do something for you. "

To Hagar's mind there came the remembrance of the pure woman who, to helpan artist, as poverty stricken as he was talented, engaged on the "Captureof Cassandra, " came into his presence as Lady Godiva passed through thestreets of Coventry, as hushed and as solemn. A sob shook in histhroat--he was of few but strong emotions; he reached out, took herwrists in his hands, and held them hard. "I have my inspiration now, " hesaid; "I know that I can paint my one great picture. I shall owe all toyou. And for my gratitude, it seems little to say that I love you--I loveyou, Marion. "

She drew her hands away, turned her head aside, her face both white andred. "Oh, hush, you must not say it!" she said. "You forget; do not makeme fear you and hate myself. * * * I wanted to be your friend--from thefirst, to help you, as I said; be, then, a friend to me, that I mayforgive myself. "

"Forgive yourself--for what? I wish to God I had the right to proclaim mylove--if you would have it, dear--to all the world. * * * And I will knowthe truth, for I will find your husband, or his grave. "

She looked up at him gravely, a great confidence in her eyes. "I wish youknew how much in earnest I am--in wishing to help you. Believe me, that isthe first thought. For the rest I am--shall I say it?--the derelict of alife; and I can only drift. You are young, as young almost as I in years, much younger every other way, for I began with tragedy too soon. "

At that moment there came a loud knock at the outer door, then a ring, followed by a cheerful voice calling through the window--"I say, Hagar, are you there? Shall I come in or wait on the mat till the slavey arrives. * * * Oh, here she is--Salaam! Talofa! Aloha!--which is heathen for Howdo you do, God bless you, and All hail!"

These remarks were made in the passage from the door through the hallwayinto the room. As Baron entered, Hagar and Mrs. Detlor were just comingfrom the studio. Both had ruled their features into stillness. 

Baron stopped short, open mouthed, confused, when he saw Mrs. Detlor. Hagar, for an instant, attributed this to a reason not in Baron's mind, and was immediately angry. For the man to show embarrassment was an illcompliment to Mrs. Detlor. However, he carried off the situation, andwelcomed the Afrikander genially, determining to have the matter out withhim in some sarcastic moment later. Baron's hesitation, however, continued. He stammered, and was evidently trying to account for his callby giving some other reason than the real one, which was undoubtedly heldback because of Mrs. Detlor's presence. Presently he brightened up andsaid, with an attempt to be convincing, "You know that excursion thisafternoon, Hagar? Well, don't you think we might ask the chap we met thismorning--first rate fellow--no pleb--picturesque for the box seat--go downwith the ladies--all like him--eh?"

"I don't see how we can, " replied Hagar coolly. Mrs. Detlor turned to themantelpiece. "We are full up; every seat is occupied--unless I give up myseat to him. "

Mrs. Detlor half turned toward them again, listening acutely. She caughtHagar's eyes in the mirror and saw, to her relief, that he had nointention of giving up his seat to Mark Telford. She knew that she mustmeet this man whom she had not seen for twelve years. She felt that hewould seek her, though why she could not tell; but this day she wanted toforget her past, all things but one, though she might have to put it awayfrom her ever after. Women have been known to live a lifetime on the joyof one day. Her eyes fell again on the mantelpiece, on Hagar's unopenedletters. At first her eyes wandered over the writing on the uppermostenvelope mechanically, then a painful recognition came into them. She hadseen that writing before, that slow sliding scrawl unlike any other, never to be mistaken. It turned her sick. Her fingers ran up to theenvelope, then drew back. She felt for an instant that she must take itand open it as she stood there. What had the writer of that letter to dowith George Hagar? She glanced at the postmark. It was South Hampstead. She knew that he lived in South Hampstead. The voices behind her grewindistinct; she forgot where she was. She did not know how long she stoodthere so, nor that Baron, feeling, without reason, the necessity formaking conversation, had suddenly turned the talk upon a collision, justreported, between two vessels in the Channel. He had forgotten their namesand where they hailed from--he had only heard of it, hadn't read it; butthere was great loss of life. She raised her eyes from the letter to themirror and caught sight of her own face. It was deadly pale. It suddenlybegan to waver before her and to grow black. She felt herself swaying, andreached out to save herself. One hand caught the side of the mirror. Itwas lightly hung. It loosened from the wall, and came away upon her as shewavered. Hagar had seen the action. He sprang forward, caught her, andpushed the mirror back. Her head dropped on his arm. 

The young girl ran forward with some water as Hagar placed Mrs. Detlor onthe sofa. It was only a sudden faintness. The water revived her. Baronstood dumbfounded, a picture of helpless anxiety. 

"I oughtn't to have driveled about that accident, " he said. "I always wasa fool. "

Mrs. Detlor sat up, pale, but smiling in a wan fashion. "I am all rightnow, " she said. "It was silly of me--let us go, dear, " she added to theyoung girl; "I shall be better for the open air--I have had a headache allmorning. * * * No, please, don't accuse yourself, Mr. Baron, you are notat all to blame. "

"I wish that was all the bad news I have, " said Baron to himself as Hagarshowed Mrs. Detlor to a landau. Mrs. Detlor asked to be driven to herhotel. 

"I shall see you this afternoon at the excursion if you are well enoughto go, " Hagar said to her. 

"Perhaps, " she said with a strange smile. Then, as she drove away, "Youhave not read your letters this morning. " He looked after her for amoment, puzzled by what she said and by the expression on her face. 

He went back to the house abstractedly. Baron was sitting in a chair, smoking hard. Neither men spoke at first. Hagar went over to the manteland adjusted the mirror, thinking the while of Mrs. Detlor's last words. "You haven't read your letters this morning, " he repeated to himself. Heglanced down and saw the letter which had so startled Mrs. Detlor. 

"From Mrs. Gladney!" he said to himself. He glanced at the other letters. They were obviously business letters. He was certain Mrs. Detlor had nottouched them and had, therefore, only seen this one which lay on top. "Could she have meant anything to do with this?" He tapped it upward withhis thumb. "But why, in the name of heaven, should this affect her? Whathad she to do with Mrs. Gladney, or Mrs. Gladney with her?"

With this inquiry showing in his eyes he turned round and looked at Baronmeditatively but unconsciously. Baron, understanding the look, said, "Oh, don't mind me. Read your letters. My business'll keep. "

Hagar nodded, was about to open the letter, but paused, went over to thearchway and drew the curtains. Then he opened the letter. The body of itran:

 DEAR MR. HAGAR--I have just learned on my return from the Continent with the Branscombes that you are at Herridon. My daughter Mildred, whom you have never seen--and that is strange, we having known each other so long--is staying at the View House there with the Margraves, whom, also, I think, you do not know. I am going down to-morrow, and will introduce you all to each other. May I ask you to call on me there? Once or twice you have done me a great service, and I may prove my gratitude by asking you to do another. Will this frighten you out of Herridon before I come? I hope not, indeed. Always gratefully yours, IDA GLADNEY. 

He thoughtfully folded the letter up, and put it in his pocket. Then hesaid to Baron, "What did you say was the name of the pretty girl at theView House?"

"Mildred, Mildred Margrave--lovely, 'cometh up as a flower, ' and all that. You'll see her to-night. "

Hagar looked at him debatingly, then said, "You are in love with her, Baron. Isn't it--forgive me--isn't it a pretty mad handicap?"

Baron ran his hand over his face in an embarrassed fashion, then got up, laughed nervously, but with a brave effort, and replied: "Handicap, myson, handicap? Of course, it's all handicap. But what difference does thatmake when it strikes you? You can't help it, can you? It's like loadingyourself with gold, crossing an ugly river, but you do it. Yes, you do itjust the same. "

He spoke with an affected cheerfulness, and dropped a hand on Hagar'sshoulder. It was now Hagar's turn. He drew down the hand and wrung it asBaron had wrung his in the morning. "You're a brick, Baron, " he said. 

"I tell you what, Hagar. I'd like to talk the thing over once with Mrs. Detlor. She's a wise woman, I believe, if ever there was one; sound as theangels, or I'm a Zulu. I fancy she'd give a fellow good advice, eh?--awoman like her, eh?"

To hear Mrs. Detlor praised was as wine and milk to Hagar. He was about tospeak, but Baron, whose foible was hurriedly changing from one subject toanother, pulled a letter out of his pocket and said: "But maybe this is ofmore importance to Mrs. Detlor than my foolishness. I won't ask you toread it. I'll tell you what's in it. But, first, it's supposed, isn't it, that her husband was drowned?"

"Yes, off the coast of Madagascar. But it was never known beyond doubt. The vessel was wrecked and it was said all hands but two sailors werelost. "

"Exactly. But my old friend Meneely writes me from Zanzibar telling me ofa man who got into trouble with Arabs in the interior--there was a womanin it--and was shot but not killed. Meneely brought him to the coast, andput him into a hospital, and said he was going to ship him to Englandright away, though he thinks he can't live. Meneely further remarks thatthe man is a bounder. And his name is Fairfax Detlor. Was that herhusband's name?"

Hagar had had a blow. Everything seemed to come at once--happiness anddefeat all in a moment. There was grim irony in it. "Yes, that was thename, " he said. "Will you leave the telling to me?"

"That's what I came for. You'll do it as it ought to be done; I couldn't. "

"All right, Baron. "

Hagar leaned against the mantel, outwardly unmoved, save for a numb kindof expression. Baron came awkwardly to him and spoke with a stumbling kindof friendliness. "Hagar, I wish the Arabs had got him, so help me!"

"For God's sake think of what you are saying. "

"Of course it doesn't sound right to you, and it wouldn't sound rightfrom you; but I'm a rowdy colonial and I'm damned if I take it back!--andI like you, Hagar!" and, turning, he hurried out of the house. 

Mrs. Detlor had not staid at the hotel long; but, as soon as she hadrecovered, went out for a walk. She made her way to the moor. She wanderedabout for a half hour or so and at last came to a quiet place where shehad been accustomed to sit. As she neared it she saw pieces of an envelopelying on the ground. Something in the writing caught her eye. She stopped, picked up the pieces and put them together. "Oh, " she said with misery inher voice, "What does it all mean? Letters everywhere, like the writing onthe wall!"

She recognized the writing as that of Mark Telford. His initials were inthe corner. The envelope was addressed to John Earl Gladney at Trinityhospital, New York. She saw a strange tangle of events. John Earl Gladneywas the name of the man who had married an actress called Ida Folger, andIda Folger was the mother of Mark Telford's child! She had seen the motherin London; she had also seen the child with the Margraves, who did notknow her origin, but who had taken her once when her mother was ill andhad afterward educated her with their own daughter. What had Ida Folger todo with George Hagar, the man who (it was a joy and yet an agony to her)was more to her than she dared to think? Was this woman for the secondtime to play a part--and what kind of part--in her life? What was MarkTelford to John Gladney? The thing was not pleasant to consider. The lineswere crossing and recrossing. Trouble must occur somewhere. She sat downquiet and cold. No one could have guessed her mind. She was discipliningherself for shocks. She fought back everything but her courage. She hadalways had that, but it was easier to exercise it when she lived her lifealone--with an empty heart. Now something had come into her life--but shedared not think of it!

And the people of the hotel at her table, a half hour later, remarked howcheerful and amiable Mrs. Detlor was. But George Hagar saw that throughthe pretty masquerade there played a curious restlessness. 

That afternoon they went on the excursion to Rivers abbey--Mrs. Detlor, Hagar, Baron, Richmond and many others. They were to return by moonlight. Baron did not tell them that a coach from the View hotel had also gonethere earlier, and that Mark Telford and Mildred Margrave with her friendswere with it. There was no particular reason why he should. 

Mark Telford had gone because he hoped to see Mrs. Detlor without (if heshould think it best) being seen by her. Mildred Margrave sat in the seatbehind him--he was on the box seat--and so far gained the confidence ofthe driver as to induce him to resign the reins into his hands. There wasnothing in the way of horses unfamiliar to Telford. As a child he hadridden like a circus rider and with the fearlessness of an Arab; and hisskill had increased with years. This six in hand was, as he said, "nuts toJacko. " Mildred was delighted. From the first moment she had seen this manshe had been attracted to him, but in a fashion as to gray headed Mr. Margrave, who sang her praises to everybody--not infrequently to the wideopen ears of Baron. At last she hinted very faintly to the militaryofficer who sat on the box seat that she envied him, and he gave her hisplace. Mark Telford would hardly have driven so coolly that afternoon ifhe had known that his own child was beside him. He told her, however, amusing stories as they went along. Once or twice he turned to look ather. Something familiar in her laugh caught his attention. He could nottrace it. He could not tell that it was like a faint echo of his own. 

When they reached the park where the old abbey was, Telford detachedhimself from the rest of the party and wandered alone through the pathswith their many beautiful surprises of water and wood, pretty grottoes, rustic bridges and incomparable turf. He followed the windings of astream, till, suddenly, he came out into a straight open valley, at theend of which were the massive ruins of the old abbey, with its sternNorman tower. He came on slowly thinking how strange it was that he, whohad spent years in the remotest corners of the world, having for hiscompanions men adventurous as himself, and barbarous tribes, should behere. His life, since the day he left his home in the south, had beensometimes as useless as creditable. However, he was not of such stuff asto spend an hour in useless remorse. He had made his bed, and he had lainon it without grumbling, but he was a man who counted his lifebackward--he had no hope for the future. The thought of what he might havebeen came on him here in spite of himself, associated with the woman--tohim always the girl--whose happiness he had wrecked. For the other woman, the mother of his child, was nothing to him at the time of the discovery. She had accepted the position and was going away forever, even as she didgo after all was over. 

He expected to see the girl he had loved and wronged this day. He hadanticipated it with a kind of fierceness, for, if he had wronged her, hefelt that he too had been wronged, though he could never, and would never, justify himself. He came down from the pathway and wandered through thelong silent cloisters. 

There were no visitors about; it was past the usual hour. He came into theold refectory, and the kitchen with its immense chimney, passed in and outof the little chapels, exploring almost mechanically, yet remembering whathe saw, and everything was mingled almost grotesquely with three scenesin his life--two of which we know; the other, when his aged father turnedfrom him dying and would not speak to him. The ancient peace of this placemocked these other scenes and places. He came into the long, unroofedaisle, with its battered sides and floor of soft turf, broken only by somememorial brasses over graves. He looked up and saw upon the walls thecarved figures of little grinning demons between complacent angels. Theassociation of these with his own thoughts stirred him to laughter--a low, cold laugh, which shone on his white teeth. 

Outside a few people were coming toward the abbey from both parties ofexcursionists. Hagar and Mrs. Detlor were walking by themselves. Mrs. Detlor was speaking almost breathlessly. "Yes, I recognized the writing. She is nothing, then, to you, nor has ever been?"

"Nothing, on my honor. I did her a service once. She asks me to doanother, of which I am as yet ignorant. That is all. Here is her letter. "

CHAPTER III. 

NO OTHER WAY. 

George Hagar was the first to move. He turned and looked at Mrs. Detlor. His mind was full of the strangeness of the situation--this man and womanmeeting under such circumstances after twelve years, in which no lines oftheir lives had ever crossed. But he saw, almost unconsciously, that shehad dropped his rose. He stooped, picked it up and gave it to her. With asingular coolness--for, though pale, she showed no excitement--she quietlyarranged the flower at her throat, still looking at the figure on theplatform. A close observer would occasionally have found somethingcynical--even sinister--in Mark Telford's clear cut, smoothly chiseledface, but at the moment when he wheeled slowly and faced these two therewas in it nothing but what was strong, refined and even noble. His eyes, dark and full, were set deep under well hung brows, and a duskiness in theflesh round them gave them softness as well as power. Withal there was amelancholy as striking as it was unusual in him. 

In spite of herself Mrs. Detlor felt her heart come romping to her throat, for, whatever this man was to her now, he once was her lover. She grew hotto her fingers. As she looked, the air seemed to palpitate round her, andMark Telford to be standing in its shining hot surf tall and grand. But, on the instant, there came into this lens the picture she had seen inGeorge Hagar's studio that morning. At that moment Mildred Margrave andBaron were entering at the other end of the long, lonely nave. The girlstopped all at once and pointed toward Telford as he stood motionless, uncovered. "See, " she said, "how fine, how noble he looks!"

Mrs. Detlor turned for an instant and saw her. 

Telford had gazed calmly, seriously, at Mrs. Detlor, wondering at nothing, possessed by a strange, quieting feeling. There was, for the moment, nothought of right or wrong, misery or disaster, past or future, only--thisis she! In the wild whistle of arctic winds he had sworn that he wouldcease to remember, but her voice ran laughing through them as it didthrough the blossoms of the locust trees at Tellavie, and he could notforget. When the mists rose from the blue lake on a summer plain, the rosybreath of the sun bearing them up and scattering them like thistledown, hesaid that he would think no more of her; but, stooping to drink, he sawher face in the water, as in the hill spring at Tellavie, and he could notforget. When he rode swiftly through the long prairie grass, each pulseafire, a keen, joyful wind playing on him as he tracked the buffalo, hesaid he had forgotten, but he felt her riding beside him as she had doneon the wide savannas of the south, and he knew that he could not forget. When he sat before some lodge in a pleasant village and was waited on bysoft voiced Indian maidens and saw around him the solitary content of thenorth, he believed that he had ceased to think; but, as the maidens dancedwith slow monotony and grave, unmelodious voices, there came in among theman airy, sprightly figure, singing as the streams do over the pebbles, andhe could not forget. When in those places where women are beautiful, gracious and soulless, he saw that life can be made into mere conventionand be governed by a code, he said that he had learned how to forget; buta pale young figure rose before him with the simple reproach of falsehood, and he knew that he should always remember. 

She stood before him now. Maybe some premonition--some such smother atthe heart as Hamlet knew--came to him then, made him almost statue-like inhis quiet and filled his face with a kind of tragical beauty. Hagar saw itand was struck by it. If he had known Jack Gladney and how he worshipedthis man, he would have understood the cause of the inspiration. It wasall the matter of a moment. Then Mark Telford stepped down, stilluncovered, and came to them. He did not offer his hand, but bowed gravelyand said, "I hardly expected to meet you here, Mrs. Detlor, but I am veryglad. "

He then bowed to Hagar. 

Mrs. Detlor bowed as gravely and replied in an enigmatical tone, "One isusually glad to meet one's countrymen in a strange land. "

"Quite so, " he said, "and it is far from Tellavie. "'

"It is not so far as it was yesterday, " she added. 

At that they began to walk toward the garden leading to the cloisters. Hagar wondered whether Mrs. Detlor wished to be left alone with Telford. As if divining his thoughts, she looked up at him and answered his mutequestion, following it with another of incalculable gentleness. 

Raising his hat, he said conventionally enough: "Old friends should havemuch to say to each other. Will you excuse me?"

Mrs. Detlor instantly replied in as conventional a tone: "But you willnot desert me? I shall be hereabout, and you will take me back to thecoach?"

The assurance was given, and the men bowed to each other. Hagar saw asmile play ironically on Telford's face--saw it followed by a steellikefierceness in the eye. He replied to both in like fashion, but one wouldhave said the advantage was with Telford--he had the more remarkablepersonality. 

The two were left alone. They passed through the cloisters without a word. Hagar saw the two figures disappear down the long vista of groined arches. "I wish to heaven I could see how this will all end, " he muttered. Then hejoined Baron and Mildred Margrave. 

Telford and Mrs. Detlor passed out upon a little bridge spanning thestream, still not speaking. As if by mutual consent, they made their wayup the bank and the hillside to the top of a pretty terrace, where was arustic seat among the trees. When they reached it, he motioned to her tosit. She shook her head, however, and remained standing close to a tree. 

"What you wish to say--for I suppose you do wish to say something--will bebrief, of course?"

He looked at her almost curiously. 

"Have you nothing kind to say to me, after all these years?" he askedquietly. 

"What is there to say now more than--then?"

"I cannot prompt you if you have no impulse. Have you none?"

"None at all. You know of what blood we are, we southerners. We do notchange. "

"You changed. " He knew he ought not to have said that, for he understoodwhat she meant. 

"No, I did not change. Is it possible you do not understand? Or did youcease to be a southerner when you became"--

"When I became a villain?" He smiled ironically. "Excuse me. Go on, please. "

"I was a girl, a happy girl. You killed me. I did not change. Death isdifferent. * * * But why have you come to speak of this to me? It was agesago. Resurrections are a mistake, believe me. " She was composed anddeliberate now. Her nerve had all come back. There had been one swift waveof the feeling that once flooded her girl's heart. It had passed and lefther with the remembrance of her wrongs and the thought of unhappyyears--through all which she had smiled, at what cost, before the world!Come what would, he should never know that, even now, the man he once wasremained as the memory of a beautiful dead thing--not this man come to herlike a ghost. 

"I always believed you, " he answered quietly, "and I see no reason tochange. "

"In that case we need say no more, " she said, opening her red parasol andstepping slightly forward into the sunshine as if to go. 

There ran into his face a sudden flush. She was harder, more cruel, thanhe had thought were possible to any woman. "Wait, " he said angrily, andput out his hand as if to stop her. "By heaven, you shall!"

"You are sudden and fierce, " she rejoined coldly. "What do you wish me tosay? What I did not finish--that southerners love altogether or--hatealtogether?"

His face became like stone. At last, scarce above a whisper, he said: "AmI to understand that you hate me, that nothing can wipe it out--norepentance and no remorse? You never gave me a chance for a word ofexplanation or excuse. You refused to see me. You returned my letterunopened. But had you asked her--the woman--the whole truth"--

"If it could make any difference, I will ask her to-morrow. "

He did not understand. He thought she was speaking ironically. 

"You are harder than you know, " he said heavily. "But I will speak. It isfor the last time. Will you hear me?"

"I do not wish to, but I will not go. "

"I had met her five years before there was anything between you and me. She accepted the situation when she understood that I would not marry her. The child was born. Time went on. I loved you. I told her. She agreed togo away to England: I gave her money. The day you found us together wasto have been the last that I should see of her. The luck was against me. It always has been in things that I cared for. You sent a man to killme"--

"No, no. I did not send any one. I might have killed you--or her--had Ibeen anything more than a child, but I sent no one. You believe that, doyou not?"

For the first time since they had begun to speak she showed a littleexcitement, but immediately was cold and reserved again. 

"I have always believed you, " he said again. "The man who is your husbandcame to kill me"--

"He went to fight you, " she said, looking at him more intently than shehad yet done. 

A sardonic smile played for a moment at his lips. He seemed about tospeak through it. Presently, however, his eyes half closed as with asudden thought he did not return her gaze, but looked down to where thegraves of monks and abbots, and sinners maybe, were as steps upon theriver bank. 

"What does it matter?" he thought. "She hates me. " But he said aloud:"Then, as you say, he came to fight me. I hear that he is dead, " he addedin a tone still more softened. He had not the heart to meet her scorn withscorn. As he said, it didn't matter if she hated him. It would be worthwhile remembering, when he had gone, that he had been gentle with her andhad spared her the shame of knowing that she had married not only aselfish brute, but a coward and a would be assassin as well. He had onlyheard rumors of her life since he had last seen her, twelve years before, but he knew enough to be sure that she was aware of Fairfax Detlor's truecharacter. She had known less still of his life, for since her marriageshe had never set foot in Louisiana, and her mother, while she lived, never mentioned his name or told her more than that the Telford plantationhad been sold for a song. When Hagar had told him that Detlor was dead, awild kind of hope had leaped up in him that perhaps she might care for himstill and forgive him when he had told all. These last few minutes hadrobbed him of that hope. He did not quarrel with the act The game waslost long ago, and it was foolish to have dreamed for an instant that therecord could be reversed. 

Her answer came quickly: "I do not know that my husband is dead. It hasnever been verified. "

He was tempted again, but only for an instant. "It is an unfortunateposition for you, " he replied. 

He had intended saying it in a tone of sympathy, but at the moment he sawHagar looking up toward them from the abbey, and an involuntary butulterior meaning crept into the words. He loved, and he could detect love, as he thought. He knew by the look that she swept from Hagar to him thatshe loved the artist. She was agitated now, and in her agitation began topull off her glove. For the moment the situation was his. 

"I can understand your being wicked, " she said keenly, "but not your beingcowardly. That is and was unpardonable. "

"That is and was, " he repeated after her. "When was I cowardly?" He wascomposed, though there was a low fire in his eyes. 

"Then and now. "

He understood well. "I, too, was a coward once, " he said, looking hersteadily in the eyes, "and that was when I hid from a young girl amiserable sin of mine. To have spoken would have been better, for I couldbut have lost her, as I've lost her now forever. "

She was moved, but whether it was with pity or remembrance or reproach hedid not know and never asked, for, looking at her ungloved hand as shepassed it over her eyes wearily, he saw the ring he had given her twelveyears before. He stepped forward quickly with a half smothered cry andcaught her fingers. "You wear my ring!" he said. "Marion, you wear myring! You do care for me still?"

She drew her hand away. "No, " she said firmly. "No, Mark Telford, I do notcare for you. I have worn this ring as a warning to me--my dailycrucifixion. Read what is inside it. "

She drew it off and handed it to him. He took it and read the words, "You--told--a--lie. " This was the bitterest moment in his life. He wasonly to know one more bitter, and it would come soon. He weighed the ringup and down in his palm and laughed a dry, crackling laugh. 

"Yes, " he said, "you have kept the faith--that you hadn't in me--tolerablywell. A liar, a coward, and one who strikes from behind--that is it, isn'tit? You kept the faith, and I didn't fight the good fight, eh? Well, letit stand so. Will you permit me to keep this ring? The saint needed it toremind her to punish the sinner. The sinner would like to keep it now, forthen he would have a hope that the saint would forgive him some day. "

The bitterness of his tone was merged at last into a strange tendernessand hopelessness. 

She did not look at him. She did not wish him to see the tears springsuddenly to her eyes. She brought her voice to a firm quietness. Shethought of the woman, Mrs. Gladney, who was coming; of his child, whom hedid not recognize. She looked down toward the abbey. The girl was walkingthere between old Mr. Margrave and Baron. She had once hated both thewoman and the child. She knew that to be true to her blood she ought tohate them always, but there crept into her heart now a strange feeling ofpity for both. Perhaps the new interest in her life was driving outhatred. There was something more. The envelope she had found that day onthe moor was addressed to that woman's husband, from whom she had beenseparated--no one knew why--for years. What complication and fresh miserymight be here?

"You may keep the ring, " she said. 

"Thank you, " was his reply, and he put it on his finger, looking down atit with an enigmatical expression. "And is there nothing more?"

She willfully misconstrued his question. She took the torn pieces ofenvelope from her pocket and handed them to him. "These are yours, " shesaid. 

He raised his eyebrows. "Thank you again. But I do not see their value. One could almost think you were a detective, you are so armed. "

"Who is he? What is he to you?" she asked. 

"He is an unlucky man, like myself, and my best friend. He helped me outof battle, murder and sudden death more than once, and we shared the sameblanket times without number. "

"Where is he now?" she said in a whisper, not daring to look at him lestshe should show how disturbed she was. 

"He is in a hospital in New York. "

"Has he no friends?"

"Do I count as nothing at all?"

"I mean no others--no wife or family?"

"He has a wife, and she has a daughter. That is all I know. They have beenparted through some cause. Why do you ask? Do you know him?"

"No, I do not know him. "

Do you know the wife? Please tell me, for at his request I am trying tofind her, and I have failed. "

"Yes, I know her, " she said painfully and slowly. "You need search nolonger. She will be at your hotel to-night. "

He started. Then he said: "I'm glad of that. How did you come to know? Areyou friends?"

Though her face was turned from him resolutely, he saw a flush creep upher neck to her hair. 

"We are not friends, " she said vaguely. "But I know that she is coming tosee her daughter. "

"Who is her daughter?"

She raised her parasol toward the spot where Mildred Margrave stood andsaid, "That is her daughter. "

"Miss Margrave? Why has she a different name?"

"Let Mrs. Gladney explain that to you. Do not make yourself known to thedaughter till you see her mother. Believe me, it will be better for thedaughter's sake. "

She now turned and looked at him with a pity through which trembledsomething like a troubled fear. "You asked me to forgive you, " she said. "Good-bye. Mark Telford, I do forgive you. " She held out her hand. He tookit, shaking his head a little over it, but said no word. 

"We had better part here and meet no more, " she added. 

"Pardon, but banishment, " he said as he let her hand go. 

"There is nothing else possible in this world, " she rejoined in a muffledvoice. 

"Nothing in this world, " he replied. "Good-bye till we meetagain--somewhere. "

So saying, he turned and walked rapidly away. Her eyes followed him, alook of misery, horror and sorrow upon her. When he had disappeared in thetrees, she sat down on the bench. "It is dreadful, " she whispered, awestricken. "His friend her husband! His daughter there, and he does notknow her! What will the end of it be?"

She was glad she had forgiven him and glad he had the ring. She hadsomething in her life now that helped to wipe out the past--still, asomething of which she dared not think freely. The night before she hadsat in her room thinking of the man who was giving her what she had lostmany years past, and, as she thought, she felt his arm steal round her andhis lips on her cheek, but at that a mocking voice said in her ear: "Youare my wife. I am not dead. " And her happy dream was gone. 

George Hagar, looking up from below, saw her sitting alone and slowly madehis way toward her. The result of the meeting between these two seemedevident. The man had gone. Never in his life had Hagar suffered more thanin the past half hour. That this woman whom he loved--the only woman hehad ever loved as a mature man loves--should be alone with the man who hadmade shipwreck of her best days set his veins on fire. She had once lovedMark Telford. Was it impossible that she should love him again? He triedto put the thought from him as ungenerous, unmanly, but there is a maggotwhich gets into men's brains at times, and it works its will in spite ofthem. He reasoned with himself. He recalled the look of perfect confidenceand honesty with which she regarded him before they parted just now. Hetalked gayly to Baron and Mildred Margrave, told them to what differentperiods of architecture the ruins belonged, and by sheer force of willdrove away a suspicion--a fear--as unreasonable as it was foolish. Yet, ashe talked, the remembrance of the news he had to tell Mrs. Detlor, whichmight--probably would--be shipwreck to his hopes of marriage, came uponhim, and presently made him silent, so that he wandered away from theothers. He was concerned as to whether he should tell Mrs. Detlor at oncewhat Baron had told him or hold it till next day, when she might, perhaps, be better prepared to hear it, though he could not help a smile at this, for would not any woman--ought not any woman to--be glad that her husbandwas alive? He would wait. He would see how she had borne the interviewwith Telford. 

Presently he saw that Telford was gone. When he reached her, she wassitting, as he had often seen her, perfectly still, her hands folded inher lap upon her parasol, her features held in control, save that in hereyes was a bright, hot flame which so many have desired to see in the eyesof those they love and have not seen. The hunger of these is like thethirst of the people who waited for Moses to strike the rock. 

He sat down without speaking. "He is gone, " he said at last. 

"Yes. Look at me and tell me if, from my face, you would think I had beenseeing dreadful things. " She smiled sadly at him. 

"No, I could not think it. I see nothing more than a kind of sadness. Therest is all beauty. "

"Oh, hush!" she replied solemnly. "Do not say those things now. "

"I will not if you do not wish to hear them. What dreadful things haveyou seen?"

"You know so much you should know everything, " she said, "at least all ofwhat may happen. "

Then she told him who Mildred Margrave was; how years before, when thegirl's mother was very ill and it was thought she would die, the Margraveshad taken the child and promised that she should be as their own and acompanion to their own child; that their own child had died, and Mildredstill remained with them. All this she knew from one who was aware of thecircumstances. Then she went on to tell him who Mildred's mother andfather were, what were Telford's relations to John Gladney and of hissearch for Gladney's wife. 

"Now, " she said, "you understand all. They must meet. "

"He does not know who she is?"

"He does not. He only knows as yet that she is the daughter of Mrs. Gladney, who, he thinks, is a stranger to him. "

"You know his nature. What will he do?"

"I cannot tell. What can he do? Nothing, nothing!"

"You are sorry for him? You"--

"Do not speak of that, " she said in a choking whisper. "God gave womenpity to keep men from becoming demons. You can pity the executioner when, killing you, he must kill himself next. "

"I do not understand you quite, but all you say is wise. "

"Do not try to understand it or me. I am not worth it. "

"You are worth, God knows, a better, happier fate. "

The words came from him unexpectedly, impulsively. Indirect as they were, she caught a hidden meaning. She put out her hand. 

"You have something to tell me. Speak it. Say it quickly. Let me know itnow. One more shock more or less cannot matter. "

She had an intuition as to what it was. "I warn you, dear, " he said, "thatit will make a difference, a painful difference, between us. "

"No, George"--it was the first time she had called him that--"nothing canmake any difference with that. "

He told her simply, bravely--she was herself so brave--what there was totell, that two weeks ago her husband was alive, and that he was now on hisway to England--perhaps in England itself. She took it with an unnaturalquietness. She grew distressingly pale, but that was all. Her hand layclinched tightly on the seat beside her. He reached out, took it, andpressed it, but she shook her head. 

"Please do not sympathize with me, " she said. "I cannot bear it. I am notadamant. You are very good--so good to me that no unhappiness can be allunhappiness. But let us look not one step farther into the future. "

"What you wish I shall do always. "

"Not what I wish, but what you and I ought to do is plain. "

"I ask one thing only. I have said that I love you, said it as I shallnever say it to another woman, as I never said it before. Say to me oncehere, before we know what the future will be, that you love me. Then I canbear all. "

She turned and looked him full in the eyes, that infinite flame in her ownwhich burns all passions into one. "I cannot, dear, " she said. 

Then she hurriedly rose, her features quivering. Without a word they wentdown the quiet path to the river and on toward the gates of the parkwhere the coach was waiting to take them back to Herridon. 

They did not see Mark Telford before their coach left. But, standing backin the shadow of the trees, he saw them. An hour before he had hated Hagarand had wished that they were in some remote spot alone with pistols intheir hands. Now he could watch the two together without anger, almostwithout bitterness. He had lost in the game, and he was so much the truegamester that he could take his defeat when he knew it was defeat quietly. Yet the new defeat was even harder on him than the old. All through theyears since he had seen her there had been the vague conviction, under allhis determination to forget, that they would meet again, and that allmight come right. That was gone, he knew, irrevocably. 

"That's over, " he said as he stood looking at them. "The king is dead. Long live the king!"

He lit a cigar and watched the coach drive away, then saw the coach inwhich he had come drive up also and its passengers mount. He did not stir, but smoked on. The driver waited for some time, and when he did not comedrove away without him, to the regret of the passengers and to theindignation of Miss Mildred Margrave, who talked much of him during thedrive back. 

When they had gone, Telford rose and walked back to the ruined abbey. Hewent to the spot where he had first seen Mrs. Detlor that day, then tookthe path up the hillside to the place where they had stood. He took fromhis pocket the ring she had given back to him, read the words inside itslowly, and, looking at the spot where she had stood, said aloud:

"I met a man once who imagined he was married to the spirit of a womanliving at the north pole. Well, I will marry myself to the ghost of MarionConquest. "

So saying, he slipped the ring on his little finger. The thing wasfantastic, but he did it reverently; nor did it appear in the least asweakness, for his face was, strong and cold. "Till death us do part, sohelp me God!" he added. 

He turned and wandered once more through the abbey, strayed in thegrounds, and at last came to the park gates. Then he walked to the town acouple of miles away, went to the railway station and took a train forHerridon. He arrived there some time before the coach did. He wentstraight to the View House, proceeded to his room and sat down to writesome letters. Presently he got up, went down to the office and asked theporter if Mrs. John Gladney had arrived from London. The porter said shehad. He then felt in his pocket for a card, but changed his mind, sayingto himself that his name would have no meaning for her. He took a piece ofletter paper and wrote on it, "A friend of your husband brings a messageto you. " He put it in an envelope, and, addressing it, sent it up to her. The servant returned, saying that Mrs. Gladney had taken a sitting roomin a house adjacent to the hotel and was probably there. He took the noteand went to the place indicated, sent in the note and waited. 

When Mrs. Gladney received the note, she was arranging the fewknick-knacks she had brought. She read the note hurriedly and clinched itin her hand. "It is his writing--his, Mark Telford! He, my husband'sfriend! Good God!"

For a moment she trembled violently and ran her fingers through her goldenhair distractedly, but she partly regained her composure, came forward andtold the servant to show him into the room. She was a woman of instantdetermination. She drew the curtains closer, so that the room would bealmost dark to one entering from the sunlight. Then she stood with herback to the light of the window. He saw a figure standing in the shadow, came forward and bowed, not at first looking closely at the face. 

"I have come from your husband, " he said. "My name is Mark Telford"--

"Yes, I know, " she interrupted. 

He started, came a little nearer and looked curiously at her. "Ida--IdaRoyal!" he exclaimed. "Are you--you--John Gladney's wife?"

"He is my husband. "

Telford folded his arms, and, though pale and haggard, held himselffirmly. "I could not have wished this for my worst enemy, " he said at last"Gladney and I have been more than brothers. "

"In return for having"--

"Hush!" he interrupted. "Do you think anything you may say can make mefeel worse than I do? I tell you we have lain under the same blanketsmonth in, month out, and he saved my life. "

"What is the message you bring?" she asked. 

"He begs you to live with him again, you and your child. The property hesettled on you for your lifetime he will settle on your child. Until thispast few days he was himself poor. To-day he is rich--money got honestly, as you may guess. "

"And if I am not willing to be reconciled?"

"There was no condition. "

"Do you know all the circumstances? Did he tell you?"

"No, he did not tell me. He said that he left you suddenly for a reason, and when he wished to return you would not have him. That was all. Henever spoke but kindly of you. "

"He was a good man. "

"He is a good man. "

"I will tell you why he left me. He learned, no matter how, that I had notbeen married, as I said I had. "

She looked up, as if expecting him to speak. He said nothing, but stoodwith eyes fixed on the floor. 

"I admitted, too, that I kept alive the memory of a man who had played anevil part in my life; that I believed I cared for him still, more than formy husband. "

"Ida, for God's sake, you do not mean"--

"Yes, I meant you then. But when he went away, when he proved himself sonoble, I changed. I learned to hate the memory of the other man. But hecame back too soon. I said things madly--things I did not mean. He wentagain. And then afterward I knew that I loved him. "

"I am glad of that, upon my soul!" said Telford, letting go a long breath. 

She smiled strangely and with a kind of hardness. "A few days ago I haddetermined to find him if I could, and to that end I intended to ask a manwho had proved himself a friend, to learn, if possible, where he was inAmerica. I came here to see him and my daughter. "

"Who is the man?"

"Mr. George Hagar. "

A strange light shot from Telford's eyes. "Hagar is a fortunate man, " hesaid. Then dreamily: "You have a daughter. I wish to God that--that ourshad lived. "

"You did not seem to care when I wrote and told you that she was dead. "

"I do not think that I cared then. Besides"--

"Besides you loved that other woman, and my child was nothing to you, " shesaid with low scorn. "I have seen her in London. I am glad--glad that shehates you. I know she does, " she added. "She would never forgive you. Shewas too good for you, and you ruined her life. "

He was very quiet and spoke in a clear, meditative voice. "You are right. I think she hates me. But you are wrong, too, for she has forgiven me. "

"You have seen her?" She eyed him sharply. 

"Yes, to-day. " His look wandered to a table whereon was a photograph ofher daughter. He glanced at it keenly. A look of singular excitementsprang to his eyes. "That is your daughter?"

She inclined her head. 

"How old is she?" He picked up the photograph and held it, scrutinizingit. 

"She is seventeen, " was the reply in a cold voice. 

He turned a worn face from the picture to the woman. "She is my child. You lied to me. "

"It made no difference to you then. Why should it make any difference now?Why should you take it so tragically?"

"I do not know, but now"--His head moved, his lips trembled. 

"But now she is the daughter of John Gladney's wife. She is loved andcared for by people who are better, infinitely better, than her father andmother were or could be. She believes her father is dead. And he is dead!"

"My child! My child!" he whispered brokenly over the photograph. "You willtell her that her father is not dead. You"--

She interrupted. "Where is that philosophy which you preached to me, MarkTelford, when you said you were going to marry another woman and told methat we must part? Your child has no father. You shall not tell her. Youwill go away and never speak to her. Think of the situation. Spare her, ifyou do not spare me or your friend John Gladney. "

He sat down in a chair, his clinched hands resting on his knees. He didnot speak. She could see his shoulder shaking a little, and presently atear dropped on his cheek. 

But she did not stir. She was thinking of her child. "Had you not bettergo?" she said at last. "My daughter may come at any moment. "

He rose and stood before her. "I had it all, and I have lost it all, " hesaid. "Good-bye. " He did not offer his hand. 

"Good-bye. Where are you going?"

"Far enough away to forget, " he replied in a shaking voice. He picked upthe photograph, moved his hand over it softly as though he were caressingthe girl herself, lifted it to his lips, put it down, and then silentlyleft the room, not looking back. 

He went to his rooms and sat writing for a long time steadily. He did notseem excited or nervous. Once or twice he got up and walked back andforth, his eyes bent on the floor. He was making calculations regardingthe company he had floated in London and certain other matters. When hehad finished writing, three letters lay sealed and stamped upon thetable. One was addressed to John Gladney, one to the Hudson Bay companyand one to a solicitor in London. There was another unsealed. This he putin his pocket. He took the other letters up, went downstairs and postedthem. Then he asked the hall porter to order a horse for riding--the bestmount in the stables--to be ready at the door in an hour. He again went tohis room, put on a riding suit, came down and walked out across theesplanade and into the street where Hagar's rooms were. They were lighted. He went to the hall door, opened it quietly and entered the hall. Hetapped at the door of Hagar's sitting room. As he did so a servant cameout, and, in reply to a question, said that Mr. Hagar had gone to theTempe hotel and would be back directly. He went in and sat down. Thecurtains were drawn back between the two rooms. He saw the easels, withtheir backs to the archway. He rose, went in and looked at the sketches inthe dim light. 

He started, flushed, and his lips drew back over his teeth with ananimallike fierceness, but immediately he was composed again. He got twocandles, brought them and set them on a stand between the easels. Then hesat down and studied the paintings attentively. He laughed once with a dryrecklessness. "This tells her story admirably. He is equal to his subject. To be hung in the academy. Well, well!"

He heard the outer door open, then immediately Hagar entered the room andcame forward to where he sat. The artist was astonished, and for theinstant embarrassed. Telford rose. "I took the liberty of waiting for you, and, seeing the pictures, was interested. "

Hagar bowed coldly. He waved his hand toward the pictures. "I hope youfind them truthful. "

"I find them, as I said, interesting. They will make a sensation. And isthere anything more necessary? You are a lucky man, and you have theability to take advantage of it. Yes, I greatly admire your ability. I cando that, at least, though we are enemies, I suppose. "

His words were utterly without offense. A melancholy smile played on hislips. Again Hagar bowed, but did not speak. 

Telford went on. "We are enemies, and yet I have done you no harm. Youhave injured me, have insulted me, and yet I do not resent it, which isstrange, as my friends in a wilder country would tell you. "

Hagar was impressed, affected. "How have I injured you? By paintingthese?"

"The injury is this: I loved a woman and wronged her, but not beyondreparation. Years passed. I saw her and loved her still. She might stillhave loved me, but another man came in. It was you. That was one injury. Then"--He took up a candle and held it to the sketch of the discovery. "This is perfect in its art and chivalry. It glorifies the girl. That isright. " He held the candle above the second sketch. "This, " he said, "isadmirable as art and fiction. But it is fiction. I have no hope that youwill change it. I think you would make a mistake to do so. You could nothave the situation, if the truth were painted. Your audience will not havethe villain as the injured man. "

"Were you the injured man?"

Telford put the candle in Hagar's hand. Then he quickly took off his coat, waistcoat and collar and threw back his shirt from his neck behind. 

"The bullet wound I received on that occasion was in the back, " he said. "The other man tried to play the assassin. Here is the scar. He posed asthe avenger, the hero, and the gentleman. I was called the coward and thevagabond! He married the girl. "

He started to put on his waistcoat again. Hagar caught his arm and heldit. The clasp was emotional and friendly. "Will you stand so for amoment?" he said. "Just so, that I may"--

"That you may paint in the truth? No. You are talking as the man. As anartist you were wise to stick to your first conception. It had the heat ofinspiration. But I think you can paint me better than you have done, inthese sketches. Come, I will give you a sitting. Get your brushes. No, no, I'll sit for nothing else than for these scenes as you have painted them. Don't miss your chance for fame. "

Without a word Hagar went to work and sketched into the second sketchTelford's face as it now was in the candlelight--worn, strong, and withthose watchful eyes sunk deep under the powerful brows. The artist in himbecame greater than the man. He painted in a cruel, sinister expressionalso. At last he paused. His hand trembled. "I can paint no more, " hesaid. 

Telford looked at the sketch with a cold smile. "Yes, that's right, " hesaid. "You've painted in a good bit of the devil too. You owe me somethingfor this. I have helped you to a picture and have given you a sitting. There is no reason why you should paint the truth to the world. But I askyou this: When you know that her husband is dead and she becomes yourwife, tell her the truth about that, will you? How the scoundrel tried tokill me--from behind. I'd like to be cleared of cowardice some time. Youcan afford to do it. She loves you. You will have everything, Inothing--nothing at all. "

There was a note so thrilling, a golden timbre to the voice, anindescribable melancholy so affecting that Hagar grasped the other's handand said, "So help me God, I will!"

"All right. "

He prepared to go. At the door Hagar said to him, "Shall I see you again?"

"Probably in the morning. Good-night. "

Telford went back to the hotel and found the horse he had ordered at thedoor. He got up at once. People looked at him curiously, it was peculiarto see a man riding at night for pleasure, and, of course, it could be forno other purpose. "When will you be back, sir?" said the groom. 

"I do not know. " He slipped a coin into the groom's hand. "Sit up for me. The beast is a good one?"

"The best we have. Been a hunter, sir. "

Telford nodded, stroked the horse's neck and started. He rode down towardthe gate. He saw Mildred Margrave coming toward him. 

"Oh, Mr. Telford!" she said. "You forsook us to-day, which was unkind. Mamma says--she has seen you, she tells me--that you are a friend of mystepfather, Mr. Gladney. That's nice, for I like you ever so much, youknow. " She raised her warm, intelligent eyes to his. "I've felt since youcame yesterday that I'd seen you before, but mamma says that's impossible. You don't remember me?"

"I didn't remember you, " he said. 

"I wish I were going for a ride, too, in the moonlight. I mean mamma and Iand you. You ride as well as you drive, of course. "

"I wish you were going with me, " he replied. --He suddenly reached down hishand. "Good-night" Her hand was swallowed in his firm clasp for a moment"God bless you, dear!" he added, then raised his hat quickly and was gone. 

"I must have reminded him of some one, " the girl said to herself. "Hesaid, 'God bless you, dear!'"

About that time Mrs. Detlor received a telegram from the doctor of aLondon hospital. It ran:

 Your husband here. Was badly injured in a channel collision last night. Wishes to see you. 

There was a train leaving for London a half hour later. She made readyhastily, inclosed the telegram in an envelope addressed to George Hagar, and, when she was starting, sent it over to his rooms. When he receivedit, he caught up a time table, saw that a train would leave in a fewminutes, ran out, but could not get a cab quickly, and arrived at thestation only to see the train drawing away. "Perhaps it is better so, " hesaid, "for her sake. "

That night the solitary roads about Herridon were traveled by a solitaryhorseman, riding hard. Mark Telford's first ambition when a child was toride a horse. As a man he liked horses almost better than men. The cool, stirring rush of wind on his face as he rode was the keenest of delights. He was enjoying the ride with an iron kind of humor, for there was in histhoughts a picture. "The sequel's sequel for Hagar's brush to-morrow, " hesaid as he paused on the top of a hill to which he had come from thehighroad and looked round upon the verdant valleys almost spectrally quietin the moonlight. He got off his horse and took out a revolver. It clickedin his hand. 

"No, " he said, putting it up again, "not here. It would be too damnedrough on the horse, after riding so hard, to leave him out all night. "

He mounted again. He saw before him a fine stretch of moor at an easyascent. He pushed the horse on, taking a hedge or two as he went. Theanimal came over the highest point of the hill at full speed. Its bloodwas up, like its master's. The hill below this point suddenly ended in aquarry. Neither horse nor man knew it until the yielding air cried overtheir heads like water over a drowning man as they fell to the rocky bedfar beneath. 

An hour after Telford became conscious. The horse was breathing painfullyand groaning beside him. With his unbroken arm he felt for his revolver. It took him a long time. 

"Poor beast!" he said, and pushed the hand out toward the horse's head. In an instant the animal was dead. 

He then drew the revolver to his own temple, but paused. "No, it wasn't tobe, " he said. "I'm a dead man anyway, " and fell back. 

Day was breaking when the agony ceased. He felt the gray damp light on hiseyes, though he could not see He half raised his head. "God--bless--you, dear!" he said. And that ended it. 

He was found by the workers at the quarry. In Herridon to this day--it allhappened years ago--they speak of the Hudson Bay company's man who madethat terrible leap, and, broken all to pieces himself, had heart enough toput his horse out of misery. The story went about so quickly, and so muchinterest was excited because the Hudson Bay company sent an officer downto bury him, and the new formed Aurora company was represented by two orthree titled directors, that Mark Telford's body was followed to its graveby hundreds of people. It was never known to the public that he hadcontemplated suicide. Only John Gladney and the Hudson Bay company knewthat for certain. 

The will, found in his pocket, left everything he owned to MildredMargrave--that is, his interest in the Aurora mines of Lake Superior, which pays a gallant dividend. The girl did not understand why this was, but supposed it was because he was a friend of John Gladney, herstepfather, and perhaps (but this she never said) because she remindedhim of some one. Both she and John Gladney when they are in England goonce a year to Herridon, and they are constantly sending flowers there. 

Alpheus Richmond showed respect for him by wearing a silk sash under hiswaistcoat, and Baron by purchasing shares in the Aurora company. 

When Mark Telford lay dead, George Hagar tried to take from his finger thering which carried the tale of his life and death inside it, but the handwas clinched so that it could not be opened. Two years afterward, when hehad won his fame through two pictures called "The Discovery" and "TheSequel, " he told his newly married wife of this. And he also cleared MarkTelford's name of cowardice in her sight, for which she was grateful. 

It is possible that John Gladney and George Hagar understood Mark Telfordbetter than the woman who once loved him. At least they think so.