THE CORYSTON FAMILY

A NOVEL

BY

MRS. HUMPHRY WARD

ILLUSTRATED BY ELIZABETH SHIPPEN GREEN

1913

TO

G. M. T. AND J. P. T. 

ILLUSTRATIONS

"HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN CONCOCTING THIS, MOTHER?" _Frontispiece_

THE CONVERSATION DROPPED, JUST AS THE VOICE OF THE ORATOR ROSE TO HISPERORATION

AS SHE SAW MARCIA HER FACE LIT UP

THIS MORNING HE FOUND HER ALL GIRLISH GENTLENESS AND APPEAL

"I DO WISH I COULD HELP YOU"

MARCIA WAS SINGING, IN A LOW VOICE AS SHE CAME

HE SAT STILL, STUDYING HIS MOTHER'S STRONG, LINED FACE

NOW SUDDENLY--HERE WAS A FRIEND--ON WHOM TO LEAN

Book I

LADY CORYSTON

[Greek: turannon einai moria kai tonthelein. ]

CHAPTER I

The hands of the clock on the front of the Strangers' Gallery were nearingsix. The long-expected introductory speech of the Minister in charge of thenew Land Bill was over, and the leader of the Opposition was on his feet. The House of Commons was full and excited. The side galleries were no lesscrowded than the benches below, and round the entrance-door stood a compactthrong of members for whom no seats were available. With every sentence, almost, the speaker addressing the House struck from it assent or protest;cheers and counter-cheers ran through its ranks; while below the gangwaya few passionate figures on either side, the freebooters of the two greatparties, watched one another angrily, sitting on the very edge of theirseats, like arrows drawn to the string. 

Within that privileged section of the Ladies' Gallery to which only theSpeaker's order admits, there was no less agitation than on the floorbelow, though the signs of it were less evident. Some half a dozen chairsplaced close against the grille were filled by dusky forms invisible, saveas a dim patchwork, to the House beneath them--women with their facespressed against the lattice-work which divided them from the Chamber, endeavoring to hear and see, in spite of all the difficulties placed intheir way by a graceless Commons. Behind them stood other women, bendingforward sometimes over the heads of those in front, in the feverish effortto catch the words of the speech. It was so dark in the little room thatno inmate of it could be sure of the identity of any other unless she wasclose beside her; and it was pervaded by a constant soft _frou-frou_of silk and satin, as persons from an inner room moved in and out, or somelady silently gave up her seat to a new-comer, or one of those in frontbent over to whisper to a friend behind. The background of all seemedfilled with a shadowy medley of plumed hats, from which sometimes a faceemerged as a shaft of faint light from the illumined ceiling of the Housestruck upon it. 

The atmosphere was very hot, and heavy with the scent of violets, whichseemed to come from a large bunch worn by a slim standing girl. In frontof the girl sat a lady who was evidently absorbed in the scene below. Sherarely moved, except occasionally to put up an eyeglass the better toenable her to identify some face on the Parliamentary benches, or theauthor of some interruption to the speaker. Meanwhile the girl held herhands upon the back of the lady's chair, and once or twice stooped to speakto her. 

Next to this pair, but in a corner of the gallery, and occupying whatseemed to be a privileged and habitual seat, was a woman of uncouth figureand strange headgear. Since the Opposition leader had risen, her attentionhad wholly wandered. She yawned perpetually, and talked a great deal to alady behind her. Once or twice her neighbor threw her an angry glance. Butit was too dark for her to see it; though if she had seen it she would havepaid no attention. 

"Lady Coryston!" said a subdued voice. The lady sitting in front of thegirl turned and saw an attendant beckoning. 

The girl moved toward him, and returned. 

"What is it, Marcia?"

"A note from Arthur, mamma. "

A slip of paper was handed to Lady Coryston, who read it in the gloom withdifficulty. Then she whispered to her daughter:

"He hopes to get his chance about seven; if not then, after dinner. "

"I really don't think I can stay so long, " said the girl, plaintively. "It's dreadfully tiring. "

"Go when you like, " said her mother, indifferently. "Send the car back forme. "

She resumed her intent listening just as a smart sally from the speakerbelow sent a tumultuous wave of cheers and counter-cheers through hisaudience. 

"He can be such a buffoon, can't he?" said the stout lady in the corner toher companion, as she yawned again. She had scarcely tried to lowerher voice. Her remark was, at any rate, quite audible to her next-doorneighbor, who again threw her a swift, stabbing look, of no more avail, however, than its predecessors. 

"Who is that lady in the corner--do you mind telling me?"

The query was timidly whispered in the ear of Marcia Coryston by a veiledlady, who on the departure of some other persons had come to stand besideher. 

"She is Mrs. Prideaux. " said Miss Coryston, stiffly. 

"The wife of the Prime Minister!" The voice showed emotion. 

Marcia Coryston looked down upon the speaker with an air that said, "Acountry cousin, I suppose. "

But she whispered, civilly enough: "Yes. She always sits in that corner. Weren't you here when he was speaking?"

"No--I've not long come in. "

The conversation dropped, just as the voice of the orator standing on theleft of the Speaker rose to his peroration. 

It was a peroration of considerable eloquence, subtly graduated through arising series of rhetorical questions, till it finally culminated and brokein the ringing sentences:

"Destroy the ordered hierarchy of English land, and you will sweep away agrowth of centuries which would not be where it is if it did not in themain answer to the needs and reflect the character of Englishmen. Reformand develop it if you will; bring in modern knowledge to work upon it;change, expand, without breaking it; appeal to the sense of property, while enormously diffusing property; help the peasant without slaying thelandlord; in other words, put aside rash, meddlesome revolution, and setyourselves to build on the ancient foundations of our country what mayyet serve the new time! Then you will have an _English_, a nationalpolicy. It happens to be the Tory policy. Every principle of it is violatedby the monstrous bill you have just brought in. We shall oppose it by everymeans and every device in our power!"

[Illustration: THE CONVERSATION DROPPED, JUST AS THE VOICE OF THE ORATORROSE TO HIS PERORATION]

The speaker sat down amid an ovation from his own side. Three men on theLiberal side jumped up, hat in hand, simultaneously. Two of them subsidedat once. The third began to speak. 

A sigh of boredom ran through the latticed gallery above, and severalpersons rose and prepared to vacate their places. The lady in the corneraddressed some further remarks on the subject of the speech which hadjust concluded to an acquaintance who came up to greet her. "Childish!--positively childish!"

Lady Coryston caught the words, and as Mrs. Prideaux rose with alacrityto go into the Speaker's private house for a belated cup of tea, her Toryneighbor beckoned to her daughter Marcia to take the vacant chair. 

"Intolerable woman!" she said, drawing a long breath. "And they're in foryears! Heaven knows what we shall all have to go through. "

"Horrible!" said the girl, fervently. "She always behaves like that. Yet ofcourse she knew perfectly who you were. "

"Arthur will probably follow this man, " murmured Lady Coryston, returningto her watch. 

"Go and have some tea, mother, and come back. "

"No. I might miss his getting up. "

There was silence a little. The House was thinning rapidly, and half theoccupants of the Ladies' Galleries had adjourned to the tearooms on thefarther side of the corridor. Marcia could now see her mother's face moredistinctly as Lady Coryston sat in a brown study, not listening, evidently, to the very halting gentleman who was in possession of the House, thoughher eyes still roamed the fast-emptying benches. 

It was the face of a woman on the wrong side of fifty. The complexionwas extremely fair, with gray shades in it. The eyes, pale in color butsingularly imperious and direct, were sunk deep under straight brows. The nose was long, prominent, and delicately sharp in the nostril. Thesefeatures, together with the long upper lip and severely cut mouth and chin, the slightly hollow cheeks and the thin containing oval of the face, setin pale and still abundant hair, made a harsh yet, on the whole, handsomeimpression. There was at Coryston, in the gallery, a picture of ElizabethTudor in her later years to which Lady Coryston had been often compared;and she, who as a rule disliked any reference to her personal appearance, did not, it was sometimes remarked, resent this particular comparison. Thelikeness was carried further by Lady Coryston's tall and gaunt frame; byher formidable carriage and step; and by the energy of the long-fingeredhands. In dress also there was some parallel between her and the Queen ofmany gowns. Lady Coryston seldom wore colors, but the richest of blacksilks and satins and the finest of laces were pressed night and day intothe service of her masterful good looks. She made her own fashions. Amidthe large and befeathered hats of the day, for instance, she alone worehabitually a kind of coif made of thin black lace on her fair face, thelappets of which were fastened with a diamond close beneath her chin. Forthe country she invented modifications of her London dress, which, whileloose and comfortable, were scarcely less stately. And whatever she woreseemed always part and parcel of her formidable self. 

In Marcia's eyes, her mother was a wonderful being--oppressivelywonderful--whom she could never conveniently forget. Other people's motherswere, so to speak, furniture mothers. They became the chimney-corner, orthe sofa; they looked well in combination, gave no trouble, and could beused for all the common purposes of life. But Lady Coryston could never beused. On the contrary, her husband--while he lived--her three sons, and herdaughter, had always appeared to her in the light of so many instruments ofher own ends. Those ends were not the ends of other women. But did it verymuch matter? Marcia would sometimes ask herself. They seemed to cause justas much friction and strife and bad blood as other people's ends. 

As the girl sat silent, looking down on the bald heads of a couple ofMinisters on the Front Bench, she was uneasily conscious of her mother asof some charged force ready to strike. And, indeed, given the circumstancesof the family, on that particular afternoon, nothing could be more certainthan blows of some kind before long.... 

"You see Mr. Lester?" said her mother, abruptly. "I thought Arthur wouldget him in. "

Marcia's dreaminess departed. Her eyes ran keenly along the benches of theStrangers' Gallery opposite till they discovered the dark head of a man whowas leaning forward on his elbows, closely attentive, apparently, to thedebate. 

"Has he just come in?"

"A minute or two ago. It means, I suppose, that Arthur told him he expectedto be up about seven. When will this idiot have done!" said Lady Coryston, impatiently. 

But the elderly gentleman from the Highlands, to whom she thus unkindlyreferred, went on humming and hawing as before, while the House lumbered orfidgeted, hats well over noses and legs stretched to infinity. 

"Oh, there is Arthur!" cried Marcia, having just discovered her brotheramong the shadows under the gallery to the left. "I couldn't make him outbefore. One can see he's on wires. "

For while everybody else, after the excitement of the two opening speeches, which was now running its course through the crowded lobbies outside, hadsunk into somnolence within the House itself, the fair-haired youth on whomher eyes were bent was sitting erect on the edge of his seat, papers inhand, his face turned eagerly toward the speaker on the other side of theHouse. His attitude gave the impression of one just about to spring to hisfeet. 

But Marcia was of opinion that he would still have to wait some time beforespringing. She knew the humming and hawing gentleman--had heard him oftenbefore. He was one of those plagues of debate who rise with ease and ceasewith difficulty. She would certainly have time to get a cup of tea and comeback. So with a word to her mother she groped her way through the darkgallery across the corridor toward a tearoom. But at the door of thegallery she turned back. There through the lattice which shuts in theLadies' Gallery, right across the House, she saw the Strangers' Gallery atthe other end. The man whose head had been propped on his hands when shefirst discovered his presence was now sitting upright, and seemed to belooking straight at herself, though she knew well that no one in theLadies' Gallery was really visible from any other part of the House. Hisface was a mere black-and-white patch in the distance. But she imagined theclear, critical eyes, their sudden frown or smile. 

"I wonder what _he_'ll think of Arthur's speech--and whether he'sseen Coryston. I wonder whether he knows there's going to be an awful rowto-night. Coryston's mad!"

Coryston was her eldest brother, and she was very fond of him. But the wayhe had been behaving!--the way he had been defying mamma!--it was reallyridiculous. What could he expect?

She seemed to be talking to the distant face, defending her mother andherself with a kind of unwilling deference. 

"After all, do I really care what he thinks?"

She turned and went her way to the tearoom. As she entered it she saw someacquaintances at the farther end, who waved their hands to her, beckoningher to join them. She hastened across the room, much observed by the way, and conscious of the eyes upon her. It was a relief to find herself among agroup of chattering people. 

Meanwhile at the other end of the room three ladies were finishing theirtea. Two of them were the wives of Liberal Ministers--by name, Mrs. Verityand Mrs. Frant. The third was already a well-known figure in London societyand in the precincts of the House of Commons--the Ladies' Gallery, theTerrace, the dining-rooms--though she was but an unmarried girl of two-and-twenty. Quite apart, however, from her own qualities and claims, EnidGlenwilliam was conspicuous as the only daughter of the most vigorouslyhated and ardently followed man of the moment--the North Country miner'sagent, who was now England's Finance Minister. 

"You saw who that young lady was?" said Mrs. Frant to Miss Glenwilliam. "Ithought you knew her. "

"Marcia Coryston? I have just been introduced to her. But she isn't allowedto know me!" The laugh that accompanied the words had a pleasant childishchuckle in it. 

Mrs. Frant laughed also. 

"Girls, I suppose, have to do what they're told, " she said, dryly. "But it_was_ Arthur Coryston, wasn't it, who sent you that extra order forto-day, Enid?"

"Yes, " laughed the girl again; "but I am quite certain he didn't tell hismother! We must really be civil and go back to hear him speak. His motherwill think it magnificent, anyway. She probably wrote it for him. He'squite a nice boy--but--"

She shook her head over him, softly smiling to herself. The face whichsmiled had no very clear title to beauty, but it was arresting andexpressive, and it had beautiful points. Like the girl's figure and dress, it suggested a self-conscious, fastidious personality: egotism, with charmfor its weapon. 

"I wonder what Lady Coryston thinks of her eldest son's performances in thepapers this morning!" said lively little Mrs. Frant, throwing up hands andeyes. 

Mrs. Verity, a soft, faded woman, smiled responsively. 

"They can't be exactly dull in that family, " she said. "I'm told they alltalk at once; and none of them listens to a word the others say. "

"I think I'll bet that Lady Coryston will make Lord Coryston listen to afew remarks on that speech!" laughed Enid Glenwilliam. "Is there such athing as _matria potestas_? I've forgotten all the Latin I learnedat Cambridge, so I don't know. But if there is, that's what Lady Corystonstands for. How splendid--to stand for anything--nowadays!"

The three fell into an animated discussion of the Coryston family and theircharacteristics. Enid Glenwilliam canvassed them all at least as freely asher neighbors. But every now and then little Mrs. Frant threw her an oddlook, as much as to say, "Am I really taken in?"

 * * * * *

Meanwhile a very substantial old lady, scarcely less deliberate and finelyfinished, in spite of her size, than Lady Coryston herself, had taken achair beside her in the gallery, which was still very empty. 

"My dear, " she said, panting a little and grasping Lady Coryston's wrist, with a plump hand on which the rings sparkled--"My dear! I came to bringyou a word of sympathy. "

Lady Coryston looked at her coldly. 

"Are you speaking of Coryston?"

"Naturally. The only logical result of those proceedings last night wouldbe, of course, the guillotine at Hyde Park Corner. Coryston wants ourheads! There's nothing else to be said. I took the speeches for young men'snonsense--just midsummer madness, but I find people very angry. _Your_son! one of _us_!"

"I thought the speeches very clever, " said Lady Coryston. 

"I'm rejoiced you take it so philosophically, my dear Emilia!"--the tonewas a little snappish--"I confess I thought you would have been muchdistressed. "

"What's the good of being distressed? I have known Coryston's opinions fora long time. One has to _act_--of course, " the speaker added, withdeliberation. 

"Act? I don't understand. "

Lady Coryston did not enlighten her. Indeed, she did not hear her. She wasbending forward eagerly. The fair-haired youth on the back benches, who hadbeen so long waiting his turn, was up at last. 

It was a maiden speech, and a good one, as such things go. There was enoughnervousness and not too much; enough assurance and not too much. The factsand figures in it had been well arranged. A modest jest or two trippedpleasantly out; and the general remarks at the end had been well chosenfrom the current stock, and were not unduly prolonged. Altogether acreditable effort, much assisted by the young man's presence and manner. Hehad no particular good looks, indeed; his nose ascended, his chin satisfiedno one; but he had been a well-known bat in the Oxford eleven of his day, and was now a Yeomanry officer; he held himself with soldierly erectness, and his slender body, cased in a becoming pale waistcoat under his tailcoat, carried a well-shaped head covered with thick and tumbling hair. 

The House filled up a little to hear him. His father had been a member ofParliament for twenty years, and a popular member. There was some curiosityto know what his son would make of his first speech. And springing from thegood feeling which always animates the House of Commons on such occasions, there was a fair amount of friendly applause from both sides when he satdown. 

"Features the father, and takes after the mother!" said a white-hairedlistener in the Strangers' Gallery to himself, as the young man ceasedspeaking. "She's drilled him! Well, now I suppose I must go andcongratulate her. " He rose from his seat and began to make his way out. Inthe passage outside the Gallery he overtook and recognized the man whoseentrance into the House Lady Coryston and her daughter had noticed about anhour earlier. 

"Well, what did you think of it, Lester?"

The other smiled good-humoredly. 

"Capital! Everybody must make a beginning. He's taken a lot of pains. "

"It's a beastly audience!" said Sir Wilfrid Bury, in reply. "Don't I knowit! Well, I'm off to congratulate. How does the catalogue get on?"

"Oh, very well. I sha'n't finish till the summer. There's a good deal stillto do at Coryston. Some of the things are really too precious to moveabout. "

"How do you get on with her ladyship?" asked the old man, gaily, loweringhis voice. 

The young man smiled discreetly. 

"Oh, very well. I don't see very much of her. "

"I suppose she's pressed you into the service--makes you help Arthur?"

"I looked out a few things for his speech to-day. But he has his ownsecretary. "

"You're not staying for the rest of the debate?"

"No, I'm going back to St. James's Square. I have a heap of arrears to getthrough. "

"Do they put you up there? I know it's a huge house. "

"Yes. I have a bedroom and sitting-room there when I want them, and my ownarrangements. "

"Ta-ta. "

Sir Wilfrid nodded pleasantly, and vanished into a side passage leading tothe Ladies' Gallery. The young man, Reginald Lester, to whom he had beenchatting, was in some sort a protégé of his own. It was Sir Wilfrid, indeed, who had introduced him, immediately after he had won an Oxfordhistorical fellowship, to Lady Coryston, as librarian, for the highly paidwork of cataloguing a superb collection of MSS. Belonging to the Corystons. A generation earlier, Lester's father had been a brother officer of SirWilfrid's, in days when the Lester family was still rich, and before thecrashing failure of the great banking-house of the name. 

Meanwhile, at the other end of the House of Commons, Lady Coryston hadbeen sitting pleasantly absorbed, watching her son, who lay now like a manrelieved, lolling on the half-empty bench, chatting to a friend beside him. His voice was still in her ears: mingled with the memory of other voicesfrom old, buried times. For more than twenty years how familiar had shebeen with this political scene!--these galleries and benches, crowded orlistless; these opposing Cabinets--the Ins and Outs--on either side of thehistoric table; the glitter of the Mace at its farther end; the books, theold morocco boxes, the tops of the official wigs, the ugly light whichbathed it all; the exhausted air, the dreariness, the boredom! allworth while, these last, just for the moments, the crises, the play ofpersonalities, the conflict of giants, of which they were the inevitableconditions. There, on the second bench above the gangway on the Toryside, her husband, before he succeeded to the title, had sat through fourParliaments. And from the same point of vantage above she had watched himyear after year, coming in and out, speaking occasionally, never eloquentor brilliant, but always respected; a good, worthy, steady-going fellowwith whom no one had any fault to find, least of all his wife, to whom hehad very easily given up the management of their common life, while herepresented her political opinions in Parliament much more than his own. 

Until--until?

Well, until in an evil hour, a great question, the only political questionon which he differed and had always differed from his wife, on which hefelt he _must_ speak for himself and stand on his own feet, arose todivide them. There, in that Gallery, she had sat, with rage and defeat inher heart, watching him pass along, behind the Speaker's chair, toward thewrong division lobby, his head doggedly held down, as though he knew andfelt her eyes upon him, but must do his duty all the same. On this onematter he had voted against her, spoken against her, openly flouted anddisavowed her. And it had broken down their whole relation, poisonedtheir whole life. "Women are natural tyrants, " he had said to her once, bitterly--"no man could torment me as you do. " And then had come hisdeath--his swift last illness, with those tired eyes still alive in thedumb face, after speech and movement were no longer possible--eyes whichwere apt to close when she came near. 

And yet, after all--the will!--the will which all his relations and friendshad taken as the final expression of his life's weakness, his miserablefailure to play the man in his own household, and in which _she_, hiswife, had recognized with a secret triumph his last effort to propitiateher, his last surrender to her. Everything left to her, both land andpersonalty, everything! save for a thousand a year to each of the children, and fifteen hundred a year to Coryston, his heir. The great Irish, thegreat Devonshire properties, the accumulated savings of a lifetime, theywere all hers--hers absolutely. Her husband had stood last in the entail;and with a view to her own power, she had never allowed him to renew it. 

Coryston had been furiously angry when the terms of his father's will wererevealed. She could never think without shivering of certain scenes, withCoryston in the past--of a certain other scene that was still to come. Well, it had been a duel between them; and after apparently sore defeat, she had won, so far as influence over his father was concerned. And sincehis father's death she had given him every chance. He had only to hold histongue, to keep his monstrous, _sans-culotte_ opinions to himself, atleast, if he could not give them up; and she would have restored him hisinheritance, would have dealt with him not only justly, but generously. Hehad chosen; he had deliberately chosen. Well, now then it was for her--asshe had said to old Lady Frensham--it was for her to reply, but not inwords only. 

She fell back upon the thought of Arthur, Arthur, her darling; so manly, and yet so docile; so willing to be guided! Where was he, that she mightpraise him for his speech? She turned, searching the dark doorway with hereyes. But there was no Arthur, only the white head and smiling countenanceof her old friend, Sir Wilfrid Bury, who was beckoning to her. Shehurriedly bade Marcia, who had just returned to the Gallery, to keep herseat for her, and went out into the corridor to speak to him. 

"Well, not bad, was it? These youngsters have got the trick! I thought itcapital. But I dare say you'll have all sorts of fault to find, you mostexacting of women!"

"No, no; it was good, " she said, eagerly. "And he's improving fast. "

"Well then"--the wise old eyes beside her laughed kindly into hers--"becontent, and don't take Coryston's escapades too hardly!"

She drew back, and her long face and haughty mouth stiffened in the way heknew. 

"Are you coming to see me on Sunday?" she said, quietly. 

He took his snubbing without resentment. 

"I suppose so. I don't often miss, do I? Well, I hear Marcia was the beautyat the Shrewsbury House ball, and that--" he whispered something, laughingin her ear. 

Lady Coryston looked a little impatient. 

"Oh, I dare say. And if it's not he, it will be some one else. She'll marrydirectly. I always expected it. Well, now I must go. Have you seen Arthur?"

"Mother! Hullo, Sir Wilfrid!"

There was the young orator, flushed and radiant. But his mother could sayvery little to him, for the magnificent person in charge of the Gallery andits approaches intervened. "No talking allowed here, sir, please. " EvenLady Coryston must obey. All she could add to her hurried congratulationswas:

"You're coming in to-night, remember, Arthur?--nine-thirty. "

"Yes, I've paired. I'm coming. But what on earth's up, mother?"

Her lips shut closely. 

"Remember, nine-thirty!" She turned and went back into the darkness of theGallery. 

Arthur hesitated a moment in the passage outside. Then he turned backtoward the little entrance-room opposite the entrance to the ordinaryLadies' Gallery, where he found another attendant. 

"Is Miss Glenwilliam here?" he inquired, carelessly. 

"Yes, sir, in the front row, with Mrs. Verity and Mrs. Frant. Do you wishto speak to her, sir? The Gallery's pretty empty. "

Arthur Coryston went in. The benches sloped upward, and on the lowest one, nearest the grille, he saw the lady of his quest, and was presently bendingover her. 

"Well, " he said, flushing, "I suppose you thought it all bosh!"

"Not at all! That's what you have to say. What else can you say? You did itexcellently. "

Her lightly mocking eyes looked into his. His flush deepened. 

"Are you going to be at the Frenshams' dance?" he asked her, presently. 

"We're not invited. They're too savage with father. But we shall be at theOpera to-morrow night. "

His face lightened. But no more talk was possible. A Minister was up, andpeople were crowding back into the Gallery. He hurriedly pressed her handand departed. 

CHAPTER II

Lady Coryston and her daughter had made a rapid and silent meal. Marcianoticed that her mother was unusually pale, and attributed it partly to thefatigue and bad air of the House of Commons, partly to the doings of hereldest brother. What were they all going to meet for after dinner--hermother, her three brothers, and herself? They had each received a formalsummons. Their mother "wished to speak to them on important business. " SoArthur--evidently puzzled--had paired for the evening, and would returnfrom the House at nine-thirty; James had written to say he would come, andCoryston had wired an hour before dinner--"Inconvenient, but will turn up. "

What was it all about? Some business matter clearly. Marcia knew very wellthat the family circumstances were abnormal. Mothers in Lady Coryston'sposition, when their husbands expire, generally retire to a dower-house, on a jointure; leaving their former splendors--the family mansion and thefamily income--behind them. They step down from their pedestal, andefface themselves; their son becomes the head of the family, and thedaughter-in-law reigns in place of the wife. Nobody for many years pastcould ever have expected Lady Coryston to step down from anything. Althoughshe had brought but a very modest dowry, such from earliest days had beenthe strength and dominance of her character, that her divine right of rulein the family had never been seriously questioned by any of her childrenexcept Coryston; although James, who had inherited money from hisgrandmother, was entirely independent of her, and by the help of a detachedand humorous mind could often make his mother feel the stings of criticism, when others were powerless. And as for Coryston, who had become aquasi-Socialist at Cambridge, and had ever since refused to suit hisopinions in the slightest degree to his mother's, his long absences abroadafter taking his degree had for some years reduced the personal frictionbetween them; and it was only since his father's death, which had occurredwhile he himself was in Japan, and since the terms of his father's will hadbeen known, that Coryston had become openly and angrily hostile. 

Why should Coryston, a gentleman who denounced property, and was all fortaxing land and landlords into the Bankruptcy Court, resent so bitterlyhis temporary exclusion from the family estates? Marcia could not see thatthere was any logical answer. If landlordism was the curse of England, whybe angry that you were not asked to be a landlord?

And really--of late--his behavior! Never coming to see his mother--writingthe most outrageous things in support of the Government--speaking forRadical candidates in their very own county--denouncing by name some oftheir relations and old family friends: he had really been impossible!

Meanwhile Lady Coryston gave her daughter no light on the situation. Shewent silently up-stairs, followed by Marcia. The girl, a slight figure inwhite, mounted unwillingly. The big, gloomy house oppressed her as shepassed through it. The classical staircase with its stone-colored paintand its niches holding bronze urns had always appeared to her since herchildhood as the very top of dreariness; and she particularly disliked theequestrian portrait of her great-grandfather by an early Victorian artist, which fronted her as she ascended, in the gallery at the top of thestaircase, all the more that she had been supposed from her childhood to belike the portrait. Brought up as she had been in the belief that familyand heredity are the master forces of life, she resented this teasingassociation with the weak, silly fellow on the ill-balanced rocking-horsewhose double chin, button nose, and receding forehead not even the evidentflattery of the artist had been able to disguise. Her hatred of thepicture often led her to make a half-protesting pause in front of the longChippendale mirror which hung close to it. She made it to-night. 

Indeed, the dim reflection in the glass might well have reassured her. Darkeyes and hair, a brunette complexion, grace, health, physical strength--shecertainly owed none of these qualities or possessions to her ancestor. The face reminded one of ripe fruit--so rich was the downy bloom on thedelicate cheeks, so vivid the hazel of the wide black-fringed eyes. A touchof something heavy and undecided in the lower part of the face made itperhaps less than beautiful. But any man who fell in love with her wouldsee in this defect only the hesitancy of first youth, with its broodingprophecy of passion, of things dormant and powerful. Face and form wererich--quite unconsciously--in that magic of sex which belongs to onlya minority of women, but that, a minority drawn from all ranks andoccupations. Marcia Coryston believed herself to be interested in manythings--in books, in the Suffrage, in the girls' debating society of whichshe was the secretary, in politics, and in modern poetry. In reality herwhole being hung like some chained Andromeda at the edge of the sea oflife, expecting Perseus. Her heart listened for him perpetually--theunknown!--yearning for his call, his command.... 

There were many people--witness Sir Wilfrid Bury's remark to hermother--who had already felt this magic in her. Without any consciouseffort of her own she had found herself possessed, in the course of threeseasons since her coming out, of a remarkable place in her own circle andset. She was surrounded by a court of young people, men and women; shereceived without effort all the most coveted invitations; she was watched, copied, talked about; and rumor declared that she had already refused--ormade her mother refuse for her--one or more of the men whom all othermothers desired to capture. This quasi-celebrity had been achieved no onequite knew how, least of all Marcia herself. It had not, apparently, turnedher head, though those who knew her best were aware of a vein of naturalarrogance in her character. But in manner she remained _nonchalant_and dreamy as before, with just those occasional leaps to the surface ofpassionate, or scornful, or chivalrous feeling which made her interesting. Her devotion to her mother was plain. She espoused all her mother'sopinions with vehemence, and would defend her actions, in the family or outof it, through thick and thin. But there were those who wondered how longthe subservience would last, supposing the girl's marriage were delayed. 

As to the gossip repeated by Sir Wilfrid Bury, it referred to the latest ofMarcia's adventures. Her thoughts played with the matter, especially withcertain incidents of the Shrewsbury House ball, as she walked slowly intothe drawing-room in her mother's wake. 

The drawing-room seemed to her dark and airless. Taste was not the Corystonstrong point, and this high, oblong room was covered with large Italianpictures, some good, some indifferent, heavily framed, and hung onwine-colored damask. A feebly false Guido Reni, "The Sacrifice of Isaac, "held the center of one wall, making vehement claim to be just as well worthlooking at as the famous Titian opposite. The Guido had hung there since1820, and what was good enough for the Corystons of that date was goodenough for their descendants, who were not going to admit that theirancestors were now discredited--laughed out of court--as collectors, owingto the labors of a few middle-aged intellectuals. The floor was held by anumber of gilt chairs and sofas covered also in wine-colored damask, orby tables holding _objets d'art_ of the same mixed quality as thepictures. Even the flowers, the stands of splendid azaleas and early roseswith which the room was lavishly adorned, hardly produced an impressionof beauty. Marcia, looking slowly round her with critical eyes, thoughtsuddenly of a bare room she knew in a Roman palace, some faded hangings indull gold upon the walls, spaces of light and shadow on the empty mattedfloor, and a great branch of Judas tree in blossom lighting up a corner. The memory provoked in her a thrill of sensuous pleasure. 

Meanwhile Lady Coryston was walking slowly up and down, her hands behindher. She looked very thin and abnormally tall; and Marcia saw her profile, sharply white, against the darkness of the wall. A vague alarm struckthrough the daughter's mind. What was her mother about to say or do? Tillnow Marcia had rather lazily assumed that the meeting would concern somematter of family property--some selling or buying transaction--which amother, even in the abnormally independent position Lady Coryston, mightwell desire to communicate to her children. There had been a family meetingin the preceding year when the Dorsetshire property had been sold under arecent Act of Parliament. Coryston wouldn't come. "I take no interest inthe estates "--he had written to his mother. "They're your responsibility, not mine. "

And yet of course Coryston would inherit some day. That was taken forgranted among them. What were Tory principles worth if they did not sometime, at some stage, secure an eldest son, and an orthodox succession?Corry was still in the position of heir, when he should normally havebecome owner. It was very trying for him, no doubt. But exceptional womenmake exceptional circumstances. And they were all agreed that their motherwas an exceptional woman. 

But whatever the business, they would hardly get through without a scene, and during the past week there had been a number of mysterious interviewswith lawyers going on.... What was it all about? To distract her thoughtsshe struck up conversation. 

"Did you see Enid Glenwilliam, mother, in Palace Yard?"

"I just noticed her, " said Lady Coryston, indifferently. "One can't helpit, she dresses so outrageously. "

"Oh, mother, she dresses very well! Of course nobody else could wear thatkind of thing. "

Lady Coryston lifted her eyebrows. 

"That's where the ill-breeding comes in--that a young girl should makeherself so conspicuous. "

"Well, it seems to pay, " laughed Marcia. "She has tremendous success. People on our side--people you'd never think--will do anything to get herfor their parties. They say she makes things go. She doesn't care what shesays. "

"That I can quite believe! Yes--I saw she was at Shrewsbury House theother day--dining--when the Royalties were there. The daughter of that_man_!"

Lady Coryston's left foot gave a sharp push to a footstool lying in herpath, as though it were Glenwilliam himself. 

Marcia laughed. 

"And she's very devoted to him, too. She told some one who told me, that hewas so much more interesting than any other man she knew, that she hadn'tthe least wish to marry! I suppose you wouldn't like it if I were to make afriend of her?" The girl's tone had a certain slight defiance in it. 

"Do what you like when I'm gone, my dear, " said Lady Coryston, quietly. 

Marcia flushed, and would have replied, but for the sudden and distantsound of the hall-door bell. Lady Coryston instantly stopped her pacing andtook her seat beside a table on which, as Marcia now noticed, certain largeenvelopes had been laid. The girl threw herself into a low chair behind hermother, conscious of a distress, a fear, she could not analyze. There was asmall fire in the grate, for the May evening was chilly, but on the otherside of the room a window was open to the twilight, and in a luminous skycut by the black boughs of a plane tree, and the roofs of a tall building, Marcia saw a bright star shining. The heavy drawing-room, with its giltfurniture and its electric lights, seemed for a moment blotted out. Thatpatch of sky suggested strange, alien, inexorable things; while all thetime the sound of mounting footsteps on the stairs grew nearer. 

In they came, her three brothers, laughing and talking. Coryston first, then James, then Arthur. Lady Coryston rose to meet them, and they allkissed their mother. Then Coryston, with his hands on his sides, stood infront of her, examining her face with hard, amused eyes, as much as to say, "Now, then, for the scene. Let's get it over!" He was the only one ofthe three men who was not in evening dress. He wore, indeed, a shabbygreenish-gray suit, and a flannel shirt. Marcia noticed it withindignation. "It's not respectful to mother!" she thought, angrily. "It'sall very well to be a Socialist and a Bohemian. But there are decencies!"

In spite, however, of the shabby suit and the flannel shirt, in spite alsoof the fact that he was short and very slight, while his brothers were bothof them over six feet and broadly built men, there could be no doubt that, as soon as he entered, Coryston held the stage. He was one of the mercurialmen who exist in order to keep the human tide in movement. Their opinionsmatter principally because without them the opinions of other men would notexist. Their function is to provoke. And from the time he was a babe in thenursery Coryston had fulfilled it to perfection. 

He himself would have told you he was simply the reaction from his mother. And indeed, although from the time he had achieved trousers their jointlives had been one scene of combat, they were no sooner in presence of eachother than the strange links between them made themselves felt no less thanthe irreconcilable differences. 

Now, indeed, as, after a few bantering remarks to his mother on his recentpolitical escapades--remarks which she took in complete silence--he settledhimself in a high chair in front of her to listen to what she had tosay, no subtle observer of the scene but must have perceived thelikeness--through all contrast--between mother and son. Lady Coryston wastall, large-boned, thin to emaciation, imposing--a Lady Macbeth of thedrawing-room. Coryston was small, delicately finished, a whimsical snippetof a man--on wires--never at ease--the piled fair hair overbalancing theface and the small, sarcastic chin. And yet the essential note of bothphysiognomies, of both aspects, was the same. _Will_--carried toextremes, absorbing and swallowing up the rest of the personality. LadyCoryston had handed on the disease of her own character to her son, and itwas in virtue of what she had given him that she had made him her enemy. 

Her agitation in his presence, in spite of her proud bearing, was indeedevident, at least to Marcia. Marcia read her; had indeed been compelledto read her mother--the movements of hand and brow, the tricks ofexpression--from childhood up. And she detected, from various signs ofnervousness, that Lady Coryston expected a rough time. 

She led the way to it, however, with deliberation. She took no notice ofCoryston's, "Well, mother, what's up? Somebody to be tried and executed?"but, waving to him to take a particular chair, she asked the others tosit, and placed herself beside the table which held the sheets of foldedfoolscap. The ugly electric light from overhead fell full upon the pallidoval of her face, on her lace cap, and shimmering black dress. Only Marcianoticed that the hand which took up the foolscap shook a little. It was anold hand, delicately white, with large finger-joints. 

"I can't pretend to make a jest of what I'm going to say, " she said, witha look at Coryston. "I wanted to speak to you all on a matter ofbusiness--not very agreeable business, but necessary. I am sure you willhear me out, and believe that I am doing my best, according to my lights, by the family--the estates--and the country. "

At the last slowly spoken words Lady Coryston drew herself up. Especiallywhen she said "the country, " it was as though she mentioned somethingpeculiarly her own, something attacked which fled to her for protection. 

Marcia looked round on her three brothers: Coryston sunk in a big giltchair, one leg cocked over the other, his fingers lightly crossed above hishead; James with his open brow, his snub nose, his charming expression;and Arthur, who had coaxed Lady Coryston's spaniel on to his lap and waspulling his ears. He looked, she thought, bored and only half attentive. And yet she was tolerably certain that he knew no more than she did whatWas going to happen. 

"I am quite aware, " said Lady Coryston, resuming after a pause, "that inleaving his estates and the bulk of his fortune to myself your dear fatherdid an unusual thing, and one for which many persons have blamed him--"

Coryston's cocked leg descended abruptly to the ground. Marcia turned ananxious eye upon him; but nothing more happened, and the voice speakingwent on:

"He did it, as I believe you have all recognized, because he desired thatin these difficult times, when everything is being called in question, andall our institutions, together with the ideas which support them, are indanger, I should, during my lifetime, continue to support and carry outhis ideas--the ideas he and I had held in common--and should remain theguardian of all those customs and traditions on his estates which he hadinherited--and in which he believed--"

Coryston suddenly sat up, shook down his coat vehemently, and putting hiselbows on his knees, propped his face on them, the better to observe hismother. James was fingering his watch-chain, with downcast eyes, theslightest smile on his gently twitching mouth; Arthur was measuring one earof the spaniel against the other. 

"Two years, " said Lady Coryston, "have now passed since your father'sdeath. I have done my best with my trust, though of course I realize that Icannot have satisfied _all_ my children. " She paused a moment. "I havenot wasted any of your father's money in personal luxury--that none of youcan say. The old establishment, the old ways, have been kept up--nothingmore. And I have certainly _wished_"--she laid a heavy emphasis onthe word--"to act for the good of all of you. You, James, have your ownfortune, but I think you know that if you had wanted money at any time, forany reasonable purpose, you had only to ask for it. Marcia also has her ownmoney; but when it comes to her marriage, I desire nothing better than toprovide for her amply. And now, as to Coryston--"

She turned to him, facing him magnificently, though not, as Marcia wascertain, without trepidation. Coryston flung back his head with a laugh. 

"Ah, now we come to it!" he said. "The rest was all 'but leather andprunella. '"

James murmured, "Corry--old man?" Marcia flushed angrily. 

"Coryston also knows very well, " said Lady Coryston, coldly, "thateverything he could possibly have claimed--"

"Short of the estates--which were my right, " put in Coryston, quietly, withan amused look. 

His mother went on without noticing the interruption:

"--would have been his--either now or in due time--if he would only havemade certain concessions--"

"Sold my soul and held my tongue?--quite right!" said Coryston. "I havescores of your letters, my dear mother, to that effect. "

Lady Coryston slightly raised her voice, and for the first time it betrayedemotion. 

"If he would, in simple decent respect to his father's memory andconsideration of his mother's feelings, have refrained from attacking hisfather's convictions--"

"What!--you think he still has them--in the upper regions?"

Coryston flung an audacious hand toward the ceiling. Lady Coryston grewpale. Marcia looked fiercely at her brother, and, coming to her mother'sside, she took her hand. 

"Your brothers and sister, Coryston, will not allow you, I think, to insultyour father's memory!" The voice audibly shook. 

Coryston sprang up impetuously and came to stand over his mother, his handson his sides. 

"Now look here, mother. Let's come to business. You've been plottingsomething more against me, and I want to know what it is. Have you beendishing me altogether?--cutting me finally out of the estates? Is that whatyou mean? Let's have it!"

Lady Coryston's face stiffened anew into a gray obstinacy. 

"I prefer, Coryston, to tell my story in my own words and in my own way--"

"Yes--but please _tell_ it!" said Coryston, sharply. "Is it fair tokeep us on tenter-hooks? What is that paper, for instance? Extracts, Iguess, from your will--which concern me--and the rest of them"--he wavedhis hand toward the other three. "For God's sake let's have them, and getdone with it. "

"I will read them, if you will sit down, Coryston. "

With a whimsical shake of the head Coryston returned to his chair. LadyCoryston took up the folded paper. 

"Coryston guessed rightly. These are the passages from my will whichconcern the estates. I should like to have explained before reading them, in a way as considerate to my eldest son as possible" she looked steadilyat Coryston--"the reasons which have led me to take this course. But--"

"No, no! Business first and pleasure afterward!" interrupted the eldestson. "Disinherit me and then pitch into me. You get at me unfairly whileI'm speculating as to what's coming. "

"I think, " said Marcia, in a tone trembling with indignation, "thatCoryston is behaving abominably. "

But her brothers did not respond, and Coryston looked at his sister withlifted brows. "Go it, Marcia!" he said, indulgently. 

Lady Coryston began to read. 

Before she had come to the end of her first paragraph Coryston was pacingthe drawing-room, twisting his lips into all sorts of shapes, as was hiscustom when the brain was active. And with the beginning of the second, Arthur sprang to his feet. 

"I say, mother!"

"Let me finish?" asked Lady Coryston with a hard patience. 

She read to the end of the paper. And with the last words Arthur broke out:

"I won't have it, mother! It's not fair on Corry. It's beastly unfair!"

Lady Coryston made no reply. She sat quietly staring into Arthur's face, her hands, on which the rings sparkled, lightly clasped over the paperwhich lay upon her knee. James's expression was one of distress. Marcia satdumfoundered. 

James approached his mother. 

"I think, mother, you will hardly maintain these provisions. "

She turned toward him. 

"Yes, James, I shall maintain them. "

Meanwhile Arthur, deeply flushed, stood running his hand through his fairhair as though in bewilderment. 

"I sha'n't take it, mother! I give you full warning. Whenever it comes tome I shall hand it back to Corry. "

"It won't come to you, except as a life interest. The estates will be intrust, " said Lady Coryston. 

Coryston gave a loud, sudden laugh, and stood looking at his mother from alittle distance. 

"How long have you been concocting this, mother? I suppose my last speecheshave contributed?"

"They have made me finally certain that your father could never haveintrusted you with the estates. "

"How do you know? He meant me to have the property if I survived you. Theletter which he left for me said as much. "

"He gave me absolute discretion, " said Lady Coryston, firmly. 

"At least you have taken it!" said Coryston, with emphasis. "Now let's seehow things stand. "

He paused, a thin, wiry figure, under the electric light, checking off theitems on his fingers. "On the ground of my political opinion--you cut meout of the succession. Arthur is to have the estates. And you propose tobuy me off by an immediate gift of seven thousand a year in addition to mypresent fortune--the whole income from the land and the tin-mines being, Iunderstand, about ten times that; and you intend to sell certain outlyingproperties in order to do this. That's your proposal. Well, now, here'smine. I won't take your seven thousand a year! I will have all--all, thatis, which would have normally come to me--or _nothing_!"

He stood gazing intently at his mother's face, his small featuressparkling. 

"I will have all--or nothing!" he repeated. "Of course I don't deny it fora moment, if the property had come to me I should have made all sorts ofrisky experiments with it. I should have cut it up into small holdings. Ishould have pulled down the house or made it into a county hospital. "

"You make it your business to wound, Coryston. "

"No, I simply tell you what I should have done. And I should have been_absolutely in my right_!" He brought his hand down with passionon the chair beside him. "My father had his way. In justice I--the nextgeneration--ought to have mine. These lands were not yours. You have nomoral rights over them whatever. They come from my father, and his father. There is always something to be said for property, so long as eachgeneration is free to make its own experiments upon it. But if propertyis to be locked in the dead hand, so that the living can't get at it, _then_ it is what the Frenchman called it, _theft_!--or worse.... Well, I'm not going to take this quietly, I warn you. I refuse the seventhousand a year! and if I can't possess the property--well!--I'm going to alarge extent to manage it!"

Lady Coryston started. 

"Cony!" cried Marcia, passionately. 

"I have a responsibility toward my father's property, " said Coryston, calmly. "And I intend to settle down upon it, and try and drum a few soundideas into the minds of our farmers and laborers. Owing to my absurd titleI can't stand for our parliamentary division--but I shall look out forsomebody who suits me, and run him. You'll find me a nuisance, mother, I'mafraid. But you've done your best for your principles. Don't quarrel withme if I do the best for mine. Of course I know it's hard for you. You wouldalways have liked to manage me. But I never could be managed--least of allby a woman. "

Lady Coryston rose from her seat. 

"James!--Arthur!--" The voice had regained all its strength. "You willunderstand, I think, that it is better for me to leave you. I do not wishthat either Coryston or I should say things we should afterward find ithard to forgive. I had a public duty to do. I have performed it. Try andunderstand me. Good night. "

"You will let me come and see you to-morrow?" said James, anxiously. 

She made no reply. Then James and Arthur kissed her, Marcia threw an armround her and went with her, the girl's troubled, indignant eyes holdingCoryston at bay the while. 

As Lady Coryston approached the door her eldest son made a sudden rush andopened it for her. 

"Good night, mother. We'll play a great game, you and I--but we'll playfair. "

Lady Coryston swept past him without a word. The door closed on her andMarcia. Then Coryston turned, laughing, to his brother Arthur, and punchedhim in the ribs. 

"I say, Arthur, old boy, you talked a jolly lot of nonsense this afternoon!I slipped into the Gallery a little to hear you. "

Arthur grew red. 

"Of course it was nonsense to you!"

"What did Miss Glenwilliam say to you?"

"Nothing that matters to you, Corry. "

"Arthur, my son, you'll be in trouble, too, before you know where you are!"

"Do hold your tongue, Corry!"

"Why should I? I back you strongly. But you'll have to stick to her. Motherwill fight you for all she's worth. "

"I'm no more to be managed than you, if it comes to that. "

"Aren't you? You're the darling, at present. I don't grudge you theestates, Arthur. "

"I never lifted a finger to get them, " said Arthur, moodily. "And I shallfind a way of getting out of them--the greater part of them, anyway. Allthe same, Corry, if I do--you'll have to give guarantees. "

"Don't you wish you may get them! Well now"--Coryston gave a greatstretch--"can't we have a drink? You're the master here, Arthur. Just orderit. James, did you open your mouth while mother was here? I don't remember. You looked unutterable things. But nobody could be as wise as you look. Itell you, though you are a philosopher and a man of peace, you'll have totake sides in this family row, whether you like it or not. Ah! Here's thewhisky. Give us a cigar. Now then, we'll sit on this precious paper!"

He took up the roll his mother had left behind her and was soon sippingand puffing in the highest good humor, while he parodied and mocked at thelegal phraseology of the document which had just stripped him of seventythousand a year. 

Half an hour later the brothers had dispersed, Coryston and James to theirbachelor quarters, Arthur to the House of Commons. The front door was nosooner shut than a slender figure in white emerged from the shadows of thelanding overhead. It was Marcia, carrying a book. 

She came to the balustrade and looked over into the hall below. Nothing tobe heard or seen. Her brothers, she perceived, had not left the housefrom the drawing-room. They must have adjourned to the library, the largeground-floor room at the back. 

"Then Mr. Lester knows, " she thought, indignantly. "Just like Corry!"And her pride revolted against the notion of her brothers discussing hermother's actions, her mother's decisions, with this stranger in the house. It was quite true that Mr. Lester had been a friend both of Arthur and ofCoryston at Oxford, and that Arthur in particular was devoted to him. Butthat did not excuse the indiscretion, the disloyalty, of bringing him intothe family counsels at such a juncture. Should she go down? She was certainshe would never get to sleep after these excitements, and she wanted thesecond volume of _Diana of the Crossways_. Why not? It was only justeleven. None of the lights had yet been put out. Probably Mr. Lester hadgone to bed. 

She ran down lightly, and along the passage leading to the library. As sheopened the door, what had been light just before became suddenly darkness, and she heard some one moving about. 

"Who is that?" said a voice. "Wait a moment. "

A little fumbling; and then a powerful reading-lamp, standing on a deskheaped with books midway down the large room, was relit. The light flashedtoward the figure at the door. 

"Miss Coryston! I beg your pardon! I was just knocking off work. Can I doanything for you?"

The young librarian came toward her. In the illumination from the passagebehind her she saw his dark Cornish face, its red-brown color, broad brow, and blue eyes. 

"I came for a book, " said Marcia, rather hurriedly, as she entered. "I knowwhere to find it. Please don't trouble. " She went to the shelves, found hervolume, and turned abruptly. The temptation which possessed her proved toostrong. 

"I suppose my brothers have been here?"

Lester's pleasant face showed a certain embarrassment. 

"They have only just gone--at least, Arthur and Lord Coryston. James wentsome time ago. "

Marcia threw her head back defiantly against the latticed bookcase. 

"I suppose Corry has been attacking my mother?"

Lester hesitated; then spoke with grave sincerity: "I assure you, he didnothing of the kind. I should not have let him. " He smiled. 

"But they've told you--he and Arthur--they've told you what's happened?"

"Yes, " he said, reluctantly. "I tried to stop them. "

"As if anything could stop Corry!" cried Marcia--"when he wants to dosomething he knows he oughtn't to do. And he's told you his preciousplan?--of coming to settle down at Coryston--in our very pockets--in orderto make mother's life a burden to her?"

"A perfectly mad whim!" said Lester, smiling again. "I don't believe he'lldo it. "

"Oh yes, he will, " said Marcia; "he'll do anything that suits his ideas. Hecalls it following his conscience. Other people's ideas and other people'sconsciences don't matter a bit. "

Lester made no answer. His eyes were on the ground. She broke outimpetuously:

"You think he's been badly treated?"

"I had rather not express an opinion. I have no right to one. "

"Mayn't women care for politics just as strongly as men?" cried the girl, as though arguing the question with herself. "I think it's _splendid_my mother should care as she does! Corry ought to respect her for it. "

Lester made a pretense of gathering up some papers on his desk, by way ofcovering his silence. Marcia observed him, with red cheeks. 

"But of course you don't, you can't, feel with us, Mr. Lester. You're aLiberal. "

"No!" he protested mildly, raising his eyes in surprise. "I really don'tagree with Coryston at all. I don't intend to label myself just yet, but ifI'm anything I think I'm a Conservative. "

"But you think other things matter more than politics?"

"Ah yes, " he said, smiling, "that I do. Especially--" He stopped. 

"Especially--for women?" The breaking of Marcia's delightful smile answeredhis. "You see, I guessed what you meant to say. What things? I think Iknow. "

"Beauty--poetry--sympathy. Wouldn't you put those first?"

He spoke the words shyly, looking down upon her. 

There was something in the mere sound of them that thrilled, that madea music in the girl's ears. She drew a long breath, and suddenly, as heraised his eyes, he saw her as a white vision, lit up, Rembrandt-like, in the darkness, by the solitary light--the lines of her young form, thedelicate softness of cheek and brow, the eager eyes. 

She held out her hand. 

"Good night. I shall see what Meredith has to say about it!"

She held up her volume, ran to the door, and disappeared. 

CHAPTER III

"Her ladyship says she would like to see you, Miss, before you go. "

The speaker was Lady Coryston's maid. She stood just within the doorway ofthe room where Marcia was dressing for the Opera, delivering her messagemechanically, but really absorbed in the spectacle presented by the younggirl before her. Sewell was an artist in her own sphere, and secretlyenvious of the greater range of combination which Marcia's youth and beautymade possible for the persons who dressed her, as compared with LadyCoryston. There are all kinds of subtle variants, no doubt, in "black, "such as Lady Coryston habitually wore; and the costliness of them leftnothing to be desired. But when she saw Marcia clothed in a new Worth orPaquin, Sewell was sorely tempted to desert her elderly mistress and go insearch of a young one. 

"Come in, Sewell, " cried Marcia. "What do you think of it?"

The woman eagerly obeyed her. Marcia's little maid, Bellows, did thehonors, and the two experts, in an ecstasy, chattered the language oftheir craft, while Marcia, amid her shimmering white and pink, submittedgood-humoredly to being pulled about and twisted round, till after endlessfinal touches, she was at last pronounced the perfect thing. 

Then she ran across the passage to her mother's sitting-room. Lady Corystonhad complained of illness during the day and had not been down-stairs. ButMarcia's experience was that when her mother was ill she was not less, butmore active than usual, and that withdrawal to her sitting-room generallymeant a concentration of energy. 

Lady Coryston was sitting with a writing-board on her knee, and areading-lamp beside her, lighting a table covered with correspondence. Within her reach was a deep cupboard in the wall containing estate andbusiness letters, elaborately labeled and subdivided. A revolving bookcasenear carried a number of books of reference, and at her elbow, with thepaper-knife inside it, lay a copy of the _Quarterly Review_. The wallsof the room were covered with books--a fine collection of county histories, and a large number of historical memoirs and biographies. In a corner, specially lit, a large bust of the late Lord Coryston conveyed to a youngergeneration the troubled, interrogative look which in later life had beenthe normal look of the original. His portrait by Holl hung over themantelpiece, flanked on either side by water-color pictures of his sons anddaughter in their childhood. 

There was only one comfortable chair in the room, and Lady Coryston neversat in it. She objected to flowers as being in the way; and there was nota sign anywhere of the photographs and small knick-knacks which generallybelitter a woman's sitting--room. Altogether, an ugly room, butcharacteristic, businesslike, and not without a dignity of its own. 

"Mother!--why don't you rest a little?" cried Marcia, eying the black-robedfigure and the long pale face, marked by very evident fatigue. "You've beenwriting letters or seeing people all day. How long did James stay?"

"About an hour. "

"And Mr. Page?" Mr. Page was the agent of the main Coryston estate. 

"Some time. There was a great deal to settle. "

"Did you"--the girl fidgeted--"did you tell him about Coryston?"

"Certainly. He says there is only one house in the neighborhood he couldtake--"

"He has taken it. " Marcia opened her right hand, in which she crushed atelegram. "Bellows has just brought me this. "

Lady Coryston opened and read it. 

"Have taken Knatchett for three years. Tell mother. " Lady Coryston's lipsstiffened. 

"He has lost no time. He can vex and distress us, of course. We shall haveto bear it. "

"Vex and distress us! I should think he can!" cried Marcia. "Has James beentalking to him?"

"I dare say, " said Lady Coryston, adding, with a slight, sarcastic laugh, "James is a little too sure of being always in the right. "

From which Marcia guessed that James had not only been talking to Coryston, but also remonstrating with his mother, which no doubt accounted for LadyCoryston's worn-out looks. James had more effect upon her than most people;though never quite effect enough. 

Marcia stood with one foot on the fender, her gaze fixed on her mother ina frowning abstraction. And suddenly Lady Coryston, lifting her eyes, realized her daughter, and the vision that she made. 

"You look very well, Marcia. Have I seen that dress before?"

"No. I designed it last week. Ah!"--the sound of a distant gong made itselfheard--"there's the motor. Well, good night, mother. Take care of yourselfand do go to bed soon. "

She stooped to kiss her mother. 

"Who's going with you?"

"Waggin and James. Arthur may come in. He thinks the House will be upearly. And I asked Mr. Lester. But he can't come for the first part. "

Her mother held her sleeve and looked up, smiling. Lady Coryston's smileswere scarcely less formidable than her frowns. 

"You expect to see Edward Newbury?"

"I dare say. They have their box, as usual. "

"Well!--run off and enjoy yourself. Give my love to Miss Wagstaffe. "

"Waggin" was waiting in the hall for Marcia. She had been Miss Coryston'sgoverness for five years, and was now in retirement on a small income, partly supplied by a pension from Lady Coryston. It was understood thatwhen she was wanted to act duenna, she came--at a moment's notice. And shewas very willing to come. She lived in an Earl's Court lodging, and theseoccasional expeditions with Marcia represented for her the gilt on hermodest gingerbread. She was a small, refined woman, with a figure stillslender, gray hair, and a quiet face. Her dresses were years old, but shehad a wonderful knack of bringing them up-to-date, and she never did Marciaany discredit. She adored Marcia, and indeed all the family. Lady Corystoncalled her "Miss Wagstaffe"--but to the others, sons and daughter, she wasonly "Waggin. " There were very few things about the Coryston family she didnot know; but her discretion was absolute. 

As she saw Marcia running down-stairs her face lit up. 

"My dear, what a lovely gown!--and how sweet you look!"

"Don't talk nonsense, Waggin!--and put on this rose I've brought for you!"

Waggin submitted while Marcia adorned her and gave various pats and pullsto her hair. 

"There!--you look ten years younger, " said the girl, with her bright look, stepping back. "But where is James?"

The butler stepped forward. 

"Mr. James will meet you at the Opera. "

"Oh, good!" murmured Marcia in her companion's ear. "Now we can croon. "

And croon they did through the long crowded way to Covent Garden. By thetime the motor reached St. Martin's Lane, Waggin was in possession of allthat had happened. She had long expected it, having shrewdly noted manysigns of Lady Coryston's accumulating wrath. But now that "Corry, " her dear"Corry, " with whom she had fought so many a schoolroom fight in the daysof his Eton jackets, was really disinherited, her concern was great. Tearsstood in her kind eyes. "Poor Corry!" alternated in her mouth with "Yourpoor mother!" Sinner and judge appealed equally to her pity. 

Marcia meanwhile sat erect and fierce. 

"What else could he expect? Father _did_ leave the estates tomother--just because Corry had taken up such views--so that she might keepus straight. "

[Illustration: AS SHE SAW MARCIA HER FACE LIT UP]

"But _afterward_! My dear, he is so young! And young men change. "

Lady Coryston's death was not, of course, to be mentioned--except with thisawe and vagueness--scarcely to be thought of. But hotter revolutioniststhan Corry have turned Tories by forty. Waggin harped on this theme. 

Marcia shook her head. 

"He won't change. Mother did not ask it. All she asked was--for her sakeand father's--that he should hold his tongue. "

A flush sprang to Waggin's faded cheek. 

"A _man_!--a grown man!" she said, wondering--"forbid him to speakout--speak freely?"

Marcia looked anxiously at her companion. It was very seldom that Wagginbetrayed so much heat. 

"I know, " said the girl, gloomily--"'Your money or your life'--for Isuppose it sounds like that. Corry would say his convictions are his life. But why 'a man, ' Waggin?" She straightened her pretty shoulders. "I don'tbelieve you'd mind if it were a woman. You don't believe in a _woman_having convictions!"

Waggin looked a little bewildered. 

"I'm old-fashioned, I suppose--but--"

Marcia laughed triumphantly. 

"Why shouldn't Corry respect his mother's convictions? She wants to provethat women oughtn't to shrink from fighting for what they believe, even--"

"Even with their sons?" said Waggin, tremulously. "Lady Coryston is sosplendid--so splendid!"

"Even with their sons!" cried Marcia, vehemently. "You take it for granted, Waggin, that they trample on their daughters!"

Waggin protested, and slipped her thin hand into the girl's. The note ofstorm in Marcia's mood struck her sharply. She tried, for a moment, tochange the subject. Who, she asked, was a tall, fair girl whom she had seenwith Mr. Arthur, "a week ago" at the National Gallery? "I took my littleniece--and suddenly I turned, and there at the end of the room were Mr. Arthur--and this lady. Such a remarkable-looking young woman!--not exactlyhandsome--but you couldn't possibly pass her over. "

"Enid Glenwilliam!" exclaimed Marcia, with a startled voice. "But ofcourse, Waggin, they weren't alone?"

"Oh no--probably not!--though--though I didn't see any one else. Theyseemed so full of talk--I didn't speak to Mr. Arthur. _Who_ do you sayshe was?" repeated Waggin, innocently. 

Marcia turned upon her. 

"The daughter of the man mother hates most in the world! It's too bad ofArthur! It's abominable! It would kill mother if she knew! I've heardthings said sometimes--but I never believed them for a moment. Oh, Waggin!--you _didn't_ see them alone?"

The voice changed into what was almost a wail of indignation. "Of courseEnid Glenwilliam would never consider appearances for a moment. She doesexactly what suits her. She never bothers about chaperons, unlessshe absolutely must. When she sees what she wants she takes it. But_Arthur_!"

Marcia leaned back in the car, and as in the crush of the traffic theypassed under a lamp Waggin saw a countenance of genuine distress. 

"Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry to have worried you. How stupid of me to mentionit! I'm sure there's nothing in it. "

"I've half suspected it for the last month, " said Marcia with low-tonedemphasis. "But I wouldn't believe it!--I shall tell Arthur what I think ofhim! Though, mind you, I admire Enid Glenwilliam myself enormously; butthat's quite another thing. It's as though mother were never to have anypleasure in any of us! Nothing but worry and opposition!--behind her back, too. "

"My dear!--it was probably nothing! Girls do just as they like nowadays, and who notices!" said Waggin, disingenuously. "And as to pleasing yourmother, I know somebody who has only to put out her hand--"

"To please mother--and somebody else?" said Marcia, turning toward her withperfect composure. "You're thinking of Edward Newbury?"

"Who else should I be thinking of!--after all you told me last week?"

"Oh yes--I like Edward Newbury"--the tone betrayed a curiousirritation--"and apparently he likes me. But if he tries to make me answerhim too soon I shall say No, Waggin, and there will be an end of it!"

"Marcia--dearest!--don't be cruel to him!"

"No--but he mustn't press me! I've given him hints--and he won't take them. I can't make up my mind, Waggin. I can't! It's not only marrying him--it'sthe relations. Yesterday a girl I know described a week-end to me--atHoddon Grey. A large, smart party--evening prayers in the private chapel, _before dinner_!--nobody allowed to breakfast in bed--everybody drivenoff to church--and such a _fuss_ about Lent! It made me shiver. I'mnot that sort, Waggin--I never shall be. "

And as again a stream of light from a music-hall façade poured into thecarriage, Waggin was aware of a flushed, rebellious countenance, and darkeyes full of some passionate feeling, not very easy to understand. 

"He is at your feet, dear goose!" murmured the little gray-hairedlady--"make your own conditions!"

"No, no!--never. Not with Edward Newbury! He seems the softest, kindest--and underneath--_iron_! Most people are taken in. I'm not. "

There was silence in the car. Waggin was uneasily pondering. Nothing--sheknew it--would be more acceptable to Lady Coryston than this match, thoughshe was in no sense a scheming mother, and had never taken any specialpains on Marcia's behalf. Her mind was too full of other things. Stillundoubtedly this would suit her. Old family--the young man himself heirpresumptive to a marquisate money--high character--everything that mortalmother could desire. And Marcia was attracted--Waggin was certain of it. The mingled feeling with which she spoke of him proved it to the hilt. Andyet--let not Mr. Newbury suppose that she was to be easily run to earth! InWaggin's opinion he had his work cut out for him. 

Covent Garden filled from floor to ceiling with a great audience foran important "first night"--there is no sight in London, perhaps, thatministers more sharply to the lust of modern eyes and the pride of modernlife. Women reign supreme in it. The whole object of it is to providethe most gorgeous setting possible, for a world of women--women old andyoung--their beauty or their jewels, their white necks and their grayheads; the roses that youth wears--divinely careless; or the diamondswherewith age must make amends for lost bloom and vanished years. 

Marcia never entered the Coryston box, which held one of the most covetedpositions on the grand tier, without a vague thrill of exultation; thatinstinctive, overbearing delight in the goods of Vanity Fair, which theGreek called _hubris_, and which is only vile when it outlives youth. It meant in her--"I am young--I am handsome--the world is all on myside--who shall thwart or deny me?" To wealth, indeed, Marcia rarely gavea conscious thought, although an abundance of it was implied in all heractions and attitudes of mind. It would have seemed to her, at any rate, so strange to be without it, that poverty was not so much an object ofcompassion as of curiosity; the poverty, for instance, of such a man as Mr. Lester. But behind this ignorance there was no hardness of heart; only anarrow inexperience. 

The overture had begun--in a shadowy house. But the stream of the audiencewas still pouring in from all sides, in spite of the indignant "Hush" ofthose who wanted not to lose a note of something new and difficult. Marciasat in the front of the box, conscious of being much looked at, and raisingher own opera-glass from time to time, especially to watch the filling upof two rows of chairs on the floor, just below the lower tier of boxes. Itwas there that Mr. Newbury had told her to look for him. James, who hadjoined them at the entrance of the theater and was now hanging on themusic, observed her once or twice uneasily. Presently he bent over. 

"Marcia--you vandal!--listen!"

The girl started and blushed. 

"I don't understand the music, James!--it's so strange and barbarous. "

"Well, it isn't Glück, certainly, " said James, smiling. 

Marcia turned her face toward it. And as she did so there rose from thecrash of its opening tumult, like a hovering bird in a clear space of sky, a floating song of extraordinary loveliness. It rose and fell--winds caughtit--snatches of tempest overpowered it--shrieking demons rushed upon it andsilenced it. But it persisted; passing finally into a processional march, through which it was still dimly, mysteriously traceable to the end. 

"The song of Iphigenia!" said James. And as the curtain rose, "And here arethe gulfs of Aulis, and the Greek host. "

The opera, by a young Bavarian of genius, a follower of Strauss, who hadbut recently captured Munich and Berlin, was based on the great play ofEuripides, freely treated by a translator who had known, a hundred andfifty years after Glück, how to make it speak, through music, to moremodern ears. It was carried through without any lowering of the curtain, and the splendid story unfolded itself through a music at once sensuousand heroic, with a swiftness and a passion which had soon gripped CoventGarden. 

There, in a thousand ships, bound motionless by unrelenting winds, lies theallied host that is to conquer Troy and bring back the stolen Helen. Butat the bidding of Artemis, whose temple crowns the coast, fierce, contraryblasts keep it prisoner in the harbor. Hellas cannot avenge itself on thePhrygian barbarians who have carried off a free Greek woman. Artemis holdsback the hunters from the prey. Why? Because, as goddess of the land, sheclaims her toll, the toll of human blood. Agamemnon, the leader of thehost, distracted by fears of revolt and of the break-up of the army, hasvowed to Artemis the dearest thing he possesses. The answer is, "Yourdaughter!--Iphigenia!"

Under pressure from the other chiefs of the host, and from the priests, thestricken father consents at last to send a letter to Clytemnestra at Argos, bidding her bring their young daughter to the camp, on the pretext thatshe is to become the bride of the hero Achilles. The letter is no soonerdespatched than, tormented with remorse, he tries to recall it. In vain. Mother and child arrive, with the babe Orestes; the mother full of exultantjoy in such a marriage, the daughter thinking only of her father, on whoseneck she throws herself with fond home prattle, lifting Orestes to him tokiss, saying tender, touching things--how she has missed him--how long thetime has been.... 

The young singer, an American, with a voice and a magic reminding many anold frequenter of Covent Garden, through all difference, of Giulia Ravogliin her prime, played this poignant scene as though the superb music inwhich it was clothed was her natural voice, the mere fitting breath of thesoul. 

Marcia sat arrested. The door of the box opened softly. A young man, smiling, stood in the doorway. Marcia, looking round, flushed deeply; butin the darkness only Waggin saw it. The girl beckoned to him. He came innoiselessly, nodded to James, bowed ceremoniously to Waggin, and took aseat beside Marcia. 

He bent toward her, whispering, "I saw you weren't very full, and I wantedto hear this--with you. "

"She's good!" was all that Marcia could find to whisper in return, with amotion of her face toward the Iphigenia. 

"Yes--but only as part of the poem! Don't mistake it--please!--for theordinary 'star'--business. "

"But she is the play!"

"She is the _idea_! She is the immortal beauty that springs out ofsorrow. Watch the contrast between the death she shrinks from--and thedeath she accepts; between the horror--and the greatness! Listen!--here isthe dirge music beginning. "

Marcia listened--with a strange tremor of pulse. Even through the stress ofthe music her mind went wandering over the past weeks, and those variousincidents which had marked the growth of her acquaintance with the manbeside her. How long had she known him? Since Christmas only? The Newburysand the Corystons were now neighbors indeed in the country; but it was notlong since his father had inherited the old house of Hoddon Grey, and ofthe preceding three years Edward Newbury had spent nearly two in India. They had first met at a London dinner party; and their friendship, thenbegun, had ripened rapidly. But it was not till the Shrewsbury House ballthat a note of excitement, of uncertain or thrilled expectation, had creptinto what was at first a mere pleasant companionship. She had danced withhim the whole night, reckless of comment; and had been since, it seemedto her, mostly engaged in trying to avoid him. But to-night there was noavoiding him. And as his murmured yet eager comments on the opera reachedher, she became more and more conscious of his feelings toward her, whichwere thus conveyed to her, as it were, covertly, and indirectly, throughthe high poetry and passion of the spectacle on which they both looked. With every stage of it Newbury was revealing himself; and exploring her. 

Waggin smiled to herself in the darkness of the box. James and she onceexchanged glances. Marcia, to both of them, was a dim and beautiful vision, as she sat with her loosely clasped hands lying on the edge of the box, herdark head now turned toward the stage, and now toward Newbury. 

 * * * * *

The ghastly truth had been revealed; Iphigenia, within earshot, almost, of the baffled army clamoring for her blood, was clinging to her father'sknees, imploring him to save her:

"Tears will I bring--my only cunning--all I have! Round your knees, myfather, I twine this body, which my mother bare you. Slay me not, beforemy time! Sweet, sweet is the light!--drive me not down into the halls ofdeath. 'Twas I first called you father--I, your firstborn. What fault haveI in Paris's sin? Oh, father, why, why did he ever come--to be my death?Turn to me--give me a look--a kiss! So that at least, in dying, I may havethat to remember--if you will not heed my prayers. "

She takes the infant Orestes in her arms:

"Brother!--you are but a tiny helper--and yet--come, weep with me!--come, pray our father not to slay your sister. Look, father, how--silently--heimplores you! Have pity! Oh, light, light, dearest of all goods to men!He is mad indeed who prays for death. Better an ill living than a nobledying!"

The music rose and fell like dashing waves upon a fearful coast--throughone of the most agonizing scenes ever imagined by poet, ever expressed inart. Wonderful theme!--the terror-stricken anguish of the girl, little morethan a child, startled suddenly from bridal dreams into this open-eyedvision of a hideous doom; the helpless remorse of the father; the miseryof the mother; and behind it all the pitiless fate--the savage creed--theblood-thirst of the goddess--and the maddened army howling for its prey. 

Marcia covered her eyes a moment. "Horrible!" she said, shivering, "toohorrible!"

Newbury shook his head, smiling. 

"No! You'll see. She carries in her hands the fate of her race--of theHellenic, the nobler world, threatened by the barbarian, the baser world. She dies, to live. It's the motive of all great art--all religion. Ah--hereis Achilles!"

There followed the strangest, pitifulest love scene. Achilles, roused tofury by the foul use made of his great name in the plot against the girl, adopts the shrinking, lovely creature as his own. She has been called hisbride; she shall be his bride; and he will fight for her--die for her--ifneed be. And suddenly, amid the clashing horror of the story, there springsup for an instant the red flower of love. Iphigenia stands dumb in thebackground, while her mother wails, and Achilles, the goddess-born, puts onhis armor and his golden-crested helmet. An exultant sword-song rises fromthe orchestra. There is a gleam of hope; and the girl, as she looks at herchampion, loves him. 

The music sank into tenderness, flowing like a stream in summer. And thewhole vast audience seemed to hold its breath. 

"Marvelous!" The word was Newbury's. 

He turned to look at his companion, and the mere energy of his feelingcompelled Marcia's eyes to his. Involuntarily, she smiled an answer. 

But the golden moment dies!--forever. Shrieking and crashing, thevulture-forces of destruction sweep upon it. Messengers rush in, announcingblow on blow. Achilles' own Myrmidons have turned against him. Agamemnonis threatened--Achilles--Argos! The murderous cries of the army fill thedistance like the roar of an uncaged beast. 

Iphigenia raises her head. The savage, inexorable music still surges andthunders round her. And just as Achilles is about to leave her, in order tothrow himself on the spears of his own men, her trance breaks. 

"Mother!--we cannot fight with gods. I die!--I die! But let me diegloriously--unafraid. Hellas calls to me!--Hellas, my country. I alone cangive her what she asks--fair sailing, and fair victory. You bore me for thegood of Hellas--not for your own joy only, mother! Shall men brave all forwomen and their fatherland?--and shall one life, one little life, stand intheir way? Nay! I give my self to Hellas! Slay me!--pull down the towers ofTroy! This through all time shall be sung of me--this be my glory!--this, child and husband both. Hellas, through me, shall conquer. It is meet thatHellenes should rule barbarians, and not barbarians Hellenes. For they areslave-folk--and _we_ are free!"

Achilles cries out in mingled adoration and despair. Now he knows her forwhat she is--now that he has "looked into her soul"--must he lose her?--isit all over? He pleads again that he may fight and die for her. 

But she puts him gently aside. 

"Die not for me, kind stranger. Slay no man for me! Let it be _my_boon to save Hellas, if I may. "

And under her sternly sweet command he goes, telling her that he will awaither beside the altar of Artemis, there to give his life for her still, ifshe calls to him--even at the last moment. 

But she, tenderly embracing her mother, and the child Orestes, forbiddingall thought of vengeance, silencing all clamor of grief--she lifts the songof glorious death, as she slowly passes from view, on her way to the placeof sacrifice, the Greek women chanting round her. 

"Hail, Hellas, Mother-land! Hail, light-giving Day--torch of Zeus!"

"To another life, and an unknown fate, I go! Farewell, dearlight!--farewell!"

"That, " said Newbury, gently, to Marcia only, as the music died away, "isthe death--_she accepts_!" The tears stood in the girl's eyes. Theexaltation of great passion, great poetry, had touched her; mingledstrangely with the spell, the resisted spell, of youth and sex. Newbury'sdark, expressive face, its proud refinement, its sensitive feeling; thegrowing realization in her of his strong, exacting personality;the struggle of her weaker will against an advancing master;fascination--revolt; of all these things she was conscious as they both satdrowned in the passion of applause which was swelling through the OperaHouse, and her eyes were still vaguely following that white figure on thestage, with the bouquets at its feet.... 

Bright eyes sought her own; a hand reached out, caught hers, and pressedit. She recoiled--released herself sharply. Then she saw that EdwardNewbury had risen, and that at the door of the box stood Sir Wilfrid Bury. 

 * * * * *

Edward Newbury gave up his seat to Sir Wilfrid, and stood against the backof the box talking to Waggin. But she could not flatter herself he paidmuch attention to her remarks. Marcia could not see him; but his eyes wereon her perpetually. A wonderfully handsome fellow, thought Waggin. Theprofile and brow perfect, the head fine, the eyes full--too full!--ofconsciousness, as though the personality behind burnt with too intense aflame. Waggin liked him, and was in some sort afraid of him. Never did hersmall talk seem to her so small as when she launched it at Edward Newbury. And yet no one among the young men of Marcia's acquaintance showed so muchcourtesy to Marcia's "companion. "

"Oh, very fine! very fine!" said Sir Wilfrid; "but I wanted a bigfight--Achilles and his Myrmidons going for the other fellows--and somebodyhaving the decency to burn the temple of that hag Artemis! I say!" Hespoke, smiling, in Marcia's ear. "Your brother Arthur's in very badcompany! Do you see where he is? Look at the box opposite. "

Marcia raised her opera-glass, and saw Enid Glenwilliam sitting in frontof the box to which Sir Wilfrid pointed her. The Chancellor's daughter wasbending her white neck back to talk to a man behind her, who was clearlyArthur Coryston. Behind her also, with his hands in his pockets, andshowing a vast expanse of shirt-front, was a big, burly man, who stoodlooking out on the animated spectacle which the Opera House presented, in this interval between the opera and the ballet, with a look halfcontemptuous, half dreamy. It was a figure wholly out of keeping--inspite of its conformity in dress--with the splendid opera-house, and thebejeweled crowd which filled it. In some symbolic group of modernstatuary, it might have stood for the Third Estate--forDemocracy--Labor--personified. But it was a Third Estate, as the modernworld has developed it--armed with all the weapons of the other two!

"The Chancellor himself!" said Sir Wilfrid; "watching 'the little victimsplay'! I picture him figuring up all these smart people. 'How much can Iget out of you?--and you?'"

Marcia abruptly put down the glass she held, and turned to Sir Wilfrid. Hewas her godfather, and he had been her particular friend since the dayswhen they used to go off together to the Zoo or the Pantomime. 

"Do, please, talk to Arthur!" she said, eagerly, but so as not to be heardby any one else. "Perhaps he'd listen to you. People are beginning tonotice--and it's too, too dreadful. You know what mother would feel!"

"I do, " said Sir Wilfrid, gravely; "if that's what you mean. " His eyesrested a moment on the striking figure of the Chancellor's daughter. "Certainly--I'll put in a word. But she is a very fascinating young woman, my dear!"

"I know, " said Marcia, helplessly, "I know. "

There was a pause. Then Sir Wilfrid asked:

"When do you go down to Coryston?"

"Just before Whitsuntide. "

He looked round with a smile, saw that Edward Newbury was still in the box, and whispered, mischievously:

"Hoddon Grey, too, I think, will not be empty?"

Marcia kept an indifferent face. 

"I dare say. You're coming?" Sir Wilfrid nodded. "Oh, _have_ youheard--?"

She murmured to him behind her fan. Sir Wilfrid knew all their history--hadbeen her father's most intimate friend. She gave him a rapid account ofCoryston's disinheriting. The old man rose, his humorous eyes suddenlygrave. 

"We'll talk of this--at Coryston. Ah, Newbury--I took your chair--I resign. Hullo, Lester--good evening. Heavens, there's the curtain going up. Goodnight!"

He hurried away. Newbury moved forward, his eager look on Marcia. But sheturned, smiling, to the young librarian. 

"You haven't seen this ballet, Mr. Lester?--Schumann's 'Carnival'? Oh, you mustn't stand so far back. We can make room, can't we?" She addressedNewbury, and before he knew what had happened, the chairs had been somanipulated that Lester sat between Marcia and Newbury, while Waggin haddrawn back into the shadow. The eyes of Marcia's duenna twinkled. Itpleased her that this magnificent young man, head, it was said, of theyoung High Church party, distinguished in many ways, and as good as he washandsome, was not to have too easy a game. Marcia had clearly lost her heada little at the Shrewsbury House ball; and was now trying to recover it. 

CHAPTER IV

After one of those baffling fortnights of bitter wind and cold, which sooften mark the beginning of an English May, when all that the spring hasslowly gained since March seems to be confiscated afresh by returningwinter, the weather had repented itself, the skies had cleared, andsuddenly, under a flood of sunshine, there were blue-bells in thecopses, cowslips in the fields, a tawny leaf breaking on the oaks, a newcheerfulness in the eyes and gait of the countryman. 

A plain, pleasant-looking woman sat sewing out-of-doors, in front of asmall verandaed cottage, perched high on a hillside which commanded a wideview of central England. The chalk down fell beneath her into a sheath ofbeech woods; the line of hills, slope behind slope, ran westward to thesunset, while eastward they mounted to a wooded crest beyond which thecottage could not look. Northward, beginning some six hundred feet belowthe cottage, stretched a wide and varied country, dotted with villages andfarms, with houses and woods, till it lost itself in the haze of a dimhorizon. 

A man of middle age, gray-headed, spare in figure, emerged from one of theFrench windows of the cottage. 

"Marion, when did you say that you expected Enid?"

"Between three and four, papa. "

"I don't believe Glenwilliam himself will get here at all. There will be along Cabinet this afternoon, and another to-morrow probably--Sunday or noSunday!"

"Well then, he won't come, father, " said the daughter, placidly, thrustingher hand into a sock riddled with holes, and looking at it with concern. 

"Annoying! I wanted him to meet Coryston--who said he would be here totea. "

Miss Atherstone looked a little startled. 

"Will that do, father? You know Enid told me to ask Arthur Coryston, and Iwrote yesterday. "

"Do? Why not? Because of politics? They must have got used to that inthe Coryston family! Or because of the gossip that Arthur is to have theestates? But it's not his fault. I hear the two brothers are on excellentterms. They say that Arthur has warned his mother that he means to make itup to Coryston somehow. "

"Enid doesn't like Lord Coryston, " said Miss Atherstone, slowly. 

"I dare say. He finds out her weak points. She has a good many. And he'snot a ladies' man. Between ourselves, my dear, she poses a good deal. Inever know quite where to have her, though I dandled her as a baby. "

"Oh, Enid's all right, " said Marion Atherstone, taking a fresh needleful ofbrown wool. Miss Atherstone was not clever, though she lived with cleverpeople, and her powers of expressing herself were small. Her father, aretired doctor, on the other hand, was one of the ablest Liberal organizersin the country. From his perch on the Mintern hills he commanded half themidlands, in more senses than one; knew thirty or forty constituencies byheart; was consulted in all difficulties; was better acquainted with "thepulse of the party" than its chief agent, and was never left out of countby any important Minister framing an important bill. 

He had first made friends with the man who was now the powerful head ofEnglish finance, when Glenwilliam was the young check-weigher of a largeStaffordshire colliery; and the friendship--little known except to an innerring--was now an important factor in English politics. Glenwilliam didnothing without consulting Atherstone, and the cottage on the hill had beenthe scene of many important meetings, and some decisions which would livein history. 

Marion Atherstone, on the other hand, though invaluable to her father, andmuch appreciated by his friends, took no intellectual part in his life. Brilliant creatures--men and women--came and went, to and from the cottage. Marion took stock of them, provided them with food and lodging, and did notmuch believe in any of them. Atherstone was a philosopher, a free-thinker, and a vegetarian. Marion read the _Church Family Times_, wentdiligently to church, and if she had possessed a vote, and cared enoughabout it to use it, would probably have voted Tory. All the same she andher father were on the best of terms and perfectly understood each other. 

Among the brilliant creatures, however, who came and went, there was onewho had conquered her. For Enid Glenwilliam, Marion felt the profoundaffection that often links the plain, scrupulous, conscientious woman tosome one or other of the Sirens of her sex. When Enid came to the cottageMarion became her slave and served her hand and foot. But the probabilityis that she saw through the Siren--what there was to see through--a gooddeal more sharply than her father did. 

Atherstone took a garden chair beside her, and lit his pipe. He had justbeen engaged in drafting an important Liberal manifesto. His name wouldprobably never appear in connection with it. But that mattered nothing tohim. What did vex him was that he probably would not have an opportunity oftalking it over with Glenwilliam before it finally left his hands. He waspleased with it, however. The drastic, or scathing phrases of it keptrunning through his head. He had never felt a more thorough, a morepassionate, contempt for his opponents. The Tory party must go! One morebig fight, and they would smash the unclean thing. These tyrants ofland, and church, and finance!--democratic England when it once got tobusiness--and it was getting to business--would make short work of them. 

As he looked out over the plain he saw many things well fitted to stir thedemocratic pulse. There among the woods, not a mile from the base of thehills, lay the great classic pile of Coryston, where "that woman" heldsway. Farther off on its hill rose Hoddon Grey, identified in this hostilemind with Church ascendancy, just as Coryston was identified with landlordascendancy. If there were anywhere to be found a narrower pair of bigotsthan Lord and Lady William Newbury, or a more poisonous reactionary thantheir handsome and plausible son, Atherstone didn't know where to lay handson them. 

One white dot in the plain, however, gave him unmixed satisfaction. Heturned, laughing to his daughter. 

"Coryston has settled in--with a laborer and his wife to look after him. Hehas all sorts of ructions on his hands already. "

"Poor Lady Coryston!" said Marion, giving a glance at the classical cupolasemerging from the woods. 

"My dear--she began it. And he is quite right--he _has_ a public dutyto these estates. "

"Couldn't he go and stir up people somewhere else? It looks so ugly. "

"Oh! women have got to get used to these things, if they play such strongparts as Lady Coryston. The old kid-glove days, as between men and women, are over. "

"Even between mothers and sons?" said Marion, dubiously. 

"I repeat--she began it! Monstrous, that that man should have made such awill, and that a mother should have taken advantage of it!"

"Suppose she had been a Liberal, " said Marion, slyly. 

Atherstone shrugged his shoulders--too honest to reply. 

He ruminated over his pipe. Presently his eyes flashed. 

"I hear Coryston's very servants--his man and wife--were evicted from theircottage for political reasons. "

"Yes, by that Radical miller who lives at Martover, " said Marion. 

Atherstone stared. 

"My dear!--"

"The wife told me, " said Marion, calmly, rolling up her socks. 

"I say, I must look into that, " said Atherstone, with discomposure. "Itdoesn't do to have such stories going round--on our side. I wonder whyCoryston chose them. "

"I should think--because he hates that kind of thing on both sides. " Theslightest twinge of red might have been noticed on Miss Atherstone's cheekas she spoke. But her father did not notice it. He lifted his head tolisten. 

"I think I hear the motor. "

"You look tired, " said Marion to her guest. The first bout of conversationwas over, and Dr. Atherstone had gone back to his letters. 

Enid Glenwilliam took off her hat, accepted the cushion which her hostesswas pressing upon her, and lay at ease in her cane chair. 

"You wouldn't wonder, if you could reckon up my week!" she said, laughing. "Let's see--four dinners, three balls, two operas, --a week-end at Windsor, two bazars, three meetings, two concerts, and tea-parties galore! What doyou expect but a rag!"

"Don't say you don't like it!"

"Oh yes, I like it. At least, if people don't ask me to things I'minsulted, and when they do--"

"You're bored?"

"It's you finished the sentence!--not I! And I've scarcely seen father thisweek except at breakfast. _That's_ bored me horribly. "

"What have you _really_ been doing?"

"Inquisitor!--I have been amusing myself. "

"With Arthur Coryston?"

Marion turned her large fresh-colored face and small gray eyes upon hercompanion. 

"And others! You don't imagine I confine myself to him?"

"Has Lady Coryston found out yet?"

"That we get on? I am sure she has never imagined that Mr. Arthur could sodemean himself. "

"But she must find out some day. "

"Oh yes, I mean her to, " said Miss Glenwilliam, quietly. She reached outa long hand toward Marion's cat and stroked it. Then she turned her largeeyes of pale hazel set under beautiful dark brows to her companion. "Yousee--Lady Coryston has not only snubbed me--she has insulted father. "

"How?" exclaimed Marion, startled. 

"At Chatton House the other day. She refused to go down to dinner with him. She positively did. The table had to be rearranged, and little Lady Chattonnearly had hysterics. "

The girl lay looking at her friend, her large but finely cut mouth faintlysmiling. But there was something dangerous in her eyes. 

"And one day at lunch she refused to be introduced to me. I saw it happenquite plainly. Oh, she didn't exactly mean to be insolent. But she thinkssociety is too tolerant--of people like father and me. "

"What a foolish woman!" said Marion Atherstone, rather helplessly. 

"Not at all! She knows quite well that my whole existence is a fight--sofar as London is concerned. She wants to make the fight a littleharder--that's all. "

"Your 'whole existence a fight, '" repeated Marion, with a touch of scorn, "after that list of parties!"

"It's a good fight at present, " said the girl, coolly, "and a successfulone. But Lady Coryston gets all she wants without fighting. When fathergoes out of office I shall be nobody. _She_ will be always at the topof the tree. "

"I am no wiser than before as to whether you really like Arthur Coryston ornot. You have heard, of course, the gossip about the estates?"

"Heard?" The speaker smiled. "I know not only the gossip--but thefacts--by heart! I am drowned--smothered in them. At present Arthur is thedarling--the spotless one. But when she knows about me!"--Miss Glenwilliamthrew up her hands. 

"You think she will change her mind again?"

The girl took up a stalk of grass and nibbled it in laughing meditation. 

"Perhaps I oughtn't to risk his chances?" she said, looking sidelong. 

"Don't think about 'chances, '" said Marion Atherstone, indignantly--"thinkabout whether you care for each other!"

"What a _bourgeois_ point of view! Well, honestly--I don't know. Arthur Coryston is not at all clever. He has the most absurd opinions. Wehave only known each other a few months. If he were _very_ rich--Bythe way, is he coming this afternoon? And may I have a cigarette?"

Marion handed cigarettes. The click of a garden gate in the distance caughther ear. 

"Here they are--he and Lord Coryston. "

Enid Glenwilliam lit her cigarette, and made no move. Her slender, long-limbed body, as it lay at ease in the deep garden chair, the palemasses of her hair, and the confident quiet face beneath it, made acharming impression of graceful repose. As Arthur Coryston reached her sheheld out a welcoming hand, and her eyes greeted him--a gay, significantlook. 

Coryston, having shaken hands with Miss Atherstone, hastily approached hercompanion. 

"I didn't know you smoked, " he said, abruptly, standing before her with hishands on his sides. 

As always, Coryston made an odd figure. His worn, ill-fitting clothes, withtheir bulging pockets, the grasshopper slimness of his legs and arms, thepeering, glancing look of his eternally restless eyes, were all of themdispleasing to Enid Glenwilliam as she surveyed him. But she answered himwith a smile. 

"Mayn't I?"

He looked down on her, frowning. 

"Why should women set up a new want--a new slavery--that costs money?"

The color flew to her cheeks. 

"Why shouldn't they? Go and preach to your own sex. "

"No good!" He shrugged his shoulders. "But women are supposed to haveconsciences. And--especially--_Liberal_ women, " he added, slowly, ashis eyes traveled over her dress. 

"And pray why should Liberal women be ascetics any more than any other kindof women?" she asked him, quietly. 

"Why?" His voice grew suddenly loud. "Because there are thousands of peoplein this country perishing for lack of proper food and clothing--and it isthe function of Liberals to bring it home to the other thousands. "

Arthur Coryston broke out indignantly:

"I say, Cony, do hold your tongue! You do talk such stuff!"

The young man, sitting where the whole careless grace of Miss Glenwilliam'sperson was delightfully visible to him, showed a countenance red withwrath. 

Coryston faced round upon him, transformed. His frown had disappeared in alook of radiant good humor. 

"Look here, Arthur, you've got the money-bags--you might leave me thetalking. Has he told you what's happened?"

The question was addressed to Miss Glenwilliam, while the speaker shot anindicating thumb in his brother's direction. 

The girl looked embarrassed, and Arthur Coryston again came to the rescue. 

"We've no right to thrust our family affairs upon other people, Corry, " hesaid, resolutely. "I told you so as we walked up. "

"Oh, but they're so interesting, " was Coryston's cool reply as he took hisseat by Marion Atherstone. "I'm certain everybody here finds them so. Andwhat on earth have I taken Knatchett for, except to blazon abroad what ourdear mother has been doing?"

"I wish to heaven you hadn't taken Knatchett, " said Arthur, sulkily. 

"You regard me as a nuisance? Well, I meant to be. I'm finding out suchlots of things, " added Coryston, slowly, while his eyes, wandering over theplain, ceased their restlessness for a moment and became fixed and dreamy. 

Dr. Atherstone caught the last words as he came out from his study. Heapproached his guests with an amused look at Coryston. But the necessarycourtesies of the situation imposed themselves. So long as Arthur Corystonwas present the Tory son of his Tory mother, an Opposition M. P. For aconstituency, part of which was visible from the cottage garden, and acomparative stranger to the Atherstones, it was scarcely possible tolet Coryston loose. The younger brother was there--Atherstone perfectlyunderstood--simply because Miss Glenwilliam was their guest; not for hisown _beaux yeux_ or his daughter's. But having ventured on to hostileground, for a fair lady's sake, he might look to being kindly treated. 

Arthur, on his side, however, played his part badly. He rose indeed togreet Atherstone--whom he barely knew, and was accustomed to regard asa pestilent agitator--with the indifferent good breeding that all youngEnglishmen of the classes have at command; he was ready to talk of theview and the weather, and to discuss various local topics. But it wasincreasingly evident that he felt himself on false ground; lured there, moreover, by feelings he could hardly suppose were unsuspected by hishosts. Enid Glenwilliam watched him with secret but sympathetic laughter;and presently came to his aid. She rose from her seat. 

"It's a little hot here, Marion. Shall I have time to show Mr. Coryston theview from the wood-path before tea?"

Marion assented. And the two tall figures strolled away across a littlefield toward a hanging wood on the edge of the hill. 

"Will she have him?" said Coryston to Marion Atherstone, looking after thedeparting figures. 

The question was disconcertingly frank. Marion laughed and colored. 

"I haven't the slightest idea. "

"Because there'll be the deuce to pay if she does, " said Coryston, nursinghis knees, and bubbling with amusement. "My unfortunate mother will have tomake another will. What the lawyers have made out of her already!"

"There would be no reconciling her to the notion of such a marriage?" askedAtherstone, after a moment. 

"'If my son takes to him a wife of the daughters of Heth, what good shallmy life be unto me?'" quoted Coryston, laughing. "Good gracious, how handythe Bible comes in--for most things! I expect you're an infidel, and don'tknow. " He looked up curiously at Atherstone. 

A shade of annoyance crossed Atherstone's finely marked face. 

"I was the son of a Presbyterian minister, " he said, shortly. "But toreturn. After all, you know, Radicals and Tories do still intermarry! Ithasn't quite come to that!"

"No, but it's coming to that!" cried Coryston, bringing his hand down in aslap on the tea-table. "And women like my mother are determined it shallcome to it. They want to see this country divided up into two hostilecamps--fighting it out--blood and thunder, and devilries galore. Ay, and"--he brought his face eagerly, triumphantly, close to Atherstone's--"sodo you, too--at bottom. "

The doctor drew back. "I want politics to be realities, if that's what youmean, " he said, coldly. "But the peaceful methods of democracy are enoughfor me. Well, Lord Coryston, you say you've been finding out a lot ofthings in these few weeks you've been settled here. What sort?"

Coryston turned an odd, deliberate look at his questioner. 

"Yes, I'm after a lot of game--in the Liberal preserves just as much as theTory. There isn't a pin to choose between you! Now, look here!" He checkedthe items off on his fingers. "My mother's been refusing land for a Baptistchapel. Half the village Baptist--lots of land handy--she won't let 'emhave a yard. Well, we're having meetings every week, we're sending herresolutions every week, which she puts in the waste-paper basket. And onSundays they rig up a tent on that bit of common ground at the park gates, and sing hymns at her when she goes to church. That's No. 1. No. 2--Mymother's been letting Page--her agent--evict a jolly decent fellow calledPrice, a smith, who's been distributing Liberal leaflets in some of thevillages. All sorts of other reasons given, of course--but that's thetruth. Well, I sat on Page's doorstep for two or three days--no good. NowI'm knocking up a shop and a furnace, and all the rest of the togs wanted, for Price, in my back yard at Knatchett. And we've made him Liberal agentfor the village. I can tell you he's going it! That's No. 2. No. 3--There'sa slight difficulty with the hunt I needn't trouble you with. We've given'em warning we're going to kill foxes wherever we can get 'em. They've beenjust gorging chickens this last year--nasty beasts! That don't matter much, however. No. 4--Ah-ha!"--he rubbed his hands--"I'm on the track of that oldhypocrite, Burton of Martover--"

"Burton! one of the best men in the country!" cried Atherstone, indignantly. "You're quite mistaken, Lord Coryston!"

"Am I!" cried Coryston, with equal indignation--"not a bit of it. TalkingLiberalism through his nose at all the meetings round here, and thendoing a thing--Look here! He turned that man and his wife--Potifer's hisname--who are now looking after me--out of their cottage and their bit ofland--why, do you think?--because _the man voted for Arthur_! Whyshouldn't he vote for Arthur? Arthur kissed his baby. Of course he votedfor Arthur. He thought Arthur was 'a real nice gentleman'--so did his wife. Why shouldn't he vote for Arthur? Nobody wanted to kiss Burton's baby. Hanghim! You know this kind of thing must be put a stop to!"

And, getting up, Coryston stamped up and down furiously, his small faceaflame. Atherstone watched him in silence. This strange settlement of LadyCoryston's disinherited son--socialist and revolutionist--as a kind ofwatchman, in the very midst of the Coryston estates, at his mother'svery gates, might not after all turn out so well as the democrats of theneighborhood had anticipated. The man was too queer--too flighty. 

"Wait a bit! I think some of your judgments may be too hasty, LordCoryston. There's a deal to learn in this neighborhood--the Hoddon Greyestate, for instance--"

Coryston threw up his hands. 

"The Newburys--my word, the Newburys! 'Too bright and good'--aren'tthey?--'for human nature's daily food. ' Such churches--and schools--andvillages! All the little boys patterns--and all the little girls saints. Everybody singing in choirs--and belonging to confraternities--and carryingbanners. 'By the pricking of my thumbs' when I see a Newbury I feel thata mere fraction divides me from the criminal class. And I tell you, I've heard a story about that estate"--the odd figure paused beside thetea-table and rapped it vigorously for emphasis--"that's worse than anyother villainy I've yet come across. You know what I mean. Betts and hiswife!"

He paused, scrutinizing the faces of Atherstone and Marion with hisglittering eyes. 

Atherstone nodded gravely. He and Marion both knew the story. Theneighborhood indeed was ringing with it. On the one hand it involved thepitiful tale of a divorced woman; on the other the unbending religiousconvictions of the Newbury family. There was hot championship on bothsides; but on the whole the Newbury family was at the moment unpopular intheir own county, because of the affair. And Edward Newbury in particularwas thought to have behaved with harshness. 

Coryston sat down to discuss the matter with his companions, showing awhite heat of feeling. "The religious tyrant, " he vowed, "is the mosthideous of all tyrants!"

Marion said little. Her grave look followed her guest's vehement talk; butshe scarcely betrayed her own point of view. The doctor, of course, was asangry as Coryston. 

Presently Atherstone was summoned into the house, and then Coryston said, abruptly:

"My mother likes that fellow--Newbury. My sister likes him. From what Ihear he might become my brother-in-law. He sha'n't--before Marcia knowsthis story!"

Marion looked a little embarrassed, and certainly disapproving. 

"He has very warm friends down here, " she said, slowly; "people who admirehim enormously. "

"So had Torquemada!" cried Coryston. "What does that prove? Look here!"--heput both elbows on the table, and looked sharply into Marion's plain andtroubled countenance--"don't you agree with me?"

"I don't know whether I do or not--I don't know enough about it. "

"You mustn't, " he said, eagerly--"you mustn't disagree with me!" Then, after a pause, "Do you know that I'm always hearing about you, MissAtherstone, down in those villages?"

Marion blushed furiously, then laughed. 

"I can't imagine why. "

"Oh yes, you can. I hate charity--generally. It's a beastly mess. But thethings you do--are human things. Look here, if you ever want any help, anything that a fellow with not much coin, but with a pair of strong armsand a decent headpiece, can do, you come to me. Do you see?"

Marion smiled and thanked him. 

Coryston rose. 

"I must go. Sha'n't wait for Arthur. He seems to be better employed. But--Ishould like to come up here pretty often, Miss Atherstone, and talk to you. I shouldn't wonder if I agreed with you more than I do with your father. Doyou see any objection?"

He stood leaning on the back of a chair, looking at her with his queersimplicity. She smiled back. 

"Not the least. Come when you like. "

He nodded, and without any further farewell, or any conventional message toher father, he strode away down the garden, whistling. 

Marion was left alone. Her face, the face of a woman of thirty-five, relaxed; a little rose-leaf pink crept into the cheeks. This was the fourthor fifth time that she had met Lord Coryston, and each time they hadseemed to understand each other a little better. She put aside all foolishnotions. But life was certainly more interesting than it had been. 

 * * * * *

Coryston had been gone some time, when at last his brother and MissGlenwilliam emerged from the wood. The tea-table was now spread in theshade, and they approached it. Marion tried to show nothing of thecuriosity she felt. 

That Arthur Coryston was in no mood for ordinary conversation at least wasclear. He refused her proffered cup, and almost immediately took his leave. Enid subsided again into her long chair, and Atherstone and Marion waitedupon her. She had an animated, excited look, the reflection, no doubt, ofthe conversation which had taken place in the wood. But when Marion and shewere left alone it was a long time before she disclosed anything. At last, when the golden May light was beginning to fade from the hill, she sat upsuddenly. 

"I don't think I can, Marion; I don't think I _can_!"

"Can what?"

"Marry that man, my dear!" She bent forward and took her friend's hands inhers. "Do you know what I was thinking of all the time he talked?--and he'sa very nice boy--and I like him very much. I was thinking of my father!"

She threw her head back proudly. Marion looked at her in some perplexity. 

"I was thinking of my father, " she repeated. "My father is the greatest manI know. And I'm not only his daughter. I'm his friend. He has no one butme since my mother died. He tells me everything, and I understand him. Whyshould I marry a man like that, when I have my father! And yet of coursehe touches me--Arthur Coryston--and some day I shall want a home--andchildren--like other people. And there is the money, if his mother didn'tstrip him of it for marrying me! And there's the famous name, andthe family, and the prestige. Oh yes, I see all that. It attracts meenormously. I'm no ascetic, as Coryston has discovered. And yet when Ithink of going from my father to that man--from my father's ideas toArthur's ideas--it's as though some one thrust me into a cave, and rolleda stone on me. I should beat myself dead, trying to get out! I told him Icouldn't make up my mind yet--for a long, long time. "

"Was that kind?" said Marion, gently. 

"Well, he seemed to like it better than a final No, " laughed the girl, butrather drearily. "Marion! you don't know, nobody can know but me, what aman my father is!"

And sitting erect she looked absently at the plain, the clear hardness ofher eyes melting to a passionate tenderness. It was to Marion as though therugged figure of the Chancellor overshadowed them; just as, at that moment, in the political sense, it overshadowed England. 

CHAPTER V

Lady Coryston's quarters at Coryston Place were not quite so devoid of allthe lighter touches as her London sitting-room. The view from the windows, of the formal garden outside, with its rows of white statues, leading toa winding lake, and parklike slopes beyond it, was certainly cheerful. Coryston particularly disliked it, and had many ribald things to say aboutthe statues, which in his mad undergraduate days he had more than onceadorned with caps of liberty, pipes, mustaches, and similar impertinences. But most people were attracted by the hard brightness of the outlook; andof light and sunshine--on sunny days--there was, at any rate, no lack. Marcia had recently chosen a new chintz for the chairs and sofas, and onesmall group of photographs, on a table beside the fireplace, were allowedto remind the spectator that the owner of the room had once been a youngmother, with a maternal pride in a bunch of fine children. Here wereCoryston, aged nine, on pony-back, pompously showing off; James, dreamilyaffable, already a personage at seven; Arthur, fondling a cricket-bat, witha stiff mouth, hastily closed--by order--on its natural grin; and Marcia, frowning and pouting, in fancy dress as "The Strawberry Girl, " justemerging, it seemed, from one battle-royal with her nurse, and about toplunge into another. 

Lady Coryston had just entered the room. She was alone, and she carried apile of letters, which she put down on the central writing-table. Then shewent to one of the windows, which on this May day was open, and stood, looking out, one long mittened hand resting vaguely on the table that heldthe photographs. A commanding figure! She was in black, carrying her onlyornament, an embossed silver girdle and chatelaine, the gift of her husbandin their first year of marriage. As she paused, motionless, in the clearsunshine, her great height and her great thinness and flatness broughtout with emphasis the masculine carriage of the shoulders and the strongmarkings of the face. In this moment of solitude, however, the mistress ofCoryston Place and of the great domain on which she looked, allowed herselfan expression which was scarcely that of an autocrat--at any rate of anautocrat at ease. 

She was thinking of Coryston; and Coryston was giving her a good dealto think about. Of course she had expected annoyance; but scarcely suchannoyance as Coryston, it seemed, was now bent on causing her. At bottom, she had always reckoned on her position as mother and woman. Coryston mightthreaten, but that he should actually carry out such iniquities as he wasnow engaged on, had been--she owned it--beyond her calculations. 

For she had come down to find the whole neighborhood in a ferment, and manypleasant illusions, in the shelter of which she had walked for years, bothbefore and since her husband's death, questioned, at least, and cracking, if not shattered. That the Corystons were model landlords, that theyenjoyed a feudal popularity among their tenants and laborers, was for LadyCoryston one of the axioms on which life was based. She despised people whostarved their estates, let their repairs go, and squeezed the last farthingout of their tenants. Nor had she any sympathy with people who ownedinsanitary cottages. It had been her fond belief that she at leastpossessed none. And now here was Coryston, her eldest son, camped in thevery midst of her property, not as her friend and support, but as her enemyand critic; poking his nose into every corner of the estates, taken inby every ridiculous complaint, preaching Socialism at full blast to thelaborers, and Land Acts to the farmers, stirring up the Nonconformiststo such antics as the Baptists had lately been playing on Sundays at hergates; discovering bad cottages, where none were known to exist; and, ingeneral, holding up his mother to blame and criticism, which, as LadyCoryston most truly, sincerely, indignantly felt, was wholly undeserved. 

This then was the "game" that Coryston had warned her of. He was actuallyplaying it; though she had never believed for one moment that he would everdo so. How was she to meet it? With firmness, no doubt, and dignity. As tothe firmness she had no fears; it was the dignity she was anxious about. 

Lady Coryston was a woman of conscience; although no doubt she had long agoharnessed her will to her conscience, which revolved--sometimes heavily--inthe rear. Still there the conscience was, and periodically she had to takeaccount of it. Periodically, it made her uncomfortable on the subject ofher eldest son. Periodically, it forced her to ask herself--as in thisreverie by the window--"How is it that, bit by bit, and year by year, he and I have drifted to this pass? Who began it? Is it in any sense myfault?"

How was it, in the first place, that neither she nor his father had everhad any real influence over this incorrigible spirit; that even in Corry'schildish days, when his parents had him at their mercy, they might punish, and thwart, and distress him, but could never really conquer him? LadyCoryston could recall struggles with her son, whether at home or at school, which turned her sick to think of. 

Corry--for instance--at his preparatory school, taking a loathing to hishead master, demanding to be withdrawn, and stubbornly refusing to say why;the master's authority upheld by Corry's parents; vindictive punishment;followed by sudden illness on the boy's part in the midst of the commotion, and his return home, white-faced, silent, indomitable. It made her shiverto remember how he had refused to be nursed by her or by any one but theold housekeeper at Coryston; how for weeks he had scarcely spoken to hisfather or mother. Then had come the lad's justification--a hideous crueltycharge against the head master; and on a quasi-apology from his father, Corry had consented to forgive his parents. 

And again--at Cambridge--another recollection clutched at memory; Corry, taking up the case of a youth who had been sent down, according tohim, unjustly--furious attacks on the college authorities--rioting incollege--ending of course in the summary sending down of Coryston also. Sheand his father in their annoyance and disappointment had refused to listento his explanations, to let him defend himself indeed at all. His mothercould see still Corry's strange hostile look at her, on his first arrivalat home, as much as to say, "Nothing to expect from _you_!" She couldstill hear the hall door closing behind him as he went off on wanderingsabroad and in the East for what proved to be an absence of three years. 

Yet there were some things she could remember on the other side, datingalso from Corry's Cambridge years. When her old father died, one Eastervacation, and she, who was deeply attached to him, had arrived at Corystonafter the funeral, worn out by misery and grief, there, suddenly, wereCorry's arms open to her, and his--almost timid--kiss on her cheek. Thethought of those few weeks when he had been so tender to her, and she hadbeen too tired and sad for anything except to lie still and accept thekindness of her husband and sons, was embittered to her by the remembranceof all the fierce jars which had come after; but, at the moment, they werehalcyon days. As she thought of them now beside the open window, she wassuddenly aware of a catch in the throat, which she must instantly restrain. It was really too late for any such melting between herself and Corry!

As to the scene which had taken place in the drawing-room of the St. James's Square house on Coryston's hurried return home after his father'sdeath, and the explanation to him of the terms of his father's will, shehad expected it, and had prepared for it. But it had been none the lessa terrible experience. The fierceness of Corry's anger had been indeedquietly expressed--he had evidently schooled himself; but the words andphrases used by him had bitten into her mind. His wrath had taken the formof a long summing up of the relations between himself and her since hisboyhood, of a final scornful attack on her supposed "principles, " and adenunciation of her love of power--unjustified, unwarranted power--as thecause of all the unhappiness in their family life. He had not said it in somany words, but she knew very well that what he meant was "You have refusedto be the normal woman, and you have neither mind enough nor knowledgeenough to justify you. You have sacrificed everything to politics, and youdon't understand a single political problem. You have ruined your own lifeand ours for a barren intellectualism, and it will leave you in the end alonely and unhappy woman. "

Well, well, she had borne with him--she had not broken with him, afterall that. She would have found a dozen ways of improving his position, ofgiving him back his inheritance, if he had shown the smallest dispositionto meet her, to compromise with her. But he had gone from extravagance toextravagance, from outrage to outrage. And finally she had gathered up allher strength and struck, for the family traditions, for the party's, the country's interests. And of course she had been right--she had beenabundantly right. 

Drawing herself unconsciously erect, she looked out over the wide Corystondomain, the undulations of the great estate as it stretched northward tothe hills. Politics! She had been in politics from her childhood; she hadbeen absorbed in them through all her married life; and now, in her lateryears, she was fairly consumed by the passion of them, by the determinationto win and conquer. Not for herself!--so at least her thoughts, judged inher own cause, vehemently insisted; not for any personal motive whatever, but to save the country from the break-up of all that made England great, from the incursions of a venomous rabble, bent on destroying the upperclass, the landed system, the aristocracy, the Church, the Crown. Woman asshe was, she would fight revolution to the last; they should find her bodyby the wall, when and if the fortress of the old English life went down. 

_Glenwilliam_!--in that name all her hatreds were summed up. 

For there had arisen, during these latter years, a man of the people, tolead what Lady Coryston called the "revolution"--a man who had sufferedcruelties, so it was said, at the hands of the capitalist and employingclass; who, as a young miner, blacklisted because of the part he had takenin a successful strike, had gone, cap in hand, to mine after mine, beggingvainly for work, his wife and child tramping beside him. The first wife andher child had perished, so the legend ran, at any rate, of hardship andsheer lack of food. That insolent conspicuous girl who was now the mistressof his house was the daughter of a second wife, a middle-class woman, married when he was already in Parliament, and possessed of a smallcompetence which had been the foundation of her husband's politicalposition. On that modest sum he had held his ground; and upon it, whileEngland was being stirred from end to end by his demagogue's gift, he hadbuilt up a personal independence and a formidable power which had enabledhim to bargain almost on equal terms with the two great parties. 

"We refused to pay his price, " was the way in which Lady Coryston wasaccustomed to put it, "so the Liberals bought him--_dear_!"

And he was now exacting from that luckless party the very uttermostfarthing! Destruction of the Church; conscription, with a view, no doubt, to turning a workman-led army, in case of need, upon the possessing class;persecution of the landed interests; criminally heavy taxation--these wereApollyon's weapons. And against such things even a weak woman must turn tobay--must fight even her own heart, in the interests of her country. 

"Did I choose my post in life for myself?--its duties, itsresponsibilities? It was as much given to me as a soldier's place in theline of battle! Am I to shirk it because I am a woman? The women have nomore right to run away than the men--vote or no vote! Haven't we eyes tosee this ruin that's coming, and minds to baffle it with? If I make Corryrich?--and help thereby to throw England to the dogs? Am I to give him whathe says he hates--land and money--to use for what _I_ hate--and whathis father hated? Just because he is my son--my flesh and blood? He wouldscorn the plea himself--he has scorned it all his life. Then let himrespect his mother--when she does the same. "

But meanwhile the "game, " as Coryston was playing it?--what was to be doneas to this episode and that?

She sat down to her writing-table, still busily thinking, and remindingherself that her agent Mr. Page was to come and see her at twelve. She hadhoped to get some counsel and help out of Arthur, now that the House was upfor a fortnight. But Arthur had really been very inconsiderate and tiresomeso far. He had arrived so late for dinner on the Saturday that there hadbeen no time for talk, especially as there was a large party in the house. On Sunday he had taken a motor, and had been away all day, paying--hesaid--some constituency visits. And now this morning with the earliesttrain he was off to London, though there was really no occasion for himwhatever to go up there. He seemed rather unlike himself. His motherwondered if he was ill. And she fell into some indignant reflections on thestuffy atmosphere and bad lighting of the House of Commons. But ever sincehe knew that he was to have the estates his manner seemed to have changed;not certainly in the direction of triumph or satisfaction. On the contrary, he had once or twice said irritably to his mother that the will wasridiculous and ought not to stand. She had been obliged to make it clear tohim that the matter was _not_ to be discussed. 

Suddenly, as she sat there, distress seized her at the bare thought of anyshadow between herself and Arthur--Arthur, her darling, who was upholdinghis father's principles and hers in Parliament with so much zeal and goodfeeling; who had never all his life--till these latter weeks--given her somuch as a cross word. Yet now that she could no longer chase the thoughtquite away, she admitted, more and more frankly, that she was anxious. Washe in any money difficulties? She must get James to find out. In love? Shesmiled. There were very few maidens in England, whatever their pretensions, who would be likely to refuse Arthur Coryston. Let him only throw thehandkerchief, and his mother would soon do the rest. And indeed it was hightime he set up house for himself. There is a restlessness in a man whichmeans--marriage; and a mother soon becomes aware of it. 

 * * * * *

Recalling her thoughts to the letters before her, Lady Coryston perceivedamong them a note from Lady William Newbury asking her and Marcia to spenda week-end at Hoddon Grey. Lady Coryston rather wearily reflected that shemust no doubt accept. That young man was clearly in pursuit of Marcia. WhatMarcia's own views were, her mother had not yet discovered. She seemedsometimes glad to see him; sometimes entirely indifferent; and LadyCoryston thought she had observed that her daughter's vacillations triedEdward Newbury's pride sorely, at times. But it would end in a match--itwas pretty certain to end in a match. Marcia was only testing her powerover a strong-willed man, who would capture her in the end. That being so, Lady Coryston acknowledged that the necessary tiresome preliminaries mustbe gone through. 

She hastily scrawled a note of acceptance, without any of the fondimaginings that would have accompanied the act in the ordinary mother. Likeall imperious women she disliked staying in other people's houses, whereshe could not arrange her hours. And she had a particularly resentfulmemory of a visit which she had paid with her husband to Lord and LadyWilliam Newbury when they were renting a house in Surrey, before they hadinherited Hoddon Grey, and while Marcia was still in the schoolroom. Neverin her life had she been so ordered about. The strict rules of the househad seemed to her intolerable. She was a martinet herself, and inclined topay all due attention to the observances of religion; but they must be herown observances, or at least approved by her. To be expected to followother people's observances set her aflame. To make such a fuss, also, aboutyour religion seemed to her indecorous and absurd. She remembered with asatisfaction which was half ashamed, that she--who was always down athome to a half-past-eight breakfast, and was accustomed to walk a mile tochurch--had insisted on breakfasting in her own room, on Sunday, under theNewburys' roof, and had quite enjoyed Lady William's surprised looks whenthey met at luncheon. 

Well, now the thing had to be done again--for the settling of Marcia. Whether the atmosphere of the family or the house would suit Marcia, hermother did not inquire. In the matters of birth and money, nothing could bemore appropriate. Lady Coryston, however, was mostly concerned in gettingit through quickly, lest it should stand in the way of things moreimportant. She was fond of Marcia; but her daughter occupied, in truth, only the fringe of her thoughts. 

However, she duly put up her letter, and was addressing the envelope, whenthe door opened to admit the head agent of the estate, Mr. Frederick Page. 

Mr. Page was, in Lady Coryston's eyes, a prince of agents. Up till now shehad trusted him entirely, and had been more largely governed by his advicethan her pride of rule would ever have allowed her to confess. Especiallyhad she found reason to be grateful to him for the large amount of money hehad lately been able to provide her with from the savings of the Corystonestates, for political purposes. Lady Coryston was one of the largestsubscribers to the party funds in the kingdom; the coming election demandedan exceptional effort, and Page's economies had made it almost easy. Shegreeted him with a peculiarly gracious smile, remembering perhaps theletter of thanks she had received only the day before from the partyheadquarters. 

The agent was still a young man, not much over forty, ruddy, good-looking, inclined to be plump, and possessed of a manner calculated to win theconfidence of any employer. He looked the pink of discretion and capacity, and Lady Coryston had never discovered in him the smallest flaw with regardto any of the orthodoxies she required, political or religious. He was awidower, with two girls, who had often been allowed to play with Marcia. 

It was clear to Lady Coryston's eyes at once that Mr. Page was muchdisturbed and upset. She had expected it, of course. She herself wasdisturbed and upset. But she had perhaps hoped that he would reassureher--make light of the situation. 

He did nothing of the kind. On the contrary, the effects of an encounterhe had just had with Lord Coryston himself in the village street, beforeentering the park, were plainly visible in the agent's bearing. He plungedat once into the subject. 

"I fear, Lady Coryston, there is great trouble brewing on this estate!"

"You will stop it, " she said, confidently; "you always have stopped itbefore--you and I together. "

He shook his head. 

"Ah, but--you see what makes the difference!"

"That Coryston is my son?--and has always been regarded as my heir?Certainly that makes a difference, " she admitted, unwillingly. "But hisproceedings will soon disgust people--will soon recoil on himself!"

Page looked up to see her pale profile, with its marked hollows in cheekand temple, outlined on the white paneling of the room like some strong, hawkish face of the Renaissance. But, in awe of her as he always was, she seemed to him a foolish woman. Why had she driven matters to thisextremity?

He poured out his budget of troubles. All the smoldering discontent whichhad always existed on the estate had been set alight by Lord Coryston. Hewas trying to form a union among the laborers, and the farmers were upin arms. He was rousing the dissenters against the Church school of theestate. He was even threatening an inquiry into the state of some of hismother's cottages. 

Lady Coryston interrupted. Her voice showed annoyance. "I thought, Mr. Page, there were no insanitary cottages on this property!"

Page hemmed and hawed. He had not the courage to say that if a landownerinsists on spending the reserve fund of an estate on politics, the estatesuffers. He had found Lady Coryston large sums for the party war-chest;but only a fool could expect him to build new cottages, and keep up a highlevel of improvements, at the same time. 

"I am doing what I can, " he said, hurriedly. "There are certain things thatmust be done. I have given orders. "

"My son seems to have caught us napping, " said Lady Coryston, rathergrimly. 

The agent passed the remark by. He inquired whether her ladyship was stilldetermined to refuse land for the Baptist chapel. 

"Certainly! The minister they propose is a most mischievous person, I haveno intention whatever of extending his influence. "

Page acquiesced. He himself would have made the Baptists happy with a halfan acre, long since, and so, in his belief, scotched a hornet's nest. Buthe had never breathed any suggestion of the kind to Lady Coryston. 

"I have done my best--believe me--to stop the Sunday disturbances, " hesaid, "but in vain. They are chiefly got up, however, by people from adistance. Purely political!"

"Of course. I am not to be intimidated by them, " said Lady Coryston, firmly. 

The agent's inner mind let loose a thought to the effect that theincreasing influence of women in politics did not seem to be likely to leadto peaceable living. But he merely remarked:

"I much regret that Lord Coryston should have addressed them himself lastSunday. I ventured to tell his lordship so when I met him just now in thevillage. "

Lady Coryston stiffened on her chair. 

"He defended himself?"

"Hotly. And I was to tell you that with your leave he will call on youhimself this afternoon about the affair. "

"My house is always open to my son, " said Lady Coryston, quietly. But Pageperceived the tremor of battle that ran through her. 

"As to his support of that blacksmith from Ling, whom he is actuallysetting up in business at Knatchett itself--the man is turning out aperfect firebrand!--distributing Socialist leaflets over the wholeneighborhood--getting up a quarrel between some of the parents here inthis very village and our schoolmaster, about the punishment of achild--perfectly legitimate!--everything in order!--and enrolling moremembers of Mr. Glenwilliam's new Land League--within a stone's-throw ofthis house!--than I like to think of. I won't answer for this village, Lady Coryston, at the next election, if Lord Coryston goes on with theseproceedings!"

Lady Coryston frowned. She was not accustomed to be addressed inso pessimistic a tone, and the mere mention of her arch-enemy--Glenwilliam--had put defiance into her. With some dryness, shepreached energy, watchfulness, and a hopeful mind. The agent grasped thesituation with the quickness born of long acquaintance with her, andadroitly shifted his ground. He remarked that at any rate Lord Corystonwas making things uncomfortable all round; and he described with gusto theraids upon some of the Radical employers and small cottage-owners of thedistrict, in the name of political liberty and decent housing, by whichCoryston had been lately bewildering the Radical mind. Lady Corystonlaughed; but was perhaps more annoyed than amused. To be brought down tothe same level with Radical millers and grocers--and by her own son--was noconsolation to a proud spirit. 

"If our cottages can be reasonably attacked, they must be put in order, andat once, " she said, with dignity. "You, Mr. Page, are my eyes and ears. Ihave been accustomed to trust you. "

The agent accepted the implied reproach with outward meekness, and aninward resolve to put Lady Coryston on a much stricter financial regime forthe future. 

A long conversation followed, at the end of which Mr. Page rose, with theremark:

"Your ladyship will be sorry to hear that Mr. Glenwilliam is to speak atMartover next month, --and that it is already rumored Lord Coryston will bein the chair. "

He had kept this bombshell to the last, and for various reasons he closelywatched its effect. 

Lady Coryston paled. 

"We will have a Tory meeting here the same night, and my son Arthur shallspeak, " she said, with vivacity. 

Some odd thoughts arose in the mind of Mr. Page as he met the angry fire inthe speaker's look. 

"By all means. By the way, I did not know Mr. Arthur was acquaintedwith those strange people the Atherstones?" he said, in a tone of easyinterrogation, looking for his hat. 

Lady Coryston was a little surprised by the remark. 

"I suppose an M. P. Must be acquainted with everybody--to some extent, " shesaid, smiling. "I know very well what his opinion of Mr. Atherstone is. "

"Naturally, " said Page, also smiling. "Well, good-by, Lady Coryston. I hopewhen you see Lord Coryston this afternoon you will be able to persuade himto give up some of these extravagances. "

"I have no power with him, " she said, sharply. 

"Why did you give up what you had?" thought the agent, as he took hisdeparture. His long experience of Lady Coryston, able as she was, and as headmitted her to be, in many respects, had in the end only increased in hima secret contempt for women, inbred in all but a minority of men. Theyseemed to him to have so little power of "playing the game"--the old, oldgame of success that men understand so well; through compromise, cunning, give and take, shrewd and prudent dealing. A kind of heady blundering, whencaution and a few lies would have done all that was wanted--it was this hecharged them with--Lady Coryston especially. 

And as to that nice but rather stupid fellow Arthur, what on earth couldhe be doing at the Atherstones'? Had he--Page--come by chance on asecret, --dramatic and lamentable!--when, on the preceding Saturday, as hewas passing along the skirts of the wood bounding the Atherstones' littleproperty, on his way to one of the Coryston hill-farms, he had perceived inthe distance--himself masked by a thin curtain of trees--two persons in thewood-path, in intimate or agitated conversation. They were Arthur Corystonand Miss Glenwilliam. He recognized the lady at once, had several timesseen her on the platform when her father spoke at meetings, and thefrequent presence of the Glenwilliams at the Atherstones' cottage was wellknown to the neighborhood. 

By George!--if that _did_ mean anything!

CHAPTER VI

Meanwhile on this May morning Marcia was reading in the park, not far froma footpath--a right of way--leading from the village to the high roadrunning east and west along the northern boundary of the Coryston property. Round her the slopes were white with hawthorn under a thunderous sky ofblue and piled white cloud. The dappled forms of deer glanced through thetwisted hawthorn stems, and at her feet a trout-stream, entrancingly clearand clean, slipped by over its chalk bottom--the gray-green weeds swayingunder the slight push of the water. There was a mist of blossom, andeverywhere the fragrance of a bountiful earth, young once more. 

Marcia, it must be confessed, was only pretending to read. She had somereason to think that Edward Newbury might present himself at Coryston forlunch that day. If so, and if he walked from Hoddon Grey--and, unlikemost young men of his age, he was a great walker, even when there was noquestion of grouse or golf--he would naturally take this path. Some strongmingled impulse had placed her there, on his road. The attraction for herof his presence, his smile, his character was irresistibly increasing. There were many days when she was restless and the world was empty till hecame. And yet there were other days when she was quite cold to him; whenthe thought of giving her life into his hands made her cry "impossible";when it seemed to her, as she had said to Waggin, that she rather fearedthan loved him. 

Edward Newbury indeed belonged to a type not common in our upper class, yetalways represented there, and in its main characteristics to be traced backat least to the days of Laud and the Neoplatonists. It is a spiritual, amystical type, developed under English aristocratic conditions and shapedby them. Newbury had been brought up in a home steeped in high Anglicantradition. His grandfather, old Lord Broadstone, had been one of the firstand keenest supporters of the Oxford movement, a friend of Pusey, Keble, and Newman, and later on of Liddon, Church, and Wilberforce. The boy hadgrown up in a religious hothouse; his father, Lord William, had beenaccustomed in his youth to make periodical pilgrimages to Christchurchas one of Pusey's "penitents, " and his house became in later life arallying-point for the High Anglican party in all its emergencies. Edwardhimself, as the result of an intense travail of mind, had abandonedhabitual confession as he came to manhood, but he would not for the worldhave missed the week of "retreat" he spent every year, with other Anglicanlaymen, under the roof of the most spiritual of Anglican bishops. He was ajoyous, confident, devoted son of the English church; a man governed by themost definite and rigid beliefs, held with a pure intensity of feeling, andimpervious to any sort of Modernism. 

At the same time his handsome person, his ardent and amiable temper, hispoetic and musical tastes, made him a very general favorite even in themost miscellaneous society. The enthusiastic Christian was also a popularman of the world; and the esoteric elements in his character, thoughperfectly well known to all who were in any degree his intimates, werejealously hidden from the multitude, who welcomed him as a good-lookingfellow and an agreeable companion. He had been four years in the Guards, and some years in India, as private secretary to his uncle, the Viceroy. Hewas a good shot, a passionate dancer, a keen musician; and that mysteriousnote in him of the unbending and the inexorable only made him--ingeneral--the more attractive both to men and women, as it became apparentto them. Men scoffed at him, yet without ever despising him. Perhaps thetime was coming when, as character hardened, and the glamour of youthdropped away, many men might hate him. Men like Coryston and Atherstonewere beginning indeed to be bitterly hostile. But these were possibilitieswhich were only just emerging. 

Marcia was well aware of Newbury's distinction; and secretly very proud ofhis homage. But rebellion in her was still active. When, however, she askedherself, with that instinct for self-analysis bred in the woman of to-dayby the plays she sees, and half the tales she reads--"Why is it he likesme?"--the half-sarcastic reply would still suggest itself--"No doubt justbecause I am so shapeless and so formless--because I don't know myself whatI want or what I mean to be. He thinks he'll form me--he'll save my soul. Shall he?"

A footstep on the path made her look up, annoyed that she could not controla sudden burning of the cheek. But the figure she expected was not there. 

"Coryston!" she cried. 

Her brother approached her. He seemed to be reciting verse, and she thoughtshe caught some words from a Shelley chorus which she knew, because he hadmade her learn it when she was a child in the schoolroom. He threw himselfdown beside her. 

"Well?"

Brother and sister had only met twice since Coryston's settlement atKnatchett--once in the village street, and once when Marcia had invaded hisbachelor quarters at Knatchett. On that occasion she had discharged uponhim all the sarcasm and remonstrance of which she was capable. But she onlysucceeded in reminding herself of a bullfight of which she had once seenpart at San Sebastian. Her shafts stuck glittering in the bull's hide, butthe bull barely shook himself. There he stood--good-humored, and pawing. 

To-day also Coryston seemed to be in high spirits. Marcia, on the otherhand, gave him a look half troubled, half hostile. 

"Corry!--I wanted to speak to you. Are you really going to see mother thisafternoon?"

"Certainly. I met Page in the village half an hour ago and asked him toannounce me. "

"I don't want to talk any more about all the dreadful things you've beendoing, " said Marcia, with sisterly dignity. "I know it wouldn't be anygood. But there's one thing I must say. I do beg of you, Corry, not to saya word to mamma about--about Arthur and Enid Glenwilliam. I know you wereat the Atherstones on Saturday!"

The anxiety in the girl's face seemed to give a softer shade to its strongbeauty. She went on, appealingly:

"Arthur's told me a lot. He's quite mad. I've argued--and argued withhim--but it's no good. He doesn't care for anything--Parliament, mamma, theestates, anything--in comparison with that girl. At present she's playingwith him, and he's getting desperate. But I'm simply in _terror_ aboutmamma!"

Corry whistled. 

"My dear, she'll have to know some time. As you say, he's in it, head overears. No use your trying to pull him back!"

"It'll kill her!" cried Marcia, passionately; "what's left of her, afteryou've done!"

Coryston lifted his eyebrows and looked long and curiously at his sister. Then he slowly got up from the grass and took a seat beside her. 

"Look here, Marcia, do you think--do you honestly think--that I'm theaggressor in this family row?"

"Oh, I don't know--I don't know what to think!"

Marcia covered her face with her hands. "It's all so miserable!--" she wenton, in a muffled voice. "And this Glenwilliam thing has come so suddenly!Why, he hardly knew her, when he made that speech in the House six weeksago! And now he's simply demented! Corry, you must go and argue withhim--you _must_! Persuade him to give her up!"

She laid her hand on his arm imploringly. 

Coryston sat silent, but his eyes laughed a little. 

"I don't believe in her, " he said at last, abruptly. "If I did, I'd backArthur up through thick and thin!"

"_Corry_!--how on earth can Arthur be happy if he marries her--how canhe live in that set--the son-in-law of _that man_! He'll have to giveup his seat--nobody here would ever vote for him again. His friends wouldcut him--"

"Oh come, come, my dear, we're not as bad as that!" said Coryston, impatiently. 

But Marcia wailed on:

"And it isn't as if he had ideas and theories--like you--"

"Not a principle to his back!--I know, " said Coryston, cheerfully. "Itell you again, I'd not dissuade him; on the contrary, I'd shove him intoit!--if she were the right sort. But she's not. She's ruined by the luxuryshe's been living in. I believe--if you ask me--that she'd accept Arthurfor his money--but that she doesn't care one brass farthing about him. Whyshould she?"

"Corry!"

"He's a fool, my dear, though a jolly one--and she's not been accustomed toliving with fools. She's got wits as sharp as gimlets. Well, well"--he gotup from the seat--"can't talk any more now. Now what is it exactly you wantme to do? I repeat--I'm coming to see mother this afternoon. "

"Don't let her guess anything. Don't tell her anything. She's a littleworried about Arthur already. But we must stop the madness before she knowsanything. Promise!"

"Very well. For the present--I'm mum. "

"And talk to him!--tell him it'll ruin him!"

"I don't mind--from my own point of view, " said Coryston, surveying herwith his hands on his sides. Then suddenly his face changed. A cloudovershadowed it. He gave her a queer, cold look. 

"Perhaps I have something to ask you, " he said, slowly. 

"What?" The tone showed her startled. 

"Let _me_ come and talk to _you_ about that man whom all theworld says you're going to marry!"

She stared at him, struck dumb for the moment by the fierceness of hisvoice and expression. Then she said, indignantly:

"What do you mean, Corry!"

"You are deceived in him. You can't marry him!" he said, passionately. "Atleast let me talk to you. "

She rose and stood facing him, her hands behind her, her dark face as fullof energy and will as his own. 

"You are thinking of the story of Mrs. Betts. I know it. "

"Not as I should tell it!"

A moving figure in a distant field caught her attention. She made a greateffort to master her excitement. 

"You may tell me what you like. But I warn you I shall ask _him_ forhis version, too. "

Corry's expression changed. The tension relaxed. 

"That's only fair, " he said, indifferently. Then, perceiving the advancingman: "Ah, I see!--here he is. I'm off. It's a bargain. I say nothing tomother--and do my best to make Arthur hang himself. And I have it out withyou--my small sister!--when we next meet. "

He paused, looking at her, and in his strangely penetrating eyes theredawned, suddenly, the rare expression that Marcia remembered--as of a graveyet angry tenderness. Then he turned away, walking fast, and was sooninvisible among the light shadows of a beech avenue, just in leaf. Marciawas left behind, breathing quick, to watch the approach of Edward Newbury. 

 * * * * *

As soon as he perceived Marcia under the shade of the hawthorns Newburyquickened his pace, and he had soon thrown himself, out of breath, on thegrass beside her. 

"What a heavenly spot!--and what a morning! How nice of you to let me findyou! I was hoping Lady Coryston would give me lunch. "

Radiant, he raised his eyes to her, as he lay propped on his elbows, thespring sun, slipping through the thin blossom-laden branches overhead, dappling his bronzed face. 

Marcia flushed a little--an added beauty. As she sat there in a white hatand dress, canopied by the white trees, and lit by a warm reflected light, she stirred in Newbury's senses once more a thrilling delight made all thekeener perhaps by the misgiving, the doubts which invariably accompaniedit. She could be so gracious; and she could be so dumb and inaccessible. Again and again he had been on the point of declaring himself during thelast few weeks, and again and again he had drawn back, afraid lest thedecisive word from him should draw the decisive word from her, and itshould be a word of denial. Better--better infinitely--these doubts andchecks, than a certainty which would divide him from her. 

This morning indeed he found her all girlish gentleness and appeal. Andit made his own task easier. For he also had matters on his mind. But sheanticipated him. 

"I want to talk to you about Corry--my brother!" she said, bending towardhim. 

[Illustration: THIS MORNING HE FOUND HER ALL GIRLISH GENTLENESS AND APPEAL]

There was a child in Marcia, and she could evoke it when she pleased. Sheevoked it now. The young man before her hungered, straightway, to put outhis arms to her--gathering her to him caressingly as one does with thechild that clings and confides. But instead he merely smiled at her withhis bright conscious eyes. 

"I, too, want to talk to you about Coryston, " he said, nodding. 

"We know he's behaving dreadfully--abominably!" laughed Marcia, but with apuckered brow. 

"Mr. Lester tells me there was a great attack on Lord and Lady Williamyesterday in the Martover paper. Mother hasn't seen it yet--and I don'twant to read it--"

"Don't!" said Newbury, smiling. 

"But mother will be so ashamed, unhappy, when she knows! So am I. But Iwanted to explain. We suffer just as much. He's stirring up the whole placeagainst mother. And now that he's begun to attack you, I thought perhapsthat if you and I--"

"Took counsel! Excellent!"

"We might perhaps think of some way of stopping it. "

"He's much more acutely angry with us at present than with anything yourmother does, " said Newbury, gravely! "Has he told you?"

"No, but--he means to, " said the girl, hesitating. 

"It is not unfair I think I should anticipate him. You will have hisversion afterward. I got an extraordinary letter from him this morning. Itis strange that he cannot see we also plead justice and right for what wedo--that if we satisfied his conscience we should wound our own. "

He rose from the grass as he spoke, and took a seat on a stone a little wayfrom her. And as she looked at him Marcia had a strange, sudden feelingthat here was quite another man from the wooer who had just been lying onthe grass at her feet. _This_ was the man of whom she had said toWaggin--"he seems the softest, kindest!--and underneath--_iron_!"A shade of some habitual sternness had crept over the features. A noblesternness, however; and it had begun to stir in her, intermittently, thethrill of an answering humility. 

"It is difficult for me--perhaps impossible--to tell you all the story, "he said, after a pause, "but I will try and tell it shortly--in its broadoutlines. "

"I have heard some of it. "

"So I supposed. But let me tell it in order--so far as I can. It concerns aman whom a few weeks ago we all regarded--my father and mother--myself--asone of our best friends. You know how keen my father is about experimentingwith the land? Well, when we set up our experimental farm here ten yearsago we made this man--John Betts--the head of it. He has been my father'sright hand--and he has done splendidly--made the farm, indeed, and himself, famous. And he seemed to be one with us in other respects. " He paused amoment, looked keenly into her face, and then said, gravely and simply: "Welooked upon him as a deeply religious man. My mother could not say enoughof his influence on the estate. He took a large men's class on Sundays. He was a regular communicant; he helped our clergyman splendidly. Andespecially"--here again the speaker hesitated a moment. But he resumed witha gentle seriousness--"he helped us in all our attempts to make the peoplehere live straight--like Christians--not like animals. My mother has verystrict rules--she won't allow any one in our cottages who has lost theircharacter. I know it sounds harsh. It isn't so--it's merciful. The villageswere in a terrible state when we came--as to morals. I can't of courseexplain to you--but our priest appealed to us--we had to make changes--andmy father and mother bravely faced unpopularity--"

He looked at her steadily, while his face changed, and the sudden red ofsome quick emotion invaded it. 

"You know we are unpopular!"

"Yes, " said Marcia, slowly, his perfect sincerity forbidding anything elsein her. 

"Especially"--there was a touch of scorn in the full voice--"owing tothe attacks on my father and mother of that Liberal agitator--that manAtherstone--who lives in that cottage on the hill--your mother knows allabout him. He has spread innumerable stories about us ever since we came tolive here. He is a free-thinker and a republican--we are church people andTories. He thinks that every man--or woman--is a law unto themselves. Wethink--but you know what we think!"

He smiled at her. 

"Well--to return to Betts. This is May. Last August he had an attack ofinfluenza, and went off to North Wales, to the sea, to recruit. He was awaymuch longer than any one expected, and after about six weeks he wrote tomy father to say that he should return to Hoddon Grey--with a wife. He hadfound a lady at Colwyn Bay, whom he had known as a girl. She was a widow, had just lost her father, with whom she lived, and was very miserable andforlorn. I need not say we all wrote the most friendly letters. She came, afrail, delicate creature, with one child. My mother did all she couldfor her, but was much baffled by her reserve and shrinking. Then--bit bybit--through some extraordinary chances and coincidences--I needn't gothrough it all--the true story came out. "

He looked away for a moment over the reaches of the park, evidentlyconsidering with himself what he could tell, and how far. 

"I can only tell you the bare facts, " he said, at last. "Mrs. Betts wasdivorced by her first husband. She ran away with a man who was in hisemployment, and lived with him for two years. He never married her, andafter two years he deserted her. She has had a wretched life since--withher child. Then Betts came along, whom she had known long ago. She threwherself on his pity. She is very attractive--he lost his head--and marriedher. Well now, what were we to do?"

"They _are_ married?" said Marcia. 

"Certainly--by the law. But it is a law which matters nothing to us!"

The voice had taken to itself a full challenging note. 

Marcia looked up. 

"Because--you think--divorce is wrong?"

"Because--'What God has joined together let no man put asunder!'"

"But there are exceptions in the New Testament?"

The peach bloom on Marcia's cheek deepened as she bent over the daisy chainshe was idly making. 

"Doubtful ones! The dissolution of marriage may itself be an open question. But, for all churchmen, the remarriage of divorced persons--and trebly, when it is asked for by the person whose sin caused the divorce!--is anabsolutely closed one!"

Marcia's mind was in a ferment. But her girlish senses were keenly alive tothe presence beside her--the clean-cut classical face, the spiritual beautyof the eyes. Yet something in her shivered. 

"Suppose she was very unhappy with her first husband?"

"Law cannot be based on hard cases. It is made to help the great multitudeof suffering, sinning men and women through their lives. " He paused alittle, and then said, "Our Lord 'knew what was in man. '"

The low tone in which the last words were spoken affected Marcia deeply, not so much as an appeal to religion, for her own temperament was notreligious, as because they revealed the inner mystical life of the manbeside her. She was suddenly filled again with a strange pride that heshould have singled her out--to love her. 

But the rise of feeling was quickly followed by recoil. 

She looked up eagerly. 

"If I had been very miserable--had made a hideous mistake--and knew it--andsomebody came along and offered to make me happy--give me a home--and carefor me--I couldn't and I shouldn't resist!"

"You would, " he said, simply, "if God gave you strength. "

Nothing so intimate had yet been said between them. There was silence. Thatold, old connection between the passion of religion--which is in truth agreat romanticism--and the passion of sex, made itself felt; but in itsmost poetic form. Marcia was thrillingly conscious of the debate inherself--of the voice which said, "Teach me, govern me, love me--be myadored master and friend!" and the voice which replied, "I should be hisslave--I will not!"

At last she said:

"You have dismissed Mr. Betts?"

He sighed. 

"He is going in a month. My father offered all we could. If--Mrs. Betts"--the words came out with effort--"would have separated from him weshould have amply provided for her and her child. The Cloan Sisters wouldhave watched over her. She could have lived near them, and Betts could haveseen her from time to time--"

"They refused?"

"Absolutely. Betts wrote my father the fiercest letters. They were married, he said, married legally and honestly--and that was an end of it. As toMrs. Betts's former history, no one had the smallest right to pry into it. He defied my father to dismiss him. My father--on his principles--had nochoice but to do so. So then--your brother came on the scene!"

"Of course--he was furious?"

"What right has he to be furious?" said Newbury, quietly. "His principlesmay be what he pleases. But he must allow us ours. This is a free country. "

A certain haughtiness behind the gentle manner was very perceptible. Marciakindled for her brother. 

"I suppose Corry would say, if the Church ruled us--as you wish--Englandwouldn't be free!"

"That's his view. We have ours. No doubt he has the present majority withhim. But why attack us personally--call us names--because of what webelieve?"

He spoke with vivacity, with wounded feeling. Marcia melted. 

"But every one knows, " she murmured, "that Corry is mad--quite mad. "

And suddenly, impulsively, she put out her hand. 

"Don't blame us!"

He took the hand in both his own, bent over and kissed it. 

"Don't let him set you against us!"

She smiled and shook her head. Then by way of extricating herself and himfrom the moment of emotion--by way of preventing its going any further--shesprang to her feet. 

"Mother will be waiting lunch for us. "

They walked back to the house together, discussing as they went Coryston'swhole campaign. Newbury's sympathy with her mother was as balm to Marcia;insensibly she rewarded him, both by an open and charming mood, and also bya docility, a readiness to listen to the Newbury view of life which she hadnever yet shown. The May day, meanwhile, murmured and gleamed around them. The spring wind like a riotous life leaped and rustled in the new leaf ofthe oaks and beeches; the sky seemed to be leaning mistily to earth; andthere were strange, wild lights on the water and the grass, as though, invisible, the train of Dionysius or Apollo swept through the land. Meanwhile the relation between the young man and the girl ripened apace. Marcia's resistance faltered within her; and to Newbury the walk wasenchantment. 

Finally they agreed to leave the task of remonstrating with Coryston to SirWilfrid Bury, who was expected the following day, and was an old friend ofboth families. 

"Corry likes him, " said Marcia. "He says, 'Give me either a firebrand or acynic!' He has no use for other sorts of people. And perhaps Sir Wilfridwill help us, too--with Arthur. " Her look darkened. 

"Arthur?" said Newbury, startled. "What's wrong with Arthur?"

Marcia hurriedly told him. He looked amazed and shocked. 

"Oh, that can't be allowed. We must protect your mother--and persuadeArthur. Let me do what I can. He and I are old pals. "

Marcia was only too glad to be helped. It had begun to seem to her, inspite of the rush of her London gaieties, and the brilliance of her Londonsuccesses, that she had been very lonely at home for a long time, and here, in this strong man, were warmth and shelter. 

 * * * * *

Luncheon passed gaily, and Lady Coryston perceived, or thought sheperceived, that Marcia's affairs were marching briskly toward theirdestined end. Newbury took his leave immediately afterward, saying to LadyCoryston, "So we expect you--next Sunday?" The slight emphasis he laid onthe words, the pressure on her hand seemed to reveal to her the hope in theyoung man's mind. Well!--the sooner, the better. 

Afterward Lady Coryston paid some calls in the village, and, coming homethrough a stately series of walled gardens ablaze with spring flowers, shegave some directions for a new herbaceous border. Then she returned to thehouse to await her son. Marcia meanwhile had gone to the station to meetSir Wilfrid Bury. 

Coryston duly arrived, a more disreputable figure than usual--bedraggledwith rain, his shabby trousers tucked into his boots, and his cap festoonedwith fishing-flies; for the afternoon had turned showery, and Coryston hadbeen pursuing the only sport which appealed to him in the trout-stream ofthe park. Before he did so he had formally asked leave of the agent, andhad been formally granted it. 

He and Lady Coryston were closeted together for nearly an hour. Had anyone been sitting in the adjoining room they would have heard, save on twooccasions when the raised voices clashed together, but little variationin the tones of the combatants. When the conference broke up and Corystondeparted Lady Coryston was left alone for a little while. She satmotionless in her chair beside her writing-table. Animation and color fadedslowly from her features; and before her trance of thought was broken bythe arrival of a servant announcing that Sir Wilfrid Bury had arrived, onewho knew her well would have been startled by certain subtle changes in heraspect. 

Coryston, meanwhile, made his way to the great library in the north wing, looking for Lester. He found the young librarian at his desk, with afifteenth-century MS. Before him, which he was describing and cataloguing. The beautiful pages sparkling with color and gold were held open by glassweights, and the young man's face, as he bent over his task, showed thehappy abstraction of the scholar. All around him rose the latticed wallsof the library, holding on one side a collection of MSS. , on the other ofearly printed books, well known to learned Europe. Wandering gleams fromthe showery sky outside lit up the faded richness of the room, the palebrown and yellows of the books, the sharp black and white of the oldengravings hanging among them. The windows were wide open, and occasionallya westerly gust would blow in upon the floor petals from a fruit tree inblossom just outside. 

Coryston came in, looking rather flushed and excited, and took a seat onthe edge of the table where Lester was working, his hands in his pockets. 

"What a blessed place!" he said, glancing round him. Lester looked up andsmiled absently. 

"Not bad?"

Silence a moment. Then Coryston said, with sudden vehemence:

"Don't you go into politics, Lester!"

"No fear, old man. But what's up, now? You seem to have been ragging a gooddeal. "

"I've been 'following the gleam, '" said Coryston, with a sarcastic mouth. "Or to put it in another way--there's a hot coal in me that makes me docertain things. I dignify it by calling it a sense of justice. What is it?I don't know. I say, Lester, are you a Suffragist?"

"Haven't made up my mind. "

"I am--theoretically. But upon my word--politics plays the deuce withwomen. And sometimes I think that women will play the deuce with politics. "

"You mean they're so unmeasured?" said Lester, cautiously. 

Coryston shook his head vaguely, staring at the floor, but presently brokeout:

"I say, Lester, if we can't find generosity, tenderness, an openmind--among women--where the devil are we going to find them?" He stood up. "And politics kills all that kind of thing. "

"'Physician, heal thyself, '" laughed Lester. 

"Ah, but it's our _business_!'"--Coryston smote the table besidehim--"our dusty, d--d business. We've got somehow to push and harryand drive this beastly world into some sort of decency. But thewomen!--oughtn't they to be in the shrine--tending the mystic fire? What ifthe fire goes out--if the heart of the nation dies?"

Lester's blue-gray eyes looked up quietly. There was sympathy in them, buthe said nothing. 

Coryston tramped half-way to the library door, then turned back. 

"My mother's quite a good woman, " he said, abruptly. "There are no greatscandals on this estate--it's better managed than most. But because of thispoison of politics, no one can call their souls their own. If she'd letthem live their own lives they'd adore her. "

"The trade-unions are just the same. "

"I believe you!" said Coryston. "Freedom's a lost art in England--fromParliament downward. Well, well--Good-by!"

"Coryston!"

"Yes?" Lord Coryston paused with his hand on the door. 

"Don't take the chair for Glenwilliam?"

"By George, I will!" Coryston's eyes flamed. And going out he noisily shutthe door. 

 * * * * *

Lester was left to his work. But his mood had been diverted, and hepresently found that he was wasting time. He walked to the window, andstood there gazing at the bright flower-beds in the formal garden, thefountain plashing in its center, the low hills and woods that closed thehorizon, the villages with their church-towers, piercing the shelter of thewoods. May had drawn over the whole her first veils of green. The Englishperfection, the English mellowness, was everywhere; the spring breathingsin the air came scented with the young leaf of trees that had been plantedbefore Blenheim was fought. 

Suddenly across the farther end of the garden passed a girlish figure inwhite. Lester's pulses ran. It was Marcia. He saw her but seldom, and thatgenerally at a distance. But sometimes she would come, in her pretty, friendly way, to chat to him about his work, and turn over his manuscripts. 

"She has the same feeling about me that nice women have about their dogsand cats. They are conscious of them, sorry for them; they don't likethem to feel themselves neglected. So she comes to see me every now andthen--lest I should think myself forgotten. Her conscience pricks her forpeople less prosperous than herself. I see it quite plainly. But she wouldbe angry if I were to tell her so!"

CHAPTER VII

It was a breezy June afternoon, with the young summer at its freshest andlustiest. 

Lord and Lady William Newbury were strolling in the garden at Hoddon Grey. The long low line of the house rose behind them--an attractive house andan old one, but with no architectural features to speak of, except ahigh-pitched mossy roof, a picturesque series of dormer-windows, and a highgable and small lantern cupola at the farther end which marked the privatechapel. The house was evidently roomy, but built for comfort, notdisplay; the garden with its spreading slopes and knolls was simple andold-fashioned, in keeping thereby with the general aspect of the two peoplewho were walking up and down the front lawn together. 

Lord William Newbury was a man of sixty-five, tall and slenderly built. Hispale hazel eyes, dreamily kind, were the prominent feature of his face;he had very thin flat cheeks, and his white hair--he was walkingbareheaded--was blown back from a brow which, like the delicate mouth, was still young, almost boyish. Sweetness and a rather weak refinement--astranger would probably have summed up his first impressions of LordWilliam, drawn from his bodily presence, in some such words. But thestranger who did so would have been singularly wide of the mark. His wifebeside him looked even frailer and slighter than he. A small and mouse-likewoman, dressed in gray clothes of the simplest and plainest make, andwearing a shady garden hat; her keen black eyes in her shriveled face gavethat clear promise of strong character in which her husband's aspect, atfirst sight, was lacking. But Lady William knew her place. She was the mostsubmissive and the most docile of wives; and on no other terms would lifehave been either possible or happy in her husband's company. 

They were discussing, with some eagerness, the approaching arrival of theirweek-end guests--Lady Coryston and Marcia, the new dean of a neighboringcathedral, an ex-Cabinet Minister and an Oxford professor. But the talk, however it circled, had a way of returning to Marcia. It was evident thatshe held the field. 

"It is so strange that I have scarcely seen her!" Lady William was sayingin a tone which was not without its note of complaint. "I hope dear Edwardhas not been too hasty in his choice. As for you, William, I don't believeyou would know her again, if you were to see her without her mother. "

"Oh yes, I should. Her mother introduced her to me at the Archbishop'sparty, and I talked to her a little. A very handsome young woman. Iremember thinking her talk rather too theatrical. "

"About theaters, you mean, " sighed Lady William. "Well, that's the way withall the young people. The fuss people make about actors and actresses isperfectly ridiculous. "

"I remember she talked to me enthusiastically about Madame Froment, " saidLord William, in a tone of reminiscence. "I asked her whether she knew thatMadame Froment had a scandalous story, and was not fit acquaintance fora young girl. And she opened her eyes at me, as though I had propoundedsomething absurd. 'One doesn't inquire about that!' she said--quiteindignantly, I assure you! 'but only whether she can _act_. ' Itwas curious--and rather disquieting--to see so much decision--self-assertion--in so young a woman. "

"Oh, well, Edward will change all that. " Lady William's voice was gentlyconfident. "He assures me that she has excellent principles--a finecharacter really, though quite undeveloped. He thinks she will be readilyguided by one she loves. "

"I hope so, for Edward's sake--for he is very much in love. I trust he isnot letting inclination run away with him. So much--to all of us--dependson his marriage!"

Lord William, frowning a little, paused a moment in his walk and turned hiseyes to the house. Hoddon Grey had only become his personal property somethree years before this date; but ever since his boyhood it had beenassociated for him with hallowed images and recollections. It had beenthe dower-house of his widowed mother, and after her death his brother, a widower with one crippled son, had owned it for nearly a quarter ofa century. Both father and son had belonged to the straitest sect ofAnglo-Catholicism; their tender devotion to each other had touched withbeauty the austerity and seclusion of their lives. Yet at times Hoddon Greyhad sheltered large gatherings--gatherings of the high Puseyite party inthe English Church, both lay and clerical. Pusey himself had preached inthe chapel; Liddon with the Italianate profile--orator and ascetic--mighthave been seen strolling under the trees where Lord and Lady William werestrolling now; Manning, hatchet-faced, jealous and self-conscious, had madefugitive appearances there; even the great Newman himself, in his extremeold age, had once rested there on a journey, and given his Cardinal'sblessing to the sons of one of his former comrades in the Oxford movement. 

Every stone in the house, every alley in the garden, was sacred in LordWilliam's eyes. To most men the house they love represents either thedignity and pride of family, or else successful money-making, and thepleasure of indulged tastes. But to Lord William Newbury the house ofHoddon Grey stood as the symbol of a spiritual campaign in which hisforebears, himself, and his son were all equally enrolled--the endless, unrelenting campaign of the Church against the world, the Christian againstthe unbeliever. 

... His wife broke in upon his reverie. 

"Are you going to say anything about Lord Coryston's letter, William?"

Lord William started. 

"Say anything to his mother? Certainly not, Albinia!" He straightened hisshoulders. "It is my intention to take no notice of it whatever. "

"You have not even acknowledged it?" she asked, timidly. 

"A line--in the third person. "

"Edward thinks Lady Coryston most unwise--"

"So she is--most unwise!" cried Lord William, warmly. "Coryston has everyright to complain of her. "

"You think she has done wrong?"

"Certainly. A woman has no right to do such things--whatever her son maybe. For a woman to take upon herself the sole direction and disposal ofsuch properties as the Coryston properties is to step outside the boundsof her sex; it is to claim something which a woman ought not toclaim--something altogether monstrous and unnatural!"

Lord William's thin features had flushed under a sudden rush of feeling. His wife could not help the sudden thought, "But if we had had an infidelor agnostic son?"

Aloud she said, "You don't think his being such a Radical, so dreadfullyextreme and revolutionary, justifies her?"

"Not at all! That was God's will--the cross she had to bear. She interfereswith the course of Providence--presumptuously interferes with it--doingevil that what she conceives to be good may come. A woman must persuademen by gentleness--not govern them by force. If she attempts that she isusurping what does not--what never can--belong to her. "

The churchman had momentarily disappeared in the indignant stickler formale prerogative and the time-honored laws of English inheritance. LadyWilliam acquiesced in silence. She, too, strongly disapproved of LadyCoryston's action toward her eldest son, abominable as Coryston's opinionswere. Women, like minorities, must suffer; and she was glad to have herhusband's word for it that it is not their business to correct or coercetheir eldest sons, on the ground of political opinions, however grievousthose opinions may be. 

"I trust that Lady Coryston will not open on this subject to me, " said LordWilliam, after a pause. "I am never good at concealing my opinions forpoliteness' sake. And of course I hold that Coryston is just as much in thewrong as she. And mad to boot! No sane man could have written the letter Ireceived last week?"

"Do you think he will do what he threatens?"

"What--get up a subscription for Mr. And Mrs. Betts, and settle themsomewhere here? I dare say! We can't help it. We can only follow ourconsciences. "

Lord William held himself erect. At that moment no one could have thoughtof "sweetness" in connection with the old man's delicately white features. Every word fell from him with a quiet and steely deliberation. 

His wife walked beside him a little longer. Then she left him and went intothe house to see that all the last preparations for the guests were made;gathering on her way a bunch of early roses from a bed near the house. She walked slowly through the guestrooms on the garden front, looking ateverything with a critical eye. The furniture of the rooms was shabby andplain. It had been scarcely changed at all since 1832, when Lord William'swidowed mother had come to live at Hoddon Grey. But everything smelt oflavender and much cleaning. The windows were open to the June air, and thehouse seemed pervaded by the cooing of doves from the lime walk outside; asound which did but emphasize the quiet of the house and garden. At theend of the garden front Lady William entered a room which had a newer andfresher appearance than the rest. The walls were white; a little rosebudchintz curtained the windows and the bed. White rugs made the hearth andthe dressing-table gay, and there was a muslin bedspread lined with pinkand tied with knots of pink ribbon. 

Lady William stood and looked at it with an intense and secret pleasure. She had been allowed to "do it up" the preceding summer, out of her ownmoney, on which, in all her life, she had never signed a check; and shehad given orders that Miss Coryston was to be put into it. Going to thedressing-table, she took from the vase there the formal three sprigs ofazalea which the housemaid had arranged, and replaced them by the roses. Her small, wrinkled hands lingered upon them. She was putting them therefor the girl Edward loved--who was probably to be his wife. A greattenderness filled her heart. 

When she left the room, she rapidly descended a staircase just beyond it, and found herself in the vestibule of the chapel. Pushing the chapel doorsopen, she made her way in. The rich glooms and scents of the beautifulstill place closed upon her. Kneeling before the altar, still laden withWhitsun flowers, and under the large crucifix that hung above it, sheprayed for her son, that he might worthily uphold the heritage of hisfather, that he might be happy in his wife, and blessed with children.... 

 * * * * *

An hour later the drawing-room and the lawns of Hoddon Grey were alivewith tea and talk. Lady Coryston, superbly tall, in trailing black, wasstrolling with Lord William. Sir Wilfrid, the ex-Minister Sir Louis Ford, the Dean, and the Chaplain of the house were chatting and smoking round thedeserted tea-table, while Lady William and the Oxford Professor poked amongthe flower-beds, exchanging confidences on phloxes and delphiniums. 

In the distance, under the lime avenue, now in its first pale leaf, twoyoung figures paced to and fro. They were Newbury and Marcia. 

Sir Wilfrid had just thrown himself back in his chair, looking round himwith a sigh of satisfaction. 

"Hoddon Grey makes me feel good! Not a common effect of country-houses!"

"Enjoy them while you may!" laughed Sir Louis Ford. "Glenwilliam is afterthem. "

"Glenwilliam!" exclaimed the Dean. "I saw him at the station, with hishandsome but rather strange-looking daughter. What's he doing here?"

"Hatching mischief with a political friend of his--a 'fidus Achates'--wholives near here, " said the Chaplain, Mr. Perry, in a deep and rathermelancholy tone. 

"From the bills I saw posted up in Martover as we came through"--SirLouis Ford lowered his voice--"I gathered the amazing fact thatCoryston--_Coryston_!--is going to take the chair at a meeting whereGlenwilliam speaks some way on in next month. "

Sir Wilfrid shrugged his shoulders, with a warning glance at the statelyform of Coryston's mother in the distance. 

"Too bad to discuss!" he said, shortly. 

A slight smile played round the Dean's flexible mouth. He was a new-comer, and much more of an Erastian than Lord William approved. He had beeninvited, not for pleasure, but for tactics; that the Newburys might findout what line he was going to take in the politics of the diocese. 

"We were never told, " said the Dean, "that a _woman's_ foes were to bethose of her own household!"

The Chaplain frowned. 

"Lord Coryston is making enemies in all directions, " he said, hastily. "I understand that a letter Lord William received from him last week wasperfectly outrageous. "

"What about?" asked Sir Louis. 

"A divorce case--a very painful one--on which we have found it necessary totake a strong line. "

The speaker, who was largely made and gaunt, with grizzled hair andspectacles, spoke with a surprising energy. The Dean looked puzzled. 

"What had Lord Coryston to do with it?"

"What indeed?--except that he is out for picking up any grievances he can. "

"Who are the parties?"

The Chaplain told the story. 

"They didn't ask anybody to marry them in church, did they?" asked theDean. 

"Not that I know of. "

The Dean said nothing, but as he lay back in his chair, his hands behindhis head, his expression was rather hostile than acquiescent. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile, under the lime walk the golden evening insensibly heightenedthe pleasure of Newbury and Marcia in each other's society. For the sunnyfusion of earth and air glorified not only field and wood, but thehuman beings walking in them. Nature seemed to be adapting herself tothem--shedding a mystic blessing on their path. Both indeed were consciousof a secret excitement. They felt the approach of some great moment, asthough a pageant or presence were about to enter. For the first time, Marcia's will was in abeyance. She was scarcely ecstatically happy; on thefar horizon of life she seemed to be conscious of storm-clouds, of thingsthreatening and unexplored. And yet she was in love; she was thrilledboth physically and spiritually by the man beside her; with a certainhelplessness, she confessed in him a being stronger and nobler thanherself; the humility, the self-surrender of passion was rising in her, like the sap in the spring tree, and she trembled under it. 

Newbury too had grown a little pale and silent. But when his eyes met hersthere was that in them under which her own wavered. 

"Come and see the flowers in the wood, " he said, softly, and leading theway, he took her out of range of those observers in the garden; deep intoa noble beech wood that rose out of the garden, climbing through a sea ofwild hyacinths to a hilltop. 

A mossy path offered itself, winding through the blue. And round themclosed the great beech trees, in a marvel of young green, sparkling andquivering under the shafts of light that struck through the wood. The airwas balm. And the low music of the wood-pigeons seemed to be there for themonly; a chorus of earth's creatures, wooing them to earth's festival. 

Unconsciously, in the deep heart of the wood, their footsteps slackened. She heard her name breathed. 

"Marcia!"

She turned, submissive, and saw him looking down upon her with adoringtenderness, his lips gravely smiling. 

"Yes!"

She raised her eyes to his, all her ripe beauty one flush. He put his armsround her, whispering:

"Marcia! will you come to me--will you be my wife?"

She leaned against him in a trance of happiness, hiding her face, yet notso that his lips could not find hers. So this was love?--the supreme oflife?

They stood so in silence a little. Then, still holding her, he drew herwithin the low feathering branches of a giant tree, where was a fallen log. He placed her on it, and himself beside her. 

"How wonderful that you should love me, that you should let me love you!"he said, with passionate emotion. "Oh, Marcia, am I worthy--shall I makeyou happy?"

"That is for me to ask!" Her mouth was trembling now, and the tears were inher eyes. "I'm not nearly as good as you, Edward. I shall often make youangry with me. "

"Angry!" He laughed in scorn. "Could any one, ever, be angry with you, Marcia! Darling, I want you to help me so! We'll help each other--to liveas we ought to live. Isn't God good? Isn't life wonderful?"

She pressed his hand for answer. But the intensity of his joy, as she readit in his eyes, had in it--for her--and for the moment--just a shade ofpainfulness. It seemed to claim something from her that she could not quitegive--or that she might not be able to give. Some secret force in her criedout in protest. But the slight shrinking passed almost immediately. Shethrew off her hat, and lifted her beautiful brow to him in a smilingsilence. He drew her to him again, and as she felt the pressure of his armabout her, heart and soul yielded utterly. She was just the young girl, loving and beloved. 

"Do your father and mother really approve?" she asked at last as shedisengaged herself, and her hands went up to her hot cheeks, and then toher hair, to smooth it back into something like order. 

"Let us go and see. " He raised her joyously to her feet. 

She looked at him a little wistfully. 

"I'm rather afraid of them, Edward. You must tell them not to expect toomuch. And I shall always--want to be myself. "

"Darling! what else could they, could any one want for you--or for me!"The tone showed him a little startled, perhaps stung, by her words. And headded, with a sudden flush:

"Of course I know what Coryston will say to you. He seems to think us allhypocrites and tyrants. Well--you will judge. I won't defend my father andmother. You will soon know them. You will see what their lives are. "

He spoke with feeling. She put her hand in his, responding. 

"You'll write to Corry--won't you? He's a dreadful thorn in all our sides;and yet--" Her eyes filled with tears. 

"You love him?" he said, gently. "That's enough for me. "

"Even if he's rude and violent?" she pleaded. 

"Do you think I can't keep my temper--when it's _your_ brother? Tryme. "

He clasped her hand warm and close in his strong fingers. And as she movedthrough the young green of the woodland he saw her as a spirit of delight, the dark masses of her hair, her white dress and all her slender graceflecked by the evening sun. These were moments, he knew, that could nevercome again; that are unique in a man's history. He tried to hold and tastethem as they passed; tormented, like all lovers, by what seems, in suchcrises, to be the bitter inadequacy and shallowness of human feeling. 

They took a more round-about path home than that which had brought theminto the wood, and at one point it led them through a clearing from whichthere was a wide view of undulating ground scattered with houses here andthere. One house, a pleasant white-walled dwelling, stood conspicuouslyforward amid copses a couple of fields away. Its garden surrounded by asunk fence could be seen, and the figure of a lady walking in it. Marciastopped to look. 

"What a charming place! Who lives there?"

Newbury's eyes followed hers. He hesitated a moment. 

"That is the model farm. "

"Mr. Betts's farm?"

"Yes. Can you manage that stile?"

Marcia tripped over it, scorning his help. But her thoughts were busy withthe distant figure. Mrs. Betts, no doubt; the cause of all the trouble andtalk in the neighborhood, and the occasion of Corry's outrageous letter toLord William. 

"I think I ought to tell you, " she said, stopping, with a look ofperplexity, "that Corry is sure to come and talk to me--about that story. Idon't think I can prevent him. "

"Won't you hand him on to me? It is really not a story for your ears. "

He spoke gravely. 

"I'm afraid Cony would call that shirking. I--I think perhaps I had betterhave it out with him--myself. I remember all you said to me!"

"I only want to save you. " His expression was troubled, but not withouta certain touch of sternness that she perceived. He changed the subjectimmediately, and they walked on rapidly toward the garden. 

Lady William first perceived them--perceived, too, that they were hand inhand. She broke off her chat with Sir Wilfrid Bury under the limes, andrising in sudden agitation she hurried across the lawn to her husband. 

The Dean and Sir Louis Ford had been discussing Woman Suffrage over theircigarettes, and Sir Louis, who was a stout opponent, had just deliveredhimself of the frivolous remark--in answer to some plea of the Dean's onbehalf of further powers for the female sex:

"Oh, no doubt, somewhere between the Harem and the Woolsack, it will benecessary to draw the line!"--when they too caught sight of the advancingfigures. 

The Dean's eyebrows went up. A smile, most humorous and human, played overhis round cheeks and button mouth. 

"Have they drawn it? Looks like it!" he said, under his breath. 

"Eh!--what?" Sir Louis, the most incorrigible of elderly gossips, eagerlyput up his eyeglass. "Do you suspect anything?"

Five persons were presently gathered in the library, and Marcia was sittingwith her hand in Lady William's. Everybody except Lady Coryston was in ahappy agitation, and trying to conceal it. Even Lord William, who was notwithout his doubts and qualms, was deeply moved, and betrayed a certainmoisture in his eyes, as he concluded his old world speech of welcome andblessing to his son's betrothed. Only Lady Coryston preserved an unbrokencomposure. She was indeed quite satisfied. She had kissed her daughter andgiven her consent without the smallest demur, and she had conveyed both toNewbury and his father in a few significant words that Marcia's portionwould be worthy of their two families. But the day's event was alreadythrust aside by her burning desire to get hold of Sir Louis Ford beforedinner, and to extract from him the latest and most confidentialinformation that a member of the Opposition could bestow as to the possibledate for the next general election. Marcia's affair was thoroughly niceand straightforward--just indeed what she had expected. But there wouldbe plenty of time to talk about it after the Hoddon Grey visit was over;whereas Sir Louis was a rare bird not often to be caught. 

"My dear, " said Lord William in his wife's ear, "Perry must be informed ofthis. There must be some mention of it in our service to-night. "

She assented. Newbury, however, who was standing near, caught the remark, and looked rather doubtfully at the speaker. 

"You think so, father?"

"Certainly, my dear son, certainly. "

Neither Marcia nor her mother heard. Newbury approached his betrothed, butperceived that there was no chance of a private word with her. For by thistime other guests had been summoned to receive the great announcement, anda general flutter of laughter and congratulations was filling the room. 

The Dean, who had had his turn with Marcia, and was now turning over books, looked at her keenly from time to time. 

"A face, " he thought, "of much character, promising developments. Will shefit herself to this medieval household? What will they make of her?"

Sir Louis, after paying his respects and expressing his good wishes to thebetrothed pair, had been resolutely captured by Lady Coryston. Lord Williamhad disappeared. 

Suddenly into the talk and laughter there struck the sound of a loud anddeep-toned bell. Lady William stood up with alacrity. "Dear me!--is itreally chapel-time? Lady Coryston, will you come?"

Marcia's mother, her face stiffening, rose unwillingly. 

"What are we supposed to do?" asked the Dean, addressing Newbury. 

"We have evensong in chapel at seven, " said Newbury. "My father set upthe custom many years ago. It gathers us all together better than eveningprayer after dinner. "

His tone was simple and matter-of-fact. He turned radiantly to Marcia, andtook her hand again. She followed him in some bewilderment, and he led herthrough the broad corridor which gave access to the chapel. 

"Rather unusual, this, isn't it?" said Sir Louis Ford to Lady Corystonas they brought up the rear. His face expressed a certain restrainedamusement. If there was a convinced agnostic in the kingdom it was he. Butunlike the woman at his side he could always take a philosophical interestin the religious customs of his neighbors. 

"Most unusual!" was the emphatic reply. But there was no help for it. LadyCoryston followed, willy-nilly. 

Marcia, meanwhile, was only conscious of Newbury. As they entered thechapel together she saw his face transfigured. A mystical "recollection, "shutting him away completely from the outside world, sweeping like asunlit cloud even between himself and her, possessed it. She felt suddenlyforsaken--altogether remote from him. 

But he led her on, and presently they were kneeling together under a greatcrucifix of primitive Italian work, while through the dusk of the Mayevening gleamed the lamps of the chapel, and there arose on all sides ofher a murmur of voices repeating the Confession. Marcia was aware of manyservants and retainers; and she could see the soldierly form of LordWilliam kneeling in the distance, with Lady William beside him. The chapelseemed to her large and splendid. It was covered with painting and mosaic;and she felt the sharp contrast between it and the simple bareness of thehouse to which it was attached. 

"What does all this mean?" she seemed to be asking herself. "What does itmean for _me_? Can I play my part in it?"

What had become of that early antagonism and revolt which she had expressedto "Waggin"? It had not protected her in the least from Newbury's growingascendancy! She was indeed astonished at her own pliancy! In how short atime had she allowed Newbury's spell upon her to drive her earlier vaguefears of his surroundings and traditions out of her mind!

And now it returned upon her intensified--that cold, indefinite fear, creeping through love and joy. 

She turned again to look beseechingly at Newbury. But it seemed to her thatshe was forgotten. His eyes were on the altar--absorbed. 

And presently, aghast, she heard her own name! In the midst of the GeneralThanksgiving, at the point where mention may be made of individual cases, the Chaplain suddenly paused to give thanks in a voice that possessed anatural and slightly disagreeable tremor, for the "happy betrothal ofEdward Newbury and Marcia Coryston. "

An audible stir and thrill ran through the chapel, subsiding at once intoa gulf of intense silence. Marcia bowed her head with the rest; but hercheeks burned, and not only with a natural shyness. The eyes of all thesekneeling figures seemed to be upon her, and she shrank under them. "Iought to have been asked, " she thought, resentfully. "I ought to have beenasked!"

When they left the chapel, Newbury, pale and smiling, bent over herappealingly. 

"Darling!--you didn't mind?"

She quickly withdrew her hand from his. 

"Don't you dine at half past eight? I really must go and dress. "

And she hurried away, without waiting for him to guide her through theunknown house. Breathlessly she ran up-stairs and found her room. The sightof her maid moving about, of the lights on the dressing-table, of theroses, and her dress laid out upon the bed, brought her sudden andunspeakable relief. The color came back to her cheeks, she began to chatterto her maid about everything and nothing--laughing at any trifle, and yetfeeling every now and then inclined to cry. Her maid dressed her in palepink and told her plainly when the last hook was fastened and the laststring tied that she had never looked better. 

"But won't you put on these roses, miss?"

She pointed to the bunch that Lady William had gathered. 

Marcia pinned them into her belt, and stood a moment looking at herreflection in the glass. Not in mere girlish vanity! Something muchstronger and profounder entered in. She seemed to be measuring herresources against some hostile force--to be saying to herself:

"Which of us is to yield? Perhaps not I!"

 * * * * *

Yet as soon as Marcia entered the drawing-room, rather late, to find allthe party assembled, the tension of her mood dropped, thawed by thesheer kindness and good will of the people round her. Lord William wasresplendent in a button-hole and new dress-clothes; Lady William had puton her best gown and some family jewels that never saw the light except ongreat occasions; and when Marcia entered, the friendly affectionate looksthat greeted her on all sides set her blushing once more, and shamed awaythe hobgoblins that had been haunting her. She was taken in to dinner byLord William and treated as a queen. The table in the long, low dining-roomshone with flowers and some fine old silver which the white-haired butlerhad hurriedly produced from the family store. Beside Marcia's plate lay abunch of lilies-of-the-valley which the no less ancient head gardener hadgathered and tied with a true-lover's knot, in the interval between chapeland dinner. And opposite to her sat the man she was to marry, composed andgay, careful to spare his betrothed embarrassment, ready to talk politicswith Sir Louis Ford and cathedral music with the Dean; yet, through it all, so radiantly and transparently happy that his father and mother, at anyrate, could not look at him without melting memories of their own youth, which sometimes, and for a moment, made talk difficult. 

After dinner Sir Wilfrid Bury found Lady Coryston in a secluded corner, deep in the evening papers which had just arrived. He sat down beside her. 

"Well, how are you feeling?"

"If we could but revive the duel!" said Lady Coryston, looking up with eyesaflame. 

"Gracious! For what and whom? Do you want to shoot your future son-in-lawfor taking her from you?"

"Who--Marcia? Nonsense!" said Lady Coryston, impatiently. "I was talkingof this last speech of Glenwilliam's, attacking us landlords. If the duelstill existed he would either never have made it or he would have been shotwithin twenty-four hours!"

"Hang Glenwilliam!" Sir Wilfrid's tone was brusque. "I want to talk aboutMarcia!"

Lady Coryston turned slowly round upon him. 

"What's wrong with Marcia? I see nothing to talk about. "

"Wrong! You unnatural woman! I want to know what you feel about it. Do youreally like the young man? Do you think he's good enough for her?"

"Certainly I like him. A very well disposed fellow. I hope he'll manage herproperly. But if you want to know what I think of his family"--she droppedher voice--"I can only say that although their virtues no doubt are legion, the atmosphere of this house is to me positively stifling. You feel it asyou cross the threshold. It is an atmosphere of sheer tyranny! What onearth do they mean by bundling us into chapel like that?"

"Tyranny! _You_ call it tyranny!" Sir Wilfrid's eyes danced. 

"Certainly, " said Lady Coryston, stiffly. "What else should I call it?One's soul is not one's own. "

Sir Wilfrid settled down on the sofa beside her, and devoted himself todrawing her out. Satan rebuking sin was a spectacle of which he nevertired, and the situation was the more amusing because he happened to havespent the morning in remonstrating with her--to no purpose whatever--on themanner in which she was treating her eldest son. 

CHAPTER VIII

While these events were happening at Hoddon Grey, Reginald Lester waspassing a solitary Sunday at Coryston, until the afternoon, at least, whenvisitors appeared. To be left to himself, the solitary inhabitant, save forthe servants, of the great classical pile; to be able to wander about it ashe liked, free to speculate on its pictures and engravings; to rummage theimmense collection of china in the basement rooms which no one but himselfever looked at; to examine some new corner of the muniment-room, andto ponder the strange and gruesome collection of death-masks, made byCoryston's grandfather, and now ranged in one of the annexes of thelibrary--gave him endless entertainment. He was a born student, in whom theantiquarian instincts would perhaps ultimately overpower the poetic andliterary tastes which were now so strong in him; and on Sunday, when he putaside his catalogue, the miscellaneous possessions of an historic houserepresented for him a happy hunting-ground through which he was never tiredof raiding. 

But on Sunday, also, he generally gave some time to writing the journal ofthe preceding week. He had begun it in the hopes of attaining thereby amore flexible and literary style than the methods of his daily researchallowed, and with various Stevensonian ambitions dinning in his head. Whyshould he not make himself a _writer_, like other people?

But the criticisms of books, the records of political or literaryconversation, with which the parchment-bound volume had been filled forsome time, had been gradually giving place to something quite different, and it had become more necessary than ever that the book should becarefully locked when done with, and put away in his most private drawer. For instance:

"What is happening, or what has probably already happened, yesterday orto-day, at Hoddon Grey? It is very easy to guess. N. Has been gainingground steadily ever since he has been able to see her away from thedistracting influences of London. What is impressive and unusual in hischaracter has room to show itself; and there are no rival forces. Andyet--I doubt very much whether it would answer his purpose that she shouldsee much of his home. She will never endure any home of her own run on thesame lines; for at bottom she is a pagan, with the splendid pagan virtues, of honor, fairness, loyalty, pity, but incapable by temperament of thoseparticular emotions on which the life of Hoddon Grey is based. Humility, toher, is a word and a quality for which she has no use; and I am sure thatshe has never been sorry for her 'sins, ' in the religious sense, thoughoften, it seems to me, her dear life just swings hour by hour between thetwo poles of impulse and remorse. She passionately wants something andmust get it; and then she is consumed with fear lest in the getting it sheshould have injured or trampled on some one else. 

"Of late she has come in here--to the library--much more frequently. I amsure she feels that I care deeply what happens to her; and I sometimes ampresumptuous enough to think that she wishes me to understand and approveher. 

"It has grown up inevitably--this affair; but N. Little realizes howdangerous his position is. Up to a certain point the ascetic element in himand his philosophy will attract her--will draw the moth to the candle. Allstrong-willed characters among women are attracted by the austere, theascetic powers in men. The history of all religious movements is thereto prove it. But there are tremendous currents in our modern life makingagainst such men as Newbury--their ideals and traditions. And to one orother of those currents it always seems to me that she is committed. Shedoes not know it--does not dream, perhaps, whither she is being carried;but all the same there are 'murmurs and scents' from 'the infinite sea' offree knowledge and experiment which play upon her, and will never play uponNewbury. 

"Coryston will make a great effort to upset the engagement--if it is anengagement; that I can see. He thinks himself justified, on the ground thatshe will be committing herself to an inhuman and antisocial view of life;and he will work upon her through this painful Betts case. I wonder ifhe will succeed. Is he really any more tolerant than his mother? And cantoleration in the active-spirited be ever anything more than approximate?'When I speak of toleration I mean not tolerated Popery, ' said Milton. LadyCoryston can't tolerate her son, and Coryston can't tolerate Newbury. Yetall three must somehow live together and make a world. Doesn't thatthrow some light on the ideal function of women? Not voting--not directparty-fighting--but the creation of a spiritual atmosphere in which thenation may do its best, and may be insensibly urged to do its best, infresh, spontaneous ways, like a plant flowering in a happy climate--isn'tthat what women might do for us?--instead of taking up with all theold-fashioned, disappointing, political machinery, that men have found out?Meanwhile Lady Coryston of course wants all the women of her sort to vote, but doesn't see how it is to be done without letting in the women of alland any sort--to vote against her. 

"I have about half done my cataloguing, and have been writing some lettersto Germany this morning with a view to settling on some university workthere for the winter. A big book on the rise and fall of Burgundy suggestsitself to me; and already I hug the thought of it. Lady Coryston has paidme well for this job, and I shall be able to do what I like for a year, andgive mother and Janie some of the jam and frills of life. And who knows ifI sha'n't after all be able to make my living out of what I like best? IfI only could _write_! The world seems to be waiting for the historianthat can write. 

"But meanwhile I shall always be glad of this year with the Corystons. Howmuch longer will this rich, leisurely, aristocratic class with all itsstill surviving power and privileges exist among us? It is something thatobviously is in process of transmutation and decay; though in a countrylike England the process will be a very slow one. Personally I greatlyprefer this landlord stratum to the top stratum of the trading andmanufacturing world. There are buried seeds in it, often of rare andsplendid kinds, which any crisis brings to life--as in the Boer war; andthe mere cult of family and inheritance implies, after all, somethingvaluable in a world that has lately grown so poor in all cults. 

"Mother and daughter here show what is going on. Lady Coryston is just thefull-blown _tyrannus_. She has no doubt whatever about her right torule, and she rules for all she's worth. At the same time she knows thatDemos has the last word, and she spends her time in the old see-saw betweenthreats and cajolery. The old vicar here has told me astonishing tales ofher--how she turned her own sister out-of-doors and never spoke to herafterward because she married a man who ratted to the Liberals, and thewife went with him; how her own husband dreaded her if he ever happened todiffer from her politically, and a sort of armed neutrality between her andCoryston was all that could be hoped for at the best of times. 

"The poor people here--or most of them--are used to her, and in a wayrespect her. They take her as inevitable--like the rent or the east wind;and when she sends them coal and blankets, and builds village halls forthem, they think they might be worse off. On the other hand, I don't seethat Coryston makes much way among them. They think his behavior to hismother unseemly; and if they were he, they would use all his advantageswithout winking. At the same time, there is a younger generation growingup in the village and on the farms--not so much there, however!--which isgoing to give Lady Coryston trouble. Coryston puzzles and excites them. Butthey, too, often look askance; they wonder what he, personally, is going toget out of his campaign. 

"And then--Marcia? For in this book, this locked book, may I not call herby her name? Well, she is certainly no prophetess among these countryfolk. She takes up no regular duties among the poor, as the women of her familyhave probably always done. She is not at her ease with them; nor they withher. When she tries to make friends with them she is like a ship teasedwith veering winds, and glad to shrink back into harbor. And yet whensomething does really touch her--when something makes her _feel_--thatcurious indecision in her nature hardens into something irresistible. There was a half-witted girl in the village, ill-treated and enslaved by amiserly old aunt. Miss Coryston happened to hear of it from her maid, whowas a relation of the girl. She went and bearded the aunt, and took thegirl away bodily in her pony-cart. The scene in the cottage garden--Marciawith her arm round the poor beaten and starved creature, very pale, butkeeping her head, and the old virago shrieking at her heels--must have beenworth seeing. And there is an old man--a decrepit old road-mender, whosesight was injured in a shooting accident. She likes his racy talk, and shenever forgets his Christmas present or his birthday, and often drops in totea with him and his old wife. But that's because it amuses her. She goesto see them for precisely the same reasons that she would pay a call inMayfair; and it's inspiriting to see how they guess, and how they like it. You perceive that she is shrinking all the time from the assumptions onwhich her mother's life is based, refusing to make them her own, and yetshe doesn't know what to put in their place. Does Coryston, either?

"But the tragic figure--the tragic possibility--in all this family_galère_ at the present moment, of course, is Arthur. I know, becauseof our old Cambridge friendship--quite against my will--a good deal aboutthe adventure into which he has somehow slipped; and one can only feel thatany day may bring the storm. His letter to me yesterday shows that he ispersecuting the lady with entreaties, that she is holding him off, and thatwhat Lady Coryston may do when she knows will greatly affect what theyoung lady will do. I don't believe for one moment that she will marrya penniless A. She has endless opportunities, and, I am told, manyproposals--"

The journal at this point was abruptly closed and locked away. For thewriter of it, who was sitting at an open window of the library, becameaware of the entrance of a motor into the forecourt of the house. ArthurCoryston was sitting in it. When he perceived Lester at the window he wavedto the librarian, and jumping from the car as it drew up at the front door, he came across the court to a side door, which gave access to the librarystaircase. 

As he entered the room Lester was disagreeably struck by his aspect. It wasthat of a man who has slept ill and drunk unwisely. His dress was careless, his eyes haggard, and all the weaknesses of the face seemed to have leapedto view, amid the general relaxation of _tenue_ and dignity. He cameup to the chair at which Lester was writing, and flung himself frowninginto a chair beside it. 

"I hear mother and Marcia are away?"

"They have gone to Hoddon Grey for the Sunday. Didn't you know?"

"Oh yes, I knew. I suppose I knew. Mother wrote something, " said the youngman, impatiently. "But I have had other things to think about. "

Lester glanced at him, but without speaking. Arthur rose from his seat, thrust his hands into his pockets, and began to pace the polished floor ofthe library. The florid, Georgian decoration of ceiling and walls, and thebusts of placid gentlemen with curling wigs which stood at intervals amongthe glass cases, wore an air of trivial or fatuous repose beside thehunted young fellow walking up and down. Lester resolutely forbore tocross-examine him. But at last the walk came to an abrupt stop. 

"Here's the last straw, Lester! Have you heard what mother wants me to do?There's to be a big Tory meeting here in a month--mother's arranged itall--not a word to me with your leave, or by your leave!--and I'm to speakat it and blackguard Glenwilliam! I have her letter this morning. I'm notallowed a look in, I tell you! I'm not consulted in the least. I'll betmother's had the bills printed already!"

"A reply, of course, to the Martover meeting?"

"I dare say. D--n the Martover meeting! But what _taste_!--twobrothers slanging at each other--almost in the same parish. I declare womenhave no taste!--not a ha'porth. But I won't do it--and mother, just foronce, will have to give in. "

He sat down again and took the cigarette which Lester handed him--no doubtwith soothing intentions. And indeed his state of excitement and agitationappeared nothing less than pitiable to the friend who remembered theself-complacent young orator, the budding legislator of early April. 

"You are afraid of being misunderstood?"

"If I attack her father, as mother wishes me to attack him, " said the youngman, with emphasis, looking up, "Enid Glenwilliam will never speak to meagain. She makes that quite plain. "

"She ought to be too clever!" said Lester, with vivacity. "Can't shediscriminate between the politician and the private friend?"

Arthur shook his head. 

"Other people may. She doesn't. If I get up in public and call Glenwilliama thief and a robber--and what else can I call him, with motherlooking on?--there'll be an end of my chances for good and all. She's_fanatical_ about her father! She's pulled me up once or twice alreadyabout him. I tell you--it's rather fine, Lester!--upon my soul, it is!"

And with a countenance suddenly softening and eyes shining, Arthur turnedhis still boyish looks upon his friend. 

"I can quite believe it. They're a very interesting pair.... But--I confessI'm thinking of Lady Coryston. What explanation can you possibly give? Areyou prepared to take her into your confidence?"

"I don't know whether I'm prepared or not. Whatever happens I'm between thedevil and the deep sea. If I tell her, she'll break with me; and if I don'ttell her, it won't be long before she guesses for herself!"

There was a pause, broken at last by Lester, whose blue eyes had shown himmeanwhile deep in reflection. He bent forward. 

"Look here, Arthur!--can't you make a last effort, and get free?"

His companion threw him a queer resentful look, but Lester persisted:

"You know what I think. You won't make each other happy. You belong to twoworlds which won't and can't mix. Her friends can never be your friends noryour friends hers. You think that doesn't matter now, because you're inlove. But it does matter--and it'll tell more and more every year. "

"Don't I know it?" cried Arthur. "She despises us all. She looks upon usall--I mean, us people, with land and money and big houses--just as so muchgrist to her father's mill, so many fat cattle for him to slaughter. "

"And yet you love her!"

"Of course I do! I can't make you understand, Lester! She doesn't speechifyabout these things--she never speechifies to me, at least. She mocks ather own side--just as much as ours. But it's her father she worships--andeverything that he says and thinks. She adores him--she'd go to the stakefor him any day. And if you want to be a friend of hers, lay a finger onhim, and you'll see! Of course it's mad--I know that. But I'd rather marryher mad than any other woman sane!"

"All the same you _could_ break it off, " persisted Lester. 

"Of course I could. I could hang--or poison--or shoot myself, I suppose, ifit comes to that. It would be much the same thing. If I do have to give herup, I shall cut the whole business--Parliament--estates--everything!"

The quarter-decking began again; and Lester waited patiently on a slowlysubsiding frenzy. At last he put a question. 

"What are your chances?"

"With her? I don't know. She encourages me one day, and snubs me the next. But one thing I do know. If I attend that meeting, and make the sort ofspeech I should have made three months ago without turning a hair--and if Idon't make it, mother will know the reason why!--it's all up with me. "

"Why don't you apply to Coryston?"

"What--to give up the other meeting? He's very likely to climb down, isn'the?--with his damned revolutionary nonsense. He warned us all that he wascoming down here to make mischief--and, by Jove, he's doing it!"

"I say, who's taking my name in vain?" said a high-pitched voice. 

Lester turned to the doorway, and beheld a protruding head, with glitteringgreenish eyes, alive with laughter. Coryston slowly emerged, and closed thedoor behind him. 

"Arthur, my boy, what's up now?"

Arthur paused, looked at him angrily, but was too sore and sulky toreply. Lester mildly summarized the situation. Coryston whistled. Then hedeposited the butterfly-net and tin case he had been carrying, accepted acigarette, and hoisting himself onto the corner of a heavy wooden pedestalwhich held the periwigged bust of an eighteenth-century Coryston, he flungan arm affectionately round the bust's neck, and sat cross-legged, smokingand pondering. 

"Bar the meeting for a bit, " he said at last, addressing his brother;"we'll come back to it. But meeting or no meeting, I don't see any way outfor you, Arthur--upon my soul, I don't!"

"No one ever supposed you would!" cried Arthur. 

"Here's your dilemma, " pursued Coryston, good-humoredly. "If you engageyourself to her, mother will cut off the supplies. And if mother cuts offthe supplies, Miss Glenwilliam won't have you. "

"You think everybody but yourself, Corry, mercenary pigs!"

"What do _you_ think? Do you see Miss Glenwilliam pursuing love ina garret--a genteel garret--on a thousand a year? For her father, perhaps!--but for nobody else! Her clothes alone would cost a third of it. "

No reply, except a furious glance. Coryston began to look perturbed. Hedescended from his perch, and approaching the still pacing Arthur, he tookhis arm--an attention to which the younger brother barely submitted. 

"Look here, old boy? Am I becoming a beast? Are you sure of her? Is itserious?"

"Sure of her? Good God--if I were!"

He walked to a window near, and stood looking out, so that his face couldnot be seen by his companions, his hands in his pockets. 

Coryston's eyebrows went up; the eyes beneath them showed a genuineconcern. Refusing a further pull at Lester's cigarettes, he took a pipe outof his pocket, lit it, and puffed away in a brown study. The figure at thewindow remained motionless. Lester felt the situation too delicate foran outsider's interference, and made a feint of returning to his work. Presently it seemed that Coryston made up his mind. 

"Well, " he said, slowly, "all right. I'll cut my meeting. I can getAtherstone to take the chair, and make some excuse. But I really don't knowthat it'll help you much. There's already an announcement of your meetingin the Martover paper yesterday--"

"_No_!" Arthur faced round upon his brother, his cheeks blazing. 

"Perfectly true. Mother's taken time by the forelock. I have no doubt shehas already written your speech. "

"What on earth can I do?" He stood in helpless despair. 

"Have a row!" said Coryston, laughing. "A good row and stick to it! Tellmother you won't be treated so--that you're a man, not a school-boy--thatyou prefer, with many thanks, to write your own speeches--_et cetera_. Play the independence card for all you're worth. It _may_ get you outof the mess. "

Arthur's countenance began to clear. 

"I'm to make it appear a bargain--between you and me? I asked you to giveup your show, and you--"

"Oh, any lies you like, " said Coryston, placidly. "But as I've alreadywarned you, it won't help you long. "

"One gains a bit of time, " said the young lover, in a tone of depression. 

"What's the good of it? In a year's time Glenwilliam will still beGlenwilliam--and mother mother. Of course you know you'll break herheart--and that kind of thing. Marcia made me promise to put that beforeyou. So I do. It's perfectly true; though I don't know that I am theperson to press it! But then mother and I have always disagreed--whereas_you_ have been the model son. "

Angry melancholy swooped once more upon Arthur. 

"What the deuce have women to do with politics! Why can't they leave therotten things to us? Life won't be worth living if they go on like this!"

"'_Life_, '" echoed Coryston, with amused contempt. "Your life? Justtry offering your billet--with all its little worries thrown in--to thenext fellow you meet in the street--and see what happens!"

But the man in Arthur rebelled. He faced his brother. 

"If you think that I wouldn't give up this whole show to-morrow"--hewaved his hand toward the marble forecourt outside, now glistening in thesun--"for--for Enid--you never made a greater mistake in your life, Corry!"

There was a bitter and passionate accent in the voice which carriedconviction. Coryston's expression changed. 

"Unfortunately, it wouldn't help you with--with Enid--to give it up, " hesaid, quietly. "Miss Glenwilliam, as I read her--I don't mean anything inthe least offensive--has a very just and accurate idea of the value ofmoney. "

A sort of impatient groan was the only reply. 

But Lester raised his head from his book. 

"Why don't you see what Miss Coryston can do?" he asked, looking from oneto the other. 

"Marcia?" cried Coryston, springing up. "By the way, what are mother andMarcia after, this Sunday? Do you suppose that business is all settled bynow?"

He flung out a finger vaguely in the direction of Hoddon Grey. And as hespoke all the softness which had gradually penetrated his conversation withArthur through all his banter, disappeared. His aspect became in a momenthard and threatening. 

"Don't discuss it with me, Coryston, " said Lester, rather sharply. "Yoursister wouldn't like it. I only mentioned her name to suggest that shemight influence your mother in Arthur's case. " He rose, and began to put uphis papers as he spoke. 

"I know that! All the same, why shouldn't we talk about her? Aren't youa friend?--her friend?--our friend?--everybody's friend?" said Coryston, peremptorily. "Look here!--if Marcia's really going to marry Newbury!"--hebrought his hand down vehemently on Lester's table--"there'll be anotherfamily row. Nothing in the world will prevent my putting the Betts' casebefore Marcia! I have already warned her that I mean to have it out withher, and I have advised Mrs. Betts to write to her. If she can make Newburyhear reason--well and good. If she can't--or if she doesn't see the thingas she ought, herself--well!--we shall know where we are!"

"Look here, Corry, " said Arthur, remonstrating, "Edward Newbury's anawfully good chap. Don't you go making mischief!"

"Rather hard on your sister, isn't it?"--the voice was Lester's--"to plungeher into such a business, at such a time!"

"If she's happy, let her make a thank-offering!" said the inexorableCoryston. "Life won't spare her its facts--why should we? Arthur!--come andwalk home with me!"

Arthur demurred, stipulated that he should not be expected to be civil toany of Coryston's Socialist lodgers--and finally let himself be carriedoff. 

Lester was left once more to the quiet of the library. 

"'I have advised Mrs. Betts to write to her!'"

What a shame! Why should a girl in her first love-dream be harassed withsuch a problem--be brought face to face with such "old, unhappy, far-offthings"? He felt a fierce indignation with Coryston. And as he again satsolitary by the window, he lost himself in visualizations of what was ormight be going on that summer afternoon at Hoddon Grey. He knew the oldhouse--for Lord William had once or twice courteously invited the Corystonlibrarian to examine such small treasures as he himself possessed. He couldsee Marcia in its paneled rooms and on its old lawns--Marcia and Newbury. 

Gradually his head dropped on his hands. The sun crept along the libraryfloor in patches of orange and purple, as it struck through the lozenges ofold painted glass which bordered the windows. No sound except the cooing ofdoves, and the note of a distant cuckoo from the river meadows. 

He did his best to play the cynic with himself. He told himself that suchpainful longings and jealous revolts as he was conscious of are among thegrowing-pains of life, and must be borne, and gradually forgotten. He hadhis career to think of--and his mother and sister, whom he loved. Some dayhe too would marry and set up house and beget children, framing his lifeon the simple strenuous lines made necessary by the family misfortunes. Itwould have been easier, perhaps, to despise wealth, if he and his had neverpossessed it, and if his lack of it were not the first and sufficientbarrier which divided him from Marcia Coryston. But his nature was soundand sane; it looked life in the face--its gifts and its denials, and thosestern joys which the mere wrestle with experience brings to the fightingspirit. He had soon reconquered cheerfulness; and when Arthur returned, hesubmitted to be talked to for hours on that young man's tangled affairs, handling the youth with that mixture of sympathy and satire which bothsoothed and teased the sentimentalists who chose to confide in him. 

 * * * * *

Next morning Marcia and her mother returned from Hoddon Grey in excellenttime. Lady Coryston never lingered over week-ends. Generally the firsttrain on Monday morning saw her depart. In this case she was obliged togive an hour to business talk--as to settlements and so forth--with LordWilliam, on Monday morning. But when that was over she stepped into hermotor with all possible speed. 

"What a Sunday!" she said, languidly throwing herself back, withhalf-closed eyes, as they emerged from the park. Then remembering herself:"But you, my dear, have been happy! And of course they are excellentpeople--quite excellent. "

Marcia sat beside her flushed and rather constrained. She had of coursenever expected her mother to behave like ordinary mothers on the occasionof a daughter's betrothal. She took her insignificance, the absence of anysoft emotion, quite calmly. All the same she had her grievance. 

"If only Edward and you--and everybody would not be in such a dreadfulhurry!" she said, protesting. 

"Seven weeks, my dear child, is enough for any trousseau. And what haveyou to wait for? It will suit me too, much best. If we put it off tillthe autumn I should be terribly busy--absolutely taken up--with Arthur'selection. Sir Louis Ford tells me they cannot possibly stave off going tothe country longer than November. And of course this time I shall have notonly the usual Liberal gang--I shall have Coryston to fight!"

"I know. It's appalling!" cried Marcia. "Can't we get him to go away?" Thenshe looked at her mother uneasily. "I do wish, mother, you hadn't put thatnotice of Arthur's meeting into the _Witness_ without consulting him. Why, you didn't even ask him, before you settled it all! Aren't you afraidof his cutting up rough?"

"Not in the least! Arthur always expects me to settle those things for him. As soon as Coryston had taken that outrageous step, it was imperative thatArthur should speak in his own village. We can't have people's minds indoubt as to what _he_ thinks of Glenwilliam, with an election onlyfive months off. I have written to him, of course, fully--without a word ofreply! What he has been doing these last weeks I can't imagine!"

Marcia fell into a frowning silence. She knew, alack! a great deal morethan she wished to know of what Arthur had been doing. Oh, she hopedCoryston had been able to talk to him--to persuade him! Edward too hadpromised to see him--immediately. Surely between them they would make himhear reason, before any suspicion reached their mother?

The usual pile of letters awaited Lady Coryston and Marcia on their arrivalat home. But before opening hers, Lady Coryston turned to the butler. 

"Is Mr. Arthur here?"

"Yes, my lady. He is out now, but he left word he would be in forluncheon. "

Lady Coryston's face lit up. Marcia did not hear the question or theanswer. She was absorbed in a letter which she happened to have openedfirst. She read it hastily, with growing astonishment. Then, stillholding it, she was hurrying away to her own sitting-room when the butlerintercepted her. 

"There's a young lady, miss, who wants to see you. I took her to yoursitting-room. She said she came from the dressmaker--something you hadordered--very particular. "

"Something I had ordered?" said Marcia, mystified. "I don't know anythingabout it. "

She ran up-stairs, still thinking of the letter in her hand. 

"I won't see her!" she said to herself, vehemently, "without Edward'sleave. He has a right now to say what I shall do. It is different withCoryston. He may argue with me--and with Edward--if he pleases. But Mrs. Betts herself! No--that's too much!"

Her cheeks flushed angrily. She threw open the door of her sitting-room. Some one sitting stiffly on the edge of a chair rose as she entered. To heramazement Marcia perceived a slender woman--a lady--a complete strangerto her, standing in her own private sitting-room, awaiting her arrival. Awoman in rather slipshod artistic dress, with hands clasped theatrically, and tears on her cheeks. 

"Who are you?" said Marcia, drawing back. 

Book II

MARCIA

 "To make you me how much so e'er I try, You will be always you, and I be I. "

CHAPTER IX

"Miss Coryston, I have done a dreadful thing, " said a trembling voice. "I--I have deceived your servants--told them lies--that I might get tosee you. But I implore you, let me speak to you!--don't send me away!"

Marcia Coryston looked in amazement at the shrinking, childish creature, standing suppliant before her, and repeated:

"I have not an idea who you are. Please tell me your name. "

"My name--is Alice Betts, " said the other, after a momentary hesitation. "Oh, perhaps you don't know anything about me. But yet--I think you must;because--because there has been so much talk!"

"Mrs. Betts?" said Marcia, slowly. Her eyes perused the other's face, whichreddened deeply under the girl's scrutiny. Marcia, in her pale pink dressand hat, simple, but fresh and perfectly appointed, with her generalaspect of young bloom and strength, seemed to take her place naturallyagainst--one might almost say, as an effluence from--the background ofbright June foliage, which could be seen through the open windows of theroom; while Mrs. Betts, tumbled, powdered, and through all the juvenilityof her attire--arms bare to the elbow and throat half uncovered, shortskirts and shell necklace, --betraying her thirty-five years, belonged quiteplainly to the used, autumnal category of her sex. 

"Haven't you heard of me?" she resumed, plaintively. "I thought--LordCoryston--"

She paused, her eyes cast down. 

"Oh yes, " said Marcia, mechanically. "You have seen my brother? Please sitdown. "

Mrs. Betts sat down, with a long sigh, still not venturing to look up. Instead she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes; beginning to speak in abroken, sobbing voice. 

"If you can't help us, Miss Coryston, I--I don't know what we shall do--mypoor husband and I. We heard last night--that at the chapel service--oh!my husband used to read the lessons there for years and years, and now henever goes:--but he heard from one of his men, who was there, aboutyour engagement to Mr. Newbury--and how Mr. Perry gave it out. I am so_ashamed_, Miss Coryston, to be speaking of your private affairs!--Idon't know how to excuse myself--"

She looked up humbly. She had large blue eyes in a round fair-complexionedface, and the lids fluttered as though just keeping back the tears. 

"Please go on, " said Marcia, coldly, quivering with excitement andannoyance. But she had been bred to self-control, and she betrayed nothing. 

"And then--well then"--Mrs. Betts covered her face with her hands a moment, removing them with another long and miserable sigh--"my husband and Iconsulted--and we thought I might come to you and beg you, Miss Coryston, to plead for us--with Mr. Newbury and Lord William! You will be very happy, Miss Coryston--and we--we are so miserable!"

Mrs. Betts raised her eyes again, and this time the tears escaped, ranlightly over her cheek, and fell on her blue silk dress. Marcia, who hadplaced herself on a chair near, felt uncomfortably touched. 

"I am sure nobody wishes to be unkind to you, " she said, withembarrassment. 

Mrs. Betts bent forward eagerly. 

"Then you have heard? You know that John is to be turned out of his farmunless he will give me up?"

But a quieter manner would have served her better. The answer came stiffly:

"I cannot discuss Lord William's affairs. "

"Oh dear, oh dear, what am I to do?" cried Mrs. Betts under her breath, turning her eyes from side to side like a hunted thing, and twisting a ragof a handkerchief in her small right hand. Then, suddenly, she broke intovehemence:

"You ought to listen to me!--it is cruel--heartless, if you don't listen!You are going to be happy--and rich--to have everything you can possiblywish for on this earth. How can you--how _can_ you refuse--to helpanybody as wretched as I am!"

The small, chubby face and slight figure had assumed a certain tragicforce. The impression indeed was of some one absolutely at bay, at thebitter end of their resources, and therefore reckless as to what might bethought of them. And yet there was still the slight theatrical touch, asthough the speaker observed herself, even in violence. 

Marcia, troubled, intimidated, watched her in silence a few moments andthen said:

"How can I possibly help you, Mrs. Betts? You shouldn't have come tome--you shouldn't, indeed. I don't know your story, and if I did Ishouldn't understand it. Why didn't you ask to see my mother?"

"Lady Coryston would never look at the likes of me!" cried Mrs. Betts. "No, Miss Coryston! I know it's selfish, perhaps--but it's just becauseyou're so young--and so--so happy--that I came to you. You don't know mystory--and I can't tell it you--" The speaker covered her face a moment. "I'm not a good woman, Miss Coryston. I never pretended to be. But I've hadan awfully hard time--awfully hard! You see, " she went on, hurriedly, asthough afraid Marcia would stop her, "you see--I was married when I wasonly seventeen to an old husband. My mother made me--she was dying--andshe wanted to be sure I had a home. And he turned against me after a fewmonths. It was a horrible, horrible business. I couldn't tell you what Isuffered--I wouldn't for the world. He shut me up, he half starved me, hestruck me, and abused me. Then"--she turned her head away and spoke in achoked, rapid voice--"there was another man--he taught me music, and--I wasonly a child, Miss Coryston--just eighteen. He made me believe he lovedme--and I had never had kind things said to me before. It seemed likeheaven--and one day--I went off with him--down to a seaside place, andthere we stayed. It was wicked. I suppose I ought to have borne up againstmy life, but I couldn't--there! I couldn't. And so--then my husbanddivorced me--and for ten years I lived with my old father. The otherman--deserted me. I soon found him out. I don't think he meant to be cruelto me. But his people got hold of him. They wouldn't let him marry me. Sothere I was left, with--with my child. " Mrs. Betts threw a shrinking lookat Marcia. 

The girl flushed suddenly and deeply, but said nothing. Mrs. Betts resumed. 

"And I just lived on somehow--with my father--who was a hard man. Hehated me for what I'd done; he was always nagging and reproving me. But Icouldn't earn money and be independent--though I tried once or twice. I'mnot strong--and I'm not clever; and there was the child. So he just had tokeep me--and it was bitter--for him and for me. Well, then, last August hewas dying, and we went to Colwyn Bay for him, and took a little lodging. And one day on the sands I saw--John Betts--after fifteen years. When Iwas twenty--he wanted to marry me, but we'd never met since. He came up tome--and oh!--I was glad to see him! We walked along the shore, and I toldhim everything. Well--he was sorry for me!--and father died--and I hadn'ta penny. For what father left only just paid his debts. And I had noprospects in the world, and no one to help me or my boy. So, then, Mr. Betts offered to marry me. He knew all about my divorce--he had seen it inthe newspapers years ago. I didn't deceive him--not one little bit. But heknew what Lord William would think. Only it didn't seem to matter, really, to any one but him and me. I was free--and I wasn't going to bring any moredisgrace on anybody. "

She paused forlornly. In the strong June light, all the lost youth in thesmall face, its premature withering and coarsening, the traces of rouge andpowder, the naturally straight hair tormented into ugly waves, came cruellyinto sight. So, too, did the holes in the dirty white gloves, and somerents in the draggled but elaborate dress. Marcia could not help noticingand wondering. The wife of John Betts could not be so very poor!

Suddenly her unwelcome visitor looked up. 

"Miss Coryston!--if they take John's farm away, everything that he caresfor, everything that he's built up all these years, because of me, I'llkill myself! You tell Mr. Newbury that!"

The little shabby creature had in a moment dropped her shabbiness. Herslight frame stiffened as she sat; the passion in the blue eyes whichsought Marcia's was sincere and threatening. Marcia, startled, could onlysay again in a vaguely troubled voice:

"I am sure nobody wants to harm Mr. Betts, and indeed, indeed, you oughtn'tto talk to me like this, Mrs. Betts. I am very sorry for you, but I can'tdo anything. I would be most improper if I tried to interfere. "

"Why?" cried Mrs. Betts, indignantly. "Aren't women in this world to helpeach other? I know that Lord Coryston has spoken to you and that he meansto speak to you. Surely, surely Mr. Newbury will listen to you!--and LordWilliam will listen to Mr. Edward. You know what they want? Oh, it's toocruel!" She wrung her hands in despair. "They say if we'll separate, ifhe promises--that I shall be no more his wife--but just a friendhenceforward--if we meet a few times in the year, like ordinaryfriends--then John may keep his farm. And they want me to go and live neara Sisterhood and work for the Sisters--and send the boy to school. Justthink what that looks like to me! John and I have found each other afterall these years. I have got some one to help me, at last, to make me abetter woman"--sobs rose again in the speaker's throat--"some one to loveme--and now I must part from him--or else his life will be ruined! Youknow, Miss Coryston, there's no other place in England like John's place. He's been trying experiments there for years and years with new seeds, andmade soils--and all sorts of ways of growing fruit--oh, I don't understandmuch about it--I'm not clever--but I know he could never do the same thingsanywhere else--not unless you gave him another life. He'll do it--he'llgo--for my sake. But it'll break his heart. And why _should_ he go?What's the reason--the _justice_ of it?"

[Illustration: "I DO WISH I COULD HELP YOU"]

Mrs. Betts rose, and with her hands on her sides and the tears on hercheeks she bent over Marcia, gasping, in a kind of frenzy. There was noacting now. 

The girl of twenty-two was deeply, painfully moved. She put out her handsgently, and drew Mrs. Betts down again to the sofa beside her. 

"I'm dreadfully sorry for you! I do wish I could help you. But you knowwhat Lord and Lady William think, what Mr. Newbury thinks about divorcedpeople marrying again. You know--how they've set a standard all theirlives--for their people here. How can they go against all they've everpreached? You must see their point of view, too. You must think of theirfeelings. They hate--I'm sure they hate--making any one unhappy. But ifone of the chief people on the estate does this, and they think it wicked, how--"

"Ah!" cried Mrs. Betts, eagerly interrupting. "But now please, _please_, Miss Coryston, listen! This is what I want, what I beg youto say to Mr. Newbury! I can't give John up--and he'll never give meup. But I'll go away--I'll go to a little cottage John has--it was hismother's, in Charnwood Forest--far away from everybody. Nobody here willever know! And John will come to see me, whenever he can, whenever his workwill let him. He will come over in the motor--he's always running about thecountry--nobody would ever notice. It might be said we'd separated--so weshould have separated--as far as spending our lives together goes. But Ishould sometimes--sometimes--have my John!--for my own--my very own--and hewould sometimes have me!"

Sobs came tearing through, and, bowing her face upon the sofa, Mrs. Bettsshook from head to foot. 

Marcia sat silent, but strangely conscious of new horizons of feeling--ofa deepening life. This was the first time she had ever come across such anexperience, touched so nearly on passions and sins which had hitherto beento her as stage phantoms moving in a far distance. The girl of to-day, whatever class she belongs to, is no longer, indeed, reared in theconventional innocence of the mid-Victorian moment--a moment differingwholly from that immediately before it, no less than from those which havecome after it. The manners, the plays, the talk of our generation attacksuch an innocence at every turn. But in place of an indirect and hearsayknowledge, here, in this humble, shabby instance, was, for the first time, the real stuff--the real, miserable thing, in flesh and blood. That was newto her. 

And, in a flash of memory and association, there passed through her mindthe vision of the Opera House blazing with lights--Iphigenia on the stage, wailing at her father's knees in an agony of terror and despair, andNewbury's voice:

"_This_ is the death she shrinks from--"

And again, as the beautiful form, erect and calm once more, swept statelyto its doom:

"And this--is the death she _accepts_!"

Newbury's face, as he spoke, was before her, quietly smiling, its handsomefeatures alive with an exaltation which had both chilled and fascinated thegirl looking at him. As she remembered it the thought arose--"_he_would accept any martyrdom for himself, in defense of what he believes andloves--and _therefore_ he will inflict it inexorably on others. Butthat's the point! For oneself, yes--but for others who suffer and don'tbelieve!--suffer horribly!"

A look of resolution came into the young face. She tried to rouse Mrs. Betts. 

"Please don't cry so!" she said, in distress. "I see what you mean. I'lltry and put it to Mr. Newbury. Nobody here, you think, need know anythingabout you? They'd suppose you'd separated? Mr. Betts would live here, andyou would live somewhere else. That's what you mean, isn't it? That's allanybody need know?"

Mrs. Betts raised herself. 

"That's it. Of course, you see, we might have pretended to accept LordWilliam's conditions, and then have deceived him. But my husband wouldn'tdo that. He simply doesn't admit that anybody else here has any right tointerfere with our private affairs. But he won't tell lies to Lord Williamand Mr. Edward. If they won't, they won't!"

She sat up, drearily controlling herself, and began to smooth back her hairand put her hat straight. But in the middle of it she caught Marcia's hand:

"Miss Coryston! you're going to marry Mr. Newbury--because you love him. IfI lose John who will ever give me a kind word--a kind look again? I thoughtat last--I'd found--a little love. Even bad people"--her voice broke--"mayrejoice in that, mayn't they? Christ didn't forbid them that. "

Her piteous look hung on her companion. The tears sprang to Marcia's eyes. Yet her temperament did not tend to easy weeping; and at the root of hermind in this very moment were feelings of repulsion and of doubt, mingledwith impressions of pity. But the hours at Hoddon Grey had been hours ofdeep and transforming emotion; they had left her a more sensitive andresponsive human being. 

"I'll do what I can, " she said, with slow emphasis. "I promise you thatI'll speak to Mr. Newbury. "

Mrs. Betts gave her effusive thanks which somehow jarred on Marcia; she wasglad when they were over and Mrs. Betts rose to go. That her tearful anddisheveled aspect might escape the servants Marcia took her down a sidestaircase of the vast house, and piloted her through some garden paths. Then the girl herself, returning, opened a gate into a wood, where anundergrowth of wild roses was just breaking into flower, and was soonpacing a mossy path out of sight and sound of the house. 

She found herself in a strange confusion of mind. She still saw the smalltear-stained face, the dingy finery, the tormented hair; the story she hadjust heard was still sounding in her ears. But what really held her was thequestion: "Can I move Edward? What will he say to me?"

And in the stillness of the wood all the incidents of their Sunday togethercame back upon her, and she stood breathless and amazed at the change whichhad passed over her life. Was it really she, Marcia Coryston, who had beendrawn into that atmosphere of happy and impassioned religion?--drawn with ahand so gentle yet so irresistible? She had been most tenderly treated bythem all, even by that pious martinet, Lord William. And yet, how was itthat the general impression was that for the first time in her life she hadbeen "dealt with, " disciplined, molded, by those who had a much cleareridea than she herself had of what she was to do and where she was to go?Out of her mother's company she had been hitherto accustomed to be thecenter of her own young world; to find her wishes, opinions, prejudiceseagerly asked for, and deferentially received. And she knew herselfnaturally wilful, conceited, keen to have her own way. 

But at Hoddon Grey, even in the most intimate and beautiful moments ofthe first love scenes between herself and Newbury, she had seemed to beentering upon--moving--in a world where almost nothing was left free forher to judge; where what she thought mattered very little, because it wastaken for granted that she would ultimately think as Hoddon Grey thought;would be cherished, indeed, as the latest and dearest captive of the HoddonGrey system and the Hoddon Grey beliefs. 

And she had begun already to know the exquisite, the intoxicating joys ofself-surrender. Every hour had revealed to her something more of Newbury'slofty and singular character. The books and occupations amid which his homelife was passed, the letters of his Oxford friends to him, and his tothem; one letter in particular, from his chiefest and dearest friend, congratulating him on his engagement, which had arrived that morning--thesethings had been for Marcia so many steps in a new land, under new stars. The mixture in the man she was to marry, of gaiety, of an overflowingenjoyment of life, expressing itself often in an endless childishjoking--with mystical sternness; the eager pursuit of beauty in art andliterature, coupled with an unbending insistence on authority, on theChurch's law, whether in doctrine or conduct, together with an absoluterefusal to make any kind of terms with any sort of "Modernisms, " so far atleast as they affected the high Anglican ideal of faith and practice--inrelation to these facts of Newbury's temperament and life she was stillstanding bewildered, half yielding and half combative. That she was loved, she knew--knew it through every vein and pulse. Newbury's delight in her, his tender worship of her, seemed to enwrap and encompass her. Now as shesat hidden amid the June trees, trembling under the stress of recollection, she felt herself enskied, exalted by such love. What could he see inher?--what was there in her--to deserve it?

And yet--and yet! Some penetrating instinct to which in this moment ofsolitude, of unwilling reflection, she could not help but listen, told herthat the very soul of him was not hers; that the deepest foundation of hislife was no human affection, but the rapture, the compelling vision of amystical faith. And that rapture she could never share; she knew herself;it was not in her. One moment she could have cried out in despair over herown limitations and disabilities. The next she was jealous; on fire. 

Jealous!--that was the real, sadly human truth; jealous, as women havealways been, of the faith, or the art, or the friendship, which threatenstheir hold upon the lover. And there stole upon her as she sat musing, theold, old temptation--the temptation of Psyche--to test and try this man, who was to bring her into bondage, before the bonds were yet quite set. Shewas honestly touched by Mrs. Betts's story. To her, in her first softnessof love, it seemed intolerably hard and odious that two people who clung toeach other should be forcibly torn apart; two people whom no law, butonly an ecclesiastical scruple condemned. Surely Edward would accept, andpersuade his father to accept, the compromise which the husband and wifesuggested. If Mrs. Betts withdrew from the scene, from the estate, wouldnot this satisfy everybody? What further scandal could there be? She wenton arguing it with herself, but all the time the real, deepest motiveat work was not so much sympathy, as a kind of excited restlessness--curiosity. She saw herself pleading with Edward, breakingdown his resistance, winning her cause, and then, instead of triumphing, flinging herself into his arms, to ask pardon for daring to fight him. 

The happy tears blinded her, and fell unheeded until a mocking reactiondried them. 

"Oh, what a fool!--what a fool!"

And running through the wood she came out into the sunshine at its fartherend--a blaze of sun upon the lake, its swans, its stone-rimmed islands, and statuary, on the gray-white front of the pillared and porticoed house, stretching interminably. The flowers shone in the stiff beds; a rain ofblossom drifted through the air. Everything glittered and sparkled. It wasCorinthian, pretentious, artificial; but as Marcia hurried up the broadmiddle walk between the queer gods and goddesses, whom some pupil ofBernini's had manufactured in Rome for a Coryston of the eighteenthcentury, she was in love with the scene, which in general she disliked; inlove with the summer, in love above all with the quick life of her own mindand body.... 

There were persons talking in her mother's sitting-room--Sir Wilfrid, Arthur, and Coryston--she perceived them through the open windows. Thesight of Arthur suddenly sobered her, and diverted her thoughts. For ifNewbury now held the chief place in her mind, her mother still reignedthere. She--Marcia--must be on the spot to protect her mother!--in caseprotection were wanted, and Coryston and Sir Wilfrid had not succeededyet in bringing that mad fellow to his senses. Ah! but they had all a newhelper and counselor now--in Edward. Let Coryston abuse him to her, if hedared! She would know how to defend him. 

She hurried on. 

Simultaneously, from the garden door of the library a figure emerged, aman with some books under his arm. She recognized Lester, and a rush ofsomething which was partly shyness and partly a delicious pride came overher, to delay her steps. 

They met under the wide open colonnade which carried the first story of thehouse. Lester came toward her smiling and flushed. 

"I've just heard, " he said. "I do congratulate you. It's splendid!"

She gave him her hand; and he thought as he looked at her how happiness hadbeautified and transformed her. All that was imperfect in the face seemedto have fallen into harmony; and her dark bloom had never been so lovely. 

"Yes, I'm very happy. He'll keep me in order! At least he'll try. " Her eyesdanced. 

"Everybody seems extremely pleased, " he said, walking at her side, and notindeed knowing what to say. 

"Except Coryston, " replied Marcia, calmly. "I shall have a bad time withhim. "

"Stand up to him!" he laughed. "His bark is worse than his bite--Ah!--"

A sudden sound of vehement voices overhead--Lady Coryston's voice andArthur's clashing--startled them both. 

"Oh, I must go!" cried Marcia, frowning and paling. "Thank you--thank youso much. Good-by. "

And she ran into the house. Lester remained rooted in the shadows of thecolonnade for a minute or two, looking after her, with a set, abstractedface. Then the sound of the altercation overhead smote him too with alarm. He moved quickly away lest through the open windows he might catch what wassaid. 

CHAPTER X

Marcia entered her mother's sitting-room in the midst of what seemed ababel of voices. James Coryston, indeed, who was sitting in a corner ofthe room while Coryston and Sir Wilfrid Bury argued across him, was notcontributing to it. He was watching his mother, and she on the other sideof the room was talking rapidly to her son Arthur, who could evidentlyhardly control himself sufficiently to listen to her. 

As Marcia came in she heard Arthur say in a loud voice:

"Your attitude, mother, is perfectly unreasonable, and I will not submit tobe dictated to like this!"

Marcia, staying her foot half-way across the room, looked at her youngestbrother in amazement. 

Was this rough-mannered, rough-voiced man, Arthur?--the tame house-brother, and docile son of their normal life? What was happening to them all?

Lady Coryston broke out:

"I repeat--you propose to me, Arthur, a bargain which is no bargain!--"

"A quid without a quo?" interrupted Coryston, who had suddenly dropped hisargument with Sir Wilfrid, and had thrown himself on a sofa near his motherand Arthur. 

Lady Coryston took no notice of him. She continued to address heryoungest-born. 

"What Coryston may do--now--after all that has passed is to me a matter ofmerely secondary importance. When I first saw the notice of the Martovermeeting it was a shock to me--I admit it. But since then he has done somany other things--he has struck at me in so many other ways--he has sopublicly and scandalously outraged family feeling, and political decency--"

"I really haven't, " said Coryston, mildly. "I haven't--if this was a freecountry. "

Lady Coryston flashed a sudden superb look at him and resumed:

"--that I really don't care what Coryston does. He has done his worst. Ican't suffer any greater insult than he has already put upon me--"

Coryston shook his head, mutely protesting. He seized a pen from a tablenear, and began to bite and strip it with an absent face. 

"But _you_, Arthur!" his mother went on with angry emphasis, "havestill a character to lose or gain. As I have said, it doesn't now mattervitally to me whether Coryston is in the chair or not--I regard him asmerely Glenwilliam's cat's-paw--but if _you_ let this meeting atMartover pass, you will have weakened your position in this constituency, you will have disheartened your supporters, you will have playedthe coward--and you will have left your mother disgracefully in thelurch--though that latter point I can see doesn't move you at all!"

James and Sir Wilfrid Bury came anxiously to join the group. Sir Wilfridapproached the still standing and distressed Marcia. Drawing her handwithin his arm, he patted it kindly. 

"We can't persuade your mother, my dear. Suppose you try. "

"Mother, you can't insist on Arthur's going through with the meeting if hedoesn't wish to!" said Marcia, with animation. "Do let him give it up! Itwould be so easy to postpone it. "

Lady Coryston turned upon her. 

"Everything is easy in your eyes, no doubt, Marcia, except that he shoulddo his duty, and spare my feelings! As a matter of fact you know perfectlywell that Arthur has always allowed me to arrange these things for him. "

"I don't mean, mother, to do so in future!" said Arthur, resolutely turningupon her. "You _must_ leave me to manage my own life and my ownaffairs. "

Lady Coryston's features quivered in her long bony face. As she sat nearthe window, on a high chair, fully illumined, in a black velvet dress, long-waisted, and with a kind of stand-up ruffle at the throat, she wasamazingly Queen Bess. James, who was always conscious of the likeness, could almost have expected her to rise and say in the famous words of theQueen to Cecil--"Little man, little man, your father durst not have said'must' to me!"

But instead she threw her son a look of furious contempt, with the words:

"You have been glad enough of my help, Arthur, in the past; you have neverbeen able indeed to do without it. I am under no illusions as to yourParliamentary abilities--unaided. "

"Mother!--" cried Marcia and James simultaneously. 

Coryston shrugged his shoulders. Arthur, breaking from Sir Wilfrid'srestraining hand, approached his mother. His face was inflamed with anger, his eyes bloodshot. 

"You like to say these cruel things, mother. We have all put up with themlong enough. My father put up with them long enough. I intend to think formyself in future. I don't think of Glenwilliam as you do. I know him--and Iknow his daughter. "

The last words were spoken with a special emphasis. A movement of alarm--inMarcia's case, of terror--ran through all the spectators. Sir Wilfridcaught the speaker by the arm, but was impatiently shaken off. 

Lady Coryston met her son's eyes with equal passion. 

"An intriguer--an unscrupulous intriguer--like himself!" said LadyCoryston, with cutting emphasis. 

Arthur's flush turned to pallor. Coryston, springing up, raised a warninghand. "Take care, old fellow!" Marcia and James came forward. But Arthurthrust them aside. 

"Mother and I have got to settle this!" He came to lean over her, lookinginto her face. "I advise you to be careful, mother, of what you say!" Therewas a dreadful pause. Then he lifted himself and said, with folded arms, slowly, still looking hard at Lady Coryston: "I am--in love--with the ladyto whom you refer in that unjustifiable manner. I wish to marry her--andI am doing my best to persuade her to marry me. _Now_ you understandperhaps why I didn't wish to attack her father at this particularjuncture. "

"Arthur!"

Marcia threw herself upon her brother, to lead him away. Coryston, meanwhile, with lifted brows and the prominent greenish eyes beneath themstarting out of his head, never ceased to observe his mother. There wastrouble--and a sudden softness--in his look. 

Silence reigned, for a few painful moments. The eyes of the two combatantswere on each other. The change in Lady Coryston's aspect was somethingquite different from what is ordinarily described as "turning pale. " Itrepresented rather the instinctive and immediate rally of the whole humanpersonality in the presence of danger more deadly than any it has yetencountered. It was the gray rally of strength, not the pallor of fear. Shelaughed--as she passed her handkerchief over her lips--so Marcia thoughtafterward--to hide their trembling. 

"I thank you for your frankness, Arthur. You will hardly expect me towish you success in such a love affair, or to further your suit. But yourconfession--your astonishing confession--does at least supply somereason for your extraordinary behavior. For the present--_for thepresent_"--she spoke slowly--"I cease to press you to speak at thismeeting which has been announced. It can at any rate be postponed. As tothe other and graver matter, we will discuss it later--and in private. Imust take time to think it over. "

She rose. James came forward. 

"May I come with you, mother?"

She frowned a little. 

"Not now, James, not now. I must write some letters immediately, withregard to the meeting. "

And without another look at any of her children, she walked proudly throughthe room. Sir Wilfrid threw the door open for her, and murmured somethingin her ear--no doubt an offer of consultation. But she only shook her head;and he closed the door. 

Then while Arthur, his hands on his hips, walked restlessly up and down, and Coryston, lying back on the sofa, stared at the ceiling, Marcia, James, and Sir Wilfrid looked at each other in a common dismay. 

Sir Wilfrid spoke first:

"Are we really, Arthur, to take the statement you have just madeseriously?"

Arthur turned impatiently. 

"Do I look like joking?"

"I wish you did, " said Sir Wilfrid, dryly. "It would be a comfort to us. "

"Luckily mother doesn't believe a word of it!"

The voice was Coryston's, directed apparently at the Adam decoration of theceiling. 

Arthur stood still. 

"What do you mean?"

"No offense. I dare say she believed _you_. But the notion strikes heras too grotesque to be bothered about. "

"She may be right there, " said Arthur, gloomily, resuming his walk. 

"Whether she is or not, she'll take good care, my boy, that nothing comesof it, " was Coryston's murmured comment. But the words were lost in hismustache. He turned to look at James, who was standing at the open windowgazing into the garden. Something in his brother's meditative back seemedto annoy him. He aimed at it with a crumpled envelope he held in his hand, and hit it. James turned with a start. 

"Look here, James--this isn't Hegel--and it isn't Lotze--and it isn'tBergson--it's life. Haven't you got a remark to contribute?"

James's blue eyes showed no resentment. 

"I'm very sorry for you all, " he said, quietly, "especially for mother. "

"Why?"

"Because she's the oldest. We've got the future. She hasn't. "

The color rushed to Marcia's face. She looked gratefully at her brother. Sir Wilfrid's gray head nodded agreement. 

"Hm!" said Coryston, "I don't see that. At least, of course it has acertain truth. But it doesn't present itself to me as a ground forsparing the older generation. In fact"--he sprang to his feet--"presentcompany--present family excepted--we're being ruined--stick stockruined--by the elder generation! They're in our way everywhere! Why don'tthey withdraw--and let _us_ take the stage? We know more than they. We're further evolved--we're better informed. And they will insist onpitting their years against our brains all over the field. I tell you theworld can't get on like this. Something will have to be done. We're chokedup with the older generation. "

"Yes, for those who have no reverence--and no pity!" said Marcia. 

The low intensity of her voice brought the looks of all three brothers uponher in some evident surprise. None of them had yet ceased to regard theirsister as a child, with opinions not worth speculating about. Corystonflushed, involuntarily. 

"My withers are unwrung, " he said, not without bravado. "You don'tunderstand, my dear. Do I want to do the elder generation any damage? Notat all! But it is time the elder generation withdrew to the chimney-cornerand gave us our rights! You think that ungrateful--disrespectful? Goodheavens! What do we _care_ about the people, our contemporaries, withwhom we are always fighting and scuffling in what we are pleased to call_action_? The people who matter to us are the people who rest us--andcalm us--and bind up our wounds. If instead of finding a woman to argueand wrestle with I had found just a mother here, knitting by the fire"--hethrew out a hand toward Lady Coryston's empty chair--"with time to smileand think and jest--with no ax to grind--and no opinions to push--do youthink I shouldn't have been at her feet--her slave, her adorer? Besides, the older generation have ground their axes, and pushed their opinions, long enough--they have had thirty years of it! We should be the dancersnow, and they the wall-flowers. And they won't play the game!"

"Don't pretend that you and your mother could ever have played anygame--together--Corry, " said Sir Wilfrid, sharply. 

Coryston looked at him queerly, good-humoredly. 

"One might argue till doomsday--I agree--as to which of us said 'won'tplay' first. But there it is. It's our turn. And you elders won't give itus. Now mother's going to try a little tyranny on Arthur--having madea mess of me. What's the sense of it? It's _we_ who have theyouth--_we_ who have the power--_we_ who know more than ourelders simply because we were born thirty years later! Let the old submit, and we'll cushion the world for them, and play them out of it withmarch-music! But they _will_ fight us--and they can't win!"

His hands on his sides, Coryston stood confronting them all, his eyesglittering. 

"What stuff you do talk, Coryston!" said Arthur, half angrily, halfcontemptuously. "What good does it do to anybody?" And he resumed hisrestless walk. 

"All flung, too, at a man of peace like me, " said the white-haired SirWilfrid, with his quiet smile. "It takes all sorts, my dear Corry, to playthe game of a generation--old and young. However, the situation is tooacute for moralizing. Arthur, are you open to any sort of advice from anold friend?"

"Yes, " said Arthur, unwillingly, "if I weren't so jolly sure what it wouldbe. "

"Don't be so sure. Come and take me a turn in the lime avenue beforelunch. "

The two disappeared. James followed them. Marcia, full of disquiet, wasgoing off to find Lady Coryston when Coryston stopped her. 

"I say, Marcia--it's true--isn't it? You're engaged to Newbury?"

She turned proudly, confronting him. 

"I am. "

"I'm not going to congratulate you!" he said, vehemently. "I've got a dealto say to you. Will you allow me to say it?"

"Whenever you like, " said Marcia, indifferently. 

Coryston perched himself on the edge of a table beside her, looking downupon her, his hands thrust into his pockets. 

"How much do you know of this Betts business?" he asked her, abruptly. 

"A good deal--considering you sent Mrs. Betts to see me this morning!"

"Oh, she came, did she? Well, do you see any common sense, any justice, anyChristianity in forcing that woman to leave her husband--in flinging herout to the wolves again, just as she has got into shelter?"

"In Edward's view, Mr. Betts is not her husband, " said Marcia, defiantly. "You seem to forget that fact. "

"'Edward's view'?" repeated Coryston, impatiently. "My dear, what's Edwardgot to do with it? He's not the law of the land. Let him follow his own lawif he likes. But to tear up other people's lives by the roots, in the nameof some private particular species of law that you believe in and theydon't, is really too much--at this time of day. You ought to stop it, Marcia!--and you must!"

"Who's tyrannizing now?" said Marcia. "Haven't other people as good a rightto live their beliefs as you?"

"Yes, so long as they don't destroy other people in the process. Even I amnot anarchist enough for that. "

"Well, " said Marcia, coolly, "the Newburys are making it disagreeable forMr. And Mrs. Betts because they disapprove of them. And what else are youdoing with mamma?"

She threw a triumphant look at her brother. 

"Stuff and nonsense!" cried Coryston, jumping up. "The weakest 'score' Iever heard. Don't you know the difference between the things that arevital and the things that are superficial--between fighting opinions, and_destroying a life_, between tilting and boxing, however roughly--and_murdering_?"

He looked at her fiercely. 

"Who talks of murdering!" The tone was scornful. 

"I do! If the Newburys drive those two apart they will have a murder ofsouls on their conscience. And if you talked to that woman this morning youknow it as well as I!"

Marcia faltered a little. 

"They could still meet as friends. "

"Yes, under the eyes of holy women!--spying lest any impropriety occur!That's the proposal, I understand. Of all the vile and cold-bloodedsuggestions!--"

And restraining himself with the utmost difficulty, as one might hang on tothe curb of a bolting horse, Coryston stamped up and down the room, tillspeech was once more possible. Then he came to an abrupt pause before hissister. 

"Are you really in love with this man, Marcia?"

So challenged, Marcia did not deign to answer. She merely looked up atCoryston, motionless, faintly smiling. He took his answer, dazzled at thesame time by her emerging and developing beauty. 

"Well, if you do love him, " he said, slowly, "and he loves you, _make_him have pity! Those two, also, love each other. That woman is a poorcommon little thing. She was a poor common little actress with no talent, before her first husband married her--she's a common little actress now, even when she feels most deeply. You probably saw it, and it repelledyou. _You_ can afford, you see, to keep a fine taste, and fastidiousfeelings! But if you tear her from that man, you kill all that's good inher--you ruin all her miserable chances. That man's raising her. Bit by bithe'll stamp his own character into hers--because she loves him. And Bettshimself, a great, silent, hard man, who has once in his life done asplendid thing!--forgotten himself head over ears for a woman--and is nowdoing his level best to make a good job of her--you Christians are goingto reward him first by breaking his heart, and tearing his life-work topieces!--God!--I wish your Master were here to tell you what He'd think ofit!"

"You're not His only interpreter!" cried Marcia, breathing quickly. "It'sin His name that Edward and his father are acting. You daren't say--youdaren't _think_--that it's for mere authority's sake--meredomination's sake!"

Coryston eyed her in silence a little. 

"No use in arguing this thing on its merits, " he said, curtly, at last. "You don't know enough about it, and Newbury and I shouldn't have a singlepremise in common. But I just warn you and him--it's a ticklish gameplaying with a pair of human lives like these. They are sensitive, excitable people--I don't threaten--I only say--_take care_!"

"'Game, ' 'play'--what silly words to use about such men as Edward and hisfather, in such a matter!" said Marcia as she rose, breathing contempt. "Ishall talk to Edward--I promised Mrs. Betts. But I suppose, Corry, it'sno good saying, to begin with, that when you talk of tyranny, you seem to_me_ at any rate, the best tyrant of the lot. "

The girl stood with her head thrown back, challenging her brother, herwhole slender form poised for battle. 

Coryston shook his head. 

"Nonsense! I play the gadfly--to all the tyrants. " "_A tyrant_, "repeated his sister, steadily. "And an unkind wretch into the bargain! Iwas engaged--yesterday--and have you said one nice, brotherly word to me?"

Her lips trembled. Coryston turned away. 

"You are giving yourself to the forces of reaction, " he said, between histeeth, "the forces that are everywhere fighting liberty--whether in theindividual--or the State. Only, unfortunately "--he turned with a smile, the sudden gaiety of which fairly startled his sister--"as far as matrimonyis concerned, I seem to be doing precisely the same thing myself. "

"Corry! what on earth do you mean?"

"Ah! wouldn't you like to know? Perhaps you will some day, " said Coryston, with a provoking look. "Where's my hat?" He looked round him for thebattered article that served him for head-gear. "Well, good-by, Marcia. Ifyou can pull this thing off with your young man, I'm your servant and his. I'd even grovel to Lord William. The letter I wrote him was a pretty stiffdocument, I admit. If not--"

"Well, if not?"

"War!" was the short reply, as her brother made for the door. 

Then suddenly he came back to say:

"Keep an eye on mother. As far as Arthur's concerned--she's dangerous. Shehasn't the smallest intention of letting him marry that girl. And heretoo it'll be a case of meddling with forces you don't understand. Keep meinformed. "

"Yes--if you promise to help him--and her--to break it off, " said Marcia, firmly. 

Coryston slowly shook his head; and went. 

Meanwhile Lady Coryston, having shaken off all companions, had betakenherself for greater privacy to a solitary walk. She desired to see neitherchildren nor friends nor servants till she had made up her mind what shewas going to do. As generally happened with her in the bad moments of life, the revelation of what threatened her had steeled and nerved her to asurprising degree. Her stately indoor dress had been exchanged for a shorttweed gown, and, as she walked briskly along, her white hair framed in thedrawn hood of black silk which she wore habitually on country walks, shehad still a wonderful air of youth, and indeed she had never felt herselfmore vigorous, more alert. Occasionally a strange sense of subterraneanperil made itself felt in the upper regions of the mind, caused bysomething she never stopped to analyze. It was not without kinship with thefeeling of the gambler who has been lucky too long, and knows that the nextstroke may--probably will--end it, and bring down the poised ruin. But itmade no difference whatever to the gradual forging of her plan and theclearness of her resolve. 

So now she understood all that during the two preceding months hadincreasingly perplexed her. Arthur had been laid hands on by the temptressjust before his maiden speech in Parliament, and had done no good eversince. At the time when his mother had inflicted a social stigma as publicas she could make it on a Minister who in her eyes deserved impeachment, byrefusing to go through even the ordinary conventions of allowing him to armher down to dinner and take his seat beside her at a large London party, Arthur was courting the daughter of the criminal; and the daughter was nodoubt looking forward with glee to the moment of her equally public triumphover his mother. Lady Coryston remembered the large mocking eyes of EnidGlenwilliam, as seen amid the shadows of a dark drawing-room, about afortnight later than the dinner-party, when with a consistency which seemedto her natural, and also from a wish to spare the girl's feelings, she haddeclined to be introduced, at the suggestion of another blundering hostess, to Glenwilliam's daughter. And all the time--all the time--the handsome, repellent creature was holding Arthur's life and Arthur's career in thehollow of her hand!

Well, she would not hold them so for long. Lady Coryston said to herselfthat she perfectly understood what Miss Glenwilliam was after. Thecircumstances of Coryston's disinheritance were now well known to manypeople; the prospects of the younger son were understood. The Glenwilliamswere poor; the prospects of the party doubtful; the girl ambitious. To layhands on the Coryston estates and the position which a Coryston marriagecould give the daughter of the Yorkshire check-weigher--the temptation hadonly to be stated to be realized. And, no doubt, in addition, there wouldbe the sweetness--for such persons as the Glenwilliams--of a planned andsuccessful revenge. 

Well, the scheme was simple; but the remedy was simple also. The Martovermeeting was still rather more than three weeks off. But she understoodfrom Page that after it the Chancellor and his daughter were to spend theweek-end at the cottage on the hill, belonging to that odious person, Dr. Atherstone. A note sent on their arrival would prepare the way for aninterview, and an interview that could not be refused. No time was tobe lost, unless Arthur's political prospects were to be completely andirretrievably ruined. The mere whisper of such a courtship, in theembittered state of politics, would be quite enough to lose him hisseat--to destroy that slender balance of votes on the right side, which thecountry districts supplied, to neutralize the sour radicalism of the smalltowns in his division. 

She reached a rising ground in the park, where was a seat under a fine oak, commanding a view. The green slopes below her ran westward to a wide skysteeped toward the horizon in all conceivable shades of lilac and pearl, with here and there in the upper heaven lakes of blue and toweringthunder-clouds brooding over them, prophesying storm. She looked out overher domain, in which, up to a short time before, her writ, so to speak, hadrun, like that of a king. And now all sense of confidence, of security, was gone. There on the hillside was the white patch of Knatchett--the oldfarmhouse, where Coryston had settled himself. It showed to her disturbedmind like the patch of leaven which, scarcely visible at first, will growand grow "till the whole is leavened. " A leaven of struggle and revolt. Andonly her woman's strength to fight it. 

Suddenly--a tremor of great weakness came upon her. Arthur, her dearest! Ithad been comparatively easy to fight Coryston. When had she not foughthim? But Arthur! She thought of all the happy times she had had withhim--electioneering for him, preparing his speeches, watching his firststeps in the House of Commons. The years before her, her coming old age, seemed all at once to have passed into a gray eclipse; and some difficulttears forced their way. Had she, after all, mismanaged her life? Wereprophecies to which she had always refused to listen--she seemed to hearthem in her dead husband's voice!--coming true? She fell into a great andlonely anguish of mind; while the westerly light burned on the broidery ofwhite hawthorns spread over the green spaces below, and on the loops andturns of the little brimming trout-stream that ran so merrily through thepark. 

But she never wavered for one moment as to her determination to see EnidGlenwilliam after the Martover meeting; nor did the question of Arthur'spersonal happiness enter for one moment into her calculations. 

CHAPTER XI

The breakfast gong had just sounded at Hoddon Grey. The hour was a quarterto nine. Prayers in the chapel were over, and Lord and Lady Newbury, ateither end of the table, spectacles on nose, were opening and reading theirletters. 

"Where is Edward?" said Lady William, looking round. 

"My dear!" Lord William's tone was mildly reproachful. 

"Of course--I forgot for a moment!" And on Lady William's delicatelywithered cheek there appeared a slight flush. For it was their wedding-day, and never yet, since his earliest childhood, had their only son, their onlychild, failed, either personally or by deputy, to present his mother with abunch of June roses on the morning of this June anniversary. While he wasin India the custom was remitted to the old head gardener, who alwaysreceived, however, from the absent son the appropriate letter or message tobe attached to the flowers. And one of the most vivid memories Lady Williamretained of her son's boyhood showed her the half-open door of an innbedroom at Domodossola, and Edward's handsome face--the face of a lad ofeleven--looking in, eyes shining, white teeth grinning, as he held aloft intriumph the great bunch of carnations and roses for which the little fellowhad scoured the sleepy town in the early hours. They had taken him abroadfor the first time, during a break between his preparatory school and Eton, when he was convalescing from a dangerous attack of measles; and LadyWilliam could never forget the charm of the boy's companionship, his eagerdocility and sweetness, his delight in the Catholic churches and services, his ready friendships with the country-folk, with the coachman who drovethem, and the _sagrestani_ who led them through dim chapels andgleaming monuments. 

But when indeed had he not been their delight and treasure from his youthup till now? And though in the interest of a long letter from her Bishop towhom she was devoted, Lady William had momentarily forgotten the date, this wedding-day was, in truth, touched, for both parents, with a specialconsecration and tenderness, since it was the first since Edward's ownbetrothal. And there beside Lady William's plate lay a large jeweler'scase, worn and old-fashioned, whereof the appearance was intimatelyconnected both with the old facts and the new. 

Meanwhile, a rainy morning, in which, however, there was a hidden sunlight, threw a mild illumination into the Hoddon Grey dining-room, upon thesparely provided breakfast-table, the somewhat austere line of familyportraits on the gray wall, the Chippendale chairs shining with thehand-polish of generations, the Empire clock of black and ormolu on thechimney-piece and on the little tan spitz, sitting up with wagging tail andasking eyes, on Lady William's left. Neither she nor her husband ever tookmore than--or anything else than--an egg with their coffee and toast. Theysecretly despised people who ate heavy breakfasts, and the extra allowancemade for Edward's young appetite, or for guests, was never more thanfrugal. Sir Wilfrid Bury, who was a hearty eater, was accustomed to say ofthe Hoddon Grey fare that it deprived the Hoddon Grey fasts--which werekept according to the strict laws of the Church--of any merit whatever. Itleft you nothing to give up. 

Nevertheless, this little morning scene at Hoddon Grey possessed, for thesensitive eye, a peculiar charm. The spaces of the somewhat empty roommatched the bareness of the white linen, the few flowers standingseparately here and there upon it, and the few pieces of old silver. Theabsence of any loose abundance of food or gear, the frugal refined note, were of course symbolic of the life lived in the house. The Newburys wererich. Their beautifully housed, and beautifully kept estate, with its noblyadorned churches, its public halls and institutions, proclaimed the fact;but in their own private sphere it was ignored as much as possible. 

"Here he is!" exclaimed Lady William, turning to the door with something ofa flutter. "Oh, Edward, they are lovely!"

Her son laid the dewy bunch beside her plate and then kissed his motheraffectionately. 

"Many happy returns!--and you, father! Hullo--mother, you've got asecret--you're blushing! What's up?"

And still holding Lady William by the arm, he looked smilingly from her tothe jeweler's case on the table. 

"They must be reset, dear; but they're fine. "

Lady William opened the case, and pushed it toward him. It contained anecklace and pendant, two bracelets, and a stomacher brooch of diamonds andsapphire--magnificent stones in a heavy gold setting, whereof the EarlyVictorianism cried aloud. The set had been much admired in the greatexhibition of 1851, where indeed it had been bought by Lady William'sfather as a present to his wife. Secretly Lady William still thought itsuperb; but she was quite aware that no young woman would wear it. 

Edward looked at it with amusement. 

"The stones are gorgeous. When Cartier's had a go at it, it'll be somethinglike! I can remember your wearing it, mother, at Court, when I was a smallchild. And you're going to give it to Marcia?" He kissed her again. 

"Take it, dear, and ask her how she'd like them set, " said his mother, happily, putting the box into his hand; after which he was allowed to sitdown to his breakfast. 

Lord William meanwhile had taken no notice of the little incident ofthe jewels. He was deep in a letter which seemed to have distracted hisattention entirely from his son and to be causing him distress. When he hadfinished it he pushed it away and sat gazing before him as though stillheld by the recollection of it. 

"I never knew a more sad, a more difficult case, " he said, presently, speaking, it seemed, to himself. 

Edward turned with a start. 

"Another letter, father?"

Lord William pushed it over to him. 

Newbury read it, and as he did so, in his younger face there appeared thesame expression as in his father's; a kind of grave sadness, in which therewas no trace of indecision, though much of trouble. Lady William asked noquestion, though in the course of her little pecking meal, she threw someanxious glances at her husband and son. They preserved a strict silence attable on the subject of the letter; but as soon as breakfast was over, LordWilliam made a sign to his son, and they went out into the garden together, walking away from the house. 

"You know we can't do this, Edward!" said Lord William, with energy, assoon as they were in solitude. 

Edward's eyes assented. 

His father resumed, impetuously: "How can I go on in close relations witha man--my right hand in the estate--almost more than my agent--associatedwith all the church institutions and charities--a communicant--secretaryof the communicant's guild!--our friend and helper in all our religiousbusiness--who has been the head and front of the campaign againstimmorality in this village--responsible, with us, for many decisions thatmust have seemed harsh to poor things in trouble--who yet now proposes, himself, to maintain what we can only regard--what everybody on this estatehas been taught to regard--as an immoral connection with a married woman!Of course I understand his plea. The thing is not to be done openly. Theso-called wife is to move away; nothing more is to be seen of her here; butthe supposed marriage is to continue, and they will meet as often as hisbusiness here makes it possible. Meanwhile his powers and duties on thisestate are to be as before. I say the proposal is monstrous! It wouldfalsify our whole life here, --and make it one ugly hypocrisy!"

There was silence a little. Then Newbury asked:

"You of course made it plain once more--in your letter yesterday--thatthere would be no harshness--that as far as money went--"

"I told him he could have _whatever_ was necessary! We wished to forceno man's conscience; but we could not do violence to our own. If theydecided to remain together--then he and we must part; but we would make itperfectly easy for them to go elsewhere--in England or the colonies. If they separate, and she will accept the arrangements we propose forher--then he remains here, our trusted friend and right hand as before. "

"It is, of course, the wrench of giving up the farm--"

Lord William raised his hands in protesting distress. 

"Perfectly true, of course, that he's given the best years of his life toit!--that he's got all sorts of experiments on hand--that he can neverbuild up exactly the same sort of thing elsewhere--that the farm is theapple of his eye. It's absolutely true--every word of it! But then, why didhe take this desperate step!--without consulting any of his friends! It'sno responsibility of ours!"

The blanched and delicate face of the old man showed the grief, the woundto personal affection he did not venture to let himself express, mingledwith a rocklike steadiness of will. 

"You have heard from the Cloan Sisters?"

"Last night. Nothing could be kinder. There is a little house close by theSisterhood where she and the boy could live. They would give her work, andwatch over her, like the angels they are, --and the boy could go to a dayschool. But they won't hear of it--they won't listen to it for a moment;and now--you see--they've put their own alternative plan before us, inthis letter. He said to me, yesterday, that she was not religious bytemperament--that she wouldn't understand the Sisters--nor they her--thatshe would be certain to rebel against their rules and regulations--and thenall the old temptations would return. 'I have taken her life upon me, ' hesaid, 'and I can't give her up. She is mine, and mine she will remain. 'It was terribly touching. I could only say that I was no judge of hisconscience, and never pretended to be; but that he could only remain hereon our terms. "

"The letter is curiously excitable--hardly legible even--very unlikeBetts, " said Newbury, turning it over thoughtfully. 

"That's another complication. He's not himself. That attack of illness hassomehow weakened him. I can't reason with him as I used to do. "

The father and son walked on in anxious cogitation, till Newbury observed afootman coming with a note. 

"From Coryston Place, sir. Waiting an answer. "

Newbury read it first with eagerness, then with a clouded brow. 

"Ask the servant to tell Miss Coryston I shall be with them for luncheon. "

When the footman was out of earshot, Newbury turned to his father, his faceshowing the quick feeling behind. 

"Did you know that Mr. And Mrs. Betts are trying to get at Marcia?"

"No! I thought Coryston might be endeavoring to influence her. Thatfellow's absolutely reckless! But what can she have to do with the Bettsesthemselves? Really, the questions that young women concern themselves withto-day!" cried Lord William, not without vehemence. "Marcia must surelytrust you and your judgment in such a matter. "

Newbury flushed. 

"I'm certain--she will, " he said, rather slowly, his eyes on the ground. "But Mrs. Betts has been to see her. "

"A great impertinence! A most improper proceeding!" said Lord William, hotly. "Is that what her note says? My dear Edward, you must go overand beg Marcia to let this matter _alone_! It is not for her to betroubled with at all. She must really leave it to us. "

The wandlike old man straightened his white head a trifle haughtily. 

 * * * * *

A couple of hours later Newbury set out to walk to Coryston. The day wassultry, and June in all its power ruled the countryside. The hawthorns werefading; the gorse was over; but the grass and the young wheat were rushingup, the wild roses threw their garlands on every hedge, and the Corystontrout-stream, beside which Newbury walked, brimming as it was, on its chalkbed, would soon be almost masked from sight by the lush growths whichoverhung its narrow stream, twisting silverly through the meadows. 

The sensitive mind and conscience of a man, alive, through the longdiscipline of religion, to many kinds of obligation, were, at this moment, far from happy, even with this flaming June about him, and the belovedbrought nearer by every step. The thought of Marcia, the recollection ofher face, the expectation of her kiss, thrilled indeed in his veins. He wasnot yet thirty, and the forces of his life were still rising. He had neverfelt his manhood so vigorous, nor his hopes so high. Nevertheless he washaunted--pursued--by the thought of those two miserable persons, over whomhe and his father held, it seemed, a power they had certainly never sought, and hated to exercise. Yet how disobey the Church!--and how ignore theplain words of her Lord--"_He that marrieth her that is put awaycommitteth adultery_'"?

"Marriage is for Christians indissoluble. It bears the sacramental stamp. It is the image, the outward and visible sign of that most awful andmost sacred union between Christ and the soul. To break the church's lawconcerning it, and to help others to break it, is--for Christians--to_sin_. To acquiesce in it, to be a partner to the dissolution ofmarriage for such reasons as Mrs. Betts had to furnish, was to injure notonly the Christian church, but the human society, and, in the case ofpeople with a high social trust, to betray that trust. "

These were the ideas, the ideas of his family, and his church, which heldhim inexorably. He saw no escape from them. Yet he suffered from theenforcement of them, suffered truly and sincerely, even in the dawn of hisown young happiness. What could he do to persuade the two offenders to theonly right course!--or if that were impossible, to help them to take uplife again where he and his would not be responsible for what they did oraccomplices in their wrong-doing?

Presently, to shorten his road, he left the park, and took to a laneoutside it. And here he suddenly perceived that he was on the borders ofthe experimental farm, that great glory of the estate, famous in the annalsof English country life before John Betts had ever seen it, but doublyfamous during the twenty years that he had been in charge of it. There wasthe thirty-acre field like one vast chessboard, made up of small greenplots; where wheat was being constantly tempted and tried with new soilsand new foods; and farmers from both the old and new worlds would comeeagerly to watch and learn. There were the sheds where wheat was grown, not in open ground, but in pots under shelter; there was the long range ofbuildings devoted to cattle, and all the problems of food; there was thenew chemical laboratory which his father had built for John Betts; andthere in the distance was the pretty dwelling-house which now sheltered thewoman from whose presence on the estate all the trouble had arisen. 

A trouble which had been greatly aggravated by Coryston's presence on thescene. Newbury, for all that his heart was full of Marcia, was none theless sorely indignant with her brother, eager to have it out with him, andto fling back his charges in his face. 

Suddenly, a form appeared behind a gate flanked by high hedges. 

Newbury recognized John Betts. A tall, broad-shouldered man, with slightlygrizzled hair, a countenance tanned and seamed by long exposure, andpale-blue spectacled eyes, opened the gate and stepped into the road. 

"I saw you coming, Mr. Edward, and thought I should like a word with you. "

"By all means, " said Newbury, offering his hand. But Betts took no noticeof it. They moved on together--a striking pair: the younger man, with hishigh, narrow brow and strong though slender build, bearing himself with theunconscious air of authority, given by the military life, and in this casealso, no doubt, by the influence of birth and tradition; as fine a specimenof the English ruling class at its moral and physical best, as any studentof our social life would be likely to discover; and beside him a figureround whom the earth-life in its primitive strength seemed to be stillclinging, though the great brain of the man had long since made him itsmaster and catechist, and not, like the ordinary man of the fields, farmeror laborer, its slave. He, too, was typical of his class, of that largemodern class of the new countryman, armed by science and a preciseknowledge, which has been developed from the primitive artists of theworld--plowman, reaper, herdsman; who understood nothing and discoveredeverything. A strong, taciturn, slightly slouching fellow; vouched forby the quiet blue eyes, and their honest look; at this moment, however, clouded by a frown of distress. And between the two men there lay thememory of years of kindly intercourse--friendship, loyalty, just dealing. 

"Your father will have got a letter from me this morning, Mr. Edward, "began Betts, abruptly. 

"He did. I left him writing to you. " The young man's voice was singularlygentle, even deferential. 

"You read it, I presume?"

Newbury made a sign of assent. 

"Is there any hope for us, Mr. Edward?"

Betts turned to look into his companion's face. A slight tremor in thenormally firm lips betrayed the agitation behind the question. 

Newbury's troubled eyes answered him. 

"You don't know what it costs us--not to be able to meet you--in that way!"

"You think the arrangement we now propose--would still compromise you?"

"How could we?" pleaded the younger man, with very evident pain. "We shouldbe aiding and abetting--what we believe to be wrong--conniving at itindeed; while we led people--deliberately--to believe what was false. "

"Then it is still your ultimatum--that we must separate?"

"If you remain here, in our service--our representative. But if you wouldonly allow us to make the liberal provision we would like to make foryou--elsewhere!"

Betts was silent a little; then he broke out, looking round him. 

"I have been twenty years at the head of that farm. I have worked for itnight and day. It's been my life. Other men have worked for their wivesand children. I've worked for the farm. There are experiments going onthere--you know it, Mr. Edward--that have been going on for years. They'reworking out now--coming to something--I've earned that reward. How can Ibegin anywhere else? Besides, I'm flagging. I'm not the man I was. Thebest of me has gone into that farm. " He raised his arm to point. "And now, you're going to drive me from it. "

"Oh, Betts--why did you--why _did_ you!" cried Newbury, in a suddenrush of grief. The other turned. 

"Because--a woman came--and clung to me! Mr. Edward, when you were a boyI saw you once take up a wounded leveret in the fields--a tiny thing. Youmade yourself kill it for mercy's sake--and then you sat down and criedover it--for the thought of all it had suffered. Well, my wife--she_is_ my wife too!--is to me like that wounded thing. Only I've givenher _life_!--and he that takes her from me will kill her. "

"And the actual words of our Blessed Lord, Betts, matter nothing to you?"Newbury spoke with a sudden yet controlled passion. "I have heard you quotethem often. You seemed to believe and feel with us. You signed a petitionwe all sent to the Bishop only last year. "

"That seems so long ago, Mr. Edward, --so long ago. I've been through a lotsince--a lot--" repeated Betts, absently, as though his mind had suddenlyescaped from the conversation into some dream of its own. Then he came to astop. 

"Well, good morning to you, sir--good morning. There's something doing inthe laboratory I must be looking after. "

"Let me come and talk to you to-night, Betts! We have some notion of aCanadian opening that might attract you. You know the great Government farmnear Ottawa? Why not allow my father to write to the Director--"

Betts interrupted. 

"Come when you like, Mr. Edward. Thank you kindly. But--it's no good--nogood. "

The voice dropped. 

With a slight gesture of farewell, Betts walked away. 

Newbury went on his road, a prey to very great disturbance of mind. Thepatience--humbleness even--of Betts's manner struck a pang to the youngman's heart. The farm director was generally a man of bluff, outspokenaddress, quick-tempered, and not at all accustomed to mince his words. What Newbury perceived was a man only half persuaded by his own position;determined to cling to it, yet unable to justify it, because, in truth, theideas put up against him by Newbury and his father were the ideas on whicha large section of his own life had been based. It is not for nothing thata man is for years a devout communicant, and in touch thereby with all thecircle of beliefs on which Catholicism, whether of the Roman or Anglicansort, depends. 

The white towers of Coryston appeared among the trees. His steps quickened. Would she come to meet him?

Then his mind filled with repugnance. _Must_ he discuss thismelancholy business again with her--with Marcia? How could he? It was notright!--not seemly! He thought with horror of the interview between herand Mrs. Betts--his stainless Marcia, and that little besmirched woman, ofwhose life between the dissolution of her first marriage, and her meetingwith Betts, the Newburys knew more than they wished to know, more, theybelieved, than Betts himself knew. 

And the whole June day protested with him--its beauty, the clean radianceof the woods, the limpid flashing of the stream.... 

He hurried on. Ah, there she was!--a fluttering vision through thenew-leafed trees. 

The wood was deep--spectators none. She came to his arms, and lightlyclasped her own round his neck, hiding her face.... 

When they moved on together, hand in hand, Marcia, instinctively puttingoff what must be painful, spoke first of the domestic scene of the daybefore--of Arthur and her mother--and the revelation sprung upon them all. 

"You remember how _terrified_ I was--lest mother should know? Andshe's taken it so calmly!"

She told the story. Lady Coryston, it seemed, had canceled all thearrangements for the Coryston meeting, and spoke no more of it. She wascool and distant, indeed, toward Arthur, but only those who knew her wellwould perhaps have noticed it. And he, on his side, having gained hispoint, had been showing himself particularly amiable; had gone off thatmorning to pay political visits in the division; and was doing his duty inthe afternoon by captaining the village cricket team in their Whitsuntidematch. But next week, of course, he would be in London again for thereassembling of Parliament, and hanging about the Glenwilliams' house, asbefore. 

"They're not engaged?"

"Oh dear, no! Coryston doesn't believe _she_ means it seriously atall. He also thinks that mother is plotting something. "

"When can I see Coryston?" Newbury turned to her with a rather forcedsmile. "You know, darling, he'll have to get used to me as a brother!"

"He says he wants to see you--to--to have it out with you, " said Marcia, awkwardly. Then with a sudden movement, she clasped both her hands roundNewbury's arm. 

"Edward!--do--_do_ make us all happy!"

He looked down on the liquid eyes, the fresh young face raised appealinglyto his. 

"How can I make you happy?" He lifted one hand and kissed it. "Youdarling!--what can I do?"

But as he spoke he knew what she meant and dreaded the coming moment. Thatshe should ask anything in these magical days that he could not at once layat her feet!--she, who had promised him herself!

"_Please_--let Mr. Betts stay--please, Edward! Oh, I was so sorry forher yesterday!"

"We are all so sorry for her, " he said, after a pause. "My father andmother will do all they can. "

"Then you _will_ let him stay?" Her white brow dropped caressinglyagainst him. 

"Of course!--if he will only accept my father's conditions, " he said, unwillingly, hating to see her bright look darkening. 

She straightened herself. 

"If they separate, you mean?"

"I'm afraid that's what they ought to do. "

"But it would break their hearts. "

He threw her a sudden flashing look, as though a sword gleamed. 

"It would make amends. "

"For what they have done? But they don't feel like that!" she pleaded, hercolor rising. "They think themselves properly married, and that no onehas a right to interfere with them. And when the law says so too, Edward?--Won't everybody think it _very_ hard?"

"Yes, we shall be blamed, " he said, quietly. "But don't you see, dearest, that, if they stay, we seem to condone the marriage, to say that it doesn'tmatter, --what they have done?--when in truth it seems to us a blackoffense--"

"Against what--or whom?" she asked, wondering. 

The answer came unflinchingly:

"Against our Lord--and His Church. "

The revolt within showed itself in her shining eyes. 

"Ought we to set up these standards for other people? And they don't ask tostay _here_!--at least she doesn't. That's what Mrs. Betts came to sayto me--"

Marcia threw herself into an eager recapitulation of Mrs. Betts'sarguments. Her innocence, her ignorance, her power of feeling, and herinstinctive claim to have her own way and get what she wanted, --wereall perceptible in her pleading. Newbury listened with discomfort anddistress--not yielding, however, by the fraction of an inch, as she soondiscovered. When she came to an abrupt pause, the wounded pride of aforeseen rebuff dawning in her face, Newbury broke out:

"Darling, I _can't_ discuss it with you! Won't you trust me--Won'tyou believe that neither father nor I would cause these poor things onemoment's pain--if we could help it?"

Marcia drew away from him. He divined the hurt in her as she began twistingand untwisting a ribbon from her belt, while her lip trembled. 

"I can't understand, " she said, frowning--"I can't!"

"I know you can't. But won't you trust me? Dearest, you're going to trustme with your whole life? Won't you?"

He took her in his arms, bending his handsome head to hers, pleading withher in murmured words and caresses. And again she was conquered, she gaveway; not without a galling consciousness of being refused, but thrilled allthe same by the very fact that her lover could refuse her, in these firstmoments of their love. It brought home to her once more that touch ofinaccessible strength, of mysterious command in Newbury, which from thebeginning had both teased and won her. 

But it was on her conscience at least to repeat to him what Coryston hadsaid. She released herself to do it. 

"Coryston said, Edward, I was to tell you to 'take care. ' He has seen Mr. And Mrs. Betts, and he says they are very excitable people--and very muchin love. He can't tell what might happen. "

Newbury's face stiffened. 

"I think I know them as well as Coryston. We will take every care, dearest. And as for thinking of it--why, it's hardly ever out of my mind--exceptwhen I'm with you! It hangs over me from morn till night. "

Then at last she let the subject be dismissed; and they loitered homethrough the woods, drawing into their young veins the scents and hues ofthe June day. They were at that stage in love, when love has everything tolearn, and learns it through ways as old and sweet as life. Each lover isdiscovering the other, and over the process, Nature, with her own ends inview, throws the eternal glamour. 

Yet before they reached the house the "sweet bells" in Marcia'sconsciousness were once more jangling. There could be nothing but pleasure, indeed, in confessing how each was first attracted to the other; inclearing up the little misunderstandings of courtship; in planning for thefuture--the honeymoon--their London house--the rooms at Hoddon Grey thatwere to be refurnished for them. Lady William's jewels emerged fromNewbury's pocket, and Marcia blazed with them, there and then, under thetrees. They laughed together at the ugly setting, and planned a new one. But then a mention by Newbury of the Oxford friend who was to be his "bestman" set him talking of the group of men who had been till now the leadinginfluence in his life--friends made at Oxford, and belonging all of them tothat younger High Church party of which he seemed to be the leader. Of twoof them especially he talked with eager affection; one, an overworkedHigh Churchman, with a parish in South London; another who belonged to a"Community, " the Community of the Ascension, and was soon to go out to amission-station in a very lonely and plague-stricken part of India. 

And gradually, as he talked, Marcia fell silent. The persons he wasspeaking of, and the ideas they represented, were quite strange to her;although, as a matter of mere information, she knew of course that suchpeople and such institutions existed. She was touched at first, thenchilled, and if the truth be told--bored. It was with such topics, aswith the Hoddon Grey view of the Betts case. Something in her could notunderstand. 

She guided him deftly back to music, to the opera, to the night ofIphigenia. No jarring there! Each mind kindled the other, in a commondelight. Presently they swung along, hand in hand, laughing, quoting, reminding each other of this fine thing, and that. Newbury was aconsiderable musician; Marcia was accustomed to be thought so. There was anew and singular joy in feeling herself but a novice and ignoramus besidehim. 

"How much you know!"--and then, shyly--"You must teach me!" With theinevitable male retort--"Teach you!--when you look at me like that!"

It was a golden hour. Yet when Marcia went to take off her hat beforeluncheon, and stood absently before the glass in a flush of happiness, itwas as though suddenly a door opened behind her, and two sad and ghostlyfigures entered the room of life, pricking her with sharp remorse forhaving forgotten them. 

And when she rejoined Newbury down-stairs, it seemed to her, from hissilent and subdued manner, that something of the same kind had happenedalso to him. 

 * * * * *

"You haven't tackled Coryston yet?" said Sir Wilfrid, as he and Newburywalked back toward Hoddon Grey in the late afternoon, leaving Marciaand Lady Coryston in the clutches of a dressmaker, who had filled thedrawing-room with a gleaming show of "English silks, " that being LadyCoryston's special and peremptory command for the _trousseau_. 

"No. He hasn't even vouchsafed me a letter. "

Newbury laughed; but Sir Wilfrid perceived the hurt feeling which mingledwith the laugh. 

"Absurd fellow!" said Sir Wilfrid. "His proceedings here amuse me a gooddeal--but they naturally annoy his mother. You have heard of the businesswith the Baptists?"

Newbury had seen some account of it in the local paper. 

"Well now they've got their land--through Coryston. There always was asquare piece in the very middle of the village--an _enclave_ belongingto an old maid, the daughter of a man who was a former butler of theCorystons, generations ago. She had migrated to Edinburgh, but Corystonhas found her, got at her, and made her sell it--finding, I believe, thegreater part of the money. It won't be long before he'll be laying thefoundation-stone of the new Bethel--under his mother's nose. "

"A truly kind and filial thing to do!" said the young High Churchman, flushing. 

Sir Wilfrid eyed him slyly. 

"Moral--don't keep a conscience--political or ecclesiastical. There'snothing but mischief comes of it. And, for Heaven's sake, don't be aposthumous villain!"

"What's that?"

"A man who makes an unjust will, and leaves everything to his wife, " saidSir Wilfrid, calmly. "It's played the deuce in this family, and will go ondoing it. "

Whereupon the late Lord Coryston's executor produced an outline of thefamily history--up to date--for the benefit of Lady Coryston's futureson-in-law. Newbury, who was always singularly ignorant of the town gossipon such matters, received it with amazement. Nothing could be more unlikethe strictly traditional ways which governed his own family in matters ofmoney and inheritance. 

"So Arthur inherits everything!"

"Hm--does he?" said Sir Wilfrid. 

"But I thought--"

"Wait and see, my dear fellow, wait and see. He will only marry MissGlenwilliam over his mother's body--and if he does marry her he may whistlefor the estates. "

"Then James will have them?" said Newbury, smiling. 

"Why not Marcia? She has as good a chance as anybody. "

"I hope not!" Newbury's tone showed a genuine discomfort. 

"What is Lady Coryston doing?"

"About the Glenwilliam affair? Ah!--what isn't she doing?" said SirWilfrid, significantly. "All the same, she lies low. " As he spoke, his eyesfell upon the hillside and on the white cottage of the Atherstones emergingfrom the wood. He pointed. 

"They will be there on Sunday fortnight--after the Martover meeting. "

"Who? The Glenwilliams?"

Sir Wilfrid nodded. 

"And I am of opinion that something will happen. When two highlyinflammable bodies approach each other, something generally does happen. "

CHAPTER XII

The weeks that followed offered no particular A event, but were none theless important to this history. Coryston was called off to an election inthe north, where he made a series of speeches which perhaps in the endannoyed the Labor candidate he was supporting as much as the Tory he wasattacking. For, generally reckoned a Socialist by friends and opponentsalike, he preached openly, on this occasion, that Socialism was absurd, and none but fools would upset kings and cabinets, to be governed bycommittees. 

And on one of his spare evenings he wrote a letter to Edward Newbury, loftily accepting him as a brother-in-law--on conditions. 

"I see no reason, " he wrote, "why you and I should not be good friends--ifonly I can induce you to take the line of common humanity in this pitifulcase, which, as you know, has set our whole neighborhood aflame. Your_opinions_ on divorce don't matter, of course, to me--nor mine toyou. But there are cruelties of which all men are judges. And if youmust--because of your opinions--commit yourself to one of them--why then, whether you marry Marcia or no, you and I can't be friends. It would bemere hypocrisy to suppose it. And I tell you quite frankly that I shall domy best to influence Marcia. There seem to me to be one or two ways out ofthe business, that would at any rate relieve you of any active connivancewith what you hold to be immorality. I have dealt with them in my letterto your father. But if you stand on your present fiat--"Separate--or go--"well, then you and I'll come to blows--Marcia or no Marcia. And I warn youthat Marcia is at bottom a humanist--in the new sense--like me. "

To which Newbury promptly replied:

"My dear Coryston--I am quite prepared to discuss the Betts case with you, whenever you return, and we can meet. But we cannot discuss it to anyuseful purpose, unless you are prepared to allow me, before we begin, thesame freedom of opinion that you claim for yourself. It is no good rulingout opinion--or rather conviction--and supposing that we can agree, apartfrom conviction, on what is cruelty in this case, and what isn't. Theomitted point is vital. I find it difficult to write about Marcia--perhapsbecause my heart and mind are so full of her. All I can say is that thehappiness she has brought me by consenting to be my wife must necessarilyaffect all I think and feel. And to begin with, it makes me very keen tounderstand and be friends with those she loves. She is very much attachedto you--though much troubled often, as of course you know, by the line youhave taken down here.... Let me know when you return--that I may come overto Knatchett. We can be brothers, can't we?--even though we look at life sodifferently. "

But to this Coryston, who had gone on to a Labor Congress in Scotland, madeno reply. 

The June days passed on, bringing the "high midsummer pomps. " Every dayNewbury and Marcia met, and the Betts case was scarcely mentioned betweenthem after Newbury had been able to tell her that Lord William in Londonhad got from some Canadian magnates who happened to be there, a cordial andeven enthusiastic promise of employment for John Betts, in connection witha Government experiment in Alberta. An opening was ready; the Newburysguaranteed all expenses; and at last Betts himself seemed to be reconciledto the prospect of emigration, being now, as always, determined to stickto his marriage. Nobody wished to hurry him; he was considering the wholeproposal; and in a week or two Newbury quite hoped that matters might bearranged. 

Meanwhile, though the pride of the Newburys concealed the fact as much aspossible, not only from Marcia but from each other, the dilemma on thehorns of which John and Alice Betts had found themselves impaled, wasbeing eagerly, even passionately discussed through the whole district. Thesupporters of the Newburys were many, for there were scores of persons onthe Newbury estates who heartily sympathized with their point of view; buton the whole the defenders of the Betts marriage were more. The affair gotinto the newspapers, and a lecturer representing the "Rational MarriageUnion" appeared from London, and addressed large and attentive audiences inthe little towns. After one of these lectures, Newbury returning home atnight from Coryston was pelted with stones and clods by men posted behind ahedge. He was only slightly hurt, and when Marcia tried to speak of it, hissmile of frank contempt put the matter by. She could only be thankful thatCoryston was still away. 

For Lady Coryston, meanwhile, the Betts case scarcely existed. When it didcome up, she would say impatiently that in her opinion such private matterswere best left to the people concerned to settle; and it was evident thatto her the High Anglican view of divorce was, like the inconvenient pietyof Hoddon Grey, a thing of superfluity. But Marcia knew very well that hermother had no mind to give to such a trifle--or to anything, indeed--herown marriage not excepted--but Arthur's disclosure, and Arthur'sintentions. What her mother's plans were she could not discover. Theylingered on at Coryston when, with the wedding so close in view, it wouldhave been natural that they should return at once to London for shopping;and Marcia observed that her mother seemed to be more closely absorbedin politics than ever, while less attentive, perhaps, than usual to theaffairs of the estate and the village. A poster announcing the Martovermeeting was lying about in her sitting-room, and from a fragment ofconversation overheard between her mother and Mr. Page, the agent, itseemed that Lady Coryston had been making elaborate inquiries as to thosequeer people, the Atherstones, with whom the Glenwilliams were to stay forthe meeting. Was her mother afraid that Arthur would do something sillyand public when they came down! Not the least likely! He had plenty ofopportunities in London, with no local opinion, and no mother to worry him. Yet when Parliament reassembled, and Arthur, with an offhand good-by to hismother, went back to his duties, Marcia in vain suggested to Lady Corystonthat they also should return to St. James's Square, partly to keep an eyeon the backslider, partly with a view to "fittings, " Lady Coryston curtlyreplied, that Marcia might have a motor whenever she pleased, to take herup to town, but that she herself meant for another fortnight to stay atCoryston. Marcia, much puzzled, could only write to James to beg him toplay watch-dog; well aware, however, that if Arthur chose to press thepace, James could do nothing whatever to stop him. 

On the day before the Glenwilliam meeting Lady Coryston, who had gone outwestward through the park, was returning by motor from the direction ofMartover, and reached her own big and prosperous village of Coryston Majorabout seven o'clock. She had been holding conference with a number ofpersons in the old borough of Martover, persons who might be trusted toturn a Radical meeting into a howling inferno, if the smallest chink ofopportunity were given them; and she was conscious of a good afternoon'swork. As she sat majestically erect in the corner of the motor, her brainwas alive with plans. A passion of political--and personal--hatred chargedevery vein. She was tired, but she would not admit it. On the contrary, nota day passed that she did not say to herself that she was in the prime oflife, that the best of her work as a party woman was still to do, and thateven if Arthur did fail her--incredible defection!--she, alone, wouldfight to the end, and leave her mark, so far as a voteless woman of greatpossessions might, upon the country and its fortunes. 

Yet the thought of Arthur was very bitter to her, and the expectation ofthe scene which--within forty-eight hours--she was deliberately preparingfor herself. She meant to win her battle, --did not for one moment admit thepossibility of losing it. But that her son would make her suffer for it sheforesaw, and though she would not allow them to come into the open, therewere dim fears and misgivings in the corners of her mind which made lifedisagreeable. 

It was a fine summer evening, bright but cool. The streets of Coryston werefull of people, and Lady Coryston distributed a suzerain's greetings asshe passed along. Presently, at a spot ahead of her, she perceived a largecrowd, and the motor slowed down. 

"What's the matter, Patterson?" she asked of her chauffeur. 

"Layin' a stone--or somethin'--my lady, " said the chauffeur in a puzzledvoice. 

"Laying a stone?" she repeated, wondering. Then, as the crowd parted beforethe motor, she caught sight of a piece of orchard ground which only thatmorning had been still hidden behind the high moss-grown palings which hadscreened it for a generation. Now the palings had been removed sufficientlyto allow a broad passage through, and the crowd outside was but an overflowfrom the crowd within. Lady Coryston perceived a platform with severalblack-coated persons in white ties, a small elderly lady, and half adozen chairs upon it. At one end of the platform a large notice-board hadapparently just been reared, for a couple of men were still at work on itssupports. The board exhibited the words--"Site of the new Baptist Chapelfor Coryston Major. All contributions to the building fund thankfullyreceived. "

There was no stone to be seen, grass and trees indeed were still untouched, but a public meeting was clearly proceeding, and in the chair, behind asmall table, was a slight, fair-haired man, gesticulating with vigor. 

Lady Coryston recognized her eldest son. 

"Drive on, Patterson!" she said, furiously. 

"I can't, my lady--they're too thick. "

By this time the motor had reached the center of the gathering which filledthe road, and the persons composing it had recognized Lady Coryston. Amovement ran through the crowd; faces turned toward the motor, and thentoward the platform; from the mother--back to the son. The faces seemedto have but one smile, conscious, sly, a little alarmed. And as the motorfinally stopped--the chauffeur having no stomach for manslaughter--in frontof the breach in the railings, the persons on the platform saw it, andunderstood what was the matter with the audience. 

Coryston paused in his speech. There was a breathless moment. Then, stepping in front of the table, to the edge of the platform, he raised hisvoice:

"We scarcely expected, my friends, to see my mother, Lady Coryston, amongus this evening. Lady Coryston has as good a right to her opinion as any ofus have to ours. She has disapproved of this enterprise till now. She didnot perhaps think there were so many Baptists--big and little Baptists--inCoryston--" he swept his hand round the audience with its fringe of babies. "May we not hope that her presence to-night means that she has changed hermind--that she will not only support us--but that she will even send acheck to the Building Fund! Three cheers for Lady Coryston!"

He pointed to the notice-board, his fair hair blown wildly back from hisboyish brow, and queer thin lips; and raising his hand, he started thefirst "Hip!--hip--"

"Go on, Patterson, " cried Lady Coryston again, knocking sharply at thefront windows of the open landaulette. The crowd cheered and laughed, ingood-humored triumph; the chauffeur hooted violently, and those nearest themotor fled with shrieks and jeers; Lady Coryston sat in pale endurance. Atlast the way was clear, and the motor shot forward. Coryston stepped backto the table and resumed his speech as though nothing had happened. 

"Infamous! Outrageous!"

The words formed themselves on Lady Coryston's angry lips. So the plot inwhich she had always refused to believe had actually been carried through!That woman on the platform was no doubt the butler's daughter, the miserlyspinster who had guarded her Naboth's vineyard against all purchasers fortwenty years. Coryston had squared her, and in a few months the BaptistChapel his mother had staved off till now, would be flaunting it in thevillage. 

And this was Coryston's doing. What taste--what feeling! A mother!--to beso treated! By the time she reached her own sitting-room, Lady Coryston wasvery near a womanish weeping. She sat silently there awhile, in the fallingdusk, forcing back her self-control, making herself think of the next day, the arrival of the Glenwilliams, and how she would need all her strengthand a clear head to go through with what she meant to do--more important, that, than this trumpery business in the village!

A sound of footsteps roused her from her thoughts, and she perceived Marciaoutside, coming back through the trees to the house. Marcia was singing ina low voice as she came. She had taken off her hat, which swung in her lefthand, and her dark curls blew about her charming face. The evening lightseemed to halo and caress her; and her mother thought--"she has just partedfrom Edward!" A kind of jealousy of her daughter for one strange momentpossessed her--jealousy of youth and love and opening life. She feltherself thwarted and forgotten; her sons were all against her, and herdaughter had no need of her. The memory of her own courting days came backupon her, a rare experience!--and she was conscious of a dull longing forthe husband who had humored her every wish--save one; had been proud of hercleverness, and indolently glad of her activity. Yet when she thought ofhim, it was to see him as he lay on his death-bed, during those long lasthours of obstinate silence, when his soul gave no sign to hers, before theend. 

[Illustration: MARCIA WAS SINGING, IN A LOW VOICE AS SHE CAME]

Marcia's state and Marcia's feelings, meanwhile, were by no means so simpleas her mother imagined. She was absorbed, indeed, by the interest andexcitement of her engagement. She could never forget Newbury; his influencemingled with every action and thought of her day; and it was much more thanan influence of sex and passion. They had hardly indeed been engaged a fewdays, before Marcia had instinctively come to look upon their love as akind of huge and fascinating adventure. Where would it lead?--how wouldit work out? She was conscious always of the same conflicting impulses ofsubmission and revolt; the same alternations of trust and resentment. Inorder not to be crushed by the strength of his character, she had broughtup against him from the very beginning the weapons of her young beauty, carrying out what she had dimly conceived, even on the first day of theirbetrothal. The wonder of that perpetual contrast, between the naturalsweetness of his temperament and the sternness with which he controlled anddisciplined his life, never ceased to affect her. His fierce judgment ofopinions--his bitter judgment, often, of men--repelled and angered her. She rose in revolt, protesting; only to be made to feel that in suchbitterness, or such fierceness, there was nothing personal whatever. He wasbut a soldier under orders, mysterious orders; moved by forces she onlyfaintly perceived. Once or twice, during the fortnight, it was as though abreath of something infinitely icy and remote blew across their relation;nor was it till, some years afterward, she read Madame Perrier's life ofher brother, Blaise Pascal, that she understood in some small degree whatit had meant. 

And just as some great physical and mental demand may bring out undreamt-ofpowers in a man or woman, so with the moral and spiritual demand made bysuch a personality as Newbury. Marcia rose in stature as she tried to meetit. She was braced, exalted. Her usual egotisms and arrogancies fell awayashamed. She breathed a diviner air, and life ran, hour by hour, with awonderful intensity, though always haunted by a sense of danger she couldnot explain. Newbury's claim upon her indeed was soon revealed as the claimof lover, master, friend, in one; his love infused something testing andbreathless into every hour of every day they were together. 

On the actual day of the Martover meeting Marcia was left alone atCoryston. Newbury had gone--reluctantly for once--to a diocesan meetingon the farther side of the county. Lady Coryston, whose restlessness wasevident, had driven to inspect a new farm some miles off, and was to takeinformal dinner on her way back with her agent, Mr. Page, and his wife--ahouse in which she might reckon on the latest gossip about the Chancellor'svisit, and the great meeting for which special trains were being run fromtown, and strangers were pouring into the district. 

Marcia spent the day in writing letters of thanks for wedding presents, andsheets of instructions to Waggin, who had been commandeered long beforethis, and was now hard at work in town on the preparations for the wedding;sorely hampered the while by Lady Coryston's absence from the scene. Then, after giving some last thoughts to her actual wedding-dress, thebride-elect wandered into the rose-garden and strolled about aimlesslygathering, till her hands were full of blooms, her thoughts meanwhilerunning like a mill-race over the immediate past and the immediate future. This one day's separation from Newbury had had a curious effect. She hadmissed him sharply; yet at the same time she had been conscious of a sortof relief from strain, a slackening of the mental and moral muscles, whichhad been strangely welcome. 

Presently she saw Lester coming from the house, holding up a note. 

"I came to bring you this. It seems to want an answer. " He approached her, his eyes betraying the pleasure awakened by the sight of her among theroses, in her delicate white dress, under the evening sky. He had scarcelyseen her of late, and in her happiness and preoccupation she seemed at lastto have practically forgotten his presence in the house. 

She opened the note, and as she read it Lester was dismayed to see a lookof consternation blotting the brightness from her face. 

"I must have the small motor--at once! Can you order it for me?"

"Certainly. You want it directly?"

"Directly. Please hurry them!" And dropping the roses, without a thought, on the ground, and gathering up her white skirts, she ran toward one of theside doors of the façade which led to her room. Lester lifted the fragrantmass of flowers she had left scattered on the grass, and carried them in. What could be the matter?

He saw to the motor's coming round, and when a few minutes later he hadplaced her in it, cloaked and veiled, he asked her anxiously if he couldnot do anything to help her, and what he should say to Lady Coryston on herreturn. 

"I have left a note for my mother. Please tell Sir Wilfrid I sha'n't behere for dinner. No--thank you!--thank you! I must go myself!" Then, to thechauffeur--"Redcross Farm!--as quick as you can!"

Lester was left wondering. Some new development of the Betts trouble? Aftera few minutes' thought he went toward the smoking-room in search of SirWilfrid Bury. 

Meanwhile Marcia was speeding through the summer country, where the hayharvest was beginning and the fields were still full of folk. The day hadbeen thunderously fine, with threats of change. Broad streaks of light andshadow lay on the shorn grass; children were tumbling in the swaths, and acheerful murmur of voices rose on the evening air. But Marcia could onlythink of the note she still held in her hand. 

"Can you come and see me? to-night--at once. Don't bring anybody. I amalarmed about my husband. Mr. Edward is away till to-morrow. --ALICE BETTS. "

This sudden appeal to her had produced in Marcia a profound intensity offeeling. She thought of Coryston's "Take care!"--and trembled. Edward wouldnot be home till the following day. She must act alone--help alone. Thethought braced her will. Her mother would be no use--but she wished she hadthought of asking Sir Wilfrid to come with her.... 

The car turned into the field lane leading to the farm. The wind hadstrengthened, and during all the latter part of her drive heavy clouds hadbeen rising from the west, and massing themselves round the declining sun. The quality of the light had changed, and the air had grown colder. 

"Looks like a storm, miss, " said the young chauffeur, a lad just promotedto driving, and the son of the Coryston head gardener. As he spoke, a mancame out of a range of buildings on the farther side of a field and pausedto look at the motor. He was carrying something in his arms--Marciathought, a lamb. The sight of the lady in the car seemed to excite hisastonishment, but after a moment or two's observation he turned abruptlyround the corner of the building behind him and disappeared. 

"That's the place, miss, where they try all the new foods, " the chauffeurcontinued, eagerly, --"and that's Mr. Betts. He's just wonderful with thebeasts. "

"You know the farm, Jackson?"

"Oh, father's great friends with Mr. Betts, " said the youth, proudly. "And I've often come over with him of a Sunday. Mr. Betts is a very nicegentleman. He'll show you everything. "

At which point, however, with a conscious look, and a blush, the young manfell silent. Marcia wondered how much he knew. Probably not much less thanshe did, considering the agitation in the neighborhood. 

They motored slowly toward the farm-house, an old building with modernadditions and a small garden round it, standing rather nakedly on the edgeof the famous checkered field, a patchwork quilt of green, yellow, andbrown, which Marcia had often passed on her drives without understanding inthe least what it meant. About a stone's-throw from the front door rose asubstantial one-storied building, and, seeing Miss Coryston glance at itcuriously, Jackson was again eager to explain:

"That's the laboratory, miss--His lordship built that six years ago. Andlast year there was a big meeting here. Father and I come over to thespeeches--and they gave Mr. Betts a gold medal--and there was an Americangentleman who spoke--and he said as how this place of Mr. Betts--next tothat place, Harpenden way--Rothamsted, I think they call it--was most'ighly thought of in the States--and Mr. Betts had done fine. And that'sthe cattle-station over there, miss, where they fattens 'em, and weighs'em. And down there's the drainage field where they gathers all the waterthat's been through the crops, when they've manured 'em--and the mangelfield--and--"

"Mind that gate, Jackson, " said Marcia. The youth silenced, looked to hissteering, and brought the motor up safely to the door of the farm. 

A rather draggled maid-servant answered Marcia's ring, examined herfurtively, and showed her into the little drawing-room. Marcia stood at thewindow, looking out. She saw the motor disappearing toward the garage whichshe understood was to be found somewhere on the premises. The storm wasdrawing nearer; the rising grounds to the west were in black shadow--but onthe fields and scattered buildings in front, wild gleams were striking nowhere, now there. How trim everything was!--how solid and prosperous. Thegreat cattle-shed on the one hand--the sheep-station on the other, with itspens and hurdles--the fine stone-built laboratory--the fields stretching tothe distance. 

She turned to the room in which she stood. Nothing trim or solid there! Afoundation indeed of simple things, the chairs and tables of a bachelor'sroom, over which a tawdry taste had gone rioting. Draperies of "art"muslin; photographs in profusion--of ladies in very low dresses andaffected poses, with names and affectionate messages written across thecorners;--a multitude of dingy knick-knacks; above the mantelpiece a largecolored photograph of Mrs. Betts herself as Ariel; clothes lying about;muddy shoes; the remains of a meal: Marcia looked at the medley with quickrepulsion, the wave of feeling dropping. 

The door opened. A small figure in a black dress entered softly, closed thedoor behind her, and stood looking at Miss Coryston. Marcia was at firstbewildered. She had only seen Mrs. Betts once before, in her outdoorthings, and the impression left had been of a red-eyed, disheveled, excitable woman, dressed in shabby finery, the sort of person who wouldnaturally possess such a sitting-room as that in which they stood. And herewas a woman austerely simple in dress and calm in manner! The black gown, without an ornament of any kind, showed the still lovely curves of theslight body, and the whiteness of the arms and hands. The face was quiet, of a dead pallor; the hair gathered loosely together and held in place by acouple of combs, was predominantly gray, and there had been no effort thistime to disguise the bareness of the temples, or the fresh signs of agegraven round eyes and lips. 

For the first time the quick sense of the girl perceived that Mrs. Bettswas or had been a beautiful woman. By what dramatic instinct did she thuspresent herself for this interview? A wretched actress on the boards, didshe yet possess some subtle perception which came into play at this crisisof her own personal life?

"It was very kind of you to come, Miss Coryston. " She pushed forward achair. "Won't you sit down? I'm ashamed of this room. I apologize for it. "She looked round it with a gesture of weary disgust, and then at Marcia, who stood in flushed agitation, the heavy cloak she had worn in the motorfalling back from her shoulders and her white dress, the blue motor veilframing the brilliance of her eyes and cheeks. 

"I musn't sit down, thank you--I can't stay long, " said the girl, hurriedly. "Will you tell me why you sent for me? I came at once. But mymother, when she comes home, will wonder where I am. "

Without answering immediately, Mrs. Betts moved to the window, and lookedout into the darkening landscape, and the trees already bending to thegusts which precede the storm. 

"Did you see my husband as you came?" she asked, turning slightly. 

"Yes. He was carrying something. He saw me, but I don't think he knew who Iwas. "

"He never came home last night at all, " said Mrs. Betts, looking away againout of the window. "He wandered about the fields and the sheds all night. I looked out just as it was getting light, and saw him walking about amongthe wheat plots, sometimes stopping to look, and sometimes making a notein his pocket-book, as he does when he's going his rounds. And at fouro'clock, when I looked again, he was coming out of the cattle-shed, withsomething in his hand, which he took into the laboratory. I saw him unlockthe door of the laboratory and I bent out of my window, and tried to callhim. But he never looked my way, and he stayed there till the sun was up. Then I saw him again outside, and I went out and brought him in. But hewouldn't take any rest even then. He went into the office and began towrite. I took him some tea, and then--"

The speaker's white face quivered for the first time. She came to Marciaand laid both hands on the girl's arm. 

"He told me he was losing his memory and his mind. He thought he had neverquite got over his illness before he went to Colwyn Bay--and now it wasthis trouble which had done for him. He had told Mr. Edward he would go toCanada--but he knew he never should. They wouldn't want a man so brokenup. He could never begin any new work--his life was all in this place. Sothen--"

The tears began quietly to overflow the large blue eyes looking intoMarcia's. Mrs. Betts took no notice of them. They fell on the bosom of herdress; and presently Marcia timidly put up her own handkerchief, and wipedthem away, unheeded. 

"So then I told him I had better go. I had brought him nothing but trouble, and I wasn't worth it. He was angry with me for saying it. I should neverleave him--never--he said--but I must go away then because he had lettersto write. And I was just going, when he came after me, and--and--he took mein his arms and carried me up-stairs and laid me on the bed and covered meup warmly. Then he stayed a little while at the foot of the bed looking atme, and saying queer things to himself--and at last he went down-stairs.... All day he has been out and about the farm. He has never spoken to me. Themen say he's so strange--they don't like to leave him alone--but he drivesthem away when they go to speak to him. And when he didn't come in all day, I sat down and wrote to you--"

She paused, mechanically running her little hand up and down the front ofMarcia's cloak. 

"I don't know anybody here. John's lots of friends--but they're not myfriends--and even when they're sorry for us--they know--what I've done--andthey don't want to have much to do with me. You said you'd speak for us toMr. Edward--and I know you did--Mr. Edward told John so. You've been kinderto me than any one else here. So I just wanted to tell _you_--whatI'm going to do. I'm going away--I'm going right away. John won't know, nobody'll know where I'm gone. But I want you to tell Mr. Newbury--and gethim and Lord William to be kind to John--as they used to be. He'll get overit--by and by!"

Then, straightening herself, she drew herself away. 

"I'm not going to the Sisterhood!" she said, defiantly. "I'd sooner die!You may tell Mr. Newbury I'll live my own life--and I've got my boy. Johnwon't find me--I'll take care of that. But if I'm not fit for decent peopleto touch--there's plenty like me. I'll not cringe to anybody--I'll go whereI'm welcome. So now you understand, don't you--what I wanted to ask you?"

"No indeed I don't, " cried Marcia, in distress. "And you won't--you sha'n'tdo anything so mad! Please--please, be patient!--I'll go again to Mr. Newbury. I shall see him to-morrow!"

Mrs. Betts shook her head. "No use--no use. It's the only thing to do forme to take myself off. And no one can stop it. If you were to tell Johnnow, just what I've said, it wouldn't make any difference. He couldn't stopme. I'm going!--that's settled. But _he_ sha'n't go. He's got to takeup his work here again. And Mr. Edward must persuade him--and look afterhim--and watch him. What's their religion good for, if it can't do that?Oh, how I _hate_ their religion!"

Her eyes lit up with passion; whatever touch of acting there might havebeen in her monologue till now, this rang fiercely true:

"Haven't I good reason?" Her hands clenched at the words. "It's that whichhas come between us, as well as the farm. Since he's been back here, it'sthe old ideas that have got hold of him again. He thinks he's in mortalsin--he thinks he's damned--and yet he won't--he can't give me up. My poorold John!--We were so happy those few weeks!--why couldn't they leaveus alone!--That hard old man, Lord William!--and Mr. Edward--who's gotyou--and everything he wants besides in the world! There--now I supposeyou'll turn against me too!"

She stood superbly at bay, her little body drawn up against the wall, herhead thrown back. To her own dismay, Marcia found herself sobbing--againsther will. 

"I'm not against you. Indeed--indeed--I'm not against you! You'll see. I'llgo again to Mr. Newbury--I promise you! He's not hard--he's not cruel--he'snot!... "

"Hush!" said Mrs. Berts, suddenly, springing forward--"there he is!" Andtrembling all over, she pointed to the figure of her husband, standing justoutside the window and looking in upon them. Thunder had been rumblinground the house during the whole of this scene, and now the rain hadbegun. It beat on the bare grizzled head of John Betts, and upon hisweather-beaten cheeks and short beard. 

His expression sent a shudder through Marcia. He seemed to be looking atthem--and yet not conscious of them; his tired eyes met hers, and made nosign. With a slight puzzled gesture he turned away, back into the peltingrain, his shoulders bent, his step faltering and slow. 

"Oh! go after him!" said Marcia, imploringly. "Don't trouble about me! I'llfind the motor. Go! Take my cloak!" She would have wrapped it round Mrs. Betts and pushed her to the door. But the woman stopped her. 

"No good. He wouldn't listen to me. I'll get one of the men to bring himin. And the servant'll go for your motor. " She went out of the room to givethe order, and came back. Then as she saw Marcia under the storm light, standing in the middle of the room, and struggling with her tears, shesuddenly fell on her knees beside the girl, embracing her dress, withstifled sobs and inarticulate words of thanks. 

"Make them do something for John. It doesn't matter about me. Let themcomfort John. Then I'll forgive them. "

CHAPTER XIII

Marion Atherstone sat sewing in the cottage garden. Uncertain weather hadleft the grass wet, and she had carried her work-table into the shelter ofa small summer-house, whence the whole plain, drawn in purple and blue onthe pale grounding of its chalk soil, could be seen--east, west, and north. Serried ranks, line above line, of purplish cloud girded the horizon, eachcircle of the great amphitheater rising from its shadowy foundations intopearly white and shining gray, while the topmost series of all soared insnowy majesty upon a sea of blue, above the far-spread woods and fields. From these hills, the Dane in his high clearings had looked out upon theunbroken forests below, and John Hampden had ridden down with his yeomen tofind death at Chalgrove Field. 

Marion was an Englishwoman to the core; and not ill-read. From this postof hers, she knew a hundred landmarks, churches, towns, hills, which spokesignificantly of Englishmen and their doings. But one white patch, inparticular, on an upland not three miles from the base of the hills, drewback her eyes and thoughts perpetually. 

The patch was Knatchett, and she was thinking of Lord Coryston. She had notseen him for a fortnight; though a stout packet of his letters lay within, in a drawer reserved to things she valued; but she was much afraid that, asusual, he had been the center of stormy scenes in the north, and had comeback embittered in spirit. And now, since he had returned, there had beenthis defiance of Lady Coryston, and this planting of the Baptist flag underthe very tower of the old church of Coryston Major. Marion Atherstone shookher head over it, in spite of the humorous account of the defeat of LadyCoryston which her father had given to the Chancellor, at their littledinner of the night before; and those deep laughs which had shaken theample girth of Glenwilliam. 

... Ah!--the blind was going up. Marion had her eyes on a particular windowin the little house to her right. It was the window of Enid Glenwilliam'sroom. Though the church clock below had struck eleven, and the bell formorning service had ceased to ring, Miss Glenwilliam was not yet outof bed. Marion had stayed at home from church that she might enjoy herfriend's society, and the friend had only just been called. Well, it wasEnid's way; and after all, who could wonder? The excitement of that hugemeeting of the night before was still tingling even in Marion's quietConservative veins. She had not been carried away by Glenwilliam'seloquence at all; she had thought him a wonderful, tawdry, false man ofgenius, not unlikely to bring himself and England to ruin. All the same, hemust be an exhausting man for a daughter to live with; and a daughter whoadored him. She did not grudge Enid her rest. 

Ah, there was the little gate opening! Somehow she had expected theopener--though he had disappeared abruptly from the meeting the nightbefore, and had given no promise that he would come. 

Coryston walked up the garden path, looking about him suspiciously. Atsight of Marion he took off his cap; she gave him her hand, and he sat downbeside her. 

"Nobody else about? What a blessing!"

She looked at him with mild reproach. 

"My father and the Chancellor are gone for a walk. Enid is not yet down. "

"Why? She is perfectly well. If she were a workman's wife and had to get upat six o'clock, get his breakfast and wash the children, it would do her aworld of good. "

"How do you know? You are always judging people, and it helps nothing. "

"Yes, it does. One must form opinions--or burst. I can tell you, I judgedGlenwilliam last night, as I sat listening to him. "

"Father thought it hardly one of his best speeches, " said Marion, cautiously. 

"Sheer wallowing claptrap, wasn't it! I was ashamed of him, and sick ofLiberalism, as I sat there. I'll go and join the Primrose League. "

Marion lifted her blue eyes and laughed--with her finger on her lip. 

"Hush! She might hear. " She pointed to the half-open window on the firstfloor. 

"And a good thing too, " growled Coryston. "She adores him--and makeshim worse. Why can't he _work_ at these things--or why can't hissecretaries prime him decently! He makes blunders that would disgrace anundergraduate--and doesn't care a rap--so long as a hall-full of foolscheer him. "

"You usen't to talk like this!"

"No--because I had illusions, " was the sharp reply. "Glenwilliam was one ofthem. Land!--what does he know about land?--what does a miner--who won'tlearn!--know about farming? Why, that man--that fellow, John Betts"--hepointed to the Hoddon Grey woods on the edge of the plain--"whom theNewburys are driving out of his job, because he picked a woman out of thedirt--just like these Christians!--John Betts knows more about land in hislittle finger than Glenwilliam's whole body! Yet, if you saw them together, you'd see Glenwilliam patronizing and browbeating him, and Betts notallowed a look in. I'm sick of it! I'm off to Canada with Betts. "

Marion looked up. 

"I thought it was to be the Primrose League. "

"You like catching me out, " said Coryston, grimly. "But I assure you I'mpretty downhearted. "

"You expect too much, " said Marion, softly, distressed as she spoke, tonotice his frayed collar and cuffs, and the tear in his coat pocket. "And, "she added, firmly, "you should make Mrs. Potifer mend your coat. "

"She's another disillusion. She's idle and dirty. And Potifer never doesa stroke of work if he can help it. Moral--don't bother your head aboutmartyrs. There's generally some excellent reason for martyrizing them. "

He broke off--looking at her with a clouded brow. 

"Marion!"

She turned with a start, the color flooding her plain, pleasant face. 

"Yes, Lord Coryston!"

"If you're so critical of my clothes, why don't you come and look afterthem and me?"

She gasped--then recovered herself. 

"I've never been asked, " she said, quietly. 

"Asked! Haven't you been scolding and advising me for weeks? Is there adetail of my private or public life that you don't meddle with--as itpleases you? Half a dozen times a day when I'm with you, you make mefeel myself a fool or a brute. And then I go home and write you abjectletters--and apologize--and explain. Do you think I'd do it for any otherwoman in the world? Do you dare to say you don't know what it means?"

He brought his threatening face closer to hers, his blue eyes one fieryaccusation. Marion resumed her work, her lip twitching. 

"I didn't know I was both a busybody--and a Pharisee!"

"Hypocrite!" he said, with energy. His hand leaped out and captured hers. But she withdrew it. 

"My dear friend--if you wish to resume this conversation--it must be atanother time. I haven't been able to tell you before, I didn't knowit myself till late last night, when Enid told me. Your mother--LadyCoryston--will be here in half an hour--to see Enid. "

He stared. 

"My mother! So _that's_ what she's been up to!"

"She seems to have asked Enid some days ago for an interview. My father'staken Mr. Glenwilliam out of the way, and I shall disappear shortly. "

"And what the deuce is going to happen?"

Marion replied that she had no idea. Enid had certainly been seeing a greatdeal of Arthur Coryston; London, her father reported, was full of talk; andMiss Atherstone thought that from his manner the Chancellor knew very wellwhat was going on. 

"And can't stick it?" cried Coryston, his eyes shining. "Glenwilliam hashis faults, but I don't believe he'll want Arthur for a son-in-law--evenwith the estates. And of course he has no chance of getting both Arthur andthe estates. "

"Because of your mother?"

Coryston nodded. "So there's another strong man--a real big'un!--dependent, like Arthur and me--on the whim of a woman. It'll doGlenwilliam nothing but good. He belongs to a class that's too fond ofbeating its wives. Well, well--so my mother's coming!" He glanced round thelittle house and garden. "Look here!" He bent forward peremptorily. "You'llsee that Miss Glenwilliam treats her decently?"

Marion's expression showed a certain bewilderment. 

"I wouldn't trust that girl!" Coryston went on, with vehemence. "She's gotsomething cruel in her eyes. "

"Cruel! Why, Lady Coryston's coming--"

"To trample on her? Of course. I know that. But any fool can see that thegame will be Miss Glenwilliam's. She'll have my mother in a cleft stick. I'm not sure I oughtn't to be somewhere about. Well, well. I'll march. Whenshall we 'resume the conversation, ' as you put it?"

He looked at her, smiling. Marion colored again, and her nervous movementupset the work-basket; balls of cotton and wool rolled upon the grass. 

"Oh!" She bent to pick them up. 

"Don't touch them!" cried Coryston. She obeyed instantly, while, on handsand knees, he gathered them up and placed them in her hand. 

"Would you like to upset them again? Do, if you like. I'll pick them up. "His eyes mocked her tenderly, and before she could reply he had seized herdisengaged hand and kissed it. Then he stood up. 

"Now I'm going. Good-by. "

"How much mischief will you get into to-day?" she asked, in a ratherstifled voice. 

"It's Sunday--so there isn't so much chance as usual. First item. " Hechecked them on his fingers. "Go to Redcross Farm, see Betts, and--ifnecessary--have a jolly row with Edward Newbury--or his papa. Second, Blow up Price--my domestic blacksmith--you know!--the socialist apostleI rescued from my mother's clutches and set up at Patchett, forge andall--blow him up sky-high, for evicting a widow woman in a cottage left himby his brother, with every circumstance of barbarity. There's a parablecalled, I believe, 'The Unjust Servant, ' which I intend to rub into him. Item, No. 3, Pitch into the gentleman who turned out the man who voted forArthur--the Radical miller--Martover gent--who's coming to see me at threethis afternoon, to ask what the deuce I mean by spreading reports abouthim. Shall have a ripping time with him!"

"Why, he's one of the Baptists who were on the platform with youyesterday. " Marion pointed to the local paper lying on the grass. 

"Don't care. Don't like Baptists, except when they're downtrodden. " Avicious kick given to a stone on the lawn emphasized the remark. "Well, good-by. Shall look in at Coryston this afternoon to see if there'sanything left of my mother. "

And off he went whistling. As he did so, the head and profile of a younglady richly adorned with red-gold hair might have been seen in the upperwindow. The owner of it was looking after Coryston. 

"Why didn't you make him stay?" said Enid Glenwilliam, composedly, asshe came out upon the lawn and took a seat on the grass in front of thesummer-house. 

"On the contrary, I sent him away. "

"By telling him whom we were expecting? Was it news to him?"

"Entirely. He hoped you would treat Lady Coryston kindly. " Then, witha sudden movement, Marion looked up from her mending, and hereyes--challenging, a little stern, --struck full on her companion. 

Enid laughed, and, settling herself into the garden chair, she straightenedand smoothed the folds of her dress, which was of a pale-blue crape andsuited her tall fairness and brilliance to perfection. 

"That's good! I shouldn't have minded his staying at all. "

"You promised to see Lady Coryston alone--and she has a right to it, " saidMarion, with emphasis. 

"Has she? I wonder if she has a right to anything?" said Enid Glenwilliam, absently, and lifting a stalk of grass, she began to chew it in silencewhile her gaze wandered over the view. 

"Have you at all made up your mind, Enid, what you are going to say?"

"How can I, till I know what _she's_ going to say?" laughed MissGlenwilliam, teasingly. 

"But of course you know perfectly well. "

"Is it so plain that no Conservative mother could endure me? But I admitit's not very likely Lady Coryston could. She is the living, distilledessence of Conservative mothers. The question is, mightn't she have to putup with me?"

"I do not believe you care for Arthur Coryston, " said Marion, with slowdecision, "and if you don't care for him you ought not to marry him. "

"Oh, but you forget a lot of things!" was the cool reply. "You simplify adeal too much. "

"Are you any nearer caring for him--really--than you were six weeks ago?"

"He's a very--nice--dear fellow. " The girl's face softened. "And it wouldbe even sweeter to dish the pack of fortune-hunting mothers who are afterhim, now, than it was six weeks ago. "

"Enid!"

"Can't help it, dear. I'm made like that. I see all the ugly shabby littlesides of it--the 'scores' I should make, the snubs I should have to put upwith, the tricks Lady Coryston would certainly play on us. How I shouldlove fighting her! In six months Arthur would be my father's privatesecretary. "

"You would despise him if he were!"

"Yes, I suppose I should. But it would be I who would write his speechesfor him then--and they'd make Lady Coryston sit up! Ah! didn't you hearsomething?"

A distant humming on the hill leading to the house became audible. 

Marion Atherstone rose. 

"It sounds like a motor. You'll have the garden quite to yourselves. I'llsee that nobody interrupts you. "

Enid nodded. But before Marion had gone half across the lawn she camequickly back again. 

"Remember, Enid, " her voice pleaded, "his mother's devoted to him. Don'tmake a quarrel between them--unless you must. " Enid smiled, and lightlykissed the face bending over her. 

"Did Lord Coryston tell you to say that?"

Marion departed, silenced. 

Enid Glenwilliam waited. While the humming noise drew nearer she liftedthe local paper from the ground and looked eagerly at the account of theMartover meeting. The paper was a Radical paper, and it had blossomedinto its biggest head-lines for the Chancellor. "Chancellor goes forthe Landlords, " "Crushing attack, " "Tories writhe under it, " "Franticapplause. "

She put it down, half contemptuous, half pleased. She had grown accustomedto the mouthings of party politics, and could not do without them. Buther brain was not taken in by them. "Father was not so good as usual lastnight, " she said to herself. "But nobody else would have been half sogood!" she added, with a fierce protectiveness. 

And in that spirit she rose to meet the stately lady in black, whom theAtherstones' maid-servant was showing across the garden. 

"Miss Glenwilliam, I believe?"

Lady Coryston paused and put up her eyeglass. Enid Glenwilliam advanced, holding out her hand. 

"How do you do, Lady Coryston?"

The tone was gay, even amused. Lady Coryston realized at once she was beingscanned by a very sharp pair of eyes, and that their owner was, or seemedto be, in no sort of embarrassment. The first advantage, indeed, had beengained by the younger woman. Lady Coryston had approached her with theformality of a stranger. Enid Glenwilliam's easy greetings suggested thatthey had already met in many drawing-rooms. 

Miss Glenwilliam offered a seat. 

"Are you afraid of the grass? We could easily go indoors. "

"Thank you. This does very well. It was very kind of you to say you wouldsee me. "

"I was delighted--of course. "

There was a moment's pause. The two women observed each other. LadyCoryston had taken Marion's chair, and sat erect upon it. Her face, withits large and still handsome features, its prominent eyes and determinedmouth, was well framed in a black hat, of which the lace strings were tiedunder her chin. Her flowing dress and scarf of some thin black material, delicately embroidered with jet, were arranged, as usual, with a view tothe only effect she ever cared to make--the effect of the great lady, incommand--clearly--of all possible resources, while far too well bred toindulge in display or ostentation. 

Enid Glenwilliam's blood had quickened, in spite of her apparent ease. Shehad taken up an ostrich-feather fan--a traditional weapon of the sex--andwaved it slowly to and fro, while she waited for her visitor to speak. 

"Miss Glenwilliam, " began Lady Coryston, "you must no doubt have thought ita strange step that I should ask you for this conversation?"

The tone of this sentence was slightly interrogative, and the girl on thegrass nodded gravely. 

"But I confess it seemed to me the best and most straightforward thing todo. I am accustomed to go to the point, when a matter has become serious;and I hate shilly-shallying. You, we all know, are very clever, and havemuch experience of the world. You will, I am sure, prefer that I should befrank. "

"Certainly, " smiled Enid, "if I only knew what the matter was!"

Lady Coryston's tone became a trifle colder. 

"That I should have thought was obvious. You have been seeing a great dealof my son, Miss Glenwilliam; your--your friendship with him has been veryconspicuous of late; and I have it from himself that he is in love withyou, and either has asked you, or will ask you, to marry him. "

"He has asked me several times, " said the girl, quietly. Then, suddenly, she laughed. "I came away with my father this week-end, that I might, ifpossible, prevent his asking me again. "

"Then you have refused him?" The voice was indiscreetly eager. 

"So far. "

"So far? May I ask--does that mean that you yourself are still undecided?"

"I have as yet said nothing final to him. "

Lady Coryston paused a few seconds, to consider the look presented to her, and then said, with emphasis:

"If that is so, it is fortunate that we are able to have this talk--at thismoment. For I wish, before you take any final decision, to lay before youwhat the view of my son's family must inevitably be of such a marriage. "

"The view of Lord Coryston and yourself?" said Miss Glenwilliam, in hermost girlish voice. 

"My son Coryston and I have at present no interests in common, " was LadyCoryston's slightly tart reply. "That, I should have thought, consideringhis public utterances, and the part which I have always taken in politics, was sufficiently evident. "

Her companion, without speaking, bent over the sticks of the fan, which herlong fingers were engaged in straightening. 

"No! When I speak of the family, " resumed Lady Coryston, "I must for thepresent, unfortunately, look upon myself as the only sure guardian of itstraditions; but that I intend to be--while I live. And I can only regarda marriage between my son and yourself as undesirable--not only for myson--but first and foremost, Miss Glenwilliam, for yourself. "

"And why?"

Laying down the fan upon her knee, the young lady now applied her nimblefingers to smoothing the white and curling tips of the feathers. 

The color rushed into Lady Coryston's lightly wrinkled cheeks. 

"Because it rarely or never answers that persons from such differentworlds, holding such different opinions, and with such differentantecedents, should marry, " she said, firmly. "Because I could not welcomeyou as a daughter--and because a marriage with you would disastrouslyaffect the prospects of my son. "

"I wonder what you mean by 'such different worlds, '" said Miss Glenwilliam, with what seemed an innocent astonishment. "Arthur and I always go to thesame dances. "

Lady Coryston's flush deepened angrily. She had some difficulty in keepingher voice in order. 

"I think you understand what I mean. I don't wish to be the least rude. "

"Of course not. But--is it my birth, or my poverty, that you most dislike?"

"Poverty has nothing to do with it--nothing at all. I have never consideredmoney in connection with Arthur's marriage, and never shall. "

"Because you have so much of it?" Lifting her broad, white brow from thefan on her knee, Enid turned the astonishing eyes beneath it on the ladyin black sitting beside her. And for the first time the lady in black wasconscious of the malice lurking in the soft voice of the speaker. 

"That, perhaps, would be your way of explaining it. In any case, I repeat, money has nothing to do with the present case. But, Miss Glenwilliam, myson belongs to a family that has fought for its convictions. "

At this the younger lady shot a satiric glance at the elder, which for themoment interrupted a carefully prepared sentence. 

Enid was thinking of a casual remark of her father's made that morning atbreakfast: "Oh yes, the Corystons are an old family. They were Whigs aslong as there were any bones to pick on that side. Then Pitt bought thefirst Lord Coryston--in his earliest batch of peers--with the title and afat post--something to do with the navy. That was the foundation of theirmoney--then came the Welsh coal--et cetera. "

But she kept her recollections to herself. Lady Coryston went on:

"We have stood for generations for certain principles. We are proud ofthem. My husband died in them. I have devoted my life to them. They arethe principles of the Conservative party. Our eldest son, as of course youknow, departed from them. My dear husband did not flinch; and instead ofleaving the estates to Coryston, he left them to me--as trustee for thepolitical faith he believed in; that faith of which your father hasbeen--excuse my frankness, it is really best for us both--and is now--theprincipal enemy! I then had to decide, when I was left a widow, to whom theestates were to go on my death. Painful as it was, I decided that my trustdid not allow me to leave them to Coryston. I made Arthur my heir threemonths ago. "

"How very interesting!" said the listener, behind the fan. Lady Corystoncould not see her face. 

"But it is only fair to him and to you, " Arthur's mother continued, withincreased deliberation, "that I should say frankly, now that this crisishas arisen, that if you and Arthur marry, it is impossible that Arthurshould inherit his father's estates. A fresh disposition of them will haveto be made. "

Enid Glenwilliam dropped the fan and looked up. Her color had gone. 

"Because--Lady Coryston--I am my father's daughter?"

"Because you would bring into our family principles wholly at variance withour traditions--and I should be false to my trust if I allowed it. " Theconscious dignity of pose and voice fitted the solemnity of these finalwords. 

There was a slight pause. 

"Then--if Arthur married me--he would be a pauper?" said the girl, bendingforward. 

"He has a thousand a year. "

"That's very disturbing! I shall have to consider everything again. "

Lady Coryston moved nervously. 

"I don't understand you. "

"What I _couldn't_ have done, Lady Coryston--would have been to comeinto Arthur's family as in any way dependent on his mother!"

The girl's eyes shone. Lady Coryston had also paled. 

"I couldn't of course expect that you would have any friendly feelingtoward me, " she said, after a moment. 

"No--you couldn't--you couldn't indeed!"

Enid Glenwilliam sprang up, entered the summer-house, and stood over hervisitor, lightly leaning forward, her hands supporting her on a rustictable that stood between them, her breath fluttering. 

"Yes--perhaps now I could marry him--perhaps now I could!" she repeated. "So long as I wasn't your dependent--so long as we had a free life of ourown--and knew exactly where we stood, with nothing to fear or to hope--thesituation might be faced. We might hope, too--father and I--to bring_our_ ideas and _our_ principles to bear upon Arthur. I believehe would adopt them. He has never had any ideas of his own. You have madehim take yours! But of course it seems inconceivable to you that we shouldset any store by _our_ principles. You think all I want is money. Well, I am like anybody else. I know the value of money. I like money andluxury, and pretty things. I have been sorely tempted to let Arthur marryme as he has once or twice proposed, at the nearest registry office, andpresent you next day with the _fait accompli_--to take or leave. Ibelieve you would have surrendered to the _fait accompli_--yes, Ibelieve you would! Arthur was convinced that, after sulking a little, youwould forgive him. Well, but then--I looked forward--to the months--oryears--in which I should be courting--flattering--propitiating you--givingup my own ideas, perhaps, to take yours--turning my back on my father--onmy old friends--on my party--for _money_! Oh yes, I should be quitecapable of it. At least, I dare say I should. And I just funked it! I hadthe grace--the conscience--to funk it. I apologize for the slang--I can'texpress it any other way. And now you come and say: 'Engage yourself tohim--and I'll disinherit him _at once_. That makes the thing lookclean and square!--that tempts the devil in one, or the angel--I don'tknow which. I like Arthur. I should get a great many social advantages bymarrying him, whatever you may do or say; and a thousand a year to me looksa great deal more than it does to you. But then, you see, my father beganlife as a pit-boy--Yes, I think it might be done!"

The speaker raised herself to her full height, and stood with her handsbehind her, gazing at Lady Coryston. 

In the eyes of that poor lady the Chancellor's daughter had suddenlyassumed the aspect of some glittering, avenging fate. At last Lady Corystonunderstood something of the power, the spell, there was in this girlfor whom her son had deserted her; at last she perceived, despairinglyperceived, her strange beauty. The long thin mouth, now breathing scorn, the short chin, and prominent cheekbones denied Enid Glenwilliam anyconventional right indeed to that great word. But the loveliness of theeyes and hair, of the dark brows, sustaining the broad and delicateforehead, the pale rose and white of the skin, the setting of the head, herwonderful tallness and slenderness, these, instinct as the whole womanwas, at the moment, with a passion of defiance, made of her a dazzling andformidable creature. Lady Coryston beheld her father in her; she seemed tofeel the touch, the terror of Glenwilliam. 

Bewilderment and unaccustomed weakness overtook Lady Coryston. It was somemoments before, under the girl's threatening eyes, she could speak at all. Then she said, with difficulty:

"You may marry my son, Miss Glenwilliam--but you do not love him! That isperfectly plain. You are prepared none the less, apparently, to wreck hishappiness and mine, in order--"

"I don't love him? Ah! that's another story altogether! Do I love him? Idon't know. Honestly, I don't know. I don't believe I am as capable offalling in love as other girls are--or say they are. I like him, and get onwith him--and I might marry him; I might--have--married him, " she repeated, slowly, "partly to have the sweetness, Lady Coryston, of punishing you forthe slight you offered my father!--and partly for other things. But yousee--now I come to think of it--there is some one else to be considered--"

The girl dropped into a chair, and looked across the table at her visitor, with a sudden change of mood and voice. 

"You say you won't have it, Lady Coryston. Well, that doesn't decide it forme--and it wouldn't decide it for Arthur. But there's some one else won'thave it. "

A pause. Miss Glenwilliam took up the fan again and played withit--considering. 

"My father came to my room last night, " she said, at last, "in order tospeak to me about it. 'Enid, ' he said, 'don't marry that man! He's a goodenough fellow--but he'll drive a wedge into our life. We can't find a usefor him--you and I. He'll divide us, my girl--and it isn't worth it--youdon't love him!' And we had a long talk--and at last I told him--Iwouldn't--I _wouldn't_! So you see, Lady Coryston, if I don't marryyour son, it's not because you object--but because my father--whom youinsulted--doesn't wish me to enter your family--doesn't approve of amarriage with your son--and has persuaded me against it. "

Lady Coryston stared into the face of the speaker, and quailed before theflash of something primitive and savage in the eyes that met her own. Underthe sting of it, however, she found a first natural and moving word, as sheslowly rose from her seat. 

"You love your father, Miss Glenwilliam. You might remember that I, too, love my son--and there was never a rough word between us till he knew you. "

She wavered a little, gathering up her dress. And the girl perceived thatshe had grown deadly white, and was suddenly ashamed of her own vehemence. She too rose. 

"I'm sorry, Lady Coryston. I've been a brute. But when I think of myfather, and those who hate him, I see red. I had no business to say some ofthe things I have said. But it's no good apologizing. Let me, however, justsay this: Please be careful, Lady Coryston, about your son. He's in lovewith me--and I'm very, _very_ sorry for him. Let me write to himfirst--before you speak to him. I'll write--as kindly as I can. But I warnyou--it'll hurt him--and he may visit it on you--for all I can say. Whenwill he be at Coryston?"

"To-night. "

"I will send a letter over to-morrow morning. Is your car waiting?"

They moved across the lawn together, not speaking a word. Lady Corystonentered the car. Enid Glenwilliam made her a low bow, almost a curtsey, which the elder lady acknowledged; and the car started. 

Enid came back to the summer-house, sat down by the table, and buried herface in her hands. 

After a little while a hurried step was heard approaching the summer-house. She looked up and saw her father. The Chancellor's burly form filled up thedoor of the little house. His dark, gipsy face looked down with amusementupon his daughter. 

"Well, Enid, how did you get through? Did she trample on you--did shescratch and spit? I wager she got as good as she gave? Why, what's thematter, my girl? Are you upset?"

Enid got up, struggling for composure. 

"I--I behaved like a perfect fiend. "

"Did you?" The Chancellor's laughter filled the summer-house. "The oldharridan! At last somebody has told her the truth. The idea of her breakingin upon you here!--to threaten you, I suppose, with all sorts of pains andpenalties, if you married her precious son. You gave her what for. Why, Enid, what's the matter--don't be a fool, my dear! You don't regret him?"

"No. " He put his arm tenderly round her, and she leaned against him. Suddenly she drew herself up and kissed him. 

"I shall never marry, father. It's you and I, isn't it, against the world?"

"Half the world, " said Glenwilliam, laughing. "There's a jolly big half onour side, my dear, and lots of good fellows in it for you to marry. " Helooked at her with proud affection. 

She shook her head, slipped her hand in his, and they walked back to thehouse together. 

CHAPTER XIV

The state of mind in which Lady Coryston drove home from the Atherstones'cottage would have seemed to most people unreasonable. She hadobtained--apparently--everything for which she had set out, and yet thereshe was, smarting and bruised through all her being, like one who hassuffered intolerable humiliation and defeat. A woman of her type and classis so well sheltered as a rule from the roughnesses of life, so accustomedto the deference of their neighbors, that to be handled as Enid Glenwilliamhad handled her victim, destroys for the time nerve and self-respect. LadyCoryston felt as if she had been physically as well as morally beaten, andcould not get over it. She sat, white and shaken, in the darkness of aclosed motor, the prey to strange terrors. She would not see Arthur thatnight! He was only to return late, and she would not risk it. She must havea night's rest, indeed, before grappling with him. She was not herself, andthe violence of that extraordinary girl had upset her. Conscious of a veryrapid pulse, she remembered for a moment, unwillingly, certain warningsthat her doctor had given her before she left town--"You are overtaxingyourself, Lady Coryston--and you badly want a rest. " Pure nonsense! Shecame of a long-lived stock, persons of sound hearts and lungs, who nevercoddled themselves. All the same, she shrank physically, instinctively, from the thought of any further emotion or excitement that day--till shehad had a good night. She now remembered that she had had practically nosleep the preceding night. Indeed, ever since the angry scene with Arthur afortnight before, she had been conscious of bodily and mental strain. 

Which perhaps accounted for the feeling of irritation with which sheperceived the figure of her daughter standing on the steps of CorystonHouse beside Sir Wilfrid Bury. Marcia had come to her that morning withsome tiresome story about the Newburys and the divorced woman Mrs. Betts. How could she think of such things, when her mind was full of Arthur? Girlsreally should be more considerate. 

The car drew up at the steps, and Marcia and Sir Wilfrid awaited it. Evenpreoccupied as she was, Lady Coryston could not help noticing that Marciawas subdued and silent. She asked her mother no questions, and afterhelping Lady Coryston to alight, she went quickly into the house. Itvaguely crossed the mother's mind that her daughter was depressed orannoyed--perhaps with her? But she could not stop to think about it. 

Sir Wilfrid, however, followed Lady Coryston into the drawing-room. 

"What have you been doing?" he asked her, smiling, taking the liberty of anold friend and co-executor. "I think I guess!"

She looked at him somberly. 

"She won't marry him! But not a word to Arthur, please--not a word!--till Igive you leave. I have gone through--a great deal. "

Her look of weakness and exhaustion did indeed strike him painfully. He putout his hand and pressed hers. 

"Well, so far, so good, " he said, gravely. "It must be a great relief toyour mind. " Then in another and a lower tone he added, "Poor old boy!"

Lady Coryston made no reply except to say that she must get ready forluncheon. She left the room just as Sir Wilfrid perceived a rider on a bayhorse approaching through the park, and recognized Edward Newbury. 

"Handsome fellow!" he thought, as he watched him from the window; "and sitshis horse uncommonly well. Why doesn't that girl fly to meet him? They usedto in my days. "

But Newbury dismounted with only a footman to receive him, and Marcia didnot appear till the gong had rung for luncheon. 

Sir Wilfrid's social powers were severely taxed to keep that meal going. Lady Coryston sat almost entirely silent and ate nothing. Marcia too atelittle and talked less. Newbury indeed had arrived in radiant spirits, bringing a flamboyant account of Marcia's trousseau which he had extractedfrom a weekly paper, and prepared to tease her thereon. But he couldscarcely get the smallest rise out of her, and presently he, too, fellsilent, throwing uneasy glances at her from time to time. Her black hairand eyes were more than usually striking, by contrast with a very simpleand unadorned white dress; but for beauty, her face required animation;it could be all but plain in moments of languor or abstraction; and SirWilfrid marveled that a girl's secret instinct did not save her frompresenting herself so unattractively to her lover. 

Newbury, it appeared, had spent the preceding night in what Sir Wilfridobstinately called a "monkery"--_alias_ the house of an Anglicanbrotherhood or Community--the Community of the Ascension, of whichNewbury's great friend, Father Brierly, was Superior. In requital forNewbury's teasing of Marcia, Sir Wilfrid would have liked to tease Newburya little on the subject of the "monkery. " But Newbury most dexterouslyevaded him. He would laugh, but not at the hosts he had just quitted; andthrough all his bantering good temper there could be felt the throb of somedeep feeling which was not allowed to express itself. "Damned queer eyes!"was Bury's inward comment, as he happened once to observe Newbury's faceduring a pause of silence. "Half in a dream all the time--even when thefellow's looking at his sweetheart. "

After luncheon Marcia made a sign, and she and Newbury slipped away. Theywandered out beyond the lake into a big wood, where great pools of pinkwillow-herb, in its open spaces, caught the light as it struck through thegray trunks of the beeches. Newbury found a seat for Marcia on a fallentrunk, and threw himself beside her. The world seemed to have been allwashed by the thunder-storm of the night before; the odors of grass, earth, and fern were steaming out into the summer air. The wood was alive with thehum of innumerable insects, which had become audible and dominant with thegradual silencing of the birds. In the half-cut hay-fields the machinesstood at rest; rarely, an interlaced couple could be dimly seen for amoment on some distant footpath of the park; sometimes a partridge calledor a jay screamed; otherwise a Sabbath stillness--as it seemed to Marcia, aSabbath dreariness--held the scene. 

Newbury put up his arms, drew her down to him, and kissed her passionately. She yielded; but it was more yielding than response; and again he wasconscious of misgiving as at luncheon. 

"Darling!--is there anything wrong--anything that troubles you?" he said, anxiously. "Do you think I've forgotten you for one moment, while I've beenaway?"

"Yes; while you were asleep. " She smiled shyly, while her fingers caressedhis. 

"Wrong--quite wrong! I dreamed of you both nights. And oh, dearest, Ithought of you last night. "

"Where--when?" Her voice was low--a little embarrassed. 

"In chapel--the chapel at Blackmount--at Benediction. "

She looked puzzled. 

"What is Benediction?"

"A most beautiful service, though of late origin--which, like fools, wehave let the Romans monopolize. The Bishops bar it, but in private chapelslike our own, or Blackmount, they can't interfere. To me, yesterdayevening"--his voice fell--"it was like the gate of heaven. I longed to haveyou there. "

She made no reply. Her brow knitted a little. He went on:

"Of course a great deal of what is done at places like Blackmount is notrecognized--yet. To some of the services--to Benediction for instance--thepublic is not admitted. But the brothers keep every rule--of the strictestobservance. I was present last night at the recitation of the NightOffice--most touching--most solemn! And--my darling!"--he pressed her handwhile his face lit up--"I want to ask you--though I hardly dare. Would yougive me--would you give me the greatest joy you could give me, before ourmarriage? Father Brierly--my old friend--would give us both Communion, onthe morning of our wedding--in the little chapel of the Brotherhood, in RedStreet, Soho--just us two alone. Would it be too much for you, too tiring?"His voice was tenderness itself. "I would come for you at halfpast seven--nobody but your mother would know. And thenafterward--afterward!--we will go through with the great ceremony--and thecrowds--and the bridesmaids. Your mother tells me it's to be Henry theSeventh's chapel--isn't it? But first, we shall have received our Lord, wetwo alone, into our hearts--to feed upon Him, forever!"

There was silence. He had spoken with an imploring gentleness and humility, yet nevertheless with a tender confidence which did not escape thelistener. And again a sudden terror seized on Marcia--as though behind thelover, she perceived something priestly, directive, compelling--somethingthat threatened her very self. She drew herself back. 

"Edward!--ought you--to take things for granted about me--like this?"

His face, with its "illuminated, " exalted look, scarcely changed. 

"I don't take anything for granted, dearest. I only put it before you. Italked it over with Brierly--he sent you a message--"

"But I don't know him!" cried Marcia. "And I don't know that I want to knowhim. I'm not sure I think as you do, Edward. You assume that I do--butindeed--indeed--my mind is often in confusion--great confusion--I don'tknow what to think--about many things. "

"The Church decides for us, darling--that is the great comfort--the greatstrength. "

"But what Church? Everybody chooses his own, it seems to me! And you knowthat that Roman priest who was at Hoddon Grey the other day thinks you justas much in the wrong as--well, as he'd think me!--_me_, even!" Shegave a little tremulous laugh. Then, with a quick movement she sat erect. Her great, dark eyes fixed him eagerly. "And Edward, I've got somethingso different, so very different to talk to you about! I've been sounhappy--all night, all to-day. I've been pining for you to come--and thenafraid what you'd say--"

She broke off, her lips parting eagerly, her look searching his. 

And this time, as she watched him, she saw his features stiffen, as thougha suspicion, a foreboding ran through him. She hurried on. 

"I went over to see Mrs. Betts, yesterday, Edward. She sent for me. And Ifound her half mad--in despair! I just persuaded her to wait till I'd seenyou. But perhaps you've seen her--to-day?" She hung on his answer. 

"Indeed, no. " The chill, the alteration in his tone were evident. "I leftBlackmount this morning, after matins, motored home, just saw my father andmother for a moment--heard nothing--and rode on here as fast as I could. What is there fresh, dearest? I thought that painful business wassettled. And I confess I feel very indignant with Mrs. Betts for draggingyou--insisting upon dragging you--into it!"

"How could she help it? She's no friends, Edward! People are very sorry forhim--but they fight shy of her. I dare say it's right--I dare say she'sdeserved it--I don't want to know. But oh it's so miserable--so pitiable!She's _going_!--she's made up her mind to that--she's going. That'swhat she wanted to tell me--and asked that I should tell you. "

"She could do nothing better for herself, or him, " said Newbury, firmly. 

"But she's not going, in the way you proposed! Oh no. She's going to slipaway--to hide! He's not to know where she is--and she implores you to keephim here--to comfort him--and watch over him. "

"Which of course we should do. "

The quiet, determined voice sent a shiver through Marcia. She caughtNewbury's hand in hers, and held it close. 

"Yes, but Edward!--listen!--it would kill them both. His mind seems to begiving way. I got a letter from her again this morning, inclosing one fromtheir doctor. And she--she says if she does go, if decent people turn herout, she'll just go back to people like herself--who'll be kind to her. Nothing will induce her to go to the Cloan Sisters. "

"She must, of course, be the judge of that, " said Newbury, coldly. 

"But you can't allow it!--you _can't_!--the poor, poor things!" criedMarcia. "I saw him too, Edward--I shall never forget it!" And with agrowing excitement she gave a full account of her visit to the farm, ofher conversation with Mrs. Betts, of that gray, grief-stricken face at thewindow. 

"He's fifty-two. How can he start again? He's just torn between hiswork--and her. And if she goes away and hides from him, it'll be the laststraw. He believes he saved her from a bad life--and now he'll thinkthat he's only made things worse. And he's ill--his brain's had a shake. Edward--dear Edward!--let them stay!--for my sake, let them stay!"

All her soul was in her eyes. She had never been more winning--more lovely. She placed her hands on his shoulders as he sat beside her, and leaned hersoft cheek against his. 

"Do you mean--let them stay on at the Farm?" he asked, after a pause, putting his arms round her. 

"Couldn't they? They could live so quietly. She would hardly ever leave thehouse--and so long as he does his work--his scientific work--need anythingelse trouble you? Need you have any other relations with them at all?Wouldn't everybody understand--wouldn't everybody know you'd done it forpity?"

Again a pause. Then he said, with evident difficulty: "Dear Marcia--do youever think of my father in this?"

"Oh, mayn't I go!--and _beg_ Lord William--"

"Ah, but wait a minute. I was going to say--My father's an old man. Thishas hit him hard. It's aged him a good deal. He trusted Betts implicitly, as he would himself. And now--in addition--you want him to do somethingthat he feels to be wrong. "

"But Edward, they _are_ married! Isn't it a tyranny"--she brought theword out bravely--"when it causes so much suffering!--to insist on morethan the law does?"

"For us there is but one law--the law of Christ!" And then, as a flash ofsomething like anger passed through his face, he added, with an accent ofstern conviction: "For us they are _not_ married--and we should beconniving at an offense and a scandal, if we accepted them as marriedpersons. Oh, dear Marcia, why do you make me say these things? I_can't_ discuss them with you!" he repeated, in a most real distress. 

She raised herself, and moved a little further from him. A passionatehopelessness--not without resentment--was rising in her. 

"Then you won't try to persuade your father--even for my sake, Edward?"

He made no reply. She saw his lip tremble, but she knew it was only becausehe could not bear to put into words the refusal behind. 

The silence continued. Marcia, raising her head, looked away into the greenvistas of the wood, while the tears gathered slowly in her eyes. He watchedher, in a trouble no less deep. At last she said--in a low, lingeringvoice:

"And I--I couldn't marry--and be happy--with the thought always--of whathad happened to them--and how--you couldn't give me--what I asked. I havebeen thinking it out for hours and hours. I'm afraid, Edward--we--we'vemade a great mistake!"

She drew her hand away, and looked at him, very pale and trembling, yetwith something new--and resolute--in her aspect. 

"Marcia!" It was a sound of dismay. 

"Oh! it was my fault!"--and she clasped her hands in a gesture at oncechildish and piteous--"I somehow knew from the beginning that you thoughtme different from what I am. It was quite natural. You're much older thanI, and of course--of course--you thought that if--if I loved you--I'd beguided by you--and think as you wish. But Edward, you see I've had to liveby myself--and think for myself--more than other girls--because mother wasalways busy with other things--that didn't concern me--that I didn't careabout--and I was left alone--and had to puzzle out a lot of things thatI never talked about. I'm obstinate--I'm proud. I must believe formyself--and not because some one else does. I don't know where I shall comeout. And that's the strange thing! Before we were engaged, I didn't know Ihad a mind!" She smiled at him pitifully through her tears. "And ever sincewe've been engaged--this few weeks--I've been doing nothing but think andthink--and all the time it's been carrying me away from you. And now thistrouble. I _couldn't_"--she clenched her hand with a passionategesture--"I _couldn't_ do what you're doing. It would kill me. Youseem to be obeying something outside--which you're quite sure of. But if_I_ drove those two people to despair, because I thought somethingwas wrong that they thought right, I should never have any happiness inmy heart--my _own heart_--again. Love seems to me everything!--beingkind--not giving pain. And for you there's something greater--what theChurch says--what the Bible says. And I could never see that. I could neveragree. I could never submit. And we should be miserable. You'd think I waswicked--and I--well!"--she panted a little, trying for her words--"thereare ugly--violent--feelings in me sometimes. I couldn't hate_you_--but--Edward--just now--I felt I could hate--what you believe!"

The sudden change in his look smote her to the heart. She held out herhands, imploring. 

"Forgive me! Oh, do forgive me!"

During her outburst he had risen, and was now leaning against a young treebeside her, looking down upon her--white and motionless. He had made noeffort to take her hands, and they dropped upon her knee. 

"This is terrible!" he said, as though to himself, andhalf-consciously--"terrible!"

"But indeed--indeed--it's best. " Her voice, which was little more than awhisper, was broken by a sob. She buried her face in the hands he had leftuntaken. 

The minutes seemed endless till he spoke again; and then it was with acomposure which seemed to her like the momentary quiet that may come--thesudden furling of the winds--in the very midst of tempest. She divined thetempest, in this man of profound and concentrated feeling; but she had notdared to watch it. 

"Marcia--is it really true? Couldn't I make you happy? Couldn't I lead youto look at things as I do? As you say, I am older, I have had more timeto think and learn. If you love me, wouldn't it be right, that--I shouldinfluence you?"

"It might be, " she said, sadly. "But it wouldn't happen. I know more ofmyself--now. This has made me know myself--as I never did. I should woundand distress you. And to struggle with you would make me hard--and bad. "

Another silence. But for both it was one of those silences when the mind, as it were, reaps at one stroke a whole harvest of ideas and imageswhich, all unconsciously to itself, were standing ready to be reaped; thesilences, more active far than speech, which determine life. 

At the end of it, he came to sit beside her. 

"Then we must give it up--we must give it up. I bless you for the happinessyou gave me--this little while. I pray God to bless you--now and forever. "

Sobbing, she lifted her face to him, and he kissed her for the last time. She slipped off her engagement ring and gave it to him. He looked at itwith a sad smile, pressed his lips to it, and then stooping down, he took astick lying by the log, and scooped out a deep hole in the mossy, fibrousearth. Into it he dropped the ring, covering it again with all the leafy"rubble and wreck" of the wood. He covered his eyes for a moment, and rose. 

"Let me take you home. I will write to Lady Coryston to-night. "

They walked silently through the wood, and to the house. Never, in herwhole life, had Marcia felt so unhappy. And yet, already, she recognizedwhat she had done as both inevitable and past recall. 

They parted, just with a lingering look into each other's eyes, and apiteous murmur from her: "I'm sorry!--oh, I'm _sorry_!"

At the moment when Marcia and Newbury were crossing the formal gardenon the west front of the house, one of two persons in Lady Coryston'ssitting-room observed them. 

These persons were--strange to say--Lady Coryston and her eldest son. LadyCoryston, after luncheon, had felt so seriously unwell that she had retiredto her sitting-room, with strict injunctions that she must be left alone. Sir Wilfrid and Lester started on a Sunday walk; Marcia and Newbury haddisappeared. 

The house, through all its innumerable rooms and corridors, sank into deepsilence. Lady Coryston was lying on her sofa, with closed eyes. Allthe incidents of her conversation with Enid Glenwilliam were runningperpetually through her mind--the girl's gestures and tones--above all thewords of her final warning. 

After all it was not she--his mother--who had done it. Without her it wouldhave happened all the same. She found herself constantly putting up thisplea, as though in recurrent gusts of fear. Fear of whom?--of Arthur? Whatabsurdity! Her proud spirit rebelled. 

And yet she knew that she was listening--listening in dread--for a footstepin the house. That again was absurd. Arthur was staying with friends on thefurther side of the country, and was to leave them after dinner by motor. He could not be home till close on midnight; and there would be no chanceof her seeing him--unless she sent for him--till the following morning, after the arrival of the letter. _Then_--she must face him. 

But still the footstep haunted her imagination, and the remembrance of himas he had stood, light and buoyant, on the floor of the House of Commons, making his maiden speech. In April--and this was July. Had that infatuationbegun even then, which had robbed her of her dearest--her Benjamin?

She fell into a restless sleep after a while, and woke suddenly, in alarm. There was somebody approaching her room--evidently on tiptoe. Some oneknocking--very gently. She sat up, trembling. "Come in!"

The door opened--and there was Coryston. 

She fell back on her cushions, astonished and annoyed. 

"I said I was not to be disturbed, Coryston. "

He paused on the threshold. 

"Am I disturbing you? Wouldn't you like me to read to you--or something?"

His tone was so gentle that she was disarmed--though still annoyed. 

"Come in. I may perhaps point out that it's a long time since you've cometo see me like this, Coryston. "

"Yes. Never mind. What shall I read?"

She pointed to a number of the _Quarterly_ that was lying open, and toan article on "The later years of Disraeli. "

Coryston winced. He knew the man who had written it, and detested him. Buthe sat down beside her, and began immediately to read. To both of them hisreading was a defense against conversation, and yet to both of them, aftera little while, it was pleasant. 

Presently indeed he saw that it had soothed her and that in spite of herefforts to keep awake she had fallen fitfully asleep again. He let thebook drop, and sat still, studying his mother's strong, lined face in itssetting of gray hair. There was something in her temporary quiescence andhelplessness that touched him; and it was clear to him that in theselast few months she had aged considerably. As he watched, a melancholysoftness--as of one who sees deeper than usual into the humanspectacle--invaded and transformed his whole expression; his thin bodyrelaxed; his hands dropped at his side. The dead quiet of the house alsooppressed him--like a voice--an omen. 

He knew that she had seen Enid Glenwilliam that morning. A little notefrom Marion Atherstone that afternoon spoke anxiety and sympathy. "Enidconfesses she was violent. I am afraid it was a painful scene. " And nowthere was Arthur to be faced--who would never believe, of course, but thathis mother had done it. 

A movement in the garden outside diverted his attention. He looked up andsaw two figures--Marcia and Newbury. A sight which roused in him afresh--onthe instant--all his fiercest animosities. That fellow!--and his creed!That old hide-bound inquisitor, his father!

Well!--he peered at them--has she got anything whatever out of youngTartuffe? Not she! He knew the breed. He rose discreetly, so as not towake Lady Coryston, and standing by the window, he watched them across thegarden, and saw their parting. Something in their demeanor struck him. "Notdemonstrative anyway, " he said to himself, with a queer satisfaction. 

He sat down again, and tossing the _Quarterly_ away, he took up avolume of Browning. But he scarcely read a line. His mind was reallypossessed by the Betts' story, and by the measures that might betaken--Marcia or no Marcia!--to rouse the country-side against theNewburys, and force them to bow to public opinion in the matter of thistragedy. He himself had seen the two people concerned, again, thatmorning--a miserable sight! Neither of them had said anything further tohim of their plans. Only Mrs. Betts had talked incoherently of "waiting tohear from Miss Coryston. " Poor soul!--she might wait. 

[Illustration: HE SAT STILL, STUDYING HIS MOTHER'S STRONG, LINED FACE]

Twenty minutes passed, and then he too heard a footfall in the passageoutside, and the swish of a dress. Marcia!

He opened the door. 

"Don't come in. Mother's asleep. "

Marcia stared at him in amazement. Then she stepped past him, and stoodon the threshold surveying her mother. Her pathetic look conveyed theinstinctive appeal of the young girl turning in the crisis of her life toher natural friend, her natural comforter. And it remained unanswered. Sheturned and beckoned to Coryston. 

"Come with me--a moment. " They went noiselessly down the staircase leadingfrom Lady Coryston's wing, into a room which had been their schoolroom aschildren, on the ground floor. Marcia laid a hand on her brother's arm. 

"Coryston--I was coming to speak to mother. I have broken off myengagement. "

"Thank the Lord!" cried Coryston, taken wholly aback. "Thank the Lord!"

He would have kissed her in his relief and enthusiasm. But Marcia steppedback from him. Her pale face showed a passionate resentment. 

"Don't speak about him, Corry! Don't say another word about him. You neverunderstood him, and I'm not going to discuss him with you. I couldn't bearit. What's wrong with mother?"

"She's knocked over--by that girl, Enid Glenwilliam. She saw her thismorning. "

He described the situation. Marcia showed but a languid interest. 

"Poor mother!" she said, absently. "Then I won't bother her with myaffairs--till to-morrow. Don't tell her anything, Corry. Good-by. "

"I say, Marcia--old woman--don't be so fierce with me. You took me bysurprise--" he muttered, uncomfortably. 

"Oh, it doesn't matter. Nobody in this world--seems to be able tounderstand anybody else--or make allowances for anybody else. Good-by. "

Coryston had long since departed. Lady Coryston had gone to bed, seeingno one, and pleading headache. Marcia, too, had deserted Sir Wilfrid andLester after dinner, leaving Sir Wilfrid to the liveliest and dismalestmisgivings as to what might have been happening further to the Corystonfamily on this most inexplicable and embarrassing day. 

Marcia was sitting in her room by the open window. She had been writing along letter to Newbury, pouring out her soul to him. All that she had beentoo young and immature to say to him face to face, she had tried to say tohim in these closely written and blotted pages. To write them had broughtrelief, but also exhaustion of mind and body. 

The summer night was sultry and very still. Above a bank of purple cloud, she looked into depths of fathomless azure, star-sprinkled, with a light inthe southeast prophesying moonrise. Dark shapes of woods--the distantsound of the little trout-stream, where it ran over a weir--a few notes ofbirds--were the only sounds; otherwise the soul was alone with itself. Onceindeed she heard a sudden burst of voices far overhead, and a girl'smerry laugh. One of the young servants no doubt--on the top floor. Howremote!--and yet how near. 

And far away over those trees was Newbury, smarting under the blow she hadgiven him--suffering--suffering. That poor woman, too, weeping out her lastnight, perhaps, beside her husband. What could she do for her--how couldshe help her? Marcia sat there hour after hour, now lost in her own grief, now in that of others; realizing through pain, through agonized sympathy, the energy of a fuller life. 

She went to bed, and to sleep--for a few hours--toward morning. She wasroused by her maid, who came in with a white face of horror. 

"Oh, miss!"

"What is the matter?"

Marcia sat up in bed. Was her mother ill?--dead?

The girl stammered out her ghastly news. Briggs the head gardener had justbrought it. The head foreman at Redcross Farm going his rounds in theearly hours, had perceived a light burning in the laboratory. The door waslocked, but on forcing his way in, he had come suddenly on a spectacle ofhorror. John Betts was sitting--dead--in his chair, with a bullet wound inthe temple; Mrs. Betts was on a stool beside him, leaning against his knee. She must have found him dead, have taken up the revolver, as it had droppedfrom his hand, and after an interval, long or short, have deliberatelyunfastened her dress--The bullet had passed through her heart, and deathhad been a matter of seconds. On the table was lying a scrap of paper onwhich were the words in John Betts's handwriting: "Mad--forgive. " Andbeside it a little twisted note, addressed to "Miss Marcia Coryston. " Theforeman had given it to Briggs. Her maid placed it in Marcia's hands. 

She tried to read it, but failed. The girl beside her saw her slip back, fainting, on her pillows. 

CHAPTER XV

It was the old housekeeper at Coryston, one Mrs. Drew, who had been thepresiding spirit of the house in all its domestic aspects for some thirtyyears, who came at the summons of Marcia's frightened maid, and helped thegirl to revive her mistress, without alarming Lady Coryston. And before thenews could reach her mother in other ways, Marcia herself went in to tellher what she must know. 

Lady Coryston had had a bad night, and was sitting up in bed gazingstraight before her, her gaunt hands lying listlessly on a pile of lettersshe had not yet opened. When Marcia came in, a white ghost, still shiveringunder nervous shock, her mother looked at her in sudden dismay. She sprangforward in bed. 

"What!--Marcia!--have you seen Arthur?"

Marcia shook her head. 

"It's not Arthur, mother!"

And standing rigid beside her mother's bed, she told her news, so far asthose piteous deaths at Redcross Farm were concerned. Of her own position, and of the scene which had passed between herself and Newbury the precedingday, she said not a word. 

On the facts presented to her, Lady Coryston was first bewildered, thenirritated. Why on earth should Marcia take this morbid and extravagantinterest in the affairs of such people? They were not even tenants of theCoryston estates! It was monstrous that she should have taken them upat all, and most audacious and unbecoming that she should have triedto intercede for them with the Newburys, as she understood, from herdaughter's hardly coherent story, had been the case. And now, shesupposed, as Marcia had actually been so foolish, so headstrong, as to goherself--without permission either from her mother or her betrothed--tosee these two people at the farm, the very day before this horrible thinghappened, she might have to appear at the inquest. Most improper andannoying!

However, she scarcely expressed her disapproval aloud with her usualtrenchancy. In the first place, Marcia's tremulous state made it difficult. In the next, she was herself so far from normal that she could not, afterthe first few minutes, keep her attention fixed upon the matter at all. Shebegan abruptly to question Marcia as to whether she had seen Arthur thenight before--or that morning?

"I had gone up-stairs before he arrived last night--and this morning he'snot yet down, " said the girl, perfunctorily, as though she only answeredthe question with her lips, without attaching any real meaning to it. Thenher mother's aspect, which on her entrance she had scarcely noticed, struckher with a sudden and added distress. 

"You don't look well, mother. Don't come down to-day. "

"I shall certainly come down by luncheon-time, " said Lady Coryston, sharply. "Tell Arthur that I wish to have some conversation with him beforehe goes back to London. And as for you, Marcia, the best thing you can dois to go and rest for a time, and then to explain all you have been doingto Edward. I must say I think you will have a great deal to explain. AndI shall scold Bellows and Mrs. Drew for letting you hear such a horriblething at all--without coming to me first. "

"Mother!" cried Marcia, in a kind of despair. "Aren't you--aren't you sorryfor those two people?--and don't you understand that I--I hoped I mighthave helped them?"

At last she began to weep. The tears ran down her cheeks. Lady Corystonfrowned. 

"Certainly, I'm sorry. But--the fact is, Marcia--I can't stand any extrastrain this morning. We'll talk about it again when you're more composed. Now go and lie down. "

She closed her eyes, looking so gray and old that Marcia, seized with anew compunction, could only obey her at once. But on the threshold she wascalled back. 

"If any messenger arrives with a letter for Arthur--tell them down-stairsto let me know. "

"Yes, mother. "

As soon, however, as she had closed the door Marcia's tired mindimmediately dismissed the subject of Arthur, even of her mother. The tumultof anguish returned upon her in which she had stood ever since she hadcome back from her faint to the bitter consciousness of a world--an awfulworld--where people can die of misery for lack of pity, for lack of help, and yet within a stone's-throw of those who yearned to give them both. 

She went back to her room, finished her dressing mechanically, wrote ashort letter, blotting it with tears, and then went tottering down-stairs. In the central hall, a vast pillared space, crowded with statuary andflowers, where the men of the house were accustomed to smoke and read thenewspapers after breakfast, she perceived Reginald Lester sitting alone. 

He sprang up at sight of her, came to her, took her hands, looked into herface, and then stooped and kissed her fingers, respectfully, ardently; withsuch an action as a brother might have used to a much younger sister. 

She showed no surprise. She simply lifted her eyes to him, like a miserablechild--saying under her breath:

"You know--I saw them--the night before last?"

"I know. It has been a fearful shock. Is there anything I can do for you?"For he saw she had a letter in her hand. 

"Please tell them to send this letter. And then--come back. I'll go to thelibrary. "

She went blindly along the passages to the library, hearing and flying fromthe voices of Sir Wilfrid and Arthur in the dining-room as she passed. WhenLester returned, he saw her standing by his desk, lost in an abstraction ofgrief. But she roused herself at sight of him, and asked for any furthernews there might be. Lester, who had been suffering from a sprained wrist, had that morning seen the same doctor who had been called in on thediscovery of the tragedy. 

"It must all have happened within an hour. His sister, who had come to staywith them, says that John Betts had seemed rather brighter in theevening, and his wife rather less in terror. She spoke very warmly to hersister-in-law of your having come to see her, and said she had promisedyou to wait a little before she took any step. Then he went out to thelaboratory, and there, it is supposed, he was overcome by a fit of acutedepression--the revolver was in his drawer--he scrawled the two wordsthat were found--and you know the rest. Two people on the farm heard theshot--but it was taken as fired by the night watcher in a field beyond, which was full of young pheasants. About midnight Mrs. Betts went out tobring him in--her sister-in-law having gone up to bed. She never came backagain--no one heard a sound--and they were not discovered till the morning. How long she was alone with him before she killed herself cannot even beguessed. "

Marcia's trembling fingers fumbled at the bosom of her dress. She drew outa crumpled paper, and pushed it toward him. He read:

"Good-by, dear Miss Coryston. He sits so still--not much injured. I haveoften seen him look so. My John--my John--I can't stay behind. Will youplease do something for my boy? John--John--if only we hadn't met again--"

It ended incoherently in blots and smudges. 

"You poor child!" said Lester, involuntarily, as he looked up from theletter. It was a word of sudden compassion wrested from him by the sightof Marcia's intolerable pain. He brought forward one of the deep librarychairs, and made her sit in it, and as he bent over her his sympathy drewfrom her piteous little cries and stifled moans which he met with answeringwords of comfort. All consciousness of sex dropped away; the sharp-chinnedface, the blue, black-fringed eyes, behind their spectacles, the noble browunder its pile of strong grizzled hair:--she saw them all as an embodiedtenderness--courage and help made visible--a courage and help on which shegradually laid hold. She could not stop to ask herself how it was that, inthis moment of shock and misery, she fell so naturally into this attitudeof trust toward one with whom she had never yet set up any relation butthat of a passing friendship. She only knew that there was comfort in hisvoice, his look, in his understanding of her suffering, in the reticencewith which he handled it. She had lived beside him in the same house formonths without ever really knowing him. Now suddenly--here was a friend--onwhom to lean. 

But she could not speak to him of Newbury, though it was the thought ofNewbury that was burning her heart. She did mention Coryston, only to saywith energy: "I don't want to see him yet--not _yet_!" Lester couldonly guess at her meaning, and would not have probed her for the world. 

But after a little she braced herself, gave him a grateful, shrinking look, and, rising, she went in search of Sir Wilfrid and Arthur. 

Only Sir Wilfrid was in the hall when she reentered it. He had justdismissed a local reporter who had got wind of Miss Coryston's visit to thefarm, and had rushed over to Coryston, in the hope of seeing her. 

"My dear child!" He hurried to meet her. "You look a perfect wreck! How_abominable_ that you should be mixed up with this thing!"

"I couldn't help it, " she said, vaguely, turning away at once from thediscussion of it. "Where is Arthur? Mother wanted me to give him amessage. "

[Illustration: NOW SUDDENLY--HERE WAS A FRIEND--ON WHOM TO LEAN]

Sir Wilfrid looked uneasy. 

"He was here till just now. But he is in a curious state of mind. He thinksof nothing but one thing--and one person. He arrived late last night, andit is my belief that he hardly went to bed. And he is just hanging on thearrival of a letter--"

"From Enid Glenwilliam?"

"Evidently. I tried to get him to realize this horrible affair--the partthe Newburys had played in it--the effect on you--since that poor creatureappealed to you. But no--not a bit of it! He seems to have neither eyes norears--But here he is!"

Sir Wilfrid and Marcia stepped apart. Arthur came into the hall from thelibrary entrance. Marcia saw that he was much flushed, and that his facewore a hard, determined look, curiously at variance with its young featuresand receding chin. 

"Hullo, Marcia! Beastly business, this you've been getting into. Think, mydear, you'd have done much better to keep out of it--especially as you andNewbury didn't agree. I've just seen Coryston in the park--he confessedhe'd set you on--and that you and Newbury had quarreled over it. _He's_ perfectly mad about it, of course. That you might expect. Isay--mother is late!"

He looked round the hall imperiously. 

Marcia, supporting herself on a chair, met his eyes, and made no reply. Yet she dimly remembered that her mother had asked her to give him somemessage. 

"Arthur, remember that your sister's had a great shock!" said Sir Wilfrid, sternly. 

"I know that! Sorry for you, Marcia--awfully--but I expect you'll have toappear at the inquest--don't see how you can get out of it. You shouldhave thought twice about going there--when Newbury didn't want you to. Andwhat's this they say about a letter?"

His tone had the peremptory ring natural to many young men of his stamp, indealing with their inferiors, or--until love has tamed them--with women;but it came strangely from the good-tempered and easy-going Arthur. 

Marcia's hand closed instinctively on the bosom of her dress, where theletter was. 

"Mrs. Betts wrote me a letter, " she said, slowly. 

"You'd better let me see it. Sir Wilfrid and I can advise you. "

He held out an authoritative hand. Marcia made no movement, and the handdropped. 

"Oh, well, if you're going to take no one's advice but your own, I supposeyou must gang your own gait!" said her brother, impatiently. "But if you'rea sensible girl you'll make it up with Newbury and let him keep you out ofit as much as possible. Betts was always a cranky fellow. I'm sorry for thelittle woman, though. "

And walking away to a distant window at the far end of the hall, whence allthe front approaches to the house could be seen, he stood drumming on theglass and fixedly looking out. Sir Wilfrid, with an angry ejaculation, approached Marcia. 

"My dear, your brother isn't himself!--else he could never have spoken sounkindly. Will you show me that letter? It will, of course, have to go tothe police. "

She held it out to him obediently. 

Sir Wilfrid read it. He blew his nose, and walked away for a minute. When he returned, it was to say, with lips that twitched a little in hissmooth-shaven actor's face:

"Most touching! If one could only have known! But dear Marcia, I hopeit's not true--I hope to God, it's not true!--that you've quarreled withNewbury?"

Marcia was standing with her head thrown back against the high marblemantelpiece. The lids drooped over her eyes. 

"I don't know, " she said, in a faint voice. "I don't know. Oh no, not_quarreled_--"

Sir Wilfrid looked at her with a fatherly concern; took her limp hand andpressed it. 

"Stand by him, dear, stand by him! He'll suffer enough from this--withoutlosing you. "

Marcia did not answer. Lester had returned to the hall, and he and Burythen got from her, as gently as possible, a full account of her twointerviews with Mrs. Betts. Lester wrote it down, and Marcia signed it. Theobject of the two men was to make the police authorities acquainted withsuch testimony as Marcia had to give, while sparing her if possible anappearance at the inquest. While Lester was writing, Sir Wilfrid threwoccasional scathing glances toward the distant Arthur, who seemed to bealternately pacing up and down and reading the newspapers. But the youngman showed no signs whatever of doing or suggesting anything further tohelp his sister. 

Sir Wilfrid perceived at once how Marcia's narrative might be turnedagainst the Newburys, round whom the hostile feeling of a wholeneighborhood was probably at that moment rising into fury. Was there ever amore odious, a more untoward situation!

But he could not be certain that Marcia understood it so. He failed, indeed, altogether, to decipher her mind toward Newbury; or to get at thetruth of what had happened between them. She sat, very pale, and piteouslycomposed; answering the questions they put to her, and sometimes, though rarely, unable to control a sob, which seemed to force its wayunconsciously. At the end of their cross-examination, when Sir Wilfrid wasready to start for Martover, the police headquarters for the district, sherose, and said she would go back to her room. 

"Do, do, dear child!" Bury threw a fatherly arm round her, and went withher to the foot of the stairs. "Go and rest--sleep if you can. "

As Marcia moved away there was a sudden sound at the end of the hall. Arthur had run hurriedly toward the door leading to the outer vestibule. Heopened it and disappeared. Through the high-arched windows to the left, aboy on a bicycle could be seen descending the long central avenue leadingto the fore-court. 

It was just noon. The great clock set in the center of the eastern façadehad chimed the hour, and as its strokes died away on the midsummer airMarcia was conscious, as her mother had been the preceding afternoon, of anabnormal stillness round her. She was in her sitting-room, trying to writea letter to Mrs. Betts's sister about the boy mentioned in his mother'slast words. He was not at the farm, thank God!--that she knew. Hisstepfather had sent him at Easter to a good preparatory school. 

It seemed to help her to be doing this last poor service to the dead woman. And yet in truth she scarcely knew what she was writing. Her mind was tornbetween two contending imaginations--the thought of Mrs. Betts, sittingbeside her dead husband, and waiting for the moment of her own death; andthe thought of Newbury. Alternately she saw the laboratory at night--theshelves of labeled bottles and jars--the tables and chemical apparatus--theelectric light burning--and in the chair the dead man, with the bowedfigure against his knee:--and then--Newbury--in his sitting-room, amidthe books and portraits of his college years--the crucifix over themantelpiece--the beautiful drawings of Einsiedeln--of Assisi. 

Her heart cried out to him. It had cried out to him in her letter. Thethought of the agony he must be suffering tortured her. Did he blamehimself? Did he remember how she had implored him to "take care"? Or was itall still plain to him that he had done right? She found herself prayingwith all her strength that he might still feel he could have done no other, and that what had happened, because of his action, had been God's will, andnot merely man's mistake. She longed--sometimes--to throw her arms roundhim, and comfort him. Yet there was no passion in her longing. All thatyoung rising of the blood seemed to have been killed in her. But she wouldnever draw back from what she had offered him--never. She would go to him, and stand by him--as Sir Wilfrid had said--if he wanted her. 

The gong rang for luncheon. Marcia rose unwillingly; but she was still moreunwilling to make her feelings the talk of the household. As she neared thedining-room she saw her mother approaching from the opposite side ofthe house. Lady Coryston walked feebly, and her appearance shocked herdaughter. 

"Mother!--do let me send for Bryan!" she pleaded, as they met--blamingherself sharply the while for her own absorption and inaction during themorning hours. "You don't look a bit fit to be up. "

Lady Coryston replied in a tone which forbade discussion that she was quitewell, and had no need whatever of Dr. Bryan's attendance. Then she turnedto the butler, and inquired if Mr. Arthur was in the house. 

"His motor came round, my lady, about twelve o'clock. I have not seen himsince. "

The lunch passed almost in complete silence between the two ladies. LadyCoryston was informed that Sir Wilfrid and Lester had gone to Martover inconnection with Marcia's share in the events at Redcross Farm. "They hope Ineedn't appear, " said Marcia, dully. 

"I should rather think not!"

Lady Coryston's indignant tone seemed to assume that English legalinstitutions were made merely to suit the convenience of the Corystonfamily. Marcia had enough of Coryston in her to perceive it. But she saidnothing. 

As they entered the drawing-room after luncheon she remembered--with astart. 

"Mother--I forgot!--I'm so sorry--I dare say it was nothing. But I think aletter came for Arthur just before twelve--a letter he was expecting. Atleast I saw a messenger-boy come down the avenue. Arthur ran out to meethim. Then I went up-stairs, and I haven't seen him since. "

Lady Coryston had turned whiter than before. She groped for a chair nearand seated herself, before she recovered sufficient self-possessionto question her daughter as to the precise moment of the messenger'sappearance, the direction from which he arrived, and so forth. 

But Marcia knew no more, and could tell no more. Nor could she summon upany curiosity about her brother, possessed and absorbed as her mind was byother thoughts and images. But in a vague, anxious way she felt for hermother; and if Lady Coryston had spoken Marcia would have responded. 

And Lady Coryston would have liked to speak, first of all to scold Marciafor forgetting her message, and then to confide in her--insignificant asthe daughter's part in the mother's real life and thoughts had always been. But she felt physically incapable of bearing the emotion which might springout upon her from such a conversation. It was as though she possessed--andknew she possessed--a certain measured strength; just enough--and nomore--to enable her to go through a conversation which _must_ befaced. She had better not waste it beforehand. Sometimes it occurred toher that her feeling toward this coming interview was wholly morbid andunnatural. How many worse things had she faced in her time!

But reasoning on it did not help her--only silence and endurance. Afterresting a little in the drawing-room she went up to her sitting-room again, refusing Marcia's company. 

"Won't you let me come and make you comfortable?--if you're going to rest, you'll want a shawl and some pillows, " said the girl, as she stood at thefoot of the staircase, wistfully looking after her. 

But Lady Coryston shook her head. 

"Thank you--I don't want anything. "

 * * * * *

So--for Marcia--there was nothing to be done with these weary hours--butwait and think and weep! She went back to her own sitting-room, andlingeringly put Newbury's letters together, in a packet, which she sealed;in case--well, in case--nothing came of her letter of the morning. They hadbeen engaged not quite a month. Although they had met almost every day, yetthere were many letters from him; letters of which she felt anew the powerand beauty as she reread them. Yet from that power and beauty, the naturalexpression of his character, she stood further off now than when she hadfirst known him. The mystery indeed in which her nascent love had wrappedhim had dropped away. She knew him better, she respected him infinitely;and all the time--strangely, inexplicably--love had been, not growing, butwithering. 

Meanwhile, into all her thoughts about herself and Newbury there rushed atrecurrent intervals the memory, the overwhelming memory, of her last sightof John and Alice Betts. That gray face in the summer dusk, beyond thewindow, haunted her; and the memory of those arms which had clung about herwaist. 

Was there a beyond?--where were they?--those poor ghosts! All the riddlesof the eternal Sphinx leaped upon Marcia--riddles at last made real. Twenty-four hours ago, two brains, two hearts, alive, furiously alive, withhuman sorrow and human revolt. And now? Had that infinitely pitiful Christin whom Newbury believed, received the two tormented souls?--were theycomforted--purged--absolved? Had they simply ceased to be--to feel--tosuffer? Or did some stern doom await them--still--after all the sufferinghere? A shudder ran through the girl, evoking by reaction the memory ofimmortal words--"_Her sins which are many are forgiven; for she lovedmuch_. " She fed herself on the divine saying; repressing with all herstrength the skeptical, pessimistic impulses that were perhaps natural toher temperament, forcing herself, as it were, for their sakes, to hope andto believe. 

Again, as the afternoon wore away, she was weighed down by the surroundingsilence. No one in the main pile of building but her mother and herself. Not a sound, but the striking of the great gilt clock outside. From her ownroom she could see the side windows of her mother's sitting-room; and onceshe thought she perceived the stately figure passing across them. Butotherwise Lady Coryston made no sign; and her daughter dared not go to herwithout permission. 

Why did no letter come for her, no reply? She sat at her open windows for atime, watching the front approaches, and looking out into a drizzling rainwhich veiled the afternoon. When it ceased she went out--restlessly--to theEast Wood--the wood where they had broken it off. She lay down with herface against the log--a prone white figure, among the fern. The buriedring--almost within reach of her hand--seemed to call to her like a livingthing. No!--let it rest. 

If it was God's will that she should go back to Edward, she would make hima good wife. But her fear, her shrinking, was all there still. She prayed;but she did not know for what. 

Meanwhile at Redcross Farm, the Coroner was holding his inquiry. The factswere simple, the public sympathy and horror profound. Newbury and LordWilliam had given their evidence amid a deep and, in many quarters, hostilesilence. The old man, parchment-pale, but of an unshaken dignity, gave afull account of the efforts--many and vain--that had been made both byhimself and his son to find Betts congenial work in another sphere and topersuade him to accept it. 

"We had nothing to do with his conscience, or with his private affairs--inthemselves. All we asked was that we should not be called on to recognizea marriage which in our eyes was not a marriage. Everything that we couldhave done consistently with that position, my son and I may honestly say wehave done. "

Sir Wilfrid Bury was called, to verify Marcia's written statement, and Mrs. Betts's letter was handed to the Coroner, who broke down in reading it. Coryston, who was sitting on the opposite side of the room, watched thecountenances of the two Newburys while it was being read, with a frowningattention. 

When the evidence was over, and the jury had retired, Edward Newbury tookhis father to the carriage which was waiting. The old man, so thin andstraight, from his small head and narrow shoulders to his childishly smallfeet, leaned upon his son's arm, and apparently saw nothing around him. Amostly silent throng lined the lane leading to the farm. Half-way stood theman who had come down to lecture on "Rational Marriage, " surrounded by agroup of Martover Socialists. From them rose a few hisses and groans as theNewburys passed. But other groups represented the Church Confraternitiesand clubs of the Newbury estate. Among them heads were quietly bared as theold man went by, or hands were silently held out. Even a stranger wouldhave realized that the scene represented the meeting of two opposingcurrents of thought and life. 

Newbury placed his father in the carriage, which drove off. He then wentback himself to wait for the verdict. 

As he approached the door of the laboratory in which the inquiry had beenheld, Coryston emerged. 

Newbury flushed and stopped him. Coryston received it as though it had beenthe challenge of an enemy. He stepped back, straightening himself fiercely. Newbury began:

"Will you take a message from me to your sister?"

A man opened the door in front a little way. 

"Mr. Edward, the jury are coming back. "

The two men went in; Coryston listened with a sarcastic mouth to theconventional verdict of "unsound mind" which drapes impartially so manyforms of human ill. And again he found himself in the lane with Newburybeside him. 

"One more lie, " he said, violently, "to a jury's credit!"

Newbury looked up. It was astonishing what a mask he could make of hisface, normally so charged--over-charged--with expression. 

"What else could it have been? But this is no time or place for us todiscuss our differences, Coryston--"

"Why not!" cried Coryston, who had turned a dead white. "'Our differences, 'as you call them, have led to _that_!" He turned and flung out a thinarm toward the annex to the laboratory, where the bodies were lying. "It istime, I think, that reasonable men should come to some understanding about'differences' that can slay and madden a pair of poor hunted souls, asthese have been slain!"

"'Hunted?' What do you mean?" said Newbury, sternly, while his dark eyestook fire. 

"Hunted by the Christian conscience!--that it might lie comfortable o'nights, " was the scornful reply. 

Newbury said nothing for a few moments. They emerged on the main road, crossed it, and entered the Hoddon Grey park. Here they were alone, out ofsight of the crowd returning from the inquest to the neighboring village. As they stepped into one of the green rides of the park they perceived amotorcar descending the private road which crossed it a hundred yards away. A man was driving it at a furious pace, and Coryston clearly recognized hisbrother Arthur. He was driving toward Coryston. Up to the moment when thenews of the farm tragedy had reached him that morning, Coryston's mind hadbeen very full of what seemed to him the impending storm between his motherand Arthur. Since then he had never thought of it, and the sight of hisbrother rushing past, making for Coryston, no doubt, from some unknownpoint, excited but a moment's recollection, lost at once in the emotionwhich held him. 

Newbury struck in, however, before he could express it further; in the samedry and carefully governed voice as before. 

"You are Marcia's brother, Coryston. Yesterday morning she and I were stillengaged to be married. Yesterday afternoon we broke it off--although--sincethen--I have received two letters from her--"

He paused a moment, but soon resumed, with fresh composure. 

"Those letters I shall answer to-night. By that time--perhaps--I shall knowbetter--what my future life will be. "

"Perhaps!" Coryston repeated, roughly. "But I have no claim to know, nor doI want to know!"

Newbury gave him a look of wonder. 

"I thought you were out for justice--and freedom of conscience?" he said, slowly. "Is the Christian conscience--alone--excepted? Freedom for everyone else--but none for us?"

"Precisely! Because your freedom means other men's slavery!" Corystonpanted out the words. "You can't have your freedom! It's too costlyin human life. Everywhere Europe has found that out. The freedom youCatholics--Anglican or Roman--want, is anti-social. We sha'n't give ityou!"

"You will have to give it us, " said Newbury, calmly, "because in putting usdown--which of course you could do with ease--you would destroy all thatyou yourselves value in civilization. It would be the same with us, if wehad the upper hand, as you have now. Neither of us can destroy the other. We stand face to face--we shall stand face to face--while the world lasts. "

Coryston broke into passionate contradiction. Society, he was confident, would, in the long run, put down Catholicism, of all sorts, by law. 

"Life is hard enough, the devil knows! We can't afford--we simply can'tafford--to let you make it harder by these damned traditions! I appeal tothose two dead people! They did what _you_ thought wrong, and yourconscience judged and sentenced them. But who made you a judge and dividerover them? Who asked you to be the dispenser for them of blessing andcursing?"

Newbury stood still. 

"No good, Coryston, your raving like this! There is one question thatcuts the knot--that decides where you stand--and where I stand. You don'tbelieve there has ever been any living word from God to man--any liftingof the eternal veil. We do! We say the heavens _have_ opened--a God_has_ walked this earth! Everything else follows from that. "

"Including the deaths of John Betts and his wife!" said Coryston, withbitter contempt. "A God suffers and bleeds, for that! No!--for us, if thereis a God, He speaks in love--in love only--in love supremely--such love asthose two poor things had for each other!"

After which they walked along in silence for some time. Each had said thelast word of his own creed. 

Presently they reached a footpath from which the house at Hoddon Grey couldbe reached. Newbury paused. 

"Here, Coryston, we part--and we may never meet again. "

He raised his heavy eyes to his companion. All passion had died from hisface, which in its pale sorrow was more beautiful than Coryston had everseen it. 

"Do you think, " he said, with deliberate gentleness, "that I feelnothing--that life can ever be the same for me again--after this? It hasbeen to me a sign-post in the dark--written in letters of flame--and blood. It tells me where to go--and I obey. "

He paused, looking, as it seemed, through Coryston, at things beyond. AndCoryston was aware of a strange and sudden awe in himself which silencedhim. 

But Newbury recalled his thoughts. He spoke next in his ordinary tone. 

"Please, tell--Marcia--that all arrangements have been made for Mr. Betts'sboy, with the relatives' consent. She need have no anxiety about him. Andall I have to say to her for her letter--her blessed letter--I will sayto-night. "

He walked away, and was soon lost to sight among the trees. 

CHAPTER XVI

Coryston walked back to Knatchett at a furious pace, jumped on his bicycle, and went off to find Marion Atherstone--the only person with whom he couldtrust himself at the moment. He more than suspected that Marcia in a fitof sentimental folly would relent toward Newbury in distress--and even hisrashness shrank from the possibility of a quarrel which might separate himfrom his sister for good. But liberate his soul he must; and he thirstedfor a listener with whom to curse bigots up and down. In Marion's mildcompany, strangely enough, the most vigorous cursing, whether of men orinstitutions, had always in the end calming results. To Marion, however, led by a sure instinct, he went. 

Meanwhile the motor which passed Newbury and Coryston in the park had spedto its goal. It had already carried Arthur Coryston over half the county. That morning he had been told at the Atherstones' cottage, on hisbreathless arrival there, just before luncheon, that while the Chancellorhad returned to town, Miss Glenwilliam had motored to a friend's house, some twenty miles north, and was not going back to London till the evening. Arthur Coryston at once pursued her. Sorely against her will, he had forcedthe lady to an interview, and in the blind rage of his utter defeat anddiscomfiture, he left her again in hot quest of that explanation with hismother which Enid Glenwilliam had honestly--and vainly--tried to prevent. 

Lady Coryston meanwhile was bewildered by his absence. During the lonelyhours when Marcia, from a distance, had once caught sight of her crossingan open window in her sitting-room, she had not been able to settle to anyoccupation, still less to rest. She tried to write out the Agenda of animportant Primrose League meeting over which she was to preside; to puttogether some notes of her speech. In vain. A strange heaviness weighedupon her. The only stimulus that worked--and that only for a time--was afierce attack on Glenwilliam in one of the morning papers. She read ithungrily; but it brought on acute headache, which reduced her to idlenessand closed eyes. 

After a while she roused herself to pull down a blind against a teasinginvasion of sun, and in doing so she perceived a slim, white figurehurrying away from the house, through the bright-colored mazes of theItalian garden. Marcia! She remembered vaguely that Marcia had come to herthat morning in trouble about what? She could not remember. It had seemedto her of importance. 

At last, about half an hour after she had seen Marcia disappear in theshrubbery paths leading to the East Wood, Lady Coryston, startled by asound from the fore-court, sat suddenly erect on her sofa. A motor?

She rose, and going to a little mirror on the wall, she straightened thelace coiffure she habitually wore. In doing so she was struck--dismayedeven--by her own aspect. 

"When this is all over, Marcia and I perhaps might go abroad for a week ortwo, " she thought. 

A swift step approaching--a peremptory knock at the door. 

"Come in!"

Arthur entered, and with his back against the door stood surveyinghis mother. She waited for him to speak, expecting violence. For somemoments--in vain. Except in so far as his quick-breathing silence, his lookof dry, hollow-eyed exasperation spoke--more piercingly than words. 

"Well, Arthur, " she said, at last, "I have been expecting you for sometime. "

"I have been trying to put the mischief you have done me straight, " hesaid, between his teeth. 

"I have done you no mischief that I know of. Won't you come and sit downquietly--and talk the whole matter over? You can't imagine that I desireanything but your good!"

His laugh seemed to give her physical pain. 

"Couldn't you take to desiring something else, mother, than my 'good' asyou call it? Because, I tell you plainly, it don't suit my book. You havebeen meddling in my affairs!--just as you have always meddled in them, formatter of that! But this time you've done it with a vengeance--you've doneit _damnably_!" He struck his hand upon a table near. "What right hadyou"--he approached her threateningly--"what earthly right had you to goand see Enid Glenwilliam yesterday, just simply that you might spoil mychances with her! Who gave you leave?"

He flung the questions at her. 

"I had every right, " said Lady Coryston, calmly. "I am your mother--Ihave done everything for you--you owe your whole position to me. Youwere ruining yourself by a mad fancy. I was bound to take care thatMiss Glenwilliam should not accept you without knowing all the facts. But--actually--as it happens--she had made up her mind--before we met. "

"So she says!--and I don't believe a word of it--_not--one--word_! Shewanted to make me less mad with you. She's like you, mother, she thinksshe can manage everybody. So she tried to cram me--that it was Glenwilliampersuaded her against me. Rot! If you hadn't gone and meddled, if youhadn't treated her like dirt--if you hadn't threatened to spoil myprospects, and told her you'd never receive her--if you hadn't put herback up in a hundred ways--she'd have married me. It's you--you--_you_--that have done it!"

He threw himself on a chair in front of her, his hands on his knees, staring at her. His aspect as of a man disorganized and undone by baffledpassion, repelled and disgusted her. Was this her Arthur?--her perfectgentleman--her gay, courteous, well-behaved darling--whose mingled docilityand good breeding had, so far, suited both her affection and her love ofrule so well? The deep under-sense of disaster which had held her all day, returned upon her in ten-fold strength. But she fronted him bravely. 

"You are, as it happens, entirely wrong, Arthur. It's not I who have doneit--but Miss Glenwilliam's own good sense--or her father's. Of course Iconfess frankly that I should have done my best--that I did, if you like, do my best, to prevent your marriage with Miss Glenwilliam. And as forright, who else had a right, if not I? Was it not most unkind, mostundutiful on your part!"--her tone was a tone of battle--"was it not anoutrage on your father's memory--that you should even entertain thenotion of such a connection? To bring the daughter of that man into thisfamily!--after all we have done--and suffered--for our principles--it'syou, who ought to ask _my_ pardon, Arthur, and not I yours! Timeswithout number, you have agreed with me in despising people who havebehaved as if politics were a mere game--a trifle that didn't matter. Youhave told me often, that things were getting too hot; you couldn't befriends in private, with people you hated in public; people you lookedupon as robbers and cheats. And then--_then_--you go and let thisinfatuation run away with you--you forget all your principles--you forgetyour mother, and all you owe her--and you go and ask this girl to marryyou--whose father is our personal and political enemy--a politicaladventurer who is trying to pull down and destroy everything that you and Ihold sacred--or ought to hold sacred!"

"For goodness' sake, mother, don't make a political speech!" He turned uponher with angry contempt. "That kind of thing does all very well to spoutat an election--but it won't do between you and me. I _don't_ hateGlenwilliam--_there_! The estates--and the property--and all we holdsacred, as you call it--will last my time--and his. And I jolly well don'tcare what happens afterward. _He's_ not going to do us much harm. England's a deal tougher proposition than he thinks. It's you women who getup such a hullabaloo--I declare you make politics a perfect devilry! Butthen"--he shrugged his shoulders fiercely--"I'm not going to waste time inarguing. I just came to tell you _what I intend to do_; and then I'mgoing up to town. I've ordered the motor for seven o'clock. "

Lady Coryston had risen, and stood, with one hand on the mantelpiece, looking down upon her son. 

"I shall be glad indeed to hear what you intend to do, Arthur. I see youhave missed two or three important divisions lately. "

He burst out:

"And they won't be the last either, by a good way. I'm going to chuck it, mother! And if you don't like it--you can blame yourself!"

"What do you mean?"

He hesitated a moment--then spoke deliberately. 

"I intend to leave Parliament after this session. I do! I'm sick of it. Afriend of mine has got a ranch forty miles from Buenos Ayres. He wants meto go in with him--and I think I'll try it. I want something to distract mymind from these troubles. "

Lady Coryston's eyes blazed in her gray-white face, which not even herstrong will could keep from trembling. 

"So this, Arthur, is the reward you propose for all that has been done foryou!--for the time, the thought, the money that has been showered uponyou--"

He looked at her from under his eyebrows, unmoved. 

"I should have remembered all that, mother, if you--Look here! Have youever let me, in anything--for one day, one hour--call my soul my own--sinceI went into Parliament? It's true I deceived you about Enid. I wasliterally _afraid_ to tell you--there! You've brought me to that!And when a man's afraid of a woman--it somehow makes a jelly ofhim--altogether. It was partly what made me run after Enid--at first--thatI was doing something independent of you--something you would hate, if youknew. Beastly of me, I know!--but there it was. And then you arranged thatmeeting here, without so much as giving me a word's notice!--you told Page_before you told me_. And when I kicked--and told you about Enid--didyou ever come afterward and talk to me nicely about her?--did you ever, even, consider for one moment what I told you?--that I was in love withher?--dead gone on her? Even if I was rude to you that day when you draggedit out of me, most mothers, I think, would have been sorry for a fellow--"

His voice suddenly broke; but he instantly recovered himself. 

"Instead of that, mother--you only thought of how you could thwart andcheckmate me--how you could get _your_ way--and force me to give upmine. It was _abominable_ of you to go and see Enid, without a word tome!--it was _abominable_ to plot and plan behind my back, and then toforce yourself on her and insult her to her face! Do you think a girl ofany spirit whatever would put herself in your clutches after that? No!--shedidn't want to come it too hard on you--that's her way!--so she made upsome tale about Glenwilliam. But it's as plain as the nose in your face!You've ruined me!--you've ruined me!"

He began to walk furiously up and down, beside himself again with rage andpain. 

Lady Coryston dropped into a chair. Her large, blanched face expressed apassion that even at this supreme moment, and under the sense of doom thatwas closing on her, she could not restrain. 

"It is not I who have ruined you, Arthur--as you put it--though of courseyou're not ruined at all!--but your own wanton self-will. Are you really solost to all decency--all affection--that you can speak to your mother likethis?"

He turned and paused--to throw her an ugly look. 

"Well--I don't know that I'm more of a brute than other men--but it's nogood talking about affection to me--after this. Yes, I suppose you've beenfond of me, mother, in your way--and I suppose I've been fond of you. Butthe fact is, as I told you before, I've stood in _fear_ of you!--allmy life--and lots of things you thought I did because I was fond of you, Idid because I was a coward--a disgusting coward!--who ought to have beenkicked. And that's the truth! Why, ever since I was a small kid--"

And standing before her, with his hands on his sides, all his pleasant facedisfigured by anger and the desire to wound, he poured out upon her a floodof recollections of his childhood and youth. Beneath the bitterness and theshock of it, even Lady Coryston presently flinched. This kind of language, though never in such brutal terms, she had heard from Corry once or twice. But, Arthur!--She put up a trembling hand. 

"That's enough, Arthur! We had better stop this conversation. I have donethe best I could for you--always. "

"Why didn't you _love_ us!" he cried, striking a chair beside him foremphasis. "Why didn't you _love_ us! It was always politics--politics!Somebody to be attacked--somebody to be scored off--somebody to be squared. And a lot of stupid talk that bored us all! My poor father was as sick ofit often as we were. He had enough of it out of doors. Damn politics forwomen, I say--damn them!"

Lady Coryston raised her hand. 

"_Go_, Arthur! This is enough. "

He drew a long breath. 

"Upon my soul, I think it is. We'd better not excite each other any more. I'll speak to Sir Wilfrid, mother, before I go, and ask him to reportvarious things to you, which I have to say. And I shall go and see theWhips to-night. Of course I don't want to do the party any harm. If thereis a general election in the autumn, all that need happen is that I sha'n'tstand again. And as to the estates"--he hesitated--"as to the estates, mother, do as you like. Upon my word I think you'd better give them back toCoryston! A certain amount of money is all I shall want. "

"Go!" said Lady Coryston again, still pointing. 

He stood a moment, fiddling with some ornaments on a table near him, thencaught up his hat with a laugh--and still eying her askance, he walked tothe door, opened it, and disappeared; though he closed it so uncertainlythat Lady Coryston, until, after what seemed an interval, she heard hisfootsteps receding, could not be sure that he was really gone. 

But he was gone; and all the plans and hopes of her later life lay in ashesabout her. She sat motionless. After half an hour she heard the sound of amotor being driven away from the front of the house. Through the eveningair, too, she caught distant voices--which soon ceased. 

She rang presently for her maid, and said she would dine in her room, because of a bad headache. Marcia came, but was not admitted. Sir WilfridBury asked if he might see her, just for a few minutes. A message referredhim to the next morning. 

Dinner came and went down untouched. Whenever she was ill, Lady Coryston'sways were solitary and ungracious. She hated being "fussed over. " So thatno one dared force themselves upon her. Only, between ten and eleven, Marcia again came to the door, knocked gently, and was told to go away. Hermother would be all right in the morning. The girl reluctantly obeyed. 

The state of terrible tension in which Lady Coryston passed that night hadno witness. It could only be guessed at, by Marcia, in particular, towhom it fell afterward to take charge of her mother's papers and personalaffairs. Lady Coryston had apparently gathered all Arthur's, letters to hertogether, from the very first to the very latest, tied them up neatly, andlaid them in the drawer which held those of her dead husband. She had begunto write a letter to Coryston, but when found, it was incoherent, and couldnot be understood. She had removed the early photographs of Arthur from hertable, and a larger, recent one of the young M. P. , taken in London for theconstituency, which was on her mantelpiece, and had placed them both facedownward in the same drawer with the letters. And then, when she had foundit impossible to write what she wished to write, she seemed to have goneback to her arm-chair, taking with her two or three of Arthur's Etonreports--by what instinct had she chosen them out from the piles ofletters!--and a psalter she often used. But by a mere accident, a sinistertrick of fate, when she was found, the book lay open under her hand at oneof those imprecatory psalms at which Christendom has at last learned toshudder. Only a few days before, Sir Wilfrid Bury had laughed at her--asonly he might--for her "Old Testament tone" toward her enemies, and hadquoted this very psalm. Her helpless fingers touched it. 

But the night was a night of vigil for others also. Coryston, who could notsleep, spent the greater part of it first in writing to Marion Atherstone, and then in composing a slashing attack upon the High Church party for itsattitude toward the divorce laws of the country, and the proposals recentlymade for their reform. "How much longer are we going to allow theseblack-coated gentlemen to despise and trample on the laws under whichthe rest of us are content to live!--or to use the rights and powersof property for the bare purpose of pressing their tyrannies and theirsuperstitions on other people?"

Meanwhile, in the beautiful chapel of Hoddon Grey, Edward Newbury, worn outwith the intolerable distress of the preceding forty-eight hours, and yetincapable of sleep, sat or knelt through long stretches of the night. Thechapel was dark but for one light. Over the altar there burnt a lamp, andbehind it could be seen, from the chair, where he knelt, the silk veil ofthe tabernacle. Reservation had been permitted for years in the Hoddon Greychapel, and the fact had interwoven itself with the deepest life ofthe household, eclipsing and dulling the other religious practicesof Anglicanism, just as the strong plant in a hedgerow drives out orsterilizes the rest. There, in Newbury's passionate belief, the Master ofthe House kept watch, or slept, above the altar, as once above the Galileanwaves. For him, the "advanced" Anglican, as for any Catholic of the Romanfaith, the doctrine of the Mass was the central doctrine of all religion, and that intimate and personal adoration to which it leads, was thegoverning power of life. The self-torturing anguish which he had sufferedever since the news of the two suicides had reached him could only endureitself in this sacred presence; and it was there he had taken refuge underthe earlier blow of the breach with Marcia. 

The night was very still--a night of soft showers, broken by intervals ofstarlight. Gradually as the darkness thinned toward dawn, the figures, stoled and winged and crowned, of the painted windows, came dimly forth, and long rays of pale light crept over the marble steps and floor, upon theflowers on the altar and the crucifix above it. The dawn flowed in silentlyand coldly; the birds stirred faintly; and the white mists on the lawn andfields outside made their way through the open windows, and dimmed the glowof color on the walls and in the apse. 

In those melancholy and yet ardent hours Edward Newbury reached the utmostheights of religious affirmation, and the extreme of personal renunciation. It became clear to a mind attuned for such thoughts, that, by severing himfrom Marcia, and, at the same time, and by the same stroke, imposing uponhim at least some fraction of responsibility--a fraction which his honestycould not deny--for the deaths of John and Alice Betts, God had called him, Edward Newbury, in a way not to be mistaken and not to be refused. His lifewas henceforth forfeit--forfeit to his Lord. Henceforth, let him make ofit a willing sacrifice, an expiatory oblation, perpetually renewed, andoffered in perpetual union with the Divine Victim, for their souls and hisown. 

The ideas of the Conventual house in which he had so lately spent hours ofintense religious happiness closed upon him and possessed him. He wasnot to marry. He was reserved for the higher counsels, the Counsels ofPerfection. The face and talk of his friend Brierly, who was so soon goingto his dangerous and solitary post in Southern India, haunted his mind, andat last seemed to show him a way out of his darkness. His poor father andmother! But he never doubted for one moment that they would give him up, that they would let him follow his conscience. 

By the time the sun was fairly up, the storm of religious feeling had dieddown in Newbury. He had taken his resolve, but he was incapable of anyfurther emotion concerning it. On the other hand, his heart was alive tothe thought of Marcia, and of that letter she had sent him. Dear, generousMarcia! Once more he would write to her--once more!

"DEAREST MARCIA, --I may call you so, I think, for the last time, and atthis turning-point of both our lives. I may never see you again; or if wedo meet, you will have become so strange to me that you will wonder in whatother and distant life it was that we loved each other. I think you didlove me for a little while, and I do bless and thank you that you letme know you--and love you. And I bless you above all for the thought ofconsolation and pity you had toward me, even yesterday, in those terriblehours--when you offered to come back to me and help me, as though our bondhad never been broken. 

"No, dear Marcia!--I saw the truth in your face yesterday. I could not makeyou happy. I should set jarring a discord in your life for which it wasnever meant. You did right, absolutely right, to separate yourself from onewhose inmost and irrevocable convictions repelled and shocked you. I may benarrow and cold; but I am not narrow enough--or cold enough!--to let yougive yourself back to one you cannot truly love--or trust. But that youoffered it, because you were sorry for me, and that you would have carriedit out, firmly, your dear hand clenched, as it were, on the compact--thatwarms my heart--that I shall have, as a precious memory, to carry into thefar-off life that I foresee. 

"I cannot write much about the terrible thing at Redcross Farm. Your greatpity for me implies that you think me--and my father--in some way and insome degree, responsible. Perhaps we are--I do not wish to shirk the truth. If so, it is as soldiers under orders are responsible for the hurt anddamage they may cause, in their King's war--as much, and as little. Atleast, so far as the main matter is concerned. That I might have been--thatI ought to have been--infinitely more loving, wiser, stronger to helpthem--that I know--that I shall feel as long as I live. And it is a feelingwhich will determine all my future life. 

"You remember what I told you of Father Brierly and the Community of theAscension? As soon as I can leave my father and mother--they are at presentin deep distress--I shall probably go to the Community House in Lancashirefor a time. My present intention is to take orders, and perhaps to joinBrierly eventually in mission work. My father and mother are splendid! Theyand I shall be separated perhaps in this world, but in that mysteriousother world which lies all about us even now, and which is revealed to usin the Sacraments, we shall meet at last, and forever--if we are faithful. 

"Good-by--God be with you--God give you every good thing in thispresent time--love, children, friends--and, 'in the world to come, lifeeverlasting. '"

 * * * * *

About the hour when the letter was finished, when the July sun was alreadyhigh over the dewy new-shorn fields, Coryston, after an hour's sleep in hischair, and a bath, left Knatchett to walk to Coryston. He was oppressed bysome vague dread which would not let him rest. In the strong excitementsand animosities of the preceding day he had forgotten his mother. But thememory of her face on the sofa during that Sunday reading had come backupon him with unpleasant force. It had been always so with him in life. Sheno sooner relapsed into the woman than he became a son. Only the experiencehad been rare!

He crossed the Hoddon Grey park, and then walked through _a_ mileof the Coryston demesne, till he reached the lake and saw beyond it theItalian garden, with its statues glittering in the early sun--and the longmarble front of the house, with its rococo ornament, and its fine pillaredloggia. "What the deuce are _we_ going to do with these places!" heasked himself in petulant despair. "And to think that Arthur won't beallowed to sell it, or turn it to any useful purpose whatever!"

He skirted the lake, and began to mount the steps, and flagged paths of theformal garden. Suddenly as he approached the garden front he saw that twowindows of his mother's sitting-room were open, and that some one--a figurein black--was sitting in a high-backed arm-chair beside one of them. Hismother!--up?--at seven o'clock in the morning? Yet was it his mother? Hecame nearer. The figure was motionless--the head thrown back, the eyesinvisible from where he stood. Something in the form, the attitude--itsstillness and strangeness in the morning light--struck him with horror. Herushed to the garden door, found it open, dashed up the stairs, and intohis mother's room. 

"Mother!"

Lady Coryston neither moved nor spoke. But as he came up to her, he sawthat she was alive--that her eyes opened and perceived him. Nothing else inher lived or moved. And as he knelt down by her, and took her tenderly inhis arms, she relapsed into the unconscious state from which his entrancehad momentarily roused her. 

 * * * * *

What else there is to tell had best be told quickly. Lady Coryston livedfor some eight months after this seizure. She partially recovered from thefirst stroke, and all the organization of the great house, and all thethought of her children circled round the tragic death-in-life into whichshe had fallen. 

Arthur had come rushing back to Coryston after the catastrophe, restoredby it, like a stream which has wandered in flood, to the older and naturalchannels of life. Bitter remorse for his conduct to his mother, and a sharpresentment of Enid Glenwilliam's conduct toward himself, acted wholesomely. He took up his normal occupations again, in Parliament and on the estates, and talked no more of Buenos Ayres. But whether his mother's darkened mindever forgave him it would be difficult to say. She rarely noticed him, and when she spoke it was generally for Coryston. Her dependence upon hereldest son became a touching and poignant thing, deepening the souls ofboth. Coryston came to live at Coryston, and between his love for MarionAtherstone, and his nursing of his mother, was more truly happy for a timethan his character had ever yet allowed him to be. The din of battle, political and religious, penetrated no more within a house where death camecloser day by day, and where weakness and suffering had at last unitedthese differing men and women in a common interest of profoundest pity. Lady Coryston became strangely dear to her children before she left themforever, and the last faint words she spoke, on that winter morning whenshe died, were for Coryston, who had her hand in his. "Corry--Corrydarling"--and as he came closer--"Corry, who was my firstborn!"

On the night of Lady Coryston's death Reginald Lester wrote:

"Coryston has just taken me in to see his mother. She lies in a frowningrest which does not--as death so often does--make any break with ourmemories of her when alive. Attitude and expression are characteristic. Sheis the strong woman still, conscious of immense power; and, if that shutmouth could speak, and if health were given back to her, ready no doubtstill to use it tyrannously. There is no weakening and no repentance in theface; and I like it better so. Nor did she ever really reverse, though shemodified, the exclusion of Coryston from the inheritance. She was ableduring an interval of comparative betterment about Christmas-time, to makean alteration in her will, and the alteration was no mere surrender to whatone sees to have been, at bottom, her invincible affection for Coryston. She has still left Arthur the estates for life, but with remainder toCoryston's son, should he have one, and she has made Coryston a trusteetogether with Sir Wilfrid Bury. This will mean practically a divisionbetween the brothers--to which Arthur has already pledged himself, so hetells me--but with no power to Coryston to make such radical changes aswould destroy the family tradition, at least without Arthur's consent andSir Wilfrid's. But Coryston will have plenty of money and plenty of landwherewith to experiment, and no doubt we shall see some strange things. 

"Thus she kept her flag flying to the end, so far as the enfeebled brainallowed. Yet the fact was that her state of dependence on her childrenduring her illness, and their goodness to her, did in truth evoke anotherwoman with new perceptions, superposed, as it were, upon the old. Andthere, I think, came in her touch of greatness--which one could not haveexpected. She was capable at any rate of _this_ surrender; not goingback upon the old--but just accepting the new. Her life might have peteredout in bitterness and irritation, leaving an odious memory. It became asource of infinite sweetness, just because her children found out--to theirimmense surprise--that she _could_ let herself be loved; and theythrew themselves with eagerness on the chance she gave them. 

"She dies in time--one of the last of a generation which will soon havepassed, leaving only a procession of ghosts on a vanishing road. She had nodoubts about her place and prerogative in the world, no qualms about herrights to use them as she pleased. Coryston also has no doubts--or few. As to individuals he is perpetually disillusioned; as to causes he is asobstinate as his mother. And independently of the Glenwilliam affair, thatis why, I think, in the end she preferred Coryston to Arthur, who will'muddle through, ' not knowing whither, like the majority of his kind. 

"Marcia!--in her black dress, beside her mother, looking down uponher--with that yearning look!--But--not a word! There are things too sacredfor these pages. "

 * * * * *

During the months of Lady Coryston's illness, indeed, Reginald Lesterentered, through stages scarcely perceived by himself and them, upon a newrelation toward the Coryston family. He became the increasingly intimatefriend and counselor of the Coryston brothers, and of Marcia, no less--butin a fresh and profounder sense. He shared much of the estate business withMr. Page; he reconciled as best he could the jarring views of Coryston andArthur; he started on the reorganization of the great Library, in which, sofar, he had only dealt with a fraction of its possessions. And every day hewas Marcia's companion, in things intimate and moving, no less than inthe practical or commonplace affairs of ordinary life. It was he who readpoetry with her, or played accompaniments to her songs, in the hours ofrelief from her nursing; it was he who watched and understood her; whoguided and yet adored her. His love for her was never betrayed; but itgradually became, without her knowing it, the condition of her life. Andwhen Lady Coryston died, in the February following her stroke, and Marcia, who was worn out, went abroad with Waggin for a few weeks' rest, thecorrespondence which passed between her and Lester during the earlier daysof her absence, by the more complete and deliberate utterance which itpermitted between them, did at last reveal to the girl the depths of herown heart. 

During her travels various things happened. 

One chilly afternoon, late in March, when a light powdering of snow lay onthe northern slopes of the hills, Coryston went up to the cottage inthe hopes of finding Marion Atherstone alone. There had been a quietunderstanding between them all the winter, more or less known to theCoryston family, but all talk of marriage had been silenced by thecondition of Lady Coryston, who indeed never knew such schemes were in theair. 

About six weeks, however, after his mother's death, Coryston's natural_fougue_ suggested to him that he was being trifled with. He burstinto the little sitting-room where Marion was just making tea, and satdown, scowling, on the further side of the hearth. 

"What is the matter?" Marion asked, mildly. During the winter a beautifyingchange seemed to have passed upon Atherstone's daughter. She was younger, better looking, better dressed; yet keeping always the touch of homeliness, of smiling common-sense, which had first attracted a man in secretrebellion against his own rhetoric and other people's. 

"You are treating me abominably!" said Coryston, with vehemence. 

"How? My conscience is as sound as a bell!" Wherewith, laughing, she handedhim his cup of tea. 

"All bells aren't sound. Some are flawed, " was the prompt reply. "I haveasked you twice this week to tell me when you will be good enough to marryme, and you haven't said a single word in reply. "

Marion was silent a little; then she looked up, as Andromache looked atHector--with a laugh, yet with something else fluttering behind. 

"Let's ask ourselves once more, Herbert--is it really a wise thing to do?"

Nobody else since his father died had ever called Coryston by his Christianname; which was perhaps why Marion Atherstone took a peculiar pleasure inusing it. Coryston had mostly forgotten that he possessed such a name, butfrom her he liked it. 

"What on earth do you mean by that?"

"In the first place, Herbert, I was never intended by nature to be apeeress. "

He sprang up furiously. 

"I never heard a more snobbish remark! All that you are asked is to be mywife. "

She shook her head. 

"We can't make a world for ourselves only. Then there's--father. "

"Well, what about him?"

"You don't get on very well, " she said, with a sigh. 

Coryston controlled himself with difficulty. 

"For your father, the Liberal party is mostly Jahve--the hope of thechildren of light. For me the Liberal party is mostly Dagon--either made agod of by Philistines, or groveling before a stronger God--Mammon. But thatdon't matter. I can behave myself. "

Marion bent over her work. 

"Can't I behave myself?" he repeated, threateningly, as he moved nearerher. 

She looked up at last. 

"Suppose you get bored with me--as you have with the Liberal party?"

"But never with liberty, " he said, ardently. 

"Suppose you come to see the seamy side of me--as you do of everybody?"

"I don't invent seamy sides--where none exist, " he said, lookingperemptorily into her eyes. 

"I'm not clever, Herbert--and I think I'm a Tory. "

"Heavens, what do I care? You're the woman I happen to love. "

"And I intend to go to church. "

"Edward Newbury's kind of church?" he asked her, uneasily. 

She shook her head. 

"No. I'm an Evangelical. "

"Thank the Lord! So am I, " he said, fervently. 

She laughed. 

"It's true, " he insisted. "Peace on earth--goodwill to men--that I canunderstand. So that's settled. Now then--a fortnight next Wednesday?"

"No, no!" she said, in alarm, "certainly not. Wait a minute, Herbert! Whereare you going to live, and what are you going to do?"

"I'm taking over the Dorset estates. Lots to do on them, and not muchmoney. Arthur washes his hands of them. There's an old farm where we canlive. In six months I shall have quarreled with all the neighbors, and lifewill be worth living again. "

She lifted her eyebrows. 

"A charming prospect for your wife!"

"Certainly. You'll have the life you were born for. You'll go roundafter me--whitewashing the scandals I cause--or if you like to put itsentimentally--binding up the wounds I make. But if I'm anything I'm asociologist, and my business is to make experiments. They will no doubt beas futile as those I have been making here. "

"And where shall I come in?"

"You'll be training up the boy--who'll profit by the experiments. "

"The boy?"

"The boy--our boy--who's to have the estates, " said Coryston, without amoment's hesitation. 

Marion flushed, and pulled her work to her again. Coryston dropped on hisknees beside her, and asked her pardon with eyes whereof the male audacityhad passed into a steady and shining tenderness. 

When Coryston returned that night to the big house, he found his brothersArthur and James arrived for the week-end. Arthur was full of Parliamentarygossip--"battles of kites and crows, " of which Coryston was generallyintolerant. But on this occasion he took it silently, and Arthur rambledon. James sat mildly beaming, with finger-tips joined, and the look ofone on the verge of a confidence. But he talked, after all--when Arthurpaused--only of music and the opera, and as his brothers were not musical, he soon came to an end, and Arthur held the stage. They were gathered inthe smoking-room on the ground or garden floor, a room hung with picturesof race-horses, and saddened by various family busts that had not beenthought good enough for the library. Outside, the March wind rattledthrough trees as yet untouched by the spring, and lashed a shivering waterround the fountain nymphs. 

"Whoever could have dreamed they would have held on till now!" said Arthur, in reply to a perfunctory remark from James. Coryston looked up from areverie. 

"Who? The Government? Lord!--what does it matter? Look here, you chaps--Iheard some news in Martover just now. Lord William Newbury died lastnight--heart failure--expected for the last fortnight. "

Arthur received the news with the lively professional interest that onelandowner feels in another, and tied a knot in his handkerchief to remindhimself to ask Page when the funeral was to be, as the Member for thedivision must of course attend it. James said, thoughtfully:

"Edward, I saw, was ordained last week. And my letter from Marcia thismorning tells me she expects to see him in Rome, on his way to India. PoorLady William will be very much alone!"

"If you make a solitude and call it religion, what can you expect?" saidCoryston, sharply. His face had darkened at the Newburys' name. As always, it had evoked the memory of two piteous graves. Then, as he got up from hischair, he said to Arthur:

"I've fixed it up. Marion and I shall get married next month. "

The brothers looked a little embarrassed, though not at all surprised. Corry's attachment to this plain, sensible lady, of moderate opinions, hadindeed astonished them enormously when they first became aware of it; butthey were now used to it. 

"All right, Corry!" said Arthur, slapping his brother on the back. "Thebest chance of keeping you out of a madhouse! And a very nice woman! Youdon't expect me to chum with her father?"

"Not unless you wish to learn a thing or two--which was never your strongpoint, " said Coryston, dodging a roll of some Parliamentary paper or other, which Arthur aimed at him. He turned to James. "Well, James, aren't yougoing to congratulate me?--And why don't you do it yourself?"

"Of course I congratulate you, " said James, hastily. "Most sincerely!"

But his expression--half agitated, half smiling--betrayed emotions so farbeyond the needs of the situation, that Coryston gave him a puzzled glance. James indeed opened his mouth as though to speak. Then a bright, pink coloroverspread his whole countenance from brow to chin; his lips shut and hefell back in his chair. Presently he went away, and could be heard playingBach on the organ in the central hall. He returned to London the sameevening carrying a cargo of philosophical books, from the library, and anumber of novels, though as a rule he never read novels. 

The next morning, in a letter to Coryston, he announced his engagement to agirl of nineteen, an orphan, and a pupil at the Royal College of Music. Shewas the daughter of his Cambridge tutor--penniless, pretty, and musical. Hehad paid her fees it seemed for several years, and the effect on him of hercharming mezzo-soprano voice, at a recent concert given by the College, hadsettled the matter. The philosopher in love, who had been too shy to tellhis brothers _viva voce_, was quite free of tongue in writing; andCoryston and Arthur, though they laughed, were glad that "old James" hadfound the courage to be happy. Coryston remarked to Arthur that it nowremained for him to keep up the blue blood of the family. 

"Or Marcia, " said Arthur, evading the personal reference. 

"Marcia?" Coryston threw his brother an amused, significant look, and saidnothing for a moment. But presently he dropped out:

"Lester writes that he'll be in Rome next week looking after that Borghesemanuscript. He doesn't expect to get back here till May. "

For Lester had now been absent from Coryston some three or four weeks, traveling on matters connected with the library. 

Arthur made no comment, but stood awhile by the window in a brown-study, twisting his lip, and frowning slightly. His nondescript features andboyish manner scarcely allowed him at any time to play the magnate withsuccess. But his position as master of Coryston Place, the great familyhouse with its pompous tradition, and the long influence of his mother, hadby now asserted, or reasserted themselves; though fighting still with thesore memory of Enid Glenwilliam. Was he going to allow his sister to marryout of her rank--even though the lover were the best fellow in the world?A man may marry whom he will, and the family is only secondarily affected. But a woman is absorbed by the family of her husband. 

He finally shrugged his shoulders over it. 

"Marcia is as stiff-necked as Coryston, " he said to himself, "if it comesto that. "

 * * * * *

April followed. Amid a crowded Rome, alive with flowers and fountains undera life-giving sun, Marcia Coryston became sharply conscious again of thecolor and beauty interwoven with mere living, for the sane and sound amongmen. Edward Newbury passed through on his way to Brindisi and SouthernIndia; and she saw him for an hour; an interview short and restrained, butnot to be forgotten by either of the two persons concerned. When it wasover Marcia shed a few secret tears--tears of painful sympathy, of anadmiration, which was half pity; and then threw herself once more with--asit were--a gasp of renewed welcome, into the dear, kind, many-hued worldon which Edward Newbury had turned his back. Presently Lester arrived. Hebecame her constant companion through the inexhaustible spectacle of Rome;and she could watch him among the students who were his fellows, modestor learned as they, yet marked out from most of them by the signs hebore--signs well known by now to her--of a poetic and eager spirit, always and everywhere in quest of the human--of man himself, laughing orsuffering, behind his works. The golden days passed by; the blue and whiteanemones bloomed and died in the Alban woods; the English crowd that comesfor Easter arrived and departed; and soon Marcia herself must go home, carrying with her the passionate yet expectant feeling of a child, tiredout with happy days, and dreaming of more to come. 

These were private and personal affairs. But in March a catastrophehappened which shook the mind of England, and profoundly altered the courseof politics. An American yacht with Glenwilliam on board was overtakenoff the Needles by a sudden and terrific storm, and went down, without asurvivor, and with nothing but some floating wreckage to tell the tale. TheChancellor's daughter was left alone and poor. The passionate sympathyand admiration which her father's party had felt for himself was in somemeasure transferred to his daughter. But to the amazement of many persons, she refused with scorn any pecuniary help, living on a small income, andtrying her hand, with some prospect of success, at literature. About sixweeks after her father's death Arthur Coryston found her out and againasked her to marry him. It is probable there was some struggle in her mind, but in the end she refused. "You are a kind, true fellow!" she said to him, gratefully, "but it wouldn't do--it wouldn't do!" And then with a darkeningof her strong face: "There is only one thing I can do for _him_now--to serve his causes! And you don't care for one of them! No--no!Good-by!--Good-by!"

At last, in May, Marcia came back again to live--as she supposed--atCoryston with Arthur, and do her duty by her own people. A wonderful springwas abroad in the land. The gorse on the slopes of the hills was a marvel, and when the hawthorns came out beside it, or flung their bloom along thehedgerows and the streams; when far and near the cuckoo's voice made thenew world of blossom and growth articulate; when furtive birds slippedjoyously to and fro between the nests above and a teeming earth below; whenthe west winds veering between south and north, and driving the great whiteclouds before them, made, every day, a new marvel of the sky--Marcia wouldoften hold her breath and know within herself the growth of an answeringand a heavenly spring. Lester finished his scholar's errands in Rome andNaples, and returned to Coryston in the middle week of May, in order tocomplete his work there. He found much more to do than he supposed; hefound his friends, Coryston and Arthur, eager to capture and keep him; hefound in every field and wood the kindling beauty of the year; he foundMarcia!--and a bewildering though still shy message in her dark eyes. Through what doubts and scruples, through what stages of unfoldingconfidence and growing joy their minds passed, and to what end it all movedon, let those imagine, to whom the purest and deepest of human emotions hasever spoken, or is speaking now.