IDEALA

BY SARAH GRAND

 "L'esprit ne nous garantit pas des sottises de notre humeur. "--VAUVENARGUES

PREFACE

You will ask me, perhaps, even you who are all charity, why parts ofthis book are what they are. I can only answer with another question:Why are we what we are? But I warn you that it would not be fair totake any of Ideala's opinions, here given, as final. Much of what shethought was the mere effervescence of a strong mind in a state offermentation, a mind passing successively through the three stages ofthe process; the _vinous_, alcoholic, or excitable stage; the_acetous_, jaundiced, or embittered stage; and the _putrefactive_, or unwholesome stage; and also embodying, at different times, thecharacteristics of all three. But, even during its worst phase, it wasan earnest mind, seeking the truth diligently, and not to be blamedfor stumbling upon good and bad together by the way. It is, in fact, not a perfect, but a transitional state which I offer for yourconsideration, a state which has its repulsive features, but which, itmay be hoped, would result in a beautiful deposit, when at last theinevitable effervescence had subsided. 

But why exhibit the details of the process, you may ask. To encourageothers, of course. What help is there in the contemplation ofperfection ready made? It only disheartens us. We should lay down ourarms, we should struggle no longer, we should be hopeless, despairing, reckless, if we never had a glimpse of growth, of those "stepping-stones of their dead selves" upon which men mount to higher things. Theimperfections must be studied, because it is only from the details ofthe process that anything can be learned. Putting aside the people whocriticise, not with a view to mending matters, but because a

 . .. Low desire Not to seem lowest makes them level all;

the people who judge, who condemn, who have no mercy on any faults andfailings but their own, and who, . .. If they find Some stain or blemish in a name of note, Not grieving that their greatest are so small, Inflate themselves with some insane delight, and would ostracise a neighbour for the first offence by ruling thatone mistake must mar a life--anybody's life but their own, of course;who have no peace in themselves, no habit of sweet thought; whose livesare one long agony of excitement, objection, envy, hate, and unrest;the decently clad devils of society who may be known by their eternalcarping, and who are already in torment, and doing their utmost to dragothers after them. Putting them aside, as any one may who has thecourage to face them--for they are terrible cowards--and taking thebest of us, and the best intentioned among us, we find that all are aptto make some one trait in the characters, some one trick in themanners, some one incident in the lives of people we meet the text ofan objection to the whole person. And a state of objection is amiserable state, and a dangerous one, because it stops our growth byrobbing us of half our power to love, in which lies all our strength, and which, with the delight of being loved, is the one thing worthliving for. When we know in ourselves that love is heaven, and hate ishell, and all the intervals of like and dislike are antechambers toeither, we possess the key to joy and sorrow, by which alone we canattain to the mystery that may not be mentioned here, but beyond whichecstasy awaits us. 

This is why such details are necessary. 

Doctors-spiritual must face the horrors of the dissecting-room, andlearn before they can cure or teach; and even we, poor feeblecreatures, who have no strength, however great our desire, to doeither, can help at least a little by not hindering, if we attend toour own mental health, which we shall do all the better for knowingsomething of our moral anatomy, and the diseases to which it is liable. We hate and despise in our ignorance, and grow weak; but love and pitythrive on knowledge, and to love and pity we owe all the beauty oflife, and all our highest power. 

_"It is that life of custom and accident in which many of us passmuch of our time in this world; that life in which we do what we havenot purposed, and speak what we do not mean, and assent to what we donot understand; that life which is overlaid by the weight of thingsexternal to it, and is moulded by them, instead of assimilating them;that which, instead of growing and blossoming under any wholesome dew, is crystallised over with it, as with hoar frost, and becomes to thetrue life what an arborescence is to a tree, a candied agglomeration ofthoughts and habits foreign to it, brittle, obstinate, and icy, whichcan neither bend nor grow, but must be crushed and broken to bits if itstands in our way. All men are liable to be in some degree frost-bittenin this sort; all are partly encumbered and crusted over with idlematter; only, if they have real life in them, they are always breakingthis bark away in noble rents, until it becomes, like the black stripsupon the birch tree, only a witness of their own inward strength. "_--RUSKIN. 

IDEALA

CHAPTER I. 

She came among us without flourish of trumpets. She just slipped intoher place, almost unnoticed, but once she was settled there it seemedas if we had got something we had wanted all our lives, and we shouldhave missed her as you would miss the thrushes in the spring, or anyother sweet familiar thing. But what the secret of her charm was Icannot say. She was full of inconsistencies. She disliked ostentation, and never wore those ornamental fidgets ladies delight in, but shewould take a piece of priceless lace to cover her head when she wentto water her flowers. And she said rings were a mistake; if your handswere ugly they drew attention to them, if pretty they hid theirbeauty; yet she wore half-a-dozen worthless ones habitually for thelove of those who gave them, to her. It was said that she was strikingin appearance, but cold and indifferent in manner. Some, on whom shehad never turned her eyes, called her repellent. But it was noticedthat men who took her down to dinner, or had any other opportunity oftalking to her, were never very positive in, what they said of herafterwards. She made every one, men and women alike, feel, and she didit unconsciously. Without effort, without eccentricity, withoutanything you could name or define, she impressed you, and she held you--or at least she held _me_, always--expectant. Nothing about her everseemed to be of the present. When she talked she made you wonder whather past had been, and when she was silent you began to speculateabout her future. But she did not talk much as a rule, and when shedid speak it was always some subject of interest, some fact that shewanted to ascertain accurately, or some beautiful idea, that occupiedher; she had absolutely no small talk for any but her most intimatefriends, whom she was wont at times to amuse with an endless stock ofanecdotes and quaint observations; and this made people of limitedcapacity hard on her. Some of these called her a cold, ambitious, unsympathetic woman; and perhaps, from their point of view, she wasso. She certainly aspired to something far above them, and had nothingbut scorn for the dead level of dull mediocrity from which they wouldnot try to rise. 

"To be distinguished among these people, " she once said, "it is onlynecessary to have one's heart

 Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love. 

There is no need to _do_ anything; if you have the right _feeling_ youmay be as passive as a cow, and still excel them all, for they neverthrill to a noble thought. "

"Then, pity them, " I said. 

"No, despise them, " she answered. "Pity is for affliction, for suchshortcomings as are hereditary and can hardly be remedied--for thetaint in nature which is all but hopeless. But these people are notafflicted. They could do better if they would. They know the higherwalk, and deliberately pursue the lower. Their whole feeling is forthemselves, and such things as have power to move them through theflesh only. I would almost rather sin on the impulse of a generous butmisguided nature, and have the power to appreciate and the will to bebetter, than live a perfect, loveless woman, caring only for myself, like these. I should do more good. "

They called Ideala unsympathetic, yet I have known her silent fromexcess of sympathy. She could walk with you, reading your heart andsoul, sorrowing and rejoicing with you, and make you feel without aword that she did so. It was this power to sympathise, and the longingshe had to find good in everything, that made her forgive the faultsthat were patent in a nature with which she was finally brought intocontact, for the sake of the virtues which she discovered hidden awaydeep down under a slowly hardening crust of that kind of self-indulgence which mars a man. 

But her own life was set to a tune that admitted of endless variations. Sometimes it was difficult even for those who knew her best to detectthe original melody among the clashing cords that concealed it; but, let it be hidden as it might, one felt that it would resolve itselfeventually, through many a jarring modulation and startling cadence, perhaps, back to the perfect key. 

I saw her first at a garden party. She scarcely noticed me when we wereintroduced. There were great masses of white cloud drifting up over theblue above the garden, and she was wholly occupied with them when shecould watch them without rudeness to those about her; and even when shewas obliged to look away, I could see that she was still thinking ofthe sky. "Do you live much in cloudland?" I asked, and felt for amoment I had said a silly thing; but she turned to me quickly, andlooked at me for the first time as if she saw me--and when I say shelooked at me, I mean something more than an ordinary look, for Ideala'seyes were a wonder, affecting you as a poem does which has power toexalt. 

"Ah, you feel it too, " she said. "Are they not beautiful? Will you sitbeside me here? You can see the river as well--down there, beneath thetrees. "

I thought she would have talked after that, but she did not. When Ispoke to her once or twice she answered absently; and presently sheforgot me altogether, and began to sing to herself softly:

 Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, Thy tribute wave deliver; No more by thee my steps shall be For ever and for ever. 

Then suddenly recollecting herself, she stopped, and exclaimed, in muchconfusion, "O please forgive me! That stupid thing has been running inmy head all day--and it is a way I have. I always forget people andbegin to sing. "

She did not see in the least that her apology might have beenconsidered an adding of insult to injury, and, of course, I was carefulnot to let her know that I thought it so, although I must confess thatfor a moment I felt just a trifle aggrieved. I thought my presence hadbored her, and was surprised to see, when I got up to go, that shewould rather have had me stay. 

She cared little for people in general, and had few likings. It waslove with her if anything; but those whom she loved once she lovedalways, never changing in her affection for them, however badly theymight treat her. And she had the power of liking people for themselves, regardless of their feeling for her; indeed, her indifference on thisscore was curious. I once heard a lady say to her: "You are one of thefew young married ladies whom I dare chaperon in these degenerate days. No degree of admiration or worship ever seems to touch you. Is it realor pretended, your unconsciousness?"

"Unconsciousness of what?"

"Of the feeling you excite. "

"The feeling _I_ excite?" Ideala seemed to think a moment; then sheanswered gravely: "I do not think I am conscious of anything thatrelates to myself, personally, in my intercourse with people. They areideas to me for the most part--men especially so. "

That way she had of forgetting people's presence was one of herpeculiarities. If she liked you she was content just to have you there, but she never showed it except by a regretful glance when you wentaway. She was very absent, too. One day I found her with a big, awkwardvolume on her knee, heated, excited, and evidently put out. 

"Is anything the matter?" I wanted to know. 

"O yes, " she answered desperately; "I've lost my pen, and I'm writingfor the mail. "

"Why, where are you looking for it?" I asked. 

She glanced at me, and then at the book. 

"I--I believe, " she faltered, "I was looking for it among the p's inthe French dictionary. "

On another occasion I watched her revising a manuscript. As she wroteher emendations she gummed them on over the old copy, and she was soabsorbed that at last she put the gum-brush into the ink-bottle. Discovering her mistake, she gave a little disconcerted sort of laugh, and took the brush away to wash it. She returned presently, examiningit critically to see if it were perfectly cleansed, and havingsatisfied herself, she carefully put it back in the ink-bottle. 

But perhaps the funniest instance of this peculiarity of hers was onethat happened in the Grosvenor Gallery on a certain occasion. She hadbeen busy with her catalogue, doing the pictures conscientiously, andnot talking at all, when suddenly she burst out laughing. 

"Do you know what I have been doing?" she said. "I wanted to know whothat man is"--indicating a gentleman of peculiar appearance in thecrowd--"and I have been looking all over him for his number, that Imight hunt up his name in the catalogue!"

Her way of seeing analogies as plausible as the obvious relation of pto pen, and of acting on wholly wrong conclusions deduced from mostunexceptionable premises, was another characteristic. She always blamedher early education, or rather want of education, for it. "If I hadbeen taught to think, " she said, "when my memory was being burdenedwith historical anecdotes torn from the text, and other useless scrapsof knowledge, I should be able to see both sides of a subject, andjudge rationally, now. As it is, I never see more than one side at atime, and when I have mastered that, I feel like the old judge in someGreek play, who, when he had heard one party to a suit, begged that theother would not speak as it would only poggle what was then clear tohim. "

But in this Ideala was not quite fair to herself. 

It was not always--although, unfortunately, it was oftenest at criticalmoments--that she was beset with this inability to see more than oneside of a subject at a time. The odd thing about it was that one neverknew which side, the pathetic or the humorous, would strike her. Generally, however, it was the one that related least to herselfpersonally. This self-forgetfulness, with a keen sense of theludicrous, led her sometimes, when she had anything amusing to relate, to overlook considerations which would have kept other people silent. 

"I saw a pair of horses running away with a heavy wagon the other day, "she told us once. "It was in Cross Street, and there was a child in theway--there always is a child in the way!--and, as there was no one elseto do it, I ran into the road to remove that child. I had to pull itaside quickly, and there was no time to say 'Allow me'--in fact, therewas no time for anything--and in my hurry I lost my balance and fell inthe mud, and the wagon came tearing over me. It was an unpleasantsensation, but I wasn't hurt, you know; neither the wheels nor thehorses touched me. I got very dirty, though, and I have no doubt Ilooked as ridiculous as I felt, and for that I expected to be tenderlydealt with; but when I went to ask after the child, a few days later, aneighbour told me that its mother was out, and it was a good thing too, as she had been heard to declare she would 'go for that lady the nexttime she saw her, for flingin' of her bairn about!'"

When she had told the story, Ideala was horrified to find that thefact, which she had overlooked, of her having risked her life to savethe child struck us all much more forcibly than the ingratitude thatamused her. 

Although her sense of humour was keen, it was not always, as I saidbefore, the humorous side of a subject that struck her. I found her oneday looking utterly miserable. 

"What has happened?" I asked. "You look sad. "

"And I feel sad, " she answered. "I was just thinking what a pity it isthose gay, pleasure-loving, flower-clad people of Hawaii are dyingout!"

She was quite in earnest, and could not be made to see that there wasanything droll in her mourning poignantly for a people so remote. 

Another instance of her absent-mindedness recurs to me. The incidentwas related at our house one evening, in Ideala's presence, by Mr. Lloyd, a mutual friend. A clever drawing by another friend, of Idealatrying to force a cabman to take ten shillings for a half-crown fare--one of the great fears of her life being the chance of not givingpeople of that kind as much as they expected--had caused Ideala toprotest that she _did_ understand money matters. 

"O yes, we all know that your capacity for business is quiteextraordinary, " Mr. Lloyd said, with a smile that meant something. Andthen, addressing us all, he asked: "Did I ever tell you about hercoming to borrow five shillings from me one day? Shall I tell, Ideala?"

"You may, if you like, " Ideala answered, getting very red. "But thestory is not interesting. "

We all began to be anxious to hear it. 

"Judge for yourselves, " Mr. Lloyd said. "One day the head clerk cameinto my private room at the Bank, looking perplexed and discomfited. 'Please, sir' he said, 'a lady wishes to see you. ' 'A lady, ' Ianswered. 'Ladies have no business here. What does she want?' 'Shewould not say, sir, and she would not send in her name. She said it didnot matter. ' I began to wonder what I had been doing. 'What is shelike?' I asked. He looked all round as if in search of a simile, andthen he answered: 'Well, sir, she's more like a picture than anything. ''Show her in, ' I said. "

Here the story was interrupted by a shout of laughter. He laughed alittle himself. 

"I should have been polite in any case, " he declared, apologetically. "The clerk ushered in a lady whose extreme embarrassment made me sorryfor her. She changed colour half-a-dozen times in as many seconds, andthen she hurled her errand at my head in these words, without anyprevious preparation to break the blow: 'Mr. Lloyd, can you lend mefive shillings?' and before I had recovered she continued--'I came inby train this morning, and I've lost my purse, and can't get back ifyou won't help me--at least I think I've lost my purse. I took it outto give sixpence to a beggar--and--and here is the sixpence!' and sheheld it out to me. She had given her purse to the beggar and carriedthe sixpence off in triumph. You may well say 'Oh, Ideala!'"

"And Mr. Lloyd was so very good as to take me to the station, and seeme into the train, " Ideala murmured; "and he gave me his bank-book toamuse me on the journey, and carried Huxley's _Elementary Physiology_, which I had come in to buy, off in triumph!"

But with all her self-forgetfulness there were moments in which sheshowed that she must have thought deeply about herself, weighing herown individuality against others, to see what place she occupied in herown age, and how she stood with regard to the ages that had gonebefore; yet even this she seemed to have done in a selfless way, havingapparently examined herself coolly, critically, fairly, as she mighthave examined any other specimen of humanity in which she felt aninterest, unbiassed by any special regard. 

"People always want to know if I write, or paint, or play, or what Ido, " she once said to me. "They all expect me to do something. Myfunction is not to do, but to be. I make no poetry. I am a poem--if youread me aright. "

And again, in a moment of despondency, she said, "I am one of the wearywomen of the nineteenth century. No other age could have produced me. "

When she said she did nothing she must have meant she was not great inanything, for her time was all occupied, and those things in which shewas interested were never so well done without her help. If any cryingabuse were brought to light in the old Cathedral city; if any largemeasure of reform were set on foot; if the local papers suddenly becameeloquent in favour of some good movement, and adroit in their powers ofpersuasion; if burdens had to be lifted from the oppressed, and theweak defended against great odds, you might be sure that Ideala wasbusy, and her work could be detected in it all. And she was especiallyactive when efforts were being made to find amusement for the people. "That is what they want, poor things, " she would say. "Their lives aresuch a dreary round of dull monotonous toil, and they have so littlesun to cheer them. They ought to be taught to laugh, and have thebrightness put into themselves, and then it would seem as if they hadbeen relieved of half the atmospheric pressure beneath which theygroan. Think what your own life would be if day day after day broughtyou nothing but toil; if you had nothing to look back upon, nothing tolook forward to, but the labour that makes a machine of you, deadeningthe power to care, and holding mind and body in the galling bondage andweariness of everlasting routine. "

She thought laughter an unfailing specific for most of the ills oflife. "We can none of us be thankful enough for the sensation, " shesaid. "Nothing relieves the mental oppression, which does such moraland physical harm, like mirth; of course, I mean legitimate laughter, not levity, nor the ill-natured rejoicing of small minds in suchsubjects for sorrow as their neighbours' faults, follies, and mistakes. What I am thinking of is the pleasure without excitement which there isin sympathetic intercourse with those large, loving natures thatelevate, and the laughter without bitterness which is always a part ofit. "

Like most people whose goodness is neither affected nor acquired, butnatural to them, Ideala saw no merit in her own works, and would nottake the credit she deserved for them; nor would she have had her gooddeeds known at all if she could have helped it. But knowledge of thesethings leaks out somehow, although probably not a third of what she didwill ever be even suspected. 

CHAPTER II. 

Speaking to me of women one day, she said: "Certainly they are_vainqueurs des vainqueurs de la terre_ in any sense they choose; butthe pity of it is that they do not choose to exercise their power forgood to any great extent. I agree with Madame Bernier--if it wereMadame Bernier--who said: _'L'ignorance où les femmes sont de leursdevoirs, l'abus qu'elles font de leur puissance, leur font perdre leplus beau et le plus précieux de leurs avantages, celui d'êtreutiles. '_ But hundreds of other quotations will occur to you, writtenby thoughtful men and women in all ages, and all to the same effect;it is impossible to over-estimate their restraining and refininginfluence as the companions and mothers of men--and almost equallyimpossible to make them realise their responsibility or care to usetheir strength. I would have every woman feel herself a power for goodin the land--and if only half of them did, what a world of differenceit would make to everybody's health and happiness! But women should, as a rule, be silent powers. There are, of course, occasions when they_must_ speak--and all honour to those who do so when the needarises--but our influence is most felt when it is quietly persistentand unobtrusive. There is no social reform that we might notaccomplish if we agreed among ourselves to do it, and then worked, each of us using her influence to that end in her own family, andamong her own friends, only. I once induced some ladies to try alittle experiment to prove this. At that time the gentlemen of ourrespective families were all wearing a certain kind of necktie. Weagreed to banish the necktie, and in a month it had disappeared, andnot one of those gentlemen was ever able to tell us why he had givenit up. We don't deserve much credit for our ingenuity, though, " sheadded, lightly. "Men are so easily managed. All you have to do is tofeed them and flatter them. "

"I think that hardly fair, " I commented. 

"What? The feeding and flattering?"

"No, the conspiracy. "

"Well, that occurred to me too--afterwards, when it was too late to doanything but repent. At the time, I own, I thought of nothing but thesuccess of the experiment as an example and proof of our will-power. "

"You considered one side of the subject only, as per usual, when youare eager and interested, " I softly insinuated. 

She frowned at me thoughtfully; then, after a pause, she resumed: "Ah, yes! You may be sure there is a great deal of good motive power inwomen, but most of it is lost for want of knowledge and means to applyit. It works like the sails of a windmill not attached to themachinery, which whirl round and round with incredible velocity andevery evidence of strength, but serve no better purpose than to showwhich way the wind blows. "

This question of the position of women in our own day occupied her agood deal. 

"The women of my time, " she said to me once, "are in an unsettledstate, it may be a state of transition. Much that made life worthhaving has lost its charm for them. The old interests pall upon them. Occupations that used to be the great business of their lives are nowthought trivial, and are left to children and to servants. Principlesaccepted since the beginning of time have been called in question. Weariness and distrust have taken the place of peace and content, anddoubt and dissatisfaction are the order of the day. Women wantsomething; they are determined to have it, too; and doubtless theywould get it if only they knew what it is that they want. They arestruggling to arrive at something, but opinions differ widely as towhat that something ought to be; and the result is that they havedivided themselves into three classes, not exactly distinct: theydovetail into each other so nicely that it is hard to say where theinfluence of the one set ends and the other begins. There are, first ofall, the women who in their struggles for political power have done somuch to unsex us. They have tried to force themselves into unnaturalpositions, and the consequence has been about as pleasing and edifyingas an attempt to make a goose sing. They clamour for change, mistakingchange for progress. But don't let the puzzling dovetail confuse you. The people I speak of are not those who have so nobly devotedthemselves to the removal of the wrongs of women, though they worktogether. But the object of all this class is good. They wish to raiseus, and what they want, for the most part, is a little more commonsense--as is shown in their system of education, for instance, whichcultivates the intellectual at the expense of the physical powers, girls being crammed as boys (to their great let and hindrance also) arecrammed, just when nature wants all their strength to assist theirgrowth; the result of which becomes periodically apparent when a numberof amiable young ladies are let loose on society without hair or teeth. But the thing they clamour for most is equality. There is a great dealto be said in favour of placing the sexes on an equal footing, and ifsocial conventions are stronger and more admirable than naturalinstincts--and doubtless they are--the thing should be done; but theinnate perversity of women make it difficult--for, I know this, thatwhatever the position of a true woman, and however much she may clamourfor equality with men in general, the man she herself loves inparticular will always be her master. 

"But such ridicule as this party has brought upon itself would not havemattered so much had nothing worse come of it. Unfortunately, thereseems to be no neutral ground for us women: we either do good or harm;and I hold that first class responsible for the existence of thosepeople who clamour for change of any kind, regardless of theconsequences. Their ideas, shorn of all good intention, have resultedin the production of a new creature; and have made it possible forwomen who have the faults of both sexes and the virtues of neither tomix in society. The bad work done by the influence of this second classis only too apparent. It is to them we owe the fact that there is lessrefinement, less courtesy, less of the really good breeding which showsitself in kindness and consideration for others, and, Heaven help us!even less modesty among us now than there was some years ago. "

"These are the women, too, who spend their time and talents on theproduction of cleverly written books of the most corrupt tendency. Their works are a special feature of the age, and are doubly dangerousbecause they have the art of making the worst ideas attractive, bypresenting them in forms too refined and beautiful to shock even themost delicate. "

"Besides these two classes there is the third, which is more difficultto define. It is the one on which our hope rests. The women who belongto it are dissatisfied like the others, but they are less decided, andtherefore their dissatisfaction takes no positive shape. They also wantsomething, and go this way and that as if in search of it, but they arenot really trying for anything in particular. They do good and evilindiscriminately, and for the same motive: they find distraction indoing something--anything. But the desire to do good is latent in allof them; show them the way, and it will make itself apparent. "

"But what is the reason of all this dissatisfaction?" I asked. "Whydon't you go to your husbands and brothers to be set right, as of old?"

"Ah! when you ask me that, you get to the first cause of the trouble, "she answered. "The truth is that we have lost faith in our men. Theyclaim some superiority for themselves, but we find none. The agerequires people to practise what they preach, and yet expects us to beguided by the counsels of those whose own lives, we know, have renderedthem contemptible. They are not fit to guide us, and we are not fit togo alone. I suppose we shall come to an understanding eventually--either they must be raised or we must be lowered. It is for the deathof manliness we women mourn. We marry, and find we have taken uponourselves misery, and lifelong widowhood of the mind and moral nature. Do you wonder that some of us ask: Why should we keep ourselves pure ifimpurity is to be our bedfellow? You make us breathe corruption, andwonder that we lose our health. "

"But why do you talk of the death of manliness? Men have as muchcourage now as they ever had. "

"Oh, of course--mere animal courage; there is plenty of that, but thatis nothing. A cat will fight for her kittens. It is moral courage thatmakes a man, and where do you find it now? Are men self-denying? Arethey scrupulous to a shadow of the truth? Are they disinterested? Howmany _gentlemen_ have you met in the course of your life? I know abouthalf a dozen. "

"What do you call a gentleman, then?" I asked in surprise. "What makesa man one?"

"Why, truth and affection, of course, " she answered; "the one is themost ennobling, and the other the most refining quality. As a child Iused to think ladies and gentlemen never told stories; it was only thecommon people who were dis-honourable, and that was what made themcommon. _Hélas_! one lives and learns!"

"I don't think the world is worse than it ever was, " I said, drily. 

"Not worse, when we know so much better!" she answered with scorn. "Not worse when we have learnt to see so clearly, and most of usacknowledge that

 It is our will Which thus enchains us to permitted ill!

It is nearly two thousand years since Christianity began its work, andit is still unaccomplished. Do you know, I sometimes think that allthis talk of virtue, and teaching of religion, is a kind of practicaljoke, gravely kept up to find a church parade of respectability forStates, a profession for hundreds, and a means of influencing men bymaking a tender point in their nervous system to be touched, as with arod, when necessary--a rod that is held over them always _in terrorem_!We all talk about morality; but try some measure of reform, and youwill find that every man sees the necessity of it for his neighbouronly. Goodness is happiness, and sin is disease. The truism is as oldas the hills, and as evident; but if men were in earnest, do yousuppose they would go on for ever choosing sin and its ghastlycompanion as they do? Do you know, there are moments when I think thateven their reverence for the purity of women is a sham. For why dothey keep us pure? Is it not to make each morsel more delicious forthemselves, that sense and sentiment may be satisfied together, andtheir own pleasure made more complete? Individuals may be in earnest, but the great bulk of mankind is a hypocrite. When the history of thisage is written, moral cowardice and self-indulgence will be found tohave been the most striking characteristics of the people. There is notruth to be found in the inward parts. "

But Ideala did not often adopt this tone, and she would herself checkother people who were preparing to assume it. She had a favouritequotation, adroitly mangled, to suit such occasions. "When we begin toinculcate morality as a science, we must discard moralising as amethod, " she declared; and she would also beg us to stop the hysteria. "It is the mortal malady of all well-beloved measures, " she said; "andit spreads to an epidemic if the infected ones are not suppressed atonce to prevent contagion. "

But, although she spoke so positively when taken out of herself by theinterest and importance of a subject, she had no very high opinion ofher own judgment and power to decide. A little more self-esteem wouldhave been good for her; she was too diffident, "I have not come acrosspeople on whose knowledge I could rely, " she told me. "I have beenobliged to study alone, and to form my opinions for myself out of suchscraps of information as I have had the capacity to acquire fromreading and observation. I am, therefore, always prepared to findmyself mistaken, even when I am surest about a thing--for

 What am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry!

In practice, too, she frequently, albeit unconsciously, diverged fromher theories to some considerable extent; as on one occasion, when, after talking long and earnestly of the sin of selfishness, sheabsently picked up a paper I had just cut with intent to enjoy myself, took it away with her to the drawing-room, and sat on it for the restof the morning--as I afterwards heard. 

CHAPTER III. 

Ideala held that dignity and calm are essential in a woman, but, likethe rest of the world, she found it hard to attain to her own standardof excellence. Her bursts of enthusiasm were followed by fits ofdepression, and these again by periods of indifference, when it washard to rouse her to interest in anything. She always said, and wasprobably right, that want of proper discipline in childhood was thereason of this variableness, which she deplored, but could neithercombat nor conceal. Temperament must also have had something to do withit. Her nervous system was too highly strung, she was too sensitive, too emotional, too intense. She reflected phases of feeling with whichshe was brought into contact as a lake reflects the sky above it, andthe bird that skims across it, and the boats that rest upon its breast;yet, like the lake's, her own nature remained unchanged; it might bedarkened by shadows, and lashed by tempests till it raged, but the pureelement showed divinely even in its wrath, and the passion of it wasexpended always to some good end. 

But even her love of the beautiful was carried to excess. It was apassion with her which would, in a sturdier age, have been considered avice. She delighted in the scent of flowers, the song of the thrushesin the spring; colour, and beautiful forms. Doubtless the emotion theycaused her was pure enough, and it was natural that, highly bred, cultivated, and refined as she was, she should feel these delicate, sensuous pleasures in a greater degree than lower natures do. There wasdanger, however, in the over-education of the senses, which made theirready response inevitable, but neither limited the subjects, norregulated the degree, to which they should respond. But it would behard in any case to say where cultivation of love for the beautifulshould end, and to determine the exact point at which the result ceasesto be intellectual and begins to be sensual. 

I have sat and watched Ideala lolling at an open window in the summer. The house stood on a hill, a river wound through the valley below, andbeyond the river--the land sloped up again, green and dotted withtrees, to a range of low hills, crested with a fringe of wood. 

"Do you know what there is beyond those hills?" Ideala asked me once, abruptly. "_I_ don't know; but I love to believe that the sea isthere, and that the sun is sinking into it now. Sometimes I fancy Ican hear it murmur. "

And then followed a long silence. And the scent of mignonette and rosesblew in upon her, and the twilight deepened, and I saw her grow palewith pleasure when the nightingale began to sing--and then I stole awayand never was missed. She would lie in a long chair for hours likethat, scarcely moving, and never speaking. At first I used to wonderwhat she thought about; but afterwards I knew that at such times shedid not think, she only felt. 

I have some pictures of her as she was then, dressed in a gown of somequaint blue and white Japanese material, with her white throat bare--Iwas just going to catalogue her charms, but it seems indelicate todescribe a woman, point by point, like a horse that is for sale. I havesome other pictures of her, too, as she appeared to me one hot summerwhen I was painting a picture by the river, and she used to come downthe towing-path to watch me work, and sit beside me on the grass forhours together, talking, reading aloud, reciting, or silent, accordingto her mood, but always interesting. It was then I learnt to know herbest. And I am always glad to think of her as I used to see her then, coming towards me in one particular grey frock she wore, tight-fittingand perfect, yet with no detail evident. It was like an expression ofherself, that dress, so quiet to all seeming, and yet so rich inmaterial, and so complex in design. The wonder and the beauty of itgrew upon you, and never failed of its effect. 

CHAPTER IV. 

When I first knew Ideala her religious opinions were all unsettled. "Ineither believe nor disbelieve, " she told me; "I am in a state of don'tknow; or perhaps it would be more exact to say that I both doubt andbelieve at one and the same time. I go indifferently to either church, Protestant or Catholic, and am thankful when any note of music, orthrill of feeling in the voice, or noble sentiment, elevates me so thatI can pray. But I am told that both Catholics and Protestants considerme a weak waverer, and call me incorrigible. Sometimes I cannot prayfor months together, and when I do it is generally to ask for somethingI want, not to praise or give thanks. But what a blank it is when onecannot pray; when one has lost the power to conceive that there is asomething greater than man, to whom man is nevertheless all in all, andto whom we may look for comfort in all times of our tribulation, andfor sympathy in all times of our wealth! To be able to give thanks toGod when one is happy is the most rapturous, and to be able to callupon Him in the day of trouble is the most blessed, state of mind Iknow. Yet I believe we should only pray for the possible. The leaflesstree may pray for the time of buds and blossoms; will the time come thesooner? Perhaps not, but it will come. "

"I must confess, " she said on another occasion, "that I do have momentsof pure scepticism; but when I cannot believe in the existence of aGod, and a Beyond, I feel as if the sky were nearer, and weighed uponme, so that I could not lift my head. "

She thought religion consisted much more in doing right than inbelieving right, and set morality above faith; but I think she had aleaning towards the Roman Catholic religion nevertheless. 

"It is a grand old faith, " she said, "only it has certain ramificationswith which I should always quarrel, notably that of the Sacred Heartwith which Catholics deface their lovely Lady in the churches. I alwaysfeel that such bad art cannot be good religion. When the Roman Catholicreligion commanded respect it expressed itself better--as in the dayswhen it carved itself in harmonies of solid stone, and wrote itself intint and tone on glowing canvases, and learnt to speak in thunderingmass and mighty hymns of praise! There are people who think these newshoots good as a sign of life in the tree, and this consideration mightperhaps make their appearance welcome; but a great deal of strength isexpended on their production, and it would be just as well to lop themoff again. The old tree wants pruning and cutting back occasionally, and it is a false sentiment that is letting it fall to decay for thesake of these struggling branches. 

"There is another thing, too, for which we should all quarrel with theCatholic religion. I think the fact his already been noticed by somewriter; at all events, it is evident enough to have occurred to anyone. I mean the fact that the Church, by its narrow views abouteducation, and its most unspiritual ambition for itself, has retardedthe world's progress for centuries by interfering with the law ofnatural selection. As a matter of course for ages all the best men wentinto the Church; it was the only career open to them; and so they leftno descendants. "

At our house, on another occasion, when the Roman Catholic religionhappened to be under discussion, she launched forth some observationsin her usual emphatic way. There were only two strangers present, alady and her husband. Ideala asked the lady, who was sitting next toher, if she were a Catholic, to which the lady answered "No;" andIdeala, satisfied, proceeded to remark: "It may be the true religion, but it certainly is not the religion of truth. The doctrine ofexpediency, or the latitude they allow themselves on the score ofexpediency--I don't quite know how they put it--but it has much toanswer for. I never find that my Roman Catholic friends are true, asmy Protestant friends are. There is always a something kept back, areservation; a want of straightforwardness, even when there is nopositive deception--I can't describe the thing I mean, but it is quiteperceptible, and causes an uneasy feeling of distrust, which is allthe more tormenting from its vagueness and want of definition. Thelow-class Roman Catholics, I find, never hesitate if a lie will servetheir purpose; and Roman Catholic servants are notoriouslyuntrustworthy. That, of course, proves nothing, for one knows thatlow-class people of any religion are not to be depended on--still, there is no doubt that one finds deception more rife among Catholicsthan among Protestants, and one wonders why, if the religion is not toblame. "

My sister, Claudia, had tried to catch Ideala's eye, and stop her, butin vain; and the lady next her broke out the moment she paused:"Indeed, you are quite wrong. You cannot have known many Catholics. They are not untrue. "

"O yes, I have known numbers, " Ideala answered; "I speak fromexperience. Yet it always seems to me that the Roman Catholic religionis good for individuals. There is pleasure in it, and help and comfortfor them. But then it is death to the progress of nations, and thequestion is: Would an individual be justified in adding a unit more forhis own benefit to a system which would ruin his country? I think not. "

Here, however, she stopped, seeing at last that something was wrong. 

"What dreadful mistake did I make this evening?" she asked meafterwards. "Mrs. Jervois declared she wasn't a Catholic. "

"But her husband is, " I answered; "and he heard every word. "

Ideala groaned. 

Not long afterwards Mrs. Jervois wrote and told us she had entered theCatholic Church. "I had, in fact, been received before I went to you, "she confessed. 

"There!" Ideala exclaimed. "It is just what I said. A want of commonhonesty is a part of the religion; and you see she had begun topractise it while she was here. "

"What an eternal lie it is they preach when they tell us life is notworth having, " she said to me once, speaking of preachers generally. "Ihave heard an oleosaccharine priest preach for an hour on this subject, detailing the worthlessness of all earthly pleasures, with which heseemed to be intimately acquainted--his appearance making one suspectthat he had not even yet exhausted them all himself--and giving aflorid account of the glories of the life to come, about which heappeared to know as much but to care less; just as if heaven might notbegin on earth if only men would let it. "

One day I had to warn her about acting so often on impulse. She heardwhat I had to say very good-naturedly, and, after thinking about it fora while, she said: "What a pity it is one never sees an impulse coming. It is impossible to know whether they arise from below, or descend fromabove. I always find if I act on one that it has arisen; and as surelyif I leave it alone it proves to have been a good opportunity lost. Andhow curiously our thoughts go on, often so irrespective of ourselves. Iwas in a Roman Catholic church the other day, and the priest--a friendof mine, who looks like the last of the Mohicans minus the feathers inhis hair; but a good man, with nice, soft, velvety brown eyes--preachedmost impressively. He told us that the Lord was there--there on thatvery altar, ready to answer our prayers; and, oh dear! when I came tothink of it, there were so many of my prayers waiting to be answered! I'felt like' presenting them all over again, it seemed such a goodopportunity. And then they sang the _O salutaris Hostia_ divinely--so divinely that I thought if the Lord really had been there He wouldcertainly have made them sing it again--and I could not pray any moreafter that. You call this rank irreverence, do you not? _I_ do. And I wish I had not thought it. Yet it was one of those involuntarytricks of the mind for which I cannot believe that we are to be heldresponsible. Theologians would say it was a temptation of the devil, but they are wrong. The first cause of these mental lapses is to befound in some habit of levity, acquired young, and not easily got ridof, but still not hopeless. But prevention is better than cure, andchildren should be taught right-mindedness early. I wish I had been. Happy is the child who is started in life with a set of fixedprinciples, and the power to respect. "

I used to wish that there might be a universal religion, but Ideala didnot share my feeling on this subject. "I suppose it is a fine idea, "she said; "but while minds run in so many different grooves, it seemsto me far finer for one system of morality to have found expressionsenough to satisfy nearly everybody. "

She had very decided views about what heaven ought to be. 

"The mere material notion of abundance of gold and precious stones, which appealed to the early churchmen, has no charm for us, " shedeclared. "We must have new powers of perception, and new pleasuresprovided for us, such, for instance, as Mr. Andrew Lang suggests in anexquisite little poem about the Homeric Phæacia--the land whoseinhabitants were friends of the gods, a sort of heaven upon earth. " Andthen she quoted:

 The languid sunset, mother of roses, Lingers, a light on the magic seas; The wide fire flames as a flower uncloses; Heavy with odour and loose to the breeze. 

 * * * * *

 The strange flowers' perfume turns to singing, Heard afar over moonlit seas; The siren's song, grown faint with winging, Falls in scent on the cedar trees. 

"Those lines were the first to make me grasp the possibility of havingnew faculties added to our old ones in another state of existence, "she said, "faculties which should give us a deeper insight into thenature of things, and enable us to discover new pleasures in the unitywhich may be expected to underlie beauty and excellence in all theirmanifestations, as Mr. Norman Pearson puts it. Did you ever read thatpaper of his, 'After Death, ' in the _Nineteenth Century_? It embodieswhat I had long felt, but could never grasp before I found hisadmirable expression of it. 'I can see no reason, ' he says, in onepassage in particular which I remember word for word, I think, itgives me such pleasure to recall it--'I can see no reason forsupposing that _some such_ insight would be impossible to thequickened faculties of a higher development. With a nature material sofar as the existence of those faculties might require, but spiritualto the highest degree in their exercise and enjoyment: under physicalconditions which might render us _practically_ independent of space, and _actually_ free from the host of physical evils to which we arenow exposed, we might well attain a consummation of happiness, _generally_ akin to that for which we now strive, but idealised intosomething like perfection. The faculties which would enable us toobtain a deeper and truer view of all the manifestations of cosmicenergy would at the same time reveal to us new forms of beauty, newpossibilities of pleasure on every side: and--to take a singleinstance--the emotions to which the sight of Niagara now appeals mightthen be gratified by a contemplation of the fierce grandeur of somesun's chromosphere or the calmer glories of its corona. ' Thatsatisfies, does it not?" she added, with a sigh. "It suggests suchinfinite possibilities. "

 * * * * *

One day, when she was making herself miserable for want of a religion, I tried to comfort her by talking of the different people whose liveshad been good and pure and noble, although they had had no faith. 

"I suppose my principles are right, " she said; "but if they are, theyhave come right by accident. The children of the people are sent toSunday-schools, and taught the difference between right and wrong;_we_ seem to be expected to know it instinctively. I think if I hadlearnt I might have profited, because I cling so fondly to the oneprinciple I ever heard clearly enunciated. It was on the sin ofshooting foxes; and I cannot tell you the horror I have of the crime, even down to the present day. But, now I think of it, I did receivetwo other scraps of religious training. My governess taught me the TenCommandments by making me say them after her when I was eating breadand sugar for breakfast before going to church on Sunday. The thoughtof them always brings back the flavour of bread and sugar. And theother scrap I got from a clergyman to whom I was sent on a singleoccasion when I was thought old enough to be confirmed. He asked mewhich was the commandment with promise, and I didn't know, so he toldme; and then I made him laugh about a horse of mine that used to havegreat fun trying to break my neck, and after that he said I should do. I did not agree with him, however, and I positively refused to beconfirmed until I knew more about it. My mother said I was the mostdisagreeable child she had ever known, which was probably true, but asan argument it failed to convince. It was her last remark on thesubject, happily, and after that the thing was allowed to drop. "

Ideala was fourteen when she refused to be confirmed for conscientiousscruples, and although she made light of it in this way, she hadsuffered a good deal and been severely punished at the time for herrefusal, but vainly, for she never gave in. 

In after-life she held, of course, that Christianity was the highestmoral revelation the world had ever known; but when she saw that legalright was not always moral right, I think she began to look for ahigher. 

By baptism she belonged to the Church of England, but she seems to havethought of the Sacrament always with the idea of transubstantiation inher mind. She spoke of it reverently, but had never been able to takeit, and for a curious reason: she said the idea of it nauseated her. She felt that the elements were unnatural food, and therefore she couldnot touch them--and this feeling never left her but once, when she wasdangerously ill, and yearned, as she told me, for the Sacrament morethan for life and health. Day and night the longing never left her;but, not having been confirmed, she did not like to ask for it, and asshe recovered the old feeling gradually returned. 

Religious difficulties always tormented her more or less. As she grewolder she felt with Shelley that belief is involuntary, and a man isneither to be praised nor blamed for it; and she was always ready toacknowledge with Sir Philip Sidney that "Reason cannot show itself morereasonable than to leave reasoning on things above reason, " butnevertheless her mind did not rest. 

I have also heard her quote, "Credulity is the man's weakness, but thechild's strength, " and add that in matters of faith and religion we areall children, and I have thought at times that she had been able toleave it so; but something always fell from her sooner or later whichshowed that the old trouble was rankling still--as when she told meonce: "I have never heard the Divine voice which has called you and allmy friends. I listen for it, but it does not speak. I call, but thereis no reply. I wait, but it does not come. The heaven of heavens isdark to me, and the yearning of my soul meets no response. Will it beso for ever?"

No, not for ever--but she was led by tortuous ways, and left to workout her own salvation in very fear and trembling, till the dear humanlove was given to her in pity to help her to know something of thatwhich is Divine. And then, I hope, above the trouble of her senses, andthe turmoil of the world, the Divine voice did call her, and she wasable at last to hear. 

CHAPTER V. 

Ideala often recurred to the subject of work for women. 

"There are so many thousands of us, " she said, "who have no object inlife, and nothing to make us take it seriously. My own is a case inpoint. I am not necessary, even to my husband. There is nothing I ambound to do for him, or that he requires of me, nothing but to beagreeable when he is with me, which would not interfere with a seriousoccupation if I had one, and is scarcely interest enough in life for anenergetic woman. My household duties take, on an average, half an houra day; and everything in our house is done regularly, and well done. Mysocial duties may be got through at odd moments, and the more of apastime I make them the better I fulfil them; and, with the exceptionof these, there is nothing in my life that I cannot have done for me bysome one better able to do it than I am. And even if I had children Ishould not be much more occupied, for the things they ought to learnfrom their mothers are best taught by example. For all practicalpurposes, parents, as a rule, are bad masters for any but very youngchildren. They err on the side of over severity or the reverse. So yousee I have no obligations of consequence, and there is, therefore, nothing in my life to inspire a sense of responsibility. And all thisseems to me a grievous waste of Me. I remember Lord Wensum telling me, when we discussed this subject, that he was travelling once with awell-known editor, and, noticing the number of villas that had sprungup of late years along the whole line of rail they were on, he said: 'Iwonder what the ladies in those villas do with their time? I supposetheir social duties are limited, and they are too well off to beobliged to trouble themselves about anything. ' 'It is the existence ofthose villas, ' the editor answered, 'that makes the present professionof the novelist possible. ' But I think, " said Ideala, "that those womenmight find something better to do than to make a profession fornovelists. "

"But you do a good deal yourself, Ideala, " I ventured. 

"Yes, in a purposeless way. All my acts are isolated; it would makelittle difference if they had never been done. "

"Then you are not content, after all, to be merely a poem?" I said, maliciously. "You would like to do as well as to be?"

She laughed. Then, after a little, she said earnestly: "Do you know, Ialways feel as if I _could_ do something--teach something--or helpothers in a small way with some work of importance. I never believe Iwas born just to live and die. But I have a queer feeling about it. Iam sure I shall be made to go down into some great depth of sin andmisery myself, in order to learn what it is I have to teach. "

She loved music, and painting, and poetry, and science, and none of herloves were barren. She embraced them each in turn with an ardour thatresulted in the production of an offspring--a song, a picture, a poem, or book on some most serious subject, and all worthy of note. But shewas inconstant, and these children of her thought or fancy weregenerally isolated efforts that marked the culminating point of herdevotion, and lessened her interest if they did not exhaust herstrength. 

Perhaps, though, I wrong her when I call her inconstant. It seems to menow that each new interest was a step by which she mounted upwards, learning to sympathise practically and perfectly with all men in theirwork as she passed them on her way to find her own. 

CHAPTER VI. 

She knew the poor of the place well, and took a lively interest in allthat concerned them; and occasionally she would confide some of her ownodd observations and reflections to me. 

"On Sunday morning all the women wash their doorsteps, " she told me; "Ithink it is part of their religion. "

And on another occasion she said: "They have such lovely children here, and such swarms of them. I am always hard on the women with lovelychildren. People say it is envy, hatred, malice, and alluncharitableness, that makes me so; but it really is because I thinkwomen who have nice children should be better than other women. Itwould be worse for one of them to do a wrong thing than for poorchildless me. "

This conclusion may be quarrelled with as illogical, but the feelingthat led to it was beautiful beyond question; and, indeed, all herideas on that subject were beautiful. 

She went once, soon after she came among us, to comfort a lady in theneighbourhood who had lost a baby at its birth. 

"It is sad that you should lose your child, " Ideala said to her; "butyou are better off than I am, for I never knew what it was to be amother. "

She would have thought it a privilege to have experienced even thesorrows of maternity. 

Talking about the people, she told me: "They draw such nicedistinctions. They speak of 'a lady' and 'a real lady. ' A 'real lady'is a person who gives no trouble. If Mrs. Vanbrugh wants anything fromthe butcher, and he has already sent to her house once that day, shedoes not expect him to send again; she sends to him--and she is 'a reallady. ' Mrs. Stanton is also thoughtful, but she is something more; sheis sociable and kind, and talks to them all in a friendly way, just asif they were human beings; and she is something more than 'a reallady'--she's 'a real nice lady. '

"Do you know Mrs. Polter at the fish-shop? What a fine-looking womanshe is! Middle-aged, intelligent, and a very good specimen of herclass, I should think. She has eight children already, and wouldconsider the ninth a further blessing. Her husband is a good-lookingman, too, and most devoted. In fact, they are quite an ideal pair withtheir eight children and their fish-shop. He had to go to Yarmouth theother day to buy bloaters, and while he was away she went by the fiveo'clock train every morning to choose the day's supply of fish for theshop, and he was quite unhappy about it. He was afraid she would'overdo' herself, and rather than that should happen he desired her tolet the business go to the--ahem! He made her write every day to sayhow she was, and was wretched till he returned to relieve her of herarduous duties. She made friends with me during the scarlet feverepidemic. Number eight was a baby then, and she was afraid he mightcatch the disease and be taken to the hospital and die for want of her;and I sympathised strongly with her denunciations of the cruelty of theact. Fancy taking little babies from their mothers! Barbarous, don'tyou think it? One day a lady came into the shop while I was there. Shewas dressed in a bright pink costume, with a large hat all smothered inpink feathers. I thought of the Queen of Sheba, and felt alarmed. Mrs. Polter told me afterwards she was 'just a lady, ' rolling in recentlyacquired wealth, and 'as hard to please as if she had never washed herown doorstep. ' It was then I learnt the difference between 'a lady' and'a real lady. '"

One of Ideala's exploits got into the paper somehow, and she wasannoyed about it, and anxious to make us believe the account of therisk she ran had been greatly exaggerated. I was present when she gaveher own version of the story, which was characteristic in every way. 

"I heard frantic cries from the river, " she said. "Some one wasshrieking, 'The child will be drowned!' and I ran to see what was thematter. A man was tearing up and down on the bank, a child wasstruggling in the water, and as there was nobody else to be seen helooked to _me_ for assistance! I advised him to go in and bringthe child out, but the idea did not appear to commend itself to him, sohe took to running up and down again, bawling, 'The child will bedrowned!' And indeed it seemed very likely; so I was obliged to go inand bring it out myself. The man was overjoyed when I restored it tohim. He clasped it in his arms with every demonstration of affection;and then he looked at me and became embarrassed. He evidently felt thathe ought to say something, but the difficulty was what to say. At lasta bright idea seemed to strike him. His countenance cleared, and hespoke with much feeling. 'I am afraid you are rather wet, ' he observed;and then he left me, and a sympathetic landlady, who keeps a littlepublic-house by the river, and had witnessed the occurrence, took me inand dried me. She gave me whisky and hot water, and entertained me forthe rest of the afternoon. She is a remarkable woman, and I shouldvisit her often were it not for her love of, and faith in, whisky andhot water. I tell her there are five things which make the nose red--viz. , cold, tight-lacing, disease of the right side of the heart, dyspepsia, and alcohol, and the greatest of these is alcohol; but shesays a little colour anywhere would be an improvement to me, and I feelthat I can have nothing in common with a woman who has such bad tastein the distribution of colour. "

CHAPTER VII. 

Ideala's notions of propriety were altogether unconventional. She nevercould be made to understand that it was not the proper thing to talkfamiliarly to any one she met, and discuss any subject they were equalto with them. 

"It is good for people to talk, and natural, and therefore proper, " shesaid. "If I can give pleasure to a stranger by doing so, or he can givepleasure to me, it would not be right to keep silent. "

She carried this idea of her duty to her neighbour rather farsometimes. 

I remember her telling me once about two old gentlemen she hadtravelled with the day before. 

"The sun came in and bothered me, and one of them offered to draw theblind, " she said, "and he remarked it was rather a treat to see thesun, we have so little of it now; and I said that was true, and toldhim how I pitied the farmers. I had to stay in my room the other daywith a bad cold, and I amused myself watching one of them at work insome fields opposite. The state of his mind was expressed by hisboots. On Monday the sun was shining, the air was mild, and it seemedas if we were going to have a continuance of fine weather, and thefarmer appeared of a cheerful countenance, and his boots were polishedand laced. On Tuesday there was an east wind, veering south, withshowers, and his boots were laced, but not polished. On Wednesdaythere was frost, fog, and gloom, and they were neither laced norpolished. On Thursday there was a snowstorm, and he had no boots atall on; and after that I did not see him, and I wondered if he hadcommitted suicide--in which case I thought the jury might almost havebrought in a verdict of 'justifiable _felo-de-se_. ' And when I toldthat story the other old gentleman shut his book, and began to talktoo. And I said I thought the weather was much colder than it used tobe, for I could remember wearing muslin dresses in May, and I couldnot wear them at all now; but I did not know if the change were in theclimate or in myself--perhaps a little of both--though, indeed, I knewthat, to a certain extent, it was in the climate, which had been verymuch altered in different districts by drainage, and cutting, orplanting--altered for the better, however, as a rule. And one oldgentleman had heard that before, but did not understand it exactly, soI explained it to him; and then I talked about changes of climate ingeneral, and the formation of beds of coal, and the ice period, andsun-spots, and the theory of comets, and about my husband getting upto see the last one, and going out in a felt hat and dressing-gownwith a bed-candle to look for it--and about that dream of mine, did Itell you? I dreamt the comet came into our drawing-room, and the legof a Chinese table turned into a snake and snorted at it, and thecomet looked so taken aback that I woke myself with a shout oflaughter. And then we talked of popular superstitions about comets, and dreams, and ghosts-- particularly ghosts, and I told a number ofcreepy stories, and one old gentleman pretended he didn't believe inthem, but he did, and so did the other without any pretence; and wetalked about Darwinism, and the nature of the soul, and Nihilism, andthe state of society--and--and a few other things. And they were suchdear delightful old gentlemen, and they knew such a lot, and were soclever; and one of them was a Railway Director, and the other couldn'tlet his farms, and was bothered about his pheasants, and wanted tohave the trains altered to suit him. I should so like to meet themboth again. "

"And how long did all this take, Ideala?"

"Oh, some hours. I fancy their dreams would be rather confused lastnight, " she added, naively. 

"Poor old gentlemen!" said I. 

This sociability and inclination to talk the matter out, and, I maysay, a certain amount of innocence and lack of worldly wisdom into thebargain, betrayed her occasionally into small improprieties of conductthat were not to be excused, and would possibly not have been forgivenin any one but Ideala. But such things were allowed in her as certainthings are allowed in certain people--not because the things are rightin themselves, but because the people who do them see no harm in them. There are people, too, who seem to enjoy the privilege of making wrongright by doing it. Society, however, only accords this privilege to alimited and distinguished few. 

When Ideala saw for herself that she had done an unjustifiable thingshe was very ready to confess it. I always fancied she had some latentidea of making atonement in that way. It never mattered how much astory told against herself, nor how much malicious people might make ofit to her discredit; she told all, inimitably, and with scrupulousfidelity to fact. 

One day she was standing waiting for a train at the station at York, and in her absent way she fixed her eyes on a gentleman who was walkingabout the platform. 

Presently he went up to her, and, without any apology or show ofrespect, remarked: "I am sure I have seen you before. "

"Probably, " Ideala rejoined, as if the occurrence were the most naturalthing in the world, "but I do not remember you. Perhaps if I heard yourname----?"

"Oh, I don't suppose you ever heard my name, " he said. 

"In that case I can never have known you, " she answered, calmly. "Inever know any one except by name. I suppose you are an Englishman?"

"Yes, " he said, eagerly; "I am in the 5th----"

"Ah, I thought so, " she interrupted, placidly. "Englishmen in the 5th, and some other regiments, are apt to have but the one idea----"

"And that is?"

"And that is a bad one. "

He looked at her for a moment, and then, hat in hand, he made her a lowbow, and left her without another word. 

"I think he felt ill, and went to have some refreshment, " she added, when she told me. 

From what happened afterwards I am sure that at the time she had noidea of the real significance of the position in which she foundherself placed on this occasion. But, as a rule, if she did or said thewrong thing, she became painfully conscious of the fact immediatelyafterwards--indeed, it was generally _afterwards_ that she graspedthe full meaning of most things. She was ready with repartee withoutbeing in the least quick of understanding; she had to think thingsover, and even then she was not sure to do the right thing next time. 

"Mr. Graves is ten years younger than his wife, " she told me once, "andonly fancy what I said one day. It was in his studio, and she wasthere. I declared a woman could have no sense of propriety at all whomarried a man younger than herself--that no good could possibly come ofsuch marriages--and a lot more. Then I suddenly remembered, and you canimagine my feelings! But what do you think I did? I went there the nextyear, and said the same thing again exactly!"

CHAPTER VIII. 

When we were a small party of intimate friends, and Ideala was quite ather ease with us, it was pleasant to see her lolling, a littlelanguidly as was her wont (for physically her energy was fitful), inthe corner of a couch, looking happy and interested, her face, whichwas sad in repose, lit up for the time with amusement, as she quietlylistened to our talk, and observed all that was going on around her. Even when she did not speak a word she somehow managed to make herpresence felt, and, as a rule, she spoke little on these occasions. Butsometimes we managed to draw her out, and sometimes she would burstforth suddenly of her own accord, with a torrent of eloquence thatsilenced us all; and even when she was utterly wrong she charmed us. Her chance observations were generally noteworthy either for theirsense or their humour. It was only her sense of humour, I think, thatsaved her from being sentimental; but she gave expression to it inseason and out of season, and would let it carry her too far sometimes, for she made enemies for herself more than once by the way she exposedthe absurdity of certain things to the very people who believed inthem. Every lapse of this kind caused her infinite regret, but thefault seemed incurable: she was always either repenting of it orcommitting it, although, having so many quirks of her own, she feltthat she, of all people in the world, should have dealt most tenderlywith the weaknesses of others. 

She knew how narrowly she escaped being sentimental, and would oftenjoke about her danger in that respect. "This lovely summer weathermakes me _sickly_ sentimental, " she told me once. "I feel like theheroine of a three-volume novel written by a young lady of eighteen, and I think continually of _him_. I don't know in the least who_he_ is, but that makes no difference. The thought of him delightsme, and I want to write long letters to him, and make verses about himthe whole day long. And he wants me to be good. "

She had two or three pet abominations of her own, any allusion to whichwas sure to make her outrageous--false sentiment and affectation of anykind were amongst them. She had little habits, too, that we were allpleased to fall in with. Sitting in the corner of a couch, and of onecouch in particular in every house, was one of these; and people gotinto the way of giving up that seat to her whenever she appeared. Ithink it would have puzzled us all to say why or wherefore, for shenever said or looked anything that could make us think she wished toappropriate it; she simply took it as a matter of course when it wasoffered to her, and probably did not know that she invariably satthere. Ideala was a splendid horsewoman, and swam like a fish; but shewas not good at tennis or games of any kind, and she did not dance, fora curious reason: she objected to be touched by people for whom she hadno special affection. She even disliked to shake hands, and oftenwished some one would put the custom out of fashion. With regard todancing I have heard her say, too, that she sympathised entirely withthe Oriental feeling on the subject. She thought it delightful to bedanced to, to lie still with a pleasant companion near her who wouldnot talk too much, and listen to the music, and enjoy the poetry ofmotion coolly and at ease. "I love to see the 'dancers dancing intune, '" she said; "but to have to dance myself would be as great abother as to have to cook my dinner as well as eat it. I suppose it isa healthy amusement--indeed, I know it is when you take it as I do; forwhen all you people come down the morning after a dance with haggardeyes and no power to do anything, I am as fresh as a lark, and havedecidedly the best of it. "

She was not good at games because she was not ambitious. She did notcare to have her skill commended, and was content to lose or win withequal indifference--so long as only the honour of the thing wasinvolved; but when the stakes were more material she showed a vice ofwhich she was quite conscious. 

"I daren't play for money, " she said to me. "I never have, and I havealways said that I never will. All the women of my family are borngamblers. My mother has often told me that regularly, when she was agirl, the day after she received her allowance she had either doubledit or lost it all; and before she was twenty she hadn't a jewel worthanything in her possession--and my aunts were as bad. One of themstaked herself one night to a gentleman she was playing with, and hewon, and married her. Gambling was more the custom then than it is now, but for me it is as much in the air as if it were still the fashion. When there is any talk of play I feel fascinated, and when I see a packof cards the temptation is so irresistible that I have often to go awayto save my resolution. "

Which made me think of a favourite quotation of Lessing's from_Minna_:--"_Tout les gens d'esprit aiment le jeu à la folie_. "

CHAPTER IX. 

Ideala's low esteem for "mere animal courage" was probably due to thefact that she possessed it herself in a high degree. Yet soon after Imet her I began to suspect, and was afterwards convinced, thatsomething in her manner which had puzzled me at first arose from fear. There was that in her life which made her afraid of the world, whichwould, had it guessed the truth, have pryed with curious eyes into hersorrow, and found an interest in seeing her suffer. The trouble was herhusband. She rarely spoke of him herself, and I think I ought to followher example, and say as little about him as possible. He was jealous ofher, jealous of her popularity, and jealous of every one who approachedher. He carried it so far that she scarcely dared to show a preference, and was even obliged to be cold and reserved with some of her bestfriends. I was a privileged person, allowed to be intimate with herfrom the first, partly because I insisted on it when I saw how mattersstood, and partly because my position and reputation gave me a right toinsist. I never had occasion to brave insults for her sake, but, likemany others, I would have done so had it been necessary. Her friendswere constantly being driven from her on one pretext or another. Peoplewould have taken her part readily enough had she complained, butcomplaint was contrary to her nature and her principles. Some, whosuspected the truth, blamed her reticence; but I always thought itright, and on one occasion when we approached the subject indirectly Itold her "Silence is best. " I ought to have qualified the advice, forshe carried it too far, and was silent afterwards when she should havespoken--that is to say, when it had become evident that endurance wasuseless and degrading. 

She fought hard to preserve her dignity, and was determined that "asthe husband is, the wife is, " should not be true in her case. But hedid lower her insensibly, nevertheless. As her life became more andmore unendurable she became a little reckless in speech; it was a sortof safety-valve by means of which she regained her composure, and Isoon began to recognise the sign, and to judge of the amount she hadsuffered by the length to which she afterwards went in search ofrelief, and the extent to which suffering made her untrue to herself. 

As a rule, when with him, she was yielding, but she had fits ofdetermination, too, when she knew she was right. One night, as theywere driving home from a ball together, her husband suddenly declaredthat he would not allow her to be one of the patronesses of a fancyfair which was to be held for a charitable purpose, although she hadalready consented and he had made no objection at the time. 

"But why may I not?" Ideala asked. 

"Because I object. Do you hear? I will not have it, and you mustwithdraw. "

"I must decline to obey any such arbitrary injunction, " she answered, quietly. 

He detained her on the doorstep until the carriage had driven round tothe stables. 

"Now, are you going to obey me?" he asked. 

"Yes, if you give me a reason for what you require, " she answered, wearily. 

"Oh, you are obstinate, are you?" he rejoined, in a jeering tone. "Well, stay in the garden and think it over. Perhaps reflection willmake you more dutiful. I shall tell your maid you will not want herto-night. When you have made up your mind you can ring. " And so sayinghe walked into the house and shut the door upon her. 

It was a summer night, but Ideala felt chilly with only a thin shawlover her ball dress. She walked about as long as she could, but fatigueovercame her at last, and she was obliged to lie down on one of thegarden seats. She wrapped the train of her dress round her shoulders, and lay looking up at the stars. The air was heavy with the scent offlowers. The night was very still. Once or twice the rush of a passingtrain in the distance became audible; and the ceaseless, solemn, inarticulate murmur of the night was broken by a nightingale that sangout at intervals, divinely. 

Ideala never thought of submitting; she simply lay there, waitingwithout expecting. The night air overcame her more and more with asense of fatigue, but she could not sleep. She saw the darkness fadeand the dawn appear, and when at last the servants began to move in thehouse she watched her opportunity and slipped in unobserved. She wentto one of the spare rooms, undressed, rang, and got into bed. When thebell was answered she ordered a hot bath and hot coffee immediately. The maid supposed she had slept there, and seemed surprised; but as hermistress offered no explanation she could make no remark; and so thematter ended. 

But I do not think Ideala suffered much on that occasion. Her strongyoung womanhood saved her somewhat--and there was a charm for her inthe beauty of the night and the novelty of her position, which a lesshealthy organism would not have appreciated, had it been able todiscover it--at such a time. 

CHAPTER X. 

Ideala had been married eight years, and two months after that nightthe long-delayed hope of her life, which she had begun to believe wasbeyond hope, was at last realised. Her child was a boy, and her joy inhim is something that one is glad to have seen. But it was short-lived. I do not know if her husband were jealous of her happiness, or if hethought the child was more to her than he was, or if he were merelymaking a proposition, by way of experiment, which he never meant tocarry into effect--probably the latter. At all events, he went to herone day when the child was about six weeks old, and told her he thoughtshe must give up nursing him. 

The mother's nature was up in arms in a moment. I suppose she had notquite regained her strength, for she had been very ill, and, beingweak, she was excitable. 

"I will not give my baby up! How can you think it?" she exclaimed. 

"Oh, well, " he answered, coolly, "just as you like, you know. But Ishould think you'd better--for the child's sake, at least. "

"It isn't true. I don't believe it, " she said, piteously. 

"Ask the doctor, then;" and he sauntered out, smiling, and perhaps notdreaming that she would. 

But "for the child's sake" had alarmed Ideala, and she sent for thedoctor. It was hours before he could come to her, and, in the meantime, not knowing that her state of mind would affect the child, she hadfidgeted and fretted herself into a fever, and when the doctor saw her, he could only confirm her husband's verdict. 

"I am afraid you must give up nursing, " he said. "You are in such anervous state it will do the child harm. But he's such a fine fellow!He'll thrive all right--you needn't be frightened. "

Ideala said nothing, but she sat in her own room night after night fora week, and heard the child crying for her, and could not go to him--and even when he did not cry she fancied she heard him still. I thinkas the milk slowly and painfully left her, her last spark of affectionfor her husband dried up too. 

The child died of diphtheria some time afterwards, and in a littlewhile, Ideala, who was then in her twenty-sixth year, returned to herold pursuits, and no one ever knew what she felt about it:

 For, it is with feelings as with waters-- The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb!

CHAPTER XI. 

My widowed sister, Claudia, was one of Ideala's most intimate friends. She was a good deal older than Ideala, whom she loved as a mother lovesa naughty child, for ever finding fault with her, but ready to be up inarms in a moment if any one else ventured to do likewise. She wasinclined to quarrel with me because, although I never doubted Ideala'struth and earnestness (no one could), knowing her weak point, I fearedfor her. I thought if all the passion in her were ever focussed on oneobject she would do something extravagant--a prediction which Claudia, with good intent, rashly repeated to her once. 

Claudia was mistress of my house, and she and I had agreed from thefirst that, whatever happened, we would watch over Ideala and befriendher. 

My sister was one of the people who thought it would have been betterfor Ideala to have talked of her troubles. When I praised Ideala'sloyalty, and her uncomplaining devotion to an uncongenial duty, Claudiasaid: "Loyalty is all very well; but I don't see much merit in a life-long devotion to a bad cause. If there were any good to be done by it, it would be different, of course; but, as it is, Ideala is simplysacrificing herself for nothing--and worse, she is setting a badexample by showing men they need not mend their manners since wiveswill endure anything. It is immoral for a woman to live with such ahusband. I don't understand Ideala's meekness; it amounts to weaknesssometimes, I think. I believe if he struck her she would say, 'Thankyou, ' and fetch him his slippers. I feel sure she thinks some unknowndefect in herself is at the bottom of all his misdeeds. "

"I don't think she knows half as much about his misdeeds as we do, " Iobserved. 

"Then I think it would be a charity to enlighten her, " Claudiaanswered, decidedly. "One can't touch pitch without being defiled, andwhen it is too late we shall find she has suffered 'some taint innature, ' in spite of herself. Will you kindly take us to the Palacethis evening? The Bishop wants us to go in after dinner, and Ideala haspromised to come too. "

Ideala was fastidious about her dress, and being in one of her moodsthat evening she teased Claudia unmercifully, on the way to the Palace, about a blue woollen shawl she was wearing. "A delicate and refinednature expresses itself by nothing more certainly than elegant wraps, "she said, parodying another famous dictum; "and I should not like to beable to understand the state of mind a lady was in when she boughtherself a blue woollen shawl; but I could believe she was suffering atthe time from a temporary aberration of intellect--only, if she wore itafterwards the thing would be quite inexplicable. " Claudia drew thewrap round her with dignity, and made no reply; then Ideala laughed andturned to me. "Certainly your friend, " she said, alluding to a youngsculptor who was staying with me, "can 'invest his portraits withartistic merit. ' Claudia's likeness in the Exhibition is capital, andthe fame of it is being noised abroad with a vengeance. But I thinksomething should be done to stop the little newspaper-boy nuisance: thereports they spread are quite alarming. "

"Ideala, what nonsense are you talking about sculptors and newspaper-boys?" Claudia exclaimed. 

"I'll tell you, " said Ideala. "There was a small boy with a big voicestanding at the corner of the market-place this afternoon. He had asheaf of evening papers under his arm, and was yelling with muchenthusiasm to an edified crowd:--'Noose of the War! Hawful mutilationof the dead! Fearful collision in the Channel! Eighty-eight lives lost!Narrative of survivors! Thrilling details! Shindy in Parl'ment! Hirishmembers to the front again! 'Orrible haccident in our own town! TheLady Claudia's bust!'"

"Ideala, how _dare_ you?"--but just then the carriage stopped, and wehad to get out. 

The good Bishop met us in the hall. Ideala positively declined to goupstairs when he asked her. 

"It is too much trouble, " she said, not seeing in her absence what wasmeant. "I would rather leave my things here. "

"But I am afraid I _must_ trouble you, " the Bishop answered, indespair. "The fact is, my wife is not so well this evening, and shewas afraid of the cold, and is staying in her own sitting-room. "

The "sitting-room" was a snug apartment, warm, cosy, luxurious, and wefound a genial little party of intimate acquaintances there when wearrived. Ideala's husband was not one of them. He did not take her outmuch at that time. Probably he was engaged in some private pursuit ofhis own, and insisted on her going everywhere alone to keep her out ofthe way. A little while before he would scarcely allow her to pay acall without him. But, as a rule, whatever his mood was, she did as hewished--and provoked him sometimes, I think, by her patient compliance;a little resistance would have made the exercise of his authority moreexciting. 

When we entered the sitting-room "an ominous silence feel on thegroup, " which was broken at last by one of the ladies remarking that akind heart was an admirable thing. Another agreed, and made someobservations on the merits of self-sacrifice generally. 

"But some people are not satisfied with merely _doing_ a good deed, " agentleman declared, with profound gravity. "They think there is nomerit in it if they do not suffer for it in some way themselves. "

There was a good deal more of this kind of thing, and we were beginningto feel rather out of it, when presently the preternatural gravity ofthe party was broken by a laugh, and then it was explained. 

Ideala had gone to a neighbouring town one day by train, and before shestarted a poor woman got into the carriage. The woman had a third-classticket, but she was evidently ill, and when the guard came and wantedto turn her out, Ideala took pity on her, insisted on changing tickets, and travelled third class herself. The woman had been to the Palace, and described the incident to the Bishop's wife that morning, and shehad just told her guests, wondering who the lady could have been, andthey in turn had put their heads together and decided that there was noone in the community but Ideala who would have done the thing in thatway. 

"But what else could I have done?" she asked, when she saw we werelaughing at her. 

"Well, my dear, " said the Bishop, who always treated her with the kindindulgence that is accorded to a favourite child, "you might have paidthe difference for the woman, and travelled comfortably yourself, don'tyou know?"

Ideala never thought of that!

Presently the dear old Bishop nestled back in his chair, and with abenign glance round, which, his scapegrace son said, meant: "Bless you, my children! Be happy and good in your own way, but don't make anoise!" he sank into a gentle doze, and the rest of the party relapsedinto trivial gossip, some of which I give for what it is worth by wayof illustration. It shows Ideala at about her worst, but marks a periodin her career, a turning-point for the better. She was seldom bitter, and still more rarely frivolous, after that night. 

"Clare Turner will take none of the blame of that affair on his ownshoulders, " some one remarked. 

"Mr. Clare Turner is the little boy who always said 'It wasn't me!'grown up, " Ideala decided, from the corner of her couch. "He is a sortof two-reason man. "

"How do you mean 'a two-reason man, ' Ideala?"

"Well, he has only two reasons for everything; one is his reason fordoing anything he likes himself, which is always a good one; and theother is his reason why the rest of the world should not do likewise, which is equally clear--to himself. He thinks there should be one lawfor him and another for everybody else. I don't believe in him. "

"Nor I, " said one of the gentlemen. "Underhand bowling was all he wascelebrated for at school; he bowled most frightful sneaks all the timehe was there. "

"Talking about Clare Turner, " Charlie Lloyd put in, "I've brought a newbook of poems--author unknown. I picked it up at the station to-day. There's one thing in it, called 'The Passion of Delysle, ' that seems tobe intense; but I've only just glanced at it, and don't really knowwhat it's like. Shall I read it?"

"Oh, do!" was the general exclamation, and we all settled ourselves toenjoy the following treat. 

Charlie began softly:

 O day and night! Oh day and night! and is this madness? O day and night! O day and night! and is this joy? Whence comes this bursting sense of life, and love, and gladness, This pain of pleasure, perfected, without alloy? Lo, flowing past me are the restless rivers, Or swelling round me is the boundless sea; Or else the widening waste of sand that quivers In shining stretches, shuts the world from me-- Or seems to shut it, while I would that what it seems might be. 

 O day and night! O day and night! this mountain island, This saintly shrine, this fort--I scarce know what 'tis yet-- This sand, or sea-girt, rocky, town-clad, church-crown'd highland, This dull and rugged gem in golden deserts set, Has some delicious, unknown charm to hold me, To draw me to itself and keep me here; The old grey walls, it seems, with joy enfold me-- Or is it I that make the dead stones dear, And send the throbbing summer in my blood thro' all things near?

 O day and night! O day and night! where else do flowers Open their velvet lids like these to greet the light? Or raise such sun-kissed lips aglow to meet cool showers? Or cast more subtle scents abroad upon the night? These trees and trailing weeds that climb the cliff-side steep, The dusky pine trees, draped with wreaths of vine, Make bowers where love might lie and list the sea-voice deep, And drink the perfumed air, the light, like wine, Which threads intoxication through these hot, glad veins of mine. 

 O day and night! O day and night! I sought this haven, From place and power, and wealth I flew in search of rest; They forced and bound me to a hard, detested craven, Who mocked my loathing with his head upon my breast. With deathless love I moaned for my young lover; To make me great they drove him from my side, And foully wrought with shame his name to cover-- My boy, my lord, my prince! In vain they lied! But should I always suffer for their false, inhuman pride?

 O day and night! O day and night! I left them flying, I fled by day and night as flies the nomad breeze, Across the silent land when light to dark was dying, And onward like a spirit lost across the seas; And on from sea and shore thro' apple-orchards blooming, Till all things melted in a moving haze; And on with rush and ring by tower and townlet glooming, By wood, and field, and hill, by verdant ways, While dawn to mid-day drew, and noon was lost in sunset blaze. 

 O day and night! O day and night! light once more waxing, Still on with courage high, tho' strength was well-nigh spent; Grim spectres of pursuit the wearied brain perplexing, Fear-fraught, but ever met with spirit dedolent. The landscape reeled, there came a sense of slumber, And myriad shadows rose and wanned and waned, And flitting figures, visions without number, Took shape above the land till sight was pained, And floated round me till at last the longed-for goal I gained. 

 O day and night! O day and night! with rest abounding, The soothing sinking down on hard-earned holy rest, With grateful ease that grew from all the calm surrounding, A languid, dreamful ease, my soul became possessed. The hoarse sea-wind comes soughing, sighing, singing, Its constant message from the patient waves. While high above cathedral bells were ringing, Or falling voices chanted hymns of praise, And all the land seemed filled with peace and promised length of days. 

 * * * * *

 O day and night! O day and night! once, all unheeding, By sun and summer wind with tender touch caressed, I wandered where the strains, the sacred strains, were pleading, And, kneeling in the fane, my thoughts to prayer addressed. And softly rose the murmur'd organ mystery, And swell'd around the colonnaded aisle, Where smiled the pictured saints of holy history On prostrate penitents who prayed the while: I could not pray there, but I felt that God Himself might smile. 

 O day and night! O day and night! while I was kneeling There came the strangest sense of some loved presence near; A re-awakening rush of well-remembered feeling Thrill'd thro' me, held me still, with vague expectant fear. Half turn'd from me, there stood beside the altar, Where incense-clouds nigh veiled him from my sight, A fair-haired priest--my quicken'd heart-beats falter! Or is he priest, or is he acolyte, Or layman devotee who prays in novice robes bedight?

 O day and night! O day and night! whence comes this feeling? For all unreal seem day and night and life and death, And all unreal the hope that sets my senses reeling, And stills my pulse an instant, checks my lab'ring breath. Yet louder rolls the mighty organ thund'ring. And downward slopes a beam of light divine, The perfumed clouds are cleft: he looks up wond'ring-- Looks up--what does he there before the shrine? He could not give himself to God, for he is mine, is mine!

 O day and night! O day and night! I go forth trembling, He did not meet my eyes, he never saw my face. My bosom swells with joy and jealousy resembling A war of good and evil waged in a holy place. No longer soft the day, the sun in splendour Pours all his might upon this green incline; I lie and watch the cirrus clouds surrender, Their glowing forms to one hot kiss resign-- How could he give himself to God when he is mine, is mine?

 O day and night! O day and night! beneath your glory The crimson flood of life itself has turned to fire! The rugged brows of those old rocks, storm-rent and hoary, Are quivering in their grim surprise at my desire. The mother earth, throbbing with pain and pleasure, Would sink her voices for the languid noon, But light airs wake a reckless madd'ning measure, And wavelets dance and sparkle to the tune. And mock the mocking malice of yon day-dimm'd gibbous moon. 

 * * * * *

 O day and night! O day and night! a fisher maiden Is wand'ring up the path to where unseen I lie; She comes with some light spoil from off the shore beladen. And softly singing of the sea goes slowly by. And slowly rise great sun-tipped white cloud masses, Sublimely still their shadows flit and flee: How silently the work of nature passes-- The roll of worlds, the growth of flower and tree! Angels of God in heaven! give him to me! give him to me!

 O day and night! O day and night! the hours rolling Bring ev'ry one its change, its song, or chant, or chime: Now solemnly their sounds a distant death-knell tolling. And now the bells above beat forth the flight of time. I lie, unconsciously each trifle noting, The far-off sailors toiling on the quay, Or o'er the sand a broad-wing'd sea-bird floating, Or passing hum of honey-laden'd bee-- Angels of God in heaven! give him to me! give him to me!

 O day and night! O day and night! the scene surrounding Grows dim and all unreal beneath the sunset glow; And all the heat and rage pass into peace abounding, I moan, I fear no more, but wait, while still tears flow. The warm sweet airs scarce move the flowerets slender, A pause and hush have settled on the sea, A bird trills forth its love-song low and tender: O bird rejoice! thy love and thou art free- Angels of God in heaven! give him to me! give him to me!

 * * * * *

 O day and night! O day and night! ye knew it ever! Ye saw it written in the world's first golden prime! And smiled your giant smile at all my rash endeavour To snatch the cup unfill'd from out the hand of Time. He comes, O day and night! Spirits attending, Swift formless messengers my ev'ry sense apprise! He comes! the bright fair head o'er some old book low bending Dear Lord, at last! his eyes have met my eyes-- Gleam of light goes quivering across the happy skies!

 * * * * *

 O day and night! O day and night! Love sits between us. Far out the rising tide comas sweeping o'er the sand. The murmurous pine trees lend their purple shade to screen us, And breathe their fragrant sighs above the quiet land. And, like a sigh, the sunset blaze is over, The folding grey has veiled its colours bright; While swift from view fade out the gulls that hover, As round us sinks at last, on pinions light, The dark and radiant clarity of the beautiful still night. 

 O day and night! O day and night! no words are spoken. Such pleasant joy profound no words could well express: His wand'ring fingers smooth my hair in silent token, And all my being answers to the tender mute caress. My head is resting on his breast for pillow, And as by music moved my soul is thrill'd; Flow on and clasp the land, O bursting billow! O breezes, tell the mountains many-rill'd! Our hearts now know each other, and our hope is all-fulfill'd. 

 O day and night! O day and night! no shadow crosses This long'd-for solemn hour of all-forgetful bliss; No chilling thought, or stalking dread arising, tosses A poison'd drop of bitterness to spoil the ling'ring kiss: No mem'ries past or future fears assailing-- As soon might doubt bedim the stars that shine! Or souls released reach Paradise bewailing The end of pain, and clemency divine: The glorious present holds us: I am his and he is mine!"

 * * * * *

 O day and night! O day and night! and was it madness? Lo! all is changing, even sky, and sea, and shore; The heaving water ebbs itself away in sadness, The waves receding sigh, "Delight returns no more!" Far down the East the dawn is dimly burning, Its first chill breath has shivered thro' my frame, And with the light comes cruel Thought returning, The air seems full of voices speaking blame; Another day commences, but the world is not the same!

 O day and night! O day and night! its rashes pass'd us, We stand upon the brink and watch, the strong deep tide, And shrink already from the howls that soon must blast us, The world that sins unchidden, and the laws that would divide. "O Love, they rest in peace whom ocean covers!" One plunge, one clasp supernal, one long kiss! Then downward, like those old Italian lovers. Descend for ever through the long abyss, And float together, happy, all eternity like this!

The charm of the reader's voice had held us spellbound, and the poemwas well received; but after the usual compliments there was a pause, and then Ideala burst out impetuously: "I am sick of those old Italianlovers, " she said; "they float into everything. Their story is theessence with which two-thirds of our love literature is flavoured. Weshould never have received them in society; why do we tolerate them inbooks? I like my company to be respectable even there; and when anauthor asks me to admire and sympathise with such people he insultsme. "

"They must be brought in, though, for the sake of contrast, " somebodyobserved. 

"They should be kept in their proper place, then, " she answered. "Youmay choose what you please to point a moral, but for pity's sake becareful about what you use to adorn a tale. "

"Moral or no moral, " said the young sculptor, "I think a new poem ofany kind a thing to be thankful for. "

"And do you call that kind of thing new?" said Ideala. "I should say itwas a fine compound of all the poems of the kind, and several otherkinds, that have ever been written, with a dash of the peculiarlyrefined immorality of our own times, from which nothing is sacred;thrown in to make weight. Such writing, Like a new disease, unknown to men, Creeps, no precaution used, among the crowd, . . . . . . . . . . . And saps The fealty of our friends, and stirs the pulse With devil's leaps, and poisons half the young. 

It is the feeling of the day accurately defined. Nobody sighs for loveand peace now. The cry is for the indulgence of some fiery passion foran hour, and then, perdition!--if you like--since that is therecognised price of it. "

"Our loves are more intense than they used to be, " said the sculptor, sighing. 

"Love!" Ideala answered. "Oh, do not desecrate 'the eternal God-word, love!' There is little enough of that in the business that goes by itsname now-a-days. I am a lady--I cannot use the right word. But it isnone the less the thing I mean because it calls blasphemously on GodAlmighty to help it to fulfil itself. "

"Well, " said Charlie Lloyd, deprecatingly, "I didn't offer this, youknow, as an admirable specimen of what our day can produce. I told youI hadn't read it, and now that I have I don't suppose any one hasoffered it to the public as a serious expression of sentiment. "

"You do not think people write books about what they really feel?" saidIdeala. "I believe they do when the feeling is shameful. If you want tokeep a secret, publish the exact truth in a book, and nobody willbelieve a word of it. I think people who publish such productionsshould be burned on a pile of their own works. "

"The writer is young, doubtless, " I said, apologetically. It gives onea shock to hear a woman say harsh things. 

"He was evidently not too young to have bad thoughts, " said Claudia, supporting her friend; "and he was certainly old enough to knowbetter. "

"He!" ejaculated Ideala. "It is far more likely to be _she_. Doyou read the reviews? You will find that all the most objectionablebooks are written by women--and condemned by men who lift up theirvoices now, as they have done from time immemorial, and insist that weshould do as they say, and not as they do. "

"I am afraid you are right, " said Charlie Lloyd. "So many of our bestwomen--I mean the women who are likely to make most impression on theage--are going that way now. "

"But what horrid things you say, Ideala, " one of the ladies chimed in, "and you make everybody else say horrid things. That 'Passion ofDelysle' is not a bit worse than Tennyson's 'Fatima'--and there's a lotmore in it--that part about 'the roll of worlds, ' you know, is quitegrand. "

"I always liked that idea, " Ideala observed. 

"And--and--" the lady continued, "where she looks at everything, youknow. She was very properly seeking distraction, and found it for amoment in the contemplation of nature, and that softened her mood, sothat when the inevitable rush of recollection comes and forces thethought of him back upon her, her feeling finds expression in a prayer--instead of--instead of--"

"A blasphemous remonstrance, " Ideala put in. "Oh, I don't deny thatthere is just enough to be said in favour of all these things to makethem sell--and this one has two unusual points of interest. It openswith a riddle, and the lady's lover is a priest, which gives anadditional zest to the charm of wrong-doing, a _sauce piquante_ forjaded appetites. "

"Why do you call the opening verses a riddle?" said Charlie Lloyd. 

"Because I fancy no one will ever guess what kind of a place it was--

 This mountain island, This saintly shrine, this fort--

I forget how it goes on. "

"Oh, the description of the place is not bad, " Charlie answered, afterreading it over again to himself. "It would do for the Mont St. Michaelin Normandy. "

"Well, let that pass, then, " said Ideala; "also the dear familiar'subtle scents abroad upon the night. ' But what does she mean by 'Onwith rush and ring'?"

"She means the train, obviously. "

"What an outlandish periphrasis! And how about

 The rugged brows of those old rocks, storm-rent and hoary, Are quivering in their grim surprise?"

"That is a 'pathetic fallacy. ' She is not speaking of the things asthey were, but as they appeared to her excited fancy. She chroniclesher own death, though----"

"So did Moses, " said Ideala. "If you really want to justify 'ThePassion of Delysle' I can help you. You see she was dreadfully badlytreated by her friends, poor thing! and her marriage after all was nomarriage, because she loved another man all the time; and your husbandisn't properly your husband if you don't love him, love being the onlypossible sanctification--in fact, the only true marriage. And then herlover, thinking he had lost her, became a priest, and vows made under amisapprehension like that cannot be binding--it would be too much toexpect us to suffer always for such mistakes. And then the world--butwe all know how cruel the world is! And appearances were sadly againstthem, poor things! No one would ever have believed that they had stayedout all night to discuss their religious experiences. Suicide isshocking, of course; but still, when people are driven to it like that, we can only be sorry for them, and hope they will never do it again!"She nestled back more comfortably on her couch, and then continued inan altered tone: "But it is appalling to think of the quantity ofmachine-made verses like those that are imposed on the public year byyear, verses the mere result of much reading and writing, without ascrap of inspiration in them, and as far removed from even schoolboyefforts of genius, as an oleograph is from an oil painting. Poets areas rare now as prophets, and inspiration has left us for our sins. Ithink any fairly educated one of us, with a tolerable memory and thehabit of composition, could write that 'Passion of Delysle' again inhalf-an-hour. "

"Oh, could they, though!" said Ralph, the son of the house. "I dare betanything you couldn't do it yourself in twice the time. "

"Dare you?" she answered, with a little smile. "Well, to adopt yourelegant phraseology, Master Ralph, I bet I will produce the same story, with the same conclusion, but a different moral, in an hour--since youallow me twice the time I named--if I may be permitted to write it inblank verse, that is, and of course, with the understanding that what Iwrite is not intended to be anything but mere versified prose. "

"Done with you!" cried Ralph. 

"Hush--h--h!" his mother exclaimed, deprecatingly. "Betting, andbefore the Bishop, too!"

"What the Bishop don't know will do him no harm, Ma, " said the youth ina stage whisper. "Sit down, Ideala, and begin. It's ten minutes to tennow. "

The Bishop slept serenely; conversation flagged; and Ideala wrotesteadily for about three-quarters of an hour; then she gathered up themanuscript, rose from the table, and returned to her old seat. 

"'The Passion of Delysle' has become 'The Choice, '" she said. "Will youread it for me, Mr. Lloyd? I think it should have that advantage, atleast. "

Charlie took the manuscript, and read:

 Once on a time, not very long gone by, A noble lady had a noble choice. The daughter of an ancient house was she, Beauty, and wealth, and highest rank were hers, But love was not, for of a proud, cold race Her people were, caring for nought but lands, Riches, and power; holding all tender thoughts As weakly folly, only fit for babes. The lady learnt their creed; her heart seem'd hard-- She thought it so; and when the moment came To choose 'twixt love, young love, and pride of place, She still'd an unwonted feeling that would rise, And saying calmly: "I have got no heart, And love is vain!" she chose to be the wife Of sinful age, corruption, and untruth, Scorning the steadfast love of one who yearn'd To win her from the crooked paths she trod, And break the sordid chains that bound her soul, And sweep the defiling dust of common thoughts From out her mind, until it shone at last With large imaginings of God and good. 

 She chose: no more they met: her life was pass'd In constant round of pomp and proud display. But when he went, and never more there came The love-sad eyes to question and entreat, The voice of music praising noble deeds, The graceful presence and the golden hair, She miss'd the boy; but scoff'd at first and said: "One misses all things, common pets one spurn'd, Good slaves and bad alike when both are gone, -- A small thing makes the habit of a life!" But days wore on, and adulation palled. She knew not what she lack'd, nor that she loath'd The hollow semblance, the dull mockery, Which she had gain'd for joy by choosing rank, And money's worth, instead of peace and love. 

 Yet ever as the long days grew to months More heavy hung the time, moved slower by. And all things troubled her and gave her pain, And morning, noon, and night the thought would rise, And grew insistent when she would not hear: "One loved me! out of all this crowd but one! And he is gone, and I have driven him forth!"

 Then in the silent solitude of night An old weird story that she once had heard Tormented her; a story speaking much Of a rock-island on the Norman coast, A mountain peak rising from barren sand, Or standing sea-girt when the tide returns, And beaten by the winds on ev'ry side, With wall'd-in town, and castle on the height, And high above the castle, strangely placed, A grey cathedral with its summit tipp'd By a gold figure of St. Michael crown'd, With burnished wings and flashing sword that shone A beacon in the sunset, seen for miles, As tho' the Archangel floated in the air. The castle and the church a sanctuary And refuge were, to which men often fled For rest or safety, finding what they sought. And as the lady thought about the place, A notion came that she would like to kneel And pray for peace at that far lonely shrine. The longing grew: she rested not nor slept. And should she fly and leave her wretched wealth? And if she fled she never could return; Yet if she stay'd she felt that she should die. So go or stay meant misery for her-- But misery is lessened when we move. Yes, she would go! and then she laugh'd to think Of the wild fury of her harsh old Lord When he should wake one day and find her gone-- Laugh'd! the first time for long and weary months. 

 By Mont St. Michael, on the Norman coast, A restless river, changing oft its course, Flows sullenly; and racehorse-like the tide, Which, going, leaves a wilderness of sand. Comes rushing back, a foam-topp'd, wat'ry wall; And those who, wand'ring, 'scape the quicksand's grip, Are often caught and drown'd ere help can come. But fair the prospect from the Mount when bright The sunshine falls on Avranches far away, A white town straggling o'er a verdant hill; And on the tree-clad country toward the west, On apple orchards, and the fairy bloom Of feath'ry tam'risk bushes on the shore; Whilst high above in silent majesty Of hue and form the floating clouds support The far-extending vault of azure sky

 Such was the shrine the lady sought, and there In mute appeal for what she lack'd she knelt, Not knowing what she lack'd; but finding peace Steal o'er her soul there as she faintly heard The slow and solemn chanting of the priests, The mild monotony of murmured prayers, And hush of pauses when she seemed to feel The heart she deem'd so hard was melting fast, And listen'd to a voice within her say-- "Love is not vain! Love all things and rejoice!" And found warm tears were stealing down her cheeks. 

 The mystery of love, of love, of love, Of hope, of joy, of life itself, she felt; The crown of life, which she had sacrificed In scornful pride for lust of power and place. The lady bow'd her head, and o'er her swept A wave of anguish, and she knew despair. "Could I but see him once again!" she moan'd, "See him, and beg forgiveness, and then die!" Did the Archangel Michael, standing there Upon her left, in shining silver, hear? Who knows? Her prayer was answer'd like a flash; For at that moment, clear and sweet o'er all The mingled music of the chanting choir, There rose a voice that thrill'd her inmost soul: It breathed a blessing; utter'd soft a prayer. No need to look: and yet she look'd, and saw A hooded monk before the altar kneel, A graceful presence, tho' in sordid dress. And as she gazed the cowl slipp'd back and show'd (But dimly thro' the incense-perfumed cloud) A pure pale face, a golden tonsured head, And blue eyes raised to heaven. Then the truth Was there reveal'd to her that he had left The world to watch and pray for such as she. 

 Out of the castled-gate she hurried forth: What matter'd where she went, to east or west? What matter'd peasant's warning that the sand Was shifting ever, and the rushing tide Gave them no quarter whom it overtook? 'Twas death she courted, and with heedless step Onward to meet it swift the lady fled. Death is so beautiful at such a time, When all the land in summer sunshine lies, And lapse of distant waves breaks pleasantly The silence with a soothing dreamy sound, And danger seems no nearer than the sky, He tempts us from afar with hope of rest. She hurried on in search of death, nor heard That eager footsteps followed where she went. The voice that call'd her was not real, she thought, But a sweet portion of a strange sweet dream-- For now the terrible anguish quickly pass'd, And sense of peace at hand was all she felt. "O stop!"

 Ah! that was real. She turn'd and saw, Nor saw a moment till she felt his grasp Strong and determined on her rounded arm. "Thou shalt not die!" he cried. "What madness this?" "Madness!" she echoed: "nay, my love, 'tis bliss-- The first my life has known--to stand here still With thee beside me, and to wait for death. I know my heart at last, but all too late! I may not love thee, I another's wife; Thou mayst not love me, thou hast wedded heaven. We cannot be together in this world; I cannot live alone and know thee here. And thou art troubled! I for beneath that garb Thy heart beats ever hot with love for me; For love will not be quell'd by monkish vows. But all things change in death! so let us die Thus, hand in hand, and so together pass, And be together thro' eternity!"

 There was a struggle in the young monk's breast; He would not meet her pleading eyes and yield, But gazing up to heaven prayed for strength, Strength to resist, and guidance how to act, For death like that with her was luring--sweet-- A strong temptation, but he must resist, And strive to save and show her how to live. "We cannot make hereafter for ourselves, " He answered softly; "all that we can do Is so to live that we shall win reward Of praise, and peace, and happy life to come. Thy duty lies before thee; so does mine. Let each return, and toil and watch and pray, Knowing each other's heart is fix'd on heaven. And do the good we can; not seeking death Nor shunning it, but living pure and true, With conscience clear to meet our God at last, And win each other for our great reward. "

 The moving music of his words sank deep Her alter'd heart thrill'd high to holy thoughts. "Be thou my guide, " she said. "My duty now Shall bring me peace; so shall I toil like thee To win the love I yearn for in the end. "

 It might not be. The treach'rous, working sand Already clutched their feet, and check'd their speed; And dancing, sparkling, like a joyful thing, A glitt'ring, glassy wall of foam-fleck'd wave Towards them glided with that fatal speed You cannot mark because it is so swift. No use to struggle now: no time to fly! He clasp'd her to him: "God hath will'd it thus. Courage, my sister!" "Is this death?" she cried. "Yes, this is death. " "It is not death, but joy!" And as she spoke the spot where they were seen Became a wat'ry waste of battling waves: While high above the summer sun shone on-- A passing seabird hoarsely shriek'd along! All things were changed, with that vast change which makes It seem as tho' nought else had ever been. 

"Well done, Ideala!" said Ralph, patronisingly; "you certainly have amemory, and are quite as good at patchwork as the author of 'Delysle. 'I could criticise on another count, but taking into considerationtime, place, circumstances, and the female intellect, I refrain. Thatis the generous sort of creature _I_ am. So, without expressing my ownopinion further--except to remark that, though I don't think much ofeither of them, personally I prefer 'Delysle. ' The other iswholesomer, doubtless, for those who like a mild diet. Milk and waterdoesn't agree with me. But I put it to the vote. Ladies and gentlemen, do you or do you not consider that this lady has won her bet?"

"Oh, won it, most decidedly!" we all agreed. 

"By-the-by, what was the bet?" I asked. 

"My Pa's gaiters against Ideala's blue stockings. I regret to say thatcircumstances over which I have no control"--and he glanced at theunconscious Bishop--"prevent the immediate payment of my debt--unless, indeed, he has a second pair;" and he left the room hurriedly as if tosee. 

He did not come back to us that evening, but I believe he was to beheard of later at the sign of the "Billiard and Cue. "

"Well, " said the young sculptor, returning to the old point ofdeparture, "for my own part, I find much that is elevating in modernworks. "

"So do I, " said Ideala; "I find much that raises me on stilts. "

"But even that eminence would enable you to look over other people'sheads and beyond. "

"It would, " she answered, "if human nature didn't desire a sense ofsecurity; but, as it is, when I am artificially set up, I find that allI can do is to look at my own feet, and tremble lest I fall. Modernliterature stimulates; it doesn't nourish. It makes you feel like agiant for a moment, but leaves you crushed like a worm, and withoutfaith, without love, without hope. It excites you pleasurably, and whenyou see life through its medium you never suspect that the vision isdistorted. It makes you think the Iconoclast the greatest hero, andcauses you to feel that you share his glory when you help him with yourapproval to overthrow all the images you ever cherished; but when thework of destruction is over, and you look about you once more withsober eyes, you find you have sacrificed your all for nothing. Yourfalse guide fails you when you want him most. He robs you, and leavesyou hungry, thirsty, and alone in the wilderness to which he hasbeguiled you. There is no need for new theories of Life and Religion;all we require is strength and courage to perfect the old ones. [Footnote: She quite changed her mind upon this subject eventually, andheld that there was not only need of new theories, but good hope thatwe should have them. ] What the mind wants is food it can grow upon, notstimulants which inflate it for a time with a fancied sense of powerthat has no real existence. But I have small hope for our nation when Ithink of the sparkling trash that the mind of the multitude dailyimbibes and craves for. I mean our novels. What a fine affectation ofgoodness there is in most of them! And what a perfect moral is tackedon to them!--like the _balayeuse_ at the bottom of a lady's dress;but, like the _balayeuse_, it is only meant to be a protection anda finish, and, however precious it may be, it suffers from contact withthe dirt, and sooner or later has to be cut out and cast aside, soiledand useless. Some doggerel a friend of mine scribbled on one book inparticular describes dozens of popular novels exactly:

 O what a beautiful history! Think what temptations they passed! Each one more cruelly trying, More tempting, indeed, than the last. And what a lesson it teaches; No passion from evil's exempted-- Whilst admiring the moral it preaches, It makes you quite long to be tempted. 

I agree with those who tell us that society is breaking up, or willbreak up unless something is done at once to stop the dissolution. Wehave no high ideals of anything. Marriage itself is a mere commercialtreaty, and only professional preachers speak of it in other terms--andthose young people, with a passion for each other, who are about to beunited--a passion that dies the death inevitably for want of knowledge, and wholesome principle, and self-control to support it. Some of uslike our bargains better than others, but you can judge of theestimation in which marriage is held when you see how much happinesspeople generally find in it. If men and women were kept apart, and madeto live purely from their cradles, they would still scarcely be fit formarriage; yet any man thinks he may marry, and never cares to be thenobler or the better for it. And when you see that this, the onlyperfect state, the most sacred bond of union between man and woman, iseverywhere lightly considered, don't you think there is reason in thefear that we are falling on bad times? Oh, don't quote the Romans tome, and the Inevitable. We know better than the Romans, and could dobetter if we chose. But we have to mourn for the death of our manhood!Where is our manhood? Where are our men? Is there any wonder that weare losing what is best in life when only women are left to defend it?Believe me, the degradation of marriage is the tune to which the wholefabric of society is going to pieces----"

"Eh, what!" exclaimed the Bishop, waking up with a start--"whole fabricof society going to pieces? Nonsense! When so many people come tochurch. And then look at all the societies at work for the--for the--ah--prevention of everything. Why, I belong to a dozen at least myself;the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and the Rational Dress Reform, for doing away with petticoats--no, by-the-by, it is my wife whobelongs to that. But, at any rate, everything is being done that shouldbe done, and you talk nonsense, my dear"--looking at Ideala severely--"because you don't know anything about it. "

"The faults we are hardest on in others are those we are most consciousof in ourselves--perhaps because we know how easy it would be toconquer them, " Ideala observed vaguely. 

"Oh, come, now, my dear, " said the Bishop, beaming round on all of us, "you must not believe what you hear about society being in such a badstate. I know idle people say so, and it is very wrong of them. Why, _I_ never see anything wrong. "

"Of course not, " said Ideala. "We are all on our best behaviour beforeyou. "

The Bishop patted his apron good-humouredly. "Well, now, take yourselffor example, " he said. "I am sure _you_ never do wrong--tell stories, you know, and that kind of thing. "

"Haven't I, though!" she answered, mischievously. "Not that it was muchuse, for I always repented and confessed; and now I have abandoned thepractice to the best of my ability. It is horrid to feel you don'tdeserve the confidence that is placed in you, Bishop, isn't it?"

"Ideala!" Claudia protested. 

The Bishop looked puzzled. 

"I can assure you I have suffered agonies of remorse because, in anidle moment, I deceived my cat--a big, comfortable creature, who usedto come to me every day to be fed, and preferred to eat out of my hand. He was greedy, though, and snapped, and one day I offered him a pieceof preserved ginger, and he dashed at it as usual, and swallowed itbefore he knew what it was. Then he just looked at me and walked away. He trusted me, and I had deceived him. It was an unpardonable breach ofconfidence, and I have always felt that I never could look that cat inthe face again. "

The Bishop smiled and sighed at the little reminiscence. "I think youare right, though, in one way, Ideala, " he presently observed. "Thepowers of Light and Darkness are certainly having a hard fight for itin our day; but we have every reason to hope. 

 Oh, yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill. "

"And, granted that the popular literature of the day is corrupt, " theyoung sculptor put in, "and that the standard of society is beingyearly lowered by it, still there is Art----"

"But there is so little of it, " said Ideala; "I mean so little thatelevates. Most of the subjects chosen are not worth painting; and whatprofit is there in contemplating a thing that is neither grand norbeautiful in itself, nor suggestive, by association, of anything thatis grand or beautiful? The pictures one generally sees are notcalculated to suggest anything to the minds that need suggestion most. The technical part may be good and gratifying to those who understandit, but that is the mere trade of the thing. We prefer to see it welldone, of course, but if the canvas has nothing but the paint torecommend it, the artist might have saved himself the trouble ofputting it on, for all the good it does or the pleasure it gives. "

"Oh, Ideala, do you know nothing of the charm of colour?" asked a ladywho painted. 

"_I_ do, " said Ideala, "but I may be supposed to have enjoyedexceptional advantages. And it is hardly charm we want to elevate us. There will always be enough in all conscience to appeal to the senses. But there is an absence even of charm. "

"Many a noble thought has been expressed in a coat of colour, " said thelady. 

"I know it has, " Ideala answered; "and all best thoughts give pleasure. I have been so thrilled by a noble idea, well expressed, that I coulddo nothing but sit with closed eyes and revel in the joy of it. But ifsuch an idea were placed before you, and you did not know the languagein which it was written, what good would it do you? An uneducatedperson seeing a picture of a donkey in a field sees only a donkey in afield, however well it may be painted; and I fancy very exceptionalability would be required to make any of us think a grey donkeysublime, or believe an ordinary green field to be one of the Elysian. "

"Talking about charm, " the sculptor broke in, enthusiastically, "Isuppose you haven't seen the new picture, 'Venus getting into theBath?' That is a feast of colour, and realism, if you like! She isstanding beside the bath with a dreamy look on her face. Her lovelyeyes are fixed on the water. One arched and blue-veined foot isslightly raised as if the touch of the marble chilled her. Her limbsare in an easy attitude, and beautifully modelled. She is representedas a slight young girl, and the figure stands out in exquisite nudityfrom a background of Pompeian red, and the dark green of myrtles. Withone hand she is holding aloft the masses of her rich brown hair--theattitude suggests the stretching of the muscles after repose; with theother"--but here his memory failed him. "What _is_ she doing with herother hand?"

"Scratching herself!" slipped from Ideala, involuntarily, to her ownhorror and the delight of some. But she recovered herself quickly, andturning to the good Bishop, who was looking mildly astonished and muchamused, she said: "There, my Lord, is an instance of the corrupt stateof society in our own day. You see, even your restraining presencedoesn't always keep us in order. I hope, " she whispered to me, "I'm notgoing to be made the horrid example to prove the truth of all mytheories. "

Soon after this the party broke up. Claudia returned in her wraps tosay good-night to the Bishop's wife. 

"Claudia!" Ideala exclaimed, "you have forgotten that detestable oldblue shawl. "

Claudia tried to stop her with a significant gesture, but in vain. Ideala was obtuse. 

"Claudia came out this evening in the most extraordinary covering Iever saw a lady wear, " she said to the Bishop's wife. "I really thinkshe must have borrowed it from one of the maids. "

"I am afraid you must mean the blue shawl I lent to Lady Claudia theother evening, " the Bishop's wife replied, with a hurt smile. 

"Oh!" said Ideala, disconcerted for a moment. "But, really, Bishopess, you deserve to be upbraided. You should set a better example, and notprovoke us to scorn on the subject of your shawls. "

Later, when I was alone with my sister, I said: "Ideala did nothing butput her foot in it this evening. What was the matter with her? I neverheard her speak so strongly before, except when she was alone with us. And I don't think she ought to discuss such subjects with such people;it is hardly delicate. "

Claudia sighed wearily. "Who knows what pain is at the bottom of itall?" she said. "But one thing always puzzles me. Ideala rails at evilsthat never hurt her, and yet she speaks of marriage, which has been herbane, as if it were a holy and perfect state, upon which it is aprivilege to enter. "

"Plenty of people have condemned marriage simply because their ownexperience of it has been unfortunate, " I answered; "but Ideala isabove that. She will let no petty personal mishap prejudice herjudgment on the subject. She sees and feels the possibility of infinitehappiness in marriage when there is such love and such devotion on bothsides as she herself could have brought to it; and she understands thather own unhappy experience need only be exceptional. "

"I wish it were!" sighed Claudia. 

Some years later, Ideala confessed to me that she had written "ThePassion of Delysle" herself, but had had no idea of its significanceuntil she heard it read aloud that night, and then, as she elegantlyexpressed it, she could have cut her throat with shame andmortification, which I consider a warning to young ladies not to trustto their poetical inspirations, for--if the shade of Shelley willpardon the conclusion--alas! _apparently_, they know not what they dowhen they write verses!

"I can't think how you could have criticised it like that, Ideala, " Isaid, "now that I know you wrote it. "

"Neither can I, " she answered. 

"You ought to have confessed you had written it, or have said nothingabout it, " I told her, frankly. 

"Yes, " she assented. "Not doing so was a kind of falsehood. Butneither course occurred to me. " And then she explained: "I never seethe meaning of what I write till the light of public opinion is turnedupon it, or some cold critic comes and damps my enthusiasm. When asubject possesses me, and shapes itself into verse, it boils in mybrain, and my pen is the only way of escape for it, the onesafety-valve I have to ease the pressure. And I can't judge of itsmerits myself for long enough after it _is_ written, because theboiling begins again, you see, whenever I read it, and then there issuch a steam of feeling I cannot see to think. For the verses, howeverpoor they appear to you, contain for me the whole poem as I have it inmy inner consciousness. It is beautiful as it exists there, but thepower of expression is lacking. If only I could make you feel it as Ido, I should be the greatest poet alive. "

It was a trick of Ideala's to miss the true import of a thing--often anact of her own--until the occasion had passed, or to see it strangelydistorted, as she frequently did at this time--though that graduallyceased altogether as she grew older; but it was this peculiarity, sostrongly marked in her, which first helped me to comprehend a curioustrait there is in the moral nature of men and women while it is stillin process of development. Many men, Frenchmen especially, have thoughtthe trait peculiar to women. La Bruyére declares that "Women have noprinciples as men understand the word. They are guided by theirfeelings, and have full faith in their guide. Their notions ofpropriety and impropriety, right and wrong, they get from the littleworld embraced by their affections. " And Alphonse Karr says: "Neverattempt to prove anything to a woman: she believes only according toher feelings. Endeavour to please and persuade: she may yield to theperson who reasons with her, not to his arguments"--opinions, however, which apply to men as often as not, and only to the young, impressible, passionate, and imperfectly educated of either sex. But there isscarcely a generalisation for one sex which does not apply equally tothe other, so perfectly alike in nature are men and women. Thedifference is only in circumstance. Reverse the position of the sexes, require men to be modest and obedient, and they will develop everywoman's weakness in a generation. If a man would comprehend a woman, let him consider himself; the woman has the same joys, sorrows, hopes, fears, pleasures, and passions--expressed in another way, that is all. But, certainly, for a long time Ideala's guide was her feeling about athing. I have often said to her, when at last she decided to take somestep which had obviously been the only course open to her from thefirst: "But, Ideala, _why_ have you hesitated so long? You knew itwas right to begin with. "

"Yes, " she would answer, "I _knew_ it was right; but I have only justnow _felt_ that it was. "

She had never thought of acting on the mere cold knowledge. For feelingto knowledge, in young minds, is like the match to a fire laid in agrate; knowledge without feeling being as cheerless and impotent as thefire unlit. 

CHAPTER XII. 

A little while after that evening at the Palace we learnt to our dismaythat Ideala's husband had taken a house in one of the roughmanufacturing districts, to which he meant to remove immediately. Business was the pretext, as he had money in some great ironworksthere; but I think the nearness of a large city, where a man of hisstamp would be able to indulge all his tastes without let or hindrance, had something to do with the change. 

Ideala had kept up very well while she was among us, but soon after shewent away we gathered from the tone of her letters that there was achange in her which alarmed us. Her health, which had hitherto beensplendid, seemed to be giving way, and it was evident that her newposition did not please her, and that, even after she had been therefor months, she continued to feel herself "a stranger in a strangeland. " The people were uncongenial, and I think it likely they regardedIdeala's oddities with some suspicion, and did not take to her as wehad done. She had not that extreme youth which had been her excuse whenshe came to us, and which, somehow, we had not missed when she lost it;and her habitual reserve on all matters that immediately concernedherself must also have tended to make her unpopular with people whosepredominant quality was "an eminent curiosity. "

"They are far above books, " Ideala wrote to Claudia; "what they studyis each other, and in the pursuit of this branch of knowledge they areindefatigable. When they can get nothing out of me about myself, theyquestion me about my husband and friends, and it is in vain that Ianswer them with those words of wisdom (I feel sure I misquote them)--'All that is mine own is yours till the end of my life; but the secretof my friend is not mine own'--they persevere. 

"Our house is near the town, Eighteen big chimneys darken our daylightand deluge us with smuts when the wind brings the smoke, our way; andbesides the smoke we are subject to unsavoury vapours from chemicalworks in the other direction, so that when the wind shifts we onlyexchange evils. They say these chemical fumes are not unwholesome, andquote the death-rate, which is lower than any other place of the sizein England. In fact, scarcely anybody dies here. They go away as soonas they begin to feel ill--perhaps that accounts for it. But thosehorrid chemical fumes have a great deal to answer for. They have killedthe trees for miles around. It is the oaks that suffer principally. Thetops are nipped first, and then they gradually die downwards till thewhole tree is decayed all through. The absence of trees makes thecountry bleak and desolate, and I cannot help thinking the unlovelysurroundings affect us all. The people themselves are unlovely inthought, and word, and deed; but I have found a good deal of roughkindliness amongst them nevertheless. They did mob me on one occasion, and made most unkind remarks about my nether garments, when I wasobliged to walk through the town in my riding habit; but, as a rule, the mill girls merely observe 'That's a lady, ' and let me go byunmolested--unless I happen to be carrying flowers. They do so loveflowers, poor things and I cannot resist their pathetic entreaties whenthey beg for 'One, missus, on'y one!' Some of my lady friends are notlet off so easily as I am. The girls chaff them unmercifully abouttheir dress and personal peculiarities, and if they show signs ofannoyance they call them names that are not to be repeated. The millgirls wear bright-coloured gowns, white aprons, and nothing on theirheads. If a policeman catches them at any mischief they either clatteroff in their clogs with shrieks of laughter, or knock him down and kickhim most unmercifully. They are as strong as men, and as beautiful, some of them, as saints; but they are very unsaintlike creaturesreally--irresponsible, and with little or no idea of right and wrong. One scarcely believes that they have souls--and I am always surprisedto find that anything not cruel and coarse can survive in the hearts ofpeople, begrimed, body and mind, like these, by their hardsurroundings; but it is there, nevertheless--the human nature, and thepoetry, and the something ready to thrill to better things. A gentlemanhas a lovely place not far from us, where the trees have been spared bya miracle. Nightingales seldom wander so far north, but a few years agoa stray one was heard there, and the wonder and the beauty of its voicebrought hundreds from the mills and crowded streets to hear it sing. Special trains were run from the neighbouring city to accommodate thecrowds that came nightly to wait in the moonlight and listen; and anenterprising trader set up a stall, and sold gingerbeer. The story endsthere, but I like it, don't you? especially the gingerbeer part of it. It was told me by one who remembers the circumstance. 

"My greatest pleasure in life is in my flowers, they are dearer to methan any I ever had before, because they are all so delicate, andrequire such infinite care and tenderness to keep them alive in thisuncongenial climate. I have my thrushes also--two, which I stole froma nest in a wood one moonlight night, and brought up by hand on breadand milk and scraped beef. I had to get up at daylight, and feed themevery hour until dark; but the clergy will not allow that thisobligation was a proper excuse for staying away from church, and justnow I am unhappy in the feeling that their religion must be inhuman. But my thrushes have well repaid the trouble. They call me when I gointo the room, and come to me when I open the door of their cage, andperch on my shoulder. One of them, Israfil, sings divinely. People whocome to hear him see only a little brown bird with speckled breast, and call him a thrush; but _I_ know he is Israfil, 'the angel of song, and most melodious of God's creatures;' and _he_ thinks that I havewings. He told me so!

"I wish you would send me a basket of snails packed up in lettuceleaves. I don't know why, but I can find none here, and I cannot hearof one ever having been seen in the county. But please do not send themunless you are quite sure you can spare them. "

"Ideala is trying to hide herself behind these pretty trivialities, "Claudia said. "I always suspect that there is something more wrong thanusual when she adopts this playful tone and childlike simplicity oftaste. "

"It must be trying to have a friend who believes so little in one asyou do in Ideala, " I answered. 

"Oh, how exasperating you are!" Claudia exclaimed. "You know what Imean quite well enough. "

Later, Ideala wrote: "You are anxious about my health. The fact is, Ihave developed a most extraordinary talent for taking cold. I went bytrain to see the museum in the city the other day. I took off my cloakwhile I was there, and stayed an hour, and when I came away, theantiquary, who knew I was a precious specimen, wrapped me up carefullyhimself. Nevertheless I caught cold. Then I went to stay with somepeople near here who clamoured much for the pleasure of my company. They live in a palace and are entertaining. The lady's papa took me into dinner he first evening. He asked me about Major Gorst, and wantedto know, in an impressive tone of voice, if I had heard that he was thenext heir but one to the Hearldom of Cathcourt. 

"The next day my hostess said to her husband: 'Dearest, do let me rideOscar, ' and he replied: 'No, my darling, I can't till I know he's safe. I must get some one to try him first'--and he looked at me--'Perhapsyou wouldn't mind?'

"They had never seen me on horseback, and I was longing to distinguishmyself. I did distinguish myself. Oscar was a merry horse, but onenever knew how he would take things. The first bridge we came to--Iwas 'sitting easy to a canter' with my foot out of the stirrup and myleg _over_ the third crutch--a bad habit I learnt from a foreignfriend--and an express train rushed by. Oscar went on abruptly, but Iremained. The next difficulty was at a brook. We ought to have crossedit together; but Oscar changed his mind at the last moment, so heremained and I went on. And after that we came to cross-roads, and hada difference of opinion about which was the right one. That ended inour coming over together, which made me feel solemn--disheartened, infact--and then I thought we should never understand each other and befriends, so I gave him up. I did not talk much about riding to thosepeople after that. 

"But I wore my summer habit that day, and of course I caught cold. Andwhen that was nearly well I went downstairs to be civil to some peoplewho had driven a long way to see me. The drawing-room was damp fromdisuse, and the fire had only just been lighted--and of course I caughtcold. When that was better I went for a drive. The wind was east, andthe carriage was open--and of course I caught cold. I don't know how itmay strike you, but argument seems to me useless when a person has sucha constitution. "

"Can you read between the lines of that letter?" Claudia asked me. 

"She seems to be dreadfully _don't care_, " I said. 

"Exactly. She is more reckless, and therefore more miserable, than sheused to be. I wouldn't live with him. "

"Ideala won't shirk her duty because it is hard and unpalatable, " Ianswered. 

"I believe she likes it!" Claudia exclaimed; and then, smiling at herown inconsistency, she explained, "I mean if she really is miserableshe ought to speak and let us do something. "

"It is contrary to her principles. She would think it wrong to disturb_your_ mind for a moment because her own life is a burden to her. That is why she always tries to seem happy, and is cheerful on thesurface. If she made lament, we should suffer in sympathy, and all themore because there is so very little we could do to help her. Silenceis best. If she ever gives way, she will not be able to bear it again. "

"But why _should_ she bear it?" Claudia demanded. 

"It is her duty. "

"I know she thinks so, and is sacrificing her life to that principle. But will you kindly tell me where a woman's duty to her husband endsand her duty to herself begins? I suppose you will allow that she has aduty to herself? And the line should be drawn somewhere. "

Claudia's mind was a sort of boomerang just then, returning inevitablyto this point of departure; but I could make no suggestion thatsatisfied her. And I was uneasy myself. Ideala refused to come to us, and had made some excuse to prevent it when Claudia offered to go toher. This puzzled me; but we induced her at last to promise to meet usin London in May. It was April then, and we thought if she could bepersuaded to stay two months of the season in town with us, and go withus afterwards to a place of mine in the North which she loved, shewould probably recover her health and spirits. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

In the meantime, however, something decisive happened, as we afterwardslearnt. 

It seems that after they left our neighbourhood Ideala had, byaccident, made a number of small discoveries about her husband whichhad the effect of destroying any remnant of respect she may still havefelt for him. She found that he was in the habit of examining herprivate papers in her absence, and that he had opened her letters andresealed them. His manner to her was unctuous as a rule; but she knewhe lied to her without hesitation if it suited his purpose--and thatalone would have been enough to destroy her liking for him, for it isnot in the nature of such a woman to love a man who has looked her inthe face and lied to her. 

These things, and the loneliness he brought upon her by driving fromher the few people with whom she had any intellectual fellowship, shewould have borne in the old uncomplaining way, but he did not stopthere. 

One day she drove into town with a friend who got out to do someshopping. Ideala waited in the carriage, which had stopped opposite apublic-house, and from where she sat she could see the little sitting-room behind the bar, and its occupants. They were her husband and thebarmaid, who was sitting on his knee. 

Ideala arranged her parasol so that they might not see her if theychanced to look that way, and calmly resumed the conversation when herfriend returned. 

She dined alone with her husband that evening, and talked as usual, telling him all she had done and what news there was in the paper, asshe always did, to save him the trouble of reading it. In return hetold her he had been at the ironworks all day, only leaving them intime to dress for dinner, a piece of news she received with a stillcountenance, and her soft eyes fixed on the fire. 

She was standing on the hearth at the time, and as he spoke he laid hishand upon her shoulder caressingly, but she could not bear it. Herpowers of endurance were at an end, and for the first time she shrankfrom him openly. 

"How you do loathe me, Ideala, " he exclaimed. 

"Yes, I loathe you, " she answered. 

And then, in a sudden burst of rage, he raised his hand and struck her. 

Ideala's determination to be faithful to what she conceived to be herduty had kept her quiet hitherto, but now a sense of personaldegradation made her desperate, and she forgot all that. Her firstimpulse was to consult somebody, to speak and find means to put an endto her misery; but I was not there, and to whom should she go foradvice. Her impatience brooked no delay. She must see some oneinstantly. She thought of the Rector of the parish, but felt he wouldnot do. He was a fine-looking, well-mannered old gentleman, muchengaged in scientific pursuits, who always spoke of the Deity as if hewere on intimate terms with Him, and had probably never been asked toadminister any but the most formal kind of spiritual consolation in hislife. 

The training and experience of a Roman Catholic priest, accustomingthem as it does to deal with every phase of human suffering andpassion, would have been more useful to her in such an emergency, butshe knew none of the priests in that district, and did not think ofgoing to them. But while she was considering the matter, as if byinspiration, she remembered something an acquaintance had latelywritten to her. This lady was a person for whom she felt much respect, and that doubtless influenced her decision considerably. The ladywrote: "It must be convenient to be only twenty minutes by train fromsuch a big place. I suppose you go over for shopping, &c. ? When you arethere again I wish you would go and see my cousin Lorrimer. He isAdviser in General at the Great Hospital--a responsible position; and Iam sure, if you go, he will be glad to do the honours of the place, which is most interesting. "

Ideala had felt from the first that she would rather consult a strangerwho would be disinterested and unprejudiced. This gentleman's namepromised well for him, for he belonged to people whose integrity waswell known; and his position vouched for his ability--and also for hisage to Ideala, whose imagination had pictured a learned old gentleman, bald, spectacled, benevolent, full of knowledge of the world, "wisesaws and modern instances. " No one, she thought, could be better suitedfor her purpose; and accordingly, next day, after attending to herhousehold duties, she went by an early train to consult him. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

The Great Hospital had been founded by an eccentric old gentleman ofenormous wealth for an entirely original purpose. He observed thatgreat buildings were erected everywhere to receive patients sufferingfrom all imaginable bodily ills, chronic mania, of course, when thebrain was diseased, being one of them; but no one had thought of makingprovision for such troubles, mental, moral, and religious, as affectthe mind; and he held that such suffering was as real, and, withoutproper treatment, as incurable and disastrous, as any form of physicalailment. He therefore determined to found an hospital for these unhappyones, which should contain every requisite that Divine Revelation hadsuggested, or human ingenuity could devise, for the promotion of peaceof mind. The idea had grown out of some great mental trouble with whichhe himself had been afflicted in early life, and for which the world, as it was, could offer him no relief. 

The first thing he did towards the carrying out of his plan was to buya site for his hospital near a growing town on the banks of a bigriver. The building was to be surrounded by green fields, for thecolour is refreshing; and within sight of a great volume of calmlyflowing water, the silent power of which is solemn and tranquillisingto the spirit; and human society was to be within easy reach, for manypeople find it beneficial. As soon as he had found the site, which wasentirely satisfactory, he set about maturing his plan for the building. Such a scheme could not be carried out in a moment, and he spent thirtyyears in travelling to study human nature, and architecture, and allelse that should help to bring his work to perfection. At the end ofthirty years he had finished a plan for the building to his own entiresatisfaction; but Mr. Ruskin had been growing up in the meantime, andhad begun to write, and the founder, happening to come across his worksby accident one day, discovered his own ideas to be wrong frombeginning to end. However, as it was the Truth he was aiming at, andnot a justification of himself, he calmly burnt his plans, put hisfingers in his ears (figuratively speaking) that he might not hear therest of the world bray, and for ten years more devoted himself to thestudy of Mr. Ruskin. At the end of that time he knew something aboutproportion, about masses and intervals of light and shade; about thegrandeur and sublimity of size, and the grace and beauty of ornament;about depth and harmony of colour, and all the other wonders that makeone sick with longing to behold them; and when he had mastered all thishe determined to begin at the very beginning, that is to say, with thewalls that were to enclose his vast experiment. Everything was to bereal, everything was to be solid, everything had to be endowed with apower of expression that could not fail of its effect. And as soon ashe felt he might safely begin, he hastened away to inspect the longneglected site for his wonderful building. But here an unexpected checkawaited him. While he himself had been so hard at work, his futureneighbours had not been idle. The town had grown to a city; the river'sbanks were crowded with wharves and human habitations; the river itselfcradled a fleet on its bosom, its waters, once so sublimely clear andstill, were turbid and yellow, befouled by the city sewers, and usefulonly; and all that remained to remind him of what had once been were afew acres of weeds enclosed by an iron railing--an eyesore to theinhabitants of that region, as the Corporation told him, with a politehope that he would either build on it soon or leave it alone, which wastheir diplomatic way of requesting him to hand the lot over tothemselves. And this he might have done had they said "Please;" butwhen he found the young city so ignorant, he thought it his duty toteach it manners, so he took a year or two more to consider the matter. Then he perceived that if he built his house on the site as it was nowhe should do even more good than he had intended, for the constantcontemplation of such a stately pile would help to elevate the citizensoutside the building, while those within might find comfort in seeingthemselves surrounded by even greater misery than their own. 

And so the building rose and grew to perfection, and they found afterall that no better site could have been chosen for it; for from everyside as you approached it, it was seen to advantage, and the majestyand power of it were made manifest. Outside, the design was so evidentin its grandeur that the mind was not wearied and perplexed by aneffort to understand; it was simply elevated to a state of enjoymentbordering on exaltation--exaltation without excitement, and near akinto peace. And the interior of the building as you entered it maintainedthis first impression. Such ornament as there was touched you, as theclouds do, with a sense of suitability that left nothing to be desired. Art was so perfectly hidden that there seemed to have been no strivingfor effect in decoration or construction, it looked like a work ofNature, accomplished without effort, and beautiful without design; andthe mind brought under its influence, and left free of conjecture, wasgently compelled to revel in the peace which harmonious surroundingsinsensibly produce. Disturbing thoughts vanished as being too commonand mean, too human, for such a place, and the spirit was soothed witha sense of repose--of sensuous restfulness, really, for the pleasure, as intended, affected the senses more than the intellect, which couldhere make holiday. Work-wearied brains were thus eased from pressure, and minds a prey to doubts and other disturbing thoughts which impairedtheir strength, if they did not render them useless, were at oncerelieved. And this was the beginning of the treatment which wasafterwards continued in other parts of the building, and by othermeans, until the cure was complete--arrangements being made for theremoval of cases that proved to be hopeless to those olderestablishments which have long existed at the expense of the country, or as the outcomes of private enterprise. 

Of course the staff of such a place had to be formed of men of a highorder. Some of these had been patients themselves, and had been chosenon that account, it being thought that those who had suffered fromcertain ills would be apt to detect the symptoms in others, and able todevise remedies for them, which proved to be the case. Theestablishment was munificently endowed and liberally supported, and theMaster, as he was reverently called, lived just long enough to see thatit was a success. 

He had not thought of extending the charity to women, being under theimpression that no such provision was necessary for them. Heacknowledged that they had a large share of physical suffering toendure, but asserted that Nature, to preserve her balance, must havearranged their minds so as to render them incapable of suffering in anyother way. Sentimentality, hysteria, and silliness, he said, were atthe bottom of all their mental troubles, which did not, therefore, merit serious attention. 

CHAPTER XV. 

But of all this Ideala knew little or nothing when she went there, except that the Great Hospital existed for some learned purpose. Shefelt the power of the place, however, preoccupied as she was, andstopped involuntarily when she saw the building, ceasing for a momentto be conscious of anything but the awe and admiration it inspired. Then she passed up the broad steps, beneath the massive pillars of theportico, and entered the hall. A man-servant took her card to Mr. Lorrimer, and, returning presently, requested her to follow him. Theyleft the great hall by a flight of low steps at the end of it, and, turning to the right, passed through glass doors into quite anotherpart of the building. A long, dimly-lighted gallery led away into thedistance. A few doors opened on to it, and at one of these the servantstopped and knocked. A tall gentleman opened the door himself, and, begging Ideala to enter, bade her be seated at a writing-table whichstood in the middle of the room, and himself took the chair in front ofit, and looked at Ideala's card which lay before him. Anothergentleman, whom Lorrimer introduced as "My brother Julian, " lounged ona high-backed chair at the other side of the table. The room was a goodsize, but so crowded with things that there was scarcely space to turnround. The light fell full upon Lorrimer as he sat facing the window, and Ideala saw a fair man of about thirty, not at all the sort of manshe had imagined, and quite impossible for her purpose. 

An awkward pause followed her entrance. She was unable to tell him thereal reason of her visit, and at a loss to invent a fictitious one. 

"I don't suppose you know in the least who I am, " she said, seeing thathe glanced at her card again, and then she explained, telling him whathis cousin had written to her. 

"And you would like to see the Hospital?" he asked. 

"Please. "

He rose, took down a bunch of keys, and requested her to follow him. She felt no interest in the place, and knew it was a bore to him toshow it to her; but the thing had to be done. He led her through hallsand lecture-rooms, places of recreation and places for work; he showedher picture galleries, statuary, the library, and a museum, and toldher the plan of it all clearly, like one reciting a lesson, andindifferently, like one performing a task that must be got throughsomehow, but making it all most interesting, nevertheless. 

Ideala began to be taken out of herself. 

"What a delightful place!" she said, when they came to the library. "And there is a whole row of books I want to consult. How I should liketo come and read them. "

"Oh, pray do, " he answered, "whenever you like. Ladies frequently doso. You have only to write and tell me when you wish to come, and Iwill see that you are properly attended to. "

"Thank you, " Ideala rejoined. "It is just the very thing for me, for Iam writing a little book, and cannot get on till I have consulted someauthorities on the subject. " In the museum they stopped to look at amummy. 

"Oh, happy mummy!" burst from Ideala, involuntarily. 

"Why?" asked Lorrimer, aroused from his apathy. 

"It has done with it all, you know, " she answered. 

Then he turned and looked at her, and she saw that he was somethingmore than cold, pale-faced, and indifferent, which had been her firstidea of him. His eyes were large, dark grey, and penetrating. She wouldhave called his face fine, rather than handsome; but the upper part wascertainly beautiful, in spite of some hard lines on it. There wassomething in the expression, more than in the formation, of the mouthand chin, however, that did not satisfy. His head and throat weresplendid; the former narrowed a little at the back, but the foreheadmade up for the defect, which was not striking. He made Ideala think ofTito Melema and of Bayard. 

That remark of hers having broken the ice, they began to talk likehuman beings with something in common. But Ideala's mood was notcalculated to produce a good impression. The failure of her enterprisebrought on a fit of recklessness such as we understood, and she saidsome things which must have made a stranger think her peculiar. Lorrimer had begun to be amused before they returned to the greatentrance hall. Once or twice he looked at her curiously. "What sort ofa person are you, I wonder?" he was thinking, "I was dying of dulness, " she said, telling him about the place shecame from, "and so I came to see you. "

He left her for a moment, but presently returned with his brother. 

"You had better come and have some luncheon before you go back, " hesaid. 

And she went. 

As they left the building Lorrimer asked her: "Where on earth did mycousin meet _you?"_--with the slightest possible emphasis. Idealaunderstood him, and laughed. 

"Upon my word I don't know who introduced her, " she answered, standingon her dignity nevertheless. "I can't remember. "

They went to the refreshment-room at the station. It was crowded, butthey managed to get a table to themselves. There was a vacant seat atit, and an old gentleman begged to be allowed to occupy it as there wasno other in the room. The three chatted while they waited, each hidinghim, or her, self beneath the light froth of easy conversation; andpeople, not accustomed to look on the surface for signs of what isworking beneath, would have thought them merry enough. As she began toknow her companions better, Ideala was more and more drawn to Lorrimer. His brother, who was a dark man, and very different in character, didnot attract her. 

The old gentleman, meanwhile, was absorbed in his newspaper, and hemarked his enjoyment of it by inhaling his breath and exhaling it againin that particular way which is called "blowing like a porpoise. "

Lorrimer, by an intelligent glance, expressed what he thought of thepeculiarity to Ideala, who remarked: "It is the next gale developingdangerous energy on its way to the North British and Norwegian coasts. "

The laugh that followed caused the old gentleman to fold up his paper, and look benignly at the young people over his pince-nez. 

It was early in the season, and peas were a rare and forced vegetable. A small dish of them was brought, and handed to the dangerous gale, whoabsently took them all. 

"You have taken all the peas, sir; allow me to give you all thepepper, " said Lorrimer, dexterously suiting the action to the word. 

The dangerous gale, though disconcerted at first, was finally moved tomirth. 

"Ah, young people! young people!" he said, and sighed--and being amerry and wise old gentleman, he found pleasure in their pleasure, andentered into their mood, little suspecting that Black Care was one ofthe party, or that a black bruise which would have aroused all the pityand indignation of his honest old heart, had he seen it, was almostunder his eyes. 

And they all loved him. 

Presently he rose to go; but before he departed, he observed, lookingkindly at Ideala and Lorrimer; "You're a handsome pair, my dears! Letme congratulate you; and may your children have the mother's sweetnessand the father's strength, and may the love you have for each otherlast for ever--there's nothing like it. Thank God for it, and rememberHim always--and keep yourselves unspotted from the world. " And sosaying, he went his way in peace. 

"Dear embarrassing old man!" said Lorrimer, regretfully. "I wish Ihadn't spilt the pepper on his plate. 

"Is there a chance for Lorrimer?" his brother asked. 

But Ideala only stared at him. There was something in his tone thatmade her feel ill at ease, and brought back the recollection of hermisery in a moment. Then all at once she became depressed, and both theyoung men noticed it. 

"I'm afraid you're rather down about something, " Julian said. "You'dbetter tell us what it is. Perhaps we could cheer you up. And I'm alawyer, you know. I might be able to help you. "

Lorrimer was looking at her, and seemed to wait for her to speak; butshe only showed by a change of expression that the fact of his brotherbeing a lawyer possessed a special interest for her. 

"If you will trust us, " he said at last, "perhaps we _can_ helpyou. "

"I wish I could, " she answered, wistfully; "I came to tell you. "

"This sounds serious, " Julian said, lightly. "You will have to begin atthe beginning, you know. Come, Lorrimer, we'll go down the river. And, "to Ideala, "you might tell us all about it on the way, you know. "

"Yes, come, " said Lorrimer. Ideala rose to accompany them without athought. It all came about so easily that no question of proprietysuggested itself--and if any had occurred to her she would probablyhave considered it an insult to these gentlemen to suppose they wouldallow her to put herself in a questionable position; and when Julianlit a cigarette without asking her permission, she was surprised. 

On the way to the river Ideala's spirits rose again, and they alltalked lightly, making a jest of everything; but while they werewaiting for a boat, Julian took up a bunch of charms that were attachedto Ideala's watch-chain and began to examine them coolly, and theunwonted familiarity startled her. With a sudden revulsion of feelingshe turned to Lorrimer. She was annoyed by the slight indignity, andalso a little frightened. Whatever Lorrimer may have thought of herbefore, he understood her look now, and his whole manner changed. 

Julian left them for a moment. "I _am_ so ashamed of myself, " Idealasaid. "I have made some dreadful mistake. I have done somethingwrong. "

"I am very sorry for you, " he answered, gravely--and then, to hisbrother, who had returned--"You can go on if you like. I am goingback. "

"Oh, we can't go on without you, " Ideala inter-posed; "and I wouldrather go back too. "

They began to retrace their steps, and Lorrimer, as they walked, managed, with a few adroit questions, to learn from Ideala that thetrouble had something to do with her husband. 

"Regy Beaumont is coming to me this afternoon, " he said to his brother. "Would you mind being there to receive him?"

They exchanged glances, and Julian took his leave. 

"Now, tell me, " Lorrimer said to Ideala. 

But an unconquerable fit of shyness came over her the moment they wereleft alone together. "I cannot tell you, " she answered. "It is toodreadful to speak of. "

"Your husband has done you some great wrong?" he said. 

"Yes. "

"Something for which you can get legal redress?"

"Yes. "

"And that made you desperate?"

"Yes. "

"And what did you do?" He put the question abruptly, startling Ideala, as he had intended. 

"_I_? Oh, I--did nothing, " she stammered. There was a pause. 

"My ideal of marriage is a high one, " he said at last, "and I should bevery hard on any short-comings of that kind. "

Ideala longed to confide in him, but her shyness continued, and shewalked by his side like one in a dream. 

He took her to the station, and when they parted he said, "You willwrite and tell me?"

Ideala looked up. There were no hard lines in his face now; he wasslightly flushed. 

"Yes, I will write, " she answered, almost in a whisper. 

And then the train, "with rush and ring, " bore her away through thespring-country; but she neither saw the young green of the hedgerows, nor "the young lambs bleating in the meadows, " nor the broad river asshe passed it, nor the fleecy clouds that flecked the blue. She was notreally conscious of anything for the moment, but that sudden greatunspeakable uplifting of the spirit, which is joy. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

The following week Ideala came to London, but not to us--she hadpromised to stay with some other people first. She wrote three times toLorrimer while she was with them--first to thank him for his kindness, to which he replied briefly, begging her to confide in him, and let himhelp her. 

In her second letter Ideala told him what had occurred. His reply wasbusiness-like. He urged her to let him consult his legal friends abouther case; pointed out that she could not be expected to remain with herhusband now; and showed her that she would not have to suffer much fromall the publicity which was necessary to free her from him. She repliedthat her first impulse had been to obtain legal redress, but that nowshe could not make up her mind to face the publicity. She would seehim, however, when she returned, and consult him about it; and shewould also like to consult those books in the library. Her buoyantspirit was already recovering under the influence of a new interest inlife. 

Lorrimer's answer was formal, as his other notes had been. He beggedher to make any use of the library she pleased, only to let him knowwhen to expect her, that she might have no trouble with the officials;and offered her any other help in his power. 

In the meantime my sister Claudia had seen Ideala, and had been pleasedto find her, not looking well, certainly, but just as cheerful asusual. "It is evident the place does not agree with her, " Claudia said;"but a few weeks with us will set her all right again. "

They drove in the park together one afternoon, and talked, as usual, ofmany things, the state of society being one of them. This was a subjectupon which my sister descanted frequently, and it was from her thatIdeala learnt all she knew of it. 

"Can you wonder, " Claudia said on this occasion, "that men are immoralwhen ladies in society rather pride themselves than otherwise onimitating the _demi-monde_?"

"Have you ever noticed, " Ideala answered, indirectly, "how frequently aword or phrase which you know quite well by sight, but have neverthought of and do not understand, is suddenly brought home to you as itwere? You come across it everywhere, and at last take the trouble tofind out what it means in self-defence. That expression--_demi-monde_--has begun to haunt me since I came to town, and I feel Ishall be obliged to look it up at once to stop the nuisance. We went toa theatre the other night, and when we were settled there I saw myhusband in the stalls with a lady in flame-coloured robes. I didn'tknow he was in town. The rest of our party saw him, too, and thegentlemen had a mysterious little consultation at the back of the box. Then one of them left us, but returned almost immediately, and told usthe carriage had not gone, and hadn't we better try some other theatre--the piece at that one was not so good as they had supposed. But I knewthey had taken a lot of trouble, entirely on my account, to get a boxthere, as I had expressed a wish to see that particular piece, and Isaid I had come to enjoy it, and meant to. I did enjoy it, too. It wasso absorbing that I forgot all about my husband, and don't know when heleft the theatre. I only know that he disappeared without coming nearus. When we got back, Lilian came to my room and told me they were allsaying downstairs that I had behaved splendidly, and I said I wasdelighted to hear it, particularly as I did not know how, or when, orwhere, I had come to deserve such praise. And then she asked me if Iknew who it was my husband was with. I said, no; some alderman's wife, I supposed. 'Nothing half so good, ' she answered. 'That woman isnotorious: she is one of the _demimonde!_' 'Well, ' I said, 'I don'tsuppose she is in society. ' And then Lilian said, 'Good gracious, Ideala! how can you be so tranquil? You _must_ care. I think you arethe most extraordinary person I ever met. ' And I told her that theonly extraordinary thing about me just then was a great 'exposition ofsleep' that had come upon me. And then she left me; but she told meafterwards that she thought I was acting, and came back later to seeif I really could sleep. "

"And you did sleep, Ideala?"

"Like a top--why not? But now you are following suit with your ill-conducted people, and your _demi-monde_. I want to know what you meanby that phrase?"

Then Claudia explained it to her. 

"But I thought all that had ended with the Roman Empire, " Idealaprotested. 

Claudia laughed, and then went on without pity, describing the class asthey sink lower and lower, and cruelly omitting no detail that mightcomplete the picture. 

"But the men are as bad, " said Ideala. 

"Oh, as bad, yes!" was the answer. 

Ideala was pale with disgust. "And we have to touch them!" she said. 

Her ignorance of this phase of life had been so complete, and her faithin those about her so perfect, that the shock of this dreadfulrevelation was almost too much for her. At first, as the carriage droveon through the crowded streets, she saw in every woman's face ahopeless degradation, and in every man's eyes a loathsome sin; and sheexclaimed, as another woman had exclaimed on a similar occasion: "Oh, Claudia! why did you tell me? It is too dreadful. I cannot bear to knowit. "

"How a woman can be at once so clever and such a fool as you are, Ideala, puzzles me, " Claudia remonstrated, not unkindly. 

She had warmed as she went on, and forgot in her indignation to takeadvantage of this long-looked-for opportunity to speak to Ideala abouther own troubles; and afterwards, when she showed an inclination toopen the subject, Ideala put her off with a jest. 

"'_Le mariage est beau pour les amants et utile pour les saints, _'"she quoted, lightly. "Class me with the saints, and talk of somethinginteresting. "

A few days later Claudia came to me in dismay. 

"What do you think?" she said. "Ideala is not coming to us at all! Shesays she must go back at once. "

"Go back!" I exclaimed, "and why?"

"She is going to write something, for which she requires to read agreat deal, and she says she must go back to work. "

"But that is nonsense, " I protested. "She can work as much as she likeshere--I can even help her. "

"I know that, " Claudia answered; "but she spoke so positively I couldnot insist. I suppose the truth is her husband has ordered her back, and she is going to be a good, obedient child, as usual. "

"Does she seem at all unhappy?"

"No, and that is the strange part of it. She has coolly broken I don'tknow how many other engagements to return at once, and instead ofseeming disappointed, she simply 'glows and is glad. ' She says nothing, but I can see it. I don't know what on earth she is up to now. " AndClaudia left the room, frowning and perplexed. 

When I heard she was not unhappy, this sudden whim of Ideala's did notdisturb me much; indeed, I was rather glad to think she had foundsomething to be enthusiastic about. Her fits of enthusiasm were rarernow, and I thought this symptom of one a good sign. It was odd, though, that I had not seen her while she was in town. I was half inclined tobelieve she had avoided me. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

To give the story continuity it will be necessary to piece the eventstogether as they followed. Many of them only came to my knowledge sometime after they occurred, and even then I was left to surmise a gooddeal; but I am able now, with the help of papers that have lately comeinto my possession, to verify most of my conjectures and arrange thedetails. 

The summer weather had begun now. Laburnums and lilacs were in fullflower, the air was sweet with scent and song, and to one who had bornethe heavy winter with a heavy heart, but was able at last to lay down aload of care, the transition must have been like a sudden change frompainful sickness to perfect health. Ideala went to the Great Hospitalat once. She had written to fix a day, and Lorrimer was waiting forher. She was not taken to his room, however, as on the previousoccasion, but to another part of the building, a long gallery hung withpictures, where she found him superintending the arrangement of someprecious things in cabinets. Ideala looked better and younger that dayin her summer dress than she had done in her heavy winter wraps on theoccasion of their first meeting; but when she found herself face toface with Lorrimer she began to tremble, and was overcome withnervousness in a way that was new to her. He saw the change in herappearance and manner at a glance, and, smiling slightly, begged her tofollow him, and led the way through long passages and many doors, passing numbers of people, to his own room. He spoke to her once ortwice on the way, but she was only able to answer confusedly, in avoice that was rendered strident by the great effort she had to make tocontrol it. He busied himself with some papers for a few minutes whenthey reached his room, to give her time to recover herself, and then hesaid, standing with his back to the fireplace, looking down at her, andspeaking in a tone that was even more musical and caressing than sheremembered it: "Well, and how are you? And how has it been with yousince your return?"

"I am utterly shaken and unnerved, as you see, " she answered; thenadded passionately: "I cannot bear my life; it is too hateful. "

"There is no need to bear it, " he said. "Nothing is easier than to geta separation after what has occurred. Was there any witness?"

"No; and I don't think any one in the house suspects that there isanything wrong. And none of my friends know. I have never told them. Iwonder why I told you?"

"You wanted me to help you, " he suggested. 

"I don't think I did, " she said. "How could I want you to help me whenI don't mean to do anything? I fancy I told you because I was afraidyou would think me a little mad that day, and I would rather you knewthe truth than think me mad. I don't mean to try for a separation. Ican't leave him entirely to his own devices. If I did, he wouldcertainly go from bad to worse. "

"And if you don't what will become of you? I think much more of such alife would make you reckless. "

She was silent for a little, then she exclaimed: "Help me not to growreckless. I am so alone. "

He took her hands and looked down into her eyes. A sudden deep flushspread over his face, smoothing out all the lines, as she had seen itdo once before, and transforming him. 

"It is like walking on the edge of a precipice in the dark, " he said ina low voice, and his grasp tightened as he spoke. 

There was something mesmeric in his touch that overpowered Ideala. Shefelt a change in herself at the moment, and she was never the samewoman again. 

"I will help you, if I can, " he said, after another pause, and then helet her go. 

After that they talked for some time. He tried to persuade her toreconsider her decision and leave her husband. He honestly believed itwas the best thing she could do, and told her why he thought so. Sheacknowledged the wisdom of his advice, but declined to follow it, andhe was somewhat puzzled, for the reasons she gave were hardly enough toaccount for her determination. They wandered away from that subject atlast, however, and talked of many other things. He told Ideala of hisfirst coming to the Great Hospital as a patient, and gave her some ofthe details of his own case, and told her enough of his private historyto arouse her sympathy and interest; but of the nature of theseconfidences I know nothing. Ideala felt in honour bound not to repeatthem, as they were made to her in the course of a private conversation, and she was always scrupulously faithful to all such trusts. I know, however, that he was a man who had suffered acutely, both from unhappycircumstances and from those troubles of the mind which beset clevermen at the outset of their career, and sometimes never leave thementirely at peace. But this man was something more than a clever man;he was a man in a thousand. He had in a strong degree all that is worstand best in a man. The highest and most spiritual aspirations warred inhim with the most carnal impulses, and he spent his days in fighting toattain to the one and subdue the other. 

Ideala had never known a man like this man. His talents, his rapidchanges of mood, as sense or conscience got the upper hand, and hisversatility charmed her imagination and excited her interest; and hehad, besides, that magnetic power over her by which it is given to somemen to compel people of certain temperaments to their will. While shewas with him he could have made her believe that black was white, andnot only believe it, but be glad to think that it was so; and he alwayscompelled her to say exactly what she had in her mind at the moment, even when it was something that she would very much rather not havesaid. 

"But I am forgetting my other object in coming, " Ideala broke off atlast. "May I look at the books?"

Lorrimer took out his watch. "You ought to have some lunch first, " hesaid. "If you will come now and have some, we can return and look atthe books afterwards. "

Ideala acquiesced, fearing it was his own lunch time, and knowing itwould detain him if she did not accompany him. 

Ladies not being allowed to lunch at the Great Hospital, they went, asbefore, to the station close by, and sat down side by side, perfectlyhappy together, chatting, laughing, talking about their childhood, andmaking those trifling confidences which go so far to promote intimacy, and are often the first evidence of affection. Now and then theytouched on graver matters. He upheld all that was old, and believed wecan have no better institutions in the future than those which havealready existed in the past. Ideala had begun to think differently. 

"I am sure it is a mistake to be for ever looking back to the past forprecedents, " she said. "The past has its charm, of course, but it isthe charm of the charnel house--it is the dead past, and what was goodfor one age is bad for another. "

"As one man's meat is another man's poison?" he said. 

"Proverbs prove nothing, " she answered lightly. "Have you noticed thatthey go in pairs? There is always one for each side of an argument. 'One man's meat is another man's poison' is met by 'What is sauce forthe goose is sauce for the gander'--and so on. But don't you think itabsurd to cling to old customs that are dying a natural death? Learn ofthe past, if you like, but live in the present, and make your laws tomeet its needs. It is this eternal waiting on the past to copy itrather than to be warned by its failures, to do as it did, under theimpression, apparently, that we must succeed better than it did, following in its footsteps though we know they led to ruin once, and, because the way was pleasant, being surprised to find that it must endagain in disaster--it is this abandonment of all hope of finding newand efficacious remedies for the old diseases of society that haschecked our progress for hundreds of years, and will keep the world insome respects just as it was at the time of the Crucifixion. For my ownpart, I cannot see that history does repeat itself, except in triflingdetails, and in the lives of unimportant individuals. 

"I think, " he rejoined, "if you have studied the decline of the RomanEmpire, you must have seen a striking analogy between that and our ownhistory at the present time. With the exception of changes of manners, which only affect the surface of society, we are in much the same statenow as the Romans were then. "

"I know many people say so, and believe it, " Ideala answered; "andthere is evidence enough to prove it to people who are trying to arriveat a foregone conclusion; but it is not the resemblances we should lookto, but the differences. It is in them that our hope lies, and theyseem to me to be essential. Take the one grand difference that has beenmade by the teaching for hundreds of years of the perfect morality ofthe Christian religion! Do you think it possible for men, while theycling to it, to 'reel back into the beast and be no more'?"

"But are men clinging to it?"

"Yes, in a way, for it has insensibly become a part of all of us, andhas made it possible for us to show whole communities of moralphilosophers now in a generation; the ancients had only an occasionalone in a century. "

"But such a one!"

"The old moral philosophers were grand, certainly, but not grander thanour own men are, of whom we only hear less because there are so manymore of them. "

"But do you mean to say society is less sinful than it was?"

"There is one section of society at the present day, they tell me, which is most desperately wicked. It is worse than any class was whenthe world was young, because it knows so much better. But I believe thebulk of the people like right so well that they only want a strongimpulse to make them follow it. I feel sure sometimes that we are allliving on the brink of a great change for the better, and that there isonly one thing wanting now--a great calamity, or a great teacher--tostartle us out of our apathy and set us to work. We are not boldenough. We should try more experiments; they can but fail, and if theydo, we should still have learnt something from them. But I do not thinkwe shall fail for ever. What we want is somewhere, and must be foundeventually. "

"They tried some experiments with the marriage laws in France once, "Lorrimer observed, tentatively. 

"Yes, and failed contemptibly because their motive was contemptible. They did not want to improve society, but to make self-indulgencepossible without shame. I think our own marriage laws might beimproved. "

"People are trying to improve them, " he said, with a slight laugh. "Afriend of mine has just married a girl who objected to take the oath ofobedience. How absurd it is for a girl of nineteen to imagine she knowsbetter than all the ages. " "I think, " said Ideala, "that it is moreabsurd for 'all the ages' to subscribe to an oath which somethingstronger than themselves makes it impossible for half of them to keep. Strength of character must decide the question of place in a householdas it does elsewhere; and it is surely folly to require, and useless toinsist on, the submission of the strong to the weak. The marriage oathis farcical. A woman is made to swear to love a man who will probablyprove unlovable, to honour a man who is as likely as not to beundeserving of honour, and to obey a man who may be incapable ofjudging what is best either for himself or her. I have no respect forthe ages that uphold such nonsense. There was never any need to bind uswith an oath. If men were all they ought to be, wouldn't we obey themgladly? To be able to do so is all we ask. "

"Well, it is a difficult question, " he answered, "and I don't think weneed trouble ourselves about it any way. Do you like flowers?"

"Yes, " she burst out in another tone; "and easy chairs, and pictures, and china, and everything that is beautiful, and all sensualpleasures. "

She said it, but she knew in a moment that she had used the wrong word, and was covered with confusion. 

Lorrimer looked at her and laughed. 

"And so do I, " he said. 

"Oh! if only I could unsay that!" thought Ideala; but the word had goneforth, and was already garnered against her. 

Then came an awful moment for her--the moment of going and paying. Itwas hateful to let him pay for her lunch, but she could not help it. She was seized with one of those fits of shyness which made it just adegree less painful to allow it than to make the effort to prevent it. 

They returned to Lorrimer's room and pored together over a catalogue, looking up the books she wanted. When they had found their names andnumbers Lorrimer sent for them from the library, but it was too late todo anything that day, and so she rose to go. 

Lorrimer walked with her to the station, and saw her into the train. Onthe way they talked of little children. He loved them as she did. 

"A friend of mine, " he said, "has the most beautiful child I ever saw. Just to look at it makes me feel a better man. "

CHAPTER XVIII. 

In the days that followed a singular change came over Ideala. Noexternal circumstance affected her. She moved like one in a dream;thought had ceased for her; all life was one delicious sensation, andat times she could not bear the delight of it in silence. She wouldtell it in low songs in the twilight; she would make her piano speak itin a hundred chords: and it would burst from her in some sudden glow ofenthusiasm that made people wonder--the apparent cause being too slightto account for it. While this lasted nothing hurt her. She saw thesufferings of others unmoved. She met her husband's brutalities with asmiling countenance, and bore the physical discomfort of a bad sprainwithout much consciousness of pain. And she knew nothing of time, andnever asked herself to what she owed this joy. 

The utter forgetfulness of everything that came upon her when she wasalone was almost incredible. One evening she spent two hours in walkinga distance she might easily have done in forty minutes. She had been tosee a sick person, and when she found herself in the fresh air, afterhaving spent some time in a small, close room, the dream-like feelingcame over her, and her spirit was uplifted with inexpressible gladness. The summer air was sweet and warm, a light rain was falling, and shetook off her hat and wandered on, looking up, but noting nothing, andsinging Schubert's "Hark! hark! the lark, " to herself softly as shecame. A man standing at a cottage door begged her to go in and shelter. She looked at him, and her face was radiant--the rain-drops sparkled onher hair. He was only a working man, "clay--and common clay, " but thelight in her eyes passed through him, and the memory of her stayed withhim, a thing apart from his daily life, held sacred, and not to bedescribed. A man might live a hundred years and never see a woman looklike that. 

"I did not know it was raining, " she said. "It is only light rain, andthe air is so sweet, and the glow down there in the west is likeheaven. How beautiful life is!"

"Ay, lady!" he answered, and stood there spellbound, watching her asshe passed on slowly, and listening to her singing as she went. 

A few days later she saw Lorrimer again. She found him in his room thistime. He knew she was coming, and flushed with pleasure when he met herat the door. Ideala was not nervous; it all seemed a matter of courseto her now. The books he had got for her from the library were whereshe had left them. He placed a chair for her beside his writing-table, and then went on with his own work. She had understood that she was toread in the library, but she did not think of that now; she simplyacquiesced in this arrangement as she would have done in any other hemight have made for her. A secretary was busy in another part of theroom when she entered, but after awhile he left them. Then Lorrimerlooked up and smiled. 

"You are looking better to-day, " he said. "Tell me what you have beendoing since I saw you. "

"Lotus-eating, " she answered. "How lovely the summer is! Since I sawyou I have wanted to do nothing but rest and dream. "

"You have been happy, then?"

"Yes. "

"Is he kind to you?"

"Oh--he! He is just the same. There is no change in my life. The changeis in me. "

"Then you mean to be happy in spite of him? I call that the beginningof wisdom. I know two other ladies who hate their husbands, and theymanage to enjoy life pretty well. And I don't see why _you_ shouldbe miserable always because you happen to have married the wrong man. How was it you married him? Were you very much in love with him?"

"No, not in the least. "

"Spooney, then?"

"Not even 'spooney, ' as you call it. I was very young at the time. Veryyoung girls know nothing of love and marriage. "

"Very young, " he repeated thoughtfully. He was drawing figures with hispen on the blotting-paper before him. "But why did you marry him, then?"

"I can give you no reason--except that I was not happy at home. "

"You all say that, " slipped from him, with a gesture of impatience. 

"I wish I had been more original, " said Ideala. 

She took up her book again, and he resumed his writing, and for sometime there was silence. But Ideala's attention wandered. She began toexamine the room, which was, as usual, in a state of disorder. One sideof it was lined with cabinets of various sizes and periods. Labelsindicated the contents of some of them. Only one picture hung on thatside of the room--it was the portrait of a gentleman--but severalothers stood on the ground against the cabinets. The walls were paintedsome dark colour. A Japanese screen was drawn across the door, andbeside it was a hard narrow settee covered with dark green velvet. Books were piled upon it, and heavily embroidered foreign stuffs, andnear it a number of Japanese drawings stood on a stand. The mantelpiecewas crowded with an odd mixture of china and other curios, all lookingas if they had just been unpacked. Above it another picture was hung, asteel engraving. The writing-table by which they sat was nearly in themiddle of the room. In the window was another table, covered also witha miscellaneous collection of curios; and on every other availablearticle of furniture books were piled. The high backs of the chairswere elaborately carved, the seats being of the same green velvet asthe settee. A high wire-guard surrounded the fire place, and thisunusual precaution made one think, that the contents of the room mustbe precious. The occupant of this apartment might have been an artist, a man of letters, or a virtuoso--probably the latter; but whatever hewas, it was evident that his study was a workshop, and not a showroom. 

From the room Ideala looked to her companion. He was writing rapidly, and seemed absorbed in his subject. He was frowning slightly, his facewas pale and set, and he looked older by ten years than when he hadspoken last, and seemed cold and unimpassioned as a judge; but Idealathought again that the face was a fine one. 

Presently he became conscious of her earnest gaze. He did not look up, but every feature softened, and a warm glow spread from forehead tochin; it was as if a deep shadow had been lifted, and a younger, butless noble, man revealed. 

"How you change!" Ideala exclaimed--"not from day to day, but frommoment to moment. You are like two men. I wish I could get behind thathorrid veil of flesh that hides you from me. I want to see your soul. "

He smiled. "You are getting tired, " he said. "Do let me persuade you tocome and have some lunch. When you begin to speculate, I know you havedone enough. "

But Ideala could not go through the ordeal of who should pay for lunchagain. She preferred to starve. The _camaraderie_ between them wasmental enough to be manlike already, but only as long as there was noquestion of material outlay. 

"Mayn't I stay here and read?" she said. "I can have something by-and-by, when I want it. Do go and leave me. "

And he was obliged to go at last, wondering somewhat at her want ofappetite. 

When he returned she was still working diligently, and they spent therest of the afternoon together, reading, writing, and chatting, untilit was time for Ideala to go. Lorrimer saw her into her train, andfixed another day for her to return and go on with her work. 

And so the thing became a settled arrangement. Whenever she could sparethe time she went and worked beside him, and he was always the same, kindly, considerate, helping her now and then, but not, as a rule, interfering with her. She just came and went as she pleased, and as shewould have done had he been her brother. Sometimes they were alonetogether for hours, sometimes his secretary worked in the room withthem, and always there were people coming and going. There was nothingto suggest a thought of impropriety, and they were soon on quarrellingterms, falling out about a great many things--which is always the signof a good understanding; but after the first they touched on nodangerous subject for a long time. At last, however, there came achange. Ideala noticed one day that Lorrimer was restless andirritable. 

"Am I interfering with your work to-day?" she said. "Do tell me. Anyother day will suit me just as well. "

"Oh, no, " he answered. "I am lazy, that is all. How are you getting on?Let me see. " And he took the paper she was engaged upon, and looked atit. 

She watched him, and saw that he was not reading, although he held itbefore his eyes for some time. He was paler than usual, and there was alook of indecision in his face, very unlike its habitual expression, which was serene and self-contained. 

Looking up all at once, he met her eyes fixed on him frankly andaffectionately, but he did not respond to her smile. 

"How do you suppose all this is going to end?" he said, abruptly. 

"Won't it do?" she answered, thinking of her paper. "Had I better giveit up, or re-write it?"

He threw the paper down with a gesture of impatience, and got up; andthen, as if ashamed of his irritability, he took it again, and gave itback to her. In doing so his hand accidentally touched hers. 

"How cold you are, " he said. "Let me warm your hands for you. "

"They are benumbed, " she answered, letting him take them and rub them. 

After a moment he said, without looking at her, "Do you know, it isvery good of you to come here like this. "

"Why?" she asked. "It suits my own convenience. "

"I know. But it is refreshing to find some one who will suit their ownconvenience so. " "That sounds as if it were not the right thing to do!"she exclaimed. 

"Nonsense!" he answered. "You misunderstand me. "

Ideala withdrew her hands hastily, and half rose. 

"What is the matter?" he said. "Come, don't be idle! You should havemastered that book by this time. "

But Ideala was disturbed. "I can't read, " she said. "Tell me what youthought of me when I came to you that first day? I fancied you wereold. And I have been afraid since, in spite of your cousin'ssuggestion, that you may have considered it odd of me to introducemyself like that. "

"Oh, it is quite customary here, " he answered. "But even if it had notbeen, we can't all be bound by the same common laws. The ordinary starsand planets have an ordinary course mapped out for them, and theydaren't diverge an inch. But every now and then a comet comes and goesits own eccentric way, and all the lesser lights wonder and admire andlet it go. "

"That would be very fine for us if only we were comets among thestars, " she said. 

"Oh, you might condescend to claim a kindred with them, " he answeredlightly. 

"The only heavenly body I ever feel akin to is one of those meteorsthat flash and fall, " she said. "They go their own way, too, do theynot, and are lost?" "There is no question of being lost here, " heinterposed. "The most scrupulous have made an exception in favour ofone person, and the world has not blamed them. After having endured somuch you are entitled to some relaxation. I should do as I liked now, if I were you. "

She looked at him inquiringly. It seemed as if he were not expressinghimself, but trying the effect of what he said upon her. 

He was sitting in his usual place now, drawing figures on the blotting-pad. 

"You have read, I suppose?" he added, after a pause, and withoutlooking up. "I wish I had never read anything, " she exclaimedpassionately. "I wish I could neither read, write, nor think. "

But the trouble now was, if only she could have recognised it, that shedid not think; she only felt. 

She got up and went to the mantelpiece; he remained where he was, sitting with his back to her. Presently she began to look at the china, absently at first, but afterwards with interest. There were some newspecimens, just unpacked, and all crowded together. 

"What a lovely lotus-leaf, " she said at last. "Satsuma, I suppose--no, Kioto; but what a good specimen. And it is broken, too. What a pity! Ishould so like to mend it. "

"Would you?" he said, rousing himself. "Then you shall. "

He went to one of the cabinets and got out the materials, and in a fewminutes they were bending busily over the broken plaque, as interestedand eager about it as if no subject of more vital importance had everdistracted them. They were like two children together, often asquarrelsome, always as inconsequent; happy hard at work, and equallyhappy idling; apt to torment each other at times about trifles, butalways ready to forget and forgive, and with that habit in common offorgetting everything utterly but the occupation of the moment. 

They talked on now for a little longer, but not brilliantly. They wereboth considered brilliant in conversation, but somehow on theseoccasions neither of them shone. I suppose when two such bright andshining lights come together they put each other out. 

Then it was time for Ideala to go. A bitter wind met them in the faceon their way to the station, and before they had gone far Idealanoticed that Lorrimer's mood had changed again. His face grew pale, hisstep less elastic, his manner cold and formal. All the brightness, allthe sympathy, which made their intimacy seem the most natural, becauseit was the pleasantest, thing in the world to Ideala, had gone; he waslike a man seized with a sudden fit of remorse, disgusted with himself, and moved to repent. 

"I should bear with your husband, if I were you, " he said at last, breaking the silence. "He behaves like a brute, but I dare say he can'thelp it. A man can't help his temperament, and probably you provoke himmore than you think. "

Ideala was surprised, it was so long since they had mentioned herhusband. "I fear I am provoking, " she answered, humbly. "But how am Ito help it? I have tried so hard, and for so long, to be patient. And Ionly want to do right. "

They were parting then, and he looked down at her in silence for someseconds, and when Ideala saw the expression of his face, her heartsank. In that one moment she realised all that his friendship had beento her, and foresaw the terrible blank there would be for her if itshould ever end. That there was any danger, that there could beanything but friendship between men and women who must not marry, hadnot even yet occurred to her. Her intimacy with myself had prepared theway for Lorrimer, and made this new intimacy seem also perfectly right. 

"What is the matter with you to-day?" she said. "What spirit ofdissatisfaction has got hold of you?"

"I _am_ dissatisfied, " he said, raising his hat, and brushing hishand back over his hair. Then he looked at her. "Why don't you helpme?" he asked. 

"How can I help you?" she answered. "I don't understand you. "

"You ought to. I wish to goodness you did"--and then his face cleared. "But you will come again, " he added, in the old way. "I shall expectyou soon. "

And so he let her go; and Ideala was glad, because an unpleasant jarwas over. She did not trouble herself about his private worries; if hewished her to know he would tell her. Lorrimer had a temper--but thenshe had known that all along; and Lorrimer was Lorrimer--that was allabout it. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

He let her go, somewhat bewildered, and not understanding herself orhim, nor caring to understand, only happy, dangerously happy. The trainbore her through an enchanted region of brightness and summer, and, although the power of thought was for the moment suspended, she wasconscious of this, and her own delight was like the unreasoningpleasure of earth when the sun is upon it. 

There was no carriage to meet her at the station, and she set off towalk home. It was the first time she had been alone on foot in thesqualid disorderly streets of that dingy place, and her way, which shewas not quite sure of, took her through some of the worst of them. Theywere filled with loud-laughing uncleanly women, and skulking hang-dog-looking men, and the grime-clogged atmosphere was heavy with foulodours; but she noticed nothing of this. The golden glow the sun madein his efforts to shine through the clouds of smoke might have been avisible expression of her own ecstatic feeling, and she would havethought so at any other time, but now she never saw it. 

In a somewhat open and more lonely part of the road she met a tramp, agreat rude, hulking, common fellow, with fine blue eyes. He stopped inthe middle of the road and stared at Ideala as she came up to him, walking, as usual, with a slight undulating movement that made youthink of a yacht in a breeze, her face up-raised and her lips parted. He took off his cap as she approached. The gesture attracted herattention, and, thinking he wanted to beg or ask some question, shestopped and looked at him inquiringly. 

"Well, you _are_ a nice lady!" he exclaimed. 

He hadn't the gift of language, but she saw the soul of a man in hiseyes, and she understood him. 

"Thank you, " she answered, and passed on, unsurprised. 

In the next street a breathless creature came running after her, atawdry, painted, dishevelled girl. She stopped Ideala and stoodpanting, with hot dry lips, and eyes full of animal suffering. Herclothes exhaled the smell of some vile scent that was overpowering. Involuntarily Ideala shrank from her, and all the joy left her face. 

"I've run"--the girl gasped--"such a way--they said you'd gone thisroad. I've waited about all day to catch you. Come, for God's sake!"

"But where?"

"There's a girl dying"--and she clutched Ideala's arm, trying to dragher along with her--"or she would die and have done with it, but shecan't till she's seen you. She've something on her mind--something totell you. Come, my lady, come, for the love of the Lord and the BlessedVirgin. No harm'll happen to you. " Ideala made a gesture. "Show me theway, " she said. "But you don't seem able to walk. There's an empty cabcoming. Get in and tell the man where to drive to. "

They stopped at a row of many-storeyed houses in a low by-street. Astout elderly woman with an evil countenance met them at the door. Shebegan some speech in a cringing tone to Ideala, but the tawdry girlpushed her aside rudely. 

"Hold your jaw, and get out of the way, " she said. "I'll show the ladyup. "

The woman muttered something which Ideala fortunately did not hear, andlet them pass. They went upstairs to the very top of the house, andentered a low room, furnished with a broken chair and a small bed only. On the bed lay a girl, who, in spite of disease and approaching death, looked not more than twenty, and was probably two years younger. Sheturned her haggard face to the door as it opened, and a gleam ofsatisfaction caused her eyes to dilate when she saw Ideala. They werelarge dark eyes, but her face was so distorted with suffering anddiscoloured by disease, it was impossible to imagine what it once hadbeen. 

"Here she is, Polly, " said the Tawdry One, triumphantly. "I said I'dbring her, now didn't I?"

Ideala knelt down by the bed. 

"My! but you're a game un!" said the Tawdry One, admiringly. "You ain'tafraid of catching nothing! Now, I'd have asked what was up before I'dhave done that; and I wouldn't touch her with the tongs, nor stay inthe room with her was it ever so. You just holler when you want me andI'll come back. " And so saying she left them. 

"You are not afraid to touch me--you don't mind?" said the dying girlwhen Ideala had taken off her gloves, and knelt, holding her hands. 

"Afraid? Mind?" Ideala whispered, her eyes full of pity. "I only wishyou would let me do something for you. "

At that moment they were startled by an uproar downstairs. A man andwoman were quarrelling at the top of their voices. At first only theirtones were audible, but these grew more distinct, and in a few secondsIdeala could hear what was said, and it was evident that the combatantswere approaching. 

"I tell you the lady's all right, " the woman Ideala had seen downstairswas heard to shriek, with sundry vile epithets. "Polly's dying, andshe've come to visit her. "

"Seein' 's believin', " the man rejoined, doggedly. "Just show me thelady and shut up, you foul-mouthed devil you. "

The door was flung open, and there stood the fat harridan, and toweringover her was a great red-haired policeman, who seemed both relieved andabashed when he saw Ideala. 

"What is the meaning of this?" she said, rising, and drawing herself upindignantly. "Don't you see how ill this girl is? Such an uproar atsuch a time is indecent. "

The woman shrank from her gaze and slunk away. The policeman wiped hishot face with a red handkerchief. 

"I saw the girl fetch you here, ma'am, " he said, apologetically, "and Ithought it was a trap. It ain't safe for a woman, let alone a lady, tocome to no such a place. I'll just wait and see you safe out of it. "

He shut the door, and Ideala heard him walking up and down on thelanding outside. 

The dying girl seemed scarcely conscious of what was passing. Idealalooked round for something to revive her. There was not even a cup ofwater in the room. She knelt once more beside the bed, and raised herin her arms, and let her head rest on her shoulder. All the mother inher was throbbing with tenderness for this poor outcast. The girl drewa long deep sigh. 

"Could you take anything?" Ideala asked. 

"No, lady, not now. The thirst was awful awhile ago, and I cried andcried, although I knew no one would listen to me, or come if theyheard. They'd rather we'd die when we get ill. It's a bad thing for thehouse. " She could only speak in gasps. 

"And what have you had?" Ideala asked. 

"The scarlet fever, ma'am. There's an awful bad kind about, and Icaught it. They all die that gets it. "

Ideala drew her closer, and laid her own cool cheek on her dampforehead. 

"Tell me why you wished to see me, " she said. "You are so good, " thegirl answered--"I thought you'd better know--and get--away from--thatlow brute. " Ideala understood, and would fain have stopped the story, but it seemed a relief to the girl to speak, and so she listened. Itwas the old story, the old story aggravated by every incident thatcould make it more repulsive--and her husband was the hero of it. 

"Shall I go to hell?" the girl asked, shrinking closer. 

"For these Christ died, " Ideala murmured. The words flashed through hermind, and the meaning of them was new to her. Her heart was wrung forthe desolate girl, dying alone in sin and sorrow without a creature tocare for her--dying alone in the arms of a strange woman, with apoliceman outside guarding her. Ideala cried in her heart with anexceeding bitter cry: "God do so to him, and more also. "

"Pray for me, lady. "

But Ideala could not pray with a curse on her lips--and, besides, thepower to pray had been taken from her for many a weary day before that. She thought of the policeman, and called him in. 

"See, she is dying, " she said, looking up at him helplessly; "and shehas asked me to pray, and I can't. Will you?"

And, quite simply and reverently, as if it had been part of hisordinary duty, he took off his helmet and knelt down, a great rough-looking man in a hideous dress, and prayed: "Dear Lord, forgive her!"

They were the last words she heard. 

CHAPTER XX. 

The people seemed to have deserted the house. Even the Tawdry One haddisappeared, and Ideala was obliged to lay out the poor dear girlherself, and make her ready for decent burial. As soon as she couldleave the place she went, escorted by the policeman, to the feverhospital to have her things fumigated. The risk of infection had nottroubled her till she remembered the likelihood of taking it to others, but as soon as she thought of that she took the necessary precautionsto prevent it. She sent a message from the hospital to her maid, telling her to pack up some things and meet her at the station in timefor the mail at eleven o'clock that night. She had thought of somefriends who lived a nine hours' journey from her home, and haddetermined to go to them for a time. 

She wrote to her husband also from the hospital. "The girl, MaryMorris, died of scarlet fever this afternoon in the house to which yousent her when you were tired of her, " she said. "I was with her whenshe died. I am going to the Trelawneys to-night; but at present I haveformed no plans for the future. "

During the first few days of her stay with the Trelawneys she justlived from hour to hour, not thinking of anything, past, present, or tocome; but out of this apathy a desire grew by degrees. She wanted tosee Lorrimer. She could speak to him, and she was sure he would helpand advise her. She wrote to him, telling him she particularly wishedto see him on a certain day, and asking him to meet her at the station, adding by way of postscript: "I do not think I quite know what youmeant when you advised me to go my own way; but if any wrong-doing werepart of the programme I should not be able to carry it out. However, Ifeel sure that you would be the last person in the world to let me dowrong, even if I were inclined to. "

She knew that her husband was away from home, and her intention hadbeen to sleep there that night, and go on to Lorrimer the next morning;but she had been misinformed about the trains, and after many changesand tedious waits, she found herself alone in the middle of the nightat a little railway junction, with no chance of a train to take her onfor several hours; and what was worse, without money enough in herpurse to pay her bill if she went to an hotel. The waiting-rooms wereall closed for the night, and there seemed nothing for it but to wanderabout the station till the train came and released her. She told herdilemma to an old Scotch inspector who was waiting to see what shemeant to do. He gave the matter his best consideration, but itevidently perplexed him. 

"If you was a box, " he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "we couldput you in the left-luggage office. "

"But I am not a box, " Ideala answered, as if only the most positivedenial would prevent mistake on the subject. 

It was raining hard, and bitterly cold. Only part of the platform wasroofed in, and every now and then a gust of wind splashed the raindropsinto their faces as they stood beside Ideala's luggage in a circle ofyellow light cast upwards by a lantern which the inspector had put onthe ground at their feet. 

"There's me and Tom, the porter, " he said at last; "we've got to waitfor the two o'clock down and the four o'clock up. Tom, he'll come 'omeand sit over the kitchen fire with me. I suppose, now, you wouldn'tlike to do that?"

"Indeed I should be very glad to, " Ideala answered; "that is, " sheadded quickly, "if it would not inconvenience you. "

He made an inexplicable gesture, and seemed to consider the mattersettled. 

"I'll just put this here luggage in the office, " he said, shouldering abox and taking up a portmanteau; but he muttered as he went: "It's apity, now, you wasn't luggage. "

Ideala followed him meekly from the luggage-office out into the lane, and down a country path to a little cottage. The door opened into thekitchen, and a young man in a porter's uniform was sitting over acheery fire reading a newspaper by the light of a tallow candle. Thekitchen was large for the size of the house. Besides the door they hadentered by there were two others, both closed. The walls were panelledfrom floor to ceiling with wood darkened by age. Several of the panelswere doors of cupboards that projected slightly from the wall, andshelves had been sunk in flush with it, and placed angle-wise in thecorners. The shelves were covered with old china. There was a row ofbrass candlesticks of good design on the high mantelpiece, and morechina stood behind them. On a panel above the mantelpiece a curiousdesign of dogs and horses in a wood had been carved with much patienceand some skill. The furniture of the place was an old oak tablestanding in the window--the window itself had a deep sill, on whichwas arranged a row of flower-pots, from which a faint perfume came atintervals--a long narrow oak chest, carved and polished, with thedate, 1700, on the side of it, a settle, and a dresser covered withthe ordinary crockery used by poor people. The brick floor was_rudded_ and sanded, the hearthstone was yellow, and the part underthe grate was white. One high-backed old-fashioned chair stood on eachside of the hearth. Tom the Porter was sitting in one of them, and athis elbow was a small round table with a pipe, tobacco jar, and two orthree books upon it. A square table in the middle of the room was laidout for supper, with a dish, two plates, a beer mug, and half a loafof bread. Some potatoes were roasting on the hob. 

"The old woman's asleep, I expects. You'll mind and not make a noise, "the inspector said to Ideala, as if he were warning a child to be good. 

Tom the Porter rose, and gazed at the lady with his mouth open in astate of astonishment that was justified by the time and place of heradvent; but he offered her his chair with the courtesy of a gentleman, and the old inspector bade her make herself at home, which she did byremoving her hat and wraps and taking off her gloves. In a highersphere of life those two men would have stared her out of countenance, but Tom the Porter and the old inspector, not from want ofappreciation, but from the refinement that seems natural to people whocome of an old stock, whatever their station, and have had china andcarved oak in their possession from one generation to another--foreboreeven to look at her lest she should be embarrassed by their curiosity. They did the honours of the house with dignity, and without vulgarapology for a state of things that was natural to them, and Ideala atonce adapted herself to the circumstances, and burnt her fingers whileattending to the baked potatoes, which Tom had somewhat neglected. 

She always declared afterwards that there was nothing so good in theworld as baked potatoes and salt, provided the company was agreeable;and now and then she would thrill us with reminiscences of thatevening's entertainment--with wonderful accounts of railway accidents--and of one in particular that happened on a pitch-dark night when fireshad to be made to light the workers as they toiled fearfully amongstthe wreck of the trains, searching for the mangled and mutilated, thedying and the dead, while the air was filled with horrid shrieks andgroans. 

For it seems these three, when they had finished the baked potatoes, drew their chairs to the fire and talked. And one can well imagine whatIdeala's stories were--her tales of the Japanese with whom she hadlived; of Chinese prisons into which she had peeped; of earthquakes, tornadoes and shipwrecks, and other perils by land and sea, all told ina voice that thrilled you, whatever it said. Tom the Porter and the oldScotch inspector were in luck that night, and they knew it. When atlast it was time for Ideala to go, and in return for her thanks for hiskind hospitality, and the contents of her purse, which had rather morein it than she had fancied, the inspector expressed his appreciationwith an earnest smack. 

"Well, " he said, "you're rare good company. I shan't mind when you comealong this way again. "

The train was late in arriving, and she had only time to rush up to thehouse, change her dress, and return to the station to catch the one bywhich she had asked Lorrimer to meet her. Perhaps it was the thought ofwhat she had come to tell him that made her heart beat nervously as thetrain drew up at her destination, and she leant forward to look for himamong the people on the platform. She looked in vain--he was not there. Something, of course, had happened to detain him; doubtless he had senta message to explain. She waited a little, but nobody appeared to belooking for her. Then she left the station and walked in the directionof the Hospital, thinking he had missed the train, and she shouldprobably meet him on the way. Her nervousness increased as she went. She was not used to be alone in crowded streets, and she began to feelfaint and bewildered. Her heart seemed to stop whenever she saw a fair-headed man, but she reached the Hospital at last, and no Lorrimer hadmet her. 

Then a new fear disturbed her. Perhaps he was ill. She went up to thedoor, and there, just coming out, Lorrimer's secretary met her. 

"I was just coming to meet you, madam, " he said; "I am sorry I am toolate. Mr. Lorrimer has been detained by visitors, and sent me toapologise for his absence. If you will be so good as to come to thelibrary, he will join you there as soon as he is disengaged. "

When she was settled in the library a servant brought her books to her. She had not come to read, but work was the daily habit of her life, andshe went on now, mechanically, but carefully as usual, though with acurious sinking of the heart, and benumbing sense of loss and pain. Asshe came along in the train she had been thinking how it would amuseLorrimer to hear of her night's adventure, and of the relief it wouldbe to tell him of all the other things she had come to tell; but nowshe felt like one bidden to a bridal, and brought to a burial. Peoplewere going and coming continually in the library. A gentleman sat at atable near her, busily writing. Servants went backwards and forwardswith books. Another gentleman came in and looked at her curiously, andthen went away. She began to feel uncomfortable, and wondered what waskeeping Lorrimer so long. She thought, too, of leaving the place atonce, and going back by an earlier train than she had intended, but itwould hardly have been polite. A servant came and told her the librarywas closed to visitors at two. 

"I am waiting for Mr. Lorrimer, " she said. 

"Oh, in that case----" and the man withdrew. The name was an opensesame to all parts of the building. 

At last he came. She rose with a great sense of relief. 

"Let me take your books, " he said. 

"I have done with them, " she answered. 

And without another word he led the way to his own room. 

They took their accustomed seats. 

"I am sorry I could not meet you, " he said. "I hope you do not think merude. Some wretched people turned up at the last moment, and wanted tosee everything. Just look at the room!"

Every cabinet seemed to have been ransacked, and treasures of all kindswere lying about in most admired disorder. Lorrimer looked round himdesperately, and pushed his hat back from his forehead. Ideala smiled. It was so like him to forget he had it on. 

Outside a heavy thundercloud gathered and darkened the room. Presentlybig drops of rain splashed against the window, and it began to lighten. Long claps of thunder rolled and muttered incessantly away in thedistance, and every now and then one would burst directly above them, as it seemed, with splendid effect. 

Lorrimer looked up at the window straight before him, and played with apen; and Ideala, half turning her back to him, sat silent also, watching the storm. 

There were some high houses opposite of which only the upper storeyswere visible. Two children were playing in a dangerous position at anopen window in one of them. Above the houses a strip of sky, heavy anddark and changeful, was all that showed. Ideala felt cold and faint. The long fast and fatigue were beginning to tell upon her. She wasnervous, too; the silence was oppressive, but she could not break it. She felt some inexplicable change in her relations with Lorrimer whichmade it impossible to speak. Furtively she watched him, trying todiscover if he felt it too. The look of age was on his face, and it wasclouded with discontent. Anxiously she sought some sign of sickness toaccount for it. But, no. There was no trace of physical suffering; thetrouble was mental. 

"You are not looking well, " Lorrimer said at last. "I suppose you havebeen starving yourself since I saw you. You have had no lunch to-dayagain. You will kill yourself if you go on like that. I was speakingabout you to a doctor the other day. He said you could not fast as youdo without taking _something_--stimulants or sedatives. " Idealawinced. "What an insulting thing to say, " she exclaimed, indignantly. "I will not allow you to adopt that tone with me. You have no right toscold me. "

"I have, and shall, " he retorted. "I suppose you want to kill yourself. Perhaps it is the best thing people can do who hate their lives. "

"I don't hate my life; I don't want to die, " she rejoined. 

"The other day you said you loathed your life. "

"You are accusing me of inconsistency, " she said. "You! who are in twostates of mind every time I see you!" She got up. "And I _do_ meanwhat I say, " she resumed. "I loathed the old life, but that is donewith. I am living a new life now----"

He turned to look at her, red chasing white from his face at everybreath; then, yielding to an irresistible impulse, he went to her, grasped her folded hands in both of his, and looked into her eyes forone burning moment. The hot blood flamed to her face. She was startled. 

"Don't let us quarrel, " he said, hoarsely. 

"Why do you try to?" she retorted. "It is always you who begin. "

"I think you want pluck, " he said. 

"Oh, no; not that, " she answered. 

"Just now you do. "

"Then I think you want discernment, " she retorted with spirit. 

And so they went on, as if neither of them had ever heard of such athing as conventional propriety. 

Lorrimer did not answer that last remark. He was standing at a littledistance from her, watching her. Ideala was looking grave. 

"What is your conscience troubling you about now?" he asked. "I neverlisten to my conscience. "

"I don't believe you, " she answered, promptly. 

"That is polite, " he observed. 

Then there was another pause. 

"It must be time for me to go, " she said at last. 

The rain was still falling in torrents. 

"Oh, no!" he exclaimed. "You mustn't go yet. Your train does not leavefor another hour. Why do you want to go?"

She was struggling with the button of a glove, and he went to help her, but she repulsed him, half unconsciously, as she would have brushed offa troublesome fly. 

The gesture irritated him. 

"I cannot believe you are not conscientious, " she said, with a frown ofintentness. "When a man of talent ceases to be true, he loses half hispower. "

He turned from her coldly, sat down at the writing table, and began towrite. 

Ideala was still putting on her gloves. 

Outside, the rain fell lightly now, and the clouds were clearing. Thechildren were still playing at the open window of the house opposite. Lorrimer had often been obliged to answer notes when she was there; shethought nothing of that; but he was a long time, and at last sheinterrupted him. "Forgive me if I disturb you, " she said, "but I amafraid I shall miss my train. "

"Oh, pardon me, " he answered, jumping up, and looking at his watch. "But it is not nearly time yet. I cannot understand why you are in sucha hurry to-day. "

"Yet you know that I always go when I have done my work, " she said. 

"You have done unusually early then, " he replied; "and I wish togoodness I had. " He looked round the room pettishly, like a schoolboyout of temper. "I shall have to put all these things away when you'regone--a task I hate, but nobody can do it but myself. "

"Why wait till I've gone? Let me help you, " said Ideala. 

His countenance cleared, and they set to work merrily, he explainingthe curious histories of coins and cameos, of ancient gems, ornamentsof gold and silver, and valuable intaglios, as they returned them totheir places. Both forgot everything in the interest of the collection;so that, when the last tray was completed, they were surprised to findthat two trains had gone while they were busy, and another had becomedue, and there was only time to jump into a hansom to catch it. 

Lorrimer was still irritable. 

"Why on earth does a lady always carry her purse in her hand?" he said, as they drove along. 

Ideala laughed, and put hers in her pocket. 

"When are you coming to go on with your work?" he asked. 

"I will write and fix a day, " she said. 

"I shall be away a good deal for the next three weeks, " he continued. "The twenty-third or twenty-sixth would be the most convenient days forme, if they would suit you. "

"Thank you, " she answered, and hurried down the platform, withouthaving said a word or given a thought to what she had come to say. 

And then at last the twenty-four hours' fasting, fatigue, and mentalsuffering overcame her. A little later she was lying insensible on thefloor of her room, and she was alone. The servants had not seen herenter, and there was not a creature near her to help her. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

Ideala was unable to exert herself for many days after this. At last, however, she began to think of work again, and of Lorrimer. She wasuneasy about him. He had not been himself on that last occasion. Something was wrong, she could not think what, but she felt anxious;and out of her anxiety arose an intense longing to see him again. Soshe wrote, first of all fixing the twenty-third for her visit; but whenthe day came she found herself unequal to the exertion, and wroteagain, begging him to expect her on the twenty-sixth instead. 

He did not reply. He was generally overwhelmed with correspondence, andshe had therefore begged him not to do so if the days she named suitedhim. 

Up to this time she had never heard Lorrimer mentioned by any one; butnow, suddenly, his name seemed to be in everybody's mouth. She thoughtof him incessantly herself, and it was as if the strength of her ownmind compelled all other minds to think of him while she was present, and to yield to her will and tell her all they knew. For, curiouslyenough, she had begun to want to know about him. I call it curious, because she was so confiding so unsuspicious, and also so penetrating, she never seemed to care to know more of people than she learnt fromintercourse with them. But with regard to Lorrimer, she had evidentlybegun to distrust her own judgment, which is significant. 

One night, at a dinner-party, she was thinking of a gratuitous piece ofinformation an old woman, who brought her some milk on one occasion atthe Great Hospital, had given her. Ideala had noticed that the oldwoman had a bad cough, and had asked her, in her usual kindly way, ifshe were subject to it, and what she did for it, remarking that thenorth country air was trying to people with delicate chests, and warmerclothing and greater care were more necessary there than in the south;and thereupon the old woman had launched forth, as such people willupon the slightest provocation, with minute details of her ownsufferings, and the sufferings of all the people she ever knew, from"the bronchitis" during the winter and spring, Mr. Lorrimer beingincluded among the number. 

"Does Mr. Lorrimer suffer in that way?" Ideala had asked with interest. 

"Indeed, yes, " was the answer, given with many shakings of the headand that air of importance and pleasure which vulgar bearers of badnews assume. "He was very bad in the spring. He coughed so as neverwas, and had to give in at last and keep his room, which he shouldhave done at first; but it takes a deal to make him give in, for hetakes no care of hisself though not strong, and we _were_ in a way!Eh! but it would be a bad thing for this place if anything happened toMr. Lorrimer!" Ideala gave the woman half-a-crown. 

"People may have bronchitis without being delicate, " she asserted. "Mr. Lorrimer is very kind to all of you, I suppose?" "If I was to tell youall his good deeds, ma'am, " the woman said, impressively, "I'd not havedone before to-morrow morning. But as to his not being delicate, " shecontinued--in the hope, perhaps, of scoring another on that point--"why, it just depends on what you call delicate. "

Ideala absently gave her another half-crown, and another after that, but she could not get her to say that Mr. Lorrimer's chest was strong. Later, when Lorrimerre turned, and they were both at work, he wasinterrupted in the middle of some cynical remarks on over-population, and the good it would do to check it by allowing the spread ofepidemics and encouraging men to kill each other, by the arrival ofanother old woman in great distress. 

His manner changed in a moment. "I am afraid he is worse, " he said toher most kindly. 

She could only shake her head. 

"There is the order, " he went on, giving her a paper--"get him thesethings at once, and tell him I will come as soon as I am disengaged. "

When they were alone again, Ideala looked at Lorrimer and laughed. "Another instance, I shrewdly suspect, of the difference between theoryand practice, " she observed. 

He brushed his hand back over his forehead and hair, a trifledisconcerted. "He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow, "he said. 

"And one can approve of capital punishment without having the nerve tosee it inflicted, I suppose, " Ideala commented, "and be convinced thatit would be good for the human race to have a certain number of theirchildren drowned, like kittens, every year, and yet not be able to seea single one disposed of in that way without risking one's own life tosave it. Verily, I have heard this often, and yet I think I am moresurprised to find it true than if I had never been warned! But that isalways the way. Things surprise us just as much as we expect them to. When we went up the river to Canton and saw the Pagoda, we allexclaimed, 'Why, it is just like the pictures--river, and junks, andall!' If we had not seen the pictures I believe we should scarcely havenoticed it, and certainly we should not have been surprised at all. "

"Haven't you done being surprised yet?" Lorrimer asked. 

"No. Have you?"

"Quite. Nothing ever surprises me. "

"I have read somewhere, " she said, trying hard to recall the passage, "that fast men, stupid men (_I think_), and rascals, profess tofeel no surprise at anything. "

The colour flew over his face, he seemed about to speak, but took uphis pen again as if the thing were not worth the trouble of a word, and went on with his work. The habit of treating men as ideas is notto be got rid of in a moment, and it was only when she thought it overat dinner this evening that she saw anything to hurt him in what shehad said. Now that she did think of it, however, it certainly seemednatural that he should object to being classed in any category whichincluded fast men, stupid men, or rascals; but even while she blamedherself, and credited him with much forbearance in that he had allowedher rudeness to pass unpunished, she was conscious of the existence, in that substratum of thought which goes on continually irrespectiveof our will, of a doubt as to whether he might not after all be one ofthese--say, a fast man. For what _did_ she know about him? Nothing, except that his manners were agreeable. True, she had heard of hisgood deeds, and there is never smoke without fire; but a man maybalance his accounts, and many men do, in that way, topping up thescale of good deeds pretty high when the bad ones on the other sidethreaten to turn it; and, seeing that she knew nothing definitelyabout his private character, suppose she had been deceived in him?But, no! The thing was impossible. And just as she thought it, agentleman, sitting opposite, one whom she had not met before, lookedacross the table and asked her if she knew Mr. Lorrimer. 

"I have seen him, " she answered, with a burning blush, being takenunawares. 

"He's a charming fellow--don't you think so?"

"Yes, I think so, " she agreed, with an indescribable sense of relief. 

And the next day a young clergyman whom she stopped to speak to in thestreet began at once about Lorrimer. "I met him at dinner the othernight, " he said. "I suppose you know him? There is much truth in 'birdsof a feather. ' He fascinated us all with his talk of art andliterature. He gave us such new ideas--described such variedexperiences, and all with such grace and power. "

"Yes, " she answered, thoughtfully. "I believe he is brilliant. "

"Many people are that, " was the reply, given with hearty enthusiasm;"but Lorrimer is something more. He is good. He makes you feel it, andknow it, and believe in him, without ever saying a word about himself. "

"Ah!" she sighed, "there is power in that. What lovely summer weather!It makes me dream. Don't you love the time of nasturtiums? Theirpungent scent, and their colours? They seem to penetrate and glowthrough everything, and make the time their own. "

And so she left him. 

But that same day, an old gentleman, who came from another county, andlooked as if he had come from another century--an old gentleman withcurious wavy hair, parted in the middle, who worshipped the Idol ofDays--the past and all that belonged to it--and, for evening dress, wore knee-breeches, frilled shirt, black silk stockings, and diamondbuckles in his shoes; and had a bijou house, filled with a thousandrelics of his Idol of Days, where noble ladies were wont to loll andlisten to him, and drink tea out of his wonderful cups, and love him--so it was said--this gentleman called on Ideala. He came to charm andto be charmed; and he, of all people in the world the one from whom shewould least have expected it, although she knew they had met, began tosing Lorrimer's praises. 

"He raises the tone of everything he is engaged upon, " this gentlemansaid. "He has not quite kept faith with me about a matter he promisedto look into for me a year ago, but doubtless he is busy. I suppose youknow him?"

"Yes, I know him. He seems to be very much above the average. "

"Oh, very much above the average, " was the warm response. "He's acharming fellow, and a thoroughly good fellow, too. "

This was the chorus to everything, and there was only one dissentientvoice--that of a man who admired Ideala, and was a good soul himself, having gone out of his way to pay her trifling attentions, and evenfound occasion to do her some small acts of kindness. He began with therest to praise Lorrimer, but when he saw he was doing so at his ownexpense, by diverting her attention from himself to his subject, hesomewhat lowered his tone. 

"Every one seems to like Mr. Lorrimer, " Ideala said. 

"O yes, he's certainly a nice fellow; but he puts a lot of side on. "

"And well he may, being so very good and well-beloved, " she answered, smiling. 

"So spoilt and conceited, you might say, " was the rejoinder; but shefelt that there was jealousy in the tone, and only laughed. 

"What an interesting face he has, " a lady remarked, who was having teawith Ideala, _tete-a-tete_, one afternoon, and had brought theconversation round to Lorrimer, as seemed inevitable in those days. "Hemust make a charming portrait. "

"Yes, it is a fine face, " Ideala answered, dreamily--"a face for a bustin white marble; a face from out of the long ago--not Greek, but Roman--of the time when men were passing from a strong, simple, manly, into aluxuriously effeminate, self-indulgent stage; the face of a man who ismidway between the two extremes, and a prey to the desires of both. Iwish I had been his mother. "

"His mother was a noble woman. "

"I know; but she was not omniscient, and she never could haveunderstood the boy. I daresay he was not enough of an ugly duckling toattract special attention, and with many other chicks in the brood hecould not have more than the rest, and yet he required it. He ought tohave been an only child. If he had been mine, I should have known whathis dreaminess meant, why he loved to wander away and be alone; whatwas the conflict that began in his cradle--or earlier. Surely a mothermust remember what there was in her mind to influence her child; shemust have the key to all that is wrong in him; she must know if hissoul is likely to be at war with his senses. " And then Ideala forgother listener, and burst out with one of those curious flashes ofinsight, irrespective of all knowledge, to which she was subject: "If Iwere only a soul to be saved, he would save me; but I am also a body tobe loved, and whether he loves me or not, he suffers. It is the eternalconflict of mind and matter, spirit and flesh, two prisoners chainedtogether--the one despising the other, yet ruled by him, andsubservient to the needs of his lower nature. "

The lady stared at her. 

"You know Mr. Lorrimer very well, then, I suppose?" she remarked. 

"Let me see, " said Ideala, awaking from her trance, "that is a questionI often ask myself. And sometimes I say I _do_ know him very well, and sometimes I say I don't. I go to the Great Hospital frequently toread, and to look up information, and he helps me. He is a man whomakes an instant impression, but he is many-sided, and, now you ask me, I think on the whole that I do not know him well. I should not besurprised to hear any number of the most contradictory things abouthim. "

"It is not a nice character to have, " the lady said. 

"No, " Ideala answered, "not at all nice, but very interesting. "

When at last the day arrived she felt an unusual impatience to see him. And she was in a strange flutter of nervous excitement. Should she tellhim of those things which she had not been able to confide to him onthe last occasion of their meeting? Could she? No; impossible! But shemust see him, nevertheless. The desire was imperative. 

The servant she had been accustomed to see met her at the door of theGreat Hospital. She fancied he looked at her peculiarly. He said he hadheard something about Mr. Lorrimer being absent that day, but he wouldinquire. He left her, and, returning in a few minutes, told her Mr. Lorrimer was not there. 

"Did he leave no note, no message for me?" Ideala asked, faintly. 

"No, madam, nothing, " was the reply. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

For quite three months we heard nothing of Ideala, but we were notalarmed, as she often neglected us in this way when she was busy. Atlast, however, Claudia received a note from her, written in pencil, andin her usual style. 

"It has been dull down here to a degree, " she said. "I am beginning tothink we are all too respectable. Are respectability and imbecilitynearly allied, I wonder? But don't tell me; I don't want to know. Allthe trouble in the world comes from knowing too much. And then, I'm sodreadfully clever! If people take the trouble to explain things to me, I am sure to acquire some of the information they try to impart. Iheard of the block system the other day. It sounded mysterious. I likemystery, and I went about in daily dread of having it all made plain tome by some officious person. One day I was sitting on a rail above theline watching the trains. A workman came and sat down near me. It isvery hard to have a workman sit down near you and not to talk to him, so we talked. And before I knew what was coming, he had explained thewhole of that block system to me. Only fancy! and I may never forgetit! It is quite disheartening. 

"He said he was a pointsman, and I asked him if he would send a traindown a wrong line for fifty pounds. He said fifty pounds was a largesum, and he had a mother depending on him! The people here aredelicious. I think I shall write a book about them some day. 

"Have you felt the fascination of the trains? My favourite seat here isa lovely spot just above where they pass. I can look down on them, andinto them. The line winds, rather, through meadows and between banks, where wild flowers grow; and under an ivied bridge or two, and by somewoods. And the trains rush past--some slow, some fast; and now and thencomes one that is just a flash and roar, and I cling to the railing fora moment till it passes, and quiver with excitement, feeling as if Imust be swept away. I look at the carriage windows, too, trying tocatch a glimpse of the people, and I always hope to see a face I know. In that lies all the charm. 

"I seem to be expected in town, and some Scotch friends have asked meto pay them a visit _en route_. I should like to go that way aboveeverything; one would see so much more of the country! But I daren't goto London while the Bishop is there. He is making a dead set at meagain (confirmation this time), and I am afraid if he heard of myarrival he would do something rash--dance down the Row in his gaiters, perhaps--which might excite comment even if people knew what he wasafter. "

And then she went on to say she had been a little out of sorts, andvery lazy, and she thought the north country air would brace hernerves, and, if we would have her, she would like to go to us at once. 

She arrived late one afternoon, and I did not see her until she camedown to the drawing-room dressed for dinner. 

I had not thought anything of her illness, she made so light of it, andI was therefore startled beyond measure when she appeared. 

"Why, my dear!" I exclaimed, involuntarily, "what have they done toyou? You're a perfect wreck!"

"Well, so _I_ thought, " she answered; "but I did not like to tellyou. I was afraid you might think I was trying to make much of myself--wrecks are so interesting. "

There was a large party staying in the house, and I had no opportunityof speaking to her that evening; but the next morning she came into mystudio with a brave assumption of her old manner. I cannot tell how itwas that I knew in a moment she had broken down, but I did know it, andI could only look at her. Perhaps something in my look showed her shehad betrayed herself, for all at once her false composure forsook her, and she stretched out her hands to me with a piteous little gesture:

"What am I to do?" she said. "Will it always be like this?"

But I could not help her. I turned to the picture I was working at, andwent on painting without a word. By-and-by she recovered herself, andbegan to talk of other things. 

I blamed myself afterwards. I ought to have let her tell me then; but Ihad no notion of the truth. I only thought of her husband, and Iselfishly shrank from encouraging her to speak. Complaint seemed to bebeneath her. But I know now that she never wanted to make any complaintof him to me. It was of her new acquaintance that she longed to tellme. She had settled the difficulty with her husband without consultingany one. She had returned to his house, and remained there as his wife, nominally, and because he particularly wished that the world shouldknow nothing of the rupture. I believe that she had done it sorely againstthe grain, and only because he represented that by so doing she wouldsave his reputation. But from that time forward she would accept nothingfrom him but house-room, for she held that no high-minded woman couldtake anything from a man to whom she was bound by no tie more sacredthan that of a mere legal contract. 

She was very quiet when she first came to us, but beyond that I noticednothing unusual in her manner, and after the first I was inclined tothink that being out of health accounted for everything. My sisterClaudia, however, was not so easily deceived. She declared that Idealawas suffering from some serious trouble, either mental or bodily; andas the days wore on and there was no change for the better in her, butrather the contrary, I began to share Claudia's anxiety. Ideala grewpaler and thinner, and more nervous. She was oftenest depressed, butoccasionally had unnatural bursts of hilarity that would end suddenlyin long fits of brooding. 

It seems she had at first believed that Lorrimer's absence was anintentional slight, and the humiliation, coming as it did upon the longtrain of troubles which had weakened her already both in body and mind, nearly killed her. She had been lying for weeks between life and death, and we had known nothing of it. But as her strength returned she beganto think she had been unjust to Lorrimer. She could account for hisabsence in many ways. He had been called out suddenly, and had left nomessage because he expected to be back before she arrived, but had beendetained; or perhaps he had left a message with one of the servantswhom she had not seen--there were so many about the place; or it wasjust possible that he had never received her letter at all--a certainnumber are lost in the post every day; and altogether it was moredifficult to think badly of him than to believe that there had beensome mistake. But still there was a doubt in her mind, and she bore thetorment of it rather than ask for an explanation which might onlyconfirm her worst fears. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

About a month after she came to us, Ideala caught a bad cold. Thedoctor said her chest was very delicate. There was no disease, but sherequired great care, and must not go out of doors. Soon afterwards heordered her to remain in two rooms, and my sister had a favouritesitting-room turned into a bedroom for her. It opened into the bluedrawing-room, and we took to sitting there in the evening, so thatIdeala might join us without change of temperature. Ideala had alwaysbeen careless about her health, and we expected some trouble with hernow, but she acquiesced in all our arrangements without a word. It waseasy to see, however, that her docility arose from indifference. Theone idea possessed her, and she cared for nothing else. Did he, or didhe not, mean it? was the question she asked herself, morning, noon, andnight, till at last she could bear it no longer. Anything was betterthan suspense. She must write to him, she must know the truth one wayor the other. 

I had stayed up in the blue drawing-room to read one night after therest of the party had gone to their rooms, but my mind wandered fromthe book. Ideala had been very still that evening, and I could not helpthinking about her. Once or twice I had caught her looking at meintently. It seemed as if she had something to say, but when I went tospeak to her she answered quite at random. I was much troubled abouther, and something happened presently which did not tend to set my mindat rest. The room was large, and the fire, though bright, and oneshaded lamp standing on a low table, left the greater part of it inshadow. When I gave up the attempt to read, I had gone to the fartherend of it to lie on a sofa which was quite in the shade. About midnightthe door into Ideala's room opened and she stood on the threshold witha loose white wrapper round her. She could not see me, and I ought tohave spoken and let her know I was there, but I was startled at firstby her sudden appearance, and afterwards I was afraid of startling her. She was so nervous and fragile then that a very little might have ledto serious consequences. I did not like to play the spy, but it was achoice of two evils, and I thought she had come for a book orsomething, and would go directly, and if she did discover me she wouldsuppose me to be asleep. She walked about the room, however, for alittle in an objectless way; then she sank down on the floor with a lowmoan beside a chair, and hid her face on her arm. Presently she lookedup, and I saw she held something in her hand. It was a gold crucifix, and she fixed her eyes on it. The lamplight fell on her face, and Icould see that it was drawn and haggard. Claudia had maintainedlatterly that her illness arose more from mental than from physicaltrouble; did this explain it? And was it a religious difficulty?

A weary while she remained in the same attitude, gazing at thecrucifix; but evidently there was no pity for her pain, and no relief. She neither prayed nor wept, and scarcely moved; and I dared not. Atlast, however, a great drowsiness came over me; and when I awoke Ialmost thought I had dreamt it all, for the daylight was streaming in, and I was alone. 

Later in the day when I saw Ideala she had just finished writing aletter. 

"Shall I take it down for you?" I asked. "The man will come for theothers presently. "

She handed it to me without a word. On the way downstairs I saw that itwas addressed to Lorrimer, of whom I had not then heard, but somehow Icould not help thinking that this letter had something to do with whatI had seen the night before. 

For a day or two after that Ideala seemed better. Then she grewrestless, which was a new phase of her malady; she had been so stillbefore; and soon it was evident that she was devoured by anxiety whichshe could not conceal. I felt sure she was expecting someone, orsomething, that never came. For days she wandered up and down, up anddown, and she neither ate nor slept. 

One afternoon I went to ask if she had any letters for the post. Atfirst she said she had not, then she wanted to know how soon the postwas going. In a few minutes, I told her. She sat down on the impulse ofthe moment, and hurriedly wrote a note, which she handed to me. It wasaddressed to Lorrimer; but I asked no questions. 

Two days afterwards a single letter came by the post for Ideala. I tookit to her myself, and saw in a moment that it was what she had waitedfor so anxiously: the cruel suspense was over at last. 

That evening she was radiant; but she told us she must go home nextday, and we were thunderstruck. It was the depth of winter; the weatherwas bitterly cold, and she had not been out of the house for months, and under the circumstances to take such a journey was utter madness. But we remonstrated in vain. She was determined to go, and she went. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

In a few days she returned to us, and we were amazed at the change inher. Her voice was clear again, her step elastic, her complexion hadrecovered some of its brilliancy; there was a light in her eyes that Ihad never seen there before, and about her lips a perpetual smilehovered. She was tranquil again, and self-possessed; but she was morethan that--she was happy. One could see it in the very poise of herfigure when she crossed the room. 

"This is delightful, is it not?" Claudia whispered to me in thedrawing-room on the evening of her return. 

"Delightful, " I answered; but I was puzzled. Ideala's variableness wasall on the surface, and I felt sure that this sudden change, whichlooked like ease after agony, meant something serious. 

She did not keep me long in suspense. The next morning she came to mystudio door and looked in shyly. 

"Come in, " I said. "I have been expecting you, " and then I went on withmy painting. I saw she had something to tell me, and thought, as shewas evidently embarrassed, it would be easier for her to speak if I didnot look at her. "I hope you are going to stay with us some time now, Ideala, " I added, glancing up at her as she came and looked over myshoulder at the picture. 

Her face clouded. "I--I am afraid not, " she answered, hesitating, andnervously fidgeting with some paint brushes that lay on a table besideher. 

"I am afraid you will not want me when you know what I am going to do. I only came back to tell you. "

My heart stood still. "To tell me! Why, what are you going to do?"

"It is very hard to tell you, " she faltered. "You and Claudia are mydearest friends, and I cannot bear to give you pain. But I must tellyou at once. It is only right that you should know--especially as youwill disapprove. "

I turned to look at her, but she could not meet my eyes. 

"Give us pain! Disapprove!" I exclaimed. "What on earth do you mean, Ideala? What are you going to do?"

"An immoral thing, " she answered. 

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, throwing down my palette, and rising toconfront her. "I don't believe it. "

"I mean, " she stammered--the blood rushing into her face and thenleaving her white as she spoke--"something which you will consider so. 

"I cannot believe it, " I reiterated. 

"But it is true. He says so. "

"_He_--who, in God's name?"

"Lorrimer. "

"And who on earth is Lorrimer?"

"That is what I came to tell you, " she answered, faintly. 

I gathered up my palette and brushes, and sat down to my easel again. 

"Tell me, then, " I said, as calmly as I could. 

I pretended to paint, and after a little while, still standing behindme so that I could not see her face, she began in a low voice, and toldme, with her habitual accuracy, all that had passed between them. 

"And what did you think when you found he was not there?" I asked, forat that point she had stopped. 

"At first I thought he did not want to see me, and had gone away onpurpose, " she answered; "then I was ill; but after that, when I beganto get better, I was afraid I had been unjust to him. There might havebeen some mistake, and I was half inclined to go and see, but I wasfrightened. And every day the longing grew, and I used to sit and lookat my watch, and think--'I could be there in an hour;' or, 'I might bewith him in forty minutes. ' But I never went. And after a while Icould not bear it any longer, and so I came to you. But the thought ofhim came with me, and the desire to know the truth grew and grew, until at last I could bear that no longer either, and then I wrote;and day after day I waited, and no answer came; and then I was sure hehad done it on purpose, but yet I could not bear to think it of him. And I began not to know what people said when they spoke to me, and Ithink I should have killed myself; but I come of an old race, youknow, and none of us ever did a cowardly thing, and I would rathersuffer for ever than be the first--_noblesse oblige_. I don't deservemuch credit for that, though, for I knew I should die if I did not seehim again--die of grief, and shame, and humiliation because of what Ihad written, for as the days passed, and no answer came, I was afraidI had said too much, and he had misunderstood me, and would despiseme. If I had only been sure that he did not want to see me again, ofcourse I should never have written; but so many people have lost theironly chance of happiness because they had not the courage to find outthe truth in some such doubtful matter; and I _did_ believe in him so--I could not think he would do a _low_ thing. I was in a difficultposition, and I did what I thought was right; but when no answer cameto my letter I began to doubt, and then in a moment of rage, feelingmyself insulted, I wrote again. Yet I don't know what made me write. It was an impulse--the sort of thing that makes one scream when one ishurt. It does no good, but the cry is out before you can think ofthat. All I said was: 'I understand your silence. You are cruel andunjust. But I can keep my word, and if I live for nothing else, Ipromise that I will make you respect me yet. ' I never expected him toanswer that second note, but he did, at once. And he offered to comehere and explain--he was dreadfully distressed. But I preferred to goto him. "

"And you went?"

"Yes. And I was frightened, and he was very kind. "

By degrees she told me much of what had passed at that interview. Sheseemed to have had no thought of anything but her desire to see him, and have her mind set at rest, until she found herself face to facewith him, and then she was assailed by all kinds of doubts and fears;but he had put her at her ease in five minutes--and in five minutesmore she had forgotten everything in the rapid change of ideas, thedelightful intellectual contest and communion, which had made hiscompanionship everything to her. She did just remember to ask him whyhe had not answered her first letter. 

He searched about amongst a pile of newly-arrived documents on hiswriting table. "There it is, " he said, showing her the letter coveredwith stamps and postmarks. "It only arrived this morning--just in time, though, to speak for itself. I was abroad when you wrote, and it wassent after me, and has followed me from place to place as you see, sothat I got your second letter first. You might have known there wassome mistake. "

"Pardon me, " Ideala answered. "I ought to have known. "

And then she had looked up at him and smiled, and never another doubthad occurred to her. 

"But, Ideala, " I said to her, "you used the word 'immoral' just now. You were talking at random, surely? You are nervous. For heaven's sakecollect yourself, and tell me what all this means. "

"No, I am not nervous, " she answered. "See! my hand is quite steady. Itis you who are trembling. I am calm now, and relieved, because I havetold you. But, oh! I am so sorry to give you pain. "

"I do not yet understand, " I answered, hoarsely. 

"He wants me to give up everything, and go to him, " she said; "but hewould not accept my consent until he had explained, and made meunderstand exactly what I was doing. 'The world will consider it animmoral thing, ' he said, 'and so it would be if the arrangement werenot to be permanent. But any contract which men and women hold to bebinding on themselves should be sufficient now, and will be sufficientagain, as it used to be in the old days, provided we can show goodcause why any previous contract should be broken. You must believethat. You must be thoroughly satisfied now. For if your conscience wereto trouble you afterwards--your troublesome conscience which keeps youbusy regretting nearly everything you do, but never warns you in timeto stop you--if you were to have any scruples, then there would be nopeace for either of us, and you had better give me up at once. '"

"And what did you say, Ideala?"

"I said, perhaps I had. I was beginning to be frightened again. "

"And how did it end?"

"He made me go home and consider. "

"Yes. And what then?" I demanded impatiently. 

"And next day he came to me--to know my decision--and--and--I wassatisfied. I cannot live without him. " I groaned aloud. What was I tosay? What could I do? An arrangement of this sort is carefullyconcealed, as a rule, by the people concerned, and denied ifdiscovered; but here were a lady and gentleman prepared, not only totake the step, but to justify it--under somewhat peculiarcircumstances, certainly--and carefully making their friends acquaintedwith their intention beforehand, as if it were an ordinary engagement. I knew Ideala, and could understand her being over-persuaded. Somethingof the kind was what I had always feared for her. But, Lorrimer--whatsort of a man was he? I own that I was strongly prejudiced against himfrom the moment she pronounced his name, and all she had told me of himsubsequently only confirmed the prejudice. 

"Why was he not there that day to receive you?" I asked at last. 

"I don't know, " she said. "I quite forgot about that. And I suppose heforgot too, " she added, "since he never told me. "

"Oh, Ideala!" I exclaimed, "how like you that is! It is most importantthat you should know whether he intended to slight you on that occasionor not. It is the key to his whole action in this matter. "

"But supposing he did mean to be rude? I should have to forgive him, you know, because I have been rude to him--often. He does not approveof my conduct always, by any means, " she placidly assured me. 

"And does he, of all people in the world, presume to sit in judgmenton you?" I answered, indignantly. "I always thought _you_ the mostextraordinary person in the world, Ideala, until I heard of this--_gentleman_. "

"Hush!" she protested, as if I had blasphemed. "You must not speak ofhim like that. He _is_ a gentleman--as true and loyal as you areyourself. And he is everything to me. "

But these assurances were only what I had expected from Ideala, and inno way altered my opinion of Mr. Lorrimer. I knew Ideala's peculiarconscience well. She might do what all the world would consider wrongon occasion; but she would never do so until she had persuaded herselfthat wrong was right--for _her_ at all events. 

"He may be everything to you, but he has lowered you, Ideala, " Iresumed, thinking it best not to spare her. 

"I was degraded when I met him. "

"Circumstances cannot degrade us until they make us act unworthily, " Irejoined. 

"Oh, no, he has not lowered me, " she persisted; "quite the contrary. Ihave only begun to know the difference between right and wrong since Imet him, and to understand how absolutely necessary for our happinessis right-doing, even in the veriest trifle. And there is one thing thatI must always be grateful to him for--I can pray now. But I beliedmyself to him nevertheless. He asked me if I ever prayed, and I wasshy; I could not tell him, because I only prayed for him. It was easierto say that sometimes I reviled. Ah! why can we not be true toourselves?"

"But I can't always pray, " she went on sorrowfully; "only sometimes;generally when I am in church. The thought of him comes over me then, and a great longing to have him beside me, kneeling, with his heartmade tender, and his soul purified and uplifted to God as mine is, possesses me--a longing so great that it fills my whole being, andfinds a voice: 'My God! my God! give him to me!'"

"'Angels of God in heaven! give him to me! give him to me!'" Ianswered, bitterly. 

"Yes, I remember, " she rejoined, "I said it in my arrogant ignorance. Idid not understand, and this is different. "

"It is always _different_ in our own case, " I answered. "Do youremember that passage Ralph Waldo Emerson quotes from Lord Bacon:'Moral qualities rule the world, but at short distances the senses aredespotic'? it seems to me that when you call upon God in that spirityou are worshipping Him with your senses only. "

"Then I believe it is possible to make the senses the means of savingthe soul at critical times, " she answered; "and at all events I knowthis, that I more earnestly desire to be a good woman now than I everdid before. "

"It would be a dangerous doctrine, " I began. 

"Only in cases where the previous moral development had not been of ahigh order, " she interrupted. I felt it was useless to pursue that partof the subject, so I waited a little, and then I said: "Am I tounderstand, then, that you are going to give up your position insociety, and all your friends, for the sake of this one man, whoprobably does not care for you, who certainly does not respect you, andof whom you know nothing? Verily, he has gained an easy victory! But, of course, you know now what his object has been from the first. "

"I know what you mean, " she answered, indignantly; "but you are quitewrong; he does care for me. And if I give up my position in society forhis sake, he is worth it, and I am content. And it is my own doing, too. I know that there cannot be one law for me and another for all theother women in the world, and if I break through a social convention Iam prepared to abide by the consequences. Do you want to make mebelieve that his sympathy was pretended, that he deliberately planned--something I have no word to express--and would have carried out hisplan absolutely in cold blood, without a spark of affection for me? Itwould be hard to believe it of any man; it is impossible to believe itof him. He is a man of strong passions, if you will, but of noblepurpose; and if I make a sacrifice for him, he will be making one forme also. He may have been betrayed at times by grief, or other mentalpain, which weakened his moral nature for the moment, and left him atthe mercy of bad impulses; but I can believe such impulses wereisolated, and any action they led him into was bitterly repented of;and no one will ever make me alter my conviction that I wronged himwhen I doubted him, even for a moment. "

"This is all very well, Ideala, " I said, trying not to irritate her bydirect opposition, "if you appeared to him as you appear to me. Do youthink you did? Was there anything in your conduct that might have givenhim a low estimate of your character to begin with? Anything that mighthave led him to doubt your honesty, and think, when you made yourconfession, that you were trying to get up a little play in which youintended him to take a leading part? That you merely wished to easeyour mind from some inevitable sense of shame in wrong-doing by findingan excuse for yourself to begin with--an excuse by which you wouldexcite his interest and sympathy, and save yourself from his contempt?"

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "could he--could any one--think such a thingpossible?"

"Such things are being done every day, Ideala, and a man of the worldwould naturally be on his guard against deception. If he thought he wasbeing deceived, do you think it likely he would feel bound to bescrupulous?"

"But he _did_ believe in me, " she declared, passionately. 

"He pretended to; it was part of the play. You see he only kept it upuntil he thoroughly understood you, and then his real feelingsappeared, and he was rude to you. For I call his absence on thatoccasion distinctly rude, and intentionally so too, since he sent noapology. "

"He was only rude to me to save me from myself, then, as Lancelot wasrude to Elaine, " she answered. 

"Or is it not just possible that he was disappointed when he found youbetter than he had supposed? that he felt he had wasted his time fornothing, and was irritated----"

She interrupted me. "I forgive you, " she said, "because you do not knowhim. But I shall never convince you. You are prejudiced. You do notthink ill of me: why do you think ill of him?"

I made no answer, and she was silent for a little. Then she beganagain, recurring to the point at issue:

"If he did slight me on that occasion, " she said--"and I maintain thathe did not--but if he did, it was accidentally done. "

"The evidence is against him, " I answered, drily. 

"Many innocent persons have suffered because it was, " she said, withconfidence. 

"You are infatuated, " I answered, roughly. And then my heart sent up anexceeding great and bitter cry: "Ideala! Ideala! how did it ever cometo this?"

She was silent. But her eyes were bright once more, her figure waserect, there was new life in her--I could see that--and never a doubt. She was satisfied. She was happy. 

"Must I give you up?" she said at last, tentatively. 

"No, you must give him up, " I answered. 

"Ah, that is impossible!" she cried. "We were made for each other. Wecannot live apart. "

"Ideala, " I exclaimed, exasperated, "he never believed in you. Hethought you were as so many women of our set are, and he showed it, ifonly you could have understood, when you saw him at the Hospital onthat last occasion. You felt that there was some change, as you sayyourself, and that was it. You talked to him of truth then, and itirritated him as the devil quoting Scripture might be supposed toirritate; and when you went back again he showed what he thought of youby his unexplained absence. He thought you were not worthconsideration, and he gave you none. "

"It would have been paying himself a very poor compliment if he hadthought that only a corrupt woman could care for him, " she answered, confidently. "But, I tell you, I am sure there is some satisfactoryexplanation of that business. I only wish I had remembered to ask forit, that I might satisfy you now. And, at any rate, " she added, "whatever he may have thought, he knows better by this time. "

I could say no more. Baffled and sick at heart, I left her, wonderingif some happy inspiration would come before it was too late, and helpme to save her yet. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

I went to consult my sister Claudia. The blow was a heavy one for heralso; but I was surprised to find that she did not share my contemptfor the person whom I considered responsible for all this trouble. 

"Ideala is no common character herself, " Claudia argued; "and it isn'tlikely that a common character would fascinate her as this man hasdone. "

"Will you speak to her, Claudia, and see what your influence will do?"

"It is no use my speaking to her, " she answered, disconsolately. "Ideala is a much cleverer woman than I am. She would make me laugh atmy own advice in five minutes. And, besides, if she be infatuated, asyou say she is, she will be only too glad to be allowed to talk abouthim, and that will strengthen her feeling for him. No. She has chosenyou for her confidant, and you had better talk to her yourself--and mayyou succeed!" she added, laying her head on the table beside which shewas sitting, and giving way to a burst of grief. 

I tried to comfort her, but I had little hope myself, and I could notspeak at all confidently. 

"I believe, " Claudia said, before we parted, "that there is nothing forher now but a choice of two evils. If she gives him up she will nevercare for anything again, and if she does not, she will have done anunjustifiable thing; and life after that for such a woman as Idealawould be like one of those fairy gifts which were bestowed subject tosome burdensome condition that made the good of them null and void. "

I did not meet Ideala again until the evening, and then I was not sorryto see that her manner was less serene. It was just possible that shehad been thinking over what I had said, and that some of the doubts Ihad suggested were beginning to disturb her perfect security. 

After dinner she brought the conversation round to those social lawswhich govern our lives arbitrarily. I did not see what she was drivingat, neither did the good old Bishop, who was one of the party, nor alawyer who was also present. 

"You want to know something, " said the latter. "What is it? You muststate your case clearly. "

"I want to know if a thing can be legally right and morally wrong, "Ideala answered. 

"Of course not, " the Bishop rashly asserted. 

"That depends, " the lawyer said, cautiously. 

"If I signed a contract, " Ideala explained, "and found out afterwardsthat those who induced me to become a party to it had kept me inignorance of the most important clause in it, so that I really did notknow to what I was committing myself, would you call that a moralcontract?"

"I should say that people had not dealt uprightly with you, " the Bishopanswered; "but there might be nothing in the clause to which you couldobject. "

"But suppose there _was_ something in the clause to which I verystrongly objected, something of which my conscience disapproved, something that was repugnant to my whole moral nature; and suppose Iwas forced by the law to fulfil it nevertheless, should you say thatwas a moral contract? Should you not say that in acting against myconscience I acted immorally?"

We all fell into the trap, and looked an encouraging assent. 

"And in that case, " she continued, "I suppose my duty would be to evadethe law, and act on my conscience?"

The Bishop looked puzzled. 

"I should only be doing what the early martyrs had to do, " she added. 

"That is true, " he rejoined, with evident relief. 

"But I don't see what particular contract you are thinking of, " saidthe lawyer. 

"The marriage contract, " Ideala answered, calmly. 

This announcement created a sensation. 

The lawyer laughed: the Bishop looked grave. 

"Oh, but you cannot describe marriage in that way, " he declared, withemphasis. 

"Humph!" the lawyer observed, meditatively. "I am afraid I must beg todiffer from your Lordship. Many women might describe their marriages inthat way with perfect accuracy. "

"Marriages are made in heaven!" the Bishop ejaculated, feebly. 

"Let us hope that some are, dear Bishop. " Claudia sweetly observed, andall the married people in the room looked "Amen" at her. 

"I think an ideal of marriage should be fixed by law, and lecturesgiven in all the colleges to teach it, " Ideala went on; "and a standardof excellence ought to be set up for people to attain to before theycould be allowed to marry. They should be obliged to pass examinationson the subject, and fit themselves for the perfect state by a perfectlife. It should be made a reward for merit, and a goal towards whichgoodness only could carry us. Then marriages might seem to have beenmade in heaven, and the blessing of God would sanctify a happy union, instead of being impiously pronounced in order to ratify a businesstransaction, or sanction the indulgence of a passing fancy. But onlythe love that lasts can sanctify marriage, and a marriage without suchlove is an immoral contract. "

"Marriage an immoral contract!" the Bishop exclaimed. "O dear! O dear!This is not right, you know; this is not at all right. I must make anote of this--I really must. You are in the habit of saying things ofthis sort, my dear. I remember you said something like it once before;and really it is not a subject to joke about. Such an idea is quitepernicious; it must not be allowed to spread--even as a joke. I wish, my dear, you had not promulgated it, even in that spirit. You have--ah--a knack of making things seem plausible, and of giving weight toopinions by the way you express them, although the opinions themselvesare quite erroneous, as on the present occasion. Some of your ideas areso very mistaken, you know; and you really ought to leave these mattersto those who understand them, and can judge. It is very dangerous todiscuss such subjects, especially--ah--when you know nothing aboutthem, and--ah--cannot judge. I really must preach a sermon on thesubject. Let me see. Next Sunday--ah, yes; next Sunday, if you willkindly come and hear me. "

We all thanked him as enthusiastically as we could. 

Later, I found Ideala alone in one of the conservatories. She took myarm affectionately, and we walked up and down for a time in silence. She was smiling and happy; so happy, indeed, that I found it hard tosay anything to disturb her. For a moment I felt almost as she didabout the step she proposed to take. There had been little joy in herlife, and she had borne her cross long and bravely; what wonder thatshe should rebel at last, and claim her reward?

"Do you remember how you used to talk about the women of the nineteenthcentury, Ideala, " I said at last, "and describe the power for goodwhich they never use, and rail at them as artificial, milliner-made, man-hunting, self-indulgent _animals?_"

"I know, " she answered; "and now you would say I am worse than any ofthem? I used to have big ideas about woman and her mission; but Ialways looked at the question broadly, as it affects the whole world;now my vision is narrowed, and I see it only with regard to oneindividual. But I am sure that is the right way to look at it. I thinkevery woman will have to answer for one man's soul, and it seems to methat the noblest thing a woman can do is to devote her life to thatsoul first of all--to raise it if it be low, to help it to peace ifpeace be lacking, and to gather all the sunshine there is in the worldfor it; and, after that, if her opportunities and powers allow her tohelp others also, she should do what she can for them. I do not knowall the places which it is legitimate for women to fill in the world, but it seems to me that they are many and various, and that the greatobject in life for a woman is to help. To be a Pericles I see that aman must have an Aspasia. Was Aspasia vile? some said so--yet she did anobler work, and was finer in her fall, if she fell, than many goodwomen in all the glory of uprightness are. And was she impure? then itis strange that her mind was not corrupting in its influence. And wasshe low? then whence came her power to raise others? It seems to methat it only rests with ourselves to make any position in life, whichcircumstances render it expedient for us to occupy, desirable. "

"And you propose to be an Aspasia to this modern Pericles?"

"If you like to put it so. The cases are not dissimilar, as there wasan obstacle in the way of their marriage also. "

"The law was the obstacle. "

"Yes; another of those laws which are more honoured in the breach thanin the observance. They might not marry because she came from Miletus!and Lorrimer may not marry me because I came out of the house ofbondage. Unwise laws make immoral nations. "

"But you have gone about this business in such an extraordinary way, Ideala, " I said. "You seem to have tried to make it appear as bad foryourself as you can. Why did you not leave your husband when Lorrimeradvised you to?"

"If I had gone then I should have been obliged to live somewhere else--a long way from Lorrimer; and I might never have seen him again. "

"And do you mean to say you decided to endure a life that had becomehateful to you in every way, simply for the sake of seeing thisgentleman occasionally?"

"Yes. Ah! you do not know how good he is, nor how he raises me! I neverknew the sort of creature I was until he told me. He said once, when wequarrelled, that I was fanciful, sentimental, lackadaisical, hysterical, and in an unhealthy state of mind, and yet--"

I made a gesture of impatience, and she stopped. 

"But, Ideala, " I asked her, after a little pause, "have you never feltthat what you are doing is wrong?"

"I cannot say that exactly, " she answered. "I knew that certain socialconventions forbade the thing--at least I began to acknowledge this tomyself after a time. At first, you know, I thought of nothing. I waswholly absorbed in my desire to see him; that excluded every otherconsideration. Do you know what it is to be sure that a thing is wrong, and yet not to be able to feel it so--to have your reason acknowledgewhat your conscience does not confirm?"

I made no answer, and we were silent for a little; then she spokeagain:

"One day when I was in Japan, " she said, "I was living up in the hillsat Hakone, a village on a lake three thousand feet above the level ofthe sea. The Mayor of the village was entertaining me, and whenever Iwent out he sent his son and several of his retainers as an escort, that I might not be subject to annoyance or insult from strangers. Oneday I was crossing the hills by a mountain-path there is between Hakoneand Mianoshita, and after I passed Ashynoyou, where the sulphur springsare, I found myself in a dense fog. I could not see anything distinctlythree yards in front of me. Kashywaya and the other men never walkedwith me; they used to hover about me, leaving me to all intents andpurposes alone if I preferred it. The Japanese are very delicate insome things; it was weeks before I knew that I had a guard of honour atall. On that particular day I lost sight of them altogether, but Icould hear them calling to each other through the fog; and I sat downfeeling very wretched and lonely. I thought how all the beauty of lifehad been spoiled for me; how, past, present, and to come, it was all ablank; and I wished in my heart that I might die, and know no more. And, do you know, just at that moment the fog beneath me parted, and Isaw the sea, sapphire blue and dotted with boats, and the sand a streakof silver, and the green earth, and a low horizon of shining clouds, and over all the sun! Dear Lord in heaven! how glad a sight it was!"She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. "And I was wandering, " shecontinued, "in some such mental mist, lost and despairing, whenLorrimer came into my life, and changed everything for me in a moment, like the sun. Would you have me believe that he was sent to me thenonly for an evil purpose? That the good God, in whom I scarcelybelieved until in His mercy He allowed me to feel love for one of Hiscreatures, and to realise through it the Divine love of which it issurely the foreshadowing--would you have me believe myself degraded bylove so sent? Would you have me turn from it and call it sin, when Ifeel that God Himself is the giver?"

I was silent, not knowing how to answer her. 

Presently I asked: "But why not have a legal separation, a divorce, from your husband now?"

"I cannot, " she answered, sadly. "At one time I had written proof ofhis turpitude, but I could not make up my mind to use it then, and Idestroyed it eventually; so that now my word would be the only evidenceagainst him, and that would not do, I suppose, although you all know, better than I do, I fancy, what his life has been. "

Other people had by this time come into the conservatory, and we weretherefore obliged to change the subject. 

In the days that followed every one seemed to become conscious of someimpending trouble. We were all depressed, and one by one our party leftus, until at last only Ideala remained, for we had not the heart to askother guests, even if it had been expedient, and, under thecircumstances, Claudia did not consider it so. 

Ideala spent much of her time in writing to Lorrimer. Some of theseletters were never sent. I fancy she wrote exactly as she felt, andoften feared when she had done so that she had been too frank. Howthese two ever came to such an understanding I am at a loss to imagine, and I have searched in vain for any clue to the mystery. Only one thingis plain to me, that when at last Ideala understood her feeling forLorrimer, she cherished it. After she found that her husband had brokenevery tie, disregarded every obligation, legal and moral, that boundher to him, she seems to have considered herself free. But I feel quitesure she had not acknowledged this, even to herself, when she returnedto Lorrimer, and that simply because she had not contemplated thepossibility of being asked to take any decided step. When the timecame, however, she apparently never questioned her right to act on thisfancied freedom. The circumstances under which they had met wereprobably responsible for a great deal. The whole of their acquaintancehad had something unusual about it, which would naturally predisposetheir minds to further unaccustomed issues when any question of rightor expediency arose. The restrictions which men and women have seen fitto place upon their intercourse with each other are the outcome of agesof experience, and they who disregard them bring upon themselves thetroubles against which those same restrictions, irksome at times asthey must be, are the only adequate defence. 

One letter I have here shows something of the strength and tendernessof Ideala's devotion; and I venture to think that, even under thecircumstances, it must be good for a man to have been loved once inhis life like that. The letter begins abruptly--"Oh, the delight ofbeing able to write to you, " she says, "without fear and withoutconstraint. If it were possible to step from the dreary oppression ofthe northern midnight into the full blaze of the southern noon, thetransition would not be greater than is the sense of rest and reliefthat has come to me after the weary days which are over. Do you know, I never believed that any one person could be so much to another asyou are to me; that any one could be so happy as I am! I think I am_too_ happy. But, dear, I want you! I want you always; but most of allwhen anything good or beautiful moves me; I feel nearer to you then, and I know you would understand. Every good thought, every worthyaspiration, everything that is best in me, and every possibility ofbetter things, seems due to your influence, and makes me crave foryour presence. You have been the one thing wanting to me my whole lifelong. I believe that no soul is perfect alone, and that each of usmust have a partner-soul _somewhere, _ kept apart from us--by falsemarriages, perhaps, or distance, or death, but still to be ours, ifnot in this state, then in some other, when both are perfect enough tomake the union possible. We are not all fit for that love which is thebeginning of heaven, and can have no end. [Transcriber's Note: Lengthyfootnote relocated to chapter end. ] Does this seem fanciful to you? Itwould comfort me if we were ever separated. _If_--I cannot tell youhow it makes my heart sink just to look at that word, although I knowit does not suggest anything that is possible in our case. What powerwould take you from me now, when there is no one else in the wholewide world for me _but_ you? and always you! and only you! You, withyour ready sympathy and perfect refinement; your wit, your rapidchanges, your ideality, your kindness, your cruelty, and the terriblediscontent which makes you untrue to yourself. You are my world. Butunless I can be to you what you are to me, you will always be one ofthe lonely ones. Tell me, again, that my absence makes a blank in yourlife. You did not write the word, you only left a space, and do youknow how I filled it at first? 'It was such a _relief_ when you leftoff coming, ' I read, and I raged at you. 

"I have heard it said lately that you are fickle, but these people donot understand you. You are true to your ideal, but the women you havehitherto known were only so many imperfect realisations of it, and soyou went from one to the other, always searching, but never satisfied. And you have it in you to be so much happier or so much more miserablethan other men--I should have trembled for you if your hopes had neverbeen realised. 

"But what _would_ satisfy you? I often long to be that mummy youhave in the Great Hospital, the one with the short nose and thick lips. When you looked at me spirit and flesh would grow one with delight, andI should come to life, and grow round and soft and warm again, and talkto you of Thebes, and you would be enchanted with me--you could nothelp it then. I should be so old, so very old, and genuine!

"Dear, how I laugh at my fears now, or rather, how I bless them. If Ihad never known the horror of doubt, how could I have known whatcertainty is? And I did doubt you; I dare acknowledge it now. I wonderif you can understand what the shame of that doubt was? When I thoughtyour absence and your silence were intentional slights, I knew how theyfelt when 'they called on the rocks to cover them, and I wished--oh, _how_ I wished!--that a thousand years had passed, and my spiritcould be at the place where we met, and see the pillars broken, and. The ivy climbing over the ruins, and the lizards at home amongst them, and the shameless sunlight making bare the spot where we stood. 

"It was as if I had been punished for some awful unknown sin, and whenI seemed to be dying, and I dared not write to you, and all hope ofever knowing the truth had departed, I used to exclaim in my misery:'Verily, Lord, if Thy servant sinned she hath suffered! for the anguishof death has been doubled, and the punishment of the lost has begunwhile yet the tortured mind can make its lament and moan with thetortured body!'

"But all that bitter past only enhances the present. 

"I wonder where you will be to-day. I believe you are always in thatroom of yours. You only leave it to walk to the station with me, afterwhich you go back to it, and work there till it is dark; and then yourest, waiting for the daylight, and when it comes you go to work again. I cannot fancy you anywhere else. I should not like to realise that youhave an existence of which I can know nothing, a life through which Icannot follow you, even in imagination. 

"But sometimes you come to me, and then how glad I am! You come to meand kiss me, and it is night and I am dreaming, and not ashamed. 

"Yes, the days do drag on slowly, for after all I am never quite happy, never at peace even, never for a moment, except when I am with you. Iam sorry I feel so, for it seems ungrateful in the face of all thekindness and care that is being lavished on me by my friends. One ladyhere has seven children--another instance of the unequal distributionof the good things of this world. She has lent me one of them tocomfort me because I am jealous. He sleeps in my room, and is a fair-haired boy, with eyes that remind me of you. Will he also, when hegrows up, have 'the conscience of a saint among his warring senses'? Ihope not, I should think when sense and conscience are equallydelicate, and apt to thrill simultaneously, life must be a burden. Would such a state of things account for moods that vary perpetually, Iwonder?"

Here she breaks off, and I think these last reflections account for thefact that the letter was never sent. 

[Relocated Footnote: This passage might have been taken from Platoverbatim, but Ideala had not read Plato at the time it was written. The inborn passionate longing of the human soul for perfectcompanionship doubtless accounts for the coincidence, which also showshow deep-rooted and widely spread the hope of eventually obtainingthe desired companionship is. Some will maintain that the desire forsuch a possibility has created the belief in it, but others claim tohave met their partner-souls, and to have become united by a bond soperfect that even distance cannot sever it, there being someinexplicable means of communication between the two, which enableseach to know what befalls the other wherever they may be. The ideamight probably be traced back to that account of Adam which describeshim as androgynous, or a higher union of man and woman--a union of allthe attributes of either, which, to punish Adam for a grievous fault, was subsequently sundered into the contrast between man and woman, leaving each lonely, imperfect, and vainly longing for the other. ]

CHAPTER XXVI. 

Ideala lingered unwillingly, but the reason of her reluctance to go wasnot far to seek. Now that Lorrimer knew she loved him she was ashamedto go back. It would have been bad enough had he been able to come toher; but going to him was like reversing the natural order of thingsand unsexing herself. I suppose, however, that she forgot her shynessin her desire to be with him as the time went on, and the effort itcost her to conquer her fear and go to him was not so dreadful as theblank she would have been obliged to face had she stayed away. At allevents, she fixed a day at last, and one morning she announced to us, sadly enough, that on the morrow she must say farewell. She made theannouncement just after breakfast, and Claudia rose and left the roomwithout a word. My sister had never been able to speak to Ideala on thesubject, but she did not cease to urge me to expostulate, and she hadsuggested many arguments which had affected Ideala, and made herunhappy, but without altering her determination. 

I could not find a word to say to her that morning, and during the slowhours of the long day that dragged itself on so wearily for all of us, nothing new occurred to me. 

"It will be a relief when it is over, " I said to my sister. 

"Yes, " she answered; "it is worse than death. "

In the evening she came to my study and said: "Ideala is alone in thesouth drawing-room. I wish you would go to her, and make a last effortto dissuade her. "

I consented, hopelessly, and went. 

Ideala was standing in a window, looking out listlessly. She was verypale, and I could see that she had been weeping. I sat down near thefire; and presently she came and sat on the floor beside me, and laidher head against my knee. In all the years of my love for her she hadnever been so close to me before, and I was glad to let her rest along, long time like that. 

"Were you happy while you were with Lorrimer, Ideala?" I asked at last. 

She did not answer at once, and when she did, it was almost in awhisper. 

"No, never quite happy till this last time, " she said; "never entirelyat ease, even. It was when I left him, when I was alone and could thinkof him, that the joy came. "

"There was nothing real in your pleasure, then, " I went on; "it waspurely imaginary--due to your trick of idealising everything andeverybody, you care for?"

"I do not know, " she said. 

"Do you think it was the same with him?" I asked again--"I mean allalong. Did it always make him happy to have you there?"

"I cannot tell, " she said. "Yes, I think at times he was glad. But aword would alter his mood, and then he would grow sad and silent. "

"Even on the last occasion?"

"No, not on the last occasion. He was happy then"--and she smiled atthe recollection--"ah, so happy! It was like new life to him, he was soyoung, so fresh, so glad--like a boy. "

"But before, when his moods varied so often, did it ever seem to youthat he was troubled and dissatisfied with himself? that the intimacyhad begun on his part under a misapprehension, and that when he beganto know you better, he had tried to end it, and save you, by not seeingyou on that occasion?"

"Ah, _that occasion_ again!" she ejaculated. "I forgot to tell you, but I asked for an explanation just to satisfy you. Here it is!" Andshe took a note from her pocket-book and handed it to me. It was onewhich she had written to him. 

"I do not understand, " I said. 

"Read it, " she answered, "and you will find I asked him to expect meon _Monday_, the 26th. It was a clerical error. Tuesday was the 26th, and I went on Tuesday. He waited for me the whole long Monday, andthat night he had to set off suddenly for the Continent on businessconnected with the Great Hospital. He went, wondering what haddetained me, and expecting an explanation. When he returned heinquired, but nobody could tell him whether I had been or not. So hewaited, and waited, as I did, expecting to hear, and as much perplexedand distressed as I was, and as proud, for he never thought of writingto me--nor did he think of looking at my note again until I wrote theother day, and then he discovered the mistake. Now, are yousatisfied?"

"About that--yes, " I answered, reluctantly. It was no relief to end himblameless. 

"But what did he mean when he talked of conscience and scruples?"

"He used to laugh at my 'troublesome conscience, ' as he called it, " sheanswered, evasively. 

"Would he have known you had a conscience, do you think, if he had hadnone himself?" I asked her. "Did he ever say anything that showed hewas yielding to a strong inclination which he could not justify andwould not conquer?"

"Oh, no!" she said; then added, undecidedly: "at least--he did sayonce: 'Of course, in the opinion of the world the thing cannot bejustified, ' but then he went on as if it had slipped from himinvoluntarily: 'Bah! I am only doing as other men do. '"

"Which shows he was not exactly satisfied to be only as other men are. "

"That is what I have often told you, " she said; "his ideal of life, both for himself and others, is the highest possible, and he sufferswhen he falls below it, or even belies himself with a word. "

"Passion never lasts, and love does not lead to evil, " I continued, meditatively; "if you love him, Ideala, how will you bear to feel thathe has degraded himself by degrading you?"

"Oh! do not speak like that!" she exclaimed. "There is no degradationin love. It is sin that degrades, and sin is something that corruptsour minds, is it not? and makes us unfit for any good work, andunwilling to undertake any. This is very different. "

"Ideala, do you remember telling me once that you had a strange feelingabout yourself? that you thought you would be made to go down into somegreat depth of sin and suffering, in order to learn what it is you haveto teach?"

"Ah, yes!" she answered, "but I have not gone down. I must obey my ownconscience, not yours; and my conscience tells me the thing is rightwhich you hold to be wrong. I am quite willing to believe it would bewrong for you, but for me it is clearly right. You said the other dayhe had lowered me. What a fiction that is! In what have I changed forthe worse? Do I fail in any duty of life since I knew him in which Ipreviously succeeded? Oh, no! he has not lowered me! Love like thisrounds a life and brings it to perfection; it could not wreck it. "

"But, Ideala, you are going to fail in a duty; you are going to fail inthe most important duty of your life--your duty to society. "

"I owe nothing to society, " she answered, obstinately. 

"I have always admired you, " I pursued, "for not letting your ownexperience warp your judgment. Oh, what a falling-off is here! I haveheard you wish to be something more than an independent unit of whichno account need be taken. How can we, any of us, say we owe nothing tosociety, when we owe every pleasure in life to it? Do we owe nothing tothose who have gone before, and whom we have to thank for the music, the painting, the poetry, and all the arts which would leave a bigblank in _your_ life, Ideala, if they ceased to exist? You wouldhave been a mere savage now, without refinement enough to appreciatethat rose at your waistbelt, but for the labour and self-denial whichthe hundreds and thousands who lived, and loved, and suffered in orderto make you what you are have bestowed on you, and on all of us. Youwould not say, if you thought a moment, that society had done nothingfor you; and no one can honestly think that they owe it nothing inreturn. It seems to me that a rigid observance of the laws which holdsociety together, and make life possible for all of us, and pleasantfor some, is the least we can do; and do you know, Ideala, when a womanever thinks of doing what you propose to do, she has already gone downto a low depth--of ingratitude, if of nothing else. "

"I do not propose to do anything that will injure any one, " sheanswered, coldly. "I am free, am I not, to dispose of myself as I like--to give myself to whomsoever I please?"

"We are none of us free in that sense of the word, " I replied. 

 "All are but parts of one stupendous whole Whose body Nature is, and God the soul. 

You are, as I know you have desired to be, part of a system, and animportant part. All the toil and trouble of the world, and all the workwhich began with the life of man, is directed towards one great end--the doing away with sin and suffering, and the establishment of purityand peace. And this work seems almost hopeless, not because themultitude do not approve of it, but because individuals are cowardly, and will not do their share of it. Every act of yours has a meaning; iteither helps or hinders, what is being done to further this, the objectof life. Lately, Ideala, you have been talking wildly, without for amoment considering the harm you may be doing. You have expressedopinions which are calculated to make people discontented with thingsas they are. You rob them of the content which has made themcomfortable heretofore, and yet you offer them nothing better in returnfor it. You would have society turned topsy-turvy, and all for what?Why, simply to make a wrong thing right for yourself! If your examplewere followed by all the unhappy people in the world, how would it end, do you think? There must be moral laws, and it is inevitable that theyshould press hardly on individuals occasionally; but it is clearly theduty of individuals to sacrifice themselves for the good of thecommunity at large. "

"I do not understand your morality, " she said. "Do you think that, although I love another man, it would be right for me to go back andlive with my husband?"

"Right, but, under the circumstances, not advisable. And, at any rate, nothing would make it moral for you to go to that other man. "

"Oh! do not fill my mind with doubt, " she pleaded, piteously. "I lovehim. Let me go. "

I did not answer her, and after a while she began again, passionately--"We _are_ free agents in these things. Individuals _must_ know what isbest for themselves. If I devote my life to him, as I propose, whowould be hurt by it? Should I be less pure-minded, and would he beless upright in all his dealings? When things can be legally rightthough morally wrong, can they not also be morally right thoughlegally wrong?"

"I have already tried to show you, Ideala, " I answered, preparing to goover the old ground again, patiently, "that we none of us stand alone, that we are all part of this great system, and that, in cases likeyours, individuals must suffer, must even be sacrificed, for the goodof the rest. When the sacrifice is voluntary, we call it noble. "

"If I go to him I shall have sacrificed a good deal. "

"You will have sacrificed others, not yourself. He is all the world toyou, Ideala; the loss would be nothing to the gain"--she hid her facein her hands--"and what is required of you is self-sacrifice. Andsurely it would be happier in the end for you to give him up now, thanto live to feel yourself a millstone round his neck. "

"I do not understand you, " she said, looking up quickly. 

"The world, you see, will know nothing of the fine sentiments whichmade you determine to take this step, " I said. "You will be spoken ofcontemptuously, and he will be 'the fellow who is living with anotherman's wife, don't you know, ' and that will injure him in many ways. "

"Do you think so?" she asked, anxiously. 

"I know it, " I replied. "And look at it from that or any other point ofview you like, and you must see you are making a mistake. A woman inyour position sets an example whether she will or not, and even if allyour best reasons for this step were made public, you would do harm byit, for there are only too many people apt enough as it is at findingspecious excuses for their own shortcomings, who would be glad, if theydared, to do likewise. And you would not gain your object after all. You would neither be happy yourself, nor make Lorrimer happy. Peoplelike you are sensitive about their honour--it is the sign of theirsuperiority; and the indulgence of love, even at the moment, and underthe most favourable circumstances of youth, beauty, and intellectualequality, does not satisfy such natures, if the indulgence be notregulated and sanctified by all that men and women have devised to maketheir relations moral. "

This was my last argument, and when I had done she sat there for a longtime silent, resting her head against my knee, and scarcely breathing. She was fighting it out with herself, and I thought it best to leaveher alone--besides, I had already said all there was to say; repetitionwould only have irritated her, and there was nothing now for it but towait. 

Outside, I could hear the dreary drip of raindrops; somewhere in theroom a clock ticked obtrusively; but it was long past midnight, and thehouse was still. I thought that only the night and silence watched withme, and waited upon the suffering of this one poor soul. 

At last she moved, uttering a low moan, like one in pain. 

"I do see it, " she said, almost in a whisper; "and I am willing to givehim up. "

"God in His mercy help you!" I prayed. 

"And forgive me, " she answered, humbly. 

She was quite exhausted, and passively submitted when I led her to herroom. I closed the shutters to keep out the cheerless dawn, and madethe fire burn up, and lit the lamps. She sat silently watching me, anddid not seem to think it odd that I should do this for her. She clungto me then as a little child clings to its father, and, like a father, I ministered to her, reverently, then left her, as I hoped, to sleep. 

My sister opened her door as I passed. She was dressed, and had beenwatching, too, the whole night long. 

"Well?" she asked. 

I kissed her. "It is well, " I answered; and she burst into tears. 

"Can I go to her now?" she said. 

"Yes, go. " I went to Claudia's room, and waited. After a long time shereturned. 

"She is quiet at last, " she told me, sorrowfully. 

And so the long night ended. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

Ideala had returned to us quite under the impression that if she tookthe step she proposed we should think it right to cast her off; andthat little tentative: "Must I give you up?" was the only protest shehad offered. But such was not our intention. Far from it! We do notforsake our friends in their bodily ailments, and we are poor, pitiful, egotistical creatures indeed when we desert them for their mental andmoral maladies, leaving them to struggle against them and fight themout or succumb to them alone, according to their strength andcircumstances. The world will forsake them fast enough, and that issufficient punishment--if they deserve punishment. Of course, Idealacould never have come back to us as an honoured guest again, aftertaking such a step, but she would have continued to fill the same placein our affections, if not in our esteem. 

"And you will drive everybody else away, and keep the house empty allthe year round, in order to be able to receive her--_and_ Mr. Lorrimer--whenever they choose to visit us, " Claudia had declared when wediscussed the subject. 

That was not quite what I intended; but I had made Ideala understandthat nothing she could do would affect her intercourse with us. I toldher so at once, because I would not have her alter her determinationfor any consideration but the highest. She might at the last havehesitated to separate herself from us for ever; but I felt sure if thatwere the case, and it was not a better motive entirely which deterredher, she would not be satisfied eventually; and I know now that I wasright. 

Ideala wrote to Lorrimer, and when she had finished her letter I foundthat she intended to impose a terrible task upon me. 

"Until you know him yourself you will always misjudge him, " she said. "I want you to take him my letter, and make his acquaintance. "

I hesitated. 

"It is the least you can do, " she pleaded. "I shall be easier in mymind if you will. It will be better for him to see you, and hear allthe things I cannot tell him in my letter; and--and--if I must not seehim myself it will be a comfort to see somebody who has. Do go. I shallbe pained if you refuse. "

This decided me, and I went at once. 

It was a long journey, the same that Ideala herself had taken undersuch very different circumstances so short a time before. I thought ofher going in doubt and uncertainty, her own feelings colouring theaspect of all she saw on the way; and returning in the first warm glowof her great and unexpected joy--her new-found happiness which wasdestined, alas! to be so short-lived. Miserable fate which robbed herof all that would have made her life worth having--a husband on whomshe could rely; her child; and now the man upon whom she had beenprepared to lavish the long pent-up passion, the concentrated devotionof her great and noble nature! Poor starved heart, crushed back uponitself, suffering silently, suffering always, but never hardening--onthe contrary, growing tenderer for others the more it had to endureitself! Would it always be so? Was there no peace on earth for Ideala?No one who could be all her own? I felt responsible for this last hardblow; had I done well? The rush and rattle of the train shaped itselfinto a sort of sub-chorus to my thoughts as we sped through thepleasant fields: _Was it right? Was it right? Was it right?_ And Isaw Ideala, with soft, sad eyes, pleading--mutely pleading--pleadingalways for some pleasure in life, some natural, womanly joy, whileyouth and the power to love lasted. By an effort of will I banished thequestion. I told myself that my action in the matter had been expedientfrom every point of view; but presently

 The rush of the grinding steel! The thundering crank, and the mighty wheel!

took me to task again, and the chorus now became: _Expediency right!Expediency right! Expediency right!_ which, when I banished it, resolved itself into: _Cold, proud Puritan! Cold, proud Puritan!_for the rest of the way. 

But the journey ended at last--though that was little relief with thetask I had before me still unaccomplished. 

A bulbous functionary took my card to Lorrimer when I presented myselfat the Great Hospital next day, and returning presently informed methat Mr. Lorrimer was disengaged, and would see me at once, if I wouldbe so good as to come this way. How familiar the whole proceedingseemed! And how well I knew the place! the soothing silence, themassive grandeur, the long, dimly lighted gallery to the right, thedoor at which the servant stopped and knocked, the man who opened it, and met my eyes fearlessly, bowing with natural grace, and bidding meenter--a tall, fair man; self-contained and dignified; cold, pale, andunimpassioned--so I thought--but my equal in every way: the man who was"all the world" to Ideala. 

When I saw him I understood. 

 * * * * *

Lorrimer, after dismissing his secretary, was the first to speak. 

"You come to me from Ideala?" he said. "Is there anything wrong? Is sheill?"

And I fancied he turned a trifle paler as the fear flashed through hismind. 

I reassured him. "Physically she is better, " I said. 

"But mentally?" he interposed. "You give her no peace. "

I was silent. 

"I know you are no friend of mine, " he added. 

"On the contrary, " I answered. "I hope I am the best friend you havejust now. "

"I know what that means, " he said. "You have tried to dissuade Ideala, and having failed, you have come here to use your influence with me"

"No, " I answered. "I have not come to discuss the subject. I havebrought you a letter from Ideala at her special request, and I am readyto take her any reply which you may think fit to send. "

I gave him the letter, and rose to go, but he detained me. 

"Stay till I have read it, if you can spare me the time, " he said. "Itis just possible that there is something in it which we _ought_ todiscuss. "

I turned to the mantelpiece, and tried to interest myself in the lovelythings with which it was crowded; but never in my life did my heartsink so for another; never have I endured such moments of painedsuspense. 

I heard him open the envelope; I heard the paper rustle as he turnedthe page; and then there was silence--

 Full of the city's stilly sound--

a moment only, but filled with

 Something which possess'd The darkness of the world, delight, Life, anguish, death, immortal love. Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd, Apart from space, witholding time--

a moment's silence, and then a heavy fall. Lorrimer had fainted. 

 * * * * *

I stayed three days at the Great Hospital, three days of the mostdelightful converse. At first, Lorrimer had rebelled, not realisingthat Ideala's last decision was irrevocable. 

"You have over-persuaded her, " he said. 

"No, " I answered; "I have convinced her. And I shall convince you, too. "

He pleaded for her pathetically, not for himself at all. "She has hadso little joy!" he said; using the very words that had occurred to me. "And I wanted to silence her. I wanted to save her from her fate. Forshe is _une des cinq ou six creatures humaines qui naissent, danstout un siècle, pour aimer la vérité, et pour mourir sans avoir pu lafaire aimer des autres_. She must suffer terribly if she goes on. "

This was a point upon which we differed. He would have given her thenatural joys of a woman--husband, home, children, friends, and onlysuch intellectual pursuits which are pleasant. _I_ had always hoped tosee her at work in a wider field. But she was one of those rare womenwho are born to fulfil both destinies at once, and worthily, if onlycircumstances had made it possible for her to combine the two. 

Before I had been with him many hours, I began to be sensible of thatdifference of feeling on certain subjects which would have made theirunion a veritable linking of the past to the future--his belief thatnothing can be better than what has been, and that the old institutionsrevised are all that the world wants; and her faith in futuredevelopments of all good ideas, and further discoveries never yetimagined. For one thing, Lorrimer considered famine and war inevitablescourges of the human race, necessary for the removal of the surpluspopulation, and useless to contend against, because destined to recur, so long as there is a human race; but he would have limitedintellectual pursuits for women, because culture is held to prevent thetrouble for which the elder expedients only provided a cure--a pointupon which Ideala did not agree with him at all. "Nothing is moredisastrous to social prosperity, " she held, "or more likely to add tothe criminal classes, than families which are too large for theirparents to bring up, and educate comfortably, in their own station. Ifthe higher education of women is a natural check on over-production ofthat kind, then encourage it thankfully as a merciful dispensation ofprovidence for the prevention of much misery. I can see no reason innature or ethics for a teeming population only brought into existenceto be removed by famine and war. Why, this old green ball of an earthwould roll on just as merrily without any of us. "

 * * * * *

Lorrimer wrote to her at last. He had been obliged to acquiesce; and Itook Ideala his letter; but she, womanlike, though nothing would havealtered her decision, was not at first satisfied with his compliance. It seemed to her too ready; and that made her doubt if she might nothave been to blame after all. They wrote to each other once again, andwhen she received his last letter, she spoke to me about it. 

"He must have seen it as you do from the first, for he has said no wordto alter my determination--rather the contrary, " she told me. "We arenot to meet again, nor to correspond; and doubtless it is a relief tohim to have the matter settled in this way; but one thing puzzles me. In my last letter I bade him good-bye, adding 'since that is what youwish, ' and he has replied: 'I never said I wished it; will you rememberthat?' I do remember it, and it comforts me; but why?"

I knew that Lorrimer had said little in order to make her sacrifice aseasy for her as possible; and I was silent, too, for the same reason. Ithought if she felt herself to blame, her pride would come to therescue, and make her loss appear rather inevitable than voluntary. For, say what we will, we reconcile ourselves to the inevitable sooner thanto those sorrows which we might have saved ourselves had we deemed itright. 

"You insinuated once that it was all my fault, " she said. "Perhaps itwas--if fault there be. But if I tempted him, it must have beengenerosity that made him yield to the temptation. He pitied me, and wasready to make me happy by devoting himself to me, since that was what Iseemed to require. And I agree with you now. I don't think we should, either of us, have found any real happiness in that way. But, oh, how Ilong for him! for his friendship! for his companionship! for his love!It is hard, hard, hard, if he does not miss me as I do him. "

Then I told her: "But he does. And he did not yield to your decisionuntil I had convinced him that he could never make you happy in such aposition. "

A great sigh of relief escaped her. And then I saw that I ought to havebeen frank with her from the first. It strengthened her to know thatthey still had something left to them in common, though that somethingwas only their grief. 

I tried to comfort her by speaking of the many ways in which she mightstill find happiness. She listened patiently until I was obliged tostop for want of words, then she said:

"This is all very well, but you know you are talking nonsense. What isthe use of offering people everything but the one thing needful? What Isay to myself is:

 Well, I have had my turn, have been Raised from the darkness of the clod, And for a glorious moment seen The brightness of the skirts of God. 

And I try to think I have no right to complain, but still I am notbetter satisfied than the child that has eaten its cake and wants tohave it too. And I suppose there are many who would call me wretched, and say that my life, with my sorrowful marriage--which was nomarriage, but a desecration of that holy state, and a sin--and myhopeless love, is a broken life. Certainly _I_ feel it so. And yet Idon't know. With his nature it seems to me that some wrong-doing wasinevitable. Do you think my suffering might be taken as expiation forhis sins? Do you think we are allowed the happiness of bearing eachother's burdens in that way if we will? If I were sure of that Ishould not fancy, as I used to, that I had a work to do in the world;I should know that my work is done, and that now I may rest. Ah, theblessing of rest!"

Not long after this a cruel rumour reached us, on good authority, thatLorrimer was engaged to be married. I confess that my feeling about itwas one of unmitigated contempt for the man, and I trembled for theeffect of the news upon Ideala. She made no sign, however, when firstshe heard it. I was surprised, and fear I showed that I was, in spiteof myself, for she spoke about it. 

"You do not understand, " she said. "One event in his career is not ofmore consequence to me than another, because all are of the greatestconsequence. But I have none of the dog-in-the-manger spirit. I thinkthere must be something almost maternal in my feeling for him, which iswhy it does not change. Were I less constant it would prove that myaffection is of a lower kind, less enduring because less pure. I do notcare to talk about him, but I think of him always. I think of him as Isaw him last with the sun on him. Do you know his hair is like lightgold with the sun on it. Sometimes the memory of him fades a little, and I cannot recall his features, and then I am tormented; but ofcourse he comes back to me--so vividly that I have started often when Ilooked up and found myself alone, The desire to be with him neverlessens; it burns in me always, and is both a pain and a pleasure. Butmy love is too great to be selfish. His wishes for himself are mywishes, and what is best for him is happiest for me. Am I neverjealous? Jealous! No! Do you not know that he is mine, mine throughevery change? Neither time nor distance separates us really. No commontie can keep him from me. Let him be bound as and to whomsoever hepleases, his soul is mine, and must return to me sooner or later. Ilike him to be happy in any way that is right, for I know that what hegives to others is not himself. I was not fit for the dear earthlylove, but perhaps, if I keep myself pure, body and soul, for him, Ishall be made worthy at last, and of something better. And my love isso great it would draw him in spite of himself; but it will not be inspite of himself, for he will find by-and-by that he cannot live with asmaller soul, and then he will come to me. Do you not understand what Iwant? His soul--purified, strengthened, ennobled--nothing less willsatisfy me; and his mother might ask as much. If I might be made themeans of saving it--" Then after a little pause, she added: "Ah, howbeautiful death is! He will be glad, as I should be now, to meet it--and yet more glad! for then the end will have come for him, but Ishould have still to wait. "

The rumour of Lorrimer's engagement, however, proved to be false. Itwas another Lorrimer, a cousin of his. 

"Lorrimer is restored to your good graces now, I suppose, " Claudiasaid, in her half sarcastic way, when the mistake was explained. I hadnot told her what was in my mind; she had read my thoughts. "You thinkthat a man whom Ideala has loved should consider himself sacred, " sheadded. 

I did not answer. But I hold that all men who have felt or inspiredgreat love will be sanctified by it if there be any true nobility intheir nature; and I knew that one man, whom Ideala did not love, hadbeen so sanctified by love for her, and held himself sacred always. 

But it was a relief to my mind to know that Lorrimer was not unworthy. He was a distinguished man then, and I felt sure that he would becomestill more distinguished eventually. He was not one of the many whocome and go, and are forgotten; but one of those destined to live forever

 In minds made better by their presence. 

The good in his nature was certainly as far above the average as werehis splendid abilities, and Ideala was right when she declared that shecould answer for his principles. It is impulse that is beyondcalculation, and for his own or another's impulses no wise man willanswer. 

Ideala continued to droop. 

"She will never get over it;" I said to Claudia one day, when we werealone together. 

"Indeed she will, " Claudia answered, confidently. "Out of the depth ofyour profound ignorance of natural history do you speak, my brother. Idread the reaction, though. When it comes she will be overwhelmed withshame; but it will come. All this is only a phase. She is in a state oftransition now. It is her pride that makes her nurse her grief, andwill not let her give him up. She cannot bear to think that she, of allwomen in the world, should have been the victim of anything so trivialas a passing fancy. Not that it would have been a passing fancy if theyhad not been separated; but as it is--why, no fire can burn withoutfuel. "

Claudia had evidently changed her mind, and she might be right; but myown fear was that her first impression would be justified, and thatIdeala would never be able to take a healthy interest in anythingagain. 

"I cannot care, " was her constant complaint. "Nothing ever touches meeither painfully or pleasurably. Nothing will ever make me glad again. "

She said this one evening when she was sitting alone with Claudia andmyself, and there was a long silence after she had finished speaking, during which she sat in a dejected attitude, her face buried in herhands. 

All at once she looked up. 

"It is very strange, " she said, "but half that feeling seems to havegone with the expression of it. "

"I think, " Claudia decided, in her common-sense tone, "that you arenursing this unholy passion, Ideala. You are afraid to give it up lestthere should be nothing left to you. Can you not free your mind fromthe trammels of it, and grasp something higher, better, and nobler? Canyou not become mistress of yourself again, and enter on a larger lifewhich shall be full of love--not the narrow, selfish passion you arecherishing for one, but that pure and holy love which only the best--and such women as you may always be of the best--can feel for all? Ifyou could but get the fumes of this evil feeling out of yourself, youwould see, as we see, what a common thing it is, and you wouldrecognise, as we recognise, that your very expression of it is justsuch as is given to it by every hysterical man or woman that has everexperienced it. It is a physical condition caused by contact, and keptup by your own perverse pleasure in it--nothing more. Every one growsout of it in time, and any one with proper self-control could conquerit. You are wavering yourself. You see, now that you have crystallisedthe feeling into words, that it is a pitiful thing after all, that theobject is not worth such an expenditure of strength--certainly notworth the sacrifice of your power to enjoy anything else. Suchdevotion to the memory of a dead husband has been thought grand bysome, although for my part I can see nothing grand in any form of self-indulgence, whether it be the indulgence of sorrow or joy, whichnarrows our sphere of usefulness, and causes us to neglect the claimsof those who love us upon our affection, and the claims of our fellow-creatures generally upon our consideration; but in your case it issimply----" Claudia paused for want of a word. 

"You would say it is simply degrading, " Ideala interposed. "I do notfeel it so. I glory in it. "

"I know, " said Claudia, pitilessly. "You all do. " And then she got up, and laid her hand on Ideala's shoulder. "It is time, " she said, earnestly, "It is time, O passionate heart and morbid eye, That old hysterical mock-disease should die. "

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

I hoped Claudia's plain speaking had made an impression, but for a longtime after that it seemed as if Ideala's interest in life had reallyended, that her sphere of usefulness had contracted, and that sheherself would become like the rest--a doer of unconnected trifles thathave meaning only as the straws have meaning which show which way thecurrent sets. One cannot help thinking how many of these significantstraws must go down to the ocean and be lost, their little useunrecognised, their little labour unavailing: because it does so littlegood merely to know which way the stream is setting, or what ocean willreceive it at last, if we have no power to profit by the knowledge. Atthis time Ideala's own life was not unlike one of these hapless straws, and it seemed a wretched failure of its early promise, that ending as astraw on the common stream, when so little might have made herinfluence in her own sphere like the river itself, strong andbeautiful. Those who loved her watched her in her trouble with eagerhope that some good might yet come of it; but the hope diminishedalways as the days wore on. At first her mind had raged and stormed;one could see it, though she said so little. Her renunciation wasperfect, but nevertheless she could not reconcile herself to it. Shewould not go back, but she could not go on, and so she remained midwaybetween the past, which was hateful to her, and the future, which was ablank, raging at both. But gradually the storm subsided; and then camea period of calm, but whether it was the calm of apathy or the calm ofresignation it was hard to say--and meantime she lost her health again, and became so fragile that my sister only expressed what I felt whenshe was speaking of her one day, and said, sadly:

 "Her cheek is so waxenly thin, As if deathward 'twere whitening in, And the cloud of her flesh, still more white, Were clearing till soul is in sight. 

 * * * * *

 Her large eyes too liquidly glister! Her mouth is too red. Have they kissed her--- The angels that bend down to pull Our buds of the Beautiful, And whispered their own little Sister?"

We were anxious to take her abroad, but she would not accompany us. She talked of going alone, but she did not go, and after a time wegave up thinking about it. Then one day, quite suddenly, she said: "It_is_ time this old hysterical mock-disease should die, " and she toldus that she had at last decided to travel--somewhere; nothing moredefinite than that, for she said she had no fixed plans. We concluded, however, that she meant to be away some time, for she said somethingabout perils of the deep, and the uncertainty of life generally, andshe confided her private papers to my care, telling me to look at themif they would interest me, and make what use of them I pleased; andthat was how those from which I have gathered much of her story cameinto my possession. And then she left us, and for a whole year weheard nothing of her--not one word. Claudia chafed a little, andcomplained, as women will when things do not arrange themselvesexactly as they would have ordered them; but I was content to wait, and, because I expected nothing, the time did not seem so long asperhaps it might have done. We lived our usual life--part of the yearin one of the eastern counties, and part in London, and then we camenorth again. It was winter weather, frosty and clear and bright, and Iwas tempted out a great deal, taking long rides, begun before sunsetand ending by moonlight, and generally alone. And always when theworld seemed most beautiful I thought of Ideala, and how she had lovedits beauty-- mountain and plain, flood and field, forest and flower, the snow and the sunshine, and all the alternations of light andshade; the wonders of form, and the depth and harmony of colour; theblue sky by day, with its glories of sunrise and sunset; the dark skyby night, with its moonlight and starlight--the sky always! thatcloudland to which, when we are wearied by the more monotonous earth, we had only to lift our eyes and there the scene is changing forever--the sky--and the sea:

 In all its vague immensity!

Would she ever see it again in the old way? When she left us one mighthave said of her mental state:

 O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon-- Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse Without all hope of day!

And where was she now? and was she learning to see again? I own Isometimes had the presumption to think that if she had stayed with us Imight have helped her. It seemed hardly credible that she should beable to stand alone at such a time, not to speak of the strengthrequired to take her out of herself. And was not the loneliness itselfan added misery? She never could bear to be alone, and I always thoughtthe worst trial of her married life was the mental solitude to which ithad reduced her by making her feel the necessity for reserve, even withher best friends. Of course she had chosen to go alone; it was quiteher own doing; but I could not help thinking, uneasily at times, thatshe would not have gone at all if she had not noticed how anxious wewere about her, and fancied she could relieve us of our trouble byrelieving us of her presence. That would have been so like Ideala! Andthen my thoughts would wander off, recalling her numberless littledeeds of love, her perfect selflessness, and all the depth and beautyof her great and tender nature, as we do recall such things of one whohas gone and will nevermore return, as in the old days, to make usglad. There was the day I had seen her from the club window stoop topick up a little ragged barefooted child that was crying in the street, and wrap her furs about it and carry it off, smiling and happy, in herarms, with no more thought of the attention such an action wouldattract than if she had been alone with her waif in the desert. Butmany and many a time, and in many a way, she had made glad hearts bydeeds like that; and now where was she? And was there never a one inthe whole wide world to help her to bear her own sorrow and ease herpain?

One evening in particular I had been more than usually tormented bysuch thoughts. I had been blaming myself bitterly for having allowedher to go away alone, and when I rode up to my own door I was consciousof a half-formed resolution to follow her without delay and bring herback. 

Claudia was standing on the steps in the crisp, fresh evening air, apparently watching for me. She put her arms round my neck when Ialighted, and kissed me. 

"Has she written?" I exclaimed, for Claudia was not demonstrative, andthis meant something. 

"She is here, " was the answer. 

My heart gave a great leap, but I could not ask if it were well withher. I could only look at Claudia, and wonder if it were the moonlightthat made the expression of her face so singularly content and sweet. Iwent into the lighted house, and being somewhat dazed and altogethertoo eager to see her at once, I dressed for the evening, leisurely, andthen I went to find her. There was a change in the house already. Itwas lighted from top to bottom as befits a time of rejoicing, and ourother guests, whom I passed in my search, seemed gayer--or I fanciedso. She was not among them, but I took the liberty of going to herrooms and knocked at the sitting-room door, and entered. She rose toreceive me, stretching out her hands, and my first impression was thatshe had grown; afterwards I understood that it was a change in thefashion of her dress that made it appear so. She wore a long robe, exquisitely draped, which was loose, but yet clung to her, and fell inrich folds about her with a grace that satisfied. I cannot describe thefashion of this robe, or the form, but I have seen one like itsomewhere--it must have been in a picture, or on a statue of a grandheroic woman or a saint; and it suggested something womanly and strong, but not to be defined. 

It was Ideala, herself--not as she had been, but as I always hoped shewould be, and felt she might. She showed the change in every gesture, but most of all in her clear and steady eyes, which made you feel shehad a purpose now, and a future yet before her. She looked as womenlook when they know themselves entrusted with a work, and have thecourage and resolution to be true and worthy of their trust. She wasvery gracious, but somehow in the first moment of our meeting I feltabashed--abashed before this woman who had gone down to the verge ofdishonour, but whose goodness, with the vitality of all goodness, hadraised her again above the best; whose trouble had been to her, becauseof this goodness, as is a painful operation which must be gone throughif the patient would ever be strong. 

I fancy she thought me cold because my great respect made me shy, and Ihesitated to show her all the joy I felt. 

"Won't you kiss me once after my long, long voyage?" she said, holdingup her face like a child to be kissed. And it made me inexpressiblyglad, to perceive that, while gaining in dignity and purpose, hercharacter had lost none of the childlike faith and affection which hadbeen one of the greatest charms of the old Ideala. I could not helpexamining her curiously, looking for traces of a conflict, for thoselines of suffering which are generally left by fierce mental troubleslike scars after a battle, showing that the fight has been no child'splay, but a struggle for life or death. Such a conflict there must havebeen, but all trace of it was swept away by the wonderful peace thathad succeeded it. Ideala looked younger, certainly, but the changeshowed itself most in her perfect serenity, and in the steadfastearnestness of her wonderful eyes. 

But I had no time to talk to her, for Claudia, in diamonds and velvetand lace--her donning of which is her one way of expressing asatisfaction too deep for words--blazed in upon us. If it had occurredso her, she would certainly have had the bells of the parish rung--provided my authority as lay Rector could have accomplished such anextravagance. She took us away with her now to join our other guests, and when dinner was announced I offered Ideala my arm. She was silentas we went, but looked about her with a grave little smile on her lips, renewing her acquaintance with familiar objects, and noting everychange. And so busy was she with her own reflections, so thoroughlyabsorbed, that, when we were seated at table, she put her serviettebeside her plate and her bread on her lap mechanically, and took up herknife and fork to eat her soup. She seemed puzzled for a moment whenshe found that the implements did not answer, and then she laughed!Such a fresh, girlish laugh! It did one's heart good to hear her! Yes, verily! Ideala was herself again, absent-mindedness and all. 

And before dinner was over a wonderful thing had happened. For whereaswe had hitherto been the most commonplace and prosaic party imaginable, getting along smoothly, taking no particular interest in each other, orin anything else, and only remarkable for a degree of dulness whichwould have astonished us by its bulk could it have been weighed andmeasured--to-night, for no apparent reason, we suddenly woke up andastounded ourselves by more originality than we had been accustomed tobelieve was left in the world altogether--while something put into ourconversation just the right amount of polite friction to act as acounter-irritant, so that, when we left the table, each felt that hehad been at his best--had been brilliant, in fact, and shone withlustre enough to make any man happy. 

Once in a London theatre I saw an actress walk across the stage. Shedid not utter a word, she never looked at the audience, she wasapparently unconscious of everything but what she had in her own mind;yet before she was half across the stage the people rose to their feetwith a roar. Ideala's coming amongst us had produced some suchstartling effect; but _her_ power was altogether occult. The audienceknew what the actress meant, but we did not understand Ideala, and yetwe applauded by laying our best before her, and acknowledged the charmof her presence in every word. She spoke very little, however. Indeed, I remember nothing she said until we went to the drawing-room. On theway thither Claudia had picked up a crumpled paper, and, glancing atit, had exclaimed--"Why, Ideala, here are some of your verses! Do youstill write verses?"

It was curious that we all spoke as if she had been away for years. 

"Yes, " she answered, tranquilly; and Claudia coolly proceeded to readthe verses aloud, a difficult task, as they were scribbled in pencil onhalf a sheet of note-paper, and were scarcely decipherable. Ideala, meanwhile, listened, with calm eyes fixed on vacancy, like one tryingto be polite, but finding it hard for lack of interest. 

 "By Arno, when the tale was o'er, At sunset, as in days of yore, I wandered forth and dreamed. The sky above, the town below. The solemn river's silent flow, The ancient story-haunts I know, In varied colours gleamed. 

 By Arno calm my steps I stayed, Just where the river's bank displayed A tangled growth of weeds; Tall houses near, and on the right An arched bridge upreared its height, And boats drew near, and passed from sight-- I heard the tramp of steeds. 

 I heard, and saw, but heeded not; My feet were rooted to the spot, A fancy checked my breath. 'Twas here that Tito lay, I knew. His fair face upward to the blue, His velvet tunic soaking through, Most beautiful in death. 

 But Baldassarre was not there, 'Twas I that stooped to kiss the hair, Besprent with ooze and dew. Ah, God! light gold the locks caressed-- I saw no Greek in velvet dressed-- But wildly to my bosom pressed-- Not Tito, love, but you!

 The massive, godlike head and throat Belonged not to those days remote, The fine grey eye--the limb; It was the soul I know so well, So full of earth, and heaven, and hell, That came from out that time to dwell In you and make you him. 

 And I, the victim of your smiles, And I, the victim of your wiles, My vengeance shall prevail. The river Time shall float you nigh, And earth and hell your soul shall fly. And only heaven remain when I The deed triumphant hail!"

It surprised me to find that Claudia could read those verses to theend, their import--to me, at least--was so obvious. But Idealacontinued unmoved; and when the little buzz of friendly criticism hadsubsided, she remarked, with unimpassioned directness:

"I am quite sure that all my verses are rubbish; but nevertheless theydelight me. I should feel dumb without the power to make verses; it isa means of expression that satisfies when nothing else will. I alwayscarry my last about in my pocket. I know them by heart, of course, butstill it is a pleasure to read them; and so it continues until I writesome more; and then I immediately perceive that the old ones are bad, and I destroy them--when I remember. Those were condemned ages ago, soplease oblige me, Claudia, by putting them into the fire. "

Claudia was about to obey, but I interposed. I had a fancy for keepingthose verses. They are rubbishy if you will; but the sentiment whichstruggles to find expression in them is far from despicable. 

No one smoked that evening; no one played billiards; no one cared formusic; we just sat round the fire in a circle, and talked. 

"And where have you come from, Ideala?" was the first question. 

"From China, " she answered. 

There was a general exclamation. "I have been with the missionaries inChina, " she added. 

"Oh, isn't it very strange, the life in China?" some one asked. 

"It looks different, " she said, "but its feels like our own. To beginwith, one is struck by the strange appearance of the people, and thequaint humour of their art; but when the first effect wears off, andyou learn to know them, you find after all that theirs is the samehuman nature, only in another garb; the familiar old tune, as it were, with a new set of variations. The like in unlikeness is common enough, but still the finding of a remarkable similarity in things apparentlyunlike continues to surprise us. "

"But, Ideala, you cannot compare the Chinese to ourselves! Think of thestate of degradation the people are in! Every crime is rife among them--infanticide is quite common!"

"Yes, " said Ideala, as, if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Yes, doubtless, the lower classes in China kill their children; here, in certain districts, they insure them, " Ideala concluded gravely. 

"But then, " said Claudia--"Oh! Ideala, I don't think you can establishyour parallel. We all know the sort of a life a Chinese lady leads. "

"When the lady is not at the head of her house it is certainlyvacuous, " Ideala agreed, "like the lives of our own ladies when theyare not forced to do anything. Why, at Scarborough this year they hadto take to changing their dresses four times a day; so you can imaginehow they languish for want of occupation. "

"Well, at all events, English girls are not sold into a hateful form ofslavery, " some one observed contentedly. 

"Are they not?" Ideala rejoined with a flash. "I can assure you thatboth women and men, fathers, husbands, and brothers, of the same classin England, do sell their young girls--and I can prove it. "

"We have the pull over them in the matter of marriage, then. We don'tgive our daughters away against their will as they do. "

"That is not a fair way of putting it. A Chinese girl expects to be sodisposed of, and accepts the arrangement as a matter of course. And thesystem has its advantages. The girl has no illusions to be shattered, she expects no new happiness in her married life, so that any thatcomes to her is clear gain. As to our daughters' inclinations not beingforced, I suppose they are not, exactly. But have you never beenconscious of the tender pressure that is brought to bear when adesirable suitor offers? Have you never seen a girl who won't marrywhen she is wanted to, wincing from covert stabs, mourning over coldlooks, and made to feel outside everything--suffering a small martyrdomunder the general displeasure of all for whom she cares, her world, without whose love life is a burden to her; whom she believes to knowbest about everything? As Mrs. Bread said about Madame de Cintre: 'Sheis a delicate creature, and they make her feel wicked'--and she ends bythinking any sacrifice light at the moment, if only it wins her backthe affection and esteem of her friends. "

Ideala had been carried away by her earnestness, and now she stoppedabruptly, somewhat disconcerted to find every one listening to her. Theladies sat with their eyes on the floor, the gentlemen exchangedglances, but no one spoke for some time. 

At last my sister made a move, and the spell was broken. We separatedfor the night, and many were the lady-like whispers that reached myears, all ending in: "So like Ideala!"

But, as Ideala herself remarked on another occasion, "You can't sweep aroom that requires it without raising a dust; the thing is to let thedust settle again, and then remove it. "

CHAPTER XXIX. 

Claudia did not see the change in Ideala all at once. She said: "She islooking her best, and is our own Ideala again--faults and all! How shetalked last night!"

"Just in the old way, " I agreed, "but with a difference; for in the olddays she talked at random, but now I feel sure she has a plan and apurpose, and all that she says is part of it. "

This suggested new possibilities to Claudia, and when Ideala joined uspresently, she asked, abruptly: "Are you going back to China?"

Ideala answered deliberately: "I did think of becoming amissionary--that was why I went out there. But I know all radicalreforms take time, and when I saw what the Chinese women were doing forthemselves, and compared their state with our own, it seemed to me thatthere was work in plenty to be done at home, and so I returned. Certainly, the Chinese women of the day bind their feet. When a girl isseven or eight years old, her mother binds them for her, and everybodyapproves, If the mother did otherwise, the girl herself would be thefirst to reproach her when she grew up. It is wonderful how they endurethe torture; but public opinion has sanctioned the custom forcenturies, and made it as much a duty for a Chinese woman to have smallfeet as it is for us to wear clothes! And yet they do a wonderfulthing. When they are taught how wrong the practice is, how it cripplesthem, and weakens them, and renders them unfit for their work in theworld, they take off their bandages! Think of that! and remember thatthey are timid and sensitive in a womanly way to a degree that ispainful. When I learnt that, and when I remembered that my countrywomenbind every organ in their bodies, though they know the harm of it, andpublic opinion is against it, I did not feel that I had time to stayand teach the heathen. It seemed to me that there was work enough leftyet to do at home. "

"But, Ideala, " Claudia protested, "what is the use of drawing degradingcomparisons between ourselves and other nations? You gave great offencelast night. "

"I said more than I intended, " she answered; "I always do. It wasTourgenieff, was it not, who said that the age of talkers must precedethe age of practical reformers? I seem to have been born in the age oftalkers. But I shall not say much more. Last night I did not really_intend_ to say anything. You led me on. But I _do_ want to make theirhearts burn within them, and if I succeed, then I shall not care aboutthe offence. An English-woman is nothing if she is not patriotic. Shewill not bear the humiliation, if she is made to see that she isreally no better, with all her opportunities, than a much- despisedChinese. She would not like the contempt the women of that nation feelfor her if she were made to acknowledge the truth--that she deservedit. And so much depends on our women now. There are plenty of people, you know, who believe that no nation can get beyond a certain point ofprosperity, and that when it reaches that point it cannot stay there, but must begin to go down again; and they say that the English nationhas now reached its extreme point. They compare it with Rome in thedays which immediately preceded her decline and fall--when men ceasedto be brave and self-denying, and became idle, luxurious, andeffeminate; and women traded on their weakness, and made light oftheir evil deeds. It is a question of the sanctity of marriage now, asit was in the days of the decline of Rome. De Quincey traces her fallto the loosening of the marriage tie. He says that few indeed, if any, were the obligations in a proper sense _moral_ which pressed upon theRoman. The main fountains of moral obligation had in Rome, by law orcustom, been thoroughly poisoned. Marriage had corrupted itselfthrough the facility of divorce, and through the consequences of thatfacility (viz. , levity in choosing, and fickleness in adhering to thechoice), into so exquisite a traffic of selfishness, that it could notyield so much as a phantom model of sanctity. The relation of husbandand wife had, for all moral impressions, perished amongst the Romans. And, although it is not quite so bad with ourselves at present, thatis what it is coming to. 

"But there are two sides to every question, and the one which we mustby no means lose sight of just now is not that which shows the respectsin which we resemble the Romans, so much as the one which shows therespects in which we differ from them. It is therein that our hopelies. And we differ from them in two important respects. We differ fromthem in the matter of experience, and in the use we are disposed tomake of our experiences. We are beginning to know the rocks upon whichthey split, and we shall soon be making use of our knowledge to steerclear of them. But there is another respect in which we differ from allthe older nations, not even excepting the Jewish. I mean morality. Wehave the grandest and purest ideal of morality that was ever preachedupon earth, and, if we do but practise it, there is no doubt that thepromise will be fulfilled, and our days as a nation will be prolongedwith rejoicing. 

"The future of the race has come to be a question of morality and aquestion of health. Perhaps I should reverse it, and say a question ofhealth and morality, since the latter is so dependent on the former. Wewant grander minds, and we must have grander bodies to contain them. And it all rests with us women. To us is confided the care of thelittle ones--of the young bodies and the young minds yet unformed. Ourswill be the joy of success or the shame of failure, and we should fitourselves for the task both morally and physically by the practice ofevery virtue, and by every art known to the science and skill of man. "

"Englishwomen could not sit still and know that their lovely homes willbe wrecked eventually, and left desolate: that this country of theirswill become a wilderness of ruin, such as Egypt is, but rank andovergrown, its beauty of sweet grass and stately trees, and all itsrich luxuriance of flowers and fruits and foliage plants, onlyaccentuating the ruin--bearing witness to the neglect. No, ourgreatness shall not depart. The decay may have begun, but it shall bearrested. I am not afraid. "

"But if it is the fate of nations, Ideala----"

"I propose to conquer fate, " said Ideala. "Fate itself is no match forone woman with a will, let alone for thousands! When horrid war isthreatened, men flock to fight for their country; and they volunteerfor every other arduous duty to be done. Do you think women are lessbrave? No. When they realise the truth they will fight for it. Theywill fly to arms. They will use the weapons with which Nature hasprovided them; love, constancy, self-sacrifice, their intellectualstrength, and will. And so they will save the nation. "

Claudia, the unimaginative, sat silent and perplexed. 

"I would join, " she said at last, "if I were quite sure----Oh, Ideala!it is not a sort of Woman's Rights business, and all that, you aregoing in for, is it? A woman can do good in her own sphere only. "

Ideala laughed. "But 'her own sphere' is such a very indefinitephrase, " she observed. "It is nonsense, really. A woman may do anythingwhich she can do in a womanly way. They say that our brains arelighter, and that therefore we must not be taught too much. But why noteducate us to the limit of our capacity, and leave it there? Why, if weare inferior, should there be any fear of making us superior? We muststop when we cannot go any further, and all this old-womanish cackle onthe subject, the everlasting trying to prove what is already said to beproved--the looking for the square in space after laying it down as alaw that only the circle exists--is a curious way of showing us how tocontrol the 'exuberance of our own verbosity. ' They say we shall not becontent when we get what we want, and there they are right, for as soonas our own 'higher education' is secure we shall begin to clamour forthe higher education of men. For the prayer of every woman worth thename is not 'Make me superior to my husband, ' but, 'Lord, make myhusband superior to me!' Is there any more pitiful position in theworld than that of a right-minded woman who is her husband's superior, and knows it! There is in every educated and refined woman an inborndesire to submit, and she must do violence to what is best in herselfwhen she cannot. You know what the history of such marriages is. Thegirl has been taught to expect to find a guide, philosopher, and friendin her husband. He is to be head of the house and lord of her life andliberty, sole arbiter on all occasions. It is right and convenient tohave him so; the world requires him to fill that position, and the wifeprefers that he should. But the probabilities are about equal that he, being morally her inferior, will not be fit for it, and that, therefore, she will find herself in a false position. There will thenbe an interval of intense misery for the wife. Her education andprejudices will make her try to submit at first to what her sense knowsto be impossible; but eventually she is forced out of her unnaturalposition by circumstances. To save her house and family she must rebel, take the reins of government into her own hands, and face life, adisappointed and lonely woman. "

"Heaven help her!" said Claudia. "One knows that the future of a womanin that state of mind is only a question of circumstance andtemperament; she may rise, but----"

Ideala looked up quickly. "But she may fall, you were going to say--yes. But you know if she does it is her own fault. She _must_ knowbetter. "

"She may not be quite mistress of herself at the time--she may befascinated; she may be led on!" I interposed, quickly. Claudia seemedto have forgotten. "But one thing is certain, if she has any real goodin her she will always stop before it is too late. "

"I think, " said Claudia, "it would be better, after all, if women weretaught to expect to find themselves their husbands' equals--thedisappointment would not be so great if the husband proved inferior;but when a woman has been led to look for so much, her imagination isfull of dreams in which he figures as an infallible being; she expectshim to be her refuge, support, and comfort at all times; and when a manhas such a height to fall from in any one's estimation, there can bebut little of him left if he does fall. "

Ideala sighed, and after a short pause she said: "I have been wonderingwhat makes it possible for a woman to love a man? Not the flesh thatshe sees and can touch, though that may attract her as the colour ofthe flower attracts. It must be the mind that is in him--the scent ofthe flower, as it were. If she finds eventually that his mind iscorrupt, she must shrink from it as from any other form of corruption, and finally abandon him on account of it, as she would abandon theflower if she found its odour fetid--indeed, she has already abandonedher husband when she acknowledges that he is not what she thought him. "She paused a moment, and then went on passionately: "I cannot tell youwhat it was--the battling day by day with a power that was irresistiblebecause it had to put forth no strength to accomplish its work; itsimply was itself, and by being itself it lowered me. I cannot tell youwhat it was to feel myself going down, and not to be able to help it, try as I would; to feel the gradual change in my mind as it grew toharbour thoughts which were reflections of his thoughts, low thoughts;and to be filled with ideas, recollections of his conversations, whichhad caused me infinite disgust at the time, but remained with me likethe taste of a nauseous drug, until I almost acquired a morbid likingfor them. Oh, if I could save other women from that!"

Claudia hastily interposed to divert her. "That is a good idea, thehigher education of men, " she said. "I don't know whether they haveabandoned hope, or whether they think themselves already perfect, certain it is the idea of improving themselves does not seem to occurto them often. And we want good men in society. If the clergy andpriests are good, it is only what is required of them, what everybodyexpects, and, therefore, their goodness is accepted as a matter ofcourse, and is viewed as indifferently as other matters of course. Onegood man in society has more effect as an example than ten priests. "

"But you have not told us what you propose to do, Ideala?" I said. 

"I hope it is nothing unwomanly, " Claudia interposed, anxiously. 

Ideala looked at her and laughed, and Claudia laughed too, the momentafter she had spoken. The fear of Ideala doing anything unwomanly wasabsurd, even to herself. 

"An unwomanly woman is such a dreadful creature, " Claudia added, apologetically. 

"Yes, " said Ideala, "but you should pity her. In nine cases out of tenthere is a great wrong or a great grief at the bottom of all herunwomanliness--perhaps both; and if she shrieks you may be sure thatshe is suffering; ease her pain, and she will be quiet enough. Theaverage woman who is happy in her marriage does not care to know moreof the world than she can learn in her own nursery, nor to see more ofit, as a rule, than she can see from her own garden gate. She is agreat power; but, unfortunately, there is so very little of her!

"What I want to do is to make women discontented--you have heard of anoble spirit of discontent? I thought for a long time that everythinghad been done that could be done to make the world better; but now Isee that there is still one thing more to be tried. Women have neveryet united to use their influence steadily and all together againstthat of which they disapprove. They work too much for themselves, eachtrying to make their own life happier. They have yet to learn to take awider view of things, and to be shown that the only way to gain theirend is by working for everybody else, with intent to make the wholeworld better, which means happier. And in order to accomplish this theymust be taught that they have only to _will_ it--each in her ownfamily and amongst her own friends; that, after having agreed with therest about what they mean to put down, they have only to go home anduse their influence to that end, quietly, consistently, and withoutwavering, and the thing will be done. Our influence is like thosestrong currents which run beneath the surface of the ocean withoutdisturbing it, and yet with irresistible force, and at a rate that maybe calculated. It is to help in the direction of that force that I amgoing to devote my life. Do not imagine, " she went on hurriedly, "thatI think myself fit for such a work. I have had conscientious scruples--been sorely troubled about my own unworthiness, which seemed to unfitme for any good work. But now I see things differently. One may be madean instrument for good without merit of one's own. So long as we do notdeceive ourselves by thinking we are worthy, and so long as we aretrying our best to become so, I think we may hope; I think we may evenknow that we shall eventually----" She stopped and looked at me. 

"Be made worthy, " said Claudia, kissing her; "and if it were not so, Ideala, if everybody had to begin by being as good themselves as theywant others to be, there would be no good workers left in the world atall. "

At this moment a noisy party burst in upon our grave debate and carriedIdeala off for a ride. We saw them leave the house, and watched themride away until the last glimpse of them was veiled by the mistybrightness of the frosty air and the morning sunshine. 

"How well she looks!" Claudia exclaimed; "better than any of them. Shehas quite recovered, and is none the worse. "

"I do not know about recovery, " I answered, dubiously. "She will never----"

But Claudia interrupted hotly: "I know what you are going to say, and Ido wish you would leave off speaking of Ideala in that way. Any one tohear you would suppose she had committed a sin, and you know quite wellthat that was not the case. If she acted without common prudence--and Iwill not deny that she did--it was entirely your own fault. She hasnever been intimate with any man but yourself, and you have made herbelieve that all men are like you. How could she harbour suspicion whenshe did not know what to suspect? Of course she saw everything wronglyand awry. The old life had become impossible to her, and she nearlymade a mistake as to what the new one should be, that was all. I knowshe wavered for a moment, but the weakness was more physical thanmoral, I think. Her vision was clouded at the time, but as soon as shewas restored to health she saw things clearly enough. She is a greatand good woman, pure-hearted and full of charity. God bless her for allher tenderness, and for her wonderful power to love. He alone can countthe number who have reason to wish her well. "

"That is true, " I answered. "And I was merely going to remark, when youinterrupted me, that she will never think herself 'none the worse'--"

"I don't see what difference that makes, " Claudia again interposed. "She always did think herself least of the least when she thought ofherself at all, and that was not often. You are dwelling too long onthe past, really, and making too much of it. Men, when they are saints, are twice as bad as women. "

I pointed out to my sister something confusing in her way of expressingthe fact, but my kindness seemed to exasperate her. 

"You know what I mean quite well, " she said tartly. 

"Yes, _I_ know, " I rejoined; "but I wanted to help you to makeyourself intelligible to other people. "

Claudia made a gesture of impatience, but laughed, and left me; and Iremained for a long time thinking over all that Ideala had said, andalso thinking of her as she looked at the time; and the subject was soinspiring that, although my strong point is landscape, in an ambitiousmood I began to paint an allegorical picture of her as a mother nursingthe Infant Goodness of the race. She saw it when it was nearlyfinished, but did not recognise herself, and exclaimed; "What a gauntcreature! and that baby weighs at least twelve stone!"

The picture was never finished. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

We soon found that Ideala, having at last put her hand to the plough, worked with a will, and although she was true to her principle that awoman's best work is done beneath the surface, I think her own labourswill eventually make themselves felt with a good result in the world. But the life she has chosen for herself is martyrdom, and her womanlyshrinking from the suffering she would alleviate is never lessened byuse. Yet she does not waver. Other women admire her devotion, andfollow in her footsteps; they do not doubt but that she has chosen thebetter part; but I fancy that most men who have seen her draw thelittle children about her and forget everything for a moment but herdelight in them, have felt that there must be something wrong in theworld when such a woman misses her vocation, and has to scatter herlove to the four winds of heaven, for want of an object upon which toconcentrate it in all its strength. 

I do not know if her feeling for Lorrimer has changed. My sisterdeclares in her positive way that of course it has, completely; but mysister is not always right. Ideala has never mentioned his name sinceshe returned to us, nor given us any other clue by which we couldjudge. Only on one occasion, when some allusion was made to the courseshe had intended to pursue in the past, she exclaimed: "Oh, how couldI!" and covered her face with her hands. 

From where I sit just now I can see her walking up the avenue. She isas straight as an arrow, young-looking, and fresh. Her step is firm andlight and elastic, and she moves with an easy grace only possible whenevery muscle is unconstrained. Her dress is a work of art, light inweight, but rich in colour and texture. 

"What a beautiful woman!" I think involuntarily. I see her daily, andpay her that tribute every time we meet, for--

 Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety. 

Her intellect and selflessness preserve her youth. She is changed, certainly. She has arisen, and can return no more to the lower walks, to the old purposeless life, and desultory ways; but yet she is thesame Ideala, and holds you always expectant--you, who see beneath thesurface. The world will call her cold and self-contained till the end, and so she is and will be--a snow-crowned volcano, with wonderful forceof fire working within. And she will not stop where she is; there issomething yet to come--some further development--something more--something beyond! and she makes you feel that there is. What she saysof other women is true of herself. "Do not stand in their way, " shebegs; "do not hinder them--above all, do not stop them. They arerunning water; if you check them they stagnate, and you must sufferyourself from their noisome exhalations. For the moral nature is likewater; it must have movement and air and sunshine to stay corruptionand keep it sweet and wholesome; and its movement is good works; itsair, faith in their efficiency; its sunshine, the evidence of this andhope. "

Comparative anatomists have proved that the human brain, from its firstappearance as a semi-fluid and shapeless mass, passes in successionthrough the several structures that constitute the permanent andperfect brains of fishes, reptiles, birds, and mammalia; but ultimatelyit passes beyond them all, and acquires a marvellous development of itsown. And so it is with the human soul. It must rise through analogousstages, and add to its own strength and beauty by daily bread of loveand thought, growing to greatness by help of these aliments only, andreaching ultimately to such perfection as we cannot divine, for the endis not here. But we might reach it sooner than we do were it not forour own impatience. Growth is so exquisitely minute, it bursts upon usan accomplished fact. We know this, and yet we would see the process;and not seeing it we lose faith, waver, hesitate, stop, and recoil--agoing back _pour mieux sauter_ it is with the choicer spirit; butwe all are deficient in hope, all have our retrograde moments ofdespair. We do not look about us enough to see what is being done forothers, how they are progressing, by what strange paths they are led. We keep our eyes on our own ground too much, and, because we will notcompare cheerfully, we think our own way the roughest, our own journeythe longest--if there be any end to it at all! Yet all the time wemight see the end if only we would look up. And we need never despairand lag, need never be cold and comfortless, if we would but love andremember. 

 For, while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far out, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main!

Ideala raises her eyes to mine now, and smiles as she passes beneath mywindow. 

Another woman--a woman whom Claudia had long refused to know--isleaning on her arm, talking to her earnestly. And that is Ideala'sattitude always. She gathers the useless units of society about her, and makes them worthy women. There is no kind of sorrow for which shehas not found comfort, no folly she has not been successful inchecking, no vice she has not managed to cure, and no form of despairwhich she has not relieved with hope. Her own experiences have taughther to sympathise with every phase of feeling, and be lenient to everyshortcoming and excess. Wherever she is you may be sure that anotherwoman is there also--some one with a sorrowful history, probably; andyou may be equally sure that she is leaning on Ideala. God bless her!