diff options
Diffstat (limited to '41415-8.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 41415-8.txt | 7273 |
1 files changed, 0 insertions, 7273 deletions
diff --git a/41415-8.txt b/41415-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 6d5f28d..0000000 --- a/41415-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7273 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Studies in Wives, by Marie Belloc Lowndes - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Studies in Wives - -Author: Marie Belloc Lowndes - -Release Date: November 20, 2012 [EBook #41415] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STUDIES IN WIVES *** - - - - -Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - - - Studies in Wives - - By MRS. BELLOC LOWNDES - - - NEW YORK - MITCHELL KENNERLEY - _2 East 29th Street_ - - _Copyright, 1910, by Mitchell Kennerly_ - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - I. ALTHEA'S OPPORTUNITY 1 - - II. MR. JARVICE'S WIFE 47 - - III. A VERY MODERN INSTANCE 93 - - IV. ACCORDING TO MEREDITH 151 - - V. SHAMEFUL BEHAVIOUR? 205 - - VI. THE DECREE MADE ABSOLUTE 277 - - - - -I - -ALTHEA'S OPPORTUNITY - - "His confidence shall be rooted out of his tabernacle, and it shall - bring him to the king of terrors."--JOB xviii. 14. - - -There came the sound of a discreet, embarrassed cough, and Althea Scrope -turned quickly round from the window by which she had been standing -still dressed in her outdoor things. - -She had heard the door open, the unfolding of the tea-table, the setting -down of the tea-tray, but her thoughts had been far away from the old -house in Westminster which was now her home; her thoughts had been in -Newcastle, dwelling for a moment among the friends of her girlhood, for -whom she had been buying Christmas gifts that afternoon. - -The footman's cough recalled her to herself, and to the present. - -"Am I to say that you are at home this afternoon, ma'am?" - -Althea's thoughtful, clear eyes rested full on the youth's anxious face. -He had not been long in the Scropes' service, and this was the first -time he had been left in such a position of responsibility, but Dockett, -the butler, was out, a rare event, for Dockett liked to be master in his -master's house. Before the marriage of Perceval Scrope, Dockett had been -Scrope's valet, and, as Althea was well aware, the man still regarded -her as an interloper. Althea did not like Dockett, but Perceval was very -fond of him, and generally spoke of him to his friends as "Trip." Althea -had never been able to discover the reason of the nickname, and she had -not liked to ask; her husband often spoke a language strange to her. - -"I will see Mr. Bustard if he comes," she said gently. - -Dockett would not have disturbed her by asking the question, for Dockett -always knew, by a sort of instinct, whom his master and mistress wished -to see or to avoid seeing. - -Again she turned and stared out of the high, narrow, curtainless -windows. Perceval Scrope did not like curtains, and so of course there -were no curtains in his wife's drawing-room. - -Snow powdered the ground. It blew in light eddies about the bare -branches of the trees marking the carriage road through St. James's -Park, and was caught in whirling drifts on the frozen sheet of water -which reflected the lights on the bridge spanning the little lake. Even -at this dreary time of the year it was a charming outlook, and one which -most of Althea's many acquaintances envied her. - -And yet the quietude of the scene at which she was gazing so intently -oppressed her, and, suddenly, from having felt warm after her walk -across the park, Althea Scrope felt cold. - -She moved towards the fireplace, and the flames threw a red glow on her -tall, rounded figure, creeping up from the strong serviceable boots to -the short brown skirt, and so to the sable cape which had been one of -her husband's wedding gifts, but which now looked a little antiquated in -cut and style. - -It is a bad thing--a sign that all is not right with her--when a -beautiful young woman becomes indifferent to how she looks. This was the -case with Althea, and yet she was only twenty-two, and looked even -younger; no one meeting her by chance would have taken her to be a -married woman, still less the wife of a noted politician. - -She took off her fur cape and put it on a chair. She might have sent for -her maid, but before her marriage she had always waited on herself, and -she was not very tidy--one of her few points of resemblance with her -husband, and not one which made for harmony. But Mrs. Scrope, if untidy, -was also conscientious, and as she looked at the damp fur cloak her -conscience began to trouble her. - -She rang the bell. "Take my cloak and hang it up carefully in the hall," -she said to the footman. And now the room was once more neat and tidy as -she knew her friend, Mr. Bustard, would like to see it. - -It was a curious and delightful room, but it resembled and reflected the -woman who had to spend so much of her life there as little as did her -quaint and fanciful name of Althea. Her husband, in a fit of petulance -at some exceptional density of vision, had once told her that her name -should have been Jane--Jane, Maud, Amy, any of those old-fashioned, -early Victorian names would have suited Althea, and Althea's outlook on -life when she had married Perceval Scrope. - -Althea's drawing-room attained beauty, not only because of its -proportions, and its delightful outlook on St. James's Park, but also -because quite a number of highly intelligent people had seen to it that -it should be beautiful. - -Although Scrope, who thought he knew his young wife so well, would have -been surprised and perhaps a little piqued if he had been told it, -Althea preferred the house as it had been before her marriage, in the -days when it was scarcely furnished, when this room, for instance, had -been the library-smoking-room of its owner, an owner too poor to offer -himself any of the luxurious fitments which had been added to make it -suitable for his rich bride. - -As soon as Scrope's engagement to the provincial heiress Althea then was -had been announced, his friends--and he was a man of many friends--had -delighted to render him the service of making the pleasant old house in -Delahay Street look as it perchance had looked eighty or a hundred years -ago. The illusion was almost perfect, so cleverly had the flotsam of -Perceval Scrope's ancestral possessions been wedded to the jetsam -gathered in curiosity shops and at country auctions--for the devotion of -Scrope's friends had gone even to that length. - -This being so, it really seemed a pity that these same kind folk had not -been able to--oh! no, not _buy_, that is an ugly word, and besides it -had been Perceval who had been bought, not Althea--to acquire for Scrope -a wife who would have suited the house as well as the house suited -Scrope. - -But that had not been possible. - -Even as it was, the matter of marrying their friend had not been easy. -Scrope was so wilful--that was why they loved him! He had -barred--absolutely barred--Americans, and that although everybody knows -how useful an American heiress can be, not only with her money, but with -her brightness and her wits, to an English politician. He had also -stipulated for a country girl, and he would have preferred one straight -out of the school-room. - -Almost all his conditions had been fulfilled. Althea was nineteen at the -time of her marriage, and, if not exactly country-bred--she was the only -child of a Newcastle magnate--she had seen nothing of the world to which -Scrope and Scrope's Egeria, the woman who had actually picked out Althea -to be Scrope's wife, had introduced her. - -Scrope's Egeria? At the time my little story opens, Althea had long -given up being jealous--jealous, that is, in the intolerant, passionate -sense of the word; in fact, she was ashamed that she had ever been so, -for she now felt sure that Perceval would not have liked her, Althea, -any better, even if there had not been another woman to whom he turned -for flattery and sympathy. - -The old ambiguous term was, in this case, no pseudonym for another and -more natural, if uglier, relationship on the part of a married man, and -of a man whom the careless public believed to be on exceptionally good -terms with his young wife. - -Scrope's Egeria was twenty-four years older than Althea, and nine years -older than Scrope himself. Unfortunately she had a husband who, unlike -Althea, had the bad taste, the foolishness, to be jealous of her close -friendship with Perceval Scrope. And yet, while admitting to herself the -man's folly, Althea had a curious liking for Egeria's husband. There -was, in fact, more between them than their common interest in the other -couple; for he, like Althea, provided what old-fashioned people used to -call the wherewithal; he, like Althea, had been married because of the -gifts he had brought in his hands, the gifts not only of that material -comfort which counts for so much nowadays, but those which, to Scrope's -Egeria, counted far more than luxury, that is, beauty of surroundings -and refinement of living. - -Mr. and Mrs. Panfillen--to give Egeria and her husband their proper -names--lived quite close to Althea and Perceval Scrope, for they dwelt -in Old Queen Street, within little more than a stone's throw of Delahay -Street. - -Joan Panfillen, unlike Althea Scrope, was exquisitely suited to her -curious, old-world dwelling. She had about her small, graceful person, -her picturesque and dateless dress, even in her low melodious voice, -that harmony which is, to the man capable of appreciating it, the most -desirable and perhaps the rarest of feminine attributes. - -There was one thing which Althea greatly envied Mrs. Panfillen, and that -was nothing personal to herself; it was simply the tiny formal garden -which divided the house in Old Queen Street from Birdcage Walk. This -garden looked fresher and greener than its fellows because, by Mrs. -Panfillen's care, the miniature parterres were constantly tended and -watered, while the shrubs both summer and winter were washed and -cleansed as carefully as was everything else likely to be brought in -contact with their owner's wife. - -In spite of the fact that they lived so very near to one another, the -two women were not much together, and as a rule they only met, but that -was, of course, very often, when out in the political and social worlds -to which they both belonged. - -Althea had a curious shrinking from the Panfillens' charming house. It -was there, within a very few weeks of her father's death, that she had -first met Perceval Scrope--and there that he had conducted his careless -wooing. It was in Mrs. Panfillen's boudoir, an octagon-shaped room on -the park side of the house, that he had actually made his proposal, and -that Althea, believing herself to be "in love," and uplifted by the -solemn and yet joyful thought of how happy such a marriage--her marriage -to a member of the first Fair Food Cabinet--would have made her father, -had accepted him. - -From Old Queen Street also had taken place her wedding, which, if -nominally quiet, because the bride still chose to consider herself in -deep mourning, had filled St. Margaret's with one of those gatherings -only brought together on such an occasion--a gathering in which the -foemen of yesterday, and the enemies of to-morrow, unite with the -friends of to-day in order to do honour to a fellow-politician. - -Althea had darker memories connected with Mrs. Panfillen's house. She -had spent there, immediately after her honeymoon, an unhappy fortnight, -waiting for the workpeople to leave her future home in Delahay Street. -It was during that fortnight that for the first time her girlish -complacency had forsaken her, and she had been made to understand how -inadequate her husband found her to the position she was now called upon -to fill. It was then that there had first come to her the humiliating -suspicion that her bridegroom could not forgive her his own sale of -himself. Scrope and Joan Panfillen were subtle people, living in a world -of subtleties, yet in this subtle, unspoken matter of Scrope's -self-contempt concerning his marriage, the simple Althea's knowledge far -preceded theirs. - -In those days Joan Panfillen, kindest, most loyal of hostesses, had -always been taking the bride's part, but how unkind--yes, unkind was the -word--Perceval was, even then! - -Althea had never forgotten one little incident connected with that time, -and this afternoon she suddenly remembered it with singular vividness. -Scrope had been caricatured in _Punch_ as Scrooge; and--well--Althea had -not quite understood. - -"Good Lord!" he had exclaimed, turning to the older woman, "Althea -doesn't know who Scrooge was!" and quickly he had proceeded to put his -young wife through a sharp, and to her a very bewildering examination, -concerning people and places some of whom she had never heard of, while -others seemed vaguely, worryingly familiar. He had ended up with the -words, "And I suppose you consider yourself educated!" A chance muttered -word had then told her that none of these places were real--that none of -these people Perceval had spoken of with such intimate knowledge, had -ever lived! - -Althea had felt bitterly angered as well as hurt. Tears had welled up -into her brown eyes; and Mrs. Panfillen, intervening with far more eager -decision than she generally showed about even important matters, had -cried, "That's not fair! In fact you are being quite absurd, Perceval! -I've never cared for Dickens, and I'm sure most people, at any rate most -women, who say they like him are pretending--pretending all the time! I -don't believe there's a girl in London who could answer the questions -you put to Althea just now, and if there is such a girl then she's a -literary monster, and I for one don't want to know her." - -As only answer Scrope had turned and put a thin brown finger under -Althea's chin. "Crying?" he had said, "Baby! She shan't be made to -learn her Dickens if she doesn't want to, so there!" - -At the time Althea had tried to smile, but the words her husband had -used had hurt her, horribly, for they had seemed to cast a reflection on -her father--the father who thought so much of education, and who had -been at such pains to obtain for his motherless only child an ideal -chaperon-governess, a lady who had always lived with the best families -in Newcastle. Miss Burt would certainly have made her pupil read Dickens -if Dickens were in any real sense an educating influence, instead of -writing, as Althea had always understood he did, only about queer and -vulgar people. - -Not educated? Why, her father had sent her away from him for a whole -year to Dresden, in order that she might learn German and study music to -the best possible advantage! True, she had not learnt her French in -France, for her father had a prejudice against the French; he belonged -to a generation which admired Germany, and disliked and distrusted the -French. She had, however, been taught French by an excellent teacher, a -French Protestant lady who had lived all her life in England. Of course -Althea had never read a French novel, but she could recite, even now, -whole pages of Racine and Corneille by heart. - -And yet, even in this matter of languages, Perceval was unfair, for some -weeks after he had said that cruel thing to her about education, and -when they were at last settling down in their own house, arranging the -details of their first dinner party, he had said to her with a certain -abrupt ill-humour, "The one language I thought you _did_ know was -menu-French!" - -Joan Panfillen was also disappointed in Althea. Scrope's Egeria had -hoped to convert Scrope's wife, not into a likeness of herself--she was -far too clever a woman to hope to do that--but into a bright, cheerful -companion for Perceval Scrope's lighter hours. She had always vaguely -supposed that this was the rôle reserved to pretty, healthy young women -possessed of regular features, wavy brown hair, and good teeth.... - -But Mrs. Panfillen had soon realised, and the knowledge brought with it -much unease and pain, that she had made a serious mistake in bringing -about the marriage. And yet it had been necessary to do something; there -had come a moment when not only she, but even Scrope himself, had felt -that he must be lifted out of the class--always distrusted and despised -in England--of political adventurers. Scrope required, more than most -men, the solid platform, nay, the pedestal, of wealth, and accordingly -his Egeria had sacrificed herself and, incidentally, the heiress, -Althea. - -But, as so often happens to those who make the great renouncement, Joan -Panfillen found that after all no such thing as true sacrifice was to be -required of her. - -After his marriage, Scrope was more often with her than he had ever -been, and far more willing, not only to ask but to take, his Egeria's -advice on all that concerned his brilliant, meteoric career. He seldom -mentioned his wife, but Mrs. Panfillen knew her friend far too well not -to know how it was with him; Althea fretted his nerves, offended his -taste, jarred his conscience, at every turn of their joint life. - -There were, however, two meagre things to the good--Althea's fortune, -the five thousand a year, which now, after four years, did not seem so -large an income as it had seemed at first; and the fact that Scrope's -marriage had extinguished the odious, and, what was much more unpleasant -to such a woman as was Joan Panfillen, the ridiculous, jealousy of -Joan's husband. - -Thomas Panfillen greatly admired Althea; he thought her what she was--a -very lovely young woman, and the fact that he had known her father made -him complacently suppose that he had brought about her marriage to the -peculiar, he was told the remarkably clever, if rather odd, Perceval -Scrope. - -Baulked of certain instinctive rights, the human heart seeks -compensation as surely as water seeks its level. Althea, unknown to -herself, had a compensation. His name was John Bustard. He was in a -public office--to be precise, the Privy Council Office. He lived in -rooms not far from his work, that is, not far from Delahay Street, and -he had got into the way of dropping in to tea two, three, sometimes even -four times a week. - -The fact that Bustard was an old schoolfellow of Scrope's had been his -introduction to Althea in the early days when she had been -conscientiously anxious to associate herself with her husband's -interests past and present. But of the innumerable people with whom -Scrope had brought her into temporary contact, Mr. Bustard--she always -called him Mr. Bustard, as did most other people--was the one human -being who, being the fittest as regarded herself, survived. - -And yet never had there been a man less suited to play the part of -hero, or even of consoler. Mr. Bustard was short, and his figure was -many years older than his age, which was thirty-four. While forcing -himself to take two constitutionals a day, he indulged in no other -manlier form of exercise, and his contempt for golf was the only thing -that tended to a lack of perfect understanding between his colleagues -and himself. He was interested in his work, but he tried to forget it -when he was not at the office. Bustard was a simple soul, but blessed -with an unformulated, though none the less real, philosophy of life. - -Of the matter nearest his heart he scarcely ever spoke, partly because -he had always supposed it to be uninteresting to anyone but himself, and -also on account of a certain thorny pride which prevented his being -willing to ask favours from the indifferent. - -This matter nearest Mr. Bustard's heart concerned his two younger -brothers and an orphan sister whom he supremely desired to do the best -for, and to set well forward in life. - -It was of these three young people that he and Althea almost always -talked, and if Althea allowed herself to have an ardent wish, it was -that her husband would permit her to invite Mr. Bustard's sister for a -few weeks when the girl left the German finishing school which she and -Mr. Bustard had chosen, after much anxious deliberation, a year before. - -It soothed Althea's sore heart to know that there was at least one -person in her husband's circle who thought well of her judgment, who -trusted in her discretion, and who did her the compliment of not only -asking, but also of taking her advice. - -John Bustard had formed a very good opinion of Althea, and, -constitutionally incapable of divining the causes which had determined -the choice of Scrope's wife, he considered Mrs. Scrope a further proof, -if indeed proof were needed, of his brilliant schoolfellow's acute -intelligence. He had ventured to say as much to Scrope's late official -chief, one of the few men to whom Mr. Bustard, without a sufficient -cause, would have mentioned a lady's name. But he had been taken aback, -rather disturbed, by the old statesman's dry comment: "Ay, there's -always been method in Scrope's madness. I agree that he has made, from -his own point of view, a very good marriage." - -His wife's friendship with Mr. Bustard did not escape Perceval Scrope's -ironic notice. He affected to think his old schoolfellow a typical -member of the British public, and he had nicknamed him "the -Bullometer," but, finding that his little joke vexed Althea, he had, -with unusual consideration, dropped it. - -Unfortunately the one offensive epithet was soon exchanged for another; -in allusion doubtless to some historical personage of whom Althea had no -knowledge, Scrope began to call Bustard her fat friend. "How's your fat -friend?" he would ask, and a feeling of resentment filled Althea's -breast. It was not John Bustard's fault that he had a bad figure; it was -caused by the sedentary nature of his work, and because, instead of -spending his salary in the way most civil servants spend theirs, that is -in selfish amusements, he spent it on his younger brothers, and on his -little sister's education. - - * * * * * - -Althea again went over to the window and looked out. It had now left off -snowing, and the mists were gathering over the park. Soon a veil of fog -would shut out the still landscape. If Mr. Bustard were coming this -afternoon she hoped he would come soon, and so be gone before Perceval -came in. - -Perceval was going to make a great speech in the House to-night, and -Althea was rather ashamed that she did not care more. He had been put -up to speak against those who had once been of his own political -household and who now regarded him as a renegade, but the subject was -one sure to inspire him, for it was that which he had made his own, and -which had led to his secession from his party. Althea and Mrs. Panfillen -were going together to hear the speech, but, to his wife's surprise, -Scrope had refused to dine with the Panfillens that same evening. - -Perceval Scrope had not been well. To his vexation the fact had been -mentioned in the papers. The intense cold had tried him--the cold, and a -sudden visit to his constituency. - -Althea could not help feeling slightly contemptuous of Perceval's -physical delicacy. Her husband had often looked ill lately, not as ill -as people told her he looked, but still very far from well. Only to -herself did Althea say what she felt sure was the truth, namely that -Perceval's state was due to himself, due to his constant rushing about, -to the way in which he persistently over-excited himself; last, but by -no means least, to the way he ate and drank when the food and drink -pleased him. - -Althea judged her husband with the clear, pitiless eyes of youth, but -none of those about her knew that she so judged him. Indeed, there were -some in her circle, kindly amiable folk, who believed, and said perhaps -a little too loudly, that Althea was devoted to Perceval, and that their -marriage was one of those delightful unions which are indeed made in -Heaven.... - -From the further corner of the room there came the sharp ring of the -telephone bell. No doubt a message saying that Perceval had altered his -plans and was dining out, alone. - -Insensibly Althea's lips tightened. She thought she knew what her -husband was about to suggest. She felt sure that he would tell her, as -he had told her so many times before when he had failed her, to offer -herself to Mrs. Panfillen for dinner. - -But no--the voice she heard calling her by name was not that of Perceval -Scrope. It was a woman's voice, and it seemed to float towards her from -a far distance. "Althea," called the strange voice, "Althea." - -"Yes?" she said, "who is it? I can hardly hear you," and then, with -startling closeness and clearness--the telephone plays one such -tricks--came the answer in a voice she knew well, "It is I--Joan -Panfillen! Are you alone, Althea? Yes? Ah! that's good! I want you to -do me a kindness, dear. I want you to come round here now--at once. -Don't tell anyone you are coming to me. I have a reason for this. Can -you hear what I say, Althea?" - -"Yes," said the listener hesitatingly, "yes, I hear you quite well now, -Joan." - -"Come in by the park side, I mean through the garden--the gate is -unlocked, and I will let you in by the window. Be careful as you walk -across the flags, it's very slippery to-night. Can you come now, at -once?" - -Althea hesitated a moment. Then she answered, in her low, even voice, -"Yes, I'll come now, at once." - -A kindness? What kindness could she, Althea Scrope, do Joan Panfillen? -The fear of the other woman, the hidden distrust with which she regarded -her, gathered sudden force. Not lately, but in the early days of -Scrope's marriage, Mrs. Panfillen had more than once tried to use her -friend's wife, believing--strange that she should have made such a -mistake--that Althea might succeed where she herself had failed in -persuading Scrope for his own good. Althea now told herself that no -doubt Joan wished to see her on some matter connected with Perceval's -coming speech. - -As this thought came to her Althea's white forehead wrinkled in vexed -thought. It was too bad that she should have to go out now, when she was -expecting Mr. Bustard, to whom she had one or two rather important -things to say about his sister----But stay, why should he be told that -she was out? Why indeed should she be still out when Mr. Bustard did -come? It was not yet five o'clock, and he seldom came before a quarter -past. With luck she might easily go over to Joan Panfillen's house and -be back before he came. - -Althea walked quickly out of the drawing-room and down into the hall. -Her fur cloak had been carefully hung up as she had directed. Perceval -always said Luke was a stupid servant, but she liked Luke; he was -careful, honest, conscientious, a very different type of man from the -butler, Dockett. - -Althea passed out into the chilly, foggy air. Delahay Street, composed -of a few high houses, looked dark, forbidding, deserted. She had often -secretly wondered why her husband chose to live in such a place. Of -course she knew that their friends raved about the park side of the -house, but the wife of Perceval Scrope scarcely ever went in or out of -her own door without remembering a dictum of her father's: "Nothing -makes up for a good front entrance." - -Althea walked quickly towards Great George Street; to the left she -passed Boar's Head Yard, where lived an old cabman in whom she took an -interest, and whose cab generally stood at Storey's Gate. - -How strange to think that here had once stood Oliver Cromwell's house! -Her husband had told her this fact very soon after their marriage; it -had seemed to please him very much that they lived so near the spot -where Cromwell had once lived. Althea even at the time had thought this -pleasure odd, in fact affected, on Perceval's part. - -If the great Protector's house stood there _now_, filled with -interesting little relics of the man, she could have understood, perhaps -to a certain extent sympathised with, Perceval's feeling, for Cromwell -had been one of her father's heroes. But to care or pretend to care for -a vanished association----! - -But Perceval was like that. No man living--or so Althea believed--was so -full of strange whimsies and fads as was Perceval Scrope! And so -thinking of him she suddenly remembered, with a tightening of the heart, -how often her husband's feet had trodden the way she was now treading, -hastening from the house which she had just left to the house to which -she was now going. - -Jealous of Joan Panfillen? Nay, Althea assured herself that there was no -room in her heart for jealousy, but it was painful, even more, it was -hateful, to know that there were people who pitied her because of this -peculiar intimacy between Perceval and Joan. Why, quite lately, there -had been a recrudescence of talk about their friendship, so an ill-bred -busybody had hinted to Althea only the day before. - -The wife was dimly aware that there had been a time when Mrs. Panfillen -had hoped to form with her an unspoken compact; each would have helped -the other, that is, to "manage" Perceval; but the moment when such an -alliance would have been possible had now gone for ever--even if it had -ever existed. Althea would have had to have been a different -woman,--older, cleverer, less scrupulous, more indifferent than she was, -even now, to the man she had married, to make such a compact possible. - -When about to cross Great George Street she stopped and hesitated. Why -should she do this thing, why leave her house at Joan Panfillen's -bidding? But Althea, even as she hesitated, knew that she would go on. -She had said that she was coming, and she was not one to break lightly -even a light word. - -As she crossed Storey's Gate, she noticed the stationary cab of the old -man who lived in Boar's Head Yard. It had been standing there when she -had come in from her walk, and she felt a thrill of pity--the old man -made a gallant fight against misfortune. She and Joan Panfillen were -both very kind to him. - -Althea told herself that this sad world is full of real trouble, and the -thought made her ashamed of the feelings which she had just allowed to -possess and shake her with jealous pain. And yet--yet, though many -people envied her, how far from happy Althea knew herself to be, and how -terribly grey her life now looked, stretching out in front of her. - -As she passed into Birdcage Walk, and came close to the little iron gate -which Mrs. Panfillen had told her was unlocked, she saw that a woman -stood on the path of the tiny garden behind the railings. - -Of course it was not Joan herself; the thought that Joan, delicate, -fragile as she was, would come out into the cold, foggy air was -unthinkable; scarcely less strange was it to see standing there, -cloakless and hatless, Joan's maid, a tall, gaunt, grey-haired woman -named Bolt, who in the long ago had been nurse to the Panfillens' dead -child. Scrope had told Althea the story of the brief tragedy very early -in his acquaintance with her; he had spoken with strong feeling, and -that although the child had been born, had lived, and had died before he -himself had known Joan. - -In the days when she had been Mrs. Panfillen's guest, that is before her -marriage, Althea had known the maid well, known and liked her grim -honesty of manner, but since Althea's marriage to Perceval Scrope there -had come a change over Bolt's manner. She also had made Althea feel that -she was an interloper, and now the sight of the woman standing waiting -in the cold mist disturbed her. - -Bolt looked as if she had been there a very long time, and yet Althea -had hurried; she was even a little breathless. As she touched the gate, -she saw that it swung loosely. Everything had been done to make her -coming easy; how urgent must be Joan's need of her! - -Althea became oppressed with a vague fear. She looked at the maid -questioningly. "Is Mrs. Panfillen ill?" she asked. The other shook her -head. "There's nothing ailing Mrs. Panfillen," she said in a low voice. - -Together, quite silently, they traversed the flagged path, and then Bolt -did a curious thing. She preceded her mistress's visitor up the iron -steps leading to the boudoir window, and leaving her there, on the -little balcony, went down again into the garden, and once more took up -her station near the gate as if mounting guard. - -The long French window giving access to the boudoir was closed, and in -the moment that elapsed before it was opened from within Althea Scrope -took unconscious note of the room she knew so well, and of everything in -it, including the figure of the woman she had come to see. - -It was a panelled octagon, the panels painted a pale Wedgwood blue, -while just below the ceiling concave medallions were embossed with -flower garlands and amorini. - -A curious change had been made since Althea had last seen the room. An -old six-leaved screen, of gold so faded as to have become almost silver -in tint, which had masked the door, now stood exactly opposite the -window behind which Althea was standing. It concealed the straight -Empire sofa which, as Mr. Panfillen was fond of telling his wife's -friends, on the very rare occasions when he found himself in this room -with one of them, had formerly stood in the Empress Josephine's boudoir -at Malmaison; and, owing to the way it was now placed, the old screen -formed a delicate and charming background to Mrs. Panfillen's figure. - -Scrope's Egeria stood in the middle of the room waiting for Scrope's -wife. She was leaning forward in a curious attitude, as if she were -listening, and the lemon-coloured shade of the lamp standing on the -table threw a strange gleam on her lavender silk gown, fashioned, as -were ever the clothes worn by Joan Panfillen, with a certain austere -simplicity and disregard of passing fashion. - -Althea tapped at the window, and the woman who had sent for her turned -round, and, stepping forward, opened the window wide. - -"Come in!" she cried. "Come in, Althea--how strange that you had to -knock! I've been waiting for you so long." - -"I came as quickly as I could--I don't think I can have been five -minutes." - -Althea stepped through the window, bringing with her a blast of cold, -damp air. She looked questioningly at Mrs. Panfillen. She felt, she -hardly knew why, trapped. The other's look of anxious, excited scrutiny -disturbed her. - -Mrs. Panfillen's fair face, usually pale, was flushed. - -So had she reddened, suddenly, when Althea had come to tell her of her -engagement to Perceval Scrope. So had she looked when standing on the -doorstep as Althea and Perceval started for their honeymoon, just after -there had taken place a strange little scene--for Scrope, following the -example of Thomas Panfillen, who had insisted on what he called saluting -the bride, had taken Panfillen's wife into his arms and kissed her. - -"Althea"--Joan took the younger woman's hand in hers and held it, -closely, as she spoke, "don't be frightened,--but Perceval is here, -ill,--and I've sent for you to take him home." - -"Ill?" A look of dismay came over Althea's face. "I hope he's not too -ill to speak to-night--that would be dreadful--he'd be terribly upset, -terribly disappointed!" Even as she spoke she knew she was using words -which to the other would seem exaggerated, a little childish. - -"I'm sure he'd rather you took him home, I'm sure he'd rather not be -found----" Mrs. Panfillen hesitated a moment, and again she said the -words "'ill', 'here'," and for the first time Althea saw that there was -a look of great pain and strain on Joan's worn, sensitive face. - -"Of course not!" said the young wife quickly. "Of course he mustn't be -ill here; he must come home, at once." - -Althea's pride was protesting hotly against her husband's stopping a -moment in a house where he was not wanted--pride and a certain -resentment warring together in her heart. How strange London people -were! This woman whom folk--the old provincial word rose to her -lips--whom folk whispered was over-fond of Perceval--why, no sooner was -he ill than her one thought was how to get rid of him quietly and -quickly! - -Mrs. Panfillen, looking at her, watching with agonised intensity the -slow workings of Althea's mind, saw quite clearly what Perceval's wife -was feeling, saw it with a bitter sense of what a few moments ago she -would have thought inconceivable she could ever feel again--amusement. - -She went across to the window and opened it. As if in answer to a -signal, the little iron gate below swung widely open: "Bolt has gone to -get a cab," she said, without turning round; "we thought that it would -be simplest. The old cabman knows us all--it will be quicker." She spoke -breathlessly, but there was a tone of decision in her voice, a gentle -restrained tone, but one which Althea knew well to spell finality. - -"But where _is_ Perceval?" - -Althea looked round her bewildered. She noticed, for the first time, -that flung carelessly across two chairs lay his outdoor coat, his -gloves, his stick, his hat. Then he also had come in by the park side of -the house? - -Mrs. Panfillen went towards her with slow, hesitating steps. - -"He is here," she said in a low tone, "behind the screen. He was sitting -on the sofa reading me the notes of his speech, and--and he fell back." -She began moving the screen, and as she did so she went on, "I sent for -Bolt--she was a nurse once, you know, and she got the brandy which you -see there----" - -But Althea hardly heard the words; she was gazing, with an oppressed -sense of discomfort and fear, at her husband. Yes, Perceval looked -ill--very ill,--and he was lying in so peculiar a position! "I suppose -when people faint they have to put them like that," thought Althea to -herself, but she felt concerned, a little frightened.... - -Perceval Scrope lay stretched out stiffly on the sofa, his feet resting -on a chair which had been placed at the end of the short, frail-looking -little couch. His fair, almost lint white, hair was pushed back from his -forehead, showing its unusual breadth. The grey eyes were half closed, -and he was still wearing, wound about his neck so loosely that it hid -his mouth and chin, a silk muffler. - -Althea had the painful sensation that he did not like her to be there, -that it must be acutely disagreeable to him to feel that she saw him in -such a condition of helplessness and unease. And yet she went on looking -at him, strangely impressed, not so much by the rigidity, as by the -intense stillness of his body. Scrope as a rule was never still; when he -was speaking, his whole body, each of his limbs, spoke with him. - -By the side of the sofa was a small table, on which stood a decanter, -unstoppered. - -"Has he been like that long?" Althea whispered at length. "He--he looks -so strange." - -Joan Panfillen came close up to the younger woman; again she put her -hand on her companion's arm. - -"Althea," she said, "don't you understand? Can't you see the dreadful -thing that has happened?"--and as the other looked down into the -quivering face turned up to hers, she added with sudden passion, "Should -I want you to take him away if he were still here?--should I want him to -go if there were anything left that I could do for him?" - -And then Althea at last understood, and so understanding her mind for -once moved quickly, and she saw with mingled terror and revolt what it -was that the woman on whose face her eyes were now riveted was requiring -of her. - -"You sent for me to take him home--dead?" - -It was a statement rather than a question. Mrs. Panfillen made a -scarcely perceptible movement of assent. "It is what he would have -wished," she whispered, "I am quite sure it is what he would have wished -you to do." - -"I--I am sorry, but I don't think I can do that." - -Althea was speaking to herself rather than to the other woman. She was -grappling with a feeling of mortal horror and fear. She had always been -afraid of Perceval Scrope, afraid and yet fascinated, and now he, dead, -seemed to be even more formidable, more beckoning, than he had been -alive. - -She turned away and covered her eyes with her hand. "Why did you tell -me?" she asked, a little wildly. "If you hadn't told me that he was dead -I should never have known. I should even have done the--the dreadful -thing you want me to do." - -"Bolt thought that--Bolt said you would not know," Mrs. Panfillen spoke -with sombre energy. "She wished me to allow her to take him down into -the garden to meet you in the darkness----But,--but Althea, that would -have been an infamous thing from me to you----" She waited a moment, and -then in a very different voice, in her own usual measured and gentle -accents, she added, "My dear, forgive me. We will never speak of this -again. I was wrong, selfish, to think of subjecting you to such an -ordeal. All I ask"--and there came into her tone a sound of shamed -pleading--"is that you should allow Tom--Tom and other people--to think -that you were here when it happened." - -Althea remained silent. Then, uncertainly, she walked across to the -window and opened it. The action was symbolic--and so it was understood -by the woman watching her so anxiously. - -But still Althea said nothing. She stood looking out into the darkness, -welcoming the feel of the cold damp air. She gave herself a few brief -moments--they seemed very long moments to Joan Panfillen--before she -said the irrevocable words, and when she did say them, they sounded -muffled, and uttered from far away, for Althea as she spoke did not turn -round; she feared to look again on that which might unnerve her, render -her unfit for what she was about to do. - -"Joan," she said, "I will do what you ask. You were right just -now--right, I mean, in telling me what Perceval would have wished." - -She spoke with nervous, dry haste, and, to her relief, the other woman -spared her thanks.... - -There was a long silence, and then Mrs. Panfillen crept up close to -Althea and touched her, making her start violently. "Then I will call -Bolt," she said, and made as if to pass through the window, but Althea -stopped her with a quick movement of recoil--"No, no!" she cried, "let -me do that!" and she ran down the iron steps; it was good to be out of -sight even for a moment of the still presence of the dead--the dead -whose mocking spirit seemed to be still terribly alive. - -But during the long, difficult minutes that followed, it was Joan -Panfillen, not Althea Scrope, who shrank and blenched. It was Althea who -put out her young strength to help to lift the dead man, and, under -cover of the sheltering mist, to make the leaden feet retrace their -steps down the iron stairway, and along the narrow path they had so -often leapt up and along with eager haste. - -To two of the three women the progress seemed intolerably slow, but to -Althea it was all too swift; she dreaded with an awful dread the -companioned drive which lay before her. - -Perhaps something of what she was feeling was divined by Mrs. Panfillen, -for at the very last Scrope's Egeria forgot self, and made, in all -sincerity, an offer which on her part was heroic. - -"Shall I come with you?" she whispered, averting her eyes from that -which lay huddled up by Althea's side, "I will come, willingly; let me -come--Althea." - -But Althea only shook her head in cold, hurried refusal. She felt that -with speech would go a measure of her courage. - -Afterwards Althea remembered that there had come a respite,--what had -seemed to her at the time an inexplicable delay. A man and a girl had -gone slowly by, staring curiously at the two bare-headed women standing -out on the pavement, and on whose pale faces there fell the quivering -gleam of the old-fashioned cab lamp. Then, when the footfalls of these -passers-by had become faint, Bolt spoke to the driver, and handed him -some money. Althea heard the words as in dream, "Get along as quick as -you can to 24, Delahay Street, there's a good man," and then the clink -of silver in the stillness, followed by the full sound of the man's -wheezy gratitude. - -There came a sudden movement and the dread drive began, the horse -slipping, the cab swaying and jolting over the frozen ground. - -With a gesture which was wholly instinctive, Althea put out her -arm,--her firm, rounded, living arm,--and slipped it round the inert, -sagging thing which had been till an hour ago Perceval Scrope. And, as -she did so, as she pressed him to her, and kept from him the ignominy of -physical helplessness, there came a great lightening of her spirit. - -Fear, the base fear bred of the imagination, fell away from her. For the -first time there came the certainty that her husband was at last -satisfied with her; for the first time she was able to do Perceval -Scrope dead what she had never been able to do Perceval Scrope alive, a -great service--a service which she might have refused to do. - -Once or twice, very early in their married life, Perceval had praised -her, and his praise had given Althea exquisite pleasure because it was -so rare, so seldom lavished; and this long-lost feeling of joy in her -husband's approval came back, filling her eyes with tears. Now at last -Althea felt as if she and Perceval Scrope were one, fused in that kindly -sympathy and understanding which, being the manner of woman she was, -Althea supposed to be the very essence of conjugal love. - -As they were clasped together, she, the quick, he, the dead, Althea lost -count of time; it might have been a moment, it might have been an hour, -when at last the jolting ceased. - -As the old man got off the box of his cab, and rang the bell, Big Ben -boomed out the quarter-past five. - -Since she had last gone through that door a yawning gap had come in -Althea's life, a gap which she had herself bridged. Fear had dropped -from her; she could never again be afraid as she had been afraid when -she, Joan and Perceval had formed for the last time a trinity. The -feeling which had so upheld her, the feeling that for the first time she -and her husband were in unison, gave her not only courage but serenity -of spirit. Althea shrank from acting a lie, but she saw, for the first -time, through Perceval Scrope's eyes, and she admitted the necessity. - -As the door opened, she remembered, almost with exultation, that -Dockett, the butler, was out, and that it was only with Luke, the slow -young footman, that she would have to deal. As she saw his tall, thin -figure emerge hesitatingly into the street, Mrs. Scrope called out in a -strong, confident voice, "Luke--come here! Help me to get Mr. Scrope -indoors. He is ill; and as soon as we have got him into the morning -room, you must go off for a doctor, at once----" - -She waved aside the cabman almost impatiently, and it was Althea, Althea -helped by Luke, who carried Perceval Scrope over the threshold of his -own house, and so into a small room on the ground floor, a room opening -out of the hall, and looking out on to the street. - -"He looks very bad, don't 'e, ma'am?" Luke was startled out of his -acquired passivity. "I'd better go right off now." She bent her head. - -And then Althea, again alone with the dead man, suddenly became -oppressed once more with fear, not the physical terror which had -possessed her when Joan Panfillen had told her the awful truth, but none -the less to her a very agonising form of fear. Althea was afraid that -now, when approaching the end of her ordeal, she would fail Scrope and -the woman he had loved. What was she to say, what story could she invent -to tell those who would come and press her with quick eager questions? -She knew herself to be incapable, not only of untruth, but of invention, -and yet now both were about to be required of her. - -Althea turned out the lights, and wandered out into the hall. She felt -horribly lonely; with the exception of the kindly, stupid youth who had -now gone to find a doctor, there was not a member of her considerable -household in sufficient human sympathy with her to be called to her aid. - -She remembered with a pang that this question of their servants had been -one of the many things concerning which there had been deep fundamental -disagreement between her husband and herself. She had been accustomed -to a well-ordered, decorous household, and would even have enjoyed -managing such a one; but Perceval--Perceval influenced by Dockett--had -ordained otherwise, and Althea had soon become uneasily aware that the -order and decorum reigning below stairs were only apparent. Even now -there came up from the basement the sound of loud talking, of -unrestrained laughter. - -Suddenly someone knocked at the door, a loud double knock which stilled, -as if by magic, the murmur of the voices below. - -Althea looked around her doubtfully, then she retreated into the -darkened room, but no one came up, and she remembered that the other -servants of course supposed Luke to be on duty. It might be--nay, it -almost certainly was--the doctor. With faltering steps she again came -out into the hall and opened the front door; and then, when she saw who -it was who stood there, his kind honest eyes blinking in the sudden -light, Althea began to cry. - -The tears ran down her cheeks; she sighed convulsively, and John -Bustard, looking at her with deep concern and dismay, was quite -unaware--he does not know even to this day--that it was with relief. - -"What is it?" he said. "My dear Mrs. Scrope--what is the matter? Would -you like me to go away--or--or can I be of any use?" - -"Oh, yes," she said piteously. "Indeed you can be of use. Don't go -away--stay with me--I'm--I'm so frightened, Mr. Bustard. Perceval--poor -Perceval is--is ill, and I'm afraid to stay in there with him." - -And it was Mr. Bustard who at once took command--command of Althea, whom -he ultimately ordered to bed; command of the excited household, whose -excitement he sternly suppressed; it was Mr. Bustard who, believing he -told truth, lied for Althea, first to the doctor, and later to the -coroner. - -"How fortunate it was for poor Althea that Mr. Bustard, that nice little -man in the Privy Council Office, was actually in the house when poor -Perceval Scrope's death took place!" bold and cruel people would say to -Mrs. Panfillen, watching the while to see how she took their mention of -the dead man's name. - -"Yes," she would answer them quietly. "Very fortunate indeed. And it was -so kind of Mr. Bustard to get his sister to go away with Althea. Poor -Althea is so alone in the world. I hope she will come and stay with us -when she comes back to town; we were Perceval Scrope's oldest, I might -say closest, friends. You know that their marriage--his and -Althea's--took place from our house?" - -The only human being who scented a mystery was Dockett--Dockett, who was -mindful, as he had a right to be, of his lawful perquisites, and who -will never forgive himself for having been out on that fateful -afternoon. - -"I'd give something to know the whereabouts of Mr. Scrope's overcoat, to -say nothing of his hat and stick. That common ash stick's a relic--it -may be worth money some day!" he observed threateningly to the footman. -But Luke, as only answer, stared at him with stolid dislike. - -Luke had seen nothing of the hat and stick; no doubt they had been left -in the cab in which Mr. Scrope had come back, ill, from the House. As -for the overcoat, it had probably disappeared in the confusion, the -hurried coming and going, of that evening when Luke had been almost run -off his legs answering the door, and his head made quite giddy answering -enquiries. But it was not Luke's business to say what he thought or did -not think. With such a man as Mr. Dockett, it only led to -unpleasantness. - - - - -II - -MR. JARVICE'S WIFE - - -I - -"About that letter of your uncle's? I take it you have no one to -suggest?" - -Thomas Carden glanced anxiously at the son in whom he had so strong a -confidence, and who was the secret pride of his eyes, the only love of -his austere, hard-working life. - -The two were a great contrast to one another. The older man was short -and slight, with the delicate, refined, spiritual face, so often seen in -the provincial man of business belonging to that disappearing generation -of Englishmen who found time to cultivate the things of the mind as well -as the material interests of life. A contrast, indeed, to the tall, -singularly handsome, alert-looking man whom he had just addressed, and -whose perfect physical condition made him appear somewhat younger than -his thirty-two years. - -And yet, in spite or perhaps because of this contrast between them, the -two were bound in the closest, if not exactly in the most confidential, -ties of affection. And, as a matter of course, they were partners in the -great metal-broking business of Josh. Carden, Thomas Carden and Son, -which had been built up by three generations of astute, self-respecting -citizens of Birmingham. - -It was Easter Monday, and the two men were lingering over breakfast, in -a way they seldom allowed themselves time to do on ordinary week-days, -in the finely proportioned, book-lined dining-room of one of those -spacious old houses which remain to prove that the suburb of Edgbaston -was still country a hundred years ago. - -Theodore Carden looked across the table meditatively. He had almost -forgotten his uncle's letter, for, since that letter had been read and -cursorily discussed, he and his father had been talking of a matter -infinitely more important to them both. The matter in question was the -son's recent engagement and coming marriage, a marriage which was a -source of true satisfaction to the older man. His father's unselfish joy -in the good thing which had befallen him touched Theodore Carden keenly, -for the niche occupied in most men's minds by their intimate feminine -circle was filled in that of the young man by the diminutive figure of -the senior partner of Carden and Son. - -As is perhaps more often the case than those who despise human nature -believe, many have the grace to reverence and admire the qualities in -which they know themselves to be deficient. Such a man was the younger -Carden. - -To-day the depths had been stirred, and he let his mind dwell with a -certain sense of shame and self-rebuke on his own and his father's -ideals of human conduct. Even as a schoolboy, Theodore had come to -realise how much more he knew of the ugly side of life than did his -father. But then, old Mr. Carden was quite exceptional; he knew -nothing--or so at least his son believed, and loved him for it--of the -temptations, conflicts, victories, and falls of the average sensual man. - -Theodore's father had been engaged, at twenty, to a girl of his own age -whom he had not been able to marry till twelve years later; she had left -him a widower with this one child after five years of married life, and -Thomas Carden, as he had himself once told his son in a moment of -unwonted confidence, had been absolutely faithful to her before the -marriage and since her death. - -The woman--many people would have said the very fortunate young -woman--who was so soon to become Mrs. Theodore Carden would not possess -such a husband as Thomas Carden had been to his wife. - -And yet, in his heart, Theodore was well aware that the gentle girl he -loved would probably be a happier woman than his own mother had been, -for he, unlike his father, in his dealings with the other sex could call -up at will that facile and yet rather rare gift of tenderness which -women, so life had taught him, value far more than the deeper, -inarticulate love.... - -Carden came back to the prosaic question of his uncle's letter with a -distinct effort. - -"Have I anyone to suggest?" he echoed. "I have no one to suggest, -father. I know, of course, exactly the sort of man Uncle Barrett is -looking for; he's asking us to find him the perfect clerk every man of -business has sought for at some time or other. If I were you I should -write and tell him that the man he wants us to find never has to look -outside England for a job, and, what is more, would rather be a clerk -here--if he's any sense--than a partner in New Zealand!" - -A smile quivered for a moment over the young man's shrewd face; his -uncle was evidently seeking such a man as he was himself, but such men, -so Theodore Carden was able to tell himself without undue conceit, were -not likely to go into voluntary exile even with the bribe of eventual -partnership in a flourishing business. - -There was a pause, and then again the older man broke the silence with -something entirely irrelevant to the subject which was filling the minds -of his son and himself. - -"You haven't looked at the _Post_ this morning? There's nothing in it. -Dearth of real news is, I suppose, responsible for this?" and he -pointed, frowning as he spoke, to a column on the middle page headed -"The Jarvice Mystery. New Developments." - -Again a shrewd, good-humoured smile quivered on his son's firm mouth. - -"In these days newspapers have to follow, not lead, the public taste. -Very few people are honestly as indifferent as you are, father, to that -sort of story. Now even I, who never met poor old Jarvice, cannot help -wondering how he came by his death; and yet you, who knew the man----" - -"I knew him," said the other with a touch of impatience, "as I know, and -as you know, dozens of our fellow-townsmen." - -"Never mind; you, at any rate, can put a face to the man's name; and yet -the question as to whether he was or was not poisoned by his wife, is -one of indifference to you! Now I submit that in this indifference you -are really a little----" he hesitated for a word, but found that none so -well expressed his thought as that which had first arisen to his -lips--"peculiar, father." - -"Am I?" said Thomas Carden slowly; "am I so, Theodore? Nay, nay, I deny -that I am indifferent! Lane"--Major Lane was at that time Head Constable -of Birmingham, and a lifelong friend of the speaker--"Lane was quite -full of it last night. He insisted on telling me all the details of the -affair, and what shocked me, my boy, was not so much the question which, -of course, occupied Lane--that is, as to whether that unhappy young -woman poisoned her husband or not--but the whole state of things which -he disclosed about them. Lane told me certain facts concerning Jarvice, -whom, as you truly say, I have known, in a sense, for years, which I -should not have thought possible of any man--vile things, which should -have prevented his thinking of marriage, especially of marriage with a -young wife." - -Theodore Carden remained silent; he never discussed unsavoury subjects -with his father. Moreover, he had no liking for Major Lane, though he -regarded him with considerable respect, and even with a feeling of -gratitude. Some years before, the Head Constable had helped the young -man out of a serious scrape, the one real scrape--so Carden was -complacently able to assure himself--engendered by his systematic and -habitual pursuit of women. - -Even now he could not recall, without wincing, the interview he had had -on that occasion with his father's friend. During that interview Carden -had felt himself thoroughly condemned, and even despised, by the older -man, and he had been made to feel that it was only for the sake of his -father--his high-minded, unsuspicious father--that he was being saved -from the public exposure of a peculiarly sordid divorce suit. - -But it was in all sincerity that the young man now felt indignant with -Major Lane for having distressed such a delicately spiritual soul as was -Thomas Carden with the hidden details of the Jarvice story. After all, -what interested the public was not the question of Jarvice's moral -character, but whether a gently nurtured and attractive woman had -carried through a sinister and ingenious crime, which, but for a mere -accident, would have utterly defied detection. - -Theodore Carden got up from the breakfast table and walked over to a -circular bow window which commanded charming views of the wide sloping -garden, interspersed with the streams and tiny ponds, which gave the -house its name of Watermead, and which enabled old Mr. Carden to indulge -himself with especial ease in his hobby of water gardening. - -Standing there, the young man began wondering what he should do with -himself this early spring day. - -His _fiancée_ had just left the quiet lodgings, which she and her -mother, a clergyman's widow, had occupied in Birmingham during the last -few weeks, to pay visits to relatives in the south of England. The -thought of going to any of the neighbouring houses where he knew himself -to be sure of a warm welcome, and where the news of his engagement would -be received with boisterous congratulations, tempered in some cases with -an underlying touch of regret and astonishment, filled him with -repugnance. - -The girl he had chosen to be his wife was absolutely different from the -women who had hitherto attracted him; he reverenced as well as loved -her, and hitherto Theodore Carden had never found reverence to be in any -sense a corollary of passion, while he had judged women by those who -were attractive to, or, as was quite as often the case, attracted by, -himself. - -The last few days had brought a great change in his life, and one which -he meant should be permanent; and yet, in spite or perhaps because of -this, as he stood staring with absent eyes into his father's charming -garden, he found his mind dwelling persistently on the only one of his -many amorous adventures which had left a deep, an enduring, and, it must -be admitted, a most delightful mark on the tablets of his memory. - -The whole thing was still so vivid to him that half-involuntarily he -turned round and looked down the long room to where his old father was -sitting. How amazed, above all how shocked and indignant, the man for -whom he had so great an affection and respect would feel if he knew the -pictures which were now floating before his son's retrospective vision! - -Like most thinking human beings, Theodore Carden had not lived to his -present age without being struck by the illogical way the world wags. -Accordingly, he was often surprised and made humorously indignant by -the curious moral standards--they had so many more than one--of the -conventional people among whom it was his fate to dwell and have his -social being. - -Not one of the men he knew, with the exception of his father, and of -those others--a small number truly--whom he believed to be sincerely, -not conventionally, religious, but would have envied him the astonishing -adventure which reconstituted itself so clearly before him to-day--and -yet not one of them but would have been ready to condemn him for having -done what he had done. Theodore Carden, however, so often tempted to -kiss, never felt tempted to tell, and the story of that episode remained -closely hidden, and would so remain, he told himself, to the end of his -life. - - * * * * * - -What had happened had been briefly this. - -One day in the previous October, Carden had taken his seat in the -afternoon express which stops at Birmingham on its way from the north to -Euston, or rather, having taken a leisurely survey of the train, which -was, as he quickly noted, agreeably empty, he had indicated to the -porter carrying his bag a carriage in which sat, alone, a singularly -pretty woman. - -As he afterwards had the delight of telling her, and, as he now reminded -himself with a retrospective thrill of feeling, he had experienced, when -his eyes first met those of the fair traveller, that incommunicable -sensation, part physical, part mental, which your genuine Lothario, if -an intelligent man, always welcomes with quickening pulse as a foretaste -of the special zest to be attached to a coming pursuit. - -Carden's instinct as to such delicate matters had seldom played him -false; never less so than on this occasion, for, within an hour, he and -the lovely stranger had reached that delightful stage of intimacy in -which a man and woman each feels that he and she, while still having -much to learn about the other, are on the verge of a complete -understanding. - -During the three hours' journey, Carden's travelling companion told him -a great deal more about herself than he had chosen to reveal concerning -his own life and affairs; he learnt, for instance, that she was the -young wife of an old man, and that the old man was exceedingly jealous. -Further, that she found the life she was compelled to lead "horribly -boring," and that a widowed cousin, who lived near London, and from whom -she had "expectations," formed a convenient excuse for occasional -absences from home. - -Concerning three matters of fact, however, she completely withheld her -confidence, both then, in those first delicious hours of their -acquaintance, and even later, when their friendship--well, why not say -friendship, for Carden had felt a very strong liking as well as an -over-mastering attraction for this Undine-like creature?--had become -much closer. - -The first and second facts which she kept closely hidden, for reasons -which should perhaps have been obvious, were her surname--she confided -to him that her Christian name was Pansy--and her husband's profession. -The third fact which she concealed was the name of the town where she -lived, and from which she appeared to be travelling that day. - -The trifling incidents of that eventful October journey had become to a -great extent blurred in Theodore Carden's memory, but what had followed -was still extraordinarily vivid, and to-day, on this holiday morning, -standing idly looking out of the window, he allowed his mind a certain -retrospective licence. - -From whom, so he now asked himself, had first come the suggestion that -there should be no parting at Euston between himself and the strange -elemental woman he found so full of unforced fascination and disarming -charm? - -The answer soon came echoing down the corridors of remembrance: from -himself, of course. But even now the memory brought with it shame-faced -triumph as he remembered her quick acquiescence, as free, as unashamed, -as joyous as that of a spoilt child acclaiming an unlooked-for treat. - -And, after all, what harm had there been in the whole halcyon -adventure--what injury had it caused to any human being? - -Carden put the husband, the fatuous old man, who had had the incredible -folly to marry a girl thirty-five years younger than himself, out of -court. Pansy, light-hearted, conscienceless Pansy--he always thought of -her with a touch of easy tenderness--had run no risk of detection, for, -as he had early discovered, she knew no one in London with the solitary -exception of the old cousin who lived in Upper Norwood. - -As for his own business acquaintances, he might, of course, have been -seen by any of them taking about this singularly attractive woman, for -the two went constantly to the theatre, and daily to one or other of the -great restaurants. But what then? Excepting that she was quieter in -manner, far better dressed, and incomparably prettier, Pansy might have -been the wife or sister of any one of his own large circle of relations, -that great Carden clan who held their heads so high in the business -world of the Midlands. - -Nay, nay, no risk had been run, and no one had been a penny the worse! -Indeed, looking back, Theodore Carden told himself that it had been a -perfect, a flawless episode; he even admitted that after all it was -perhaps as well that there had been no attempt at a repetition. - -And yet? And yet the young man, especially during the first few weeks -which had followed that sequence of enchanting days, had often felt -piqued, even a little surprised, that the heroine of his amazing -adventure had not taken advantage of his earnest entreaty that she would -give him the chance of meeting her again. He had left it to her to be -mysterious; as for himself, he had seen no reason why he should conceal -from her either his name or his business address. - -Many men would not have been so frank, but Theodore Carden, too wise in -feminine lore to claim an infallible knowledge of women, never -remembered having made a mistake as to the moral social standing of a -new feminine acquaintance. - -During the few days they had been together, everything had gone to prove -that Pansy was no masquerader from that under-world whose denizens -always filled him with a sensation of mingled aversion and pity. He -could not doubt--he never had doubted--that what she had chosen to tell -him about herself and her private affairs was substantially true. No -man, having heard her speak of it, could fail to understand her -instinctive repulsion from the old husband to whom she had sold herself -into bondage; and as human, if not perhaps quite as worthy of sympathy, -was her restless longing for freedom to lead the pleasant life led by -those of her more fortunate contemporaries whose doings were weekly -chronicled in the society papers which seemed to form her only reading. - -Once only had Carden felt for his entrancing companion the slightest -touch of repugnance. He had taken her to a play in which a child played -an important part, and she had suddenly so spoken as to make him realise -with a shock of surprise that she was the mother of children! Yet the -little remark made by her, "I wonder how my little girls are getting -on," had been very natural and even womanly. Then, in answer to a -muttered word or two on his part, she had explained that she preferred -not to have news of her children when she was absent from home, as it -only worried her; even when staying with the old cousin at Upper -Norwood, she made a point of being completely free of all possible home -troubles. - -Hearing this gentle, placid explanation of her lack of maternal anxiety, -Carden had put up his hand to his face to hide a smile; he had not been -mistaken; Pansy was indeed the thorough-going little hedonist he had -taken her to be. Still, it was difficult, even rather disturbing, to -think of her as a mother, and as the mother of daughters. - -Yet how deep an impression this unmoral, apparently soulless woman had -made on his mind and on his emotional memory! Even now, when he had no -desire, and, above all, must not allow himself to have any desire, ever -to see her again, Theodore Carden felt, almost as keenly as he had done -during the period of their brief intimacy, a morbid curiosity to know -where she lived and had her being. - - * * * * * - -It was late in the afternoon of Easter Monday. - -Theodore Carden had just come in from a long walk, and, as he passed -through the circular hall around which Watermead was built, he heard the -low sound of voices, those of his father and some other man, issuing -from the square drawing-room always occupied by the father and son on -such idle days as these. He stayed his steps, realised that the visitor -was Major Lane, and then made up his mind to go up and change, instead -of going straight in to his father, as he would have done had the latter -been alone. - -As he came down again, and crossed the now lighted hall, he met the -parlour-maid, an elderly woman who had been in Thomas Carden's service -ever since his wife's death. "I wonder if I can take in the lamps now, -Mr. Theodore? It's getting so dark, sir." - -There was a troubled sound in her voice, and the young man stopped and -looked at her with some surprise. - -"Of course you can, Kate," he said quickly, "why not? Why haven't you -taken them in before?" - -"I did go in with them half an hour ago, sir, but the master told me to -take them out again. There's firelight, to be sure, and it's only Major -Lane in there, but he's been here since three o'clock, and master's not -had his tea yet. I suppose they thought they'd wait till you came in." - -"Oh! well, if my father prefers to sit in the dark, and to put off tea -till he can have my company, you had better wait till I ring, and then -bring in the lamps and the tea together." - -He spoke with his usual light good-nature, and passed on into the room -which was the only apartment in the large old house clearly associated -in his mind with the graceful, visionary figure of his dead mother. - -Thomas Carden and the Head Constable were sitting in the twilight, one -on each side of the fireplace, and when the young man came in, they both -stirred perceptibly, and abruptly stopped speaking. - -Theodore came forward and stood on the hearth-rug. "May Kate bring in -the lamps, father?" - -"Yes, yes, I suppose so." - -And the lamps were brought in. Then came the tea-tray, placed by Kate on -a large table many paces from the fire; womanless Watermead was lacking -in the small elegancies of modern life, but now that would soon be -remedied, so the younger Carden told himself with a slight, happy -smile. - -Very deliberately, and asking no questions as to milk or sugar, for well -he knew the tastes of his father and of his father's friend, he poured -out two cups of tea, and turning, advanced, a cup balanced in each -steady hand. - -But halfway up the room he stopped for a moment, arrested by the sound -of his father's voice-- - -"Theo, my boy, I want to ask you something." - -The mode of address had become of late years a little unusual, and there -was a note in Thomas Carden's accents which struck his son as -significant--even as solemn. - -"Yes, father?" - -"Did you not tell me this morning that you had never met Jarvice?" - -The one onlooker, hatchet-faced Major Lane, suddenly leaned a little -forward. - -He was astonished at his old friend's extraordinary and uncalled-for -courage, and it was with an effort, with the feeling that he was bracing -himself to see something terrible take place, that he looked straight at -the tall, fine-looking man who had now advanced into the circle of light -thrown by the massive Argand lamps. - -But Theodore Carden appeared quite unmoved, nay more, quite -unconcerned, by his father's question. - -"Yes," he said, "I did tell you so. I suppose I knew the old fellow by -sight, but I certainly was never introduced to him. Are there any new -developments?" - -He turned to Major Lane with a certain curiosity, and then quite -composedly handed him the cup of tea he held in his right hand. - -"Well, yes," answered the other coldly, "there are several new -developments. We arrested Mrs. Jarvice this morning." - -"That seems rather a strong step to have taken, unless new evidence has -turned up since Saturday," said Theodore thoughtfully. - -"Such new evidence has come to hand since Saturday," observed Major Lane -drily. - -There was a pause, and again Thomas Carden addressed his son with that -strange touch of solemnity, and again Major Lane, with an inward -wincing, stared fixedly at the young man now standing on the hearth-rug, -a stalwart, _debonair_ figure, between himself and his old friend. - -"Can you assure me--can you assure us both--that you never met Mrs. -Jarvice?" - -Carden looked down at his father with a puzzled expression. - -"Of course I can't assure you of anything of the kind," he said, still -speaking quite placidly. "I may have met her somewhere or other, but I -can't remember having done so; and I think I should have remembered it, -both because the name is an uncommon one, and because"--he turned to -Major Lane--"isn't she said to be an extraordinarily pretty woman?" - -As the last words were being uttered an odd thing happened. Thomas -Carden suddenly dropped the cup he was holding in his hand; it rang -against the brass fender and broke in several pieces, while the spoon -went clattering into the fireplace. - -"Father!" exclaimed Theodore, and then quickly he added, "Don't trouble -to do that," for the old man was stooping over the rug, and fumbling -with the broken pieces. But Thomas Carden shook his head; it was evident -that he was, for the moment, physically incapable of speech. - -A great fear came into the son's mind; he turned to Major Lane, and -muttered in an urgent, agonised whisper, "Is it--can it be a seizure? -Hadn't I better go and try to find Dr. Curle?" - -But the other, with a dubious expression on his face, shook his head. -"No, no," he said; "it's nothing of the kind. Your father's getting -older, Carden, as we all are, and I've had to speak to him to-day about -a very disagreeable matter." - -He looked fixedly, probingly, at the young man. - -"I think it's thoroughly upset him." The speaker hesitated, and then -added: "I daresay he'll tell you about it; in any case, I'd better go -now and come back later. If you can spare me half an hour this evening, -I should like to have a talk with you--about the same matter." - -During the last few moments Major Lane had made up his mind to take a -certain course, even to run a certain risk, and that not for the first -time that day, for he had already set his own intimate knowledge of -Thomas Carden, the lifelong friend whose condition now wrung him with -pity, against what was, perhaps, his official duty. - -Some two hours before, the Head Constable had entered the house where he -had been so constantly and so hospitably entertained, with the firm -conviction that Theodore Carden had been the catspaw of a clever, -unscrupulous woman; in fact that there had come a repetition, but a -hundred times more serious, of that now half-forgotten entanglement -which had so nearly brought Carden to grief some seven or eight years -before. Once more he had come prepared to do his best to save his -friend's son, so far as might be possible, from the consequences of his -folly. - -But now? Ah, now, the experienced, alert official had to admit to -himself that the incidents of the last ten minutes had completely -altered his view of the matter. He realised that in any case Theodore -Carden was no fool; for the first time that day the terrible suspicion -came into Major Lane's mind that the man before him might, after all, be -more closely connected with the Jarvice mystery than had seemed -possible. - -Never, during his long connection with crime, had the Head Constable -come across as good an actor, as cool a liar, as he now believed this -man of business to be. - -Well, he would give Theodore Carden one more chance to tell the truth; -Theodore was devoted to his father, so much was certainly true, and -perhaps his father would be able to make him understand the gravity of -the case. Major Lane felt bitterly sorry that he had come first to the -old man--but then, he had so completely believed in the "scrape" -theory; and now he hardly knew what to believe! - -For the moment, at any rate, so the Head Constable told himself, the -mask had fallen; Theodore Carden could not conceal his relief at the -other's approaching departure. - -"Certainly," he said hastily, "come in this evening by all means; I -won't ask you to stay to dinner, for I mean to try and make father go to -bed, but later I shall be quite free. If, however, you want to ask me -anything about the Jarvice affair, I'm afraid I can't help you much; -I've not even read the case with any care." - -The old man, still sitting by the fire, had caught a few of the muttered -words, and before Major Lane could leave the room Thomas Carden had -risen from his chair, his face paler, perhaps, than usual, but once more -his collected, dignified self. - -"Stay," he said firmly; "having gone so far, I think we should now -thresh the matter out." - -He walked over to where his son and his friend were standing, and he put -his hand on the older man's arm. - -"Perhaps I cannot expect you, Lane, to be convinced, as I, of course, -have been convinced, by my son's denials. It is, as I told you this -afternoon, either a plot on the part of someone who bears a grudge -against us, or else--what I think more likely--there are two men in this -great town each bearing the name of Theodore Carden. But I appreciate, I -deeply appreciate, the generous kindness which made you come and warn us -of this impending calamity; but you need not fear that we shall fail to -meet it with a complete answer." - -"Father! Major Lane! What does this mean?" - -For the first time a feeling of misgiving, of sudden fear, swept over -Theodore Carden's mind. Without waiting for an answer, he led the way -back to the fireplace, and, deliberately drawing forward a chair, -motioned to Major Lane to sit down likewise. - -"Now then," he said, speaking with considerable authority and decision, -"I think I have a right to ask what this is all about! In what way are -we, my father and myself, concerned in the Jarvice affair? For my part, -Major Lane, I can assure you, and that, if you wish it, on oath, that I -did not know Mr. Jarvice, and, to the best of my belief, I have never -seen, still less spoken to, Mrs. Jarvice----" - -"If that be indeed so," said the man whom he addressed, and who, for -the first time, was beginning to feel himself shaken in his belief, nay, -in his absolute knowledge, that the young man was perjuring himself, -"can you, and will you, explain these letters?" and he drew out of his -pocket a folded sheet of foolscap. - -Carden bent forward eagerly; there was no doubt, so the Head Constable -admitted to himself, as to his eagerness to be brought face to face with -the accusation--and yet, at that moment, a strong misgiving came over -Major Lane. - -Even if Theodore Carden could continue to be the consummate actor he had -already proved himself, was it right, was it humane, to subject him to -this terrible test, and that, too, before his old father? Whatever the -young man's past relation to Mrs. Jarvice, nay, whatever his connection -might be with the crime which Major Lane now knew to have been -committed, Carden was certainly ignorant of the existence of these -terrible, these damnatory documents, and they constituted so far the -only proof that Carden had been lying when he denied any knowledge of -Mrs. Jarvice. But then, alas! they constituted an irrefutable proof. - -With a sudden movement Major Lane withdrew his right hand, that which -held the piece of paper. - -"Stop a moment, Theodore; do you really wish this discussion to take -place before your father? I wonder if you remember"--he paused, and then -went on firmly, "an interview you and I had many years ago?" - -For the first time the younger man's whole manner changed; a look of -fear, of guilt, came over his strong, intelligent face. - -"Father," he said imploringly, "I beg you not to listen to Major Lane. -He is alluding to a matter which he gave me his word--his word of -honour--should never be mentioned to anyone, least of all to you;" then, -turning with an angry gesture to the Head Constable, "Was that not so?" -he asked imperiously. - -"Yes, I admit that by asking you this question I have broken my word, -but good God! man, this is no passing scrape that we have to consider -now; to-morrow morning all Birmingham will be ringing with your -name--with your father's name, Theodore--for by some horrible mischance -the papers have got hold of the letters in question. I did my best, but -I found I was powerless." - -He turned and deliberately looked away, as he added in a low, -hesitating voice: "And now, once more I ask you whether we had not -better delay this painful discussion until you and I are alone?" - -"No!" cried Carden, now thoroughly roused, "certainly not! You have -chosen to come and tell my father something about me, and I insist that -you tell me here, and at once, what it is of which I am accused." - -He instinctively looked at his father for support, and received it in -full measure, for at once the old man spoke. - -"Yes, Lane, I think my son is right; there's no use in making any more -mystery about the matter. I'm sure that the letters you have brought to -show Theodore will puzzle him as much as they have me, and that he will -be able to assure you that he has no clue either to their contents or to -their writer." - -Very slowly, with a feeling of genuine grief and shame for the man who -seemed incapable of either sorrow or shame, Major Lane held out the -folded paper; and then in very pity he looked away as his old friend's -son eagerly unrolled the piece of foolscap, placing it close under the -lamp-shade in order that he might thoroughly master its contents. - -As Theodore Carden completed the trifling action, that of unrolling the -piece of paper which was to solve the mystery, he noted, with a curious -feeling of relief, that the documents (or were they letters?) regarded -by the Head Constable as so damnatory, were but two, the first of some -length, the second consisting of a very few lines, and both copied in -the fair round hand of Major Lane's confidential clerk. - -And then, with no premonitory warning, Carden became the victim of a -curious physical illusion. - -Staring down at the long piece of blue paper, he found that he was only -able to master the signature, in both cases the same, with which each -letter terminated. Sometimes only one word, one name--that of -_Pansy_--stood out clearly, and then again he seemed only to see the -other word, the other name--that of _Jarvice_. The two names appeared to -play hide-and-seek with one another, to leap out alternately and smite -his eyes, pressing and printing themselves upon his brain. - -At last, while he was still staring silently, obstinately, at the black -lines dancing before him, he heard the words, and they seemed to be -coming from a long way off, "Theodore! Oh, my boy, what is the matter?" -and then Major Lane's voice, full of rather angry concern, "Rouse -yourself, Carden, you are frightening your father." - -"Am I?" he said dully; "I mustn't do that;" then, handing back the sheet -of foolscap to the Head Constable, he said hoarsely, "I can't make them -out. Will you read them to me?" - -And Major Lane, in passionless accents, read aloud the two letters which -he already almost knew by heart. - - 6, LIGHTWOOD PLACE, - - _January 28th_. - - You told me to write to you if ever I was in real trouble and - thought you could help me. Oh! Theo, darling, I am in great - trouble, and life, especially since that happy time--you know when - I mean--is more wretched than ever. You used to say I was - extraordinarily pretty, I wonder if you would say so now, for I am - simply ill--worn out with worry. He--you know who--has found out - something; such a little insignificant thing; and since then he - makes my life unbearable with his stupid jealousy. It isn't as if - he knew about you and me, that would be something real to grumble - at, wouldn't it, darling? Sometimes I feel tempted to tell him all - about it. How he would stare! He is incapable of understanding - anything romantic. However, I'm in no mood for laughing now. He's - got a woman in to watch me, a governess, but luckily I've quite - got her to be on my side, though of course I haven't told her - anything about my private affairs. - - Will you meet me one day this week, to-morrow if you can, at No. - 15, Calthorpe Street? Four o'clock is the safest time for me. - Between the two small shops you will see a swing door with "Madame - Paula, Milliner," on it; push it open and go straight upstairs. On - the first landing you will see a door with "Gone out, enquire - upstairs," on it. Push up the door knob (don't try to turn it) and - walk in. The room will be empty, but you will see a door leading to - a back room; push _up_ the knob and there--there you will find your - poor little Pansy, fainting with joy at seeing her big strong Theo - again. - - Send me a postcard, saying, "Mrs. Jarvice can be fitted on (day you - select)." If posted before eleven, it will reach me in time. Of - course, I'm running a risk in meeting you _here_, so near my home, - but I _must_ see you, for I have a great favour to ask you, Theo, - and I dare not propose going away even for one day. - - PANSY JARVICE. - -Major Lane paused a moment, then went on: - - Theo, I wrote to you ten days ago, but I have had no answer. I am - dreadfully worried; I know you are in Birmingham, for I saw your - name in a paper before I wrote to you. I have gone through such - terrible days waiting for the postcard I asked you to send me. - Write, if only to say you don't want to hear again of poor - miserable - - PANSY JARVICE. - -"I suppose you will now admit that you know who wrote these letters?" -asked Major Lane sternly. - -"Yes--at least I suppose they were written by Mrs. Jarvice." - -Theodore Carden spoke with a touch of impatience. The question seemed to -him to be, on the part of his father's old friend, a piece of useless -cruelty. - -"And can you suggest to whom they were written, if not to yourself?" - -"No, of course not; I do not doubt that they were written to me," and -this time his face was ravaged with a horror and despair to which the -other two men had, so far, no clue. "And yet," he added, a touch of -surprise in his voice, "I never saw these letters--they never reached -me." - -"But of course you received others?" - -Major Lane spoke with a certain eagerness; then, as the young man seemed -to hesitate, he added hastily: "Nay, nay--say nothing that might -incriminate yourself." - -"But indeed--indeed I have never received a letter from her--that -perhaps is why I did not know the handwriting." - -"Theodore!" cried his father sharply, "think what you are saying! What -you've been shown are only copies--surely you understood that? What Lane -has just shown you are copies of letters which purport to have been -addressed to you, but which were intercepted on their way to the -post--is that not so?" and he turned to the Head Constable. - -"Yes," said Major Lane; then he added, very deliberately. - -"The originals of these two letters, which were bought for a large sum -from Mrs. Jarvice's governess, evidently the woman referred to in the -first letter, are now in the hands of the news editor of the _Birmingham -Dispatch_. I was shown them as a great favour"--a grim smile distorted, -for a moment, the Head Constable's narrow jaw. - -"I did my best--for your father's sake, Theodore--to frighten these -people into giving them up; I even tried to persuade them to hold them -over, but it was no good. I was told that no Birmingham paper had ever -had such a--'scoop', I believe, was the word used. You and your father -are so well known in this city." And again Theodore Carden marvelled at -the cruelty of the man. - -Thomas Carden broke in with a touch of impatience: - -"But nothing else has been found, my boy! Lane should tell you that the -whole theory of your having known Mrs. Jarvice rests on these two -letters--which never reached you." - -Father and son seemed suddenly to have changed places. The old man spoke -in a strong, self-confident tone, but the other, his grey face supported -on his hands, was staring fixedly into the fire. - -"Yes," said Major Lane, more kindly, "I ought perhaps to tell you that -within an hour of my being shown these letters I had Mrs. Jarvice's -house once more searched, and nothing was found connecting you with the -woman, excepting, I am sorry to say, this;"--and he held out an envelope -on which was written in Theodore Carden's clear handwriting the young -man's name and business address. - -"Now, I should like you to tell me, if you don't mind doing so, where, -when, and how this name and address came to be written?" - -"Yes, I will certainly tell you." - -The young man spoke collectedly; he was beginning to realise the -practical outcome of the conversation. - -"I wrote that address about the middle of last October, in London, at -Mansell's Hotel in Pall Mall East." - -"The poor fellow's going to make a clean breast of it at last," so -thought Major Lane with a strange feeling of relief, for on the flap of -the envelope, which he had kept carefully turned down, was stamped -"Mansell's Hotel." - -It was in a considerate, almost kindly tone, that the Head Constable -next spoke. - -"And now, I beg you, for your own sake, to tell me the truth. Perhaps I -ought to inform you, before you say anything, that, according to our -theory, Mrs. Jarvice was certainly assisted in procuring the drug with -which there is no doubt she slowly poisoned her husband. As yet we have -no clue as to the person who helped her, but we have ascertained that -for the last two months, in fact, from about the date of the first -letter addressed to you, a man did purchase minute quantities of this -drug at Birmingham, at Wolverhampton, and at Walsall. Now, mind you, I -do not suspect, I never have suspected, you of having any hand in that, -but I fear you'll have to face the ordeal of being confronted with the -various chemists, of whom two declare most positively that they can -identify the man who brought them the prescription which obtained him -the drug in question." - -While Major Lane was speaking, Theodore Carden had to a certain extent -regained his self-possession; here, at least, he stood on firm ground. - -"Of course, I am prepared to face anything of the kind that may be -necessary." He added almost inaudibly: "I have brought it on myself." - -Then he turned, his whole voice altering and softening: "Father, perhaps -you would not mind my asking Major Lane to go into the library with me? -I should prefer to see him alone." - - -II - -And then the days dragged on, a week of days, each containing full -measure of bitter and public humiliation; full measure also of feverish -suspense, for Theodore Carden did not find it quite so easy as he had -thought it would be to clear himself of this serious, and yet -preposterous accusation of complicity in murder. - -But Major Lane was surprised at the courage and composure with which the -young man faced the ordeal of confrontation with the various men, any -one of whom, through a simple mistake or nervous lapse of memory, might -compel his presence, if not in the dock, then as a witness at the coming -murder trial. - -At last the awful ordeal was over, for, as a matter of fact, none of -those brought face to face with him in the sordid promiscuity of such -scenes, singled out Theodore Carden as resembling the mysterious -individual who had almost certainly provided Mrs. Jarvice with the means -wherewith to poison her husband. - -But it was after the need for active defence had passed away that -Theodore Carden's true sufferings began.... The moment twilight fell he -was haunted, physically and mentally possessed, by the presence of the -woman he had known at once so little and so well--that is, of her he now -knew to be Pansy Jarvice. - -Especially terrible were the solitary evenings of those days when his -father was away, performing the task of breaking so much of the truth as -could be told to the girl to whom his son had been engaged. - -As each afternoon drew in Theodore found himself compelled to remain -more or less concealed in the room which overlooked the garden of -Waterhead. For, with the approach of night, the suburban road in front -of the fine old house was filled by an ever coming and going crowd of -bat-like men and women, eager to gaze with morbid curiosity at the -dwelling of the man who had undoubtedly been, if not Mrs. Jarvice's -accomplice--that, to the annoyance of the sensation-mongers, seemed -decidedly open to question--then, her favoured lover. - -But to these shameful and grotesque happenings Theodore Carden gave -scarce a thought, for it was when he found himself alone in the -drawing-room or library that his solitude would become stealthily -invaded by an invisible and impalpable wraith. - -So disorganised had become his nerves, so pitiable the state of his body -and mind, that constantly he seemed conscious of a faint, sweet odour, -that of wood violets, a scent closely associated in his thoughts with -Pansy Jarvice, with the woman whom he now knew to be a murderess. - -He came at last to long for a tangible delusion, for the sight of a -bodily shape which he could tell himself was certainly not there. But -no such relief was vouchsafed him; and yet once, when sitting in the -drawing-room, trying to read a book, he had felt a rounded cheek laid -suddenly to his, a curl of silken, scented hair had touched his neck.... - -Terrifying as was the peopled solitude of his evenings, Carden dreaded -their close, for at night, during the whole of each long night, the -woman from whom he now felt so awful a repulsion held him prisoner. - -From the fleeting doze of utter exhaustion he would be awakened by -feeling the pressure of Pansy's soft, slender arms about his neck; they -would wind themselves round his shuddering body, enclosing him slowly, -inexorably, till he felt as if he must surely die under their gyves-like -pressure. - -Again--and this, perhaps, was what he learnt to dread in an especial -degree--he would be suddenly roused by Pansy's liquid, laughing voice, -whispering things of horror in his ear; it was then, and then only, that -he found courage to speak, courage to assure her, and so assure himself, -that he was in no sense her accomplice, that he had had naught to do -with old Jarvice's death. But then there would come answer, in the eager -tones he remembered so well, and the awful words found unwilling echo -in his heart: "Yes, yes, indeed you helped!" - - * * * * * - -And now the last day, or rather the last night, had come, for the next -morning Theodore Carden was to leave Birmingham, he hoped for ever, for -New Zealand. - -The few people he had been compelled to see had been strangely kind; -quiet and gentle, as folk, no doubt, feel bound to be when in the -presence of one condemned. As for Major Lane, he was stretching--no one -knew it better than Carden himself--a great point in allowing the young -man to leave England before the Jarvice trial. - -During those last days, even during those last hours, Theodore -deliberately prevented himself from allowing his mind to dwell on his -father. He did not know how much the old man had been told, and he had -no wish to know. A wall of silence had arisen between the two who had -always been so much, nay, in a sense, everything, to one another. Each -feared to give way to any emotion, and yet the son knew only too well, -and was ashamed of the knowledge, with what relief he would part from -his father. - -There had been a moment when Major Lane had intimated his belief that -the two would go away and make a new life together, but Theodore Carden -had put aside the idea with rough decision. Perhaps when he was far away -on the other side of the world, the former relations of close love and -sympathy, if not of confidence, might be re-established between his -father and himself, but this, he felt sure, would never be while they -remained face to face. - -And now he was lying wide awake in the darkness, in the pretty peaceful -room which had once been his nursery, and where he had spent his happy -holidays as a schoolboy. - -His brain remained abnormally active, but physically he was oppressed by -a great weariness; to-night, for the first time, Carden felt the -loathsome wraith that haunted him, if not less near, then less -malicious, less watchful than usual, above all less eager to assert her -power.... Yet, even so, he lay very still, fearing to move lest he -should once more feel about his body the clinging, enveloping touch he -dreaded with so great a dread. - - * * * * * - -And then, quite suddenly, there came a strange lightening of his heart. -A space of time seemed to have sped by, and Carden, by some mysterious -mental process, knew that he was still near home, and not, as would have -been natural, in New Zealand. Nay, more, he realised that the unfamiliar -place in which he now found himself was Winson Green Gaol, a place -which, as a child, he had been taught to think of with fear, fear -mingled with a certain sense of mystery and excitement. - -Theodore had not thought of the old local prison for years, but now he -knew that he and his father were together there, in a small cell lighted -by one candle. The wall of silence, raised on both sides by shame and -pain, had broken down, but, alas! too late; for, again in some curious -inexplicable way, the young man was aware that he lay under sentence of -death, and that he was to be hanged early in the morning of which the -dawn was only just now breaking. - -Yet, strange to say, this knowledge caused him, personally, but little -uneasiness, but on his father's account he felt infinitely distressed, -and he found himself bending his whole mind to comfort and sustain the -old man. - -Thus, he heard a voice, which he knew to be his own, saying in an -argumentative tone, "I assure you, father, that an extraordinary amount -of nonsense is talked nowadays concerning--well, the death penalty. Is -it possible that you do not realise that I am escaping a much worse -fate--that of having to live on? I wish, dear dad, that I could persuade -you of the truth of this." - -"If only," muttered the old man in response, "if only, my boy, I could -bear it for you;" and Carden saw that his father's face was seared with -an awful look of terror and agony. - -"But, indeed, father, you do not understand. Believe me, I am not -afraid--it will not be so bad after all. So do not--pray, pray, father, -do not be so distressed." - -And then, with a great start, Theodore Carden awoke--awoke to see the -small, spare figure of that same dear father, clothed in the long, -old-fashioned linen nightshirt of another day, standing by his bedside. - -The old man held a candle in his hand, and was gazing down at his only -child with an expression of unutterable woe and grief. - -"I will try--I am trying, my boy, not to be unreasonably distressed," he -said. - -Theodore Carden sat up in bed. - -Since this awful thing had come on him, he had never, even for an -instant, forgotten self, but now he saw that his sufferings were small -compared with those he had brought on the man into whose face he was -gazing with red-rimmed, sunken eyes. - -For a moment the wild thought came to him that he might try to explain, -to justify himself, to prove to his father that in this matter he had -but done as others do, and that the punishment was intolerably heavier -than the crime; but then, looking up and meeting Thomas Carden's -perplexed, questioning eyes, he felt a great rush of shame and horror, -not only of himself, but of all those who look at life as he himself had -always looked at it; for the first time, he understood the mysterious -necessity, as well as the beauty, of abnegation, of renunciation. - -"Father," he said, "listen. I will not go away alone; I was mad to think -of such a thing. We will go together, you and I,--Lane has told me that -such has been your wish,--and then perhaps some day we will come back -together." - -After this, for the first time for many nights, Theodore Carden fell -into a dreamless sleep. - - - - -III - -A VERY MODERN INSTANCE - - -Oliver Germaine walked with long, even strides from the Marble Arch to -Grosvenor Gate. It was Sunday morning, early in July, and the -comparatively deserted portion of the Park which he had chosen was, even -so, full of walkers. A good many people, men as well as women, looked at -him pleasantly as he went by, for the young man was an attractive, even -an arresting personality to the type of person who takes part in Church -Parade. - -Germaine was tall, slim, dark, so blessed by fate in the mere matter of -eyes, nose and mouth, that his looks were often commented on when his -wife's beauty was mentioned. - -So it was that, as he walked quickly by, a rather vexed expression on -his handsome face, almost every man who saw him envied him--if not his -looks then his clothes, if not his clothes then his air of being young, -healthy, and, to use an ugly modern phrase, in perfect condition. - -A nursemaid who watched him pass to and fro several times told herself, -rather wistfully, that he was waiting for a loved one, and that the -lady, as is the way with loved ones, was late. - -The nursemaid was right in one sense, wrong in another. Oliver Germaine -was waiting for a lady, but the lady was his married sister. Her name -was Fanny Burdon, and her home was in Shropshire. Germaine had a loved -one, but she was already his wife, his beautiful, clever Bella, with -whom he would so much rather have been now, sitting in their pretty -house in West Chapel Street than waiting in the Park for his sister -Fanny. - -It was really too bad of Fanny to be late! The more so that she would -certainly feel aggrieved if, when she did come, her brother made her go -straight home with him, instead of taking her down into the crowd of -people who were now seething round the Achilles statue. But if Fanny -didn't come at once, go home they must, for Bella wouldn't like them to -be late--quite a number of people were coming to lunch. - -Germaine did not quite know whom, among their crowds of friends, Bella -had asked to come in to-day. But certain people, four or five perhaps, -would assuredly be there--Mrs. Slade, Bella's great "pal," a nice -pretty little woman, with big appealing eyes; also Jenny and Paul -Arabin, distant relations of his wife, and once the young couple's only -link with the exclusive world of which they now formed so intimate a -part. - -Then there would be Uvedale. - -Germaine's mind dwelt on Uvedale. Bob Uvedale was one of his wife's -admirers--in fact Uvedale made no secret of his infatuation for the -beautiful Mrs. Germaine, but he was a good fellow, and never made either -Bella or himself ridiculous. - -Oliver Germaine had remained very simple at heart. He felt sure that -Bella could take care of herself; she always behaved with extraordinary -prudence and sense,--in fact Oliver was now far less jealous of Bella -than he had been in the old days, before she had blossomed into a famous -beauty. She was then rather fond of flirting--but her husband had proved -the truth of the comfortable old adage concerning safety in numbers. -Bella now simply had no time for flirtation! There was no necessity for -her to exert herself, she had only to sit still and be admired and -adored,--adored, that is, in platonic fashion, admired as you admire a -work of art. - -Another man who would certainly be lunching with them to-day was Peter -Joliffe. - -Joliffe was a clever, quaint fellow, whose mission in life was to make -people laugh by saying funny things in a serious tone. Joliffe was -always fluttering round Bella. He had established himself as a tame cat -about the house, and he had, as a matter of fact, been very useful to -the young couple, piloting Bella when she was only "the new beauty" amid -social quicksands and shallows of which she naturally knew nothing. - -Nay, more, Peter Joliffe had introduced the Germaines to some of the -very nicest people they knew,--old-fashioned, well-established people, -delightful old ladies who called Bella "My pretty dear," courtly old -gentlemen who paid her charmingly-turned compliments. Yes, it was nice -to think Joliffe would be there to-day; he always helped to make a party -go off well. - -As for Oliver's sister, Fanny, she would have to sit next Henry Buck. -For a brief moment Germaine considered Henry Buck,--Buck who was always -called "Rabbit" behind his back, and sometimes to his face. - -Germaine hardly knew how it was that they had come to know poor old -Rabbit so well. They had met him soon after they were married, and ever -since he had stuck to them both with almost pathetic insistence. Oddly -enough, he, Oliver, did not reciprocate Henry Buck's feelings of -admiring friendship. It was not that he disliked the man, but he had a -sort of physical antipathy to him. - -The only interesting thing about Henry Buck was his wealth. But then to -many people that made him very interesting, for he was really immensely -rich, and one of those rather uncommon people, who don't know how to -spend their money! Poor Rabbit had been educated at home by a foolish, -widowed mother, who had been afraid of letting him play rough games. -This was perhaps why he was so dull and awkward--not quite like other -people. - -Germaine felt rather sorry that Henry Buck would certainly be there -to-day. Considering how very little he did for them--no, that was a -beastly thing to say, even to oneself!--but considering how very -unornamental and uninteresting poor old Rabbit was, it was really very -nice of Bella to be so kind to him. She never seemed to mind his being -there, and she had even managed to force his company on certain people -whose one object in life was to avoid a bore, and who didn't care a -button whether a man was a pauper or a millionaire. - -Of course Germaine guessed what had happened to Fanny. She had almost -certainly gone to hear some fashionable preacher--for Fanny was the sort -of woman who likes to cram everything into a visit to London. She was -disappointed if every waking hour did not bring with it some new -sensation, some new amusement, and this was odd--or so her -simple-hearted brother told himself--because all the rest of the year -Fanny was content to lead the dull, stodgy life of a small Shropshire -squire's wife. - -Oliver's irritation increased. It was foolish of Fanny to have come to -London just now, in the middle of the season! Hitherto, she and her -husband had always come up for a fortnight just before Christmas, and -then perhaps again just before Easter. Now she had come up alone, and -settled herself into dull lodgings in Marylebone; and then--well, the -young man was vaguely aware that Fanny's visit to town was really a -scouting expedition. She evidently wanted to see for herself how her -brother Oliver and his beautiful wife were "getting on." - -Strange to say, Fanny was not quite pleased at Bella's sudden social -success--not pleased, and yet quite willing to profit by it. How queer -that was! How queer, for the matter of that, most women were! But Bella -was not queer--in fact, Bella had been most awfully nice about Fanny, -and had never allowed her to suspect, even by as much as a look, that -her presence was not welcome. Yet Fanny naturally proved "odd man out" -at all those little gatherings to which her lovely sister-in-law made -her so carelessly welcome. Fanny knew nothing of the delightful world in -which Oliver and Bella now moved; she was quite convinced that she -belonged to the very best, exclusive set, and so she did--in Shropshire. -But here in town? Why, she was even ignorant of the new social -shibboleths; all her notions as to what it was the right thing to do, or -to avoid doing, belonged to the year before last! - -Take to-day. Fanny would certainly feel cross and disappointed that -Bella was not there, in the Park, too; and, as a matter of fact, -Germaine had tried to make his wife please his sister in the little -matter of Church Parade--but Bella had shaken her head smilingly. - -"You know I would do anything for Fanny," she had said, "but really, -darling, you mustn't ask me to do _that_--to go into that big, horrid, -staring crowd. Why should I? It makes one look so cheap! It would only -bore me, and I don't think Fanny would really enjoy having me there," -and Bella had smiled a little smile. - -Germaine had smiled too,--he really couldn't help it! It was quite true -that Fanny would not enjoy seeing Bella looked at, followed,--in a word, -triumphing, in the way she did triumph every time she appeared in a -place where she was likely to be recognised. - -Of course it was odd, when one came to think of it, that Bella, who had -been just as pretty two years ago as she was now, should, for some -mysterious reason, have been suddenly discovered, by those whose word is -law in such matters, to be astonishingly, marvellously beautiful! - -An involuntary smile again quivered across Oliver Germaine's -good-looking face. He had but little sense of humour, and yet even he -saw something almost comic about it--the way that Bella, his darling, -pretty little Bella, had suddenly been exalted--hoisted up, as it were, -on to a pinnacle. She was now what the Londoners of a hundred years ago -would have called "the reigning toast"--so an amusing old fellow, who -was a great authority on history, had told him a few days ago. - -Still, he ought to make allowances for his sister Fanny. It was not in -human nature--or so Oliver believed--for any woman, even for such a good -sort as Fanny undoubtedly was, to be really pleased at another woman's -triumph. - -Small wonder that, to use his sister's favourite expression, Fanny could -not make it out! It was unfortunate that Bella's fame--that fame of -which the young husband was half ashamed and half proud--had actually -penetrated to the dull village where his only sister held high state as -wife of the lord of the manor. - -Since Fanny had been in town she had said little things to him about -Bella's position as reigning beauty--not altogether kindly or nice -little things. Even yesterday she had observed, with a touch of sharp -criticism in her voice, "I wonder, dear old boy, why you allow Bella's -photograph to appear in all those low papers!" and Oliver had shrugged -his shoulders, not knowing what to answer, but comfortably sure, in a -brotherly way, that Fanny would have been quite willing to see her own -fair features reproduced in similar fashion, had it occurred to any of -the editors of these same enterprising papers to ask for the loan of her -photograph. - -As a matter of fact, he had remembered, even while she was speaking, a -monstrously ugly photograph of Fanny,--Fanny surrounded by her dogs and -children,--which had appeared in a well-known lady's paper. Why, she had -actually sent the paper to him, marked! But Oliver magnanimously -refrained from reminding her of this,--the more so, that Fanny had -hurried on from the trifling question of Bella's portrait to the more -serious and unpleasant one of her brother's moderate income. - -But, as Germaine now told himself complacently, he had been very short -with her. In fact he had administered a good brotherly snub to -inquisitive Fanny. She had no business to ask him a lot of questions -concerning the way he and Bella chose to spend their income; it was no -business of hers how the money was spent. Unfortunately Fanny did -consider it her business, simply owing to the fact that she was Oliver's -only sister, and very fond of him,--that went without saying,--and that -unluckily her husband was Oliver's trustee. So it was that she had shown -extraordinary curiosity as to how her brother and his wife managed to -live in the way they did, on the income she knew they had. - -"Do you know," she had said gravely, "exactly what your income is?" -Oliver had nodded impatiently. Of course he knew, roughly speaking, that -he and Bella had a little over two thousand a year---- - -"Two thousand and sixty-one pounds, eighteen shillings," she had gone on -impressively. "At least that was what it was last year, for I asked -Dick." Now Dick was Fanny's husband, and a most excellent fellow, but -hopelessly under Fanny's thumb. - -Oliver Germaine had not always been so well off. In fact, when he first -met Bella--something like six years ago--he had been a subaltern, with a -very small private income, in a Line regiment. And it was on that small -income that the loveliest girl in Southsea--now the most beautiful woman -in London--had married him. Then had come an immense, unlooked-for piece -of good fortune! - -A distant Scotch cousin, a crusty old chap, of whom all the Germaines -were afraid, and who had constantly declared it to be his intention to -leave his money outside his own family, had chosen to make Oliver his -heir, and had appointed Fanny's husband, the steady-going, rather dull -Shropshire squire, as trustee. - -Of course Oliver, and even more Bella, knew now that the fortune which -had seemed then to make them rich beyond their wildest dreams, was not -so very much after all. But still, at first, it had been plenty--plenty -for everything they could reasonably require. - -But when Bella had become a famous beauty, they had of course to spend -rather more, and about a year ago they had gone through rather a -disagreeable moment. The little house in West Chapel Street which had -seemed so cheap had proved more expensive than they had expected. -However, Dick, as trustee, had stretched a point in his brother-in-law's -favour, and the slight shrinkage which had resulted in the Germaines' -income mattered not at all from the practical point of view, for the -simple reason that they went on spending as much as, in fact rather more -than, they had done before--but it was tiresome having to pay, as they -now had to do, an insurance premium. - -Still, it was too bad of Fanny to have spoken as she had done, for Bella -was wonderfully economical. Take one simple matter; all their friends, -or at any rate the majority of them, had motors as a matter of course, -but Bella, when she was not driving, as she generally did, in a car lent -her by some kind acquaintance, contented herself with jobbing an -old-fashioned brougham. - -This restraint was the more commendable inasmuch that a friend had -lately pointed out to her a way in which one could run a motor brougham -in town on almost nothing at all. One bought a second-hand car for about -seventy-five pounds; it was kept for one at a garage for fifteen -shillings a week, and one looked out for a gentleman chauffeur who loved -motoring for its own sake, and who had some little means of his own. -With care the whole thing need not cost more than a hundred and fifty -pounds the first year, and less the second. They could not afford to do -this just yet, though Bella was convinced it would be true economy, but -Oliver hoped to start something of the kind the following winter. - -Of course Oliver was never exactly easy about money. Everything always -cost just a little more than he expected. It sounded absurd, and he -would not have said so to anyone but himself, but they had to live up to -Bella's reputation--that is, they had to go everywhere, and do -everything. Yet neither of them lacked proper pride. They differed from -some people they knew--that is, they did not (more than they could help) -live on their rich friends. Their only real extravagance last year had -been sharing a house during Goodwood week. That had let them in for a -great deal more than they had expected--in fact, not to put too fine a -point on it, they had been rooked, regularly rooked, and by people whom -they had thought their intimate friends! - -Germaine sighed impatiently. This little uneasiness about money was the -one spot on a very bright sun. But he had no wish to confide this fact -to Fanny! Fanny would be certain to blame Bella. He remembered very -well, though she had apparently forgotten it, the way Fanny had behaved -at the time of his marriage. - -The fact that the girl he wished so ardently to make his wife was lovely -(no one could have denied that even then), and quite sufficiently well -connected, had not counterbalanced, from the prudent sister's point of -view, Bella Arabin's lack of fortune and her having been brought up in -such a "mixed" place (whatever that might mean) as Southsea. - -But Bella had never borne malice; and far from being spoilt or rendered -"uppish" by her sudden intoxicating success, Bella was, if anything, -nicer than before. She and Oliver were still devoted, still happier -together than apart; their quarrels, so far, had been only lovers' -quarrels.... - -Germaine grew restless--restless and tired. He had not had such a -thinking bout for a long time. Just as he reached Grosvenor Gate for the -fifth or sixth time, it struck a quarter-past one. In a sense there was -plenty of time, for they lunched at a quarter to two; he would give -Fanny ten more minutes and then go off home without her. - -The young man looked round. Every bench was full, but there were plenty -of empty chairs. He dragged one of them forward, and placed it with its -back to a large tree. From there he could see everyone who came in and -out of the gate, and so he and Fanny would not lose a moment looking for -one another. But, though many went out, very few came in; the Park was -beginning to empty. - -Suddenly two middle-aged women, the one very stout, the other very thin, -walked slowly through the gate. They struck across Germaine's line of -vision, and for a moment his dark eyes rested on them indifferently. -Then his gaze changed into something like attention, for he had a vague -impression of having seen the elder of these two women before. What was -more, he felt certain he had seen her in some vaguely unpleasant -connection. - -For a moment he believed her to be one of the cook-housekeepers with -whom he and Bella had grappled during the earlier days of their married -life. But no, this short stout woman with the shrewd, powerful face -Germaine seemed to know, did not look like a servant. Even he could see -that her black clothes were handsome and costly, if rather too warm for -a fine July day. Her thin, nervous-looking companion was also dressed -with some pretension and research, but she lacked the other's look of -stout prosperity. - -They were typical Londoners, of the kind to be seen on the route of -every Royal procession, and standing among the crowd outside the church -door at every fashionable marriage--women who, if they had lived in the -London of the Georges, would have walked a good many miles to see a -fellow-creature swing. But to Oliver Germaine they were simply a couple -of unattractive-looking women, one of whom he thought he had seen -before, and whose proximity was faintly disagreeable. - -Germaine's mind had dwelt on them longer than it would otherwise have -done because, when just in front of him, they stopped short and -hesitated; then, looking round them much as Germaine himself had looked -round a few minutes before, and, the elder woman taking the lead, each -dragged a chair forward, and sat down a yard or so to the young man's -right, the trunk of the tree stretching its gnarled grey girth between. - -Seven minutes of the ten Oliver meant to allow Fanny had now gone by, -and he felt inclined to cut the other three minutes short, and go -straight home. After all, it was too bad of her to be so unpunctual! - -And then, striking on his ear, shreds of the conversation which was -taking place between the two women sitting near him began to penetrate -Oliver Germaine's brain. Names fell on his ear--Christian names, -surnames, with which he was familiar, evoking the personalities of men -and women with whom he was on terms of acquaintance, in some cases of -close friendship. - -Unconsciously his clasped hands tightened on the knob of his stick, and -he caught himself listening--listening with a queer mixture of morbid -interest and growing disgust. - -It was the elder woman who spoke the most, and she was a good speaker, -with that trick,--self-taught, instinctive,--of making the people of -whom she was speaking leap up before the listener. Now and again she was -interrupted by little shrieks of astonishment and horror--her -companion's way of paying tribute to the interesting nature of the -conversation. - -How on earth--so Oliver Germaine asked himself with heating cheek--had -the woman obtained her peculiarly intimate knowledge of those of whom -she was speaking? The people, these men and women, especially women, -whose lives, the inner cores of whose existences, were being probed and -ruthlessly exposed, almost all belonged to the Germaines' own particular -set,--if indeed such a prosperous and popular couple as were Oliver and -Bella, could be said to have a particular set in that delightful world -into which they had only comparatively lately effected an entrance, and -of which the strands all intermingle the one with the other. - -Germaine was too young, he had been too happy, he was too instinctively -kindly, to concern himself with other people's private affairs, save in -a wholly impersonal fashion. He had always avoided the hidden, unspoken -side of life; when certain secrets were confided to him they dropped -quickly out of his mind; ugly gossip passed him by. - -Yet now he found himself listening to very ugly gossip; some feeling -outside himself, some instinct which for the moment mastered him, made -him stay on there, eavesdropping. - -For the moment the stream of venom was directed against Mrs. Slade, the -pretty, harmless little woman whom he would see within the next hour -sitting at his own table. She was one of Bella's special friends, and -Oliver had got quite fond of her, the more so that he was well aware -that she was in a difficult position, owing to the fact, not of her -seeking, or so the Germaines believed, that her husband spent most of -his life away from her, abroad. - -In this special case, Germaine knew something of the hidden wounds; it -was horrible to hear this--this old devil engaged in plucking the scabs -from these same wounds, and exposing to her vulgar companion the shifts -to which the unfortunate little woman was put. Nay, more, she said -certain things concerning Mrs. Slade which, if they were true, or even -only half true, made the poor little soul under discussion no fit friend -or companion for Germaine's own spotless wife, Bella.... - -The burden of the old woman's talk was money, how people got money, how -they spent money, how they did without money. That was the idea running -through all her conversation, although it was, of course, concerned with -many uglier things than money. - -Had they been men speaking Germaine would have been sufficiently filled -with righteous indignation to have found words with which to rebuke, -even to threaten them, but they were women, common women, and he felt -tongue-tied, helpless. - -And then, suddenly, there leapt into the conversation his own name, or -rather that of his wife, the woman of whom he felt so exultantly, so -selflessly proud. The allusion came in the form of a question, a -question spoken in a shrill and odious Cockney accent. - -"I should like to see that Mrs. Germaine. I wonder if she ever comes -into the Park----" - -"Not she! At any rate not on Sunday. Why she'd be mobbed!" snapped out -the other. - -"You don't say so! Do people run after her as much as that?" - -"There's been nothing like it since Mrs. Jersey. I used to see people -get up on chairs to see Mrs. Jersey go by. Not that I ever thought much -of her figure--great, ugly, square shoulders. She started those square -shoulders, and they've never really died out." - -"Mrs. Germaine's quite another sort of beauty, the pocket Venus style, -isn't she? I suppose you've had a lot to do with making her the rage," -said the friend admiringly. - -"I don't know about that--her kind of figure dresses itself. She's the -sort that gets there anyhow. She's got that 'jennysayquoy' air, as the -French put it, that makes folk turn round and stare. She gets her looks -from her mother; I remember the mother--her name was Arabin--when I was -with Cerise. They weren't London people--they was military. Mrs. Arabin -had such pretty coaxing ways, same as the daughter has. Cerise used to -let her have the things ever so much cheaper than she charged her other -customers, but it paid her too." - -Germaine breathed a little more easily. He knew now who this woman was. -She was a certain Mrs. Bliss, Bella's dressmaker, in her way a famous -old lady, whom Bella's set greatly preferred to the other dressmakers in -vogue. It was Mrs. Bliss, so he remembered having heard, who had -introduced some years ago the picturesque style of dressing with which -his sister Fanny found such fault, and which remains loftily -indifferent to the fashion. - -Oliver recollected now where and when he had seen her; there had been -some little trouble about an item in his wife's bill, and Bella had made -him go with her to face the formidable Mrs. Bliss in the old-fashioned -house in Sackville Street where the dressmaker wielded her powerful -sceptre. That was before Bella had become a fashionable beauty, and Mrs. -Bliss had been rather short with them both, unwilling to admit that she -was wrong, although the figures proving her so stared her in the face. - -And then Germaine remembered other occasions with which Mrs. Bliss's -name, though not her personality, were associated. He had made out -cheques to her, larger cheques than Bella could manage out of her -allowance. But that was some time ago; his wife must now have given up -dealing with her; and he felt glad, very glad, that this was so. A woman -with such a tongue was a danger to society,--not that anyone need -believe a word she said.... - -Suddenly the shrill Cockney voice asked yet another question concerning -the beautiful Mrs. Germaine. It was couched in what the speaker would -probably have described as perfectly ladylike and delicate language, -but its purport was unmistakable, and Germaine made a restless movement; -then he became almost rigidly still--a man cannot turn and strike a -woman on the mouth. - -"N-o-o, I don't think so." Mrs. Bliss spoke guardedly. "She's a lot of -gentlemen buzzing around her, but that's only to be expected; and as far -as I can hear there's not one that buzzes closer than another. To tell -you the truth, Sophy, I'm puzzled about those Germaines. It's no -business of mine, of course, but she spends three times as much as she -did when I first began dressing her and she don't mind now what she does -pay,--very different to what she used to do! It's only the best that's -good enough for my lady now." - -"Germaine's an army chap, isn't he?" - -"He was--and a handsome fellow he is, too. He came into a good bit of -money just after they got married, but that must be melting pretty -quick. Why, she goes everywhere! Last season she really wore her clothes -out. They"--she waved her hand comprehensively round a vague area -comprising Marylebone and Mayfair--"scratched and fought with each other -in order to get her." - -"Then I suppose you don't bother about your money." - -"Yes, I do," said Mrs. Bliss shortly. "I'm not that kind; I don't work -for the King of Prussia, as my French tailor used to say." - -There was a pause, and then in a rather different voice Mrs. Bliss went -on, "I _do_ get my money from Mrs. Germaine, but lately,--well, I won't -say lately, but for the last eighteen months or so, _she's always paid -me in notes_, two, three, sometimes four hundred pounds at a time, -always in five-pound notes." - -She spoke in a low voice, and yet, to Oliver Germaine, it seemed as if -she shouted the words aloud. - -The young man got up, and, careless of the lateness of the hour, walked -away without looking around towards the Marble Arch; so alone could he -be sure that Mrs. Bliss would not see him, and perchance leap to the -recollection of who he was. - -The words the woman had said so quietly seemed to be reverberating with -loud insistence in his ear: "_She's always paid me in notes._" "_Two, -three, sometimes four hundred pounds._" - -What exactly had Mrs. Bliss meant by this statement? What significance -had she intended it to carry? There had been a touch of regret in the -hard voice, a hesitation in the way she had conveyed the pregnant -confidence, which made Oliver heartsick to remember. - -But after a time, as Oliver Germaine walked quickly along, uncaring as -to which way he was going, almost running in his desire to outstrip his -own thoughts, there came a little lightening of his bewildered misery. -It was possible, just possible, that Mrs. Bliss was really thinking of -some other customer. - -Notes? The idea was really absurd to anyone who knew Bella, as he, -Oliver, thank God, knew his wife! Why, there was never any loose money -in the house, both he and Bella were always running short of petty cash. - -Then the young man remembered, with a sudden tightening of the heart, -that this had not been the case lately. During the last few months, -since they had moved into their new house, Bella had always had -money--plenty of sixpences and shillings, half crowns and half -sovereigns--at his disposal. Nay more, looking back, he realised that -his wife no longer teased him, as she had once perpetually teased him, -for supplements, large or small, to her allowance; he had to face the -fact that of late Bella's allowance had borne a surprising resemblance -to the widow's cruse; it had actually sufficed for all her wants. - -But he had been unsuspecting, utterly unsuspecting, and even now he -hardly knew what he did suspect. - -The horrible things he had heard Mrs. Bliss say about other people acted -and reacted on Germaine's imagination. If these things were true, then -the world in which he and Bella lived was corrupt and rotten; and, as -even Oliver Germaine knew by personal experience, pitch defiles. If -Daphne Slade did the things Mrs. Bliss implied she did, Bella must know -it,--know it and condone it. Bella was far too clever to be taken in, as -he, Oliver, had been taken in, by Mrs. Slade's pretty pathetic manner, -and appealing eyes. If Mrs. Slade took money from men, what an example, -what a model----Germaine's mind refused to complete the thought. - -Certain of Oliver's and Bella's old acquaintances--people whom they were -too kind to drop, but of whom they couldn't see as much now as they had -once done, in the days before Bella became a famous beauty--would -sometimes hint darkly as to the wickedness of some of the people they -knew. Even Fanny had told him bluntly that Bella had got into a very -fast set. "Fast" was the word his sister had used, and it had diverted -him. - -But was it possible that these people, whom he had thought envious and -silly--and that Fanny, his rather narrow-minded and old-fashioned -sister,--had been right after all? Was it possible that like so many -husbands of whom he had heard, for whom he had felt contempt and pity, -he had--as regarded his own cherished wife--lived in a fool's paradise? - -Germaine now remembered several things that he had known--known and -thought forgotten--for they had been completely apart from his own life. -He recalled the case of a man in his own regiment who had shot himself -three days after his wife's death. It had been publicly given out that -the poor fellow had been mad--distraught with grief; but there had been -many to mutter that the truth was far other, and that the man had made a -shameful discovery among his dead wife's papers.... - -Concerning any other woman than Bella, Germaine would have admitted, -perhaps reluctantly,--but still, if asked the plain question, he would -have admitted, that women are damned tricky creatures, and that--well, -that you never can tell! - -Again, out of the past, there came back to him, with horrid vividness, -the memory of a brief episode which at the time had filled him with a -kind of pity, even sympathy. - -It was at a ball; he was quite a youngster, in fact it was the year -after he had joined, and a woman sitting out with him in a conservatory -had fallen into intimate talk, as people so often do amid unfamiliar -surroundings. There came a moment when she said to him, with burning, -unhappy eyes, "People think I'm a good woman, but I'm not." And she had -hurried on to make the nature of her sinning quite clear; she had not -passion for her excuse--only lack of means and love of luxury. He had -been startled, staggered by the unasked-for confidence--and yet he had -not thought much the worse of her; now, retrospectively, he judged her -with terrible severity. - -But _Bella_? The thought of Bella in such company was inconceivable; and -yet, deep in Oliver Germaine's heart, there grew from the seed sown by -Mrs. Bliss a upas tree which for the moment overshadowed everything. He -was torn with anguished jealousy, which made him forget, excepting as -affording a proof of what he feared, the sordid, horrible question of -the money. - -Germaine had already been jealous of Bella, jealous before their -marriage, and jealous since, but that feeling had been nothing, -_nothing_ to that which now held him in its grip. - -As a girl, Bella had been a flirt, and, as she had since confessed more -than once, she had loved to make Oliver miserable. Then, for some time -after their marriage he had been angered at the way she had welcomed and -courted admiration. But he had never doubted her, never for a moment -thought that her love was leaving him, still less that her flirtations -held any really sinister intent. He now remembered how a man, a fool of -a fellow, had once brought her a beautiful jewel by way of a Christmas -gift; but it had annoyed her, and, without saying anything about it to -Oliver at the time, she had actually made the man take back his present! - -Was it conceivable that in three or four short years Bella could have -entirely altered--have become to all intents and purposes, not only -another woman, but a woman of a type,--as even he was well aware, a very -common type,--he would not have cared to hear mentioned in her -presence? - -Germaine was now at the Marble Arch. After a moment's bewildered -hesitation, he went up Oxford Street, and then took a turning which -would ultimately lead him home; home where Bella must be impatiently -awaiting him--home where their intimates had already doubtless gathered -together for lunch. - -And then, during his walk through the now deserted and sun-baked streets -and byways of Mayfair, Oliver Germaine passed in slow review the men and -the women who composed his own and Bella's intimate circle. They rose in -blurred outline against the background of his memory, and gradually the -women fell out, and only the men remained,--two men, for Henry Buck did -not count. - -Which of these two men who came about his house in the guise of close -friends, had planned to steal, to buy, the wife on whose absolute purity -and honour he would an hour ago have staked his life? - -Germaine's fevered mind leapt on Bob Uvedale. What were Uvedale's -relations, his real relations, with Bella? Oliver, so he now told -himself sorely, was not quite a fool; he had known men who hid the -deepest, tenderest--he would not say the most dishonourable--feelings, -towards a married woman, under the skilful pretence of frank laughing -flirtation. - -Uvedale, when all was said and done, was an adventurer, living on his -wits. He talked of his poverty, talked of it over-much, but he often -made considerable sums of money; in fact twice, in moments of unwonted -expansiveness, Uvedale had offered to put Germaine on to a "good thing," -to share with him a tip which had been given him by one of his financial -friends. Germaine now remembered, with a sick feeling of anger, how -seriously annoyed Bella had been to find that her husband had refused to -have anything to do with it; nay more, how she had taunted him -afterwards when the "good thing" had turned out good after all. But that -was long ago, when they had first known Uvedale. - -They now knew Uvedale too well--at least Bella did. Oliver was an -outdoor man; he hated crowds. He remembered how often Uvedale took his -place as Bella's companion at those semi-public gatherings, charity -fętes, and so on, which apparently amused her, and where the presence of -the beautiful Mrs. Germaine was always eagerly desired. - -Germaine's mind next glanced with jealous anguished suspicion at another -man who was constantly with Bella--Peter Joliffe. - -There was a great, almost a ludicrous, contrast between Uvedale and -Joliffe. Uvedale, so Germaine dimly realised even now, was a man with a -wider, more generous, outlook on life than the other, capable of deeper -depths, of higher heights. - -Joliffe was well off; and, as the Germaines had been told very early in -their acquaintance with him, he had the reputation of being "near." But -Bella and Oliver had both agreed that this was not true. Only the other -day Bella had spoken very warmly of Joliffe; when they had moved into -their new house he had given them a Sheraton bureau, a very charming and -certainly by no means a cheap piece of old furniture. Oliver had -supposed it to be a delicate way of paying back some of their constant -hospitality, for Joliffe was perpetually with Bella. - -Time after time Germaine had come in and found Joliffe sitting with her; -walking through the hall he had heard her peals of laughter at Joliffe's -witticisms, the funny things he said with his serious face. - -But after all jesters are men of like passions to their melancholy -brethren; they can, and do, throw off the grinning mask. Bella had said, -only yesterday, "There's more in Peter than you think, Oliver. Believe -me, there is!" Bella always called Joliffe Peter,--she was more formal -with Bob Uvedale. - -Germaine now reminded himself that Joliffe did not like Uvedale, and -that Uvedale did not like Joliffe. There seemed a deep, unspoken -antagonism between the two men, who were yet so constantly meeting. -Joliffe had gone so far as to say something--not exactly disagreeable, -but condemnatory--of Uvedale's city connections, to Germaine. Joliffe -was annoyed, distinctly annoyed at the way Bella went about with -Uvedale, and by the fact that she often introduced him to people whose -acquaintance she had herself made through Joliffe. - -What had he, Oliver Germaine, been about, to allow his wife to become so -intimate with two men, of whom he knew nothing? Yesterday he would have -said Uvedale and Joliffe were his closest pals. But what did he really -know of either of them--of their secret thoughts--their deep desires and -ambitions--their shames and secret sins? Nothing--nothing. Bella's -husband knew as little of Uvedale and Joliffe--in fact, till to-day, -far less than they knew of him, for one or the other of these men was -his enemy, and had betrayed, very basely, his hospitality. - -Germaine had now lashed himself into the certainty that he was that most -miserable and pitiable of civilised beings, the trusting, kindly, nay -more, adoring husband, whose wife betrays him with his friend. - -When others had laughed, as men have laughed, and will ever laugh, at -similar ironic juxtapositions of fate, Germaine had remained grave, for -he had a sensitive heart--a heart which made him realise something of -what lay beneath such tales. Now he told himself that so no doubt he -himself was being laughed at by the many, pitied--the thought stung -deeper--by the few. - -As he at last turned into Curzon Street, and so was within a few yards -of his house, it struck two o'clock. By now they must all be waiting for -him, and Bella would be angry, as angry as she ever allowed her -sweet-tempered nature to be. But Germaine told himself savagely that he -didn't care,--he was sorry to be so near home, to know that in a few -moments he would have to command himself, to pretend light-hearted -indifference before a crowd of people most of whom he now feared--ay, -feared and hated, for they must all have long suspected what he only now -knew to be the truth. - -Some one touched him. He started violently. It was his sister, Fanny, -pouring out a confused stream of apologies and explanations. He stared -at her in silence, and she thought he was so seriously annoyed, so "put -out" that he could not trust himself to speak. - -But though, as they stood there face to face, he dimly realised what his -sister was trying to say, how she was trying to explain her failure to -keep her appointment with him in the Park, Germaine could not have told, -had his life depended on it, the nature of her excuse. - -Together they walked side by side to the door of his house, and, as he -rang the bell, as he knocked, he remembered with a pang of jealous -anguish that Bella had asked him, when they moved into this house, not -to use a latch-key in the daytime; she had explained to him that to do -so prevented the servants keeping up to the mark, and he had obeyed her, -as he always did obey her. This trifle made his anger, for the moment -his impotent anger, become colder, clarified. - -It was only an hour later, but at last they were all gone, these people -whom Oliver Germaine had now begun to hate and suspect, each in their -different measure, women and men. Everyone had left, that is, excepting -Henry Buck and Fanny; and Fanny was just going away, Oliver seeing her -off at the front door. - -Germaine believed that he had carried himself well. True, Uvedale had -said to him, "Feeling a bit chippy, old chap?" and twice he had noticed -Joliffe's rather cold grey eyes fixed attentively on his face, but under -the chatter of the women--Jenny Arabin was a great talker and in a -harmless sort of way a great gossip, always knowing everybody's business -better than they did themselves--under cover of the women's chatter, he -had been able to remain silent, and, whatever the two men present had -suspected,--one of the two forced thereto by his own conscience,--Bella -had certainly noticed nothing. She had not even seen, as his sister had -seen, that Oliver looked tired and unlike himself. - -Why, just now Fanny had spoken to him solicitously about his -health--blundering, tactless, Fanny had actually asked him if anything -special were worrying him! - -He shut the door on his sister, and crossed the little hall. The time -had now come when he must have it out with Bella. - -Then, suddenly, there came over Germaine a feeling as if he had been -living through a hideous nightmare. If that were indeed so, then his -whole life would not be too long to secretly atone to Bella for his -horrible suspicion. - -It seemed suddenly monstrous that he should suspect Bella on the word of -a Mrs. Bliss. His wife had a right, after all, to pay her dressmaker in -bank-notes if the fancy seized her. Sometimes when Bella did something -that he, Oliver, did not like or approve, she explained that her mother -had done the same thing, and the excuse always irritated him, left him -without an answer. - -Supposing that Bella were now to tell him that the late Mrs. Arabin, -whose reputation for a certain daring liveliness and exceeding beauty -still lingered in the ever-shifting naval and military society where he -had first met his wife, always paid her bills in notes and cash rather -than by cheque--what then? - -He walked up the staircase; Henry Buck passed him coming down. -Germaine's eyes rested on the awkward figure, the plain, good-natured -face. Rabbit was certainly lacking in tact; he always outstayed all -their other guests, and he never knew when Bella was tired, but still he -was the one human being present at the little lunch party at whom Oliver -had been able to look without a feeling of unease. - -Slowly he turned the painted china knob of the drawing-room door. - -Bella was standing before the Sheraton bureau which had been the gift of -Peter Joliffe. She had apparently been putting something away; Germaine -heard the click of the lock. She turned round quickly, and her husband -thought there was a look of constraint on her face. - -"Why, Oliver," she said, "I thought you were going out with Fanny this -afternoon!" - -"With Fanny?" he stammered, "I never thought of doing such a thing." - -"But you're not going to stay in, are you?" - -He looked at her attentively, and again there surged up in his heart -wild jealousy and suspicion. Why did she ask whether he was going to -stay in? Which of the two men who had just left the house was she -expecting to come back as soon as he, poor deluded fool, was safely out -of the way? - -But Bella went on speaking rather quickly: "I shan't go out. I'm tired. -Besides, I'm expecting some people to tea. So perhaps I'd better go and -take my hat off. I shall only be a few minutes; do wait till I come -back." Bella spoke rather breathlessly, moving across the room towards -the door. - -Then she didn't want him to go out? He had wronged her in this, at any -rate. Germaine stared at the door through which his wife had just gone -with a feeling of miserable uncertainty. - -Then his eye travelled round to the place where she had been standing -just now, in front of Joliffe's bureau. A glance at Bella's bank-book -would set his mind at rest one way or the other. It would go far to -prove or disprove the story Mrs. Bliss had told, for it would show if -Bella were indeed in the habit of drawing considerable cheques to -"self." Why hadn't he thought of this simple test before,--before -shaming himself and shaming his wife by base suspicions? - -And yet Oliver, for some few moments, stood in the middle of the room -irresolute. Yesterday it would never have occurred to him that Bella -would mind his looking at her bank-book, although, as a matter of fact -he never had looked at it. She was a tidy little woman; he knew that -everything under the flap which he had seen her close down so quickly -just now would be exquisitely neat; he knew the exact spot where her -bank-book was to be found. - -With a curious feeling that he was doing something dishonourable,--and -it was a feeling which sat very uneasily on Oliver Germaine,--he took -hold of the little brass knob and slid up the flap of the sloping desk. - -The bank-book closed the ranks of the red household books over which in -old days, when they were first married, before he had come into his -fortune, he had actually seen Bella shed tears. - -With fingers that felt numb he took up the little vellum-bound book and -opened it at the page containing the latest items. - -There, on the credit side, was the sum of money which had been paid in, -to his bankers' order, on the last quarter day. On the debit side were a -few cheques made out to trades-people. There was not a single cheque -made out to "self" on the page at which he was looking; but--but of -course it was possible that Bella, like so many women, added a few -pounds for change every time she settled a tradesman's account. - -He turned several leaves of the little book backwards----Here was a page -which bore the date of three years ago; and here, as he had feared to -find, there were constant, small entries to "self".... - -By the empty place on the shelf where the bank-book had stood was a gilt -file for bills, a pretty little toy which had been given her, so the -husband now remembered, by Uvedale. The letters composing the word -"paid" were twisted round the handle--horrible symbolic word! - -He took up the file and ran his fingers through the receipted bills. - -Ah! here at last, was one which bore the name of Mrs. Bliss. - -The amount of the bill amazed him,--eight hundred and seventy-one -pounds, sixteen shillings,--and Bella had paid four hundred pounds on -account about a fortnight before. It was the only bill on the file on -which there still remained a balance owing. Germaine did not need to -look again at his wife's bank-book to see that the majority of the -receipted bills had not been paid by cheque. - -These bills, so he now became aware with a frightful contraction of the -heart, were for all sorts of things--expensive trifles, costly hot-house -flowers, extravagantly expensive fruit--which he had enjoyed, and of -which he had partaken, believing, if he thought of the matter at -all--fool that he had been--that they were being paid for out of his -modest income, the income which had once seemed so limitless. - - * * * * * - -"What are you doing, Oliver? You've no business to look at my things. I -never look at yours." He had not heard the door open, and Bella had -crept up swiftly behind him; there was some anger, but there was far -more fear, in her soft voice. - -Germaine turned round and looked at his wife. - -Bella had changed her dress, and she was now wearing a painted muslin -gown, her slender waist girdled with a blue ribbon. She looked -exquisitely lovely, and so young,--a girl, a young and innocent girl. - -There fell a heavy hand on her rounded shoulder. - -"Oliver!" she cried, "you're hurting me!" - -He withdrew his hand--quickly. - -"Bella," he said, "I only want to ask you one question--I know -everything,"--and in answer to a strange look that came over her face -he added hurriedly, "Never mind how I found out. I _have_ found out, and -now I only want to ask you one thing--I--I have a right to know who it -is." - -"Who it is?" she repeated. "I don't understand what you mean, Oliver? -Who--what?" but as Bella Germaine asked the useless question she shrank -back; for the first time in their joint lives she felt afraid of -Oliver,--afraid, and intensely sorry for him. - -A sob rose to her throat. What a shame it was! How on earth could he -have found out? She had thought he would go on not knowing--for ever. -That this should happen now, when she was so happy too,--when everything -was so--so comfortable. - -"Tell me--tell me at once, Bella," he said again, shaken almost out of -his self-control by her pretended lack of understanding. - -But Bella made no answer; she was retreating warily towards the open -window; Oliver, poor angry Oliver, could not say much, he could not _do_ -anything, out on the balcony. - -But he grasped her arm. "Come back," he said, "right into the room," and -forced her, trembling, down into a low chair. "Now tell me," he -repeated. "Don't keep me waiting--I can't stand it. I won't hurt you." -He leant over her, grasping her soft arm. - -But still Bella said nothing. Her free hand was toying with the fringe -of her blue sash. She had become very pale, a sickly yellow colour which -made her violet eyes seem blue,--for one terrible moment Oliver thought -she was going to faint. - -"Why should I tell you?" she muttered at last, "you can't force me to -tell you. It's a matter personal to myself. It's no business of yours. -I've never spent any of the money on you,"--she unfortunately added, "at -least hardly any." - -Germaine took his hand from her arm. "My God!" he said, "my God!" - -Did a dim gleam of what he was feeling penetrate Bella's brain? - -"I don't know why you should trouble to ask me," she said defiantly. -"Surely you must know well enough." - -"I daresay I'm stupid, but I find it very difficult to guess which of -the two, Joliffe or--or Uvedale, is your lover." - -"My lover? Joliffe--Uvedale?" Bella started to her feet, the colour -rushed back into her face. She was shaking with anger and indignation. - -"How dare you insult me so?" she gasped. "You wouldn't have dared to say -such a thing if my father had been alive! How dare you say, how dare you -_think_, I have a lover?" and then with quivering pain she gave a little -cry, "Oh, Oliver!" - -Germaine looked at her grimly enough. What a fool--what an abject fool -he had been! It fed his anger to see that Bella had so poor an opinion -of his intelligence as to suppose that he would believe her denial. - -"I know you are lying," he said briefly. "I _know_ it is either Joliffe -or Uvedale." - -"But, Oliver--indeed it isn't!" - -She was looking at him with a very curious expression; the fear, the -real terror, there had been in her face, had left it. She was staring at -her husband as if she were seeking to find on his face some indication -of a distraught, unhinged mind. - -But he looked cool, collected, stern,--and anger again surged up in -Bella's heart. If he were sane she would never--never forgive him his -vile suspicion of her. Was it for this that she, Bella, had always gone -so straight--never even been tempted to go otherwise, in spite of all -the admiration lavished on her? - -There had been a time in Bella Germaine's life, some two years before, -when she had often rehearsed this scene, when she had been so haunted by -the fear of it that it had been a constant nightmare. - -But never had she imagined the conversation between Oliver and herself -taking the turn it now had. Never, in her most anguished dreams, had -Oliver accused her of having--a lover. But she had known, only too well, -with what anger and amazement he would learn the lesser truth. - -"Peter Joliffe?" she said, with a certain scorn. "How little you know -Peter, Oliver, if you think he would be any married woman's lover, let -alone mine! Why, Peter's a regular old maid!" She laughed a little -hysterically at her simile, and, to her husband, the merriment, which he -felt to be genuine, lowered the discussion to a level which was -hateful--sordid. - -"Then it's Uvedale," he said, heavily; and this time, so he was quick to -notice, Bella did not take the trouble to utter a direct denial. - -"Bob Uvedale? Are you quite mad? Bob Uvedale is really fond of you, -Oliver,--do you honestly think he would make love to me?" - -She was actually arguing with him; he shrugged his shoulders with a -hopeless gesture. - -Then Bella Germaine came quite close up to her husband. She looked at -him straight in the eyes. - -"I'll tell you," she said. "I see you really don't know. It's--it's----" -she hesitated, again a look of shame,--more, of fear,--came into her -face, "The person who has been giving me money, Oliver, is Rabbit." - -"Rabbit? I don't believe you!" - -"You don't believe me?" - -Bella drew a long breath. The worst, from her point of view, was now -over. She had told the truth,--and Oliver had brushed the truth aside, -so possessed by insane jealousy of Peter Joliffe and Bob Uvedale, that -he had apparently no room in his heart for anything else. - -Bella gave a little sigh of relief. Perhaps, after all, she had made a -mistake in being so frightened; men are so queer--perhaps Oliver would -feel, as she had now felt for so long, that poor old Rabbit could not -find a better use for his money than in making her happy. - -She walked over to her pretty desk, and frowned a little as she saw its -condition of disarray; the receipted bills which she had found her -husband looking over were scattered, even the tradesmen's books had not -been put back in their place on the little shelf. - -She touched the spring of a rather obvious secret drawer. There had been -a time when Bella Germaine had hidden very carefully what she was now -about to show Oliver as the certain, triumphant proof that his revolting -suspicions were false. But of late she had grown careless. - -"If you don't believe me," she said coldly, "look at this, Oliver. I -think it will convince you that I told the truth just now." - -Bella knew she had a right to be bitterly indignant at her husband's -preposterous accusation. But she told herself that now was not the time -to show it; she would punish Oliver later on. - -She waited a moment and then cried, "Catch!" - -Oliver instinctively held out his hands. A bulky envelope fell into -them. It was addressed in a handwriting he knew well,--the unformed, and -yet meticulous handwriting of Henry Buck. On it was written: - - "Mrs. Oliver Germaine, - "19, West Chapel Street, - "Mayfair." - -In the corner were added the words: - - "Any one finding this, and taking it to the above address, will be - handsomely rewarded." - -"Open it!" she said imperiously. "Open it, and see what is inside,--he -only brought it to-day." - -Oliver opened the envelope. Folded in two pieces of paper was a packet -of bank-notes held together with an elastic band. - -Germaine looked up questioningly at his wife. - -Bella hung her head. She had the grace to feel embarrassed, ashamed in -this moment that she believed to be the moment of her exculpation. Her -pretty little hands, laden with rings, each one of which had been given -her by her husband, were again toying with the fringe of her blue sash. - -The silence grew intolerable. - -"I know I've been a beast,"--her voice faltered, broke into tears. "I -knew you wouldn't like it, but--but you know, Oliver, Rabbit isn't like -an ordinary man." - -"When did he begin to give you money?" asked Oliver, in a low voice. - -"A long time ago," she answered, vaguely. - -"He came in one day when I was awfully upset about a bill--a bill of -that old devil, Bliss,--and he was so kind, Oliver. He explained how -awfully fond he was of us both. He said we were his only friends--I -always _have_ been nice to him, you know. He said he couldn't spend the -money he'd got----" - -"How much have you had from him?" - -"I can tell you exactly," she said eagerly, and again she moved towards -her bureau. - -Bella felt utterly dejected; somehow she had not expected Oliver to take -the news quite in this way; he looked dreadful--not relieved, as she had -thought he would do. - -It was with slow lagging steps that she walked back to where her husband -was still standing with the envelope and its contents crushed in his -right hand. - -Bella's love of tidiness and method had stood her in fatally good stead. -She had put down all the sums she had received from Henry Buck, but in -such a fashion that any one else looking at the figures would not have -known money was in question. - -Oliver stared down at the piece of paper. Insensibly he straightened his -shoulders as if to meet calmly a physical blow. "Are these pounds?" he -asked. - -She nodded. - -"But Bella, it's an enormous sum,--over four thousand." - -"I suppose it is," she said listlessly. - -Her husband put the paper in his breast pocket; then he hesitated a -moment, and Bella thought he was perhaps going to hand her back the -envelope and its contents. But that also, to her chagrin, disappeared -into his pocket. - -"I suppose the money Buck brought you to-day is included in this -amount?" - -Bella shook her head sadly. "I hadn't time to put it down," she said. - -"Well, I'll see what can be done." - -"I suppose you mean to pay it all back? I suppose"--her voice was -trembling with self-pity--"that we shall have to go and live in the -country now?" - -He said nothing,--only looked at her with that same cold look of -surprise and alienation. - -He was leaving the room when a cry from her brought him back. She -clutched his hand. - -"You've never said you're sorry for the horrible thing you said to -me----" and, as he looked at her, still silent, "Oliver! you surely -don't think that Rabbit----Why, he's never even squeezed my hand!" - -"Stop!" he cried roughly. "Don't be silly, Bella. Of course I don't -think anything of the kind. I accept absolutely what you tell me of your -relations with Henry Buck." - -"Why, there have been no relations with Henry Buck and me," she cried, -protesting. "What a hateful word to use, Oliver!" - -But he was already out of the door, making his way to the only human -being in whom he still felt complete confidence, who, he knew, loved -him, in the good old homely sense of the word. - - * * * * * - -"My dear boy, what _is_ the matter?" - -Fanny sat up. She had been lying down on the sofa in the sitting-room of -her lodgings. Oliver had explained to the servant that he was Mrs. -Burdon's brother, and he had been allowed to make his own way up to the -drawing-room floor. - -"There's a good deal the matter," he said. "The fact is I've made a fool -of myself, Fanny,--and I've come to you for help." - -Fanny looked up at him, and what she saw checked the words on her lips. -She was wide awake now, but rather painfully conscious that she looked -untidy. Her smart voile gown--voile was the "smart" material that -season--was crumpled. And Oliver's wife, Bella, was always so -dreadfully, so unnaturally, tidy and neat,--it was one of the things -that perhaps made people think her so much prettier than she really was. - -"Of course I will help you," she answered briskly. "Tell me all about -it." - -"Have you still that five thousand pounds Cousin Andrew left you?" - -"Why of course I have,--and it's rather more now, for luckily we didn't -put it into Consols; we put it into a Canadian security." - -"Is it invested in Dick's name?" - -Dick's wife laughed. "No, of course it isn't," she said. "Why should it -be?" - -"Could you get at it without Dick's knowing?" - -"Yes, I suppose I could." There was a touch of wonder in her voice. - -"Fanny, I want you to lend me four thousand pounds." Oliver spoke -huskily. He was staring out of the window. - -His sister looked at him rather queerly for a moment: "Yes, of course I -will," she said. And, as he turned to her, his face working,--"You -needn't make a fuss about it, dear old boy. You'll pay me back all -right, I know that." - -"I'll insure against it, and I'll pay you proper interest for -it--whatever you're getting now," he said. "And we'll get a lawyer to -see that it's all made safe." - -"That'll be all right," said Fanny, and then again she gave him that -curious, considering look. - -Germaine pulled himself together. "You'll think I've been a fool," he -exclaimed abruptly,--he had to say something in answer to that -look,--"and so I have. But you know--at least you don't know, luckily -for you--what it's like to be mixed up with a lot of fellows who are all -richer than one is oneself;" and then in a very different tone, one in -which his sister felt the ring of truth, "Are you sure Dick won't know, -Fanny? I don't want Dick to know." - -"Of course he won't know," Fanny smiled. "You don't suppose I tell Dick -everything?" - -Oliver stared at his sister. He was rather shocked by her admission; -till to-day he had thought that all husbands and wives who loved one -another told each other everything; and yet, here was Fanny, who hadn't -a thought in the world beyond Dick, the children, the dogs--and, and, -yes, her brother---- - -"It's none of Dick's business what I choose to do with my own money--not -that he'd mind." - -"I think of spreading the re-payment over five years." - -"That would be rather too soon," she said; and added, looking away as -she spoke, "I don't think it would be fair to Bella." - -Oliver reddened, a man's dusky unbecoming blush. - -"Bella's been good about it," he said briefly. "She said herself that we -should have to go and live in the country. Still, let's make it seven -years. I say, Fanny, you _are_ a brick," and sitting down by the table, -Oliver Germaine broke into hard, painful sobs. - -Fanny got up off the sofa. She felt rather shy. - -"Don't be so worried," she said. "Bella's a very good sort, and awfully -fond of you, old boy. She'll like the country better than you think. Her -looks will last twice as long there, and, and--if I were you, -Oliver--you and Bella I mean," Fanny got rather mixed, and very -red--"well, I'd try and have a baby. Bella would look awfully sweet with -a baby. And a baby's no trouble in the country--less trouble than a -puppy!" - -"Yes, that's true," he said, raising his head, and feeling vaguely -comforted. His sister Fanny had a lot of sense. Oliver had always known -that. - - - - -IV - -ACCORDING TO MEREDITH - - "Certainly, however, one day these present conditions of marriage - will be changed. Marriage will be allowed for a certain period, say - ten years."--Mr. GEORGE MEREDITH in the _Daily Mail_ of September - 24th, 1904. - - -"Give you some heads? My dear fellow, there need be no question of -heads! This is to be a model will. You need simply put down, in as few -words as are legally permissible--I know nothing of such things--that I -leave all of which I die possessed to my wife." - -Philip Dering threw his head back, and gave the man to whom he was -speaking, and opposite to whom he was standing, a confident smiling -glance. Then he turned and walked quickly over to the narrow, -old-fashioned, balconied window which, commanding the wide wind-blown -expanse of Abingdon Street, exactly faced the great cavity formed by the -arch of the Victoria Tower. - -To the right lay the riverside garden, a bright patch of delicate spring -colouring and green verdure, bounded by the slow-moving grey waters of -the Thames; and Dering's eager eyes travelled on till he saw, detaching -itself against an April afternoon horizon, the irregular mass of -building formed by Lambeth Palace and the Lollards' Tower. - -"I say," he exclaimed, rather suddenly, "this is better than Bedford -Park, eh? I suppose a floor in one of these houses would cost us a -tremendous lot; even beyond _our_ means, Wingfield?" and again a happy -smile came over the tense, clear-cut face, still full of youthful glow -and enthusiasm. - -"You wish everything to go to Louise? All right, I'll make a note of -that." - -The speaker, a round-faced, slightly bald, shrewd-looking lawyer, took -no notice of the, to him, absurd question concerning the rent of floors -in Abingdon Street. Still, he looked indulgently at his friend, as he -added: - -"But wait a bit,--I promise that yours shall be a model will,--only you -seem to have forgotten, my dear fellow, that you may out-live your wife. -Now, should you have the misfortune to lose Louise, to whom would you -wish to devise this fifteen thousand pounds? It's possible, too, though -not very probable, I admit, that you may both die at the same time--both -be killed in a railway accident for instance." - -"Such good fortune may befall us----" Dering spoke quite simply, and -accepted the other's short laugh with great good-humour. "Oh! you know -what I mean; I always _have_ thought husbands and wives--who care, I -mean--ought to die on the same day. That they don't do so is one of the -many strange mysteries which complicate life. But I say, Wingfield----" - -The speaker had turned away from the window. He had again taken up his -stand opposite the other's broad writing table, and not even the cheap, -ill-made clothes could hide the graceful lines of the tall, active -figure, not even the turned-down collar and orange silk tie could -destroy the young man's look of rather subtle distinction. - -"Failing Louise, I should like this money, at my death, to be divided -equally between the young Hintons and your kids," and as the other made -a gesture of protest, Dering added quickly: - -"What better could I do? Louise is devoted to Jack Hinton's children, -and I've always regarded you--I have indeed, old man,--as my one real -friend. Of course it's possible now,"--an awkward shy break came into -his voice--"it's possible now, I say, that we may have children of our -own; I don't suppose you've ever realised how poor, how horribly poor, -we've been all these years." - -He looked away, avoiding the other man's eyes; then, picking up his hat -and stick with a quick, nervous gesture, was gone. - - * * * * * - -After the door had shut on his friend, Wingfield went on still standing -for awhile. His hands mechanically sorted the papers and letters lying -on his table into neat little heaps, but his thoughts were travelling -backward, through his and Dering's past lives. - -The friends had first met at the City of London school, for they were -much of an age, though the lawyer looked the elder of the two. Then -Dering had gone to Cambridge, and Wingfield, more humbly, to take up -life as an articled clerk to a good firm of old-established attorneys. -Again, later, they had come together once more, sharing a modest -lodging, while Dering earned a small uncertain income by contributing to -the literary weeklies, by "ghosting" writers more fortunate than -himself, by tutoring whenever he got the chance,--in a word, by -resorting to the few expedients open to the honest educated Londoner -lacking a definite profession. - -The two men had not parted company till Dering, enabled to do so with -the help of a small legacy, had chosen to marry a Danish girl, as -good-looking, as high-minded, as unpractical as himself. - -But stay, had Louise Dering proved herself so unpractical during the -early years of her married life? - -Wingfield, standing there, his mind steeped in memories, compared her, -with an unconscious critical sigh, with his own stolid, unimaginative -wife, Kate. As he did so he wondered whether, after all, Dering had not -known how to make the best of both worlds; and yet he and his Louise had -gone through some bad times together. - -Wingfield had been the one intimate of the young couple when they began -their married life in a three-roomed flat in Gray's Inn; and he had been -aware, painfully so, of the incessant watchful struggle with money -difficulties, never mentioned while the struggle was in being, for only -the rich can afford to complain of poverty. He had admired, it might -almost be said he had reverenced with all his heart, the high courage -then shown by his friend's wife. - -During those first difficult years, when he, Wingfield, could do -nothing for them, Louise had gone without the help of even the least -adequate servant. The women of her nation are taught housewifery as an -indispensable feminine accomplishment, and so she had scrubbed and sung, -cooked and read, made and mended, for Philip and herself. - -Wingfield was glad to remember that it was he who had at last found -Dering regular employment; he who had so far thrown prudence aside as to -persuade one of his first and most valuable clients to appoint his -clever if eccentric friend secretary to a company formed to exploit a -new invention. The work had proved congenial; Dering had done admirably -well, and now, when his salary had just been raised to four hundred a -year, a distant, almost unknown, cousin of his dead mother's had left -him fifteen thousand pounds! - - * * * * * - -At last James Wingfield sat down. He began making notes of the -instructions he had just received, though as he did so he knew well -enough that he could not bring himself to draw up a will by which his -own children might so greatly benefit. - -Then, as he sat, pen in hand, wondering with a certain discomfort as to -what ought to be the practical effect of the conversation, there -suddenly came a sound of hurrying feet up the shallow oak staircase, and -through the door, flung open quickly and unceremoniously, strode once -more Philip Dering. - -"I say, I've forgotten something!" he exclaimed, and then, as Wingfield -instinctively looked round the bare spacious room--"No, I didn't leave -anything behind me. I simply forgot to ask you one very important -question----" - -He took off his hat, put it down with a certain deliberation, then drew -up a chair, and placed himself astride on it, an action which to the -other suddenly seemed to blot out the years which had gone by since they -had been housemates together. - -"As I went down your jolly old staircase, Wingfield, it suddenly -occurred to me that making a will may not be quite so simple a matter as -I once thought it----" - -He hesitated a moment, then went on:--"So I've come back to ask you the -meaning of the term 'proving a will.' What I really want to get at, old -man, is whether my wife, if she became a widow, would have to give any -actual legal proof of our marriage? Would she be compelled, I mean, to -show her 'marriage lines'?" - -Wingfield hesitated. The question took him by surprise. - -"I fancy that would depend," he said, "on the actual wording of the -will, but all that sort of thing is a mere formality, and of course any -solicitor employed by her would see to it. By the way, I suppose you -were married in Denmark?" He frowned, annoyed with himself for having -forgotten a fact with which he must have been once well acquainted. "If -you had asked me to be your best man," he added with a vexed laugh, "I -shouldn't have forgotten the circumstances." - -Dering tipped the chair which he was bestriding a little nearer to the -edge of the table which stood between himself and Wingfield; a curious -look, a look half humorous, half deprecating, but in no sense ashamed, -came over his sensitive, mobile face. - -"No," he said, at length, "we were not married in Denmark. Neither were -we married in England. In fact, there was no ceremony at all." - - * * * * * - -The eyes of the two men, of the speaker and of his listener, met for a -moment; but Wingfield, to the other's sudden uneasy surprise, made no -comment on what he had just heard. - -Dering sprang up, and during the rest of their talk he walked, with -short, quick strides, from the door to the window, from the window to -the door. - -"I wanted to tell you at the time, but Louise would not have it; though -I told her that in principle--not, of course, in practice--you -thoroughly agreed with me--I mean with us. Nay, more, that you, with -your clear, legal mind, had always realised, even more than I could do, -the utter absurdity of making such a contract as that of marriage--which -of all contracts is the most intimately personal, and which least -affects the interests of those outside the contracting parties--the only -legal contract which can't be rescinded or dissolved by mutual -agreement! Then again, you must admit that there was one really good -reason why we should not tell you the truth; you already liked Kate, and -Louise, don't you remember, used to play chaperon. Now, Kate's people, -you know----!" - -All the humour had gone out of Dering's face, but the deprecating look -had deepened. - -The lawyer made a strong effort over himself. He had felt for a moment -keenly hurt, and not a little angry. - -"I don't think," he said quietly, "that there is any need of -explanations or apologies between us. Of course, I can't help feeling -very much surprised, and that in spite of our old theoretical talks and -discussions, concerning--well, this subject. But I don't doubt that in -the circumstances you did quite right. Mind you, I don't mean about the -marriage," he quickly corrected himself, "but only as to the concealment -from me." - -He waited a moment, and then went on, hesitatingly: "But even now I -don't really understand what happened--I should like to know a little -more----" - -Dering stayed his walk across the room, and stood opposite his friend. -He felt a great wish to justify himself, and to win Wingfield's -retrospective sympathy. - -"I will tell you everything there is to tell!" he cried eagerly; -"indeed, it can all be told in a moment. My wife and I entered into a -personal contract together, which we arranged, provisionally, of course, -should last ten years. Louise was quite willing, absolutely willing...." -For the first time there came a defensive note in the eager voice. "You -see the idea--that of leasehold marriage? We used to talk about it, you -and I, of course only as a Utopian possibility. All I can say is that I -had the good fortune to meet with a woman with whom I was able to try -the experiment; and all I can tell you is--well, I need not tell _you_, -Wingfield, that there has never been a happier marriage than ours." -Again Dering started pacing up and down the room. "Louise has been -everything--everything--everything--that such a man as myself could have -looked for in a wife!" - -"And has no one ever guessed--has no one ever known?" asked the other, -rather sternly. - -"Absolutely no one! Yes, wait a moment--there has been one exception. -Louise told Gerda Hinton. You know they became very intimate after we -went to Bedford Park, and Louise thought Gerda ought to know. But it -made no difference--no difference at all!" he added, emphatically; "for -in fact poor Gerda practically left her baby to Louise's care." - -"And that worthless creature, Jack Hinton--does he know too?" - -"No, I don't think so; in fact I may say most decidedly not--but of -course Gerda may have told him, though for my part I don't believe that -husbands and wives share their friends' secrets. Still, you are quite at -liberty to tell Kate." - -"No," said Wingfield, "I don't intend to tell Kate, and there will be no -reason for doing so if you will take my advice--which is, I need hardly -tell you, to go and get married at once. Now that you have come into -this money, your marrying becomes a positive duty. Are you aware that if -you were run over and killed on your way home to-day Louise would have -no standing? that she would not have a right to a penny of this money, -or even to any of the furniture which is in your house? Let me see, how -long is it that you have been"--he hesitated awkwardly--"together?" - -Dering looked round at him rather fiercely. "We have been _married_ nine -years and a half," he said. "Our wedding day was the first of September. -We spent our honeymoon in Denmark. You remember my little legacy?" - -Wingfield nodded his head. His heart suddenly went out to his -friend--the prosperous lawyer had reason to remember that hundred pounds -legacy, for ten pounds of it had gone to help him out of some foolish -scrape. But Dering had forgotten all that; he went on speaking, but -more slowly: - -"And then, as you know, we came back and settled down in Gray's Inn, and -though we were horribly poor, perhaps poorer than even you ever guessed, -we were divinely happy." He turned his back to the room and stared out -once more at the greyness opposite. - -"But you're quite right, old man, it's time we did like our betters! -We'll be married at once, and I'll take her off for another and a longer -honeymoon, and we'll come back and be even happier than we were before." - -Then again, as abruptly as before, he was gone, shutting the door behind -him, and leaving Wingfield staring thoughtfully after him. - -That his friend, that the Philip Dering of ten years ago, should have -done such a thing, was in no way remarkable, but that Louise--the -thoughtful, well-balanced, intelligent woman, who, coming as a mere girl -from Denmark, had known how to work her way up to a position of great -trust and responsibility in a City house, so winning the esteem and -confidence of her employers that they had again and again asked her to -return to them after her marriage--that she should have consented to -such--to such.... Wingfield even in his own mind hesitated for the -right word ... to such an arrangement--seemed to the lawyer an -astounding thing, savouring indeed of the fifth dimension. - -No, no, he would certainly not tell Kate anything about it. Why should -he? He knew very well how his wife would regard the matter, and how her -condemnation would fall, not on Louise--Kate had become exceedingly fond -of Louise--no, indeed, but on Dering. Kate had never cordially "taken" -(a favourite word of hers, that) to Wingfield's friend; she thought him -affected and unpractical, and she laughed at his turned-down collars and -Liberty ties. No, no, there was no reason why Kate should be told a word -of this extraordinary, this amazing story. - - * * * * * - -On leaving Abingdon Street, Philip Dering swung across the broad -roadway, and made his way, almost instinctively, to the garden which lay -so nearly opposite his friend's office windows. He wanted to calm down, -to think things over, and to recover full possession of himself before -going home. - -It had cost him a considerable effort to tell Wingfield this thing. Not -that he was in the least ashamed of what he and Louise had done--on the -contrary, he was very proud of it--but he had often felt, during all -those years, that he was being treacherous to the man who was, after -all, his best friend; and there was in Dering enough of the feminine -element--that element which Kate Wingfield so thoroughly despised in -him--to make him feel sorry and ashamed. - -However, Wingfield had taken it very well, just as he would have wished -him to take it, and no doubt the lawyer had given thoroughly sound -advice. This unexpected, this huge legacy made all the difference. -Besides, Dering knew well enough, when he examined his own heart and -conscience, that he felt very differently about all manner of things -from what he had been wont to feel say ten years ago. - -After all, he was following in the footsteps of men greater and wiser -than he. It is impossible to be wholly consistent. If he had been -consistent he would have refused to pay certain taxes--in fact, to have -been wholly consistent during the last ten years would have probably -landed him, England being what it is, in a lunatic asylum. He shuddered, -suddenly remembering that for awhile his own mother had been insane. - -Still, as he strode along the primly kept paths of the Thames-side -garden, he felt a great and, as he thought, a legitimate pride in the -knowledge that in this one all-important matter, so deeply affecting his -own and Louise's life, he and she had triumphantly defied convention, -and had come out victorious. - -The young man's thoughts suddenly took a softer, a more intimate turn; -he told himself, with intense secret satisfaction, that Louise was -dearer, ay, far dearer and more indispensable to him now than she had -been during the days when she was still the "sweet stranger whom he -called his wife." He remembered once saying to Wingfield that the ideal -mate should be the improbable, be able at once to clean a grate, to cook -a dinner, and to discuss Ibsen! Well, Louise had more than fulfilled -this early and rather absurd ideal. - -From the day when they had first met and made unconventional -acquaintance, with no intervening friend to form a gossip-link of -introduction, Dering had found her full of ever-recurrent and enchanting -surprises. Her foreign birth and upbringing gave her both original and -unsuspected points of view about everything English, and he had often -thought, with good-humoured pity, of all those unfortunate friends of -his, Wingfield included, whose lot it had perforce been to choose their -wives among their own country-women. - -Dering had not seen much of Denmark, but everything he had seen had won -his enthusiastic approval. Where else were modern women to be found at -once so practical and so cultivated, so pure-minded and so -large-hearted? Perhaps he was half aware that his heaven was of his own -creation, but that, in his present exalted mood, was only an added -triumph; how few human beings can evolve, and preserve at will, their -own stretch of blue sky! - -Of course it was not always as easy as it seemed to be to-day; lately -Louise had been listless and tired, utterly unlike herself--even, he had -once or twice thought with dismay, slightly hysterical! But all that -would disappear, utterly, during the first few days of their coming -travels; and even he, so he now reminded himself, had felt quite unlike -his usual sensible self--Dering was very proud of his good sense--since -had come the news of this wonderful, this fairy-gift-like legacy. - -The young man passed out of the garden, his feet stepping from the soft -shell-strewn gravel on to the wide pavement which borders the Houses of -Parliament. He made his way round swiftly, each buoyant step a challenge -to fate, to the Members' Entrance, and so across the road to the gate -which leads into what was once the old parish churchyard of Westminster. -It was still too cold to sit out of doors, and after a momentary -hesitation he turned into Westminster Abbey by the great north door. - -Dering had not been in the Abbey since he was a child, and the spirit of -quietude which fills the broad nave and narrow aisles on early spring -days soothed his restlessness. But that, alas! only for a moment; as -soon as his busy brain began to realise all that lay about him, he was -filled with a sincere if half voluntarily comic indignation. It annoyed -him to feel that this national heritage was still a church; why could -not Westminster Abbey be treated as are the Colosseum in Rome and the -Panthéon in Paris? And so, as he sat down in one of the pews which -roused his resentment, he began to think over all the improvements which -he would effect, were he given, if only for a few days, a free hand in -Westminster Abbey! - -Suddenly he saw, at right angles with himself, and moving across the -choir, a group of four people, consisting of a man, a woman, and two -children. - -The man was Jack Hinton, the idle, ill-conditioned artist neighbour of -his in Bedford Park, to whom there had been more than one reference in -his talk with Wingfield; the children were Agatha and Mary Hinton, the -motherless girls of the Danish woman to whom Louise had been so much -devoted; and the fourth figure was that of Louise herself. His wife's -back was turned to Dering, but even without the other three he would -have known the tall, graceful figure, if only by the masses of fair, -almost lint-white hair, arranged in low coils below her neat hat. - -Dering felt no wish to join the little party. He was still too excited, -too interested in his own affairs, to care for making and hearing small -talk. Still, a look of satisfaction came over his face as he watched the -four familiar figures finally disappear round a pillar. How pleased -Louise would be when he told her of his latest scheme, that of -commissioning the unfortunate Hinton to paint her portrait! If only the -man could be induced to work, he might really make something of his life -after all. Dering meant to give the artist one hundred pounds, and his -heart glowed at the thought of what such a sum would mean in the -untidy, womanless little house in which his wife took so tender and -kindly an interest. - -Dering and Jack Hinton had never exactly hit it off together, though -they had known each other for many years, and though they had both -married Danish wives. The one felt for the other the worker's worldly -contempt for the incorrigible idler. Yet, Dering had been very sorry for -Hinton at the time of poor Mrs. Hinton's death, and he liked to think -that now he would be able to do the artist a good turn. He had even -thought very seriously of offering to adopt the youngest Hinton child, a -baby now nearly a year old; but a certain belated feeling of prudence, -of that common sense which often tempers the wind to the reckless -enthusiast, had given him pause. - -After all, he and Louise might have children of their own, and then the -position of this little interloper might be an awkward one. Louise had -always intensely wished to have a child--nay, children--and now, if it -only depended on him, and if Nature would only be kind, she should have -her wish. Perhaps that would be the most tangible good this legacy would -bring them. - -Dering left the Abbey by the door which gives access to the Cloisters. -There he spent half an hour in pleasant meditation before he started -home, for the place which he knew to be so much dearer to his wife than -to himself. Dering was a Londoner, the son of a doctor who had practised -for many years in one of the City parishes, and in his heart he had much -preferred the rooms in Gray's Inn which had been their first married -home to the trim little villa, of which the interior had acquired an -absurd and touching resemblance to that of a Danish homestead. - - * * * * * - -Those who declare that the borderlands of London lack physiognomy are -strangely mistaken. Each suburban district has an individual character -of its own, and of none is this more true than of Bedford Park. -Encompassed by poor and populous streets, within a stone's throw of what -is still one of the great highways out of the town, this oasis, composed -of villas set in gardens, has the tranquil, rather mysterious, charm of -a river backwater. - -The amazing contrast between the stir and unceasing sound of the broad -High Road and the stillness of Lady Rich Road--surely the man who laid -out Bedford Park must have been a Cromwell enthusiast--struck Dering -with a sense of unwonted pleasure. As he put his latch-key in the front -door he remembered that his wife had told him that their young Danish -servant was to have that day her evening out. Well, so much the better; -they would have their talk, their discussion concerning their future -plans, without fear of eavesdropping or interruption. - -Various little signs showed that Louise was already back from town. -Dering went straight upstairs, and, as he began taking off his boots, he -called out to her, though the door between his room and hers was shut: -"Do come in here, for I have so much to tell you!" But this brought no -answering word, and after a moment he heard his wife's soft footsteps -going down the house. - -Dering dressed himself with some care; it had always been one of his -theories that a man should make himself quite as formally agreeable at -home as he does elsewhere, and he and Louise had ever practised, the one -to the other, the minor courtesies of life. Before going downstairs he -also tidied his room, as far as was possible for him to do so, and, -delicately picking up his dusty boots, he took them down into the -kitchen so as to save their young servant the trouble. - -Then, at last, he went through into the dining-room, where he found -Louise standing by the table on which lay spread their simple supper. - -She gave him a quick, questioning glance, then: "I saw you in the -Abbey," she said in a constrained, hesitating voice; "why did you not -come up and speak to us? Mr. Hinton was on his way to some office, and I -brought the children back alone." - -"If I had known that was going to be the case," said Dering frankly, "I -should have joined you, but I had just been spending an hour with -Wingfield, and--well, I didn't feel in the mood to make small talk for -Hinton!" - -He waited a moment, but she made no comment. - -Louise had always been a silent, listening woman, and this had made her -seem, to eager, ardent Philip, a singularly restful companion. - -He went on, happily at first, rather nervously towards the close of his -sentence, "Well, everything is settled--even to my will. But I found -Wingfield had to know--I mean about our old arrangement." - -"Then you told him? I do not think you should have done that." Louise -spoke very slowly, and in a low voice. "I asked you if I might do so -before telling Gerda Hinton." - -Dering looked at her deprecatingly. He felt both surprised and sorry. It -was almost the first time in their joint lives that she had uttered to -him anything savouring of a rebuke. - -"Please forgive my having told Wingfield without first consulting you," -he said at once; "but you see the absurd, the abominable state of the -English law is such that in case of my sudden death you would have no -right to any of this money. Besides, apart from that fact, if I trusted -to my own small legal knowledge and made a will in which you were -mentioned, you would probably have trouble with those odious relations -of mine. So I simply had to tell him." - -Dering saw that the discussion was beginning to be very painful and -disagreeable; he felt a pang of impatient regret that he had spoken to -his wife now, instead of waiting until she had had a thorough change and -holiday. - -Louise was still standing opposite to him, looking straight before her -and avoiding his anxious glances. Suddenly he became aware that her lip -was trembling, and that her eyes were full of tears; quickly he walked -round to where she was standing, and put his hand on her shoulder. - -"I am sorry, very sorry, that I had to tell Wingfield," he said; "but, -darling, why should you mind so much? He was quite sympathetic; he -thoroughly understood; I think I might even say that he thoroughly -agrees with our point of view; but I fancy he felt rather hurt about it, -and I couldn't help wishing that we had told him at the time." - -Dering's hand travelled from his wife's shoulder to her waist, and he -held her to him, unresisting but strangely passive, as he added: - -"You can guess, my dearest, what Wingfield, in his character of -solicitor, advises us to do? Of course, in a sense it will be a fall -from grace,--but, after all, we shan't love one another the less because -we have been to a registry office, or spent a quarter of an hour in a -church! I do think that we should follow his advice. He will let me know -to-morrow what formalities have to be fulfilled to carry the thing -through, and then, dear heart, we will go off for a second honeymoon. -Sometimes I wonder if you realise what this money means to us both--I -mean in the way of freedom and of added joy." - -But Louise still turned from him, and, as she disengaged herself from -the strong encircling arm, he could see the slow, reluctant tears -rolling down her cheek. - -Dering felt keenly distressed. The long strain, the gallantly endured -poverty, the constant anxiety, had evidently told on his wife more than -he had known. - -"Don't let's talk about it any more!" he exclaimed. "There's no hurry -about it now, after all." - -"I would rather talk about it now, Philip. I don't--I don't at all -understand what you mean. It is surely too late for us now to talk of -marriage. The time remaining to us is too short to make it worth while." - -Dering looked at her bewildered. Well as she spoke the language, she had -remained very ignorant of England and of English law. - -"I will try and explain to you," he said gently, "why Wingfield has made -it quite clear to me that we shall have to go through some kind of a -legal ceremony----" - -"But there are so few months," she repeated, and he felt her trembling; -"it is not as if you were likely to die before September; besides, if -you were to do so, I should not care about the money." - -For the first time a glimmer of what she meant, of what she was -thinking, came into Dering's mind. He felt strongly moved and deeply -touched. This, then, was why she had seemed so preoccupied, so unlike -herself, of late. - -"My darling, surely you do not imagine--that I am thinking ... of -leaving you?" - -"No," and for the first time Louise, as she uttered the word, looked up -straight into Dering's face. "No, it was not of you that I was -thinking--but of myself...." - - * * * * * - -"Let us sit down." Dering's voice was so changed, so uneager, so cold, -that Louise, for the first time during their long partnership, felt as -if she was with a stranger. "I want to thoroughly understand your point -of view. Do you mean to say that when we first arranged matters you -intended our--our marriage to be, in any case, only a temporary union?" - -He waited for an answer, looking at her with a still grimness, an -unfamiliar antagonism, that raised in her a feeling of resentment, and -renewed her courage. "Please tell me," he said again, "I think you owe -me the truth, and I really wish to know." - -Then she spoke. And though her hands still trembled, her voice was quite -steady. - -"Yes, Philip, I will tell you the truth, though I fear you will not like -to hear it. When I first accepted the proposal you made to me, I felt -convinced that, as regarded myself, the feeling which brought us -together would be eternal, but I as fully believed that with you that -same feeling would be only temporary. I was ready to remain with you as -long as you would have me do so; but I felt sure that you would grow -tired of me some day, and I told myself--secretly, of course, for I -could not have insulted you or myself by saying such a thing to you -then--I told myself, I say, that when that day came, the day of your -weariness of me, I would go away, and make no further demand upon you." - -"You really believed that I should grow tired of you,--that I should -wish to leave you?" - -Dering looked at her as a man might look at a stranger who has suddenly -revealed some sinister and grotesque peculiarity of appearance or -manner. - -"Certainly I did so. How could I divine that you alone would be -different from all the men of whom I had ever heard? Still, I loved you -so well--ah, Philip, I did love you so--that I would have come to you on -any terms, as indeed I did come on terms very injurious to myself. But -what matters now what I then thought? I see that I was wrong--you have -been faithful to me in word, thought, and deed----" - -"Yes," said Dering fiercely, "by God, that is so! Go on!" - -"I also have been faithful to you----" she hesitated. "Yes, I think I -may truly say it, in thought, word, and deed,----" - -Dering drew a long breath, and she went slowly on: "But I have realised, -and that for some time past, that the day would come when I should no -longer wish to be so--when I should wish to be free. I have gradually -regained possession of myself, and, though I know I must fulfil all my -obligations to you for the time I promised, I long for the moment of -release, for the moment when I shall at last have the right to forget, -as much as such things can ever be forgotten, these ten years of my -life." - -As she spoke, pronouncing each word clearly in the foreign fashion, her -voice gained a certain sombre confidence, and a flood of awful, -hopeless bitterness filled the heart of the man sitting opposite to her. - -"And have you thought," he asked in a constrained voice, "what you are -going to do? I know you have sometimes regretted your work; do you -intend--or perhaps you have already applied to Mr. Farningham?" - -"No," she answered, and, unobserved by him, for he was staring down at -the tablecloth with unseeing eyes, a deep pink flush made her look -suddenly girlish, "that will not be necessary. I have, as you know, -regretted my work, and of late I have sometimes thought that, things -being as they were, you acted with cruel thoughtlessness in compelling -me to give it all up. But in my new life there will be much for me to -do." - -"I do not ask you," he said, suddenly, hoarsely; "I could not insult you -by asking...." - -"I do not think," she spoke slowly, answering the look, the intonation, -rather than the words, "that I am going to do anything unworthy." - -But Dering, with sharp suspicion, suddenly became aware that she had -changed colour, and that from pale she had become red. His mind glanced -quickly over their comparatively small circle of friends and -acquaintances--first one, then another familiar figure rose, hideously -vivid, before him. He felt helpless, bewildered, fettered. - -"Do you contemplate leaving me for another man?" he asked quietly. - -Again Louise hesitated for a moment. - -"Yes," she said at length, "that is what I am going to do. I did not -mean to tell you now--though I admit that later, before the end, you -would have had a right to know. The man to whom I am going, and who is -not only willing, but anxious, to make me his wife, I mean his legal -wife,"--she gave Dering a quick, strange look--"has great need of me, -far more so than you ever had. My feeling for him is not in any way akin -to what was once my feeling for you; that does not come twice, at any -rate to such a woman as I feel myself to be; but my affection, my--my -regard, will be, in this case, I believe, more enduring; and, as you -know, I dearly love his children, and promised their mother to take care -of them." - -While she spoke, Dering, looking fixedly at her, seemed to see a shadowy -group of shabby forlorn human beings form itself and take up its stand -by her side--Jack Hinton, with his weak, handsome face, and shifty, -pleading eyes; his two plain, neglected-looking girls; and then, cradled -as he had so often seen it in Louise's arms, the ugly and to him -repulsive-looking baby. - -What chance had he, what memories had their common barren past, to fight -this intangible appealing vision? - -He raised his hand and held it for a moment over his eyes, in a vain -attempt to shut out both that which he had evoked, and the sight of the -woman whose repudiation of himself only seemed to make more plainly -visible the bonds which linked them the one to the other. Then he turned -away, with a certain deliberation, and, having closed the door, walked -quickly through the little hall, flinging himself bare-headed into the -open air. - - * * * * * - -For the second time that day Philip Dering felt an urgent need of -solitude in which to hold communion with himself. And yet, when striding -along the dimly-lighted, solitary thoroughfares, the stillness about him -seemed oppressive, and the knowledge that he was encompassed by -commonplace, contented folk intolerable. - -And so, scarcely knowing where his feet were leading him, he made his -way at last into the broad, brilliantly lighted High Road, now full of -glare, of sound, and of movement, for throngs of workers, passing to and -fro, were seeking the amusement and excitement of the street after their -long, dull day. - -Very soon Dering's brain became abnormally active; his busy thoughts -took the shape of completed half-uttered sentences, and he argued with -himself, not so loudly that those about him could hear, but still with -moving lips, as to the outcome of what Louise had told him that evening. - -He was annoyed to find that his thoughts refused to marshal themselves -in due sequence. Thus, when trying to concentrate his mind on the -question of the immediate future, memories of Gerda Hinton, of the dead -woman with whom he had never felt in sympathy, perhaps because Louise -had been so fond of her, persistently intervened, and refused to be -thrust away. His own present intolerable anguish made him, against his -will, retrospectively understand Gerda's long-drawn-out agony. He -remembered, with new sharp-edged concern and pity, her quiet endurance -of those times of ignoble poverty brought about by Hinton's fits of -idleness; he realised for the first time what must have meant, in -anguish of body and mind, the woman's perpetual child bearing, and the -deaths of two of her children, followed by her own within a fortnight of -her last baby's birth. - -Then, with sudden irritation, he asked himself why he, Philip Dering, -should waste his short time for thought in sorrowing over this poor dead -woman? And, in swift answer, there came to him the knowledge why this -sad drab ghost had thus thrust herself upon him to-night-- - -A feeling of furious anger, of revolt against the very existence of Jack -Hinton, swept over him. So base, so treacherous, so selfish a creature -fulfilled no useful purpose in the universe. Men hung murderers; and was -Hinton, who had done his wife to death with refinement of cruelty, to go -free--free to murder, in the same slow way, another woman, and one who -actually belonged to Dering's own self? - -He now recognised, with bewilderment, that had Louise become his legal -wife ten years ago, the thought of what she proposed to do would never -have even crossed her mind. - -The conviction that Hinton was not fit to live soon formed itself into a -stable background to all Dering's subsequent thoughts, to his short -hesitations, and to his final determination. - -After a while he looked at his watch, and found, with some surprise, -that he had been walking up and down for over an hour; he also became -aware, for the first time, that his bare, hatless head provoked now and -again good-natured comment from those among whom he was walking. - -He turned into a side-street, and taking from his pocket a small -notebook, wrote the few lines which later played an important part in -determining, to the satisfaction of his friends, the fact that he was, -when writing them, most probably of unsound mind. - -What Dering wrote down in his pocket-book ran as follows: - - 1. I buy a hat at Dunn's, if Dunn be still open (which is - probable). - - 2. I call on the doctor who was so kind to the Hintons last year - and settle his account. It is doubtful if Hinton ever paid him--in - fact, there can be no doubt that Hinton did _not_ pay him. I there - make my will and inform the doctor that he will certainly be wanted - shortly at Number 8, Lady Rich Road. - - 3. I buy that revolver (if guaranteed in perfect working order) - which I have so frequently noticed in the pawnbroker's window, and - I give him five shillings for showing me how to manage it. Mem. - Remember to make him load it, so that there may be no mistake. - - 4. I wire to Wingfield. This is important. It may save Louise a - shock. - - 5. I go to Hinton's place, and if the children are already in bed I - lock the door, and quietly kill him and then kill myself. If the - children are still up, I must, of course, wait a while. In any case - the business will be well over before the doctor can arrive. - -Dering shut the notebook with a sigh of relief. The way now seemed clear -before him, for he had put down exactly what he meant to do, and in case -of doubt or forgetfulness he need only glance at his notes to be set -again in the right way. - -He spent a few moments considering whether it was his duty to write a -letter to his employer. Finally he decided that there was no need to do -so. They knew of his legacy; they were aware that he was leaving them; -and everything, even now, was in perfect order for his successor. - -As he walked slowly along the unlovely narrow streets which run parallel -to the High Road, his emotional memory brought his wife vividly before -him. He began wondering painfully if she would ever understand, if she -would realise, from what he had saved her by that which he was about to -do. His knowledge of her character made him feel sure--and there was -infinite comfort in the thought--that she would remain silent, that she -would never yield to any foolish impulse to tell Wingfield the truth. It -was good to feel so sure that his old friend would never know of his -failure, of his great and desolate humiliation. - - * * * * * - -Dering spent the next hour exactly as he had planned; in fact, at no -point of the programme did his good fortune desert him. Thus, even the -doctor, a man called Johnstone, who might so easily have been out, was -at home; and, though actually giving a little stag party, he -good-naturedly consented to leave his guests for a few moments, in spite -of the fact that the stranger waiting in the surgery had refused to -state his business. - -"My name is Dering. I think you must have often met my wife when you -were attending the late Mrs. Hinton. In fact I've come to-night to -settle the Hintons' account. I fancy it is still owing?" - -Dering spoke with abrupt energy, looking straight, and almost with a -frown, as he spoke, into the other's kindly florid face. It seemed -strange, at that moment intolerably hard, that this man, who looked so -much less alive, so much less intellectually keen than himself, should -be destined to find him within a few hours lying dead, obliterated into -nothingness. - -"Oh, yes, the account is still owing," Dr. Johnstone spoke with a -certain eagerness. "Then do I understand that you are acting for Mr. -Hinton in the matter? The amount is exactly ten pounds----" - -He paused awkwardly, and not till the two bank-notes were actually lying -on his surgery table before him did he believe in his good fortune. The -Hintons' account had long since passed into that class of doctor's bills -which is only kept on the books with a view to the ultimate sale of the -practice, and this last quarter the young man had not even troubled to -send it in again. - -Johnstone remembered poor Mrs. Hinton's friend very well; Mrs. Dering -had been splendid, perfectly splendid, as nurse and comforter to the -distracted household. And then such a pretty woman, too, the very -type--quiet, sensible, self-contained, and yet feminine--whom Dr. -Johnstone admired; he was always pleased when he met her walking about -the neighbourhood. - -This, then, was her husband? The doctor stared across at Dering with -some curiosity. Well, he also, though, of course, in quite another way, -was uncommon and attractive-looking. What was it he had heard about -these people quite lately, in fact, that very day? Why, of course. One -of his old lady patients in Bedford Park had told him that her opposite -neighbours, this Mr. and Mrs. Dering, had come into a large -fortune--something like fifty thousand pounds! - -Dr. Johnstone looked at his visitor with a sudden accession of respect. -If he could have foreseen this interview, he might have made his account -with Mr. Hinton bear rather more relation to the actual number of visits -he had been compelled to pay to that unfortunate household. Still, he -reminded himself that even ten pounds were very welcome just now, and -his heart warmed to Mr. Hinton's generous friend. - -Suddenly Dering began speaking: "I forget if I told you that I am -starting this very night for a long journey, and before doing so I want -to ask you to do me a favour----" - -His host became all pleased attention. - -"Would you kindly witness my will? I have just come into a sum of money, -and--and, though my will is actually being drawn up by a friend, who is -also a lawyer, I have felt uneasy----" - -"I quite understand. You have thought it wise to make a provisional -will? Well, that's a very sensible thing to do! We medical men see much -trouble caused by foolish postponement of such matters. Some men seem to -think that making a will is tantamount to signing their own -death-warrant!" - -But no answering smile brightened Dering's fiercely set face; he did not -seem to have heard what the doctor had said. "If I might ask you for a -sheet of notepaper. I see a pen and blotting-pad over there----" - -A sudden, instinctive misgiving crossed the other's mind. - -"This is rather informal, isn't it? Of course, I have no call to -interfere, Mr. Dering; but if a large sum is involved might it not be -better to wait?" - -Dering looked up. For the first time he smiled. - -"I don't wish to make any mystery about it, Dr. Johnstone. I am leaving -everything to my wife, and after her to sundry young people in whom we -are both interested. If I die intestate, I understand that distant -relatives of my own--people whom I don't like, and who have never done -anything for me--are bound to benefit." - -Even as he spoke he was busy writing the words, "To Louise Larsen -(commonly known as Mrs. Philip Dering), of 9, Lady Rich Road, Bedford -Park, and after her death to be divided equally between the children of -my esteemed friend, James Wingfield, solicitor, of 24, Abingdon Street, -Westminster, and the children of the late Mrs. John Hinton, of 8, Lady -Rich Road, Bedford Park." - -Short as was Dering's will, the last portion of it was written on the -inner sheet of the piece of note paper bearing the doctor's address, and -the two witnesses, Johnstone himself, and a friend whom he fetched out -of his smoking-room for the purpose, could not help seeing what generous -provision the testator had made for the younger generation. - -As the doctor opened the front door for his, as he hoped, new friend, -Dering suddenly pulled a notebook out of his breast pocket. - -"I have forgotten a most important thing----" there was real dismay in -his fresh, still youthful voice--"and that is to ask you kindly to look -round at No. 8, Lady Rich Road, after your friends have left you -to-night. I should think about twelve o'clock would do very well. In -fact, Hinton won't be ready for you before. And, Dr. Johnstone--in view -of the trouble to which you may be put----" Dering thrust another -bank-note into the other man's hand. "I know you ought to have charged a -lot more than that ten pounds----" and then, before words of thanks -could be uttered, he had turned and gone down the steps, along the -little path, through the iron gate which swung under the red lamp, into -the darkness beyond. - - * * * * * - -Down the broad and now solitary High Road, filled with the strange -brooding stillness of a spring dawn, clattered discordantly a hansom -cab. There was promise of a bright warm day, such a day as yesterday had -been, but Wingfield, leaning forward, unconsciously willing the horse to -go faster, felt very cold. - -At last, not for the first time during this interminable journey, he -took from his breast pocket the unsigned telegram which was the cause of -his being here, driving, oh! how slowly, along this fantastically empty -thoroughfare, through the chill morning air, instead of lying sound -asleep by Kate's side in his comfortable bed at home. - -"_Philip Dering is dead please come at once at once at once to eight -Lady Rich Road._" - -Wingfield, steadying the slip of paper as it fluttered in his hand, -looked down with frowning puzzled eyes at the pencilled words. - -The message had been set off just before midnight, and had reached his -house, he supposed, an hour and a half later, for the persistent -knocking at his front door had gone on for some time before he or his -wife realised that the loud hammering sound concerned themselves. Even -then it had been Kate who had at last roused herself and gone -downstairs; Kate who had rushed up breathless, whispering as she thrust -the orange envelope into his hand:--"Oh, James, what can it be? Thank -God, all the children are safe at home!" - -No time had been lost. While he was dressing, his wife had made him a -cup of tea, kind and solicitous for his comfort, but driving him nearly -distracted by her eager, excited talk and aimless conjectures. It had -seemed long before he found a derelict cab willing to drive him from -Regent's Terrace to Bedford Park, but now--well, thank God, he was at -last nearing the place where he would learn what had befallen the man -who had been, next to his own elder boy, the creature he had loved best -in his calm, phlegmatic life. - -Wingfield went on staring down at the mysterious and yet explicit -message, of which the wording seemed to him so odd--in some ways -recalling Dering's familiar trick of reiteration. Then suddenly he -thought of Hinton, the artist for whom both he and his friend had had -reason to feel so deep if wordless a contempt, and yet whom they had -both tried, over and over again, to help and set on his feet. - -With a sudden revulsion of feeling, the lawyer folded up the telegram -and put it back into his breast pocket--this mysterious, unsigned -request for his immediate presence had obviously been despatched by -Hinton, who might just as well have waited for morning. How stupid of -him not to have realised this at once, the more so that No. 8, Lady Rich -Road, was Hinton's address, not that of Dering. Quickly he raised his -hand to the trap-door above his head; "Pull up at No. 8, not as I told -you, at No. 9, Lady Rich Road," he shouted. - - * * * * * - -The radiance of an early spring morning, so kind to everything in -nature, is pitiless to that which owes its being to the ingenuity and -industry of human hands. Dr. Johnstone, standing opposite a police -inspector in what had been poor Mrs. Hinton's cherished, if untidy and -shabby, little sitting-room, felt his wretchedness and shame--for he -felt very deeply ashamed--perceptibly increased by the dust-laden -sunbeams dancing slantwise about him. - -The inspector was really sorry for him, though a little contemptuous -perhaps of a medical man capable of showing such emotion and horror in -the face of death. - -"Why, doctor, you mustn't take on so! How could you possibly have told -what was in the man's mind? You weren't upset like this last year over -that business in Angle Alley, and that was a sight worse than this, eh?" - -But Johnstone had turned away, and was staring out of the bow window. -"It isn't that poor wretch Hinton that's upset me," he muttered, "I -don't mind death. It's--it's--Dering--Dering and Mrs. Dering." -Reluctant tears filled his tired, red-rimmed eyes. - -"I'm sorry, too. Very sorry for the lady, that is; as for the -other--well, I'm pretty sure he'll cheat Broadmoor, and that without -much delay, eh, doctor? Hullo! who's this coming now?" - -The tone suddenly changed, became at once official and alert in quality, -as the sound of wheels stopped opposite the little gate. When the front -door bell pealed through the house he added, "You go to the door, -doctor; whoever it is had better not see me at first." And Johnstone -found himself suddenly pushed out of the room and into the little hall. - -There he hesitated for a moment, looking furtively round at the -half-open door which led into the back room fitted up as a studio, where -still lay, in dreadful juxtaposition, the dead and the dying, Hinton and -his murderer, alone, save for the indifferent yet watchful presence of a -trained nurse. - -From the kitchen beyond came the sound of eager, lowered voices, those -of the two young servants who had of late coped with the difficulties of -the Hinton household, and whose scanty wages had been paid, so -Johnstone had learned in the last hour, by Mrs. Dering herself. - -Another impatient peal of sound echoed through the house, and the -doctor, walking slowly forward, opened the front door. - -"Can I see Mr. Hinton? Or is he next door? I have driven down from town -in response to this telegram. I was Mr. Philip Dering's oldest friend -and solicitor----" - -"Then--then it was _you_ who were making his will?" - -The question struck Wingfield as unseemly. How had this young man, whom -he took to be one of Hinton's dissipated friends, learnt even this one -fact concerning poor Dering's affairs? - -"Yes," he said shortly, as he walked through into the hall, "that was -the case. But, of course--well, perhaps, you will kindly inform me where -I can see Mr. Hinton?" he repeated impatiently. "I suppose he is with -Mrs. Dering, at No. 9?" and the other noticed that he left the door open -behind him, evidently intending to leave Hinton's house as soon as he -had obtained a reply to his question. - -For a moment the two men looked at one another in exasperated silence. -Then, very suddenly, Johnstone did that of which he was afterward sorry -and self-reproachful. But his nerve was completely gone; for hours he -had been engaged in what had proved both a terrible and a futile task, -that of attempting to relieve the physical agony of a man for whose -state he partly held himself to be responsible. He wished to avoid, at -any rate for the present, the repetition to this stranger of what had -happened the night before. - -And so, "Please come this way," he muttered hoarsely. "I ought perhaps -to warn you--to prepare you for something of a shock." And, turning -round, beckoning to the other to follow him, he opened the door of the -studio, stepping aside to allow Wingfield to pass in before him. - -But once through the doorway the lawyer suddenly recoiled and stopped -short, so dreadful and so unexpected was the sight which met his eyes. - -What Wingfield saw remained with him for weeks, and even for months, an -ever-present, torturing vision, full of mingled horror and mystery, a -mystery to which he was destined never to find the solution. - -Focussed against a blurred background made up of distempered light green -walls, a curtainless, open window, and various plain deal studio -properties pushed back against the wall, lay, stretched out on some kind -of low couch brought forward into the middle of the room, a rigid, -motionless figure. - -The lower half of the figure, including the feet, which rested on a -chair placed at the bottom of the couch, was entirely covered by a -blanket; but the chest and head, slightly raised by pillows, seemed -swathed and bound up in broad strips of white linen, which concealed -chin and forehead, hair and ears, while the head was oddly supported by -a broad band or sling fastened with safety-pins--Wingfield's eyes took -note of every detail--to the side of the couch. Under the blanket, which -was stretched tightly across the man's breast, could be seen the feeble -twitching of fingers, but even so, the only sense of life and feeling -seemed to the onlooker centred in the eyes, whose glance Wingfield found -himself fearing yet longing to meet. - -To the right of the couch a large Japanese screen had been so placed as -to hide some object spread out on the floor. To the left, watching every -movement of the still, recumbent figure, stood a powerful-looking woman -in nursing dress. Wingfield's gaze, after wandering round the large, -bare room, returned and again clung to the sinister immobile form which -he longed to be told was that of Hinton, and as he gazed he forced -himself to feel a fierce gladness and relief in the knowledge that -Dering was dead,--that in his pocket lay the telegram which proved it. - -At last, to gain courage and to stifle a horrible doubt, he compelled -himself to meet those at once indifferent and appealing eyes, which -seemed to stare fixedly beyond the group of men by the door; and -suddenly the lawyer became aware that just behind him hurried whispered -words were being uttered. - -"This gentleman is Mr. Dering's solicitor; perhaps he will be able to -throw some light on the whole affair," and he felt himself being plucked -by the sleeve and gently pulled back into the hall. - -"It is--isn't it?--poor Hinton?" and he looked imploringly from one man -to the other. - -"Hinton?" said the doctor sharply. "He's there, sure enough--but you -didn't see him, for we put him under a sheet, behind that screen. Your -friend shot him dead first, and then cut his own throat, but he didn't -set about that in quite the right way, so he's alive still, as you can -see." - -Wingfield drew a long breath of something like relief. The torturing -suspense of the last few moments was at an end. - -"And where is Mrs. Dering?" he spoke in a quiet, mechanical voice; and -Johnstone felt angered by his callousness. - -"We've just sent her back into the next house," he answered curtly, "and -made her take the Hinton children with her. For--well, it often is so in -such cases, you know--the presence of his wife seems positively to -distress Mr. Dering; besides, the nurse and I can do, and have done, all -that is possible." - -"And have you no clue to what has happened? Has Dering been able to give -no explanation of this--this--horrible business?" - -Johnstone shook his head. "Of course he can't speak. He will never speak -again. He wrote a few words to his wife, but they amounted to nothing -save regret that he had bungled the last half of the affair." - -"And what do you yourself think?" - -Wingfield spoke calmly and authoritatively. He had suddenly become -aware, during the last few moments, that he was talking to a medical -man. - -"I haven't had time to think much about it;" the tone was rough and -sore. "Mr. Dering seems to have come into a large sum of money, and -such things have been known to upset men's brains before now." - -"Still, he might write something of consequence, now that this gentleman -has come," interposed the inspector. - -But when Wingfield, standing by that which he now knew was indeed his -friend, watched the painful, laboured moving of the pencil across the -slate which had been hurriedly fetched some two hours before from the -young Hintons' nursery, all he saw, traced again and again, were the -words: - -"Look after Louise. Look after Louise ..." and then at last: "I mean to -die. I mean to die. I mean to die." - - - - -V - -SHAMEFUL BEHAVIOUR? - - "Yes; there; wives be such a provoking class of society, because - though they be never right, they be never more than half - wrong."--THE TRANTER in _Under the Greenwood Tree_. - - -I - -The fact that it was Mrs. Rigby's Silver Wedding Day, and that she was -now awaiting her only brother who was to be the fourth at the dinner she -and her husband, the respected Town Clerk of Market Dalling, were giving -in honour of the event, appeared to her no reason why she should sit in -her parlour with hands idle in her lap. There was a large work-basket on -a table close to her elbow, and with quick, capable fingers she was -engaged in mending a pillow-case. - -It was late June, and Mrs. Rigby sat by the widely open French windows -which gave access to her garden--one of those fragrant walled gardens -which still embellish the rear of the High Street in a very typically -English market town. - -Now and again the work would drop between her hands, and lie unheeded -on her knee, while she looked out, focussing her dark, bright eyes on -the distant figure of a woman who sat in a summer-house situated at the -extreme end of the garden; and as Mrs. Rigby gazed thoughtfully at this, -her other wedding guest, her whole face would soften--so might a mother -look at a daughter whom instinct prompted her to love, and reason to -condemn as foolish. - -And yet the sitting figure was that of a contemporary of Mrs. Rigby, -being, as a matter of fact, a certain Matilda Wellow, who had been her -bridesmaid twenty-five years ago to-day, and who was now, in more than -one sense of the term, the most substantial spinster of Market Dalling. - -The sound of the door behind her quietly opening and shutting made Mrs. -Rigby turn round, and a moment later she was looking up at a tall, -straight, still young-looking man, who, clad in evening dress, stood -smiling down at her. He was David Banfield, her half-brother. - -"Why, you've put on all your war-paint!" she exclaimed in half-pretended -dismay. "Didn't you know that there was only Matilda Wellow coming?" - -"I don't know that I thought anything about it," he answered, more gaily -than his sister was now in the habit of hearing him speak. "I dressed -out of compliment to you, Kate, and because--well, I've got into the way -of it lately. But pray don't let Matt think that he must needs follow my -example!" - -Then he sat down by Mrs. Rigby, and gazed out with quick, sensitive -appreciation at the old walled garden. - -"You're a wonderful gardener, Kate," he said suddenly. - -"There's a lot of nonsense talked now about gardening," she said drily. -"With the grand ladies you see such a lot of, Dave, it's just a passing -fad." - -Her brother made no answer; he looked down at her with uncritical and -yet dissatisfied eyes. She was a handsome woman, and even now only -forty-six, and yet she managed to convey an impression of age. This was -partly owing to her unsuitable dress, for Mrs. Rigby was wearing a dark -blue silk gown, chosen, not only to grace her silver wedding day, but -also with a view to being her best dress during the coming autumn and -winter. - -Kate Rigby loved her half-brother, David Banfield, as only a childless -woman can love the creature to whom she has stood for long years in the -place of mother. David was twelve years younger than herself, and, with -one exception, he had never caused her a moment's real unhappiness or -unease. The exception, however, had been paramount, for with him had -been connected Mrs. Rigby's only taste of sharp pain and sorrow, and, -worse still, to such a woman as herself, of disgrace. - -The young man's marriage to an Irish singer, which had taken place -without his sister's knowledge, had proved disastrous. Rosaleen Tara--to -give her the stage name by which her charming rendering of the old -national ballads had made her widely known--had never liked, or been -suited to, life as led at Market Dalling; and to make matters worse, she -was a Roman Catholic. - -After a few years' unsatisfactory married life, and the birth of one -child, a girl, Mrs. David Banfield had returned, with her husband's -grudging consent, to the musical stage. Then, on the very day Banfield -had been expecting his wife home for a short holiday, there had come -from her a letter telling him shortly, bluntly, cruelly, that she had -been unfaithful to her marriage vow, and that she hoped he would forget -her. - -Had he forgotten her? No. It had only been owing to his sister's -urgency, and to Matthew Rigby's more measured advice, that Banfield had -at last consented to take the step of divorcing his wife. - -This step Mrs. Rigby had not only never regretted, but--and in this she -was more fortunate than her husband--no doubt had ever crossed her mind -of its having been the wisest thing for her brother's happiness and -peace. But Matthew Rigby, cautious member of a cautious profession, had -learned very early in his married life the futility of disagreeing with -the wife with whom Providence had blessed him. - -Now Banfield lived in solitary state with his little girl, his household -managed by the child's nurse, an old Irishwoman, who, if devoted to the -child, was incapable of managing such a decorous household as should -have been that of the Brew House. - -Any day, any hour, Mrs. Rigby would have bartered her personal happiness -for that of her half-brother, and yet the two seldom met--and they met -almost daily--without the saying on her part of something likely either -to wound or to annoy him. - -"I suppose Rosy is well? I thought you meant sending the child in to see -me to-day?" - -"Didn't she come?" A look of worry and anger crossed Banfield's dark, -mobile face. "I can't think what prevented it, unless--well, there's -been rather an upset at the Brew House, and perhaps Mary Scanlan didn't -like to go out." - -"I heard there had been an upset," observed his sister drily, "for baker -told cook. He said your housekeeper turned the younger maid, old -Hornby's daughter, out of the house last night, and that the girl could -be heard crying all down the street." - -Mrs. Rigby let her work fall unheeded on the floor; quite unconscious of -her action she clasped her hands tightly together. - -"David! How long is this sort of thing to go on?" she asked, in a low, -tense voice. "It's the talk of the whole town, and it can't be good for -your child." - -"But what would you have me do?" He had hoped that to-day--his sister's -silver wedding day--his domestic trials would be forgotten, or, at any -rate, not mentioned. "I can't dismiss Mary Scanlan now--she must stay on -till Rosy goes to school. That won't be for very long, for, as you know, -I promised"--he averted his face as he spoke--"to send the child to a -convent school as soon as she was twelve years old." - -The idea that her brother, the wealthy, highly-thought-of brewer of -Market Dalling, should confess himself worsted by the old and -ill-tempered Irishwoman, who, together with little Rosy, had been his -wife's--his unfaithful wife's--only legacy to him, was horrible to his -sister. - -Even now, when bitter, disconnected thoughts crowded one on another, -Mrs. Rigby, half-unconsciously, evoked in her mind the strong -personality of the one human being who ever really "stood up" to her. -She had had the notion, so curiously common in England, that your -Irishwoman is invariably slatternly, untruthful, and good-natured; but -in Mary Scanlan she had found a human being as scrupulously neat, -truthful, and high-minded as herself, while at the same time far more -ill-tempered, and equally determined to have her own way. - -While Mrs. Rigby was allowing a flood of very bitter thoughts to surge -up round her, David Banfield was watching her face, and awaiting her -next words with some anxiety. - -But when Kate Rigby at last spoke, she seemed to have forgotten the -immediate question under discussion. - -"I suppose," she said slowly, "that you have never thought, Dave, that -there might be a simple way out of your difficulties?" - -"You mean that I might marry again? Well, Kate, yes--I have thought of -it. I suppose there's no man, situated as I have been these last four -years, but thinks of a second marriage as a way out; but--but, apart -from other considerations, I don't feel as if I could bring myself to do -it." - -"And why not, pray?" asked Mrs. Rigby in a low voice. - -"Well, it's difficult to explain the way I look at it. Of course, no one -can answer for another, and yet, Kate, if anything happened to Matt, I -don't see you marrying again----?" - -David Banfield was aware that he had not chosen a very happy simile with -which to point his meaning, and perhaps, in his heart of hearts, he -hoped that what he had said would put an end to a painful discussion. -But any such hope was destined to be grievously disappointed, for his -sister, with suddenly heightened colour, turned on him very sharply. - -"Don't talk nonsense!" she exclaimed. "I'm an old woman, and you're a -young man!" and she set back her vigorous, powerful shoulders. - -"You know very well that if Matthew had dared to treat me as you were -treated by Rosal----" something in her brother's face caused his wife's -name to die away on her lips--"I should have felt myself free to do -exactly what suited me best! Surely, when you go out among your grand -county friends, you must meet nice young ladies who would be only too -pleased to become Mrs. David Banfield, and to step into such a home as -the Brew House?" - -Mrs. Rigby looked eagerly, furtively, at her brother. - -The way in which he had been welcomed, to a certain extent absorbed, in -the rather dull county society round Market Dalling, had been, to his -sister, a source of mingled pride and jealousy, the more so that it had -begun in the days of his pretty wife, whose modest professional fame had -preceded her, and made her a welcome addition to county gatherings and -dinner-parties. Then had come the great break of the war, and in South -Africa Banfield had been naturally thrown with the landowners of his own -part of the world. - -So it was that during the first few months which had followed on his -return home, Mrs. Rigby had fully expected her brother to make another, -maybe as disastrous a matrimonial experiment as before, and in a class -which was as little his own as that of his Irish wife had been. - -But time had gone on, and David Banfield had shown no disposition to -make a second marriage, either in the county set, or in the little town -world of Market Dalling, where the Rigbys themselves lived and had their -important being. - -"Kate--you don't understand," he said at last, and, even as he uttered -the words, they seemed to him painfully inadequate. "In fact, you never -_did_ understand"--there came a sudden touch of passion into his voice, -and he got up and walked up and down the room--"how I felt--how for the -matter of that I still feel--about Rosaleen. But for the war--but for -the getting clear away--I don't know what I should have done! Once, when -I was out there in a little out-of-the-way station, I saw an old bill -with her name on it, put up, of course, before I met her, when she was -touring in South Africa. Well, I can tell you one thing--if we had been -back in the days when a soldier could get killed so much more easily -than he can now, you would never have seen me again. For days and days I -couldn't get her out of my mind--she's never out of my mind now----" - -Mrs. Rigby was frightened, almost awed, not so much by the violence of -his feeling, as by the outspoken expression of that feeling. - -She got up and walked quickly to him. - -"Perhaps I understand more than you think," she said in a moved voice, -"but now, David, you must turn your back on all that. For good or evil, -it's over and done with, and your duty is to your child. I won't say a -word against Mary Scanlan,--I know she's been a faithful servant to -you,--but wouldn't it be better for Rosy if you had someone who could -look after the house, as well as after her? Even you admit that you -cannot go on at the Brew House as you've been doing lately. I know you -can't feel to anyone else as you felt to--to Rosaleen, but surely it -would be best for the child, to say nothing of yourself, to have some -kind, nice woman about the place, instead of one who's only a servant -after all." - -"Of course, it would be better," he said sombrely. "Don't you think I -know that? But where am I to find the 'nice, kind woman'? As for the -girls I meet, it's out of the question." - -As he spoke, he unconsciously glanced round the room in which he and his -sister were standing. Mrs. Rigby had not inherited the good taste which -had distinguished her Banfield forefathers. The Brew House was full of -fine old furniture, furniture which some of the young brewer's "grand" -friends envied him; but that which the Rigbys had gradually accumulated -had the mean and yet rather pretentious commonness which belonged to the -period in which they had married. - -"There's one whom you've never thought of, but who often thinks of you," -said Mrs. Rigby, her voice sinking to a whisper. - -Banfield looked at his sister attentively. His fastidious mind passed in -review the various young women who composed the little society of Market -Dalling. He regarded them all with indifference, rising in some cases to -positive dislike, and since his matrimonial misfortunes he had, as far -as was possible, avoided every kind of social gathering held in his -native place. - -"I don't know whom you mean," he said at last with some discomfiture. -"In the old days you were always apt to fancy that the girls were after -me, and I can't say that you ever gave them much encouragement,"--he -added with a rather clumsy attempt at playfulness. - -"The person I have in my mind," persisted Mrs. Rigby, "isn't exactly a -girl; she's just what we were talking about--a nice, kind woman--and you -never seem to mind meeting her." - -"Do you--can you possibly mean----" - -"--Matilda Wellow? Yes, of course I do. It's astonishing to me, it's -even surprising to Matthew, that you've never noticed how much she likes -you. Why, she's the only person in Market Dalling who ever takes any -trouble about little Rosy, or who ever gives the child anything; Rosy -always calls her Auntie Tiddy." - -"Matilda Wellow?" he repeated, honestly bewildered. "Why, of course I -like her, and think well of her, but I've never thought of her--and -don't believe she's ever thought of me, Kate--in that way!" - -"Don't you?" she said drily. "There's none so blind as those who won't -see." - -Then, prompted by a shrewd instinct, she remained quite silent, and -withdrew her anxious gaze from her brother's face. - -Only to-day Banfield had received a letter from South Africa which had -sorely tempted him to throw up everything and make a home in the -country which, perhaps unfortunately for himself, held none of the -glamour of the unknown. As a matter of fact, the letter was now in his -pocket, and he felt guiltily aware of the angry pain with which his -sister would regard the offer, especially if she guessed how tempting -was its effect on his imagination. - -But during their strange conversation he had realised, as he had never -done before, that there were only two ways open to him--either to go -away and make a new life, or to attempt some such solution of his -troubles as that which his sister had just proposed to him. - -So it was that during those moments of tense silence Matilda Wellow -assumed in David Banfield's mind the importance of an only alternative. -Perhaps the very fact that the young man was so familiar with her -personality, while always regarding her as a contemporary of his sister, -made it easier for him to come to a sudden decision. - -To another important fact--never forgotten for a moment by Mrs. -Rigby--namely, that Miss Wellow was the wealthiest spinster in Market -Dalling, Banfield gave no thought, and it certainly played no part in -his hurried, anxious self-communing. - -"I confess," he said at last, "that this is a new idea to me--but that's -no reason why it should be a bad idea. And if you really believe that it -would be better for Rosy, and that Miss Wellow would not--" he hesitated -awkwardly, "think it strange of me, I will do as you advise, Kate. But -you must let me take my own time. Perhaps when she's heard what I've got -to say, she won't feel about it as you believe she's likely to do. I -cannot pretend that I--well, that I--" his lips refused to form the -word--to him the infinitely sacred word--of love. - -Mrs. Rigby was bewildered, awed into deep joy. No piece of good fortune -which could have befallen herself would have given her so acute a -feeling--it almost amounted to pain--of passionate relief, and David -Banfield, dimly gathering that it was so, felt exceedingly moved. Surely -it was worth almost anything in the way of self-sacrifice to have -brought such a look to his sister's face? - -They both moved more closely to one another and she, so chary of caress, -put her arms round his neck. - -"I'm quite sure," she spoke with a catch in her voice, "quite, quite -sure that you will never regret it! After all, life does get smoothed -out, doesn't it? I'll tell you something about myself that I've never -told anybody. Before Matthew came along, there was someone else I -loved--loved, maybe, just as dearly as you loved Rosaleen." - -"I know," said her brother, wincing at the sound of his late wife's -name, "you mean Nat Bower?" - -"Why, how did you ever guess that?" she asked, surprised. - -"Oh! he used to take me walks when I was a kid, and he always talked -about you." - -Had Mrs. Rigby left the matter there, she would have been a wiser woman, -but something prompted her to draw a moral. - -"And don't you think I'm glad now?" she cried. "Think of what that poor -fellow has become, and what Matthew is now!" - -But this was too much for David Banfield. - -"I don't think that's fair!" he exclaimed. "What you ought to say -is--'Think of what that poor fellow might have become if he had married -me!' I don't believe any man could have helped going straight with you, -Kate. If I'd been more like you----" - -Then, to the young man's relief, his brother-in-law, Matthew Rigby, came -into the room, with a smile on his thin lips, a joke on his tongue. - -Mrs. Rigby went out into the garden. "Matilda!" she cried. "Tiddy dear, -come in! Matt is here. Dinner will be ready in a minute." - -But as the two women met, and together walked down the path, the hostess -gave her guest no hint of the good fortune which lay in wait for -her--indeed, in spite of, or perhaps because of, her moment of -softening, she was sharply, almost cruelly, intolerant of Miss Wellow's -sentimental references to that ceremony of which they were about to -celebrate the twenty-fifth anniversary. - - * * * * * - -And now the Silver Wedding festivity was drawing to a close. - -The dinner, in its old-fashioned way, had been really excellent, for -Kate Rigby was a notable housewife; but not even that fact, nor the -equally excellent champagne--for Matthew Rigby was too shrewd a man to -drink bad wine--had had the effect of brightening the little party, and -a certain constraint now sat on the four people who were linked so -closely together. - -The host, a man of equable temperament, felt faintly uncomfortable; as -he looked from one to the other, he told himself that something was -wrong. - -His brother-in-law was certainly oddly unlike himself, yet surely David -Banfield was too sensible, and by this time too well accustomed to his -sister's ways, to have taken offence at anything she might have said -concerning the well-worn subject of Brew House domestic difficulties. -Mrs. Rigby was also unnaturally silent, and during the long course of -the meal she uttered none of the sharp pungent sayings with which she -generally enlivened each one of her husband's repasts and which, it must -be admitted, never to him lost their savour. Last, but not least, Miss -Wellow, whose flowered muslin gown was as much too youthful as that of -her hostess was too old, seemed more sentimental and more foolish than -usual. - -Mr. Rigby told himself with much satisfaction that his Kate had -certainly worn better than Tiddy Wellow. And yet----? Yet, twenty-five -years ago, Tiddy had been such a pretty girl! Soft and round, with dewy -brown eyes and pink dimpled cheeks. She still had the appealing, -inconsequent manner which, so charming in a girl, is apt to be absurd in -a woman--and then she had grown stout! Mr. Rigby liked a woman to have -a neat trim figure--his Kate had kept hers--but Tiddy. Alas! Tiddy had -not been so fortunate. - -So it was that Mr. Rigby paid poor Miss Wellow but little attention, -regarding her with a curious mixture of affectionate contempt and -respect, the former due to his knowledge of her character, and the -latter to his knowledge of her very considerable fortune. - -Even to such a man as Matthew Rigby,--that is, to a man whose profession -implies the constant hearing of family secrets, and the coming across of -strange, almost inconceivable human occurrences,--the melancholy -domestic story of David Banfield remained painfully vivid. On him had -fallen all the arrangements which had finally resulted in the divorce, -and, unlike his wife, he had sometimes doubted the wisdom of what he and -she had brought about, for Banfield, left to himself, would never have -severed the legal tie between himself and the mother of his child. - -Even now, during the course of his Silver Wedding dinner, Matthew Rigby -wondered uneasily whether his wife's constrained silence, and his -brother-in-law's odd, abstracted manner, meant that any tidings had -been received of the woman who had now so completely passed out of their -lives. But Mr. Rigby was compelled to bide his time. He knew that -whatever explanation there was would be given to him once he and Kate -were alone together. - -Sure enough, when the two men joined the ladies in the now twilit -sitting-room, the hostess lost no time in unceremoniously turning her -brother and Miss Wellow out into the garden. - -And then, at once, Matthew Rigby realised that something of real -importance and moment had indeed occurred. For the first time since the -great day when her brother's divorce had become an absolute fact, Mrs. -Rigby seemed inclined to be soft and tender in her manner to the man -who, she would have been the first to admit, had been to her the most -admirable of husbands. - -There are certain human beings, men perhaps, more than women, who use -those they love as princes of old used their whipping boys, and among -these human beings Mrs. Rigby could certainly have claimed a high place. -Matthew Rigby was, therefore, the more surprised, even, perhaps, a -little relieved, when he noted the unwonted tenderness with which she -slipped her arm through his; it couldn't be anything so very bad after -all! - -"I don't suppose I need tell you, Matt, what has happened--or what is -just going to happen--to our David and Tiddy Wellow?" and she nodded her -head significantly towards the two figures which were now disappearing -into the rustic arbour, which, erected by Mrs. Rigby's father-in-law, -some thirty years ago, had always vexed her thrifty soul as an -extravagant and useless addition to her garden; just now, however, she -would have admitted that even arbours have their uses. - -"Phew----!" exclaimed Matthew Rigby, and had it not been for the -presence of his wife, he would certainly have sworn some decorous form -of oath to express his extreme surprise. His pause prolonged itself, and -then, with a certain effort, he exclaimed: "You're an even cleverer -woman than I took you for, Kate, and that's saying a good deal!" - -Mrs. Rigby turned and looked at him steadily. Their heads were almost on -a level, but even she could guess nothing from his expression. It was -his tone, rather, that jarred on her very true contentment. - -"Surely you think it's the best thing that could happen to him?" she -asked, a note of wistful anxiety in her voice. "Why, you and I have -talked it over dozens of times!" - -"I've heard _you_ say that you thought Matilda Wellow was the very woman -for him, time and again, but--but I don't think, Kate, you ever heard -_me_ say so. Still, I daresay it's all right; you generally know -best,"--and the husband spoke with less irony than might have been -expected. Twenty-five years of married life had taught him that, on the -whole, his wife generally did know best. - -"And surely you think so, too?" and she pressed more closely to him, -"surely, Matt, you don't doubt that Matilda Wellow will make him a good -wife, and be kind to the child?" - -"Of course, I've no doubt about that," he answered reassuringly. "But -still, she's not exactly the woman I'd have chosen for myself, and, -after all, David was very fond of that queer, cold little hussy." - -Mrs. Rigby was given no time for a reply, for her brother and Miss -Wellow were coming slowly towards the house. She turned up the gas with -a quick movement, and when they approached the window a glance at her -future sister-in-law's face was enough. She saw that David had spoken, -but she also saw that he had had the power--and unconsciously her -respect for her brother grew--to stifle in his companion the mingled -emotions his offer of marriage had called forth. - -Not till the long dull evening was over, not till Banfield and Miss -Wellow were actually bidding the Rigbys good-night, did the young man -say the word which let loose Matilda's incoherent words of pathetic joy, -of rather absurd amazement, at the good fortune which had befallen her. - -Mrs. Rigby bustled out the two men into the hall. - -"Matilda! Don't be silly!" she commanded. - -But her words had no effect. - -"It's just a dream--" gasped Miss Wellow, "just a dream come true! I -never thought, Kate, to be so happy--and dear little Rosy, too----" - -The other woman checked her harshly. - -"Don't be a fool, Tiddy!" she said in a low, stern voice; "if my brother -were a different kind of man he'd make you remember this to your dying -day. You're lowering yourself--and you're not raising him. Don't go -behaving like a pullet that's just laid her first egg!" - -Then, seeing the other's face redden into a painful blush, "There, -there, I shouldn't have said that, I know. But I can't bear to see a -woman cheapen herself to a man!" - - * * * * * - -Banfield and his new betrothed walked arm in arm through the now -sleeping town to the garden gate of the old Georgian house where Miss -Wellow had now lived for some five years in solitary spinster state, and -where her forefathers had led lives of agreeable, if monotonous, -respectability for over a hundred years. - -When they reached the gate, each hesitated a moment. Miss Wellow longed -to ask him in, but like most maiden ladies possessed of means, she had a -tyrant, a Cerberus in the shape of a faithful servant who would now be -sitting up waiting sulkily for her mistress's return. Banfield was -awkwardly debating with himself whether Matilda expected him to kiss -her; on the whole he thought--he hoped--not. - -But he was spared the onus of decision concerning this delicate point; -for suddenly he felt himself drawn on one side, and there, in the deep -shadow of the wall, his companion threw her arms about him, murmuring, -with a catch in her voice, "I know you don't love me yet, -but--but--David, I'll _make_ you love me," and the face turned up to his -in the half darkness was full of eager yearning. - -Feeling a traitor--to himself, to Rosaleen, above all, to the poor soul -now leaning on his breast--Banfield bent and kissed her; then he turned -on his heel, leaving her to make her way as best she could up the trim -path leading to her front door. - -Hardly aware of what he was doing, he walked away quickly, taking the -opposite direction to that of the quiet lane of houses which would have -led him straight home. Instead he struck out, instinctively, towards the -flat open country, for he had a fierce, unreasoning desire to be -alone--far away from all humankind. As he strode along, his eyes having -become so fully accustomed to the dim light that he could see every -detail of the white-rutted road gleaming between low hedges, Banfield's -feeling of bewilderment, even of horror, grew and grew, making him feel -physically cold in the warm, scented night. - -For the first time there swept over him that awful sense of unavailing -repentance for the word said which might so well have been left unsaid, -which most human beings are fated to feel at some time of their lives. - -Not even over his divorce had he felt so desperate a passion of revolt, -for that act, or so he had believed, was forced on him by Rosaleen -herself. But to-night he realised that before doing what he had just -done he had been free--free to remain free--and he now saw with a sense -of impotent anger how deliberately he had given himself into slavery. - -As he strode along, eager to escape from the material surroundings of -his surrender, Banfield remembered each word of his talk with his -sister, and so remembering, he was amazed at his own weak folly. - -What were the trifling troubles connected with his Irish servant, Mary -Scanlan, compared to those which lay before him?--to the awful knowledge -that he was now the prisoner--henceforth the body and soul prisoner--of -Matilda Wellow? How sluggish had been his imagination when he had -thought of the woman, whose tears had but just now scalded his lips, as -of a kind, unobtrusive lady housekeeper! He was now aware that there was -another Matilda Wellow, of whom till to-night he had been ignorant, and -it was this stranger who was demanding as a right, and indeed had the -right to demand, that tenderness and devotion which he knew himself -incapable of bestowing on any woman except on the elusive, cold-natured -woman who had been his wife. - -And then a strange thing happened to David Banfield. - -The near image of Matilda Wellow faded, giving place to the distant, and -yet in a spiritual and even physical sense poignantly present, -personality of Rosaleen. - -As far as was possible, Banfield till to-night had banished his wife's -image from his emotional memory. But what he had just done--that is, his -own lack of constancy--had the odd effect of making him feel lowered to -the level to which those about him regarded Rosaleen as fallen. He told -himself that now he and Rosaleen were quits--and deliberately he yielded -to the cruel luxury of recollection. - -His mind travelled back to the early days of their acquaintance, to the -pretence at a "friendship" which on his side had so soon become -overwhelming passion. Then had come his formal offer of marriage, and -for a long time she had played with him, saying neither yes nor no. Then -for a while he had flung everything to the winds in order to be with -her--on any terms. He remembered with a pang of pain the trifling -reasons which at last made her quite suddenly consent to become his -wife. A quarrel with the manager of the concert company to which she -then belonged, followed by a bad notice in the local paper of the town -to which he, David Banfield, undeterred by more than one half-laughing -refusal, had come to make what he intended should be a final -offer--these, it seemed, had brought Rosaleen to the point of decision. - -Even now, Banfield never heard the name of that little Sussex town -without a leap of the heart, for it was there that had taken place their -marriage, the quietest and least adorned of weddings, celebrated in a -small, bare Roman Catholic chapel, the incumbent of which, a wise old -man, had spoken to Banfield very seriously, asking him to give the young -Irishwoman more time for thought, and impressing upon him the gravity of -the promises which he, a Protestant, had consented to make concerning -their future married life. - -With regard to the latter, Banfield had been scrupulously honourable, -going, indeed, out of his way to remind Rosaleen of her religious -obligations, and at the time of the divorce acting, in the matter of -their child's future education, according to the spirit rather than the -letter of his promise.... - -With bent head and eyes fixed on the white road, David Banfield -insensibly slackened his steps while his mind concerned itself with the -five years he and Rosaleen had spent together at Market Dalling. They -had been years of secret drama, on his part of almost wordless struggle -for some kind of response to the passion which her mysterious -aloofness--to so many men the greater part of a woman's -attraction--evoked and kept alive in him. - -He now remembered how during these years there had been minor causes of -disagreement, trifling matters--or so he had considered them--to which -Rosaleen attached far more importance than he had done. - -The constant criticism and interference of his half-sister, the dislike -and jealousy of those town folk who regarded themselves as having a -right to the close friendship and intimacy of David Banfield's young -wife, these were the things--forming such unimportant asides to the -course of that hidden struggle--which Rosaleen had brought forward when -begging her husband, with passionate energy, to allow her to go back to -her profession. - -But to-night, the grey fear with which he now regarded his own future -life at Market Dalling brought to David Banfield a sudden understanding -of what Rosaleen had felt, caged, as he had caged her, in the little -town to which he was now reluctantly turning his laggard steps, and -which had been, till so few years ago, the centre of his universe. - -He told himself that had he had the courage, had he been possessed of -the necessary imagination, to make another life for himself and for her, -none of this need have happened. - -But why torture himself uselessly? He and Rosaleen had now drifted as -far apart as a man and a woman can drift. What he had done to-night was -in its way as irrevocable as what she on her side had done--nay more, -the very fact that he had Matilda Wellow so completely at his mercy made -Banfield feel, as a less simple-hearted, generous-minded man would never -have felt, how impossible it was for him to draw back.... - -While returning to what had now become his place of bondage, David -Banfield made a determined effort to dam the mental floodgates through -which had run so strange a stream of violent revolt and emotion, and he -was so far rewarded that almost at once something occurred which had the -effect of bracing him up, of hardening him in his determination to do -what he believed to be right. - -As he walked down the silent, shuttered High Street at the end of which -stood the Brew House, he saw that his hall light had not been -extinguished; and as he opened the front door, he was confronted with -the spare form and the gaunt, though not ill-visaged countenance of Mary -Scanlan, the elderly Irishwoman who had for so long waged triumphant -battle with her master's sister, Mrs. Rigby. Utterly different as the -two women were, they yet, as Banfield sometimes secretly told himself, -not without a certain sore amusement, had strong points of resemblance -the one with the other. - -Impelled by some obscure instinct that thus was he certain to be -strengthened in the course of action to which he had just pledged -himself, Banfield invited the woman into the dining-room, which had -been, since his first wife's departure, used by him as living and eating -room in one. - -Very deliberately he lit the gas, and then turned and faced his -housekeeper. "I think it right that you should be among the first to -know," he said, "that I am going to be married again--to Miss Wellow." - -There was a moment's pause. Banfield expected either a word of sullen -acquiescence or an outburst of anger; he had known Mary Scanlan in both -moods, but now she surprised him by assuming a very disconcerting -attitude. - -"If that's the case," she said slowly, twisting and untwisting a corner -of the black apron that she was wearing, "I will be getting ready little -Rosy's clothes, for you will be sending her to the convent rather -sooner, I reckon, than you meant to do. I make no doubt the nuns will -let me stay there for a week or two till the child gets accustomed to -the place--that is, if you have no objection, Mr. Banfield?" - -Banfield looked at the woman in some perplexity. - -"But I've no thought of sending Rosy to school yet!" he exclaimed--then -added: "Of course, I mean to keep my promise to her mother, but--but the -child's a little thing yet--too young to go to school." - -Mary Scanlan was the only woman to whom Banfield ever spoke of his wife, -and Mrs. Rigby would have been amazed indeed had she known how often -these allusions and semi-allusions were made, for to Kate, much as he -trusted and respected his sister, Banfield had never till that day bared -his heart. - -"I am going to ask you," he went on, "to stay in my service, simply to -look after the child. I know well, Mary, how devoted you are to my -little girl, and how good you've been to her. When Miss Wellow has -become--" he hesitated awkwardly, and then with a certain effort, -uttered the words "my wife--she will, of course, take charge of the -house, and I suppose she will bring her own servants with her. I shall -no longer have any need for a housekeeper--but I know she will be only -too glad if you will stay on with Rosy." - -"I don't think I can do that, sir." - -Banfield moved uneasily. Mary Scanlan almost invariably called him "Mr. -Banfield"; it was one of the woman's many Irish idiosyncrasies which -irritated his sister. - -"I don't think I can stay on here, sir," repeated Mary Scanlan in a low, -hesitating voice. "I don't hold with a man, a gentleman I mean, having -two wives. I can't say a word of excuse for my poor Miss Rosaleen--I -beg your pardon, sir, I mean Mrs. Banfield. I know she behaved very -wickedly and strangely, but still you see, Mr. Banfield, to my thinking -and according to my holy religion, she's the woman who owns you, sir, -and no one else can ever take her place." - -"I know, I know," he said hastily. "But Mary, why don't you consult your -priest? If you explain the circumstances to him, he may take a different -view of the matter to what you do." - -"No, that he wouldn't!" exclaimed Mary Scanlan, with a touch of her old -passionate temper, "and if he did, I shouldn't be said by him!" - -She hesitated, and then in a low tone asked the strange question, made -the amazing suggestion, "I suppose you wouldn't be after seeing Miss -Rosaleen, Mr. Banfield? Not if I gave you her address?" - -Banfield made a nervous movement of recoil. - -"Mary," he said sternly, "you forget yourself!" and turning, left her in -possession of the room. - - * * * * * - -How describe the days that followed?--short days full of intense joy and -looking forward to Matilda Wellow, long days filled with perplexed -misgiving and self-reproach to David Banfield. - -Men and women of British birth generally prefer to conduct their -courtships in the way that best suits themselves, but those whom Mrs. -Rigby collectively dubbed as "foreigners" have long ago realised the -advantage of having so important an episode of human life as that of -betrothal "stage-managed" by someone more experienced in such matters -than the two most interested. - -Mrs. Rigby had no kind of sympathy with foreign fashion, and in theory -thoroughly disapproved of the way in which the French, for instance, -arrange their matrimonial affairs. But this engagement of her brother -David Banfield and of Matilda Wellow was one of the supreme exceptions -which prove a rule, and so she stage-managed every entrance, every exit, -and, to pursue the analogy to its bitter end, every bit of "business" -connected with the affair. - -Her stern eyes, her rough tongue, kept the bride-elect in order, but her -watchful fear lest Matilda should get on David's nerves before she -became securely bound to him for ever had one curious effect; it made -Banfield sorry for his betrothed, and caused him to feel more kindly to -her than he would otherwise have done. - -Then he was touched and surprised by Matilda's great loyalty to himself; -he soon discovered that, far from discussing him with his sister, she -often irritated the latter by her assumption that already she, Matilda, -and he, David, had a joint life in which Kate Rigby played no part. This -angered Mrs. Rigby keenly, and it is a pathetic fact that the only tears -Matilda Wellow shed during the course of her engagement were caused by -the woman who was her oldest friend, and to whom she was dimly aware -that she owed her good-fortune. - -Blinded by that most blinding of master passions, jealousy, Mrs. Rigby -actually came to believe that her brother was now attached, in a far -truer sense than he had been to Rosaleen, to the fond, foolish woman who -was so soon to become his wife. - -"He's getting quite silly about her," she observed angrily to her -husband; "he goes up there every evening, however busy he may be, or -however much I may want to have him here. And now he says he won't go to -that good London tailor for his wedding clothes! It's clear he doesn't -want to leave Tiddy--even for three days!" - -But Mr. Rigby, as was his prudent wont when he disagreed with his wife, -only looked at her, and thoughtfully wagged his head. - -"Why don't you say something?" she asked crossly. - -"Why should David go to London?" observed Mr. Rigby mildly. "He's a -personable fellow; any tailor could fit David. If I were you, Kate, I'd -let him be." But Kate, to her lasting sorrow, did not let David be. - -Both her husband and even Matilda Wellow herself could have told Mrs. -Rigby that it was in London that her brother had spent his honeymoon -with his wife; but though she had been made vividly aware of the -circumstance--for it was from there that the news of his hasty marriage -had reached her--that fact would not have seemed to her any reason why -David should not now do the right and proper thing by his second bride. - -Thus it was owing to Mrs. Rigby that Matilda was at last roused to a -sense of what was due to herself. Banfield, with some discomfiture, -discovered that Miss Wellow would take it ill of him not to pay her the -compliment of going to the London tailor for his wedding clothes--"and -then," had observed his sister briskly, "you'll be able to bring Tiddy -back something handsome in the way of jewellery; for that's a thing you -owe not only to her, David, but also to yourself." - - -II - -David Banfield, just arrived in London, stood in an hotel bedroom -overlooking the trees in Lincoln's Inn Fields. - -Staring out at the leafy screen, which seemed to him so lacking in -country freshness, there came to his mind poignant memories of a very -different room and a very different outlook not half a mile away from -where he stood, for he and Rosaleen had spent the first days of their -married life in one of those vast hotels which, overlooking the -Embankment and the river, are filled with light and air, as well as -instinct with a certain material luxury which had pleased his young -wife's taste more than his own. - -With a quick movement he pushed up the old-fashioned guillotine window -as far as it would go, and leaned out dangerously far; then he drew back -sharply, feeling, as he now often felt when he was alone, that he was -living through an unreal, a nightmare stage of his life, one which was -bound to come sooner or later to an abrupt end, but which now must be -lived through.... - -With unseeing eyes and unthinking mind he walked across to the shadowed -corner where had been placed his portmanteau. Slowly, indifferently, he -turned the key in the lock and raised the lid,--then quickened into -alert, painful attention. - -Lying on the top of its neatly folded contents was an envelope so placed -that it could not but attract his attention, and on it was written--in -the sprawling, unformed handwriting which was, perhaps, the only marked -betrayal of Mary Scanlan's early lack of education--the one word -"Important." - -At once there leapt into Banfield's mind the certain knowledge of what -the envelope contained. If he opened it, there most surely would he find -his wife Rosaleen's address. It was this, then, that the Irishwoman had -in her thoughts when she had asked him the unseemly question to which he -had given so short and stern an answer. - -But Mary Scanlan had not understood the type of man with whom she had to -deal. - -As he stood there, longing with a terrible longing to verify his -belief, telling himself, with a leap of the heart, that, if he were not -mistaken, then Rosaleen must be living alone, for if this had not been -so the old servant would never have thought of trying to bring them -together again--the claims of others, especially those of the woman from -whom he had only parted that morning, became paramount. He told himself -that, from the point of view of those who loved him, and whom he -respected, it was his duty to destroy unopened the envelope lying before -him. - -Banfield turned away, and once more walked across to the window; and -then his agitation suddenly became puerile in his eyes. - -What the Irishwoman had regarded as important when packing his bag might -well be a trifling matter, something wanted, maybe, for the child. The -uncertainty seemed to steady his conscience; _he felt that he must -know_. - -Bending down, he took up the envelope; the flap was open, and out of it -there slipped into his hand a shabby little card on which was printed: - - MISS ROSALEEN TARA (The Colleen Bawn), - 18, Abbey Street, - Westminster, S. W. - -There followed for David Banfield three days of agonising struggle and -temptation. All the feelings and instincts he had battened down, put -determinedly from him for so long, sprang into life. Now that he knew -where to find her, he became possessed by a deep, unreasoning longing to -see Rosaleen once more--even if a meeting could only result in pain for -him, in shame for her. - -On the second day of his stay in London, he offered conscience a salve -in the form of a fine ruby ring, which was despatched to Miss Wellow in -lieu of the letter which he knew only too well she must be anxiously -awaiting. - -Had Banfield been a stronger man he would have left London. But that, or -so he told himself, there was no need to do; and as the hours dragged -on, bringing him closer to the moment which must see his return to -Market Dalling--to Matilda Wellow--the fact that he and Rosaleen were in -a material sense so near to one another began to affect his imagination -in strangest and most poignant fashion. - -Walking aimlessly along the hot airless streets of London in July, he -found himself ever furtively seeking her.... Such chance meetings are -not impossible; they happen every day. Why should such a thing not come -to him as well as to another? - -And so in the summer twilight, not once but many times, some woman's -form--slender, graceful, light-footed as was Rosaleen's--would create -for a moment the illusion that she was there, close to him, would bring -the wild hope that in a moment his hungry heart would be satisfied, his -conscience cheated. And then the woman in whom he had seen for a moment -his poor lost love, would turn her head--and Banfield, cast down but -undismayed, would again pursue his eager, aimless search. - -On the last evening of his stay in London, this obsession became so -intense that Banfield saw Rosaleen in every woman's shape that passed -him by. He grew afraid; and after an hour spent in the peopled streets, -he told himself that that way madness lay. - -With eyes fixed on the dusty pavements, he made his way back to his -hotel, and sitting down he wrote a letter--a kind, cheerful letter--to -Matilda Wellow, telling her that he would be with her the next afternoon -at five o'clock. And then, for the first time since he had known that -Rosaleen was in London, his sleep was restful and unbroken. But in the -early morning he dreamed a curious dream; Rosaleen, the beloved, the -longed-for woman, was again with him,--elusive, mysterious, teasing as -she had ever been,--and Banfield, waking in the early dawn, felt tears -of joy standing on his face. - -When he got up in the morning, and faced the day which was to see him go -back to Market Dalling, he felt as must feel a man who sees stretching -before him a lifelong period of servitude; but with that feeling came -the gloomy belief that he had conquered the temptation that had so beset -him, and this being so, he argued that he had at least a right to see -the place where Rosaleen now lived. - -Having come to this specious understanding with himself, Banfield felt -his heart lighten. He told himself that he would wait till he was within -some two hours of the time when he knew he must leave London, and, -having so decided, he checked his impatience by various devices, packing -his portmanteau, paying his bill, doing first one thing and then -another, till the moment came for him to start walking along the -Embankment to Westminster. - -When at last he reached the broad, wind-swept space out of which he had -been told turned Abbey Street, quietest and most sequestered of urban -backwaters, he lingered for awhile, suddenly filled with an obscure fear -of that for which he had so longed--a chance meeting with his wife. - -After a few moments of indecision, he started walking slowly down the -middle of the street, his footfalls echoing on the cobblestones. - -Banfield looked about him curiously. To the right stretched the rough -grey wall of London's oldest garden, framing a green oasis opposite the -row of small eighteenth-century houses which stood on the other side of -the street. They were quaint, shabby little dwellings, and against more -than one fanlight was displayed a card bearing the word "Lodgings." - -When Banfield came opposite No. 18, he stopped and looked up at the -windows with beating heart and the colour rushed into his face, flooding -it under the sunburn; following a sudden, an irresistible impulse, he -stepped up on to the pavement, and with a nervous movement pulled the -bell. - -Then followed what seemed to him a long wait on the doorstep, but at -last a thin, fretful woman came to the door and enquired his business. - -"Does Miss Rosaleen Tara live here? Can I see her?" - -"Yes, she lives 'ere right enough,"--the woman spoke with weary -indifference,--"come this way." - -Banfield paused; he had never thought the access to Rosaleen would be so -simple, and he was bewildered by the ease with which this, to him so -momentous a step, had been compassed. - -He followed the woman up the narrow, wainscoted staircase to a tiny -landing. "Stop," he said almost inaudibly, "I must tell you what to -say--you must not show me straight in to her, like this." - -But even as he spoke, there was another tinkle of the bell, and the -woman began running heavily down the little staircase, leaving him -standing in front of the door. - -He knocked, but there came no answer, and at last he turned the handle, -and walked into the room. It was empty of human presence, and yet his -wife had stamped something of herself on the shabbily furnished -sitting-room. Certain dainty trifles which he had known as hers were -there, and before him, on the piano, was a music-case which he himself -had given her. - -The sight of this, his own gift, affected Banfield oddly, giving him a -feeling that he had a right to be there. After a moment's hesitation, he -walked over to the window, and looked out into the old Abbey garden. -There he would wait patiently--for hours if need be--till Rosaleen came -in. - -Then, quite suddenly, there fell on his ear the voice which he had so -often heard in dreams, and which he had of late so passionately longed -to hear. He turned sharply round, and noticed for the first time that -the door of the inner room was ajar. It was from thence that the light, -indifferent tones floated impalpably towards him. - -"Ah! but it's kind of you, doctor, to come so soon after Miss Lonsdale -asked you to see me! I've only just come in, but I won't be a moment--I -didn't expect you yet. Miss Lonsdale will be in long before you leave, I -hope; she's almost as anxious about my voice as I am--and the faith she -has in you, why, it's something wonderful!" - -To Banfield, the words recalled, not Rosaleen his wife, but Rosaleen the -girl, the dear bewitching stranger he had first known and wooed, though -never won. Unconsciously he visualised the speaker; he seemed to see the -quick, bird-like movements with which she was taking off her hat and -smoothing her hair before the glass. He even saw her smiling--smiling as -she used to smile at him in the very early days of their acquaintance. - -He knew that he ought to cry out--tell her that it was he, her husband, -David Banfield, who was there, and not the stranger whom she had -apparently been expecting; but though he opened his lips, no word would -come. - -At last the door swung open quickly, and for a moment Banfield saw her -face, lit up by that touch of wholly innocent coquetry of which your -pretty Irishwoman seems to have the secret. - -Then, as suddenly she realised the identity of the tall man standing -between her and the window, a peculiar--to Banfield a very -terrible--change of expression stiffened Rosaleen's face into watchful -fear and attention. - -"What is it?" she asked. "Tell me quickly, David! Is Rosy ill, or--or -dead?" - -"Rosy?" he stammered. "She's all right. I heard this morning----" - -"--And I yesterday," she breathed quickly. Then she sat down, and -Banfield let his eyes rest on her with a painful, yearning scrutiny. - -He had thought to find her altered, coarsened by the experience he -believed her to have gone through, but she had the same look of -delicate, rather frigid refinement, which had first attracted him. He -noted the perfection of her delicate profile, the determined, -well-shaped mouth,--then saw with a pang that there were a few threads -of white in the dark curly hair which, with her bright blue eyes, had -always been Rosaleen's principal beauties; and yet she looked scarcely -older than on the day he had last seen her--that on which he had -accompanied her with a heavy heart to the station at Market Dalling to -see her off to London. - -Now, looking at her, it stabbed him to remember how even then she had -shown an almost childish joy in leaving him. She had put her arms round -his neck and kissed him in sign of gratitude. "It's kind of you to let -me go, Dave!" she had whispered. He had often thought of those last -words, the last he had heard her speak. Now he again remembered them. -Alas! alas! why had he let her go? - -She sat, looking away from him, her eyes fixed on the empty grate. - -"You frightened me," she said plaintively. "Why did you come here, -David, and frighten me like this? Why have you come here at all -after--after what you did to me?" - -"What I did to you?" he stammered confusedly, and there came over him -the shamed fear that she had already heard of his coming marriage with -Matilda Wellow. - -"Yes, what you did to me--the documents you sent me--divorce papers -they're called----" He felt, rather than saw, that his wife's eyes were -filling, brimming over with indignant tears. "We don't have those things -at home--in Ireland, I mean. And then reading out my letter--the mad -letter I sent you--before a lot of men!" - -Rosaleen had always possessed the wifely art of being able to make David -Banfield feel himself in the wrong, and now, on hearing her last words, -the man before her told himself with a pang that he had indeed acted in -an unkind, even an unmanly, fashion to the fragile-looking woman who sat -with her face averted from him. - -"I thought--of course I thought"--he plucked up courage as he -spoke--"that you wanted to be free. You said you hoped I should forget -you." - -"--And so I did," she said quickly, "I did wish to be free--not so much -from you, as from the miserable, the stiflingly dull life you made me -lead at Market Dalling. That's why I wrote that foolish--that wicked -letter. I thought it would make you leave me alone. But, David," she -made a restless movement, "I didn't understand. However, I've been well -punished." - -There was a short, strained silence. Then Rosaleen got up. - -"I'm afraid I can't ask you to stay on much longer," she began -nervously, "for I'm expecting a doctor who was very kind to me once when -I was ill before. He's a friend of Carrie Lonsdale--you remember her, -David? The truth is, my voice has given out, and I've been trying to -give lessons, but Carrie thinks he will be able to make it come back -again soon." - -"And what will you do," asked Banfield in a very low voice, "if he -fails?" - -She turned and looked up at him, her eyes meeting his in direct -challenge. - -"Whatever I do," she said proudly, "you need not fear that I shall come -to you for any help." - -And then David Banfield felt shaken, overwhelmed by a fierce spasm of -violent, primitive jealousy. The name of the other man had never been -forthcoming; Rosaleen's letter had sufficed to win the undefended suit. - -"I suppose," he said brutally, "that you can always depend on getting -help from your lover?" - -Rosaleen's eyes dropped, her face flushed darkly as she saw the change -which came over her husband's face and as there came into his voice -accents she had never heard there. - -She sprang up. "How dare you insult me? You have no right to say such a -thing to me! I am free to do exactly what I like and to go to whom I -choose--you yourself made me free!" - -But a very different man from the man she had believed David Banfield to -be now stood before her. - -Of the words she had said, the last alone remained with him. Free? Nay, -nay, Rosaleen was in no sense free; his whole nature rose up and -protested against such a statement. There could be no question of -choice, for she belonged to him, only to him, solely to him, and that -even if she had in a moment of aberration, of madness--his mind refused -to follow the thought to its logical conclusion--not even in the most -secret recess of his imagination had Banfield ever consented to dwell -on what he believed had been. Not till the last few moments had he seen -the torturing vision which almost always haunts the man who has been -betrayed by a beloved woman. - -He came yet closer, and put his hand on her shoulder. - -"Rosaleen," he said hoarsely, "you don't understand. You want to know -why I came here to-day? Well, I came to say that I am thinking of -leaving Market Dalling. I came to ask you if you are willing to come -back to me--to make a fresh start. You said just now that it was Market -Dalling and our life there that you hated--not me. I've had a very good -offer to go to South Africa, to Durban, and settle there. There's even a -house waiting for us, and a convent school for Rosy. But whether I go or -not depends on you, Rosaleen. If you are willing to come with us, we'll -all go together--if not, I mean to stay at Market Dalling." - -Rosaleen remained quite still. She made no effort to move away from his -touch. - -"Did you really come to ask me to do that, David, and that although you -think so ill of me?" There was a wondering doubt, a softer, kindlier -note, than Banfield had ever heard in his wife's voice. - -He set his teeth and lied. - -"Yes," he said, "that is why I came. Mary Scanlan gave me your address." - -"Poor old Mary!" she exclaimed. "I suppose everyone at Market Dalling -thinks I'm a bad woman? Your sister, of course, always hoped that I was -a bad woman?" - -She looked at him as if half expecting him to make some kind of denial. -But he remained silent. What answer, what denial could he make? Of -course, everyone at Market Dalling thought Rosaleen a bad woman. For the -matter of that, none of them had ever thought well of her, not even his -own people, not even his sister and her husband had made any attempt to -understand her. - -Rosaleen's imprudent question made yet another matter, one which -Banfield had succeeded for a few moments in completely forgetting, -become once more very present to him. With a feeling of terrible -self-reproach there rose before him the helpless figure of Matilda -Wellow. - -"It's not only you," he said slowly, "but I myself who need to make a -fresh start. I haven't so much right to blame you as you, Rosaleen, -perhaps think--for I myself did a very wrong, a wicked thing----" - -She slipped away from under his hand and got up, facing him. - -"It's absurd for you to say that," she exclaimed petulantly, "why, you -couldn't do anything wicked, David, if you tried! For the matter of -that, I never could see--I never have seen--why people are--why people -make----" she seemed to be seeking for a word, a phrase; and it was in a -whisper that she added the words, "beasts of themselves." - -Banfield stared at her, not understanding; for the moment he was too -absorbed in his own feelings, in his own remorse, to take much heed of -what she was saying. - -"Well?" he asked, "well, Rosaleen, shall we both forgive each other--and -make a fresh beginning?" - -"Yes," she whispered, hanging her head as might have done a naughty -child. With a gesture of surrender, she held out her hands. "I'm ashamed -of what I did, David--and I'll try to be a better wife to you than I've -been up to now." - -Poor Banfield! As he took her in his arms his heart beat with -suffocating joy; almost any other man would have felt her words, her -implied prayer for forgiveness, curiously inadequate. - -She looked at him with a peculiar, earnest look, as if trying to make up -her mind to a certain course, and then, with a quick movement, she shook -herself free and disappeared into the back room. - -He heard the sound of a drawer opening, the fumbling of a key. A moment -later she came back and thrust a small packet into his hand. - -"There," she said, "open that, read what's inside, and then we'll -burn it. Thank God, Rosy will never know now the shame you put on -her mother. I've often thought how you would feel reading it, if -I--died--before--you did!" and each word was punctuated by an angry sob. - -The little packet which Rosaleen had placed in Banfield's hand was tied -with blue ribbon, and on it was written: "In case of my death, to be -forwarded to Mr. Banfield, The Brew House, Market Dalling." - -It was Rosaleen's fingers which untied the knotted ribbon and which -showed him, laid amid her little store of jewellery,--he had noticed -that she still wore her wedding ring,--a sheet of notepaper on which -was an attestation, sworn before a Commissioner of Oaths, that the -letter which she had written to him, the confession which had sufficed -to procure him his divorce, had been--false. - -"But why?" he stammered. "Rosaleen--why?" - -"Because I hated the life you made me lead at Market Dalling! I hate -Market Dalling and the hateful people who live there! You wouldn't even -let me play or sing on Sunday. And then, your sister Kate! She never -gave me a kind word or look! D'you think that was pleasant?" she asked -fiercely,--then more gently she added, "But I'm ashamed, I've always -been ashamed of that letter, and I'd no idea, Dave, that it would make -you do what it did." - -The door behind them opened. Rosaleen turned around; she brushed the -angry tears from her cheeks; there came over her tremulous mouth a -charming, rather shy smile. - -"Doctor," she said quietly, "you've just come in time to see my husband. -David, this is Dr. Bendall, who was so kind to me when I was ill." - -Banfield held out his hand.... - - -III - -It was the late afternoon of the same day, and Mrs. Rigby was sitting as -she had sat on her silver wedding day, close to the window of her -sitting-room, her busy hands engaged now, as then, in mending -house-linen. Now, as then also, she was expecting her brother and -Matilda Wellow to dinner, for before Banfield left for London it had -been arranged that he and his betrothed should spend that evening with -the Rigbys. - -Mrs. Rigby allowed the work she was holding to fall on her lap. She -looked into her garden with a preoccupied air. The month which had -elapsed since her silver wedding day had brought with it great changes -in her life, and what she saw before her seemed, in a sense, symbolic of -those changes, for in spite of her careful watering and constant -attention, the flower-beds, and above all the beautiful herbaceous -borders of which she was so proud, were beginning to look parched and -withered. - -To-night more than ever Mrs. Rigby realised that the marriage of David -and Matilda would alter her own life, and that not for the better. Why, -in old days David would of course have come in to see his sister on his -way from the station, and that even in the now forgotten time when -Rosaleen was mistress of the Brew House. To-day her brother had -evidently gone straight to Matilda Wellow.... - -But Mrs. Rigby reminded herself that, taken as a whole, her garden was -incomparably fresher and greener than were those of her neighbours on -either side; and as to David and Tiddy, she now told herself, almost -speaking the words aloud in her anxiety to make them true, that she was -pleased--very pleased--with the way everything was going on. - -Thus she was glad that the rather absurd secrecy, so insisted on by her -brother, would come to an end to-morrow. Of course a few old friends had -been told in confidence of the engagement--but considering that this was -so, the secret had been very well kept. It was not as if David were a -real widower; Mrs. Rigby could not help hoping that he would be spared -some of the silly remarks, the foolish congratulations, which fall to -the ordinary engaged man. It must be bad enough for him, so the sister -told herself, to put up with Tiddy's sentimental raptures. Still, it was -a comfort to know that Matilda Wellow was well aware that she was in -luck's way! How Tiddy studied David in everything--any other man would -have been spoilt! - -For the first time, a smile, not a very kind smile, came over Mrs. -Rigby's shrewd, rather hard face. - -During the last month, Matilda had actually given up eating potatoes and -butter, because some fool had told her that in that way she might hope -to regain the youthful slenderness of her figure! As for David, his -betrothed's little attentions evidently touched him, and no one could -say that he was not an attentive lover. Think of the ring he had sent -Tiddy, the ruby ring which had arrived yesterday morning, and which must -have cost--so Matt, who was learned in such things, declared--not a -penny less than Ł50! - -The exact date of the wedding would probably be fixed to-night, for it -had been arranged that the marriage was to follow very soon after the -announcement of the engagement. There was no reason for delay. Mrs. -Rigby had herself chosen the 3rd of August as the best date, and she had -little doubt that she would be able to persuade Dave and Tiddy that no -other day would suit them so well. - -Suddenly her quick ears caught the sound of footsteps treading down the -path to the left, a path hidden from the place where she was now -sitting, and a slight frown came over her face. Mrs. Rigby liked her -husband to come straight in to her from the office; but lately, he had -taken to the tiresome habit of going out by the back way, into the -garden, and then suddenly popping round on her. - -She looked out expectantly, but the sound of footsteps died away. It -must have been one of the maids going down to the extreme end of the -garden in search of some kitchen stuff. - -Mrs. Rigby again took up her work and began sewing diligently. Yes, the -marriage should take place quite quietly on the 3rd of August. -Everything was ready--in fact, there was nothing left to wait for. Even -Tiddy's wedding gown and headgear had come home. - -David had showed himself oddly interested in this wholly feminine -question of his bride's attire. - -He had actually been to the trouble of choosing the material of which -Tiddy's wedding gown was to be made; a white and grey stripe, a thin, -gauzy stuff not nearly substantial enough--or so Mrs. Rigby had -thought--for the purpose to which it was destined. And then he had -persuaded Matilda to go to a new dressmaker, a Frenchwoman who had been -lady's maid to one of his grand county acquaintances, and who had just -set up for herself in Market Dalling. More wonderful still, David had -made a rough drawing from some old picture that had taken his fancy of -the hat he desired Matilda to wear on her wedding day! It was a white -hat trimmed with long grey feathers, quite unlike Tiddy's usual -style.... - -Suddenly looking up, Mrs. Rigby felt a thrill of something like -superstitious fear, for there, making her way round the corner from the -summer-house, came, walking very slowly, a woman at once like and unlike -Matilda Wellow, clad in a silvery-looking gown and wearing a white hat -trimmed with long grey feathers. - -As the figure advanced down the path, it took unmistakable shape and -substance; here, without a doubt, was Matilda wearing what were to be -her wedding garments, and, as Mrs. Rigby suddenly became aware, a -Matilda quite unlike her usual homely self! - -Who would have thought that simply leaving off potatoes and butter for a -month would have made such a change! Or was that change due to the art -of the French dressmaker? The silvery-flounced skirt fell in graceful, -billowy folds to the ground, for Miss Wellow was not even holding up her -gown, as a more sensible woman would have done. The muslin kerchief -edged with real lace, outlined the wearer's still pretty shoulders, and -the hat--well, the hat was certainly becoming, especially now that -Tiddy's cheeks were flushed--as well they might be, considering what a -fool the woman was making of herself! - -Mrs. Rigby felt rather cross at having been so startled; she got up, and -walked out to meet her guest, determined not to be drawn into any praise -of the becoming hat and gown. - -"I hope David won't keep us waiting long," she said tartly. "I suppose -he thought that he must put on his dress suit," and her expression -showed clearly that in the matter of overdressing there was not much to -choose between her brother and the woman who was to become his wife. - -"David will not be here to-night, Kate. He came, but he has gone away -again--back to London." - -Miss Wellow spoke in a low, collected voice, and certain little -irritating mannerisms with which she usually punctuated her words were -absent. Perhaps it was the quiet, expressionless way in which she made -her surprising statement that caused Mrs. Rigby, as she afterwards -averred to her husband, at once to feel that something was wrong. - -"Gone back to London?" the sister repeated. "Why, whatever has he done -that for? What business took him back to London, to-day?" and she looked -searchingly at the other's flushed face. - -"Kate," said Miss Wellow, again speaking in the soft, emotionless voice -which was so unlike her own, "I have got to tell you something which I -fear will upset you--and make you very angry with poor David. Kate--he -has gone back to Rosaleen." - -Mrs. Rigby withdrew her eyes quickly from Matilda Wellow's face. She did -not then realise that the words which had just been spoken would for -ever spoil to her this fragrant, familiar corner of her garden. All she -felt now was a fierce, instinctive wish to get under shelter,--to hear -whatever shameful thing had to be heard within four walls,--and so she -put out her right hand and pushed her visitor before her into the -sitting-room. - -Then, keeping her back to the window, she forced Miss Wellow to turn -round. - -"Now tell me the truth," she commanded, "and Tiddy--above all, don't let -yourself be upset, and don't get hysterical! I know what it is--you and -David have had some silly quarrel. I saw from the first that you were -making yourself too cheap! He can't go back to Rosaleen; he divorced -her--and she's with another man. Besides, David is my brother! He -wouldn't dare do such a wicked thing! You have no right, Tiddy, to -accuse him of such shameful behaviour!" She spoke with quick, savage -decision. - -But Miss Wellow faced her with a strange, untoward courage--"I won't -have you speak so of him--of David, I mean!" she exclaimed passionately, -"you're his sister and ought to take his part!" - -Then her voice broke, and with a touch of her old feebleness she added, -"If you had heard him telling me about it, even you, Kate, who are so -hard, would maybe have understood and felt sorry for him. _I_ felt very -sorry for him----" - -"_You!_"--said Mrs. Rigby, with what appeared to the other withering -contempt, "_you!_----" - -"He put it very beautifully," continued Miss Wellow; her voice was now -almost inaudible, but Mrs. Rigby caught the word and repeated it with -terrible irony: - -"Beautifully!" she said,--"beautifully!" - -Matilda shrank back as though she feared the other was about to strike -her, but Mrs. Rigby did not see the gesture. - -"And did he tell you when he proposes to bring----" she made a scarcely -perceptible pause and then shot out the words--"his bride home. If it's -to-morrow, I'll make Matt take me away to-night!" - -"He's not going to bring her home," said Matilda, quietly. "He's never -coming back himself; they are going right away--out of England." - -"A good thing too!" said Mrs. Rigby. - -"He says that will be more respectful to me; he has considered my -feelings, Kate--he has indeed." - -"Has he? Why----" she suddenly held up a warning finger, for there was a -sound of footsteps in the passage; the sound stopped outside the door, -and both women instinctively held their breath, united by a common fear -of servants' gossip. - -There was a long pause, and then the handle of the door was slowly -turned, and Mr. Rigby came into the room, his ruddy colour gone, or -rather lying in curious streaks across his face, a nervous smile -hovering over his lips. - -He shut the door behind him and looked, with a world of interrogation -and anxiety in his eyes, at his wife. - -"You needn't smile," she said sharply; "this is no smiling matter!" - -His eyes fell; instinctively he turned to the other, the weaker vessel. -But the reproof which Mrs. Rigby had just addressed to her husband -penetrated Miss Wellow's brain. - -"I'm afraid I do look rather silly!" she said nervously, "wearing this -dress, I mean. But, you see, knowing that now I shall never wear it, I -thought I would put it on to-night." - -The odd collocation of her words passed unnoticed; indeed, Mr. Rigby, -even had he wished to answer her, was not given time to do so, for his -wife had turned on him and was avenging in his person the heaped-up -wrongs of her sex. - -"It's all your fault, Matt! You were always against David going to -London from the first, and you ought to have prevented his doing so! -But no--you stood aside and did nothing! I suppose you guessed he might -meet that--that----" her lips snapped together she would not soil them -by uttering the word which to her mind alone described Rosaleen. - -As her husband did not answer, suspicion grew into certainty. - -"Did you know that she was there? Did you think he would see her?" she -demanded. - -Mr. Rigby looked mildly at his Kate. "I didn't know anything, but I did -just think it possible," he said. - -But his triumph, if triumph it was, was short-lived. - -"Why didn't you tell me then? A decent woman would never have thought of -such a thing, but men have such disgusting minds!" cried his wife -sharply. She added suspiciously, "But how did you learn what's happened? -Did David write to you?" - -"He came into the office on his way back to the station," said Mr. -Rigby, briefly. "And, Kate--I've promised to see to things for him. Rosy -will join them"--he gave a little cough--"the day after to-morrow, and -they will all sail for South Africa as soon as matters can be settled -up. It's better so, my dear." - -Suddenly Miss Wellow bent down. Her hand fumbled blindly among the soft, -voluminous flounces of her skirt. - -"I've got something here," she said in a muffled voice, "that I want you -to give Rosy, Matt. But though I know it's there, I can't find the -pocket; you know I had one put in because David once said that he didn't -like a woman without a pocket in her dress. I've found it--here it -is!"--she took a step forward, and standing close to her old friend, -thrust into his unresisting hand a small hard substance. He looked down -and saw it was the ruby ring. "You can give this to the child," she said -breathlessly, "I don't want to see her again--with love from Auntie -Tiddy." - -But this was more than Mrs. Rigby could stand. - -"Well, it's a good thing," she exclaimed to her husband, "that Tiddy -takes it like that! No man would ever have dared to treat me so! But as -long as she doesn't care--still, she needn't take David's part against -his own sister, who has the right----" - -But what right David's sister had was never explained, for Miss Wellow -suddenly swayed forward; she would have fallen to the ground had not Mr. -Rigby caught her. - -"Why, she's fainted!" he said pitifully; "she does care--more than you -think, Kate. But she will come round soon--too soon," he muttered to -himself. - - * * * * * - -It was the same night, or rather the next morning, for the dawn was -beginning to make its grey way into the bed-chamber of Mr. and Mrs. -Rigby; it threw into dim relief the large, almost square four-poster, -under the chintz-covered canopy of which the husband and wife lay, rigid -as if carved in stone. - -"Kate," said Matt, "are you awake?" - -He could just see her head lying on the other pillow beside him. Her -still abundant hair was loosened and gave her a look of youth. Tears had -made a furrow down her cheeks. - -"Yes," said Mrs. Rigby, "I am awake, Matt. What is it you want?" - -"I'm afraid, my dear, that you are very much upset." There were -understanding, sympathy, ay, and tenderness expressed in the way Mr. -Rigby uttered the homely word. - -His wife, for the first time in their twenty-five years of married life, -felt a responsive thrill. For the first time she was unfaithful to Nat -Bower. - -"It's of you I'm thinking," she whispered. "I've been trying all night -to forget David,--my poor little David,--but it's terrible to me to -think that you, Matt, married into a family that could be guilty of such -shameful behaviour!" - - - - -VI - -THE DECREE MADE ABSOLUTE - - -James Tapster was eating his solitary, well-cooked dinner in his -comfortable and handsome house, a house situated in one of the half-moon -terraces which line and frame the more aristocratic side of Regent's -Park, and which may indeed be said to have private grounds of their own, -for each resident enjoys the use of a key to a portion of the Park -entitled locally "The Enclosure." - -Very early in his life Mr. Tapster had made up his mind that he would -like to live in Cumberland Crescent and now he was living there; very -early in his life he had decided that no one could order a plain yet -palatable meal as well as he could himself, and now for some months past -Mr. Tapster had given his own orders, each morning, to the cook. - -To-night Mr. Tapster had already eaten his fried sole, and he was about -to cut himself off a generous portion of the grilled under-cut before -him, when he heard the postman's steps hurrying round the Crescent. He -rose with a certain quick deliberateness, and going out into the hall, -opened the front door just in time to avoid the rat-tat-tat. Then, the -one letter he had expected duly in his hand, he waited till he had sat -down again in front of his still empty plate before he broke the seal -and glanced over the typewritten sheet of notepaper. - - SHORTERS COURT, THROGMORTON ST., - - _November 4th, 190--_. - - DEAR JAMES, - - In reply to your letter of yesterday's date, I have been to Bedford - Row and seen Greenfield, and he thinks it probable that the decree - will be made absolute to-day; in that case you will have received a - wire before this letter reaches you. - - Your affect. Brother, - - WM. A. TAPSTER. - -In the same handwriting as the signature were added two holograph lines: -"Glad you have the children home again. Maud will be round to see them -soon." - -Mr. Tapster read over once again the body of the letter, and there came -upon him an instinctive feeling of intense relief; then, with a not less -instinctive feeling of impatience, his eyes travelled down again to the -postscript--"Maud will be round to see them soon." - -Well, he would see about that! But he did not exclaim, even mentally, -as most men feeling as he then felt would have done, "I'll be damned if -she will!" knowing the while that Maud certainly would. - -His brother's letter, though most satisfactory as regarded its main -point, put Mr. Tapster out of conceit with the rest of his dinner; so he -rang twice and had the table cleared, frowning at the parlour-maid as -she hurried through her duties, and yet not daring to rebuke her for -having neglected to answer the bell the first time he rang. - -After a pause, he rose and turned towards the door--but, no, he could -not face the large, cheerless drawing-room upstairs; instead, he sat -down by the fire, and set himself to consider his future, and, in a more -hazy sense, that of his now motherless children. - -But very soon, as generally happens to those who devote any time to that -least profitable of occupations, Mr. Tapster found that his thoughts -drifted aimlessly, not to the future where he would have them be, but to -the past--that past which he desired to forget, to obliterate from his -memory. - -Till rather more than a year ago few men of his age--he had then been -sixty, he was now sixty-one--enjoyed a pleasanter and, from his own -point of view, a better-filled life than James Tapster. How he had -scorned the gambler, the spendthrift, the adulterer,--in a word, all -those whose actions bring about their own inevitable punishment! He had -always been self-respecting and conscientious,--not a prig, mind you, -but inclined rather to the serious than to the flippant side of life, -and so inclining he had found contentment and great material prosperity. - -Not even in those days to which he was now looking back so regretfully -had Mr. Tapster always been perfectly content; but now the poor man -sitting alone by his dining-room fire, only remembered what had been -good and pleasant in his former state. He was aware that his brother -William--and William's wife, Maud--both thought that even now he had -much to be thankful for; his line of business was brisk, scarcely -touched by foreign competition, his income increasing at a steady rate -of progression, and his children were exceptionally healthy. - -But, alas! now that, in place of a pretty little Mrs. Tapster on whom to -spend easily-earned money, his substance was being squandered by a crowd -of unmanageable and yet indispensable thieves,--for so Mr. Tapster -voicelessly described the five servants whose loud talk and laughter -were even now floating up from the basement below,--he did not feel his -financial stability so comfortable a thing as he had once done. - -His very children, who should now be, as he told himself complainingly, -his greatest comfort, had degenerated from two sturdy, well-behaved -little boys and a charming baby girl, into three unruly, fretful imps, -setting him at defiance, and terrorising their two attendants, who, -though carefully chosen by their Aunt Maud, did not seem to manage them -as well as the old nurse who had been an ally of the ex-Mrs. Tapster. - -Looking back at the whole horrible affair, for so in his own mind Mr. -Tapster justly designated the divorce case in which he had figured as -the successful petitioner, he wondered uneasily if he had done quite -wisely--wisely, that is, for his own repute and comfort. - -He knew very well that had it not been for William--or rather for -Maud--he would never have found out the dreadful truth. Nay, more; he -was dimly aware that but for them, and for their insistence on it as the -only proper course open to him, he would never have taken action. All -would have been forgiven and forgotten had not William--and more -especially Maud--said he must divorce Flossy, if not for his own sake, -ah! what irony! then for that of his children. - -Of course he felt grateful to his brother William and to his brother's -wife for all they had done for him since that sad time. Still, in the -depths of his heart, Mr. Tapster felt entitled to blame, and sometimes -almost to hate, his kind brother and sister. To them both--or rather to -Maud--he really owed the break-up of his life, for, when all was said -and done, it had to be admitted (though Maud did not like him to remind -her of it) that Flossy had met the villain while staying with the -William Tapsters at Boulogne. Respectable London people should have -known better than to take a furnished house at a disreputable French -watering-place--a place full of low English! - -Sometimes it was only by a great exercise of self-control that he, James -Tapster, could refrain from telling Maud what he thought of her conduct -in this matter, the more so that she never seemed to understand how -greatly she--and William--had been to blame. - -On one occasion Maud had even said how surprised she had been that James -had cared to go away to America, leaving his pretty young wife alone -for as long as three months. Why hadn't she said so at the time, then? -Of course, he had thought that he could leave Flossy to be looked after -and kept out of mischief by Maud--and William. But he had been--in more -than one sense, alas!--bitterly deceived. - -Still, it's never any use crying over spilt milk, so Mr. Tapster got up -from his chair and walked round the room, looking absently, as he did -so, at the large Landseer engraving of which he was naturally proud. If -only he could forget--put out of his mind for ever--the whole affair! -Well, perhaps with the Decree being made Absolute would come oblivion. - -He sat down again before the fire. Staring at the hot embers, he -reminded himself that Flossy, wicked, ungrateful Flossy, had disappeared -out of his life. This being so, why think of her? The very children had -at last left off asking inconvenient questions about their mamma---- - -By the way, would Flossy still be their mamma after the Decree had been -made Absolute?--so Mr. Tapster now suddenly asked himself. He hesitated -perplexed. - -But yes, the Decree being made Absolute would not undo, or even efface, -that fact. The more so, though surely here James Tapster showed himself -less logical than usual--the more so that Flossy, in spite of what Maud -had always said about her, had been a loving and, in her own -light-hearted way, a careful mother. But though Flossy would remain the -mother of his children--odd that the Law hadn't provided for that -contingency--she would soon be absolutely nothing, and less than -nothing, to him, the father of those children. Mr. Tapster was a great -believer in the infallibility of the Law, and he subscribed -whole-heartedly to the new reading, "What Law has put asunder, let not -man join together." - -To-night Mr. Tapster could not help looking back with a certain -complacency to his one legal adventure. Nothing could have been better -done, or more admirably conducted, than the way the whole matter had -been carried through. His brother William, and William's solicitor, Mr. -Greenfield, had managed it all so very nicely. True, there had been a -few uncomfortable moments in the witness-box, but everyone, including -the Judge, had been most kind. - -As for his Counsel, the leading man who makes a specialty of these sad -affairs, not even James Tapster himself could have put his own case in a -more delicate and moving fashion. "A gentleman possessed of considerable -fortune," so had he been justly described, and Counsel, without undue -insistence on irrelevant detail, had drawn a touching--and a -true--picture of Mr. Tapster's one romance, his marriage eight years -before to the twenty-year-old daughter of an undischarged bankrupt. Even -the Petitioner had scarcely seen Flossy's dreadful ingratitude in its -true colours till he had heard his Counsel's moderate comments on the -case. - -This evening Mr. Tapster saw Flossy's dreadful ingratitude terribly -clearly, and he wondered, not for the first time, how his wife could -have had the heart to break up his happy home! - -Why, but for him and his offer of marriage, Flossy Ball--that had been -his wife's maiden name--would have had to have earned her own living! -And as she had been very pretty, very "fetching," she would probably -have married some good-for-nothing young fellow of her own age lacking -the means to support a wife in decent comfort,--such a fellow, for -instance, as the wretched "Co." in the case. While with Mr. -Tapster--why, she had had everything the heart of woman could wish for, -a good home, beautiful clothes, and the being waited on hand and foot. A -strange choking feeling came into his throat as he thought of how good -he had been to Flossy, and how very bad had been her return for that -kindness. - -But this--this was dreadful! He was actually thinking of her again, and -not, as he had meant to do, of himself and his poor, motherless -children. Time enough to think of Flossy when he had news of her again. -If her lover did not marry her--and from what Mr. Greenfield had -discovered about him, it was most improbable that he would ever be in a -position to do so--she would certainly reappear on the Tapster horizon; -Mr. Greenfield said "they" always did. In that case, it was arranged -that William should pay her a weekly allowance. Mr. Tapster, always, as -he now reminded himself sadly, ready to do the generous thing, had fixed -that allowance at three pounds a week--a sum which had astonished, in -fact quite staggered, Mr. Greenfield's head clerk, a very decent fellow, -by the way. - -"Of course, it shall be as you wish, Mr. Tapster, but you should think -of the future and of your children. A hundred and fifty pounds a year -is a large sum; you may feel it a tax, sir, as years go on----" - -"That is enough," Mr. Tapster had answered, kindly but firmly; "you have -done your duty in laying that side of the case before me. I have, -however, decided on the amount named; should I see reason to alter my -mind, our arrangement leaves it open to me at any time to lower the -allowance." - -But though this conversation had taken place some months ago, and though -Mr. Tapster still held true to his generous resolve, as yet Flossy had -not reappeared. - -Mr. Tapster sometimes told himself that if he only knew where she was, -what she was doing,--whether she was still with that young fellow, for -instance,--he would think much less about her than he did now. Only last -night, when going for a moment into the night nursery,--poor Mr. Tapster -now only enjoyed his children's company when he was quite sure that they -were asleep,--he had had an extraordinary, almost a physical, impression -of Flossy's presence; he certainly had felt a faint whiff of her -favourite perfume. Flossy had been fond of scent, and though Maud always -said that the use of scent was most unladylike, he, James, did not -dislike it. - -With sudden soreness Mr. Tapster now recalled the one letter Flossy had -written to him just before the actual hearing of the divorce suit. - -It had been a wild, oddly-worded appeal to him to take her back, not--as -Maud had at once perceived on reading the letter--because she was sorry -for the terrible thing she had done, but simply because she was -beginning to hanker after her children. Maud had described the letter as -shameless and unwomanly in the extreme; and even William, who had never -judged his pretty young sister-in-law as severely as his wife had always -done, had observed sadly that Flossy seemed quite unaware of the -magnitude of her offence against God and man. - - * * * * * - -Mr. Tapster, who prided himself on his sharp ears, suddenly heard a -curious little sound--he knew it for that of the front door being first -opened and then shut again, extremely quietly. He half rose from his -chair by the fire, then sat down again, heavily. - -By Maud's advice he always locked the area gate himself, when he came -home each evening. But how foolish of Maud--such a sensible woman -too,--to think that servants and their evil ways could be circumvented -so easily! Of course, the maids went in and out by the front door in the -evening, and the policeman--a most respectable officer standing at point -duty a few yards lower down the road--must be well aware of these -disgraceful "goings on." - -For the first two or three months of his widowerhood (how else could he -term his present peculiar wifeless condition?) there had been a constant -coming and going of servants, first chosen, and then dismissed, by Maud. -At last she had suggested that her brother-in-law should engage a lady -housekeeper, and the luckless James Tapster had even interviewed several -applicants for the post after they had been chosen--sifted out, as it -were--by Maud. Unfortunately they had all been each more or less of his -own age; and plain--very plain; while he, naturally enough, would have -preferred to see something young and pretty about him again. - -It was over this housekeeper question that he had at last escaped from -Maud's domestic thraldom, for his sister-in-law, offended by his -rejection of each of her candidates, had declared that she would take no -more trouble about his household affairs! Nay, more; she had reminded -him with a smile which she had honestly tried to make pleasant, that -there is, after all, no fool like an old fool--about women! This -insinuation had made Mr. Tapster very angry, and straightway he had -engaged a respectable cook-housekeeper, and, although he had soon become -aware that the woman was feathering her own nest,--James Tapster, as you -will have divined ere now, was fond of good workaday phrases,--yet she -had a pleasant, respectful manner, and kept rough order among the -younger servants. - -Mr. Tapster's sister-in-law only now interfered where his children were -concerned. Never having been herself a mother, she had, of course, been -able to form a clear and unprejudiced judgment as to how children, and -especially as to how little boys, should be physically and mentally -trained. - -As yet, however, Maud had not been very successful with her two nephews -and infant niece, but this was doubtless owing to the fact that there -had been something gravely amiss with each of the five nurses who had -been successively engaged by her during the last year. - -The elder of Mr. Tapster's sons was six and the second four; the -youngest child, a little girl named unfortunately Flora after her -mother, was three years old. There had been a fourth, Flossy's second -baby, also a girl, who had only lived one day. All this being so, was it -not strange that a young matron who had led, for some four years out of -the eight years her married life had lasted, so wholly womanly and -domestic an existence as had fallen to the lot of Flossy, should have -been led astray by the meretricious allurements of unlawful -love?--Maud's striking thought and phrase this. - -And yet Flossy, in spite of her frivolity, had somehow managed the -children far better than Maud was now able to do. At the present time, -so Mr. Tapster admitted to himself with something very like an inward -groan, his two sons possessed every vice of which masculine infancy is -capable. They had become--so he was told by their indignant nurses--the -terror of the well-behaved children who shared with them the pleasures -of the Park Enclosure, where they took their daily exercise; and Baby, -once so sweet and good, was now very fretful and peevish. - - * * * * * - -Again the train of Mr. Tapster's mournful thoughts was disturbed by a -curious little sound--that of someone creeping softly down the staircase -leading from the upper floors. - -Once more he half rose from his chair, only to fall heavily back again -with a look of impotent annoyance on his round, whiskered face. Where -was the use of his going out into the hall and catching Nurse on her way -to the kitchen? Maud had declared, very early in the day, that there -should be as little communication as possible between the kitchen and -the nursery; but Mr. Tapster sometimes found himself in secret sympathy -with the two women whose disagreeable duty it was to be always with his -three turbulent children. - -Mr. Tapster frowned and stared gloomily into the fire; then he suddenly -pulled himself together rather sharply, for the door behind him had -slowly swung open. This was intolerable! The parlour-maid had again and -again been told that, whatever might have been the case in her former -places, no door in Mr. Tapster's house was to be opened without the -preliminary of a respectful knock. - -Fortified by the memory of what had been a positive order, he turned -round and nerved himself to deliver the necessary rebuke; but instead of -the shifty-eyed, impudent-looking woman he had thought to see, there -stood close to him, so close that he could almost have touched -her--Flossy, his wife, or rather the woman who, though no longer his -wife, had still, as he had been informed to his discomfiture, the right -to bear his name. - -A very strange feeling, and one so complicated that it sat uneasily upon -him, took instant possession of Mr. Tapster--anger, surprise, and relief -warred with one another in his heart. - -Then he began to think that his eyes must be playing him some curious -trick, for the figure at which he was staring remained strangely still -and motionless. - -Was it possible that his mind, dwelling constantly on Flossy, had evoked -her wraith? But, no; looking up in startled silence at the still figure -standing before him, he realised that not so would memory have conjured -up the pretty, bright little woman of whom he had once been proud. -Flossy still looked pretty, but she was thin and pale, and there were -dark rings round her eyes; also her dress was worn, her hat curiously -shabby. - -As Mr. Tapster stared up at her, noting these things, one of her hands -began playing nervously with the fringe of the dining-table cover, and -the other sought the back of what had once been one of her dining-room -chairs. - -As he watched her making these slight movements, nature so far -reasserted itself that a feeling of poignant regret, of pity for -her--as well as, of course, a much larger share of pity for -himself--came over James Tapster. - -Had Flossy spoken then,--had she possessed the intuitive knowledge of -men which is the gift of so many otherwise unintelligent women,--the -whole of Mr. Tapster's future, to say nothing of her own, might have -been different, and, it may be suggested, happier. - -But the moment of softening and mansuetude slipped quickly by, and was -succeeded by a burst of anger, for Mr. Tapster suddenly became aware -that Flossy's left hand, the little thin hand resting on the back of the -chair, was holding two keys which he recognised at once as his property. -The one was a replica of the latch-key which always hung on his -watch-chain, while the other and larger key, to which was attached a -brass tab bearing the name of Tapster and the address of the house, gave -access to the Enclosure Garden opposite Cumberland Crescent. - -Avoiding her eager, pitiful look, Mr. Tapster set himself to realise, -with a shrewdness for which William and Maud would never have given him -credit, what Flossy's possession of those two keys had meant during the -last few months. - -This woman, who both was and was not Mrs. Tapster, had retained the -power to come freely in and out of _his_ house! She had been able to -make her way, with or without the connivance of the servants, into _his_ -children's nursery at any hour of the day or night convenient to -herself. With the aid of that Enclosure key she had no doubt often seen -the children during their daily walk! In a word, Flossy had been able to -enjoy all the privileges of motherhood while having forfeited all those -of happy wifehood! - -His mind hastened heavily on--what a fool he must have looked before his -servants, how they must have laughed to think that he was being so -deceived and taken in! Why, even the policeman who stood at point duty -outside must have known all about it! - -Small wonder that Mr. Tapster felt extremely incensed; small wonder that -his heart, hardening, solidifying, expelled any feeling of pity provoked -by Flossy's sad and downcast appearance. - -"I must request you," he said, in a voice which even to himself sounded -harsh and needlessly loud, "to give up those keys which you hold in your -hand. You have no right to their possession, and I grieve to think that -you took advantage of my great distress of mind not to return them with -the things of which I sent you a list by my brother William. I cannot -believe"--and now Mr. Tapster lied as only the very truthful can lie on -occasion--"I cannot believe, I say, that you have taken advantage of my -having overlooked them, and that you have ever before to-night forced -yourself into this house! Still less can I believe that you have taught -our--_my_--children to deceive their father!" - -Even when uttering his first sentence he had noticed that there had come -over Flossy's face--which was thinner, if quite as pretty and -youthful-looking as when he had last seen it--an expression of obstinacy -which he had once well known and always dreaded. It had been Flossy's -one poor weapon against her husband's superior sense and power of -getting his own way, and sometimes it had vanquished him in that fair -fight which is always being waged between the average husband and wife. - -"You are right," she cried passionately; "I have not taught the children -to deceive you! I have never come into this house until I felt sure that -they were asleep and alone, though I've often wondered that they never -woke up and knew that their own mother was there! But more than once, -James, I've felt like going after that Society which looks after -badly-treated children--for the last nurse you had for them was so -cruel! If she hadn't left you soon I should have _had_ to do something. -I used to feel desperate when I saw her shake Baby in her pram; why, one -day, in the Enclosure, a lady spoke to her about it, and threatened to -tell her--her mistress----" - -Flossy's voice sank to a shamed whisper. The tears were rolling down her -cheeks; she was speaking in angry gasps, and what she said actually made -James Tapster feel, what he knew full well he had no reason to feel, -ashamed of himself. - -"That is why"--she went on--"that is why I have, as you say, forced -myself into your house, and why, too, I have now come here to ask you to -forgive me--to take me back--just for the sake of the children." - -Mr. Tapster's mind was one that travelled surely if slowly. He saw his -chance and seized it. - -"And why," he said impressively, "had that woman--the nurse, I mean--no -mistress? Tell me that, Flossy. You should have thought of all that -before you behaved as you did!" - -"I didn't know--I didn't think----" - -Mr. Tapster finished the sentence for her. "You didn't think," he -observed impressively, "that I should ever find you out." - -Then there came over him a morbid wish to discover--to learn from her -own lips--why Flossy had done such a shameful and extraordinary thing as -to be unfaithful to her marriage vow. - -"Whatever made you behave so?" he asked in a low voice. "I wasn't unkind -to you, was I? You had a nice, comfortable home, hadn't you?" - -"I was mad," she answered with a touch of sharp weariness. "I don't -suppose I could ever make you understand, and yet"--she looked at him -deprecatingly--"I suppose, James, that you too were young once, -and--and--mad?" - -Mr. Tapster stared at Flossy. What extraordinary things she said! Of -course he had been young once; for the matter of that he didn't feel -old--not to say old--even now. But he had always been perfectly -sane--she knew that well enough! As for her calling herself mad, that -was a mere figure of speech. Of course, in a sense she had been mad to -do what she had done, and he was glad that she now understood this, but -her saying so simply begged the whole question, and left him no wiser -than he was before. - -There was a long, tense silence between them. Then Mr. Tapster slowly -rose from his armchair and faced his wife. - -"I see," he said, "that William was right. I mean, I suppose I may take -it that that young fellow has gone and left you?" - -"Yes," she said, with a curious indifference, "he has gone and left me. -His father made him take a job out in Brazil just after the case was -through." - -"And what have you been doing since then?" asked Mr. Tapster -suspiciously. "How have you been living?" - -"His father gives me a pound a week." Flossy still spoke with that -curious indifference. "I tried to get something to do"--she hesitated, -then offered the lame explanation, "just to have something to do, for -I've been awfully lonely and miserable, James. But I don't seem to be -able to get anything." - -"If you had written to Mr. Greenfield or to William, they would have -told you that I had arranged for you to have an allowance," he said, and -then again he fell into silence.... - -Mr. Tapster was seeing a vision of himself magnanimous, -forgiving,--taking the peccant Flossy back to his heart, and becoming -once more, in a material sense, comfortable! If he acceded to her wish, -if he made up his mind to forgive her, he would have to begin life all -over again, move away from Cumberland Crescent to some distant place -where the story was not known,--perhaps to Clapham, where he had spent -his boyhood. - -But how about Maud? How about William? How about the very considerable -expense to which he had been put in connection with the divorce -proceedings? Was all that money to be wasted? - -Mr. Tapster suddenly saw the whole of his little world rising up in -judgment, smiling pityingly at his folly and weakness. During the whole -of a long and of what had been, till this last year, a very prosperous -life, Mr. Tapster had always steered his safe course by what may be -called the compass of public opinion, and now, when navigating an -unknown sea, he could not afford to throw that compass overboard, so---- - -"No," he said. "No, Flossy. It would not be right for me to take you -back. _It wouldn't do._" - -"Wouldn't it?" she asked piteously. "Oh! James, don't say no like that, -all at once! People do forgive each other--sometimes. I don't ask you to -be as kind to me as you were before; only to let me come home and see -after the children!" - -But Mr. Tapster shook his head. The children! Always the children! He -noticed, even now, that she didn't say a word of wanting to come back to -_him_; and yet he had been such a kind, nay, if Maud were to be -believed, such a foolishly indulgent, husband. - -And then Flossy looked so different. Mr. Tapster felt as if a stranger -were standing there before him. Her appearance of poverty shocked him. -Had she looked well and prosperous, he would have felt injured, and yet -her pinched face and shabby clothes certainly repelled him. So again he -shook his head, and there came into his face a look which Flossy had -always known in the old days to spell finality; when he again spoke she -saw that her knowledge had not misled her. - -"I don't want to be unkind," he said ponderously. "If you will only go -to William, or write to him if you would rather not go to the -office,"--Mr. Tapster did not like to think that anyone once closely -connected with him should "look like that" in his brother's -office,--"he will tell you what you had better do. I'm quite ready to -make you a handsome allowance--in fact, it's all arranged. You need not -have anything more to do with that fellow's father--an Army Colonel, -isn't he?--and his pound a week; but William thinks, and I must say I -agree, that you ought to go back to your maiden name, Flossy, as being -more fair to me." - -"And am I never to see the children again?" she asked. - -"No; it wouldn't be right for me to let you do so." - -He hesitated, then added, "They don't miss you any more now,"--with no -unkindly intent he concluded, "soon they'll have forgotten you -altogether." - -And then, just as Mr. Tapster was hesitating, seeking for a suitable and -not unkindly sentence of farewell, he saw a very strange, almost a -desperate, look come over Flossy's face, and, to his surprise, she -suddenly turned and left the room, closing the door very carefully -behind her. - -He stared after her. How very odd of her to say nothing! And what a -queer look had come over her face! He could not help feeling hurt that -she had not thanked him for what he knew to be a very generous and -unusual provision on the part of an injured husband.... Mr. Tapster took -a silk handkerchief out of his pocket and passed it twice over his face, -then once more he sought and sank into the armchair by the fire. - -Even now he still felt keenly conscious of Flossy's nearness. What could -she be doing? Then he straightened himself and listened. - -Yes, it was as he feared; she had gone upstairs--upstairs to look at the -children, for now he could hear her coming down again. How obstinate she -was--how obstinate and ungrateful! Mr. Tapster wished he had the courage -to go out into the hall and face her in order to tell her how wrong her -conduct was. Why, she had actually kept the keys--those keys that were -his property! - -Suddenly he heard her light footsteps hurrying down the hall; now she -was opening the front door,--it slammed, and again Mr. Tapster felt -pained to think how strangely indifferent Flossy was to his interests. -Why, what would the servants think, hearing the front door slam like -that? - -But still, now that it was over, he was glad the interview had taken -place, for henceforth--or so at least Mr. Tapster believed--the Flossy -of the past, the bright, pretty, prosperous Flossy of whom he had been -so proud, would cease to haunt him. - -He remembered with a feeling of relief that she was going to his brother -William; of course she would then, among greater renunciations, be -compelled to return the two keys, for they--that is, his brother and -himself--would have her in their power. They would not behave unkindly -to her--far from it; in fact, they would arrange for her to live with -some quiet, religious lady in a country town a few hours from London. -Mr. Tapster had not evolved this scheme for himself; it had been done in -a similar case--one of those cases which, in the long ago, when he was -still a single man, had aroused his pitying contempt for husbands who -allow themselves to be deceived. - -Then Mr. Tapster began going over each incident of the strange little -interview, for he wanted to tell his brother William exactly what had -taken place. - -His conscience was quite clear except with regard to one matter, and -that, after all, needn't be mentioned to William. He felt rather ashamed -of having asked the question which had provoked so wild an answer--so -unexpected a retort. - -Mad? What had Flossy meant by asking him if he had ever been mad? No -one had ever used the word in connection with James Tapster before--save -once. Oddly enough, that occasion also had been connected with Flossy in -a way; for it had happened when he had gone to tell William and Maud of -his engagement. - -It was on a fine day nine years ago come this May, and he had found -William and William's wife walking in their garden on Haverstock Hill. -His kind brother, as always, had been most sympathetic, and had even -made a suitable joke--Mr. Tapster remembered it very sadly -to-night--concerning the spring and a young man's fancy; but Maud had -been really disagreeable. She had said, "It's no use talking to you, -James, for you're mad--quite mad!" He had argued the matter out with her -good-temperedly, and William had supported him in pointing out that he -was doing an eminently sane thing in marrying Flossy Ball. But Maud -again and again had exclaimed, in her determined, aggravating voice, "I -say you are mad. They don't let lunatics marry--and just now you _are_ a -lunatic, James!" - -Strange that he should remember all this to-night; for, after all, it -had nothing to do with the present state of affairs. - -Mr. Tapster felt rather shaken and nervous; he pulled out his repeater -watch; but, alas! it was still very early--only ten minutes to nine. He -couldn't go to bed yet. Perhaps he would do well to join a club. He had -always thought rather poorly of men who belonged to clubs,--most of them -were idle, lazy fellows; but still, circumstances alter cases. - -Suddenly he began to wish that Flossy had remained a little longer. - -He thought of all sorts of things--improving, kindly remarks--he would -have liked to say to her. He blamed himself for not having offered her -any refreshment; she would probably have refused to take anything, but -still, it was wrong on his part not to have thought of it. A pound a -week for everything! No wonder she looked half starved. Why, his own -household bills, exclusive of wine or beer, had worked out, since he had -had this new expensive housekeeper, at something like fifteen shillings -a head--a fact which he had managed to conceal from Maud, who "did" her -William so well on exactly ten shillings and nine-pence all round! - - * * * * * - -It struck nine from the neighbouring church where Mr. Tapster had -sittings,--but where he seldom was able to go on Sunday mornings, for -he was proud of being among those old-fashioned folk who still regard -Sunday as essentially a day of rest,--and there came a sudden sound of -hoarse shouting from the road outside. - -Though he was glad of anything that broke the oppressive silence with -which he felt encompassed, Mr. Tapster found time to tell himself that -it was disgraceful that vulgar street brawlers should invade so quiet a -residential thoroughfare as Cumberland Crescent. But order would soon be -restored, for the sound of a policeman's whistle cut sharply through the -air. - -The noise, however, continued. He could hear the tramp of feet hurrying -past his house, and then leaving the pavement for the other side of the -road. What could be the matter? Something very exciting must be going on -just opposite his front door--that is, close to the Enclosure railings. - -Mr. Tapster got up from his chair, and walked in a leisurely way to the -wide window; he drew aside the thick red rep curtains, and lifted a -corner of the blind. - -Then, through the slightly foggy haze, he saw that which greatly -surprised him and made him feel actively indignant, for a string of -people, men, women, and boys, were hurrying into the Enclosure -garden--that sacred place set apart for the exclusive use of the -nobility and gentry who lived in Cumberland Crescent and the adjoining -terraces. - -What an abominable thing! Why, the grass would be all trampled down; and -these dirty people, these slum folk who seem to spring out of the earth -when anything of a disagreeable or shameful nature is taking place--a -fire, for instance, or a brawl--might easily bring infectious diseases -on to those gravel paths where the little Tapsters and their like run -about playing their innocent games. Some careless person had evidently -left the gate unlocked, and the fight, or whatever it was, must be -taking place inside the Enclosure! - -Had this been an ordinary night, Mr. Tapster would have gone back to the -fire, but now the need for human companionship was so strong upon him -that he stayed at the window, and went on staring at the curious -shadow-filled scene. - -Soon he saw with satisfaction that something like order was to be -restored. A stalwart policeman--in fact, his friend the officer who was -always at point duty some yards from his house--now stood at the gate -of the Enclosure, forbidding any further passing through. - -Mr. Tapster tried in vain to see what was going on inside the railings, -but everything beyond the brightly-lighted road was wrapped in grey -darkness. Someone suddenly held up high a flaming torch, and the watcher -at the window saw that the shadowy crowd which had managed to force its -way into the Park hung together, like bees swarming, on the further lawn -through which flowed the ornamental water. With the gleaming of the -yellow, wavering light there had fallen a sudden hush and silence, and -Mr. Tapster wondered uneasily what those people were doing there, and -what it was they were pressing forward so eagerly to see. - -Then he realised that it must have been a fight after all, for now the -crowd was parting in two, and down the lane so formed Mr. Tapster saw -coming towards the gate, and so in a sense towards himself, a rather -pitiful little procession. Someone had evidently been injured, and that -seriously, for four men, bearing a sheep-hurdle on which lay a huddled -mass, were walking slowly towards the guarded gate, and he heard -distinctly the gruffly uttered words: "Stand back, please--stand back -there! We're going to cross the road." - -The now large crowd suddenly swayed forward; indeed, to Mr. Tapster's -astonished eyes, they seemed to be actually making a rush for his house; -and a moment later they were pressing round his area railings. - -Looking down on the upturned faces below him, Mr. Tapster was very glad -that a stout pane of glass stood between himself and the -sinister-looking men and women who seemed to be staring up at him, or -rather at his windows, with faces full of cruel, wolfish curiosity. - -He let the blind fall to gently. His interest in the vulgar, sordid -scene had suddenly died down; the drama was now over; in a moment the -crowd would disperse, the human vermin--but Mr. Tapster would never have -used, even to himself, so coarse an expression--would be on their way -back to their burrows. But before he had even time to rearrange the -curtains in their right folds, there came a sudden, loud, persistent -knocking at his front door. - -Mr. Tapster turned sharply round, feeling justly incensed. Of course he -knew what it was,--some good-for-nothing urchin finding a vent for his -excited feelings. While it was quite proper that the police should have -hurried on with their still burden to the nearest hospital or workhouse -infirmary, they should have left at least one constable to keep order. -His parlour-maid, who was never in any hurry to open the door--she had -once kept him waiting ten minutes when he had forgotten his -latch-key--would certainly take no notice of this unseemly noise, but -he, James Tapster, would himself hurry out and try and catch the -delinquent, take his name and address, and thoroughly frighten him. - -As he reached the door of the dining-room Mr. Tapster heard the front -door open--open, too, and this was certainly very surprising, from the -outside! In the hall he saw that it was a policeman--in fact, the -officer on point duty close by--who had opened his front door, and -apparently with a latch-key. - -In the moment that elapsed before the constable spoke, Mr. Tapster's -mind had had time to formulate a new theory. How strange he had never -heard that the police have means of access to every house on their beat! -The fact surprised but did not alarm him, for our hero was one of the -great army of law-abiding citizens in whose eyes a policeman is no human -being, subject to the same laws, the same temptations and passions which -afflict ordinary humanity. No, no; in Mr. Tapster's eyes a constable -could do no wrong, although he might occasionally stretch a point to -oblige such a man as was Mr. Tapster himself. - -But what was the constable saying--speaking, as constables always do to -the Mr. Tapsters of this world, in respectful and subdued tones? - -"Can I just come in and speak to you, sir? There's been a sad -accident--your lady fallen in the water; we found these keys in her -pocket, and then someone said she was Mrs. Tapster,"--and the policeman -held out the two keys which had played a not unimportant part in Mr. -Tapster's interview with Flossy. - -"A man on the bridge saw her go in," went on the policeman, "so she -wasn't in the water long--something like a quarter of an hour--for we -soon found her. I suppose you would like her taken upstairs, sir?" - -"No, no," stammered Mr. Tapster, "not upstairs. The children are -upstairs." - -Mr. Tapster's round, prominent eyes were shadowed with a great horror -and an even greater surprise. He stood staring at the man before him, -his hands clasped in a wholly unconscious gesture of supplication. - -The constable gradually edged himself backwards into the dining-room. -Realising that he must take on himself the onus of decision, he gave a -quiet look round. - -"If that's the case," he said firmly, "we had better bring her in here. -That sofa that you have there, sir, will do nicely, for her to be laid -upon while they try to bring her round. We've got a doctor already----" - -Mr. Tapster bent his head; he was too much bewildered to propose any -other plan; and then he turned--turned to see his hall invaded by a -strange and sinister quartette. It was composed of two policemen and of -two of those loafers of whom he so greatly disapproved; they were -carrying a hurdle, from which Mr. Tapster quickly averted his eyes. - -But though he was able to shut out the sight he feared to see, he could -not prevent himself from hearing certain sounds--those, for instance, -made by the two loafers, who breathed with ostentatious difficulty as if -to show they were unaccustomed to bearing even so comparatively light a -burden as Flossy drowned. - -There came a sudden short whisper-filled delay; the doorway of the -dining-room was found to be too narrow, and the hurdle was perforce left -in the hall. - -An urgent voice, full of wholly unconscious irony, muttered in Mr. -Tapster's ear: "Of course you would like to see her, sir," and he felt -himself being propelled forward. Making an effort to bear himself so -that he should not feel afterwards ashamed of his lack of nerve, he -forced himself to stare with dread-filled yet fascinated eyes at that -which had just been laid upon the leather sofa. - -Flossy's hat--the shabby hat which had shocked Mr. Tapster's sense of -what was seemly--had gone; her fair hair had all come down, and hung in -pale, gold wisps about the face already fixed in the soft dignity which -seems so soon to drape the features of those who die by drowning. Her -widely-opened eyes were now wholly emptied of the anguish with which -they had gazed on Mr. Tapster in this very room less than an hour ago. -Her mean brown serge gown, from which the water was still dripping, -clung closely to her limbs, revealing the slender body which had four -times endured, on behalf of Mr. Tapster, the greatest of woman's natural -ordeals. But that thought, it is scarcely necessary to say, did not come -to add an extra pang to those which that unfortunate man was now -suffering; for Mr. Tapster naturally thought maternity was in every -married woman's day's work--and pleasure. - - * * * * * - -It might have been a moment, for all that he knew, or it might have been -an hour, when at last something came to relieve the unbearable tension -of Mr. Tapster's feelings. He had been standing aside helpless, aware of -and yet not watching the efforts made to restore Flossy to -consciousness. - -The doctor raised himself and straightened his cramped shoulders and -tired arms. With a look of great concern on his face he approached the -bereaved husband. - -"I'm afraid it's no good," he said; "the shock of the plunge in the cold -water probably killed her. She was evidently in poor health, and--and -ill-nourished. But, of course, we shall go on for some time longer, -and----" - -But whatever he had meant to say remained unspoken, for a telegraph boy, -with the impudence natural to his kind, was forcing his way into and -through the crowded room. - -"James Tapster, Esquire?" he cried in a high, childish treble. - -The master of the house held out his hand mechanically. He took the buff -envelope and stared down at it, sufficiently master of himself to -perceive that some fool had apparently imagined Cumberland Crescent to -be in South London; before his eyes swam the line, "Delayed in -transmission." Then, opening the envelope, he saw the message for which -he had now been waiting so eagerly for some days, but it was with -indifference that he read the words: - -"_The Decree has been made Absolute._" - - * * * * * - - - - -_BY MRS. BELLOC LOWNDES_ - -THE UTTERMOST FARTHING - -THE PULSE OF LIFE - -BARBARA REBELL - -THE HEART OF PENELOPE - -STUDIES IN WIVES - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Studies in Wives, by Marie Belloc Lowndes - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STUDIES IN WIVES *** - -***** This file should be named 41415-8.txt or 41415-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/1/4/1/41415/ - -Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, -set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to -copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to -protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project -Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you -charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you -do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the -rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose -such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and -research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do -practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is -subject to the trademark license, especially commercial -redistribution. - - - -*** START: FULL LICENSE *** - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project -Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at -http://gutenberg.org/license). - - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy -all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. -If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the -terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or -entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement -and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" -or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the -collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an -individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are -located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from -copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative -works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg -are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project -Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by -freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of -this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with -the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by -keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project -Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in -a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check -the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement -before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or -creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project -Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning -the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United -States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate -access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently -whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, -copied or distributed: - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived -from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is -posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied -and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees -or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work -with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the -work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 -through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the -Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or -1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional -terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked -to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the -permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any -word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or -distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than -"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version -posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), -you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a -copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon -request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other -form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided -that - -- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is - owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he - has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the - Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments - must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you - prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax - returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and - sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the - address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to - the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." - -- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or - destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium - and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of - Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any - money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days - of receipt of the work. - -- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set -forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from -both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael -Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the -Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm -collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain -"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or -corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual -property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a -computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by -your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with -your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with -the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a -refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity -providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to -receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy -is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further -opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER -WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO -WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. -If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the -law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be -interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by -the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any -provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance -with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, -promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, -harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, -that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do -or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm -work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any -Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. - - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers -including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists -because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from -people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. -To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 -and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. - - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive -Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at -http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent -permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. -Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered -throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at -809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email -business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact -information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official -page at http://pglaf.org - -For additional contact information: - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To -SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any -particular state visit http://pglaf.org - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. -To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate - - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm -concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared -with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project -Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. - - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. -unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - http://www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. |