[Illustration: LADY KITTY BRISTOL]

The MarriageofWilliam Ashe

BY

MRS. HUMPHRY WARDAuthor of "Lady Rose's Daughter" "Eleanor" etc. 

ILLUSTRATED BYALBERT STERNER

[Illustration]

1905

Contents

 PAGEPART I. ACQUAINTANCE . . . . . . . 1PART II. THREE YEARS AFTER . . . . 125PART III. DEVELOPMENT . . . . . . 293PART IV. STORM . . . . . . . . . . 365PART V. REQUIESCAT . . . . . . . . 511

TO

D. M. W. 

DAUGHTER AND FRIEND

I INSCRIBE THIS BOOK

MARCH, 1905

Illustrations

LADY KITTY BRISTOL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_LADY TRANMORE AND MARY LYSTER . . . . . . . . . . . . _Facing page_ 6"A SLIM GIRL IN WHITE AT THE FAR END OF THE LARGE ROOM" . . . . . . 44THE FINISHING TOUCHES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 200"HE GATHERED HER IN HIS ARMS" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 278"THE ACTRESS PAUSED TO STARE AT LADY KITTY" . . . . . . . . . . . . 438"SHE THOUGHT OF CLIFFE STANDING BESIDE THE DOOR OF THE GREAT HALL" . 474"HE DREW SOME CHAIRS TOGETHER BEFORE THE FIRE" . . . . . . . . . . . 556

PART I

ACQUAINTANCE

 "Just oblige me and touch With your scourge that minx Chloe, but don't hurt her much. "

The Marriage of William Ashe

I

"He ought to be here, " said Lady Tranmore, as she turned away from thewindow. 

Mary Lyster laid down her work. It was a fine piece of churchembroidery, which, seeing that it had been designed for her by no less aperson than young Mr. Burne Jones himself, made her the envy of herpre-Raphaelite friends. 

"Yes, indeed. You made out there was a train about twelve. "

"Certainly. They can't have taken more than an hour to speechify afterthe declaration of the poll. And I know William meant to catch thattrain if he possibly could. "

"And take his seat this evening?"

Lady Tranmore nodded. She moved restlessly about the room, fidgetingwith a book here and there, and evidently full of thoughts. Mary Lysterwatched her a little longer, then quietly took up her work again. Herair of well-bred sympathy, the measured ease of her movements, contrasted with Lady Tranmore's impatience. Yet in truth she waslistening no less sharply than her companion to the sounds in thestreet outside. 

Lady Tranmore made her way to the window, and stood there looking out onthe park. It was the week before Easter, and the plane-trees were notyet in leaf. But a few thorns inside the park railings were alreadylavishly green and there was a glitter of spring flowers beside the parkwalks, not showing, however, in such glorious abundance as became thefashion a few years later. It was a mild afternoon and the drive wasfull of carriages. From the bow-window of the old irregular house inwhich she stood, Lady Tranmore could watch the throng passing andrepassing, could see also the traffic in Park Lane on either side. London, from this point of sight, wore a cheerful, friendly air. The dimsunshine, the white-clouded sky, the touches of reviving green andflowers, the soft air blowing in from a farther window which was open, brought with them impressions of spring, of promise, and rebirth, whichinsensibly affected Lady Tranmore. 

"Well, I wonder what William will do, this time, in Parliament!" shesaid, as she dropped again into her seat by the fire and began to cutthe pages of a new book. 

"He is sure to do extremely well, " said Miss Lyster. 

Lady Tranmore shrugged her shoulders. "My dear--do you know that Williamhas been for eight years--since he left Trinity--one of the idlest youngmen alive?"

"He had one brief!"

"Yes--somewhere in the country, where all the juniors get one in turn, "said Lady Tranmore. "That was the year he was so keen and went oncircuit, and never missed a sessions. Next year nothing would inducehim to stir out of town. What has he done with himself all these eightyears? I can't imagine. "

"He has grown--uncommonly handsome, " said Mary Lyster, with a momentaryhesitation as she threaded her needle afresh. 

"I never remember him anything else, " said Lady Tranmore. "All theartists who came here and to Narroways wanted to paint him. I used tothink it would make him a spoiled little ape. But nothing spoiled him. "

Miss Lyster smiled. "You know, Cousin Elizabeth--and you may as wellconfess it at once!--that you think him the ablest, handsomest, andcharmingest of men!"

"Of course I do, " said Lady Tranmore, calmly. "I am certain, moreover--now--that he will be Prime Minister. And as for idleness, that, of course, is only a _façon de parler_. He has worked hard enoughat the things which please him. "

"There--you see!" said Mary Lyster, laughing. 

"Not politics, anyway, " said the elder lady, reflectively. "He wentinto the House to please me, because I was a fool and wanted to seehim there. But I must say when his constituents turned him out lastyear I thought they would have been a mean-spirited set if theyhadn't. They knew very well he'd never done a stroke for them. Attendances--divisions--perfectly scandalous!"

"Well, here he is, in triumphantly for somewhere else--with all sorts ofdelightful prospects!"

Lady Tranmore sighed. Her white fingers paused in their task. 

"That, of course, is because--now--he's a personage. Everything'll bemade easy for him now. My dear Mary, they talk of England's being ademocracy!"

The speaker raised her handsome shoulders; then, as though to shake offthoughts of loss and grief which had suddenly assailed her, she abruptlychanged the subject. 

"Well--work or no work--the first thing we've got to do is to marryhim. "

She looked up sharply. But not the smallest tremor could she detect inMary Lyster's gently moving hand. There was, however, no reply to herremark. 

"Don't you agree, Polly?" said Lady Tranmore, smiling. 

Her smile--which still gave great beauty to her face--was charming, buta little sly, as she observed her companion. 

"Why, of course, " said Miss Lyster, inclining her head to one side thatshe might judge the effect of some green shades she had just put in. "But that surely will be made easy for him, too. "

"Well, after all, the girls can't propose! And I never saw him take anyinterest in a girl yet--outside his own family, of course, " added LadyTranmore, hastily. 

"No--he does certainly devote himself to the married women, " repliedMiss Lyster, in the half-absent tone of one more truly interested in herembroidery than in the conversation. 

"He would sooner have an hour with Madame d'Estrées than a week with theprettiest miss in London. That's quite true, but I vow it's the girls'own fault! They should stand on their dignity--snub the creaturesmore! In my young days--"

[Illustration: LADY TRANMORE AND MARY LYSTER]

"Ah, there wasn't a glut of us then, " said Mary, calmly. "Listen!"--sheheld up her hand. 

"Yes, " said Lady Tranmore, springing up. "There he is. "

She stood waiting. The door flew open, and in came a tall young man. 

"William, how late you are!" said Lady Tranmore, as she flew into hisarms. 

"Well, mother, are you pleased?"

Her son held her at arm's-length, smiling kindly upon her. 

"Of course I am, " said Lady Tranmore. "And you--are you horribly tired?"

"Not a bit. Ah, Mary!--how do you do?"

Miss Lyster had risen, and the cousins shook hands. 

"But I don't deny it's very jolly to come back--out of all that beastlyscrimmage, " said the new member, as he threw himself into an arm-chairby the fire with his hands behind his head, while Lady Tranmore preparedhim a cup of tea. 

"I expect you've enjoyed it, " said Miss Lyster, also moving towards thefire. 

"Well, when you're in it there's a certain excitement in wondering howyou're going to come out of it! But one might say that, of course, ofthe infernal regions. "

"Not quite, " said Mary Lyster, smiling demurely. 

"Polly! you _are_ a Tory. Everybody else's hell has moved--but yours!Thank you, mother, " as Lady Tranmore gave him tea. Then, stretching outhis great frame in lazy satisfaction, he turned his brown eyes from onelady to the other. "I say, mother, I haven't seen anything asgood-looking as you--or Polly there, if she'll forgive me--for weeks. "

"Hold your tongue, goose, " said his mother, as she replenished theteapot. "What--there were no pretty girls--not one?"

"Well, they didn't come my way, " said William, contentedly munching atbread-and-butter. "I have gone through all the usual humbug--andperjured my soul in all the usual ways--without any consolation worthspeaking of. "

"Don't talk nonsense, sir, " said Lady Tranmore. "You know you likespeaking--and you like compliments--and you've had plenty of both. "

"You didn't read me, mother!"

"Didn't I?" she said, smiling. He groaned, and took another piece oftea-cake. 

"My own family at least, don't you think, might omit that?"

"H'm, sir--So you didn't believe a word of your own speeches?" said LadyTranmore, as she stood behind him and smoothed his hair back from hisforehead. 

"Well, who does?" He looked up gayly and kissed the tips of her fingers. 

"And it's in that spirit you're going back into the House?" Mary Lysterthrew him the question--with a slight pinching of the lips--as sheresumed her work. 

"Spirit? What do you mean, Polly? One plays the game, of course--and ithas its moments--its hot corners, so to speak--or I suppose no one wouldplay it!"

"And the goal?" She lifted a gently disapproving face, in a movementwhich showed anew the large comeliness of head and neck. 

"Why--to keep the other fellows out, of course!" He lifted an arm anddrew his mother down to sit on the edge of his chair. 

"William, you're not to talk like that, " said Lady Tranmore, decidedly, laying her cheek, however, against His hand the while. "It was all verywell when you were quite a free-lance--but now--Oh! never mindMary--she's discreet--and she knows all about it. "

"What--that they're thinking of giving me Hickson's place? Parham hasjust written to me--I found the letter down-stairs--to ask me to go andsee him. "

"Oh! it's come?" said Lady Tranmore, with a start of pleasure. LordParham was the Prime Minister. "Now don't be a humbug, William, andpretend you're not pleased. But you'll have to work, mind!" She held upan admonishing finger. "You'll have to answer letters, mind!--you'llhave to keep appointments, mind!"

"Shall I?... Ah!--Hudson--"

He turned. The butler was in the room. 

"His lordship, my lady, would like to see Mr. William before dinner ifhe could make it convenient. "

"Certainly, Hudson, certainly, " said the young man. "Tell his lordshipI'll be with him in ten minutes. "

Then, as the butler departed--"How's father, mother?"

"Oh! much as usual, " said Lady Tranmore, sadly. 

"And you?"

He laid his arm boyishly round her waist, and looked up at her, hishandsome face all affection and life. Mary Lyster, observing them, thought them a remarkable pair--he in the very prime and heyday ofbrilliant youth, she so beautiful still, in spite of the filling-out ofmiddle life--which, indeed, was at the moment somewhat toned anddisguised by the deep mourning, the sweeping crape and dull silk inwhich she was dressed. 

"I'm all right, dear, " she said, quietly, putting her hand on hisshoulder. "Now, go on with your tea. Mary--feed him! I'll go and talk tofather till you come. "

She disappeared, and William Ashe approached his cousin. 

"She _is_ better?" he said, with an anxiety that became him. 

"Oh yes! Your election has been everything to her--and your letters. Youknow how she adores you, William. "

Ashe drew a long breath. 

"Yes--isn't it bad luck?"

"William!"

"For her, I mean. Because, you know--I can't live up to it. I know it'sher doing--bless her!--that old Parham's going to give me this thing. And it's a perfect scandal!"

"What nonsense, William!"

"It is!" he maintained, springing up and standing before her, with hishands in his pockets. "They're going to offer me the Under-Secretaryshipfor Foreign Affairs, and I shall take it, I suppose, and be thankful. And do you know"--he dropped out the words with emphasis--"that I don'tknow a word of German--and I can't talk to a Frenchman for half an hourwithout disgracing myself. There--that's how we're governed!"

He stood staring at her with his bright large eyes--amused, yetstrangely detached--as though he had very little to do with what he wastalking about. 

Mary Lyster met his look in some bewilderment, conscious all the timethat his neighborhood was very agreeable and stirring. 

"But every one says--you speak so well on foreign subjects. "

"Well, any fool can get up a Blue Book. Only--luckily for me--all thefools don't. That's how I've scored sometimes. Oh! I don't denythat--I've scored!" He thrust his hands deeper into his pockets, hiswhole tall frame vibrant, as it seemed to her, with will and good-humor. 

"And you'll score again, " she said, smiling. "You've got a wonderfulopportunity, William. That's what the Bishop says. "

"Much obliged to him!"

Ashe looked down upon her rather oddly. 

"He told me he had never believed you were such an idler as other peoplethought you--that he felt sure you had great endowments, and that youwould use them for the good of your country, and"--she hesitatedslightly--"of the Church. I wish you'd talk to him sometimes, William. He sees so clearly. "

"Oh! does he?" said Ashe. 

Mary had dropped her work, and her face--a little too broad, withfeatures a trifle too strongly marked--was raised towards him. Its palecolor had passed into a slight blush. But the more strenuous expressionhad somehow not added to her charm, and her voice had taken a slightlynasal tone. 

Through the mind of William Ashe, as he stood looking down upon her, passed a multitude of flying impressions. He knew perfectly well thatMary Lyster was one of the maidens whom it would be possible for him tomarry. His mother had never pressed her upon him, but she wouldcertainly acquiesce. It would have been mere mock modesty on his partnot to guess that Mary would probably not refuse him. And she washandsome, well provided, well connected--oppressively so, indeed; a manmight quail a little before her relations. Moreover, she and he hadalways been good friends, even when as a boy he could not refrain fromteasing her for a slow-coach. During his electoral weeks in the countrythe thought of "Polly" had often stolen kindly upon his rare moments ofpeace. He must marry, of course. There was no particular excitement orromance about it. Now that his elder brother was dead and he had becomethe heir, it simply had to be done. And Polly was very nice--quitesweet-tempered and intelligent. She looked well, moved well, would fillthe position admirably. 

Then, suddenly, as these half-thoughts rushed through his brain, abreath of something cold and distracting--a wind from the land of_ennui_--seemed to blow upon them and scatter them. Was it the mentionof the Bishop--tiresome, pompous fellow--or her slightly pedantictone--or the infinitesimal hint of "management" that her speech implied?Who knows? But in that moment perhaps the scales of life inclined. 

"Much obliged to the Bishop, " he repeated, walking up and down. "I amafraid, however, I don't take things as seriously as he does. Oh, I hopeI shall behave decently--but, good Lord, what a comedy it is! You knowthe sort of articles"--he turned towards her--"our papers will bewriting to-morrow on my appointment. They'll make me out no end of afine fellow--you'll see! And, of course, the real truth is, as you and Iknow perfectly well, that if it hadn't been for poor Freddy's death--andmother--and her dinners--and the chaps who come here--I might havewhistled for anything of the sort. And then I go down to Ledmenham andstand as a Liberal, and get all the pious Radicals to work for me! It'sa humbugging world--isn't it?"

He returned to the fireplace, and stood looking down upon her--grinning. 

Mary had resumed her embroidery. She, too, was dimly conscious ofsomething disappointing. 

"Of course, if you choose to take it like that, you can, " she said, rather tartly. "Of course, everything can be made ridiculous. "

"Well, that's a blessing, anyway!" said Ashe, with his merry laugh. "Butlook here, Mary, tell me about yourself. What have you beendoing?--dancing--riding, eh?"

He threw himself down beside her, and began an elder-brotherlycross-examination, which lasted till Lady Tranmore returned and beggedhim to go at once to his father. 

When he returned to the drawing-room, Ashe found his mother alone. Itwas growing dark, and she was sitting idle, her hands in her lap, waiting for him. 

"I must be off, dear, " he said to her. "You won't come down and see metake my seat?"

She shook her head. 

"I think not. What did you think of your father?"

"I don't see much change, " he said, hesitating. 

"No, he's much the same. "

"And you?" He slid down on the sofa beside her and threw his arm roundher. "Have you been fretting?"

Lady Tranmore made no reply. She was a self-contained woman, not readilymoved to tears. But he felt her hand tremble as he pressed it. 

"I sha'n't fret now"--she said after a moment--"now that you've comeback. "

Ashe's face took a very soft and tender expression. 

"Mother, you know--you think a great deal too much of me--you're tooambitious for me. "

She gave a sound between a laugh and a sob, and, raising her hands, shesmoothed back his curly hair and held his face between them. 

"When do you see Lord Parham?" she asked. 

"Eight o'clock--in his room at the House. I'll send you up a note. "

"You'll be home early?"

"No--don't wait for me. "

She dropped her hands, after giving him a kiss on the cheek. 

"I know where you're going! It's Madame d'Estrées' evening. "

"Well--you don't object?"

"Object?" She shrugged her shoulders. "So long as it amuses you--Youwon't find _one_ woman there to-night. "

"Last time there were two, " he said, smiling, as he rose from the sofa. 

"I know--Lady Quantock--and Mrs. Mallory. Now they've deserted her, Ihear. What fresh gossip has turned up I don't know. Of course, " shesighed, "I've been out of the world. But I believe there have beendevelopments. "

"Well, I don't know anything about it--and I don't think I want to know. She's very agreeable, and one meets everybody there. "

"_Everybody_. Ungallant creature!" she said, giving a little pull to hiscollar, the set of which did not please her. 

"Sorry! Mother!"--his laughing eyes pursued her--"Do you want to marryme off directly?--I know you do!"

"I want nothing but what you yourself should want. Of course, you mustmarry. "

"The young women don't care twopence about me!"

"William!--be a bear if you like, but not an idiot!"

"Perfectly true, " he declared; "not the dazzlers and the high-fliers, anyway--the only ones it would be an excitement to carry off. "

"You know very well, " she said, slowly, "that now you might marryanybody. "

He threw his head back rather haughtily. 

"Oh! I wasn't thinking about money, and that kind of thing. Well, giveme time, mother--don't hurry me! And now I'd better stop talkingnonsense, change my clothes, and be off. Good-bye, dear--you shall hearwhen the job's perpetrated!"

"William, really!--don't say these things--at least to anybody but me. You understand very well"--she drew herself up rather finely--"that if Ihadn't known, in spite of your apparent idleness, you would do any workthey _set_ you to do, to your own credit and the country's, I'd neverhave lifted a finger for you!"

William Ashe laughed out. 

"Oh! intriguing mother!" he said, stooping again to kiss her. "So youadmit you did it?"

He went off gayly, and she heard him flying up-stairs three steps at atime, as though he were still an untamed Eton boy, and there were nothree weeks' hard political fighting behind him, and no interview whichmight decide his life before him. 

He entered his own sitting-room on the second floor, shut the doorbehind him, and glanced round him with delight. It was a large roomlooking on a side street, and obliquely to the park. Its walls werecovered with books--books which almost at first sight betrayed to theaccustomed eye that they were the familiar companions of a student. Almost every volume had long paper slips inside it, and when openedwould have been found to contain notes and underlinings in a somewhatreckless and destructive abundance. A large table, also loaded untidilywith books and papers, stood in the centre of the room; many of themwere note-books, stored with evidences of the most laborious and patientwork; a Cambridge text lay beside them face downward, as he had left iton departure. His mother's housekeeper, who had been one of his bestfriends from babyhood, was the only person allowed to dust his room--buton the strict condition that she replaced everything as she found it. 

He took up the volume, and plunged a moment headlong into the Greekchorus that met his eye. "_Jolly!_" he said, putting it down with a sighof regret. "These beastly politics!"

And he went muttering to his dressing-room, summoning his valet almostwith ill-temper. Yet half his library was the library of a politician, admirably chosen and exhaustively read. 

The footman who answered his call understood his moods and served him ata look. Ashe complained hotly of the brushing of his dress-clothes, andworked himself into a fever over the set of his tie. Nevertheless, before he left he had managed to get from the young man the whole storyof his engagement to the under-housemaid, giving him thereupon some bitsof advice, jocular but trenchant, which James accepted with a readinessquite unlike his normal behavior in the circles of his class. 

II

Ashe took his seat, dined, and saw the Prime Minister. These things tooktime, and it was not till past eleven that he presented himself in thehall of Madame d'Estrées' house in St. James's Place. Most of her guestswere already gathered, but he mounted the stairs together with an oldfriend and an old acquaintance, Philip Darrell, one of the ablestwriters of the moment, and Louis Harman, artist and man of fashion, thefriend of duchesses and painter of portraits, a person much in requestin many worlds. 

"What a _cachet_ they have, these houses!" said Harman, looking roundhim. "St. James's Place is the top!"

"Where else would you expect to find Madame d'Estrées?" asked Darrell, smiling. 

"Yes--what taste she has! However, it was I really who advised her totake the house. "

"Naturally, " said Darrell. 

Harman threw a dubious look at him, then stopped a moment, and with acomplacent proprietary air straightened an engraving on the staircasewall. 

"I suppose the dear lady has a hundred slaves of the lamp, as usual, "said Ashe. "You advise her about her house--somebody else helps her tobuy her wine--"

"Not at all, my dear fellow, " said Harman, offended--"as if I couldn'tdo that!"

"Hullo!" said Darrell, as they neared the drawing-room door. "What acrowd there is!"

For as the butler announced them, the din of talk which burst throughthe door implied indeed a multitude--much at their ease. 

They made their way in with difficulty, shaping their course towardsthat corner in the room where they knew they should find their hostess. Ashe was greeted on all sides with friendly words and congratulations, and a passage was opened for him to the famous "blue sofa" where Madamed'Estrées sat enthroned. 

She looked up with animation, broke off her talk with two elderlydiplomats who seemed to have taken possession of her, and beckoned Asheto a seat beside her. 

"So you're in? Was it a hard fight?"

"A hard fight? Oh no! One would have had to be a great fool not to getin. "

"They say you spoke very well. I suppose you promised them everythingthey wanted--from the crown downward?"

"Yes--all the usual harmless things, " said Ashe. 

Madame d'Estrées laughed; then looked at him across the top of her fan. 

"Well!--and what else?"

"You can't wait for your newspaper?" he said, smiling, after a moment'spause. 

She shrugged her shoulders good-humoredly. 

"Oh! I _know_--of course I know. Is it as good as you expected?"

"As good as--" The young man opened his mouth in wonder. "What righthad I to expect anything?"

"How modest! All the same, they want you--and they're very glad to getyou. But you can't save them. "

"That's not generally expected of Under-Secretaries, is it?"

"A good deal's expected of _you_. I talked to Lord Parham about you lastnight. "

William Ashe flushed a little. 

"Did you? Very kind of you. "

"Not at all. I didn't flatter you in the least. Nor did he. But they'regoing to give you your chance!"

She bent forward and lightly patted the sleeve of his coat with thefingers of a very delicate hand. In this sympathetic aspect, Madamed'Estrées was no doubt exceedingly attractive. There were, of course, many people who were not moved by it; to whom it was the conjuring of anarch pretender. But these were generally of the female sex. Men, at anyrate, lent themselves to the illusion. Ashe, certainly, had always doneso. And to-night the spell still worked; though as her action drew hisparticular attention to her face and expression, he was aware of slightchanges in her which recalled his mother's words of the afternoon. Theeyes were tired; at last he perceived in them some slight signs of yearsand harass. Up till now her dominating charm had been a kind of timelesssoftness and sensuousness, which breathed from her wholepersonality--from her fair skin and hair, her large, smiling eyes. Sheput, as it were, the question of age aside. It was difficult to think ofher as a child; it had been impossible to imagine her as an old woman. 

"Well, this is all very surprising, " said Ashe, "considering that fourmonths ago I did not matter an old shoe to anybody. "

"That was your own fault. You took no trouble. And besides--there wasyour poor brother in the way. "

Ashe's brow contracted. 

"No, that he never was, " he said, with energy. "Freddy was never inanybody's way--least of all in mine. "

"You know what I mean, " she said, hastily. "And you know what friends heand I were--poor Freddy! But, after all, the world's the world. "

"Yes--we all grow on somebody's grave, " said Ashe. Then, just as shebecame conscious that she had jarred upon him, and must find a newopening, he himself found it. "Tell me!" he said, bending forward with asudden alertness--"who is that lady?"

He pointed out a little figure in white, sitting in the opening of thesecond drawing-room; a very young girl apparently, surrounded by a groupof men. 

"Ah!" said Madame d'Estrées--"I was coming to that--that's my girlKitty--"

"Lady Kitty!" said Ashe, in amazement. "She's left school? I thought shewas quite a little thing. "

"She's eighteen. Isn't she a darling? Don't you think her very pretty?"

Ashe looked a moment. 

"Extraordinarily bewitching!--unlike other people?" he said, turning tothe mother. 

Madame d'Estrées raised her eyebrows a little, in apparent amusement. 

"I'm not going to describe Kitty. She's indescribable. Besides--youmust find her out. Do go and talk to her. She's to be half with me, halfwith her aunt--Lady Grosville. "

Ashe made some polite comment. 

"Oh! don't let's be conventional!" said Madame d'Estrées, flirting herfan with a little air of weariness--"It's an odious arrangement. LadyGrosville and I, as you probably know, are not on terms. She saysatrocious things of me--and I--" the fair head fell back a little, andthe white shoulders rose, with the slightest air of languiddisdain--"well, bear me witness that I don't retaliate! It's not worthwhile. But I know that Grosville House can help Kitty. So!--" Hergesture, half ironical, half resigned, completed the sentence. 

"Does Lady Kitty like society?"

"Kitty likes anything that flatters or excites her. "

"Then of course she likes society. Anybody as pretty as that--"

"Ah! how sweet of you!" said Madame d'Estrées, softly--"how sweet ofyou! I like you to think her pretty. I like you to say so. "

Ashe felt and looked a trifle disconcerted, but his companion bentforward and added--"I don't know whether I want you to flirt with her!You must take care. Kitty's the most fantastic creature. Oh! my lifenow'll be very different. I find she takes all my thoughts and most ofmy time!"

There was something extravagant in the sweetness of the smile whichemphasized the speech, and altogether, Madame d'Estrées, in this newmaternal aspect, was not as agreeable as usual. Part of her charmperhaps had always lain in the fact that she had no domestic topics ofher own, and so was endlessly ready for those of other people. Those, indeed, who came often to her house were accustomed to speak warmly ofher "unselfishness"--by which they meant the easy patience with whichshe could listen, smile, and flatter. 

Perhaps Ashe made this tacit demand upon her, no less than other people. At any rate, as she talked cooingly on about her daughter, he would havefound her tiresome for once but for some arresting quality in thatsmall, distant figure. As it was, he followed what she said withattention, and as soon as she had been recaptured by the impatientItalian Ambassador, he moved off, intending slowly to make his way toLady Kitty. But he was caught in many congratulations by the road, andpresently he saw that his friend Darrell was being introduced to her bythe old habitué of the house, Colonel Warington, who generally dividedwith the hostess the "lead" of these social evenings. 

Lady Kitty nodded carelessly to Mr. Darrell, and he sat down beside her. 

"That's a cool hand for a girl of eighteen!" thought Ashe. "She has theairs of a princess--except for the chatter. "

Chatter indeed! Wherever he moved, the sound of the light hurrying voicemade itself persistently heard through the hum of male conversation. 

Yet once, Ashe, looking round to see if Darrell could be dislodged, caught the chatterer silent, and found himself all at once invaded by aslight thrill, or shock. 

What did the girl's expression mean?--what was she thinking of? She waslooking intently at the crowded room, and it seemed to Ashe thatDarrell's talk, though his lips moved quickly, was not reaching her atall. The dark brows were drawn together, and beneath them the eyeslooked sorely out. The delicate lips were slightly, piteously open, andthe whole girlish form in its young beauty appeared, as he watched, toshrink together. Suddenly the girl's look, so wide and searching, caughtthat of Ashe; and he moved impulsively forward. 

"Present me, please, to Lady Kitty, " he said, catching Warington's arm. 

"Poor child!" said a low voice in his ear. 

Ashe turned and saw Louis Harman. The tone, however--allusive, intimate, patronizing--in which Harman had spoken, annoyed him, and he passed onwithout taking any notice. 

"Lady Kitty, " said Warington, "Mr. Ashe wishes to be presented to you. He is an old friend of your mother's. Congratulate him--he has just gotinto Parliament. "

Lady Kitty drew herself up, and all trace of the look which Ashe hadobserved disappeared. She bowed, not carelessly as she had bowed toDarrell, but with a kind of exaggerated stateliness, not less girlish. 

"I never congratulate anybody, " she said, shaking her head, "till I knowthem. "

Ashe opened his eyes a little. 

"How long must I wait?" he said, smiling, as he drew a chair beside her. 

"That depends. Are you difficult to know?" She looked up at himaudaciously, and he on his side could not take his eyes from her, sosingular was the small, sparkling face. The hair and skin were veryfair, like her mother's, the eyes dark and full of fire, the neck mostdaintily white and slender, the figure undeveloped, the feet and handsextremely small. But what arrested him was, so to speak, the embodiedcontradiction of the personality--as between the wild intelligence ofthe eyes and the extreme youth, almost childishness, of the rest. 

He asked her if she had ever known any one confess to being easy, toknow. 

"Well, I'm easy to know, " she said, carelessly, leaning back; "but, then, I'm not worth knowing. "

"Is one allowed to find out?"

"Oh yes--of course! Do you know--when you were over there, I _willed_that you should come and talk to me, and you came. Only, " she sat upwith animation, and began to tick off her sentences on herfingers--"Don't ask me how long I've been in town. Don't ask where I wasin Paris. Don't inquire whether I like balls! You see, I warn you atonce"--she looked up frankly--"that we mayn't lose time. "

"Well, then, I don't see how I'm ever to find out, " said Ashe, stoutly. 

"Whether I'm worth knowing?" She considered, then bent forward eagerly. "Look here! I'll just tell you everything in a lump, and then that'lldo--won't it? Listen. I'm just eighteen. I was sent to the SoeursBlanches when I was thirteen--the year papa died. I _didn't_ likepapa--I'm very sorry, but I didn't! However, that's by-the-way. In allthose years I have only seen maman once--she doesn't like children. Butmy aunt Grosville has some French relations--very, _very_ 'comme ilfaut, ' you understand--and I used to go and stay with them for theholidays. Tell me!--did you ever hunt in France?"

"Never, " said Ashe, startled and amused by the sudden glance ofenthusiasm that lit up the face and expressed itself in the claspedhands. 

"Oh! it's such heaven, " she said, lifting her shoulders with anextravagant gesture--"such _heaven_! First there are the olddresses--the men look such darlings!--and then the horns, and the oldways they have--_si noble!--si distingué!_--not like your stupid Englishhunting. And then the dogs! Ah! the _dogs_"--the shoulders went higherstill; "do you know my cousin Henri actually gave me a puppy of thegreat breed--_the_ breed, you know--the Dogs of St. Hubert. Or at leasthe _would_ if maman would have let me bring it over. And she wouldn't!Just think of that! When there are thousands of people in France who'dgive the eyes out of their head for one. I cried all onenight--Allons!--faut pas y penser!"--she shook back the hair from hereyes with an impatient gesture. "My cousins have got a château, youknow, in the Seine-et-Oise. They've promised to ask me next year--whenthe Grand-Duke Paul comes--if I'll promise to behave. You see, I'm not abit like French girls--I had so many affairs!"

Her eyes flashed with laughter. 

Ashe laughed too. 

"Are you going to tell me about them also?"

She drew herself up. 

"No! I play fair, always--ask anybody! Oh, I _do_ want to go back toFrance so badly!" Once more she was all appeal and childishness. "Anyway, I won't stay in England! I have made up my mind to that!"

"How long has it taken?"

"A fortnight, " she said, slowly--"just a fortnight. "

"That hardly seems time enough--does it?" said Ashe. "Give us a littlelonger. "

"No--I--I hate you!" said Lady Kitty, with a strange drop in her voice. Her little fingers began to drum on the table near her, and to Ashe'sintense astonishment he saw her eyes fill with tears. 

Suddenly a movement towards the other room set in around them. Madamed'Estrées could be heard giving directions. A space was made in thelarge drawing-room--a little table appeared in it, and a footman placedthereon a glass of water. 

Lady Kitty looked up. 

"Oh, that _detestable_ man!" she said, drawing back. "No--I can't, Ican't bear it. Come with me!" and beckoning to Ashe she fled withprecipitation into the farther part of the inner drawing-room, out ofher mother's sight. Ashe followed her, and she dropped panting and elateinto a chair. 

Meanwhile the outer room gathered to hear the recitation of some _versde société_, fondly believed by their author to be of a very pretty andPraedian make. They certainly amused the company, who laughed andclapped as each neat personality emerged. Lady Kitty passed the timeeither in a running commentary on the reciter, which occasionallyconvulsed her companion, or else in holding her small hands over herears. 

When it was over, she drew a long breath. 

"How maman _can!_ Oh! how _bête_ you English are to applaud such a man!You have only _one_ poet, haven't you--one living poet? Ah! I shouldn'thave laughed if it had been he!"

"I suppose you mean Geoffrey Cliffe?" said Ashe, amused. "Nobody abroadseems ever to have heard of any one else. "

"Well, of course, I just long to know him! Every one says he is sodangerous!--he makes all the women fall in love with him. That's_delicious_! He shouldn't make me! Do you know him?"

"I knew him at Eton. We were 'swished' together, " said Ashe. 

She inquired what the phrase might mean, and when informed, flushedhotly, denouncing the English school system as quite unfit for gentlemenand men of honor. Her French cousins would sooner die than suffer such athing. Then in the midst of her tirade she suddenly paused, and fixingAshe with her brilliant eyes, she asked him a surprising question, in achanged and steady voice:

"Is Lady Tranmore not well?"

Ashe was fairly startled. 

"Thank you, I left her quite well. Have you--"

"Did maman ask her to come to-night?"

It was Ashe's turn to redden. 

"I don't know. But--we are in mourning, you see, for my brother. "

Her face changed and softened instantly. 

"Are you? I'm so sorry. I--I always say something stupid. Then--LadyTranmore used to come to maman's parties--before--"

She had grown quite pale; it seemed to him that her hand shook. Ashefelt an extraordinary pang of pity and concern. 

"It's I, you see, to whom your mother has been kind, " he said, gently. "We're an independent family; we each make our own friends. "

"No--" she said, drawing a deep breath. "No, it's not that. Look at thatroom. "

Following her slight gesture, Ashe looked. It was an old, low-ceiledroom, panelled in white and gold, showing here and there an Italianpicture--saint, or holy family, agreeable school-work--from which mightbe inferred the tastes if not the _expertise_ of Madame d'Estrées' firsthusband, Lord Blackwater. The floor was held by a plentiful collectionof seats, neither too easy nor too stiff; arranged by one who understoodto perfection the physical conditions at least which should surround the"great art" of conversation. At this moment every seat was full. A seaof black coats overflowed on the farther side, into the staircaselanding, where through the open door several standing groups could beseen; and in the inner room, where they sat, there was but little spacebetween its margin and themselves. It was a remarkable sight; and in hispast visits to the house Ashe had often said to himself that theelements of which it was made up were still more remarkable. Ministersand Opposition; ambassadors, travellers, journalists; the men of fashionand the men of reform; here a French republican official, and beyondhim, perhaps, a man whose ancestors were already of the most ancient_noblesse_ in Saint-Simon's day; artists, great and small, men ofletters good and indifferent; all these had been among the guests ofMadame d'Estrées, brought to the house, each of them, for some quality'ssake, some power of keeping up the social game. 

But now, as he looked at the room, not to please himself but to obeyLady Kitty, Ashe became aware of a new impression. The crowd was noless, numerically, than he had seen it in the early winter; but itseemed to him less distinguished, made up of coarser and commoner items. He caught the face of a shady financier long since banished from LadyTranmore's parties; beyond him a red-faced colonel, conspicuous alikefor doubtful money-matters and matrimonial trouble; and in a farthercorner the sallow profile of a writer whose books were apt to rouse eventhe man of the world to a healthy and contemptuous disgust. Surely thesepersons had never been there of old; he could not remember one of them. 

He looked again, more closely. Was it fancy, or was the gathering itselfaware of the change which had passed over it? As a whole, it wascertainly noisier than of old; the shouting and laughter were incessant. But within the general uproar certain groups had separated from othergroups, and were talking with a studied quiet. Most of the habitué'swere still there; but they held themselves apart from their neighbors. Were the old intimacy and solidarity beginning to break up?--and withthem the peculiar charm of these "evenings, " a charm which had so fardefied a social boycott that had been active from the first?

He glanced back uncertainly at Lady Kitty, and she looked at him. 

"Why are there no ladies?" she said, abruptly. 

He collected his thoughts. 

"It--it has always been a men's gathering. Perhaps for some menhere--I'm sorry there are such barbarians, Lady Kitty!--that makes thecharm of it. Look at that old fellow there! He is a most famous oldboy. Everybody invites him--but he never stirs out of his den but tocome here. My mother can't get him--though she has tried often. "

And he pointed to a dishevelled, gray-haired gentleman, short instature, round in figure, something, in short, like an animated egg, whowas addressing a group not far off. 

Lady Kitty's face showed a variety of expressions. 

"Are there many parties like this in London? Are the ladies asked, anddon't come? I--I don't--understand!"

Ashe looked at her kindly. 

"There is no other hostess in London as clever as your mother, " hedeclared, and then tried to change the subject; but she paid no heed. 

"The other day, at Aunt Grosville's, " she said, slowly, "I asked if mytwo cousins might come to-night, and they looked at me as though I weremad! Oh, _do_ talk to me!" She came impulsively nearer, and Ashe noticedthat Darrell, standing against the doorway of communication, lookedround at them in amusement. "I liked your face--the very first momentwhen I saw you across the room. Do you know--you're--you're veryhandsome!" She drew back, her eyes fixed gravely, intently upon him. 

For the first time Ashe was conscious of annoyance. 

"I hope you won't mind my saying so"--his tone was a little short--"butin this country we don't say those things. They're not--quite polite. "

"Aren't they?" Her eyebrows arched themselves and her lips fell inpenitence. "I always called my French cousin, Henri la Fresnay, _beau!_I am sure he liked it!" The accent was almost plaintive. 

Ashe's natural impulse was to say that if so the French cousin must bean ass. But all in a moment he found himself seized with a desire totake her little hands in his own and press them--she looked such achild, so exquisite, and so forlorn. And he did in fact bend forwardconfidentially, forgetting Darrell. 

"I want you to come and see my mother?" he said, smiling at her. "AskLady Grosville to bring you. "

"May I? But--" She searched his face, eager still to pour out theimpulsive, uncontrolled confidences that were in her mind. But hisexpression stopped her, and she gave a little, resentful sigh. 

"Yes--I'll come. _We_--you and I--are a little bit cousins too--aren'twe? We talked about you at the Grosvilles. "

"Was our 'great-great' the same person?" he said, laughing. "Hope it wasa decent 'great-great. ' Some of mine aren't much to boast of. Well, atany rate, let's _be_ cousins--whether we are or no, shall we?"

She assented, her whole face lighting up. 

"And we're going to meet--the week after next!" she said, triumphantly, "in the country. "

"Are we?--at Grosville Park. That's delightful. "

"And _then_ I'll ask your advice--I'll make you tell me--a hundredthings! That's a bargain--mind!"

"Kitty! Come and help me with tea--there's a darling!"

Lady Kitty turned. A path had opened through the crowd, and Madamed'Estrées, much escorted, a vision of diamonds and pale-pink satin, appeared, leading the way to the supper-room, and the light"refection, " accompanied by much champagne, which always closed theseevenings. 

The girl rose, as did her companion also. Madame d'Estrées threw aquick, half-satirical glance at Ashe, but he had eyes only for LadyKitty, and her transformation at the touch of her mother's voice. Shefollowed Madame d'Estrées with a singular and conscious dignity, herwhite skirts sweeping, her delicately fine head thrown back on her thinneck and shoulders. The black crowd closed about her; and Ashe's eyespursued the slender figure till it disappeared. 

Extreme youth--innocence--protest--pain--was it with these touching andpleading impressions, after all, that his first talk with Kitty Bristolhad left him? Yet what a little _étourdie_! How lacking in the reserves, the natural instincts and shrinkings of the well-bred English girl!

 * * * * *

Darrell and Ashe walked home together, through a windy night which wasbringing out April scents even from the London grass and lilac-bushes. 

"Well, " said Darrell, as they stepped into the Green Park, "so you'resafely in. Congratulate you, old fellow. Anything else?"

"Yes. They've offered me Hickson's place. More fools they, don't youthink?"

"Good! Upon my word, Bill, you've got your foot in the stirrup now! Hopeyou'll continue to be civil to poor devils like me. "

The speaker looked up smiling, but neither the tone nor the smile wasreally cordial. Ashe felt the embarrassment that he had once or twicefelt before in telling Darrell news of good fortune. There seemed to besomething in Darrell that resented it--under an outer show offelicitation. 

However, they went on talking of the political moment and its prospects, and of Ashe's personal affairs. As to the last, Darrell questioned, andAshe somewhat reluctantly replied. It appeared that his allowance was tobe largely raised, that his paralyzed father, in fact, was anxious toput him in possession of a substantial share in the income of theestates, that one of the country-houses was to be made over to him, andso on. 

"Which means, of course, that they want you to marry, " said Darrell. "Well, you've only to throw the handkerchief. "

They were passing a lamp as he spoke, and the light shone on his long, pale face--a face of discontent--with its large sunken eyes and hollowcheeks. 

Ashe treated the remark as "rot, " and endeavored to get away from hisown affairs by discussing the party they had just left. 

"How does she get all those people together? It's astonishing!"

"Well, I always liked Madame d'Estrées well enough, " said Darrell, "but, upon my word, she has done a beastly mean thing in bringing that girlover. "

"You mean?"--Ashe hesitated--"that her own position is too doubtful?"

"Doubtful, my dear fellow!" Darrell laughed unpleasantly. "I neverreally understood what it all meant till the other night when old LadyGrosville took and told me--more at any rate than I knew before. TheGrosvilles are on the war-path, and they regard the coming of this poorchild as the last straw. "

"Why?" said Ashe. 

Darrell gave a shrug. "Well, you know the story of Madame d'Estrées'step-daughter--old Blackwater's daughter?"

"Ah! by his first marriage? I knew it was something about thestep-daughter, " said Ashe, vaguely. 

Darrell began to repeat his conversation with Lady Grosville. The talethreatened presently to become a black one indeed; and at last Ashestood still in the broad walk crossing the Green Park. 

"Look here, " he said, resolutely, "don't tell me any more. I don't wantto hear any more. "

"Why?" asked Darrell, in amazement. 

"Because"--Ashe hesitated a moment. "Well, I don't want it to be madeimpossible for me to go to Madame d'Estrées' again. Besides, we've justeaten her salt. "

"You're a good friend!" said Darrell, not without something of a sneer. 

Ashe was ruffled by the tone, but tried not to show it. He merelyinsisted that he knew Lady Grosville to be a bit of an old cat; that ofcourse there was something up; but it seemed a shame for those at leastwho accepted Madame d'Estrées' hospitality to believe the worst. Therewas a curious mixture of carelessness and delicacy in his remarks, verycharacteristic of the man. It appeared as though he was at once tooindolent to go into the matter, and too chivalrous to talk about it. 

Darrell presently maintained a rather angry silence. No man likes to bechecked in his story, especially when the check implies something likea snub from his best friend. Suddenly, memory brought before him thelittle picture of Ashe and Lady Kitty together--he bending over her, inhis large, handsome geniality, and she looking up. Darrell felt a twingeof jealousy--then disgust. Really, men like Ashe had the world tooeasily their own way. That they should pose, besides, was too much. 

III

Rather more than a fortnight after the evening at Madame d'Estrées', William Ashe found himself in a Midland train on his way to theCambridgeshire house of Lady Grosville. While the April country slippedpast him--like some blanched face to which life and color arereturning--Ashe divided his time between an idle skimming of theSaturday papers and a no less idle dreaming of Kitty Bristol. He hadseen her two or three times since his first introduction to her--once ata ball to which Lady Grosville had taken her, and once on the terrace ofthe House of Commons, where he had strolled up and down with her for amost amusing and stimulating hour, while her mother entertained a groupof elderly politicians. And the following day she had come alone--herown choice--to take tea with Lady Tranmore, on that lady's invitation, as prompted by her son. Ashe himself had arrived towards the end of thevisit, and had found a Lady Kitty in the height of the fashion, stiffmannered, and flushed to a deep red by her own consciousness that shecould not possibly be making a good impression. At sight of him sherelaxed, and talked a great deal, but not wisely; and when she was gone, Ashe could get very little opinion of any kind from his mother, who had, however, expressed a wish that she should come and visit them in thecountry. 

Since then he frankly confessed to himself that in the intervals of hisnew official and administrative work he had been a good deal haunted bymemories of this strange child, her eyes, her grace--even in her fits ofproud shyness--and the way in which, as he had put her into her cabafter the visit to Lady Tranmore, her tiny hand had lingered in his, amute, astonishing appeal. Haunted, too, by what he heard of her fortunesand surroundings. What was the real truth of Madame d'Estrées'situation? During the preceding weeks some ugly rumors had reached Asheof financial embarrassment in that quarter, of debts risen tomountainous height, of crisis and possible disappearance. Then theserumors were met by others, to the effect that Colonel Warington, the oldfriend and support of the d'Estrées' household, had come to the rescue, that the crisis had been averted, and that the three weekly evenings, sowell known and so well attended, would go on; and with this phase of thestory there mingled, as Ashe was well aware, not the slightest breath ofscandal, in a case where, so to speak, all was scandal. 

And meanwhile what new and dolorous truths had Lady Kitty been learningas to her mother's history and her mother's position? By Jove! it _was_hard upon the girl. Darrell was right. Why not leave her to her Frenchfriends and relations?--or relinquish her to Lady Grosville? Madamed'Estrées had seen little or nothing of her for years. She could not, therefore, be necessary to her mother's happiness, and there was a realcruelty in thus claiming her, at the very moment of her entrance intosociety, where Madame d'Estrées could only stand in her way. Foralthough many a man whom the girl might profitably marry was to befound among the mother's guests, the influences of Madame d'Estrées'"evenings" were certainly not matrimonial. Still the unforeseen wassurely the probable in Lady Kitty's case. What sort of man ought she tomarry--what sort of man could safely take the risks of marryingher--with that mother in the background?

He descended at the way-side station prescribed to him, and looked roundhim for fellow-guests--much as the card-player examines his hand. MaryLyster, a cabinet minister--filling an ornamental office and handed onfrom ministry to ministry as a kind of necessary appendage, the publicnever knew why--the minister's second wife, an attaché from the Austrianembassy, two members of Parliament, and a well-known journalist--Ashesaid to himself flippantly that so far the trumps were not many. But hewas always reasonably glad to see Mary, and he went up to her, cared forher bag, and made her put on her cloak, with cousinly civility. In theomnibus on the way to the house he and Mary gossiped in a corner, whilethe cabinet minister and the editor went to sleep, and the two membersof Parliament practised some courageous French on the Austrian attaché. 

"Is it to be a large party?" he asked of his companion. 

"Oh! they always fill the house. A good many came down yesterday. "

"Well, I'm not curious, " said Ashe, "except as to one person. "

"Who?"

"Lady Kitty Bristol. "

Mary Lyster smiled. 

"Yes, poor child, I heard from the Grosville girls that she was to behere. "

"Why 'poor child'?"

"I don't know. Quite the wrong expression, I admit. It should be 'poorhostess. '"

"Oh!--the Grosvilles complain?"

"No. They're only on tenter-hooks. They never know what she will donext. "

"How good for the Grosvilles!"

"You think society is the better for shocks?"

"Lady Grosville can do with them, anyway. What a masterful woman! ButI'll back Lady Kitty. "

"I haven't seen her yet, " said Mary. "I hear she is a very odd-lookinglittle thing. "

"Extremely pretty, " said Ashe. 

"Really?" Mary lifted incredulous eyebrows. "Well, now I shall know whatyou admire. "

"Oh, my tastes are horribly catholic--I admire so many people, " saidAshe, with a glance at the well-dressed elegance beside him. Marycolored a little, unseen; and the rattle of the carriage as it enteredthe covered porch of Grosville Park cut short their conversation. 

 * * * * *

"Well, I'm glad you got in, " said Lady Grosville, in her full, loudvoice, "because we are connections. But of course I regard the loss of aseat to our side just now as a great disaster. "

"Very grasping, on your part!" said Ashe. "You've had it all your ownway lately. Think of Portsmouth!"

Lady Grosville, however, as she met his bantering look, did not findherself at all inclined to think of Portsmouth. She was much moreinclined to think of William Ashe. What a good-looking fellow he hadgrown! She heaved an inward sigh, of mingled envy and appreciation, directed towards Lady Tranmore. 

Poor Susan indeed had suffered terribly in the death of her eldest son. But the handsomer and abler of the two brothers still remained toher--and the estate was safe. Lady Grosville thought of her own threedaughters, plain and almost dowerless; and of that conceited young man, the heir, whom she could hardly persuade her husband to invite, once ayear, for appearance sake. 

"Why are we so early?" said Ashe, looking at his watch. "I thought Ishould be disgracefully late. "

For he and Lady Grosville had the library to themselves. It was a fine, book-walled room, with giallo antico columns and Adam decoration; and inits richly colored lamp-lit space, the seated figure--stiffly erect--ofLady Grosville, her profile, said by some to be like a horse and byothers to resemble Savonarola, the cap of old Venice point that crownedher grizzled hair, her black velvet dress, and the long-fingered, ugly, yet distinguished hands which lay upon her lap, told significantly;especially when contrasted with the negligent ease and fresh-coloredyouth of her companion. 

Grosville Park was rich in second-rate antiques; and there was aGreco-Roman head above the bookcase with which Ashe had been oftencompared. As he stood now leaning against the fireplace, the close-piledcurls, and eyes--somewhat "à fleur de tête"--of the bust wereundoubtedly repeated with some closeness in the living man. Those whomhe had offended by some social carelessness or other said of him whenthey wished to run him down, that he was "floridly" handsome; and therewas some truth in it. 

"Didn't you get the message about dinner?" said Lady Grosville. Then, ashe shook his head: "Very remiss of Parkin. I always tell him he loseshis head directly the party goes into double figures. We had to put offdinner a quarter of an hour because of Kitty Bristol, who missed hertrain at St. Pancras, and only arrived half an hour ago. By-the-way, Isuppose you have already seen her--at that woman's?"

"I met her a week or two ago, at Madame d'Estrées', " said Ashe, apparently preoccupied with something wrong in the set of his whitewaistcoat. 

"What did you think of her?"

"A charming young lady, " said Ashe, smiling. "What else should I think?"

"A lamb thrown to the wolves, " said Lady Grosville, grimly. "How thatwoman _could_ do such a thing!"

"I saw nothing lamblike about Lady Kitty, " said Ashe. "And do youinclude me among the wolves?"

Lady Grosville hesitated a moment, then stuck to her colors. 

"You shouldn't go to such a house, " she said, boldly--"I suppose I maysay that without offence, William, as I've known you from a boy. "

"Say anything you like, my dear Lady Grosville! So you--believe evilthings--of Madame d'Estrées?"

His tone was light, but his eyes sought the distant door, as thoughinvoking some fellow-guest to appear and protect him. 

Lady Grosville did not answer. Ashe's look returned to her, and he wasstartled by the expression of her face. He had always known andunwillingly admired her for a fine Old Testament Christian, one fromwhom the language of the imprecatory Psalms with regard to her enemies, personal and political, might have flowed more naturally than from anyother person he knew, of the same class and breeding. But thisloathing--this passion of contempt--this heat of memory!--these were newindeed, and the fire of them transfigured the old, gray face. 

"I have known a fair number of bad people, " said Lady Grosville, in alow voice--"and a good many wicked women. But for meanness and vilenesscombined, the things I know of the woman who was Blackwater's wife haveno equal in my experience!"

There was a moment's pause. Then Ashe said, in a voice as serious as herown:

"I am sorry to hear you say that, partly because I like Madamed'Estrées, and partly--because--I was particularly attracted by LadyKitty. "

Lady Grosville looked up sharply. "Don't marry her, William!--don'tmarry her! She comes of a bad stock. "

Ashe recovered his gayety. 

"She is your own niece. Mightn't a man dare--on that guarantee?"

"Not at all, " said Lady Grosville, unappeased. "I was a hop out of kin. Besides--a Methodist governess saved me; she converted me, at eighteen, and I owe her everything. But my brothers--and all the rest of us!" Shethrew up her eyes and hands. "What's the good of being mealy mouthedabout it? All the world knows it. A good many of us were mad--and Isometimes think I see more than eccentricity in Kitty. "

"Who was Madame d'Estrées?" said Ashe. Why should he wince so at thegirl's name?--in that hard mouth?

Lady Grosville smiled. 

"Well, I can tell you a good deal about that, " she said. "Ah!--anothertime!"

For the door opened, and in came a group of guests, with a gush of talkand a rustling of silks and satins. 

 * * * * *

Everybody was gathered; dinner had been announced; and the white-hairedand gouty Lord Grosville was in a state of seething impatience that noteven the mild-voiced Dean of the neighboring cathedral, engaged incomplimenting him on his speech at the Diocesan Conference, couldrestrain. 

"Adelina, need we wait any longer?" said the master of the house, turning an angry eye upon his wife. 

"Certainly not--she has had ample time, " said Lady Grosville, and rangthe bell beside her. 

Suddenly there was a whirlwind of noise in the hall, the angry barkingof a small dog, the sound of a girl's voice laughing and scolding, theswish of silk skirts. A scandalized butler, obeying Lady Grosville'ssummons, threw the door open, and in burst Lady Kitty. 

"Oh! I'm so sorry, " said the new-comer, in a tone of despair. "But Icouldn't leave him up-stairs, Aunt Lina! He'd eaten one of my shoes, andbegun upon the other. And Julie's afraid of him. He bit her last week. _May_ he sit on my knee? I know I can keep him quiet!"

[Illustration: "A SLIM GIRL IN WHITE AT THE FAR END OF THE LARGE ROOM"]

Every conversation in the library stopped. Twenty amazed persons turnedto look. They beheld a slim girl in white at the far end of the largeroom struggling with a gray terrier puppy which she held under herleft arm, and turning appealing eyes towards Lady Grosville. The dog, half frightened, half fierce, was barking furiously. Lady Kitty's voicecould hardly be heard through the din, and she was crimson with theeffort to control her charge. Her lips laughed; her eyes implored. Andto add to the effect of the apparition, a marked strangeness of dresswas at once perceived by all the English eyes turned upon her. LadyKitty was robed in the extreme of French fashion, which at that momentwas a fashion of flounces; she was much _décolletée;_ and her fair, abundant hair, carried to a great height, and arranged with a certaincalculated wildness around her small face, was surmounted by a largescarlet butterfly which shone defiantly against the dark background ofbooks. 

"Kitty!" said Lady Grosville, advancing indignantly, "what a dreadfulnoise! Pray give the dog to Parkin at once. "

Lady Kitty only held the struggling animal tighter. 

"_Please_, Aunt Lina!--I'm afraid he'll bite! But he'll be quite goodwith me. "

"Why _did_ you bring him, Kitty? We can't have such a creature atdinner!" said Lady Grosville, angrily. 

Lord Grosville advanced behind his wife. 

"How do you do, Kitty? Hadn't you better put down the dog and come andbe introduced to Mr. Rankine, who is to take you in to dinner?"

Lady Kitty shook her fair head, but advanced, still clinging to the dog, gave a smile and a nod to Ashe, and a bow to the young Tory memberpresented to her. 

"You don't mind him?" she said, a flash of laughter in her dark eyes. "We'll manage him between us, won't we?"

The young man, dazzled by her prettiness and her strangeness, murmured ahopeful assent. Lord Grosville, with the air of a man determined ondinner though the skies fall, offered his arm to Lady Edith Manley, thewife of the cabinet minister, and made for the dining-room. The streamof guests followed; when suddenly the puppy, perceiving on the floor aball of wool which had rolled out of Lady Grosville's work-table, escaped in an ecstasy of mischief from his mistress's arm and flew uponthe ball. Kitty rushed after him; the wool first unrolled, then caught;the table overturned and all its contents were flung pell-mell in thepath of Lady Grosville, who, on the arm of the amused and astonishedminister, was waiting in restrained fury till her guests should pass. 

 * * * * *

"I shall never get over this, " said Lady Kitty, as she leaned back inher chair, still panting, and quite incapable of eating any of the foodsthat were being offered to her in quick succession. 

"I don't know that you deserve to, " said Ashe, turning a face upon herwhich was as grave as he could make it. The attention of every one elseround the room was also in truth occupied with his companion. There was, indeed, a general buzz of conversation and a general pretence that LadyKitty's proceedings might now be ignored. But in reality every guest, male or female, kept a stealthy watch on the red butterfly and thesparkling face beneath it; and Ashe was well aware of it. 

"I vow it was not my fault, " said Kitty, with dignity. "I was notallowed to have the dog I should have had. You'd never have found a dogof St. Hubert condescending to bedroom slippers! But as I had to have adog--and Colonel Warington gave me this one three days ago--and he hasalready ruined half maman's things, and no one could manage him but me, I just had to bring him, and trust to Providence. "

"I have been here a good many times, " said Ashe, "and I never yet saw adog in the sanctuary. Do you know that Pitt once wrote a speech in thelibrary?"

"Did he? I'm sure it never made such a stir as Ponto did. " Kitty's facesuddenly broke into laughter, and she hid it a moment in her hands. 

"You brazen it out, " said Ashe; "but how are you going to appease LadyGrosville?"

Kitty ceased to laugh. She drew herself up, and looked seriously, observantly at her aunt. 

"I don't know. But I must do it somehow. I don't want any more worries. "

So changed were her tone and aspect that Ashe turned a friendlyexamining look upon her. 

"Have you been worried?" he said, in a lower voice. 

She shrugged her shoulders and made no reply. But presently sheimpatiently reclaimed his attention, snatching him from the lady he hadtaken in to dinner, with no scruple at all. 

"Will you come a walk with me to-morrow morning?"

"Proud, " said Ashe. "What time?"

"As soon as we can get rid of these people, " she said, her eye runninground the table. Then as it paused and lingered on the face of MaryLyster opposite, she abruptly asked him who that lady might be. 

Ashe informed her. 

"Your cousin?" she said, looking at him with a slight frown. "Yourcousin? I don't--well, I don't think I shall like her. "

"That's a great pity, " said Ashe. 

"For me?" she said, distrustfully. 

"For both, of course! My mother's very fond of Miss Lyster. She's oftenwith us. "

"Oh!" said Kitty, and looked again at the face opposite. Then he heardher say behind her fan, half to herself and half to him:

"She does not interest me in the least! She has no ideas! I'm sure shehas no ideas. Has she?"

She turned abruptly to Ashe. 

"Every one calls her very clever. "

Kitty looked contempt. 

"That's nothing to do with it. It's not the clever people who haveideas. "

Ashe bantered her a little on the meaning of her words, till hepresently found that she was too young and unpractised to be able totake his thrusts and return them, with equanimity. She could make adaring sally or reply; but it was still the raw material ofconversation; it wanted ease and polish. And she was evidently consciousof it herself, for presently her cheek flushed and her manner wavered. 

"I suppose you--everybody--thinks her very agreeable?" she said, sharply, her eyes returning to Miss Lyster. 

"She is a most excellent gossip, " said Ashe. "I always go to her for thenews. "

Kitty glanced again. 

"I can see that already she detests me. "

"In half an hour?"

The girl nodded. 

"She has looked at me twice--about. But she has made up her mind--andshe never changes. " Then with an abrupt alteration of note she lookedround the room. "I suppose your English dining-rooms are all like this?One might be sitting in a hearse. And the pictures--no! _Quelleshorreurs_!"

She raised her shoulders again impetuously, frowning at a hugefull-length opposite of Lord Grosville as M. F. H. , a masterpiece indeedof early Victorian vulgarity. 

Then suddenly, hastily, with that flashing softness which so oftentransformed her expression, she turned towards him, trying to makeamends. 

"But the library--that was _bien_--ah! _tr-rès, tr-rès_ bien_!"

Her r's rolled a little as she spoke, with a charming effect, and shelooked at him radiantly, as though to strike and to make amends wereequally her prerogative, and she asked no man's leave. 

"You've not yet seen what there is to see here, " said Ashe, smiling. "Look behind you. "

The girl turned her slim neck and exclaimed. For behind Ashe's chair wasthe treasure of the house. It was a "Dance of Children, " by one of themost famous of the eighteenth-century masters. From the dark wall itshone out with a flower-like brilliance, a vision of color and of grace. The children danced through a golden air, their bodies swaying to one ofthose "unheard melodies" of art, sweeter than all mortal tunes; theirdelicate faces alive with joy. The sky and grass and trees seemed tocaress them; a soft sunlight clothed them; and flowers brushed theirfeet. 

Kitty turned back again and was silent. Was it Ashe's fancy, or had shegrown pale?

"Did you like it?" he asked her. She turned to him, and for the secondtime in their acquaintance he saw her eyes floating in tears. 

"It is too beautiful!" she said, with an effort--almost an angry effort. "I don't want to see it again. "

"I thought it would give you pleasure, " said Ashe, gently, suddenlyconscious of a hope that she was not aware of the slight look ofamusement with which Mary Lyster was contemplating them both. 

"So it did, " said Kitty, furtively applying her lace handkerchief to hertears; "but"--her voice dropped--"when one's unhappy--veryunhappy--things like that--things like _Heaven_--hurt! Oh, what a _fool_I am!" And she sat straightly up, looking round her. 

There was a pause; then Ashe said, in another voice:

"Look here, you know this won't do. I thought we were to be cousins. "

"Well?" said Kitty, indifferently, not looking at him. 

"And I understood that I was to be taken into respectable cousinlycounsel?"

"Well?" said Kitty again, crumbling her bread. "I can't do it here, canI?"

Ashe laughed. 

"Well, anyhow, we're going to sample the garden to-morrow morning, aren't we?"

"I suppose so, " said Kitty. Then, after a moment, she looked at herright-hand neighbor, the young politician to whom as yet she hadscarcely vouchsafed a word. 

"What's his name?" she asked, under her breath. Ashe repeated it. 

"Perhaps I ought to talk to him?"

"Of course you ought, " said Ashe, with smiling decision, and turning tothe lady whom he had brought in he left her free. 

 * * * * *

When the ladies rose, Lady Grosville led the way to the largedrawing-room, a room which, like the library, had some character, and athin elegance of style, not, however, warmed and harmonized by thedelightful presence of books. The walls, blue and white in color, werepanelled in stucco relief. A few family portraits, stiff handlings ofstiff people, were placed each in the exact centre of its respectivepanel. There were a few cases of china and a few polished tables. Acrimson Brussels carpet, chosen by Lady Grosville for its"cheerfulness, " covered the floor, and there was a large white sheepskinrug before the fireplace. A few hyacinths in pots, and the bright firesupplied the only gay and living notes--before the ladies arrived. 

Still, for an English eye, the room had a certain cold charm, wasmoreover full of _history_. It hardly deserved at any rate the shiverwith which Kitty Bristol looked round it. 

But she had little time to dwell upon the room and its meanings, forLady Grosville approached her with a manner which still showed signs ofthe catastrophe before dinner. 

"Kitty, I think you don't know Miss Lyster yet--Mary Lyster--she wantsto be introduced to you. "

Mary advanced smiling; Kitty held out a limp hand, and they exchanged afew words standing in the centre of the floor, while the other guestsfound seats. 

"What a charming contrast!" said Lady Edith Manley in Lady Grosville'sear. She nodded smiling towards the standing pair--struck by the finestraight lines of Mary's satin dress, the roundness of her fine figure, the oval of her head and face, and then by the little, vibrating, tempestuous creature beside her, so distinguished, in spite of thebillowing flounces and ribbons, so direct and significant, amid all theelaboration. 

"Kitty is ridiculously overdressed, " said Lady Grosville. "I hope weshall soon change that. My girls are going to take her to their woman. "

Lady Edith put up her eye-glass slowly and looked at the two Grosvillegirls; then back at Kitty. 

Meanwhile a few perfunctory questions and answers were passing betweenMiss Lyster and her companion. Mary's aspect as she talked was extremelyamiable; one might have called it indulgent, perhaps even by anadjective that implied a yet further shade of delicate superiority. Kitty met it by the same "grand manner" that Ashe had several timesobserved in her, a manner caught perhaps from some French model, andcaricatured in the taking. Her eyes meanwhile took note of Mary's faceand dress, and while she listened her small teeth tormented herunder-lip, as though she restrained impatience. All at once in the midstof some information that Miss Lyster was lucidly giving, Kitty made animpetuous turn. She had caught some words on the farther side of theroom; and she looked hard, eagerly, at the speaker. 

"Who is that?" she inquired. 

Mary Lyster, with a sharp sense of interruption, replied that shebelieved the lady in question was the Grosville's French governess. Butin the very midst of her sentence Kitty deserted her, left her standingin the centre of the drawing-room, while the deserter fled across it, and sinking down beside the astonished mademoiselle took theFrenchwoman's hand by assault and held it in both her own. 

"Vous parlez Français?--vous êtes Française? Ah! ça me fait tant debien! Voyons! voyons!--causons un peu!"

And bending forward, she broke into a cataract of French, all theelements of her strange, small beauty rushing, as it were, into flameand movement at the swift sound and cadence of the words, like a dancerkindled by music. The occasion was of the slightest; the Frenchwomanmight well show a natural bewilderment. But into the slight occasion thegirl threw an animation, a passion, that glorified it. It was like theleap of a wild rain-stream on the mountains, that pours into the firstchannel which presents itself. 

"What beautiful French!" said Lady Edith, softly, to Mary Lyster, whohad found a seat beside her. 

Mary Lyster smiled. 

"She has been at school, of course, in a French convent. " Somehow thetone implied that the explanation disposed of all merit in theperformance. 

"I am afraid these French convent schools are not at all what theyshould be, " said Lady Grosville. 

And rising to a pyramidal height, her ample moiré dress swelling behindher, her gray head magnificently crowned by its lace cap and blackvelvet _bandeau_, she swept across the room to where the Dean's wife, Mrs. Winston, sat in fascinated silence observing Lady Kitty. Thesilence and the attention annoyed her hostess. The first thing to bedone with girls of this type, it seemed to Lady Grosville, was to proveto them that they would _not_ be allowed to monopolize society. 

 * * * * *

There are natural monopolies, however, and they are not easy to dealwith. 

As soon as the gentlemen returned, Mr. Rankine, whom she had treated sobadly at dinner, the young agent of the estate, the clergyman of theparish, the Austrian attaché, the cabinet minister, and the Dean, allshowed a strong inclination to that side of the room which seemed to beheld in force by Lady Kitty. The Dean especially was not to be gainsaid. He placed himself in the seat shyly vacated by the French governess, andcrossed his thin, stockinged legs with the air of one who means to takehis ease. There was even a certain curious resemblance between him andKitty, as was noticed from a distance by Ashe. The Dean, who was verymuch a man of the world, and came of an historic family, was, in hismasculine degree, planned on the same miniature scale and with the samefine finish as the girl of eighteen. And he carried his knee-breeches, his apron, and his exquisite white head with a natural charm and energyakin to hers--mellowed though it were by time, and dignified by office. He began eagerly to talk to her of Paris. His father had beenambassador for a time under Louis Philippe, and he had boyish memoriesof the great house in the Faubourg St. Honoré, and of the Orleanistministers and men of letters. And lo! Kitty met him at once, in a glowand sparkle that enchanted the old man. Moreover, it appeared that thismuch-beflounced young lady could talk; that she had heard of the famousnames and the great affairs to which the Dean made allusion; that shepossessed indeed a native and surprising interest in matter of the sort;and a manner, above all, with the old, alternately soft and daring, calculated, as Lady Grosville would no doubt have put it, merely to makefools of them. 

In her cousins' house, it seemed, she had talked with old people, survivors of the Orleanist and Bourbon régimes--even of the Empire; hadsat at their feet, a small, excited hero-worshipper; and had then rushedblindly into the memoirs and books that concerned them. So, in thisFrench world the child had found time for other things than hunting, andthe flattery of her cousin Henri? Ashe was supposed to be devotinghimself to the Dean's wife; but both he and she listened most of thetime to the sallies and the laughter of the circle where Kitty presided. 

"My dear young lady, " cried the delighted Dean, "I never find anybodywho can talk of these things--it is really astonishing. Ah, _now_, weEnglish know nothing of France--nor they of us. Why, I was a mereschool-boy then, and I had a passion for their society, and theirbooks--for their _plays_--dare I confess it?"--he lowered his voice andglanced at his hostess--"their plays, above all!"

Kitty clapped her hands. The Dean looked at her, and ran on:

"My mother shared it. When I came over for my Eton holidays, she and Ilived at the Théâtre-Français. Ah, those were days! _I_ rememberMademoiselle Mars in 'Hernani. '"

Kitty bounded in her seat. Whereupon it appeared that just before sheleft Paris she had been taken by a friend to see the reigning idol ofthe Comédie-Française, the young and astonishing actress, SarahBernhardt, as Doña Sol. And there began straightway an excited duetbetween her and the Dean; a comparison of old and new, a rivalry ofheroines, a hot and critical debate that presently silenced all otherconversation in the room, and brought Lord Grosville to stand gaping andastounded behind the Dean, reflecting no doubt that this was notprecisely the Dean of the Diocesan Conference. 

The old man indeed forgot his age, the girl her youth; they met asequals, on poetic ground, till suddenly Kitty, springing up, and toprove her point, began an imitation of Sarah in the great love-scene ofthe last act, before arresting fate, in the person of Don Ruy, breaks inupon the rapture of the lovers. She absolutely forgot the Grosvilledrawing-room, the staring Grosville girls, the other faces, astonishedor severe, neutral or friendly. Out rolled the tide of tragic verse, fine poetry, and high passion; and though it be not very much to say, itmust at least be said that never had such recitation, in such French, been heard before within the walls of Grosville Park. Nor had the lipsof any English girl ever dealt there with a poetic diction sounchastened and unashamed. Lady Grosville might well feel as though thesolid frame of things were melting and cracking round her. 

Kitty ceased. She fell back upon her chair, smitten with a suddenperception. 

"You made me!" she said, reproachfully, to the Dean. 

The Dean said another "Brava!" and gave another clap. Then, becomingaware of Lord Grosville's open mouth and eye, he sat up, caught hiswife's expression, and came back to prose and the present. 

"My dear young lady, " he began, "you have the most extraordinarytalent--" when Lady Grosville advanced upon him. Standing before him, she majestically signalled to her husband across his small person. 

"William, kindly order Mrs. Wilson's carriage. "

Lord Grosville awoke from his stupor with a jerk, and did as he wastold. Mrs. Wilson, the agent's timid wife, who was not at all aware thatshe had asked for her carriage, rose obediently. Then the mistress ofthe house turned to Lady Kitty. 

"You recite very well, Kitty, " she said, with cold and stately emphasis, "but another time I will ask you to confine yourself to Racine andCorneille. In England we have to be very careful about French writers. There are, however, if I remember right, some fine passages in'Athalie. '"

Kitty said nothing. The Austrian attaché who had been following thelittle incident with the liveliest interest, retired to a closeinspection of the china. But the Dean, whose temper was of the quick andchivalrous kind, was roused. 

"She recites wonderfully! And Victor Hugo is a classic, please, mylady--just as much as the rest of them. Ah, well, no doubt, no doubt, there might be things more suitable. " And the old man came wavering downto earth, as the enthusiasm which Kitty had breathed into him escaped, like the gas from a balloon. "But, do you know, Lady Kitty "--he struckinto a new subject with eagerness, partly to cover the girl, partly tosilence Lady Grosville--"you reminded me all the time so remarkably--inyour voice--certain inflections--of your sister--your step-sister, isn'tit?--Lady Alice? You know, of course, she is close to you to-day--justthe other side the park--with the Sowerbys?"

The Dean's wife sprang to her feet in despair. In general it was to hera matter for fond complacency that her husband had no memory for gossip, and was in such matters as innocent and as dangerous as a child. Butthis was too much. At the same moment Ashe came quickly forward. 

"My sister?" said Kitty. "My sister?"

She spoke low and uncertainly, her eyes fixed upon the Dean. 

He looked at her with a sudden odd sense of something unusual, then wenton, still floundering:

"We met her at St. Pancras on our way down. If I had only known we wereto have had the pleasure of meeting you--Do you know, I think she islooking decidedly better?"

His kindly expression as he rose expected a word of sisterly assent. Meanwhile even Lady Grosville was paralyzed, and the words with whichshe had meant to interpose failed on her lips. 

Kitty, too, rose, looking round for something, which she seemed to findin the face of William Ashe, for her eyes clung there. 

"My sister, " she repeated, in the same low, strained voice. "My sisterAlice? I--I don't know. I have never seen her. "

 * * * * *

Ashe could not remember afterwards precisely how the incident closed. There was a bustle of departing guests, and from the midst of it LadyKitty slipped away. But as he came down-stairs in smoking trim, tenminutes later, he overheard the injured Dean wrestling with his wife, asshe lit a candle for him on the landing. 

"My dear, what did you look at me like that for? What did the childmean? And what on _earth_ is the matter?"

IV

After the ladies had gone to bed, on the night of Lady Kitty'srecitation, William Ashe stayed up till past midnight talking with oldLord Grosville. When relieved of the presence of his women-kind, whowere apt either to oppress him, in the person of his wife, or to puzzlehim, in the persons of his daughters, Lord Grosville was not by anymeans without value as a talker. He possessed that narrow but still mostserviceable fund of human experience which the English land-owner, whileour English tradition subsists, can hardly escape, if he will. Asguardsman, volunteer, magistrate, lord-lieutenant, member--for the sakeof his name and his acres--of various important commissions, as military_attaché_ even, for a short space, to an important embassy, he hadacquired, by mere living, that for which his intellectual betters hadoften envied him--a certain shrewdness, a certain instinct, as to bothmen and affairs, which were often of more service to him than finerbrains to other persons. But, like most accomplishments, these alsobrought their own conceit with them. Lord Grosville having, in his ownopinion, done extremely well without much book education himself, hadbut little appreciation for it in others. 

Nevertheless he rarely missed a chance of conversation with WilliamAshe, not because the younger man, in spite of his past indolence, wasgenerally held to be both able and accomplished, but because the elderfound in him an invincible taste for men and women, their fortunes, oddities, catastrophes--especially the latter--similar to his own. 

Like Mary Lyster, both were good gossips; but of a much moredisinterested type than she. Women indeed as gossips are too apt topursue either the damnation of some one else or the apotheosis ofthemselves. But here the stupider no less than the abler man showed acertain broad detachment not very common in women--amused by the humancomedy itself, making no profit out of it, either for themselves ormorals, but asking only that the play should go on. 

The incident, or rather the heroine of the evening, had given LordGrosville a topic which in the case of William Ashe he saw no reason foravoiding; and in the peace of the smoking-room, when he was no longereither hungry for his dinner or worried by his responsibilities as host, he fell upon his wife's family, and, as though he had been the managerof a puppet-show, unpacked the whole box of them for Ashe'sentertainment. 

Figure after figure emerged, one more besmirched than another, tillfinally the most beflecked of all was shaken out and displayed--LadyGrosville's brother and Kitty's father, the late Lord Blackwater. And onthis occasion Ashe did not try to escape the story which was thus asecond time brought across him. Lord Grosville, if he pleased, had aright to tell it, and there was now a curious feeling in Ashe's mindwhich had been entirely absent before, that he had, in some sort, aright to hear it. 

Briefly, the outlines of it fell into something like this shape: Henry, fifth Earl of Blackwater, had begun life as an Irish peer, with moremoney than the majority of his class; an initial advantage soon undoneby an insane and unscrupulous extravagance. He was, however, a fine, handsome, voracious gentleman, born to prey upon his kind, and when helooked for an heiress he was not long in finding her. His first wife, avery rich woman, bore him one daughter. Before the daughter was threeyears old, Lord Blackwater had developed a sturdy hatred of the mother, chiefly because she failed to present him with a son; and he could noteven appease himself by the free spending of her money, which, so far asthe capital was concerned, was sharply looked after by a pair oftrustees, Belfast manufacturers and Presbyterians, to whom theBlackwater type was not at all congenial. 

These restrictions presently wore out Lord Blackwater's patience. Heleft his wife, with a small allowance, to bring up her daughter in oneof his Irish houses, while he generously spent the rest of her largeincome, and his own, and a great deal besides, in London and on theContinent. 

Lady Blackwater, however, was not long before she obliged him by dying. Her girl, then twelve years old, lived for a time with one of hermother's trustees. But when she had reached the age of seventeen herfather suddenly commanded her presence in Paris, that she might makeacquaintance with his second wife. 

The new Lady Blackwater was an extremely beautiful woman, Irish, as thefirst had been, but like her in no other respect. Margaret Fitzgeraldwas the daughter of a cosmopolitan pair, who after many shifts for aliving, had settled in Paris, where the father acted as correspondentfor various English papers. Her beauty, her caprices, and her "affairs"were all well known in Paris. As to what the relations between her andLord Blackwater might have been before the death of the wife, LordGrosville took a frankly uncharitable view. But when that eventoccurred, Blackwater was beginning to get old, and Miss Fitzgerald hadbecome necessary to him. She pressed all her advantages, and it ended inhis marrying her. The new Lady Blackwater presented him with one child, a daughter; and about two years after its birth he sent for his elderdaughter, Lady Alice, to join them in the sumptuous apartment in thePlace Vendôme which he had furnished for his new wife, in defiance bothof his English and Irish creditors. 

Lady Alice arrived--a fair slip of a girl, possessed, it was plain tosee, by a nervous terror both of her father and step-mother. But LadyBlackwater received her with effusion, caressed her in public, dressedher to perfection, and made all possible use of the girl's presence inthe house for the advancement of her own social position. Within a yearthe Belfast trustees, watching uneasily from a distance, received aletter from Lord Blackwater, announcing Lady Alice's runaway marriagewith a certain Colonel Wensleydale, formerly of the Grenadier Guards. Lord Blackwater professed himself vastly annoyed and displeased. Theyoung people, furiously in love, had managed the affair, however, with askill that baffled all vigilance. Married they were, and without anysettlements, Colonel Wensleydale having nothing to settle, and LadyAlice, like a little fool, being only anxious to pour all that shepossessed into the lap of her beloved. The father threw himself on themercy of the trustees, reminding them that in little more than threeyears Lady Alice would become unfettered mistress of her own fortune, and begging them meanwhile to make proper provision for the rash buthappy pair. Harry Wensleydale, after all, was a rattling good fellow, with whom all the young women were in love. The thing, though naughty, was natural; and the colonel would make an excellent husband. 

One Presbyterian trustee left his business in Belfast and venturedhimself among the abominations of Paris. He was much befooled andbefeasted. He found a shy young wife tremulously in love; a handsomehusband; an amiable step-mother. He knew no one in Paris who couldenlighten him, and was not clever enough to invent means of gettinginformation for himself. He was induced to promise a sufficient incomefor the moment on behalf of himself and his co-trustee; and for the restwas obliged to be content with vague assurances from Colonel Wensleydalethat as soon as his wife came into her property fitting settlementsshould be made. 

Four years passed by. The young people lived with the Blackwaters, andtheir income kept the establishment going. Lady Alice had a child, andwas at first not altogether unhappy. She was little more than a timidchild herself; and no doubt, to begin with, she was in love. Then cameher majority. In defiance of all her trustees, she gave her wholefortune to her husband, and no power could prevent her from so doing. 

The Blackwater ménage blazed up into a sudden splendor. LadyBlackwater's carriage and Lady Blackwater's jewels had never been finer;and amid the crowds who frequented the house, the slight figure, thesallow face, and absent eyes of her step-daughter attracted littleremark. Lady Alice Wensleydale was said to be delicate and reserved; shemade no friends, explained herself to no one; and it was supposed thatshe occupied herself with her little boy. 

Then one December she disappeared from the apartment in the PlaceVendôme. It was said that she and the boy found the climate of Paris toocold in winter, and had gone for a time to Italy. Colonel Wensleydalecontinued to live with the Blackwaters, and their apartment was no lesssumptuous, their dinners no less talked of, their extravagance no lessnoisy than before. But Lady Alice did not come back with the spring; andsome ugly rumors began to creep about. They were checked, however, bythe death of Lord Blackwater, which occurred within a year of hisdaughter's departure; by the monstrous debts he left behind him; and bythe sale of the contents of the famous apartment, matters, all of them, sufficiently ugly or scandalous in themselves to keep the tongues offame busy. Lady Blackwater left Paris, and when she reappeared, it wasin Rome as the Comtesse d'Estrées, the wife of yet another old man, whose health obliged them to winter in the south and to spend the summerin yachting. Her _salon_ in Rome under Pio Nono became a greatrendezvous for English and Americans, attracted by the historic namesand titles that M. D'Estrées' connections among the Black nobility, hiswealth, and his interest in several of the Catholic banking-houses ofRome and Naples enabled his wife to command. 

Colonel Wensleydale did not appear. Madame d'Estrées let it beunderstood that her step-daughter was of a difficult temper, and nowspent most of her time in Ireland. Her own daughter, her "darlingKitty, " was being educated in Paris by the Soeurs Blanches, and shepined for the day when the "little sweet" should join her, ready tospread her wings in the great world. But mothers must not be impatient, Kitty must have all the advantages that befitted her rank; and to whatbetter hands could the most anxious mother intrust her than to thosecharming, aristocratic, accomplished nuns of the Soeurs Blanches?

Then one January day M. D'Estrées drove out to San Paolo fuori le Mura, and caught a blast from the snowy Sabines coming back. In three days hewas dead, and his well-provided widow had snatched the bulk of hisfortune from the hands of his needy and embittered kindred. 

Within six months of his death she had bought a house in St. James'sPlace, and her London career had begun. 

 * * * * *

"It is here that we come in, " said Lord Grosville, when, with moredigressions and more plainness of speech with regard to his quondamsister-in-law than can be here reproduced, he had brought his story tothis point. "Blackwater--the old ruffian--when he was dying had a momentof remorse. He wrote to my wife and asked her to look after his girls, 'For God's sake, Lina, see if you can help Alice--Wensleydale's aperfect brute. ' That was the first light we had on the situation, forAdelina had long before washed her hands of him; and we knew that _she_hated us. Well, we tried; of course we tried. But so long as herhusband lived Alice would have nothing to say to any of us. I supposeshe thought that for her boy's sake she'd better keep a bad business toherself as much as possible--"

"Wensleydale--Wensleydale?" said Ashe, who had been smoking hard andsilently beside his host. "You mean the man who distinguished himself inthe Crimea? He died last year--at Naples, wasn't it?"

Lord Grosville assented. 

It appeared that during the last year of his life Lady Alice had nursedher husband faithfully through disease and poverty; for scarcely avestige of her fortune remained, and an application for money made byWensleydale to Madame d'Estrées, unknown to his wife, had beenperemptorily refused. The colonel died, and within three months of hisdeath Lady Alice had also lost her son and only child, ofblood-poisoning developed in Naples, whither he had been summoned fromschool that his father might see him for the last time. 

Then, after seventeen years, Lady Alice came back to her kindred, whohad last seen her as a young girl--gentle, undeveloped, easily led, andrather stupid. She returned a gray-haired woman of thirty-four, who hadlost youth, fortune, child, and husband; whose aspect, moreover, suggested losses still deeper and more drear. At first she wrappedherself in what seemed to some a dull and to others a tragic silence. But suddenly a flame leaped up in her. She became aware of the positionof Madame d'Estrées in London; and one day, at a private view of theAcademy, her former step-mother went up to her smiling, without-stretched hand. Lady Alice turned very pale; the hand dropped, andAlice Wensleydale walked rapidly away. But that night, in the Grosvillehouse, she spoke out. 

"She told Lina and myself the whole story. You'd have thought the womanwas possessed. My wife--she's not of the crying sort, nor am I. But shecried, and I believe--well, I can tell you it was enough to move astone. And when she'd done, she just went away, and locked her door, andlet no one say a word to her. She has told one or two other relationsand friends, and--"

"And the relations and friends have told others?"

"Well, I can answer for myself, " said Grosville after a pause. "Thishappened three months ago. I never have told, and never shall tell, allthe details as she told them to us. But we have let enough be known--"

"Enough?--enough to damn Madame d'Estrées?"

"Oh, well, as far as the women were concerned, she was mostly thatalready. There are other tales going about. I expect you know them. "

"No, I don't know them, " said Ashe. 

Lord Grosville's face expressed surprise. "Well, this finished it, " hesaid. 

"Poor child!" said Ashe, slowly, putting down his cigarette and turninga thoughtful look on the carpet. 

"Alice?" said Lord Grosville. 

"No. "

"Oh! you mean Kitty? Yes, I had forgotten her for the moment. Yes, poorchild. "

There was silence a moment, then Lord Grosville inquired:

"What do you think of her?"

"I?" said Ashe, with a laugh. "I don't know. She's obviously verypretty--"

"And a handful!" said Lord Grosville. 

"Oh, quite plainly a handful, " said Ashe, rather absently. Then thememory of Kitty's entry recurred to them both, and they laughed. 

"Not much shyness left in that young woman--eh?" said the old man. "Shetells my girls such stories of her French doings--my wife's had to stopit. She seems to have had all sorts of love-affairs already. And, ofcourse, she'll have any number over here--sure to. Some unscrupulousfellow'll get hold of her, for naturally the right sort won't marry her. I don't know what we can do. Adelina offered to take her altogether. Butthat woman wouldn't hear of it. She wrote Lina rather a good letter--onher dignity--and that kind of thing. We gave her an opening, and, byJove! she took it. "

"And meanwhile Lady Kitty has no dealings with her step-sister?"

"You heard what she said. Extraordinary girl! to let the thing out plumplike that. Just like the blood. They say anything that comes into theirheads. If we had known that Alice was to be with the Sowerbys thisweek-end, my wife would certainly have put Kitty off. It would beuncommonly awkward if they were to meet--here for instance. Hullo! Is itgetting late?"

For the whist-players at the end of the library had pushed back theirchairs, and men were strolling back from the billiard-room. 

"I am afraid Lady Kitty understands there is something wrong with hermother's position, " said Ashe, as they rose. 

"I dare say. Brought up in Paris, you see, " said the white-hairedEnglishman, with a shrug. "Of course, she knows everything sheshouldn't. "

"Brought up in a convent, please, " said Ashe, smiling. "And I thoughtthe French _girl_ was the most innocent and ignorant thing alive. "

Lord Grosville received the remark with derision. 

"You ask my wife what she thinks about French convents. She knows--she'shad lots of Catholic relations. She'll tell you tales. "

Ashe thought, however, that he could trust himself to see that she didnothing of the sort. 

 * * * * *

The smoking-room broke up late, but the new Under-secretary sat up stilllater, reading and smoking in his bedroom. A box of Foreign Officepapers lay on his table. He went through them with a keen sense ofpleasure, enjoying his new work and his own competence to do it, ofwhich, notwithstanding his remarks to Mary Lyster, he was not really atall in doubt. Then when his comments were done, and the papers replacedin the order in which they would now go up to the Secretary of State, hefelt the spring night oppressively mild, and walking to the window, hethrew it wide open. 

He looked out upon a Dutch garden, full of spring flowers in bloom. Inthe midst was a small fountain, which murmured to itself through thenight. An orangery or conservatory, of a charming eighteenth-centurydesign, ran round the garden in a semicircle, its flat pilasters andmouldings of yellow stone taking under the moonlight the color and thedelicacy of ivory. Beyond the terrace which bordered the garden, theground fell to a river, of which the reaches, now dazzling, now sombre, now slipping secret under woods, and now silverly open to the gentleslopes of the park, brought wildness and romance into a scene that hadelse been tame. Beyond the river on a rising ground was a village churchwith a spire. The formal garden, the Georgian conservatory, the park, the river, the church--they breathed England and the traditional Englishlife. All that they implied, of custom and inheritance, of strength andnarrowness, of cramping prejudice and stubborn force, was very familiarto Ashe, and on the whole very congenial. He was glad to be anEnglishman and a member of an English government. The ironic mood whichwas tolerably constant in him did not in the least interfere with hisnormal enjoyment of normal goods. He saw himself often as a shade amongshadows, as an actor among actors; but the play was good all the same. That a man should know himself to be a fool was in his eyes, as it wasin Lord Melbourne's, the first of necessities. But fool or no fool, lethim find the occupations that suited him, and pursue them. On thoseterms life was still amply worth living, and ginger was still hot in themouth. 

This was his usual philosophy. Religiously he was a sceptic, enormouslyinterested in religion. Should he ever become Prime Minister, as LadyTranmore prophesied, he would know much more theology than the bishopshe might be called on to appoint. Politically, at the same time, he wasan aristocrat, enormously interested in liberty. The absurdities of hisown class were still more plain to him perhaps than the absurdities ofthe populace. But had he lived a couple of generations earlier he wouldhave gone with passion for Catholic emancipation, and boggled at theReform Bill. And if fate had thrown him on earlier days still, he wouldnot, like Falkland, have died ingeminating peace; he would have fought;but on which side, no friend of his--up till now--could have been quitesure. To have the reputation of an idler, and to be in truth a ploddingand unwearied student; this, at any rate, pleased him. To avow anenthusiasm, or an affection, generally seemed to him an indelicacy; onlytwo or three people in the world knew what was the real quality of hisheart. Yet no man feigns shirking without in some measure learning toshirk; and there were certain true indolences and sybaritisms in Ashe ofwhich he was fully and contemptuously aware, without either wishing orfeeling himself able to break the yoke of them. 

At the present moment, however, he was rather conscious of much unusualstirring and exaltation of personality. As he stood looking out into theEnglish night the currents of his blood ran free and fast. Never had hefelt the natural appetite for living so strong in him, combined withwhat seemed to be at once a divination of coming change, and a thirstfor it. Was it the mere advancement of his fortunes--or somethinginfinitely subtler and sweeter? It was as though waves of softness andof yearning welled up from some unknown source, seeking an object and anoutlet. 

As he stood there dreaming, he suddenly became conscious of sounds inthe room overhead. Or rather in the now absolute stillness of the restof the house he realized that the movements and voices above him, whichhad really been going on since he entered his room, persisted wheneverything else had died away. 

Two people were talking; or rather one voice ran on perpetually, brokenat intervals by the other. He began to suspect to whom the voicebelonged; and as he did so, the window above his own was thrown open. Hestepped back involuntarily, but not before he had caught a few words inFrench, spoken apparently by Lady Kitty. 

"Ciel! what a night!--and how the flowers smell! And the stars--I adorethe stars! Mademoiselle--come here! Mademoiselle! answer me--I won'ttell tales--now do you--_really and truly_--believe in God?"

A laugh, which was a laugh of pleasure, ran through Ashe, as hehurriedly put out his lights. 

"Tormentor!" he said to himself--"must you put a woman through hertheological paces at this time of night? Can't you go to sleep, youlittle whirlwind?--What's to be done? If I shut my window the noise willscare her. But I can't stand eavesdropping here. "

He withdrew softly from the window and began to undress. But Lady Kittywas leaning out, and her voice carried amazingly. Heard in this wayalso, apart from form and face, it became a separate living thing. Ashestood arrested, his watch that he was winding up in his hand. He hadknown the voice till now as something sharp and light, the sign surelyof a chatterer and a flirt. To-night, as Kitty made use of it to expoundher own peculiar theology to the French governess--whereof a fewfragments now and then floated down to Ashe--nothing could have beenmore musical, melancholy, caressing. A voice full of sex, and the spellof sex. 

What had she been talking of all these hours to mademoiselle? A ladywhom she could never have set eyes on before this visit. He thought ofher face, in the drawing-room, as she had spoken of her sister--of hereyes, so full of a bright feverish pain, which had hung upon his own. 

Had she, indeed, been confiding all her home secrets to this stranger?Ashe felt a movement of distaste, almost of disgust. Yet he rememberedthat it was by her unconventionality, her lack of all proper reticence, or, as many would have said, all delicate feeling, that she had made herfirst impression upon him. Ay, that had been an impression--animpression indeed! He realized the fact profoundly, as he stoodlingering in the darkness, trying not to hear the voice that thrilledhim. 

At last!--was she going to bed?

"Ah!--but I am a pig, to keep you up like this! Allez dormir!" (Thesound of a kiss. ) "I? Oh no! Why should one go to bed? It is in thenight one begins to live. "

She fell to humming a little French tune, then broke off. 

"You remember? You promise? You have the letter?"

Asseverations apparently from mademoiselle, and a mention of eighto'clock, followed by remorse from Kitty. 

"Eight o'clock! And I keep you like this. I am a brute beast!Allez--allez vite!" And quick steps scudded across the floor above, followed by the shutting of a door. 

Kitty, however, came back to the window, and Ashe could still hear hersighing and talking to herself. 

What had she been plotting? A letter? Conveyed by mademoiselle? To whom?

 * * * * *

Long after all sounds above had ceased Ashe still lay awake, thinking ofthe story he had heard from Lord Grosville. Certainly, if he had knownit, he would never have gone familiarly to Madame d'Estrées' house. Laxity, for a man of his type, is one thing; lying, meanness, andcruelty are another. What could be done for this poor child in herstrange and sinister position? He was ironically conscious of a suddenheat of missionary zeal. For if the creature to be saved had notpossessed such a pair of eyes--so slim a neck--such a haunting andteasing personality--what then?

The question presently plunged with him into sleep. But he had notforgotten it when he awoke. 

 * * * * *

He had just finished dressing next morning, when he chanced to see fromthe front window of his room, which commanded the main stretch of thepark, the figure of a lady on one of the paths. She seemed to bereturning from the farther end of a long avenue, and was evidentlyhurrying to reach the house. As she approached, however, she turnedaside into a shrubbery walk and was soon lost to view. But Ashe hadrecognized Mademoiselle D. The matter of the letter recurred to him. Heguessed that she had already delivered it. But where?

At breakfast Lady Kitty did not appear. Ashe made inquiries of theyounger Miss Grosville, who replied with some tartness that she supposedKitty had a cold, and hurried off herself to dress for Sunday-school. Itwas not at all the custom for young ladies to breakfast in bed onSundays at Grosville Park, and Lady Grosville's brow was clouded. Ashefelt it a positive effort to tell her that he was not going to church, and when she had marshalled her flock and carried them off, those leftbehind knew themselves, indeed, as heathens and publicans. 

Ashe wandered out with some official papers and a pipe into the springsunshine. Mr. Kershaw, the editor, would gladly have caught him for apolitical talk. But Ashe would not be caught. As to the interests ofEngland in the Persian Gulf, both they and Mr. Kershaw might for themoment go hang. Would Lady Kitty meet him in the old garden ateleven-thirty, or would she not? That was the only thing that mattered. 

However, it was still more than an hour to the time mentioned. Ashespent a while in roaming a wood delicately pied with primroses andanemones, and then sauntered back into the gardens, which were old andfamous. 

Suddenly, as he came upon a terrace bordered by a thick yew hedge, anddescending by steps to a lower terrace, he became aware of voices in astrange tone and key--not loud, but, as it were, intensified far beyondthe note of ordinary talk. Ashe stood still; for he had recognized thevoice of Lady Kitty. But before he had made up his mind what to do alady began to ascend the steps which connected the upper terrace withthe lower. She came straight towards him, and Ashe looked at her withastonishment. She was not a member of the Grosville house party, andAshe had never seen her before. Yet in her pale, unhappy face there wassomething that recalled another person; something, too, in her gait andher passionate energy of movement. She swept past him, and he saw thatshe was tall and thin, and dressed in deep mourning. Her eyes were seton some inner vision; he felt that she scarcely saw him. She passed likean embodied grief--menacing and lamentable. 

Something like a cry pursued her up the steps. But she did not turn. Shewalked swiftly on, and was soon lost to sight in the trees. 

Ashe hesitated a moment, then hurried down the steps. 

On a stone seat beneath the yew hedge, Kitty Bristol lay prone. He heardher sobs, and they went most strangely through his heart. 

"Lady Kitty!" he said, as he stood beside her and bent over her. 

She looked up, and showed no surprise. Her face was bathed in tears, buther hand sought his piteously and drew him towards her. 

"I have seen my sister, " she said, "and she hates me. What have I done?I think I shall die of despair!"

V

The effect of the few sobbing words, with which Kitty Bristol hadgreeted his presence beside her, upon the feeling of William Ashe wasboth sharp and deep, for they seemed already to imply a peculiarrelation, a special link between them. Had it not, indeed, begun in thatvery moment at St. James's Place when he had first caught sight of her, sitting forlorn in her white dress?--when she had "willed" him to cometo her, and he came? Surely--though as to this he had his qualms--shecould not have spoken with this abandonment to any other of her newEnglish acquaintances? To Darrell, for instance, who was expected atGrosville Park that evening. No! From the beginning she had turned tohim, William Ashe; she had been conscious of the same mutualunderstanding, the same sympathy in difference that he himself felt. 

It was, at any rate, with the feeling of one whose fate has moststrangely, most unexpectedly overtaken him that he sat down beside her. His own pulses were running at a great rate; but there was to be no signof it for her. He tried, indeed, to calm her by that mere cheerfulstrength and vitality of which he was so easily master. "Why should yoube in despair?" he said, bending towards her. "Tell me. Let me try andhelp you. Was your sister unkind to you?"

Kitty made no reply at once. The tears that brimmed her large eyesslipped down her cheeks without disfiguring her. She was lookingabsently, intently, into a dark depth of wood as though she sought therefor some truth that escaped her--truth of the past or of the present. 

"I don't know, " she said, at last, shaking her head, "I don't knowwhether it was unkind. Perhaps it was only what we deserve, maman andI. "

"You!" cried Ashe. 

"Yes, " she said, passionately. "Who's going to separate between mamanand me? If she's done mean, shocking things, the people she's done themto will hate me too. They _shall_ hate me! It's right. "

She turned to him violently. She was very white, and her little hands asshe sat there before him, proudly erect, twisted a lace handkerchiefbetween them that would soon be in tatters. Somehow Ashe winced beforethe wreck of the handkerchief; what need to ruin the pretty, fragilething?

"I am quite sure no one will ever hate you for what you haven't done, "he said, steadily. "That would be abominably unfair. But, you see, Idon't understand--and I don't like--I don't wish--to ask questions. "

"_Do_ ask questions!" she cried, looking at him almost reproachfully. "That's just what I want you to do--Only, " she added, hanging her headin depression, "I shouldn't know what to answer. I am played with, andtreated as a baby! There is something horrible the matter--and no onetrusts me--every one keeps me in the dark. No one ever thinks whether Iam miserable or not. "

She raised her hands to her eyes and vehemently wiped away her tearswith the tattered lace handkerchief. In all these words and actions, however, she was graceful and touching, because she was natural. She wasnot posing or conscious, she was hiding nothing. Yet Ashe felt certainshe could act a part magnificently; only it would not be for the lie'ssake, but for the sake of some romantic impulse or imagination. 

"Why should you torment yourself so?" he asked her, kindly. Her hand haddropped and lay beside her on the bench. To his own amazement he foundhimself clasping it. "Isn't it better to forget old griefs? You can'thelp what happened years ago--you can't undo it. You've got to live yourown life--_happily_! And I just wish you'd set about it. "

He smiled at her, and there were few faces more attractive than his whenhe let his natural softness have its way, without irony. She let hereyes be drawn to his, and as they met he saw a flush rise in her clearskin and spread to the pale gold of her hair. The man in him wasmarvellously pleased by that flush--fascinated, indeed. But she gave himsmall time to observe it; she drew herself impatiently away. 

"Of course, you don't understand a word about it, " she said, "or youcouldn't talk like that. But I'll tell you. " Her eyes, half miserable, half audacious, returned to him. "My sister--came here--because I sentfor her. I made mademoiselle go with a letter. Of course, I knew therewas a mystery--I knew the Grosvilles did not want us to meet--I knewthat she and maman hated each other. But maman will tell me nothing--andI have a _right_ to know. "

"No, you have no right to know, " said Ashe, gravely. 

She looked at him wildly. 

"I have--I have!" she repeated, passionately. "Well, I told my sister tomeet me here--I had forgotten, you see, all about you! My mind was sofull of Alice. And when she came I felt as if it was a dream--ahorrible, tragic dream. You know--she is _so_ like me--which means, Isuppose, that we are both like papa. Only her face--it's not handsome, oh no--but it's stern--and--yes, noble! I was proud of her. I would liketo have gone on my knee and kissed her dress. But she would not take myhand--she would hardly speak to me. She said she had come, because itwas best, now that I was in England, that we should meet once, andunderstand that we _couldn't_ meet--that we could never, never befriends. She said that she hated my mother--that for years she had keptsilence, but that now she meant to punish maman--to drive her fromLondon. And then"--the girl's lips trembled under the memory--"she cameclose to me, and she looked into my eyes, and she said, 'Yes, we're likeeach other---we're like our father--and it would be better for us bothif we had never been born--'"

"Ah, cruel!" cried Ashe, involuntarily, and once more his hand foundKitty's small fingers and pressed them in his. 

Kitty looked at him with a strange, exalted look. 

"No. I think it's true. I often think I'm not made to be happy. I can'tever be happy--it's not in me. "

"It's in you to say foolish things then!" said Ashe, lightly, andcrossing his arms he tried to assume the practical elder-brotherly air, which he felt befitted the situation--if anything befitted it. For intruth it seemed to him one singularly confused and ugly. Their talkfloated above tragic depths, guessed at by him, wholly unknown to her. And yet her youth shrank from it knew not what--"as an animal shrinksfrom shadows in the twilight. " She seemed to him to sit enwrapped in avague cloud of shame, resenting and hating it, yet not able to escapefrom thinking and talking of it. But she must not talk of it. 

She did not answer his last remark for a little while. She sat lookingbefore her, overwhelmed, it seemed, by an inward rush of images andsensations. Till, with a sudden movement, she turned to him and said, smiling, quite in her ordinary voice:

"Do you know why I shall never be happy? It is because I have such a badtemper. "

"Have you?" said Ashe, smiling. 

She gave him a curious look. 

"You don't believe it? If you had been in the convent, you would havebelieved it. I'm mad sometimes--quite mad; with pride, I suppose, andvanity. The Soeurs said it was that. "

"They had to explain it somehow, " said Ashe. "But I am quite sure thatif I lived in a convent I should have a furious temper. "

"You!" she said, half contemptuously. "You couldn't be ill-temperedanywhere. That's the one thing I don't like about you--you're toocalm--too--too satisfied. It's--Well! you said a sharp thing to me, so Idon't see why I shouldn't say one to you. You shouldn't look as thoughyou enjoyed your life so much. It's _bourgeois_! It is, indeed. " And shefrowned upon him with a little extravagant air that amused him. 

By some prescience, she had put on that morning a black dress of thinmaterial, made with extreme simplicity. No flounces, no fanfaronnade. Alittle girlish dress, that made the girlish figure seem even frailer andlighter than he remembered it the night before in the splendors of herParis gown. Her large black hat emphasized the whiteness of her brow, the brilliance of her most beautiful eyes; and then all the rest wasinsubstantial sprite and airy nothing, to be crushed in one hand. Andyet what untamed, indomitable things breathed from it--a self surelymore self, more intensely, obstinately alive than any he had yet known. 

Her attack had brought the involuntary blood to his cheeks, whichannoyed him. But he invited her to say why cheerfulness was a vice. Shereplied that no one should look success--as much as he did. 

"And you scorn success?"

"Scorn it!" She drew a long breath, clasped both her hands above herhead, then slowly let the thin arms fall again. "Scorn it! Whatnonsense! But everybody who hasn't got it hates those who have. "

"Don't hate me!" said Ashe, quickly. 

"Yes, " she said, with stubbornness, "I must. Do you know why I was sucha wild-cat at school? Because some of the other girls were moreimportant than I--much more important--and richer--and morebeautiful--and people paid them more attention. And that seemed to_burn_ the heart in me. " She pressed her hands to her breast with apassionate gesture. "You know the French word _panache_? Well, that'swhat I care for --that's what I _adore_! To be the first--the best--themost distinguished. To be envied--and pointed at--obeyed when I lift myfinger--and then to come to some great, glorious, tragic end!"

Ashe moved impatiently. 

"Lady Kitty, I don't like to hear you talk like this. It's wild, andit's also--I beg your pardon--"

"In bad taste?" she said, catching him up breathlessly. "That's what youmeant, isn't it? You said it to me before, when I called you handsome. "

"Pshaw!" he said, in vexation. She watched him throw himself back andfeel for his cigarette-case; a gesture of her hand gave him leave; shewaited, smiling, till he had taken a few calming whiffs. Then she gentlymoved towards him. 

"Don't be angry with me!" she said, in a sweet, low voice. "Don't youunderstand how hard it is--to have that nature--and then to come hereout of the convent--where one had lived on dreams--and find one'sself--"

She turned her head away. Ashe put down his new-lit cigarette. 

"Find yourself?" he repeated. 

"Everybody scorns me!" she said, her brow drooping. 

Ashe exclaimed. 

"You know it's true. My mother is not received. Can you deny that?"

"She has many friends, " said Ashe. 

"She is _not received_. When I speak of her no one answers me. LadyGrosville asked me here--_me_--out of charity. It would be thought adisgrace to marry me--"

"Look here, Lady Kitty!--"

"And I"--she wrung her small hands, as though she clasped the necks ofher enemies--"I would never _look_ at a man who did not think it theglory of his life to win me. So you see, I shall never marry. But thenthe dreadful thing is--"

She let him see a white, stormy face. 

"That I have no loyalty to maman--I--I don't think I even love her. "

Ashe surveyed her gravely. 

"You don't mean that, " he said. 

"I think I do, " she persisted. "I had a horrid childhood. I won't telltales; but, you see, I don't _know_ maman. I know the Soeurs muchbetter. And then for some one you don't know--to have to--to have tobear--this horrible thing--"

She buried her face in her hands. Ashe looked at her in perplexity. 

"You sha'n't bear anything horrible, " he said, with energy. "There areplenty of people who will take care of that. Do you mind tellingme--have there been special difficulties just lately?"

"Oh yes, " she said, calmly, looking up, "awful! Maman's debtsare--well--ridiculous. For that alone I don't think she'll be able tostay in London--apart from--Alice. "

The name recalled all she had just passed through, and her facequivered. "What will she do?" she said, under her breath. "How will shepunish us?--and why?--for what?"

Her dread, her ignorance, her fierce, bruised vanity, her strugglingpride, her helplessness, appealed amazingly to the man beside her. Hebegan to talk to her very gently and wisely, begging her to let the pastalone, to think only what could be done to help the present. In thefirst place, would she not let his mother be of use to her?

He could answer for Lady Tranmore. Why shouldn't Lady Kitty spend thesummer with her in Scotland? No doubt Madame d'Estrées would be abroad. 

"Then I must go with her, " said Kitty. 

Ashe hesitated. 

"Of course, if she wishes it. "

"But I don't know that she will wish it. She is not very fond of me, "said Kitty, doubtfully. "Yes, I would like to stay with Lady Tranmore. But will your cousin be there?"

"Miss Lyster?"

Kitty nodded. 

"How can I tell? Of course, she is often there. "

"It is quite curious, " said Kitty, after reflection, "how we dislikeeach other. And it is so odd. You know most people like me!"

She looked up at him without a trace of coquetry, rather with a certaintimidity that feared possible rebuff. "That's always been mydifficulty, " she went on, "till now. Everybody spoils me. I always getmy own way. In the convent I was indulged and flattered, and then theywondered that I made all sorts of follies. I want a guide--that's quitecertain--somebody to tell me what to do. "

"I would offer myself for the post, " said Ashe, "but that I feelperfectly sure that you would never follow anybody's advice inanything. "

"Yes, I would, " she said, wistfully. "I would--"

Ashe's face changed. 

"Ah, if you would--"

She sprang up. "Do you see "--she pointed to some figures on a distantpath--"they are coming back from church. You understand?--_nobody_ mustknow about my sister. It will come round to Aunt Lina, of course; but Ihope it'll be when I'm gone. If she knew now, I should go back to Londonto-day. "

Ashe made it clear to her that he would be discretion itself. They leftthe bench, but, as they began to ascend the steps, Kitty turned back. 

"I wish I hadn't seen her, " she said, in a miserable tone, the tearsflooding once more into her eyes. 

Ashe looked at her with great kindness, but without speaking. The momentof sharp pain passed, and she moved on languidly beside him. But therewas an infection in his strong, handsome presence, and her smiles sooncame back. By the time they neared the house, indeed, she seemed to bein wild spirits again. 

Did he know, she asked him, that three more guests were coming thatafternoon--Mr. Darrell, Mr. Louis Harman, _and_--Mr. Geoffrey Cliffe?She laid an emphasis on the last name, which made Ashe say, carelessly:

"You want to meet him so much?"

"Of course. Doesn't all the world?"

Ashe replied that he could only answer for himself, and as far as he wasconcerned he could do very well without Cliffe's company at all times. 

Whereupon Kitty protested with fire that other men were jealous of sucha famous person because women liked him--because--

"Because the man's a coxcomb and the women spoil him?"

"A coxcomb!"

Kitty was up in arms. 

"Pray, is he not a great traveller?--_a very_ great traveller?" sheasked, with indignation. 

"Certainly, by his own account. "

"And a most brilliant writer?"

"Macaulayese, " said Ashe, perversely, "and not very good at that. "

Kitty was at first struck dumb, and then began a voluble protest againstunfairness so monstrous. Did not all intelligent people read and admire?It was mere jealousy, she repeated, to deny the gentleman's claims. 

Ashe let her talk and quote and excite herself, applying every now andthen a little sly touch of the goad, to make her still run on, and soforget the tragic hour which had overshadowed her. And meanwhile all hecared for was to watch the flashing of her face and eyes, and the playof the wind in her hair, and the springing grace with which she moved. Poor child!--it all came back to that--poor child!--what was to be donewith her?

 * * * * *

At luncheon--the Sunday luncheon--which still, at Grosville Park, as inthe early Victorian days of Lord Grosville's mother, consisted of a hugebaronial sirloin to which all else upon the varied table appeared asappurtenance and appendage, Ashe allowed himself the inward reflectionthat the Grosville Park Sundays were degenerating. Both Lord and LadyGrosville had been good hosts in their day; and the downrightness of thewife had been as much to the taste of many as the agreeable gossip ofthe husband. But on this occasion both were silent and absent-minded. Lady Grosville showed no generalship in placing her guests; the wrongpeople sat next to each other, and the whole party dragged--without aleader. 

And certainly Kitty Bristol did nothing to enliven it. She sat verysilent, her black dress changing her a good deal, to Ashe's thinking, bringing back, as he chose to fancy, the pale convent girl. Was it sothat she went through her pious exercises?--by-the-way, she was, ofcourse, a Catholic?--said her lessons, and went to her confessor? Hadthe French cousin with whom she rode stag-hunting ever seen her likethis? No; Ashe felt certain that "Henri" had never seen her, except as afashion-plate, or _en amazone_. He could have made nothing of this ghostin black--this distinguished, piteous, little ghost. 

After luncheon it became tolerably clear to Ashe that Lady Grosville'spreoccupation had a cause. And presently catching him alone in thelibrary, whither he had retired with some official papers, she closedthe door with deliberate care, and stood before him. 

"I see you are interested in Kitty, and I feel as if I must tell you, and ask your opinion. William, do you know what that child has beendoing?"

He looked up from his writing. 

"Ah!--what have you been discovering?"

"Grosville told you the story last night. "

Ashe nodded. 

"Well--Kitty wrote to Alice this morning--and they met. Alice has kepther room since--prostrate--so the Sowerbys tell me. I have just had anote from Mrs. Sowerby. Wasn't it an extraordinary, an indelicate thingto do?"

Ashe studied the frowning lady a moment--so large and daunting in herblack silk and white lace. She seemed to suggest all those aspects ofthe English Sunday for which he had most secret dislike--its Pharisaismand dulness and heavy meals. He felt himself through and through LadyKitty's champion. 

"I should have thought it very natural, " was his reply. 

Lady Grosville threw up her hands. 

"Natural!--when she knows--"

"How can she know?" cried Ashe, hotly. "How can such a child know orguess anything? She only knows that there is some black charge againsther mother, on which no one will enlighten her. How can they? Butmeanwhile her mother is ostracized, and she feels herself dragged intothe disgrace, not understanding why or wherefore. Could anything be morepathetic--more touching?"

In his heat of feeling he got up, and began to pace up and down. LadyGrosville's countenance expressed first astonishment--then wavering. 

"Oh--of course, it's very sad, " she said--"extremely sad. But I shouldhave thought Kitty was clever enough to understand at least that Alicemust have some grave reason for breaking with her mother--"

"Don't you all forget what a child she is, " said Ashe, indignantly--"notyet nineteen!"

"Yes, that's true, " said Lady Grosville, grudgingly. "I must confess Ifind it difficult to judge her fairly. She's so different from my owngirls. "

Ashe hastily agreed. Then it struck him as odd that he should havefallen so quickly into this position of Kitty's defender with herfather's family; and he drew in his horns. He resumed his work, and LadyGrosville sat for a while, her hands in her lap, quietly observing him. 

At last she said:

"So you think, William, I had better leave Kitty alone?"

"About what?" Ashe raised his curly head with a laugh. "Don't put toomuch responsibility on me. I know nothing about young ladies. "

"I don't know that I do--much, " said Lady Grosville, candidly. "My owndaughters are so exceptional. "

Ashe held his peace. Distant cousins as they were, he hardly knew theGrosville girls apart, and had never yet grasped any reason why heshould. 

"At any rate, I see clearly, " said Lady Grosville, after another pause, "that you're very sorry for Kitty. Of course, it's very nice of you, andI find it's what most people feel. "

"Hang it! dear Lady Grosville, why shouldn't they?" said Ashe, turninground on his chair. "If ever there was a forlorn little person on earth, I thought Lady Kitty was that person at lunch to-day. "

"And after that absurd exhibition last night!" said Lady Grosville, witha shrug. "You never know where to have her. You think she looked ill?"

"I am sure she has got a splitting headache, " said Ashe, boldly. "Andwhy you and Grosville shouldn't be as sorry for her as for Lady Alice Ican't imagine. _She's_ done nothing. "

"No, that's true, " said Lady Grosville, as she rose. Then she added:"I'll go and see if she has a headache. You must consult with us, William; you know the mother so well. "

"Oh, I'm no good!" said Ashe, with energy. "But I'm sure that kindnesswould pay with Lady Kitty. "

He smiled at her, wishing to Heaven she would go. 

Lady Grosville stared. 

"I hope we are always kind to her, " she said, with a touch ofhaughtiness. And then the library door closed behind her. 

 * * * * *

"Kindness" was indeed, that afternoon, the order of the day, as from theGrosvilles to Lady Kitty. Ashe wondered how she liked it. The girlsfollowed her about with shawls. Lady Grosville installed her on a sofain the back drawing-room. A bottle of sal-volatile appeared, andCaroline Grosville, instead of going twice to Sunday-school, devotedherself to fanning Kitty, though the weather--which was sunny, with asharp east wind--suggested, to Ashe's thinking, fires rather than fans. 

He was himself carried off for the customary Sunday walk, Mr. Kershawbeing now determined to claim the sacred rights of the press. Thewalkers left the house by a garden door, to reach which they had to passthrough the farther drawing-room. Kitty, a picturesque figure on thesofa, nodded farewell to Ashe, and then, unseen by Caroline Grosville, who sat behind her, shot him a last look which drove him to aprecipitate exit lest the inward laugh should out. 

The walk through the flat Cambridgeshire country was long and strenuous. Though for at least half of it the active journalist who was Ashe'scompanion conceived the poorest opinion of the new minister. Ashe knewnothing; had no opinions; cared for nothing, except now and then for thestalking of an unfamiliar bird, or the antics of the dogs, or tales ofhorse-racing, of which he talked with a fervor entirely denied to thosehigh political topics of which Kershaw's ardent soul was full. 

Again and again did the journalist put them under his nose in their mostattractive guise. In vain; Ashe would have none of them. Till suddenly achance word started an Indian frontier question, vastly important, andtotally unknown to the English public. Ashe casually began to talk; thetrickle became a stream, and presently he was holding forth with animpetuosity, a knowledge, a matured and careful judgment that fairlyamazed the man beside him. 

The long road, bordered by the flat fen meadows, the wide silver sky, the gently lengthening day, all passed unnoticed. The journalist foundhimself in the grip of a _mind_--strong, active, rich. He gave himselfup with docility, yet with a growing astonishment, and when they stoodonce more on the steps of the house he said to his companion:

"You must have followed these matters for years. Why have you neverspoken in the House, or written anything?"

Ashe's aspect changed at once. 

"What would have been the good?" he said, with his easy smile. "Thefellows who didn't know wouldn't have believed me; and the fellows whoknew didn't want telling. "

A shade of impatience showed in Kershaw's aspect. 

"I thought, " he said, "ours was government by discussion. "

Ashe laughed, and, turning on the steps, he pointed to the splendidgardens and finely wooded park. 

"Or government by country-houses--which? If you support us in this--as Igather you will--this walk will have been worth a debate--now won't it?"

The flattered journalist smiled, and they entered the house. From theinner hall Lord Grosville perceived them. 

"Geoffrey Cliffe's arrived, " he said to Ashe, as they reached him. 

"Has he?" said Ashe, and turned to go up-stairs. 

But Kershaw showed a lively interest. "You mean the traveller?" he askedof his host. 

"I do. As mad as usual, " said the old man. "He and my niece Kitty make apair. "

VI

When Ashe returned to the drawing-room he found it filled with the soundof talk and laughter. But it was a talk and laughter in which theGrosville family seemed to have itself but little part. Lady Grosvillesat stiffly on an early Victorian sofa, her spectacles on her nose, reading the _Times_ of the preceding day, or appearing to read it. AmyGrosville, the eldest girl, was busy in a corner, putting the finishingtouches to a piece of illumination; while Caroline, seated on the floor, was showing the small child of a neighbor how to put a picture-puzzletogether. Lord Grosville was professedly in a farther room, talking withthe Austrian count; but every other minute he strolled restlessly intothe big drawing-room, and stood at the edge of the talk and laughter, only to turn on his heel again and go back to the count--who meanwhileappeared in the opening between the two rooms, his hands on his hips, eagerly watching Kitty Bristol and her companions, while waiting, ascourtesy bade him, for the return of his host. 

Ashe at once divined that the Grosville family were in revolt. Nor hadhe to look far to discover the cause. 

Was that astonishing young lady in truth identical with the pensivefigure of the morning? Kitty had doffed her black, and she wore a"demi-toilette" gown of the utmost elegance, of which the expensivenesshad, no doubt, already sunk deep into Lady Grosville's soul. AtGrosville Park the new fashion of "tea-gowns" was not favorablyregarded. It was thought to be a mere device of silly and extravagantwomen, and an "afternoon dress, " though of greater pretensions than amorning gown, was still a sober affair, not in any way to be confoundedwith those decorative effects that nature and sound sense reserved forthe evening. 

But Kitty's dress was of some white silky material; and it displayed herslender throat and some portion of her thin white arms. The Dean's wife, Mrs. Winston, as she secretly studied it, felt an inward satisfaction;for here at last was one of those gowns she had once or twice gazed onwith a covetous awe in the shop-windows of the Rue de la Paix, broughtdown to earth, and clothing a simple mortal. They were then real, andthey could be worn by real women; which till now the Dean's wife hadscarcely believed. 

Alack! how becoming were these concoctions to minxes with fair hair andsylphlike frames! Kitty was radiant, triumphant; and Ashe was certainthat Lady Grosville knew it, however she might barricade herself behindthe _Times_. The girl's slim fingers gesticulated in aid of her tongue;one tiny foot swung lightly over the other; the glistening folds of thesilk wrapped her in a shimmering whiteness, above which the fairhead--negligently thrown back--shone out on a red background, made bythe velvet chair in which she sat. 

The Dean was placed close beside her, and was clearly enjoying himselfenormously. And in front of her, absorbed in her, engaged, indeed, inhot and furious debate with her, stood the great man who had justarrived. 

"How do you do, Cliffe?" said Ashe, as he approached. 

Geoffrey Cliffe turned sharply, and a perfunctory greeting passedbetween the two men. 

"When did you arrive?" said Ashe, as he threw himself into an arm-chair. 

"Last Tuesday. But that don't matter, " said Cliffe, impatiently--"nothing matters--except that I must somehow defeat LadyKitty!"

And he stood, looking down upon the girl in front of him, his hands onhis sides, his queer countenance twitching with suppressed laughter. Anodd figure, tall, spare, loosely jointed, surmounted by a pale parchmentface, which showed a somewhat protruding chin, a long and delicate nose, and fine brows under a strange overhanging mass of fair hair. He had thedissipated, battered look of certain Vandyck cavaliers, and certainly nohandsomeness of any accepted kind. But as Ashe well knew, the aspect andpersonality of Geoffrey Cliffe possessed for innumerable men and women, in English "society" and out of it, a fascination it was easier to laughat than to explain. 

Lady Kitty had eyes certainly for no one else. When he spoke of"defeating" her, she laughed her defiance, and a glance of battle passedbetween her and Cliffe. Cliffe, still holding her with his look, considered what new ground to break. 

"What is the subject?" said Ashe. 

"That men are vainer than women, " said Kitty. "It's so true, it's hardlyworth saying--isn't it? Mr. Cliffe talks nonsense about our love ofclothes--and of being admired. As if that were vanity! Of course it'sonly our sense of duty. "

"Duty?" cried Cliffe, twisting his mustache. "To whom?"

"To the men, of course! If we didn't like clothes, if we didn't likebeing admired--where would you be?"

"Personally, I could get on, " said Cliffe. "You expect us to be too muchon our knees. "

"As if we should ever get you there if it didn't amuse you!" said Kitty. "Hypocrites! If we don't dress, paint, chatter, and tell lies for you, you won't look at us--and if we do--"

"Of course, it all depends on how well it's done, " threw in Cliffe. 

Kitty laughed. 

"That's judging by results. I look to the motive. I repeat, if I powderand paint, it's not because I'm vain, but because it's my painful dutyto give you pleasure. "

"And if it doesn't give me pleasure?"

She shrugged her shoulders. 

"Call me stupid then--not vain. I ought to have done it better. "

"In any case, " said Ashe, "it's your duty to please us?"

"Yes--" sighed Kitty. "Worse luck!"

And she sank softly back in her chair, her eyes shining under thestimulus of the laugh that ran through her circle. The Dean joined in ituneasily, conscious, no doubt, of the sharp, crackling movements bywhich in the distance Lady Grosville was dumbly expressingherself--through the _Times_. Cliffe looked at the small figure amoment, then seized a chair and sat down in front of her, astride. 

"I wonder why you want to please us?" he said, abruptly, his magnificentblue eyes upon her. 

"Ah!" said Kitty, throwing up her hands, "if we only knew!"

"You find it in the tragedy of your sex?"

"Or comedy, " said the Dean, rising. "I take you at your word, LadyKitty. To-night it will be your duty to please _me_. Remember, youpromised to say us some more French. " He lifted an admonitory finger. 

"I don't know any 'Athalie, '" said Kitty, demurely, crossing her handsupon her knee. 

The Dean smiled to himself as he crossed the room to Lady Grosville, andendeavored by an impartial criticism of the new curate's manner andvoice, as they had revealed themselves in church that morning, todistract her attention from her niece. 

A hopeless task--for Kitty's personality was of the kind which absorbs, engulfs attention, do what the by-stander will. Eyes and ears were drawnperforce into the little whirlpool that she made, their owners yieldingthem, now with delight, now with repulsion. 

Mary Lyster, for instance, came in presently, fresh from a walk withLady Edith Manley. She, too, had changed her dress. But it was adiscreet and reasonable change, and Lady Grosville looked at her softgray gown with its muslin collar and cuffs--delicately embroidered, yetof a nunlike cut and air notwithstanding--with a hot energy of approval, provoked entirely by Kitty's audacities. Mary meanwhile raised hereyebrows gently at the sight of Kitty. She swept past the group, givinga cool greeting to Geoffrey Cliffe, and presently settled herself in thefarther room, attended by Louis Harman and Darrell, who had just arrivedby the afternoon train. Clearly she observed Kitty and observed her withdislike. The attitude of her companions was not so simple. 

"What an amazing young woman!" said Harman, presently, under his breath, yet open-mouthed. "I suppose she and Cliffe are old friends. "

"I believe they never met before, " said Mary. 

Darrell laughed. 

"Lady Kitty makes short work of the preliminaries, " he said; "she toldme the other night life wasn't long enough to begin with talk about theweather. "

"The weather?" said Harman. "At the present moment she and Cliffe seemto be discussing the 'Dame aux Camélias. ' Since when do they take younggirls to see that kind of thing in Paris?"

Miss Lyster gave a little cough, and bending forward said to Harman:"Lady Tranmore has shown me your picture. It is a dear, delicious thing!I never saw anything more heavenly than the angel. "

Harman smiled a flattered smile. Mary Lyster referred to a copy of a"Filippo Lippi Annunciation" which he had just executed in water-colorfor Lady Tranmore, to whom he was devoted. He was, however, devoted to agood many peeresses, with whom he took tea, and for whom he undertookmany harmless and elegant services. He painted their portraits, in smallsize, after pre-Raphaelite models, and he occasionally presented themwith copies--a little weak, but charming--of their favorite Italianpictures. He and Mary began now to talk of Florence with much enthusiasmand many caressing adjectives. For Harman most things were "sweet"; forMary, "interesting" or "suggestive. " She talked fast and fluently; asubtle observer might have guessed she wished it to be seen that for herLady Kitty Bristol's flirtations, be they in or out of taste, weresimply non-existent. 

Darrell listened intermittently, watched Cliffe and Lady Kitty, andthought a good deal. That extraordinary girl was certainly "carrying on"with Cliffe, as she had "carried on" with Ashe on the night of her firstacquaintance with him in St. James's Place. Ashe apparently took it withequanimity, for he was still sitting beside the pair, twisting apaper-knife and smiling, sometimes putting in a word, but more oftensilent, and apparently of no account at all to either Kitty or Cliffe. 

Darrell knew that the new minister disliked and despised GeoffreyCliffe; he was aware, too, that Cliffe returned these sentiments, andwas not unlikely to be found attacking Ashe in public before long oncertain points of foreign policy, where Cliffe conceived himself to be amaster. The meeting of the two men under the Grosvilles' roof struckDarrell as curious. Why had Cliffe been invited by these veryrespectable and straitlaced people the Grosvilles? Darrell could onlyreflect that Lady Eleanor Cliffe, the traveller's mother, was probablyconnected with them by some of those innumerable and ever-ramifyinglinks that hold together a certain large group of English families; andthat, moreover, Lady Grosville, in spite of philanthropy andEvangelicalism, had always shown a rather pronounced taste in"lions"--of the masculine sort. Of the women to be met with at GrosvillePark, one could be certain. Lady Grosville made no excuses for her ownsex. But she was a sufficiently ambitious hostess to know that agreeableparties are not constructed out of the saints alone. The men, therefore, must provide the sinners; and of some of the persons then most in vogueshe was careful not to know too much. For, socially, one must live; andthat being so, the strictness of to-day may have at any moment to bepurchased by the laxity of to-morrow. Such, at any rate, was Darrell'sanalysis of the situation. 

He was still astonished, however, when all was said. For Cliffe duringthe preceding winter, on his return from some remarkable travels inPersia, had paused on the Riviera, and an affair at Cannes with a Frenchvicomtesse had got into the English papers. No one knew the exact truthof it; and a small volume of verse by Cliffe, published immediatelyafterwards--verse very distinguished, passionate, and obscure--hadoffered many clews, but no solution whatever. Nobody supposed, however, that the story was anything but a bad one. Moreover, the last book oftravels--which had had an enormous success--contained one of the mostmalicious attacks on foreign missions that Darrell remembered. And ifthe missionaries had a supporter in England, it was Lady Grosville. Hadshe designs--material designs--on behalf of Miss Amy or Miss Caroline?Darrell smiled at the notion. Cliffe must certainly marry money, and wasnot to be captured by any Miss Amys--or Lady Kittys either, for thematter of that. 

But?--Darrell glanced at the lady beside him, and his busy thoughts tooka new turn. He had seen the greeting between Miss Lyster and Cliffe. Itwas cold; but all the same the world knew that they had once beenfriends. Was it some five years before that Miss Lyster, then in theheight of a brilliant season under the wing of Lady Tranmore, had beenmuch seen in public with Geoffrey Cliffe? Then he had departed eastward, to explore the upper waters of the Mékong, and the gossip excited haddied away. Of late her name had been rather coupled with that of WilliamAshe. 

Well, so far as the world was concerned, she might mate witheither--with the mad notoriety of Cliffe or the young distinction ofAshe. Darrell's bitter heart contracted as he reflected that only forhim and the likes of him, men of the people, with average ability, and ascarcely average income, were maidens of Mary Lyster's dower andpedigree out of reach. Meanwhile he revenged himself by being her verygood friend, and allowing himself at times much caustic plainness ofspeech in his talks with her. 

 * * * * *

"What are you three gossiping about?" said Ashe, strolling in presentlyfrom the other room to join them. 

"As usual, " said Darrell. "I am listening to perfection. Miss Lyster andHarman are discussing pictures. "

Ashe stifled a little yawn. He threw himself down by Mary, vowing thatthere was no more pleasure to be got out of pictures now that peoplewould try to know so much about them. Mary meanwhile raised herselfinvoluntarily to look into the farther room, where the noise made byCliffe and Lady Kitty had increased. 

"They are going to sing, " said Ashe, lazily--"and it won't be hymns. "

In fact, Lady Kitty had opened the piano, and had begun the first barsof something French and operatic. At the first sound of Kitty's music, however, Lady Grosville drew herself up; she closed the volume ofEvangelical sermons for which she had exchanged the _Times_; shedeposited her spectacles sharply on the table beside her. 

"Amy!--Caroline!"

Those young ladies rose. So did Lady Grosville. Kitty meanwhile sat withsuspended fingers and laughing eyes, waiting on her aunt's movements. 

"Kitty, pray don't let me interfere with your playing, " said LadyGrosville, with severe politeness--"but perhaps you would kindly put itoff for half an hour. I am now going to read to the servants--"

"Gracious!" said Kitty, springing up. "I was going to play Mr. Cliffesome Offenbach. "

"Ah, but the piano can be heard in the library, and your cousin Amyplays the harmonium--"

"_Mon Dieu_!" said Kitty. "We will be as quiet as mice. Or"--she made aquick step in pursuit of her aunt--"shall I come and sing, Aunt Lina?"

Ashe, in his shelter behind Mary Lyster, fell into a silent convulsionof laughter. 

"No, thank you!" said Lady Grosville, hastily. And she rustled awayfollowed by her daughters. 

Kitty came flying into the inner room followed by Cliffe. 

"What have I done?" she said, breathlessly, addressing Harman, who roseto greet her. "Mayn't one play the piano here on Sundays?"

"That depends, " said Harman, "on what you play. "

"Who made your English Sunday?" said Kitty, impetuously. "Je vousdemande--_who_?"

She threw her challenge to all the winds of heaven--standing tiptoe, herhands poised on the back of a chair, the smallest and most delicate offuries. 

"A breath unmakes it, as a breath has made, " said Cliffe. "Come and playbilliards, Lady Kitty. You said just now you played. "

"Billiards!" said Harman, throwing up his hands. "On Sunday--_here_?"

"Can they hear the balls?" said Kitty, eagerly, with a gesture towardsthe library. 

Mary Lyster, who had been perfunctorily looking at a book, laid it down. 

"It would certainly greatly distress Lady Grosville, " she said, in avoice studiously soft, but on that account perhaps all the moresignificant. 

Kitty glanced at Mary, and Ashe saw the sudden red in her cheek. Sheturned provokingly to Cliffe. "There's quite half an hour, isn't there, before one need dress--"

"More, " said Cliffe. "Come along. "

And he made for the door, which he held open for her. It was now MaryLyster's turn to flush--the rebuff had been so naked and unadorned. Asherose as Kitty passed him. 

"Why don't you come, too?" she said, pausing. There was a flash fromeyes deep and dark beneath a pair of wilful brows. "Aunt Lina wouldnever be cross with _you_!"

"Thank you! I should be delighted to play buffer, but unfortunately Ihave some work I must do before dinner. "

"Must you?" She looked at him uncertainly, then at Cliffe. In the duskof the large, heavily furnished room, the pale yet brilliant gold of herhair, her white dress, her slim energy and elegance drew all theireyes--even Mary Lyster's. 

"I must, " Ashe repeated, smiling. "I am glad your headache is so muchbetter. "

"It is not in the least better!"

"Then you disguise it like a heroine. "

He stood beside her, looking down upon her, his height and strengthmeasured against her smallness. Apparently his amused detachment, theslight dryness of his tone annoyed her. She made a tart reply andvanished through the door that Cliffe held open for her. 

 * * * * *

Ashe retired to his own room, dealt with some Foreign Office work, andthen allowed himself a meditative smoke. The click of the billiard-ballshad ceased abruptly about ten minutes after he had begun upon hispapers; there had been voices in the hall, Lord Grosville's he thoughtamong them; and now all was silence. 

He thought of the events of the afternoon with mingled amusement andannoyance. Cliffe was an unscrupulous fellow, and the child's head mightbe turned. She should be protected from him in future--he vowed sheshould. Lady Tranmore should take it in hand. She had been a match forCliffe in various other directions before this. 

What brought the man, with his notorious character and antecedents, toGrosville Park--one of the dwindling number of country-houses in Englandwhere the old Puritan restrictions still held? It was said he was on thelook-out for a post--Ashe, indeed, happened to know it officially; andLord Grosville had a good deal of influence. Moreover, failing anappointment, he was understood to be aiming at Parliament and office;and there were two safe county-seats within the Grosville sphere. 

"Yet even when he wants a thing he can't behave himself in order to getit, " thought Ashe. "Anybody else would have turned Sabbatarian for once, and refrained from flirting with the Grosvilles' niece. But that'sCliffe all over--and perhaps the best thing about him. "

He might have added that as Cliffe was supposed to desire an appointmentunder either the Foreign Office or the Colonial Office, it might havebeen thought to his interest to show himself more urbane than he had infact shown himself that afternoon to the new Under-Secretary for ForeignAffairs. But Ashe rarely or never indulged himself in reflections ofthat kind. Besides, he and Cliffe knew each other too well for posing. There was a time when they had been on very friendly terms, and whenCliffe had been constantly in his mother's drawing-room. Lady Tranmorehad a weakness for "influencing" young men of family and ability; andCliffe, in fact, owed her a good deal. Then she had seen cause to thinkill of him; and, moreover, his travels had taken him to the other sideof the world. Ashe was now well aware that Cliffe reckoned on him as ahostile influence and would not try either to deceive or to propitiatehim. 

He thought Cliffe had been disagreeably surprised to see him thatafternoon. Perhaps it was the sudden sense of antagonism acting on theman's excitable nature that had made him fling himself into the wildnonsense he had talked with Lady Kitty. 

And thenceforward Ashe's thoughts were possessed by Kitty only--Kitty inher two aspects, of the morning and the afternoon. He dressed in areverie, and went down-stairs still dreaming. 

 * * * * *

At dinner he found himself responsible for Mary Lyster. Kitty was on theother side of the table, widely separated both from himself and Cliffe. She was in a little Empire dress of blue and silver, as extravagantlysimple as her gown of the afternoon had been extravagantly elaborate. 

Ashe observed the furtive study that the Grosville girls could not helpbestowing upon her--upon her shoulder-straps and long, bare arms, uponher high waist and the blue and silver bands in her hair. Kitty herselfsat in a pensive or proud silence. The Dean was beside her, but shescarcely spoke to him, and as to the young man from the neighborhood whohad taken her in, he was to her as though he were not. 

"Has there been a row?" Ashe inquired, in a low voice, of his companion. 

Mary looked at him quietly. 

"Lord Grosville asked them not to play--because of the servants. "

"Good!" said Ashe. "The servants were, of course, playing cards in thehouse-keeper's room. "

"Not at all. They were singing hymns with Lady Grosville. "

Ashe looked incredulous. 

"Only the slaveys and scullery maids that couldn't help themselves. Never mind. Was Lady Kitty amenable?"

"She seems to have made Lord Grosville very angry. Lady Grosville and Ismoothed him down. "

"Did you?" said Ashe. "That was nice of you. "

Mary colored a little, and did not reply. Presently Ashe resumed. 

"Aren't you as sorry for her as I am?"

"For Lady Kitty? I should think she managed to amuse herself prettywell. "

"She seems to me the most deplorable tragic little person, " said Ashe, slowly. 

Miss Lyster laughed. 

"I really don't see it, " she said. 

"Oh yes, you do, " he persisted--"if you think a moment. Be kind toher--won't you?"

She drew herself up with a cold dignity. 

"I confess that she has never attracted me in the least. "

Ashe returned to his dinner, dimly conscious that he had spoken like afool. 

When the ladies had withdrawn, the conversation fell on some importantnews from the Far East contained in the Sunday papers that GeoffreyCliffe had brought down, and presumed to form part of the despatcheswhich the two ministers staying in the house had received that afternoonby Foreign Office messenger. The government of Teheran was in one of itsperiodical fits of ill-temper with England; had been meddling withAfghanistan, flirting badly with Russia, and bringing ridiculous chargesagainst the British minister. An expedition to Bushire was talked of, and the Radical press was on the war-path. The cabinet minister saidlittle. A Lord Privy Seal, reverentially credited with advising royaltyin its private affairs, need have no views on the Persian Gulf. But Ashewas appealed to and talked well. The minister at Teheran was an oldfriend of his, and he described the personal attacks made on him forpolitical reasons by the Shah and his ministers with a humor which keptthe table entertained. 

Suddenly Cliffe interposed. He had been listening with restlessness, though Ashe, with pointed courtesy, had once or twice included him inthe conversation. And presently, at a somewhat dramatic moment, he met astatement of Ashe's with a direct and violent contradiction. Asheflushed, and a duel began between the two men of which the company weresoon silent spectators. Ashe had the resources of official knowledge;Cliffe had been recently on the spot, and pushed home the advantage ofthe eye-witness with a covert insolence which Ashe bore with surprisingcarelessness and good-temper. In the end Cliff e said some outrageousthings, at which Ashe laughed; and Lord Grosville abruptly dissolved theparty. 

Ashe went smiling out of the dining-room, caressing a fine whitespaniel, as though nothing had happened. In crossing the hall Harmanfound himself alone with the Dean, who looked serious and preoccupied. 

"That was a curious spectacle, " said Harman. "Ashe's equanimity wasamazing. "

"I had rather have seen him angrier, " said the Dean, slowly. 

"He was always a very tolerant, easy-going fellow. "

The Dean shook his head. 

"A touch of _soeva indignatio_ now and then would complete him. "

"Has he got it in him?"

"Perhaps not, " said the little Dean, with a flash of expression thatdignified all his frail person. "But without it he will hardly make agreat man. "

Meanwhile Geoffrey Cliffe, his strange, twisted face still vindictivelyaglow, made his way to Kitty Bristol's corner in the drawing-room. MaryLyster was conscious of it, conscious also of a certain look that Kittybestowed upon the entrance of Ashe, while Cliffe was opening a batteryof mingled chaff and compliments that did not at first have much effectupon her. But William Ashe threw himself into conversation with LadyEdith Manley, and was presently, to all appearance, happily plunged ingossip, his tall person wholly at ease in a deep arm-chair, while LadyEdith bent over him with smiles. Meanwhile there was a certain desertionof Kitty on the part of the ladies. Lady Grosville hardly spoke to her, and the girls markedly avoided her. There was a moment when Kitty, looking round her, suddenly shook her small shoulders, and like a coltescaping from harness gave herself to riot. She and Cliffe amusedthemselves so well and so noisily that the whole drawing-room waspresently uneasily aware of them. Lady Grosville shot glances of wrath, rose suddenly at one moment and sat down again; her girls talked moredisjointedly than ever to the gentlemen who were civilly attending them;while, on the other hand, Miss Lyster's flow of conversation with LouisHarman was more softly copious than usual. At last the Dean's wifelooked at the Dean, a signal of kind distress, and the Dean advanced. 

"Lady Kitty, " he said, taking a seat beside the pair, "have youforgotten you promised me some French?"

Kitty turned on him a hot and mutinous face. 

"Did I? What shall I say? Some Alfred de Musset?"

"No, " said the Dean, "I think not. "

"Some--some"--she cudgelled her memory--"some Théophile Gautier?"

"No, certainly not!" said the Dean, hastily. 

"Well, as I don't know a word of him--" laughed Kitty. 

"That was mischievous, " said the Dean, raising a finger. "Let me suggestLamartine. "

Kitty shook her head obstinately. "I never learned one line. "

"Then some of the old fellows, " said the Dean, persuasively. "I long tohear you in Corneille or Racine. That we should _all_ enjoy. "

And suddenly his wrinkled hand fell kindly on the girl's small, chillyringers and patted them. Their eyes met, Kitty's wild and challenging, the Dean's full of that ethereal benevolence which blended so agreeablywith his character as courtier and man of the world. There was a brightsweetness in them which seemed to say: "Poor child! I understand. But bea _little_ good--as well as clever--and all will be well. "

Suddenly Kitty's look wavered and fell. All the harshness dissolved fromher thin young beauty. She turned from Cliffe, and the Dean saw herquiver with submission. 

"I think I could say some 'Polyeucte, '" she said, gently. 

The Dean clapped his hands and rose. 

"Lady Grosville, " he said, raising his voice--"Ladies and gentlemen, Lady Kitty has promised to say us some more French poetry. You rememberhow admirably she recited last night. But this is Sunday, and she willgive us something in a different vein. "

Lady Grosville, who had risen impatiently, sat down again. There was ageneral movement; chairs were turned or drawn forward till a circleformed. Meanwhile the Dean consulted with Kitty and resumed:

"Lady Kitty will recite a scene from Corneille's beautiful tragedy of'Polyeucte'--the scene in which Pauline, after witnessing the martyrdomof her husband, who has been beheaded for refusing to sacrifice to thegods, returns from the place of execution so melted by the love andsacrifice she has beheld that she opens her heart then and there to thesame august faith and pleads for the same death. "

The Dean seated himself, and Kitty stepped into the centre of thecircle. She thought a moment, her lips moving, as though she recalledthe lines. Then she looked down at her bare arms, and dress, frowned, and suddenly approached Lady Edith Manley. 

"May I have that?" she said, pointing to a lace cloak that lay on LadyEdith's knee. "I am rather cold. "

Lady Edith handed it to her, and she threw it round her. 

"Actress!" said Cliffe, under his breath, with a grin of amusement. 

At any rate, her impulse served her well. Her form and dress disappearedunder a cloud of white. She became in a flash, so to speak, evangelized--a most innocent and spiritual apparition. Her beautifulhead, her kindled and transfigured face, her little hand on the whitefolds, these alone remained to mingle their impression with the austereand moving tragedy which her lips recited. Her audience looked on atfirst with the embarrassed or hostile air which is the Englishman'snatural protection against the great things of art; then for those whounderstood French the high passion and the noble verse began to tell;while those who could not follow were gradually enthralled by thegestures and tones with which the slight, vibrating creature, whom butten minutes before most of them had regarded as a mere noisy flirt, suggested and conveyed the finest and most compelling shades of love, faith, and sacrifice. 

When she ceased, there was a moment's profound silence. Then Lady Edith, drawing a long breath, expressed the welcome commonplace which restoredthe atmosphere of daily life. 

"How _could_ you remember it all?"

Kitty sat down, her lip trembling scornfully. 

"I had to say it every week at the convent. "

"I understand, " said Cliffe in Darrell's ear--"that last night she wasDoña Sol. An accommodating young woman. "

Meanwhile Kitty looked up to find Ashe beside her. He said, "Magnificent!"--but it did not matter to her what he said. His face toldher that she had moved him, and that he was incapable of any foolishchatter about it. A smile of extraordinary sweetness sprang into hereyes; and when Lady Grosville came up to thank her, the girl impetuouslyrose, and, in the foreign way, kissed her hand, courtesying. LordGrosville said, heartily, "Upon my word, Kitty, you ought to go on thestage!" and she smiled upon him, too, in a flutter of feeling, forgetting his scolding and her own impertinence, before dinner. Therevulsion, indeed, throughout the company--with two exceptions--wascomplete. For the rest of the evening Kitty basked in sunshine andflattery. She met it with a joyous gentleness, and the little figure, still bedraped in white, became the centre of the room's kindness. 

The Dean was triumphant. 

"My dear Miss Lyster, " he said, presently, finding himself near thatlady, "did you ever hear anything better done? A most remarkabletalent!"

Mary smiled. 

"I am wondering, " she said, "what they teach you in French convents--andwhy! It is all so singular, --isn't it?"

 * * * * *

Late that night Ashe entered his room--before his usual time, however. He had tired even of Lord Grosville's chat, and had left thesmoking-room still talking. Indeed, he wished to be alone, and there wasthat in his veins which told him that a new motive had taken possessionof his life. 

He sat beside the open window reviewing the scenes and feelings of theday--his interview with Kitty in the morning--the teasing coquette ofthe afternoon--the inspired poetic child of the evening. Rapidly, butnone the less strongly and steadfastly, he made up his mind. He wouldask Kitty Bristol to marry him, and he would ask her immediately. 

Why? He scarcely knew her. His mother, his family would think itmadness. No doubt it was madness. Yet, as far as he could explain hisimpulse himself, it depended on certain fundamental facts in his ownnature--it was in keeping with his deepest character. He had an inbredlove of the difficult, the unconventional in life, of all that piquedand stimulated his own superabundant consciousness of resource andpower. And he had a tenderness of feeling, a gift of chivalrous pity, only known to the few, which was in truth always hungrily on the watch, like some starved faculty that cannot find its outlet. The thought ofthis beautiful child, in the hands of such a mother as Madame d'Estrées, and rushing upon risks illustrated by the half-mocking attentions ofGeoffrey Cliffe, did in truth wring his heart. With a strangeimaginative clearness he foresaw her future, he beheld her the prey atonce of some bad fellow and of her own temperament. She would come togrief; he saw the prescience of it in her already; and what a wastewould be there!

No!--he would step in--capture her before these ways and whims, nowmerely bizarre or foolish, stiffened into what might in truth destroyher. His pulse quickened as he thought of the development of thisbeauty, the ripening of this intelligence. Never yet had he seen a girlwhom he much wished to marry. He was easily repelled by stupidity, stillmore by mere amiability. Some touch of acid, of roughness in thefruit--that drew him, in politics, thought, love. And if she married himhe vowed to himself, proudly, that she would find him no tyrant. Many aman might marry her who would then fight her and try to break her. Allthat was most fastidious and characteristic in Ashe revolted from such anotion. With him she should have _freedom_--whatever it might cost. Heasked himself deliberately, whether after marriage he could see herflirting with other men, as she had flirted that day with Cliffe, andstill refrain from coercing her. And his question was answered, orrather put aside, first by the confidence of nascent love--he would loveher so well and so loyally that she would naturally turn to him forcounsel; and then by the clear perception that she was a creature ofmind rather than sense, governed mainly by the caprices and curiositiesof the _intelligence_, combined with a rather cold, indifferenttemperament. One moment throwing herself wildly into a dangerous orexciting intimacy, the next, parting with a laugh, and without aregret--it was thus he saw her in the future, even as a wife. "She mayscandalize half the world, " he said to himself, stubbornly--"I shallunderstand her!"

But his mother?--his friends?--his colleagues? He knew well his mother'sambitions for him, and the place that he held in her heart. Could hewithout cruelty impose upon her such a daughter as Kitty Bristol?Well!--his mother had a very large experience of life, and much naturalindependence of mind. He trusted her to see the promise in this untamedand gifted creature; he counted on the sense of power that Lady Tranmorepossessed, and which would but find new scope in the taming of Kitty. 

But Kitty's mother? Kitty must, of course, be rescued from Madamed'Estrées--must find a new and truer mother in Lady Tranmore. But moneywould do it; and money must be lavished. 

Then, almost for the first time, Ashe felt a conscious delight in wealthand birth. _Panache_? He could give it her--the little, wild, lovelything! Luxury, society, adoration--all should be hers. She should be soloved and cherished, she must needs love in turn. 

His dreams were delicious; and the sudden fear into which he fell at theend lest after all Kitty should mock and turn from him, was only intruth another pleasure. No delay! Circumstances might develop at anymoment and sweep her from him. Now or never must he snatch her fromdifficulty and disgrace--let hostile tongues wag as they pleased--andmake her his. 

His political future? He knew well the influence which, in these days ofuniversal publicity, a man's private affairs may have on his publiccareer. And in truth his heart was in that career, and the thought ofendangering it hurt him. Certainly it would recommend him to nobody thathe should marry Madame d'Estrées' daughter. On the other hand, whatfavor did he want of anybody? save what work and "knowing more than theother fellows" might compel? The cynic in him was well aware that he hadalready what other men fought for--family, money, and position. Societymust accept his wife; and Kitty, once mellowed by happiness and praise, might live, laugh, and rattle as she pleased. 

As to strangeness and caprice, the modern world delights in them; "theviolent take it by force. " There is, indeed, a dividing-line; but it wasa love-marriage that should keep Kitty on the safe side of it. 

He stood lost in a very ecstasy of resolve, when suddenly there was asharp movement outside, and a flash of white among the yew hedgesbordering the formal garden on which his windows looked. The nightoutside was still and veiled, but of the flash of white he wascertain--and of a step on the gravel. 

Something fell beside him, thrown from outside. He picked it up, andfound a flower weighted by a stone, tied into a fold of ribbon. 

"Madcap!" he said to himself, his heart beating to suffocation. 

Then he stole out of his room, and down a small, winding staircase whichled directly to the garden and a door beside the orangery. He had tounbolt the door, and as he did so a dog in one of the basement roomsbegan to bark. But there could be no flinching, though the whole thingwas of an imprudence which pricked his conscience. To slip along theshadowed side of the orangery, to cross the space of clouded lightbeyond, and gain the darkness of the ilex avenue beyond was soon done. Then he heard a soft laugh, and a little figure fled before him. Hefollowed and overtook. 

Kitty Bristol turned upon him. 

"Didn't I throw straight?" she said, triumphantly. "And they say girlscan't throw. "

"But why did you throw at all?" he said, capturing her hand. 

"Because I wanted to talk to you. And I was restless and couldn't sleep. Why did you never come and talk to me this afternoon? And why"--she beather foot angrily--"did you let me go and play billiards alone with Mr. Cliffe?"

"Let you!" cried Ashe. "As if anybody could have prevented you!"

"One sees, of course, that you detest Mr. Cliffe, " said the whitenessbeside him. 

"I didn't come here to talk about Geoffrey Cliffe. I _won't_ talk abouthim! Though, of course, you must know--"

"That I flirted with him abominably all the afternoon? _C'estvrai--c'est ab-sol-ument vrai!_ And I shall always want to flirt withhim, wherever I am--and whatever I may be doing. "

"Do as you please, " said Ashe, dryly, "but I think you will get tired. "

"No, no--he excites me! He is bad, false, selfish, but he excites me. Hetalks to very few women--one can see that. And all the women want totalk to him. He used to admire Miss Lyster, and now he dislikes her. Butshe doesn't dislike him. No! she would marry him to-morrow if he askedher. "

"You are very positive, " said Ashe. "Allow me to say that I entirelydisagree with you. "

"You don't know anything about her, " said the teasing voice. 

"She is my cousin, mademoiselle. "

"What does that matter? I know much more than you do, though I have onlyseen her two days. I know that--well, I am afraid of her!"

"Afraid of her? Did you come out--may I ask--determined to talknonsense?"

"I came out--never mind! I _am_ afraid of her. She hates me. Ithink"--he felt a shiver in the air--will do me harm if she can. "

"No one shall do you harm, " said Ashe, his tone changing, "if you willonly trust yourself--"

She laughed merrily. 

"To you? Oh! you'd soon throw it up. "

"Try me!" he said, approaching her. "Lady Kitty, I have something to sayto you. "

Suddenly she shrank away from him. He could not see her face, and hadnothing to guide him. 

"I haven't yet known you three weeks, " he said, over-mastered bysomething passionate and profound. "I don't know what you willsay--whether you can put up with me. But I know my own mind--I shall notchange. I--I love you. I ask you to marry me. "

A silence. The night seemed to have grown darker. Then a small handseized his, and two soft lips pressed themselves upon it. He tried tocapture her, but she evaded him. 

"You--you really and actually--want to marry me?"

"I do, Kitty, with all my heart. "

"You remember about my mother--about Alice?"

"I remember everything. We would face it together. "

"And--you know what I told you about my bad temper?"

"Some nonsense, wasn't it? But I should be bored by the domestic dove. Iwant the hawk, Kitty, with its quick wings and its daring bright eyes. "

She broke from him with a cry. 

"You must listen. I _have_--a wicked, odious, ungovernable temper. Ishould make you miserable. "

"Not at all, " said Ashe. "I should take it very calmly. I am made thatway. "

"And then--I don't know how to put it--but I have fancies--overpoweringfancies--and I must follow them. I have one now for Geoffrey Cliffe. "

Ashe laughed. 

"Oh, that won't last. "

"Then some other will come after it. And I can't help it. It is myhead"--she tapped her forehead lightly--"that seems on fire. "

Ashe at last slipped his arm round her. 

"But it is your heart--you will give me. "

She pushed him away from her and held him at arm's-length. 

"You are very rich, aren't you?" she said, in a muffled voice. 

"I am well off. I can give you all the pretty things you want. "

"And some day you will be Lord Tranmore?"

"Yes, when my poor father dies, " he said, sighing. He felt her fingerscaress his hand again. It was a spirit touch, light and tender. 

"And every one says you are so clever--you have such prospects. Perhapsyou will be Prime Minister. "

"Well, there's no saying, " he threw out, laughing--"if you'll come andhelp. "

He heard a sob. 

"Help! I should be the ruin of you. I should spoil everything. You don'tknow the mischief I can do. And I can't help it, it's in my blood. "

"You would like the game of politics too much to spoil it, Kitty. " Hisvoice broke and lingered on the name. "You would want to be a great ladyand lead the party. "

"Should I? Could you ever teach me how to behave?"

"You would learn by nature. Do you know, Kitty, how clever you are?"

"Yes, " she sighed. "I am clever. But there is always something thathinders--that brings failure. "

"How old are you?" he said, laughing. "Eighteen--or eighty?"

Suddenly he put out his arms, enfolding her. And she, still sobbing, raised her hands, clasped them round his neck, and clung to him like achild. 

"Oh! I knew--I knew--when I first saw your face. I had been so miserableall day--and then you looked at me--and I wanted to tell you all. Oh, Iadore you--I adore you!" Their faces met. Ashe tasted a moment ofrapture; and knew himself free at last of the great company of poets andof lovers. 

They slipped back to the house, and Ashe saw her disappear by a door onthe farther side of the orangery--noiselessly, without a sound. Exceptthat just at the last she drew him to her and breathed a sacred whisperin his ear. 

"Oh! what--what will Lady Tranmore say?"

Then she fled. But she left her question behind her, and when the dawncame Ashe found that he had spent half the night in trying anew to framesome sort of an answer to it. 

PART II

THREE YEARS AFTER

"The world an ancient murderer is. "

VII

"Her ladyship will be in before six, my lady. I was to be sure and askyou to wait, if you came before, and to tell you that her ladyship hadgone to Madame Fanchette about her dress for the ball. "

So said Lady Kitty's maid. Lady Tranmore hesitated, then said she wouldwait, and asked that Master Henry might be brought down. 

The maid went for the child, and Lady Tranmore entered the drawing-room. The Ashes had been settled since their marriage in a house in HillStreet--a house to which Kitty had lost her heart at first sight. It wasold and distinguished, covered here and there with eighteenth-centurydecoration, once, no doubt, a little florid and coarse beside the finerwork of the period, but now agreeably blunted and mellowed by time. Kitty had had her impetuous and decided way with the furnishing of it;and, though Lady Tranmore professed to admire it, the result was, intruth, too French and too pagan for her taste. Her own room reflectedthe rising worship of Morris and Burse-Jones, of which, indeed, she hadbeen an adept from the beginning. Her walls were covered by thewell-known pomegranate or jasmine or sunflower patterns; her hangingswere of a mystic greenish-blue; her pictures were drawn either from theItalian primitives or their modern followers. Celtic romance, Christiansymbolism, all that was touching, other-worldly, and obscure--our lateEnglish form, in fact, of the great Romantic reaction--it was amidinfluences of this kind that Lady Tranmore lived and fed her ownimagination. The dim, suggestive, and pathetic; twilight rather thandawn, autumn rather than spring; yearning rather than fulfilment; "thegleam" rather than noon-day: it was in this half-lit, richly coloredsphere that she and most of her friends saw the tent of Beauty pitched. 

But Kitty would have none of it. She quoted French sceptical remarksabout the legs and joints of the Burne-Jones knights; she declared thatso much pattern made her dizzy; and that the French were the only nationin the world who understood a _salon_, whether as upholstery orconversation. Accordingly, in days when these things were rare, the girlof eighteen made her new husband provide her with white-panelled walls, lightly gilt, and with a Persian carpet of which the mass was of aplain, blackish gray, and only the border was allowed to flower. A fewLouis-Quinze girandoles on the walls, a Vernis-Martin screen, an oldFrench clock, two or three inlaid cabinets, and a collection of lightlybuilt chairs and settees in the French mode--this was all she wouldallow; and while Lady Tranmore's room was always crowded, Kitty's, whichwas much smaller, had always an air of space. French books werescattered here and there; and only one picture was admitted. That was aWatteau sketch of a group from "L'Embarquement pour Cythère. " Kittyadored it; Lady Tranmore thought it absurd and disagreeable. 

As she entered the room now, on this May afternoon, she looked round itwith her usual distaste. On several of the chairs large illustratedbooks were lying. They contained pictures of seventeenth and eighteenthcentury costume--one of them displayed a colored engraving of abrilliant Madame de Pompadour, by Boucher. 

The maid who followed her into the room began to remove the books. 

"Her ladyship has been choosing her costume, my lady, " she explained, asshe closed some of the volumes. 

"Is it settled?" said Lady Tranmore. 

The maid replied that she believed so, and, bringing a volume which hadbeen laid aside with a mark in it, she opened on a fantastic plate ofMadame de Longueville, as Diana, in a gorgeous hunting-dress. 

Lady Tranmore looked at it in silence; she thought it unseemly, with itsbare ankles and sandalled feet, and likely to be extremely expensive. For this Diana of the Fronde sparkled with jewels from top to toe, andLady Tranmore felt certain that Kitty had already made William promiseher the counterpart of the magnificent diamond crescent that shone inthe coiffure of the goddess. 

"It really seemed to be the only one that suited her ladyship, " said themaid, in a deprecating voice. 

"I dare say it will look very well, " said Lady Tranmore. "And Fanchetteis to make it?"

"If her ladyship is not too late, " said the maid, smiling. "But she hastaken such a long time to make up her mind--"

"And Fanchette, of course, is driven to death. All the world seems tohave gone mad about this ball. "

Lady Tranmore shrugged her shoulders in a slight disgust. She was notgoing. Since her elder son's death she had had no taste for spectaclesof the kind. But she knew very well that fashionable London was talkingand thinking of nothing else; she heard that the print-room of theBritish Museum was every day besieged by an eager crowd of fair ladies, claiming the services of the museum officials from dewy morn till eve;that historic costumes and famous jewels were to be lavished on theaffair; that those who were not invited had not even the resource ofcontempt, so unquestioned and indubitable was the prospect of a reallymagnificent spectacle; and that the dress-makers of Paris and London, ifthey survived the effort, would reap a marvellous harvest. 

"And Mr. Ashe--do you know if he is going, after all?" she asked of themaid as the latter was retreating. 

"Mr. Ashe says he will, if he may wear just court-dress, " said the maid, smiling. "Not unless. And her ladyship's afraid it won't be allowed. "

"She'll make him go in costume, " thought Lady Tranmore. "And he will doit, or anything, to avoid a scene. "

The maid retired, and Lady Tranmore was left alone. As she sat waiting, a thought occurred to her. She rang for the butler. 

"Where is the _Times_?" she asked, when he appeared. The man repliedthat it was no doubt in Mr. Ashe's room, and he would bring it. 

"Kitty has probably not looked at it, " thought the visitor. When thepaper arrived she turned at once to the Parliamentary report. Itcontained an important speech by Ashe in the House the night before. Lady Tranmore had been disturbed in the reading of it that morning, andhad still a few sentences to finish. She read them with pride, thenglanced again at the leading article on the debate, and at theflattering references it contained to the knowledge, courtesy, anddebating power of the Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs. 

"Mr. Ashe, " said the _Times_, "has well earned the promotion he is nowsure to receive before long. In those important rearrangements of someof the higher offices which cannot be long delayed, Mr. Ashe is clearlymarked out for a place in the cabinet. He is young, but he has alreadydone admirable service; and there can be no question that he has a greatfuture before him. "

Lady Tranmore put down the paper and fell into a reverie. A greatfuture? Yes--if Kitty permitted--if Kitty could be managed. At presentit appeared to William's mother that the caprices of his wife wereendangering the whole development of his career. There were wheelswithin wheels, and the newspapers knew very little about them. 

Three years, was it, since the marriage? She looked back to her dismaywhen William brought her the news, though it seemed to her that in somesort she had foreseen it from the moment of his first mention of KittyBristol--with its eager appeal to her kindness, and that new andindefinable something in voice and manner which put her at once on thealert. 

Ought she to have opposed it more strongly? She had, indeed, opposed it;and for a whole wretched week she who had never yet gainsaid him inanything had argued and pleaded with her son, attempting at the sametime to bring in his uncles to wrestle with him, seeing that his poorparalyzed father was of no account, and so to make a stubborn familyfight of it. But she had been simply disarmed and beaten down byWilliam's sweetness, patience, and good-humor. Never had he been sodetermined, and never so lovable. 

It had been made abundantly plain to her that no wife, however exactingand adorable, should ever rob her, his mother, of one tittle of his oldaffection--nay, that, would she only accept Kitty, only take the littleforlorn creature into the shelter of her motherly arms, even a moretender and devoted attention than before, on the part of her son, wouldbe surely hers. He spoke, moreover, the language of sound sense abouthis proposed bride. That he was in love, passionately in love, wasevident; but there were moments when he could discuss Kitty, her family, her bringing-up, her gifts and defects, with the same cool acumen, thesame detachment, apparently, he might have given, say, to the Egyptianor the Balkan problem. Lady Tranmore was not invited to bow before adivinity; she was asked to accept a very gifted and lovely child, oftentroublesome and provoking, but full of a glorious promise which onlypersons of discernment, like herself and Ashe, could fully realize. Hetold her, with a laugh, that she could never have behaved even tolerablyto a stupid daughter-in-law. Whereas, let London and society and a fewyears of love and living do their work, and Kitty would make one of theleading women of her time, as Lady Tranmore had been before her. "You'llhelp her, you'll train her, you'll put her in the way, " he had said, kissing his mother's hand. "And you'll see that in the end we shall bothof us be so conceited to have had the making of her there'll be noholding us. "

Well, she had yielded--of course she had yielded. She had explained thematter, so far as she could, to the dazed wits of her paralyzed husband. She had propitiated the family on both sides; she had brought Kitty tostay with her, and had advised on the negotiations which banished Madamed'Estrées from London and the British Isles, in return for a handsomeallowance and the payment of her debts; and, finally, she had withdifficulty allowed the Grosvilles to provide the trousseau and arrangethe marriage from Grosville Park, so eager had she grown in her acceptedtask. 

And there had been many hours of high reward. Kitty had thrown herselfat first upon William's mother with all the effusion possible. She hadbeen docile, caressing, brilliant. Lady Tranmore had become almost asproud of her gifts, her social effect, and her fast advancing beauty asAshe himself. Kitty's whims and humors; her passion for this person, andher hatred of that; her love of splendor and indifference to debt; hercontempt of opinion and restraint, seemed to her, as to Ashe, the merecrude growth of youth. When she looked at Ashe, so handsome, agreeable, and devoted, at his place and prestige in the world, his highintelligence and his personal attraction, Ashe's mother must needs thinkthat Kitty's mere cleverness would soon reveal to her her extraordinarygood-fortune; and that whereas he was now at her feet, she before longwould be at his. 

Three years! Lady Tranmore looked back upon them with feelings thatwavered like smoke before a wind. A year of excitement, a year ofillness, a year of extravagance, shaken moreover by many strange gustsof temper and caprice, it was so she might have summarized them. First, a most promising début in London. Kitty welcomed on all hands withenthusiasm as Ashe's wife and her own daughter-in-law, fêted to the topof her bent, smiled on at Court, flattered by the country-houses, alwaysexquisitely dressed, smiling and eager, apparently full of ambition forAshe no less than for herself, a happy, notorious, busy little person, with a touch of wildness that did but give edge to her charm and keepthe world talking. 

Then, the birth of the boy, and Kitty's passionate, ungovernable recoilfrom the deformity that showed itself almost immediately after hisbirth--a form of infantile paralysis involving a slight but incurablelameness. Lady Tranmore could recall weeks of remorseful fondling, alternating with weeks of neglect; continued illness and depression onKitty's part, settling after a while into a petulant melancholy forwhich the baby's defect seemed but an inadequate cause; Ashe's tenderanxiety, his willingness to throw up Parliament, office, everything, that Kitty might travel and recover; and those huge efforts by which sheand his best friends in the House had held him back--when Kitty, itseemed, cared little or nothing whether he sacrificed his future or not. Finally, she herself, with the assistance of a new friend of Kitty's, had become Kitty's nurse, had taken her abroad when Ashe could not bespared, had watched over her, and humored her, and at last brought herback--so the doctors said--restored. 

Was it really recovery? At any rate, Lady Tranmore was often inclined tothink that since the return to London--now about a twelvemonthsince--both she and William had had to do with a different Kitty. Youngas she still was, the first exquisite softness of the expanding life wasgone; things harder, stranger, more inexplicable than any which thosewho knew her best had yet perceived, seemed now and then to come to thesurface, like wreckage in a summer sea. 

 * * * * *

The opening door disturbed these ponderings. The nurse appeared, carrying the little boy. Lady Tranmore took him on her knee and caressedhim. He was a piteous, engaging child, generally very docile, but liableat times to storms of temper out of all proportion to the fragility ofhis small person. His grandmother was inclined to look upon his passionsas something external and inflicted--the entering-in of the Blackwaterdevil to plague a tiny creature that, normally, was of a divine andclinging sweetness. She would have taught him religion, as his onlyshield against himself; but neither his father nor his mother wasreligious; and Harry was likely to grow up a pagan. 

He leaned now against her breast, and she, whose inmost nature wasmaternity, delighted in the pressure of the tiny body, crooning songs tohim when they were left alone, and pausing now and then to pity and kissthe little shrunken foot that hung beside the other. 

She was interrupted by a soft entrance and the rustle of a dress. 

"Ah, Margaret!" she said, looking round and smiling. 

The girl who had come in approached her, shook hands, and looked down atthe baby. She was fair-haired and wore spectacles; her face was roundand childish, her eyes round and blue, with certain lines about them, however, which showed that she was no longer in her first youth. 

"I came to see if I could do anything to-day for Kitty. I know she isvery busy about the ball--"

"Head over ears apparently, " said Lady Tranmore. "Everybody has losttheir wits. I see Kitty has chosen her dress. "

"Yes, if Fanchette can make it all right. Poor Kitty! She has been insuch a state of mind. I think I'll go on with these invitations. "

And, taking off her gloves and hat, Margaret French went to thewriting-table like one intimately acquainted with the room and itsaffairs, took up a pile of cards and envelopes which lay upon it, and, bringing them to Lady Tranmore's side, began to work upon them. 

"I did about half yesterday, " she explained; "but I see Kitty hasn'tbeen able to touch them, and it is really time they were out. "

"For their party next week?"

"Yes. I hope Kitty won't tire herself out. It has been a rush lately. "

"Does she ever rest?"

"Never--as far as I can see. And I am afraid she has been very muchworried. "

"About that silly affair with Prince Stephan?" said Lady Tranmore. 

Margaret French nodded. "She vows that she meant no harm, and did noharm, and that it has been all malice and exaggeration. But one can seeshe has been hurt. "

"Well, if you ask me, " said Lady Tranmore, in a low voice, "I think shedeserved to be. "

Their eyes met, the girl's full of a half-smiling, half-softconsideration. Lady Tranmore, on the other hand, had flushed proudly, asthough the mere mention of the matter to which she had referred had beengalling to her. Kitty, in fact, had just been guilty of an escapadewhich had set the town talking, and even found its way here and there inthe newspapers. The heir to a European monarchy had been recentlyvisiting London. A romantic interest surrounded him; for a lady, not ofa rank sufficiently high to mate with his, had lately drowned herselffor love of him, and the young man's melancholy good looks, togetherwith the magnificent apathy of his manner, drew after him a chain ofgossip. Kitty failed to meet him in society; certain invitations thatfor once she coveted did not arrive; and in a fit of pique she declaredthat she would make acquaintance with him in her own way. On a certainoccasion, when the Princeling was at the play, his attention was drawnto a small and dazzling creature in a box opposite his own. Presently, however, there was a commotion in this box. The dazzling creature hadfainted; and rumor sent round the name of Lady Kitty Ashe. The Princedespatched an equerry to make inquiries, and the inquiries were repeatedthat evening in Hill Street. Recovery was prompt, and the Prince let itbe known that he wished to meet the lady. Invitations from high quartersdescended upon Kitty; she bore herself with an engaging carelessness, and the melancholy youth was soon spending far more pains upon her thanhe had yet been known to spend upon any other English beauties presentedto him. Ashe and Kitty's friends laughed; the old general in charge ofthe Princeling took alarm. And presently Kitty's audacities, alack, carried away her discretion; she began, moreover, to boast of her ruse. Whispers crept round; and the general's ears were open. In a few daysKitty's triumph went the way of all earthly things. At a Court ball, towhich her vanity had looked forward, unwarned, the Prince passed herwith glassy eyes, returning the barest bow to her smiling courtesy. Shebetrayed nothing; but somehow the thing got out, and set in motion aperfect hurricane of talk. It was rumored that the old Prime Minister, Lord Parham, had himself said a caustic word to Lady Kitty, that Royaltywas annoyed, and that William Ashe had for once scolded his wifeseriously. 

Lady Tranmore was well aware that there was, at any rate, no truth inthe last report; but she also knew that there was a tone of sharpness inthe London chatter that was new with regard to Kitty. It was as though acertain indulgence was wearing out, and what had been amusement waspassing into criticism. 

She and Margaret French discussed the matter a little, _sotto voce_, while Margaret went on with the invitations and Lady Tranmore made aFrench toy dance and spin for the babe's amusement. Their tone was oneof close and friendly intimacy, an intimacy based clearly upon onecommon interest--their relation to Kitty. Margaret French was one ofthose beings in whom, for our salvation, this halting, hurried world ofours is still on the whole rich. She was unmarried, thirty-five, andpoor. She lived with her brother, a struggling doctor, and she had comeacross Kitty in the first months of Kitty's married life, on somefashionable Soldiers' Aid Committee, where Margaret had done the workand Kitty with the other great ladies had reaped the fame. Kitty haddeveloped a fancy for her, and presently could not live without her. ButMargaret, though it soon became evident that she had taken Kitty and, indue time, the child--Ashe, too, for the matter of that--deep into hergenerous heart, preserved a charming measure in the friendship offeredher. She would owe Kitty nothing, either socially or financially. WhenKitty's smart friends appeared, she vanished. Nobody in her own worldever heard her mention the name of Lady Kitty Ashe, largely as that namewas beginning to figure in the gossip of the day. But there were fewthings concerning the Hill Street ménage that Lady Tranmore could notsafely and rightly discuss with her; and even Ashe himself went to herfor counsel. 

"I am afraid this has made things worse than ever with the Parhams, "said Lady Tranmore, presently. 

Margaret shook her head anxiously. 

"I hope Kitty won't throw over their dinner next week. "

"She is talking of it!"

"Yesterday she had almost made up her mind, " said Margaret, reluctantly. "Perhaps you will persuade her. But she has been terribly angry withLord Parham--and with Lady P. , too. "

"And it was to be a reconciliation dinner, after the old nonsensebetween her and Lady Parham, " sighed Lady Tranmore. "It was planned forKitty entirely. And she is to act something, isn't she, with that youngDe La Rivière from the embassy? I believe the Princess iscoming--expressly to meet her. I have been hearing of it on all sides. She _can't_ throw it over!"

Margaret shrugged her shoulders. "I believe she will. "

The older lady's face showed a sudden cloud of indignation. 

"William must really put his foot down, " she said, in a low, decidedvoice. "It is, of course, most important--just now--"

She said no more, but Margaret French looked up, and they exchangedglances. 

"Let's hope, " said Margaret, "that Mr. Ashe will be able to pacify her. Ah, there she is. "

For the front door closed heavily, and instantly the house was awarefrom top to toe of a flutter of talk and a frou-frou of skirts. Kittyran up the stairs and into the drawing-room, still talking, apparently, to the footman behind her, and stopped short at the sight of LadyTranmore and Margaret. A momentary shadow passed across her face; thenshe came forward all smiles. 

"Why, they never told me down-stairs!" she said, taking a hand of eachcaressingly, and slipping into a seat between them. "Have I lost much ofyou?"

"Well, I must soon be off, " said Lady Tranmore. "Harry has beenentertaining me. "

"Oh, Harry; is he there?" said Kitty, in another voice, perceiving thechild behind his grandmother's dress as he sat on the floor, where LadyTranmore had just deposited him. 

The baby turned towards his beautiful mother, and, as he saw her, alittle wandering smile began to spread from his uncertain lips to hisdeep-brown eyes, till his whole face shone, held to hers as to a magnet, in a still enchantment. 

"Come!" said Kitty, holding out her hands. 

With difficulty the child pulled himself towards her, moving in sidewayfashion along the floor, and dragging the helpless foot after him. Againthe shadow crossed Kitty's face. She caught him up, kissed him, andmoved to ring the bell. 

"Shall I take him up-stairs?" said Margaret. 

"Why, he seems to have only just come down!" said Lady Tranmore. "Musthe go?"

"He can come down again afterwards, " said Kitty. "I want to talk to you. Take him, Margaret. "

The babe went without a whimper, still following his mother with hiseyes. 

"He looks rather frail, " said Lady Tranmore. "I hope you'll soon besending him to the country, Kitty. "

"He's very well, " said Kitty. Then she took off her hat and looked atthe invitations Margaret had been writing. 

"Heavens, I had forgotten all about them! What an angel is Margaret! Ireally can't remember these things. They ought to do themselves byclock-work. And now Fanchette and this ball are enough to drive onewild. "

She lifted her hands to her face and pressed back the masses of fairhair that were tumbling round it, with a gesture of weariness. 

"Fanchette can make your dress?"

"She says she will, but I couldn't make her understand anything Iwanted. She is off her head! They all are. By-the-way, did you hear ofMadeleine Alcot's. Telegram to Worth?"

"No. "

Kitty laughed--a laugh musical but malicious. Mrs. Alcot, married in thesame month as herself, had been her companion and rival from thebeginning. They called each other "Kitty" and "Madeleine, " and saw eachother frequently; why, Lady Tranmore could never discover, unless on theprinciple that it is best to keep your enemy under observation. 

"She telegraphed to Worth as soon as her invitation arrived, 'Envoyeztout de suite costume Vénus. Réponse. ' The answer came at dinner--shehad a dinner-party--and she read it aloud: 'Remercîments. Il n'y en apas. ' Isn't it delightful?"

"Very neat, " said Lady Tranmore, smiling. "When did you invent that?You, I hear, are to be Diana?"

Kitty made a gesture of despair. 

"Ask Fanchette--it depends on her. There is no one but she in London whocan do it. Oh, by-the-way, what's Mary going to be? I suppose a Madonnaof sorts. "

"Not at all, " said Lady Tranmore, dryly; "she has chosen a Sir Joshuacostume I found for her. "

"A vocation missed, " said Kitty, shaking her head. "She ought to havebeen a 'Vestal Virgin' at least.... Do you know that you look _such_ aduck this afternoon!" The speaker put up two small hands and pulled andpatted at the black lace strings of Lady Tranmore's hat, which were tiedunder the delicately wrinkled white of her very distinguished chin. 

"This hat suits you so--you are such a _grande dame_ in it. Ah! Jet'adore!"

And Kitty softly took the chin aforesaid into her hands, and dropped akiss on Lady Tranmore's cheek, which reddened a little under the suddencaress. 

"Don't be a goose, Kitty. " But Elizabeth Tranmore stooped forward allthe same and returned the kiss heartily. "Now tell me what you're goingto wear at the Parhams'. "

Kitty rose deliberately, went to the bell and rang it. 

"It must be quite time for tea. "

"You haven't answered my question, Kitty. "

"Haven't I?" The butler entered. "Tea, please, Wilson, at once. "

"Kitty!--"

Lady Kitty seated herself defiantly a short distance from hermother-in-law and crossed her hands on her lap. 

"I am not going to the Parhams'. "

"Kitty!--what do you mean?"

"I am not going to the Parhams', " repeated Kitty, slowly. "They shouldbehave a little more considerately to me if they want to get me to amusetheir guests for them. "

At this moment Margaret French re-entered the room. Lady Tranmore turnedto her with a gesture of distress. 

"Oh, Margaret knows, " said Kitty. "I told her yesterday. "

"The Parhams?" said Margaret. 

Kitty nodded. Margaret paused, with her hand on the back of LadyTranmore's chair, and there was a short silence. Then Lady Tranmorebegan, in a tone that endeavored not to be too serious:

"I don't know how you're going to get out of it, my dear. Lady Parhamhas asked the Princess, first because she wished to come, secondly as anolive-branch to you. She has taken the greatest pains about the dinner;and afterwards there is to be an evening party to hear you, just theright size, and just the right people. "

"Cela m'est égal, " said Kitty, "par-faite-ment égal! I am not going. "

"What possible excuse can you invent?"

"I shall have a cold, the most atrocious cold imaginable. I take to mybed just two hours before it is time to dress. My letter reaches LadyParham on the stroke of eight. "

"Kitty, you would be doing a thing perfectly unheard of--most rude--mostunkind!"

The stiff, slight figure, like a strained wand, did not waver for amoment before the grave indignation of the older woman. 

"I should for once be paying off a score that has run on too long. "

"You and Lady Parham had agreed to make friends, and let bygones bebygones. "

"That was before last week. "

"Before Lord Parham said--what annoyed you?"

Kitty's eyes flamed. 

"Before Lord Parham humiliated me in public--or tried to. "

"Dear Kitty, he was annoyed, and said a sharp thing; but he is an oldman, and for William's sake, surely, you can forgive it. And Lady Parhamhad nothing to do with it. "

"She has not written to me to apologize, " said Kitty, with a mostvenomous calm. "Don't talk about it, mother. It will hurt you, and I amdetermined. Lady Parham has patronized or snubbed me ever since Imarried--when she hasn't been setting my best friends against me. She isfalse, false, _false_!" Kitty struck her hands together with an emphaticgesture. "And Lord Parham said a thing to me last week I shall neverforgive. Voilà! Now I mean to have done with it!"

"And you choose to forget altogether that Lord Parham is William'spolitical chief--that William's affairs are in a critical state, andeverything depends on Lord Parham--that it is not seemly, not possible, that William's wife should publicly slight Lady Parham, and through herthe Prime Minister--at this moment of all moments. "

Lady Tranmore breathed fast. 

"William will not expect me to put up with insults, " said Kitty, alsobeginning to show emotion. 

"But can't you see that--just now especially--you ought to think ofnothing--_nothing_--but William's future and William's career?"

"William will never purchase his career at my expense. "

"Kitty, dear, listen, " cried Lady Tranmore, in despair, and she threwherself into arguments and appeals to which Kitty listened quite unmovedfor some twenty minutes. Margaret French, feeling herself anuncomfortable third, tried several times to steal away. In vain. Kitty'speremptory hand retained her. She could not escape, much as she wishedit, from the wrestle between the two women--on the one side the mother, noble, already touched with age, full of dignity and protestingaffection; on the other the wife, still little more than a child inyears, vibrating through all her slender frame with passion andinsolence, more beautiful than usual by virtue of the very fire whichpossessed her--a mænad at bay. 

Lady Tranmore had just begun to waver in a final despair when the dooropened and William Ashe entered. 

He looked in astonishment at his mother and wife. Then in a flash heunderstood, and, with an involuntary gesture of fatigue, he turned togo. 

"William!" cried his mother, hurrying after him, "don't go. Kitty and Iwere disputing; but it is nothing, dear! Don't go, you look so tired. Can you stay for dinner?"

"Well, that was my intention, " said Ashe, with a smile, as he allowedhimself to be brought back. "But Kitty seems in the clouds. "

For Kitty had not moved an inch to greet him. She sat in a high-backchair, one foot crossed over the other, one hand supporting her cheek, looking straight before her with shining eyes. 

Lady Tranmore laid a hand on her shoulder. 

"We won't talk any more about it now, Kitty, will we?"

Kitty's pinched lips opened enough to emit the words:

"Perhaps William had better understand--"

"Goodness!" cried Ashe. "Is it the Parhams? Send them, Kitty, if youplease, to ten thousand _diables_! You won't go to their dinner? Well, don't go! Please yourself--and hang the expense! Come and give me somedinner--there's a dear. "

He bent over her and kissed her hair. 

Lady Tranmore began to speak; then, with a mighty effort, restrainedherself and began to look for her parasol. Kitty did not move. LadyTranmore said a muffled good-bye and went. And this time Margaret Frenchinsisted on going with her. 

 * * * * *

When Ashe returned to the drawing-room, he found his wife still in thesame position, very pale and very wild. 

"I have told your mother, William, what I intend to do about theParhams. "

"Very well, dear. Now she knows. "

"She says it will ruin your career. "

"Did she? We'll talk about that presently. We have had a nasty scene inthe House with the Irishmen, and I'm famished. Go and change, there's adear. Dinner's just coming in. "

Kitty went reluctantly. She came down in a white, flowing garment, witha small green wreath in her hair, which, together with the air of astorm which still enwrapped her, made her more mænad-like than ever. Ashe took no notice, gave her a laughing account of what had passed inthe House, and ate his dinner. 

Afterwards, when they were alone, and he was just about to return to theHouse, she made a swift rush across the dining-room, and caught his coatwith both hands. 

"William, I can't go to that dinner--it would kill me!"

"How you repeat yourself, darling!" he said, with a smile. "I supposeyou'll give Lady Parham decent notice. What'll you do? Get a doctor'scertificate and go away?"

Kitty panted. "Not at all. I shall not tell her till an hour before. "

Ashe whistled. 

"War? I see. Open war. Very well. Then we shall get to Venice forEaster. "

Kitty fell back. 

"What do you mean?"

"Very plain, isn't it? But what does it matter? Venice will bedelightful, and there are plenty of good men to take my place. "

"Lord Parham would pass you over?"

"Not at all. But I can't work in public with a man whom I must cut inprivate. It wouldn't amuse me. So if you're decided, Kitty, write toDanieli's for rooms. "

He lit his cigarette, and went out with a perfect nonchalance andgood-temper. 

 * * * * *

Kitty was to have gone to a ball. She countermanded her maid'spreparations, and sent the maid to bed. In due time all the servantswent to bed, the front door being left on the latch as usual for Ashe'slate return. About midnight a little figure slipped into the child'snursery. The nurse was fast asleep. Kitty sat beside the child, motionless, for an hour, and when Ashe let himself into the house abouttwo o'clock he heard a little rustle in the hall, and there stood Kitty, waiting for him. 

"Kitty, what are you about?" he said, in pretended amazement. But inreality he was not astonished at all. His life for months past had beenpitched in a key of extravagance and tumult. He had been practicallycertain that he should find Kitty in the hall. 

With great tenderness he half led, half carried her up-stairs. She clungto him as passionately as, before dinner, she had repulsed him. Whenthey reached their room, the tired man, dropping with sleep, after aParliamentary wrestle in which every faculty had been taxed to theutmost, took his wife in his arms; and there Kitty sobbed and talkedherself into a peace of complete exhaustion. In this state she was oneof the most exquisite of human beings, with words, tone, and gestures ofa heavenly softness and languor. The evil spirit went out of her, andshe was all ethereal tenderness, sadness, and remorse. For more than twoyears, scenes like this had, in Ashe's case, melted into final delightand intoxication which more than effaced the memory of what had gonebefore. Now for several months he had dreaded the issue of the crisis, no less than the crisis itself. It left him unnerved as though somemorbid sirocco had passed over him. 

When Kitty at last had fallen asleep, Ashe stood for some time besidehis dressing-room window, looking absently into the cloudy night, tootired even to undress. A gusty northwest wind tore down the street andbeat against the windows. The unrest without increased the tension ofhis mind and body. Like Lady Tranmore, he had, as it were, stepped backfrom his life, and was looking at it--the last three years of it inparticular--as a whole. What was the net result of those years? Wherewas he? Whither were he and Kitty going? A strange pang shot throughhim. The mere asking of the question had been as the lifting of the lampof Psyche. 

The scene that night in the House of Commons had been for him a scene ofconflict; in the main, also, of victory. His virile powers, capacities, and ambitions had been at their height. He had felt the full spell ofthe English political life, with all its hard fighting joy, theexhilaration which flows from the vastness of the interests on which itturns, and the intricate appeal it makes, in the case of a man likehimself, to a hundred inherited aptitudes, tastes, and traditions. 

And here he stood in the darkness, wondering whether indeed the best ofhis life were not over--the prey of forebodings as strong and vagrant asthe gusts outside. 

Birds of the night! He forced himself to bed, and slept heavily. When hewoke up, the May sun was shining into his room. Kitty, in the freshestof morning dresses, was sitting on his bed like a perching bird, waitingimpatiently till his eyes should open and she could ask him his opinionon her dress for the ball. The savor and joy of life returned upon himin a flood. Kitty was the prettiest thing ever seen; he had scored offthose Tory fellows the night before; the Parhams' dinner was all right;and life was once more kind, manageable, and full of the most agreeablepossibilities. A certain indolent impatience in him recoiled from themere recollection of the night before. The worry was over; why think ofit again?

VIII

Meanwhile Lady Tranmore had reached home, and after one of thosepathetic hours in her husband's room which made the secret and sacredfoundation of her daily life, she expected Mary Lyster, who was to dineat Tranmore House before the two ladies presented themselves at amusical party given by the French Ambassadress. Before her guest'sarrival, Lady Tranmore wandered about her rooms, unable to rest, unableeven to read the evening papers on Ashe's speech, so possessed was shestill by her altercation with Kitty, and by the foreboding sense of whatit meant. William's future was threatened; and the mother whose wholeproud heart had been thrown for years into every successful effort andevery upward step of her son, was up in arms. 

Mary Lyster arrived to the minute. She came in, a tall gliding woman, her hair falling in rippled waves on either side of her face, which inits ample comeliness and placidity reminded the Italianate Lady Tranmoreof many faces well known to her in early Siennese or Florentine art. Mary's dress to-night was of a noble red, and the glossy brown of herhair made a harmony both with her dress and with the whiteness of herneck that contented the fastidious eye of her companion. "Polly" was nowthirty, in the prime of her good looks. Lady Tranmore's affection forher, which had at one time even included the notion that she mightpossibly become William Ashe's wife, did not at all interfere with ashrewd understanding of her limitations. But she was daughterlessherself; her family feeling was strong; and Mary's society was an oldand pleasant habit one could ill have parted with. In her company, moreover, Mary was at her best. 

Elizabeth Tranmore never discussed her daughter-in-law with her cousin. Loyalty to William forbade it, no less than a strong sense of familydignity. For Mary had spoken once--immediately after theengagement--with energy--nay, with passion; prophesying woe andcalamity. Thenceforward it was tacitly agreed between them that allroot-and-branch criticism of Kitty and her ways was taboo. Mary was, indeed, on apparently good terms with her cousin's wife. She dinedoccasionally at the Ashes', and she and Kitty met frequently under thewing of Lady Tranmore. There was no cordiality between them, and Kittywas often sharply or sulkily certain that Mary was to be counted amongthose hostile forces with which, in some of her moods, the world seemedto her to bristle. But if Mary kept, in truth, a very sharp tongue formany of her intimates on the subject of Kitty, Lady Tranmore at leastwas determined to know nothing about it. 

On this particular evening, however, Lady Tranmore's self-control failedher, for the first time in three years. She had not talked five minuteswith her guest before she perceived that Mary's mind was, in truth, brimful of gossip--the gossip of many drawing-rooms--as to Kitty'sescapade with the Prince, Kitty's relations to Lady Partham, Kitty'sparties, and Kitty's whims. The temptation was too great; her own guardbroke down. 

"I hear Kitty is furious with the Parhams, " said Mary, as the two ladiessat together after their rapid dinner. It was a rainy night, and thefire to which they had drawn up was welcome. 

Lady Tranmore shook her head sadly. 

"I don't know where it is to end, " she said, slowly. 

"Lady Parham told me yesterday--you don't mind my repeating it?"--Marylooked up with a smile--"she was still dreadfully afraid that Kittywould play her some trick about next Friday. She knows that Kittydetests her. "

"Oh no, " said Lady Tranmore, in a vague voice, "Kittycouldn't--impossible!"

Mary turned an observant eye upon her companion's conscious and troubledair, and drew conclusions not far from the truth. 

"And it's all so awkward, isn't it?" she said, with sympathy, "whenapparently Lady Parham is as much Prime Minister as he is. "

For in those days certain great houses and political ladies, though notat the zenith of their power, were still, in their comparative decline, very much to be reckoned with. When Lady Parham talked longer than usualwith the French Ambassador, his Austrian and German colleagues wroteanxious despatches to their governments; when a special mission to theEast of great importance had to be arranged, nobody imagined that LordParham had very much to do with the appointment of the commissioner, whohappened to have just engaged himself to Lady Parham's second girl. Noyoung member on the government side, if he wanted office, neglectedLady Parham's invitations, and admission to her more intimate dinnerswas still almost as much coveted as similar favors had been a generationbefore in the case of Lady Jersey, or still earlier, in that of LadyHolland. She was a small old woman, with a shrewish face, a waxencomplexion, and a brown wig. In spite of short sight, she saw thingsthat escaped most other people; her tongue was rarely at a loss; shewas, on the whole, a good friend, though never an unreflecting one; andwhat she forgave might be safely reckoned as not worth resenting. 

Elizabeth Tranmore received Mary's remark with reluctant consent. LadyParham--from the English aristocratic stand-point--was not well-born. She had been the daughter of a fashionable music-master, whose blood wascertainly not Christian. And there were many people beside Lady Tranmorewho resented her domination. 

"It will be so perfectly easy when the moment comes to invent someexcuse or other for shelving William's claims, " sighed Ashe's mother. "Nobody is indispensable, and if that old woman is provoked, she will becapable of any mischief. "

"What do you want for William?" said Mary, smiling. 

"He ought, of course, to have the Home Office!" replied Lady Tranmore, with fire. 

Mary vowed that he would certainly have it. "Kitty is so clever, shewill understand how important discretion is, before things go too far. "

Lady Tranmore made no answer. She gazed into the fire, and Miss Lysterthought her depressed. 

"Has William ever interfered?" she asked, cautiously. 

Lady Tranmore hesitated. 

"Not that I know of, " she said, at last. "Nor will he ever--in the sensein which any ordinary husband would interfere. "

"I know! It is as though he had a kind of superstition about it. Isn'tthere a fairy story, in which an elf marries a mortal on condition thatif he ever ill-treats her, her people will fetch her back to fairyland?One day the husband lost his temper and spoke crossly; instantly therewas a crash of thunder and the elf-wife vanished. "

"I don't remember the story. But it's like that--exactly. He said to meonce that he would never have asked her to marry him if he had not beenable to make up his mind to let her have her own way--never to coerceher. "

But having said this, Lady Tranmore repented. It seemed to her she hadbeen betraying William's affairs. She drew her chair back from the fire, and rang to ask if the carriage had arrived. Mary took the hint. Shearrayed herself in her cloak, and chatted agreeably about other thingstill the moment for their departure came. 

As they drove through the streets, Lady Tranmore stole a glance at hercompanion. 

"She is really very handsome, " she thought--"much better-looking thanshe was at twenty. What are the men about, not to marry her?"

It was indeed a puzzle. For Mary was increasingly agreeable as the yearswent on, and had now quite a position of her own in London, as acharming woman without angles or apparent egotisms; one of theinitiated besides, whom any dinner-party might be glad to capture. Herrelations, near and distant, held so many of the points of vantage inEnglish public life that her word inevitably carried weight. She talkedpolitics, as women of her class must talk them to hold their own; shesupported the Church; and she was elegantly charitable, in that popularsense which means that you subscribe to your friends' charities withoutsetting up any of your own. She was rich also--already in possession ofa considerable fortune, inherited from her mother, and prospectiveheiress of at least as much again from her father, old Sir RichardLyster, whose house in Somersetshire she managed to perfection. In theseason she stayed with various friends, or with Lady Tranmore, SirRichard being now infirm, and preferring the country. There was ayounger sister, who was known to have married imprudently, and againsther father's wishes, some five or six years before this. Catharine waspoor, the wife of a clergyman with young children. Lady Tranmoresometimes wondered whether Mary was quite as good to her as she mightbe. She herself sent Catharine various presents in the course of theyear for the children. 

--Yes, it was certainly surprising that Mary had not married. LadyTranmore's thoughts were running on this tack when of a sudden her eyeswere caught by the placard of one of the evening papers. 

"Interview with Mr. Cliffe. Peace assured. " So ran one of the lines. 

"Geoffrey Cliffe home again!" Lady Tranmore's tone betrayed a shade ofcontemptuous amusement. 

"We shall have to get on without our daily telegram. Poor London!"

If at that moment it had occurred to her to look at her companion, shewould have seen a quick reddening of Mary's cheeks. 

"He has had a great success, though, with his telegrams!" replied MissLyster. "I should have thought one couldn't deny that. "

"Success! Only with the people who don't matter, " said Lady Tranmore, with a shrug. "Of what importance is it to anybody that Geoffrey Cliffeshould telegraph his doings and his opinions every morning to theEnglish public?"

We were in the midst of a disagreement with America. A whirlwind wasunloosed, and as it happened Geoffrey Cliffe was riding it. For thatgentleman had not succeeded in the designs which were occupying his mindwhen he had first made Kitty's acquaintance in the Grosvilles'country-house. He had desired an appointment in Egypt; but it had notbeen given him, and after some angry restlessness at home, he had oncemore taken up a pilgrim's staff and departed on fresh travels, boundthis time for the Pamirs and Thibet. After nearly three years, duringwhich he had never ceased, through the newspapers and periodicals, tokeep his opinions and his personality before the public, he had beenheard of in China, and as returning home by America. He arrived at SanFrancisco just as the dispute had broken out, was at once captured by anEnglish paper, and sent to New York, with _carte blanche_. He had risenwith alacrity to the situation. Thenceforward for some three weeks, England found a marvellous series of large-print telegrams, signed"Geoffrey Cliffe, " awaiting her each morning on her breakfast-table. 

"'The President and I met this morning'--'The President considers, and Iagree with him'--'I told the President'--etc. --'The President thismorning signed and sealed a memorable despatch. He said to meafterwards'"--etc. 

Two diverse effects seemed to have been produced by these proceedings. Acertain section of Radical opinion, which likes to see affairs managed_sans cérémonie_, and does not understand what the world wants withdiplomatists when journalists are to be had, applauded; theold-fashioned laughed. 

It was said that Cliffe was going into the House immediately; the youngbloods of the party in power enjoyed the prospect, and had alreadystored up the _ego et Rex meus_ details of his correspondence for futureuse. 

"How could a man make such a fool of himself!" continued Lady Tranmore, the malice in her voice expressing not only the old aristocratic dislikeof the press, but also the jealousy natural to the mother of an officialson. 

"Well, we shall see, " said Mary, after a pause. "I don't quite agreewith you, Cousin Elizabeth--indeed, I know there are many people whothink that he has certainly done good. "

Lady Tranmore turned in astonishment. She had expected Mary's assent toher original remark as a matter of course. Mary's old flirtation withGeoffrey Cliffe, and the long breach between them which had followed it, were things well known to her. They had coincided, moreover, with herown dropping of the man whom for various reasons she had come to regardas unscrupulous and unsafe. 

"Good!" she echoed--"_good_?--with that boasting, and that_fanfaronnade_. Polly!"

But Miss Lyster held her ground. 

"We must allow everybody their own ways of doing things, mustn't we? Iam quite sure he has meant well--all through. "

Lady Tranmore shrugged her shoulders. "Lord Parham told me he had hadthe most grotesque letters from him!--and meant henceforward to put themin the fire. "

"Very foolish of Lord Parham, " said Mary, promptly. "I should havethought that a Prime Minister would welcome information--from all sides. And of course Mr. Cliffe thinks that the government has been _very_badly served. "

Lady Tranmore's wonder broke out. "You don't mean--that--you hear fromhim?"

She turned and looked full at her companion. Mary's color was stillraised, but otherwise she betrayed no embarrassment. 

"Yes, dear Cousin Elizabeth. I have heard from him regularly for thelast six months. I have often wished to tell you, but I was afraid youmight misunderstand me, and--my courage failed me!" The speaker, smiling, laid her hand on Lady Tranmore's. "The fact is, he wrote to melast autumn from Japan. You remember that poor cousin of mine who diedat Tokio? Mr. Cliffe had seen something of him, and he very kindly wroteboth to his mother and me afterwards. Then--"

"You didn't forgive him!" cried Lady Tranmore. 

Mary laughed. 

"Was there anything to forgive? We were both young and foolish. Anyway, he interests me--and his letters are splendid. "

"Did you ever tell William you were corresponding with him?"

"No, indeed! But I want very much to make them understand each otherbetter. Why shouldn't the government make use of him? He doesn't wish atall to be thrown into the arms of the other side. But they treat him sobadly--"

"My dear Mary! are we governed by the proper people, or are we not?"

"It is no good ignoring the press, " said Mary, holding herselfgracefully erect. "And the Bishop quite agrees with me. "

Lady Tranmore sank back in her seat. 

"You discussed it with the Bishop?" It was now some time since Mary hadlast brought the family Bishop--her cousin, and Lady Tranmore's--to bearupon an argument between them. But Elizabeth knew that his appearance inthe conversation invariably meant a _fait accompli_ of some sort. 

"I read him some of Mr. Cliffe's letters, " said Mary, modestly. "Hethought them most remarkable. "

"Even when he mocks at missionaries?"

"Oh! but he doesn't mock at them any more. He has learned wisdom--Iassure you he has!"

Lady Tranmore's patience almost departed, Mary's look was so penetratedwith indulgence for the prejudices of a dear but unreasonable relation. But she managed to preserve it. 

"And you knew he was coming home?"

"Oh yes!" said Mary. "I meant to have told you at dinner. But somethingput it out of my head--Kitty, of course! I shouldn't wonder if he wereat the embassy to-night. "

"Polly! tell me--"--Lady Tranmore gripped Miss Lyster's hand with someforce--"are you going to marry him?"

"Not that I know of, " was the smiling reply. "Don't you think I'm oldenough by now to have a man friend?"

"And you expect me to be civil to him!"

"Well, dear Cousin Elizabeth--you know--you never did break with him, quite. "

Lady Tranmore, in her bewilderment, reflected that she had certainlymeant to complete the process whenever she and Mr. Cliffe should meetagain. Aloud she could only say, rather stiffly:

"I can't forget that William disapproves of him strongly. "

"Oh no--excuse me--I don't think he does!" said Mary, quickly. "He saidto me, the other day, that he should be very glad to pick his brainswhen he came home. And then he laughed and said he was a 'deuced cleverfellow'--excuse the adjective--and it was a great thing to be 'as freeas that chap was'--'without all sorts of boring colleagues andresponsibilities. ' Wasn't it like William?"

Lady Tranmore sighed. 

"William shouldn't say those things. "

"Of course, dear, he was only in fun. But I'll lay you a small wager, Cousin Elizabeth, that Kitty will ask Mr. Cliffe to lunch as soon as sheknows he is in town. "

Lady Tranmore turned away. 

"I dare say. No one can answer for what Kitty will do. But GeoffreyCliffe has said scandalous things of William. "

"He won't say them again, " said Mary, soothingly. "Besides, Williamnever minds being abused a bit--does he?"

"He should mind, " said Lady Tranmore, drawing herself up. "In my youngdays, our enemies were our enemies and our friends our friends. Nowadaysnothing seems to matter. You may call a man a scoundrel one day and askhim to dinner the next. We seem to use words in a new sense--and Iconfess I don't like the change. Well, Mary, I sha'n't, of course, berude to any friend of yours. But don't expect me to be effusive. Andplease remember that my acquaintance with Geoffrey Cliffe is older thanyours. "

Mary made a caressing reply, and gave her mind for the rest of the driveto the smoothing of Lady Tranmore's ruffled plumes. But it was not easy. As that lady made her way up the crowded staircase of the FrenchEmbassy, her fine face was still absent and a little stern. 

Mary could only reflect that she had at least got through a firstexplanation which was bound to be made. Then for a few minutes her mindsurrendered itself wholly to the question, "Will he be here?"

 * * * * *

The rooms of the French Embassy were already crowded. An ambassador, short, stout, and somewhat morose, his plain features and snub noseemerging with difficulty from his thick, fair hair, superabundant beard, and mustache--with an elegant and smiling ambassadress, personifyingamid the English crowd that Paris from which through every fibre shefelt herself a pining exile--received the guests. The scene was ablazewith uniforms, for the Speaker had been giving a dinner, and Royalty wasexpected. But, as Lady Tranmore perceived at once, very few members ofthe House of Commons were present. A hot debate on some detail of thenaval estimates had been sprung on ministers, and the whips on each sidehad been peremptorily keeping their forces in hand. 

"I don't see either William or Kitty, " said Mary, after a carefulscrutiny not, in truth, directed to the discovery of the Ashes. 

"No. I suppose William was kept, and Kitty did not care to come alone. "

Mary said nothing. But she was well aware that Kitty was neverrestrained from going into society by the mere absence of her husband. Meanwhile Lady Tranmore was lost in secret anxieties as to what mighthave happened in Hill Street. Had there been a quarrel? Somethingcertainly had gone wrong, or Kitty would be here. 

"Lady Kitty not arrived?" said a voice, like a macaw's, beside her. 

Elizabeth turned and shook hands with Lady Parham. That extraordinarywoman, followed everywhere by the attentive observation of the crowd, had never asserted herself more sharply in dress, manner, and coiffurethan on this particular evening--so it seemed, at least, to LadyTranmore. Her ample figure was robed in the white satin of a bride, herwrinkled neck disappeared under a weight of jewels, and her brightchestnut wig, to which the diamond tiara was fastened, positivelyattacked the spectator, so patent was it and unashamed. Unashamed, too, were the bold, tyrannous eyes, the rouge-spots on either cheek, thestrength of the jaw, the close-shut ability of the mouth. ElizabethTranmore looked at her with a secret passion of dislike. Her Englishpride of race, no less than the prejudices of her taste and training, could hardly endure the fact that, for William's sake, she must makeherself agreeable to Lady Parham. 

Agreeable, however, she tried to be. Kitty had seemed to her tired inthe afternoon, and had, no doubt, gone to bed--so she averred. 

Lady Parham laughed. 

"Well, she mustn't be tired the night of my party next week--or theskies will fall. I never took so much trouble before about anything inmy life. "

"No, she must take care, " said Lady Tranmore. "Unfortunately, she is notstrong, and she does too much. "

Lady Parham threw her a sharp look. 

"Not strong? I should have thought Lady Kitty was made on wires. Well, if she fails me, I shall go to bed--with small-pox. There will benothing else to be done. The Princess has actually put off anotherengagement to come--she has heard so much of Lady Kitty's reciting. Butyou'll help me through, won't you?"

And the wrinkled face and harsh lips fell into a contortion meant for aconfidential smile; while through it all the eyes, wholly independent, studied the face beside her--closely, suspiciously--until the owner ofit in her discomfort could almost have repeated aloud the words thatwere ringing in her mind--"I shall _not_ go to Lady Parham's! My notewill reach her on the stroke of eight. "

"Certainly--I will keep an eye on her!" she said, lightly. "But youknow--since her illness--"

"Oh no!" said Lady Parham, impatiently, "she is very well--very wellindeed. I never saw her look so radiant. By-the-way, did you hear yourson's speech the other night? I did not see you in the gallery. A greatpity if you missed it. It was admirable. "

Lady Tranmore replied regretfully that she had not been there, and thatshe had not been able to have a word with him about it since. 

"Oh, he knows he did well, " said Lady Parham, carelessly. "They all do. Lord Parham was delighted. He could do nothing but talk about it atdinner. He says they were in a very tight place, and Mr. Ashe got themout. "

Lady Tranmore expressed her gratification with all the dignity she couldcommand, conscious meanwhile that her companion was not listening to aword, absorbed as she was in a hawklike examination of the room througha pair of gold-rimmed eye-glasses. 

Suddenly the eye-glasses fell with a rattle. 

"Good Heavens!" cried Lady Parham. "Do you see who that is talking toMr. Loraine?"

Lady Tranmore looked, and at once perceived Geoffrey Cliffe in closeconversation with the leader of the Opposition. The lady beside her gavean angry laugh. 

"If Mr. Cliffe thinks he has done himself any good by these ridiculoustelegrams of his, he will find himself mistaken! People are perfectlyfurious about them. "

"Naturally, " said Lady Tranmore. "Only that it is a pity to take himseriously. "

"Oh, I don't know. He has his following; unfortunately, some of our ownmen are inclined to think that Parham should conciliate him. Ignore him, I say. Behave as though he didn't exist. Ah! by-the-way"--the speakerraised herself on tiptoe, and said, in an audacious undertone--"is ittrue that he may possibly marry your cousin, Miss Lyster?"

Lady Tranmore kept a smiling composure. "Is it true that Lord Parham maypossibly give him an appointment?"

Lady Parham turned away in annoyance. "Is that one of the inventionsgoing about?"

"There are so many, " said Lady Tranmore. 

At that moment, however, to her infinite relief, her companion abruptlydeserted her. She was free to observe the two distant figures inconversation--Geoffrey Cliffe and Mr. Loraine, the latter a man nowverging on old age, white-haired and wrinkled, but breathing stillthrough every feature and every movement the scarcely diminished energyof his magnificent prime. He stood with bent head, listeningattentively, but, as Lady Tranmore thought, coldly, to the argumentsthat Cliffe was pouring out upon him. Once he looked up in a suddenrecoil, and there was a flash from an eye famous for its power ofmajestic or passionate rebuke. Cliffe, however, took no notice, andtalked on, Loraine still listening. 

"Look at them!" said Lady Parham, venomously, in the ear of one of herintimates. "We shall have all this out in the House to-morrow. TheOpposition mean to play that man for all he's worth. Mr. Loraine, too--with his puritanical ways! I know what he thinks of Cliffe. Hewouldn't _touch_ him in private. But in public--you'll see--he'llswallow him whole--just to annoy Parham. There's your politician. "

And stiff with the angry virtue of the "ins, " denouncing the faction ofthe "outs, " Lady Parham passed on. 

Elizabeth Tranmore meanwhile turned to look for Mary Lyster. She foundher close behind, engaged in a perfunctory conversation, which evidentlyleft her quite free to follow things more exciting. She, too, waswatching; and presently it seemed to Lady Tranmore that her eyes metwith those of Cliffe. Cliffe paused; abruptly lost the thread of hisconversation with Mr. Loraine, and began to make his way through thecrowded room. Lady Tranmore watched his progress with some attention. Itwas the progress, clearly, of a man much in the eye and mouth of thepublic. Whether the atmosphere surrounding him in these rooms was morehostile or more favorable, Lady Tranmore could not be quite sure. Certainly the women smiled upon him; and his strange face, thinner, browner, more weather-beaten and life-beaten than ever, under its crestof grizzling hair, had the old arrogant and picturesque power, but, asit seemed to her, with something added--something subtler, was it, moreromantic than of yore? which arrested the spectator. Had he really beenin love with that French woman? Lady Tranmore had heard it rumored thatshe was dead. 

It was not towards Mary Lyster, primarily, that he was moving, Elizabethsoon discovered; it was towards herself. She braced herself for theencounter. 

The greeting was soon over. After she herself had said the appropriatethings, Lady Tranmore had time to notice that Mary Lyster, whose turncame next, did not attempt to say them. She looked, indeed, unusuallyhandsome and animated; Lady Tranmore was certain that Cliffe had noticedas much, at his first sight of her. But the remarks she omitted showedhow minute and recent was their knowledge of each other's movements. Cliffe himself gave a first impression of high spirits. He declared thatLondon was more agreeable than he had ever known it, and that after histhree years' absence nobody looked a day older. Then he inquired afterAshe. 

Lady Tranmore replied that William was well, but hard-worked; she hopedto persuade him to get a few days abroad at Whitsuntide. Her manner wasquiet, without a trace of either discourtesy or effusion. Cliffe beganto twist his mustache, a sign she knew well. It meant that he was intruth both irritable and nervous. 

"You think they'll last till Whitsuntide?"

"The government?" she said, smiling. "Certainly--and beyond. "

"I give them three weeks, " said Cliffe, twisting anew, with a vigor thatgave her a positive physical sympathy with the tortured mustache. "Therewill be some papers out to-morrow that will be a bomb-shell. "

"About America? Oh, they have been blown up so often! You, for instance, have been doing your best--for months. "

His perfunctory laugh answered the mockery of her charming eyes. 

"Well--I wish I could make William hear reason. "

Lady Tranmore held herself stiffly. The Christian name seemed to her anoffence. It was true that in old days he and Cliffe had been on thoseterms. Now--it was a piece of bad taste. 

"Probably what is reason to you is folly to him, " she said, dryly. 

"No, no!--he _knows_, " said Cliffe, with impatience. "The others don't. Parham is more impossible--more crassly, grossly ignorant!" He liftedhands and eyes in protest. "But Ashe, of course, is another matteraltogether. "

"Well, go and see him--go and talk to him!" said Lady Tranmore, stillmocking. "There are no lions in the way. "

"None, " said Cliffe. "As a matter of fact, Lady Kitty has asked me toluncheon. But does one find Ashe himself in the middle of the day?"

At the mention of her daughter-in-law Elizabeth made an involuntarymovement. Mary, standing beside her, turned towards her and smiled. 

"Not often. " The tone was cold. "But you could always find him at theHouse. " And Lady Tranmore moved away. 

"Is there a quiet corner anywhere?" said Cliffe to Mary. "I have suchheaps to tell you. "

So while some Polish gentleman in the main drawing-room, whose nameended in _ski_, challenged his violin to the impossible, Cliffe and Maryretired from observation into a small room thrown open with the rest ofthe suite, which was in truth the morning-room of the ambassadress. 

As soon as they found themselves alone, there was a pause in theirconversation; each involuntarily looked at the other. Mary certainlyrecognized that these years of absence had wrought a noticeable changein the man before her. He had aged. Hard living and hard travelling hadleft their marks. But, like Lady Tranmore, she also perceived anotherdifference. The eyes bent upon her were indeed, as before, the eyes of aman self-centred, self-absorbed. There was no chivalrous softness inthem, no consideration. The man who owned them used them entirely forhis own purposes; they betrayed none of that changing instinctiverelation towards the human being--any human being--within their range, which makes the charm of so many faces. But they were sadder, moresombre, more restless; they thrilled her more than they had alreadythrilled her once, in the first moment of her youth. 

What was he going to say? From the moment of his first letter to herfrom Japan, Mary had perfectly understood that he had some fresh purposein his mind. She was not anxious, however, to precipitate the moment ofexplanation. She was no longer the young girl whose equilibrium is upsetby the mere approach of the man who interests her. Moreover, there was apast between herself and Cliffe, the memory of which might indeed pointher to caution. Did he now, after all, want to marry her--because shewas rich, and he was comparatively poor, and could only secure anEnglish career at the cost of a well-stored wife? Well, all that shouldbe thought over; by herself no less than by him. Meanwhile her vanityglowed within her, as she thus held him there, alone, to thediscomfiture of other women more beautiful and more highly placed thanherself; as she remembered his letters in her desk at home; and thesecrets she imagined him to have told her. Then again she felt a rush ofsudden disquiet, caused by this new aspect--wavering and remote--asthough some hidden grief emerged and vanished. He had the haggard air ofa man who scarcely sleeps. All that she had ever heard of the Frenchaffair rushed through her mind, stirring there an angry curiosity. 

These impressions took, however, but a few minutes, while they exchangedsome conventionalities. Then Cliffe said, scrutinizing the face and formbeside him with that intentness which, from him, was more generallytaken as compliment than offence:

"Will you excuse the remark? There are no women who keep their firstfreshness like Englishwomen. "

"Thank you. If we feel fresh, I suppose we look it. As for you, youclearly want a rest. "

"No time to think of it, then; I have come home to fight--all I know; tomake myself as odious as possible. "

Mary laughed. 

"You have been doing that so long. Why not try the opposite?"

Cliffe looked at her sharply. 

"You think I have made a failure of it?"

"Not at all. You have made everybody furiously uncomfortable, and yousee how civil even the Radical papers are to you. "

"Yes. What fools!" said Cliffe, shortly. "They'll soon leave that off. Just now I'm a stick to beat the government with. But you don't believeI shall carry my point?"

The point concerned a particular detail in a pending negotiation withthe United States. Cliffe had been denouncing the government for what heconceived to be their coming retreat before American demands. America, according to him, had been playing the bully; and English interests werebeing betrayed. 

Mary considered. 

"I think you will have to change your tactics. "

"Dictate them, then. "

He bent forward, with that sudden change of manner, that courteoussweetness of tone and gesture, which few women could resist. Mary'sheart, seasoned though it were, felt a charming flutter. She talked, andshe talked well. She had no independence of mind, and very little realknowledge; but she had an excellent reporter's ability; she knew what toremember, and how to tell it. Cliffe listened to her attentively, acknowledging to himself the while that she had certainly gained. Shewas a far more definite personality than she had been when he last knewher; and her self-possession, her trained manner, rested him. ThankHeaven, she was not a clever woman--how he detested the breed! But shewas a useful one. And the smiling commonplace into which she fell sooften was positively welcome to him. He had known what it was to court awoman who was more than his equal both in mind and passion; and it hadleft him bitter and broken. 

"Well, all this is most illuminating, " he said at last. "I owe youimmense thanks. " And he put out a pair of hands, thin, brown, andweather-stained as his face, and pressed one of hers. "We're very oldfriends, aren't we?"

"Are we?" said Mary, drawing back. 

"So far as any one can be the friend of a chap like me, " he said, hastily. "Tell me, are you with Lady Tranmore?"

"No. I go to her in a few days--till I leave London. "

"Don't go away, " he said, suddenly and insistently. "Don't go away. "

Mary could not help a slight wavering in the eyes that perforce met his. Then he said, abruptly, as she rose:

"By-the-way, they tell me Ashe is a great man. "

She caught the note of incredulous contempt in his voice and laughed. 

"They say he'll be in the cabinet directly. "

"And Lady Kitty, I understand, is a scandal to gods and men, and themost fashionable person in town?"

"Oh, not now, " said Mary. "That was last year. "

"You mean people are tired of her?"

"Well, after a time, you know, a naughty child--"

"Becomes a bore. Is she a bore? I doubt; I very much doubt. "

"Go and see, " said Mary. "When do you lunch there?"

"I think to-morrow. Shall I find you?"

"Oh no. I am not at all intimate with Lady Kitty. "

Cliffe's slight smile, as he followed her into the large drawing-room, died under his mustache. He divined at once the relation between thetwo, or thought he did. 

As for Mary, she caught her last sight of Cliffe, standing bareheaded onthe steps of the embassy, his lean distinction, his ugly good looksmarking him out from the men around him. Then, as they drove away shewas glad that the darkness hid her from Lady Tranmore. For suddenly shecould not smile. She was filled with the perception that if GeoffreyCliffe did not now ask her to marry him, life would utterly lose itssavor, its carefully cherished and augmented savor, and youth wouldabandon her. At the same time she realized that she would have to make afight of it, with every weapon she could muster. 

IX

"Wasn't I expected?" said Darrell, with a chilly smile. 

"Oh yes, sir--yes, sir!" said the Ashes' butler, as he lookeddistractedly round the drawing-room. "I believe her ladyship will be indirectly. Will you kindly take a seat?"

The man's air of resignation convinced Darrell that Lady Kitty hadprobably gone out without any orders to her servants, and had nowforgotten all about her luncheon-party--a state of things to which theHill Street household was, no doubt, well accustomed. 

"I shall claim some lunch, " he thought to himself, "whatever happens. These young people want keeping in their place. Ah!"

For he had observed, placed on a small easel, the print of Madame deLongueville in costume, and he put up his eye-glass to look at it. Heguessed at once that its appearance there was connected with the fancyball which was now filling London with its fame, and he examined it withsome closeness. "Lady Kitty will make a stir in it--no doubt of that!"he said to himself, as he turned away. "She has the keenest _flair_ ofthem all for what produces an effect. None of the others can touchher--Mrs. Alcot--none of them!"

He was thinking of the other members of a certain group, at that timewell known in London society--a group characterized chiefly by thebeauty, extravagance, and audacity of the women belonging to it. It wasby no means a group of mere fashionables. It contained a large amount ofability and accomplishment; some men of aristocratic family, who werealso men of high character, with great futures before them; some personsfrom the literary or artistic world, who possessed, besides theirliterary or artistic gifts, a certain art of agreeable living, and somefew others--especially young girls--admitted generally for some peculiarquality of beauty or manner outside the ordinary canons. Money wasreally presupposed by the group as a group. The life they belonged towas a life of the rich, the houses they met in were rich houses. Butmoney as such had no power whatever to buy admission to their ranks; andthe members of the group were at least as impatient of the claims ofmere wealth as they were of those of mere virtue. 

On the whole the group was an element of ferment and growth in thesociety that had produced it. Its impatience of convention andrestraint, the exaltation of intellectual or artistic power whichprevailed in it, and even the angry opposition excited by itspretensions and its exclusiveness, were all, perhaps, rather profitablethan harmful at that moment of our social history. Old customs were muchshaken; the new were shaping themselves, and this daring coterie ofyoung and brilliant people, living in one another's houses, calling oneanother by their Christian names, setting a number of social rules atdefiance, discussing books, making the fame of artists, and, now andthen, influencing politics, were certainly helping to bring the newworld to birth. Their foes called them "The Archangels, " and theythemselves had accepted the name with complacency. 

Kitty, of course, was an Archangel, so was Mrs. Alcot. Cliffe hadbelonged to them before his travels began. Louis Harman was more or lessof their tribe, and Lady Tranmore, though not herself an Archangel, entertained the set in London and in the country. Like various olderwomen connected with the group, she was not of them, but she "harbored"them. 

Darrell was well aware that he did not belong to them, though personallyhe was acquainted with almost all the members of the group. He was notcompletely indifferent to his exclusion; and this fact annoyed him morethan the exclusion itself. 

He had scarcely finished his inspection of the print when the door againopened and Geoffrey Cliffe entered. Darrell had not yet seen him sincehis return and since his attack on the government had made him the heroof the hour. Of the newspaper success Darrell was no less jealous andcontemptuous than Lady Tranmore, though for quite other reasons. But heknew better than she the intellectual quality of the man, and hisdisdain for the journalist was tempered by his considerable thoughreluctant respect for the man of letters. 

They greeted each other coolly, while Cliffe, not seeing his hostess, looked round him with annoyance. 

"Well, we shall probably entertain each other, " said Darrell, as theysat down. "Lady Kitty often forgets her engagements. "

"Does she?" said Cliffe, coldly, pretending to glance through a bookbeside him. It touched his vanity that his hostess was not present, andstill more that Darrell should suppose him a person to be forgotten. Darrell, however, who had no mind for any discomfort that might beavoided, made a few dexterous advances, Cliffe's brow relaxed, and theywere soon in conversation. 

The position of the ministry naturally presented itself as a topic. Twoor three retirements were impending, the whole position was precarious. Would the cabinet be reconstructed without a dissolution, or must therebe an appeal to the country?

Cliffe was passionately in favor of the latter course. The partyfortunes could not possibly be retrieved without a general shuffling ofthe cards, and an opportunity for some wholly fresh combinationinvolving new blood. 

"In any case, " said Cliffe, "I suppose our friend here is sure of one orother of the big posts?"

"William Ashe? Oh, I suppose so, unless some intrigue gets in the way. "Darrell dropped his voice. "Parham doesn't, in truth, hit it off withhim very well. Ashe is too clever, and Parham doesn't understand hisparadoxes. "

"Also I gather, " said Cliffe, with a smile, "that Lady Parham has hersay?"

Darrell shrugged his shoulders. 

"It sounds incredible that one should still have to reckon with thatkind of thing at this time of day. But I dare say it's true. "

"However, I imagine Lady Kitty--by-the-way, how much longer shall wegive her?"--Cliffe looked at his watch with a frown--"may be trusted totake care of that. "

Darrell merely raised his eyebrows, without replying. "What, not amatch for one Lady Parham?" said Cliffe, with a laugh. "I should havethought--from my old recollections of her--she would have been a matchfor twenty?"

"Oh, if she cared to try. "

"She is not ambitious?"

"Certainly; but not always for the same thing. "

"She is trying to run too many horses abreast?"

"Oh, I am not a great friend, " said Darrell, smiling. "I should neverdream of analyzing Lady Kitty. Ah!"--he turned his head--"are we notforgotten, or just remembered--which?"

For a rapid step approached, the door opened, and a lady appeared on thethreshold. It was not Kitty, however. The new-comer advanced, putting upa pair of fashionable eye-glasses, and looking at the two men in a kindof languid perplexity, intended, as Darrell immediately said to himself, merely to prolong the moment and the effect of her entry. Mrs. Alcot wasvery tall, and inordinately thin. Her dark head on its slim throat, thepoetic lines of the brow, her half-shut eyes, the gleam of her whiteteeth, and all the delicate detail of her dress, and, one might evensay, of her manner, gave an impression of beauty, though she was not, intruth, beautiful. But she had grace and she had daring--the twoessential qualities of an Archangel; she was also a remarkable artist, and no small critic. 

"Mr. Cliffe, " she said, with a start of what was evidently agreeablesurprise, "Kitty never told me. When did you come?"

"I arrived a few days ago. Why weren't you at the embassy last night?"

"Because I was much better employed. I have given up crushes. But Iwould have come--to meet you. Ah, Mr. Darrell!" she added, in anothertone, holding out an indifferent hand. "Where is Kitty?" She lookedround her. 

"Shall we order lunch?" said Darrell, who had given her a greeting ascareless as her own. 

"Kitty is really too bad; she is never less than an hour late, " saidMrs. Alcot, seating herself. "Last time she dined with us I asked herfor seven-thirty. She thought something very special must be happening, and arrived--breathless--at half-past eight. Then she was furious withme because she was not the last. But one can't do it twice. Well"--addressing herself to Cliffe--"are you come home to stay?"

"That depends, " said Cliffe, "on whether England makes itself agreeableto me. "

"What are your deserts? Why should England be agreeable to you?" shereplied, with a smiling sharpness. "You do nothing but croak aboutEngland. "

Thus challenged, Cliffe sat down beside her and they fell into abantering conversation. Darrell, though inwardly wounded by the smalltrouble they took to include him, let nothing appear, put in a word nowand then, or turned over the pages of the illustrated books. 

After five minutes a fresh guest arrived. In walked the little Dean, Dr. Winston, who had originally made acquaintance with Lady Kitty atGrosville Park. He came in overflowing with spirits and enthusiasm. Hehad been spending the morning in Westminster Abbey with another Deanmore famous though not more charming than himself, and with yet anothercongenial spirit, one of the younger historians, all of them passionatelovers of the rich human detail of the past, the actual men and women, kings, queens, bishops, executioners, and all the shreds and tattersthat remained of them. Together they had opened a royal tomb, and theDean's eyes were sparkling as though the ghost of the queen whose asheshe had been handling still walked and talked with him. 

He passed in his light, disinterested way through most sections ofEnglish society, though the slave of none; and he greeted Darrell andMrs. Alcot as acquaintances. Mrs. Alcot introduced Cliffe to him, andthe small Dean bowed rather stiffly. He was a supporter of thegovernment, and he thought Cliffe's campaign against them vulgar andunfair. 

"Is there no hope of Lady Kitty?" he said to Mrs. Alcot. 

"Not much. Shall we go down to lunch?"

"Without our hostess?" The Dean opened his eyes. 

"Oh, Kitty expects it, " said Mrs. Alcot, with affected resignation, "andthe servants are quite prepared. Kitty asks everybody to lunch--thensomebody asks her--and she forgets. It's quite simple. "

"Quite, " said Cliffe, buttoning up his coat, "but I think I shall go tothe club. "

He was looking for his hat, when again there was a commotion on thestairs--a high voice giving orders--and in burst Kitty. She stood stillas soon as she saw her guests, talking so fast and pouring out such aflood of excuses that no one could get in a word. Then she flew to eachguest in turn, taking them by both hands--Darrell only excepted--andshowing herself so penitent, amusing, and charming that everybody waspropitiated. It was Fanchette, of course--Fanchette the criminal, theincomparable. Her dress for the ball. Kitty raised eyes and hands toheaven--it would be a marvel, a miracle. Unless, indeed, she were lyingcold and quiet in her little grave before the time came to wear it. ButFanchette's tempers--Fanchette's caprices--no! Kitty began to mimic thegreat dressmaker torn to pieces by the crowd of fashionable ladies, stopping abruptly in the middle to say to Cliffe:

"You were going away? I saw you take up your hat. "

"I despaired of my hostess, " said Cliffe, with a smile. Then as heperceived that Mrs. Alcot had taken up the theme and was holding theothers in play, he added in a lower voice, "and I was in no mood forsecond-best. "

Kitty's eyes twinkled a moment as she turned them on Madeleine Alcot. 

"Ah, _I_ remember--at Grosville Park--what a bad temper you had. Youwould have gone away furious. "

"With disappointment--yes, " said Cliffe, as he looked at her with anadmiration he scarcely endeavored to conceal. Kitty was in black, but alarge hat of white tulle, in the most extravagant fashion of the day, made a frame for her hair and eyes, and increased the general lightnessand fantasy of her appearance. Cliffe tried to recall her as he hadfirst seen her at Grosville Park, but his recollection of the young girlcould not hold its own against the brilliant and emphatic reality beforehim. 

At luncheon it chafed him that he must divide her with the Dean. Yet shewas charming with the old man, who chatted history, art, and Paris toher, with a delightful innocence and ignorance of all that made LadyKitty Ashe the talk of the town, and an old-fashioned deference besides, that insensibly curbed her manner and her phrases as she answered him. Yet when the Dean left her free she returned to Cliffe, as though insome sort they two had really been talking all the time, through all theapparent conversation with other people. 

"I have read all your telegrams, " she said. "Why did you attack Williamso fiercely?"

Cliffe was taken by surprise, but he felt no embarrassment--her tone wasnot that of the wife in arms. 

"I attacked the official--not the man. William knows that. "

"He is coming in to-day if possible. He wanted to see you. "

"Good news! William knows that he would have hit just as hard in myplace. "

"I don't think he would, " said Kitty, calmly. "He is so generous. "

The color rushed to Cliffe's face. 

"Well scored! I wish I had a wife to play these strokes for me. I shallargue that a keen politician has no right to be generous. He is at war. "

Kitty took no notice. She leaned her little chin on her hand, and hereyes perused the face of her companion. 

"Where have you been--all the time--before America?"

"In the deserts--fighting devils, " said Cliffe, after a moment. 

"What does that mean?" she asked, wondering. 

"Read my new book. That will tell you about the deserts. "

"And the devils?"

"Ah, I keep them to myself. "

"Do you?" she said, softly. "I have just read your poems over again. "

Cliffe gave a slight start, then looked indifferent. 

"Have you? But they were written three years ago. Dieu merci, one findsnew devils like new acquaintances. "

She shook her head. 

"What do you mean?" he asked her, half amused, half arrested. 

"They are always the old, " she said, in a low voice. Their eyes met. Inhers was the same veiled, restless melancholy as in his own. Togetherwith the dazzling air of youth that surrounded her, the cherished, flattered, luxurious existence that she and her house suggested, theymade a strange impression upon him. "Does she mean me to understand thatshe is not happy?" he thought to himself. But the next moment she wasengaged in a merry chatter with the Dean, and all trace of the mood shehad thus momentarily shown him had vanished. 

Half-way through the luncheon, Ashe came in. He appeared, fresh andsmiling, irreproachably dressed, and showing no trace whatever of thehard morning of official work he had just passed through, nor of themany embarrassments which, as every one knew, were weighing on theForeign Office. The Dean, with his keen sense for the dramatic, watchedthe meeting between him and Cliffe with some closeness, having in mindthe almost personal duel between the two men--a duel of letters, telegrams, or speeches, which had been lately carried on in the sight ofEurope and America. For Ashe now represented the Foreign Office in theHouse of Commons, and had been much badgered by the Tory extremists whofollowed Cliffe. 

Naturally, being Englishmen, they met as though nothing had happened andthey had parted the day before in Pall Mall. A "Hullo, Ashe!" and"Hullo, Cliffe! glad to see you back again, " completed the matter. TheDean enjoyed it as a specimen of English "phlegm, " recalling withamusement his last visit to the Paris of the Second Empire--Paris tornbetween government and opposition, the _salons_ of the one divided fromthe _salons_ of the other by a sulphurous gulf, unless when some Lazarusof the moment, some well-known novelist or poet, cradled in theAbraham's bosom of Liberalism, passed amid shrieks of triumph or howlsof treason into the official inferno. 

Not that there was any avoiding of topics in this English case. Ashe hadno sooner slipped into his seat than he began to banter Cliffe upon aletter of a supporter which had appeared in that morning's _Times_. Itwas written by Lord S. , who had played the part of public "fool" forhalf a generation. To be praised by him was disaster, and Cliffe's flushshowed at once that the letter had caused him acute annoyance. He andAshe fell upon the writer, vying with each other in anecdotes that lefthim presently close-plucked and bare. 

"That's all very well, " said Kitty, amid the laughter which greeted thelast tale, "but he never told _you_ how he proposed to the second LadyS. "

And lifting a red strawberry, which she held poised against her red, laughing lips, she waited a moment--looking round her. "Go on, Kitty, "said Ashe, approvingly; "go on. "

Thus permitted, Kitty gave one of the little "scenes, " arranged fromsome experience of her own, which were very famous among her intimates. Ashe called them her "parlor tricks, " and was never tired of making herexhibit them. And now, just as at Grosville Park, she held her audience. She spoke without a halt, her small features answering perfectly toevery impulse of her talent, each touch of character or dialogue astelling as a malicious sense of comedy could make it; arms, hands, shoulders all aiding in the final result--a table swept by a very stormof laughter, in the midst of which Kitty quietly finished herstrawberry. 

"Well done, Kitty!" Ashe, who sat opposite to her, stretched his handacross, and patted hers. 

"Does she love him?" Cliffe asked himself, and could not make up hismind, closely as he tried to observe their relations. He was more andmore conscious of the exciting effect she produced on himself, doublyso, indeed, because of that sudden stroke of melancholy wherewith--likea Rembrandt shadow, she had thrown into relief the gayety and frivolityof her ordinary mood. 

The stimulus, whatever it was, played upon his vanity. He, too, soughtan opening and found it. Soon it was he who was monopolizing theconversation with an account of two days spent with Bismarck in aPrussian country-house, during the triumphant days of the winter whichfollowed on Sadowa. The story was brilliantly told, and of somepolitical importance. But it was disfigured by arrogance andaffectation, and Ashe's eyes began to dance a little. Cliffe meanwhilecould not forget that he was in the presence of a rival and an official, could not refrain after a while from a note of challenge here and there. The conversation diverged from the tale into matters of current foreignpolitics. Ashe, lounging and smoking, at first knew nothing, had heardof nothing, as usual. Then a comment or correction dropped out; Clifferepeated himself vehemently--only to provoke another. Presently, no oneknew how, the two men were measured against each other _corps àcorps_--the wide knowledge and trained experience of the ministeragainst the originality, the force, the fantastic imagination of thewriter. 

The Dean watched it with delight. He was very fond of Ashe, and liked tosee him getting the better of "the newspaper fellow. " Kitty's lovelybrown eyes travelled from one to the other. Now it seemed to the Deanthat she was proud of Ashe, now that she sympathized with Cliffe. Soon, however, like the god at Philippi, she swept upon the poet and bore himfrom the field. 

"Not a word more politics!" she said, peremptorily, to Ashe, holding upher hand. "_I_ want to talk to Mr. Cliffe about the ball. "

Cliffe was not very ready to obey. He had an angry sense of having beensomehow shown to disadvantage, and would like to have challenged hishost again. But Kitty poured balm into his wounds. She drew him apart alittle, using the play of her beautiful eyes for him only, and talkingto him in a new voice of deference. 

"You're going, of course? Lady M. Told me the other day she _must_ haveyou. "

Cliffe, still a little morose, replied that his invitation had beenwaiting for him at his London rooms. He gave the information carelessly, as though it did not matter to him a straw. In reality, as soon as, while still in America, he had seen the announcement of the bail in oneof the New York papers, he had written at once to the Marchioness whowas to give it--an old acquaintance of his--practically demanding aninvitation. It had been sent indeed with alacrity, and without waitingfor its arrival Cliffe had ordered his dress in Paris. Kitty inquiredwhat it was to be. 

"I told my man to copy a portrait of Alva. "

"Ah, that's right, " said Kitty, nodding--"that's right. Only it wouldhave been better if it had been Torquemada. "

Rather nettled, Cliffe asked what there might be about him that soforcibly suggested the Grand Inquisitor. Kitty, cigarette in hand, withhalf-shut eyes, did not answer immediately. She seemed to be perusinghis face with difficulty. 

"Strength, I suppose, " she said at last, slowly. Cliffe waited, thenburst into a laugh. 

"And cruelty?" She nodded. 

"Who are my victims?"

She said nothing. 

"Whose tales have you been listening to, Lady Kitty?"

She mentioned the name of a French lady. Cliffe changed countenance. 

"Ah, well, if you have been talking to her, " he said, haughtily, "youmay well expect to see me appear as Diabolus in person. "

"No. But it's since then that I've read the poems again. You see, youtell the public so much--"

"That you think you have the right to guess the rest?" He paused, thenadded, with impatience, "Don't guess, Lady Kitty. You have everythingthat life can give you. Let my secrets alone. "

There was silence. Kitty looking round her saw that Madeleine Alcot wasentertaining her other guests, and that she and Cliffe were unobserved. Suddenly Cliffe bent towards her, and said, with roughness, his facestruggling to conceal the feeling behind it:

"You heard--and you believed--that I tormented her--that I killed her?"

The anguish in his eyes seemed to strike a certain answering fire fromKitty's. 

"Yes, but--"

"But what?"

"I didn't think it very strange--"

Cliffe watched her closely. 

"--that a man should be--an inhuman beast--if he were jealous--anddesperate. You can sympathize with these things?"

She drew a long breath, and threw away the cigarette she had beenholding suspended in her small fingers. 

"I don't know anything about them. "

"Because, " he hesitated, "your own life has been so happy?"

She evaded him. "Don't you think that jealousy will soon be as deadas--saying your prayers and going to church? I never meet anybody thatcares enough--to be jealous. "

She spoke first with passionate force, then with contempt, glancingacross the room at Madeleine Alcot. Cliffe saw the look, and rememberedthat Mrs. Alcot's husband, a distinguished treasury official, had beenfor years the intimate friend of a very noble and beautiful woman, herself unhappily married. There was no scandal in the matter, thoughmuch talk. Mrs. Alcot meanwhile had her own affairs; her husband and shewere apparently on friendly terms; only neither ever spoke of the other;and their relations remained a mystery. 

Cliffe bent over to Kitty. 

"And yet you said you could understand?--such things didn't seem strangeto you. "

She gave a little, reckless laugh. 

"Did I? It's like the people who think they could act or sing, if theyonly had the chance. I choose to think I could feel. And of course Icouldn't. We've lost the power. All the old, horrible, splendid thingsare dead and done with. "

"The old passions, you mean?"

"And the old poems! _You'll_ never write like that again. "

"God forbid!" said Cliffe, under his breath. Then as Kitty rose hefollowed her with his eyes. "Lady Kitty, you've thrown me a challengethat you hardly understand. Some day I must answer it. "

"Don't answer it, " said Kitty, hastily. 

"Yes, if I can drag the words out, " he said, sombrely. She met his lookin a kind of fascination, excited by the memory of the story which hadbeen told her, by her own audacity in speaking of it, by the presence ofthe dead passion she divined lying shrouded and ghastly in the mind ofthe man beside her. Even the ugly things of which he was accused did butadd to the interest of his personality for a nature like hers, greedy ofexperience, and discontented with the real. 

While he on his side was nattered and astonished by her attitude towardshim, as Ashe's wife, she would surely dislike and try to trample on him. That was what he had expected. 

 * * * * *

"I hear you are an Archangel, Lady Kitty, " said the Dean, who, havingobstinately outstayed all the other guests, had now settled his smallperson and his thin legs into a chair beside his hostess with a view tofive agreeable minutes. He was the most harmless of social epicures, wasthe Dean, and he felt that Lady Kitty had defrauded him at lunch infavor of that great, ruffling, Byronic fellow Cliffe, who ought to havebetter taste than to come lunching with the Ashes. 

"Am I?" said Kitty, who had thrown herself into the corner of a sofa, and sat curled up there in an attitude which the Dean thought charming, though it would not, he was aware, "have become Mrs. Winston. 

"Well, you know best, " said the Dean. "But, at any rate, be good andexplain to me what is an Archangel. "

"Somebody whom most men and all women dislike, " said Kitty, promptly. 

"Yet they seem to be numerous, " remarked the Dean. 

"Not at all!" cried Kitty, with an air of offence; "not at all! If theywere numerous they would, of course, be popular. "

"And in fact they are rare--and detested? What other characteristicshave they?"

"Courage, " said Kitty, looking up. 

"Courage to break rules? I hear they all call one another by theirChristian names, and live in one another's rooms, and borrow oneanother's money, and despise conventionalities. I am sorry you are anArchangel, Lady Kitty. "

"I didn't admit that I was, " said Kitty, "but if I am, why are yousorry?"

"Because, " said the Dean, smiling, "I thought you were too clever todespise conventionalities. "

Kitty sat up with revived energy, and joined battle. She flew into atirade as to the dulness and routine of English life, the stupidity ofgood people, and the tyranny of English hypocrisy. The Dean listenedwith amusement, then with a shade of something else. At last he got upto go. 

"Well, you know, we have heard all that before. My point of view is somuch more interesting--subtle--romantic! Anybody can attack Mrs. Grundy, but only a person of originality can adore her. Try it, Lady Kitty. Itwould be really worth your while. "

Kitty mocked and exclaimed. 

"Do you know what that phrase--that name of abomination--always recallsto me?" pursued the old man. 

"It bores me, even to guess, " was Kitty's petulant reply. 

"Does it? I think of some of the noblest people I have ever known--bravemen--beautiful women--who fought Mrs. Grundy, and perished. "

The Dean stood looking down upon her, with an eager, sensitiveexpression. Tales that he had heeded very little when he had firstheard them ran through his mind; he had thought Lady Kitty's intimate_tête-à-tête_ with her husband's assailant in the press disagreeable andunseemly; and as for Mrs. Alcot, he had disliked her particularly. 

Kitty looked up unquelled. 

 "''Tis better to have fought and lost Than never to have fought at all--'"

she quoted, with one of her most radiant and provoking smiles. 

"Incorrigible!" cried the Dean, catching up his hat. "I see! Once anArchangel--always an Archangel. "

"Oh no!" said Kitty. "There may be 'war in heaven. '"

"Well, don't take Mrs. Alcot for a leader, that's all, " said the Dean, as he held out a hand of farewell. 

"And now I understand!" cried Kitty, triumphantly. "You detest my bestfriend. "

The Dean laughed, protested, and went. Ashe, who had been writingletters while Kitty and the Dean were talking, escorted the old man tothe door. 

 * * * * *

When he returned he found Kitty sitting with her hands in her lap, lostapparently in thought. 

"Darling, " he said, looking at his watch, "I must be off directly, but Ishould like to see the boy. "

Kitty started. She rang, and the child was brought down. He sat onKitty's knee, and Ashe coming to the sofa, threw an arm round them both. 

"You are not a bad-looking pair, " he said, kissing first Kitty and thenthe baby. "But he's rather pale, Kitty. I think he wants the country. "

Kitty said nothing, but she lifted the little white embroidered frockand looked at the twisted foot. Then Ashe felt her shudder. 

"Dear, don't be morbid!" he cried, resentfully. "He will have so muchbrains that nobody will remember that. Think of Byron. "

Kitty did not seem to have heard. 

"I remember so well when I first saw his foot--after your mother toldme--and they brought him to me, " she said, slowly. "It seemed to me itwas the end--"

"The end of what?"

"Of my dream. "

"What _do_ you mean, Kitty!"

"Do you remember the mask in the 'Tempest'? First Iris, with saffronwings, and rich Ceres, and great Juno--"

She half closed her eyes. 

"Then the nymphs and the reapers--dancing together on 'the short-grassedgreen, ' the sweetest, gayest show--"

She breathed the words out softly. "Then, suddenly--"

She sat up stiffly and struck her small hands together:

"Prospero starts and speaks. And in a moment--without warning--with 'astrange, hollow, and confused noise'"--she dragged the wordsdrearily--"_they heavily vanish_. That"--she pointed, shuddering, to thechild's foot--"was for me the sign of Prospero. "

Ashe looked at her with anxiety, finding it indeed impossible to laughat her. 

She was very pale, her breath came with difficulty, and she trembledfrom head to foot. He tried to draw her into his arms, but she held himaway. 

"That first year I had been so happy, " she continued, in the same voice. "Everything was so perfect, so glorious. Life was like a great pageant, in a palace. All the old terrors went. I often had fears as achild--fears I couldn't put into words, but that overshadowed me. Thenwhen I saw Alice--the shadow came nearer. But that was all gone. Ithought God was reconciled to me, and would always be kind to me now. And then I saw that foot, and I knew that He hated me still. He hadburned His mark into my baby's flesh. And I was never to be quite happyagain, but always in fear, fear of pain--and death--and grief--"

She paused. Her large eyes gazed into vacancy, and her whole slightframe showed the working of some mysterious and pitiful distress. 

A wave of poignant alarm swept through Ashe's mind, coupled also with acurious sense of something foreseen. He had never witnessed preciselythis mood in her before; but now that it was thus revealed, he wassuddenly aware "that something like it had been for long movingobscurely below the surface of her life. He took the child and laid himon the floor, where he rolled at ease, cooing to himself. Then he cameback to Kitty, and soothed her with extraordinary tenderness and skill. Presently she looked at him, as though some obscure trouble of which shehad been the victim had released her, and she were herself again. 

"Don't go away just yet, " she said, in a voice which was still low andshaken. He came close to her, again put his arms round her, and held heron his breast in silence. 

"That is heavenly!" he heard her say to herself after a while, in awhisper. 

"Kitty!" His eyes grew dim and he stooped to kiss her. 

"Heavenly--" she went on, still as though following out her own thoughtrather than speaking to him, "because one _yields_--_yields_! Life issuch tension--always. "

She closed her eyes quickly, and he watched the beautiful lashes lyingstill upon her cheek. With an emotion he could not explain--for it wasnot an emotion of the senses, just as her yielding had not been ayielding of the senses but a yielding of the soul--he continued to holdher in his arms, her life, her will given to him wholly, sighed out uponhis heart. 

 * * * * *

Then gradually she recovered her balance; the normal Kitty came back. She put out her hand and touched his face. 

"You must go back to the House, William. "

"Yes, if you are all right. "

She sat up, and began to rearrange some of her hair that had slippeddown. 

"You have carried us both into such heights and depths, darling!" saidAshe, after he had watched her a little in silence, "that I haveforgotten to tell you the gossip I brought back from mother thismorning. "

Kitty paused, interrogatively. She was still pale. 

"Do you know that mother is convinced Mary Lyster has made up her mindto marry Cliffe?"

There was a pause, then Kitty said, with incredulous contempt: "He wouldnever _dream_ of marrying her!"

"Not so sure! She has a great deal of money, and Cliffe wants moneybadly. "

Ashe began to put his papers together. Kitty questioned him a littlemore, intermittently, as to what his mother had said. When he had lefther, she sat for long on the sofa, playing with some flowers she hadtaken from her dress, or sombrely watching the child, as it lay on thefloor beside her. 

X

"My lady! It's come!"

The maid put her head in just to convey the good news. Kitty was in herbedroom walking up and down in a fury which was now almost speechless. 

The housemaid was waiting on the stairs. The butler was waiting in thehall. Till that hurried knock was heard at the front door, and themuch-tried Wilson had rushed to open it, the house had been wrapped in asort of storm silence. It was ten o'clock on the night of the ball. HalfKitty's costume lay spread out upon her bed. The other half--althoughsince seven o'clock all Kitty's servants had been employed in rushing toFanchette's establishment in New Bond Street, at half-hour intervals, inthe fastest hansoms to be found--had not yet appeared. 

However, here at last was the end of despair. A panting boy dragged thebox into the hall, the butler and footman carried it up-stairs and intotheir mistress's room, where Kitty in a white peignoir stood waiting, with the brow of Medea. 

"The boy that brought it looked just fit to drop, my lady!" said themaid, as she undid the box. She was a zealous servant, but she was gladsometimes to chasten these great ones of the land by insisting on theseamy side of their pleasures. 

Kitty paused in the eager task of superintendence, and turned to theunder-housemaid, who stood by, gazing open-mouthed at the splendorsemerging from the box. 

"Run down and tell Wilson to give him some wine and cake!" she said, peremptorily. "It's all Fanchette's fault--odious creature!--running itto the last like this--after all her promises!"

The housemaid went, and soon sped back. For no boy on earth would shehave been long defrauded of the sight of her ladyship's completed gown. 

"Did Wilson feed him?" Kitty flung her the question as she bent, alternately frowning and jubilant, over the creation before her. 

"Yes, my lady. It was quite a little fellow. He said his legs were justrun off his feet, " said the girl, growing confused as the moon-robeunfolded. 

"Poor wretch!" said Kitty, carelessly. "I'm glad I'm not anerrand--Blanche! you know Fanchette may be an old demon, but she _has_got taste! Just look at these folds, and the way she's put on thepearls! Now then--make haste!"

Off flew the peignoir, and, with the help of the excited maids, Kittyslipped into her dress. Ten times, over did she declare that it washopeless, that it didn't fit in the least, that it wasn't one bit whatshe had ordered, that she couldn't and wouldn't go out in it, that itwas simply scandalous, and Fanchette should never be paid a penny. Hermaids understood her, and simply went on pulling, patting, fastening, asquickly as their skilled fingers could work, till the last fold fellinto its place, and the under-housemaid stepped back with clasped handsand an "Oh, my lady!" couched in a note of irrepressible ecstasy. 

"Well?" said Kitty, still frowning--"eh, Blanche?"

The maid proper would have scorned to show emotion; but she noddedapproval. "If you ask me, my lady, I think you have never looked so wellin anything. "

Kitty's brow relaxed at last, as she stood gazing at the reflection inthe large glass before her. She saw herself as Artemis--á la Madame deLongueville--in a hunting-dress of white silk, descending to the ankles, embroidered from top to toe in crescents of seed pearls and silver, andheld at the waist by a silver girdle. Her throat was covered withmagnificent pearls, a Tranmore family possession, lent by Lady Tranmorefor the occasion. The slim ankles and feet were cased in white silk, cross-gartered with silver and shod with silver sandals. Her belt heldher quiver of white-winged arrows; her bow of ivory inlaid with silverwas slung at her shoulder, while across her breast, the only note ofcolor in the general harmony of white, fell a scarf of apple-greenholding the horn, also of ivory and silver, which, like the belt andbow, had been designed for her in Madame de Longueville's Paris. 

But neither she nor her model would have been finally content with anadornment so delicately fanciful and minute. Both Kitty and the goddessof the Fronde knew that they must hold their own in a crowd. For thisthere must be diamonds. The sleeves, therefore, on the white arms fellback from diamond clasps; the ivory spear in her right hand was toppedby a small genius with glittering wings; and in the masses of her fairhair, bound with pearl fillets, shone the large diamond crescent thatLady Tranmore had foreseen, with one small attendant star at eitherside. 

[Illustration: THE FINISHING TOUCHES]

"Well, upon my word, Kitty!" said a voice from her husband'sdressing-room. 

Kitty turned impetuously. 

"Do you like it?" she cried. Ashe approached. She lifted her horn to hermouth and stood tiptoe. The movement was enchanting; it had in it theyouth and freshness of spring woods; it suggested mountain distances andthe solitudes of high valleys. Intoxication spoke in Ashe's pulses; hewished the maids had been far away that he might have taken the goddessin his very human arms. Instead of which he stood lazily smiling. 

"What Endymion are you calling?" he asked her. "Kitty, you are a dream!"

Kitty pirouetted, then suddenly stopped short and held out a foot. 

"Look at those silk things, sir. Nobody but Fanchette could have madethem look anything but a botch. But they spoil the dress. And all toplease mother and Mrs. Grundy!"

"I like them. I suppose--the nearest you could get to buskins? You wouldhave preferred ankles _au naturel_? I don't think you'd have beenadmitted, Kitty. "

"Shouldn't I? And so few people have feet they can show!" sighed Kitty, regretfully. 

Ashe's eyes met those of the maid, who was trying to hide her smiles, and he and she both laughed. 

"What do you think about it, eh, Blanche?"

"I think her ladyship is much better as she is, " said the maid, decidedly. "She'd have felt very strange when she got there. "

Kitty turned upon her like a whirlwind. "Go to bed!" she said, puttingboth hands on the shoulders of the maid. "Go to bed at once! Esther cangive me my cloak. Do you know, William, she was awake all last nightthinking of her brother?"

"The brother who has had an operation? But I thought there was goodnews?" said Ashe, kindly. 

"He's much better, " put in Kitty. "She heard this afternoon. She won'tbe such a goose as to lie awake, I Should hope, to-night. Don't let mecatch you here when I get back!" she said, releasing the girl, whoseeyes had filled with tears. "Mr. Ashe will help me, and if he pulls thestrings into knots, I Shall just cut them--so there! Go away, get yoursupper, and go to bed. Such a life as I've led them all to-day!" Shethrew up her hands in a perfunctory penitence. 

The maid was forced to go, and the housemaid also returned to the hallwith Kitty's Opera-cloak and fan, till it should please her mistress todescend. Both of them were dead tired, but they took a genuinedisinterested pleasure in Kitty's beauty and her fine frocks. She wasnot by any means always considerate of them; but still, with thatwonderful generosity that the poor show every day to the rich, theyliked her; and to Ashe every servant in the house was devoted. 

Kitty meanwhile had driven Ashe to his own toilette, and was walkingabout the room, now Studying herself in the glass, and now chattering tohim through the open door. 

"Have you heard anything more about Tuesday?" she asked him, presently. 

"Oh yes!--compliments by the dozen. Old Parham overtook me as I waswalking away from the House, and said all manner of civil things. "

"And I met Lady Parham in Marshall's, " said Kitty. "She does thank sobadly! I should like to show her how to do it. Dear me!" Kitty sighed. "Am I henceforth to live and die on Lady Parham's ample breast?"

She sat with one foot beating the floor, deep in meditation. 

"And shall I tell you what mother said?" shouted Ashe through the door. 

"Yes. "

He repeated--so fat as dressing would let him a number of the charmingand considered phrases in which Lady Tranmore, full of relief, pleasure, and a secret self-reproach, had expressed to him the effect producedupon herself and a select public by Kitty's performance at the Parhams'. Kitty had indeed behaved like an angel--an angel _en toilette de bal_, reciting a scene from Alfred de Musset. Such politeness to Lady Parham, such smiles, sometimes a shade malicious, for the Prime Minister, who onhis side did his best to efface all memory of his speech of the weekbefore from the mind of his fascinating guest; smiles from the Princess, applause from the audience; an evening, in fact, all froth andsweetstuff, from which Lady Parham emerged grimly content, conscious atthe same time that she was henceforward very decidedly, and ratherdisagreeably, in the Ashes' debt; while Elizabeth Tranmore went home ina tremor of delight, happily persuaded that Ashe's path was now clear. 

Kitty listened, sometimes pleased, sometimes inclined to be critical orscornful of her mother-in-law's praise. But she did love Lady Tranmore, and on the whole she smiled. Smiles, indeed, had been Kitty's portionsince that evening of strange emotion, when she had found herselfsobbing in William's arms for reasons quite beyond her own defining. Itwas as if, like the prince in the fairy tale, some iron band round herheart had given way. She seemed to dance through the house; she devouredher child with kisses; and she was even willing sometimes to let Williamtell her what his mother suspected of the progress of Mary's affair withGeoffrey Cliffe, though she carefully avoided speaking directly to LadyTranmore about it. As to Cliffe himself, she seemed to have dropped himout of her thoughts. She never mentioned him, and Ashe could onlysuppose she had found him disenchanting. 

"Well, darling! I hope I have made a sufficient fool of myself to pleaseyou!"

Ashe had thrown the door wide, and stood on the threshold, arrayed inthe brocade and fur of a Venetian noble. He was a somewhat magnificentapparition, and Kitty, who had coaxed or driven him into the dress, gavea scream of delight. She saw him before her own glass, and the crimsonsenator made eyes at the white goddess as they posed triumphantlytogether. 

"You're a very rococo sort of goddess, you know, Kitty!" said Ashe. "Notmuch Greek about you!"

"Quite as much as I want, thank you, " said Kitty, courtesying to her ownreflection in the glass. "Fanchette could have taught them a thing ortwo! Now come along! Ah! Wait!"

And, gathering up her possessions, she left the room. Ashe, followingher, saw that she was going to the nursery, a large room on the backstaircase. At the threshold she turned back and put her finger to herlip. Then she slipped in, reappearing a moment afterwards to say, in awhisper, "Nurse is not in bed. You may come in. " Nurse, indeed, knewmuch better than to be in bed. She had been sitting up to see herladyship's splendors, and she rose smiling as Ashe entered the room. 

"A parcel of idiots, nurse, aren't we?" he said, as he, too, displayedhimself, and then he followed Kitty to the child's bedside. She bentover the baby, removed a corner of the cot-blanket that might tease hischeek, touched the mottled hand softly, removed a light that seemed toher too near--and still stood looking. 

"We must go, Kitty. "

"I wish he were a little older, " she said, discontentedly, under herbreath, "that he might wake up and see us both! I should like him toremember me like this. "

"Queen and huntress, come away!" said Ashe, drawing her by the hand. 

Outside the landing was dimly lighted. The servants were all waiting inthe hall below. 

"Kitty, " said Ashe, passionately, "give me one kiss. You're so sweetto-night--so sweet!"

She turned. 

"Take care of my dress!" she smiled, and then she held out her faceunder its sparkling crescent, held it with a dainty deliberation, andlet her lips cling to his. 

 * * * * *

Ashe and Kitty were soon wedged into one of the interminable lines ofcarriages that blocked all the approaches to St. James's Square. Theball had been long expected, and there was a crowd in the streets, keptback by the police. The brougham went at a foot's pace, and there wasample time either for reverie or conversation. Kitty looked outincessantly, exclaiming when she caught sight of a costume or anacquaintance. Ashe had time to think over the latest phase of thenegotiations with America, and to go over in his mind the sentences of aletter he had addressed to the _Times_ in answer to one of greatviolence from Geoffrey Cliffe. His own letter had appeared that morning. Ashe was proud of it. He made bold to think that it exposed Cliffe'sexaggerations and insincerities neatly, and perhaps decisively. At anyrate, he hummed a cheerful tune as he thought of it. 

Then suddenly and incongruously a recollection occurred to him. 

"Kitty, do you know that I had a letter from your mother, this morning?"

"Had you?" said Kitty, turning to him with reluctance. "I suppose shewanted some money. "

"She did. She says she is very hard up. If I cared to use it, I have aneasy reply. "

"What do you mean?"

"I might say, ' D---n it, we are, too!'"

Kitty laughed uneasily. 

"Don't begin to talk money matters now, William, _please_. "

"No, dear, I won't. But we shall really have to draw in. "

"You _will_ pay so many debts!" said Kitty, frowning. 

Ashe went into a fit of laughter. 

"That's my extravagance, isn't it? I assure you I go on the mostapproved principles. I divide our available money among the greatestnumber of hungry claimants it will stretch to. But, after all, it goes abeggarly short way. "

"I know mother will think my diamond crescent a horrible extravagance, "said Kitty, pouting. "But you are the only son, William, and we mustbehave like other people. "

"Dear, don't trouble your little head, " he said; "I'll manage it, somehow. "

Indeed, he knew very well that he could never bring his own indolent andeasy-going temper in such matters to face any real struggle with Kittyover money. He must go to his mother, who now--his father being ahopeless invalid--managed the estates with his own and the agent's help. It was, of course, right that she should preach to Kitty a little; butshe would be sensible and help them out. After all, there was plenty ofmoney. Why shouldn't Kitty spend it?

Any one who knew him well might have observed a curious contrast betweenhis private laxity in these matters and the strictness of his publicpractice. He was scruple and delicacy itself in all financial mattersthat touched his public life--directorships, investments, and the like, no less than in all that concerned interest and patronage. He would havebeen a bold man who had dared to propose to William Ashe any expedientwhatever by which his public place might serve his private gain. Hisproud and fastidious integrity, indeed, was one of the sources of hisgrowing power. But as to private debts--and the tradesmen to whom theywere owed--his standards were still essentially those of the Whigs fromwhom he descended, of Fox, the all-indebted, or of Melbourne, who hasleft an amusing disquisition on the art of dividing a few loaves andfishes in the shape of bank-notes among a multitude of creditors. 

Not that affairs were as yet very bad. Far from it. But there was littleto spare for Madame d'Estrées, who ought, indeed, to want nothing; andAshe was vaguely meditating his reply to that lady when a face in acarriage near them, which was trying to enter the line, caught hisattention. 

"Mary!" he said, "à la Sir Joshua--and mother. They don't see us. Query, will Cliffe take the leap to-night? Mother reports a decided increase ofardor on his part. Sorry you don't approve of it, darling!"

"It's just like lighting a lamp to put it out--that's all!" said Kitty, with vivacity. "The man who marries Mary is done for. "

"Not at all. Mary's money will give him the pedestal he wants, and trustCliffe to take care of his own individuality afterwards! Now, if you'lltransfer your alarms to _Mary_, I'm with you!"

"Oh! of _course_ he'll be unkind to her. She may lay her account forthat. But it's the _marrying_ her!" And Kitty's upper-lip curled under aslow disdain. 

William laughed out. 

"Kitty, really!--you remind me, please, of Miss Jane Taylor:

 "'I did not think there could be found--a little heart so hard!'

Mary is thirty; she would like to be married. And why not? She'll givequite as good as she gets. "

"Well, she won't get--anything. Geoffrey Cliffe thinks of no one buthimself. "

Ashe's eyebrows went up. 

"Oh, well, all men are selfish--and the women don't mind. "

"It depends on how it's done, " said Kitty. 

Ashe declared that Cliffe was just an ordinary person, "l'homme sensuelmoyen"--with a touch of genius. Except for that, no better and no worsethan other people. What then?--the world was not made up of persons ofenormous virtue like Lord Althorp and Mr. Gladstone. If Mary wanted himfor a husband, and could capture him, both, in his opinion, would havepretty nearly got their deserts. 

Kitty, however, fell into a reverie, after which she let him see a faceof the same startling sweetness as she had several times shown him oflate. 

"Do you want me to be nice to her?" She nestled up to him. 

"Bind her to your chariot wheels, madam! You can!" said Ashe, slipping ahand round hers. 

Kitty pondered. 

"Well, then, I won't tell her that I _know_ he's still in love with theFrenchwoman. But it's on the tip of my tongue. "

"Heavens!" cried Ashe. "The Vicomtesse D---, the lady of the poems? Butshe's dead! I thought that was over long ago. "

Kitty was silent for a moment, then said, with low-voiced emphasis:

"That any one could write those poems, and then _think_ of Mary!"

"Yes, the poems were fine, " said Ashe, "but make-believe!"

Kitty protested indignantly. Ashe bantered her a little on being one ofthe women who were the making of Cliffe. 

"Say what you like!" she said, drawing a quick breath. "But, often andoften, he says divine things--divinely! I feel them there!" And shelifted both hands to her breast with an impulsive gesture. 

"Goddess!" said Ashe, kissing her hand because enthusiasm became her sowell. "And to think that I should have dared to roast the divine one ina _Times_ letter this morning!"

 * * * * *

The hall and staircase of Yorkshire House were already filled with amotley and magnificent crowd when Ashe and Kitty arrived. Kitty, stillshrouded in her cloak, pushed her way through, exchanging greetings withfriends, shrieking a little now and then for the safety of her bow andquiver, her face flushed with pleasure and excitement. Then shedisappeared into the cloak-room, and Ashe was left to wonder how he wasgoing to endure his robes through the heat of the evening, and toexchange a laughing remark or two with the Parliamentary Secretary tothe Admiralty, into whose company he had fallen. 

"What are we doing it for?" he asked the young man, whose thin personwas well set off by a Tudor dress. 

"Oh, don't be superior!" said the other. "I'm going to enjoy myself likea school-boy!"

And that, indeed, seemed to be the attitude of most of the peoplepresent. And not only of the younger members of the dazzling company. What struck Ashe particularly, as he mingled with the crowd, was thealacrity of the elder men. Here was a famous lawyer already nearing theseventies, in the Lord Chancellor's garb of a great ancestor; here anex-Viceroy of Ireland with a son in the government, magnificent in anElizabethan dress, his fair bushy hair and reddish beard shining above adoublet on which glittered a jewel given to the founder of his house byElizabeth's own hand; next to him, a white-haired judge in the robes ofJudge Gascoyne; a peer, no younger, at his side, in the red and blue ofMazarin: and showing each and all in their gay complacent looks a clearrevival of that former masculine delight in splendid clothes which cameso strangely to an end with that older world on the ruins of whichNapoleon rose. So with the elder women. For this night they were youngagain. They had been free to choose from all the ages a dress thatsuited them; and the result of this renewal of a long-relinquishedeagerness had been in many cases to call back a bygone self, and thetones and gestures of those years when beauty is its own chief care. 

As for the young men, the young women, and the girls, the zest andpleasure of the show shone in their eyes and movements, and spreadthrough the hall and up the crowded staircase, like a warm, contagiousatmosphere. At all times, indeed, and in all countries, an aristocracyhas been capable of this sheer delight in its own splendor, wealth, goodlooks, and accumulated treasure; whether in the Venice that Petrarchvisited; or in the Rome of the Renaissance popes; in the Versailles ofthe Grand Monarque; or in the Florence of to-day, which still at momentsof _festa_ reproduces in its midst all the costumes of the Cinque-cento. 

In this English case there was less dignity than there would have beenin a Latin country, and more personal beauty; less grace, perhaps, andyet a something richer and more romantic. 

At the top of the stairs stood a marquis in a dress of the ItalianRenaissance, a Gonzaga who had sat for Titian; beside him a fair-hairedwife in the white satin and pearls of Henrietta Maria; while up themarble stairs, watched by a laughing multitude above, streamedGainsborough girls and Reynolds women, women from the courts ofElizabeth, or Henri Quatre, of Maria Theresa, or Marie Antoinette, thefigures of Holbein and Vandyck, Florentines of the Renaissance, theyouths of Carpaccio, the beauties of Titian and Veronese. 

"Kitty, make haste!" cried a voice in front, as Kitty began to mount thestairs. "Your quadrille is just called. "

Kitty smiled and nodded, but did not hurry her pace by a second. Thestaircase was not so full as it had been, and she knew well as shemounted it, her slender figure drawn to its full height, her eyesflashing greeting and challenge to those in the gallery, the diamondgenius on her spear glittering above her, that she held the stage, andthat the play would not begin without her. 

And indeed her dress, her brilliance, and her beauty let loose a hum ofconversation--not always friendly. 

"What is she?" "Oh, something mythological! She's in the nextquadrille. " "My dear, she's Diana! Look at her bow and quiver, and themoon in her hair. " "Very incorrect!--she ought to have the toweredcrown!" "Absurd, such a little thing to attempt Diana! I'd back Actæon!"

The latter remark was spoken in the ear of Louis Harman, who stood inthe gallery looking down. But Harman shook his head. 

"You don't understand. She's not Greek, of course; but she's fairyland. A child of the Renaissance, dreaming in a wood, would have seen Artemisso--dressed up and glittering, and fantastic--as the Florentines sawVenus. Small, too, like the fairies!--slipping through the leaves; smallhounds, with jewelled collars, following her!"

He smiled at his own fancy, still watching Kitty with his painter'seyes. 

"She has seen a French print somewhere, " said Cliffe, who stood closeby. "More Versailles in it than fairyland, I think!"

"It is _she_ that is fairyland, " said Harman, still fascinated. 

Cliffe's expression showed the sarcasm of his thought. Fairy, perhaps!--with the touch of malice and inhuman mischief that alltradition attributes to the little people. Why, after that firstmeeting, when the conversation of a few minutes had almost swept theminto the deepest waters of intimacy, had she slighted him so, in otherdrawing-rooms and on other occasions? She had actually neglected andavoided him--after having dared to speak to him of his secret! And nowAshe's letter of the morning had kindled afresh his sense of rancoragainst a pair of people, too prosperous and too arrogant. The strokein the _Times_ had, he knew, gone home; his vanity writhed under it, andthe wish to strike back tormented him, as he watched Ashe mountingbehind his wife, so handsome, careless, and urbane, his jewelled capdangling in his hand. 

 * * * * *

The quadrille of gods and goddesses was over. Kitty had been dancingwith a fine clumsy Mars, in ordinary life an honest soldier anddeer-stalker, the heir to a Scotch dukedom; having as her _vis-à-vis_Madeleine Alcot--as the Flora of Botticelli's "Spring"--and slim asMercury in fantastic Renaissance armor. All the divinities of thePantheon, indeed, were there, but in Gallicized or Italianate form;scarcely a touch of the true antique, save in the case of one beautifulgirl who wore a Juno dress of white whereof the clinging folds had beenarranged for her by a young Netherlands painter, Mr. Alma Tadema, thennewly settled in this country. Kitty at first envied her; then decidedthat she herself could have made no effect in such a gown, and threw herthe praises of indifference. 

When, to Kitty's sharp regret, the music stopped and the glittering crewof immortals melted into the crowd, she found behind her a row ofdancers waiting for the quadrille which was to follow. This was toconsist entirely of English pictures revived--Reynolds, Gainsborough, and Romney--and to be danced by those for whose families they had beenoriginally painted. As she drew back, looking eagerly to right and left, she came across Mary Lyster. Mary wore her hair high and powdered--ablack silk scarf over white satin, and a blue sash. 

"Awfully becoming!" said Kitty, nodding to her. "Who are you?"

"My great-great aunt!" said Mary, courtesying. "You, I see, go evenfarther back. "

"Isn't it fun?" said Kitty, pausing beside her. "Have you seen William?Poor dear! he's so hot. How do you do?" This last careless greeting wasaddressed to Cliffe, whom she now perceived standing behind Mary. 

Cliffe bowed stiffly. 

"Excuse me. I did not see you. I was absorbed in your dress. You areArtemis, I see--with additions. "

"Oh! I am an 'article de Paris, '" said Kitty. "But it seems odd thatsome people should take me for Joan of Arc. " Then she turned to Mary. "Ithink your dress is quite lovely!" she said, in that warm, shy voice sherarely used except for a few intimates, and had never yet been known towaste on Mary. "Don't you admire it enormously, Mr. Cliffe?"

"Enormously, " said Cliffe, pulling at his mustache. "But by now mycompliments are stale. "

"Is he cross about William's letter?" thought Kitty. "Well, let's leavethem to themselves. "

Then, as she passed him, something in the silent personality of the manarrested her. She could not forbear a look at him over her shoulder. "Are you--Oh! of course, I remember--" for she had recognized the dressand cap of the Spanish grandee. 

Cliffe did not reply for a moment, but the harsh significance of hisface revived in her the excitable interest she had felt in him on theday of his luncheon in Hill Street; an interest since effaced anddispersed, under the influence of that serenity and home peace whichhad shone upon her since that very day. 

"I should apologize, no doubt, for not taking your advice, " he said, looking her in the eyes. Their expression, half bitter, half insolent, reminded her. 

"Did I give you any advice?" Kitty wrinkled up her white brows. "I don'trecollect. "

Mary looked at her sharply, suspiciously. Kitty, quite conscious of thelook, was straightway pricked by an elfish curiosity. Could she carryhim off--trouble Mary's possession there and then? She believed shecould. She was well aware of a certain relation between herself andCliffe, if, at least, she chose to develop it. Should she? Her vanityinsisted that Mary could not prevent it. 

However, she restrained herself and moved on. Presently looking back, she saw them still together, Cliffe leaning against the pedestal of abust, Mary beside him. There was an animation in her eyes, a rose ofpleasure on her cheek which stirred in Kitty a queer, sudden sympathy. "I _am_ a little beast!" she said to herself. "Why shouldn't she behappy?"

Then, perceiving Lady Tranmore at the end of the ballroom, she made herway thither surrounded by a motley crowd of friends. She walked asthough on air, "raining influence. " And as Lady Tranmore caught theglitter of the diamond crescent, and beheld the small divinity beneathit, she, too, smiled with pleasure, like the other spectators on Kitty'smarch. The dress was monstrously costly. She knew that. But she forgotthe inroad on William's pocket, and remembered only to be proud ofWilliam's wife. Since the Parhams' party, indeed, the unlooked-forsubmission of Kitty, and the clearing of William's prospects, LadyTranmore had been sweetness itself to her daughter-in-law. 

But her fine face and brow were none the less inclined to frown. Sheherself as Katharine of Aragon would have shed a dignity on any scene, but she was in no sympathy with what she beheld. 

"We shall soon all of us be ashamed of this kind of thing, " she declaredto Kitty. "Just as people now are beginning to be ashamed of enormoushouses and troops of servants. "

"No, please! Only bored with them!" said Kitty. "There are so many otherways now of amusing yourself--that's all. "

"Well, this way will die out, " said Lady Tranmore. "The cost of it istoo scandalous--people's consciences prick them. "

Kitty vowed she did not believe there was a conscience in the room; andthen, as the music struck up, she carried off her companion to somesteps overlooking the great marble gallery, where they had a better viewof the two lines of dancers. 

It is said that as a nation the English have no gift for pageants. Yetevery now and then--as no doubt in the Elizabethan mask--they show astrange felicity in the art. Certainly the dance that followed wouldhave been difficult to surpass even in the ripe days and motherlands ofpageantry. To the left, a long line, consisting mainly of young girls intheir first bloom, dressed as Gainsborough and his great contemporariesdelighted to paint these flowers of England--the folds of plain whitemuslin crossed over the young breast, a black velvet at the throat, arose in the hair, the simple skirt showing the small pointed feet, andsometimes a broad sash defining the slender waist. Here were Stanleys, Howards, Percys, Villierses, Butlers, Osbornes--soft slips of girlsbearing the names of England's rough and turbulent youth, bearingthemselves to-night with a shy or laughing dignity, as though the touchof history and romance were on them. And facing them, the youths of thesame families, no less handsome than their sisters and brides--inRomney's blue coats, or the splendid red of Reynolds and Gainsborough. 

To and fro swayed the dancers, under the innumerable candles that filledthe arched roof and upper walls of the ballroom; and each time the linesparted they disclosed at the farther end another pageant, to which thatof the dance was in truth subordinate--a dais hung with blue and silver, and upon it a royal lady whose beauty, then in its first bloom, has beena national possession, since as, the "sea-king's daughter" she broughtit in dowry to her adopted country. To-night she blazed in jewels as aValois queen, with her court around her, and as the dancers receded, each youth and maiden seemed instinctively to turn towards her as rosesto the sun. 

"Oh, beautiful, beautiful world!" said Kitty to herself, in an ecstasy, pressing her small hands together; "how I love you!--_love_ you!"

 * * * * *

Meanwhile Darrell and Harman stood side by side near the doorway of theballroom, looking in when the crowd allowed. 

"A strange sight, " said Harman. "Perhaps they take it too seriously. "

"Ah! that is our English upper class, " said Darrell, with a sneer. "Isthere anything they take lightly?--_par exemple!_ It seems to me theycarry off this amusement better than most. They may be stupid, but theyare good-looking. I say, Ashe"--he turned towards the new-comer who hadjust sauntered up to them--"on this exceptional occasion, is it allowedto congratulate you on Lady Kitty's gown?"

For Kitty, raised upon her step, was at the moment in full view. 

Ashe made some slight reply, the slightest of which indeed annoyed thethin-skinned and morbid Darrell, always on the lookout for affronts. ButLouis Harman, who happened to observe the Under-Secretary's glance athis wife, said to himself, "By George! that queer marriage is turningout well, after all. "

 * * * * *

The Tudor and Marie Antoinette quadrilles had been danced. There was arumor of supper in the air. 

"William!" said Kitty, in his ear, as she came across him in one of thedrawing-rooms, "Lord Hubert takes me in to supper. Poor me!" She made anextravagant face of self-pity and swept on. Lord Hubert was one of thesons of the house, a stupid and inarticulate guardsman, Kitty's butt anddetestation. Ashe smiled to himself over her fate, and went back to theballroom in search of his own lady. 

Meanwhile Kitty paused in the next drawing-room, and dismissed herfollowing. 

"I promised to wait here for Lord Hubert, " she said. "You go on, oryou'll get no tables. "

And she waved them peremptorily away. The drawing-room, one of a suitewhich looked on the garden, thinned temporarily. In a happy fatigue, Kitty leaned dreamily over the ledge of one of the open windows, lookingat the illuminated space below her. Amid the colored lights, figures ofdream and fantasy walked up and down. In the midst flashed aflame-colored fountain. The sounds of a Strauss waltz floated in theair. And beyond the garden and its trees rose the dull roar of London. 

A silk curtain floated out into the room under the westerly breeze, then, returning, sheathed Kitty in its folds. She stood there hidden, amusing herself like a child with the thought of startling that greatheavy goose, Lord Hubert. 

Suddenly a pair of voices that she knew caught her ear. Two persons, passing through, lingered, without perceiving her. Kitty, after a firstmovement of self-disclosure, caught her own name and stood motionless. 

"Well, of course you've heard that we got through, " said Lady Parham. "For once Lady Kitty behaved herself!"

"You were lucky!" said Mary Lyster. "Lady Tranmore was dreadfullyanxious--"

"Lest she should cut us at the last?" cried Lady Parham. "Well, ofcourse, Lady Kitty is 'capable de tout. '" She laughed. "But perhaps asyou are a cousin I oughtn't to say these things. "

"Oh, say what you like, " said Mary. "I am no friend of Kitty's, andnever pretended to be. "

Lady Parham came closer, apparently, and said, confidentially: "What onearth made that man marry her? He might have married anybody. She hadno money, and worse than no position. "

"She worked upon his pity, of course, a good deal. I saw them in theearly days at Grosville Park. She played her cards very cleverly. Andthen, it was just the right moment. Lady Tranmore had been urging him tomarry. "

"Well, of course, " said Lady Parham, "there's no denying the beauty. "

"You think so?" said Mary, as though in wonder. "Well, I never could seeit. And now she has so much gone off. "

"I don't agree with you. Many people think her the star to-night. Mr. Cliffe, I am told, admires her. "

Kitty could not see how the eyes of the speaker, under a Sir Joshuaturban, studied the countenance of Miss Lyster, as she threw out thewords. 

Mary laughed. 

"Poor Kitty! She tried to flirt with him long ago--just after shearrived in London, fresh out of the convent. It was so funny! He told meafterwards he never was so embarrassed in his life--this baby makingeyes at him! And now--oh no!"

"Why not now? Lady Kitty's very much the rage, and Mr. Cliffe likesnotoriety. "

"But a notoriety with--well, with some style, some distinction! Kitty'ssort is so cheap and silly. "

"Ah, well, she's not to be despised, " said Lady Parham. "She's as cleveras she can be. But her husband will have to keep her in order. "

"Can he?" said Mary. "Won't she always be in his way?"

"Always, I should think. But he must have known what he was about. Whydidn't his mother interfere? Such a family!--such a history!"

"She did interfere, " said Mary. "We all did our best"--she dropped hervoice--"I know I did. But it was no use. If men like spoiled childrenthey must have them, I suppose. Let's hope he'll learn how to manageher. Shall we go on? I promised to meet my supper-partner in thelibrary. "

They moved away. 

 * * * * *

For some minutes Kitty stood looking out, motionless, but the beating ofher heart choked her. Strange ancestral things--things of evil--thingsof passion--had suddenly awoke, as it were, from sleep in the depths ofher being, and rushed upon the citadel of her life. A change had passedover her from head to foot. Her veins ran fire. 

At that moment, turning round, she saw Geoffrey Cliffe enter the room inwhich she stood. With an impetuous movement she approached him. 

"Take me down to supper, Mr. Cliffe. I can't wait for Lord Hubert anymore, I'm _so_ hungry!"

"Enchanted!" said Cliffe, the color leaping into his tanned face as helooked down upon the goddess. "But I came to find--"

"Miss Lyster? Oh, she is gone in with Mr. Darrell. Come with me. I havea ticket for the reserved tent. We shall have a delicious corner toourselves. "

And she took from her glove the little coveted paste-board, which--handed about in secret to a few intimates of the house--gaveaccess to the sanctum sanctorum of the evening. 

Cliffe wavered. Then his vanity succumbed. A few minutes later thesupper guests in the tent of the _élite_ saw the entrance of a darklysplendid Duke of Alva, with a little sandalled goddess. All compact, itseemed, of ivory and fire, on his arm. 

XI

The spring freshness of London, had long since departed. A crowdedseason; much animation in Parliament, where the government, to its ownamazement, had rather gained than lost ground; industrial trouble athome, and foreign complications abroad; and in London the steady growthof a new plutocracy, the result, so far, of American wealth and Americanbrides. In the first week of July, the outward things of the momentmight have been thus summed up by any careful observer. 

On a certain Tuesday night, the debate on a private member's billunexpectedly collapsed, and the House rose early. Ashe left the Housewith his secretary, but parted from him at the corner of Birdcage Walk, and crossed the park alone. He meant to join Kitty at a party inPiccadilly; there was just time to go home and dress; and he walked at aquick pace. 

Two members sitting on the same side of the House with himself were alsogoing home. One of them noticed the Under-Secretary. 

"A very ineffective statement Ashe made to-night--don't you think so?"he said to his companion. 

"Very! Really, if the government can't take up a stronger line, thegeneral public will begin to think there's something in it. "

"Oh, if you only shriek long enough and sharp enough in Englandsomething's sure to come of it. Cliffe and his group have been playing avery shrewd game. The government will get their agreement approved allright, but Cliffe has certainly made some people on our side uneasy. However--"

"However, what?" said the other, after a moment. 

"I wish I thought that were the only reason for Ashe's change of tone, "said the first speaker, slowly. 

"What do you mean?"

The two were intimate personal friends, belonging, moreover, to a groupof evangelical families well known in English life; but even so, theanswer came with reluctance:

"Well, you see, it's not very easy to grapple in public with the manwhose name all smart London happens to be coupling with that of yourwife!"

"I say"--the other stood still, in genuine consternation anddistress--"you don't mean to say that there's that in it!"

"You notice that the difference is not in _what_ Ashe says, but in _how_he says it. He avoids all personal collision with Cliffe. The governmentstick to their case, but Ashe mentions everybody but Cliffe, andconfutes all arguments but his. And meanwhile, of course, the truth isthat Cliffe is the head and front of the campaign, and if he threw upto-morrow, everything would quiet down. "

"And Lady Kitty is flirting with him at this particular moment? Damnedbad taste and bad feeling, to say the least of it!"

"You won't find one of the Bristol lot consider that kind of thing whentheir blood is up!" said the other. "You remember the tales of old LordBlackwater?"

"But is there really any truth in it? Or is it mere gossip?"

"Well, I hear that the behavior of both of them at Grosville Park lastweek was such that Lady Grosville vows she will never ask either of themagain. And at Ascot, at Lord's, the opera, Lady Kitty sits with him, talks with him, walks with him, the whole time, and won't look at anyone else. They must be asked together or neither will come--and'society, ' as far as I can make out, thinks it a good joke and is alwaysmaking plans to throw them together. "

"Can't Lady Tranmore do anything?"

"I don't know. They say she is very unhappy about it. Certainly shelooks ill and depressed. "

"And Ashe?"

His companion hesitated. "I don't like to say it, but, of course, youknow there are many people who will tell you that Ashe doesn't caretwopence what his wife does so long as she is nice to him, and he canread his books and carry on his politics as he pleases!"

"Ashe always strikes me as the soul of honor, " said the other, indignantly. 

"Of course--for himself. But a more fatalist believer in liberty thanAshe doesn't exist--liberty especially to damn yourself--if you must andwill. "

"It would be hard to extend that doctrine to a wife, " said the other, with a grave, uncomfortable laugh. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile the man whose affairs they had been discussing walked home, wrapped in solitary and disagreeable thought. As he neared theMarlborough House corner a carriage passed him. It was delayed a momentby other carriages, and as it halted beside him Ashe recognized LadyM----, the hostess of the fancy ball, and a very old friend of hisparents. He took off his hat. The lady within recognized him andinclined slightly--very slightly and stiffly. Ashe started a little andwalked on. 

The meeting vividly recalled the ball, the _terminus a quo_ indeed fromwhich the meditation in which he had been plunged since entering thepark had started. Between six and seven weeks ago, was it? It might havebeen a century. He thought of Kitty as she was that night--Kittypirouetting in her glittering dress, or bending over the boy, or holdingher face to his as he kissed her on the stairs. Never since had sheshown him the smallest glimpse of such a mood. What was wrong with herand with himself? Something, since May, had turned their lifetopsy-turvy, and it seemed to Ashe that in the general unprofitable rushof futile engagements he had never yet had time to stop and ask himselfwhat it might be. 

Why, at any rate, was _he_ in this chafing irritation and discomfort?Why could he not deal with that fellow Cliffe as he deserved? And whatin Heaven's name was the reason why old friends like Lady M---- werebeginning to look at him coldly, and avoid his conversation?

His mother, too! He gathered that quite lately there had been somedisagreeable scene between her and Kitty. Kitty had resented someremonstrance of hers, and for some days now they had not met. Nor hadAshe seen his mother alone. Did she also avoid him, shrink from speakingout her real mind to him?

Well, it was all monstrously absurd!--a great coil about nothing, as faras the main facts were concerned, although the annoyance and worry ofthe thing were indeed becoming serious. Kitty had no doubt taken a wildliking to Geoffrey Cliffe--

"And, by George!" said Ashe, pausing in his walk, "she warned me. "

And there rose in his memory the formal garden at Grosville Park, thelittle figure at his side, and Kitty's franknesses--"I shall take madfancies for people. I sha'n't be able to help it. I have one now, forGeoffrey Cliffe. "

He smiled. There was the difficulty! If only the people whose envioustongues were now wagging could see Kitty as she was, could understandwhat a gulf lay between her and the ordinary "fast" woman, there wouldbe an end of this silly, ill-natured talk. Other women might be of theearth earthy. Kitty was a sprite, with all the irresponsibility of suchincalculable creatures. The men and women--women especially--whogossiped and lied about her, who sent abominable paragraphs toscurrilous papers--he had one now in his pocket which had reached him atthe House from an anonymous correspondent--spoke out of their own vileexperience, judged her by their own standards. His mother, at anyrate--he proudly thought--ought to know better than to be misled by themfor a moment. 

At the same time, something must be done. It could not be denied thatKitty had been behaving like a romantic, excitable child with thisunscrupulous man, whose record with regard to women was probably whollyunknown to her, however foolishly she might idealize the _liaison_commemorated in his poems. What had Kitty, indeed, been doing withherself this six weeks? Ashe tried to recall them in detail. Ascot, Lord's, innumerable parties in London and in the country, to some ofwhich he had not been able to accompany her, owing to the stress ofParliamentary and official work. Grosville Park, for instance--he hadbeen stopped at the last moment from going down there by the arrival ofsome important foreign news, and Kitty had gone alone. She hadreappeared on the Monday, pale and furious, saying that she and her aunthad quarrelled, and that she would never go near the Grosvilles eitherin town or country again. She had not volunteered any furtherexplanation, and Ashe had refrained from inquiry. There were in himcertain disgusts and disdains, belonging to his general epicureanconception of existence, which not even his love for Kitty couldovercome. One was a disdain for the quarrels of women. He supposed theywere inevitable; he saw, by-the-way, that Kitty and Lady Parham wereonce more at daggers drawn; and Kitty seemed to enjoy it. Well, it washer own affair; but while there was a Greek play, or a Shakespearesonnet, or even a Blue Book to read, who could expect him to listen?

What had old Lady Grosville been about? He understood that Cliffe hadbeen of the party. And Kitty must have done something to bring down uponher the wrath of the Puritanical mistress of the house. 

Well, what was he to do? It was now July. The session would lastcertainly till the middle of August, and though the American businesswould be disposed of directly, there was fresh trouble in the BalkanPeninsula, and an anxious situation in Egypt. Impossible that he shouldthink of leaving his post. And as for the chance of a dissolution, thegovernment was now a good deal stronger than it had been beforeEaster--worse luck!

Of course he ought to take Kitty away. But short of resignation how wasit to be done? And what, even, would resignation do--supposing, _perimpossibile_, it could be thought of--but give to gnawing gossip abigger bone, and probably irritate Kitty to the point of rebellion? Yethow induce her to go with any one else? Lady Tranmore was out of thequestion. Margaret French, perhaps?

Then, suddenly, Ashe was assailed by an inner laughter, hollow anddiscomfortable. Things were come to a pretty pass when he must evendream of resigning because a man whom he despised would haunt his house, and absorb the company of his wife; when, moreover, he could not eventhink of a remedy for such a state of things without falling backdismayed from the certainty of Kitty's temper--Kitty's wild and furioustemper. 

For during the last fortnight, as it seemed to Ashe, all the winds oftempest had been blowing through his house. Himself, the servants, evenMargaret, even the child, had all suffered. He also had lost his temperseveral times--such a thing had scarcely happened to him since hischildhood. He thought of it as of a kind of physical stain or weakness. To keep an even and stoical mind, to laugh where one could notconquer--this had always seemed to him the first condition of decentexistence. And now to be wrangling over an expenditure, an engagement, aletter, the merest nothing--whether it was a fine day or itwasn't--could anything be more petty, degrading, intolerable?

He vowed that this should stop. Whatever happened, he and Kitty shouldnot degenerate into a pair of scolds--besmirch their life with quarrelsas ugly as they were silly. He would wrestle with her, his beloved, unreasonable, foolish Kitty; he ought, of course, to have done sobefore. But it was only within the last week or so that the horizon hadsuddenly darkened--the thing grown serious. And now this beastlyparagraph! But, after all, what did such garbage matter? It would ofcourse be a comfort to thrash the editor. But our modern life breedssuch creatures, and they have to be borne. 

 * * * * *

He let himself into a silent house. His letters lay on the hall-table. Among them was a handwriting which arrested him. He remembered, yetcould not put a name to it. Then he turned the envelope. "H'm. LadyGrosville!" He read it, standing there, then thrust it into his pocket, thinking angrily that there seemed to be a good many fools in this worldwho occupied themselves with other people's business. Exaggeration, ofcourse, damnable _parti pris_! When did she ever see Kitty except with ajaundiced eye? "I wonder Kitty condescends to go to the woman's house!She must know that everything she does is seen there _en noir_. Pharisaical, narrow-minded Philistines!"

The letter acted as a tonic. Ashe was positively grateful to the "oldgorgon" who wrote it. He ran up-stairs, his pulses tingling in defenceof Kitty. He would show Lady Grosville that she could not write to him, at any rate, in that strain, with impunity. 

He took a candle from the landing, and opened his wife's door in orderto pass through her room to his own. As he did so, he ran againstKitty's maid, Blanche, who was coming out. She shrank back as she sawhim, but not before the light of his candle had shone full upon her. Herface was disfigured with tears, which were, indeed, still running downher cheeks. 

"Why, Blanche!" he said, standing still--then in the kind voice whichendeared him to the servants--"I am afraid your brother is worse?"

For the poor brother in hospital had passed through many vicissitudessince his operation, and the little maid's spirits had fluctuatedaccordingly. 

"Oh no, sir--no, sir!" said Blanche, drying her eyes and retreating intothe shadows of the room, where only a faint flame of gas was burning. "It's not that, sir, thank you. I was just putting away her ladyship'sthings, " she said, inconsequently, looking round the room. 

"That was hardly what caused the tears, was it?" said Ashe, smiling. "Isthere anything in which Lady Kitty or I could help you?"

The girl, who had always seemed to him on excellent terms with Kitty, gave a sudden sob. 

"Thank you, sir; I've just given her ladyship warning. "

"Indeed!" said Ashe, gravely. "I'm sorry for that. I thought you got onhere very well. "

"I used to, sir, but this last few weeks there's nothing pleases herladyship; you can't do anything right. I'm sure I've worked my handsoff. But I can't do any more. Perhaps her ladyship will find some oneelse to suit her better. "

"Didn't her ladyship try to persuade you to stay?"

"Yes--but--I gave warning once before, and then I stayed. And it's nogood. It seems as if you must do wrong. And I don't sleep, sir. It getson your nerves so. But I didn't mean to complain. Good-night, sir. "

"Good-night. Don't sit up for your mistress. You look tired out. I'llhelp her. "

"Thank you, sir, " said the maid, in a depressed voice, and went. 

 * * * * *

Half an hour later, Ashe mounted the staircase of a well-known house inPiccadilly. The evening party was beginning to thin, but in a sidedrawing-room a fine Austrian band was playing Strauss, and some of theintimates of the house were dancing. 

Ashe at once perceived his wife. She was dancing with a clever Cambridgelad, a cousin of Madeleine Alcot's, who had long been one of heradorers. And so charming was the spectacle, so exhilarating were theyouth and beauty of the pair, that Ashe presently suspected what wasindeed the truth, that most of the persons gathering in the room werethere to watch Kitty dance, rather than to dance themselves. He himselfwatched her, though he professed to be talking to his hostess, a womanof middle age, with honest eyes and a brow of command. 

"It is a delight to see Lady Kitty dance, " she said to him, smiling. "But she is tired. I am sure she wants the country. "

"Like my boy, " said Ashe. "I wish to goodness they'd both go. "

"Oh, I know it's hard to leave the husband toiling in town!" said hiscompanion, who, as the daughter, wife, and mother of politicians, hadhad a long experience of official life. 

Ashe glanced at her--at her face moulded by kind and scrupulousliving--with a sudden relief from tension. Clearly no gossip had reachedher. He lingered beside her, for the sheer pleasure of talking to her. But their _tête-à-tête_ was soon interrupted by the approach of LadyParham, with a daughter--a slim and silent girl, to whom, it waswhispered, her mother was giving "a last chance" this season, beforesending her into the country as a failure, and bringing out her youngersister. 

Lady Parham greeted the hostess with effusion. It was a rich house, andthese small, informal dances were said to be more helpful to matrimonialdevelopment than larger affairs. Then she perceived Ashe, and her wholemanner changed. There was a very evident bristling, and she gave him agreeting deliberately careless. 

"Confound the woman!" thought Ashe, and his own pride rose. 

"Working as hard as usual, Lady Parham?" he asked her, with a smile. 

"If you like to put it so, " was the stiff reply. "There is, of course, agood deal of going out. "

"I hope, if I may say so, you don't allow Lord Parham to do too much ofit. "

"Lord Parham never was better in his life, " said Lord Parham's spouse, with the air of putting down an impertinence. 

"That's good news. I must say when I saw him this afternoon I thought heseemed to be feeling his work a good deal. "

"Oh, he's worried, " said Lady Parham, sharply. "Worried about a goodmany things. " She turned suddenly, and looked at her companion--aninsolent and deliberate look. 

"Ah, that's where the wives come in!" replied Ashe, unperturbed. "Lookat Mrs. Loraine. She has the art to perfection--hasn't she? The way shecushions Loraine is something wonderful to see. "

Lady Parham flushed angrily. The suggested comparison between herself, and that incessant rattle and blare of social event through which shedragged her husband--conducting thereby a vulgar campaign of her own, asarduous as his and far more ambitious--and the ways and character ofgentle Mrs. Loraine, absorbed in the man she adored, scatter-brained andabsent-minded towards the rest of the world, but for him all eyes andears, an angel of shelter and protection--this did not now reach thePrime Minister's wife for the first time. But she had no opportunity tolaunch a retort, even supposing she had one ready, for the music ceased, and the tide of dancers surged towards the doors. It brought Kittyabruptly face to face with Lady Parham. 

"Oh! how d'you do?" said Kitty, in a tone that was already an offence, and she held out a small hand with an indescribably regal air. 

Lady Parham just touched it, glanced at the owner from top to toe, andwalked away. Kitty slipped in beside Ashe for a moment, with her back tothe wall, laughing and breathless. 

"I say, Kitty, " said Ashe, bending over her and speaking in her smallear, "I thought Lady Parham was eternally obliged to us. What's wrongwith her?"

"Only that I can't stand her, " said Kitty. "What's the good of trying?"She looked up, a flame of mutiny in her cheeks. 

"What, indeed?" said Ashe, feeling as reckless as she. "Her manners arebeyond the bounds. But look here, Kitty, don't you think you'll comehome? You know you do look uncommonly tired. "

Kitty frowned. 

"Home? Why, I'm only just beginning to enjoy myself! Take me into thecool, please, " she said to the boy who had been dancing with her, andwho still hovered near, in case his divinity might allow him yet a fewmore minutes. But as she put out her hand to take his arm, Ashe saw herwaver and look suddenly across the room. 

A group parted that had been clustering round a farther door, and Asheperceived Cliffe, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. Hewas surrounded by pretty women, with whom he seemed to be carrying on abantering warfare. Involuntarily Ashe watched for the recognitionbetween him and Kitty. Did Kitty's lips move? Was there a signal? If so, it passed like a flash; Kitty hurried away, and Ashe was left, haughtilyfurious with himself that, for the first time in his life, he had playedthe spy. 

He turned in his discomfort to leave the dancing-room. He himselfenjoyed society frankly enough. Especially since his marriage had hefound the companionship of agreeable women delightful. He wentinstinctively to seek it, and drive out this nonsense from his mind. Just inside the larger drawing-room, however, he came across MaryLyster, sitting in a corner apparently alone. Mary greeted him, butwith an evident coldness. Her manner brought back all the preoccupationsof his walk from the House. In spite of her small cordiality, he satdown beside her, wondering with a vicarious compunction at what pointher fortunes might be, and how Kitty's proceedings might have alreadyaffected them. But he had not yet succeeded in thawing her when a voicebehind him said:

"This is my dance, I think, Miss Lyster. Where shall we sit it out?"

Ashe moved at once. Mary looked up, hesitated visibly, then rose andtook Geoffrey Cliffe's arm. 

"Just read your remarks this evening, " said Cliffe to Ashe. "Well, now, I suppose to-morrow will see your ship in port?"

For it was reasonably expected that the morrow would see the Americanagreement ratified by a substantial ministerial majority. 

"Certainly. But you may at least reflect that you have lost us a deal oftime. "

"And now you slay us, " said Cliffe. "Ah, well--'_dulce et decorum est_, 'etcetera. "

"Don't imagine that you'll get many of the honors of martyrdom, " laughedAshe--in Cliffe's eyes an offensive and triumphant figure, as he leanedcarelessly upon a marble pedestal that carried a bust of Horace Walpole. 

"Why?" Cliffe's hand had gone instinctively to his mustache. Mary haddropped his arm, and now stood quietly beside him, pale and somewhatjaded, her fine eyes travelling between the speakers. 

"Why? Because the heresies have no martyrs. The halo is for the trueChurch!"

"H'm!" said Cliffe, with a reflective sneer. "I suppose you mean for thesuccessful?"

"Do I?" said Ashe, with nonchalance. "Aren't the true Church the peoplewho are justified by the event?"

"The orthodox like to think so, " said Cliffe. "But the heretics have away of coming out top. "

"Does that mean you chaps are going to win at the next election? Idevoutly hope you may--_we_'re all as stale as ditch-water--and as forplaces, anybody's welcome to mine!" And so saying, Ashe lounged away, attracted by the bow and smile of a pretty Frenchwoman, with whom it wasalways agreeable to chat. 

"Ashe trifles it as usual, " said Cliffe, as he and Mary forced a passageinto one of the smaller rooms. "Is there anything in the world that hereally cares about?"

Mary looked at him with a start. It was almost on her lips to say, "Yes!his wife. " She only just succeeded in driving the words back. 

"His not caring is a pretence, " she said. "At least, Lady Tranmorethinks so. She believes that he is becoming absorbed in politics--muchmore ambitious than she ever thought he would be. "

"That's the way of mothers, " said Cliffe, with a sarcastic lip. "Theyhave got to make the best of their sons. Tell me what you are going todo this summer. "

He had thrown one arm round the back of a chair, and sat looking downupon her, his colorless fair hair falling thick upon his brow, andgiving by contrast a strange inhuman force to the dark and singular eyesbeneath. He had a way of commanding a woman's attention by flashes ofbrusquerie, melting when he chose into a homage that had in it the noteof an older world, a world that had still leisure for, passion and itsrefinements, a world still within sight of that other which had producedthe _Carte du tendre_. Perhaps it was this, combined with thevirilities, not to be questioned, of his aspect, the signs of hardphysical endurance in the face burned by desert suns, and thesuggestions of a frame too lean and gaunt for drawing-rooms, that gavehim his spell and preserved it. 

Mary's conversation with him consisted at first of much cool fencing onher part, which gradually slipped back, as he intended it should, intosome of the tones of intimacy. Each meanwhile was conscious of a secretrange of thoughts--hers concerned with the effort and struggle, thebitter disappointments and disillusions of the past six weeks; and hiswith the schemes he had cherished in the East and on the way home, ofmarrying Mary Lyster, or more correctly, Mary Lyster's money, and soresigning himself to the inevitable boredoms of an English existence. For her the mental horizon was full of Kitty--Kitty insolent, Kitty triumphant. For him, too, Kitty made the background ofthought--environed, however, with clouds of indecision and resistancethat would have raised happiness in Mary could she have divined them. 

For he was now not easy to capture. There had been enough and more thanenough of women in his life. The game of politics must somehow replacethem henceforth, if, indeed, anything were still worth while, except thelong day in the saddle and the dawn of new mornings in untrodden lands. 

Mingled, all these, with hot dislike of Ashe, with the fascination ofKitty, and a kind of venomous pleasure in the commotion produced by hispursuit of her; inter penetrated, moreover, through and through with thememory of his one true feeling, and of the woman who had died, alienatedfrom and despising him. He and Mary passed a profitless half-hour. Hewould have liked to propitiate her, but he had no notion what he shoulddo with the propitiation, if it were reached. He wanted her money, buthe was beginning to feel with restlessness that he could not pay thecost. The poet in him was still strong, crossed though it were by theadventurer. 

He took her back to the dancing-room. Mary walked beside him with adull, fierce sense of wrong. It was Kitty, of course, who had doneit--Kitty who had taken him away from her. 

"That's finished, " said Cliffe to himself, with a long breath of relief, as he delivered her into the hands of her partner. "Now for the other!"

 * * * * *

Thenceforward, no one saw Kitty and no one danced with her. She spenther time in beflowered corners, or remote drawing-rooms, with GeoffreyCliffe. Ashe heard her voice in the distance once or twice, answering avoice he detested; he looked into the supper-room with a lady on hisarm, and across it he saw Kitty, with her white elbow on the table andher hand propping a face that was turned--half mocking and yet whollyabsorbed--to Cliffe. He saw her flitting across vistas or disappearingthrough far doorways, but always with that sinister figure inattendance. 

His mind was divided between a secret fury--roused in him by the prideof a man of high birth and position, who has always had the world atcommand, and now sees an impertinence offered him which he does not knowhow to punish--and a mood of irony. Cliffe's persecution of Kitty was apiece of confounded bad manners. But to look at it with the round, hypocritical eyes some of these people were bringing to bear on it wasreally too much! Let them look to their own affairs--they needed it. 

At last the party broke up. Kitty touched him on the shoulder as he wasstanding on the stairs, apparently absorbed in a teasing skirmish with acharming child in her first season, who thought him the most delightfulof men. 

"I'm ready, William. "

He turned sharply, and saw that she was alone. 

"Come along, then! In five minutes more I should have been asleep on thestairs. "

They descended. Kitty went for her cloak. Ashe sent for the carriage. Ashe was standing on the steps Cliffe pushed past him and called for ahansom. It came in the rear of two or three carriages already under theportico. He ran along the pavement and jumped in. The doors were justbeing shut by the linkman when a little figure in a white cloak flewdown the steps of the house and held up a hand to the driver of thehansom. 

"Do you see that?" said Lady Parham, in a voice of suppressed butcontemptuous amazement, as she turned to Mary Lyster, who was drivinghome with her. "Call my carriage, please!" she said, imperiously, to oneof the footmen at the door. Her carriage, as it happened, wasimmediately behind the hansom; but the hansom could not move because ofthe small lady who had jumped upon the step and was leaning eagerlyforward. 

There was a clamor of shouting voices: "Move on, cabby! Move on!" "Standclear, ma'am, please, " said the driver, while Cliffe opened the door ofthe cab, and seemed about to jump down again. 

"Who is it?" said an impatient judge behind Lady Parham. "What's thematter?"

Lady Parham shrugged her shoulders. 

"It's Lady Kitty Ashe, " whispered the _débutante_, who was the judge'sdaughter, "talking to Mr. Cliffe. Isn't she pretty?"

A sudden silence fell upon the group in the porch. Kitty's high, clearlaugh seemed to ring back into the house. Then Ashe ran down the steps. 

"Kitty, don't stop the way. " He peremptorily drew her back. 

Cliffe raised his hat, fell back into the hansom, and the man whipped uphis horse. 

Kitty came back to the outer hall with Ashe. Her cheeks had a roseflush, her wild eyes laughed at the crowd on the steps, without reallyseeing them. 

"Are you going with Lady Parham?" she said, absently, to Mary Lyster. 

"Yes. "

Kitty looked up and Ashe saw the two faces as she and Mary confrontedeach other--the contempt in Mary's, the startled wrath in Kitty's. 

"Come, Miss Lyster!" said Lady Parham, and pushing past the Asheswithout a good-night, she hurried to her carriage, drawing up the glasswith a hasty hand, though the night was balmy. 

For a few moments none of those left on the steps spoke, except to fretin undertones for an absent carriage. Then Ashe saw his own groom, andstormed at him for delay. In another minute he and Kitty were in thecarriage, and the figures under the porch dropped out of sight. 

 * * * * *

"Better not do that again, Kitty, I think, " said Ashe. 

Kitty glanced at him. But both voice and manner were as usual. "Whyshouldn't I?" she said, haughtily; he saw that she had grown very white. "I was telling Geoffrey where to find me at Lord's. "

Ashe winced at the "Archangelism" of the Christian name. 

"You kept Lady Parham waiting. "

"What does that matter?" said Kitty, with an angry laugh. 

"And you did Cliffe too much honor, " said Ashe. "It's the men who shouldstand on the steps--not the women!"

Kitty sat erect. "What do you mean?" she said, in a low, menacing voice. 

"Just what I say, " was the laughing reply. 

Kitty threw herself back in her corner, and could not be induced to openher lips or look at her companion till they reached home. 

On the landing, however, outside her bedroom, she turned and said:"Don't, please, say impertinent things to me again!" And drawn up to herfull height, the most childish and obstinate of tragedy queens, sheswept into her room. 

Ashe went into his dressing-room. And almost immediately afterwards heheard the key turn in the lock which separated his room from Kitty's. 

For the first time since their marriage! He threw himself on his bed, and passed some sleepless hours. Then fatigue had its way. When heawoke, there was a gray dawn in the room, and he was conscious ofsomething pressing against his bed. Half asleep, he raised himself andsaw Kitty, in a long white dressing-gown, sitting curled up on thefloor, or rather on a pillow, her head resting on the edge of the bed. In a glass opposite he saw the languid grace of her slight form and thecloud of her hair. 

"Kitty"--he tried to shake himself into full consciousness--"do go tobed!"

"Lie down, " said Kitty, lifting her arm and pressing him down, "anddon't say anything. I shall go to sleep. "

He lay down obediently. Presently he felt that her cheek was resting onone of his hands, and in his semi-consciousness he laid the other on herhair. Then they both fell asleep. 

His dreams were a medley of the fancy ball and of some pageant scene inwhich Iris and Ceres appeared, and there was a rustic dance of maidensand shepherds. Then a murmur as of thunder ran through the scene, followed by darkness. He half woke, in a hot distress, but the softcheek was still there, his hand still felt the silky curls, and sleeprecaptured him. 

XII

When Ashe woke up in earnest he was alone. He sprang up in bed andlooked round the darkened room, ashamed of his long sleep; but there wasno sign of Kitty. 

After dressing, he knocked, as usual, at Kitty's door. 

"Oh, come in, " cried Kitty's lightest voice. "Margaret's here; but ifyou don't mind her, she won't mind you. "

Ashe entered. Kitty, as was her wont four days out of the seven, wasbreakfasting in bed. Margaret French was beside her with a batch ofnotes, mostly bills and unanswered invitations, with which she wastrying to make Kitty cope. 

"Excuse me, Mr. Ashe, " Margaret lifted a smiling face. "I had to be outon business for my brother all day, so I thought I'd come early andremind Kitty of some of these tiresome things while there was still achance of finding her. "

"I don't know why guardian angels excuse themselves, " said Ashe, as theyshook hands. 

"Oh, dear, what a lot of them there are!" said Kitty, tossing over thenotes with a bored air. "Refuse them all, Margaret; I'm tired to deathof dining out. "

"Not all, I think, " pleaded Margaret. "Here's that nice woman--youremember--who wanted to thank Mr. Ashe for what he'd done for her son. You promised to dine with her. "

"Did I?" Kitty wriggled with annoyance. "Well, then, I suppose we must. What did William do for her? When I ask him to do something for thenicest boys in the world, he won't lift a finger. "

"I gave him some introductions in Berlin, " laughed Ashe. "What yougenerally want me to do, Kitty, is to stuff the public service withgood-looking idiots. And there I really can't oblige you. "

"Every one knows that corruption gets the best men, " said Kitty. "Hullo, what's that?" and she lifted a dinner-card, and looked at it strangely. 

"My dear Kitty! when did it come?" exclaimed Margaret French, in dismay. 

It was a dinner-card, whereby Lord and Lady Parham requested the honorof Mr. And Lady Kitty Ashe's company at dinner, on a date somewherewithin the first week of July. 

Ashe bent over to look at it. 

"I think that came ten days ago, " he said, quietly. "I imagined Kittyaccepted it. "

"I never thought of it from that day to this, " said Kitty, who hadclasped her hands behind her head and was staring at the ceiling. "Say, please, that"--she spaced out the words deliberately--"Mr. And LadyKitty Ashe--are unable to accept--Lord and Lady Parham'sinvitation--etc. --"

"Kitty!" said Margaret, firmly, "there must be a 'regret' and a 'kind. 'Think! Ten days! The party is next week!"

"No 'regret, ' and no 'kind'!" said Kitty, still staring overhead. "It'smy affair, please, Margaret, altogether. And I'll see the note before itgoes, or you'll be putting in civilities. "

Margaret, in despair, looked entreatingly at Ashe. He and she had oftenconspired before this to soften down Kitty's enormities. But he saidnothing--made not the smallest sign. 

With difficulty Margaret got a few more directions out of Kitty, overwhom a shade of sombre taciturnity had now fallen. Then, saying shewould write the notes down-stairs and come back, she gathered up herbasketful of letters and departed. 

As soon as she was alone with Ashe, Kitty took up a novel beside her, and pretended to be absorbed in it. 

He hesitated a moment, then he stooped over her and took her hand. 

"Why did you come in to visit me, Kitty?" he said, in a low voice. 

"I don't know, " was her indifferent reply, and her hand pulled itselfaway, though not with violence. 

"I wish I could understand you, Kitty. " His tone was not quite steady. 

"Well, I don't understand myself!" said Kitty, shortly, reaching out fora bunch of roses that Margaret had just brought her, and burying herface among them. 

"Perhaps, if you submitted the problem to me, " said Ashe, laughing, "wemight be able to thresh it out together!"

He folded his arms and leaned against the foot of the bed, delightinghis eyes with the vision of her amid the folds of muslin and lace, andall the costly refinements of pillow and coverlet with which she likedto surround herself at that hour of the morning. She might have been aFrench princess of the old regime, receiving her court. 

Kitty shook her head. The roses fell idly from her hands, and madebright patches of blush pink about her. Ashe went on:

"Anyway, dear, don't give silly tongues _too_ good a handle!"

He threw her a gay comrade's look, as though to say that they both knewthe folly of the world, but he perhaps the better, as he was the elder. 

"You mean, " said Kitty, calmly, "that I am not to talk so much toGeoffrey Cliffe?"

"Is he worth it?" said Ashe. "That's what I want to know--worth the fussthat some people make?"

"It's the fuss and the people that drive one on, " said Kitty, under herbreath. 

"You flatter them too much, darling! Do you think you were quite kind tome last night?--let's put it that way. I looked a precious fool, youknow, standing on those steps, while you were keeping old Mother Parhamand the whole show waiting!"

She looked at him a moment in silence, at his heightened color andinsistent eyes. 

"I can't think what made you marry me, " she said, slowly. 

Ashe laughed, and came nearer. 

"And I can't think, " he said, in a lower voice, "what made you come--ifyou weren't a little bit sorry--and lean your dear head against me likethat, last night. "

"I wasn't sorry--I couldn't sleep, " was her quick reply, while her eyesstrove to keep up their war with his. 

A knock was heard at the door. Ashe moved hastily away. Kitty's maidentered. 

"I was to tell you, sir, that your breakfast was ready. And LadyTranmore's servant has brought this note. "

Ashe took it and thrust it into his pocket. 

"Get my things ready, please, " said Kitty to her maid. Ashe felt himselfdismissed and went. 

As soon as he was gone, Kitty sprang out of bed, threw on adressing-gown, and ran across to Blanche, who was bending over a chestof drawers. "Why did you say those foolish things to me yesterday?" shedemanded, taking the girl impetuously by the arm, and so startling herthat she nearly dropped the clothes she held. 

"They weren't foolish, my lady, " said Blanche, sullenly, with avertedeyes. 

"They were!" cried Kitty. "Of course, I'm a vixen--I always was. But youknow, Blanche, I'm not always as bad as I have been lately. Very soon Ishall be quite charming again--you'll see!"

"I dare say, my lady. " Blanche went on sorting and arranging the_lingerie_ she had taken out of the drawer. 

Kitty sat down beside her, nursing a bare foot which was crossed overthe other. 

"You know how I abused you about my hair, Blanche? Well, Mrs. Alcotsaid, that very night, she never saw it so well done. She thought itmust be Pierrefitte's best man. Wasn't it hellish of me? I knew quitewell you'd done it beautifully. "

The maid said nothing, but a tear fell on one of Kitty's night-dresses. 

"And you remember the green garibaldi--last week? I just loathedit--because you'd forgotten that little black rosette. "

"No!" said Blanche, looking up; "your ladyship had never ordered it. "

"I did--I did! But never mind. Two of my friends have wanted to copy it, Blanche. They wouldn't believe it was done by a maid. They said it hadsuch style. One of them would engage you to-morrow if you really want togo--"

A silence. 

"But you won't go, Blanchie, will you?" said Kitty's silver voice. "I'ma horrid fiend, but I did get Mr. Ashe to help your young man--and I didcare about your poor brother--and--and--" she stroked the girl's arm--"Ido look rather nice when I'm dressed, don't I? You wouldn't like a greatgawk to dress, would you?"

"I'm sure I don't want to leave your ladyship, " said the girl, choking. "But I can't have no more--"

"No more ructions?" said Kitty, meditating. "H'm, of course that'sserious, because I'm made so. Well, now, look here, Blanchie, you won'tgive me warning again for a fortnight, whatever I do, mind. And if bythen I'm past praying for, you may. And I'll import a Russian--or aChoctaw--who won't understand when I call her names. Is that a bargain, Blanchie?"

The maid hesitated. 

"Just a fortnight!" said Kitty, in her most seductive tones. 

"Very well, my lady. "

Kitty jumped up, waltzed round the room, the white silk skirts of herdressing-gown floating far and wide, then thrust her feet into herslippers, and began to dress as though nothing had happened. 

 * * * * *

But when her toilette was accomplished, Kitty having dismissed her maid, sat for some time in front of her mirror in a brown study. 

"What _is_ the matter with me?" she thought. "William is an angel, and Ilove him. And I can't do what he wants--I _can't_!" She drew a long, troubled breath. The lips of the face reflected in the glass were dryand colorless, the eyes had a strange, shrinking expression. "People_are_ possessed--I know they are. They can't help themselves. I beganthis to punish Mary--and now--when I don't see Geoffrey, everything isodious and dreary. I can't care for anything. Of course, I ought to carefor William's politics. I expect I've done him harm--I know I have. What's wrong with me?"

But suddenly, in the very midst of her self-examination, the emotion andexcitement that she had felt of late in her long conversations withCliffe returned upon her, filling her at once with poignant memory and akeen expectation to which she yielded herself as a wild sea-bird to therocking of the sea. They had started--those conversations--from herattempt to penetrate the secret history of the man whose poems hadfilled her with a thrilling sense of feelings and passions beyond herken--untrodden regions, full, no doubt, of shadow and of poison, butinfinitely alluring to one whose nature was best summed up in the twowords, curiosity and daring. She had not found it quite easy. Cliffe, aswe know, had resented the levity of her first attempt. But when sherenewed it, more seriously and sweetly, combining with it a number ofsubtle flatteries, the flattery of her beauty and her position, of theprivate interest she could not help showing in the man who was herhusband's public antagonist, and of an admiration for his poems whichwas not so much mere praise as an actual covetous sharing in them, amaking their ideas and their music her own--Cliffe could not in the endresist her. After all, so far, she only asked him to talk of himself, and for a man of his type the process is the very breath of his being, the stimulus and liberation of all his powers. 

So that before they knew they were in the midst of the most burningsubjects of human discussion--at first in a manner comparatively veiledand general, then with the sharpest personal reference to Cliffe's ownstory, as the intimacy between them grew. Jealousy, suffering, the "hardcases" of passion--why men are selfish and exacting, why women misleadand torment--the ugly waste and crudity of death--it was among thesegreat themes they found themselves. Death above all--it was to a thoughtof death that Cliffe's harsh face owed its chief spell perhaps inKitty's eyes. A woman had died for love of him, crushed by his jealousyand her own self-scorn. So Kitty had been told; and Cliffe's torturedvanity would not deny it. How could she have cared so much? That was thepuzzle. 

But this vicarious relation had now passed into a relation of her own. Cliffe was to Kitty a problem--and a problem which, beyond a certainpoint, defied her. The element of sex, of course, entered in, but onlyas intensifying the contrasts and mysteries of imagination. And he madeher feel these contrasts and mysteries as she had never yet felt them;and so he enlarged the world for her, he plunged her, if only bycontact with his own bitter and irritable genius, into new regions ofsentiment and feeling. For in spite of the vulgar elements in him therewere also elements of genius. The man was a poet and a thinker, thoughhe were at the same time, in some sense, an adventurer. His mind wasstored with eloquent and beautiful imagery, the poetry of others, andpoetry of his own. He could pursue the meanest personal objects in anunscrupulous way; but he had none the less passed through a wealth oftragic circumstance; he had been face to face with his own soul in thewilds of the earth; he had met every sort of physical danger withcontempt; and his arrogant, imperious temper was of the kind whichattracts many women, especially, perhaps, women physically small andintellectually fearless, like Kitty, who feel in it a challenge to theirpower and their charm. 

His society, then, had in these six weeks become, for Kitty, apassion--a passion of the imagination. For the man himself, she wouldprobably have said that she felt more repulsion than anything else. Butit was a repulsion that held her, because of the constant sense ofreaction, of on-rushing life, which it excited in herself. 

Add to these the elements of mischief and defiance in the situation, thesnatching him from Mary, her enemy and slanderer, the defiance of LadyGrosville and all other hypocritical tyrants, the pride of dragging ather chariot wheels a man whom most people courted even when they loathedhim, who enjoyed, moreover, an astonishing reputation abroad, especiallyin that France which Kitty adored, as a kind of modern Byron, the onlyEnglishman who could still display in public the "pageant of a bleedingheart, " without making himself ridiculous, and perhaps enough has beenheaped together to explain the infatuation that now, like a wild springgust on a shining lake, was threatening to bring Kitty's light bark intodangerous waters. 

"I don't care for him, " she said to herself, as she sat thinking alone, "but I must see him--I _will_! And I will talk to him as I please, andwhere I please!"

Her small frame stiffened under the obstinacy of her resolution. Kitty'swill at a moment of this kind was a fatality--so strong was it, and soirrational. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile, down-stairs, Ashe himself was wrestling with another phase ofthe same situation. Lady Tranmore's note had said: "I shall be with youalmost immediately after you receive this, as I want to catch you beforeyou go to the Foreign Office. "

Accordingly, they were in the library, Ashe on the defensive, LadyTranmore nervous, embarrassed, and starting at a sound. Both of themwatched the door. Both looked for and dreaded the advent of Kitty. 

"Dear William, " said his mother at last, stretching her hand across asmall table which stood between them and laying it on her son's, "you'llforgive me, won't you?--even if I do seem to you prudish and absurd. ButI am afraid you _ought_ to tell Kitty some of the unkind things peopleare saying! You know I've tried, and she wouldn't listen to me. And youought to beg her--yes, William, indeed you ought!--not to give anyfurther occasion for them. "

She looked at him anxiously, full Of that timidity which haunts thedeepest and tenderest affections. She had just given him to read aletter from Lady Grosville to herself. Ashe ran through it, then laid itdown with a gesture of scorn. 

"Kitty apparently enjoyed a moonlight walk with Cliffe. Why shouldn'tshe? Lady Grosville thinks the moon was made to sleep by--other peopledon't. "

"But, William!--at night--when everybody had gone to bed--escaping fromthe house--they two alone!"

Lady Tranmore looked at him entreatingly, as though driven to protest, and yet hating the sound of her own words. 

Ashe laughed. He was smoking with an air so nonchalant that his mother'sheart sank. For she divined that criticism in the society around herwhich she was never allowed to hear. Was it true, indeed, that hisnatural indolence could not rouse itself even to the defence of a youngwife's reputation?

"All the fault of the Grosvilles, " said Ashe, after a moment, lightinganother cigarette, "in shutting up their great heavy house, and drawingtheir great heavy curtains on a May night, when all reasonable peoplewant to be out-of-doors. My dear mother, what's the good of paying anyattention to what people like Lady Grosville say of people like Kitty?You might as well expect Deborah to hit it off with Ariel!"

"William, don't laugh!" said his mother, in distress. "Geoffrey Cliffeis not a man to be trusted. You and I know that of old. He is a boaster, and--"

"And a liar!" said Ashe, quietly. "Oh! I know that. "

"And yet he has this power over women--one ought to look it in theface. William, dearest William!" she leaned over and clasped his handclose in both hers, "do persuade Kitty to go away from London now--atonce!"

"Kitty won't go, " said Ashe, quietly, "I am sorry, dear mother. I hatethat you should be worried. But there's the fact. Kitty won't go!"

"Then use your authority, " said Lady Tranmore. 

"I have none. "

"William!" Ashe rose from his seat, and began to walk up and down. Hisaspect of competence and dignity, as of a man already accustomed tocommand and destined to a high experience, had never been more markedthan at the very moment of this helpless utterance. His mother looked athim with mingled admiration and amazement. 

Presently he paused beside her. 

"I should like you to understand me, mother. I cannot fight with Kitty. Before I asked her to marry me, I made up my mind to that. I knew thenand I know now that nothing but disaster could come of it. She must befree, and I shall not attempt to coerce her. "

"Or to protect her!" cried his mother. 

"As to that, I shall do what I can. But I clearly foresaw when wemarried that we should scandalize a good many of the weaker brethren. "

He smiled, but, as it seemed to his mother, with some effort. 

"William! as a public man--"

He interrupted her. 

"If I can be both Kitty's husband and a public man, well and good. Ifnot, then I shall be--"

"Kitty's husband?" cried Lady Tranmore, with an accent of bitterness, almost of sarcasm, of which she instantly repented her. She changed hertone. 

"It is, of course, Kitty, first and foremost, who is concerned in yourpublic position, " she said, more gently. "Dearest William--she is soyoung still--she probably doesn't quite understand, in spite of hergreat cleverness. But she _does_ care--she _must_ care--and she ought toknow what slight things may sometimes affect a man's prospects andfuture in this country. "

Ashe said nothing. He turned on his heel and resumed his pacing. LadyTranmore looked at him in perplexity. 

"William, I heard a rumor last night--"

He held his cigarette suspended. 

"Lord Crashaw told me that the resignations would certainly be in thepapers this week, and that the ministry would go on--after arearrangement of posts. Is it true?"

Ashe resumed his cigarette. 

"True--as to the facts--so far as I know. As to the date, Lord Crashawknows, I think, no more than I do. It may be this week, it may be nextmonth. "

"Then I hear--thank goodness I never see her, " Elizabeth went on, reluctantly--"that that dreadful woman, Lady Parham, is more infuriatedthan ever--"

"With Kitty? Let her be! It really doesn't matter an old shoe, either toKitty or me. "

"She can be a most bitter enemy, William. And she certainly influencesLord Parham. "

Ashe smoked and smiled. Lady Tranmore saw that his pride, too, had beenaroused, and that here he was likely to prove as obstinate as Kitty. 

"I wish I could get her out of my mind!" she sighed. 

Ashe glanced at her kindly. 

"I daresay we shall hold our own. Xanthippe is not beloved, and I don'tbelieve Parham will let her interfere with what he thinks best for theparty. Will it pay to put me in the cabinet or not?--that's what he'llask. I shall be strongly backed, too, by most of our papers. "

A number of thoughts ran through Lady Tranmore's brain. With her longexperience of London, she knew well what the sudden lowering of a man's"consideration"--to use a French word--at a critical moment may mean. Acooling of the general regard--a breath of detraction coming no oneknows whence--and how soon new claims emerge, and the indispensable ofyesterday becomes the negligible of to-day!

But even if she could have brought herself to put any of these anxietiesinto words, she had no opportunity. Kitty's voice was in the hall; thehandle turned, and she ran in. 

"William! Ah!--I didn't know mother was here. "

She went up to Elizabeth, and lightly kissed that lady's cheek. 

"Good-morning. William, I just came to tell you that I may be late fordinner, so perhaps you had better dine at the House. I am going on theriver. "

"Are you?" said Ashe, gathering up his papers. "Wish I was. "

"Are you going with the Crashaw's party?" asked Elizabeth. "I know theyhave one. "

"Oh, dear, no!" said Kitty. "I hate a crowd on the river. I am goingwith Geoffrey Cliffe. "

Ashe bent over his desk. Lady Tranmore's eyebrows went up, and she couldnot restrain the word:

"Alone?"

"_Naturellement_!" laughed Kitty. "He reads me French poetry, and wetalk French. We let Madeleine Alcot come once, but her accent was soshocking that Geoffrey wouldn't have her again!"

Lady Tranmore flushed deeply. The "Geoffrey" seemed to her intolerable. Kitty, arrayed in the freshest of white gowns, walked away to thefarther end of the library to consult a _Bradshaw_. Elizabeth, lookingup, caught her son's eyes--and the mingled humor and vexation in them, wherewith he appealed to her, as it were, to see the whole sillybusiness as he himself did. Lady Tranmore felt a moment's strongreaction. Had she indeed been making a foolish fuss about nothing?

Yet the impression left by the miserable meditations of her night wasstill deep enough to make her say--with just a signal from eye and lips, so that Kitty neither saw nor heard--"Don't let her go!"

Ashe shook his head. He moved towards the door, and stood theredespatch-box in hand, throwing a last look at his wife. 

"Don't be late, Kitty--or I shall be nervous. I don't trust Cliffe onthe river. And please make it a rule that, in locks, he stops quotingFrench poetry. "

Kitty turned round, startled and apparently annoyed by his tone. 

"He is an excellent oar, " she said, shortly. 

"Is he? At Oxford we tried him for the Torpids--" Ashe's shrug completedhis remark. Then, still disregarding another imploring look from LadyTranmore, he left the room. 

Kitty had flushed angrily. The belittling, malicious note in Ashe'smanner had been clear enough. She braced herself against it, and LadyTranmore's chance was lost. For when, summoning all her courage, andquite uncertain whether her son would approve or blame her, Elizabethapproached her daughter-in-law affectionately, trying in timid andapologetic words to unburden her own heart and reach Kitty's, Kitty mether with one of those outbursts of temper that women like ElizabethTranmore cannot cope with. Their moral recoil is too great. It is therecoil of the spiritual aristocrat; and between them and the children ofpassion the links are few, the antagonism eternal. 

She left the house, pale, dignified, the tears in her eyes. Kitty ranup-stairs, humming an air from "Faust, " as though she would tear it topieces, put on a flame-colored hat that gave a still further note ofextravagance to her costume, ordered a hansom, and drove away. 

 * * * * *

Whether Kitty got much joy out of the three weeks which followed mustremain uncertain. She had certainly routed Mary Lyster, if there wereany final satisfaction in that. Mary had left town early, and was now inSomersetshire helping her father to entertain, in order, said themalicious, to put the best face possible on a defeat which this time hadbeen serious. And instead of devoting himself to the wooing of anorthern constituency where he had been adopted as the candidate of anew Tory group, Cliffe lingered obstinately in town, endangering hischances and angering his supporters. Kitty's influence over his actionswas, indeed, patent and undenied, whatever might be the general opinionas to her effect upon his heart. Some of Kitty's intimates at any ratewere convinced that his absorption in the matter was by now, to say theleast, no less eager and persistent than hers. At this point it was byno means still a relation of flattery on Kitty's side and a pleasedself-love on his. It had become a duel of two personalities, or rathertwo imaginations. In fact, as Kitty, learning the ways of his character, became more proudly mistress of herself and him, his interest in hervisibly increased. It might almost be said that she was beginning tohold back, and he for the first time pursued. 

Once or twice he had the grace to ask himself where it was all to end. Was he in love with her? An absurd question! He had paid his heavytribute to passion if any man ever had, and had already hung up hisvotive tablet and his garments wet from shipwreck in the temple of thegod. But it seemed that, after all said and done, the society of awoman, young, beautiful, and capricious, was still the best thing whichthe day--the London day, at all events--had to bring. At Kitty'ssuggestion he was collecting and revising a new volume of his poems. Heand she quarrelled over them perpetually. Sometimes there was not a linewhich pleased her; and then, again, she would delight him with thehomage of sudden tears in her brown eyes, and a praise so ardent and sorefined that it almost compared--as Kitty meant it should--with that ofthe dead. In the shaded drawing-room, where every detail pleased histaste, Cliffe's harsh voice thundered or murmured verse which wasbeyond dispute the verse of a poet, and thereby sensuous andpassionate. Ostensibly the verse concerned another woman; in truth, theslight and lovely figure sitting on the farther side of the floweredhearth, the delicate head bent, the finger-tips lightly joined, enteredday by day more directly into the consciousness of the poet. What harm?All he asked was intelligence and response. As to her heart, he made noclaim upon it whatever. Ashe, by-the-way, was clearly not jealous--asensible attitude, considering Lady Kitty's strength of will. 

Into Cliffe's feeling towards Ashe there entered, indeed, a number ofevil things, determined by quite other relations between the twomen--the relation of the man who wants to the man who has, of the manbeaten by the restlessness of ambition to the man who possesses all thatthe other desires, and affects to care nothing about it--of thecombatant who fights with rage to the combatant who fights with a smile. Cliffe could often lash himself into fury by the mere thought of Ashe'sopportunities and Ashe's future, combined with the belief that Ashe'smood towards himself was either contemptuous or condescending. And itwas at such moments that he would fling himself with most resource intothe establishing of his ascendency over Kitty. 

The two men met when they did meet--which was but seldom--on perfectlycivil terms. If Ashe arrived unexpectedly from the House in the lateafternoon to find Cliffe in the drawing-room reading aloud to Kitty, thepolitics of the moment provided talk enough till Cliffe could decentlytake his departure. He never dined with them alone, Kitty having no mindwhatever for the discomforts of such a party; and in the evenings whenhe and Kitty met at a small number of houses, where the flirtation waswatched nightly with a growing excitement, Ashe's duties kept him atWestminster, and there was nothing to hinder that flow of small and yetsignificant incident by which situations of this kind are developed. 

Ashe set his teeth. He had made up his mind finally that it was a plagueand a tyranny which would pass, and could only be magnified byopposition. But his temper suffered. There were many small quarrelsduring these weeks between himself and Kitty, quarrels which betrayedthe tension produced in him by what was--in essentials--an ironself-control. But they made daily life a sordid, unlovely thing, andthey gave Kitty an excuse for saying that William was as violent asherself, and for seeking refuge in the exaltations of feeling or offancy provided by Cliffe's companionship. 

Perhaps of all the persons in the drama, Lady Tranmore was the most tobe pitied. She sat at home, having no heart to go to Hill Street, andmore tied indeed than usual by the helpless illness of her husband. Never, in all these days, did Ashe miss his daily visit to his father. He would come in, apparently his handsome, good-humored self, ready toread aloud for twenty minutes, or merely to sit in silence by the sickman, his eyes making affectionate answer every now and then to the dumblooks of Lord Tranmore. Only his mother sought and found that slighthabitual contraction of the brow which bore witness to some equallypersistent disquiet of the mind. But he kept her at arm's-length on thesubject of Kitty. She dared not tell him any of the gossip whichreached her. 

Meanwhile these weeks meant for her not only the dread of disgrace, butthe disappointment of a just ambition, the humiliation of her mother'spride. The political crisis approached rapidly, and Ashe's name was lessand less to the front. Lady Parham was said to be taking an active partin the consultations and intrigues that surrounded her husband, and itwas well known by now to the inner circle that her hostility to theAshes, and her insistence on the fact that cabinet ministers must bebeyond reproach, and their wives persons to whose houses the party cango without demeaning themselves, were likely to be of importance. Moreover, Ashe's success in the House of Commons was no longer what ithad been earlier in the session. The party papers had cooled. ElizabethTranmore felt a blight in the air. Yet William, with his position in thecountry, his high ability, and the social weight belonging to the heirof the Tranmore peerage and estates, was surely not a person to belightly ignored! Would Lord Parham venture it?

 * * * * *

At last the resignations of the two ministers were in the _Times_; therewere communications between the Queen and the Premier, and Londonplunged with such ardor as is possible in late July into the throes ofcabinet-making. Kitty insisted petulantly that of course all would bewell; William's services were far too great to be ignored; though LordParham would no doubt slight him if he dared. But the party and thepublic would see to that. The days were gone by when vulgar old womenlike Lady Parham could have any real influence on politicalappointments. Otherwise, who would condescend to politics?

Ashe brought her amusing reports from the House or the clubs of thevarious intrigues going on, and, as to his own chances, refused todiscuss them seriously. Once or twice when Kitty, in his presence, insisted on speaking of them to some political intimate, only to provokean evident embarrassment, Ashe suffered the tortures which proud menknow. But he never lost his tone of light detachment, and the conclusionof his friends was that, as usual, "Ashe didn't care a button. "

The hours passed, however, and no sign came from the Prime Minister. Everything was still uncertain; but Ashe had realized that at least hewas not to be taken into the inner counsels of the party. The hopes andfears, the heartburnings and rivalries of such a state of things areproverbial. Ashe wondered impatiently when the beastly business would beover, and he could get off to Scotland for the air and sport of which hewas badly in need. 

 * * * * *

It was a Friday, in the first week of August. Ashe was leaving theAthenæum with another member of the House when a newspaper boy rushingalong with a fresh bundle of papers passed them with the cry, "Newcabinet complete! Official list!" They caught him up, snatched a paper, and read. Two men of middle age, conspicuous in Parliament, but nothitherto in office, one of them of great importance as a lawyer, theother as a military critic, were appointed, the one to the Home Office, the other to the Ministry of War; there had been some shuffling in theminor offices, and a new Privy Seal had dawned upon the world. For therest, all was as before, and in the formal list the name of theHonorable William Travers Ashe still remained attached to theUnder-Secretaryship for Foreign Affairs. 

Ashe's friend shrugged his shoulders, and avoided looking at hiscompanion. "A bomb-shell, to begin with, " he said; "otherwise theflattest thing out. "

"On the contrary, " laughed Ashe. "Parham has shown a wonderful amount oforiginality. If you and I are taken by surprise, what will the publicbe? And they'll like him all the better--you'll see. He has showncourage and gone for new men--that's what they'll say. _Vive_ Parham!Well, good-bye. Now, please the Lord, we shall get off--and I may beamong the grouse this day week. "

He stopped on his way out of the club to discuss the list with the mencoming in. He was conscious that some would have avoided him. But he hadno mind to be avoided, and his caustic, good-humored talk carried offthe situation. Presently he was walking homeward, swinging his stickwith the gayety of a school-boy expecting the holidays. 

As he mounted St. James's Street a carriage descended. Ashe mechanicallytook off his hat to the half-recognized face within, and as he did soperceived the icy bow and triumphant eyes of Lady Parham. 

He hurried along, fighting a curious sensation, as of a physicalbruising and beating. The streets were full of the news, and he wasstopped many times by mere acquaintances to talk of it. In Savile Row heturned into a small literary club of which he was a member, and wrote aletter to his mother. In very affectionate and amusing terms it beggedher not to take the disappointment too seriously. "I think I won't comeround to-night. But expect me first thing to-morrow. "

He sent the note by messenger and walked home. When he reached HillStreet it was close on eight. Outside the house he suddenly askedhimself what line he was going to take with Kitty. 

Kitty, however, was not at home. As far as he could remember she hadgone coaching with the Alcots into Surrey, Geoffrey Cliffe, of course, being of the party. Presently, indeed, he discovered a hasty line fromher on his study table, to say that they were to dine at Richmond, and"Madeleine" supposed they would get home between ten and eleven. Not aword more. Like all strong men, Ashe despised the meditations ofself-pity. But the involuntary reflection that on this evening ofhumiliation Kitty was not with him--did not apparently care enough abouthis affairs and his ambitions to be with him--brought with it a sorenesswhich had to be endured. 

The next moment, he was inclined to be glad of her absence. Such things, especially in the first shock of them, are best faced alone. If, indeed, there were any shock in the matter. He had for some time had his ownshrewd previsions, and he was aware of a strong inner belief that hisdefeat was but temporary. 

Probably, when she had time to remember such trifles, Kitty would feelthe shock more than he did. Lady Parham had certainly won this round ofthe rubber!

He settled to his solitary dinner, but in the middle of it put downKitty's Aberdeen terrier, which, for want of other company, he wasstuffing atrociously, and ran up to the nursery. The nurse was at hersupper, and Harry lay fast asleep, a pretty little fellow, flushed intoa semblance of health, and with a strong look of Kitty. 

Ashe bent down and put his whiskered cheek to the boy's. "Never mind, old man!" he murmured, "better luck next time!"

Then raising himself with a smile, he looked affectionately at thechild, noticed with satisfaction his bright color and even breathing, and stole away. 

He ran through the comments of the evening papers on the new cabinetlist, finding in only two or three any reference to himself, then threwthem aside, and seized upon a pile of books and reviews that were lyingon his table. He carried them up to the drawing-room, hesitated betweena theological review and a new edition of Horace, and finally plungedwith avidity into the theological review. 

For some two hours he sat enthralled by an able summary of the chiefTübingen positions; then suddenly threw himself back with a stretch anda laugh. 

"Wonder what the chap's doing that's got my post! Not reading theology, I'll be bound. "

The reflection followed that were he at that moment Home Secretary andin the cabinet, he would not probably be reading it either--nor left toa solitary evening. Friends would be dropping in to congratulate--themodern equivalent of the old "turba clientium. "

As his thoughts wandered, the drawing-room clock struck eleven. He rose, astonished and impatient. Where was Kitty?

By midnight she had not arrived. Ashe heard the butler moving in thehall and summoned him. 

"There may have been some mishap to the coach, Wilson. Perhaps they havestayed at Richmond. Anyway, go to bed. I'll wait for her ladyship. "

He returned to his arm-chair and his books, but soon drew Kitty's_couvre-pied_ over him and went to sleep. 

When he awoke, daylight was in the room. "What has happened to them?" heasked himself, in a sudden anxiety. 

And amid the silence of the dawn he paced up and down, a prey for thefirst time to black depression. He was besieged by memories of the lasttwo months, their anxieties and quarrels--the waste of time andopportunity--the stabs to feeling and self-respect. Once he foundhimself groaning aloud, "Kitty! Kitty!"

When this huge, distracting London was left behind, when he had her tohimself amid the Scotch heather and birch, should he find heragain--conquer her again--as in the exquisite days after their marriage?He thought of Cliffe with a kind of proud torment, disdaining to bejealous or afraid. Kitty had amused herself--had tested her freedom, hispatience, to the utmost. Might she now be content, and reward him alittle for a self-control, a philosophy, which had not been easy!

A French novel on Kitty's little table drew his attention. He thoughtnot without a discomfortable humor of what a French husband would havemade of a similar situation--recalling the remark of a Frenchacquaintance on some case illustrating the freedom of English wives. "Ily a un élément turc dans le mari français, qui nous rendrait cesmoeurs-là impossibles!"

_À la bonne heure_! Let the Frenchman keep up his seragliostandards as he pleased. An Englishman trusts both his wife and hisdaughter--scorns, indeed, to consider whether he trusts them or no! Andwho comes worst off? Not the Englishman--if, at least, we are to believethe French novel on the French _ménage!_

He paced thus up and down for an hour, defying his unseen critics--hismother--his own heart. 

 * * * * *

Then he went to bed and slept a little. But with the post next morningthere was no letter from Kitty. There might be a hundred explanations ofthat. Yet he felt a sudden need of caution. 

"Her ladyship comes up this morning by train, " he said to Wilson, asthough reading from a note. "There seems to have been a mishap. "

Then he took a hansom and drove to the Alcots. 

"Is Mrs. Alcot at home?" he asked the butler. "Can I have an answer tothis note?"

"Mrs. Alcot has been in her room since yesterday morning, sir. She wastaken ill just before the coach was coming round, and the horses had tobe sent back. But the doctor last night hoped it would be nothingserious. "

Ashe turned and went home. Then Kitty was not with Madeleine Alcot--noton the coach! Where was she, and with whom?

He shut himself into his library and fell to wondering, in bewilderment, what he had better do. A tide of rage and agony was mounting within him. How to master it--and keep his brain clear!

He was sitting in front of his writing-table staring at the floor, hishands hanging before him, when the door opened and shut. He turned. There, with her back to the door, stood Kitty. Her aspect startled himto his feet. She looked at him, trembling--her little face haggard andwhite, with a touch of something in it which had blurred its youth. 

"William!" She put both her hands to her breast, as though to supportherself. Then she flew forward. "William! I have done nothingwrong--nothing--nothing! William--look at me!"

He sternly put out his hand, protecting himself. 

"Where have you been?" he said, in a low voice--"and with whom?"

Kitty fell into a chair and burst into wild tears. 

XIII

There was silence for a few moments except for Kitty's crying. Ashestill stood beside his writing-table, his hand resting upon it, his eyeson Kitty. Once or twice he began to speak, and stopped. At last he said, with obvious difficulty:

"It's cruel to keep me waiting, Kitty. "

"I sent you a telegram first thing this morning. " The voice was chokedand passionate. 

"I never got it. "

"Horrid little fiend!" cried Kitty, sitting up and dashing back her hairfrom her tear-stained cheeks. "I gave a boy half a crown this morning tobe at the station with it by eight o'clock. And I couldn't possiblyeither write or telegraph last night--it was too late. "

"Where were you?" said Ashe, slowly. "I went to the Alcots' thismorning, and--"

"--the butler told you Madeleine was in bed? So she is. She was illyesterday morning. There was no coach and no party. I went withGeoffrey. "

Kitty held herself erect; her eyes, from which the tears wereinvoluntarily dropping, were fixed on her husband. 

"Of course I guessed that, " said Ashe. 

"It was Geoffrey brought me the news--here, just as I was starting to goto the Alcots'. Then he said he had something to read me--and it wouldbe delicious to go to Pangbourne--spend the day on the river--and comeback from Windsor--at night--by train. And I had a horrid headache--andit was so hot--and you were at the office"--her lip quivered--"and Iwanted to hear Geoffrey's poems--and so--"

She interrupted herself, and once more broke down--hiding her faceagainst the chair. But the next moment she felt herself roughly drawnforward, as Ashe knelt beside her. 

"Kitty!--look at me! That man behaved to you like a villain?"

She looked up--she saw the handsome, good-humored face transformed--andwrenched herself away. 

"He did, " she said, bitterly--"like a villain. " She began to twist andtorment her handkerchief as Ashe had seen her do once before, the smallwhite teeth pressed upon the lower lip--then suddenly she turned uponhim--

"I suppose you want me to tell you the story?"

All Kitty in the words! Her frankness, her daring, and the impatient, realistic tone she was apt to impose upon emotion--they were all there. 

Ashe rose and began to walk up and down. 

"Tell me your part in it, " he said, at last--"and as little of thatfellow as may be. "

Kitty was silent. Ashe, looking at her, saw a curious shade of reverie, a kind of dreamy excitement steal over her face. 

"Go on, Kitty!" he said, sharply. Then, restraining himself, he added, with all his natural courtesy--"I beg your pardon, Kitty, but the soonerwe get through with this the better. "

The mist in which her expression had been for a moment wrapped fellaway. She flushed deeply. 

"I told you I had done nothing vile!" she said, passionately. "Did youbelieve me?"

Their eyes met in a shock of challenge and reply. 

"Those things are not to be asked between you and me, " he said, withvehemence, and he held out his hand. She just touched it--proudly. Thenshe drew a long breath. 

"The day was--just like other days. He read me his poems--in a coolplace we found under the bank. I thought he was rather absurd now andthen--and different from what he had been. He talked of our goingaway--and his not seeing me--and how lonely he was. And of course I wasawfully sorry for him. But it was all right till--"

She paused and looked at Ashe. 

"You remember the inn near Hamel Weir--a few miles from Windsor--thatlonely little place. "

Ashe nodded. 

"We dined there. Afterwards we were to row to Windsor and come home by atrain about ten. We finished dinner early. By-the-way, there were twoother people there--Lady Edith Manley and her boy. They had rowed downfrom somewhere--"

"Did Lady Edith--"

"Yes--she spoke to me. She was going back to town--to the Holland Houseparty--"

"Where she probably met mother?"

"She did meet her!" cried Kitty. She pointed to a letter which she hadthrown down as she entered. "Your mother sent round this note to me thismorning--to ask when I should be at home. And Wilson sent word--There!Of course I know she thinks I'm capable of anything. "

She looked at him, defiant, but very miserable and pale. 

"Go on, please, " said Ashe. 

"We finished dinner early. There was a field behind the inn, and then awood. We strolled into the wood, and then Geoffrey--well, he went mad!He--"

She bit her lip fiercely, struggling for composure--and words. 

"He proposed to you to throw me over?" said Ashe, as white as she. 

With a sudden gesture she held out her arms--like a piteous child. 

"Oh! don't stand there--and look at me like that--I can't bear it. "

Ashe came--unwillingly. She perceived the reluctance, and with a flamingface she motioned him back, while she controlled herself enough to pourout her story. Presently Ashe was able to reconstruct with tolerableclearness what had occurred. Cliffe, intoxicated by the long day ofintimacy and of solitude, by Kitty's beauty and Kitty's folly, awarethat parting was near at hand, and trusting to the wildness of Kitty'stemperament, had suddenly assumed the language of the lover--and a loverby no means uncertain of his ultimate answer. So long as they understoodeach other--that, indeed, for the present, was all he asked. But shemust know that she had broken off his marriage with Mary Lyster, andreopened in his nature all the old founts of passion and of storm. Ithad been her sovereign will that he should love her; it had beenachieved. For her sake--knowing himself for the seared and criminalbeing that he was--for Ashe's sake--he had tried to resist her spell. Invain. A fatal fusion of their two natures--imaginations--sympathies--hadcome about. Each was interpenetrated by the other; and retreat wasimpossible. 

A kind of sombre power, indeed--the power of the poet and thedreamer--seemed to have spoken from Cliffe's strange wooing. He hadtaken no particular pains to flatter her, or to conceal his originalhesitation. He put her own action in a hard, almost a brutal light. Itwas plain that he thought she had treated her husband badly; that hewarned her of a future of treachery and remorse. At the same time he lether see that he could not doubt but that she would face it. They stillhad the last justifying cards in their hands--passion, and the courageto go where passion leads. When those were played, they might look eachother and the world in the face. Till then they were but triflers--meansouls--fit neither for heaven nor for hell. 

Ashe's whole being was soon in a tumult of rage under the sting of thisreport, as he was able to piece it out from Kitty. But he kept hisself-command, and by dint of it he presently arrived at some notion ofher own share in the scene. Horror, recoil, disavowal--a wild resentmentof the charges heaped upon her, of the pitiless interpretation of herbehavior which broke from those harsh lips, of the incredulity passinginto something like contempt with which Cliffe had endured her wrath andreceived her protestations--then a blind flight through the fields tothe little wayside station, where she hoped to catch the last train;the arrival and departure of the train while she was still half a milefrom the line, and her shelter at a cottage for the night; these thingsstood out plainly, whatever else remained in obscurity. How far she hadprovoked her own fate, and how far even now she was delivered from themorbid spell of Cliffe's personality, Ashe would not allow himself toask. As she neared the end of her story, it was as though the greattempest wave in which she had been struggling died down, and with amerciful rush bore him to a shore of deliverance. She was there besidehim; and she was still his own. 

He had been leaning over the side of a chair, his chin on his hand, hiseyes fixed upon her, while she told her tale. It ended in a burst ofself-pity, as she remembered her collapse in the cottage, theimpossibility of finding any carriage in the small hamlet of which itmade part, the faint weariness of the night--

"I never slept, " she said, piteously. "I got up at eight for the firsttrain, and now I feel"--she fell back in her chair, and whispereddesolately with shut eyes--"as if I should like to die!"

Ashe knelt down beside her. 

"It's my fault, too, Kitty. I ought to have held you with a strongerhand. I hated quarrelling with you. But--oh, my dear, my dear--"

She met the cry in silence, the tears running over her cheeks. Roughly, impetuously, he gathered her in his arms and kissed her, as though hewould once more re-knit and reconsecrate the bond between them. She laypassively against him, the tangle of her fair hair spread over hisshoulder--too frail and too exhausted for response. 

"This won't do, " he said, presently, disengaging himself; "you must havesome food and rest. Then we'll think what shall be done. "

She roused herself suddenly as he went to the door. 

"Why aren't you at the Foreign Office?"

"I sent a message early. Lawson came"--Lawson was his privatesecretary--"but I must go down in an hour. "

"William!"

Kitty had raised herself, and her eyes shone large and startled in thesmall, tear-stained face. 

"Yes. " He paused a moment. 

"William, is the list out?"

"Yes. "

Kitty tottered to her feet. 

"Is it all right?"

"I suppose so, " he said, slowly. "It doesn't affect me. "

And then, without waiting, he went into the hall and closed the doorbehind him. He wrote a note to the Foreign Office to say that he shouldnot be at the office till the afternoon, and that important papers wereto be sent up to him. Then he told Wilson to bring wine and sandwichesinto the library for Lady Kitty, who had been detained by an accident onthe river the night before, and was much exhausted. No visitors were tobe admitted, except, of course, Lady Tranmore or Miss French. 

When he returned to the library he found Kitty with crimson cheeks, herhands locked behind her, walking up and down. As soon as she saw him shemotioned to him imperiously. 

[Illustration: "HE GATHERED HER IN HIS ARMS"]

"Shut the door, William. I have something very important to say to you. "

He obeyed her, and she walked up to him deliberately. He saw thefluttering of her heart beneath her white dress--the crushed, bedraggleddress, which still in its soft elegance, its small originalities, spokeKitty from head to foot. But her manner was quite calm and collected. 

"William, we must separate! You must send me away. "

He started. 

"What do you mean?"

"What I say. It is--it is intolerable--that I should ruin your life likethis. "

"Don't, please, exaggerate, Kitty! There is no question of ruin. I shallmake my way when the time comes, and Lady Parham will have nothing tosay to it!"

"No! Nothing will ever go well--while I'm there--like a millstone roundyour neck. William"--she came closer to him--"take my advice--do it! IWarned you when you married me. And now you see--it was true. "

"You foolish child, " he answered, slowly, "do you think I could forgetyou for an hour, wherever you were?"

"Oh yes, " she said, steadily, "I know you would forget me--- if I wasn'there. I'm sure of it. You're very ambitious, William--more than youknow. You'll soon care--"

"More for politics than for you? Another of your delusions, Kitty. Nothing of the sort. Moreover, if you will only let me advise you--trustyour husband a little--think both for him and yourself. I see nothingeither in politics or in our life together that cannot be retrieved. "

He spoke with manly kindness and reasonableness. Not a trace of hishabitual indolence or indifference. Kitty, listening, was conscious ofthe most tempestuous medley of feelings--love, remorse, shame, and astrange gnawing desolation. What else, what better _could_ she haveasked of him? And yet, as she looked at him, she thought suddenly of themoonlit garden at Grosville Park, and of that young, headlong chivalrywith which he had thrown himself at her feet. This man before her, somuch older and maturer, counting the cost of his marriage with her inthe light of experience, and magnanimously, resolutely paying it--Kitty, in a flash, realized his personality as she had never yet done, hismoral independence of her, his separateness as a human being. Herpassionate self-love instinctively, unconsciously, had made of his lifethe appendage of hers. And now--? His devotion had never been so plain, so attested; and all the while bitter, terrifying voices rang upon theinner ear, voices of fate, vague and irrevocable. 

She dropped into a chair beside his table, trembling and white. 

"No, no, " she said, drawing her handkerchief across her eyes, with agesture of childish misery, "it's all been a--a horrid mistake. Yourmother was quite right. Of course she hated your marrying me--andnow--now she'll see what I've done. I guess perfectly what she'sthinking about me to-day! And I can't help it--I shall go on--if you letme stay with you. There's a twist--a black drop in me. I'm not likeother people. "

Her voice, which was very quiet, gave Ashe intolerable pain. 

"You poor, tired, starved child, " he said, kneeling down beside her. "Put your arms round my neck. Let me carry you up-stairs. "

With a sob she did as she was told. Ashe's library a comparatively lateaddition to the rambling, old-fashioned house, communicated by a smallstaircase at the back with his dressing-room above. He lifted the smallfigure with ease, and half-way up-stairs he impetuously kissed thedelicate cheek. 

"I'm glad you're not Polly Lyster, darling!"

Kitty laughed through her tears. Presently he deposited her on the largesofa in her own room, and stood beside her, panting a little. 

"It's all very well, " said Kitty, as she nestled down among the pillows, "but we're _none_ of us feathers!"

Her eyes were beginning to recover a little of their sparkle. She lookedat him with attention. 

"You look horribly tired. What--what did you do--last night?" She turnedaway from him. 

"I sat up reading--then went to sleep down-stairs. I thought the coachhad come to grief, and you were somewhere with the Alcots. "

"If I had known that, " she murmured, "_I_ might have gone to sleep. Oh, it was so horrible--the little stuffy room, and the dirty blankets. " Shegave a shiver of disgust. "There was a poor baby, too, withwhooping-cough. Lucky I had some money. I gave the woman a sovereign. But she wasn't at all nice--she never smiled once. I know she thought Iwas a bad lot. "

Then she sprang up. 

"Sit there!" She pointed to the foot of the sofa. Ashe obeyed her. 

"When did you know?"

"About the ministry? Between six and seven. I saw Lady Parham afterwardsdriving in St. James's Street. She never enjoyed anything so much in herlife as the bow she gave me. '"

Kitty groaned, and subsided again, a little crumpled form among hercushions. 

"Tell me the names. "

Ashe gave her the list of the ministry. She made one or two shrewd orbitter comments upon it. He fully understood that in her inmost mind shewas registering a vow of vengeance against the Parhams; but she made nospoken threat. Meanwhile, in the background of each mind there lay thatdarker and more humiliating fact, to which both shrank from returning, while yet both knew that it must be faced. 

There was a knock at the door, and Blanche appeared with the tray whichhad been ordered down-stairs. She glanced in astonishment at hermistress. 

"We had an accident on the river last night, Blanche, " said Kitty. "Comeback in half an hour. I'm too tired to change just yet. "

She kept her face hidden from the maid, but when Blanche had departed, Ashe saw that her cheeks were flaming. 

"I hate lying!" she said, with a kind of physical disgust--"and now Isuppose it will be my chief occupation for weeks. "

It was true that she hated lying, and Ashe was well aware of it. Of sucha battle-stroke, indeed, as she had played at the ball, when her promptfalsehood snatched Cliffe from Mary Lyster, she was always capable. Butin general her pride, her very egotism and quick temper kept her true. 

Perhaps the fact represented one of those deep sources whence the wellof Ashe's tenderness was fed. At any rate, consciously or not, it was atthis moment one of his chief motives for not finding the pastintolerable or the future without hope. He took some wine and a sandwichfrom the tray, and began to feed her. In the middle, she pushed hishands away, and her eyes brimmed again with tears. 

"Put it down, " she commanded. And when he had done so, she raised hishands deliberately, one after the other, and kissed them, crying:

"William!--I have been a horrible wife to you!"

"Don't be a goose, Kitty. You know very well that--till this lastbusiness--And don't imagine that I feel myself a model, either!"

"No, " she said, with a long sigh. "Of course, you ought to have beatenme. "

He smiled, with an unsteady lip. 

"Perhaps I might still try it. "

She shook her head. 

"Too late. I am not a child any more. "

Then throwing her soft arms round his neck, she clung to him, saying themost adorable and poignant things, dissolved, indeed, in a murmuringanguish of remorse; until, with the same unexpectedness as before, sheagain disengaged herself--urging, insisting that he should send heraway. 

"Let me go and live at Haggart, baby and I. " (Haggart was one of theTranmore "places, " recently handed over to the young people. ) "You cancome and see me sometimes. I'll garden--and write books. Half the smartwomen I know write stories--or plays. Why shouldn't I?"

"Why, indeed? Meanwhile, madam, I take you to Scotland--next week. "

"Scotland?" She pressed her hands over her eyes. "'Anywhere--anywhere--out of the world!'"

"Kitty!" Startled by the abandonment of her words, Ashe caught her handsand held them. "Kitty!--- you regret--"

"That man? Do I?" She opened her eyes, frowning. "I loathe him! When Ithink of yesterday, I could drown myself. If I could pile the wholeworld between him and me--I would. But"--she shivered--"but yet--if hewere sitting there--"

"You would be once more under the spell?" said Ashe, bitterly. 

"Spell!" she repeated, with scorn. Then snatching her hands from his, she threw back the hair from her temples with a wild gesture. "I warnedyou, " she said--"I warned you. "

"A man doesn't pay much attention to those warnings, Kitty. "

"Then it is not my fault. I don't know what's wrong with me, " she said, sombrely; "but I remember saying to you that sometimes my brain was onfire. I seem to be always in a hurry--in a desperate, desperatehurry!--to know or to feel something--while there is still time--beforeone dies. There is always a passion--always an effort. More life--_morelife_!--even if it lead to pain--and agony--and tears. "

She raised her strange, beautiful eyes, which had at the moment almost alook of delirium, and fixed them on his face. But Ashe's impression wasthat she did not see him. 

He was conscious of the same pang, the same sudden terror that he hadfelt on that never-to-be-forgotten evening when she had talked to him ofthe mask in the "Tempest. " He thought of the Blackwater stories he hadheard from Lord Grosville. "_Mad, my dear fellow, mad!_"--the old man'sfrequent comment ran through his memory. Was there, indeed, some unsoundspot in Kitty?

He sat dumb and paralyzed for a moment; then, recovering himself, hesaid, as he recaptured the cold little hands:

"'More _light_, ' Kitty, was what Goethe said, in dying. A better prayer, don't you think?"

There was a strong, even a stern insistence in his manner which quietedKitty. Her face as it came back to full consciousness was exquisitelysweet and mournful. 

"That's the prayer of the _calm_, " she said, in a whisper, "and mynature is hunger and storm. And Geoffrey Cliffe is the same. That's whyI couldn't help being--"

She sprang up. 

"William, don't let's talk nonsense. I can't ever see that man again. How's it to be done?"

She moved up and down--all practical energy and impatience--her moodwholly altered. His own adapted itself to hers. 

"For the present, fear nothing, " he said, dryly. "For his own sakeCliffe will hold his tongue and leave London. And as to the future--Ican get some message conveyed to him--by a man he won't disregard. Leaveit to me. "

"You can't write to him, William!" cried Kitty, passionately. 

"Leave it to me, " he repeated. "Then suppose you take the boy--andMargaret French--to Haggart till I can join you?"

"And your mother?" she said, timidly, coming to stand beside him andlaying a hand on each shoulder. 

"Leave that also to me. "

"How she'll hate the sight of me, " she said, under her breath. Then, with another tone of voice--"How long, William, do you give thegovernment?"

"Six months, perhaps--perhaps less. I don't see how they can last beyondFebruary. "

"And then--we'll _fight_!" said Kitty, with a long breath, smoothingback the hair from his brow. 

"Allow me, please, to command the forces! Well, now then, I must beoff!" He tried to rise, but she still held him. 

"Did you have any breakfast, William?"

"I don't remember. "

"Sit still and eat one of my sandwiches. " She divided one into strips, and standing over him began to feed him. A knock at the door arrestedher. 

"Don't move!" she said, peremptorily, before she ran to open the door. 

"Please, my lady, " said Blanche, "Lady Tranmore would like to see you. "

Kitty started and flushed. She looked round uncertainly at Ashe. 

"Ask her ladyship to come up, " said Ashe, quietly. 

The maid departed. 

"Feed me if you want to, Kitty, " said Ashe, still seated. 

Kitty returned, her breath hurried, her step wavering. She lookeddoubtfully at Ashe--then her eyes sparkled--as she understood. Shedropped on her knees beside him, kissing the sleeve of his coat, againstwhich her cheek was pressed--in a passion of repentance. 

He bent towards her, touching her hair, murmuring over her. His mindmeanwhile was torn with feelings which, so to speak, observed eachother. This thing which had happened was horribly serious--important. Itmight easily have wrecked two lives. Had he dealt with it as heought--made Kitty feel the gravity of it?

Then the optimist in him asked impatiently what was "the good ofexaggerating the damned business"? That fellow has got his lesson--couldbe driven headlong out of his life and Kitty's henceforward. And howcould _he_ doubt the love shown in this clinging penitence, these softkisses? How would the Turk theory of marriage, please, have done anybetter? Kitty had had her own wild way. No fiat from without had boundher; but love had brought her to his feet. There was something in himwhich triumphed alike in her revolt and her submission. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile, in the cool drawing-room to which the green _persiennes_ gavea pleasant foreign look, Lady Tranmore had been waiting for the maid'sreturn. She shrank from every sound in the house; from her ownreflection in Kitty's French mirrors; from her own thoughts most of all. 

Lady Edith Manley--at Holland House--had been the most innocent ofgossips. A little lady who did no wrong herself--and thought no wrong ofothers; as white-minded and unsuspicious as a convent child. "Poor LadyKitty! Something seemed to have gone wrong with the Alcots' coach, andthey were somehow divided from all their party. I can't remember exactlywhat it was they said, but Mr. Cliffe was confident they would catchtheir train. Though my boy--you remember my boy? they've just put him inthe eight!--thought they were running it _rather_ fine. "

Then, five minutes later, in the supper-room, Lady Tranmore had runacross Madeleine Alcot's husband, who had given her in passing the wholestory of the frustrated expedition--Mrs. Alcot's chill, and the despatchof Cliffe to Hill Street. "Horrid bore to have to put it off! Hope hegot there in time to stop Lady Kitty getting ready. Oh, thanks, Madeleine's all right. "

And then no more, as the rush of the crowd swept them apart. 

After that, sleep had wholly deserted Lady Tranmore--if, indeed, afterthe publication of the cabinet list in the afternoon, and William'sletter following upon it, any had been still possible. And in the earlymorning she had sent her note to Kitty--a _ballon d'essai_, despatchedin a horror of great fear. 

"Her ladyship has not yet returned. " The message from Hill Street, delivered by the footman's indifferent mouth, struck Lady Tranmore withtrembling. 

"Where is William?" she said to herself, in anguish. "I must findhim--but--what shall I say to him?" Then she went up-stairs, and, without calling for her maid, put on her walking things with shakinghands. 

She slipped out unobserved by her household, and took a hansom from thecorner of Grosvenor Street. In the hansom she carefully drew down herveil, with the shrinking of one on whom disgrace--the long pursuing, long expected--has seized at last. All the various facts, statements, indications as to Kitty's behavior, which through the most diversechannels had been flowing steadily towards her for weeks past, were nowsurging through her mind and memory--a grievous, damning host. And everynow and then, as she caught the placards in the streets, her heartcontracted anew. Her son, her William, in what should have been theheyday of his gifts and powers, baffled, tripped up, defeated!--by hisown wife, the selfish, ungrateful, reckless child on whom he hadlavished the undeserved treasures of the most generous and untiringlove. And had she not only checked or ruined his career--was he to bealso dishonored, struck to the heart?

She could scarcely stand as she rang the bell at Hill Street, and it wasonly with a great effort that she could ask her question:

"Is Mr. Ashe at home?"

"Mr. Ashe, my lady, is, I believe, just going out, " said Wilson. "Herladyship arrived just about an hour ago, and that detained him. "

Elizabeth betrayed nothing. The training of her class held good. 

"Are they in the library?" she asked--"or up-stairs?"

Wilson replied that he believed her ladyship was in her room, and Mr. Ashe with her. 

"Please ask Mr. Ashe if I can see him for a few minutes. "

Wilson disappeared, and Lady Tranmore stood motionless, looking round atWilliam's books and tables. She loved everything that his hand hadtouched, every sign of his character--the prize books of his collegedays, the pictures on the wall, many of which had descended from hisEton study, the photographs of his favorite hunter, the drawing sheherself had made for him of his first pony. 

On his writing-table lay a despatch-box from the Foreign Office. LadyTranmore turned away from it. It reminded her intolerably of the shockand defeat of the day before. During the past six months she had becomemore rejoicingly conscious than ever before of his secret, deepeningambition, and her own heart burned with the smart of his disappointment. No one else, however, should guess at it through her. No sooner had shereceived his letter from the club than, after many weeks of withdrawalfrom society, she had forced herself to go to the Holland House party, that no one might say she hid herself, that no one might for an instantsuppose that any hostile act of such a man as Lord Parham, or any maliceof that low-minded woman, could humiliate her son or herself. 

Suddenly she saw Kitty's gloves--Kitty's torn and soiled gloves--lyingon the floor. She clasped her trembling hands, trying to steady herself. Husband and wife were together. What tragedy was passing between them?

Of course there _might_ have been an accident; her thoughts might be allmistake and illusion. But Lady Tranmore hardly allowed herself toencourage the alternative of hope. It was like Kitty's audacity to havecome back. Incredible!--unfathomable!--like all she did. 

"Her ladyship says, my lady, would you please go up to her room?"

The message was given in Blanche's timid voice. Lady Tranmore started, looked at the girl, longed to question her, and had not the courage. Shefollowed mechanically, and in silence. Could she, must she face it?Yes--for her son's sake. She prayed inwardly that she might meet theordeal before her with Christian strength and courage. 

 * * * * *

The door opened. She saw two figures in the pretty, bright-colored room, William sat astride upon a chair in front of Kitty, who, like some smallmother-bird, hovered above him, holding what seemed to be a tiny stripof bread-and-butter, which she was dropping with dainty deliberationinto his mouth. Her face, in spite of the red and swollen eyes, wasalive with fun, and Ashe's laugh reflected hers. The domesticity, theintimate affection of the scene--before these things Elizabeth Tranmorestood gasping. 

"Dearest mother!" cried Ashe, starting up. 

Kitty turned. At sight of Lady Tranmore she hung back; her smilesdeparted; her lip quivered. 

"William!"--she pursued him and touched him on the shoulder. "I--Ican't--I'm afraid. If mother ever means to speak to me again--come andtell me. "

And, hiding her face, Kitty escaped like a whirlwind. The dressing-roomdoor closed behind her, and mother and son were left alone. 

"Mother!" said Ashe, coming up to her gayly, both hands out-stretched. "Ask me nothing, dear. Kitty has been a silly child--but things will gobetter now. And as for the Parhams--what does it matter?--come and helpme send them to the deuce!"

Lady Tranmore recoiled. For once the good-humor of that handsomeface--pale as the face was--seemed to her an offence--nay, a disgrace. That what had happened had been no mere _contretemps_, no mere accidentof trains and coaches, was plain enough from Kitty's eyes--from all thatWilliam did _not_ say, no less than from what he said. And still thislevity!--this inconceivable levity! Was it true, as she knew was said, that William had no high sense of honor, that he failed in delicacy anddignity?

In reality, it was the same cry as the Dean's--upon another and smalleroccasion. But in this case it was unspoken. Lady Tranmore dropped into achair, one hand abandoned to her son, the other hiding her face. Hetalked fast and tenderly, asking her help--neither of them quite knewfor what--her advice as to the move to Haggart--and so forth. LadyTranmore said little. But it was a bitter silence; and if Ashe himselffailed in indignation, his mother's protesting heart supplied it amply. 

PART III

DEVELOPMENT

"Es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille, Sich ein Character in demStrom, der Welt. "

XIV

"What does Lady Kitty do with herself here?" said Darrell, looking roundhim. He had just arrived from town on a visit to the Ashes, to find theHaggart house and garden completely deserted, save for Mrs. Alcot, whowas lounging in solitude, with a cigarette and a novel, on the wide lawnwhich surrounded the house on three sides. 

As he spoke he lifted a chair and placed it beside her, under one of thecedars which made deep shade upon the grass. 

"She plays at Lady Bountiful, " said Mrs. Alcot. "She doesn't do it well, but--"

"--The wonder is, in Johnsonian phrase, that she should do it at all. Anything else?"

"I understand--she is writing a book--a novel. "

Darrell threw back his head and laughed long and silently. 

"Il ne manquait que cela, " he said--"that Lady Kitty should take toliterature!"

Mrs. Alcot looked at him rather sharply. 

"Why not? We frivolous people are a good deal cleverer than you think. "

The languid arrogance of the lady's manner was not at all unbecoming. Darrell made an inclination. 

"No need to remind me, madam!" A recent exhibition at an artistic clubof Mrs. Alcot's sketches had made a considerable mark. "Very soon youwill leave us poor professionals no room to live. "

The slight disrespect of his smile annoyed his companion, but the daywas hot and she had no repartee ready. She only murmured as she threwaway her cigarette:

"Kitty is much disappointed in the village. "

"They are greater brutes than she thought?"

"Quite the contrary. There are no poachers--and no murders. The girlsprefer to be married, and the Tranmores give so much away that no onehas the smallest excuse for starvation. Kitty gets nothing out of themwhatever. "

"In the way of literary material?"

Mrs. Alcot nodded. 

"Last week she was so discouraged that she was inclined to give upfiction and take to journalism. "

"Heavens! Political?"

"Oh, _la haute politique_, of course. "

"H'm. The wives of cabinet ministers have often inspired articles. Idon't remember an instance of their writing them. "

"Well, Kitty is inclined to try. "

"With Ashe's sanction?"

"Goodness, no! But Kitty, as you are aware"--Mrs. Alcot threw a prudentglance to right and left--"goes her own way. She believes she can be ofgreat service to her husband's policy. "

Darrell's lip twitched. 

"If you were in Ashe's position, would you rather your wife neglected orsupported your political interests?"

Mrs. Alcot shrugged her shoulders. 

"Kitty made a considerable mess of them last year. "

"No doubt. She forgot they existed. But I think if I were Ashe, I shouldbe more afraid of her remembering. By-the-way--the glass here seems tobe at 'Set Fair'?"

His interrogative smile was not wholly good-natured. But merebenevolence was not what the world asked of Philip Darrell--even in thecase of his old friends. 

"Astonishing!" said Mrs. Alcot, with lifted brows. "Kitty is immenselyproud of him--and immensely ambitious. That, of course, accounts forLord Parham's visit. "

"Lord Parham!" cried Darrell, bounding on his seat. "LordParham!--coming here?"

"He arrives to-morrow. On his way from Scotland--to Windsor. "

Mrs. Alcot enjoyed the effect of her communication on her companion. Hesat open-mouthed, evidently startled out of all self-command. 

"Why, I thought that Lady Kitty--"

"Had vowed vengeance? So, in a sense, she has. It is understood that sheand Lady Parham don't meet, except--"

"On formal occasions, and to take in the groundlings, " said Darrell, tooimpatient to let her finish her sentence. "Yes, that I gathered. But youmean that _Lord_ Parham is to be allowed to make his peace?"

Madeleine Alcot lay back and laughed. 

"Kitty wishes to try her hand at managing him. "

Darrell joined her in mirth. The notion of the white-haired, bullet-headed, shrewd, and masterful man who at that moment held thePremiership of England managed by Kitty, or any other daughter ofEve--always excepting his wife--must needs strike those who had theslightest acquaintance with Lord Parham as a delicious absurdity. 

Suddenly Darrell checked himself, and bent forward. 

"Where--if I may ask--is the poet?"

"Geoffrey? Somewhere in the Balkans, isn't he?--making a revolution. "

Darrell nodded. 

"I remember. They say he is with the revolutionary committee atMarinitza. Meanwhile there is a new volume of poems out--to-day, " saidDarrell, glancing at a newspaper thrown down beside him. 

"I have seen it. The 'portrait' at the end--"

"Is Lady Kitty. " They spoke under their breaths. 

"Unmistakable, I think, " said Kitty's best friend. "As poetry, it seemsto me the best thing in the book, but the audacity of it!" She raisedher eyebrows in a half-unwilling, half-contemptuous admiration. 

"Has she seen it?"

Mrs. Alcot replied that she had not noticed any copy in the house, andthat Kitty had not spoken of it, which, given the Kitty-nature, sheprobably would have done, had it reached her. 

Then they both fell into reverie, from which Darrell emerged with theremark:

"I gather that last year some very important person interfered?"

This opened another line of gossip, in which, however, Mrs. Alcot showedherself equally well informed. It was commonly reported, at any rate, that the old Duke of Morecambe, the head of Lady Eleanor Cliffe'sfamily, the great Tory evangelical of the north, who was a sort ofpatriarch in English political and aristocratic life, had been inducedby some undefined pressure to speak very plainly to his kinsman on thesubject of Lady Kitty Ashe. Cliffe had expectations from the duke whichwere not to be trifled with. He had, accordingly, swallowed the lecture, and, after the loss of his election, had again left England with animportant newspaper commission to watch events in the Balkans. 

"May he stay there!" said Darrell. "Of course, the whole thing wasabsurdly exaggerated. "

"Was it?" said Mrs. Alcot, coolly. "Kitty richly deserved most of whatwas said. " Then--on his start--"Don't misunderstand me, of course. Iftwenty actions for divorce were given against Kitty, I should believenothing--_nothing_!" The words were as emphatic as voice and gesturecould make them. "But as for the tales that people who hate her tell ofher, and will go on telling of her--"

"They are merely the harvest of what she has sown?"

"Naturally. Poor Kitty!"

Madeleine Alcot rested her thin cheek on a still frailer hand and lookedpensively out into the darkness of the cedars. Her tone was neitherpatronizing nor unkind; rather, the shade of ironic tenderness which itexpressed suited the subject, and that curious intimacy which had oflate sprung up between herself and Darrell. She had begun, as we haveseen, by treating him _de haut en bas_. He had repaid her with manner ofthe same type; in this respect he was a match for any Archangel. Thensome accident--perhaps the publication by the man of a volume of essayswhich expressed to perfection his acid and embittered talent--perhaps acasual meeting at a northern country-house, where the lady had found theman of letters her only resource amid a crowd of uncongenialnonentities--had shown them their natural compatibility. Both were in asecret revolt against circumstance and their own lives; but whereas thereasons for the man's attitude--his jealousies, defeats, andambitions--were fairly well understood by the woman, he was almost asmuch in the dark about her as when their friendship began. 

He knew her husband slightly--an eager, gifted fellow, of late years astrong High Churchman, and well known in a certain group as the friendof Mrs. Armagh, that muse--fragile, austere, and beautiful--of severalgreat men, and great Christians, among the older generation. Mrs. Alcothad her own intimates, generally men; but she tired of them and changedthem often. Mr. Alcot spent part of every year within reach of theCornish home of Mrs. Armagh; and during that time his wife made herround of visits. 

Meanwhile her thin lips were sealed as to her own affairs. Certainly shemade the impression of an unhappy woman, and Darrell was convinced ofsome tragic complication. But neither he nor any one of whom he had yetinquired had any idea what it might be. 

"By-the-way--where is Lady Kitty?--and are there many people here?"

Darrell turned, as he spoke, to scrutinize the house and its approaches. Haggart Hall was a large and commonplace mansion, standing in the midstof spreading "grounds" and dull plantations, beyond which could besometimes seen the tall chimneys of neighboring coal-mines. It wore anair of middle-class Tory comfort which brought a smile to Darrell'scountenance as he surveyed it. 

"Kitty is at the Agricultural Show--with a party. "

"Playing the great lady? _What_ a house!"

"Yes. Kitty abhors it. But it will do very well for the partyto-morrow. "

"Half the county--that kind of thing?"

"_All_ the county--some royalties--and Lord Parham. "

"Lord Parham being the end and aim? I thought I heard wheels. "

Mrs. Alcot rose, and they strolled back towards the house. 

"And the party?" resumed Darrell. 

"Not particularly thrilling. Lord Grosville--"

"Also, I presume, _en garçon_. "

Mrs. Alcot smiled. 

"--the Manleys, Lady Tranmore, Miss French, the Dean of Milford and hiswife, Eddie Helston--"

"That, I understand, is Lady Kitty's undergraduate adorer?"

"It's no use talking to you--you know all the gossip. And some countybig-wigs, whose names I can't remember--come to dinner to-night. " Mrs. Alcot stifled a yawn. 

"I am very curious to see how Ashe takes his triumph, " said Darrell, asthey paused half-way. 

"He is just the same. No!" said Madeleine Alcot, correctingherself--"no--not quite. He _meant_ to triumph, and he _knows_ that hehas done so. "

"My dear lady!" cried Darrell--"a quite _enormous_ difference! Ashenever took stock of himself or his prospects in his life before. "

"Well, now--you will find he takes stock of a good many things. "

"Including Lady Kitty?"

His companion smiled. 

"He won't let her interfere again. "

"_L'homme propose_, " said Darrell. "You mean he has grown ambitious?"

Mrs. Alcot seemed to find it difficult to cope with these high things. Fanning herself, she languidly supposed that the English politicalpassion, so strong and unspent still in the aristocratic families, hadlaid serious hold at last on William Ashe. He had great schemes ofreform, and, do what he might to conceal it, his heart was in them. Hiswife, therefore, was no longer his occupation, but--

Mrs. Alcot hesitated for a word. 

"Scarcely his repose?" laughed Darrell. 

"I really won't discuss Kitty any more, " said Mrs. Alcot, impatiently. "Here they are! Hullo! What has Kitty got hold of now?"

Three carriages were driving up the long approach, one behind the other. In the first sat Kitty, a figure beside her in the dress of a nurse, andopposite to them both an indistinguishable bundle, which presentlyrevealed a head. The carriage drew up at the steps. Kitty jumped down, and she and the nurse lifted the bundle out. Footmen appeared; someguests from the next carriage went to help; there was a general movementand agitation, in the midst of which Kitty and her companionsdisappeared into the house. 

Lady Edith Manley and Lord Grosville began to cross the lawn. 

"What is the matter?" asked Mrs. Alcot, as they converged. 

"Kitty ran over a boy, " said Lord Grosville, in evident annoyance. "Therascal hadn't a scratch, but Kitty must needs pick him up and drive himhome with a nurse. 'I ain't hurt, mum, ' says the boy. 'Oh! but you mustbe, ' said Kitty. I offered to take him to his mother and give him half acrown. 'It's my duty to look after him, ' says Kitty. And she lifted himup herself--dirty little vagabond!--and put him in the carriage. Therewere some laborers and grooms standing near, and one of them sang out, 'Three cheers for Lady Kitty Ashe!' Such a ridiculous scene as you neversaw!"

The old man shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. 

"Lady Kitty is always so kind, " said the amicable Lady Edith. "But herpretty dress--I _was_ sorry!"

"Oh no--only an excuse for a new one, " said Mrs. Alcot. 

The Dean and Lady Tranmore approached--behind them again Ashe and Mrs. Winston. 

"Well, old fellow!" said Ashe, clapping a hand on Darrell's shoulder. "Uncommonly glad to see you. You look as though that damned London hadbeen squeezing the life out of you. Come for a stroll before dinner?"

The two men accordingly left the talkers on the lawn, and struck intothe park. Ashe, in a straw hat and light suit, made his usual impressionof strength and good-humor. He was gay, friendly, amusing as ever. ButDarrell was not long in discovering or imagining signs of change. Anyone else would have thought Ashe's talk frankness--nay, indiscretion--itself. Darrell at once divined or imagined in it shadesof official reserve, tracts of reticence, such as an old friend had aright to resent. 

"One can see what a personage he feels himself!"

Yet Darrell would have been the first to own that Ashe had some right tofeel himself a personage. The sudden revelation of his full intellectualpower, and of his influence in the country, for which the generalelection of the preceding winter had provided the opportunity, was stillan exciting memory among journalists and politicians. He had gone intothe election a man slightly discredited, on whose future nobody tookmuch trouble to speculate. He had emerged from it--after a series ofspeeches laying down the principles and vindicating the action of hisparty--one of the most important men in England, with whom Lord Parhamhimself must henceforth treat on quasi-equal terms. Ashe was now HomeSecretary, and, if Lord Parham's gout should take an evil turn, therewas no saying to what height fortune might not soon conduct him. 

The will--the iron purpose--with which it had all been done--that wasthe amazing part of it. The complete independence, moreover. Darrellimagined that Lord Parham must often have regretted the small intrigueby which Ashe's promotion had been barred in the crisis of the summer. It had roused an indolent man to action, and freed him from anyparticular obligation towards the leader who had ill-treated him. Ashe'scampaign had not been in all respects convenient; but Lord Parham hadhad to put up with it. 

The summer evening broadened as the two men sauntered on through thepark, beside a small stream fringed with yellow flags. Even the dingyMidland landscape, with its smoke-blackened woods and lifeless grass, assumed a glory of great light; the soft, interlacing clouds partedbefore the dying sun; the water received the golden flood, and each cootand water-hen shone jet and glossy in the blaze. A few cries of birds, the distant shouts of harvesters, the rustling of the water-flags alongthe stream, these were the only sounds--traditional sounds of Englishpeace. 

"Jolly, isn't it?" said Ashe, looking round him--"even this spoiledcountry! Why did we go and stifle in that beastly show!"

The sensuous pleasure and relaxation of his mood communicated itself toDarrell. They talked more intimately, more freely than they had done formonths. Darrell's gnawing consciousness of his own meaner fortunes, ascontrasted with the brilliant and expanding career of his school-friend, softened and relaxed. He almost forgave Ashe the successes of thewinter, and that subtly heightened tone of authority and self-confidencewhich here and there bore witness to them in the manner or talk of theminister. They scarcely touched on politics, however. Both were tired, and their talk drifted into the characteristic male gossip--"What's ----doing now?" "Do you ever see So-and-so?" "You remember that fellow atUniv. ?"--and the like, to the agreeable accompaniment of Ashe's bestcigars. 

So pleasant was the half-hour, so strongly had the old college intimacyreasserted itself, that suddenly a thought struck upward in Darrell'smind. He had not come to Haggart bent merely on idle holiday--far fromit. At the moment he was weary of literature as a profession, andsharply conscious that the time for vague ambitions had gone by. A posthad presented itself, a post of importance, in the gift of the HomeOffice. It meant, no doubt, the abandonment of more brilliant things;Darrell was content to abandon them. His determination to apply for itseemed, indeed, to himself an act of modesty--almost of sacrifice. As tothe technical qualifications required, he was well aware there might beother men better equipped than himself. But, after all, to what may notgeneral ability aspire--general ability properly stiffened withinterest?

And as to interest, when was it ever to serve him if not now--throughhis old friendship with Ashe? Chivalry towards a much-solicited mortal, also your friend--even the subtler self-love--might have counselledsilence--or at least approaches more gradual. It had been far from hispurpose, indeed, to speak so promptly. But here were the hour and theman! And there, in a distant country town, a woman--whereof the mereexistence was unsuspected by Darrell's country-house acquaintance--satwaiting, in whose eyes the post in question loomed as acondition--perhaps indispensable. Darrell's secret eagerness could notwithstand the temptation. 

So, with a nervous beginning--"By-the-way, I wished to consult you abouta personal matter. Of course, answer or not, as you like. Naturally, Iunderstand the difficulties!"--the plunge was taken, and the petitionersoon in full career. 

After a first start--a lifted brow of astonishment--Ashe wasuncomfortably silent--till suddenly, in a pause of Darrell's eloquence, his face changed, and with a burst of his old, careless freedom andaffection, he flung an arm along Darrell's shoulder, with an impetuous--

"I say, old fellow--don't--don't be a damned fool!"

An ashen white overspread the countenance of the man thus addressed. Hislips twitched. He walked on in silence. Ashe looked at him--stammered:

"Why, my dear Philip, it would be the extinguishing of you!"

Darrell said nothing. Ashe, still holding his friend captive, descantedhurriedly on the disadvantages of the post "for a man of your gifts, "then--more cautiously--on its special requirements, not one of which didDarrell possess--hinted at the men applying for it, at the scientificand professional influences then playing upon himself, at his strongsense of responsibility--"Too bad, isn't it, that a duffer like meshould have to decide these things"--and so on. 

In vain. Darrell laughed, recovered himself, changed the subject; but asthey walked quickly back to the house, Ashe knew, perchance, that he hadlost a friend; and Darrell's smarting soul had scored another reckoningagainst a day to come. 

 * * * * *

As they neared the house they found a large group still lingering on thelawn, and Kitty just emerging from a garden door. She came outaccompanied by the handsome Cambridge lad who had been her partner atLady Crashaw's dance. He was evidently absorbed in her society, and theyapproached in high spirits, laughing and teasing each other. 

"Well, Kitty, how's the bruised one?" said Ashe, as he sank into a chairbeside Mrs. Alcot. 

"Doing finely, " said Kitty. "I shall send him home to-night. "

"Meanwhile, have you put him up in my dressing-room? I only ask forinformation. "

"There wasn't another corner, " said Kitty. 

"There!" Ashe appealed to gods and men. "How do you expect me to dressfor dinner?"

"Oh, now, William, don't be tiresome!" said Kitty, impatiently. "He wasbruised black and blue"--("Serve him right for getting in the way, "grumbled Lord Grosville)--"and nurse and I have done him up in arnica. "

She came to stand by Ashe, talking in an undertone and as fast aspossible. The little Dean, who never could help watching her, thoughther more beautiful--and wilder--than ever. Her eyes--it was hardlyenough to say they shone--they glittered--in her delicate face; hergestures were more extravagant than he remembered them; her movementsrestlessness itself. 

Ashe listened with patience--then said:

"I can't help it, Kitty--you really must have him removed. "

"Impossible!" she said, her cheek flaming. 

"I'll go and talk to Wilson; he'll manage it, " said Ashe, getting up. 

Kitty pursued him, arguing incessantly. 

He lounged along, turning every now and then to look at her, smiling anddemurring, his hat on the back of his head. 

"You see the difference, " said Mrs. Alcot, in Darrell's ear. "Last yearKitty would have got her way. This year she won't. "

Darrell shrugged his shoulders. 

"These domesticities should be kept out of sight, don't you think?"

Madeleine Alcot looked at him curiously. 

"Did you have a pleasant walk?" she said. 

Darrell made a little face. 

"The great man was condescending. "

Madeleine Alcot's face was still interrogative. 

"A touch of the _folie des grandeurs?_"

"Well, who escapes it?" said Darrell, bitterly. 

 * * * * *

Most of the party had dispersed. Only Lady Tranmore and Margaret Frenchwere on the lawn. Margaret was writing some household notes for Kitty;Lady Tranmore sat in meditation, with a book before her which she wasnot reading. Miss French glanced at her from time to time. Ashe's motherwas beginning to show the weight of years far more plainly than she hadyet done. In these last three years the face had perceptibly altered; sohad the hair. The long strain of nursing, and that pathetic change whichmakes of the husband who has been a woman's pride and shelter herhalf-conscious dependent, had, no doubt, left deep marks upon a beautywhich had so long resisted time. And yet Margaret French believed it wasrather with her son than with her husband that the constant and wearinganxiety of Lady Tranmore's life should be connected. All the ambition, the pride of race and history which had been disappointed in her husbandhad poured themselves into her devotion to her son. She lived now forhis happiness and success. And both were constantly threatened by thepersonality and the presence of Kitty. 

Such, at least, as Margaret French well knew, was the inmostpersuasion--fast becoming a fanaticism--of Ashe's mother. William might, indeed, for the moment have triumphed over the consequences of Kitty'sbygone behavior. But the reckless, untamed character was there still athis side, preparing Heaven knew what pitfalls and catastrophes. LadyTranmore lived in fear. And under the outward sweetness and dignity ofher manner was there not developing something worse than fear--thathatred which is one of the strange births of love?

If so, was it just? There were many moments when Margaret would haveindignantly denied it. 

It was true, indeed, that Kitty's eccentricity seemed to develop withevery month that passed. The preceding winter had been marked, first bya mad folly of table-turning--involving the pursuit of a particularmedium whose proceedings had ultimately landed him in the dock; then bya headlong passion for hunting, accompanied by a series of newflirtations, each more unseemly than its predecessor, as it seemed toLady Tranmore. Afterwards--during the general election--a politicalphase! Kitty had most unfortunately discovered that she could speak inpublic, and had fallen in love with the sound of her own voice. InAshe's own contest, her sallies and indiscretions had already begun todo mischief when Lady Tranmore had succeeded in enticing her to Londonby the bait of a French _clairvoyante_, with whom Kitty nightly temptedthe gods who keep watch over the secrets of fate--till William's pollhad been declared. 

All this was deplorably true. And yet no one could say that Kitty inthis checkered year had done her husband much harm. Ashe was no longerher blind slave; and his career had carried him to heights with whicheven his mother might have been satisfied. Sometimes Margaret wasinclined to think that Kitty had now less influence with him and hismother more than was the just due of each. She--the younger woman--feltthe tragedy of Ashe's new and growing emancipation. Secretly--often--shesided with Kitty!

 * * * * *

"Margaret!"

The voice was Kitty's. She came running out, her pale-pink skirts flyinground her. "Have you seen the babe?"

Margaret replied that he and his nurse were just in sight. 

Kitty fled over the lawn to meet the child's perambulator. She liftedhim out, and carried him in her arms towards Margaret and Lady Tranmore. 

"Isn't it piteous?" said Margaret, under her breath, as the mother andchild approached. Lady Tranmore gave her a sad, assenting look. 

For during the last six months the child had shown signs of brainmischief--a curious apathy, broken now and then by fits of temper. Thedoctors were not encouraging. And Kitty varied between the mostpassionate attempts to rouse the child's failing intelligence anddays--even weeks--when she could hardly bring herself to see him at all. 

She brought him now to a seat beside Lady Tranmore. She had been tryingto make him take notice of a new toy. But the child looked at her withblank and glassy eyes, and the toy fell from his hand. 

"He hardly knows me, " said Kitty, in a low voice of misery, as sheclasped her hands round the baby of three, and looked into his face, asthough she would drag from it some sign of mind and recognition. 

But the blue eyes betrayed no glimmer of response, till suddenly, with agesture as of infinite fatigue, the child threw itself back against her, laying its fair head upon her breast with a long sigh. 

Kitty gave a sob, and bent over him, kissing--and kissing him. 

"Dear Kitty!" said Lady Tranmore, much moved. "I think--partly--he istired with the heat. "

Kitty shook her head. 

"Take him!" she said to the nurse--"take him! I can't bear it. "

The nurse took him from her, and Kitty dried her tears with a kind offierceness. 

"There is the post!" she said, springing up, as though determined tothrow off her grief as quickly as possible, while the nurse carried thechild away. 

The footman brought the letters across the lawn. There were some forLady Tranmore and for Margaret French. In the general opening andreading that ensued, neither lady noticed Kitty for a while. SuddenlyMargaret French looked up. She saw Kitty sitting motionless with a bookon her lap, a book of which the wrapper lay on the grass beside her. Herfinger kept a page; her eyes, full of excitement, were fixed on thedistant horizon of the park; the hurried breathing was plainlynoticeable under the thin bodice. 

"Kitty--time to dress!" said Margaret, touching her. 

Kitty rose, without a word to either of them, and walked quickly away, her hands, still holding the book, dropped in front of her, her eyes onthe ground. 

"Oh, Kitty!" cried Margaret, in laughing protest, as she stooped to pickup the litter of Kitty's letters, some of them still unopened, which layscattered on the grass, as they had fallen unheeded from her lap. 

But the little figure in the trailing skirts was already out of hearing. 

 * * * * *

At dinner Kitty was in her wildest spirits--a sparkling vision ofdiamonds and lace, much beyond--so it seemed to Lord Grosville--what theoccasion required. "Dressed out like a comedy queen at a fair!" was hisinward comment, and he already rolled the phrases in which he shoulddescribe the whole party to his wife. Like the expected Lord Parham, hewas there in sign of semi-reconciliation. Nothing would have inducedKitty to invite her aunt; the memory of a certain Sunday was too strong. On her side, Lady Grosville averred that nothing would have induced herto sit at Kitty's board. As to this, her husband cherished a certainscepticism. However, her resolution was not tried. It was Ashe, in fact, who had invited Lord Grosville, and Lord Grosville, who was master inhis own house, and had no mind to break with William Ashe just as thatgentleman's company became even better worth having than usual, hadaccepted the invitation. 

But his patience was sorely tried by Kitty. After dinner she insisted ontable-turning, and Lord Grosville was dragged breathless through thedrawing-room window, in pursuit of a table that broke a chair andfinally danced upon a flower-bed. His theology was harassed by theseproceedings and his digestion upset. The Dean took it with smiles; butthen the Dean was a Latitudinarian. 

Afterwards Kitty and the Cambridge boy--Eddie Helston--performed aduologue in French for the amusement of the company. Whatever could beunderstood in it had better not have been understood--such at least wasLord Grosville's impression. He wondered how Ashe--who laughedimmoderately--could allow his wife to do such things; and his onlyconsolation was that, for once, the Dean--whose fancy for Kitty wasridiculous!--seemed to be disturbed. He had at any rate walked away tothe library in the middle of the piece. Kitty was, of course, making afool of the boy all through. Any one could see that he was head overears in love with her. And she seemed to have all sorts of mysteriousunderstandings with him. Lord Grosville was certain they passed eachother notes, and made assignations. And one night, on going up himselfto bed very late, he had actually come upon the pair pacing up and downthe long passage after midnight!--Kitty in such a _negligée_ as only anactress should wear, with her hair about her ears--and the boy out ofhis wits and off his balance, as any one could see. Kitty, indeed, hadbeen quite unabashed--trying even to draw _him_ into their unseemly talkabout some theatrical nonsense or other; and such blushes as there werehad been entirely left to the boy. 

He supposed there was no harm in it. The lad was not a Geoffrey Cliffe, and it was no doubt Kitty's mad love of excitement which impelled herto these defiances of convention. But Ashe should put his foot down;there was no knowing with a creature so wild and so lovely where thesethings might end. And after the scandal of last year--

As to that scandal, Lord Grosville, as a man of the world, by no meansendorsed the lurid imaginations of his wife. Kitty and Cliffe hadcertainly behaved badly at Grosville Park--that is to say, judged by anyordinary standards. And the gossip of the season had apparently gatheredand culminated round some incident of a graver character than therest--though nobody precisely knew what it might be. But it seemed thatAshe had at last asserted himself; and if in Kitty's abrupt departure tothe country, and the sudden dissolution of the intimacy between herselfand Cliffe, those who loved her not had read what dark things theypleased, her uncle by marriage was quite content to see in it a meredisciplinary act on the part of the husband. 

Lord Grosville believed that some rumors as to Cliffe's privatecharacter had entered into the decisive defeat--in a constituencylargely Nonconformist--which had befallen that gentleman at the polls. Poor Lady Tranmore! He saw her anxieties in her face, and was trulysorry for her. At the same time, inveterate gossip that he was, heregarded her with a kind of hunger. If she only _would_ talk things overwith him! So far, however, she had given him very little opening. If sheever did, he would certainly advise her to press something like atemporary separation on her son. Why should not Lady Kitty be left atHaggart when the next session began? Lord Grosville, who had been afriend of Melbourne's, recalled the early history of that great man. When Lady Caroline Lamb had become too troublesome to a politicalhusband, she had been sent to Brocket. And then Mr. Lamb was only IrishSecretary--without a seat in the cabinet. How was it possible to take animportant share in steering the ship of state, and to look after a giddywife at the same time?

 * * * * *

Ashe and his guests lingered late below-stairs. When, somewhere aboutone o'clock, he entered his dressing-room, he was suddenly alarmed by asmell of burning. It seemed to come from Kitty's room. He knockedhastily at her door. 

"Kitty!"

No answer. He opened the door, and stood arrested. 

The room was in complete darkness save for some weird object in thecentre of it, on which a fire was burning, sending up a smoke which hungabout the room. Ashe recognized an old Spanish brazier of beaten copper, standing on iron feet, which had been a purchase of his own in days whenhe trifled with _bric-à-brac_. Upon it, a heap of some light material, which fluttered and crackled as it burned, was blazing and smoking away, while beside it--her profile set and waxen amid the drifts of smoke, herfair hair blanched to whiteness by the strange illumination from below, and all her slight form, checkered with the light and shade of the fire, drawn into a curve of watchfulness, vindictive and intent--stood Kitty. 

"What in the name of fortune are you doing, Kitty?" cried Ashe. 

She made no answer, and he approached. Then he saw that in the centreof the pile, and propped up against some small pieces of wood, aphotograph of Geoffrey Cliffe was consuming slow and dismally. The firehad just sent a line across his cheek. The lower limbs were alreadycharred, and the right hand was shrivelling. 

All around were letters, mostly consumed; while at the top of the pileabove the culprit's head, stuck in a cleft stick, and just beginning tobe licked by the flames, was what seemed to be a leaf torn out of abook. The book from which it had apparently been wrenched lay open on achair near. 

Kitty drew a long breath as Ashe came near her. 

"Keep off!" she said--"don't touch it!"

"You little goose!" cried Ashe--"what are you about?"

"Burning a coward in effigy, " said Kitty, between her teeth. 

Ashe thrust his hands into his pockets. 

"I wish to God you'd forget the creature, instead of flattering him withthese attentions!"

Kitty made no reply, but as she drew the fire together Ashe captured herhand. 

"What's he been doing now, Kitty?"

"There are his poems, " said Kitty, pointing to the chair. "The last oneis about me. "

"May I be allowed to see it?"

"It isn't there. "

"Ah! I see. You've topped the pile with it. With your leave, I'll delayits doom. " He snatched the leaf from its stick, and bending down read itby the light of the burning paper. Kitty watched him, frowning, her handon her hip, the white wrap she wore over her night-dress twining roundher in close folds a slender, brooding sorceress, some Canidia orSimaetha, interrupted in her ritual of hate. 

But Ashe was in no mood for literary reminiscence. His lip wascontemptuous, his brow angry as he replaced the leaf in its cleft stick, whither the flames immediately pursued it. 

"Wretched stuff, and damned impertinence!--that's all there is to say. For Heaven's sake, Kitty, don't let any one suppose you mind thething--for an instant!"

She looked at him with strange eyes. "But if I do mind it?"

His face darkened to the shade of hers. "Does that mean--that you stillthink of him--still wish to see him?"

"I don't know, " said Kitty, slowly. The fire had died away. Nothing buta few charred remnants remained in the brazier. Ashe lit the gas, anddisclosed a tragic Kitty, flushed by the audacity of her last remark. Hetook her masterfully in his arms. 

"That was bravado, " he said, kissing her. "You love _me_! And I may be apoor stick, but I'm worth a good many Cliffes. Defy me--and I'll writeyou a better poem, too!"

The color leaped afresh in Kitty's cheek. She pushed him away, and, holding him, perused his handsome, scornful face, and all the manlystrength of form and attitude. Her own lids wavered. 

"What a silly scene!" she said, and fell--a little, soft, yieldingform--into his arms. 

XV

The church clock of Haggart village had just struck half-past six. Awhite, sunny mist enwrapped the park and garden. Voices and shouts rangthrough the mist; little could yet be seen, but the lawns and the parkseemed to be pervaded with bustle and preparation, and every now andthen as the mist drifted groups of workmen could be distinguished, marquees emerged, flags floated, and carts laden with benches andtrestle-tables rumbled slowly over the roads and tracks of the park. 

The house itself was full of gardeners, arranging banks of magnificentflowers in the hall and drawing-rooms, and superintended by the headgardener, a person of much greater dignity than Ashe himself, who sworeat any underling making a noise, as though the slumbers of the "quality"in the big house overhead and the danger of disturbing them were thedearest interests of a burdened life. 

As to the mistress of the house, at any rate, there was no need forcaution. The clocks of the house had barely followed the church clock instriking the half-hour when the workmen on the ground floor saw LadyKitty come down-stairs and go through the drawing-room window into thegarden. There she gave her opinion on the preparations, pushing onafterwards into the park, where she astounded the various contractorsand their workmen by her appearance at such an hour, and by the vigorand decision of her orders. Finally she left the park behind, just asits broad, scorched surfaces began everywhere to shake off the mist, andentered one of the bordering woods. 

She had a basket on her arm, and, when she had found for herself a mossyseat amid the roots of a great oak, she unpacked it. It contained a massof written pages, some fresh scribbling-paper, ink and pens, and a smallportfolio. When they were all lying on the moss beside her, Kitty turnedover the sheets with a loving hand, reading here and there. 

"It is good!" she said to herself. "I vow it is!"

Dipping her pen in the ink, she began upon corrections. The sun filteredthrough the thick leafage overhead, touching her white dress, her smallshoes, and the masses of her hair. She wore a Leghorn garden-hat, tiedwith pink ribbons under her chin, and in her morning freshness anddaintiness she looked about seventeen. The hours of sleep had calmed therestlessness of the wide, brown eyes; they were full now of gentlenessand mirth. 

"I wonder if he'll come?"

She looked up and listened. And as she did so, her eyes and sense wereseized with the beauty of the wood. The mystery of early solitary hoursseemed to be still upon it; both in the sunlight and the shadow therewas a magic unknown to the later day. In a clearing before her spread alake of willow-herb, of a pure bright pink, hemmed in by a golden shoreof ragwort. The splash of color gave Kitty a passionate delight. 

"Dear, dear world!" She stretched out her hands to it in a childishgreeting. 

Then the joy died sharply from her eyes. "How many years left--to enjoyit in--before one dies--or one's heart dies?"

Invariably, now, her moments of sensuous pleasure ended in this dread ofsomething beyond--of a sudden drowning of beauty and delight--of afuture unknown and cruel, coming to meet her, like some armed assassinin a narrow path. 

William! When it came could William save her? "William is a _darling_!"she said to herself, her face full of yearning. 

As for that other--it gave her an intense pleasure to think of theflames creeping up the form and face of the photograph. Should she hear, perhaps, in a week or two that he had been seized with some mysteriousillness, like the witch-victims of old? A shiver ran through her, athrill of repentance--till the bitter lines of the poem came back tomemory--lines describing a woman with neither the courage for sin northe strength for virtue, a "light woman" indeed, whom the great passionspassed eternally by, whom it was a humiliation to court and a mereweakness to regret. Then she laughed, and began again with passionatezest upon the sheets before her. 

A sound of approaching footsteps on the wood-path. She half rose, smiling. 

The branches parted, and Darrell appeared. He paused to survey the oreadvision of Lady Kitty. 

"Am I not to the minute?" He held up his watch in front of her. 

"So you got my note?"

"Certainly. I was immensely flattered. " He threw himself down on themoss beside her, his sallow, long-chinned face and dark eyes toned to amorning cheerfulness, his dress much fresher and more exact than usual. "But he is one of the men who look so much better in their old clothes!"thought Kitty. 

"Well, what can I do for you, Lady Kitty?" he resumed, smiling. 

"I wanted your advice, " said Kitty--not altogether sure, now that he wasthere beside her, that she did want it. 

"About your literary work?"

She threw him a quick glance. 

"Do you know? How do you know? I have been writing a book!"

"So I imagined--"

"And--and--" She broke now into eagerness, bending forward, "I want youto help me get it published. It is a deadly secret. Nobody knows--"

"Not even William?"

"No one, " she repeated. "And I can't tell you about it, or show you aline of it, unless you vow and swear to me--"

"Oh! I swear, " said Darrell, tranquilly--"I swear. "

Kitty looked at him doubtfully a moment--then resumed:

"I have written it at all sorts of times--when William was away--in themiddle of the night--out in the woods. _Nobody_ knows. You see"--herlittle fingers plucked at the moss--"I have a good many advantages. Ifpeople want 'Society' with a big S, I can give it them!"

"Naturally, " said Darrell. 

"And it always amuses people--doesn't it?"

Kitty clasped her hands round her knees and looked at him with candor. 

"Does it?" said Darrell. "It has been done a good deal. "

"Oh, of course, " said Kitty, impatiently, "mine's not the proper thing. You don't imagine I should try and write like Thackeray, do you? Mine's_real_ people--_real_ things that happened--with just the namesaltered. "

"Ah!" said Darrell, sitting up--"that sounds exciting. Is it libellous?"

"Well, that's just what I want to know, " said Kitty, slowly. "Of course, I've made a kind of story out of it. But you'd have to be a great foolnot to guess. I've put myself in, and--"

"And Ashe?"

Kitty nodded. "All the novels that are written about politicsnowadays--except Dizzy's--are such nonsense, aren't they? I just wantedto describe--from the inside--how a real statesman"--she threw up herhead proudly--"lives, and what he does. "

"Excellent subject, " said Darrell. "Well--anybody else?"

Kitty flushed. "You'll see, " she said, uncertainly. 

Darrell's involuntary smile was hidden by a bunch of honeysuckle atwhich he was sniffing. "May I look?" he asked, stretching out a hand forthe sheets. 

She pushed them towards him, half unwilling, half eager, and he began toturn them over. Apparently it had a thread of story--both slender andextravagant. And on the thread--Hullo!--here was the fancy ball; hepounced upon it. A portrait of Lady Parham--Ye powers! he chuckled as heread. On the next page the Chancellor of the Exchequer--snub-nosed_parvenu_ and Puritan--admirably caught. Further on a speech of Ashe'sin the House--with caricature to right and caricature to left ... Ah! thepoet!--at last! He bent over the page till Kitty coughed and fidgeted, and he thought it best to hurry on. But it was war, he perceived--open, undignified, feminine war. On the next page, the Archbishop ofCanterbury--with Lady Kitty's views on the Athanasian Creed! Heavens!what a book! Next, Royalty itself, not too respectfully handled. ThenAshe again--Ashe glorified, Ashe explained, Ashe intrigued against, andAshe triumphant--everywhere the centre of the stage, and everywhere, ofcourse, all unknown to the author, the fool of the piece. Politicalindiscretions also, of the most startling kind, as coming from the wifeof a cabinet minister. Allusions, besides, scattered broadcast, to thescandals of the day--material as far as he could see for a dozen libelactions. And with it all, much fantastic ability, flashes of wit andromance, enough to give the book wings beyond its first personalaudience--enough, in fact, to secure to all its scandalous matter thewidest possible chance of fame. 

"Well!"

He rolled over on his elbows, and lay staring at the sheets beforehim--dumb. What was he to say?

A thought struck him. As far as he could perceive, there was an emptyniche. 

"And Lord Parham?"

A smile of mischief broadened on Kitty's lips. 

"That'll come, " she said--and checked herself. Darrell bowed his face onhis hands and laughed, unseen. To what sacrificial rite was theunconscious victim hurrying--at that very moment--in the express trainwhich was to land him at Haggart Station that afternoon?

"Well!" said Kitty, impatiently--"what do you think? Can you help me?"

Darrell looked up. 

"You know, Lady Kitty, that book can't be published like that. Nobodywould risk it. "

"Well, I suppose they'll tell me what to cut out. "

"Yes, " said Darrell, slowly, caught by many reflections--"no doubt someclever fellow will know how near the wind it's possible to sail. But, anyway, trim it as you like, the book will make a scandal. "

"Will it?" Kitty's eyes flashed. She sat up radiant, her breath quickand defiant. 

"I don't see, " he resumed, "how you can publish it without consultingAshe. "

Kitty gave a cry of protest. 

"No, no, _no_! Of course he'd disapprove. But then--he soon forgives athing, if he thinks it clever. And it is clever, isn't it?--some of it. He'd laugh--and then it would be all right. _He'd_ never pay out hisenemies, but he couldn't help enjoying it if some one else did--couldhe?" She pleaded like a child. 

"'No need to forgive them, '" murmured Darrell, as he rolled over on hisback and put his hat over his eyes--"for you would have 'shot themall. '"

Under the shelter of his hat he tried to think himself clear. What_really_ were her motives? Partly, no doubt, a childish love ofexcitement--partly revenge? The animus against the Parhams was clear inevery page. Cliffe, too, came badly out of it--a fantastic Byronicmixture of libertine and cad. Lady Kitty had better beware! As far ashe knew, Cliffe had never yet been struck, with impunity to the striker. 

If these precious sheets ever appeared, Ashe's position would certainlybe shaken. Poor wretch!--endeavoring to pursue a serious existence, yoked to such an impish sprite as this! His own fault, after all. Thatfirst night, at Madame d'Estrées', was not her madness written in hereyes?

"Now tell me, Lady Kitty"--he roused himself to look at her with someattention--"what do you want me to do?"

"To find me a publisher, and"--she stooped towards him with a laughingshyness--"to get me some money. "

"Money!"

"I've been so awfully extravagant lately, " said Kitty, frankly. "Something really will have to be done. And the book's worth some money, isn't it?"

"A good deal, " said Darrell. Then he added, with emphasis--"I reallycan't be responsible for it in any way, Lady Kitty. "

"Of course not. I will never, _never_ say I told you! But, you see, I'mnot literary--I don't know in the least how to set about it. If youwould just put me in communication?"

Darrell pondered. None of the well-known publishers, of course, wouldlook at it. But there were plenty of people who would--and give LadyKitty a large sum of money for it, too. 

What part, however, could he--Darrell--play in such a transaction?

"I am bound to warn you, " he said, at last, looking up, "that yourhusband will probably strongly disapprove this book, and that it may dohim harm. "

Kitty bit her lip. 

"But if I tell nobody who wrote it--and you tell nobody?"

"Ashe would know at once. Everybody would know. "

"William would know, " his companion admitted, unwillingly. "But I don'tsee why anybody else should. You see, I've put myself in--I've said themost shocking things!"

Darrell replied that she would not find that device of much service toher. 

"However--I can no doubt get an opinion for you. "

Kitty, all delight, thanked him profusely. 

"You shall have the whole of it before you go--Friday, isn't it?" shesaid, eagerly gathering it up. 

Darrell was certainly conscious of no desire to burden himself with thehorrid thing. But he was rarely able to refuse the request of a prettyand fashionable woman, and it flattered his conceit to be the solerecipient of what might very well turn out to be a political secret ofsome importance. Not that he meant to lay himself open to any justreproach whatever in the matter. He would show it to some fittingperson--to pacify Lady Kitty--write a letter of strong protest to herafterwards--and wash his hands of it. What might happen then was not hisbusiness. 

Meanwhile his inner mind was full of an acrid debate which turnedentirely upon his interview with Ashe of the day before. No doubt, as anold friend, aware of Lady Kitty's excitable character, he might havefelt it his duty to go straight to Ashe, _coûte que coûte_, and warnhim of what was going on. But what encouragement had been given him toplay so Quixotic a part? Why should he take any particular thought forAshe's domestic peace, or Ashe's public place? What consideration hadAshe shown for _him_? "Tu l'as voulu, Georges Dandin!"

So it ended in his promising to take the MS. To London with him, and letLady Kitty know the result of his inquiries. Kitty's dancing step asthey returned to the house betrayed the height of her spirits. 

 * * * * *

A rumor flew round the house towards the middle of the day that Harry, the little heir, was worse. Kitty did not appear at luncheon, and thedoctor was sent for. Before he came, it was known only to MargaretFrench that Kitty had escaped by herself from the house and could not befound. Ashe and Lady Tranmore saw the doctor, who prescribed, and wouldnot admit that there was any cause for alarm. The heat had tried thechild, and Lady Kitty--he looked round the nursery for her in someperplexity--might be quite reassured. 

Margaret found her, wandering in the park--very wild and pale--told herthe doctor's verdict, and brought her home. Kitty said little ornothing, and was presently persuaded to change her dress for LordParham's arrival. By the time the operation was over she was full asusual of smiles and chatter, with no trace apparently of the mood whichhad gone before. 

Lord Parham found the house-party assembled on the lawn, with Kitty in athree-cornered hat, fantastically garnished at the side with a greatplume of white cock's feathers, presiding at the tea-table. 

"Ah!" thought the Premier, as he approached--"now for the tare in Ashe'swheat!"

Nothing, however, could have been more gracious than Kitty's receptionof him, or more effusive than his response. He took his seat beside her, a solid and impressive figure, no less closely observed by such of thehabitual guests of the political country-houses as happened to bepresent, than by the sprinkling of local clergy and country neighbors towhom Kitty was giving tea. Lord Parham, though now in the fourth year ofhis Premiership, was still something of a mystery to his countrymen;while for the inner circle it was an amusement and an event that heshould be seen without his wife. 

For some time all went well. Kitty's manners and topics were alikebeyond reproach. When presently she inquired politely as to the successof his Scottish tour, Lord Parham hoped he had not altogether disgracedhimself. But, thank Heaven, it was done. Meanwhile Ashe, he supposed, had been enjoying the pursuits of a scholar and a gentleman?--luckyfellow!

"He has been reading the Bible, " said Kitty, carelessly, as she handedcake. "Just now he's in the Acts. That's why, I suppose, he didn't hearthe carriage. John!" She called a footman. "Tell Mr. Ashe that LordParham has arrived!"

The Premier opened astonished eyes. 

"Does Ashe generally study the Scriptures of an afternoon?"

Kitty nodded--with her most confiding smile. "When he can. He says"--shedropped her voice to a theatrical whisper--"the Bible is such a 'd----dinteresting' book!"

Lord Parham started in his seat. Ashe and some of his friends stillfaintly recalled, in their too familiar and public use of thisparticular naughty word, the lurid vocabulary of the Peel and Melbournegeneration. But in a lady's mouth the effect was prodigious. LordGrosville frowned sternly and walked away; Eddie Helston smothered aburst of laughter; the Dean, startled, broke off a conversation with agroup of archaeological clergymen and came to see what he could do tokeep Lady Kitty in order; while Lady Tranmore flushed deeply, and begana hasty conversation with Lady Edith Manley. Meanwhile Kitty, quite unconscious, "went on cutting"--or rather, dispensing"bread-and-butter"; and Lord Parham changed the subject. 

"What a charming house!" he said, unwarily, waving his hand towards theHaggart mansion. He was short-sighted, and, in truth, saw only that itwas big. 

Kitty looked at him in wonder--a friendly and amiable wonder. She saidit was very kind of him to try and spare her feelings, but, really, anybody might say what they liked of Haggart. She and William weren'tresponsible. 

Lord Parham, rather nettled, put on his eye-glass, and, being anobstinate man, still maintained that he saw no reason at all to bedissatisfied with Haggart, from the æsthetic point of view. Kitty saidnothing, but for the first time a gleam of mockery showed itself in herchanging look. 

Lady Tranmore, always nervously on the watch, moved forward at thispoint, and Lord Parham, with marked and pompous suavity, transferred hisconversation to her. 

Thus assured, as he thought, of a good listener, and delivered from hisuncomfortable hostess, Lord Parham crossed his legs and began to talk athis ease. The guests round the various tea-tables converged, somestanding and some sitting, and made a circle about the great man. AboutKitty, too, who sat, equally conspicuous, dipping a biscuit in milk, andteasing her small dog with it. Lord Parham meanwhile described to LadyTranmore--at wearisome length--the demonstrations which had attended hisjourney south, the railway-station crowds, addresses, and so forth. Hehandled the topic in a tone of jocular humility, which but slightlyconcealed the vast complacency beneath. Kitty's lip twitched; she fedPonto hastily with all possible cakes. 

"No one, of course, can keep any count of what he says on theseoccasions, " resumed Lord Parham, with a gracious smile. "I hope I talkedsome sense--"

"Oh, but why?" said Kitty, looking up, her large fawn's eyes bent on thespeaker. 

"Why?" repeated Lord Parham, suddenly stiffening. "I don't follow you, Lady Kitty. "

"Anybody can talk sense!" said Kitty, throwing a big bit of muffin atPonto's nose. "It's the other thing that's hard--isn't it?"

"Lady Kitty, " said the Dean, lifting a finger, "you are plagiarizingfrom Mr. Pitt. "

"Am I?" said Kitty. "I didn't know. "

"I imagine that Mr. Pitt talked sense sometimes, " said Lord Parham, shortly. 

"Ah, that was when he was drunk!" said Kitty. "Then he wasn'tresponsible. "

Lord Parham and the circle laughed--though the Premier's laugh was alittle dry and perfunctory. 

"So you worship nonsense, Lady Kitty?"

Kitty nodded sweetly. 

"And so does William. Ah, here he is!"

For Ashe appeared, hurrying over the lawn, and Lord Parham rose to greethis host. 

"Upon my word, Ashe, how well you look! _You_ have had some holiday!"

"Which is more than can be said of yourself, " said Ashe, with smilingsympathy. "Well!--how have the speeches gone? Is there anything left ofyou? Edinburgh was magnificent!"

He wore his most radiant aspect as he sat down beside his guest; andKitty watching him, and already conscious of a renewed and excitabledislike for her guest, thought William was overdoing it absurdly, andgrew still more restive. 

The Premier brought the tips of his fingers lightly together, as heresumed his seat. 

"Oh! my dear fellow, people were very kind--too much so! Yes--I think itdid good--it did good. I should now rest and be thankful--if it weren'tfor the Bishops!"

"The Bishops!" said the Rector of the parish standing near. "What havethe Bishops been doing, my lord?"

"Dying, " said Kitty, as she fell into an attitude which commanded bothWilliam and Lord Parham. "They do it on purpose. "

"Another this morning!" said Ashe, throwing up his hands. 

"Oh! they die to plague me, " said the Prime Minister, with the air ofone on whom the universe weighs heavy. "There never was such aconspiracy!"

"You should let William appoint them, " said Kitty, leaning her chin uponher hands and studying Lord Parham with eyes all the more brilliant forthe dark circles which fatigue, or something else, had drawn round them. 

"Ah, to be sure!" said Lord Parham, affably. "I had forgotten that Ashewas our theologian. Take me a walk before dinner!" he added, addressinghis host. 

"But you won't take his advice, " said Kitty, smiling. 

The Premier turned rather sharply. 

"How do you know that, Lady Kitty?"

Kitty hesitated--then said, with the prettiest, slightest laugh:

"Lady Parham has such strong views--hasn't she?--on Church questions!"

Lord Parham's feeling was that a more insidiously impertinent questionhad never been put to him. He drew himself up. 

"If she has, Lady Kitty, I can only say I know very little about them!She very wisely keeps them to herself. "

"Ah!" said Kitty, as her lovely eyebrows lifted, "that shows how littlepeople know. "

"I don't quite understand, " said Lord Parham. "To what do you allude, Lady Kitty?"

Kitty laughed. She raised her eyes to the Rector, a spare HighChurchman, who had retreated uncomfortably behind Lady Tranmore. 

"Some one--said to me last week--that Lady Parham had saved theChurch!"

The Prime Minister rose. "I must have a little exercise before dinner. Your gardens, Ashe--is there time?"

Ashe, scarlet with discomfort and annoyance, carried his visitor off. Ashe did so, he passed his wife. Kitty turned her little head, looked athim half shyly, half defiantly. The Dean saw the look; saw also thatAshe deliberately avoided it. 

The party presently began to disperse. The Dean found himself beside hishostess--strolling over the lawn towards the house. He observed herattentively--vexed with her, and vexed for her! Surely she was thinnerthan he had ever seen her. A little more, and her beauty would sufferseriously. Coming he knew not whence, there lit upon him the sudden andpainful impression of something undermined, something consumed fromwithin. 

"Lady Kitty, do you ever rest?" he asked her, unexpectedly. 

"Rest!" she laughed. "Why should I?"

"Because you are wearing yourself out. "

She shrugged her shoulders. 

"Do you ever lie down--alone--and read a book?" persisted the Dean. 

"Yes. I have just finished Renan's _Vie de Jésus_!"

Her glance, even with him, kept its note of audacity, but much softenedby a kind of wistfulness. 

"Ah! my dear Lady Kitty, let Renan alone, " cried the Dean--then with achange of tone--"but are you speaking truth--or naughtiness?"

"Truth, " said Kitty. "But--of course--I am in a temper. "

The Dean laughed. 

"I see Lord Parham is not a favorite of yours. "

Kitty compressed her small lips. 

"To think that William should have to take his orders from that man!"she said, under her breath. 

"Bear it--for William's sake, " said the Dean, softly, "and, meanwhile--take my advice--and don't read any more Renan!"

Kitty looked at him curiously. 

"I prefer to see things as they are. "

The Dean sighed. 

"That none of us can do, my dear Lady Kitty. No one can satisfy his_intelligence_. But religion speaks to the _will_--and it is the onlything between us and the void. Don't tamper with it! It is soon gone. "

A satirical expression passed over the face of his companion. 

"Mine was gone before we had been a month married. William killed it. "

The Dean exclaimed:

"I hear always of his interest in religious matters!"

"He cares for nothing so much--and he doesn't believe one single word ofanything! I was brought up in a convent, you know--but William laughedit all out of me. "

"Dear Lady Kitty!"

Kitty nodded. "And now, of course, I know there's nothing in it. Oh! I_do_ beg your pardon!" she said, eagerly. "I never meant to say anythingrude to _you. _ And I must go!" She looked up at an open window on thesecond floor of the house. The Dean supposed it was the nursery, andbegan to ask after the boy. But before he could frame his question shewas gone, flying over the grass with a foot that scarcely seemed totouch it. 

"Poor child, poor child!" murmured the Dean, in a most genuine distress. But it was not the boy he was thinking of. 

Presently, however, he was overtaken by Miss French, of whom he inquiredhow the baby was. 

Margaret hesitated. "He seems to lose strength, " she said, sadly. "Thedoctor declares there is no danger, unless--"

"Unless what?"

"Oh! but it's so unlikely!" was her hasty reply. "Don't let's think ofit. "

 * * * * *

Kitty was just giving a last look at herself in the large mirror whichlined half one of the sides of her room when Ashe invaded her. Sheglanced at him askance a little, and when the maid had gone Kittyhurriedly gathered up gloves and fan and prepared to follow her. 

"Kitty--one word!"

He caught her in his arm, and held her while he looked down upon hersparkling dress and half-reluctant face. "Kitty, do be nice to that oldfellow to-night! It's only for two nights. Take him in the right way, and make a conquest of him--for good. He's been very decent to me in ourwalk--though you did say such extraordinary things to him thisafternoon. I believe he really wants to make amends. "

"I do hate his white eyelashes so, " said Kitty, slowly. 

"What does it matter, " cried Ashe, angrily, "whether he were ablue-faced baboon!--for two nights? Just listen to him a little, Kitty--that's all he wants. And--don't be offended!--but hold your ownsmall tongue--just a little!"

Kitty pulled herself away. 

"I believe I shall do something dreadful, " she said, quietly. 

A sternness to which Ashe's good-humored face was almost wholly strangeshowed itself in his expression. 

"Why should you do anything dreadful, please? Lord Parham is your guest, and my political chief. Is there any woman in England who would not doher best to be civil to him under the circumstances?"

"I suppose not, " said Kitty, with deliberation. "No, I don't think therecan be. "

"Kitty!"

For the first time Ashe was conscious of real exasperation. What was tobe done with a temperament and a disposition like this?

"Do you never think that you have it in your power to help me or to ruinme?" he said, with vehemence. 

"Oh yes--often. I mean--to help you--in my own way. "

Ashe's laugh was a sound of pure annoyance. 

"But please understand, it would be _infinitely_ better if you wouldhelp me, in _my_ way--in the natural, accepted way--the way thateverybody understands. "

"The way Lord Parham recommends?" Kitty looked at him quietly. "Nevermind, William. I _am_ trying to help you. "

Her eyes shone with the strangest glitter. Ashe was conscious of anotherof those sudden stabs of anxiety about her which he had felt atintervals through the preceding year. His face softened. 

"Dear, don't let's talk nonsense! Just look at me sometimes at dinner, and say to yourself, 'William asks me--for his sake--to be nice to LordParham. '"

He again drew her to him, but she repulsed him almost with violence. 

"Why is he here? Why have we people dining? We ought to be alone--in thedark!"

Her face had become a white mask. Her breast rose and fell, as thoughshe fought with sobs. 

"Kitty--what do you mean?" He recoiled in dismay. 

"Harry!"--she just breathed the word between her closed lips. 

"My darling!" cried Ashe, "I saw Dr. Rotherham myself this afternoon. Hegave the most satisfactory account, and Margaret told me she hadrepeated everything to you. The child will soon be himself again. "

"He is _dying_!" said Kitty, in the same low, remote voice, her gazestill fixed on Ashe. 

"Kitty! Don't say such things--don't think them!" Ashe had himself grownpale. "At any rate"--he turned on her reproachfully--"tell me _why_ youthink them. Confide in me, Kitty. Come and talk to me about the boy. Butthree-fourths of the time you behave as though there were nothing thematter with him--you won't even see the doctor--and then you say a thinglike this!"

She was silent a moment; then with a wild gesture of the head andshoulders, as of one shaking off a weight, she moved away--drew on herlong gloves--and going to the dressing-table, gave a touch of rouge toher cheeks. 

"Kitty, why did you say that?" Ashe followed her entreatingly. 

"I don't know. At least, I couldn't explain. Now, shall we go down?"

Ashe drew a long breath. His frail son held the inmost depths of hisheart. 

"You have made the party an abomination to me!" he said, with energy. 

"Don't believe me, then--believe the doctor, " said Kitty, her facechanging. "And as for Lord Parham, I'll try, William--I'll try. "

She passed him--the loveliest of visions--flung him a hand to kiss--andwas gone. 

XVI

There could be no question that in all external matters Lord Parham wasthat evening magnificently entertained by the Home Secretary and LadyKitty Ashe. The chef was extravagantly good; the wines, flowers, andservice lavish to a degree which made both Ashe and Lady Tranmoresecretly uncomfortable. Lady Tranmore in particular detested "show, "influenced as much by aristocratic instinct as by moral qualms; andthere was to her mind a touch of vulgarity in the entertaining atHaggart, which might be tolerated in the case of financiers and_nouveaux riches_, while, as connected with her William and his wife, who had no need whatever to bribe society, it was unbecoming andundignified. Moreover, the winter had been marked by a financial crisiscaused entirely by Kitty's extravagance. A large sum of money had had tobe raised from the Tranmore estates; times were not good for the landedinterest, and the head agent had begun to look grave. 

If only William would control his wife! But Haggart contained one ofthose fine, slowly gathered libraries which make the distinction of somany English country-houses; and in the intervals of his official work, which even in holiday time was considerable, Ashe could not be beguiledfrom the beloved company of his books to help Kitty sign checks, orscold her about expenditure. 

So Kitty signed and signed; and the smaller was Ashe's balance, themore, it seemed, did Kitty spend. Then, of course, every few months, there were deficits which had to be made good. And as to the debts whichaccumulated, Lady Tranmore preferred not to think about them. It allmeant future trouble and clipping of wings for William; and it allentered into that deep and hidden resentment, half anxious love, halfalien temperament, which Elizabeth Tranmore felt towards Ashe's wife. 

However--to repeat--Lord Parham, as far as the fleshpots went, wasfinely treated. Kitty was in full force, glittering in a spangled dress, her dazzling face and neck, and the piled masses of her hair, thrown outin relief against the panelled walls of the dining-room with abrilliance which might have tempted a modern Rembrandt to paint anEnglish Saskia. Eddie Helston, on her left, could not take his eyes fromher. And even Lord Parham, much as he disliked her, acknowledged, duringthe early courses, that she was handsome, and in her own way--thank God!it was not the way of any womankind belonging to him--good company. 

He saw, too, or thought he saw, that she was anxious to make him amendsfor her behavior of the afternoon. She restrained herself, and talkedpolitics. And within the lines he always observed when talking to women, lines dictated by a contempt innate and ineradicable, Lord Parham wasquite ready to talk politics too. Then--it suddenly struck him that shewas pumping him, and with great adroitness. Ashe, he knew, wanted anearly place in the session for a particular measure in which he wasinterested. Lord Parham had no mind to give him the precedence that hewanted; was, in fact, determined on something quite different. But hewas well aware by now that Ashe was a person to be reckoned with; and hehad so far taken refuge in vagueness--an amiable vagueness, by whichAshe, on their walk before dinner, had been much taken in, misled nodoubt by the strength of his own wishes. 

And now here was Lady Kitty--whom, by-the-way, it was not at all easy totake in--trying to "manage" him, to pin him to details, to wheedle himout of a pledge!

Lord Parham, presently, looked at her with cold, smiling eyes. 

"Ah! you are interested in these things, Lady Kitty? Well--tell me yourviews. You women have such an instinct--"

--whereby the moth was kept hovering round the flame. Till, in a flash, Kitty awoke to the fact that while she had been listening happily to herown voice, taking no notice whatever of the signals which Williamendeavored to send her from the other end of the table--while she hadbeen tripping gayly through one indiscretion after another, betrayinginnumerable things as to William's opinions and William's plans that shehad infinitely better not have betrayed--Lord Parham had said nothing, betrayed nothing, promised nothing. A quiet smile--a courteous nod--andpresently a shade of mockery in the lips--the meaning of them, all in amoment, burst on Kitty. 

Her face flamed. Thenceforward it would be difficult to describe thedinner. Conversationally, at Kitty's end it became an uproar. Shestarted the wildest topics, and Lord Parham had afterwards a bruisedrecollection as of one who has been dragged or driven, Caliban-like, through brake and thicket, pinched and teased and pelted by elfishfingers, without one single uncivil speech or act of overt offence towhich an angry guest could point. With each later course, the PrimeMinister grew stiffer and more silent. Endurance was written in everyline of his fighting head and round, ungraceful shoulders, in his veiledeyes and stolid mouth. Lady Tranmore gave a gasp of relief when at lastKitty rose from her seat. 

 * * * * *

The evening went no better. Lord Parham was set down to cards withKitty, Eddie Helston, and Lord Grosville. Lord Grosville, his partner, played, to the Premier's thinking, like an idiot, and Lady Kitty and theyoung man chattered and sparred, so that all reasonable play becameimpossible. Lord Parham lost more than he at all liked to lose, and athalf-past ten he pleaded fatigue, refused to smoke, and went to hisroom. 

Ashe was perfectly aware of the failure of the evening, and thediscomfort of his guest. But he said nothing, and Kitty avoided hisneighborhood. Meanwhile, between him and his mother a certain tacitunderstanding began to make itself felt. They talked quietly, incorners, of the arrangements for the speech and fête of the morrow. Sofar, they had been too much left to Kitty. Ashe promised his mother tolook into them. He and she combined for the protection of Lord Parham. 

When about one o'clock Ashe went to bed, Kitty either was or pretendedto be fast asleep. The room was in darkness save for the faintillumination of a night-light, which just revealed to Ashe the delicatefigure of his wife, lying high on her pillows, her cheek and brow hiddenin the confusion of her hair. 

One window was wide open to the night, and once more Ashe stood lost in"recollection" beside it, as on that night in Hill Street, more than ayear before. But the thoughts which on that former occasion had beenstill as tragic and unfamiliar guests in a mind that repelled them hadnow, alack, lost their strangeness; they entered habitually, unannounced--frequent, irritating, deplorable. 

Had the relation between himself and Kitty ever, in truth, recovered theshock of that incident on the river--of his night of restlessness, hismorning of agonized alarm, and the story to which he listened on herreturn? It had been like some physical blow or wound, easily healed orconquered for the moment, which then, as time goes on, reveals a hiddenseries of consequences. 

Consequences, in this case, connected above all with Kitty's own natureand temperament. The excitement of Cliffe's declaration, of her ownresistance and dramatic position, as between her husband and her lover, had worked ever since, as a poison in Kitty's mind--Ashe was becomingdismally certain of it. The absurd incident of the night before with thephotograph had been enough to prove it. 

Well, the thing, he supposed, would right itself in time. Meanwhile, Cliffe had been dismissed, and this foolish young fellow Eddie Helstonmust soon follow him. Ashe had viewed the affair so far with an amusedtolerance; if Kitty liked to flirt with babes it was her affair, nothis. But he perceived that his mother was once more becoming restless, under the general _inconvenance_ of it; and he had noticed distress anddisapproval in the little Dean, Kitty's stanchest friend. 

Luckily, no difficulty there! The lad was almost as devoted tohim--Ashe--as he was to Kitty. He was absurd, affected, vain; but therewas no vice in him, and a word of remonstrance would probably reduce himto abject regret and self-reproach. Ashe intended that his mother shouldspeak it, and as he made up his mind to ask her help, he felt for thesecond time the sharp humiliation of the husband who cannot secure hisown domestic peace, but must depend on the aid of others. Yet how couldhe himself go to young Helston? Some men no doubt could have handledsuch an incident with dignity. Ashe, with his critical sense for everplaying on himself and others; with the touch of moral shirking thatbelonged to his inmost nature; and, above all, with his half-humorous, half-bitter consciousness that whoever else might be a hero, he wasnone: Ashe, at least, could and would do nothing of the sort. That heshould begin now to play the tyrannous or jealous husband would make himridiculous both in his own eyes and other people's. 

And yet Kitty must somehow be protected from herself!... Then--as topolitics? Once, in talking with his mother, he had said to her that hewas Kitty's husband first, and a public man afterwards. Was he preparednow to make the statement with the same simplicity, the samewhole-heartedness?

Involuntarily he moved closer to the bed and looked down on Kitty. Little, delicate face!--always with something mournful and fretful inrepose. 

He loved her surely as much as ever--ah! yes, he loved her. His wholenature yearned over her, as the wife of his youth, the mother of hispoor boy. Yet, as he remembered the mood in which he had proposed toher, that defiance of the world and life which had possessed him when hehad made her marry him, he felt himself--almost with bitterness--anotherand a meaner man. No!--he was _not_ prepared to lose the world forher--the world of high influence and ambition upon which he had nowentered as a conqueror. She _must_ so control herself that she did notruin all his hopes--which, after all, were hers--and the work he mightdo for his country. 

What incredible perversity and caprice she had shown towards LordParham! How was he to deal with it--he, William Ashe, with his ironictemper and his easy standards? What could he say to her but "Love me, Kitty!--love yourself!--and don't be a little fool! Life might be soamusing if you would only bridle your fancies and play the game!"

As for loftier things, "self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control"--duty--and the passion of high ideals--who was he to prateabout them? The little Dean, perhaps!--most spiritual of worldlings. Ashe knew himself to be neither spiritual nor a hypocrite. A certainmeasure, a certain order and harmony in life--laughter and good-humorand affection--and, for the fight that makes and welds a man, thosegreat political and social interests in the midst of which he foundhimself--he asked no more, and with these he would have been abundantlycontent. 

He sighed and frowned, his muscles stiffening unconsciously. Yes, forboth their sakes he must try and play the master with Kitty, ridiculousas it seemed. 

... He turned away, remembering his sick child--and went noiselessly tothe nursery. There, along the darkened passages, he found a night-nurse, sitting working beside a shaded lamp. The child was sleeping, and thereport was good. Ashe stole on tiptoe to look at him, holding hisbreath, then returned to his dressing-room. But a faint call from Kittypursued him. He opened the door, and saw her sitting up in bed. 

"How is he?"

She was hardly awake, but her expression struck him as very wild andpiteous. He went to her and took her in his arms. 

"Sleeping quietly, darling--so must you!"

She sank back on her pillows, his arm still round her. 

"I was there an hour ago, " she murmured. "I shall soon wake up--"

But for the moment she was asleep again, her fair head lying against hisshoulder. He sat down beside her, supporting her. Suddenly, as he lookeddown upon her with mingled passion, tenderness, and pain, a sharpperception assailed him. How thin she was--a mere feather's weight! Theface was smaller than ever--the hands skin and bone! Margaret French hadonce or twice bade him notice this, had spoken with anxiety. He bentover his wife and observed her attentively. It was merely the effect ofa hot summer, surely, and of a constant nervous fatigue? He would takeher abroad for a fortnight in September, if his official work would lethim, and perhaps leave her in north Italy, or Switzerland, with MargaretFrench. 

 * * * * *

The great day was half-way through, and the throng in Haggart Park andgrounds was at its height. A flower-show in the morning; then a tenants'dinner with a speech from Ashe; and now, in a marquee erected for theoccasion, Lord Parham was addressing his supporters in the county. Around him on the platform sat the Whig gentry, the Radicalmanufacturers, the town wire-pullers and local agents on whom a greatparty depended; in front of him stretched a crowded meeting drawn inalmost equal parts from the coal-mining districts to the north ofHaggart and from the agricultural districts to the south.... 

The August air was stifling; perspiration shone on the broad brows andcheeks of the farmers sitting in the front half of the audience; LordParham's gray face was almost white; his harsh voice labored against theacoustic difficulties of the tent; effort and heat, discomfort and ennuibreathed from the packed benches, and from the short-necked, large-headed figure of the Premier. 

Ashe sat to the speaker's right, outwardly attentive, inwardly ashamedof his party and his chief. He himself belonged to a new generation, forwhom formulæ that had satisfied their fathers were empty and dead. Butwith these formulas Lord Parham was stuffed. A man of average intriguingability, he had been raised, at a moment of transition, to the place heheld, by a consummate command of all the meaner arts of compromise andmanagement, no less than by an invaluable power of playing to thegallery. He led a party who despised him--and he complacently imaginedthat he was the party. His speech on this occasion bristled withhimself, and had, in truth, no other substance; the I's swarmed out uponthe audience like wasps. 

Ashe groaned in spirit, "We have the ideas, " he thought, "but they aredamned little good to us--it is the Tories who have the men! Ye gods!must we all talk like this at last?"... 

Suddenly, on the other side of the platform, behind Lord Parham, henoticed that Kitty and Eddie Helston were exchanging signs. Kitty drewout a tablet, wrote upon it, and, leaning over some white-frockedchildren of the Lord Lieutenant who sat behind her, handed the torn leafto Helston. But from some clumsiness he let it drop; at the moment adoor opened at the back of the platform, and the leaf, caught by thedraught, was blown back across the bench where Kitty and the house-partywere sitting, and fluttered down to a resting-place on the piece of redbaize wheron Lord Parham was standing--close beside his left foot. 

Ashe saw Kitty's start of dismay, her scarlet flush, her involuntarymovement. But Lord Parham had started on his peroration. The rusticsgaped, the gentry sat expressionless, the reporters toiled after thegreat man. Kitty all the time kept her eyes fixed on the little whitepaper; Ashe no less. Between him and Lord Parham there was first theLord Lieutenant, a portly man, very blind and extremely deaf--then atable with a Liberal peer behind it for chairman. 

Lord Parham had resumed his seat. The tent was shaken with cheers, andthe smiling chairman had risen. 

"Can you ask Lord Parham to hand me on that paper on the floor, " saidAshe, in the ear of the Lord Lieutenant, "it seems to have dropped frommy portfolio. "

The Lord Lieutenant, bending backward behind the chairman as the nextspeaker rose, tried to attract Lord Parham's attention. Eddie Helstonwas, at the same time, endeavoring to make his way forward through thecrowded seats behind the Prime Minister. 

Meanwhile Lord Parham had perceived the paper, raised it, and adjustedhis spectacles. He thought it was a communication from the audience--aquestion, perhaps, that he was expected to answer. 

"Lord Parham!" cried the Lord Lieutenant again, "would you--"

"Silence, please! Speak up!"--from the audience, who had so far failedto catch a word of what the new speaker was saying. 

"What _is_ the matter? You really can't get through here!" said agray-haired dowager crossly to Eddie Helston. 

Lord Parham looked at the paper in mystification. It contained thesewords:

"Hope you've been counting the 'I's. ' I make it fifty-seven. --K. "

And in the corner of the paper a thumb-nail sketch of himself, perorating, with a garland of capital I's round his neck. 

The Premier's face became brick-red, then gray again. He folded up thepaper and put it in his waistcoat-pocket. 

The meeting had broken up. For the common herd, it was to be followed bysports in the park and refreshments in big tents. For the gentry, LadyKitty had a garden-party to which Royalty was coming. And as her guestsstreamed out of the marquee, Lord Parham approached his hostess. 

"I think this belongs to you, Lady Kitty. " And taking from his pocket afolded slip of paper he offered it to her. 

Kitty looked at him. Her color was high, her eyes sparkled. 

"Nothing to do with me!" she said, gayly, as she glanced at it. "ButI'll look for the owner. "

"Sorry to give you the trouble, " said Lord Parham, with a ceremoniousinclination. Then, turning to Ashe, he remarked that he was extremelytired--worn out, in fact--and would ask his host's leave to desert thegarden-party while he attended to some most important letters. Asheoffered to escort him to the house. "On the contrary, look after yourguests, " said the Premier, dryly, and, beckoning to the Liberal peer whohad been his chairman, he engaged him in conversation, and the twopresently vanished through a window open to the terrace. 

Kitty had been joined meanwhile by Eddie Helston, and the two stoodtalking together, a flushed, excited pair. Ashe overtook them. 

"May I speak to you a moment, Kitty?"

Eddie Helston glanced at the fine form and stiffened bearing of hishost, understood that his presence counted for something in theannoyance of Ashe's expression, and departed abashed. 

"I should like to see that paper, Kitty, if you don't mind. "

His frown and straightened lip brought fresh wildness into Kitty'sexpression. 

"It is my property. " She kept one hand behind her. 

"I heard you just disavow that. "

Kitty laughed angrily. 

"Yes--that's the worst of Lord Parham--one has to tell so many lies forhis _beaux yeux_!"

"You must give it me, please, " said Ashe, quietly. "I ought to knowwhere I am with Lord Parham. He is clearly bitterly offended--bysomething, and I shall have to apologize. "

Kitty breathed fast. 

"Well, don't let's quarrel before the county!" she said, as she turnedaside into a shrubbery walk edged by clipped yews and hidden from thebig lawn. There she paused and confronted him. "How did you know I wroteit?"

"I saw you write it and throw it. "

He stretched out his hand. Kitty hesitated, then slowly unclosed herown, and held out the small, white palm on which lay the crumpled slip. 

Ashe read it and tore it up. 

"That game, Kitty, was hardly worth the candle!"

"It was a perfectly harmless remark--and only meant for Eddie! Any oneelse than Lord Parham would have laughed. _Then_ I might have begged hispardon. "

"It is what you ought to do now, " said Ashe. "A little note from you, Kitty--you could write it to perfection--"

"Certainly not, " said Kitty, hastily, locking her hands behind her. 

"You prefer to have failed in hospitality and manners, " he said, bitterly. "Well, I'm afraid if you don't feel any disgrace in it I do. Lord Parham in our _guest_!"

And Ashe turned on his heel and would have left her, when Kitty caughthim by the arm. 

"William!"

She had grown very pale. 

"Yes. "

"You've never spoken to me like that before, William--never! But--as Itold you long ago, you can stop it all if you like--in a moment. "

"I don't know what you mean, Kitty--but we mustn't stay arguing here anylonger--"

"No!--but--don't you remember? I told you, you can always send me away. Then I shouldn't be putting spokes in your wheel. "

"I don't deny, " said Ashe, slowly, "it might be wisest if, next spring, you stayed here, for part at least of the session--or abroad. It iscertainly difficult carrying on politics under these conditions. Icould, of course, come backward and forward--"

Kitty's brown eyes that were fixed upon his face wavered a little, andshe grew even whiter. 

"Very well. That would be a kind of separation, wouldn't it?"

"There would be no need to call it by any such name. Oh! Kitty!" criedAshe, "why can't you behave like a reasonable woman?"

"Separation, " she repeated, steadily. "I know that's what your motherwants. "

A wave of sound reached them amid the green shadow of the yews. Thecheers that heralded Royalty had begun. 

"Come!" said Kitty. 

And she flew across the grass, reaching her place by the central tentjust as the Royalties drove up. 

The Prime Minister sulked in-doors; and Kitty, with the most engagingsmiles, made his apologies. The heat--the fatigue of the speech--acrushing headache, and a doctor's order!--he begged their RoyalHighnesses to excuse him. The Royal Highnesses were at first astonished, inclined, perhaps, to take offence. But the party was so agreeable, andLady Kitty so charming a hostess, that the Premier's absence was soonforgotten, and as the day cooled to a delicious evening, and the mostcostly bands from town discoursed a melting music, as garlanded boatsappeared upon the river inviting passengers, and, with the dusk, fireworks began to ascend from a little hill; as the trees shone greenand silver and rose-color in the Bengal lights, and amid the sweepingclouds of smoke the wide stretches of the park, the close-packed groupsof human beings, appeared and vanished like the country and creatures ofa dream--the success of Lady Kitty's fête, the fame of her gayety andher beauty, filled the air. She flashed hither and thither, in a dressembroidered with wild roses and a hat festooned with them--attendedalways by Eddie Helston, by various curates who cherished a hopelessattachment to her, and by a fat German grand-duke, who had come in thewake of the Royalties. 

Her cleverness, her resource, her organizing power were lauded to theskies, Royalty was gracious, and the grand-duke resentfully asked anaide-de-camp on the way home why he had not been informed that such apretty person awaited him. 

"I should den haf looked beforehand--as vel as tinking behind, " said thegrand-duke, as he wrapped himself sentimentally in his military cloak, to meditate on Lady Kitty's brown eyes. 

Meanwhile Lord Parham remained closeted in his sitting-room with hissecretary. Ashe tried to gain admittance, but in vain. Lord Parhampleaded great fatigue and his letters; and asked for a _Bradshaw_. 

"His lordship has inquired if there is a train to-night, " said thelittle secretary, evidently much flustered. 

Ashe protested. And, indeed, as it turned out, there was no train worththe taking. Then Lord Parham sent a message that he hoped to appear atdinner. 

Kitty locked her door while she was dressing, and Ashe, whose mind was aconfusion of many feelings--anger, compunction, and that fascinationwhich in her brilliant moods she exercised over him no less than overothers--could get no speech with her. 

They met on the threshold of the child's room, she coming out, he goingin. But she wrenched herself from him and would say nothing. The reportof the little boy was good; he smiled at his father, and Ashe felt acooling balm in the touch of his soft hands and lips. He descended--in amore philosophical mind; inclined, at any rate, to "damn" Lord Parham. What a fool the man must be! Why couldn't he have taken it with a laugh, and so turned the tables on Kitty?

Was there any good to be got out of apologizing? Ashe supposed he mustattempt it some time that night. A precious awkward business! Butrelations had got to be restored somehow. 

Lady Tranmore overtook him on the way down-stairs. In the press of theafternoon they had hardly seen each other. 

"What is really wrong with Lord Parham, William?" she asked him, anxiously. Ashe hesitated, then whispered a word or two in her ear, begging her to keep the great man in play for the evening. He was totake her in, while Kitty would fall to the Bishop of the diocese. 

"She gets on perfectly with the clergy, " said Lady Tranmore, with aninvoluntary sigh. Then, as the sense of humor was strong in both, theylaughed. But it was a chilly and perfunctory laughter. 

They had no sooner passed into the main hall than Kitty came runningdown-stairs, with a large packet in her hand. 

"Mr. Darrell!"

"At your service!" said Darrell, emerging from the shadows of one of thebroad corridors of the ground-floor. 

"Take it, please!" said Kitty, panting a little, as she gave the packetinto his hands. "If I look at it any more, I _might_ burn it!"

"Suppose you do!"

"No, no!" said Kitty, pushing the bundle away, as he laughingly tenderedit. "I must see what happens!"

"Is the gap filled?"

She laid her finger on her lips. Her eyes danced. Then she hurried on tothe drawing-room. 

Whether it were the soothing presence of the clergy or no, certainlyKitty was no less triumphant at dinner than she had been in theafternoon. The chorus of fun and pleasure that surrounded her, while hehimself sat, tired and bored, between Lady Edith Manley and LadyTranmore, did but make her offence the greater in the eyes of LordParham. He had so far buried it in a complete and magnificent silence. The meeting between him and his hostess before dinner had been marked bya strict conformity to all the rules. Kitty had inquired after hisheadache; Lord Parham expressed his regrets that he had missed sobrilliant a party; and Kitty, flirting her fan, invented messages fromthe Royalties which, as most of those present knew, the Royalties hadbeen far too well amused to think of. Then after this _pas seul_, in thepresence of the crowded drawing-room, had been duly executed, Kittyretired to her Bishop, and Lord Parham led forth Lady Tranmore. 

 * * * * *

"What a lovely moon!" said Lady Edith Manley to the Dean. "It makes eventhis house look romantic. "

They were walking outside the drawing-room windows, on a terrace whichwas, indeed, the only feature of the Haggart façade which possessed somearchitectural interest. A low balustrade of terra-cotta, copied from afamous Italian villa, ran round it, broken by large terra-cotta pots nowfilled with orange-trees. Here and there between the orange-trees werestatues transported from Naples in the late eighteenth century by aformer Lord Tranmore. There was a Ceres and a Diana, a Vestal Virgin, anAthlete, and an Antinous, now brought into strange companionship underthe windows of this ugly English house. Chipped and blackened as theywere, and, to begin with, of a mere decorative importance, they stillbreathed into the English evening a note of Italy or Greece, of thingslovely and immortal. The lamps in the sitting-rooms streamed out throughthe widely opened windows upon the terrace, checkering the marblefigures, which now emerged sharply in the light, and now withdrew in thegloom; while at one point they shone plainly upon an empty pedestalbefore which the Dean and his companion paused. 

The Dean looked at the inscription. "What a pity! This once held astatue of Hebe holding a torch. It was struck by lightning fifty yearsago. "

"Lady Kitty might stand for her to-night, " said Edith Manley. 

For Kitty, the capricious, had appeared at dinner in a _quasi_-Greekdress, white, soft, and flowing, without an ornament. The Deanacquiesced, but rather sadly. 

"I wish she had the bloom of Hebe! My dear Lady Edith, our hostess looks_ill_!"

"Does she? I can't tell--I admire her so!" said the woman beside him, upon whose charming eyes some fairy had breathed kindness and optimismfrom her cradle. 

"_Ouf!_" cried Kitty, as she sprang across the sill of the window behindthem. "They're _all_ gone! The Bishop wishes me to become avice-president of the Women's Diocesan Association. And I've promisedthree curates to open bazaars. _Ah, mon Dieu!_" She raised her whitearms with a wild gesture, and then beckoned to Eddie Helston, who wasclose beside her. 

"Shall we try our dance?"

The young men of the house, a group of young guardsmen and diplomats, gathered round, laughing and clapping. Kitty's dancing had become famousduring the winter as one of her many extravagances. She no longerrecited; literature bored her; motion was the only poetry. So she hadbeen carefully instructed by a _danseuse_ from the Opera, and in manypoints, so the enthusiasts declared, had bettered her instructions. Shewas now in love with a tempestuous Spanish dance, taught her by a gypsy_señorita_ who had been one of the sensations of the London season. Itrequired a partner, and she had been practising it with young Helston, for several mornings past, in the empty ballroom. Helston had spread itspraises abroad; and all Haggart desired to see it. 

"There!" said Kitty, pointing her partner to a particular spot on theterrace. "I think that will do. Where are the castanets, I wonder?"

"Kitty!" said a voice behind her. Ashe emerged from the drawing-room. 

"Kitty, please! It is nearly midnight. Everybody is tired--and youyourself must be worn out! Say good-night, and let us all go to bed. "

She turned. Willam's voice was low, but peremptory. She shook back herhair from her temples and neck, with the gesture he had learned todread. 

"Nobody's tired--and nobody wants to go to bed. Please stand out of theway, William. I want plenty of room for my steps. "

And she began pirouetting, as though to try the capacities of the space, humming to herself. 

"Helston--this must be, please, for another night, " said Ashe, resolutely, in the young man's ear. "Lady Kitty is much too tired. "Then to Lady Edith, and the Dean--"Lady Edith, it would be very kind ofyou to persuade my wife to go to bed. She never knows when she is done!"

Lady Edith warmly acquiesced, and, hurrying up to Kitty, she tried topersuade her in soft, caressing phrases. 

"I stand on my rights!" said the Dean, following her. "If my hostess isused up to-night, there'll be no hostess for me to-morrow. "

Kitty looked at them all, silent--her head bending forward, a curious_méchant_ look in the eyes that shone beneath the slightly frowningbrows. Meanwhile, by her previous order, a footman had brought out twosilver lamps and placed them on a small table a little way behind her. Whether it was from some instinctive sense of the beauty of the smallfigure in the slender, floating dress under the deep blue of the nightsky and amid the romantic shadows and lights of the terrace--or fromsome divination of things significant and hidden--it would be hard tosay; but the group of spectators had fallen back a little from Kitty, sothat she stood alone, a picture lit from the left by the lamps justbrought in. 

The Dean looked at her--troubled by her wild aspect and the evidentconflict between her and Ashe. Then an idea flashed into his mind, filled always, like that of an innocent child, with the images of poetryand romance. 

"One moment!" he said, raising his hand. "Lady Kitty, you spoil us!After amusing us all day, now you would dance for us all night. But yourguests won't let you! We love you too well, and we want a bit of youleft for to-morrow. Never mind! You offered us a dance--you bring us avision--and a poem!--Friends!"

He turned to those crowding round him, his white hair glistening in thelamplight, his delicate face, so old and yet so eager, the smile on hiskind lips, and all the details of his Dean's dress--apron andknee-breeches, slender legs and silver buckles--thrown out in sharprelief upon the dark.... 

"Friends! you see this pedestal. Once Hebe, the cup-bearer of the gods, stood there. Then--ungrateful Zeus smote her, and she fell! But theHours and the Graces bore her safe away, into a golden land, and nowthey bring her back again. Behold her!--Hebe reborn!"

He bowed, his courtly hand upon his breast, and a wave of laughter andapplause ran through the young group round him as their eyes turned fromthe speaker to the exquisite figure of Kitty. Lady Edith smiled kindly, clapping her soft hands. Mrs. Winston, the Dean's wife, had eyes onlyfor the Dean. In the background Lady Tranmore watched every phase ofKitty's looks, and Lord Grosville walked back into the dining-room, growling unutterable things to Darrell as he passed. 

Kitty raised her head to reply. But the Dean checked her. Advancing astep or two, he saluted her again--profoundly. 

"Dear Lady Kitty!--dear bringer of light and ambrosia!--rest, andgood-night! Your guests thank you by me, with all their hearts. You havebeen the life of their day, the spirit of their mirth. Good-night toHebe!--and three cheers for Lady Kitty!"

Eddie Helston led them, and they rang against the old house. Kitty witha fluttering smile kissed her hand for thanks, and the Dean saw her lookround--dart a swift glance at Ashe. He stood against the window-frame, in shadow, motionless, his arms folded. 

Then suddenly Kitty sprang forward. 

"Give me that lamp!" she said to the young footman behind her. 

And in a second she had leaped upon the low wall of the terrace and onthe vacant pedestal. The lad to whom she had spoken lost his head andobeyed her. He raised the lamp. She stooped and took it. Ashe, who wasnow standing in the open window with his back to the terrace, turnedround, saw, and rushed forward. 

"Kitty!--put it down!"

"Lady Kitty!" cried the Dean, in dismay, while all behind him held theirbreath. 

"Stand back!" said Kitty, "or I shall drop it!" She held up the lamp, straight and steady. Ashe paused--in an agony of doubt what to do, hiswhole soul concentrated on the slender arm and on the brightly burninglamp. 

"If you make me speeches, " said Kitty, "I must reply, mustn't I? (Keepback, William!--I'm all right. ) Hebe thanks you, please--_mille fois_!She herself hasn't been happy--and she's afraid she hasn't been good!_N'importe!_ It's all done--and finished. The play's over!--and thelights go out!"

She waved the lamp above her head. 

"Kitty! for God's sake!" cried Ashe, rushing to her. 

"She is mad!" said Lord Parham, standing at the back. "I always knewit!"

The other spectators passed through a second of anguish. The brightfigure on the pedestal wavered; one moment, and it seemed as though thelamp must descend crashing upon the head and neck and the white dressbeneath it; the next, it had fallen from Kitty's hand--fallen away fromher--wide and safe--into the depths of the garden below. A flash of wildlight rose from the burning oil and from the dry shrubs amid which itfell. Kitty, meanwhile, swayed--and dropped--heavily--unconscious--intoWilliam Ashe's arms. 

 * * * * *

Kitty barely recovered life and sense during the night that followed. And while she was still unconscious her boy passed away. The poor babe, all ignorant of the straits in which his mother lay, was seized withconvulsions in the dawn, and gave up his frail life gathered to hisfather's breast. 

Some ten weeks later, towards the end of October, society knew that theHome Secretary and Lady Kitty had started for Italy--bound first of allfor Venice. It was said that Lady Kitty was a wreck, and that it wasdoubtful whether she would ever recover the sudden and tragic death ofher only child. 

PART IV

STORM

 "Myself, arch-traitor to myself; My hollowest friend, my deadliest foe, My clog whatever road I go. "

XVII

"'Among the numerous daubs with which Tintoret, to his everlastingshame, has covered this church--'"

"Good Heavens!--what does the man mean?--or is he talking of anotherchurch?" said Ashe, raising his head and looking in bewilderment, firstat the magnificent Tintoret in front of him, and then at the lines hehad just been reading. 

"William!" cried Kitty, "_do_ put that fool down and come here; one seesit splendidly!"

She was standing in one of the choir-stalls of San Giorgio Maggiore, somewhat raised above the point where Ashe had been studying his Germanhand-book. 

"My dear, if this man doesn't know, who does!" cried Ashe, flourishinghis volume in front of him as he obeyed her. 

"'Dans le royaume des aveugles, '" said Kitty, contemptuously. "As if anyGerman could even begin to understand Tintoret! But--don't talk!"

And clasping both hands round Ashe's arm, she stood leaning heavily uponhim, her whole soul gazing from the eyes she turned upon the picture, her lips quivering, as though, from some physical weakness, she couldonly just hold back the tears with which, indeed, the face was charged. 

She and Ashe were looking at that "Last Supper" of Tintoret's whichhangs in the choir of San Giorgio Maggiore at Venice. 

It is a picture dear to all lovers of Tintoret, breathing in every lineand group the passionate and mystical fancy of the master. 

The scene passes, it will be remembered, in what seems to be thespacious guest-chamber of an inn. The Lord and His disciples aregathered round the last sacred meal of the Old Covenant, the first ofthe New. On the left, a long table stretches from the spectator into thedepths of the picture; the disciples are ranged along one side of it;and on the other sits Judas, solitary and accursed. The young Christ hasrisen; He holds the bread in His lifted hands and is about to give it tothe beloved disciple, while Peter beyond, rising from his seat in hiseagerness, presses forward to claim his own part in the Lord's body. 

The action of the Christ has in it a very ecstasy of giving; the bendingform, indeed, is love itself, yearning and triumphant. This is furtherexpressed in the light which streams from the head of the Lord, playingupon the long line of faces, illuminating the vehement gesture of Peter, the adoring and radiant silence of St. John--and striking even to thefarthest corners of the room, upon a woman, a child, a playing dog. Meanwhile, from the hanging lamps above the supper-party there glowsanother and more earthly light, mingled with fumes of smoke which darkenthe upper air. But such is the power of the divine figure that from thisvery darkness breaks adoration. The smoke-wreaths change under thegazer's eye into hovering angels, who float round the head of theSaviour, and look down with awe upon the first Eucharist; while thelamp-light, interpenetrated by the glory which issues from the Lord, searches every face and fold and surface, displays the figures of theserving men and women in the background, shines on the household stuff, the vases and plates, the black and white of the marble floor, the beamsof the old Venetian ceiling. Everywhere the double ray, the two-foldmagic! Steeped in these "majesties of light, " the immortal scene livesupon the quiet wall. Year after year the slender, thought-worn Christraises His hands of blessing; the disciples strain towards Him; theangels issue from the darkness; the friendly domestic life, happy, natural, unconscious, frames the divine mystery. And among those whocome to look there are, from time to time, men and women who draw fromit that restlessness of vague emotion which Kitty felt as she hung now, gazing, on Ashe's arm. 

For there is in it an appeal which torments them--like the winding of amystic horn, on purple heights, by some approaching and unseenmessenger. Ineffable beauty, offering itself--and in the human soul, theeternal human discord: what else makes the poignancy of art--the passionof poetry?

 * * * * *

"That's enough!" said Kitty, at last, turning abruptly away. 

"You like it?" said Ashe, softly, detaining her, while he pressed thelittle hand upon his arm. His heart was filled with a great pity for hiswife in these days. 

"Oh, I don't know!" was Kitty's impatient reply. 

"It haunts me. There's still another to see--in a chapel. Thesacristan's making signs to us. "

"Is there?" Ashe stifled a yawn. He asked Margaret French, who had comeup with them, whether Kitty had not had quite enough sight-seeing. Hehimself must go to the Piazza, and get the news before dinner. As anEnglish cabinet minister, he had been admitted to the best club of theVenice residents. Telegrams were to be seen there; and there was anxiousnews from the Balkans. 

Kitty merely insisted that she could not and would not go without herremaining Tintoret, and the others yielded to her at once, with thatindulgent tenderness one shows to the wilfulness of a sick child. Sheand Margaret followed the sacristan. Ashe lingered behind in a passageof the church, surreptitiously reading an Italian newspaper. He had theordinary cultivated pleasure in pictures; but this ardor which Kitty wasthrowing into her pursuit of Tintoret--the Wagner of painting--left himcold. He did not attempt to keep up with her. 

Two ladies were already in the cloister chapel, with a gentleman. AsKitty and her friend entered, these persons had just finished theirinspection of the damaged but most beautiful "Pietà" which hangs overthe altar, and their faces were towards the entrance. 

"Maman!" cried Kitty, in amazement. 

The lady addressed started, put up a gold-rimmed eye-glass, exclaimed, and hurried forward. 

Kitty and she embraced, amid a torrent of laughter and interjectionsfrom the elder lady, and then Kitty, whose pale cheeks had put onscarlet, turned to Margaret French. 

"Margaret!--my mother, Madame d'Estrées. "

Miss French, who found herself greeted with effusion by the strangelady, saw before her a woman of fifty, marvellously preserved. Madamed'Estrées had grown stout; so much time had claimed; but the elegantgray dress with its floating chiffon and lace skilfully concealed thefact; and for the rest, complexion, eyes, lips were still defiant of theyears. If it were art that had achieved it, nature still took thecredit; it was so finely done, the spectator could only lend himself andadmire. Under the pretty hat of gray tulle, whereof the strings weretied bonnet-fashion under the plump chin, there looked out, indeed, aface gay, happy, unconcerned, proof one might have thought of aninnocent past and a good conscience. 

Kitty, who had drawn back a little, eyed her mother oddly. 

"I thought you were in Paris. Your letter said you wouldn't be able tomove for weeks--"

"_Ma chère!_--_un miracle!_" cried Madame d'Estrées, blushing, however, under her thin white veil. "When I wrote to you, I was at death'sdoor--wasn't I?" She appealed to her companion, without waiting for ananswer. "Then some one told me of a new doctor, and in ten days, _mevoici_! They insisted on my going away--this dear woman--Donna LauraVercelli--my daughter, Lady Kitty Ashe!--knew of an apartment herebelonging to some relations of hers. And here we are--charmingly_installées_!--and really _nothing_ to pay!"--Madame d'Estréeswhispered, smiling, in Kitty's ear--"nothing, compared to the hotels. I'm economizing splendidly. Laura looks after every sou. Ah! my dearWilliam!"

For Ashe, puzzled by the voices within, had entered the chapel, andstood in his turn, open-mouthed. 

"Why, we thought you were an invalid. "

For, some three weeks before, a letter had reached him at Haggart, sofull of melancholy details as to Madame d'Estrées' health andcircumstances that even Kitty had been moved. Money had been sent;inquiries had been made by telegraph; and but for a hasty message of amore cheerful character, received just before they started, the Ashes, instead of journeying by Brussels and Cologne, would have gone by Paristhat Kitty might see her mother. They had intended to stop there ontheir way back. Ashe was not minded that Kitty should see more of Madamed'Estrées than necessity demanded; but on this occasion he would havefelt it positively brutal to make difficulties. 

And now here was this moribund lady, this forsaken of gods and men, disporting herself at Venice, evidently in the pink of health andattired in the freshest of Paris toilettes! As he coldly shook hands, Ashe registered an inner vow that Madame d'Estrées' letters henceforwardshould receive the attention they deserved. 

And beside her was her somewhat mysterious friend of London days, theColonel Warington who had been so familiar a figure in the gatherings ofSt. James's Place--grown much older, almost white-haired, and asgentlemanly as ever. Who was the lady? Ashe was introduced, was aware ofa somewhat dark and Jewish cast of face, noticed some fine jewels, andcould only suppose that his mother-in-law had picked up some one tofinance her, and provide her with creature comforts in return for thesocial talents that Madame d'Estrées still possessed in some abundance. He had more than once noticed her skill in similar devices; but, indeed, they were indispensable, for while he allowed Madame d'Estrées onethousand a year, she was, it seemed, firmly determined to spend aminimum of three. 

He and Warington looked at each other with curiosity. The bronzed faceand honest eyes of the soldier betrayed nothing. "Are you going to marryher at last?" thought Ashe. "Poor devil!"

Meanwhile Madame d'Estrées chattered away as though nothing could bemore natural than their meeting, or more perfect than the relationsbetween herself and her daughter and son-in-law. 

As they all strolled down the church she looked keenly at Kitty. 

"My dear child, how ill you look!--and your mourning! Ah, yes, ofcourse!"--she bit her lip--"I remember--the poor, poor boy--"

"Thank you!" said Kitty, hastily. "I got your letter--thank you verymuch. Where are you staying? We've got rooms on the Grand Canal. "

"Oh, but, Kitty!" cried Madame d'Estrées--"I was so sorry for you!"

"Were you?" said Kitty, under her breath. "Then, please, never speak ofhim to me again!"

Startled and offended, Madame d'Estrées looked at her daughter. But whatshe saw disarmed her. For once even she felt something like the pang ofa mother. "You're _dreadfully_ thin, Kitty!"

Kitty frowned with annoyance. 

"It's not my fault, " she said, pettishly. "I live on cream, and it's nogood. Of course, I know I'm an object and a scarecrow; but I'd ratherpeople didn't tell me. "

"What nonsense, _chére enfant!_ You're much prettier than you everwere. "

A wild and fugitive radiance swept across the face beside her. 

"Am I?" said Kitty, smiling. "That's all right! If I had died itwouldn't matter, of course. But--"

"Died! What do you mean, Kitty?" said Madame d'Estrées, in bewilderment. "When William wrote to me I thought he meant you had overtiredyourself. "

"Oh, well, the doctors said it was touch and go, " said Kitty, indifferently. "But, of course, it wasn't. I'm much too tough. And thenthey fussed about one's heart. And that's all nonsense, too. I couldn'tdie if I tried. "

But Madame d'Estrées pondered--the bright, intermittent color, theemaciation, the hollowness of the eyes. The effect, so far, was to addto Kitty's natural distinction, to give, rather, a touch of pathos to aface which even in its wildest mirth had in it something alien andremote. But she, too, reflected that a little more, a very little more, and--in a night--the face would have dropped its beauty, as a rose itspetals. 

The group stood talking awhile on the steps outside the church. Kittyand her mother exchanged addresses, Donna Laura opened her mouth once ortwice, and produced a few contorted smiles for Kitty's benefit, whileColonel Warington tipped the sacristan, found the gondolier, and studiedthe guide-book. 

As Madame d'Estrées stepped into her gondola, assisted by him, shetapped him on the arm. 

"Are you coming, Markham?"

The low voice was pitched in a very intimate note. Kitty turned with astart. 

 * * * * *

"A casa!" said Madame d'Estrées, and she and her friend made for one ofthe canals that pierce the Zattere, while Colonel Warington went off fora walk along the Giudecca. 

Kitty and Ashe bade their gondoliers take them to the Piazzetta, andpresently they were gliding across waters of flame and silver, where thewhite front and red campanile of San Giorgio--now blazing under thesunset--mirrored themselves in the lagoon. The autumn evening was freshand gay. A light breeze was on the water; lights that only Venice knowsshone on the tawny sails of fishing-boats making for the Lido, on thewhite sides of an English yacht, on the burnished prows of the gondolas, on the warm reddish-white of the Ducal Palace. The air blowing from theAdriatic breathed into their faces the strength of the sea; and in thefar distance, above that line of buildings where lies the heart ofVenice, the high ghosts of the Friulian Alps glimmered amid the sweepingregiments and purple shadows of the land-hurrying clouds. 

"This does you good, darling!" said Ashe, stooping down to look into hiswife's face, as she nestled beside him on the soft cushions of thegondola. 

Kitty gave him a slight smile, then said, with a furrowed brow:

"Who could ever have thought we should find maman here!"

"Don't have her on your mind!" said Ashe, with some sharpness. "I can'thave anything worrying you. "

She slipped her hand into his. 

"Is that man going to marry her--at last? She called him 'Markham. 'That's new. "

"Looks rather like it, " said Ashe. "Then _he'll_ have to look after thedebts!"

They began to piece together what they knew of Colonel Warington and hisrelation to Madame d'Estrées. It was not much. But Ashe believed thatoriginally Warington had not been in love with her at all. There hadbeen a love-affair between her and Warington's younger brother, a smartartillery officer, when she was the widowed Lady Blackwater. She hadbehaved with more heart and scruple than she had generally been known todo in these matters, and the young officer adored her--hoped, indeed, tomarry her. But he was called on--in Paris--to fight a duel on heraccount, and was killed. Before fighting, he had commended LadyBlackwater to the care of his much older brother, also a soldier, between whom and himself there existed a rare and passionate devotion;and ever since the poor lad's death, Markham Warington had been thefriend and quasi-guardian of the lady--through her second marriage, through the checkered years of her existence in London, and now throughthe later years of her residence on the Continent, a residence forcedupon her by her agreement with the Tranmores. Again and again he hadsaved her from bankruptcy, or from some worse scandal which would havewrecked the last remnants of her fame. 

But, all the time, he was himself bound by strong ties of gratitude andaffection to an elder sister who had brought him up, with whom he livedin Scotland during half the year. And this stout Puritan lady detestedthe very name of Madame d'Estrées. 

"But she's dead, " said Ashe. "I remember noticing her death in the_Times_ some three months ago. That, of course, explains it. Now he'sfree to marry. "

"And so maman will settle down, and be happy ever afterwards!" saidKitty, with a sarcastic lifting of the brow. "Why should anybody begood?"

The bitterness of her look struck Ashe disagreeably. That any childshould speak so of a mother was a tragic and sinister thing. But he waswell aware of the causes. 

"Were you very unhappy when you were a child, Kitty?" He pressed thehand he held. 

"No, " said Kitty, shortly. "I'm too like maman. I suppose, really, atbottom, I liked all the debts, and the excitement, and the shadypeople!"

"That wasn't the impression you gave me, in the first days of ouracquaintance!" said Ashe, laughing. 

"Oh, then I was grown up--and there were drawbacks. But I'm made of thesame stuff as maman, " she said, obstinately--"except that I can't tellso many fibs. That's really why we didn't get on. "

Her brown eyes held him with that strange, unspoken defiance it seemedso often beyond her power to hide. It was like the fluttering of somecaged thing hungering for it knows not what. Then, as they scanned thepatient good-temper of his face, they melted; and her little fingerssqueezed his; while Margaret French kept her eyes fixed on the twocolumns of the Piazzetta. 

"How strange to find her here!" said Kitty, under her breath. "Now, ifit had been Alice--my sister Alice!"

William nodded. It had been known to them for some time that Lady AliceWensleydale, to whom Italy had become a second country, had settled in avilla near Treviso, where she occupied herself with a lace school forwomen and girls. 

The mention of her sister threw Kitty into what seemed to be adisagreeable reverie. The flush brought by the sea-wind faded. Ashelooked at her with anxiety. 

"You have done too much, Kitty--as usual!"

His voice was almost angry. 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

"What does it matter? You know very well it would be much better for youif--"

"If what?"

"If I followed Harry. " The words were just breathed, and her eyes shrankfrom meeting his. Ashe, on the other hand, turned and looked at hersteadily. 

"Are you quite determined I sha'n't get _any_ joy out of my holiday?"

She shook her head uncertainly. Then, almost immediately, she began tochatter to Margaret French about the sights of the lagoon, with hernatural trenchancy and fun. But her hand, hidden under the folds of herblack cloak, still clung to William's. 

"It is her illness, " he said to himself, "and the loss of the child. "

And at the remembrance of his little son, a wave of sore yearning filledhis own heart. Deep under the occupations and interests of the mind laythis passionate regret, and at any moment of pause or silence its"buried life" arose and seized him. But he was a busy politician, absorbed even in these days of holiday by the questions and problems ofthe hour. And Kitty was a delicate woman--with no defence against thetorture of grief. 

He thought of those first days after the child's death, when in spite ofthe urgency of the doctors it had been impossible to keep the news fromKitty; of the ghastly effect of it upon nerves and brain alreadyimperilled by causes only half intelligible; of those sudden flightsfrom her nurses, when the days of convalescence began, to the child'sroom, and, later, to his grave. There was stinging pain in theserecollections. Nor was he, in truth, much reassured by his wife's morerecent state. It was impossible, indeed, that he should give it the sameconstant thought as a woman might--or a man of another and moreemotional type. At this moment, perhaps, he had literally no _time_ forthe subtleties of introspective feeling, even had his temperamentinclined him to them, which was, in truth, not the case. He knew thatKitty had suddenly and resolutely ceased to talk about the boy, hadthrown herself with the old energy into new pursuits, and, since shecame to Venice in particular, had shown a feverish desire to fill everyhour with movement and sight-seeing. 

But was she, in truth, much better--in body or soul?--poor child! Thedoctors had explained her illness as nervous collapse, pointing back toa long preceding period of overstrain and excitement. There had beensuspicions of tubercular mischief, but no precise test was then atcommand; and as Kitty had improved with rest and feeding the idea hadbeen abandoned. But Ashe was still haunted by it, though quiteready--being a natural optimist--to escape from it, and all otherincurable anxieties, as soon as Kitty herself should give the signal. 

As to the moral difficulties and worries of those months at Haggart, Ashe remembered them as little as might be. Kitty's illness, indeed, hadshown itself in more directions than one, as an amending and appeasingfact. Even Lord Parham had been moved to compassion and kindness by theimmediate results of that horrible scene on the terrace. Hisleave-taking from Ashe on the morning afterwards had been almostcordial--almost intimate. And as to Lady Tranmore, whenever she had beenable to leave her paralyzed husband she had been with Kitty, nursing herwith affectionate wisdom night and day. While on the other members ofthe Haggart party the sheer pity of Kitty's condition had worked withsurprising force. Lord Grosville had actually made his wife offerGrosville Park for Kitty's convalescence--Kitty got her first laugh outof the proposal. The Dean had journeyed several times from his distantcathedral town, to see and sit with Kitty; Eddie Helston's flowers hadbeen almost a nuisance; Mrs. Alcot had shown herself quite soft andhuman. 

The effect, indeed, of this general sympathy on Lord Parham's relationsto the chief member of his cabinet had been but small and passing. Ashedisliked and distrusted him more than ever; and whatever might havehappened to the Premier's resentment of a particular offence, therecould be no doubt that a visit from which Ashe had hoped much had endedin complete failure, that Parham was disposed to cross his powerfulhenchman where he could, and that intrigue was busy in the cabinetitself against the reforming party of which Ashe was the head Ashe, indeed, felt his own official position, outwardly so strong, by no meanssecure. But the game of politics was none the less exhilarating forthat. 

As to Kitty's relation to himself--and life's most intimate and tenderthings--in these days, did he probe his own consciousness muchconcerning them? Probably not. Was he aware that, when all was said anddone, in spite of her misdoings, in spite of his passion of anxietyduring her illness, in spite of the pity and affection of his dailyattitude, Kitty occupied, in truth, much less of his mind than she hadever yet occupied?--that a certain magic--primal, incommunicable--hadceased to clothe her image in his thoughts?

Again--probably not. For these slow changes in a man's inmostpersonality are like the ebb and flow of summer tides over estuarysands. Silent, the main creeps in, or out; and while we dream, the greatbasin fills, and the fishing-boats come in--or the gentle, pitilesswaters draw back into the bosom of ocean, and the sea-birds run over thewide, untenanted flats. 

 * * * * *

They landed at the Piazzetta as the lamps were being lit. The softOctober darkness was falling fast, and on the ledges of St. Mark's andthe Ducal Palace the pigeons had begun to roost. An animated crowd waswalking up and down in the Piazza where a band was playing; and on thegolden horses of St. Mark's there shone a pale and mystical light, thelast reflection from the western sky. Under the colonnades the jewellersand glass-shops blazed and sparkled, and the warm sea-wind flutteredthe Italian flags on the great flag-staffs that but so recently hadborne the Austrian eagle. 

Ashe walked with his head thrown back, thinking absently, in this centreof Venice, of English politics, and of a phrase of Metternich's he hadcome across in a volume of memoirs he had been lately reading on thejourney:

"Le jour qui court n'a aucune valeur pour moi, excepté comme la veilledu lendemain. C'est toujours avec le lendemain que mon esprit lutte. "

The phrase pleased him particularly. 

He, too, was wrestling with the morrow, though in another sense thanMetternich's. His mind was alive with projects; an exultantconsciousness both of capacity and opportunity possessed him. 

"Why, you've passed the club, William!" said Kitty. 

Ashe awoke with a start, smiled at her, and with a wave of the handdisappeared in a stairway to the right. 

Margaret French lingered in a bead-shop to make some purchases. Kittywalked home alone, and Margaret, whose watchful affection never failed, knew that she preferred it, and let her go her way. 

The Ashes had rooms on the first bend of the Grand Canal looking south. To reach them by land from the Piazza, Kitty had to pass through aseries of narrow streets, or _calles_, broken by _campos_, or smallsquares, in which stood churches. As she passed one of these churchesshe was attracted by the sound of gay music and by the crowd about theentrance. Pushing aside the leathern curtain over the door, she foundherself in a great rococo nave, which blazed with lights anddecorations. Lines of huge wax candles were fixed in temporary holdersalong the floor. The pillars were swathed in rose-colored damask, andthe choir was ablaze with flowers, and even more brilliantly lit, ifpossible, than the rest of the church. 

Kitty's Catholic training told her that an exposition of the BlessedSacrament was going on. Mechanically she dipped her fingers into theholy water, she made her genuflection to the altar, and knelt down inone of the back rows. 

How rich and sparkling it was--the lights, the bright colors, thedancing music! "_Dolce Sacramento! Santo Sacramento!_" these words of anItalian hymn or litany recurred again and again, with endless iteration. Kitty's sensuous, excitable nature was stirred with delight. Then, suddenly, she remembered her child, and the little face she had seen forthe last time in the coffin. She began to cry softly, hiding her face inher black veil. An unbearable longing possessed her. "I shall never haveanother child, " she thought. "_That's_ all over. "

Then her thoughts wandered back to the party at Haggart, to the scene onthe terrace, and to that rush of excitement which had mastered her, shescarcely knew how or why. She could still hear the Dean's voice--see thelamp wavering above her head. "What possessed me! I didn't care a strawwhether the lamp set me on fire--whether I lived or died. I wanted todie. "

Was it because of that short conversation with William in theafternoon?--because of the calmness with which he had taken that word"separation, " which she had thrown at him merely as a child boasts andthreatens, never expecting for one moment to be taken at its word? Shehad proposed it to him before, after the night at Hamel Weir; she hadbeen serious then, it had been an impulse of remorse, and he had laughedat her. But at Haggart it had been an impulse of temper, and he hadtaken it seriously. How the wound had rankled, all the afternoon, whileshe was chattering to the Royalties! And as she jumped on the pedestal, and saw his face of horror, there was the typical womanish triumph thatshe had made him _feel_--would make him feel yet more. 

How good, how tender he had been to her in her illness! And yet--yet?

"He cares for politics, for his plans--not for me. He will never trustme again--as he did once. He'll never ask me to help him--he'll findways not to--though he'll be very sweet to me all the time. "

And the thought of her nullity with him in the future, herinsignificance in his life, tortured her. 

Why had she treated Lord Parham so? "I can be a lady when I choose, " shesaid, mockingly, to herself. "I wasn't even a lady. "

Then suddenly there flashed on her memory a little picture of LordParham, standing spectacled and bewildered, peering into her slip ofpaper. She bent her head on her hands and laughed, a stifled, hystericallaugh, which scandalized the woman kneeling beside her. 

But the laugh was soon quenched again in restless pain. William'saffection had been her only refuge in those weeks of moral and physicalmisery she had just passed through. 

"But it's only because he's so terribly sorry for me. It's all quitedifferent. And I can't ever make him love me again in the old way.... Itwasn't my fault. It's something born in me--that catches me by thethroat. "

And she had the actual physical sense of some one strangled by apossessing force. 

"_Dolce Sacramento! Santo Sacramento!_"... The music swayed and echoedthrough the church. Kitty uncovered her eyes and felt a suddenexhilaration in the blaze of light. It reminded her of the bendingChrist in the picture of San Giorgio. Awe and beauty flowed in upon her, in spite of the poor music and the tawdry church. What if she triedreligion?--recalled what she had been taught in the convent?--gaveherself up to a director?

She shivered and recoiled. How would she ever maintain her faith againstWilliam--William, who knew so much more than she?

Then, into the emptiness of her heart there stole the inevitabletemptations of memory. Where was Geoffrey? She knew well that he was aviolent and selfish man; but he understood much in her that Williamwould never understand. With a morbid eagerness she recalled the play offeeling between them, before that mad evening at Hamel Weir. Whatperpetual excitement--no time to think--or regret!

During her weeks of illness she had lost all count of his movements. Hadhe been still writing during the summer for the newspaper which had senthim out? Had there not been rumors of his being wounded--or attacked byfever? Her memory, still vague and weak, struggled painfully withmemories it could not recapture. 

The Italian paper of that morning--she had spelled it out for herself atbreakfast--had spoken of a defeat of the insurrectionary forces, and oftheir withdrawal into the highlands of Bosnia. There would be a lull inthe fighting. Would he come home? And all this time had he been the merespectator and reporter, or fighting, himself? Her pulses leaped as shethought of him leading down-trodden peasants against the Turk. 

But she knew nothing. Surely during the last few months he had purposelymade a mystery of his doings and his whereabouts. The only sign of himwhich seemed to have reached England had been that volume of poems--withthose hateful lines! Her lip quivered. She was like a weak child--unableto bear the thought of anything hostile and unkind. 

If he had already turned homeward? Perhaps he would come through Venice!Anyway, he was not far off. The day before she and Margaret had madetheir first visit to the Lido. And as Kitty stood fronting the Adriaticwaves, she had dreamed that somewhere, beyond the farther coast, werethose Bosnian mountains in which Geoffrey had passed the winter. 

Then she started at her own thoughts, rose--loathing herself--drew downher veil, and moved towards the door. 

 * * * * *

As she reached the leathern curtain which hung over the doorway, a ladyin front who was passing through held the curtain aside that Kitty mightfollow. Kitty stepped into the street and looked up to say a mechanical"Thank you. "

But the word died on her lips. She gave a stifled cry, which was echoedby the woman before her. 

Both stood motionless, staring at each other. 

Kitty recovered herself first. 

"It's not my fault that we've met, " she said, panting a little. "Don'tlook at me so--so unkindly. I know you don't want to see me. Why--whyshould we speak at all? I'm going away. " And she turned with a gestureof farewell. 

Alice Wensleydale laid a detaining hand on Kitty's arm. 

"No! stay a moment. You are in black. You look ill. "

Kitty turned towards her. They had moved on instinctively into theshelter of one of the narrow streets. 

"My boy died--two months ago, " she said, holding herself proudly aloof. 

Lady Alice started. 

"I hadn't heard. I'm very sorry for you. How old was he?"

"Three years old. "

"Poor baby!" The words were very low and soft. "My boy--was fourteen. But you have other children?"

"No--and I don't want them. They might die, too. "

Lady Alice paused. She still held her half-sister by the arm, toweringabove her. She was quite as thin as Kitty, but much taller and morelargely built; and, beside the elaborate elegance of Kitty's mourning, Alice's black veil and dress had a severe, conventual air. They werealmost the dress of a religious. 

"How are you?" she said, gently. "I often think of you. Are you happy inyour marriage?"

Kitty laughed. 

"We're such a happy lot, aren't we? We understand it so well. Oh, don'ttrouble about me. You know you said you couldn't have anything to dowith me. Are you staying in Venice?"

"I came in from Treviso for a day or two, to see a friend--"

"You had better not stay, " said Kitty, hastily. "Maman is here. Atleast, if you don't want to run across her. "

Lady Alice let go her hold. 

"I shall go home to-morrow morning. "

They moved on a few steps in silence, then Alice paused. Kitty'sdelicate face and cloud of hair made a pale, luminous spot in thedarkness of the _calle_. Alice looked at her with emotion. 

"I want to say something to you. "

"Yes?"

"If you are ever in trouble--if you ever want me, send for me. AddressTreviso, and it will always find me. "

Kitty made no reply. They had reached a bridge over a side canal, andshe stopped, leaning on the parapet. 

"Did you hear what I said?" asked her companion. 

"Yes. I'll remember. I suppose you think it your duty. What do you dowith yourself?"

"I have two orphan children I bring up. And there is my lace-school. Itdoesn't get on much; but it occupies me. "

"Are you a Catholic?"

"Yes. "

"Wish I was!" said Kitty. She hung over the marble balustrade insilence, looking at the crescent moon that was just peering over theeastern palaces of the canal. "My husband is in politics, you know. He'sHome Secretary. "

"Yes, I heard. Do you help him?"

"No--just the other thing. "

Kitty lifted up a pebble and let it drop into the water. 

"I don't know what you mean by that, " said Alice Wensleydale, coldly. "If you don't help him you'll be sorry--when it's too late to be sorry. "

"Oh, I know!" said Kitty. Then she moved restlessly. "I must go in. Good-night. " She held out her hand. 

Lady Alice took it. 

"Good-night. And remember!"

"I sha'n't want anybody, " said Kitty. "_Addio!_" She waved her hand, andAlice Wensleydale, whose way lay towards the Piazza, saw her disappear, a small tripping shadow, between the high, close-piled houses. 

Kitty was in so much excitement after this conversation that when shereached the Campo San Maurizio, where she should have turned abruptly tothe left, she wandered awhile up and down the campo, looking at thegondolas on the Traghetto between it and the Accademia, at the Church ofSan Maurizio, at the rising moon, and the bright lights in some of theshop windows of the small streets to the north. The sea-wind was stillwarm and gusty, and the waves in the Grand Canal beat against the marblefeet of its palaces. 

At last she found her way through narrow passages, past hidden andhistoric buildings, to the back of the palace on the Grand Canal inwhich their rooms were. A door in a small court opened to her ring. Shefound herself in a dark ground-floor--empty except for the _felze_ orblack top of a gondola--of which the farther doors opened on the canal. A cheerful Italian servant brought lights, and on the marble stairs washer maid waiting for her. In a few minutes she was on her sofa by abright wood fire, while Blanche hovered round her with many smallattentions. 

"Have you seen your letters, my lady?" and Blanche handed her a pile. Upon a parcel lying uppermost Kitty pounced at once with avidity. Shetore it open--pausing once, with scarlet cheeks, to look round her atthe door, as though she were afraid of being seen. 

A book--fresh and new--emerged. _Politics and the Country Houses_; soran the title on the back. Kitty looked at it frowning. "He might havefound a better name!" Then she opened it--looked at a page here and apage there--laughed, shivered--and at last bethought her to read thenote from the publisher which accompanied it. 

"'Much pleasure--the first printed copy--three more to follow--sure tomake a sensation'--hateful wretch!--'if your ladyship will let usknow how many presentation copies--' Goodness!--not _one_!Oh--well!--Madeleine, perhaps--and, of course, Mr. Darrell. "

She opened a little despatch-box in which she kept her letters, andslipped the book in. 

"I won't show it to William to-night--not--not till next week. " The bookwas to be out on the 20th, a week ahead--three months from the day whenshe had given the MS. Into Darrell's hands. She had been spared all thetrouble of correcting proofs, which had been done for her by thepublisher's reader, on the plea of her illness. She had received anddestroyed various letters from him--almost without reading them--duringa short absence of William's in the north. 

Suddenly a start of terror ran through her. "No, no!" she said, wrestling with herself--"he'll scold me, perhaps--at first; of course Iknow he'll do that. And then, I'll make him laugh! He can't--he can'thelp laughing. I _know_ it'll amuse him. He'll see how I meant it, too. And nobody need ever find out. "

She heard his step outside, hastily locked her despatch-box, threw ashawl over it, and lay back languidly on her pillows, awaiting him. 

XVIII

The following morning, early, a note was brought to Kitty from Madamed'Estrées:

 "Darling Kitty, --Will you join us to-night in an expedition? You know that Princess Margherita is staying on the Grand Canal?--in one of the Mocenigo palaces. There is to be a serenata in her honor to-night--not one of those vulgar affairs which the hotels get up, but really good music and fine voices--money to be given to some hospital or other. Do come with us. I suppose you have your own gondola, as we have. The gondolas who wish to follow meet at the Piazzetta, weather permitting, eight o'clock. I know, of course, that you are not going out. But this is _only_ music!--and for a charity. One just sits in one's gondola, and follows the music up the canal. Send word by bearer. Your fond mother, "Marguerite d'Estrées. "

Kitty tossed the note over to Ashe. "Aren't you dining out somewhereto-night?"

Her voice was listless. And as Ashe lifted his head from the cabinetpapers which had just reached him by special messenger, his attentionwas disagreeably recalled from high matters of state to the very evidentdelicacy of his wife. He replied that he had promised to dine withPrince S---- at Danieli's, in order to talk Italian politics. "But I canthrow it over in a moment, if you want me. I came to Venice for _you_, darling, " he said, as he rose and joined her on the balcony whichcommanded a fine stretch of the canal. 

"No, no! Go and dine with your prince. I'll go with maman--Margaret andI. At least, Margaret must, of course, please herself!"

She shrugged her shoulders, and then added, "Maman's probably in thepink of society here. Venice doesn't take its cue from people like AuntLina!"

Ashe smiled uncomfortably. He was in truth by this time infinitelybetter acquainted with the incidents of Madame d'Estrées's past careerthan Kitty was. He had no mind whatever that Kitty should become lessignorant, but his knowledge sometimes made conversation difficult. 

Kitty was perfectly aware of his embarrassment. 

"You never tell me--" she said, abruptly. "Did she really do suchdreadful things?"

"My dear Kitty!--why talk about it?"

Kitty flushed, then threw a flower into the water below with a defiantgesture. 

"What does it matter? It's all so long ago. I have nothing to do withwhat I did ten years ago--nothing!"

"A convenient doctrine!" laughed Ashe. "But it cuts both ways. You getneither the good of your good nor the bad of your bad. "

"I have no good, " said Kitty, bitterly. 

"What's the matter with you, miladi?" said Ashe, half scolding, halftender. "You growl over my remarks as though you were your own small dogwith a bone. Come here and let me tell you the news. "

And drawing the sofa up to the open window which commanded themarvellous waterway outside, with its rows of palaces on either hand, hemade her lie down while he read her extracts from his letters. 

Margaret French, who was writing at the farther side of the room, glanced at them furtively from time to time. She saw that Ashe wastrying to charm away the languor of his companion by that talk of his, shrewd, humorous, vehement, well informed, which made him so welcome tothe men of his own class and mode of life. And when he talked to a womanas he was accustomed to talk to men, that woman felt it a compliment. Under the stimulus of it, Kitty woke up, laughed, argued, teased, withsomething of her natural animation. 

Presently, indeed, the voices had sunk so much and the heads had drawnso close together that Margaret French slipped away, under theimpression that they were discussing matters to which she was not meantto listen. 

She had hardly closed the door when Kitty drew herself away from Ashe, and holding his arm with both hands looked strangely into his eyes. 

"You're awfully good to me, William. But, you know--you don't tell mesecrets!"

"What do you mean, darling?"

"You don't tell me the real secrets--what Lord Palmerston used to tellto Lady Palmerston!"

"How do you know what he used to tell her?" said Ashe, with a laugh. Buthis forehead had reddened. 

"One hears--and one guesses--from the letters that have been published. Oh, I understand quite well! You can't trust me!"

Ashe turned aside and began to gather up his papers. 

"Of course, " said Kitty, a little hoarsely, "I know it's my own fault, because you used to tell me much more. I suppose it was the way Ibehaved to Lord Parham?"

She looked at him rather tremulously. It was the first time since herillness began that she had referred to the incidents at Haggart. 

"Look here!" said Ashe, in a tone of decision; "I shall _really_ give uptalking politics to you if it only reminds you of disagreeable things. "

She took no notice. 

"Is Lord Parham behaving well to you--now--William?"

Ashe colored hotly. As a matter of fact, in his own opinion, Lord Parhamwas behaving vilely. A measure of first-rate importance for which he wasresponsible was already in danger of being practically shelved, simply, as it seemed to him, from a lack of elementary trustworthiness in LordParham. But as to this he had naturally kept his own counsel with Kitty. 

"He is not the most agreeable of customers, " he said, gayly. "But Ishall get through. Pegging away does it. "

"And then to see how our papers flatter him!" cried Kitty. "How littlepeople know, who think they know! It would be amusing to show the worldthe real Lord Parham. "

She looked at her husband with an expression that struck himdisagreeably. He threw away his cigarette, and his face changed. 

"What we have to do, my dear Kitty, is simply to hold our tongues. "

Kitty sat up in some excitement. 

"That man never hears the truth!"

Ashe shrugged his shoulders. It seemed to him incredible that she shouldpursue this particular topic, after the incidents at Haggart. 

"That's not the purpose for which Prime Ministers exist. Anyway, _we_can't tell it him. "

Undaunted, however, by his tone, and with what seemed to himextraordinary excitability of manner, Kitty reminded him of an incidentin the life of a bygone administration, when the near relative of anEnglish statesman, staying at the time in the statesman's house, hadsent a communication to one of the quarterlies attacking his policy andbelittling his character, by means of information obtained in theintimacy of a country-house party. 

"One of the most treacherous things ever done!" said Ashe, indignantly. "Fair fight, if you like! But if that kind of thing were to spread, Ifor one should throw up politics to-morrow. "

"Every one said it did a vast deal of good, " persisted Kitty. 

"A precious sort of good! Yes--I believe Parham in particular profitedby it--more shame to him! If anybody ever tried to help me in that sortof way--anybody, that is, for whom I felt the smallest responsibility--Iknow what I should do. "

"What?" Kitty fell back on her cushions, but her eye still held him. 

"Send in my resignation by the next post--and damn the fellow that didit! Look here, Kitty!" He came to stand over her--a fine formidablefigure, his hands in his pockets. "Don't you ever try that kind ofthing--there's a darling. "

"Would you damn me?"

She smiled at him--with a tremor of the lip. 

He caught up her hand and kissed it. "Blow out my own brains, morelike, " he said, laughing. Then he turned away. "What on earth have wegot into this beastly conversation for? Let's get out of it. The Parhamsare there--male and female--aren't they?--and we've got to put up withthem. Well, I'm going to the Piazza. Any commissions? Oh, by-the-way"--he looked back at a letter in his hands--"mother says PollyLyster will probably be here before we go--she seems to be touringaround with her father. "

"Charming prospect!" said Kitty. "Does mother expect me to chaperonher?"

Ashe laughed and went. As soon as he was gone, Kitty sprang from thesofa, and walked up and down the room in a passionate preoccupation. Atremor of great fear was invading her; an agony of unavailing regret. 

"What can I do?" she said to herself, as her upper lip twisted andtortured the lower one. 

Presently she caught up her purse, went to her room, where she put onher walking things without summoning Blanche, and stealing down thestairs, so as to be unheard by Margaret, she made her way to the backgate of the Palazzo, and so to the streets leading to the Piazza. William had taken the gondola to the Piazzetta, so she felt herselfsafe. 

She entered the telegraphic office at the western end of the Piazza, andsent a telegram to England that nearly emptied her purse of francs. Whenshe came out she was as pale as she had been flushed before--a little, terror-stricken figure, passing in a miserable abstraction through theintricate backways which took her home. 

"It won't be published for ten days. There's time. It's only a questionof money, " she said to herself, feverishly--"only a question of money!"

 * * * * *

All the rest of the day, Kitty was at once so restless and so languidthat to amuse her was difficult. Ashe was quite grateful to his amazingmother-in-law for the plan of the evening. 

As night fell, Kitty started at every sound in the old Palazzo. Once ortwice she went half-way to the door--eagerly--with handout-stretched--as though she expected a letter. 

"No other English post to-night, Kitty!" said Ashe, at last, raising hishead from the finely printed _Poetæ Minores_ he had just purchased atOngania's. "You don't mean to say you're not thankful!"

 * * * * *

The evening arrived--clear and mild, but moonless. Ashe went off to dinewith his prince, in the ordinary gondola of commerce, hired at theTraghetto; while Margaret and Kitty followed a little later in one whichhad already drawn the attention of Venice, owing to the two handsomegondoliers, habited in black from head to foot, who were attached to it. They turned towards the Piazzetta, where they were to meet with Madamed'Estrées' party. 

Kitty, in her deep mourning, sank listlessly into the black cushions ofthe gondola. Yet almost as they started, as the first strokes carriedthem past the famous palace which is now the Prefecture, the spell ofVenice began to work. 

City of rest!--as it seems to our modern senses--how is it possible thatso busy, so pitiless, and covetous a life as history shows us shouldhave gone to the making and the fashioning of Venice! The easy passageof the gondola through the soft, imprisoned wave; the silence of wheeland hoof, of all that hurries and clatters; the tide that comes andgoes, noiseless, indispensable, bringing in the freshness of the sea, carrying away the defilements of the land; the narrow winding ways, nowfirm earth, now shifting sea, that bind the city into one social whole, where the industrial and the noble alike are housed in palaces, equaloften in beauty as in decay; the marvellous quiet of the nights, savewhen the northeast wind, Hadria's stormy leader, drives the furiouswaves against the palace fronts in the darkness, with the clamor of anattacking host; the languor of the hot afternoons, when life is a dreamof light and green water, when the play of mirage drowns the foundationsof the _lidi_ in the lagoon, so that trees and buildings rise out of thesea as though some strong Amphion-music were but that moment callingthem from the deep; and when day departs, that magic of the swiftlyfalling dusk, and that white foam and flower of St. Mark's upon thepurple intensity of the sky!--through each phase of the hours and theseasons, _rest_ is still the message of Venice, rest enriched withendless images, impressions, sensations, that cost no trouble and breedno pain. 

It was this spell of rest that descended for a while on Kitty as theyglided downward to the Piazzetta. The terror of the day relaxed. Hertelegram would be in time; or, if not, she would throw herself intoWilliam's arms, and he _must_ forgive her!--because she was so foolishand weak, so tired and sad. She slipped her hand into Margaret's; theytalked in low voices of the child, and Kitty was all appealingmelancholy and charm. 

At the Piazzetta there was already a crowd of gondolas, and at theirhead the _barca_, which carried the musicians. 

"You are late, Kitty!" cried Madame d'Estrées, waving to them. "Shall wedraw out and come to you?--or will you just join on where you are?"

For the Vercelli gondola was already wedged into a serried line of boatsin the wake of the _barca_. 

"Never mind us, " said Kitty. "We'll tack on somehow. "

And inwardly she was delighted to be thus separated from her mother andthe chattering crowd by which Madame d'Estrées seemed to be surrounded. Kitty and Margaret bade their men fall in, and they presently foundthemselves on the Salute side of the floating audience, their prowpointing to the canal. 

The _barca_ began to move, and the mass of gondolas followed. Roundthem, and behind them, other boats were passing and repassing, each withits slim black body, its swanlike motion, its poised oarsman, and itstwinkling light. The lagoon towards the Guidecca was alive with theselights; and a magnificent white steamer adorned with flags andlanterns--the yacht, indeed, of a German prince--shone in themid-channel. 

On they floated. Here were the hotels, with other illuminated boats infront of their steps, whence spoiled voices shouted, "Santa Lucia, " tilleven Venice and the Grand Canal became a vulgarity and a weariness. These were the "serenate publiche, " common and commercial affairs, whichthe private serenata left behind in contempt, steering past theirflaring lights for the dark waters of romance which lay beyond. 

Suddenly Kitty's sadness gave way; her starved senses clamored; she woketo poetry and pleasure. All round her, stretching almost across thecanal, the noiseless flock of gondolas--dark, leaning figures impellingthem from behind, and in front the high prows and glow-worm lights; inthe boats, a multitude of dim, shrouded figures, with not a facevisible; and in their midst the _barca_, temple of light and music, built up of flowers, and fluttering scarves, and many-colored lanterns, a sparkling fantasy of color, rose and gold and green, shining on thebosom of the night. To either side, the long, dark lines ofthrice-historic palaces; scarcely a poor light here and there at theirwater-gates; and now and then the lamps of the Traghetti.... Otherwise, darkness, soundless motion, and, overhead, dim stars. 

"Margaret! Look!"

Kitty caught her companion's arm in a mad delight. 

Some one for the amusement of the guests of Venice was experimenting onthe top of the campanile of St. Mark's with those electric lights whichwere then the toys of science, and are now the eyes and tools of war. Asearch-light was playing on the basin of St. Mark's and on the mouth ofthe canal. Suddenly it caught the Church of the Salute--and the wholevast building, from the Queen of Heaven on its topmost dome down to thewater's brim, the figures of saints and prophets and apostles whichcrowd its steps and ledges, the white whorls, like huge sea-shells, thatmake its buttresses, the curves and volutes of its cornices anddoorways, rushed upon the eye in a white and blinding splendor, makingthe very darkness out of which the vision sprang alive and rich. Not aChristian church, surely, but a palace of Poseidon! The bewildered gazersaw naiads and bearded sea-gods in place of angels and saints, and mustneeds imagine the champing of Poseidon's horses at the marble steps, straining towards the sea. 

The vision wavered, faded, reappeared, and finally died upon the night. Then the wild beams began to play on the canal, following the serenata, lighting up now the palaces on either hand, now some single gondola, revealing every figure and gesture of the laughing English or Americanswho filled it, in a hard white flash. 

"Oh! listen, Kitty!" said Margaret. "Some one is going to sing 'Chéfaro. '"

Miss French was very musical, and she turned in a trance of pleasuretowards the _barca_ whence came the first bars of the accompaniment. 

She did not see meanwhile that Kitty had made a hurried movement, andwas now leaning over the side of the gondola, peering with arrestedbreath into the scattered group of boats on their left hand. Thesearch-light flashed here and there among them. A gondola at the veryedge of the serenata contained one figure beside the gondolier, a man ina large cloak and slouch hat, sitting very still with folded arms. AsKitty looked, hearing the beating of her heart, their own boat wassuddenly lit up. The light passed in a second, and while it lasted thosein the flash could see nothing outside it. When it withdrew all was indarkness. The black mass of boats floated on, soundless again, save foran occasional plash of water or the hoarse cry of a gondolier--and inthe distance the wail for Eurydice. 

Kitty fell back in her seat. An excitement, from which she shrank in akind of terror, possessed her. Her thoughts were wholly absorbed by thegondola and the figure she could no longer distinguish--for which, whenever a group of lamps threw their reflections on the water, shesearched the canal in vain. If what she madly dreamed were true, had sheherself been seen--and recognized?

The serenata in honor of Italy's beautiful princess duly made its way tothe Grand Canal. The princess came to her balcony, while the "JewelSong" in "Faust" was being sung below, and there was a demonstrationwhich echoed from palace to palace and died away under the arch of theRialto. Then the gondolas dispersed. That of Lady Kitty Ashe had somedifficulty in making its way home against a force of wind and tidecoming from the lagoon. 

 * * * * *

Kitty was apparently asleep when Ashe returned. He had sat late with hishosts--men prominent in the Risorgimento and in the politics of the newkingdom--discussing the latest intricacies of the Roman situation andthe prospects of Italian finance. His mind was all alert and vigorous, ranging over great questions and delighting in its own strength. To comein contact with these able foreigners, not as the mere traveller but asan important member of an English government, beginning to be spoken ofby the world as one of the two or three men of the future--this was anew experience and a most agreeable one. Doors hitherto closed hadopened before him; information no casual Englishman could have commandedhad been freely poured out for him; last, but not least, he had atlength made himself talk French with some fluency, and he looked back onhis performance of the evening with a boy's complacency. 

For the rest, Venice was a mere trial of his patience! As his gondolabrought him home, struggling with wind and wave, Ashe had no eyewhatever for the beauty of this Venice in storm. His mind was inEngland, in London, wrestling with a hundred difficulties andpossibilities. The old literary and speculative habit was fastdisappearing in the stress of action and success. His well-worn Plato orHorace still lay beside his bedside; but when he woke early, and lit acandle carefully shaded from Kitty, it was not to the poets andphilosophers that he turned; it was to a heap of official documents andreports, to the letters of political friends, or an unfinished letter ofhis own, the phrases of which had perhaps been running through hisdreams. The measures for which he was wrestling against the intrigues ofLord Parham and Lord Parham's clique filled all his mind with a livelyardor of battle. They were the children--the darlings--of his thoughts. 

Nevertheless, as he entered his wife's dim-lit room the eager argumentsand considerations that were running through his head died away. Hestood beside her, overwhelmed by a rush of feeling, alive through allhis being to the appeal of her frail sweetness, the helplessness of hersleep, the dumb significance of the thin, blue-veined hand--eloquent atonce of character and of physical weakness--which lay beside her. Herface was hidden, but the beautiful hair with its childish curls andripples drew him to her--touched all the springs of tenderness. 

It was a loveliness so full, it seemed, of meaning and of promise. Hand, brow, mouth--they were the signs of no mere empty and insipid beauty. There was not a movement, not a feature, that did not speak ofintelligence and mind. 

And yet, were he to wake her now and talk to her of the experience ofhis evening, how little joy would either get out of it. 

Was it because she had no intellectual disinterestedness? Well, whatwoman had! But other women, even if they saw everything in terms ofpersonality, had the power of pursuing an aim, steadily, persistently, for the sake of a person. He thought of Lady Palmerston--of PrincessLieven fighting Guizot's battles--and sighed. 

By Jove! the women could do most things, if they chose. He recalledKitty's triumph in the great party gathered to welcome Lord Parham, contrasting it with her wilful and absurd behavior to the man himself. There was something bewildering in such power--combined with such folly. In a sense, it was perfectly true that she had insulted her husband'schief, and jeopardized her husband's policy, because she could not putup with Lord Parham's white eyelashes. 

Well, let him make his account with it! How to love her, tend her, makeher happy--and yet carry on himself the life of high office--there wasthe problem! Meanwhile he recognized, fully and humorously, that she hadmarried a political sceptic--and that it was hard for her to know whatto do with the enthusiast who had taken his place. 

Poor, pretty, incalculable darling! He would coax her to stay abroadpart of the Parliamentary season--and then, perhaps, lure her into thecountry, with the rebuilding and refurnishing of Haggart. She must bemanaged and kept from harm--and afterwards indulged and spoiled and_fêted_ to her heart's content. 

If only the fates would give them another child!--a child brilliant andlovely like herself, then surely this melancholy which overshadowed herwould disperse. That look--that tragic look--she had given him on theday of the _fête_, when she spoke of "separation"! The wild adventurewith the lamp had been her revenge--her despair. He shuddered as hethought of it. 

He fell asleep, still pondering restlessly over her future and his own. Amid all his anxieties he never stooped to recollect the man who hadendangered her name and peace. His optimism, his pride, the sanguineperfunctoriness of much of his character were all shown in the omission. 

 * * * * *

Kitty, however, was not asleep while Ashe was beside her. And she sleptbut little through the hours that followed. Between three and four shewas finally roused by the sounds of storm in the canal. It was as thougha fleet of gigantic steamers--in days when Venice knew but thegondola--were passing outside, sending a mountainous "wash" against thewalls of the old palace in which they lodged. In this languid autumnalVenice the sudden noise and crash were startling. Kitty sprang softlyout of bed, flung on a dressing-gown and fur cloak, and slipped throughthe open window to the balcony. 

A strange sight! Beneath, livid waves, lashing the marble walls; above, a pale moonlight, obscured by scudding clouds. Not a sign of life onthe water or in the dark palaces opposite. Venice looked precisely asshe might have looked on some wild sixteenth-century night in the yearsof her glorious decay, when her palaces were still building and herstate tottering. Opposite, at the Traghetto of the Accademia, there werelamps, and a few lights in the gondolas; and through the storm-noisesone could hear the tossed boats grinding on their posts. 

The riot of the air was not cold; there was still a recollection ofsummer in the gusts that beat on Kitty's fair hair and wrestled with hercloak. As she clung to the balcony she pictured to herself the tumblingwaves on the Lido; the piled storm-clouds parting like a curtain above adead Venice; and behind, the gleaming eternal Alps, sending theirchallenge to the sea--the forces that make the land, to the forces thatengulf it. 

Her wild fancy went out to meet the tumult of blast and wave. She feltherself, as it were, anchored a moment at sea, in the midst of a war ofelements, physical and moral. 

Yes, yes!--it was Geoffrey. Once, under the skipping light, she had seenthe face distinctly. Paler than of old--gaunt, unhappy, absent. It wasthe face of one who had suffered--in body and mind. But--she trembledthrough all her slight frame!--the old harsh power was there unchanged. 

Had he seen and recognized her--slipping away afterwards into the mouthof a side canal, or dropping behind in the darkness? Was he ashamed toface her--or angered by the reminder of her existence? No doubt itseemed to him now a monstrous absurdity that he should ever have said heloved her! He despised her--thought her a base and coward soul. Verylikely he would make it up with Mary Lyster now, accept her nursing andher money. 

Her lip curled in scorn. No, _that_ she didn't believe! Well, then, whatwould be his future? His name had been but little in the newspapersduring the preceding year; the big public seemed to have forgotten him. A cloud had hung for months over the struggle of races and of faiths nowpassing in the Balkans. Obscure fighting in obscure mountains; massacrehere, revolt there; and for some months now hardly an accredited voicefrom Turk or Christian to tell the world what was going on. 

But Geoffrey had now emerged--and at a moment when Europe was beginningperforce to take notice of what she had so far wilfully ignored. _À luila parole!_ No doubt he was preparing it, the bloody, exciting storywhich would bring him before the foot-lights again, and make him oncemore the lion of a day. More social flatteries, more doubtfullove-affairs! Fools like herself would feel his spell, would cherish andcaress him, only to be stung and scathed as she had been. The bitterlines of his "portrait" rung in her ears--blackening and discrowning herin her own eyes. 

She abhorred him!--but the thought that he was in Venice burned deepinto senses and imagination. Should she tell William she had seen him?No, no! She would stand by herself, protect herself!

So she stole back to bed, and lay there wakeful, starting guiltily atWilliam's every movement. If he knew what had happened!--what she wasthinking of! Why on earth should he? It would be monstrous to harasshim on his holiday--with all these political affairs on his mind. 

Then suddenly--by an association of ideas--she sat up shivering, herhands pressed to her breast. The telegram--the book! Oh, but _of course_she had been in time!--_of course_! Why, she had offered the man twohundred pounds! She lay down laughing at herself--forcing herself to tryand sleep. 

XIX

Sir Richard Lyster unfolded his _Times_ with a jerk. 

"A beastly rheumatic hole I call this, " he said, looking angrily at thewindow of his hotel sitting-room, which showed drops from a light showerthen passing across the lagoon. "And the dilatoriness of these Italianposts is, upon my soul, beyond bearing! This _Times_ is _three_ daysold. "

Mary Lyster looked up from the letter she was writing. 

"Why don't you read the French papers, papa? I saw a _Figaro_ ofyesterday in the Piazza this morning. "

"Because I can't!" was the indignant reply. "There wasn't the sameamount of money squandered on _my_ education, my dear, that there hasbeen on yours. "

Mary smiled a little, unseen. Her father had been, of course, at Eton. She had been educated by a succession of small and hunted governesses, mostly Swiss, whose remuneration had certainly counted among thefrugalities rather than the extravagances of the family budget. 

Sir Richard read his _Times_ for a while. Mary continued to write checksfor the board wages of the servants left at home, and to give directionsfor the beating of carpets and cleaning of curtains. It was dull work, and she detested it. 

Presently Sir Richard rose, with a stretch. He was a tall old man, witha shock of white hair and very black eyes. A victim to certain obscureforms of gout, he was in character neither stupid nor inhuman, but hesuffered from the usual drawbacks of his class--too much money and toofew ideas. He came abroad every year, reluctantly. He did not choose tobe left behind by county neighbors whose wives talked nonsense aboutBotticelli. And Mary would have it. But Sir Richard's tours weregenerally one prolonged course of battle between himself and all foreigninstitutions; and if it was Mary who drove him forth, it was Mary alsowho generally hurried him home. 

"Who was it you saw last night in that ridiculous singing affair?" heasked, as he put the fire together. 

"Kitty Ashe--and her mother, " said Mary--after a moment--still writing. 

"Her mother!--what, that disreputable woman?"

"They weren't in the same gondola. "

"Ashe will be a great fool if he lets his wife see much of that woman!By all accounts Lady Kitty is quite enough of a handful already. By-the-way, have you found out where they are?"

"On the Grand Canal. Shall we call this afternoon?"

"I don't mind. Of course, I think Ashe is doing an immense amount ofharm. "

"Well, you can tell him so, " said Mary. 

Sir Richard frowned. His daughter's manners seemed to him at timesabrupt. 

"Why do you see so little now of Elizabeth Tranmore?" he asked her, witha sharp look. "You used to be always there. And I don't believe you evenwrite to her much now. "

"Does she see much of anybody?"

"Because, you mean, of Tranmore's condition? What good can she be to himnow? He knows nobody. "

"She doesn't seem to ask the question, " said Mary, dryly. 

A queer, soft look came over Sir Richard's old face. 

"No, the women don't, " he said, half to himself, and fell into a littlereverie. He emerged from it with the remark--accompanied by a smile, alittle sly but not unkind:

"I always used to hope, Polly, that you and Ashe would have made it up!"

"I'm sure I don't know why, " said Mary, fastening up her envelopes. Asshe did so it crossed her father's mind that she was still verygood-looking. Her dress of dark-blue cloth, the plain fashion of herbrown hair, her oval face and well-marked features, her plump and prettyhands, were all pleasant to look upon. She had rather a hard way withher, though, at times. The servants were always giving warning. And, personally, he was much fonder of his younger daughter, whom Maryconsidered foolish and improvident. But he was well aware that Mary madehis life easy. 

"Well, you were always on excellent terms, " he said, in answer to herlast remark. "I remember his saying to me once that you were very goodcompany. The Bishop, too, used to notice how he liked to talk to you. "

When Mary and her father were together, "the Bishop" was Sir Richard'sproperty. He only fell to Mary's share in the old man's absence. 

Mary colored slightly. 

"Oh yes, we got on, " she said, counting her letters the while with aquick hand. 

"Well, I hope that young woman whom he _did_ marry is now behavingherself. It was that fellow Cliffe with whom the scandal was last year, wasn't it?"

"There was a good deal of talk, " said Mary. 

"A rum fellow, that Cliffe! A man at the club told me last week it isbelieved he has been fighting for these Bosnian rebels for months. Shocking bad form I call it. If the Turks catch him, they'll string himup. And quite right, too. What's he got to do with other people'squarrels?"

"If the Turks will be such brutes--"

"Nonsense, my dear! Don't you believe any of this radical stuff. TheTurks are awfully fine fellows--fight like bull-dogs. And as for the'atrocities, ' they make them up in London. Oh, of course, what Cliffewants is notoriety--we all know that. Well, I'm going out to see if Ican find another English paper. Beastly climate!"

But as Sir Richard turned again to the window, he was met by a burst ofsunshine, which hit him gayly in the face like a child's impertinence. He grumbled something unintelligible as Mary put him into his Invernesscape, took hat and stick, and departed. 

Mary sat still beside the writing-table, her hands crossed on her lap, her eyes absently bent upon them. 

She was thinking of the serenata. She had followed it with anacquaintance from the hotel, and she had seen not only Kitty and Madamed'Estrées, but also--the solitary man in the heavy cloak. She knew quitewell that Cliffe was in Venice; though, true to her secretive temper, she had not mentioned the fact to her father. 

Of course he was in Venice on Kitty's account. It would be too absurd tosuppose that he was here by mere coincidence. Mary believed that nothingbut the intervention of Cliffe's mighty kinsman from the north had savedthe situation the year before. Kitty would certainly have betrayed herhusband but for the _force majeure_ arrayed against her. And now themagnate who had played Providence slumbered in the family vault. He hadpassed away in the spring, full of years and honors, leaving Cliffe somemoney. The path was clear. As for the escapade in the Balkans, Geoffreywas, of course, tired of it. A sensational book, hurried out to meet thepublic appetite for horrors--and the pursuance of his intrigue with LadyKitty Ashe--Mary was calmly certain that these were now his objects. Hewas, no doubt, writing his book and meeting Kitty where he could. Ashewould soon have to go home. And then! As if that girl Margaret Frenchcould stop it!

Well, William had only got his deserts! But as her thoughts passed fromKitty or Cliffe to William Ashe, their quality changed. Hatred andbitterness, scorn or wounded vanity, passed into something gentler. Shefell into recollections of Ashe as he had appeared on that bygoneafternoon in May when he came back triumphant from his election, withthe world before him. If he had never seen Kitty Bristol!--

"I should have made him a good wife, " she said to herself. "_I_ shouldhave known how to be proud of him. "

And there emerged also the tragic consciousness that if the fates hadgiven him to her she might have been another woman--taught by happiness, by love, by motherhood. 

It was that little, heartless creature who had snatched them both fromher--William and Geoffrey Cliffe--the higher and the lower--the man whomight have ennobled her--and the man, half charlatan, half genius, whomshe might have served and raised, by her fortune and her abilities. Herlife might have been so full, so interesting! And it was Kitty that hadmade it flat, and cold, and futureless. 

Poor William! Had he really liked her, in those boy-and-girl days? Shedreamed over their old cousinly relations--over the presents he hadsometimes given her. 

Then a thought, like a burning arrow, pierced her. Her hands locked, straining one against the other. If this intrigue were indeedrenewed--if Geoffrey succeeded in tempting Kitty from her husband--whythen--then--

She shivered before the images that were passing through her mind, and, rising, she put away her letters and rang for the waiter, to orderdinner. 

"Where shall we go?" said Kitty, languidly, putting down the Frenchnovel she was reading. 

 * * * * *

"Mr. Ashe suggested San Lazzaro. " Margaret looked up from her writing asKitty moved towards her. "The rain seems to have all cleared off. "

"Well, I'm sure it doesn't matter where, " said Kitty, and was turningaway; but Margaret caught her hand and caressed it. 

"Naughty Kitty! why this sea air can't put some more color into yourcheeks I don't understand. "

"I'm _not_ pale!" cried Kitty, pouting. "Margaret, you do croak about meso! If you say any more I'll go and rouge till you'll be ashamed to goout with me--there! Where's William?"

William opened the door as she spoke, the _Gazetta di Venezia_ in onehand and a telegram in the other. 

"Something for you, darling, " he said, holding it out to Kitty. "Shall Iopen it?"

"Oh no!" said Kitty, hastily. "Give it me. It's from my Paris woman. "

"Ah--ha!" laughed Ashe. "Some extravagance you want to keep to yourself, I'll be bound. I've a good mind to see!"

And he teasingly held it up above her head. But she gave a little jump, caught it, and ran off with it to her room. 

 "Much regret impossible stop publication. Fifty copies distributed already. Writing. "

She dropped speechless on the edge of her bed, the crumpled telegram inher hand. The minutes passed. 

"When will you be ready?" said Ashe, tapping at the door. 

"Is the gondola there?"

"Waiting at the steps. "

"Five minutes!" Ashe departed. She rose, tore the telegram into littlebits, and began with deliberation to put on her mantle and hat. 

"You've got to go through with it, " she said to the white face in theglass, and she straightened her small shoulders defiantly. 

 * * * * *

They were bound for the Armenian convent. It was a misty day, withshafts of light on the lagoon. The storm had passed, but the water wasstill rough, and the clouds seemed to be withdrawing their forces onlyto marshal them again with the darkness. A day of sudden bursts ofwatery light, of bands of purple distance struck into enchanting beautyby the red or orange of a sail, of a wild salt breath in air that seemedto be still suffused with spray. The Alps were hidden; but what sunthere was played faintly on the Euganean hills. 

"I say, Margaret, at last she does us some credit!" said Ashe, pointingto his wife. 

Margaret started. Was it rouge?--or was it the strong air? Kitty'slanguor had entirely disappeared; she was more cheerful and moretalkative than she had been at any time since their arrival. Shechattered about the current scandals of Venice--the mysterious contessawho lived in the palace opposite their own, and only went out, in deepmourning, at night, because she had been the love of a Russiangrand-duke, and the grand-duke was dead; of the Carlist pretender andhis wife, who had been very popular in Venice until they took it intotheir heads to require royal honors, and Venice, taking time to think, had lazily decided the game was not worth the candle--so now the sulkypair went about alone in a fine gondola, turning glassy eyes on theirformer acquaintance; of the needy marchese who had sold a Titian to theLouvre, and had then found himself boycotted by all his kinsfolk inVenice who were not needy and had no Titians to sell--all these talesKitty reeled out at length till the handsome gondoliers marvelled at thelittle lady's vivacity and the queer brightness of her eyes. 

"Gracious, Kitty, where do you get all these stories from?" cried Ashe, when the chatter paused for a moment. 

He looked at her with delight, rejoicing in her gayety, the slighttouches of white which to-day for the first time relieved the sombrenessof her dress, the return of her color. And Margaret wondered again howmuch of it was rouge. 

At the Armenian convent a handsome young monk took charge of them. AsGeorge Sand and Lamennais had done before them, they looked at theprinting-press, the garden, the cloister, the church; they marvelledlazily at the cleanliness and brightness of the place; and finally theyclimbed to the library and museum, and the room close by where Byronplayed at grammar-making. In this room Ashe fell suddenly into apolitical talk with the young monk, who was an ardent and patriotic sonof the most unfortunate of nations, and they passed out and down thestairs, followed by Margaret French, not noticing that Kitty hadlingered behind. 

Kitty stood idly by the window of Byron's room, thinking restlessly ofverses that were not Byron's, though there was in them, clothed in formsof the new age, the spirit of Byronic passion, and more than a touch ofByronic affectation--thinking also of the morning's telegram. SupposingDarrell's prophecy, which had seemed to her so absurd, came true, thatthe book did William harm, not good--that he ceased to love her--that hecast her off?... 

... A plash of water outside, and a voice giving directions. From thelagoon towards Malamocco a gondola approached. A gentleman and lady wereseated in it. The lady--a very handsome Italian, with a loud laugh andbrilliant eyes--carried a scarlet parasol. Kitty gave a stifled cry asshe drew back. She fled out of the room and overtook the other two. 

"May we go back into the garden a little?" she said, hurriedly, to themonk who was talking to William. "I should like to see the view towardsVenice. "

William held up a watch, to show that there was but just time to getback to the Piazza, for lunch. Kitty persisted, and the monk, understanding what the impetuous young lady wished, good-naturedlyturned to obey her. 

"We must be _very_ quick!" said Kitty. "Take us please, to the edge, beyond the trees. "

And she herself hurried through the garden to its farther side, where itwas bounded by the lagoon. 

The others followed her, rather puzzled by her caprice. 

"Not much to be seen, darling!" said Ashe, as they reached thewater--"and I think this good man wants to get rid of us!"

And, indeed, the monk was looking backward across the intervening treesat a party which had just entered the garden. 

"Ah, they have found another brother!" he said, politely, and he beganto point out to Kitty the various landmarks visible, the arsenal, thetwo asylums, San Pietro di Castello. 

The new-comers just glanced at the garden apparently, as the Ashes haddone on arrival, and promptly followed their guide back into theconvent. 

Kitty asked a few more questions, then led the way in a hasty return tothe garden door, the entrance-hall, and the steps where their gondolawas waiting. Nothing was to be seen of the second party. They had passedon into the cloisters. 

 * * * * *

Animation, oddity, inconsequence, all these things Margaret observed inKitty during luncheon in a restaurant of the Merceria, and variousincidents connected with it; animation above all. The Ashes fell in withacquaintance--a fashionable and harassed mother, on the fringe of theArchangels, accompanied by two daughters, one pretty and one plain, andsore pressed by their demands, real or supposed. The parents were notrich, but the girls had to be dressed, taken abroad, produced atcountry-houses, at Ascot, and the opera, like all other girls. Theeldest girl, a considerable beauty, was an accomplished egotist atnineteen, and regarded her mother as a rather inefficient _dame decompagnie_. Kitty understood this young lady perfectly, and afterluncheon, over her cigarette, her little, sharp, probing questions gavethe beauty twenty minutes' annoyance. Then appeared a young man, ill-dressed, red-haired, and shy. Carelessly as he greeted the motherand daughters, his entrance, however, transformed them. The motherforgot fatigue; the beauty ceased to yawn; the younger girl, who hadbeen making surreptitious notes of Kitty's costume in the last leaf ofher guide-book, developed a charming gush. He was the owner of theMagellan estates and the historic Magellan Castle; a professed hater of"absurd womankind, " and, in general, a hunted and self-conscious person. Kitty gave him one finger, looked him up and down, asked him whether hewas yet engaged, and when he laughed an embarrassed "No, " told him thathe would certainly die in the arms of the Magellan housekeeper. 

This got a smile out of him. He sat down beside her, and the two laughedand talked with a freedom which presently drew the attention of theneighboring tables, and made Ashe uncomfortable. He rose, paid the bill, and succeeded in carrying the whole party off to the Piazza, in searchof coffee. But here again Kitty's extravagances, the provocation of herlight loveliness, as she sat toying with a fresh cigarette and"chaffing" Lord Magellan, drew a disagreeable amount of notice from theItalians passing by. 

"Mother, let's go!" said the angry beauty, imperiously, in her mother'sear. "I don't like to be seen with Lady Kitty! She's impossible!"

And with cold farewells the three ladies departed. Then Kitty sprang upand threw away her cigarette. 

"How those girls bully their mother!" she said, with scorn. "However, itserves her right. I'm sure she bullied hers. Well, now we must go and dosomething. Ta-ta!"

Lord Magellan, to whom she offered another casual finger, wanted to knowwhy he was dismissed. If they were going sight-seeing, might he not comewith them?"

"Oh no!" said Kitty, calmly. "Sight--seeing with people you don't reallyknow is too trying to the temper. Even with one's best friend it'srisky. "

"Where are you? May I call?" said the young man. 

"We're always out, " was Kitty's careless reply. "But--"

She considered--

"Would you like to see the Palazzo Vercelli?"

"That magnificent place on the Grand Canal? Very much. "

"Meet me there to-morrow afternoon, " said Kitty. "Four o'clock. "

"Delighted!" said Lord Magellan, making a note on his shirt-cuff. "Andwho lives there?"

"My mother, " said Kitty, abruptly, and walked away. 

Ashe followed her in discomfort. This young man was the son of a certainLady Magellan, an intimate friend of Lady Tranmore's--one of the noblestwomen of her generation, pure, high-minded, spiritual, to whom neitheran ugly word nor thought was possible. It annoyed him that either he orKitty should be introducing _her_ son to Madame d'Estrées. 

It was really tiresome of Kitty! Rich young men with characters yetindeterminate were not to be lightly brought in contact with Madamed'Estrées. Kitty could not be ignorant of it--poor child! It had beenone of her reckless strokes, and Ashe was conscious of a sharpannoyance. 

However, he said nothing. He followed his companions from church tochurch, till pictures became an abomination to him. Then he pleadedletters, and went to the club. 

"Will you call on maman to-morrow?" said Kitty, as he turned away, looking at him a little askance. 

She knew that he had disapproved of her invitation to Lord Magellan. Whyhad she given it? She didn't know. There seemed to be a kind of revivedmischief and fever in the blood, driving her to these foolish andill-considered things. 

Ashe met her question with a shake of the head and the remark, in adecided tone, that he should be too busy. 

Privately he thought it a piece of impertinence that Madame d'Estréesshould expect either Kitty or himself to appear in her drawing-room atall. That this implied a complete transformation of his earlier attitudehe was well aware; he accepted it with a curious philosophy. When he andKitty first met he had never troubled his head about such things. If awoman amused or interested him in society, so long as his taste wassatisfied she might have as much or as little character as she pleased. It stirred his mocking sense of English hypocrisy that the point shouldbe even raised. But now--how can any individual, he asked himself, withpolitical work to do, affect to despise the opinions and prejudices ofsociety? A politician with great reforms to put through will make nofriction round him that he can avoid--unless he is a fool. It weighedsorely, therefore, on his present mind that Madame d'Estrées was inVenice--that she was a person of blemished repute--that he must be andwas ashamed of her. It would have been altogether out of consonance withhis character to put any obstacle in the way of Kitty's seeing hermother. But he chafed as he had never yet chafed under the humiliationof his relationship to the notorious Margaret Fitzgerald of the forties, who had been old Blackwater's _chère amie_ before she married him, and, as Lady Blackwater, had sacrificed her innocent and defencelessstep-daughter to one of her own lovers, in order to secure for him thestep-daughter's fortune--black and dastardly deed!

Was it all part of the general growth and concentration that any shrewdobserver might have read in William Ashe?--the pressure--enormous, unseen--of the traditional English ideals, English standards, assertingitself at last in a brilliant and paradoxical nature? It had beenso--conspicuously--in the case of one of his political predecessors. Lord Melbourne had begun his career as a person of idle habits andimprudent adventures, much given to coarse conversation, and unable tosay the simplest thing without an oath. He ended it as the man ofscrupulous dignity, tact, and delicacy, who moulded the innocent youthof a girl-queen, to his own lasting honor and England's gratitude. Inways less striking, the same influence of vast responsibilities wasperhaps acting upon William Ashe. It had already made him a sterner, tougher, and--no doubt--a greater man. 

The defection of William only left Kitty, it seemed, still more greedyof things to see and do. Innumerable sacristans opened all possibledoors and unveiled all possible pictures. Bellini succeeded Tintoret, and Carpaccio Bellini. The two sable gondoliers wore themselves out inKitty's service, and Margaret's kind, round face grew more and morepuzzled and distressed. And whence this strange impression that thewhole experience was a _flight_ on Kitty's part?--or, rather, thatthroughout it she was always eagerly expecting, or eagerly escaping fromsome unknown, unseen pursuer? A glance behind her--a start--a suddenshivering gesture in the shadows of dark churches--these thingssuggested it, till Margaret herself was caught by the same suppressedexcitement that seemed to be alive in Kitty. Did it all point merely tosome mental state--to the nervous effects of her illness and her loss?

When they reached home about five o'clock, Kitty was naturally tiredout. Margaret put her on the sofa, gave her tea, and tended her, hopingthat she might drop asleep before dinner. But just as tea was over, andKitty was lying curled up, silent and white, with that brooding lookwhich kept Margaret's anxiety about her constantly alive, there was asudden sound of voices in the anteroom outside. 

"Margaret!" cried Kitty, starting up in dismay--"say I'm not at home. "

Too late! Their smiling Italian housemaid threw the door open, with theair of one bringing good-fortune. And behind her appeared a tall lady, and an old gentleman hat in hand. 

"May we come in, Kitty?" said Mary Lyster, advancing. "Cousin Elizabethtold us you were here. "

Kitty had sprung up. The disorder of her fair hair, her white cheeks, and the ghostly thinness of her small, black-robed form drew the curiouseyes of Sir Richard. And the oddness of her manner as she greeted themonly confirmed the old man's prejudice against her. 

However, greeted they were, in some sort of fashion; and Miss Frenchgave them tea. She kept Sir Richard entertained, while Kitty and Maryconversed. They talked perfunctorily of ordinary topics--Venice, itssights, its hotels, and the people staying in them--of Lady Tranmore andvarious Ashe relations. Meanwhile the inmost thought of each was busywith the other. 

Kitty studied the lines of Mary's face and the fashion of her dress. 

"She looks much older. And she's not enjoying her life a bit. That's myfault. I spoiled all her chances with Geoffrey--and she knows it. She_hates_ me. Quite right, too. "

"Oh, you mean that nonsensical thing last night?" Sir Richard was sayingto Margaret French. "Oh no, I didn't go. But Mary, of course, thoughtshe must go. Somebody invited her. "

Kitty started. 

"You were at the serenata?" she said to Mary. 

"Yes, I went with a party from the hotel. "

Kitty looked at her. A sudden flush had touched her pale cheeks, and shecould not conceal the trembling of her hands. 

"That was marvellous, that light on the Salute, wasn't it?"

"Wonderful!--and on the water, too. I saw two or three people Iknew--just caught their faces for a second. "

"Did you?" said Kitty. And thoughts ran fast through her head. "Did shesee Geoffrey?--and does she mean me to understand that she did? How shedetests me! If she did see him, of course she supposes that I know allabout it, and that he's here for me. Why don't I ask her, straight out, whether she saw him, and make her understand that I don't caretwopence?--that she's welcome to him--as far as I'm concerned?"

But some hidden feeling tied her tongue. Mary continued to talk aboutthe serenata, and Kitty was presently conscious that her every word andgesture in reply was closely watched. "Yes, yes, she saw him. Perhapsshe'll tell William--or write home to mother?"

And in her excitement she began to chatter fast and loudly, mostly toSir Richard--repeating some of the Venice tales she had told in thegondola--with much inconsequence and extravagance. The old man listened, his hands on his stick, his eyes on the ground, the expression on hisstrong mouth hostile or sarcastic. It was a relief to everybody whenAshe's step was heard stumbling up the dark stairs, and the door openedon his friendly and courteous presence. 

"Why, Polly!--and Cousin Richard! I wondered where you had hiddenyourselves. "

Mary's bright, involuntary smile transformed her. Ashe sat down besideher, and they were soon deep in all sorts of gossip--relations, acquaintance, politics, and what not. All Mary's stiffness disappeared. She became the elegant, agreeable woman, of whom dinner-parties wereglad. Ashe plunged into the pleasant malice of her talk, which rangedthrough the good and evil fortunes--mostly the latter--of half hisacquaintance; discussed the debts, the love-affairs, and the follies ofhis political colleagues or Parliamentary foes; how the ForeignSecretary had been getting on at Balmoral--how so-and-so had been ruinedat the Derby and restored to sanity and solvency by the Oaks--how LadyParham, at Hatfield, had been made to know her place by the FrenchAmbassador--and the like; passing thereby a charming half-hour. 

Meanwhile Kitty, Margaret French, and Sir Richard kept up intermittentremarks, pausing at every other phrase to gather the crumbs that fellfrom the table of the other two. 

Kitty was very weary, and a dead weight had fallen on her spirits. IfSir Richard had thought her bad form ten minutes before, his unspokenmind now declared her stupid. Meanwhile Kitty was saying to herself, asshe watched her husband and Mary:

"I used to amuse William just as well--last year!"

When the door closed on them, Kitty fell back on her cushions with an"ouf!" of relief. William came back in a few minutes from showing thevisitors the back way to their hotel, and stood beside his wife with ananxious face. 

"They were too much for you, darling. They stayed too long. "

"How you and Mary chattered!" said Kitty, with a little pout. But at thesame moment she slipped an appealing hand into his. 

Ashe clasped the hand, and laughed. 

"I always told you she was an excellent gossip. "

 * * * * *

Sir Richard and Mary pursued their way through the narrow _calles_ thatled to the Piazza. Sir Richard was expatiating on Ashe's folly inmarrying such a wife. 

"She looks like an actress!--and as to her conversation, she began bytelling me outrageous stories and ended by not having a word to sayabout anything. The bad blood of the Bristols, it seems to me, withouttheir brains. "

"Oh no, papa! Kitty is very clever. You haven't heard her recite. Shewas tired to-night. "

"Well, I don't want to flatter you, my dear!" said the old man, testily, "but I thought it was pathetic--the way in which Ashe enjoyedyour conversation. It showed he didn't get much of it at home. "

Mary smiled uncertainly. Her whole nature was still aglow from thatcontact with Ashe's delightful personality. After months of depressionand humiliation, her success with him had somehow restored thoseillusions on which cheerfulness depends. 

How ill Kitty looked--and how conscious! Mary was impetuously certainthat Kitty had betrayed her knowledge of Cliffe's presence in Venice;and equally certain that William knew nothing. Poor William!

Well, what can you expect of such a temperament--such a race? Mary'sthoughts travelled confusedly towards--and through--some big anddreadful catastrophe. 

And then? After it?

It seemed to her that she was once more in the Park Lane drawing-room;the familiar Morris papers and Burne-Jones drawings surrounded her; andshe and Elizabeth Tranmore sat, hand in hand, talking of William--aWilliam once more free, after much folly and suffering, to reconstructhis life.... 

"Here we are, " said Sir Richard Lyster, moving down a dark passagetowards the brightly lit doorway of their hotel. 

With a start--as of one taken red-handed--Mary awoke from her dream. 

XX

Madame d'Estrées and her friend, Donna Laura, occupied the _mezzanin_ ofthe vast Vercelli palace. The palace itself belonged to the head of theVercelli family. It was a magnificent erection of the late seventeenthcentury, at this moment half furnished, dilapidated, and forsaken. Butthe _entresol_ on the eastern side of the _cortile_ was in goodcondition, and comfortably fitted up for the occasional use of thePrincipe. As he was wintering in Paris, he had let his rooms at anordinary commercial rent to his kinswoman, Donna Laura. She, a souredand melancholy woman, unmarried in a Latin society which has small useor kindness for spinsters, had seized on Marguerite d'Estrées--whoseacquaintance she had made in a Mont d'Or hotel--and was now keeping herlike a caged canary that sings for its food. 

Madame d'Estrées was quite willing. So long as she had a sofa on whichto sit enthroned, a sufficiency of new gowns, a maid, cigarettes, breakfast in bed, and a supply of French novels, she appeared the mostharmless and engaging of mortals. Her youth had been cruel, disorderly, and vicious. It had lasted long; but now, when middle age stood at lastconfessed, she was lapsing, it seemed, into amiability and goodbehavior. She was, indeed, fast forgetting her own history, and soon therecital of it would surprise no one so much as herself. 

It was five o'clock. Madame d'Estrées had just established herself inthe silk-panelled drawing-room of Donna Laura's apartment, expectant ofvisitors, and, in particular, of her daughter. 

In begging Kitty to come on this particular afternoon, she had notthought fit to mention that it would be Donna Laura's "day. " Had shedone so, Kitty, in consideration of her mourning, would perhaps havecried off. Whereas, really--poor, dear child!--what she wanted wasdistraction and amusement. 

And what Madame d'Estrées wanted was the presence beside her, in public, of Lady Kitty Ashe. Kitty had already visited her mother privately, andhad explored the antiquities of the Vercelli palace. But Madamed'Estrées was now intent on something more and different. 

For in the four years which had now elapsed since the Ashe's marriagethis lively lady had known adversity. She had been forced to leaveLondon, as we have seen, by the pressure of certain facts in her pasthistory so ancient and far removed when their true punishment began thatshe no doubt felt it highly unjust that she should be punished for themat all. Her London debts had swallowed up what then remained to her offortune; and, afterwards, the allowance from the Ashes was all she hadto depend on. Banished to Paris, she fell into a lower stratum of life, at a moment when her faithful and mysterious friend, Markham Warington, was held in Scotland by the first painful symptoms of his sister's lastillness, and could do but little for her. She had, in fact, known thesordid shifts and straits of poverty, though the smallest moral effortwould have saved her from them. She had kept disreputable company, shehad been miserable, and base; and although shame is not easy to personsof her temperament, it may perhaps be said that she was ashamed of thisperiod of her existence. Appeals to the Ashes yielded less and less, andWarington seemed to have forsaken her. She awoke at last to apanic-stricken fear of darker possibilities and more real suffering thanany she had yet known, and under the stress of this fear she collapsedphysically, writing both to Warington and to the Ashes in a tone ofmingled reproach and despair. 

The Ashes sent money, and, though Kitty was at the moment not fit totravel, prepared to come. Warington, who had just closed the eyes of hissister, went at once. He was now the last of his family, without anyties that he could not lawfully break. Within two days of his arrival inParis, Madame d'Estrées had promised to marry him in three months, tobreak off all her Paris associations, and to give her life henceforwardinto his somewhat stern hands. The visit to Venice was part of the pricethat he had had to pay for her decision. Marguerite pleaded, with ashudder, that she must have a little amusement before she went to livein Dumfriesshire; and he had been obliged to acquiesce in herarrangement with Donna Laura--stipulating only that he should be theirescort and guardian. 

What had moved him to such an act? His reasons can only be guessed at. Warington was a man of religion, a Calvinist by education andinheritance, and of a silent and dreamy temperament. He had beenintimate with very few women in his life. His sister had been a secondmother to him, and both of them had been the guardians of their youngerbrother. When this adored brother fell shot through the lungs in thehopeless defence of Lady Blackwater's reputation, it would have beennatural enough that Markham should hate the woman who had been theoccasion of such a calamity. The sister, a pious and devoted Christian, had indeed hated her, properly and duly, thenceforward. Markham, on thecontrary, accepted his brother's last commission without reluctance. Inthis matter at least Lady Blackwater had not been directly to blame; hismind acquitted her; and her soft, distressed beauty touched his heart. Before he knew where he was she had made an impression upon him that wasto be life-long. 

Then gradually he awoke to a full knowledge of her character. Hesuffered, but otherwise it made no difference. Finding it was thenimpossible to persuade her to marry him, he watched over her as best hecould for some years, passing through phases of alternate hope anddisgust. His sister's affection for him was clouded by his strangerelation to the Jezebel who in her opinion had destroyed their brother. He could not help it; he could only do his best to meet both claims uponhim. During her lingering passage to the grave, his sister had nearlysevered him from Marguerite d'Estrées. She died, however, just in time, and now here he was in Venice, passing through what seemed to him one ofthe ante-rooms of life, leading to no very radiant beyond. But, radiantor no, his path lay thither. And at the same time he saw that althoughMarguerite felt him to be her only refuge from poverty and disgrace, shewas painfully afraid of him, and afraid of the life into which he wasleading her. 

 * * * * *

The first guest of the afternoon proved to be Louis Harman, the painterand dilettante, who had been in former days one of the _habitués_ of thehouse in St. James's Place. This perfectly correct yet tolerantgentleman was wintering in Venice in order to copy the Carpaccios in SanGiorgio dei Schiavoni. His copies were not good, but they were allpromised to artistic fair ladies, and the days which the painter spentupon them were happy and harmless. 

He came in gayly, delighted to see Madame d'Estrées in flourishingcircumstances again, delivered apparently from the abyss into which hehad found her sliding on the occasion of various chance visits of hisown to Paris. Warington's doing, apparently--queer fellow!

"Well!--I saw Lady Kitty in the Piazza this afternoon, " he said, as hesat down beside his hostess. Donna Laura had not yet appeared. "Verythin and fragile! But, by Jove! how these English beauties hold theirown. "

"Irish, if you please, " said Madame d'Estrées, smiling. 

Harman bowed to her correction, admiring at the same time both thetoilette and the good looks of his companion. Dropping his voice, heasked, with a gingerly and sympathetic air, whether all was now wellwith the Ashe ménage. He had been sorry to hear certain gossip of theyear before. 

Madame d'Estrées laughed. Yes, she understood that Kitty had behavedlike a little goose with that _poseur_ Cliffe. But that was allover--long ago. 

"Why, the silly child has everything she wants! William is devoted toher--and it can't be long before he succeeds. "

"No need to go trifling with poets, " said Harman, smiling. "By-the-way, do you know that Geoffrey Cliffe is in Venice?"

Madame d'Estrées opened her eyes. "Est-il possible? Oh! but Kitty hasforgotten all about him. "

"Of course, " said Harman. "I am told he has been seen with the Ricci. "

Madame d'Estrées raised her shoulders this time in addition to her eyes. Then her face clouded. 

"I believe, " she said, slowly, "that woman may come here thisafternoon. "

"Is she a friend of yours?" Harman's tone expressed his surprise. 

"I knew her in Paris, " said Madame d'Estrées, with some hesitation, "when she was a student at the Conservatoire. She and I had some commonacquaintance. And now--frankly, I daren't offend her. She has the mostappalling temper!--and she sticks at nothing. "

Harman wondered what the exact truth of this might be, but did notinquire. And as guests--including Colonel Warington--began to arrive, and Donna Laura appeared and began to dispense tea, the _tête-à-tête_was interrupted. 

Donna Laura's _salon_ was soon well filled, and Harman watched thegathering with curiosity. As far as it concerned Madame d'Estrées--andshe was clearly the main attraction which had brought it together--itrepresented, he saw, a phase of social recovery. A few prominentEnglishmen, passing through Venice, came in without their wives, makingperfunctory excuse for the absence of these ladies. But thecosmopolitans of all kinds, who crowded in--Anglo-Italians, foreigndiplomats, travellers of many sorts, and a few restless Venetians, bearing the great names of old, to whom their own Venice was little morethan a place of occasional sojourn--made satisfactory amends for thesepersons of too long memories. In all these travellers' towns, Venice, Rome, and Florence, there is indeed a society, and a very agreeablesociety, which is wholly irresponsible, and asks few or no questions. The elements of it meet as strangers, and as strangers they mostly part. But between the meeting and the parting there lies a moment, all thegayer, perhaps, because of its social uncertainty and freedom. 

Madame d'Estrées was profiting by it to the full. She was in excellentspirits and talk; bright-rose carnations shone in the bosom of herdress; one white arm, bared to the elbow, lay stretched carelessly onthe fine cut-velvet which covered the gilt sofa--part of a suite ofVenetian Louis Quinze, clumsily gorgeous--on which she sat; the otherhand pulled the ears of a toy spaniel. On the ceiling above her, Tiepolohad painted a headlong group of sensuous forms, alive with vulgarmovement and passion; the _putti_ and the goddesses, peering throughaërial balustrades, looked down complacently on Madame d'Estrées. 

Meanwhile there stood behind her--a silent, distinguished figure--theman of whom Harman saw that she was always nervously and sometimestimidly conscious. Harman had been reading Molière's _Don Juan_. Thesentinel figure of Warington mingled in his imagination with the statueof the Commander. 

Or, again, he was tickled by a vision of Madame d'Estrées grown old, living in a Scotch house, turreted and severe, tended by servants of the"Auld Licht, " or shivering under a faithful minister on Sundays. Had sheany idea of the sort of fold towards which Warington--at once Covenanterand man of the world--was carrying his lost sheep?

The sheep, however, was still gambolling at large. Occasionally a guestappeared who proved it. For instance, at a certain tumultuous entrance, billowing skirts, vast hat, and high-pitched voice all combining in theeffect, Madame d'Estrées flushed violently, and Warington's stiffnessredoubled. On the threshold stood the young actress, Mademoiselle Ricci, a Marseillaise, half French, half Italian, who was at the moment thetalk of Venice. Why, would take too long to tell. It was by no meansmostly due to her talent, which, however, was displayed at the Apollotheatre two or three times a week, and was no doubt considerable. Shewas a flamboyant lady, with astonishing black eyes, a too transparentwhite dress, over which was slung a small black mantilla, a scarlet hatand parasol, and a startling fan of the same color. Both before andafter her greeting of Madame d'Estrées--whom she called her "chérie" andher "belle Marguerite"--she created a whirlwind in the _salon_. She wasnoisy, rude, and false; it could only be said on the other side that shewas handsome--for those who admired the kind of thing; and famous--moreor less. The intimacy of the party was broken up by her, for wherevershe was she brought uproar, and it was impossible to forget her. Andthis uneasy attention which she compelled was at its height when thedoor was once more thrown open for the entrance of Lady Kitty Ashe. 

"Ah, my darling Kitty!" cried Madame d'Estrées, rising in a softenthusiasm. 

Kitty came in slowly, holding herself very erect, a delicate anddistinguished figure, in her deep mourning. She frowned as she saw thecrowd in the room. 

"I'll come another time!" she said, hastily, to her mother, beginning toretreat. 

"Oh, Kitty!" cried Madame d'Estrées, in distress, holding her fast. 

At that moment Harman, who was watching them both with keenness, sawthat Kitty had perceived Mademoiselle Ricci. The actress had paused inher chatter to stare at the new-comer. She sat fronting the entrance, her head insolently thrown back, knees crossed, a cigarette poised inthe plump and dimpled hand. 

A start ran through Kitty's small person. She allowed her mother to leadher in and introduce her to Donna Laura. 

"Ah-ha, my lady!" said Harman, to himself. "Are you, perhaps, interestedin the Ricci? Is it possible even that you have seen her before?"

Kitty, however, betrayed herself to no one else. To other people it wasonly evident that she did not mean to be introduced to the actress. Shepointedly and sharply avoided it. This was interpreted as aristocratic_hauteur_, and did her no harm. On the contrary, she was soon chatteringFrench with a group of diplomats, and the centre of the most animatedgroup in the room. All the new-comers who could attached themselves toit, and the actress found herself presently almost deserted. She put upher eye-glass, studied Kitty impertinently, and asked a man sitting nearher for the name of the strange lady. 

"Isn't she lovely, my little Kitty!" said Madame d'Estrées, in the earsof a Bavarian baron, who was also much occupied in staring at the smallbeauty in black. "I may say it, though I am her mother. And myson-in-law, too. Have you seen him? Such a handsome fellow!--and _such_a dear!--so kind to me. They _say_, you know, that he will be PrimeMinister. "

The baron bowed, ironically, and inquired who the gentleman might be. Hehad not caught Kitty's name, and Madame d'Estrées had been for some timelabelled in his mind as something very near to an adventuress. 

Madame d'Estrées eagerly explained, and he bowed again, with adifference. He was a man of great intelligence, acquainted with Englishpolitics. So that was _really_ the wife of the man to whose personalityand future the London correspondent of the _Allgemeine Zeitung_ hadwithin the preceding week devoted a particularly interesting article, which he had read with attention. His estimate of Madame d'Estrées'place in the world altered at once. Yet it was strange that she--or, rather, Donna Laura--should admit such a person as Mademoiselle Ricci totheir _salon_. 

The mother, indeed, that afternoon had much reason to be sociallygrateful to the daughter. Curious contrast with the days when Kitty hadbeen the mere troublesome appendage of her mother's life! It was clearto Marguerite d'Estrées now that if she was to accept restraint andvirtuous living, if she was to submit to this marriage she dreaded, yetsaw no way to escape, her best link with the gay world in the futuremight well be through the Ashes. Kitty could do a great deal for her;let her cultivate Kitty; and begin, perhaps, by convincing William Asheon this present occasion that for once she was not going to ask him formoney. 

In the height of the party, Lord Magellan appeared. Madame d'Estrées atfirst looked at him with bewilderment, till Kitty, shaking herself free, came hastily forward to introduce him. At the name the mother's faceflashed into smiles. The ramifications of two or three aristocraciesrepresented the only subject she might be said to know. Dear Kitty!

Lord Magellan, after Madame d'Estrées had talked to him about his familyin a few light and skilful phrases, which suggested knowledge, whileavoiding flattery, was introduced to the Bavarian baron and a Frenchnaval officer. But he was not interesting to them, nor they to him;Kitty was surrounded and unapproachable; and a flood of new arrivalsdistracted Madame d'Estrées' attention. The Ricci, who had noticed therestrained _empressement_ of his reception, pounced on the young man, taming her ways and gestures to what she supposed to be his Englishprudery, and produced an immediate effect upon him. Lord Magellan, whowas only dumb with English marriageable girls, allowed himself to beamused, and threw himself into a low chair by the actress--a captureapparently for the afternoon. 

Louis Harman was sitting behind Kitty, a little to her right. He saw herwatching the actress and her companion; noticed a compression of thelip, a flash in the eye. She sprang up, said she must go home, andpractically dissolved the party. 

Mademoiselle Ricci, who had also risen, proposed to Lord Magellan thatshe should take him in her gondola to the shop of a famous dealer on theCanal. 

"Thank you very much, " said Lord Magellan, irresolute, and he looked atKitty. The look apparently decided him, for he immediately added that hehad unfortunately an engagement in the opposite direction. The actressangrily drew herself up, and proposed a later appointment. Then Kittycarelessly intervened. 

"Do you remember that you promised to see me home?" she said to theyoung man. "Don't if it bores you!"

Lord Magellan eagerly protested. Kitty moved away, and he followed her. 

"Chère madame, will you present me to your daughter?" said the Ricci, inan unnecessarily loud voice. 

Madame d'Estrées, with a flurried gesture, touched Kitty on the arm. 

"Kitty, Mademoiselle Ricci. "

Kitty took no notice. Madame d'Estrées said, quickly, in a low, imploring voice:

"Please, dear Kitty. I'll explain. "

Kitty turned abruptly, looked at her mother, and at the woman to whomshe was to be introduced. 

"Ah! comme elle est charmante!" cried the actress, with an inflection ofirony in her strident voice. "Miladi, il faut absolument que nous nousconnaissions. Je connais votre chère mère depuis si longtemps! À Paris, l'hiver passé c'était une amitié des plus tendres!"

The nasal drag she gave to the words was partly natural, partlyinsolent. Madame d'Estrées bit her lip. 

"Oui?" said Kitty, indifferently. "Je n'en avais jamais entendu parler. "

Her brilliant eyes studied the woman before her. "She has some hold onmaman, " she said to herself, in disgust. "She knows of something shadythat maman has done. " Then another thought stung her; and with the mostindifferent bow, triumphing in the evident offence that she was giving, she turned to Lord Magellan. 

"You'd like to see the Palazzo?"

Warington at once offered himself as a guide. 

But Kitty declared she knew the way, would just show Lord Magellan the_piano nobile_, dismiss him at the grand staircase, and return. LordMagellan made his farewells. 

As Kitty passed through the door of the _salon_, while the young manheld back the velvet _portière_ which hung over it, she was aware thatMademoiselle Ricci was watching her. The Marseillaise was leaningheavily on a _fauteuil_, supported by a hand behind her. A slow, disdainful smile played about her lips, some evil threatening thoughtexpressed itself through every feature of her rounded, coarsened beauty. Kitty's sharp look met hers, and the curtain dropped. 

 * * * * *

"Don't, please, let that woman take you anywhere--to see anything!" saidKitty, with energy, to her companion, as they walked through the roomsof the _mezzanino_. 

Lord Magellan laughed. "What's the matter with her?"

"Oh, nothing!" said Kitty, impatiently, "except that she's wicked--andcommon--and a snake--and your mother would have a fit if she knew youhad anything to do with her. "

The red-haired youth looked grave. 

"Thank you, Lady Kitty, " he said, quietly. "I'll take your advice. "

"Oh, I say, what a nice boy you are!" cried Kitty, impulsively, laying ahand a moment on his shoulder. And then, as though his filial instincthad awakened hers, she added, with hasty falsehood: "Maman, of course, knows nothing about her. That was just bluff what she said. But DonnaLaura oughtn't to ask such people. There--that's the way. "

And she pointed to a small staircase in the wall, whereof the trap-doorat the top was open. They climbed it, and found themselves at once inone of the great rooms of the _piano nobile_, to which this quick andeasy access from the inhabited _entresol_ had been but recentlycontrived. 

"What a marvellous place!" cried Lord Magellan, looking round him. 

They were in the principal apartment of the famous Vercelli palace, alegacy from one of those classical architects whose work may be seen inthe late seventeenth-century buildings of Venice. The rooms, enormouslyhigh, panelled here and there in tattered velvets and brocades, orfrescoed in fast-fading scenes of old Venetian life, stretched inbewildering succession on either side of a central passage or broadcorridor, all of them leading at last on the northern side to a vasthall painted in architectural perspective by the pupils of Tiepolo, andoverarched by a ceiling in which the master himself had massed amultitude of forms equal to Rubens in variety and facility of design, expressed in a thin trenchancy of style. Figures recalling the ancienttriumphs and possessions of Venice, in days when she sat dishonored anddespoiled, crowded the coved roof, the painted cornices and pediments. Gayly colored birds hovered in blue skies; philosophers and poets ingrisaille made a strange background for large-limbed beauties couched onroses, or young warriors amid trophies of shining arms; and while allthis garrulous commonplace lived and breathed above, the walls below, cold in color and academic in treatment, maintained as best they couldthe dignity of the vast place, thus given up to one of the greatest ofartists and emptiest of minds. 

On the floor of this magnificent hall stood a few old and broken chairs. But the candelabra of glass and ormolu, hanging from the ceiling, werevery nearly of the date of the palace, and superb. Meanwhile, through afaded taffeta of a golden-brown shade, the afternoon light from the highwindows to the southwest poured into the stately room. 

"How it dwarfs us!" said Lord Magellan, looking at his companion. "Onefeels the merest pygmy! From the age of decadence indeed!" He glanced atthe guide-book in his hand. "Good Heavens!--if this was their decay, what was their bloom?"

"Yes--it's big--and jolly. I like it, " said Kitty, absently. Then sherecollected herself. "This is your way out. Federigo!" she called to anold man, the _custode_ of the palace, who appeared at the magnificentdoor leading to the grand staircase. 

"Commanda, eccellenza!" The old man, bent and feeble, approached. Hecarried a watering-pot wherewith he was about to minister to somestraggling flowers in the windows fronting the Grand Canal. A thin catrubbed itself against his legs. As he stood in his shabbiness under thehigh, carved door, the only permanent denizen of the building, he seemedan embodiment of the old shrunken Venetian life, still haunting a cityit was no longer strong enough to use. 

"Will you show this signor the way out?" said Kitty, in tourists'Italian. "Are you soon shutting up?"

For the main palazzo, which during the day was often shown tosightseers, was locked at half-past five, only the two _entresols_--onetenanted by Donna Laura, the other by the _custode_--remainingaccessible. 

The old man murmured something which Kitty did not understand, pointingat the same time to a door leading to the interior of the _pianonobile_. Kitty thought that he asked her to be quick, if she wishedstill to go round the palace. She tried to explain that he might lock upif he pleased; her way of retreat to the _mezzanino_, down the smallstaircase, was always open. Federigo looked puzzled, again saidsomething in unintelligible Venetian, and led the way to the grandstaircase followed by Lord Magellan. 

 * * * * *

A heavy door clanged below. Kitty was alone. She looked round her, atthe stretches of marble floor, and the streaks of pale sunshine that layupon its black and white, at the lofty walls painted with a dim superbarchitecture, at the crowded ceiling, the gorgeous candelabra. With itscostly decoration, the great room suggested a rich and festal life;thronging groups below answering to the Tiepolo groups above; beautiespatched and masked; gallants in brocaded coats; splendid senators, robedlike William at the fancy ball. 

Suddenly she caught sight of herself in one of the high and narrowmirrors that filled the spaces between the windows. In her mourningdress, with the light behind her, she made a tiny spectre in the immensehall. The image of her present self--frail, black-robed--recalled thetwo figures in the glass of her Hill Street room--the sparkling white ofher goddess dress, and William's smiling face above hers, his arm roundher waist. 

How happy she had been that night! Even her wild fury with Mary Lysterseemed to her now a kind of happiness. How gladly would she haveexchanged for it either of the two terrors that now possessed her!

With a shiver she crossed the hall, and pushed her way into the suite ofrooms on the northern side. She felt herself in absolute possession ofthe palace. Federigo no doubt had locked up; her mother and a few guestswere still talking in the _salon_ of the _mezzanine_, expecting her toreturn. She would return--soon; but the solitariness and wildness ofthis deserted place drew her on. 

Room after room opened before her--bare, save for a few worm-eatenchairs, a fragment of tapestry on the wall, or some tattered portraitsin the Longhi manner, indifferent to begin with, and long since ruinedby neglect. Yet here and there a young face looked out, roses in thehair and at the breast; or a Doge's cap--and beneath it phantom featuresstill breathing even in the last decay of canvas and paint the violenceand intrigue of the living man--the ghost of character held there bythe ghost of art. Or a lad in slashed brocade, for whom even in thissilent palace, and in spite of the gaping crack across his face, lifewas still young; a cardinal; a nun; a man of letters in clerical dress, the Abbé Prévost of his day.... 

Presently she found herself in a wide corridor, before a high, closeddoor. She tried it, and saw a staircase mounting and descending. Apassion of curiosity that was half romance, half restlessness, drove heron. She began to ascend the marble steps, hearing only the echo of herown movements, a little afraid of the cold spaces of the vast house, andyet delighting in the fancies that crowded upon her. At the top of theflight she found, of course, another apartment, on the same plan as theone below, but smaller and less stately. The central hall entered from adoor supported by marble caryatids, was flagged in yellow marble, andfrescoed freely with faded eighteenth-century scenes--cardinals walkingin stiff gardens, a pope alighting from his coach, surrounded bypeasants on their knees, and behind him fountains and obelisk and thetowering façade of St. Peter's. At the moment, thanks to a last glow oflight coming in through a west window at the farther end, it was a placebeautiful though forlorn. But the rooms into which she looked on eitherside were wreck and desolation itself, crowded with broken furniture, many of them shuttered and dark. 

As she closed the last door, her attention was caught by a strange bustplaced on a pedestal above the entrance. What was wrong with it? Anaccident? An injury? She went nearer, straining her eyes to see. No!--there was no injury. The face indeed was gone. Or, rather, wherethe face should have been there now descended a marble veil from brow tobreast, of the most singular and sinister effect. Otherwise the bust wasthat of a young and beautiful woman. A pleasing horror seized on Kittyas she looked. Her fancy hunted for the clew. A faithless wife, blottedfrom her place?--made infamous forever by the veil which hid from humaneye the beauty she had dishonored? Or a beloved mistress, on whom themourning lover could no longer bear to look--the veil an emblem ofundying and irremediable grief?

Kitty stood enthralled, striving to pierce the ghastly meaning of thebust, when a sound--a distant sound--a shock through her. She heard astep overhead, in the topmost apartment, or _mansarde_ of the palace, astep that presently traversed the whole length of the floor immediatelyabove her head and began to descend the stair. 

Strange! Federigo must have shut the great gates by this time--as shehad bade him? He himself inhabited the smaller _entresol_ on the fartherside of the palace, far away. Other inhabitants there were none; soDonna Laura had assured her. 

The step approached, resonant in the silence. Kitty, seized with nervousfright, turned and ran down the broad staircase by which she had come, through the series of deserted rooms in the _piano nobile_, till shereached the great hall. 

There she paused, panting, curiosity and daring once more getting theupperhand. The door she had just passed through, which gave access tothe staircase, opened again and shut. The stranger who had entered cameleisurely towards the hall, lingering apparently now and then to look atobjects on the way. Presently a voice--an exclamation. 

Kitty retreated, caught at the arm of a chair for support, clung to ittrembling. A man entered, holding his hat in one hand and a small whiteglove in the other. 

At sight of the lady in black, standing on the other side of the hall, he started violently--and stopped. Then, just as Kitty, who had so farmade neither sound nor movement, took the first hurried step towards thestaircase by which she had entered, Geoffrey Cliffe came forward. 

"How do you do, Lady Kitty? Do not, I beg of you, let me disturb you. Ihad half an hour to spare, and I gave the old man down-stairs a franc ortwo, that he might let me wander over this magnificent old place bymyself for a bit. I have always had a fancy for deserted houses. You, Igather, have it, too. I will not interfere with you for a moment. BeforeI go, however, let me return what I believe to be your property. "

He came nearer, with a studied, deliberate air, and held out the whiteglove. She saw it was her own and accepted it. 

"Thank you. "

She bowed with all the haughtiness she could muster, though her limbsshook under her. Then as she walked quickly towards the door of exit, Cliffe, who was nearer to it than she, also moved towards it, and threwit open for her. As she approached him he said, quietly:

"This is not the first time we have met in Venice, Lady Kitty. "

She wavered, could not avoid looking at him, and stood arrested. Thatalmost white head!--that furrowed brow!--those haggard eyes! A slight, involuntary cry broke from her lips. 

Cliffe smiled. Then he straightened his tall figure. 

"You see, perhaps, that I have not grown younger. You are quite right. Ihave left my youth--what remained of it--among those splendid fellowswhom the Turks have been harrying and torturing. Well!--they were worthit. I would give it them again. "

There was a short silence. 

The eyes of each perused the other's face. Kitty began some words, andleft them unfinished. Cliffe resumed--in another tone--while the door heheld swung gently backward, his hand following it. 

"I spent last winter, as perhaps you know, with the Bosnian insurgentsin the mountains. It was a tough business--hardships I should never havehad the pluck to face if I had known what was before me. Then, in July, I got fever. I had to come away, to find a doctor, and I was a long timeat Cattaro pulling round. And, meanwhile, the Turks--God blastthem!--have been at their fiends' work. Half my particular friends, withwhom I spent the winter, have been hacked to pieces since I left them. "

She wavered, held by his look, by the coercion of that mingled passionand indifference with which he spoke. There was in his manner nosuggestion whatever of things behind, no reference to herself or to thepast between them. His passion, it seemed, was for his comrades; hisindifference for her. What had he to do with her any more? He had beenamong the realities of battle and death, while she had been mincing andambling along the usual feminine path. That was the utterance, itseemed, of the man's whole manner and personality, and nothing couldhave more effectually recalled Kitty's wild nature to the lure. 

"Are you going back?" She had turned from him and was pulling at thefingers of the glove he had picked up. 

"Of course! I am only kicking my heels here till I can collect the moneyand stores--ay, and the _men_--I want. I give my orders in London, and Imust be here to see to the transshipment of stores and the embarkationof my small force! Not meant for the newspapers, you see, LadyKitty--these little details!"

He drew himself up smiling, his worn aspect expressing just thatmingling of dare-devil adventure with subtler and more self-consciousthings which gave edge and power to his personality. 

"I heard you were wounded, " said Kitty, abruptly. 

"So I was--badly. We were defending a _polje_--one of their highmountain valleys, against a Beg and his troops. My left arm"--he pointedto the black sling in which it was still held--"was nearly cut topieces. However, it is practically well. "

He took it out of the sling and showed that he could use it. Then hisexpression changed. He stepped back to the door, and opened itceremoniously. 

"Don't, however, let me delay you, Lady Kitty--by my chatter. "

Kitty's cheeks were crimson. Her momentary yielding vanished in apassion of scorn. What!--he knew that she had seen him before, seen himwith that woman--and he dared to play the mere shattered hero, kept inVenice by these crusader's reasons!

"Have you another volume on the way?" she asked him, as she advanced. "Iread your last. "

Her smile was the smile of an enemy. He eyed her strangely. 

"Did you? That was waste of time. "

"I think you intended I should read it. "

He hesitated. 

"Lady Kitty, those things are very far away. I can't defend myself--forthey seem wiped out. " He had crossed his arms, and was leaning backagainst the open door, a fine, rugged figure, by no means repentant. 

Kitty laughed. 

"You overstate the difference!"

"Between the past and the present? What does that mean?"

She dropped her eyes a moment, then raised them. 

"Do you often go to San Lazzaro?"

He bowed. 

"I had a suspicion that the vision at the window--though it was thereonly an instant--was you! So you saw Mademoiselle Ricci?"

His tone was assurance itself. Kitty disdained to answer. Her slightgesture bade him let her pass through; but he ignored it. 

"I find her kind, Lady Kitty. She listens to me--I get sympathy fromher. "

"And you want sympathy?"

Her tone stung him. "As a hungry man wants food --as an artist wantsbeauty. But I know where I shall _not_ get it. "

"That is always a gain!" said Kitty, throwing back her little head. "Mr. Cliffe, pray let me bid you good-bye. "

He suddenly made a step forward. "Lady Kitty!"--his deep-set, imperiouseyes searched her face--"I can't restrain myself. Your look--yourexpression--go to my heart. Laugh at me if you like. It's true. Whathave you been doing with yourself?"

He bent towards her, scrutinizing every delicate feature, and, as itseemed, shaken with agitation. She breathed fast. 

"Mr. Cliffe, you must know that any sympathy from you to me--is aninsult! Kindly let me pass. "

He, too, flushed deeply. 

"Insult is a hard word, Lady Kitty. I regret that poem. "

She swept forward in silence, but he still stood in the way. 

"I wrote it--almost in delirium. Ah, well"--he shook his headimpatiently--"if you don't believe me, let it be. I am not the man Iwas. The perspective of things is altered for me. " His voice fell. "Women and children in their blood--heroic trust--and brute hate--thestars for candles--the high peaks for friends--those things have comebetween me and the past. But you are right; we had better not talk anymore. I hear old Federigo coming up the stairs. Good-night, LadyKitty--good-night!"

He opened the door. She passed him, and, to her own intense annoyance, abunch of pale roses she carried at her belt brushed against thedoorway, so that one broke and fell. She turned to pick it up, but itwas already in Cliffe's hand. She held out hers, threateningly. 

"I think not. " He put it in his pocket. "Here is Federigo. Good-night. "

It was quite dark when Kitty reached home. She groped her way up-stairsand opened the door of the _salon_. So weary was she that she droppedinto the first chair, not seeing at first that any one was in the room. Then she caught sight of a brown-paper parcel, apparently justunfastened, on the table, and within it three books, of similar shapeand size. A movement startled her. 

"William!"

Ashe rose slowly from the deep chair in which he had been sitting. Hisaspect seemed to her terrified eyes utterly and wholly changed. In hishand he held a book like those on the table, and a paper-cutter. Hisface expressed the remote abstraction of a man who has been wrestlinghis way through some hard contest of the mind. 

She ran to him. She wound her arms round him. 

"William, William! I didn't mean any harm! I didn't! Oh, I have been somiserable! I tried to stop it--I did all I could. I have hardly slept atall--since we talked--you remember? Oh, William, look at me! Don't beangry with me!"

Ashe disengaged himself. 

"I have asked Blanche to pack for me to-night, Kitty. I go home by theearly train to-morrow. "

"Home!"

She stood petrified; then a light flashed into her face. 

"You'll buy it all up? You'll stop it, William?"

Ashe drew himself together. 

"I am going home, " he said, with slow decision, "to place my resignationin the hands of Lord Parham. "

XXI

Kitty fell back in silence, staring at William. She loosened her mantleand threw it off, then she sat down in a chair near the wood fire, andbent over it, shivering. 

"Of course you didn't mean that, William?" she said, at last. 

Ashe turned. 

"I should not have said it unless I had meant every word of it. It is, of course, the only thing to be done. "

Kitty looked at him miserably. "But you _can't_ mean that--that you'llresign because of that book?"

She pulled it towards her and turned over the pages with a hand thattrembled. "That would be too foolish!"

Ashe made no reply. He was standing before the fire, with his hands inhis pockets, and a face half absent, half ironical, as though his mindfollowed the sequences of a far distant future. 

"William!" She caught the sleeve of his coat with a little cry. "I wrotethat book because I thought it would help you. "

His attention came back to her. 

"Yes, Kitty, I believe you did. "

She gulped down a sob. His tone was so odd, so remote. 

"Many people have done such things. I know they have. Why--why, it wasonly meant--as a skit--to make people laugh! There's _no_ harm in it, William. "

Ashe, without speaking, took up the book and looked back at certainpages, which he seemed to have marked. Kitty's feeling as she watchedhim was the feeling of the condemned culprit, held dumb and strangled inthe grip of his own sense of justice, and yet passionately conscious howmuch more he could say for himself than anybody is ever likely to sayfor him. 

"When did you have the first idea of this book, Kitty?"

"About a year ago, " she said, in a low voice. 

"In October? At Haggart?"

Kitty nodded. 

Ashe thought. Her admission took him back to the autumn weeks atHaggart, after the Cliffe crisis and the rearrangement of the ministryin the July of that year. He well remembered that those weeks had beenweeks of special happiness for both of them. Afterwards, the winter hadbrought many renewed qualms and vexations. But in that period, betweenthe storms of the session and Kitty's escapades in the hunting-field, memory recalled a tender, melting time--a time rich in hidden andexquisite hours, when with Kitty on his breast, lip to lip and heart toheart, he had reaped, as it seemed to him, the fruits of that indulgencewhich, as he knew, his mother scorned. And at that very moment, behindhis back, out of his sight, she had begun this atrocious thing. 

He looked at her again--the bitterness almost at his lips, almost beyondhis control. 

"I wish I knew what could have been your possible object in writingit?"

She sat up and confronted him. The color flamed back again into her palecheeks. 

"You know I told you--when we had that talk in London--that I wanted towrite. I thought it would be good for me--would take my thoughtsoff--well, what had happened. And I began to write this--and it amusedme to find I could do it--and I suppose I got carried away. I loveddescribing you, and glorifying you--and I loved making caricatures ofLady Parham--and all the people I hated. I used to work at it wheneveryou were away--or I was dull and there was nothing to do. 

"Did it never occur to you, " said Ashe, interrupting, "that it might getyou--get us both--into trouble, and that you ought to tell me?"

She wavered. 

"No!" she said, at last. "I never did mean to tell you, while I waswriting it. You know I don't tell lies, William! The real fact is, I wasafraid you'd stop it. "

"Good God!" He threw up his hands with a sound of amazement, then thrustthem again into his pockets and began to pace up and down. 

"But then"--she resumed--"I thought you'd soon get over it, and that itwas funny--and everybody would laugh--and you'd laugh--and there wouldbe an end of it. "

He turned and stared at her. "Frankly, Kitty--I don't understand whatyou can be made of! You imagined that that sketch of Lord Parham"--hestruck the open page--"a sketch written by _my wife_, describing myofficial chief--when he was my guest--under my own roof--with all sortsof details of the most intimate and offensive kind--mocking hisspeech--his manners--his little personal ways--charging him with beingthe corrupt tool of Lady Parham, disloyal to his colleagues, a man notto be trusted--and justifying all this by a sort of evidence that youcould only have got as my wife and Lord Parham's hostess--you actuallysupposed that you could write and publish _that!_--without in the firstplace its being plain to every Tom, Dick, and Harry that you had writtenit--and in the next, without making it impossible for your husband toremain a colleague of the man you had treated in such a way? Kitty!--youare not a stupid woman! Do you really mean to say that you could writeand publish this book without _knowing_ that you were doing a wrongaction--which, so far from serving me, could only damage my careerirreparably? Did nothing--did no one warn you--if you were determined tokeep such a secret from your husband, whom it most concerned?"

He had come to stand beside her, both hands on the back of achair--stooping forward to emphasize his words--the lines of his fineface and noble brow contracted by anger and pain. 

"Mr. Darrell warned me, " said Kitty, in a low voice, as though thoseimperious eyes compelled the truth from her--"but of course I didn'tbelieve him. "

"Darrell!" cried Ashe, in amazement--"Darrell! You confided in him?"

"I told him all about it. It was he who took it to a publisher. "

"Hound!" said Ashe, between his teeth. "So that was his revenge. "

"Oh, you needn't blame him too much, " said Kitty, proudly, notunderstanding the remark. "He wrote to me not long ago to say it washorribly unwise--and that he washed his hands of it. "

"Ay--when he'd done the deed! When did you show it him?" said Ashe, impetuously. 

"At Haggart--in August. "

"_Et tu, Brute!_" said Ashe, turning away. "Well, that's done with. Nowthe only thing to do is to face the music. I go home. Whatever can bedone to withdraw the book from circulation I shall, of course, do; but Igather from this precious letter"--he held up the note which had beenenclosed in the parcel--"that some thousands of copies have already beenordered by the booksellers, and a few distributed to 'persons in highplaces. '"

"William, " she said, in despair, catching his arm again--"listen! Ioffered the man two hundred pounds only yesterday to stop it. "

Ashe laughed. 

"What did he reply?"

"He said it was impossible. Fifty copies had been already issued. "

"The review copies, no doubt. By next week there will be, I should say, five thousand in the shops. Your man understands his business, Kitty. This is the kind of puff preliminary he has been scattering about. "

And with sparkling eyes he handed to her a printed slip containing anoutline of the book for the information of the booksellers. 

It drew attention to the extraordinary interest of the production as apainting of the upper class by the hand of one belonging to its inmostcircle. "People of the highest social and political importance will berecognized at once; the writer handles cabinet ministers and their wiveswith equal freedom, and with a touch betraying the closest and mostintimate knowledge. Details hitherto quite unknown to the public ofministerial combinations and intrigues--especially of the feminineinfluences involved--will be found here in their lightest and mostamusing form. A certain famous fancy ball will be identified withoutdifficulty. Scathing as some of the portraits are, the writer is by nomeans merely cynical. The central figure of the book is a young andrising statesman, whose aim and hopes are touched with a lovinghand--the charm of the portrait being only equalled by the venom withwhich the writer assails those who have thwarted or injured his hero. But our advice is simply--'Buy and Read!' Conjecture will run wild aboutthe writer. All we can say is that the most romantic or interestingsurmise that can possibly be formed will fall far short of the reality. "

"The beast is a shrewd beast!" said Ashe, as he raised himself from thestooping position in which he had been following the sentences overKitty's shoulder. "He knows that the public will rush for his wares! Howmuch money did he offer you, Kitty?"

He turned sharply on his heel to wait for her reply. 

"A hundred pounds, " said Kitty, almost inaudibly--"and a hundred more iffive thousand sold. " She had returned again to her crouching attitudeover the fire. 

"Generous!--upon my word!" said Ashe, scornfully turning over the twothick-leaved, loosely printed Mudie volumes. "A guinea to the public, Isuppose--fifteen shillings to the trade. Darrell didn't exactly adviseyou to advantage, Kitty. "

Kitty kept silence. The sarcastic violence of his tone fell on her likea blow. She seemed to shrink together; while Ashe resumed his walk toand fro. 

Presently, however, she looked up, to ask, in a voice that tried forsteadiness:

"What do you mean to do--exactly--William?"

"I shall, of course, buy up all I can; I shall employ some lawyerfellow, and appeal to the good feelings of the newspapers. There will beno trouble with the respectable ones. But some copies will get out, andsome of the Opposition newspapers will make capital out of them. Naturally!--they'd be precious fools if they didn't. "

A momentary hope sprang up in Kitty. 

"But if you buy it up--and stop all the papers that matter, " shefaltered--"why should you resign, William? There won't be--such greatharm done. "

For answer he opened the book, and without speaking pointed to twopassages--the first, an account full of point and malice of thenegotiations between himself and Lord Parham at the time when he enteredthe cabinet, the conditions he himself had made, and the confidentialcomments of the Premier on the men and affairs of the moment. 

"Do you remember the night when I told you those things, Kitty?"

Yes, Kitty remembered well. It was a night of intimate talk between manand wife, a night when she had shown him her sweetest, tenderest mood, and he--incorrigible optimist!--had persuaded himself that she wasgrowing as wise as she was lovely. 

Her lip trembled. Then he pointed to the second--to the pitiless pictureof Lord Parham at Haggart. 

"You wrote that--when he was under our roof--there by our pressinginvitation! You couldn't have written it--unless he had so put himselfin your power. A wandering Arab, Kitty, will do no harm to the man whohas eaten and drunk in his tent!"

She looked up, and as she read his face she understood at last how whatshe had done had outraged in him all the natural and all the inheritedinstincts of a generous and fastidious nature. The "great gentleman, " sostrong in him as in all the best of English statesmen, whether theyspring from the classes or the masses, was up in arms. 

She sprang to her feet with a cry. "William, you can't give up politics!It would make you miserable. "

"That can't be helped. And I couldn't go on like this, Kitty--even ifthis affair of the book could be patched up. The strain's too great. "

They were but a yard apart, and yet she seemed to be looking at himacross a gulf. 

"You have been so happy in your work!" This time the sob escaped her. 

"Oh, don't let's talk about that, " he said, abruptly, as he walked away. "There'll be a certain relief in giving up the impossible. I'll go backto my books. We can travel, I suppose, and put politics out of ourheads. "

"But--you won't resign your seat?"

"No, " he said, after a pause--"no. As far as I can see at present, Isha'n't resign my seat, though my constituents, of course, will be verysick. But I doubt whether I shall stand again. "

Every phrase fell as though with a thud on Kitty's ear. It was the wreckof a man's life, and she had done it. 

"Shall you--shall you go and see Lord Parham?" she asked, after a pause. 

"I shall write to him first. I imagine"--he pointed to the letter lyingon the table--"that creature has already sent him the book. Then later Idaresay I shall see him. "

She looked up. 

"If I wrote and told him it was all my doing, William?--if I grovelledto him?"

"The responsibility is mine, " he said, sternly. "I had no business totell even you the things printed there. I told them at my own risk. Ifanything I say has any weight with you, Kitty, you will write nothing. "

She spread out her hands to the fire again, and he heard her say, asthough to herself:

"The thing is--the awful thing is, that I'm mad--I must be mad. I neverthought of all this when I was writing it. I wrote it in a kind ofdream. In the first place, I wanted to glorify you--"

He broke into an exclamation. 

"Your _taste_, Kitty!--where was your taste? That a wife should praise ahusband in public! You could only make us both laughing-stocks. "

His handsome features quivered a little. He felt this part of it themost galling, the most humiliating of all; and she understood. In hiseyes she had shown herself not only reckless and treacherous, butindelicate, vulgar, capable of besmirching the most sacred and intimateof relations. 

She rose from her seat. 

"I must go and take my things off, " she said, in "a vague voice, " and asshe moved she tottered a little. He turned to look at her. Amid his owncrushing sense of defeat and catastrophe, his natural and righteousindignation, he remembered that she had been ill--he remembered theirchild. But whether from the excitement, first of the meeting in theVercelli palace, and now of this scene--or merely from the heat of thefire over which she had been hanging, her cheeks were flushed, her eyesblazed. Her beauty had never been more evident; but it made littleappeal to him; it was the wild, ungovernable beauty from which he hadsuffered. He saw that she was excited, but there was an air also ofreturning physical vigor; and the nascent feeling which might have beenstrengthened by pallor and prostration died away. 

Kitty moved as though to pass him and go to her room, which opened outof the _salon_. But as she neared him she suddenly caught him by thearm. 

"William!--William! don't do it!--don't resign! Let me apologize!"

He was angered by her persistence, and merely said, coldly:

"I have given you my reasons, Kitty, why such a course is impossible. "

"And--and you start to-morrow morning?"

"By the early train. Please let me go, Kitty. There are many things toarrange. I must order the gondola, and see if the people here can cashme a check. "

"You mean--to leave me alone?" The words had a curious emphasis. 

"I had a few words with Miss French before you came in. The packetarrived by the evening post, and seeing that it was books--for you--Iopened it. After about an hour"--he turned and walked away again--"I sawmy bearings. Then I called Miss French, told her I should have to goto-morrow, and asked her how long she could stay with you. "

"William!" cried Kitty again, leaning heavily on the table besideher--"don't go!--don't leave me!"

His face darkened. 

"So you would prevent me from taking the only honorable, the only decentway out of this thing that remains to me?"

She made no immediate reply. She stood--wrapped apparently in painfulabstraction--a creature lovely and distraught. The masses of her fairhair loosened by the breeze on the canal had fallen about her cheeks andshoulders; her black hat framed the white brow and large, feverish eyes;and the sable cape she had worn in the gondola had slipped down over thethin, sloping shoulders, revealing the young figure and the slenderwaist. She might have been a child of seventeen, grieving over the deathof her goldfinch. 

Ashe gathered together his official letters and papers, found hischeck-book, and began to write. While he wrote he explained that MissFrench could keep her company at least another fortnight, that he couldleave with them four or five circular notes for immediate expenses, andwould send more from home directly he arrived. 

In the middle of his directions Kitty once more appealed to him in apassionate, muffled voice not to go. This time he lost his temper, andwithout answering her he hastily left the room to arrange his packingwith his valet. 

 * * * * *

When he returned to the _salon_ Kitty was not there. He and MissFrench--who knew only that something tragic had happened in which Kittywas concerned--kept up a fragmentary conversation till dinner wasannounced and Kitty entered. She had evidently been weeping, but withpowder and rouge she had tried to conceal the traces of her tears; andat dinner she sat silent, hardly answering when Margaret French spoke toher. 

After dinner Ashe went out with his cigar towards the Piazza. He was ina smarting, dazed state, beginning, however, to realize the blow morethan he had done at first. He believed that Parham himself would not beat all sorry to be rid of him. He and his friends formed a powerfulgroup both in the cabinet and out of it. But they were forcing the pace, and the elements of resistance and reaction were strong. He pictured thedismay of his friends, the possible breakdown of the reforming party. Ofcourse they might so stand by him--and the suppression of the book mightbe so complete--

At this moment he caught sight of a newspaper contents bill displayed atthe door of the only shop in the Piazza which sold English newspapers. One of the lines ran, "Anonymous attack on the Premier. " He started, went in and bought the paper. There, in the "London Topics" column, wasthe following paragraph:

"A string of extracts from a forthcoming book, accompanied by a somewhatstartling publisher's statement, has lately been sent round to thepress. We are asked not to print them before the day of publication, butthey have already roused much attention, if not excitement. Theycertainly contain a very gross attack on the Prime Minister, basedapparently on first-hand information, and involving indiscretionspersonal and political of an unusually serious character. The wife of acabinet minister is freely named as the writer, and even if no violationof cabinet secrecy is concerned, it is clear that the book outrages theconfidential relations which ought to subsist between a Premier and hiscolleagues, if government on our English system is to be satisfactorilycarried on. The statements it makes with every appearance of authorityboth as to the relations between Lord Parham and some of the mostimportant members of his cabinet, and as to the Premier's intentionswith regard to one or two of the most vital questions now before thecountry, are calculated seriously to embarrass the government. We fearthe book will have a veritable _succès de scandale_. "

"That fellow at least has done his best to kick the ball, damn him!"thought Ashe, with contempt, as he thrust the paper into his pocket. 

It was no more than he expected; but it put an end to all thoughts of amore hopeful kind. He walked up and down the _Piazza_ smoking, tillmidnight, counting the hours till he could reach London, and revolvingthe phrases of a telegram to be sent to his solicitor before starting. 

Kitty made no sign or sound when he entered her room. Her fair head wasturned away from him, and all was dark. He could hardly believe that shewas asleep; but it was a relief to him to accept her pretence of it, andto escape all further conversation. He himself slept but little. Themere profundity of the Venetian silence teased him; it reminded him howfar he was from home. 

Two images pursued him--of Kitty writing the book, while he was awayelectioneering or toiling at his new office--and then, of his returns toHaggart--tired or triumphant--on many a winter evening, of her glad rushinto his arms, her sparkling face on his breast. 

Or again, he conjured up the scene when the MS. Had been shown toDarrell--his pretence of disapproval, his sham warnings, and the smileon his sallow face as he walked off with it. Ashe looked back to theearly days of his friendship with Darrell, when he, Ashe, was one of theleaders at Eton, popular with the masters in spite of his incorrigibleidleness, and popular with the boys because of his bodily prowess, andDarrell had been a small, sickly, bullied colleger. Scene after scenerecurred to him, from their later relations at Oxford also. There was akind of deliberation in the way in which he forced his thoughts intothis channel; it made an outlet for a fierce bitterness of spirit, whichsome imperious instinct forbade him to spend on Kitty. 

He dozed in the later hours of the night, and was roused by somethingtouching his hand, which lay outside the bedclothes. Again the littlehead!--and the soft curls. Kitty was there--crouched besidehim--weeping. There flashed into his mind an image of the night inLondon when she had come to him thus; and unwelcome as the wholeremembrance was, he was conscious of a sudden swelling wave of pity andpassion. What if he sprang up, caught her in his arms, forgave her, andbade the world go hang!

No! The impulse passed, and in his turn he feigned sleep. The thought ofher long deceit, of the selfish wilfulness wherewith she had requiteddeep love and easy trust, was too much; it seared his heart. And therewas another and a subtler influence. To have forgiven so easily wouldhave seemed treachery to those high ambitions and ideals from which--ashe thought, only too certainly--she had now cut him off. It was part ofhis surviving youth that the catastrophe seemed to him so absolute. Anythought of the fresh efforts which would be necessary for thereconquering of his position was no less sickening to him than that ofthe immediate discomforts and humiliations to be undergone. He would goback to books and amusement; and in the idling of the future there wouldbe plenty of time for love-making. 

 * * * * *

In the morning, when all preparations were made, the gondoliers waitingbelow, Ashe's telegram sent, and the circular notes handed over toMargaret French, who had discreetly left the room, William approachedhis wife. 

"Good-bye!" said Kitty, and gave him her hand, with a strange look andsmile. 

Ashe, however, drew her to him and kissed her--against her will. "I'lldo my best, Kitty, " he said, in a would-be cheery voice--"to pull usthrough. Perhaps--I don't know!--things may turn out better than Ithink. Good-bye. Take care of yourself. I'll write, of course. Don'thurry home. You'll want a fortnight or three weeks yet. "

Kitty said not a word, and in another minute he was gone. The Italianservants congregated below at the water-gate sent laughing "Arivederlas" after the handsome, good-tempered Englishman, whom theyliked and regretted; the gondola moved off; Kitty heard the plash of thewater. But she held back from the window. 

Half-way to the bend of the canal beyond the Accademia, Ashe turned andgave a long look at the balcony. No one was there. But just as thegondola was passing out of sight, Kitty slipped onto the balcony. Shecould see only the figure of Piero, the gondolier, and in another secondthe boat was gone. She stayed there for many minutes, clinging to thebalustrade and staring, as it seemed, at the sparkle of autumnal sunwhich danced on the green water and on the red palace to her right. 

 * * * * *

All the morning Kitty on her sofa pretended to write letters. MargaretFrench, working or reading behind her, knew that she scarcely gotthrough a single note, that her pen lay idle on the paper, while hereyes absently watched the palace windows on the other side of the canal. Miss French was quite certain that some tragic cause of differencebetween the husband and wife had arisen. Kitty, the indiscreet, had foronce kept her own counsel about the book, and Ashe had with his ownhands packed away the volumes which had arrived the night before; sothat she could only guess, and from that delicacy of feeling restrainedher as much as possible. 

Once or twice Kitty seemed on the point of unburdening herself. Thenovermastering tears would threaten; she would break off and begin towrite. At luncheon her look alarmed Miss French, so white was the littleface, so large and restless the eyes. Ought Mr. Ashe to have left her, and left her apparently in anger? No doubt he thought her much better. But Margaret remembered the worst days of her illness, the anxious looksof the doctors, and the anguish that Kitty had suffered in the firstweeks after her child's death. She seemed now, indeed, to have forgottenlittle Harry, so far as outward expression went; but who could tell whatwas passing in her strange, unstable mind? And it often seemed toMargaret that the signs of the past summer were stamped on herindelibly, for those who had eyes to see. 

Was it the perception of this pity beside her that drove Kitty tosolitude and flight? At any rate, she said after luncheon that she wouldgo to Madame d'Estrées, and did not ask Miss French to accompany her. 

She set out accordingly with the two gondoliers. But she had hardlypassed the Accademia before she bid her men take a cross-cut to theGiudecca. On these wide waters, with their fresher air and fullersunshine, a certain physical comfort seemed to breathe upon her. 

"Piero, it is not rough! Can we go to the Lido?" she asked the gondolierbehind her. 

Piero, who was all smiles and complaisance, as well he might be with alady who scattered _lire_ as freely as Kitty did, turned the boat atonce for that channel "Del Orfano" where the bones of the vanquisheddead lie deep amid the ooze. 

They passed San Giorgio, and were soon among the piles and sand-banks ofthe lagoon. Kitty sat in a dream which blotted the sunshine from thewater. It seemed to her that she was a dead creature, floating in a deadworld. William had ceased to love her. She had wrecked his career anddestroyed her own happiness. Her child had been taken from her. LadyTranmore's affection had been long since alienated. Her own mother wasnothing to her; and her friends in society, like Madeleine Alcot, wouldonly laugh and gloat over the scandal of the book. 

No--everything was finished! As her fingers hanging over the side of thegondola felt the touch of the water, her morbid fancy, incredibly quickand keen, fancied herself drowned, or poisoned--lying somehow white andcold on a bed where William might see and forgive her. 

Then with a start of memory which brought the blood rushing to her face, she thought of Cliffe standing beside the door of the great hall in theVercelli palace--she seemed to be looking again into those deep, expressive eyes, held by the irony and the passion with which they wereinfused. Had the passion any reference to her?--or was it merely part ofthe man's nature, as inseparable from it as flame from the volcano? IfWilliam had cast her off, was there still one man--wild and bad, indeed, like herself, but poet and hero nevertheless--who loved her?

She did not much believe it; but still the possibility of it lured her, like some dark gulf that promised her oblivion from this pain--painwhich tortured one so impatient of distress, so hungry for pleasure andpraise. 

 * * * * *

In those days the Lido was still a noble and solitary shore, without thedegradations of to-day. 

Kitty walked fast and furiously across the sandy road, and over theshingles, turning, when she reached the firm sand, southward towardsMalamocco. It was between four and five, and the autumn afternoon wasfast declining. A fresh breeze was on the sea, and the short waves, intensely blue under a wide, clear heaven, broke in dazzling foam on thered-brown sand. 

She seemed to be alone between sea and sky, save for two figuresapproaching from the south--a fisher-boy with a shrimping-net and a manwalking bareheaded. She noticed them idly. A mirage of sun was betweenher and them, and the agony of remorse and despair which held herblunted all perceptions. 

Thus it was that not till she was close upon him did her dazzled sightrecognize Geoffrey Cliffe. 

He saw her first, and stopped in motionless astonishment on the edge ofthe sand. She almost ran against him, when his voice arrested her. 

"Lady Kitty!"

She put her hand to her breast, wavered, and came to a stand-still. Hesaw a little figure in black between him and those "gorgeous towers andcloud-capped palaces" of Alpine snow, which dimly closed in the north;and beneath the drooping hat a face even more changed and tragic thanthat which had haunted him since their meeting of the day before. 

[Illustration: "SHE THOUGHT OF CLIFFE STANDING BESIDE THE DOOR OF THEGREAT HALL. "]

"How do you do?" she said, mechanically, and would have passed him. But he stood in her path. As he stared at her an impulse of rage ranthrough him, resenting the wreck of anything so beautiful--rage againstAshe, who must surely be somehow responsible. 

"Aren't you wandering too far, Lady Kitty?" His voice shook under therestraint he put upon it. "You seem tired--very tired--and you areperhaps farther from your gondola than you think. "

"I am not tired. "

He hesitated. 

"Might I walk with you a little, or do you forbid me?"

She said nothing, but walked on. He turned and accompanied her. One ortwo questions that he put to her--Had she companions?--Where had sheleft her gondola?--remained unanswered. He studied her face, and at lasthe laid a strong hand upon her arm. 

"Sit down. You are not fit for any more walking. "

He drew her towards some logs of driftwood on the upper sand, and shesank down upon them. He found a place beside her. 

"What is the matter with you?" he said, abruptly, with a harshauthority. "You are in trouble. "

A tremor shook her--as of the prisoner who feels on his limbs the firsttouch of the fetter. 

"No, no!" she said, trying to rise; "it is nothing. I--I didn't know itwas so far. I must go home. "

His hand held her. 

"Kitty!"

"Yes. " Her voice was scarcely audible. 

"Tell me what hurts you! Tell me why you are here, alone, with a facelike that! Don't be afraid of me! Could I lift a finger to harm amother that has lost her child? Give me your hands. " He gathered bothhers into the warm shelter of his own. "Look at me--trust me! My hearthas grown, Kitty, since you knew me last. It has taken into itself somany griefs--so many deaths. Tell me your griefs, poor child!--tell me!"

He stooped and kissed her hands--most tenderly, most gravely. 

Tears rushed into her eyes. The wild emotions that were her being wereroused beyond control. Bending towards him she began to pour out, firstbrokenly, then in a torrent, the wretched, incoherent story, of whichthe mere telling, in such an ear, meant new treachery to William and newruin for herself. 

XXII

On a certain cloudy afternoon, some ten days later, a fishing-boat, witha patched orange sail, might have been seen scudding under a lightnorthwesterly breeze through the channels which connect the island ofSan Francesco with the more easterly stretches of the Venetian lagoon. The boat presently neared the shore of one of the cultivated_lidi_--islands formed out of the silt of many rivers by the travail ofcenturies, some of them still mere sand or mud banks, others covered byvineyards and fruit orchards--which, with the _murazzi_ or sea-walls ofVenice, stand sentinel between the city and the sea. On the _lido_ alongwhich the boat was coasting, the vintage was long since over and thefruit gathered; the last yellow and purple leaves in the orchards, "apestilent-stricken multitude, " were to-day falling fast to earth, underthe sighing, importunate wind. The air was warm; November was at itsmildest. But all color and light were drowned in floating mists, anddarkness lay over the distant city. It was one of those drear andghostly days which may well have breathed into the soul of Shelley thatsuperb vision of the dead generations of Venice, rising, a phantom hostfrom the bosom of the sunset, and sweeping in "a rapid mask of death"over the shadowed waters that saw the birth and may yet furnish the tombof so vast a fame. 

Two persons were in the boat--Kitty, wrapped in sables, her strayinghair held close by a cap of the same fur--and Geoffrey Cliffe. They hadbeen wandering in the lagoons all day, in order to escape from Veniceand observers--first at Torcello, then at San Francesco, and now theywere ostensibly coming home in a wide sweep along the northern _lidi_and _murazzi_, that Cliffe might show his companion, from near by, thePorto del Lido, that exit from the lagoons where the salt lakes growinto the sea. 

A certain wildness and exaltation, drawn from the solitudes around themand from their _tête-à-tête_, could be read in both the man and thewoman. Cliffe watched his companion incessantly. As he lay against theside of the boat at her feet, he saw her framed in the curving sides ofthe stern, and could read her changing expressions. Not a happyface!--that he knew! A face haunted by shadows from an underworld ofthought--pursuing furies of remorse and fear. Not the less did hetriumph that he had it _there_, in his power; nor had the flashes ofterror and wavering will which he discerned in any way diminished itsbeauty. 

"How long have you known--that woman?" Kitty asked him, suddenly, aftera pause broken only by the playing of the wind with the sail. 

Cliffe laughed. 

"The Ricci? Why do you want to know, madame?"

She made a contemptuous lip. 

"I knew her first, " said Cliffe, "some years ago in Milan. She was thenat La Scala--walking on--paid for her good looks. Then somebody sent herto Paris to the Conservatoire, which she only left this spring. This isher first Italian engagement. Her people are shopkeepers here--in theMerceria--which helped her. She is as vain as a peacock and as dangerousas a pet panther. "

"Dangerous!" Kitty's scorn had passed into her voice. 

"Well, Italy is still the country of the knife, " said Cliffe, lightly--"and I could still hire a bravo or two--in Venice--if I wantedthem. "

"Does the Ricci hire them?"

Cliffe shrugged his shoulders. 

"She'd do it without winking, if it suited her. " Then, after apause--"Do you still wonder why I should have chosen her society?"

"Oh no, " said Kitty, hastily. "You told me. "

"As much as a _friend_ cares to know?"

She nodded, flushing, and dropped the subject. 

Cliffe's mouth still smiled, but his eyes studied her with a veiled andsinister intensity. 

"I have not seen the lady for a week, " he resumed. "She pesters me withnotes. I promised to go and see her in a new play to-morrow night, but--"

"Oh, go!" said Kitty--"by all means go!"

"'Ruy Blas' in Italian? I think not. Ah! did you see that gleam on theCampanile?--marvellous!... Miladi, I have a question to ask you. "

"_Dites!_" said Kitty. 

"Did you put me into your book?"

"Certainly. "

"What kind of things did you say?"

"The worst I could!"

"Ah! How shall I get a copy?" said Cliffe, musing. 

She made no answer, but she was conscious of a sudden movement--was itof terror? At the bottom of her soul was she, indeed, afraid of the manbeside her?

"By-the-way, " he resumed, "you promised to tell me your news of thismorning. But you haven't told me a word!"

She turned away. She had gathered her furs around her, and her face wasalmost hidden by them. 

"Nothing is settled, " she said, in a cold, reluctant voice. 

"Which means that you won't tell me anything more?"

She was silent. Her lip had a proud line which piqued him. 

"You think I am not worthy to know?"

Her eye gleamed. 

"What does it matter to you?"

"Oh, nothing! I should have been glad to hear that all was well, andAshe's mind at rest about his prospects. "

"His prospects!" she repeated, with a scorn which stung. "How _dare_ wemention his name here at all?"

Cliffe reddened. 

"I dare, " he said, calmly. 

Kitty looked at him--a quivering defiance in face and frame; then bentforward. 

"Would you like to know--who is the best--the noblest--thehandsomest--the most generous--the most delightful man I have ever met?"

Each word came out winged and charged with a strange intensity ofpassion. 

"Do I?" said Cliffe, raising his eyebrows--"do I want to know?"

Her look held him. 

"My husband, William Ashe!"

And she fell back, flushed and breathless, like one who throws out arebel and challenging flag. 

Cliffe was silent a moment, observing her. 

"Strange!" he said, at last. "It is only when you are miserable you arekind. I could wish you miserable again, _chérie_. "

Tone and look broke into a sombre wildness before which she shrank. Herown violence passed away. She leaned over the side of the boat, struggling with tears. 

"Then you have your wish, " was her muffled answer. 

The three bronzed Venetians, a father and two sons, who were working the_bragozzo_ glanced curiously at the pair. They were persuaded that thesecharterers of their boat were lovers flying from observation, and theunknown tongue did but stimulate guessing. 

Cliffe raised himself impatiently. 

They were nearing a point where the line of _murazzi_ they had beenfollowing--low breakwaters of great strength--swept away from themoutward and eastward towards a distant opening. On the other side of thechannel was a low line of shore, broadening into the Lido proper, withits scattered houses and churches, and soon lost in the mist as itstretched towards the south. 

"Ecco!--il Porto del Lido!" said the older boatman, pointing far away toa line of deeper color beneath a dark and lowering sky. 

Kitty bent over the side of the boat staring towards the dim spot heshowed her--where was the mouth of the sea. 

"Kitty!" said Cliffe's voice beside her, hoarse and hurried--"one word, and I tell these fellows to set their helm for Trieste. This boat willcarry us well--and the wind is with us. "

She turned and looked him in the face. 

"And then?"

"Then? We'll think it out together, Kitty--together!" He bent his lipsto her hand, bending so as to conceal the action from the sailors. Butshe drew her hand away. 

"You and I, " she said, fiercely--"would tire of each other in a week!"

"Have the courage to try! No!--you should not tire of me in a week! Iwould find ways to keep you mine, Kitty--cradled, and comforted, andhappy. "

"Happy!" Her slight laugh was the forlornest thing. "Take me out tosea--and drop me there--with a stone round my neck. That might be worthdoing--perhaps. "

He surveyed her unmoved. 

"Listen, Kitty! This kind of thing can't go on forever. "

"What are you waiting for?" she said, tauntingly. "You ought to havegone last week. "

"I am not going, " he said, raising himself by a sudden movement--"tillyou come with me!"

Kitty started, her eyes riveted to his. 

"And yet go I will! Not even you shall stop me, Kitty. I'll take thehelp I've gathered back to those poor devils--if I die for it. Butyou'll come with me--you'll come!"

She drew back--trembling under an impression she strove to conceal. 

"If you will talk such madness, I can't help it, " she said, withshortened breath. 

"Yes--you'll come!" he said, nodding. "What have you to do with Ashe, Kitty, any longer? You and he are already divided. You have tried lifetogether and what have you made of it? You're not fit for this mincing, tripping London life--nor am I? And as for morals--- I'll tell you astrange thing, Kitty. " He bent forward and grasped her hands with aforce which hurt--from which she could not release herself. "Ibelieve--yes, by God, I believe!--that I am a better man than I wasbefore I started on this adventure. It's been like drinking at last atthe very source of life--living, not talking about it. One bitter nightlast February, for instance, I helped a man--one of the insurgents--whohad taken to the mountains with his wife and children--to carry hiswife, a dying woman, over a mountain-pass to the only place where shecould possibly get help and shelter. We carried her on a litter, six mentaking turns. The cold and the fatigue were such that I shudder now whenI think of it. Yet at the end I seemed to myself a man reborn. I washappier than I had ever been in my life. Some mystic virtue had flowedinto me. Among those men and women, instead of being the selfish beastI've been all these years, I can forget myself. Death seemsnothing--brotherhood--liberty!--everything! And yet--"

His face relaxed, became ironical, reflective. But he held the handsclose, his grasp of them hidden by the folds of fur which hung abouther. 

"And _yet_--I can say to you without a qualm--put this marriage whichhas already come to naught behind you--and come with me! Ashe crampsyou. He blames you--you blame yourself. What _reality_ has all that? Itmakes you miserable--it wastes life. _I_ accept your nature--I don't askyou to be anything else than yourself--your wild, vain, adorable self!Ashe asks you to put restraint on yourself--to make painful efforts--tobe good for his sake--the sake of something outside. _I_ say--come andlook at the elemental things--death and battle--hatred, solitude, love. _They'll_ sweep us out of ourselves!--no need to strive and cry forit--into the great current of the world's being--bring us close to theforces at the root of things--the forces which create--and destroy. Dipyour heart in that stream, Kitty, and feel it grow in your breast. Takea nurse's dress--put your hand in mine--and come! I can't promise youluxuries or ease. You've had enough of those. Come and open another doorin the House of Life! Take starving women and hunted children into yourarms--- feel with them--weep with them--look with them into the face ofdeath! Make friends with nature--with rocks, forests, torrents--withnight and dawn, which you've never seen, Kitty! They'll loveyou--they'll support you--the rough people--and the dark forests. They'll draw nature's glamour round you--they'll pour her balm into yoursoul. And I shall be with you--beside you!--your guardian--yourlover--your _lover_, Kitty--till death do us part. "

He looked at her with the smile which was his only but sufficientbeauty; the violent, exciting words flowed in her ear, amid the sound ofrising waves and the distant talk of the fishermen. His hand crushedhers; his mad, imploring eyes repelled and constrained her. The wildhungers and curiosities of her being rushed to meet him; she heard theecho of her own words to Ashe: "More life--more _life_!--even though itlead to pain--and agony--and tears!"

Then she wrenched herself away--suddenly, contemptuously. 

"Of course, that's all nonsense--romantic nonsense. You've perhapsforgotten that I am one of the women who don't stir without their maid. "

Cliffe's expression changed. He thrust his hands into his pockets. 

"Oh, well, if you must have a maid, " he said, dryly, "that settles it. Amaid would be the deuce. And yet--I think I could find you a Bosniangirl--strong and faithful--"

Their eyes met--his already full of a kind of ownership, tender, confident, humorous even--hers alive with passionate anger andresistance. 

"_Without a qualm_!" she repeated, in a low voice--"without a qualm! MonDieu!"

She turned and looked towards the Adriatic. 

"Where are we?" she said, imperiously. 

For a gesture of command on Cliffe's part, unseen by her, had sent theboat eastward, spinning before the wind. The lagoon was no longertranquil. It was covered with small waves; and the roar of the outersea, though still far off, was already in their ears. The mist liftingshowed white, distant crests of foam on a tumbling field of water, andto the north, clothed in tempestuous purple, the dim shapes ofmountains. 

Kitty raised herself, and beckoned towards the captain of the_bragozzo_. 

"Giuseppe!"

"Commanda, Eccellenza!"

The man came forward. 

With a voice sharp and clear, she gave the order to return at once toVenice. Cliffe watched her, the veins on his forehead swelling. She knewthat he debated with himself whether he should give a counter-order orno. 

"A Venezia!" said Kitty, waving her hand towards the sailors, her eyesshining under the tangle of her hair. 

The helm was put round, and beneath a tacking sail the boat sweptsouthward. 

With an awkward laugh Cliffe fell back into his seat, stretching hislong limbs across the boat. He had spoken under a strong and genuineimpulse. His passion for her had made enormous strides in these few wilddays beside her. And yet the fantastic poet's sense responded at a touchto the new impression. He shook off the heroic mood as he had doffed hisBosnian cloak. In a few minutes, though the heightened color remained, he was chatting and laughing as though nothing had happened. 

 * * * * *

She, exhausted physically and morally by her conflict with him, hardlyspoke on the way home. He entertained her, watching her all the time--ahundred speculations about her passing through his brain. He understoodperfectly how the insight which she had allowed him into her grief andher remorse had broken down the barriers between them. Her incapacityfor silence, and reticence, had undone her. Was he a villain to havetaken advantage of it?

Why? With a strange, half-cynical clearness he saw her, as the obstaclethat she was, in Ashe's life and career. For Ashe--supposing he, Cliffe, persuaded her--there would be no doubt a first shock of wrath andpain--then a sense of deliverance. For her, too, deliverance! It excitedhis artist's sense to think of all the further developments throughwhich he might carry that eager, plastic nature. There would be a newKitty, with new capacities and powers. Wasn't that justification enough?He felt himself a sculptor in the very substance of life, moulding aliving creature afresh, disengaging it from harsh and hinderingconditions. What was there vile in that?

The argument pursued itself. 

"The modern judges for himself--makes his own laws, as a god, knowinggood and evil. No doubt in time a new social law will emerge--with newsanctions. Meanwhile, here we are, in a moment of transition, manufacturing new types, exploring new combinations--by which let thosewho come after profit!"

Little delicate, distinguished thing!--every aspect of her, angry orsweet, sad or wilful, delighted his taste and sense. Moreover, she was_his_ deliverance, too--from an ugly and vulgar entanglement of which hewas ashamed. He shrank impatiently from memories which every now andthen pursued him of the Ricci's coarse beauty and exacting ways. Kittyhad just appeared in time! He felt himself rehabilitated in his owneyes. Love may trifle as it pleases with what people call "law"; butthere are certain æsthetic limits not to be transgressed. 

The Ricci, of course, was wild and thirsting for revenge. Let her!Anxieties far more pressing disturbed him. What if he tempted Kitty tothis escapade--and the rough life killed her? He saw clearly how frailshe was. 

But it was the artificiality of her life, the innumerable burdens ofcivilization, which had brought her to this! Women were not theweaklings they seemed, or believed themselves to be. For many of them, probably for Kitty, a rude and simple life would mean not only freshmental but fresh physical strength. He had seen what women could endure, for love's or patriotism's sake! Make but appeal to the spirit--theproud and tameless spirit--and how the flesh answered! He knew that hispower with Kitty came largely from a certain stoicism, a certainhardness, mingled, as he would prove to her, with a boundless devotion. Let him carry it through--without fears--and so enlarge her being andhis own! And as to responsibilities beyond, as to their later lives--lettime take care of its own births. For the modern determinist of Cliffe'stype there _is_ no responsibility. He waits on life, following where itleads, rejoicing in each new feeling, each fresh reaction ofconsciousness on experience, and so links his fatalist belief to thatNietzsche doctrine of self-development at all costs, and the coming man, in which Cliffe's thought anticipated the years. 

 * * * * *

Kitty meanwhile listened to his intermittent talk of Venice, or Bosnia, with all its suggestions of new worlds and far horizons, and scarcelysaid a word. 

But through the background of the brain there floated with her, as withhim, a procession of unspoken thoughts. She had received three lettersfrom William. Immediately on his arrival he had tendered hisresignation. Lord Parham had asked him to suspend the matter for tendays. Only the pressure of his friends, it seemed, and the consternationof his party had wrung from Ashe a reluctant consent. Meanwhile, allcopies of the book had been bought up; the important newspapers hadreadily lent themselves to the suppression of the affair; private wrathshad been dealt with by conciliatory lawyers; and in general a far morecomplete hushing-up had been attained than Ashe had ever imaginedpossible. There was no doubt infinite gossip in the country-houses. Butsympathy for Kitty in her grief, for Ashe himself, and Lady Tranmore, had done much to keep it within bounds. The little Dean especially, beloved of all the world, had been incessantly active on behalf of peaceand oblivion. 

All this Kitty read or guessed from William's letters. After all, then, the harm had not been so great! Why such a panic!--such a hurry to leaveher!--when she was ill--and sorry? And now how curtly, how measuredly hewrote! Behind the hopefulness of his tone she read the humiliation andsoreness of his mind--and said to herself, with a more headlongconviction than ever, that he would never forgive her. 

No, _never!_--and especially now that she had added a thousandfold tothe original offence. She had never written to him since his departure. Margaret French, too, was angry with her--had almost broken with her. 

 * * * * *

They left their boat on the Riva, and walked to the _Piazza_, throughthe now starry dusk. As they passed the great door of St. Mark's, twopersons came out of the church. Kitty recognized Mary Lyster and SirRichard. She bowed slightly; Sir Richard put his hand to his hat in aflurried way; but Mary, looking them both in the face, passed withoutthe smallest sign, unless the scorn in face and bearing might pass forrecognition. 

Kitty gasped. 

"She cut me!" she said, in a shaking voice. 

"Oh no!" said Cliffe. "She didn't see you in the dark. "

Kitty made no reply. She hurried along the northern side of the Piazza, avoiding the groups which were gathered in the sunset light round theflocks of feeding pigeons, brushing past the tables in front of thecafe's, still well filled on this mild evening. 

"Take care!" said Cliffe, suddenly, in a low, imperative voice. 

Kitty looked up. In her abstraction she saw that she had nearly comeinto collision with a woman sitting at a café table and surrounded by anoisy group of men. 

With a painful start Kitty perceived the mocking eyes of MademoiselleRicci. The Ricci said something in Italian, staring the while at theEnglish lady; and the men near her laughed, some furtively, some loudly. 

Cliffe's face set. "Walk quickly!" he said in her ear, hurrying herpast. 

When they had reached one of the narrow streets behind the Piazza, Kittylooked at him--white and haughtily tremulous. "What did that mean?"

"Why should you deign to ask?" was Cliffe's impatient reply. "I haveceased to go and see her. I suppose she guesses why. "

"I will have no rivalry with Mademoiselle Ricci!" cried Kitty. 

"You can't help it, " said Cliffe, calmly. "The powers of light arealways in rivalry with the powers of darkness. "

And without further pleading or excuse he stalked on, his gaunt form andstriking head towering above the crowded pavement. Kitty followed himwith difficulty, conscious of a magnetism and a force against which shestruggled in vain. 

 * * * * *

About a week afterwards Kitty shut herself up one evening in her room towrite to Ashe. She had just passed through an agitating conversationwith Margaret French, who had announced her intention of returning toEngland at once, alone, if Kitty would not accompany her. Kitty's handswere trembling as she began to write. 

 * * * * *

"I am glad--oh! so glad, William--that you _have_ withdrawn yourresignation--that people have come forward so splendidly, and _made_ youwithdraw it--that Lord Parham is behaving decently--and that you havebeen able to get hold of all those copies of the book. I always hoped itwould not be quite so bad as you thought. But I know you must have gonethrough an awful time--and I'm _sorry_. 

"William, I want to tell you something--for I can't go on lying toyou--or even just hiding the truth. I met Geoffrey Cliffe here--beforeyou left--and I never told you. I saw him first in a gondola the nightof the serenata--and then at the Armenian convent. Do you remember myhurrying you and Margaret into the garden? That was to escape meetinghim. And that same afternoon when I was in the unused rooms of thePalazzo Vercelli--the rooms they show to tourists--he suddenlyappeared--and somehow I spoke to him, though I had never meant to do soagain. 

"Then when you left me I met him again--that afternoon--and he found outI was very miserable and made me tell him everything. I know I had noright to do so--they were your secrets as well as mine. But you know howlittle I can control myself--it's wretched, but it's true. 

"William, I don't know what will happen. I can't make out from Margaretwhether she has written to you or not--she won't tell me. If she has, this letter will not be much news to you. But, mind, I write it of myown free will, and not because Margaret may have forced my hand. Ishould have written it anyway. Poor old darling!--she thinks me mad andbad, and to-night she tells me she can't take the responsibility oflooking after me any longer. Women like her can never understandcreatures like me--and I don't want her to. She's a dear saint, and astrue as steel--not like your Mary Lysters! I could go on my knees toher. But she can't control or save me. Not even you could, William. You've tried your best, and in spite of you I'm going to perdition, andI can't stop myself. 

"For, William, there's something broken forever between you and me. Iknow it was I who did the wrong, and that you had no choice but to leaveme when you did. But yet you _did_ leave me, though I implored you not. And I know very well that you don't love me as you used to--why shouldyou?--and that you never can love me in the same way again. Every letteryou write tells me that. And though I have deserved it all, I can'tbear it. When I think of coming home to England, and how you would tryto be nice to me--how good and dear and magnanimous you would be, andwhat a beast I should feel--I want to drown myself and have done. 

"It all seems to me so hopeless. It is my own nature--- the stuff out ofwhich I am cut--that's all wrong. I may promise my breath away that Iwill be discreet and gentle and well behaved, that I'll behave properlyto people like Lady Parham, that I'll keep secrets, and not make absurdfriendships with absurd people, that I'll try and keep out of debt, andso on. But what's the use? It's the _will_ in me--the something thatdrives, or ought to drive--that won't work. And nobody ever taught me orshowed me, that I can remember, till I met you. In Paris at the PlaceVendôme, half the time I used to live with maman and papa, be hideouslyspoiled, dressed absurdly, eat off silver plate, and make myself sickwith rich things--and then for days together maman would go out or away, forget all about me, and I used to storm the kitchen for food. Sheeither neglected me or made a show of me; she was my worst enemy, and Ihated and fought her--till I went to the convent at ten. When I wasfourteen maman asked a doctor about me. He said I should probably gomad--and at the convent they thought the same. Maman used to throw thisat me when she was cross with me. 

"Well, I don't repeat this to make you excuse me and think better ofme--- it's all too late for that--but because I am such a puzzle tomyself, and I try to explain things. I _did_ love you, William--Ibelieve I do still--but when I think of our living together again, myarms drop by my side and I feel like a dead creature. Your life is toogreat a thing for me. Why should I spoil or hamper it? If you loved me, as you did once--if you still thought _everything_ worth while, then, ifI had a spark of decency left, I might kill myself to free you, but Ishould never do--what I may do now. But, William, you'll forget me soon. You'll pass great laws, and make great speeches, and the years when Itormented you--and all my wretched ways--will seem such a small, smallthing. 

"Geoffrey says he loves me. And I think he does, though how long it willlast, or may be worth, no one can tell. As for me, I don't know whetherI love him. I have no illusion about him. But there are moments when heabsolutely holds me--when my will is like wax in his hands. It isbecause, I think, of a certain grandness--_grandeur_ seems toostrong--in his character. It was always there; because no one couldwrite such poems as his without it. But now it's more marked, though Idon't know that it makes him a better man. He thinks it does; but we alldeceive ourselves. At any rate, he is often superb, and I feel that Icould die, if not for him, at least with him. And he is not unlikely todie in some heroic way. He went out as you know simply as correspondentand to distribute relief, but lately he has been fighting for thesepeople--of course he has!--and when he goes back he is to be one oftheir regular leaders. When he talks of it he is noble, transformed. Itreminds me of Byron--his wicked life here--and then his death atMissolonghi. Geoffrey can do such base, cruel things--and yet--

"But I haven't yet told you. He asks me to go with him, back to thefighting-lines in upper Bosnia. There seems to be a great deal thatwomen can do. I shall wear a nurse's uniform, and probably nurse at alittle hospital he founded--high up in one of the mountain valleys. Iknow this will almost make you laugh. You will think of me, not knowinghow to put on a button without Blanche--and wanting to be waited onevery moment. But you'll see; there'll be nothing of that sort. I wonderwhether it's hardship I've been thirsting for all my life--even when Iseemed such a selfish, luxurious little ape?

"At the same time, I think it will kill me--and that would be the bestend of all. To have some great, heroic experience, and then--'cease uponthe midnight with no pain!... '

"Oh, if I thought you'd care very, _very_ much, I should havepain--horrible pain. But I know you won't. Politics have taken my place. Think of me sometimes, as I was when we were first married--and ofHarry--my little, little fellow!

"--Maman and I have had a ghastly scene. She came to scold me for mybehavior--to say I was the talk of Venice. _She!_ Of course I know whatshe means. She thinks if I am divorced she will lose her allowance--andshe can't bear the thought of that, though Markham Warington is quiterich. My heart just _boiled_ within me. I told her it is the poison ofher life that works in me, and that whatever I do, _she_ has no right toreproach me. Then she cried--and I was like ice--and at last she went. Warington, good fellow, has written to me, and asked to see me. But whatis the use?

"I know you'll leave me the £500 a year that was settled on me. It'll beso good for me to be poor--and dressed in serge--and trying to dosomething else with these useless hands than writing books that breakyour heart. I am giving away all my smart clothes. Blanche is goinghome. Oh, William, William! I'm going to shut this, and it's like thegood-bye of death--a mean and ugly--_death_. 

"... Later. They have just brought me a note from Danieli's. So Margaretdid write to you, and your mother has come. Why did you send her, William? She doesn't love me--and I shall only stab and hurt her. ThoughI'll try not--for your sake. "

Two days later Ashe received almost by the same post which brought himthe letter from Kitty, just quoted, the following letter from hismother:

 "My DEAREST WILLIAM, --I have seen Kitty. With some difficulty she consented to let me go and see her yesterday evening about nine o'clock. 

 "I arrived between six and seven, having travelled straight through without a break, except for an hour or two at Milan, and immediately on arriving I sent a note to Margaret French. She came in great distress, having just had a fresh scene with Kitty. Oh, my dear William, her report could not well be worse. Since she wrote to us Kitty seems to have thrown over all precautions. They used to meet in churches or galleries, and go out for long days in the gondola or a fishing-boat together, and Kitty would come home alone and lie on the sofa through the evening, almost without speaking or moving. But lately he comes in with her, and stays hours, reading to her, or holding her hand, or talking to her in a low voice, and Margaret cannot stop it. 

 "Yet she has done her best, poor girl! Knowing what we all knew last year, it filled her with terror when she first discovered that he was in Venice and that they had met. But it was not till it had gone on about a week, with the strangest results on Kitty's spirits and nerves, that she felt she must interfere. She not only spoke to Kitty, but she spoke and wrote to him in a very firm, dignified way. Kitty took no notice--only became very silent and secretive. And he treated poor Margaret with a kind of courteous irony which made her blood boil, and against which she could do nothing. She says that Kitty seems to her sometimes like a person moving in sleep--only half conscious of what she is doing; and at others she is wildly excitable, irritable with everybody, and only calming down and becoming reasonable when this man appears. 

 "There is much talk in Venice. They seem to have been seen together by various London friends who knew--about the difficulties last year. And then, of course, everybody is aware that you are not here--and the whole story of the book goes from mouth to mouth--and people say that a separation has been arranged--and so on. These are the kind of rumors that Margaret hears, especially from Mary Lyster, who is staying in this hotel with her father, and seems to have a good many friends here. 

 "Dearest William--I have been lingering on these things because it is so hard to have to tell you what passed between me and Kitty. Oh! my dear, dear son, take courage. Even now everything is not lost. Her conscience may awaken at the last moment; this bad man may abandon his pursuit of her; I may still succeed in bringing her back to you. But I am in terrible fear--and I must tell you the whole truth. 

 "Kitty received me alone. The room was very dark--only one lamp that gave a bad light--so that I saw her very indistinctly. She was in black, and, as far as I could see, extremely pale and weary. And what struck me painfully was her haggard, careless look. All the little details of her dress and hair seemed so neglected. Blanche says she is far too irritable and impatient in the mornings to let her hair be done as usual. She just rolls it into one big knot herself and puts a comb in it. She wears the simplest clothes, and changes as little as possible. She says she is soon going to have done with all that kind of thing, and she must get used to it. My own impression is that she is going through great agony of mind--above all, that she is ill--ill in body and soul. 

 "She told me quite calmly, however, that she had made up her mind to leave you; she said that she had written to you to tell you so. I asked her if it was because she had ceased to love you. After a pause she said 'No. ' Was it because some one else had come between you? She threw up her head proudly, and said it was best to be quite plain and frank. She had met Geoffrey Cliffe again, and she meant henceforward to share his life. Then she went into the wildest dreams about going back with him to the Balkans, and nursing in a hospital, and dying--she hopes!--of hard work and privations. And all this in a torrent of words--and her eyes blazing, with that look in them as though she saw nothing but the scenes of her own imagination. She talked of devotion--and of forgetting herself in other people. I could only tell her, of course, that all this sounded to me the most grotesque sophistry and perversion. She was forgetting her first duty, breaking her marriage vow, and tearing your life asunder. She shook her head, and said you would soon forget her. 'If he had loved me he would never have left me!' she said, again and again, with a passion I shall never forget. 

 "Of course that made me very angry, and I described what the situation had been when you reached London--Lord Parham's state of mind--and the consternation caused everywhere by the wretched book. I tried to make her understand what there was at stake--the hopes of all who follow you in the House and the country--the great reforms of which you are the life and soul--your personal and political honor. I impressed on her the endless trouble and correspondence in which you had been involved--and how meanwhile all your Home Office and cabinet work had to be carried on as usual, till it was decided whether your resignation should be withdrawn or no. She listened with her head on her hands. I think with regard to the book she is most genuinely ashamed and miserable. And yet all the time there is this unreasonable, this monstrous feeling that you should not have left her!

 "As to the scandalous references to private persons, she said that Madeleine Alcot had written to her about the country-house gossip. That wretched being, Mr. Darrell, seems also to have written to her, trying to save himself through her. And the only time I saw her laugh was when she spoke of having had a furious letter from Lady Grosville about the references to Grosville Park. It was like the laugh of a mischievous, unhappy child. 

 "Then we came back to the main matter, and I implored her to let me take her home. First I gave her your letter. She read it, flushed up, and threw it away from her. 'He commands me!' she said, fiercely. 'But I am no one's chattel. ' I replied that you had only summoned her back to her duty and her home, and I asked her if she could really mean to repay your unfailing love by bringing anguish and dishonor upon you? She sat dumb, and her stubbornness moved me so that I fear I lost my self-control and said more, much more--in denunciation of her conduct--than I had meant to do. She heard me out, and then she got up and looked at me very bitterly and strangely. I had never loved her, she said, and so I could not judge her. Always from the beginning I had thought her unfit to be your wife, and she had known it, and my dislike of her, especially during the past year, had made her hard and reckless. It had seemed no use trying. I just wanted her dead, that you might marry a wife who would be a help and not a stumbling-block. Well, I should have my wish, for she would soon be as good as dead, both to you and to me. 

 "All this hurt me deeply, and I could not restrain myself from crying. I felt so helpless, and so doubtful whether I had not done more harm than good. Then she softened a little, and asked me to let her go to bed--she would think it all over and write to me in the morning.... 

 "So, my dear William, I can only pray and wait. I am afraid there is but little hope, but God is merciful and strong. He may yet save us all. 

 "But whatever happens, remember that you have nothing to reproach yourself with--that you have done all that man could do. I should telegraph to you in the morning to say, 'Come, at all hazards, ' but that I feel sure all will be settled to-morrow one way or the other. Either Kitty will start with me--or she will go with Geoffrey Cliffe. You could do nothing--absolutely nothing. God help us! She seems to have some money, and she told me that she counted on retaining her jointure. "

 * * * * *

On the night following her interview with Lady Tranmore, Kitty went fromone restless, tormented dream into another, but towards morning she fellinto one of a different kind. She dreamed she was in a country of greatmountains. The peaks were snow-crowned, vast glaciers filled the chasmson their flanks, forests of pines clothed the lower sides of the hills, and the fields below were full of spring flowers. She saw a littleAlpine village, and a church with an old and slender campanile. A plainstone building stood by--it seemed to be an inn of the old-fashionedsort--and she entered it. The dinner-table was ready in the low-roofed_salle-à-manger_, and as she sat down to eat she saw that two otherguests were at the same table. She glanced at them, and perceived thatone was William and the other her child, Harry, grown older--andtransfigured. Instead of the dull and clouded look which had wrung herheart in the old days, against which she had striven, patiently andimpatiently, in vain, the blue eyes were alive with mind and affection. It was as if the child beheld his mother for the first time and she him. As he recognized her he gave a cry of joy, waving one hand towards herwhile with the other he touched his father on the arm. William raisedhis head. But when he saw his wife his face changed. He rose from hisseat, and drawing the little boy into his arms he walked away. Kitty sawthem disappear into a long passage, indeterminate and dark. The child'sface over his father's shoulder was turned in longing towards hismother, and as he was carried away he stretched out his little hands toher in lamentation. 

Kitty woke up bathed in tears. She sprang out of bed and threw thewindow nearest to her open to the night. The winter night was mild, anda full moon sailed the southern sky. Not a sound on the water, not alight in the palaces; a city of ebony and silver, Venice slept in themoonlight. Kitty gathered a cloak and some shawls round her, and sankinto a low chair, still crying and half conscious. At his inn, some fewhundred yards away, between her and the Piazzetta, was Geoffrey Cliffewaking too?--making his last preparations? She knew that all his storeswere ready, and that he proposed to ship them and the twenty youngfellows, Italians and Dalmatians, who were going with him to join theinsurgents, that morning, by a boat leaving for Cattaro. He himself wasto follow twenty-four hours later, and it was his firm and confidentexpectation that Kitty would go with him--passing as his wife. And, indeed, Kitty's own arrangements were almost complete, her money in herpurse, the clothes she meant to take with her packed in one small trunk, some of the Tranmore jewels which she had been recently wearing readyto be returned on the morrow to Lady Tranmore's keeping, other jewels, which she regarded as her own, together with the remainder of herclothes, put aside, in order to be left in the custody of the landlordof the apartment till Kitty should claim them again. 

One more day--which would probably see the departure of MargaretFrench--one more wrestle with Lady Tranmore, and all the links with theold life would be torn away. A bare, stripped soul, dependent henceforthon Geoffrey Cliffe for every crumb of happiness, treading in unknownpaths, suffering unknown things, probing unknown passions andexcitements--it was so she saw herself; not without that corrodingdouble consciousness of the modern, that it was all very interesting, and as such to be forgiven and admired. 

Notwithstanding what she had said to Ashe, she did believe--with aclinging and desperate faith--that Cliffe loved her. Had she reallydoubted it, her conduct would have been inexplicable, even to herself, and he must have seemed a madman. What else could have induced him toburden himself with a woman on such an errand and at such a time? Shehad promised, indeed, to be his lieutenant and comrade--and to return toVenice if her health should be unequal to the common task. But in spiteof the sternness with which he put that task first--a sternness whichwas one of his chief attractions for Kitty--she knew well that hercoming threw a glamour round it which it had never yet possessed, thatthe passion she had aroused in him, and the triumph of binding her tohis fate, possessed him--for the moment at any rate--heart and soul. Hehad the poet's resources, too, and a mind wherewith to organize andgovern. She shrank from him still, but she already envisaged the timewhen her being would sink into and fuse with his, and like two collidingstars they would flame together to one fiery death. 

Thoughts like these ran in her mind. Yet all the time she saw the highmountains of her dream, the old inn, the receding face of her child onWilliam's shoulder; and the tears ran down her cheeks. The letter fromWilliam that Lady Tranmore had given her lay on a table near. She tookit up, and lit a candle to read it. 

 * * * * *

"Kitty--I bid you come home. I should have started for Venice an hourago, after reading Miss French's letter, but that honor and public dutykeep me here. But mother is going, and I implore and command you, asyour husband, to return with her. Oh, Kitty, have I ever failedyou?--have I ever been hard with you?--that you should betray our lovelike this? Was I hard when we parted--a month ago? If I was, forgive me, I was sore pressed. Come home, you poor child, and you shall hear noreproaches from me. I think I have nearly succeeded in undoing your rashwork. But what good will that be to me if you are to use my absence forthat purpose to bring us both to ruin? Kitty, the grass is not yet greenon our child's grave. I was at Haggart last Sunday, and I went over inthe dusk to put some flowers upon it. I thought of you without amoment's bitterness, and prayed for us both, if such as I may pray. Thennext morning came Miss French's letter. Kitty, have you no heart--and noconscience? Will you bring disgrace on that little grave? Will you digbetween us the gulf which is irreparable, across which your hand andmine can never touch each other any more? I cannot and I will notbelieve it. Come back to me--come back!"

 * * * * *

She reread it with a melting heart--with deep, shaking sobs. When shefirst glanced through it the word "command" had burned into her proudsense; the rest passed almost unnoticed. Now the very strangeness in itas coming from William--the strangeness of its grave and deepemotion--held and grappled with her. 

Suddenly--some tension of the whole being seemed to give way. Her headsank back on the chair, she felt herself weak and trembling, yet happyas a soul new-born into a world of light. Waking dreams passed throughher brain in a feverish succession, reversing the dream of thenight--images of peace and goodness and reunion. 

Minutes--hours--passed. With the first light she got up feebly, foundink and paper, and began to write. 

 * * * * *

_From Lady Tranmore to William Ashe_:

"Oh! my dearest William--at last a gleam of hope. 

"No letter this morning. I was in despair. Margaret reported that Kittyrefused to see any one--had locked her door, and was writing. Yet noletter came. I made an attempt to see Geoffrey Cliffe, who is staying atthe 'Germania, ' but he refused. He wrote me the most audacious letter tosay that an interview could only be very painful, that he and Kitty mustdecide for themselves, that he was waiting every hour for a final wordfrom Kitty. It rested with her, and with her only. Coercion in thesematters was no longer possible, and he did not suppose that either youor I would attempt it. 

"And now comes this blessed note--a respite at least! '_I am going toVerona to-night with Blanche. Please let no one attempt to follow me. Iwish to have two days alone--absolutely alone. Wait here. I will write. K_. '

"... Margaret French, too, has just been here. She was almost hystericalwith relief and joy--and you know what a calm, self-controlled personshe is. But her dear, round face has grown white, and her eyes behindher spectacles look as though she had not slept for nights. She saysthat Kitty will not see her. She sent her a note by Blanche to ask herto settle all the accounts, and told her that she should not saygood-bye--it would be too agitating for them both. In two days sheshould hear. Meanwhile the maid Blanche is certainly going with Kitty;and the gondola is ordered for the Milan train this evening. 

"Two P. M. There is one thing that troubles me, and I must confess it. Idid not see that across Kitty's letter in the corner was written 'Tell_nobody_ about this letter. ' And Polly Lyster happened to be with mewhen it came. She has been _au courant_ of the whole affair for the lastfortnight--that is, as an on-looker. She and Kitty have only met once ortwice since Mary reached Venice; but in one way or another she has beenextraordinarily well informed. And, as I told you, she came to see medirectly I arrived and told me all she knew. You know her old friendshipfor us, William? She has many weaknesses, and of late I have thought hermuch changed, grown very hard and bitter. But she is always _very_loyal to you and me--and I could not help betraying my feeling whenKitty's note reached me. Mary came and put her arms round me, and I saidto her, 'Oh, Mary, thank God!--she's broken with him! She's going toVerona to-night on the way home!' And she kissed me and seemed so glad. And I was very grateful to her for her sympathy, for I am beginning tofeel my age, and this has been rather a strain. But I oughtn't to havetold her!--or anybody! I see, of course, what Kitty meant. It isincredible that Mary should breathe a word--or if she did that it shouldreach that man. But I have just sent her a note to Danieli's to warn herin the strongest way. 

"Beloved son--if, indeed, we save her--we will be very good to her, youand I. We will remember her bringing up and her inheritance. I will bemore loving--more like Christ. I hope He will forgive me for myharshness in the past.... My William!--I love you so! God be merciful toyou and to your poor Kitty!"

 * * * * *

"Will the signora have her dinner outside or in the _salle-à-manger?"_

The question was addressed to Kitty by a little Italian waiter belongingto the Albergo San Zeno at Verona, who stood bent before her, his whitenapkin under his arm. 

"Out here, please--and for my maid also. "

The speaker moved wearily towards the low wall which bounded the foamingAdige, and looked across the river. Far away the Alps that look down onGarda glistened under the stars; the citadel on its hill, the housesacross the river were alive with lights; to the left the great mediævalbridge rose, a dark, ponderous mass, above the torrents of the Adige. Overhead, the little outside restaurant was roofed with twiningvine-stems from which the leaves had fallen; colored lights twinkledamong them and on the white tables underneath. The night was mild andstill, and a veiled moon was just rising over the town of Juliet. 

"Blanche!"

"Yes, my lady?"

"Bring a chair, Blanchie, and come and sit by me. "

The little maid did as she was told, and Kitty slipped her hand intohers with a long sigh. 

"Are you very tired, my lady?"

"Yes--but don't talk!"

The two sat silent, clinging to each other. 

A step on the cobble-stones disturbed them. Blanche looked up, and saw agentleman issuing from a lane which connected the narrow quay whereonstood the old Albergo San Zeno with one of the main streets of Verona. 

There was a cry from Kitty. The stranger paused--looked--advanced. Thelittle maid rose, half fierce, half frightened. 

"Go, Blanche, go!" said Kitty, panting; "go back into the hotel. "

"Not unless your ladyship wishes me to leave you, " said the girl, firmly. 

"Go at once!" Kitty repeated, with a peremptory gesture. She herselfrose from her seat, and with one hand resting on the table awaited thenew-comer. Blanche looked at her--hesitated--and went. 

Geoffrey Cliffe came to Kitty's side. As he approached her his eyesfastened on the loveliness of her attitude, her fair head. In his ownexpression there was a visionary, fantastic joy; it was the look of thedreamer who, for once, finds in circumstance and the real, poetryadequate and overflowing. 

"Kitty!--why did you do this?" he said to her, passionately, as hecaught her hand. 

Kitty snatched it away, trembling under his look. She began the answershe had devised while he was crossing the flagged quay towards her. ButCliffe paid no heed. He laid a hand on her shoulder, and she sank backpowerless into her chair as he bent over her. 

"Cruel--cruel child, to play with me so! Did you mean to put me to alast test?--or did your hard little heart misgive you at the lastmoment? I cross-examined your landlady--I bribed the servants--thegondoliers. Not a word! They were loyal--or you had paid them better. Iwent back to my hotel in black despair. Oh, you artist!--you plotter!Kitty--you shall pay me this some day! And there--there on my table--allthe time--lay your little crumpled note!"

"What note?" she gasped--"what note?"

"Actress!" he said, with an amused laugh. 

And cautiously, playfully, lest she should snatch it from him, heunfolded it before her. 

Without signature and without date, the soiled half-sheet contained thismessage, written in Italian and in a disguised handwriting:

 * * * * *

"Too many spectators. Come to Verona to-night. "K. "

Kitty looked at it, and then at the face beside her--infused with atriumphant power and passion. She seemed to shrink upon herself, and herhead fell back against one of the supports of the _pergola_. One of theblue lights from above fell with ghastly effect upon the delicate tiltedface and closed eyes. Cliffe bent over her in a sharp alarm, and sawthat she had fainted away. 

PART V

REQUIESCAT

 "Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens, Dusk the hall with yew!"

XXIII

"How strange!" thought the Dean, as he once more stepped back into thestreet to look at the front of the Home Secretary's house in HillStreet. "He is certainly in town. "

For, according to the _Times_, William Ashe the night before had beenhotly engaged in the House of Commons fighting an important bill, ofwhich he was in charge, through committee. Yet the blinds of the housein Hill Street were all drawn, and the Dean had not yet succeeded ingetting any one to answer the bell. 

He returned to the attack, and this time a charwoman appeared. At sightof the Dean's legs and apron, she dropped a courtesy, or something likeone, informing him that they had workmen in the house and Mr. Ashe was"staying with her ladyship. "

The Dean took the Tranmores' number in Park Lane and departed thither, not without a sad glance at the desolate hall behind the charwoman andat the darkened windows of the drawing-room overhead. He thought of thatMay day two years before when he had dropped in to lunch with LadyKitty; his memory, equally effective whether it summoned the detail ofan English chronicle or the features of a face once seen, placed firmand clear before him the long-chinned fellow at Lady Kitty's left, towhose villany that empty and forsaken house bore cruel witness. And thelittle lady herself--what a radiant and ethereal beauty! Ah me! ah me!

He walked on in meditation, his hands behind his back. Even in this MayLondon the little Dean was capable of an abstracted spirit, and he hadstill much to think over. He had his appointment with Ashe. But Ashe hadwritten--evidently in a press of business--from the House, and hadomitted to mention his temporary change of address. The Dean regrettedit. He would rather have done his errand with Lady Kitty's injuredhusband on some neutral ground, and not in Lady Tranmore's house. 

At Park Lane, however, he was immediately admitted. 

"Mr. Ashe will be down directly, sir, " said the butler, as he usheredthe visitor into the commodious library on the ground-floor, which hadwitnessed for so long the death-in-life of Lord Tranmore. But now LordTranmore was bedridden up-stairs, with two nurses to look after him, andto judge from the aspect of the tables piled with letters and books, andfrom the armful of papers which a private secretary carried off with himas he disappeared before the Dean, Ashe was now fully at home in theroom which had been his father's. 

There was still a fire in the grate, and the small Dean, who was achilly mortal, stood on the rug looking nervously about him. LordTranmore had been in office himself, and the room, with its bookshelvesfilled with volumes in worn calf bindings, its solid writing-tables andleather sofas, its candlesticks and inkstands of old silver, slender andsimple in pattern, its well-worn Turkey carpet, and its politicalportraits--"the Duke, " Johnny Russell, Lord Althorp, Peel, Melbourne--seemed, to the observer on the rug, steeped in the typicalhabit and reminiscence of English public life. 

Well, if the father, poor fellow, had been distinguished in his day, theson had gone far beyond him. The Dean ruminated on a conversationwherewith he had just beguiled his cup of tea at the Athenæum--aconversation with one of the shrewdest members of Lord Parham's cabinet, a "new man, " and an enthusiastic follower of Ashe. 

"Ashe is magnificent! At last our side has found its leader. Oh! Parhamwill disappear with the next appeal to the country. He is getting tooinfirm! Above all, his eyes are nearly gone; his oculist, I hear, giveshim no more than six months' sight, unless he throws up. Then Ashe willtake his proper place, and if he doesn't make his mark on Englishhistory, I'm a Dutchman. Oh! of course that affair last year was anawful business--the two affairs! When Parliament opened in Februarythere were some of us who thought that Ashe would never get through thesession. A man so changed, so struck down, I have seldom seen. Youremember what a handsome boy he was, up to last year even! Now he's amiddle-aged man. All the same, he held on, and the House gave him thatquiet sympathy and support that it can give when it likes a fellow. Andgradually you could see the life come back into him--and the ambition. By George! he did well in that trade-union business before Easter; andthe bill that's on now--it's masterly, the way in which he's piloting itthrough! The House positively likes to be managed by him; it's a sightworthy of our best political traditions. Oh yes, Ashe will go far; and, thank God, that wretched little woman--what has become of her, by-the-way?--has neither crushed his energy nor robbed England of hisservices. But it was touch and go. "

To all of which the Dean had replied little or nothing. But his hearthad sunk within him; and the doubtfulness of a certain enterprise inwhich he was engaged had appeared to him in even more startling colorsthan before. 

However, here he was. And suddenly, as he stood before the fire, hebowed his white head, and said to himself a couple of verses from one ofthe Psalms for the day:

 "Who will lead me into the strong city: who will bring me into Edom? Oh, be thou our help in trouble: for vain is the help of man. "

The door opened, and the Dean straightened himself impetuously, everynerve tightening to its work. 

 * * * * *

"How do you do, my dear Dean?" said Ashe, enclosing the frail, ascetichand in both his own. "I trust I have not kept you waiting. My motherwas with me. Sit there, please; you will have the light behind you. "

"Thank you. I prefer standing a little, if you don't mind--and I likethe fire. "

Ashe threw himself into a chair and shaded his eyes with his hand. TheDean noticed the strains of gray in his curly hair, and that aspect, asof something withered and wayworn, which had invaded the man's wholepersonality, balanced, indeed, by an intellectual dignity anddistinction which had never been so commanding. It was as though thestern and constant wrestle of the mind had burned away all lesserthings--the old, easy grace, the old, careless pleasure in life. 

"I think you know, " began the Dean, clearing his throat, "why I askedyou to see me?"

"You wished, I think, to speak to me--about my wife, " said Ashe, withdifficulty. 

Under his sheltering hand, his eyes looked straight before him into thefire. 

The Dean fidgeted a moment, lifted a small Greek vase on themantel-piece, and set it down--then turned round. 

"I heard from her ten days ago--the most piteous letter. As you know, Ihad always a great regard for her. The news of last year was a sharpsorrow to me--as though she had been a daughter. I felt I must see her. So I put myself into the train and went to Venice. "

Ashe started a little, but said nothing. 

"Or, rather, to Treviso, for, as I think you know, she is there withLady Alice. "

"Yes, that I had heard. "

The Dean paused again, then moved a little nearer to Ashe, looking downupon him. 

"May I ask--stop me if I seem impertinent--how much you know of thehistory of the winter?"

"Very little!" said Ashe, in a low voice. "My mother got someinformation from the English consul at Trieste, who is a friend ofhers--to whom, it seems, Lady Kitty applied; but it did not amount tomuch. "

The Dean drew a small note-book from a breast-pocket and looked at someentries in it. 

"They seem to have reached Marinitza in November If I understood aright, Lady Kitty had no maid with her?"

"No. The maid Blanche was sent home from Verona. "

"How Lady Kitty ever got through the journey!--or the winter!" said theDean, throwing up his hands. "Her health, of course, is irreparablyinjured. But that she did not die a dozen times over, of hardship andmisery, is the most astonishing thing! They were in a wretched village, nearly four thousand feet up, a village of wooden huts, with a woodenhospital. All the winter nearly they were deep in snow, and Lady Kittyworked as a nurse. Cliffe seems to have been away fighting, very often, and at other times came back to rest and see to supplies. "

"I understand she passed as his wife?" said Ashe. 

The Dean made a sign of reluctant assent. 

"They lived in a little house near the hospital. She tells me that afterthe first two months she began to loathe him, and she moved into thehospital to escape him. He tried at first to melt and propitiate her;but when he found that it was no use, and that she was practically lostto him, he changed his temper, and he might have behaved to her like thetyrant he is but that her hold over the people among whom they wereliving, both on the fighting-men and the women, had become by this timegreater than his own. They adored her, and Cliffe dared not ill-treather. And so it went on through the winter. Sometimes they were on morefriendly terms than at others. I gather that when he showed hisdare-devil, heroic side she would relent to him, and talk as though sheloved him. But she would never go back--to live with him; and that aftera time alienated him completely. He was away more and more; and at lastshe tells me there was a handsome Bosnian girl, and--well, you canimagine the rest. Lady Kitty was so ill in March that they thought herdying, but she managed to write to this consul you spoke of at Trieste, and he sent up a doctor and a nurse. But this you probably know?"

"Yes, " said Ashe, hoarsely. "I heard that she was apparently very illwhen she reached Treviso, but that she had rallied under Alice'snursing. Lady Alice wrote to my mother. "

"Did she tell Lady Tranmore anything of Lady Kitty's state of mind?"said the Dean, after a pause. 

Ashe also was slow in answering. At last he said:

"I understand there has been great regret for the past. "

"Regret!" cried the Dean. "If ever there was a terrible case of thedealings of God with a human soul--"

He began to walk up and down impetuously, wrestling with emotion. 

"Did she give you any explanation, " said Ashe, presently, in a voicescarcely audible--"of their meeting at Verona? You know my motherbelieved--that she had broken with him--that all was saved. Then came aletter from the maid, written at Kitty's direction, to say that she hadleft her mistress--and they had started for Bosnia. "

"No; I tried. But she seemed to shrink with horror from everything to dowith Verona. I have always supposed that fellow in some way got theinformation he wanted--bought it no doubt--and pursued her. But thatshe honestly meant to break with him I have no doubt at all. "

Ashe said nothing. 

"Think, " said the Dean, "of the effect of that man's suddenappearance--of his romantic and powerful personality--your wife alone, miserable--doubting your love for her--"

Ashe raised his hand with a gesture of passion. 

"If she had had the smallest love left for me she could have protectedherself! I had written to her--she knew--"

His voice broke. The Dean's face quivered. 

"My dear fellow--God knows--" He broke off. When he recovered composurehe said:

"Let us go back to Lady Kitty. Regret is no word to express what I saw. She is consumed by remorse night and day. She is also still--as far asmy eyes can judge--desperately ill. There is probably lung troublecaused by the privations of the winter. And the whole nervous system isshattered. "

Ashe looked up. His aspect showed the effect of the words. 

"Every provision shall be made for her, " he said, in a voice muffled anddifficult. "Lady Alice has been told already to spare no expense--to doeverything that can be done. "

"There is only one thing that can be done for her, " said the Dean. 

Ashe did not speak. 

"There is only one thing that you or any one else could do for her, " theDean repeated, slowly, "and that is to love--and forgive her!" Hisvoice trembled. 

"Was it her wish that you should come to me?" said Ashe, after a moment. 

"Yes. I found her at first very despairing--and extremely difficult tomanage. She regretted she had written to me, and neither Lady Alice norI could get her to talk. But one day"--the old man turned away, lookinginto the fire, with his back to Ashe, and with difficulty pursued hisstory--"one day, whether it was, the sight of a paralyzed child thatused to come to Lady Alice's lace-class, or some impression from theservice of the mass to which she often goes in the early mornings withher sister, I don't know, but she sent for me--and--and broke downentirely. She implored me to see you, and to ask you if she might liveat Haggart, near the child's grave. She told me that according to everydoctor she has seen she is doomed, physically. But I don't think shewants to work upon your pity. She herself declares that she has muchmore vitality than people think, and that the doctors may be all wrong. So that you are not to take that into account. But if you will so farforgive her as to let her live at Haggart, and occasionally to go andsee her, that would be the only happiness to which she could now lookforward, and she promises that she will follow your wishes in everyrespect, and will not hinder or persecute you in any way. "

Ashe threw up his hands in a melancholy gesture. The Dean understood itto mean a disbelief in the ability of the person promising to keep suchan engagement. His face flushed--he looked uncertainly at Ashe. 

"For my part, " he said, quickly, "I am not going to advise you for amoment to trust to any such promise. "

Rising from his seat, Ashe began to pace the room. The Dean followed himwith his eyes, which kindled more and more. 

"But, " he resumed, "I none the less urge and implore you to grant LadyKitty's prayer. "

Ashe slightly shook his head. The little Dean drew himself together. 

"May I speak to you--with a full frankness? I have known and loved youfrom a boy. And"--he stopped a moment, then said, simply--"I am aChristian minister. "

Ashe, with a sad and charming courtesy, laid his hand on the old man'sarm. 

"I can only be grateful to you, " he said, and stood waiting. 

"At least you will understand me, " said the Dean. "You are not one ofthe small souls. Well--here it is! Lady Kitty has been an unfaithfulwife. She does not attempt to deny or cover it. But in my belief sheloves you still, and has always loved you. And when you married her, youmust, I think, have realized that you were running no ordinary risks. The position and antecedents of her mother--the bringing up of the poorchild herself--the wildness of her temperament, and the absence ofanything like self-discipline and self-control, must surely have madeyou anxious? I certainly remember that Lady Tranmore was full of fears. "

He looked for a reply. 

"Yes, " said Ashe, "I was anxious. Or, rather, I saw the risks clearly. But I was in love, and I thought that love could do everything. "

The Dean looked at him curiously--hesitated--and at last said:

"Forgive me. Did you take your task seriously enough?--did you give LadyKitty all the help you might?"

The blue eyes scanned Ashe's face. Ashe turned away, as though the wordshad touched a sore. 

"I know very well, " he said, unsteadily, "that I seemed to you andothers a weak and self-indulgent fool. All I can say is, it was not inme to play the tutor and master to my wife. "

"She was so young, so undisciplined, " said the Dean, earnestly. "Did youguard her as you might?"

A touch of impatience appeared in Ashe. 

"Do you really think, my dear Dean, " he said, as he resumed his walk upand down, "that one human being has, ultimately, any decisive power overanother? If so, I am more of a believer in--fate--or liberty--I am notsure which--than you. "

The Dean sighed. 

"That you were infinitely good and loving to her we all know. "

"'Good'--'loving'?" said Ashe, under his breath, with a note of scorn. "I--"

He restrained himself, hiding his face as he hung over the fire. 

There was a silence, till the Dean once more placed himself in Ashe'spath. "My dear friend--you saw the risks, and yet you took them! Youmade the vow 'for better, for worse. ' My friend, you have, so to speak, lost your venture! But let me urge on you that the obligation remains!"

"What obligation?"

"The obligation to the life you took into your own hands--to the soulyou vowed to cherish, " said the Dean, with an apostolic and passionateearnestness. 

Ashe stood before him, pale, and charged with resolution. 

"That obligation--has been cancelled--by the laws of your own Christianfaith, no less than by the ordinary laws of society. "

"I do not so read it!" cried the Dean, with vivacity. "Men say so, 'forthe hardness of their hearts. ' But the divine pity which transformedmen's idea of marriage could never have meant to lay it down that inmarriage alone there was to be no forgiveness. "

"You forget your text, " said Ashe, steadily. "Saving for the cause--'"His voice failed him. 

"Permissive!" was the Dean's eager reply--"permissive only. There arecases, I grant you--cases of impenitent wickedness--where the higher lawis suspended, finds no chance to act--where relief from the bond isitself mercy and justice. But the higher law is always there. You knowthe formula--'It was said by them of old time. But _I_ say unto you--'And then follows the new law of a new society. And so in marriage. Iflove has the smallest room to work--if forgiveness can find thenarrowest foothold--love and forgiveness are imposed on--demandedof--the Christian!--here as everywhere else. Love and forgiveness--_not_penalty and hate!"

"There is no question of hate--and--I doubt whether I am a Christian, "said Ashe, quietly, turning away. 

The Dean looked at him a little askance--breathing fast. 

"But you are a _heart_, William!" he said, using the privilege, of hiswhite hairs, speaking as he might have spoken to the Eton boy of twentyyears before--"ay, and one of the noblest. You gathered that poor thinginto your arms--knowing what were the temptations of her nature, and shebecame the mother of your child. Now--alas! those temptations haveconquered her. But she still turns to you--she still clings to you--andshe has no one else. And if you reject her she will go down unforgivenand despairing to the grave. "

For the first time Ashe's lips trembled. But his speech was very quietand collected. 

"I must try and explain myself, " he said. "Why should we talk offorgiveness? It is not a word that I much understand, or that means muchto men of my type and generation. I see what has happened in this way. Kitty's conduct last year hit me desperately hard. It destroyed myprivate happiness, and but for the generosity of the best friends everman had it would have driven me out of public life. I warned her thatthe consequences of the Cliffe matter would be irreparable, and shestill carried it through. She left me for that man--and at a time whenby her own action it was impossible for me to defend either her ormyself. What course of action remained to me? I _did_ remember hertemperament, her antecedents, and the certainty that this man, whatevermight be his moments of heroism, was a selfish and incorrigible brute inhis dealings with women. So I wrote to her, through this same consul atTrieste. I let her know that if she wished it, and if there were anychance of his marrying her, I would begin divorce proceedings at once. She had only to say the word. If she did not wish it, I would spare herand myself the shame and scandal of publicity. And if she left him, Iwould make additional provision for her which would insure her everycomfort. She never sent a word of reply, and I have taken no steps. Butas soon as I heard she was at Treviso, I wrote again--or, rather, thistime my lawyers wrote, suggesting that the time had come for the extraprovision I had spoken of, which I was most ready and anxious to make. "

He paused. 

"And this, " said the Dean, "is all? This is, in fact, your answer tome?"

Ashe made a sign of assent. 

"Except, " he added, with emotion, "that I have heard, only to-day, thatif Kitty wishes it, her old friend Miss French will go out to her atonce, nurse her, and travel with her as long as she pleases. MissFrench's brother has just married, and she is at liberty. She is mostdeeply attached to Kitty, and as soon as she heard Lady Alice'sreport of her state she forgot everything else. Can you notpersuade--Kitty"--he looked up urgently--"to accept her offer?"

"I doubt it, " said the Dean, sadly. "There is only one thing she pinesfor, and without it she will be a sick child crossed. Ah! well--well! Soto allow her to share your life again--however humbly andintermittently--is impossible?"

It seemed to the Dean that a shudder passed through the man beside him. 

"Impossible, " said Ashe, sharply. "But not only for private reasons. "

"You mean your public duty stands in the way?"

"Kitty left me of her own free will. I have put my hand to the ploughagain--and I cannot turn back. You can see for yourself that I am not atmy own disposal--I belong to my party, to the men with whom I act, whohave behaved to me with the utmost generosity. "

"Of course Lady Kitty could no longer share your public life. But atHaggart--in seclusion?"

"You know what her personality is--how absorbing--how impossible toforget! No--if she returned to me, on any terms whatever, all the oldconditions would begin again. I should inevitably have to leavepolitics. "

"And that--you are not prepared to do?"

The Dean wondered at his own audacity, and a touch of proud surpriseexpressed itself in Ashe. 

"I should have preferred to put it that I have accepted great tasks andheavy responsibilities--and that I am not my own master. "

The Dean watched him closely. Across the field of imagination therepassed the figure of one who "went away sorrowful, havinggreat possessions, " and his heart--the heart of a child or aknight-errant--burned within him. 

But before he could speak again the door of the room opened and a ladyin black entered. Ashe turned towards her. 

"Do you forbid me, William?" she said, quietly--"or may I join yourconversation?"

Ashe held out his hand and drew her to him. Lady Tranmore greeted herold friend the Dean, and he looked at her overcome with emotion anddoubt. 

"You have come to us at a critical moment, " he said--"and I am afraidyou are against me. "

She asked what they had been discussing, though, indeed, as she said, she partly guessed. And the Dean, beginning to be shaken in his owncause, repeated his pleadings with a sinking heart. They sounded to himstranger and less persuasive than before. In doing what he had done hehad been influenced by an instinctive feeling that Ashe would not treatthe wrong done him as other men might treat it; that, to put it at theleast, he would be able to handle it with an ethical originality, toseparate himself in dealing with it from the mere weight of socialtradition. Yet now as he saw the faces of mother and son together--themother leaning on the son's arm--and realized all the strength of thesocial ideas which they represented, even though, in Ashe's case, therehad been a certain individual flouting of them, futile and powerless inthe end--the Dean gave way. 

"There--there!" he said, as he finished his plea, and Lady Tranmore'ssad gravity remained untouched. "I see you both think me a dreamer ofdreams!"

"Nay, dear friend!" said Lady Tranmore, with the melancholy smile whichlent still further beauty to the refined austerity of her face; "thesethings seem possible to you, because you are the soul of goodness--"

"And a pious old fool to boot!" said the Dean, impatiently. "But I amwilling--like St. Paul and my betters--to be a fool for Christ's sake. Lady Tranmore, are you or are you not a Christian?"

"I hope so, " she said, with composure, while her cheek flushed. "But ourLord did not ask impossibilities. He knew there were limits to humanendurance--and human pardon--though there might be none to God's. "

"'Be ye perfect, as your Father which is in heaven is perfect, '" criedthe Dean. "Where are the limits there?"

"There are other duties in life besides that to a wife who has betrayedher husband, " she said, steadily. "You ask of William what he has notthe strength to give. His life was wrecked, and he has pieced ittogether again. And now he has given it to his country. That poor, guilty child has no claim upon it. "

"But understand, " said Ashe, interposing, with an energy that seemed toexpress the whole man--"while I live, _everything_--short of what youask--that can be done to protect or ease her, shall be done. Tell herthat. "

His features worked painfully. The Dean took up his hat and stick. 

"And may I tell her, too, " he said, pausing--"that you forgive her?"

Ashe hesitated. 

"I do not believe, " he said, at last, "that she would attach any moremeaning to that word than I do. She would think it unreal. What's doneis done. "

The Dean's heart leaped up in the typical Christian challenge to thefatal and the irrevocable. While life lasts the lost sheep can always besought and found; and love, the mystical wine, can always be poured intothe wounds of the soul, healing and recreating! But he said no more. Hefelt himself humiliated and defeated. 

Ashe and Lady Tranmore took leave of him with an extreme gentleness andaffection. He would almost rather they had treated him ill. Yes, he wasan optimist and a dreamer!--one who had, indeed, never grappled in hisown person with the worst poisons and corrosions of the soul. Yet still, as he passed along the London streets--marked here and there by thenewspaper placards which announced Ashe's committee triumphs of thenight before--he was haunted anew by the immortal words:

"One thing thou lackest, " ... And "Come, follow me!"

 * * * * *

Ah!--could he have done such a thing himself? or was he merely thescribe carelessly binding on other men's shoulders things grievous to beborne? The answering passion of his faith mounted within him--joinedwith a scorn for the easy conditions and happy, scholarly pursuits ofhis own life, and a thirst which in the early days of Christendom wouldhave been a thirst for witness and for martyrdom. 

 * * * * *

Three days later the Dean--a somewhat shrunken and diminished figure, inordinary clerical dress, without the buckles and silk stockings thattypically belonged to him--stood once more at the entrance of a smallvilla outside the Venetian town of Treviso. 

He was very weary, and as he sought disconsolately through all hispockets for the wherewithal to pay his fly, while the spring rainpattered on his wide-awake, he produced an impression as of somedelicate, draggled thing, which would certainly have gone to the heartof his adoring wife could she have beheld it. The Dean's ways were notsybaritic. He pecked at food and drink like a bird; his clothes nevercaused him a moment's thought; and it seemed to him a waste of the nightto use it for sleeping. But none the less did he go through life finelylooked after. Mrs. Winston dressed him, took his tickets and paid hiscabs, and without her it was an arduous matter for the Dean to arrive atany destination whatever. As it was, in the journey from Paris he hadlost one of the two bags which Mrs. Winston had packed for him, and helooked remorsefully at the survivor as it was deposited on the stepsbeside him. 

It did not, however, remain on the steps. For when Lady Alice'smaid-housekeeper appeared, she informed the Dean, with a certain flurryof manner, that the ladies were not at home. They had gone off thatmorning--suddenly--to Venice, leaving a letter for him, should hearrive. 

"_Fermate!_" cried the Dean, turning towards the cab, which was trailingaway, and the man, who had been scandalously overpaid, came back withalacrity, while the Dean stepped in to read the letter. 

When he came out again he was very pale and in a great haste. He badethe man replace the bag and drive him at once to the railway-station. 

On the way thither he murmured to himself, "Horrible!--horrible!"--andboth the letter and a newspaper which had been enclosed in it shook inhis hands. 

He had half an hour to wait before the advent of the evening train forVenice, and he spent it in a quiet corner poring over the newspaper. Andnot that newspaper only, for he presently became aware that all thesmall, ill-printed sheets offered him by an old newsvender in thestation were full of the same news, and some with later detail--nay, that the people walking up and down in the station were eagerly talkingof it. 

An Englishman had been assassinated in Venice. It seemed that a body hadbeen discovered early on the preceding morning floating in one of thesmall canals connecting the Fondamente Nuove with the Grand Canal. Ithad been stabbed in three places; two of the wounds must have beenfatal. The papers in the pocket identified the murdered man as thefamous English traveller, poet, and journalist, Mr. Geoffrey Cliffe. Mr. Cliffe had just returned from an arduous winter in the Balkans, where hehad rendered superb service to the cause of the Bosnian insurgents. Hewas well known in Venice, and the terrible event had caused a profoundsensation there. No clew to the outrage had yet been obtained. But Mr. Cliffe's purse and watch had not been removed. 

The Dean arrived in Venice by the midnight train, and went to the hotelon the Riva whither Lady Alice had directed him. She was still up, waiting to see him, and in the dark passage outside Kitty's door shetold him what she knew of the murder. It appeared that late that night astartling arrest had been made--of no less a person than the SignorinaRicci, the well-known actress of the Apollo Theatre, and of two mensupposed to have been hired by her for the deed. This news was stillunknown to Kitty--she was in bed, and her companion had kept it fromher. 

"How is she?" asked the Dean. 

"Frightfully excited--or else dumb. She let me give her something tomake her sleep. Strangely enough, she said to me this morning on theway from Treviso: 'It is a woman--and I know her!'"

The following day, when the Dean entered the dingy hotel sitting-room, athin figure in black came hurriedly out of the bedroom beside it, andKitty caught him by the hand. 

"Isn't it horrible?" she said, staring at him with her changed, dark-rimmed eyes. "She tried once, in Bosnia. One of the Italians whocame out with us--she had got hold of him. Do you think--he suffered?"

Her voice was quite quiet. The Dean shuddered. 

"One of the stabs was in the heart, " he said. "But try and put it fromyou, Lady Kitty. Sit down. " He touched her gently on the shoulder. 

Kitty nodded. 

"Ah, then, " she said--"_then_ he couldn't have suffered--could he? I'mglad. "

She let the Dean put her in a chair, and, clasping her hands round herknees, she seemed to pursue her own thoughts. 

Her aspect affected him almost beyond bearing. Ashe's brilliantwife?--London's spoiled child?--this withered, tragic little creature, of whom it was impossible to believe that, in years, she was not yettwenty-four? So bewildered in mind, so broken in nerve was she, that itwas not till he had sat with her some time, now entering perforce intothe cloud of horror that brooded over her, now striving to drag her fromit, that she asked him about his visit to England. 

He told her in a faltering voice. 

She received it very quietly, even with a little, queer, twistinglaugh. 

"I thought he wouldn't. Was Lady Tranmore there?"

The Dean replied that Lady Tranmore had been there. 

"Ah, then, of course there was no chance, " said Kitty. "When one is asgood as that, one never forgives. "

She looked up quickly. "Did William say he forgave me?"

The Dean hesitated. 

"He said a great deal that was kind and generous. "

A slight spasm passed over Kitty's face. 

"I suppose he thought it ridiculous to talk of forgiving. So didI--once. "

She covered her eyes with her hands--removing them to say, impatiently:

"One can't go on being sorry every moment of the day. No, one can't! Whyare we made so? William would agree with me there. "

"Dear Lady Kitty!" said the Dean, tenderly--"God forgives--and with Himthere is always hope, and fresh beginning. "

Kitty shook her head. 

"I don't know what that means, " she said. "I wonder whether"--she lookedat him with a certain piteous and yet affectionate malice--"if you'dbeen as deep as I, whether _you_'d know. "

The Dean flushed. The hidden wound stung again. Had he, then, no rightto speak? He felt himself the elder son of the parable--and hatedhimself anew. 

But he was a Christian, on his Master's business. He must obey orders, even though he could feel no satisfaction, or belief in himself--thoughhe seem to himself such a shallow and perfunctory person. So he did histender best for Kitty. He spent his loving, enthusiastic, pitiful soulupon her; and while he talked to her she sat with her hands crossed onher lap, and her eyes wandering through the open window to the forestsof masts outside and the dancing wavelets of the lagoon. When at last hespoke of the further provision Ashe wished to make for her, when heimplored her to summon Margaret French, she shook her head. "I mustthink what I shall do, " she said, quietly; and a minute afterwards, witha flash of her old revolt--"He cannot prevent my going to Harry'sgrave!"

 * * * * *

Early the following morning the murdered man was carried to the cemeteryat San Michele. In spite of some attempt on the part of the police tokeep the hour secret, half Venice followed the black-draped barca, whichbore that flawed poet and dubious hero to his rest. 

It was a morning of exceeding beauty. On the mean and solitary front ofthe Casa dei Spiriti there shone a splendor of light; the lagoon wasazure and gold; the main-land a mist of trees in their spring leaf;while far away the cypresses of San Francesco, the slender tower ofTorcello, and the long line of Murano--and farther still the majesticwall of silver Alps--greeted the eyes that loved them, as the ear issoothed by the notes of a glorious and yet familiar music. 

Amid the crowd of gondolas that covered the shallow stretch of lagoonbetween the northernmost houses of Venice and the island graveyard, there was one which held two ladies. Alice Wensleydale was there againsther will, and her pinched and tragic face showed her repulsion andirritation. She had endeavored in vain to dissuade Kitty from coming;but in the end she had insisted on accompanying her. Possibly, as theboat glided over the water amid a crowd of laughing, chatteringItalians, the silent Englishwoman was asking herself what was to be thefuture of the trust she had taken on herself. Kitty in her extremity hadremembered her half-sister's promise, and had thrown herself upon it. But a few weeks' experience had shown that they were strange anduncongenial to each other. There was no true affection betweenthem--only a certain haunting instinct of kindred. And even this wasweakened or embittered by those memories in Alice's mind which Kittycould never approach and Alice never forget. What was she to do with herhalf-sister, stranded and dishonored as she was?--How content or comforther?--How live her own life beside her?

Kitty sat silent, her eyes fixed upon the barca which held the coffinunder its pall. Her mind was the scene of an infinite number of floatingand fragmentary recollections; of the day when she and Cliffe hadfollowed the _murazzi_ towards the open sea; of the meeting at Verona;of the long winter, with its hardship and its horror; and that hatredand contempt which had sprung up between them. Could she love no one, cling faithfully to no one? And now the restless brain, the vastprojects, the mixed nature, the half-greatness of the man had beensilenced--crushed--in a moment, by the stroke of a knife. He had beenkilled by a jealous woman--because of his supposed love for anotherwoman, whose abhorrence, in truth, he had earned in a few short weeks. There was something absurd mingled with the horror--as though onewatched the prank of a demon. 

Her sensuous nature was tormented by the thought of the last moment. Hadhe had time to feel despair--the thirst for life? She prayed not. Shethought of the Sunday afternoon at Grosville Park when they had tried toplay billiards, and Lord Grosville had come down on them; or she saw himsitting opposite to her, at supper, on the night of the fancy ball, inthe splendid Titian dress, while she gloated over the thoughts of thetrick she had played on Mary Lyster--or bending over her when she wokefrom her swoon at Verona. Had she ever really loved him for onehour?--and if not, what possible excuse, before gods or men, was therefor this ugly, self-woven tragedy into which she had brought herself andhim, merely because her vanity could not bear that William had not beenable to love her, for long, far above all her deserts?

William! Her heart leaped in her breast. He was thirty-six--and she nottwenty-four. A strange and desolate wonder overtook her as the thoughtseized her of the years they might still spend on the sameearth--members of the same country, breathing the same air--and yetforever separate. Never to see him--or speak to him again!--the thoughtstirred her imagination, as it were, while it tortured her; there was init a certain luxury and romance of pain. 

Thus, as she followed Cliffe to his last blood-stained rest, did hermind sink in dreams of Ashe--and in the dismal reckoning up of all thatshe had so lightly and inconceivably lost. Sometimes she found herselfabsorbed in a kind of angry marvelling at the strength of the old moralcommonplaces. 

It had been so easy and so exciting to defy them. Stones which thebuilders of life reject--do they still avenge themselves in the old way?There was a kind of rage in the thought. 

On the way home Kitty expressed a wish to go into St. Mark's alone. LadyAlice left her there, and in the shadow of the atrium Kitty looked ather strangely, and kissed her. 

An hour after Lady Alice had reached the hotel a letter was brought toher. In it Kitty bade her--and the Dean--farewell, and asked that noeffort should be made to track her. "I am going to friends--where Ishall be safe and at peace. Thank you both with all my heart. Let no onethink about me any more. "

Of course they disobeyed her. They made what search in Venice theycould, without rousing a scandal, and Ashe rushed out to join it, usingthe special means at a minister's disposal. But it was fruitless. Kittyvanished like a wraith in the dawn; and the living world of action andaffairs knew her no more. 

XXIV

"Well, I must have a carriage!" said William Ashe to the landlord of oneof the coaching inns of Domo Dossola--"and if you can't give me one forless, I suppose I shall have to pay this most ridiculous charge. Tellthe man to put to at once. "

The landlord who owned the carriages, and would be sitting snugly athome while the peasant on the box faced the elements in consideration ofa large number of extra francs to his master, retired with a deferentialsmile, and told Emilio to bring the horses. 

Meanwhile Ashe finished an indifferent dinner, paid a large bill, andwent out to survey the preparations for departure, so far as the peltingrain in the court-yard would let him. He was going over the Simplon, starting rather late in the day, and the weather was abominable. Hisvalet, Richard Dell, kept watch over the luggage and encouraged theostlers, with a fairly stoical countenance. He was an old traveller, andthough he would have preferred not to travel in a deluge, he dislikedItaly, as a country of sour wine, and would be glad to find himselfacross the Alps. Moreover, he knew the decision of his master'scharacter, and, being a man of some ability and education, he took apride in the loftiness of the affairs on which Ashe was generallyengaged. If Mr. Ashe said that he _must_ get to Geneva the followingmorning, and to London the morning after, on important business--why, he_must_, and it was no good talking about weather. 

They rattled off through the streets of Domo Dossola, Dell in front withthe driver, under a waterproof hood and apron, Ashe in the closed landaubehind, with a plentiful supply of books, newspapers, and cigars towhile away the time. 

At Isella, the frontier village, he took advantage of the custom-houseformalities and of a certain lull in the storm to stroll a little infront of the inn. On the Italian side, looking east, there was a certainwild lifting of the clouds, above the lower course of the streamdescending from the Gondo ravine; upon the distant meadows and mountainslopes that marked the opening of the Tosa valley, storm-lights came andwent, like phantom deer chased by the storm-clouds; beside him theswollen river thundered past, seeking a thirsty Italy; and behind, overthe famous Gondo cleft, lay darkness, and a pelting tumult of rain. 

Ashe turned back to the carriage, bidding a silent farewell to a countryhe did not love--a country mainly significant to him of memories whichrose like a harsh barrier between his present self and a time when he, too, fleeted life carelessly, like other men, and found every hourdelightful. Never, as long as he lived, should he come willingly toItaly. But his mother this year had fallen into such an exhaustion ofbody and mind, caused by his father's long agony, that he had persuadedher to let him carry her over the Alps to Stresa--a place she had knownas a girl and of which she often spoke--for a Whitsuntide holiday. Hehimself was no longer in office. A coalition between the Tories andcertain dissident Liberals had turned out Lord Parham's government inthe course of a stormy autumn session, some eight months before. It hadbeen succeeded by a weak administration, resting on two or three looselyknit groups--with Ashe as leader of the Opposition. Hence hiscomparative freedom, and the chance to be his mother's escort. 

But at Stresa he had been overtaken by some startling politicalnews--news which seemed to foreshadow an almost immediate change ofministry; and urgent telegrams bade him return at once. The coalition onwhich the government relied had broken down; the resignation of itschief, a "transient and embarrassed phantom, " was imminent; and it waspractically certain, in the singular dearth of older men on his ownside, since the retirement of Lord Parham, that within a few weeks, ifnot days, Ashe would be called upon to form an administration.... 

The carriage was soon on its way again, and presently, in the darknessof the superb ravine that stretches west and north from Gondo, thetumult of wind and water was such that even Ashe's slackened pulses feltthe excitement of it. He left the carriage, and, wrapped in a waterproofcape, breasted the wind along the water's edge. Wordsworth's magnificentlines in the "Prelude, " dedicated to this very spot, came back to him, as to one who in these later months had been able to renew some of theliterary habits and recollections of earlier years

 "--Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light!"

But here on this wild night were only tumult and darkness; and if Naturein this aspect were still to be held, as Wordsworth makes her, the Voiceand Apocalypse of God, she breathed a power pitiless and terrible toman. The fierce stream below, the tiny speck made by the carriage andhorses straining against the hurricane of wind, the forests on thefarther bank climbing to endless heights of rain, the flowers in therock crannies lashed and torn, the gloom and chill which had thusblotted out a June evening: all these impressions were impressions ofwar, of struggle and attack, of forces unfriendly and overwhelming. 

A certain restless and melancholy joy in the challenge of the storm, indeed, Ashe felt, as many another strong man has felt before him, in asimilar emptiness of heart. But it was because of the mere provocationof physical energy which it involved; not, as it would have been withhim in youth, because of the infinitude and vastness of nature, breathing power and expectation into man:

 "Effort, and expectation and desire-- And something evermore about to be!"

He flung the words upon the wind, which scattered them as soon as theywere uttered, merely that he might give them a bitter denial, reject forhimself, now and always, the temper they expressed. He had known itwell, none better!--gone to bed, and risen up with it--the mere joy inthe "mere living. " It had seasoned everything, twined round everything, great and small--a day's trout-fishing or deer-stalking; a new book, afriend, a famous place; then politics, and the joys of power. 

Gone! Here he was, hurrying back to England, to take perhaps in hisstill young hand the helm of her vast fortunes; and of all the old"expectation and desire, " the old passion of hope, the old sense of themagic that lies in things unknown and ways untrodden, he seemed tohimself now incapable. He would do his best, and without the politicalwrestle life would be too trifling to be borne; but the relish and thesavor were gone, and all was gray. 

 * * * * *

Ah!--he remembered one or two storm-walks with Kitty in their engaged orearly married days--in Scotland chiefly. As he trudged up this Swisspass he could see stretches of Scotch heather under drifting mist, andfeel a little figure in its tweed dress flung suddenly by the wind andits own soft will against his arm. And then, the sudden embrace, and thewet, fragrant cheek, and her Voice--mocking and sweet!

Oh, God! where was she now? The shock of her disappearance from Venicehad left in some ways a deeper mark upon him than even the originalcatastrophe. For who that had known her could think of such a being, alone, in a world of strangers, without a peculiar dread and anguish?That she was alive he knew, for her five hundred a year--and she hadnever accepted another penny from him since her flight--was still drawnon her behalf by a banking firm in Paris. His solicitors, since thefailure of their first efforts to trace her after Cliffe's death, hadmade repeated inquiries; Ashe had himself gone to Paris to see thebankers in question. But he was met by their solemn promise to Kitty tokeep her secret inviolate. Madame d'Estrées supplied him with the nameof the convent in which Kitty had been brought up; but the mothersuperior denied all knowledge of her. Meanwhile no course of action onKitty's part could have restored her so effectually to her place inAshe's imagination. She haunted his days and nights. So also did hismemory of the Dean's petition. Insensibly, without argument, the wholeattitude of his mind thereto had broken down; since he had been out ofoffice, and his days and nights were no longer absorbed in the detail ofadministration and Parliamentary leadership, he had been the defencelessprey of grief; yearning and pity and agonized regret, rising from thedeep subconscious self, had overpowered his first recoil anddetermination; and in the absence of all other passionate hope, the onedesire and dream which still lived warm and throbbing at his heart wasthe dream that still in some crowd, or loneliness, he might again, before it was too late, see Kitty's face and the wildness of Kitty'seyes. 

And he believed much the same process had taken place in his mother'sfeeling. She rarely spoke of Kitty; but when she did the doubt andsoreness of her mind were plain. Her own life had grown very solitary. And in particular the old friendship between her and Polly Lyster hadentirely ceased to be. Lady Tranmore shivered when she was named, andwould never herself speak of her if she could help it. Ashe had tried invain to make her explain herself. Surely it was incredible that shecould in any way blame Mary for the incident at Verona? Ashe, of course, remembered the passage in his mother's letter from Venice, and they hadthe maid Blanche's report to Lady Tranmore, of Kitty's intentions whenshe left Venice, of her terror when Cliffe appeared--of her swoon. Buthe believed with the Dean that any treacherous servant could havebrought about the catastrophe. Vincenzo, one of the gondoliers who tookKitty to the station, had seen the luggage labelled for Verona; no doubtCliffe had bribed him; and this explanation was, indeed, suggested toLady Tranmore by the maid. His mother's suspicion--if indeed sheentertained it--was so hideous that Ashe, finding it impossible to makehis own mind harbor it for an instant, was harrowed by the merepossibility of its existence; as though it represented some hidden soreof consciousness that refused either to be probed or healed. 

As he labored on against the storm all thought of his present life andactivities dropped away from him; he lived entirely in the past. "Whatis it in me, " he thought, "that has made the difference between my lifeand that of other men I know--that weakened me so with Kitty?" Hecanvassed his own character, as a third person might have done. 

The Christian, no doubt, would say that his married life had failedbecause God had been absent from it, because there had been in it noconsciousness of higher law, of compelling grace. 

Ashe pondered what such things might mean. "The Christian--inspeculative belief--fails under the challenge of life as often as othermen. Surely it depends on something infinitely more primitive andfundamental than Christianity?--something out of which Christianityitself springs? But this something--does it really exist--or am I onlycheating myself by fancying it? Is it, as all the sages have said, thepursuit of some eternal good, the identification of the self withit--the 'dying to live'? And is this the real meaning at the heart ofChristianity?--at the heart of all religion?--the everlasting meaning, let science play what havoc it please with outward forms andstatements?"

Had he, perhaps, _doubted the soul?_

He groaned aloud. "O my God, what matter that I should grow wise--ifKitty is lost and desolate?"

And he trampled on his own thoughts--feeling them a mere hypocrisy andoffence. 

As they left the Gondo ravine and began to climb the zigzag road to theSimplon inn, the storm grew still wilder, and the driver, with set lipsand dripping face, urged his patient beasts against a deluge. The roadran rivers; each torrent, carefully channelled, that passed beneath itbrought down wood and soil in choking abundance; and Ashe watched thedownward push of the rain on the high, exposed banks above the carriage. Once they passed a fragment of road which had been washed away; thedriver pointing to it said something sulkily about "_frane"_ on the"other side. "

This bad moment, however, proved to be the last and worst, and when theyemerged upon the high valley in which stands the village of Simplon, therain was already lessening and the clouds rolling up the great sides andpeaks of the Fletschhorn. Ashe promised himself a comparatively fineevening and a rapid run down to Brieg. 

Outside the old Simplon posting-house, however, they presently came upona crowd of vehicles of every description, of which the drivers werestanding in groups with dripping rugs across their shoulders--shoutingand gesticulating. 

And as they drove up the news was thundered at them in every possibletongue. Between the hospice and Bérizal two hundred metres of road hadbeen completely washed away. The afternoon diligence had just gotthrough by a miracle an hour before the accident occurred; beforeanything else could pass it would take at least ten or twelve hours'hard work, through the night, before the laborers now beingrequisitioned by the commune could possibly provide even a temporarypassage. 

Ashe in despair went into the inn to speak with the landlord, and foundthat unless he was prepared to abandon books and papers, and make a pushfor it over mountain paths covered deep in fresh snow, there was nopossible escape from the dilemma. He must stay the night. The navvieswere already on their way; and as soon as ever the road was passable heshould know. For not even a future Prime Minister of England could HerrLudwig do more. 

He and Dell went gloomily up the narrow stone stairs of the inn to lookat the bedrooms, which were low-roofed and primitive, penetratedeverywhere by the roar of a stream which came down close behind the inn. Through the open door of one of the rooms Ashe saw the foaming mass, framed as it were in a window, and almost in the house. 

He chose two small rooms looking on the street, and bade Dell get a firelit in one of them, a bed moved out, an arm-chair moved in, and as largea table set for him as the inn could provide, while he took a strollbefore dinner. He had some important letters to answer, and he pointedout to Dell the bag which contained them. 

Then he stepped out into the muddy street, which was still a confusionof horses, vehicles, and men, and, turning up a path behind the inn, wassoon in solitude. An evening of splendor! Nature was still in a tragic, declamatory mood--sending piled thunder-clouds of dazzling white acrossa sky extravagantly blue, and throwing on the high snow-fields andcraggy tops a fierce, flame-colored light. The valley was resonant withangry sound, and the village, now in shadow, with its slender, crumblingcampanile, seemed like a cowering thing over which the eagle has passed. 

The grandeur and the freshness, the free, elemental play of stream andsky and mountain, seized upon a man in whom the main impulses of lifewere already weary, and filled him with an involuntary physical delight. He noticed the flowers at his feet, in the drenched grass which wasalready lifting up its battered stalks, and along the margins of thestreams--deep blue colombines, white lilies, and yellow anemones. Incomparable beauty lived and breathed in each foot of pasture; and whenhe raised his eyes from the grass they fed on visionary splendors ofsnow and rock, stretching into the heavens. 

No life visible--except a line of homing cattle, led by a little girlwith tucked-up skirt and bare feet. And--in the distance--the slenderfigure of a woman walking--stopping often to gather a flower--or torest? Not a woman of the valley, clearly. No doubt a traveller, weather-bound like himself at the inn. He watched the figure a little, for some vague grace of movement that seemed to enter into and make apart of that high beauty in which the scene was steeped; but itdisappeared behind a fold of pasture, and he did not see it again. 

In spite of the multitude of vehicles gathered about the inn there werenot so many guests in the _salle-à-manger_, when Ashe entered it, as hehad expected. He supposed that a majority of these vehicles must bereturn carriages from Brieg. Still there was much clatter of talk andplates, and German seemed to be the prevailing tongue. Except for acouple whom Ashe took to be a Genevese professor and his wife, there wasno lady in the room. 

He lingered somewhat late at table, toying with his orange, and readinga _Journal de Genève_, captured from a neighbor, which contained anexcellent "London letter. " The room emptied. The two Swiss handmaidenscame in to clear away soiled linen and arrange the tables for themorning's coffee. Only, at a farther table, a _couvert_ for one person, set by itself, remained still untouched. 

He happened to be alone in the room when the door again opened and alady entered. She did not see him behind his newspaper, and she walkedlanguidly to the farther table and sat down. As she did so she wasseized with a fit of coughing, and when it was over she leaned her headon her hands, gasping. 

Ashe had half risen--the newspaper was crushed in his hand--when theSwiss waitress whom the men of the inn called Fräulein Anna--who was, indeed, the daughter of the landlord--came back. 

"How are you, madame?" she said, with a smile, and in a slow English ofwhich she was evidently proud. 

"I'm better to-day, " said the other, hastily. "I shall start to-morrow. What a noise there is to-night!" she added, in a tone both fretful andweary. 

"We are so full--it is the accident to the road, madame. Will madamehave a _thé complet_ as before?"

The lady nodded, and Frãulein Anna, who evidently knew her ways, broughtin the tea at once, stayed chatting beside her for a minute, and thendeparted, with a long, disapproving look at the gentleman in the cornerwho was so long over his coffee and would not let her clear away. 

Ashe made a fierce effort to still the thumping in his breast and decidewhat he should do. For the guests there was only one door of entrance orexit, and to reach it he must pass close beside the new-comer. 

He laid down his newspaper. She heard the rustling, and involuntarilylooked round. 

There was a slight sound--an exclamation. She rose. He heard and saw hercoming, and sat tranced and motionless, his eyes bent upon her. She cametottering, clinging to the chairs, her hand on her side, till shereached the corner where he was. 

"William!" she said, with a little, glad sob, under herbreath--"William!"

He himself could not speak. He stood there gazing at her, his lipsmoving without sound. It seemed to him that she turned her head amoment, as though to look for some one beside him--with an exquisitetremor of the mouth. 

"Isn't it strange?" she said, in the same guarded voice. "I had a dreamonce--a valley--and mountains--and an inn. You sat here--just likethis--and--"

She put up her hands to her eyes a moment, shivered, and withdrew them. From her expression she seemed to be waiting for him to speak. He movedand stood beside her. 

"Where can we talk?" he said, with difficulty. She shook her headvaguely, looking round her with that slight frown, complaining and yetsweet, which was like a touch of fire on memory. 

The waitress came back into the room. 

"It _is_ odd to have met you here!" said Kitty, in a laughing voice. "Let us go into the _salon de lecture_. The maids want to clear away. Please bring your newspaper. "

Fräulein Anna looked at them with a momentary curiosity, and went onwith her work. They passed into the passage-way outside, which was fullof smokers overflowing from the crowded room beyond, where the humblerfrequenters of the inn ate and drank. 

Kitty glanced round her in bewilderment. "The _salon de lecture_ will befull, too. Where shall we go?" she said, looking up. 

Ashe's hand clinched as it hung beside him. The old gesture--and thedrawn, emaciated face--they pierced the heart. 

"I told my servant to arrange me a sitting-room up-stairs, " he said, hurriedly, in her ear. "Will you go up first?--number ten. "

She nodded, and began slowly to mount the stairs, coughing as she went. The man whom Ashe had taken for a Genevese professor looked after her, glanced at his neighbor, and shrugged his shoulders. "Phthisique, " hesaid, with a note of pity. The other nodded. "Et d'un type très avancé!"

They moved towards the door and stood looking into the night, which wasdark with intermittent rain. Ashe studied a map of the commune whichhung on the wall beside him, till at a moment when the passage hadbecome comparatively clear he turned and went up-stairs. 

The door of his improvised _salon_ was ajar. Beyond it his valet wascoming out of his bedroom with wet clothes over his arm. Ashe hesitated. But the man had been with him through the greater part of his marriedlife, and was a good heart. He beckoned him back into the room he wasleaving, and the two stepped inside. 

"Dell, my good fellow, I want your help. I have just met my wifehere--Lady Kitty. You understand. Neither of us, of course, had any idea. Lady Kitty is very ill. We wish to have aconversation--uninterrupted. I trust you to keep guard. "

The young man, son of one of the Haggart gardeners, started and flushed, then gave his master a look of sympathy. 

"I'll do my best, sir. "

Ashe nodded and went back to the next room. He closed the door behindhim. Kitty, who was sitting by the fire, half rose. Their eyes met. Thenwith a stifled cry he flung himself down, kneeling beside her, and shesank into his arms. His tears fell on her face, anguish and pityoverwhelmed him. 

"You may!" she said, brokenly, putting up her hand to his cheek, andkissing him--"you may! I'm not mad or wicked now--and I'm dying!"

Agonized murmurs of love, pardon, self-abasement passed between them. Itwas as though a great stream bore them on its breast; an awful andmajestic power enwrapped them, and made each word, each kiss, wonderful, sacramental. He drew himself away at last, holding her hair back fromher brow and temples, studying her features, his own face convulsed. 

"Where have you been? Why did you hide from me?"

"You forbade me, " she said, stroking his hair. "And it was quite right. The dear Dean told me--and I quite understood. If I'd gone to Haggartthen there'd have been more trouble. I should have tried to get my oldplace back. And now it's all over. You can give me all I want, because Ican't live. It's only a question of months, perhaps weeks. Nobody couldblame you, could they? People don't laugh when--it's death. Itsimplifies things so--doesn't it?"

She smiled, and nestled to him again. 

"What do you mean?" he said, almost violently. "Why are you so ill?"

"It was Bosnia first, and then--being miserable--I suppose. And Poitierswas very cold--and the nuns very stuffy, bless them--they wouldn't letme have air enough. "

He groaned aloud while he remembered his winter in London, in theforlorn luxury of the Park Lane house. 

"Where have you been?" he repeated. 

"Oh! I went to the Soeurs Blanches--you remember?--where I used to be. You went there, didn't you?"--he made a sign of miserable assent--"but Imade them promise not to tell! There was an old mistress of novicesthere still who used to be very fond of me. She got one of the houses ofthe Sacré Coeur to take me in--at Poitiers. They thought they weregathering a stray sheep back into the fold, you understand, as I wasbrought up a Catholic--of sorts. And I didn't mind!" The familiarintonation, soft, complacent, humorous, rose like a ghost between them. "I used to like going to mass. But this Easter they wanted to make me'go to my duties'--you know what it means?--and I wouldn't. I wanted toconfess. " She shuddered and drew his face down to hers again--"but onlyonce--to--you--and then, well then, to die, and have done with it. Yousee, I knew one can't get on long with three-quarters of a lung. Andthey were rather tiresome--they didn't understand. So three weeks ago Idrew some money out and said good-bye to them. Oh! they were very kind, and very sorry for me. They wanted me to take a maid, and I meant to. But the one they found wouldn't come with me when she saw how ill Iwas--and it all lingered on--so one day I just walked out to therailway-station and went to Paris. But Paris was rainy--and I felt Imust see the sun again. So I stayed two nights at a little hotel mamanused to go to--horrid place!--and each night I read your speeches in thereading-room--and then I got my things from Poitiers, and started--"

A fit of coughing stopped her, coughing so terrible and destructive thathe almost rushed for help. But she restrained him. She made himunderstand that she wanted certain remedies from her own room across thecorridor. He went for them. The door of this room had been shut by theobservant Dell, who was watching the passage from his own bedroomfarther on. When Ashe had opened it he found himself face to face as itwere with the foaming stream outside. The window, as he had seen itbefore, was wide open to the water-fall just beyond it, and thetemperature was piercingly cold and damp. The furniture was of theroughest, and a few of Kitty's clothes lay scattered about. As hefumbled for a light, there hovered before his eyes the remembrance oftheir room in Hill Street, strewn with chiffons and all the elegant andcostly trifles that made the natural setting of its mistress. 

He found the medicines and hurried back. She feebly gave him directions. "Now the strychnine!--and some brandy. "

He did all he could. He drew some chairs together before the fire, andmade a couch for her with pillows and rugs. She thanked him with smiles, and her eyes followed his every movement. 

"Tell your man to get some milk! And listen"--she caught his hand. "Lockmy door. That nice woman down-stairs will come to look after me, andshe'll think I'm asleep. "

It was done as she wished. Ashe took in the milk from Dell's hands, anda fresh supply of wood. Then he turned the key in his own door and cameback to her. She was lying quiet, and seemed revived. 

"How cosey!" she said, with a childish pleasure, looking round her atthe bare white walls and scoured boards warmed with the fire-light. Thebitter tears swam in Ashe's eyes. He fell into a chair on the other sideof the fire, and stared--seeing nothing--at the burning logs. 

"You needn't suppose that I don't get people to look after me!" she wenton, smiling at him again, one shadowy hand propping her cheek. And sheprattled on about the kindness of the chambermaids at Vevey and Brieg, and how one of them had wanted to come with her as her maid. "Oh! Ishall find one at Florence if I get there--or a nurse. But just forthese few days I wanted to be free! In the winter there were so manypeople about--so many eyes! I just pined to cheat them--get quit ofthem. A maid would have bothered me to stay in bed and see doctors--andyou know, William, with this illness of mine you're so _restless_!"

"Where were you going to?" he said, without looking up. 

"Oh! to Italy somewhere--just to see some flowers again--and the sun. Only not to Venice!"

There was a silence, which she broke by a sudden cry as she drew himdown to her. 

"William! you know--I was coming home to you, when that man--found me. "

"I know. If it had only been I who killed him!"

"I'm just--_Kitty_!" she said, choking--"as bad as bad can be. But Icouldn't have done what Mary Lyster did. "

"Kitty--for God's sake!"

"Oh, I know it, " she said, almost with triumph--"now I _know_ it. Idetermined to know--and I got people in Venice to find out. She sent themessage--that told him where I was--and I know the man who took it. Isuppose it would be pathetic if I sent her word that I had forgiven her. But I _haven't_!"

Ashe cried out that it was wholly and utterly inconceivable. 

[Illustration: "HE DREW SOME CHAIRS TOGETHER BEFORE THE FIRE"]

"Oh no!--she hated me because I had robbed her of Geoffrey. I had killedher life, I suppose--she killed mine. It was what I deserved, ofcourse; only just at that moment--If there is a God, William, how couldHe have let it happen so?"

The tears choked her. He left his seat, and, kneeling beside her, heraised her in his arms, while she murmured broken and anguishedconfessions. 

"I was so weak--and frightened. And _he_ said, it was no good trying togo back to you. Everybody knew I had gone to Verona--and he had followedme--No one would ever believe--And he wouldn't go--wouldn't leave me. Itwould be mere cruelty and desertion, he said. My real life was--withhim. And I seemed--paralyzed. Who _had_ sent that message? It neveroccurred to me--I felt as if some demon held me--and I couldn'tescape--"

And again the sighs and tears, which wrung his heart--with which his ownmingled. He tried to comfort her; but what comfort could there be? Theyhad been the victims of a crime as hideous as any murder; andyet--behind the crime--there stretched back into the past thepreparations and antecedents by which they themselves, alack, hadcontributed to their own undoing. Had they not both trifled with themysterious test of life--he no less than she? And out of the dark hadcome the axe-stroke that ends weakness, and crushes the unsteeled, inconstant will. 

 * * * * *

After long silence, she began to talk in a rambling, delirious way ofher months in Bosnia. She spoke of the _cold_--of the high mountainloneliness--of the terrible sights she had seen--till he drew her, shuddering, closer into his arms. And yet there was that in her talkwhich amazed him; flashes of insight, of profound and passionateexperience, which seemed to fashion her anew before his eyes. The hardpeasant life, in contact with the soil and natural forces; the elementalfacts of birth and motherhood, of daily toil and suffering; what itmeans to fight oppressors for freedom, and see your dearest--son, lover, wife, betrothed--die horribly amid the clash of arms; into this caldronof human fate had Kitty plunged her light soul; and in some ways Ashescarcely knew her again. 

She recurred often to the story of a youth, handsome and beardless, whohad been wounded by a stray Turkish shot in the course of the long climbto the village where she nursed. He had managed to gain the height, andthen, killed by the march as much as by the shot, he had sunk down todie on the ground-floor of the house where Kitty lived. 

"He was a stranger--no one knew him in the village--no one cared. Theyhad their own griefs. I dressed his wound--and gave him water. Hethought I was his mother, and asked me to kiss him. I kissed him, William--and he smiled once--before the last hemorrhage. If you had seenthe cold, dismal room--and his poor face!"

Ashe gathered her to his breast. And after a while she said, with closedeyes:

"Oh, what pain there is in the world, William!--what _pain_! That'swhat--I never knew. "

 * * * * *

The evening wore on. All the noises ceased down-stairs. One by one theguests came up the stone stairs and along the creaking corridor. Bootswere thrown out; the doors closed. The strokes of eleven o'clock rangout from the village campanile; and amid the quiet of the now drizzlingrain the echoes of the bell lingered on the ear. Last of all a woman'sstep passed the door--stopped at the door of Kitty's room, as thoughsome one listened, and then gently returned. "Fräulein Anna!" saidKitty--"she's a good soul. "

Soon nothing was heard but the roar of the flooded stream on one side ofthe old narrow building and the dripping of rain on the other. Their lowvoices were amply covered by these sounds. The night lay before them, safe and undisturbed. Candles burned on the mantel-piece, and on a tablebehind Kitty's head was a paraffine lamp. She seemed to have a cravingfor light. 

"Kitty!" said Ashe, suddenly bending over her--"understand! I shallnever leave you again. "

She started, her head fell back on his arm, and her brown eyesconsidered him:

"William! I saw the _Standard_ at Geneva. Aren't you going home--becauseof politics?"

"A few telegrams will settle that. I shall take you to Geneva to-morrow. We shall get doctors there. "

A little smile played about her mouth--a smile which did not seem tohave any reference to his words or to her next question. 

"Nobody thinks of the book now, do they, William?"

"No, Kitty, no! It's all forgotten, dear. "

"Oh, it was abominable!" She drew a long breath. "But I can't help it--Idid get a horrid pleasure out of writing it--till Venice--till you leftoff loving me. Oh, William! William!--what a good thing it is I'mdying!"

"Hush, Kitty--hush. "

"It gives one such an unfair advantage, though, doesn't it? You can'tever be angry with me again. There won't be time. William, dear!--Ihaven't had a brain like other people. I know it. It's only since I'vebeen so ill--that I've been sane! It's a strange feeling--as though onehad been _bled_--and some poison had drained away. But it would never dofor me to take a turn and live! Oh no!--people like me are better safelyunder the grass. Oh, my beloved! my beloved! I just want to say that allthe time, and nothing else--I've hungered so to say it!"

He answered her with all the anguish, all the passionate, fruitlesstenderness and vain comfortings that rise from the human heart in such astrait. But when he asked her pardon for his hardness towards the Dean'spetition, when he said that his conscience had tormented himthenceforward, she would scarcely hear a word. 

"You did quite right, " she said, peremptorily--"quite right. "

Then she raised herself on her arm and looked at him. 

"William!" she said, with a strange, kindled expression. "I--I don'tthink I can live any more! I think--I'm dying--here--now!"

She fell back on her pillows, and he sprang to his feet, crying that hemust go for Fräulein Anna and a doctor. But she held him feebly, motioning towards the brandy and strychnine. "That's all--you can do. "

He gave them to her, and again she revived and smiled at him. 

"Don't be frightened. It was a sudden feeling--it came over me--thatthis dear little room--and your arms--would be the end. Oh, how muchbest! There!--that was foolish!--I'm better. It isn't only the lungs, you see; they say the heart's worst. I nearly went at Vevey, one night. It was such a long faint. "

Then she lay quiet, with her hand in his, in a dreamy, peacefulstate, and his panic subsided. Once she sent messages to LadyTranmore--messages full of sorrow, touched also--by a word here, a lookthere--by the charm of the old Kitty. 

"I don't deserve to die like this, " she said, once, with ahalf-impatient gesture. "Nothing can prevent it's being beautiful--andtouching--you know; our meeting like this--and your goodness to me. Oh, I'm glad! But I don't want to glorify--what I've done. _Shame! Shame!"_

And again her face contracted with the old habitual agony, only to besoothed away gradually by his tone and presence, the spending of hiswhole being in the broken words of love. 

Towards the morning, when, as it seemed to him, she had been sleepingfor a time, and he had been, if not sleeping, at least dreaming awakebeside her, he heard a little, low laugh, and looked round. Her browneyes were wide open, till they seemed to fill the small, blighted face;and they were fixed on an empty chair the other side of the fire. 

"It's so strange--in this illness, " she whispered--"that it makes onedream--and generally kind dreams. It's fever--but it's nice. " She turnedand looked at him. "Harry was there, William--sitting in that chair. Nota baby any more--but a little fellow--and so lively, and strong, andquick. I had you both--_both_. "

Looking back afterwards, also, he remembered that she spoke severaltimes of religious hopes and beliefs--especially of the hope in anotherlife--and that they seemed to sustain her. Most keenly did he recollectthe delicacy with which she had refrained from asking his opinion uponthem, lest it should trouble him not to be able to uphold or agree withher; while, at the same time, she wished him to have the comfort ofremembering that she had drawn strength and calm, in these last hours, from religious thoughts. 

 * * * * *

For they proved, indeed, to be the last hours. About three the morningbegan to dawn, clear and rosy, with rich lights striking on the snow. Suddenly Kitty sat up, disengaged herself from her wraps, and totteredto her feet. 

"I'll go back to my room, " she said, in bewilderment. "I'd rather. "

And as she clung to him, with a startled yet half-considering look, shegazed round her, at the bright fire, the morning light, the chair fromwhich he had risen--his face. 

He tried to dissuade her. But she would go. Her aspect, however, wasdeathlike, and as he softly undid the doors, and half-helped, half-carried her across the passage, he said to her that he must go andwaken Fräulein Anna and find a doctor. 

"No--no. " She grasped him with all her remaining strength; "stay withme. "

They entered the little room, which seemed to be in a glory of light, for the sun striking across the low roof of the inn had caught the foamywater-fall beyond, and the reflection of it on the white walls andceiling was dazzling. 

Beside the bed she swayed and nearly fell. 

"I won't undress, " she murmured--"I'll just lie down. "

She lay down with his help, turning her face to make a fond, hardlyarticulate sound, and press her cheek against his. In a few minutes itseemed to him that she was sleeping again. He softly went out of theroom and down-stairs. There, early as it was, he found Fräulein Anna, who looked at him with amazement. 

"Where can I find a doctor?" he asked her; and they talked for a fewminutes, after which she went up-stairs beside him, trembling andflushed. 

They found Kitty lying on her side, her face hidden entirely in thecurls which had fallen across it, and one arm hanging. There was that inher aspect which made them both recoil. Then Ashe rushed to her with acry, and as he passionately kissed her cold cheek he heard the clamor ofthe frightened girl behind him. "Ach, Gott!--Ach Gott!"--and the voicesof others, men and women, who began to crowd into the narrow room. 

THE END