The Whirlpool

by

George Gissing

Part the First

CHAPTER 1

Harvey Rolfe was old enough to dine with deliberation, young andhealthy enough to sauce with appetite the dishes he thoughtfullyselected. You perceived in him the imperfect epicure. His club had noculinary fame; the dinner was merely tolerable; but Rolfe's unfinishedpalate flattered the second-rate cook. He knew nothing of vintages; itsufficed him to distinguish between Bordeaux and Burgundy; yet one sawhim raise his glass and peer at the liquor with eye of connoisseur. Allunaffectedly; for he was conscious of his shortcoming in the art ofdelicate living, and never vaunted his satisfactions. He had known thepasture of poverty, and the table as it is set by London landladies; tolook back on these things was to congratulate himself that nowadays hedined. 

Beyond the achievement of a vague personal distinction at theMetropolitan Club, he had done nothing to make himself a man of note, and it was doubtful whether more than two or three of the membersreally liked him or regarded him with genuine interest. Hisintroduction to this circle he owed to an old friend, Hugh Carnaby, whose social position was much more clearly defined: Hugh Carnaby, therambler, the sportsman, and now for a twelvemonth the son-in-law ofMrs. Ascott Larkfield. Through Carnaby people learnt as much of hisfriend's history as it concerned anyone to know: that Harvey Rolfe hadbegun with the study of medicine, had given it up in disgust, subsequently was 'in business', and withdrew from it on inheriting acompetency. They were natives of the same county, and learnt theirLatin together at the Grammar School of Greystone, the midland townwhich was missed by the steam highroad, and so preserves much of thebeauty and tranquillity of days gone by. Rolfe seldom spoke of his ownaffairs, but in talking of travel he had been heard to mention that hisfather had engineered certain lines of foreign railway. It seemed thatHarvey had no purpose in life, save that of enjoying himself. Obviouslyhe read a good deal, and Carnaby credited him with profound historicalknowledge; but he neither wrote nor threatened to do so. Something ofcynicism appeared in his talk of public matters; politics amused him, and his social views lacked consistency, tending, however, to anindolent conservatism. Despite his convivial qualities, he had traitsof the reserved, even of the unsociable, man: a slight awkwardness inbearing, a mute shyness with strangers, a hesitancy in ordinary talk, and occasional bluntness of assertion or contradiction, suggesting acontempt which possibly he did not intend. Hugh Carnaby declared thatthe true Rolfe only showed himself after a bottle of wine; maintained, moreover, that Harvey had vastly improved since he entered upon asubstantial income. When Rolfe was five and twenty, Hugh being twoyears younger, they met after a long separation, and found each otherintolerable; a decade later their meeting led to hearty friendship. Rolfe had become independent, and was tasting his freedom in atwelvemonth's travel. The men came face to face one day on the deck ofa steamer at Port Said. Physically, Rolfe had changed so much that theother had a difficulty in recognising him; morally, the change was notless marked, as Carnaby very soon became aware. At thirty-seven thisprocess of development was by no means arrested, but its slow andsubtle working escaped observation unless it were that of Harvey Rolfehimself. 

His guest this evening, in a quiet corner of the dining-room where hegenerally sat, was a man, ten years his junior, named Morphew: slim, narrow-shouldered, with sandy hair, and pale, delicate features of moresensibility than intelligence; restless, vivacious, talking incessantlyin a low, rapid voice, with frequent nervous laughs which threw backhis drooping head. A difference of costume--Rolfe wore morning dress, Morphew the suit of ceremony--accentuated the younger man's advantagein natural and acquired graces; otherwise, they presented the contrastof character and insignificance. Rolfe had a shaven chin, a weatheredcomplexion, thick brown hair; the penumbra of middle-age had touchedhis countenance, softening here and there a line which told oftemperament in excess. At this moment his manner inclined to a bluffjocularity, due in some measure to the bottle of wine before him, asalso was the tinge of colour upon his cheek; he spoke briefly, butlistened with smiling interest to his guest's continuous talk. This ranon the subject of the money-market, with which the young man boastedsome practical acquaintance. 

'You don't speculate at all?' Morphew asked. 

'Shouldn't know how to go about it, ' replied the other in his deepernote. 

'It seems to me to be the simplest thing in the world if one is contentwith moderate profits. I'm going in for it seriously--cautiously--as amatter of business. I've studied the thing--got it up as I used to workat something for an exam. And here, you see, I've made five pounds at astroke--five pounds! Suppose I make that every now and then, it's worththe trouble, you know--it mounts up. And I shall never stand to losemuch. You see, it's Tripcony's interest that I should make profits. '

'I'm not quite sure of that. '

'Oh, but it _is_! Let me explain--'

These two had come to know each other under peculiar circumstances ayear ago. Rolfe was at Brussels, staying--his custom when abroad--at ahotel unfrequented by English folk. One evening on his return from thetheatre, he learnt that a young man of his own nationality layseriously ill in a room at the top of the house. Harvey, moved bycompassion, visited the unfortunate Englishman, listened to hisravings, and played the part of Good Samaritan. On recovery, thestranger made full disclosure of his position. Being at Brussels on aholiday, he had got into the company of gamblers, and, after winning alarge sum (ten thousand francs, he declared), had lost not only that, but all else. That he possessed, including his jewellery. He hadgambled deliberately; he wanted money, money, and saw no other way ofobtaining it. In the expansive mood of convalescence, Cecil Morphewleft no detail of his story unrevealed. He was of gentle birth, and hada private income of three hundred pounds, charged upon the estate of adistant relative; his profession (the bar) could not be remunerativefor years, and other prospects he had none. The misery of his situationlay in the fact that he was desperately in love with the daughter ofpeople who looked upon him as little better than a pauper. The girl hadpledged herself to him, but would not marry without her parents'consent, of which there was no hope till he had at least trebled hismeans. His choice of a profession was absurd, dictated merely by socialopinion; he should have been working hard in a commercial office, or atsome open-air pursuit. Naturally he turned again to the thought ofgambling, this time the great legalised game of hazard, wherein he wasas little likely to prosper as among the blacklegs of Brussels. Rolfeliked him for his ingenuousness, and for the vein of poetry in hisnature. The love affair still went on, but Morphew seldom alluded toit, and his seasoned friend thought of it as a youthful ailment whichwould pass and be forgotten. 

'I'm convinced, ' said the young man presently, 'that any one who reallygives his mind to it can speculate with moderate success. Look at thebig men--the brokers and the company promoters, and so on; I've metsome of them, and there's nothing in them--nothing! Now, there's BennetFrothingham. You know him, I think?'

Rolfe nodded. 

'Well, what do you think of him? Isn't he a very ordinary fellow? Howhas he got such a position? I'm told he began just in a small way--bychance. No doubt _he_ found it so easy to make money he was surprisedat his success. Tripcony has told me a lot about him. Why, the"Britannia" brings him fifteen thousand a year; and he must be in ascore of other things. '

'I know nothing about the figures, ' said Rolfe, 'and I shouldn't putmuch faith in Tripcony; but Frothingham, you may be sure, isn't quitean ordinary man. '

'Ah, well, of course there's a certain knack--and then, experience--'

Morphew emptied his glass, and refilled it. Nearly all the tables inthe room were now occupied, and the general hum of talk gave securityto intimate dialogue. Flushed and bright-eyed, the young man presentlyleaned forward. 

'If I could count upon five hundred, she would take the step. '

'Indeed?'

'Yes, that's settled. What do you think? Plenty of people live verywell on less. '

'You want my serious opinion?'

'If you _can_ be serious. '

'Then I think that the educated man who marries on less than a thousandis either mad or a criminal. '

'Bosh! We won't talk about it. '

They rose, and walked towards the smoking-room, Rolfe giving a nod hereand there as he passed acquaintances. In the hall someone addressed him. 

'How does Carnaby take this affair?'

'What affair?'

'Don't you know? Their house has been robbed--stripped. It's in theevening papers. '

Rolfe went on into the smoking-room, and read the report of hisfriend's misfortune. The Carnabys occupied a house in Hamilton Terrace. During their absence from home last night, there had been a clean sweepof all such things of value as could easily be removed. Thedisappearance of their housekeeper, and the fact that this woman hadcontrived the absence of the servants from nine o'clock till midnight, left no mystery in the matter. The clubmen talked of it with amusement. Hard lines, to be sure, for Carnaby, and yet harder for his wife, whohad lost no end of jewellery; but the thing was so neatly andcompletely done, one must needs laugh. One or two husbands who enjoyedthe luxury of a housekeeper betrayed their uneasiness. A discussionarose on the characteristics of housekeepers in general, and spreadover the vast subject of domestic management, not often debated at theMetropolitan Club. In general talk of this kind Rolfe never took part;smoking his pipe, he listened and laughed, and was at momentsthoughtful. Cecil Morphew, rapidly consuming cigarettes as he lay backin a soft chair, pointed the moral of the story in favour of humbledomesticity. 

In half an hour, his guest having taken leave, Rolfe put on hisovercoat, and stepped out into the cold, clammy November night. He wasovertaken by a fellow Metropolitan--a grizzled, scraggy-throated, hollow-eyed man, who laid a tremulous hand upon his arm. 

'Excuse me, Mr. Rolfe, have you seen Frothingham recently?'

'Not for a month. '

'Ah! I thought perhaps--I was wondering what he thought about theColebrook smash. To tell you the truth, I've heard unpleasant rumours. Do you--should you think the Colebrook affair would affect the"Britannia" in any way?'

It was not the first time that this man had confided his doubts andtimidities to Harvey Rolfe; he had a small, but to him important, interest in Bennet Frothingham's wide-reaching affairs, and seemed tospend most of his time in eliciting opinion on the financier'sstability. 

'Wouldn't you be much more comfortable, ' said Rolfe, rather bluntly, 'if you had your money in some other kind of security?'

'Ah, but, my dear sir, twelve and a half per cent--twelve and a half! Ihold preference shares of the original issue. '

'Then I'm afraid you must take your chance. '

'But, ' piped the other in alarm, 'you don't mean that--'

'I mean nothing, and know nothing. I'm the last man to consult aboutsuch things. '

And Rolfe, with an abrupt 'Goodnight, ' beckoned to a passing hansom. The address he gave was Hugh Carnaby's, in Hamilton Terrace. 

Twice already the horse had slipped at slimy crossings, when, near thetop of Regent Street, it fell full length, and the abrupt stoppagecaused a collision of wheels with another hansom which was just passingat full speed in the same direction. Rolfe managed to alight in theordinary way, and at once heard himself greeted by a familiar voicefrom the other cab. His acquaintance showed a pallid, drawn, all butcadaverous visage, with eyes which concealed pain or weariness undertheir friendly smile. Abbott was the man's name. Formerly a lecturer ata provincial college, he had resigned his post on marrying, and takento journalism. 

'I want to speak to you, Rolfe, ' he said hurriedly, 'but I haven't amoment to spare. Going to Euston--could you come along for a fewminutes?'

The vehicles were not damaged; Abbott's driver got quickly out of thecrowd, and the two men continued their conversation. 

'Do you know anything of Wager?' inquired the journalist, with atroubled look. 

'He came to see me a few evenings ago--late. '

'Ha, he did! To borrow money, wasn't it?'

'Well, yes. '

'I thought so. He came to me for the same. Said he'd got a berth atSouthampton. Lie, of course. The fellow has disappeared, and left hischildren--left them in a lodging-house at Hammersmith. How's that forcool brutality? The landlady found my wife's address, and came to seeher. Address left out on purpose, I dare say. There was nothing for itbut to take care of the poor little brats. --Oh, damn!'

'What's the matter?'

'Neuralgia--driving me mad. Teeth, I think. I'll have every onewrenched out of my head if this goes on. Never mind. What do you thinkof Wager?'

'I remember, when we were at Guy's, he used to advocate thenationalisation of offspring. Probably he had some personal interest inthe matter, even then. '

'Hound! I don't know whether to set the police after him or not. Itwouldn't benefit the children. I suppose it's no use hunting for hisfamily?'

'Not much, I should say. '

'Well, lucky we have no children of our own. Worst of it is, I don'tlike the poor little wretches, and my wife doesn't either. We must finda home for them. '

'I say, Abbott, you must let me go halves at that. '

'Hang it, no! Why should you support Wager's children? They'rerelatives of ours, unfortunately. But I wanted to tell you that I'mgoing down to Waterbury. ' He looked at his watch. 'Thirteenminutes--shall I do it? There's a good local paper, the _Free Press_, and I have the offer of part-ownership. I shall buy, if possible, andlive in the country for a year or two, to pick up my health. Can't sayI love London. Might get into country journalism for good. Curse thistorment!'

In Tottenham Court Road, Rolfe bade his friend goodbye, and the cabrushed on. 

CHAPTER 2

It was half past ten when Rolfe knocked at the door in HamiltonTerrace. He learnt from the servant that Mr. Carnaby was at home, andhad company. In the room known as the library, four men sat smoking;their voices pealed into the hall as the door opened, and a boisterouswelcome greeted the newcomer's appearance. 

'Come to condole?' cried Hugh, striding forward with hisman-of-the-wide-world air, and holding out his big hand. 'No doubtthey're having a high old time at the club. Does it please them? Doesit tickle them?'

'Why, naturally. There's the compensation, my boy--you contribute tothe gaiety of your friends. '

Carnaby was a fair example of the well-bred, well-fed Englishman--tall, brawny, limber, not uncomely, with a red neck, a powerful jaw, and akeen eye. Something more of repose, of self-possession, and a slightlymore intellectual brow, would have made him the best type ofconquering, civilising Briton. He came of good family, but had smallinheritance; his tongue told of age-long domination; his physique andcarriage showed the horseman, the game-stalker, the nomad. Hugh hadnever bent over books since the day when he declined the university andgot leave to join Colonel Bosworth's exploring party in the Caucasus. After a boyhood of straitened circumstances, he profited by a skilfulstewardship which allowed him to hope for some seven hundred a year;his elder brother, Miles, a fine fellow, who went into the army, pinching himself to benefit Hugh and their sister Ruth. Miles was nowMajor Carnaby, active on the North-West Frontier. Ruth was wife of amissionary in some land of swamps; doomed by climate, but of spiritindomitable. It seemed strange that Hugh, at five and thirty, had donenothing particular. Perhaps his income explained it--too small fortraditional purposes, just large enough to foster indolence. For Hughhad not even followed up his promise of becoming an explorer; he hadmerely rambled, mostly in pursuit of fowl or quadruped. When hemarried, all hope for him was at an end. The beautiful and brilliantdaughter of a fashionable widow, her income a trifle more thanCarnaby's own; devoted to the life of cities, wherein she shone; anenchantress whose spell would not easily be broken, before whom herhusband bowed in delighted subservience--such a woman might flatterHugh's pride, but could scarce be expected to draw out his latentenergies and capabilities. This year, for the first time, he hadvisited no wild country; his journeying led only to Paris, to Vienna. In due season he shot his fifty brace on somebody's grouse-moor, butthe sport did not exhilarate him. 

An odd and improbable alliance, that between Hugh Carnaby and HarveyRolfe. Yet in several ways they suited each other. Old-time memorieshad a little, not much, to do with it; more of the essence of thematter was their feeling of likeness in difference. Ten years agoCarnaby felt inclined to call his old school-fellow a 'cad'; Harvey sawnothing in Hugh but robust snobbishness. Nowadays they had the pleasantsense of understanding each other on most points, and the result was agood deal of honest mutual admiration. The one's physical vigour andadroitness, the other's active mind, liberal thoughts, studious habits, proved reciprocally attractive. Though in unlike ways, both wereimpressively modern. Of late it had seemed as if the man of open air, checked in his natural courses, thrown back upon his meditations, turned to the student, with hope of guidance in new paths, of counselamid unfamiliar obstacles. To the observant Rolfe, his friend'sposition abounded in speculative interest. With the course of years, each had lost many a harsher characteristic, whilst the inner manmatured. That their former relations were gradually being reversed, neither perhaps had consciously noted; but even in the jests whichpassed between them on Harvey's arrival this evening, it appearedplainly enough that Hugh Carnaby no longer felt the slightestinclination to regard his friend as an inferior. 

The room, called library, contained one small case of books, whichdealt with travel and sport. Furniture of the ordinary kind, still new, told of easy circumstances and domestic comfort. Round about the wallshung a few paintings and photographs, intermingled with the stuffedheads of animals slain in the chase, notably that of a great ibex withmagnificent horns. 

'Come, now, tell me all about it, ' said Rolfe, as he mixed himself aglass of whisky and water. 'I don't see that anything has gone fromthis room. '

'Don't you?' cried his host, with a scornful laugh. 'Where are mysilver-mounted pistols? Where's the ibex-hoof made into a paperweight?And'--he raised his voice to a shout of comical despair--'where's mycheque-book?'

'I see. '

'I wish _I_ did. It must break the record for a neat house-robbery, don't you think? And they'll never be caught--I'll bet you anything youlike they won't. The job was planned weeks ago; that woman came intothe house with no other purpose. '

'But didn't your wife know anything about her?'

'What can one know about such people? There were references, Ibelieve--as valuable as references usually are. She must be an oldhand. But I'm sick of the subject; let's drop it. --You wereinterrupted, Hollings. What about that bustard?'

A very tall, spare man, who seemed to rouse himself from a nap, resumedhis story of bustard-stalking in Spain last spring. Carnaby, who knewthe country well, listened with lively interest, and followed withreminiscences of his own. He told of a certain boar, shot in theSierras, which weighed something like four hundred pounds. He talked, too, of flamingoes on the 'marismas' of the Guadalquivir; of puntingday after day across the tawny expanse of water; of cooking his mealson sandy islets at a fire made of tamarisk and thistle; of lyingwakeful in the damp, chilly nights, listening to frogs and bitterns. Then again of his ibex-hunting on the Cordilleras of Castile, when hebrought down that fine fellow whose head adorned his room, the hornsjust thirty-eight inches long. And in the joy of these recollectionsthere seemed to sound a regretful note, as if he spoke of things goneby and irrecoverable, no longer for him. 

One of the men present had recently been in Cyprus, and mentioned itwith disgust. Rolfe also had visited the island, and remembered it muchmore agreeably, his impressions seeming to be chiefly gastronomic; herecalled the exquisite flavour of Cyprian hares, the fat francolin, thedelicious beccaficoes in commanderia wine; with merry banter fromCarnaby, professing to despise a man who knew nothing of game but itstaste. The conversation reverted to technicalities of sport, full ofterms and phrases unintelligible to Harvey; recounting feats with'Empress' and 'Paradox', the deadly results of a 'treble A', or of'treble-nesting slugs', and boasting of a 'right and left with No. 6'. Hugh appeared to forget all about his domestic calamity; only when hisguests rose did he recur to it, and with an air of contemptuousimpatience. But he made a sign to Rolfe, requesting him to stay, and atmidnight the two friends sat alone together. 

'Sibyl has gone to her mother's, ' began Hugh in a changed voice. 'Thepoor girl takes it pluckily. It's a damnable thing, you know, for awoman to lose her rings and bracelets and so on--even such a woman asSibyl. She tried to laugh it off, but I could see--we must buy themagain, that's all. And that reminds me--what's your real opinion ofFrothingham?'

Harvey laughed. 

'When such a lot of people go about asking that question, it would make_me_ rather uneasy if I had anything at stake. '

'They do? So it struck me. The fact is, we have a good deal at stake. The dowager swears by Frothingham. I believe every penny she has is inthe "Britannia", one way or another. '

'It's a wide net, ' said Rolfe musingly. 'The Britannia Loan, Assurance, Investment, and Banking Company, Limited. Very good name, I've oftenthought. '

'Yes; but, look here, you don't seriously doubt--'

'My opinion is worthless. I know no more of finance than of the Cabala. Frothingham personally I rather like, and that's all I can say. '

'The fact is, I have been thinking of putting some of my own--yet Idon't think I shall. We're going away for the winter. Sibyl wants togive up the house, and I think she's right. For people like us, it'smere foolery to worry with a house and a lot of servants. We're neitherof us cut out for that kind of thing. Sibyl hates housekeeping. Well, you can't expect a woman like her to manage a pack of thieving, lying, lazy servants. The housekeeper idea hasn't been a conspicuous success, you see, and there's nothing for it but hotel or boarding-house. '

'If you remember, ' said Rolfe, 'I hinted something of the kind a yearago. '

'Yes; but--well, you know, when people marry they generally look for acertain natural consequence. If we have no children, it'll be allright. '

Rolfe meditated for a moment. 

'You remember that fellow Wager--the man you met at Abbott's? His wifedied a year ago, and now he has bolted, leaving his two children in alodging-house. '

'What a damned scoundrel!' cried Hugh, with a note of honestindignation. 

'Well, yes; but there's something to be said for him. It's a naturalrevolt against domestic bondage. Of course, as things are, someone elsehas to bear the bother and expense; but that's only our state ofbarbarism. A widower with two young children and no income--imagine theposition. Of course, he ought to be able to get rid of them in somelegitimate way--state institution--anything you like that answers toreason. '

'I don't know whether it would work. '

'Some day it will. People talk such sentimental rubbish about children. I would have the parents know nothing about them till they're ten ortwelve years old. They're a burden, a hindrance, a perpetual source ofworry and misery. Most wives are sacrificed to the next generation--anoutrageous absurdity. People snivel over the deaths of babies; I seenothing to grieve about. If a child dies, why, the probabilities are it_ought_ to die; if it lives, it lives, and you get survival of thefittest. We don't want to choke the world with people, most of themrickety and wheezing; let us be healthy, and have breathing space. '

'I believe in _that_, ' said Carnaby. 

'You're going away, then. Where to?'

'That's the point, ' replied Hugh, moving uneasily. 'You see, withSibyl--. I have suggested Davos. Some people she knows are there--girlswho go in for tobogganing, and have a good time. But Sibyl's afraid ofthe cold. I can't convince her that it's nothing to what we endure herein the beastliness of a London winter. She hates the thought of ice andsnow and mountains. A great pity; it would do her no end of good. Isuppose we must go to the Riviera. '

He shrugged his shoulders, and for a moment there was silence. 

'By-the-bye, ' he resumed, 'I have a letter from Miles, and you'd liketo see it. '

From a pile of letters on the table he selected one written on twosheets of thin paper, and handed it to Rolfe. The writing was bold, thestyle vigorous, the matter fresh and interesting. Major Carnaby had nograces of expression; but all the more engrossing was his briefnarrative of mountain warfare, declaring its truthfulness in everystroke of the pen. 

'Fine fellow!' exclaimed Rolfe, when he had read to the end. 'Splendidfellow!'

'Isn't he! And he's seeing life. '

'That's where you ought to be, my boy, ' remarked Rolfe, between puffsof tobacco. 

'I dare say. No use thinking about it. Too late. '

'If I had a son, ' pursued Harvey, smiling at the hypothesis, 'I thinkI'd make a fighting man of him, or try to. At all events, he should goout somewhere, and beat the big British drum, one way or another. Ibelieve it's our only hope. We're rotting at home--some of us sunk inbarbarism, some coddling themselves in over-refinement. What's the useof preaching peace and civilisation, when we know that England's justbeginning her big fight--the fight that will put all history into theshade! We have to lead the world; it's our destiny; and we must do itby breaking heads. That's the nature of the human animal, and will befor ages to come. '

Carnaby nodded assent. 

'If we were all like your brother, ' Rolfe went on. 'I'm glad he'sfighting in India, and not in Africa. I can't love the buccaneeringshopkeeper, the whisky-distiller with a rifle--ugh!'

'I hate that kind of thing. The gold grubbers and diamond bagmen! Butit's part of the march onward. We must have money, you know. '

The speaker's forehead wrinkled, and again he moved uneasily. Rolferegarded him with a reflective air. 

'That man you saw here tonight, ' Carnaby went on, 'the short, thickfellow--his name is Dando--he's just come back from Queensland. I don'tquite know what he's been doing, but he evidently knows a good dealabout mines. He says he has invented a new process for getting gold outof ore--I don't know anything about it. In the early days of mining, hesays, no end of valuable stuff was abandoned, because they couldn'tsmelt it. Something about pyrites--I have a vague recollection of oldchemistry lessons. Dando wants to start smelting works for his newprocess, somewhere in North Queensland. '

'And wants money, I dare say, ' remarked the listener, with a twinkle ofthe eye. 

'I suppose so. It was Carton that brought him here for the first time, a week ago. _Might_ be worth thinking about, you know. '

'I have no opinion. My profound ignorance of everything keeps me in astate of perpetual scepticism. It has its advantages, I dare say. '

'You're very conservative, Rolfe, in your finance. '

'Very. '

'Quite right, no doubt. Could you join us at Nice or some such place?'

'Why, I rather thought of sticking to my books. But if the fogs arevery bad--'

'And you would seriously advise us to give up the house?'

'My dear fellow, how can you hesitate? Your wife is quite right;there's not one good word to be said for the ordinary life of anEnglish household. Flee from it! Live anywhere and anyhow, but don'tkeep house in England. Wherever I go, it's the same cry: domestic lifeis played out. There isn't a servant to be had--unless you're a Dukeand breed them on your own estate. All ordinary housekeepers are at themercy of the filth and insolence of a draggle-tailed, novelette-readingfeminine democracy. Before very long we shall train an army ofmenservants, and send the women to the devil. '

'Queer thing, Rolfe, ' put in his friend, with a laugh; 'I've noticed itof late, you're getting to be a regular woman-hater. '

'Not a bit of it. I hate a dirty, lying, incapable creature, that'sall, whether man or woman. No doubt they're more common in petticoats. '

'Been to the Frothinghams' lately?'

'No. '

'I used to think you were there rather often. '

Rolfe gave a sort of grunt, and kept silence. 

'To my mind, ' pursued the other, 'the best thing about Alma is that sheappreciates my wife. She has really a great admiration for Sibyl; nosham about it, I'm sure. I don't pretend to know much about women, butI fancy that kind of thing isn't common--real friendship and admirationbetween them. People always say so, at all events. '

'I take refuge once more, ' said Rolfe, 'in my fathomless ignorance. '

He rose from his chair, and sat down again on a corner of the table. Carnaby stood up, threw his arms above his head, and yawned with animalvehemence, the expression of an intolerable ennui. 

'There's something damnably wrong with us all--that's the one thingcertain. '

'Idleness, for one thing, ' said Rolfe. 

'Yes. And I'm too old to do anything. Why didn't I follow Miles intothe army? I think I was more cut out for that than for anything else. Ioften feel I should like to go to South Africa and get up a little warof my own. '

Rolfe shouted with laughter. 

'Not half a bad idea, and the easiest thing in the world, no doubt. '

'Nigger-hunting; a superior big game. '

'There's more than that to do in South Africa, ' said Harvey. 'I waslooking at a map in Stanford's window the other day, and it amused me. Who believes for a moment that England will remain satisfied with bitshere and there? We have to swallow the whole, of course. We shall go onfighting and annexing, until--until the decline and fall of the BritishEmpire. That hasn't begun yet. Some of us are so over-civilised that itmakes a reaction of wholesome barbarism in the rest. We shall fightlike blazes in the twentieth century. It's the only thing that keepsEnglishmen sound; commercialism is their curse. Happily, no sooner dothey get fat than they kick, and somebody's shin suffers; then theyfight off the excessive flesh. War is England's Banting. '

'You'd better not talk like that to Sibyl. '

'Why, frankly, old man, I think that's your mistake. But you'll tellme, and rightly enough, to mind my own business. '

'Nonsense. What do you mean exactly? You think I ought to--'

Hugh hesitated, with an air of uneasiness. 

'Well, ' pursued his friend cautiously, 'do you think it's right tosuppress your natural instincts? Mightn't it give her a new interest inlife if she came round a little to your point of view?'

'Queer thing, how unlike we are, isn't it?' said Carnaby, with a suddendrop of his tone to amiable ingenuousness. 'But, you know; we get alongtogether very well. '

'To be sure. Yet you are going to rust in the Riviera when you want tobe on the Himalayas. Wouldn't it do your wife good to give up her booksand her music for a while and taste fresh air?'

'I doubt if she's strong enough for it. '

'It would make her stronger. And here's a good opportunity. If you giveup housekeeping (and housekeepers), why not reform your lifealtogether? Go and have a look at Australia. '

'Sibyl hates the sea. '

'She'd soon get over that. Seriously, you ought to think of it. '

Carnaby set his lips and for a moment hung his head. 

'You're quite right. But--'

'A little pluck, old fellow. '

'I'll see what can be done. Have another whisky?'

They went out into the hall, where a dim light through coloured glassillumined a statue in terracotta, some huge engravings, the massiveantlers of an elk, and furniture in carved oak. 

'Queer feeling of emptiness, ' said Carnaby, subduing his voice. 'I feelas if they'd carried off everything, and left bare walls. Sibylcouldn't stay in the place. Shall I whistle for a cab? By Jove! thatreminds me, the whistle has gone; it happened to be silver. A weddingpresent from that fool Benson, who broke his neck in a steeplechasethree weeks after. ' Harvey laughed, and stepped out into the watery fog. 

CHAPTER 3

A cab crawling at the upper end of the terrace took him quickly home. He entered with his latch-key as a church clock tolled one. 

It was a large house, within a few minutes' walk of Royal Oak Station. Having struck a match, and lit a candle which stood upon the hall table(indicating that he was the last who would enter tonight), Harvey putup the door-chain and turned the great key, then went quietly upstairs. His rooms were on the first floor. A tenancy of five years, with longabsences, enabled him to regard this niche in a characterless suburb asin some sort his home; a familiar smell of books and tobacco welcomedhim as he opened the door; remnants of a good fire kept the air warm, and dispersed a pleasant glow. On shelves which almost concealed thewalls, stood a respectable collection of volumes, the lowest tierconsisting largely of what secondhand booksellers, when invited topurchase, are wont to call 'tomb-stones' that is to say, old folios, ofno great market value, though good brains and infinite labour went tothe making of them. A great table, at one end of which was a tray withglasses and a water-bottle, occupied the middle of the floor; nearerthe fireplace was a small writing-desk. For pictures little space couldbe found; but over the mantelpiece hung a fine water-colour, the floodof Tigris and the roofs of Bagdad burning in golden sunset. Harvey hadbought it at the gallery in Pall Mall not long ago; the work of a manof whom he knew nothing; it represented the farthest point of his owntravels, and touched profoundly his vague historico-poeticsensibilities. 

Three letters lay on the desk. As soon as he had lit his lamp, andexchanged his boots for slippers, he looked at the envelopes, and choseone addressed in a woman's hand. The writer was Mrs. Bennet Frothingham. 

'We have only just heard, from Mrs. Carnaby, that you are back in town. _Could_ you spare us tomorrow evening? It would be so nice of you. Thequartet will give Beethoven's F minor, and Alma says it will be welldone--the conceit of the child! We hope to have some interesting peopleWhat a shocking affair of poor Mrs. Carnaby's! I never knew anything_quite_ so bad. --Our united kind regards. '

Harvey thrust out his lips, in an ambiguous expression, as he threw thesheet aside. He mused before opening the next letter. This proved to beof startling contents: a few lines scribbled informally, undated, without signature. A glance at the postmark discovered 'Liverpool'. 

'The children are at my last address, --you know it. I can do no morefor them. If the shabby Abbotts refuse--as I dare say they will--itwouldn't hurt you to keep them from the workhouse. But it's a devilishhard world, and they must take their chance. '

After a stare and a frown, Harvey woke the echoes with boisterouslaughter. It was long since any passage in writing had so irresistiblytickled his sense of humour. Well, he must let Abbott know of this. Itmight be as well, perhaps, if he called on Mrs. Abbott tomorrow, toremove any doubt that might remain in her mind. The fellow Wager beingan old acquaintance of his, he could not get rid of a sense of far-offresponsibility in this matter; though, happily, Wager's meeting withMrs. Abbott's cousin, which led to marriage and misery, came about quiteindependently of him. 

The last letter he opened without curiosity, but with quiet interestand pleasure. It was dated from Greystone; the writer, Basil Morton, had a place in his earliest memories, for, as neighbours' children, they had played together long before the grammar-school days whichallied him with Hugh Carnaby. 

'For aught I know, ' began Morton, 'you may at this moment be driftingon the Euphrates, or pondering on the site of Alexandreia Eschate. Itis you who owe me an account of yourself; nevertheless, I am promptedto write, if only to tell you that I have just got the complete set ofthe Byzantine Historians. A catalogue tempted me, and I did buy. '

And so on in the same strain, until, in speaking of nearer matters, hisstyle grew simpler. 

'Our elder boy begins to put me in a difficulty. As I told you, he hasbeen brought up on the most orthodox lines of Anglicanism; hismother--best of mothers and best of wives, but in this respectatavistic--has had a free hand, and I don't see how it could have beenotherwise. But now the lad begins to ask awkward questions, and to putme in a corner; the young rascal is a vigorous dialectician andrationalist--odd result of such training. It becomes a serious questionhow I am to behave. I cannot bear to distress his mother, yet how can Itell him that I literally believe those quaint old fables? _Solveturvivendo_, of course, like everything else, but just now it worries me alittle. Generally I can see a pretty clear line of duty; here the dutyis divided, with a vengeance. Have you any counsel?'

Harvey Rolfe mumbled impatiently; all domestic matters were a trial tohis nerves. It seemed to him an act of unaccountable folly to marry awoman from whom one differed diametrically on subjects that lay at theroot of life; and of children he could hardly bring himself to think atall, so exasperating the complication they introduced into socialproblems which defied common-sense. He disliked children; fled thesight and the sound of them in most cases, and, when this was notpossible, regarded them with apprehension, anxiety, weariness, anythingbut interest. In the perplexity that had come upon him, Basil Mortonseemed to have nothing more than his deserts. 'Best of mothers and ofwives', forsooth! An excellent housekeeper, no doubt, but what shadowof qualification for wifehood and motherhood in this year 1886? Thewhole question was disgusting to a rational man--especially to thatvigorous example of the class, by name Harvey Rolfe. 

Late as it was, he did not care to go to bed. This morning he hadbrought home a batch of books from the London Library, and he began toturn them over, with the pleasure of anticipation. Not seldom of latehad Harvey flattered himself on the growth of intellectual gusto whichproceeded in him together with a perceptible decline of baserappetites, so long his torment and his hindrance. His age was now sevenand thirty; at forty he might hope to have utterly trodden under footthe instincts at war with mental calm. He saw before him long years ofcongenial fellowship, of bracing travel, of well-directed studiousness. Let problems of sex and society go hang! He had found a better way. 

On looking back over his life, how improbable it seemed, this happyissue out of crudity, turbulence, lack of purpose, weakness, insincerity, ignorance. First and foremost he had to thank good old DrHarvey, of Greystone; then, his sister, sleeping in her grave under theold chimes she loved; then, surely himself, that seed of good withinhim which had survived all adverse influences--watched, surely, by hisunconscious self, guarded long, and now deliberately nurtured. Might henot think well of himself. 

His library, though for the most part the purchase of late years, contained books which reminded him of every period of his life. Upyonder, on the top shelf, were two score volumes which had belonged tohis father, the share that fell to him when he and his sister made theordained division: scientific treatises out of date, an old magazine, old books of travel. Strange that, in his times of folly, he had notsold these as burdensome rubbish; he was very glad now, when love andreverence for things gone by began to take hold upon him. There, at thesame height, stood a rank of school-books preserved for him by hissister till she died; beside them, medical works, relics of hisabortive study when he was neither boy nor man. Descending, the eyefell upon yellow and green covers, dozens of French novels, acquired atany time from the year of his majority up to the other day; in themass, they reminded him of a frothy season, when he boasted a cheapGallicism, and sneered at all things English. A sprinkling ofmiscellaneous literature accounted for ten years or more when he caredlittle to collect books, when the senses raged in him, and only bymiracle failed to hurl him down many a steep place. Last came theserious acquisitions, the bulk of his library: solid and expensiveworks--historians, archaeologists, travellers, with noble volumes ofengravings, and unwieldy tomes of antique lore. Little enough of allthis had Rolfe digested, but more and more he loved to have eruditionwithin his reach. He began to lack room for comely storage; already alarge bookcase had intruded into his bedroom. If he continued topurchase, he must needs house himself more amply; yet he dreaded thethought of a removal. 

He knew enough and to spare of life in lodgings. His experience beganwhen he came up as a lad to Guy's Hospital, when all lodgings in Londonshone with the glorious light of liberty. It took a wider scope when, having grasped his little patrimony, he threw physic to the dogs, andlived as a gentleman at large. In those days he grew familiar with manykinds of 'apartments' and their nomadic denizens. Having wasted hissubstance, he found refuge in the office of an emigration agent, where, by slow degrees, he proved himself worth a couple of hundred pounds perannum. This was the 'business' to which Hugh Carnaby vaguely referredwhen people questioned him concerning his friend's history. 

Had he possessed the commercial spirit, Harvey might have made hisposition in this office much more lucrative. Entering nominally as aclerk, he undertook from the first a variety of duties which could onlybe discharged by a man of special abilities; for instance, the literaryrevision of seductive pamphlets and broadsheets issued by his employerto the public contemplating emigration. These advertisements hepresently composed, and, from the point of view of effectiveness, didit remarkably well. How far such work might be worthy of an honest man, was another question, which for several years scarcely troubled hisconscience. Before long a use was found for his slender medicalattainments; it became one of his functions to answer persons whovisited the office for information as to the climatic features of thisor that new country, and their physical fitness for going out ascolonists. Of course, there was demanded of him a radicalunscrupulousness, and often enough he proved equal to the occasion; butas time went on, bringing slow development of brain and character, hefound these personal interviews anything but agreeable. He hadconstantly before him the spectacle of human misery and defeat, now andthen in such dread forms that his heart sank and his tongue refused tolie. When disgust made him contemplate the possibility of finding morehonourable employment, the manifest difficulties deterred him. 

He held the place for nearly ten years, living in the end so soberlyand frugally that his two hundred pounds seemed a considerable income;it enabled him to spend his annual month of holiday in continentaltravel, which now had a significance very different from that of histruancies in France or Belgium before he began to earn a livelihood. Two deaths, a year's interval between them, released him from hisoffice. Upon these events and their issue he had not counted;independence came to him as a great surprise, and on the path ofself-knowledge he had far to travel before the significance of that andmany another turning-point grew clear to his backward gaze. 

Seeking for a comfortable abode, he discovered these rooms inBayswater. They were to let furnished, the house being occupied by awidow not quite of the ordinary type of landlady, who entertained onlybachelors, and was fairly conscientious in the discharge of herobligations. Six months later, during Harvey's absence abroad, thiswoman died, and on his return the house had already been stripped offurniture. For a moment he inclined to take a house of his own, butfrom this perilous experiment he was saved by an intimation that, if hewere willing to supply himself with furniture and service, an incomingtenant would let him occupy his old quarters. Harvey grasped at theoffer. His landlord was a man named Buncombe, a truss manufacturer, whohad two children, and seemingly no wife. The topmost storey Buncombeassigned to relatives of his own--a middle-aged woman, Mrs. Handover, with a sickly grownup son, who took some part in the truss business. For a few weeks Rolfe was waited upon by a charwoman, whom he paidextravagantly for a maximum of dirt and discomfort; then theunsatisfactory person fell ill, and, whilst cursing his difficulties, Harvey was surprised by a visit from Mrs. Handover, who made anunexpected suggestion--would Mr. Rolfe accept her services in lieu ofthe charwoman's, paying her whatever he had been accustomed to give?The proposal startled him. Mrs. Handover seemed to belong pretty muchto his own rank of life; he was appalled at the thought of bidding herscrub floors and wash plates; and indeed it had begun to dawn upon himthat, for a man with more than nine hundred a year, he was living in aneedlessly uncomfortable way. On his reply that he thought of removing, Mrs. Handover fell into profound depression, and began to disclose herhistory. Very early in life she had married a man much beneath her instation, with the natural result. After some years of quarrelling, which culminated in personal violence on her husband's part, sheobtained a judicial separation. For a long time the man had ceased tosend her money, and indeed he was become a vagabond pauper, from whomnothing could be obtained; she depended upon her son, and on thekindness of Buncombe, who asked no rent. If she could earn a littlemoney by work, she would be much happier, and with tremulous hope shehad taken this step of appealing to her neighbour in the house. 

Harvey could not resist these representations. When the new arrangementhad been in operation for a week or so, Harvey began to reflect uponMrs. Handover's personal narrative, and in some respects to modify hisfirst impulsive judgment thereon. It seemed to him not impossible thatMr. Handover's present condition of vagabond pauper might be traceableto his marriage with a woman who had never learnt the elements ofdomestic duty. Thoroughly well-meaning, Mrs. Handover was the mostincompetent of housewives. Yet such was Harvey Rolfe's delicacy, and sointense his moral cowardice, that year after year he bore with Mrs. Handover's defects, and paid her with a smile the wages of twofirst-rate servants. Dust lay thick about him; he had grown accustomedto it, as to many another form of sluttishness. After all, he possesseda quiet retreat for studious hours, and a tolerable sleeping-place, with the advantage of having his correspondence forwarded to him whenhe chose to wander. To be sure, it was not final; one would not wish togrow old and die amid such surroundings; sooner or later, circumstancewould prompt the desirable change. Circumstance, at this stage of hiscareer, was Harvey's god; he waited upon its direction with an air ofwisdom, of mature philosophy. 

Of his landlord, Buncombe, he gradually learnt all that he cared toknow. The moment came when Buncombe grew confidential, and he, too, hada matrimonial history to disclose. Poverty played no part in it; hisbusiness flourished, and Mrs. Buncombe, throughout a cohabitation offive years, made no complaint of her lot. All at once--so assertedBuncombe--the lady began to talk of dullness; for a few months shemoped, then of a sudden left home, and in a day or two announced byletter that she had taken a place as barmaid at a music-hall. Therefollowed an interview between husband and wife, with the result, saidBuncombe, that they parted the best of friends, but with anunderstanding that Mrs. Buncombe should be free to follow her own walkin life, with a moderate allowance to supplement what she could earn. That was five years ago. Mrs. Buncombe now sang at second-rate halls, and enjoyed a certain popularity, which seemed to her an amplejustification of the independence she had claimed. She was just thirty, tolerably good-looking, and full of the enjoyment of life. Herchildren, originally left in the care of her mother, whom Buncombesupported, were now looked after by the two servants of the house, andBuncombe seemed to have no conscientious troubles on that score; toHarvey Rolfe's eye it was plain that the brother and sister weregrowing up as vicious little savages, but he permitted himself noremark on the subject. 

After a few conversations, he gained an inkling of Buncombe's motive intaking a house so much larger than he needed. This magnificence wasmeant as an attraction to the roaming wife, whom, it was clear, Buncombe both wished and hoped to welcome back before very long. Shedid occasionally visit the house, though only for an hour or two; justto show, said Buncombe, that there was no ill-feeling. On his part, evidently, there was none whatever. An easy-going, simple-mindedfellow, aged about forty, with a boyish good temper and no will tospeak of, he seemed never to entertain a doubt of his wife's honesty, and in any case would probably have agreed, on the least persuasion, tolet bygones be bygones. He spoke rather proudly than otherwise of Mrs. Buncombe's artistic success. 

'It isn't every woman could have done it, you know, Mr. Rolfe. '

'It is not, ' Harvey assented. 

Only those rooms were furnished which the little family used, five orsix in all; two or three stood vacant, and served as playgrounds forthe children in bad weather. Of his relatives at the top, Buncombenever spoke; he either did not know, or viewed with indifference, thefact that Mrs. Handover served his lodger in a menial capacity. Aboutonce a month he invited three or four male friends to a set dinner, andhilarity could be heard until long after midnight. Altogether it was astrange household, and, as he walked about the streets of theneighbourhood, Harvey often wondered what abnormalities even morestriking might be concealed behind the meaningless uniformity of theseheavily respectable housefronts. As a lodger he was content to dwellhere; but sometimes by a freak of imagination he pictured himself amarried man, imprisoned with wife and children amid these leagues ofdreary, inhospitable brickwork, and a great horror fell upon him. 

No. In his time he had run through follies innumerable, but from thesupreme folly of hampering himself by marriage, a merciful fate hadguarded him. It was probably the most remarkable fact of his life; itheightened his self-esteem, and appeared to warrant him in theassurance that a destiny so protective would round the close of hisdays with tranquillity and content. 

Upon this thought he lay down to rest. For half an hour Basil Morton'sletter had occupied his mind: he had tried to think out the problem itset forth, not to leave his friend quite unanswered; but wearinessprevailed, and with it the old mood of self-congratulation. 

Next morning the weather was fine; that is to say, one could readwithout artificial light, and no rain fell, and far above thehouse-tops appeared a bluish glimmer, shot now and then with paleyellowness. Harvey decided to carry out his intention of calling uponMrs. Abbott. She lived at Kilburn, and thither he drove shortly beforetwelve o'clock. He was admitted to a very cosy room, where, amid booksand pictures, and by a large fire, the lady of the house sat reading. Whatever the cause, it seemed to him that his welcome fell short ofcordiality, and he hastened to excuse himself for intruding at so earlyan hour. 

'I received a letter last night which I thought you had better know ofwithout delay. '

'From that man--Mr. Wager?' said Mrs. Abbott quickly and hopefully, herface brightening. 

'Yes. But there's nothing satisfactory in it. He writes from Liverpool, and merely says that the children are at his lodgings, and he can do nomore for them. '

Mrs. Abbott set her lips in an expression almost of sullenness. Rolfehad never seen her look thus, but it confirmed a suspicion which he hadharboured concerning her. Why, he hardly knew--for she always presenteda face of amiability, and talked in gentle, womanly tones--doubt as toAbbott's domestic felicity haunted his mind. Perhaps he now saw her, for the first time, as she commonly appeared to her husband--slightlypeevish, unwilling to be disturbed, impatient when things did not runsmoothly. 

'You saw my husband yesterday?' was her next remark, not verygraciously uttered. 

'We met in the street last night--before I got Wager's letter. He wassuffering horribly from neuralgia. '

Harvey could not forbear to add this detail, but he softened his voiceand smiled. 

'I don't wonder at it, ' returned the lady; 'he takes no care ofhimself. '

Harvey glanced about the room. Its furnishing might be calledluxurious, and the same standard of comfort prevailed through thehouse. Considering that Edgar Abbott, as Rolfe knew, married on smallmeans, and that he had toiled unremittingly to support a home in whichhe could seldom enjoy an hour's leisure, there seemed no difficulty inexplaining this neglect of his own health. It struck the visitor thatMrs. Abbott might have taken such considerations into account, and havespoken of the good fellow more sympathetically. In truth, Harvey didnot quite like Mrs. Abbott. Her age was about seven and twenty. Shecame of poor folk, and had been a high-school teacher; very clever andsuccessful, it was said, and Harvey could believe it. Her features wereregular, and did not lack sweetness; yet, unless an observer weremistaken, the last year or two had emphasised a certain air ofconscious superiority, perchance originating in the schoolroom. She hadhad one child; it struggled through a few months of sickly life, anddied of convulsions during its mother's absence at a garden-party. Toall appearances, her grief at the loss betokened tenderest feeling. When, in half a year's time, she again came forth into the world, achange was noted; her character seemed to have developed a new energy, she exhibited wider interests, and stepped from the background tobecome a leader in the little circle of her acquaintances. 

'Have you read this?' asked his hostess abruptly, holding up to him aFrench volume, Ribot's _L'Heredite Psychologique_. 

'No. That kind of thing doesn't interest me much. '

'Indeed! I find it _intensely_ interesting. '

Harvey rose; he was in no mood for this kind of small-talk. But nosooner had he quitted his chair, than Mrs. Abbott threw her book aside, and spoke in another tone, seriously, though still with a perceptibleaccent of annoyance. 

'Of course that man's children are here, and I suppose it is our dutyto provide for them till some other arrangement is made. But I think weought to put the matter in the hands of the police. Don't you, MrRolfe?'

'I'm afraid there's small chance of making their father support them. He is certainly out of England by now, and won't easily be caught. '

'The worst of it is, they are anything but _nice_ children. What couldone expect with such a father? Since their poor mother died, they havebeen in the hands of horrible people--low-class landladies, no doubt;their talk shocks me. The last amusement they had, was to be taken bysomebody to Tussaud's, and now they can talk of nothing but "the huntedmurderer"--one sees it on the walls, you know; and they play at beingmurderer and policeman, one trying to escape the other. Pretty play forchildren of five and seven, isn't it?'

Rolfe made a gesture of disgust. 

'I know the poor things can't help it, ' pursued Mrs. Abbott, withsofter feeling, 'but it turns me against them. From seeing so little oftheir father, they have even come to talk with a vulgar pronunciation, like children out of the streets almost. It's dreadful! When I think ofmy cousin--such a sweet, good girl, and _these_ her children--oh, it'shorrible!'

'They are very young, ' said Harvey, in a low voice, perturbed in spiteof himself. 'With good training----'

'Yes, of course we must put them in good hands somewhere. '

Plainly it had never occurred to Mrs. Abbott that such a task as thismight, even temporarily, be undertaken by herself; her one desire wasto get rid of the luckless brats, that their vulgarity might not painher, and the care of them encumber her polite leisure. 

After again excusing himself for this call, and hearing his apologythis time more graciously received, Harvey withdrew from the cosystudy, and left Mrs. Abbott to her _Heredite Psychologique_. On his wayto lunch in town, he thought of the overworn journalist groaning withneuralgia, and wondered how Mrs. Abbott would relish a removal to thetown of Waterbury. 

CHAPTER 4

Uncertain to the last moment, Harvey did at length hurry into his dressclothes, and start for Fitzjohn Avenue. He had little mind for thesemi-fashionable crowd and the amateur music, but he could not answerMrs. Bennet Frothingham with any valid excuse, and, after all, shemeant kindly towards him. Why he enjoyed so much of this lady's favourit was not easy to understand; intellectual sympathy there could benone between them, and as for personal liking, on his side it did notgo beyond that naturally excited by a good-natured, feather-brained, rather pretty woman, whose sprightliness never passed the limits ofdecorum, and who seemed to have better qualities than found scope inher butterfly existence. Perhaps he amused her, being so unlike thekind of man she was accustomed to see. His acquaintance with the familydated from their social palingenesis, when, after obscure prosperity ina southern suburb, they fluttered to the northern heights, and wereobserved of the paragraphists. Long before that, Bennet Frothingham hadbeen known in the money-market; it was the 'Britannia'--Loan, Assurance, Investment, and Banking Company, Limited--that made himnationally prominent, and gave an opportunity to his wife (in secondmarriage) and his daughter (by the first). Three years ago, whenCarnaby (already lured by the charms of Sibyl Larkfield) presented hisfriend Rolfe as 'the man who had been to Bagdad', Alma Frothingham, notquite twenty-one, was studying at the Royal Academy of Music, and, according to her friends, promised to excel alike on the piano and theviolin, having at the same time a 'really remarkable' contralto voice. Of late the young lady had abandoned singing, rarely used thepianoforte, and seemed satisfied to achieve distinction as a violinist. She had founded an Amateur Quartet Society, whose performances werefrequently to be heard at the house in Fitzjohn Avenue. 

Last winter Harvey had chanced to meet Alma and her stepmother atLeipzig, at a Gewandhaus concert. He was invited to go with them tohear the boys' motet at the Thomaskirche; and with this intercoursebegan the change in their relations from mere acquaintance to somethinglike friendship. Through the following spring Rolfe was a familiarfigure at the Frothinghams'; but this form of pleasure soon weariedhim, and he was glad to escape from London in June. He knew the shadowyand intermittent temptation which beckoned him to that house; music hadpower over him, and he grew conscious of watching Alma Frothingham, herwhite little chin on the brown fiddle, with too exclusive an interest. When 'that fellow' Cyrus Redgrave, a millionaire, or something of thesort, began to attend these gatherings with a like assiduity, and towin more than his share of Miss Frothingham's conversation, Harvey felta disquietude which happily took the form of disgust, and it was easyenough to pack his portmanteau. 

Through the babble of many voices in many keys, talk mingling withlaughter more or less melodiously subdued, he made his way up the greatstaircase. As he neared the landing, there sounded the shrill squeak ofa violin and a 'cello's deep harmonic growl. His hostess, small, slender, fair, and not yet forty, a jewel-flash upon her throat and inthe tiara above her smooth low forehead, took a step forward to greethim. 

'Really? How delightful! I shot at a venture, and it was a hit afterall!'

'They are just beginning?'

'The quartet--yes. Herr Wilenski has promised to play afterwards. '

He moved on, crossed a small drawing-room, entered the larger roomsacred to music, and reached a seat in the nick of time. MissFrothingham, the violin against her shoulder, was casting a finalglance at the assembly, the glance which could convey a noble severitywhen it did not forthwith impose silence. A moment's perfect stillness, and the quartet began. There were two ladies, two men. Miss Frothinghamplayed the first violin, Mr. AEneas Piper the second; the 'cello was inthe hands of Herr Gassner, and the viola yielded its tones to Miss DoraLeach. Harvey knew them all, but had eyes only for one; in truth, onlyone rewarded observation. Miss Leach was a meagre blonde, whose form, face, and attitude enhanced by contrast the graces of the First Violin. Alma's countenance shone--possibly with the joy of the artist, perhapsonly with gratified vanity. As she grew warm, the rosy blood mantled inher cheeks and flushed her neck. Every muscle and nerve tense as thestrings from which she struck music, she presently swayed forward onthe points of her feet, and seemed to gain in stature, to become a morecommanding type. Her features suggested neither force of intellect ororiginality of character: but they had beauty, and something more. Shestood a fascination, an allurement, to the masculine sense. HarveyRolfe had never so responded to this quality in the girl; the smiledied from his face as he regarded her. Of her skill as a musician, hecould form no judgment; but it seemed to him that she played very well, and he had heard her praised by people who understood the matter; forinstance, Herr Wilenski, the virtuoso, from whom--in itself a greatcompliment--Alma was having lessons. 

He averted his eyes, and began to seek for known faces among theaudience. His host he could not discover; Mr. Frothingham must be awayfrom home this evening; it was seldom he failed to attend Alma'sconcerts. But near the front sat Mrs. Ascott Larkfield, a dazzlingfigure, and, at some distance, her daughter Mrs. Carnaby, no shadow ofgloom upon her handsome features. Hugh was not in sight; probably hefelt in no mood for parties. Next to Mrs. Carnaby sat 'that fellow', Cyrus Redgrave, smiling as always, and surveying the people near himfrom under drooping brows, his head slightly bent. Mr. Redgrave hadthin hair, but a robust moustache and a short peaked beard; hiscomplexion was a rifle sallow; he lolled upon the chair, so that, atmoments, his head all but brushed Mrs. Carnaby's shoulder. 

Long before the close of the piece, Rolfe had ceased to listen, histhoughts drifting hither and hither on a turbid flood of emotion. During the last passage--_Allegro molto leggieramente_--he felt amovement round about him as a general relief, and when, on the lastnote, there broke forth (familiar ambiguity) sounds of pleasure and ofapplause, he at once stood up. But he had no intention of pressing intothe throng that rapidly surrounded the musicians. Seeing that Mr. Redgrave had vacated his place, whilst Mrs. Carnaby remained seated, hestepped forward to speak with his friend's wife. She smiled up at him, and lifted a gloved finger. 

'No! Please don't!'

'Not sit down by you?'

'Oh, certainly. But I saw condolence in your face, and I'm tired of it. Besides, it would be mere hypocrisy in you. '

Harvey gave a silent laugh. He had tried to understand Sibyl Carnaby, and at different times had come to very different conclusions regardingher. All women puzzled, and often disconcerted, him; with Sibyl hecould never talk freely, knowing not whether to dislike or to admireher. He was not made on the pattern of Cyrus Redgrave, who probablyviewed womankind with instinctive contempt, yet pleased all with theflattery of his homage. 

'Well, then, we won't talk of it, ' he said, noticing, in the samemoment, that her person did not lack the adornment of jewels. Perhapsshe had happened to be wearing these things on the evening of therobbery; but Rolfe felt a conviction that, under any circumstances, Sibyl would not be without rings and bracelets. 

'They certainly improve, ' she remarked, indicating the quartet with thetip of her fan. 

Her opinions were uttered with calm assurance, whatever the subject. Aninfinite self-esteem, so placid that it never suggested the vulgarityof conceit, shone in her large eyes and dwelt upon the beautiful curveof her lips. No face could be of purer outline, of less sensualsuggestiveness; it wore at times an air of cold abstraction which wasall but austerity. Rolfe imagined her the most selfish of women, thought her incapable of sentiment; yet how was her marriage to beaccounted for, save by supposing that she fell in love with HughCarnaby? Such a woman might surely have sold herself to greatadvantage; and yet--odd incongruity--she did not impress one associally ambitious. Her mother, the ever-youthful widow, sped fromassembly to assembly, unable to live save in the whirl of fashion; notso Sibyl. Was she too proud, too self-centred? And what ambition didshe nourish?

Or was it all an illusion of the senses? Suppose her a mere gravenimage, hollow, void. Call her merely a handsome woman, with the face ofsome remarkable ancestress, with just enough of warmth to be subdued bythe vigorous passion of such a fine fellow as Carnaby. On the whole, Rolfe preferred this hypothesis. He had never heard her say anythingreally bright, or witty, or significant. But Hugh spoke of her finequalities of head and heart; Alma Frothingham made her an exemplar, andwould not one woman see through the vacuous pretentiousness of another?

Involuntarily, he was gazing at her, trying to read her face. 

'So you think we ought to go to Australia, ' said Sibyl quietly, returning his look. 

Hugh had repeated the conversation of last night; indiscreet, butnatural. One could not suppose that Hugh kept many secrets from hiswife. 

'I?' He was confused. 'Oh, we were talking about the miseries ofhousekeeping----'

'I hate the name of those new countries. '

It was said smilingly, but with what expression in the word 'hate'!

'Vigorous cuttings from the old tree, ' said Rolfe. 'There is England'sfuture. '

'Perhaps so. At present they are barbarous, and I have a decidedpreference for civilisation. So have you, I am quite sure. '

Rolfe murmured his assent; whereupon Sibyl rose, just bent her head tohim, and moved with graceful indolence away. 

'Now she hates _me_, ' Harvey said in his mind; 'and much I care!'

As a matter of courtesy, he thought it well to move in MissFrothingham's direction. The crowd was thinning; without difficulty heapproached to within a few yards of her, and there exchanged a word ortwo with the player of the viola, Miss Leach--a good, ingenuouscreature, he had always thought; dangerous to no man's peace, butrather sentimental, and on that account to be avoided. Whilst talking, he heard a man's voice behind him, pretentious, coarse, laying down thelaw in a musical discussion. 

'No, no; Beethoven is not _Klaviermaszig_. His thoughts atesymphonic--they need the orchestra. .. . A string quartet is to asymphony what a delicate water-colour is to an oil-painting. .. . Oh, Idon't care for his playing at all! he has not--what shall I callit?--_Sehnsucht_. '

Rolfe turned at length to look. A glance showed him a tall, bony youngman, with a great deal of disorderly hair, and shaven face;harsh-featured, sensual, utterly lacking refinement. He inquired ofMiss Leach who this might be, and learnt that the man's name was FelixDymes. 

'Isn't he a humbug?'

The young lady was pained and shocked. 

'Oh, he is very clever, ' she whispered. 'He has composed a mostbeautiful song--don't you know it?--"Margot". It's very likely thatTopham may sing it at one of the Ballad Concerts. '

'Now I've offended _her_, ' said Rolfe to himself. 'No matter. '

Seeing his opportunity, he took a few steps, and stood before AlmaFrothingham. She received him very graciously, looking him straight inthe face, with that amused smile which he could never interpret. Did itmean that she thought him 'good fun'? Had she discussed him with SibylCarnaby, and heard things of him that moved her mirth? Or was it puregood nature, the overflowing spirits of a vivacious girl?

'So good of you to come, Mr. Rolfe. And what did you think of us?'

This was characteristic. Alma delighted in praise, and never hesitatedto ask for it. She hung eagerly upon his unready words. 

'I only show my ignorance when I talk of music. Of course, I liked it. '

'Ah! then you didn't think it very good. I see----'

'But I _did_! Only my opinion is worthless. '

Alma looked at him, seemed to hesitate, laughed; and Harvey felt theconviction that, by absurd sincerity, he had damaged himself in thegirl's eyes. What did it matter?

'I've been practising five hours a day, ' said Alma, in rapid, ardenttones. Her voice was as pleasant to the ear as her face to look upon;richly feminine, a call to the emotions. 'That isn't bad, is it?'

'Tremendous energy!'

'Oh, music is my religion, you know. I often feel sorry I haven't toget my living by it; it's rather wretched to be only an amateur, don'tyou think?'

'Religion shouldn't be marketable, ' joked Harvey. 

'Oh, but you know what I mean. You are so critical, Mr. Rolfe. I've agood mind to ask Father to turn me out of house and home, with justhalf-a-crown. Then I might really do something. It would be splendid!--Oh, what do you think of that shameful affair in Hamilton Terrace? MrsCarnaby takes it like an angel. They're going to give up housekeeping. Very sensible, I say. Everybody will do it before long. Why should webe plagued with private houses?'

'There are difficulties----'

'Of course there are, and men seem to enjoy pointing them out. Theythink it a crime if women hate the bother and misery of housekeeping. '

'I am not so conservative. '

He tried to meet her eyes, which were gleaming fixedly upon him; buthis look fell, and turned as quickly from the wonderful whiteshoulders, the throbbing throat, the neck that showed its colouragainst swan's-down. To his profound annoyance, someone intervened--alady bringing someone else to be introduced. Rolfe turned on his heel, and was face to face with Cyrus Redgrave. Nothing could be suaver ormore civil than Mr. Redgrave's accost; he spoke like a polishedgentleman, and, for aught Harvey knew, did not misrepresent himself. But Rolfe had a prejudice; he said as little as possible, and moved on. 

In the smaller drawing-room he presently conversed with his hostess. Mrs. Frothingham's sanguine and buoyant temper seemed proof againstfatigue; at home or as a guest she wore the same look of enjoyment;vexations, rivalries, responsibilities, left no trace upon her beamingcountenance. Her affections were numberless; her ignorance, as anobserver easily discovered, was vast and profound; but the desire toplease, the tact of a 'gentlewoman, and thorough goodness of heart, appeared in all her sayings and doings; she was never offensive, neverwholly ridiculous. Small-talk flowed from her with astonishingvolubility, tone and subject dictated by the characteristics of theperson with whom she gossiped; yet her preference was for talk onhomely topics, reminiscences of a time when she knew not luxury. 'Youmay not believe it, ' she said to him in a moment of confidence, 'but Iassure you I am a very good cook. ' Rolfe did not quite credit theassurance, but he felt it not improbable that Mrs. Frothingham wouldaccept a reverse of fortune with much practical philosophy; he couldimagine her brightening a small house with the sweetness of herdisposition, and falling to humble duties with sprightly goodwill. Inthis point she was a noteworthy exception among the prosperous women ofhis acquaintance. 

'And what have you been doing?' she asked, not as a mere phrase ofcivility, but in a voice and which a look of genuine interest. 

'Wasting my time, for the most part. '

'So you always say; but it can't be true. I know the kind of man whowastes his time, and you're not a bit like him. Nothing would gratifymy curiosity more than to be able to watch you through a whole day. What did you think of the quartet?'

'Capital!'

'I'm sure they would make wonderful progress, and Alma does work sohard! I'm only afraid she may injure her health. '

'I see no sign of it yet. '

'She's certainly looking very well, ' said Mrs. Frothingham, withmanifest pride and affection. Of Alma she always spoke thus; nothing ofthe step-mother was ever observable. 

'Mr. Frothingham is not here this evening!'

'I really don't know why, ' replied the hostess, casting her eyes roundthe room. 'I quite expected him. But he has been dreadfully busy thelast few weeks. And people do worry him so. Somebody called whilst wewere at dinner, and refused to believe that Mr. Frothingham was not athome, and made quite a disturbance at the door--so they told meafterwards. I'm really quite nervous sometimes; crazy people are alwayswanting to see him--people who really ought not to be at large. Nodoubt they have had their troubles, poor things; and everybody thinksmy husband can make them rich if only he chooses. '

A stout, important-looking man paused before Mrs. Frothingham, andspoke familiarly. 

'I'm looking for B. F. Hasn't he put in an appearance yet?'

'I really hope he's enjoying himself somewhere else, ' replied thehostess, rising, with a laugh. 'You leave him no peace. '

The stout man did not smile, but looked gravely for a moment at Rolfe, a stranger to him, and turned away. 

Herr Wilenski, the virtuoso, was about to play something; the guestsmoved to seat themselves. Rolfe, however, preferred to remain in thisroom, where he could hear the music sufficiently well. He had not quiterecovered from his chagrin at the interruption of his talk with Alma--afoolishness which made him impatient with himself. At the same time, hekept thinking of the 'crazy people' of whom Mrs. Frothingham spoke solightly. A man such as Bennet Frothingham must become familiar withmany forms of 'craziness', must himself be responsible for a good dealof folly such as leads to downright aberration. Recalling Mrs. Frothingham's innocent curiosity concerning his own life, Harveywished, in turn, that it were possible for him to watch and comprehendthe business of a great finance-gambler through one whole day. Whatmonstrous cruelties and mendacities might underlie the surface of thisgay and melodious existence! Why was the stout man looking for 'B. F. '?Why did he turn away with such a set countenance? Why was that old boreat the club in such a fidget about the 'Britannia'?

Ha! There indeed sounded the violin! It needed no technicalintelligence to distinguish between the playing of Wilenski and that ofAlma Frothingham. Her religion, forsooth! Herr Wilenski, one might besure, talked little enough about his 'religion'. What did Alma think asshe listened? Was she overcome by the despair of the artist-soulstruggling in its immaturity? Or did she smile, as ever, andcongratulate herself on the five hours a day, and tell herself how soonshe would reach perfection if there were real necessity for it?Hopeless to comprehend a woman. The senses warred upon the wit; seizedby calenture, one saw through radiant mists. 

He did not like the name 'Alma'. It had a theatrical sound, asuggestion of unreality. 

The _maestro_ knew his audience; he played but for a quarter of anhour, and the babble of tongues began again. Rolfe, sauntering beforethe admirable pictures which hung here as a mere symbol of wealth, heard a voice at his shoulder. 

'I'm very thirsty. Will you take me down?'

His heart leapt with pleasure; Alma must have seen it in his eyes as heturned. 

'What did Wilenski play?' he asked confusedly, as they moved towardsthe staircase. 

'Something of Grieg's Mr. Wilbraham is going to sing "Wie bist du, meine Koniginn"--Brahms, you know. But you don't really care for music. '

'What an astounding accusation!'

'You don't really care for it. I've known that since we were atLeipzig. '

'I have never pretended to appreciate music as you do. That needseducation, and something more. Some music wearies me, there's nodenying it. '

'You like the Melody in F?'

'Yes, I do. '

Alma laughed, with superiority, but not ill-naturedly. 

'And I think it detestable--but of course that doesn't matter. When Italk about books you think me a nincompoop. --That word used to amuse meso when I was a child. I remember laughing wildly whenever I saw orheard it. It _is_ a funny word, isn't it?'

'The last I should apply to you, ' said Rolfe in an absent undertone, ashe caught a glimpse of the white teeth between her laughing lips. 

They entered the supper-room, where as yet only a few people wererefreshing themselves. Provisions for a regiment spread before thegaze; delicacies innumerable invited the palate: this house was famedfor its hospitable abundance. Alma, having asked her companion to gether some lemonade, talked awhile with two ladies who had begun to eatand drink in a serious spirit; waiting for her, Rolfe swallowed twoglasses of wine to counteract a certain dullness and literalness whichwere wont to possess him in such company. 

'I won't sit down, ' she said. 'No, thanks, nothing to eat. I wonderwhere Papa is? Now, _he_ enjoys music, though he is no musician. Ithink Papa a wonderful man. For years he has never had more than sixhours sleep; and the work he does! He _can't_ take a holiday; idlenessmakes him ill. We were down in Hampshire in July with some relatives ofMamma's--the quietest, sleepiest village--and Papa tried to spend a fewdays with us, but he had to take to flight; he would have perished ofennui. '

'Life at high pressure, ' remarked Rolfe, as the least offensive commenthe could make. 

'Yes; and isn't it better than life at low?' exclaimed the girl, withanimation. 'Most people go through existence without once exerting allthe powers that are in them. I should hate to die with the thought thatI hadn't really lived myself _out_. A year ago Papa took me into theCity to see the offices of _Stock and Share_, just after the paperstarted. It didn't interest me very much; but I pretended it did, because Papa always takes an interest in _my_ affairs. But I foundthere was something else. After we had seen the printing machinery, andso on, he took me up to the top of the building into a small room, where there was just a table and a chair and a bookshelf; and he toldme it was his first office, the room in which he had begun businessthirty years ago. He has always kept it for his own, and just as itwas--a fancy of his. There's no harm in my telling you; he's very proudof it, and so am I. That's energy!'

'Very interesting indeed. '

'I must go up again, ' she added quickly. 'Oh, there's miss Beaufoy; dolet me introduce you to Miss Beaufoy. '

She did so, unaware of Rolfe's groaning reluctance, and at oncedisappeared. 

The supper-room began to fill. As soon as he could escape from MissBeaufoy, who had a cavalier of her own, Harvey ascended the stairsagain, and found a quiet corner, where he sat for a quarter of an hourundisturbed. Couples and groups paused to talk near him, and wheneverhe caught a sentence it was the merest chatter, meaningless repetitionof commonplaces which, but for habit, must have been an unutterableweariness to the least intelligent of mortals. He was resolved never tocome here again; never again to upset his peace of mind and sully hisself-respect by grimacing amid such a crowd. He enjoyed humanfellowship, timely merry-making; but to throng one's house with peoplefor whom, with one or two exceptions, one cared not a snap of thefingers, what was this but sheer vulgarism? As for Alma Frothingham, long ago he had made up his mind about her. Naturally, inevitably, sheabsorbed the vulgarity of her atmosphere. All she did was for effect:it was her cue to pose as the artist; she would keep it up throughlife, and breathe her last, amid perfumes, declaring that she had'lived herself out'. 

In his peevishness he noticed that women came up from supper withflushed cheeks and eyes unnaturally lustrous. What a grossly sensuallife was masked by their airs and graces! He had half a mind to starttomorrow for the Syrian deserts. 

'Do let us see you again soon, ' said his hostess, as he took leave ofher. 'Come in at five o'clock on Wednesday, that's our quiet day; onlya few of our _real_ friends. We shall be in town till Christmas, forcertain. '

On the stairs he passed Mr. Felix Dymes, the composer of 'Margot'. 

'Oh, it's the easiest thing in the world, ' Mr. Dymes was saying, 'tocompose a song that will be popular. I'll give you the recipe, andcharge nothing You must have a sudden change to the minor, and a waltzrefrain--that's all. Oh yes, there's money in it. I know a man who----'

Rolfe had never left the house in such a bad temper. 

CHAPTER 5

When he awoke next morning, the weather was so gloomy that he seriouslyresumed his thought of getting away from London. Why, indeed, did hemake London his home, when it would be easy to live in places vastlymore interesting, and under a pure sky? He was a citizen of no city atall, and had less desire than ever to bind himself to a permanenthabitation. All very well so long as he kept among his male friends, atthe club and elsewhere; but this 'society' played the deuce with him, and he had not the common-sense, the force of resolve, to keep out ofit altogether. 

Well, he must go to his bank this morning, to draw cash. 

It was about twelve o'clock when he stood at the counter, waiting withhis cheque. The man before him talked with the teller. 

'Do you know that the "Britannia" has shut up?'

'The bank? No!'

'But it has. I passed just now, and there were a lot of people standingabout. Closed at half-past eleven, they say. 

Harvey had a singular sensation, a tremor at his heart, a flutter ofthe pulses, a turning cold and hot; then he was quite calm again, andsaid to himself, 'Of course. ' For a minute or two the quiet routine ofthe bank was suspended; the news passed from mouth to mouth; newcomersswelled a gossiping group in front of the counter, and Harvey listened. The general tone was cynical; there sounded scarcely a note ofindignation; no one present seemed to be personally affected by thedisaster. The name of Bennet Frothingham was frequently pronounced, with unflattering comments. 

'Somebody'll get it hot, ' remarked one of the speakers; and the otherslaughed. 

Rolfe, having transacted his business, walked away. It struck him thathe would go and look at the closed bank, but he did not remember theaddress; a policeman directed him, and he walked on, the distance notbeing very great. At the end of the street in which the building stood, signs of the unusual became observable--the outskirts of a crowd, hanging loose in animated talk, as after some exciting occurrence; andbefore the bank itself was gathered a throng of men, respectability'ssilk hats mingling with the felts and caps of lower strata. Here andthere a voice could be heard raised in anger, but the prevailingemotion seemed to be mere curiosity. The people who would suffer mostfrom the collapse of this high-sounding enterprise could not reach thescene of calamity at half an hour's notice; they were dwellers in manyparts of the British Isles, strangers most of them to London city, withbut a vague mental picture of the local habitation of the BritanniaLoan, Assurance, Investment, and Banking Company, Limited. 

His arm was seized, and a voice said hoarsely in his ear--

'By God! too late. '

Hugh Carnaby had tumbled out of a cab, and saw his friend in the samemoment that he got near enough to perceive that the doors of the bankwere shut. 

'The thieves have lost no time, ' he added, pale with fury. 

'You had warning of it?'

Hugh pulled him a few yards away, and whispered----

'Bennet Frothingham shot himself last night. '

Again Harvey experienced that disagreeable heart-shock, with thealternation of hot and cold. 

'Where? At home?'

'At the office of _Stock and Share_. Come farther away. It'll be in theevening papers directly, but I don't want those blackguards to hear me. I got up late this morning, and as I was having breakfast, Sibyl rushedin. She brought the news; had it from some friend of her mother's, aman connected somehow with _Stock and Share_. I thought they would shutup shop, and came to try and save Sibyl's balance--a couple of hundred, that's all--but they've swallowed it with the rest. '

'With the rest?'

Hugh laughed mockingly. 

'Of hers. Devilish bad luck Sibyl has. It was just a toss-up that agood deal of my own wasn't in, one way or another. '

'Do you know any more about Frothingham?'

'No. Only the fact. Don't know when it was, or when it got known. Weshall have it from the papers presently. I think every penny MrsLarkfield had was in. '

'But it may not mean absolute ruin, ' urged Harvey. 

'I know what to think when B. F. Commits suicide. We shall hear thatsome of the others have bolted. It'll be as clean a sweep as ourhousekeeper's little job. '

'I've had queer presentiments, ' Harvey murmured. 

'Why, damn it, so have I! So had lots of people. But nobody ever doesanything till it's too late. I must get home again with my agreeablenews. You'll be going to the club, I dare say? They'll have plenty totalk about for the next month or two. '

'Try to come round tonight to my place. '

'Perhaps. It depends on fifty chances. There's only one thing I knowfor certain--that I shall get out of this cursed country as soon aspossible. '

They parted, and Harvey walked westward. He had no reason for hurry; asusual, the tumult of the world's business passed him by; he was merelya looker-on. It occurred to him that it might be a refreshing and asalutary change if for once he found himself involved in the anxietiesto which other men were subject; this long exemption and securityfostered a too exclusive regard of self, an inaptitude for sympatheticemotion, which he recognised as the defect of his character. Thismorning's events had startled him, and given a shock to hisimagination; but already he viewed them and their consequences with aself-possession which differed little from unconcern. BennetFrothingham, no doubt, had played a rascally game, foreseeing all alongthe issues of defeat. As to his wife and daughter, it would be strangeif they were not provided for; suffer who might, they would probablylive on in material comfort, and nowadays that was the firstconsideration. He was surprised that their calamity left him sounmoved; it showed conclusively how artificial were his relations withthese persons; in no sense did he belong to their world; for all hisfoolish flutterings, Alma Frothingham remained a stranger to him, alienfrom every point of view, personal, intellectual, social. And how manyof the people who crowded to her concert last night would hear the newsthis morning with genuine distress on her account? Gratified envy wouldbe the prevailing mood, with rancorous hostility in the minds of thosewho were losers by Bennet Frothingham's knavery or ill-fortune. HughCarnaby's position called for no lament; he had a sufficient income ofhis own, and would now easily overcome his wife's pernicious influence;with or without her, he would break away from a life of corruptingindolence, and somewhere beyond seas 'beat the British drum'--use hissuperabundant vitality as nature prompted. 

After all, it promised to clear the air. These explosions wereperiodic, inevitable, wholesome. The Britannia Loan, &c, &c, &c, hadrun its pestilent course; exciting avarice, perturbing quiet industrywith the passion of the gamester, inflating vulgar ambition, now atlength scattering wreck and ruin. This is how mankind progresses. Harvey Rolfe felt glad that no theological or scientific dogmaconstrained him to a justification of the laws of life. 

At lunchtime, newspaper boys began to yell. The earliest placardsroared in immense typography. In the Metropolitan Club, sheets moistfrom the press suddenly descended like a fall of snow. Rolfe stood by awindow and read quietly. This first report told him little that he hadnot already learnt, but there were a few details of the suicide. Frothingham, it appeared, always visited the office of _Stock andShare_ on the day before publication. Yesterday, as usual, he hadlooked in for half an hour at three o'clock; but unexpectedly he cameagain at seven in the evening, and for a third time at about eleven, when the printing of the paper was in full swing. 'It was supposed bythe persons whom he then saw that Mr. Frothingham finally quitted theoffice; whether he actually left the building or not seems to remainuncertain. If so, he re-entered without being observed, which does notseem likely. Between two and three o'clock this morning, when _Stockand Share_ was practically ready for distribution, a man employed onthe premises is said, for some unexplained reason, to have ascended tothe top floor of the building, and to have entered a room ordinarilyunused. A gas-jet was burning, and the man was horrified to discoverthe dead body of Mr. Frothingham, at full length on the floor, in hishand a pistol. On the alarm being given, medical aid was at oncesummoned, and it became evident that death had taken place more than anhour previously. That no one heard the report of a pistol can be easilyexplained by the noise of the machinery below. The dead man's face wasplacid. Very little blood had issued from the wound, and the shot musthave been fired with a remarkably steady hand. '

'A room on the top floor of the building, ordinarily unused----' Whatstory was it that Alma Frothingham told last night, of her visit to theoffice of _Stock and Share_? Rolfe had not paid much attention to it atthe time; now he recalled the anecdote, and was more impressed by itssignificance. That room, his first place of business, the scene of poorbeginnings, Bennet Frothingham had chosen for his place of death. Perhaps he had long foreseen this possibility, had mused upon thedramatic fitness of such an end; for there was a strain of melancholyin the man, legible on his countenance, perceptible in his privateconversation. Just about the time when Alma laughingly told the story, her father must have been sitting in that upper room, thinking his lastthoughts; or it might be that he lay already dead. 

Later issues contained much fuller reports. The man who found the bodyhad explained his behaviour in going up to the unused room, and itrelieved the dark affair with a touch of comedy. Before coming to work, he had quarrelled with his wife, and, rather than go home in the earlyhours of the morning, he hit upon the idea of finding a sleeping-placehere on the premises, to which he could slink unnoticed. 'It's littleenough sleep I get in my own house, ' was his remark to the reporter whowon his confidence. Clubmen were hilarious over this incident, speculating as to the result of its publication on the indiscreet man'sdomestic troubles. 

It was not unremarked that a long time elapsed between the discovery ofthe suicide and its being heard of by anyone who had an interest inmaking it generally known. With the exception of two persons, all whowere engaged upon the production of the newspaper went home in completeignorance of what had happened, so cautiously and successfully was thesituation dealt with by the sub-editor and his informant. When, afteran examination by the doctor, who had been summoned in all secrecy, itbecame necessary to communicate with the police, the employees had allgone away, and the printed sheets had been conveyed to the distributingagents. Naturally, the subeditor of _Stock and Share_' preserved acertain reticence in the matter; but one could hardly be mistaken inassuming that the directors of the Britannia Company--two or three ofthem, at all events--had an opportunity of surveying their positionlong before the hour when this momentous news got abroad. 

With regard to the company's affairs, only conjecture could be as yetindulged in. In view of the immediate stoppage of business, it waspretty safe to surmise that alarming disclosures awaited the public. Noone, of course, would be justified in prejudging the case against theunhappy man who, amid seemingly brilliant circumstances, had beendriven to so desperate an act. 

And so on, and so on, in one journal after another, in edition uponedition. Harvey Rolfe read them till he was weary, listened to thegossip of the club till he was nauseated. He went home at length with aheadache, and, having carefully avoided contact with Buncombe or MrsHandover, made an effort to absorb himself in a volume of Gregorovius, which was at present his study. The attempt was futile. Talk stillseemed to buzz about him; his temples throbbed; his thoughts wanderedfar and wide. Driven to bed long before his accustomed hour, he heardraucous voices rending the night, bellowing in hideous antiphony fromthis side of the street and the other, as the vendors of a halfpennypaper made the most of what Providence had sent them. 

The first thing after breakfast next morning, he posted a line to HughCarnaby. 'Is there any way in which I can be of use to you? If youthink not, I shall be off tomorrow to Greystone for a few days. I feelas if we were all being swept into a ghastly whirlpool which roars overthe bottomless pit. Of course, I will stay if I can do anything, nomatter what. Otherwise, address for a week to Basil Morton's. '

This he dropped into the nearest pillar-box, and, as the sun wasendeavouring to shine, he walked the length of the street, a pretenceof exercise. On his way back he was preceded by a telegraph boy, whostopped at Buncombe's front door, and awoke the echoes with a twofolddouble knock. Before the servant could open, Harvey was on the steps. 

'What name?'

'Rolfe. '

'For me, then. '

He tore open the envelope. 

'Could you come at once? Something has happened. --Abbott. '

The boy wished to know if there would be a reply. Harvey shook hishead, and stepped into the hall, where he stood reflecting. What couldhave happened that Edgar Abbott should summon him? Had his wife runaway?-- Ah, to be sure, it must have something to do with Wager'schildren--an accident, a death. But why send for _him_?

He made a little change in his dress, and drove forthwith to Kilburn. As his cab stopped, he saw that all the blinds in the front of theAbbotts' house were drawn down. Death, then, obviously. It was with apainful shaking of the nerves that he knocked for admission. 

'Mr. Abbott----?'

The servant girl, who had a long-drawn face, said nothing, but left himwhere he stood, returning in a moment with a mumbled 'Will you pleaseto come in, sir?' He followed her to the room in which he had talkedwith Mrs. Abbott two days ago; and she it was who again received him. Her back to the light, she stood motionless. 

'Your husband has telegraphed for me----'

A voice that struggled with a sob made thick reply----

'No--I--he is dead!'

The accent of that last monosyllable was heart-piercing. It seemed toHarvey as though the word were new-minted, so full it sounded ofdreadful meaning. 

'Dead?'

Mrs. Abbott moved, and he could see her face better. She must have weptfor hours. 

'He has been taking morphia--he couldn't sleep well--and then hisneuralgia. The girl found him this morning, at seven o'clock--there. '

She pointed to the couch. 

'You mean that he had taken an overdose--by accident----'

'It _must_ have been so. He had to work late--and then he must havelain down to sleep. '

'Why here?'

'A flood of anguish whelmed her. She uttered a long moan, all the moreterrible for its subdual to a sound that could not pass beyond theroom. Her struggle for self-command made her suffering only the moreimpressive, the more grievous to behold. '

'Mr. Rolfe, I sent for you because you are his old friend. I meant totell you all the truth, as I know it. I _can't_ tell it beforestrangers--in public! I _can't_ let them know--the shame--the shame!'

Harvey's sympathy gave way to astonishment and strange surmise. Hurriedly he besought her not to reveal anything in her presentdistress; to wait till she could reflect calmly, see things in truerproportion. His embarrassment was heightened by an inability toidentify this woman with the Mrs. Abbott he had known; the change inher self-presentment seemed as great and sudden as that in hercircumstances. Face and voice, though scarce recognisable, had changedless than the soul of her--as Harvey imaged it. This entreaty shereplied to with a steadiness, a resolve, which left him no choice butto listen. 

'I cannot, dare not, think that he did this knowingly. No! He was toobrave for that. He would never have left me in that way--to my despair. But it was my fault that made him angry--no, not angry; he was neverthat with me, or never showed it. But I had behaved with such utterselfishness----'

Her misery refused to word itself. She sank down upon a chair andsobbed and moaned. 

'Your grief exaggerates every little fault, ' said Harvey. 

'No--you must hear it all--then perhaps I can hide my shame fromstrangers. What use would it be if they knew? It alters nothing--it'sonly in my own heart. I have no right to pain you like this. I willtell you quietly. You know that he went to Waterbury, on business. Didhe tell you?--it was to buy a share in a local newspaper. I, in myblindness and selfishness, disliked that. I wanted to live here; thethought of going to live in the country seemed unbearable. That Edgarwas overworked and ill, seemed to me a trifle. Don't you remember how Ispoke of it when you came here the other morning?--I can't understandmyself. How could I think so, speak so!'

The listener said nothing. 

'He did what he purposed--made a bargain, and came back to conclude thepurchase by correspondence. But his money--the small capital he countedupon--was in "Britannia" shares; and you know what happenedyesterday--yesterday, the very day when he went to sell the shares, thinking to do so without the least difficulty. '

Harvey gave a grim nod. 

'He came home, and I showed that I was glad----'

'No! You accuse yourself unreasonably. '

'I tell you the truth, as my miserable conscience knows it. I was crazywith selfishness and conceit. Rightly, he left me to my cowardlytemper, and went out again, and was away for a long time. He came backto dinner, and then the suffering in his face all but taught me what Iwas doing. I wanted to ask him to forgive me--to comfort him for hisloss; but pride kept me from it. I couldn't speak--I couldn't! Afterdinner he said he had a lot of work to do, and came into this room. Atten o'clock I sent him coffee. I wished to take it myself--O God! ifonly I had done so! I _wished_ to take it, and speak to him, but stillI couldn't. And I knew he was in torture; I saw at dinner that pain wasracking him. But I kept away, and went to my own bed, and slept--whilsthe was lying here. '

A rush of tears relieved her. Harvey felt his own eyes grow moist. 

'It was only that he felt so worn out, ' she pursued. 'I know how itwas. The pain grew intolerable, and he went upstairs for his draught, and then--not having finished his work--he thought he would lie down onthe sofa for a little; and so sleep overcame him. He never meant_this_. If I thought it, I couldn't live!'

'Undoubtedly you are right, ' said Harvey, summoning an accent ofconviction. 'I knew him very well, and he was not the man to do that. '

'No? You are sure of it? You feel it impossible, Mr. Rolfe?'

'Quite impossible. There are men--oh, you may assure yourself that itwas pure accident. Unfortunately, it happens so often. '

She hung on his words, leaning towards him, her eyes wide and lipsparted. 

'So often! I have seen so many cases, in the papers. And he wasabsent-minded. But what right have I to seek comfort for myself? Was Iany less the cause of his death? But must I tell all this in public? Doyou think I ought to?'

With comfortable sincerity Rolfe was able to maintain the needlessnessof divulging anything beyond the state of Abbott's health and hispecuniary troubles. 

'It isn't as if we had lived on ill terms with each other, ' said thewidow, with a sigh of gratitude. 'Anything but that. Until of late wenever knew a difference, and the change that came was wholly my fault. I hadn't the honesty to speak out and say what was in my mind. I neveropenly opposed his wish to leave London. I pretended to agree toeverything, pretended. He showed me all his reasons, put everythingsimply and plainly and kindly before me, and if I had said what Ithought, I feel sure he would have given it up at once. It was in myown hands to decide one way or the other. '

'Why should you reproach yourself so with mere thoughts, of which henever became aware?'

'Oh, it was yesterday, when he came back from the City. He knew thenthat I was glad he couldn't carry out his purpose. He looked at me ashe never had done before--a look of surprise and estrangement. I shallalways see that look on his face. '

Harvey talked in the strain of solace, feeling how extraordinary washis position, and that of all men he had least fitness for such anoffice. It relieved him when, without undue abruptness, he could passto the practical urgencies of the case. Were Wager's children still inthe house? Alas! they were, and Mrs. Abbott knew not what to do aboutthem. 

'You can't think of anyone who would take them--for a day or two, even?'

Among her acquaintances there was not one of whom she could venture toask such a service. 'People have such a dread of children. ' Her sisterwas a governess in Ireland; other near relatives she had none. EdgarAbbott's mother, old and in feeble health, lived near Waterbury; howwas the dreadful news to be conveyed to her?

Harvey bestirred himself. Here, at all events, was a call to activeusefulness; he felt the privilege of money and leisure. 

'Can you give me the name of any one at Waterbury who would be a fitperson to break the news to Mrs. Abbott?'

Two names were mentioned, and he noted them. 

'I will send telegrams at once to both. '

'You will say it was an accident----'

'That shall be made clear. As for the children, I think I can have themtaken away this morning. In the house where I live there is a decentwoman who I dare say would be willing to look after them for thepresent. Will you leave this entirely in my hands?'

'I am ashamed--I don't know how to thank you. '

'No time shall be lost. ' He rose. 'If Mrs. Handover will help us, Iwill bring her here; then I shall see you again. In any case, ofcourse, I will come back--there will be other business. But you oughtto have some friend--some lady. '

'There's _no_ one I can ask. '

'Oh, but of all the people you know in London--surely!'

'They are not friends in that sense. I understand it now--fiftyacquaintances; no friend. '

'But let me think--let me think. What was the name of that lady I methere, whose children you used to teach?'

'Mrs. Langland. She is very kind and friendly, but she lives atGunnersbury--so far--and I couldn't trouble her. '

Upon one meeting and a short conversation, with subsequent remarks fromEdgar Abbott, Rolfe had grounded a very favourable opinion of MrsLangland. She dwelt clearly in his mind as 'a woman with no nonsenseabout her', likely to be of much helpfulness at a crisis such as thepresent. With difficulty he persuaded Mrs. Abbott to sit down and writea few lines, to be posted at once to Gunnersbury. 

'I haven't dared to ask her to come. But I have said that I am alone. '

'Quite enough, I think, if she is at home. '

He took his leave, and drove back to Bayswater, posting the letter anddespatching two telegrams on the way. 

Of course, his visit to Greystone was given up. 

CHAPTER 6

Hugh Carnaby was gratified by the verdict of _felo de se_. He applaudedthe jury for their most unexpected honesty. One had taken for grantedthe foolish tag about temporary madness, which would have been aninsult to everybody's common-sense. 

'It's a pity they no longer bury at four cross-roads, with a stake inhis inside. (Where's that from? I remember it somehow. ) The examplewouldn't be bad. '

'You're rather early-Victorian, ' replied Sibyl, who by this term waswont to signify barbarism or crudity in art, letters, morality, orsocial feeling. 'Besides, there's no merit in the verdict. It onlymeans that the City jury is in a rage. Yet every one of them would bedishonest on as great a scale if they dared, or had the chance. '

'Something in that, I dare say, ' conceded Hugh. 

He admired his wife more than ever. Calm when she lost her trinkets, Sibyl exhibited no less self-command now that she was suddenly deprivedof her whole fortune, about eight hundred a year. She had once remarkedon the pleasantness and fitness of a wife's possessing in her own namean income equal to that of her husband; yet she resigned it withoutfuss. Indeed, Sibyl never made a fuss about anything. She intimated herwishes, and, as they were always possible of gratification, obtainedthem as a matter of course. Naturally, since their marriage, she andHugh had lived to the full extent of their means. Carnaby had reducedhis capital by a couple of thousand pounds in preliminary expenses, anddebt to the amount of two or three hundred was outstanding at the endof the first twelvemonth; but Sibyl manifested no alarm. 

'We have been great fools, ' she said, alluding to their faith in BennetFrothingham. 

'It's certain that _I_ have, ' replied her husband. 'I oughtn't to havelet your mother have her way about that money. If there had been aproper settlement, you would have run no risk. Trustees couldn't haveallowed such an investment. '

The same day Sibyl bought a fur for her neck which cost fifteenguineas. The weather was turning cold, and she had an account at theshop. 

That afternoon, too, she went to see her mother, and on returning atsix o'clock looked into the library, where Hugh sat by the fire, a bookin his hand. Carnaby found the days very long just now. He shunned hisclubs, the Metropolitan and the Ramblers', because of a fear that hisconnection with the 'Britannia' was generally known; to hear talk onthe subject would make him savage. He was grievously perturbed in mindby his position and prospects; and want of exercise had begun to affecthis health. As always, he greeted his wife's entrance with a smile, androse to place a chair for her. 

'Thanks, I won't sit down, ' said Sibyl. 'You look comfortable. '

'Well?'

She looked at him reflectively, and said in balanced tones----

'I really think I can boast of having the most selfish mother inEngland. '

Hugh had his own opinion concerning Mrs. Ascott Larkfield, but wouldnot have ventured to phrase it. 

'How's that?'

'I never knew anyone who succeeded so well in thinking steadily andexclusively of herself. It irritates me to see her since this affair; Ishan't go again. I really didn't know what a detestable temper she has. Her talk is outrageous. She doesn't behave like a lady. Could youbelieve that she has written a violent letter to Mrs. Frothingham--"speaking her mind", as she says? It's disgraceful!'

'I'm sorry she has done that. But it isn't every one that can bearinjury as you do, Sibyl. '

'I supposed she could behave herself. She raises her voice, and usesoutrageous words, and shows temper with the servants. I wouldn't spenda day in that house now on any account. And, after all, I find shehasn't lost much more than I have. She will be able to count on sixhundred a year at least. '

Carnaby received the news with a brightened visage. 

'Oh come! That's something. '

'She took very good care, you see, not to risk everything herself. '

'It's possible, ' said Hugh, 'that she hadn't control of all her money. '

'Oh yes, she had. She let that fact escape in her fury--congratulatedherself on being so far prudent. Really, I never knew a more hatefulwoman. '

It was said without vehemence, with none of that raising of the voicewhich so offended her: a deliberate judgment, in carefully chosenwords. Hugh tried to smile, but could not quite command his features;they expressed an uneasy thoughtfulness. 

'Do you go out this evening?' he asked, after a pause. 

'No; I'm rather tired and out of sorts. Dinner is at seven. I shall goto bed early. '

The police had as yet failed to get upon the track of the felonioushousekeeper, known as Mrs. Maskell. Mrs. Carnaby's other servants stillkept their places, protesting innocence, and doubtless afraid to leavelest they should incur suspicion. Domestic management was now In thehands of the cook. Sibyl always declared that she could not eat adinner she had had the trouble of ordering, and she seemed unaffectedlyto shrink from persons of the menial class, as though with physicalrepulsion. Perforce she submitted to having her hair done by her maid, but she found the necessity disagreeable. 

The dinner was simple, but well cooked. Sibyl never ate with heartyappetite, and declined everything not of excellent quality; unlikewomen in general, she was fastidious about wine, yet took of itsparingly; liqueurs, too, she enjoyed, and very strong coffee. To acigarette in the mouth of a woman she utterly objected; it offended hersense of the becoming, her delicate perception of propriety. Whendining alone or with Hugh, she dressed as carefully as for aceremonious occasion. Any approach to personal disorder or neglect wasinconceivable in Sibyl. Her husband had, by accident, heard her called'the best-groomed woman in London'; he thought the praise well merited, and it flattered him. 

At table they talked of things as remote as possible from theirimmediate concerns, and with the usual good humour. When he rose toopen the door, Hugh said----

'Drawing-room or library?'

'Library. You would like to smoke. '

For ten minutes he sat with his arms on the table, his greatwell-shapen hands loosely clenched before him. He drank nothing. Hisgaze was fixed on a dish of fruit, and widened as if in a growingperplexity. Then he recovered himself, gave a snort, and went to joinhis wife. 

Sibyl was reading a newspaper. Hugh lit his pipe in silence, and satdown opposite to her. Presently the newspaper dropped, and Sibyl's eyeswere turned upon her husband with a smile. 

'Well?'

'Well?'

They smiled at each other amiably. 

'What do you suggest, Birdie?'

The fondling name was not very appropriate, and had not been used oflate; Carnaby hit upon it in the honeymoon days, when he said that hiswife was like some little lovely bird, which he, great coarse fellow, had captured and almost feared to touch lest he should hurt it. Hughhad not much originality of thought, and less of expression. 

'There are places, you know, where one lives very comfortably on verylittle, ' said Sibyl. 

'Yes; but it leads to nothing. '

'What _would_ lead to anything?'

'Well, you see, I have capital, and some use ought to be made of it. Everybody nowadays goes in for some kind of business. '

She listened with interest, smiling, meditative. 

'And a great many people come out of it--wishing they had done sobefore. '

'True, ' said Carnaby; 'there's the difficulty. I had a letter fromDando this morning. He has got somebody to believe in his new smeltingprocess--somebody in the City; talks of going out to Queenslandshortly. Really--if I could be on the spot----'

He hesitated, timidly indicating his thoughts. Sibyl mused, and slowlyshook her head. 

'No; wait for reports. '

'Yes; but it's those who are in it first, you see. '

Sibyl seemed to forget the immediate subject, and to let her thoughtswander in pleasant directions. She spoke as if on a happy impulse. 

'There's one place I think I should like--though I dread the voyage. '

'Where's that?'

'Honolulu. '

'What has put that into your head?'

'Oh, I have read about it. The climate is absolute perfection, and thelife exquisite. How do you get there?'

'Across America, and then from San Francisco. It's anything but a cheapplace, I believe. '

'Still, for a time. The thing is to get away, don't you think?'

'No doubt of that. --Honolulu--by Jove! it's an idea. I should like tosee those islands myself. '

'And it isn't commonplace, ' remarked Sibyl. 'One would go off with acertain eclat. Very different from starting for the Continent in thehumdrum way. '

The more Carnaby thought of it, the better he liked this suggestion. That Sibyl should voluntarily propose so long a journey surprised anddelighted him. The tropics were not his favourite region, and thoseislands of the Pacific offered no scope for profitable energy; he didnot want to climb volcanoes, still less to lounge beneath bananas andbreadfruit-trees, however pleasant such an escape from civilisationmight seem at the first glance. A year of marriage, of idleness amidamusements, luxuries, extravagances, for which he had no taste, wasbearing its natural result in masculine restiveness. His robustphysique and temper, essentially combative, demanded liberty underconditions of rude or violent life. He was not likely to find asatisfying range in any mode of existence that would be shared bySibyl. But he clutched at any chance of extensive travel. It might benecessary--it certainly would be--to make further incision into hiscapital, and so diminish the annual return upon which he could countfor the future; but when his income had already become ludicrouslyinadequate, what did that matter? The years of independence were past;somehow or other, he must make money. Everybody did it nowadays, and an'opening' would of course present itself, something would of course'turn up'. 

He stretched his limbs in a sudden vast relief. 

'Bravo! The idea is excellent. Shall we sell all this stuff?' waving ahand to indicate the furniture. 

'Oh, I think not. Warehouse it. '

Hugh would have rejoiced to turn every chair and table into hard cash, not only for the money's sake, but for the sense of freedom that wouldfollow; but he agreed, as always, to whatever his wife preferred. Theytalked with unwonted animation. A great atlas was opened, routes werefingered; half the earth's circumference vanished in a twinkling. Sibyl, hitherto mewed within the circle of European gaieties andrelaxations, all at once let her fancy fly--tasted a new luxury inexperiences from which she had shrunk. 

'I'll order my outfit tomorrow. Very light things, I suppose? Who couldadvise me about that?'

Among a number of notes and letters which she wrote next day was one toMiss Frothingham. 'Dear Alma, ' it began, and it ended with 'Yoursaffectionately'--just as usual. 

'Could you possibly come here some day this week? I haven't writtenbefore, and haven't tried to see you, because I felt sure you wouldrather be left alone. At the same time I feel sure that what hashappened, though for a time it will sadden us both, cannot affect ourfriendship. I want to see you, as we are going away very soon, first ofall to _Honolulu_. Appoint your own time; I will be here. '

By return of post came the black-edged answer, which began with'Dearest Sibyl, ' and closed with 'Ever affectionately'. 

'I cannot tell you how relieved I am to get your kind letter. Thesedreadful days have made me ill, and one thing that increased my miserywas the fear that I should never hear from you again. I should not havedared to write. How noble you are!--but then I always knew that. Icannot come tomorrow--you know why--but the next day I will be with youat three o'clock, if you don't tell me that the hour is inconvenient. '

They met at the appointed time. Mrs. Carnaby's fine sense of thebecoming declared itself in dark array; her voice was tenderly subdued;the pressure of her hand, the softly lingering touch of her lips, conveyed a sympathy which perfect taste would not allow to becomedemonstrative. Alma could at first say nothing. The faint rose upon hercheek had vanished; her eyes were heavy, and lacked their vital gleam;her mouth, no longer mobile and provocative, trembled on the verge ofsobs, pathetic, childlike. She hung her head, moved with a languid, diffident step, looked smaller and slighter, a fashionable garb of woeaiding the unhappy transformation. 

'I oughtn't to have given you this trouble, ' said Sibyl. 'But perhapsyou would rather see me here----'

'Yes--oh yes--it was much better----'

'Sit down, dear. We won't talk of wretched things, will we? If I couldhave been of any use to you----'

'I was so afraid you would never----'

'Oh, you know me better than that, ' broke in Mrs. Carnaby, almost withcheerfulness, her countenance already throwing off the decorous shadow, like a cloak that had served its turn. 'I hope I am neither foolish norworldly-minded. '

'Indeed, indeed not! You are goodness itself. '

'How is Mrs. Frothingham?'

The question was asked with infinite delicacy, head and body bentforward, eyes floatingly averted. 

'Really ill, I'm afraid. She has fainted several times--yesterday wasunconscious for nearly half an hour. '

Sibyl flinched. Mention of physical suffering affected her mostdisagreeably; she always shunned the proximity of people in ill health, and a possibility of infection struck her with panic. 

'Oh, I'm so sorry. But it will pass over. '

'I hope so. I have done what I could. '

'I'm sure you have. '

'But it's so hard--when every word of comfort sounds heartless--whenit's kindest to say nothing----'

'We won't talk about it, dear. You yourself--I can see what you havegone through. You must get away as soon as possible; this gloomyweather makes everything worse. '

She paused, and with an air of discreet interest awaited Alma's reply. 

'Yes, I hope to get away. I shall see if it's possible. '

The girl's look strayed with a tired uncertainty; her hands neverceased to move and fidget; only the habits of good breeding kept herbody still. 

'Of course, it is too soon for you to have made plans. '

'It's so difficult, ' replied Alma, her features more naturallyexpressive, her eyes a little brighter. 'You see, I am utterlydependent upon Mamma. I had better tell you at once--Mamma will haveenough to live upon, however things turn out. She has money of her own;but of course I have nothing--nothing whatever. I think, most likely, Mamma will go to live with her sister, in the country, for a time. Shecouldn't bear to go on living in London, and she doesn't like lifeabroad. If only I could do as I wish!'

'I guess what that would be, ' said the other, smiling gently. 

'To take up music as a profession--yes. But I'm not ready for it. '

'Oh, half a year of serious study; with your decided talent, I shouldthink you couldn't hesitate. You are a born musician. '

The words acted as a cordial. Alma roused herself, lifted her droopinghead and smiled. 

'That's the praise of a friend. '

'And the serious opinion of one not quite unfit to judge, ' rejoinedSibyl, with her air of tranquil self-assertion. 'Besides, we haveagreed--haven't we?--that the impulse is everything. What you wish for, try for. Just now you have lost courage; you are not yourself. Waittill you recover your balance. '

'It isn't that I want to make a name, or anything of that sort, ' saidAlma, in a voice that was recovering its ordinary pitch and melody. 'Idare say I never should; I might just support myself, and that would beall. But I want to be free--I want to break away. '

'Of course!'

'I have been thinking that I shall beg Mamma to let me have just asmall allowance, and go off by myself. I know people at Leipzig--theGassners, you remember. I could live there on little enough, and work, and feel free. Of course, there's really no reason why I shouldn't. Ihave been feeling so bound and helpless; and now that nobody has anyright to hinder me, you think it would be the wise thing?'

Alma had occasionally complained to her friend, as she did the otherevening to Harvey Rolfe, that easy circumstances were not favourable toartistic ambition, but no very serious disquiet had ever declareditself in her ordinary talk. The phrases she now used, and the lookthat accompanied them, caused Sibyl some amusement. Only two yearsolder than Alma, Mrs. Carnaby enjoyed a more than proportionatesuperiority in knowledge of the world; her education had been moresteadily directed to that end, and her natural aptitude for the studywas more pronounced. That she really liked Alma seemed as certain asthat she felt neither affection nor esteem for any other person of herown sex. Herself not much inclined to feminine friendship, Alma hadfrom the first paid voluntary homage to Sibyl's intellectual claims, and thought it a privilege to be admitted to her intimacy; beingpersuaded, moreover, that in Sibyl, and in Sibyl alone, she foundgenuine appreciation of her musical talent. Sibyl's choice of a husbandhad secretly surprised and disappointed her, for Hugh Carnaby was notthe type of man in whom she felt an interest, and he seemed to hertotally unworthy of his good fortune; but this perplexity passed andwas forgotten. She saw that Sibyl underwent no subjugation; nay, thatthe married woman did but perfect herself in those qualities of mindand mood whereby she had shone as a maiden. It was a combination ofpowers and virtues which appeared to Alma little short of the ideal inwomanhood. The example influenced her developing character in ways sherecognised, and in others of which she remained quite unconscious. 

'I think you couldn't do better, ' Mrs. Carnaby replied to the lastquestion; 'provided that----'

She paused intentionally, with an air of soft solicitude, of blandwisdom. 

'That's just what I wanted, ' said Alma eagerly. 'Advise me--tell mejust what you think. '

'You want to live alone, and to have done with all the sillyconventionalities and proprieties--our old friend Mrs. Grundy, in fact. '

'That's it! You understand me perfectly, as you always do. '

'If it had been possible, we would have lived together. '

'Ah! how delightful! Don't speak of what can't be. '

'I was going to say, ' pursued Sibyl thoughtfully, 'that you will meetwith all sorts of little troubles and worries, which you have never hadany experience of. For one thing, you know'--she leaned back, smiling, at ease--'people won't behave to you quite as you have been accustomedto expect. Money is very important even to a man; but to a woman itmeans more than you can imagine. '

'Oh, but I shan't be living among the kind of people----'

'No, no. Perhaps you don't quite understand me yet. It isn't the peopleyou seek who matter, but the people that will seek _you_; and some ofthem will have very strange ideas--very strange indeed. '

Alma looked self-conscious, kept her eyes down, and at length nodded. 

'Yes. I think I understand. '

'That's why I said "provided". You are not the ordinary girl, and youwon't imagine that I feared for you; I know you too well. It's aquestion of being informed and on one's guard. I don't think there'sanyone else who would talk to you like this. It doesn't offend you?'

'Sibyl!'

'Well, then, that's all right. Go into the world by all means, but goprepared--armed; the word isn't a bit too strong, as I know perfectly. Some day, perhaps--but there's no need to talk about such things now. '

Alma kept a short silence, breaking it at length with note ofexultation. 

'I'm quite decided now. I wanted just to hear what you would say. Ishan't wait a day longer than I can help. The old life is over for me. If only it had come about in some other way, I should be singing withrapture. I'm going to begin to live!'

She quivered with intensity of feeling, or with that excitement of thenerves which simulates intense feeling in certain natures. A flushstole to her cheek; her eyes were once more full of light. Sibylregarded her observantly and with admiration. 

'You never thought of the stage, Alma?'

'The stage? Acting?'

'No; I see you never did. And it wouldn't do--of course it wouldn't do. Something in your look--it just crossed my mind--but of course you havemuch greater things before you. It means hard work, and I'm only afraidyou'll work yourself all but to death. '

'I shouldn't wonder, ' replied the girl, with a little laugh of pride inthis possibility. 

'Well, I too am going away, you know. '

Alma's countenance fell, shame again crept over it, and she murmured, 'O Sibyl----!'

'Don't distress yourself the least on my account. That's an understoodthing; no mention, no allusion, ever between us. And the truth is thatmy position is just a little like yours: on the whole, I'm rather glad. Hugh wants desperately to get to the other end of the world, and I daresay it's the best thing I could do to go with him. No roughing it, ofcourse; that isn't in my way. '

'I should think not, indeed!'

'Oh, I may rise to those heights, who knows! If the new sensation everseemed worth the trouble. --In a year or two, we shall meet and comparenotes. Don't expect long descriptive letters; I don't care to doindifferently what other people have done well and put into print--it'sa waste of energy. But you are sure to have far more interesting andoriginal things to tell about; it will read so piquantly, I'm sure, atHonolulu. '

They drank tea together, and talked, in all, for a couple of hours. When she rose to leave, Alma, but for her sombre drapings, was totallychanged from the limp, woebegone, shrinking girl who had at firstpresented herself. 

'There's no one else, ' she said, 'who would have behaved to me sokindly and so nobly. '

'Nonsense! But _that's_ nonsense, too. Let us admire each other; itdoes us good, and is so very pleasant. '

'I shall say goodbye to no one but you. Let people think and say of mewhat they like; I don't care a snap of the fingers. In deed, I _hate_people. '

'Both sexes impartially?'

It was a peculiarity of their intimate converse that they never talkedof men, and a jest of this kind had novelty sufficient to affect Almawith a slight confusion. 

'Impartially--quite, ' she answered. 

'Do make an exception in favour of Hugh's friend, Mr. Rolfe. I abandonall the rest. '

Alma betrayed surprise. 

'Strange! I really thought you didn't much like Mr. Rolfe, ' she said, without any show of embarrassment. 

'I didn't when I first knew him; but he grows upon one. I think himinteresting; he isn't quite easy to understand. '

'Indeed he isn't. '

They smiled with the confidence of women fancy-free, and said no moreon the subject. 

Carnaby came home to dinner brisk and cheerful; he felt better than formany a day. Brightly responsive, Sibyl welcomed his appearance in thedrawing-room. 

'Saw old Rolfe for a minute at the club. In a vile temper. I wonderwhether he really has lost money, and won't confess? Yet I don't thinkso. Queer old stick. '

'By-the-bye, what _is_ his age?' asked Alma unconcernedly. 

'Thirty-seven or eight. But I always think of him as fifty. '

'I suppose he'll never marry?'

'Rolfe? Good heavens, no! Too much sense--hang it, you know what Imean! It would never suit _him_. Can't imagine such a thing. He getsmore and more booky. Has his open-air moods, too, and amuses me withhis Jingoism. So different from his old ways of talking; but I didn'tcare much about him in those days. Well, now, look here, I've had atalk with a man I know, about Honolulu, and I've got all sorts ofthings to tell you. --Dinner? Very glad; I'm precious hungry. '

CHAPTER 7

About the middle of December, Alma Frothingham left England, burningwith a fever of impatience, resenting all inquiry and counsel, makingpretence of settled plans, really indifferent to everything but theprospect of emancipation. The disaster that had befallen her life, thedishonour darkening upon her name, seemed for the moment merely a pricepaid for liberty. The shock of sorrow and dismay had broken innumerablebonds, overthrown all manner of obstacles to growth of character, ofpower. She gloried in a new, intoxicating sense of irresponsibility. She saw the ideal life in a release from all duty and obligation--saveto herself. 

Travellers on that winter day from Antwerp into Germany noticed theEnglish girl, well dressed, and of attractive features, whose excitedcountenance and restless manner told of a journey in haste, withsomething most important, and assuredly not disagreeable, at the end ofit. She was alone, and evidently quite able to take care of herself. Unlike the representative English _Fraulein_, she did not rejectfriendly overtures from strangers; her German was lame, but she spokeit with enjoyment, laughing at her stumbles and mistakes. With her inthe railway carriage she kept a violin-case. A professional musician?'Noch nicht' was her answer, with a laugh. She knew Leipzig? Oh dear, yes, and many other parts of Germany; had travelled a good deal; was anentirely free and independent person, quite without national prejudice, indeed without prejudice of any kind. And in the same breath she spokeslightingly, if not contemptuously, of England and everything English. 

At Leipzig she stayed until the end of April, living with a familynamed Gassner, people whom she had known for some years. Only oncondition that she would take up her abode with this household had Mrs. Frothingham consented to make her an allowance and let her go abroad. Alma fretted at the restriction; she wished to have a room of her ownin a lodging-house; but the family life improved her command ofGerman--something gained. To music, meanwhile, she gave very littleattention, putting off with one excuse after another the beginning ofher serious studies. She seemed to have quite forgotten that music washer 'religion', and, for the matter of that, appeared to have noreligion at all. 'Life' was her interest, her study. She madeacquaintances, attended concerts and the theatre, read multitudes ofFrench and German novels. But her habits were economical. All thepleasures she desired could be enjoyed at very small expense, and shefound her stepmother's remittances more than sufficient. 

In April she gained Mrs. Frothingham's consent to her removal fromLeipzig to Munich. A German girl with whom she had made friends wasgoing to Munich to study art. For reasons, vague even to herself (soran her letters to Mrs. Frothingham), she could not 'settle' atLeipzig. The climate did not seem to suit her. She had suffered frombad colds, and, in short, was doing no good. At Munich lived anadmirable violinist, a friend of Herr Wilenski's, who would be of greatuse to her. 'In short, dear Mamma, doesn't it seem to you ratherhumiliating that at the age of four-and-twenty I should be begging forpermission to go here and there, do this or that? I know all youranxieties about me, and I am very grateful, and I feel ashamed to beliving at your expense, but really I must go about making a career formyself in my own way. ' Mrs. Frothingham yielded, and Alma took lodgingsin Munich together with her German friend. 

English newspapers were now reporting the trial of the directors of theBritannia Company, for to this pass had things come. The revelations ofthe law-court satisfied public curiosity, and excited indignantclamour. Alma read, and tried to view the proceedings as one for whomthey had no personal concern; but her sky darkened, her heart grewheavy. The name of Bennet Frothingham stood for criminal recklessness, for huge rascality; it would be so for years to come. She had nocourage to take up her violin; the sound of music grew hateful to her, as if mocking at her ruined ambition. 

Three months had passed since she received her one and only letter fromHonolulu; two months since she had written to Sibyl. On a blue day ofspring, when despondency lowered upon her, and all occupation, allamusements seemed a burden, she was driven to address her friend on theother side of the world, to send a cry of pain and hopelessness to thedream-island of the Pacific. 

'What is the use of working at music? The simple truth is, that since Ileft England I have given it up. I am living here on false pretences; Ishall never care to play the violin again. What sort of a receptioncould I expect from an English audience? If I took another name, ofcourse it would get known who I was, and people would just come tostare at me--pleasant thought! And I have utterly lost confidence inmyself. The difficulties are great, even where there is great talent, and I feel I have nothing of the kind. I might toil for years, andshould do no good. I feel I am not an artist--I am beaten anddisgraced. There's nothing left but to cry and be miserable, like anyother girl who has lost her money, her hopes, everything. Why don't youwrite to me? If you wait till you get this, it will be six or sevenweeks before I could possibly hear. And a letter from you would do meso much good. '

Some one knocked at her door. She called '_Herein_!' and there appeareda little boy, the child of her landlady, who sometimes ran errands forher. He said that a gentleman was asking to see her. 

'_Ein Deutscher_?'

'_Nein. Ein Englander, glaub'ich, und ein schnurriges Deutsch ist's, das er verbricht_!'

Alma started up, shut her unfinished letter in the blotting-case, andlooked anxiously about the room. 

'What is his name? Ask him to give you his name. '

The youngster came back with a card, and Alma was astonished to readthe name of 'Mr. Felix Dymes'. Why, she had all but forgotten the man'sexistence. How came he here? What right had he to call? And yet she wasglad--nay, delighted. Happily, she had the sitting-room (shared withher art-studying friend) to herself this morning. 

'Bring him up here, ' she said to the boy hurriedly, 'and ask him towait a minute for me. '

And she escaped to make a rapid change of dress. For Alma was not likeSibyl Carnaby in perpetual regard for personal finish; she dressedcarelessly, save when the occasion demanded pains; she liked the easeof gowns and slippers, of loose hair and free throat; and this tastehad grown upon her during the past months. But she did not keep Mr. Dymes waiting very long, and on her entrance he gazed at her with veryfrank admiration. Frank, too, was his greeting--that of a very old andintimate friend, rather than of a drawing-room acquaintance. He camestraight from England, he said; a spring holiday, warranted by thesuccess of his song 'Margot', which the tenor, Topham, had sung at StJames's Hall. A few days ago he had happened to see Miss Leach, whogave him Miss Frothingham's address, and he could not deny himself thepleasure of calling. Chatting thus, he made himself comfortable in achair, and Alma sat over against him. The man was loud, conceited, vulgar; but, after all, he composed very sweet music, which promised totake the public ear; and he brought with him a waft from the happinessof old days; and how could one expect small proprieties of a bohemian, an artist? Alma began to talk eagerly, joyously. 

'And what are you doing, Miss Frothingham?'

'Oh, fiddling a little. But I haven't been very well. '

'I can see that. Yet in another sense you look a better than ever. '

He began to hum an air, glancing round the room. 

'You haven't a piano. Just listen to this; how do you think it willdo?' He hummed through a complete melody. 'Came into my head lastnight. Wants rather sentimental words--the kind of thing that goes downwith the British public. Rather a good air, don't you think?'

Felix Dymes had two manners of conversation. In a company at allceremonious, and when it behoved him to make an impression, he talkedas the artist and the expert in music, with many German phrases, whichhe pronounced badly, to fill up the gaps in his knowledge. His familiarstream of talk was very different: it discarded affectation, and had adirectness, a vigour, which never left one in doubt as to his actualviews of life. How melody of any kind could issue from a nature somanifestly ignoble might puzzle the idealist. Alma, who had known agood many musical people, was not troubled by this difficulty; in herpresent mood, she submitted to the arrogance of success, and felt apleasure, an encouragement, in Dymes's bluff _camaraderie_. 

'Let me try to catch it on the violin, ' she said when, with noddinghead and waving arm, he had hummed again through his composition. 

She succeeded in doing so, and Dymes raised his humming to asentimental roar, and was vastly pleased with himself. 

'I like to see you in a place like this, ' he said. 'Looks morebusiness-like--as if you really meant to do something. Do you live herealone?'

'With a friend. '

Something peculiar in Dymes's glance caused her to add, 'A German girl, an art student. ' Whereat the musician nodded and smiled. 

'And what's your idea? Come now, let's talk about it. I wonder whetherI could be of any use to you--awfully glad if I could. '

Alma was abashed, stammered her vague projects, and reddened under theman's observant eye. 

'Look here, ' he cried, with his charming informality, 'didn't you useto sing? Somebody told me you had a pretty good voice. '

'Oh, that was long ago. '

'I wish you'd let me hear you. '

'No, no! I don't sing at all. '

'Pity, if it's true. I want to write a serio-comic opera, a new sort ofthing, and it struck me you were just cut out for that kind of singing. You have the face and the--you know--the refinement; sort of thing noteasy to find. It's a poor chance, I'm afraid, coming out as aviolinist. '

Half inclined to resent his impertinence, yet subdued by the practicaltone and air of superior knowledge, Alma kept a grave face. Dymes, crossing his legs, went on with talk of projects he had in view, allintended to be lucrative. He had capital; nothing great, just acomfortable sum which he was bent on using to the best advantage. Hissongs would presently be bringing him in a few hundreds a year--so hedeclared--and his idea of life was to get as much enjoyment as possiblewithout working over-hard for it. The conversation lasted for a coupleof hours, Dymes growing even more genial and confidential, his eyesseldom moving from Alma's face. 

'Well, ' he said at length, rising, 'it's very jolly to see you again, after all this time. I shall be staying here for a few days. You'll letme call tomorrow?'

At once glad and sorry to see him go, Alma laughingly gave the desiredpermission. When, that evening, she looked at her unfinished letter, itseemed such a miserable whine that she tore it up in annoyance. Dymes'svisit had done her good; she felt, if not a renewal of hope, at allevents the courage which comes of revived spirits. 

The next day she awaited his arrival with a pleasant expectation. Heentered humming an air--another new composition--which again she caughtfrom him and played on the violin. 

'Good, don't you think? I'm in great vein just now--always am in thespring, and when the weather's fine. I say, you're looking much bettertoday--decidedly more fit. What do you do here for exercise? Do you goto the Englische Garten? Come now, will you? Let's have a drive. '

With sudden coldness Alma excused herself. The musician scrutinised herrapidly, bit his lip, and looked round to the window; but in a momenthe had recovered his loud good humour. 

'You'll hardly believe it, but it's the plain truth, that I came allthis way just to see you. I hadn't thought of coming to Germany till Imet Miss Leach and heard about you. Now I'm so far, I might as well goon into Italy, and make a round of it. I wish you were coming too. '

Alma made no reply. He scrutinised her as before, and his featuresworked as if with some emotion. Then, abruptly, he put a blunt question. 

'Do you think people who go in for music, art, and that kind of thing, ought to marry?'

'I never thought about it at all, ' Alma replied, with a careless laugh, striking a finger across the strings of the violin which she held onher lap. 

'We're generally told they shouldn't, ' pursued Dymes, in a voice whichhad lost its noisy confidence, and was a little uncertain. 'But it alldepends, you know. If people mean by marriage the ordinary kind ofthing--of course, that's the deuce. But it needn't be. Lots of peoplemarry nowadays and live in a rational way--no house, or bother of thatkind; just going about as they like, and having a pleasant, reasonablelife. It's easy enough with a little money. Sometimes they're a gooddeal of help to each other; I know people who manage to be. '

'Oh, I dare say, ' said Alma when he paused. 'It all depends, as yousay. You're going on to Italy at once?'

Her half-veiled eyes seemed to conceal amusement, and there wasgood-humoured disdain in the setting of her lips. With audacity soincredible that it all but made her laugh, Dymes, not heeding herinquiry, jerked out the personal application of his abstract remarks. Yes, it was a proposal of marriage--marriage on the new plan, withoutcares or encumbrance; a suggestion rather than a petition; off-hand, unsentimental, yet perfectly serious, as look and tone proclaimed. 

'There's much to be said for your views, ' Alma replied, with humorousgravity, 'but I haven't the least intention of marrying. '

'Well, I've mentioned it. ' He waved his hand as if to overcome anunwonted embarrassment. 'You don't mind?'

'Not a bit. '

'I hope we shall meet again before long, and--some day, you know--youmay see the thing in another light. You mustn't think I'm joking. '

'But it _is_ rather a joke. '

'No; I never was more in earnest about anything, believe me. And I'mconvinced it's a good idea. However, you know one thing--if I can be ofuse to you, I shall. I'll think it over--your chances and so on;something may suggest itself. You're not cut out for everyday things. '

'I try to hope not. '

'Ah, but you can take my word for it. '

With this comforting assurance, Felix Dymes departed. No melodrama; ahand-grip, a significant nod, a loud humming as he went downstairs. 

Alma presently began a new letter to Sibyl Carnaby. It was written in acheery humour, though touched by the shadow of distressfulcircumstance. She told the story of Mr. Dymes's visit, and made merryover it. 'I am sure this is the very newest thing in "proposals". Though I live in such a dull, lonely way, it has made me feel that I amstill in touch with civilisation. And really, if the worst come to theworst--but it's dangerous to joke about such things. ' She touchedlightly on the facts of her position. 'I'm afraid I have not been doingvery much. Perhaps this is a fallow time with me; I may be gainingstrength for great achievements. Unfortunately, I have a lazycompanion. Miss Steinfeld (you know her from my last letter, if you gotit) only pretends to work. I like her for her thorough goodness and herintelligence; but she is just a little _melancholisch_, and so notexactly the companion I need. Her idea just now is that we both need"change" and she wants me to go with her to Bregenz, on the Bodensee. Perhaps I shall when the weather gets hot. '

It had surprised her to be told by Felix Dymes that he obtained heraddress at Munich from Miss Leach, for the only person in England towhom she had yet made known her departure from Leipzig was herstep-mother. Speak of her how they might, her acquaintances in Londonstill took trouble to inform themselves of her movements. Perhaps thevery completeness of the catastrophe in which she was involved told inher favour; possibly she excited much more interest than could everhave attached to her whilst her name was respected. There was new lifein the thought. She wrote briefly to Dora Leach, giving an account ofherself, which, though essentially misleading, was not composed in aspirit of conscious falsehood. For all her vanity, Alma had never aimedat effect by practice of deliberate insincerities. Miss Leach wasinformed that her friend could not find much time for correspondence. 'I am living in the atmosphere of art, and striving patiently. Some dayyou shall hear of me. ' And when the letter was posted, Alma mused longon the effect it would produce. 

With the distinguished violinist; the friend of Herr Wilenski, spokenof to Mrs. Frothingham, she had as yet held no communication, andthrough the days of early summer she continued to neglect her music. Indolence grew upon her; sometimes she spent the whole day in adressing-gown, seated or reclining, with a book in her hand, or totallyunoccupied. Sometimes the military bands in the public gardens temptedher to walk a little, or she strolled with Miss Steinfeld through thepicture galleries; occasionally they made short excursions into thecountry. The art student had acquaintances in Munich, but did not seemuch of them, and they were not the kind of people with whom Alma caredto associate. 

In July it was decided that they should go for a few weeks to Bregenz;their health called for the change, which, as Miss Steinfeld knew of ahomely _pension_, could be had at small expense. Before their departurethe art student was away for a few days, and, to relieve the drearinessof an existence which was becoming burdensome, Alma went out alone oneafternoon, purposing a trip by steam-tram to the gardens atNymphenburg. She walked to the Stiglmeyerplatz, where the tram starts, and there stood waiting. A carriage drove past, with a sound of Englishvoices, which drew her attention. She saw three children, a lady, and agentleman. The last-mentioned looked at her, and she recognised CyrusRedgrave. Whether he knew her face seemed uncertain. Hoping to escapeunobserved, she turned quickly, and walked a few yards. Before shefaced round again, a quick footstep approached her, and the next momentMr. Redgrave stood, hat in hand, courteously claiming her acquaintance. 

'I thought I could not possibly be mistaken!'

The carriage, having stopped for him to alight, was driving away. 

'That is my sister and her children, ' said Redgrave, when he had warmlyshaken hands and expressed his pleasure at the meeting. 'You never mether. Her husband is in India, and you see me in full domesticity. Thismorning I posted a note to you; of course, you haven't received it yet. '

Alma did her best to behave with dignity. In any case it would havebeen trying to encounter such a man as Redgrave--wealthy, elegant, afigure in society, who must necessarily regard her as banished frompolite circles; and in her careless costume she felt more than abashed. For the first time a sense of degradation, of social inferiority, threatened to overwhelm her self-respect. 

'How did you know my address?' she asked, with an involuntary imitationof hauteur, made pathetic by the flush on her face and the lingeringhalf-smile. 

'Mrs. Frothingham kindly gave it me. --You were walking this way, Ithink?--My sister is living at Stuttgart, and I happened to come overjust in time to act as her courier on a journey to Salzburg. We gothere yesterday, and go on tomorrow, or the day after. I dropped you anote, asking if I might call. '

'Where have you seen Mamma lately?' asked Alma, barely attentive to theexplanations he was giving her. 

'In London, quite by chance. In fact, it was at Waterloo Station. MrsFrothingham was starting for the country, and I happened to be going toWimbledon. I told her I might possibly see you on my way throughMunich. '

Alma began to recover herself. That Cyrus Redgrave should still take aninterest in her was decidedly more gratifying than the eccentriccompliment of Felix Dymes. She strove to forget the humiliation ofhaving been found standing in a public place, waiting for a tram-car. In Redgrave's manner no change was perceptible, unless, indeed, hespoke with more cordiality, which must be prompted by kind feeling. Their acquaintance covered only a year or two, and had scarcelyamounted to what passes for friendship, but Redgrave seemed obliviousof late unpleasant events. 

'I'm glad you didn't call unexpectedly, ' she said, trying to strike alight note. 'I'm a student now--no longer an amateur--and live as astudent must. '

'So much the better. I'm a natural bohemian myself, and like nothing sowell as to disregard ceremony. And, by-the-bye, that's the very reasonwhy I ran away from my sister to speak to you; I knew you would dislikeformalities. I'm afraid I was rather glad than otherwise to escape. Wehave been taking the children for a drive--charming little rascals, butfor the moment my domestic instincts are satisfied. Mrs. Frothinghammentioned that you were living with a friend--an art student. '

'We go away for a holiday in a day or two, ' said Alma, more at herease. 'To Bregenz--do you know it?'

'By name only. You go in a day or two? I wish you would let me knowyour address there, ' he added, with frank friendliness. 'I go on withmy sister to Salzburg, and then turn off on my own account; I might beable to pass your way, and I should so much like to have a talk withyou--a real talk, about music and all sorts of things. Did I ever tellyou of my little place at Riva, head of Lake Garda? Cosy little nook, but I'm not there very often; I half thought of going for a week ortwo's quietness. Quite cool there by the lake. But I really must try tosee you at Bregenz--do let me. '

He begged it as a favour, a privilege, and Alma without hesitation toldhim where she would be living. 

'For a few weeks? Oh, then, I shall make a point of coming that way. You're not working too hard, I hope? I know you don't do things byhalves. When I first heard you were going in seriously for music, Isaid to myself, "_Tant mieux_, another great violinist!"'

The listener reddened with delight; her step became elastic; shecarried her head gallantly, and feared not the glances Redgrave cast ather. 

'I have learnt not to talk about myself, ' she said, bestowing a smileupon him. 'That's the first bad habit to be overcome by the amateurconverted. '

'Capital! An axiom worth putting into print, for the benefit of all andsundry. Now I must say goodbye; that fellow yonder will take me back tothe domesticities. ' He hailed an empty carriage. 'We shall meet againamong the mountains. _Auf Wiedersehen_!'

Alma continued to walk along the Nymphenburg road, unconscious ofexternal things. The tram for which she had been waiting passed by; sheno longer cared to go out into the country. It was enough to keepmoving in the bright sunshine, and to think her thoughts. 

No; people had by no means forgotten her. Whilst she was allowingherself to fall into gloom and indolence, her acquaintances, it wasevident, made her a constant subject of talk, of speculation; just whatshe had desired, but had lost courage to believe. They expected greatthings of her; her personal popularity and her talents had prevailedagainst the most prejudicial circumstance; people did not think of heras the daughter of Bennet Frothingham, --unless to contrast thehopefulness of her future with the black calamity that lay behind. 

She waxed philosophical. How everything in this world tends to good! Ather father's death she had mourned bitterly; it had struck her to theheart; his imprudence (she could never use, even in thought, a harsherword) pained more than it shamed her, and not a day passed but shesorrowed over the dishonour that darkened his memory. Yet were notthese woes and disasters the beginning of a new life for _her_! Inprosperity, what would she ever have become? Nothing less than beingthrown out into the world could have given her the impulse needed torealise a high ambition. '_Tant mieux_, another great violinist!' Howsincerely, how inspiringly, it was said!

And Alma's feet had brought her home again before she paused to reflectthat, for all purposes of ambition, the past half-year had been utterlywasted. Never mind; after her return from Bregenz!

On her table lay Redgrave's note; a very civil line or two, requestingpermission to call. There was another letter, black-bordered, whichcame from her step-mother. Mrs. Frothingham said that she had beenabout to write for several days, but all sorts of disagreeable businesshad hindered her; even now, she could only write hurriedly. In the lastfortnight she had had to go twice to London. 'And really I think Ishall be obliged to go and live there again, for a time; so many thingshave to be seen to. It might be best, perhaps, if I took a small flat. I was going to say, however, that the last time I went up, I met Mr. Redgrave, and we had quite a long talk--about _you_. He was mostsincerely interested in your future; indeed it quite surprised me, forI will confess that I had never had a very high opinion of him. I fancyhe suffered _no loss_. His behaviour to me was that of a gentleman, very different from that of some people I could name. But it was _you_he spoke of most. He said he was shortly going to Germany, and beggedme to let him have your address, and really I saw no harm in it. He maycall upon you. If so, let me hear all about it, for it will interest mevery much. '

Alma had half a mind to reply at once, but on reflection decided towait. After all, Mr. Redgrave might not keep his promise of coming tosee her at Bregenz, and in that event a very brief report of what hadhappened would suffice. But she felt sure that he meant to come. 

And decidedly she hoped it; why, she was content to leave a rosyvagueness. 

CHAPTER 8

Alma and her German friend silently agreed in foreseeing that theywould not live together much longer. Miss Steinfeld, eager at first totalk English, was relapsing into her native tongue, and as Alma lazilyavoided German, they conversed in different languages, each with asprinkling of foreign phrase. The English girl might have alliedherself with a far worse companion; for, in spite of defects whichresembled Alma's own, vagueness of purpose, infirmity of will, MissSteinfeld had a fund of moral principle which made her talk wholesomeand her aspirations an influence for good. She imagined herself in lovewith an artist whom she had seen only two or three times, and no straincould have been more exalted than that in which she confided herromance to the sympathetic Alma. Sympathetic, that is, within herlimits; for Miss Frothingham had never been in love, and rarelyindulged a mood of sentiment. Her characteristic emotions she of coursedid not reveal, save unconsciously, and Miss Steinfeld knew nothing ofthe tragic circumstances which explained her friend's solitude. 

In the first days at Bregenz they felt a renewal of pleasure in eachother's society; Alma's spirits were much improved; she enjoyed thescenery, and lived in the open air. There was climbing of mountains, the Pfander with its reward of noble outlook, and the easierGebhardsberg, with its hanging woods; there was boating on the lake, and rambling along its shores, with rest and refreshment at someGartenwithschaft. Miss Steinfeld, whose reading and intelligence weresuperior to Alma's, liked to explore the Roman ruins and linger in themuseum. Alma could not long keep up a pretence of interest in therelics of Brigantium; but she said one day, with a smile----

'I know someone who would enjoy this kind of thing--an Englishman--verylearned----'

'Old?' inquired her friend significantly. 

'Yes--no. Neither old nor young. A strange man; rather interesting. I've a good mind, ' she added mischievously, 'to send him a photograph. '

'Of yourself?'

'Oh dear, no! He wouldn't care for that. A view of the Alt-Stadt. '

And in her mood of frolic she acted upon the thought. She purchased twoor three views, had them done up for post, and addressed them to HarveyRolfe, Esq, at the Metropolitan Club; for his private address she couldnot remember, but the club remained in her mind from Sibyl's talk ofit. When the packet was gone, of course she regretted having sent it. More likely than not, Mr. Rolfe considered himself to have ended allacquaintance with the disgraced family, and, if he recognised herhandwriting, would just throw the photographs aside. Let him; itmattered nothing, one way or the other. 

When a week had passed, the novelty of things wore off; the friendsbegan to wander apart; Miss Steinfeld made acquaintances in the_pension_, and Alma drifted into solitude. At the end of a fortnightshe was tired of everything, wished to go away, thought longingly ofEngland. It was plain that Mr. Redgrave would not come; he had neverseriously meant it; his _Auf Wiedersehen_ was a mere civility to getrid of her in the street. Why had he troubled to inquire about her atall? Of course it didn't matter--nothing mattered--but if ever she methim again! Alma tried her features in expression of cold scornfulness. 

On the next day, as she was returning from an idle walk with her friendalong the Lindau road, Mr. Redgrave met them. He was dressed as she hadnever seen him, in flannels, with a white necktie loosely knotted and astraw hat. Not till he had come near enough to salute did she recognisehim; he looked ten years younger. 

They talked as if the meeting were of daily occurrence. Redgraveaddressed himself to Miss Steinfeld as often as to Alma, and showed agraceful command of decorous commonplace. He had arrived early thismorning, had put up at the Oesterreichischer Hof, was already delightedwith Brogenz. Did Miss Steinfeld devote herself to landscape? Had shedone anything here? Had Miss Frothingham brought her violin? Theystrolled pleasantly to the Hafen promenade, and parted at length withassurances of meeting again, as if definite appointment were needless. 

'That is my idea of the English gentleman, ' said Miss Steinfeldafterwards. 'I think I should have taken him for a lord. No doubt he isvery rich?'

'Oh, pretty well off, ' Alma replied, with assumed indifference. 'Tenthousand pounds a year, I dare say. '

'Ten thousand! _Lieber Himmel_! And married?'

'No. '

'In Parliament, I suppose?'

'No. '

'Then, what does he do?'

'Oh, amuses himself. '

Each became occupied with her thoughts. Alma's were so agreeable, thatMiss Steinfeld, observing her, naturally fell into romantic speculation. 

Redgrave easily contrived that his next walk should be with MissFrothingham alone. He overtook her next morning, soon after she hadleft the house, and they rambled in the Gebhardsberg direction. 

'Now let us have the promised talk, ' he began at a favourable moment. 'I've been thinking about you all the time. '

'Did you go to your place on Lake Garda?'

'Yes; just to look at it, and get it put in order. I hope to be thereagain before long. You didn't doubt I should come?'

'You left it uncertain. '

'To be sure. Life is uncertain. But I should have been desperatelydisappointed if I hadn't found you here. There are so many things to besaid about going in for music as a profession. You have the talent, youhave the physical strength, I think. ' His eye flattered her from headto foot. 'But, to be a great artist, one must have more than technicalqualifications. It's the soul that must be developed. '

Alma laughed. 

'I know it. And what is your receipt for developing the soul?'

Redgrave paused in his walk. Smiling, he gave a twist to his moustache, and appeared to meditate profoundly. 

'The soul--well, it has a priggish sound. Let us say the character; andthat is developed through experience of life. '

'I'm getting it. '

'Are you? In the company of Miss Steinfeld? I'm afraid that won't carryyou very far. Experience means emotion; certainly, for a woman. Believeme, you haven't begun to live yet. You may practise on your violin dayand night, and it won't profit you--until you have _lived_. '

Alma was growing serious. These phrases harmonised well enough with herown insubstantial thoughts and idly-gathered notions. When preparing toescape from England, she had used much the same language. But, afterall, what did it mean? What, in particular, did Cyrus Redgrave mean, with his expressive eyes, and languid, earnest tone?

'You will say that a girl has few opportunities. True, thanks to herenslavement by society. '

'I care nothing for society, ' Alma interposed. 

'Good! I like the sound of that defiance; it has the right ring. A manhasn't often the pleasure of hearing that from a woman he can respect. It's easy, of course, to defy the laws of a world one doesn't belongto; but you, who are a queen in your circle, and may throne, at anymoment, in a wider sphere--it means much when you refuse to bow downbefore the vulgar idols, to be fettered by superstitions. '

His aim was dark to her, but she tasted the compliment which ignoredher social eclipse. Redgrave's conversation generally kept on theprosaic levels--studiously polite, or suavely cynical. It was a newexperience to see him borne on a wave of rhetoric; yet not borne away, for he spoke with an ease, a self-command, which to older ears wouldhave suggested skill rather than feeling. He had nothing of the ardourof youth; his poise and deliberation were quite in keeping with the twoscore years that subtly graved his visage; the passions in him weresportive, half-fantastical, as though, together with his brain, theyhad grown to a ripe worldliness. He inspired no distrust; his goodnature seemed all-pervading; he had the air of one who lavishesdisinterested counsel, and ever so little exalts himself with hisfacile exuberance of speech. 

'I have seen much of artists; known them intimately, and studied theirlives. One and all, they date their success from some passionateexperience. From a cold and conventional existence can come nothing butcold and conventional art. You left England, broke away from the commonroutine, from the artificial and the respectable. That was anindispensable first step, and I have told you how I applauded it. Butyou cannot stop at this. I begin to fear for you. There is a conventionof unconventionality: poor quarters, hard life, stinted pleasures--allthat kind of thing. I fear its effect upon you. '

'What choice have I?' exclaimed Alma, moved to familiar frankness. 'IfI _am_ poor, I must live poorly. '

He smiled graciously upon her, and raised his hand almost as though hewould touch her with reassuring kindness; but it was only to stroke histrimmed beard. 

'Oh, you have a choice, believe me, ' came his airy answer. 'There's noharm in poverty that doesn't last too long. You may have profited byit; it is an experience. But now--Don't let us walk so far as to tireyou. Yes, we will turn. Variety of life, travel, all sorts of joys andsatisfactions--these are the things you need. '

'And if they are not within my reach?' she asked, without looking athim. 

'By-the-bye'--he disregarded her question--'your friend, Mrs. Carnaby, has taken a long flight. '

'Yes. '

The monosyllable was dropped. Alma walked with her eyes on the ground, trailing her sunshade. 

'I didn't think she had much taste for travel. But you know her so muchbetter than I do. '

'She is enjoying herself, ' said Alma. 

'No need for _you_ to go so far. Down yonder'--he nodded southward--'Iwas thinking, the other day, of the different kinds of pleasure onegets from scenery in different parts of the world. I have seen thetropics; they left me very much where I was, intellectually. It's thehuman associations of natural beauty that count. You have no desire togo to the islands of the Pacific?'

'I can't say that I have. '

'Of course not. The springs of art are in the old world. Among thevines and the olives one hears a voice. I must really try to give yousome idea of my little place at Riva. '

He began a playful description--long, but never tedious; alluring, yetwithout enthusiasm--a dreamy suggestion of refined delights andluxuries. 

'I have another place in the Pyrenees, to suit another mood; and notlong ago I was sorely tempted by the offer of a house not far fromAntioch, in the valley of the Orontes--a house built by an Englishman. Charming place, and so entirely off the beaten track. Isn't there afascination in the thought of living near Antioch? Well away from boresand philistines. No Mrs. Grundy with her clinking tea-cups. I dare saythe house is still to be had. --Oh, do tell me something about yourfriend, Fraulein Steinfeld. Is she in earnest? Will she do anything?'

His eloquence was at an end. Thenceforward he talked of common thingsin unemotional language; and when Alma parted from him, it was with asense of being tired and disappointed. 

On the following day she did not see him at all. He could not have leftBregenz, for, of course, he would have let her know. She thought of himincessantly, reviewing all his talk, turning over this and thatambiguous phrase, asking herself whether he meant much or little. Itwas natural that she should compare and contrast his behaviour withthat of Felix Dymes. If his motive were not the same, why did he seekher society? And if it were? If at length he spoke out, summing hishints in the plain offer of all those opportunities she lacked?

A brilliant temptation. To leave the world as Alma Frothingham, and toreturn to it as Mrs. Cyrus Redgrave!

But, in that event, what of her musical ambitions? He spoke of her artas the supreme concern, to which all else must be subordinate. Andsurely that was his meaning when he threw scorn upon 'bores andphilistines'. Why should the fact of his wealth interfere with herprogress as an artist? Possibly, on the other hand, he did not intendthat she should follow a professional career. Cannot one be a greatartist without standing on public platforms? Was it his lordly thoughtto foster her talents for his own delectation and that of the fewprivileged?

Her brain grew confused with interpreting and picturing. But once moreshe had made an advance in self-esteem. She could await the nextmeeting with a confidence and pride very unlike her sensations in theStiglmeyerplatz at Munich. 

It took place on the second day. This time Redgrave did not wait uponaccident; he sent a note, begging that he might have the pleasure ofanother talk with her. He would call at a certain hour, and take hischance of finding her at home. When he presented himself, Alma wassitting in the common room of the _pension_ with two German ladies;they in a few minutes withdrew, and familiar conversation becamepossible. As the windows stood open, and there were chairs upon thebalcony, Redgrave shortly proposed a move in that direction. They sattogether for half an hour. 

When Redgrave took his leave, it was without shaking of hands--with no_Auf Wiedersehen_. He smiled, he murmured civilities; Alma neithersmiled nor spoke. She was pale, and profoundly agitated. 

So this was his meaning?--made plain enough at last, though with themost graceful phrasing. Childish vanity and ignorance had forbidden herto dream of such an issue. She had not for a moment grasped thesignificance to a man of the world of the ruin and disgrace fallen uponher family. In theory she might call herself an exile from the politeworld; none the less did she imagine herself still illumined by thesocial halo, guarded by the divinity which doth hedge a member of theupper-middle class. Was she not a lady? And who had ever dared to offera lady an insult such as this? Shop-girls, minor actresses, theinferior sort of governess, must naturally be on their guard; theirinsecurity was traditional; novel and drama represented their moralvicissitudes. But a lady, who had lived in a great house with manyservants, who had founded an Amateur Quartet Society, the hem of whosegarment had never been touched with irreverent finger--could _she_stand in peril of such indignity?

Not till now had she called to mind the forewarnings of Sibyl Carnaby, which, at the time of hearing them, she did not at all understand. 'People, ' said Sibyl, 'would approach her with strange ideas. ' This shemight have applied to the grotesque proposal (as it seemed to her) ofFelix Dymes, or to the risk of being tempted into premature publicityby a business offer from some not very respectable impresario. WhatSibyl meant was now only too clear; but how little could Mrs. Carnabyhave imagined that her warning would be justified by one of her ownfriends--by a man of wealth and consideration. 

She durst not leave the house for fear of encountering Redgrave, who, if they crossed by chance, might fancy she invited another meeting. Shedreaded the observation of women, especially of Miss Steinfeld. Theonly retreat was her bedroom, and here she secluded herself tilldinner-time. At this meal she must needs face the company or incurremark. She tried to return her friend's smile with the ordinaryunconcern. After dinner there was no avoiding Miss Steinfeld, whose airof extreme discretion showed that she had an inkling of events, andawaited confidences. 

'Mr. Redgrave has gone--he called to say goodbye. '

'_So_?'

Irritated by self-consciousness, revolting against a misinterpretationwhich would injure her vanity, though it was not likely to aim at herhonour, Alma had recourse to fiction. 

'I daresay you guess?--Yes, and I refused. '

Miss Steinfeld was puzzled. It did not astonish her that a girl shouldreject ten thousand pounds per annum, for that she was too high-minded;but she had thought it beyond doubt that Alma's heart was engaged. Here, it had seemed to her, was the explanation of a mystery attachingto this original young Englishwoman; unhoped, the brilliant lover, thesecretly beloved, had sought her in her retirement. And after all, itwas a mistake. 

'I don't care for him a bit, ' Alma went on. 'It had to be got over anddone with, that was all. '

She felt ashamed of herself. In childhood she had told falsehoodsfreely, but with the necessity for that kind of thing the habit hadfallen away. Solace, however, was at hand, for the German girl lookedat her with a new interest, a new sympathy, which Alma readilyconstrued as wonder and admiration, if not gentle envy. To have refusedan offer of marriage from a handsome man of great wealth might becounted for glory. And Alma's momentary shame yielded to agratification which put her outwardly at ease. 

The restless night brought torment of the mind and harassed spirits. Redgrave's proposal echoed in the vacant chambers of her life, soundingno longer an affront, but an allurement. Why, indeed, had she repelledit so unthinkingly? It did not necessarily mean scandal. He had notinvited her to open defiance of the world. 'You can absolutely trustme; I am discretion itself. All resources are at my command. ' Why hadshe rejected with scorn and horror what was, perhaps, her greatopportunity, the one hope of her struggling and sinking ambition? Shehad lost faith in herself; in her power to overcome circumstances, notyet in her talent, in her artistic birthright. Redgrave would have madeher path smooth. 'I promise you a great reputation in two or threeyears' time. ' And without disgrace, without shadow of suspicion, itwould all be managed, he declared, so very easily. For what alternativehad she rebuffed him?

Redgrave's sagacity had guided him well up to a certain point, but ithad lost sight of one thing essential to the success of his scheme. Perhaps because he was forty years of age, perhaps because he had sooften come and seen and conquered, perhaps because he made too low anestimate of Bennet Frothingham's daughter, --he simply overlookedsentimental considerations. It was a great and a fatal oversight. Hewent far in his calculated appeal to Alma's vanity; had he but creditedher with softer passions, and given himself the trouble to play uponthem, he would not, at all events, have suffered so sudden a defeat. Men of Redgrave's stamp grow careless, and just at the time of lifewhen, for various causes, the art which conceals art has becomeindispensable. He did not flatter himself that Alma was ready to fallin love with him; and here his calm maturity served him ill. To his owndefect of ardour he was blinded by habit. After all, the affair hadlittle consequence. It had only suggested itself after the meeting inMunich, and perhaps--he said to himself--all things considered, theevent was just as well. 

But Alma felt the double insult, to her worldly honour, to herwomanhood. The man had not even made pretence of loving her; and this, whilst it embittered her disappointment, strengthened her to cast fromher mind the baser temptation. Marriage she would have accepted, thoughdoubtless with becoming hesitancy; the offer could not have been madewithout one word of tenderness (for Cyrus Redgrave was another thanFelix Dymes), and she had not felt it impossible to wed this polishedcapitalist. Out of the tumult of her feelings, as another day went by, issued at length that one simple and avowable sense of disappointment. She had grasped the prize, and heated her imagination in regarding it;had overcome natural reluctances, objections personal and moral; wasready to sit down and write to Mrs. Frothingham the splendid, startlingannouncement. And here she idled in her bedroom, desolate, hopeless, wishing she had courage to steal down at night to the waters of theBodensee, and end it all. 

On the third day she returned to Munich, having said farewell to herfriend, who was quite prepared for the parting. From Munich sheproceeded to Leipzig, and there entered again the family circle of theGassners. She had no intention of staying for very long; the pretenceof musical study could not be kept up; but her next step was quiteuncertain. 

A fortnight later, Mrs. Frothingham wrote thus:----

'I am sending you on a letter which, if I am not mistaken, comes fromMr. Rolfe. Do tell me if I am right. Odd that he should write to you, ifit is he. You have not told me yet whether you saw Mr. Redgrave again. But I see that you don't care much, and perhaps it is as well. '

The forwarded letter had been originally addressed to the care of MrsFrothingham, and Alma, at a glance, recognised Harvey Rolfe's writing. He dated from London. Was he mistaken, he began, in thinking thatcertain photographs from Bregenz had come to him by Miss Frothingham'skindness? For his part, he had spent June in a ramble in South-westFrance, chiefly by the Dordogne, and through a strange, interesting bitof marsh-country, called La Double. 'I hardly know how I got there, andI shall not worry you by writing any account of the expedition. But ata miserable village called La Roche Chalais, where I had a mostindigestible supper and a bed unworthy of the name, I managed to fallill, and quite seriously thought, "Ah, here is the end!" It has to comesomewhere, and why not on a _grabat_ at La Roche Chalais? A mistake; Iam here again, wasting life as strenuously as ever. Would you let mehear from you? I should think it a great addition to your kindness insending the views. And so, with every good wish, he remained, &c. 

Having nothing better to do, Alma got out a map of France, and searchedfor La Roche Chalais; but the place was too insignificant to be marked. On the morrow, being still without occupation, she answered Rolfe'sletter, and in quite a playful vein. She had no time to correspond withpeople who 'wasted their lives'. To her, life was a serious matterenough. But he knew nothing of the laborious side of a musician'sexistence, and probably doubted its reality. As an afterthought, shethanked him gravely for his letter, and hoped that some day, when shehad really 'done something', they might meet and renew their friendship. 

CHAPTER 9

On an afternoon in September, Harvey Rolfe spent half an hour at acertain London bookseller's, turning over books that dealt with thetheory and practice of elementary education. Two or three of them heselected, and ordered to be sent to a lady at Gunnersbury. On his wayout he came upon an acquaintance making a purchase in anotherdepartment of the shop. It was some months since he had seen CecilMorphew, who looked in indifferent health, and in his dress came nearto shabbiness. They passed out together, Morphew carrying an enwrappedvolume, which he gave Rolfe to understand was a birthday present--for_her_. The elder man resisted his inclination to joke, and asked howthings were going on. 

'Much the same as usual, except that her father is in very bad health. It's brutal, but I wish he would die. '

'Naturally. '

'That's what one's driven to, you see. And anyone but you, who know me, would set me down as a selfish, calculating beast. Can't help it. I hadrather have her penniless. --Will you come in here with me? I want tobuy some pyrogallic acid. '

In the street again, Morphew mentioned that he had taken up photography. 

'It gives me something to do, and it takes me out into the open air. This beastly town is the ruin of me, in every way. --Come to my roomsfor an hour, will you? I'll show you some attempts; I've only justtried my hand at developing. And it's a long time since we had a talk. '

They made for a Chelsea omnibus and mounted. 

'I thought you were never in town at this time, ' Morphew resumed. 'Iwant to get away, but can't afford it; devilish low-water with me. Imust have a bicycle. With that and the camera I may just manage tolive; often there seems little enough to live for. --Tripcony? Oh, Tripcony's a damned swindler; I've given him up. Speculation isn'tquite so simple as I imagined. I made a couple of hundred, though--yes, and lost nearly three. '

The young man's laugh was less pleasant to hear than formerly. Altogether, Rolfe observed in him a decline, a loss of refinement aswell as of vitality. 

'Why don't you go into the country?' he said. 'Take a cottage and growcabbages; dig for three hours a day. It would do you no end of good. '

'Of course it would. I wish I had the courage. '

'I'm going to spend the winter in Wales, ' said Harvey. 'Anout-of-the-world place in Carnarvonshire--mountains and sea. Come alongwith me, and get the mephitis blown out of you. You've got towndisease, street-malaria, lodging-house fever. '

'By Jove, I'll think of it, ' replied the other, with a strange look ofeagerness. 'But I don't know whether I can. No, I can't be sure. ButI'll try. '

'What holds you?'

'Well, I like to be near, you know, to _her_. And then--all sorts ofdifficulties----'

Morphew had his lodgings at present in a street near Chelsea Hospital, a poor-looking place, much inferior to those in which Rolfe hadformerly seen him. His two rooms were at the top, and he had converteda garret into a dark chamber for his photographic amusement. Dirt anddisorder made the sitting-room very uninviting; Rolfe looked about him, and wondered what principle of corruption was at work in the youngman's life. 

Morphew showed a new portrait of his betrothed, Henrietta Winter; acomely face, shadowed with pensiveness. 'Taken at Torquay; she sent ita day or two ago. --I've been thinking of giving her up. If I do, Ishall do it brutally and savagely, to make it easy for her. I've spoilther life, and I'm pretty sure I've ruined my own. '

He brought out a bottle of whisky and half filled two tumblers. His ownmeasure he very slightly diluted, and drank it off at once. 

'You're at a bad pass, my boy, ' remarked Rolfe. 'What's wrong?Something more than usual, I know. Make a clean breast of it. '

Morphew continued to declare that he was only low-spirited from thelongstanding causes, and, though Rolfe did not believe him, nothingmore could at present be elicited. The talk turned to photography, butstill had no life in it. 

'I think you had better dine with me this evening, ' said Harvey. 

'Impossible. I wish I could. An engagement. '

The young man shuffled about, and after a struggle with embarrassment, aided by another tumbler of whisky, threw out something he wished tosay. 

'It's deuced hard to ask you, but--could you lend me some money?'

'Of course. How much? Why do you make such a sputter about it?'

'I've been making a fool of myself--got into difficulties. Will you letme have fifty pounds?'

'Yes, if you'll promise to clear at once out of this dust-bin, and in amonth or so come into Wales. '

'You're an awfully good fellow, Rolfe, --and I'm a damned fool. Ipromise! I will! I'll get out of it, and then I'll think about breakingwith that girl. Better for both of us--but you shall advise me. -- I'lltell you everything some day. I can't now. I'm too ashamed of myself. '

When he got home, Harvey wrote a cheque for fifty pounds, and posted itat once. 

Not many days after, there came to him a letter from Mrs. Frothingham. With this lady he had held no communication since the catastrophe oflast November; knowing not how to address her without giving more painthan his sympathy could counterbalance, he remained silent. She wrotefrom the neighbourhood of Swiss Cottage, where she had taken a flat; itwas her wish, if possible, to see him 'on a matter of business', andshe requested that he would make an appointment. Much wondering in whatbusiness of Mrs. Frothingham's he could be concerned, Harvey named histime, and went to pay the call. He ascended many stairs, and wasconducted by a neat servant-maid into a pleasant little drawing-room, where Mrs. Frothingham rose to receive him. She searched his face, asif to discern the feeling with which he regarded her, and her timidsmile of reassurance did not lack its pathos. 

'Mr. Rolfe, it seems years since I saw you. '

She was aged a little, and her voice fell in broken notes, an unhappycontrast to the gay, confident chirping of less than twelve months ago. 

'I have only been settled here for a week. I thought of leaving Londonaltogether, but, after all, I had to come backwards and forwards sooften, --it was better to have a home here, and this little flat willjust suit me, I think. '

She seemed desirous of drawing attention to its modest proportions. 

'I really don't need a house, and lodgings are so wretched. These flatsare a great blessing--don't you think? I shall manage here with oneservant, only one. '

Rolfe struggled with the difficulty of not knowing what to say. Therewas nothing for it but to discourse as innocently as might be on theadvantages of flats, their increasing popularity, and the specialcharms of this particular situation. Mrs. Frothingham eagerly agreedwith everything, and did her best to allow no moment of silence. 

'You have heard from Miss Frothingham, I think?' she presently letfall, with a return of anxiety. 

'Not very long ago. From Leipzig. '

'Yes. Yes. --I don't know whether she will stay there. You know she isthinking of taking up music professionally?--Yes. Yes. --I do so hopeshe will find it possible, but of course that kind of career is so veryuncertain. I'm not sure that I shouldn't be glad if she turned tosomething else. '

The widow was growing nervous and self-contradictory. With a quickmovement of her hands, she suddenly resumed in another tone. 

'Mr. Rolfe, I do so wish you would let me speak to you in confidence. Iwant to ask your help in a most delicate matter. Not, of course, aboutmy step-daughter, though I shall have to mention her. It is somethingquite personal to myself. If I could hope that you wouldn't think ittiresome--I have a special reason for appealing to you. '

He would gladly, said Harvey, be of any use he could. 

'I want to speak to you about painful things, ' pursued his hostess, with an animation and emphasis which made her more like the lady ofFitzjohn Avenue. 'You know everything--except my own position, and thatis what I wish to explain to you. I won't go into details. I will onlysay that a few years ago my husband made over to me a large sum ofmoney--I had none of my own--and that it still belongs to me. I saybelongs to me; but there is my trouble. I fear I have no right whateverto call it mine. And there are people who have suffered such dreadfullosses. Some of them you know. There was a family named Abbott. Iwanted to ask you about them. Poor Mr. Abbott--I remember reading----'

She closed her eyes for an instant, and the look upon her face toldthat this was no affectation of an anguished memory. 

'It was accident, ' Rolfe hastened to say. 'The jury found it accidentaldeath. '

'But there was the loss--I read it all. He had lost everything. Do tellme what became of his family. Someone told me they were friends ofyours. '

'Happily they had no children. There was a small life-insurance. MrsAbbott used to be a teacher, and she is going to take that up again. '

'Poor thing! Is she quite young?'

'Oh, about thirty, I should say. '

'Will she go into a school?'

'No. Private pupils at her own house. She has plenty of courage, andwill do fairly well, I think. '

'Still, it is shocking that she should have lost all--her husband, too, just at that dreadful time. This is what I wanted to say, Mr. Rolfe. Doyou think it would be possible to ask her to accept something----? I doso feel, ' she hurried on, 'that I ought to make some sort ofrestitution--what I can--to those who lost everything. I am told thatthings are not quite hopeless; something may be recovered out of thewreck some day. But it will be such a long time, and meanwhile peopleare suffering so. And here am I left in comfort--more than comfort. Itisn't right; I couldn't rest till I did something. I am glad to saythat I have been able to help a little here and there, but only thekind of people whom it's easy to help. A case like Mrs. Abbott's is farworse, yet there's such a difficulty in doing anything; one might onlygive offence. I'm sure my name must be hateful to her--as it is to somany. '

Rolfe listened with a secret surprise. He had never thought ill of MrsFrothingham; but, on the other hand, had never attributed to her anysave superficial qualities, a lightsome temper, pleasure inhospitality, an easy good nature towards all the people of heracquaintance. He would not have supposed her capable of substantialsacrifices; least of all, on behalf of strangers and inspired by aprinciple. She spoke with the simplest sincerity; it was impossible tosuspect her motives. The careless liking with which he had alwaysregarded her was now infused with respect; he became gravely attentive, and answered in a softer voice. 

'She was embittered at first, but is overcoming it. To tell you thetruth, I think she will benefit by this trial. I don't like the wordsthat are so often used in cant; I don't believe that misery does anygood to most people--indeed, I know very well that it generally doesharm. But Mrs. Abbott seems to be an exception; she has a good deal ofcharacter; and there were circumstances--well, I will only say that shefaces the change in her life very bravely. '

'I do wish I knew her. But I daren't ask that. It's too much to expectthat she could bear to see me and listen to what I have to say. '

'The less she's reminded of the past the better, I think. '

'But would it not be possible to do something? I am told that the sumwas about fifteen hundred pounds. The whole of that I couldn't restore;but half of it--I could afford so much. Could I offer to do so--notdirectly, in my own name, but through you?'

Harvey reflected, his head and body bent forward, his hands foldedtogether. In the flat beneath, someone was jingling operetta on a pianonot quite in tune; the pertinacious vivacity of the airs interferedwith Harvey's desire to view things seriously. He had begun to wonderhow large a capital Mrs. Frothingham had at her command. Was it notprobable that she could as easily bestow fifteen hundred pounds as thehalf of that sum? But the question was unworthy. If in truth she hadset herself to undo as much as possible of the wrong perpetrated by herhusband, Mrs. Frothingham might well limit her benefactions, be herfortune what it might. 

'I will do whatever you desire, ' he said, with deliberation. 'I cannotanswer for Mrs. Abbott, but, if you wish it, she shall know what youhave in mind. '

'I do wish it, ' replied the lady earnestly. 'I beg you to put thisbefore her, and with all the persuasion you can use. I should be very, very glad if she would allow me to free my conscience from a little ofthis burden. Only that I dare not speak of it, I would try to convinceyou that I am doing what my dear husband himself would have wished. Youcan't believe it; no one will ever believe it; even Alma, I amafraid--and that is so cruel, so dreadful; but he did not mean to wrongpeople in this way. It wasn't in his nature. Who knew him better thanI, or so well? I know--if he could come back to us----'

Her voice broke. The piano below jingled more vivaciously than ever, and a sound of shrill laughter pierced through the notes. Afraid to sitsilent, lest he should seem unsympathetic and sceptical, Rolfe murmureda few harmless phrases, tending to nervous incoherence. 

'I am thinking so much about Alma, ' pursued the widow, recoveringself-command. 'I am so uncertain about my duty to her. Of her own, shehas nothing; but I know, of course, that her father wished her to sharein what he gave me. It is strange, Mr. Rolfe, that I should be talkingto you as if you were a relative--as if I had a right to trouble youwith these things. But if you knew how few people I dare speak to. Wasn't it so much better for her to lead a very quiet life? And so Igave her only a little money, only enough to live upon in the simplestway. I hoped she would get tired of being among strangers, and comeback. And now I fear she thinks I have behaved meanly and selfishly. And we were always so kindly disposed to each other, such thoroughfriends; never a word that mightn't have passed between a mother andher own child. '

'I gathered from her letter, ' interposed Harvey, 'that she was wellcontented and working hard at her music. '

'Do you think so? I began to doubt--she wrote in low spirits. Ofcourse, one can't say whether she would succeed as a violinist. Oh, Idon't like to think of it! I must tell you that I haven't said a wordto her yet of what I am doing; I mean, about the money. I know I oughtto consider _her_ as much as other people. Poor girl, who has sufferedmore, and in so many ways? But I think of what I keep for myself ashers. I was not brought up in luxury, Mr. Rolfe. It wouldn't seem to mehard to live on a very little. But in this, too, I must consider Alma. I daren't lose all my acquaintances. I must keep a home for Alma, and ahome she wouldn't feel ashamed of. Here, you see, she could have herfriends. I have thought of going to Leipzig; but I had so much rathershe came to London--if only for us just to talk and understand eachother. '

Harvey preserved the gravest demeanour. Of Alma he would not permithimself to speak, save in answer to a direct question; and that was notlong in coming. 

'I am sure you think I should be quite open with her?'

'That would seem to me the best. '

'Yes; she shall know all my thoughts. But with regard to Mrs. Abbott, Iknow so well what she would say. I beg you to do me that kindness, MrRolfe. '

'I will write to Mrs. Abbott at once. '

The interview was at an end; neither had anything more to say. Theyparted with looks of much mutual kindliness, Harvey having promised tomake another call when Mrs. Abbott's reply had reached him. 

After exchanging letters with Mrs. Abbott, Harvey went over to see her;for the sake of both persons concerned, he resolved to leave nopossibility of misunderstanding. A few days passed in discussions andreflections, then, at the customary hour for paying calls, he againascended the many stairs to Mrs. Frothingham's flat. It had rained allday, and in this weather there seemed a certainty that the lady wouldbe at home. But, as he approached the door, Harvey heard a sound fromwithin which discomposed him. Who, save one person, was likely to beplaying on the violin in these rooms? He paused, cast about him aglance of indecision, and finally pressed the electric bell. 

Mrs. Frothingham was not at home. She might return very shortly. 

'Is--Miss Frothingham at home?'

The servant did not straightway admit him, but took his name. On hisentering the drawing-room, three figures appeared before him. He sawAlma; he recognised Miss Leach; the third lady was named to him as MissLeach's sister. 

'You knew I was in London?' Alma remarked rather than inquired. 

'I had no idea of it--until I heard your violin. '

'My violin, but not my playing. It was Miss Leach. '

From the first word--her 'Ah, how d'you do' as he entered--Alma's toneand manner appeared to him forced, odd, unlike anything he rememberedof her. In correcting him, she gave a hard, short laugh, glancing atDora Leach in a way verging upon the ill-bred. Her look had nothingamiable, though she continuously smiled, and when she invited thevisitor to be seated, it was with off-hand familiarity veryunflattering to his ear. 

'You came to see Mamma, of course. I dare say she won't be long. Shehad to go through the rain on business with someone or other--perhapsyou know. Have you been in London all the summer? Oh no, I remember youtold me you had been somewhere in France; on the Loire, wasn't it?'

Rolfe dropped a careless affirmative. His temper prompted him to askwhether Miss Frothingham knew the difference between the Loire and theGaronne; but on the whole he was more puzzled than offended. What hadcome over this young woman? Outwardly she was not much altered--alittle thinner in the face, perhaps; her eyes seeming a trifle darkerand deeper set; but in the point of demeanour she had appreciablysuffered. Her bearing and mode of speech were of that kind which, in aman, would be called devil-may-care. Was it a result of student-life?If her stinted allowance had already produced effects such as this, MrsFrothingham was justified in uneasiness. 

He turned to Miss Leach, and with her talked exclusively for someminutes. As soon as civility permitted, he would rise and make hisescape. Alma, the while, chatted with the younger sister, whom sheaddressed as 'Gerda'. Then the door opened, and Mrs. Frothingham camein, wearing her out-of-doors and gave him cordial welcome, though infew and nervous costume; she fixed her eyes on Rolfe with a peculiarintensity, words. 

'I am no longer alone, you see. ' She threw a swift side-glance at Alma. 'It is a great pleasure. '

'Does it rain still, Mamma?' asked Alma in a high voice. 

'Not just now, my dear; but it's very disagreeable. '

'Then I'll walk with you to the station. ' She addressed the sisters. 'Dora and Gerda can't stay; they have an appointment at five o'clock. They'll come again in a day or two. '

After the leave-takings, and when Alma, with a remark that she wouldnot be long, had closed the door behind her, Mrs. Frothingham seatedherself and began to draw off her gloves. The bonnet and cloak she waswearing, though handsome and in the mode, made her look older than atRolfe's last visit. She was now a middle-aged woman, with emphasis onthe qualifying term; in home dress she still asserted her sex, grace offigure and freshness of complexion prevailing over years and sorrows. At this moment, moreover, weariness, and perhaps worry, appeared in hercountenance. 

'Thank you so much for coming, ' she said quietly. 'You must have beensurprised when you saw----'

'I was, indeed. '

'And my surprise was still greater, when, without any warning, Almawalked into the room two days ago. But I was so glad, so very glad. '

She breathed a little sigh, looking round. 

'Hasn't Alma given her friends any tea? I must ring--Thank you. --Oh, the wretched, wretched day! I seem to notice the weather so much morethan I used to. Does it affect you at all?'

Not till the tea-tray was brought in, and she had sipped from her cup, did Mrs. Frothingham lay aside these commonplaces. With abrupt gravity, and in a subdued voice, she at length inquired the result of Rolfe'sdelicate mission. 

'I think, ' he replied, 'that I made known your wish as clearly andurgently as possible. I have seen Mrs. Abbott, and written to hertwice. It will be best, perhaps, if I ask you to read her final letter. I have her permission to show it to you. '

He drew the letter from its envelope, and with a nervous hand MrsFrothingham took it for perusal. Whilst she was thus occupied, Rolfeaverted his eyes; when he knew that she had read to the end, he lookedat her. She had again sighed, and Harvey could not help imagining it aninvoluntary signal of relief. 

'I am very glad to have read this, Mr. Rolfe. If you had merely told methat Mrs. Abbott refused, I should have felt nothing but pain. As itis, I understand that she _could_ only refuse, and I am most gratefulfor all she says about me. I regret more than ever that I don't knowher. '

As she handed the letter back, it shook like a blown leaf. She waspale, and spoke with effort. But in a few moments, when conversationwas resumed, her tone took a lightness and freedom which confirmedRolfe's impression that she had escaped from a great embarrassment; andthis surmise he inevitably connected with Alma's display of strangeill-humour. 

Not another word passed on the subject. With frequent glances towardsthe door, Mrs. Frothingham again talked commonplace. Harvey, eager toget away, soon rose. 

'Oh, you are not going? Alma will be back in a moment. '

And as her step-mother spoke, the young lady reappeared. 

'Why didn't you give your friends tea, dear?'

'I forgot all about it. That comes of living alone. Dora has composed agavotte, Mamma. She was playing it when Mr. Rolfe came. It's capital!Is Mr. Rolfe going?'

Harvey murmured his peremptory resolve. Mrs. Frothingham, rising, saidthat she was almost always at home in the afternoon; that it wouldalways give her so much pleasure----

'You remain in England?' asked Harvey, barely touching the hand whichAlma cavalierly offered. 

'I really don't know. Perhaps I ought to, just to look after Mamma. '

Mrs. Frothingham uttered a little exclamation, and tried to laugh. Onthe instant, Harvey withdrew. 

By the evening's post on the following day he was surprised to receivea letter addressed in Alma's unmistakable hand. The contents did notallay his wonder. 

DEAR MR ROLFE, I am sure you will not mind if I use the privilege of a fairly longacquaintance and speak plainly about something that I regard asimportant. I wish to say that I am quite old enough, and feel quitecompetent, to direct the course of my own life. It is very kind of you, indeed, to take an interest in what I do and what I hope to do, and Iam sure Mamma will be fittingly grateful for any advice you may haveoffered with regard to me. But I feel obliged to say quite distinctlythat I must manage my own affairs. Pray excuse this freedom, andbelieve me, yours truly, He gasped, and with wide eyes read the missive again and again. As soonas his nerves were quieted, he sat down and replied thus:----

DEAR MISS FROTHINGHAM, Your frankness can only be deemed a compliment. It is perhaps atriviality on my part, but I feel prompted to say that I have at notime discussed your position or prospects with Mrs. Frothingham, andthat I have neither offered advice on the subject nor have beenrequested to do so. If this statement should appear to you at allgermane to the matter, I beg you will take it into consideration. --AndI am, yours truly, HARVEY RADCLIFFE ROLFE

CHAPTER 10

This reply despatched, Harvey congratulated himself on being quits withMiss Frothingham. Her letter, however amusing, was deliberateimpertinence; to have answered it in a serious tone would have been toencourage ill-mannered conceit which merited nothing but a snub. 

But what had excited her anger? Had Mrs. Frothingham been guilty ofsome indiscretion, or was it merely the result of hotheaded surmisesand suspicions on the girl's part? Plainly, Alma had returned toEngland in no amiable mood; in all probability she resented herstep-mother's behaviour, now that it had been explained to her; therehad arisen 'unpleasantness' on the old, the eternal subject--money. Ignoble enough; but was it a new thing for him to discern ignoblepossibilities in Alma's nature?

Nevertheless, his thoughts were constantly occupied with the girl. Herimage haunted him; all his manhood was subdued and mocked by herscornful witchery. From the infinitudes of reverie, her eyes drew nearand gazed upon him--eyes gleaming with mischief, keen with curiosity; alook now supercilious, now softly submissive; all the varieties ofexpression caught in susceptible moments, and stored by a too faithfulmemory. Her hair, her lips, her neck, grew present to him, and luredhis fancy with a wanton seduction. In self-defence--pathetic stratagemof intellectual man at issue with the flesh--he fell back upon theidealism which ever strives to endow a fair woman with a beautifulsoul; he endeavoured to forget her body in contemplation of thespiritual excellencies that might lurk behind it. To depreciate her wassimpler, and had generally been his wont; but subjugation had reachedanother stage in him. He summoned all possible pleadings on the girl'sbehalf: her talents, her youth, her grievous trials. Devotion toclassical music cannot but argue a certain loftiness of mind; it might, in truth, be somehow akin to 'religion'. Remembering his own folliesand vices at the age of four-and-twenty, was it not reason, no lessthan charity, to see in Alma the hope of future good? Nay, if it cameto that, did she not embody infinitely more virtue, in every sense ofthe word, than he at the same age?

One must be just to women, and, however paltry the causes, do honour tothe cleanliness of their life. Nothing had suggested to him that Almawas unworthy of everyday respect. Even when ill-mannered, she did notlose her sexual dignity. And after all she had undergone, there wouldhave been excuse enough for decline of character, to say nothing of alapse from the articles of good breeding. This letter of hers, what didit signify but the revolt of a spirit of independence, irritated by allmanner of sufferings, great and small? Ought he not to have replied inother terms? Was it worthy of him--man of the world, with passions, combats, experience multiform, assimilated in his long, slow growth--toset his sarcasm against a girl's unhappiness?

He was vexed with himself. He had not behaved as a gentleman. And howmany a time, in how many situations, had he incurred this form ofself-reproach!

When a week went by without anything more from Alma, Harvey ceased totrouble. As the fates directed, so be it. He began to pack the bookswhich he would take with him into Wales. 

One day he found himself at Kensington High Street, waiting for a Citytrain. In idleness, he watched the people who alighted from carriageson the opposite side of the platform, and among them he saw Alma. Onher way towards the stairs she was obliged to pass him; he kept hisposition, and only looked into her face when she came quite near. Shebent her head with a half-smile, stopped, and spoke in a low voice, without sign of embarrassment. 

'I was quite wrong. I found it out soon after I had written, and I havewanted to beg your pardon. '

'It is my part to do that, ' Harvey replied. 'I ought not to haveanswered as I did. '

'Perhaps not--all things considered. I'm rather in a hurry. Good-morning!'

As a second thought, she offered her hand. Harvey watched her trip upthe stairs. 

Next morning he had a letter from her. 'Dear Mr. Rolfe, ' she wrote, 'did you let Mamma know of my hasty and foolish behaviour? If not--andI very much hope you didn't--please not to reply to this, but let ussee you on Wednesday afternoon, just in the ordinary way. If Mamma_has_ been told, still don't trouble to write, and in that case I daresay you will not care to come. If you are engaged this Wednesday, perhaps you could come next. ' And she signed herself his sincerely. 

He did not reply, and Wednesday saw him climbing once more to thelittle flat; ashamed of being here, yet unable to see how he could haveavoided it, except by leaving London. For that escape he had no longermuch mind. Quite consciously, and with uneasiness which was now takinga new form, he had yielded to Alma's fascination. However contemptibleand unaccountable, this was the state of things with him, and, as hewaited for the door to be opened, it made him feel more awkward, morefoolish, than for many a long year. 

Mrs. Frothingham and her step-daughter were sitting alone, the elderlady occupied with fancy-work, at her feet a basket of many-colouredsilks, and the younger holding a book; nothing could have been quieteror more home-like. No sooner had he entered than he overcame allrestraint, all misgiving; there was nothing here today but peace andgood feeling, gentle voices and quiet amiability. Whatever shadow hadarisen between the two ladies must have passed utterly away; they spoketo each other with natural kindness, and each had a tranquilcountenance. 

Alma began at once to talk of their common friends, the Carnabys, asking whether Rolfe knew that they were in Australia. 

'I knew they had decided to go, ' he answered. 'But I haven't heard forat least two months. '

'Oh, then I can give you all the news; I had a letter yesterday. WhenMrs. Carnaby wrote, they had spent a fortnight at Melbourne, and weregoing on to Brisbane. Mr. Carnaby is going to do something inQueensland--something about mines. I'll read you that part. '

The letter lay in the book she was holding. Sibyl wrote indefinitely, but Harvey was able to gather that the mining engineer, Dando, hadpersuaded Carnaby to take an active interest in his projects. Discussion on speculative enterprises did not recommend itself to thepresent company, and Rolfe could only express a hope that his friendhad at last found a pursuit in which he could interest himself. 

'But fancy Sibyl at such places!' exclaimed Alma, with amusement. 'Howcurious I shall be to see her when she comes back! Before she leftEngland, I'm sure she hadn't the least idea in what part of AustraliaBrisbane was, or Melbourne either. I didn't know myself; had to look ata map. You'll think that a shameful confession, Mr. Rolfe. '

'My own ideas of Australian geography are vague enough. '

'Oh, but haven't you been there?'

'Not to any of the new countries; I don't care about them. A defect, Iadmit. The future of England is beyond seas. I would have childrentaught all about the Colonies before bothering them with histories ofGreece and Rome. I wish I had gone out there myself as a boy, and grownup a sheep-farmer. '

Alma laughed. 

'That's one of the things you say just to puzzle people. It contradictsall sorts of things I've heard you say at other times. --Do _you_ think, Mamma, that Mr. Rolfe missed his vocation when he didn't become asheep-farmer?'

Mrs. Frothingham gently shook her head. No trace of nervousnessappeared in her today; manipulating the coloured silks, she only nowand then put in a quiet word, but followed the talk with interest. 

'But I quite thought you had been to Australia, ' Alma resumed. 'Yousee, it's very theoretical, your admiration of the new countries. And Ibelieve you would rather die at once in England than go to live in anysuch part of the world. '

'Weakness of mind, that's all. '

'Still, you admit it. That's something gained. You always smile atother people's confessions, and keep your own mind mysterious. '

'Mysterious? I always thought one of my faults was over-frankness. '

'That only shows how little we know ourselves. '

Harvey was reflecting on the incompleteness of his knowledge of Alma. Intentionally or not, she appeared to him at this moment in a perfectlynew light; he could not have pictured her so simple of manner, sodirect, so placid. Trouble seemed to have given her a holiday, and atthe same time to have released her from self-consciousness. 

'But you have never told us, ' she went on, 'about your wanderings inFrance this summer. English people don't go much to that part, do they?'

'No. I happened to read a book about it. It's the old fighting-groundof French and English--interesting to any one pedantic enough to carefor such things. '

'But not to people born to be sheep-farmers. And you had a seriousillness. --Did Mr. Rolfe tell you, Mamma dear, that he nearly died atsome miserable roadside inn?'

Mrs. Frothingham looked startled, and declared she knew nothing of it. Harvey, obliged to narrate, did so in the fewest possible words, anddismissed the matter. 

'I suppose you have had many such experiences, ' said Alma. 'And when doyou start on your next travels?'

'I have nothing in view. I half thought of going for the winter to aplace in North Wales--Carnarvonshire, on the outer sea. '

The ladies begged for more information, and he related how, on a ramblewith a friend last spring (it was Basil Morton), he had come upon thisstill little town between the mountains and the shore, amid a countryshining with yellow gorse, hills clothed with larch, heathery moorland, ferny lanes, and wild heights where the wind roars on crag or cairn. 

'No railway within seven miles. Just the place for a pedant to escapeto, and live there through the winter with his musty books. '

'But it must be equally delightful for people who are not pedants!'exclaimed Alma. 

'In spring or summer, no doubt, though even then the civilised personwould probably find it dull. '

'That's your favourite affectation again. I'm sure it's nothing butaffectation when you speak scornfully of civilised people. '

'Scornfully I hope I never do. '

'Really, Mamma, ' said Alma, with a laugh, 'Mr. Rolfe is in his verymildest humour today. We mustn't expect any reproofs for our good. Hewill tell us presently that we are patterns of all the virtues. '

Mrs. Frothingham spoke in a graver strain. 

'But I'm sure it is possible to be too civilised--to want too manycomforts, and become a slave to them. Since I have been living here, MrRolfe, you can't think how I have got to enjoy the simplicity of thiskind of life. Everything is so easy; things go so smoothly. Just oneservant, who can't make mistakes, because there's next to nothing todo. No wonder people are taking to flats. '

'And is that what you mean by over-civilisation?' Alma asked of Rolfe. 

'I didn't say anything about it. But I should think many people inlarge and troublesome houses would agree with Mrs. Frothingham. It'seasy to imagine a time when such burdens won't be tolerated. Ourmisfortune is, of course, that we are not civilised enough. '

'Not enough to give up fashionable nonsense. I agree with that. We'rewretched slaves, most of us. '

It was the first sentence Alma had spoken in a tone that Rolferecognised. For a moment her face lost its placid smile, and Harveyhoped that she would say more to the same purpose; but she was silent. 

'I'm sure, ' remarked Mrs. Frothingham, with feeling, 'that mosthappiness is found in simple homes. '

'Can we be simple by wishing it?' asked Alma. 'Don't you think we haveto be born to simplicity?'

'I'm not sure that I know what you mean by the word, ' said Harvey. 

'I'm not sure that I know myself. Mamma meant poverty, I think. Butthere may be a simple life without poverty, I should say. I'm thinkingof disregard for other people's foolish opinions; living just as youfeel most at ease--not torturing yourself because it's the custom. '

'That's just what requires courage, ' Rolfe remarked. 

'Yes; I suppose it does. One knows people who live in misery justbecause they daren't be comfortable; keeping up houses and things theycan't afford, when, if they only considered themselves, their incomewould be quite enough for everything they really want. If you come tothink of it, that's too foolish for belief. '

Harvey felt that the topic was growing dangerous. He said nothing, butwished to have more of Alma's views in this direction. They seemed tostrike her freshly; perhaps she had never thought of the matter in thisway before. 

'That's what I meant, ' she continued, 'when I said you must be born tosimplicity. I should think no one ever gave up fashionable extravagancejust because they saw it to be foolish. People haven't the strength ofmind. I dare say, ' she added, with a bright look, 'anyone who _was_strong enough to do that kind of thing would be admired and envied. '

'By whom?' Rolfe asked. 

'Oh, by their acquaintances who were still slaves. '

'I don't know. Admiration and envy are not commonly excited by merelyreasonable behaviour. '

'But this would be something more than merely reasonable. It would bethe beginning of a revolution. '

'My dear, ' remarked Mrs. Frothingham, smiling sadly, 'people wouldnever believe that it didn't mean loss of money. '

'They might be made to believe it. It would depend entirely on thepersons, of course. '

Alma seemed to weary of the speculation, and to throw it aside. Harveynoticed a shadow on her face again, which this time did not passquickly. 

He was so comfortable in his chair, the ladies seemed so entirely atleisure, such a noiseless calm brooded about them, unbroken by any newarrival, that two hours went by insensibly, and with lingeringreluctance the visitor found it time to take his leave. On reviewingthe afternoon, Harvey concluded that it was probably as void of meaningas of event. Alma, on friendly terms once more with her step-mother, felt for the moment amiably disposed towards everyone, himselfincluded; this idle good humour and insignificant talk was meant, nodoubt, for an apology, all he had to expect. It implied, of course, thorough indifference towards him as an individual. As a member oftheir shrunken circle, he was worth retaining. Having convinced herselfof his innocence of undue pretensions, Alma would, as the children say, be friends again, and everything should go smoothly. 

He lived through a week of the wretchedest indecision, and at the endof it, when Wednesday afternoon came round, was again climbing the manystairs to the Frothinghams' flat; even more nervous than last time, much more ashamed of himself, and utterly doubtful as to his reception. The maid admitted him without remark, and showed him into an emptyroom. When he had waited for five minutes, staring at objects he didnot see, Alma entered. 

'Mamma went out to lunch, ' she said, languidly shaking hands with him, 'and hasn't come back yet. '

No greeting could have conveyed less encouragement. She seated herselfwith a lifeless movement, looked at him, and smiled as if discharging aduty. 

'I thought'--he blundered into speech--'that Wednesday was probablyyour regular afternoon. '

'There is nothing regular yet. We haven't arranged our life. We areglad to see our friends whenever they come. --Pray sit down. '

He did so, resolving to stay for a few minutes only. In the silencethat followed, their eyes met, and, as though it were too much troubleto avert her look, Alma continued to regard him. She smiled again, andwith more meaning. 

'So you have quite forgiven me?' fell from her lips, just when Harveywas about to speak. 

'As I told you at the station, I feel that there is more fault on myside. You wrote under such a strange misconception, and I ought to havepatiently explained myself. '

'Oh no! You were quite right in treating me sharply. I don't quiteremember what I said, but I know it must have been outrageous. Afterthat, I did what I ought to have done before, just had a talk withMamma. '

'Then you took it for granted, without any evidence, that I came hereas a meddler or busybody?'

His voice was perfectly good-humoured, and Alma answered in the sametone. 

'I _thought_ there was evidence. Mamma had been talking about heraffairs, and mentioned that she had consulted you about something--Oh, about Mrs. Abbott. '

'Very logical, I must say, ' remarked Rolfe, laughing. 

'I don't think logic is my strong point. '

She sat far back in the easy chair, her head supported, her handsresting upon the chair arms. The languor which she hardly made aneffort to overcome began to invade her companion, like an influencefrom the air; he gazed at her, perceiving a new beauty in thehalf-upturned face, a new seductiveness in the slim, abandoned body. Adress of grey silk, trimmed with black, refined the ivory whiteness ofher flesh; its faint rustling when she moved affected Harvey with adelicious thrill. 

'There's no reason, now, ' she continued, 'why we shouldn't talk aboutit--I mean, the things you discussed with Mamma. You imagine, I daresay, that I selfishly objected to what she was doing. Nothing of thekind. I didn't quite see why she had kept it from me, that was all. Itwas as if she felt afraid of my greediness. But I'm not greedy; I don'tthink I'm more selfish than ordinary people. And I think Mamma is doingexactly what she ought; I'm very glad she felt about things in thatway. '

Harvey nodded, and spoke in a subdued voice. 

'I was only consulted about one person, whom I happened to know. '

'Yes--Mrs. Abbott. '

Her eyes were again fixed upon him, and he read their curiosity. Justas he was about to speak, the servant appeared with tea. Alma slowlyraised herself, and, whilst she plied the office of hostess, Harvey gotrid of the foolish hat and stick that encumbered him. He had now nointention of hurrying away. 

As if by natural necessity, they talked of nothing in particular whilsttea was sipped. Harvey still held his cup, when at the outer doorsounded a rat-tat-tat, causing him silently to execrate the intruder, whoever it might be. Unheeding, and as if she had not heard, Almachatted of trifles. Harvey's ear detected movements without, but no oneentered; in a minute or two, he again breathed freely. 

'Mrs. Abbott----'

Alma just dropped the name, as if beginning a remark, but lapsed intosilence. 

'Shall I tell you all about her?' said Rolfe. 'Her husband's death lefther in great difficulties; she had hardly anything. A friend of hers, aMrs. Langland, who lives at Gunnersbury, was very kind and helpful. They talked things over, and Mrs. Abbott decided to take a house atGunnersbury, and teach children;--she was a teacher before hermarriage. '

'No children of her own?'

'No. One died. But unfortunately she has the care of two, whosemother--a cousin of hers--is dead, and whose father has run away. '

'Run away?'

'Literally. Left the children behind in a lodging-house garret tostarve, or go to the workhouse, or anything else. A spirited man;independent, you see; no foolish prejudices. '

'And Mrs. Abbott has to support them?'

'No one else could take them. They live with her. '

'You didn't mention that to Mamma. '

'No. I thought it needless. '

The silence that followed was embarrassing to Harvey. He broke it byabruptly changing the subject. 

'Have you practised long today?'

'No, ' was the absent reply. 

'I thought you looked rather tired, as if you had been working toohard. '

'Oh, I don't work too hard, ' said Alma impatiently. 

'Forgive me. I remember that it is a forbidden subject. '

'Not at all. You may ask _me_ anything you like about myself. I'm notworking particularly hard just now; thinking a good deal, though. Suppose you let me have your thoughts on the same subject. No harm. ButI dare say I know them, without your telling me. '

'I hardly think you do, ' said Rolfe, regarding her steadily. 'At allevents'--his voice faltered a little--'I'm afraid you don't. '

'Afraid? Oh'--she laughed--'don't be afraid. I have plenty of courage, and quite enough obstinacy. It rather does me good when people showthey have no faith in me. '

'You didn't understand, ' murmured Harvey. 

'Then make me understand, ' she exclaimed nervously, moving in the chairas if about to stand up, but remaining seated and bent forward, hereyes fixed upon him in a sort of good-humoured challenge. 'I believe Iknow what you mean, all the time. You didn't discuss me with Mamma, asI suspected, but you think about me just as she does. --No, let me goon, then you shall confess I was right. You have no faith in my powers, to begin with. It seems to you very unlikely that an everyday sort ofgirl, whom you have met in society and know all about, should developinto a great artist. No faith--that's the first thing. Then you are sokind as to have fears for me--yes, it was your own word. You think thatyou know the world, whilst I am ignorant of it, and that it's a sort ofduty to offer warnings. '

Harvey's all but angry expression, as he listened and fidgeted, suddenly stopped her. 

'Well! Can you deny that these things are in your mind?'

'They are not in my mind at this moment, that's quite certain, ' saidHarvey bluntly. 

'Then, what is?'

'Something it isn't easy to say, when you insist on quarrelling withme. Why do you use this tone? Do I strike you as a pedagogue, apreacher--something of that sort?'

His energy in part subdued her. She smiled uneasily. 

'No. I don't see you in that light. '

'So much the better. I wanted to appear to you simply a man, and onewho has--perhaps--the misfortune to see in _you_ only a very beautifuland a very desirable woman. '

Alma sat motionless. Her smile had passed, vanishing in a swift gleamof pleasure which left her countenance bright, though grave. In thesame moment there sounded again a rat-tat at the outer door. Throughhis whirling senses, Harvey was aware of the threatened interruption, and all but cursed aloud. That Alma had the same expectation appearedin her moving so as to assume a more ordinary attitude; but she utteredthe word that had risen to her lips. 

'The misfortune, you call it?'

Harvey followed her example in disposing his limbs more conventionally;also in the tuning of his voice to something between jest and earnest. 

'I said _perhaps_ the misfortune. '

'It makes a difference, certainly. ' She smiled, her eyes turned to thedoor. '_Perhaps_ is a great word; one of the most useful in thelanguage. --Don't you think so, Mamma?'

Mrs. Frothingham had just entered. 

CHAPTER 11

The inconceivable had come to pass. By a word and a look Harvey hadmade real what he was always telling himself could never be more than adream, and a dream of unutterable folly. Mrs. Frothingham's unconsciousintervention availed him nothing; he had spoken, and must speak again. For a man of sensitive honour there could be no trilling in such amatter as this with a girl in Alma Frothingham's position. And did henot rejoice that wavering was no longer possible?

This was love; but of what quality? He no longer cared, or dared, toanalyse it. Too late for all that. He had told Alma that he loved her, and did not repent it; nay, hoped passionately to hear from her lipsthe echoed syllable. It was merely the proof of madness. A shake of thehead might cure him; but from that way to sanity all his blood shrank. 

He must consider; he must be practical. If he meant to ask Alma tomarry him, and of course he did, an indispensable preliminary was tomake known the crude facts of his worldly position. 

Well, he could say, with entire honesty, that he had over nine hundredpounds a year. This was omitting a disbursement of an annual fiftypounds, of which he need not speak--the sum he had insisted on payingMrs. Abbott that she might be able to maintain Wager's children. Withall the difficulty in the world had he gained his point. Mrs. Abbottdid not wish the children to go into other hands; she made it a matterof conscience to keep them by her, and to educate them, yet this seemedbarely possible with the combat for a livelihood before her. Mrs. Abbott yielded, and their clasp of hands cemented a wholesomefriendship--frank, unsuspicious--rarest of relations between man andwoman. But all this there was certainly no need of disclosing. 

At midnight he was penning a letter. It must not be long; it must notstrike the lyrical note; yet assuredly it must not read like acommercial overture. He had great difficulty in writing anything thatseemed tolerable. Yet done it must be, and done it was; and beforegoing to bed he had dropped his letter into the post. He durst notleave it for reperusal in the morning light. 

Then came torture of expectancy. The whole man aching, sore, withimpatience; reason utterly fled, intellect bemused and baffled; ahealthy, competent citizen of nigh middle age set all at once in thecorner, crowned with a fool's cap, twiddling his thumbs in nervousfury. Dolorous spectacle, and laughable withal. 

He waited four-and-twenty hours, then clutched at Alma's reply. 'DearMr. Rolfe, --Will you come again next Wednesday?' That was all. Did itamuse her to keep him in suspense? The invitation might imply afulfilment of his hopes, but Alma's capriciousness allowed nocertainty; a week's reflection was as likely to have one result asanother. For him it meant a week of solitude and vacancy. 

Or would have meant it, but for that sub-vigorous element in hischaracter, that saving strain of practical rationality, which hadbrought him thus far in life without sheer overthrow. An hour afterreceiving Alma's enigmatical note, he was oppressed by inertia; anotherhour roused him to self-preservation, and supplied him with a project. That night he took the steamer from Harwich to Antwerp, and for thenext four days wandered through the Netherlands, reviving his memoriesof a journey, under very different circumstances, fifteen years ago. The weather was bright and warm; on the whole he enjoyed himself; hereached London again early on Wednesday morning, and in the afternoon, with a touch of weather on his cheek, presented himself at Alma's door. 

She awaited him in the drawing-room, alone. This time, he felt sure, nointerruption was to be feared; he entered with confident step and acheery salutation. A glance showed him that his common-sense had servedhim well; it was Alma who looked pale and thought-worn, who betrayedtimidity, and could not at once command herself. 

'What have you been doing?' she asked, remarking his appearance. 

'Rambling about a little, ' he replied good-humouredly. 

'Where? You look as if you had been a voyage. '

'So I have, a short one. '

And he told her how his week had passed. 

'So that's how you would like to spend your life--always travelling?'

'Oh no! I did it to kill time. You must remember that a week issomething like a year to a man who is waiting impatiently. '

She dropped her eyes. 

'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. But I never thought you veryimpatient. You always seemed to take things philosophically. '

'I generally try to. '

There was a pause. Alma, leaning forward in her chair, kept her eyesdown, and did not raise them when she again spoke. 

'You have surprised and perplexed and worried me. I thought in a week'stime I should know what to say, but--Doesn't it strike you, Mr. Rolfe, that we're in a strange position towards each other? You know verylittle of me--very little indeed, I'm sure. And of you, when I come tothink of it, all I really know is that you hardly care at all for whathas always been my one great interest. '

'That is putting it in a matter-of-fact way--or you think so. I seethings rather differently. In one sense, I care very much indeed foreverything that really makes a part of your life. And simply because Icare very much about you yourself. I don't know you; who knows anyother human being? But I have formed an idea of you, and an idea thathas great power over my thoughts, wishes, purposes--everything. It hasmade me say what I thought I should never say to any woman--and makesme feel glad that I have said it, and full of hope. '

Alma drew in her breath and smiled faintly. Still she did not look athim. 

'And of course I have formed an idea of you. '

'Will you sketch the outline and let me correct it?'

'You think I am pretty sure to be wrong?' she asked, raising her eyesand regarding him for a moment with anxiety. 

'I should have said "complete" it. I hope I have never shown myself toyou in an altogether false light. '

'That is the one thing I have felt sure about, ' said Alma, slowly andthoughtfully. 'You have always seemed the same. You don't change withcircumstances--as people generally do. '

Harvey had a word on his lips, but checked it, and merely gazed at hertill her eyes again encountered his. Then Alma smiled more naturally. 

'There was something you didn't speak of in your letter. What kind oflife do you look forward to?'

'I'm not sure that I understand. My practical aims--you mean?'

'Yes, ' she faltered, with embarrassment. 

'Why, I'm afraid I have none. I mentioned the facts of my position, andI said that I couldn't hope for its improvement----'

'No, no, no! You misunderstand me. I am not thinking about money. Ihate the word, and wish I might never hear it again!' She spoke withimpetuosity. 'I meant--how and where do you wish to live? What thoughtshad you about the future?'

'None very definite, I confess. And chiefly because, if what I desiredcame to pass, I thought of everything as depending upon you. I have noplace in the world. I have no relatives nearer than cousins. Of lateyears I have been growing rather bookish, and rather fond ofquietness--but of course that resulted from circumstances. When a manoffers marriage, of course he usually says: My life is this and this;will you enter into it, and share it with me? I don't wish to sayanything of the kind. My life may take all sorts of forms; when I askyou to share it, I ask you to share liberty, not restraint. '

'A gipsy life?' she asked, half playfully. 

'Is your inclination to that?'

Alma shook her head. 

'No, I am tired of homelessness. --And, ' she added as if on an impulse, 'I am tired of London. '

'Then we agree. I, too, am tired of both. '

Her manner altered; she straightened herself, and spoke with moreself-possession. 

'What about my art--my career?'

'It is for me to ask that question, ' replied Harvey, gazing steadfastlyat her. 

'You don't mean that it would all necessarily come to an end. '

'Why? I mean what I say when I speak of sharing liberty. Heaven forbidthat I should put an end to any aim or hope of yours--to anything thatis part of yourself. I want you to be yourself. Many people nowadaysrevolt against marriage because it generally means bondage, and theyhave much to say for themselves. If I had been condemned to a wearisomeoccupation and a very small income, I'm sure I should never have askedanyone to marry me; I don't think it fair. It may seem to you that Ihaven't much right to call myself an independent man as it is----'

Alma broke in, impatiently. 

'Don't speak of money? You have enough--more than enough. '

'So it seems to me. You are afraid this might prevent you from becominga professional musician?'

'I know it would, ' she answered with quiet decision. 

'I should never dream of putting obstacles in your way. Do understandand believe me. I don't want to shape you to any model of my own; Iwant you to be your true self, and live the life you are meant for. '

'All the same, you would rather I did not become a professionalmusician. Now, be honest with me! Be honest before everything. Youneedn't answer, I know it well enough; and if I marry you, I give up mymusic. '

Rolfe scrutinised her face, observed the tremulous mouth, the nervouseyelid. 

'Then, ' he said, 'it will be better for you not to marry me. '

And silence fell upon the room, a silence in which Harvey could hear adeep-drawn breath and the rustle of silk. He was surprised by a voicein quite a new tone, softly melodious. 

'You give me up very easily. '

'Not more easily than you give up your music. '

'There's a difference. Do you remember what we were saying, lastWednesday, about simplicity of living?'

'Last Wednesday? It seems a month ago. Yes, I remember. '

'I have thought a good deal of that. I feel how vulgar the life is thatmost people lead. They can't help it; they think it impossible to doanything else. But I should like to break away from it altogether--tolive as I chose, and not care a bit what other people said. '

Harvey had the same difficulty as before in attaching much significanceto these phrases. They were pleasant to hear, for they chimed with hisown thoughts, but he could not respond with great seriousness. 

'The wife of a man with my income won't have much choice, I fancy. '

'How can you say that?' exclaimed Alma. 'You know that most peoplewould take a house in a good part of London, and live up to the lastpenny--making everyone think that their income must be two or threethousand pounds. I know all about that kind of thing, and it sickensme. There's the choice between vulgar display with worry, and a simple, refined life with perfect comfort. You fancied I should want a house inLondon?'

'I hardy thought anything about it. '

'But it would ease your mind if I said that I would far rather live ina cottage, as quietly and simply as possible?'

'What does ease my mind--or rather, what makes me very happy, is thatyou don't refuse to think of giving me your companionship. '

Alma flushed a little. 

'I haven't promised. After all my thinking about it, it came tothis--that I couldn't make up my mind till I had talked over everythingwith you. If I marry, I must know what my life is going to be. And itpuzzles me that you could dream of making anyone your wife before youhad asked her all sorts of questions. '

In his great contentment, Harvey laughed. 

'Admirable, theoretically! But how is a man to begin asking questions?How many would he ask before he got sent about his business?'

'That's the very way of putting his chance to the test!' said Almabrightly. 'If he _is_ sent about his business, how much better for himthan to marry on a misunderstanding. '

'I agree with you perfectly. I never heard anyone talk better sense onthe subject. '

Alma looked pleased, as she always did when receiving a compliment. 

'Will you believe, then, Mr. Rolfe, that I am quite in earnest inhating show and pretences and extravagance, and wishing to live in justthe opposite way?'

'I will believe it if you cease to address me by that formal name--ashow and a pretence, and just a little extravagant. '

Her cheeks grew warm again

'That reminds me, ' she said; 'I didn't know you had a second name--tillI got that letter. '

'I had almost forgotten it myself, till I answered a certain otherletter. I didn't know till then that _you_ had a second name. Your"Florence" called out my "Radcliffe"--which sounds fiery, doesn't it? Ialways felt that the name over-weighted me. I got it from my mother. '

'And your first--Harvey?'

'My first I got from a fine old doctor, about whom I'll tell you someday--Alma. '

'I named your name. I didn't address you by it. '

'But you will?'

'Let us talk seriously. --Could you live far away from London, in someplace that people know nothing about?'

'With you, indeed I could, and be glad enough if I never saw Londonagain. '

An exaltation possessed Alma; her eyes grew very bright, gazing as ifat a mental picture, and her hands trembled as she continued to speak. '

'I don't mean that we are to go and be hermits in a wilderness. Ourfriends must visit us--our real friends, no one else; just the peoplewe really care about, and those won't be many. If I give up a publiccareer--as of course I shall--there's no need to give up music. I cango on with it in a better spirit, for pure love of it, without any wishfor making money and reputation. You don't think this a mere dream?'

Harvey thought more than he was disposed to say. He marvelled at hersudden enthusiasm for an ideal he had not imagined her capable ofpursuing. If he only now saw into the girl's true character, revealedby the awakening of her emotions, how nobly was his ardour justified!All but despising himself for loving her, he had instinctively chosenthe one woman whose heart and mind could inspire him to a life abovehis own. 'I should think it a dream, ' he answered, 'if I didn't hear itfrom your lips. '

'But it is so easy! We keep all the best things, and throw off only theworthless--the things that waste time and hurt the mind. No crowdedrooms, no wearying artificial talk, no worry with a swarm of servants, no dressing and fussing. The whole day to one's self, for work andpleasure. A small house--just large enough for order and quietness, andto keep a room for the friend who comes. How many people would likesuch a life, but haven't the courage to live it!'

'Where shall it be, Alma?'

'I have given no promise. I only say this is the life that IJ shouldlike. Perhaps you would soon weary of it?'

'I? Not easily, I think. '

'There might be travel, too, ' she went on fervently. 'We should berich, when other people, living in the ordinary vulgar way, would havenothing to spare. No tours where the crowd goes; real travel inout-of-the-way parts. '

'You are describing just what I should choose for myself; but Ishouldn't have dared to ask it of you. 

'And why? I told you that you knew so little of me. We are only justbeginning to understand each other. '

'What place have you in mind?'

'None. That would have to be thought about Didn't you say you weregoing to some beautiful spot in Wales?'

Harvey reflected. 

'I wonder whether you would like that----'

'We are only supposing, you know. But show me where it is. If you waita moment, I'll fetch a map. '

She rose quickly. He had just time to reach the door and open it forher; and as she rapidly passed him, eyes averted, the faintest andsweetest of perfumes was wafted upon his face. There he stood till herreturn, his pulses throbbing. 

'This is my old school atlas, ' she said gaily; 'I always use it still. '

She opened it upon the table and bent forward. 

'North Wales, you said? Show me----'

He pointed with a finger that quivered. His cheek was not far fromhers; the faint perfume floated all about him; he could Imagine it thenatural fragrance of her hair, of her breath. 

'I see, ' she murmured. 'That's the kind of place far off, but not toofar. And the railway station?'

As he did not answer, she half turned towards him. 

'The station?--Yes. --Alma!----

CHAPTER 12

Mrs. Frothingham was overjoyed. In private talk with Harvey she sangthe praises of her step-daughter, whom, she declared, any man might beproud to have won. For Alma herself had so much pride; thecharacteristic, said Mrs. Frothingham, which had put dangers in herpath, and menaced her prospects of happiness. 

'There's no harm in saying, Mr. Rolfe, that I never dared to hope forthis. I thought perhaps that you--but I was afraid Alma wouldn't listento any one. Just of late, she seemed to feel her position so much morethan at first. It was my fault; I behaved so foolishly; but I'm sureyou'll both forgive me. For months I really wasn't myself. It made thepoor girl bitter against all of us. But how noble she is! Howhigh-minded! And how much, much happier she will be than if she hadstruggled on alone--whatever she might have attained to. '

It was clear to Harvey that the well-meaning lady did not quiteunderstand Alma's sudden enthusiasm for the 'simple life', that she hadbut a confused apprehension of the ideal for which Alma panted. But thesuggestion of 'economy' received her entire approval. 

'I feel sure you couldn't do better than to go and live in the countryfor a time. There are so many reasons why Alma will be happier there, at first, than in London. I don't know whether that place in NorthWales would be quite--but I mustn't meddle with what doesn't concernme. And you will be thoroughly independent; at any moment you can makea change. '

To a suggestion that she should run down into Carnarvonshire, and seeher proposed home before any practical step was taken, Alma repliedthat she had complete faith in Harvey Rolfe's judgment. Harvey's onlydoubt was as to the possibility of finding a house. He made the journeyhimself, and after a few days' absence returned with no very hopefulreport; at present there was nothing to be had but a cottage, literallya cotter's home, and this would not do. He brought photographs, andAlma went into raptures over the lovely little bay, with its grassycliffs, its rivulet, its smooth sand, and the dark-peaked mountainssweeping nobly to a sheer buttress above the waves. 'There must be ahouse! There _shall_ be a house!' Of course, said Harvey, one couldbuild, and cheaply enough; but that meant a long delay. Regarding thedate of the marriage nothing was as yet decided, but Harvey had made uphis mind to be 'at home' for Christmas. When he ventured to hint atthis, Alma evaded the question. 

A correspondent would inform him if any house became tenantless. 'Ishall bribe someone to quit!' he cried. 'One might advertise that allexpenses would be paid, with one year's rent of a house elsewhere. 'Harvey was in excellent spirits, though time hung rather heavily on hishands. 

On an appointed day the ladies paid him a visit at his rooms. MrsHandover, requested to prepare tea for a semi-ceremonious occasion, wasat once beset with misgivings, and the first sight of the strangersplunged her into profound despondency. She consulted her indifferentrelative, Buncombe; had he any inkling of the possibility that Mr. Rolfe was about to change his condition? Buncombe knew nothing andcared nothing; his own domestic affairs were giving him more than usualanxiety just now. 'I didn't think he was fool enough'--thus only hereplied to Mrs. Handover's anxious questions. 

Alma surveyed the book-shelves, and took down volumes with an air ofinterest; she looked over a portfolio of photographs, inspectedmementoes of travel from Cyprus, Palestine, Bagdad. Mrs. Frothinghamnoted to herself how dusty everything was. 

'That woman neglects him scandalously, ' she said afterwards to Alma. 'Iwish I had to look after her when she is at work. '

'I didn't notice any neglect. The tea wasn't very well made, perhaps. '

'My dear child! the room is in a disgraceful state--never dusted, nevercleaned--oh dear!'

Alma laughed. 

'I'm quite sure, Mamma, you are much happier now--in one way--than whenyou never had to think of such things. You have a genius for domesticoperations. When I have a house of my own I shall be rather afraid ofyou. '

'Oh, of course you will have good servants, my dear. '

'How often have I to tell you, Mamma, that we're not going to live inthat way at all! The simplest possible furniture, the simplest possiblemeals--_everything_ subordinate to the higher aims and pleasures. '

'But you must have servants, Alma! You can't sweep the rooms yourself, and do the cooking?'

'I'm thinking about it, ' the girl answered gravely. 'Of course, I shallnot waste my time in coarse labour; but I feel sure we shall need onlyone servant--a competent, trustworthy woman, after your own heart. It'ssnobbish to be ashamed of housework; there are all sorts of things Ishould like to do, and that every woman is better for doing. '

'That is very true indeed, Alma. I can't say how I admire you for suchthoughts. But----'

'The thing is to reduce such work to the strictly necessary. Think ofall the toil that is wasted in people's houses, for foolish display andluxury. We sweep all that away at one stroke! Wait till you see. I'mthinking it out, making my plans. '

In the pleasant little drawing-room, by the fireside (for it was nowOctober and chilly), Harvey and Alma had long, long conversations. Occasionally they said things that surprised each other and led toexplanations, debates, but harmony was never broken. Rolfe came awayever more enslaved; more impressed by the girl's sweet reasonableness, and exalted by her glowing idealism. Through amorous mists he stillendeavoured to discern the real Alma; he reflected ceaselessly upon hercharacter; yet, much as she often perplexed him, he never saw reason tosuspect her of disingenuousness. At times she might appear to exciteherself unduly, to fall into excess of zeal; it meant, no doubt, thatthe imaginative fervour she had been wont to expend on music was turnedin a new quarter. Alma remained herself--impulsive, ardent, enthusiastic, whether yearning for public triumphs, or eager to lead arevolution in domestic life. Her health manifestly improved; languorwas unknown to her; her cheeks had a warmer hue, a delicate carnation, subtly answering to her thoughts. 

She abhorred sentimentality. This was one of her first intimatedeclarations, and Harvey bore it in mind. He might praise, glorify, extol her to the uttermost, and be rewarded by her sweetest smiles; butfor the pretty follies of amatory transport she had no taste. Harveyran small risk of erring in this direction; he admired and reverencedher maidenly aloofness; her dignity he found an unfailing charm, thegreat support of his own self-respect. A caress was not at all timesforbidden, but he asserted the privilege with trembling diffidence. Itpleased her, when he entered the room, to be stately and rather distantof manner, to greet him as though they were still on formal terms; thistroubled Harvey at first, but he came to understand and like it. In MrsFrothingham's presence, Alma avoided every sign of familiarity, andtalked only of indifferent things. 

Early in November there came news that a certain family in the littleWelsh town would be glad to vacate their dwelling if a tenant could atonce be found for it. The same day Harvey travelled northwards, and onthe morrow he despatched a telegram to Alma. He had taken the house, and could have possession in a week or two. Speedily followed a letterof description. The house was stone-built and substantial, but veryplain; it stood alone and unsheltered by the roadside, a quarter of amile from the town, looking seaward; it had garden ground and primitivestabling. The rooms numbered nine, exclusive of kitchen; small, but notdiminutive. The people were very friendly (Harvey wrote), and gave himall aid in investigating the place, with a view to repairs and so on;by remaining for a few days he would be able to consult with a builder, so as to have necessary work set in train as soon as the presentoccupants were gone. 

Alma's engagement had been kept strictly secret. When Harvey returnedafter a week of activity, he found her still reluctant to fix a day, oreven the month, for their wedding. He did not plead, but wrote her alittle letter, saying that the house could be ready by--at allevents--the second week in December; that he would then consult withher about furniture, and would go down to superintend the final puttingin order. 'After that, it rests with you to say when you will enterinto possession. I promise not to speak of it again until, on cominginto the room, I see your atlas lying open on the table; that shall bea sign unto me. '

On his return to London he received a note from Mrs. Frothingham, requesting him to be at home at a certain hour, as she wished to calland speak privately with him. This gave him an uneasy night; heimagined all manner of vexatious or distracting possibilities; but MrsFrothingham brought no ill news. 

'Don't be frightened, ' she began, reading his anxious face. 'All'swell, and I am quite sure Alma will soon have something to say to you. I have come on a matter of business--strictly business. '

Harvey felt a new kind of uneasiness. 

'Let me speak in a plain way about plain things, ' pursued the widow, with that shadow on her face which always indicated that she wasthinking of the mournful past. 'I know that neither Alma nor you wouldhear of her accepting money from me; I know I mustn't speak of it. Allthe better that you have no need of money. But now that you are myrelative--will be so very soon--I want to tell you how my affairsstand. Will you let me? Please do!'

Impossible to refuse a hearing to the good little woman, who delightedin confidential gossip, and for a long time had been anxious to pourthese details into Harvey's ear. So she unfolded everything. Hercapital at Bennet Frothingham's death amounted to more than sixteenthousand pounds, excellently invested--no 'Britannia' stocks or shares!Of this, during the past six months, she had given away nearly sixthousand to sufferers by the great catastrophe. Her adviser andadministrator in this affair was an old friend of her husband's, a Cityman of honourable repute. He had taken great trouble to discover worthyrecipients of her bounty, and as yet had kept the source of it unknown. 

'I mustn't give very much more, ' she said, looking at Harvey with apathetic deprecation of criticism. 'I want to keep an income of threehundred pounds. I could live on less, much less; but I should likestill to have it in my power to do a little good now and then, and Iwant to be able to leave something to my sister, or her children. Thetruth is, Mr. Rolfe--no, I will call you Harvey, once for all--thetruth is, I couldn't live now without giving a little help here andthere to people poorer than myself. Don't think it foolish. ' Her voicequivered. 'I feel that it will be done in the name of my poor husbandas if he himself were doing it, and making amends for a wrong he never, never intended. If I had given up everything--as some people say Iought to have done--it wouldn't have seemed the same to me. I couldn'tearn my own living, and what right had I to become a burden to myrelatives? I hope I haven't done very wrong. Of course, I shall give upthe flat as soon as Alma is married. In taking it I really thought moreof her than of my own comfort. I shall live with my sister, and come upto town just now and then, when it is necessary. '

The listener was touched, and could only nod grave approval. 

'There's another thing. Alma thinks with me in everything--but she saysI ought to let it be known who has given that money. She says it wouldmake many people less bitter against her father's memory. Now, what isyour opinion? If she is right in that----'

Harvey would offer no counsel, and Mrs. Frothingham did not press him. She must think about it. The disclosure, if wise, could be made at anytime. 

'That's all I had to say, Harvey. Now tell me about the house, and thengo arid see Alma. I have business in the City. '

He went, but only to be disappointed; Alma was not at home. To makeamends, she sent him a note that evening, asking him to call at twelvethe next day, and to stay to luncheon. When he entered the room, thefirst object his eye fell upon was the old school atlas, lying open onthe table at the map of England and Wales. 

And the day appointed was the twentieth of December. 

The wedding was to be the simplest conceivable. No costume, nobridesmaid or hulking groomsman, no invitations; no announcement toanyone until the day had passed, save only to Dora Leach, who would besummoned as if for some ordinary occasion of friendship, and then becarried off to the church. 

'It will insure my smiling all through the ordeal, ' said Alma to herstep-mother; 'Dora's face will be such a study!'

'My dear, ' began Mrs. Frothingham very earnestly, 'you are _quite_sure----'

'More than sure, if that's possible. And Harvey throws up his hat atbeing let off so easily. He dreaded the ceremony. '

Which was very true, though Rolfe had not divulged it. 

His personal possessions were now to be made ready for removal. Thebooks represented nearly all that he could carry away from his oldrooms, but they were a solid addendum to the garnishing of home. For amoment he thought of selling a few score of volumes. Would he everreally want those monumental tomes--the six folios of Muratori, forinstance, which he liked to possess, but had never used? Thereby hungthe great, the unanswerable question: How was he going to spend hislife as a married man? Was it probable that he would become a seriousstudent, or even that he would study as much as heretofore? Noforeseeing; the future must shape itself, even as the past had done. After all, why dismember his library for the sake of saving a fewshillings on carriage? If he did not use the books himself----

A thought flashed through him which made his brain, unsteady. If he didnot use the books himself, perhaps----

He tried to laugh, but for five minutes was remarkably sober. No, no;of course he would keep his library intact. 

And now there was a duty to perform: he must write to his friends, makeknown his marriage; the letters to be posted only on the day of fate. Dear old Basil Morton--how he would stare! Morton should soon come downinto Wales, and there would be great quaffing and smoking and talkinginto the small hours; a jolly anticipation! And Hugh Carnaby! Hughwould throw up his great arms, clench his huge red fists, and roar withmocking laughter. Good old boy! out there on the other side of theworld, perhaps throwing away his money, with the deft help of aswindler. And the poor lad, Cecil Morphew! who assuredly would neverpay back that fifty pounds--to which he was heartily welcome. Morphewhad kept his promise to quit the garret in Chelsea, but what was sincebecome of him Harvey knew not; the project of their going together intoWales had, of course, fallen through. 

Lastly, Mary Abbott--for so had Harvey come to name his friend's widow. Mary Abbott! how would she receive this news? It would come upon her asthe strangest surprise; not the mere fact of his marrying, but that hehad chosen for a wife, out of the whole world, the daughter of BennetFrothingham. Would she be able to think kindly of him after this? OfMrs. Frothingham she could speak generously, seeming to have outlivednatural bitterness; but the name must always be unwelcome to her ears. Alma would cease to bear that name, and perhaps, in days to come, MaryAbbott might forget it. He could only hope so, and that the two womenmight come together. On Alma's side, surely, no reluctance need befeared; and Mary, after her ordeal, was giving proof of sense andcharacter which inspired a large trust. He would write to her in themost open-hearted way; indeed, no other tone was possible, havingregard to the relations that had grown up between them. 

How the aspect of his little world was changing! A year ago, whatthings more improbable than that he should win Alma Frothingham for awife, and become the cordial friend of Mary Abbott?

When the revelation could be postponed no longer, he made known to MrsHandover that he was about to be married. It cost him an extraordinaryeffort, for in a double sense he was shamed before the woman. MrsHandover, by virtue of her sex, instinctively triumphed over him. Hesaw in her foolish eyes the eternal feminine victory; his head wasbowed before her slatternly womanhood. Then again, he shrank fromannouncing to the poor creature that she could no longer draw upon himfor her livelihood. 

'I'm very sorry, Mr. Rolfe, ' she began, in her most despondent voice. 'That is, of course, I'm very glad you're going to be married, and I'msure I wish you every happiness--I do indeed. But we are sorry to loseyou--indeed we are. '

Of her sincerity herein there could be no sort of doubt. Harveycoughed, and looked at the window--which had not been cleaned for somemonths. 

'May I ask, without rudeness, whether it is the young lady who came----'

'Yes, Mrs. Handover. '

He was uncommonly glad that Alma's name had never been spoken. There, indeed, would have been matter for gossip. 

'A very handsome young lady, Mr. Rolfe, and I'm sure I wish her allhappiness, as well as yourself. ' She fidgeted. 'Of course, I don't knowwhat your plans may be, sir, but--perhaps there's no harm if I mentionit--if ever you should be in need of a housekeeper--you've known me along time, sir----'

'Yes--yes--certainly. ' Harvey perspired. 'Of course, I should bear youin mind. '

Thereupon he had to listen whilst Mrs. Handover discoursed at largeupon her dubious prospects. At the close of the Interview, he gave hera cheque for ten pounds, concealed in an envelope. 'A littlepresent--of course, I shall be hearing of you--every good wish----'

On the eve of his marriage day he stood in the dismantled rooms, atonce joyful and heavy at heart. His books were hidden in a score ofpacking-cases, labelled, ready to be sent away. In spite of openwindows, the air was still charged with dust; since the packing began, everyone concerned in it had choked and coughed incessantly; on thebare floor, footsteps were impressed in a thick flocky deposit. Theserooms could have vied with any in London for supremacy of filthiness. Yet here he had known hours of still contentment; here he had sat withfriends congenial, and heard the walls echo their hearty laughter; herehe had felt at home--here his youth had died. 

Where all else was doubtful, speculative, contingent, that one thing hecertainly knew; he was no longer a young man. The years had passed likea shadow, unnoted, uncounted, and had brought him to this point ofpause, of change momentous, when he must needs look before and after. In all likelihood much more than half his life was gone. His mother didnot see her thirtieth year; his father died at little over forty; hisgrandparents were not long-lived; what chance had he of walking theearth for more than half the term already behind him? Did the life ofevery man speed by so mockingly? Yesterday a school-boy;tomorrow--'Rolfe? you don't say so? Poor old fellow!'

And he was going to be married. Incredible, laughter-moving, but afact. No more the result of deliberate purpose than any other changethat had come about in his life, than the flight of years and thevanishment of youth. Fate so willed it, and here he stood. 

Someone climbed the stairs, breaking upon his reverie. It was Buncombe, who smiled through a settled gloom. 

'All done? I shan't be much longer here myself. House too big for me. '

'Ah! it is rather large. '

'I'm thinking of changes. --You know something about myaffairs. --Yes--changes----'

Rolfe had never seen the man so dismal before; he tried to inspirithim, but with small result. 

'It's the kids that bother me, ' said Buncombe. Then he dropped hisvoice, and brought his head nearer. 

'You're going to get married. ' His eyes glinted darkly. 'I'm--going toget divorced. '

And with a grim nod the man moved away. 

Part the Second

CHAPTER 1

A morning of April, more than two years after his marriage, foundHarvey Rolfe in good health and very tolerable spirits. As his wontwas, he came down at half-past eight, and strolled in the open airbefore breakfast. There had been rain through the night; a grey miststill clung about the topmost larches of Cam Bodvean, and the Eifelsummits were densely wrapped. But the sun and breeze of spring promisedto have their way; to drive and melt the clouds, to toss white waveletson a blue sea, to make the gorse shine in its glory, and all the hillsbe glad. 

A gardener was at work in front of the house; Harvey talked with himabout certain flowers he wished to grow this year. In the smallstable-yard a lad was burnishing harness; for him also the master had afriendly word, before passing on to look at the little mare amid herclean straw. In his rough suit of tweed and shapeless garden hat, withbrown face and cheery eye, Rolfe moved hither and thither as thoughnative to such a life. His figure had filled out; he was more robust, and looked, indeed, younger than on the day when he bade farewell toMrs. Handover and her abominations. 

At nine o'clock he entered the dining-room, where breakfast was ready, though as yet no other person had come to table. The sun would nottouch this window for several hours yet, but a crackling fire made theair pleasant, and brightened all within. Seats were placed for three. An aroma of coffee invited to the meal, which was characterised by nosuggestion of asceticism. Nor did the equipment of the room differgreatly from what is usual in middle-class houses. The clock on themantelpiece was flanked with bronzes; engravings and autotypes hungabout the walls; door and window had their appropriate curtaining; theoak sideboard shone with requisite silver. Everything unpretentious;but no essential of comfort, as commonly understood, seemed to belacking. 

In a minute or two appeared Mrs. Frothingham; alert, lightsome, muchimproved in health since the first year of her widowhood. She had beenvisiting here for a fortnight, and tomorrow would return to her home inthe south. Movement, variety, intimate gossip, supported her under theaffliction which still seemed to be working for her moral good. Herbounty (or restitution) had long ago ceased to be anonymous, but shedid not unduly pride herself upon the sacrifice of wealth; she was gladto have it known among her acquaintances, because, in certain quarters, the fact released her from constraint, and restored her to friendlyintercourse. For her needs and her pleasures a very modest incomeproved quite sufficient. To all appearances, she found genuine andunfailing satisfaction in the exercise of benevolent sympathies. 

'Alma will not come down, ' was her remark, as she entered. 'A littleheadache--nothing. We are to send her some tea and dry toast. '

'I thought she didn't seem quite herself last night, ' said Harvey, ashe cut into a ham. 

Mrs. Frothingham made no remark, but smiled discreetly, taking a placeat the head of the table. 

'We shall have to go somewhere, ' Harvey continued. 'It has been a longwinter. She begins to feel dull, I'm afraid. '

'A little, perhaps. But she's quite well--it's nothing----'

'Why won't she go on with her water-colours? She was beginning to doreally good things--then all at once gives it up. '

'Oh, she must! I think those last sketches simply wonderful. Anyonewould suppose she had worked at it all her life, instead of just a fewmonths. How very clever she is!'

'Alma can do anything, ' said Harvey, with genial conviction. 

'Almost anything, I really think. Now _don't_ let her lose interest init, as she did in her music. You have only to show that you think herdrawings good, and speak about them. She depends rather uponencouragement. '

'I know. But it wasn't for lack of _my_ encouragement that she droppedher violin. '

'So unfortunate! Oh, she'll come back to it, I'm sure. '

When Mrs. Frothingham paid her first visit to the newly-married couple, it amused her to find a state of things differing considerably from heranxious expectations. True, they had only one servant within doors, thewoman named Ruth, but she did not represent the whole establishment. Having bought a horse and trap, and not feeling called upon to act asgroom, Harvey had engaged a man, who was serviceable in variouscapacities; moreover, a lad made himself useful about the premisesduring the day. Ruth was a tolerable cook, and not amiss as ahousemaid. Then, the furnishing of the house, though undeniably'simple', left little to be desired; only such things were eschewed asserve no rational purpose and are mostly in people's way. Alma, ascould at once be perceived, ran no risk of overexerting herself indomestic duties; she moved about of mornings with feather-brush, andoccasionally plied an unskilful needle, but kitchenward she neverturned her steps. Imprudently, Mrs. Frothingham remarked that thislife, after all, much resembled that of other people; whereat Almabetrayed a serious annoyance, and the well-meaning lady had toapologise, to admit the absence of 'luxuries', the homeliness of theirdiet, the unmistakable atmosphere of plain living and high thinking. 

She remained for nearly a month, greatly enjoying herself. Late inautumn, Alma begged her to come again, and this time the visit lastedlonger; for in the first week of December the house received a newinhabitant, whose arrival made much commotion. Alma did not give birthto her son without grave peril. Day after day Harvey strode about thewintry shore under a cloud of dread. However it had been with him ayear ago, he was now drawn to Alma by something other than the lures ofpassion; the manifold faults he had discerned in her did not seriouslyconflict with her peculiar and many-sided charm; and the birth of herchild inspired him with a new tenderness, an emotion different in kindfrom any that he had yet conceived. That first wail of feeblesthumanity, faint-sounding through the silent night, made a revolution inhis thoughts, taught him on the moment more than he had learnt from allhis reading and cogitation. 

It seemed to be taken as a matter of course that Alma would not nursethe baby; only to Harvey did this appear a subject for regret, and henever ventured to speak of it. The little mortal was not vigorous; hisnourishment gave a great deal of trouble; but with the coming of springhe took a firmer hold on life, and less persistently bewailed his lot. The names given to him were Hugh Basil. When apprised of this, thestrong man out in Australia wrote a heart-warming letter, and sent withit a little lump of Queensland gold, to be made into something, or keptintact, as the parents saw fit. Basil Morton followed the oldtradition, and gave a silver tankard with name and date of the newworld-citizen engraved upon it. 

Upon her recovery, Harvey took his wife to Madeira, where they spentthree weeks. Alma's health needed nothing more than this voyage; shereturned full of vitality. During her absence Mrs. Frothinghamsuperintended the household, the baby being in charge of a competentnurse. It occurred to Harvey that this separation from her child wasborne by Alma with singular philosophy; it did not affect in the leasther enjoyment of travel. But she reached home again in joyousexcitement, and for a few days kept the baby much in view. MrsFrothingham having departed, new visitors succeeded each other: Doraand Gerda Leach, Basil Morton and his wife, one or two of Alma'srelatives. Little Hugh saw less and less of his mother, but hecontinued to thrive; and Harvey understood by now that Alma must not beexpected to take much interest in the domestic side of things. Itsimply was not her forte. 

She had ceased to play upon her violin, save for the entertainment andadmiration of friends. After her return from Madeira she made theacquaintance of a lady skilled in water-colour drawing, and herewithbegan a new enthusiasm. Her progress was remarkable, and correspondedto an energy not less than that she had long ago put forth in music. Inthe pursuit of landscape she defied weather and fatigue; she would passhalf the night abroad, studying moonlight, or rise at an unheard-ofhour to catch the hues of dawn. When this ardour began to fail, herhusband was vexed rather than surprised. He knew Alma's characteristicweakness, and did not like to be so strongly reminded of it. For aboutthis time he was reading and musing much on questions of heredity. 

In a moment of confidence he had ventured to ask Mrs. Frothinghamwhether she could tell him anything of Alma's mother. The question, though often in his mind, could hardly have passed his lips, had notMrs. Frothingham led up to it by speaking of her own life before shemarried: how she had enjoyed the cares of country housekeeping; howlittle she had dreamt of ever being rich; how Bennet Frothingham, whohad known her in his early life, sought her out when he began to beprosperous, therein showing the fine qualities of his nature, for shehad nothing in the world but gentle birth and a lady's education. Almawas then a young girl of thirteen, and had been motherless for eightyears. Thus came Harvey's opportunity. Alma herself had alreadyimparted to him all she knew: that her mother was born in England, emigrated early with her parents to Australia, returned to London as ayoung woman, married, and died at twenty-seven. To this story Mrs. Frothingham could add little, but the supplement proved interesting. Bennet Frothingham spoke of his first marriage as a piece of folly; itresulted in unhappiness, yet, the widow was assured, with no glaringfault on either side. Alma's mother was handsome, and had some naturalgifts, especially a good voice, which she tried to use in public, butwithout success. Her education scarcely went beyond reading andwriting. She died suddenly, after an evening at the theatre, where, asusual, she had excited herself beyond measure. Mrs. Frothingham had seenan old report of the inquest that was held, the cause of death beinggiven as cerebral haemorrhage. In these details Harvey Rolfe found newmatter for reflection. 

Their conversation at breakfast this morning was interrupted by thearrival of letters; two of them particularly welcome, for they bore acolonial postmark. Hugh Carnaby wrote to his friend from anout-of-the-way place in Tasmania; Sibyl wrote independently to Almafrom Hobart. 

'Just as I expected, ' said Harvey, when he had glanced over a fewlines. 'He talks of coming home:--"There seems no help for it. Sibyl ismuch better in health since we left Queens land, but I see she wouldnever settle out here. She got to detest the people at Brisbane, anddoesn't like those at Hobart much better. I have left her there whilstI'm doing a little roaming with a very decent fellow I have comeacross, Mackintosh by name. He has been everywhere and doneeverything--not long ago was in the service of the Indo-EuropeanTelegraph Company at Tehran, and afterwards lived (this will interestyou) at Badgered, where he got a _date-boil_, which marks his face andtestifies to his veracity. He has been trying to start a timberbusiness here; says some of the hard woods would be just the thing forstreet paving. But now his father's death is taking him back home, andI shouldn't wonder if we travel together. One of his ideas is a bicyclefactory; he seems to know all about it, and says it'll be the mostmoney-making business in England for years to come. What do you think?Does this offer a chance for _me_?"'

Harvey interrupted himself with a laugh. Smelting of abandoned goldores, by the method of the ingenious Dando, had absorbed some of Hugh'scapital, with very little result, and his other schemes formoney-making were numerous. 

'"The fact is, I must get money somehow. Living has been expensive eversince we left England, and it's madness to go on till one's resourceshave practically run out. And Sibyl _must_ get home again; she'swasting her life among these people. How does she write to your wife? Irather wish I could spy at the letters. (Of course, I don't seriouslymean that. ) She bears it very well, and, if possible, I have a higheropinion of her than ever. "'

Again Harvey laughed. 

'Good old chap! What a pity he can't be cracking crowns somewhere!'

'Oh! I'm sure I'd rather see him making bicycles. '

''Tisn't his vocation. He ought to go somewhere and get up a little warof his own--as he once told me he should like to. We can't do withoutthe fighting man. '

'Will you bring Hughie up to it, then?'

Harvey fixed his eyes on a point far off. 

'I fear he won't have the bone and muscle. But I should like him tohave the pluck. I'm afraid he mayn't, for I'm a vile coward myself. '

'I should like a child never to hear or know of war, ' said MrsFrothingham fervently. 

'And so should I, ' Harvey answered, in a graver tone. 

When Mrs. Frothingham went upstairs with the letter for Alma, he brokeopen another envelope. It was from Mary Abbott, who wrote to him twicea year, when she acknowledged the receipt of his cheque. She sent theusual careful report concerning Wager's children--the girl now sevenyears old, and the boy nine. Albert Wager, she thought, was getting tooold for her; he ought to go to a boys' school. Neither he nor hissister had as yet repaid the care given to them; never were childrenmore difficult to manage. Harvey read this between the lines; for MaryAbbott never complained of the task she had undertaken. He rose andleft the room with a face of anxious thoughtfulness. 

The day was wont to pass in a pretty regular routine. From half-pastnine to half-past one Harvey sat alone in his study, not alwaysenergetically studious, but on the whole making progress in his chosenfield of knowledge. He bought books freely, and still used the LondonLibrary. Of late he had been occupying himself with the authorities oneducation; working, often impatiently, through many a long-windedvolume. He would have liked to talk on this subject with Mary Abbott, but had not yet found courage to speak of her paying them a visit. Thesituation, difficult because of Alma's parentage, was made more awkwardby his reticence with Alma regarding the payment he made for thoseluckless children. The longer he kept silence, the less easily could heacquaint his wife with this matter--in itself so perfectly harmless. 

This morning he felt indisposed for study, and cared just as little togo out, notwithstanding the magnificent sky. From his windows he lookedupon the larch-clad slopes of Cam Bodvean; their beauty only remindedhim of grander and lovelier scenes in far-off countries. From time totime the wanderer thus awoke in him, and threw scorn upon thepedantries of a book-lined room. He had, moreover, his hours of regretfor vanished conviviality; he wished to step out into a London street, collect his boon-companions, and hold revel in the bygone way. These, however, were still but fugitive moods. All in all, he regrettednothing. Destiny seemed to have marked him for a bookish man; he grewmore methodical, more persistent, in his historical reading; this, doubtless, was the appointed course for his latter years. It led tonothing definite. His life would be fruitless----

Fruitless? There sounded from somewhere in the house a shrill littlecry, arresting his thought, and controverting it without a syllable. Nay, fruitless his life could not be, if his child grew up. Only thechosen few, the infinitesimal minority of mankind, leave spiritualoffspring, or set their single mark upon the earth; the multitude arebut parents of a new generation, live but to perpetuate the race. It isthe will of nature, the common lot. And if indeed it lay within hispower to shape a path for this new life, which he, nature's slave, hadcalled out of nothingness, --to obviate one error, to avert onemisery, --to ensure that, in however slight degree, his son's existenceshould be better and happier than his own, --was not this a sufficingpurpose for the years that remained to him, a recompense adequate toany effort, any sacrifice?

As he sat thus in reverie, the door softly opened, and Alma looked inupon him. 

'Do I interrupt you?'

'I'm idling. How is your headache?'

She answered with a careless gesture, and came forward, a letter in herhand. 

'Sibyl says she will certainly be starting for home in a few weeks. Perhaps they're on the way by now. You have the same news, I hear. '

'Yes. They must come to us straight away, ' replied Harvey, knocking theash out of his pipe 'Or suppose we go to meet them? If they come by theOrient Line, they call at Naples. How would it be to go overland, andmake the voyage back with them?'

Alma seemed to like the suggestion, and smiled, but only for a moment. She had little colour this morning, and looked cold, as she drew up tothe fire, holding a white woollen wrap about her shoulders. A slow andsubtle modification of her features was tending to a mature beautywhich would make bolder claim than the charm that had characterised herin maidenhood. It was still remote from beauty of a sensual type, butthe outlines, in becoming a little more rounded, more regular, gainedin common estimate what they lost to a more refined apprehension. Hereyes appeared more deliberately conscious of their depth and gleam; herlips, less responsive to the flying thought, grew to an habitualexpression--not of discontent, but something akin unto it; not ofself-will, but something that spoke a spirit neither tranquil norpliant. 

'Had you anything else?' she asked, absently. 

'A letter from Mrs. Abbott. '

Alma smiled, with a shade of pleasantry not usual upon her countenance. Harvey generally read her extracts from these letters. Their allusionto money imposed the reserve; otherwise they would have passed intoAlma's hands. From his masculine point of view, Harvey thought thematter indifferent; nothing in his wife's behaviour hitherto had ledhim to suppose that she attached importance to it. 

'The usual report of progress?'

'Yes. I fancy those two children are giving her a good deal of trouble. She'll have to send the boy to a boarding school. '

'But can she afford it?'

'I don't know. '

'I've never understood yet why you take so much interest in thosechildren. '

Her eyes rested upon him with a peculiarly keen scrutiny, and Harvey, resenting the embarrassment due to his own tactics, showed a slightimpatience. 

'Why, partly because I wish to help Mrs. Abbott with advice, if I can:partly because I'm interested in the whole question of education. '

'Yes, it's interesting, of course. She has holidays, I suppose?'

'It's holiday time with her now. '

'Then why don't you ask her to come and see us?'

'I would at once, ' Harvey replied, with hesitation, 'if I felt surethat----' He broke off, and altered the turn of his sentence. 'I don'tknow whether she can leave those children. '

'You were going to make a different objection. Of course there's alittle awkwardness. But you said long ago that all that sort of thingwould wear away, and surely it ought to have done by now. If Mrs. Abbott is as sensible as you think, I don't see how she can have anyunpleasant feeling towards me. '

'I can't suppose that she has. '

'Then now is the opportunity. Send an invitation. --Why shouldn't Iwrite it myself?'

Alma had quite shaken off the appearance of lassitude; she drew herselfup, looked towards the writing-table, and showed characteristiceagerness to carry out a project. Though doubtful of the result, Harveyassented without any sign of reluctance, and forthwith she moved to thedesk. In a few minutes she had penned a letter, which was held out forher husband's perusal. 

'Admirable!' he exclaimed. 'Couldn't be better. _Nihil quod tetigit nonornavit_. '

'And pray what does that mean?' asked Alma, her countenance a trifleperturbed by the emotions which blended with her delight in praise. 

'That my wife is the most graceful of women, and imparts to all shetouches something of her own charm. '

'All that?'

'Latin, you must know, is the language of compression. '

They parted with a laugh. As she left the study, Alma saw her littleson just going out; the nurse had placed him in his mail-cart, where hesat smiling and cooing. Mrs. Frothingham, who delighted in the child, had made ready for a walk in the same direction, and from the doorwaycalled to Alma to accompany them. 

'I may come after you, perhaps, ' was the reply. 'Ta-ta, Hughie!'

With a wave of her hand, Alma passed into the sitting-room, where shestood at the window, watching till Mrs. Frothingham's sunshade haddisappeared. Then she moved about, like one in search of occupation;taking up a book only to throw it down again, gazing vacantly at apicture, or giving a touch to a bowl of flowers. Here, as in thedining-room, only the absence of conventional superfluities called forremark; each article of furniture was in simple taste; the result, animpression of plain elegance. On a little corner table lay Alma'scolour-box, together with a drawing-board, a sketching-block, and theportfolio which contained chosen examples of her work. Not far away, locked in its case, lay her violin, the instrument she had been wont totouch caressingly; today her eyes shunned it. 

She went out again into the little hall. The front door stood open;sunshine flooded the garden; but Alma was not tempted to go forth. Allthe walks and drives of the neighbourhood had become drearily familiar;the meanest of London streets shone by contrast as a paradise in herimagination. With a deep sigh of ennui, she turned and slowly ascendedthe stairs. 

Above were six rooms; three of them the principal chambers (her own, Harvey's, and the guest-room), then the day-nursery, the night nursery, and the servant's bedroom. On her first coming, she had thought thehouse needlessly spacious; now it often seemed to her oppressivelysmall, there being but one spare room for visitors. She entered her ownroom. It could not be called disorderly, yet it lacked that scrupulousperfection of arrangement, that dainty finish, which makes anatmosphere for the privacy of a certain type of woman. Ruth had doneher part, preserving purity unimpeachable; the deficiency was due toAlma alone. To be sure, she had neither dressing-room nor lady's-maid;and something in Alma's constitution made it difficult for her todispense with such aids to the complete life. 

She stood before the mirror, and looked at herself, blankly, gloomily. Her eyes fell a little, and took a new expression, that of anxiousscrutiny. Gazing still, she raised her arms, much as though she werestanding to be measured by a dressmaker; then she turned, so as toobtain a view of her figure sideways. Her arms fell again, apathetically, and she moved away. 

Somehow, the long morning passed. In the afternoon she drove withHarvey and Mrs. Frothingham, conversing much as usual, giving no verbalhint of her overwhelming ennui. No reference was made to Mrs. Abbott. Harvey had himself written her a letter, supporting Alma's invitationwith all possible cordiality; but he gravely feared that she would notcome. 

At tea, according to custom, little Hugh was brought into the room, tobe fondled by his mother, who liked to see him when he was prettilydressed, and to sit upon his father's knee. Hugh, aged sixteen months, began to have a vocabulary of his own, and to claim a share inconversation; he had a large head, well formed, and slight but shapelylimbs; the sweet air of sea and mountain gave a healthful, though verydelicate, colouring to his cheeks; his eyes were Alma's, dark andgleaming, but with promise of a keener intelligence. Harvey liked togaze long at the little face, puzzled by its frequent gravity, delighted by its flashes of mirth. Syllables of baby-talk set himmusing and philosophising. How fresh and young, yet how wondrously old!Babble such as this fell from a child's lips thousands of years ago, inthe morning of the world; it sounded on through the ages, infinitelyreproduced; eternally a new beginning; the same music of earliest humanspeech, the same ripple of innocent laughter, renewed from generationto generation. But he, listening, had not the merry, fearless pride offathers in an earlier day. Upon him lay the burden of all time; he mustneeds ponder anxiously on his child's heritage, use his weary knowledgeto cast the horoscope of this dawning life. 

'Why are you looking at him in that way?' exclaimed Alma. 'You'llfrighten him. '

'How did I look?'

'As if you saw something dreadful. '

Harvey laughed, and ran his fingers through the soft curls, and badehimself be of good heart. Had he not thrown scorn upon people who makea 'fuss' about their children. Had he not despised and detested chatterabout babies? To his old self what a simpleton would he have seemed!

On the morrow Mrs. Frothingham took her departure; leaving it, asusual, uncertain when she would come again, but pleasantly assured thatit could not be very long. She thought Harvey the best of husbands; heand Alma, the happiest of married folk. In secret, no doubt, she sadlyenvied them. If her own lot had fallen in such tranquil places!

Two more days, and Alma received a reply to her invitation. Yes, MrsAbbott would come, and be with them for a week; longer she could not. Her letter was amiable and well-worded as Alma's own. Harvey felt agreat relief, and it pleased him not a little to see his wife'sunfeigned satisfaction. This was Monday; the visitor promised to arriveon Tuesday evening. 

'Of course you'll drive over with me to meet her, ' said Harvey. 

'I think not. I dislike making acquaintance at railway stations. If itshould rain, you'll have to have a covered carriage, and imagine usthree shut up together!'

Alma laughed gaily at the idea. Harvey, though at a loss to interprether merriment, answered it with a smile, and said no more. Happily, theweather was settled; the sun shone gallantly each morning; and onTuesday afternoon Harvey drove the seven miles, up hill and down, between hedges of gorse and woods of larch, to the little market-townwhere Mary Abbott would alight after her long journey. 

CHAPTER 2

Half an hour after sunset Alma heard the approach of wheels. She hadlong been ready to receive her visitor, and when the horse stopped, shestood by the open door of the sitting-room, commanding her nervousness, resolute to make an impression of grace and dignity. It would haveeased her mind had she been able to form some idea of Mrs. Abbott'spersonal appearance; Harvey had never dropped a hint on the subject, and she could not bring herself to question him. The bell rang; Ruthhastened to answer it; Harvey's voice sounded. 

'It turns chilly after the warm sunshine. I'm afraid we ought to havehad a covered carriage. '

'Then I should have seen nothing, ' was replied in softer tones. 'Thedrive was most enjoyable. '

There came into the lamplight a rather tall figure in plain, serviceable travelling-costume. Alma discerned a face which gave her ashock of surprise, so unlike was it to anything she had imagined; thefeatures regular and of intelligent expression, but so thin, pallid, worn, that they seemed to belong to a woman of nearly forty, weightedby years of extreme suffering. The demeanour which Alma had studiouslyprepared underwent an immediate change; she stepped forward with an airof frank kindliness, of cordial hospitality. 

'Wasn't your train late? How tired you must be--and how cold! In thesefine spring days we have been living as if it were midsummer, but I'msure you oughtn't to have had that long drive in the open trap so late. Harvey thinks everybody as robust as himself----'

But the guest was in very good spirits, though manifestly fatigued. Shespoke with pleasure of the beautiful wild country, glowing in sunset. Alittle tired, yes; she had not travelled so far for a long time; butthe air had braced her wonderfully, and after a night's rest----

At dinner Alma behaved with the same friendliness, closely observingher guest, and listening to all she said, as if anxious not to miss aword. Mrs. Abbott conversed in a very low voice; her manner was markedby a subdual which might partly be attributable to weariness, butseemed in a measure the result of timidity under novel circumstances. If she looked at either of her companions, her eyes were instantlywithdrawn. A smile never lingered on her features; it came and passed, leaving the set expression of preoccupied gravity. She wore a dress ofblack silk, close at the neck; and Alma perceived that it was by nomeans new. 

An hour after the meal she begged permission to retire to her room. Theeffort to talk had become impossible; she was at the end of herstrength, and could hold up no longer. 

When Alma came down again, she stood for a minute before the fire, smiling and silent. Harvey had picked up a newspaper; he said nothing. 

'How very nice she is!' fell at length from Mrs. Rolfe's lips. 

'Astonishingly altered, ' was her husband's murmured reply. 

'Indeed? In what way?'

'Looks so wretchedly ill, for one thing. '

'We must take her about. What do you think of doing tomorrow?'

By feminine device of indirect question, Alma obtained someunderstanding of the change that had come upon Mrs. Abbott during thepast three years. Harvey's disclosures did not violate the reticenceimposed upon him by that hour in which he had beheld a woman'sremorseful anguish; he spoke only of such things as were manifest toeveryone who had known Mary Abbott before her husband's death; of hersocial pleasures, her intellectual ambitions, suddenly overwhelmed by agreat sorrow. 

'I suppose she ought to be doing much better things than teachingchildren, ' said Alma. 

'Better things?' repeated Harvey, musing. 'I don't know. It all dependshow you regard it. '

'Is she very clever?'

'Not appallingly, ' he answered, with a laugh. 'It's very possible sheis doing just what she ought to be--neither more nor less. Her healthseems to be the weak point. '

'Do you think she has enough to live upon?'

Harvey knitted his brows and looked uneasy. 

'I hope so. Of course it must be a very small income; but I dare saythose friends of hers at Gunnersbury make life a little easier. '

'I feel quite sorry for her, ' said Alma, with cheerfulness. 'I hadn'trealised her position. We must make her stay as long as she can. Yes, if it's fine again, we might drive to Tre'r Caeri. That would interesther, no doubt. She likes history, doesn't she?--the same things thatyou are fond of. '

At breakfast Mrs. Abbott appeared with a much brighter countenance;refreshed in body and mind, she entered gladly into the plans that hadbeen made for the day, talked with less restraint, and showed aninterest in all her surroundings. But her demeanour still had the airof self-subdual which seemed at moments to become a diffidencebordering on humility. This was emphasised by its contrast with thebearing of her hostess. Alma had never shown herself to more brilliantadvantage; kind interpretation might have thought that she had setherself to inspirit the guest in every possible way. Her face wasradiant with good humour and vivacity; she looked the incarnation ofjoyous, healthy life. The flow of her spirited talk seemed to aim atexhibiting the joys and privileges of existence in places such as this. She represented herself as glorying in the mountain heights, and insolitary tracts of shore. Here were no social burdens, or restrictions, or extravagances; one lived naturally, simply, without regrets forwasted time, and without fear of the morrow. To all this Mary Abbottpaid the tribute of her admiration, perhaps of her envy; and Alma grewthe more animated, the more she felt that she had impressed her hearer. 

Harvey wondered at this sudden revival of his wife's drooping energies. But he did not consider the phenomenon too curiously; enough that Almawas brilliant and delightful, that she played her part of hostess toperfection, and communicated to their guest something of her ownvitality. 

They had an exhilarating drive through the mountains to Tre'r Caeri, aBritish fastness on a stern bare height; crumbled dwellings amid theirgreat protecting walls, with cairn and cromlech and mystic circles;where in old time the noise of battle clanged amid these grey hills, now sleeping in sunlight. And from Tre'r Caeri down into the rockygloom of the seaward chasm, Nant Gwrtheyrn, with its mound upon thedesolate shore, called by legend the burial-place of Vortigern. HereMrs. Abbott spoke of the prehistoric monuments she had seen inBrittany, causing Alma to glance at her with a sudden surprise. Theimpulse was very significant. Thinking of her guest only as apoverty-stricken teacher of children, Alma forgot for the moment thatthis subdued woman had known happier days, when she too boasted ofliberty, and stored her mind in travel. After all, as soon appeared, the travels had been of very modest extent; and Alma, with herknowledge of many European countries, and her recent ocean voyage, regained the confident superiority which kept her in such admirablehumour. 

Mary Abbott, reluctant to converse on things that regarded herself, afforded Alma every opportunity of shining. She knew of Mrs. Rolfe'sskill as a musician, and this same evening uttered a hope that shemight hear her play. The violin came forth from its retirement. Playing, it seemed at first, without much earnestness, as though itwere but a pastime, Alma presently chose one of her pageant pieces, andshowed of what she was capable. Lack of practice had told upon herhand, but the hearers were uncritical, as she well knew. 

'That's magnificent, ' said Harvey, with a mischievous smile. 'But docondescend now to the primitive ear. Let us have something of lessseverity. '

Alma glanced at Mrs. Abbott, who had softly murmured her thanks; thenturned an eye upon her husband, saying wickedly, 'Home, Sweet Home?'

'I've no doubt you could play it wonderfully--as you would "Three BlindMice". '

Alma looked good-natured disdain, and chose next a Tarantelle ofSchubert. The exertion of playing brought warm colour into her face; itheightened her beauty, and she was conscious of it; so that when shechanced to find Mrs. Abbott's look fixed upon her, a boundlessgratification flashed from her own dark eyes, and spoke in the quiverof her lips. 

Next evening, when again requested to play, she sat down to the piano. On this instrument Alma had not the same confidence as with the violin;but she could not refrain from exhibiting such skill as she possessed, Mrs. Abbott having declared that her own piano-playing was elementary. Meantime, the portfolio of water-colours had of course been producedfor exhibition. In this art, though she did not admit it, Mrs. Abbotthad formerly made some progress; she was able to form a judgment ofAlma's powers, and heard with genuine surprise in how short a time thispoint had been attained. Alma again glowed with satisfaction. 

She found a new source of pride in her motherhood. Not having beentold, or having forgotten, that Mrs. Abbott had lost a child, sheplayfully offered assurance that the guest should not be worried withnursery talk. 

'Children are anything but a delight to you, I'm afraid; you must havetoo much of them. '

'They often give me trouble, ' Mrs. Abbott replied. 'But I wish I hadone more to trouble me. My little girl would have been six years old bynow. 

Alma gave one of those looks which occasionally atoned for many lessamiable glances. 

'I'm so sorry--I didn't know----'

Mrs. Abbott did not dwell on the subject. Her reserve was stillunbroken, though there never appeared the least coldness in her manner;she talked with perfect freedom of everything that contained noallusion to herself. The change was manifestly doing her good; even bythe second day she showed an increase of vigour, and no longer wore thepreoccupied, overstrained look. Becoming familiar with her face, Almathought it more attractive than at first, and decidedly younger. Shestill had a great deal of curiosity to satisfy with regard to MrsAbbott; especially it seemed strange to her that Harvey and his friendwere so little inclined for conversation; they talked only of formal, uninteresting things, and she wondered whether, after all, they reallyhad much in common. 

'Take Mrs. Abbott for a walk tomorrow morning, ' she said in private;'you must have so many things to talk about--by yourselves. '

'I don't know that we have, ' Harvey returned, looking at her with somesurprise. 'I want to hear a little more about those youngsters, that'sall. '

Mrs. Abbott wished to climb Cam Bodvean the great hill, clad in tendergreen of larch-woods, which overlooked the town. For the toil of thisascent Alma had no mind; pleasantly excusing herself, she proposed atbreakfast that Harvey and Mrs. Abbott should go alone; they mightdescend on the far side of the mountain, and there, at a certain pointknown to her husband, she would meet them with the dogcart. Harveyunderstood this to mean that the man would drive her; for Alma had notyet added the art of driving to her various accomplishments; she was, indeed, timid with the reins. He readily assented to the plan, which, for some reason, appeared to amuse and exhilarate her. 

'Don't be in a hurry, ' she said. 'There'll be a good view on a day likethis, and you can have a long rest at the top. If you meet me athalf-past one, we shall be back for lunch at two. '

When they started, Alma came out to the garden gate, and dismissed themwith smiling benignity; one might have expected her to say 'Be good!'as when children are trusted to take a walk without superintendence. Onre-entering, she ran quickly to an upper room, where from the windowshe could observe them for a few minutes, as they went along inconversation. Presently she bade her servant give directions for thedogcart to be brought round at one o'clock. 

'Williams to drive, ma'am?' said Ruth, who had heard something of thetalk at breakfast. 

'No, ' Alma replied with decision. 'I shall drive myself. '

The pedestrians took their way along a winding road, between boulderwalls thick-set with the new leaves of pennywort; then crossed the onelong street of the town (better named a village), passing the fountain, overbuilt with lichened stone, where women and children filled theircans with sweet water, sparkling in the golden light. Rolfe now andthen received a respectful greeting. He had wished to speak Welsh, butsoon abandoned the endeavour. He liked to hear it, especially on thelips of children at their play. An old, old language, symbol of thevitality of a race; sounding on those young lips as in the time whenhis own English, composite, hybrid, had not yet begun to shape itself. 

Beyond the street and a row of cottages, they began to climb; at firsta gentle ascent, on either hand high hedges of flowering blackthorn, banks strewn with primroses and violets, and starred with the whitestitchwort; great leaves of foxglove giving promise for future days. The air was bland, yet exquisitely fresh; scented from innumerablesources in field and heath and wood. When the lane gave upon openground, they made a pause to look back. Beneath them lay the littlegrey town, and beyond it the grassy cliffs, curving about a blue bay. Near by rose the craggy slopes of a bare hill, and beyond it, a fewmiles to the north, two lofty peaks, wreathed against the cloudlessheaven with rosy mist. 

'Sure it won't be too much for you?' said Harvey looking upwards to thewooded height. 

'I feel equal to anything, ' answered his companion brightly. 'This airhas given me new life. '

There was a faint colour on her cheeks, and for the first time Harveycaught an expression which reminded him of the face he had known yearsago, when Mrs. Abbott looked upon life much as Alma did now. 

They entered upon a rising heath, green with mosses where the moistureof a hidden stream drew downwards, brown with dead bracken on dryslopes. Just above was a great thicket of flowering gorse; a blaze ofcolour, pure, aerial, as that of the sky which illumined it. Throughthis they made their way, then dropped into a green nook of pasture, among sheep that raised their heads distrustfully, and loud-bleatinglambs, each running to its mother. 

'If you can scale this wall, it will save us a quarter of an hour. '

'If you can, I can, ' was the laughing reply. 

Protruding boulders made it an easy clamber. They were then at the baseof Cam Bodvean, and before them rose steep mountain glades. Mrs. Abbottgazed upwards with unspoken delight. 

'There are no paths, ' said Harvey. 'It's honest woodland. Some day itwill be laid out with roads and iron benches, with finger-posts, "Tothe summit". '

'You think so?'

'Why, of course. It's the destiny of every beautiful spot in Britain. There'll be a pier down yonder, and a switchback railway, and leaguesof lodging-houses, and brass bands. '

'Let us hope we shall be dead. '

'Yes--but those who come after us? What sort of a world will it be forHugh? I often think I should be wrong if I taught him to see life as Ido. Isn't it only preparing misery for him? I ought to make him delightin piers, and nigger minstrels, and switchbacks. A man should belong tohis time. '

'But a man helps to make his time, ' replied Mary Abbott. 

'True. You are hopeful, are you?'

'I try very hard to be. What use am I, if I don't put a few thoughtsinto children's heads which will help to make their lives a littlebetter?'

Harvey nodded. 

Their feet sank in the mossy ruin of immemorial summers. Overhead, thelarch-boughs dangled green tresses, or a grove of beech shook sunlightthrough branches decked with translucent gold. Now and then they cameout into open spaces, where trees rent from the soil, dead amidspring's leafage, told of a great winter storm; new grass grew thicklyabout the shattered trunks, and in the hollows whence the roots hadbeen torn. One moment they stood in shadow; the next, moved upward intoa great splash of sunshine, thrown upon moss that still glistened withthe dews of the night, and on splints of crag painted green and goldwith lichen. Sun or shadow; the sweet fir-scents breathed upon theirfaces, mingled with many a waft of perfume from little woodland plants. 

More than once Mrs. Abbott had to pause. Midway she was tempted by asingular resting-place. It was a larch tree, perhaps thirty feet high;at the beginning of its growth, the stem had by some natural means beenso diverted as to grow horizontally for a yard or more at a couple offeet above the ground; it had then made a curve downwards, and finally, by way of a perfect loop across itself, had shot again in the truedirection, growing at last, with straight and noble trunk, like itsundistorted neighbours. Much wondering at so strange a deformity, MrsAbbott seated herself on the level portion, and Harvey, as he stoodbefore her, told a fancy that had come to him when for the first timehe chanced to climb this way. Might not the tree represent some humanlife? A weak, dubious, all but hopeless beginning; a check; a returnupon itself; a laboured circling; last a healthful maturity, upright, triumphing. He spoke with his eyes on the ground. Raising them at theend, he was astonished to see that his companion had flushed deeply;and only then it occurred to him that this parable might be applied bythe hearer to herself. 

'To make a confession, ' he added at once, 'it forcibly reminded me ofmy own life--except that I can't pretend to be "triumphing". '

His laugh did not cover the embarrassment with which he discoveredthat, if anything, he had made matters worse. Here was an instance ofhis incorrigible want of tact; much better to have offered noapplication of the fable at all, and to have turned the talk. He hadtold a simple truth, but with the result of appearing to glorifyhimself, and possibly at his friend's expense. Vexed beyond measure, hecrushed his heel into the soft ground. 

'That is a very striking thought, ' said Mary Abbott, her look stilldowncast. 'I shall never forget it. '

And she rose to move onward. They climbed in silence, the flank of themountain growing steeper. 

'I should have brought you my old alpenstock, ' jested Harvey. 'Goslowly; we have plenty of time. '

'I like to exert myself. I feel so well, and it does me good!'

He ventured to look at her again. All her confusion had passed away;she had the light of enjoyment in her eyes, and returned his look witha frankness hitherto lacking. 

'You must stay a second week. Alma won't let you go. '

'Go, I must. The two children can't be left longer at Mrs. Langland's--it would be presuming upon her kindness. '

'I want to talk about them, but one hasn't much breath here. When weget to the top----'

Last of all came a slippery scramble on broken stones, to where ashapeless cairn rose above tree-tops, bare to the dazzling sky. As theyissued from the shelter of the wood, a breeze buffeted about them, butonly for a moment; then the air grew still, and nothing was audible buta soft whispering among the boughs below. The larches circling thisstony height could not grow to their full stature; beaten, riven, stunted, by fierce blasts from mountain or from wave, their trunks wereladen, and their branches thickly matted, with lichen so long and hoarythat it gave them an aspect of age incalculable. Harvey always lookedupon them with reverence, if not with awe. 

In the sunny stillness their eyes wandered far and wide, around a vasthorizon. On two sides lay the sea; to the west, bounded only where itmet the blue sky above (though yonder line of cloud might perchance bethe hills of Wicklow); eastward, enfolded by the shores of a great bay, with mountains on the far side, faintly visible through silvery vapour. Northward rose a noble peak, dark, stern, beautiful in the swift fallof curving rampart to the waves that broke at its foot; loftier by theproximity of two summits, sharp-soaring like itself, but unable to viewith it. Alone among the nearer mountains, this crest was veiled;smitten by sea-gusts, it caught and held them, and churned them intosunny cloudlets, which floated away in long fleecy rank, far athwartthe clear depths of sky. Farther inland, where the haze of the warmmorning hung and wavered, loomed at moments some grander form, to beimagined rather than descried; a glimpse of heights which, as the daywore on, would slowly reveal themselves and bask in the broad glowunder crowning Snowdon. 

'We have time! We can stay here!' said Mrs. Abbott, moved with aprofound delight. 

'We have an hour at least. The sun is too hot; you must sit on theshadowed side of the cairn. '

The great silence had nothing of that awesomeness which broods in themountain calm of wilder solitudes. Upon their ear fell the long lowhushing of the wood, broken suddenly from time to time by a fitfulwind, which flapped with hollow note around the great heap of stones, whirled as if in sport, and was gone. Below, in leafy hollows, soundedthe cry of a jay, the laugh of a woodpecker; from far heath and meadowtrembled the bleat of lambs. Nowhere could be discovered a human form;but man's dwellings, and the results of his labour, painted the widelandscape in every direction. On mountain sides, and across theundulating lowland, wall or hedge mapped his conquests of nature, little plots won by the toil of successive generations for pasture orfor tillage, won from the reluctant wilderness, which loves its fernand gorse, its mosses and heather. Near and far were scattered thelittle white cottages, each a gleaming speck, lonely, humble; set bythe side of some long-winding, unfrequented road, or high on the greenupland, trackless save for the feet of those who dwelt there. 

From talk of the scenery they passed, by no agreeable transition, tothe subject which as yet they had not found an opportunity ofdiscussing. It was necessary to arrive at some new arrangementregarding Wager's children; for the boy, Albert, would soon be nineyears old, and, as Mrs. Abbott confessed, he had given her a great dealof trouble. Both the children were intractable, hated lessons, andplayed alarming pranks; Master Albert's latest feat might have cost himhis life, for he struck furiously through a pane of glass at a childmocking him from the other side, and was all but fainting from loss ofblood when Mrs. Abbott came to his help. Plainly this youngster must besent to a boarding-school. Minnie, his sister, would be more easilymanaged after he had gone. 

'He'll grow up a fighter, ' said Harvey. 'We can't do without fighters. I'll make inquiry at once about a school for him, and in a year or twowe'll take counsel with his teachers. Perhaps he might go into thenavy. '

'The cost of it all, ' fell from his companion in a nervous undertone. 

'We had that out long ago. Don't think about it. '

'Of course, you will send only half the money when Albert leaves me, 'said Mrs. Abbott earnestly. 'I shall be in no difficulty. I have hadletters from several people, asking me to take their little children tolive with me. Albert's place will be filled at once. I can't take moreinto the house; there's no room. With them, and my kindergarten, andthe lessons I give in the evening, I can live very well. '

Harvey mused. Wishing to feel himself in complete sympathy with hisfriend, he knew that something of the old criticism still tempered hisliking. Mary Abbott had fine qualities, but lacked the simplicity, thedirectness, which would have made her courage wholly admirable. Hesuspected that she continually mourned over what seemed to her a wasteof life. Proud of her 'culture', remembering her distinction as ateacher of grown-up girls, she had undertaken as a penitence the careof little children, and persevered in it with obstinacy rather thanwith inspired purpose. Mary Abbott, doubtless, had always regarded lifeas a conflict; she had always fought for her own hand. When such anature falls into genuine remorse, asceticism will inevitably follow;with it comes the danger of more or less conscious embitterment. Harveyhad a conviction of his friend's sincerity, and believed her in everyway a better woman than in the days before her great sorrow; but hecould not yet assure himself that she had found her true vocation. 

They spoke of the people who were so anxious to be relieved of theirchildren. 

'One lady wrote to me that she would pay almost anything if I wouldtake her little boy and keep him all the year round; she has only asmall house, and the child utterly upsets her life. Of course, Iunderstand her; I should have sympathised with her once. '

'It's intelligible enough, ' replied Harvey, with a laugh. 'Presentlythere will be huge establishments for the young children ofmiddle-class people. Naturally, children are a nuisance; especially soif you live in a whirlpool. '

'Yes, I know it too well, the whirlpool way of life, ' said Mrs. Abbott, her eyes on the far mountains. 'I know how easily one is drawn into it. It isn't only idle people. '

'Of course not. There's the whirlpool of the furiously busy. Round andround they go; brains humming till they melt or explode. Of course, they can't bother with children. '

'One loses all sense of responsibility. '

'Rather, they have never had it, and it has no chance of developing. You know, it isn't a matter of course for people to see that they areunder an enormous obligation to the children they bring into the world;except in a parent here and there, that comes only with very favourablecircumstances. When there's no leisure, no meditation, no peace andquietness, --when, instead of conversing, people just nod or shout toeach other as they spin round and round the gulf, --men and womenpractically return to the state of savages in all that concerns theiroffspring. The brats have come into existence, and must make the bestof it. Servants, governesses, schoolmasters--anybody but theparents--may give thought to children. Well, it's a matter for theindividual. I shouldn't feel comfortable myself. '

'It's a matter for the world, too, ' said Mary. 

Harvey nodded. As he sat at the foot of the piled stones, his handtouched a sprig of last year's heather; the stem was hung with dry, rustling, colourless bells, which had clung there all through the cold, stormy months, telling of beauty that was past, and of beauty that wasto come. He broke it off, and showed it to his companion. Until thetime for moving, they talked of simpler things, and Mary Abbottrecovered her spirits. 

CHAPTER 3

Turning regretfully from the place of rest, with its lulling sounds andnoble prospects, they began to descend the other side of the mountain, which was more rugged than that by which they had come up. Harvey timedthe walk so well, that they reached the point of the road where Almawould meet them, at a few minutes before the time agreed upon. No onewas in sight. The road in its inland direction could be scanned for aquarter of a mile; the other way it curved rapidly, and was soon hiddenby gorse-bushes. 

'I hear nothing, ' said Rolfe, when they had stood silent for a little. 'A mistake is impossible; the man has driven to meet us here before. Shall we walk on?'

They proceeded slowly, stopping from time to time. Harvey was puzzledby this unpunctuality; it would soon be a quarter to two. He began tofeel hungry, and his companion looked tired. Of a sudden they heard thesound of a vehicle approaching behind them. 

'It can't be Alma. She wouldn't have gone farther than----'

But the horse appeared round the curve of the road, and behind it was adogcart, and in the dogcart sat Alma, alone. At sight of them shepulled up abruptly, so abruptly that the horse reared a little. Harveywalked forward. 

'You've been driving yourself?'

'Of course. Why not?' replied Alma in a strangely high key. 

'How have we missed you?'

As he put this question he became aware of something very unusual inhis wife's appearance. Alma was pallid and shaking; her small felt hathad got out of position, and her hair was disordered, giving her awild, rakish aspect. He saw, too, that the horse dripped with sweat;that it glared, panted, trembled, and could not for a moment standstill. 

'What on earth have you been doing? She's run away with you!'

'No, no!' cried Alma, laughing, as she looked at Mrs. Abbott, who hadjust come up. 'She was rather fresh, and I gave her a good run, that'sall. I'm sorry I missed you at the place----'

'Why didn't Williams drive?' asked Harvey in a voice turning to anger. 

'Williams? Why should Williams drive?' Alma returned, her eyesflashing. 'I'm only a few minutes late; I don't see anything to make afuss about!'

This temper was as strange in Alma as the personal appearance shepresented. Harvey said no more, but, after quickly examining the horse, helped Mrs. Abbott to a seat at the back of the vehicle; he then jumpedup to his wife's side, and without a word took the reins from her hand. Alma made no remark as she surrendered them. 

'Put your hat straight, ' he said to her in a low voice. 

'My hat? What's the matter with it The wind, I suppose. Did you enjoyit, Mrs. Abbott?'

She turned, in speaking, so as to have her back towards Harvey, andkept this position all the way, talking with her guest as if nothinghad happened. Rolfe, his face grimly set, uttered only a word or two. He had to drive very slowly and with all caution, for the animal shiedevery other minute, and he felt heartily glad when they all alighted. Williams, who ran out from the stable, stood in astonishment at sightof the horse's condition. 

'Rather fresh this morning, ' said Harvey, as the ladies went in. 'MrsRolfe had a little trouble with her. '

This mild explanation by no means satisfied the coachman, though hepretended to acquiesce. Seeing him give a look at the horse's knees, Harvey did the same; nothing was wrong there. Williams pointed to markson one of the wheels; the cart had evidently grazed against a wall. Alma must have lost control of the horse, and have been carried aconsiderable distance before, somehow, it was stopped. Without doubt, she had had a very narrow escape. Her anger seemed to be the result ofnerves upset and mortified vanity; she wished to show Mrs. Abbott thatshe could drive--the explanation of the whole matter. Harvey was vexedat such a piece of childishness; irritated, too, by the outbreak oftemper with which Alma had replied to his very natural alarm. Ofcourse, he would say nothing more; it would be interesting to await theoutcome of his wife's mature reflection on her folly. 

As he stepped into the house, something like a cry for help soundedfrom above stairs. He shouted, 'What's that?' and in the same momentMary Abbott called to him that Mrs. Rolfe had fainted. On rushing up, he found Mary with difficulty supporting Alma's unconscious form. 

'I saw she could hardly get upstairs, ' said Mrs. Abbott. 'Just here onthe landing she gave a moan and fell back. I was luckily close by her. '

They carried her into her room, and gave what help they could whilstthe doctor was being summoned. In a few minutes Alma regainedconsciousness, and declared herself quite well again; but when shetried to rise, strength failed her; she began to moan in physicaldistress. Harvey went downstairs, whilst Mrs. Abbott and Ruth tendedthe sufferer. 

Their ordinary medical man was far away among the hills; his assistanthad to be searched for, and came only after the lapse of two hours, bywhich time Rolfe had worked himself into a fever. Whilst Mrs. Abbott, faint with agitation and weariness, took a hurried meal, he went to thebedside, and tried to learn whether Alma was suffering merely fromshock, or had sustained an actual injury; but she still nursed hergrievance against him, and would say very little. Why did not thedoctor come? She wished to see the doctor; no one else was of any use. 

'Go down and have lunch with Mrs. Abbott properly. Do go, please; Ihate all this fuss, and it's quite unnecessary. Let me be alone tillthe doctor comes. '

Before the arrival of Dr Evans's assistant she again fainted, and uponthat followed an attack of hysteria. When at length the medical man hadseen her, Harvey received an adequate, but far from reassuring, explanation of the state of things. At nightfall Dr Evans came inperson, and was with the patient for a long time. He spoke less gravelyof the case, offered a lucid diagnosis, and thought that the servicesof an ordinary nurse for a few days would meet every necessity. Williams was sent with a hired vehicle to the market town, seven milesaway, and late at night returned with the woman recommended. Almameanwhile had lain quietly, and the household at length went to restwithout renewal of alarms. 

Twice before dawn Harvey left his room and stepped silently to Alma'sdoor. The first time, he heard low voices; the second, there was nosound. When, about eight o'clock, he went down and out into the garden, he was surprised to meet Mrs. Abbott. She had already seen the nursethis morning, and reported that all was going well. Rolfe talkedcheerfully again, and would not listen to his guest's timid suggestionthat she should take leave today. Not a bit of it; she was to go downto the seashore and enjoy the sunshine, and worry herself just aslittle as possible. At breakfast-time came a message from Alma to thesame effect. Mrs. Abbott was on no account to cut short her visit, andHarvey was to do his duty as host. She herself, said Mrs. Rolfe, wouldbe as well as ever in a day or two. 

For all that, when the appointed day for the guest's departure came, Alma still lay blanched and feeble, not likely to leave her bed foranother week. She was, however, in a remarkably cheerful frame of mind. Having to start on her journey as early as half-past eight, Mrs. Abbottbade good-bye to her hostess the evening before, and nothing could havebeen kinder or more amiable than Alma's behaviour. 

'Don't bear a grudge against me for spoiling your holiday, ' she said, holding her guest's hand and smiling brightly. 'If I say all is for thebest, perhaps you'll understand me, and perhaps you won't; it soundspious at all events, doesn't it? We must see each other again, youknow--here or somewhere else. I'm quite sure we can be friends. Ofcourse, Harvey will go with you in the morning. '

Mrs. Abbott begged he would do nothing of the kind, but Alma wasimperative. 

'Of course he will! If it rains, a covered carriage will be here intime. And write to me--mind you write to me; not only to say you've gotsafe home, but in future. You promise?'

In the morning it did rain, and heavily, so Harvey and his friend droveto the station shut up together, with scarce a glimpse of anythingbeyond the boulder walls and gorse hedges and dripping larch-trees. They spoke a good deal of Alma. As soon as she was well again, saidRolfe, he must take her for a thorough change. In truth, he wasbeginning, he said, to doubt whether she could live in thisout-of-the-world place much longer. She liked it--oh yes, she likedit--but he feared the solitude was telling upon her nerves. Mrs. Abbottadmitted that there might be something in this. 

'Should you return to London?' she asked. 

Whereupon Harvey stared before him, and looked troubled, and could onlyanswer that he did not know. 

When, two days after, the promised letter came from Mrs. Abbott, Harveytook it up to the invalid's room, and sat by her whilst she read it. 

'She writes so nicely, ' said Alma, who never in her life had showedsuch sweetness of disposition as during this convalescence. 'Read itfor yourself, Harvey. Isn't it a nice letter? I feel so sorry wehaven't known each other before. But we're going to be friends now. '

'I'm sure I'm very glad. '

'Nothing from Mamma? I almost think I could write to her to-day. Ofcourse, she'll fall into a dreadful state of mind, and want to know whyshe wasn't sent for, and lament over--everything. But it's no use hercoming here now. When we go away we must manage to see her. '

'Yes. Have you thought where you would like to go?'

'Not yet. There's plenty of time. '

Not a word had passed between them with reference to the perilousdrive. Alma spoke as if her illness were merely natural, due to nothingin particular; but her husband fancied that she wished to atone, bysweet and affectionate behaviour, for that unwonted ill-usage of him. He saw, too, beyond doubt, that the illness seemed to her a blessing;its result, which some women would have wept over, brought joy into hereyes. This, in so far as it was unnatural, caused him some disturbance;on the other hand, he was quite unable to take a regretful view of whathad happened, and why should he charge upon Alma as a moral fault thatwhich he easily condoned in himself?

A few days more and the convalescent was allowed to leave her room. Asif to welcome her, there arrived that morning a letter from Melbourne, with news that Sibyl and her husband would sail for England in afortnight's time after the date of writing, by the Orient Line steamer_Lusitania_. 

'You know what you suggested?' cried Alma delightedly. 'Shall we go?'

'What--to Naples? We should have to be off immediately. If they come bythe next ship after the one that brought this letter, they are now onlya fortnight from the end of the voyage. That means--allowing for theirnine days from Naples to London--that we should have to be at Naples infour or five days from now. '

'Well? That's easily managed, isn't it?'

'Not by anyone in your state of health, ' replied Harvey gently. 

'I am perfectly well! I could travel night and day. Why not? One eatsand sleeps as usual. Besides, are you quite sure They may be longerthan you think. Telegraph to the London office and ask when the_Lusitania_ will reach Naples. '

'If you like. But, for one thing, it's quite certain you oughtn't totravel in less than a week; and then--what about Hughie?'

Alma's face darkened with vexation. 

'It doesn't matter, ' she said coldly. 'I had counted on it; but, ofcourse, that's nothing. There's the baby to be considered first. '

Harvey had never been so near the point of answering his wife in rough, masculine fashion. This illness of hers had unsettled his happy frameof mind, perturbing him with anxious thoughts, and making confusion ofthe quiet, reasonable prospect that lay before him only a week or twoago. He, too, could much have enjoyed the run to Naples and the voyageback, and disappointment taxed his patience. Irritated against Alma, and ashamed of himself for not being better tempered, he turned andleft the room. A few minutes afterwards he walked to the post-office, where he addressed a telegram of inquiry to the Orient Line people inLondon. It was useless, of course; but he might as well satisfy Alma. 

The reply telegram was delivered to him as he sauntered about in thegarden. It merely confirmed his calculation; there might possibly be aclear five days before the _Lusitania_ touched at Naples--most likelynot more than four. He went into the sitting-room, but Alma was notthere; he looked into the study, and found it vacant. As Ruth happenedto pass, he bade her take the telegram to Mrs. Rolfe upstairs. 

He had no mind for reading or for any other occupation. He shut hisdoor, and began to smoke. In the whiffs curling from his pipe heimagined the smoke of the great steamer as she drove northward fromIndian seas; he heard the throb of the engines, saw the white wake. Naples; the Mediterranean; Gibraltar frowning towards the purplemountains of Morocco; the tumbling Bay; the green shores of Devon;--hispulses throbbed as he went voyaging in memory. And he might start thisvery hour, but for the child, who could not be left alone to servants. With something like a laugh, he thought of the people who implored MaryAbbott to relieve them of their burdensome youngsters. And at thatmoment Alma opened the door. 

Her face, thinned a little by illness, had quite recovered its amiablehumour. 

'Of course you are quite right, Harvey. We can't rush across Europe ata moment's notice. '

He rose up, the lover's light in his eyes again, and drew her to him, and held her in a laughing embrace. 

'What has been wrong between us? It's a new thing for you and me to bescowling and snarling. '

'I hope I neither scowled nor snarled, dear boy, though I'm not surethat _you_ didn't. No doubt, Mrs. Abbott went away thinking we leadrather a cat and dog life. '

'Hang it, no! How could she have any such thoughts?'

'Oh, the drive home that day. '

'Why, whose fault was that? I should have been all right, except that Icouldn't understand why you had run the chance of killing yourself. '

'I don't think I should have cared very much that morning, ' said Almaidly. 'I was more miserable than you can imagine. '

'Why?'

'Oh, I don't know--foolishness. But you never gave me a word of praise, and I'm sure I deserved it. Why, she galloped with me like mad fornearly two miles, and I never lost hold of the reins, and I pulled herup by myself and got her round, and drove back to meet you as ifnothing had happened. I told Mrs. Abbott all about it, and she wasastonished at my pluck. '

'Must have been. So am I. '

'I doubt it. I doubt whether you ever think much of anything I do. '

'That's rather unkind, because you know it isn't true. '

'I always thought very much the same, you know. '

'Rubbish! But come, what are we going to do? Naples seems out of thequestion; but there's no reason why we shouldn't go to meet them inLondon. '

'You would much rather wait here, and let them come, ' said Alma. 'Idon't care particularly about going away. So long as we keep on goodterms with each other--that's the chief thing. '

'There has never been a dream of anything else. We are on good terms asa matter of course. It's part of the order of the universe. '

'I'm very sorry, dear, that I threatened the universe with catastrophe;but I won't do it again--indeed I won't. I will watch your face, and beon my guard. And really, you know, under ordinary circumstances, I amgood-tempered enough. '

'What's all this about?' cried Harvey. For she seemed to be in earnest, and spoke with a soft humility, such as might have become the leastoriginal of wives. 'Watch my face, and be on your guard? Since whenhave I desired you to be a simpleton?'

'I'm quite serious. It isn't foolish at all. I want to please you;that's all I mean, dear. '

He gazed at her, wondering, inclined to laugh, yet withheld from it byan uneasy feeling. 

'This kind of talk means defective circulation, lost appetite, and soon, ' was his half-joking answer. 'The way to please me is to get somecolour into your cheeks again, and snub me for my ignorance of music, and be your own arrogant self. But listen. You're quite mistaken inthinking I want to stay here till Hugh and his wife come. It won't do. You're getting far too sweet and docile, and everything detestable. Ihad no idea of marrying an angel; it's too bad if you turn seraphicupon my hands. I wonder, now, whether, by way of pleasing me, you wouldanswer a plain question?'

'I'll try. '

'Have you been wanting to get away from this place--I mean, to livesomewhere else?'

'I? What can have made you think so?'

'That isn't trying to answer a question, you know. '

Alma, after looking keenly at him, had turned her face to the window. She kept silence, and wore a look of calm reflectiveness. 

'Have you been bored and wearied by this life?' Harvey asked in hismost good-natured tone. 

'I don't think I have ever for a moment shown a sign of it, ' repliedAlma, with grave conviction. 

'So much the worse, if it meant that you concealed your thoughts. '

'I shall always be content, Harvey, so long as I see you are living thekind of life that suits you. '

He uttered a shout of humorous, yet half-genuine, exasperation. 

'Do you want me to swear it's a long time since I lost the habit, butit might strike you as manly, and perhaps I had better practise again. What has it to do with _you_, the kind of life that suits _me_? Don'tyou remember my talking about that before we were married? I've had asuspicion that you were getting rather into that state of mind. Youdropped your music, and partly, I've no doubt, because you didn't findenough intelligent sympathy in me. You went in for painting, and you'vedropped that----'

'It was winter, you see, ' Alma interrupted. 

'Yes, but that wasn't the only reason. It meant general failure ofenergy--the kind of thing I've known myself, only too well. '

'What--here?' asked Alma, with some alacrity. 

'I meant now and again, all through my life. No; here I've gone onright enough, with a tolerably even mind; and for that very reason Ihaven't noticed any signs of the other thing in you--till just now, when you lost your head. Why haven't you been frank with me?'

'You take it for granted that I had anything to be frank about, ' Almaremarked. 

'Yes--and you don't contradict me. '

'Then what were you going to say, Harvey?'

She bent towards him, with that air of sweet reasonableness whichshowed her features at their best: eye tranquil and intelligent, lipsingenuously smiling; a countenance she wore not thrice in atwelvemonth, but by Harvey well remembered amid all changes, and heldto express the true being of the woman he loved. 

'Why, I was going to say, dear, ' he replied tenderly, 'that no good cancome of sacrificing your instincts. You have not to ask yourselfwhether I am lazily comfortable--for that's what it amounts to--butwhat you are making of your life. Remember, for one thing, that I amconsiderably older----'

'Please!' She checked him with an extended hand. 'I don't want toremember anything of the kind. '

'There's no harm in it, I hope. ' He laughed a little. 'The differenceisn't distressing, but just enough to be taken into account. At forty, or near it, a man who is happily married gets used to his slippers andhis pipe--especially if comfort, and all the rest of it, have comeafter half a lifetime of homelessness. I might often say to myself thatI was wasting time, rusting, and so on; but the next day I should fallback into the easy-chair again, and hate the thought of changes. Butyou, with thirty still far ahead, slippers and pipe have no particularattraction for you. '

He saw a thought in her eyes, and paused. 

'Hughie will soon be able to talk, ' fell from Alma, her look no longerthat of ingenuous sweetness, but of virtue just a trifleself-conscious. And her husband, though he read this meaning in thechange, was yet pleased by the words that accompanied it. 

'Yes; and then there will be more for you to do, you were going to say. But that won't occupy you entirely, and it doesn't bind you to anyparticular spot. '

'Perhaps not. '

She had become almost demure. Harvey took his eyes away. 

'It comes to this--you're not to subordinate your life to mine. That'sthe old idea, and it still works well with some people. Yet I don'tknow; perhaps it doesn't, really; one knows little enough aboutpeople's lives. At all events, it won't work in our case, and rememberthat we never thought it would. We talked it all over, with no humbugon either side--rather an unusual sort of talk, when one comes to thinkof it. I liked you for the common-sense you showed, and I rememberpatting myself on the back for a rational bit of behaviour at a timewhen I felt rather crazy. '

Alma laughed in her gayest key. 

'You were delicious. I didn't quite know what to make of you. Andperhaps that was the very reason----'

'Reason for what?' asked Harvey, when she broke off and looked notquite so pale as a moment before. 

'I forget what I was going to say. But please go on. It's veryinteresting--as your talk always is. '

'I've said about all. You're not to be dutiful and commonplace; that'sthe matter in a nutshell. '

'I don't think you can accuse me of ever being commonplace. '

'Perhaps not, ' said Harvey. 

'And as for dutiful, our duty is to be consistent, don't you think?'

'Yes--if by consistency you mean the steady resolve to make the most ofyourself. That's what you had in mind when you came here. As soon asyou begin to grow limp, it's time to ask what is the matter. I don'toffer any advice; you know yourself better than I can know you. It'sfor you to tell me what goes on in your mind. What's the use of ourliving together if you keep your most serious thoughts to yourself?'

Harvey Rolfe glowed with a sense of his own generous wisdom. He hadnever felt so keen a self-approval. Indeed, that emotion seldom came tosolace him; for the most part he was the severest critic of his owndoings and sayings. But for once it appeared to him that he utteredgolden words, the ripe fruit of experience and reflection. Thatpersonal unrest had anything to do with the counsel he offered to hiswife, he did not for the moment even suspect. Alma had touched him withher unfamiliar note of simple womanhood, and all at once there wasrevealed to him a peril of selfishness, from which he stronglyrecoiled. He seemed to be much older, and Alma much more youthful, thanhe was wont to perceive. Very gently and sweetly she had put him inmind of this fact; it behoved him to consider it well, and act upon theoutcome of such reflection. Heavens! was he in danger of becoming thetypical husband--the man who, as he had put it, thinks first of hispipe and slippers? From the outside, no man would more quickly or morecontemptuously have noted the common-sense moral of this presentsituation. Being immediately concerned, he could see nothing in hisattitude but a wise and noble disinterestedness. And thus, at a momentwhen he wittingly held the future in his hands, he prided himself onleaving to Alma an entire responsibility--making her, in the ordinaryphrase, mistress of her own fate, and waiting upon her decisions. 

'I will think a little longer, ' said Alma, sighing contentedly, 'andthen we'll talk about it again. It's quite true I was getting a littlerun down, and perhaps--but we'll talk about it in a day or two. '

'Could we decide anything for the present? Would you care to go andmeet the steamer at Plymouth?'

'And take Hughie? Suppose I wrote very nicely to Mamma, and asked if wemight leave Hughie with her, in Hampshire, for a few days? I dare sayshe would be delighted, and the other people too. The nurse could bewith him, I dare say. We could call there on our way. And Ruth wouldlook after the house very well. '

'Write and ask. '

'Then you and I'--Alma began to talk joyously--'might ramble aboutDevonshire till the ship comes. Let me see--if we travelled on Monday, that would give us several days, wouldn't it? And the Carnabys mighteither land at Plymouth, or we go on with them in the ship to London. That's a very good plan. But why lose time by writing? Send a telegramto Mamma--"Could we leave Hughie and nurse with you for a day or two?"'

Harvey again turned his steps to the post-office, and this message wasdespatched. A few hours elapsed before the reply came, but it wasfavourable. 

'Then we'll leave on Monday!' exclaimed Alma, whose convalescence wasvisibly proceeding. 'Just send another telegram--a word or two, thatthey may be ready. '

'Might as well have mentioned the day in the other, ' said Harvey, though glad to have something more to do. 

'Of course; how thoughtless!'

And they laughed, and were in the best of tempers. 

On the morrow, Sunday, they walked together as they had used to do inthe first spring after their marriage; along the grassy cliffs, thendown to the nook where the sand is full of tiny shells, and round thelittle headland into the next bay, where the quaint old fishing-villagestands upon the edge of the tide. And Alma was again in love, and heldher husband's hand, and said the sweetest things in the most wonderfulvoice. She over-tired herself a little, so that, when they ascended thecliff again, Harvey had to support her; and in the sunny solitude shethanked him with her lips--in two ways. 

It was a second honeymoon. 

CHAPTER 4

Mrs. Frothingham's sister, who lived near Basingstoke, gave a warmwelcome to little Hugh Rolfe; and Mrs. Frothingham, who had all butforgotten that the child was not really her grandson, took charge ofhim with pride and joy. He stayed a week; he stayed a fortnight;--hestayed two months. 

For when the Carnabys--who landed at Plymouth and rested there for acouple of days--made known their intention of straightway taking a flatin town, it seemed to Alma that the very best thing for her healthwould be to spend a week or two in London, and see her old friends, andgo to a few concerts. The time was favourable, for June had only justset in. Harvey, nothing loath, took his wife to a quiet hotel in thePortman Square region, whither also went their friends from abroad; hisproject being to look for furnished rooms, where child and nurse couldjoin them. But Mrs. Frothingham thought it a pity of pities to takelittle Hugh into the town, when all was so pleasantly arranged for himdown in Hampshire; and, as Alma evidently inclined to the same view, the uninviting thought of 'apartments' was laid aside. They might aswell remain at the hotel, said Harvey. Alma, with a pretty show ofeconomical hesitation, approved the plan, saying that she would bequite ready to go home again when Sibyl had established herself in aflat. This event came to pass in about three weeks; the Carnabys founda flat which suited them very well at Oxford and Cambridge Mansions, and thither, with the least possible delay, transferred a portion oftheir furniture, which had lain in warehouse. Thereupon, sweetlyreasonable, Mrs. Rolfe made known that it was time to fetch her babyand return to Carnarvonshire. She felt incalculably better; the changehad been most refreshing; now for renewed enjoyment of her dear home!

But Harvey wore his wisest countenance; no owl could have surpassed itfor sage gravity. 

'You are very much better, and don't you think you would be betterstill after another week or two? The concerts are in full swing; itseems a pity--now you are here----'

Alma looked gracefully reluctant. Were not the hotel expenses ratherheavy?

'Pooh! You must remember that at home we live on half our income, orless. If that's all that troubles you----'

'You are very kind, Harvey!'

'Why, as for that, I'm enjoying myself. And I like to see you in suchcapital spirits. '

So, with a happy sigh, Alma gave up the packing of her trunk, and wroteto Mrs. Frothingham that if baby _really_ was not a trouble, they mightstay for another fortnight. 'Harvey is in such capital spirits, anddoes so enjoy himself, that I don't think he ought to go home whilstall the life of the season is in full swing. Of course, I could leavehim here, but--if you will credit it--he seems really to wish to haveme with him. If I tried to say how thoroughly good and kind he is, Ishould make you laugh. It amuses me to see him turned into a sort ofbachelor again. This is no contradiction; I mean that here, among hismen friends, he shows a new side of himself, seems younger (to tell thetruth), and has a kind of gaiety quite different from his good humourat home. You can't think how he enjoys a dinner at the club, forinstance, quite in a boyish way; and then he comes back with all sortsof stories and bits of character and I don't know what; we forget thetime, and sit talking till I daren't tell you when. But I am doing thesame thing now, for it is half-past twelve (noon), and I have promisedto lunch with Sibyl at half-past one. Her flat is just finished, andlooks very pretty indeed. A thousand kisses to my little darling! Tryand make him understand that _mum-mum_ has not gone for ever. '

She dressed with care (her wardrobe had undergone a complete renewal), and drove off in a hansom to Oxford and Cambridge Mansions. It was tobe a luncheon of intimacy, for Sibyl had not yet gathered heracquaintances. When Alma entered, Mrs. Carnaby was sitting just as inthe days before her great migration, perfectly at ease, admirablyself-possessed, her beauty arrayed with all the chastity of effectwhich distinguished her among idle and pleasure-loving women. She hadfound a new way of doing her hair, a manner so young, so virginal, thatAlma could not but gaze with wonder and admiration. 

'You do look sweet today!'

'Do I? I'm glad you think so. --I want your opinion. Would you have thepiano there, or _there_?'

This matter was discussed, and then they obeyed the tuneful gong thatsummoned them to the dining-room. Alma surveyed everything, and felt asecret envy. Here was no demonstration of the simple life; thingsbeautiful and luxurious filled all available space, and indeedover-filled it, for Sibyl had tried to use as much as possible of thefurniture formerly displayed in Hamilton Terrace, with such alterationsand novelties as were imposed by the fashion of today. She offered herguest a most dainty little meal; a luncheon such as Alma could notpossibly have devised, in spite of all her reminiscences. 

'Civilisation is a great thing, ' Sibyl remarked. 'It's good to havebeen in savagery, just to appreciate one's privileges. '

'But you liked Honolulu?'

'Honolulu--yes. I was thinking of Queensland. There's no barbarism atHonolulu, if you keep out of sight of the Americans and Europeans. Yes, I enjoyed myself there. I think I could go back and live out my life atWaikiki. '

'It astonished me that you didn't make an effort to go with Hugh tothat great volcano. I have read about it since, and I'm sure I shouldhave faced anything. '

'Kilauea, ' murmured Sibyl, with a dreamy air, as she raised thewine-glass to her lips. 'I was lazy, no doubt. The climate, you know;and then I don't care much about bubbling lava. It was much nicer towatch the gold-fish at Waikiki. --Where is your husband today?'

'Of all things in the world, gone to Lord's! He says he never saw acricket match in his life, and it struck him this morning that itreally was a defect in his education. Of course, he was thinking ofHughie. He wants Hughie to be a cricketer and horseman and everythingthat's robust. '

'Just like Hugh, ' replied Sibyl, laughing. 'I should feel the same if Ihad a boy. I like open-air men--though I shouldn't care always to liveamong them. '

'Hugh at Coventry still?' Alma inquired. 

Her hostess gave a nod, with a look intimating that she would say morewhen the servant left them free to talk. She added----

'Do you know Mrs. Strangeways?'

'I seem to remember a Mr. Strangeways, ' replied Alma, 'but I can'tthink how or where. '

'Yes, he's a man who goes about a good deal. His wife was the widow ofthat artist who promised so well, and got into a scrape, and diedmiserably--Edward--no, Egbert Dover. Don't you know that big landscapethat hangs in Mrs. Holt's boudoir?--that was one of his. He hid himselfaway, and died in a garret or a workhouse--something cheerful. I metMrs. Strangeways at Brisbane; she and her husband were globe-trotting. She might look in this afternoon. I don't know whether you would carefor her; she's rather--rapid, you know. But she remembers hearing youplay somewhere--spoke of you with great admiration. '

Alma's eyes shone. 

'Oh, I should be glad to meet her! Are you going to let me stay withyou all the afternoon, then?'

'If you have nothing better to do. I suppose I shall be losing youpresently. I'm very sorry. I wish you lived in London. '

'On this one account, ' replied Alma, 'I wish I did. But I've got so outof it. Don't you think I carry a rustic atmosphere about with me?'

Sibyl laughed, in the tone her friend wished to hear. Alma would havebeen profoundly mortified if Mrs. Carnaby had seemed ever so little toagree with her. 

For all that, they were not quite so well attuned to each other as whenthe young married woman, indifferent seemingly to social distinction, patronised the ambitious girl, and, by the mere bestowal of confidence, subtly flattered her. In those days Alma did not feel it as patronage, for Sibyl's social position was perhaps superior to her own, and inthings of the intellect (apart from artistic endowment) she sincerelylooked up to her friend. Together they trod ground above the heads ofordinary women in their world. But changes had been at work. Alma nowfelt herself, to say the least, on equal terms with Mrs. Carnaby. Economically, she was secure; whereas Sibyl, notwithstanding the showshe made, drew daily nearer to a grave crisis, and might before longfind herself in a very unpleasant situation. Intellectually, Alma sawherself in a less modest light than before marriage; the dailycompanionship of such a man as her husband had been to her as a secondeducation; she had quite overtaken Sibyl, if not gone a little beyondher. The deference she still showed was no longer genuine, and thiskind of affectation, hard to support and readily perceived, is veryperilous to friendship. Conscious of thoughts she must not utter, Almanaturally attributed to her friend the same sort of reticence. Shefeared that Sibyl must often have in mind the loss she had sufferedthree years ago, and would contrast her own precarious circumstanceswith the comfort of Bennet Frothingham's daughter. Moreover, Mrs. Carnaby was not in all respects her own self; she had lost something onher travels; was it a shade of personal delicacy, of mental refinement?She seemed more inclined to self-assertion, to aim somewhat at worldlysuccess, to be less careful about the friends she made. Alma felt thisdifference, though not clear as to its nature, and insensibly it helpedto draw them apart. 

'Yes, Hugh is at Coventry, ' said Sibyl, when the servant had withdrawn. 'He'll go backwards and forwards, you know. I don't think he'll havevery much to do practically with the business; but just at first helikes to see what's going on. '

'I hope it will prosper. '

'Oh, no doubt it will. It was a very good idea. '

Sibyl spoke as though she had never contemplated the possibilitieswhich were in Alma's mind. Her husband, as Alma knew from Rolfe, was inanything but a sanguine mood; he saw his position in all its gravity, and could hardly rest for fear that this latest enterprise should notsucceed. Sibyl, however, enjoyed her lunch with complete tranquillity. She had the air of being responsible for nothing. 

'I'm not at all sorry we went away for a time. Travelling suits Hugh;it has done him a great deal of good. I believe he would have liked tostay in Tasmania; but he saw it wouldn't do for me, and the good fellowcould think of nothing else but my comfort. I have a great admirationfor Hugh, ' she added, with a smile, not exactly of superiority orcondescension, but of approval distinct from tenderness. 'Of course, Ialways had, and it has increased since I've travelled with him. Heshows to far more advantage on a ship than in a drawing-room. On thislast voyage we had some very bad weather, and then he was at his best. I admired him immensely!'

'I can quite imagine how he would be, ' said Alma. 

'And how glad I was when I heard you had married his best friend! Ithad crossed my mind more than once. Perhaps you don't remember--youdidn't notice it at the time--but I ventured a discreet hint before weparted. You couldn't have done a more sensible thing, Alma. '

Though quite willing to believe this, Alma, for some reason, did notcare to hear it thus asserted. The manner of the remark, for all itsfriendliness, reminded her that marriage had signified her defeat, theend of high promises, brave aspirations. 

'I couldn't tell you how it happened, ' she said, with a littleawkwardness. 'And I dare say you would say the same about your ownmarriage. '

'Of course So would every woman. One never does know how it happens'

And Sibyl laughed with quiet merriment which had a touch of cynicism. Alma had not yet spoken of the impulse which carried her away to thelittle house in Carnarvonshire, to the life of noble simplicity andcalm retirement, and she had no disposition now to touch on the matter. Even in her early letters to Sybil not much was said of it, for shefelt that her friend might have a difficulty in sympathising with suchenthusiasm. She would have liked to make Sibyl understand that herrustication was quite voluntary; but the subject embarrassed her, andshe preferred to keep silence. 

'I didn't hear very much about your time in Germany, ' Mrs. Carnabyresumed. 'Nothing much to tell, I suppose. '

'Very little. '

'Any--any adventures?'

'Oh no!'

Alma felt herself grow warm, less at the thought of the adventureswhich really had befallen her than from vexation at the feeling ofinsignificance. She understood very well what Sibyl meant by hersmiling question, and it would almost have been a relief to tellcertain stories, in proof that she had not utterly fallen out of sightand mind on her self-banishment from society. There was no reason, indeed, why she should not make fun of Felix Dymes and his proposal;but the episode seemed idle in comparison with another, on which shehad never ceased to reflect. Perhaps a certain glory attached to thatsecond incident; Sibyl might be impressed alike with the character ofthe temptation and with her friend's nobility in scorning it. But theopportunity had gone by. 

On rising from table, Sibyl remarked that she wished to make one or twopurchases; would Alma accompany her to the shop? They went forth, anddrove as far as Regent Street. Mrs. Carnaby's requirements were one ortwo expensive trifles, which she chose with leisurely gratification ofher taste. It surprised Alma to see this extravagance; one would havethought the purchaser had never known restricted means, and dreamt ofno such thing; she bought what she happened to desire, as a matter ofcourse. And this was no ostentation for Alma's benefit. Evidently Sibylhad indulged herself with the same freedom throughout her travels; forshe had brought back a museum of beautiful and curious things, whichmust have cost a good deal. Perhaps for the first time in her life Almaexperienced a sense of indignation at the waste of money. She wasenvious withal, which possibly helped to explain the other impulse. 

They returned in an hour's time. Sibyl then withdrew for a few minutes, and reappeared in an exquisite tea-gown, which made her friend's frock, though new and handsome, look something less than suitable to theoccasion. Alma, glancing about the room, spoke as if in pursuance of atrain of thought. 

'People _do_ make a lot of money out of bicycles, I think?'

'I have heard so, ' answered her hostess indifferently. 'Will you playme something? The piano has been tuned; I should like to know if youthink it all right. '

'I have quite given up playing the piano. '

'Indeed? And the violin too?'

'No, no; the violin is my instrument. Whose is that littlewater-colour, Sibyl? I tried for just that effect of sun through mistnot long ago. '

'Oh yes, to be sure, you have gone in for water-colours; you told me ina letter. I must see some of your things. Of course, I shallbecoming----'

The door opened, and a small page, very smartly equipped, to Alma; shehad not as yet seen this functionary; but Mrs. Announced Mrs. HerbertStrangeways. The page was a surprise Strangeways drew her attention. Alady of perhaps thirty-five, with keen, thin face, and an artificialbloom on her hollow cheeks; rather overdressed, yet not to the point ofvulgarity; of figure very well proportioned, slim and lissom. Her voicewas a trifle hard, but pleasant; her manner cordial in excess. 

'So here you are, _chez vous_. Charming! Charming! The prettiest room Ihave seen for a long time. Mrs. Rolfe? Oh, Mrs. Rolfe, the name put meout for a moment; but I remember you perfectly, perfectly. It was atthe Wigrams'; you played the violin wonderfully!'

Alma did not much care to be reminded of this. Mr. Wigram, one of herfather's co-directors, was lying at this moment in durance vile, andhis wife lived somewhere or other on charity. But Mrs. Strangewaysuttered the name without misgiving, and behaved as though nothingconceivable could have afforded her more delight than to meet Almaagain. It was her habit to speak in superlatives, and to wear acountenance of corresponding ecstasy. Any casual remark from either ofthe ladies she received with a sort of rapture; her nerves seemed to bein a perpetual thrill. If she referred to herself, it was always withdepreciation, and not at all the kind of depreciation which invitescompliment, but a tremulous self-belittlement, such as might be naturalin a person who had done something to be ashamed of, and held her placein society only on sufferance. 

'You still play, of course?' she said to Mrs. Rolfe presently. 'I sohope I may have the pleasure of hearing you again. I wonder whether Icould persuade you to come next Wednesday? We have a little house inPorchester Terrace. Of course, I don't mean to ask you to play; Ishouldn't venture to. Just a few friends in the evening--if you didn'tthink it tiresome? I'll send you a card. '

There entered a tall young man of consumptive features, accompanied bya stout, florid woman, older than himself; and upon this couplefollowed half-a-dozen miscellaneous callers, some of whom Alma knew. These old acquaintances met her with a curiosity they hardly troubledto disguise; she herself was reserved, and took no part in the generalchatter. Mrs. Strangeways withdrew into a corner, as if wishing toescape observation. When Mrs. Rolfe took a chair by her side, shebeamed with gratitude, and their gossip grew quite intimate. Alma couldnot understand why Sibyl had stigmatised this woman as 'rapid'--that isto say, 'fast'; she gabbled, indeed, at a great rate, but revealed nostartling habits of life or thought, and seemed to have rather aninclination for childish forms of amusement. Before they parted, Almagave a promise that she would go to Mrs. Strangeways 'at home' nextWednesday. 

'And your husband, if he would care to come. I should be so delightedto know him. But perhaps he doesn't care about that kind of thing. Ihate to bore anyone--don't you? But then, of course, you're never indanger of doing it. So very, _very_ glad to have met you! And soexceedingly kind of you to promise!--so _very_ kind!'

As Sibyl also was going to Porchester Terrace, they arranged tochaperon each other and to start from Mrs. Rolfe's hotel. 

'It's no use making Harvey uncomfortable, ' said Alma. 'He would go if Iasked him but sorely against the grain. He always detested 'athomes'--except when he came to admire _me_! And he likes to see megoing about independently. '

'Does he?' said Sibyl, with an inquiring look. 

'Yes--seriously. We do our best not to encumber each other. Don't youthink it's the best way?'

'No doubt whatever. '

Mrs. Carnaby smiled, and the smile grew to a laugh; but she would notexplain what she meant by it. 

On the Wednesday evening, they reached Mrs. Strangeways' house at teno'clock. Carriages and cabs made a queue up to the door, and figuressucceeded each other rapidly on the red cloth laid down across thepavement. Alma was nervous. More than three years had passed since thefatal evening when, all unconsciously, she said goodbye to socialsplendours; from then till now she had taken part in no festivity. Thefact that her name was no longer Frothingham gave her someencouragement; but she must expect to be recognised, perhaps to bestared at. Well, and would it be so very disagreeable? An hour before, the mirror had persuaded her that she need not shrink from people'seyes; her dress defied criticism, and she had not to learn how to bearherself with dignity. Sibyl was unusually lavish of compliments, and ina matter such as this Sibyl's judgment had weight. As soon as she foundherself on the stairs, amid perfumes and brilliances, she breathedfreely; it was the old familiar atmosphere; her heart leaped with asudden joy, as in a paradise regained. 

Already the guests were very numerous, and they continued to arrive. The drawing-rooms filled; a crowd of men smoked in the 'library' andthe billiard-room; women swarmed in passages and staircase. Afterwelcoming Mrs. Rolfe with the ardour of a bosom friend and theprostration of a devotee, the hostess turned to the next comer withscarcely less fervency. And Alma passed on, content for the present tobe lost amid thronging strangers. 

'Who are all these people?' she asked of Sibyl, who had moved along byher side. 

'Nobodies, most of them, I should imagine. There's no need to stay verylong, you know. That's Mr. Strangeways, the little man with a red facetalking to that mountain of a woman in green. Mercy, what a dress! He'scoming this way; I'll introduce him to you. '

The host had a jovial carriage and a bluff way of speaking, bothobviously affected. His eyes wandered as he talked, and never metanyone else's with a steady look. Alma thought him offensivelyfamiliar, but he did not inflict himself upon her for long. 

When the hostess began to go hither and thither, she pounced eagerly onMrs. Rolfe, and soon made her the centre of a group. Alma began totaste the old delight of homage, though she perceived that her newacquaintances were not of the world in which she had formerly shone. About midnight, when she was a little tired of the crush, and thoughtof going, there fell upon her ear a voice which startled and arousedher like an unexpected grasp. On the instant she saw an open place inMunich; the next, a lake and mountains. 

'I wasn't in town then. I got out of sorts, and ran away to a littleplace I have on the Lake of Garda. '

The speaker was immediately behind her. She all but turned her head, and grew hot in the effort to command herself. Amid the emotionsnaturally excited in her she was impressed by a quality in the voice, arefinement of utterance, which at once distinguished it from that ofthe men with whom she had been talking. It belonged to a higher socialgrade, if it did not express a superiority of nature. For some momentsshe listened, catching now and then a word; then other voicesintervened. At length, turning where she stood, she let her eyes range, expressionless, over the faces near by. That which she sought was notdiscoverable, but at the same moment the hostess came up to her. 

Mrs. Rolfe, do you know Mr. Cyrus Redgrave?'

'Mr. Redgrave----?'

The confused, hesitating repetition of the name was taken by MrsStrangeways for a reply in the negative. 

'A charming man, and a great friend of mine--oh, a very old friend. Letme bring him. '

She rustled away, and Mrs. Rolfe sank back on to the _causeuse_ fromwhich she had newly risen. Quickly the hostess returned, and, in thetrack she made through crowded clusters of people who stood talking, there followed a gentleman of easy carriage, with handsome features andthin hair. He was looking for Alma, and as soon as his eyes perceivedher, they fell. Of what Mrs. Strangeways said, Alma heard not asyllable; she bowed mechanically, clutching her fan as though in perilof a fall and this the only thing within reach; she knew that Redgravebent solemnly, silently; and then, with sudden relief, she saw thehostess retire. 

'I beg your pardon. ' The voice was addressing her in a respectfulundertone. 'I had no choice. I did not feel justified in saying I knewyou. '

'You were quite right, ' she replied coldly, her fingers now relaxedupon the fan. 'Mrs. Strangeways is a little impulsive; she gave me noopportunity of preventing the introduction. '

'Will you let me say, Mrs. Rolfe, that I am glad to have been presentedto you as a stranger? I should be happy indeed if our acquaintancemight begin anew. '

It was polite in terms, but sounded to Alma very like the coolestimpertinence. She bent her head, ever so little. The second seat of the_causeuse_ being unoccupied, Redgrave hereupon took possession of it. No sooner had he done so than Alma rose, let a smile of indifferencejust fall upon him, and lost herself amid the buzzing assembly. 

Ten minutes later, Redgrave and Mrs. Carnaby were lounging in thesesame seats, conversing with perfect mutual intelligence. They had notmet for three years, but the interval signified very little in theirlives, and they resumed conversation practically at the point where ithad broken off in Mrs. Frothingham's drawing-room. A tactful questionassured the man of the world that Mrs. Carnaby knew nothing of certainpassages at Munich and Bregenz. 

'I'm afraid, ' he added, 'Mrs. Rolfe has become a little reserved. Natural, no doubt. '

'She lives in a wild part of Wales, ' Sibyl answered, smilingtolerantly. 'And her husband detests society. '

'Indeed? Odd choice for her to have made, don't you think?--And so yourOdyssey is over? We shall have some chance of seeing you again. '

'But your own Odyssey is perpetually going on. Are you ever in townexcept for a few weeks of the season?'

'Oh, I go about very little now; I'm settling down. --You never met mysister, I think? She has a house at Wimbledon with a good-sizedgarden--sort of little park, in fact, --and I have persuaded her to letme build myself a bungalow among the trees. '

'Splendid idea!'

'Not bad, I think. One is free there; a member of the family wheneverone likes; domesticated; all that's respectable; and only a few stepsaway, the bachelor snuggery, with all that's----. No, no! I was _not_going to complete the antithesis, though by your smiling you seem tosay so. '

'The suggestion was irresistible, ' said Sibyl, with the composure, theair of security, which always covered her excursions on to slipperyground. 

'When the weather is good, I ask a few of my friends to come and sitthere in the shade. They may or may not be my sister's friends also;that doesn't matter. I have a separate entrance from the road. --But Iwish you knew Mrs. Fenimore. She lived a year or two at Stuttgart, forher children to learn German. Her husband's in India. She tried it, butcouldn't stand the climate. '

'And you really live in the bungalow?' inquired Mrs. Carnaby, disregarding this information about Redgrave's sister. 

'Yes, it's my headquarters in England. Let me send you a card, willyou, when I have my next afternoon? It might amuse you, and I assureyou it _is_ perfectly respectable. '

'How could I doubt it, if you invite me?'

Alma drove home by herself in a hansom. She liked this disregard ofconventionalities; all the more because Harvey, who, of course, had satup for her, seemed a trifle anxious. Her spirits were exuberant; shegave a merry, mocking account of the evening, but it included nomention of Cyrus Redgrave. 

At the end of June her friends the Leaches moved from their old housein Elgin Road to a new one out at Kingsbury-Neasden, and when theremoval was completed Alma went there to make a call, taking herhusband. Harvey had never been beyond Swiss Cottage on this extensionof the Metropolitan Railway; he looked with interest at the newdistricts springing up towards Harrow, and talked of them with Mrs. Leach. A day or two after, he travelled by himself to a greaterdistance on the same line, making a survey of the country from Harrowto Aylesbury. At his next meeting with Hugh Carnaby, which took placeabout the middle of July, he threw out a suggestion that for anyone whowished to live practically in London and yet away from its frenzy, theuplands towards Buckinghamshire were convenient ground. 

'I wish you were thinking of it yourself, ' replied Hugh. 'Your wife isabout the only woman Sibyl cares to see much of, and the only woman Iknow that she'll get any good from. '

The strong man did not look very cheerfully on the world just now, andit was evident that he felt some sort of trouble with regard to hiswife. For her sake solely he had returned to England, where he was lessthan ever at his ease. He wished Sibyl to live in her own way, grudgedher nothing, admired and cherished her with undiminished fervour; butin Oxford and Cambridge Mansions it cost him a great effort to pretendto be at home. The years of wandering had put him hopelessly out oftouch with what Sibyl called society. Little as he understood aboutmanufactures, or cared for the details of commerce, he preferred tostay down at Coventry with his partner Mackintosh, living roughly, smoking his pipe and drinking his whisky in the company of men who hadat least a savour of sturdy manhood. His days of sport were gone by; hewas risking the solid remnant of his capital; and if it vanished--Butof that possibility he would not speak, even with Harvey Rolfe. As hemeditated, his teeth were set, his eyes darkened. And it appeared toHarvey that the good fellow drank a little more whisky than wasneedful, even in these warm days. 

'I want to see the little chap, my namesake, ' he said. 'Why don't youhave him up here? Doesn't your wife feel she wants him?'

'Alma will think more of him in a year or two, ' Harvey replied. 

'Yes. I've noticed that women--one sort of women--don't care much aboutbabies nowadays. I dare say they're right. The fewer children peoplehave, the better. It's bad to see the poor little squalling brats inthe filth and smoke down yonder, and worse still in this damned London. Great God! when there's so much of the world clean and sweet, here wepack and swelter together, a million to the square mile! What eternalfools we are!'

Harvey growled his heartiest agreement. None the less, a day or twoafter, he was holding a conversation with Alma which encouraged hersecret weariness of the clean and sweet places of the earth. They hadcome home from a Richter concert, and Alma uttered a regret that shehad not her violin here. A certain _cadenza_ introduced by a certainplayer into a certain violin solo did not please her; why, she couldextemporise a _cadenza_ far more in keeping with the spirit of thepiece. After listening, with small attention to the matter, but much tothe ardent speech and face of enthusiasm, Harvey made a quiet remark. 

'I want you to decide very soon what we are going to do. '

'Going to do?'

'About the future--where we are to live. '

Alma strummed lightly with her finger-tips upon the table, and smiled, but did not look up. 

'Do you really think of making any change?'

'I leave it entirely to you. You remember our last talk before we cameaway. You have simply to ask yourself what your needs are. Be honestwith yourself and with me. Don't sacrifice life to a whim, one way orthe other. You have had plenty of time to think; you have known severalways of life; you're old enough to understand yourself. Just make upyour mind, and act. '

'But it's ridiculous, Harvey, to speak as if I had only myself toconsider. '

'I don't want you to do so. But supposing that were your position, now, after all your experience, where would you choose to live?'

He constrained her to answer, and at length she spoke, with a girlishdiffidence which seemed to him very charming. 

'I like the concerts--and I like to be near my musical friends--and Idon't think it's at all necessary to give up one's rational way ofliving just because one is in London instead of far away. '

'Precisely. That means we ought to come back. '

'Not if you do it unwillingly. '

'I'll be frank in my turn. For Hughie's sake, I don't think we ought tolive in the town; but it's easy enough to find healthy places justoutside. '

'I shouldn't wish to be actually in the town, ' said Alma, her voicetremulous with pleasure. 'You know where the Leaches are living?'

'Yes. Or just a little farther away, on the higher ground. Very well, let us regard _that_ as settled. '

'But you, dear--could you live there?'

'Well enough. It's all the same to me if I have my books, and a fieldto walk in--and if you don't want me to see too many women. '

Alma laughed gaily, and had done with semblance of hesitation. 

They began to search for a house, and in a week's time had found one, newly built, which seemed to answer their requirements. It was atPinner, not many minutes by rail from Alma's friends atKingsbury-Neasden, and only about half an hour from Baker Street--'soconvenient for the concerts'. A new house might be damp, but the summermonths were hastening to dry it, and they would not enter intoresidence before the end of autumn. 'We must go and enjoy our heather, 'said Alma brightly. The rent was twice what Harvey had been paying;there was no stabling, but Alma agreed that they ought not to keep ahorse, for naturally there would be 'other expenses'. 

Other expenses, to be sure. But Harvey signed the three years' leasewithout misgiving. A large surplus lay in hand after the 'simple life'in Carnarvonshire, and his position was not that of men who haveextravagant wives. 

CHAPTER 5

The Leach family gave it to be understood by their friends that theyhad moved out of town because of Mrs. Leach's health. Otherexplanations were suspected; for the new establishment seemed to be ona more modest footing than that in Elgin Road, and the odd arrangementwhereby Mr. Leach came home only on Saturday could not be withoutsignificance. Mrs. Leach, it was true, suffered from some obscureaffection of the nerves, which throughout the whole of her married lifehad disabled her from paying any continuous regard to domestic affairs;this debility had now reached such a point that the unfortunate ladycould do nothing but collapse in chairs and loll on sofas. As her twodaughters, though not debilitated, had never dreamt of undertakinghousehold management, all such matters were left to a cook-housekeeper, changed every few months, generally after a quarrel, wherein Mrs. Leachput forth, for an invalid, very surprising energy. Mr. Leach, asolicitor, had no function in life but to toil without pause for thesupport of his family in genteel leisure; he was a mild man, dreadingdiscord, and subservient to his wife. For many years he had made anincome of about L2000, every penny of which, excepting a smallinsurance premium, had been absorbed by expenses of the house. At theage of fifty, prematurely worn by excessive labour, he was alarmed tofind his income steadily diminishing, with no correspondingdiminution--but rather the opposite--in the demands made upon him bywife and daughters. In a moment of courage, prompted by desperation, heobtained the consent of Dora and Gerda to this unwelcome change ofabode. It caused so much unpleasantness between himself and Mrs. Leach, that he was glad to fit up a sleeping-room at his office and go homeonly once a week; whereby he saved time, and had the opportunity ofstarving himself as well as of working himself to death. 

Dora and Gerda, having grown up in such domestic circumstances, accepted them with equanimity. When their father spoke nervously ofretrenchment, saying that he grew old and must save money to providefor their future, they made no objection, but were as far as ever fromperceiving the sordid tragedy of his lot. Dora lived for her music;Gerda sang a little, but was stronger on the social side, delighting infestivities and open-air amusements. They were amiable and intelligentgirls, and would have been amazed had anyone charged them withselfishness; no less if it had been suggested to them that theypersonally might rectify the domestic disorder of which at times theywere moved to complain. They had no beauty, and knew it; neither hadreceived an offer of marriage, and they looked for nothing of the kind. That their dresses cost a great deal, was taken as a matter of course;also that they should go abroad when other people did, and have thebest places at concert or theatre, and be expansively 'at home'. Withall sincerity they said of themselves that they lived a quiet life. Howcould it be quieter?--unless one followed the example of Alma Rolfe;but Alma was quite an exceptional person--to be admired and liked, notto be imitated. 

Yet even Alma, it seemed, had got tired of her extraordinary freak. Shewas back again within the circle of civilisation; or, as she put it inher original, amusing way, 'on the outer edge of the whirlpool'. Shehad a very nice little house, beautifully furnished; everyone knewAlma's excellent taste. She came frequently to Kingsbury-Neasden, andran up to town at least as often as they (Dora and Gerda) did. Likethem she found it an annoyance to have to rush to the station beforemidnight; but, being married, she could allow herself more freedom ofmovement than was permissible to single young women, and having oncemissed the last train, she simply went to a hotel where she was known, and quietly returned to Pinner next morning. That Mrs. Rolfe had suchcomplete liberty and leisure seemed to them no subject for remark;being without cares, she enjoyed life; a matter of course. And she wasso very clever. No wonder Mr. Rolfe (charming man) always hadadmiration in his eyes when he looked at her. Some husbands (miserablechurls) can see nothing in their wives, and never think of encouragingwhat talent they may have. But when Alma grew a little dissatisfiedwith her violin (a 'Vuillaume', which poor Mr. Bennet Frothingham hadgiven her in the days gone by), Mr. Rolfe did not hesitate to spendfifty pounds on an instrument more to her liking; and the dear girlplayed on it divinely. 

There was no shadow of envy in Dora Leach. 'I don't play quite badly, 'she said to Alma. 'Goodness knows, I oughtn't to, after all the lessonsI've had and the pains I've given. But with you it's different, dear. You know very well that, if you liked, you could become a professional, and make a name. 

'I _might_ have done, ' Alma admitted; 'but marriage put an end to that. You have too much sense to think I mean that I repent it. '

'I don't see why marriage should put an end to it, ' urged Dora. 'I'mquite sure your husband would be very proud if you came out and had agreat success. '

'But if I came out and made a fiasco?'

'You wouldn't. '

That was in the summer of 1890, when the Rolfes had been living atPinner for eight months. The new violin (new to her, old and mellow initself) had inspired Alma to joyous exertions. Again she took lessonsfrom Herr Wilenski, who was sparing of compliment, but, by the merefact of receiving her at all, showed his good opinion. And many otherpeople encouraged her in a fine conceit of herself. Mrs. Strangewayscalled her 'an unrecognised genius', and worshipped at her feet. To besure, one did not pay much attention to Mrs. Strangeways, but it issweet to hear such phrases, and twice already, though against herbetter judgment, Alma had consented to play at that lady's house. 

On both these occasions Cyrus Redgrave was present. Choosing hismoment, he approached her, looked in her face with a certain timidityto which Alma was not insensible, and spoke as an ordinaryacquaintance. There was no helping it; the man had been formallyintroduced, and, as he suggested, they had begun to know each otherafresh. Alma liked to remember how severely she had treated him at thatfirst encounter; perhaps that was enough for dignity. Mr. Redgravewould hardly forget himself again. For the rest, she could not pretend, within herself, to dislike him; and if he paid homage to her beauty, toher social charm, to her musical gifts (all of which things Almarecognised and tabulated), it might be only just to let him make amendsfor something known to both of them. The insult Alma was far fromforgiving. But when she had talked twice with Redgrave distantly, as astranger to all his affairs--it began to steal upon her mind that therewould be a sweetly subtle satisfaction in allowing the man to imaginethat her coldness was not quite what it seemed; that so, perchance, hemight be drawn on and become enslaved. She had never been able tocongratulate herself on a conquest of Cyrus Redgrave. The memory ofBregenz could still, at moments, bring the blood to her face; for itwas a memory of cool, calculating outrage, not of passion that hadbroken bounds. To subdue the man in good earnest would be anotherthing, and a peculiarly delicious morsel of revenge. Was it possible?Not long ago she would have scoffed at the thought, deeming Redgraveincapable of love in any shape. But her mind was changing in anatmosphere of pleasure and flattery, and under the influence of talksuch as she heard in this house and one or two others like it. 

To her husband, she represented Mrs. Strangeways as a very pleasantwoman with a passion for all the arts; formerly wife of a painter, andnow married to a wealthy man who shared her tastes. This satisfiedHarvey; but Alma had not deceived herself, and could not be quitecomfortable with Mrs. Strangeways. She no longer puzzled over the flowof guests to the house in Porchester Terrace, having discovered notonly that most of these were people, as Sibyl said, of no account, whohad few houses open to them, but that several would not be admitted toany circle of scrupulous respectability. The fact was that Mrs. Strangeways largely entertained the _demi-monde_, to use in its truesense a term persistently misapplied. Not impossibly she thought thedaughter of Bennet Frothingham might, from one point of view, beincluded among such persons; on the other hand, her warmth proved thatshe regarded Mrs. Rolfe as a social acquisition, if indeed she was notgenuinely attracted to her. What circumstances had led, or forced, Mrs. Strangeways into this peculiar position, Alma could not discover; itmight be simply one result of an unfortunate marriage, for undoubtedlythere was something sinister in the husband, a coarseness varnishedwith sham geniality, which made Alma dislike to be near him. In thewoman herself she found little that was objectionable; her foolisheffusiveness, and her artificial complexion, seemed to indicate merelya weak character; at times her talk was interesting, and she knew manypeople of a class superior to that represented in her drawing-room. Butfor the illumination she had received, Alma would have felt surprisedat meeting Cyrus Redgrave in these assemblies; formerly she had thoughtof him as belonging to a sphere somewhat above her own, aquasi-aristocratic world, in which Sibyl Carnaby, the daughter of Mrs. Ascott Larkfield, also moved by right of birth and breeding. Sibyl, however, was not above accepting Mrs. Strangeways' invitations, thoughshe continued to speak of her slightingly; and Redgrave had known thelady for a long time--even, it appeared, before her first marriage. 

In a year's time Alma had made and renewed a large number ofacquaintances. She spoke of herself as living 'in the country', andstill professed a dislike of mere gaiety, a resolve to maintain hersimple, serious mode of existence. At half-an-hour's journey from town, she was protected against the time-wasting intrusion of five-o'clockbabblers; a luncheon or two in the season, and a modest dinner at longintervals, would discharge her social liabilities; and she had theprecious advantage of being able to use London for all legitimatepurposes, without danger of being drawn into the vortex of its idletemptations. Once more she was working earnestly at her music--much, itseemed, to Harvey's satisfaction. He wanted her to go on also withwater-colours, but she pointed out to him that one art was all she hadtime for. 

'It's all very well for mere amateurs to take up half-a-dozen things. Iaim at more than that. You would like me, wouldn't you, to becomereally _something_ as a violinist?'

Harvey assented. 

'And you understand, ' she pursued, regarding him with her bright smile, 'that the life of an artist can't be quite like that of other women?'

'Of course, I understand it. You know I don't wish to put the leastrestraint upon you. '

'My one fear was, that you might think I went about rather toomuch--didn't pay enough attention to home----'

'We manage pretty well, I think. You needn't have any such fear. '

'Of course, when Hughie gets older--when I can really begin to teachhim----'

The child was now approaching the close of his third year, and, inHarvey's opinion, needed more than the attention of an ordinarynursemaid. They had recently engaged a nursery-governess, her namePauline Smith; a girl of fair education and gentle breeding, who livedas a member of the family. It appeared to Rolfe that Hughie was quiteold enough to benefit by his mother's guidance and companionship; buthe had left himself no ground for objection to Alma's ordering of herlife. The Welsh servant, Ruth, still remained with them, acting to agreat extent as housekeeper, and having under her a maid and a boy. Ruth, a trustworthy woman, was so well paid that they had not to fearher desertion. Regularity and comfort prevailed to a much greaterextent than might have been looked for under the circumstances. Expenditure had of course greatly increased, and now touched the limitof Harvey's ordinary income; but this was a matter which did notimmediately concern Mrs. Rolfe. For domestic and private purposes shehad a bank-account of her own; an arrangement made on their removal toPinner, when Harvey one morning handed her a pass-book and acheque-book, remarking that she would find to her credit a couple ofhundred pounds. Alma pretended to think this unnecessary, but hercountenance betrayed pleasure. When he thought the fund must be nearlyexhausted, he made a new payment to the account, without sayinganything; and Alma preserved an equally discreet silence. 

One of her new acquaintances was Mrs. Rayner Mann, a lady who desiredto be known as the patroness of young people aiming at success on thestage or as musicians. Many stories were told of Mrs. Mann's generosityto struggling artists, and her house at Putney swarmed with thestrangest mingling of people, some undoubtedly in society others noless decidedly out of it. Here Alma encountered Felix Dymes, whosereputation and prosperity had much advanced since their meeting atMunich. The comic opera of which he then spoke had been brought out ata provincial theatre with considerable success, and was shortly to beproduced in London; his latest songs, 'The Light of Home', and 'Wherethe Willow Dips', had caught the ear of the multitude. Alma ridiculedthese compositions, mocking at the sentimentalism of the words, anddeclaring that the airs were mere popular tinkle; but people notinferior to her in judgment liked the music, which certainly had asweetness and pathos not easy to resist. The wonder was how such a manas Felix Dymes could give birth to such tender melody. The vivacity ofhis greeting when of a sudden he recognised Alma, contrasted markedlywith Cyrus Redgrave's ill-concealed embarrassment in the likesituation. Dymes had an easy conscience, and in the chat that followedhe went so far as to joke about his ill-luck some four years ago. 

'You didn't think much of me. But I'm going ahead, you know. You haveto admit I'm going ahead. '

Prosperity was manifest in his look and voice. He had made no advancein refinement, and evidently thought himself above the necessity ofaffecting suave manners; his features seemed to grow even coarser; hisself-assertion was persistent to the point of grotesque conceit. 

'Is your husband musical?' he asked. 

'Not particularly. '

'Well, there's something to be said for that. One doesn't always wantto be talking shop. --I can't help looking at you; you've altered in aqueer sort of way. You were awfully fetching, you know, in those days. '

'You were awfully impertinent, ' replied Alma, with a laugh. 'And Idon't see that you've altered at all in that respect. '

'Do you play still?'

'A good deal better than I used to. '

'Really? If it's true, why don't you come out? I always believed inyou--I did really. There's no better proof of it than what I said atMunich; you were the only girl that could have brought me to that, youknow; it was quite against my principles. Have you heard of AdaWellington?--a girl I'm going to bring out next spring--a pianist; andshe'll make a hit. I should like you to know her. '

'How do you mean you are going to bring her out?'

'Do all the business for her, you know; run the show. Not as aspeculation; I don't want to make anything out of it, more thanexpenses. I know her 'people; they're very badly off, and I shall beglad if I can do them a good turn. There's nothing between us; justfriends, that's all. If ever you come out, put the business into myhands, will you?'

'I won't promise, ' replied Alma, 'until I see how you succeed with MissWellington. '

'Shall it be an understanding? If I float Ada, you'll let me have a trywith you?'

'We'll talk of it, Mr. Dymes, when you have learnt the elements of goodmanners. '

She nodded in a friendly way, and left him. 

Their next meeting was at a music-shop, where Dymes came in whilst Almawas making purchases. The composer, clad in a heavy fur overcoat, entered humming a tune loudly, by way of self-advertisement; he was athome here, for the proprietors of the business published his songs. Onperceiving Alma, he dropped his blustering air, bowed with exaggeratedpoliteness, and professed himself overjoyed. 

'I looked in just to try over a thing I've got in my head. Do come andlisten to it--will you? It would be so kind of you to give me youropinion. '

He pointed to a room at the back, visible between plush curtains. Alma, wishing to refuse, murmured that she had very little time; but Dymesprevailed, and she followed him. They passed into the pleasant warmthof a blazing fire. The musician flung off his coat, and at once satdown at the grand piano, open for the convenience of such favouredpersons as himself; whilst Alma seated herself in an easy-chair, whichshe had pushed forward so as to allow of her being seen from the shop. After some preliminary jingling, Dymes played an air which the listenercould not but like; a dainty, tripping melody, fit for a fairy song, with strange little echoes as of laughter, and a half-feigned sadnessin the close. With hands suspended, Dymes turned to see the effect hehad produced. 

'Is that your own?' Alma asked. 

'I'm under that impression. Rather good, I think--don't you?'

'Very pretty. '

She hardly believed his assurance, so strong was the contrast betweenthat lightsome lyric and the coarse vanity of the man himself. Heplayed it again, and she liked it still better, uttering a more decidedword of praise. 

'Dicky must write me patter for that!' Dymes exclaimed, when he sawthat she smiled with pleasure. 'You don't know Dicky Wellington? Acousin of Ada's. By-the-bye, her concert will be at the end ofMay--Prince's Hall, most likely. You shall have a ticket. '

'Very kind of you. '

'You know that Mrs. Rayner Mann is giving a charity concert next week?'

'I have been asked to take part in it, ' said Alma quietly. 

'I'm awfully glad of that!' shouted Dymes. 'So I shall hear you again. The fact is, you know, I don't think of you as an amateur. I can'tstand amateurs, except one or two. I've got it into my head that you'vebeen one of us, and retired. Queer thing, isn't it?'

Alma enjoyed the flattery. Comfortable in her chair, she showed nodisposition to move. Dymes asked her what she thought of playing, andshe told him, Hauser's 'Rhapsodie Hongroise'. 

'I'm always being bored by amateurs, ' he resumed. 'A silly woman whobelongs to a Symphony Society asked me yesterday to go and hear herplay in the C minor! I begged to be told what harm I had ever done her, and she said I was very rude. But I always am to people of that sort; Ican't help it. Another of them asked me to tell her of a _nice_ piecefor the piano--a really nice piece. At once I suggested Chopin's A flatmajor Polonaise. Do you know it?'

'Of course I do. Could you play it yourself?'

'I? Of course not. You don't imagine that because one is a successfulcomposer he must be a brilliant virtuoso. I hardly ever touch a musicalinstrument. Wagner was a very poor player, and Berlioz simply couldn'tplay at all. I'm a musical dreamer. Do you know that I literally dreamt"The Light of Home"? Now, that's a proof of genius. '

Alma laughed. 

'But it is! Do you know how most songs get made nowadays? There'sSykes' "Come when the Dawn"--you remember it? I happen to know allabout that. A fellow about town somehow got hold of an idea for amelody; he didn't know a note, but he whistled it to Sykes, and Sykesdotted it down. Now, Sykes knows no more of harmony than a broomstick, so he got another man to harmonise it, and then a fourth fellow wrotean orchestral accompaniment. That's the kind of thing--division oflabour in art. '

'You're quite sure you do everything for yourself?' said Almamischievously, rising at length. 

'I forgive you, because you're really one of us--you are, you know. Youhaven't the look of an amateur. Now, when you've gone out, I'll askSammy, behind the counter there, who he thinks you are, and I'll giveMrs. Rayner Mann a guinea for her charity if he doesn't take you for aprofessional musician. '

'You will be good enough, Mr. Dymes, ' said Alma severely, 'not to speakof me at all to anyone behind a counter. '

'It was only a joke. Of course, I shouldn't have done anything of thekind. Goodbye; shall see you at Putney. '

For all that, no sooner was Mrs. Rolfe gone than Dymes did talk of herwith the salesman, and in a way peculiar to his species, managing, withleers and half-phrases, to suggest not only that the lady was aperformer of distinction, but that, like women in general, she hadfound his genius and his person fatally attractive. Dymes had thelittle weaknesses of the artistic temperament. 

As usual, Mrs. Rayner Mann's concert was well attended, and Alma'sviolin solo, though an audience more critical than she had yet facedmade her very nervous to begin with, received much applause. FelixDymes, not being able to get a seat at her side, stood behind her, andwhispered his admiration. 

'You've gone ahead tremendously. That isn't amateur playing. All theothers are not fit to be heard in the same day. Really, you know, youought to think of coming out. '

Many other persons were only less complimentary, and one, MrsStrangeways, was even more so; she exhausted herself in terms ofglowing eulogy. At the end of the concert this lady drew Alma apart. 

'Dear Mrs. Rolfe, I wonder whether I could ask you to do me a kindness?Are you in any hurry to get home?'

It was six o'clock, on an evening of January. Delighted with hersuccess, Alma felt very much like a young man whose exuberant spiritsurge him to 'make a night of it'. She declared that she was in no hurryat all, and would be only too glad to do Mrs. Strangeways any kindnessin her power. 

'It will sound rather odd to you, ' pursued the lady in a low voice, 'but I would rather trust you than anyone else. You know that Mr. Redgrave and I are very old friends--such old friends that we arereally almost like brother and sister. '

Alma nodded. 

'You've heard us speak of his bungalow at Wimbledon. Just now he is inParis, and he happens to want a portrait, a photograph, out of an albumin the bungalow. Naturally he would have asked his sister to look forit and send it, but Mrs. Fenimore is also away from home; so he haswritten to me, and begged me to do him the kindness. I know exactlywhere the photo is to be looked for, and all I have to do is to driveover to Wimbledon, and a servant will be waiting to admit me. Now, youwill think it childish, but I really don't like to go alone. Though MrRedgrave and I are such great friends, of course I have only been tothe bungalow when he had people there--and--of course it's very foolishat my age--but I'm sure you understand me----'

'You mean you would like me to go with you?' said Alma, with uncertainvoice. 

'Dare I ask it, dear Mrs. Rolfe? There will be _no_ one but theservant, who is told to expect a friend of her master's. I am _very_foolish, but one cannot be too careful, you know, and with _you_ Ishall feel everything so simple and natural and straightforward. I'msure you understand me. '

'Certainly, ' faltered Alma. 'Yes--I will go----'

'Oh, how sweet of you, dear! Need I say that I should never breathe aword to Mr. Redgrave? He will think I went alone--as of course I verywell might----'

'But--if the servant should mention to him----?'

'My dear, keep your fall down. And then it is perfectly certain he willnever ask a question. He thinks it such a trivial matter----'

Alma did not entertain the least doubt of her friend's veracity, andthe desire to have a companion on such an expedition seemed to hernatural enough; yet she felt so uneasy at the thought of what she hadconsented to do, that even whilst descending the stairs she all butstopped and begged to be excused. The thought of stealing intoRedgrave's bachelor home, even with Mrs. Strangeways, startled andoffended her self-respect; it seemed an immodesty. She had never beeninvited to the bungalow; though Mrs. Carnaby had received and acceptedsuch an invitation for an afternoon in the summer, when Mrs. Strangeways did the honours. Redgrave was now scrupulously respectful;he would not presume so far on their revived acquaintance as to ask herto Wimbledon. For this very reason--and for others--she had a curiosityabout the bungalow. Its exotic name affected her imagination; as didthe knowledge that Cyrus Redgrave, whom she knew so particularly well, had built it for his retreat, his privacy. Curiosity and fear ofoffending Mrs. Strangeways overcame her serious reluctance. On enteringthe carriage she blushed hotly. It was the first time in her life thatshe had acted with deliberate disregard of grave moral compunction, andconscience revenged itself by lowering her in her own eyes. 

Mrs. Strangeways talked all the way, but not once of Redgrave; hertheme was the excellence of Alma's playing, which, she declared, hadmoved everyone with wonder and delight. 

'Several people took it for granted that you were a professionalviolinist. I heard one man saying, "How is it I don't know her name?"Of course, your playing in an amateur is altogether exceptional. Did itever occur to you to come forward professionally?'

'I thought of it once, before my marriage. '

'Ah! you really did? I'm not at all surprised. Would Mr. Rolfe lookwith disapproval----?'

'I hardly know, ' replied Alma, who was not mistress of herself, andpaid little attention to what she was saying. 'I dare say he wouldn'tmind much, one way or another. '

'Indeed?'

The intimate significance of this word warned Alma that she had spokentoo carelessly. She hastened to add that, of course, in such a matter, her husband's wish would be final, and that she had never thought ofseeking his opinion on the subject. 

'If ever you _should_ take that step, my dear, it will mean a greattriumph for you--oh! a great triumph! And there is room just now for alady violinist--don't you think? One has to take into account otherthings besides mastery of the instrument; with the public naturally, abeautiful face and a perfect figure----'

This was too much even for Alma's greediness of flattery; sheinterrupted the smooth, warm adulation with impatient protest and toldherself--though she did not quite know the reason--that after that dayshe would see less of Mrs. Strangeways. 

The carriage stopped. Glancing to either side, Alma saw that they werein a country road, its darkness broken at this spot by the rays of twogas-lamps which flanked a gateway. The footman had alighted; the gatewas thrown open; the carriage passed through on to a gravel drive. Hernerves strung almost beyond endurance, and even now seeking courage torefuse to enter the house, Alma felt the vehicle turn on a sharp curve, and stop. 

'We shall not be more than a minute, ' said Mrs. Strangeways, just aboveher breath, as though she spoke with effort. 

Involuntarily, Alma laid a hand on her arm

'I will--wait for you here--please----'

'But, dear, your promise! Oh, you wouldn't fail me?'

The carriage door had opened; the footman stood beside it. Scarceknowing what she did, Alma stepped out after her companion, and in thesame moment found a glow of light poured suddenly about her; it camefrom the entrance-hall of a house, where a female servant had presentedherself. A house of unusual construction, with pillars and a veranda;nothing more was observable by her dazzled and confused senses. MrsStrangeways said something to the servant; they entered, crossed afloor of smooth tiles, under electric light ruby-coloured by glassshades, and were led into a room illumined only by a fire until theservant turned on a soft radiance like that in the hall. 

Mrs. Strangeways glanced about her as if surprised. 

'You are riot expecting Mr. Redgrave?' she said quickly. 

'No, madam. We always have fires against the damp. '

Thereupon the woman withdrew, closing the door, and Mrs. Strangeways, who was very pale save for her rouge spots, said in a low tone of greatrelief----

'I began to fear there might be some mistake. Put up your veil for amoment, dear, and glance at the pictures. Every one has cost a smallfortune. Oh, he is immensely rich--and knows so well what to buy!'

CHAPTER 6

Alma's agitation did not permit her to examine details. The interior ofRedgrave's house was very much what she had imagined; its atmosphere ofluxurious refinement, its colour, perfume, warmth, at once allured andalarmed her. She wished to indulge her senses, and linger till she hadseen everything; she wished to turn at once and escape. Mrs. Strangeways, meanwhile, seemed to be looking for the album of which shehad spoken, moving hither and thither, with a frequent pause as of onewho listens, or a glance towards the door. 

'You won't be long?' said Alma, turning abruptly to her. 

'It's my silly nervousness, dear. I thought I remembered perfectlywhere the album lay. How foolish of me! I quite tremble--anyone wouldthink we were burglars. '

She laughed, and stood looking about the room. 

'Is that it?' asked Alma, pointing to a volume on a table near her. 

'Yes!--no--I'm not sure. '

An album it was; Mrs. Strangeways unclasped it, and turned over a fewpages with quivering hand. 

'No, I thought not. It's a smaller one. Oh, what a good photo of MrsCarnaby! Have you seen this one?'

Alma stepped forward to look, strangely startled by the name of herfriend; it was as though Sibyl herself had suddenly entered the roomand found her here. The photograph she already knew; but its eyesseemed to regard her with the very look of life, and at once she drewback. 

'Do find the right one, Mrs. Strangeways, ' she spoke imploringly. 'Itmust be--What bell was that?'

An electric bell had rung within the house; it still trembled in herears, and she turned sick with fright. Mrs. Strangeways, flushing red, stammered a reassurance. 

'There--here is the right one--in a minute----'

The door opened. As she saw it move, a dreadful certainty of what wasabout to happen checked Alma's breath, and a sound like a sob escapedher; then she was looking straight into the eyes of Cyrus Redgrave. He, wearing an ulster and with a travelling-cap in his hand, seemed not torecognise her, but turned his look upon her companion, and spoke withmirthful friendliness. 

'What! I have caught you, Mrs. Strangeways? Police! Oh, I am so sorry Ididn't send you a wire. I thought you would come tomorrow, or the dayafter. How very kind of you to take this trouble immediately. I had torun over at a moment's notice. --Mrs. Rolfe! Forgive me; for the momentI didn't know you, coming out of the darkness. So glad to see you. '

He had shaken hands with both of them, behaving as though Mrs. Rolfe'spresence were the most natural thing in the world. But Alma's strengthfailed her; she trembled towards the nearest chair, and sank upon it. Mrs. Strangeways, who had watched her with anxiety, took a step to herside, speaking hurriedly. 

'Mr. Redgrave, I took the liberty to use your house as if it were myown. Mrs. Rolfe has over-tired, over-excited herself. She has beenplaying this afternoon at a concert at Mrs. Rayner Mann's. We were todrive back together, and came this way that I might call here--for thephoto. But Mrs. Rolfe became faint--after her exertions----'

Redgrave surpassed himself in graceful courtesy. How could MrsStrangeways dream of offering excuses? Why had she not called fortea--or anything? He would give orders at once, and the ladies wouldpermit him to get rid of his travelling attire, whilst they rested. Hewas turning to leave the room when Alma rose and commanded her voice. 

'I am perfectly well again--thank you so much, Mr. Redgrave--indeed Imustn't stay----'

With admirable suavity Redgrave overcame her desire to be gone. Pleading, he passed playfully from English into French, of which he hada perfect command; then, in his own language, declared that Frenchalone permitted one to make a request without importunity, yet withadequate fervour. Alma again seated herself. As she did so, her hostand Mrs. Strangeways exchanged a swift glance of mutual intelligence. 

'How can I hope you will forgive me?' the lady murmured at Alma's earas soon as they were alone. 

'It's very annoying, and there's nothing more to be said, ' was the coldreply. 

'But it isn't of the least importance--do believe me. We are such oldfriends. And no one can ever know--though it wouldn't matter if all theworld did. '

'I dare say not. But, please, let our stay be as short as possible. '

'We will go, dear, as soon as ever we have had a cup of tea. I am _so_sorry; it was all my foolishness. '

The tea was brought, and Mrs. Strangeways, her nervousness having quitepassed away, began to talk as if she were in her own drawing-room. Alma, too, had recovered control of herself, held the teacup in an allbut steady hand, and examined the room at her leisure. After tenminutes' absence, Redgrave rejoined them, now in ordinary dress; hisface warm from rapid ablution, and his thin hair delicately disposed. He began talking in a bright, chatty vein. So Mrs. Rolfe had beenplaying at a concert; how he regretted not having been there! What hadshe played? Then, leaning forward with an air of kindness that vergedon tenderness----

'I am sure it must be very exhausting to the nerves; you have soundeniably the glow, the fervour, of a true artist; it is inspiring towatch you as you play, no less than to hear you. You do feel betternow?'

Alma replied with civility, but did not meet his look. She refusedanother cup of tea, and glanced so meaningly at her friend that in afew moments Mrs. Strangeways rose. 

'You won't leave me yet to my solitude?' exclaimed Redgrave. With asigh he yielded to the inevitable, inquired gently once more whetherMrs. Rolfe felt quite restored, and again overwhelmed Mrs. Strangewayswith thanks. Still the ladies had to wait a few minutes for theircarriage, which, at Redgrave's direction, had made a long detour in theadjacent roads; and during this delay, as if the prospect of releaseinspirited her, Alma spoke a few words in a more natural tone. Redgravehad asked what public concerts she usually attended. 

'None regularly, ' was her reply. 'I should often go on Saturdays to theCrystal Palace, if it were not so far for me. I want to get there, ifpossible, on Saturday week, to hear Sterndale Bennett's new concerto. '

'Ah, I should like to hear that!' said Redgrave. 'We may perhaps seeeach other. '

This time she did not refuse to encounter his look, and the smile withwhich she answered it was so peculiarly expressive of a self-confidentdisdain that he could scarcely take his eyes from her. Cyrus Redgraveknew as well as most men the signals of challenge on a woman'sfeatures; at a recent meeting he had detected something of the sort inAlma's behaviour to him, and at this moment her spirit could not bemistaken. Quite needlessly she had told him where he might find her, ifhe chose. This was a great step. To be defied so daringly meant to himno small encouragement. 

'It's fortunate, ' said Alma, as the carriage bore her away, 'that wehad this adventure with a _gentleman_. '

The remark sounded surprising to Mrs. Strangeways. 

'I'm so glad you have quite got over your annoyance, dear, ' she replied. 

'It was as bad for you as for me, under the circumstances. But I'm sureMr. Redgrave won't give it another thought. '

And Alma chatted very pleasantly all the way back to town, where shedined with Mrs. Strangeways. At eleven o'clock she reached home. Herhusband, who was recovering from a sore throat, sat pipeless and in novery cheerful mood by the library fire; but the sight of Alma's radiantcountenance had its wonted effect upon him; he stretched his arms, asif to rouse himself from a long fit of reverie, and welcomed her in avoice that was a little husky. 

'Well, how did it go?'

'Not badly, I think. And how have you been getting on, poor old boy?'

'So so; swearing a little because I couldn't smoke. But Hughie has acold tonight; caught mine, I dare say, confound it! Miss Smith tookcounsel with me about it, and we doctored him a little. '

'Poor dear little man! I wish I had been back in time to see him. Butthere was no getting away--had to stay to dinner----'

Alma had not the habit of telling falsehoods to her husband, but shedid it remarkably well--even better, perhaps, than when she deceivedher German friend, Fraulein Steinfeld, in the matter of CyrusRedgrave's proposal; the years had matured her, endowing her withsuperior self-possession, and a finish of style in dealing with theselittle difficulties. She was unwilling to say that she had dined inPorchester Terrace, for Harvey entertained something of a prejudiceagainst that household. His remoteness nowadays from the world in whichAlma amused herself made it quite safe to venture on a triflingmisstatement. 

'I have a note from Carnaby, ' said Rolfe. 'He wants to see me in towntomorrow. Says he has good news--"devilish good news", to be accurate. I wonder what it is. '

'The lawsuit won, perhaps. '

'Afraid not; that'll take a few more years. Odd thing, I have anotherletter--from Cecil Morphew, and he, too, says that he has somethinghopeful to tell me about. '

Alma clapped her hands, an unusual expression of joy for her. 'We arecheering up all round!' she exclaimed. 'Now, if only _you_ could lighton something fortunate. '

He gave her a quick look. 

'What do you mean by that?'

'Only that you haven't seemed in very good spirits lately. '

'Much as usual, I think. --Many people at Putney?'

'About a hundred and twenty. Compliments showered on me; I do so wishyou could have heard them. Somebody told me that some man asked her howit was he didn't know my name--he took me for a professional violinist. '

'Well, no doubt you are as good as many of them. '

'You really think that?' said Alma, pulling her chair a little nearerto the fire and looking eagerly at him. 

'Why shouldn't you be? You have the same opportunities, and make allpossible use of them. '

Alma was silent for a few ticks of the clock. Once, and a second time, she stole a glance at Harvey's face; then grasping with each hand thearms of her chair, and seeming to string herself for an effort, shespoke in a half-jesting tone. 

'What should you say if I proposed to come out--to _be_ a professional?'

Harvey's eyes turned slowly upon her; he read her face with curiosity, and did not smile. 

'Do you mean you have thought of it?'

'To tell you the truth, it is so often put into my head by otherpeople. I am constantly being asked why I'm content to remain anamateur. '

'By professional musicians?'

'All sorts of people. '

'It reminds me of something. You know I don't interfere; I don'tpretend to have you in surveillance, and don't wish to begin it. Butare you quite sure that you are making friends in the best class thatis open to you?'

Alma's smile died away. For a moment she recovered the face of yearsgone by; a look which put Harvey in mind of Mrs. Frothingham's littledrawing-room at Swiss Cottage, where more than once Alma had gazed athim with a lofty coldness which concealed resentment. That expressioncould still make him shrink a little and feel uncomfortable. But itquickly faded, giving place to a look of perfectly amiable protest. 

'My dear Harvey, what has caused you to doubt it?'

'I merely asked the question. Perhaps it occurred to me that you werenot exactly in your place among people who talk to you in that way. '

'You must allow for my exaggeration, ' said Alma softly. 'One or twohave said it--just people who know most about music. And there's a_way_ of putting things. '

'Was Mrs. Carnaby there today?'

'No. '

'You don't see her very often now?'

'Perhaps not _quite_ so often. I suppose the reason is that I am moredrawn to the people who care about music. Sibyl really isn'tmusical--though, of course, I like her as much as ever. Then--the truthis, she seems to have grown rather extravagant, and I simply don'tunderstand how she can keep up such a life--if it's true that herhusband is only losing money. Last time I was with her I couldn't helpthinking that she ought to--to deny herself rather more. It's habit, Isuppose. '

Harvey nodded--twice, thrice; and kept a grave countenance. 

'And you don't care to see much of Mrs. Abbott?' he rather let fallthan spoke. 

'Well, you know, dear, I don't mean to be at all disagreeable, but wehave so little in common. Isn't it so? I am sure Mrs. Abbott isn'tanxious for my society. '

Again Rolfe sat silent, and again Alma stole glances at him. 

'Shall I tell you something I have in mind?' he said at length, withdeliberation. 'Hughie, you know, is three years old. Pauline does verywell with him, but it is time that he had companions--other children. In half a year or so he might go to a kindergarten, and'--he made aninstant's pause--'I know only of one which would be really good forhim. I think he will have to go to Mrs. Abbott. '

Their eyes met, and the speaker's were steadily fixed. 

'But the distance?' objected Alma. 

'Yes. If we want to do that, we must go to Gunnersbury. '

Alma's look fell. She tapped with her foot and meditated, slightlyfrowning. But, before Harvey spoke again, the muscles of her facerelaxed, and she turned to him with a smile, as though some reflectionhad brought relief. 

'You wouldn't mind the bother of moving?'

'What is that compared with Hughie's advantage? And if one lives inLondon, it's in the nature of things to change houses once a year orso. '

'But we don't live in London!' returned Alma, with a laugh. 

'Much the same thing. At Gunnersbury you would be nearer to everything, you know. '

'Then you would send away Pauline?'

Harvey made a restless movement, and gave a husky cough. 

'Well, I don't know. You see, Hughie would be with Mrs. Abbott only afew hours each day. Who is to look after the little man at other times?I suppose I can't very well undertake it myself--though I'm glad to seeas much of him as possible; and I won't let him be with a servant. So----'

Alma was gazing at the fire, and seemed to give only a dividedattention to what her husband said. Her eyes grew wide; their vision, certainly, was of nothing that disturbed or disheartened her. 

'You have given me two things to think about, Harvey. Will you reflecton the _one_ that I suggested?'

'Then you meant it seriously?'

'I meant that I should like to have your serious opinion about it. Onlywe won't talk now. I am very tired, and you, I'm sure, oughtn't to sitlate with your bad throat. I promise to consider _both_ the things youmentioned. '

She held her hands to him charmingly, and kissed his cheek as she saidgoodnight. 

Harvey lingered for another hour, and--of all people in theworld--somehow found himself thinking of Buncombe. Buncombe, hislandlord in the big dirty house by Royal Oak. What had become ofBuncombe? It would be amusing, some day to look at the old house andsee if Buncombe still lived there. 

CHAPTER 7

They never talked about money. Alma took it for granted that Harveywould not allow their expenditure to outrun his income, and therewithkept her mind at rest. Rolfe had not thought it necessary to mentionthat he derived about three hundred pounds from debenture stock whichwas redeemable, and that the date of redemption fell early in thispresent year, 1891. He himself had all along scarcely regarded thematter. When the stock became his, 1891 seemed very remote; and onsettling in North Wales he felt financially so secure that the questionof reinvestment might well be left for consideration till it waspressed upon him. 

As now it was. He could no longer disregard percentages; he wantedevery penny that his capital would yield. Before marriage he would havepaid little heed to the fact that his canal shares (an investment whichhe had looked upon as part of the eternal order of things) showed aninclination to lose slightly in value; now it troubled him day andnight. As for the debenture stock, he might, if he chose, 'convert' itwithout withdrawal, but that meant a lower dividend, which was hardlyto be thought of. Whither should he turn for a security at once soundand remunerative? He began to read the money article in his dailypaper, which hitherto he had passed over as if it did not exist, orturned from with contemptuous impatience. He picked up financialnewspapers at railway bookstalls, and in private struggled tocomprehend their jargon, taking care that they never fell under hiswife's eyes. At the Metropolitan Club--of which he had resumedmembership, after thinking that he would never again enter clubland--hetalked with men who were at home in City matters, and indirectly triedto get hints from them. He felt like one who meddles with somethingforbidden--who pries, shamefaced, into the secrets of an odious vice. To study the money-market gave him a headache. He had to go for acountry walk, to bathe and change his clothes, before he was at easeagain. 

Two only of his intimates had any practical acquaintance with methodsof speculation, and their experiences hitherto were not such as tosuggest his seeking advice from them. Hugh Carnaby might or might notreap profit from his cycle factory; as yet it had given him nothing butworry and wavering hopes. Cecil Morphew had somehow got into bettercircumstances, had repaid the loan of fifty pounds, and professed toknow much more about speculation than in the days when he made moneyonly to lose it again; but it was to be feared that Cecil associatedwith people of shady character, and might at any moment come to griefin a more or less squalid way. He confessed that there was a mystery inhis life--something he preferred not to speak of even with an oldfriend. 

Oddly enough, Carnaby and Morphew wrote both at the same time, wishingto see him, and saying that they had cheering news to impart. Amid hisperplexities, which were not concerned with money alone, Harveywelcomed this opportunity of forgetting himself for a few hours. Heagreed to lunch with Hugh at a restaurant (Carnaby would have nothingto do with clubs), and bade Morphew to dinner at the Metropolitan. 

It was a day of drizzle and slush, but Harvey had got over his sorethroat, and in ordinary health defied the elements. Unlike himself, Carnaby came a little late for his appointment, and pleaded businesswith a 'blackguard' in the City. Rheums and bronchial disorders were tohim unknown; he had never possessed an umbrella, and only on days likethis donned a light overcoat to guard himself against what he called'the sooty spittle' of a London sky. Yet he was not the man of four orfive years ago. He had the same appearance of muscularity, the same redneck and mighty fists; but beneath his eyes hung baggy flesh that gavehim a bilious aspect, his cheeks were a little sunken, and the tone ofhis complexion had lost its healthy clearness. In temper, too, he hadsuffered; perhaps in manners. He used oaths too freely; intermingledhis good bluff English--the English of a country gentleman--with recentslang; tended to the devil-may-care rather than to the unconsciouslybreezy and bold. 

'Let us find a corner, ' he said, clutching his friend by the shoulder, 'out of the damned crowd. '

'Lawsuit finished?' asked Harvey, when they had found a place andordered their meal. 

Hugh answered with a deep rolling curse. 

When he returned to England, in the summer of 1889, he entered at onceinto partnership with the man Mackintosh, taking over an establishedbusiness at Coventry, with which his partner already had someconnection. Not a week passed before they found themselves at law withregard to a bicycle brake--a patent they had begun by purchasing, onlyto find their right in it immediately contested. The case came on inNovember; it occupied nine days, and was adjourned. Not until July ofthe following year, 1890, was judgment delivered; it went forMackintosh & Co, the plaintiffs, whose claim the judge held to beproved. But this by no means terminated the litigation. The defendants, who had all along persisted in manufacturing and selling this patentbrake, now obtained stay of injunction until the beginning of theMichaelmas term, with the understanding that, if notice of appeal weregiven before then, the injunction would be stayed until the appeal wassettled. And notice _was_ given, and the appeal would doubtless beheard some day or other; but meanwhile the year 1891 had come round, and Mackintosh & Co. Saw their rivals manufacturing and selling asgaily as ever. Hugh Carnaby grew red in the face as he spoke of them;his clenched fist lay on the tablecloth, and it was pretty clear how helonged to expedite the course of justice. 

Still, he had good news to communicate, and he began by asking whetherHarvey saw much of Redgrave. 

'Redgrave?' echoed the other in surprise. 'Why, I hardly know him. '

'But your wife knows him very well. '

'Yes; I dare say she does. '

Carnaby did not observe his friend's countenance; he was eating withgreat appetite. 'Redgrave isn't at all a bad fellow. I didn't know himmuch till lately. Used to see him at B. F. 's, you know, and one or twoother places where I went with Sibyl. Thought him rather a snob. But Iwas quite mistaken. He's a very nice fellow when you get near to him. '

Harvey's surprise was increased. For his own part, he still thought ofRedgrave with the old prejudice, though he had no definite charge tobring against the man. He would have supposed him the last personeither to seek or to obtain favour with Hugh Carnaby. 

'Sibyl has known him for a long time, ' Hugh continued. 'Tells me he didall sorts of kindnesses for her mother at Ascott Larkfield's death;fixed up her affairs--they were in a devil of a state, I believe. Lastautumn we met him in Scotland; he was with his sister and herfamily--Mrs. Fenimore. Her husband's in India, and he seems to lookafter her in a way that does him credit. In fact, I saw a new side ofthe fellow. We got quite chummy, and I happened to speak aboutMackintosh & Co. Well, now, what do you think? Two days ago, atCoventry, I got a note from him: he was coming through, and would liketo see me; would I lunch with him at a hotel? I did, and he surprisedme by beginning to talk about business. The fact was, he had some moneylying loose, wanted to place it somewhere, and had faith in cycles. Whyshouldn't he make an offer to a friend? Would Mackintosh & Co. Care toadmit a new partner? Or--anyhow--could we make use of a few thousandpounds?'

Rolfe had ceased to eat, and was listening intently. The story soundedvery strange to him; it did not fit at all with his conception of CyrusRedgrave. 

'I suppose a few thousands would come very handy?' he remarked. 

'Well, old man, to tell you the truth, --I can do it now, --for me itmeans a jump out of a particularly black hole. You must understand thatwe're not doing downright badly; we pay our way, but that was aboutall. I, individually, shouldn't have paid my way for many monthslonger. God! how I clutched at it! You don't know what it is, Rolfe, tosee your damned account at the bank slithering away, and not a cent topay in. I've thought of all sorts of things--just stopping short ofburglary, and I shouldn't have stopped at that long. '

'You mean that this new capital will give such a push to thebusiness----'

'Of course! It was just what we wanted. We couldn't advertise--couldn'tbuy a new patent--couldn't move at all. Now we shall make things hum. '

'Does Redgrave become a partner, then?'

'A sleeping partner. But Redgrave is wide enough awake. Mackintosh sayshe never met a keener man of business. You wouldn't have thought it, would you? I should fancy he manages all his own property, and does itdevilish well, too. Of course, he has all sorts of ways of helping uson. He's got ideas of his own, too, about the machines; I shouldn'twonder if he hits on something valuable. I never half understood himbefore. He doesn't shoot much, but knows enough about it to makepleasant talk. And he has travelled a good deal. Then, of course, hegoes in for art, music--all that sort of thing. There's really nohumbug about him. He's neither prig nor cad, though I used to think hima little of both. '

Harvey reflected; revived his mental image of the capitalist, and stillfound it very unlike the picture suggested by Hugh. 

'Who _is_ Redgrave?' he asked. 'How did he get his money?'

'I know nothing about that. I don't think he's a university man. Hehinted once that he was educated abroad. Seems to know plenty of goodpeople. Mrs. Fenimore, his sister, lives at Wimbledon. Sibyl and I wereover there not long ago, dining; one or two titled people, a parson, and so on; devilish respectable, but dull--the kind of company thatmakes me want to stand up and yell. Redgrave has built himself what hecalls a bungalow, somewhere near the house; but I didn't see it. '

'You're a good deal at Coventry?' asked Rolfe. 

'Off and on. Just been down for ten days. If it were possible, I shouldgo steadily at the business. I used to think I couldn't fit into workof that sort, but a man never knows what he can do till he tries. Ican't stand doing nothing; that floors me. I smoke too much, and drinktoo much, and get quarrelsome, and wish I was on the other side of theworld. But it's out of the question to live down yonder; I couldn't askSibyl to do it. '

'Do you leave her quite alone, then?'

Carnaby made an uneasy movement. 

'She has been visiting here and there for the last month; now hermother wants her to go to Ventnor. Much better she shouldn't; they hateeach other--can't be together a day without quarrelling. Pretty plainon which side the fault lies. I shouldn't think there are many womenbetter tempered than Sibyl. All the time we've been married, and allwe've gone through, I have never once seen an unpleasant look on herface--to _me_, that is. It's something to be able to say that. Mrs. Larkfield is simply intolerable. She's always either whining or in afury. Can't talk of anything but the loss of her money. '

'That reminds me, ' interposed Harvey. 'Do you know that there seems tobe a chance of getting something out of the great wreck?'

'What? Who says so?'

'Mrs. Frothingham. The creditors come first, of course. Was your wifecreditor or shareholder?'

'Why, both. '

'Then she may hear something before long. I don't pretend to understandthe beastly affair, but Mrs. Frothingham wrote to us about it the daybefore yesterday, with hints of eighteenpence in the pound, which sheseemed to think very glorious. '

Carnaby growled in disgust. 

'Eighteenpence be damned! Well, perhaps it'll buy her a hat. I tellyou, Rolfe, when I compare Sibyl with her mother, I almost feel she'stoo good for the world. Suppose she had turned out _that_ sort ofwoman! What would have been the end of it? Murder, most likely. But shebore the loss of all her money just as she did the loss of herjewellery and things when our house was burgled--never turned a hair. There's a girl to be proud of, I tell you!'

He insisted upon it so vehemently that one might have imagined him inconflict with secret doubts as to his wife's perfection. 

'It's a very strange thing, ' said Rolfe, looking at his wine, 'thatthose thieves got clean away--not a single thing they stole evertracked. There can't be many such cases. '

'I have a theory about that. ' Hugh half-closed his eyes, looking atonce shrewd and fierce. 'The woman herself--the housekeeper--is at thismoment going about in society, somewhere. She was no Whitechapel thief. There's a gang organised among the people we live with. If I go out todine, as likely as not I sit next to a burglar or a forger, or anythingyou like. The police never get on the scent, and it's the same in manyanother robbery. Some day, perhaps, there'll be an astoundingdisclosure, a blazing hell of a scandal--a dozen men and women marchedfrom Belgravia and Mayfair to Newgate. I'm sure of it! What else canyou expect of such a civilisation as ours? Well, I should know thatwoman again, and if ever I find myself taking her down to dinner----'

Harvey exploded in laughter. 

'I tell you I'm quite serious, ' said the other angrily. 'I _know_that's the explanation of it! There are plenty of good and honestpeople still, but they can't help getting mixed up among the vilest loton the face of the earth. That's why I don't like my wife to make newacquaintances. _She_ won't get any harm, but I hate to think of thepeople she perhaps meets. Mackintosh was telling me of a woman inLondon who keeps up a big house and entertains all sorts of people--andher husband knows where the money comes from. He wouldn't mention hername, because, by Jove, he had himself contributed to the expenses ofthe establishment! It was three or four years ago, when he had hismoney and ran through it. For all I know, Sibyl may go there--I can'ttell her about such things, and she wouldn't believe me if I did. She'san idealist--sees everything through poetry and philosophy. I should bea brute if I soiled her mind. And, I say, old man, why don't your wifeand she see more of each other? Is it just the distance?'

'I'm afraid that has something to do with it, ' Harvey replied, tryingto speak naturally. 

'I'm sorry. They're both of them too good for ordinary society. I wishto God we could all four of us go out to a place I know in Tasmania, and live honest, clean, rational lives! Can't be managed. Your wife hasher music; Sibyl has her books and so on----'

'By-the-bye, you know Mrs. Strangeways?'

'I know _of_ her. '

'And not much good?'

'No particular harm. Sibyl saw a little of her, but I don't think theymeet now. Your wife know her?' 'She has met her here and there: you andI are alike in that. We can't stand the drawing-room, so our wives haveto go about by themselves. The days are past when a man watched overhis wife's coming and going as a matter of course. We should only makefools of ourselves if we tried it on. It's the new world, my boy; welive in it, and must make the best of it. '

Hugh Carnaby drank more wine than is usually taken at luncheon. Itexcited him to boisterous condemnation of things in general. Hecomplained of the idleness that was forced upon him, except when hecould get down to Coventry. 

'I hang about for whole days doing literally nothing. What _should_ Ido? I'm not the man for books; I can't get much sport nowadays; I don'tcare for billiards. I want to have an axe in my hand!'

Gesticulating carelessly, he swept a wine-glass off the table. 

'There--damn it! shows we've sat long enough. Come and talk to Sibyl, and let her give you a cup of tea. You never see her--never; yet shethinks better of you than of any other man we know. Come, let's get outof this beastly air. The place reeks of onions. '

They went to Oxford and Cambridge Mansions, where Rolfe spent the timeuntil he had to leave for his appointment with Cecil Morphew. Sibyl wasvery kind, but gently reproachful. Why had Alma forsaken her? Why didHarvey himself never drop in?

'I'm often quite lonely, Mr. Rolfe, and as one result of it I'm gettinglearned. Look at these books. Won't you give me a word of admiration?'

There was a volume of Crowe and Cavalcaselle, one of Symonds's'Renaissance', Benvenuto's 'Memoirs' in the original. 

'I can't help clinging to the old world, ' she said sweetly. 'Hughforgives me, like a good boy; and you, I know, not only forgive, butsympathise. '

Of course, not a word passed with reference to Hugh Carnaby's business;Redgrave's name was not mentioned. Sibyl, one felt, would decline torecognise, in her own drawing-room, the gross necessities of life. Hadbankruptcy been impending, she would have ignored it with the sameperfection of repose. An inscrutable woman, who could look and smile atone without conveying the faintest suggestion of her actual thoughts. 

On his way to the club, Harvey puzzled over what seemed to himRedgrave's singular behaviour. Why should a man in that positionvolunteer pecuniary aid to an obscure and struggling firm? Could it begenuine friendship for Hugh Carnaby? That sounded most improbable. Perhaps Redgrave, like the majority of people in his world, appearedmuch wealthier than he really was, and saw in Mackintosh's business areasonable hope of profit. In that case, and if the concern began toflourish, might not an older friend of Carnaby's find lucrativeemployment for his capital?

He had always thought with uttermost contempt of the man who allowshimself to be gripped, worried, dragged down, by artificialnecessities. Was he himself to become a victim of this social disease?Was he, resistless, to be drawn into the muddy whirlpool, to spin roundand round among gibbering phantoms, abandoning himself with a grin ofinane conceit, or clutching in desperation at futile hopes? Heremembered his tranquil life between the mountains and the sea; hisearlier freedom, wandering in the sunlight of silent lands. Surelythere needed but a little common-sense, a little decision, to savehimself from this rushing current. One word to Alma--would it notsuffice? But of all things he dreaded to incur the charge of meanness, of selfishness. That had ever been his weak point: in youth, well-nigha cause of ruin; in later life, impelling him to numberlessinsincerities and follies. 

However, the danger as yet only threatened. He was solvent; he hadstill a reserve. It behoved him merely to avoid the risks ofspeculation, and to check, in natural, unobtrusive ways, that tendencyto extravagance of living which was nowadays universal. Could he notdepend upon himself for this moderate manliness?

Cecil Morphew, though differing in all other respects from HughCarnaby, showed a face which, like Hugh's, was growing prematurely old;a fatigued complexion, sunken eyes; an expression mingled of discontentand eagerness, now furtive, now sanguine, yet losing the worse traitsin a still youthful smile as he came forward to meet his friend. Yearafter year he clung to the old amorous hope, but he no longer spoke ofit with the same impulsive frankness; he did not shun thesubject--brought it, indeed, voluntarily forward, but with a shamefacedhesitance. His declaration in a letter, not long ago, that he wasunworthy of any good woman's love, pointed to something which had hadits share in the obvious smirching of his character; something commonenough, no doubt; easily divined by Harvey Rolfe, though he could notlearn how far the man's future was compromised. Today Morphew beganwith talk of a hopeful tenor. He had got hold of a little money; he hadconceived a project for making more. When the progress of their eatingand drinking cleared the way for confidential disclosures, Morphewbegan to hint at his scheme. 

'You've heard me speak of Denbow?' This was a man who had given himlessons in photography; a dealer in photographic apparatus, with a shopin Westminster Bridge Road. 'He's a very decent fellow, but it's all upwith him. His wife drinks, and he has lost money in betting, and now hewants to clear out--to sell his business and get away. He came to me toapologise for spoiling some negatives--he does a little printing for menow and then and told me what he meant to do. Did I know of anyonelikely to take his shop?'

Harvey laughed. 

'You're in with a queer lot of people, it seems to me. '

'Oh, Denbow is all but a gentleman, I assure you. He was educated atCharterhouse, but made a fool of himself, I believe, in the common way. But about his business. I've seen a good deal of it, going in and out, and talking with them, and I know as much about photography as mostamateurs--you'll admit that, Rolfe?'

It was true that he had attained more than ordinary skill with thecamera. Indeed, but for this resource, happily discovered in the daysof his hopelessness, he would probably have sunk out of sight beforenow. 

'Denbow's salesman is a thoroughly honest and capable fellow--Hobcraft, his name. He's been at the shop three or four years, and would be onlytoo glad to carry on the business, but he can't raise money, and Denbowmust have cash down. Now the fact is, I want to buy that businessmyself. '

'I see. What does the man ask for it?'

Morphew fidgeted a little. 

'Well, just at present there isn't much stock--nothing like what thereought to be. Denbow has been coming down the hill; he's stopped himselfonly just in time. When I first knew him he was doing reasonably well. It's a good position for that kind of shop. Swarms of men, you know, gobackwards and forwards along the Westminster Bridge Road, and just thekind of men, lots of them, that take up photography--the better kind ofclerk, and the man of business who lives in the south suburbs. Andphotography is going ahead so. I have all sorts of ideas. One mightpush the printing branch of the business--and have dark rooms foramateurs--and hit on a new hand-camera--and perhaps even start a paper, call it _Camera Notes_, or something of that kind. Don't smile and looksceptical----'

'Not at all. It seems to me the best suggestion I've heard from youyet. '

'Think so? I'm awfully glad of that. You know, Rolfe, a fellow likemyself--decent family, public school, and that kind of thing--naturallyfights shy of shopkeeping. But I've got to the point that I don't carewhat I do, if only it'll bring me a steady income in an honest way. Iought to be able to make several hundreds a year, even at starting, outof that business. '

'Have you spoken of it in the usual quarter?'

'No, I haven't. ' Cecil's countenance fell. 'I should if I made asuccessful start. But I've talked of so many things, I'm ashamed. Andshe mightn't quite understand; perhaps she would think I was goingdown--down----'

'How is her father?'

'Neither better nor worse. That man will take another ten years overhis dying--see if he doesn't. Well, we've got used to it. We're neitherof us young any longer; we've lost the best part of our lives. And allfor what? Because we hadn't money enough to take a house three timesbigger than we needed! Two lives wasted because we couldn't feed fiftyother people for whom we didn't care a damn! Doesn't it come to that?'

'No doubt. What does Denbow ask?'

'For the stock, two hundred pounds; shop-fittings, fifty; business asit stands, say three hundred. The rent is ninety-five. Floor above theshop let to a family, who pay twenty-four shillings a week--asubstantial set-off against the rent; but I should like to get rid ofthe people, and use the whole house for business purposes. There'sthree years of Denbow's lease to run, but this, he says, the landlordwould be willing to convert into a seven years' lease to a new tenant. Then one must allow something for repairs and so on at the fresh start. Well, with purchase of a little new stock, say another hundred andfifty pounds. Roughly speaking, I ought to have about five hundredpounds to settle the affair. '

'And you have the money?'

'Not quite; I've got--well, I may say three hundred. I'm not speakingof my own private income; of course, that goes on as usual, and isn't apenny too much for--for ordinary expenses. . ' He fidgeted again. 'Wouldyou care to know how I made this bit of capital?'

'If you care to tell me. '

'Yes, I will, just to show you what one is driven to do. Two years agoI was ill--congestion of the lungs--felt sure I should die. You were inWales then. I sent for Tripcony, to get him to make my will--he used tobe a solicitor, you know, before he started the bucket-shop. When Ipulled through, Trip came one day and said he had a job for me. You'llbe careful, by-the-bye, not to mention this. The job was to get theCity editor of a certain newspaper (a man I know very well) to print adamaging rumour about a certain company. You'll wonder how I couldmanage this. Well, simply because the son of the chairman of thatcompany was a sort of friend of mine, and the City editor knew it. If Icould get the paragraph inserted, Tripcony would--not pay me anything, but give me a tip to buy certain stock which he guaranteed would berising. Well, I undertook the job, and I succeeded, and Trip was asgood as his word. I bought as much as I dared--through Trip, mind you, and he wouldn't let me of the cover, which I thought suspicious, thoughit was only habit of business. I bought at 75, and on settling day thequotation was par. I wanted to go at it again, but Trip shook his head. Well, I netted nearly five hundred. The most caddish affair I ever wasin; but I wanted money. Stop, that's only half the story. Just at thattime I met a man who wanted to start a proprietary club. He had thelease of a house near Golden Square, but not quite money enough tofurnish it properly and set the club going. Well, I joined him, and putin four hundred pounds; and for a year and a half we didn't do badly. Then there was a smash; the police raided the place one night, and mypartner went before the magistrates. I trembled in my shoes, but myname was never mentioned. It only ended in a fifty-pound fine, and ofcourse I went halves. Then we sold the club for two hundred, furnitureand all, and I found myself with--what I have now, not quite threehundred. '

'My boy, you've been going it, ' remarked Rolfe, with a clouded brow. 

'That's what I tell you. I want to get out of all that kind of thing. Now, how am I to get two or three hundred honestly? I think Denbowwould take less than he says for cash down. But the stock, I guarantee, is worth two hundred. '

'You have the first offer?'

'Till day after tomorrow--Monday. '

'Tomorrow's Sunday--that's awkward. Never mind. If I come over in themorning, will you take me to the place, and let me look over it withyou, and see both Denbow and the shopman?'

'Of course I will!' said Morphew delightedly. 'It's all aboveboard. There's a devilish good business to be made; it depends only on theman. Why, Denbow has made as much as two hundred in a year out ofprinting for amateurs alone. It's his own fault that he didn't keep itup. I swear, Rolfe, that with capital and hard work and acuteness, thatplace can be made _the_ establishment of the kind south of the Thames. Why, there's no reason why one shouldn't net a thousand a year in avery short time. '

'Is Denbow willing to exhibit his books?'

'Of course he is. I've seen them. It isn't speculative, you know;honest, straightforward business. '

'What part do you propose to take in it yourself?'

'Why, Denbow's part--without the betting. I shall go in for thebusiness for all I'm worth; work day and night. And look here, Rolfe. It isn't as if I had no security to offer. You see, I have my privateincome; that gives me a pull over the ordinary man of business juststarting. Suppose I borrow three--four--five hundred pounds; why, I canafford to make over stock or receipts--anything in that way--to thelender. Four per cent, that's what I offer, if it's a simple loan. '

'You would keep the man--what's his name?'

'Hobcraft. Decidedly. Couldn't do without him. He has been havingthirty-five shillings a week. '

Harvey rose, and led the way to the smoking-room. His companion hadbecome a new man; the glow of excitement gave him a healthier look, andhe talked more like the Cecil Morphew of earlier days, whom Rolfe hadfound and befriended at the hotel in Brussels. 

'There's nothing to be ashamed of in a business of this kind. If onlyher father was dead, I'm sure _she_ wouldn't mind it. --Ah, Rolfe, ifonly she and I, both of us, had had a little more courage! Do you knowwhat I think? It's the weak people that do most harm in the world. Theysuffer, of course, but they make others suffer as well. If I were like_you_--ah, if I were like _you_!' Harvey laughed. 

CHAPTER 8

To Alma, on his return, he gave a full account of all he had heard anddone. The story of Hugh Carnaby's good fortune interested her greatly. She elicited every detail of which Harvey had been informed; askedshrewd questions; and yet had the air of listening only for heramusement. 

'Should you have thought Redgrave likely to do such a thing?' Rolfeinquired. 

'Oh, I don't know him at all well. He has been a friend of Sibyl's fora long time--so, of course----'

Her voice dropped, but in a moment she was questioning again. 

'You say that Mr. Redgrave went to see him at Coventry?'

'Yes. Redgrave must have heard he was there, from Sibyl, I suppose. '

'And that was two days ago?'

'So Carnaby said--Why?'

'Somebody--oh, I think it was Mrs. Rayner Mann, yesterday--said MrRedgrave was in Paris. '

Cecil Morphew's affairs had much less interest for her; but when Harveysaid that he was going to town again tomorrow, to look at the shop inWestminster Bridge Road, she regarded him with an odd smile. 

'You surely won't get mixed up in things of that kind?'

'It might be profitable, ' he answered very quietly; 'and--one doesn'tcare to lose any chance of that kind--just now----'

He would not meet her eyes; but Alma searched his face for the meaningof these words, so evidently weighted. 

'Are you at all uneasy, Harvey?'

'Not a bit--not a bit, ' answered the weak man in him. 'I only meantthat, if we are going to remove----'

They sat for more than five minutes in silence. Alma's brain wasworking very rapidly, as her features showed. When he entered, shelooked rather sleepy; now she was thrilling with vivid consciousness;one would have thought her absorbed in the solution of some excitingproblem. Her next words came unexpectedly. 

'Harvey, if you mean what you say about letting me follow my owninstincts, I think I shall decide to try my fortune--to give a publicrecital. '

He glanced at her, but did not answer. 

'We made a sort of bargain--didn't we?' she went on, quickly, nervously, with an endeavour to strike the playful note. 'Hughie shallgo to Mrs. Abbott's, and I will attend to what you said about thechoice of acquaintances. '

'But surely neither of those things can be a subject of bargainingbetween us? Isn't your interest in both at least equal to my own?'

'Yes--I know--of course. It was only a joking way of putting it. '

'Tell me plainly'--he looked at her now--'have you the slightestobjection, on any ground, to Hughie's being taught by Mrs. Abbott? Ifso, do let us clear it up. '

'Dear, I have not a shadow of objection, ' replied Alma, straighteningherself a little, and answering his gaze with excessive frankness. 'Howcould I have? You think Mrs. Abbott will teach him much better than Icould, and in that you are quite right. I have no talent for teaching. I haven't much patience--except in music. It's better every way, thathe should go to Mrs. Abbott. I feel perfect confidence in her, and Ishouldn't be able to in a mere stranger. '

Harvey gave a slow nod, and appeared to have something more ofimportance to say; but he only asked how the child's cold had beentonight. Alma replied that it was neither better nor worse; she spokeabsently. 

'On whose encouragement do you principally rely?' was Rolfe's nextquestion. 

'On that of twenty people!'

'I said "principally". '

'Herr Wilenski has often praised me; and he doesn't throw his praiseaway. And you yourself, Harvey, didn't you say last might that I wasundoubtedly as good as most professionals?'

'I don't think I used quite those words; and, to tell you the truth, ithad never entered my head that you would take them for encouragement tosuch a step as this. '

Alma bent towards him, smiling. 

'I understand. You don't think me good enough. Now the truth, thetruth!' and she held up a finger--which she could not succeed inkeeping steady. 

'Yes, you shall have the truth. It's too serious a matter for makingpretences. My own judgment is worthless, utterly; it should neitheroffend nor encourage you. But it's very plain to me that you shouldn'tdream of coming before the public unless Wilenski, and perhaps some oneelse of equal or better standing, actually urges you to it. Now, has hedone anything like that?'

She reddened, and hardly tried to conceal her vexation. 

'This only means, Harvey, that you don't want me to come out. '

'Come now, be more reasonable. It does not _only_ mean that; in fact, Ican say honestly it doesn't mean that at all. If Wilenski tells youplainly that you ought to become a professional violinist, there's noone will wish you luck half so heartily as I. But if it's only theencouragement of "twenty people"--that means nothing. I'm speakingsimply as the best friend you have. Don't run the risk of a horribledisappointment. I know you wouldn't find that easy to bear--it would bebad for you, in every way. 

Impelled by annoyance--for the project seemed to him delusive, and hissense of dignity rose against it--Harvey had begun with unwonteddecision, but he was soon uncomfortably self-conscious andself-critical; he spoke with effort, vainly struggling against thatpeculiar force of Alma's personality which had long ago subdued him. When he looked at her, saw her distant smile, her pose of the head asin one who mildly rebukes presumption, he was overcome with a feelingof solemn ineptitude. Quite unaware that his last sentence was to Almathe most impressive--the only impressive--part of his counsel, suddenlyhe broke off, and found relief in unexpected laughter. 

'There now, I've done my duty--I've discharged the pedagogue. Get ridof your tragic mask. Be yourself; do as you wish. When the time comes, just tell me what you have decided. '

So, once more, did he oust common-sense with what he imagined a riperwisdom. One must not take things funereally. Face to face with a womanin the prime of her beauty, he heard a voice warning him against thepedantic spirit of middle age, against formalism and fogeyishness. 

'Now I know you again, ' said Alma, softening, but still reserved; forshe did not forget that he had thrown doubt upon her claims as anartist--an incident which would not lose its importance as she ponderedit at leisure. 

Harvey sat late. On going upstairs, instead of straightway entering hisown room, he passed it with soft step and paused by another door, thatof the chamber in which Hughie slept under the care of Miss Smith. Thechild had coughed in the night during this last week. But at presentall was quiet, and with comfortable reassurance the father went to rest. 

Alma had matters to occupy her more important than a child's passingailment. As she slowly unrobed herself by the fire, combed out herwarm, fragrant, many-rippled tresses, or held mute dialogue with hereyes in the glass, from a ravel of uneasy thoughts there detacheditself, first and foremost, the discovery that Redgrave had not been inParis when Mrs. Strangeways said he was. What was the meaning of thiscontradiction? Thereto hung the singular coincidence of Redgrave'sreturn home exactly at the time when she and Mrs. Strangeways happenedto be there. She had thought of it as a coincidence and nothing more;but if Redgrave had deceived Mrs. Strangeways as to his movements, theunlooked-for arrival took a suspicious significance. There remained adark possibility: that Mrs. Strangeways knew what was about to happen. Yet this seemed inconceivable. 

Was it inconceivable? Why should a woman of that age, and of so muchexperience, feel nervous about going alone to her friend's house onsuch a simple mission? It appeared odd at the time, and was moredifficult to understand the more she thought of it. And one heard suchstrange stories--in society of a certain kind--so many whispered hintsof things that would not bear to be talked about. 

Redgrave had not been in Paris, but at Coventry. There again was apuzzling circumstance. Harvey himself declared his surprise at hearingthat Redgrave had entered into partnership with Hugh Carnaby. Had Sibylanything to do with this? Could she have hinted to her friend themillionaire that her husband's financial position was anything butsatisfactory, and had Redgrave, out of pure friendship--of course, outof pure friendship--hastened to their succour?

This perplexity was almost as disturbing as that which preceded it. Knowing the man of money as she did, Alma found it disagreeable toconnect his name thus closely with Sibyl's. Disagreeable in acomplicated sense; for she had begun to think of Cyrus Redgrave asintimately associated with her own ambitions, secret and avowed. He wasto aid her in winning fame as a violinist; and, to this end, allpossible use (within certain limits) was to be made of the power shehad over him. Alma viewed the position without the least attempt atdisguising its true nature. She was playing with fire; knew it; enjoyedthe excitement of it; trusted herself with the completest confidence tocome out of the game unscorched. But she felt assured that other women, in similar circumstances, had engaged in much the same encounter withCyrus Redgrave; and could it be imagined that Sibyl Carnaby was one ofthem--Sibyl, the woman of culture, of high principle, the critic ofsociety--Sibyl, to whom she had so long paid homage, as to one of thechosen of her sex? That Redgrave might approach Sibyl with lawlessthought, she could well believe, and such a possibility excited herindignation; that Sibyl would meet him on his own terms, she could notfor a moment have credited, but for a traitor-voice that spoke in herfor the first time, the voice of jealousy. 

Where and how often did they meet? To ask this question was to touchanother motive of discontent. Ever since the return to London life, Alma had felt dissatisfied with her social position. She was the wifeof a gentleman of independent means; in theory, all circles should beopen to her. Practically, she found herself very much restricted in thechoice of acquaintances. Harvey had hinted that she should be carefulwhere she went, and whom she knew; that she recognised the justice ofthis warning served merely to irritate her against its necessity. Why, then, did not her husband exert himself to obtain better society forher? Plainly, he would never take a step in that direction; he had histwo or three friends, and found them sufficient; he would have liked tosee her very intimate with Mrs. Abbott--perhaps helping to teach babieson the kindergarten system! Left to her own resources, she could dolittle beyond refusing connections that were manifestly undesirable. Sibyl, she knew, associated with people of much higher standing, onlyout of curiosity taking a peep at the world to which her friend wasrestricted. There had always been a slight disparity in this respectbetween them, and in former days Alma had accepted it withoutmurmuring; but why did Sibyl, just when she could have been sociallyhelpful, show a disposition to hold aloof? 'Of course, you care nothingfor people of that kind, ' Mrs. Carnaby had said, after casuallymentioning some 'good' family at whose country house she had beenvisiting. It was intended, perhaps, as a compliment, with allusion toAlma's theories of the 'simple life'; but, in face of the very plainfact that such theories were utterly abandoned, it sounded to Alma ahumiliating irony. 

Could it be that Sibyl feared inquiries, shrank from having it knownthat she was on intimate terms with the daughter of the late BennetFrothingham--a name still too often mentioned in newspapers andelsewhere? The shadow of this possibility had ere now flitted overAlma's mind; she was in the mood to establish it as a certainty, and toindulge the resentment that naturally ensued. For on more than oneoccasion of late, at Mrs. Rayner Mann's or in some such house, she hadfancied that one person and another had eyed her in a way that was notquite flattering, and that remarks were privately exchanged about her. Perhaps Harvey himself saw in the fact of her parentage a socialobstacle, which made him disinclined to extend their circle of commonacquaintances. Was that what he meant by his grave air this evening?Was he annoyed at the thought of a publicity which would reveal hermaiden name?

These currents of troubled feeling streamed together and bore herturbidly onwards whither her desires pointed. In one way, and one wayonly, could she hope to become triumphantly conspicuous, to raiseherself quite above petty social prejudices, to defeat ill-wishers andput to shame faint-hearted friends. She had never been able to endurethe thought of mediocrity. One chance there was; she must grasp itenergetically and without delay. And she must make use of allsubsidiary means to her great conquest--save only the last dishonour. 

That on her own merit she might rise to the first rank of musicians, Alma did not doubt. Her difficulty lay in the thought that it mightrequire a long time, a wearisome struggle, to gain the universalrecognition which alone would satisfy her. Therefore must CyrusRedgrave be brought to the exertion of all his influence, which sheimagined would assist her greatly. Therefore, too, must Felix Dymes beretained as her warm friend, probably (his own suggestion) as her manof business. 

It was January. Her 'recital' must take place in the coming season, inMay or June. She would sketch a programme at once--tomorrowmorning--and then work, work, work terrifically!

Saved by the fervour of this determination from brooding over mysteriesand jealousies, Alma lay down with a contented sigh, and was soonasleep, thanks to the health she still enjoyed. Her excitability was ofthe imagination rather than of the blood, and the cool, lymphatic flow, characteristically feminine, which mingled with the sanguine humour, traceable perhaps to a paternal source, spared her many an hour ofwakefulness, as it guarded her against much graver peril. 

On Sunday morning she generally went to church--not because of anyspiritual impulse, but out of habit. In Wales, Harvey often accompaniedher; at Pinner he ceased to do so; but neither then nor now had anytalk on the subject passed between them. Alma took it for granted thather husband was very 'broad' in matters of faith. She gathered from herreading that every man of education nowadays dispensed with dogmas, and, for her own part, it was merely an accident that she had notsought to attract attention by pronounced freethinking. Sibyl Carnabywent to church as a matter of course, and never spoke for or againstorthodoxy. Had Sibyl been more 'advanced' in this direction, undoubtedly Alma would long ago have followed her example. Both ofthem, in girlhood, had passed through a great deal of direct religiousteaching--and both would have shrunk amazed if called upon to make theslightest sacrifice in the name of their presumed creed. 

This morning, however, Alma remained at home, and one of the firstthings she did was to write to Sibyl, asking when it would beconvenient for her friend to give her half-an-hour's private talk. Thenshe wrote to Felix Dymes, addressing the letter to the care of hispublishers. At midday, as Harvey had gone to town on his business withCecil Morphew, she decided to run over to Kingsbury-Neasden and ask herfriends for lunch, in return for which she would make known to them herstartling project. It was a wretched day; Hughie must not go out, andPauline--good creature--would amuse him in one way and another all theafternoon. 

As it chanced, her surprise visit could not have been worse timed, forMrs. Leach was in a state of collapse after a violent quarrel, the daybefore, with her cook-housekeeper, who quitted the house at a moment'snotice. Luncheon, in the admissible sense of the word, there was noneto be had. Mr. Leach, finding the house intolerable when he arrived onSaturday afternoon, had gone back to his bachelor quarters, and thegirls, when Alma presented herself, were just sitting down alone towhat the housemaid chose to give them. But such an old friend could notbe turned away because of domestic mishap. 

Not until they had despatched the unsatisfactory meal, and were cosy inthe drawing-room, did Alma reveal her great purpose. Dora Leachhappened to have a slight acquaintance with a professional pianist whohad recently come before the public, and Alma began by inquiringwhether her friend could obtain information as to the expenses of thefirst 'recital' given by that lady. 

'I'm afraid I don't know her quite well enough, ' replied Miss Leach. 'What's it for? Are you thinking----? Really? You _really_ are?'

The sisters became joyously excited. Splendid idea! They had feared itwas impossible. Oh, she might count with certainty upon a brilliantsuccess! They began to talk about the programme. And what professionalswould she engage to take part in the concert? When Alma mentioned thatthe illustrious Felix Dymes had offered to undertake the management ofher business, interest rose to the highest point. Felix Dymes would ofcourse be a tower of strength. Though tempted to speak of the supportshe might expect from another great man, Alma refrained; her reasonbeing that she meant to ask Dora to accompany her to the Crystal Palacenext Saturday. If, as was almost certain, Redgrave met them there, itwould be unpleasant to let Dora surmise that the meeting was not bychance. 

They chattered for two or three hours, and, among other things, mademerry over a girl of their acquaintance (struggling with flagrantpoverty), who aimed at a professional career. 

'It really would be kindness, ' said Dora, 'to tell her she hasn't theleast chance; but one can't do that. She was here the other day playingto us--oh, for _such_ a time! She said her bow would have to berehaired, and when I looked at it, I saw it was all greasy and blacknear the frog, from her dirty fingers; it only wanted washing. I justmanaged to edge in a hint about soap and water. But she's very touchy;one has to be so careful with her. '

'It's dreadfully awkward, you know, ' put in Gerda, 'to talk to peoplewho are so _poor_--isn't it? It came out one day that she had beenpeeling potatoes for their dinner! It makes one so uncomfortable--shereally need not have mentioned it. '

The public halls were discussed. Which would Alma select? Then againthe programme. Would she play the Adagio?--meaning, of course, that inSpohr's Concerto 9. No, _no_; not the Adagio--not on any account theAdagio! Something of Bach's?--yes; perhaps the Chaconne. And Brahms?There was the Sonata in A for violin and piano. A stiff piece, but onemust not be too popular--Heaven forbid that one should catch at cheapapplause! How about a trio? What was that thing of Dvorak's, at StJames's Hall not long ago? Yes, the trio in B flat--piano, violin, and'cello. At least a score of pieces were jotted down, some from memory, some picked out of old programmes, of which Dora produced a greatportfolio. Interruption came at length--a servant entering to say thatMrs. Leach felt so ill, she wished the doctor to be summoned. 

'Oh, bother Mamma and her illnesses!' exclaimed the vivacious Gerdawhen the intruder was waved off. 'It's all nonsense, you know. She willquarrel with servants and get herself into a state. It'll have to be aboarding-house; I see it coming nearer every day. '

Having made an appointment with Dora for next Saturday, Alma tookleave, and went home in excellent spirits. Everything seemed to planitself; the time had come, the moment of destiny. Doubtless she hadbeen wise in waiting thus long. Had she come forward only a year or soafter her father's tragedy, people might have said she was makingprofit of a vulgar sensation; it would have seemed in bad taste;necessity would have appeared to urge her. Now, such remarks wereimpossible. Mrs. Harvey Rolfe sounded much better than Miss AlmaFrothingham. By-the-bye, was it to be 'Mrs. ', or ought she to callherself 'Madame'? People did use the Madame, even with an English name. Madame Rolfe? Madame Harvey Rolfe? That made her laugh; it had a touchof the ridiculous; it suggested millinery rather than music. Better toreject such silly affectations and use her proper name boldly. 

It was to be expected, of course, that people in general would soondiscover her maiden name. Whispers would go round; facts might even getinto the newspapers. Well? She herself had done nothing to be ashamedof, and if curiosity helped her to success, why, so much the better. Inall likelihood it _would_ help her; but she did not dwell upon thisadventitious encouragement. A more legitimate source of hope revealeditself in Mrs. Strangeways' allusion to her personal advantages. Shewas not ill-looking; on that point there needed no flatterer'sassurance. Her looks, if anything, had improved, and possibly she owedsomething to her experiment in 'simplicity', to the air of mountain andof sea. Felix Dymes, Cyrus Redgrave, not to speak of certain otherpeople--no matter. For all that, she must pay grave attention to thesubject of dress. Her recital would doubtless be given in theafternoon, according to custom; so that it was not a case of _grandetenue_; but her attire must be nothing short of perfection in its kind. Could she speak about it with Sibyl? Perhaps--yet perhaps not. She wasvery anxious to see Sibyl, and felt that a great deal depended upontheir coming interview. 

This took place on Tuesday; for Sibyl replied at once to the note, andbegged her to come without delay. 'Tuesday at twelve. I do little inthese gloomy days but read--am becoming quite a bookworm. Why have youbeen silent so long? I was on the very point of writing to you, for Iwish to see you particularly. '

And, when the servant opened her door, Sibyl was discovered in theattitude of a severe student, bending over a table on which lay manyvolumes. She would not have been herself had there appeared any neglector unbecomingness in her costume, but she wore the least pretentious ofmorning gowns, close at throat and wrist, which aided her look ofmental concentration and alertness. She rose with alacrity, and thevisitor, using her utmost keenness in scrutiny of countenance, foundthat her own eyes, not Sibyl's, were the first to fall. 

'Yes--working as if I had an examination to pass. It's the best thingin weather such as this--keeps one in health, I believe. You, ofcourse, have your music, which answers the same purpose. I'm going infor the Renaissance; always wished to make a thorough study of it. Hughis appalled; he never imagined I had so much energy. He says I shall bewriting a book next--and why not?'

'Of course you could, ' replied Alma. 'You're clever enough foranything. '

Her suspicions evaporated in this cosy cloister. She wondered how shecould have conceived such a thought of Sibyl, who, dressed so simply, had a girlish air, a beauty as of maidenhood. Exhilarated by herambitious hopes, she turned in heart to the old friendship, felt heradmiration revive, and spoke it freely. 

'I know I'm not stupid, ' said Sibyl, leaning back as if a little weary;'and there's the pity of it, that I've never made more use of mybrains. Of course, those years abroad were lost, though I suppose I gotto know a little more of the world. And since we came back I have hadno peace of mind. Did you guess that? Perhaps your husband knew aboutthings from Hugh?'

'I was afraid you might be getting rather anxious; but as you neversaid anything yourself----'

'I never should have done--I hate talking about money. And you knowthat things are looking better?'

Sibyl's confident smile drew one of like meaning from Alma. 

'Your husband had good news, I know, when Harvey met him on Saturday. '

'It sounds good, ' said Sibyl, 'and I take it for granted it will be asgood as it sounds. If that's complicated, well, so is business, and Idon't profess to understand the details. I can only say that Hugh seemsto be a good deal shrewder and more practical than I thought him. He isalways making friends with what I consider the wrong kind of people;now at last he has got hold of just the right man, and it very muchpuzzles me how he did it. I have known Mr. Redgrave--you've heard it'sMr. Redgrave?--I've known him for several years now, and, betweenourselves, I never expected to benefit by the acquaintance. '

Her laugh was so significant that Alma had much ado to keep a steadyface. 

'I know--things are said about him, ' she murmured. 

'Things _are_ said about him, as you discreetly put it, my dear Alma. 'The voice still rippled with laughter. 'I should imagine Hugh has heardthem, but I suppose a man of the world thinks nothing of such trifles. And after all'--she grew serious--'I would rather trust Hugh's judgmentthan general gossip. Hugh thinks him a "very good fellow". They weretogether a little in Scotland last autumn, you know, and--it's verywrong to make fun of it, and I shouldn't repeat the story to anyone butyou--Mr. Redgrave confided to him that he was a blighted being, thevictim of an unhappy love in early life. Can you quite picture it?'

'It has an odd sound, ' replied Alma, struggling with rather tensenerves. 'Do you believe the story?'

'I can't see why in the world such a man should invent it. It seems hewanted to marry someone who preferred someone else; and since then hehas----'

Sibyl rippled off again. 

'He has--what?'

'Been blighted, my dear! Of course, people have different ways ofshowing blight. Mr. Redgrave, it is rumoured, hides his head in ahermitage, somewhere in the north of Italy, by one of the lakes. Nodoubt he lives on olives and macaroni, and broods over what _might_have been. Did you ever hear of that hermitage?'

Alma's colour heightened ever so little, and she kept her eyes on thequestioner with involuntary fixedness. The last shadow of doubtregarding Sibyl having disappeared (no woman with an uneasy conscience, she said to herself, could talk in this way), she had now to guardherself against the betrayal of suspicious sensibilities. Sibyl, ofcourse, meant nothing personal by these jesting allusions--how couldshe? But it was with a hard voice that Alma declared her ignorance ofMr. Redgrave's habits, at home, or in retreat by Italian lakes. 

'It doesn't concern us, ' agreed her friend. 'He has chosen to put hismoney into Hugh's business, and, from one point of view, that's avirtuous action. Hugh says he didn't suggest anything of the kind, butI fancy the idea must have been led up to at some time or other. Thepoor fellow has been horridly worried, and perhaps he let fall a wordor two he doesn't care to confess. However it came about, I'm immenselyglad, both for his sake and my own. My mind is enormously relieved--andthat's how I come to be working at the Renaissance. '

Alma took the first opportunity of giving the conversation a turn. Itwas not so easy as she had anticipated to make her announcement; for, to her own mind, Cyrus Redgrave and the great ambition were at everymoment suggestive of each other, and Sibyl, in this peculiar mood, might throw out disturbing remarks or ask unwelcome questions. Only onerecent occurrence called for concealment. Happily, Sibyl no longer metMrs. Strangeways (whose character had taken such a doubtful hue), andRedgrave himself could assuredly be trusted for discretion, whateverhis real part in that perplexing scene at he bungalow. 

'I feel the same want as you do, ' said Alma, after a littletransitional talk, 'of something to keep me busy. Of course, it must bemusic; but music at home, and at other people's homes, isn't enough. You know my old revolt against the bonds of the amateur. I'm going tobreak out--or try to. What would you give for my chances?'

'My dear, I am no capitalist, ' replied her friend, with animation. 'Forsuch a bargain as that you must go among the great speculators. Hugh'sexperience seems to point to Mr. Redgrave. '

'Sibyl, please be serious. '

'So I am. I should like to have the purchase of your chances for atrifle of a few thousand pounds. '

Alma's flush of discomposure (more traitorous than she imagined)transformed itself under a gratified smile. 

'You really think that I might do something worth the trouble?--I don'tmean money-making--though, of course, no one despises money--but a realartistic success?'

Sibyl made no half-hearted reply. She seemed in thorough agreement withthose other friends of Alma's who had received the projectenthusiastically. A dozen tickets, at least a dozen, she would at onceanswer for. But, as though an unwelcome word must needs mingle with herpleasantest talk today, she went on to speak of Alma's husband; whatdid he think of the idea?

'He looks on, that's all, ' Alma replied playfully. 'If I succeed, hewill be pleased; if I don't, he will have plenty of consolation tooffer. Harvey and I respect each other's independence--the great secretof marriage, don't you think? We ask each other's advice, and take itor not, as we choose. I fancy he doesn't quite like the thought of myplaying for money. But if it were _necessary_ he would like it stillless. He finds consolation in the thought that I'm just amusing myself. '

'I wish you would both come over and dine with us quietly, ' said Sibyl, after reflecting, with a smile. 'It would do us all good. I don't seemany people nowadays, and I'm getting rather tired of ordinary society;after all, it's great waste of time. I think Hugh is more inclined tosettle down and be quiet among his friends. What day would suit you?'

Alma, engrossed in other thoughts, named a day at random. Part of herscheme was still undisclosed: she had a special reason for wishingSibyl to know of her relations with Felix Dymes, yet feared that shemight not hit exactly the right tone in speaking of him. 

'Of course, I must have a man of business--and who do you think hasoffered his services?'

Sibyl was not particularly impressed by the mention of Dymes's name;she had only a slight personal acquaintance with him, and cared littlefor his reputation as a composer. 

'I had a note from him this morning, ' Alma continued. 'He asks me tosee him today at the Apollo--the theatre, you know. They're going toproduce his comic opera, "Blue Roses"--of course, you've heard of it. Ishall feel rather nervous about going there--but it'll be a newexperience. Or do you think it would be more discreet if I got him tocome to Pinner?'

'I didn't think artists cared about those small proprieties, ' answeredSibyl, laughing. 

'No--of course, that's the right way to regard it. Let me show you hisletter. ' She took it from her little seal-skin bag. 'A trifle impudent, don't you think? Mr. Dymes has a great opinion of himself, andabsolutely no manners. '

'Well--if you can keep him in hand----'

They exchanged glances, and laughed together. 

'No fear of that, ' said Alma 'And he's just the kind of man to be veryuseful. His music--ah well! But he has popularity, and a great manypeople take him at his own estimate. Impudence does go a long way. '

Sibyl nodded, and smiled vaguely. 

Dymes had suggested a meeting at three o'clock, and to this Alma hadalready given her assent by telegraph. She lunched with Mrs. Carnaby, --who talked a great deal about the Renaissance, --leftimmediately after, to visit a few shops, and drove up to the ApolloTheatre at the appointed time. Her name sufficed; at once she wasrespectfully conducted to a small electric-lighted room, furnished onlywith a table and chairs, and hung about with portraits of theatricalpeople, where Dymes sat by the fire smoking a cigarette. Theillustrious man apologised for receiving her here, instead of in themanager's room, which he had hoped to make use of. 

'Littlestone is in there, wrangling about something with Sophy Challis, and they're likely to slang each other for an hour or two. Makeyourself comfortable. It's rather hot; take off those furry things. '

'Thank you, ' replied Alma, concealing her nervousness with malapertvivacity, 'I shall be quite comfortable in my own way. It _is_ ratherhot, and your smoke is rather thick, so I shall leave the door a littleopen. '

Dymes showed his annoyance, but could offer no objection. 

'We're getting into shape for this day week. Littlestone calls theopera "Blue Noses"--it has been so confoundedly cold at rehearsals. '

Alma was seized by the ludicrous suggestion, and laughed withoutrestraint; her companion joined in, his loud neigh drowning her moremelodious merriment. This put them on natural terms of comradeship, andthen followed a long, animated talk. Dymes was of opinion that thehiring of a hall and the fees of supplementary musicians might bedefrayed out of the sale of tickets; but there remained the item ofadvertisement, and on this subject he had large ideas. He wanted 'to dothe thing properly'; otherwise he wouldn't do it at all. But Alma wasto take no thought for the cost; let it all be left to him. 

'You want to succeed? All right; let your fiddling be up to the mark, and I answer for the public. It's all between you and me; you needn'tsay who is doing the job for you. Ada Wellington comes off on May the10th; I shall put you down for a fortnight later. That gives you nearlyfour months to prepare. Don't overdo it; keep right in health; takeplenty of exercise. You look very well now; keep it up, and you'll_knock 'em_. I only wish it was the stage instead of the platform--butno use talking about that, I suppose?'

'No use whatever, ' Alma replied, flushing with various emotions. 

In the course of his free talk, it happened that he addressed her as'Alma'. She did not check him; but when the name again fell from hislips, she said quietly, with a straight look----

'I think not. The proper name, if you please. '

Dymes took the rebuke good-humouredly. When their conversation wasover, he wished her to go with him to a restaurant for tea; but Almainsisted on catching a certain train at Baker Street, and Dymes had tobe satisfied with the promise of another interview shortly. 

CHAPTER 9

A visit was due from Mrs. Frothingham, who had not been seen at Pinnerfor more than six months. She would have come at New Year, but anattack of influenza upset her plans. Now she wrote to announce herarrival on Saturday. 

'I wish it had been Monday, ' said Alma; 'I have to go to the CrystalPalace. '

'Is it imperative?' asked her husband. 

'Yes; there's something new of Sterndale Bennett's, and I've askedDora. '

It seemed to Harvey that this arrangement might have been put asidewithout great inconvenience, but, as usual, he made no comment. As hewould be in town on Saturday, he promised to meet their visitor atWaterloo. Alma, he thought, had never shown much gratitude for herstep-mother's constant kindness; during the past half-year she had nowand then complained of the trouble of answering Mrs. Frothingham'sletters, and the news of illness at Basingstoke drew from her only afew words of conventional sympathy. To Hughie, who frequently receivedpresents from 'Grandmamma', she rarely spoke of the affectionate giver. A remark of hers recently on some piece of news from Mrs. Frothinghambore an obvious suggestion. 

'I wonder, ' she said, 'if a single person has been really benefited byall the money Mamma has given away? Isn't it likely she has done muchmore harm than good?'

There was truth in his surmise that Alma sometimes thought withjealousy of Mrs. Frothingham's having had control of a fortune, whilstshe, the only child of him who made the money, possessed nothing of herown. The same trend of feeling appeared in a word or two of Alma's, when a daily paper, in speaking of a paltry dividend offered at last tothe creditors in one branch of Bennet Frothingham's speculations, useda particularly bitter phrase. 

'I should have felt that once; now----'

In these days Alma suffered from a revival of the indignation which hadso perturbed her in the time just before her marriage. If now she hadpossessed even a little money, it would have made her independent in asense far more tangible than that of the friendly understanding withher husband. She strongly disliked the thought of making Harveyresponsible for the expenses of her 'recital'. Had it been possible toprocure a small sum by any honest means, she would eagerly have turnedto it; but no method seemed discoverable. On her journey homeward afterthe interview with Felix Dymes, her mind was full of the moneyquestion. What did Dymes mean by bidding her take no thought forexpenses? Could it have occurred to his outrageous vanity that shemight be persuaded to become his debtor, with implied obligation ofgratitude?

Not with impunity could her thought accustom itself to stray in regionsforbidden, how firm soever her resolve to hold bodily aloof. Alma'simagination was beginning to show the inevitable taint. With CyrusRedgrave she had passed from disdainful resentment, through phases oftolerance, to an interested flirtation, perilous on every side. InFelix Dymes she easily, perhaps not unwillingly, detected a motive liketo Redgrave's, and already, for her own purposes, she was permittinghim to regard her as a woman not too sensitive, not too scrupulous. These tactics might not be pleasant or strictly honourable, but shefancied they were forced upon her. Alma had begun to compassionateherself--a dangerous situation. Her battle had to be fought alone; shewas going forth to conquer the world by her mere talents, and can awoman disregard the auxiliary weapons of beauty? If Dymes chose tospeculate in hopes ludicrously phantasmal, was that her affair? Shesmiled at the picture of two men, her devoted servants, exertingthemselves to the utmost for her advantage, yet without a syllable ofexpress encouragement, and foredoomed to a disappointment which wouldbe perfectly plain to them could they but use their common-sense. 

Throughout this week Harvey did not behave quite as usual to her; or soAlma thought. He had not the customary jocoseness when they met at theclose of day; he asked no questions about how she had spent her time;his manner was preoccupied. One evening she challenged him. 

'You are worrying about what you think my foolishness. '

'Foolishness? Of what folly are you guilty?'

'My ambition, then. '

'Oh no!' He laughed as if the thought genuinely amused him. 'Why shouldI worry about it? Don't work too hard, that's all. No, I was thinkingof a squalid little ambition of my own. I have an idea Morphew may makesomething of that business; and I want him to, for the fellow's owngood. It's wonderful how near he has been to going to the devil, oncefor all. I fancy I've got him now by the coat-tail; I may hold him. '

'You can't call that a squalid ambition, ' said Alma, wishing to beamiable. 

'Not that side of it--no. But I've decided to put a little money intothe business--nothing that matters, but it may just as well be madesafe, if a little trouble will do it. I was wondering how it would beif I worked a little down yonder--kept Morphew in sight. Distance isthe chief objection. '

'But you think of moving to Gunnersbury?'

'Yes, I do. I'm thinking of it seriously. Will you go over with me oneday next week! Better be Saturday--Mrs. Abbott will be free. '

It was unfortunate that Alma had not been able to establish an intimacywith Mary Abbott. They saw each other very rarely, and, as Harveyperceived, made no progress in friendship. This did not surprise him;they were too unlike in temper, intellect, and circumstances. Whetherto these obstacles should be added another more serious, Harvey couldnot quite assure himself. He had suspected that Alma entertained aslight jealousy--natural, perhaps, though utterly without substantialcause. He even reckoned with this when proposing to put the child underMrs. Abbott's care, thinking that, in revolt against such analternative, Alma might be impelled to take the duty upon herself. Thatnothing of the kind had resulted, seemed to prove that, whateverfeeling might occasionally have arisen in Alma, she did not regard hisfriend with any approach to hostility. For his own part, he had alwaysfelt that the memory of Bennet Frothingham must needs forbid Mrs. Abbott to think with unrestrained kindliness of Alma, and, but for Almaherself, he would scarce have ventured to bring them together. Thatthey were at least on amiable terms must be held as much as could behoped for. With regard to Mary's efficiency as a teacher, his opinionhad grown more favourable since he had seen her in her own home. Timeand experience were moulding her, he thought, to a task undertakenfirst of all in a spirit of self-discipline. She appeared to besuccessful in winning the confidence of parents, and she no longercomplained of inability to make herself liked by her little pupils. Best of all, she was undoubtedly devoting herself to the work with allthe powers of her mind, making it the sole and sufficient purpose ofher life. Harvey felt no misgiving; he spoke his true thought when hesaid that he would rather trust Hughie to Mrs. Abbott than to any otherteacher. It was with surprise, therefore, and some annoyance, that hereceived Alma's reply to his proposal for their going over toGunnersbury next week. 

'Are you quite sure, ' she said, rather coldly, 'that Mrs. Abbott willteach better than Pauline?'

'It isn't only that. Hughie must have companions. I thought we hadagreed about it. '

'Have you inquired who his companions will be?'

'Oh--the ordinary children of ordinary people, ' he replied, with someimpatience. 'I don't know that babies are likely to corrupt each other. But, of course, you will ask Mrs. Abbott all about that kind ofthing--or anything else you wish. '

Alma shook her head, laughing carelessly. 

'No, no. That is all in _your_ hands. You have discussed it with her, haven't you?'

'I haven't so much as mentioned it. But, of course, I am quite willingto relieve you of all trouble in the matter. '

His tone seemed to startle Alma, for she looked up at him quickly, andspoke in a more serious voice. 

'I don't think we quite understand each other about Hughie. Why shouldyou be so anxious? He seems to me to be doing very well. Remember, he'sonly a little more than three years old--quite a baby, as you say. Idon't think he would feel the want of companions for another year atleast. '

Harvey met her look, and replied quietly. 

'It isn't that I'm anxious about him. I have to plan for his education, that's all. '

'You're beginning rather early. Fathers don't generally look aftertheir children so young. '

'Unfortunately, they don't, ' said Harvey, with a laugh. 'Mothers do, here and there. '

'But surely you don't mean that I am neglectful, Harvey?'

'Not at all. Teaching isn't your metier, Alma. '

'I have always confessed that. But, then, the time for teaching Hughiehas hardly come. What can Pauline do but just see that he doesn't getinto mischief?'

'That's the very reason why he would be better for two or three hours aday with some one who knows _how_ to teach a child of his age. It isn'tas unimportant as you think. Pauline does very well, but Mrs. Abbottwill do better. '

Vexed at his own cowardliness--for he could not utter the words thatleaped to his tongue--Harvey fell into a perverse insistence on MrsAbbott's merits. He had meant to confine himself within the safe excusethat the child needed companionship. Forbidden the natural relief of awholesome, hearty outburst of anger--which would have done good in manyways--his nerves drove him into smothered petulance, with the resultthat Alma misread him, and saw in his words a significance quite apartfrom their plain meaning. 

'I have not the least intention of interfering, Harvey, ' she said, withher distant smile. 'For the next few months I shall be very busyindeed. Only one thing I would ask--you don't think of leaving thishouse before midsummer?'

'No. '

'Because I shall probably give my recital in May, and it would berather inconvenient----'

'Everything shall be arranged to suit you. '

'Not at all, not at all!' she exclaimed cheerfully. 'I don't ask somuch as that; it would be unreasonable. We are neither of us to standin the other's way--isn't that the agreement? Tell me your plans, andyou shall know mine, and I'm sure everything will be managed very well. '

So the conversation ended, satisfactorily to neither. Harvey, aware ofhaving spoken indiscreetly, felt that he was still more to blame forallowing his wife a freedom of which she threatened to make absurd use;and Alma, her feelings both as wife and mother sensibly perturbed, resented the imputation which seemed to have been thrown upon herconduct. This resentment was of course none the less enduring becauseconscience took her husband's side. She remembered her appointmenttomorrow (practically an appointment) with Cyrus Redgrave at theCrystal Palace; would not that be more difficult to confess thananything she could reasonably suppose to have happened between Harveyand Mary Abbott? Yet more than ever she hoped to meet Redgrave, to holdhim by a new link of illusory temptation, that he might exert himselfto the utmost in promoting her success. For among the impulses whichurged her forward, her reasons for desiring a public triumph, was onewhich Harvey perhaps never for a moment imagined--a desire to shinegloriously in the eyes of her husband. Harvey would never do herjustice until constrained by the voice of the world. Year after year heheld her in less esteem; he had as good as said that he did not thinkher capable of taking a place among professional violinists. Disguiseit how he might, he secretly wished her to become a mere domesticcreature, to abandon hopes that were nothing better than a proof ofvanity. This went to Alma's heart, and rankled there. He should see! Heshould confess his error, in all its injurious and humiliating extent!At whatever cost--at all _but_ any cost--the day of her triumph shouldcome about! Foreseeing it, she had less difficulty in keeping calm whenthe excellencies of Mrs. Abbott were vaunted before her, when Harveysimply ignored all that in herself compensated the domesticshortcoming. Of course, she was not a model of the home-keepingvirtues; who expected an artist to be that? But Harvey denied thisclaim; and of all the motives contributing to her aspiration, none hadsuch unfailing force as the vehement resolve to prove him wrong. 

Next morning the weather was so bad that Harvey asked whether she hadnot better give up her expedition to the Crystal Palace. Alma smiledand shook her head. 

'You think I go only for amusement. It's so difficult to make youunderstand that these things are serious. '

'Congestion of the lungs is serious. I don't think Mrs. Frothinghamwill face it. There'll probably be a telegram from her. '

But by midday the fierce wind and driving sleet had abated, though theoutlook remained cheerless enough. After an early lunch, Alma setforth. Dora Leach joined her in the train, and thus they travelled, through sooty gloom, under or above ground, from the extreme north tothe farthest south of London; alighting at length with such a ringingof the ears, such an impression of roar and crash and shriek, as madethe strangest prelude to a feast of music ever devised in the world'shistory. Their seats having been taken in advance, they entered a fewmoments before the concert began, and found themselves amid a scantyaudience; on either side of them were vacant places. Alma did not dareto glance round about. If Redgrave were here, and looked for her, hewould have no difficulty in discovering where she sat; probably, too, he could manage to take possession of the chair at her side. And thiswas exactly what happened, though not until the first piece had beenperformed. 

'I congratulate you on your zeal, ' spoke the voice which always put herin mind of sunny mountains and a blue lake. 

'Inviting a compliment in return, ' said Alma, with a suddenillumination of her features. 'Are you one of the regular attendants?'

'Don't you remember?' His voice dropped so low that he hardly seemed toaddress her. 'I promised myself the pleasure----'

Alma pretended not to hear. She turned to her companion, spoke a word, and renewed the very slight acquaintance which had existed a few yearsago between Redgrave and Miss Leach. Then the sound of an instrumentimposed silence. 

It was not the first time that Alma affected to be absorbed in musicwhen not consciously hearing it at all. Today the circumstances madesuch distraction pardonable; but often enough she had sat thus, withcountenance composed or ecstatic, only seeming to listen, even when amaster played. For Alma had no profound love of the art. Nothing morenatural than her laying it completely aside when, at home in Wales, shemissed her sufficient audience. To her, music was not an end in itself. Like numberless girls, she had, to begin with, a certain mechanicalaptitude, which encouraged her through the earlier stages, until vanitystepped in and urged her to considerable attainments. Her father'sgenuine delight in music of the higher kind served as an encouragementwhenever her own energies began to fail; and when at length, withadvancing social prospects, the thought took hold of her that, by meansof her violin, she might maintain a place of distinction above ordinaryhandsome girls and heiresses, it sufficed to overcome her indolence andlack of the true temper. She founded her Quartet Society, and queenedit over amateurs, some of whom were much better endowed than herself. Having set her pride on winning praise as a musician, of course shetook pains, even working very hard from time to time. She hadfirst-rate teachers, and was clever enough to profit by their lessons. With it all, she cared as little for music as ever; to some extent ithad lost even that power over her sensibilities which is felt by theaverage hearer. Alma had an emotional nature, but her emotionsresponded to almost any kind of excitement sooner than to the musical. So much had she pretended and posed, so much had she struggled withmere manual difficulties, so much lofty cant and sounding hollownesshad she talked, that the name of her art was grown a weariness, adisgust. Conscious of this, she was irritated whenever Harvey beggedher to play simple things; for indeed, if she must hear music at all, it was just those simple melodies she would herself have preferred. Andamong the self-styled musical people with whom she associated, werefew, if any, in whom conceit did not sound the leading motive. She knewbut one true musician, Herr Wilenski. That the virtuoso took no troubleto bring her in touch with his own chosen circle, was a significantfact which quite escaped Alma's notice. 

Between the pieces Redgrave chatted in a vein of seductive familiarity, saying nothing that Dora Leach might not have heard, but frequentlysoftening his voice, as though to convey intimate meanings. His mannerhad the charm of variety; he was never on two occasions alike; today heseemed to relax in a luxurious mood, due in part to the influence ofsound, and in part, as his eyes declared, to the sensuous pleasure ofsitting by Alma's side. 

'What an excellent fellow Carnaby is!' he remarked unexpectedly. 'Ihave been seeing a good deal of him lately--as you know, I think?'

'So I have heard. '

'I like him all the better because I am rather sorry for him. '

'Why?'

'Don't you feel that he is very much out of place? He doesn't belong toour world at all. He ought to be founding a new civilisation in somewild country. I can sympathise with him; I have something of the samespirit. '

'I never observed it, ' said Alma, allowing her glance to skim hisfeatures. 

'Perhaps because you yourself represent civilisation in its subtlestphase, and when I am with you I naturally think only of that. I don'tsay I should have thriven as a backwoodsman; but I admire the type inCarnaby. That's one of _our_ privileges, don't you think? We live inimagination quite as much as in everyday existence. You, I am sure, arein sympathy with infinite forms of life--and, ' he added, just above hisbreath, 'you could realise so many of them. '

'I shall be content with one, ' replied Alma. 

'And that----?'

She nodded towards the concert platform, where, at the same moment, aviolinist stepped forward. Redgrave gazed inquiringly at her, but shekept silence until the next interval. Then, in reply to his directquestion, she told him, with matter-of-fact brevity, what her purposewas. He showed neither surprise nor excessive pleasure, but bent hishead with a grave approving smile. 

'So you feel that the time has come. Of course I knew that it would. Are any details arranged?--or perhaps I mustn't ask?'

'I wanted to talk it over with you, ' she answered graciously. 

After the concert they had tea together. Redgrave was very attentive toMiss Leach, whom his talk amused and flattered. Alma's enterprise wasdiscussed with pleasant freedom, and Redgrave learnt that she haddecided to employ Mr. Felix Dymes as her agent. The trio set forth atlength on their homeward journey in a mood of delightful animation, andtravelled together as far as Victoria. 

'I haven't said that you can rely on me for all possible assistance, 'Redgrave remarked, as he walked along the roaring platform by Alma'sside. 'That is a matter of course. We shall meet again before long?'

'No doubt. '

'In Porchester Terrace perhaps?'

'Perhaps. '

Alma met his eyes, and took away with her the consciousness of havingdared greatly. But the end was a great one. 

In spite of the bad weather, Mrs. Frothingham had travelled up fromBasingstoke. Alma found her in the drawing-room, and saw at a glancethat there had been conversation on certain subjects between her andHarvey; but not until the next day did Mrs. Frothingham speak of whatshe had heard, and make her private comments for Alma's benefit. 

'I thought Harvey was joking, dear. Have you reflected how many reasonsthere are why you _shouldn't_----?'

The pathetic gaze of appeal produced no effect. 

'Did Harvey ask you to talk about it, Mamma?'

'No. He takes it in the kindest way. But, Alma, you surely see that itpains him?'

'Pains him? That shows you don't understand us, dear Mamma. We couldneither of us possibly do anything that would pain the other. We are inperfect harmony, yet absolutely independent. It has all been talkedover and settled. You must have misunderstood Harvey altogether. '

From this position Alma could not be moved, and Mrs. Frothingham, toodiscreet to incur the risk of interference, spoke no more of the matteras it concerned man and wife. But another objection she urged withalmost tearful earnestness. Did Alma forget that her appearance inpublic would give occasion to most disagreeable forms of gossip? Andeven if she disregarded the scandal of a few years ago, would not manyof her acquaintances say and believe that necessity had driven her intoa professional career?

'They may say what they like, and think what they like, ' was Alma'slofty reply. 'If artists had always considered such trivialdifficulties, where should we have been? Suppose gossip does itsworst--it's all over in a few months; then I stand by my own merit. Dear Mamma, _don't_ be old fashioned! You look so young and socharming--indeed you do--that I can't bear to hear you talk in thatearly Victorian way. Art is art, and all these other things havenothing whatever to do with it. There, it's all over. Be good, andamuse yourself whilst you are with us. I assure you we are the mostreasonable and the happiest people living. '

Mrs. Frothingham smiled at the compliment to herself; then sighed, andheld her peace. 

CHAPTER 10

So day by day Alma's violin sounded, and day after day Harvey heard itwith a growing impatience. As is commonly the case with people ofuntrained ear, he had never much cared for this instrument; hepreferred the piano. Not long ago he would have thought it impossiblethat he could ever come to dislike music, which throughout his life hadbeen to him a solace and an inspiration; but now he began to shrinkfrom the sound of it. As Alma practised in the morning, he was drivenat length to alter his habits, and to leave home after breakfast. Having no other business, he went to Westminster Bridge Road, met CecilMorphew at the shop, watched the progress of alterations that seemedadvisable, picked up a little knowledge of photography, talked overprices, advertisements, and numerous commercial matters of which he hadhitherto been contentedly ignorant. Before long, his loan to Morphewwas converted into an investment; he became a partner in the concern, which, retaining the name of the old proprietor, they carried on as Denbow & Co. 

The redemption of his debentures kept him still occupied with a furtivestudy of the money-market. He did not dare to face risk on a largescale; the mere thought of a great reduction of income made him trembleand perspire. So in the end he adopted the simple and straightforwardexpedient of seeking an interview with his banker, by whom he wasgenially counselled to purchase such-and-such stock, a sound security, but less productive than that he had previously held. An unfortunatenecessity, seeing that his expenses increased and were likely to do so. But he tried to hope that Westminster Bridge Road would eventuallyreimburse him. With good luck, it might do more. 

His days of quietude were over. He, too, was being drawn into thewhirlpool. No more dreaming among his books; no more waking to theordinary duties and cares of a reasonable life. As a naturalconsequence of the feeling of unsettlement, of instability, he hadrecourse more often than he wished to the old convivial habits, gathering about him once again, at club or restaurant, the kind ofsociety in which he always felt at ease--good, careless, jovial, andoften impecunious fellows, who, as in days gone by, sometimes made ademand upon his purse which he could not resist, though he had now suchcause for rigid economy. Was it that he grew old?--he could no longertake his wine with disregard of consequence. The slightest excess, andtoo surely he paid for it on the morrow, not merely with a passingheadache, but with a whole day's miserable discomfort. Oh, degeneracyof stomach and of brain! Of will, too; for he was sure to repeat thefoolish experience before a week had passed. 

It was not till Mrs. Frothingham had left them after a fortnight'svisit that he reminded Alma of her promise to go with him toGunnersbury. 

'Did I promise?' she said. 'I thought we agreed that you should settleall that yourself. '

'I had rather you came with me to see Mrs. Abbott. Shall it beSaturday?'

'Can't, ' replied Alma, with a shake of the head and a smile. 'I have tosee Mr. Dymes. '

'Dymes? Who is he?'

'My agent. '

'Oh! very well; then I'll go alone. '

He would not permit himself any further inquiry. Alma had never spokento him of Dymes, her 'agent'. Harvey pictured an ill-shaven man in asmall office, and turned from the thought with disgust. Too late tointerpose, to ask questions; anything of that kind would but make himseem small, ridiculous, fussy. He had chosen his course, and mustpursue it. 

Not that Alma behaved in such a way as to suggest estrangement;anything but so. Her manner was always amiable, frequentlyaffectionate. When they spent an evening together--it did not oftenhappen--she talked delightfully; avoiding, as did Harvey himself, thesubjects on which they were not likely to agree. Her gaze had all theold directness, her smile was sweet as ever, and her laugh asmelodious. If ever he felt uneasy during her long absences in town, oneof these evenings sufficed to reassure him. Alma was Alma still, andcould he but have reconciled himself to the thought of her playing inpublic, she would have been yet the wife he chose, frankly self-willed, gallantly independent. 

Until a certain day at the end of March, when something happened ofwhich Harvey had no suspicion, but which affected Alma in a way he soonperceived. 

That morning he had left home early, and would not return till late. Alma practised as usual, had luncheon alone, and was thinking of goingout, when the post delivered two letters--one for herself from Dymes, the other for her husband. A glance showed her that Harvey'scorrespondent was Mrs. Abbott, and never till today had one of MrsAbbott's letters come into her hand. She regarded it with curiosity, and the longer she looked the stronger her curiosity became. Harveywould of course tell her what his friend wrote about--as he always did;but the epistle itself she would not be asked to read. And did she, asa matter of fact, always know when Harvey heard from Mrs. Abbott? Afoolish question, probably; for if the correspondence were meant to besecret, it would be addressed to Harvey at his club, not to the house. All the same, a desire of years concentrated itself in this moment. Alma wished vehemently to read one of Mary Abbott's letters with herown eyes. 

She turned the envelope. It was of very stout paper, and did not lookquite securely gummed. Would not a touch of the finger--almost----?Why, there, just as she thought; a mere touch, and the envelope cameopen. 'Now, if I ever wrote a dangerous word, ' mused Alma--'which Idon't, and never shall--this would be a lesson to me. '

Well, it was open, and, naturally enough, the letter came forth. Whatharm? There could be nothing in it that Harvey would wish to hide fromher. So, with hands that trembled, and cheeks that felt warm, she beganto read. 

The letter was Mrs. Abbott's acknowledgment of the quarterly cheque shereceived from Rolfe. Alma was surprised at the mention of money in thefirst line, and read eagerly on. As Mary Abbott and her friend had seeneach other so recently, there was no need of a full report concerningMinnie Wager (her brother had long since gone to a boarding-school), but the wording allowed it to be understood that Harvey paid for thechild, and, what was more, that he held himself responsible for herfuture. What could this mean? Alma pondered it in astonishment;gratified by the discovery, but disturbed beyond measure by itsmysterious suggestiveness. The letter contained little more, merelysaying, towards the end, how very glad the writer would be to give herutmost care to little Hugh when presently he came into her hands. Lastof all--'Please remember me kindly to Mrs. Rolfe. '

At this point of her life Alma had become habitually suspicious of anyrelation between man and woman which might suggest, however remotely, dubious possibilities. Innocence appeared to her the exception, lawlessness the rule, where man and woman were restrained by no obviousbarriers. It was the natural result of her experience, of hercompanionship, of the thoughts she deliberately fostered. Having readthe letter twice, having mused upon it, she leaped to a conclusionwhich seemed to explain completely the peculiar intimacy subsistingbetween Harvey and Mary Abbott. These two children, known as Albert andMinnie Wager, were Harvey's offspring, the result of some _liaison_before his marriage; and Mrs. Abbott, taking charge of them forpayment, had connived at the story of their origin, of their pitifuldesertion. What could be clearer?

She did not go further in luminous conjectures. Even with her presentmind, Alma could not conceive of Mary Abbott as a wanton, of HarveyRolfe as a shameless intriguer; but it stung her keenly to think thatfor years there had been this secret between them. Probably the matterwas known to Mrs. Abbott's husband, and so, at his death, it hadsomehow become possible for Harvey to suggest this arrangement, wherebyhe helped the widow in her misfortunes, and provided conscientiouslyfor his own illegitimate children. Harvey was so very conscientiousabout children!

Did they resemble him? She had seen the little girl, but only once, andwithout attention. She would take an early opportunity of going over toGunnersbury, to observe. But no such evidence was necessary; the factsstared one in the face. 

That Harvey should have kept this secret from her was intelligibleenough; most men, no doubt, would have done the same. But it seemed toAlma only another proof of her husband's inability to appreciate her. He had no faith in her as artist; he had no faith in her as woman. Hadshe not felt this even from the very beginning of their intimateacquaintance? Perhaps the first thing that awakened her interest inHarvey Rolfe was the perception that he did not, like other men, admireher unreservedly, that he regarded her with something of criticism. Shecould attract him; she could play upon his senses; yet he remainedcritical. This, together with certain characteristics whichdistinguished him from the ordinary drawing-room man, suggestions offorce and individuality, drew her into singular relations with him longbefore she dreamt that he would become her husband. And his attitudetowards her was unchanged, spite of passionate love-making, spite ofthe tenderness and familiarity of marriage; still he viewed her witheyes of tolerance, rather than of whole-hearted admiration. Hecompared, contrasted her with Mary Abbott, for whose intellect andcharacter he had a sincere respect. Doubtless he fancied that, if thissecret became known to her, she would sulk or storm, after the mannerof ordinary wives. What made him so blind to her great qualities? Wasit that he had never truly loved her? Had it been owing to mere chance, mere drift of circumstances, that he offered her marriage, instead ofthrowing out a proposal such as that of Cyrus Redgrave at Bregenz?

Though but darkly, confusedly, intermittently conscious of the feeling, Alma was at heart dissatisfied with the liberty, the independence, which her husband seemed so willing to allow her. This, again, helpedto confirm the impression that Harvey held her in small esteem. He didnot think it worth while to oppose her; she might go her frivolous way, and he would watch with careless amusement. At moments, it was true, heappeared on the point of ill-humour; once or twice she had thought(perhaps had hoped) that he could lay down the law in masculinefashion; but no--he laughed, and it was over. When, at the time of hermisery in Wales--her dim jealousy of Mrs. Abbott, and revolt againstthe prospect of a second motherhood--she had subdued herself beforehim, spoken and behaved like an everyday dutiful wife, Harvey wouldhave none of it. He wished--was that the reason?--to be left alone, notto be worried with her dependence upon him. That no doubt of herfidelity ever seemed to enter his mind, was capable of anything but acomplimentary interpretation; he simply took it for granted that shewould be faithful--in other words, that she had not spirit ororiginality enough to defy conventional laws. To himself, perhaps, hereserved a much larger liberty. How could she tell where, in whatcompany, his evenings were spent? More than once he had been away fromhome all night--missed the last train, he said. Well, it was nothing toher; but his incuriousness as to her own movements began to affect hersensibly, now that she imagined so close a community of thoughts andinterests between Harvey and Mary Abbott. 

Before his return tonight other letters had arrived for him, and alllay together, as usual, upon his desk. Alma, trying to wear hercustomary face, waited for him to mention that he had heard fromGunnersbury, but Harvey said nothing. He talked, instead, of a letterfrom Basil Morton, who wanted him to go to Greystone in the spring, with wife and child. 

'You mustn't count on me, ' said Alma. 

'But after your concert--recital--whatever you call it; it would be agood rest. '

'Oh, I shall be busier than ever. Mr. Dymes hopes to arrange for me atseveral of the large towns. '

Harvey smiled, and Alma observed him with irritation she could scarcelyrepress. Of course, his smile meant a civil scepticism. 

'By-the-bye, ' he asked, 'is Dymes the comic opera man?'

'Yes. I rather wondered, Harvey, whether you would awake to that fact. He will be one of our greatest composers. '

She went on with enthusiasm, purposely exaggerating Dymes's merits, andprofessing a warm personal regard for him. In the end, Harvey's eye wasupon her, still smiling, but curiously observant. 

'Why hasn't he been here? Doesn't he think it odd that you never askhim?'

'Oh, you know that I don't care to ask people. They are aware'--shelaughed--'that my husband is not musical. '

Harvey's countenance changed. 

'Do you mean that you tell them so?'

'Not in any disagreeable way, of course. It's so natural, now, formarried people to have each their own world. '

'So it is, ' he acquiesced. 

Alma would have gone to Gunnersbury the very next day, but she fearedto excite some suspicion in her husband's mind. He little imagined hercapable of opening his letters, and to be detected in such a squalidmisdemeanour would have overwhelmed her with shame. In a day or two shewould be going to Mrs. Rayner Mann's, to meet a certain musical critic'of great influence', and by leaving home early she could contrive tomake a call upon Mrs. Abbott before lunching at Putney. This she did. She saw little Minnie Wager, scrutinised the child's features, and hadno difficulty whatever in discerning Harvey's eyes, Harvey's mouth. Whyshould she have troubled herself to come? It was very hard to controlher indignation. If Mrs. Abbott thought her rather strange, ratherabrupt, what did it matter?

At Mrs. Rayner Mann's she passed into a soothing and deliciousatmosphere. The influential critic proved to be a very young man, five-and-twenty at most; he stammered with nervousness when firstaddressing the stranger, but soon gave her to understand, more or lesshumorously, that his weekly article was 'quite' the most importantthing in latter-day musical criticism, and that he panted for theopportunity of hearing a new violinist of real promise. But Alma hadnot brought her violin; lest she should make herself cheap, she neverplayed now at people's houses. The critic had to be satisfied withhearing her talk and gazing upon her beauty. Alma was become a veryfluent talker, and her voice had the quality which fixes attention. Atluncheon, whilst half-a-dozen persons lent willing ear, she comparedSarasate's playing of Beethoven's Concerto with that of Joachim, anddeclared that Sarasate's _cadenza_ in the first movement, thoughmarvellous for technical skill, was not at all in the spirit of thework. The influential writer applauded, drawing her on to freshdisplays of learning, taste, eloquence. She had a great deal to sayabout somebody's 'technique of the left hand', of somebody else's'tonal effects', of a certain pianist's 'warmth of touch'. It was atruly musical gathering; each person at table had some exquisite phraseto contribute. The hostess, who played no instrument, but doted uponall, was of opinion that an executant should 'aim at mirroring his ownnature in his interpretation of a tone-poem'; whereupon another ladythrew out remarks on 'subjective interpretation', confessing herpreference for a method purely 'objective'. The influential criticbegan to talk about Liszt, with whom he declared that he had been onintimate terms; he grew fervent over the master's rhapsodies, withtheir 'clanging rhythm and dithyrambic fury'. 

'I don't know when I enjoyed myself so much, ' said Alma gaily, as thegreat young man pressed her hand at parting and avowed himself herdevoted admirer. 

'My dear Mrs. Rolfe, ' said the hostess privately, 'you were simplybrilliant! We are all looking forward so eagerly!'

And as soon as Alma was gone, the amiable lady talked about her to theone remaining guest. 

'_Isn't_ she delightful! I do so hope she will be a success. I'm afraidso much depends upon it. Of course, you know that she is the daughterof Bennet Frothingham? Didn't you know? Yes, and left without afarthing. I suppose it was natural she should catch at an offer ofmarriage, poor girl, but it seems to have been _most_ ill-advised. Onenever sees her husband, and I'm afraid he is anything but kind to her. He _may_ have calculated on her chances as a musician. I am told theyhave little or nothing to depend upon. Do drum up your friends--willyou? It is to be at Prince's Hall, on May the 16th--I think. I feel, don't you know, personally responsible; she would never have come outbut for my persuasion, and I'm so anxious for a success!'

The day drew near for Ada Wellington's debut. Alma met this young lady, but they did not take to each other; Miss Wellington was a trifle'loud', and, unless Alma mistook, felt fiercely jealous of any oneadmired by Felix Dymes. As she could not entertain at their own house(somewhere not far south of the Thames), Mrs. Wellington borrowedDymes's flat for an afternoon, and there, supported by thedistinguished composer, received a strange medley of people whointerested themselves in her daughter's venture. Alma laughed at thearrangement, and asked Dymes if he expected her congratulations. 

'Don't make fun of them, ' said Felix. 'Of course, they're not _your_sort, Alma. But I've known them all my life, and old Wellington did memore than one good turn when I was a youngster. Ada won't make much ofit, but she'll squeeze in among the provincial pros after this sendoff. '

'You really are capable of generosity?' asked Alma. 

'I swear there's nothing between us. There's only one woman living thatI have eyes for--and I'm afraid she doesn't care a rap about me; at allevents, she treats me rather badly. '

This dialogue took place in a drawing-room the evening before MissWellington's day. Alma had declined to meet her agent a second time atthe Apollo Theatre; they saw each other, by arrangement, at this andthat house of common friends, and corresponded freely by post, Dymes'sletters always being couched in irreproachable phrase. Whenever thething was possible, he undisguisedly made love, and Alma bore with itfor the sake of his services. He had obtained promises from fourmusicians of repute to take part in Alma's concert, and declared thatthe terms they asked were lower than usual, owing to their regard forhim. The expenses of the recital, without allowing for advertisements, would amount to seventy or eighty pounds; and Dymes guaranteed that thehall should produce at least that. Alma, ashamed to appear uneasy aboutsuch paltry sums, always talked as though outlay mattered nothing. 

'Don't stint on advertisements, ' she said. 

'No fear! Leave that to me, ' answered Felix, with a smile of infinitemeaning. 

Ada Wellington could not afford to risk much money, and Alma thoughther announcements in the papers worth nothing at all. However, thepianist was fairly successful; a tolerable audience was scrapedtogether (at Steinway Hall), and press notices of a complimentaryflavour, though brief, appeared in several quarters. With keen anxietyAlma followed every detail. She said to herself that if _her_appearance in public made no more noise than this, she would be readyto die of mortification. There remained a fortnight before the ordeal;had they not better begin to advertise at once? Thus she wrote toDymes, who replied by sending her three newspapers, in each of which aparagraph of musical gossip informed the world that Mrs. Harvey Rolfewas about to give her first public violin recital at Prince's Hall. Mrs. Rolfe, added the journalists in varying phrase, was already wellknown to the best musical circles as an amateur violinist, and greatinterest attached to her appearance in public, a step on which she haddecided only after much persuasion of friends and admirers. Alreadythere was considerable demand for tickets, and the audience would mostcertainly be both large and distinguished. Alma laughed with delight. 

The same day, by a later post, she received a copy of a 'society'journal, addressed in a hand unknown to her. Guided by a red pencilmark, she became aware of no less than a quarter of a column devoted toherself. From this she might learn (if she did not already know it)that Mrs. Harvey Rolfe was a lady of the utmost personal and socialcharm; that her beauty was not easily described without the use ofterms that would sound extravagant; that as a violinist she had stoodfor a year or two _facile princeps_ amid lady amateurs; that she hadtill of late lived in romantic seclusion 'amid the noblest scenery ofNorth Wales', for the sole purpose of devoting herself to music; andthat only with the greatest reluctance had she consented to make knownto the public a talent--nay, a genius--which assuredly was 'meant formankind'. She was the favourite pupil of that admirable virtuoso, HerrWilenski. At Prince's Hall, on the sixteenth of May, all lovers ofmusic would have, &c, &c. 

This batch of newspapers Alma laid before dinner on Harvey's desk, andabout an hour after the meal she entered the library. Her husband, smoking and meditating, looked up constrainedly. 

'I have read them, ' he remarked, in a dry tone. 

Alma's coldness during the last few weeks he had explained to himselfas the result of his failure to take interest in her proceedings. Heknew that this behaviour on his part was quite illogical; Alma actedwith full permission, and he had no right whatever to 'turn grumpy'just because he disliked what she was doing. Only today he had rebukedhimself, and meant to make an effort to restore goodwill between them;but these newspaper paragraphs disgusted him. He could not speak as hewished. 

'This is your agent's doing, I suppose?'

'Of course. That is his business. '

'Well, I won't say anything about it. If _you_ are satisfied, I have noright to complain. '

'Indeed, I don't think you have, ' replied Alma, putting severerestraint upon herself to speak calmly. Thereupon she left the room. 

Harvey rose to follow her. He took a step forward--stoodstill--returned to his chair. And they did not see each other againthat night. 

In the morning came a letter from Dymes. He wrote that a certainnewspaper wished for an 'interview' with Mrs. Rolfe, to be publishednext week. Should the interviewer call upon her, and, if so, when?Moreover, an illustrated paper wanted her portrait with the leastpossible delay. Were her new photographs ready? If so, would she sendhim a dozen? Better still if he could see her today, for he hadimportant things to speak of. Might he look for her at Mrs. Littlestone's at about four o'clock?

At breakfast Alma was chatty, but she directed her talk almostexclusively to Pauline Smith and to little Hugh, who now had his placeat table--a merry, sunny-haired little fellow, dressed in a sailorsuit. Harvey also talked a good deal--he, too, with Pauline and thechild. When Alma rose he followed her, and asked her to come into thelibrary for a moment. 

'I'm a curmudgeon, ' he began, facing her with nervous abruptness. 'Forgive me for that foolery last night, will you?'

'Of course, ' Alma replied distantly. 

'No, but in the same spirit, Alma. I'm an ass! I know that if you dothis thing at all, you must do it in the usual way. I wish you successheartily, and I'll read with pleasure every scrap of print that praisesyou. '

'I'm hurrying to town, Harvey. I have to go to the photographer, andsee Mr. Dymes, and all sorts of things. '

'The photographer? I hope they'll be tolerable; I know they won't doyou justice. Will you sit to a painter if I arrange it? Unfortunately, I can't afford Millais, you know; but I want a good picture of you. '

'We'll talk about it, ' she replied, smiling more pleasantly than oflate. 'But I really haven't time now. '

'And you forgive me my idiotics?'

She nodded and was gone. 

In the afternoon she met Dymes at Mrs. Littlestone's, a house of muchsociety, for the most part theatrical. When they had moved aside forprivate talk, he began by asking a brusque question. 

'Who got that notice for you into the _West End_?'

'Why, didn't you?'

'Know nothing about it. Come, who was it?'

'I have no idea. I took it for granted----'

'Look here, Alma, I think I'm not doing badly for you, and the leastyou can do is to be straight with me. '

Alma raised her head with a quick, circuitous glance, then fixed hereyes on the man's heated face, and spoke in an undertone: 'Please, behave yourself, or I shall have to go away. 

'Then you won't tell me? Very well. I chuck up the job. You can run theshow yourself. '

Alma had never looked for delicacy in Felix Dymes, and his motives hadfrom the first been legible to her, but this revelation of brutalitywent beyond anything for which she was prepared. As she saw the manmove away, a feeling of helplessness and of dread overcame her anger. She could not do without him. The only other man active on her behalfwas Cyrus Redgrave, and to seek Redgrave's help at such a juncture, with the explanation that must necessarily be given, would meanabandonment of her last scruple. Of course, the paragraph in the _WestEnd_ originated with him; since Dymes knew nothing about it, it couldhave no other source. Slowly, but very completely, the man of wealthand social influence had drawn his nets about her; at each meeting withhim she felt more perilously compromised; her airs of command servedmerely to disguise defeat in the contest she had recklessly challenged. Thrown upon herself, she feared Redgrave, shrank from the thought ofseeing him. Not that he had touched her heart or beguiled her senses;she hated him for his success in the calculated scheme to which she hadconsciously yielded step by step; but she was brought to the point ofregarding him as inseparable from her ambitious hopes. Till quiterecently her thought had been that, after using him to secure asuccessful debut, she could wave him off, perhaps tell him in plainwords, with a smile of scorn, that they were quits. She now distrustedher power to stand alone. To the hostility of such a man asDymes--certain, save at intolerable cost--she must be able to oppose ahigher influence. Between Dymes and Redgrave there was no hesitating onwhatever score. This advertisement in the fashionable and authoritativeweekly paper surpassed Dymes's scope; his savage jealousy wassufficient proof of that. All she could do for the moment was totemporise with her ignobler master, and the humiliation of such anecessity seemed to poison her blood. 

She rose, talked a little of she knew not what with she knew not whom, and moved towards the hostess, by whom her enemy was sitting. A glancesufficed. As soon as she had taken leave, Dymes followed her. He cameup to her side at a few yards from the house, and they walked together, without speaking, until Alma turned into the first quiet street. 

'I give you my word, ' she began, 'that I know nothing whatever aboutthat paper. '

'I believe you, and I'm sorry I made a row, ' Dymes replied. 'There's noharm done. I dare say I shall be hearing more about it. '

'I have some photographs here, ' said Alma, touching her sealskin bag. 'Will you take them?'

'Thanks. But there's a whole lot of things to be arranged. We can'ttalk here. Let's go to my rooms. '

He spoke as though nothing were more natural. Alma, the blood throbbingat her temples, saw him beckon a crawling hansom. 

'I can't come--now. I have a dreadful headache. '

'You only want to be quiet. Come along. '

The hansom had pulled up. Alma, ashamed to resist under the eyes of thedriver, stepped in, and her companion placed himself at her side. Assoon as they drove away he caught her hand and held it tightly. 

'I can't go to your rooms, ' said Alma, after a useless resistance. 'Myhead is terrible. Tell me whatever you have to say, and then take me toBaker Street Station. I'll see you again in a day or two. '

She did not feign the headache. It had been coming on since she lefthome, and was now so severe that her eyes closed under the torture ofthe daylight. 

'A little rest and you'll be all right, ' said Dymes. 

Five minutes more would bring them to their destination. Alma pulledaway her hand violently. 

'If you don't stop him, I shall. '

'You mean it? As you please. You know what I----'

Alma raised herself, drew the cabman's attention, and bade him drive toBaker Street. There was a short silence, Dymes glaring and mutteringinarticulately. 

'Of course, if you really have a bad headache, ' he growled at length. 

'Indeed I have--and you treat me very unkindly. '

'Hang it, Alma, don't speak like that! As if I _could_ be unkind toyou!'

He secured her hand again, and she did not resist. Then they talked ofbusiness, settled one or two matters, appointed another meeting. Asthey drew near to the station, Alma spoke impulsively, with abewildered look. 

'I shouldn't wonder if I give it up, after all. '

'Rot!' was her companion's amazed exclamation. 

'I might. I won't answer for it. And it would be your fault. '

Stricken with alarm, Dymes poured forth assurances of his goodbehaviour. He followed her down to the platform, and for a quarter ofan hour she had to listen, in torment of mind and body, toremonstrances, flatteries, amorous blandishments, accompanied by thehiss of steam and the roar of trains. 

On reaching home she could do nothing but lie down in the dark. Herhead ached intolerably; and hour after hour, as often happens when thebrain is over-wearied, a strain of music hummed incessantly on her ear, till inability to dismiss it made her cry in half-frenzied wretchedness. 

With sleep she recovered; but through the next day, dull and idle, herthoughts kept such a gloomy colour that she well-nigh brought herselfto the resolve with which she had threatened Felix Dymes. But for theanticipation of Harvey's triumph, she might perhaps have done so. 

CHAPTER 11

For several days she had not touched the violin. There was no time forit. Correspondence, engagements, intrigues, whirled her through thewaking hours and agitated her repose. The newspaper paragraphs resultedin a shower of letters, inquiring, congratulating, offering goodwishes, and all had to be courteously answered, lest the writers shouldtake offence. Invitations to luncheon, to dinner, to midnight 'athomes', came thick and fast. If all this resulted from a fewpreliminary 'puffs' what, Alma asked herself, would be the consequenceof an actual success? How did the really popular musicians contrive toget an hour a day for the serious study of their art? Her severeheadache had left behind it some nervous disorder, not to be shaken offby any effort--a new distress, peculiarly irritating to one who hadalways enjoyed good health. When she wrote, her hand was unsteady, andsometimes her eyes dazzled. This would be alarming if it went on muchlonger; the day approached, the great day, the day of fate, and whathope was there for a violinist who could not steady her hand?

The 'interviewer' called, and chatted for half an hour, and took hisleave with a flourish of compliments. The musicians engaged to playwith her at Prince's Hall's came down to try over pieces, a trio, aduet; so that at last she was obliged to take up her instrument--withresults that did not reassure her. She explained that she was notfeeling quite herself; it was nothing; it would pass in a day or two. Sibyl Carnaby had asked her and Harvey to dine next week, to meetseveral people; Mrs. Rayner Mann had arranged a dinner for anotherevening; and now Mrs. Strangeways, whom she had not seen for some weeks, sent an urgent request that she would call in Porchester Terrace assoon as possible, to speak of something 'very important'. 

This summons Alma durst not disregard. Between Mrs. Strangeways andCyrus Redgrave subsisted an intimacy which caused her frequentuneasiness. It would not have surprised her to discover that thisofficious friend knew of all her recent meetings with Redgrave--at theCrystal Palace and elsewhere; and, but for her innocence, she wouldhave felt herself at the woman's mercy. That she had not transgressed, and was in no danger of transgressing, enabled her to move with headerect among the things unspeakable which always seemed to her to belurking in the shadowed corners of Mrs. Strangeways' house. The day wascoming when she might hope to terminate so undesirable an acquaintance, but for the present she must show a friendly face. 

She made this call at three o'clock, and was received in thatover-scented, over-heated boudoir, which by its atmosphere invariablyturned her thoughts to evil. The hostess rose languidly, with a pallid, hollow-eyed look of illness. 

'Only my neuralgic something or other, ' she said, in reply to asympathetic inquiry. 'It's the price one pays for civilisation. I'vehad two terrible days and nights, but it's over for the present. Butfor that I should have written to you before. Why, _you_ don't lookquite so well as usual. Be careful--do be careful!'

'I mean to be, if people will let me. '

'You have eight days, haven't you? Yes, just eight days. You ought tokeep as quiet as possible. We are all doing our best; but, after all, success depends greatly upon yourself, you know. '

The voice, as always, seemed to fondle her, but Alma's ear detected theusual insincerity. Mrs. Strangeways spoke in much the same way tonumbers of people, yet not quite so caressingly. Some interest sheundoubtedly had to serve by this consistent display of affection, andwith all but certainty Alma divined it. She shrank from the woman; itcost her an unceasing effort not to betray dislike, or even hostility. 

'Of course, you saw last week's _West End_?' pursued the hostess, smiling. 'You know whose doing that was?'

'I only guessed that it _might_ be Mr. Redgrave's kindness. '

'I have the same suspicion. He was here the other day--we talked aboutyou. You haven't seen him since then?'

'No. '

'He hinted to me--just a little anxiety. I hardly know whether I oughtto speak of it. '

Alma looked an interrogation as unconcerned as she could make it, butdid not open her lips. 

'It was with reference to--your man of business. It seems he has heardsomething--I really don't know what--not quite favourable to Mr. Dymes. I shall not offend you, dear?'

'I don't take offence, Mrs. Strangeways, ' Alma answered, with a slightlaugh to cover her uneasiness. 'It's so old-fashioned. '

The hostess uttered a thin trill of merriment. 

'One is always safe with people who have humour, dear. It _does_ makelife easier, doesn't it? Oh, the terrible persons who take everythingwith tragic airs! Well, there's not a bit of harm in it. Betweenourselves, it struck me that our friend was just a little inclined tobe--yes, you understand. '

'I'm afraid I don't. '

'I hate the word--well, just a trifle jealous. '

Alma leaned back in her chair, glanced about her, and said nothing. 

'Of course, he would never allow _you_ to suspect anything of the kind. It will make no difference. You can count upon his utmost efforts. Butwhen one thinks how very much he has it in his power to do----. Thatbit of writing in the _West End_, you know--only the highest influencecan command that kind of thing. The _West End_ can't be bought, Iassure you. And one has to think of the future. A good beginning ismuch, but how many musicians are able to follow it up? My dear Alma, let me implore you not to imagine that you will be able to dispensewith this kind of help. '

'Do you mean that Mr. Redgrave is likely to withdraw it?'

'Impossible for me to say, dear. I am only telling you how hisconversation struck me. He appeared to think--to be apprehensive thatyou might in future look to Mr. Dymes rather than to him. Of course, Icould say nothing--I would not venture a syllable. '

'Of course not, ' Alma murmured mechanically, her eyes wandering. 

'Are you likely, I wonder, to see him in the next few days?'

'I hardly know--I think not. '

'Then let me--will you?--let me contrive a _chance_ meeting here. '

Loathing herself, and burning with hatred of the woman, in whose handsshe felt powerless, Alma gave an assenting nod. 

'I am sure it will be a measure of prudence, dear. I thought possiblyyou might be seeing him at Mrs. Carnaby's. He is there sometimes, Ibelieve?'

Alma looked at the speaker, detecting some special significance in herinquiry. She replied that Redgrave of course called upon Mrs. Carnaby--but not often, she thought. 

'No?' threw out Mrs. Strangeways. 'I fancied he was there a good deal;I don't quite know why. '

'Have you met him there?'

'No. It's quite a long time since I called--one has so many people tosee. '

Alma knew that Sibyl was now holding aloof from Mrs. Strangeways, andit seemed not improbable that this had excited some ill-feeling in thelatter. But her own uneasiness regarding Sibyl's relations withRedgrave, uneasiness never quite subdued; made her quick to note, andeager to explore, any seeming suspicion on that subject in another'smind. Mrs. Strangeways was a lover of scandal, a dangerous woman, unworthy of confidence in any matter whatsoever. Common prudence, tosay nothing of loyalty to a friend, bade Alma keep silence; but thesubtly-interrogating smile was fixed upon her; hints continued to fallupon her ear, and an evil fascination at length compelled her to speak. 

'You know, ' she said, as if mentioning an unimportant piece of news, 'that Mr. Redgrave has joined Mr. Carnaby in business?'

The listener's face exhibited a surprise of which there was nomistaking the sincerity. Her very features seemed to undergo a changeas the smile vanished from them; they became on the instant hard andold, lined with sudden wrinkles, the muscles tense, every lineexpressive of fierce vigilance. 

'In business?--what business?'

'Oh, I thought you would have heard of it. Perhaps Mr. Redgrave doesn'tcare to have it known. '

'My dear, I am discretion itself. '

Everything was told, down to the last detail of which Alma had anyknowledge. As she listened and questioned, Mrs. Strangeways resumed hersmiling manner, but could not regain the perfect self-command withwhich she had hitherto gossiped. That she attached great importance tothis news was evident, and the fact of its being news to her broughtfresh trouble into Alma's thoughts. 

'How very interesting!' exclaimed Mrs. Strangeways at length. 'Anotherinstance of Mr. Redgrave's kindness to his friends. Of course, it wasdone purely out of kindness, and that is why he doesn't speak of it. Quite amusing, isn't it, to think of him as partner in a business ofthat kind. I wonder whether----'

She broke off with a musing air. 

'What were you wondering?' asked Alma, whose agitation increased everymoment, though the seeming tendency of her companion's words was toallay every doubt. 

'Oh, only whether it was _Mr_ Carnaby who first made known hisdifficulties. '

'I am told so. '

'By Mrs. Carnaby? Yes, no doubt it was so. I don't think Mrs. Carnabycould quite have--I mean she is a little reserved, don't you think? Shewould hardly have spoken about it to--to a comparative stranger. '

'But Mr. Redgrave can't be called a stranger, ' said Alma. 'They havebeen friends for a long time. Surely you know that. '

'Friends in _that_ sense? The word has such different meanings. You andMr. Redgrave are friends, but I don't think you would care to tell himif your husband were in difficulties of that kind--would you?'

'But Sibyl--Mrs. Carnaby didn't tell him, ' replied Alma, with nervousvehemence. 

'No, no; we take that for granted. I don't think Mr. Carnaby is--thekind of man----'

'What kind of man?'

'I hardly know him; we have met, that's all. But I should fancy hewouldn't care to know that his wife talked about such things to MrRedgrave or any one else. There _are_ men'--her voice sank, and thepersistent smile became little better than an ugly grin--'there _are_men who don't mind it. One hears stories I shouldn't like to repeat toyou, or even to hint at. But those are very different people from theCarnabys. Then, I suppose, ' she added, with abrupt turn, 'Mr. Carnabyis very often away from home?'

Trying to reply, Alma found her voice obstructed. 

'I think so. '

'How very kind of Mr. Redgrave, wasn't it! Has he spoken about it to_you_?'

'Of course not. '

'Naturally, he wouldn't. --Oh, don't go yet, dear. Why, we have had notea; it isn't four o'clock. Must you really go? Of course, you areoverwhelmed with engagements. But do--do take care of your health. Andremember our little scheme. If Mr. Redgrave could look in--say, the dayafter tomorrow? You shall hear from me in time. I feel--I reallyfeel--that it wouldn't be wise to let him think--you understand me. '

With scarce a word of leave-taking, Alma hastened away. The air of thisroom was stifling her, and the low cooing voice had grown moreintolerable than a clanging uproar. From Porchester Terrace she walkedinto Bayswater Road, her eyes on the pavement. It was a sunnyafternoon, but there had been showers, and now again large spots ofrain began to fall. As she was opening her umbrella, a cabman's voiceappealed to her, and fixed her purpose. She bade him drive her toOxford and Cambridge Mansions. 

Sibyl was not at home. The maid-servant could not say when she mightreturn; she had been absent since yesterday morning. Unable to restrainherself, Alma inquired whether Mr. Carnaby was in town. He was not; hehad been away for several days. 

On the morrow a letter from Sibyl came to Pinner. She was grieved tohear that Alma had called during her absence. Was it anything ofimportance, or would it keep till she and Harvey came to dine onSaturday? 'I have been down to Weymouth--not to enjoy myself, but tosee my mother. She _says_ she is very ill, and thinks it monstrous thatI don't feel inclined to devote myself to the care of her. Her illness, I am sure, is nothing but discontent and bad temper, just because shefeels herself dropping out of society. She must get used to it. In anycase, we could never endure each other; and how can I be expected tomake any sacrifice for a mother who never gave me an hour of motherlycare from the day of my birth? But you know all about this, and don'twant to hear of it again just when you are so busy. If there isanything in the world I can do for you, let me know at once. '

But for her conversation with Mrs. Strangeways, it would not haveoccurred to Alma to doubt the truth of what Sibyl wrote; as it was, shetortured herself with dark surmises. Jealousy without love, a passionscarcely intelligible to the ordinary man, is in woman common enough, and more often productive of disaster than the jealousy whichoriginates in nobler feeling. To suspect that she was the plaything ofSibyl's subtlety, and that Redgrave smiled at her simplicity in neverhaving discovered an obvious rival, fired her blood to the fever point. She could no longer balance probabilities; all the considerations whichhitherto declared for Sibyl's innocence lost their weight. Heroverexcited mind, her impaired health, were readily receptive of suchpoison as distilled from the lips of Mrs. Strangeways. What she nowdesired was proof. Only let evidence be afforded her, cost what itmight! After that, she saw her way. 

No! Hugh Carnaby was assuredly not one of the men who wink at theirwives' dishonour, nor one of the men who go slinking for a remedy tocourts of law--or she mistook him strangely. 

At receipt of the expected note from Porchester Terrace--it saidmerely, 'Pray be here, if possible, at three tomorrow afternoon'--shequivered with anticipation of seeing Redgrave. How it was to comeabout, she did not ask, but Redgrave should not part from her beforeshe had obtained light upon his relations with Sibyl. She believedherself irresistible if she chose to put forth all her power. With twomen, dangerous both of them, she had played the game of her owninterests, played it safely, and for a long time; she made them herinstruments, mocking at their hopes, holding them at arm's-length, inspite of all their craft and their vehemence. Only a very clever womancould do this. In giddiness of self-admiration, she felt everything tobe possible. Boldness was necessary--far more boldness than she had yetdared to use. The rivalry of such a woman as Sibyl could not bedespised; it threatened her ambitions. But in the struggle now to bedecided she had a supreme advantage; for Sibyl, having gained herobject, assuredly had paid its price. Hence her pretended absorption instudy, hence the revival of her friendliness; what were these thingsbut blinds to mislead the only woman whose observation she had muchreason to fear?

How astonishing it now seemed to her that she could have accepted suchshallow explanations of Redgrave's partnership with Hugh Carnaby! Why, Harvey himself, least suspicious of men, was perplexed, and avowed hisinability to understand it. As for Mrs. Strangeways--a woman of theworld, if there was one--the fact had but to be mentioned to her, andon the moment she saw its meaning. No wonder the matter had been keptso quiet. But for the honesty of the duped husband no one at all wouldhave heard of it. 

Arriving at the house a little before her time, she found her hostess aprey to vexation. 

'My dear, he can't come. It's most annoying. Only an hour ago I had atelegram--look----'

The despatch was from Coventry: 'Don't expect me. Detained on business. Redgrave. ' It rustled in Alma's hand, and she had much ado to keepherself from tears of angry chagrin. 

'He had promised to be here, ' went on Mrs. Strangeways. 'I thoughtnothing would have kept him away. '

'Do you mean, ' asked Alma bluntly, 'that he knew I was coming?'

'I had said that I half expected you. Don't be vexed, dear. I did sowish you to meet. '

'If he's at Coventry, ' Alma continued, 'it must be on _that_ business. '

'It seems likely. Do sit down. You still look anything but yourself. Pray, pray remember that you have only a day or two----'

'Don't worry me, please, ' said Alma, with a contemptuous gesture. 

She had thrown off reserve, caring only, now the first step was taken, to make all possible use of this woman whom she detested. Her voiceshowed the change that had been wrought in her; she addressed herhostess almost as though speaking to an inferior. 

'What do you think it means, his keeping away?'

'Business, possibly. More likely--the other thing I spoke of. '

In this reply Mrs. Strangeways modified her tone, discardingmellifluous tenderness, yet not going quite so far as Alma in neglectof appearances. She was an older woman, and had learnt theinjudiciousness of impulsive behaviour. 

'Speak plainly--it saves time. You think he won't care to meet me atall again?'

'I don't say that. I should be very sorry indeed to think it. But--tospeak as plainly as you wish, dear--I know that someone must have saidunpleasant things to him about your--your friendship with Mr. Dymes. '

'Are you hinting at anyone in particular?' Alma asked, salving herself-respect with a poor affectation of haughtiness. 

'Ask yourself, my dear, who is at all likely to give him suchinformation. '

'Information?' Alma's eyes flashed. 'That's a strange word to use. Doyou imagine there is any information of that kind to be given?'

'I spoke carelessly, ' answered the other, smiling. 'Do sit down, dearMrs. Rolfe. I'm sure you will overtax your strength before Tuesday. Imeant nothing whatever, I assure you. '

Reluctantly Alma became seated, and the conversation was prolonged. Without disguise they debated the probability that Redgrave was beingestranged from Alma by Sibyl Carnaby; of course, taking for grantedSibyl's guilt, and presuming that she feared rivalry. From time to timeAlma threw out scornful assertion of her own security; she was bold tothe point of cynicism, and recklessly revealed herself. The otherlistened attentively, still smiling, but without constraint upon herfeatures; at moments she appeared to feel something of admiration. 

'There are several things in your favour, ' she remarked deliberately, when Alma had declared a resolve to triumph at all hazards. 'Aboveall--but one need not mention it. '

'What? I don't understand. '

'Oh, I'm sure you do! You alluded to it the other day. Some women havesuch tiresome husbands. '

The look which accompanied this struck Alma cold. She sat motionless, staring at the speaker. 

'What do you mean? You think that my husband----?'

'I meant only to encourage you, my dear. '

'You think that my husband has less sense of honour than Mr. Carnaby?'

Mrs. Strangeways looked wonderingly at her. 

'How strange you are! Could I have dreamt of saying anything soill-mannered?'

'You implied it!' exclaimed Alma, her voice thrilling on the note ofindignation. 'How dare you so insult me! Is it possible that you havesuch thoughts?'

Overcome by what seemed to her the humour of the situation, MrsStrangeways frankly laughed. 

'I beg your pardon a thousand times, my dear Mrs. Rolfe! I havemisunderstood, I am afraid. You _are_ quite serious? Yes, yes, therehas been a misunderstanding. Pray forgive me. '

Alma rose from her chair. 'There _has_ been a misunderstanding. If youknew my husband--if you had once met him--such a thought could neverhave entered your mind. You compare him to his disadvantage with MrCarnaby? What right have you to do that? I believe in Mr. Carnaby'shonesty, and do you know why?--because he is my husband's friend. Butfor _that_, I should suspect him. '

'My dear, ' replied Mrs. Strangeways, 'you are wonderful. I prophesygreat things for you. I never in my life met so interesting a woman. '

'You may be as sarcastic as you please, ' Alma retorted, in a low, passionate voice. 'I suppose you believe in no one?'

'I have said, dear, that I believe in _you_; and I shall think it thegreatest misfortune if I lose your friendship for a mere indiscretion. Indeed, I was only trying to understand you completely. '

'You do--now. '

They did not part in hostility. Mrs. Strangeways had the best ofreasons for averting this issue, at any cost to her own feelings, whichfor the moment had all but escaped control. Though the complications ofAlma's character puzzled her exceedingly, she knew how to smooth overthe trouble which had so unexpectedly arisen. Flattery was the secretof her influence with Mrs. Rolfe, and it still availed her. Withostentation of frankness, she pointed a contrast between Alma and herpresumed rival. Mrs. Carnaby was the corrupt, unscrupulous woman, whoshrank from nothing to gratify a base selfishness. Alma was the artist, pursuing a legitimate ambition, using, as she had a perfect right todo, all her natural resources, but pure in soul. 

'Yes, I understand you at last, and I admire you more than ever. Youwill go far, my dear. You have great gifts, and, more than that, youhave principle. It is character that tells in the long run. And dependupon me. I shall soon have news for you. Keep quiet; prepare yourselffor next Tuesday. As for all _that_--leave it to me. '

Scarcely had Alma left the house, when she suddenly stood still, asthough she had forgotten something. Indeed she had. In the flush ofloyal resentment which repelled an imputation upon her husband'shonour, she had entirely lost sight of her secret grievance againstHarvey. Suddenly revived, the memory helped her to beat down thatassaulting shame which took advantage of reaction in mind and blood. Harvey was not honest with her. Go as far as she might, short of theunpardonable, there still remained to her a moral superiority over theman she defended. And yet--she was glad to have defended him; it gaveher a sense of magnanimity. More than that, the glow of an honestthought was strangely pleasant. 

She had sundry people to see and pieces of business to transact. What anuisance that she lived so far from the centre of things! It was thisperpetual travelling that had disordered her health, and madeeverything twice as troublesome as it need be. Today, again, she had aheadache, and the scene with Mrs. Strangeways had made it worse. 

In Regent Street she met Dymes. She was not afraid of him now, for shehad learnt how to make him keep his distance; and after the great day, if he continued to trouble her, he might be speedily sent to theright-about. He made an inspiriting report: already a considerablenumber of tickets had been sold--enough, he said, or all but enough, toclear expenses. 

'What, advertising and all?' asked Alma. 

'Oh, leave that to me. Advertising is a work of art. If you like justto come round to my rooms, I'll----'

'Haven't time today. See you at the Hall on Monday. '

A batch of weekly newspapers which arrived next morning, Saturday, proved to her that Dymes was sufficiently active. There were moreparagraphs; there were two reproductions of her portrait; and as foradvertisements, she tried, with some anxiety, to conjecture the cost ofthese liberal slices of page, with their eye-attracting type. Naturallythe same question would occur to her husband, but Harvey kept his word;whatever he thought, he said nothing. And Alma found it easier to begood-humoured with him than at any time since she had read MaryAbbott's letter; perhaps yesterday's event accounted for it. 

They dined at the Carnabys', the first time for months that they haddined from home together. Harvey would have shirked the occasion, hadit been possible. With great relief, he found that the guests were allabsolute strangers to him, and that they represented society in itsbetter sense, with no suggestion of the 'half-world'--no MrsStrangeways or Mrs. Rayner Mann. Alma, equally conscious of the fact, viewed it as a calculated insult. Sibyl had brought her here tohumiliate her. She entered the doors with jealous hatred boiling in herheart, and fixed her eyes on Sibyl with such fire of malicious scrutinythat the answer was a gaze of marked astonishment. But they had noopportunity for private talk. Sibyl, as hostess, bore herself with thatperfect manner which no effort and no favour of circumstance would everenable Mrs. Rolfe to imitate. Envying every speech and every movement, knowing that her own absent behaviour and forced talk must produce anunpleasant impression upon the well-bred strangers, she longed toexpose the things unspeakable that lay beneath this surface of socialbrilliancy. What was more, she would do it when time was ripe. Onlythis consciousness of power to crush her enemy enabled her to bear upthrough the evening. 

At the dinner-table she chanced to encounter Sibyl's look. She smiled. There was disquiet in that glance--furtive inquiry and apprehension. 

No music. Alma would have doubted whether any of these people wereaware of her claim to distinction, had not a lady who talked with herafter dinner hinted, rather than announced, an intention of beingpresent at Prince's Hall next Tuesday. None of the fuss and adulationto which she was grown accustomed; no underbred compliments; noambiguous glances from men. It angered her to observe that Harvey didnot seem at all wearied; that he conversed more naturally than usual ina mixed company, especially with the hostess. One whisper--and howwould Harvey look upon his friend's wife? But the moment had not come. 

She left as early as possible, parting from Sibyl as she had met her, with eyes that scarce dissembled their malignity. 

When Hugh and his wife were left together, Sibyl abstained from remarkon Alma; it was Carnaby who introduced the subject. 'Don't you thinkMrs. Rolfe looked seedy?'

'Work and excitement, ' was the quiet answer. 'I think it more thanlikely she will break down. '

'It's a confounded pity. Why, she has grown old all at once. She'slosing her good looks. Did you notice that her eyes were a littlebloodshot?'

'Yes, I noticed it. I didn't like her look at all. '

Hugh, as his custom was, paced the floor. Nowadays he could not keepstill, and he had contracted an odd habit of swinging his right arm, with fist clenched, as though relieving his muscles after some unusualconstraint. 

'By Jove, Sibyl, when I compare her with you!--I feel sorry for Rolfe;can't help it. Why didn't you stop this silly business before it wentso far?'

'That's a characteristic question, dear boy, ' Sibyl replied merrily. 'There are more things in life--particularly woman's life--than yourphilosophy ever dreamt of. Alma has quite outgrown me, and I begin tosuspect that she won't honour me with her acquaintance much longer. '

'Why?'

'For one thing, we belong to different worlds, don't you see; and thedifference, in future, will be rather considerable. '

'Well, I'm sorry. Rolfe isn't half the man he was. Why on earth didn't_he_ stop it? He hates it, anyone can see. Why, if I were in hisplace----'

Sibyl interrupted with her mellow laughter. 

'You wouldn't be a bit wiser. It's the fate of men--except those whohave the courage to beat their wives. You know you came back to Englandat my heels when you didn't want to. Now, a little energy, a littlepractice with the horsewhip----'

Carnaby made pretence of laughing. But he turned away his face; thejest had too serious an application. Yes, yes, if he had disregardedSibyl's wishes, and stayed on the other side of the world! It seemed tohim strange that she could speak of the subject so lightly; he musthave been more successful than he thought in concealing his true stateof mind. 

'Rolfe tells me he has got a house at Gunnersbury. '

'Yes; he mentioned it to me. Why Gunnersbury? There must be some reasonthey don't tell us. '

'Ask his wife, ' said Hugh, impatiently. 'No doubt the choice is hers. '

'No doubt. But I don't think, ' added Sibyl musingly, 'I shall ask Almathat or anything else. I don't think I care much for Alma in her newdevelopment. For a time I shall try leaving her alone. '

'Well, I'm sorry for poor old Rolfe, ' repeated Hugh. 

CHAPTER 12

On Monday morning Hugh Carnaby received a letter from Mrs. AscottLarkfield. It was years since Sibyl's mother had written to him, andthe present missive, scrawled in an unsteady hand, gave him someconcern. Mrs. Larkfield wrote that she was very ill, so ill that shehad abandoned hope of recovery. She asked him whether, as herson-in-law, he thought it right that she should be abandoned to thecare of strangers. It was the natural result, no doubt, of herimpoverished condition; such was the world; had she still been wealthy, her latter days would not have been condemned to solitude. But let himremember that she still had in her disposal an income of about sixhundred pounds, which, under ordinary circumstances, would have passedto Sibyl; by a will on the point of being executed, this money wouldbenefit a charitable institution. To him this might be a matter ofindifference; she merely mentioned the fact to save Sibyl a possibledisappointment. 

Hugh and his wife, when both had read the letter, exchanged uneasyglances. 

'It isn't the money, ' said Carnaby. 'Hang the money! But--after all, Sibyl, she's your mother. '

'And what does _that_ mean?' Sibyl returned coldly. 'Shall I feel theleast bit of sorrow if she dies? Am I to play the hypocrite justbecause this woman brought me into the world? We have always hated eachother, and whose fault? When I was a child, she left me todirty-minded, thieving servants; they were my teachers, and it'swonderful enough that--that nothing worse came of it. When I grew up, she left me to do as I pleased--anything so that I gave her no trouble. Do you wish me to go and pretend----'

'I tell you what--I'll run down to Weymouth myself, shall I? Perhaps Imight arrange something--for her comfort, I mean. '

Sibyl carelessly assented. Having business in town, Hugh could notstart till afternoon, but he would reach Weymouth by half-past six, andmight manage to be back again in time for Mrs. Rolfe's concert tomorrow. 

'I shouldn't put myself to any inconvenience on that account, ' saidSibyl, smiling. 

'Out of regard for Rolfe, that's all. '

He left home at eleven, transacted his business, and at half-past oneturned in for lunch at a Strand restaurant before proceeding toWaterloo. As he entered, he saw Mrs. Rolfe, alone at one of the tables;she was drawing on her gloves, about to leave. They met with friendlygreeting, though Hugh, from the look with which Mrs. Rolfe recognisedhim, had a conviction that his growing dislike of her was fullyreciprocated. In the brief talk before Alma withdrew, he told her thathe was going down into the country. 

'To Coventry?' she asked, turning her eyes upon him. 

'No; to Weymouth. Mrs. Larkfield is no better, I'm afraid, and--Sibylwants me to see her. '

'Then you won't be back----'

'For tomorrow?--oh yes, I shall certainly be back in time, unlessanything very serious prevents me. There's a good train from Weymouthat 10. 10--gets in about half-past two. I shall easily get to Prince'sHall by three. '

Alma again regarded him, and seemed on the point of saying something, but she turned her head, rose, and rather hastily took leave. Hughremarked to himself that she looked even worse by daylight than in theevening; decidedly, she was making herself ill--perhaps, he added, thebest thing that could happen. 

For his luncheon he had small appetite. The journey before him was anuisance, and the meeting at the end of it more disagreeable thananything he had ever undertaken. What a simple matter life would be, but for women! That Sibyl should detest her mother was perhaps naturalenough, all things considered; but he heartily wished they were onbetter terms. He felt that Sibyl must have suffered in character, tosome extent, by this abnormal antipathy. He did not blame her; herself-defence this morning proved that she had ground for judging hermother sternly; and perhaps, as she declared, only by her own strengthand goodness had she been saved from the worst results of parentalneglect. Hugh did not often meditate upon such things, but just now hefelt impatience and disgust with women who would not care properly fortheir children. Poor old Rolfe's wife, for instance, what business hadshe to be running at large about London, giving concerts, makingherself ill and ugly, whilst her little son was left to a governess andservants! He had half a mind to write a letter to old Rolfe. But no;that kind of thing was too dangerous, even between the nearest friends. Men must not quarrel; women did more than enough of that. Sibyl andAlma had as good as fallen out; the less they saw of each other thebetter. And now he had to face a woman, perhaps dying, who woulddoubtless rail by the hour at her own daughter. 

O heaven! for a breath of air on sea or mountain or prairie! Could hestand this life much longer?

Driving to Waterloo, he thought of Mrs. Larkfield's bequest to thecharitable institution. Six hundred pounds might be a paltry income, but one could make use of it. A year ago, to be sure, he would havefelt more troubled by the loss; at present he had reason to lookforward hopefully, so far as money could represent hope. The cyclebusiness was moving; as likely as not, it would ultimately enrich him. There was news, too, from that fellow Dando in Queensland, who declaredthat his smelting process, gradually improved, had begun to yieldresults, and talked of starting a new company. Hugh's business of themorning had been in this connection: by inquiry in the City he hadlearnt that Dando's report might be relied upon, and that capital whichhad seemingly vanished would certainly yield a small dividend thisyear. He was thankful that he could face Mrs. Larkfield without theshame of interested motives. Let her do what she liked with her money;he went to see the woman merely out of humane feeling, sense of duty;and assuredly no fortune-hunter had ever imposed upon himself a moredistasteful office. 

On alighting at the station, he found that the only coin, other thangold, which he had in his pocket was a shilling. In accordance withusage, he would have given the cabman an extra sixpence, had hepossessed it. When the man saw a tender of his legal fare, he, also inaccordance with usage, broadened his mouth, tossed the coin on hispalm, and pointedly refrained from thanks. At another time Hugh mighthave disregarded this professional suavity, but a little thingexasperated his present mood. 

'Well?' he exclaimed, in a voice that drew the attention of everyonenear. 'Is it your fare or not? Learn better manners, vicious brute!'

Before the driver could recover breath to shout a primitive insult, Hugh walked into the station. Here, whilst his wrath was still hot, aman tearing at full speed to catch a train on another platform bumpedviolently against him. He clenched his fist, and, but for the gaspedapology, might have lost himself in blind rage. As it was, he inwardlycursed railway stations, cursed England, cursed civilisation. Hismuscles were quivering; sweat had started to his forehead. A specialistin nervous pathology would have judged Hugh Carnaby a dangerous personon this Monday afternoon. 

He took his ticket, and, having some minutes to wait, moved towards thebookstall. By his side, as he scanned the papers, stood a lady who hadjust made a purchase; the salesman seemed to have handed herinsufficient change, for she said to him, in a clear, business-likevoice, 'It was half-a-crown that I gave you. '

At the sound of these words, Hugh turned sharply and looked at thespeaker. She was a woman of thirty-five, solidly built, well dressedwithout display of fashion; the upper part of her face was hidden by agrey veil, through which her eyes shone. Intent on recovering hermoney, she did not notice that the man beside her was looking andlistening with the utmost keenness; nor, on turning away at length, wasshe aware that Hugh followed. He pursued her, at a yard's distance, down the platform, and into the covered passage which leads to anotherpart of the station. Here, perhaps because the footstep behind hersounded distinctly, she gave a backward glance, and her veiled eyes metCarnaby's. At once he stepped to her side. 'I don't think I can bemistaken, ' were his low, cautiously-spoken words, whilst he gazed intoher face with stern fixedness. 'You remember me, Mrs. Maskell, nodoubt. '

'I do not, sir. You certainly _are_ mistaken. '

She replied in a voice which so admirably counterfeited a French accentthat Hugh could not but smile, even whilst setting his teeth in angerat her impudence. 

'Oh! that settles it. As you have two tongues, you naturally have twonames--probably more. I happened to be standing by you at the bookstalla moment ago. It's a great bore; I was just starting on a journey; butI must trouble you to come with me to the nearest police station. Youhave too much sense to make any fuss about it. '

The woman glanced this way and that. Two or three people were hurryingthrough the passage, but they perceived nothing unusual. 

'You have a choice, ' said Carnaby, 'between my companionship and thatof the policeman. Make up your mind. '

'I don't think you will go so far as that, Mr. Carnaby, ' said theother, with self-possession and in her natural voice. 

'Why not?'

'Because I can tell you something that will interest you verymuch--something that nobody else can. '

'What do you mean?' he asked roughly. 

'It refers to your wife; that's all I need say just now. '

'You are lying. '

'As you please. Let us go. '

She moved on with unhurried step, and turned towards the nearestcab-rank. Pausing within sight of the vehicles, she looked again at hercompanion. 

'Would you rather have a little quiet talk with me in a four-wheeler, or drive straight to----?'

Hugh's brain was in commotion. The hint of secrets concerning his wifehad not its full effect in the moment of utterance; it sounded thecommon artifice of a criminal. But Mrs. Maskell's cool audacity gavesignificance to her words; the two minutes' walk had made Hugh as muchafraid of her as she could be of him. He stared at her, beset withhorrible doubts. 

'Won't it be a pity to miss your train?' she said, with a friendlysmile. 'I can give you my address. '

'No doubt you can. Look here--it was a toss-up whether I should let yougo or not, until you said _that_. If you had begged off, ten to one Ishould have thought I might as well save myself trouble. But after thatcursed lie----'

'That's the second time you've used the word, Mr. Carnaby. I'm notaccustomed to it, and I shouldn't have thought you would speak in thatway to a lady. '

He was aghast at her assurance, which, for some reason, made him onlythe more inclined to listen to her. He beckoned a cab. 

'Where shall we drive to?'

'Say Clapham Junction. '

They entered the four-wheeler, and, as soon as it began to move out ofthe station, Mrs. Maskell leaned back. Her claim to be considered alady suffered no contradiction from her look, her movements, or herspeech; throughout the strange dialogue she had behaved with remarkableself-command, and made use of the aptest phrases without a sign ofeffort. In the years which had elapsed since she filled the position ofhousekeeper to Mrs. Carnaby, she seemed to have gained in the externalsof refinement; though even at that time her manners were noticeablygood. 

'Raise your veil, please, ' said Hugh, when he had pulled up the secondwindow. 

She obliged him, and showed a face of hard yet regular outline, whichwould have been almost handsome but for its high cheek-bones and coarselips. 

'And you have been going about all this time, openly?'

'With discretion. I am not perfect, unfortunately. Rather than losesixpence at the bookstall, I forgot myself. That's a woman's weakness;we don't easily get over it. '

'What put it into your head to speak of my wife?'

'I had to gain time, had I not?'

In a sudden burst of wrath, Hugh banged the window open; but, before hecould call to the cabman, a voice sounded in his ear, a clear quickwhisper, the lips that spoke all but touching him. 

'Do you know that your wife is Mr. Redgrave's mistress?'

He fell back. There was no blood in his face; his eyes stared hideously. 

'Say that again, and I'll crush the life out of you!'

'You look like it, but you won't. My information is too valuable. '

'It's the vilest lie ever spoken by whore and thief. '

'You are not polite, Mr. Carnaby. '

She still controlled herself, but in fear, as quick glances showed. Andher fear was not unreasonable; the man glared murder. 

'Stop that, and tell me what you have to say. '

Mrs. Maskell raised the window again. 

'You have compelled me, you see. It's a pity. I don't want to maketrouble. '

'What do you know of Redgrave?'

'I keep house for him at Wimbledon. '

'You?'

'Yes. I have done so for about a year. '

'And does he know who you are?'

'Well--perhaps not quite. He engaged me on the Continent. A friend ofhis (and of mine) recommended me, and he had reason to think I shouldbe trustworthy. Don't misunderstand me. I am housekeeper--_rien deplus_. It's a position of confidence. Mr. Redgrave--but you know him. '

The listener's face was tumid and discoloured, his eyes bloodshot. Withfearful intensity he watched every movement of Mrs. Maskell's features. 

'How do you know I know him?'

'You've been at his place. I've seen you, though you didn't see me; andbefore I saw you I heard your voice. One remembers voices, you know. '

'Go on. What else have you seen or heard?'

'Mrs. Carnaby has been there too. '

'I know that!' Hugh shouted rather than spoke. 'She was there with MrsFenimore--Redgrave's sister--and several other people. '

'Yes; last summer. I caught sight of her as she was sitting in theveranda, and it amused me to think how little she suspected who waslooking at her. But she has been there since. '

'When?'

Mrs. Maskell consulted her memory, and indicated a day in the pastwinter. She could not at this moment recall the exact date, but had anote of it. Mrs. Carnaby came at a late hour of the evening, and leftvery early the next day. 

'How are you going to make this lie seem probable?' asked Hugh, achange of voice betraying the dread with which he awaited her answer;for the time of which she spoke was exactly that when Redgrave hadoffered himself as a partner in the firm of Mackintosh & Co. 'Do youwant me to believe that she came and went so that every one could seeher?'

'Oh no. I was new to the place then, and full of curiosity. I have myown ways of getting to know what I wish to know. Remember, once more, that it's very easy to recognise a voice. I told you that I was in aposition of confidence. Whenever Mr. Redgrave wishes for quietness, hehas only to mention it; our servants are well disciplined. I, ofcourse, am never seen by visitors, whoever they may be, and wheneverthey come; but it happens occasionally that I see _them_, even when Mr. Redgrave doesn't think it. Still, he is sometime very careful indeed, and so he was on that particular evening. You remember that his roomshave French windows--a convenient arrangement. The front door may belocked and bolted, but people come and go for all that. '

'That's the bungalow, is it?' muttered Carnaby. 'And how often do youpretend you have heard _her_ voice?'

'Only that once. '

It was worse than if she had answered 'Several times. ' Hugh looked longat her, and she bore his gaze with indifference. 

'You don't pretend that you _saw_ her?'

'No, I didn't see her. '

'Then, if you are not deliberately lying, you have made a mistake. '

Mrs. Maskell smiled and shook her head. 

'What _words_ did you hear?'

'Oh--talk. Nothing very particular. '

'I want to know what it was. '

'Well, as far as I could make out, Mrs. Carnaby was going to get abicycle, and wanted to know what was the best. Not much harm in that, 'she added, with a silent laugh. 

Hugh sat with his hands on his knees, bending forward. He said nothingfor a minute or two, and at length looked to the window. 

'You were going back to Wimbledon?'

'Yes. I have only been in town for an hour or two. '

'Is Redgrave there?'

'No; he's away. '

'Very well; I am going with you. You will find out for me on what datethat happened. '

'Certainly. But what is the understanding between us?'

Hugh saw too well that any threat would be idle. Whether this woman hadtold the truth or not, her position in Redgrave's house, and the factof Redgrave's connection with the firm of Mackintosh--of which sheevidently was not aware--put it in her power to strike a fatal blow atSibyl. He still assured himself that she was lying--how doubt it andmaintain his sanity?--but the lie had a terrible support incircumstances. Who could hear this story without admitting theplausibility of its details? A man such as Redgrave, wealthy and abachelor; a woman such as Sibyl, beautiful, fond of luxurious living;her husband in an embarrassed position--how was it that he, a man ofthe world, had never seen things in this light? Doubtless his anxietyhad blinded him; that, and his absolute faith in Sibyl, and Redgrave'sfrank friendliness. Even if he obtained (as he would) complete evidenceof Sibyl's honesty, Mrs. Maskell could still dare him to take a stepagainst her. How many people were at her mercy? He might be sure thatshe would long ago have stood in the dock but for her ability to makescandalous and ruinous revelations. Did Redgrave know that he had ahigh-class criminal in his employment? Possibly he knew it well enough. There was no end to the appalling suggestiveness of this discovery. Hugh remembered what he had said in talk with Harvey Rolfe about therottenness of society. Never had he felt himself so much a coward as inface of this woman, whose shameless smile covered secrets and infamiesinnumerable. 

The cabman was bidden drive on to Wimbledon, and, with long pauses, thedialogue continued for an hour. Hugh interrogated and cross-examinedhis companion on every matter of which she could be induced to speak, yet he learned very little in detail concerning either her own life orRedgrave's; Mrs. Maskell was not to be driven to any disclosure beyondwhat was essential to her own purpose. By dint of skilful effronteryshe had gained the upper hand, and no longer felt the least fear of him. 

'If I believed you, ' said Carnaby, at a certain point of theirconversation, 'I should have you arrested straight away. It wouldn'tmatter to me how the thing came out; it would be public property beforelong. '

'Where would you find your witnesses?' she asked. 'Leave me alone, andI can be of use to you as no one else can. Behave shabbily, and youonly make yourself look foolish, bringing a charge against your wifethat you'll never be able to prove. You would get no evidence from me. Whether you want it kept quiet or want to bring it into court, youdepend upon my goodwill. '

They reached the end of the road in which was the approach toRedgrave's house. 

'You had better wait here, ' said the woman. 'I shall be ten minutes ora quarter of an hour. You needn't feel uneasy; I haven't the leastintention of running away. Our interests are mutual, and if you do yourpart you can trust me to do mine. '

She stopped the cab, alighted, told the driver to wait, and walkedquickly down the by-road. Hugh, drawn back into a corner, sat with headdrooping; for a quarter of an hour he hardly stirred. Twenty minutes, thirty minutes, passed, but Mrs. Maskell did not show herself. Atlength, finding it impossible to sit still any longer, he sprang out, and paced backwards and forwards. Vastly to his relief, the woman atlength appeared. 

'He is there, ' she said. 'I couldn't get away before. '

'Is he alone?'

'Yes. Don't do anything foolish. ' Carnaby had looked as if he wouldmove towards the house. 'The slightest imprudence, and you'll only harmyourself. '

'Tell me that date. '

She named it. 

'I can't stay longer, and I advise you to get away. If you want towrite to me, you can do so without fear; my letters are quite safe. Address to Mrs. Lant. And remember----!'

With a last significant look she turned and left him. Hugh, mentallyrepeating the date he had learnt, walked back to the cab, and told theman to drive him to the nearest railway station, whichever it was. 

When he reached home, some four hours had elapsed since his encounterwith Mrs. Maskell (or Mrs. Lant) at Waterloo; it seemed to him a wholeday. He had forgotten all about his purposed journey to Weymouth. Onesole desire had possession of him to stand face to face with Sibyl, andto _see_ her innocence, rather than hear it, as soon as he had broughthis tongue to repeat that foul calumny. He would then know how to dealwith the creature who thought to escape him by slandering his wife. 

He let himself in with his latchkey, and entered the drawing-room; itwas vacant. He looked into other rooms; no one was there. He rang, anda servant came. 

'Has Mrs. Carnaby been out long?'

She had left, was the reply, at half-past two. Whilst she sat atluncheon a telegram arrived for her, and, soon after, she prepared togo out, saying that she would not return tonight. 

Not return tonight? Hugh scarcely restrained an exclamation, and hadmuch ado to utter his next words. 

'Did she mention where she was going?'

'No, sir. I took the dressing-bag down to the cab, and the cabman wastold to drive to the post-office. '

'Very well. That will do. '

'Shall you dine at home, sir?'

'Dine? No. '

Sibyl gone away for the night? Where could she have gone to? He beganto look about for the telegram she had received; it might be lyingsomewhere, and possibly would explain her departure. In the waste-paperbasket he found the torn envelope lying at the top; but the despatchitself was not to be discovered. 

Gone for the night? and just when he was supposed to have left town?The cabman told to drive to the post-office? This might be for thepurpose of despatching a reply. Yet no; the reply would have beenwritten at once and sent by the messenger in the usual way. Unless--unless Sibyl, for some reason, preferred to send the messagemore privately? Or again, she might not care to let the servant knowwhither the cab was really to convey her. 

Sheer madness, all this. Had not Sibyl fifty legitimate ways ofspending a night from home? Yet there was the fact that she had neverbefore done so unexpectedly. Never before----?

He looked at his watch; half-past six. He rang the bell again. 

'Has any one called since Mrs. Carnaby left home?'

'Yes, sir; there have been three calls. Mrs. Rolfe----'

'Mrs. Rolfe?'

'Yes, sir. She seemed very disappointed. I told her Mrs. Carnaby wouldnot be back tonight. '

'And the others?'

Two persons of no account. Hugh dismissed them, and the servant, with awave of the hand. 

He felt a faintness such as accompanies extreme hunger, but had noinclination for food. The whisky bottle was a natural resource; atumbler of right Scotch restored his circulation, and in a few minutesgave him a raging appetite. He could not eat here; but eat he must, andthat quickly. Seizing his hat, he ran down the stairs, hailed a hansom, and drove to the nearest restaurant he could think of. 

After eating without knowledge of the viands, and drinking a bottle ofclaret in like unconsciousness, he smoked for half an hour, his eyesvacantly set, his limbs lax and heavy, as though in the torpor ofdifficult digestion. When the cigar was finished, he roused himself, looked at the time, and asked for a railway guide. There was a train toWimbledon at ten minutes past eight; he might possibly catch it. Starting into sudden activity, he hastily left the restaurant, andreached Waterloo Station with not a moment to spare. 

At Wimbledon he took a cab, and was driven up the hill. Under a cloudedsky, dusk had already changed to darkness; the evening was warm andstill. Impatient with what he thought the slow progress of the vehicle, Hugh sat with his body bent forward, straining as did the horse, onwhich his eyes were fixed, and perspiring in the imaginary effort. Theaddress he had given was Mrs. Fenimore's; but when he drew near hesignalled to the driver: 'Stop at the gate. Don't drive up. '

From the entrance to Mrs. Fenimore's round to the by-road which was thedirect approach to Redgrave's bungalow would be a walk of some tenminutes. Hugh had his reasons for not taking this direction. Havingdismissed his cab, he entered by the lodge-gate, and walked up thedrive, moving quickly, and with a lighter step than was natural to him. When he came within view of the house, he turned aside, and made hisway over the grass, in the deep shadow of leafy lime-trees, until theillumined windows were again hidden from him. He had seen no one, andheard no sound. A path which skirted the gardens would bring him in afew minutes to Redgrave's abode; this he found and followed. 

The bungalow was built in a corner of the park where previously hadstood a gardener's cottage; round about it grew a few old trees, and ontwo sides spread a shrubbery, sheltering the newly-made lawn andflower-beds. Here it was very dark; Hugh advanced cautiously, stoppingnow and then to listen. He reached a point where the front of the housebecame visible. A light shone at the door, but there was no movement, and Hugh could hear only his own hard breathing. 

He kept behind the laurels, and made a half-circuit of the house. Onpassing to the farther side, he would come within view of those windowswhich opened so conveniently, as Mrs. Maskell had said--the windows ofRedgrave's sitting-room, drawing-room, study, or whatever he called it. To this end it was necessary to quit the cover of the shrubs and crossa lawn. As he stepped on to the mown grass, his ear caught a sound, thesound of talking in a subdued tone; it came, he thought, from that sideof the building which he could not yet see. A few quick silent steps, and this conjecture became a certainty: someone was talking within afew yards of him, just round the obstructing corner, and he felt surethe voice was Redgrave's. It paused; another voice made reply, but inso low a murmur that its accents were not to be recognised. That it wasthe voice of a woman the listener had no doubt. Spurred by a chokinganguish, he moved forward. He saw two figures standing in a dim lightfrom the window-door--a man and a woman; the man bareheaded, hiscompanion in outdoor clothing. At the same moment he himself wasperceived. He heard a hurried 'Go in!' and at once the womandisappeared. 

Face to face with Redgrave, he looked at the window; but the curtainwhich dulled the light from within concealed everything. 

'Who was that?'

'Why--Carnaby? What the deuce----?'

'Who was _that_?'

'Who?--what do you mean?'

Carnaby took a step; Redgrave laid an arresting hand upon him. Thereneeded but this touch. In frenzied wrath, yet with the precision oftrained muscle, Hugh struck out; and Redgrave went down beforehim--thudding upon the door of the veranda like one who falls dead. 

CHAPTER 13

He forced the window; he rushed into the room, and there before him, pallid, trembling, agonising, stood Alma Rolfe. 

'You?'

She panted incoherent phrases. She was here to speak with Mr. Redgraveon business--about her concert tomorrow. She had not entered the houseuntil this moment. She had met Mr. Redgrave in the garden----

'What is that to me?' broke in Hugh, staring wildly, his fist stillclenched. 'I am not your husband. '

'Mr. Carnaby, you _will_ believe me? I came for a minute or two--tospeak about----'

'It's nothing to me, Mrs. Rolfe, ' he again interrupted her, in ahoarse, faint voice. 'What have I done?' He looked to the window, whence came no sound. 'Have I gone mad? By God, I almost fear it!'

'You believe me, Mr. Carnaby?' She moved to him and seized his hand. 'You know me too well--you know I couldn't--say you believe me! Say onekind, friendly word!'

She looked distracted. Clinging to his hand, she burst into tears. ButHugh hardly noticed her; he kept turning towards the window, with eyesof unutterable misery. 

'Wait here; I'll come back. '

He stepped out from the window, and saw that Redgrave lay just where hehad fallen--straight, still, his face turned upwards. Hugh stooped, andmoved him into the light; the face was deathly--placid, but for itswide eyes, which seemed to look at his enemy. No blood upon the lips;no sign of violence. 

'Where did I hit him? He fell with his head against something, Isuppose. '

From the parted lips there issued no perceptible breath. A fear, whichwas more than half astonishment, took hold upon Carnaby. He lookedup--for the light was all at once obstructed--and saw Alma gazing athim. 

'What is it?' she asked in a terrified whisper. 'Why is he lying there?'

'I struck him--he is unconscious. '

'Struck him?'

He drew her into the room again. 

'Mrs. Rolfe, I shall most likely have to send for help. You mustn't beseen here. It's nothing to me why you came--yes, yes, I believeyou--but you must go at once. '

'You won't speak of it?'

Her appeal was that of a child, helpless in calamity. Again she caughthis hand, as if clinging for protection. Hugh replied in thick, hurriedtones. 

'I have enough trouble of my own. This is no place for you. For yourown sake, if not for your husband's, keep away from here. I camebecause someone was telling foul lies--the kind of lies that drive aman mad. Whatever happens--whatever you hear--don't imagine that _she_is to blame. You understand me?'

'No word shall ever pass my lips!'

'Go at once. Get home as soon as you can. '

Alma turned to go. Outside, she cast one glance at the dark, silent, unmoving form, then bowed her head, and hastened away into the darkness. 

Again Hugh knelt by Redgrave's side, raised his head, listened for thebeating of his heart, tried to feel his breath. He then dragged himinto the room, and placed him upon a divan; he loosened the fasteningsabout his neck; the head drooped, and there was not a sign of life. Next he looked for a bell; the electric button caught his eye, and hepressed it. To prevent any one from coming in, he took his stand closeby the door. In a moment there was a knock, the door opened, and heshowed his face to the surprised maid-servant. 

'Is Mrs. Lant in the house?'

'Yes, sir. '

'Mr. Redgrave wants her at once; he is ill. '

The servant vanished. Keeping his place at the door, and looking outinto the hall, Hugh, for full two minutes, heard no movement; then hewas startled by a low voice immediately behind him. 

'What are you doing here?'

The housekeeper, who had entered from the garden, and approached inperfect silence, stood gazing at him; not unconcerned, but with fullcommand of herself. 

'Look!' he replied, pointing to the figure on the divan. 'Is he onlyinsensible--or dead?'

She stepped across the room, and made a brief examination by themethods Carnaby himself had used. 

'I never saw any one look more like dead, ' was her quiet remark. 'Whathave you been up to? A little quiet murder?'

'I met him outside. We quarrelled, and I knocked him down. '

'And why are you here at all?' asked the woman, with fierce eyes, though her voice kept its ordinary level. 

'Because of you and your talk--curse you! Can't you do something? Getsome brandy; and send someone for a doctor. '

'Are you going to be found here?' she inquired meaningly. 

Hugh drew a deep breath, and stared at the silent figure. For aninstant his face showed irresolution; then it changed, and he saidharshly--'Yes, I am. Do as I told you. Get the spirits, and sendsomeone--sharp!'

'Mr. Carnaby, you're a great blundering thickhead--if you care for myopinion of you. You deserve all you've got and all you'll get. '

Hugh again breathed deeply. The woman's abuse was nothing to him. 

'Are you going to do anything!' he said. 'Or shall I ring for someoneelse?'

She left the room, and speedily returned with a decanter of brandy. Alltheir exertions proved useless; the head hung aside, the eyes stared. In a few minutes Carnaby asked whether a doctor had been sent for. 

'Yes. When I hear him at the door I shall go away. You came hereagainst my advice, and you've made a pretty job of it. Well, you'llalways get work at a slaughter-house. '

Her laugh was harder to bear than the words it followed. Hugh, with aterrible look, waved her away from him. 

'Go--or I don't know what I may do next. Take yourself out of mysight!--out!'

She gave way before him, backing to the door; there she laughed again, waved her hand in a contemptuous farewell, and withdrew. 

For half an hour Carnaby stood by the divan, or paced the room. Once ortwice he imagined a movement of Redgrave's features, and bent to regardthem closely; but in truth there was no slightest change. Within doorsand without prevailed unbroken silence; not a step, not a rustle. Theroom seemed to grow intolerably hot. Wiping the sweat from hisforehead, Hugh went to the window and opened it a few inches; a scentof vegetation and of fresh earth came to him with the cool air. Henoticed that rain had begun to fall, large drops pattering softly onleaves and grass and the roof of the veranda. Then sounded the rollingof carriage wheels, nearer and nearer. It was the doctor's carriage, nodoubt. 

Uncertainty soon came to an end. Cyrus Redgrave was beyond help: hemust have breathed his last--so said the doctor--at the moment when hefell. Not as a result of the fall; the blow of Carnaby's fist hadkilled him. There is one stroke which, if delivered with sufficientaccuracy and sufficient force, will slay more surely than any other: itis the stroke which catches an uplifted chin just at the right angle todrive the head back and shatter the spinal cord. This had plainlyhappened. The man's neck was broken, and he died on the spot. 

Carnaby and the doctor stood regarding each other. They spoke insubdued voices. 

'It was not a fight, you say?'

'One blow from me, that was all. He said something that maddened me. '

'Shall you report yourself?'

'Yes. Here is my card. '

'A sad business, Mr. Carnaby, Can I be of any use to you?'

'You can--though I hesitate to ask it. Mrs. Fenimore should be told atonce. I can't do that myself. '

'I know Mrs. Fenimore very well. I will see her--if she is at home. '

On this errand the doctor set forth. As soon as he was gone, Hugh rangthe bell; the same domestic as before answered it, and again he askedfor Mrs. Lant. He waited five minutes; the servant came back, sayingthat Mrs. Lant was not in the house. This did not greatly surprise him, but he insisted on a repetition of the search. Mrs. Lant could not befound. Evidently her disappearance was a mystery to this young woman, who seemed ingenuous to the point of simple-mindedness. 

'You are not to go into that room, ' said Hugh. (They were talking inthe hall. ) 'The doctor will return presently. '

And therewith he left the house. But not the grounds; for in rain anddarkness he stood watching from a place of concealment, watching at thesame time Redgrave's curtained window and the front entrance. Hispatience was not overtaxed. There sounded an approaching vehicle; itcame up the drive and stopped at the front door, where at once alightedthe doctor and a lady. Hugh's espial was at an end. As the two steppedinto the house he walked quickly away. 

Yes, he would 'report himself', but not until he had seen Sibyl. Tothat end he must go home and wait there. The people at Wimbledon, whodoubtless would communicate with the police, might cause him to bearrested before his wife's return. He feared this much more than whatwas to follow. Worse than anything that could befall him would be tolose the opportunity of speaking in private with Sibyl before she knewwhat had happened. 

In the early hours of the morning he lay down upon his bed and hadsnatches of troubled sleep. Knowing that he was wrong in the particularsurmise which led him to Redgrave's house, Sibyl's absence no longerdisturbed him with suspicions; a few hours would banish from his mindthe last doubt of her, if any really remained. He had played themadman, bringing ruin upon himself and misery incalculable upon hiswife, just because that thieving woman lied to him. She, of course, hadmade her speedy escape; and was it not as well? For, if the whole storybecame known, what hope was there that Sibyl would come out of it withuntarnished fame? Merely for malice' sake, the woman would repeat andmagnify her calumnies. If she successfully concealed herself, it mightbe possible to avoid a mention of Sibyl's name. He imagined variousdevices for this purpose, his brain plotting even when he slept. 

To Alma Rolfe he gave scarcely a thought. If the worst were true ofher, Rolfe had only to thank his own absurdity, which allowed such aconceited simpleton to do as she chose. The case looked black againsther. Well, she had had her lesson, and in _that_ quarter could come tono more harm. What sort of an appearance was she likely to make atPrince's Hall today?--feather-headed fool!

Before five o'clock the sunlight streamed into his bedroom. Sparrowstwittered about the window, and somewhere close by, perhaps in aneighbour's flat, a caged throstle piped as though it were in thefields. Then began the street noises, and Hugh could lie still nolonger. Remembering that at any moment his freedom might come to anend, he applied himself to arranging certain important matters. Thehousemaid came upon him with surprise; he bade her get breakfast, and, when the meal was ready, partook of it with moderate appetite. 

The postman brought letters; nothing of interest for him, and for Sibylonly an envelope which, as one could feel, contained a mere card ofinvitation. But soon after nine o'clock there arrived a telegram. Itwas from Sibyl herself, and--from Weymouth. 

'Why are you not here? She died yesterday. If this reaches you, replyat once. '

He flung the scrap of paper aside and laughed. Of all naturalexplanations, this, of course, had never occurred to him. Yesterday'stelegram told of Mrs. Larkfield's serious condition, and Sibyl hadstarted at once for Weymouth, expecting to meet him there. One word ofhers to the servant and he would simply have followed her. But Sibylsaw no necessity for that word. She was always reserved with domestics. 

By the messenger, he despatched a reply. He would be at Weymouth assoon as possible. 

He incurred the risk of appearing to run away; but that matteredlittle. Sibyl could hardly return before her mother's burial, and bygoing yonder to see her he escaped the worse danger, probably thecertainty, of arrest before any possible meeting with her in London. Dreading this more than ever, he made ready in a few minutes; thetelegraph boy had hardly left the building before Hugh followed. Aglance at the timetables had shown him that, if he travelled by theGreat-Western, he could reach Weymouth at five minutes past four;whereas the first train he could catch at Waterloo would not bring himto his destination until half an hour later; on the other hand, hecould get away from London by the South-Western forty minutes soonerthan by the other line, and this decided him. Yesterday, Waterloo hadbeen merely the more convenient station on account of his business intown; today he chose it because he had to evade arrest on a charge ofhomicide. So comforted was he by the news from Sibyl, that he couldreflect on this joke of destiny, and grimly smile at it. 

At the end of his journey he betook himself to an hotel, andimmediately sent a message to Sibyl. Before her arrival he hadswallowed meat and drink. He waited for her in a private room, whichlooked seaward. The sight of the blue Channel, the smell of saltbreezes, made his heart ache. He was standing at the window, watching asteamer that had just left port, when Sibyl entered; he turned andlooked at her in silence. 

'What are these mysterious movements?' she asked, coming forward with asmile. 'Why did you alter your mind yesterday?'

'I wasn't well. '

He could say nothing more, yet. Sibyl's face was so tranquil, and sheseemed so glad to rejoin him, that his tongue refused to utter anyalarming word; and the more he searched her countenance, the moredetestable did it seem that he should insult her by the semblance of adoubt. 

'Not well? Indeed, you look dreadfully out of sorts. How long had Ibeen gone when you got home again?'

'An hour or two. But tell me first about your mother. She died beforeyou came?'

'Very soon after they sent the telegram. '

Gravely, but with no affectation of distress, she related thecircumstances; making known, finally, that Mrs. Larkfield had diedintestate. 

'You are quite sure of that?' asked Hugh, with an eagerness whichsurprised her. 

'Quite. Almost with her last breath she talked about it, and said thatshe _must_ make her will. And she had spoken of it several timeslately. The people there knew all about her affairs. She kept puttingit off--and as likely as not she wished the money to be mine, afterall. I am sure she must have felt that she owed me something. '

Carnaby experienced a profound relief. Sibyl was now provided for, whatever turn his affairs might take. She had seated herself by thewindow, and, with her gloved hands crossed upon her lap, was gazingabsently towards the sea. How great must be _her_ relief! thought Hugh. And still he looked at her smooth, pure features; at her placid eyes, in which, after all, he seemed to detect a little natural sadness; andthe accusation in his mind assumed so grotesque an incredibility thathe asked himself how he should dare to hint at it. 

'Sibyl----'

'Isn't there something you haven't told me?' she said, regarding himwith anxiety, when he had just uttered her name and then averted hislook. 'I never saw you look so ill. '

'Yes, dear, there is something. '

It was not often he spoke so gently. Sibyl waited, one of her handsclasping the other, and her lips close set. 

'I was at Wimbledon last night--at Redgrave's. '

He paused again, for the last word choked him. Unless it were a tremorof the eyelids, no movement betrayed itself in Sibyl's features; yettheir expression had grown cold, and seemed upon the verge of adisdainful wonder. The pupils of her eyes insensibly dilated, as thoughto challenge scrutiny and defy it. 

'What of that?' she said, when his silence urged her to speak. 

'Something happened between us. We quarrelled. '

Her lips suddenly parted, and he heard her quick breath; but the lookthat followed was of mere astonishment, and in a moment, before shespoke, it softened in a smile. 

'This is your dreadful news? You quarrelled--and he is going towithdraw from the business. Oh, my dear boy, how ridiculous you are! Ithought all sorts of horrible things. Were you afraid I should make anoutcry? And you have worried yourself into illness about _this_? Oh, foolish fellow!'

Before she ceased, her voice was broken with laughter--a laugh ofextravagant gaiety, of mocking mirth, that brought the blood to herface and shook her from head to foot. Only when she saw that herhusband's gloom underwent no change did this merriment cease. Then, with abrupt gravity, which was almost annoyance, her eyes shining withmoisture and her cheeks flushed, she asked him----

'Isn't that it?'

'Worse than that, ' Hugh answered. 

But he spoke more freely, for he no longer felt obliged to watch hercountenance. His duty now was to soften the outrage involved inrepeating Mrs. Maskell's fiction by making plain his absolute faith inher, and to contrive his story so as to omit all mention of a thirdperson's presence at the fatal interview. 

'Then do tell me and have done!' exclaimed Sibyl, almost petulantly. 

'We quarrelled--and I struck him--and the blow was fatal. '

'Fatal?--you mean he was killed?'

The blood vanished from her face, leaving pale horror. 

'A terrible accident--a blow that happened to--I couldn't believe ittill the doctor came and said he was dead. '

'But tell me more. What led to it? How could you strike Mr. Redgrave?'

Sibyl had all at once subdued her voice to an excessive calmness. Herhands were trembling; she folded them again upon her lap. Every line ofher face, every muscle of her body, declared the constraint in whichshe held herself. This, said Hugh inwardly, was no more than he hadexpected; disaster made noble proof of Sibyl's strength. 

'I'll tell you from the beginning. '

He recounted faithfully the incidents at Waterloo Station, and thebeginning of Mrs. Maskell's narrative in the cab. At the disclosure ofher relations with Redgrave, he was interrupted by a short, hard laugh. 

'I couldn't help it, Hugh. That woman!--why, you have always said youwere sure to meet her somewhere. Housekeeper at Mr. Redgrave's! We knowwhat the end of that would be!'

Sibyl talked rapidly, in an excited chatter--the kind of utterancenever heard upon her lips. 

'It was strange, ' Hugh continued. 'Seems to have been mere chance. Thenshe began to say that she had learnt some of Redgrave's secrets--aboutpeople who came and went mysteriously. And then--Sibyl, I can't speakthe words. It was the foulest slander that she could have invented. Shemeant to drive me mad, and she succeeded--curse her!'

Drops of anguish stood upon his forehead. He sprang up and crossed theroom. Turning again, he saw his wife gazing at him, as if in utmostperplexity. 

'Hugh, I don't in the least understand you. What _was_ the slander?Perhaps I am stupid--but----'

He came near, but could not look her in the eyes. 

'My dearest'--his voice shook--'it was an infamous lie about_you_--that _you_ had been there----'

'Why, of course I have! You know that I have. '

'She meant more than that. She said you had been there secretly--atnight----'

Hugh Carnaby--the man who had lived as high-blooded men do live, whohad laughed by the camp-fire or in the club smoking-room at many aRabelaisian story and capped it with another, who hated mock modesty, was all for honest openness between man and woman--stood in guiltyembarrassment before his own wife's face of innocence. It would havebeen a sheer impossibility for him to ask her where and how she spent acertain evening last winter; Sibyl, now as ever, was his ideal ofchaste womanhood. He scorned himself for what he had yet to tell. 

Sibyl was gazing at him, steadily, inquiringly. 

'She made you believe this?' fell upon the silence, in her softest, clearest tones. 

'No! She couldn't make me _believe_ it. But the artful devil had such away of talking----'

'I understand. You didn't know whether to believe or not. Just tell me, please, what proof she offered you. '

Hugh hung his head. 

'She had heard you talking--in the house--on a certain----'

He looked up timidly, and met a flash of derisive scorn. 

'She heard me talking? Hugh, I really don't see much art in this. Youseem to have been wrought upon rather easily. It never occurred to you, I suppose, to ask for a precise date?'

He mentioned the day, and Sibyl, turning her head a little, appeared toreflect. 

'It's unfortunate; I remember nothing whatever of that date. I'mafraid, Hugh, that I couldn't possibly prove an alibi. '

Her smiling sarcasm made the man wince. His broad shoulders shranktogether; he stood in an awkward, swaying posture. 

'Dear, I told her she lied!'

'That was very courageous. But what came next? You had the happy ideaof going to Wimbledon to make personal inquiries?'

'Try to put yourself in my place, Sibyl, ' he pleaded. 'Remember all thecircumstances. Can't you see the danger of such a lie as that? I wenthome, hoping to find you there. But you had gone, and nobody knewwhere--you wouldn't be back that night. A telegram had called you away, I was told. When I asked where you told the cabman to drive you to--thepost-office. '

'Oh, it looked very black!--yes, yes, I quite understand. The facts areso commonplace that I'm really ashamed to mention them. Atluncheon-time came an urgent telegram from Weymouth. I sent no replythen, because I thought I knew that you were on your way. But when Iwas ready to start, it occurred to me that I should save you trouble bywiring that I should join you as soon as possible--so I drove to thepost-office before going to Paddington. --Well, you rushed off toWimbledon?'

'Not till later, and because I was suffering damnably. If Ihadn't--been what would it have meant? When a man thinks as much of hiswife as I do of you----'

'He has a right to imagine anything of her, ' she interrupted in achanged tone, gently reproachful, softening to tenderness. ASingularity of Sibyl's demeanour was that she seemed utterly forgetfulof the dire position in which her husband stood. One would have thoughtthat she had no concern beyond the refutation of an idle charge, whichangered her indeed, but afforded scope for irony, possibly for play ofwit. For the moment, Hugh himself had almost forgotten the worst; buthe was bidden to proceed, and again his heart sank. 

'I went there in the evening. Redgrave happened to be outside--in thatveranda of his. I saw him as I came near in the dark, and I fanciedthat--that he had been talking to someone in the room--through thefolding windows. I went up to him quickly, and as soon as he saw me hepulled the window to. After that--I only remember that I was ravingmad. He seemed to want to stop me, and I struck at him--and that wasthe end. '

Sibyl shuddered. 

'You went into the room?'

'Yes. No one was there. '

Both kept silence. Sibyl had become very grave, and was thinkingintently. Then, with a few brief questions, vigilant, precise, shelearnt all that had taken place between Hugh and Mrs. Maskell, betweenHugh and the doctor; heard of the woman's disappearance, and of MrsFenimore's arrival on the scene. 

'What shall you do now?'

'Go back and give myself up. What else _can_ I do?'

'And tell everything--as you have told it to me?'

Hugh met her eyes and moved his arms in a gesture of misery. 

'No! I will think of something. He is dead, and can't contradict; andthe woman will hide--trust her. Your name shan't come into it at all. Iowe you that, Sibyl. I'll find some cause for a quarrel with him. Yourname shan't be spoken. '

She listened, her eyes down, her forehead lined in thought. 

'I know what!' Hugh exclaimed, with gloomy resolve. 'That woman--ofcourse, there'll be a mystery, and she'll be searched for. Why'--heblustered against his shame--'why shouldn't she be the cause of it?Yes, that would do. '

His hoarse laugh caused a tremor in Sibyl; she rose and stepped closeto him, and laid a hand upon his shoulder. 

'So far you have advised yourself. Will you let me advise you now, dear?'

'Wouldn't that seem likely?'

'I think not. And if it _did_--what is the result? You will be dealtwith much more severely. Don't you see that?'

'What's that to me? What do I care so long as you are out of the vilebusiness? You will have no difficulties. Your mother's money; and thenMackintosh----'

'And is that all?' asked Sibyl, with a look which seemed to wonderprofoundly. 'Am I to think only of my own safety?'

'It's all my cursed fault--just because I'm a fierce, strong brute, whoought to be anywhere but among civilised people. I've killed the manwho meant me nothing but kindness. Am I going to drag _your_ name intothe mud--to set people grinning and winking----'

'Be quiet, Hugh, and listen. I have a much clearer head than yours, poor boy. There's only one way of facing this scandal, and that is totell everything. For one thing, I shall not let you shield thatwoman--we shall catch her yet. I shall not let you disgrace yourself byinventing squalid stories. Don't you see, too, that the disgrace wouldbe shared by--by the dead man? Would that be right? And anotherthing--if shame comes upon you, do you think I have no part in it? Wehave to face it out with the truth. '

'You don't know what that means, ' he answered, with a groan. 'You don'tknow the world. '

Sibyl did not smile, but her lips seemed only to check themselves whenthe smile was half born. 

'I know enough of it, Hugh, to despise it; and I know you much betterthan you know yourself. You are not one of the men who can tell liesand make them seem the truth. I don't think my name will suffer. Ishall stand by you from first to last. The real true story can'tpossibly be improved upon. That woman had every motive for deceivingyou, and her disappearance is all against her. You have to confess yourhot-headedness--that can't be helped. You tell everything--even down tothe mistake about the telegram. I shall go with you to thepolice-station; I shall be at the inquest; I shall be at the court. It's the only chance. '

'Good God! how can I let you do this?'

'You had rather, then, that I seemed to hide away? You had rather setpeople thinking that there is coldness between us? We must go uptonight. Look out the trains, quick. '

'But your mother, Sibyl----'

'She is dead; she cares nothing. I have to think of my husband. '

Hugh caught her and crushed her in his arms. 

'My darling, worse than killing a man who never harmed me was to thinkwrong of you!'

Her face had grown very pale. She closed her eyes, smiled faintly asshe leaned her head against him, and of a sudden burst into tears. 

CHAPTER 14

'It shows one's ignorance of such matters, ' said Harvey Rolfe, withsomething of causticity in his humour, when Alma came home aftermidnight. 'I should have thought that, by way of preparing fortomorrow, you would have quietly rested today. '

He looked round at her. Alma had entered the study as usual, and wastaking off her gloves; but the effort of supporting herself seemed toogreat, she trembled towards the nearest chair, and affected to laugh ather feebleness as she sank down. 

'Rest will come _after_, ' she said, in such a voice as sounds from aparched and quivering throat. 

'I'll take good care of that, ' Harvey remarked. 'To look at you isalmost enough to make me play the brutal husband, and say that I'll behanged if you go out tomorrow at all. '

She laughed--a ghostly merriment. 

'Where have you been?'

'Oh, at several places. I met Mr. Carnaby at lunch, ' she added quickly. 'He told me he was going somewhere--I forget--oh, to Weymouth, to seeMrs. Larkfield. '

Harvey was watching her, and paid little attention to the news. 

'Do you know, it wouldn't much surprise me if you couldn't get uptomorrow morning, let alone play at a concert. Well, I won't keep youtalking. Go to bed. '

'Yes. '

She rose, but instead of turning to the door, moved towards whereHarvey was sitting. 

'Don't be angry with me, ' she murmured in a shamefaced way. 'It wasn'tvery wise--I've over-excited myself but I shall be all right tomorrow;and afterwards I'll behave more sensibly--I promise----'

He nodded; but Alma bent over him, and touched his forehead with herlips. 

'You're in a fever, I suppose you know?'

'I shall be all right tomorrow. Goodnight, dear. '

In town, this morning, she had called at a chemist's, and purchased alittle bottle of something in repute for fashionable disorder of thenerves. Before lying down she took the prescribed dose, though withsmall hope that it would help her to a blessed unconsciousness. Anotherthing she did which had not occurred to her for many a night: she kneltby the bedside, and half thought, half whispered through tearless sobs, a petition not learnt from any book, a strange half-heathen blending ofprayer for moral strength, and entreaty for success in a worldlydesire. Her mind shook perilously in its balance. It was well for Almathat the fashionable prescription did not fail her. In the moment ofdespair, when she had turned and turned again upon her pillow, hauntedby a vision in the darkness, tortured by the never-ending echo of adreadful voice, there fell upon her a sudden quiet; her brain wassoothed by a lulling air from dreamland; her limbs relaxed, and forgottheir aching weariness; she sighed and slept. 

'I am much better this morning, ' she said at breakfast. 'Not a trace offever--no headache. '

'And a face the colour of the table-cloth, ' added Harvey. 

There was a letter from Mrs. Frothingham, conveying good wishes notvery fervently expressed. She had decided not to come up for theconcert, feeling that the excitement would be too much for her; butAlma suspected another reason. 

She had not asked her husband whether he meant to have a seat inPrince's Hall this afternoon; she still waited for him to speak aboutit. After breakfast he asked her when she would start for town. Atnoon, she replied. Every arrangement had been completed; it would beenough if she reached the Hall half an hour before the time of therecital, and after a light luncheon at a neighbouring restaurant. 

'Then we may as well go together, ' said her husband. 

'You mean to come, then?' she asked dreamily. 

'I shall go in at the last moment--a seat at the back. '

Anything but inclined for conversation, Alma acquiesced. For the nexthour or two she kept in solitude, occasionally touching her violin, butalways recurring to an absent mood, a troubled reverie. She could notfix her thoughts upon the trial that was before her. In a vague way shefeared it; but another fear, at times amounting to dread, dimmed theday's event into insignificance. The morning's newspapers were beforeher, sent, no doubt, by Dymes's direction, and she mused over theeye-attracting announcements of her debut. 'Mrs. Harvey Rolfe's FirstViolin Recital, Prince's Hall, this afternoon, at 3. ' It gave her nomore gratification than if the name had been that of a stranger. 

The world had grown as unreal as a nightmare. People came before hermind, people the most intimately known, and she seemed but faintly torecognise them. They were all so much changed since yesterday. Theirrelations to each other and to her were altered, confused. Scarce oneof them she could regard without apprehension or perplexity. 

What faces would show before her when she advanced upon the platform?Would she behold Sibyl, or Hugh Carnaby, or Cyrus Redgrave? Theirpresence would all but convince her that she had passed some hours ofyesterday in delirium. They might be present; for was not she--sheherself--about to step forward and play in public? Their absence--whatwould it mean? Where were they at this moment? What had happened in thelife of each since last she saw them?

When it was time to begin to dress, she undertook the task with effort, with repugnance. She would have chosen to sit here, in a drowsyidleness, and let the hours go by. On her table stood the little vialwith its draught of oblivion. Oh to drink of it again, and to lay herhead upon the pillow and outsleep the day!

Nevertheless, when she had exerted herself, and was clad in the freshgarments of spring, the mirror came to her help. She was pale yet; butpallor lends distinction to features that are not commonplace, and noremark of man or woman had ever caused her to suspect that her face wasordinary. She posed before the glass, holding her violin, and thepicture seemed so effective that she began to regain courage. Adreadful thing had happened--perhaps more dreadful than she durstimagine--but her own part in it was nothing worse than folly andmisfortune. She had no irreparable sin to hide. Her moment of supremeperil was past, and would not return. If now she could but brace hernerves, and pass successfully through the ordeal of the next few hours, the victory for which she had striven so hard, and had risked so much, would at length be won. Everything dark and doubtful she must try toforget. Success would give her new strength; to fail, under anycircumstances ignominious, would at this crisis of her life be adisaster fraught with manifold and intolerable shame. 

She played a few notes. Her hand was steady once more; she felt herconfidence revive. Whenever she had performed before an audience, ithad always seemed to her that she must inevitably break down; yet atthe last minute came power and self-control. So it would be today. Thegreater the demand upon her, so much the surer her responsive energy. She would not see faces. When all was over, let the news be disclosed, the worst that might be waiting; between now and then lay an infinityof time. 

So, when she went downstairs to meet Harvey, the change in herappearance surprised him. He had expected a bloodless countenance, atremulous step; but Alma came towards him with the confident carriageof an earlier day, with her smile of superiority, her look that invitedor demanded admiration. 

'Well? You won't be ashamed of me?'

'To tell the truth, ' said Harvey, 'I was going because I feared someonewould have to look after you in the middle of the affair. If there's nodanger of that, I think I shall not go into the place at all. '

'Why?'

'I don't care for it. I prefer to hear you play in private. '

'You needn't have the least fear for me, ' said Alma loftily. 

'Very well. We'll lunch together, as we arranged, and I'll be at thedoor with a cab for you after the people have gone. '

'Why should you trouble?'

'I had rather, if you don't mind. '

They drove from Baker Street to the Hall, where Alma alighted for aminute to leave her instrument, and thence to a restaurant not faraway. Alma felt no appetite, but the necessity of supporting herstrength obliged her to choose some suitable refreshment. When theirorder had been given, Harvey laid his hand upon an evening newspaper, just arrived, which the waiter had thrown on to the next table. Heopened it, not with any intention of reading, but because he had nomind to talk; Alma's name, exhibited in staring letters at the entranceof the public building, had oppressed him with a sense of degradation;he felt ignoble, much as a man might feel who had consented to his owndishonour. As his eyes wandered over the freshly-printed sheet, theywere arrested by a couple of bold headlines: 'Sensational Affair atWimbledon--Mysterious Death of a Gentleman'. He read the paragraph, andturned to Alma with a face of amazement. 

'Look there--read that----'

Alma took the paper. She had an instantaneous foreboding of what shewas to see; her heart stood still, and her eyes dazzled, but at lengthshe read. On the previous evening (said the report), a gentlemanresiding at Wimbledon, and well known in fashionable circles, Mr. CyrusRedgrave, had met his death under very strange and startlingcircumstances. Only a few particulars could as yet be made public; butit appeared that, about nine o'clock in the evening, a medical man hadbeen hastily summoned to Mr. Redgrave's house, and found that gentlemanlying dead in a room that opened upon the garden. There was presentanother person, a friend of the deceased (name not mentioned), who madea statement to the effect that, in consequence of a sudden quarrel, hehad struck Mr. Redgrave with his fist, knocking him down, and, as itproved, killing him on the spot. Up to the present moment no furtherdetails were obtainable, but it was believed that the self-accusedassailant had put himself in communication with the police. There was arumour, too, which might or might not have any significance, that Mr. Redgrave's housekeeper had suddenly left the house and could not betraced. 

'Dead?'

The word fell from her lips involuntarily. 

'And who killed him?' said Harvey, just above his breath. 

'It isn't known--there's no name----'

'No. But I had a sudden thought. Absurd--impossible----'

As Harvey whispered the words, a waiter drew near with the luncheon. Itwas arranged upon the table, but lay there disregarded. Alma took upthe newspaper again. In a moment she leaned towards her husband. 

'What did you think?'

'Nothing--don't talk about it. '

Two glasses of wine had been poured out; Harvey took his and drank itoff. 

'It's a pity I saw this, ' he said; 'it has shaken your nerves. I oughtto have kept it to myself. '

Alma dipped a spoon in the soup before her, and tried to swallow. Herhand did not tremble; the worst had come and gone in a few seconds; buther palate refused food. She drank wine, and presently became socollected, so quiet, that she wondered at herself. Cyrus Redgrave wasdead--dead!--the word kept echoing in her mind. As soon as sheunderstood and believed the fact of Redgrave's death, it became therealisation of a hope which she had entertained without knowing it. Only by a great effort could she assume the look of natural concern;had she been in solitude, her face would have relaxed like that of onewho is suddenly relieved from physical torment. She gave no thought towider consequences: she saw the event only as it affected herself inher relations with the dead man. She had feared him; she had fearedherself; now all danger was at an end. Now--now she could find courageto front the crowd of people and play to them. Her conscience ceasedfrom troubling; the hope of triumph no longer linked itself with dreadof a fatal indebtedness. No touch of sorrow entered into her mood; noanxiety on behalf of the man whose act had freed her. He, her husband'sfriend, would keep the only secret which could now injure her. CyrusRedgrave was dead, and to her it meant a renewal of life. 

Harvey was speaking; he reminded her of the necessity of taking food. 

'Yes, I am going to eat something. '

'Look here, Alma, '--he regarded her sternly, --'if you have any fear, ifyou are unequal to this, let me go and make an excuse for you. '

'I have not the _least_ fear. Don't try to make me nervous. '

She ate and drank. Harvey, the while, kept his eyes fixed on thenewspaper. 

'Now I must go, ' she said in a few minutes, after looking at her watch. 'Don't come out with me. Do just as you like about going into the Halland about meeting me afterwards. You needn't be the least bit anxious, I assure you; I'm not going to make myself ridiculous. '

They stood up. 

'I shall be at the door with a cab, ' said Harvey. 

'Very well; I won't keep you waiting. '

She left him, and walked from the restaurant with a quick step. Harveydrank a little more wine, and made a pretence of tasting the dishbefore him, then paid his bill and departed. He had now no intentionwhatever of going to hear Alma play; but he wished to know whethercertain persons were among her audience, and, as he could not stand towatch the people entering, he took the only other means of setting hismind at rest--this was to drive forthwith to Oxford and CambridgeMansions. 

On his knocking at the Carnabys' door, a servant informed him thatneither her master nor her mistress was at home. Something unusual inthe girl's manner at once arrested his attention; she was evidentlydisinclined to say anything beyond the formula of refusal, but withthis Harvey would not be satisfied. He mentioned his name, and urgedseveral inquiries, on the plea that he had urgent business with hisfriends. All he could gather was that Carnaby had left home early thismorning, and that Mrs. Carnaby was out of town; it grew more evidentthat the girl shrank from questions. 

'Has anyone been here before me, anxious to see them?'

'I don't know, sir; I can't tell you anything else. '

'And you have no idea when either of them will be back?'

'I don't know at all; I don't know anything about it. '

He turned away, as if to descend the stairs; but, as there was no soundof a closing door, he glanced back, and caught a glimpse of theservant, who stood looking after him. No sooner did their eyes meetthan the girl drew hastily in and the door was shut. 

Beset by a grave uneasiness, he walked into Edgware Road, and followedthe thoroughfare to its end at the Marble Arch. One thing seemedcertain: neither Carnaby nor his wife could be at Prince's Hall. It wasequally certain that only a serious cause could have prevented theirattendance. The servant manifestly had something to conceal; underordinary circumstances she would never have spoken and behaved in thatstrange way. 

At the Marble Arch boys were crying newspapers. He bought two, and ineach of them found the sensational headlines; but the reports addednothing to that he had already seen; all, it was clear, came from thesame source. 

He turned into the Park, and walked aimlessly by crosspaths hither andthither. Time had to be killed; he tried to read his papers, but everyitem of news or comment disgusted him, and he threw the sheets away. When he came out at Knightsbridge, there was still half an hour to bepassed, so he turned eastward, and walked the length of Piccadilly. Nowat length Alma's fate was decided; the concert drew to its close. Inanxiety to learn how things had gone with her, he all but forgot HughCarnaby, until, just as he was about to hail a cab for the purpose ofbringing Alma from the Hall, his eye fell on a fresh newspaper placard, which gave its largest type to the Wimbledon affair, and promised a'Startling Revelation'. He bought the paper, and read. It had becomeknown, said the reporter, that the gentleman who, on his own avowal, had caused Mr. Redgrave's death, was Mr. H. Carnaby, resident at Oxfordand Cambridge Mansions. The rumour that Mr. Carnaby had presentedhimself to the authorities was unfounded; as a matter of fact, thepolice had heard nothing from him, and could not discover hiswhereabouts. As to the mysterious disappearance of Mr. Redgrave'shousekeeper--Mrs. Lant by name--nothing new could be learnt. Mrs. Lanthad left all her personal belongings, and no one seemed able toconjecture a reason for her conduct. 

Harvey folded up the paper, and crushed it into his pocket. He felt nosurprise; his brooding on possibilities had prepared him for thisdisclosure, and, from the moment that his fears were confirmed, heinterpreted everything with a gloomy certainty. Hugh's fatal violencecould have but one explanation, and that did not come upon Harvey withthe shock of the incredible. Neither was he at any loss to understandwhy Hugh had failed to surrender himself. Ere-long the newspapers wouldrejoice in another 'startling revelation', which would make the tragedycomplete. 

In this state of mind he waited for Alma's coming forth. She waspunctual as she had promised. At the first sight of her he knew thatnothing disagreeable had befallen, and this was enough. As soon as thecab drove off with them he looked an inquiry. 

'All well, ' she answered, with subdued exultation. 'Wait till you seethe notices. '

Her flushed face and dancing eyes told that she was fresh fromcongratulation and flattery. Harvey could not spoil her moment oftriumph by telling what he had just learnt. She wished to talk ofherself, and he gave her the opportunity. 

'Many people?'

'A very good hall. They say such an audience at a first recital hashardly ever been known. '

'You weren't nervous?'

'I've often been far more when I played in a drawing-room; and I neverplayed so well--not half so well!'

She entered upon a vivid description of her feelings. On first steppingforward, she could see nothing but a misty expanse of faces; she couldnot feel the boards she trod upon; yet no sooner had she raised herviolin than a glorious sense of power made her forget everything butthe music she was to play. She all but laughed with delight. Never hadshe felt so perfect a mastery of her instrument. She played withouteffort, and could have played for hours without weariness. Herfellow-musicians declared that she was 'wonderful'; and Harvey, as helistened to this flow of excited talk, asked himself whether he hadnot, after all, judged Alma amiss. Perhaps he had been the mere dullPhilistine, unable to recognise the born artist, and doing his paltrybest to obstruct her path. Perhaps so; but he would look for theopinion of serious critics--if any such had been present. 

At Baker Street they had to wait for a train, and here it happened thatAlma saw the evening placards. At once she changed; her countenance wasdarkened with anxiety. 

'Hadn't you better get a paper?' she asked in a quick undertone. 

'I have one. Do you wish to see it now?'

'Is there anything more?'

'Yes, there is. You don't know, I suppose, whether Carnaby and his wifewere at the Hall?'

'I could hardly distinguish faces, ' she replied, with tremor. 'What isit? Tell me. '

He took out his newspaper and pointed to the paragraph which mentionedCarnaby's name. Alma seemed overcome with painful emotion; she movedtowards the nearest seat, and Harvey, alarmed by her sudden pallor, placed himself by her side. 

'What does it mean?' she whispered. 

'Who can say?'

'They must have quarrelled about business matters. '

'Perhaps so. '

'Do you think he--Mr. Carnaby--means to hide away--to escape?'

'He won't hide away, ' Harvey answered. 'Yet he may escape. '

'What do you mean? Go by ship?--get out of the country?'

'I don't think so. He is far more likely to be found somewhere--in away that would save trouble. '

Alma flashed a look of intelligence. 

'You think so, ' she panted. 'You really think he has done that?'

'I feel afraid of it. '

Alma recovered breath; and, but that her face was bent low over thenewspaper, Harvey must have observed that the possibility of hisfriend's suicide seemed rather to calm her agitation than to afflicther with fresh dismay. 

But she could speak no more of her musical triumph. With the colour ofher cheeks she had lost all animation, all energy; she needed thesupport of Harvey's arm in stepping to the railway carriage; and on herarrival at home, yielding, as it seemed, to physical exhaustion, shelay pallid, mute, and nerveless. 

CHAPTER 15

At night she had recourse to the little bottle, but this time it wasless efficacious. Again and again she woke from terrifying dreams, wearied utterly, unable to rest, and longing for the dawn. Soon afterdaybreak she arose and dressed; then, as there was yet no sound ofmovement in the house, she laid her aching head upon the pillow again, and once more fell into a troubled sleep. The usual call aroused her;she went to the door and bade the servant bring her some tea and themorning paper as soon as it was delivered. 

In a few minutes the tea and the newspaper were both brought. First sheglanced at the paragraphs relating to the Wimbledon tragedy; there wasnothing added to yesterday's news except that the inquest would be heldthis morning. Then she looked eagerly for the report of her recital, and found it only after much searching, barely a dozen lines, whichspoke of her as 'a lady of some artistic promise', said that muchallowance must be made for her natural nervousness, and passed on tothe other performers, who were unreservedly praised. Anger anddespondency struggled within her as she read the lines over and overagain. Nervous! Why, the one marvellous thing was her absolute conquestof nervousness. She saw the hand of an enemy. Felix Dymes had warnedher of the envy she must look for in certain quarters, and hereappeared the first instance of it. But the post would bring otherpapers. 

It brought half a dozen and a number of letters. At the sound of theknock, Alma hurried downstairs, seized upon her budget, and returned tothe bedroom. Yes; as it happened, she had seen the least favourablenotice first of all. The other papers devoted more space to her (thoughless than she had expected), and harmonised in their tone ofcompliment; one went so far as to congratulate those who were presenton 'an occasion of undoubted importance'. Another found some fault withher choice of pieces, but hoped soon to hear her again, for her 'claimsto more than ordinary attention' were 'indubitable'. There was acertain lack of 'breadth', opined one critic; but 'naturalnervousness', &c. Promise, promise--all agreed that her 'promise' wasquite exceptional. 

Tremulous from these lines of print, she turned to the letters, andhere was full-fed with flattery. 'Your most brilliant debut'--'Howshall we thank you for such an artistic treat?'--'Oh, your divinerendering of, ' &c. --'You have taken your place, at once and _sansphrase_, in the very front rank of violinists. ' She smiled once more, and lost a little of her cadaverous hue. Felix Dymes, scribbling late, repeated things that he had heard since the afternoon. He added: 'I'mafraid you'll be awfully upset about your friends the Carnabys. It'svery unfortunate this should have happened just now. But cheer up, andlet me see you as soon as possible. Great things to come!'

She went down to breakfast with shaking limbs, scarce able to hold upher head as she sat through the meal. Harvey ran his eye over thepapers, but said nothing, and kept looking anxiously at her. She couldnot touch food; on rising from table she felt a giddiness which obligedher to hold the chair for support. At her husband's beckoning shefollowed him into the library. 

'Hadn't you better go back to bed?'

'I shall lie down a little. But perhaps if I could get out----'

'No, that you won't. And if you feel no better by afternoon I shallsend for the doctor. '

'You see what the papers say----?'

'Yes. '

'Wouldn't it be graceful to own that you are surprised?'

'We'll talk about that when you look less like a corpse. Would you likeme to send any message to Mrs. Carnaby?'

Alma shook her head. 

'I'll write--today or tomorrow--there's no hurry----'

'No hurry?' said Rolfe, surprised by something in her tone. 'What doyou mean by that?'

'Are you going to see Mr. Carnaby?' was her answer. 

'I don't know where to find him, unless I go to the inquest. '

'I had rather you stayed here today, ' said Alma; 'I feel far from well. '

'Yes, I shall stay. But I ought to let him hear from me. Best, perhaps, if I send a telegram to his place. '

The morning passed miserably enough. Alma went to her bedroom and laythere for an hour or two, then she strayed to the nursery and sat awhile with Hugh and his governess. At luncheon she had no more appetitethan at breakfast, though for very faintness her body could scarcesupport itself. After the meal Harvey went out to procure the earliestevening papers, and on his way he called at the doctor's house. Nottill about five o'clock was a report of the Wimbledon inquestobtainable. Having read it, Harvey took the paper home, where hearrived just as the doctor drove up to the door. 

Alma was again lying down; her eyes showed that she had shed tears. OnHarvey's saying that the doctor was in the house, she answered brieflythat she would see him. The result of the interview was made known toRolfe. Nervous collapse; care and quiet; excitement of any kind to beavoided; the patient better in bed for a few days, to obtain completerest. Avoidance of excitement was the most difficult of all things forAlma at present. Newspapers could not be kept from her; she waitedeagerly for the report of the inquest. 

'Carnaby tells an astonishing story, ' said Rolfe, as he sat down by herwhen the doctor was gone. 

'Let me read it for myself. '

She did so with every sign of agitation; but on laying the paper asideshe seemed to become quieter. After a short silence a word or two fellfrom her. 

'So Sibyl was at Weymouth. '

Harvey communed with his thoughts, which were anything but pleasant. Hedid not doubt the truth of Hugh Carnaby's narrative, but he had agloomy conviction that, whether Hugh knew it or not, an essential partof the drama lay unrevealed. 

'Will they find that woman, do you think?' were Alma's next words. 

'It doesn't seem very likely. '

'What is the punishment for manslaughter?'

'That depends. The case will go for trial, and--in the meantime----'

'What?' asked Alma, raising herself. 

'The woman _may_ be found. '

There was another silence. Then Alma asked----

'Do you think I ought to write to Sibyl?'

'No, ' he answered decisively. 'You must write to no one. Put it all outof your mind as much as possible. '

'Shall you see Mr. Carnaby?'

'Only if he sends for me. '

And this was just what happened. Admitted to bail by the magistrate, Hugh presently sent a note from Oxford and Cambridge Mansions, askinghis friend to see him there. Harvey did not let Alma know of it. Hefound some difficulty in getting away from home for a couple of hours, so anxious had she become to keep him within call, and, when he ofnecessity went out, to be informed of his movements. He attributed thisto her morbid condition; for, in truth, Alma was very ill. She couldtake only the lightest food, and in the smallest quantities; she fellrepeatedly into fits of silent weeping; she had lost all strength, andher flesh had begun to waste. On this same day Harvey heard that MrsFrothingham was making ready to come, and the news relieved him. 

On reaching the Carnabys', he was admitted by the same servant whosebehaviour had excited his suspicions a day or two ago. Without a wordshe conducted him to Hugh's room. 

'Well, old man, ' said the familiar voice, though in the tone of one whois afraid of being overheard, 'it has come to this, you see. You're notsurprised? What else could be expected of a fellow like me, sooner orlater?'

His face had the marks of sleeplessness; his hand was hot. He pressedHarvey into a chair, and stood before him, making an obvious effort tolook and speak courageously. 

'It never struck me before how devilish awkward it is for a man in hisown home when he gets into a public scrape--I mean the servants. Onehas to sit under them, as usual, you know, and feel their eyes boringinto one's back. Did you ever think of it?'

'How long have you to wait?' asked Rolfe. 

'Only a fortnight. But there may be bother about that woman. I wish toGod they could catch her!'

Harvey made no reply, and his eyes wandered. In a moment he becameaware that Hugh was looking at him with peculiar intentness. 

'I wish I could do anything for you, Carnaby. '

'You can, ' replied the other, with emphasis, his face growing stern. 

'What is it?'

'Get rid of that ugly thought I see you have in your mind. '

Hugh's voice, though still cautious, had risen a little; he spoke withseverity that was almost harshness. Their eyes met. 

'What ugly thought?'

'Don't be dishonest with me, Rolfe. It's a queer-sounding tale, andyou're not the only man, I warrant, who thinks there's something behindit. But I tell you there isn't--or nothing that concerns _me_. ' Hepaused for an instant. 'I shouldn't have dared to tell it, but for mywife. Yes, my wife, ' he repeated vehemently. 'It was Sibyl forced me totell the truth. Rather than have _her_ mixed up in such a thing asthis, I would have told any lie, at whatever cost to myself; but shewouldn't let me. And she was right; I see now that she was, though it abeen hard enough, I tell you, to think of what people might besaying--damn them! Don't you be one, Rolfe. My wife is as pure andinnocent as any woman living. I tell you that. I ask you to believethat; and it's the one thing, the only thing, you can do for me. '

His voice quivered, and he half-choked upon the passionate words. Moved, though not to conviction, Harvey made the only possible reply. 

'I believe you; and if ever I have the chance I will repeat what yousay. '

'Very well. But there's something else. I don't ask you to see anythingof Sibyl, or to let your wife see her; it will be much better not. Idon't know whether she will stay here, or in London at all; but shewill see as few people as possible. Don't think it necessary to writeto her; don't let your wife write. If we all live through it--and comeout again on the other side--things may be all right again; but I don'tlook forward to anything. All I can think of now is that I've killed aman who was a good friend to me, and have darkened all the rest ofSibyl's life. And I only wish someone had knocked my brains out tenyears ago, when nobody would have missed such a blackguard and ruffian. '

'Is it on your wife's account, or on ours that you want us to keepapart?' asked Rolfe gravely. 

'Both, my dear fellow, ' was the equally grave reply. 'I'm saying onlywhat I mean; it's no time for humbug now. Think it over, and you'll seeI'm right. '

'Alma won't see any one just yet awhile, ' said Harvey. 'She has madeherself ill, of course. '

'Ill? How?'

'The concert, and the frenzy that went before it. '

'The concert----. ' Carnaby touched his forehead. 'I remember. If I wereyou, Rolfe----'

'Well?'

'I don't want to take advantage of my position and be impertinent butdo you think that kind of thing will do her any good in the end?'

'It's going to stop, ' replied Harvey, with a meaning nod. 

'I'm glad to hear you say so--very glad. Just stick to that. You'remore civilised than I am, and you'll know how to go about that kind ofthing as a man should. '

'I mean to try. '

'She is not seriously ill, I hope?' Hugh inquired, after reflecting fora moment. 

'Oh, the nerves--breakdown--nothing dangerous, I believe. '

'Life ought to be easy enough for you, Rolfe, ' said the other. 'You'reat home here. '

'It depends what you mean by "here". I'm at home in England, no doubt;but it's very uncertain whether I shall hold out in London. You knowthat we're going west to Gunnersbury. That's on the child's account; Iwant him to go to school with a friend of ours. If we can live therequietly and sanely, well and good; if the whirlpool begins to drag usin again--then I have another idea. '

'The whirlpool!' muttered Carnaby, with a broken laugh. 'It's got holdof _me_, and I'm going down, old man--and it looks black as hell. '

'We shall see the sunlight again together, ' replied Rolfe, with forcedcheerfulness. 

'You think so? I wish I could believe it. '

In less than half an hour Harvey was back at the station, waiting forhis train. He suffered pangs of self-rebuke; it seemed to him that heought to have found some better way, in word or deed, for manifestingthe sympathy of true friendship. He had betrayed a doubt which must forever affect Hugh's feeling towards him. But this was his lot in life, to blunder amid trying circumstances, to prove unequal to every gravecall upon him. He tried vainly to see what else he could have done, yetfelt that another man would have faced the situation to better purpose. One resolve, at all events, he had brought out of it: Hugh Carnaby'sreference to Alma declared the common-sense view of a difficulty whichought to be no difficulty at all, and put an end to vacillation. But inreturn for this friendly service he had rendered nothing, save a fewhalf-hearted words of encouragement. Rolfe saw himself in a mean, dispiriting light. 

On the next day Mrs. Frothingham arrived at Pinner, and Harvey'sanxieties were lightened. The good, capable woman never showed to suchadvantage as in a sick-room; scarcely had she entered the house whenAlma's state began to improve. They remarked that Alma showed no greatconcern on Sibyl's account, but was seemingly preoccupied with thoughtof Carnaby himself. This being the case, it was with solicitude thatHarvey and Mrs. Frothingham awaited the result of Hugh's trial formanslaughter. Redgrave's housekeeper could not be found; theself-accused man stood or fell by his own testimony; nothing wassubmitted to the court beyond the fact of Redgrave's death, and HughCarnaby's explanation of how it came about. Nothing of direct evidence;indirect, in the shape of witness to character, was abundantlyforthcoming, and from 'people of importance. But the victim also was aperson of importance, and justice no doubt felt that, under whateverprovocation, such a man must not be slain with impunity. It sentencedthe homicide to a term of two years' imprisonment, without hard labour. 

Alma heard the sentence with little emotion. Soon after she fell into adeeper and more refreshing sleep than any she had known since herillness began. 

'It is the end of suspense, ' said Mrs. Frothingham. 

'No doubt, ' Harvey assented. 

A few days more and Mrs. Frothingham took Alma away into Hampshire. Little Hugh went with them, his mother strongly desiring it. As forRolfe, he escaped to Greystone, to spend a week with Basil Mortonbefore facing the miseries of the removal from Pinner to Gunnersbury. 

Part the Third

CHAPTER 1

The house had stood for a century and a half, and for eighty years hadbeen inhabited by Mortons. Of its neighbours in the elm-bordered road, one or two were yet older; all had reached the age of mellowness. 'Sicut umbra praeterit dies'--so ran the motto of the dial set betweenporch and eaves; to Harvey Rolfe the kindliest of all greetings, welcoming him to such tranquillity as he knew not how to find elsewhere. 

It was in the town, yet nothing town-like. No sooty smother hung abovethe house-tops and smirched the garden leafage; no tramp of crowds, noclatter of hot-wheel traffic, sounded from the streets hard by. But athours familiar, bidding to task or pleasure or repose, the music of thegrey belfries floated overhead; a voice from the old time, anadmonition of mortality in strains sweet to the ear of childhood. Harvey had but to listen, and the days of long ago came back to him. Above all, when at evening rang the curfew. Stealing apart to a boweredcorner of the garden, he dreamed himself into the vanished years, whencurfew-time was bed-time, and a hand with gentle touch led him from hisplay to that long sweet slumber which is the child's new birth. 

Basil Morton was one of three brothers, the youngest. His father, acorn-factor, assenting readily to his early inclination for the Church, sent him from Greystone Grammar-School to Cambridge, where Basil passedcreditably through the routine, but in no way distinguished himself. Having taken his degree, he felt less assured of a clerical vocation, and thought that the law might perhaps be more suitable to him. Whilsthe thus wavered, his father died, and the young man found that he hadto depend upon himself for anything more than the barest livelihood. Hedecided, after all, for business, and became a partner with his eldestbrother, handling corn as his father and his grandfather had donebefore him. At eight and twenty he married, and a few years afterwardsthe elder Morton's death left him to pursue commerce at his owndiscretion. Latterly the business had not been very lucrative, nor wasBasil the man to make it so; but he went steadily on in the old tracks, satisfied with an income which kept him free from care. 

'I like my trade, ' he said once to Harvey Rolfe; 'it's clean and sweetand useful. The Socialist would revile me as a middleman; but societycan't do without me just yet, and I ask no more than I fairly earn. Ilike turning over a sample of grain; I like the touch of it, and thesmell of it. It brings me near to the good old Mother Earth, and makesme feel human. '

His house was spacious, well built, comfortable. The furniture, ingreat part, was the same his parents had used; solid mahogany, not sobeautiful as furniture may be made, but serviceable, if need be, foranother fifty years. He had a library of several thousand volumes, slowly and prudently collected, representing a liberal interest in alltravail of the mind, and a special taste for the things of classicalantiquity. Basil Morton was no scholar in the modern sense, but mightwell have been described by the old phrase which links scholar withgentleman. He lived by trade, but trade did not affect his life. Theday's work over, he turned, with no feeling of incongruity, to a pageof Thucydides, of Tacitus, or to those less familiar authors wholighted his favourite wanderings through the ruins of the Roman Empire. Better grounded for such studies than Harvey Rolfe, he pursued themwith a steadier devotion and with all the advantages of domestic peace. In his mental habits, in his turns of speech, there appeared perhaps aleaning to pedantry; but it was the most amiable of faults, and anydanger that might have lurked in it was most happily balanced andcorrected by the practical virtues of his life's companion. 

Mrs. Morton had the beauty of perfect health, of health mental andphysical. To describe her face as homely was to pay it the highestcompliment, for its smile was the true light of home, that neverfailed. _Filia generosi_, daughter of a house that bred gentlewomen, though its ability to dower them had declined in these latter days, sheconceived her duty as wife and mother after the old fashion, and was sofortunate as to find no obstacle in circumstance. She rose early; sheslept early; and her day was full of manifold activity. Four childrenshe had borne--the eldest a boy now in his twelfth year, the youngest ababy girl; and it seemed to her no merit that in these little ones shesaw the end and reason of her being. Into her pure and healthy mind hadnever entered a thought at conflict with motherhood. Her breasts werethe fountain of life; her babies clung to them, and grew large of limb. From her they learnt to speak; from her they learnt the names of treesand flowers and all things beautiful around them; learnt, too, less byprecept than from fair example, the sweetness and sincerity wherewithsuch mothers, and such alone, can endow their offspring. Later she wastheir instructress in a more formal sense; for this also she held to beher duty, up to the point where other teaching became needful. Bymethod and good-will she found time for everything, ruling her houseand ordering her life so admirably, that to those who saw her only inhours of leisure she seemed to be at leisure always. She would havefelt it an impossible thing to abandon her children to the care ofservants; reluctantly she left them even for an hour or two when otherclaims which could not be neglected called her forth. In play-time theydesired no better companion, for she was a child herself in gaiety ofheart and lissom sportiveness. No prettier sight could be seen atGreystone than when, on a summer afternoon, they all drove in the ponycarriage to call on friends, or out into the country. Nowadays it wasoften her eldest boy who held the reins, a bright-eyed, well-built lad, a pupil at the old Grammar-School, where he used the desk at which hisfather had sat before him. Whatever fault of boyhood showed itself inHarry Morton, he knew not the common temptation to be ashamed of hismother, or to flout her love. 

For holiday they never crossed the sea. Morton himself had been butonce abroad, and that in the year before his father's death, when hewas trying to make up his mind what profession he should take up; hethen saw something of France and of Italy. Talking with travelledfriends, he was wont to praise himself in humorous vein for the soberfixity of his life, and to quote, in that mellow tone which gave suchcharm to his talk, the line from Claudian, '_Erret et extremos alterscrutetur Iberos_; for he had several friends to whom a Latin or aGreek quotation was no stumbling-block. Certain of his collegecompanions, men who had come to hold a place in the world's eye, wereglad to turn aside from beaten tracks and smoke a pipe at Greystonewith Basil Morton--the quaint fellow who at a casual glance might passfor a Philistine, but was indeed something quite other. His wife hadnever left her native island. 'I will go abroad, ' she said, 'when myboys can take me. ' And that might not be long hence; for Harry, wholoved no book so much as the atlas, abounded in schemes of travel, andhad already mapped the grand tour on which the whole family was to setforth when he stood headboy at the Grammar-School. 

In this household Harvey Rolfe knew himself a welcome guest, and neverhad he been so glad as now to pass from the noisy world into the calmwhich always fell about him under his friend's roof. The miseriesthrough which he had gone were troubling his health, and healthdisordered naturally reacted upon his mind, so that, owing to a gloomyexcitement of the imagination, for several nights he had hardly slept. No sooner had he lain down in darkness than every form of mortalanguish beset his thoughts, passing before him as though some handunfolded a pictured scroll of life's terrors. He seemed never before tohave realised the infinitude of human suffering. Hour after hour, withbrief intervals of semi-oblivion, from which his mind awoke in namelesshorror, he travelled from land to land, from age to age; at one momentpicturing some dread incident of a thousand years ago; the next, beholding with intolerable vividness some scene of agony reported inthe day's newspaper. Doubtless it came of his constant brooding onRedgrave's death and Hugh Carnaby's punishment. For the first time, tragedy had been brought near to him, and he marvelled at theindifference with which men habitually live in a world where tragedy isevery hour's occurrence. 

He told himself that this was merely a morbid condition of the brain, but could not bring himself to believe it. On the contrary, what he nowsaw and felt was the simple truth of things, obscured by everydayconditions of active life. And that History which he loved toread--what was it but the lurid record of woes unutterable? How couldhe find pleasure in keeping his eyes fixed on century after century ofever-repeated torment--war, pestilence, tyranny; the stake, thedungeon; tortures of infinite device, cruelties inconceivable? He wouldclose his books, and try to forget all they had taught him. 

Tonight he spoke of it, as he sat with Morton after everyone else hadgone to bed. They had talked of Hugh Carnaby (each divining in theother a suspicion they were careful not to avow), and their mood lednaturally to interchange of thoughts on grave subjects. 

'Everyone knows that state of mind, more or less, ' said Morton, in hisdreamy voice--a voice good for the nerves. 'It comes generally whenone's stomach is out of order. You wake at half-past two in themorning, and suffer infernally from the blackest pessimism. It'smorbid--yes; but for all that it may be a glimpse of the truth. Healthand good spirits, just as likely as not, are the deceptive condition. '

'Exactly. But for the power of deceiving ourselves, we couldn't live atall. It's not a question of theory, but of fact. '

'I fought it out with myself, ' said Basil, after a sip of whisky, 'atthe time of my "exodus from Houndsditch". There's a point in the lifeof every man who has brains, when it becomes a possibility that he maykill himself. Most of us have it early, but it depends oncircumstances. I was like Johnson's friend: be as philosophical as Imight, cheerfulness kept breaking in. And at last I let cheerfulnesshave its way. As far as I know'--he gurgled a laugh--'Schopenhauer didthe same. '

Harvey puffed at his pipe before answering. 

'Yes; and I suppose we may call that intellectual maturity. It's badfor a man when he _can't_ mature--which is my case. I seem to be as farfrom it as ever. Seriously, I should think few men ever had so slow adevelopment. I don't stagnate: there's always movement; but--puttingaside the religious question--my stage at present is yours of twentyyears ago. Yet, not even that; for you started better than I did. Youwere never a selfish lout--a half-baked blackguard----'

'Nor you either, my dear fellow. '

'But I was! I've got along fairly well in self-knowledge; I can followmy course in the past clearly enough. If I had my rights, I should liveto about a hundred and twenty, and go on ripening to the end. Thatwould be a fair proportion. It's confoundedly hard to think that I'm agood deal past the middle of life, yet morally and intellectually amonly beginning it. '

'It only means, Rolfe, that we others have a pretty solid conceit ofourselves. --Listen! "We have heard the chimes at midnight, MasterShallow. " I don't apply the name to you; but you'll be none the worsefor a good night's sleep. Let us be off. '

Harvey slept much better than of late. There was an air of comfort inthis guest-chamber which lulled the mind. Not that the appointmentswere more luxurious than in his own bedroom, for Morton had neither themeans nor the desire to equip his house with perfections of modernupholstery; but every detail manifested a care and taste and delicacyfound only in homes which are homes indeed, and not meredwelling-places fitted up chiefly for display. Harvey thought of thehappiness of children who are born, and live through all theirchildhood, in such an atmosphere as this. Then he thought of his ownchild, who had in truth no home at all. A house in Wales--a house atPinner--a house at Gunnersbury--presently a house somewhere else. Hehad heard people defend this nomad life--why, he himself, before hismarriage, had smiled at the old-fashioned stability represented by suchfamilies as the Mortons; had talked of 'getting into ruts', of'mouldering', and so on. He saw it from another point of view now, andif the choice were between rut and whirlpool----

When he awoke, and lay looking at the sunlit blind, in the stillness ofearly morning he heard a sound always delightful, always soothing, thatof scythe and whetstone; then the long steady sweep of the bladethrough garden grass. Morton, old stick-in-the-mud, would not let hisgardener use a mowing machine, the scythe was good enough for him; andHarvey, recalled to the summer mornings of more than thirty years ago, blessed him for his pig-headedness. 

But another sound he missed, one he would have heard even more gladly. Waking thus at Pinner (always about six o'clock), he had been wont tohear the voice of his little boy, singing. Possibly this was a doubtfulpleasure to Miss Smith, in whose room Hughie slept; but, to her credit, she had never bidden the child keep quiet. And there he lay, singing tohimself, a song without words; singing like a little bird at dawn; avoice of innocent happiness, greeting the new day. Hughie was far off;and in a strange room, with other children, he would not sing. ButHarvey heard his voice--the odd little bursts of melody, the liquidrise and fall, which set to tune, no doubt, some childish fancy, somefairy tale, some glad anticipation. Hughie lived in the golden age. Ayear or two more, and the best of life would be over with him; forboyhood is but a leaden time compared with the borderland between itand infancy; and manhood--the curse of sex developed----

It was a merry breakfast-table. The children's sprightly talk, theirmother's excellent spirits, and Morton's dry jokes with one and all, made Harvey feel ashamed of the rather glum habit which generally kepthim mute at the first meal of the day. Alma, too, was seldom in themood for breakfast conversation; so that, between them, they imposedsilence upon Hughie and Miss Smith. One might have thought that thepostman had brought some ill news, depressing the household. Yet thingswere not wont to be so bad in Wales; at that time, the day, as a rule, began cheerfully enough. Their life had darkened in the shadow ofLondon; just when, for the child's sake, everything should have beenmade as bright as possible. And he saw little hope of change for thebetter. It did not depend upon him. The note of family life is struckby the house-mistress, and Alma seemed fallen so far from her betterself that he could only look forward with anxiety to new developmentsof her character. 

'School?' he exclaimed, when Harry, with satchel over shoulder, came tobid him good morning. 'I wish I could go in your place! It's justthirty-one years since I left the old Grammar-School. '

The boy did not marvel at this. He would not have done so if the yearshad been sixty-one; for Mr. Rolfe seemed to him an old man, very mucholder than his own father. 

As usual when at Greystone, Harvey took his first walk to the spotsassociated with his childhood. He walked alone, for Morton had gone tobusiness until midday. On the outskirts of the town, in no verypleasant situation, stood the house where he was born; new buildingshad risen round about it, and the present tenants seemed to beundesirable people, who neglected the garden and were careless abouttheir window curtains. Here he had lived until he was ten yearsold--till the death of his father. His mother died long before that; hejust, and only just, remembered her. He knew from others that she was agentle, thoughtful woman, always in poor health; the birth of hersecond child, a girl, led to a lingering illness, and soon came theend. To her place as mistress of the house succeeded Harvey's aunt, hisfather's sister. No one could have been kinder to the children, butHarvey, for some reason yet obscure to him, always disliked her. Whom, indeed, did he not dislike, of those set over him? He recalled hisperpetual rebellion against her authority from the first day to thelast. What an unruly cub! And his father's anger when he chanced tooverhear some boyish insolence--alas! alas!

For he saw so little of his father. Mr. Rolfe's work as a railwayengineer kept him chiefly abroad; he was sometimes absent for twelvemonths at a time. Only in the last half-year of his life did he remainconstantly at home, and that because he was dying. Having contracted afever in Spain, he came back to recruit; but his constitution hadsuffered from many hardships, and now gave way. To the last day (thoughhe was ten years old) Harvey never dreamt of what was about to happen. Self-absorbed in a degree unusual even with boys, he feared his father, but had not learnt to love him. And now, looking back, he saw only toowell why the anxious parent treated him with severity more often thanwith gentleness and good humour. A boy such as he must have given soretrouble to a father on his death-bed. 

When it was too late, too late by many a year, he mourned the losswhich had only startled him, which had seemed hardly a loss at all, rather an emancipation. As a man of thirty, he knew his father muchbetter than when living with him day after day. Faults he couldperceive, some of them inherited in his own character; but thereremained the memory of a man whom he could admire and love--whom he didadmire and love more sincerely and profoundly the older he grew. And heheld it the supreme misfortune of his life that, in those early yearswhich count so much towards the future, he had been so rarely under hisfather's influence. 

Inevitable, it seemed. Yet only so, perhaps, because even a good andconscientious man may fail to understand the obligation under which helies towards his offspring. 

He and his sister Amy passed into the guardianship of Dr Harvey, MrRolfe's old friend, the boy's godfather, who had done his best tosoothe the mind of the dying man with regard to his children's future. There were no pecuniary difficulties; the children's education wasprovided for, and on coming of age each would have about two thousandpounds. Dr Harvey, a large-hearted, bright-witted Irishman, with noyoungsters of his own, speedily decided that the boy must be sent awayto a boarding-school, to have some of the self-will knocked out of him. Amy continued to live with her aunt for two years more; then the goodwoman died, and the Doctor took Amy into his own house, which becameHarvey's home during holidays. 

The ivy-covered house, in the best residential street of Greystone. Harvey paused before it. On the railings hung a brass plate withanother name; the good old Doctor had been in his grave for many a year. 

What wonder that he never liked the boy? Harvey, so far as anyone couldperceive, had no affection, no good feeling, no youthful freshness orsimplicity of heart; moreover, he exhibited precocious arrogance, supported by an obstinacy which had not even the grace of quickeninginto fieriness; he was often a braggart, and could not be trusted totell the truth where his self-esteem was ever so little concerned. Howunutterably the Harvey Rolfe of today despised himself at the age offifteen or so! Even at that amorphous age, a more loutish, ungainly boycould scarcely have been found. Bashfulness cost him horrid torments, of course exasperating his conceit. He hated girls; he scorned women. Among his school-fellows he made a bad choice of comrades. Thoughmuscular and of tolerable health, he was physically, as well asmorally, a coward. Games and sports had I no attraction for him; heshut himself up in rooms, and read a great deal, yet even this, itseemed, not without an eye to winning admiration. 

Brains he had--brains undeniably; but for a long time there was thegreatest doubt as to what use he could make of them. Harvey rememberedthe day when it was settled that he should study medicine. He resolvedupon it merely because he had chanced to hear the Doctor say that hewas not cut out for _that_. 

He saw himself at twenty, a lank, ungainly youth, with a disagreeablecomplexion and a struggling moustache. He was a student at Guy's; hehad 'diggings'; he tasted the joy of independence. As is the way withyoung men of turbid passions and indifferent breeding, he rapidlysignalised his independence by plunging into sordid slavery. Amiserable time to think of; a wilderness of riot, folly, and shame. Yetit seemed to him that he was enjoying life. Among the rowdy set of hisfellow-students he shone with a certain superiority. His contempt ofmoney, and his large way of talking about it, conveyed the impressionthat abundant means awaited him. He gave away coin as readily as hespent it on himself; not so much in a true spirit of generosity (thoughhis character had gleams of it), as because he dreaded above all thingsthe appearance of niggardliness and the suspicion of a shallow purse. 

Then came the memorable interview with his guardian on his twenty-firstbirthday. Harvey flinched and grew hot in thinking of it. What anungrateful cur! What a self-sufficient young idiot! The Doctor hadborne so kindly with his follies and vices, had taken so much troublefor his good, was it not the man's right and duty to speak grave wordsof counsel on such an occasion as this? But to counsel Mr. Harvey Rolfewas to be guilty of gross impertinence. With lofty spirit the younggentleman proclaimed that he must no longer be treated as a school-boy!Whereupon the Doctor lost his temper, and spoke with a particularlystrong Hibernian accent--spoke words which to this moment stung thehearer's memory. He saw himself marching from the room--that roomyonder, on the ground-floor. It was some small consolation to rememberthat he had been drinking steadily for a week before that happened. Indeed, he could recall no scene quite so discreditable throughout thecourse of his insensate youth. 

Well, he had something like two thousand pounds. Whether he had lookedfor more or less he hardly knew, or whether he had looked for anythingat all. At one-and-twenty he was the merest child in matters of theworld. Surely something must have arrested the natural development ofhis common-sense. Even in another ten years he was scarcely on a level, as regards practical intelligence, with the ordinary lad who is leavingschool. 

He at once threw up his medical studies, which had grown hateful tohim. He took his first taste of foreign travel. He extended his readingand his knowledge of languages. And insensibly a couple of years wentby. 

The possession of money had done him good. It clarified his passions, or tended that way. A self-respect, which differed appreciably fromwhat he had formerly understood by that term, began to guard himagainst grossness; together with it there developed in him a new socialpride which made him desire the acquaintance of well-bred people. Though he had no longer any communication with the good old Doctor, Amyfrequently wrote to him, and in one of her letters she begged him tocall on a family in London, one of whose younger members lived atGreystone and was Amy's friend. After much delay, he overcame hisbashfulness, and called upon the worthy people--tailored as became agentleman at large. The acquaintance led to others; in a short time hewas on pleasant terms with several well-to-do families. He might havesuspected--but at the time, of course, did not--that Dr Harvey's kindlyinfluence had something to do with his reception in these houses. Self-centred, but painfully self-distrustful, he struggled to overcomehis natural defects of manner. Possibly with some success; for did notLily Burton, who at first so piqued him by her critical smile, come toshow him tolerance, friendliness, gracious interest?

Lily Burton!--how emptily, how foolishly the name tinkled out of thatempty and foolish past! Yet what a power it had over him when he wasthree and twenty! Of all the savage epithets which he afterwardsattached to its owner, probably she merited a few. She was a flirt, atall events. She drew him on, played upon his emotions, found him, nodoubt, excellent fun; and at last, when he was imbecile enough todeclare himself, to talk of marriage, Lily, raising the drollest eyes, quietly wished to know what his prospects were. 

The intolerable shame of it, even now! But he laughed, mocking at hisdead self. 

His mind's eye beheld the strange being a year later. Still in goodclothes, but unhealthy, and at his last half-crown; four and twenty, travelled, and possessed of the elements of culture, he had only justbegun to realise the fact that men labour for their daily bread. Was itthe peculiar intensity of his egoism that so long blinded him to commonanxieties? Even as the last coins slipped between his fingers, he knewonly a vaguely irritable apprehension. Did he imagine the world wouldbeg for the honour of feeding and clothing Mr. Harvey Rolfe?

It came back to him, his first experience of hunger--so very differenta thing from appetite. He saw the miserable bedroom where he sat on arainy day. He smelt the pawnshop. His heart sank again under the weightof awful solitude. Then, his illness; the letter he wrote to Amy; hervisit to him; the help she brought. But she could not persuade him togo back with her to Greystone to face the Doctor. Her money was a loan;he would bestir himself and find occupation. For a wonder, it wasfound--the place at the Emigration Agency; and so, for a good manyyears, the notable Mr. Harvey Rolfe sank into a life of obscure routine. 

Again and again his sister Amy besought him to visit Greystone. DrHarvey was breaking up; would he not see the kind old man once more?Yes, he assured himself that he would; but he took his time about it, and Dr Harvey, who at threescore and ten could not be expected to waitupon a young man's convenience, one day very quietly died. To AmyRolfe, who had become as a daughter to him, he left the larger part ofhis possessions, an income of nine hundred a year. Not long after this, Harvey met his sister, and was astonished to find her looking thin, pale, spiritless. What did it mean? Why did she gaze at him so sadly?Come, come, he cried, she had been leading an unnatural life, cloistered, cheerless. Now that she was independent, she must enjoyherself, see the world! Brave words; and braver still those in which hereplied to Amy's entreaty that he would share her wealth. Not he, indeed! If, as she said, the Doctor meant and hoped it, why did he notmake that plain in his will? Not a penny would he take. He had all hewanted. And he seemed to himself the most magnanimous of men. 

Amy lived on at Greystone; amid friends, to be sure, but silent, melancholy; and he, the brother whom she loved, could spare her only aday or two once a year, when he chattered his idle self-conceit. Anyoneelse would have taken trouble to inquire the cause of her pallor, hersadness. He, forsooth, had to learn with astonishment, at last, thatshe wished to see him--on her deathbed. 

He had often thought of her, and kindly. But he knew her not at all, took no interest in her existence. She, on the other hand, hadtreasured every miserable little letter his idleness vouchsafed; shehad hoped so for his future, ever believing in him. When Amy lay dead, he saw the sheet of paper on which she had written the few linesnecessary to endow him with all she left--everything 'to my dearbrother'. What words could have reproached him so keenly?

His steps turned to the churchyard, where on a plain upright stone heread the names of his mother, of his father. Amy's grave was hard by. He, too, if he had his wish, would some day rest here; and here his ownson would stand, and read his name, and think of him. Ah, but with nosuch remorse and self-contempt! That was inconceivable. The tendernesswhich dimmed his eyes would have changed to misery had he dreamed itpossible that his own boy could palter so ignobly with theopportunities of life. 

Upon these deep emotions intruded the thought of Alma. Intruded; for heneither sought nor welcomed his wife's companionship at such a moment, and he was disturbed by a perception of the little claim she had to bepresent with him in spirit. He could no longer pretend to himself thathe loved Alma; whatever the right name for his complex offeelings--interest, regard, admiration, sexual attachment--assuredly itmust be another word than that sacred to the memory of his parents, tothe desires and hopes centring in his child. For all that, he had nosense of a hopeless discord in his wedded life; he suffered from nodisillusion, with its attendant bitterness. From this he was saved bythe fact, easy at length to recognise, that in wooing Alma he hadobeyed no dictate of the nobler passion; here, too, as at every othercrisis of life, he had acted on motives which would not bear analysis, so large was the alloy of mere temperament, of weak concession tocircumstance. Rather than complain that Alma fell short of the ideal inwifehood, should he not marvel, and be grateful that their marriagemight still be called a happy one? Happiness in marriage is a term ofsuch vague application: Basil Morton, one in ten thousand, might callhimself happy; even so, all things considered, must the husband whofinds it _just_ possible to endure the contiguity of his wife. Midwaybetween these extremes of the definition stood Harvey's measure ofmatrimonial bliss. He saw that he had no right to grumble. 

He saw, moreover, and reflected constantly upon it in these days, howlargely he was himself to blame for the peril of estrangement whichthreatened his life with Alma. Meaning well, and thinking himself apattern of marital wisdom, he had behaved, as usual, with gross lack ofdiscretion. The question now was, could he mend the harm that he haddone? Love did not enter into the matter; his difficulty called forcommon-sense--for rational methods in behaviour towards a wife whom hecould still respect, and who was closely bound to him by commoninterest in their child. 

He looked up, and had pleasure once more in the sunny sky. After all, he, even he, had not committed the most woeful of all blunders; thoughit was a mystery how he had escaped it. The crown of his feeble, futilecareer should, in all fitness, have been marriage with a woman worsethan himself. And not on his own account did he thank protectingfortune. One lesson, if one only, he had truly learnt from nature: itbade him forget all personal disquietude, in joy that he was not guiltyof that crime of crimes, the begetting of children by a worthlessmother. 

CHAPTER 2

Mrs. Morton felt a lively interest in Mrs. Rolfe's musical enterprise, and would have liked to talk about it, but she suspected that the topicwas not very agreeable to her guest. In writing to Morton, Harvey hadjust mentioned the matter, and that was all. On the second day of hisvisit, when he felt much better, and saw things in a less troubledlight, he wished to remove the impression that he regarded Alma'sproceedings with sullen disapproval; so he took the opportunity ofbeing alone with his hostess, and talked to her of the great venturewith all the good humour he could command. Mrs. Morton had seen twonotices of Alma's debut; both were so favourable that she imagined themthe augury of a brilliant career. 

'I doubt that, ' said Harvey; 'and I'm not sure that it's desirable. Shehas made herself miserably ill, you see. Excitement is the worstpossible thing for her. And then there's the whole question of whetherprofessional life is right and good for a married woman. How do youthink about it?'

The lady instanced cases that naturally presented themselves. Sheseemed to have no prejudice. Mrs. Rolfe appeared to her a person ofartistic temper; but health was of the first importance; and then----

Harvey waited; but only a thoughtful smile completed the remark. 

'What other consideration had you in mind?'

'Only a commonplace--that a married woman would, of course, be guidedby her husband's wish. '

'You think that equivalent to reason and the will of God?' said Harveyjocosely. 

'If we need appeal to solemn sanction. '

Rolfe was reminded, not unpleasantly, that he spoke with a woman towhom 'the will of God' was something more than a facetious phrase. 

'I beg your pardon; let us say reason alone. But is it reasonable forthe artist to sacrifice herself because she happens to have married aneveryday man?'

Mrs. Morton shook her head and laughed. 

'If only one know what is meant by the everyday man! My private view ofhim is rather flattering, perhaps. I'm inclined to think him, on thewhole, not inferior to the everyday woman; and _she_--she isn't a badsort of creature, if fairly treated. I don't think the everyday manwill go very far wrong, as a rule, in the treatment of his wife. '

'You really believe that?' asked Harvey, with a serious smile. 

'Why, is it such a heresy?'

'I should rather have thought so. One is so accustomed to hear theother view I mean, it's in the air. Don't think I'm asking yoursympathy. I have always wished Alma to act on her own judgment; she hasbeen left quite free to do so. But if the results seem worse thandoubtful, then comes the difficulty. '

'To be settled, surely, like all other difficulties between sensiblepeople. '

Mrs. Morton's faith was of enviable simplicity. She knew, as a matterof fact, that husbands and wives often found their difficultiesinsuperable; but why this should be so, seemed to her one of the darkand mournful enigmas of life. It implied such a lack not only of goodsense, but of right feeling. In her own experience she had met with nodoubt, no worry, which did not yield to tact, or generous endeavour, or, at worst, to the creed by which she lived. One solicitude, and oneonly, continued to affect her as wife and mother; that it could notovercome her happy temper was due to the hope perpetually inspired byher husband's love--a hope inseparable from her profoundestconvictions. She and Morton differed in religious views, and there hadcome a grave moment when she asked whether it would be possible toeducate her children in her own belief without putting a distancebetween them and their father. The doubt had disappeared, thanks toMorton's breadth of view, or facility of conscience; there remained thetrouble in which it had originated, but she solaced herself with thefond assurance that this also would vanish as time went on. In the samemood of kindly serenity she regarded the lives of her friends, alwayshoping for the best, and finding it hard to understand that anyonecould deliberately act with unkindness, unreasonableness, or any otherquality opposed to the common good. 

Rolfe had no desire of talking further about his private affairs. Hehad made up his mind on the points at issue, and needed no counsel, butthe spirit of Mrs. Morton's conversation helped him to thinktranquilly. The great danger was that he might make things worse by hisway of regarding them. Most unluckily, Alma's illness had becomeconnected in his imagination with the tragedy of the Carnabys; he couldnot keep the things apart. Hugh Carnaby's miserable doom, and the darksurmises attaching to his wife, doubtless had their part in bringingabout a nervous crisis; why could he not recognise this as perfectlynatural, and dismiss the matter? In spite of all reasoning, Alma'simage ever and again appeared to him shadowed by the gloom whichinvolved her friend--or the woman who _was_ her friend. He knew it (orbelieved it) to be the merest illusion of his perturbed mind; for nofact, how trivial soever, had suggested to him that Alma knew more ofthe circumstances of Redgrave's death than she seemed to know. On theone hand, he was glad that Alma and Sibyl no longer cared to meet; onthe other, he could not understand what had caused this cessation oftheir friendship, and he puzzled over it. But these idle fancies wouldpass away; they were already less troublesome. A long country walk withMorton, during which they conversed only of things intellectual, didhim much good. Not long ago Morton had had a visit from an oldCambridge friend, a man who had devoted himself to the study of acertain short period of English history, and hoped, some ten yearshence, to produce an authoritative work on the subject. 

'There's a man I envy!' cried Rolfe, when he had listened to Basil'shumorous description of the enthusiast. 'It's exactly what I shouldlike to do myself. '

'What prevents you?'

'Idleness--irresolution--the feeling that the best of my life is over. I have never been seriously a student, and it's too late to begin now. But if I were ten years younger, I would make myself master ofsomething. What's the use of reading only to forget? In my time I havegone through no small library of historical books--and it's all a miston the mind's horizon. That comes of reading without method, without apurpose. The time I have given to it would have made me a pundit, if Ihad gone to work reasonably. '

'Isn't my case the same?' exclaimed Morton. 'What do I care! I enjoyedmy reading and my knowledge at the time, and that's all I everexpected. '

'Very well--though you misrepresent yourself. But for me it isn'tenough. I want to know something as well as it can be known. Purely formy own satisfaction; the thought of "doing something" doesn't come inat all. I was looking at your county histories this morning, and I felta huge longing to give the rest of my life to some little bit ofEngland, a county, or even a town, and exhaust the possibilities ofknowledge within those limits. Why, Greystone here--it has aninteresting history, even in relation to England at large; and what adelight there would be in following it out, doggedly, invincibly--making it one's single subject--grubbing after it inmuniment-rooms and libraries--learning by heart every stone of the oldtown--dying at last with the consolation that nobody could teach oneanything more about it!'

'I know the mood, ' said Morton, laughing. 

'I'm narrowing down, ' pursued Harvey. 'Once I had tremendousvisions--dreamt of holding half a dozen civilisations in the hollow ofmy hand. I came back from the East in a fury to learn the Orientallanguages--made a start, you know, with Arabic. I dropped one nationafter another, always drawing nearer home. The Latin races were tosuffice me. Then early France, especially in its relations withEngland;--Normandy, Anjou. Then early England, especially in itsrelations with France. The end will be a county, or a town--nay, possibly a building. Why not devote one's self to the history of amarket-cross? It would be respectable, I tell you. Thoroughness is all. '

When they were alone in the library at night, Morton spoke of hiseldest boy, expressing some anxiety about him. 

'The rascal will have to earn his living--and how? There's time, Isuppose, but it begins to fidget me. He won't handle corn--I'm clear asto that. At his age, of course, all lads talk about voyages and so on, but Harry seems cut out for a larger sphere than Greystone. I shan'tbalk him. I'd rather he hadn't anything to do with fighting--still, that's a weakness. '

'We think of sending Wager's lad into the navy, ' said Rolfe, when hehad mused awhile. 'Of course, he'll have to make his own way. '

'Best thing you can do, no doubt. And what about his little sister?'

'That's more troublesome. It's awkward that she's a relative of MrsAbbott. Otherwise, I should have proposed to train her for a cook. '

'Do you mean it?'

'Why not? She isn't a girl of any promise. What better thing for her, and for the community, than to make her a good cook? They're rareenough, Heaven knows. What's the use of letting her grow up with ideasof gentility, which in her case would mean nothing but uselessness? Shemust support herself, sooner or later, and it won't be with her brains. I've seriously thought of making that suggestion to Mrs. Abbott. Tenyears hence, a sensible woman cook will demand her own price, and be agood deal more respected than a dressmaker or a she-clerk. The stomachis very powerful in bringing people to common-sense. When all thebricklayers' daughters are giving piano lessons, and it's next toimpossible to get any servant except a lady's-maid, we shall see womenof leisure develop a surprising interest in the boiling of potatoes. '

Morton admitted the force of these arguments. 

'What would you wish your own boy to be?' he asked presently. 

'Anything old-fashioned, unadventurous, happily obscure; a countryparson, perhaps, best of all. '

'I understand. I've had the same thoughts. But one Ii to get over thatkind of thing. It won't do to be afraid of life--nor of death either. '

'And there's the difficulty of education, ' said Rolfe. 'If I followedmy instincts, I should make the boy unfit for anything but thequietest, obscurest life. I should make him hate a street, and love thefields. I should teach him to despise every form of ambition; to shrinkfrom every kind of pleasure, but the simplest and purest; to think oflife as a long day's ramble, and death as the quiet sleep that comes atthe end of it. I should like him not to marry--never to feel the needof it; or if marry he must, to have no children. That's my real wish;and if I tried to carry it out, the chances are that I should do him anintolerable wrong. For fear of it, I must give him into the hands ofother people; I must see him grow into habits and thoughts which willcause me perpetual uneasiness; I must watch him drift further andfurther away from my own ideal of life, till at length, perhaps, thereis scarce a possibility of sympathy between us. '

'Morbid--all morbid, ' remarked the listener. 

'I don't know. It may only mean that one sees too clearly the rootfacts of existence. I have another mood (less frequent) in which I tryto persuade myself that I don't care much about the child; that hisfuture doesn't really concern me at all. Why should it? He's just oneof the millions of human beings who come and go. A hundred yearshence--what of him and of me? What can it matter how he lived and howhe died? The best kind of education would be that which hardened hisskin and blunted his sympathies. What right have I to make himsensitive? The thing is, to get through life with as little sufferingas possible. What monstrous folly to teach him to wince and cry out atthe sufferings of other people! Won't he have enough of his own beforehe has done? Yet that's what we shall aim at--to cultivate hissympathetic emotions, so that the death of a bird shall make him sad, and the sight of human distress wring his heart. Real kindness wouldtry to make of him a healthy ruffian, with just enough conscience tokeep him from crime. '

'Theory for theory, I prefer this, ' said Morton. 'To a certain extent Itry to act upon it. '

'You do?'

'Just because I know that my own tendency is to over-softness. I havesometimes surprised my wife by bidding Harry disregard things thatappealed to his pity. You remember what old Hobbes says: "_Homo malus, puer robustus_"? There was more truth in it in his day than in ours. It's natural for a boy to be a good deal of a savage, but ourcivilisation is doing its best to change that. Why, not long ago thelad asked me whether fishing wasn't cruel. He evidently felt that itwas, and so do I; but I couldn't say so. I laughed it off, and told himthat a fish diet was excellent for the brains!'

'I hope I may have as much courage, ' said Harvey. 

'Life is a compromise, my dear fellow. If the world at large wouldsuddenly come round to a cultivation of the amiable virtues--well andgood. But there's no hope of it. As it is, our little crabs must growtheir hard shell, or they've no chance. '

'What about progress? In educating children, we are making the newworld. '

Morton assented. 

'But there's no hurry. The growth must be gradual--will be, whether weintend it or not. The fact is, I try not to think overmuch about mychildren. It remains a doubt, you know, whether education has anyinfluence worth speaking of. '

'To me, ' said Harvey, 'the doubt seems absurd. In my own case, I know, a good system of training would have made an enormous difference. Practically, I was left to train myself, and a nice job I made of it. Do you remember how I used to talk about children before I had one? Ihave thought it was the talk of a fool; but, perhaps, after all, it hadmore sanity than my views nowadays. '

'_Medio tutissimus_, ' murmured Basil. 

'And what about your girls?' asked the other, when they had smoked insilence. 'Is the difficulty greater or less?'

'From my point of view, less. For one thing, I can leave them entirelyin the hands of their mother; if they resemble her, they won't doamiss. And there's no bother about work in life; they will have enoughto live upon--just enough. Of course, they may want to go out into theworld. I shall neither hinder nor encourage. I had rather they stayedat home. '

'Don't lose sight of the possibility that by when they are grown upthere may be no such thing as "home". The word is dying out. '

Morton's pedantry led him again to murmur Latin----

'_Multa renascentur quoe jam cecidere_. '

'You're the happiest man I know, or ever shall know, ' said Rolfe, withmore feeling than he cared to exhibit. 

'Don't make me think about Croesus, King of Lydia. On the whole, happiness means health, and health comes of occupation. In one point Iagree with you about yourself: it would have been better if someone hadfound the right kind of work for you, and made you stick to it. By-the-bye, how does your friend, the photographic man, get on?'

'Not at all badly. Did I tell you I had put money into it? I go there agood deal, and pretend to do something. '

'Why pretend? Couldn't you find a regular job there for a few hoursevery day?'

'I dare say I could. It'll be easier to get backwards and forwards fromGunnersbury. How would you like, ' he added, with a laugh, 'to live atGunnersbury?'

'What does it matter where one lives? I have something of a prejudiceagainst Hoxton or Bermondsey; but I think I could get along in mostother places. Gunnersbury is rather pleasant, I thought. Isn't it quitenear to Kew and Richmond?'

'Do those names attract you?'

'They have a certain charm for the rustic ear. '

'It's all one to me. Hughie will go to school, and make friends withother children. You see, he's had no chance of it yet. We know ahundred people or so, but have no intimates. Is there such a thing asintimacy of families in London? I'm inclined to think not. Here, you gointo each other's houses without fuss and sham; you know each other, and trust each other. In London there's no such comfort, at all eventsfor educated people. If you have a friend, he lives miles away; beforehis children and yours can meet, they must travel for an hour and ahalf by bus and underground. '

'I suppose it _must_ be London?' interrupted Morton. 

'I'm afraid so, ' Harvey replied absently, and his friend said no more. 

He had meant this visit to be of three days at most; but time slippedby so pleasantly that a week was gone before he could resolve ondeparture. Most of the mornings he spent in rambles alone, rediscovering many a spot in the country round which had been familiarto him as a boy, but which he had never cared to seek in hisrevisitings of Greystone hitherto. One day, as he followed the windingsof a sluggish stream, he saw flowers of arrowhead, white flowers withcrimson centre, floating by the bank, and remembered that he had onceplucked them here when on a walk with his father, who held him thewhile, lest he should stretch too far and fall in. To reach them now, he lay down upon the grassy brink; and in that moment there returned tohim, with exquisite vividness, the mind, the senses, of childhood; oncemore he knew the child's pleasure in contact with earth, and his handgrasped hard at the sweet-smelling turf as though to keep hold upon thepast thus fleetingly recovered. It was gone--no doubt, for ever; a lastglimpse vouchsafed to him of life's beginning as he set his facetowards the end. Then came a thought of joy. The keen sensations whichhe himself had lost were his child's inheritance. Somewhere in thefields, this summer morning, Hughie was delighting in the scent, thetouch, of earth, young amid a world where all was new. The stereotypedphrase about parents living again in their children became a realityand a source of deep content. So does a man repeat the experience ofthe race, and with each step onward live into the meaning of some oldword that he has but idly echoed. 

On the day before he left, a letter reached him from Alma. He had feltsurprise at not hearing sooner from her; but Alma's words explained thedelay. 

'I have been thinking a great deal, ' she wrote, 'and I want to tell youof my thoughts. Don't imagine they are mere fancies, the result ofill-health. I feel all but well again, and have a perfectly clear head. And perhaps it is better that I should write what I have to say, instead of speaking it. In this way I oblige you to hear me out. Idon't mean that you are in the habit of interrupting me, but perhapsyou would if I began to talk as I am going to write. 

'Why can't we stay at Pinner?

'There, that shall have a line to itself. Take breath, and now listenagain. I dislike the thought of removing to Gunnersbury--really andseriously I dislike it. You know I haven't given you this kind oftrouble before; when we left Wales I was quite willing to have stayedon if you had wished it--wasn't I? Forgive me, then, for springing thisupon you after all your arrangements are made; I could not do it if Idid not feel that our happiness (not mine only) is concerned. Would itbe possible to cancel your agreement with the Gunnersbury man? If not, couldn't you sublet, with little or no loss? The Pinner house isn't letyet--is it? Do let us stay where we are. I think it is the firstserious request I ever made of you, and I think you will see that Ihave some right to make it. 

'I had rather, much rather, that Hughie did not go to Mrs. Abbott'sschool. Don't get angry and call me foolish. What I mean is, that Iwould rather teach him myself. In your opinion I have neglected him, and I confess that you are right. There now! I shall give up my music;at all events, I shall not play again in public. I have shown what Icould do, and that's enough. You don't like it--though you have nevertried to show me _why_--and again I feel that you are right. Aprofessional life for me would mean, I see it now, the loss of thingsmore precious. I will give it up, and live quietly at home. I will haveregular hours for teaching Hughie. If you prefer it, Pauline shall go, and I will take charge of him altogether. If I do this, what need forus to remove? The house is more comfortable than the new one atGunnersbury; we are accustomed to it; and by being farther from LondonI shall have less temptation to gad about. I know exactly what I ampromising, and I feel I _can_ do it, now that my mind is made up. 

'Need I fear a refusal? I can't think so. Give the matter your bestthought, and see whether there are not several reasons on my side. But, please, answer as soon as you can, for I shall be in suspense till Ihear from you. 

Alma signed herself 'Yours ever affectionately', but Harvey could findno trace of affection in the letter. It astonished and annoyed him. Ofcourse, it could have but one explanation; Alma might as well havesaved herself trouble by writing, in a line or two, that she dislikedMrs. Abbott, and could not bear that the child should be taught by her. He read through the pages again, and grew angry. What right had she tomake such a request as this, and in the tone of a demand? Twice in theletter she asserted that she _had_ a right, asserted it as if with somemysterious reference. Had he sat down immediately to reply, Harveywould have written briefly forcibly; for, putting aside other groundsof irritation, there is nothing a man dislikes more than being calledupon at last moment to upset elaborate and troublesome arrangements. But he was obliged to postpone his answer for a few hours, and in themeantime he grew more tolerant of Alma's feelings. Had her objectioncome earlier, accompanied by the same proposals, he would have beeninclined to listen; but things had gone too far. He wrote, quitegood-temperedly, but without shadow of wavering. There was nothingsudden, he pointed out, in the step he was about to take; Alma hadknown it for months, and had acquiesced in it. As for her music, hequite agreed with her that she would find it better in every way toabandon thoughts of a public career; and the fact of Hughie's going toschool for two or three hours a day would in no wise interfere with herwish to see more of him. What her precise meaning was in saying thatshe had some 'right' to make this request, he declared himself unableto discover. Was it a reproach? If so, his conscience afforded him nolight, and he hoped Alma would explain the words in a letter to him atPinner. 

This correspondence clouded his last evening at Greystone. He was gladthat some acquaintances of Morton's came, and stayed late; sittingalone with his friend, he would have been tempted to talk of Alma, andhe felt that silence was better just now. 

By a train soon after breakfast next morning, he left the old town, dearer to him each time that he beheld it, and travelled slowly to themain-line junction, whence again he travelled slowly to Peterborough. There the express caught him up, and flung him into roaring Londonagain. Before going to Pinner, he wished to see Cecil Morphew, for hehad an idea to communicate--a suggestion for the extending of businessby opening correspondence with out of the way towns, such as Greystone. 

On reaching the shop in Westminster Bridge Road, he found that Morphewalso had a communication to make, and of a more exciting nature. 

CHAPTER 3

Morphew was engaged upstairs with the secretary of an AmateurPhotographic Society. Waiting for this person's departure, Rolfe talkedwith the shopman--a capable fellow, aged about thirty, whose heart wasin the business; he looked at a new hand-camera, which seemed likely tohave a good sale, and heard encouraging reports of things in general. Then Morphew came down, escorting his visitor. As soon as he was free, he grasped Harvey by the arm, and whispered eagerly that he hadsomething to tell him. They went upstairs together, into a roomfurnished as an office, hung about with many framed photographs. 

'He's dead!' exclaimed Cecil--'he's dead!'

A name was needless. Only one man's death could be the cause of suchexcitement in Morphew, and it had been so long awaited that the eventhad no touch of solemnity. Yet Harvey perceived that his friend'sexultation was not unmixed with disquietude. 

'Yesterday morning, early. I heard it by chance. Of course, she hasn'twritten to me, but no doubt I shall hear in a few days. I walked aboutnear the house for hours last night--like an idiot. The thing seemedimpossible; I had to keep reminding myself, by looking at the windows, that it was true. Eight years--think of that! Eight years' misery, dueto that fellow's snobbishness!'

In Harvey's mind the story had a somewhat different aspect. He knewnothing personally of this Mr. Winter, who might indeed be anincarnation of snobbery; on the other hand, Cecil Morphew had hisdefects, and even to a liberal-minded parent might not recommendhimself as a son-in-law. Then again, the young lady herself, now aboutsix and twenty, must surely have been influenced by some other motivethan respect for her parents' wishes, in thus protracting herengagement with a lover who had a secure, though modest, income. Was itnot conceivable that she inherited something of the paternal spirit?or, at all events, that her feelings had not quite the warmth thatMorphew imagined?

'I'm glad it's over, ' he replied cordially. 'Now begins a new life foryou. '

'But eight years--eight years of waiting----'

'Hang it, what is your age? Thirty! Why, you're only just old enough. No man ought to marry before thirty. '

Morphew interrupted vehemently. 

'That's all rot! Excuse me; I can't help it. A man ought to marry whenhe's urged to it by his nature, and as soon as he finds the rightwoman. If I had married eight years ago----. ' He broke off with anangry gesture, misery in his eyes. 'You don't believe that humbug, Rolfe; you repeat it just to console me. There's little consolation, Ican assure you. I was two and twenty; she, nineteen. Mature man andwoman; and we longed for each other. Nothing but harm could come ofwaiting year after year, wretched both of us. '

'I confess, ' said Harvey, 'I don't quite see why she waited aftertwenty-one. '

'Because she is a good, gentle girl, and could not bear to make herfather and mother unhappy. The blame is all theirs--mean, shallow, grovelling souls!'

'What about her mother now?'

'Oh, she was never so obstinate as the old jackass. She'll have littleenough to live upon, and we shall soon arrange things with her somehow. Is it credible that human beings can be so senseless? For years now, their means have been growing less and less, just because the snobbishidiot _would_ keep up appearances. If he had lived a little longer, thewidow would have had practically no income at all. Of course, sheshared in the folly, and I'm only sorry she won't suffer more for it. They didn't enjoy their lives--never have done. They lived in miserableslavery to the opinion of their fellow-snobs. You remember that storyabout the flowers at their silver wedding: two hundred pounds--justbecause Mrs. Somebody spent as much--when they couldn't really affordtwo hundred shillings. And they groaned over it--he and she--likepeople with the stomachache. Why, the old fool died of nothing else; hewas worn out by the fear of having to go into a smaller house. '

Harvey would have liked to put a question: was it possible that thedaughter of such people could be endowed with virtues such as becomethe wife of a comparatively poor man? But he had to ask it merely inhis own thoughts. Before long, no doubt, he would meet the lady herselfand appease his curiosity. 

Whilst they were talking, there came a knock at the door; the shopmanannounced two ladies, who wished to inquire about some photographicprinting. 

'Will you see them, Rolfe?' asked Cecil. 'I don't feel like it--indeedI don't. You'll be able to tell them all they want. '

Harvey found himself equal to the occasion, and was glad of it; heneeded occupation of some kind to keep his thoughts from an unpleasantsubject. After another talk with Morphew, in which they stuck tobusiness, he set off homeward. 

Here news awaited him. On his arrival all seemed well; Ruth opened thedoor, answered his greeting in her quiet, respectful way, and at oncebrought tea to the study. When he rang to have the things taken away, Ruth again appeared, and he saw now that she had something unusual tosay. 

'I didn't like to trouble you the first thing, sir, ' she began--'butSarah left yesterday without giving any notice; and I think it'sperhaps as well she did, sir. I've heard some things about her not atall nice. '

'We must find someone else, then, ' replied Harvey. 'It's lucky shedidn't go at a less convenient time. Was there some unpleasantnessbetween you?'

'I had warned her, for her own good, sir, that was all. And there'ssomething else I had perhaps better tell you now, sir. ' Her voice, withits pleasant Welsh accent, faltered ominously. 'I'm very sorry indeedto say it, sir, but I shall be obliged to leave as soon as Mrs. Rolfecan spare me. '

Harvey was overwhelmed. He looked upon Ruth as a permanent member ofthe household. She had made herself indispensable; to her was owing thefreedom from domestic harassment which Alma had always enjoyed--a mostexceptional blessing, yet regarded, after all this time, as a matter ofcourse. The departure of Ruth meant conflict with ordinary servants, inwhich Alma would assuredly be worsted. At this critical moment of theirlife, scarcely could anything more disastrous have happened. Seeing hermaster's consternation, Ruth was sore troubled, and hastened to explainherself. 

'My brother's wife has just died, sir, and left him with three youngchildren, and there's no one else can be of help to him but me. Hewanted me to come at once, but, of course, I told him I couldn't dothat. No one can be sorry for his wife's death; she was such a poor, silly, complaining, useless creature; he hasn't had a quiet day sincehe married her. She belonged to Liverpool, and there they were married, and when he brought her to Carnarvon I said to myself as soon as I sawher that _she_ wouldn't be much use to a working-man. She began thevery first day to complain and to grumble, and she's gone on with itever since. When I was there in my last holiday I really wondered howhe bore his life. There's many women of that kind, sir, but I neverknew one as bad as her--never. Everything was too much trouble for her, and she didn't know how to do a thing in the house. I didn't mean totrouble you with such things, sir. I only told you just to show why Idon't feel I can refuse to go and help him, and try to give him alittle peace and quiet. He's a hard-working man, and the childrenaren't very healthy, and I'm sure I don't know how he'd manage----'

'You have no choice, Ruth, I see. Well, we must hope to find some onein your place--_but_----'

Just as he shook his head, the house-bell rang, and Ruth withdrew toanswer it. In a minute or two the study door opened again. Harveylooked up and saw Alma. 

'I was obliged to come, ' she said, approaching him, as he rose inastonishment. 'I thought at first of asking you to come on toBasingstoke, but we can talk better here. '

No sign of pleasure in their meeting passed between them. On Harvey'sface lingered something of the disturbance caused by Ruth'scommunication, and Alma understood it as due to her unexpected arrival;the smile with which she had entered died away, and she stood like astranger doubtful of her reception. 

'Was it necessary to talk?' asked Rolfe, pushing forward a chair, anddoing his best to show good humour. 

'Yes--after your reply to my letter this morning, ' she answered coldly. 

'Well, you must have some tea first. This is cold. Won't you go andtake your things off, and I'll tell Ruth. By-the-bye, we re inconfusion. '

He sketched the position of things; but Alma heard without interest. 

'It can't be helped, ' was her absent reply. 'There are plenty ofservants. '

Fresh tea was brought, and after a brief absence Alma sat down to it. Her health had improved during the past week, but she looked tired fromthe journey, and was glad to lean back in her chair. For some minutesneither of them spoke. Harvey had never seen an expression on Alma'sfeatures which was so like hostility; it moved him to seriousresentment. It is common enough for people who have been several yearswedded to feel exasperation in each other's presence, but for Rolfe theexperience was quite new, and so extremely disagreeable, that hispulses throbbed with violence, and his mouth grew dry. He determined toutter not a word until Alma began conversation. This she did at length, with painful effort. 

'I think your answer to me was very unkind. '

'I didn't mean it so. '

'You simply said that you wouldn't do as I wished. '

'Not that I wouldn't, but that it was impossible. And I showed you thereasons--though I should have thought it superfluous. '

Alma waited a moment, then asked----

'Is this house let?'

'I don't know. I suppose not. '

'Then there is no reason whatever why we shouldn't stay here. '

'There is every reason why we shouldn't stay here. Every arrangementhas been made for our leaving--everything fully talked over. What hasmade you change your mind?'

'I haven't really changed my mind. I always disliked the idea of goingto Gunnersbury, and you must have seen that I did; but I was so muchoccupied with--with other things; and, as I have told you, I didn'tfeel quite the same about my position as I do now. '

She expressed herself awkwardly, growing very nervous. At the firstsign of distress in her, Harvey was able to change his tone. 

'Things are going horribly wrong somehow, Alma. There's only one wayout of it. Just say in honest words what you mean. Why do you dislikethe thought of our moving?'

'I told you in my letter, ' she answered, somewhat acridly. 

'There was no explanation. You said something I couldn't understand, about having a _right_ to ask me to stay here. '

She glanced at him with incredulous disdain. 

'If you don't understand, I can't put it into plainer words. '

'Well now, let _me_ put the whole matter into plainer words than I haveliked to use. ' Rolfe spoke deliberately, and not unkindly, though hewas tempted to give way to wrath at what he imagined a display ofignoble and groundless jealousy. 'All along I have allowed you to takeyour own course. No, I mustn't say "allowed", the word is inapplicable;I never claimed the right to dictate to you. We agreed that this wasthe way for rational husband and wife. It seemed to us that I had nomore right to rule over you than you to lay down the law for me. Usingyour freedom, you chose to live the life of an artist--that is to say, you troubled yourself as little as possible about home and family. I amnot complaining--not a bit of it. The thing was an experiment, to besure; but I have held to the conditions, watched their working. Latterly I began to see that they didn't work well, and it appears thatyou agree with me. This is how matters stand; or rather, this is howthey stood until, for some mysterious reason, you seemed to growunfriendly. The reason is altogether mysterious; I leave you to explainit. From my point of view, the failure of our experiment is simple andnatural enough. Though I had only myself to blame, I have felt for along time that you were in an utterly false position. Now you begin tosee things in the same light. Well and good; why can't we start afresh?The only obstacle is your unfriendly feeling. Give me an opportunity ofremoving it. I hate to be on ill terms with you; it seems monstrous, unaccountable. It puts us on a level with married folk in a Londonlodging-house. Is it necessary to sink quite so low?'

Alma listened with trembling intensity, and seemed at first unable toreply. Her agitation provoked Harvey more than it appealed to his pity. 

'If you can't do as I wish, ' she said at length, with an endeavour tospeak calmly, 'I see no use in making any change in my own life. Therewill be no need of me. I shall make arrangements to go on with myprofessional career. '

Harvey's features for a moment set themselves in combativeness, but asquickly they relaxed, and showed an ambiguous smile. 

'No need of you--and Ruth going to leave us?'

'There oughtn't to be any difficulty in finding someone just as good. '

'Perhaps there ought not to be; but we may thank our stars if we findanyone half as trustworthy. The chances are that a dozen will come andgo before we settle down again. I don't enjoy that prospect, and Ishall want a good deal of help from you in bearing the discomfort. '

'What kind of help? Of course, I shall see that the house goes on asusual. '

'Then it's quite certain you will have no time left for a "professionalcareer". '

'If I understand you, you mean that you don't wish me to have any timefor it. '

Harvey still smiled, though he could not conceal his nervousness. 

'I'm afraid it comes to that. '

So little had Alma expected such a declaration, that she gazed at himin frank surprise. 

'Then you are going to oppose me in everything?'

'I hope not. In that case we should do much better to say good-bye. '

The new tone perplexed her, and a puzzled interest mingled with thelofty displeasure of her look. 

'Please let us understand each other. ' She spoke with demonstrativecalmness. 'Are we talking on equal terms, or is it master and servant?'

'Husband and wife, Alma, that's all. '

'With a new meaning in the words. '

'No; a very old one. I won't say the oldest, for I believe there was atime when primitive woman had the making of man in every sense, andsomehow knocked a few ideas into his head; but that was very long ago. '

'If I could be sure of your real meaning----. ' She made an irritatedgesture. 'How are we going to live? You speak of married people inlodging-houses. I don't know much about them, happily, but I imaginethe husband talks something like this--though in more intelligiblelanguage. '

'I dare say he does--poor man. He talks more plainly, because he hasnever put himself in a false position--has never played foolishly withthe facts of life. '

Alma sat reflecting. 

'Didn't I tell you in my letter, ' she said at length, 'that I was quitewilling to make a change, on one condition?'

'An impossible condition. '

'You treat me very harshly. How have I deserved it? When I wrote that, I really wished to please you. Of course, I knew you were dissatisfiedwith me, and it made me dissatisfied with myself. I wrote in a way thatought to have brought me a very different answer. Why do you behave asif I were guilty of something--as if I had put myself at your mercy?You never found fault with me--you even encouraged me to go on----'

Her choking voice made Harvey look at her in apprehension, and the lookstopped her just as she was growing hysterical. 

'You are right about my letter, ' he said, very gravely and quietly. 'Itought to have been in a kinder tone. It would have been, but for thosewords you won't explain. '

'You think it needs any explanation that I dislike the thought ofHughie going to Mrs. Abbott's?'

'Indeed I do. I can't imagine a valid ground for your objection. '

There was a word on Alma's tongue, but her lips would not utter it. Sheturned very pale under the mental conflict. Physical weakness, insteadof overcoming her spirit, excited it to a fresh effort of resistance. 

'Then, ' she said, rising from the chair, 'you are not only unkind tome, but dishonest. '

Harvey flushed. 

'You are making yourself ill again. We had far better not talk at all. '

'I came up for no other purpose. We have to settle everything. '

'As far as I am concerned, everything is settled. '

'Then I have no choice, ' said Alma, with subdued passion. 'We shalllive as we have done. I shall accept any engagement that offers, inLondon or the country, and regard music as my chief concern. You wishedit, and so it shall be. '

Rolfe hesitated. Believing that her illness was the real cause of thiscommotion, he felt it his duty to use all possible forbearance; yet heknew too well the danger of once more yielding, and at such a crisis. The contest had declared itself--it was will against will; to decide itby the exertion of his sane strength against Alma's hysteria might bebest even for the moment. He had wrought himself to the point ofunwonted energy, a state of body and mind difficult to recover if nowhe suffered defeat. Alma, turning from him, seemed about to leave theroom. 

'One moment----'

She looked round, carelessly attentive. 

'That wouldn't be living as we have done. It would be an intolerablestate of things after this. '

'It's your own decision. '

'Far from it. I wouldn't put up with it for a day. '

'Then there's only one thing left: I must go and live by myself. '

'I couldn't stand that either, and wouldn't try. '

'I am no slave! I shall live where and how I choose. '

'When you have thought about it more calmly, your choice will be thesame as mine. '

Trembling violently, she backed away from him. Harvey thought she wouldfall; he tried to hold her by the arm, but Alma shook him off, and inthe same moment regained her strength. She faced him with a newdefiance, which enabled her at last to speak the words hithertounutterable. 

'How do you think I can bear to see Hughie with _those_ children?'

Rolfe stood in amaze. The suddenness of this reversion to another stageof their argument enhanced his natural difficulty in understanding her. 'What children?'

'Those two--whatever their name may be. '

'Wager's boy and girl?'

'You call them so. '

'Are you going crazy? I _call_ them so?--what do you mean?'

A sudden misgiving appeared in Alma's eyes; she stared at him sostrangely that Harvey began to fear for her reason. 

'What is it, dear? What have you been thinking? Tell me--speak likeyourself----'

'Why do you take so much interest in them?' she asked faintly. 

'Heavens! You have suspected----? What _have_ you suspected?'

'They are your own. I have known it for a long time. '

Alarm notwithstanding, Rolfe was so struck by the absurdity of thischarge that he burst into stentorian laughter. Whilst he laughed, Almasank into a chair, powerless, tearful. 

'I should much like to know, ' exclaimed Harvey, laying a hand upon her, 'how you made that astounding discovery. Do you think they are like me?'

'The girl is--or I thought so. '

'After you had decided that she must be, no doubt. ' Again he explodedin laughter. 'And this is the meaning of it all? This is what you havebeen fretting over? For how long?'

Alma brushed away her tears, but gave no answer. 

'And if I am their father, ' he pursued, with resolute mirthfulness, 'pray, who do you suppose their mother to be?'

Still Alma kept silence, her head bent. 

'I'll warrant I can give you evidence against myself which you hadn'tdiscovered, ' Rolfe went on--'awful and unanswerable evidence. It is Iwho support those children, and pay for their education!--it is I, andno other. See your darkest suspicion confirmed. If only you had knownthis for certain!'

'Why, then, do you do it?' asked Alma, without raising her eyes. 

'For a very foolish reason: there was no one else who could or would. '

'And why did you keep it a secret from me?'

'This is the blackest part of the whole gloomy affair, ' he answered, with burlesque gravity. 'It's in the depraved nature of men to keepsecrets from their wives, especially about money. To tell the truth, I'm hanged if I know why I didn't tell you before our marriage. Theinfamous step was taken not very long before, and I might as well havemade a clean breast of it. Has Mrs. Abbott never spoken to you abouther cousin, Wager's wife?'

'A word or two. '

'Which you took for artful fiction? You imagined she had plotted withme to deceive you? What, in the name of commonsense, is your estimateof Mrs. Abbott's character?'

Alma drew a deep breath, and looked up into her husband's face. 'Still--she knew you were keeping it from me, about the money. '

'She had no suspicion of it. She always wrote to me openly, acknowledging the cheques. Would it gratify you to look through herletters?'

'I believe you. '

'Not quite, I fancy. Look at me again and say it. '

He raised her head gently. 

'Yes, I believe you--it was very silly. '

'It was. The only piece of downright feminine foolishness I ever knewyou guilty of. But when did it begin?'

Alma had become strangely quiet. She spoke in a low, tired voice, andsat with head turned aside, resting against the back of the chair; herface was expressionless, her eyelids drooped. Rolfe had to repeat hisquestion. 

'I hardly know, ' she replied. 'It must have been when my illness wascoming on. '

'So I should think. It was sheer frenzy. And now that it's over, haveyou still any prejudice against Mrs. Abbott?'

'No. '

The syllable fell idly from her lips. 

'You are tired, dear. All this sound and fury has been too much foryou. Lie down on the sofa till dinner-time. '

She allowed him to lead her across the room, and lay down as he wished. To his kiss upon her forehead she made no response, but closed her eyesand was very still. Harvey seated himself at his desk, and opened twoor three unimportant letters which had arrived this morning. To one ofthem he wrote an answer. Turning presently to glance at Alma, he sawthat she had not stirred, and when he leaned towards her, the sound ofher breathing told him that she was asleep. 

He meditated on Woman. 

A quarter of an hour before dinner-time he left the room; on hisreturn, when the meal was ready, he found Alma still sleeping, and sosoundly that it seemed wrong to wake her. As rays of sunset had begunto fall into the room, he drew the blind, then quietly went out, andhad dinner by himself. 

At ten o'clock Alma still slept. Using a closely-shaded lamp, Harveysat in the room with her and read--or seemed to read; for ever andagain his eyes strayed to the still figure, and his thoughts wanderedover all he knew of Alma's life. He wished he knew more, that he mightbetter understand her. Of her childhood, her early maidenhood, whatconception had he? Yet he and she were _one_--so said the creeds. AndHarvey laughed to himself, a laugh more of melancholy than of derision. 

The clock ticked on; it was near to eleven. Then Alma stirred, raisedherself, and looked towards the light. 

'Harvey----? Have I been asleep so long?'

'Nearly five hours. '

'Oh! That was last night----'

'You mean, you had no sleep?'

'Didn't close my eyes. '

'And you feel better now?'

'Rather hungry. '

Rolfe laughed. He had seated himself on the couch by her and held herin his arms. 

'Why, then we'll have some supper--a cold fowl and a bottle ofBurgundy--a profligate supper, fit for such abandoned characters; andover it you shall tell me how the world looked to you when you were tenyears old. '

CHAPTER 4

Alma returned to Basingstoke, and remained there until the new housewas ready for her reception. With the help of her country friends sheengaged two domestics, cook and housemaid, who were despatched toGunnersbury in advance; they had good 'characters', and might possiblyco-operate with their new mistress in her resolve to create anadmirable household. Into this ambition Alma had thrown herself with noless fervour than that which carried her off to wild Wales five yearsago; but her aim was now strictly 'practical', she would have nothingmore to do with 'ideals'. She took lessons in domestic economy from thegood people at Basingstoke. Yes, she had found her way at last! Almasaw it in the glow of a discovery, this calm, secure, and gracefulmiddle-way. She talked of it with an animation that surprised andpleased her little circle down in Hampshire; those ladies had neverbeen able to illumine their everyday discharge of duty with such highimaginative glory. In return for their humble lessons, Alma taught themto admire themselves, to see in their place and functions a nobilitythey had never suspected. 

For a day or two after her arrival at Gunnersbury, Harvey thought thathe had never seen her look so well; certainly she had never shown thepossibilities of her character to such advantage. It seemed out of thequestion that any trouble could ever again come between them. Only whenthe excitement of novelty had subsided did he perceive that Alma wasfar from having recovered her physical strength. A walk of a mile ortwo exhausted her; she came home from an hour's exercise with Hughiepale and tremulous; and of a morning it was often to be noticed thatshe had not slept well. Without talking of it, Harvey planned theholiday which Alma had declared would be quite needless this year; hetook a house in Norfolk for September. Before the day of departure, Alma had something to tell him, which, by suggesting naturalexplanation of her weakness, made him less uneasy. Remembering theincident which had brought to a close their life in Wales, he saw withpleasure that Alma no longer revolted against the common lot of woman. Perhaps, indeed, the announcement she made to him was the cause of moreanxiety in his mind than in hers. 

They took their servants with them, and left the house to a caretaker. Pauline Smith, though somewhat against Harvey's judgment, had beencalled upon to resign; Alma wished to have Hughie to herself, saveduring his school hours; he slept in her room, and she tended him mostconscientiously. Harvey had asked whether she would like to invite anyone, but she preferred to be alone. 

This month by the northern sea improved her health, but she had littleenjoyment. After a few days, she wearied of the shore and the moorland, and wished herself back at Gunnersbury. Nature had never made muchappeal to her; when she spoke of its beauties with admiration, sheechoed the approved phrases, little more; all her instincts drewtowards the life of a great town. Sitting upon the sand, between cliffand breakers, she lost herself in a dream of thronged streets andbrilliant rooms; the voice of the waves became the roar of traffic, afar sweeter music. With every year this tendency had grown stronger;she could only marvel, now, at the illusion which enabled her to liveso long, all but contentedly, in that wilderness where Hughie was born. Rather than return to it, she would die--rather, a thousand times. Happily, there was no such danger. Harvey would never ask her to leaveLondon. All he desired was that she should hold apart from certaincurrents of town life; and this she was resolved to do, knowing hownearly they had swept her to destruction. 

'Wouldn't you like to take up your sketching again?' said Harvey oneday, when he saw that she felt dull. 

'Sketching? Oh, I had forgotten all about it. It seems ages ago. Ishould have to begin and learn all over again. No, no; it isn't worthwhile. I shall have no time. '

She did not speak discontentedly, but Rolfe saw already thejustification of his misgivings. She had begun to feel the constantpresence of the child a restraint and a burden. 

Happily, on their return home, Hughie would go to school for a coupleof hours each morning. Alma could have wished it any other school thanMary Abbott's, but the thought was no longer so insupportable as whenshe suffered under her delusion concerning the two children. Now thatshe had frequently seen Minnie Wager, she wondered at theself-deception which allowed her to detect in the child's face adistinct resemblance to Harvey. Of course, there was nothing of thekind. She had been the victim of a morbid jealousy--a symptom, nodoubt, of the disorder of the nerves which was growing upon her. Yetshe could not overcome her antipathy to Mary Abbott. Harvey, she feltsure, would never have made himself responsible for those children, butthat in doing so he benefited their teacher; and it was not withoutmotive of conscience that he kept the matter secret. By no effort couldAlma banish this suspicion. She resolved that it should never appear;she commanded her face and her utterance; but it was impossible for herever to regard Mrs. Abbott with liking, or even with respect. 

In a darker corner of her mind lay hidden another shape ofjealousy--jealousy unavowed, often disguised as fear, but for the mostpart betraying itself through the mask of hatred. 

Times innumerable, in nights that brought no rest, and through longhours of weary day, Alma had put her heart to the proof, and acquittedit of any feeling save a natural compassion for the man Hugh Carnabyhad killed. She had never loved Redgrave, had never even thought of himwith that curiosity which piques the flesh; yet so inseparably was heassociated with her life at its points of utmost tension and ardour, that she could not bear to yield to any other woman a closer intimacy, a prior claim. At her peril she had tempted him, and up to the fatalmoment she was still holding her own in the game which had become toher a passion. It ended--because a rival came between. Of Sibyl's guiltshe never admitted a doubt; it was manifest in the story made public byHugh Carnaby, the story which he, great simple fellow, told in all goodfaith, relying absolutely on his wife's assertion of innocence. Savingher husband, who believed Sibyl innocent?

She flattered herself with the persuasion that it was right to hateSibyl--a woman who had sold herself for money, whose dishonour differedin no respect from that of the woman of the pavement. And all the moreshe hated her because she feared her. What security could there be thatRedgrave's murderer (thus she thought of him) had kept the secret whichhe promised to keep? That he allowed no hint of it to escape him inpublic did not prove that he had been equally scrupulous with Sibyl;for Hugh was a mere plaything in the hands of his wife, and it seemedmore than likely that he had put his stupid conscience at rest bytelling her everything. Were it so, what motive would weigh with Sibylto keep her silent? One, and one only, could be divined: a fear lestAlma, through intimacy with Redgrave, might have discovered thingswhich put her in a position to dare the enmity of her former friend. This, no doubt, would hold Sibyl to discretion. Yet it could notrelieve Alma from the fear of her, and of Hugh Carnaby himself--fearwhich must last a lifetime; which at any moment, perhaps long yearshence, might find its bitter fulfilment, and work her ruin. For HarveyRolfe was not a man of the stamp of Hugh Carnaby: he would not behoodwinked in the face of damning evidence, or lend easy ear tospecious explanations. The very fact that she _could_ explain herambiguous behaviour was to Alma an enhancement of the dread with whichshe thought of such a scene between herself and Harvey; for to beinnocent, and yet unable to force conviction of it upon his inmostmind, would cause her a deeper anguish than to fall before him withconfession of guilt. And to convince him would be impossible, for everimpossible. Say what she might, and however generous the response ofhis love, there must still remain the doubt which attaches to a woman'sself-defence when at the same time she is a self-accuser. 

In the semi-delirium of her illness, whilst waiting in torment for theassurance that Carnaby had kept her secret, she more than once prayedfor Sibyl's death. In her normal state of mind Alma prayed for nothing;she could not hope that Sibyl's life would come to a convenient end;but as often as she thought of her, it was with a vehemence ofmalignity which fired her imagination to all manner of ruthlessextremes. It revolted her to look back upon the time when she sat atthat woman's feet, a disciple, an affectionate admirer, allowingherself to be graciously patronised, counselled, encouraged. The reposeof manner which so impressed her, the habitual serenity of mood, theunvarying self-confidence--oh, these were excellent qualities when itcame to playing the high part of cold and subtle hypocrisy! She knewSibyl, and could follow the workings of her mind: a woman incapable oflove, or of the passion which simulates it; worshipping herself, offering luxuries to her cold flesh as to an idol; scornful of thepossibility that she might ever come to lack what she desired; and, atthe critical moment, prompt to secure herself against such danger bythe smiling, cynical acceptance of whatsoever shame. Alma had no smallgift of intuition; proved by the facility and fervour with which shecould adapt her mind to widely different conceptions of life. Thischaracteristic, aided by the perspicacity which is bestowed upon everyjealous woman, perchance enabled her to read the mysterious Sibyl withsome approach to exactness. Were it so, prudence should have warned heragainst a struggle for mere hatred's sake with so formidable anantagonist. But the voice of caution had never long audience with Alma, and was not likely, at any given moment, to prevail against a transportof her impetuous soul. 

Harvey, meanwhile, fearing her inclination to brood over the darkevent, tried to behave as though he had utterly dismissed it from histhoughts. He kept a cheerful countenance, talked much more than usual, and seemed full of health and hope. As usual between married people, this resolute cheerfulness had, more often than not, an irritatingeffect upon Alma. Rolfe erred once more in preferring to keep silenceabout difficulties rather than face the unpleasantness of franklydiscussing them. One good, long, intimate conversation about Mrs. Carnaby, with unrestricted exchange of views, the masculine and thefeminine, with liberal acceptance of life as it is lived, and honestcontempt of leering hypocrisies, would have done more, at thisjuncture, to put healthy tone into Alma's being than any change ofscene and of atmosphere, any medicament or well-meant summons toforgetfulness. Like the majority of good and thoughtful men, he couldnot weigh his female companion in the balance he found good enough formortals of his own sex. With a little obtuseness to the 'finer'feelings, a little native coarseness in his habits towards women, hewould have succeeded vastly better amid the complications of hismarried life. 

Troubles of a grosser kind, such as heretofore they had beenwonderfully spared, began to assail them during their month in Norfolk. One morning, about midway in the holiday, Harvey, as he came down for abathe before breakfast, heard loud and angry voices from the kitchen. On his return after bathing, he found the breakfast-table verycarelessly laid, with knives unpolished, and other such neglects ofseemliness. Alma, appearing with Hughie, spoke at once of the strangenoises she had heard, and Harvey gave his account of the uproar. 

'I thought something was wrong, ' said Alma. 'The cook has seemed in abad temper for several days. I don't like either of them. I think Ishall give them both notice, and advertise at once. They say thatadvertising is the best way. '

The housemaid (in her secondary function of parlour-maid) waited attable with a scowl. The fish was ill fried, the eggs were hard, thetoast was soot-smeared. For the moment Alma made no remark; but half anhour later, when Harvey and the child had rambled off to the sea-shore, she summoned both domestics, and demanded an explanation of theirbehaviour. Her tone was not conciliatory; she had neither theexperience nor the tact which are necessary in the mistress of ahousehold, and it needed only an occasion such as this to bring out thecontemptuousness with which she regarded her social inferiors. Toowell-bred to indulge in scolding or wrangling, the delight of a largeclass of housewives, Alma had a quiet way of exhibiting displeasure andscorn, which told smartly on the nerves of those she rebuked. No onecould better have illustrated the crucial difficulty of theservant-question, which lies in the fact that women seldom can rule, and all but invariably dislike to be ruled by, their own sex; adifficulty which increases with the breaking-up of social distinctions. 

She went out into the sunshine, and found Harvey and Hughie building agreat castle of sand. Her mood was lightsome for she felt that she hadacted with decision and in a way worthy of her dignity. 

'They will both go about their business. I only hope we may get mealsfor the rest of the time here. '

Harvey nodded, with closed lips. 

'It's a pity Pauline went, ' he remarked presently. 

'I'm afraid it is. I hadn't quite realised what it would mean. '

'I rather think I ventured to say something of that kind, didn't I? She_may_ not have taken another place. Suppose you write to her?'

Alma seemed to waver. 

'What I am thinking, ' she said in a lower tone, 'is that--beforelong--we shall need--I suppose--someone of a rather different kind--anordinary nurse-girl. But you wouldn't like Hughie to be with anyone ofthat sort?'

'It wouldn't matter now. '

'Here's the philosophy of the matter in a nut-shell, ' said Harveyafterwards. 'Living nowadays means keeping up appearances, and you mustdo it just as carefully before your own servants as before yourfriends. The alternatives are, one general servant, with frankconfession of poverty, or a numerous household and everything _comme ilfaut_. There's no middle way, with peace. I think your determination totake care of Hughie yourself was admirable; but it won't work. Thesetwo women think you do it because you can't afford a nurse, and at oncethey despise us. It's the nature of the beasts--it's the tone of thetime. Nothing will keep them and their like in subordination but ajingling of the purse. One must say to them all day long, "I am yoursuperior; I can buy you by the dozen, if need be; I never need soil myfinger with any sort of work, and you know it. " Ruth was a goodcreature, but I seriously doubt whether she would have been quite sogood if she hadn't seen us keeping our horse and our gardener and ourgroom down yonder--everything handsome about us. For the sake ofquietness we must exalt ourselves. '

'You're quite right about Ruth, ' replied Alma, laughing. 'Several timesshe has let me see how she admired my life of idleness; but it's justthat I don't want to go back to. '

'No need. Ruth was practically a housekeeper. You can manage your ownhouse, but you must have a servant for everything. Get a nurse, by allmeans. '

Alma drew a breath of contentment. 

'You are not dissatisfied with _me_, Harvey?'

'Of course not. '

'But tell me--how does Mrs. Morton manage? Why isn't she despised byher servants when she's always so busy?'

Harvey had to close his lips against the first answer which occurred tohim. 

'For one thing, ' he replied, 'there's a more natural state of things inthose little towns; something of the old spirit still lives. Then theMortons have the immense advantage of being an old family, settledthere for generations, known and respected by everyone. That's a kindof superiority one can't buy, and goes for a great deal in comfortableliving. Morton's servants are the daughters of people who served hisparents. From their childhood they have thought it would be a privilegeto get into that house. '

'Impossible in London. '

'Unless you are a duchess. '

'What a pleasant thing it must be, ' said Alma musingly, 'to haveancestors. '

Harvey chuckled. 

'The next best thing is to have descendants. '

'Why, then, ' exclaimed Alma, 'we become ancestors ourselves. But oneought to have an interesting house to live in. Nobody's ancestors everlived in a semi-detached villa. What I should like would be one ofthose picturesque old places down in Surrey quite in the country, yetwithin easy reach of town; a house with a real garden, and perhaps anorchard. I believe you can get them very cheap sometimes. Not rent thehouse, but buy it. Then we would have our portraits painted, and----'

Harvey asked himself how long Alma would find satisfaction in such ahome; but it pleased him to hear her talking thus of the things whichwere his own hopeless dream. 

'That reminds me, Alma, you have never sat yet for your picture, as Isaid you should. '

'We must wait--now. '

'It shall be done next year. '

They were content with each other this evening, and looked forward topleasures they might have in common. For Harvey had learnt to nourishonly the humblest hopes, and Alma thought she had subdued herself to anundistinguished destiny. 

CHAPTER 5

Determined to have done once for all with a task she loathed, Almawrote out her advertisements for cook, house-parlourmaid, and nurse, and sent them to half a dozen newspapers. After three weeks ofcorrespondence with servants and mistresses--a correspondence which, asRolfe said, would have made a printed volume of higher sociologicalinterest than anything yet published, or likely to be--the end of herpatience and her strength compelled her to decide half desperately, andengage the three young women who appeared least insolent. At the sametime she had to find a new boy for boots, windows, knives, and coals, the youngster hitherto employed having been so successful with his'book' on Kempton Park and Hurst Park September meetings that herelinquished menial duties and devoted himself wholly to the turf; butthis was such a simple matter, compared with the engaging of indoordomestics, that she felt it almost a delight. When a strong, merry-looking lad presented himself, eager for the job, and speakingnot a word that was beside the point, Alma could have patted his head. 

She amused Harvey that evening by exclaiming with the very accent ofsincerity----

'How I like men, and how I detest women!'

Her nerves were so upset again that, when all was over, she generallyslept pretty well, but now her insomnia returned, and had to keep herbed for a day or two. At the sea-side she had once more she hadrecourse to the fashionable specific. Harvey knew nothing of this; shewas careful to hide it from him; and each time she measured out herdose she assured herself that it should be the last. 

Oh, but to lie through those terrible small hours, her brain feverishlyactive, compelling her to live again in the scenes and the emotions shemost desired to forget! She was haunted by the voice of Cyrus Redgrave, which at times grew so distinct to her hearing that it became anhallucination. Her memory reproduced his talk with astonishingfidelity; it was as though she had learnt it by heart, instead ofmerely listening to it at the time. This only in the silence of night;during the day she could not possibly have recalled a tenth of what herbrain thus treacherously preserved. 

In sleep she sometimes dreamt of him, and that was perhaps worse; forwhilst the waking illusion only reproduced what he had actually said, with all his tricks of tone, his suavities of expression, sleep broughtbefore her another Redgrave. He looked at her with a smile, indeed, buta smile of such unutterable malignity that she froze with terror. Itwas always the same. Redgrave stood before her smiling, silent; stoodand gazed until in a paroxysm of anguish she cried out and broke thedream. Once, whilst the agony was upon her, she sprang from bed, meaning to go to her husband and tell him everything, and so, it mightbe, put an end to her sufferings. But with her hand upon the door shelost courage. Impossible! She could not hope to be believed. She couldnever convince her husband that she had told him all. 

Upon _her_ lay the guilt of Redgrave's death. This had entered slowlyinto her consciousness; at first rejected, but ever returning until thelast argument of self-solace gave way. But for her visit to thebungalow that evening, Hugh Carnaby would not have been maddened to thepoint of fatal violence. In the obscurity he had mistaken her figurefor that of Sibyl; and when Redgrave guarded her retreat, he paid forthe impulse with his life. 

On the Sunday before her concert, she had thought of going to seeRedgrave, but the risk seemed too great, and there was no certainty offinding him at home. She wished above all things to see him, for therewas a suspicion in her mind that Mrs. Strangeways had a plot againsther, though of its nature she could form no idea. It might be true thatRedgrave was purposely holding aloof, whether out of real jealousy, orsimply as a stratagem, a new move in the game. She would not write tohim; she knew the danger of letters, and had been careful never towrite him even the simplest note. If she must remain in uncertaintyabout his attitude towards her, the approaching ordeal would beintensified with a new agitation: was he coming to her recital, or washe not? She had counted upon triumphing before him. If he could stayaway, her power over him was incomplete, and at the moment when she hadmeant it to be irresistible. 

The chance encounter on Monday with Hugh Carnaby made her think ofSibyl, and she could not rest until she had endeavoured to learnsomething of Sibyl's movements. As Carnaby was leaving town, his wifewould be free; and how did Sibyl use her freedom? On that subject MrsStrangeways had a decided opinion, and her knowledge of the world madeit more than probable that she was right. Without any scheme ofespionage, obeying her instinct of jealous enmity, Alma hastened toOxford and Cambridge Mansions. But Sibyl had left home, and--was notexpected to return that night. 

How she spent the next few hours Alma could but dimly remember. It wasa vortex of wretchedness. As dark fell she found herself at the gateleading to the bungalow, lurking, listening, waiting for courage to gofarther. She stole at length over the grass behind the bushes, untilshe could see the lighted window of Redgrave's study. The window wasopen. She crept nearer and nearer, till she was actually in the verandaand looking into the room. Redgrave sat within, smoking and reading anewspaper. She purposely made a movement which drew his attention. 

How would it have ended but for Hugh Carnaby?

Beyond ascertaining that Sibyl was not there, she had of coursediscovered nothing of what she wished to know. As likely as not she hadcome too early. Redgrave's behaviour when she drew his attentionsuggested that such a sound at the open window did not greatly surprisehim; the surprise appeared when he saw who stood there--surprise andmomentary embarrassment, which would be natural enough if he expected adifferent visitor. And he was so anxious that she should come in atonce. Had she done so, Redgrave's life would have been saved; but----

Its having been publicly proved that Mrs. Carnaby was then far awayfrom Wimbledon did not tend to shake Alma's conviction. The summons toher mother's deathbed had disturbed Sibyl's arrangements, that was all. Most luckily for her, as it turned out. But women of that kind (saidAlma bitterly) are favoured by fortune. 

Locked in a drawer of her writing-table lay a bundle of letters andpapers which had come to her immediately after the concert. To none ofthe letters had she replied; it was time for her to go through them, and answer, with due apologies, those which deserved an answer. Severaldid not; they were from people whom she hoped never to seeagain--people who wrote in fulsome terms, because they fancied shewould become a celebrity. The news of her breakdown had appeared in afew newspapers, and brought her letters of sympathy; these also layunanswered. On a day of late autumn she brought herself to the task oflooking through this correspondence, and in the end she burnt it all. Among the half-dozen people to whom she decided to write was FelixDymes; not out of gratitude, or any feeling of friendliness, butbecause she could not overcome a certain fear of the man. He wascapable of any meanness, perhaps of villainy; and perhaps he harbouredmalice against her, seeing that she had foiled him to the last. Shepenned a few lines asking him to let her have a complete statement ofthe financial results of her recital, which it seemed strange that hehad not sent already. 

'My health, ' she added, 'is far from re-established, and I am unableeither to go to town or to ask you to come and see me. It is ratherdoubtful whether I shall ever again play in public. '

In her own mind there lingered no doubt at all, but she thought itbetter not to be too abrupt with Dymes. 

After burning all the letters, she read once more through the pressnotices of her performance. It was significant that the musical criticswhose opinion had any weight gave her only a word or two of cautiouscommendation; her eulogists were writers who probably knew much lessabout music than she, and who reported concerts from the social pointof view. Popular journalism represented her debut as a strikingsuccess. Had she been able to use her opportunity to the utmost, doubtless something of a 'boom'--the word then coming intofashion--might have resulted for her; she could have given two or threemore recitals before the end of the season, have been much photographedand paragraphed, and then have gone into the country 'to spread herconquests farther'. This was Felix Dymes's hope. Writing with allpropriety, he had yet allowed it to be seen how greatly he was vexedand disappointed at her failure to take the flood. Alma, too, hadregretful moments; but she fought against the feeling with all herstrength. Today she all but found courage to throw these newspapersinto the fire; it would be a final sacrifice, a grave symbolic act, andmight bring her peace. Yet she could not. Long years hence, would itnot be a legitimate pride to show these things to her children? Amisgiving mingled with the thought, but her reluctance prevailed. Shemade up a parcel, wrote upon it, 'My Recital, May 1891', and locked itup with other most private memorials. 

She had not long to wait for her answer from Dymes. He apologised forhis delay in the matter of business, and promised that a detailedstatement should be sent to her in a very few days. The unfortunatestate of her health--there Alma smiled--moved him to sympathy andprofound regret; her abandonment of a professional career _could_ not, _must_ not, be a final decision!

Something prompted her to hand this letter to Harvey. 

'I took it for granted, ' he said humorously, 'that the man had sent youa substantial cheque long ago. '

'I believe the balance will be on my side. '

'Would you like me to see to the rest of the business for you?'

'I don't think that's necessary, is it?'

To her relief, Harvey said no more. She waited for the promisedbalance-sheet, but weeks passed by and it did not arrive. Anexplanation of this readily occurred to her: Dymes calculated uponbringing her to an interview. She thought of Harvey's proposal, andwished she could dare to accept it; but the obscure risks were toogreat. So, months elapsed, till the affair seemed forgotten. 

They never spoke to each other of Hugh Carnaby or of Sibyl. 

Meanwhile, Alma did not lack society. Mrs. Abbott, whom, without changeof feeling, she grew accustomed to see frequently, introduced her tothe Langland family, and in Mrs. Langland she found a not uncongenialacquaintance. This lady had known many griefs, and seemed destined tosuffer many more; she had wrinkles on her face which should not havebeen there at forty-five; but no one ever heard her complain or saw herlook downhearted. 

In her zeal for housewifery, Alma saw much to admire and to imitate inMrs. Langland. She liked the good-humoured modesty with which the elderlady always spoke of herself, and was not displeased at observing anair of deference when the conversation turned on such high matters asliterature and art. Mrs. Langland knew all about the recital atPrince's Hall; she knew, moreover, as appeared from a casual remark oneday, that Mrs. Rolfe had skill in 'landscape painting'. 

'Who told you that?' asked Alma, with surprise. 

'I hope it wasn't a secret. Mrs. Abbott spoke of your water-coloursonce. She was delighted with them. '

Praise even from Mary Abbott gratified Alma; it surprised her, and shedoubted its sincerity, but there was satisfaction in knowing that herfame went abroad among the people at Gunnersbury. Without admirationshe could not live, and nothing so severely tested her resolution to becontent with the duties of home as Harvey's habit of taking all forgranted, never remarking upon her life of self-conquest, never soothingher with the flatteries for which she hungered. 

She hailed with delight the first visit after several months from herfriends Dora and Gerda Leach. During the summer their father's healthhad suffered so severely that the overwrought man found himselfcompelled to choose between a long holiday abroad and the certainty ofcomplete collapse if he tried to pursue his ordinary life. The familywent away, and returned in November, when it seemed probable that themoney-making machine known as Mr. Leach had been put into tolerableworking order for another year or so. Not having seen Alma since herrecital, the girls overflowed with talk about it, repeating all theeulogies they had heard, and adding such rapturous laudation of theirown that Alma could have hung upon their necks in gratitude. They foundit impossible to believe that she would no more play in public. 

'Oh, but when you are _quite_ well!' they exclaimed. 'It would be ashame--a sin!'

In writing to them, Alma had put her decision solely on the ground ofhealth. Now, assuming a countenance of gentle gravity, she made knownher higher reasons. 

'I have felt it to be my duty. Remember that I can't consider myselfalone. I found that I must either devote myself wholly to music or giveit up altogether. You girls can't very well understand. When one is awife and a mother--I thought it all over during my illness. I had beenneglecting my husband and Hughie, and it was too bad--downrightselfishness. Art and housekeeping won't go together; I thought theymight, butt found my mistake. Of course, it cost me a struggle, butthat's over. I have learnt to _renounce_. '

'It's very noble of you!' murmured Dora Leach. 

'I never heard anything so noble!' said her sister. 

Alma flushed with pleasure. 

'And yet you know, ' Dora pursued, 'artists have a duty to the world. '

'I can't help questioning, ' said Gerda, 'whether you had a _right_ tosacrifice yourself. '

Alma smiled thoughtfully. 

'You can't quite see it as I do. When one has children----'

'It must make a great difference'--'Oh, a great difference!'--respondedthe sisters. And again they exclaimed at the spectacle of such nobledevotedness. 

By natural transition the talk turned to Mrs. Carnaby. The girls spokeof her compassionately, but Alma soon perceived that they did not utterall their thoughts. 

'I'm afraid, ' she said, 'that some people take another view. I haveheard--but one doesn't care to repeat such things. '

Dora and Gerda betrayed a lively interest. Yes, they too had hearddisagreeable gossip; what a shame it was!

'Of course, you see her?' said Dora. 

Alma shook her head, and seemed a trifle embarrassed. 

'I don't even know whether she still lives there. '

'Oh yes, she does, ' replied Miss Leach eagerly. 'But I've been toldthat very few people go. I wondered--we rather wished to know whether_you_ did. '

Again Alma gently shook her head. 

'I haven't even heard from her. I suppose she has her reasons. To tellyou the truth, I'm not quite sure that my husband would like me tocall. It isn't a pleasant subject, is it? Let us talk of somethingelse. '

So, when Dora and Gerda went away, they carried with them theconviction that Mrs. Carnaby was an 'impossible' person and of courselost no opportunity of imparting it to their friends. 

About a week before Christmas, when the new servants seemed to havesettled to their work, and the house routine needed less supervision, Alma and her husband dined at the Langlands', to meet a few quietpeople. Among the guests was Mrs. Langland's brother, of whom Alma hadalready heard, and whom, before the end of the evening, she came toregard with singular interest. Mr. Thistlewood had no advantages ofphysique, and little charm of manner; his long, meagre body neverseemed able to put itself at ease; sitting or standing, he displayedthe awkwardness of a naturally shy man who has not studied the habitsof society. But his features, in spite of irregularity, and acomplexion resembling the tone of 'foxed' paper, attracted observation, and rewarded it; his eye had a pleasant twinkle, oddly in contrast withthe lines of painful thought upon his forehead, and the severity ofstrained muscles in the lower part of his face. He was head-master of asmall school of art in a northern county; a post which he had held onlyfor a twelvemonth. Like his sister's husband, Thistlewood suffered fromdisappointed ambition, for he had aimed at great things as a painter;but he accepted his defeat, and at thirty-five was seeking content in a'sphere of usefulness' which promised, after all, to give scope to hisbest faculties. Not long ago he would have scorned the thought ofbecoming a 'teacher'; yet for a teacher he was born, and the truth, indawning upon his mind, had brought with it a measure of consolation. 

A finger missing from his left hand told a story of student life inParis. It was a quarrel with a young Frenchman, about a girl. He andhis rival happening to sit opposite to each other at a restauranttable, high words arose between them, and the Frenchman eventually madea stab at Thistlewood's hand with his dinner-fork. That ended thedispute, but the finger had to come off. Not long afterwardsThistlewood accepted an engagement to go as artist with a party ofEnglish explorers into Siberia. On his return he lingered for a week ortwo in St Petersburg, and there chanced to meet the girl who had costhim one of his digits. She, like himself, had been in pursuit ofadventures; but, whereas the artist came back with a well-filled purse, the wandering damsel was at her last sou. They journeyed together toLondon, and for the next year or two Thistlewood had the honour ofworking himself almost to death to support a very expensive youngwoman, who cared no more for him than for her cast-off shoes. Happily, some richer man was at length found who envied him his privilege, andtherewith ended Thistlewood's devotion to the joys of a bohemian life. Ever since, his habits had been excessively sober--perhaps a littlemorose. But Mrs. Langland, who now saw him once a year; thought him inevery respect improved. Moreover, she had a project for his happiness, and on that account frequently glanced at him during dinner, as heconversed, much more fluently than of wont, with his neighbour, Mrs. Abbott. 

Alma sat on the other side of the table, and was no less observant thanthe hostess of a peculiar animation on Mr. Thistlewood's dark visage. To be sure, she knew nothing of him, and it might be his habit to wearthat look when he talked with ladies; but Alma thought it unlikely. Andit seemed to her that Mary Abbott, though much as usual in manner, hada just perceptible gleam of countenance beyond what one was accustomedto remark in her moments of friendly conversation. This, too, might bemerely the result of a little natural excitement, seeing that theschool-mistress so seldom dined from home. But, in any case, theproximity of these two persons was curiously interesting and suggestive. 

In the drawing-room, presently, Alma had a pleasant little talk with MrThistlewood. By discreet experiment, she satisfied herself that MrsAbbott's name certainly quickened his interest; and, having learnt somuch, it was easy, by representing herself as that lady's old andintimate friend, to win from the man a significant look of pleasure andconfidence. They talked of art, of landscape, and it appeared thatThistlewood was acquainted with the part of Carnarvonshire where Almahad lived. What was more, he had heard of her charming water-colours, and he would so much like to see them. 

'Some enemy has done this, ' replied Alma, laughing gaily. 'Was it MrsAbbott?'

'No, it was not, ' he answered, with corresponding vivacity. 

'Why, then, it must have been Mrs. Langland, and I have a good mind toput her to open shame by asking you to come and see my wretched daubs. '

Nothing would please him better, declared Thistlewood; and thereupon heaccepted an invitation to tea for the following afternoon. 

Alma asked no one else. She understood that this man was only to beobserved under favourable conditions by isolating him. She wished, moreover, to bring him into fireside conversation with Harvey, and toremark her husband's demeanour. By way of preparation for thisconjuncture, she let fall, in private chat with Harvey, a word or twowhich pointed humorously at her suspicions concerning Thistlewood andMary Abbott. The hearer exhibited an incredulous surprise. 

'It was only a fancy, ' said Alma, smiling rather coldly; and she feltmore desirous than ever of watching her husband in Thistlewood'spresence. 

Unexpectedly, from her point of view, the two men got along togethervery well indeed. Harvey, thoroughly cordial, induced their guest tospeak of his work at the School of Art, and grew so interested in itthat the conversation went on for a couple of hours. Thistlewood hadpronounced and enthusiastic ideas on the subject. 

'My difficulty is, ' he exclaimed, 'that I can't get hold of thechildren young enough. People send their boys and girls to be taughtdrawing as an "accomplishment"--the feeble old notion. I want to teachit as a most important part of elementary education--in fact, to takeyoungsters straight on from the kindergarten stage. '

'Did I tell you, ' put in Alma, 'that our little boy goes to MrsAbbott's?' and her eyes were on both men at once. 

'I should say you couldn't have done better than send him there, 'replied Thistlewood, shuffling his feet and fidgeting with his hands. 'Mrs. Abbott is an admirable teacher. She quite agrees with me--Ishould say that I quite agree with her. But I am forgetting, Mrs. Rolfe, that you know her better than I do. '

Hughie was allowed to come into the room for a little while, and togive an account of what he learnt at school. When at length Thistlewoodtook his leave, it was with a promise that he would come again and dinea few days hence. His visit at Mrs. Langland's would extend overanother fortnight. Before the day of his departure northwards, Alma methim several times, and succeeded in establishing almost an intimatefriendship with him. He came to bid her goodbye on a black and bitterJanuary afternoon, when it happened that Harvey was away. As soon as heentered, she saw upon his face a look of ill augury, a heavy-eyeddejection very unlike the twinkling hopefulness with which he hadhitherto regarded her. 

'What's the matter?' she asked, holding his hand for a moment. 'Don'tyou like going back to work?'

'I enjoy my work, Mrs. Rolfe, as you know. '

'But you are not like yourself. '

'My friends here have made the time very pleasant. Naturally, I don'tlike leaving them. '

He was a little abrupt, and decidedly showed the less genial phase ofhis disposition. 

'Have some tea, ' said Alma, 'and warm yourself at the fire. You willthaw presently, Mr. Thistlewood. I suppose, like other unregeneratemen, you live in rooms? Has that kind of life an irresistible charm foryou?'

He looked at her with a frown which, to say the least, wasdiscouraging; it changed, however, to a more amiable expression as shehanded him his tea. 

'What do you imagine my income is, Mrs. Rolfe?' came growlingly fromhim. 

'I have no idea. You mean, I'm afraid'--Alma's voice fell upon itsgentlest note--'that it doesn't allow you to think of--of any change?'

'It _ought_ not to allow me, ' replied the other. 'I have about twohundred pounds a year, and can't hope much more for a long time. '

'And that, ' exclaimed Alma, 'seems to you insufficient? I should havethought in a little town--so far away--Oh! you want to surroundyourself with luxuries----'

'I don't!--I beg your pardon, Mrs. Rolfe, I meant to say that yousurely know me better. ' His hand trembled and spilt the tea, which hehad not yet touched. 'But how can you suppose that--that anyone----?'

He turned his face to the fire, the light of which made his eyes glarefiercely. Forthwith, Alma launched upon a spirited remonstrance. Never, even in the days just before her marriage, had she been so fervid andeloquent on behalf of the 'simple life'. Two hundred pounds! Why, itwas wealth for rational people! She inveighed against display andextravagance. 

'You are looking round the room. --Oh, don't apologise; it was quitenatural. I confess, and I'm ashamed of myself. But ask Mrs. Abbott totell you about our little house in Wales; she came once to see usthere. We lived--oh so simply and cheaply; and it was our happiesttime. If only we could go back to it! But the world has been too muchfor us. People call it comfort; it means, I assure you, ceaselesstrouble and worry. Who knows? some day we may come to our senses, andshake off the burden. '

Thistlewood smiled. 

'If we could all have cottages among the mountains, ' he said. 'But alittle provincial town----'

'Set an example! Who would have a better right to defy foolishprejudice? A teacher of the beautiful--you might do infinite good byshowing how beautifully one can live without obeying mere fashion in asingle point. '

'I heartily agree with you, ' replied Thistlewood, setting down hisempty cup. 'You express my own thoughts much better than I couldmyself. And your talk has done me good, Mrs. Rolfe. Thank you fortreating me with such friendly kindness. '

Therewith he rose and said goodbye to her, with a hope that they mightmeet again. Alma was vexed that he would not stay longer and take hermore completely into his confidence; but she echoed the hope, andsmiled upon him with much sweetness. 

His behaviour could have only one interpretation: he had proposed toMary Abbott, and she had refused him. The longer Alma thought, the morecertain she was--and the more irritated. It would be very difficult tocontinue her civility to Mrs. Abbott after this. 

CHAPTER 6

In these days Rolfe had abandoned even the pretence of study. He couldnot feel at home among his books; they were ranked about him on the oldshelves, but looked as uncomfortable as he himself; it seemed atemporary arrangement; he might as well have been in lodgings. AtPinner, after a twelvemonth, he was beginning to overcome the sense ofstrangeness; but a foreboding that he could not long remain there hadalways disturbed him. Here, though every probability pointed to aresidence of at least two or three years, he scarcely made an effort tofamiliarise himself with the new surroundings; his house was a shelter, a camp; granted a water-tight roof, and drains not immediatelypoisonous, what need to take thought for artificial comforts? Thousandsof men, who sleep on the circumference of London, and go each day tobusiness, are practically strangers to the district nominally theirhome; ever ready to strike tent, as convenience bids, they can feel nointerest in a vicinage which merely happens to house them for the timebeing, and as often as not they remain ignorant of the names of streetsor roads through which they pass in going to the railway station. Harvey was now very much in this case. That he might not utterly wastehis time, he had undertaken regular duties under Cecil Morphew'sdirection, and spent some hours daily in Westminster Bridge Road. Thence he went to his club, to see the papers; and in returning toGunnersbury he felt hardly more sense of vital connection with thissuburb than with the murky and roaring street in which he sat atbusiness. By force of habit he continued to read, but only books fromthe circulating library, thrown upon his table pell-mell--novels, popular science, travels, biographies; each as it came to hand. Theintellectual disease of the time took hold upon him: he lost the powerof mental concentration, yielded to the indolent pleasure of desultorypage-skimming. There remained in him but one sign of grace: the qualmsthat followed on every evening's debauch of mind, the headacheyimpression that he was going through a morbid experience which somehowwould work its own cure. 

Alma seemed quite unaware of any change in him. To his physical comfortshe gave all due attention, anxious lest he should catch cold in thishideous weather, and doing her best to rule the house as he desired;but his intellectual life was no concern to her. Herein, of course, Harvey did but share the common lot of men married; he recognised thefact, and was too wise to complain of it, even in his own mind. Yet itpuzzled him a little, now and then, that a woman so intelligent as Almashould in this respect be simply on a level with the brainlessmultitude of her sex. One evening, when they were together in his room, he took down a volume, and blew the dust off it, saying as he did so----

'They're not often disturbed nowadays, these solid old fellows. '

'But I suppose you like to have them about you?' Alma repliedcarelessly, as she glanced at the shelves. 

'Why, yes, they're good furniture; help to warm the room. '

'No doubt they do, ' Alma replied. 'It's always more comfortable herethan in the drawing-room. '

Daily he asked himself whether she was reconciled to the loss of herambitions, and he could not feel any certainty. In the present state ofher health it might be natural for her to acquiesce in a humdrum life;but when the next few months were over, and she found herself once moreable to move about as she pleased, would her mind remain the same?Happy she was not, and probably nothing in his power to do could makeher so. Marriage rarely means happiness, either for man or woman; if itbe not too grievous to be borne, one must thank the fates and takecourage. But Harvey had a troublesome conscience. In acting withmasculine decision, with the old-fashioned authority of husbands, hehad made himself doubly responsible for any misery that might come toAlma through the conditions of her life. It might be that, on thehigher plane of reasoning, he was by no means justified; there mighthave been found a middle way, which, whilst guarding Alma from obviousdangers, still left her free to enjoy and to aspire. What he had donewas very much like the clipping of wings. Practically it might beneedful, and of safe result; but there is a world beyond the barnyard, for all that; and how should he know, with full assurance, whether Almahad not suffered a grave wrong! He durst not reopen the discussion withher. He had taken his stand, and must hold it, or lose allself-respect. Marriage is like life itself, easiest to those who thinkleast about it. Rolfe knew that well enough, and would gladly haveacted upon the knowledge; he came nearest to doing so at the times whenHughie was his companion. Relieved by the nursemaid from duties she hadonly borne by the exertion of something like heroism, Alma once moredrew a broad line of demarcation between nursery and drawing-room; itwas seldom she felt in a mood for playing with the child, and she hadno taste for 'going walks'. But Harvey could not see too much of thelittle boy, indoors or out, and it rejoiced him to know that his lovewas returned in full measure; for Hughie would at any time abandonother amusements to be with his father. In these winter months, when byrare chance there came a fine Saturday or Sunday, they went offtogether to Kew or Richmond, and found endless matter for talk, delightful to both of them. Hughie, now four years old, was well grown, and could walk two or three miles without weariness. He had no colourin his cheeks, and showed the nervous tendencies which were to beexpected in a child of such parentage, but on the whole his health gaveno cause for uneasiness. If anything chanced to ail him, Harveysuffered an excessive disquiet; for the young life seemed to him sodelicate a thing that any touch of pain might wither it away. Becauseof the unutterable anguish in the thought, he had often forced himselfto front the possibility of Hughie's death, and had even broughthimself to feel that in truth it would be no reason for sorrow; howmuch better to fall asleep in playtime, and wake no more, than tooutlive the happiness and innocence which pass for ever with childhood. And when the fear of life lay heaviest upon him, he found solace inremembering that after no great lapse of time he and those he lovedwould have vanished from the earth, would be as though they had notbeen at all; every pang and woe awaiting them suffered and forgotten;the best and the worst gone by for ever; the brief flicker of troubledlight quenched in eternal oblivion. It was Harvey Rolfe's bestsubstitute for the faith and hope of the old world. 

He liked to feel the soft little hand clasping his own fingers, so bigand coarse in comparison, and happily so strong. For in the child'sweakness he felt an infinite pathos; a being so entirely helpless, soutterly dependent upon others' love, standing there amid a world ofcruelties, smiling and trustful. All his heart went forth in the desireto protect and cherish. Nothing else seemed of moment beside this oneduty, which was also the purest joy. The word 'father' however sweet tohis ear, had at times given him a thrill of awe; spoken by childishlips, did it mean less than 'God'? He was the giver of life, and forthat dread gift must hold himself responsible. A man in his agony maycall upon some unseen power, but the heavens are mute; can a fatherturn away in heedlessness if the eyes of his child reproach him? Allpleasures, aims, hopes that concerned himself alone, shrank to theidlest trifling when he realised the immense debt due from him to hisson; no possible sacrifice could discharge it. He marvelled how peoplecould insist upon the duty of children to parents. But did not thehabit of thought ally itself naturally enough with that strangereligion which, under direst penalties, exacts from groaning andtravailing humanity a tribute of fear and love to the imagined Authorof its being?

With delight he followed every step in the growth of understanding; andyet it was not all pleasure to watch the mind outgrowing itssimplicity. Intelligence that has learnt the meaning of a doubtcompares but sadly with the charm of untouched ingenuousness--thatexquisite moment (a moment, and no more) when simplest thought andsimplest word seek each other unconsciously, and blend in sweetestmusic. At four years old Hughie had forgotten his primitive language. The father regretted many a pretty turn of tentative speech, which hewas wont to hear with love's merriment. If a toy were lost, a littlevoice might be heard saying, 'Where has that gone now _to_?' And whenit was found again--'There is _it_!' After a tumble one day, Hughie wascautious in running. 'I shall fall down and break myself. ' Then camedistinction between days of the week. 'On Sunday I do' so and so; 'onMonday days I do' something else. He said, 'Do you remember?' and whata pity it seemed when at last the dull grown-up word was substituted. Never again, when rain was falling, would Hughie turn and plead, 'Father, tell the sun to come out!' Nor, when he saw the crescent moonin daytime, would he ever grow troubled and exclaim, 'Someone hasbroken it!'

It was the rule now that before his bedtime, seven o'clock, Hughiespent an hour in the library, alone with his father. A golden hour, sacred to memories of the world's own childhood. He brought with himthe book that was his evening's choice--Grimm, or Andersen, or AEsop. Already he knew by heart a score of little poems, or passages of verse, which Rolfe, disregarding the inept volumes known as children'santhologies, chose with utmost care from his favourite singers, andrepeated till they were learnt. Stories from the Odyssey had come in oflate; but Polyphemus was a doubtful experiment--Hughie dreamt of him. Great caution, too, was needful in the matter of pathos. On hearing forthe first time Andersen's tale of the Little Tin Soldier, Hughie burstinto tears, and could scarce be comforted. Grimm was safer; it seemeddoubtful whether Andersen was really a child's book at all, every pagetouched with the tears of things, every line melodious with sadness. 

And all this fostering of the imagination--was it right? was it wise?Harvey worried himself with doubts insoluble. He had merely obeyed hisown instincts. But perhaps he would be doing far better if he neverallowed the child to hear a fairy-tale or a line of poetry. Why notamuse his mind with facts, train him to the habit of scientificthought? For all he knew, he might be giving the child a bias whichwould result in a life's unhappiness; by teaching him to see only thehard actual face of things, would he not fit him far more surely forcitizenship of the world?

He would have liked to talk about the child with Mary Abbott, but therenever came an opportunity. Though it shamed and angered him to be undersuch constraint, he felt obliged to avoid any private meeting with her. Alma, he well understood, still nursed the preposterous jealousy whichhad been in her mind so long; and in the present state of things, dubious, transitional, it behoved him to give no needless occasion ofdisquiet. As the months went on, he saw her spirits fail; with theutmost difficulty she was persuaded to leave the house, and for hoursat a time she sat as if in melancholy brooding, unwilling to talk or toread. Harvey tried reading to her, but in the daytime she could notkeep her thoughts from wandering, and after dinner it merely sent herto sleep. Yet she declared that there was nothing to trouble about; shewould be herself again before long. 

But one day the doctor who was attending her had a few words in privatewith Rolfe, and told him that he had made an unpleasant discovery--MrsRolfe was in the habit of taking a narcotic. At first, when the doctorasked if this was the case, she had denied it, but in the end he hadelicited a confession, and a promise that the dangerous habit should berelinquished. 

'I was on no account to mention this to you, and you mustn't let it beseen that I have done so. If it goes on, and I'm rather afraid it willfor a short time, I shall tell her that you must be informed of it. '

Harvey, to whom such a suspicion had never occurred, waited anxiouslyfor the doctor's further reports. As was anticipated, Alma's promiseheld good only for a day or two, and when again she confessed, herhusband was called into counsel. The trio went through a grave anddisagreeable scene. On the doctor's departure, Alma sat for a long timestubbornly and dolorously mute; then came tears and passionatepenitence. 

'You mustn't think I'm a slave to it, ' she said. 'It isn't so at all. Ican break myself off it at once, and I will. '

'Then why did you go on after the doctor's first warning?'

'Out of perversity, nothing else. I suffer much from bad nights, but itwasn't that; I could bear it. I said to myself that I should do as Iliked. ' She gave a tearful laugh. 

'That's the whole truth. I felt just like a child when it's determinedto be naughty. '

'But this is far too serious a matter----'

'I know, I know. There shall be an end of it. I had my own way, and I'msatisfied. Now I shall be reasonable. '

Judging from results, this seemed to be a true explanation. From thatday the doctor saw no reason for doubt. But Harvey had a mostuncomfortable sense of strangeness in his wife's behaviour; it seemedto him that the longer he lived with Alma, the less able he was to readher mind or comprehend her motives. It did not reassure him to reflectthat a majority of husbands are probably in the same case. 

Meanwhile trouble was once more brewing in the back regions of thehouse. The cook made an excuse for 'giving notice'. Rolfe, in his fury, talked about abandoning the house and going with wife and child to somevillage in the heart of France; yet this was hardly practicable. Againwere advertisements sent forth; again came the ordeal ofcorrespondence--this time undertaken by Harvey himself, for Alma wasunequal to it. The cook whom they at length engaged declared withfervour that the one thing she panted for was downright hard work; shecouldn't abide easy places, and in fact had left her last because toolittle was expected of her. 

'She will stay for two months, ' said Harvey, 'and then it will be timefor the others to think of moving. Oh, we shall get used to it. '

At the end of March, Alma's second child was born--a girl. Rememberingwhat she had endured at Hughie's birth, Rolfe feared that her trialwould be even worse this time; but it did not prove so. In a few daysAlma was well on the way to recovery. But the child, a lamentablelittle mortal with a voice scarce louder than a kitten's, held its lifeon the frailest tenure; there was doubt at first whether it could drawbreath at all, and the nurse never expected it to live till the secondday. At the end of a week, however, it still survived; and Alma turnedto the poor weakling with a loving tenderness such as she had nevershown for her first-born. To Harvey's surprise she gladly took it toher breast, but for some reason this had presently to be forbidden, andthe mother shed many tears. After a fortnight things looked morehopeful. Nurse and doctor informed Harvey that for the present he needhave no uneasiness. 

It was a Saturday morning, and so cheerful overhead that Rolfe used hisliberty to have a long stretch towards the fields. Hughie, who had noschool today, would gladly have gone with him, but after such longrestraint Harvey felt the need of four miles an hour, and stole away. He made for Twickenham and Hampton Court, then by a long circuit cameround into Richmond Park. The Star and Garter gave him a late luncheon, after which he lit his cigar and went idly along the terrace. There, whom should he meet but Mary Abbott. 

She was seated, gazing at the view. Not till he came quite near didHarvey recognise her, and until he stopped she did not glance in hisdirection. Thus he was able to observe her for a moment, and noticedthat she looked anything but well; one would have thought heroverworked, or oppressed by some trouble. She did not see what her eyeswere fixed upon, and her features had a dreaming tenderness ofexpression which made them more interesting, more nearly beautiful, than when they were controlled by her striving will. When Harvey pausedbeside her she gave him a startled smile, but was at once herself again. 

'Do you care for that?' he asked, indicating the landscape. 

'I can't be enthusiastic about it. '

'Nor I. A bit of ploughed field in the midlands gives me more pleasure. '

'It was beautiful once. '

'Yes; before London breathed upon it. --Do you remember the view fromCam Bodvean?'

'Oh, indeed I do! The larches are coming out now. '

'And the gorse shines, and the sea is blue, and the mountains rise onebehind the other!--Did you talk about it with Mr. Thistlewood? I foundthat he knew all that country. '

'We spoke of it, ' replied Mrs. Abbott, taking a step forward. 

'An interesting man, don't you think?'

Harvey glanced at her, remembering the odd suggestion he had heard fromAlma; and in truth it seemed that his inquiry caused her someembarrassment. 

'Yes, very interesting, ' answered his companion quietly, as she walkedon. 

'You had met him before----?'

'He always comes to the Langlands' at Christmas. ' She added in anothervoice, 'I was glad to hear from Hughie yesterday that all was well athome. '

They sauntered along the path. Harvey described the walk he had hadthis morning. Mrs. Abbott said that the bright day had tempted her toan unusual distance; she had come, of course, by train, and must nowthink of turning back towards the station. 

'Let me go so far with you, ' said Harvey. 'What is your report of theboy? He gives you no trouble, I hope?'

She replied in detail, with the conscientiousness which always appearedin her when speaking of her work. It was not the tone of one whodelights in teaching; there was no spontaneity, no enthusiasm; butevery word gave proof of how seriously she regarded the duties she hadundertaken. And she was not without pride in her success. The littleschool had grown, so that it now became a question whether she shoulddecline pupils or engage an assistant teacher. 

'You are resolved to go on with the infantry?' said Rolfe, smiling. 

'The little ones--yes. I begin to feel some confidence with _them_; Idon't think I'm in danger of going far wrong. But I shouldn't have theleast faith in myself, now, with older children. --Of course I haveMinnie Wager. She'll soon be eleven, you know. I do my best with her. '

'Mrs. Langland says you have done wonders. '

'Minnie will never learn much from books; I feel pretty sure of that. But'--she laughed--'everyone has a strong point, if it can bediscovered, and I really think I have found Minnie's at last. It wasquite by chance. The other day I was teaching my maid to make pastry, and Minnie happened to stand by. Afterwards, she begged me to let _her_try her hand at it, and I did, and the result was surprising. For thevery first time she had found something that she enjoyed doing. Shewent to it with zeal, and learnt in no time. Since then she has madetarts, and puddings, and cake----'

Harvey broke into laughter. It was an odd thing that the employment hehad suggested for this girl, in his talk at Greystone, should prove tobe her genuine vocation. 

'Don't you think it's as well to encourage her?' said Mrs. Abbott. 

'By all manner of means! I think it's a magnificent discovery. I shouldgive her the utmost encouragement. Let her learn cookery in all itsbranches, steadily and seriously. '

'It may solve the problem of her future. She might get employment inone of the schools of cookery. '

'Never again be uneasy about her, ' cried Rolfe delightedly. 'She isprovided for. She will grow old with honour, love, obedience, troops offriends!--A culinary genius! Why, it's the one thing the world isgroaning and clamouring for. Let her burn her school-books. Sacrificeeverything to her Art. --You have rejoiced me with this news. '

Slenderly endowed on the side of humour, Mary Abbott could not feelsure whether he was really pleased or not; he had to repeat to her, with all gravity, that he no longer felt anxious on the girl's account. 

'For my own part, ' said Mary, 'I would rather see her a good cook in alady's kitchen, if it came to that, than leading a foolish life at someso-called genteel occupation. '

'So would any one who has common-sense. --And her brother; I don't thinkwe can go wrong about him. The reports from school are satisfactory;they show that he loathes everything but games and fighting. At fifteenthey'll take him on a training ship. --I wonder whether their father'salive or dead?'

'It is to be hoped they'll never see him again. '

Harvey was smiling--at a thought which he did not communicate. 

'You say you wouldn't trust yourself to teach older children. You mean, of course, that you feel much the difficulty of the whole thing--of allsystems of education. '

'Yes. And I dare say it's nothing but foolish presumption when I fancyI can teach babies. '

'You have at all events a method, ' said Harvey, 'and it seems to be avery good one. For the teaching of children after they can read andwrite, there seems to be no method at all. The old classical educationwas fairly consistent, but it exists no longer. Nothing has taken itsplace. Muddle, experiment, and waste of lives--too awful to thinkabout. We're savages yet in the matter of education. Somebody said tome once: "Well, but look at the results; they're not so bad. " Greatheavens! not so bad--when the supreme concern of mankind is to perfecttheir instruments of slaughter! Not so bad--when the gaol and thegallows are taken as a matter of course! Not so bad--when huge filthycities are packed with multitudes who have no escape from toil andhunger but in a wretched death! Not so bad--when all but every man'slife is one long blunder, the result of ignorance and unruled passions!'

Mrs. Abbott showed a warm assent. 

'People don't think or care anything about education. Seriously, Isuppose it has less place in the thoughts of most men and women thanany other business of life?'

'Undoubtedly, ' said Rolfe. 'And one is thought a pedant and a bore ifone ever speaks of it. It's as much against good manners as to begintalking about religion. But a pedant must relieve his mind sometimes. I'm so glad I met you today; I wanted to hear what you thought aboutthe boy. '

For the rest of the way, they talked of lighter things; or rather, Rolfe talked and his companion listened. Nothing more difficult thaneasy chat between a well-to-do person of abundant leisure and one whosedays are absorbed in the earning of a bare livelihood. Mary Abbott hadvery little matter for conversation beyond the circle of her pursuits;there was an extraordinary change in her since the days of her marriedlife, when she had prided herself on talking well, or even brilliantly. Harvey could not help a feeling of compassion as she walked at hisside. For all his admiration of her self-conquest, and of the tasks towhich she had devoted herself, he would have liked to free her from thedaily mill. She was young yet, and should taste of joy before the yearsbegan to darken about her. But these are the thoughts that must not beuttered. To show pity is to insult. A merry nod to the friend whostaggers on beneath his burden; and, even at his last gasp, the friendshall try to nod merrily back again. 

He took leave of her at the station, saying that he meant to walk bythe river homeward. A foolish scruple, which would never have occurredto him but for Alma's jealousy. 

When he reached his house at about four o'clock, he felt very tired; itwas a long time since he had walked so far. Using his latch-key toenter, he crossed the hall to the study without seeing anyone orhearing a sound. There was a letter on his table. As he opened it, andbegan to read, the door--which he had left ajar--was pushed softlyopen; there entered Hughie, unusually silent, and with a strange lookin his bright eyes. 

'Father--Louie says that baby is dead. '

Harvey's hand fell. He stared, stricken mute. 

'Father--I don't want baby to be dead! Don't let baby be dead!'

The child's voice shook, and tears came into his eyes. Without a word, Rolfe hastened from the room and up the stairs. As he reached thelanding, a wail of grief sounded from somewhere near; could that beAlma's voice? In a moment he had knocked at her door. He durst not turnthe handle; the beating of his heart shook him in every limb. The dooropened, and the nurse showed her face. A hurried whisper; the baby haddied two hours ago, in convulsions. 

Alma's voice sounded again. 

'Who is that?--Harvey--oh, come, come to me! My little baby is dead!'

He sat alone with her for an hour. He scarcely knew her for his wife, so unlike herself had she become under the stress of passionate woe;her face drawn in anguish, yet illumined as he had never seen it; hervoice moving on a range of notes which it had never sounded. The littlebody lay pressed against her bosom; she would not let it be taken fromher. Consolation was idle. Harvey tried to speak the thought which washis first and last as he looked at the still, waxen face; the thoughtof thankfulness, that this poor feeble little being was saved fromlife; but he feared to seem unfeeling. Alma could not yet be comforted. The sight of the last pitiful struggles had pierced her to the heart;she told of it over and over again, in words and tones profoundlytouching. 

The doctor had been here, and would return in the evening. It was Almanow who had to be cared for; her state might easily become dangerous. 

When Harvey went downstairs again, he met Hughie and his nurse in thehall. The little boy ran to him. 

'Mayn't I come to you, Father? Louie says I mustn't come. '

'Yes, yes; come, dear. '

In the library he sat down, and took Hughie upon his knee, and pressedthe soft little cheek against his own. Without mention of baby, thechild asked at once if his father would not read to him as usual. 

'I don't think I can tonight, Hughie. '

'Why not, Father? Because baby is dead?'

'Yes. And Mother is very poorly. I must go upstairs again soon. '

'Is Mother going to be dead?' asked the child, with curiosity ratherthan fear. 

'No! No!'

'But--but if mother went there, she could fetch baby back again. '

'Went where?'

Hughie made a vague upward gesture. 

'Louie says baby is gone up into the sky. '

Perhaps it was best so. What else can one say to a little child of fouryears old? Harvey Rolfe had no choice but to repeat what seemed good toLouie the nursemaid. But he could refrain from saying more. 

Alma was in a fever by night-time. There followed days and days ofmisery; any one hour of which, as Rolfe told himself, outbalanced allthe good and joy that can at best be hoped for in threescore years andten. But Alma clung to life. Harvey had thought she would ask for herlittle son, and expend upon him the love called forth by her dead baby;she seemed, however, to care even less for Hughie than before. And, after all, the bitter experience had made little change in her. 

CHAPTER 7

Since the removal from Pinner, Rolfe had forgotten his anxieties withregard to money. Expenses were reduced; not very greatly, but to apoint which made all the difference between just exceeding his incomeand living just within it. He had not tried to economise, and wouldscarcely have known how to begin; it was the change in Alma's mode oflife that brought about this fortunate result. With infinitesatisfaction he dismissed from his mind the most hateful of all worries. 

It looked, too, as if the business in Westminster Bridge Road mighteventually give a substantial return for the money he had invested init. Through the winter, naturally, little trade was done; but withspringtime things began to look brisk and hopeful. Harvey had appliedhimself seriously to learning the details of the business; he was nolonger a mere looker-on, but could hold practical counsel with hispartner, make useful suggestions, and help in carrying them out. 

In the sixth month after her father's decease, Rolfe enjoyed theprivilege of becoming acquainted with Miss Winter. Morphew took him oneafternoon to the house at Earl's Court, where the widow and herdaughter were still living, the prospect of Henrietta's marriage havingmade it not worth while for them to change their abode in the interim. With much curiosity, with not a little mistrust, Harvey entered thepresence of these ladies, whose names and circumstances had been sofamiliar to him for years. Henrietta proved to be very unlike the imagehe had formed of her. Anticipating weakness, conventionality, and someaffectation, he was surprised to meet a lady of simple, grave manners;nervous at first, but soon perfectly self-possessed; by no meanstalkative, but manifesting in every word a well-informed mind and ahabit of reflection. It astonished him that such a man as Cecil Morphewshould have discovered his ideal in Henrietta Winter; it perplexed himyet more that Cecil's attachment should have been reciprocated. 

Mrs. Winter was a very ordinary person; rather pretentious, rather toofluent of speech, inclined to fretfulness, and probably of tryingtemper. Having for many years lived much beyond his means (in themanner so often described by Morphew), Mr. Winter had left his familyas good as unprovided for. There was money to be divided between motherand daughter, but so small a sum that it could not be regarded as asource of income. To the widow was bequeathed furniture; to Henrietta, a library of two thousand volumes; _finally_, the testator directedthat the sum of five hundred pounds should be spent on a window ofstained glass (concerning which full particulars were given), to be setup, in memory of himself, in the church he had been wont to honour withhis pious attendance. This item of her husband's will had so embitteredMrs. Winter, that she hardly ever spoke of him; if obliged to do so, itwas with cold severity that she uttered his name. Immediately, shewithdrew all opposition to Henrietta's marriage with the man she hadconsidered so objectionable; she would not have been sorry had herdaughter chosen to be married with the least possible delay. As for thefuture, of course she must live in her daughter's house; together, theymust make what they could of their small capital, and hope that Cecil'sbusiness would prosper. 

Harvey had been acquainted with these facts since Mr. Winter's death. Bearing them in mind as he talked with Henrietta, and exerting hispowers of observation to the utmost, he still found himself as far asever from a definite opinion as to the wisdom of the coming marriage. That Mrs. Winter would be a great obstacle to happiness admitted of nodoubt; but Henrietta herself might or might not prove equal to thechange of circumstances. Evidently one of her characteristics was anextreme conscientiousness; it explained, perhaps, her long inability todecide between the claims of parents and lover. Her tastes inliterature threw some light upon the troubles which had beset her; shewas a student of George Eliot, and spoke of the ethical problems withwhich that author is mainly concerned, in a way suggestive ofself-revelation. Conversing for the first time with Morphew's friend, and finding him sufficiently intelligent, she might desire to offersome indirect explanation of the course she had followed. Harvey couldnot question her sincerity, but she seemed to him a trifle morbid. Itmight be natural reaction, in a temper such as hers, against themonstrous egotism by which her life had been subdued and shadowed. Sheinclined to mystical views; mentioned Christina Rossetti as one of herfavourites; cared little or nothing for the louder interests of thetime. Impossible to detect the colour of her thoughts with regard toCecil; she spoke of him gravely and gently, but without the leastperceptible emotion. Harvey noticed her when Morphew was sayinggoodbye; her smile was sweet, and perhaps tender, but even then sheseemed to be debating with herself some point of conscience. PerhapsCecil had pressed her hand rather too fervently?

The friends walked away in silence along the dim-lighted street, between monotonous rows of high sombre houses, each with its pillaredportico which looked like the entrance to a tomb. Glancing about himwith a sense of depression, Harvey wondered that any mortal could fixhis pride on the fact of residence in such a hard, cold, uglywilderness. 

'Has she altered much since you first knew her?' he asked at length. 

'A good deal, ' answered the other. 'Yes, a good deal. She used to laughsometimes; now she never does. She was always quiet--always looked atthings seriously--but it was different. You think her gloomy?'

'No, no; not gloomy. It's all natural enough. Her life wants a littlesunlight, that's all. '

For the rest, he could speak with sincere admiration, and Cecil heardhim delightedly. 

The choice of a dwelling was a most difficult matter. As it must bequite a small house, the remoter suburbs could alone supply what waswanted; Morphew spent every Saturday and Sunday in wearisomeexploration. Mrs. Winter, though in theory she accepted the necessityof cheapness, shrank from every practical suggestion declaring itimpossible to live in such places as Cecil requested her to look at. She had an ideal of the 'nice thinks nothing of. And herself the causeof it, if only I had dared to tell her so!'

'The old story, I suppose, ' said Harvey. 'Some other woman?'

'I was very near telling you, that day you came to my beastly garret inChelsea; do you remember? It was the worst time with me then--exceptwhen you found me in Brussels. I'd been gambling again; you knew that. I wanted money for something I felt ashamed to speak of. --You know theawful misery I used to suffer about Henrietta. I was often enoughnearly mad with--what is one to call it? Why isn't there a decent namefor the agony men go through at that age? I simply couldn't live aloneany longer--I couldn't; and only a fool and a hypocrite would pretendto blame me. A man, that is; women seem to be made different. --Oh, there's nothing to tell. The same thing happens a hundred times everyday in London. A girl wandering about in the Park--quarrel at home--allthe rest of it. A good many lies on her side; a good deal ofselfishness on mine. I happened to have money just then. And just whenI had _no_ money--about the time you met me--a child was born. She saidit was mine; anyway, I had to be responsible. Of course I had long agorepented of behaving so badly to Henrietta. But no woman canunderstand, and it's impossible to explain to them. You're a beast anda villain, and there's an end of it. '

'And how has this become known to Miss Winter?' Harvey inquired, seeingthat Morphew lost himself in gloom. 

'You might almost guess it; these things always happen in the same way. You've heard me speak of a fellow called Driffel--no? I thought I mighthave mentioned him. He got to know the girl. He and I were at amusic-hall one night, and she met us; and I heard, soon after, that shewas living with him. It didn't last long. She got ill, and wrote to mefrom Westminster Hospital; and I was foolish enough to give her moneyagain, off and on, up to only a few months ago. She talked about livinga respectable life, and so on, and I couldn't refuse to help her. But Ifound out it was all humbug, and of course I stopped. Then she began tohunt me, Out of spite. And she heard from someone--Driffel, as likelyas not--all about Henrietta; and yesterday Henrietta had a letter fromher. This morning I was sent for, to explain myself. '

'At one time, then, you had lost sight of her altogether?'

'She has always had money from me, more or less regularly, except atthe time that Driffel kept her. But there has been nothing else betweenus, since that first year. I kept up payments on account of the child, and she was cheating me in that too. Of course she put out the baby tonurse, and I understood it lived on; but the truth was it died after amonth or two--starved to death, no doubt. I only learnt that, by takinga good deal of trouble, when she was with Driffel. '

'Starved to death at a month or two old, ' murmured Rolfe. 'The bestthing for it, no doubt. '

'It's worse than anything I have done, ' said Morphew, miserably. 'Ithink more of it now than I did at the time. A cruel, vile thing!'

'And you told Miss Winter everything?'

'Everything that can be spoken about. The plain truth of the story. Theletter was a lie from beginning to end, of course. It made me out aheartless scoundrel. I had been the ruin of the girl--a helplessinnocent; and now, after all these years, wanted to cut her adrift, notcaring what became of her. My defence seemed to Henrietta no defence atall. The fact that there had been such an episode in my life was quitesufficient. Everything must be at an end between us, at once and forever. She _could_ not live with me, knowing this. No one should learnthe cause; not even her mother; but I must never see her again. And soI came away, meaning to end my life. It wasn't cowardice that preventedme; only the thought that _she_ would be mixed up in it, and suffermore than I had made her already. '

Voice and look constrained Harvey to believe this. He spoke moresympathetically. 

'It's better that it happened before than after. '

'I've tried to think that, but I can't. Afterwards, I could have madeher believe me and forgive me. '

'That seems to me more than doubtful. '

'But why should it have happened at all?' cried Cecil, in the tone ofdespairing bitterness. 'Did I deserve it? Haven't I behaved better, more kindly, than most men would have done? Isn't it just because I wastoo good-natured that this has come on me?'

'I myself readily take that view, ' answered Rolfe. 'But I can perfectlyunderstand why Miss Winter doesn't. '

'So can I--so can I, ' groaned Cecil. 'It's in her nature. And do yousuppose I haven't cursed myself for deceiving her? The thought has mademe miserable, often enough. I never dreamt she would get to know of it;but it weighed upon me all the same. Yet who was the cause of it, really and truly? I'm glad I could keep myself from saying all Ithought. She wouldn't have understood; I should only have looked morebrutal in her eyes. But if she had married me when she might have done!_There_ was the wrong that led to everything else. '

Harvey nodded and muttered. 

'At one and twenty she might have taken her own way. I wasn't apenniless adventurer. My name is as good as hers. We could have livedwell enough on my income, until I found a way of increasing it, as Ishould have done. Girls don't know what they are doing when they makemen wait year after year. No one can tell them. But I begged--I prayedto her--I said all I dared. It was her cursed father and mother! If Ihad had three thousand, instead of three hundred, a year, they wouldhave rushed her into marriage. No! we must have a big house, like theirown, and a troop of thieving servants, or we were eternally disgraced. _How_ I got the money didn't matter, so long as I got it. And shehadn't courage--she thought it wrong to defy them. As if the wrongwasn't in giving way to such a base superstition! I believe she hasseen that since her father's death. And now----'

He broke down, shaking and choking in an agony of sobs. Harvey couldonly lay a kind hand upon him; there was no verbal comfort to offer. Presently Cecil talked on again, and so they sat together as twilightpassed into darkness. Rolfe would gladly have taken the poor fellowhome with him, out of solitude with its miseries and dangers, but Cecilrefused. Eventually they walked westward for a few miles; then Morphew, with a promise to see his friend next day, turned back into the crowd. 

CHAPTER 8

Alma was walking on the sea-road at Penzance, glad to be quite alone, yet at a loss how to spend the time. Rolfe had sailed for Scilly, andwould be absent for two or three days; Mrs. Frothingham, with Hughiefor companion, was driving to Marazion. Why--Alma asked herself--hadshe wished to be left alone this morning? Some thought had glimmeredvaguely in her restless mind; she could not recover it. 

The little shop window, set out with objects carved in serpentine, heldher for a moment; but remembering how often she had paused here lately, she felt ashamed, and walked on. Presently there moved towards her alady in a Bath-chair; a lady who had once been beautiful, but now, though scarcely middle-aged, looked gaunt and haggard from some longillness. The invalid held open a newspaper, and Alma, in passing, sawthat it was _The World_. At once her step quickened, for she hadremembered the desire which touched her an hour ago. 

She walked to the railway station, surveyed the papers on thebookstall, and bought three--papers which would tell her what was goingon in society. With these in hand she found a quiet spot, shelteredfrom the August sun, where she could sit and read. She read eagerly, enviously. And before long her eye fell upon a paragraph in which was aname she knew. Lady Isobel Barker, in her lovely retreat at Boscombe, was entertaining a large house-party; in the list appeared--Mrs. HughCarnaby. Unmistakable: Mrs. Hugh Carnaby. Who Lady Isobel might be, Alma had no idea; nor were any of the other guests known to her, butthe names of all seemed to roll upon the tongue of the announcingfootman. She had a vision of Sibyl in that august company; Sibyl, coldly beautiful, admirably sage, with--perhaps--ever so little of theair of a martyr, to heighten her impressiveness. 

When she could command herself, she glanced hurriedly through columnafter column of all the papers, seeking for that name again. In one, anillustrated publication, she came upon a couple of small portraits, side by side. Surely she recognised that face--the bold, coarse-featured man, with his pretentious smile? But the girl, no; ayoung and very pretty girl, smirking a little, with feathery hair whichfaded off into an aureole. The text was illuminating. 

'I am able to announce, ' wrote Ego, 'and I think I shall be one of thefirst to do so, that the brilliant composer, Mr. Felix Dymes, willshortly vanish from the gay (if naughty) world of bachelorhood. I learnon excellent authority that Mr. Dymes has quite recently become engagedto Miss Lettice Almond, a very charming young lady, whose many gifts(especially musical) have as yet been known only to a comparativelysmall circle, and for the delightful reason that she is still onlyeighteen. Miss Almond is the daughter of Mr. Haliburton Almond, seniorpartner in the old and well-known firm of Almond Brothers, themanufacturers of fireworks. She is an only daughter, and, though shehas two brothers, I may add (I trust without indiscretion) that thetitle of heiress may be fittingly applied to her. The marriage may takeplace in November, and will doubtless be a brilliant as well as a mostinteresting affair. By-the-bye, Mr. Dymes's new opera is not likely tobe ready till next year, but some who have been privileged to hear theparts already composed declare that it will surpass even "Blue Roses"in the charm of sweet yet vivacious melody. '

When she had read and mused for more than an hour, Alma tore out thetwo passages that had a personal interest for her, and put them in herpurse. The papers she left lying for anyone who chose to pick them up. 

A fortnight later she was back at Gunnersbury; where, indeed, she wouldhave been content to stay all through the summer, had not Harvey andthe doctor insisted on her leaving home. All sorts of holidays had beenproposed, but nothing of the kind attracted her. She declared that shewas quite well, and that she preferred home to anywhere else; she hadgot used to it, and did not wish to be unsettled. Six weeks at Penzancesimply wearied her; she brightened wonderfully on the day of return. Harvey, always anxious, tried to believe that the great sorrow throughwhich she had passed was effecting only a natural change, subduing hertroublesome mutability of temper, and leading her to find solace indomestic quietude. 

On the third day after her return, she had lunched alone, and wassitting in the library. Her dress, more elaborate than usual, and thefrequent glances which she cast at the clock, denoted expectation ofsome arrival. Hearing a knock at the front door, she rose and waitednervously. 

'Mr. Dymes is in the drawing-room, mum. '

She joined him. Dymes, with wonted frankness, not to say impudence, inspected her from head to foot, and did not try to conceal surprise. 

'I was awfully glad to get your note. As I told you, I called hereabout a month ago, and I should have called again. I didn't care towrite until I heard from you. You've been ill, I can see. I heard aboutit. Awfully sorry. '

Alma saw that he intended respectful behaviour. The fact of being inher own house was, of course, a protection, but Dymes, she quiteunderstood, had altered in mind towards her. She treated him distantly, yet without a hint of unfriendliness. 

'I began to wonder whether I had missed a letter of yours. It's sometime since you promised to write--on business. '

'The fact is, ' he replied, 'I kept putting it off, hoping to see you, and it's wonderful how time slips by. I can hardly believe that it'smore than a year since your recital. How splendidly it came off! Ifonly you could have followed it up--but we won't talk about that. '

He paused for any remark she might wish to make. Alma, dreamy for amoment, recovered herself, and asked, in a disinterested tone----

'We paid all expenses, I suppose?'

'Well--not quite. '

'Not quite? I understood from you that there was no doubt about it. '

'I thought, ' said Dymes, as he bent forward familiarly, 'that mysilence would let you know how matters stood. If there had beenanything due to you, of course I should have sent a cheque. We did verywell indeed, remarkably well, but the advertising expenses were veryheavy. ' He took a paper from his pocket. 'Here is the detailed account. I shouldn't have spent so much if I hadn't regarded it as aninvestment. You had to be boomed, you know--floated, and I flattermyself I did it pretty well. But, of course, as things turned out----'

Alma glanced over the paper. The items astonished her. 

'You mean to say, then, that I am in your debt for a hundred and thirtypounds?'

'Debt be hanged!' cried Dymes magnanimously. 'That's all done with, long ago. I only wanted to explain how things were. '

Alma reddened. She was trying to remember the state of her bankingaccount, and felt sure that, at this moment, considerably less than ahundred pounds stood to her credit. But she rose promptly. 

'Of course, I shall give you a cheque. '

'Nonsense! Don't treat me like a regular agent, Mrs. Rolfe. Surely youknow me better than that? I undertook it for the pleasure of thething----'

'But you don't suppose I can accept a present of money from you, MrDymes?'

'Hang it! Just as you like, of course. But don't make me take it now, as if I'd looked in with my little bill. Send the cheque, if you must. But what I really came for, when I called a few weeks ago, wassomething else--quite a different thing, and a good deal moreimportant. Just sit down again, if you can spare me a few minutes. '

With face averted, Alma sank back into her chair. Harvey would give herthe money without a word, but she dreaded the necessity of asking himfor it. So disturbed were her thoughts that she did not notice howoddly Dymes was regarding her, and his next words sounded meaningless. 

'By-the-bye, can we talk here?'

'Talk----?'

'I mean'--he lowered his voice--'are we safe from interruption? It'sall right; don't look frightened. The fact is, I want to speak ofsomething rather awkward--but it's something you ought to know about, if you don't already. '

'I am quite at leisure, ' she replied; adding, with a nervous movementof the head, 'there will be no interruption. '

'I want to ask you, then, have you seen Mrs. Strangeways lately?'

'No. '

'Nor Mrs. Carnaby?'

'No. '

'I understand you've broken with them altogether? You don't wantanything more to do with that lot?'

'I have nothing whatever to do with them, ' Alma replied, steadying hervoice to a cold dignity. 

'And I think you're quite right. Now, look here--you've heard, I daresay, that I'm going to be married? Well, I'm not the kind of fellow totalk sentiment, as you know. But I've had fair luck in life, and I feelpretty pleased with myself, and if I can do anybody a friendlyturn--anybody that deserves it--I'm all there. I want you just to thinkof me as a friend, and nothing else. You're rather set against me, Iknow; but try and forget all about that. Things are changed. After all, you know, I'm one of the men that people talk about; my name has gotinto the "directories of talent", as somebody calls them; and I have agood deal at stake. It won't do for me to go fooling about any more. All I mean is, that you can trust me, down to the ground. And there'snobody I would be better pleased to help in a friendly way than you, Mrs. Rolfe. '

Alma was gazing at him in surprise, mingled with apprehension. 

'Please say what you mean. I don't see how you can possibly do me anyservice. I have given up all thought of a professional career. 

'I know you have. I'm sorry for it, but it isn't that I want to talkabout. You don't see Mrs. Carnaby, but I suppose you hear of her nowand then?'

'Very rarely. '

'You know that she has been taken up by Lady Isobel Barker?'

'Who is Lady Isobel Barker?'

'Why, she's a daughter of the Earl of Bournemouth, and she married afellow on the Stock Exchange. There are all sorts of amusing storiesabout her. I don't mean anything shady--just the opposite. She did agood deal of slumming at the time when it was fashionable, and starteda home for women of a certain kind--all that sort of thing. Barker isby way of being a millionaire, and they live in great style; haveRoyalties down at Boscombe, and so on. Well, Mrs. Carnaby has got holdof her. I don't know how she managed it. Just after that affair itlooked as if she would have a bad time. People cut her--you know allabout that?'

'No, I don't. You mean that they thought----'

'Just so; they did think. ' He nodded and smiled. 'She was all the talkat the clubs, and, no doubt, in the boudoirs. I wasn't a friend ofhers, you know--I met her now and then, that was all; so I didn't quiteknow what to think. But it looked--_didn't_ it?'

Alma avoided his glance, and said nothing. 

'I shouldn't wonder, ' pursued Dymes, 'if she went to Lady Isobel andtalked about her hard case, and just asked for help. At all events, last May we began to hear of Mrs. Carnaby again. Women who wanted to bethought smart had quite altered their tone about her. Men laughed, butsome of them began to admit that the case was doubtful. At all events, Lady Isobel was on her side, and that meant a good deal. '

'And she went about in society just as if nothing had happened?'

'No, no. That would have been bad taste, considering where her husbandwas. She wasn't seen much, only talked about. She's a clever woman, andby the time Carnaby's let loose she'll have played the game so wellthat things will be made pretty soft for him. I'm told he's a bit of aglobe-trotter, sportsman, and so on. All he has to do is to knock up abook of travels, and it'll go like wildfire. '

Alma had pulled to pieces a tassel on her chair. 

'What has all this to do with me?' she asked abruptly. 

'I'm coming to that. You don't know anything about Mrs. Strangewayseither? Well, there _may_ be a doubt about Mrs. Carnaby, but there'snone about Mrs. S. She's just about as bad as they make 'em. I couldtell you things--but I won't. What I want to know is, did you quarrelwith her?'

'Quarrel! Why should we have quarrelled? What had I to do with her?'

'Nothing about Redgrave?' asked Dymes, pushing his head forward andspeaking confidentially. 

'What do you mean?'

'No harm, I assure you--all the other way. I _know_ Mrs. Strangeways, and I've had a good deal of talk with her lately, and I couldn't helpsuspecting you had a reason of your own for getting clear of her. Letme tell you, first of all, that she's left her house in PorchesterTerrace. My belief is that she and her husband haven't a five-poundnote between them. And the queer thing is, that this has come aboutsince Redgrave's death. '

He paused to give his words their full significance. Alma, no longerdisguising her interest, faced him with searching eyes. 

'She's a bad un, ' pursued the musician, 'and I shouldn't care to tellall I think about her life for the last few years. I've seen a gooddeal of life myself, you know, and I don't pretend to be squeamish; butI draw a line for women. Mrs. Strangeways goes a good bit beyond it, asI know for certain. '

'What is it to _me_?' said Alma, with tremulous impatience. 

'Why, this much. She is doing her best to harm you, and in a devilishartful way. She tries to make _me_ believe--and it's certain she saysthe same to others--that what happened at Wimbledon was _the result ofa plot between you and Redgrave's housekeeper_!'

Alma stared at him, her parted lips quivering with an abortive laugh. 

'Do you understand? She says that you were furiously jealous of MrsCarnaby, and didn't care what you did to ruin her; that you putRedgrave's housekeeper up to telling Carnaby lies about his wife. '

'How long has she been saying this?'

'I heard it for the first time about two months ago. But let me go on. The interesting thing is that, at the time of the trial and after it, she was all the other way. She as good as told me that she had proofagainst Mrs. Carnaby; I fancy she told lots of people the same. Shetalked as if she hated the woman. But now that Mrs. Carnaby is lookingup--you see?--she's going to play Mrs. Carnaby's game at your expense. What I should like to know is whether they've done it together?'

'There can't be much doubt of that, ' said Alma, between her teeth. 

'I don't know, ' rejoined the other cautiously. 'Have you reason tothink that Mrs. Carnaby would like to injure you?'

'I'm quite sure she would do so if it benefited herself. '

'And yet you were fast friends not long ago, weren't you?' asked Dymes, with a look of genuine curiosity. 

'We don't always know people as well as we think. Where is that womanliving now?--I mean, Mrs. Strangeways. '

'That's more than I can tell you. She is--or is supposed to be--out oftown. I saw her last just before she left her house. '

'Is the other in town?'

'Mrs. Carnaby? I don't know. I was going to say, ' Dymes pursued, 'thatthe story Mrs. S. Has been telling seems to me very clumsy, and that'swhy I don't think the other has any hand in it. She seemed to haveforgotten that Redgrave's housekeeper, who was wanted by the police, wasn't likely to put herself in Carnaby's way--the man she had robbed. I pointed that out, but she only laughed. "We're not bound to believe, "she said, "all that Carnaby said on his trial. "'

'We are not, ' Alma remarked, with a hard smile. 

'You think he dressed things up a bit?'

'I think, ' answered Alma, 'that he may have known more than he told. '

'That's my idea, too. But never mind; whatever the truth may be, thatwoman is doing you a serious injury. I felt you ought to know about it. People have talked about you a good deal, wondering why on earth youdropped out of sight so suddenly after that splendid start; and it wasonly natural they should connect your name with the Carnaby affair, knowing, as so many did, that you were a friend of theirs, and ofRedgrave too. '

'I knew Mr. Redgrave, ' said Alma, 'but I was no friend of his. '

Dymes peered at her. 

'Didn't he interest himself a good deal in your business?'

'Not more than many other people. '

'Well, I'm very glad to hear that, ' said Dymes, looking about the room. 'I tell you, honestly, that whenever I have a chance of speaking up foryou, I shall do it. '

'I am very much obliged, but I really don't think it matters what issaid of me. I am not likely ever to meet the people who talk about suchthings. '

She said it in so convincing a tone that Dymes looked at her gravely. 

'I never know any one change so much, ' he observed. 'Is it really yourhealth? No other reason for giving up such magnificent chances?'

'Of course, I have my reasons. They concern nobody but myself. '

'I might give a guess, I dare say. Well, you're the best judge, and wewon't say any more about that. But look here--about Mrs. S. And herscandal. I feel sure, as I said, that she's toadying to Mrs. Carnaby, and expects to make her gain out of it somehow. Her husband's aloafing, gambling fellow, and I shouldn't wonder if he gave her theskip. Most likely she'll have to live by her wits, and we know whatthat means in a woman of her kind. She'll be more or less dangerous toeverybody that's worth blackmailing. '

'You think she had--she was dependent in some way upon Mr. Redgrave?'asked Alma, in an undertone. 

'I've heard so. Shall I tell you what a woman said who is very likelyto know? Long ago, in the time of her first marriage, she got hold ofsomething about him that would have made a furious scandal, and he hadto pay for her silence. All gossip; but there's generally a foundationfor that kind of thing. If it's true, no doubt she has been at hisrelatives since his death. It doesn't look as if they were disposed tobe bled. Perhaps they turned the tables on her. She has looked sour anddisappointed enough for a long time. '

'I was just thinking, ' said Alma, with an air of serious deliberation, 'whether it would be worth while for _me_ to turn the tables on her, and prosecute her for slander. '

'If you take my advice, you'll keep out of that, ' replied the other, with emphasis. 'But another thing has occurred to me. I see youropinion of Mrs. Carnaby, and no doubt you have good reason for it. Now, would it be possible to frighten her? Have you'--he peered morekeenly--'any evidence that would make things awkward for Mrs. Carnaby?'

Alma kept close lips, breathing rapidly. 

'If you _have_, ' pursued the other, 'just give her a hint that MrsStrangeways had better stop talking. You'll find it effectual, nodoubt. '

He watched her, and tried to interpret the passion in her eyes. 

'If I think it necessary, ' said Alma, and seemed to check herself. 

'No need to say any more. I wished to put you on your guard, that'sall. We've known each other for a longish time, and I've often enoughfelt sorry that something didn't come off--you remember when. No goodtalking about that; but I shall always be glad if I can be a friend toyou. And, I say, don't think any more about that cheque, there's a goodgirl. '

The note of familiar patronage was more than distasteful to Alma. 

'I shall, of course, send it, ' she replied curtly. 

'As you please. Would you like to hear a bit from my new opera? Itisn't every one gets the chance, you know. '

Quite in his old way, he seated himself at the piano, and ran lightlythrough a few choice _morceaux_, exacting praise, and showing himselfvexed because it was not fervent. In spite of her wandering thoughts, Alma felt the seductiveness of these melodies--their originality, theirgrace--and once more she wondered at their coming from the mind of sucha man. 

'Very pretty. '

'Pretty!' exclaimed the composer scornfully. 'It's a good deal morethan that, and you know it. I don't care--there's somebody else feelsdeuced proud of me, and good reason too. Well, ta-ta!'

There are disadvantages in associating with people whose every word, aslikely as not, may be an insidious falsehood. Thinking over what shehad heard from Dymes, Alma was inclined to believe him; on the otherhand, she knew it to be quite possible that he sought her with someinterested motive. The wise thing, she knew, would be to disregard hisreports, and hold aloof from the world in which they originated. Butshe had a strong desire to see Mrs. Strangeways. There might be someoneat the house in Porchester Terrace who could help her to discover itslate tenant. However dangerous the woman's wiles and slanders, aninterview with her could do no harm, and might set at rest a curiositylong lurking, now feverishly stimulated. With regard to Sibyl, therecould be little doubt that Dymes had heard, or conjectured, the truth. Sibyl was clever enough to make her perilous reverse a starting-pointfor new social conquests. Were there but a hope of confronting her withsome fatal disclosure, and dragging her down, down!

That cheque must be sent. She would show Harvey the account thisevening, and have done with the unpleasantness of it. Probably heremembered from time to time that she had never told him how herbusiness with Dymes was settled. No more duplicity. The money would bepaid, and therewith finis to that dragging chapter of her life. 

Harvey came home at five o'clock, and, as usual, had tea with her. Oflate he had been uneasy about Cecil Morphew, whose story Alma knew;today he spoke more hopefully. 

'Shall I bring him here tomorrow, and make him stay over Sunday? Sundayis his bad day, and no wonder. If there were a licensed poison-shop inLondon, they'd do a very fair trade on Sundays. '

'There are the public-houses, ' said Alma. 

'Yes; but Morphew doesn't incline that way. The fellow has delicateinstincts, and suffers all the more; so the world is made. I can't helphoping it may come right for him yet. I have a suspicion that Mrs. Winter may be on his side; if so, it's only a question of time. I keepat him like a slave-driver; he _has_ to work whilst I'm there; and hetakes it very good-humouredly. But you mustn't give him music, Alma; hesays he can't stand it. '

'I'm much obliged to him, ' she answered, laughing. 

'You understand well enough. '

After dinner Alma found her courage and the fitting moment. 

'I have something disagreeable to talk about. Mr. Dymes called thisafternoon, and handed in his _bill_. '

'His bill? Yes, yes, I remember. --What's all this? Surely you haven'tobliged him to come looking after his money?'

'It's the first account I have received. '

Rolfe puckered his face a little as he perused the document, but ended, as he began, with a smile. In silence he turned to the writing-table, took out his cheque-book, and wrote. 

'You don't mind its being in my name?'

'Not at all. Indeed, I prefer it. But I am sorry and ashamed, ' sheadded in a murmur. 

'Let it be taken to the post at once, ' said Rolfe quietly. 

When this was done, Alma made known what Dymes had told her aboutSibyl, speaking in an unconcerned voice, and refraining from any hintof suspicion or censure. 

'I had heard of it, ' said Harvey, with troubled brow, and evidentlywished to say no more. 

'What do you suppose Mr. Carnaby will do?' Alma inquired. 

'Impossible to say. I'm told that the business at Coventry isflourishing, and no doubt his interest in it remains. I hear, too, thatthose Queensland mines are profitable at last. So there'll be no moneytroubles. But what he will do----'

The subject was dropped. 

Harvey had succeeded in hiding his annoyance at the large debt toDymes, a sum he could ill afford; but he was glad to have paid it, andpleased with Alma's way of dismissing it to oblivion. The talk thatfollowed had turned his mind upon a graver trouble: he sat thinking ofHugh Carnaby. Dear old Hugh! Not long ago the report ran that hishealth was in a bad state. To one who knew him the wonder was that hekept alive. But the second year drew on. 

CHAPTER 9

On Monday morning, when Harvey and his friend had started for town, andHughie was at school, Alma made ready to go out. In many months she hadbeen to London only two or three times. Thus alone could she subdueherself. She tried to forget all that lay eastward from Gunnersbury, rejecting every kind of town amusement, and finding society in a verysmall circle of acquaintances who lived almost as quietly as herself. But this morning she yielded to the impulse made irresistible byDymes's visit. In leaving the house, she seemed to escape from anatmosphere so still and heavy that it threatened her blood withstagnation; she breathed deeply of the free air, and hastened towardsthe railway as if she had some great pleasure before her. 

But this mood had passed long before the end of her journey. Alightingat Queen's Road, she walked hurriedly to Porchester Terrace, and fromthe opposite side of the way had a view of Mrs. Strangeways' house. Itwas empty, to let. She crossed, and rang the bell, on the chance thatsome caretaker might be within; but no one answered. Her heartthrobbing painfully, she went on a little distance, then stoodirresolute. A cab crawled by; she raised her hand, and gave thedirection, 'Oxford and Cambridge Mansions'. Once here, she had nodifficulty in carrying out her purpose. Passion came to her aid; andwhen Sibyl's door opened she could hardly wait for an invitation beforestepping in. 

The drawing-room was changed; it had been refurnished, and looked evenmore luxurious than formerly. For nearly ten minutes she had to standwaiting; seat herself she could not. Then entered Sibyl. 

'Good morning, Mrs. Rolfe. I am glad to see you. '

The latter sentence was spoken not as a mere phrase of courtesy, butwith intention, with quiet yet unmistakable significance. Sibyl did notoffer her hand; she moved a chair so that its back was to the light, and sat down very much as she might have done if receiving an applicantfor a 'situation'. 

'You had some reason for coming so early?'

Alma, who had felt uncertain how this interview would begin, was gladthat she had to meet no pretences of friendship. Her heart burnedwithin her; she was pallid, and her eyes shone fiercely. 

'I came to ask if you could tell me where Mrs. Strangeways is to befound?'

'Mrs. Strangeways?' Sibyl repeated, with cold surprise. 'I know nothingabout her. '

Feeling in every way at a disadvantage--contrast of costume told inSibyl's favour, and it was enhanced by the perfection of herself-command--Alma could not maintain the mockery of politeness. 

'Of course, you say that, ' she rejoined haughtily; 'and, of course, Idon't believe it. '

'That is nothing to me, Mrs. Rolfe, ' remarked the other, smiling. 'Doubtless you have your own reasons for declining to believe me; justas you have your own reasons for--other things. Your next inquiry?'

'Hasn't it been rather unwise of you, keeping away from me all thistime?'

'Unwise? I hardly see your meaning. '

'It looked rather as if you felt afraid to meet me. '

'I see; that is your point of view. ' Sibyl seemed to reflect upon itcalmly. 'To me, on the other hand, it appeared rather strange that Ineither saw nor heard from you at a time when other friends wereshowing their sympathy. I heard that you were ill for a short time, andfelt sorry I was unable to call. Later, you still kept silence. Ididn't know the reason, and could hardly be expected to ask for it. Asfor being afraid to meet you--that, I suppose, is a suspicion naturalto your mind. We won't discuss it. Is there any other question youwould like to ask?'

Humiliated by her inability to reply with anything but a charge shecould not support, and fearing the violence of her emotions if she werelonger subjected to this frigid insult, Alma rose. 

'One moment, if you please, ' continued Mrs. Carnaby. 'I was glad thatyou had come, as I had half wished for an opportunity of speaking a fewwords to you. It isn't a matter of much importance, but I may as wellsay, perhaps, that you are indiscreet in your way of talking about meto your friends. Of course, we haven't many acquaintances in common, but I happen to have heard the opinion of me which you expressedto--let me see, some ladies named Leach, whom I once knew slightly. Itseems hardly worth while to take serious steps in the matter--though Imight find it necessary. I only wish, in your own interest, to say aword of warning. You have behaved, all things considered'--she dwelt onthe phrase--'rather indiscreetly. '

'I said what I knew to be the truth, ' replied Alma, meeting her lookwith the satisfaction of defiance. 

Sibyl approached one step. 

'You knew it?' she asked, very softly and deliberately, searching thepassionate face with eyes as piercing as they were beautiful. 

'With certainty. '

'I used to think you intelligent, ' said Sibyl, 'but I fancy you don'tperceive what this "certainty" of yours suggests. ' She paused, with acurling lip. 'Let me put you on your guard. You have very littlecommand of your primitive feelings, and they bring you into danger. Ishould be sorry to think that an unpleasant story I have heardwhispered was anything more than ill-natured scandal, but it's as wellto warn you that _other_ people have a taste for that kind of gossip. '

'I'm well aware of it, ' flashed the listener. 'And that was the veryreason why I came to ask you where Mrs. Strangeways is hiding. '

'Mrs. Rolfe, you are aware of too many things. In your position Ishould be uneasy. '

'I will leave you to enjoy your _own_ uneasiness, ' returned Alma, witha contemptuous laugh. 'You must have enough of it, without imaginingthat of others. '

She half turned. Sibyl again took one step forward, and spoke with everso little tremor in the even voice. 

'You have understood me, I hope?'

'Oh, quite. You have shown plainly how--afraid you are. Good morning, Mrs. Carnaby. '

Baker Street station being so near, Alma was tempted to go straightwayand demand from the Leach sisters an explanation of what she had heard;they, too, seemed to be behaving treacherously. But she was unwillingto miss the luncheon hour at home, for Hughie would speak of it to hisfather, and so oblige her to make false excuses. Besides, she hadsuffered more than enough indignity (though not unavenged!), and it wasbetter to summon the sisters to her presence. 

On reaching home, she at once sent them an ordinary invitation, but ofthe briefest. In the evening she received Dymes's acknowledgment of thecheque. Next day she wrote to him, a few formal lines, requesting thathe would let her know Mrs. Strangeways' address as soon as he haddiscovered it. 

Dora Leach came to Gunnersbury alone. She was in distress and worry, for her father had fallen ill again, and the doctors doubted whether hewould ever be fit to resume work; it had just dawned upon Dora that thebreadwinner of the family deserved rather more consideration than hehad been wont to receive, and that his death might involve unpleasantconsequences for those dependent upon him. To Alma's questioning shereplied frankly and with self-reproach. It was true that she hadwhispered her friend's suspicions of Mrs. Carnaby, but only to oneperson, and in strictest confidence. Neither she nor Gerda had met MrsCarnaby, and how the whisper could have reached Sibyl's ears wasinconceivable to her. 

'It doesn't matter in the least, ' said Alma, finally. 'To tell you thetruth, I'm not sorry. '

'Why, that's just what I thought!' exclaimed Dora, with sudden clearingof her countenance. 

In a fortnight or so there came a note from Dymes, written at Brussels. He had ascertained that Mrs. Strangeways was somewhere on theContinent, but as yet he could not succeed in 'running her down'. LetMrs. Rolfe depend upon his zeal in this search, as in any other matterin which he could be of use to her. Unfortunately, this envelope cameunder Harvey's eyes, and Alma, knowing he had seen it, felt obliged tospeak. 

'Mr. Dymes refuses to believe that I shall never play again in public, 'she remarked, putting down his letter, as carelessly as possible, byher plate at breakfast. 

'Does he pester you? If so, it might be better for me to----'

'Oh dear, no! I can manage my own correspondence, Harvey, thank you. '

Her tone of slight petulance was due to fear that he might ask to seethe letter, and it had its effect. But Alma's heart sank at thedeception, and her skill in practising it. Was it impossible to becomewhat she desired to be, an honest woman! Only yesterday Harvey hadspoken to her with vexation of a piece of untruthfulness in Hughie, andhad begged her to keep a watch upon the child's habit in this respect. And she had promised, with much earnestness, much concern. 

There are women who can breathe only in the air of lies and oftreachery. Alma rebelled against the fate which made her lifedishonourable. Fate--she declared--not the depravity of her own heart. From the dark day that saw her father's ruin, she had been condemned toa struggle with circumstances. She meant honestly; she asked no morethan the free exercise of instincts nature had given her; but destinywas adverse, and step by step had brought her into a position so false, so hopeless, that she wondered at her strength in living on. 

Hughie had begun to learn the maps of countries, and prided himself onnaming them as he turned over an atlas. One day, about this time, shelooked over his shoulder and saw the map of Italy. 

'Those are lakes, ' said the child, pointing north. 'Tell me theirnames, Mother. '

But she was silent. Her eye had fallen upon Garda, and at the head ofthe lake was a name which thrilled her memory. What if she had gone toRiva? Suddenly, and for the first time, she saw it as a thing thatmight have happened; not as a mere dark suggestion abhorrent to herthought. Had she known the world a little better, it might have been. Then, how different her life! Pleasure, luxury, triumph; for she hadproved herself capable of triumphing. He, the man of money andinfluence, would have made it his pride to smooth the way for her. Andperhaps never a word against her reputation; or, if whispers, did shenot know by this time how indulgent society can be to its brilliantfavourites?

As it was: a small house at Gunnersbury, a baffled ambition, a life ofenvy, hatred, fear, suffered in secret, hidden by base or paltrysubterfuge. A husband whom she respected, whose love she had neverceased to desire, though, strange to say, she knew not whether sheloved him. Only death could part them; but how much better for him andfor her if they had never met! Their thoughts and purposes so unlike;he, with his heart and mind set on grave, quiet, restful things, hatingthe world's tumult, ever hoping to retire beyond its echo; she, hersenses crying for the delight of an existence that loses itself inwhirl and glare. 

In a crowded drawing-room she had heard someone draw attention toher--'the daughter of Bennet Frothingham'. That was how people thoughtof her, and would it not have been wiser if she had so thought ofherself? Daughter of a man who had set all on a great hazard; who hadplayed for the world's reward, and, losing, flung away his life. Whathad _she_ to do with domestic virtues, and the pleasures of a dull, decorous circle? Could it but come over again, she would accept thechallenge of circumstance, which she had failed to understand; acceptthe scandal and the hereditary shame; welcome the lot cast for her, and, like her father, play boldly for the great stakes. His widow mightcontinue to hold her pious faith in him, and refuse to believe that hisname merited obloquy; his child knew better. She had mistaken her path, lost the promise of her beauty and her talent, led astray by the feebleprejudice of those who have neither one nor the other. Too late, andworse than idle now, to recognise it. She would be a good woman, ruleher little house, bring up her child, and have no will but herhusband's. 

House-ruling was no easy matter. Things did not go as she wished; theservants were inefficient, sometimes refractory, and she loathed thetask of keeping them up to their duties. Insomnia began to trouble heragain, and presently she had recourse to the forbiddensleeping-draught. Not regularly, but once a week or so, when the longnight harried her beyond endurance. Rolfe did not suspect it, for shenever complained to him. Winter was her bad time. In the spring herhealth would improve, as usual, and then she would give up the habit. 

At Christmas the Langlands had the customary visit from their relative, Mr. Thistlewood, who renewed his acquaintance with Alma. At their firstmeeting she was struck by his buoyant air, his animated talk. A weeklater, he called in the afternoon. Two ladies happened to be with Alma, and they stayed a long time; but Thistlewood, who comported himselfrather oddly, saying little and sometimes neglecting a remark addressedto him, stayed yet longer. When he was alone with his hostess, he tooka chair near to her, bent forward, and said, smiling----

'You remember our talk about marriage on a minute income?'

'I do, very well. '

'I have found someone who isn't afraid of it. '

'You have? The same person who formerly _was_?'

'No; she was not afraid of the income, but of me. I couldn't besurprised, though it hit me hard. Time has spoken for me. '

Harvey was dining in town. He came back with vexatious news about CecilMorphew, who neglected business, looked ill, and altogether seemed in abad way. As he talked, he began to notice that Alma regarded him withbrighter and happier eyes than for many a day. 

'Why does it amuse you?' he asked, stopping in his narrative. 

'It doesn't; I'm as sorry as you are. But I have a surprise for you. '

'A pleasant one, this time, I see. '

'Mrs. Abbott is going to marry Mr. Thistlewood. '

She watched the effect of her words, and for an instant felt the oldpang, the old bitterness. But Harvey's confusion of feeling soonpassed, giving way to a satisfaction that could not be mistaken. 

'Who has told you?'

'The happy man himself. '

'I am glad--heartily glad! But I didn't think it would interest you somuch. '

'Oh, women--marriages----!'

She threw a pretty scorn upon herself. 

'Yes, that's good news. They will suit each other. But she'll give upher school, and that's a nuisance. '

'There are others as good. '

'But not here. Another removal, I suppose. --When is it to be?'

'Not till the Easter holidays. '

They were in the library. Harvey began to fill his pipe, and nothingmore was said until he had drawn a few meditative puffs. 

'Another removal, ' then escaped him, with half a groan. 

'Why should you care?' asked Alma thoughtfully. 'You don't like thisplace. '

'As well as any other. It's convenient for town. '

'Do you really think of going on in that business, which you detest?'

'It has brought in a little money, and may--ought to--bring more. Butif Morphew goes down----'

Alma glanced at him, and said timidly----

'You are going to Greystone at Easter. '

'We shall all go. What of that?'

'Haven't you'--she spoke with an effort--'sometimes thought you wouldlike to live there?'

'Great heavens--Alma!'

He stared at her in humorous astonishment, then slowly shook his head. How could _she_ live in such a place as Greystone? And what on earthdid she mean by disturbing him with such a suggestion? But Alma, gravely and repeatedly, assured him that she could live there verywell; that in all likelihood she would be much more contented therethan here. 

'I should bring out my violin again, and the Greystone people wouldadmire me. There's a confession--to prove that I am in earnest. I can'tconquer the world; I don't wish it; that's all over. But I should findit pleasant to have a reputation in Greystone--I should indeed. '

Harvey sighed, and could not look at her. 

'And Hughie, ' she continued, 'would go to the Grammar-School. You knowhow you would like that. And living there is cheap; we might keep ourhorse again. --Don't say anything now, but think about it. '

He raised his eyes, and fixed them upon her with a look of infinitetenderness and gratitude. It was Alma now who sighed, but not audibly. 

Before Thistlewood went north again, Harvey enjoyed long talks withhim. Mary Abbott he saw only in the presence of other people. But on anevening in February, when Alma was at the Langlands' and he hadpromised to call for her at ten o'clock, he left home an hour earlierand walked past Mrs. Abbott's house. A light in the window of hersitting-room showed that Mary was at home. After a turn or twobackwards and forwards, he went up to the door and knocked. A veryyoung servant took his name to her mistress, and then admitted him. 

'Will you let me answer your letter personally?' he said, as Mrs. Abbott welcomed him in the room where she sat alone. 

She had written about Minnie Wager, begging that he would in futurecease to contribute to the girl's support, and be responsible only forthe boy. In her new home there would be no need of a servant; she andMinnie would do the housework together. Impossible, she wrote, to speakof his kindness both to her and the children. For Minnie, who mighthenceforth be looked upon as self-supporting, he must no longer betaxed. The child owed him every hope in her life; let him be satisfiedwith what he had done so generously. 

Of these things they talked for a few minutes. It was easy to see howgreat a change had befallen Mary Abbott's outlook upon life. She wasyounger by several years, yet not like herself of that earlier time;much gentler, much sweeter in face and word. Harvey observed her withkeen pleasure, and, becoming aware of his gaze, his smile, she blushedlike a girl. 

'Mr. Rolfe--I am sure you feel that I am deserting my post. '

'To be sure you are. I shall always owe you a grudge for it. '

'I thought of it all--of Hughie and the others. I didn't know how Ishould ever face you. '

''Twas a shameless thing. And yet I can find it in my heart to forgiveyou. You are so ingenuous about it. '

Mary looked up again. 

'What shall you do--about Hughie?'

'Oh, there's a great scheme on foot. Alma suggests that we shall go andlive at Greystone. It tempts me. '

'That it must, indeed! I know how you would like it. '

'We shouldn't be so very far apart then--an hour's journey or so. Youwould come to us, and we to you. '

'Delightful!'

They had not much more to say, but each was conscious of thought in theother's mind that supplemented their insufficient phrases. As theyshook hands, Mary seemed trying to speak. The lamplight made a glimmerin her eyes, and their lids drooped as she said at length----

'I am so glad that you like each other. '

'He's a splendid fellow, ' replied Rolfe joyously. 'I think no end ofhim. '

'And he of you--for I have told him everything. '

Then Harvey quitted the house, and walked about under the starry skyuntil it was time to call for Alma. 

CHAPTER 10

Yet once again did Alma hypnotise her imagination with a new ideal oflife. Her talk was constantly of Greystone. She began a correspondencewith Mrs. Morton, who did her best to encourage all pleasantanticipations--careful the while, at her husband's bidding and Harvey'stoo, not to exaggerate the resources of Greystone for a mind and tempersuch as Alma's. Of course the little town had its musical circle, inwhich Mrs. Rolfe's talent would find an appreciative reception. Touching on this point to her correspondent, Alma remarked, withemphasised modesty, that she must _not_ be regarded as a professionalviolinist; it would be better, perhaps, if nothing were said about her'rather audacious experiment' in London. Meanwhile, a suitable housewas being looked for. There need be no hurry; Midsummer was theearliest possible date for removal, and a few months later might provemore convenient. 

At Easter came Mary Abbott's wedding, which was celebrated as quietlyas might be. Alma had done her utmost to atone for bygone slights andcoldness; she and Mary did not love each other, nor ever could, and forthat reason they were all the more affectionate at this agitating time. When all was over, the Rolfes set forth on their visit to Greystone. Harvey could not look forward to complete enjoyment of the holiday, forby this time Cecil Morphew had succumbed to his old habits of tossingindolence, and only pretended to look after his business. If Harveywithdrew, the shop must either be closed or pass into other hands. Pecuniary loss was the least vexatious part of the affair. Morphew, reckless in the ruin of his dearest hope, would seek excitement, tryonce more to enrich himself by gambling, and so go down to the depthswhence there is no rescue. As a last hope, Harvey had written toHenrietta Winter a long letter of all but passionate appeal; for answerhe received a few lines, infinitely sorrowful, but of inflexibleresolve. 'In the sight of God, Mr. Morphew already has a wife. I shouldbe guilty of a crime if I married him. ' With a desperate ejaculation, Rolfe crushed up the sheet of paper, and turned to other things. 

Whilst she was at Greystone, Alma heard again from Felix Dymes, hisletter having been forwarded. He wrote that Mrs. Strangeways was aboutto return to England, and that before long she might be heard of at acertain hotel in London. As this letter had escaped Harvey's notice, Alma was spared the necessity of shaping a fiction about it. Glad ofthis, and all but decided to put Mrs. Strangeways utterly out of herlife and mind, she sent no answer. 

But when she had been back again for some weeks at Gunnersbury; when ahouse at Greystone was taken (though it would not be ready for themtill Michaelmas); when she was endeavouring, day after day, to teachHughie, and to manage her servants, and to support a wavering hope, there arrived one morning a letter from Mrs. Strangeways. It was datedfrom the hotel which Dymes had mentioned, and it asked Alma to callthere. A simple, friendly invitation, suggestive of tea and chat. Almadid not speak of it, and for an hour or two thought she could disregardit altogether. But that evening she talked to Harvey of shopping shehad to do in town, and the following afternoon she called upon Mrs. Strangeways. 

A lift carried her to the topmost, or all but topmost, storey of thevast hotel, swarming, murmurous. She entered a small sitting-room, pretentiously comfortless, and from a chair by the open window--for itwas a day of hot sunshine--Mrs. Strangeways rose to greet her; quite inthe old way, smiling with head aside, cooing rapidly an effusivewelcome. Alma looked round to see that the door was shut; then, declining the offered hand, she said coldly----

'You are mistaken if you think I have come as a friend. '

'Oh! I am so sorry to hear you say that. Do sit down, and let me hearall about it. I have so looked forward to seeing you. '

'I am only here to ask what good it can do you to talk ill of me. '

'I really don't understand. I am quite at a loss. '

'But I know for certain that you have tried to injure me by tellingextraordinary falsehoods. '

Mrs. Strangeways regarded her with an air of gently troubleddeprecation. 

'Oh, you have been grievously misled. Who can have told you this?'

'The name doesn't matter. I have no doubt of the fact. '

'But at least you will tell me what I am supposed to have said. '

Alma hesitated, and only after several interchanges of question andanswer did the full extent of her accusation appear. Thereupon MrsStrangeways smiled, as if with forbearance. 

'Now I understand. But I have been cruelly misrepresented. I heard sucha rumour, and I did my best to contradict it. I heard it, unfortunately, more than once. '

Again Alma found herself in conflict with an adroitness, aself-possession, so much beyond her own, that the sense of beingmaliciously played with goaded her into rage. 

'No one but yourself could ever have started such a story!'

'You mean, ' sounded the other voice, still soft, though not quite soamiable, 'that I was the only person who knew----'

And there Mrs. Strangeways paused, as if discreetly. 

'Knew? Knew what?'

'Only that you had reason for a little spite against your dear friend. '

'Suppose it was so, ' exclaimed Alma, remembering too well her lastconversation with this woman. 'Whatever you knew, or thought you knew, about me--and it was little enough--you have been making use of itdisgracefully. '

'You say I knew very little, ' put in the other, turning a ring upon herhand; 'but you will admit that it was enough to excite my curiosity. May I not have taken trouble to learn more?'

'Any amount of trouble would have taught you nothing; there was nothingto discover. And that you know as well as I do. '

Mrs. Strangeways moved her head, as if in good-natured acquiescence. 

'Don't let us be harsh with each other, my dear. We have both had ourworries and trials in consequence of that unfortunate affair. You, Ican see, have gone through a good deal; I assure you, so have I. Butoughtn't you to remember that our misfortunes were caused by the sameperson? If I----'

'Your misfortunes are nothing to me. And I shouldn't think you wouldcare to talk about them. '

'Surely I might say the same to you, my dear Alma? Is there very muchto choose between us?'

Alma flushed with resentment, but had no word ready on her parchedtongue. The other went on in an unbroken flow of mocking good humour. 

'We ought to be the best of friends. I haven't the least wish to do youharm, and nothing would please me better than to gratify your littlefeeling against a certain person. I may be able to manage that. Let metell you something--of course in the strictest confidence. ' Her voicewas playful for a moment. 'I have been trying to find someone--you knowwho I mean--who mysteriously disappeared. That interests you, I see. It's very difficult; such people don't let themselves be dropped uponby chance a second time. But, do you know, I have something very like aclue, at last. Yes'--she nodded familiarly--'I have. '

In vain Alma tried to lock her lips. 

'What if you find her?'

'Do you forget that someone will very soon be at large again, and thatsomeone's wife, a very clever woman, counts on deceiving the world asshe deceived _him_?'

'You are sure she _did_ deceive him?'

Mrs. Strangeways laughed. 

'You are acute, my dear. You see the puzzle from all sides. But I won'tgo into that just now. What I want to show you is, that our interestsare the same. We should both dearly like to see a certain person shownup. I begin to see my way to do it very thoroughly. It would delightyou if I were at liberty to tell what I actually _have_ got hold of, but you must wait a little. My worst difficulty, now, is want of money. People have to be bought, you know, and I am not rich----. Don't youthink you could help a little?'

The question came out with smooth abruptness, accompanied by a lookwhich startled the hearer. 

'I? I have no money. '

'What an idea!'

'I tell you I haven't a penny of my own!'

'My dear Alma, you have obliging bankers. One of them is doing verywell indeed. You didn't go to his wedding?'

Alma felt a chill of fear. The woman's eyes seemed to cast a net abouther, and to watch her struggle as it tightened. 

'I don't understand you. I have nothing to do with your plots. '

She strung her muscles and stood up; but Mrs. Strangeways, scarcelymoving, still looked at her with baleful directness. 

'It would be a shame to lose our sport for want of a little money. Imust ask you to help, really. '

'I can't--and won't. '

'I feel sure you will--rather than have anything happen. You areleading, I hear, a most exemplary life; I should be so sorry to disturbit. But really, you _must_ help in our undertaking. '

There was a very short silence. 

'A week, even a fortnight hence, will do. No great sum; two or threehundred pounds. We won't say any more about it; I depend upon you. In afortnight's time will do. '

'Do you imagine, ' exclaimed Alma, on a high, quivering note, 'that I amin your power?'

'Hush! It is very dangerous to talk like that in a hotel. --Think overwhat I have said. You will find me here. Think, and remember. You willbe quite satisfied with the results, but your help is indispensable. '

Therewith Mrs. Strangeways turned to the open window. Looking at herelaborately plaited yellow hair, her thin neck, her delicate fingersjust touching the long throat, Alma felt instinct of savagery; in aflash of the primitive mind, she saw herself spring upon her enemy, tear, bite, destroy. The desire still shook her as she stood outside inthe corridor, waiting to descend. And in the street she walked like asomnambulist, with wide eyes, straight on. Curious glances at lengthrecalled her to herself; she turned hurriedly from the crowded highway. 

Before reaching home, she had surveyed her position, searched hermemory. 'The wretch is counting on my weakness. Knowing she can donothing, she thinks I shall be frightened by the threat. Money? Andperhaps all she said only a lie to tempt me! Let her do her worst--andthat will be nothing. '

And by this she held, letting the days go by. The fortnight passed. Shewas ill with apprehension, with suspense; but nothing happened. Threeweeks, and nothing happened. Then Alma laughed, and went about thehouse singing her deliverance. 

On that day, Mrs. Strangeways sat talking with Mrs. Carnaby, in thelatter's drawing-room. Her manner was deferential, but that of afriend. Sibyl, queening it at some distance, had the air of conferringa favour as she listened. 

'I haven't the least doubt that I shall soon lay my hand upon her. Ihave had an answer to my last advertisement. '

'Then let me see it, ' replied Sibyl coldly. 

'Impossible. I put myself in a position of much danger. I dare nottrust even you, Mrs. Carnaby. '

'Very well. You know my promise. Get her into the hands of the police, and your reward is waiting. '

'But I may lose my opportunity, for want of money. If you would trustme with only--say a hundred pounds. '

'Not a farthing. I didn't ask you to undertake this. If you do it, welland good, I will pay you. But nothing till then. '

Mrs. Strangeways perused the carpet. 

'Anyone else, ' she murmured, 'might be tempted to think that you didn'treally care to have her caught. '

'You may be tempted to think exactly what you like, ' answered Sibyl, with fine scorn. 

The other scrutinised her, with an eye of anxious uncertainty. 

'Have you thought, again, of taking any steps in the other matter?'

'Have you anything to show?'

'No. But it can be obtained. A charge of slander could be broughtagainst her at any moment. If you prefer libel, it is merely taking alittle trouble. '

Sibyl reflected. 

'There is no hurry. I will pay you, as I said, for any trustworthyevidence--of any kind. You bring me none. --Does she come to see you?'

'Occasionally. '

'And--have you succeeded in making _her_ pay?' asked Sibyl, with a curlof the lips. 

Mrs. Strangeways merely smiled. After a brief pause, Sibyl looked ather watch, and rose. 

'I have an engagement. And--pray don't trouble to come again unless youhave really something to come for. I can't pretend to have any tastefor this kind of conversation. It really matters very little; we knowthat woman will be caught some day, and I shall have the pleasure ofprosecuting her for stealing my jewellery and things. The otherperson--perhaps she is a little beneath my notice. '

She rang the bell, and Mrs. Strangeways, having no alternative, slightly bent her head and withdrew. 

Mrs. Carnaby had no engagement; she was quite at leisure, and, as usualnowadays, spent her leisure in thought. She did not read much, and notat all in the solid books which were to be seen lying about her rooms;but Lady Isobel Barker, and a few other people, admired her devotion tostudy. Certainly one or two lines had begun to reveal themselves onSibyl's forehead, which might possibly have come of late reading andmemory overstrained; they might also be the record of otherexperiences. Her beauty was more than ever of the austere type; inregarding her, one could have murmured--

 Chaste a' the icicle That's curded by the frost from purest snow, And hangs on Dian's temple. 

But in privacy Sibyl did not look her best. Assuredly not after thewithdrawal of Mrs. Strangeways, when her lips, sneering away their finecontour, grew to an ugly hardness, and her eyes smalled themselves in avicious intensity of mental vision. 

CHAPTER 11

Major Carnaby, Hugh's brother, was now in England. A stranger to thesociety in which Mrs. Carnaby had lived, he knew nothing of the gossipat one time threatening her with banishment from polite circles. Anhonest man, and taking for granted the honesty of his kinsfolk, he putentire faith in Hugh's story, despatched to him by letter a few daysafter the calamitous event at Wimbledon. On arriving in London, thegood Major was pleased, touched, flattered by the very warm welcomewith which his sister-in-law received him. Hitherto they had seenhardly anything of each other; but since the disaster theircorrespondence had been frequent, and Sibyl's letters were so brave, yet so pathetic, that Major Carnaby formed the highest opinion of her. She did not pose as an injured woman; she never so much as hinted atthe activity of slanderous tongues; she spoke only of Hugh, the dear, kind, noble fellow, whom fate had so cruelly visited The favourableimpression was confirmed as soon as they met. The Major found that thisbeautiful, high-hearted creature had, among her many virtues, a soundcapacity for business; no one could have looked after her husband'sworldly interests with more assiduity and circumspection. He saw thatHugh had been quite right in assuring him (at Sibyl's instance) thatthere was no need whatever for him to neglect his military duties andcome home at an inconvenient time. Hugh's affairs were in perfectorder; all he would have to think about was the recovery of health andmental tranquillity. 

To this end, they must decide upon some retreat in which he might passa quiet month or two. That dear and invaluable friend, to whom Sibylowed 'more than she could tell' (much more than she could tell to MajorCarnaby), was ready with a delightful suggestion. Lady Isobel (that isto say, her auriferous husband, plain Mr. Barker) had a little house inthe north, cosy amid moor and mountain, and she freely offered it. There Hugh and his wife might abide in solitude until the sacredTwelfth, when religious observance would call thither a small companyof select pilgrims. The offer was gratefully accepted. Major Carnabysaw no reason for hesitating, and agreed with Sibyl that the planshould be withheld from Hugh until the last moment, as a gratifyingsurprise. By some means, however, on the day before Hugh's release, there appeared in certain newspapers a little paragraph making known tothe public this proof of Lady Isabel's friendship for Sibyl and herhusband. 

'It's just as well, ' said Mrs. Carnaby, after appearing vexed for amoment. 'People will be saved the trouble of calling here. But itreally is mysterious how the papers get hold of things. '

She was not quite sure that Hugh would approve her arrangement, and theevent justified this misgiving. Major Carnaby was to bring his brotherto Oxford and Cambridge Mansions, and, if possible, all were to travelnorthward that same day. But Hugh, on hearing what was proposed, madestrong objection: he refused to accept the hospitality of people quiteunknown to him; why, with abundant resources of their own, should theybecome indebted to strangers? So vehement was his resistance, and sopitiful the state of body and mind which showed itself in his all buthysterical excitement, that Sibyl pretended to abandon the scheme. Today they would remain here, talking quietly; by tomorrow they mighthave decided what to do. 

At ten o'clock next morning, when Sibyl had been up for an hour, Hughstill lay asleep. She went softly into the room, lighted by the sun'syellow glimmer through blind and lace curtains, and stood looking athim, her husband. To him she had given all the love of which she wascapable; she had admired him for his strength and his spirit, had likedhim as a companion, had prized the flattery of his ardent devotion, hisstaunch fidelity. To have married him was, of course, a mistake, noteasy of explanation in her present mind; she regretted it, but with nobitterness, with no cruel or even unkind thought. His haggard features, branded with the long rage of captivity; his great limbs, wasted tomere bone and muscle, moved her indignant pity. Poor dear old boy!

He believed her; he still believed her. She saw that these two years ofmisery had made his faith in her something like a religion; he found ithis one refuge from despair. 'But for that, Sibyl, I shouldn't be alivenow!' She had known self-reproach; now again it touched her slightly, passingly--poor old boy! But unfaithful to him? To call _that_unfaithfulness? The idea was too foolish. 

Her fears were all outlived. She had dared the worst, and daring wasgrown an easy habit. But in the life that lay before them, _her_judgment, _her_ ambitions, must prevail and direct. Yesterday she hadno course save yielding; today her rule must begin. 

Hugh was stirring. He groaned, and threw out one of his arms; muttered, as if angrily. She touched him, and on the instant he awoke. 

'Sibyl? Good God! that's a queer thing--I dreamt that yesterday was adream, and that I had woke up to find myself---- Did you ever dothat--dream you were dreaming?'

She stroked his head, laughing playfully. 

'You've had a good long night. Don't you feel better? Shall I bring yousome breakfast here?'

'No; I must get up. What's the time? Miles will be coming. '

Sibyl knew that the Major would not be here until two o'clock; but shesaid nothing, and left him to dress. 

On the breakfast-table were delicacies to tempt his palate, but Hughturned from them. He ate for a few minutes only, without appetite, and, as on the day before, Sibyl was annoyed by the strange rudeness withwhich he fed himself; he seemed to have forgotten the habits ofrefinement at table. Afterwards he lighted a cigar, but soon threw itaside; tobacco made him sick. In the drawing-room he moved aimlesslyabout, blundering now and then against a piece of furniture, andmuttering a curse. The clothes he wore, out of his old wardrobe, hungloose about him; he had a stoop in the shoulders. 

'Sibyl, what are we going to do?'

For this she had waited. She sat looking at him with a compassionatesmile. It was an odd thing if this poor broken-down man could not bemade subservient to her will. 

'I still think, dear boy, that we ought to accept Lady Isobel'sinvitation. '

A nervous paroxysm shook him. 

'Damn Lady Isobel! I thought that was done with. '

'I don't think you would speak of her like that, Hugh, if you knew allher kindness to me. I couldn't tell you all yesterday. May I now? Orshall I only irritate you?'

'What is it? Of course, I don't want you to offend her. But I supposeshe has common-sense?'

'More than most women. There's no fear of offending her. I have anotherreason. Come and sit quietly by me, and let us talk as we used to do. Do you know, dear, it's a good thing for me that I had powerfulfriends; I needed all their help against my enemies. '

'What enemies?'

'Have you forgotten what you yourself said, and felt so strongly, atthat time--what a danger I was exposed to when we determined to tellthe whole truth? You knew what some people would say. '

'They've said it, no doubt; and what harm has it done you? Tell me aname, and if it's a man----'

'Don't! I can't bear to see that look on your face, Hugh. You could donothing but endless harm, trying to defend me that way. I have lived itdown, thinking of you even more than of myself. There was a time when Ialmost despaired; people are so glad to think evil. If I had been aweak woman, I should have run away and hidden myself; and theneverybody would have said, "I told you so. " But I had to think of you, and that gave me strength. What could I do? Truth alone is no goodagainst the world; but truth with a handle to its name and with amillion of money--that's a different thing. It was life or death, dearboy, and I had to fight for it. So I went to Lady Isobel Barker. I onlyknew her by name. She, of course, knew _me_ by name, and cold enoughshe was when I got admitted to her. But half an hour's talk--and I hadwon! She was my friend; she would stand by me, and all the world shouldknow it. Stay! The worst is over, but there's still a good deal to bedone. It has to be known that my friends are your friends also. Therewas a paragraph in the papers yesterday, saying that you and your wifewere going as Lady Isobel's guests to that house of hers. She did thatfor me. And now, do you think we ought to seem even seem--to slight herkindness?' Hugh was turning about, chafing impotently. 

'Then you mean to go on here?' he asked, with half-appealing, half-resentful eyes. 

Sibyl made a gesture of entreaty. 

'What other life is there for me? What would you have me do?'

His arms fell; for a minute he sat with head hanging, his eyes fixedand blank like those of a drunken man. Then, as if goaded suddenly----

'Who are these enemies you talk about?'

Sibyl's look wandered; her lips moved in hesitancy. 

'Name one of them. '

'Isn't it better to try to forget them?'

'Women, I suppose?--You say you haven't seen Rolfe. Has _he_ heard thistalk about you, do you think?'

'No doubt, ' she answered distantly. 'Isn't he coming to see you?'

'If he saw that in the papers, he won't think I am here. But I shouldlike to see him. I've a good mind to telegraph--but I don't know hisaddress. Yes--I forgot--there's a letter from him somewhere. '

'I know the address, ' said Sibyl, in the same tone of reserve. 

'I should like to see old Rolfe--poor old Rolfe. '

'Why do you pity him?'

'Oh--only a way of speaking. You know the address, you say? Has hewritten? Has _she_ written?'

'Oh no!'

'You haven't seen her?'

Sibyl evaded the question. 

'Doesn't it seem to you rather strange, ' she said, 'that the Rolfesshould keep away from me--never call or write?'

Hugh's lips were set. When she repeated her inquiry more urgently, hegave a peevish answer. 

'You cared very little about her at the last. And Rolfe--when a manmarries--No, I won't see him just yet. I'll write to him when we'reaway. '

'It wouldn't astonish you'--Sibyl spoke in a thin voice, not quiteunder her control--'if you heard that Mrs. Rolfe had done her best andher worst against me?'

'She? Against you?'

'I don't know that it matters. You said "poor Rolfe". I should fancy heis poor, in every sense. As I have said so much, it's better to let youknow all; it will show you that I am not exaggerating what I have gonethrough. People knew, of course, that she had called herself a friendof mine; and just then she came into notice--just enough to give heropportunities of being dangerous. Well, I heard before long that shewas slandering me to all her acquaintances. Oh, _she_ knew all aboutme! It was lucky for me I had a credulous husband. And it still goeson. She came here not long ago; yes, she came. She told me that sheknew I was afraid of her, and she threatened me. '

Hugh sat staring like a paralytic. 

'_She_? Rolfe's wife did this?'

'Her motive, I don't know. Pure hatred, it seemed. But I've had astrange fancy. She talked about a woman I used to know very slightly, aMrs. Strangeways, and seemed to be in fear of her; she said that womanand I were circulating stories about her. And I have wondered--Why areyou looking like that?'

'She must be mad. --I'll tell you. I only wish I had told you before. She was _there_ that night--at Redgrave's. But for _her_ it would neverhave happened. I saw him standing with her, by the window of hisroom--that is, I saw a woman, but it wasn't light enough to know her;and all at once she ran back, through the open French windows into thehouse; and then I rushed in and found her there--it was Rolfe's wife. '

'Why did you keep this from me?'

'She implored me--vowed there was nothing wrong--cried and begged. AndI thought of Rolfe. I see now that I ought to have told him. The womanmust be crazy to have behaved like this to you. '

Sibyl's face shone. 

'Now I understand. This explains her. Oh, my dear, foolish husband!After all, you did _not_ tell the whole truth. To spare your friend'sfeelings, you risked your wife's reputation. And I have been at themercy of that woman's malice! Don't you think, Hugh, that I have had tobear a little more than I deserved? Your distrust and what came ofit--I have long forgiven you all that. But this--wasn't it rather toohard upon me?'

He flinched under her soft reproach. 

'I couldn't be sure, Sibyl. Perhaps it was true--perhaps she was onlythere----'

A flash of scorn from her eyes struck him into silence. 

'Perhaps? And perhaps she meant no harm in lying about me! You willsend at once for Rolfe and tell him. '

Hugh moved from her, and stood with his face averted. 

'Can you hesitate for a moment?' she asked severely

'Why need I tell Rolfe? Send for _her_, and say what you like. Won'tthat be enough? It's awful to think of telling Rolfe. Don't ask me doto that, Sibyl. '

He approached her, voice and attitude broken to humility. Sibyl grewonly more resolute. 

'You must tell him. Don't you owe it me?'

'By God, I can't do that!--I can't do that! Have her here, before usboth. Shame her and threaten her as much as you like; but don't tellRolfe. It's like you and me, Sibyl. Suppose she has really done nowrong, and we put that thought into his mind?'

'Have you lost all your senses?' she exclaimed passionately. 'Must Ikeep reminding you what she has done to _me_? Is a woman that willbehave in that way likely to be innocent? Is her husband to be kept inthe dark about her, deceived, cheated? I can't understand you. If youare too cowardly to do your plain duty--Hugh, how am I talking? Youmake me forget myself. But you know that it's impossible to spare yourfriend. It wouldn't be just to him. Here's a form; write the telegramat once. '

'Write it yourself, ' he answered, in a low, nerveless voice, movingaway again. 

It was quickly done, though Sibyl paused to reflect after the firstword or two. The message ran thus----

'I want to see you and Mrs. Rolfe before going away. Please both comethis evening if possible. If you cannot, reply when. '

Without showing what she had written, she left the room, and despatcheda servant to the post-office. 

CHAPTER 12

As a last resource against Cecil Morphew's degeneration, Harvey hadgiven up his daily work in Westminster Bridge Road. 'I shall go nomore, ' he wrote. 'I am quite unable to manage the business alone, andif you won't attend to it, it must smash. But please to remember that Itook a share on certain conditions. ' For a week he had stayed at home. Morphew did not reply, but the fact that no appeals arrived from thetrusty shopman seemed to prove that this last step had been effectual. This morning Rolfe was half-minded to go up to town, but decided thathe had better not. Thus the telegram from Oxford and Cambridge Mansionscame into his hands at about twelve o'clock. 

Alma, after giving Hughie his morning's lesson, had gone out with himfor an hour. As soon as she returned, Harvey showed her the message. 

'Why does he want both of us to go?' he asked uneasily. 

Alma merely shook her head, as if the matter interested her verylittle, and turned to leave the room again. 

'I think I had better go alone, ' said Harvey, his eyes on the telegram. 

'Just as you like, ' answered Alma, and withdrew. 

She spent the afternoon much as usual. Rolfe had said at lunch that hewould go to Carnaby's immediately after dinner. Mrs. Langland and oneof her daughters called; they thought Mrs. Rolfe rather absent-minded, but noticed nothing else. At dinner-time she said carelessly to herhusband----

'I think I had better go with you, as I was asked. '

'No, no; I think not. '

'I had rather, Harvey, if you don't mind. I am quite ready; shall onlyhave to put my hat on. '

He made no further objection, but looked a little displeased, and wassilent through the meal. 

They travelled by rail to Edgware Road, exchanging scarce a word on theway. On the stairs of the Mansions, Alma found the ascent too much forher; she stopped, and put out a hand to support herself. Rolfe lookedround. 

'Nothing. You have made me walk rather quickly. '

'I'm sorry. Rest a moment. '

But Alma hastened upwards. 

They were shown at once into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Carnaby, whowas sitting alone, rose at the announcement of their names. Almastepped forwards, and seemed about to offer her hand, but she wasdisregarded. Their hostess stood with her eyes on Rolfe, who, observingthe strangeness of this reception, bowed and said nothing. 

'It was I who sent the telegram, Mr. Rolfe. ' Sibyl's voice had itswonted refinement, and hardly disturbed the silence. 'My husband wouldhave postponed the pleasure of seeing you, but I thought it better youshould meet him at once. ' Her finger touched an electric bell. 'And Iparticularly wished Mrs. Rolfe to be with you; I am so glad she wasable to come. Pray sit down. '

Harvey, with no thought of accepting this invitation, cast sternglances at the speaker and at his wife. 

'What does all this mean, Mrs. Carnaby?'

'Your old friend will tell you. '

The door had opened, and Hugh Carnaby slouched in. At the sight of Almahe stood still. Then meeting Harvey's eyes, he exclaimed, with hoarseindistinctness, 'Rolfe!' Each advanced, and their hands clasped. 

'Rolfe!--old fellow!--I'm the most miserable devil on earth. '

Tears were in his eyes and in his voice. He held Harvey's hand tightprisoned in both his own, and stood tottering like a feeble old man. 'Old friend, I can't help myself--don't feel hard against me--I have totell you something. '

He looked towards Alma, who was motionless. Sibyl had sat down, andwatched as at a play, but with no smile. 

'Come into the next room with me, ' added the choking voice. 

'No. Here, if you please, Hugh, ' sounded with gentle firmness. 

'Sibyl--then tell it. I can't. '

'It's a simple story, Mr. Rolfe, ' began Sibyl. 'I am sure you are notaware that Mrs. Rolfe, ever since our great misfortune, has lost noopportunity of slandering me. She has told people, in plain words, thatshe knew me to be guilty of what my husband was for a moment trappedinto suspecting. Among others, she told it to her friend Miss Leach. Not long ago, she went so far as to call upon me here and accuse me tomy face, telling me I was afraid of what she knew against me. I havethought of taking legal measures to protect myself; perhaps I shallstill do so. Today something has come to my knowledge which possiblyexplains Mrs. Rolfe's singular malice. My husband tells me--and it's asad pity he kept it a secret so long--that there was a third personpresent that evening when he came upon Mr. Redgrave. I dare say youremember the details of the story told in court. All was perfectlytrue; but my husband should have added that a woman was with Mr. Redgrave, talking alone with him in the dark; and when the blow hadbeen struck, this woman, who had quickly disappeared from the verandainto the house, was found to be Mrs. Rolfe. '

Hugh's hand had fallen on to his friend's shoulder. He spoke as soon asSibyl ceased. 

'She said she had done no wrong. I had no proof of any--no proofwhatever. '

Rolfe was looking at Alma. She, through the unimpassioned arraignment, stood with eyes fixed upon her enemy, rather as if lost in thought thanlistening; her mouth was tortured into a smile, her forehead had thelines of age and misery. At the sound of Hugh's voice, she turned tohim, and spoke like one recovering consciousness. 

'You have told the truth. '

'Why did you compel me to make this known, Mrs. Rolfe?'

'Oh, that's quite a mistake. It was she who made you tell it--as shewill make you do anything, and believe anything, she likes. I canimagine how delighted she was. But it doesn't matter. If you care toknow it, either of you'--she included Carnaby and her husband in oneglance, as equally remote from her--'I haven't gone about seeking toinjure her. Perhaps I let one or two people know what I thought; butthey had heard the truth already. It wasn't prudent; and it wasn't aright return for the kindness you had shown me, Mr. Carnaby. But I'mnot sure that I should have done better in helping to deceive you. Hasshe anything more to say? If not, I will leave you to talk about it. '

The tone of this speech, so indifferent that it seemed light-headed, struck the hearers mute. Rolfe, speaking for the first time sinceHugh's entrance, said at length, with troubled sternness----

'Alma, you have repeated your charge against Mrs. Carnaby; what groundshave you for it?'

She looked at him with a vague smile, but did not answer. 

'Surely you don't make an accusation of this kind without some proof?'

'Harvey!' The cry quivered on a laugh. 'O Harvey! who would know youwith that face?'

Sibyl rose. The men exchanged a quick glance. Rolfe moved to his wife'sside, and touched her. 

'Yes, yes, I _know_, ' she went on, drawing away--'I know what you askedme. Keep quiet, just a little. There are three of you, and it's hardfor me alone. It isn't so easy to make _you_ believe things, Harvey. Ofcourse, I knew how it would be if this came out. I can tell you, butnot now; some other time, when we are alone. You won't believe me; Ialways knew _I_ shouldn't be believed. I ought to have been cautious, and have kept friends with her. But it wasn't as if I had anything tohide--anything that mattered. Let me go, and leave you three to talk. And when you come home----'

Turning, looking for the door, she fell softly on to her knees. In amoment Harvey had raised her, and seated her in the chair which Hughpushed forward. Sibyl, motionless, looked on. Seeing that Alma had notlost consciousness, she awaited her next word. 

'We will go away, ' said Hugh, under his breath; and he beckoned toSibyl. Reluctantly she took a step towards him, but was stopped byAlma's voice. 

'Don't go on my account. Haven't _you_ any question to ask me? When Igo, I shan't be anxious to see you again. Don't look frightened; I knowwhat I am talking about. My head went round for a moment--and nowonder. Stand there, face to face. --Leave me alone, Harvey; I can standvery well. I want her to ask me anything she has to ask. It's her onlychance, now. I won't see her again--never after this. '

'Mrs. Carnaby, ' said Rolfe, 'there must be an end of it. You had betterask Alma what she has against you. '

Sibyl, summoning all her cold dignity, stood before the half-distraughtwoman, and looked her in the eyes. 

'What harm or wrong have I done you, Mrs. Rolfe, that you hate me so?'

'None that I know of, until you brought me here today. '

'But you have said that you think me no better than a guilty hypocrite, and isn't it natural that I should defend myself?'

'Quite natural. You have done it very cleverly till now, and perhapsyou will to the end. I feel sure there is no evidence against you, except the word of the woman who told your husband; and even if shecomes forward, you have only to deny, and keep on denying. '

'Then why do you believe that woman rather than me?'

Alma answered only with a frivolous laugh. Sibyl, turning her head, looked an appeal to the listeners. 

'Mrs. Rolfe, ' said Hugh, in a rough, imploring voice, 'have you noother answer? You can't ruin people's lives like this, as if it weresport to you. '

Alma gazed at him, as if she had but just observed his face. 

'You have gone through dreadful things, ' she said earnestly. 'I'm sorryto cause you more trouble, but the fault is hers. She got that secretfrom you, and it delighted her. Go on believing what she says; it's thebest way when all's over and done with. You can never know as _I_ do. '

She laughed again, a little spurt of joyless merriment. Upon that, inthe same moment, followed a loud hysterical cry; then sobs and wailing, with movements as if to tear open the clothing that choked her. Sibylhastened away, and returned with her vinaigrette, which she handed toRolfe. But already the crisis was over. Alma lay back in a chair, sobbing quietly, with head bent aside. 

Carnaby and his wife, after an exchange of signals, silently left theroom. Rolfe paced backwards and forwards for a minute or two, until heheard his name spoken; then he drew near, and Alma looked at him withher own eyes once more. 

'I won't go back home unless you wish, Harvey. '

'Do you feel able to go?'

'If you wish me. If not, I'll go somewhere else. '

He sat down by her. 

'Are you yourself, Alma? Do you know what you are saying?'

'Yes--indeed I do. I know I lost myself; my head went round; but I amwell again now. '

'Then tell me in a word--is there any reason why you should _not_ gohome with me?'

'What's the use? You won't believe me. You can't believe me!'

He grasped her hand, and spoke imperatively, but not unkindly. 

'Stop that! Answer me, and I will believe what you say. '

'There is no reason. I have done no wrong. '

'Then come, if you feel able to. '

She rose without help, and walked to a mirror, at which she arrangedher dress. Harvey opened the door, and found all quiet. He led herthrough the passage, out into the common staircase, and down into thestreet. Here she whispered to him that a faintness was upon her; itwould pass if she could have some restorative. They found afour-wheeled cab, and drove to a public-house, where Rolfe obtainedbrandy and brought it out to her. Then, wishing to avoid the railwaystation until Alma had recovered her strength, he bade the cabman driveon to Notting Hill Gate. 

'May I sit at your side?' she asked, bending towards him in thedarkness, when they had been silent for a few minutes. 

Harvey replied by changing his own place. 

'I want to tell you, ' she resumed, her face near to his. 'I can't wait, and know you are thinking about me. There isn't much to tell. Are yousure you can believe me?'

'I have promised that I will. '

'I don't ask you to be kind or to love me. You will never love meagain. Only believe that I tell the truth, that's all. I am not likethat woman. '

'Tell me, ' he urged impatiently. 

'I wanted to make use of Mr. Redgrave to use his influence with peoplein society, so that I could have a great success. I knew he wasn't tobe trusted, but I had no fear; I could trust myself. I never said ordid anything--it was only meeting him at people's houses and atconcerts, and telling him what I hoped for. You couldn't take anyinterest in my music, and you had no faith in my power to make asuccess. I wanted to show you that you were wrong. '

'I was wrong in more ways than one, ' said Harvey. 

'You couldn't help it. If you had tried to make me go another way, itwould only have led to unhappiness. At that time I was mad to make myname known, and, though I loved you, I believe I could have left yourather than give up my ambition. Mr. Redgrave used to invite people tohis house in the summer to afternoon tea, and I went there once with alady. Other people as well--a lot of other people. That's how I knewthe house. I was never there alone until that last evening. --Don'tshrink away from me!'

'I didn't. Go on, and be quick. '

'I suspected Sibyl from the moment you told me about her husband and MrRedgrave. You did, too, Harvey. '

'Leave her aside. '

'But it was because of her. I saw she was getting to dislike me, and Ithought she knew Mr. Redgrave was doing his best for me, and that shewas jealous, and would prevent him--do you understand? He was myfriend, nothing else; but _she_ would never believe that. And a fewdays before my recital he seemed to lose interest, and I thought it washer doing. Can you understand how I felt? Not jealousy, for I nevereven liked him. I was living only for the hope of a success. Do youbelieve me, Harvey?' 'Easily enough. '

Thereupon she related truly, without omission, the train ofcircumstances that brought her to Wimbledon on the fatal night, and allthat happened until she fled away into the darkness. 

'It would be silly to say I oughtn't to have gone there. Of course, Iknew all I was risking; but I felt I could give my life to detect thatwoman and have her in my power. 

'It's just that I don't understand. If it had been ordinaryjealousy--why, of course----'

'Men never can understand why women hate each other. She thoughtherself so superior to me, and showed it in every look and word; andall the time I knew she was a wicked hypocrite. '

'_How_ did you know that?' Rolfe broke in vehemently, staring into herwhite face as a ray from the street illumined it. 

'Oh, I can't tell you!' she replied, in a moaning, quivering voice. 'Iknew it--I knew it--something told me. But I don't ask you to believethat. Only about myself--can you believe about myself?'

He replied mechanically, 'Yes. ' Alma, with a sigh as much ofhopelessness as of relief, lay back and said no more. 

At Notting Hill Gate they waited for a train. Alma wandered about theplatform, her head bent, silent and heeding nothing. In the railwaycarriage she closed her eyes, and Harvey had to draw her attention whenit was time to alight. On entering the house she went at once upstairs. Harvey loitered about below, and presently sat down in the study, leaving the door ajar. 

He was trying to persuade himself that nothing of much moment had cometo pass. A doubt troubled him; most likely it would trouble him for therest of his life; but he must heed it as little as possible. What othercourse was open to a sensible man? To rave and swear in the high tragicstyle would avail nothing, one way or the other; and the factwas--whatever its explanation--that he felt no prompting to suchviolence. Two years had passed; the man was dead; Alma had changedgreatly, and was looking to new life in new conditions. His worstuneasiness arose from the hysteria which had so alarmingly declareditself this evening. He thought of Bennet Frothingham, and at lengthrose from his chair, meaning to go upstairs. But just then a stepsounded in the hall; his door was pushed open, and Alma showed herself. 

'May I come?' she asked, looking at him steadily

He beckoned with his head. She closed the door, and came slowlyforward, stopping at a few paces from him. 

'Harvey----'

'Well?'

'I want you to decide tonight. If you think it would be better for bothof us, let me go. I shouldn't part from you unkindly; I don't meanthat. I should ask you to let me have money as long as I needed it. Butyou know that I could support myself very soon. If you think it better, do say so, and we'll talk about it as friends. '

'I don't think anything of the kind. I shouldn't let you go, say whatyou might. '

'You wouldn't? But if you find that you _can't_ believe me----'

'It would make no difference, even that. But I do believe you. '

She drew nearer, looking wistfully into his face. 

'But _she_ has made her husband believe her. You will always think ofthat--always. '

'You must remember, Alma, that I have no serious reason for doubtingher word. '

She uttered a cry of distress. 

'Then you doubt mine!--you doubt mine!'

'Nonsense, dear. Do try to think and talk more reasonably. What is itto you and me whether she was guilty or not? I may doubt your judgmentabout her, and yet believe perfectly all you tell me about yourself. '

'Then you think I have slandered her?'

'There's no earthly use in talking about it. You can give no reasons;you _have_ no reasons. Your suspicion may be right or wrong; I don'tcare the toss of a button. All I know is, that we mustn't talk of it. Sit down and be quiet for a little. Oughtn't you to eat somethingbefore you go up?'

Alma put her hands upon his shoulders, bending her face so as to hideit from him. 

'Dear--if you could just say that you believe me; not about myself--Iknow you do--but about _her_. Could you say that?'

He hesitated, all a man's common-sense in revolt against the entreaty;but he saw her quiver with a sob, and yielded. 

'Very well, I will believe that too. '

Her touch became an embrace, gentle and timid; she threw her head back, gazing at him in rapture. 

'You will never again doubt it?'

'Never again. '

'Oh, you are good!--you are kind to me, dear! And will you love me alittle? Do you think you can, just a little?'

His answer satisfied her, and she lay in his arms, shedding tears ofcontentment. Then, for a long time, she talked of the new life beforethem. She would be everything he wished; no moment's trouble shouldever again come between him and her. Nothing now had any charm for herbut the still, happy life of home; her ambitions were all dead andburied. And Harvey answered her with tenderness; forgetting the doubt, refusing to look forward, knowing only that Alma had a place for everin his heart. 

Tonight she must sleep. Whilst undressing she measured the familiardraught of oblivion, and said to herself: 'The last time. ' She lay downin darkness, closed her eyes, and tried to think only of happy things. But sleep would not come, and quiet thoughts would not linger with her. More than an hour must have passed, when she heard Harvey comeupstairs. His step paused near her door, and she raised herself, listening. He went on, and his own door closed. 

Then, for a short time, she lost herself, but in no placid slumber. Startled to wakefulness, she found that she had left her bed and wassitting on the chair beside it. She felt for the matches, and lit acandle. A great anguish of mind came upon her, but she could not shedtears; she wished to escape from her room to Harvey's, but durst notlook out into the dark passage. 

When her heart grew quieter, she went again to the drawer in which shekept her remedy for insomnia. Saying to herself, 'The last time--Ishall be well again after tomorrow, ' she measured another dose, alarger, and drank it off. Trembling now with cold, she crept into bedagain, and lay watching the candle-flame. 

Half an hour after this--it was about two o'clock--the handle of herdoor was turned, and Rolfe quietly looked in. He had awoke with ananxious feeling; it seemed to him that he heard Alma's voice, on theborderland of dream, calling his name. But Alma lay asleep, breathingsteadily, her face turned from the light. As the candle had nearlyburnt down, he blew it out, and went back to his bed. 

At breakfast time Alma did not appear. The housemaid said that, half anhour ago, she was still sleeping. When he had had his meal with Hughie, Rolfe went up and entered his wife's room. Alma lay just as he had seenher in the night. He looked close--laid his hand upon her----

A violent ringing of the bedroom bell brought up the servant. Harveymet her at the door, and bade her run instantly to the doctor's house, which was quite near. 

The doctor could only say, 'We warned her. '

CHAPTER 13

_Sicut umbra praeterit dies_. 

The dial on the front of the old house was just shadowing four o'clock. Harvey Rolfe and his friend Morton sat on the lawn, Harvey readingaloud from a small volume which he had slipped into his pocket beforewalking over this afternoon. From another part of the garden soundedyoung voices, musical in their merriment. 

It was a little book called 'Barrack-Room Ballads'. Harvey read in ithere and there, with no stinted expression of delight, occasionallyshouting his appreciation. Morton, pipe in mouth, listened with asmile, and joined more moderately in the reader's bursts of enthusiasm. 

'Here's the strong man made articulate, ' cried Rolfe at length. 'It'sno use; he stamps down one's prejudice--what? It's the voice of thereaction. Millions of men, natural men, revolting against the softnessand sweetness of civilisation; men all over the world; hardly knowingwhat they want and what they don't want; and here comes one who speaksfor them--speaks with a vengeance. '

'Undeniable. '

'_But_----'

'I was waiting for the _but_, ' said Morton, with a smile and a nod. 

'The brute savagery of it! The very lingo--how appropriate it is! Thetongue of Whitechapel blaring lust of life in the track of Englishguns!-- He knows it; the man is a great artist; he smiles at the voiceof his genius. --It's a long time since the end of the Napoleonic wars. Since then Europe has seen only sputterings of temper. Mankind won'tstand it much longer, this encroachment of the humane spirit. See thespread of athletics. We must look to our physique, and make ourselvesready. Those Lancashire operatives, laming and killing each other atfootball, turning a game into a battle. For the milder of us there'sgolf--an epidemic. Women turn to cricket--tennis is too soft--andtomorrow they'll be bicycling by the thousand;--they must breed astouter race. We may reasonably hope, old man, to see our boys blowninto small bits by the explosive that hasn't got its name yet. '

'Perhaps, ' replied Morton meditatively. 'And yet there are considerableforces on the other side. '

'Pooh! The philosopher sitting on the safety-valve. He has breadth ofbeam, good sedentary man, but when the moment comes--The Empire; that'sbeginning to mean something. The average Englander has never graspedthe fact that there was such a thing as a British Empire. He'sbeginning to learn it, and itches to kick somebody, to prove hisImperialism. The bully of the music-hall shouting "Jingo" had hisspecial audience. Now comes a man of genius, and decent folk don't feelashamed to listen this time. We begin to feel our position. We can'tmake money quite so easily as we used to; scoundrels in Germany andelsewhere have dared to learn the trick of commerce. We feel sore, andit's a great relief to have our advantages pointed out to us. By God!we are the British Empire, and we'll just show 'em what _that_ means!'

'I'm reading the campaigns of Belisarius, ' said Morton, after a pause. 

'What has that to do with it?'

'Thank Heaven, nothing whatever. '

'I bore you, ' said Harvey, laughing. 'Well, I read little or nothing, except what I can use for Hughie. We're doing the geography of Asia, and I try to give him a few clear notions. Do you remember the idioticway in which they used to teach us geography? I loathed thelesson. --That reminds me; Henrietta Winter is dead. '

'Is she? How did it remind you?'

'Why, because Morphew is going to New Zealand. I had a letter from himthis morning. Here it is. "I heard yesterday that H. W. Is dead. Shedied a fortnight ago, and a letter from her mother has only justreached me in a roundabout way. She had been ailing for some time. Theysuspected drains, and had workmen in, with assurance that all had beenput right. Since H. 's death the drains have again been examined, and itwas found that the men who came before so bungled and scamped theirwork that an abominable state of things was made much worse. "--Thosefellows will shout nobly for the Empire one of these days!--"I neversaw her, but she spoke of me just before the end; spoke very kindly, says her mother. Damnation! I can write no more about it. I know youdon't care to hear from me, but I'll just say that I'm going out to NewZealand. I don't know what I shall do there, but a fellow has asked meto go with him, and it's better than rotting here. It may help me toescape the devil yet; if so, you shall hear. Goodbye!"'

He thrust the letter back into his pocket. 

'I rather thought the end would be pyrogallic acid. '

'He has the good sense to prefer ozone, ' said Morton. 

'For a time, at all events. --Look behind you. The young rascal iscreeping this way. He'd rather sit and listen to our talk than be withthe other youngsters. That's wrong, you know. '

Morton look round, and saw Hugh Rolfe. Seven years old now; slight, andwith little or no colour in his cheeks; a wistful, timid smile on thetoo intelligent face. He was gazing towards his father, and evidentlywished to draw near, yet feared that his presence might not be welcome. Morton beckoned him, and at once he ran and threw himself upon thegrass by his father's side. 

'Tired of playing?' asked Harvey, with voice and look which betrayed atenderness he was always trying to conceal. 

'A little tired. We are going to have tea soon. --May I look at thisbook, Father?'

'No pictures. '

'I don't mind. --Yes, there's a picture; a soldier!'

Interest quickened in the boy's eyes, and he turned eagerly fromtitle-page to text. But just then there came a loud calling of his namefrom the other end of the garden. 

'They want you, ' said Harvey. 'Off you go. You can have the bookanother time. '

Hughie obeyed without hesitation, but his face had a weary look as hewalked away to join the other children. 

'I must send him to the Grammar-School next year, ' said Rolfe. 'Itwon't do; he must be among boys, and learn to be noisy. Perhaps I havebeen altogether wrong in teaching him myself. What right has a man toteach, who can't make up his mind on any subject of thought? Of courseI don't talk to _him_ about my waverings and doubtings, but probablythey affect him. '

'Don't bother your head so much about it, ' replied Morton. 'He'll beall right as he grows stronger. '

A servant had brought out two little tables; tea was going to be servedin the garden. When it was ready, Mrs. Morton appeared; the men rose asshe came towards them, a newspaper in her hand. 

'Have you noticed this?' she asked of Rolfe, with a smile, pointing outa paragraph to him. 

He read it; first to himself, then aloud. 

'Yesterday, at Lady Isobel Barker's house in Pont Street, a meeting washeld of ladies interested in a project for the benefit of working-classwomen in the West End. It is proposed to arrange for a series oflectures, specially adapted to such an audience, on subjects ofliterary and artistic interest. Unfortunately, Lady Isobel herself wasunable to take part in the proceedings, owing to sudden indisposition;but her views were most suggestively set forth by Mrs. Hugh Carnaby, who dwelt on the monotony of the lives of decent working-class women, and showed how much they would be benefited by being brought into touchwith the intellectual movements of the day. Practical details of thescheme will shortly be made public. '

Morton chuckled quietly. 

'Splendid idea, ' said Rolfe. 'Anyone who knows anything of the West Endworking-class woman will be sure to give it warm support. '

The tea-bell rang; the children came running. Morton's eldest boy, whohad been busy in his workshop, exhibited a fine model schooner, justfinished. Presently, the hostess asked Rolfe whether he had heard oflate from Mr. Carnaby. 

'A week ago; the first time for a year. The demand for shares in theircompany was tremendous, and they are turning out the new bicycle at therate of hundreds a week. '

'Has he quite got over that illness?'

'Says he suffers much from dyspepsia; otherwise, fairly well. Theprospect of money-making on a great scale seems pleasant to him. '

'To Mrs. Carnaby, also, I dare say. '

'No doubt, ' replied Rolfe absently. 

After tea, a trio of little singers, one of whom was Hughie, gave thesongs they had newly learnt with Mrs. Morton, she accompanying them onthe piano. Rolfe sat in a corner of the room and listened, as always, with keen pleasure. 

'One more, ' he asked, when they were about to cease. 

They sang that which he liked best----

 Fear no more the heat o' the sun

After it there came a minute's silence; then Harvey rose. 

'Say goodbye, Hughie; we must be going home. '

Hand in hand, each thinking his own thoughts, they walked homewardthrough the evening sunshine.