STORIES OF SUCCESSFUL MARRIAGES

THE MANCHESTER MARRIAGE Elizabeth Gaskell

A MERE INTERLUDE Thomas Hardy

A FAITHFUL HEART George Moore

THE SOLID GOLD REEF COMPANY, LIMITED Walter Besant

THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE Henry James

_Elizabeth Gaskell_

THE MANCHESTER MARRIAGE

(_Household Words_, Christmas 1858)

Mr and Mrs Openshaw came from Manchester to settle in London. Hehad been, what is called in Lancashire, a salesman for a largemanufacturing firm, who were extending their business, and opening awarehouse in the city; where Mr Openshaw was now to superintend theiraffairs. He rather enjoyed the change; having a kind of curiosityabout London, which he had never yet been able to gratify in his briefvisits to the metropolis. At the same time, he had an odd, shrewdcontempt for the inhabitants, whom he always pictured to himself asfine, lazy people, caring nothing but for fashion and aristocracy, andlounging away their days in Bond Street, and such places; ruining goodEnglish, and ready in their turn to despise him as a provincial. Thehours that the men of business kept in the city scandalized him too, accustomed as he was to the early dinners of Manchester folk andthe consequently far longer evenings. Still, he was pleased to go toLondon, though he would not for the world have confessed it, even tohimself, and always spoke of the step to his friends as one demandedof him by the interests of his employers, and sweetened to him by aconsiderable increase of salary. This, indeed, was so liberal that hemight have been justified in taking a much larger house than theone he did, had he not thought himself bound to set an example toLondoners of how little a Manchester man of business cared for show. Inside, however, he furnished it with an unusual degree of comfort, and, in the winter-time, he insisted on keeping up as large fires asthe grates would allow, in every room where the temperature was inthe least chilly. Moreover, his northern sense of hospitality was suchthat, if he were at home, he could hardly suffer a visitor to leavethe house without forcing meat and drink upon him. Every servant inthe house was well warmed, well fed, and kindly treated; for theirmaster scorned all petty saving in aught that conduced to comfort;while he amused himself by following out all his accustomed habits andindividual ways, in defiance of what any of his new neighbours mightthink. 

His wife was a pretty, gentle woman, of suitable age and character. Hewas forty-two, she thirty-five. He was loud and decided; she soft andyielding. They had two children; or rather, I should say, she had two;for the elder, a girl of eleven, was Mrs Openshaw's child by FrankWilson, her first husband. The younger was a little boy, Edwin, whocould just prattle, and to whom his father delighted to speak in thebroadest and most unintelligible Lancashire dialect, in order to keepup what he called the true Saxon accent. 

Mrs Openshaw's Christian name was Alice, and her first husband hadbeen her own cousin. She was the orphan niece of a sea-captainin Liverpool; a quiet, grave little creature, of great personalattraction when she was fifteen or sixteen, with regular features anda blooming complexion. But she was very shy, and believed herself tobe very stupid and awkward; and was frequently scolded by her aunt, her own uncle's second wife. So when her cousin, Frank Wilson, camehome from a long absence at sea, and first was kind and protective toher; secondly, attentive; and thirdly, desperately in love with her, she hardly knew how to be grateful enough to him. It is true, shewould have preferred his remaining in the first or second stages ofbehaviour; for his violent love puzzled and frightened her. Her uncleneither helped nor hindered the love affair, though it was going onunder his own eyes. Frank's stepmother had such a variable temper, that there was no knowing whether what she liked one day she wouldlike the next, or not. At length she went to such extremes ofcrossness that Alice was only too glad to shut her eyes and rushblindly at the chance of escape from domestic tyranny offered her bya marriage with her cousin; and, liking him better than any one in theworld, except her uncle (who was at this time at sea), she went offone morning and was married to him, her only bridesmaid being thehousemaid at her aunt's. The consequence was that Frank and his wifewent into lodgings, and Mrs Wilson refused to see them, and turnedaway Norah, the warm-hearted housemaid, whom they accordingly tookinto their service. When Captain Wilson returned from his voyage hewas very cordial with the young couple, and spent many an evening attheir lodgings, smoking his pipe and sipping his grog; but he toldthem, for quietness' sake, he could not ask them to his own house; forhis wife was bitter against them. They were not, however, very unhappyabout this. 

The seed of future unhappiness lay rather in Frank's vehement, passionate disposition, which led him to resent his wife's shyness andwant of demonstrativeness as failures in conjugal duty. He was alreadytormenting himself, and her too in a slighter degree, by apprehensionsand imaginations of what might befall her during his approachingabsence at sea. At last, he went to his father and urged him toinsist upon Alice's being once more received under his roof; the moreespecially as there was now a prospect of her confinement while herhusband was away on his voyage. Captain Wilson was, as he himselfexpressed it, 'breaking up', and unwilling to undergo the excitementof a scene; yet he felt that what his son said was true. So he went tohis wife. And before Frank set sail, he had the comfort of seeing hiswife installed in her old little garret in his father's house. To haveplaced her in the one best spare room was a step beyond Mrs Wilson'spowers of submission or generosity. The worst part about it, however, was that the faithful Norah had to be dismissed. Her place ashousemaid had been filled up; and, even if it had not, she hadforfeited Mrs Wilson's good opinion for ever. She comforted her youngmaster and mistress by pleasant prophecies of the time when they wouldhave a household of their own; of which, whatever service she mightbe in meanwhile, she should be sure to form a part. Almost the lastaction Frank did, before setting sail, was going with Alice to seeNorah once more at her mother's house; and then he went away. 

Alice's father-in-law grew more and more feeble as winter advanced. She was of great use to her stepmother in nursing and amusing him;and although there was anxiety enough in the household, there was, perhaps, more of peace than there had been for years, for Mrs Wilsonhad not a bad heart, and was softened by the visible approach of deathto one whom she loved, and touched by the lonely condition of theyoung creature expecting her first confinement in her husband'sabsence. To this relenting mood Norah owed the permission to comeand nurse Alice when her baby was born, and to remain and attend onCaptain Wilson. 

Before one letter had been received from Frank (who had sailed forthe East Indies and China), his father died. Alice was always glad toremember that he had held her baby in his arms, and kissed and blessedit before his death. After that, and the consequent examination intothe state of his affairs, it was found that he had left far lessproperty than people had been led by his style of living to expect;and what money there was, was settled all upon his wife, and at herdisposal after her death. This did not signify much to Alice, as Frankwas now first mate of his ship, and, in another voyage or two, wouldbe captain. Meanwhile he had left her rather more than two hundredpounds (all his savings) in the bank. 

It became time for Alice to hear from her husband. One letter from theCape she had already received. The next was to announce his arrival inIndia. As week after week passed over, and no intelligence of the shiphaving got there reached the office of the owners, and the captain'swife was in the same state of ignorant suspense as Alice herself, herfears grew most oppressive. At length the day came when, in reply toher inquiry at the shipping office, they told her that the owners hadgiven up hope of ever hearing more of the _Betsy-Jane_ and had sent intheir claim upon the underwriters. Now that he was gone for ever, she first felt a yearning, longing love for the kind cousin, thedear friend, the sympathizing protector, whom she should never seeagain;--first felt a passionate desire to show him his child, whomshe had hitherto rather craved to have all to herself--her own solepossession. Her grief was, however, noiseless and quiet--rather to thescandal of Mrs Wilson who bewailed her stepson as if he and she hadalways lived together in perfect harmony, and who evidently thoughtit her duty to burst into fresh tears at every strange face shesaw; dwelling on his poor young widow's desolate state, and thehelplessness of the fatherless child, with an unction as if she likedthe excitement of the sorrowful story. 

So passed away the first days of Alice's widowhood. By and by thingssubsided into their natural and tranquil course. But, as if the youngcreature was always to be in some heavy trouble, her ewe-lamb began tobe ailing, pining, and sickly. The child's mysterious illness turnedout to be some affection of the spine, likely to affect health but notto shorten life--at least, so the doctors said. But the long, drearysuffering of one whom a mother loves as Alice loved her only child, is hard to look forward to. Only Norah guessed what Alice suffered; noone but God knew. 

And so it fell out, that when Mrs Wilson, the elder, came to her oneday, in violent distress, occasioned by a very material diminution inthe value of the property that her husband had left her--a diminutionwhich made her income barely enough to support herself, much lessAlice--the latter could hardly understand how anything which did nottouch health or life could cause such grief; and she received theintelligence with irritating composure. But when, that afternoon, thelittle sick child was brought in, and the grandmother--who, after all, loved it well--began a fresh moan over her losses to its unconsciousears--saying how she had planned to consult this or that doctor, andto give it this or that comfort or luxury in after years, but that nowall chance of this had passed away--Alice's heart was touched, and shedrew near to Mrs Wilson with unwonted caresses, and, in a spirit notunlike to that of Ruth, entreated that, come what would, they mightremain together. After much discussion in succeeding days, it wasarranged that Mrs Wilson should take a house in Manchester, furnishingit partly with what furniture she had, and providing the rest withAlice's remaining two hundred pounds. Mrs Wilson was herself aManchester woman, and naturally longed to return to her native town;some connexions of her own, too, at that time required lodgings, forwhich they were willing to pay pretty handsomely. Alice undertookthe active superintendence and superior work of the household;Norah--willing, faithful Norah--offered to cook, scour, do anything inshort, so that she might but remain with them. 

The plan succeeded. For some years their first lodgers remained withthem, and all went smoothly--with that one sad exception of the littlegirl's increasing deformity. How that mother loved that child, it isnot for words to tell!

Then came a break of misfortune. Their lodgers left, and no onesucceeded to them. After some months, it became necessary to removeto a smaller house; and Alice's tender conscience was torn by the ideathat she ought not to be a burden to her mother-in-law, but to go outand seek her own maintenance. And leave her child! The thought camelike the sweeping boom of a funeral-bell over her heart. 

By and by, Mr Openshaw came to lodge with them. He had started in lifeas the errand-boy and sweeper-out of a warehouse; had struggled upthrough all the grades of employment in it, fighting his way throughthe hard, striving Manchester life with strong, pushing energy ofcharacter. Every spare moment of time had been sternly given up toself-teaching. He was a capital accountant, a good French and Germanscholar, a keen, far-seeing tradesman--understanding markets and thebearing of events, both near and distant, on trade; and yet, with suchvivid attention to present details, that I do not think he ever saw agroup of flowers in the fields without thinking whether their colourwould, or would not, form harmonious contrasts in the coming springmuslins and prints. He went to debating societies, and threw himselfwith all his heart and soul into politics; esteeming, it mustbe owned, every man a fool or a knave who differed from him, andoverthrowing his opponents rather by the loud strength of his languagethan the calm strength of his logic. There was something of the Yankeein all this. Indeed, his theory ran parallel to the famous Yankeemotto--'England flogs creation, and Manchester flogs England. ' Sucha man, as may be fancied, had had no time for falling in love, orany such nonsense. At the age when most young men go through theircourting and matrimony, he had not the means of keeping a wife, andwas far too practical to think of having one. And now that he wasin easy circumstances, a rising man, he considered women almost asencumbrances to the world, with whom a man had better have as littleto do as possible. His first impression of Alice was indistinct, and he did not care enough about her to make it distinct. 'A pretty, yea-nay kind of woman', would have been his description of her, if hehad been pushed into a corner. He was rather afraid, in the beginning, that her quiet ways arose from a listlessness and laziness ofcharacter, which would have been exceedingly discordant to his active, energetic nature. But, when he found out the punctuality with whichhis wishes were attended to, and her work was done; when he was calledin the morning at the very stroke of the clock, his shaving-waterscalding hot, his fire bright, his coffee made exactly as his peculiarfancy dictated (for he was a man who had his theory abouteverything based upon what he knew of science, and often perfectlyoriginal)--then he began to think: not that Alice had any particularmerit, but that he had got into remarkably good lodgings; hisrestlessness wore away, and he began to consider himself as almostsettled for life in them. 

Mr Openshaw had been too busy, all his days, to be introspective. Hedid not know that he had any tenderness in his nature; and if he hadbecome conscious of its abstract existence he would have considered itas a manifestation of disease in some part of him. But he was decoyedinto pity unawares; and pity led on to tenderness. That littlehelpless child--always carried about by one of the three busy womenof the house, or else patiently threading coloured beads in the chairfrom which, by no effort of its own, could it ever move--the greatgrave blue eyes, full of serious, not uncheerful, expression, givingto the small delicate face a look beyond its years--the soft plaintivevoice dropping out but few words, so unlike the continual prattle of achild--caught Mr Openshaw's attention in spite of himself. One day--hehalf scorned himself for doing so--he cut short his dinner-hour to goin search of some toy, which should take the place of those eternalbeads. I forget what he bought; but, when he gave the present (whichhe took care to do in a short abrupt manner, and when no one was byto see him), he was almost thrilled by the flash of delight thatcame over that child's face, and he could not help, all through thatafternoon, going over and over again the picture left on his memory, by the bright effect of unexpected joy on the little girl's face. Whenhe returned home, he found his slippers placed by his sitting-roomfire; and even more careful attention paid to his fancies than washabitual in those model lodgings. When Alice had taken the last of histea-things away--she had been silent as usual till then--she stood foran instant with the door in her hand. Mr Openshaw looked as if hewere deep in his book, though in fact he did not see a line; butwas heartily wishing the woman would go, and not make any palaver ofgratitude. But she only said:

'I am very much obliged to you, sir. Thank you very much, ' and wasgone, even before he could send her away with a 'There, my good woman, that's enough!'

For some time longer he took no apparent notice of the child. He evenhardened his heart into disregarding her sudden flush of colour andlittle timid smile of recognition, when he saw her by chance. But, after all, this could not last for ever; and, having a second timegiven way to tenderness, there was no relapse. The insidious enemyhaving thus entered his heart, in the guise of compassion to thechild, soon assumed the more dangerous form of interest in themother. He was aware of this change of feeling--despised himself forit--struggled with it; nay, internally yielded to it and cherishedit, long before he suffered the slightest expression of it, by word, action, or look to escape him. He watched Alice's docile, obedientways to her stepmother; the love which she had inspired in the roughNorah (roughened by the wear and tear of sorrow and years); but, aboveall, he saw the wild, deep, passionate affection existing between herand her child. They spoke little to anyone else, or when anyone elsewas by; but, when alone together, they talked, and murmured, andcooed, and chattered so continually, that Mr Openshaw first wonderedwhat they could find to say to each other, and next became irritatedbecause they were always so grave and silent with him. All this timehe was perpetually devising small new pleasures for the child. Histhoughts ran, in a pertinacious way, upon the desolate life beforeher; and often he came back from his day's work loaded with the verything Alice had been longing for, but had not been able to procure. One time, it was a little chair for drawing the little sufferer alongthe streets; and, many an evening that following summer, MrOpenshaw drew her along himself, regardless of the remarks of hisacquaintances. One day in autumn, he put down his newspaper, as Alicecame in with the breakfast, and said, in as indifferent a voice as hecould assume:

'Mrs Frank, is there any reason why we two should not put up ourhorses together?'

Alice stood still in perplexed wonder. What did he mean? He hadresumed the reading of his newspaper, as if he did not expect anyanswer; so she found silence her safest course, and went on quietlyarranging his breakfast, without another word passing between them. Just as he was leaving the house, to go to the warehouse as usual, he turned back and put his head into the bright, neat, tidy kitchen, where all the women breakfasted in the morning:

'You'll think of what I said, Mrs Frank' (this was her name with thelodgers), 'and let me have your opinion upon it tonight. '

Alice was thankful that her mother and Norah were too busy talkingtogether to attend much to this speech. She determined not to thinkabout it at all through the day; and, of course, the effort not tothink made her think all the more. At night she sent up Norah with histea. But Mr Openshaw almost knocked Norah down as she was going outat the door, by pushing past her and calling out, 'Mrs Frank!' in animpatient voice, at the top of the stairs. 

Alice went up, rather than seem to have affixed too much meaning tohis words. 

'Well, Mrs Frank, ' he said, 'what answer? Don't make it too long; forI have lots of office work to get through tonight. '

'I hardly know what you meant, sir, ' said truthful Alice. 

'Well! I should have thought you might have guessed. You're not newat this sort of work, and I am. However, I'll make it plain this time. Will you have me to be thy wedded husband, and serve me, and love me, and honour me, and all that sort of thing? Because, if you will, Iwill do as much by you, and be a father to your child--and that's morethan is put in the prayer-book. Now, I'm a man of my word; and what Isay, I feel; and what I promise, I'll do. Now, for your answer!'

Alice was silent. He began to make the tea, as if her reply was amatter of perfect indifference to him; but, as soon as that was done, he became impatient. 

'Well?' said he. 

'How long, sir, may I have to think over it?'

'Three minutes!' (looking at his watch). 'You've had two already--thatmakes five. Be a sensible woman, say Yes, and sit down to tea with me, and we'll talk it over together; for, after tea, I shall be busy;say No' (he hesitated a moment to try and keep his voice in the sametone), 'and I shan't say another word about it, but pay up a year'srent for my rooms tomorrow, and be off. Time's up! Yes or no?'

'If you please, sir--you have been so good to little Ailsie--'

'There, sit down comfortably by me on the sofa, and let's have our teatogether. I am glad to find you are as good and sensible as I took youfor. '

And this was Alice Wilson's second wooing. 

Mr Openshaw's will was too strong, and his circumstances too good, for him not to carry all before him. He settled Mrs Wilson in acomfortable house of her own, and made her quite independent oflodgers. The little that Alice said with regard to future plans was inNorah's behalf. 

'No, ' said Mr Openshaw. 'Norah shall take care of the old lady as longas she lives; and, after that, she shall either come and live with us, or, if she likes it better, she shall have a provision for life--foryour sake, missus. No one who has been good to you or the child shallgo unrewarded. But even the little one will be better for some freshstuff about her. Get her a bright, sensible girl as a nurse; one whowon't go rubbing her with calf's-foot jelly as Norah does; wastinggood stuff outside that ought to go in, but will follow doctors'directions; which, as you must see pretty clearly by this time, Norahwon't; because they give the poor little wench pain. Now, I'm notabove being nesh for other folks myself. I can stand a good blow, and never change colour; but, set me in the operating room in theinfirmary, and I turn as sick as a girl. Yet, if need were, I wouldhold the little wench on my knees while she screeched with pain, if itwere to do her poor back good. Nay, nay, wench! keep your white looksfor the time when it comes--I don't say it ever will. But this I know, Norah will spare the child and cheat the doctor, if she can. Now, Isay, give the bairn a year or two's chance, and then, when the pack ofdoctors have done their best--and, maybe, the old lady has gone--we'llhave Norah back or do better for her. '

The pack of doctors could do no good to little Ailsie. She was beyondtheir power. But her father (for so he insisted on being called, andalso on Alice's no longer retaining the appellation of Mamma, butbecoming henceforward Mother), by his healthy cheerfulness of manner, his clear decision of purpose, his odd turns and quirks of humour, added to his real strong love for the helpless little girl, infuseda new element of brightness and confidence into her life; and, thoughher back remained the same, her general health was strengthened, andAlice--never going beyond a smile herself--had the pleasure of seeingher child taught to laugh. 

As for Alice's own life, it was happier than it had ever been before. Mr Openshaw required no demonstration, no expressions of affectionfrom her. Indeed, these would rather have disgusted him. Alice couldlove deeply, but could not talk about it. The perpetual requirementof loving words, looks, and caresses, and misconstruing their absenceinto absence of love, had been the great trial of her former marriedlife. Now, all went on clear and straight, under the guidance of herhusband's strong sense, warm heart, and powerful will. Year by yeartheir worldly prosperity increased. At Mrs Wilson's death, Norah cameback to them as nurse to the newly-born little Edwin; into which postshe was not installed without a pretty strong oration on the part ofthe proud and happy father, who declared that if he found out thatNorah ever tried to screen the boy by a falsehood, or to make himnesh either in body or mind, she should go that very day. Norah andMr Openshaw were not on the most thoroughly cordial terms; neither ofthem fully recognizing or appreciating the other's best qualities. 

This was the previous history of the Lancashire family who had nowremoved to London. 

They had been there about a year, when Mr Openshaw suddenly informedhis wife that he had determined to heal long-standing feuds, and hadasked his uncle and aunt Chadwick to come and pay them a visit andsee London. Mrs Openshaw had never seen this uncle and aunt of herhusband's. Years before she had married him, there had been a quarrel. All she knew was, that Mr Chadwick was a small manufacturer in acountry town in South Lancashire. She was extremely pleased that thebreach was to be healed, and began making preparations to render theirvisit pleasant. 

They arrived at last. Going to see London was such an event to them, that Mrs Chadwick had made all new linen fresh for the occasion--fromnight-caps downwards; and as for gowns, ribbons, and collars, shemight have been going into the wilds of Canada where never a shop is, so large was her stock. A fortnight before the day of her departurefor London, she had formally called to take leave of all heracquaintance; saying she should need every bit of the intermediatetime for packing up. It was like a second wedding in her imagination;and, to complete the resemblance which an entirely new wardrobe madebetween the two events, her husband brought her back from Manchester, on the last market-day before they set off, a gorgeous pearl andamethyst brooch, saying, 'Lunnon should see that Lancashire folks knewa handsome thing when they saw it. '

For some time after Mr and Mrs Chadwick arrived at the Openshaws'there was no opportunity for wearing this brooch; but at length theyobtained an order to see Buckingham Palace, and the spirit of loyaltydemanded that Mrs Chadwick should wear her best clothes in visitingthe abode of her sovereign. On her return she hastily changed herdress; for Mr Openshaw had planned that they should go to Richmond, drink tea, and return by moonlight. Accordingly, about five o'clock, Mr and Mrs Openshaw and Mr and Mrs Chadwick set off. 

The housemaid and cook sat below, Norah hardly knew where. She wasalways engrossed in the nursery in tending her two children, and insitting by the restless, excitable Ailsie till she fell asleep. By andby the housemaid Bessy tapped gently at the door. Norah went to her, and they spoke in whispers. 

'Nurse! there's someone downstairs wants you. '

'Wants me! who is it?'

'A gentleman--'

'A gentleman? Nonsense!'

'Well! a man, then, and he asks for you, and he rang at the front-doorbell, and has walked into the dining-room. '

'You should never have let him, ' exclaimed Norah. 'Master and missusout--'

'I did not want him to come in; but, when he heard you lived here, hewalked past me, and sat down on the first chair, and said, "Tell herto come and speak to me. " There is no gas lighted in the room, andsupper is all set out. '

'He'll be off with the spoons!' exclaimed Norah, putting thehousemaid's fear into words, and preparing to leave the room; first, however, giving a look to Ailsie, sleeping soundly and calmly. 

Downstairs she went, uneasy fears stirring in her bosom. Before sheentered the dining-room she provided herself with a candle, and, withit in her hand, she went in, looking around her in the darkness forher visitor. 

He was standing up, holding by the table. Norah and he looked at eachother; gradual recognition coming into their eyes. 

'Norah?' at length he asked. 

'Who are you?' asked Norah, with the sharp tones of alarm andincredulity. 'I don't know you'; trying, by futile words of disbelief, to do away with the terrible fact before her. 

'Am I so changed?' he said pathetically. 'I dare say I am. But, Norah, tell me!' he breathed hard, 'where is my wife? Is she--is she alive?'

He came nearer to Norah, and would have taken her hand; but she backedaway from him; looking at him all the time with staring eyes, as ifhe were some horrible object. Yet he was a handsome, bronzed, good-looking fellow, with beard and moustache, giving him aforeign-looking aspect; but his eyes! there was no mistaking thoseeager, beautiful eyes--the very same that Norah had watched not halfan hour ago, till sleep stole softly over them. 

'Tell me, Norah--I can bear it--I have feared it so often. Is shedead?' Norah still kept silence. 'She is dead!' He hung on Norah'swords and looks, as if for confirmation or contradiction. 

'What shall I do?' groaned Norah. 'Oh, sir! why did you come? howdid you find me out? where have you been? We thought you dead, we didindeed!' She poured out words and questions to gain time, as if timewould help her. 

'Norah! answer me this question straight, by yes or no--Is my wifedead?'

'No, she is not, ' said Norah, slowly and heavily. 

'Oh, what a relief! Did she receive my letters? But perhaps you don'tknow. Why did you leave her? Where is she? Oh, Norah, tell me allquickly!'

'Mr Frank!' said Norah at last, almost driven to bay by herterror lest her mistress should return at any moment and find himthere--unable to consider what was best to be done or said--rushingat something decisive, because she could not endure her present state:'Mr Frank! we never heard a line from you, and the shipowners saidyou had gone down, you and everyone else. We thought you were dead, ifever man was, and poor Miss Alice and her little sick, helpless child!Oh, sir, you must guess it, ' cried the poor creature at last, burstingout into a passionate fit of crying, 'for indeed I cannot tell it. Butit was no one's fault. God help us all this night!'

Norah had sat down. She trembled too much to stand. He took her handsin his. He squeezed them hard, as if, by physical pressure, the truthcould be wrung out. 

'Norah. ' This time his tone was calm, stagnant as despair. 'She hasmarried again!'

Norah shook her head sadly. The grasp slowly relaxed. The man hadfainted. 

There was brandy in the room. Norah forced some drops into Mr Frank'smouth, chafed his hands, and--when mere animal life returned, beforethe mind poured in its flood of memories and thoughts--she lifted himup, and rested his head against her knees. Then she put a few crumbsof bread taken from the supper-table, soaked in brandy, into hismouth. Suddenly he sprang to his feet. 

'Where is she? Tell me this instant. ' He looked so wild, so mad, sodesperate, that Norah felt herself to be in bodily danger; but hertime of dread had gone by. She had been afraid to tell him the truth, and then she had been a coward. Now, her wits were sharpened by thesense of his desperate state. He must leave the house. She would pityhim afterwards; but now she must rather command and upbraid; for hemust leave the house before her mistress came home. That one necessitystood clear before her. 

'She is not here: that is enough for you to know. Nor can I sayexactly where she is' (which was true to the letter if not to thespirit). 'Go away, and tell me where to find you tomorrow, and I willtell you all. My master and mistress may come back at any minute, andthen what would become of me, with a strange man in the house?'

Such an argument was too petty to touch his excited mind. 

'I don't care for your master and mistress. If your master is a man, he must feel for me--poor shipwrecked sailor that I am--kept for yearsa prisoner amongst savages, always, always, always thinking of my wifeand my home--dreaming of her by night, talking to her though shecould not hear, by day. I loved her more than all heaven and earth puttogether. Tell me where she is, this instant, you wretched woman, whosalved over her wickedness to her, as you do to me!'

The clock struck ten. Desperate positions require desperate measures. 

'If you will leave the house now, I will come to you tomorrow and tellyou all. What is more, you shall see your child now. She lies sleepingupstairs. Oh, sir, you have a child, you do not know that as yet--alittle weakly girl--with just a heart and soul beyond her years. Wehave reared her up with such care! We watched her, for we thoughtfor many a year she might die any day, and we tended her, and no hardthing has come near her, and no rough word has ever been said to her. And now you come and will take her life into your hand, and will crushit. Strangers to her have been kind to her; but her own father--MrFrank, I am her nurse, and I love her, and I tend her, and I would doanything for her that I could. Her mother's heart beats as hers beats;and, if she suffers a pain, her mother trembles all over. If she ishappy, it is her mother that smiles and is glad. If she is growingstronger, her mother is healthy: if she dwindles, her motherlanguishes. If she dies--well, I don't know; it is not everyone canlie down and die when they wish it. Come upstairs, Mr Frank, and seeyour child. Seeing her will do good to your poor heart. Then go away, in God's name, just this one night; tomorrow, if need be, you can doanything--kill us all if you will, or show yourself a great, grandman, whom God will bless for ever and ever. Come, Mr Frank, the lookof a sleeping child is sure to give peace. '

She led him upstairs; at first almost helping his steps, till theycame near the nursery door. She had wellnigh forgotten the existenceof little Edwin. It struck upon her with affright as the shaded lightfell over the other cot; but she skilfully threw that corner of theroom into darkness, and let the light fall on the sleeping Ailsie. The child had thrown down the coverings, and her deformity, as shelay with her back to them, was plainly visible through her slightnightgown. Her little face, deprived of the lustre of her eyes, lookedwan and pinched, and had a pathetic expression in it, even as sheslept. The poor father looked and looked with hungry, wistful eyes, into which the big tears came swelling up slowly and dropped heavilydown, as he stood trembling and shaking all over. Norah was angrywith herself for growing impatient of the length of time that longlingering gaze lasted. She thought that she waited for full half anhour before Frank stirred. And then--instead of going away--he sankdown on his knees by the bedside, and buried his face in the clothes. Little Ailsie stirred uneasily. Norah pulled him up in terror. Shecould afford no more time, even for prayer, in her extremity of fear;for surely the next moment would bring her mistress home. She tookhim forcibly by the arm; but, as he was going, his eye lighted on theother bed; he stopped. Intelligence came back into his face. His handsclenched. 

'His child?' he asked. 

'Her child, ' replied Norah. 'God watches over him, ' she saidinstinctively; for Frank's looks excited her fears, and she needed toremind herself of the Protector of the helpless. 

'God has not watched over me, ' he said, in despair; his thoughtsapparently recoiling on his own desolate, deserted state. But Norahhad no time for pity. Tomorrow she would be as compassionate as herheart prompted. At length she guided him downstairs, and shut theouter door, and bolted it--as if by bolts to keep out facts. 

Then she went back into the dining-room, and effaced all traces of hispresence, as far as she could. She went upstairs to the nursery andsat there, her head on her hand, thinking what was to come of allthis misery. It seemed to her very long before her master and mistressreturned; yet it was hardly eleven o'clock. She heard the loud, hearty Lancashire voices on the stairs; and, for the first time, sheunderstood the contrast of the desolation of the poor man who had solately gone forth in lonely despair. 

It almost put her out of patience to see Mrs Openshaw come in, calmly smiling, handsomely dressed, happy, easy, to inquire after herchildren. 

'Did Ailsie go to sleep comfortably?' she whispered to Norah. 

'Yes. '

Her mother bent over her, looking at her slumbers with the soft eyesof love. How little she dreamed who had looked on her last! Then shewent to Edwin, with perhaps less wistful anxiety in her countenance, but more of pride. She took off her things, to go down to supper. Norah saw her no more that night. 

Beside having a door into the passage, the sleeping-nursery openedout of Mr and Mrs Openshaw's room, in order that they might havethe children more immediately under their own eyes. Early the nextsummer's morning, Mrs Openshaw was awakened by Ailsie's startled callof 'Mother! mother!' She sprang up, put on her dressing-gown, and wentto her child. Ailsie was only half awake, and in a not unusual stateof terror. 

'Who was he, mother? Tell me!'

'Who, my darling? No one is here. You have been dreaming, love. Wakenup quite. See, it is broad daylight. '

'Yes, ' said Ailsie, looking round her; then clinging to her mother, 'but a man was here in the night, mother. '

'Nonsense, little goose. No man has ever come near you!'

'Yes, he did. He stood there. Just by Norah. A man with hair and abeard. And he knelt down and said his prayers. Norah knows he washere, mother' (half angrily, as Mrs Openshaw shook her head in smilingincredulity). 

'Well! we will ask Norah when she comes, ' said Mrs Openshaw, soothingly. 'But we won't talk any more about him now. It is not fiveo'clock; it is too early for you to get up. Shall I fetch you a bookand read to you?'

'Don't leave me, mother, ' said the child, clinging to her. So MrsOpenshaw sat on the bedside talking to Ailsie, and telling her of whatthey had done at Richmond the evening before, until the little girl'seyes slowly closed and she once more fell asleep. 

'What was the matter?' asked Mr Openshaw, as his wife returned to bed. 

'Ailsie wakened up in a fright, with some story of a man having beenin the room to say his prayers--a dream, I suppose. ' And no more wassaid at the time. 

Mrs Openshaw had almost forgotten the whole affair when she got upabout seven o'clock. But, by and by, she heard a sharp altercationgoing on in the nursery--Norah speaking angrily to Ailsie, a mostunusual thing. Both Mr and Mrs Openshaw listened in astonishment. 

'Hold your tongue, Ailsie! let me hear none of your dreams; never letme hear you tell that story again!'

Ailsie began to cry. 

Mr Openshaw opened the door of communication, before his wife couldsay a word. 

'Norah, come here!'

The nurse stood at the door, defiant. She perceived she had beenheard, but she was desperate. 

'Don't let me hear you speak in that manner to Ailsie again, ' he saidsternly, and shut the door. 

Norah was infinitely relieved; for she had dreaded some questioning;and a little blame for sharp speaking was what she could well bear, ifcross-examination was let alone. 

Downstairs they went, Mr Openshaw carrying Ailsie; the sturdy Edwincoming step by step, right foot foremost, always holding his mother'shand. Each child was placed in a chair by the breakfast-table, andthen Mr and Mrs Openshaw stood together at the window, awaiting theirvisitors' appearance and making plans for the day. There was a pause. Suddenly Mr Openshaw turned to Ailsie, and said:

'What a little goosy somebody is with her dreams, wakening up poor, tired mother in the middle of the night, with a story of a man beingin the room. '

'Father! I'm sure I saw him, ' said Ailsie, half-crying. 'I don't wantto make Norah angry; but I was not asleep, for all she says I was. Ihad been asleep--and I wakened up quite wide awake, though I was sofrightened. I kept my eyes nearly shut, and I saw the man quite plain. A great brown man with a beard. He said his prayers. And then lookedat Edwin. And then Norah took him by the arm and led him away, afterthey had whispered a bit together. '

'Now, my little woman must be reasonable, ' said Mr Openshaw, who wasalways patient with Ailsie. 'There was no man in the house last nightat all. No man comes into the house, as you know, if you think; muchless goes up into the nursery. But sometimes we dream something hashappened, and the dream is so like reality, that you are not the firstperson, little woman, who has stood out that the thing has reallyhappened. '

'But, indeed, it was not a dream!' said Ailsie, beginning to cry. 

Just then Mr and Mrs Chadwick came down, looking grave anddiscomposed. All during breakfast-time they were silent anduncomfortable. As soon as the breakfast things were taken away, andthe children had been carried upstairs, Mr Chadwick began, in anevidently preconcerted manner, to inquire if his nephew was certainthat all his servants were honest; for, that Mrs Chadwick had thatmorning missed a very valuable brooch, which she had worn theday before. She remembered taking it off when she came home fromBuckingham Palace. Mr Openshaw's face contracted into hard lines; grewlike what it was before he had known his wife and her child. He rangthe bell, even before his uncle had done speaking. It was answered bythe housemaid. 

'Mary, was anyone here last night, while we were away?'

'A man, sir, came to speak to Norah. '

'To speak to Norah! Who was he? How long did he stay?'

'I'm sure I can't tell, sir. He came--perhaps about nine. I went up totell Norah in the nursery, and she came down to speak to him. She lethim out, sir. She will know who he was, and how long he stayed. '

She waited a moment to be asked any more questions, but she was not, so she went away. 

A minute afterwards Mr Openshaw made as though he were going out ofthe room; but his wife laid her hand on his arm. 

'Do not speak to her before the children, ' she said, in her low, quietvoice. 'I will go up and question her. '

'No! I must speak to her. You must know, ' said he, turning to hisuncle and aunt, 'my missus has an old servant, as faithful as everwoman was, I do believe, as far as love goes, --but at the same time, who does not speak truth, as even the missus must allow. Now, my notion is, that this Norah of ours has been come over by somegood-for-nothing chap (for she's at the time o' life when they saywomen pray for husbands--"any, good Lord, any") and has let him intoour house, and the chap has made off with your brooch, and m'appenmany another thing beside. It's only saying that Norah is soft-heartedand doesn't stick at a white lie--that's all, missus. '

It was curious to notice how his tone, his eyes, his whole face waschanged, as he spoke to his wife; but he was the resolute man throughall. She knew better than to oppose him; so she went upstairs, andtold Norah that her master wanted to speak to her, and that she wouldtake care of the children in the meanwhile. 

Norah rose to go, without a word. Her thoughts were these:

'If they tear me to pieces, they shall never know through me. He maycome--and then, just Lord have mercy upon us all! for some of us aredead folk to a certainty. But _he_ shall do it; not me. '

You may fancy, now, her look of determination, as she faced her masteralone in the dining-room; Mr and Mrs Chadwick having left theaffair in their nephew's hands, seeing that he took it up with suchvehemence. 

'Norah! Who was that man that came to my house last night?'

'Man, sir!' As if infinitely surprised; but it was only to gain time. 

'Yes; the man that Mary let in; that she went upstairs to the nurseryto tell you about; that you came down to speak to; the same chap, Imake no doubt, that you took into the nursery to have your talk outwith; the one Ailsie saw, and afterwards dreamed about; thinking, poorwench! she saw him say his prayers, when nothing, I'll be bound, wasfurther from his thoughts; the one that took Mrs Chadwick's brooch, value ten pounds. Now, Norah! Don't go off. I'm as sure as my name'sThomas Openshaw that you knew nothing of this robbery. But I do thinkyou've been imposed on, and that's the truth. Some good-for-nothingchap has been making up to you, and you've been just like all otherwomen, and have turned a soft place in your heart to him; and he camelast night a-lovyering, and you had him up in the nursery, and he madeuse of his opportunities, and made off with a few things on his waydown! Come, now, Norah; it's no blame to you, only you must not besuch a fool again! Tell us, ' he continued, 'what name he gave you, Norah. I'll be bound, it was not the right one; but it will be a cluefor the police. '

Norah drew herself up. 'You may ask that question, and taunt me withmy being single, and with my credulity, as you will, Master Openshaw. You'll get no answer from me. As for the brooch, and the story oftheft and burglary; if any friend ever came to see me (which I defyyou to prove, and deny), he'd be just as much above doing such a thingas you yourself, Mr Openshaw--and more so, too; for I'm not at allsure as everything you have is rightly come by, or would be yourslong, if every man had his own. ' She meant, of course, his wife; buthe understood her to refer to his property in goods and chattels. 

'Now, my good woman, ' said he, 'I'll just tell you truly, I nevertrusted you out and out; but my wife liked you, and I thought you hadmany a good point about you. If you once begin to sauce me, I'll havethe police to you, and get out the truth in a court of justice, ifyou'll not tell it me quietly and civilly here. Now, the best thingyou can do is quietly to tell me who the fellow is. Look here! a mancomes to my house; asks for you; you take him upstairs; a valuablebrooch is missing next day; we know that you, and Mary, and cook, arehonest; but you refuse to tell us who the man is. Indeed, you've toldme one lie already about him, saying no one was here last night. Now, I just put it to you, what do you think a policeman would say to this, or a magistrate? A magistrate would soon make you tell the truth, mygood woman. '

'There's never the creature born that should get it out of me, ' saidNorah. 'Not unless I choose to tell. '

'I've a great mind to see, ' said Mr Openshaw, growing angry at thedefiance. Then, checking himself, he thought before he spoke again:

'Norah, for your missus' sake I don't want to go to extremities. Be asensible woman, if you can. It's no great disgrace, after all, to havebeen taken in. I ask you once more--as a friend--who was this man thatyou let into my house last night?'

No answer. He repeated the question in an impatient tone. Still noanswer. Norah's lips were set in determination not to speak. 

'Then there is but one thing to be done. I shall send for apoliceman. '

'You will not, ' said Norah, starting forward. 'You shall not, sir!No policeman shall touch me. I know nothing of the brooch, but I knowthis: ever since I was four-and-twenty, I have thought more of yourwife than of myself: ever since I saw her, a poor motherless girl, putupon in her uncle's house, I have thought more of serving her thanof serving myself! I have cared for her and her child, as nobodyever cared for me. I don't cast blame on you, sir, but I say it's illgiving up one's life to anyone; for, at the end, they will turn roundupon you, and forsake you. Why does not my missus come herself tosuspect me? Maybe, she is gone for the police? But I don't stay here, either for police, or magistrate, or master. You're an unlucky lot. I believe there's a curse on you. I'll leave you this very day. Yes!I'll leave that poor Ailsie, too. I will! No good ever will come toyou!'

Mr Openshaw was utterly astonished at this speech; most of which wascompletely unintelligible to him, as may easily be supposed. Before hecould make up his mind what to say, or what to do, Norah had leftthe room. I do not think he had ever really intended to send forthe police to this old servant of his wife's; for he had never for amoment doubted her perfect honesty. But he had intended to compelher to tell him who the man was, and in this he was baffled. He was, consequently, much irritated. He returned to his uncle and aunt in astate of great annoyance and perplexity, and told them he could getnothing out of the woman; that some man had been in the house thenight before; but that she refused to tell who he was. At this momenthis wife came in, greatly agitated, and asked what had happened toNorah; for that she had put on her things in passionate haste, andleft the house. 

'This looks suspicious, ' said Mr Chadwick. 'It is not the way in whichan honest person would have acted. '

Mr Openshaw kept silence. He was sorely perplexed. But Mrs Openshawturned round on Mr Chadwick, with a sudden fierceness no one ever sawin her before. 

'You don't know Norah, uncle! She is gone because she is deeply hurtat being suspected. Oh, I wish I had seen her--that I had spoken toher myself. She would have told me anything. ' Alice wrung her hands. 

'I must confess, ' continued Mr Chadwick to his nephew, in a lowervoice, 'I can't make you out. You used to be a word and a blow, and oftenest the blow first; and now, when there is every cause forsuspicion, you just do nought. Your missus is a very good woman, I grant; but she may have been put upon as well as other folk, Isuppose. If you don't send for the police, I shall. '

'Very well, ' replied Mr Openshaw, surlily. 'I can't clear Norah. Shewon't clear herself, as I believe she might if she would. Only I washmy hands of it; for I am sure the woman herself is honest, and she'slived a long time with my wife, and I don't like her to come toshame. '

'But she will then be forced to clear herself. That, at any rate, willbe a good thing. '

'Very well, very well! I am heart-sick of the whole business. Come, Alice, come up to the babies; they'll be in a sore way. I tell you, uncle, ' he said, turning round once more to Mr Chadwick, suddenly andsharply, after his eye had fallen on Alice's wan, tearful, anxiousface, 'I'll have no sending for the police, after all. I'll buy myaunt twice as handsome a brooch this very day; but I'll not have Norahsuspected, and my missus plagued. There's for you!'

He and his wife left the room. Mr Chadwick quietly waited till he wasout of hearing, and then said to his wife, 'For all Tom's heroics, I'mjust quietly going for a detective, wench. Thou need'st know noughtabout it. '

He went to the police-station and made a statement of the case. He wasgratified by the impression which the evidence against Norah seemedto make. The men all agreed in his opinion, and steps were to beimmediately taken to find out where she was. Most probably, as theysuggested, she had gone at once to the man, who, to all appearance, was her lover. When Mr Chadwick asked how they would find her out, they smiled, shook their heads, and spoke of mysterious but infallibleways and means. He returned to his nephew's house with a verycomfortable opinion of his own sagacity. He was met by his wife with apenitent face. 

'Oh, master, I've found my brooch! It was just sticking by its pin inthe flounce of my brown silk, that I wore yesterday. I took it off ina hurry, and it must have caught in it; and I hung up my gown inthe closet. Just now, when I was going to fold it up, there was thebrooch! I am very vexed, but I never dreamt but what it was lost!'

Her husband, muttering something very like 'Confound thee and thybrooch too! I wish I'd never given it thee, ' snatched up his hat, andrushed back to the station, hoping to be in time to stop the policefrom searching for Norah. But a detective was already gone off on theerrand. 

Where was Norah? Half mad with the strain of the fearful secret, shehad hardly slept through the night for thinking what must be done. Upon this terrible state of mind had come Ailsie's questions, showingthat she had seen the Man, as the unconscious child called her father. Lastly came the suspicion of her honesty. She was little less thancrazy as she ran upstairs and dashed on her bonnet and shawl; leavingall else, even her purse, behind her. In that house she would notstay. That was all she knew or was clear about. She would not even seethe children again, for fear it should weaken her. She dreaded aboveeverything Mr Frank's return to claim his wife. She could not tellwhat remedy there was for a sorrow so tremendous, for her to stay towitness. The desire of escaping from the coming event was a strongermotive for her departure, than her soreness about the suspicionsdirected against her; although this last had been the final goadto the course she took. She walked a way almost at headlong speed;sobbing as she went, as she had not dared to do during the past nightfor fear of exciting wonder in those who might hear her. Then shestopped. An idea came into her mind that she would leave Londonaltogether, and betake herself to her native town of Liverpool. Shefelt in her pocket for her purse as she drew near the Euston Squarestation with this intention. She had left it at home. Her poor headaching, her eyes swollen with crying, she had to stand still, andthink, as well as she could, where next she should bend her steps. Suddenly the thought flashed into her mind that she would go and findout poor Mr Frank. She had been hardly kind to him the night before, though her heart had bled for him ever since. She remembered histelling her, when she inquired for his address, almost as she hadpushed him out of the door, of some hotel in a street not far distantfrom Euston Square. Thither she went: with what intention she scarcelyknew, but to assuage her conscience by telling him how much shepitied him. In her present state she felt herself unfit to counsel, or restrain, or assist, or do aught else but sympathize and weep. Thepeople of the inn said such a person had been there; had arrived onlythe day before; had gone out soon after arrival, leaving his luggagein their care; but had never come back. Norah asked for leave to sitdown, and await the gentleman's return. The landlady--pretty secure inthe deposit of luggage against any probable injury--showed her intoa room, and quietly locked the door on the outside. Norah was utterlyworn out, and fell asleep--a shivering, starting, uneasy slumber, which lasted for hours. 

The detective, meanwhile, had come up with her some time before sheentered the hotel, into which he followed her. Asking the landlady todetain her for an hour or so, without giving any reason beyond showinghis authority (which made the landlady applaud herself a good deal forhaving locked her in), he went back to the police-station to reporthis proceedings. He could have taken her directly; but his object was, if possible, to trace out the man who was supposed to have committedthe robbery. Then he heard of the discovery of the brooch; andconsequently did not care to return. 

Norah slept till even the summer evening began to close in, Thenstarted up. Someone was at the door. It would be Mr Frank; and shedizzily pushed back her ruffled grey hair which had fallen over hereyes, and stood looking to see him. Instead, there came in Mr Openshawand a policeman. 

'This is Norah Kennedy, ' said Mr Openshaw. 

'Oh, sir, ' said Norah, 'I did not touch the brooch; indeed I did not. Oh, sir, I cannot live to be thought so badly of'; and very sickand faint, she suddenly sank down on the ground. To her surprise, MrOpenshaw raised her up very tenderly. Even the policeman helped to layher on the sofa; and, at Mr Openshaw's desire, he went for some wineand sandwiches; for the poor gaunt woman lay there almost as if deadwith weariness and exhaustion. 

'Norah, ' said Mr Openshaw, in his kindest voice, 'the brooch is found. It was hanging to Mrs Chadwick's gown. I beg your pardon. Most trulyI beg your pardon, for having troubled you about it. My wife is almostbroken-hearted. Eat, Norah--or, stay, first drink this glass of wine, 'said he, lifting her head, and pouring a little down her throat. 

As she drank, she remembered where she was, and who she was waitingfor. She suddenly pushed Mr Openshaw away, saying, 'Oh, sir, you mustgo. You must not stop a minute. If he comes back, he will kill you. '

'Alas, Norah! I do not know who "he" is. But someone is gone away whowill never come back: someone who knew you, and whom I am afraid youcared for. '

'I don't understand you, sir, ' said Norah, her master's kind andsorrowful manner bewildering her yet more than his words. Thepoliceman had left the room at Mr Openshaw's desire, and they two werealone. 

'You know what I mean, when I say someone is gone who will never comeback. I mean that he is dead!'

'Who?' said Norah, trembling all over. 

'A poor man has been found in the Thames this morning--drowned. '

'Did he drown himself?' asked Norah, solemnly. 

'God only knows, ' replied Mr Openshaw, in the same tone. 'Your nameand address at our house were found in his pocket; that, and hispurse, were the only things that were found upon him. I am sorry tosay it, my poor Norah; but you are required to go and identify him. '

'To what?' asked Norah. 

'To say who it is. It is always done, in order that some reason may bediscovered for the suicide--if suicide it was. I make no doubt, he wasthe man who came to see you at our house last night. It is very sad, Iknow. ' He made pauses between each little clause, in order to try andbring back her senses, which he feared were wandering--so wild and sadwas her look. 

'Master Openshaw, ' said she, at last, 'I've a dreadful secret to tellyou--only you must never breathe it to anyone, and you and I must hideit away for ever. I thought to have done it all by myself, but I seeI cannot. Yon poor man--yes! the dead, drowned creature is, I fear, MrFrank, my mistress's first husband!'

Mr Openshaw sat down, as if shot. He did not speak; but, after awhile, he signed to Norah to go on. 

'He came to me the other night, when--God be thanked!--you were allaway at Richmond. He asked me if his wife was dead or alive. I wasa brute, and thought more of your all coming home than of his soretrial; I spoke out sharp, and said she was married again, and verycontent and happy. I all but turned him away: and now he lies dead andcold. '

'God forgive me!' said Mr Openshaw. 

'God forgive us all!' said Norah. 'Yon poor man needs forgiveness, perhaps, less than any one among us. He had been among thesavages--shipwrecked--I know not what--and he had written letterswhich had never reached my poor missus. '

'He saw his child!'

'He saw her--yes! I took him up, to give his thoughts another start;for I believed he was going mad on my hands. I came to seek him here, as I more than half promised. My mind misgave me when I heard he nevercame in. Oh, sir, it must be him!'

Mr Openshaw rang the bell. Norah was almost too much stunned to wonderat what he did. He asked for writing materials, wrote a letter, andthen said to Norah:

'I am writing to Alice, to say I shall be unavoidably absent for afew days; that I have found you; that you are well, and send her yourlove, and will come home tomorrow. You must go with me to the policecourt; you must identify the body; I will pay high to keep names anddetails out of the papers. '

'But where are you going, sir?'

He did not answer her directly. Then he said:

'Norah! I must go with you, and look on the face of the man whom Ihave so injured--unwittingly, it is true; but it seems to me as if Ihad killed him. I will lay his head in the grave as if he were my onlybrother: and how he must have hated me! I cannot go home to my wifetill all that I can do for him is done. Then I go with a dreadfulsecret on my mind. I shall never speak of it again, after these daysare over. I know you will not, either. ' He shook hands with her; andthey never named the subject again, the one to the other. 

Norah went home to Alice the next day. Not a word was said on thecause of her abrupt departure a day or two before. Alice had beencharged by her husband, in his letter, not to allude to the supposedtheft of the brooch; so she, implicitly obedient to those whom sheloved both by nature and habit, was entirely silent on the subject, only treated Norah with the most tender respect, as if to make up forunjust suspicion. 

Nor did Alice inquire into the reason why Mr Openshaw had been absentduring his uncle and aunt's visit, after he had once said that it wasunavoidable. He came back grave and quiet; and from that time forthwas curiously changed. More thoughtful, and perhaps less active;quite as decided in conduct, but with new and different rules for theguidance of that conduct. Towards Alice he could hardly be more kindthan he had always been; but he now seemed to look upon her as someonesacred, and to be treated with reverence, as well as tenderness. Hethrove in business, and made a large fortune, one half of which wassettled upon her. 

Long years after these events--a few months after her motherdied--Ailsie and her 'father' (as she always called Mr Openshaw)drove to a cemetery a little way out of town, and she was carried toa certain mound by her maid, who was then sent back to the carriage. There was a headstone, with F. W. And a date upon it. That was all. Sitting by the grave, Mr Openshaw told her the story; and for the sadfate of that poor father whom she had never seen, he shed the onlytears she ever saw fall from his eyes. 

_Thomas Hardy_

A MERE INTERLUDE

(_The Bolton Weekly Journal_, 17 and 24 October 1885)

I

The traveller in school-books, who vouched in dryest tones for thefidelity to fact of the following narrative, used to add a ring oftruth to it by opening with a nicety of criticism on the heroine'spersonality. People were wrong, he declared, when they surmisedthat Baptista Trewthen was a young woman with scarcely emotions orcharacter. There was nothing in her to love, and nothing to hate--soran the general opinion. That she showed few positive qualities wastrue. The colours and tones which changing events paint on the facesof active womankind were looked for in vain upon hers. But stillwaters run deep; and no crisis had come in the years of her earlymaidenhood to demonstrate what lay hidden within her, like metal in amine. 

She was the daughter of a small farmer in St Maria's, one of the Islesof Lyonesse beyond Off-Wessex, who had spent a large sum, as thereunderstood, on her education, by sending her to the mainland fortwo years. At nineteen she was entered at the Training College forTeachers, and at twenty-one nominated to a school in the country, nearTor-upon-Sea, whither she proceeded after the Christmas examinationand holidays. 

The months passed by from winter to spring and summer, and Baptistaapplied herself to her new duties as best she could, till anuneventful year had elapsed. Then an air of abstraction pervaded herbearing as she walked to and fro, twice a day, and she showed thetraits of a person who had something on her mind. A widow, by nameMrs Wace, in whose house Baptista Trewthen had been provided with asitting-room and bedroom till the schoolhouse should be built, noticedthis change in her youthful tenant's manner, and at last ventured topress her with a few questions. 

'It has nothing to do with the place, nor with you, ' said MissTrewthen. 

'Then it is the salary?'

'No, nor the salary. '

'Then it is something you have heard from home, my dear. '

Baptista was silent for a few moments. 'It is Mr Heddegan, ' shemurmured. 'Him they used to call David Heddegan before he got hismoney. '

'And who is the Mr Heddegan they used to call David?'

'An old bachelor at Giant's Town, St Maria's, with no relationswhatever, who lives about a stone's throw from father's. When I was achild he used to take me on his knee and say he'd marry me some day. Now I am a woman the jest has turned earnest, and he is anxious to doit. And father and mother say I can't do better than have him. '

'He's well off?'

'Yes--he's the richest man we know--as a friend and neighbour. '

'How much older did you say he was than yourself?'

'I didn't say. Twenty years at least. '

'And an unpleasant man in the bargain perhaps?'

'No--he's not unpleasant. '

'Well, child, all I can say is that I'd resist any such engagementif it's not palatable to 'ee. You are comfortable here, in my littlehouse, I hope. All the parish like 'ee: and I've never been socheerful, since my poor husband left me to wear his wings, as I'vebeen with 'ee as my lodger. '

The schoolmistress assured her landlady that she could return thesentiment. 'But here comes my perplexity, ' she said. 'I don't likekeeping school. Ah, you are surprised--you didn't suspect it. That'sbecause I've concealed my feeling. Well, I simply hate school. I don'tcare for children--they are unpleasant, troublesome little things, whom nothing would delight so much as to hear that you had fallendown dead. Yet I would even put up with them if it was not for theinspector. For three months before his visit I didn't sleep soundly. And the Committee of Council are always changing the Code, so that youdon't know what to teach, and what to leave untaught. I think fatherand mother are right. They say I shall never excel as a schoolmistressif I dislike the work so, and that therefore I ought to get settled bymarrying Mr Heddegan. Between us two, I like him better than school;but I don't like him quite so much as to wish to marry him. '

These conversations, once begun, were continued from day to day; tillat length the young girl's elderly friend and landlady threw in heropinion on the side of Miss Trewthen's parents. All things considered, she declared, the uncertainty of the school, the labour, Baptista'snatural dislike for teaching, it would be as well to take what fateoffered, and make the best of matters by wedding her father's oldneighbour and prosperous friend. 

The Easter holidays came round, and Baptista went to spend them asusual in her native isle, going by train into Off-Wessex and crossingby packet from Pen-zephyr. When she returned in the middle of Aprilher face wore a more settled aspect. 

'Well?' said the expectant Mrs Wace. 

'I have agreed to have him as my husband, ' said Baptista, in anoff-hand way. 'Heaven knows if it will be for the best or not. But Ihave agreed to do it, and so the matter is settled. '

Mrs Wace commended her; but Baptista did not care to dwell on thesubject; so that allusion to it was very infrequent between them. Nevertheless, among other things, she repeated to the widow from timeto time in monosyllabic remarks that the wedding was really impending;that it was arranged for the summer, and that she had given notice ofleaving the school at the August holidays. Later on she announced morespecifically that her marriage was to take place immediately after herreturn home at the beginning of the month aforesaid. 

She now corresponded regularly with Mr Heddegan. Her letters from himwere seen, at least on the outside, and in part within, by Mrs Wace. Had she read more of their interiors than the occasional sentencesshown her by Baptista she would have perceived that the scratchy, rusty handwriting of Miss Trewthen's betrothed conveyed little morematter than details of their future housekeeping, and his preparationsfor the same, with innumerable 'my dears' sprinkled in disconnectedly, to show the depth of his affection without the inconveniences ofsyntax. 

II

It was the end of July--dry, too dry, even for the season, thedelicate green herbs and vegetables that grew in this favoured end ofthe kingdom tasting rather of the watering-pot than of the purefresh moisture from the skies. Baptista's boxes were packed, and oneSaturday morning she departed by a waggonette to the station, andthence by train to Pen-zephyr, from which port she was, as usual, tocross the water immediately to her home, and become Mr Heddegan's wifeon the Wednesday of the week following. 

She might have returned a week sooner. But though the wedding day hadloomed so near, and the banns were out, she delayed her departure tillthis last moment, saying it was not necessary for her to be at homelong beforehand. As Mr Heddegan was older than herself, she said, shewas to be married in her ordinary summer bonnet and grey silk frock, and there were no preparations to make that had not been amply made byher parents and intended husband. 

In due time, after a hot and tedious journey, she reached Pen-zephyr. She here obtained some refreshment, and then went towards the pier, where she learnt to her surprise that the little steamboat plyingbetween the town and the islands had left at eleven o'clock; theusual hour of departure in the afternoon having been forestalled inconsequence of the fogs which had for a few days prevailed towardsevening, making twilight navigation dangerous. 

This being Saturday, there was now no other boat till Tuesday, and itbecame obvious that here she would have to remain for the three days, unless her friends should think fit to rig out one of the islandsailing-boats and come to fetch her--a not very likely contingency, the sea distance being nearly forty miles. 

Baptista, however, had been detained in Pen-zephyr on more than oneoccasion before, either on account of bad weather or some such reasonas the present, and she was therefore not in any personal alarm. But, as she was to be married on the following Wednesday, the delay wascertainly inconvenient to a more than ordinary degree, since it wouldleave less than a day's interval between her arrival and the weddingceremony. 

Apart from this awkwardness she did not much mind the accident. It wasindeed curious to see how little she minded. Perhaps it would not betoo much to say that, although she was going to do the critical deedof her life quite willingly, she experienced an indefinable relief atthe postponement of her meeting with Heddegan. But her manner aftermaking discovery of the hindrance was quiet and subdued, even topassivity itself; as was instanced by her having, at the moment ofreceiving information that the steamer had sailed, replied 'Oh', socoolly to the porter with her luggage, that he was almost disappointedat her lack of disappointment. 

The question now was, should she return again to Mrs Wace, in thevillage of Lower Wessex, or wait in the town at which she had arrived. She would have preferred to go back, but the distance was too great;moreover, having left the place for good, and somewhat dramatically, to become a bride, a return, even for so short a space, would havebeen a trifle humiliating. 

Leaving, then, her boxes at the station, her next anxiety was tosecure a respectable, or rather genteel, lodging in the popularseaside resort confronting her. To this end she looked about the town, in which, though she had passed through it half-a-dozen times, she waspractically a stranger. 

Baptista found a room to suit her over a fruiterer's shop; where shemade herself at home, and set herself in order after her journey. An early cup of tea having revived her spirits she walked out toreconnoitre. 

Being a schoolmistress she avoided looking at the schools, and havinga sort of trade connection with books, she avoided looking at thebooksellers; but wearying of the other shops she inspectedthe churches; not that for her own part she cared much aboutecclesiastical edifices; but tourists looked at them, and so wouldshe--a proceeding for which no one would have credited her with anygreat originality, such, for instance, as that she subsequently showedherself to possess. The churches soon oppressed her. She tried theMuseum, but came out because it seemed lonely and tedious. 

Yet the town and the walks in this land of strawberries, theseheadquarters of early English flowers and fruit, were then, as always, attractive. From the more picturesque streets she went to the towngardens, and the Pier, and the Harbour, and looked at the men at workthere, loading and unloading as in the time of the Phoenicians. 

'Not Baptista? Yes, Baptista it is!'

The words were uttered behind her. Turning round she gave a start, and became confused, even agitated, for a moment. Then she said in herusual undemonstrative manner, 'O--is it really you, Charles?'

Without speaking again at once, and with a half-smile, the newcomerglanced her over. There was much criticism, and some resentment--eventemper--in his eye. 

'I am going home, ' continued she. 'But I have missed the boat. '

He scarcely seemed to take in the meaning of this explanation, inthe intensity of his critical survey. 'Teaching still? What a fineschoolmistress you make, Baptista, I warrant!' he said with a slightflavour of sarcasm, which was not lost upon her. 

'I know I am nothing to brag of, ' she replied. 'That's why I havegiven up. '

'O--given up? You astonish me. '

'I hate the profession. '

'Perhaps that's because I am in it. '

'O no, it isn't. But I am going to enter on another life altogether. Iam going to be married next week to Mr David Heddegan. '

The young man--fortified as he was by a natural cynical pride andpassionateness--winced at this unexpected reply, notwithstanding. 

'Who is Mr David Heddegan?' he asked, as indifferently as lay in hispower. 

She informed him the bearer of the name was a general merchant ofGiant's Town, St Maria's Island--her father's nearest neighbour andoldest friend. 

'Then we shan't see anything more of you on the mainland?' inquiredthe schoolmaster. 

'O, I don't know about that, ' said Miss Trewthen. 

'Here endeth the career of the belle of the boarding-school yourfather was foolish enough to send you to. A "general merchant's" wifein the Lyonesse Isles. Will you sell pounds of soap and pennyworthsof tin tacks, or whole bars of saponaceous matter, and great tenpennynails?'

'He's not in such a small way as that!' she almost pleaded. 'He ownsships, though they are rather little ones!'

'O, well, it is much the same. Come, let us walk on; it is tediousto stand still. I thought you would be a failure in education, ' hecontinued, when she obeyed him and strolled ahead. 'You never showedpower that way. You remind me much of some of those women who thinkthey are sure to be great actresses if they go on the stage, becausethey have a pretty face, and forget that what we require is acting. But you found your mistake, didn't you?'

'Don't taunt me, Charles. ' It was noticeable that the youngschoolmaster's tone caused her no anger or retaliatory passion;far otherwise: there was a tear in her eye. 'How is it you are atPen-zephyr?' she inquired. 

'I don't taunt you. I speak the truth, purely in a friendly way, asI should to anyone I wished well. Though for that matter I might havesome excuse even for taunting you. Such a terrible hurry as you'vebeen in. I hate a woman who is in such a hurry. '

'How do you mean that?'

'Why--to be somebody's wife or other--anything's wife rather thannobody's. You couldn't wait for me, O, no. Well, thank God, I'm curedof all that!'

'How merciless you are!' she said bitterly. 'Wait for you? What doesthat mean, Charley? You never showed--anything to wait for--anythingspecial towards me. '

'O come, Baptista dear; come!'

'What I mean is, nothing definite, ' she expostulated. 'I suppose youliked me a little; but it seemed to me to be only a pastime on yourpart, and that you never meant to make an honourable engagement ofit. '

'There, that's just it! You girls expect a man to mean business at thefirst look. No man when he first becomes interested in a woman has anydefinite scheme of engagement to marry her in his mind, unless he ismeaning a vulgar mercenary marriage. However, I did at last mean anhonourable engagement, as you call it, come to that. '

'But you never said so, and an indefinite courtship soon injures awoman's position and credit, sooner than you think. '

'Baptista, I solemnly declare that in six months I should have askedyou to marry me. '

She walked along in silence, looking on the ground, and appearing veryuncomfortable. Presently he said, 'Would you have waited for me if youhad known?' To this she whispered in a sorrowful whisper, 'Yes!'

They went still farther in silence--passing along one of the beautifulwalks on the outskirts of the town, yet not observant of scene orsituation. Her shoulder and his were close together, and he claspedhis fingers round the small of her arm--quite lightly, and without anyattempt at impetus; yet the act seemed to say, 'Now I hold you, and mywill must be yours. '

Recurring to a previous question of hers he said, 'I have merely rundown here for a day or two from school near Trufal, before going offto the north for the rest of my holiday. I have seen my relations atRedrutin quite lately, so I am not going there this time. How littleI thought of meeting you! How very different the circumstances wouldhave been if, instead of parting again as we must in half-an-hour orso, possibly for ever, you had been now just going off with me, as mywife, on our honeymoon trip. Ha--ha--well--so humorous is life!'

She stopped suddenly. 'I must go back now--this is altogether toopainful, Charley! It is not at all a kind mood you are in today. '

'I don't want to pain you--you know I do not, ' he said more gently. 'Only it just exasperates me--this you are going to do. I wish youwould not. '

'What?'

'Marry him. There, now I have showed you my true sentiments. '

'I must do it now, ' said she. 

'Why?' he asked, dropping the off-hand masterful tone he had hithertospoken in, and becoming earnest; still holding her arm, however, as ifshe were his chattel to be taken up or put down at will. 'It is nevertoo late to break off a marriage that's distasteful to you. Now I'llsay one thing; and it is truth: I wish you would marry me insteadof him, even now, at the last moment, though you have served me sobadly. '

'O, it is not possible to think of that!' she answered hastily, shaking her head. 'When I get home all will be prepared--it is readyeven now--the things for the party, the furniture, Mr. Heddegan's newsuit, and everything. I should require the courage of a tropical lionto go home there and say I wouldn't carry out my promise!'

'Then go, in Heaven's name! But there would be no necessity for you togo home and face them in that way. If we were to marry, it would haveto be at once, instantly; or not at all. I should think your affectionnot worth the having unless you agreed to come back with me to Trufalthis evening, where we could be married by licence on Monday morning. And then no Mr. David Heddegan or anybody else could get you away fromme. '

'I must go home by the Tuesday boat, ' she faltered. 'What would theythink if I did not come?'

'You could go home by that boat just the same. All the differencewould be that I should go with you. You could leave me on the quay, where I'd have a smoke, while you went and saw your father and motherprivately; you could then tell them what you had done, and that Iwas waiting not far off; that I was a schoolmaster in a fairly goodposition, and a young man you had known when you were at the TrainingCollege. Then I would come boldly forward; and they would see that itcould not be altered, and so you wouldn't suffer a lifelong misery bybeing the wife of a wretched old gaffer you don't like at all. Now, honestly; you do like me best, don't you, Baptista?'

'Yes. '

'Then we will do as I say. '

She did not pronounce a clear affirmative. But that she consentedto the novel proposition at some moment or other of that walk wasapparent by what occurred a little later. 

III

An enterprise of such pith required, indeed, less talking thanconsideration. The first thing they did in carrying it out was toreturn to the railway station, where Baptista took from her luggage asmall trunk of immediate necessaries which she would in any case haverequired after missing the boat. That same afternoon they travelled upthe line to Trufal. 

Charles Stow (as his name was), despite his disdainful indifferenceto things, was very careful of appearances, and made the journeyindependently of her though in the same train. He told her where shecould get board and lodgings in the city; and with merely a distantnod to her of a provisional kind, went off to his own quarters, and tosee about the licence. 

On Sunday she saw him in the morning across the nave of thepro-cathedral. In the afternoon they walked together in the fields, where he told her that the licence would be ready next day, and wouldbe available the day after, when the ceremony could be performed asearly after eight o'clock as they should choose. 

His courtship, thus renewed after an interval of two years, wasas impetuous, violent even, as it was short. The next day came andpassed, and the final arrangements were made. Their agreement was toget the ceremony over as soon as they possibly could the next morning, so as to go on to Pen-zephyr at once, and reach that place in time forthe boat's departure the same day. It was in obedience to Baptista'searnest request that Stow consented thus to make the whole journeyto Lyonesse by land and water at one heat, and not break it atPen-zephyr; she seemed to be oppressed with a dread of lingeringanywhere, this great first act of disobedience to her parents onceaccomplished, with the weight on her mind that her home had to beconvulsed by the disclosure of it. To face her difficulties over thewater immediately she had created them was, however, a course moredesired by Baptista than by her lover; though for once he gave way. 

The next morning was bright and warm as those which had preceded it. By six o'clock it seemed nearly noon, as is often the case in thatpart of England in the summer season. By nine they were husband andwife. They packed up and departed by the earliest train after theservice; and on the way discussed at length what she should say onmeeting her parents, Charley dictating the turn of each phrase. In heranxiety they had travelled so early that when they reached Pen-zephyrthey found there were nearly two hours on their hands before thesteamer's time of sailing. 

Baptista was extremely reluctant to be seen promenading the streetsof the watering-place with her husband till, as above stated, thehousehold at Giant's Town should know the unexpected course of eventsfrom her own lips; and it was just possible, if not likely, that someLyonessian might be prowling about there, or even have come across thesea to look for her. To meet anyone to whom she was known, and to haveto reply to awkward questions about the strange young man at her sidebefore her well-framed announcement had been delivered at proper timeand place, was a thing she could not contemplate with equanimity. So, instead of looking at the shops and harbour, they went along the coasta little way. 

The heat of the morning was by this time intense. They clambered up onsome cliffs, and while sitting there, looking around at St Michael'sMount and other objects, Charles said to her that he thought he wouldrun down to the beach at their feet, and take just one plunge into thesea. 

Baptista did not much like the idea of being left alone; it wasgloomy, she said. But he assured her he would not be gone more than aquarter of an hour at the outside, and she passively assented. 

Down he went, disappeared, appeared again, and looked back. Then heagain proceeded, and vanished, till, as a small waxen object, she sawhim emerge from the nook that had screened him, cross the white fringeof foam, and walk into the undulating mass of blue. Once in the waterhe seemed less inclined to hurry than before; he remained a long time;and, unable either to appreciate his skill or criticize his want ofit at that distance, she withdrew her eyes from the spot, and gazed atthe still outline of St Michael's--now beautifully toned in grey. 

Her anxiety for the hour of departure, and to cope at once with theapproaching incidents that she would have to manipulate as best shecould, sent her into a reverie. It was now Tuesday; she would reachhome in the evening--a very late time they would say; but, as thedelay was a pure accident, they would deem her marriage to Mr Heddegantomorrow still practicable. Then Charles would have to be producedfrom the background. It was a terrible undertaking to think of, andshe almost regretted her temerity in wedding so hastily that morning. The rage of her father would be so crushing; the reproaches of hermother so bitter; and perhaps Charles would answer hotly, and perhapscause estrangement till death. There had obviously been no alarm abouther at St Maria's, or somebody would have sailed across to inquire forher. She had, in a letter written at the beginning of the week, spokenof the hour at which she intended to leave her country schoolhouse;and from this her friends had probably perceived that by such timingshe would run a risk of losing the Saturday boat. She had missed it, and as a consequence sat here on the shore as Mrs Charles Stow. 

This brought her to the present, and she turned from the outline of StMichael's Mount to look about for her husband's form. He was, as faras she could discover, no longer in the sea. Then he was dressing. Bymoving a few steps she could see where his clothes lay. But Charleswas not beside them. 

Baptista looked back again at the water in bewilderment, as if hersenses were the victim of some sleight of hand. Not a speck or spotresembling a man's head or face showed anywhere. By this time she wasalarmed, and her alarm intensified when she perceived a little beyondthe scene of her husband's bathing a small area of water, the qualityof whose surface differed from that of the surrounding expanse as thecoarse vegetation of some foul patch in a mead differs from the finegreen of the remainder. Elsewhere it looked flexuous, here it lookedvermiculated and lumpy, and her marine experiences suggested to her ina moment that two currents met and caused a turmoil at this place. 

She descended as hastily as her trembling limbs would allow. The waydown was terribly long, and before reaching the heap of clothes itoccurred to her that, after all, it would be best to run first forhelp. Hastening along in a lateral direction she proceeded inland tillshe met a man, and soon afterwards two others. To them she exclaimed, 'I think a gentleman who was bathing is in some danger. I cannot seehim as I could. Will you please run and help him, at once, if you willbe so kind?'

She did not think of turning to show them the exact spot, indicatingit vaguely by the direction of her hand, and still going on her waywith the idea of gaining more assistance. When she deemed, in herfaintness, that she had carried the alarm far enough, she faced aboutand dragged herself back again. Before reaching the now dreaded spotshe met one of the men. 

'We can see nothing at all, Miss, ' he declared. 

Having gained the beach, she found the tide in, and no sign ofCharley's clothes. The other men whom she had besought to come haddisappeared, it must have been in some other direction, for she hadnot met them going away. They, finding nothing, had probably thoughther alarm a mere conjecture, and given up the quest. 

Baptista sank down upon the stones near at hand. Where Charley hadundressed was now sea. There could not be the least doubt that he wasdrowned, and his body sucked under by the current; while his clothes, lying within high-water mark, had probably been carried away by therising tide. 

She remained in a stupor for some minutes, till a strange sensationsucceeded the aforesaid perceptions, mystifying her intelligence, andleaving her physically almost inert. With his personal disappearance, the last three days of her life with him seemed to be swallowed up, also his image, in her mind's eye, waned curiously, receded far away, grew stranger and stranger, less and less real. Their meeting andmarriage had been so sudden, unpremeditated, adventurous, that shecould hardly believe that she had played her part in such a recklessdrama. Of all the few hours of her life with Charles, the portion thatmost insisted in coming back to memory was their fortuitous encounteron the previous Saturday, and those bitter reprimands with which hehad begun the attack, as it might be called, which had piqued her toan unexpected consummation. 

A sort of cruelty, an imperiousness, even in his warmth, hadcharacterized Charles Stow. As a lover he had ever been a bit of atyrant; and it might pretty truly have been said that he had stungher into marriage with him at last. Still more alien from her life didthese reflections operate to make him; and then they would be chasedaway by an interval of passionate weeping and mad regret. Finally, there returned upon the confused mind of the young wife therecollection that she was on her way homeward, and that the packetwould sail in three-quarters of an hour. 

Except the parasol in her hand, all she possessed was at the stationawaiting her onward journey. 

She looked in that direction; and, entering one of thoseundemonstrative phases so common with her, walked quietly on. 

At first she made straight for the railway; but suddenly turning shewent to a shop and wrote an anonymous line announcing his death bydrowning to the only person she had ever heard Charles mention as arelative. Posting this stealthily, and with a fearful look around her, she seemed to acquire a terror of the late events, pursuing her way tothe station as if followed by a spectre. 

When she got to the office she asked for the luggage that she had leftthere on the Saturday as well as the trunk left on the morning justlapsed. All were put in the boat, and she herself followed. Quicklyas these things had been done, the whole proceeding, nevertheless, had been almost automatic on Baptista's part, ere she had come to anydefinite conclusion on her course. 

Just before the bell rang she heard a conversation on the pier, whichremoved the last shade of doubt from her mind, if any had existed, that she was Charles Stow's widow. The sentences were but fragmentary, but she could easily piece them out. 

'A man drowned--swam out too far--was a stranger to the place--peoplein boat--saw him go down--couldn't get there in time. '

The news was little more definite than this as yet; though it may aswell be stated once for all that the statement was true. Charley, withthe over-confidence of his nature, had ventured out too far for hisstrength, and succumbed in the absence of assistance, his lifelessbody being at the moment suspended in the transparent mid-depths ofthe bay. His clothes, however, had merely been gently lifted by therising tide, and floated into a nook hard by, where they lay out ofsight of the passers-by till a day or two after. 

IV

In ten minutes they were steaming out of the harbour for their voyageof four or five hours, at whose ending she would have to tell herstrange story. 

As Pen-zephyr and all its environing scenes disappeared behindMousehole and St Clement's Isle, Baptista's ephemeral, meteor-likehusband impressed her yet more as a fantasy. She was still in such atrance-like state that she had been an hour on the little packet-boatbefore she became aware of the agitating fact that Mr Heddegan wason board with her. Involuntarily she slipped from her left hand thesymbol of her wifehood. 

'Hee-hee! Well, the truth is, I wouldn't interrupt 'ee. "I reckon shedon't see me, or won't see me, " I said, "and what's the hurry? She'llsee enough o' me soon!" I hope ye be well, mee deer?'

He was a hale, well-conditioned man of about five and fifty, of thecomplexion common to those whose lives are passed on the bluffs andbeaches of an ocean isle. He extended the four quarters of his facein a genial smile, and his hand for a grasp of the same magnitude. Shegave her own in surprised docility, and he continued:

'I couldn't help coming across to meet 'ee. What an unfortunate thingyou missing the boat and not coming Saturday! They meant to havewarned 'ee that the time was changed, but forgot it at the lastmoment. The truth is that I should have informed 'ee myself, but I wasthat busy finishing up a job last week, so as to have this week free, that I trusted to your father for attending to these little things. However, so plain and quiet as it is all to be, it really do notmatter so much as it might otherwise have done, and I hope ye haven'tbeen greatly put out. Now, if you'd sooner that I should not be seentalking to 'ee--if 'ee feel shy at all before strangers--just say. I'll leave 'ee to yourself till we get home. '

'Thank you much. I am indeed a little tired, Mr Heddegan. '

He nodded urbane acquiescence, strolled away immediately, and minutelyinspected the surface of the funnel, till some female passengers ofGiant's Town tittered at what they must have thought a rebuff--for theapproaching wedding was known to many on St Maria's Island, though tonobody elsewhere. Baptista coloured at their satire, and calledhim back, and forced herself to commune with him in at least amechanically friendly manner. 

The opening event had been thus different from her expectation, and she had adumbrated no act to meet it. Taken aback she passivelyallowed circumstances to pilot her along; and so the voyage was made. 

It was near dusk when they touched the pier of Giant's Town, whereseveral friends and neighbours stood awaiting them. Her father had alantern in his hand. Her mother, too, was there, reproachfully gladthat the delay had at last ended so simply. Mrs Trewthen and herdaughter went together along the Giant's Walk, or promenade, to thehouse, rather in advance of her husband and Mr Heddegan, who talked inloud tones which reached the women over their shoulders. 

Some would have called Mrs Trewthen a good mother; but though wellmeaning she was maladroit, and her intentions missed their mark. Thismight have been partly attributable to the slight deafness from whichshe suffered. Now, as usual, the chief utterances came from her lips. 

'Ah, yes, I'm so glad, my child, that you've got over safe. It is allready, and everything so well arranged, that nothing but misfortunecould hinder you settling as, with God's grace, becomes 'ee. Close toyour mother's door a'most, 'twill be a great blessing, I'm sure; andI was very glad to find from your letters that you'd held your wordsacred. That's right--make your word your bond always. Mrs Wace seemsto be a sensible woman. I hope the Lord will do for her as he's doingfor you no long time hence. And how did 'ee get over the terriblejourney from Tor-upon-Sea to Pen-zephyr? Once you'd done with therailway, of course, you seemed quite at home. Well, Baptista, conductyourself seemly, and all will be well. '

Thus admonished, Baptista entered the house, her father and MrHeddegan immediately at her back. Her mother had been so didactic thatshe had felt herself absolutely unable to broach the subjects in thecentre of her mind. 

The familiar room, with the dark ceiling, the well-spread table, theold chairs, had never before spoken so eloquently of the times ere sheknew or had heard of Charley Stow. She went upstairs to take off herthings, her mother remaining below to complete the disposition of thesupper, and attend to the preparation of tomorrow's meal, altogethercomposing such an array of pies, from pies of fish to pies of turnips, as was never heard of outside the Western Duchy. Baptista, once alone, sat down and did nothing; and was called before she had taken off herbonnet. 

'I'm coming, ' she cried, jumping up, and speedily disapparellingherself, brushed her hair with a few touches and went down. 

Two or three of Mr Heddegan's and her father's friends had dropped in, and expressed their sympathy for the delay she had been subjectedto. The meal was a most merry one except to Baptista. She had desiredprivacy, and there was none; and to break the news was already agreater difficulty than it had been at first. Everything around her, animate and inanimate, great and small, insisted that she had comehome to be married; and she could not get a chance to say nay. 

One or two people sang songs, as overtures to the melody of themorrow, till at length bedtime came, and they all withdrew, her motherhaving retired a little earlier. When Baptista found herself againalone in her bedroom the case stood as before: she had come home withmuch to say, and she had said nothing. 

It was now growing clear even to herself that Charles being dead, shehad not determination sufficient within her to break tidings which, had he been alive, would have imperatively announced themselves. Andthus with the stroke of midnight came the turning of the scale; herstory should remain untold. It was not that upon the whole she thoughtit best not to attempt to tell it; but that she could not undertake soexplosive a matter. To stop the wedding now would cause a convulsionin Giant's Town little short of volcanic. Weakened, tired, andterrified as she had been by the day's adventures, she could not makeherself the author of such a catastrophe. But how refuse Heddeganwithout telling? It really seemed to her as if her marriage with MrHeddegan were about to take place as if nothing had intervened. 

Morning came. The events of the previous days were cut off from herpresent existence by scene and sentiment more completely than ever. Charles Stow had grown to be a special being of whom, owing to hischaracter, she entertained rather fearful than loving memory. Baptistacould hear when she awoke that her parents were already moving aboutdownstairs. But she did not rise till her mother's rather rough voiceresounded up the staircase as it had done on the preceding evening. 

'Baptista! Come, time to be stirring! The man will be here, byHeaven's blessing, in three-quarters of an hour. He has looked inalready for a minute or two--and says he's going to the church to seeif things be well forward. '

Baptista arose, looked out of the window, and took the easy course. When she emerged from the regions above she was arrayed in her newsilk frock and best stockings, wearing a linen jacket over the formerfor breakfasting, and her common slippers over the latter, not tospoil the new ones on the rough precincts of the dwelling. 

It is unnecessary to dwell at any great length on this part of themorning's proceedings. She revealed nothing; and married Heddegan, asshe had given her word to do, on that appointed August day. 

V

Mr Heddegan forgave the coldness of his bride's manner during andafter the wedding ceremony, full well aware that there had beenconsiderable reluctance on her part to acquiesce in this neighbourlyarrangement, and, as a philosopher of long standing, holding thatwhatever Baptista's attitude now, the conditions would probablybe much the same six months hence as those which ruled among othermarried couples. 

An absolutely unexpected shock was given to Baptista's listless mindabout an hour after the wedding service. They had nearly finished themidday dinner when the now husband said to her father, 'We think ofstarting about two. And the breeze being so fair we shall bring upinside Pen-zephyr new pier about six at least. '

'What--are we going to Pen-zephyr?' said Baptista. 'I don't knowanything of it. '

'Didn't you tell her?' asked her father of Heddegan. 

It transpired that, owing to the delay in her arrival, this proposaltoo, among other things, had in the hurry not been mentioned toher, except some time ago as a general suggestion that they would gosomewhere. Heddegan had imagined that any trip would be pleasant, andone to the mainland the pleasantest of all. 

She looked so distressed at the announcement that her husbandwillingly offered to give it up, though he had not had a holiday offthe island for a whole year. Then she pondered on the inconvenience ofstaying at Giant's Town, where all the inhabitants were bonded, by thecircumstances of their situation, into a sort of family party, whichpermitted and encouraged on such occasions as these oral criticismthat was apt to disturb the equanimity of newly married girls, andwould especially worry Baptista in her strange situation. Hence, unexpectedly, she agreed not to disorganize her husband's plans forthe wedding jaunt, and it was settled that, as originally intended, they should proceed in a neighbour's sailing boat to the metropolis ofthe district. 

In this way they arrived at Pen-zephyr without difficulty or mishap. Bidding adieu to Jenkin and his man, who had sailed them over, theystrolled arm in arm off the pier, Baptista silent, cold, and obedient. Heddegan had arranged to take her as far as Plymouth before theirreturn, but to go no further than where they had landed that day. Their first business was to find an inn; and in this they hadunexpected difficulty, since for some reason or other--possibly thefine weather--many of the nearest at hand were full of tourists andcommercial travellers. He led her on till he reached a tavern which, though comparatively unpretending, stood in as attractive a spot asany in the town; and this, somewhat to their surprise after theirprevious experience, they found apparently empty. The considerate oldman, thinking that Baptista was educated to artistic notions, thoughhe himself was deficient in them, had decided that it was mostdesirable to have, on such an occasion as the present, an apartmentwith 'a good view' (the expression being one he had often heard in useamong tourists); and he therefore asked for a favourite room onthe first floor, from which a bow-window protruded, for the expresspurpose of affording such an outlook. 

The landlady, after some hesitation, said she was sorry thatparticular apartment was engaged; the next one, however, or any otherin the house, was unoccupied. 

'The gentleman who has the best one will give it up tomorrow, and thenyou can change into it, ' she added, as Mr Heddegan hesitated abouttaking the adjoining and less commanding one. 

'We shall be gone tomorrow, and shan't want it, ' he said. 

Wishing not to lose customers, the landlady earnestly continued thatsince he was bent on having the best room, perhaps the other gentlemanwould not object to move at once into the one they despised, since, though nothing could be seen from the window, the room was equallylarge. 

'Well, if he doesn't care for a view, ' said Mr Heddegan, with the airof a highly artistic man who did. 

'O no--I am sure he doesn't, ' she said. 'I can promise that you shallhave the room you want. If you would not object to go for a walk forhalf an hour, I could have it ready, and your things in it, and a nicetea laid in the bow-window by the time you come back?'

This proposal was deemed satisfactory by the fussy old tradesman, and they went out. Baptista nervously conducted him in an oppositedirection to her walk of the former day in other company, showing onher wan face, had he observed it, how much she was beginning to regrether sacrificial step for mending matters that morning. 

She took advantage of a moment when her husband's back was turned toinquire casually in a shop if anything had been heard of the gentlemanwho was sucked down in the eddy while bathing. 

The shopman said, 'Yes, his body has been washed ashore, ' and had justhanded Baptista a newspaper on which she discerned the heading, 'ASchoolmaster drowned while bathing', when her husband turned to joinher. She might have pursued the subject without raising suspicion;but it was more than flesh and blood could do, and completing a smallpurchase almost ran out of the shop. 

'What is your terrible hurry, mee deer?' said Heddegan, hasteningafter. 

'I don't know--I don't want to stay in shops, ' she gasped. 

'And we won't, ' he said. 'They are suffocating this weather. Let's goback and have some tay!'

They found the much desired apartment awaiting their entry. It was asort of combination bed and sitting-room, and the table was prettilyspread with high tea in the bow-window, a bunch of flowers in themidst, and a best-parlour chair on each side. Here they shared themeal by the ruddy light of the vanishing sun. But though the viewhad been engaged, regardless of expense, exclusively for Baptista'spleasure, she did not direct any keen attention out of the window. Hergaze as often fell on the floor and walls of the room as elsewhere, and on the table as much as on either, beholding nothing at all. 

But there was a change. Opposite her seat was the door, upon whichher eyes presently became riveted like those of a little bird upon asnake. For, on a peg at the back of the door, there hung a hat; sucha hat--surely, from its peculiar make, the actual hat--that had beenworn by Charles. Conviction grew to certainty when she saw arailway ticket sticking up from the band. Charles had put the ticketthere--she had noticed the act. 

Her teeth almost chattered; she murmured something incoherent. Herhusband jumped up and said, 'You are not well! What is it? What shallI get 'ee?'

'Smelling salts!' she said, quickly and desperately; 'at the chemist'sshop you were in just now. '

He jumped up like the anxious old man that he was, caught up his ownhat from a back table, and without observing the other hastened outand downstairs. 

Left alone she gazed and gazed at the back of the door, thenspasmodically rang the bell. An honest-looking country maid-servantappeared in response. 

'A hat!' murmured Baptista, pointing with her finger. 'It does notbelong to us. '

'O yes, I'll take it away, ' said the young woman with some hurry 'Itbelongs to the other gentleman. '

She spoke with a certain awkwardness, and took the hat out of theroom. Baptista had recovered her outward composure. 'The othergentleman?' she said. 'Where is the other gentleman?'

'He's in the next room, ma'am. He removed out of this to oblige 'ee. '

'How can you say so? I should hear him if he were there, ' saidBaptista, sufficiently recovered to argue down an apparent untruth. 

'He's there, ' said the girl, hardily. 

'Then it is strange that he makes no noise, ' said Mrs Heddegan, convicting the girl of falsity by a look. 

'He makes no noise; but it is not strange, ' said the servant. 

All at once a dread took possession of the bride's heart, like acold hand laid thereon; for it flashed upon her that there was apossibility of reconciling the girl's statement with her own knowledgeof facts. 

'Why does he make no noise?' she weakly said. 

The waiting-maid was silent, and looked at her questioner. 'If I tellyou, ma'am, you won't tell missis?' she whispered. 

Baptista promised. 

'Because he's a-lying dead!' said the girl. 'He's the schoolmasterthat was drowned yesterday. '

'O!' said the bride, covering her eyes. 'Then he was in this room tilljust now?'

'Yes, ' said the maid, thinking the young lady's agitation naturalenough. 'And I told missis that I thought she oughtn't to have doneit, because I don't hold it right to keep visitors so much in thedark where death's concerned; but she said the gentleman didn't dieof anything infectious; she was a poor, honest, innkeeper's wife, shesays, who had to get her living by making hay while the sun sheened. And owing to the drowned gentleman being brought here, she said, itkept so many people away that we were empty, though all the otherhouses were full. So when your good man set his mind upon the room, and she would have lost good paying folk if he'd not had it, it wasn'tto be supposed, she said, that she'd let anything stand in the way. Ye won't say that I've told ye, please, m'm? All the linen has beenchanged, and as the inquest won't be till tomorrow, after you aregone, she thought you wouldn't know a word of it, being strangershere. '

The returning footsteps of her husband broke off further narration. Baptista waved her hand, for she could not speak. The waiting-maidquickly withdrew, and Mr Heddegan entered with the smelling salts andother nostrums. 

'Any better?' he questioned. 

'I don't like the hotel, ' she exclaimed, almost simultaneously. 'Ican't bear it--it doesn't suit me!'

'Is that all that's the matter?' he returned pettishly (this being thefirst time of his showing such a mood). 'Upon my heart and life suchtrifling is trying to any man's temper, Baptista! Sending me aboutfrom here to yond, and then when I come back saying 'ee don't likethe place that I have sunk so much money and words to get for 'ee. 'Oddang it all, 'tis enough to--But I won't say any more at present, meedeer, though it is just too much to expect to turn out of thehouse now. We shan't get another quiet place at this time of theevening--every other inn in the town is bustling with rackety folkof one sort and t'other, while here 'tis as quiet as the grave--thecountry, I would say. So bide still, d'ye hear, and tomorrow we shallbe out of the town altogether--as early as you like. '

The obstinacy of age had, in short, overmastered its complaisance, andthe young woman said no more. The simple course of telling him thatin the adjoining room lay a corpse which had lately occupied theirown might, it would have seemed, have been an effectual one withoutfurther disclosure, but to allude to that subject, however it wasdisguised, was more than Heddegan's young wife had strength for. Horror broke her down. In the contingency one thing only presenteditself to her paralysed regard--that here she was doomed to abide, in a hideous contiguity to the dead husband and the living, and herconjecture did, in fact, bear itself out. That night she lay betweenthe two men she had married--Heddegan on the one hand, and on theother through the partition against which the bed stood, Charles Stow. 

VI

Kindly time had withdrawn the foregoing event three days from thepresent of Baptista Heddegan. It was ten o'clock in the morning; shehad been ill, not in an ordinary or definite sense, but in a state ofcold stupefaction, from which it was difficult to arouse her so muchas to say a few sentences. When questioned she had replied that shewas pretty well. 

Their trip, as such, had been something of a failure. They had goneon as far as Falmouth, but here he had given way to her entreatiesto return home. This they could not very well do without repassingthrough Pen-zephyr, at which place they had now again arrived. 

In the train she had seen a weekly local paper, and read there aparagraph detailing the inquest on Charles. It was added that thefuneral was to take place at his native town of Redrutin on Friday. 

After reading this she had shown no reluctance to enter the fatalneighbourhood of the tragedy, only stipulating that they shouldtake their rest at a different lodging from the first; and nowcomparatively braced up and calm--indeed a cooler creature altogetherthan when last in the town, she said to David that she wanted to walkout for a while, as they had plenty of time on their hands. 

'To a shop as usual, I suppose, mee deer?'

'Partly for shopping, ' she said. 'And it will be best for you, dear, to stay in after trotting about so much, and have a good rest while Iam gone. '

He assented; and Baptista sallied forth. As she had stated, her firstvisit was made to a shop, a draper's. Without the exercise of muchchoice she purchased a black bonnet and veil, also a black stuff gown;a black mantle she already wore. These articles were made up into aparcel which, in spite of the saleswoman's offers, her customer saidshe would take with her. Bearing it on her arm she turned to therailway, and at the station got a ticket for Redrutin. 

Thus it appeared that, on her recovery from the paralysed mood of theformer day, while she had resolved not to blast utterly the happinessof her present husband by revealing the history of the departedone, she had also determined to indulge a certain odd, inconsequent, feminine sentiment of decency, to the small extent to which it coulddo no harm to any person. At Redrutin she emerged from the railwaycarnage in the black attire purchased at the shop, having during thetransit made the change in the empty compartment she had chosen. Theother clothes were now in the bandbox and parcel. Leaving these at thecloak-room she proceeded onward, and after a wary survey reached theside of a hill whence a view of the burial ground could be obtained. 

It was now a little before two o'clock. While Baptista waited afuneral procession ascended the road. Baptista hastened across, andby the time the procession entered the cemetery gates she hadunobtrusively joined it. 

In addition to the schoolmaster's own relatives (not a few), theparagraph in the newspapers of his death by drowning had drawntogether many neighbours, acquaintances, and onlookers. 

Among them she passed unnoticed, and with a quiet step pursued thewinding path to the chapel, and afterwards thence to the grave. Whenall was over, and the relatives and idlers had withdrawn, she steppedto the edge of the chasm. From beneath her mantle she drew a littlebunch of forget-me-nots, and dropped them in upon the coffin. In afew minutes she also turned and went away from the cemetery. By fiveo'clock she was again in Pen-zephyr. 

'You have been a mortal long time!' said her husband, crossly. 'Iallowed you an hour at most, mee deer. '

'It occupied me longer, ' said she. 

'Well--I reckon it is wasting words to complain. Hang it, ye look sotired and wisht that I can't find heart to say what I would!'

'I am--weary and wisht, David; I am. We can get home tomorrow forcertain, I hope?'

'We can. And please God we will!' said Mr Heddegan heartily, as if hetoo were weary of his brief honeymoon. 'I must be into business againon Monday morning at latest. '

They left by the next morning steamer, and in the afternoon took uptheir residence in their own house at Giant's Town. 

The hour that she reached the island it was as if a material weighthad been removed from Baptista's shoulders. Her husband attributedthe change to the influence of the local breezes after the hot-houseatmosphere of the mainland. However that might be, settled here, a fewdoors from her mother's dwelling, she recovered in no very long timemuch of her customary bearing, which was never very demonstrative. Sheaccepted her position calmly, and faintly smiled when her neighbourslearned to call her Mrs Heddegan, and said she seemed likely to becomethe leader of fashion in Giant's Town. 

Her husband was a man who had made considerably more money by tradethan her father had done: and perhaps the greater profusion ofsurroundings at her command than she had heretofore been mistress of, was not without an effect upon her. One week, two weeks, three weekspassed; and, being pre-eminently a young woman who allowed things todrift, she did nothing whatever either to disclose or concealtraces of her first marriage; or to learn if there existedpossibilities--which there undoubtedly did--by which that hastycontract might become revealed to those about her at any unexpectedmoment. 

While yet within the first month of her marriage, and on an eveningjust before sunset, Baptista was standing within her garden adjoiningthe house, when she saw passing along the road a personage clad in agreasy black coat and battered tall hat, which, common enough in theslums of a city, had an odd appearance in St Maria's. The tramp, as heseemed to be, marked her at once--bonnetless and unwrapped as she washer features were plainly recognizable--and with an air of friendlysurprise came and leant over the wall. 

'What! don't you know me?' said he. 

She had some dim recollection of his face, but said that she was notacquainted with him. 

'Why, your witness to be sure, ma'am. Don't you mind the man that wasmending the church-window when you and your intended husband walkedup to be made one; and the clerk called me down from the ladder, and Icame and did my part by writing my name and occupation?'

Baptista glanced quickly around; her husband was out of earshot. Thatwould have been of less importance but for the fact that the weddingwitnessed by this personage had not been the wedding with Mr. Heddegan, but the one on the day previous. 

'I've had a misfortune since then, that's pulled me under, ' continuedher friend. 'But don't let me damp yer wedded joy by naming theparticulars. Yes, I've seen changes since; though 'tis but a shorttime ago--let me see, only a month next week, I think; for 'twere thefirst or second day in August. '

'Yes--that's when it was, ' said another man, a sailor, who had come upwith a pipe in his mouth, and felt it necessary to join in (Baptistahaving receded to escape further speech). 'For that was the first timeI set foot in Giant's Town; and her husband took her to him the sameday. '

A dialogue then proceeded between the two men outside the wall, whichBaptista could not help hearing. 

'Ay, I signed the book that made her one flesh, ' repeated the decayedglazier. 'Where's her good-man?'

'About the premises somewhere; but you don't see'em together much, 'replied the sailor in an undertone. 'You see, he's older than she. '

'Older? I should never have thought it from my own observation, ' saidthe glazier. 'He was a remarkably handsome man. '

'Handsome? Well, there he is--we can see for ourselves. '

David Heddegan had, indeed, just shown himself at the upper end of thegarden; and the glazier, looking in bewilderment from the husband tothe wife, saw the latter turn pale. 

Now that decayed glazier was a far-seeing and cunning man--toofar-seeing and cunning to allow himself to thrive by simple andstraightforward means--and he held his peace, till he could readmore plainly the meaning of this riddle, merely added carelessly, 'Well--marriage do alter a man, 'tis true. I should never ha' knowedhim!'

He then stared oddly at the disconcerted Baptista, and moving on towhere he could again address her, asked her to do him a good turn, since he once had done the same for her. Understanding that he meantmoney, she handed him some, at which he thanked her, and instantlywent away. 

VII

She had escaped exposure on this occasion; but the incident had beenan awkward one, and should have suggested to Baptista that sooner orlater the secret must leak out. As it was, she suspected that at anyrate she had not heard the last of the glazier. 

In a day or two, when her husband had gone to the old town on theother side of the island, there came a gentle tap at the door, andthe worthy witness of her first marriage made his appearance a secondtime. 

'It took me hours to get to the bottom of the mystery--hours!' he saidwith a gaze of deep confederacy which offended her pride very deeply. 'But thanks to a good intellect I've done it. Now, ma'am, I'm not aman to tell tales, even when a tale would be so good as this. But I'mgoing back to the mainland again, and a little assistance would be asrain on thirsty ground. '

'I helped you two days ago, ' began Baptista. 

'Yes--but what was that, my good lady? Not enough to pay my passageto Pen-zephyr. I came over on your account, for I thought there was amystery somewhere. Now I must go back on my own. Mind this--'twouldbe very awkward for you if your old man were to know. He's a queertemper, though he may be fond. '

She knew as well as her visitor how awkward it would be; and thehush-money she paid was heavy that day. She had, however, thesatisfaction of watching the man to the steamer, and seeing himdiminish out of sight. But Baptista perceived that the system intowhich she had been led of purchasing silence thus was one fatal to herpeace of mind, particularly if it had to be continued. 

Hearing no more from the glazier she hoped the difficulty was past. But another week only had gone by, when, as she was pacing the Giant'sWalk (the name given to the promenade), she met the same personage inthe company of a fat woman carrying a bundle. 

'This is the lady, my dear, ' he said to his companion. 'This, ma'am, is my wife. We've come to settle in the town for a time, if so be wecan find room. '

'That you won't do, ' said she. 'Nobody can live here who is notprivileged. '

'I am privileged, ' said the glazier, 'by my trade. '

Baptista went on, but in the afternoon she received a visit from theman's wife. This honest woman began to depict, in forcible colours, the necessity for keeping up the concealment. 

'I will intercede with my husband, ma'am, ' she said. 'He's a true manif rightly managed; and I'll beg him to consider your position. 'Tis avery nice house you've got here, ' she added, glancing round, 'and wellworth a little sacrifice to keep it. '

The unlucky Baptista staved off the danger on this third occasion asshe had done on the previous two. But she formed a resolve that, if the attack were once more to be repeated she would face arevelation--worse though that must now be than before she hadattempted to purchase silence by bribes. Her tormentors, neverbelieving her capable of acting upon such an intention, came again;but she shut the door in their faces. They retreated, mutteringsomething; but she went to the back of the house, where David Heddeganwas. 

She looked at him, unconscious of all. The case was serious; she knewthat well; and all the more serious in that she liked him better nowthan she had done at first. Yet, as she herself began to see, the secret was one that was sure to disclose itself. Her name andCharles's stood indelibly written in the registers; and though a monthonly had passed as yet it was a wonder that his clandestine unionwith her had not already been discovered by his friends. Thus spurringherself to the inevitable, she spoke to Heddegan. 

'David, come indoors. I have something to tell you. '

He hardly regarded her at first. She had discerned that duringthe last week or two he had seemed preoccupied, as if some privatebusiness harassed him. She repeated her request. He replied with asigh, 'Yes, certainly, mee deer. '

When they had reached the sitting-room and shut the door she repeated, faintly, 'David, I have something to tell you--a sort of tragedy Ihave concealed. You will hate me for having so far deceived you; butperhaps my telling you voluntarily will make you think a little betterof me than you would do otherwise. '

'Tragedy?' he said, awakening to interest. 'Much you can know abouttragedies, mee deer, that have been in the world so short a time!'

She saw that he suspected nothing, and it made her task the harder. But on she went steadily. 'It is about something that happened beforewe were married, ' she said. 

'Indeed!'

'Not a very long time before--a short time. And it is about a lover, 'she faltered. 

'I don't much mind that, ' he said mildly. 'In truth, I was in hopes'twas more. '

'In hopes!'

'Well, yes. '

This screwed her up to the necessary effort. 'I met my old sweetheart. He scorned me, chid me, dared me, and I went and married him. We werecoming straight here to tell you all what we had done; but he wasdrowned; and I thought I would say nothing about him: and I marriedyou, David, for the sake of peace and quietness. I've tried to keep itfrom you, but have found I cannot. There--that's the substance of it, and you can never, never forgive me, I am sure!'

She spoke desperately. But the old man, instead of turning black orblue, or slaying her in his indignation, jumped up from his chair, andbegan to caper around the room in quite an ecstatic emotion. 

'O, happy thing! How well it falls out!' he exclaimed, snapping hisfingers over his head. 'Ha-ha--the knot is cut--I see a way out of mytrouble--ha-ha!'

She looked at him without uttering a sound, till, as he stillcontinued smiling joyfully, she said, 'O--what do you mean? Is it doneto torment me?'

'No--no! O, mee deer, your story helps me out of the most heart-achingquandary a poor man ever found himself in! You see, it is this--_I've_got a tragedy, too; and unless you had had one to tell, I could neverhave seen my way to tell mine!'

'What is yours--what is it?' she asked, with altogether a new view ofthings. 

'Well--it is a bouncer; mine is a bouncer!' said he, looking on theground and wiping his eyes. 

'Not worse than mine?'

'Well--that depends upon how you look at it. Yours had to do with thepast alone; and I don't mind it. You see, we've been married a month, and it don't jar upon me as it would if we'd only been married a dayor two. Now mine refers to past, present, and future; so that--'

'Past, present, and future!' she murmured. 'It never occurred to methat you had a tragedy too. '

'But I have!' he said, shaking his head. 'In fact, four. '

'Then tell 'em!' cried the young woman. 

'I will--I will. But be considerate, I beg 'ee, mee deer. Well--Iwasn't a bachelor when I married 'ee, any more than you were aspinster. Just as you was a widow-woman, I was a widow-man. '

'Ah!' said she, with some surprise. 'But is that all?--then we arenicely balanced, ' she added, relieved. 

'No--it is not all. There's the point. I am not only a widower. '

'O, David!'

'I am a widower with four tragedies--that is to say, fourstrapping girls--the eldest taller than you. Don't 'ee look sostruck--dumb-like! It fell out in this way. I knew the poor woman, their mother, in Pen-zephyr for some years; and--to cut a long storyshort--I privately married her at last, just before she died. I keptthe matter secret, but it is getting known among the people here bydegrees. I've long felt for the children--that it is my duty to havethem here, and do something for them. I have not had courage to breakit to 'ee, but I've seen lately that it would soon come to your ears, and that hev worried me. '

'Are they educated?' said the ex-schoolmistress. 

'No. I am sorry to say they have been much neglected; in truth, they can hardly read. And so I thought that by marrying a youngschoolmistress I should get some one in the house who could teach 'em, and bring 'em into genteel condition, all for nothing. You see, theyare growed up too tall to be sent to school. '

'O, mercy!' she almost moaned. 'Four great girls to teach therudiments to, and have always in the house with me spelling over theirbooks; and I hate teaching, it kills me. I am bitterly punished--I am, I am!'

'You'll get used to 'em, mee deer, and the balance of secrets--mineagainst yours--will comfort your heart with a sense of justice. Icould send for 'em this week very well--and I will! In faith, Icould send this very day. Baptista, you have relieved me of all mydifficulty!'

Thus the interview ended, so far as this matter was concerned. Baptista was too stupefied to say more, and when she went away toher room she wept from very mortification at Mr Heddegan's duplicity. Education, the one thing she abhorred; the shame of it to delude ayoung wife so!

The next meal came round. As they sat, Baptista would not sufferher eyes to turn towards him. He did not attempt to intrude upon herreserve, but every now and then looked under the table and chuckledwith satisfaction at the aspect of affairs. 'How very well matched webe!' he said, comfortably. 

Next day, when the steamer came in, Baptista saw her husband rushdown to meet it; and soon after there appeared at her door four tall, hipless, shoulderless girls, dwindling in height and size from theeldest to the youngest, like a row of Pan pipes; at the head of themstanding Heddegan. He smiled pleasantly through the grey fringe of hiswhiskers and beard, and turning to the girls said, 'Now come forrard, and shake hands properly with your stepmother. '

Thus she made their acquaintance, and he went out, leaving themtogether. On examination the poor girls turned out to be not onlyplain-looking, which she could have forgiven, but to have sucha lamentably meagre intellectual equipment as to be hopelesslyinadequate as companions. Even the eldest, almost her own age, couldonly read with difficulty words of two syllables; and taste in dresswas beyond their comprehension. In the long vista of future yearsshe saw nothing but dreary drudgery at her detested old trade withoutprospect of reward. 

She went about quite despairing during the next few days--anunpromising, unfortunate mood for a woman who had not been marriedsix weeks. From her parents she concealed everything. They had beenamongst the few acquaintances of Heddegan who knew nothing of hissecret, and were indignant enough when they saw such a ready-madehousehold foisted upon their only child. But she would not supportthem in their remonstrances. 

'No, you don't yet know all, ' she said. 

Thus Baptista had sense enough to see the retributive fairness ofthis issue. For some time, whenever conversation arose between her andHeddegan, which was not often, she always said, 'I am miserable, andyou know it. Yet I don't wish things to be otherwise. '

But one day when he asked, 'How do you like 'em now?' her answer wasunexpected. 'Much better than I did, ' she said, quietly. 'I may likethem very much some day. '

This was the beginning of a serener season for the chastened spirit ofBaptista Heddegan. She had, in truth, discovered, underneath thecrust of uncouthness and meagre articulation which was due to theirTroglodytean existence, that her unwelcomed daughters had natures thatwere unselfish almost to sublimity. The harsh discipline accorded totheir young lives before their mother's wrong had been righted, hadoperated less to crush them than to lift them above all personalambition. They considered the world and its contents in a purelyobjective way, and their own lot seemed only to affect them as that ofcertain human beings among the rest, whose troubles they knew ratherthan suffered. 

This was such an entirely new way of regarding life to a woman ofBaptista's nature, that her attention, from being first arrestedby it, became deeply interested. By imperceptible pulses her heartexpanded in sympathy with theirs. The sentences of her tragi-comedy, her life, confused till now, became clearer daily. That in humanity, as exemplified by these girls, there was nothing to dislike, butinfinitely much to pity, she learnt with the lapse of each week intheir company. She grew to like the girls of unpromising exterior, andfrom liking she got to love them; till they formed an unexpected pointof junction between her own and her husband's interests, generating asterling friendship at least, between a pair in whose existence therehad threatened to be neither friendship nor love. 

_George Moore_

A FAITHFUL HEART

(_The Speaker_, 16 April 1892)

Part I

It was a lovely morning, and Major Shepherd walked rapidly, his toesturned well out, his shoulders set well back. Behind him floated thesummer foliage of Appleton Park--the family seat of the Shepherds--andat the end of the smooth, white road lay the Major's destination--thesmall town of Branbury. 

The Major was the medium height; his features were regular and cleanlycut. He would have been a handsome man if his eyes had not beentwo dark mud-coloured dots, set close together, wholly lacking inexpression. A long brown moustache swept picturesquely over bright, smoothly shaven cheeks, and the ends of this ornament were beginningto whiten. The Major was over forty. He carried under his arm abrown-paper parcel (the Major was rarely seen without a brown-paperparcel), and in it were things he could not possibly do without--hisdiary and his letter-book. The brown-paper parcel contained likewisea number of other papers; it contained the Major's notes for a book hewas writing on the principal county families in Buckinghamshire. TheMajor had been collecting information for this book for many years, and with it he hoped to make two or three hundred pounds--money whichhe stood sorely in need of--and to advance his position in the county, a position which, in his opinion, his father had done little tomaintain, and which, to his very deep regret, his sisters were nowdoing their best to compromise. That very morning, while packing uphis brown-paper parcel, some quarter of an hour ago, he had had asomewhat angry interview on this subject with his sisters. For he hadthought it his duty to reprove them for keeping company with certainsmall London folk who had chosen to come to live in the neighbourhood. Ethel had said that they were not going to give up their friendsbecause they were not good enough for him, and Maud had addedsignificantly that they were quite sure that their friends were quiteas good as the friend he was going to see in Branbury. The Majorturned on his heel and left the house. 

As he walked towards Branbury he asked himself if it were possiblethat they knew anything about Charlotte Street; and as he approachedthe town he looked round nervously, fearing lest some friend mightpop down upon him, and, after some hesitation, decided to take a longdetour so as to avoid passing by the house of some people he knew. Ashe made his way through a bye-street his step quickened, and at thecorner of Charlotte Street he looked round to make sure he was notfollowed. He then drew his keys from his pocket and let himself into asmall, mean-looking house. 

Major Shepherd might have spared himself the trouble of theseprecautions; no one was minded to watch him, for everyone knewperfectly well who lived in 27, Charlotte Street. It was common talkthat the tall, dark woman who lived in 27 was Mrs Charles Shepherd, and that the little girl who ran by Mrs Shepherd's side on the rareoccasions when she was seen in the streets--for it was said that theMajor did not wish her to walk much about the town, lest she shouldattract the attention of the curious, who might be tempted to makeinquiries--was the Major's little daughter, and it had been noticedthat this little girl went forth now and then, basket on her arm, todo the marketing. It was said that Mrs Shepherd had been a servantin some lodging-house where the Major had been staying; otherscandal-mongers declared that they knew for certain that the Major hadmade his wife's acquaintance in the street. Rumour had never wanderedfar from the truth. The Major had met his wife one night as he wascoming home from his club. They seemed to suit one another; he sawher frequently for several months, and then, fearing to lose her, ina sudden access of jealousy--he had some time before been bitterlyjilted--he proposed to marry her. The arrival of his parents, whocame up to town beseeching of him to do nothing rash, only served tointensify his determination, and, losing his temper utterly, he toldhis father and mother that he would never set his foot in AppletonPark in their lifetime if they ever again ventured to pry into hisprivate affairs; and, refusing to give any information regarding hisintentions, he asked them to leave his lodgings. What he did afterthey never knew; years went by, and they sighed and wondered, but thematter was never alluded to in Appleton Park. 

But the Major had only £400 a year, and though he lived at AppletonPark, never spending a penny more than was necessary, he could notallow her more than £3 a week. He had so many expenses: his club, hisclothes, and all the incidental expenses he was put to in the grandhouses where he went to stay. By strict economy, however, Mrs Shepherdmanaged to make two ends meet. Except when she was too ill and had tocall in a charwoman to help her with the heaviest part of the work, she undertook the entire housework herself: when times were hardest, she had even taken in a lodger, not thinking herself above cooking andtaking up his dinner. She had noticed that her economies endearedher to the Major, and it was pleasant to please him. Hers was akind-hearted, simple nature, that misfortune had brought down in theworld; but, as is not uncommon with persons of weak character, shepossessed a clear, sensible mind which allowed her to see thingsin their true lights, and without difficulty she recognized theunalterable nature of her case. It mattered little whether the Majoracknowledged her or not, his family would never have anything to dowith her; the doors of Society were for ever closed against her. Sowithin a year of her marriage with the Major she was convinced thather marriage had better be kept a secret; for, by helping to keep ita secret, she could make substantial amends to the man who had marriedher; by proclaiming it to the world, she would only alienate hisaffection. She understood this very well, and in all docility andobedience lent herself to the deception, accepting without complainta mean and clandestine existence. But she would not allow her littlegirl to carry up a jug of hot water, and it was only rarely, whenprostrate with pain, that she allowed Nellie to take the basket andrun round to the butcher's and buy a bit of steak for their dinner. The heiress of Appleton Park must be brought up free from alldegrading memory. But for herself she had no care. Appleton Park couldnever be anything to her, even if she outlived the old people, whichwas hardly probable. What would she, a poor invalid, do there? She didnot wish to compromise her husband's future, and still less the futureof her darling daughter. She could only hope that, when dead, her sinswould be forgiven her; and that this release might not be long delayedshe often prayed. The house was poor, and she was miserable, but anyplace was good enough to suffer in. So she said when she rose anddragged herself downstairs to do a little cooking; and the samethought came to her when she lay all alone in the little parlour, furnished with what a few pounds could buy--a paraffin-lamp, a roundtable, a few chairs, an old and ill-padded mahogany armchair, in whichit was a torture to lie; not an ornament on the chimney-piece, nota flower, not a book to while away the interminable hours. Fromthe barren little passage, covered with a bit of oil-cloth, all andeverything in 27 was meagre and unimaginative. The Major had impressedhis personality upon the house. Everything looked as if it had beenscraped. There was a time when Mrs Shepherd noticed the barrenness ofher life; but she had grown accustomed to it, and she waited for theMajor in the terrible armchair, glad when she heard his step, almosthappy when he sat by her and told her what was happening 'at home'. 

He took her hand and asked her how she was. 'You are looking verytired, Alice. '

'Yes, I'm a little tired. I have been working all the morning. I madeup my room, and then I went out to the butcher's and bought a piece ofsteak. I have made you such a nice pudding for your lunch; I hope youwill like it. '

'There's not much fear about my liking any beefsteak pudding you make, dear; I never knew anyone who could make one like you. But you shouldnot tire yourself--and just as you are beginning to get better. '

Mrs Shepherd smiled and pressed her husband's hand. The conversationfell. At the end of a long silence Mrs Shepherd said: 'What hashappened to trouble you, dear? I know something has, I can see it byyour face. '

Then the Major told how unpleasantly his sisters had answered him whenhe had ventured to suggest that they saw far too much of their newneighbours, who were merely common sort of Londoners, and never wouldbe received by the county. 'I'm sure that someone must have told themof my visits here; I'm sure they suspect something . .. Girls are verysharp nowadays. '

'I am sorry, but it is no fault of mine. I rarely leave the house, andI never walk in the principal streets if I can possibly help it. '

'I know, dear, I know that no one can be more careful than you; butas people are beginning to smell a rat notwithstanding all ourprecautions, I suppose there's nothing for it but to go back toLondon. '

'Oh, you don't think it will be necessary to go back to London, doyou? The place suits the child so well, and it is so nice to see youalmost every day; and it is such a comfort when you are not here toknow you are only a few miles away; and from the top of the hill thetrees of the park are visible, and whenever I feel well enough I walkthere and think of the time our Nellie will be the mistress of allthose broad acres. '

'It is the fault of the busybodies, ' he said; 'I cannot think whatpleasure people find in meddling in other people's affairs. I nevercare what anyone else does. I have quite enough to do thinking of myown. '

Mrs Shepherd did not answer. 'I see, ' he said, 'you don't like moving, but if you remain here all the trouble we have taken not to get foundout these last ten years will go for nothing. There will be more worryand vexations, and I really don't think I could bear much more; Ibelieve I should go off my head. ' The little man spoke in a calm, evenvoice, and stroked his silky moustache gravely. 

'Very well, then, my dear, I'll return to town as soon as you like--assoon as it is convenient. I daresay you are right. '

'I'm sure I am. You have never found me giving you wrong advice yet, have you, dear?'

Then they went down to the kitchen to eat the steak pudding; and whenthe Major had finished his second helping he lit his pipe, and theconversation turned on how they should get rid of their house, andhow much the furniture would fetch. When he had decided to sell thefurniture, and had fixed the day of their departure, Mrs Shepherdsaid--

'There's one thing I have to ask you, dear, and I hope you won'trefuse my request. I should like to see Appleton Park before I leave. I should like to go there with Nellie and see the house and the landsthat will one day belong to her. '

'I don't know how it is to be managed. If you were to meet my motherand sisters they would be sure to suspect something at once. '

'No one will know who I am. I should like to walk about the groundsfor half an hour with the child. If I don't see Appleton now I nevershall see it. '

The Major stroked his long, silky moustache with his short, crabbedlittle hand. He remembered that he had heard the carriage ordered fortwo o'clock--they were all going to a tennis-party some miles distant. Under the circumstances she might walk about the grounds without beingnoticed. He did not think any of the gardeners would question her, and, if they did, he could trust her to give an evasive answer. Andthen he would like her to see the place--just to know what she thoughtof it. 

'Won't you say yes?' she said at last, her voice breaking the silencesharply. 

'I was just thinking, dear: they have all gone to a tennis-partytoday. There'll be no one at home. '

'Well! why not today?'

'Well; I was thinking I've been lucky enough to get hold of some veryinteresting information about the Websters--about their ancestor SirThomas, who distinguished himself in the Peninsular--and I wanted toget it copied under the proper heading, but I daresay we can do thatanother day. The only thing is, how are you to get there? You are notequal to walking so far--'

'I was thinking, dear, that I might take a fly. I know there is theexpense, but . .. '

'Yes; five or six shillings, at least. And where will you leavethe fly? At the lodge gate? The flyman would be sure to get intoconversation with the lodge-keeper or his wife. He'd tell them wherehe came from, and--'

'Supposing you were to get a two-wheeled trap and drive me yourself;that would be nicer still. '

'I'm so unlucky; someone would be sure to see me. '

The Major puffed at his pipe in silence. Then he said, 'If you wereto put on a thick veil, and we were to get out of the town by this endand make our way through the lanes--it would be a long way round; butone hardly meets anyone that way, and the only danger would be going. We should return in the dusk. I don't care how late you make it; mypeople won't be home till nine or ten o'clock at night, perhaps laterstill. There will be dancing, and they are sure to stay late. '

Finally the matter was decided, and about four o'clock the Major wentto the livery stable to order the trap. Mrs Shepherd and Nellie joinedhim soon after. Turning from the pony, whose nose he was stroking, hesaid--

'I hope you have brought a thick shawl; it will be cold coming back inthe evening. '

'Yes, dear, here it is, and another for Nellie. What do you think ofthis veil?'

'It will do very well. I do hope these stablemen won't talk; let'sgo off at once. ' The Major lifted in the child, tucked the rug aboutthem, and cried to the stableman to let go. He drove very nervously, afraid at every moment lest the pony should bolt; and when theanimal's extreme docility assured him there was no such danger, helooked round right and left, expecting at every moment some friend topounce down upon him. But the ways were empty, the breeze that cameacross the fields was fresh and sweet, and they were all beginning toenjoy themselves, when he suddenly espied a carriage following in hiswake. He whipped up the pony, and contrived to distance his imaginarypursuer; and having succeeded, he praised his own driving, and at thecross-roads he said: 'I dare not go any farther, but you can't missthe lodge gate in that clump of trees--the first white gate you cometo. Don't ask any questions; it is ten to one you'll find the gateopen; walk straight through, and don't forget to go through thebeech-wood at the back of the house; the river runs right round thehill. I want to know what you think of the view. But pray don't ask tosee the house; there's nothing to see; the housemaids would be sureto talk, and describe you to my sisters. So now goodbye; hope you'llenjoy yourself. I shall have just time to get to Hambrook and back; Iwant to see my solicitor. You'll have seen everything in a couple ofhours, so in a couple of hours I shall be waiting for you here. '

Part II

It was as the Major said. The lodge-keepers asked no questions, andthey passed up the drive, through the silence of an overgrowth oflaurels and rhododendrons. Then the park opened before theireyes. Nellie rolled on the short, crisp, worn grass, or chased thedragonflies; the spreading trees enchanted her, and, looking at thehouse--a grey stone building with steps, pillars, and pilasters, hidden amid cedars and evergreen oaks--she said, 'I never saw anythingso beautiful; is that where the Major goes when he leaves us? Look atthe flowers, Mother, and the roses. May we not go in there--I don'tmean into the house? I heard the Major ask you not to go in for fearwe should meet the housemaids--but just past this railing, intothe garden? Here is the gate. ' The child stood with her hand on thewicket, waiting for reply: the mother stood as in a dream, lookingat the house, thinking vaguely of the pictures, the corridors, andstaircases, that lay behind the plate-glass windows. 

'Yes; go in, my child. '

The gardens were in tumult of leaf and bloom, and the little girl ranhither and thither, gathering single flowers, and then everythingthat came under her hands, binding them together in bouquets--onefor mother, one for the Major, and one for herself. Mrs Shepherd onlysmiled a little bitterly when Nellie came running to her with some newand more splendid rose. She did not attempt to reprove the child. Whyshould she? Everything here would one day be hers. Why then shouldthe present be denied them? And so did her thoughts run as she walkedacross the sward following Nellie into the beech wood that clothed thesteep hillside. The pathway led by the ruins of some Danish militaryearthworks, ancient hollows full of leaves and silence. Pigeons cooedin the vast green foliage, and from time to time there came up fromthe river the chiming sound of oars. Rustic seats were at pleasantintervals, and, feeling a little tired, Mrs Shepherd sat down. Shecould see the river's silver glinting through the branches, and, beyond the river, the low-lying river lands, dotted with cattle andhorses grazing, dim already with blue evening vapours. In the warmsolitude of the wood the irreparable misfortune of her own lifepressed upon her: and in this hour of lassitude her loneliness seemedmore than she could bear. The Major was good and kind, but he knewnothing of the weight of the burden he had laid upon her, and thatnone should know was in this moment a greater weight than the burdenitself. Nellie was exploring the ancient hollows where Danes andSaxons had once fought, and had ceased to call forth her discoverieswhen Mrs Shepherd's bitter meditation was broken by the sudden soundof a footstep. 

The intruder was a young lady. She was dressed in white, her pale goldhair was in itself an aristocracy, and her narrow slippered feet weredainty to look upon. 'Don't let me disturb you, ' she said. 'This is myfavourite seat; but I pray you not to move, there is plenty of room. 'So amiable was she in voice and manner that Mrs Shepherd could notbut remain, although she had already recognized the girl as one ofthe Major's sisters. Fearing to betray herself, greatly nervous, MrsShepherd answered briefly Miss Shepherd's allusions to the beauty ofthe view. At the end of a long silence Miss Shepherd said--

'I think you know my brother, Major Shepherd. '

Mrs Shepherd hesitated, and then she said: 'No. I have never heard thename. '

'Are you sure? Of course, I may be mistaken; but--'

Ethel made pause, and looked Mrs Shepherd straight in the face. Smiling sadly, Mrs Shepherd said--

'Likenesses are so deceptive. '

'Perhaps, but my memory is pretty good for faces. .. . It was two orthree months ago, we were going up to London, and I saw my brother getinto the train with a lady who looked like you. She really was verylike you. '

Mrs Shepherd smiled and shook her head. 

'I do not know the lady my brother was with, but I've often thought Ishould like to meet her. '

'Perhaps your brother will introduce you. '

'No, I don't think he will. She has come to live at Branbury, and nowpeople talk more then ever. They say that he is secretly married. '

'And you believe it?'

'I don't see why it shouldn't be true. My brother is a good fellow inmany ways, but, like all other men, he is selfish. He is just the manwho would keep his wife hidden away in a lonely little lodging ratherthan admit that he had made a _mésalliance_. What I don't understandis why she consents to be kept out of the way. Just fancy giving upthis beautiful place, these woods and fields, these gardens, thathouse for, for--'

'I suppose this woman gives up these things because she loves yourbrother. Do you not understand self-sacrifice?'

'Oh yes, if I loved a man. .. . But I think a woman is silly to allow aman to cheat and fool her to the top of his bent. '

'What does it matter if she is happy?'

Ethel tossed her head. Then at the end of a long silence she said:'Would you care to see the house?'

'No, thank you, Miss; I must be getting on. Goodbye. '

'You cannot get back that way, you must return through thepleasure-grounds. I'll walk with you. A headache kept me at home thisafternoon. The others have gone to a tennis-party. .. . It is a pity Iwas mistaken. I should like to meet the person my brother goes everyday to Branbury to see. I should like to talk with her. My brotherhas, I'm afraid, persuaded her that we would not receive her. But thisis not true; we should only be too glad to receive her. I have heardFather and Mother say so--not to Charles, they dare not speak to himon the subject, but they have to me. '

'Your brother must have some good reason for keeping his marriagesecret. This woman may have a past. '

'Yes, they say that--but I should not care if I liked her, if I knewher to be a good woman now. '

To better keep the Major's secret, Mrs Shepherd had given up allfriends, all acquaintance. She had not known a woman-friend for years, and the affinities of sex drew her to accept the sympathy with whichshe was tempted. The reaction of ten years of self-denial surged upwithin her, and she felt that she must speak, that her secret wasbeing dragged from her. Ethel's eyes were fixed upon her--in anothermoment she would have spoken, but at that moment Nellie appearedclimbing up the steep bank. 'Is that your little girl? Oh, what apretty child!' Then raising her eyes from the child and looking themother straight in the face, Ethel said--

'She is like, she is strangely like, Charles. '

Tears glistened in Mrs Shepherd's eyes, and then, no longer doubtingthat Mrs Shepherd would break down and in a flow of tears tell thewhole story of her life, Ethel allowed a note of triumph to creepinto her voice, and before she could stop herself she said, 'And thatlittle girl is the heiress of Appleton Park. '

Mrs Shepherd's face changed expression. 

'You are mistaken, Miss Shepherd, ' she said; 'but if I ever meet yourbrother I will tell him that you think my little girl like him. '

Mrs Shepherd pursued her way slowly across the park, her long wearyfigure showing upon the sunset, her black dress trailing on the crispgrass. Often she was obliged to pause; the emotion and exercise of theday had brought back pain, and her whole body thrilled with it. Since the birth of her child she had lived in pain. But as she leanedagainst the white gate, and looked back on the beautiful park neverto be seen by her again, knowledge of her sacrifice quickened withinher--the house and the park, and the manner and speech of the younggirl, combined to help her to a full appreciation of all she hadsurrendered. She regretted nothing. However mean and obscure her lifehad been, it had contained at least one noble moment. Nellie pursuedthe dragonflies; Mrs Shepherd followed slowly, feeling like a victorin a great battle. She had not broken her trust; she had kept herpromise intact; she would return to London tomorrow or next day, or atthe end of the week, whenever the Major wished. 

He was waiting for them at the corner of the lane, and Nellie wasalready telling him all she thought of the house, the woods, theflowers, and the lady who had sat down by Mother on the bench abovethe river. The Major looked at his wife in doubt and fear; her smile, however, reassured him. Soon after, Nellie fell asleep, and whileshe dreamed of butterflies and flowers Mrs Shepherd told him what hadpassed between her and his sister in the beechwood above the river. 

'You see, what I told you was right. Your appearance has beendescribed to them; they suspect something, and will never ceaseworrying until they have found out everything. I'm not a bitsurprised. Ethel always was the more cunning and the more spiteful ofthe two. '

Mrs Shepherd did not tell him how nearly she had been betrayed intoconfession. She felt that he would not understand her explanation ofthe mood in which his sister had caught her. Men understand women solittle. To tell him would be merely to destroy his confidence in her. As they drove through the twilight, with Nellie fast asleep between, he spoke of her departure, which he had arranged for the end of theweek, and then, putting his arm round her waist, he said: 'You havealways been a good little woman to me. '

_Walter Besant_

THE SOLID GOLD REEF COMPANY, LIMITED

(_In Deacon's Orders and Other Stories_, New York: Harper and Bros. , 1895)

Act I

'You dear old boy, ' said the girl, 'I am sure I wish it could be, withall my heart, if I have any heart. '

'I don't believe you have, ' replied the boy gloomily. 

'Well, but, Reg, consider; you've got no money. '

'I've got five thousand pounds. If a man can't make his way upon thathe must be a poor stick. '

'You would go abroad with it and dig, and take your wife with you--towash and cook. '

'We would do something with the money here. You should stay in London, Rosie. '

'Yes. In a suburban villa, at Shepherd's Bush, perhaps. No, Reg, whenI marry, if ever I do--I am in no hurry--I will step out of this roominto one exactly like it. ' The room was a splendid drawing-room inPalace Gardens, splendidly furnished. 'I shall have my footmen and mycarriage, and I shall--'

'Rosie, give me the right to earn all these things for you!' the youngman cried impetuously. 

'You can only earn them for me by the time you have one foot in thegrave. Hadn't I better in the meantime marry some old gentleman withhis one foot in the grave, so as to be ready for you against the timeyou come home? In two or three years the other foot, I dare say, wouldslide into the grave as well. '

'You laugh at my trouble. You feel nothing. '

'If the pater would part, but he won't; he says he wants all his moneyfor himself, and that I've got to marry well. Besides, Reg'--here herface clouded and she lowered her voice--'there are times when he looksanxious. We didn't always live in Palace Gardens. Suppose we shouldlose it all as quickly as we got it. Oh!' she shivered and trembled. 'No, I will never, never marry a poor man. Get rich, my dear boy, and you may aspire even to the valuable possession of this heartlesshand. '

She held it out. He took it, pressed it, stooped and kissed her. Thenhe dropped her hand and walked quickly out of the room. 

'Poor Reggie!' she murmured. 'I wish--I wish--but what is the use ofwishing?'

Act II

Two men--one young, the other about fifty--sat in the veranda of asmall bungalow. It was after breakfast. They lay back in long bamboochairs, each with a cigar. It looked as if they were resting. Inreality they were talking business, and that very seriously. 

'Yes, sir, ' said the elder man, with something of an Americanaccent, 'I have somehow taken a fancy to this place. The situation ishealthy. '

'Well, I don't know; I've had more than one touch of fever here. '

'The climate is lovely--'

'Except in the rains. '

'The soil is fertile--'

'I've dropped five thousand in it, and they haven't come up againyet. '

'They will. I have been round the estate, and I see money in it. Well, sir, here's my offer: five thousand down, hard cash, as soon as thepapers are signed. '

Reginald sat up. He was on the point of accepting the proposal, whena pony rode up to the house, and the rider, a native groom, jumped offand gave him a note. He opened it and read. It was from his nearestneighbour, two or three miles away:

 Don't sell that man your estate. Gold has been found. The whole country is full of gold. Hold on. He's an assayer. If he offers to buy, be quite sure that he has found gold on your land. 

 F. G. 

He put the note into his pocket, gave a verbal message to the boy, and turned to his guest, without betraying the least astonisment oremotion. 

'I beg your pardon. The note was from Bellamy, my next neighbour. Well? You were saying--'

'Only that I have taken a fancy--perhaps a foolish fancy--to thisplace of yours, and I'll give you, if you like, all that you havespent upon it. '

'Well, ' he replied reflectively, but with a little twinkle in his eye, 'that seems handsome. But the place isn't really worth the half thatI spent upon it. Anybody would tell you that. Come, let us be honest, whatever we are. I'll tell you a better way. We will put the matterinto the hands of Bellamy. He knows what a coffee plantation is worth. He shall name a price, and if we can agree upon that, we will make adeal of it. '

The other man changed colour. He wanted to settle the thing at onceas between gentlemen. What need of third parties? But Reginald stoodfirm, and he presently rode away, quite sure that in a day or two thisplanter, too, would have heard the news. 

A month later, the young coffee-planter stood on the deck of a steamerhomeward bound. In his pocket-book was a plan of his auriferousestate; in a bag hanging round his neck was a small collection ofyellow nuggets; in his boxes was a chosen assortment of quartz. 

Act III

'Well, sir, ' said the financier, 'you've brought this thing to me. You want my advice. Well, my advice is, don't fool away the only goodthing that will ever happen to you. Luck such as this doesn't comemore than once in a lifetime. '

'I have been offered ten thousand pounds for my estate. '

'Oh! Have you! Ten thousand? That was very liberal--very liberalindeed. Ten thousand for a gold reef!'

'But I thought as an old friend of my father you would, perhaps--'

'Young man, don't fool it away. He's waiting for you, I suppose, roundthe corner, with a bottle of fizz, ready to close. '

'He is. '

'Well, go and drink his champagne. Always get whatever you can. Andthen tell him that you'll see him--'

'I certainly will, sir, if you advise it. And then?'

'And then--leave it to me. And, young man, I think I heard, a year ortwo ago, something about you and my girl Rosie. '

'There was something, sir. Not enough to trouble you about it. '

'She told me. Rosie tells me all her love affairs. '

'Is she--is she unmarried?'

'Oh, yes! and for the moment I believe she is free. She has had oneor two engagements, but, somehow, they have come to nothing. Therewas the French count, but that was knocked on the head very early inconsequence of things discovered. And there was the Boom in Guano, buthe fortunately smashed, much to Rosie's joy, because she never likedhim. The last was Lord Evergreen. He was a nice old chap when youcould understand what he said, and Rosie would have liked the titlevery much, though his grandchildren opposed the thing. Well, sir, Isuppose you couldn't understand the trouble we took to keep that oldman alive for his own wedding. Science did all it could, but 'twasof no use--' The financier sighed. 'The ways of Providence areinscrutable. He died, sir, the day before. '

'That was very sad. '

'A dashing of the cup from the lip, sir. My daughter would have been acountess. Well, young gentleman, about this estate of yours. I thinkI see a way--I think, I am not yet sure--that I do see a way. Go now. See this liberal gentleman, and drink his champagne. And come herein a week. Then, if I still see my way, you shall understand what itmeans to hold the position in the City which is mine. '

'And--and--may I call upon Rosie!'

'Not till this day week--not till I have made my way plain. '

Act IV

'And so it means this. Oh, Rosie, you look lovelier than ever, and I'mas happy as a king. It means this. Your father is the greatest geniusin the world. He buys my property for sixty thousand pounds--sixtythousand. That's over two thousand a year for me, and he makes acompany out of it with a hundred and fifty thousand capital. He saysthat, taking ten thousand out of it for expenses, there will bea profit of eighty thousand. And all that he gives to you--eightythousand, that's three thousand a year for you; and sixty thousand, that's two more, my dearest Rosie. You remember what you said, thatwhen you married you should step out of one room like this intoanother just as good?'

'Oh, Reggie, ' she sank upon his bosom--'you know I never could loveanybody but you. It's true I was engaged to old Lord Evergreen, butthat was only because he had one foot--you know--and when the otherfoot went in too, just a day too soon, I actually laughed. So thepater is going to make a company of it, is he? Well, I hope he won'tput any of his own money into it, I'm sure, because of late all thecompanies have turned out so badly. '

'But, my child, the place is full of gold. '

'Then why did he turn it into a company, my dear boy? And why didn'the make you stick to it? But you know nothing of the City. Now, let ussit down and talk about what we shall do--don't, you ridiculous boy!'

Act V

Another house just like the first. The bride stepped out of one palaceinto another. With their five or six thousand a year, the young couplecould just manage to make both ends meet. The husband was devoted;the wife had everything that she could wish. Who could be happier thanthis pair in a nest so luxurious, their life so padded, their days sofull of sunshine?

It was a year after marriage. The wife, contrary to her usualcustom, was the first at breakfast. A few letters were waiting forher--chiefly invitations. She opened and read them. Among them lay oneaddressed to her husband. Not looking at the address, she opened andread that as well:

 Dear Reginald:

 I venture to address you as an old friend of your own and school-fellow of your mother's. I am a widow with four children. My husband was the vicar of your old parish--you remember him and me. I was left with a little income of about two hundred a year. Twelve months ago I was persuaded in order to double my income--a thing which seemed certain from the prospectus--to invest everything in a new and rich gold mine. Everything. And the mine has never paid anything. The company--it is called the Solid Gold Reef Company, is in liquidation because, though there is really the gold there, it costs too much to get it. I have no relatives anywhere to help me. Unless I can get assistance my children and I must go at once--tomorrow--into the workhouse. Yes, we are paupers. I am ruined by the cruel lies of that prospectus, and the wickedness which deluded me, and I know not how many others, out of my money. I have been foolish, and am punished; but those people, who will punish them? Help me, if you can, my dear Reginald. Oh! for _GOD'S_ sake, help my children and me. Help your mother's friend, your own old friend. 

'This, ' said Rosie meditatively, 'is exactly the kind of thing to makeReggie uncomfortable. Why, it might make him unhappy all day. Betterburn it. ' She dropped the letter into the fire. 'He's an impulsive, emotional nature, and he doesn't understand the City. If people are sofoolish--What a lot of fibs the poor old pater does tell, to be sure!He's a regular novelist--Oh! here you are, you lazy boy!'

'Kiss me, Rosie. ' He looked as handsome as Apollo, and as cheerful. 'I wish all the world were as happy as you and me. Heigho! some poordevils, I'm afraid--'

'Tea or coffee, Reg?'

_Henry James_

THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE

(_The Soft Side_, London: Methuen and Co. , 1900)

I

It was one of the secret opinions, such as we all have, of PeterBrench that his main success in life would have consisted in his neverhaving committed himself about the work, as it was called, of hisfriend Morgan Mallow. This was a subject on which it was, to thebest of his belief, impossible with veracity to quote him, and it wasnowhere on record that he had, in the connexion, on any occasion andin any embarrassment, either lied or spoken the truth. Such a triumphhad its honour even for a man of other triumphs--a man who had reachedfifty, who had escaped marriage, who had lived within his means, whohad been in love with Mrs Mallow for years without breathing it, andwho, last but not least, had judged himself once for all. He had sojudged himself in fact that he felt an extreme and general humilityto be his proper portion; yet there was nothing that made him thinkso well of his parts as the course he had steered so often through theshallows just mentioned. It became thus a real wonder that the friendsin whom he had most confidence were just those with whom he hadmost reserves. He couldn't tell Mrs Mallow--or at least he supposed, excellent man, he couldn't--that she was the one beautiful reason hehad never married; any more than he could tell her husband that thesight of the multiplied marbles in that gentleman's studio was anaffliction of which even time had never blunted the edge. His victory, however, as I have intimated, in regard to these productions, was notsimply in his not having let it out that he deplored them; it was, remarkably, in his not having kept it in by anything else. 

The whole situation, among these good people, was verily a marvel, andthere was probably not such another for a long way from the spot thatengages us--the point at which the soft declivity of Hampstead beganat that time to confess in broken accents to Saint John's Wood. He despised Mallow's statues and adored Mallow's wife, and yet wasdistinctly fond of Mallow, to whom, in turn, he was equally dear. MrsMallow rejoiced in the statues--though she preferred, when pressed, the busts; and if she was visibly attached to Peter Brench it wasbecause of his affection for Morgan. Each loved the other moreover forthe love borne in each case to Lancelot, whom the Mallows respectivelycherished as their only child and whom the friend of their firesideidentified as the third--but decidedly the handsomest--of his godsons. Already in the old years it had come to that--that no one, for sucha relation, could possibly have occurred to any of them, even to thebaby itself, but Peter. There was luckily a certain independence, ofthe pecuniary sort, all round: the Master could never otherwise havespent his solemn _Wanderjahre_ in Florence and Rome, and continuedby the Thames as well as by the Arno and the Tiber to add unpurchasedgroup to group and model, for what was too apt to prove in theevent mere love, fancy-heads of celebrities either too busy or tooburied--too much of the age or too little of it--to sit. Neither couldPeter, lounging in almost daily, have found time to keep the wholecomplicated tradition so alive by his presence. He was massive butmild, the depositary of these mysteries--large and loose and ruddy andcurly, with deep tones, deep eyes, deep pockets, to say nothing ofthe habit of long pipes, soft hats and brownish greyish weather-fadedclothes, apparently always the same. 

He had 'written', it was known, but had never spoken, never spokenin particular of that; and he had the air (since, as was believed, he continued to write) of keeping it up in order to have somethingmore--as if he hadn't at the worst enough--to be silent about. Whatever his air, at any rate, Peter's occasional unmentioned proseand verse were quite truly the result of an impulse to maintainthe purity of his taste by establishing still more firmly the rightrelation of fame to feebleness. The little green door of his domainwas in a garden-wall on which the discoloured stucco made patches, and in the small detached villa behind it everything was old, thefurniture, the servants, the books, the prints, the immemorial habitsand the new improvements. The Mallows, at Carrara Lodge, were withinten minutes, and the studio there was on their little land, to whichthey had added, in their happy faith, for building it. This was thegood fortune, if it was not the ill, of her having brought him inmarriage a portion that put them in a manner at their ease and enabledthem thus, on their side, to keep it up. And they did keep it up--theyalways had--the infatuated sculptor and his wife, for whom naturehad refined on the impossible by relieving them of the sense of thedifficult. Morgan had at all events everything of the sculptor butthe spirit of Phidias--the brown velvet, the becoming _beretto_, the'plastic' presence, the fine fingers, the beautiful accent in Italianand the old Italian factotum. He seemed to make up for everything whenhe addressed Egidio with the 'tu' and waved him to turn one of therotary pedestals of which the place was full. They were tremendousItalians at Carrara Lodge, and the secret of the part played by thisfact in Peter's life was in a large degree that it gave him, sturdyBriton as he was, just the amount of 'going abroad' he could bear. TheMallows were all his Italy, but it was in a measure for Italy he likedthem. His one worry was that Lance--to which they had shortened hisgodson--was, in spite of a public school, perhaps a shade too Italian. Morgan meanwhile looked like somebody's flattering idea of somebody'sown person as expressed in the great room provided at the UffiziMuseum for the general illustration of that idea by eminent hands. TheMaster's sole regret that he hadn't been born rather to the brush thanto the chisel sprang from his wish that he might have contributed tothat collection. 

It appeared with time at any rate to be to the brush that Lance hadbeen born; for Mrs Mallow, one day when the boy was turning twenty, broke it to their friend, who shared, to the last delicate morsel, their problems and pains, that it seemed as if nothing would really dobut that he should embrace the career. It had been impossible longerto remain blind to the fact that he was gaining no glory at Cambridge, where Brench's own college had for a year tempered its tone to him asfor Brench's own sake. Therefore why renew the vain form of preparinghim for the impossible? The impossible--it had become clear--was thathe should be anything but an artist. 

'Oh dear, dear!' said poor Peter. 

'Don't you believe in it?' asked Mrs Mallow, who still, at more thanforty, had her violet velvet eyes, her creamy satin skin and hersilken chestnut hair. 

'Believe in what?'

'Why in Lance's passion. '

'I don't know what you mean by "believing in it". I've never beenunaware, certainly, of his disposition, from his earliest time, todaub and draw; but I confess I've hoped it would burn out. '

'But why should it, ' she sweetly smiled, 'with his wonderful heredity?Passion is passion--though of course indeed _you_, dear Peter, knownothing of that. Has the Master's ever burned out?'

Peter looked off a little and, in his familiar formless way, kept upfor a moment, a sound between a smothered whistle and a subdued hum. 'Do you think he's going to be another Master?'

She seemed scarce prepared to go that length, yet she had on the wholea marvellous trust. 'I know what you mean by that. Will it be a careerto incur the jealousies and provoke the machinations that have beenat times almost too much for his father? Well--say it may be, sincenothing but clap-trap, in these dreadful days, _can_, it would seem, make its way, and since, with the curse of refinement and distinction, one may easily find one's self begging one's bread. Put it at theworst--say he _has_ the misfortune to wing his flight further than thevulgar taste of his stupid countrymen can follow. Think, all the same, of the happiness--the same the Master has had. He'll _know_. '

Peter looked rueful. 'Ah but _what_ will he know?'

'Quiet joy!' cried Mrs Mallow, quite impatient and turning away. 

II

He had of course before long to meet the boy himself on it and to hearthat practically everything was settled. Lance was not to go up again, but to go instead to Paris where, since the die was cast, he wouldfind the best advantages. Peter had always felt he must be taken ashe was, but had never perhaps found him so much of that pattern as onthis occasion. 'You chuck Cambridge then altogether? Doesn't that seemrather a pity?'

Lance would have been like his father, to his friend's sense, had hehad less humour, and like his mother had he had more beauty. Yet itwas a good middle way for Peter that, in the modern manner, he was, to the eye, rather the young stock-broker than the young artist. Theyouth reasoned that it was a question of time--there was such a millto go through, such an awful lot to learn. He had talked with fellowsand had judged. 'One has got, today, ' he said, 'don't you see? toknow. '

His interlocutor, at this, gave a groan. 'Oh hang it, _don't_ know!'

Lance wondered. '"Don't"? Then what's the use--?'

'The use of what?'

'Why of anything. Don't you think I've talent?'

Peter smoked away for a little in silence; then went on: 'It isn'tknowledge, it's ignorance that--as we've been beautifully told--isbliss. '

'Don't you think I've talent?' Lance repeated. 

Peter, with his trick of queer kind demonstrations, passed his armround his godson and held him a moment. 'How do I know?'

'Oh, ' said the boy, 'if it's your own ignorance you're defending--!'

Again, for a pause, on the sofa, his godfather smoked. 'It isn't. I'vethe misfortune to be omniscient. '

'Oh well, ' Lance laughed again, 'if you know _too_ much--!'

'That's what I do, and it's why I'm so wretched. '

Lance's gaiety grew. 'Wretched? Come, I say!'

'But I forgot, ' his companion went on--'you're not to know about that. It would indeed for you too make the too much. Only I'll tell you whatI'll do. ' And Peter got up from the sofa. 'If you'll go up again I'llpay your way at Cambridge. '

Lance stared, a little rueful in spite of being still more amused. 'OhPeter! You disapprove so of Paris?'

'Well, I'm afraid of it. '

'Ah I see!'

'No, you don't see--yet. But you will--that is you would. And youmustn't. '

The young man thought more gravely. 'But one's innocence, already--!'

'Is considerably damaged? Ah that won't matter, ' Peterpersisted--'we'll patch it up here. '

'Here? Then you want me to stay at home?'

Peter almost confessed to it. 'Well, we're so right--we fourtogether--just as we are. We're so safe. Come, don't spoil it. '

The boy, who had turned to gravity, turned from this, on the realpressure of his friend's tone, to consternation. 'Then what's a fellowto be?'

'My particular care. Come, old man'--and Peter now fairlypleaded--'_I'll_ look out for you. '

Lance, who had remained on the sofa with his legs out and his hands inhis pockets, watched him with eyes that showed suspicion. Then he gotup. 'You think there's something the matter with me--that I can't makea success. '

'Well, what do you call a success?'

Lance thought again. 'Why the best sort, I suppose, is to please one'sself. Isn't that the sort that, in spite of cabals and things, is--inhis own peculiar line--the Master's?'

There were so much too many things in this question to be answeredat once that they practically checked the discussion, which becameparticularly difficult in the light of such renewed proof that, thoughthe young man's innocence might, in the course of his studies, ashe contended, somewhat have shrunken, the finer essence of it stillremained. That was indeed exactly what Peter had assumed and whatabove all he desired; yet perversely enough it gave him a chill. Theboy believed in the cabals and things, believed in the peculiar line, believed, to be brief, in the Master. What happened a month or twolater wasn't that he went up again at the expense of his godfather, but that a fortnight after he had got settled in Paris this personagesent him fifty pounds. 

He had meanwhile at home, this personage, made up his mind to theworst; and what that might be had never yet grown quite so vivid tohim as when, on his presenting himself one Sunday night, as he neverfailed to do, for supper, the mistress of Carrara Lodge met himwith an appeal as to--of all things in the world--the wealth of theCanadians. She was earnest, she was even excited. 'Are many of them_really_ rich?'

He had to confess he knew nothing about them, but he often thoughtafterwards of that evening. The room in which they sat was adornedwith sundry specimens of the Master's genius, which had the merit ofbeing, as Mrs Mallow herself frequently suggested, of an unusuallyconvenient size. They were indeed of dimensions not customary in theproducts of the chisel, and they had the singularity that, if theobjects and features intended to be small looked too large, theobjects and features intended to be large looked too small. TheMaster's idea, either in respect to this matter or to any other, hadin almost any case, even after years, remained undiscoverable toPeter Brench. The creations that so failed to reveal it stood about onpedestals and brackets, on tables and shelves, a little staring whitepopulation, heroic, idyllic, allegoric, mythic, symbolic, in which'scale' had so strayed and lost itself that the public square and thechimney-piece seemed to have changed places, the monumental being alldiminutive and the diminutive all monumental; branches at any rate, markedly, of a family in which stature was rather oddly irrespectiveof function, age and sex. They formed, like the Mallows themselves, poor Brench's own family--having at least to such a degree the note offamiliarity. The occasion was one of those he had long ago learnt toknow and to name--short flickers of the faint flame, soft gusts of akinder air. Twice a year regularly the Master believed in his fortune, in addition to believing all the year round in his genius. This timeit was to be made by a bereaved couple from Toronto, who had given himthe handsomest order for a tomb to three lost children, each ofwhom they desired to see, in the composition, emblematically andcharacteristically represented. 

Such was naturally the moral of Mrs Mallow's question: if their wealthwas to be assumed, it was clear, from the nature of their admiration, as well as from mysterious hints thrown out (they were a littleodd!) as to other possibilities of the same mortuary sort, what theirfurther patronage might be; and not less evident that should theMaster become at all known in those climes nothing would be moreinevitable than a run of Canadian custom. Peter had been presentbefore at runs of custom, colonial and domestic--present at each ofthose of which the aggregation had left so few gaps in the marblecompany round him; but it was his habit never at these junctures toprick the bubble in advance. The fond illusion, while it lasted, easedthe wound of elections never won, the long ache of medals and diplomascarried off, on every chance, by everyone but the Master; it moreoverlighted the lamp that would glimmer through the next eclipse. Theylived, however, after all--as it was always beautiful to see--at aheight scarce susceptible of ups and downs. They strained a point attimes charmingly, strained it to admit that the public was here andthere not too bad to buy; but they would have been nowhere withouttheir attitude that the Master was always too good to sell. They wereat all events deliciously formed, Peter often said to himself, fortheir fate; the Master had a vanity, his wife had a loyalty, of whichsuccess, depriving these things of innocence, would have diminishedthe merit and the grace. Anyone could be charming under a charm, and as he looked about him at a world of prosperity more void ofproportion even than the Master's museum he wondered if he knewanother pair that so completely escaped vulgarity. 

'What a pity Lance isn't with us to rejoice!' Mrs Mallow on thisoccasion sighed at supper. 

'We'll drink to the health of the absent, ' her husband replied, filling his friend's glass and his own and giving a drop to theircompanion; 'but we must hope he's preparing himself for a happinessmuch less like this of ours this evening--excusable as I grant it tobe!--than like the comfort we have always (whatever has happened orhas not happened) been able to trust ourselves to enjoy. The comfort, 'the Master explained, leaning back in the pleasant lamplight andfirelight, holding up his glass and looking round at his marblefamily, quartered more or less, a monstrous brood, in every room--'thecomfort of art in itself!'

Peter looked a little shyly at his wine. 'Well--I don't care what youmay call it when a fellow doesn't--but Lance must learn to _sell_, youknow. I drink to his acquisition of the secret of a base popularity!'

'Oh yes, _he_ must sell, ' the boy's mother, who was still more, however, this seemed to give out, the Master's wife, rather artlesslyallowed. 

'Ah, ' the sculptor after a moment confidently pronounced, 'Lance_will_. Don't be afraid. He'll have learnt. '

'Which is exactly what Peter, ' Mrs Mallow gaily returned--'why in theworld were you so perverse, Peter?--wouldn't, when he told him, hearof. '

Peter, when this lady looked at him with accusatory affection--a graceon her part not infrequent--could never find a word; but the Master, who was always all amenity and tact, helped him out now as he hadoften helped him before. 'That's his old idea, you know--on whichwe've so often differed: his theory that the artist should be allimpulse and instinct. _I_ go in of course for a certain amount ofschool. Not too much--but a due proportion. There's where his protestcame in, ' he continued to explain to his wife, 'as against what_might_, don't you see? be in question for Lance. '

'Ah well'--and Mrs Mallow turned the violet eyes across the tableat the subject of this discourse--'he's sure to have meant of coursenothing but good. Only that wouldn't have prevented him, if Lance_had_ taken his advice, from being in effect horribly cruel. '

They had a sociable way of talking of him to his face as if he hadbeen in the clay or--at most--in the plaster, and the Master wasunfailingly generous. He might have been waving Egidio to make himrevolve. 'Ah but poor Peter wasn't so wrong as to what it may afterall come to that he _will_ learn. '

'Oh but nothing artistically bad, ' she urged--still, for poor Peter, arch and dewy. 

'Why just the little French tricks, ' said the Master: on which theirfriend had to pretend to admit, when pressed by Mrs Mallow, that theseæsthetic vices had been the objects of his dread. 

III

'I know now, ' Lance said to him the next year, 'why you were so muchagainst it. ' He had come back supposedly for a mere interval and waslooking about him at Carrara Lodge, where indeed he had already on twoor three occasions since his expatriation briefly reappeared. This hadthe air of a longer holiday. 'Something rather awful has happened tome. It _isn't_ so very good to know. '

'I'm bound to say high spirits don't show in your face, ' Peter wasrather ruefully forced to confess. 'Still, are you very sure you doknow?'

'Well, I at least know about as much as I can bear. ' These remarkswere exchanged in Peter's den, and the young man, smoking cigarettes, stood before the fire with his back against the mantel. Something ofhis bloom seemed really to have left him. 

Poor Peter wondered. 'You're clear then as to what in particular Iwanted you not to go for?'

'In particular?' Lance thought. 'It seems to me that in particularthere can have been only one thing. '

They stood for a little sounding each other. 'Are you quite sure?'

'Quite sure I'm a beastly duffer? Quite--by this time. '

'Oh!'--and Peter turned away as if almost with relief. 

'It's _that_ that isn't pleasant to find out. '

'Oh I don't care for "that", ' said Peter, presently coming roundagain. 'I mean I personally don't. '

'Yet I hope you can understand a little that I myself should!'

'Well, what do you mean by it?' Peter sceptically asked. 

And on this Lance had to explain--how the upshot of his studies inParis had inexorably proved a mere deep doubt of his means. Thesestudies had so waked him up that a new light was in his eyes; but whatthe new light did was really to show him too much. 'Do you know what'sthe matter with me? I'm too horribly intelligent. Paris was really thelast place for me. I've learnt what I can't do. '

Poor Peter stared--it was a staggerer; but even after they had had, onthe subject, a longish talk in which the boy brought out to the fullthe hard truth of his lesson, his friend betrayed less pleasure thanusually breaks into a face to the happy tune of 'I told you so!' PoorPeter himself made now indeed so little a point of having told him sothat Lance broke ground in a different place a day or two after. 'Whatwas it then that--before I went--you were afraid I should find out?'This, however, Peter refused to tell him--on the ground that ifhe hadn't yet guessed perhaps he never would, and that in any casenothing at all for either of them was to be gained by giving the thinga name. Lance eyed him on this an instant with the bold curiosity ofyouth--with the air indeed of having in his mind two or three names, of which one or other would be right. Peter nevertheless, turning hisback again, offered no encouragement, and when they parted afresh itwas with some show of impatience on the side of the boy. Accordinglyon their next encounter Peter saw at a glance that he had now, in theinterval, divined and that, to sound his note, he was only waitingtill they should find themselves alone. This he had soon arrangedand he then broke straight out. 'Do you know your conundrum has beenkeeping me awake? But in the watches of the night the answer cameover me--so that, upon my honour, I quite laughed out. Had you beensupposing I had to go to Paris to learn _that_? Even now, to see himstill so sublimely on his guard, Peter's young friend had to laughafresh. 'You won't give a sign till you're sure? Beautiful old Peter!'But Lance at last produced it. 'Why, hang it, the truth about theMaster. '

It made between them for some minutes a lively passage, full ofwonder for each at the wonder of the other. 'Then how long have youunderstood--'

'The true value of his work? I understood it, ' Lance recalled, 'assoon as I began to understand anything. But I didn't begin fully to dothat, I admit, till I got _là-bas_. '

'Dear, dear!'--Peter gasped with retrospective dread. 

'But for what have you taken me? I'm a hopeless muff--that I _had_to have rubbed in. But I'm not such a muff as the Master!' Lancedeclared. 

'Then why did you never tell me--?'

'That I hadn't, after all'--the boy took him up--'remained such anidiot? Just because I never dreamed _you_ knew. But I beg your pardon. I only wanted to spare you. And what I don't now understand is how thedeuce then for so long you've managed to keep bottled. '

Peter produced his explanation, but only after some delay and with agravity not void of embarrassment. 'It was for your mother. '

'Oh!' said Lance. 

'And that's the great thing now--since the murder _is_ out. I wanta promise from you. I mean'--and Peter almost feverishly followed itup--'a vow from you, solemn and such as you owe me here on the spot, that you'll sacrifice anything rather than let her ever guess--'

'That _I've_ guessed?'--Lance took it in. 'I see. ' He evidently aftera moment had taken in much. 'But what is it you've in mind that I mayhave a chance to sacrifice?'

'Oh one has always something. '

Lance looked at him hard. 'Do you mean that _you've_ had--?' The lookhe received back, however, so put the question by that he found soonenough another. 'Are you really sure my mother doesn't know?'

Peter, after renewed reflexion, was really sure. 'If she does she'stoo wonderful. '

'But aren't we all too wonderful?'

'Yes, ' Peter granted--'but in different ways. The thing's sodesperately important because your father's little public consistsonly, as you know then, ' Peter developed--'well, of how many?'

'First of all, ' the Master's son risked, 'of himself. And last of alltoo. I don't quite see of whom else. '

Peter had an approach to impatience. 'Of your mother, Isay--_always_. '

Lance cast it all up. 'You absolutely feel that?'

'Absolutely. '

'Well then with yourself that makes three. '

'Oh _me_!'--and Peter, with a wag of his kind old head, modestlyexcused himself. The number's at any rate small enough for anyindividual dropping out to be too dreadfully missed. Therefore, to putit in a nutshell, take care, my boy--that's all--that _you're_ not!'

'_I've_ got to keep on humbugging?' Lance wailed. 

'It's just to warn you of the danger of your failing of that that I'veseized this opportunity. '

'And what do you regard in particular, ' the young man asked, 'as thedanger?'

'Why this certainty: that the moment your mother, who feels sostrongly, should suspect your secret--well, ' said Peter desperately, 'the fat would be on the fire. '

Lance for a moment seemed to stare at the blaze. 'She'd throw meover?'

'She'd throw _him_ over. '

'And come round to us?'

Peter, before he answered, turned away. 'Come round to _you_. ' Buthe had said enough to indicate--and, as he evidently trusted, toavert--the horrid contingency. 

IV

Within six months again, none the less, his fear was on more occasionsthan one all before him. Lance had returned to Paris for anothertrial; then had reappeared at home and had had, with his father, forthe first time in his life, one of the scenes that strike sparks. Hedescribed it with much expression to Peter, touching whom (since theyhad never done so before) it was the sign of a new reserve on the partof the pair at Carrara Lodge that they at present failed, on a matterof intimate interest, to open themselves--if not in joy then insorrow--to their good friend. This produced perhaps practicallybetween the parties a shade of alienation and a slight intermissionof commerce--marked mainly indeed by the fact that to talk at his easewith his old playmate Lance had in general to come to see him. Theclosest if not quite the gayest relation they had yet known togetherwas thus ushered in. The difficulty for poor Lance was a tension athome--begotten by the fact that his father wished him to be atleast the sort of success he himself had been. He hadn't 'chucked'Paris--though nothing appeared more vivid to him than that Paris hadchucked him: he would go back again because of the fascination intrying, in seeing, in sounding the depths--in learning one's lesson, briefly, even if the lesson were simply that of one's impotence in thepresence of one's larger vision. But what did the Master, all aloftin his senseless fluency, know of impotence, and what vision--to becalled such--had he in all his blind life ever had? Lance, heated andindignant, frankly appealed to his godparent on this score. 

His father, it appeared, had come down on him for having, afterso long, nothing to show, and hoped that on his next return thisdeficiency would be repaired. _The_ thing, the Master complacently setforth was--for any artist, however inferior to himself--at leastto 'do' something. 'What can you do? That's all I ask!' _He_ hadcertainly done enough, and there was no mistake about what he had toshow. Lance had tears in his eyes when it came thus to letting his oldfriend know how great the strain might be on the 'sacrifice' askedof him. It wasn't so easy to continue humbugging--as from son toparent--after feeling one's self despised for not grovelling inmediocrity. Yet a noble duplicity was what, as they intimately facedthe situation, Peter went on requiring; and it was still for a timewhat his young friend, bitter and sore, managed loyally to comfort himwith. Fifty pounds more than once again, it was true, rewarded bothin London and in Paris the young friend's loyalty; none the lesssensibly, doubtless, at the moment, that the money was a directadvance on a decent sum for which Peter had long since privatelyprearranged an ultimate function. Whether by these arts or others, atall events, Lance's just resentment was kept for a season--but onlyfor a season--at bay. The day arrived when he warned his companionthat he could hold out--or hold in--no longer. Carrara Lodge hadhad to listen to another lecture delivered from a great height--aninfliction really heavier at last than, without striking back or insome way letting the Master have the truth, flesh and blood couldbear. 

'And what I don't see is, ' Lance observed with a certain irritatedeye for what was after all, if it came to that, owing to himself too;'what I don't see is, upon my honour, how _you_, as things are going, can keep the game up. '

'Oh the game for me is only to hold my tongue, ' said placid Peter. 'And I have my reason. '

'Still my mother?'

Peter showed a queer face as he had often shown it before--that isby turning it straight away. 'What will you have? I haven't ceased tolike her. '

'She's beautiful--she's a dear of course, ' Lance allowed; 'but whatis she to you, after all, and what is it to you that, as to anythingwhatever, she should or she shouldn't?'

Peter, who had turned red, hung fire a little. 'Well--it's all simplywhat I make of it. '

There was now, however, in his young friend a strange, an adoptedinsistence. 'What are you after all to _her_?'

'Oh nothing. But that's another matter. '

'She cares only for my father, ' said Lance the Parisian. 

'Naturally--and that's just why. '

'Why you've wished to spare her?'

'Because she cares so tremendously much. '

Lance took a turn about the room, but with his eyes still on his host. 'How awfully--always--you must have liked her!'

'Awfully. Always, ' said Peter Brench. 

The young man continued for a moment to muse--then stopped again infront of him. 'Do you know how much she cares?' Their eyes met on it, but Peter, as if his own found something new in Lance's, appeared tohesitate, for the first time in an age, to say he did know. '_I've_only just found out, ' said Lance. 'She came to my room last night, after being present, in silence and only with her eyes on me, atwhat I had had to take from him: she came--and she was with me anextraordinary hour. '

He had paused again and they had again for a while sounded each other. Then something--and it made him suddenly turn pale--came to Peter. 'She _does_ know?'

'She does know. She let it all out to me--so as to demand of me nomore than "that", as she said, of which she herself had been capable. She has always, always known, ' said Lance without pity. 

Peter was silent a long time; during which his companion might haveheard him gently breathe, and on touching him might have felt withinhim the vibration of a long low sound suppressed. By the time he spokeat last he had taken everything in. 'Then I do see how tremendouslymuch. '

'Isn't it wonderful?' Lance asked. 

'Wonderful, ' Peter mused. 

'So that if your original effort to keep me from Paris was to keep mefrom knowledge--!' Lance exclaimed as if with a sufficient indicationof this futility. 

It might have been at the futility Peter appeared for a little togaze. 'I think it must have been--without my quite at the time knowingit--to keep _me_!' he replied at last as he turned away.