_The Missionary_

 BY

 George Griffith

 AUTHOR OF

 "_The Angel of the Revolution_, " "_The Rose of Judah_, " "_The Destined Maid_, " "_The Justice of Revenge_, " "_Brothers of the Chain_, " "_Captain Ishmael_, " _etc. , etc. _

 _London_ F. V. WHITE & CO. , LTD. 14, Bedford Street, Strand, W. C. 1902

 PRINTED BY KELLY'S DIRECTORIES LIMITED, LONDON AND KINGSTON. 

CONTENTS

 PAGE

 PROLOGUE 1

 CHAPTER I. 4

 CHAPTER II. 22

 CHAPTER III. 31

 CHAPTER IV. 48

 CHAPTER V. 67

 CHAPTER VI. 86

 CHAPTER VII. 96

 CHAPTER VIII. 106

 CHAPTER IX. 115

 CHAPTER X. 125

 CHAPTER XI. 134

 CHAPTER XII. 144

 CHAPTER XIII. 156

 CHAPTER XIV. 167

 CHAPTER XV. 177

 CHAPTER XVI. 188

 CHAPTER XVII. 202

 CHAPTER XVIII. 214

 CHAPTER XIX. 222

 CHAPTER XX. 230

 CHAPTER XXI. 238

 CHAPTER XXII. 249

 CHAPTER XXIII. 260

 CHAPTER XXIV. 276

 CHAPTER XXV. 289

 EPILOGUE. 302

THE MISSIONARY. 

PROLOGUE. 

"Oh--Eny!"

"Well, you needn't be angry, Vane. I kissed _you_ this morning, youknow. "

"That's no reason why you should kiss that chap, too! You're _my_sweetheart. "

"Is she? Well, she won't be much longer, because I'm going to have her. "

"Are you? Shut up, or I'll punch your head. "

"You can't--and, anyhow, you daren't. "

Smack!

It was a good swinging blow with the open hand across the cheek, and itleft a vivid flush behind it on the somewhat sallow skin. 

"Oh, if you're going to fight I shall go away, and I shan't be friendswith either of you. "

But as the two lads closed, the blue-eyed, golden-haired little beautyonly shrank back a little nearer to the after-wheelhouse of the homewardbound P. And O. Liner whose deck was the scene of this first act of thetragedy of three lives. A bright flush came into her cheeks, and a newlight began to dance in her eyes as the first look of fright died out ofthem. The breath came and went more quickly between the half-openedlips with a low sibilant sound. They were pretty, well-cut lips, theupper short and exquisitely curved, and the lower full with the promiseof a sensuous maturity. 

She was only seven, but she was woman enough already to know that thesetwo lads were fighting for _her_--for the favour of her smiles and theright to her kisses--and so she stayed. 

She had heard in India how the tigers fought for their mates, and, withthe precocity of the Anglo-Indian child, she recognised now the likenessbetween tigers and men--and boys. She was being fought for. These twolads, albeit they had neither of them seen their eleventh birthday, wereusing all their strength against each other, hammering each other'sfaces with their fists, wrestling and writhing, now upstanding and nowon the deck at her feet, were not unlike the tigers she had heard herfather tell her mother about. 

She saw the hatred in their eyes, red and swollen by the impact ofwell-planted blows. She watched the gleam of their teeth between theircut and bleeding lips. They hated each other because they loved her--or, in their boyish way, most firmly believed they did. Their lips were cutand bleeding because she had kissed them. 

The fascination of the fight grew upon her. The hot young blood began todance in her veins. She found herself encouraging now one and then theother--always the one who was getting the worst of it for the timebeing--and when at last the younger and slighter but more wiry andactive of them, the one who had caught the other kissing her, tookadroit advantage of a roll of the ship and pitched his antagonistbackwards so heavily against the wheelhouse that he droppedhalf-stunned to the deck, she looked proudly at the panting, bleedingvictor, and gasped:

"Oh, Vane, I'm so glad you've won. You haven't quite killed him, haveyou? I suppose the captain would hang you if you did. I'm _so_ sorry itwas all about me. I'll never let any one else but you kiss me again. Really I won't. You may kiss me now if you like. Take my handkerchief. Oh, I don't mind the cuts. You did it for me. There! It was brave ofyou, for he's bigger than you. Poor Reggie, let's help him up. I supposeyou'll both have to go to the doctor. "

"We shall both get a jolly good licking more likely. Still, I don't careas long as you won't let him kiss you again. "

"No, Vane, indeed I won't, nor anyone else for ever and ever if you'llonly forgive me this time. "

And then, for the first time since the fight began, her big bright blueeyes filled and grew dim with tears. 

CHAPTER I. 

It was the evening of Boat-race day, and as usual that province ofVanity Fair whose centre is Piccadilly Circus was more or lesscompletely given over to joyously boisterous troops of undergraduatesand 'Varsity men of all academic ranks whom the great event of the yearhad brought together from all parts of the kingdom, and even from landsbeyond the sea. 

The mild saturnalia which London annually permits in honour of thehistoric struggle between the rival blues was at its height. The musichalls were crowded to their utmost capacity, and lusty-voicedundergraduates joined enthusiastically, if not altogether tunefully, inthe choruses of the songs; but the enthusiasm was perhaps highest andthe crowd the greatest at the Palace, where start and race and themagnificent finish with which the struggle had ended were being shown bythe American Biograph. 

As the series of pictures followed each other on the screen, the crieswhich a few hours before had been roaring along the two banks of theriver from Putney to Mortlake burst out anew from pit and gallery, circles and stalls and boxes. Cambridge had won for once after a longseries of defeats, but the Oxford boys and men were cheering just aslustily and yelling themselves just as hoarse as the others, for theywere all Englishmen and therefore good sportsmen. 

The crush in the First Circle was terrific, but for the moment VaneMaxwell was conscious neither of the heat nor the crowding. His wholesoul was in his eyes as he watched the weirdly silent and yet life-likephantoms flitting across the screen. It was only when the finish hadfaded into swift darkness and the thunders of applause had begun to diedown that he became aware of the fact that someone was standing on oneof his feet, and that just behind him someone else had got hold of hisarm and was holding it with a convulsive sort of clutch. 

Just then there was a lull in the applause, and he caught a faintlymurmured "Oh, dear" in a feminine voice. He wrenched his foot free, andturned round just in time to slip his arm round the waist of a faintinggirl and save her from falling. 

The crush was loosening now, for the great attraction of the evening hadpassed, and a general move was being made towards the bars. 

"If you please there, this young lady's fainting. Give her as much roomas you can, please, " he said loudly enough to be heard for some littledistance round. 

A number of undergraduates of both Universities managed to immediatelyclear a space about them, and one of his own college chums at Balliolwho had come in with him said, "Take her to the bar, Maxwell, and giveher a drop of brandy. Now, move up there, you fellows. Room for beautyin distress--come along!"

A couple of the stalwart attendants had also arrived on the scene bythis time, and so a lane was easily made to the nearest bar. The girlopened her eyes again, looked about her for a moment, and thenmurmured:

"Oh, thank you so much, I think I can walk. I am getting all right now. It was the crowd and the heat. Please don't trouble. It's very good ofyou. "

"It's no trouble at all, " said Maxwell. "Come and let me give you a dropof brandy. That'll put you all right. "

As they went into the bar they were followed by not a few curiousglances. Men and lads looked at each other and smiled, and women lookedat them and each other, also smiling, but with plainer meaning, and oneor two expressed themselves openly as to the neatness with which thewhole affair had been managed. 

Crowded as the bar was, Maxwell had no difficulty in getting a couple ofbrandies and a split soda for himself and his companion. Two men sittingat one of the tables had got up to let her sit down. One of them heldout his hand to Maxwell and said:

"Why, Vane, old man, is it you? In luck, as usual, I see. " He said thiswith a glance towards the girl which brought the blood to Maxwell'scheeks. Still, he took the other's hand, and said good-humouredly:

"Good evening, Garthorne. Up for the race, I suppose? Fine fight, wasn'tit? I'm glad you won, it was getting a bit monotonous. Thanks forletting us have the table. This young lady is not very well, felt a bitfaint in the crowd. "

"I see, " said Garthorne, with another look at her which Maxwell did notaltogether like. "Well, good night, old man. Be as good as you can. "

As the two moved away Maxwell's memory went back to a scene which hadoccurred behind the wheelhouse of a P. And O. Liner about ten yearsbefore, and, without exactly knowing why, he felt as if it would givehim a certain amount of satisfaction to repeat it. Then he turned to thegirl and said:

"I beg your pardon; I hope you haven't been waiting. You should havetaken a drink at once. "

"Oh, thanks, that's all right. I'm a lot better now, " she said, takingup the tumbler and smiling over it at him. "Well, here's luck! It wasawfully good of you to get me out of that crowd. I believe I should havefallen down if it hadn't been for you. "

"Oh, please don't mention that, " he said; "only too happy--I mean I wasvery glad I was there to do it. Here's to your complete recovery. "

As he drank their eyes met over the glasses. Until now he had not reallylooked at her; things had been happening rather too rapidly for that. But now, as he put his glass down and began to scrutinize thehalf-saucy, half-demure, and altogether charming face on the other sideof the table, it suddenly dawned upon him that it was exceedingly likehis own. 

The nut-brown hair was almost the same shade as his, but it had a gleamof gold in it which his lacked. The dark hazel eyes were bigger andsofter, and were shaded by longer and darker lashes than his, but theircolour and expression were very similar. The rest of the face, too, wasvery similar, only while his nose was almost perfectly straight, nearlypure Greek in fact, hers was just the merest trifle _retroussé_. 

The mouths and chins were almost identical save for the fact thatfirmness and strength in his were replaced by softness and sweetness inhers. Not that hers were lacking in firmness, for a skilledphysiognomist would have put her down at the first glance as a younglady of very decided character; but the outlines were softer, the lipswere more delicate and more mobile, and, young as he was, there was agravity in his smile which was replaced in hers by a suspicion ofdefiant recklessness which was not without its mournful meaning forthose who had eyes to see. 

"That's done me a lot of good, " she said, as she finished her brandy andsoda. "Now, I mustn't keep you from your friends any longer. I'm verymuch obliged to you indeed. Good night!"

He rose as she did, and took the neatly-gloved little hand that she heldout to him over the table. 

"I don't see why we should say good night just yet unless youparticularly wish it, " he said. "I only came here with a lot of ourfellows to see the Biograph, and I shan't stop now that's over. I'mgetting jolly hungry, too. If you have no other engagement suppose wewere to go and have a bit of supper somewhere?"

For some reason or other which she was quite unable to define, thesewords, although they were spoken with perfect politeness, and althoughshe had heard them scores of times before without offence, now almostoffended her. And yet there was no real reason why they should. 

She had been out to supper with pretty nearly all sorts and conditionsof men. Why should she not go with this well-groomed, athletic-lookingyoung fellow who had already done her a considerable service, who wasobviously a gentleman, and whose face and expression had now begun tostrike her as so curiously like her own?

She really had no other engagement for the evening, and to refuse wouldbe, to say the least of it, ungracious; so, after a moment'shesitation, she took her hand away and said with a quick upward glanceof her eyes:

"Very well, I was just beginning to think about supper myself when Iturned up out there in that absurd way, so we may as well have ittogether. Where were you thinking of going? Suppose we were to try thegrill-room at the Troc. Of course everywhere will be pretty crowdedto-night, but we have as good a chance of getting a table there asanywhere else. Besides, I know one or two of the waiters. I often gothere to lunch. "

"Very well, " he said; "come along. " And in a few minutes more they wererolling along in a hansom down Shaftesbury Avenue. 

Vane Maxwell was in very good humour that night with himself and all theworld. He had taken a double first in Mods. , in History and Classics, after crowning a brilliant career at Eton with a Balliol Scholarship. Hewas stroke of his college boat, and had worked her four places up theriver. In another year he might be in the 'Varsity Eight itself, andhelp to avenge the defeat which the Dark Blues had just suffered. Thesweetheart he had won in that Homeric little battle behind thewheelhouse had been faithful to him ever since. He had an abundance ofpocket money and the prospect of a fair fortune, and altogether theworld appeared to be a very pleasant place indeed to live in. 

When they got into the cab the girl half expected that he would slip hisarm round her as others were wont to do when they had the chance, but hedidn't, and she liked him all the better for it. He did, however, puthis hand through her arm and draw her just a little closer to him. Thenhe leant back in the cab, and, as the light from a big gin palace lampflashed on to her face, he said:

"Well, this _is_ jolly. I'm so glad you came. I feel just in the humourfor a good supper in pleasant society. "

"Thank you, " she said, with a little toss of her head; "but how do youknow my society is going to be pleasant?"

"Oh, it couldn't be anything else, " he laughed. "You are far too prettynot to be nice. "

"Thanks, " she said gravely. "Are all the pretty girls you know nice?Don't you find some of them horribly conceited and dull? Lots of fellowsI know say so. "

"Lots of fellows!" he echoed. "Then you have a pretty extensiveacquaintance----"

"Why, of course I have, " she interrupted, cutting him short almostroughly. Then she went on with a swift change of tone, "Don't you seethat a--a girl like me has _got_ to know plenty of fellows? It's--well, it's business, and that's the brutal truth of it. "

She turned her head away and looked out of the cab window as though shedidn't want him to see the expression that came over her face as shesaid the last few words. 

But though he did not see the change in her face, the change in hervoice struck him like a jarring note in a harmony that he was beginningto find very pleasant. He felt a sort of momentary resentment. He knew, of course, that it was the "brutal truth, " but just then he dislikedbeing reminded of it--especially by her. She seemed a great deal toonice for _that_ to be true of her. There was a little pause, rather anawkward one, during which he tried to think of the proper thing to say. Of course he didn't succeed, so he just blurted out:

"Oh, never mind about brutal truths just now, little girl. "

There was another pause, during which she still kept her head turnedaway. Then he went on with a happy inconsequence:

"By the way, has it struck you yet that we're rather like each other?"

"Is that a compliment to me or to yourself?" she said, half gravely, andyet with a belying gleam of mischief in her eyes. 

"Oh, a likeness like that could only be a compliment to me, of course, "he replied, and before the conversation could proceed any farther thecab stopped at the entrance to the Trocadero. 

By great good luck they procured one of the little side tables in theinner room just as another couple were leaving it. One of the waitershad recognised her as she came in, and, with the astute alacrity of hiskind, had taken possession of them and pre-empted the table beforeanyone else could get near it. There were, in fact, others waiting whohad a prior right, but the gentleman in the plum coat and gold buttonsmade it impossible for the superintendent of the room to interfere bysaying to Maxwell in his blandest tone:

"Good evening, sir; it's all right, sir. This is the table you engaged. "

"He's a smart youth, that Fritz, " said the girl as they sat down. "Thesefellows here know which side their bread's buttered on, and they lookafter their own customers. "

"Yes, he seems to know his business, " said Maxwell, "and now I supposethe question is, what are we going to have?"

Fritz had come back, and was swiftly and rapidly removing the débrisleft behind by their predecessors. The girl looked up at him with an airof familiarity which Maxwell didn't altogether like, and said:

"What's good for supper, Fritz? I am hungry. "

"A few oysters, miss, grilled sole, and a nice little porterhouse steakbetween two. How's that, miss?"

She looked across at Maxwell and nodded, and he said, "Yes, I think thatwill do very nicely. Let's have the oysters at once, and some brownbread and butter. "

"Yes, sir, certainly. Any wine, sir?"

The list was presented, opened, of course, at the champagne page. 

"You'll have something fizzy, won't you?" he said, looking up from thelist. 

"I suppose we may as well, " she said, "only I don't want you to think metoo extravagant. "

"Nonsense, " he laughed, and then he told the waiter to bring a bottle ofKock Fils '89. 

When the man had gone on his errand Maxwell said somewhat diffidently:

"By the way, we seem to be getting to know each other pretty well, butwe've not exactly been introduced. I mean we don't know each other'snames yet. "

"Oh, introductions are not much in fashion in the world that I live in, "she said with a little flush. "Of course you don't need telling whichhalf of the world that is. "

For the moment he felt an unreasonable resentment, either at the wordsor the half defiant way in which she spoke them. He was quite old enoughboth in years and the ways of the world to know exactly what she meant, and he was perfectly well aware that she would not have accepted hisinvitation to supper any more than she would have been in the promenadeof a music hall unescorted if she had been what is conventionallytermed respectable. Yet somehow he wanted to forget the fact and treather with the respect he would have paid to any ordinary acquaintance inhis own social sphere. 

This feeling was probably due both to an innate chivalry and to the factthat one of his father's favourite precepts was, "My boy, whatevercompany you're in, never forget that you're a gentleman. " Mingled withit there may also have been a dash of masculine vanity. The more helooked at the girl the more striking did her likeness to himself appear. Really, if he had had a sister she could not have been more like him, but he knew that he was an only child, and, besides, that thought wasaltogether unthinkable. 

After a little pause, during which their eyes met and their cheeksflushed in a somewhat boy-and-girlish fashion, he laughed a trifleawkwardly and said:

"Well, then, we shall have to introduce ourselves, I suppose. My name isMaxwell--Vane Maxwell. "

"Vane!" she echoed, "how funny! My name is Vane too--Carol Vane. It'snot a sham one either, such as a lot of girls like me take. It's myown--at least, I have always been called Carol, and Vane was my mother'sname. "

"I see, " said Maxwell, after another little pause, during which theoysters came and the waiter opened the wine. When he had filled the twoglasses and vanished, Maxwell lifted his and said:

"Well, Miss Carol, it is rather curious that we should both have thesame names, and also, if I may say so without flattering myself too much, be so much like each other. At any rate I shall venture to hope thatyour little accident at the Palace has enabled me to make a verycharming acquaintance. "

"That's very prettily put, Mr. Vane Maxwell, " she said, nodding andsmiling at him over her glass. "And now that we've been introduced in asort of way, as we haven't got any more interesting subject to talkabout, suppose we talk about ourselves. Which are you, Oxford orCambridge?"

The conversation thus started rattled merrily along for over an hour. Without thinking any disloyalty to his own Enid, who was now a fair andstately maiden of eighteen, he found it quite impossible to resist thestrange charm of Miss Carol's manner. She was obviously a lady byinstinct, and she had also been educated after a sort. She had readwidely if not altogether wisely, and she seemed just as familiar withthe literature, or, at any rate, with the fiction of France and Italy asshe was with that of England. 

This she explained was due to the fact that until she was about twelve, that is to say some seven years ago, she had been constantly living andwandering about in these two countries with her mother and sometimesalso with a gentleman who, as she put it, was pretty probably herfather. She explained further that at the mature age of thirteen she hadrun away from a French school in which she had been placed by someunknown agency and joined a wandering English circus-troop with whichshe had travelled half over Europe, leading a more or less miserableexistence for some five years. She had then terminated her connectionwith the Ring by going into housekeeping with an English art-student inParis. Meanwhile she had lost all trace of her mother, and had come tothe conclusion that she had by this time drunk herself to death. 

"I scarcely ever knew her to be quite sober, " she said pathetically, and then she changed the subject. 

It was not a very cheerful story, as story, but Miss Carol told it withsuch a quaint humour and such a vivacity of expression and gesture that, despite the under-note of tragedy, Maxwell thought it the mostinteresting story he had ever heard in his life. 

As the courses disappeared and the empty bottle of wine was succeeded bya half bottle "just for the last, " as Maxwell said, the conversationgrew gayer and perhaps also a trifle freer, although Miss Carol neverpermitted herself any of those freedoms of expression with which toomany of the so-called Daughters of Delight vulgarise themselves sohopelessly. When the half bottle was finished Maxwell wanted another, and to this Miss Carol promptly and firmly objected. 

"If you will excuse me saying so to a new acquaintance, " she said, "Iwouldn't if I were you. We have both of us had enough of this stuff, nice and all as it is--at least, I have, and I think I'm more used to itthan you. A coffee and liqueur if you like. That won't hurt us--in fact, it'll do us good; but I can see something in your eyes that shouldn't bethere. "

"What do you mean?" said Maxwell, a trifle offended. "Surely you're notgoing to accuse me of the unpardonable crime of getting drunk in thecompany of a lady. "

"Thank you!" she said simply, and yet with a decided dignity. "No, Idon't mean that. It's a funny thing, you know, " she went on, leaning herelbows on the table and staring straight into his eyes, "but there's aqueer kind of light coming into your eyes, a sort of dancing, jumpingyellow flame that makes them look almost red. Well, your eyes arealmost exactly like mine, and mine are like my mother's, and whenevershe'd got so far on with drink that she couldn't stop I used to see thatlight in her eyes. Of course I don't say that it means anything; still, there it is. I used to call it the danger signal, and keep away from heras much as I could till it was over, and I had to nurse her back tosomething like life. "

"That's rather approaching the creepy, " said Maxwell, with an almostimperceptible shrug of his shoulders. He had no feeling of offence now. She looked so pretty and she spoke so earnestly that it was impossibleto be offended with her. Moreover, although he was far from even gettingdrunk, he felt a dreamy sensation stealing over him which seemed to besapping his self-restraint and making him utterly careless of what hedid or what happened to him so long as it was only pleasant. 

"Really, it is decidedly curious, " he went on. "I hope I haven't got themakings of a dipsomaniac in me. But I feel quite curiously happy, and Ibelieve I could just go on drinking and getting happier and happieruntil I landed in Paradise with you standing just inside the gates towelcome me. "

"Don't!" she said almost sharply. "For goodness sake don't begin to talklike that. That's just how my mother used to feel, just how she used totalk, and she did go on--of course, there was no one to stop her. Youshould have seen her a couple of days after--a savage, an animal, a wildbeast, only wild beasts don't get drunk. It's not a nice thing to say ofyour mother, even such a mother as mine was, but it's true, and I'mtelling you because I like you, and it may do you some good. "

"Thank you, Miss Carol! After that I shall certainly take your advice, "he said, pouring his cognac into his coffee. "This is the last drinkto-night, and that reminds me; it's getting rather late. How about goinghome?"

"I think it's about time, " she said. "They close at twelve to-night, youknow. Which way do you go?"

"Which way do _you_ go?" he said, as he beckoned to the waiter for thebill. "By the way, I was going to ask you--I hope you have never seenthat light, that danger signal, in your own eyes?"

She ignored his first question _in toto_, and replied:

"Yes, I saw it once when I got home after a pretty wild supper. Itfrightened me so that I went 'T. T. ' for nearly a month, and just now Iwouldn't drink another glass of that champagne if you gave me a thousandpounds to drink it. "

"Well, I'm sure I shan't ask you after what you've said, " he laughed, ashe threw a couple of shillings on the plate which the waiter presented, and took up his bill. Then he got up and helped her on with her cloak, and as she shook her shapely shoulders into it he went on:

"But you haven't answered my question yet. "

"Which question?" she said, turning sharply round. 

"Which way do you go--or do you intend to stop out a bit later?" hereplied rather haltingly. "I thought perhaps I might have thepleasure----"

"Of seeing me home?" she said, raising her eyes to his and flushinghotly. "I'm afraid that's impossible. But go and get your coat and hat, and let's go outside. It's horribly close in here. "

He paid his bill at the pay-box near the door, and when they got outinto the street he took her by the arm and said, as they turned downtowards the Circus:

"And may I ask why it is impossible, Miss Carol. I thought just now yousaid that you liked me a bit. "

"So I do, " she replied, with a little thrill in her voice; "and that'sjust why, or partly why--and besides, we're too much alike. Why, wemight be brother and sister----"

"That is quite out of the question, " he interrupted quickly; "I neverhad a sister. I am an only child, and my mother died soon after I wasborn. She died in India nearly twenty years ago. "

"I can't help it, " she said, almost passionately. "Of course we can'tpossibly be any relation, the idea's absurd; but still, it's no use--Icouldn't, I daren't. Besides, have you forgotten what you were tellingme about your fight on the steamer with that man we met at the Palace?Aren't you in love with the girl still? I quite understood you wereengaged to her. "

"Yes, " said Maxwell frankly, "I am, and perhaps I ought to be ashamed ofmyself. That is two lessons you've taught me to-night, Miss Carol, and Ishan't forget either them or you. Still, I don't see why we shouldn't befriends. Honestly, I like you very much, and you've said you likeme--why shouldn't we?"

"Yes, that's true; I like you all right, " she replied with almostembarrassing frankness; "but for all that it's something very differentfrom love at first sight. It's funny, but do you know, Vane--I supposeif we're going to be friends I may call you Vane--although I think Icould get to like you very much in one way, however different thingswere, I don't believe I could ever fall in love with you. But if youonly mean friends, just real pals, as we say in my half of the world, Iam there, always supposing that the friendship of such an entirelyimproper young person as I am doesn't do you any harm. "

"Harm, nonsense!" he said. "Why should it? Well, that's a bargain, andnow perhaps you won't object to tell me where you live. "

"Oh, no, not now, " she said. "I live at 15, Melville Gardens, BrookGreen, with a very nice girl that you may also be friends with if you'regood. "

"Brook Green! Why, that's off the Hammersmith Road. We, that is to saydad and myself, live in Warwick Gardens, a bit this side of AddisonBridge, so if you really mean to go home we may as well get a hansom, and you can drop me at Warwick Gardens and go on. "

"Of course I mean to go home, and I think that would be a very goodarrangement. "

They had crossed over to the pavement in front of the Criterion as shesaid this. It was on the tip of Maxwell's tongue to ask her to come inand have another drink. He certainly felt a greater craving for alcoholthan he had ever done in his life before, and if he had been alone hemight have yielded to it; but he was ashamed to do so after what he hadjust said to her, so he hailed an empty cab that was just coming up tothe kerb. As he was handing his companion in, the door of the buffetswung open, and Reginald Garthorne came out with two other Cambridgemen. They were all a trifle fresh, and as Garthorne recognised him hecalled out:

"By-by, Maxwell. Don't forget to say your prayers. "

Maxwell turned round angrily with his foot on the step. If he had hadthat other drink that he wanted there would have been a row, but, as itwas, a word and a gesture from Miss Carol brought him into the cab. There was an angry flush on her cheeks and a wicked light in her eyes, but she said very quietly, "Do you know, I am glad you thrashed thatfellow once. He ought to be ashamed of himself shouting a thing likethat out here. I suppose he thinks himself a gentleman, too. "

"Oh, that's all right, " said Vane. "Garthorne's a bit screwed, that'sall. Everyone is to-night. But he's not at all a bad fellow. His fatherwas a soldier in India, and did some very good service. He has a staffappointment at home. He's a baronet too--one of the old ones. His mothercomes of a good stock as well. We've been very good chums since thatfirst row. Fellows who fight as boys generally are. "

"Oh, I daresay he's all right, but I didn't like it, " said Miss Carol, leaning back in the cab. "And now suppose you tell me something moreabout yourself. "

When the cab pulled up at the corner of Warwick Gardens and he saidgood-night, he asked her for a kiss. She blushed like afourteen-year-old school girl as she replied:

"That's a great compliment, Vane, for I know how you mean it. But if youdon't mind I really think I'd rather not, at least not just yet. Yousee, after all we've only known each other two or three hours. Waituntil you know me at least a little better before you ask again, andthen perhaps we'll see. "

"Well, I daresay you're right, Miss Modesty, " he laughed, as he got out. "In fact, you always seem to be right. Good-night, Carol. "

"Good-night, Vane. " As he stepped backwards from the cab she leantforward and smiled and waved her hand. A gentleman walking quickly fromthe direction of the bridge looked up and saw her pretty laughing faceas the light of a lamp fell upon it. He stopped almost as suddenly asthough he had run up against some invisible obstacle, and passed hishand across his eyes. Then the cab doors closed, the face vanished backinto the shadow of the interior, and, to his utter amazement, Maxwellheard his father's voice say:

"God bless my soul. What a marvellous likeness!"

CHAPTER II. 

"Well, Vane!"

"Well, dad!"

"May I ask who that young lady in the cab with you was?"

Vane saw at once that he was in for it, and even if he had wished forany concealment, it was impossible under the circumstances. As a matterof fact, however, he had already made up his mind to tell his father thewhole story of his little adventure, and so he said very gravely anddeliberately:

"That, dad, is a young lady whose acquaintance I made to-night at thePalace. She nearly fainted in the crush just after the Biograph wasover. She happened to be close behind me, and so of course she held onto me. I took her into one of the bars and gave her a brandy and soda. Then we noticed mutually how curiously like each other we were, andthen--well, then I asked her to supper and she came. We have just drivenhere from the Trocadero. She has gone on to where she lives in MelvilleGardens, Brook Green. I can tell you a lot more about her afterwards, ifyou like. "

Sir Arthur Maxwell, Bart. , K. C. B. , K. C. S. I. , looked keenly into hisson's face while he was giving this rapid summary of his evening'sadventure. There was and always had been the most absolute confidencebetween them. Ever since Vane had been old enough they had beencompanions and chums, rather than father and son, and so Sir Arthur hadnot the slightest doubt but that Vane was telling the absolute truth. Hewas only looking to see whether the telling of the truth embarrassed himor not, and he was well pleased to see that it did not. 

"Quite an interesting experience, I must say, " he said, a littlegruffly. "Well, I'm glad to see, at any rate, that you didn't accompanythe young lady home. I presume you were invited. "

"On the contrary, dad, " replied Vane, this time with a little hesitationin his tone, "to tell you the honest truth----"

"That was a needless opening, Vane. My son could not tell anything else. Go on. "

"Well, the fact is, dad, it was the other way about. I suggested it, andshe refused point blank. I'm afraid I'd had rather too much fizz on topof too many brandies and sodas before supper. "

"That will do, Vane, " said his father, a little stiffly. "At any rate, thank God you are not drunk or anything like it. But this is hardly thesort of thing to discuss in the street. We'll go into the Den and have achat and a smoke before we go to bed. You know I'm not squeamish aboutthese things. I know that a lad of twenty is made of flesh and bloodjust as a man of thirty or forty is, and although I consider what iscalled sowing wild oats foolish as well as a most ungentlemanly pastime, still, I equally don't believe in the innocence of ignorance, at leastnot for a man. "

"You seem to forget, dad, " replied Vane, answering him in something verylike his own tone, "just as I'm sorry to say I forgot for a minute ortwo to-night that I am engaged to Enid. "

"Quite right, boy, " said his father as they went in at the gate. "Ididn't forget it though, and I'm glad you remembered it. "

"Only I ought to have said that it was the girl who reminded me of it, "said Vane, as he put his latch-key into the door. 

When they got into the Den, which was a sort of combination room, partlya library and partly study and smoking-room with a quaint suggestion ofOriental fantasy about it, Sir Arthur, according to his wont at thattime of night, unlocked the spirit case, and mixed himself a whiskey andsoda. As he did so, Vane found his eyes fixed on one of the brightcut-glass bottles which contained brandy. He would have given anythingto be able to mix a brandy and soda for himself and drink it withoutbelieving, or at any rate fearing, that after all there might besomething in Miss Carol's warning. 

As Sir Arthur lit his cigar, he said in a rather forced tone:

"I suppose after what you've said it's no use asking you to have anightcap, Vane?"

There was a little pause, during which Vane looked hard at thespirit-case. Then, with the gesture of one under strong emotion, he gotup from his chair and said in a voice whose tone made his father lookquickly towards him:

"I don't think I've ever knowingly disobeyed you in my life, dad, but ifyou were to order me to drink a drop of spirit to-night, I shouldn't doit. "

"Why not, Vane?"

"Just look into my eyes, dad, and tell me if you see anything strangeabout them. "

"What on earth do you mean, boy--there's nothing the matter with youreyes, is there?" said Sir Arthur, looking up with a visible start, "whathas put that idea into your head?"

"I'll tell you afterwards, dad, meanwhile, just have a look, " repliedVane, coming and standing under the light. 

He felt his father's hands tremble as he laid them on his shoulder, andas he looked into his eyes a tinge of greyness seemed to stealunderneath the sun-bronze of his skin. In the clear depths of the lad'shazel eyes he saw a faint, nickering, wavering light, which gave ayellow tinge to them. 

A reflection from the flames of hell itself could not have had a moreawful meaning for him than that faint little yellow glimmer, but ArthurMaxwell was a strong man, a man who had fought plague and famine, stormand flood, treachery and revolt in the service of his Queen, and after amoment or two he was able to say quite quietly:

"Well, what's the matter, Vane? They look, perhaps, a little brighterthan usual; but I don't suppose that's anything more than the excitementof the evening. "

"Don't you see something like a little yellow flame in them?"

"Well, yes, I do, " said Sir Arthur, looking away, "a reflection from thegaslight, probably. But come, Vane, what is all this about? Sit down andtell me. And, by the way, I want to hear the story of this newacquaintance of yours. Take a cigar; that won't hurt you. "

Vane took a cheroot and lit it and sat down in an easy chair oppositehis father, his eyes still wandering as though of their own accordtowards the spirit-case. Then he began somewhat inconsequentially:

"Dad, what do you think that girl's name is?"

"Naturally, I haven't the remotest notion, " replied his father. "I onlyknow that she is exceedingly good looking, and I must say that from theglimpse I had of her, she seems very like yourself. "

"Is that what you meant, dad, when you said, 'Bless my soul what alikeness, ' or something like that when the cab stopped?"

Sir Arthur did not reply at once. His eyes were gazing vacantly up at awreath of blue smoke from his cigar, then he replied suddenly:

"Eh? Oh, well, probably. You see, my boy, I was just a bit startled atseeing you get out, and when I saw your two faces in the lamplight, Iconfess that I was decidedly struck by the likeness. "

Vane did not find this reply entirely convincing, for he remembered thatas he got out of the cab his back was towards his father, and thatCarol's face was no longer visible when he turned round and faced him. Still, he was far too well bred to put his father through anything likea cross-examination, and so he went on. 

"Well, as I told you, I met this young lady--for although she is whatrespectable Society in its mercy call 'an unfortunate'--I am certain she_is_ a lady--at the Palace, and we went and had supper in the Grill Roomat the Trocadero, and there, as we had no one to introduce us, weintroduced ourselves. "

"The usual thing under such circumstances, I believe, " said Sir Arthur, taking a sip at his whiskey. "Well?"

"I told her that my name was Vane Maxwell, and she said, 'Now that'scurious, my name's Vane, too. '"

"What is that--her name!" said Sir Arthur with a start that nearly madehim drop his glass. "Vane is not a girl's name. "

"No, that's her surname. Her whole name is Carol Vane. Pretty, isn't it?Vane, she says, was her mother's name, and a nice sort of person sheseems to have been. Poor Carol herself must have had a terrible time ofit. There was no possibility of doubting a word of her story, she toldit all so simply and so naturally, and yet it was tragedy all through. 

"Well, we'd had a large bottle of fizz and a small one between us, andI'm afraid I was getting a bit on, for I wanted another. I wasn't drunk, you know, or anything like it. It didn't seem as though I could getdrunk; only more and more gorgeously happy, and when I told Miss Carol, she put her elbows on the table and stared into my eyes and told me thatthey were just like her mother's, and that there was a light coming intothem which she always used to see in hers when she was starting on oneof her drinking bouts. 

"Then she told me point blank that I'd had enough and said that shewouldn't drink another glass of fizz for a thousand pounds. We wound upwith a coffee and liqueur, and afterwards when we came out I felt analmost irresistible craving for a brandy and soda, but I also feltconvinced that if I took one I should go on all night. 

"Still, somehow, what Miss Carol had been saying, although it hadn'texactly frightened me, certainly stopped me going into the Criterion andhaving one; besides, she was with me still, and I knew if I asked hershe'd say 'No, ' and somehow I daren't leave her and go in by myself. Soas she lives out Brook Green way, we got into a cab and drove home. And, would you believe it, she wouldn't even give me a kiss when we saidgood-night. She is a most extraordinary girl, I can quite imagine anyfellow falling really and honestly in love with her. "

While Vane was telling his story, his father had sat motionless, staringhard into the fireplace. He had apparently taken not the slightestinterest in what he was saying. He had never once looked up, but as thestory went on his face had grown greyer and greyer, and the lines in itharder and deeper, and every now and then the hand on which his cheekwas leaning had trembled a little. 

When Vane stopped speaking he looked up with a start, like a man wakingout of an evil dream, and said in a husky, unsteady voice, which wasquite strange to Vane:

"It is quite possible, my boy, that this girl, whatever else she may be, was really your guardian angel to-night. At your age, a craving fordrink is a very terrible thing, and you must exert the whole strength ofyour nature to conquer it. You must fight against it and pray against itas you would against the worst of sins. You have a splendid careerbefore you, but drink would ruin it and you. Still, we won't talk anymore about this to-night. I am not feeling particularly well. I wentround to dine with Raleigh, in Addison Gardens, to-night--by the way, Enid's coming back in a few days--and perhaps I caught a little chillwalking home. I think I'd better turn in. "

As he said this he took up the whiskey and soda and drained it, and Vaneheard his teeth clink against the edge of the glass. 

"And I think it's time I went, too, " said Vane. "You certainly don'tlook very fit to-night, dad. Hope I haven't made you uncomfortable bywhat I've been saying. You needn't be afraid though. I don't think Ishall forget the lesson I've had to-night. "

"No, no, I don't think you will, Vane. Well, good-night. Put the spiritsand cigars away, will you?"

"Good-night, dad! I hope you'll be all right in the morning. "

As the door closed behind his father, Vane went to the table on whichthe open spirit-stand stood. His father had forgotten to replace thestopper in the whiskey decanter, and the aroma of the ripe old spiritrose to his nostrils. Instantly a subtle fire seemed to spread throughhis veins and mount up to his brain. The mad craving that he had feltoutside the Criterion came back upon him with tenfold force. He raisedthe decanter to his nostrils and inhaled a long breath of the subtle, vaporous poison. He looked around the room with burning eyes. 

He was alone. There was no guardian angel near him now. Moved by someimpulse other than his own will, he took his father's glass and pouredout half a tumblerful of whiskey, filled it with soda water from thesyphon, and drank it down with quick feverish gulps. Then he set theglass on the table and went and looked at himself in an Indian mirrorover the mantel-piece. The pupils of his eyes seemed twice their size, and in each a yellow flame was leaping and dancing. 

His face seemed transfigured. It was rather that of a handsome satyrthan of an English lad of twenty. The lips were curled in a scornfulsneer, the nostrils were dilated and the eyebrows arched. He laughed athimself--a laugh that startled him, even then. He went back to thetable and poured out more whiskey, smelt it and drank it down raw. 

His blood was liquid flame by this time. He was no longer in the room. The walls and ceiling had vanished, and all round him vivid pictureswere flitting, pictures of things that he had seen during the day, flickering and flashing like those of the Biograph; but Carol's face andsoft brown eyes seemed somehow to be in the middle of all of them. 

He dropped into a chair and felt about half blindly for the decanter. When he got hold of it he emptied it partly into the glass and partlyover the table-cloth. He lifted the glass to his lips with both hands, drained it half chokingly, and then the pictures stopped moving and grewdim. A black pall of darkness seemed to come down and crush him to theearth. He lurched out of the chair on to the hearth-rug, rolled on tohis back, and lay there motionless with arms outstretched. 

An hour later the door opened and Sir Arthur came in in his dressinggown. A glance at the empty decanter and the prostrate figure on thehearth-rug, showed him the calamity that had fallen upon his house. Hestaggered forward and dropped on his knees beside Vane, crying in aweak, broken voice:

"My boy, my boy! Good God! what have I done? Why didn't I tell him atonce?"

CHAPTER III. 

Vane was utterly insensible either to voice or touch. His father kneltover him and loosened his tie and collar, for his breath was coming hardand irregularly. Then he rose to his feet, looked down at him for a fewmoments, and went away to summon Koda Bux, his old Pathan bearer, tohelp him to take him up to bed. He knew that he could trust him not togossip, and he would not for worlds have had it said about the house thenext day that Master Vane had been carried to bed drunk. 

Koda Bux was awake the moment his master touched his shoulder. He roseat once and followed him. When they reached the library Sir Arthurpointed without a word to where Vane lay. He looked at him and then atthe decanters, and said, without moving a feature save his lips:

"Truly, Huzur, the young sahib is exceeding drunk, and he must sleep. To-morrow the fires of hell will be burning in his brain and in hisblood. It is a thing that no others should know of. He shall sleep inhis bed, and thy servant shall watch by him until he is well, andneither man nor woman shall come near him. "

"That is my wish, Koda, " said Sir Arthur. "Now I will help you to takehim upstairs. "

"There is no need that thou, O protector of the poor, shouldst troublethyself. This is but one man's work. "

With that he stooped down, got his arms under Vane's knees andshoulders, and lifted him up as easily as if he had been a lad of ten. Sir Arthur took up the candle which he had brought down with him, andwent in front to his son's room. 

Koda laid him on the bed, and at once went to work with the deftrapidity of a practised hand to remove his clothes. He saw that he coulddo no more good, so, after laying his hand for a moment on Vane's wet, cold brow, he turned away towards the door with a deep sigh, which wasnot lost on Koda. 

"Trust him to me and sleep in peace, Huzur, " he said. "I know how tofight the devil that is in him and throw him out. To-morrow Vane Sahibshall be as well as ever. "

"Do your best for him, Koda. This is the first time, and I hope thelast. Good-night. "

"Good-night, friend of the friendless, " replied the Pathan, standing upand stretching out his hands palms downwards. "Fear nothing. May yoursleep be as the repose of Nirvana. "

But there was neither rest nor sleep for Sir Arthur Maxwell that night. That vision of the girl's face looking out of the cab had been to him avision half of heaven and half of hell. It was the face of the girl hehad wooed and worked for and won nearly thirty years before--a girlwhose hands for a brief space had opened the gates of Paradise to him. But it was also the face of a woman who had brought into his lifesomething worse than the bitterness of death. 

As he paced up and down his bedroom through the still, lonely hours ofthe night, he asked himself again and again what inscrutable fate hadbrought this girl, the fresh, bright, living image of the woman who wasworse than dead, and his son Vane, the idol of his heart, and the hopeof his life, together. 

Why had this girl, this outcast bearing the name which he both loved andhated, been the first to see in his son's eyes that fatal sign which heknew so well, a sign which he had himself seen in eyes into which he hadonce looked as a lad of twenty-four with anxious adoration to read hisfate in them. For years that flickering, wavering light had been to himlike the reflected glare from the flames of hell, and now this girl hadseen it as he had seen it, mocking and devilish in the eyes of his onlyson. 

It would have been better--he saw that now--to have braced himself tothe task of telling Vane the whole of the miserable, pitiful story atonce, as soon, indeed, as Vane's own story had convinced him that he hadnot escaped the curse which some dead and gone ancestor of his mother'shad transmitted to his unborn posterity. 

But it was a hard thing for a father to tell his son of his mother'sshame. As hard, surely, as it had been for Jephtha to keep his rash vowand drive the steel into his daughter's breast. He had hoped that theresolves which Vane had taken, enforced by a serious and friendly talkthe next day, would have been enough to avert the danger. 

He did not know, as he knew now, that the demon of inherited alcoholismlaughs at such poor precautions as this. Measures infinitely moredrastic would be needed, and they must be employed at no matter whatcost either to himself or Vane. 

And yet it was an awful thing to do. Year after year he had shrunk fromit, hoping that it would never be necessary; but now the necessity hadcome at last. There could be no doubt of that. He had left his son saneand strong, with brave, wise words on his lips. An hour after he hadgone back and found him a senseless thing, human only in shape. Therecould be no hesitation after that. It must be done. 

Like many men of his kind, men whose lives have been passed in wrestlingwith the barbarisms, the ignorance and the superstitions of lower races, as well as with the blind forces of nature and the scourges ofpestilence and famine in distant lands, Arthur Maxwell was a man of deepthough mostly silent religious convictions, and if ever there was a timewhen such a man could find strength and guidance in prayer surely thiswas such a time, and yet he had walked up and down his room, which sincehe had entered it had been his Gethsemane, for hours before he kneltdown by his bedside and lifted up his heart, if not his voice, inprayer. 

He rose from his knees with clearer sight and greater strength to seeand face the terrible task which lay before him. It was quite plain tohim now that the task must be faced and carried through, and he was morestrongly determined than ever that before the next day was over Vaneshould know everything that he could tell him. Still, there was no restfor him yet, and for hours longer he walked up and down the roomthinking of the past and the future; but most of the past. 

About seven sheer physical fatigue compelled him to lie down on his bed, and in a few minutes he fell off into an uneasy sleep. Just about thistime Vane woke--his mouth parched, his brain burning and throbbing, andevery nerve in his body tingling. As soon as he opened his eyes he sawKoda Bux standing by his bedside. 

"What on earth's the matter, Koda?" he said in a voice that was half agroan. "Great Scott, what a head I've got! Ah, I remember now. It wasthat infernal whiskey. What the devil made me drink it?"

"You are right, Vane Sahib, " said Koda sententiously; "it was thewhiskey, which surely is distilled from fruits that grow only on theshores of the Sea of Sorrow. Now your head is wracked with the tormentsof hell, and your mouth is like a cave in the desert; but you shall becured and sleep, and when you wake you shall be as though you had nevertasted the drink that is both fire and water. "

He went away to the dressing-table, shook some pink powder out of alittle bottle into a glass, and came back to the bedside with the glassin one hand and the water-bottle in the other. Then he poured the wateron to the powder and said:

"Drink, sahib, and sleep! When you wake you will be well. "

The water seemed to turn into something like pink champagne as thepowder dissolved. Vane seized the glass eagerly, and took a long, delicious drink. He had scarcely time to hand the glass back to Koda andthank him before his burning brain grew cool, his nerves ceased tothrill, a delightful languor stole over him, and he sank back on thepillow and was asleep in a moment. The Pathan looked at him half sternlyand half sorrowfully for a few moments, then he laid his brown hand uponhis brow. It was already moist and cool. 

He turned away, and set to work to put the room in order and get outVane's clothes and clean linen for the day. Then he went downstairs andbrewed Sir Arthur's morning coffee as usual. This was always the firstof his daily tasks. When he took it up he found Sir Arthur still fullydressed, lying on the bed, moving uneasily in his sleep. 

"The follies of the young are the sorrows of the old!" he murmured. "Hehas not slept all night; still, this is a sleep which rests not norrefreshes. His coffee will do him more good, and then he can bathe andrest. "

He laid his hand lightly on Sir Arthur's shoulder. He woke at once anddrank his coffee. Then he asked how Vane was, and when he knew that hewas sleeping again, and would not wake for some hours, he got up, undressed, and had a bath and dressed again. 

Then, after a not very successful attempt at breakfast, he went out andturned into the Hammersmith Road in the direction of Brook Green. Heremembered the address that Miss Carol had given Vane just as heremembered every other word of the conversation. He had determined tocall upon her, and to make as sure as possible that his dreadfulsuspicions were correct before he told Vane the truth. 

He found No. 15, Melville Gardens, one of a row of neat little detachedhouses; not much more than cottages, but cosy and comfortable-looking, each with a tiny little plot of ground in front and behind, and with arow of trees down each side of the road which seemed to stand inapologetic justification of the title of gardens. 

The door was opened by a neatly-dressed, motherly-looking woman of aboutforty instead of by the dishevelled, smutty-faced maid-of-all-work thathe half expected to find. 

"Does Miss Carol Vane live here?" he asked, with a curious feeling ofnervousness. 

"Yes, sir, she and Miss Murray are just finishing breakfast. Will youcome in and sit down, sir? Miss Vane won't be long. "

"Thank you, yes, " he said, going in. "I wish to see her ratherparticularly. "

"What name shall I say, sir?" said the woman, as she showed him into aprettily-furnished little sitting-room opening out into the back gardenwith French windows. 

"Sir Arthur Maxwell, " he replied. "If you will give my compliments toMiss Vane, and tell her that she will do me a great service by giving meabout half-an-hour's conversation, I shall be much obliged to you. "

The housekeeper made something like a little curtsey as she left theroom. She was distinctly impressed by the stately presence and old-worldcourtesy of this bronzed, white-haired gentleman. He was so verydifferent from the general run of visitors at No. 15; but she had halfguessed his errand before she knocked at the door of the front room inwhich Miss Carol and her friend and house-mate, Dora Murray, werefinishing their last cup of tea. 

"Well, Mrs. Ford, " said Miss Carol, looking up from the letter she wasreading, "who might that be? This is pretty early for a morning call. "

"The gentleman's name is Sir Arthur Maxwell, Miss. "

"What!" said Miss Carol, colouring up and rising quickly from her chair. "Sir Arthur Maxwell. What on earth does _he_ want?"

"He said, miss, that he'd be very much obliged to you if you could givehim the pleasure of half-an-hour's conversation. "

"Oh, dear, I suppose he was the gentleman who stopped at the corner lastnight just when my new acquaintance got out. His father, of course. Isuppose he's come to row me about making friends with his son and heirlast night. "

"One of the penalties of your fascinations, dear, " said Dora, with asmile which parted a pair of eminently kissable lips and showed a verypretty set of teeth behind them. 

Dora was nearly a couple of inches taller than Miss Carol, and somethree years older. She had soft, lightish-brown hair, brown eyebrows, atrifle browner, perhaps, than nature had painted them, and dark blueeyes, which made a very pretty contrast. 

"Well, " she went on, "I suppose there's nothing for you but to go andinterview the irate papa. But whatever did young hopeful want to go andtell him all about it for, and even give him your address!"

"If you'll excuse me, Miss, " said the housekeeper, "I don't think that'sit. The gentleman isn't at all angry. He was as polite and nice to me asever could be. Such a _nice_ gentleman. "

"Dear me, Mrs. Ford, you seem quite impressed, " said Miss Carol, gathering up her correspondence. "Well, I'd better go and have it over, whatever it is. I don't suppose I shall be very long. Meanwhile, Dora, you may as well make yourself useful and dust the bikes. The oldgentleman won't eat me, I suppose. In fact, if Master Vane told himeverything, he ought to be very much obliged to me for my virtuousreserve. "

And then, with a saucy smile at her own reflection in the glass as shepassed the mantelpiece, she walked towards the door. 

Carol, being a young lady of many and various experiences, did not oftenfind herself in a situation, however awkward it might be, which gave hermuch cause for embarrassment. There were not many circumstances underwhich she did not feel capable of taking perfect care of herself. Still, she confessed to Dora afterwards that when she went into the littlesitting-room and faced the stately old gentleman who was waiting for hershe felt distinctly nervous--in short, "in something very like atremble, " as she put it later on. 

The moment she looked at his face she could see his likeness to Vane, and therefore in a measure to herself. She had, of course, nothing to beafraid of, and therefore there was no cause for fear, but for somereason or other she felt less at ease than she had done in many moredifficult situations. 

The same was almost equally true of Sir Arthur. In fact, when the dooropened and Miss Carol, looking exquisitely neat and pretty in a dainty, grey, tailor-made cycling costume, walked into the room, he was unableto restrain a very visible start. It was, indeed, as much as he could doto keep himself from uttering an exclamation of astonishment. 

As he looked at her, more than thirty years vanished in a second, and hesaw himself a lad of twenty-four with his brand new Oxford degree, andhis first place on the Indian Civil Service list only just published, walking down a country lane by the side of a girl, who, but for thedifference in costume, might have been this very girl standing beforehim. 

"Good morning! Our housekeeper tells me that you wish to speak to me. "

Yes, the voice was the same, too, and so were the expression, theintonation, the attitude, everything. But the words brought him back tothe present, and to the recollection of all that had happened since thatwalk in the country lane. 

"Yes, Miss Vane, " he heard himself saying, "I have taken the liberty ofcalling to ask you if you would have any objection to a littleconversation with me. I won't detain you more than half an hour. "

"With pleasure, " she said; "but won't you sit down?" she went on, seating herself on the sofa. "I suppose I am right in thinking that youare Mr. Vane Maxwell's father, and I suppose, too, you are the gentlemanwho was at the corner of Warwick Gardens when he got out of the cab? I'mafraid you were a good bit shocked, " she continued, smiling ratherfaintly. 

"I was not by any means so much shocked as astonished, " Sir Arthurreplied gravely, "and, to avoid any misunderstanding, I had better sayat once that, though I was naturally a little bit startled, I wasinfinitely more astonished, by the marvellous likeness----"

"What, to him!" said Miss Carol, interrupting him with a pretty littlegesture of deprecation. "Yes, of course, I can quite understand that agentleman like you would be a bit disgusted to find a likeness betweenyour son and a girl like me, for I suppose he told you all about me? Imean, you know the sort of disreputable person that I am?"

Miss Carol said this with a distinct note of defiance in her voice. Anote which seemed to say, "I know what I am, and so do you, and if youdon't want to talk to me any longer you needn't. " But she wasconsiderably astonished when Sir Arthur, leaning forward in his chairand speaking very gravely, said:

"My dear child--you are younger than Vane, you know, and I may call youthat without offence--I do know what you are, or perhaps it would bemore just to say what circumstances have made you. I don't want you tothink that I have come here to preach at you. That is no business ofmine. Still, I am deeply grieved, though I daresay you have no notionwhy--I mean no notion of the real reason. I am afraid I am expressingmyself very awkwardly, but just now I don't quite seem to be able tokeep my thoughts in order. "

There was something in the gentle gravity of his tone and manner whichinspired Miss Carol with an unaccountable desire to go away and cry. Shedidn't exactly know why, but she was certainly experiencing a veryuncomfortable feeling which was more like apprehension than anythingelse. She couldn't think of anything else to say at the moment, and soshe said simply:

"I don't know why you should be grieved, I mean in particular about me. There are plenty of others like me, you know, a good many thousands inLondon alone, I believe, and I suppose you would feel sorry for any ofthem. There are lots worse off than I am, I can tell you. But why shouldyou be sorry for me particularly?"

As she said this she crossed her legs and folded her hands over herknee, leaning forward slightly and looking keenly at him. 

"Because, " he replied, with a little quaver in his voice, but lookingsteadily into her eyes, "because you are the living image of the womanwho was once my wife. A little over thirty years ago--by the way, may Iask how old you are?"

"I was eighteen last September, " she said, "that is to say, I am gettingon for nineteen. "

"And your birthday?" he said. "You will forgive me asking you so manyquestions, I know, when I tell you why I ask them; but of course, youneedn't answer them unless you choose. "

"There is no reason why I shouldn't, " she said, "as far as I know. I wasborn on the twentieth of September. What were you going to say?"

"I was going to say that if my wife, I mean I should rather say thewoman who was my wife, could be put beside you now as she was thirtyyears ago, dressed as you are now, it would be almost impossible to tellthe difference between you. You told my son, I think, that you take yourname Vane from your mother. "

"Yes, " replied Miss Carol, "she told me that that was her name. I don'tknow whether I was ever really christened or not, but an Englishmusician in Dresden, one of my mother's friends, called me Carol when Iwas quite a little mite of a thing because I was always singing, and asthat was as good a name as any other, I suppose it stuck to me. "

"Do you know whether your mother was ever married?"

"She had been, because she used to talk about it and about all she hadlost and all that sort of thing, you know, when she was drunk, " repliedMiss Carol with a simple directness which went straight to Sir Arthur'sheart. "Of course, that was when I was quite a little thing, about eightor nine. Then I was sent to a sort of boarding-school, half a school andhalf a convent, and I didn't like that, so I ran away from it, as I toldyour son last night. "

"I went home and found the house shut up. The concierge told me that mymother had gone away in a carriage with two gentlemen--he said onelooked like a police agent--nearly a month before. He didn't know whereshe'd gone to, and from that day to this I've never heard anything moreof her. I told your son the rest of it and I daresay he has told you, so there's no need for me to go over it again. "

"Yes, " said Sir Arthur, nodding slowly, "Vane told me, so if you pleaseI will ask you one or two more questions, and then I won't detain youany longer. "

"I am in no hurry, " she replied. "Please ask me any number you like. "

Her manner was now one of deep interest, for a suspicion was alreadyforming in her mind that this bronzed, grave-faced man had once been herown mother's husband. 

"Thank you, " he said. "I should like to ask you first whether you happento have any photograph of your mother?"

Miss Carol shook her head decisively, and said:

"No. I had one once in a locket, but when I went home and found she'dgone away and left me all alone in Paris--that's where we were then--Iwas so angry that I took it out and tore it up. I daresay it was verywrong of me, but I couldn't help it, and to tell you the honest truth, Ican't say that I ever was as fond of her as a daughter should havebeen. "

"I don't wonder at it, " said Sir Arthur, with a sigh. 

Miss Carol looked up wonderingly as he said this, but he took no noticeand said:

"But I suppose you would recognise a photograph of her if you saw one?"

"Yes, if it was taken anywhere about the time that I knew her. "

"Quite so, " said Sir Arthur, taking a leather letter-case out of hispocket. "This was taken quite twenty years ago, a year or two after wewere married, in short. It is, or was, my wife. "

As he took out the photograph he got up, crossed the room, and held itout to her. Miss Carol got up too, and as she took it she saw that hishand was trembling. She took the old-fashioned, faded photograph andlooked at it. He saw that her face flushed as she did so. She gave itback to him and said simply:

"Yes, that is my mother. "

As he took the photograph from her he looked at her with sad, grave eyesacross the gulf of sin and shame in which the one great love of his lifehad been lost. She was the daughter of his wife, and yet she was not hisdaughter--and she was an outcast. The sting of the old shame came backvery keenly. The old wound was already open and bleeding again. All thepride and hope and love of his life were centred now on his brilliantson. A few hours before he had learnt that his mother had transmitted tohim the terrible, perhaps the fatal taint of inherited alcoholism; andnow he had just proved beyond doubt that Vane's half-sister--for she wasthat in blood if not in law--was what she had just so frankly, sodefiantly even, admitted herself to be. 

And yet, how sweet and dainty she looked as she stood there before him, a bright flush on her cheeks and a soft, regretful expression in thosebig hazel eyes which were so wonderfully like _hers_! No one seeing herand Vane together could possibly take them for anything but brother andsister--and but for this marvellous likeness; but for the subtleinstinct of kindred blood which had spoken in this outcast's heart thenight before, would not a still deeper depth have opened in the hell ofthat old infamy? There was at least that to be thankful for. 

"I suppose you don't know where she is now--and don't care, mostlikely?" Carol added, raising her eyes almost timidly to his. 

"I do, " he replied, slowly, "To tell you the truth, I was one of the menwho took her away from the house in the Rue St. Jean----"

"You were!" she exclaimed, recoiling a little from him. "Then it wasreally you who turned me out homeless into the streets of Paris?"

"Yes, it was, I regret to say, " he replied, almost humbly, "but I needhardly tell you that I did it in complete ignorance. My ---- your motherwas making my name, my son's name, a scandal throughout Europe. She wasa hopeless dipsomaniac. I had, believe me, I had suffered for years allthat an honourable man could endure rather than blast my son's prospectsin life by taking proceedings for divorce, and so proclaiming to theworld that he was the son of such a woman. "

"Yes, " said Carol, quietly, with a little catch in her voice, "Iunderstand--such a woman as I suppose I shall be some day. Of course, itwas very hard on you and your son. And I don't suppose it made muchdifference to me after all. She'd have sold me to someone as soon as Iwas old enough; and instead of that I had to sell myself. When womentake to drink like that they don't care about anything. What did you dowith her?"

"The man with me, " replied Sir Arthur, "was an officer of the FrenchCourts. He had a warrant authorising her detention in a home for chronicinebriates. She is there still, little better than an imbecile, I regretto say, and with no hope of recovery. The physicians I consulted told methat she must have had the germs of alcoholic insanity in her blood fromher very birth. She told us that she had a daughter, and we traced youto the school, though she obstinately refused to tell us anything thatwould help us to find you. But we were too late; you had run away. Wehunted all Paris over for you, but you were utterly lost. "

"Well, " said Carol, gently, "I wish I'd stopped now, or that you'd foundme. Things might have been different; but, of course, it can't be helpednow. "

"It was a terrible pity, " he began, "but still, even now perhaps, something may be done----"

"We won't talk about that now, if you please, sir, " she interrupted, sodecisively that he saw at once that there was no discussion of thesubject possible. 

"Pardon me, " he said, quickly, "I fear I have annoyed you. Nothing, Iassure you, could be farther from my intention. Now I have troubled youenough, and more than enough, and I am afraid I have recalled some veryunpleasant memories----"

"Not anything like as bad for me as for you, sir, " she said, as hepaused for a moment. "If I have been of any service to you, I'm veryglad, though it's a miserable business altogether. "

"Yes, and worse than miserable, " he replied, with a slow shake of hishead. Then, glancing through the French windows he saw Dora rubbing oneof two bicycles down with a cloth in the little back garden, and he wenton: "But I see you are getting ready to go for a ride. I must not keepyou any longer, I am deeply grateful to you, believe me, and I hope ouracquaintance may not end here. And now, good-morning. "

He held out his hand with the same grave courtesy with which he wouldhave offered it to the noblest dame of his acquaintance. She looked upsharply as though to say, "Do you really mean to shake hands with _me_?"Then her eyes dropped, and the next moment her hand was lying, tremblinga little, in his. 

CHAPTER IV. 

When he left Melville Gardens, Sir Arthur did not go straight home. Heknew that Vane would not be awake for two or three hours yet, and aftera few moments' hesitation he decided to go and call on his old friend, Godfrey Raleigh, with whom he had been dining the night before, and, ifhe found him at home, put the whole case frankly before him and ask hisadvice. 

He had just retired with a well-earned K. C. S. I. From the Bench of theSupreme Court of Bengal, but he was one of those men on whom neitheryears nor climate seem to take any effect, and at sixty-five his bodywas as vigorous and his brain as active and clear as they had been atthirty-five. He had married rather late, and Enid, the Helen of thatIliad of the Wheelhouse, was his only child--and therefore naturally thevery apple of his eye and the idol of his heart. 

Her engagement to Vane had seemed to both the fathers and to her motherthe most natural and the most desirable arrangement that could have beenmade. Vane would take a brilliant degree, he would enter the DiplomaticService under the best of auspices, and when Enid had completed hereducation with a couple of years on the Continent they were to bemarried on her twentieth birthday. That was the promise of these twobright young lives. What would the fulfilment be?

Sir Godfrey was, as he believed, the only one of his acquaintance inEngland who knew the truth of the tragedy of his life. They had beenchums at Eton and Oxford. They had gone out to India together, SirGodfrey with a judicial appointment, and Sir Arthur as Political Agentto one of the minor Independent States, both of them juniors with manythings to learn and many steps to climb before they took a really activeand responsible part in the propulsion of that huge and complicatedmachine which is called the Indian Government. 

The Fates had thrown them a good deal together, and they had got to knoweach other well, not quickly, because men who are men need a great dealof knowing; but as the months had grown into years, and the years into adecade or more, they had really learnt to know each other. They had gonehome together on the same ship to marry the girls who had been waitingfor them since their troths had been plighted during their universitydays. They had come back with their brides on the same ship to India;Godfrey Raleigh had been godfather to his friend's first-born son. Threeyears later, after the shadow had fallen upon his own life, he hadperformed the same office for his friend's daughter, the successor of ababy girl who had died during the Rains. 

These two children were now the youth and maiden who, within the nexttwo or three years were to be man and wife. But after the events of thelast twelve hours or so, Sir Arthur felt that it would not be eitherloyal to his old friend, or just to him and his daughter not to go andtell him frankly what he had learnt, and to take, not only his opinion, but also his advice on the subject. 

He found Sir Godfrey at home, and the judge quickly saw that he had notcalled upon any ordinary concern, so he asked him to come and smoke apipe in his den, and there Sir Arthur, taking up the thread where it hadbeen dropped years before, told him in a few straight, short sentencesthe rest of the story to the end of his interview with Miss Carol. 

"Of course, you will understand, Raleigh, " he said, when he hadfinished, "I have told you this because I thought it was only right todo so. My boy is engaged to marry your girl. It is quite plain, I amsorry to say, that this alcoholic taint is in him, and as I have toldyou this Miss Carol Vane, charming and all as I must confess her to befrom what I have seen of her, is after all Vane's half-sister, and sheis also what I told you she was. "

"Well, my dear Maxwell, I must confess that that is a very difficultproblem indeed for us to decide. Very difficult indeed, " Sir Godfrey hadreplied. 

"You see, to put it quite plainly, and, if as an old lawyer I may sayso, from the judicial point of view, there are two courses open to us. First, we may or, I would rather say, we _might_ adopt the strictlyscientific view of the matter and say that, since the unfortunate womanwho was once your wife has apparently transmitted the taint ofalcoholism to your son, it would therefore be improper for him to marryEnid for fear that he should further transmit this taint to his ownoffspring. 

"That, I suppose, is the way in which a coldblooded scientist would putit; but on the other hand I think the matter should also be consideredfrom the purely human point of view, and here, I speak again as an oldjudge. When you married your wife you had no notion that she hadinherited this taint of insanity, as we may well call it, from someunknown ancestor. Now the same thing might have happened with my wife, or in fact, with any other woman. 

"It is perfectly well known that this poison, as one is obliged to callit, may lie latent for generations; may, in fact, die out altogether. Onthe other hand, what might have been only a vice in the grandfather orthe father may develop as insanity in the grandson or the son. It is notfor us to decide these things, at least, that is my view. 

"You and I have more experience, more judgment; but I think that yourson and my daughter will have more accurate instincts and keenerintuitions. My own judgment I reserve entirely, and I advise you to dothe same. 

"Go home and tell Vane everything. Don't spare yourself or him, for in acase like this truth, the whole truth, is, after all, the greatestmercy. I will tell my wife the whole story this afternoon, and she willtell Enid when she gets back from Paris. Then I think the best that wecan do will be to leave them to find a solution of the problem betweenthem. Depend upon it that, whatever solution they do arrive at, it willbe more accurate and will stand the test of time better than anyarbitrary action which you or I might take. "

And so ended the only false--utterly and hopelessly false--judgmentwhich Sir Godfrey Raleigh had ever delivered. 

Sir Arthur took it as gospel, it all seemed so clear and so logical, sofair to everybody; just the sort of judgment, in fact, which might havebeen expected from a man of such vast and varied experience. Both ofthem had the best of intentions, for were not the happiness, theearthly fates of their two only children bound up in it?

Under such circumstances, though the advice might be mistaken, it wasabsolutely impossible that it could be anything else but honest andsincere. It was not for them to see into the future, nor yet to solvethose impossibly intricate problems of human passion, of human strengthand weakness, which, in defiance of all laws human and divine, breakthrough the traditions of ages, make a mockery of all commonplace laws, and finally solve themselves with an accuracy as pitiless as it isprecise. 

Sir Arthur left his friend's house with the firm conviction that theonly thing to be done under the circumstances was to follow his advice. When he got back to his house in Warwick Gardens, the door was opened byKoda Bux, and the first thing he said to him was:

"Is Mr. Vane awake?"

"Sahib, he is, and well. He is even as though he had never drunk of theliquor of fire. He is in the library awaiting your return. "

It was then getting on for one o'clock, the lunch-time of Sir Arthur'shousehold, and the table was already laid in what was called thebreakfast-room, that is to say a room looking out upon one of the long, back gardens which are attached to the houses in Warwick Gardens. 

Vane was sitting in the library waiting, something in shame andsomething in fear, for his father's return. He more than half-expectedthat his father would come in and begin at once to haul him over thecoals on account of what had happened the night before. He did not feelaltogether satisfied about his adventure with Miss Carol, and he wasvery much ashamed of himself, indeed, for what had happened afterwards. But as yet, he had no suspicion of the terrible secret which in thealmost immediate future was to decide his destiny in life. The dreadfulfact of inherited alcoholism was yet to be revealed to him. He thoughtthat his father was simply going to rate him for having exceeded thebounds of prudence during his night out, for coming home in a cab withsuch a person as Miss Carol, and then, worse than all, to tell him thathe had made a beast of himself by beginning to drink whiskey when he wasalone after having refused to take anything while his father was in theroom. It was that that he was really afraid of. 

He had no idea of what had happened since the time that he had fallenfrom his chair on to the hearth-rug, saving only the brief awakening inhis bed with Koda Bux standing beside him, the drinking of thecrimson-coloured effervescing liquid, and then the long, calm sleepwhich had spread itself like a gulf between the agony of the oneawakening and the peace of the next. 

He was sitting in one of the big arm-chairs in the library when hisfather came in. He got up and stood before him, something as a criminalmight do before his judge, expecting to hear something like a sentencefrom his lips. He was very much ashamed of himself, and being so wasperfectly prepared to take his punishment which would probably come inthe shape of a few cold words of reproof, and a hard look in hisfather's eyes which he had seen before. But, instead of that, when hegot up out of the arm-chair, and began somewhat falteringly:

"Dad, I'm awfully sorry----" his father stopped him, and said with alook at the clock on the mantel-piece: "I think it is about lunch time, isn't it? Yes, there is the gong. How's your appetite?"

"Well, better than I thought it would be, " said Vane, "better, in fact, than it deserves to be. That stuff that Koda gave me this morning hasworked wonders----"

"Very well, then, " said Sir Arthur, cutting him short, "I think we mayas well go and have some lunch. "

The meal was eaten in a somewhat awkward silence, broken by odds andends of talk which were obviously spoken and replied to, not for thepurpose of conversation, but to fill up time. Both father and son wereas unhappy as men could very well be, and yet the ancient custom whichforbids the Anglo-Saxon race to talk about unpleasant things atmeal-times, prevented Sir Arthur from saying what he had to say, andVane from asking what he wanted to ask. 

At last, when Koda came in and said that coffee was served in the Denthey got up, both of them feeling a certain sense of relief, althoughboth knew that the worst was yet to come. 

When they got into the Den, Sir Arthur said to Koda in Urdu:

"The house is empty. There is no one here. The door is bolted. No onemust enter, till I say so. "

He opened the door, spread the palms of his hands outwards, inclined hishead, and said in the same language: "Thou art obeyed, Huzur. It isalready done. " Then he backed out of the door and shut it. 

Sir Arthur got up out of his chair, turned the key in the lock, and saidto Vane in a tone whose calmness astonished him almost as much as thewords did:

"Vane, why did you drink that whiskey last night? You know I asked youto have some, and you said that although you had never disobeyed mebefore, if I had ordered you to have some you would not have done it. And yet, after I had left the room you emptied the decanter. Why wasthat?"

Vane had expected anything but this, for his father had spoken asquietly as if he had been asking him about the most ordinary concern oftheir daily life. He remembered dimly those few dreadful minutes afterthe subtle aroma from the whiskey decanter had reached his nostrils, theswift intoxication, the brilliant series of visions which had passedbefore his eyes, and then the dead, black night which had fallen overhis senses, and after that nothing more until he had awakened withparched mouth and burning brain, and Koda standing by his bedside. 

"I'm afraid, dad, I was very drunk last night, but why, I don't know. Iwas sober enough when I came in, you know that yourself. But somehow, just when you had gone out of the room and told me to put the spiritcase away, I took up the whiskey decanter and smelt it. There seemed tobe some infernal influence in it which made me simply long to drink. Idid not want to in the ordinary way, and as I had been having brandy andsoda and champagne before, of course, whiskey was the very worst thing Icould possibly have drunk. Yet it seemed somehow to get hold of me. Ifelt as though I _had_ to drink. It didn't matter what it was so long asit was alcohol. It was the smell of it that intoxicated me first, andwhen I had once smelt it I went on, till I was dead drunk, and I supposethat is the way that you found me. That is all that I know about it. Iam horribly ashamed of myself, and I can only promise you that, if Ican help it, it will never occur again. "

"Sit down, Vane, and let us talk this over, " said Sir Arthur, seatinghimself in the arm-chair on the other side of the fire-place. "I supposeyou thought when I came back that I was going to give you the usual sortof lecture that a father would give his son under the circumstances. Well, I am not going to do that. I am sorry to say that it is a greatdeal more serious than that. "

"What do you mean, dad?" said Vane, getting up out of the arm-chair intowhich he had thrown himself, as though resigned to receive his sentence. "More serious than that? Surely it is bad enough for a fellow to comehome as I did last night, and then get drunk on whiskey and have to becarried to bed. There can't be anything very much worse than that. "

"There might have been, " said Sir Arthur, "if you had not stopped thecab where you did. What would you say if I told you that that girl--youremember what you said to me about her likeness to yourself--what wouldyou say if I were to tell you that that girl is your sister?"

"Good God! Dad, you don't mean that, do you? It can't be. I never had asister. You have always told me that I am the only child. Mother diedtwenty years ago, didn't she? And that girl was only about nineteen. No, you can't mean it!"

"Yes, " said Sir Arthur, in a tone which seemed very strange to his son. "I do mean it. When I told you that your mother had died a few monthsafter you were born, I did not tell you the truth. She died to me and toyou, but that was all. She is alive still. That girl that you drove upin the cab with last night was her daughter, but not mine. "

No more terrible words than these could have Vane turned white to hislips as he heard them, and for a moment he looked into his father's greystern face with a glance that had something of hate in it. His fistseven clenched and his shoulders squared as though the impulse was on himto raise his hands against him. But there was such an infinite sadnessin Sir Arthur's eyes and such an expression of unspeakable suffering onhis hard-set features, that as he looked at him the anger died out ofVane's eyes and his hands fell limp and open by his side. 

It was some time before he was able to command his voice sufficiently toshape coherent words, but at length he managed to say in a hard, half-choking tone:

"Of course it is impossible that you could tell me anything but thetruth, dad. And so I am the son of a disgraced woman, am I? Poor Eny, what will she think of me now? Of course it will be all over betweenus?"

His instinct had spoken, as Sir Godfrey Raleigh had said it would, andspoken truly. But Sir Arthur said quickly:

"No; my boy. It is bad enough, God knows, but it may not be as bad asthat. I have been to see Miss Vane this morning, and when I hadsatisfied myself of the relationship between you, I went on to Raleighand told him the whole story, as I thought it was only right to do. Hesaid, very properly I think, that it was a matter for you and Enid todecide between yourselves, for after all it is the happiness of yourlives which is in question, and therefore the decision ought to restwith you. "

"I don't see how there can be any decision but one, " said Vane, who hadsat down again, and, with his elbows on his knees and his face betweenhis hands, was staring with blank eyes down at the carpet. "And so I amthe son of that girl's mother, am I? Well, it couldn't be very muchworse than that, and yet, God help us, she is my mother after all. "

Then he threw himself back in his chair, let his hands fall limply overthe arms and stared up at the ceiling. 

"You may as well tell me the whole of the story, now dad, " he went on, in a broken, miserable voice. "You had better tell me, and then I shallknow where I am. "

His father looked at him for a moment or two in silence, and then hesaid, with a note of reproof in his tone:

"That is a hasty judgment, Vane, but a natural one, I admit. When I havetold you the story you will see what I mean. The mother who bore you wasas good and pure a woman as ever lived when she became your mother, andthis girl, from what I have seen of her this morning, I am perfectlycertain is thoroughly good and honest in herself. I am satisfied that itis her fate that has made her what she is; not her fault. "

"Yes, " said Vane, "I was wrong. After all I have no right to judge mymother. I remember nothing about her, and as for Carol, she is a goodgirl whatever else she may be. Can't something be done for her, dad? Imean something to get her out of that horrible life. It is too awful tothink of, isn't it? We must do something. "

"That's just what I should have expected you to say, Vane, " said hisfather, "and anything that I can do shall be done. But I'm afraid itwon't be very easy. I did suggest something of the sort, of course, butshe cut me short very quickly. She simply said that she could notdiscuss the subject then, and there was an end of it. I am quite certainthat anything which had even a suggestion of charity about it would bequite out of the question. "

"Of course it would, " said Vane, almost angrily. "After all, she is mysister. However, that can wait. Now tell me what you were going to tellme. How did all this begin? Do you know who the man was, because if so Iwant to go and see him?"

"No, I don't, Vane, " his father replied, slowly. "To tell you the truth, I never even attempted to find out. We were living at Simla at the time, and Simla is, as perhaps you know, not the most moral of places. Youwere nearly three years old, and for about a year your mother had shownsigns of what doctors call now Alcoholic Insanity. I shall never forgetthe first time that I found her drunk----"

"Never mind that, dad, " Vane interrupted, with a sharp catch in hisvoice, "I don't want to hear about it, it's bad enough already. WasCarol right about that light which she used to see in her eyes and whichI suppose you saw in mine last night?"

"Yes, perfectly, " replied Sir Arthur. "I used to think it beautifulonce, before I knew what a dreadful meaning it had. When she had had aglass or so of champagne, her eyes--and they were just like yours andCarol's--used to light up marvellously. People used to speak of them asthe most beautiful eyes in the East; but afterwards, that light in thembegan to burn brighter, and when at last she gave way completely, itbecame something horrible, although, somehow, it was stillbeautiful--damnably beautiful. "

"Well, one night, " Sir Arthur went on, leaning back in his chair andstaring into vacancy, "she went out to spend the evening, as she toldme, with a friend; as a matter of fact it was Raleigh's sister. She hadbeen drinking a little during the afternoon, but I felt that she wouldbe safe there, for both Raleigh and his sister knew of this miserablefailing of hers. Unfortunately, I had a lot of work to do that evening, and I was unable to go with her. I went about eleven o'clock to bringher home. I found she had not been there at all. I went back and sat upthe whole night, I needn't tell you Vane what my thoughts were. Shedidn't come. She never came. 

"A month afterwards I got a letter from her written from Bombay. Sheconfessed that for over a year she had been deceiving me; that anotherman had stolen her love from me; that she could never face me or lookupon you again, and that was all. She gave no address, no sign that Icould trace her by. If she had done I would have forgiven her and askedher to come back for your sake. But it was over ten years before I sawher again, and then it was in a house in a wretched street in Paris. 

"Then she was a drunkard, a hopeless drunkard, lost to all sense andshame. She had taken my name again and was making it infamous, and foryour sake I was forced to take some decided steps. I took proceedings inthe French Courts, and got authority to confine her in an asylum forinebriates, and she is there now, almost an imbecile. "

"And what about Carol?" said Vane, in a hard, strained voice, "doesn'tshe know who her father is, and couldn't you have got a divorce?"

"Carol does not know for certain who her father is, " said Sir Arthur. "There was someone who went about the Continent a good deal with hermother when she was very young, and she thinks that he was. It is quitepossible that he may have been the scoundrel, whoever he was, who tookher away from Simla. As for the divorce, of course I could have got one, but I had no desire to marry again, and I preferred to let the thingrest as it was, rather than drag our name through the cesspool of theDivorce Court and the newspapers. Everybody was very good to me, and intime I lived it down and it was forgotten. In fact, I suppose if ithadn't been for that chance meeting of yours last night, it might neverhave been heard of again. "

"Then that, " said Vane, "is, I suppose, the secret of my drinking thewhiskey last night, and the explanation of the light which Carol saw inmy eyes when I had drunk too much champagne. My blood is poisoned, andso, when I've drunk a certain amount, the smell of alcohol isirresistible. There's one thing perfectly certain, I don't like whiskeyand I never have liked it, and I'm quite sure I never wanted it lessthan I did last night; and yet when I smelt it, the smell somehow seemedto get up into my brain and force me to drink it. 

"I tried my best to resist it. Honestly I did, dad, but it was no use. Itasted it, and then I took a long drink of it, and then I took another. I didn't seem to get drunk, I went mad. I saw some magnificent visions, they seemed to be all round the room, nickering like the Biograph, then, all of a sudden, they vanished, and I don't remember anything moreuntil I woke and found Koda standing beside me. Now was that the sort ofthing that used to happen to my mother?"

"It was, " replied his father, "exactly, and when she came to her sensesafter one of her bouts, she used to implore me to keep the smell, eventhe sight, of liquor away from her. Of course I did. I gave up drinkingmyself, and what I had in the house for friends I kept constantly underlock and key. It seemed to be successful for a time, and then she beganto get liquor from somewhere else. I never could find out how or whereshe did it. I had her watched, but it was no use. Weeks would pass andshe would be perfectly sober. Then, without the slightest warning, shewould go out for a walk or to pay some calls and come back, not drunk, but getting drunk. 

"We used to have some terrible scenes then, as you may believe. Idismissed four butlers because she had either bribed or frightened theminto giving her the keys of the wine cellar. I had the best medical menin India for her, and at last I got her to consent to go into aSanitorium. That, however, was merely a blind to keep my suspicionsquiet. It was only a few days before she was to have gone there that shedisappeared. "

"And you never had any suspicion about the scoundrel that she went awaywith? I expect if the truth was known, she got the liquor secretlythrough him after you had stopped it. I am beginning already to have apresentiment that I shall meet that man some day, and if I do, may Godhave mercy on him, for I won't!"

"No, no, Vane, don't say that, my boy! Remember what iswritten--'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. ' Whoever he is his sin willfind him out, if it has not done so already. "

Sir Arthur spoke with the absolute conviction of a deeply religious man. He believed his own words honestly; and yet, if he could have seen howhis own prophecy was to be fulfilled, he would have given his righthand, nay, he would even have shaken hands with the man who had sodeeply wronged him, rather than that they should have had so terrible afulfilment. 

Indeed, even while he was speaking the wheels of Fate had already begunto revolve. 

When Carol and Dora returned from their ride Dora found a letter waitingfor her. She opened it, glanced quickly over the page and then said:

"Carol, how will this suit you for this evening? I think a night outwould do you good after your little shake-up this morning. Listen--

 "DEAR DORA, "Yesterday I became a happy bachelor for a fortnight. Encumbrances gone to Folkestone. If you have nothing better to do, meet me at the 'West End' at 7. 30 this evening, and, if possible, bring Miss Vane, as I am bringing a friend, who, after my description of her--don't be jealous!--is quite anxious to meet her. He is good looking and very well off, and I think she will like him. 

 "Hoping you will both be able to come, "Yours ever, "BERNARD. "

"That sounds promising, " said Miss Carol. "If he's that sort, and niceas well, and has plenty of the necessary, I shouldn't mind if he took meon as a sort of permanence. Somehow, after last night and this morning, I've got sick of this general knocking-about. Besides, it's no class. All right, I'll come. A bit of a kick-up will do me good, I think. Thattalk with the old gentleman this morning gave me quite a number 25 hump, though the ride has worked a good bit of it off. Now let's feed, I'mhungry enough to dine off cold boiled block ornaments. "

Mr. Bernard Falcon, the writer of the letter to Dora, was principalpartner in the somewhat incongruously named firm of solicitors, Messrs. Falcon and Lambe, of Mansion House Chambers, E. C. The firm did all sortsof work, provided only that it paid; the highest class under theirstyle, and the other sorts--the money-lending and "speculativebusiness"--through their own "jackals, " that is to say seedy andbroken-down solicitors who had made a failure of their own business, buthad managed to keep on the Rolls and were not above doing "commissionwork" for more prosperous firms. 

Mr. Lambe, away from his business, was a most excellent person; a goodhusband and father, a regular church-goer, and a generous supporter ofall good works in and about Denmark Hill, where he lived. He was one ofthose strangely constituted men--of whom there are multitudes in theworld--who will earn money by the most questionable, if not absolutelydishonest, methods, without a qualm of conscience, and give liberally ofthat same money without recognising for a moment that what they honestlybelieve they are giving to God, is a portion of the Wages of Sin--which, as good Christians, they ought never to have earned. 

Mr. Bernard Falcon, on the other hand, in his private life, aimed atnothing more than respectability in the worst sense of the word. Hiswife and his two little girls went to church. He himself went on Sundaymornings when he had no more pressing engagements. His name appearedregularly on the subscription lists published in connection with St. Michael's, Brondesbury, his parish church, and he also paid the rent ofNo. 15, Melville Gardens, Brook Green, in addition to one hundred andfifty pounds a year as what he would have called "a retainer" to MissDora Russell--to say nothing of certain milliner's and jeweller's billswhich he liquidated, sometimes cheerfully and sometimes grudgingly, according to his humour and their amount. 

When Carol and Dora got out of their cab at the door of the "West End"and went into the little vestibule-bar to the left, they found two menin evening dress waiting for them. One of them--a man of about forty, bald on the temples, of medium height, well-fed and well-groomed, andnot by any means bad-looking, though of an entirely mediocre type--Carolgreeted with the easy familiarity of old acquaintance, for she had knownhim for nearly a year as Dora's 'particular friend. ' The other, tall, well-built, handsome, and with that unmistakable stamp of breeding onhim which Mr. Bernard Falcon totally lacked, she instantly recognised asReginald Garthorne, her intended companion for the evening. 

The first thing he did when they had been introduced by Bernard Falcon, was to apologise for what he had said in front of the Criterion thenight before. He did it with admirably calculated deference, and in suchperfectly chosen words, that it was quite impossible for her not toaccept his apology and "make friends. "

During the evening he became completely fascinated, not only by herbeauty, but far more so by the extraordinary charm of her manner. Hewas a man who, apart from his physical qualities and good looks, could, when he chose, make himself very pleasing to women, and, without showinga trace of effort, he did his very best to please Miss Carol, andsucceeded so completely, that when, a few days later, he made a proposalof a partly domestic nature to her, she, after a brief consultation withDora, accepted it. 

At the end of the month the house in Melville Gardens was to let, andCarol and Dora were installed in a flat in Densmore Gardens, SouthKensington, for the rent of which Reginald Garthorne and Mr. BernardFalcon were jointly responsible--of course, under other names. The onlycondition that Carol had made with Garthorne, was that, whateverhappened, he would not tell Vane of her change of address, and he, forvery good reasons of his own, had promised unconditionally. 

CHAPTER V. 

The next day Enid Raleigh came home. 

Almost the first thing she said to her mother, who had met her at thestation with the carriage, was:

"Well, and where is Master Vane, please? He is in town, isn't he? Whydidn't he come to meet me? I shall have to make him do penance forthis. "

The words were lightly spoken, spoken in utter unconsciousness of thedeep meaning which Fate had put into them. So far as Enid herself wasconcerned, and as, in fact, she was just thinking at the moment, allthey meant was that at their next meeting she would refuse Vane hislong-accustomed lover's kiss, and then, after an explanation occupyingsome three or four minutes at most, surrender at discretion, after whichwould come the luxury of playing at being offended and standing on herdignity for a few minutes more, and then enjoying the further luxury ofmaking it up. 

"Yes, dear, " said her mother, "Vane is in town still. I think he doesn'tgo back to Oxford until the end of the week, but he hasn't been verywell lately----"

"Not well!" exclaimed Enid, sitting up out of the corner of the carriageinto which she had leaned back with that easy abandon which comes sonaturally to people accustomed to comfort all their lives. "Ill! Why, Vane's never been ill in his life. What's the matter? It isn't anythingserious, is it? You don't mean that he's really ill, mother, do you?"

There was no mistaking the reality of the anxiety in her tone. Hermother recognised it instantly, but she also saw that a broughamrattling over the streets of London was not exactly the place to enterupon such explanations as it was her destiny and her duty to make tothis brilliant, beautiful, spoilt darling of a daughter who was sittingbeside her. 

So far as she knew, every hope, every prospect of Enid's life, thatbright young life which, in the fuller acceptation of the term, was onlyjust going to begin, was connected more or less intimately with VaneMaxwell. 

Ever since they had come home together from Bombay on that memorablevoyage, she and Vane had been sweethearts. They were very much in lovewith each other, and so far their love had been a striking exception tothat old proverb which comes true only too often. Saving only thoselovers' quarrels which don't count because they end so much morepleasantly than they begin, there had never been a cloud in thatmorning-sky of life towards which they had so far walked hand in hand. It seemed as though the Fates themselves had conspired to makeeverything pleasant and easy for them; and of course it had never struckeither of them that when the Fates do this kind of thing, they alwayshave a more or less heavy account on the other side--to be presented indue course. 

Lady Raleigh knew this, and her daughter did not. She knew that theterrible explanation had to come, but she very naturally shrank fromthe inevitable--and so, woman-like, she temporised. 

"Really, dear, " she said, "I can't talk with all this jolting andrattle. When we get home I will tell you all about it. Vane himself isnot ill at all. He is just as well as ever he was. It isn't that. "

"Then I suppose, " said Miss Enid, looking round sharply, "my lord hasbeen getting himself into some scrape or other--something that has to beexplained or talked away before he likes to meet me. Is that it?"

"No, Enid, that is not it, " replied her mother gravely, "but really, dear, I must ask you to say nothing more about it just now. When we gethome we'll have a cup of tea, and then I'll tell you all about it. "

"Oh, very well, " said Enid, a trifle petulantly. "I suppose there's somemystery about it. Of course there must be, or else he'd have come herehimself, so we may as well change the subject. How do you like the newflat, and what's it like?"

As she said this she threw herself back again into the corner and staredout of the opposite window of the brougham with a look in her eyes whichseemed to say that for the time being she had no further interest in anyearthly affairs. 

Lady Raleigh, glad of the relief even for the moment, at once began avoluble and minute description of the new flat in Addison Gardens intowhich they had moved during her daughter's last sojourn in Paris, andthis, with certain interjections and questions from Enid, lasted untilthe brougham turned into the courtyard and drew up in front of thearched doorway out of which the tall, uniformed porter came with thefingers of his left hand raised to the peak of his cap, to open thecarriage door. 

Sir Godfrey was out, and would not be back until dinner time; so, assoon as they had taken their things off, Lady Raleigh ordered tea in herown room, and there, as briefly as was consistent with the gravity ofthe news she had to tell, she told Enid everything that her husband hadheard from Sir Arthur. 

Enid, although she flushed slightly at certain portions of thenarrative, listened to the story with a calmness which somewhatsurprised her mother. 

The little damsel for whose kisses those two boys had fought ten oreleven years ago, had now grown into a fair and stately maiden ofeighteen, very dainty and desirable to look upon, and withal possessinga dignity which only comes by birth and breeding and that largertraining and closer contact with the world which modern girls of herclass enjoy. Young as she was, hers was not the innocence of ignorance. She had lived too late in the century, and had already been too farafield in the world for that. 

"It comes to this, then, " she said quietly, almost hardly, "instead ofbeing dead, as we have believed all along, Vane's mother is alive; animbecile who has become so through drink, and who seems to havemisbehaved herself very badly when Vane was a baby. She is in an asylum, and will probably remain there till she dies. No one but ourselves andthis interesting young person, Miss Carol Vane, appears to know anythingabout it, and I really don't see why Vane is to be held responsible forhis mother's insanity--for I suppose that's what it comes to. 

"And then there is Miss Carol herself. Of course she's not aparticularly desirable family connection; but I don't suppose Vane wouldexpect me to meet her, much less fall upon her neck and greet her as hislong-lost sister. I suppose, too, that between us we could manage to dosomething for her, and put her in a more respectable way of living andinduce her to hold her tongue. 

"As for Vane getting drunk that night, of course it's very improper andall that sort of thing from the Sunday School point of view; but I don'tsuppose he was the only undergraduate who took too much to drink thatnight. Probably several hundreds of them did, and I daresay a good manyof them were either engaged or going to be. Would they consider that areason why they should go and break off their engagements? I'm afraidthere wouldn't be many marriages nowadays if engagements were broken offon that account. 

"Of course, mam, dear, what you've told me is not exactly pleasant tohear, but still, after all, I really can't see anything so very dreadfulin it. Most families have a skeleton of some sort, I suppose, and thisis ours, or will be when Vane and I are married. We must simply keep thecupboard door shut as closely as possible. It's only what lots of otherpeople have to do. "

"Well, my dear, " said her mother, "I must say I'm very glad to see youtake it so reasonably. I'm afraid I could not have done so at your age, but then girls are so different now, and, besides, you always had moreof your father's way of looking at things than mine. Then, I suppose, Vane may come and see you. I think it was very nice of him not to comeuntil you had been told everything. "

"May come!" said Enid. "I should think so. If he doesn't I shall bedistinctly offended. I shall expect him to come round and make hisexplanations in person before long, and when he does we will have a fewminutes chat _à deux_--and I don't think I shall have very muchdifficulty in convincing him of the error of his ways, or, at any rate, of his opinions. "

"What an extremely conceited speech to make, dear!" said her ladyshipmildly, and yet with a glance of motherly pride at the beauty which wentso far towards justifying it. "Well, perhaps you are right. Certainly, if anyone can, you can, and I sincerely hope you will. It would bedreadful if anything were to happen to break it off after all theseyears. "

The colour went out of Enid's cheeks in an instant, and she said inquite an altered voice:

"Oh, for goodness sake, mamma, don't say anything about that! You knowhow fond I am of Vane. I simply couldn't give him up, whatever sort of amother he had, and if he had a dozen half-sisters as disreputable asthis Miss Carol Vane--the very idea of her having the impudence to usehis name! No, I shan't think of that--I couldn't. If Vane did that itwould just break my heart--it really would. It would be like taking halfmy life away, and it would simply kill me. I couldn't bear it. "

She honestly meant what she said, not knowing that she said it in utterignorance of the self that said it. 

It was in Enid's mind, as it also was in her mother's, to send a noteround to Warwick Gardens to ask both Vane and his father to come roundto an informal dinner, and to discuss the matter there and then; butneither of them gave utterance to the thought. Lady Raleigh, knowing herdaughter's proud and somewhat impetuous temperament, instinctivelyshrank from making a suggestion which she would have had very goodgrounds for rejecting, more especially as she had already given such avery decided opinion as to Vane's scruples. 

As for Enid herself, she honestly thought so little of these samescruples that she felt inclined to accuse Vane of a Quixotism which, from her point of view at least, was entirely unwarrantable. It was, therefore, quite impossible for her to first suggest that they shouldmeet after a parting during which they might have unconsciously reachedwhat was to be the crisis of both their lives. 

The result was that the thought remained unspoken, and Enid, afterspending the evening in vexed and anxious uncertainty, went to bed; andthen, as soon as she felt that she was absolutely safe in her solitude, discussed the whole matter over again with herself, and wound thediscussion up with a good hearty cry, after which she fell into thedreamless slumber of the healthy and innocent. 

When she woke very early the next morning, or, rather, while she was onthat borderland between sleeping and waking where the mind works withsuch strange rapidity, she reviewed the whole of the circumstances, andcame to the conclusion that she was being very badly treated. Vane knewperfectly well that she was coming back yesterday afternoon, andtherefore he had no right to let these absurd scruples of his preventhim from performing the duties of a lover and meeting her at thestation. But, even granted that something else had made it impossiblefor him to do so, there was absolutely no excuse for his remaining awaythe whole afternoon and evening when he must have known how welcome avisit would have been. 

Meanwhile Vane had been doing the very last thing that she would haveimagined him doing. 

After his fateful conversation with his father he had left the house inWarwick Gardens to wander he knew and cared not whither. His thoughtswere more than sufficient companionship for him, and, heeding neithertime nor distance, he walked as he might have walked in a dream, alongthe main road through Hammersmith and Turnham Green and Kew, and sothrough Richmond Hill till he had climbed the hill and stopped for abrief moment of desperate debate before the door of the saloon bar ofthe "Star and Garter. " The better impulse conquered the worse, and heentered the park, and, seating himself on one of the chairs under thetrees, he made an effort to calmly survey the question in all itsbearings. 

It was the most momentous of all human tasks--the choosing of his ownfuture life-path at the parting of the ways. One of them, flower-bordered and green with the new-grown grass of life'sspring-time, and the other dry, rugged and rock-strewn--the paths ofinclination and duty: the one leading up to the golden gates of theParadise of wedded love, and the other slanting down to the widewilderness which he must cross alone, until he passed alone into theshadows which lay beyond it. 

A few days before he had seen himself well on the way to everything thatcan make a man's life full and bright and worthy to be lived. He was, thanks to his father's industry, relieved from all care on the score ofmoney, and, better still, he had that within him which made himindependent of fortune, perfect health and great abilities, alreadywell-proved, although he had yet to wait nearly a year for histwenty-first birthday. 

He had great ambitions and the high hopes which go with them. The pathto honour and distinction, even to fame itself, had lain plainly openbefore him--and now everything was so different. The sun which he hadthought was only rising was already setting. He knew now that the fruitwhich looked so sweet and luscious had the canker-worm feeding on thecore; that the flesh which seemed so healthy was really tainted andleprous; and that, worse than all, the brightest and sweetest promise ofhis life, a promise infinitely sweeter and dearer than even thefulfilment of his highest material ambition, was now no longer a promisebut a denial, a life-sacrifice demanded, not only by his honour as aman, but by his love as a lover. 

He sat thus thinking until the buzzing of a motor-car woke him from hisday-dream. He looked at his watch, and found that he had about time toget across the park to Sheen Gate; but he fell to dreaming again on theway, and when he reached the gate it was closed. 

He turned back with the idea of asking a keeper to unlock the gate andlet him out, but after a few strides he halted and sat down again on aseat. After all, were he to go home, he could not sleep, and it bettersuited his mood to keep vigil in the open air than within the four wallsof his room. 

And so he passed the night, walking half awake, and then sitting, halfasleep, dimly reviewing this sudden crisis of his fate again and againfrom all possible aspects. And again and again the determination toadhere to the decision which duty had marked out so clearly seemed tobeat itself deeper and deeper into his brain. 

The taint of alcoholism was in his blood, and matrimony and parentagewere not for him. In the morning he would go straight to Enid's fatherand admit that, although ties reaching back into her childhood and hishad to be broken, yet it was impossible for the engagement between himand Enid to be continued. 

The night passed, and the park gates were again opened, but still Vanesat on, until, noticing the suspicious glances of some of the earlypedestrians, he decided to get home, have a tub, and pay his fatefulvisit to Sir Godfrey Raleigh. 

As it happened, however, that visit was never to be paid. Enid had foundher waking thoughts unpleasant, if not almost intolerable, and, beingtoo perfectly healthy to indulge in anything of the nature of moping orsulks, she came to the conclusion that a good sharp spin on her bicyclewould be the best mental tonic she could have; so she got a cup ofcoffee and a biscuit, took out her machine, and started away to workoff, as she hoped, the presentiment of coming trouble which seemed tohave fastened itself upon her. 

Thus it happened that she entered Richmond Park by Sheen Gate just asVane, physically weary yet still mentally sleepless, was coming out ofit. 

During his night's vigil he had nerved himself, as he thought, to meetevery imaginable trial but this one--this vision of his well-beloved, not waiting for him, but coming to him fresh and radiant in her youngbeauty, delightful and desirable, tempting almost beyond the powers ofhuman resistance, and his, too, his own sweetheart, pledged to him eversince that memorable afternoon when he had fought for her and won herbehind the wheelhouse in the midst of the Indian Ocean. 

When her wonder had given way to complete recognition Enid dismountedand waited, naturally expecting that he would greet her; but he stoodsilent, looking at her as though he were trying to find some words ofsalutation. 

"Well, Vane, " she said at last, "I suppose we may shake hands. I did notexpect to see you here. Cannot you look a little more cheerful? What isthe matter? You look as if you hadn't been home all night. "

He took her hand mechanically, and, as he held it and looked down intothe sweet upturned face with a bright flush on the cheeks and thedawning of an angry light in the gentle eyes, he felt an almostirresistible desire to take her in his arms just as he had done at theirlast meeting and kiss into silence the tempting lips which had justshaped those almost scornfully spoken words. 

It dawned upon her in the same moment that he was looking as she hadnever seen him look before. His face was perfectly bloodless. Thefeatures were hard-set and deep-lined. There were furrows in hisforehead and shadows under his eyes. When she had last seen his face itwas that of a boy of twenty, full of health and strength, and without acare on his mind. Now it was the face of a man of thirty, a man who hadlived and sinned and sorrowed. 

In that instant her mood and her voice changed, and she said:

"Vane, dear, what is it? Why don't you speak to me? Are you ill?"

He took her bicycle from her, and, turning, walked with her back intothe park. After a few moments' silence he replied in a voice whichseemed horribly strange to her:

"Yes, Enid, I am. I am ill, and I am afraid there is no cure for thedisease. I have not been home. In fact, I have been in the park allnight. I was shut in by accident, and I remained from choice, trying tothink out my duty to you. "

"Oh, nonsense!" she replied. "I know what you mean. It's about yougetting drunk the other night--and--and your unfortunate mother and thisnewly-found half-sister of yours. Well, of course, I suppose it wasexceedingly wrong of you to get so very drunk. And the rest--I meanabout your mother--that is very sad and terrible. But, bad as it is, Ithink you are taking it a great deal too seriously. I've talked it allover with mamma, and she thinks just as I do about it. "

When she had said this Enid felt that she had gone quite as far as herself-respect and maidenly pride would permit her to go. As she looked upat him she saw the pallor of his face change almost to grey. His handwas resting lightly on her arm, and she felt it tremble. Then he drew itgently away and said:

"I know what you mean, Enid, and it is altogether too good and generousof you; but I don't think you quite understand--I mean, you don't seemto realise how serious it all is. "

"Really, Vane, I must say that you are acting very strangely. What isthe good of going all over it again? You can't tell me anything more, Isuppose, than I have heard already from mamma. Surely you don't meanthat you intend that everything is to be over between us--that we areonly to be friends, as they say, in future?"

"I quite see what _you_ mean, " he said, his lips perceptibly tightening;"and that, too, in a certain sense, is what I mean also. "

"What!" she exclaimed. "Do you really mean that I am not to be any morewhat I have been to you, and that if we meet again it must only be asordinary acquaintances, just friends who have known each other a certainnumber of years? Surely, Vane, you don't mean that--dear?"

The last word escaped her lips almost involuntarily. She tried to keepit back, but it got out in spite of herself. It was only the fact thatthey were walking on the public highway that prevented her from givingway altogether to the sense of despair that had come over her. As hisface had changed a few moments before so did hers now, and as shelooked at him he stopped momentarily in his walk. 

But the lessons which he had learnt during the last few days, and mostof all during this last night of lonely wandering and desperatequestioning with himself, had ground the moral into his soul so deeplythat not even the sight of her so anxiously longing for just one wordfrom him to bring them together again, and make them once more as theyhad always been--almost since either of them could rememberanything--was strong enough to force him to speak it. 

He involuntarily wheeled the bicycle towards the middle of the road, asthough he was afraid to trust himself too near her, and said, speakingas a man might speak when pronouncing his own death sentence:

"Yes, Enid, that is what I do mean. I mean that there is a great dealmore, something infinitely more serious in what has happened during thelast few days, in what I have learnt and you have been told, than youseem to have any idea of. "

Enid made a gesture as though she would interrupt him, but he went onalmost hotly:

"Listen to me, Enid, and then judge me as you please--only listen to me. Four days ago, after I had seen the Boat Race, I did as a good manyother fellows from the 'Varsity do--I went West. By sheer accident I meta girl so like myself that--well, I didn't know then that I had asister. Yesterday I learnt, then, that I have one--not my father'sdaughter, only my mother's--and you know what that means. We had suppertogether at the Trocadero----"

"Really, Vane, I do think you might spare me these little details, " saidEnid, with a sort of weary impatience. "I have heard of thishalf-sister of yours already. Suppose we leave her out for the present?"

"Yes, " he said, again stopping momentarily in his walk. "We _will_ leaveher out for the present. In fact, as far as you are concerned, Enid, shemay be left out for ever. "

"Why--what do you mean, Vane?" she exclaimed, stopping short. 

"I mean, " he said, beginning quickly and then halting for a moment. "Imean that, considering everything that has happened during the last fewdays, I have no intention of asking you to become her half-sister--evenin law. "

The real meaning of his utterance forced itself swiftly enough upon hernow, and for a minute rendered her incapable of speech. She, however, like others of her blood and breed, had learned how to seem mostcareless when she cared most, and so she managed to reply not onlysteadily but even stiffly:

"Of course, after that there is very little to be said, Mr. Maxwell. I'mafraid I have not properly understood what has happened. Perhaps, though, it would have been better for you to have seen my father andtalked this over with him first. "

The "Mr. Maxwell" cut him to the quick. It was the first time he hadever heard it from her lips. Yet it did not affect the decision whichwas, as he had for the time being, at least, convinced himself, inevitable, and so miserable was he that even her scornful indignationwas something like a help to him. 

He was even grateful that this interview, which he had looked forward towith dread, had taken place in the open air rather than in thedrawing-room of Sir Godfrey Raleigh's house, for if she had simply satdown and cried, as, perhaps, nine out of ten girls in her position wouldhave done, his task would have been infinitely more difficult, perhapseven impossible of accomplishment. Her present attitude, however, seemedto appeal to his masculine pride and stimulate it. He turned slightlytowards her, and said, with a sudden change in his voice which she feltalmost like a blow:

"Yes, Miss Raleigh, you are quite right. I will spare you the details;at least, those which are not essential. But there are some which are. For instance, " he went on, with a note of vehemence in his tone whichmade it impossible for her to interrupt him, "four nights ago I waslying on the floor of the Den at home, blind, dead drunk--drunk, mindyou, after this sister of mine had seen in my eyes the sign ofdrunkenness which she had seen in her mother's--that was my mother, too, an imbecile dipsomaniac, remember--who had sunk to unspeakabledegradation before she became what she is. I was as sober as I am nowwhen I told my father this--I mean what Carol had told me. I noticedthat there was something strange about him while I was telling him, butI thought that was just a matter of circumstances, you know----"

"Yes, I think I know, or at any rate I can guess, " said Miss Enid, withangry eyes and tightened lips. 

"Very well, then, " he went on, "and after that--after my father hadasked me to have a glass of whiskey with him--after I had refused and hehad gone to bed and I was putting the spirit-case away without any ideaof drinking again, one smell of the whiskey seemed to paralyse my wholemental force. It turned me from a sane man who had had a solemn warninginto a madman who had only one feeling--the craving for alcohol in someshape. I smelt again, and the smell of it went like fire through myveins. I tasted it, and then I drank. I drank again and again, until, asI suppose your mother has told you, I fell on the rug, no longer a man, but simply a helpless, intoxicated beast. I was utterly insensible toeverything about me, I didn't care whether I lived or died. When I wokeand thought about it I would a thousand times rather have been dead. 

"It wasn't that I wanted the liquor. I didn't get drunk because I wantedto. I got drunk, Enid, because I _had_ to; because there was a lurkingdevil in my blood which forced me to drink that whiskey just because itwas alcohol, because it was drink, because it was the element ready torespond to that craving which I have inherited from this unhappy motherof mine. 

"Do you know what that means, Enid? I don't think you do. It means thatmy blood has been poisoned from my very birth. Of course, you don't knowthis. Your parents don't know it, any more than they know that it is toolate to redeem the ruin which has fallen upon me. That, at least, I cansay with a clear conscience is no fault or sin of mine. Since then Ihave thrashed this miserable thing out in every way that I can think of. I have talked it over with my father, and he has talked it over withyours. I have been wandering about the park all night trying to find outwhat I ought to do--and I think I have found it. "

"From which I suppose I am to understand, " she replied, in a voice whichwas nothing like as firm as she intended it to be, "you mean, Vane--orperhaps I ought to say Mr. Maxwell now--that henceforth--I mean that weare not going to be married after all. "

"What I mean is this, Enid, " he replied, "that dearly as I love you, andjust because I love you so dearly, because I would give all the world ifI had it to have you for my wife, I would _not_ make you the wife of aman who could become the thing that was lying on the hearthrug of theDen four nights ago--a man drunk against his own will, a slave to one ofthe vilest of habits--no, something much worse than a habit, a diseaseinherited with tainted, poisoned blood!

"What would you think of your parents and my father if they allowed youto marry a lunatic? Well, with that taint in my blood I am worse, athousand times worse, than a lunatic, and I should be a criminal as wellif I asked you or any other girl for whom I had the slightest feeling oflove or respect to marry me. 

"Think what the punishment of such a crime might be!" he went on evenmore vehemently. "Every hour of our married life I should be haunted bythis horrible fear. Tempted by a devil lurking in every glass of wine orspirits that I drank, or even looked at--the same devil which had me inits grip the other night. Enid, if you could have seen me then, I thinkyou would have understood better; but if, which God forbid, you couldhave gone through what I went through after I swallowed that first drinkof whiskey, you would as soon think of marrying a criminal out of jailor a madman out of a lunatic asylum as you would of marrying me. Idaresay all this may seem unreasonable, perhaps even heartless, to you;but, dear, if you only knew what it costs to say it----"

He broke off abruptly, for as he said this a note of tenderness stolefor the first time into his voice, and found an instant echo in Enid'sheart. So far she had borne herself bravely through a bitterly tryingordeal, but as she noticed a change in his tone a swift conviction cameto her that if she remained many more minutes in his company she wouldcertainly break down and there would be "a scene, " which, under thecircumstances, was not to be thought of. So she stopped him by holdingout her hand and saying in a voice which cost her a terrible effort tokeep steady:

"No, Vane, we have talked quite enough. I see your mind is made up, andso there is, of course, nothing more to be said except 'good-bye. ' Ithink we had better not meet again until we both have had more time tothink about it all. "

This was as far as she could get. They had by this time reached SheenGate again, and Enid took her bicycle from him. She did not look at him, and, indeed, could not even trust herself to say "thank you. " Shemounted and rode through the comparatively lonely roads in a sort ofdream until the traffic at Hammersmith Bridge and Broadway mercifullycompelled her to give her whole attention to the steering of hermachine. 

When she got home she gave her bicycle to the porter, went straight toher own room, took off her hat and gloves and jacket, and then droppedquietly on the bed and laid there, staring with tearless eyes up at theceiling, wondering vaguely what it all meant, and if it was really true. 

Vane stood and watched her until she swept round a bend in the road, andthen walked on with the one thought echoing and re-echoing in theemptiness of his soul--the thought of the course which he was bound tofollow by the dictates of both love and duty. He had reached the Surreyend of Hammersmith Bridge when the strong smell of alcoholic liquorcoming through the open door of a public-house caused him to stop for amoment. Would a drink do him any harm after what had happened? He hadpassed a sleepless night in the open air, and felt almostfainting--surely a drop of brandy would do him no harm under thecircumstances? Then he remembered the hearthrug in the Den, and turnedtowards the bridge with something between a sneer and a curse on hislips. 

Was he always to be beset by temptation in this way--and would he alwayshave strength to successfully combat the evil influence? If Fate hadreally marked him out for a dipsomaniac, was it any use his fightingagainst what must inevitably be his destiny? His thoughts wereinterrupted by the rumbling of a 'bus which was coming towards him, and, seeing that it was one which went through Kensington, he jumped on itand went home. 

He alighted at Warwick Gardens, and on reaching the house found that hisfather had just come in for lunch. 

"It's all right, dad, " he said, anticipating his inevitable question. "Igot shut in Richmond Park by accident, and did a night in the open. ButI'll tell you all about it at lunch. I'm going to have a tub now. "

Lunch was ready by the time Vane came downstairs, re-clothed andrefreshed, and when they were alone he repeated to his father almostverbatim the conversation he had had with Enid. 

"Well, my boy, " he said when he had concluded. "I cannot but think thatas far as you can see now you have acted rightly. It is terribly hard onyou, but I will help you all I can. And perhaps, after all, the futuremay prove brighter than it looks now for all of us. "

CHAPTER VI. 

It was the end of Term, nearly two years after that interview inRichmond Park which, as both Vane and Enid had then believed, was forthem the parting of the ways. Vane was sitting in a deep-seated, Russianwicker-chair in his cosy study, and opposite him, in a similar chair, was another man with whom he had been talking somewhat earnestly forabout an hour. 

To-morrow would be Commemoration Day--"Commem, " to use theundergraduate's abbreviation. There would be meetings from far and wideof people gathered together, not only from all over the kingdom, butfrom the ends of the earth as well; men and women glorying, for theirown sakes and their sons', in the long traditions of the grand oldUniversity, the dearly-loved Alma Mater, nursing-mother of their fathersand fathers' fathers. Here a man who had been a tutor and then a Fellow, and was now one of His Majesty's judges; there another, who walked withsober mien in the leggings and tunic of a Bishop, and who, in his time, had dodged the Proctor and his bull-dogs as nimbly as the mostirresponsible undergraduate of the moment--and so on through the wholehierarchy of the University. 

The Lists were just out. Vane had fulfilled the promise of his earliercareer and had taken a brilliant double-first. He had read for Classicsand History, but he had also taken up incidentally Mental Science andMoral Philosophy, and he had scored a first in all. If it had then beenpossible for him to have had a Treble-First, it would have been his. Asit was he had won the most brilliant degree of his year--and there hewas, sitting back in his chair, blowing cloud after cloud of smoke outof his mouth, and every now and then taking a sip out of a big cup oftea and looking with something more than admiration at the man opposite;a man who had only achieved a first, and who, if he had been some otherkind of man, would have been very well contented with it. 

It would not, however, have needed a particularly keen student of humannature to discover that this was not the kind of man who could restcontented with anything like a formal success; and, after all, even adouble-first, to say nothing of a single, although a great achievementas the final triumph of an educational course, is still only the end ofthe beginning. That done, the student, armed _cap-à-pie_ in hisintellectual armour, goes forth to face something infinitely sterner andmore pitiless than tutors or proctors, ay, even than Masters andChancellors themselves--the presiding genius of that infinitely greaterUniversity called the World, where taking your degree means anythingthat human fortune can give you, and where being plucked may meananything from a clerkship in an office to selling matches in the gutter. 

"I _am_ sorry you missed your double, old man!" said Vane, continuingthe conversation after a pause that had lasted for two or three minutes. "Still, at any rate, you've got your first, and, after all, a first inClassics and a second in History is not to be sneezed at, and I don'tsuppose it would have mattered a hang to you whether you had come outanywhere or not. "

As he said this there was a sudden contraction of his companion's jaw, which resulted in the clean biting through of the vulcanite mouthpieceof his pipe. He spat the pieces out into the fireplace, and said in aperfectly smooth voice:

"I wonder what I did that for! I suppose that is one of thecircumstances in which people say that it does a man good to swear. "

"I should certainly have sworn under the circumstances, " said Vane, "orat least, I should have said something that one would not say in thepresence of one's maiden aunt, but then, of course, you Ernshaw--you'reabove all that sort of thing. You have your feelings so well undercontrol that you don't even need to swear to relieve them. However, that's not quite the subject. What am I to do? Am I to go back to her, repenting of the evil of my ways, ask her to pardon a passing madness, and lay my academic honours at her feet--as God knows I would be onlytoo glad to do----"

"Wait a moment, Maxwell. Don't say anything more just now, and let methink a bit. We have been over this subject a good many times already, but now we have come to the crisis, to the cross-ways, in fact. You havemade me your confidant in this matter. The future of your life and hersdepends upon what you decide to do now, and, not only that, but there isyour father and her father and mother--the completion, that is to say, of three other lives. It is very, very serious. It is more than serious, it is solemn. Wait a moment, let me think. "

Vane leant back in his chair, dropped his pipe quietly on the floor, andwaited. He knew that Mark Ernshaw, his chum at Eton and his friend atBalliol--this tall, sparely-built man, with dark hair, high, somewhatnarrow forehead, and big, deep-set, brown eyes, delicate features, andthe somewhat too finely-moulded chin which, taken together, showed himto the eye that sees to be the enthusiast as well as the man ofintellect, perhaps of genius--was not thinking in the ordinary meaningof the word. He was praying, and when he saw that this was so he foldedhis hands over his eyes, and for nearly ten minutes there was absolutesilence, Vane was thinking and his friend was praying. Perhaps, inanother sense, Vane was praying too, for the strong religious bias whichhe had inherited from his father had, since the great crisis of his lifehad been passed, and during his close intimacy with Mark Ernshaw, grownstronger than ever. 

He had told him everything. They had gone over the whole of the dismalhistory again and again. They had thrashed out the problem in all itsbearings, now arguing with and now against each other, and here was thelast day. To-morrow in the Theatre they would receive the formalacknowledgment which would crown their academic careers. Vane'sself-imposed probation would then be over, the crisis would be passed, and his life's course fixed for good and all. 

"Well, old man, " said Vane, at length, "have you settled it? Upon myword I feel almost like a man under sentence of death waiting for areprieve. But, after all, why should I? I haven't touched a drop ofalcohol for over a year. I needn't say anything about the work I havedone, for you know as much about that as I do myself. I am as sane andhealthy as any man of my age need want to be. Of course, as I have toldyou, it was mutually agreed between us, or rather, between her parentsand my father, that we should not meet or correspond until after I hadtaken my degree. I've kept the bargain both ways. I haven't written toher or had a word from her all the time. And now, what is the future tobe? Shall I take up the threads of the old life and marry and livehappily ever afterwards, as they say in the story-books--or shall I----?No, I don't think I could do that. Don't you think I've shown strengthof mind enough to counteract the weakness of that one night? For thesake of all you've ever loved, old man, don't look so serious. You'renot going to tell me that it really is all over, and that I shall haveto give her up after all?"

"Yes, you must, " said Ernshaw. "If you have any faith worthy of the namein God or man, it is your duty, not only as a man but as a Christian, tosay good-bye to her as man to woman. It is your duty, and you must. "

"No, by God, I can't!" cried Maxwell, springing to his feet and facinghim with clenched teeth, set features, and hands gripped up into fistsas though he were facing an enemy rather than a friend. 

Ernshaw rose slowly from his seat. His face seemed to Vane to betransfigured. He looked him straight in the eyes, and said, in a voiceonly a little above a whisper, and yet thrilling with an intenseemotion:

"Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain! You haveasked for my advice and my guidance, Maxwell. I have given them to you, but not before I have sought for advice and counsel from an infinitelyhigher Source. I believe I have had my answer. As I have had it so Ihave given it to you. I have spent a good many hours thinking over thisproblem of yours--and a harder problem few men have ever had tosolve--but my fixed and settled conviction is that during this lastconversation of yours with Miss Raleigh you bore yourself like a man;you did your duty; you put your hand to the plough. You are not going tolook back now, are you?"

Vane dropped back into his seat and folded his hands over his eyesagain, and said with a note of weariness in his voice:

"Well, yes, old man, I suppose you're right, and yet, Ernshaw, it's veryhard, so hard that it seems almost impossible. They're coming up to'Commem' to-morrow--I was obliged to ask them, you know. I should onlyhave to hold out my hand and feel hers in it and say that--well, thatI'd thought better of it, and everything would be just as it was before. We could begin again just as if _that_ had never happened. 

"You know it's all I've thought about, all I've worked for, ever sincewe came back from India together. Honestly, old man, she really is--ofcourse, with the exception of the Governor--everything there is in theworld for me now. If I have to give her up, what else is there? You knowwhat I was going to do. Now that I've got my degree I should have asplendid opening in the Foreign Office. The way would be absolutelyclear before me--a mere matter of brains and interest--and I know I'vegot the interest--and I should be an Ambassador, perhaps a PrimeMinister some day, and she would be my wife--and yet without her itwouldn't be worth anything to me. Ernshaw, isn't it a bit too much toask a man on the threshold of his real life to give up all that for thesake of an idea--well, a scientific conviction if you like. "

"Strait is the Gate, and Narrow is the Way!" exclaimed Ernshaw. Heseemed to tower above him as he stood over his chair; Vane looked up andsaw that his eyes were glowing and his features set. His lips and voicetrembled as he spoke. His whole being seemed irradiated by the light ofan almost divine enthusiasm. 

"Maxwell, will you be one of the few that find it, or one of the manythat miss it, and take the other way? As a good Christian, as the son ofa Christian man, you know where _that_ one leads to. 

"After all, Maxwell, " he continued, more quietly, "the trials of lifeare like lessons in school. You needed this experience or you would nothave got it. In every fight you must win or lose. In this one you canand must be the victor. I think, nay, I know, that I am pointing out toyou the way to victory, the way to final triumph over all the evils thathave forced you to a choice between following your own most worthyinclinations, and what you now think an intolerable misery and animpossible sacrifice. "

He held out his hand as he spoke. Vane did not know it at the time, butin reality it was a hand held out to save a drowning man. It was amoment in which the fate of two lives was to be decided for right orwrong, for good or ill, and for all time--perhaps, even for more thanTime. Vane gripped Ernshaw's hand, and, as the two grips closed, helooked straight into the deep-brown eyes, and said:

"Ernshaw, that will do. By some means you have made me feel to-nightjust as I did that day when I was talking with her the last time. Yes, you are right. You have shewn me the right way, and, God helping me, I'll take it. I suppose if she doesn't marry me she'll marry Garthorne;but still, I see she mustn't marry me. They are coming down for 'Commem'to-morrow. I shall see her then, and I'll tell her that I have decidedthat there must be an end of everything except friendship between us. Yes, that is the only way after all--and, now, one other word, old man. "

"And that is?" said Ernshaw, smiling, almost laughing, in the sheer joyof his great triumph, as he so honestly believed it to be, over thePowers of Evil. 

"Well, it's this, " said Vane, "my own life is settled now. I can't marryEnid and, of course, I'll marry no one else. I shall do as you haveoften advised me to do--take Orders and do the work that God putsnearest to my hand. I know that the governor will agree with me when Iput it to him in that way. But then there's some one else. "

"Your sister, you mean, " said Ernshaw. 

"My half----"

"Your sister, I said, " Ernshaw interrupted, quickly. "Well, what abouther?"

"It's this way, " continued Vane, somewhat awkwardly, "you see--ofcourse, as you say, she is my sister in a way, but she has absolutelyrefused everything that the governor and I have offered her. We evenasked her to come and live with us, we offered, in short, to acknowledgeher as one of the family. "

"And what did she say to that?"

"She simply refused. She said that she had not made her life, but thatshe was ready to take it as it is. She said that she wasn't responsiblefor the world as it's made, she'd never owed anyone a shilling sinceshe left her mother--and mine--and she never intended to. We triedeverything with her, really we did, and, of course, the governor did agreat deal more than I did, but it wasn't a bit of use. It's a horriblebusiness altogether, isn't it?"

"On the contrary, it is anything but that, " replied Ernshaw, slowly anddeliberately as though he were considering each word as he uttered it. "Maxwell, you have just decided to take Orders. I made up my mind to dothat long ago. We are both of us fairly well off. I have eight or ninehundred a year of my own, and I daresay you have more, so we can go anddo our work without troubling about the loaves and fishes. "

"Yes, " replied Vane, "certainly, but that's not quite answering myquestion, old fellow:--I mean about Carol. "

"Quite so, " he replied, "because I am going to ask you another. Do youthink you know me and like me well enough to have me for abrother-in-law?"

"Good Heavens, you don't mean _that_, Ernshaw, do you?"

"I do, " he said, "that is if she likes me well enough. Of course, Ihaven't seen her yet, and she might refuse me; but from all that you'vetold me about her, I'm half in love with her already, and--well, weneedn't say anything more about that just now. Take me up to Town withyou after Commem. , introduce me to her and leave the rest to me and her. If ever a girl was made for the wife of such a man as I hope to be someday, that girl, Maxwell, is your sister. "

"But, Ernshaw, that is impossible. It may be only your good nature thatprompted you to say this, or it may be that, without intention, I havesomehow led you to look upon her as part of my destiny; but you forget, or perhaps, I have not told you that we have lost her utterly for thetime being at least, she disappeared quite suddenly. My father and Ihave made every effort to trace her, but without the slightest success. "

"Then try again, " replied Ernshaw, "and I will help in the search. Atany rate, when we do find her, as I am sure we shall some day, if shewill have me, I will ask her to be my wife. "

CHAPTER VII. 

It was the morning of Commemoration Day and Vane was dressing for thegreat ceremony in the Sheldonian Theatre, the conferring of honours anddegrees, the placing of the Hall-mark of the University upon those whohad passed its tests and proved themselves to be worthy metal. Over theend of the bed hung the brand-new bachelor's gown and silken hood, which, to-day, for the first time, he would be entitled to wear. Theywere the outward material symbols of the victory which he had wonagainst all competitors. 

He was looking far back into his school-boy days and recalling thedreams he had dreamt of the time when, if the Fates were very kind tohim, he would have taken his degree and would be able to walk about inall the glory of cap and gown and hood as the masters did on Sundays andSaints' days. 

And now it had come to pass. He had taken as good a degree as the bestof them. In an hour or two he would appear capped and gowned and hoodedon the closing scene of his University career. On one side of him wouldbe the Chancellor and all the great dignitaries of the University; onthe other the great audience--the undergraduates in the upper galleries;graduates, tutors and fellows, proud fathers and mothers, delightedsisters and other feminine relatives, including cousins and others, together with desperately envious younger brothers making the mostearnest resolves to henceforth eschew all youthful dissipations, toforeswear idleness for ever, and to 'swat' day and night until they toohad achieved this glorious consummation--vows, alas! to be broken erethe next school term was many days old, and yet, with not a few of them, to be renewed later on and honestly kept. 

He knew that, to use a not altogether inappropriate theatrical simile, he would be playing a principal part that day. The cheers and theplaudits which would burst out from the throats of his fellow-students, and, indeed, from the whole audience, when he came on to doff his capand kneel before the Chancellor to take from his hands the honours hehad won, would be given in recognition of the most brilliant degree ofthe year. 

And _she_, too, would be there with her father and mother, and hisfather, all sharing in his triumph, all glorying in his success, in thissplendid fruition of the labours, which, for so many years, they hadwatched with such intensely sympathetic interest. 

Under any other circumstances this would have meant to him even morethan the mere formal triumph; for though he had worked honestly andsingle-heartedly for the prizes of his academic career, he had alsoworked for them as an athlete might have striven for his laurels in theOlympian Games, or a knight of the Age of Chivalry might have fought forhis laurels to lay them at the feet of his lady-love. 

Now he had won them--and after all what were they worth? This was notonly to be a day of triumph for him. It was to be a day of hardesttrial and most bitter sacrifice as well; a trial which, as he knew evennow, would strain his moral fibre very nearly to the breaking point. Itwas a struggle for which he had been bracing himself ever since thatlast conversation which he had had with Enid. From that day to this hehad never clasped her hand or looked into her eyes. 

That had been the agreement between them, and also between his fatherand her parents. They were not to meet again until he had finished hisuniversity career and taken his degree. That, as they thought, wouldgive them both time enough to think--to remain faithful, or to thinkbetter of it, as the case might be--and, most important of all for Vane, to determine by the help of more deliberate thought and addedexperience, and by converse with minds older and more deeply versed inthe laws of human nature than his own, whether or not that resolve, which he had taken when he first discovered that there was a taint ofpoison in his blood, should be kept or not. 

But now it was all over--although it ought only to have been justbeginning. This day, which ought to have been the brightest of his life, was, in reality, to be the darkest. The golden gates of the Eden of Lovelay open before him, but, instead of entering them, he must pass by witheyes averted, and enter instead the sombre portals of his life'sGethsemane; there to take up his cross and to bear it until the timecame to lay it down by the side of the grave. 

He had thought it all out long and earnestly in solitary communion withhis own soul, and during many long and closely-reasoned conversationswith Ernshaw, and the one of the night before had decided him--or itmight be more correct to say that it had completed the sum of theconvictions which had been accumulating in his soul for the last twoyears. 

The path of duty--duty to her, to himself and to Humanity--lay straightand plain before him. He had nothing to do with the world now. He hadcome to look upon that taint in his blood as a taint akin to that ofleprosy; an inherited curse which forbade him to mix with his kind asother men did. He must stand aloof, crying "unclean" in his soul if notwith his voice. Henceforth he must be in the world and not of it--andthis, as he thought, he had already proved by his resolve to renouncedefinitely and for ever the greatest treasure which the world could givehim, a treasure which had been his so long, that giving it up was liketearing a part of his own being away with his own hands. 

Still, it was all very hard and very bitter. Despite his two years'preparation, the stress of that last struggle all through the long hoursof the night which should have been filled with brightest dreams of themorrow, had left him, not only mentally worn out, but even physicallysick. He felt as though the scene which would mark the culminatingtriumph of his academic career, the end of his youth and the beginningof his manhood, was really an ordeal too great, too agonising, to befaced. 

His scout had brought up an ample breakfast, with, of course, manycongratulations on the coming honours of the day; but he had only drunksome of the coffee and left the food untouched. As he stood in front ofthe glass, putting on his collar, his face looked to him more like thatof a man going to execution, than to take the public reward of many asilent hour of hard study. His hands trembled so that he could hardlyget his necktie into decent shape. 

His coffee on the dressing-table. Would a teaspoonful of brandy in it dohim any harm? For two years he had not tasted alcohol in any shape, though he had kept it in his rooms for his friends. He and Ernshaw, whowas also a rigid teetotaler, had sat with them and seen them drink. Hehad smelt the fumes of it in the atmosphere of the room, first withtemptation which he had fought against and overcome in the strength ofthe memory of that terrible night in Warwick Gardens. Then the subtlearoma had become merely a matter of interest to him, a thing to bestudied as a physician might study the symptoms of a disease for whichhe has found the cure. 

He had seen his friends leave his rooms somewhat the worse for liquor, and he had reasoned with them afterwards, not priggishly orsanctimoniously, but just as a man who had had the same weakness and hadovercome it because he thought it necessary to do so, and they had takenit all very good-humoredly and gone away and done the same thing again afew nights afterwards, seeming none the worst for it. 

But surely now he had conquered the deadly craving. Surely two years ofhard mental study and healthy physical exercise--two years, during whichnot a drop of alcohol had passed his lips--must have worked the poisonout of his blood. Henceforth he was entitled to look upon alcohol as aservant, as a minister to his wants, and not as a master of hisweaknesses. 

His mental struggle had so exhausted him that his physical nature cravedfor a stimulant, cried out for some support, some new life, new energy, if even for an hour or so, so imperiously, that his enfeebled mentalstamina had not strength enough left to say "no. "

He had got his collar on and his tie tied, and his hands and fingerswere trembling as though he were just recovering from an attack ofmalarial fever. 

"It can't possibly do me any harm now, " he said, as he moved away fromthe glass towards the door of his sitting-room. "I've conquered allthat. I haven't the slightest desire for it as drink--I haven't had forover a year now--I only want it as medicine, as a patient has it from adoctor. I can't go on without it, I must have something or I shall faintin the Theatre or do something ridiculous of that sort, and as formeeting Enid--good heavens, how am I to do that at all! Yes, I think acouple of teaspoonsful in that coffee will do me far more good thanharm. "

He went towards the sideboard on which stood his spirit-case. Heunlocked it and took out the brandy decanter. As he did so the memory ofthat other night came back to him, and he smiled. He had conquered now, and he could afford to smile at those old fears. He took the stopper outof the decanter and deliberately raised it to his nostrils. No, it waspowerless. The aroma had no more effect upon him than the scent of, say, _eau de Cologne_ would have had. That night in Warwick Gardens, it hadbeen like the touch of some evil magician's wand. Then, in an instant, it had transformed his whole nature; but now his brain remained cool andcalm, and his senses absolutely unmoved. Yes, he had conquered. Heneeded a stimulant, merely as an invalid might need a tonic, and hecould take it with just as much safety. 

He took the decanter into his bedroom and poured a couple ofteaspoonsful into his coffee, stirred it, lifted the cup, and, after onesingle priceless moment's hesitation, put it to his lips and drank itoff. 

"Ah, that's better!" he said, as he put the cup down and felt the subtleglow run like lightning through his veins. "Hallo, who's that? Confoundit, I hope it isn't Ernshaw. I don't want to begin the day with alecture on backsliding. "

He put the stopper back, went into the sitting-room, and replaced thedecanter in the stand before he said in answer to a knock at his door:

"Come in! Is that you Ernshaw?"

The door opened, and Reginald Garthorne came in. 

"No, it's me. That's not quite grammatical, I believe, but it's usual. Good-morning, Maxwell, " he went on, holding out his hand. "I've comeround early for two reasons. In the first place I want to be the firstto congratulate you, and in the second place I want you to give me abrandy and soda. I got here rather late last night with one or two otherCambridge men, and one of them took us to a man's rooms in Brazenose, and we had a rather wet night of it. Not the proper thing, of course, but excusable just now. "

"As for the congratulations, old man, " said Maxwell, "thanks for yoursand accept mine for what you've done in the Tripos, and as for thebrandy and soda, well, here you are. Open that cupboard, and you'll findsome soda and glasses. "

As he said this, he unlocked the spirit case again, and put the brandydecanter on the table. 

"I've just been having a spoonful myself in my coffee, " he went on, withjust a little flash of wonder why he should have said this. "The factis, I suppose, I've been overdoing it a bit lately, and that, and theanxiety of the thing, has rather knocked me up. I felt as nervous as afreshman going in for his first _viva voce_, when I got up thismorning. "

"I don't wonder at it, " said Garthorne, helping himself. "You must havebeen grinding infernally hard. So have I, for the matter of that, although, I didn't aspire to a double first. You really do look quiteknocked up. By the way, " he continued, looking at Vane with a smilewhose significance he might have seen had it not been for those twospoonsful of brandy, "I suppose you've quite got over that--well, ifyou'll excuse me saying so--that foolishness about inherited alcoholismand that sort of stuff, and therefore you'll lay all your laurels at thefeet of the fair Enid without a scruple? Of course, you remember thatjuvenile hiding you gave me on the "Orient"? Quite romantic, wasn't it?Well, I must admit that you proved yourself the better boy then, and asyou've taken a double first and I have only got a single, you've provedyourself the better man as well. Here's to you, Maxwell, won't you joinme? You know you have quite an ordeal to go through to-day, and just onewon't hurt you--do you good, in fact. You look as if you wanted abracer. "

Vane listened to the tempting words, so kindly and frankly spoken, as hemight have listened to words heard in a dream. All the high resolveswhich had shaped themselves with such infinite labour during the pasttwo years, seemed already to have been made by someone else--a someoneelse who was yet himself. He had made them and he was proud of them, and, of course, he meant to hold to them; but he had conquered thatdeadly fear which had held him in chains so long. He was a free mannow, and could do as he liked with his destiny. 

His long probation was over, and he had come through it triumphant. Hewas to see Enid again that day for the first time for two years. Hewould hear her voice offering him the sweetest of all congratulations, and when it was all over, there would be a little family gathering inhis rooms, just their fathers and themselves, and he would tell themeverything frankly, and they should help him to choose--for after all, it was only their right, and she, surely, had the best right of all tobe consulted. Meanwhile, now that he had fought and conquered that oldcraving for alcohol, there would be no harm, especially on such amorning as this, in joining Garthorne in just one brandy and soda. 

It never struck him how strangely inverted these thoughts were; what anutter negation of his waking thoughts, as they flashed through his mindwhile Garthorne was speaking. They seemed perfectly reasonable to him, and--so subtle was the miracle wrought by those two spoonsful ofbrandy--perfectly honest. 

"Well, really, I don't see why I shouldn't, " he said, taking up thedecanter and pulling one of the two glasses which Garthorne had put onthe table towards him. "I think I have got over that little weaknessnow. At any rate, for the last two years I haven't touched a drop ofanything stronger than coffee, and I've sat here and in other men'srooms with fellows drinking in an atmosphere, as one might say, full ofdrink and tobacco smoke; and except for the smoking--of course I haven'tdropped that--I've never felt the slightest inclination to join them, atleast, after the first month or so--so I think I'm pretty safe now. "

"Oh, of course you are!" said Garthorne. "As a matter of fact, you know, I never thought that there was anything serious in that idea of yoursthat you'd inherited the taint from some ancestor of yours. You gotscrewed one night for the first time in your life, and it gave you afright. But the fact that you've been able to swear off absolutely fortwo years, is perfectly clear proof that the craving really existed onlyin your own imagination. If it had been real, you couldn't possibly havedone it. Well, here's to us, old man, and to someone else who shall benameless just now!"

Vane, in the recklessness of his new confidence, had mixed himself apretty stiff dose. As he raised his glass with Garthorne's, somethingseemed to drag upon his arm, and something in his soul rose in revolt;but the old lurking poison was already aflame in his blood. He nodded toGarthorne and said:

"Thanks, old man. Here's to us and her!"

A few minutes before the words would have seemed blasphemy to him, nowthey sounded like an ordinary commonplace. He put the glass to his lipsand emptied it in quick, hungry gulps. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

"By Jove, that's good, " he said, as he put the empty glass down and drewa long, deep breath. "You only really appreciate that sort of thingafter a long abstinence like mine. "

"I should think so, " laughed Garthorne, putting down his own emptyglass; "although good and all as a brandy and soda is, especially aftera rather hot night, I should hardly think it was worth while to be T. T. For two years just to get the full flavour of it. If you don't mind I'llhave another. "

"Certainly, old fellow, help yourself, " said Vane, pushing the decantertowards him. "That's made a new man of me. When I got up this morning Icouldn't eat a scrap of breakfast, but that's made me absolutely hungry. The bacon's cold, of course, but there's a nice bit of tongue and somebrawn, and there's some toast and brown bread and butter. Sit down andhave a bite. The coffee's cold, but I can soon get up some hot if you'dlike it. "

"Oh, never mind about that, " said Garthorne. "I'm getting a bit peckishmyself, and I'll have a bite with you with pleasure; but I'm afraid hotcoffee on the top of brandy and soda at this time of the morning wouldproduce something of a conflict in the lower regions. I think another B. And S. Would go ever so much better with it. "

As he said this he helped himself and pushed the decanter back towardsVane, saying, "and if you'll take my advice you'll do the same. It can'thurt you, especially if you're eating. "

"Still, I think I'd better eat something first, " said Vane, as he setout the breakfast things and began to carve. "The hot plates are cold, so there will be enough for both. By Jove, that stuff has given me anappetite!"

"Yes, I thought it would do you good, " said Garthorne. "Get somethingsolid inside you and have another drink, and you'll be able to face yourmost reverend Chancellor with as much confidence as though you were hisfather-in-law. I'll mix you another if you'll allow me while you'recarving. Give me about half and half, please. "

"But don't give _me_ half and half, " said Vane, with a laugh thatsounded rather strangely in his own ears, and then, without lookinground, he went on carving. 

Garthorne poured a much more liberal quantity of brandy into Vane'sglass than he had done into his own, and at once filled it up withsoda-water from the syphon. 

"I think you'll find that about right, " he said, putting it down besidehim. 

"Thanks, old fellow, " said Vane; "much obliged!" He put the knife andfork down, lifted the glass and took a sip. "Yes, that's about right, Ithink, " he said, without even noticing the strength of the mixture. Andthen, with the unnatural appetite which the unaccustomed spirit hadroused in him, he took up his knife and fork and began to eatravenously, taking a gulp of the brandy and soda almost between eachmouthful. 

They laughed and chatted merrily over the old days as they went oneating and drinking; and as glass succeeded glass Vane became more andmore communicative and Garthorne more and more cordial. He quicklylearnt the truth of many things which so far he had only suspected, andat last he managed to lead the conversation adroitly up to a point atwhich Vane said in a somewhat thick, unsteady voice:

"By the way, Garthorne, yes, that reminds me. You remember that night atthe Empire when we had a bit of a row, Boat-race night, you know--thatgirl that I got out of the crowd--pretty girl, wasn't she?"

"Yes, " replied Garthorne, repressing a desire to laugh out openly. "Iremember her quite well; a very pretty girl, and, if I may say sowithout paying you a compliment, very like your noble self. In fact, ifsuch a thing hadn't been utterly impossible, she might almost havebeen----"

"My sister!" said Vane, as he drank off the remains of his fourth brandyand soda and put the glass down with a thump on the table. "Yes, that'sit, my sister, or at least not quite my sister, but--at least--well, half-sister, you understand--my mother's daughter, but not myfather's--see?"

"I see, I see, " said Garthorne, and then, before he could get anyfarther, there was a quick knock at the door. Vane looked dreamilyround, and said:

"Come in. "

The door opened, and Ernshaw entered, followed by Sir Arthur Maxwell. 

"Good heavens, Maxwell! what on earth does this mean?" exclaimedErnshaw, with something like a gasp in his voice, as he saw Vane sittingat the table in his shirt-sleeves--the friend with whom he had sat inthis same room the night before and had that long solemn talk--thefriend who had given him such solemn pledges. 

The table was littered and disordered, the coffee pot had got knockedover; there was a cup lying on its side in the saucer; a dish of baconcontaining a couple of rashers and two eggs congealed in fat, and scrapsof meat and broken bits of bread and butter lay about on the cloth. 

This was like anything but one of the many orderly breakfasts which hehad shared with Maxwell at the same table; but what startled Ernshawmore than anything else was the sight of the empty glass beside hisfriend's plate, the brandy decanter with less than a wine-glassful init, and the two empty soda syphons on the table. 

"Good morning, Ernshaw! Morning, dad! Jolly glad to see you. Come in andsit down and have a drink--I mean, a bit of breakfast. The coffee'scold, but I can get you some more if you wouldn't rather have brandy andsoda--plenty more brandy in the cupboard, soda too. Get it out and helpyourselves. Dad, you know Garthorne, of course. Ernshaw, you don't; letme introduce you--very good fellow--old rival of mine in love--you knowwho with, the fellow I had a fight with on the steamer--both kids--firstman to come and congratulate me this morning. Admits that I licked himthen as a boy, and have licked him since as a man--took better degreethan he did. Still, nice of him to come, wasn't it? Come on, Ernshaw;don't stand there staring. Come on and have a drink, too, andcongratulate, you old stick. Never mind about last night, I've got thatall under now; fought it for two years and beaten it. Can take a drinknow without fear of consequences. Taken lots this morning, and look atme, sober as the Chancellor. Why, dad, what's the matter?"

Sir Arthur Maxwell had come up to Oxford to see his own old academictriumphs repeated with added brilliance by his son. He had fullyapproved of all that Vane had done during the two years' probation whichhe had set himself, and he had firmly believed that the end of it allwould be, as he had many a time said to Enid's father, that the hardstudy, the strenuous mental discipline, and the stress of healthyemulation, would utterly destroy the germs of that morbid feeling which, for a time at least, had poisoned the promise of his son's youth. He hadonly arrived from Town, bringing Enid and her father, that morning, asthey had found it impossible to get rooms in Oxford over night. He hadmet Ernshaw in the High, and they had come together to Vane's rooms tofind _this_!

Like a flash that other scene in Warwick Gardens came back to him. Whilehis son was speaking he had looked into his eyes and seen that mocking, dancing flame which he had now a doubly terrible reason to remember, andto see it there in his eyes now on the morning of the crowning day ofhis youth, shining like a bale-fire of ruin through the morning sky ofhis new life. It was like looking down into hell itself. 

As Vane came towards him he staggered back as though he hardlyrecognised him. Then, for the first time for nearly thirty years since awell-remembered night among the Indian Hills, the room swam round himand the light grew dark. He made a couple of staggering steps towardsthe sofa, tripped over the edge of a rug, and rolled over, half on andhalf off the sofa. 

The sight sobered Vane instantaneously, though only for an instant. 

"Dad, what's the matter?" he cried again. "My God, Ernshaw, what is it?Tell me, what is it--what have I done? Let me go and see what's wrongwith him. "

Then with stumbling steps he tried to get round the table. The corner ofit caught his thigh. He lurched sideways and dropped to the floor like aman shot through the brain. 

Garthorne was already kneeling by the sofa on to which he had lifted SirArthur's head and shoulders, and had loosened his tie and collar. 

"Poor Vane, " he said, looking round. "I'm afraid the excitement of thismorning has been a bit too much for him. If we're going to get themround in time, perhaps you'd better ring up his scout and send him for adoctor. "

"Yes, " said Ernshaw, looking up from where he was kneeling by Vane. "Isuppose that's about the best thing to do, since the crime which youhave committed is unfortunately not one which warrants me in sending fora policeman as well. "

"Crime, sir, what the devil do you mean?" cried Garthorne, springing tohis feet. 

"I mean, " said Ernshaw slowly and without moving, "exactly what I say. Ifeel perfectly certain from what I know of Maxwell that this could notpossibly have occurred unless he had been deliberately tempted to drink. Your motives, of course, are best known to yourself and to Him who willjudge them. "

"So that's it, is it?" said Garthorne, with a harsh laugh. "You think Imade him drunk for some purpose of my own, a man that I've been friendswith ever since we punched each other's heads as boys. Well, you've beena good chum to Maxwell, so for his sake I'll pass over that idioticremark of yours, and tell you for your information that he had beendrinking before I came into the room at all. "

"It's a lie!" exclaimed Ernshaw, springing to his feet and going towardsthe bell. "Nothing on earth could make me believe that. " And then herang the bell. 

"I'm not accustomed to being called a liar, " said Garthorne veryquietly, "without resenting it in practical form; but as you don't seemto be quite yourself, and as there is so much physical difference in myfavour, I'll take the trouble to convince you that I am speaking thetruth. "

He went into the bedroom and brought out Vane's coffee-cup. 

"Smell that, " he said. 

Ernshaw took the cup and raised it to his nose. The strong smell ofbrandy rising from the dregs was unmistakable. Then there came a knockat the door, and Vane's servant came in. 

"Oh, good Lord, gentlemen, whatever is the matter?" he exclaimed, looking at Sir Arthur's prostrate form on the sofa and Vane's on thefloor. 

"Never mind about that just now, " said Garthorne curtly; "help us tocarry Mr. Maxwell to his room. Then you'd better undress him and get himto bed. I suppose you can see what's the matter, and I hope also thatyou've learnt to hold your tongue. "

"Yes, sir, " said the scout. "No man ever served a better master than Mr. Maxwell, and I hope I know my duty to him. "

Then the three of them picked up Vane's limp, loose-jointed form fromthe floor and carried him into his bedroom and laid him on the bed. 

"Now, " Garthorne continued, "I want you to tell Mr. Ernshaw whether Icame here after or before Mr. Maxwell had his coffee. "

"A good half-hour after, I should say, sir, " said the scout, looking alittle mystified. "You see, I brought it up about a quarter past eight, and he was up then and half dressed. He must have drunk it soon after, because he never will drink coffee unless it's hot. If it had got coldhe'd have had some more up, and you came a bit before nine, sir. He musthave drunk it before then. "

"Very well, " said Garthorne. "Now, can you remember whether thedecanters in the spirit-case were filled up last night?"

"No, sir, " said the scout. "I filled them up the first thing thismorning myself, thinking that Mr. Maxwell would have some friends cometo see him on a day like this. "

"Thank you, " said Garthorne; "that'll do, I think. Now you'd better getMr. Maxwell undressed. "

"Yes, " said Ernshaw. "But what about Sir Arthur? Surely we ought to geta doctor for him as soon as possible. "

"I am going for a doctor at once, " said Garthorne, "if you will tell mewhere I can find one. I have given him a spoonful of brandy, and I'mgoing to give him another. Just come in here for a moment, please. Youcan't do anything for Maxwell yet. "

Ernshaw followed him into the sitting-room, and as he took up thedecanter Garthorne went on, holding up the brandy decanter, which hadonly a few spoonfuls left in it:

"Look at that. You heard what his man said. Do you mean to tell me thatI could have drunk even half of that since nine o'clock and be as soberas I certainly am? The idea is absurd. "

Then he poured out a little into a wine-glass, put his hand under SirArthur's head, and let a few drops trickle between his lips. Sir Arthur, who had been gradually regaining consciousness, drew a deep breathwhich ended in a cough. Then he opened his eyes and said:

"What's the matter? Where am I? Where's Vane?"

"You have had a great shock, Sir Arthur, " said Garthorne, in a tone sogentle and kindly that Ernshaw started at it. "Vane has been taken ill, too, and we are putting him to bed. I'm just going for a doctor. "

Then he laid Sir Arthur's head back on the cushion and said, rising tohis feet:

"Now, Mr. Ernshaw, I think that's about all I can do for the present. Ifyou will tell me where I can find Maxwell's doctor I'll go and send him, and then I'll go on and tell Sir Godfrey, not what has really takenplace, but that something has happened which may prevent Maxwell leavinghis rooms to-day. "

Ernshaw scribbled the name and address of the doctor on the back of anenvelope and gave it to Garthorne, saying, rather hesitatingly:

"There it is, Mr. Garthorne. I'm afraid I've been too hasty in what Isaid to you, and I must confess that you've taken it as very few menwould have done. But if you only knew all that Vane has been to meduring the last two years, and how awful this seems to me----"

"My dear sir, don't say any more about it, " Garthorne interruptedgood-humouredly. "I know enough of poor Vane's story to see exactly whatyou mean. We'll consider it all unsaid, and now I must be off. "

CHAPTER IX. 

Ernshaw's first care, after Garthorne had left the room, was to see tothe comfort of Sir Arthur, who had now quite recovered consciousness, but was still feeling faint and ill. He told him as much of the truthabout Vane as he knew, and while he was doing so, Jepson, the scout, came in from the bedroom, and said with an air of deferentialconfidence:

"If you please, sir, I don't think there'll be any need for a doctor toMr. Maxwell. He's come round a bit, and I think I know what hiscomplaint is. Being excited, as he might well be on a morning like this, he's taken a drop too much on an empty stomach, and that led him todrink brandy and soda with his breakfast instead of sending for somemore coffee. I've often seen this sort of thing before, sir, you see, and I've found the physic that will cure him on the mantelpiece. It'sthis. "

He held up a little stoppered bottle full of strong ammonia, which Vanehad got for cleaning up the bindings of some old books. 

"Twenty drops of this, " he went on, "in a wine-glassful of water, andhe'll be as sober as ever he was in half an hour. Then I'll make himsome strong coffee, and he'll be as right as a trivet. Only you mustn'tlet him take any more drink afterwards, or he'll just bring his bootsup. I suppose I may try, sir? At any rate it won't do him any harm. "

"Certainly, " said Ernshaw, "I've heard of it before. Do the best you canfor him, Jepson. "

Jepson shut the door with a "Thank you, sir, " and proceeded to treat hispatient. 

Before the doctor arrived Sir Arthur had almost entirely recovered, andVane was sitting up in bed, supported by the faithful Jepson's arm, gasping and coughing, but perfectly sober, and wondering dimly what hadhappened during the last hour or two--or was it weeks, or months, orwhat? He felt horribly sick and ill, and he was trembling in every limb, but the clouds of intoxication had cleared away from his mind; memorywas returning to him, and he was asking Jepson disjointed questions asto what had happened. 

"Never you mind about that, sir, " said Jepson. "Everything's all rightnow. Sir Arthur is coming round nicely, and now you've got that down, you just lay back and keep quiet, and I'll go and make your coffee, andbefore an hour's over you'll be ready and fit to go to the Sheldonianand face the Chancellor as though you hadn't tasted a drop. "

Vane, still wondering at his apparently miraculous recovery, did as hewas told and lay back upon the pillows, and Jepson went off to brew himan "extra special" pot of coffee. 

"It's very unfortunate for Mr. Maxwell, " he said, when he got into hisown den, "very unfortunate, and on Degree Day too, but if I knowanything about him and Sir Arthur, and I can get him to the Theatredressed and _compos mentis_ and all that sort of thing--well, it's afiver at least in my pocket, so it's an ill wind that blows nobodygood. "

The doctor arrived while he was making the coffee. Ernshaw explainedquickly what had happened. He went in and looked at Vane, felt hispulse, asked him in a kindly tone why he had made such a fool of himselfon such a day, then he said that he couldn't improve on Jepson'streatment under the circumstances, and went in to look at Sir Arthur, who now, thanks to Ernshaw's care, was almost himself again. 

"Curious business this, " he said, after he had felt Sir Arthur's pulseand found that he was practically all right. "Your son's case, I mean. I've known him nearly all the time that he's been up, and I've alwaysconsidered that he was a teetotaller from principle. Of course it wouldbe simply absurd to attempt to conceal from you what has been the matterwith him this morning. He's been drunk, dead drunk, by about half-pastnine in the morning. At the same time we must remember that when a manhas been in hard training for a boat race, or anything of that sort, orif he has been reading hard on tea, which is almost as vicious a habitas alcoholism, he can get drunk on very little alcohol when the strainis taken off. In fact, I have known a man get drunk on a pint of bitterand a beef-steak; but there doesn't seem any reason of that sort forwhat happened this morning. Still, fortunately, that man of his knewwhat to do, and he's done it--a rather heroic remedy certainly, but onecan risk that with a good constitution. 

"Still, I can't quite understand it, I must confess. If there was anytaint of what we now call alcoholic insanity in his blood, it would, ofcourse, be perfectly plain. However, we needn't go into that now. Therecan't be any idea of that, and I think when he's had his coffee, andyou've had a mild brandy and soda, Sir Arthur, and kept quiet for halfan hour or so, I think you will be able to go and see your son take thehonours which he has won, and won very well, too. I suppose no idea ofthis has gone beyond these rooms?"

"I'm afraid they have, " said Ernshaw. "Garthorne, a Cambridge man, theman, you know, Sir Arthur, who was here with Vane when you came in, thesame man who went for you, Doctor, said that he would go on and tell SirGodfrey that Vane had been taken ill and wouldn't be able to come out ofhis rooms to-day. In short, that he would have to receive his degree byproxy. "

"The devil he did, " said Sir Arthur, getting up from the sofa with thestrength of a sudden access of anger and moving towards the bedroomdoor. "Look here, doctor, you have just said that Vane is getting round. Well, if he is, the old blood in him will tell, and he'll take his placeand play his part with the rest of them. Mr. Ernshaw, I know yourfriendship for my son; I know what you have done for him, and how youhave helped him. Now, will you do me another favour and take mycompliments to Sir Godfrey Raleigh, and say that the matter is notanything like as serious as we thought it was, and that both Vane andmyself will be ready to go through the day's programme as arranged. Ifyou will be good enough to do that, the doctor and I will be able toarrange the rest, I think. "

"I shall be only too glad, " said Ernshaw, taking up his hat. "I shalljust have about time to do it, and then get to my rooms and dress. _Aurevoir_, then, until after the ceremony, " and with that, he opened thedoor just as Jepson knocked at it, bringing in the coffee. 

Ernshaw found Garthorne already at Sir Godfrey's rooms in closeconversation with Enid. He had, of course, heard much about her fromVane, but this was the first time he had seen her. She had more thanfulfilled the promise of two years before, and Ernshaw, ascetic as hewas, had still too strong an artistic vein in his temperament to beinsensible to her beauty. In fact, as she rose to greet the closestfriend of the man who had been her lover, and who, as she fondly hoped, would be so once more after to-day, he started and coloured ever soslightly. He had never seen anything like her before as she stood therewith outstretched hand, gently-smiling lips, and big, soft, deep eyes, in all the pride and glory of her dawning womanhood. 

It was this, then, that Vane had to give up. This was the pricelesstreasure which, if he kept his vow, he would have to surrender toanother man. As the thought crossed his mind, he looked at Garthorne, and he saw the possibility that, after all, he might be the victor inthat struggle which had begun years ago on the deck of the steamer. 

Certainly, as far as physical conditions went, there could hardly be abetter match; but as he looked back to Enid, a darker thought stole intohis mind. Garthorne had, superficially at least, rebutted the charges hehad made against him in Vane's rooms; but though he had apologised forwhat he had said, the conviction that he had deliberately tempted Vaneto drink came back to him, now that he saw how great a temptationGarthorne had to commit such an infamy. 

No doubt he knew perfectly well that Enid herself would overlook Vane'ssecond lapse as she had done his first, and would be quite content tomarry him on the strength of his promise that he would never get drunkagain; but he also knew that, after what had happened that morning, Vane's determination to give her up would be tenfold strengthened, andthat, when once he had definitely done so, the psychological momentwould have arrived for him to begin his own suit--at first, of course, from a deferential distance, from which he might hope to approach herheart through the avenue of her injured pride. 

"Good morning, Mrs. Ernshaw!" she said, "I am glad to meet such an oldand good friend of Vane's. I have heard a great deal about you, and, Ineed hardly say, nothing but good. I hope you have come to tell me thatVane is better and also that you will tell me what has really been thematter with him. Mr. Garthorne, here, has been very rude; he hasabsolutely refused to say anything about it, and I am quite offendedwith him. I really can't see why there should be any mystery about it. What is it?"

Ralph Ernshaw was one of those men who can no more tell a direct lie, oreven prevaricate, than they can get outside their own skins. He heldeven the white lies of conventionality to be unworthy of anyone who heldthe truth as sacred, and yet for the life of him he could not look thislovely girl in the face and tell her that the man whom she had lovedever since she knew what love was, had been lying drunk on the floor ofhis room less than an hour before, and that the sight of him had shockedhis father into a fainting fit. 

"I think, Miss Raleigh, " he said, after a little hesitation, "that Vanewould rather tell you that himself. In fact, to be quite candid withyou, it is not a subject upon which I should care to touch even at yourrequest, simply because I think that it is a matter which could be verymuch better discussed and explained between Vane and yourself; and Ithink Mr. Garthorne will agree with me in that view. "

"Certainly I do, " said Garthorne, "I think that is the most sensible wayof putting it. Enid, if you'll take my advice you'll take Ernshaw's, andlet Vane do his own explaining after Commem. "

"Really, I think it's very horrid of both of you, " said Enid. "Icertainly can't see why there should be all this mystery. If it'sanything really serious, surely I have a right to know. However, Isuppose I must control my feminine impatience, at any rate it can't beanything very bad if he'll be able to be at the Theatre and Sir Arthurcan come with him. I suppose I shall hear all about it at dinnerto-night. "

"I have no doubt that you will, Miss Raleigh, " said Ernshaw, "and now, if you will excuse me, I must be off to my rooms to get ready for my ownshare of the proceedings. Good morning. "

"Good morning, Mr. Ernshaw, " replied Enid, a trifle stiffly. "Thatreminds me how rude I have been, I've not congratulated you yet. "

"Oh, I haven't done anything, " said Ernshaw, "at least, not incomparison with what Vane has done. You'll see the difference in theTheatre. Good morning again. Good morning, Mr. Garthorne. "

"Good morning--we shall see you later, I suppose?" replied Garthorne, asthe door closed, and then he turned to Enid and went on: "He's athundering good fellow that Ernshaw. Quite a character, I believe, enthusiast, and all that sort of thing, but everyone here seems to thinkhe'll be a shining light some day. "

"Yes, he seems very nice, " said Enid, "but, as a matter of fact, I can'tsay that I'm particularly fond of shining lights or people who are toogood, and from what papa tells me, this Mr. Ernshaw has been making ortrying to make Vane a great deal too good for me. I even hear that hehas been trying to make Vane become a parson. Fancy Vane, with all histalents and prospects, a curate! The idea is absurd, even more absurdthan this two years' probation idea. "

"I quite agree with you, " said Garthorne, "but still, think of the testof constancy and the delight of knowing that you have both stood it sowell. "

At this moment the door opened, and Sir Godfrey came in, not altogetherto Garthorne's satisfaction, and so put an end to further developmentsof the conversation. 

A couple of hours later Enid was sitting with her father, a unit of thevast audience which filled the Sheldonian Theatre. After Ernshaw'svisit, neither she nor her father had received any message either fromVane or Sir Arthur. She had expected that Vane, at least, would havecome to her before the beginning of the ceremonies, or that, at least, Sir Arthur would have come and told her something about him, but no, nota word; and there she sat between Garthorne and her father, angry andyet expectant, waiting for the moment of his appearance. 

"Ah, here he is at last, " whispered Garthorne, as his name and honourswere called out in Latin. 

Enid held her breath as the familiar figure, clad in the unfamiliaracademic garb, walked towards the Chancellor's throne. She could seethat he was deadly pale, and that his eyes were shining with anunnatural brightness. He never even once looked towards her. The wildoutburst of cheering which greeted his appearance seemed as utterlylost upon him as if he had been stone deaf and blind. He listened to theChancellor's address with as little emotion as though it concerned someone else. Then he knelt down, the hood, the outward and visible sign ofhis intellectual triumph, was put over his shoulders; the Chancellorspoke the magic words without his hearing them. He never felt the threetaps given with the New Testament on his head, and he rose from hisknees and moved away from the scene of the crowning triumph of his youthas mechanically as though the proceedings had no more interest for himthan if they had been taking place a thousand miles away. 

All through the afternoon Enid and her father waited for them to come, but there was no sign from either of them until just before tea-timeJepson presented himself with two letters, one addressed to Sir Godfreyand one to Enid. Both were very short. Sir Godfrey's was from SirArthur, and ran as follows:

 "MY DEAR RALEIGH, "I hope that you and your daughter will forgive the apparent discourtesy of our absence from you this afternoon and evening. I find it necessary to take Vane to London at once. His letter to Enid will explain the reason. 

 "Faithfully yours, "ARTHUR MAXWELL. "

"There is evidently something very serious the matter, " said SirGodfrey, as he handed the note to Enid. "Maxwell wouldn't write likethat without good reason. That's from Vane, I suppose. What does hesay?"

"Say, " exclaimed Enid, with a flash of anger through her fast gatheringtears. "That's what he says. It's too bad, too cruel--and after leavingme alone for two years--it's miserable!" And with that, she made a swiftescape out of the room and shut the door behind her with an emphaticbang. 

Sir Godfrey picked the note up from the table where she had flung it. There was no form of address. It simply began:

"I was drunk this morning. Drunk without meaning to be so, after beingtwo years without touching alcohol and without experiencing theslightest craving for it. Last night I had finally come to theconclusion that it would be a sin to ask you to keep your promise to me. Now I am convinced that it would be absolute infamy to do so. I dare noteven face you to tell you this, so utterly unworthy and contemptible amI in my own sight. Whatever you hear to the contrary, remember that whathas happened this morning is no fault of anyone but myself. If ever wemeet again I hope I shall find you the wife of a man more worthy of youthan I am now, or, with this accursed taint in my blood, ever could be. Perhaps in those days we may be friends again; but for the present wemust be strangers. 

"Vane. "

CHAPTER X. 

Yet another twelve months had passed since Vane had taken his degree;since Enid had seen him vanish like a spectre out of her life, and hadwaited vainly for his coming, only to receive instead that letter offarewell which, the instant she had read it, she knew to be final andirrevocable. 

In such a nature as hers the tenderest spot was her pride. She had beenhis sweetheart since they were boy and girl together, and when the timecame they had become formally engaged. For nearly four years now she hadconsidered herself as half married to him. Other men attracted by herphysical beauty and her mental charm had approached her, as they had aperfect right to do, in open and honest rivalry of Vane, but she hadgiven them one and all very clearly to understand that she haddefinitely plighted her troth, and had no intention of breaking it. Inother words she had been absolutely faithful even in thought. 

She had never considered his feelings as to what he called his inheritedalcoholism as anything else than the somewhat fine-drawn scruples of ahighly-strung, and rather romantic nature. She had not troubled herselfabout the deadly scientific aspect of the matter. She knew perfectlywell that men got drunk sometimes and still made excellent husbands, and, more than all, she firmly believed that, once Vane's wife, shewould speedily acquire sufficient influence over him to make anythinglike a recurrence of what had happened quite impossible. 

Even after his second and worst breakdown on the morning ofCommemoration Day she would still have received him as her lover and, after a little friendly lecture which would, of course, have ended inthe usual way, she would have been perfect friends with him again on theold footing. 

But that letter had ended everything between them. Moreover, it had beenfollowed by one from Sir Arthur to her father expressing great regret atthe turn which matters had taken, but saying that, after repeatedconversations with Vane, he had been forced to the conclusion that hisresolve to enter the Church and devote himself to a life of celibacy andmission work at home was really fixed and unalterable. 

After that there was, of course, nothing more to be said or done. Enid, being a natural, simple-hearted, healthy English girl, who enjoyed lifea great deal too well to worry about looking under the surface ofthings, therefore came to the conclusion that she had been jilted forthe sake of a fine-drawn Quixotic idea. If she had been jilted for thesake of another woman it would have been quite a different matter. Thenthere would have been something tangible to hate bitterly for a season, and then to get revenged on by making a much more brilliant marriage, asshe could easily have done. But it was infinitely worse, and morehumiliating to be thrown over like this by the man whom she had lookedupon as her future husband nearly all her life, whom she had played athousekeeping with while they were children, and whom she had neverlooked upon as anything else but a sweetheart or a lover--and yet it wastrue, miserably true, and now, for the sake of a mere idea, she foundherself cast off, loverless and alone. 

Then, after a few weeks of secret, but exceeding bitterness, she didwhat nineteen out of every twenty girls would have done under thecircumstances. The twentieth girl would probably have considered herlife blighted for ever, and vowed the remainder of it tosingle-blessedness, charity and good works as a Sister of something orother. But Enid belonged to the practical majority, and so when thebreaking off of the engagement became an actual social fact, andReginald Garthorne came just at the psychological moment to tell herthat never since he had earned that boyish licking on the steamer bykissing her, had he been able to look with love into the eyes of anyother woman, she had told him with perfect frankness that, as it wasquite impossible for her to marry Vane, and as she certainly liked himnext best, and had not the slightest intention of remaining single, shewas perfectly content to marry him. If he chose to take her on thoseterms he might go and talk the matter over with Sir Godfrey, and if heand her mother said "yes, " she would say "yes, " too. 

It was a somewhat prosaic wooing, perhaps, but Reginald Garthorne hadbeen hungering for her in his heart for years. Outwardly he had beenfriends with Vane, but in his soul he had hated him consistently as boyand man ever since that scene behind the wheelhouse of the _Orient_. Hewas, therefore, perfectly content. He had longed for her, and he didn'tcare how he got her. The rest would come afterwards. 

He was rich, far richer than Vane ever would be. He had inherited afortune of nearly two hundred thousand pounds from his mother's side ofthe family when he came of age. On his father's death he would succeedto the title and a fine old country house in the Midlands, with arent-roll and mining royalties worth over thirty thousand a year. Hewould be able to make her life a continuous dream of pleasure, amidstwhich she would very soon forget the visionary who was throwing away hismanhood and all the best years of his life just because he had learntthat he was the son of a drunken and abandoned woman, and had himselfgot drunk twice in his life. 

The interview with Sir Godfrey and Lady Raleigh had been entirelysatisfactory. They both considered in their hearts that their daughterhad been very badly treated. From every social point of view this was amatch which left nothing to be desired, and so they said "yes, " andGarthorne went back to Enid, and said, triumphantly, as he kissed herfor the first time since that memorable kiss on the steamer:

"And so, you see, darling, I've won, after all!"

It was thus that it came about that, on the same day, as the Fates wouldhave it, two ceremonies were being performed at the same hour, one inSt. George's, Hanover Square, and one before the altar at WorcesterCathedral. 

The Bishop, in full canonicals, surrounded by his attendant clergy, satinside the altar rails in front of the Communion Table, and on thetopmost step before the rails knelt two young men wearing surplices andthe hoods of Bachelors of Arts of Oxford. 

It was the Feast of St. James the Apostle, and in his exhortation theArchdeacon, who was preacher for the day, had taken for his text thecollect:

 "Grant, O merciful God, that, as Thine holy Apostle St. James, leaving his father and all that he had without delay, was obedient unto the call of Thy Son Jesus Christ and followed Him, so we, forsaking all worldly and carnal affections, may be evermore ready to follow Thy holy commandments, through Jesus Christ our Lord!"

One of the men kneeling at the altar rails was Mark Ernshaw, and theother was Vane Maxwell. 

Among the somewhat scanty congregation which had remained after theusual morning service, sat Sir Arthur Maxwell. A year ago he would havebeen inclined to laugh at the idea of his son sacrificing all hisbrilliant worldly prospects to enter the Church. He was, as has alreadybeen said, a deeply religious man himself, but still, he was a man ofthe world, a man who had made his own way through the world, and won bysheer hard work some of the prizes which it has to give, and, like manyothers of his class, he had come to look upon the clerical professionsomewhat as the refuge of the intellectually destitute. 

But as the time had gone on since that scene in his son's rooms atOxford, he had come to believe that with Vane it was not a merequestion, as it is with too many other men, of taking Orders to secure aprofession and a position. He was entering the Church as the men of moreearnest and more faithful ages had done; because he believed that he hada duty to do, a mission to perform, a sacrifice to make, and, above all, an enemy to fight which was God's enemy as well as his own. 

Therefore the words "leaving his father and all that he had, " awakenedno bitter echoes in his soul. True it was a sacrifice for him as well asfor Vane; but for Vane's sake he had made it willingly and cheerfully, and he was able now to look forward with perfect contentment to thetriumphs which, in his father's pride, he could not help believing hisson would win in that higher and holier sphere of life which he hadchosen. 

The presentation being made and the questions as to "crime orimpediment" being duly asked and answered, the Litany and Suffragesbegan, and every note and word of the solemn intonation, ringing throughthe silence of the great Cathedral, found an echo which rang true inthree souls at least among the congregation:

 "O God the Father of Heaven: have mercy upon us, miserable sinners. 

 "O God the Son, Redeemer of the world: have mercy upon us, miserable sinners. 

 "O God the Holy Ghost, proceeding from the Father and the Son: have mercy upon us, miserable sinners. 

 "O Holy blessed and glorious Trinity, three Persons and one God: have mercy upon us, miserable sinners. 

 "Remember not, Lord, our offences, nor the offences of our forefathers: neither take thou vengeance on our sins: spare us, good Lord, spare thy people whom thou hast redeemed with Thy most precious blood, and be not angry with us for ever. 

 "From all evil and mischief: from sin, from the crafts and assaults of the devil: from Thy wrath and from everlasting damnation. 

 "From all blindness of heart: from pride, vain-glory and hypocrisy: from envy, hatred and malice, and all uncharitableness. 

 "From fornication, and all other deadly sin: and from all the deceits of the world, the flesh and the devil. 

 "Good Lord deliver us!"

"Remember not, Lord, our offences, nor the offences of our forefathers:neither take thou vengeance on our sins. "

These, of all the words which he heard spoken on that fateful day, theday which marked for him the passing of the line which divides the Worldof the Flesh from the World of the Spirit--the frontier of the kingdomof this world separating it from that other Kingdom which, thoughworldwide, yet owns but a single Lord--seemed to fall with greaterweight into Vane's soul than any others of the service. As he heard themhe raised his bent head, threw it back and, with wide open eyes, lookedup over the Bishop's head and the reredos behind the altar to thecentral section of the great stained glass window containing the figureof the Godhead crucified in the flesh, with the two Marys, Mary theMother and Mary Magdalene, kneeling at the foot of the Cross. 

Like a quiver of summer lightning across the horizon of an August sky, there came to him the thought of that mother of his whom he had neverknown, and of that girl who was almost his sister, long ago lost in thegreat wilderness of London. They were not likenesses, only the faintestof suggestions, and yet the mere recollection seemed to lend an addedsolemnity to the vows which he was about to take. 

 "I will do so, the Lord being my helper!"

As he uttered the words there was not the faintest doubt in his soulthat for the rest of his life he would be able to keep both the letterand the spirit of the oath unbroken to the end of his days. Many a manand woman has rashly wished that it were possible to look into thefuture. Such a thought had more than once crossed Vane Maxwell's mind, but could he, in that solemn moment, have looked into the future andseen what lay before him, he would have been well content with the highdestiny to which his great renunciation was to lead him. 

 * * * * *

And now the scene changes from Gloucester Cathedral, to St. George's, Hanover Square. 

It was the smartest wedding of the year, and, apart from all its socialbrilliance, even the most rigid critics admitted that London had notseen a lovelier bride or a handsomer bridegroom than Enid Raleigh andReginald Garthorne. The church was thronged by an audience made up ofthe friendly, the sympathetic, the sentimental, and the merely curious, as is usual on such occasions. 

Carol Vane and Dora Russel, who had come provided with ticketsindirectly supplied by the bridegroom himself, occupied seats in theleft-hand gallery at the front. In consequence of the crowd, they onlygot into their places just as the bridal procession was moving up thecentral aisle. There was the bride with her attendant bridesmaids, sixlittle maidens dressed in pure white, the bridegroom with his pages, sixcounterparts dressed in the style of Charles I. Then Sir Godfrey andLady Raleigh, and then a tall, grizzled, soldierly-looking man, andbeside him a white-haired old lady, who might have stepped straight outof one of Gainsborough's pictures. 

As Carol caught sight of the man beside her, she leant half her bodyover the front of the gallery, and stared with straining eyes down atthe slowly moving procession. Dora caught her by the arm and pulled herback, saying, in a whisper:

"Don't do that; you might fall over. "

Carol turned a white face and a pair of blankly staring eyes upon her, caught her by the arm with one hand and pointing downwards with theother, said in a whisper that seemed to rattle in her throat:

"See that man, there--that tall one with the old lady on his arm? That'sthe man who did all the ruin! That's my father--and my mother was Vane'smother, and that's his son, going to marry Vane's sweetheart. No, byGod, he shan't! I'll tell the whole church full, first. "

She tore herself free from Dora's hold and struggled to her feet, herlips were opened to utter words which would have instantly turned thewedding into a tragedy; but the rush of thoughts which came surging intoher brain was too much for her. The swift revelation of an almostunbelievable life-tragedy struck her like a lightning-stroke; sheuttered a few incoherent sounds, and then dropped back fainting intoDora's arms. 

"Another of life's little tragedies, I suppose, " whispered awell-dressed matron just behind her, to a companion at her side, "a_petite maitresse_, no doubt. It's a curious thing; they always come tosee their lovers married. "

CHAPTER XI. 

The fainting of Carol in the gallery of the church and her being carriedout just before the commencement of the ceremony, was looked upon bysome of the more superstitious of the immediate spectators as a sign ofevil omen to the happiness of those who, in the phrase which is so oftenonly the echo of devils' laughter, were about "to be joined together inholy matrimony. "

Still, only a few had heard the broken words which the horror-strickengirl had uttered before she fell down insensible, and those only thoughtwhat the good lady behind her had said. To the rest of the congregationit was merely an incident, due to the crowd and the heat. The littleflutter of excitement which it caused soon passed away, and the ceremonybegan and went on without any of the bridal party even knowing what hadhappened. 

She was carried to the gallery stairs, and there Dora sat her down, supporting her with her arm, while one sympathetic young lady held abottle of salts to her nostrils, and an older lady emptied ascent-bottle on to her handkerchief and held it to her forehead. 

In a very few minutes she came round. She looked about her, and, recognising Dora, said:

"Oh, dear, what's happened? Where am I? Yes, I remember--at awedding--and he----"

Then she checked herself, and Dora said:

"Do you think you're well enough to come down and get into a cab, andthen we'll get home? It was the heat and the crush that did it, Isuppose. "

"Yes, I think I can, " said Carol. "I'm all right now. Thank you verymuch for being so kind, " she went on to the other two with a faint smileof gratitude. 

"Oh, don't mention it, " they said almost together, and then the youngerone put her hand under her arm and helped her up. "Let me help youdown, " she said. "I daresay you'll be all right when you get into theopen air. "

Carol looked round at her and saw that, without being exactly pretty, she had a very sweet and sympathetic expression, and big, soft browneyes which looked out very kindly under dark level brows. It was a facewhich women perhaps admire more than men; but her voice was one whichwould have gone just as quickly to a man's heart as to a woman's. At anyrate, it went straight to Carol's, and when they had got into the caband she leant back against the cushions she said to Dora:

"I wonder who that girl was? Did you notice what a sweet face and what alovely voice she had? I'm not very loving towards my own sex, but assoon as I got round I felt that I wanted to hug her--and I suppose ifshe knew the sort of person I am she wouldn't have touched me. What adifference clothes make, don't they? Now, if I'd been dressed as some ofthe girls are----"

"I think you're quite wrong there, Carol, " said Dora, interrupting her. "I don't believe she's that sort at all, she was much too nice, I'mcertain. She had the face of a really good woman, and you know goodwomen don't think that of us. It's only the goody-goody ones who dothat, and there's a lot of difference between good and goody-goody. "

"Well, yes, " said Miss Carol, "I daresay you're right, after all. Shehad a sweet face, hadn't she? But look here, Dora, " she went on with asudden change of tone, "did you ever know anything so awful? No--I can'ttalk about it yet. Tell him to pull up at the Monico, and we'll have abrandy and soda. I never wanted a drink so badly in my life. "

The cab had meanwhile been rolling down Regent Street, and had almostreached the Circus. Dora put her hand up through the trap and told thecabman--whose opinion of his fares underwent an instantaneous change. Henodded and said, "Yes, miss, " and the next minute pulled up in front ofthe square entrance to the cafe. Dora got out first and helped Carolout; then she gave the cabman a shilling and they went in. 

"Goes to a wedding, does a faint, comes out, and stops 'ere when theyought to have been driven 'ome. Not much class there!" the cabmansoliloquised as he flicked his whip over his horse's ears and turnedacross towards Piccadilly. He was, perhaps, naturally disgusted at themeagre results of a job for which he had expected three or fourshillings at the very least. 

The big café was almost deserted, as it usually is in the morning, andthe two girls found a secluded seat at one of the corner tables. 

"Dora, you must pay for these, " said Carol when they had given theirorder, "and what's more you'll have to lend me some money to go on with, for if I was starving I wouldn't spend another shilling of that man'smoney. "

"But, my dear child, I don't suppose he knew it, " said Dora. "Of courseyou can have anything I've got if you want it, and I quite understandhow you feel. It's very dreadful, horrible, in fact, but you couldn'thelp it. You're not to blame, and I don't see that he is, after all'ssaid and done. "

"No, I don't say that he is, " said Carol, "and of course I couldn'tknow, for he isn't a bit like his father. He was dark once, so I supposethe--the other one takes after his mother. At least, he would do if shewas a fair woman. But just fancy me having that feeling about Vane thatnight--feeling that I couldn't--and yet this one is just as near. Godforgive me, Dora, isn't it awful?"

"Well, never mind, dear, " said Dora, as the waiter brought the drinks. "I don't see that that matters one way or the other now. What's done_is_ done, and there's an end of it. Well, here's fun, and better lucknext time!"

"Hope so!" said Carol somewhat bitterly, as she took a rather long pullat her brandy and soda. "Ah, that's better, " she went on, as she put herglass down. "At any rate, it couldn't be much worse luck, could it?"

"But are you perfectly certain, " said Dora, "that he really was the man?You know, after all, you only saw him for quite a moment or so. "

"I'm as certain as I am that I'm sitting here, " said Carol, "that thatwas the man who lived with my mother in Paris and Vienna and Nice and alot of other places ever since I can remember. It isn't likely that I'mgoing to forget when I have such good reason as I have for remembering. He's the man, right enough, and if I was face to face with him for fiveminutes I'd prove it. The question is whether I ought to prove it ornot. "

"That's a thing that wants thinking about, " said Dora. "But how can youprove it?"

"Easy enough, " replied Carol, "if he'd just take his coat off and turnhis shirt-sleeve up. He's got two marks just above his right elbow, twowhite marks, and the one on the front is bigger than the one behind. I've seen them many a time when he's been sculling or playing tennis. Hetold me he got them from a spear thrust when he was fighting in the Zuluwar. The spear went right in in front and the point came out behind, andif I had a thousand pounds I'd bet it that that man has got those markson his arm. 

"Besides, I know lots of other things about him. You know I'm not a badmimic, for one thing, and I could imitate his voice and his way oftalking before I heard him speak, and I know a photographer in Pariswhere I could get his photograph--one taken while he was with us. Wewent with him to have it taken; and, besides, I don't care whether thatunfortunate mother of mine's mad or not, she'd recognise him. I'd betany money he daren't go to the place where she is and face her. Well, now I'm better. Let's go home to lunch and think it over. It certainlyisn't a thing to do anything hastily about. "

"That's just what I think, dear, " said Dora, finishing her brandy andsoda. 

"All right; we won't take another cab just yet. Let's walk along the'Dilly for a bit; it'll do me good, I think; and besides, I may as wellget familiar with the old place again, " said Carol, rising from herseat. 

"What nonsense!" said Dora. "The very idea of _you_ having to go in forthat sort of thing, when there are half a dozen fellows a good deal morethan ready to take this man Garthorne's place. "

"Well, well, " said Carol, with a light laugh and a toss of her prettyhead, "I don't suppose the change would be for the worse. But there'sone thing certain, I shall have to snare the oof bird very shortly, forthe first thing I'm going to do when we get to the flat is to send backevery penny of the money that Reginald gave me when we said good-bye. Ofcourse I didn't know anything about it, but it seems worse a good dealthan if I had stolen it. Then to-night we'll go to the Empire, and you, being rather more married than I am, can chaperone me. "

"All right, " said Dora. "I'll send a wire to Bernard, and perhaps he'llcome too and escort us. "

Reginald Garthorne had behaved, as both the world and the half-worldwould have said, very honourably to Carol when they had said the usualgood-bye before his marriage. He had paid his share of the rent of theflat for her for six months ahead, and had given her a couple of hundredpounds to go on with. Of this considerably over a hundred poundsremained. She changed the gold into notes, and even the silver intopostal orders, and put the whole sum into a packet, which she registeredand posted to his town address. 

She gave no explanation or reason for what she was doing. In the firstplace she could not bring herself to tell him the dreadful truth thatshe had discovered; and then, again, it would only after all be a pieceof needless cruelty. During her connection with him he had alwaystreated her with kindness and courtesy, and often with generosity. Shehad nothing whatever against him, so why should she wreck the happinessof his honeymoon, and perhaps of his whole married life, by disclosingthe secret that had been so strangely revealed to her? So she simplywrote:

 "DEAR MR. GARTHORNE, "You have been very kind to me, and I thoroughly appreciate your kindness. But something has happened to-day--I daresay you can guess what it is--which makes it unnecessary to me, and, as you know I have rather curious ideas about money matters, I hope you will understand my reasons, and not be offended by my returning it to you with many thanks. 

 "Yours very sincerely, "CAROL VANE. "

Under the circumstances the white lie was one which the Recording Angelmight well have blotted out. Probably he did. But, as the Fates wouldhave it, the words proved prophetic. 

They went to the Empire that night under the escort of Mr. BernardFalcon, and while they were having a stroll round the promenade duringthe interval he nodded and smiled a little awkwardly to a tall, good-looking young fellow in evening dress, whose bronzed skin, squareshoulders and easy stride gave one the idea that he was a good deal moreaccustomed to the free and easy costume of the Bush or the Veld or theMining Camp than to the swallow-tails and starched linen of after-dinnerCivilisation. 

"What a splendid-looking fellow!" said Dora, turning her head slightlyas he passed; "the sort of man, I should say, who really _is_ a man. Whois he, Bernard? You seem to know him!"

"That man?" said Mr. Falcon. "Well, come down into the lower bar, andwe'll have a drink, and I'll tell you. "

"That looks a little bit as if you didn't want to meet him again!" saidDora, a trifle maliciously. "Does he happen to be one of your clients, or someone who only knows you as a perfectly respectable person?"

Mr. Falcon did not reply immediately, but he frowned a little, as if hedidn't find the remark very palatable. But when they reached theseclusion of the bar and sat down at one of the tables he said:

"Well, yes, it is something like that. The fact is we have done a littlebusiness for him, and we hope to do more. Lucky beggar, he's one ofFortune's darlings. "

"That sounds interesting, " said Carol. "May I ask what the good lady hasdone for him?"

"Well, " said Mr. Falcon, folding his hands on the table and dropping hisvoice to a discreet monotone, "in the first place she made him theyounger son of a very good family. Nothing much to begin with, ofcourse, but then she also gave him a maiden aunt who left him fivethousand pounds just after he left Cambridge in disgust after failingthree times to get a pass degree. He had no special turn for anything inparticular except riding and shooting and athletics of all sorts. So, like a sensible fellow, instead of stopping in England and fooling hismoney away, as too many younger sons do, he put four thousand poundsinto my partner's hands--Lambe, I should tell you, was his aunt'ssolicitor--to be invested in good securities, put the other thousandinto his pocket, and started out to seek his fortune. 

"That's a little over five years ago, which makes him about thirty now. Of course, I suppose he went everywhere and did everything, as suchfellows do, but we heard very little of him, and he never drew a pennyof the four thousand pounds, and he turned up in London a week or twoago something more than a millionaire. It seems that he was one of thefirst to hear of the West Australian goldfields--he was out thereprospecting in the desert, and a few months later he was one of thepioneers of Kalgoorlie, and pegged out a lot of the most valuableclaims. He put in nearly three years there, and now he's come back toenjoy himself. He's a very fine fellow, but I must say I'd rather nothave met him here to-night. "

"Oh, nonsense, " laughed Dora, "he'll understand. Being a man he knowsperfectly well that scarcely any of you respectable married men are halfas respectable as you'd like to be thought. However, why not compromisehim too? Go and fetch him and introduce him. "

Mr. Falcon knew Dora well enough to take this request as something likean order. So he rose, saying:

"Well, that's not a bad idea, after all, and I daresay he won't have theslightest objection to make the acquaintance of two such entirelycharming young ladies. "

Mr. Falcon rather prided himself upon his way of turning a compliment, albeit his action, as they say in stable parlance, was a trifle heavy. When he had gone Dora nodded to Carol and said:

"There, dear. If I'm not very much mistaken this is the reward ofvirtue. "

"Which is its own reward, and generally doesn't get it, " laughed Carol, colouring slightly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, " said Dora, "that only to-day you made yourself penniless fromthe most laudable of motives, and here, this very night, comes PrinceCharming from the Fortunate Isles, with all his pockets and both handsfull of money, and a splendid-looking fellow as well. I think that's abit mixed, but still it's somewhere about the fact. Ah, here they come. "

"Mr. Cecil Rayburn, Miss Dora Murray; Mr. Rayburn, Miss Carol Vane. Nowwe know each other, " said Mr. Falcon. "Rayburn, what will you have?"

Rayburn had a brandy and soda, and before it was finished theconversation was running easily and even merrily. With the quickperception of the travelled man he speedily discovered that Dora wasFalconer's particular friend; she always addressed him as "Bernie, "while Carol always said "Mr. Falcon" or "Mr. F. "

When they got up, all thoroughly well pleased with each other, Falconsaid:

"Are you alone, Rayburn?"

"Yes, " he replied. "I hadn't anything particular to do to-night, and asI was sick of playing billiards and swopping lies with the other fellowsat the Carlton, I just put on a hard-boiled shirt and the other thingsand came over here to seek my fortune. "

As he said this he looked straight at Carol, their eyes met for amoment, and then she coloured up swiftly and looked away. 

The four wound up the evening with a sumptuous supper at Prince's, atwhich Rayburn played host to perfection, and within a week Carol and hehad left Charing Cross by the eleven o'clock boat-train on a trip whichhad no particular objective, but which, as a matter of fact, extendedround the world before Carol again saw her beloved London. In additionto her other rings she wore a new thick wedding ring, a compromise withconventionality which the etiquette of hotels and steamer saloons hadrendered imperative, and thus it came to pass that Miss Carol, travelling as Mrs. Charles Redfern, vanished utterly for more than ayear, and this, too, was why all the efforts of Vane and Ernshaw and SirArthur to find her had proved for the present unavailing. 

CHAPTER XII. 

Enid Garthorne came back from a somewhat extended honeymoon trip to theRiviera and thence on through Northern Italy to Venice, whence shereturned viâ Vienna and Paris, a very different woman from the EnidRaleigh who had cried so bitterly over that farewell letter of Vane's inher bedroom at Oxford. 

She had already schooled herself to look upon her long love for Vane as, after all, only the sustained infatuation of a romantic school-girl, andupon him as a high-hearted, clean-souled but utterly impossiblevisionary who had sacrificed the substance for the shadow, and who, having chosen irrevocably, could only be left to work out his owndestiny as he had shaped it. 

Garthorne, in the first flush of his gratified love and triumph, hadproved an almost ideal combination of lover and husband, and of all thebrides who were honeymooning in the most luxurious resorts of theContinent that Autumn and Winter, she, with her youth and beauty, herhandsome, devoted husband, and splendid fortunes, was accounted the mostto be envied. As week after week went by, and the intoxication of hernew life grew upon her, she gradually came to believe this herself. Atthe same time, something very like true affection for this man, whoselove was very real and who seemed to find his only happiness in makingthe world the most delightful of dreamlands for her, began to grow up inher heart. 

Of course, she often thought of Vane; that was inevitable. It wasinevitable, too, that she should look back now and then to some of themany tender scenes that had passed between them; but as time went on, these memory-pictures grew more faint. The fast-succeeding events andthe new experiences of her married life crowded swiftly and thickly uponher, until she began to look upon the past more as a dream than as areality. Vane's figure receded rapidly into the background of her life, and, as it did so, it seemed in some way to become spiritualised, liftedabove and beyond the world-sphere in which it was now her destiny tomove. 

They got back to England a few weeks before the season began, and, aftera day or two in London for some necessary shopping, they went down toGarthorne Abbey, one of the finest old seats in the Midland counties, standing on a wooded slope in the green border which fringes the BlackCountry, and facing the meadows and woodlands which stretch away down tothe banks of the Severn, beyond which rise the broken, picturesqueoutlines of the Herefordshire Hills. 

Here Enid Garthorne spent an entirely delightful week exploring thestately home and the splendid domain of which she would one day bemistress. Day after day in the early clear Spring morning, she would goup alone on to a sort of terrace-walk which had been made round the roofbehind the stone balustrade which ran all round the house, and look outover the green, well-wooded, softly undulating country, her heart filledwith a delighted pride and the consciousness, or, at any rate, thebelief, that after all the cloud which had come between her and Vane hadhad a silver, nay, a golden lining, and that, so far, at least, everything had been for the best. 

As she looked to the eastward, she could see stretched along the horizona low, dun-coloured line which was not cloud. It was the smoke of theBlack Country, and underneath it hundreds and hundreds of men, aye, andif she had known it, women, too, were toiling in forge and mine andfactory, earning the thousands which made life so easy and so pleasantfor her. To the westward were the low-lying meadows, the rollingcorn-lands, and the dark strips and patches of wood and coppice whichlay for miles on three sides of the Home Park, and beyond these shecaught bright gleams of the silver Severn rippling away to the distantBristol Channel; then, beyond this again, the rising uplands whichculminated in the irregular terraces of the Abberley Hills. 

She knew nothing of it at the time, but far away, perched up in a leafynook among them was a little cluster of old grey buildings; just achapel, a guest-house, a refectory, and half a dozen cells forming atiny quadrangle which was still called St. Mary's Chapel of Ease, butwhich in the old days when all the lands that Enid could see from herroof-walk had belonged to the ancient Abbey of Ganthony--of which herhusband's name was perhaps a corruption--had been known as the House ofOur Lady of Rest. 

Before the dissolution of the Monasteries it had been a place of restand retreat for servants of the Church who had exhausted themselves inher service or had found reason to withdraw themselves a while from theworld and its temptations; and such, though creeds have changed, it haspractically remained until now. 

The little church was nominally St. Augustine's, the Parish Church of alittle scattered hamlet which was sprinkled over the hillside beneathit. The living had been in the gift of the Garthorne family, but SirReginald's father had sold the advowson to one of the earliest pioneersof the High Church movement in England, and through this purchase it hadpassed into the keeping of a small Anglican Order calling itself theFraternity of St. Augustine. 

This little Brotherhood had not only maintained the traditions of theancient Order of St. Augustine, Preacher, Saint and Martyr, but had doneall that was possible to revive them in their ancient purity. The littlemonastery among the hills, though it had passed under anotherecclesiastical rule, was still a place where priests and deacons mightcome either to rest from the labours which they had endured in theservice of their Master, or to separate themselves from the din andturmoil of the world, and, amidst the peace and silence of nature, wrestle with the doubts or temptations that had beset them. The Vicar ofthe parish and Father Superior of the Retreat was an aged priest who hadwelcomed three generations of his younger brothers in Christ astemporary sojourners in this little sanctuary, and had sent them awaycomforted and strengthened to take their place again in the ranks of thearmy which wages that battle which began when the first prophecy wasuttered in Eden, and which will only end when the sound of the LastTrump marshalls the hosts of men before the bar of the Last Tribunal. 

Vane had been the occupant of one of the tiny little rooms, which hadonce been the monks' cells, for a little over three months when Enidcame to her future home. The rooms were on the side of the quadranglefacing the valley, and from his little window he could distinctly seethe great white house, with its broad terraces standing out against thedark background formed by the trees which crowned the ridge behind it. He, of course, knew perfectly well to whom it belonged and who would oneday be mistress of it, and one day he saw from the _Times_, the onlysecular newspaper admitted into St. Augustine's, that Mr. And Mrs. Reginald Garthorne had returned from their wedding trip on theContinent, and, after a day or two in London, would proceed for a fewweeks to Garthorne Abbey to recuperate before the fatigues of theseason, of which it was generally expected Mrs. Garthorne would be oneof the most brilliant ornaments. 

The sight of it, the knowledge of all the splendours that it contained, of all the worldly wealth of which it was the material sign, had notaffected him in the least. He had already lifted himself beyond thepossibility of envying anyone the possession of such things as these. Hecould see over and beyond them as a man on a mountain top might lookover a little spot on the plain beneath, which to those who dwelt in itwas a great and splendid city. 

Even the knowledge that Enid was coming to the Abbey as the wife of itsfuture master only drew just a single quiet sigh from his lips, onlycaused him to give one swift look back into the world that he had left, for after all this was only what he had expected, what he knew to bealmost inevitable when he had first made up his mind to sacrifice hislove to what he believed to be his duty. 

She had passed out of his existence and he had passed out of hers. Henceforth their life-circles might touch, but they could neverintersect each other. Of course, they would meet again in the world, butonly as friends, with perhaps a warmer hand-clasp for the sake of thedays that were past and gone for ever, but that was all. He had but onemistress now, the Church. He was hers body and soul to the end, for hehad sworn an allegiance which could not be broken save at the risk ofhis own soul. 

One morning, about a week after he had read the paragraph in the_Times_, he was out on the hillside, going from cottage to cottage ofthe hundred or so sprinkled round the high road across the hills, for itwas his day to carry out the parochial duties of the fraternity. Everyday one of the Fathers, as the villagers called them, made his rounds, starting soon after sunrise and sometimes not getting back till afterdark, for Father Philip had no belief in the efficacy of fasting andmeditation and prayer unless they were supplemented by a literalobedience to the commands of Him who went about doing good. When priestor deacon entered the Retreat, no matter what he was, rich or poor, wedded or single, he had to take the vows of poverty, obedience andchastity. When he left to go back into the world he was absolved fromthem, and was free to do what seemed best to his own soul. 

Vane had just left a little farmhouse upon which a great shame andsorrow had fallen. As too often happens in this district, the onlydaughter of the house, discontented with the quiet monotony of the farmlife, had gone away to Kidderminster to work in a carpet factory. Thatwas nearly eighteen months ago, and the night before she had come backragged, hungry, and penniless, with a nameless baby in her arms. 

As he was walking along the road which led from this farmhouse to thenext hamlet thinking of that vanished sister of his and of the poorimbecile in the French asylum, he turned a bend and saw a figure such aswas very seldom seen among the villages approaching him about twohundred yards away. He stopped, almost as though he had received a blowon the chest. It was impossible for his eyes to mistake it, and with aswift sense, half of anger and half of disgust, he felt his heart beginto beat harder and quicker. It was Enid, Enid in the flesh. 

He had read of her marriage, and of her return with her husband withhardly an emotion. Day after day he had looked upon her future home, thehome in which she would live as the wife of another man and the motherof his children, without a single pang of envy or regret--and now, atthe first sight of her, his heart was beating, his pulses throbbing, andhis nerves thrilling. 

True, every heart-beat, every pulse-throb, was a sin now, for she was awedded wife--and meanwhile she was still coming towards him. In a fewminutes more, since it was impossible for him to pass her as a stranger, her hand would be clasped in his, and he would be once more looking intothose eyes which had so often looked up into his, hearing words ofgreeting from those lips which he had so often kissed, and whose kisseswere now vowed to another man. 

There was a little lane, turning off to the left a few yards away. Shehad never seen him in his clerical dress, so she could not haverecognised him yet. She would only take him for one of the clergy atthe Retreat, he had only to turn down the lane--

But no, his old manhood rose in revolt at the idea. That would be aflight, a mean, unworthy flight, unworthy alike of himself and the highresolves that he had taken. It was hard, almost impossible even to thinkof _her_ as a temptation, as an enemy to his soul, and yet, even if shewere, as the leaping blood in his veins told him she might be, was itfor him, the young soldier of the Cross, just buckling on his armour, toturn his back upon the first foe he met, even though that foe had oncebeen his best beloved? He set his teeth and clenched his hands, andwalked on past the entrance to the lane. 

A minute or two later their eyes met. A look of astonished recognitioninstantly leapt into hers. She shifted the silver handled walking stickinto her left hand, and held out the other, daintily gauntleted in tan. 

"Why Vane!" she exclaimed, in a voice which was still as sweet and softas ever, but which seemed to him to have a strange and somewhatdiscordant note in it, "you don't mean to say that it's you. I suppose, as a matter of fact, I ought to say Mr. Maxwell now--I mean now thatyou're a clergyman--but after all, those little things don't matterbetween such very old friends as we are, and I'm sure Reggie won't mind, in fact, I shan't let him if he does. Just fancy meeting you here! Isuppose you're one of the Fathers--is that it?--at the little monasteryup there. I've only been home a week, and last night I heard about thisplace, so I drove over to see it. But you haven't told me how you areyet, and how you like your--your new life. "

As a matter of fact, she had rattled all this off so quickly that Vanehad not had time to reply to her greeting. He had taken her hand and, somewhat tremblingly, returned the frank, firm pressure. While she wasspeaking, he looked into her face and saw that she had already assumedthe invisible but impenetrable mask in which the society woman plays herpart in the tragic comedy of Vanity Fair. It was the same face and yetnot the same, the same voice and yet a different one, and the sight andsound acted upon him like a powerful tonic. This was not the Enid he hadloved, after all, at least, so it seemed to him. He had forgotten, orhad never known that every woman is a born actress, and that even thebrief training which Enid had already had was quite enough to enable herto say one thing, while thinking and feeling something entirelydifferent. 

He smiled for the first time as their hands parted, and said, in a voicewhose calm frankness surprised himself:

"Good morning, Mrs. Garthorne!"--he absolutely couldn't trust himself topronounce the word "Enid"--"Thanks, I'm very well, and, as you haveguessed, I am located for the present up in the Retreat yonder. Iconfess I was a little startled to see you coming up the road, althoughI saw from the _Times_ the other day that you had come back from theContinent and were coming down here to the Abbey. Of course, you wouldhear of the Retreat sooner or later, and as it's a bit of a show placein its humble way, I had an idea that you would come over some time tosee it. "

"Oh, but I suppose you don't allow anything so unholy as a woman toenter the sacred precincts, do you?"

The artificial flippancy of her tone annoyed him perhaps even more thanit shocked him. There was a sort of scoff in it which rightly or wronglyhe took to himself. It seemed to say "You, of course, have done withwomen now and for ever; henceforth, you must only look upon us astemptations to sin, and so I can say what I like to you. "

"On the contrary, " he replied, forcing a smile, "the Retreat is as openfor visiting purposes to women as it is to men. It is nothing at alllike a monastery, you know, although report says it is. It is simply aplace where clergymen who have need of it can go and rest and think andpray in peace, and act as curates to the Superior who is also vicar ofthe parish. In fact, it has been known for mothers and sisters of themen to take rooms in the villages, and they are even invited to lunch. "

"Dear me, " she said, "how very charming! Of course, you will come overto the Abbey and have dinner some evening, and sleep, and the nextmorning I shall expect you to let me drive you over here and invite meto lunch. "

"Of course, I shall be delighted, " he said, purposely using the mostconventional terms, "but I ought to tell you that there is a conditionattached to our hospitality. "

"Oh, indeed, and what is that?" she said, glancing up at him with one ofher old saucy looks. "I hope it isn't very stringent. Won't you turn andwalk a little way with me and tell me all about it? There is my ponycarriage coming up the hill after me. It will overtake us soon, and thenI won't take up your time any longer, for I daresay you are going onsome good work. "

Again the half-veiled flippancy of her tone jarred upon him and made himclench his teeth for an instant. 

"With the greatest pleasure, " he replied, turning and walking with long, slow strides beside her. His blood was quite cool now, and a greatweight had been lifted from his shoulders. 

"It is this way, " he went on, speaking as calmly as though he wereaddressing an utter stranger. "You know, or perhaps you do not know yet, that, beautiful and almost arcadian as this place is, there is, I regretto say, a great deal of poverty and sorrow, and, I am afraid, sin too, and it is part of our duty at the Retreat to seek this out and do whatwe can to relieve it; but there is much of that kind of work which womencan do infinitely better than men, and therefore, when a woman entersour gates as our guest, we ask her to do what she can to help us. "

"I see, " she said, more softly and more naturally than she had spokenbefore. "It is a very just and a very good condition, and I shall do mybest to fulfil it; indeed, as I suppose I shall some day be Lady of theManor here, it will be my duty to do it. "

"I am very glad to hear you say so, " he said, with a touch of warmth inhis tone, "very glad. And if you like you can begin at once. You seethat little farmhouse up the road yonder. Well, there is not onlysorrow, but sin and shame as well in that house. The old people are mostrespectable, and they were once fairly comfortably off before theagricultural depression ruined them. They are wretchedly poor now, butthey struggle on somehow. About eighteen months ago their daughter wentoff to Kidderminster to work in the mills. She said she would get goodwages and send some of them home every week. For some months she didsend them a few shillings, and then what is unfortunately only toocommon about here happened. For a long time they lost sight of her, andlast night she came back, starving, with a baby and no husband. "

He said this in a perfectly passionless and impersonal tone, just as adoctor might describe the symptoms of a disease. "If you care to, youcan do a great deal of good there, " he went on. "I have just been there. If you like I will take you in and introduce you. "

She stopped and hesitated for a moment. It struck her as such an utterreversal of their former relationships, that it seemed almost toobliterate the line which lies between the sublime and the ridiculous. Then she moved forward again, saying, in her own old natural voice:

"Thank you, Vane. I have often wondered since what sort of circumstanceswe should meet under again, but I never thought of anything like this. Yes, I will come, and if there is anything I can do I will do it. "

"I thought you would, " he said quietly, as he strode along beside hertowards the farmhouse. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

After introducing Enid to the sorrow-stricken family, Vane took hisleave of her to go about his work. He met the pony-cart coming up thehill, and told the footman to wait for his mistress outside thefarmhouse. Then he went on to the other hamlet, doing his work just aswell and conscientiously as ever, and yet all the while thinking manythoughts which had very little connection with it. 

He got back to the Retreat just in time for supper, and when the mealwas over he asked Father Philip for the favour of half an hour'sconversation. The request was, of course, immediately granted, and assoon as he was alone with the old man, who was wise alike in the thingsof the world and in those of the spirit, he told him, not as penitent toconfessor, but rather as pupil to teacher, the whole story of hismeeting and conversation with Enid, not omitting the slightest detailthat his memory held, from the first thrill of emotion that he hadexperienced on seeing her to the last word he had spoken to her onleaving the farmhouse. 

Father Philip was silent for some time after he had finished his story, then, leaning back in his deep armchair, he looked at Vane, who wasstill walking slowly up and down the little room, and said in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice:

"I'm very glad, Maxwell, that you've told me this. As I have told youbefore, I have listened to a good many life-histories in this room, butI must admit that yours is one of the strangest and most difficult ofthem. The fact of Miss Raleigh having married the son of the lord of themanor here, and having come down while you are here, naturally makes itmore difficult still. But then, you know, my dear fellow, the greaterthe difficulty and the danger of the strife the greater the honour andthe reward of victory. 

"For my own part I think that your meeting with her in the road downyonder, if not ordered by Providence, may, with all reverence, be calledprovidential. Those emotions which you experienced on first seeing her, and for which you were inclined to reproach yourself, were after allperfectly human, and therefore natural and pardonable. I needn't tellyou now that I entirely disagree with those who consider that a manshould cease to be a man when he becomes a clergyman. You are young, andyou are made of flesh and blood. You were once very much in love withthis young lady"--there was a slight, almost imperceptible emphasis uponthe "once" which somehow made Vane wince--"you might have married her, but you forewent that happiness in obedience to a conviction which wouldhave done honour to the best of us. You would have been either more orless than human if your heart had not beaten a little harder and yourblood had not flowed a little faster when you met her unexpectedly likethat in a country road. 

"But, " he went on, sitting up in his chair and speaking with a littlemore emphasis, "the very fact that you so quickly discovered such adecided change in her, and that that change, moreover, struck you asbeing one for the worse, is to my mind a distinct proof that your pathsin life have already diverged very widely. "

"And yet, Father Philip, " said Vane, as the old man paused and looked upat him, "you can hardly say, surely, that it was a good thing for me todiscover that change. I can tell you honestly that it was a very sad onefor me. "

"Possibly, " said Father Philip, "and, without intending the slightestdisrespect to Mrs. Garthorne, I still say that it was a good thing foryou to discover it. "

"But why, Father Philip? How can it be a good thing for a man todiscover a change for the worse in a woman whom he has grown up withfrom boy and girl, whom he has loved, and who has been to him the idealof all that was good and lovable on earth?"

"My dear Maxwell, what you have just said convinces me that you havelearnt or are in course of learning one of the most valuable lessonsthat experience can teach you. Remember that a man can only see with hisown eyes, that he can only judge from his own perceptions. I do notagree with you in thinking that the Mrs. Garthorne of the presentdiffers so greatly from the Miss Raleigh of the past. Different in acertain degree, of course, she must be. She was a girl then, livingunder the protection of her father's roof. She is a wife now, with ahome of her own, with new cares, new responsibilities, new prospects. Infact, the whole world has changed for her, and therefore it would bevery strange if she had not changed too. But that was not the change yousaw. I would rather believe that that was in yourself, that you are adifferent man, not that she is a different woman. "

"I think I see what you mean, " said Vane, seating himself on the edgeof an old oak table in the middle of the room. "You mean that while shehas remained the same or nearly so my point of view has altered. I seeher in a different perspective, and through a different atmosphere. "

"Exactly, " replied Father Philip. "It is both more reasonable and morecharitable to believe that you have changed for the better, and not shefor the worse. "

"God grant that it may be so, " said Vane, slipping off the table andbeginning his walk again. "If it is so, then at least my work has notbeen without some result, and some of my prayers have been granted. Butnow, Father Philip, I want your advice. What shall I do? Shall I stayhere and meet her just as an old friend? Shall I accept her invitationover to the Abbey? Shall I bring her here and introduce her to you, sothat you may tell her what she can do for our people? Shall I trustmyself to this sort of intercourse with her, or, as my time here isnearly up, shall I go away?"

"As for trusting yourself, Maxwell, " said Father Philip slowly, "that isa question I cannot answer. You must ask that of your own soul, and Iwill pray and you must pray that it shall answer you with an honest'Yes. ' I don't believe that the answer will be anything else. But if itis, then by all means go, go to the first work that your hand finds todo. Go and join your friend Ernshaw in his mission under Southey. But ifit is 'Yes, ' as I hope and believe it will be, then stop until it istime for you to take your priest's orders. Visit the Abbey, bring Mrs. Garthorne here, interest her in the good work that you have already, Ihope, made her begin by taking her to the Clellens. Prove to her and herhusband, and, most important of all, to yourself, that you did not takethat resolve of yours lightly or in vain, that, in short, you are oneof those who can, as Tennyson says, 'rise on stepping-stones of theirdead selves to higher things. '

"That, Maxwell, is the best advice I can give you. When you go to yourroom you will, of course, ask for guidance from the Source which cannoterr, and I will add my prayers to yours that it may be given you. "

The next day a mounted footman brought a note from Garthorne to Vanesaying that his wife had told him of her meeting with him, and alsoexpressing his pleasure at finding that he was in the neighbourhood, andasking him to come over to dine and sleep at the Abbey the next evening. If that evening would suit him he had only to tell the messenger, and adog-cart would be sent for him, as the distance by road over the BewdleyBridge was considerably over seven miles. 

He had been awake nearly all night. In fact, he had spent the greaterpart of it on his knees questioning his own soul and seeking that advicewhich Father Philip had advised him to seek, and when the early morningservice in the little chapel was over he honestly believed that he hadfound it. He went back into his room, after telling the man to put hishorse in the stable, and go to what was stilled called the buttery andget a glass of beer, and wrote a note thanking Garthorne for hisinvitation, and accepting it for the following night. 

If Vane had been told a couple of years before that he would visit Enidand her husband as an ordinary guest, that he would sit opposite to herat table and hear her address another man as "dear" in the commonplaceof marital conversation, that he would see her exchange with another manthose little half-endearments which are not the least of the charms ofthe first few married years, and that he would be able to look upon allthis at least with grave eyes and unmoved features, he would simply havelaughed at the idea as something too ridiculous ever to come within thebounds of possibility. 

Yet, to the outward view, that was exactly what happened during his stayat Garthorne Abbey. He seemed to see Enid through some impalpable andyet impenetrable medium. He could see her as he always had seen her; butto touch her, to put his hand upon her, even to dream of one of thosecaresses which such a short time ago had been as common as hand-shakesbetween them, was every whit as impossible as the present condition ofthings would have seemed to him then. 

There were a few other people to dinner. None of them knew anything ofhis previous relationship to Enid, and their presence naturally, andperhaps fortunately, kept the conversation away from the things of thepast; but the Fates had put him in full view of Enid at the table, and, do what he would, he could not keep his eyes from straying back againand again to that perfect and once well-beloved face, any more than hecould keep his ears from listening to that voice which had once been thesweetest of music for him, rather than to the general conversation inwhich it was his social duty to take a part. 

It was a sore trial to the fortitude and self-control of a man who hadloved as long and as dearly as he had done, but the strength which hislong vigils away among the hills had given him did not desert him, andhe came through it outwardly calm and triumphant, however deeply theiron was entering into his soul the while. It was one of those occasionson which such a man as he would take refuge from spiritual torment inintellectual activity, and neither Enid nor her husband had ever heardhim talk so brilliantly and withal so lightly and good-humouredly as hedid that night. 

One of the guests was the vicar of Bedminster; and a Canon of Worcester, an old friend of Sir Reginald's, happened to be staying in the house. They were both High Churchmen, the Canon perhaps a trifle "higher" thanthe Vicar, and they were both delighted with him. The Canon rememberedhis ordination at Worcester, and during the conversation, which had nowturned upon the relationship between the Church and the People, he said:

"Well, Maxwell, I will say frankly if you can preach as well as you cantalk, and if your doctrine is as sound as your opinion on things ingeneral seems to be, the Church will be none the poorer when you arepriested. I think I shall ask the Bishop to let you preach the Sundayafter you take full orders. I suppose your Father Superior up therewould let you come, wouldn't he?

"A grand man, that Father Philip, by the way, " he went on, looking roundthe table. "In his quiet, unostentatious way, in his little room upthere in the old house of Our Lady of Rest, as they used to call it, hehas done more real work for the Church than, I am afraid, a good many ofus have done with all our preaching in churches and cathedrals. "

"That, " said Enid, "would be altogether delightful. Of course, we shouldall come and hear your Reverence, " she went on, with a half ironical nodtowards Vane. "You know, Canon, Mr. Maxwell and I are quite old friends. In fact, we came home from India as children in the same ship, didn'twe, Reggie?" she added, with another laughing nod, this time at herhusband, "and I am sure your Reverence would have no more interestedlistener than I should be. "

"It is quite possible, Mrs. Garthorne, " Vane replied in something likethe same tone, "that you might be more interested than pleased. "

"Indeed, " said Enid, "and may I ask why?"

There was an immediate silence round the table, everybody wondering whathis answer would be. 

"Because, " he replied, with a change of tone so swift as to be almoststartling, "as soon as I take full Orders, it is my purpose, with God'shelp and under Father Philip's advice, to become a missionary, not amissionary to the heathen, as we are pleased to call them, or to theinfinitely more degraded heathen of our own country, but to such peopleas you, you who are really living in sin without knowing it. Has it everstruck you, Canon, how great a work the Church has left undone in whatare called the upper ranks of Society? You know the vast majority ofthem really and honestly believe themselves to be good Christians, andyet, as far as practical obedience to the teaching of Christ goes, theyare no more Christians than an unconverted Hottentot is. "

"Oh--er--ah--yes, " replied the Canon rather awkwardly, and in the midstof a long silence. "Of course, I quite understand you and--er--by theway, do you intend to apply for any preferment?"

"I shall get a curacy with Ernshaw if I can in the East End to beginwith, or, perhaps, with Father Baldwin in Kensington, " said Vane, unable, like Enid and her husband and one or two others, to repress afaint smile at the Canon's not very skilful change of subject. "But Ishall not attempt to get a living or anything of that sort. You see, Ihave some private means, and so I shall be in the happy position ofbeing able to do my work without pay. Besides, while there is such anamount of poverty in the lower ranks of the Church, I think it is littleless than sinful for a man who can live without it to take a stipendwhich, at least, might be bread and butter to a man who has nothing. "

There was a rather awkward pause after this speech, as everyone at thetable save Vane knew perfectly well that both the Vicar and the Canonhad considerable private means in addition to the substantial stipendsthey drew from their clerical offices. At length Enid looked across ather husband with a wicked twinkle in her eye, and put an end to thesituation by rising. As soon as the ladies were gone, Garthorne sent thewine round and adroitly turned the conversation back again to generalsubjects. When they went into the drawing-room, a discussion on theprospects of the season was in full swing, and from motives of prudence, this, varied with a little music and singing, was kept up till theladies retired for the night. 

When Enid shook hands with Vane they happened to be out of earshot ofthe others, and as she returned his clasp with the same old frankpressure, she said in a low tone:

"You were splendid to-night, Vane, and you will be more splendid stillin the pulpit, only they'll never let you preach in the Cathedral afterthat. Well, good-night. After all, I was wrong and you were right. Youhave chosen the better part. God bless you and be with you, Vane. Good-night!"

As their eyes met he fancied that he saw a faint mist in hers. Then herlong lashes fell; she turned her head away and the next moment she wasgone. 

When the good-nights had been said, Garthorne took his male guests intothe smoking-room for whisky and soda and cigars. Vane laughinglydeclined, and asked permission to light a pipe. 

"No, thanks, " he said, with perfect good temper, although the offer wasnot in the best of taste. "I've not forgotten the last brandy and soda Ihad with you at Oxford. "

When bed-time came, Garthorne took Vane up to his room. As his host said"good-night, " Vane followed him to the door and watched him as he wentalong the panelled corridor and down the great staircase to next floor, on which the Bride-chamber of the Abbey was situated. Then he went inand locked his door. 

He sat down in an easy chair in the corner of the room and covered hisface with his hands. After all, had he done the right thing in acceptingGarthorne's invitation? Had he not over-estimated his strength? As hesat there, he felt that he had thrown himself unnecessarily into a lifeand death conflict. He encountered temptations every day of his life, although to the ordinary individual it might seem that the life which heand his companions led must be singularly devoid of temptation, yet herehe was confronted with a trial which he could have avoided. Ought he tohave avoided it?

Then there came to his mind the remembrance of a passage in one of thesermons which Father Philip had once preached to the little community inthe Retreat. The words seemed particularly appropriate to Vane at thetime, and he made a note of them in a little memorandum book which healways carried with him for the purpose of writing down any sentenceswhich he heard or read which might strengthen him in the life which hehad chosen for himself. He took the book from his pocket and read:

"The ideal life is never one of rigid asceticism any more than it is oneof voluptuous self-indulgence; it is an equilibrium of forces, a vitalharmony, a constant symphony, in the performance of which allcapabilities in all phases of expression are called into vital but neverinto hysterical activity. The true peace is so heroic that it onlyfollows crucifixion of all that was once regarded as essential to humanhappiness. "

He sat for a moment after he had read and re-read this passage. Then hewent to the mirror over the mantel-piece, and drew back shocked andterrified at the sudden change which had come over his features. Theyreminded him strongly of the features he had seen in the glass thatother night in Warwick Gardens. Then he turned away and threw himself onhis knees by the bed and groaned aloud in the bitterness of his soul:

"Oh, God! it is too heavy for me! Not by my strength but by Thine alonecan I bear it. "

It was the only prayer he uttered. In fact, they were the only words hecould speak; but when he rose from the bedside he felt relieved, so farrelieved that he took from his pocket a well-worn copy of Thomas àKempis's "Imitation, " and sat and read until almost daybreak. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

It was the morning of Trinity Sunday, and Worcester Cathedral wascrowded by a congregation which, if it had been an audience in anunconsecrated building, could have been justly described as brilliant. 

Trinity Sunday is usually what may, without irreverence, be called moreor less of a show Sunday in all churches. To-day all the clerical lightand learning of the diocese was gathered together in the grand oldCathedral. The various portions of the service were to be conducted byclergy of high rank and notable social position. No one under the rankof a Canon, at least, would take any part in the proceedings. 

The first lesson would be read by the Vicar of Bedminster, who was alsoa Canon of the Cathedral, and the second by Canon Thornton-Moore, whoseacquaintance the reader has already made at Garthorne Abbey. Both ofthem were men of dignified presence, and both possessed good voices anda careful elocutionary training. 

The Epistle and Gospel would be read by the Archdeacon and the Dean. Organ and choir were tuned to a perfection of harmony. And finally theBishop would preach. After that would come the administration of theSacrament to those who had not received it at the early service, forTrinity Sunday is accredited one of those three days on which, at least, the faithful member of the Anglican Church shall communicate. Then, thecommunion over, the Bishop would hold an Ordination, in consideration ofwhich he had thoughtfully and thankfully curtailed his eloquence in thepulpit. 

At this ordination Mark Ernshaw, who had already won fame both as anearnest and utterly self-sacrificing missionary, in the moral andspiritual wilds of East and South London, and also as a preacher whocould fill any West End Church to suffocation, was to be admitted tofull orders in company with his friend, Vane Maxwell, who was so farunknown to fame save for the fact that he was locally known as one ofthe dwellers in the Retreat among the hills, and, therefore, as one whohad sat at the feet of the far-famed Father Philip, who himself hadto-day made one of his rare appearances in the world, and was occupyingone of the Canons' stalls in the chancel. 

All the Clergy at the Retreat were popularly supposed to have "a past"of some sort, and as Vane had come from there and was also credited withbeing young and exceedingly good-looking--some of the lady visitors tothe Retreat had described him as possessing "an almost saintlike beauty, my dear"--he also was a focus of interest. Moreover, he was known tohave taken a brilliant degree at Oxford, and to have had equallybrilliant worldly prospects which he had suddenly and unaccountablyrelinquished to go into the Church. 

Thus it came to pass that a very different and much more numerouscongregation witnessed this ceremonial than the one which had takenplace at the same altar rails a little more than a twelvemonth before. 

Of course, all the party from the Abbey were present, including SirReginald, who had come down for a few days from town. Enid and herhusband had communicated. It was their first communion since theirmarriage. Then they had gone back to their places to await theordination. 

In one of the front rows of the transept seats there was a tall, well-dressed girl, very pretty, with dark, deep, serious eyes which, inthe intervals of the service she had several times raised and turned onEnid and her husband, who were sitting on the same side towards thefront, in the body of the Cathedral. She was the very last person in theworld, saving only, perhaps, Carol herself, whom Garthorne would havewished to see just then and there, and as soon as he had made sure thatDora Murray really was sitting within a few yards of him he began to behaunted by ugly fears of blackmail and exposure--which showed how verylittle he had learnt of Dora's character during the time that Carol hadshared the flat with her. 

But Dora's thoughts were very different, for they were all of fear, mingled with something like horror. She looked at the sweet-faced girlsitting beside Reginald Garthorne, and thought of the ruin anddesolation that would fall upon her young life, with all its brilliantoutward promise, if she only knew what she could have told her. Shelooked at her husband and wondered what all these good people--most ofwhom would have given almost anything for an invitation to hishome--what these grave-faced, decorous clergy, too, would think if theycould see him as she had seen him only a few months before. There wasSir Arthur Maxwell, too, sitting a little farther on, and beside him SirGodfrey and Lady Raleigh, though, of course, she did not know them, butshe guessed who they were, and close to Sir Arthur sat Sir Reginald, hishost for the time being. 

The whole of the Abbey party had communicated together. What wouldhappen if she were to go to Sir Arthur after the service, and tell himwhat Carol had told her, if he were to learn that he had been kneelingat the altar rails beside the betrayer of his wife and the dishonourerof his name?

When she had seen Sir Reginald rise from his seat and go with the restof the party across the centre transept to the chancel, she needed allher self-control to shut her teeth and clench her hands and preventherself from leaving her seat and accusing him of his infamy beforeclergy and congregation. She thought thankfully how good a thing it wasthat Carol, with her fierce impetuosity and sense of bitter wrong, wasnot there too. There was no telling what disaster might have happened, how many lives might have been wrecked by the words which she might haveflung out at him, red-hot from her angry heart. 

In her way Dora was a really religious girl, as many of her class are. So religious, indeed, that she would not have dared to have approachedthe altar herself; because she knew that for her, wedded as she was tothe pleasant careless life she led, repentance and reform were quite outof the question. 

She saw no incongruity at all in this. She went to church regularly inLondon, offered up as simple and as earnest prayers as anyone; lifted upher beautiful voice in the hymns and psalms and responses in honestforgetfulness of the things of yesterday and to-morrow, and, for thetime being at least, took the lessons of the sermon to heart with asimple faith which many of her respectable sisters in the congregationwere far from feeling. 

In short, though the circumstances were different, she was very much inthe position of the average respectable, well-to-do church-goingChristian who will strive all the week, often by quite questionablemethods, to lay up for himself and his wife and family treasures uponearth, and then on Sunday go to church and listen with the most perfecthonesty and the most undisturbed equanimity to the reading of the Sermonon the Mount. 

But when she saw Sir Reginald go with his son and his daughter-in-law, with her parents and Vane's father up through the chancel where Vane wassitting, her heart turned sick in her breast. The sacrilege, theblasphemy of it all seemed horrible beyond belief. Again and again thewords rose to her lips. Again and again an almost irresistible impulseimpelled her to get up, and she was only saved from doing what all thatwas best in her nature urged her to do, by the knowledge that, afterall, she might only be expelled from the Cathedral by the Vergers, andperhaps prosecuted afterwards for brawling. Then her real story wouldcome out. 

She was visiting her parents who lived in Worcester, and who believedthat she was conducting a little millinery business in London. She hadgreat natural skill in designing head-gear--her own hat, for instance, had been gazed on by many an envious eye since the service began--andshe would have bitten her tongue through, rather than say a word whichwould have undeceived them. And so for this reason as well she held herpeace. 

Then she had heard the sonorous voice of the officiating priest rollingdown the chancel:

 "Ye that do truly and earnestly repent you of your sins, and are in love and charity with your neighbours and intend to lead a new life, following the commandments of God and walking from henceforth in His holy way, draw near with faith and take this Holy Sacrament to your comfort. "

Then came the general confession, and as she followed it in herprayer-book she thought of that unconfessed, though, perhaps, notunrepented sin of which she alone, save Sir Reginald, in all that greatcongregation knew. How could this man kneel there and say these solemnwords, before he had confessed his sin to the man he had wronged, to thehusband from whom he had stolen a wife, to the son he had deprived of amother? What horrible mockery and blasphemy it all was! Surely some daysome terrible retribution must fall on him for this. 

After the Eucharist followed, as usual on such occasions, the OrdinationService. She had never seen Vane before, but when some of thecongregation had left after the Communion Service, she left her seat andtook a vacant one in front of the chancel, and then, even at somedistance, she recognised him immediately by his likeness to Carol. Itseemed to her that she had never seen anything so beautiful in humanshape when he rose in his surplice and stole and hood to take his placebefore the Bishop at the altar-rail. And yet how different must herthoughts have been from Enid's, as they both looked upon the kneelingfigure and listened to the words which were the actual fulfilment of thevow that he had taken to take up his cross and follow Him who said:"Whosoever he be of you that forsaketh not all that he hath, he cannotbe my disciple. "

Then, in due course, came the fateful words, more full of fate, so faras they concerned Vane, than any who knew him in the congregation hadany idea of. 

"Receive the Holy Ghost for the office and work of a priest in theChurch of God, now committed unto thee by the Imposition of our handsfrom God. Whose sins thou dost forgive they are forgiven, and whose sinsthou dost retain they are retained. And be thou a faithful dispenser ofthe word of God and of his Holy Sacraments; in the name of the Fatherand of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen!"

"Whose sins thou dost forgive they are forgiven, and whose sins thoudost retain, they are retained!"

Saving only Vane himself, these words had a deeper meaning for Dora, theMagdalen, the sinner, and the outcast, than they had for anyone else inthe congregation, and in one sense they meant even more to her than theycould do to him. When he rose from his knees before the altar rails, hewould rise invested, as she believed, by the authority of God throughthe Church, with a power infinitely greater than that of any earthlyjudge. It was his to forgive or retain, his to pardon or to damn. That, to her simple reasoning, was the absolute meaning of the words as theBishop had spoken them. 

Some day it might happen that Carol would be confronted with the manwhom she believed to be her father. What if she were to bring Vane faceto face with him and he knew him for what he was, what would he do, notas man, but as priest--forgive or retain, absolve or damn?

When the ordination service was over and the congregation was moving outof the Cathedral, Sir Arthur caught sight of Dora for the first time. They were only a few feet apart, and recognition was inevitable. Shelooked at him as though she had never seen him before, although she hadbeen present at more than one interview between him and Carol atMelville Gardens, but Sir Arthur at once edged his way towards her, shook hands in that decorous fashion which is usual among departingcongregations, and said, in an equally decorous whisper:

"Good morning, Miss Murray! I hope you have not come here by accident, and that you will be able to give me some news of Carol. We have lookedfor you everywhere. "

"Except perhaps in the right place, " she murmured, putting her hand intohis, "and if you had found us I don't think it would have been of anyuse. Carol's mind was quite made up. My address is 15, StonebridgeStreet, if you wish to write to me. Good morning. "

And then they parted, he to go his way and she to go hers, and each withan infinite pity for the other, and yet with what different reasons? Itwas only a chance meeting, the accidental crossing of two widelydiverging life-paths; only one of those instances in which romancedelights to mock the commonplace, and yet how much it meant--and howmuch might it mean when the future had become the present. 

Fortunately, Garthorne and Enid had been pressing on in front, and so hehad not noticed the meeting between Sir Arthur and Dora, whereby thesecond possible catastrophe of the day was averted. 

Sir Arthur was one of the house-party at the Abbey, for he and SirReginald had been to a certain extent colleagues in India, and had keptup their acquaintance, and now that Sir Reginald's son had married thegirl whom Sir Arthur had always looked upon as a prospectivedaughter-in-law, the intimacy had become somewhat closer. Sir Arthur hadsaid frankly at the first that he thought Vane had done an exceedinglyfoolish thing; but since he had done it and meant to stick to it, therewas an end of the matter, and if Vane couldn't or wouldn't marry Enid, he would, after all, rather see her the wife of his old friend's sonthan anybody else's. He had, therefore, willingly accepted SirReginald's invitation to spend a few days at the Abbey and witness hisson's admission to the full orders of the priesthood. 

Vane and Ernshaw, after exchanging greetings and receivingcongratulations, declined Sir Reginald's invitation to dine and sleep atthe Abbey, and went straight back to the Retreat with Father Philip. 

It happened that, somewhat late that night after their guests had goneto bed, Reginald Garthorne had a couple of rather important letters towrite, and sat up to get them finished. When he had sealed and stampedthem, he took them to the post-box in the hall. The postman's lock-upbag was standing on the hall table, and, as he knew there wouldn't beany more letters that night, he thought he might as well put what therewere there into the bag and lock it with his own key. He took them outin a handful, but before he could put them into the bag they slipped andscattered on to the table. He bent down to gather them up, and there, right under his eyes, was an envelope addressed in Sir Arthur Maxwell'shandwriting to Miss Dora Murray, 15 Stonebridge Street, Worcester. Hewould have given a thousand pounds to know what that thin paper coverconcealed. The thought half entered his mind to take it away and steamit, read the letter, and then put it back again; but he was not withouthis own notions of honour, and he dismissed the thought before it wasfully formed. He contented himself with taking out his pencil andcopying the address, and as he put the letters into the bag and lockedit he said to himself:

"Well, I was wondering at service what in the name of all that's unluckybrought that girl down here just now, and I suppose I shall have to findout. But what the deuce does the old man want writing to her? A nicething if they were to discover the lost Miss Carol and present her tothe world as Vane's half-sister, and then the rest of the story cameout. What an almighty fool I was to do that. If I'd only known that Enidreally would have me--but it's no use grizzling over that. I shall haveto find out what that young woman wants down in this part of the world, and why Sir Arthur should be writing to her, that's quite certain. "

CHAPTER XV. 

Among Garthorne's letters the next morning there chanced to be one fromhis solicitor in Worcester, and so this made an excellent excuse for himto get away for the day. Enid was going to drive Sir Arthur and SirReginald over to the Retreat, so he ordered the dogcart to take him toKidderminster, whence he took train for Worcester. 

He knew enough of Dora's circumstances with regard to her parents torecognise the imprudence of calling upon her without notice, and so helunched at the Mitre Hotel, and sent a messenger with a note asking herto meet him at three o'clock on the River Walk. The messenger wasinstructed to wait for an answer if Miss Murray was in. 

Miss Murray was in, and when she read the note her first notion was thatGarthorne had by some means got an inkling of the truth, or, at theleast, had discovered that she was in communication with Sir ArthurMaxwell and wished to know the reason. She made up her mind at once tohold her tongue on both subjects, but at the same time, she felt that itwould hardly be wise to refuse to meet him. It must also be admittedthat she also was possessed by a pardonable, because feminine, curiosityas to what he wanted with her. She felt, however, that in such a placeas Worcester it would be most imprudent for her to meet a man so wellknown in the County as Reginald Garthorne on one of the publicthoroughfares, and so she wrote her answer as follows:--

 "DEAR MR. GARTHORNE, "I have no idea why you should wish to see me, and I do not think that it would be prudent to meet you as you suggest. You know how I am situated here, and so I think it would be best, if you really must speak to me, as you say, for you to come and see me here, not under your own name, of course, as that is much too well known. I would therefore suggest that you should call yourself Mr. Johnson, and I will say that you are a representative of one of the big millinery houses in London, and that you have come to see me on business. I shall wait in for you till three. 

 "Yours sincerely, "DORA MURRAY. "

Garthorne saw the wisdom of this suggestion, and "Mr. Johnson" announcedhimself at half past two. Dora received him alone in a little backsitting-room, but his reception was not altogether encouraging, for whenhe held out his hand and said "Good afternoon, Dora!" she flushed alittle, and affecting not to see his hand, she said:

"Miss Murray, if you please, Mr. Garthorne, now and for the future. Youseem to have forgotten that, for me, at least, Worcester is not London. "

He was so completely taken aback by this utterly unexpected speech, aswell as by the unwonted tone in which it was spoken, that hisoutstretched hand dropped to his side somewhat limply, and he felthimself straightening up and staring at her in blank astonishment. 

"I beg your pardon, Miss Murray, " he said, in a tone which sounded agreat deal more awkward than he meant it to do. "Of course, I was quitewrong; I ought not to have forgotten. "

"There is no necessity for an apology, " she said, more distantly thanbefore. "Will you sit down? You want to see me about something, Isuppose?"

"Yes, " he said, sitting down and fingering the brim of his hat somewhatnervously. "Yes, that is what I have come over to Worcester for. Infact, I have been wanting to see you for some time. In the first place, I had a rather extraordinary letter from Carol some time ago, sendingback some money which I, of course, can't accept, so I've brought itwith me to ask you to take it and use it in any way that you think fit. "

"You mean, of course, in charity?" said Dora, looking him straight inthe eyes. "You wouldn't insult me by meaning it in any other way. "

"Oh, no, certainly not, " he said, more awkwardly than before, andwondering what on earth had produced this extraordinary change in hermanner. "I hope you know me well enough to believe me quite incapable ofsuch a thing. "

"If you only knew how well I know you!" thought Dora, "I wonder whatyou'd think?"

But she said aloud, and rather more kindly than before:

"You must forgive me, Mr. Garthorne, I spoke rather hastily then. Iquite see what you mean. It's very good of you, and I'm sure that ifCarol were here she would tell me to take the money and use it thatway--so I will. "

"Thank you very much, Miss Murray, " he replied, taking an envelope outof his pocket-book. "There are the notes and postal orders exactly asshe sent them to me. And now, may I ask where she is?"

"I can't answer that, Mr. Garthorne, because I don't know. The nightthat she sent you that money back she made the acquaintance of a verynice fellow who is something more than a millionaire, and since thenthey've been taking a sort of irregular honeymoon round the world. Thelast letter I had from her was from Sydney. She seems very jolly andenjoying herself immensely. "

"Glad to hear it, " said Garthorne, speaking the thing which was notaltogether true. "She's a jolly girl, and deserves the best ofluck--which she seems to have got. And the millionaire----?"

Dora shook her head, and said quietly but decisively. 

"No, Mr. Garthorne, I'm afraid I can't tell you anything about him. Itwould be a breach of confidence if I did, and so I'm sure you won't askfor it. Do you want to ask me about anything else?"

"Yes, " he said, hesitatingly, "I do. " There was a little pause, duringwhich they looked at each other, he enquiringly and she absolutelyimpassive. Then he went on: "Of course, you saw us in the Cathedralyesterday, and I think you know Sir Arthur Maxwell personally. You methim once or twice when he went to call on Carol at Melville Gardens. "

"Yes. "

Then there was another pause, and, as Garthorne didn't seem able to findanything to say, Dora went on speaking very quietly, but with a curiousnote of restraint in her voice which puzzled him considerably. 

"I do know Sir Arthur, and I tried hard to persuade Carol to do what hewanted her to do, although, all the same, I think I should have done asshe did if I had been her. I don't know whether you saw Sir Arthur speakto me in the Cathedral as we were coming out, but he did. I have had aletter from him this morning, and he is coming to see me. "

"Of course, you are not going to say anything----"

"No, sir, I am not, " said Dora, rising from her chair white to the lipsand with an ominous glitter in her eyes. She took up the envelope whichGarthorne had laid on the table, and tossed it at him. "You know me forwhat I am in London, and it seems that you only look upon me as ananimal to be hired for the amusement of people like you, not as a womanwho still has her notions of honour. That is an insult which I cannotpardon. You behaved well, as things go, to Carol, but you have now shownme that, whatever you are in name and family, you are in yourself anunspeakable cad. You came here thinking that I was going to blackmailyou because I happened to know something about you which you would notlike your wife to know. If you only knew what I could tell you----"

And then she checked herself, and after a little pause, she pointed tothe door and said:

"You have got your money, Mr. Garthorne, and there is the door. You willoblige me by leaving the house as soon as possible. "

"But really, Miss Murray----" he began, as he rose, not a littlebewildered, from his chair. 

"Stop!" she said. "In mercy to yourself and your wife, stop! There isthe door; go, and remember that from now we are strangers, and if everyou meet Carol again--no, I won't say that. God grant that you nevermay see her again, for if you do----"

"Well, and suppose I do, Miss Murray, what then?" he interrupted, withhis hand on the handle of the door. He had never heard such words fromthe lips of either man or woman before, and that personal vanity whichis a characteristic even of the worst of men was grievously outraged. 

"Never mind what I mean, " she said, cutting him short again. "I havesaid all that I am going to say except this--if ever you meet Carolagain, for her sake and yours, for your wife's and your children's whenthey come, _don't see her_. Now go!"

There was a something in her voice and in her manner which said evenmore than her lips had done. Something which not only struck him dumbfor the time being, but which also drove home into his soul a convictionthat this girl, outcast and social pariah as she was, not only held hisfate in her hands, but that she possessed some unknown power over hisdestiny, that she knew something which, if spoken, might blast thebright promise of his life and overwhelm him in irretrievable ruin. 

She had called him a cad, and as his thoughts flew back to that morningin Vane Maxwell's rooms at Oxford, a pang of self-conviction told himthat she had spoken justly. He felt, too, that he was hopelessly in thewrong, that by his suggestion he had sorely insulted her, and that inexchange for his insult she had given him mercy. He would have givenanything to know the real meaning of her words, and yet he dare not evenask her. 

He looked round at her once and saw her, standing rigid and impassivewaiting to be relieved of his presence. His thoughts went back a fewmonths to the times when those little dinners of four had been sopleasant, and when this girl, who was now looking at him like anaccusing angel, had matched even Carol herself in the gaiety of herconversation and the careless use she made of her mother-wit, and hetried hard to say something which should in some way cover his retreat, but the words wouldn't come, and so he just opened the door and walkedout. 

Dora heard the street door bang behind him, and then her tensely-strungnerves relaxed. She dropped into an easy chair, clasped her hands overher temples, and whispered:

"Oh dear, oh dear, how is all this going to end, and what would happenif they only knew! And now I've got to see Sir Arthur. Shall I tell himeverything or not? No, I daren't, I daren't. It's too awful. Was thereever anything like it in the world before?"

And then her body swayed forward, her elbows dropped on to her knees, her hands clasped her temples tighter, and the next moment she had burstinto a passion of tears. 

Tears are a torture to men and a relief to women, so in a few minutesshe lifted her head again, the storm was over and she began to look thesituation over calmly. The more she thought of it the more certain itseemed that she could do nothing but irretrievable mischief by evenhinting to Sir Arthur anything of what she knew. At any rate she decidedthat until Carol came back she would keep her knowledge absolutely toherself. 

Then the train of her thoughts was suddenly broken by the postman'sknock at the door. There was a London letter addressed to herself in thefamiliar handwriting of Mr. Bernard Falcon. As she opened it sheexperienced a singular mixture of relief and vexation, tinged by asuggestion of shame. 

The letter began with an inquiry as to when she was coming back toTown, and ended with an invitation to spend a week end in the round tripfrom London to Dover, Calais, Boulogne and Folkestone. 

She had been nearly a fortnight in Worcester, and, truth to tell, shewas getting a little tired of it. Falcon's letter offered her a doublerelief. It would save her from the ordeal of meeting Sir Arthur, and, combined with the visit of "Mr. Johnson, " it would give her a goodexcuse to her parents for going back to Town at once; so she sat downand wrote two letters, one to Falcon telling him that he could meet herat Paddington the next evening, and the other to Sir Arthur telling himall she knew about Carol, saving only the name of her companion, andregretting that she would not be able to meet him, as she was startingfor the Continent that day. For obvious reasons she, of course, saidnothing of Garthorne's visit to her. 

Sir Arthur was as much disappointed with his letter as Mr. Falcon waspleased by his. Dora left Worcester the day that he received it, andwhile she was dining with Mr. Falcon at the Globe Restaurant, Sir Arthurwas telling Vane and Mark Ernshaw, who had come over to dine and sleepat the Abbey, all that he knew of Miss Carol's latest escapade. 

"I'm very, very sorry, " said Ernshaw when he had finished. "We've nevertold you before, Sir Arthur, but I may as well tell you now that, ifMiss Vane had not disappeared as mysteriously as she did, Vane was tohave introduced me to her, and I was going to marry her if she wouldhave me. "

Sir Arthur looked at him in silence for a few moments, and then he tookhis hand and said:

"I know that is true, Ernshaw, because you have said it; though I wouldnot have believed it from anyone else except Vane. I would willinglygive everything that I possess and go back to work to make such a thingpossible, but I'm afraid it isn't, and now, of course, it is moreimpossible than ever. Frankly, I don't believe she'd have you. It soundsa very curious thing to say, but from what I have seen of her, grantedeven that she fell in love with you, the more she loved you the moreabsolutely she would refuse to marry you. You know we offered hereverything we could. Vane and I both agreed to acknowledge her and haveher to live with us, but it was no use. She refused in such a way thatshe made me long all the more to take her for my own daughter before theworld; but there was no mistaking the refusal, and the day after ourlast interview she clinched it by vanishing, I suppose with this youngmillionaire who is with her now. It's very terrible, of course, butthere it is. It's done, and I'm afraid there's no mending it. Perhaps, after all, it is better for you that it should be so. "

"Yes, Ernshaw, " said Vane. "It's not a nice thing to say under thecircumstances, but I think the governor's right. "

"Possibly, but I don't agree with you, " he replied. "You know I am whata good many people would call an enthusiast on the subject of thisso-called social evil, for which, as I believe, Society itself is almostentirely to blame, and I am quite prepared to put my views intopractice. "

"Then, " said Sir Arthur, smiling gravely, "I think when we get back toTown I'd better introduce you to Miss Murray, who was living with Carolin Melville Gardens, where I first saw her. She was in the Cathedral onSunday. Her parents live in Worcester, and they believe, poor people, that she has a little millinery business in London. She says she'sgoing on the Continent, I suppose with this friend of hers. But she hasgiven me an address in London where she can be found. 

"Now there, Ernshaw, " he went on, "there I believe you would find a farbetter subject for your social experiment, if you are determined to makeit, than poor Carol could ever be. I don't know her history, but she isevidently a lady born and educated. She is quite as good-looking asCarol, only an entirely different type, taller, darker, and with deep, mysterious brown eyes which evidently have a soul behind them. At anyrate, I'm quite convinced that she would make a much better socialmissionary's wife than poor Carol would. 

"She, I sadly fear, is 'a daughter of delight, ' as the French call them, pure and simple. She told me point blank that she preferred her presentmode of life to respectability, and that she considered that taking evenmy money or Vane's, when she had no real claim upon us, was moredegrading and would hurt her self-respect a great deal more than doingwhat she is doing. In other respects she's as good a girl as everwalked, and as honest as the daylight, but I'm afraid there is no hopeof social regeneration for her. "

"Hope was once found for one a thousand times worse than she!" saidErnshaw quietly. "But as I have seen neither of them yet, no harm can bedone by my making the acquaintance of Miss Murray to begin with. "

"Very well, " said Sir Arthur, not at all sorry to change the subject. "And now, talking about social missionaries, Vane, have you quite madeup your mind to carry out this scheme of yours, this crusade againstmoney-making and the pomps and vanities of Society? Do you really meanto show that your own father has been living in sin all these years;that he is not, in fact, a Christian at all, because it is impossiblefor anyone to be decently well off and a Christian at the same time? Anice sort of thing that, Ernshaw, isn't it?"

"If Vane honestly believes, as he does, that his is the only truedefinition of a Christian, it is not only his right but his duty topreach it, " was the young priest's reply. 

"It is my belief, " said Vane quietly, "and, God helping me, I will dowhat I believe to be my duty. "

The party at the Abbey broke up a few days after this, and in anotherweek or so Enid and her husband were in the full swing of the greatmerry-go-round which is called the London season. She was unquestionablythe most beautiful of the brides of the year, and she was the undisputedbelle of the Drawing Room at which she was presented. 

Garthorne was, of course, very proud of her, and received plenty of thatsecond-hand sort of admiration which is accorded alike to the owner of adistinguished race-horse, a prize bull-dog, or a pretty wife. 

Under the circumstances, therefore, it was perfectly natural that theyshould enjoy themselves very thoroughly, and though towards the endGarthorne began to get a little bored, and to think rather longingly ofhis yacht on the Solent and his grouse moor in Scotland, Enid, with heryouth and beauty and perfect constitution, enjoyed every hour and everyminute of her waking life. Society had no very distinguished lion tofall down and worship that season, and so, towards the end, things weregetting a little slow, and people were thinking seriously of escapingfrom the heat and dust of London, when the world of wealth and fashionwas suddenly thrilled into fresh life by an absolutely new sensation. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

One Sunday morning, about the middle of June, the large and fashionablecongregation which filled the church of St. Chrysostom, SouthKensington, a church which will be recognised as one of the very"highest" in London, and which, to use a not altogether unsuitable term, "draws" all the year round by reason of the splendour of its ritual, aswell as the simple earnest eloquence of its clergy, was startled by thepreaching of such a sermon as no member of it had ever heard before. 

The preacher for the morning was announced to be the Rev. Father Vane, aname which meant nothing to more than about half a dozen members of thecongregation, but which every man and woman in the church had some causeto remember by the time the service was over. 

Father Baldwin, as the vicar of St. Chrysostom's was familiarly known, was a very old friend of Father Philip's, and Vane's appearance aspreacher that morning was the result of certain correspondence which hadtaken place between them, and of several long and earnest conversationswhich he had had with Vane himself. 

The moment that Vane appeared in the pulpit, that strange rustling soundwhich always betokens an access of sensation in a church, becamedistinctly audible from the side where the women sat. As he stood therein cassock, cotta and white, gold-embroidered stole, he looked, as manya maid, and matron too, said afterwards, almost too beautiful to behuman. Both as boy and man he had always been strikingly handsome, butthe long weeks and months of prayer and fasting, and the constantstruggle of the soul against the flesh, had refined and spiritualisedhim. To speak of an everyday man of the world, however good-looking hemay be, as beautiful is rather to ridicule him than otherwise, but whensuch a man as Vane passes through such an ordeal as his had been, theword beauty may be justly used in the sense in which the feminineportion of the congregation of St. Chrysostom's unanimously used it thatmorning. 

There was a hush of expectation as he opened a small Bible lying on thedesk in front of him. Then he raised his right hand and made the sign ofthe Cross. 

 "In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, Amen!"

The words were not hastily and inaudibly muttered as they too often areby the clergy of the High Anglican persuasion. They rang out as clearlyas the notes of a bell through the silence of the crowded church, andthe congregation recognised instantly that he possessed, at least, thefirst qualification of a great preacher. 

Then he took up his Bible, and said in a quite ordinary conversationaltone:

"It will be well if those who wish to follow what I am about to say willtake their Bibles and turn to the fifth chapter of the Gospel accordingto St. Matthew. "

The opening was as unpromising as it was unconventional, but more thanhalf the congregation obeyed, and when the rustling of leaves hadsubsided, he began to read the Sermon on the Mount. 

When the first thrill of astonishment had passed, it was noticed that, after the first few verses, he ceased to look at the Bible. Every memberof the congregation had heard the words over and over again, but theyhad never heard them as they heard them now. It was nothing like theformal reading of the lessons to which they had been accustomed, and asthe clear, pure tones of his voice rang through the church, and, as hiseyes and face lighted up with the radiance of an almost divineenthusiasm, there were some in his audience who began to think that hemight well have been a re-incarnation of one of those disciples of theMaster who heard the words as they came from His lips that day on theJudean hillside. 

He went on verse after verse, never missing a word, and unconsciouslyemphasising each passage with gestures, slight in themselves, buteloquent and forcible in their exact suitability to the words, and verysoon every man and woman in the church was listening to him, not onlywith rapt attention, but with a growing feeling of uneasiness andapprehension as to what was to follow. 

At length he came to the twenty-third verse of the seventh chapter:

 "And then will I profess unto them, I never knew you; depart from me, ye that work iniquity. "

There was an emphasis upon the last few words which sent a thrill ofemotion, and, in many cases, one of angry expectation, through thecrowded congregation. It was one of the wealthiest, and mostfashionable in London, but, saving a comparatively few really earnestsouls, it was composed for the most part of idlers and loungers, whocame to St. Chrysostom's partly because it was one of the mostfashionable churches in the West End, partly because it was the properthing to attend Church on Sunday, and partly because the music, andsinging and preaching were all so good, and the elaborate ceremonial wasso perfectly performed, that it afforded the means of spending a fewhours on Sunday in a very pleasant way. 

The young preacher looked at the crowd of well-dressed men and women fora few moments in silence, as though he would give them time to realisethe tremendous solemnity of the words they had just heard. There wasdead, breathless silence at first, and then came a rustling sound, mingled with one of deep breathing. Then he began again in the samedirect, conversational tone in which he had asked them to take theirBibles. 

"I am addressing, " he said, in a low, clear tone which could be heard asdistinctly at the church doors as it could by those immediately underthe pulpit, "an audience which is composed of men and women who are, nominally, at least, Christians, and now I am going to ask you, everyman and woman of you, to ask your own souls the simple question, whetheryou really are Christians, or not. 

"A good many of you, I daresay, will be a little startled, perhaps someof you may even be offended by the suggestion of such a question. Withevery regard for your feelings as brother men and sister women, Isincerely hope you will be. My reason for hoping that is very simple. The vast majority of people in Christian countries are Christianssimply because they have been born of Christian parents, just as theyare Protestants or Catholics because their parents were such beforethem, and their early training has strongly predisposed their minds tothe acceptance--too often the blind acceptance--of a certain set ofdoctrines which, with all reverence, are by themselves of no more usefor the purpose of saving a human soul from eternal damnation than themultiplication table would be. These doctrines, these creeds, are aidsto salvation, most potent aids, but they are not essentials, since ofthemselves they cannot save. 

"It is far too often taken for granted that, because a man has beenbrought up in a Christian family, has been baptised into the Church ofChrist, and has later on been admitted into the communion of thatChurch, that, therefore, he is justified in believing himself to be aChristian. He has, as we of the Church Catholic and Universal ferventlybelieve, been placed in the path which leads to salvation. His visionhas been cleared from the mists of error. The Church, in the fulfilmentof her holy mission, has caused the white light of heaven to shine uponhis eyes. His feet have been set in the strait gate and on the narrowway which leads to eternal life, but not all the priests from Abrahamdown to our own day, nor all the Churches that ever were founded can doany more. The way must be travelled by the man himself, his own eyesmust see the light, his own feet must tread the way, no matter how steepor difficult it may be--or that man has no more right to call himself aChristian than any worshipper of any of the false gods whose reign hasvanished from the earth. 

"It was for the purpose of bringing this most solemn truth, this mostsolemn and momentous of all truth home to you that I began by repeatingthe words which the Greatest of all Preachers pronounced for theguidance of those who should come after Him. "

He paused, and took up his Bible again. Meanwhile, a few people, bothmen and women, whose dress and appearance bore unmistakable signs ofworldly wealth, got up and walked out of the church. 

Vane watched them go, and as he did so the rest saw a complete change ofexpression come over his countenance. His eyes grew sombre andsorrowful, his lips tightened, and something like a frown gathered uponhis brow. He not only waited in the midst of an almost unnatural silenceuntil they had gone, but he went on waiting for some moments longer asthough he would give anyone else an opportunity of leaving the church ifthey desired to do so. No one stirred. The look which he turned uponthem from the pulpit seemed like a spell which held them to their seats. Then his lips opened, and they heard his voice, tinged with an infinitesadness, saying:

 "'The young man saith unto him: All these things have I kept from my youth up. What lack I yet?

 "'Jesus saith unto him: If thou wouldst be perfect go and sell that thou hast and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven, and come and follow me. 

 "'But when the young man heard that saying he went away sorrowful, for he had great possessions. 

 "'Then said Jesus unto his disciples: Verily I say unto you that a rich man shall hardly enter into the Kingdom of Heaven. '"

Then there came another pause, during which his listeners seemed almostafraid to breathe, so strong was the spell of apprehension andexpectancy which he had laid upon them, and he went on:

"You have, everyone of you, heard those words read and spoken scores andhundreds of times. Has it ever struck you that they are words which, ifyou are a Christian man or woman, you must believe to be the words ofGod himself, spoken by the lips of Infallible Wisdom, and inspired bythat Omniscience which sees you sitting here in this London church asplainly as It saw that other congregation which was assembled that dayon the slope of the Mount of Olives, and which reads your hearts at thismoment as It read theirs then? If you do not believe that, then itfollows that you do not believe in the mission or the teaching ofChrist. You do not believe that He spoke the truth when He told theyoung man that it was not only necessary to keep the commandments, as hehad done from his youth up; but that it was also necessary for him tocease to be a rich man, and to distribute his wealth in relieving thenecessities of the poor. 

"If you believe that Christ is very God of very God, as you say everySunday of your lives, you cannot escape the obligation which those wordsput upon you except at the peril of your immortal souls. Remember thatit is not by your faiths and beliefs, or by the doctrines you have heldthat you will be judged when you stand before the Last Tribunal. Theseare but instruments to be used well or ill, but the final appeal willcome to your works. The last question that will be asked of you will notbe 'What creed have you believed?' or 'What Church have you belongedto?' but 'What have you done?' and on the answer to that, as recordedin the books of God, will depend your fate for all eternity. 

"Remember the words, 'Not everyone that saith unto me Lord, Lord, shallenter into the Kingdom of Heaven, but he that doeth the will of myFather which is in Heaven. '

"Remember, too, that when you join in the services of the Church, andwhen you partake of her Sacraments, you are simply saying 'Lord, Lord'--a very good and righteous thing to say; but of no more use orbenefit to your souls than an echo from a blank wall, unless you also dothe will of Him who is in Heaven. 

"I know that there are many specious sayings invented by those who havereasons of their own for trying to prove that when the Son of God spokethese words He didn't mean what He said; and those who have inventedthese things are amongst the worst enemies of God and His Church onearth, no matter whether they say these lying words in the drawing-roomor from the pulpit. They seek to comfort their consciences and theconsciences of such as you by saying that times have changed since thesewords were uttered; that it would be quite impossible to put a literalinterpretation upon them now. 

"Now the man who tells his fellow men that, no matter what his positionin the world, is a liar and a hypocrite, and, what is worse, he is amaker of hypocrites, for it is my duty to tell you that every man andwoman who professes Christianity before the world on Sunday and duringthe week disobeys the command of Christ as set forth here in His ownwords, is, consciously or unconsciously, a liar and a hypocrite also. 

"Let us see what these sayings look like when tested by ordinary logic, by that faculty of distinguishing the right from the wrong, the truefrom the false, which is perhaps the greatest of all God's gifts to men. 

"'Times have changed since the Son of God delivered the Sermon on theMount. ' That is one of those half-truths which are infinitely worse thana lie. Times _have_ changed. That is to say mortal men and mortalmanners have changed; but does that warrant us in believing that themind and will of the Immutable God have changed too; that what Christhimself declared to be fatal to salvation two thousand years ago, iscompatible with salvation now? That what was unlawful then is lawfulnow--in short, that the Omniscient God, in whose eyes a thousand yearsare as one day and one day as a thousand years, who read the minds ofmen then as He reads them now, has altered the decrees of EternalJustice and changed Eternal Truth into a lie?

"If you believe these people, then you must believe that too. ThatChrist himself foresaw, as He must have done, that such false teachersas these would arise both in His Church and outside it is clearly provedby His own words:

"'Many will say to me in that day, Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied inThy name and in Thy name have cast out devils, and in Thy name done manywonderful works?

"'And then I will profess unto them: I never knew you, depart from me yethat work iniquity. '

"Remember that in that day when these words will be spoken hypocrisy andself-deceit will have become impossibilities. It will not be possiblethen for you to persuade yourselves, as no doubt you do now, that youare good Christians, or that you are Christians at all, because youbelieve certain doctrines and carry out certain ecclesiasticalobservances. You will see your own souls naked then, and the eye ofEternal and Immutable Justice will see them too--and unless you haveproved that you have obedience as well as faith; that you have not onlybelieved but also obeyed, you will most assuredly hear those words 'Inever knew you; depart from me ye that work iniquity!'

"But, " he went on again, after another little pause during which some ofhis audience began to look round at each other with something like fearin their eyes, "do not forget that there is another course open to you. It may be that the things of this world, the conventions of society, thefear of poverty and the love of wealth, have taken such a hold upon you, that, although you dare not even confess it to yourselves, you preferthese things to obedience to the Divine command and all that it maybring. 

"You have it in perfectly plain language and on the highest possibleauthority that you cannot serve God and Mammon. Those are no emptywords, they are one of the most solemn pronouncements ever made, andthey affect you here and to all eternity. So long as you go on strivingto increase your wealth by those means which must nowadays be employedto make money, you are not and you cannot be Christians. Those are harshwords, and yet if they are not true, the words of Christ himself arefalse. There is no escape from this dilemma, and if you think thatdevoting one day a week to the nominal service of God and six to thereal, practical service of Mammon, you earn the right to call yourselvesChristians, that is to say, followers of Christ, you are merelypractising a pitiful piece of self-deception which would be ludicrouswere its consequences not so solemn. 

"But, as I have said, there is another course open to you, a coursewhich, terrible as it is, is better than the one that you are nowfollowing, because it is more honest. Be honest with yourselves and eachother, and, what is of more consequence, be honest with God too. Awell-known agnostic lecturer once said that no god could afford to damnan honest man, and I am not sure that he was not right; but if the wordsof Christ were not the empty mouthings of a charlatan or a dreamer, there cannot be the slightest doubt about the fate of the hypocrite. Remember that on the only occasion on which the gentle nature of ourLord was roused to anger he denounced in the most terrible language thathuman ears have ever heard those whom He called hypocrites, and, therefore, I say to you, at whatever cost, either to your pockets or toyour souls, for you can take your choice which, cease to be hypocrites. 

"Cease this pitiful pretence which, though it may deceive yourselves, certainly does not deceive Him from whom no secrets are hid. If youcannot forsake the service of Mammon, if you really are so tightly boundby his golden chains to the things of this world that you cannot or willnot break loose from the entrancing bondage, then, in the name ofhonesty, say so, say to yourselves and to your fellow men: 'I cannot dothis thing. If I must give up the service of Mammon before I can callmyself the servant of God, then I cannot become the servant of God, andI will make a hypocrite and a liar of myself no longer. ' Then at leastyou would be honest and truthful, honest with yourselves and with yourbrother men and with your sister women and with God. You would, as Ibelieve, and as you are now trying to make yourselves believe, have madethe wrong choice, a choice whose consequences must inevitably face youon the other side of the grave, but you would, at least, be able to facethe tribunal of Eternal Justice without shame, and, with all reverence Isay it, I, as a Christian man, believe that for this reason the infinitemercy of God would find a means of salvation for you. 

"Be honest. For God's sake and your own, be honest, even though inbecoming so, you cease to be what is commonly called respectable. If youreally cannot serve God with a whole soul and without reservation, giveup the attempt to serve Him and say so before all men. It would be aterrible thing to do, and yet, awful as such a step would be, it mightbe the first one towards your ultimate salvation. The angels might weep, but I hardly think that the devils would laugh, for the worst enemy ofthe Father of Lies is an honest man or woman. The gentle heart of Jesusmight bleed for you, but Eternal Justice would respect you and give youyour due. Once more, speaking not only as a priest of God, but as yourfellow man, let me as man implore you to be honest, and as priest, warnyou that the penalty of hypocrisy is eternal damnation. You have nochoice in the matter. One or the other you must be, and you cannotpossibly be both. Wherefore I tell you that whether you elect to be theservant of God or the servant of Mammon, you must let all men knowplainly which you are. If you are reasonable beings you cannot believein yourselves or in each other, unless you do this. Remember that, however fondly you may be deceiving yourselves, you cannot blind theeyes of Omniscience. It is a hard thing to say, and yet it is only theplain truth given to us by the lips of Christ himself, that you cannotbelieve in God unless you do the things which He says. Living yourpresent lives you do not do them, and therefore you are not onlyinfidels and atheists living without God, but you are worse--you arehypocrites, and woe unto you!

"I tell you, speaking as solemnly as a priest of God can do in His houseand in His presence that I would rather see this and every church inChristendom attended by a score of people--of real Christians whosedaily lives throughout the week were really guided and sanctified byobedience to the teachings of the Master, than I would see them crowdedwith throngs of men and women like you, whose acts from Monday morningto Saturday night consistently belie every word that your lips utterhere in the house of God and in the presence of the Holy Trinity. 

"No doubt, there is already anger against me in many of your hearts onaccount of what I have believed it my duty to say to you. I would notwillingly incur the hatred of any man or woman, and yet I shall notaltogether regret that anger, because it will be proof that my wordshave reached, not only your ears, but your hearts. I have spoken plainlyand without regard to the conventionalities either of the world or ofthe pulpit, and I have done so because I believe that conventionality isthe foe of truth, and therefore the enemy of religion. This, remember, is a subject of such awful solemnity, laden as it is with the eternalfate of every human soul that is baptised into the Church of God, that Ihave found it my duty to make it plain to you at any cost. 

"When you leave this church, send your horses and your carriages awayand walk home, for you are deliberately breaking the law of God by usingthem on the Sabbath, and, remember, that he who breaks one jot ortittle of the law, shall be guilty of the whole, and, instead of goingto church parade in the park, you women, to excite the admiration of themen and the envy of other women by the beauty of your dress, or thesplendour of your equipage, and you men, to begin the sordid work ofto-morrow before you have finished the holy task of to-day, go home andtake your bibles into the solitude of your own chamber. Spend the restof God's day with God Himself. And that you may do this good thing welland truly, and find help to choose that way of life which leadeth toeternal salvation, May the peace of God which passeth all understandingbe with you now henceforth and for ever, Amen. "

He raised his right hand in benediction, turned towards the altar andmade the sign of the Cross, and as he came down the pulpit steps andwalked up the chancel to his place, some of those who saw him, saidafterwards, that there was a light on his face which they had never seenon a human face before. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

There was no communion after that service, and so the choir and priestsformed for the recessional hymn. Father Baldwin, as the processionformed behind him, came to the front of the chancel and said:

"Instead of the hymn appointed, it will be better if we end the servicewith number 274. "

 "Through the night of doubt and sorrow. "

The organ pealed out, the congregation rose, and the hymn began. It sohappened that as Vane was passing the chairs on which Enid and herhusband were sitting with several friends, the last verse but one wasreached. 

 "Onward therefore, pilgrim brothers, Onward, with the Cross our aid! Bear its shame, and fight its battle, Till we rest beneath its shade. "

At the words "Bear its shame and fight its battle, " she looked up. Hereyes met Vane's for a moment; but there was no look of recognition inthem. A sudden dart of pain seemed to shoot into her heart. This man, this prophet-priest, as he seemed to her now, had once been hers, herpromised husband. How far away from her, how far above her was he now!

She had listened to the sermon with a double interest, interest in theman as well as in the wonderful words he had just spoken--words sosimple in themselves, and yet spoken with such terrible force, a forceso terrible that within the space of a few minutes it had shattered allher worldly ideals and destroyed the faith that she had been brought upin, changing her whole outlook upon the world. 

She had been educated on the ordinary lines of conventionalChristianity, and, until now, she had, like thousands of others, honestly believed herself to be a good Christian woman, just as shebelieved her mother to be. But, as it happened, there was that withinher soul which instantly responded to the truth which she had heardto-day for the first time; and she saw that Vane was right, hopelessly, piteously right. 

And then as the procession passed she looked at her husband. He hadalready sat down, and was getting his hat from under the seat. Theprocession streamed slowly out of sight into the vestry, and thecongregation moved out into the aisles with much soft rustling andswishing of skirts and a subdued, buzzing hum of eager conversation. 

As the three streams of well-dressed men and women converged towards thegreat doorway which led out into the street many began to ask themselvesand each other if any one would obey the preacher's exhortation and sendtheir carriages away. The carriages were lined up in the street just asthey would be outside a theatre. Some of their owners got in and droveaway, making very pointed remarks on the impropriety of bringing suchsubjects as carriages and horses into sermons and the length that youngcurates would go now-a-days to obtain notoriety. Others dismissedtheirs and went away trying to look unconcerned; while other peoplestared after them, some smiling and others looking serious. 

The Garthornes' victoria, drawn by a pair of beautiful light bays, drewup, and Garthorne put out his hand to help Enid in, but she drew backand said:

"No, thanks, I think I'll walk. "

"Oh, nonsense, Enid!" he said impatiently. "Time is getting on, and wemust have our turn in the Park. Everybody will be there, and this isabout the last Sunday in the season. We haven't over much time either. "

"I am not going into the Park, Reginald, " she said decidedly. "I amgoing to walk straight home. You can go and do Church Parade if youlike. "

"All right, Tomkins, you can go home, " he said to the coachman. "Mrs. Garthorne prefers to walk. "

The coachman and footman touched their hats, and the victoria droveaway. 

"Surely to goodness, Enid, " said Garthorne almost angrily, as theywalked away together, "you are not doing this because Maxwell said itwas wrong to use carriages on a Sunday! Good heavens, if we were totranslate sermons into everyday life it would be rather a funny world tolive in. "

"Then what is the use of going to hear them, if they are not to be takenseriously?" she said, looking up quickly at him. "Why should they bepreached, or why should we go to church at all?"

"Because it is the proper thing to do, I suppose, and because Society, whose slaves we are, makes it one of the social functions of the week, "replied Garthorne, who had as much real religion in his composition asa South African Bushman. "We men go because you women do, and you womengo to show others how nicely you can dress, and to see what they havegot on. "

"My dear Reginald, that is about as true as it is original, and that isnot saying very much for it. If we don't go to church for any otherreasons than those it is merely mockery and wickedness to go at all. Iwas very glad to see that a great many people did send their carriagesaway. Next Sunday I hope they will have the decency to walk. "

"Especially if the British climate, as it probably will, ends up theseason with a pouring wet Sunday!" laughed Garthorne. "No, dear, thosegodly precepts are all very well when you read them in Sunday Schoolbooks or hear them from the pulpit, and I am sure Vane put them mostadmirably to-day, although I confess I was slightly surprised to hear areally clever fellow like him preaching such hopelessly impossiblenonsense. Of course I don't mean any offence to him--far from it, butreally, you know, if theories like those could be put into practice theywould simply turn the world upside down. "

"I think you might have found a better word than nonsense, " she replieda trifle sharply; "but the world of to-day certainly would have to beturned upside down or inside out to make it anything like Christian. That, at least, Vane--I mean Mr. Maxwell--taught us this morning. "

"Christian according to the Reverend Vane Maxwell, " he said, with thesuspicion of a sneer. "Fortunately the Churches have agreed that such aviolent operation is not necessary. By the way, though, won't Maxwellget himself into a howling row with the ecclesiastical powers that be!Just imagine the bench of Bishops standing anything like that!"

"Yes, " she said quietly, "the preaching of the Sermon on the Mount in afashionable London church! It does sound very terrible, doesn't it? Andyet, after all, I suppose they can't take his orders away from him evenfor that. I wonder what would happen? It is sure to be in the papersto-morrow, and of course everybody will be talking about it. "

"Yes, " said Garthorne; "but if Master Vane thinks he is going to playSavanarola to this generation he will find that he has taken on a prettylarge order. Are you quite sure you won't take a turn in the Park, evenon foot?"

"No, I'd rather not, but don't let me keep you if you would like astroll. I can get home all right. "

"Well, if you don't mind, Enid, I think I will. There are one or twofellows I want to see particularly about something, so bye-bye for thepresent. "

He raised his hat and turned back, and she went on towards the house inQueen's Gate with many strange thoughts in her heart. 

Enid and her husband were by no means the only members of thecongregation of St. Chrysostom who discussed Vane's sermon on their wayhome. In fact, whether people walked or rode home, it was the universaltopic. Some discussed it with timorous sympathy; others, perhaps withmore worldly wisdom, talked of it quietly and cynically as the outburstof a half-fledged clerical enthusiast who would very soon find out thathis superiors, on whom he depended for preferment, regarded thedoctrines of Christianity as one thing and the practises of the Churchas something entirely different. 

"He's a clever fellow, a very clever fellow and very earnest, " said LordCanore, who was a patron of several fat livings, to her ladyship and histwo daughters as they drove home, "but he'll soon get those roughcorners knocked off him. If they are wise they will give him a goodliving, and then make him a canon as soon as possible. There's nothinglike preferment to sober a man down in the Church. "

"Yes, " sighed Lady Caroline Rosse, the elder daughter, who was gettingsomewhat _passée_, and was deeply interested in Church work; "what abeautiful voice he has, and such a wonderful face! Really, he lookedalmost inspired at times. He would make quite an ideal bishop, and, youknow, some quite young men are being made bishops now-a-days. "

"Yes, " chuckled his lordship, as he lay back against the cushions, "thatis the sort of thing I mean. You don't catch bishops preaching theSermon on the Mount and sub-editing it as they go on. "

"My dear Canore, " said her ladyship frigidly, "I think we had betterchange the subject; that last remark of yours was almost blasphemous. "

"Never heard such rubbish preached from a respectable pulpit in mylife, " said Mr. Horace Faustmann, a member of the Stock Exchange, director of several limited companies and a most liberal contributor tothe offertories, and all Church effort in the parish of St. Chrysostom, to his wife as they rolled smoothly in their cee-spring, rubber-tyredvictoria towards Hyde Park Corner. 

"Why, if you can't make plenty of money and still be a Christian, whereare subscriptions coming from, and what price the Church endowments? Itseems absolutely absurd to me. I wonder what on earth Baldwin wasthinking about to let him preach a sermon like that in the smartestchurch in the West End. If he goes on in that style he will just ruinthe show. Anyhow, he gets no more of my money if he is going to insultrich people in the pulpit. Any more of that sort of thing, my dear, andwe'll go somewhere else, won't we?"

"I should think so, " said the beautiful Mrs. Faustmann. She was thedaughter of a poor aristocrat, and had made a very good social andfinancial bargain. She was one of the smartest women and most successfulentertainers in London. There was another man eating his heart out onher account in the Burmese jungle, and sometimes, in her tenderestmoment, she gave him a thought and a little sigh--about as much thoughtand sigh as her engagements permitted. 

"Yes, Father Baldwin will really ruin the Church if he allows that sortof thing. Of course all the good people will give it up. In fact, yousaw the Steinways, the Northwicks, the Athertons and several more leavethe church before he was half way through his harangue, for really youcould hardly call it a sermon. All the same, the church will be throngedto-night and next Sunday, because people will go there just for thesensation of the thing, and to see if anything else is going to happen;but poor Father Baldwin will simply be inundated with letters from thebest of his people, and I don't think he'll find them very pleasantreading. I am going to write, and, although I respect the dear man verymuch, I shall tell him exactly what I think. "

"Quite right, " said her husband, as they turned into the Park. "You giveit to him straight. If you don't, I shall drop him a line myself andtell him that if he wants any more of my money, and he has had a goodbit, he will have to keep his half-broken clerical colts a bit better inhand; I'm not going to support a church to be insulted in it. "

Many other similar conversations were going on just then in the Park, infact, Vane and his sermon were already being discussed by halffashionable London, so fast does the news of so startling an eventtravel from lip to lip when a crowd of somewhat _blasé_ people, who havenothing in particular to talk about, get together. Most of the commentswere quite similar to those just quoted, for Society felt generally bydinner time that night that it had been deliberately insulted, outraged, in fact, through its representatives in the congregation of St. Chrysostom. 

Nevertheless the church was packed to its utmost capacity at eveningservice. It was known that Father Baldwin was to preach, but it washoped that Vane would take some part in the service, and of courseeveryone wanted to see him; still, the audience went away disappointed. Vane was far away, helping Ernshaw at his mission in Bethnal Green, andwas telling his congregation truths just as uncompromising and perhapsas unpalatable as those he had told to his wealthy and aristocratichearers in the morning. 

Father Baldwin preached, but his sermon was rather a homily on theduties of the rich towards the poor, especially at a time when the richwere about to migrate like gay-plumaged birds of passage to other landsand climes in search of pleasure, leaving behind the millions of theirfellow mortals and fellow Christians, whose ceaseless life-struggle leftno leisure for the delights which they had come to look upon as thecommonplaces of their existence. 

He only made one brief allusion to Vane's sermon. He knew perfectlywell that these thronging hundreds of people had not come to hear him. He felt, not without sorrow, that quite half of them had come to hear, or at least see, the man whose name was already the talk of fashionableLondon. 

"Some of you, " he said, "who are present now heard this morning fromthis pulpit words which must have sunk deep into the heart of every manand woman who feels an earnest desire to follow in the footsteps of theMaster as closely as imperfect human nature will permit you. It is notfor me to tell you to what extent those words must be taken literally. They were spoken earnestly and from the inmost depths of the preacher'sown soul--may they sink into the inmost depths of yours! They put themost vital interest of human life plainly, nay, uncompromisingly beforeyou; how far you can or will follow them in your daily lives is a matterwhich rests between yourselves and your Redeemer. "

The next morning nearly all the papers contained more or less lengthyreports of a sermon of which half London was already talking. ErnestReed, a smart young reporter with strong freethought tendencies, whomade a Sunday speciality of reporting sermons of all sorts, especiallythe extreme ones, and who wrote caustically impartial comments on themin the rationalist papers, had instantly grasped the true significanceof such a sermon being preached to such a congregation, and, moreover, he had himself been deeply affected by the solemn earnestness with whichthe momentous words had been spoken. 

"A Daniel come to judgment! A parson who believes in his own creed atlast!" was his mental comment, as he closed his note-book. "That chap'sworth following. I wonder where he is going to preach to-night. I'llfind out. "

Of course he did find out and followed Vane to Bethnal Green, with theresult that he made what is professionally termed "a scoop, " since hewas the only reporter who was able to give both sermons verbatim. The_Daily Chronicle_ was the only morning paper smart enough to print themword for word in parallel columns under the title:

 WEIGHTY WORDS TO RICH AND POOR. The Rev. Vane Maxwell Asks Mayfair and Bethnal Green If they are Christian?

The consequence was, that all London and a very considerable part ofEngland too, stared wonderingly over its breakfast table and askeditself whether there was really anything in these plain, almost homely, and yet terribly pregnant words. Certainly there was no getting awayfrom the pitiless logic of them. If Vane Maxwell was right, England was_not_ a Christian country, save in name, and its citizens wereChristians only because they had been baptized into one or other of thechurches and so called themselves Christians by a sort of courtesytitle. For the moment at least, Christianity assumed a shape as tangibleand a meaning almost as serious as party politics. In other words Vane'ssermon, even when read in cold print, put the question: Are you really aChristian? so plainly, so uncompromisingly, and so unavoidably to everyman or woman calling himself or herself a Christian, that hundreds ofthousands of people all over the country, to say nothing of a millionor two in London, felt a sudden, and, as it seemed to them, somewhatunaccountable obligation to give an equally plain answer to it. What wasthe answer to be?

"Yes or no?"

It certainly was a very serious matter to millions who had never thoughtof asking the question for themselves, and whose pastors and spiritualmasters had mostly contented themselves with lecturing and teaching insoul-soothing, instead of soul-searching, words. 

They, good folk, had really never troubled themselves very much aboutthe matter. They had their business affairs to attend to, their wivesand families to keep out of the workhouse or to maintain in comfort orluxury, as the case might be, and a good many of them had certain socialduties to perform; and so they had got into the way of letting thechurches and chapels, the bishops, priests, deacons and so forth, lookafter these things. 

They were paid to do so. That was rather an ugly thought. At least, itseemed to be so, after reading the words of Jesus Christ, and Hisservant Vane Maxwell; but still it _was_ a fact; and some of them werevery highly paid. They were living in charming houses and had verycomfortable investments in companies which made money anyhow, so long asthey made it. Others were wretchedly paid, it was true, mostlyhalf-starved and inevitably in debt; but still, neither of these factsaffected the main question, which, of course, was the personal one: Areyou--rich man or poor man--you who read these words, a Christian? Areyou, as the preacher had asked in those five terrible words, honestbefore God and man?

Then to the scores and hundreds of thousands of people who read this, came, in a whispering terror, the further question:

"Do you think you can cheat God, even if you are cheating yourself andother people like you--the God Whom you have been taught to believe inas knowing all things, the God to whom all secrets are known?"

It was a distinctly ugly question to answer, and more Bibles weresearched throughout the United Kingdom than had been for many a longyear past; but no searcher found any answer that satisfied his own soul, if he had one, save the one that was given from the Mount of Olives:

"Ye cannot serve God and Mammon. "

As the young preacher had said, there was no compromise. There wascertainly the alternative of being honest one way or the other; but thatsort of honesty had a very appalling prospect to the respectable Britishcitizen, especially those, who, in any way, resembled the young man whocame to Christ and asked Him what he should do to be saved. It was, inshort, a case of becoming comparative paupers, and only having the barenecessaries of life, or keeping what they had, and saying honestly tothemselves, the world, and God:

"I can't be a Christian at that price, and so, instead of remaining aChristian humbug, I will be an honest atheist. "

A very terrible dilemma, certainly, and yet, if the Gospels were true, and if the Son of God had really preached the Sermon on the Mount, itwas one from which there was no escape but this. It was a plain matterof belief or disbelief, honesty or dishonesty, and, if they believed inGod, dishonesty was impossible, save under the penalty of eternaldamnation. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

That day the clergy-house of St. Chrysostom was, of course, deluged withnewspapers and cuttings, and the flood continued for two or three days, during which Vane, unconscious or careless of the fact that he wasalready the clerical lion of London, and, perhaps, the most discussedman for the time being in England and the sister kingdoms, was workinghard helping his friend, Ernshaw, to organize an entirely unsectariantwentieth century crusade throughout the poorer districts of London. Heseldom read newspapers, for he preferred the living fact to the writtenword, and, besides, such work as his left little time for reading. Hehad seen his name on the placards of the morning and evening papers, andhe had bought some which he had not found time to do more than glanceover. 

He was, of course, glad that his sermon had attracted so much attention, but he knew enough of newspapers and their readers not to hope for toomuch on this account, and so he was not a little surprised when FatherBaldwin said to him on his return to the clergy-house on the Fridayevening:

"Well, Maxwell! glad to see you back, although you have brought a nicehornet's nest about our ears, and started something like a social andreligious earthquake in Kensington and the adjacent lands of Mayfair andBelgravia, to say nothing of a distinct fluttering in what I may, perhaps, without irreverence call the upper and more spacious dove-cotesof the Church. "

"Have I really?" said Vane, quietly, "I didn't know I had, but if I havedone so, I am very glad. It was exactly what I intended to do, though Iconfess I had little hope of doing so. What is the matter? I hope Ihaven't got _you_ into any unpleasantness, Father Baldwin. "

"It doesn't very much matter if you have, " replied the older priest, leaning back in his chair and looking at him keenly from under histhick, iron-grey eyebrows. "You only said what has been in the heartsand souls of a good many of us for a long time, but it was given to youto say it and, let us hope, also the inspiration to say it in the properway. "

"Please God!" said Vane. "And now what have I done; I mean as regardsyourself and St. Chrysostom?"

"To begin with, " replied Father Baldwin, "about half the wealthiestmembers of the congregation, men and women, but mostly men, have writtento say that if they are to be publicly insulted from the pulpit, andtold that they are liars and hypocrites, and not Christians, save inname, they will leave the church and withdraw all theirsubscriptions--which, of course, from quite a worldly point of view, would be somewhat a serious matter for the church. "

"That simply proves that they are not Christians, " said Vane, "and thechurch is better without their money. They practically confess thatthey never have been giving their money honestly for the service of God, but merely for self-advertisement or as a social obligation. It would beno loss to us, and little gain to anybody else they gave it to. "

"Yes, I believe you are right, " replied Father Baldwin. "It seems rathera hard thing to say, but people who would leave a church because theSermon on the Mount was preached from its pulpit, must be a strange sortof Christians. "

"They are not Christians at all!" exclaimed Vane, with a burst ofrighteous wrath, "they are the bane and curse of Christianity, and havebeen ever since Constantine made it official and fashionable. They areresponsible for every corruption that has crept into the Church, forevery blot that defiles the purity of the Creed. They are notChristians, and they never have been, for they cannot be what they areand followers of Christ at the same time. They and the wealthy clergy ofall the churches are responsible for the unfaith, tacit and avowed, ofwhat we are pleased to call the lower classes; the classes who composethe majority of Christ's Congregation; and they are responsible for allthe cynicism of the open and active enemies of our faith. It is they whomake it possible for the infidel and the atheist to point the finger ofscorn at us and say, 'See how these Christians love to do the Will oftheir Master. '"

"I fully appreciate everything you say, Maxwell, " replied FatherBaldwin, with some little hesitation in his tone; for, although he wasas good a Christian as ever gave up everything to serve his Master, andas earnest a priest as ever stood before the altar, yet he was gettingon in years and found it hard to break away from the traditions amidstwhich he had grown up, and which he had accepted as a young man withlittle or no inquiry. "At the same time, I must candidly admit that Iwas a trifle startled by your absolutely uncompromising rendering of ourLord's words. Did you really intend that they should be takenliterally?"

"It is not what I intended, Father Baldwin, " replied Vane, rising fromhis seat and beginning to walk up and down the plainly furnished, book-lined common-room, "the question is what _He_ intended, and surelyno Christian in his senses could believe for a moment that our Lordintended to quibble with words and to play with double meanings. If Hedid not mean what He said, and intend those who followed Him to do whatHe said, what becomes of our faith? If that is not so, surely there isnothing left for us but to give up the doctrine of the Trinityaltogether, and go back to the old Hebrew creed--which certainly did notforbid the accumulation of riches. "

"May I come in?" said Sir Arthur Maxwell's voice through the open door, "they told me you were here, Vane. Good evening, Father Baldwin. Well, this is a nice sort of commotion that this son of mine has been kickingup. Do you know, Sir, " he went on, turning to Vane, "that you havesuddenly made yourself one of the most famous, or, perhaps, I should saynotorious, persons in London by that sermon of yours? It was very fine Iadmit, and most desperately to the point, but I suppose you know thatall the world and the newspapers are asking where does that point pointto?"

"That is just what I was asking your son, Sir Arthur, " said FatherBaldwin. "Granted that he is right in his contention that the Sermon onthe Mount is to be taken literally, it means nothing short of areligious as well as a social revolution. "

"That is exactly what the papers and everybody are saying, " said SirArthur. "In fact, people are beginning to look at one another and asksome very awkward questions. For instance, here am I, that boy's father, I am not a rich man, but I have worked hard and my old age iscomfortably provided for, and when I die what I have would naturally goto Vane, who, on his own showing, couldn't have it; in fact, as youknow, he has given up about a thousand a year as it is that he had frommy brother Alfred. "

"You will not get much sympathy from Father Baldwin on that score, father, " laughed Vane, "you know he gave up nearly twice as much. "

"There is nothing in that, " said Father Baldwin, hastily, as though hewould stop them saying any more, "that is a point on which I entirelyagree with you. When a man has money of his own, and devotes himself tothe service of the Church, he should devote his money to it also. As aChristian and a priest he can have no lawful use for it, save in thework of the Church. "

"Unless he happens to be married and have a family, " said Sir Arthur. "What ought he to do then, Father Baldwin?"

"In that case, Sir Arthur, " he replied, "I think he would do better tokeep out of the ministry and devote himself honestly to the affairs ofhis own household. You remember, of course, what the Apostle Paul tellsus, that the man who neglects those is worse than an infidel. Of course, it is not a good translation, and it reads very badly now that infidelhas come to mean one who does not believe in creeds. It should, ofcourse, read unfaithful, I mean, unfaithful to the solemnresponsibilities he has taken upon himself; and, although I may bewrong, I find it difficult to see how a man can faithfully dischargethose obligations and those of a priest of the Church, but that opens avery wide question, and there is a very great deal to be said on bothsides of it. "

"There I quite agree with you, " said Sir Arthur, "you know, of course, better than I do, that there are hundreds of hard-worked parsons in thiscountry--especially in poor parishes--who can't afford curates, whosimply couldn't get on without their wives, and I know one or two myselfwho say that their wives are worth a couple of curates. I'm fairlycertain that in most poor country parishes the parson's wife is the goodangel of the place. "

"There is not the slightest doubt about it, " replied Father Baldwin, "Ihave seen quite enough of church work to convince me of that, and thisis, of course, the very strongest argument, and a very convincing one, too, in a certain degree, against the celibacy of the clergy. But, still, Sir Arthur, " he went on, with a change of tone, "I suppose youdidn't come here to discuss theology and church matters. Of course, youwant to see your son. My study is quite at your service, if you want tohave a talk. "

"Thanks, very much, Father, " said Sir Arthur, "what I really came forwas to ask Vane to come round and have a bit of dinner with me. I have agood many things to talk over with him, and I have a guest or two comingwhom I am anxious for him to meet. What do you say, Vane, can you come?"

"Of course I can, dad, " replied Vane. "I am taking a holiday tillSunday, and I couldn't spend it much better than at the old place. OnSunday I am going to deliver two lectures at the Hall of Science, OldStreet, the head-quarters of the National Secular Society. "

"The _what_, Maxwell?" exclaimed Father Baldwin, with a note ofsomething more than astonishment in his voice, "the Hall ofScience--why, that was Bradlaugh's place--the head-centre of Londoninfidelity. "

"Excuse me, Father, " said Vane, gravely, "do you not think that is aword we are accustomed to use too vaguely? Is it quite fair or logicalto call these people infidels? Are they not rather faithful to theirconvictions, however wrong they may be? Surely we must, at least, givethem the credit of believing in their disbelief. Last night I heard aninformal confession--one of the strangest, perhaps, that a priest everheard--from a young fellow, of about twenty-two, who reported my sermonhere, and then followed me to Bethnal Green and sent in both accounts tothe papers. 

"He is well educated, very clever, and the son of a clergyman. He isalso what people call an infidel, and yet he made a confession of faithto me that would have melted the soul of a financier, if he had one. After that I shall never hear these people called infidels without aprotest. And, besides, is it not a good thing that a priest of Godshould speak the truth that is in him in the temple of the unbelievers?How many of our churches would permit one of their lecturers to speakfrom the pulpit, or even from the platform of one of our schoolrooms. "

"You are quite right, Maxwell, " said Father Baldwin, "I used the wordunthinkingly, therefore conventionally. I am very glad you are going, but I am afraid if your friends advertise it at all, half Kensingtonand Mayfair will be off to Old Street, and crowd them out of their ownplace. As I tell you, they didn't like what you said, but for all that, they are dying to hear what you are going to say next. "

"Exactly, " said Sir Arthur, "that is the worst of becoming suddenlynotorious, Vane. You have made yourself, in a most righteous manner, thetalk of London, and London will follow you now wherever you go. However, that can't be helped, it is one of the penalties of fame, and now if youhave nothing more to say to Father Baldwin, you might put on your hat, and come, I have got a hansom at the door. "

CHAPTER XIX. 

On the way from the Clergy-House to Warwick Gardens Vane tried more thanonce to get his father to tell him something about the evening'sentertainment which he had invited him for, but Sir Arthur only laughed, albeit somewhat seriously, and said:

"My dear boy, I am not going to let you spoil a pleasant littlesurprise. I don't say that it will be altogether a pleasant one, yet Iknow that it will not be an entirely unpleasant one. To a certainextent, as you will find afterwards, it is one of the many results ofthat precious sermon of yours, and, as certain things had to be done, Ithought they would be better done at home than elsewhere. "

And in reply to Vane's second attempt his father said simply:

"No, Vane, this is a surprise party, as they say in the States, and I amnot going to give the names of my guests away. You really must possessyour soul in patience for the present. Meanwhile tell me what FatherBaldwin thinks of the position you have taken up?"

"You mean, of course, about this new heresy of mine?" replied Vane witha laugh--"a heresy, by the way, which is as old as Christianity. Well, dad, to tell you the truth I think the dear old Father is a little bitfrightened, but he is too strong a man to go back from the position, andtoo good a Christian to want to do so. He sees that I am right, or, Ishould say of course, that this is after all the only possible doctrineand belief for a Christian. He gave me permission to preach that sermonfrom his pulpit, but I don't think he quite realised, as a matter offact I didn't myself, what an effect it would have, and perhaps theconsequences have worried him a little; but he is perfectly staunch, andso are Moran and Webley. "

"And so, I suppose, " replied Sir Arthur, "St. Chrysostom's will not be apleasant Sunday morning and evening resort for rich people any longer. That is, perhaps, a somewhat flippant way of putting it, but of courseyou know what I mean. "

"Yes, I quite see what you mean, dad, " said Vane rather more seriously. "I don't think it will be, but I do think that before very long we shallhave a better congregation of Christians than we have ever had before, people who, I mean, will have lost their delusions about fashionableChristianity--just as if there could be such a thing!--and who come tohear the Word of God as it is, and not as most people would like it tobe. By the way, have you heard that the Canon, I mean CanonThornton-Moore, of Worcester, a man that I met at dinner at the Abbey, has accepted the presentation of All Saints, Densmore Square? It issupposed to be a little higher even than St. Chrysostom, and if possiblethe congregation is even more disgustingly rich and fashionable andeverything that is not Christian. "

"I must say, Vane, that you have all the uncompromising severity of thetrue enthusiast, and the way in which you include your old father withthese hopeless sinners is really almost unfilial. I think I can tellyou this much, that to-night you are going to meet a very much greatersinner than I am, a sinner to the extent of millions, and yet, from whatI have learned of him on the best possible authority, as honest a man, as good-hearted a fellow, as ever fought the world single-handed andbeat it. "

"Just as you did, dad, " said Vane in a tone which reminded his father ofthe old days. "I suppose there is nothing to be said of the other twopersons of the Infernal Trinity. "

"Not at present, " said Sir Arthur, with a sudden change in his voicewhich made Vane look round at him. His face had changed with his tone. He was leaning with his arms on the door of the cab, staring up at thesky over the roofs of the houses. Vane noticed a little twitching of thelip under the long grey moustache, and thought it well to hold hispeace. 

Fortunately, perhaps, for both, the cab at that moment swung round outof the main road into Warwick Gardens. Vane looked at the familiarcorner at which he had stopped that other hansom cab on that memorableBoat Race night and got out, after Carol had denied him the kiss heasked for, to meet his father on the pavement. Sir Arthur remembered ittoo, and he had good reasons to, for he said as the cab swung round:

"Vane, when my lease is up I am going to leave this place. I never canpass that corner without thinking of what no man ought to be obliged tothink of. "

"I know what you mean, dad, " cried Vane. "It was horrible enough, or atleast it might have been and yet it wasn't, and because it wasn't----"

"Well, at any rate, " interrupted Sir Arthur as the cab pulled up, "letus thank God that it wasn't. "

As they got out another cab drove up just behind theirs, and somewhat tohis astonishment Vane saw Ernshaw get out. 

"My dear Ernshaw, " he said, as they shook hands, "isn't this greatextravagance?"

"Only a shilling's worth, " laughed Ernshaw in reply, "and I thinkjustifiable; a little kiddy was knocked down in Addison Road there by abutcher's cart, and I picked her up and took her to the hospital inHammersmith Road, and this good fellow won't charge me more than ashilling for both journeys, although it is out of the radius. "

"Oh, he won't, won't he?" said Sir Arthur, putting his hand into hispocket and pulling out a couple of half-crowns. 

"You take that, my man, not for yourself if you won't have it, but foryour wife and your children if you have got any; you can't say no forthem. "

"No, sir, thankee, I won't say no to them, " said the cabby, taking thehalf-crowns and touching his hat. "It's the best fare I've earnedto-day. Good-night, sir, and thank you, sir. Come up, old girl. "

The whip flicked, and the old mare went round to begin another of thoseendless journeys through London streets which horses, if they reason atall, must find so utterly incomprehensible and aimless. 

"Is this the beginning of the surprises, dad?" said Vane, as the twocabs drove away. "This is certainly one of the last places in Londonthat I should have expected to meet Ernshaw in, after seeing him up tohis neck in work at Bethnal Green yesterday. It must have been a prettystrong attraction, Ernshaw, that got you as far west as this. "

"My dear Maxwell, " said Ernshaw, "surely the worst of us are entitled toa holiday now and then. Why, even Father Philip goes to Norway for afortnight every year, to say nothing of an occasional run up to Townnow and then, and he confessed to me not very long ago that he enjoys noearthly pleasure better than a good 'Varsity match at Lord's. "

"There is nothing better, " said Sir Arthur, "except a good Indian polomatch. Well, come in. I have just got time for a wash and a changebefore our other guests arrive. You clerics don't want a change, so youcan have a wash and a cigarette if you want one in the Den. "

As the door opened Koda Bux came along the hall and made his salaam; hisgrave, deep eyes made no sign as he recognised Vane in his clericalgarb; he only salaamed again and welcomed Vane back to the house of hisfather and his mother. That was Koda Bux's way of putting it in hisIndian fashion. He would have put it otherwise if he had known what sucha welcome meant to him. 

"This is the place of the _debacle_, " said Vane to Ernshaw when they metin the Den after they had had their wash; "there's the hearthrug--yes, and there's the same spirit-case. It is a curious thing, Ernshaw, butsince then, or rather, since that other ghastly collapse at Oxford, I'velectured in club rooms reeking with alcohol; I've gone with you as youknow where everyone was sodden with the gin and stank of it, and eveninto bars where you could smell nothing but liquor and unwashedhumanity, and yet that intoxication has never come back to me. "

"Of course not, " said Ernshaw; "you have prayed and fought since then, and as you have won your battles your prayers have been answered. "

"Yes, " said Vane, "I hope you are right; in fact, I am sure you are. Idon't suppose a sniff at that whiskey decanter would affect me any morethan a few drops of eau de cologne on my handkerchief. "

As he said this he went towards the spirit-case on the little old oaksideboard and took out the whiskey decanter. 

"Take care, Vane!" said Ernshaw. "I hope you are not forgetting the olddoctrine of association. Remember what you were saying just now aboutthis room. There is a sense, you know, in which places are reallyhaunted. "

"My dear Ernshaw, I believe you are even more ideal than I am, " laughedVane, as he took the stopper out and raised the decanter to hisnostrils. As he did so the front door bell tinkled, and the hand of apractised footman played a brief fantasia on the knocker. In the middleof an inhalation Vane stopped and put the bottle down; but even as hedid so the mysterious force of association against which Ernshaw hadwarned him had begun to work upon his imagination. The familiar room, with its pictures and furniture and simple ornaments, the feel of thecut-glass decanter, which was the same one that he had held in his handthat fatal night, the smell of the whiskey--all these elements wererapidly combining in those few moments to produce an effect partlymental and partly physical which might have more than justifiedErnshaw's sudden fear. 

"Ah, there are the mysterious guests, I suppose!" he said, putting thedecanter back into the case. "I suppose you don't happen to know whothey really are, Ernshaw?"

"My dear fellow, if I did I shouldn't tell you, " was the distinctlynon-committal reply. "I think it will be very much more interesting foryou to find out yourself. "

By this time Koda Bux, in his capacity of major-domo and generalfactotum to Sir Arthur, had opened the door, and at the same moment SirArthur himself came downstairs. Vane heard him say:

"Good evening, ladies; I am sorry that I have no hostess to receive you, but Mrs. Saunders, who helps Koda Bux to take care of me, will take youupstairs. "

Then there was a low murmur of a woman's voice, a rustle of skirts upthe stairs, and Sir Arthur went on:

"Now, Mr. Rayburn, if you will come with me I will show you where to putyour hat and coat and have a rinse if you like. "

"Thanks, Sir Arthur, " replied a voice which was strange to Vane. 

"And who might Mr. Rayburn be?" he said to Ernshaw. "I didn't know thegovernor knew anyone of that name. Still, from the sound of his voice heis a gentleman, and, I should say, a man. "

"I think when you meet him you will find him both, " said Ernshaw. 

"Ah, " laughed Vane, "I think I caught you out there. So you are in thisconspiracy of mystery, are you? Now, look here, Ernshaw, what is it allabout?"

"Guilty, but shan't tell, " replied his friend. "Now here comes SirArthur; perhaps he will tell. "

"Vane, " said Sir Arthur as the door opened, "this is Mr. Cecil Rayburn, and I want you to be very good friends; you will soon find out why. "

Vane looked up and saw a man apparently a year or two older thanhimself, about the same height and build, but harder and stronger, andpossessing that peculiar erectness of carriage and alertness of movementthat is owned only by those who have worked or fought, or done both, inthe outlands of the earth. But a glance at his face confirmed Vane inthe opinion he had formed when he heard his voice; he was undeniablyboth a gentleman and a man. He held out his hand and said:

"Good evening, Mr. Rayburn. Of course a friend of my father's has to bemy friend also. "

To his astonishment Cecil Rayburn made no movement to take his hand; onthe contrary he drew back half a pace and said with a note of somethinglike nervousness in his voice--a note which sounded strangely in thespeech of a man who had never known what fear was:

"Thank you, Mr. Maxwell; I hope we shall be friends, but I am afraid Ican't shake hands with you yet--I mean, I shouldn't like you to regretit afterwards. "

Before Vane had found any words to shape a reply, Sir Arthur said:

"Mr. Ernshaw, suppose we go into the drawing-room to receive the ladies, and leave these two to have it out. We shan't have dinner for half anhour, and I think they will manage to understand each other beforethen. "

CHAPTER XX. 

"Well, Mr. Rayburn, " said Vane, "this is a rather curious sort ofintroduction, but I see that you are--I mean that I am quite satisfiedthat you must have some very good reason for refusing to shake handswith me. You are the first man who has ever done so, and as you havecome here as my father's guest, I may presume that it is not a personalobjection. "

Vane could not help speaking formally; there was a strangeness about thesituation which forced him to do so. 

"That would be impossible, Mr. Maxwell, " replied the other, in a low, hesitating tone. "I knew that I should meet you here when I accepted SirArthur's invitation; in fact, we--I mean I came here on purpose to meetyou, and, to shorten matters, the reason why your father has left usalone, is that I have a very serious and I am afraid a very difficultconfession to make to you. "

"A confession!" said Vane, drawing himself up and looking Rayburnstraight in the eyes. "Do you wish me to hear it as a man, or a priest, because if I am to hear it as a priest, it would be better kept for amore suitable time and place?"

"I want you to hear it both as man and priest, " replied Rayburn, returning his look with perfect steadiness, "and I want you to hearit--and, in fact, unless we are to go away at once, you must hear itnow. "

"Very well, " said Vane, a dim suspicion of the truth beginning to stealinto his soul, "it is a little mysterious to me, but I daresay we shallsoon understand each other. "

He paused for a moment, and then, with a visible effort which madeRayburn love and honour him from that moment forth, he went on:

"And perhaps it would simplify matters for both of us if you began bytelling me who _we_ are?"

"Your sister, or rather your half-sister, " Rayburn began falteringly, and then stopped. 

He saw Vane wince and heard his teeth come together with a snap, and hesaw his hands clench up into fists and his face pale, already turnedashen grey white that denotes utter bloodlessness. It was the face of acorpse with living eyes that looked at him with an expression whichcould not be translated into human words. Rayburn had looked death inthe face many a time and laughed at it, but he didn't laugh now. As hesaid afterwards, he would have given anything to be a couple of milesaway from Vane just then. He didn't speak because he had nothing to say, his thoughts would not be translated into language, and so there wasnothing for it but to wait for Vane to speak. 

For a few moments more the two men faced each other in silence, yet eachreading the other's thoughts as accurately as though they had beentalking with perfect frankness. Then Vane spoke in a slow, hard, gratingvoice which none of the congregation of St. Chrysostom would haverecognised as that of the eloquent preacher of the Sermon on the Mount, to which Rayburn, who had heard that sermon, listened with a shock, which, as he told Carol later, sent a shiver through him from head tofoot. 

"Yes, Mr. Rayburn, I think I understand more fully now. My sisterCarol--she has come here with you to-night, and I suppose I am right inthinking that you were to some extent responsible, quite innocently nodoubt, for her disappearance about a year ago. Is that so?"

"Yes, " said Rayburn, "that's so, and that's why I wouldn't shake handswith you. I did take her away. She has been round the world with me, travelling with me as my wife, and she isn't my wife, and--well, that isabout all there is. "

"And why isn't she your wife?" exclaimed Vane, with an unreasoning burstof anger. Then, after a little pause, he went on in a tone that wasalmost humble. 

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Rayburn, that was a foolish thing to say, asmost things said in haste and anger are. You only did what any other manwith no ties and plenty of money would have done under thecircumstances. Forgive me! Only the hand of Providence itself saved mefrom committing, without knowledge, an infinitely greater sin thanyours. I suppose Carol has told you how I met her and what happened, and, of course, my father has told you about my getting out of the cabthat night at the top of the Gardens? No, no, I have nothing to forgive, nothing to say except, as Carol's brother, to ask you why you havebrought her here? That, at least, I think I am entitled to ask. "

"Maxwell, " replied Rayburn, pulling himself together as a man might doafter being badly beaten in a fight, "I have been in a good many badplaces in my lifetime, but this has been about the worst, and I'd adamned sight sooner--I beg your pardon, you know what I mean--I wouldvery much rather been talking to a South American Dago with a pistol atmy head, than having this talk with you, but it's got to be done. 

"You know, I suppose, or at any rate your father knows, how I met Caroland how we fixed it up to go away together. I admit, without anyreserve, that I did take her just as any man like myself, who had had apretty hard time for a few years and had come back with a ridiculoussuperfluity of money, would have taken such a girl under suchcircumstances; that is brutal, but at any rate, it is honest. Well, wewent round the world together, and it was only a fortnight ago--we'vebeen back three weeks now--that I found out who she was. "

"Not from her?" exclaimed Vane, with almost pitiful eagerness. 

"No, " replied Rayburn, "she would have died first. Over and over again Itried to get her to tell me who and what she was, because of course itwas perfectly easy to see--well, you know what I mean--but she wouldn't. It was the one confidence that she never gave me; in fact, when I wastrying to insist upon it, she told me if I opened the subject again, shewould leave me there and then, whatever happened to her. "

"Then how did you find out?" asked Vane, in the same dry, hard voice. "Imore than believe you when you say she would never have told you. "

"Through the merest accident, " replied Rayburn. "A day or two after welanded, we went to dinner at Verrey's, and we had hardly sat down beforea friend of hers, Miss Russell, came in--well--with a friend, as theysay. She came and spoke to Carol, and the four of us dined together. The next day Miss Russell came to see Carol, and you know, or perhapsyou don't know, that it was Miss Russell's friend who introduced me toCarol. I got hold of Miss Russell afterwards--she's as clean-hearted agirl as ever the Fates--however, you won't agree with me there perhaps, you don't believe in Fate, I do. But that's neither here nor there. Itold her what I am going to tell you, and she told me Carol's story, andthat is why I am here to-night. "

There was a good deal of meaning in the words, but for Vane there wasinfinitely more in Rayburn's voice and the half-shamed manner in whichhe spoke. Vane felt that if this talk went on much longer, the strainwould be too much for him to bear, for it was his sister, or at leastthe daughter of his own mother that this man was talking about. He putout his hand again and said:

"I think I know now, Mr. Rayburn, what you were going to say, and if Iam right, let me, her brother, say it for you and for her, you won'trefuse my hand this time, will you?"

"No, " said Rayburn, "I won't, and for the matter of that, " he went on astheir hands met, "I don't think there is much more for either of us tosay, except just for me to ask you one question. "

"Yes, " said Vane, "and what is that?"

"You are her brother and a priest. Will you take me for yourbrother-in-law and marry us?"

Their hands were still clasped; each was looking straight into theother's eyes, and the two faces, so different individually, and yet forthe moment so strangely alike, fronted each other in silence. Then Vanedropped Rayburn's hand, put his hands on his shoulders, and said:

"You cannot be lying, you haven't the mouth or the eyes of a man whotells lies. You have sinned, sinned deeply, for you have bought withyour money what should have no other price than lawful love; but lovehas come to you, and love has made lawful and right what was sinfulbefore. You told me at first that you wanted to confess to me both asman and priest. Very well, as man, as Carol's brother I forgive you, ifyou have done anything that I have to forgive, and as a priest of God Iwill marry you, and when you have taken the Sacrament of Matrimony frommy hands, as a priest, I will absolve you from your sin. It is amiracle----"

"Yes, " said Rayburn, "it is. I am not altogether of your way ofthinking, you know, but there, I am with you; it is a miracle in moreways than one. I know I am expressing myself horribly badly, but, to putit as shortly as I can, it is the sort of miracle that only a good, clean-souled, pure-hearted girl like Carol, could have worked upon afellow like myself. I tell you, Maxwell, honestly, that if she wouldn'thave me now, I'm damned if I know what I should do. She is everythingthat is good to me. I am worth nearly a couple of millions, and not acent of it would be worth anything to me if I lost her. And so youreally will marry us?"

"I will, " said Vane. "Thank God and you into whose heart He has put thissaving thought of righteousness. "

"Yes, " said Rayburn, "I see what you mean, but really, the credit isn'tmine at all, it is all Carol's. Do you know, Maxwell, that I am going tohave one of the most delightful wives man ever won? If I could only tellyou just exactly how I fell in love with her--but of course a man couldnever tell another man that, and after all it doesn't matter. I've gotthe one girl in the world I want----"

There was another little pause, and then Rayburn went on, speaking asshyly and hesitatingly as a schoolboy confessing a peccadillo:

"There's one other thing I should like to say, Maxwell, but I hardlyknow how to say it. "

He stopped again, and Vane said, smiling for the first time during theinterview:

"Then say it, as one man would say it to another. I think we understandeach other now. What is it?"

"Well, it's this, " replied Rayburn, flushing like a girl under the tanof his skin, "you know Carol and I met quite by chance, and I took heraway just as what she seemed to be. Then, after a month or two--you'llhardly believe me, but it is the Lord's own truth--I began to fall inlove with her, honestly I mean, and in quite a different way. Oneevening, it was in Japan, and we were coming back from a trip to Fuji. Icouldn't stand it any longer, I felt such a hopeless sweep, and I toldher. It was a queer sort of courtship, and it took me about six weeks tobring her round--and then at last--we were in the Rockies then--she gavein and confessed that she loved me in the same way that I loved her. Ikissed her. I could never tell you how different that kiss was from allthe others. "

"Of course it was, " said Vane, gently. "It was a pure one, a holy one, and God was very near you, Rayburn, in that moment. "

"I believe He was, " replied Rayburn, simply, "for from that moment, wewere both absolutely changed. Since that kiss, Carol has been as sacredto me as my own sister would be if I had one. That is what I wanted totell you. "

"And God bless you for telling me!" said Vane, solemnly. "If I had anydoubts before, I have none now. After that, knowing all I do, I wouldgive you the blessed Sacrament to-morrow. "

"On Sunday I hope you will give it to us both, " replied Rayburn. 

At that moment the door opened, and Sir Arthur came in. 

"Dinner is nearly ready, " he said. "Are you about ready for it? Ah, yes, I see, you understand each other, don't you?"

"Yes, Sir Arthur, " said Rayburn, swinging round with an almost militaryprecision of movement. "I've made my confession, and I am to receiveabsolution when the happiest moment of my life comes, and you know whenthat will be. "

"I think I do, " said Sir Arthur, with a look at Vane, who was staringvacantly down into the flower-filled fireplace. "Then you have settledit all between you, is that so, Vane?"

"Yes, with God's help, we have, " he replied, and then, with a swiftchange of tone and manner he went on: "and now as we have got our familyaffairs settled to a certain extent, I suppose we can go and join theladies. I am longing to see Carol again. "

"And so am I, " said Rayburn, "let us go. "

CHAPTER XXI. 

Rayburn went out first and Vane followed him, feeling, as he said tohimself afterwards, as though he was walking across the boundary betweenone world and another. He knew that Carol and Dora were in thedrawing-room. Dora he had never seen before. Carol he had not seen sincethe night of the University Boat Race. Ernshaw, with the memory of whathe had said in Vane's room at Oxford fresh in his mind, caught him bythe arm and said:

"Maxwell, I believe I am going to meet my fate to-night as you met yoursin another way. Was there ever such a complication in the life-affairsof little mortals like ourselves?"

"I don't know, " said Vane, "and I don't care, " gripping his arm hard asthey crossed the hall. "Wait, it may be the Providence that shapes ourends. "

"Rough-hew them as we will, " said Rayburn, looking backward. 

"Ah, well, since we understand each other, as I think we do now, _Voguela galère!_ And, Mr. Ernshaw, " he went on, "I have heard things andthings. I am not giving any confidences away, but by the same token youand I will soon be sailing in the same boat or something very likeit----"

"Oh, yes, " said Ernshaw, "I see what you mean!" Then he gripped his arma little harder before they went into the drawing-room. Vane went onwith his father, and Ernshaw said:

"Look here, Maxwell, you have passed your crisis, you and Rayburn, I'monly getting near mine. What am I to do, what can I do?"

"That I can't tell you. You see, to put it into the twentieth-centurylanguage, the Eternal Feminine is here, and you have got to reckon withher just as Rayburn has done. Come now, if you've made your mind up, goand meet your fate. "

As he said this Vane pushed the door of the drawing-room open. SirArthur and Rayburn had gone in just before him. 

"Carol!"

"Vane! and is it really you--you?"

"Yes, " he said, taking a few swift strides towards her and for the firsttime putting his arms round her. "Yes, dear, your brother. "

"Really brother, Vane? Do you truly mean it--will you really take me foryour sister now that you know everything--I mean all about Cecil andmyself?"

"Yes, Carol, and because I do know, because he as a man has told meeverything. I am going to marry you soon, and no man, no priest couldmarry his sister to his friend with more hope for happiness than I shallmarry you and Rayburn. "

He took hold of her left hand, and stretched out his hand to Rayburn andsaid:

"Come now, sister and brother, as you are going to be!"

He took their two hands and joined them. Over the two hands he claspedhis own, and looking swiftly from one to the other he said:

"Afterwards I will say the words that I cannot speak here. " And then, with a sudden change of tone and manner which came as a quick surpriseto both Carol and Rayburn, he went on:

"Rayburn, this is my sister. Carol, Rayburn tells me that he wants tomarry you, and I suppose----"

"You needn't suppose anything at all, Vane. I've said yes already. Ifyou and Sir Arthur will only say yes too----"

Vane drew back from her, and looked round toward Sir Arthur and Dora. Rayburn, having gone through the formalities of introduction whichVane's tact had made necessary, held out his hand and they shook hands. 

"It is rather unceremonious, Miss Maxwell, " he said, addressing her forthe first time by a name that was not her own, "but----"

"But, my dear Carol, you are forgetting that you are hostess to-night, "said Sir Arthur, "and I think there are two of our guests who have notbeen, as one would say in Society, properly introduced. "

"Oh, of course; I'm so sorry, " said Carol. "Dora, forgive me. I know youwill. I was too happy just now to think of anything else. Mr. Ernshaw, this is Dora. Dora, this is Mr. Ernshaw. I hope you will be very goodfriends. That's a rather unconventional way of introduction, I mustsay. "

As the last words left her laughing lips, and she was lookingexquisitely dainty and desirable in a quietly magnificent costume whichhad cost as much as many much advertised wedding dresses, Dora andErnshaw faced each other for the first time. She had seen him with Vaneat the ordination service in Worcester Cathedral, but they had never metbefore under the sanction of social acquaintance. 

She looked at him and he looked at her, and as their eyes met someimpulse in the soul of both made them hold out their hands as people donot usually do when they are introduced in ordinary drawing-room style. Ernshaw's went out straight. 

"Miss Russell, " he said, even while her hand was moving slowly towardshis. 

"My dear Mr. Ernshaw, whatever you have to say, I'm afraid I will haveto ask you to keep it just for a little, " said Sir Arthur, as the doorswung open. "Here is Koda Bux, and he does not allow me to be late fordinner; he has many virtues, but that is the best of them. Mr. Rayburn, you will take Carol in? Mr. Ernshaw, will you give your arm to MissRussell, and Vane and I will bring up the rear. "

"Dad, " said Vane, as he gripped his father's arm, "you have helped to doGod's work to-night; look at them!"

"You did more when you got out of the cab at the top of the gardenshere, " he whispered in reply. 

"I didn't do that, dad; she did. She knew, and I didn't. God bless her. "

"Amen, " said his father. "And now we will return to earth and go andeat. "

There were not many more delightful dinners eaten in London that nightthan what Cecil Rayburn called his betrothal feast. He and Carol nowunderstood each other thoroughly. Vane and his father also knew thecircumstances so far as they were concerned, and a little more. Ernshawand Dora, each knowing just a little more than the others did, began tomake friends fast, and therefore rapidly, but Dora was still_declassée_. Carol had already been lifted beyond the confines of thathalf-sphere which is inhabited by so many thousands of women who areneither maiden, wife, nor widow. Dora was still a dweller in it, knowingall its infamy and shame, and knowing, too, that awful necessity whichis so often at once the equivalent and the excuse for sin. 

Everyone took Sir Arthur's hint, and the conversation rattled on aroundthe table as lightly as it might have around any other dinner table inLondon. Carol and Sir Arthur and Rayburn had it mostly to themselves atfirst, but after a little the conversation grew more general. Dora andCarol engaged in a really brilliant discussion on the subject of Mrs. Lynn Linton's last book, with the result that Carol said that shewouldn't live for ever at any price, to which Dora replied with just asuspicion of a note of sadness in her voice. 

"Yes, Carol, I quite agree with you, or at least if I were you I shoulddo. "

"Which, " said Ernshaw, "is, I think, as nearly as possible the samething. Surely if one cannot agree with one's self----"

"No, Mr. Ernshaw, " said Dora, putting her elbows on the table and herchin between her hands. "No, I'm afraid I can hardly agree with youthere. After all, our worst enemies are those of our own household, bywhich of course I mean our immediate surroundings. It is this awfulnecessity to live, to eat and to have a place to sleep in. Of course youare thinking of what Talleyrand said to the young aristocrat who wantedto live for nothing. "

"Yes, " said Ernshaw, "I know that. He said he didn't see the necessity, and I am not altogether certain that he was wrong, but you----"

"Yes, I, " she replied in a tone that had a thrill of angry reproachrunning through it, "I, as you know, am--well--a superfluous woman, onewho isn't wanted, a sort of waste product of the factory that we callcivilisation. "

"I am afraid you people are getting far too serious in yourconversation, " said Carol from her end of the table opposite Sir Arthur. "No, Dora, I really can't allow it; social problems are not in the menuto-night, and you and Mr. Ernshaw will have to keep them for some othertime. Meanwhile, suppose we leave the rest for their smokes, and youcome with me and run through that song you are going to sing; we haven'ttried it together for quite a long time, as Mr. Rayburn said when wewere on the other side of the Atlantic. Come along. "

As she rose from her chair, Koda Bux, who had been standing immovablebehind his master, opened the door, and as Carol, daintily and yet mostplainly dressed, passed through, his sombre eyes lit up as though by aninspiration of long past days, and his teeth came together and he saidin his soul:

"It is the daughter of the Mem Sahib; what marvel is this! If there isvengeance to be done, may mine be the hand. Inshallah! I should diecontent, even if it was only a minute afterwards. He has his kismet, andI have mine. Allah will give it to me; but they may be the same. Oncethe roomal round his neck, and his breath would be already in his mouth. Dog and son of a dog, he would be better dead!"

It had been arranged that Carol and Dora should take up their abode withSir Arthur, so that Carol might be married from her father's house. Under the circumstances it was only natural that the wedding was to beabsolutely private, and it was already decided that immediately afterthe wedding Rayburn and Carol should leave for a month in Paris, andthen go on to Western Australia, where most of Rayburn's miningproperties were. He also owned one side of a street in Perth and acountry estate with a big bungalow-built house on the eastern hillsoverlooking the Swan River. 

The only difficulty appeared ahead to Sir Arthur was some mysteriousconnection with the Raleighs and the Garthornes. It was, of course, impossible that the wedding could take place without their knowledge, ifSir Arthur was to give Carol away as he intended to do, and yet themoment that Garthorne's name was mentioned Carol had turned white to thelips and a look of deadly fear had come into her eyes. 

"No, no, " she said, "not them, I can't tell you why, and you mustn't askme. You have been very good to me, and you are going to do more for methan ever was done to a girl like me before, but sooner than meet them Iwould run away again as I did from Melville Gardens. I would, really, but you must not ask me why; there are some things that cannot be told. "

After this Sir Arthur, finding it impossible to get any inkling of themystery from Carol, asked Dora if she could tell him the meaning of it, and she too turned white. She did not reply for a few moments, and thenshe said:

"No, Sir Arthur, I cannot tell you. All I can say is that Carol isperfectly right. It would be utterly impossible for her to meet eitherSir Reginald Garthorne or his son, and of course she could not meet Mrs. Garthorne without meeting her husband. There is a reason, and a verysolemn one, too, for this, but I can assure you, Sir Arthur----"

"That is enough, Miss Russell, " said Sir Arthur gravely. "I am perfectlysatisfied, and I have no right to ask for an explanation. The weddingshall be absolutely private; no one shall be asked except ourselves. Vane shall marry them early in the morning, we will come back here forlunch, and then they will go straight off to Paris. I will tell theGarthornes about it afterwards. "

"Yes, " said Dora, "I think that would be best. "

That night Carol and Dora had a talk in Carol's room. It was rather adiscussion perhaps than a conversation, and the question was whether SirArthur and Vane should be told the dreadful secret which Carol haddiscovered at Reginald Garthorne's wedding. Carol, clean-hearted andstraightforward as she was naturally, shrank in horror from such arevelation as this; but Dora, whose nature was deeper, and who had astronger religious bias, felt that at all hazards the truth should betold, horrible as it was. 

"That man Garthorne, " she said, "is a brute. I am perfectly certain thathe deliberately made your brother drunk that day at Oxford--I mean thathe took advantage of the weakness that you discovered to tempt him to goon drinking, so that he might get drunk on the most important morning ofhis life. He knew very well what he was doing. He knew if he could onlymake him drunk that morning, everything would be at an end between himand Miss Raleigh. "

"But, my dear Dora, suppose that is so, and I hope it isn't, " repliedCarol, "how on earth can you have found that out? Of course, if itreally is so, Vane and Sir Arthur ought to know of it, and, well, Isuppose of the other thing too, dreadful and all as it is, but----"

"I see what you mean, " said Dora, "and I will tell you why. In the firstplace, when we were at the flat, Bernard--I mean Mr. Falcon--told me oneor two things Mr. Garthorne had said to him when they were gettingconfidential over their whiskies, and I had a few minutes' talk withMr. Ernshaw this evening which--well, what Mr. Falcon told me and whathe said were the two and two that made four. I am afraid that is notvery grammatical, but it is true. Of course he wouldn't have told me ifI had not said something about it; but the moment he told me about yourbrother's collapse that morning the truth came to me like a flash. Reginald Garthorne is a scoundrel, and his father is worse, for he is ahypocrite as well as a scoundrel. He pretends to be Sir Arthur'sfriend--he has done so for years. He has allowed his son to steal Vane'slife-long love from him, knowing all that he himself did--and, well, no--I can't say the rest. "

"You mean, " said Carol quietly, and with a note of hardness in hervoice, "you mean that he is my father. It is very dreadful, isn't it?"

"Yes, Dora, it is, but you are not to blame after all; you didn't know, and of course we must admit that Mr. Garthorne didn't know so morally. You are both quite innocent there, but there is someone else just now. We've been friends and comrades now for a long time, tell me, dear, doesMr. Rayburn know?"

"I have told him everything, " replied Carol, with an effort which shecould not conceal, even from Dora. 

"Yes, everything, even the very worst. You know when, as he says, hefell in love with me and, as I told you, began to treat me altogetherdifferently, and then asked me to marry him, I said 'No. ' I felt that Icouldn't say 'Yes' honestly unless he knew everything. I had got veryfond of him, and I suppose that was the reason why. I felt that I had totell him the truth, and so I told him. Of course it wouldn't have beenthe straight thing to do anything else. If he had been like othermen----"

"But he isn't, " said Dora; "all men are not men, you know, and he's aman, and you are just about as lucky a girl as ever got a real man forher husband. Now I see what you mean. Yes, of course, it would be wickedto tell the truth just now. In a week you will be married and away toAustralia to live a new life in a new world. Then no one will know Mrs. Rayburn, the wife of the millionaire, except as Mrs. Rayburn, but afterthat vengeance must be done. "

"But why, Dora--why not let things stop just as they are? What is theuse of bringing all these things up again and making misery foreverybody?"

"Simply because the truth should be known, because a man who has doneanother the greatest possible injury should not be allowed to remain hisfriend even in appearance. The truth ought to be told, and it must betold. "

"Very well, " said Carol, "tell it, Dora, after I am gone. I have toldhim all the truth, but you know I am like a girl coming out of hell intoheaven. "

"And do you think that I would spoil your heaven?" said Dora. "No, youare too good for that. "

"I am not half so good as you, " said Carol. "I have only had infinitelymore good fortune than I deserve. "

"I don't think that, " replied Dora. "I have known you too long and toowell. I believe, after all, that everyone does get in this world justabout what they deserve if everything was understood, which of course itisn't; but I am quite certain about you. Good-night, Carol, and pleasantdreams--as of course they will be if you have any. "

"Good-night, Dora!" laughed Carol, with one of her swift changes ofmanner. "By the way, I have quite forgotten to ask you how you like Mr. Ernshaw?"

Dora looked at her straight in the eyes for a moment, her cheeks flushedever so slightly, and she said almost stiffly:

"I am afraid, Carol, you have begun to dream already. "

As the door closed Carol went and stood in front of the long mirror inthe wardrobe, and still smiling at herself, as well she might, she said:

"Well, it is all very wonderful, and part of it very terrible, and Icertainly have got a great deal more than I deserve. If Dora only getswhat she deserves it will make things a little more equal. Good-night--Mrs. Rayburn!"

CHAPTER XXII. 

On the following Sunday evening London had another theologicalsensation. The National Secular Society had advertised far and wide thatthe preacher of the famous sermon at St. Chrysostom had consented todeliver an address at the Hall of Science, and that the chair was to betaken by the President of the Society, who was one of the most eloquentand uncompromising exponents of free-thought and rationalism in theworld. 

Not only in the Anglican churches but also among Catholics andNonconformists a perfect tempest of indignation had burst forth duringthe past few days. A hurriedly summoned but crowded meeting was held atExeter Hall on the same night that Vane had welcomed Carol and her loverinto the family circle. It was mainly expressive of evangelical opinion, and was addressed with indignant eloquence by several of the principalLow Church and Nonconformist divines in London. Their principal themewas ritualism and atheism, with special reference to the connection thatappeared to exist between them in the person of the Rev. Vane Maxwell. 

To begin with, he had joined a confraternity of Anglican priests whosepractises were notoriously and admittedly illegal, and he had takenadvantage of his position in the pulpit to preach a sermon which hadsent a thrill of indignation through the hearts of all the most generoussupporters of Church and mission work throughout the United Kingdom andabroad. 

He had taken upon himself to put a brutally literal construction on thewords of Christ which it would be absolutely impossible to carry out inpractice unless the whole of Christendom were pauperised--and what, then, would become of the work of the churches, and, particularly, ofthose vast missionary movements which had spread the light ofChristianity in so many dark places of the earth? How would theycontinue to exist without the vast sums which Christians of wealth sogenerously contributed? What was to happen, even to the churches of alldenominations in England itself, if they accepted the preposterousdoctrine that a man could not enjoy the fruit of his own labour, orinherit that of his ancestors, and at the same time remain a Christian?It was totally out of the question, far beyond the bounds of allpractical common sense, and therefore it could not be Christian, since, if such a doctrine were true, Christianity would be impossible. 

And now, not content with preaching from a Christian pulpit a heresywhich, if accepted by Christians, would make Christianity a practicalimpossibility, this headstrong, unthinking visionary, reckless of allthe best traditions of his Church and his cloth, was going to address anassembly of infidels and atheists, and, as a minister of the Gospel, make friends with those who blasphemed the name of God every time theyused it, and did their utmost to destroy the edifice of Christianityand to uproot the foundations of the Christian faith. 

It was monstrous, it was horrible, and the general sense of thespeeches, and of the resolutions which were unanimously andenthusiastically carried at the end of the meeting, was that the man whocould preach heresy in a Christian pulpit, then, the next Sunday, associate himself deliberately with infidels and atheists, was notworthy to remain within the fold of the Christian Ministry. 

Of course, the speeches were duly reported in the papers the nextmorning with, in some cases, a considerable amount of editorialembroidery, and nowhere were they read with greater interest than at thebreakfast-table of Sir Arthur's house in Warwick Gardens, especially as, side by side with them, came the announcement that another meeting ofprotest was to be held at St. James's Hall on the Saturday evening, under the auspices of a committee of members of the English ChurchUnion. The chair was to be taken by Canon Thornton-Moore, and several ofthe leading lights of High Anglicanism were to speak. 

"What a very wicked person you must be, Vane, " said Carol, who hadswiftly skimmed through some of the speeches and the comments on them. "The Low Church people seem to have excommunicated you altogether, andnow the High Church are going to do it. Why don't you go to this meetingto-night and give them a bit of your mind? I believe they are allfrightened of you and your new doctrines, and that is why they aremaking such a fuss about it. "

"My doctrines are not new, Carol, " replied Vane, with a smile whichseemed to her very gentle and sweet. "They are just as old asChristianity itself, and they are not mine, but the Master's. No, Idon't think I shall go to the meeting. I am afraid there will be quitetrouble enough without me, and, besides, personal controversy seldomdoes any good at all. I only hope, indeed, that these good people willkeep away from the Hall of Science on Sunday night. It is the greatestof pities that it was made public. I simply wanted to have a quiet talkwith the usual audience. "

"I am afraid you won't have many more quiet talks with any audiencesnow, Vane, " laughed Sir Arthur. "This sudden jump that you have madeinto fame has made it impossible. You will have to pay the usual penaltyof greatness. "

"It appears, " said Carol, "in this case, to be mostly abuse andmisunderstanding. "

"I don't think there is much misunderstanding, Carol, " said Dora. "Itseems to me to be quite the other way about. These people understand Mr. Maxwell only too well for their own comfort. They see quite plainly thatif he is right, as, of course, he is, wealth and real Christianitycannot go together; therefore, equally, of course, fat livings andbishoprics and archbishoprics at ten and fifteen thousand a year willalso be impossible. It may be very wicked to say so, but I think a lotof these good people are worrying themselves much more about salariesand endowments and that sort of thing than real Christianity. "

"Of course they are, " said Carol. "I wonder how many of them will dowhat Vane has done, give up everything he had----"

"My dear Carol, " interrupted Vane, gently, "that is not quite the point. You must remember that these men have their opinions just as I havemine, and they may not think it their duty to do that. I do not believethat it is right for a man to be a priest of the Church and possess morethan the actual necessaries of life. They believe that it is right. "

"And a very convenient belief, too!" said Carol, with a look ofadmiration. "Well, I am not as charitable as you are, and I don'tbelieve that they do believe it. Now, there's Cecil and the carriage. Dear me! how very punctual he is. "

"There's not much to wonder at in that, " said Sir Arthur. "Well, now, Isuppose you young ladies are going to have a morning in Paradise--theone that is bounded by Oxford Street on the north and Piccadilly on thesouth. Vane, we will go and have a cigar with Mr. Rayburn while they aregetting ready. "

The meeting at St. James's Hall was much less crowded, and, as somethought, much more decorous than the one at Exeter Hall. CanonThornton-Moore, a man of stately presence, high social standing and veryconsiderable wealth--he had married the daughter of one of the mostsuccessful operators in the Kaffir Circus--made an ideal chairman. Hewas a High Churchman and the son of a Bishop. He was the incarnation ofthe most aristocratic section of the Anglican Church. He was supportedby the presence of a Duke and two High Church peers on the platform, andhalf a dozen vicars and curates, all eloquent preachers and fashionableexponents of ritualistic doctrine, were announced to speak in advocacyof the protest which the meeting had been called to make. 

The proceedings were very quiet and dignified--and very churchy. It wasthe Church from beginning to end; it never seemed to strike either thespeakers or the audience that there was anything that might fairly becalled Christianity outside the Church. In fact, the words Christ andChristianity were not used at all from the platform. 

The only approach to unseemliness occurred when, in response to a formalintimation that "discussion within reasonable limits" would bepermitted, one of the Kilburn Sisters, a woman who had given up afortune and relinquished a title, got up and asked the chairmanpoint-blank what _his_ interpretation of the Sermon on the Mount was, and further, if any of the noble and reverend gentlemen on the platformcould give a better exposition of it as a rule of Christian life thanVane Maxwell had done?

She had hardly uttered her question before murmurs of angry protestbegan to run from lip to lip through the hall; but when she went on toask why the preacher of the now famous sermon should be denounced by hisfellow priests for giving an address to free-thinkers in a free-thoughthall, when Christ himself, for his own good purposes, associated himselfwith publicans and sinners and thought none too low or too utterly lostto take by the hand, her voice was at once drowned by a chorus of "Oh!Oh's!" amidst which the chairman rose and said in his most dignifiedmanner:

"I hope that I have the sense and feeling of the meeting with me when Isay that the questions asked by our most respected sister seem to havebeen asked under a total misconception of the circumstances. It isobvious that they raise issues which could not possibly be discussed insuch a place, and on such an occasion as this. I would remind our dearfriend that this edifice is not a church, and this platform not apulpit; and that, therefore, I do not feel myself justified, even iftime and other circumstances permitted, to enter upon a doctrinalsubject which involves so many far-reaching considerations as this onedoes. "

The Canon sat down amidst a many-voiced murmur of approval, and the Dukesaid audibly to him:

"A very proper way, my dear Canon, of dealing with a most improperquestion. The dear lady seems to think that we are not capable ofreading our Bibles for ourselves. "

After that the chairman put to the meeting the resolution of protest tothe effect that if the Reverend Vane Maxwell persisted in carrying outhis intention to proceed from a pulpit of the church to the platform ofan infidel lecture hall, he would make it the painful duty of hiscanonical superiors to take his conduct into most serious consideration, and, further, should he persist in this deplorable resolution, he wouldarouse the gravest suspicions in the minds of all loyal churchmen as tohis fitness for dispensing the sacred functions of his office. 

The Kilburn Sister and a few others walked out amidst a chillingsilence, and under a silent fire of glances which ought to have madethem feel very uncomfortable. Perhaps it did. 

The resolution was put and passed without a dissentient voice, and whenthe proceedings were over and Lady Canore, who had been one of the mostenergetic organisers of the meeting, got back into her carriage, shesaid to her husband:

"I think the dear Canon's reply was most dignified and proper. Thatwoman ought to be ashamed of herself--and a Kilburn Sister, too! Donald, I shall certainly go and hear what this Mr. Maxwell has to say tothese--ah--these people at, where is it? the Hall of what? Oh, yes!Science, and you must manage to get a seat. I believe you pay for themjust as you do in a theatre. It is, of course, very shocking, but Ithink it will be most interesting. "

A good many other members of the audience said practically the samething in other ways, and so it came about that the Hall in Old Streetwas packed as it had not been since the most famous days of CharlesBradlaugh, and packed, too, with a most strangely assorted audience ofdemocrats and aristocrats, socialists and landowners, freethinkers ofthe deistic, the atheistic, and the agnostic persuasions, and Christiansof even more varying shades of opinion, from the most rigidlyCalvinistic evangelical, to the most artistically emotional of the HighAnglican cult. 

The President rose amidst the usual applause, but it hushed the momenthe began to speak, in clear incisive tones which sent every syllabledistinctly from end to end of the hall:

"Friends, I intend to say very little, because we are going to hearto-night what we very seldom hear in a secular lecture-hall. We aregoing to hear an address which you are waiting for as eagerly as I am, an address delivered by a man who, as a Priest of the Church of England, last Sunday sent a thrill of astonishment, of amazement, I might almostsay of horror, through Christian England. "

A burst of applause, coming chiefly from the back of the hall, interrupted the speaker, but he put his hand up, and went on:

"No, please! I must ask you not to applaud. For one thing, there is nottime for it. Just let me get my say said, and then, when Mr. Maxwellgives us the message he has brought us from what we are, perhaps, tooready to believe the enemy's camp, applaud him as much as you like. WhatI want to do now is to say as far as possible without offence, andwithout hurting the feelings of the many members of Christian churcheswho have come amongst us to-night, that it is to be our privilege tolisten here in what has been recently called the head-quarters ofinfidelity--an insulting epithet which I, with you and all truerationalists indignantly repudiate--a man, a Christian clergyman, apriest of the Church of England who has, as you already know, raised ahurricane of criticism throughout this Christian country by daring totell Christians just what Jesus of Nazareth meant--if plain words meananything--when he preached the Sermon on the Mount. He has dared to sayfrom a Christian pulpit what we have been saying from these platforms ofours ever since we had them--that Christendom is not Christian, and thatit cannot be so until it is prepared to be honest with itself and itsGod. 

"Mr. Maxwell has come amongst us to-night with other thoughts, otherfaiths, other beliefs than ours, but from what I see of the audience hewill not speak to freethinkers only. I believe that there are moreprofessing Christians in this hall to-night than there ever have beenbefore. Let us remember that. It may be that Mr. Maxwell will teach ussome lessons as unpalatable as those which he taught from the pulpit ofSt. Chrysostom; but do not let us forget this that we shall be listeningto a man who is a missionary in the best sense of the word, a man whohas justified his faith by the sacrifice of his worldly prospects, andwho has taken upon himself a task infinitely more difficult, infinitelymore thankless than that of the missionary who, as we believe, carriesat an immense expense of money which could be better spent in thecharity that begins at home, a message of salvation, as he no doubthonestly believes it to be, to savages who cannot understand it, or tothe people who were civilized when we were savages, and who don't wantit and won't have it. 

"Mr. Maxwell has taken upon himself, if I may say so without offence, afar nobler mission than this, a greater task, if possible, than that ofthe noble men and women of all creeds, and no creed, who minister to thewants of our own savages, by which I mean those who have been kept in astate of savagery infinitely worse than that of the negro slave ofseventy years ago, by the necessities of the civilization which is nomore Christian than it is humane. 

"Mr. Maxwell, by preaching that one famous sermon of his, hasconstituted himself a missionary to the rich, to those who profess andcall themselves Christians, and yet are content to live utterly andhopelessly unchristian lives. Friends, the man beside me has begun tomake himself the Savonarola of the twentieth century. Whether his creedis ours or not, we must all agree that that sermon of his is thebeginning of a great and noble work. He told his wealthy and fashionablehearers last Sunday that they could not be Christians unless they werehonest with God and their fellow men. As regards the first part, some ofus have different beliefs to his, but as regards the second, we are withhim heart and soul. If he can teach us to be honest with ourselves andeach other, he will have done more to conquer sin and vice, more to makeearth that human paradise that the poets and dreamers and prophets ofall ages have longed for and foretold, than all the churches and all thecreeds have done for the last two thousand years. It is a godly becauseit is a goodly work, and--if there is a God--that God will bless him andhelp him in it. "

CHAPTER XXIII. 

As the President sat down and Vane rose to his feet, quite a tumult ofmingled applause, "hear, hears, " hissings and hootings rose up from thestrangely assorted audience. 

Vane faced the half-delighted, half-angry throng with the perfectsteadiness of a man who has decided upon a certain course and means topursue it at all hazards. Curiosity reduced one portion of the audienceto silence, and a respectful anticipation the other. In the sea of facesbefore him, Vane recognised several that were familiar to him. Hisfather, Carol, Dora, Ernshaw and Rayburn were there as a matter ofcourse. Several clerics, high and low, Anglican and Nonconformist, weredotted about the audience, some with folded arms and frowning brows asthough they were expecting the worst of heresies, others smiling inbland and undisguised contempt, believing that they had come to see oneof their own cloth, who had already made himself an even moredisagreeable subject of reflection to them than even the infidels inwhose house the magic of Vane's sudden fame had brought them together, do that which would make it impossible for him to again commit such anoffence in the pulpit of an English church. 

For a moment or two there was a hush of intense silence of mentalsuspense and expectation as Vane faced his audience and looked steadilyabout him before he began to speak, and when he did begin, the silencechanged to an almost inaudible murmur and movement which is always thesign of relaxed tension among a large body of human beings. 

His first words were as unconventional as they were unexpected. 

"Brother men and sister women; some of you, like myself, believe in God, in the existence of an all-wise, over-ruling Providence, which shapesthe destinies of mankind, and yet at the same time allows each man andwoman to work out his or her own earthly destinies for good or ill, ashe or she chooses--by reason or desire, by inclination or passion--andwe also believe in the efficacy of the sacrifice which was consummatedon Calvary. There are others listening to me now to whom these beliefsare merely idle dreams, the inventions of enthusiasts, or the deliberatefrauds of those who brought them into being and imposed them by physicalforce upon those who had no means of resistance, for their own personaland political ends. 

"I have not come here to make any attempt to settle these differencesbetween us. As a priest of the Church, I wish, with all my soul, that Icould. As a man, I know that I can't. But there is one ground at leastupon which we can meet as friends, whatever our opinions may be asregards religion and theology--two terms which, I think every one herewill agree with me, are very far from meaning the same thing. "

"As a priest of the Church, I cannot hear that without protest!" cried atall, high-browed, thin-featured, deep-eyed clergyman, springing to hisfeet in the middle of the hall. "If theology, the Science of God, doesnot mean the same thing as religion, the word religion has no meaning. More dangerous, I had almost said more disgraceful, words never fellfrom the lips of a man calling himself a priest of the Church of God. "

The last sentence was spoken in a high, shrill voice, which rose abovethe angry murmurs which came from all parts of the hall, but these Vanesilenced in a moment, by holding up his hand and smiling as some of theaudience had never seen a man smile before. 

"I am glad, " he went on, in slow, very distinct tones, "that such anobjection has been raised so early by a brother priest. It will help usto understand each other more clearly, and so I will try to answer himat once. The difference between religion and theology is the differencebetween the whole and the part; but theology is not a science, for thereis no science of the Infinite. It is only the study of the manydifferent conceptions which men of all nations and races have formed asto the nature of the over-ruling Power of the universes--of all theattempts to solve the insoluble and to answer the unanswerable. 

"There are two sayings, one Arabian and one Italian, which I hope I mayquote without offence. One is, 'God gives us the outline of the picture, we fill it in. We cannot change the outline, but we are responsible forevery stroke of the brush. In the end God judges the picture. '

"The other was the saying of a famous Italian artist, 'Children andfools should not see work half done. '

"Now let us grant for the sake of argument that there is a Creator, andtherefore a scheme of creation. How much can we, dwellers upon a worldwhich is but as a grain of sand washed hither and thither by thetide-flow of the ocean of Infinity, know about the workings of the Willin obedience to which, as some of us believe, that tide ebbs and flowsthrough the uncounted ages of Eternity, and over the measureless expanseof Infinity? Faced with such a colossal problem as this, must we not allconfess ourselves to be but as children and fools, since we do not andcannot see even half of the work, but only an immeasurably tiny fragmentof it? For this reason I feel justified in saying that those who denythe existence of the Divine Architect of the universe and those whoclaim to know all about His plans, are, at least, equally mistaken. 

"But that, although I have been glad of the opportunity of saying it, isnot quite what I came here to say, and, therefore, we will drop thatpart of the subject. Last Sunday I preached a sermon which--I say itboth with wonder and gladness--has produced a very much wider and deepereffect than I could have hoped it would do. That was a sermon preachedin a Christian church to a congregation, which, at least, professed andcalled itself Christian. To-night I am going to ask you to listen to asecular sermon preached from the same text. It will be very brief, because I know that you have a custom, and a very good one, of followingdiscourses with discussion, and as I am going to raise a few distinctlycontroversial subjects, I want to leave plenty of our available timeover for the discussion. 

"The theme of my sermon last Sunday at St. Chrysostom's may be summed upin one word--Honesty. The essence of the Sermon on the Mount is justhonesty. I suppose everyone here has read it, and therefore you willremember that from beginning to end there is not a word of dogma in it. In other words it is absolutely untheological. Perhaps this fact, a veryimportant one, has never struck some of you before. When the Masterpreached that sermon, he, as I believe, deliberately left out everyreference to dogma or doctrine, creed or church, so that men, whatevertheir belief, their nation or their race, could equally accept it as auniversal rule of life and conduct. 

"Some of us here believe in miracles, some do not. I do, and, sobelieving, I think that the Sermon on the Mount is the greatest of allmiracles. It is a greater thing to preach a doctrine to which all honestmen, coming whithersoever they may from the ends of the earth, will andmust subscribe if they _are_ honest--a doctrine which is true for alltime and for all men, than to cleanse the leper or to raise the dead tolife. 

"I will ask you to let me put this point in another way, and in acertainly more attractive form. Let me read you the expression of thisuniversal truth in the words of two English poets separated from eachother by more than two hundred years of time and many mountain ridgesand deep valleys of changing thought and opinion:

 "Father of all! in every age, In every clime adored, By saint, by savage, and by sage, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!

 "Thou great First Cause, least understood, Who all my sense confined To know but this, that Thou art good, And that myself am blind. 

 "Yet gave me, in this dark estate, To see the good from ill; And, binding nature fast in fate, Left free the human will. 

"Those lines are from Pope's immortal poem 'The Universal Prayer'; theseare from Rudyard Kipling's 'Hymn Before Action. '

 "High lust and froward bearing, Proud heart, rebellious brow-- Deaf ear and soul uncaring, We seek Thy mercy now! The sinner that forswore Thee, The fool that passed Thee by, Our times are known before Thee-- Lord, grant us strength to die!

 "For those who kneel beside us At altars not Thine own, Who lack the lights that guide us, Lord, let their faith atone! If wrong we did to call them, By honour bound they came; Let not Thy wrath befall them, But deal to us the blame!

"Those, perhaps, are the most solemn and deep-meaning words that havebeen written or spoken since Jesus of Nazareth preached the Sermon onthe Mount, and the inner sense, as I read it, is the same. In life, indeath, be honest with yourself, with your brother-man and yoursister-woman, and with your God if you believe in one. 

"Last Sunday in the pulpit I quoted the words of Colonel Ingersoll, 'Godcannot afford to damn an honest man. ' That phrase has always seemed tome a marvellous mixture of blasphemy, ignorance, and sound common sense. From my point of view it is blasphemous, because it is the utterance ofthe atom trying to understand the universe. It is ignorant, because itis impossible for that human atom who uttered it to form any adequateconception of the infinitely great whole of which he was an infinitelysmall part. And yet, humanly speaking, it is the soundest and hardest ofcommon sense. If God is honest He must respect honesty, no matterwhether it is the honesty of belief, or of disbelief, always supposingthat the belief and the disbelief _are_ honest. 

"The man who calls himself a Christian and does not conduct his dailylife in accordance with the precepts of the Sermon on the Mount, is oneof two things--a fool who cannot understand the meaning of plain words, or a knave, who, for many reasons, which most of my hearers willunderstand, pretends to be that which he is not. I may remind you herethat knavery is not by any means confined to the limits of what isconventionally termed criminality. For every crime that puts a man or awoman into prison, there are a hundred others committed in every-daylife with absolute impunity, and yet they are just as serious, and theymerit a similar if not a heavier punishment than those which the lawpunishes with social degradation and the miseries of penal servitude. 

"I wonder whether it has occurred to any of you who are listening to menow--whether you are Christians, professed or real, atheists oragnostics--to ask yourselves if, under the present conditions of what weare pleased to call civilization, an honest world would be possible, andthat, I may say, is just the same thing as asking whether Christians canor cannot live their lives in accordance with the teachings of Him whowent about doing good? Of course we all call ourselves honest, and someof us really believe that we are. At any rate, most of us would feelvery much insulted if any one else told us that we were not. But arewe? Let us put our pride in our pockets for a moment and try to answerthat pregnant question. Honesty, like many other terms, of whichimmorality is one, has, through its conventional use, acquired a veryrestricted and therefore a quite unreal meaning. We have, by somevicious process of thought, got accustomed to call a man or a woman whotransgresses the social law in a certain direction immoral, and in thesame way we have come to apply the word dishonesty to practices whichmean stealing or the attempt to steal property of a concrete form. 

"But I think you will all agree with me that both these words have cometo be used in a sense which is so narrow, that it destroys theiroriginal meaning. For every man or woman who transgresses the social lawand is therefore called immoral--of course after being found out--thereare a hundred or more who break the moral law every hour of their wakinglives. All of you, no doubt, possess bibles. Read the 27th and 28thverses of the fifth chapter of the Gospel according to Matthew, and youwill understand what I mean. 

"But there is another immorality than this, and, as I believe, a greaterimmorality, for this, so far as it concerns our sister women, is oftennot immorality at all. It is the surrender of a feeble nature to apitiless necessity, the necessity to live, the only alternative, in toomany cases, to self-murder. There is another immorality infinitely worsethan this, which when, as we Christians believe, the hosts of men areranged before the Bar of Eternal Justice will spell damnation, hopelessand irrevocable, and that is the immorality which means a dishonestythat deliberately deceives--not always for the purpose of gain, for thiskind of dishonesty is generally practised by those whom, to put itplainly, it would not pay to steal. 

"A French philosopher once said that there is that within the heart ofevery man which, if known, would make his dearest friend hate him. That, I am afraid, is true, not only of men but of women. It is not the faultof the men or the women; it is due simply to artificial conditions oflife and to the individual ignorance and stupidity which make reformimpossible. Until what we call civilised and Christian Society can makeup its mind to conduct its personal, its national, and its internationalaffairs on the broad and simple lines laid down in the Sermon on theMount, no man can afford to be quite honest. In other words, ifChristendom would be really Christian, it would also be honest; honestwith itself and with its God, with the God whom it now only pretends toworship, saying loudly, 'Lord, Lord, ' and doing not the things which Hesaith!

"It would not matter--and this I say with all reverence and with a fullsense of my responsibilities as a Priest of the Church--it would notmatter whether Society called itself Christian or not, as long as it washonest. "

"That is absolute atheism and blasphemy!" exclaimed a well-knownNonconformist preacher, springing up and holding his hands out towardsthe platform. "The man who could speak those words cannot be either aChristian or a minister of the Gospel. I call upon the speaker to behonest now, honest with himself and us, and confess that he is not aChristian, and therefore unworthy to be a preacher of any Christiancreed. "

A storm of mingled expressions of approval and assent burst out fromevery part of the crowded hall. Vane stood immovable and listened to itwith a smile hovering round his lips. The President rose at once andsaid:

"I must remind the reverend gentleman who has made this interruption--aninterruption which, if made in a church or a chapel, would render himliable to imprisonment--is entirely out of order. We welcome discussion, but it must come in its proper place. We cannot tolerate interruption, and we won't. "

The rebuke was too just and too pointed not to be felt, even by thebigot who had deserved it. He sat down, and when the thunder of applausewhich greeted the President's brief but pregnant interlude had diedaway, Vane went on without a trace of emotion in his voice:

"I cannot say that I am sorry that that interruption was made, becauseit makes it possible for me to ask whether there is really anydifference between Christianity and honesty?"

Again he was interrupted, this time by half the audience getting on toits feet and cheering. The other portion sat still, and the units of itbegan to look at each other very seriously. Vane was, in fact, bringingthe matter down to a most uncomfortably fine point. He made a slightmotion with his hand, and his hearers, having already recognised thetrue missionary, or bringer of messages to the souls of men, instantlybecame silent and expectant. 

"If Christianity is not honest, or if honesty is not, for all practicalpurposes, the same thing as Christianity, then so much the worse forChristianity or for honesty as the case may be. A religion which is nothonest is not a religion. Honesty which is not a religion--that is tosay a tie between man and man--is not honest. That, I think, is adilemma from which there is no escape. "

There was another burst of applause, this time almost universal, whichthe President did not attempt to check. A few members of the audiencelooked even more uncomfortable than before, but by the time Vane wasable to make himself heard again it was quite plain that the greatmajority of his audience, believers and unbelievers, were heart and soulwith him. 

"That, " he went on, with a laughing note in his voice, "shows me that wehave got on to friendly territory at last, on to the ground of ourcommon humanity. I said just now, before my friend in the audiencediverted my attention to another and very important point, most of uswould feel very much insulted if anyone told us that we were not honest. We should jump to the conclusion that such a statement was the samething as calling us thieves or swindlers; but that is not the question. Honesty is not by any means confined to commercial dealings. It has asocial meaning and a very far reaching one too, for, as a matter offact, the man or woman who deceives another in the smallest detail oflife is not strictly honest, because it is impossible to be strictlyhonest without at the same time being strictly truthful. 

"It has been said that half the truth is worse than a lie. It is, Ithink, a greater sin to tell half the truth than a deliberate andcomprehensive lie, for it is possible to tell a lie with an honest, ifmistaken purpose; and yet the business of the modern world is mainlyconducted by half-truths. Everyone tries to deceive the person he isdoing business with to some extent. It is not altogether his fault, forhe knows that if he didn't do so, the other man would deceive him, andso get the better of the bargain. That is the way of the world, as it iscalled, and a very bad way, and, as we believe, a very unchristian wayit is. 

"Still, it is impossible to blame the trader and the man of commerce forthis. The real fault, the real sin, is not individual, it iscollective--the guilt properly belongs to Society. Men do not descend tothese mean subterfuges and these despicable trickeries merely to makemoney, to pile on hundreds on hundreds and thousands on thousands. Intheir hearts all the best of them despise the methods by which they areforced to earn their incomes and make their fortunes; but the penaltieswhich the laws of Society place on honesty are so tremendous that areally honest man will deliberately sacrifice his own honour rather thanincur them. That is a very serious thing to say, and yet it is theliteral truth, and the most pitiable part of the matter is that hecommits these sins of unscrupulousness and dishonesty chiefly for thesake of his wife and children. The social penalties of honesty wouldfall most heavily on them. Their houses and their luxurious furniture, their carriages and their horses, their costly clothing and preciousjewels would be theirs no longer; in a word, they would become poor, andSociety has no place for people if they are poor, whatever else they maybe. 

"To put the question in another way, a tiger seeking for its prey andslaying it ruthlessly when it has found it is not a pleasant subject forcontemplation, but before we blame the tiger we must remember thatsomewhere at home in the jungle there is a Mrs. Tiger and some littletigers who have to be fed somehow. The tiger's methods of killing forfood are merciful in comparison with the methods of many men who alreadypossess enough to give the ordinary comforts of decent life to those whoare depending upon them, and yet go on deceiving and swindling, fordeception in commerce is swindling, in order to obtain thosesuperfluities of life which are absolutely necessary to keep up what iscalled position in Society. 

"I do not say that wealth and comfort would be impossible in an honestworld; there is no reason why they should be, but they would be gainedin greater moderation and by different methods. For instance, if Societycould and would change its standards of honesty and morality, the forceof public opinion would soon make crime impossible, save among thementally and morally diseased, who would, of course, be treated in thesame merciful but relentless fashion as we now treat what we call ourcriminal lunatics. 

"It will of course be quite impossible for me to treat this vast subjectin anything like detail in a single address, and therefore I shallcontent myself with having thrown out these few suggestions, and leavethe development of it to those who will, I hope, take part in thediscussion. 

"But one word more in conclusion. Your President has called me amissionary, a missionary to the rich. That is the mission which I havetaken on myself, and therefore I gladly accept the title, all the moregladly because it comes from one who, while he differs from meabsolutely on every theological point which I believe essential tosalvation, has proved his faith by giving me that title and by utteringa prayer which has, I hope, already been heard by Him to whom all heartsare open, and from whom no secrets are hid. "

When Vane sat down there burst out a storm of applause, through whichnot a few hisses, mostly from clerical lips, pierced shrilly. Yet, fewand simple as his words had been, it was quite evident that they hadgone straight to the hearts of the majority of his audience. 

The President rose when the applause subsided, and, after a briefspeech, in which he frankly admitted that if all teachers of theChristian faith were like Vane Maxwell, and if there were no other sortof Christianity than his, there would be very little of what too manyChristians call infidelity in the world, gave the usual notice that themeeting was now open for discussion. 

Then the storm burst over Vane's devoted head. By a sort of tacitagreement the Secularists left the attack to the clergy. As a matter offact they had practically no cause for dispute with Vane. On thecontrary they delighted in the frankness of his expression of hisbelief, and the uncompromising fashion in which he had denounced andrepudiated that unchristian form of Christianity which, as the Presidenthad put it, was responsible through its hypocrisy and double-dealingwith God and man for all the honest unbelief, and all the scoffing andscepticism, which it pretended to deplore. So the Secularists sat stilland silent, enjoying hugely the series of bitter attacks that were madeon Vane by cleric after cleric, Anglican and Nonconformist, for close ona couple of hours. Vane took it all very quietly, now smiling and nowlooking grave almost to sadness, and when the last speaker had exhaustedhis passion and his eloquence, and the President asked him to reply, hegot up and said in slow but grave and very clear tones:

"I have no reply to make to what I have heard, save to say that I haveheard with infinite sorrow from the lips of clergymen of everydenomination and shade of opinion a series of statements which not oneof them could justify from the teachings of Him who preached the Sermonon the Mount. There is no other criterion of Christian faith anddoctrine than is to be found in the New Testament, and from the firstverse in the Gospel according to St. Matthew to the last in Revelationsthere is not one word which contradicts what I have spoken, or whichsupports what they have said. 

"That is a serious thing to say, but I say it with full knowledge andwith perfect faith. I mean no personal offence. That would of course beimpossible under the circumstances; but it is also quite impossible forme, after saying what I have said here and elsewhere, to argue seriouslywith those who are by profession teachers and preachers of therevelation of Jesus Christ--of the message of God to man by Godincarnate in the flesh--and who are yet able to reconcile in their ownsouls the sayings of Jesus of Nazareth and the doings of twentiethcentury Christianity. We have heard the words infidel and infidelityused many times to-night. There is no infidelity in honest unbelief;and, sorrowfully as I say it, I still feel it my duty to say it, thatthere is more real infidelity inside the churches than there is outside, for the worst and most damnable of all infidelities is that which sayswith its lips 'Lord, Lord, ' and does not with its heart and its hands dothat which He saith. "

There was a little silence, a silence of astonishment on the one part ofthe audience and of absolute stupefaction on the part of the other. Thenthe storm of applause broke out once more, but there was no hissingmingled with it this time. About a score of black-clad figures rose paleand silent amidst the cheering throng and walked out. Their example wasfollowed by most of the West End Christians, including her ladyship ofCanore and her husband and daughters, whose curiosity had been more thanamply satisfied. The cheers changed from enthusiasm to irony as theirregular procession moved towards the doors, and an irreverentSecularist at the back of the hall jumped on his seat and shouted, withan unmistakable Old Street accent:

"Got a bit more than you came for, eh? Hope you've enjoyed your lordlyselves. Don't forget to say your prayers to-night. You want a lot ofconverting before _you'll_ be Christians. I've 'alf a mind to put up onefor you to-night myself, blowed if I 'aven't. "

Then the applause changed to laughter, hearty and good-humoured, andwhen the President had proposed the usual vote of thanks to thelecturer, and Vane had accepted his invitation to give a series ofaddresses at the halls of the Society throughout the country, the mostmemorable meeting on record at the Hall of Science came to an end. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

The next Sunday, Vane, the Mayfair Missionary, as one of the eveningpapers had called him, preached at St. Chrysostom, and took for histext:

 "Art thou a master of Israel and knowest not these things. "

During the week, the storm of indignation against him had been growingboth in strength and violence, and a movement was already on foot toarraign him before the Ecclesiastical Courts on charges of heresy andunbelief, and of bringing the priesthood into contempt by publiclyassociating himself as a priest with the avowed enemies of the Church. 

The church was, of course, crowded, but the congregation was composed ofvery different elements from those which had made up his congregation afortnight before. There were many of its richest members there, but theydid not come in their carriages. Many others had come in trains or'busses, or had walked from Mile End and Bethnal Green to hear the wordsof the new prophet; and scores of these had not seen the inside of achurch for years, or ever dreamt of listening with anything like respectto a sermon from a Christian pulpit, yet none were more respectful andattentive than these infidels and heretics whose respectful attentionand new-awakened reverence were the first fruits of Vane's missionharvest. 

His sermon was a direct and uncompromising reply to the challenge toprove that he was worthy to wear the cloth of the priesthood, and whenit was over, his hearers, the believers and unbelievers alike, had beendriven to the conviction, unpleasant as it was to some of them, that ifthe preacher had drawn his conclusions right from the words of Christand his Apostles, it was absolutely certain that neither churches orchurchmen, whatever their form of doctrine might be, could at the sametime be wealthy and powerful in the worldly sense, and remain anythingmore than nominal Christians. 

After the sermon Vane assisted Father Baldwin in the administration ofthe Sacrament, and Carol and Rayburn took the elements from his hands;Carol for the first time in her life, and Rayburn for the first timesince he had reached manhood. It was for them the consecration of theirnew love and the new life which was to begin next day. 

Dora, who had been present at the service and had remained through thecommunion, had, greatly to the surprise of every one, and even to thesorrow of Carol and Vane, refused steadily to partake. She would give noreason, and therefore Carol quite correctly concluded that she had somevery sufficient one. 

At ten the next morning, Vane married Carol and Rayburn. The ceremonywas as simple as the forms of the Church allowed, and absolutelyprivate. Sir Arthur gave Carol away, and Ernshaw acted as Rayburn'sbest man. The only others present were Father Baldwin and Dora, and afew of the usual idlers to whom a wedding of any sort is an irresistibleattraction, and who had no notion of the strangeness of the wooing andthe winning, or of the depth of the life-tragedy which was being broughtto such a happy ending in such simple fashion. 

The only guests at the marriage-feast were Dora, Ernshaw, and Vane. Itwas just a family party, as Sir Arthur called it, so the bride andbridegroom were spared the giving and receiving of speeches. Never did agreater change take place in a girl's life more simply and more quietlythan this tremendous, almost incredible change which took place inCarol's, when, from being a nameless outcast beyond the pale of what ismore or less correctly termed respectable society, she became the wifeof a man who had wooed, and won her under such strange circumstances, yet knowing everything, and the mistress of millions to boot. 

When the brougham that was to take them to the station drew up at thedoor, Rayburn put his hand on Vane's arm, and led him to the study. 

"Maxwell, " he said, as he shut the door, "I have done the best thingto-day that a man can do. I have got a good wife, and----"

"You have done a great deal more than that, Rayburn, " said Vane, "infinitely more. I needn't tell you what it is, but if ever God and hisholy Saints looked down with blessing on the union of man and woman, they did upon your marriage to-day. "

"I see what you mean, " said Rayburn, "and for Carol's sake, I hope sowith all my heart. Now, look here, " he went on, in an altered tone, taking an envelope out of his pocket, "you know that I don't find myselfable to believe with you on this question of the possession of wealth. Perhaps I have got too much of it to be able to do so; but what I have, I know Carol will help me to use better than I could use it myself. Itis the usual thing, I believe, for a man who has just taken a wife untohimself, to make a thank-offering to the Church. Here is mine, and it isnot only mine, but hers, for we had a talk about it yesterday. Open itwhen we have gone. And now, good-bye, brother Vane, and God speed you inyour good work!"

When the last good-byes had been said, and the last kisses andhandshakes exchanged, and the carriage had driven away, Vane went aloneinto the study, and opened the envelope. It contained a note in Carol'swriting, and a cheque. The note ran thus:

 "MY DEAREST BROTHER, "The enclosed is the result of a talk I had with Cecil last night, he also had one with Mr. Ernshaw, and I had one with Dora. I should like it to be used, under your direction, for the good of those who are as I was, but have not been so blest with such good fortune as I have been. 

 "Ever your most loving and grateful sister, "CAROL. "

The cheque was for twenty thousand pounds. 

Vane could scarcely believe his eyes when he looked at the five figures. Then, when he had grasped the meaning of them, he murmured:

"God bless them both; they have made a good beginning, " and went backto join the others in the dining-room. 

He had a long talk with Ernshaw that afternoon, and they decided to bankthe money in their joint name, Ernshaw absolutely refusing to have it inhis name alone, as the cheque had been given to Vane, and towards theend of the talk Ernshaw said:

"I am glad to say that I should not be very much surprised now if whatyour father said a couple of years ago were to come true. In fact, Ihave broached the subject already very gently and circumspectly, ofcourse, but she absolutely refuses even to consider the matter for atleast a year. Still, she did it so gently and so sweetly that I don't byany means despair; and that girl, Maxwell, will make as good a wife as aparson ever had, and a better one than a good many have. She has givenme my life-work, too. You are going to try and redeem the rich, or, atleast, to show them the way of redemption. I, with God's help, and hers, am going to try and show a way of redemption to those who have losteverything, and this money of Rayburn's will give us a magnificentstart, if you will agree with me that it will be devoted to it. "

"Of course, it must be, " said Vane, "there can't be any doubt aboutthat. Miss Russell will naturally be at the head of the work, I suppose, and the first thing we ought to do, I think, is to get an establishmentfor her, and let her start as soon as may be. I suppose you have talkedit over with her already?"

"Oh, yes, " replied Ernshaw, "and she is more than delighted with theidea. "

"I am glad to hear it, " said Vane, "no one could possibly do the workbetter. Ernshaw, old man, " he went on, more gravely, "I'm afraid formyself that with a helper, and, I hope, some day a help-meet like MissRussell, you will have a good deal more chance of success in your workthan I shall in mine. "

"That, my dear fellow, " replied Ernshaw, "is in other hands than ours. There lies the work to our hands, and all we have got to do is to do it. By the way, as far as mine is concerned, I hope you will help me topersuade your father to take a share in it. "

"I am perfectly certain he will, " said Vane; "the fact that Carolsuggested it will be quite enough for that. "

"Then if he does, by the time you come back from your first crusade, Ithink you will find things getting pretty well into order. "

"I'm sure I shall, " said Vane. 

But it was already written that this crusade was not to begin until manyother things had happened. That evening at dinner Sir Arthur said:

"Vane, I had a note from Sir Reginald this afternoon asking me to rundown to the Abbey for a few days, and then join them at Cowes. You areincluded in the invitation, but, of course, you wouldn't go to Cowes, and I don't think I shall, the work here will be very much moreinteresting; but I thought perhaps you might like to run down to theAbbey and see Father Philip before you start on your mission. Garthorneand Enid are there, and her father and mother are going. It wouldn't bea bad opportunity to tell the family party the good news about Carol. "

"Oh, yes, " said Vane, "I should like that, immensely; in fact, I've beenthinking already that if Father Baldwin agrees with me that before I domake a start on my mission to Midas, as my friend, Reed, called it theother day, the best thing I could do would be to spend a day or two atthe Retreat, and go into the matter thoroughly with Father Philip. "

While he was speaking, Ernshaw noticed that Dora turned deadly pale. When dinner was over Sir Arthur announced that he was going round for anhour to see Sir Godfrey Raleigh on a little Indian business. Dora feltnow that her opportunity had come. It was a terrible thing to do, andyet, all things considered, present, and to come, she felt that it washer plain duty to do it, and not to permit this ghastly deception to goon any longer. Her soul revolted at the thought of Sir Arthur and Vane, Carol's half-brother, going to the Abbey and being received as friendsby Sir Reginald Garthorne. Knowing what she did, it seemed to her toohideous to be thought of, and so when Vane asked jestingly what theywere going to do to amuse themselves, she got up, looking very white, and said, in a voice that had a note almost of terror in it:

"Mr. Maxwell, there is something I want to say to you; something that Imust say to you. I cannot say it to you and Mr. Ernshaw together; it isbad enough to say it even to you, but when I have said it, you will beable to talk it over and try what is best to be done. I want to tell itto you first, because it concerns you most. "

"By all means, " said Vane, looking at her with wonder in his eyes, "comeinto the library. Ernshaw, I know, will excuse us; put on a pipe, andget yourself some whiskey and soda. Now, Miss Russell, " he said, as heopened the door for her, "I'm at your service. "

They left the room, and Ernshaw lit his pipe and sat down to speculateas to the cause of Dora's somewhat singular request, but fifteen minuteshad not passed before the door was thrown open, and she came in white tothe lips and shaking from head to foot, and said:

"Mr. Ernshaw, come, please, quick. Mr. Maxwell is ill, in a fit, Ithink. I have had to tell him something very dreadful, and it has beentoo much for him. "

Ernshaw jumped up without a word and ran into the library. Vane waslying in a low armchair and half on the floor, his body rigid, his handsclenched, his eyes wide open and sightless, and a slight creamy frothwas streaked round his lips. 

"A fit!" said Ernshaw. "You must have given him some terrible shock. Runand fetch Koda Bux and we will get him to bed; then tell a servant to gofor Doctor Allison; we will have him round all right before Sir Arthurcomes back. "

In a couple of minutes Vane was on his bed, and Koda Bux had opened histeeth and was dropping drop by drop, a green, syrupy fluid into hismouth, while Ernshaw was getting his boots off ready for the hot-waterbottle that the housekeeper was preparing. By the time the Doctor hadarrived, Koda Bux's elixir had already done its work. His eyes hadclosed and opened again with a look of recognition in them, his jaws hadrelaxed and his limbs were loosening. The Doctor listened to whatErnshaw had said while he was feeling his almost imperceptible pulse andKoda was wrapping his feet up in a blanket with a hot-water bottle. 

"Yes, I see, " said the Doctor, "intensely nervous, high-strungtemperament, just what we should expect Mr. Vane Maxwell to be now. 

"A very great mental shock and a fit. No, not epileptic, epileptoid, perhaps. Did you say that this man gave him something which brought himround? One of those Indian remedies, I suppose--very wonderful. I wishwe knew how to make them. I suppose you won't tell us what it is, myman?"

Koda Bux's stiff moustache moved as though there were a smile under it, and he bowed his head and said:

"Sahib, it is not permitted; but by to-morrow the son of my master shallbe well, for he is my father and my mother, and my life is his. "

"I thought so, " laughed the Doctor, who was an old friend of SirArthur's. "I know you, Koda Bux, and I think I can trust you. I'll lookin again in a couple of hours, Mr. Ernshaw, just to see that everythingis right, but I don't think that I shall be wanted. "

When the Doctor left Koda Bux took charge of the patient as a right, andwhen they got back into the dining-room, Dora said after a short andsomewhat awkward silence:

"Mr. Ernshaw, after what has happened, I suppose it is only fair that Ishould tell you what I told Mr. Maxwell, because when he gets better, ofcourse, he will talk it over with you, which is very dreadful, almostincredible. I promised Carol that I should not say anything about ituntil she was out of England. Of course, she told Mr. Rayburn; shewouldn't marry him until he knew the whole story, and so I'm notbreaking any confidence in telling you. "

"Yes, " he said, "I can fully understand that. And now, what is it? It isjust as well that we should all know before Sir Arthur comes back, if Iam to have any share in it. "

"Of course, you must have, " she said, almost passionately. "You couldnot remain Mr. Maxwell's friend and help him in the work you are goingto do if you did not know, and I had better tell you before Sir Arthurcomes back, so that you can think what is best to be done. "

"Very well; tell me, please. "

And she told him the whole miserable, pitiful, terrible story as she hadheard it from Carol from beginning to end. When she reached the partabout the flat in Densmore Gardens, his face whitened and his jaws cametogether, and he muttered through his teeth:

"Very awful; but, of course, they didn't know. The sins of the fathers!I am afraid Sir Reginald will have a very terrible confession to make. It is difficult to believe that a human being could be guilty of suchinfamy. "

"Still I'm afraid there is no doubt about it, " said Dora. "But what's tobe done? Mr. Maxwell will never let his father go to the Abbey nowwithout telling him what I have told you, and when he knows--no, Idaren't think about it. And poor Mrs. Garthorne, too; she married Mr. Garthorne in all innocence, although I still believe she would ratherhave married Mr. Maxwell. What would happen to her if she knew?"

"She would go mad, I believe, " said Ernshaw. "It would be the mostterrible thing that a woman in her position could learn. We can onlyhope that she shall never learn. If she ever does, God help her!"

"Yes, " said Dora. "And yet, what is to happen? How can she help knowingin the end? It must come out some time, you know. "

"Yes, I am afraid it must, " said Ernshaw, "but still, sufficient untothe day; we shall do no good by anticipating that. We may as well leaveit, as the old Greeks used to say, on the knees of the gods. "

And meanwhile the gods were working it out in their own way, using KodaBux as their instrument. Vane had gone to sleep after a second dose ofthe drug which had brought him out of his fit, and, as the keen Orientalintellect of Koda Bux had more than half expected, perhaps intended, hesoon began to talk quite reasonably and connectedly in his sleep, and soit came to pass that a mystery which had puzzled Koda Bux for many along year was revealed to him. 

When the Doctor came Vane was sleeping quietly, and, while he wasexamining him, Sir Arthur arrived, and was told that he had been takenill shortly after dinner, and this the Doctor explained was probably dueto the very severe mental strain to which he had subjected himselfduring the last week or so. He went up to his room and found Koda Bux onguard. Koda salaamed and said:

"Protector of the poor, it is well! To-morrow Vane Sahib shall be well, but now he must sleep. "

"Very well, Koda Bux, " replied Sir Arthur. "I know he can have no betternurse than you, and you will watch. "

"Yes, sahib, I will watch as long as it is necessary. "

Then Sir Arthur went downstairs to hear from Ernshaw and Dora the nowinevitable story of the sin of the man who had been his friend for morethan a lifetime. He heard it as a man who knew much of men and womencould and should hear such a story--in silence; and then, saying a quietgood-night to them, he went up to his room to have it out with himselfjust as he had done on that other terrible night when he had found Vanedrunk on the hearth-rug in the Den, and had recognised that he hadinherited from his mother the fatal taint of alcoholic insanity. 

When he awoke the next morning, after a few hours' sleep, Koda Bux wasnot there to prepare his bath and lay out his clean linen. It was thefirst time that it had happened for nearly twenty years, and it was notuntil Sir Arthur came downstairs that he heard the reason. Koda Bux hadvanished. No one knew when or how he had gone, but he had gone, leavingno sign or trace behind him. 

"Vane, " said Sir Arthur, as soon as the truth dawned upon him, "we mustgo down to Worcester at once. I know where Koda Bux has gone, and whathe has gone to do. Garthorne's crime was vile enough, God knows, but wemustn't let murder be done if we can possibly help it. Ah, there's anABC, Vane, just see which train he can have got to Kidderminster. I knowthe next one is 9. 50, which we can just catch when we have had amouthful of breakfast; that's a fast one, too; at least, fairly fast;gets there about half past one. "

"5. 40, arriving 12. 15, 6. 30 arriving 12. 20, " said Vane, reading from thetime-table. 

"In any case, I am afraid he has more than an hour's start of us atKidderminster. We can reduce that by taking a carriage to the Abbeybecause he would walk, and, of course, he may not, probably will not, beable to see Garthorne immediately, so we may be in time after all. Vane, do you feel strong enough to come?"

"Of course I do, dad, " he replied. "As long as I could stand I wouldcome. "

"And may I come, too, Sir Arthur?" said Dora. 

"You, Miss Russell!" he exclaimed, "but why? Surely there is no needfor us to ask you to witness such a painful scene as this, of course, must be. "

"I am Carol's friend, Sir Arthur, " said Dora, "and I think it only rightto do all that I can do to prove that her story is true. I have got thephotographs, and I know the marks by which Sir Reginald can beidentified. If we are not too late, such a man will, of course, answeryou with a flat denial, but if I am there I don't think he can. "

"Very well, " said Sir Arthur. "It is very kind of you, and, of course, you can help us a great deal if you will. "

"And, of course, I will, " she said. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

Koda Bux, dressed in half-European costume, had taken the 5. 40 newspapertrain from Paddington to Kidderminster. He had been several times atGarthorne Abbey in attendance on Sir Arthur, and so he decided to carryout his purpose in the boldest, and therefore, possibly, the easiest andthe safest way. He was, of course, well known to the servants as thedevoted and confidential henchman of his master, and so he would nothave the slightest difficulty in obtaining access to Sir Reginald. Hewalked boldly up the drive, intending to say that he had a letter ofgreat importance which his master had ordered him to place in SirReginald's hand. Sir Reginald would see him alone in one of the rooms, and then a cast of the roomal over his head, a pull and a wrench--andjustice would be done. 

Koda Bux knew quite enough of English law to be well aware that it hadno adequate punishment for the terrible crime that Sir Reginald hadcommitted--a crime made a thousand times worse by deception of half alifetime. 

According to his simple Pathan code of religion and morals there wasonly one proper penalty for the betrayal of a friend's honour and his, Koda Bux's, was even more jealous of his master's honour than he was ofhis own, for he had eaten his salt and had sheltered under his roof formany a long year, and if the law would not punish his enemy, he would. For his own life he cared nothing in comparison with the honour of hismaster's house, and so how could he serve him better than by giving itfor that of his master's enemy?

It was after lunch-time when he reached the Abbey. Sir Reginald had, infact, just finished lunch and had gone into the library to write someletters for the afternoon post, when the footman came to tell him thatSir Arthur Maxwell's servant had just come from London with an urgentmessage from his master. 

"Dear me, " said Sir Reginald, looking up, "that is very strange! Whycouldn't he have written or telegraphed? It must be something veryserious, I am afraid. Ah--yes, Ambrose, tell him to sit down in thehall, I'll see him in a few minutes. "

The door closed, and, as it did so, out of the black, long, buried pastthere came a pale flash of rising fear. 

Sir Reginald was one of those men who have practically no thought orfeeling outside the circle of their own desires and ambitions. He hadlived on good terms with his fellow men, not out of any respect forthem, but simply because it was more convenient and comfortable forhimself. He had committed the worst of crimes against his friend, SirArthur Maxwell, in perfect callousness, simply because the woman Maxwellhad married and inspired him with the only passion, the only enthusiasmof which he was capable. He had never felt a single pang of remorse forit. The sinner who sins through absolute selfishness as he had donenever does. In fact, his only uncomfortable feeling in connection withthe whole affair had been the fear of discovery, and that, as the yearshad gone on, had died away until it had become only an evil memory tohim. And yet, why did Koda Bux, the man who had so nearly discovered hisinfamy twenty-two years ago, come here alone to the Abbey to-day?

Ah, yes, to-day! A diary lay open on the writing-table before him. The28th of June. The very day--but that of course was merely a coincidence. Well, he would hear what Koda Bux had to say. He signed a letter, put itinto an envelope, and addressed it. Then he touched the bell. Ambroseappeared, and he said:

"You can show the man in now. "

"Very good, Sir Reginald, " replied the man, and vanished. 

A few moments later the door opened again and Koda Bux came in, lookedat Sir Reginald for a few moments straight in the eyes, and thensalaamed with subtle oriental humility. 

"May my face be bright in your eyes, protector of the poor and husbandof the widow!" he said, as he raised himself erect again. "I havebrought a message from my master. "

"Well, Koda Bux, " said Sir Reginald, a trifle uneasily, for he didn'tquite like the extreme gravity with which the Pathan spoke. 

"I suppose it must be something important and confidential, if he hassent you here instead of writing or telegraphing. Of course, you have aletter from him?"

"No, Sahib, " replied Koda Bux, fingering at a blue silk handkerchiefthat was tucked into his waist-band. "The message was of too greatimportance to be trusted to a letter which might be lost, and so mymaster trusted it to the soul of his servant. "

"That's rather a strange way for one gentleman to send a message toanother in this country and in these days, Koda Bux, " said Sir Reginald, getting up from his chair at the writing-table and moving towards thebell. 

Instantly, with a swift sinuous movement, Koda Bux had passed before thefireplace and put himself between Sir Reginald and the bell. 

"The Sahib will not call his servants until he has heard the message, "he said, not in the cringing tone of the servant, but in thestraight-spoken words of the soldier. Meanwhile, the fingers of his lefthand were almost imperceptibly drawing the blue handkerchief out of hisgirdle. 

Sir Reginald saw this, and a sudden fear streamed into his soul. His ownIndian experience told him that this man might be a Thug, and that ifso, a little roll of blue silk would be a swifter, deadlier, and moreuntraceable weapon than knife or poison, and his thoughts went back tothe 28th of June, twenty-two years before. 

"I am not going to be spoken to like that in my own house and by anigger!" he exclaimed, seeking to cover his fear by a show of anger. "Idon't believe in you or your message. If you have a letter from yourmaster, give it to me, if you haven't, I shan't listen to you. Whatright have you to come here into my library pretending to have a messagefrom your master, when you haven't even a letter, or his card, or onewritten word from him?"

"Illustrious, " said Koda Bux, with a sudden change of manner, salaaminglow and moving backwards towards the door, "the slave of my masterforgot himself in the urgency of his message, which my lord, his friend, has not yet heard. "

There was an almost imperceptible emphasis on the word "friend" whichsent a little shiver through such rudiments of soul as Sir Reginaldpossessed. He said roughly:

"Very well, then, if you have brought a message what is it? I can'twaste half the morning with you. "

"The message is short, Sahib, " replied Koda Bux, salaaming again, andmoving a little nearer towards the door. "I am to ask you what you didat Simla two-and-twenty years ago this night--what you have done withthe Mem Sahib who was faithful to my lord's honour when you, dog and sonof a dog, betrayed it--and what has become of her daughter and yours?Oh, cursed of the gods, thou knowest these things as thou knowest thetwo marks of the African spear on thy left arm--but thou dost not knowthe depth of infamy which thy sin dug for thine own son to fall into. "

As he was saying this Koda Bux backed close to the door, locked itbehind him, and took the key out. 

Bad as he was, the last words of Koda Bux hit Sir Reginald harder eventhan the others. His son, the heir to his name and fortune, what had heto do with that old sin of his committed before he was born?

"You must be mad or opium-drunk, Koda Bux, " he whispered hoarsely, "totalk like that. Yes, it is the 28th of June, and I have two spear markson my arm--but I am rich, I can make you a prince in your own land. Come, you know something about me. That is why you came here; but whathas my son Reginald to do with it? If I have sinned, what is that tohim?"

"In the book of the God of the Christians, " said Koda Bux, very slowly, and approaching him with an almost hypnotic stare in his eyes, "in thatbook it is written that the chief God of the Christians will visit thesins of the fathers upon the children. This woman bore you a daughter;your lawful wife bore you a son. The woman who was once the wife ofMaxwell Sahib was a drunkard, and now she's a mad-woman. Your own wifebore you a son, and in London your daughter and your son, not knowingeach other, came together. Your daughter was what the good English callan outcast, and, knowing nothing of your sin, they lived--"

"God in heaven! can that be true?" murmured Sir Reginald, sinking backagainst the mantel-piece just as he was going-to pull the bell. 

"No, it can't be! Koda Bux, you are lying; no such horrible thing asthat could be. "

"My gods are not thine, if thou hast any, oh, unsainted one!" said KodaBux, "but, like the gods of the Christians, they can avenge when the cupof sin is full. Yes, it is true. Your son and your daughter--your son, who is now married to her who should have been the wife of Vane Sahib. There is no doubt, and it can be proved. But that is only a part of yourpunishment, destroyer of happiness and afflictor of many lives. That isa thought which thou wilt take to Hell with thee, and it shall eat intothy soul for ever and ever, and when I have sent thee to Hell I willtell thy son and the woman he stole from Vane Sahib when he persuadedhim to take strong drink that morning at the college of Oxford. Yes, Ihave heard it all. I, who am only a nigger! Dog and son of a dog, is notthy soul blacker than my skin? And now the hour has struck. Thy breathis already in thy mouth!"

Koda Bux snatched the handkerchief from his waist-band and began tocreep towards him, his Beard and moustache bristling like the back of atiger, and his big, fierce eyes gleaming red. Sir Reginald knew that ifhe once got within throwing distance of that fatal strip of silk hewould be dead in an instant without a sound. He made a despairing springfor the bell-rope, grasped it, and dragged it from its connection. 

At the same moment there was a peal at the hall bell, followed by athunderous knocking. Enid, who was in the morning-room with her husband, saw a two-horsed carriage come up the drive at a gallop, and the momentit had stopped Vane jumped out and rang and knocked. Then out of thecarriage came Sir Arthur and a lady whom she had never seen before, butwhom Garthorne, looking over her shoulder out of the window, recognisedonly too quickly. 

"What on earth can Sir Arthur and Vane have come for in such a hurry asthat!" she exclaimed. "Why, it might be a matter of life and death, andonly such a short time after dear old Koda Bux, too. What can be thematter, Reginald?"

But Garthorne had already left the room, his heart shaking withapprehension. He ran up into the hall to open the door before one of theservants could do it. 

"Ah, Sir Arthur, Vane--and Miss Russell--I believe it is----"

"Yes, Mr. Garthorne, " said Sir Arthur coldly but quickly, as theyentered the hall. "We have come to stop a murder if we can. I hope weare in time. Where is your father, and has Koda Bux been here?"

"Koda Bux has been in the library with my father for about half-an-hour, I believe, " said Reginald. "What is the matter?"

"It is a matter of life or death, " answered Vane, looking at him withburning eyes and speaking with twitching lips. "Perhaps something worseeven than that. Where are they?--quick, or we shall be too late!"

"They are in the library, " said Garthorne, as Enid came running out ofthe morning-room, saying:

"Oh, Sir Arthur and Vane, good morning! How are you? What a very suddenvisit. I knew Sir Reginald asked you, but----"

"Never mind about that now, Enid, " said Garthorne almost roughly. "Comealong, Sir Arthur, this is the library. "

He crossed the great hall, and went down one of the corridors leadingfrom it, and the footman was already at one of the doors trying to openit. It was locked. Garthorne hammered on it with his fists and shouted, but there was no reply. 

"I heard the library bell ring, sir, " said Ambrose, "just as the frontdoor bell went--after that Indian person had been with Sir Reginald sometime. "

"Never mind about that, " said Garthorne; "run round to the windows, andif any of them are open get in and unlock the door. "

But before he had reached the hall door the library door was thrownopen. Koda Bux salaamed, and, pointing to the lifeless shape of SirReginald, lying on the hearth-rug, he said to Sir Arthur:

"Protector of the poor, justice has been done. The enemy of thy house isdead. Before he died he confessed his sin. Has not thy servant donerightly?"

"You have done murder, Koda Bux, " said Sir Arthur sternly, pushing himaside and going to where Sir Reginald lay. He tried to lift him, but itwas no use. There was the mark of the roomal round his neck, the staringeyes and the half-protruding tongue. Justice, from Koda Bux's point ofview, had been done. There was nothing more to do but to have himcarried up to his room and send for the police. Garthorne gripped holdof Koda Bux, and called to one of the servants for a rope to tie him upuntil the police came, but the Pathan twisted himself free with scarcelyan effort. 

"There is no need for that, Sahib; I shall not run away, " said Koda Bux, drawing himself up and saluting Sir Arthur for the last time. "I camehere to give my life for the one I have taken, so that justice might bedone, and I have done it. In the next worlds and in the next lives wemay meet again, and then you will know that neither did I kill yourfather nor die myself without good cause. Of the rest the gods willjudge. "

He made a movement with his jaws and crunched something between histeeth. They saw a movement of swallowing in his throat. A swift spasmpassed over his features; his limbs stiffened into rigidity, and as hestood before them so he fell, as a wooden image might have done. And sodied Koda Bux the Pathan, loyal avenger of his master's honour. 

For a few moments there was silence--every tongue chained, every eyefixed by the sudden horror of the situation. Garthorne, roused by fearand anger, for a swift instinct told him that Dora had not come to theAbbey for nothing, was able to speak first. He was Sir Reginald now--butwhy, and how? When a man of this nature is very frightened, he oftentakes refuge in rage, and that is what Garthorne did. He turned on SirArthur and Vane, his hands clenched, and his lips drawn back from histeeth, and said, in a voice which Enid had never heard from him before:

"What does all this mean, Sir Arthur? My father murdered in his ownhouse; his murderer tells you that he has 'done justice, ' and avengedyour honour--then poisons himself. If any wrong has been done, how didthat nigger servant of yours get to know of it? Why should he have beenlet loose to murder my father? If you had anything against him, whydidn't you charge him with it yourself, as a man and gentleman should?You must have been in it the whole lot of you or you wouldn't have beenhere!

"But, perhaps, " he went on, with a sudden change of tone, "you wouldrather tell the police when they come; there must be some reason, Isuppose, for your bringing that woman, a common prostitute, into myhouse, and into the presence of my wife. "

"Oh, you fool, you hypocrite, you have asked for the punishment of yoursin, and you shall have it!"

Dora had taken a couple of strides towards him, and faced him--cheeksblazing, and eyes flaming. 

"Prostitute! yes, I was; but how do _you_ know it? Because you lived inthe same house with me. Yes, up to the very week of your wedding, withme and that man's daughter. You have asked why he was killed. He waskilled righteously, because he wasn't fit to live. No, you didn't knowthat then, and so far you are innocent; but you are guilty of a crimenearly as great. Your father stole Carol's mother from her husband; youstole your wife from the man she loved and would have married but foryou. 

"It was _you_ who made Vane Maxwell drunk that morning at Oxford, in thehope of wrecking his career. You didn't do that, but you gained your endall the same, and your sin is just as great. How do I know this--how do_we_ know it? I will tell you. Carol Vane, Mr. Maxwell's sister, _andyours_, went to your wedding. Carol recognised him as her father. Look, there is his photograph taken with her, when Carol was ten years old. Ifyou don't believe that, look at his left arm, and you will find twospear stabs on it, and if that is not enough, I can bring policeevidence from France to prove that he committed the crime for which hehas died, and now, you--son of a seducer, libertine and thief of anotherman's love--you have got your answer and your punishment!"

Dora's words, spoken in a moment of rare, but ungovernable passion, hadleaped from her lips in such a fast and furious torrent of denunciation, that before the first few moments of the horror she had caused werepassed, she had done. 

Enid heard her to the end, her voice sounding ever farther and fartheraway, until at last it died out into a faint hum and then a silence. Vane ran to her, and caught her just as she was swaying before she fell, and carried her to a sofa. It was the first time he had held her in hisarms since he had had a lover's right to do so, and all the man-soul inhim rose in a desperate revolt of love and pity against the coldlycalculating villainy of the man who had used the vilest of means to robhim of his love. 

The moment he had laid her on the sofa, Dora was at her side, looseningthe high collar of her dress and rubbing her hands. Garthorne, crushedinto silence by the terrible vehemence of Dora's accusation, had droppedinto an armchair close by his father's body. Sir Arthur, half-dazed withthe horror of it all, threw open the door with a vague idea of gettinginto the fresh air out of that room of death. As he did so, the halldoor opened, and an Inspector of Police followed by two constables and agentleman in plain clothes entered. The sight of the uniformedincarnation of the Law brought him back instantly to the realities ofthe situation. The Inspector touched his cap, and said, briefly, andwith official precision:

"Good morning, Sir Arthur. This is Dr. Saunders, the Coroner. I met himon my way up from the village, and asked him to come with me. Verydreadful case, Sir; but I hope the bodies have not been disturbed?"

"Oh, no, " said Sir Arthur, "they have not been touched, but Mrs. Garthorne is lying in the same room in a faint. I suppose we may takeher out before you make your examination?"

"Why, certainly, Sir Arthur, " said the Coroner. "Of course, we will takeyour word for that. But I believe Mr. Reginald Garthorne is at theAbbey, is he not?"

"Yes, " replied Sir Arthur, in a changed tone, "he is there, in thelibrary, but of course--well, I mean--what has happened has affected himterribly, and I don't think he will be able to give you very muchassistance at present. In fact, he is almost in a state of collapsehimself. "

"That is only natural, under the very painful circumstances, " said theInspector, "please don't put him about at all, Sir Arthur. The lastthing we should wish would be to put the family to any inconvenience orunpleasantness, and I am sure Dr. Saunders will arrange that the inquestwill be as private and quiet as possible. "

And so it was, but, somehow, the ghastly truth of it all leaked out, andfor a week after the inquest the horrible story of Sir Reginald's crimeand its consequences made sport of the daintiest kind for the readersof the gutter rags, those microbes of journalism, which, like those ofcancer and consumption, can only live on the corruption or decay of thebody-corporate of Society. 

Only one name and one fact never came out, and that was due to ErnestReed's uncompromising declaration that he would shoot any man who saidanything in print about the identity of Carol Vane with the daughter ofSir Reginald Garthorne's victim. He worked by telegraph and otherwisefor twenty-four hours on end, and the result was that his brotherpressmen all over the country, being mostly gentlemen, recognised thechivalry of his attempt, and so chivalrously suppressed that part of thetruth. And so effectually was it suppressed, that it was not until abouta year afterwards that Mr. Ernest Reed found a rather difficultmatrimonial puzzle solved for him by the receipt of Mr. Cecil Rayburn'scheque for a thousand pounds. 

EPILOGUE. 

A little more than a year had passed since the inquest on Sir Reginaldand Koda Bux. For Vane Maxwell, the Missionary to Midas, as every onenow called him, it had been a continued series of tribulations andtriumphs. From Land's End to John o' Groats, and from Cork Harbour toAberdeen he had preached the Gospel that he had found in the Sermon onthe Mount. He had, in truth, proved himself to be the Savonarola of thetwentieth century, not only in words, but also in the effects of histeaching. 

He had asked tens and hundreds of thousands of professing Christians, just as he had asked the congregation of St. Chrysostom, to choosehonestly between their creed and their wealth, to be honest, as he hadsaid then, with themselves or with God; to choose openly and in the faceof all men between the service of God and of Mammon. And his appeal hadbeen answered throughout the length and breadth of the land. 

Never since the days of John Wesley had there been such a re-awakeningof religious, really religious, feeling in the country. Just as the richItalians brought their treasures of gold and silver and jewels andheaped them up under the pulpit of Savonarola in the market-places, sohundreds of men and women of every social degree recognised the plainfact that they could not be at the same time honestly rich and honestlyChristians, and so, instead of material treasure, they had sent theircheques to Vane. 

Before the year was over he found himself nominally the richest man inthe United Kingdom. He had more than five millions sterling at hisabsolute disposal, almost countless thousands of pounds given up forconscience' sake because he had said that honest Christians could notown them; and he and Father Philip, Father Baldwin and Ernshaw, havinggiven many hours and days of anxious consideration to the very pressingquestion as to which was the best way of disposing of this suddenly, and, as they all confessed, unexpectedly acquired wealth, decided todevote it to the extirpation, so far as was possible in England, of thatCancer in Christianity which Christians of the canting sort call theSocial Evil. 

As Jesus of Nazareth had said to the woman taken in adultery, "Go thouand sin no more!" so the Missionary and his helpers said:

"You have sinned more through necessity than choice, and the Societywhich denies you redemption is a greater sinner than you, since itdrives you into deeper sin. There is no hope for you here. Civilizationhas no place for you, save the streets or the 'homes, ' which are, ifanything, more degrading than the streets. 

"Those who are willing to save themselves we will save so far as earthlypower can help you. We will give you homes where you will not be known, where, perhaps, you may begin to lead a new life, where it may be thatyou will become wives and mothers, as good as those who now, when theypass you in the street, draw their skirts aside fearing lest theyshould touch yours. And, if not that, at least we will save you from thehorrible necessity of keeping alive, by living a life of degradation. "

The foregoing paragraphs are, to all intents and purposes, a précis of acharter of release to the inhabitants of the twentieth century ChristianInferno which was drawn up by Dora Russell the day before she yielded toErnshaw's year-long wooing, and consented to be his helpmeet as well ashis helper. 

It was scattered broadcast in hundreds of thousands all over thecountry. Storms of protest burst forth from all the citadels oforthodoxy and respectability. It seemed monstrous that these women, whohad so far defied all the efforts of official Christianity to redeemthem, should be bribed--as many put it--bribed back into the way ofvirtue, if that were possible, with the millions which had been coaxedout of the pockets of sentimental Christians by this Mad Missionary ofMayfair--as one of the smartest of Society journals had named him. 

But, for all that, the Mad Missionary said very quietly to Ernshaw a fewhours before he intended to marry him to Dora:

"These good Christians, as they think themselves, are wofully wrong. Itseems absolutely impossible to get them to see this matter in its properperspective. They can't or won't see that in ninety-nine cases out of ahundred it is one of absolute necessity--the choice between that andmisery and starvation. They don't see that this accursed commercialsystem of ours condemns thousands of girls----"

"Yes, " interrupted Dora, "I know what you are going to say. I was ashop-girl myself once, a slave, a machine that was not allowed to havea will or even a soul of its own, and I----"

Before she could go on, the door of the Den at Warwick Gardens--wherethe conversation had taken place--opened, and Sir Arthur came in withsome letters in his hands. 

"I just met the postman on the doorstep, " he said, "and he gave methese. 

"Here's one for you, Vane. There's one for me, and one for MissRussell--almost the last time I shall call you that, Miss Dora, eh?"

Vane tore his envelope open first. As he unfolded a sheet of note-paper, a cheque dropped out. The letter was in Carol's handwriting. His eye ranover the first few lines, and he said:

"Good news! Rayburn and Carol are coming home next week and bringing afine boy with them--at least, that is what the fond mothersays--and--eh?--Rayburn has made another half million out there, and, just look, Ernshaw--yes, it is--a cheque for a hundred thousand pounds, to be used, as she says here in the postscript, 'as before. '"

"Oh, I'm so glad, " exclaimed Dora, as she was opening her own envelope. "Fancy having Carol back again. Mark, I won't marry you till she comes. You must put everything off. I won't hear of it and--oh--look!" she wenton, after a little pause, "Sir Arthur, read that, please. Isn't itawful?"

"The mills of God grind slowly but they grind exceeding small, " said SirArthur when he had looked over the sheet of note-paper. "Shall I readit, Miss Russell?"

Dora nodded, and he read aloud:

"I have just heard that my husband, whom, as you know, I have not seensince that terrible day at the Abbey, has died in a fit of deliriumtremens. The lawyers tell me that everything will be mine. If so, Garthorne Abbey shall go back to the Church if Vane will take it, and ifyou will let me come and help you in your work. "

"Thank God!" said Sir Arthur, as he gave the letter back, "not for hisdeath, for that was, after all that we have heard, inevitable; but forwhat Enid has done. Vane, she is your latest and, perhaps, after all, your worthiest convert. And now, what's this?"

He tore open his own envelope, which was addressed in the handwriting ofone of his solicitor's clerks. The letter was very brief and formal, butbefore he had read it through his face turned grey under the bronze ofhis skin. He passed it over to Vane, and left the room without a word. 

Vane looked at the few formal lines, and, as he folded the letter upwith trembling fingers, he said almost in a whisper:

"The tragedy is over. My mother is dead. "

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Transcriber's Note

Alternative spellings and hyphenation have been retained as they appearin the original publication. Other punctuation, including quotationmarks, has been standardized. 

In chapter XVII, in the sermon headline beginning with "WEIGHTY WORDS TORICH AND POOR, " the name "Maxwell Vane" has been changed to "VaneMaxwell. "