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diff --git a/43837-0.txt b/43837-0.txt index 87c6414..1bd091d 100644 --- a/43837-0.txt +++ b/43837-0.txt @@ -1,4 +1,4 @@ -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 43837 *** +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 43837 *** THE MAN IS WHO WAS GOOD @@ -7735,5 +7735,4 @@ THE END End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Man Who Was Good, by Leonard Merrick - *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 43837 *** diff --git a/43837-8.txt b/43837-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 24c12d6..0000000 --- a/43837-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8127 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Man Who Was Good, by Leonard Merrick - -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 - - -Title: The Man Who Was Good - With an Introduction by J.K. Prothero - -Author: Leonard Merrick - -Commentator: J.K. Prothero - -Release Date: September 28, 2013 [EBook #43837] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO WAS GOOD *** - - - - -Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org -(Scans generously made available by the Internet Archive -- University of Toronto, Robarts Library.) - - - - - -THE MAN IS WHO WAS GOOD - -BY - -LEONARD MERRICK - -WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY - -J.K. PROTHERO - -HODDER & STOUGHTON - -LONDON--NEW YORK--TORONTO - -1921 - - - - -"That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true; -Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows. -If you loved only what were worth your love, -Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you." - - James Lee's Wife. - - - - -INTRODUCTION - - -There is a rare refreshment in the works of Leonard Merrick; gracious -yet distinctive, his style has a polished leisure seldom enjoyed these -days when perfection of literary form is at a discount. His art is -impossible of label; almost alone amongst the writers of to-day he has -the insight and the courage at once to admit the pitiless facts of life -and to affirm despite them--through hunger and loneliness, injustice -and disappointment--the spirit can and does remain unbroken; that if -there be no assurance of success, neither is there certainty of failure. - -There is no sentimental weakness in the method he employs. A rare -genius for humour tempers all his work; he can record the progressive -starvation of an actor out of work in an economy of phrase that leaves -no room for gratuitous appeal, trace the long-drawn efforts to outpace -persistent poverty of pence with a simplicity that enforces conviction. -His pen is never so poignant or restrained as when he shows us a woman -sharpened and coarsened by cheap toil. But throughout the tale of -struggle and triumph, defeat and attainment, there persists that sense -of eternal quest which shortens the hardest road. Do you starve to-day? -Opportunity of plenty may wait at the street corner, the chance of a -lifetime alight from the next bus; for Leonard Merrick is not concerned -with people of large incomes and small problems; the men and women of -whom he writes earn their own living. - -His most marked successes deal with stage life, indeed he is one of the -very few authors who convince one of the actuality of theatrical folk. -He shows us the chorus girl in her lodgings, in the Strand bars, at -the dramatic agency; we understand her ambitions, become familiar with -her unconquerable pluck and capacity for comradeship, even acquire a -liking for the smell of grease-paint. We meet the same girl out of an -engagement, follow her pilgrimage from Bloomsbury to Brixton seeking -an ever cheaper lodging; we watch the mud and wet of the streets soak -her inadequate boots, endure with her the pangs of hunger ill-allayed -by a fugitive bun. We accompany her to the pawnbroker's, and experience -the joys of combat with a recalcitrant "uncle" who refuses to lend more -than eighteenpence on a silk blouse. And still the sense of adventure -persists, the reality of romance endures, the joy of laughter remains. -We realise the compensation of precarious tenure on sufficiency, -appreciate the great truth that the adversity of to-day is lightened by -the uncertainty of to-morrow, that no matter how grim the struggle, how -sharp the hardship--and the hunger--the sense of adventure companions -and consoles. Authors who concern themselves only with men and women -of assured position and regular incomes have forgotten the truth which -Leonard Merrick so triumphantly affirms. Romance is no respecter of -persons. The freedom of the open road, its promise, its pitfalls, -sudden ecstasies and fugitive glamours is not a preserve of the rich -but the heritage of the people. - -His psychological methods allure one by their seeming simplicity; -quietly, with a delicate deliberation, he emphasises the outline of -his characters until with sudden swift decision, in the utterance of -a phrase, the doing of some one of those small things that are life's -real revelations, he shows you the soul of the man or woman whose -externals he has so carefully portrayed. Half-forgotten words and acts -crowd in on the memory, as in _The Man who was Good_ when Carew appeals -to Mary to save his child--and her rival's. It needed the genius of -Merrick to make one realise that the high-water mark of betrayal was -reached not by the man's desertion of the woman who loved him, but by -his pitiful exploitation of that love. - -I know of no author with a more subtle understanding of woman, her -generosity and meanness, her strange reticence, amazing candours. Mary -Brettan, that tragedy of invincible fidelity, could only have been -portrayed by a man able to sense feminine capacity for dumb fortitude. -One feels that had she made even a gesture of revolt, Mary would have -been freed of the paralysis of sterile constancy; and one knows that -women of her type can never make the ultimate defiance. - -Leonard Merrick has the inimitable gift of inducing his readers to -experience the emotions he portrays. The zest of adventure grips -you, as it grips the hero of _Conrad in Quest of his Youth_, perhaps -the greatest of his triumphs. We share with that perfect lover his -mellow regrets and his anticipatory ardours; we wait in tremulous -expectancy outside the little restaurant in Soho for his delightful -Lady Parlington, falling, with him-from light-hearted confidence to -sickening uncertainty as time wears on and still she does not come. The -same emotional buoyancy stirs in all his work; his incomparable humour -endears to us the least of his creations. His adorable landladies -become our friends, his "walking gentlemen" our close acquaintance. I -do not know to this day whether I have met certain of these heavenly -creatures in life or in Mr. Merrick's novels, and it is difficult to -enter a theatrical lodging without feeling that you are living the -last story in _The Man who Understood Women_, or revisiting the first -beginnings of Peggy Harper. - -London has many lovers, none so intimate with her allurements as -Leonard Merrick. He knows the glamour of her midnight pavements, the -hunger of her clamant streets, and the enchantments of her grey river -have drawn him. He has felt the deciduous charm of her luxury, the -abiding pleasure of her leafy spaces, and the intriguing alleys of -Fleet Street are to him familiar and dear. For the suburbs he has an -infinite kindness, and has companioned adventure on many a questing -tram. - -It has long been a matter of insuperable difficulty to obtain Mr. -Merrick's novels; for years I have essayed to find a copy of _Conrad_, -and from every bookseller have been sent empty away. In a moment of -folly I lent my own copy to a neighbour--I cannot call him friend--who -forthwith adopted the volume as his most invaluable possession, and, -undeterred by savagery or threats, refused to give it up. And now after -long waiting, I am made glad by a reissue of these incomparable works, -and the knowledge that an ever-increasing public, too long denied the -opportunity of their acquaintance, will share my delight. Far removed -from the nightmare of the problem novel, his books centre on simple -human things savoured with the rare salt of his humour; and whether in -the suburbs or the slums, in Soho or the Strand, whether prosperous or -starving, the men and women of whom he writes are touched with that -high courage, that fine comradeship, which is the very essence of -romance. - -J.K. PROTHERO. - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -There were three women in the dressing-room. Little Miss Macy, who -played a subaltern, was pulling off her uniform; and the "Duchess," -divested of velvet, stood brushing the powder out of her hair. The -third woman was doing nothing. In a chair by the theatrical hamper -labelled "Miss Olive Westland's Tour: 'The Foibles of Fashion' Co.," -she sat regarding the others, her hands idle in her lap. She was -scarcely what is called "beautiful," much less was she what ought to be -called "pretty"; perhaps "womanly" came nearer to suggesting her than -either. Her eyes were not large, but they were so pensive; her mouth -was not small, but it curved so tenderly; the face was not regular, but -it looked so deliciously soft. Somebody had once said that it "made -him admire God"; in watching her, it seemed such a perfect thing that -there should be a low white brow, and hair to shade it; it seemed such -an exquisite and consummate thing that there should be lips where the -Maker put lips, and a chin where the chin is modelled. Her age might -have been twenty-seven, also it might have been thirty. The wise man -does not question the nice woman's age--he just thanks Heaven she -lives; and she in the chair by the hamper was decidedly nice. Other -women said so. - -"Have you been in front, Mrs. Carew?" asked the "Duchess." - -She answered that she had. "I came round at the end. It was a very good -house; the business is improving." - -"I should think," remarked the "subaltern," reaching for her skirt, -"you must know every line of the piece, the times you've seen it! But, -of course, you've nothing else to do." - -"No, it isn't lively sitting alone all the evening in lodgings; and -it's more comfortable in the circle than behind. How you people manage -to get dressed in some of the theatres puzzles me; I look at you from -the front, remembering where your things were put on, and marvel. If -I were in the profession, my salary wouldn't keep me in the frocks I -ruined." - -"I wonder Carew has never wanted you to go into it." - -The nice woman laughed. - -"Go into the profession!" she exclaimed--"I? Good gracious, what an -idea! No; Tony has a very flattering opinion of his wife's abilities, -but I don't think even he goes the length of fancying I could act." - -"You'd be as good as a certain leading lady we know of, at any rate. -Nobody could be much worse than our respected manageress, I'll take my -oath!" - -"Jeannie," said the "Duchess" sharply, "don't quarrel with your -bread-and-butter!" - -"I'm not," said the girl; "I'm criticising it--a very different matter, -my dear. I hate these amateurs with money, even if they do take out -companies and give shops to us pros. She queers the best line I've got -in the piece every night because she won't speak up and nobody knows -what it's an answer to. The real type of the 'confidential actress' is -Miss Westland; no danger of _her_ allowing anyone in the audience to -overhear what she says!" - -"Tony believes she'll get on all right," said Mrs. Carew, "when she has -had more experience. You do, too, don't you, Mrs. Bowman?" - -The "Duchess" replied vaguely that "experience did a great deal." She -had profited by her own, and at the "aristocratic mother" period of her -career no longer canvassed in dressing-rooms the capabilities of the -powers that paid the treasury. - -"Get on?" echoed Jeannie Macy, struggling into her jacket, "of course -she'll get on; she has oof! If it's very much she's got, you'll see -her by-and-by with a theatre of her own in London. Money, influence, -or talent, you must have one of the three in the profession, and for -a short-cut give me either of the first two. Sweet dreams, both of -you; I've got a hot supper waiting for me, and I can smell it spoiling -from here!" The door banged behind her; and Mrs. Carew turned to the -"Duchess" with a smile. - -"You're coming round to us afterwards, aren't you?" she said. - -"Yes, Carew asked the husband in the morning: I hope he's got some -coppers; I reminded him. It's such a bother having to keep an account -of how we stand after every deal. We'll be round about half-past -twelve. Are you going?" - -"I should think Tony ought to be ready by now. You remember our number?" - -"Nine?" - -"Nine; opposite the baker's." - -Mrs. Carew hummed a little tune, and made her way down the stairs. The -stage, of which she had a passing view, was dark, for the foot-lights -were out, and in the T-piece only one gas-jet flared bluely between the -bare expanse of boards and the blackness of the empty auditorium. In -the passage, a man, hastening from the star-room, almost ran against -her; Mr. Seaton Carew still wore the clothes in which he finished the -play, and he had not removed his make-up yet. - -"What!" she cried, "haven't you changed? How's that? What have you been -doing?" - -"I've been talking to Miss Westland," he explained hurriedly. "There -was something she wanted to see me about. Don't wait any longer, Mary; -I've got to go up to her lodgings with her." - -She hesitated a moment, surprised. - -"Is it so important?" she asked. - -"Yes," he said; "I'll tell you about it later on; I want to have a talk -with you afterwards. I shan't be long." - -Whenever she came to the theatre, which was four or five times a week, -they, naturally, returned together, and she enjoyed the stroll in the -fresh air, "after the show," with Tony. Three years' familiarity with -the custom had not destroyed its charm to her. To-night she went out -into the Leicester streets a shade disconsolately. The gas was already -lighted when she reached the house, and a fire--for the month was -March--burnt clearly in the grate. The accommodation was not extensive: -a small ground-floor parlour, and a bedroom at the back. On the parlour -mantelpiece were some faded photographs of people who had stayed there ---Mr. Delancey as the Silver King; Miss Ida Ryan, smoking a cigarette, -as Sam Willoughby. She took off her coat, and, turning her back on the -supper-table, wondered what the conference with Miss Westland was about. - -The tedium of the delay began to tell upon her. The landlady had -brought in her book of testimonials during the afternoon, to ask Mr. -and Mrs. Carew for theirs; and fetching it from where it lay, she began -listlessly to turn the leaves. These books were abominated by Carew, -for he never knew what to write; and, perusing the comments in this -one, she mentally agreed with him that it was not easy to find a medium -between curtness and exaggeration. Some she recognised, knowing before -she looked what signatures were appended. The "Stay but a little, I -will come again" quotation she had seen above the same name in a score -of lodgings, and there were two or three "impromptus" in rhyme that she -had met before. - -She had been very happy this time at Leicester. They had arrived on -the anniversary of her and Tony's first meeting, and she had felt -additionally tender towards him all the week. The landlady had not -effected the happiness certainly, but her lodger was quite willing to -give her some of the benefit of it. She dipped the pen in the ink, -and wrote in a bold, upright hand, "The week spent in Mrs. Liddy's -apartments will always be a pleasant remembrance to Mr. and Mrs. Seaton -Carew." Then she put the date underneath. - -She had just finished when Mrs. Liddy entered with the beer. The -Irishwoman said that she was going to bed, but that Mrs. Carew would -find more glasses in the cupboard when her friends came. She supposed -that that was all? - -It was now twelve o'clock, and Mrs. Carew, with an occasional glance -at the cold beef and the corner of rice pudding, began to walk about -the room. Presently she stopped and listened. A whistle had reached her -from outside--the whistle of eight notes that is the actor's call. She -surmised that young Dolliver had forgotten their number, as he did in -every town. She drew aside the blind and let the light shine out. Young -Dolliver it was. - -"I've been whistling all up and down the road," he said, aggrieved; -"what were you doing?" - -"Well, that isn't bad," she laughed. "Why don't you remember addresses -like anybody else?" - -"Can't," he declared; "never could! Never know where I'm staying myself -if I don't make a note of it as soon as I go in. In Jarrow, one Monday, -I had to wander all over the place for three' mortal hours in the -pouring rain, looking for someone in the company to tell me where I -lived. Hallo! where's Carew?" - -"He'll be in directly," she said. "Sit down." - -"Oh! I'm awfully sorry to have come so early," he exclaimed; "why, you -haven't fed or anything." - -He was a bright-faced boy, with a cheery flow of chatter, and she was -glad he had appeared. - -"I expect the Bowmans any minute," she assured him; "you aren't early. -Do sit down, there's a good child, and don't stand fiddling your hat -about; put it on the piano! Have you banqueted yourself?" - -"To repletion. What did you think of Carew's notice in the Great -Sixpennyworth on Saturday? Wasn't it swagger? 'The rôle finds an ideal -exponent in Mr. Seaton Carew, an actor who is rapidly making his way -into the foremost ranks of his profession'!" - -"A line and a half," she said, "by a provincial correspondent! I shan't -be satisfied till----well!" - -"I know--till you see him with sixteen lines all to himself in the -_Telegraph_! No more will he, I fancy. He's red-hot on success, is -Carew--do anything for it. So'm I; I should like to play Claude." - -"Claude?" she exclaimed. "Why, you're funny!" - -"Not by disposition," he declared. "Miss Westland is responsible for -my being funny. When they said 'a small comedy-part is still vacant,' -I said small comedy-parts are my forte of fortes! Had it been an 'old -man' that was wanted, I should have professed myself born to dodder. -But if it comes to choice--to the secret tendency of the sacred fire--I -am lead, I am romantic, I have centre-entrances in the limelight. Look -here: 'A deep vale, shut out by Alpine----' No, wait a minute; you -do the Langtry business and let the flowers fall, while I 'paint the -home.' Do you know, my private opinion is that Claude only took those -lessons so that the widow shouldn't be put to any expense doing up the -home. Haven't got any flowers? Anything else then--where are the cards?" - -He found the pack on the sideboard, and pushed a few into her hand. - -"These'll do for the flowers," he said; "finger 'em lovingly; think -you're holding a good nap." - -"Don't be so ridiculous!" - -"I'm not," said Dolliver, with dignity; "I really want to hear your -views on my reading. Where was I--er--er---- - - "'Near a clear lake margin'd by fruits of gold - And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies - As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows.... - As I would have thy fate.' - -"You see I make a pause after 'shadows'--I'm natural. I gaze -hesitatingly at the floats, and the borders, and a kid in the pit. Then -I meet the eyes of the fair Pauline, and conclude with 'As I would have -thy fate,' smiling dreamily at the excellence of the comparison. That's -a new point, I take it?" - -He was seriously enamoured of his "new point," and was still -expatiating on it when they heard Carew unlocking the street-door. - -It was a man much of the woman's own age who came in. His face was -clean-shaven, and his hair was worn a trifle longer than the hair of -most men. Now that he was seen in a good light, it was plain that he -was disturbed; but he shook Dolliver by the hand as if relieved to find -him there. - -"What, not had supper? You must be starving, Mary?" - -"I _am_ pretty hungry," she admitted; "aren't you?" - -"Well, I've had something--still, I'll come to the table." She had -looked disappointed, and he drew his chair up. "Dolliver?" - -"Nothing for me, thanks. Oh! a glass of beer--I don't object to that." - -Despite her assertion, Mary made no great progress with her supper, -and Carew's evident disquietude even damped the garrulity of the boy. -It was not until the Bowmans arrived and a game of napoleon had been -begun, that the faint restraint caused by his manner wore away. - -Mr. Bowman, mindful of his wife's injunction, had provided himself with -several shillings'-worth of coppers, and, profiting by his forethought, -each of the party started with a rouleau of pence. These occasional -card parties after the performance had become an institution in "The -Foibles of Fashion" company, and it was seldom that anyone found them -expensive. Mary's capital, coppers included, was half a sovereign, and -to have won or lost such a sum as that at a sitting would have been -the subject of allusion for a month. To-night, however, the luck was -curiously unequal, and, to the surprise of all, Dolliver found himself -losing seven shillings before he had been playing half an hour. Much -sympathy was expressed for Dolliver. - -"Never mind, dear boy; it's always a mistake to win early in the -evening," said Carew. "There's plenty of time. I pass!" - -"Pass," said the "Duchess." - -Mary called three, and made them. - -"How do you stand, Mrs. Carew?" asked Bowman. - -"I'm just about the same as when we began. Tony, Mr. Bowman has nothing -to drink.--Oh, what a shame, Dolliver!--thanks! Fill up your own, won't -you?--He's a perfect martyr, this boy," she went on; "he cleared the -table before you two people came in--didn't you?" - -"Four!" cried Dolliver. "Yes; I cleared it beautifully. Utility is my -line of business." - -"Since when? I thought just now----" - -"Oh, confidences, Mrs. Carew!" He turned scarlet. "Don't give me -away!... Now, Mrs. Bowman, which is it to be?" - -She played trumps, and led with a king. - -A breathless moment, crowned by an unsuspected "little one" from -Dolliver. His "four" were safe, and he leant back radiant. - -The "Duchess" prepared to deal. - -"Who's got an address for the next town?" she inquired. - -"Haven't you written yet?" - -"No, we haven't got a place to write to; hateful, isn't it? If there's -a thing I loathe, it's having to look for rooms after we get in. We've ---pass!--always stayed in the same house, and--everybody to put in the -kitty again!--and now the woman's left, or something. My! isn't the -kitty getting big--look at all those sixpences underneath. Somebody -count it!" - -"Now then, Carew, don't go to sleep!" - -Carew, thus adjured, gathered up the cards. Fitfully he was almost -himself again, and only Mary was really sure that anything was amiss. - -"There's a little hotel I've stopped at there," he said. "Not at all -bad--they find you everything for twenty-five bob the week; for two -people there'd be a reduction, too. Remind me, and I'll give you the -name; I have it in my book. Bowman, you to call!" - -Bowman called nothing; everybody passed again, and the kitty was -augmented once more. - -"What time do we travel Sunday--anybody know?" - -"You can be precious sure," said Bowman, "that it will be at some -unearthly hour. I've had a good many years' experience in the -profession, but I never in my life was in a company where they did -so many night journeys as they do in this one. I believe that little -outsider arranges it on purpose!" - -"A daisy of an acting-manager, isn't he? I once knew another fellow -much the--two, I call two--and then, at the end of the tour, hanged if -they didn't rush us for a presentation to him!" - -"So they will for this chap. Presentations in the profession, upon my -soul, are the----" - -"Three," said the "Duchess." - -"And when the time comes, not a member of the crowd will have the pluck -to refuse. You see!" - -"Did you ever know an actor who had, when he was asked?" - -Dolliver flushed excitedly. - -"Nap!" he exclaimed. - -"Oh, oh, oh! Dolliver goes nap!" - -"No; d'ye mean it? Very well, fire ahead, then; play up!" - -There was two minutes' silence, and the youngster smacked down his last -card, preparing a smile for defeat. - -"He's made it! Mrs. Bowman, you threw it away; if you'd played hearts, -instead----" - -"No, no, she couldn't help it. She had to follow suit." - -"Of course!"--the "Duchess" caught feebly at the explanation--"I had -to follow suit. What a haul! good gracious!" - -"That puts you right again, eh, dear boy?" - -"'I am once more the great house of Lyons!'" remarked Dolliver, piling -up the pennies. "Six, seven, eight! Look at the silver, great Scott! -Mrs. Carew, there's the ninepence I owe you." - -"'I have paid this woman, and I owe her nothing,'" quoted Carew. -"Dolliver, you've ruined me, you beggar! Where's the 'bacca?" - -At something to three there was a murmur about its being late, but the -loser now was Mrs. Bowman, and as her shillings had drifted into the -possession of Mary, the hostess said it really was not late at all.' -This disposed of the breaking-up question for half an hour. Then Bowman -began to talk of concluding the game after a couple of rounds. When -two such arrangements had been made and set at naught, the "Duchess" -proposed that they should finish at the next "nap." To "finish at the -next nap" was a euphemism for continuing for a good: long while, and -the resolution was carried unanimously. - -The clock had struck four when the nap was made, and the winner was -Mary. She had won more than six shillings, and the "Duchess," who was -the poorer by the amount, smiled with sleepy resignation. - -"You had the luck after all, Mrs. Carew," laughed Dolliver. -"Good-night." - -"Yes," she said carelessly; "I've made something between me and the -workhouse, anyhow! Good-night." - -She loitered about the room, putting little aimless touches to things, -while Carew saw the trio to the door. She heard him shut it behind -them, and heard their steps growing fainter on the pavement. He was -slow returning, queerly slow. Dolliver's voice reached her, taking -leave of the Bowmans at the corner, and still he had not come in. - -"Tony!" she called. - -He rejoined her almost as she spoke. - -"Don't go to bed, Mary," he said huskily; "I've something to say to -you." - -"What is it?" she asked. - -He hesitated for an instant, seeking an introductory phrase. The -agitation that he had been fighting all the night had conquered him. - -"My release has come at last," he answered. "My wife is dead." - -"Dead?" - -She stood gazing at him with dilated eyes, the colour ebbing from her -cheeks. - -"She was ill some time. Drink it was, I hear; I daresay! Anyhow, she's -gone; the mistake is finished. I've paid for it dearly enough, Lord -knows!" - -He had paused midway between her and the hearth, and he moved to the -hearth. She was sensible of a vague pang as he did so. A tense silence -followed his words. In thoughts that she had been unable to escape, -the woman who had paid for his mistake more dearly still had sometimes -imagined such a moment as this--had sometimes foreseen him crying to -her that he was free. Perhaps, now that the moment was here, it was a -little wanting--a little barer than the announcement of freedom that -she had pictured. - -"You're bound to feel the shock of it," she said, almost inaudibly. -"It's always a shock, the news of death." But she felt that the burden -of speech should be his. "Were you--used you to be very fond of her? -Does it come back?" - -"I was twenty. 'Fond'? I don't know. I wasn't with her three months -when----She had walked Liverpool; I never saw her from the day I found -it out. She didn't want me; the money was enough for her--to be sure of -it every week!" - -His attitude remained unchanged, his hands thrust deep into his -trouser-pockets. Opposite each other, both reviewed the past. She -waited for him to come to her--to touch her. Yes, the reality was barer -than the picture that she had seen. - -"When was it?" she murmured. - -"It was some weeks ago." - -"So long?" - -He left the hearth moodily, and began to pace the room from end to end. -The woman did not stir. The memory was with her of the morning that -he had avowed this marriage--of the agony that had wept to her for -pity--of the clasp that would not let her go. She looked abstractedly -at the fire; but in her heart she saw his every step, and counted the -turns that kept him from her side. - -"It makes a great difference!" he said abruptly. - -The consciousness of the difference was flooding her reason, yet she -did not speak. It should not be by her that the sanctification of her -sacrifice was broached. The wish, the reminder, the reparation, all -should be his! She nodded assent. - -"A great difference," he repeated hoarsely. He smeared the dampness -from his mouth and chin. "If--if my reputation were made now, Mary, I -should ask you to be my wife." - -And then she did not speak. There was an instant in which the wall swam -before her in a haze, and the floor lurched. In the next, she was still -fronting the fireplace; she was staring at it with the same intentness -of regard; and his voice was sounding again, though she heard it dully: - -"--while a poor due can't choose! I would--I'd ask you to marry me. -I know what you've been to me--I don't forget--I know very well! But, -as it is, it'd be madness--it'd be putting a rope round my own neck. -I want you to hear how I'm situated. I want you to listen to the -circumstances----" - -"You won't ... make amends?" - -"I tell you I'm not my own master." - -"You tell me that--that we're to part! We can't remain together any -longer unless I'm your wife." - -"We can't remain together any longer at all; that's what I'm coming -to." He went back to the mantelpiece, and leant his elbows on it, -kicking the half-hot coals. "I'm going to marry Miss Westland!" - -He had said it; the echo of the utterance sung in his ears. Behind -him her figure was motionless--its its--stillness frightened him. -Intensified by the riotous ticking of the clock, through which his -pulses were strained for the relief of a rustle, a breath, the pause -grew unendurable. - -"For God's sake, why don't you say something?" he exclaimed. He faced -her impetuously, and they looked at each other across the table. "Mary, -it's my chance in life! She cares for me, don't you see? You think me a -scoundrel--don't you see what a chance it is? What can I come to as I -am? With her--she'll get on, she has money--I shall rise, I shall be a -manager, I shall get to London in time. Mary!" - -"You're going to ... marry Miss Westland?" - -"I must," he said. - -For the veriest second it was as if she struggled to understand. Then -she threw out her hands dizzily, crying out. - -"That is what your love was, then--a lie, a shameful lie?" - -"It wasn't; no, Mary, it was real! I cared for you--I did; the thing is -forced on me!" - -"'Cared'? when you use your liberty like this? You 'cared'? And I -pitied you--you wrung the soul of me with your despair--I forgave you -keeping back the tale so long. I came to you to be your wife, and you -went down on your knees and vowed you hadn't had the courage to tell -me before, but your wife was living--some awful woman you couldn't -divorce. I gave myself to you, I became the thing you can turn out of -doors, all because I loved you, all because I believed in your love -for me." She caught at her throat. "You deserved it, didn't you?--you -justify it now so nobly, the faith that has made me a ----" - -"Mary!" - -"Oh, I can say it!" she burst forth hysterically. "I _am_, you know; -you have made me one--you and your 'love'! Why shouldn't I say it?" - -"I told you the truth; if I had been free at that time----" - -"When did you hear the news of the death? Answer me--it wasn't -to-night?" - -"What's the difference," he muttered, "when I heard?" - -"Oh!" she moaned, "go away from me, don't come near me! You coward!" - -She sank on to the edge of the sofa, rocking herself to and fro. The -man roamed aimlessly around. Once or twice he glanced across at her, -but she paid no heed. His pipe was on the sideboard; he filled it -clumsily, and drew at it in nervous pulls. - -He was the first to speak again. - -"I know I seem a hound, I know it all looks very bad; but I don't -suppose there's a man in five hundred who would refuse such an -opportunity, for all that. No, nor one in five thousand, either! You -won't see it in an unprejudiced light, of course; but it seems to -me--yes, it does, and I can't help saying so--that if you were really -as fond of me as you think, if my interests were really dear to you, -you yourself 'd counsel me to leap at the chance, and, what's more, -feel honestly glad that a prospect of success had come in my way.... -You know what it means to me," he went on querulously; "you have been -in the profession--at least, as good as in the profession--three years; -you know that, in the ordinary course of events, I should never get any -higher than I am, never play in London in my life. You know I've gone -as far as I can ever expect to go without influence to back me, that -in ten years' time I should be exactly what I am now, a leading-man -for second-rate tours; and that ten years later I should be playing -heavy fathers, or Lord knows what, still on the road, and done for--the -fire all spent, wasted and worn out in the provinces. That's what it -would be; you've heard me say it again and again; and I should go on -seeing Miss Somebody's son, and Mr. Somebody-else's-daughter, with -their parents' names to get them the engagements, playing prominent -business in London theatres before they've learnt how to walk across -a stage. Miss Westland's a fine-looking girl, and she knows a lot of -Society people in town; and she has money enough to take a theatre -there when she's lost her amateurishness a bit. Right off I shall be -somebody, too--I shall manage her affairs. I'll have a big ad. in _The -Era_ every week: 'For vacant dates apply to Mr. Seaton Carew!' Oh, -Mary, it's such a chance, such a lift! I _am_ fond of you, you know I -am; I care more for your little finger than for that woman's body and -soul. Don't think me callous; it's damnable I've got to behave so--it -takes all the light, all the luck, out of the thing that the way to it -is so hard. I wish you could know what I'm feeling." - -"I think I do know," she said bitterly--"better than you, perhaps. -You're remembering how easily you could have taken the luck if your -prayers to me had failed. And you're angered at me in your heart -because the shame you feel spoils so much of the pleasure now." - -He was humiliated to recognise that this was true. Her words described -a mean nature, and his resentment deepened. - -"When did you tell Miss Westland?" she faltered. - -"Tell her?" - -"What I am. That I'm not----When was it?" - -"This evening. It won't make any awkwardness for you; I mean, she won't -speak of it to any of the others. Nobody will know for----" - -"The whole company may know to-morrow!" she answered, drying her eyes. -"Seeing that I shall be gone, they may as well know to-morrow as later. -Oh, how they will talk, all of them, how they'll talk about me--the -Bowmans, and that boy, too!" - -"You'll be gone to-morrow--what do you say?" - -"Do you suppose----" - -"Mary, there are--I must make some--good heavens! how will you -go?--where? Mary, listen: by-and-by, when something is settled, in--in -a month or more--I want to arrange to send--I couldn't let you want for -money, don't you see!" - -"I would not take a penny from you," she said, "not the value of a -penny, if I were dying. I wouldn't, as Christ hears me! Our life -together is over--I am going away." - -He looked at her aghast. - -"Now," he ejaculated, "at once? In the middle of the night?" - -"Now at once--in the middle of the night." - -"Be reasonable"--he caught her fingers, and held them in miserable -expostulation--"wait till day, at any rate. You're beside yourself, -there's nothing to be gained by it. In the morning, if you _must_----" - -"Oh!" she choked, "did you think I would stop here an hour after this? -Did you--did you think so? You man! Yes, I should be no worse to you -I but to me, the lowness of it! All in a moment the lowness of it! -I've tried to feel that we were married; I always believed it was your -trouble that I had to be what I was. If you had ever heard--as soon -as it was possible, I thought every minute 'd have been a burden to -you till you had made it all real and right. To stop with you now, the -thing I am--despised--on sufferance----" - -She dragged her hand from him and stumbled into the bedroom. There it -was quite dark, and, shaking, she groped about for matches and the -candle. A small bag, painted with the initials of "Mary Brettan," -her own name, was under the toilet-table. She pulled it out, and, -dropping on her knees before the trunk that held her clothes, hastily -pushed in a little of the top-most linen. As she did so, her eyes -fell on the wedding-ring that she wore. Painful at all times, the -sight of it now was horrible. She strangled a sob, and, lifting the -candlestick, peered stupidly around. By the parlour grate she could -hear Tony knocking his pipe out on the bars. Above the washhand-stand -a holland "tidy" contained her brushes; she rolled it up and crammed -the bundle among the linen. In fastening the bag she hesitated, -and looked irresolutely at the trunk. Going over to it, she paused -again--left it; returned to it. She plunged her arm suddenly into its -depths, and thrust the debated thing into her bag as if it burnt her. -Across the photographer's address was written, "Yours ever, Tony." Her -preparations for leaving him had not occupied ten minutes. Then she -went back. - -Her coat and hat lay by the piano where she had cast them when she came -in from the theatre. The man watched her put them on. - -"Here's your ring!" she said. - -The tears were running down her cheeks; she dabbed at them with a -handkerchief as she spoke. The baseness of it all was eating into him. -Though the ardour of his earlier passion was gone and his protestations -of affection had been insults, her loss and her aversion served -to display the growth of a certain attachment to her of which her -possession and her constancy had left him unaware. Twice a plea to -her to remain rose to his lips, and twice his tongue was heavy from -self-interest, and from shame. He followed her instinctively into the -passage; his limbs quaked, and his soul was cowed. She had already -opened the door and set her foot on the step. - -"Mary!" he gasped. - -It was just beginning to get light. Under the faint paling of the sky -the pavements gleamed cold and grey, forlornly visible in the darkness. - -"Mary, don't go!" - -A rush of chill air swept out of the silence, raising the hair from -her brow. The coat fell about her loosely in thick folds. He put -out nervous hands to touch her, and nothing but these folds seemed -assailable; they enveloped and denied her to him. - -"Don't go," he stammered; "stay--forget what I've done!" - -She saw the impulse at its worth, but she was grateful for its -happening. She knew that he would regret it if she listened, knew that -he knew he would regret it. And yet, knowing and disdaining as she did, -the gladfulness and thankfulness were there that he had spoken. - -"I couldn't," she said--her voice was gentler; "there can never be -anything between you and me any more. Good-bye, Tony." - -She walked from him firmly. The receding figure was -distinct--uncertain--merged in gloom. He stood gazing after it till it -was gone---- - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -The town lay around her desolate. Her footsteps smote the -wretchedly-laid street, and echoed on the loneliness. A cold wind blew -in fitful gusts, nipping her cheeks and hands. On the vagueness of -the market-place the gilded statue, with its sheen obscured, loomed -shapeless as she passed. She heard the lumber and creak of a wagon -straining out of sight; the quaver of a cock-crow, then one shriller -and more prolonged; two or three thin screams in quick succession from -a distant train. She knew, rather than decided, that she would go to -London, though there would not be a familiar face to greet her in all -its leagues of houses, not a door among its countless doors to reveal -a friend. She would go there because she was adrift in England and -"England" meant a blur of names equally unpitying, and London, somehow, -seemed the natural place to book to. - -Few persons' ruin leaves them alone at once; the crash generally sees -some friends who prove loyal beneath the shock of the catastrophe and -drop away only afterwards under the wearisomeness of the worries. It is -the situation of few to emerge from the wreck of a home without any -personality dominating their consciousness as the counsellor to whom -they must turn for aid. But it was the situation of Mary Brettan to be -without a soul to turn to in the world; and briefly it had happened -thus. - -Her father had been a country doctor with a large practice among -patients who could not afford to pay. From the standpoint of humanity -his conduct was admirable; regarded from the domestic hearthstone -perhaps it was a little less. The practitioner who neglected the wife -of the Mayor in order to attend a villager, because the villager's -condition was more critical, offered small promise of leaving his child -provided for, and before Mary was sixteen the problems of the rent -and butcher's book were as familiar to her as the surgery itself. The -exemplary doctor and unpractical parent struggled along more or less -placidly by means of the girl's surveillance. Had he survived her, it -is difficult to determine what would have become of him; but, dying -first, he had her protection to the end. She found herself after the -funeral with a crop of bills, some shabby furniture, and the necessity -for earning a living. The furniture and the bills were easy to dispose -of; they represented a sum in division with nothing over. The problem -was, what was she fitted to do? She knew none of those things which -used to be called "accomplishments," and which are to-day the elements -of education. Her French was the French of "Le Petit Précepteur"; in -German she was still bewildered by the article. And, a graver drawback, -since the selling-price of education is an outrage on its cost--she -had not been brought up to any trade. She belonged, in fact, and -circumstances had caused her to discover it, to the ranks of refined -incompetence: the incompetence that will not live by menial labour, -because it is refined; the refinement that cannot support itself by -any brain work, because it is incompetent. It was suggested that she -might possibly enter the hospital of a neighbouring town and try to -qualify for a nurse. She said, "Very well." By-and-by she was told that -she could be admitted to the hospital, and that if she proved herself -capable, that would be the end of her troubles. She said "Very well" -again--and this time, "thank you." - -She had a good constitution, and she saw that if she failed here she -might starve at her leisure before any further efforts were put forth -on her behalf; so she gave satisfaction in her probation, and became at -last a nurse like the others, composed and reliable. When that stage -arrived, she owned to having fainted and suppressed the fact, after an -early experience of the operating-room; her reputation was established, -and it didn't matter now. The surgeon smiled. - -Miss Brettan had been Nurse Brettan several years, when an actor who -had met with an accident was brought into the hospital. The mishap had -cost him his engagement, and he bewailed his fate to everyone who would -listen. The person who heard most was she, since it was she who had -the most to do for him, and she began by feeling sympathetic. He was a -paying patient, or he would have had to limp away much sooner; as it -was, it was many weeks before he was pronounced well enough to leave. -And during those weeks she remembered what in the years of routine she -had forgotten--that she was a woman capable of love. - -One evening she learnt that the man really cared for her; he asked her -to marry him. She stooped, and across the supper-tray, they kissed. -Then she went upstairs, and cried with joy, and there was no happier -woman in or out of any hospital in Christendom. - -He talked to her about himself more than ever after this, suppressing -only the one fact that he lacked the courage to avow. And when at last -he went away their engagement was made public, and it was settled that -she should join him in London as soon as he was able to write for her -to come. - -There were many expressions of good-will heaped upon Nurse Brettan on -the summer morning that she bade the Yaughton Hospital good-bye; a -joint wedding-gift from the other nurses was presented, and everybody -shook her hand and wished her a life of happiness, for she was popular. -Carew met her at Euston. He had written that he had dropped into a good -part, anti that they would shortly be starting together on the tour, -but that in the meanwhile they were to be married in town. It was the -first time she had been to London. He took her to lodgings in Guilford -Street, and here occurred their great scene. - -He confessed that when he was a boy he had made a wild marriage; he had -not set eyes on the woman since he discovered her past, but the law -would not annul his blunder. He was bound to a harlot, and he loved -Mary. Would she forgive his deception and be his wife in everything -except the ceremony that could not be performed? - -It was a very terrible scene indeed. For a long while he believed her -lost to him; she could be brought to give ear to his entreaties only by -force, and he upbraided himself for not having disclosed his position -in the first instance. He had excused his cowardice by calling it -"expedience," but, to do him justice, he did not do justice to himself. -The delay had been due far less to his sense of its expedience than to -the tremors of his cowardice. Now he suffered scarcely less than she. - -Had his plea been based on any but the insuperable obstacle that it -was, it would have failed to a certainty; but his helplessness gave -the sophistry of both full play. He harped on the "grandeur of the -sacrifice" she would be making for him, and the phrase pierced her -misery. He cried to her that it would be a heroism, and she wondered -dully if it really would. She queried if there was indeed a higher duty -than denial--if her virtue could be merely selfishness in disguise. -His insistence on the nobility of consent went very far with her; it -did seem a beautiful thing to let sunshine into her lover's life at -the cost of her own transgression. And then, in the background, burnt -a hot shame at the thought of being questioned and commiserated when -she returned to the hospital with a petition to be reinstalled. The -arguments of both were very stale, and equally they blinked the fact -that the practical use of matrimony is to protect woman against the -innate fickleness of man. He demanded why, from a rational point of -view, the comradeship of two persons should be any more sacred because -a third person in a surplice said it was; and she, with his arms round -her, began to persuade herself that he was a martyr, who had broken his -leg that she might cross his path and give him consolation. Ultimately -he triumphed; and a fortnight later she burst into a tempest of -sobs--in suddenly realising how happy she was. - -He introduced her to everybody as his wife; their "honeymoon" was -spent in the, to her, unfamiliar atmosphere of a theatrical tour. -One of the first places that the company visited was West Hartlepool, -and he and she had lodgings outside the town in a little sea-swept -village--a stretch of sand, and a lane or two, with a sprinkling of -cottages--called Seaton Carew, from which, he told her, he had borrowed -his professional name. She said, "Dear Seaton Carew!" and felt in a -silly minute that she longed to strain the sunny prospect against her -heart. - -In the rawness of dawn a clock struck five, and she stood forsaken in -the streets. - -The myriad clocks of Leicester took up the burden, and the air was -beaten with their din. The way to the station appeared endless; yards -were preternaturally lengthened; and ever pressing on, yet ever with -a lonely vista to be covered, the walk began to be charged with the -oppression of a nightmare, in which she pursued some illimitable road, -seeking a destination that had vanished. - -At last the building loomed before her, ponderously still, and she -passed in over the cob-stones. There were no indications of life -about the place; the booking-office was fast shut, and between the -dimly-burning lamps, the empty track of rails lay blue. For all she -knew to the contrary, she would have to wait some hours. - -By-and-by, however, a sleepy-eyed porter lounged into sight, and she -learnt that there would be a train in a few minutes. Shortly after -his advent she was able to procure a ticket--a third-class ticket, -which diminished the little sum in her possession by eight shillings -and a halfpenny; and returning to the custody of her bag, she waited -miserably till the line of carriages thundered into view. - -It was a wretched journey--a ghastly horror of a journey--but it did -not seem particularly long; with nothing to look forward to, she had no -cause to be impatient. Intermittently she dozed, waking with a start as -the train jerked to a standstill and the name of a station was bawled. -When St. Pancras was reached, her limbs were cramped as she descended -among the groups of dreary-faced passengers, and the load on her mind -lay like a physical weight. She had not washed since the previous -evening, and she made her way to the waiting-room, where a dejected -attendant charged her twopence. Then, having paid twopence more to -leave the bag behind her, she went out to search for a room. - -A coffee-bar, with a quantity of stale pastry heaped in the window, -reminded her that she needed breakfast. A man with blue shirt-sleeves -rolled over red arms brought her tea and bread-and-butter at a sloppy -table. The repast, if not enjoyable, served to refresh her and was -worth the fourpence that she could very ill afford. Some of the -faintness passed; when she stood in the fresh air again her head was -clearer; the vagueness with which she had thought and spoken was gone. - -It was not quite five minutes to eight; she wished she had rested -in the waiting-room. To be seeking a lodging at five minutes to -eight would look strange. Still, she could not reconcile herself to -going back; and she was eager, besides, to find a home as quickly as -possible, yearning to be alone with a door shut and a pillow. - -She turned down Judd Street, forlornly scanning the intersecting -squalor. The tenements around her were not attractive. On the -parlour-floor, limp chintz curtains hid the interiors, but the steps -and the areas, and here and there a frouzy head and arm protruding -for a milkcan, were strong in suggestion of slatternly discomfort. In -Brunswick Square the aspect was more cheerful, but the rooms here were -obviously above her means. She walked along, and came unexpectedly -into Guilford Street, almost opposite the house where she had given -herself to Tony. The sudden sight of it was not the shock that she -would have imagined it would prove; indeed, she was sensible of a dull -sort of wonder at the absence of sensation. But for the veranda and -confirmatory number, the outside would have borne no significance to -her; yet it had been in that house----What a landmark in her life's -history was represented by that house!' What emotions had flooded her -soul behind the stolid frontage that she had nearly passed without -recognising it; how she had wept and suffered, and prayed and joyed -within the walls that would have borne no significance to her but for -a veranda and the number that proclaimed it was so! The thoughts were -deliberate; the past was not flashed back at her, she retraced it half -tenderly in the midst of her trouble. None the less, the idea of taking -up her quarters on the spot was eminently repugnant, and she turned -several corners before she permitted herself to ring a bell. - -Her summons was answered by a flurried servant-girl, who on hearing -that she wanted a lodging, became helplessly incoherent--as is the -manner of servant-girls where lodgings are let--and fled to the -basement, calling "missis." - -Mary contemplated the hat-stand until the "missis" advanced towards -her along the passage. There was a flavour of abandoned breakfast -about missis, an air of interruption; and when she perceived that the -stranger on the threshold was a young woman, and a charming woman, -and a woman by herself, the air of interruption that she had been -struggling to conceal all the way up the kitchen-stairs began to be -coupled with an expression of defensive virtue. - -"I am looking for a room," said Mary. - -"Yes," said the householder, eyeing her askance. - -"You have one to let, I think, by the card?" - -"Yes, there's a room." - -She made no movement to show it, however; she stood on the mat nursing -her elbows. - -"Can you let me see it--if it isn't inconvenient so early?" - -"Oh, I suppose so," said the landlady. She preceded her to the -top-floor, but with no alacrity. "This is it," she said. - -It was a back attic of the regulation pattern: brown drugget, yellow -chairs, and a bed of parti-coloured clothing. Nevertheless, it seemed -to be clean, and Mary was prepared to take anything. - -"What is the rent?" she asked wearily. - -"Did you say your husband would be joining you?" - -"My husband? No, I'm a widow." - -There was a glance shot at her hand. She wore gloves, but saw that it -would have been wiser to have told the truth and said "I am unmarried." - -"As a single room, the rent is seven shillings. You'd be able to give -me references, of course?" - -"I'm afraid I couldn't do that," she said, not a little surprised. -"I've only just arrived; my luggage is at the station." - -"What do you work at?" - -"Really!" she exclaimed; "I am looking for a room. You want references; -well, I will pay you in advance!" - -"I don't take single ladies," answered the woman bluntly. - -Mary looked at her bewildered; she thought that she had not made -herself understood. - -"I should be quite willing to pay in advance," she repeated. "I'm a -stranger in London, so I can't refer you to anyone here; but I will pay -for the first week now, if you like?" - -"I don't take ladies; I must ask you to look somewhere else, please." - -They went down in silence. Virtue turned the handle with its backbone -stiff, and Mary passed out, giving a quiet "Good-day." Her blood -was tingling under the inexplicable insolence of the treatment she -had received, and she had yet to learn that it is possible for an -unaccompanied woman to seek a lodging until she falls exhausted on -the pavement; the unaccompanied woman being to the London landlady an -improper person--inadmissible not because she is improper, but because -her impropriety is presumably not monopolised. - -During the next hour, repulse followed repulse. Sometimes, with the -curt assertion that they didn't take ladies, the door was shut in her -face; frequently she was conducted to a room, only to be cross-examined -and refused, as with her first venture, just when she was at the point -of engaging it. Sometimes a room was displayed indifferently, and there -were no questions put at all, but in these cases the terms asked were -so exorbitant that she came out astounded, not realising the nature of -the house. - -It occurred to her to try the places where she would be known--not -the one in Guilford Street, the associations of that would be -unendurable--but some of the apartments that Carew and she had occupied -when they had come to town between the tours. None of these addresses -was in the neighbourhood, however, and the notion was too distasteful -to be adopted save on impulse. - -She set her teeth, and pulled bell after bell. Along Southampton Row, -through Cosmo Place into Queen Square, she wandered, while the day -grew brighter and brighter; down Devonshire Street into Theobald's -Road, past the Holborn Town Hall. Amid these reiterated demands for -references a sudden terror seized her; she remembered the need for the -certificate that she had had when she quitted the hospital. She had -never thought about it since. It might be lying crushed in a corner -of the trunk that she had left behind in Leicester; it might long ago -have got destroyed--she did not know. It had never occurred to her -that the resumption of her former calling would one day present itself -as her natural resource. In ordinary circumstances the loss would have -been a trifle; but she felt it an impossibility to refer directly to -the Matron, because to do so would lead to the exposure of what had -happened in the interval. The absence of a certificate therefore meant -the absence of all testimony to her being a qualified nurse. As the -helplessness of her plight rushed in upon her she trembled. How long -must she not expect to wait for employment when she had nothing to -speak for her? To go back to nursing would be more difficult than to -earn a living in a capacity that she had never essayed. And she could -wait so short a time for anything, so horribly short a time! She would -starve if she did not find something soon! - -Busses jogged by her laden with sober-faced men and women, bound for -the vocations that sustained the white elephant of life. Shops already -gave evidence of trade, and children with uncovered heads sped along -the curb with a "ha'porth o' milk," or mysterious breakfasts folded -in scraps of newspaper. Each atom of the awakening bustle passed her -engrossed by its own existence, operated by its separate interests, -revolving in its individual world. London looked to her a city without -mercy or impulse, populated to brimfulness, and flowing over. Every -chink and crevice seemed stocked with its appointed denizens, and the -hope of finding bread here which nobody's hand was clutching appeared -presumption. - -Eleven o'clock had struck--that is to say, she had been walking for -more than three hours--when she saw a card with "Furnished Room to -Let" suspended from a blind, and her efforts to gain shelter succeeded -at last. It was an unpretentious little house, in an unpretentious -turning; and a sign on the door intimated that it was the residence of -"J. Shuttleworth, mason." - -A hard-featured woman was evoked by the dispirited knock. Seeing a -would-be lodger who was dressed like a lady, she added eighteenpence to -the rent that she usually asked. She asked five shillings a week, and -the applicant agreed to it and was grateful. - -"About your meals, miss?" said Mrs. Shuttleworth, when Mary had sunk on -the upright wooden chair at the head of the truckle-bed-stead. "Dinners -I can't do for yer, but as far as breakfas', and a cup o' tea in the -evening goes, you can 'ave a bit of something brought up when we 'as -our own. I suppose that'll suit you, won't it?" - -"A cup of tea and some bread-and-butter," answered Mary, "in the -morning and afternoon, if you can manage it, will do very nicely, thank -you." She roused herself to the exigencies of the occasion. "How much -will that be?" - -"Oh, well, we shan't break yer! You'll pay the first week now?" - -The rent was forthcoming, and one more superfluity in the jostle of -existence profited by the misfortunes of another: going back to the -wash-tub cheerful. - -Upstairs the lodger remained motionless; she was so tired that it was -a luxury to sit still, and for awhile she was more alive to the bodily -relief than the mental burden. It was afternoon by the time she faced -the necessity for returning to St. Pancras for her bag; and, pushing up -the rickety window to admit some air during her absence, she proceeded -to the basement, to ascertain the nearest route. - -She learnt that she was much nearer to the station than she had -supposed, and in a little while she had her property in her possession -again. Her head felt oddly light, and she was puzzled by the dizziness -until she remembered she had had nothing to eat since eight o'clock. -The thought of food was sickening, though; and it was not till five -o'clock, when the tea was furnished, with a hunch of bread, and a slap -of butter in the middle of a plate, that she attempted to break her -fast. - -And now ensued a length of dreary hours, an awful purposeless evening, -of which every minute was weighted with despair. Fortunately the -weather was not very cold, so the absence of a fire was less a hardship -than a lack of company; but the fatigue, which had been acting as a -partial opiate to her trouble, gradually passed, and her brain ached -with the torture of reflection. With nothing to do but think, she sat -in the upright chair, staring at the empty grate and picturing Tony -during the familiar waits at the theatre. An evil-smelling lamp burned -despondently on the table; outside, the street was discordant with the -cries of children. To realise that it was only this morning that the -blow had fallen upon her was impossible; an interval of several days -appeared to roll between the poky attic and her farewell; the calamity -seemed already old. "Oh, Tony!" she murmured. She got out his likeness. -"Yours ever"--the mockery of it! She did not hate him, she did not -even tell herself that she did; she contemplated the faded photograph -quite gently, and held it before her a long time. It had been taken -in Manchester, and she recalled the afternoon that it was done. All -sorts of trivialities in connection with it recurred to her. He was -wearing a lawn tie, and she remembered that it had been the last clean -one and had got mislaid. Their search for it, and comic desperation at -its loss, all came back to her quite clearly. "Oh, Tony!" Her fancies -projected themselves into his future, and she saw him in a score of -different scenes, but always famous, and in his greatness with the -memory of her flitting across his mind. Then she wondered what she -would have done if she had borne him a child--whether the child would -have been in the garret with her. But no, if he had been a father this -wouldn't have happened! he was always fond of children; to have given -him a child of his own would have kept, his love for her aglow. - -Presently a diversion was effected by the home-coming of Mr. Shuttle -worthy evidently drunk, and abusing his wife with disjointed violence. -Next the woman's voice arose shrieking recrimination, the babel -subsiding amid staccato passages, alternately gruff and shrill. - -The disturbance tended to obtrude the practical side of her dilemma, -and the importance of obtaining work of some sort speedily, no matter -what sort, appalled her. The day was Wednesday, and on the Wednesday -following, unless she was to go forth homeless, there would be the -lodging to pay for again, and the breakfasts and teas supplied in the -meanwhile. She would have to spend money outside as well; she had to -dine, however poorly, and there were postage-stamps, and perhaps train -fares, to be considered: some of the advertisers to whom she applied -might live beyond walking distance. Altogether, she certainly required -a pound. And she had towards it--with a sinking of her heart she -emptied her purse to be sure--exactly two and ninepence. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -Next morning her efforts were begun. It rained, and she began to -understand what it means to the unemployed to tramp a city where two -days of every four are wet. - -To buy papers, and examine them at home was out of the question; but -she was aware that there were news-rooms where for a penny she could -see them all. Directed to such an institution by a speckled boy, -conspicuous for his hat and ears, she found several dejected-looking -women turning over a heap of periodicals at a table. The "dailies" were -spread on stands against the walls, and at a smaller table under the -window lay a number of slips, with pens and ink, for the convenience of -customers wishing to make memoranda of the vacant situations. She went -first to The Times, because it was on the stand nearest to her, and -proceeded from one paper to another until she had made a tour of the -lot. - -The "Wanted" columns were of the customary order; the needy -endeavouring to gull the necessitous with speqious phrases, and the -well-established prepared to sweat them without any disguise at all. A -drapery house had a vacancy for a young woman "to dress fancy windows, -and able to trim hats, etc., when desired"--salary fifteen pounds. -There was a person seeking a general servant willing to pay twenty -pounds a year for the privilege of doing the work. This advertisement -was headed "Home offered to a Lady," and a few seconds were required -to grasp the stupendous impudence of it. A side-street stationer, in -want of a sales-woman, advertised for an "Apprentice at a moderate -premium"; and the usual percentage of City firms dangled the decaying -bait of "An opportunity to learn the trade." Her knowledge of the glut -of experienced actresses enabled her to smile at the bogus theatrical -managers who had "immediate salaried engagements waiting for amateurs -of good appearance"; but some of the "home employment" swindles took -her in, and, discovering nothing better, she jotted these addresses -down. - -From the news-room she went to a dairy, and dined on a glass of milk -and a bun. And after an inevitable outlay on stamps and stationery, she -returned to the lodging a shilling poorer than she had gone out. - -Unacquainted with the wiles of the impostors she was answering, the -thought of her applications sustained her somewhat; it seemed to her -that out of the several openings one at least should be practicable. -She did not fail to make the calculation that most novices make in such -circumstances; she reduced the promised earnings by half, and believed -that she was viewing the prospect in a sober light which, if mistaken -at all, erred on the side of pessimism. - -The envelopes that she had enclosed came back to her late the following -afternoon; and the circulars varied mainly in colour and in the prices -of the materials that they offered for sale. In all particulars -essential to prove them frauds to everybody excepting the piteous fools -who must exist, to explain the advertisements' longevity, they were the -same. - -With the extinction of the hope, the darkness of her outlook was -intensified, and henceforth she eschewed the offers of "liberal -incomes" and confined her attention to the illiberal wages. Day after -day she resorted to the news-room--one stray more whom the proprietor -saw regularly--resolved not to relinquish her access to the papers -while a coin remained to her to pay for admission. She wrote many -letters, and spent her evenings vainly listening for the postman's -knock. She attributed her repeated failures to there being no mention -of references in her replies; they were so concise and nicely written -that she felt sure they could not have failed from any other reason. -Probably her nicely-written notes were never read: merely tossed with -scores of others, all unopened, into the wastepaper basket, after a -selection had been made from the top thirty. This is the fate of most -of the nicely-written notes that go in reply to advertisements in the -newspapers; only, the people who compose them and post them with little -prayers, fortunately do not suspect it. If they suspected it, they -would lose the twenty-four hours' comfort of hugging a false hope to -their souls; and an oasis of hope may be a desirable thing at the cost -of a postage-stamp. - -One evening an answer did come, and an answer in connection with a -really beautiful "Wanted." When it was handed to her, she hardly dared -to hope that it related to that particular situation at all. The -advertisement had run: - -"Secretary required by a Literary Lady. Must be sociable, and have no -objection to travel on the Continent. Apply in own handwriting to C.B., -care of Messrs. Furnival," etc. - -The signature, however, was not "C.B.'s." The communication was from -Messrs. Furnival. They wrote that they judged by Miss Brettan's -application that she would suit their client; and that on receipt of -a half-crown--their usual booking fee--they would forward the lady's -address. - -If she had had a half-crown to send, she might have sent it; as it was, -instead of remitting to Messrs. Furnival's office, she called there. - -It proved to be a very small and very dark back room on the -ground-floor, and Messrs. Furnival were represented by a stout -gentleman of shabby apparel and mellifluous manner. Mary began -by saying that she was the applicant who had received his letter -about "C.B.'s" advertisement; but as this announcement did not seem -sufficiently definite to enable the stout gentleman to converse on the -subject with fluency and freedom, she added that "C.B." was a literary -lady who stood in need of a secretary. - -On this he became very vivacious indeed. He told her that her chance -of securing the post was an excellent one. No, it was not a certainty, -as she appeared to have understood, but he did not think she had much -occasion for misgiving; her speed in shorthand was in excess of the -rate for which their client had stipulated. - -She said: "Why, I especially stated that if she wanted someone who knew -shorthand, I should be no use!" - -He said: "So you did! I meant to say, your type-writing was your -recommendation." - -"Mr. Furnival," she exclaimed, "I wrote, 'I do not know shorthand, and -I am not a typist'! You must be confusing me with someone else. Perhaps -you have answered another application as well?" - -Perhaps he had. - -"You're my first experience of an applicant for a secretaryship who -hasn't learnt shorthand or type-writing," he said in an injured tone. -"Of course, if you don't know either, you'd be no good at all--not a -bit." - -"Then," she said, "why did you ask me to send you half a crown?" - -Before he could spare time to enlighten her as to his reason for this -line of action, they were interrupted by an urchin who deposited an -armful of letters on the table. The gentleman seemed pleased to see -them, and she came away wondering how many of the women who Messrs. -Furnival "judged would suit their client" enclosed postal-orders to pay -the "fee." - -Quite ineffectually she visited some legitimate agencies, and once -she walked to Battersea in time to learn that the berth that was the -object of her journey had just been filled. Even when one walks to -Battersea, and dines for twopence, however, the staying-powers of -two-and-ninepence are very limited; and the dawning of the dreaded date -for the bill found her capital exhausted. - -Among her scanty possessions, the only article that she could suggest -converting into money was a silver watch that she wore attached to a -guard. It had belonged to her as a girl; she had worn it as a nurse; -it had travelled with her on tour during her life with Carew. What a -pawnbroker would lend her on it she did not know, but she supposed -a sovereign. Had she been better off, she would have supposed two -sovereigns, for she was as ignorant of its value as of the method -of pledging it; but being destitute, a pound looked to her a very -substantial amount. She made her way heavily into the street. She felt -that her errand was printed on her face, and when she reached and -paused beneath the sign of the three balls, all the passers-by seemed -to be watching her. - -The window offered a pretext for hesitation. She stood inspecting the -collection behind the glass; perhaps anyone who saw her go in might -imagine it was with the intention of buying something! She was nerving -herself to the necessary pitch when, giving a final glance over her -shoulder, she saw a bystander looking at her steadily. Her courage took -flight, and she sauntered on, deciding to explore for a shop in a more -secluded position. - -Though she was ashamed of her retreat, the respite was a relief to her. -It was not until she came to three more balls that she perceived that -the longer she delayed, the worse she would feel. She went hurriedly -in. There was a row of narrow doors extending down a passage, and, -pulling one open, she found the tiny compartment occupied by a woman -and a bundle. Starting back, she adventured the next partition, which -proved to be vacant; and standing away from the counter, lest her -profile should be detected by her neighbour in distress, she waited -for someone to come to her. - -Nobody taking any notice, she rapped to attract attention. A young man -lounged along, and she put the watch down. - -"How much?" he said. - -"A pound." - -He caught it up and withdrew, conveying the impression that he thought -very little of it. She thought very little of it herself directly it -was in his hand. His hand was a masterpiece of expression, whereas his -voice never wavered from two notes. - -"Ten shillings," he said, reappearing. - -"Ten shillings is very little," she murmured. "Surely it's worth more -than that?" - -"Going to take it?" - -He slid the watch across to her. - -"Thank you," she said; "yes." - -A doubt whether it would be sufficient crept over her the instant she -had agreed, and she wished she had declined the offer. To call him -back, however, was beyond her; and when he returned it was with the -ticket. - -"Name and address?" - -New to the requirements of a pawnbroker, she stammered the true one, -convinced that the woman with the bundle would overhear and remember. -Even then she was dismayed to find the transaction wasn't concluded; -he asked her for a halfpenny, and, with the blood in her face, she -signified that she had no change. At last though, she was free to -depart, with a handful of silver and coppers; and guiltily transferring -the money to her purse when the shop was well behind, she reverted to -routine. - -It was striking five when she mounted to the attic, and she saw that -Mrs. Shuttleworth, with the punctuality peculiar to cheap landladies -when the lodger is out, had already brought up the tray. On the plate -was her bill; she snatched at it anxiously, and was relieved to find it -ran thus: - - s. d. - Bred 1 2 - Butter.... 10 - Milk 3 1/2 - Tea 6 - Oil 2 - Shuger.... 2 1/2 - To room til next Wensday 5 0 - - 8 2 - -So far, then, she had been equal to emergencies, and another week's -shelter was assured. The garret began to assume almost an air of -comfort, refined by her terror of losing it. When she reflected that -the week divided her from actual starvation, she cried that she must -find something to do--she must! Then she realised that she could -find it no more easily because it was a case of "must" than if it -had been simply expedient, and the futility of the feminine "must," -when she was already doing all she could do, served to accentuate her -helplessness. She prayed passionately, without being able to feel much -confidence in the efficacy of prayer, and told herself that she did -not deserve that God should listen to her, because she was guilty, and -sinful, and bad. She did not seek consolation in repeating that it was -always darkest before dawn, nor strive to fortify herself with any -other of the aphorisms belonging to the vocabulary of sorrow for other -people. The position being her own, she looked it straight in the eyes, -and admitted that the chances were in favour of her being very shortly -without a bed to lie on. - -Each night she came a few pence nearer to the end; each night now she -sat staring from the window, imagining the sensations of wandering -homeless. And at last the day broke--a sunless and chilly day--when she -rose and went out possessed of one penny, without any means of adding -to it. This penny might be reserved to diminish the hunger that would -seize her presently, or she might give herself a final chance among the -newspapers. Having breakfasted, she decided on the final chance. - -As she turned the pages her hands trembled, and for a second the -paragraphs swam together. The next instant, standing out clearly from -the sea of print, she saw an advertisement like the smile of a friend: - -"Useful Companion wanted to elderly lady; one with some experience of -invalids preferred. Apply personally, between 3 and 5, 'Trebartha,' N. -Finchley." - -If it had been framed for her, it could hardly have suited her better. -The wish for personal application was itself an advantage, for in -conversation, she felt, the obstacle of having no references could be -surmounted with far less trouble than by letter. A string of frank -allusions to the difficulty, a dozen easy phrases, leapt into her -mind, so that, in fancy, the interview was already in progress, and -terminating with pleasant words in the haven of engagement. - -She searched no further, and it was not till she was leaving that she -remembered the miles that she would have to walk. To start so early, -however, would be useless, so on second thoughts she determined to pass -the morning where she was. - -She was surprised to discover that she was not singular in this -decision, and she wondered if all; the clients that stayed so long had -anywhere else to go. Many of them never turned a leaf, but sat at the -table dreamily eyeing a journal; as if they had forgotten that it was -there. She; watched the people coming in, noting the unanimity with -which they made for the advertisement-sheets first, and speculating as -to the nature of the work they sought. - -There was a woman garbed in black, downcast and precise; she was a -governess, manifestly. Once, when she had been young, and insolent with -the courage of youth, she would have mocked a portrait looking as she -looked now; there was little enough mockery left in her this morning. -She quitted the "dailies" unrewarded, and proceeded to the table, her -thin-lipped mouth set a trifle harder than before. A girl with magenta -feathers in her hat bounced in, tracing her way down the columns -with a heavy fore-finger, and departing nonchalantly with a blotted -list. This was a domestic servant, Mary understood. A shabby man of -sinister expression covered an area of possibilities: a broken-down -tutor perhaps, a professional man gone to the bad. He looked like -Mephistopheles in the prompter's clothes, she thought, contemplating -him with languid curiosity. The reflections flitted across the central -idea while she sat nervously waiting for the hours to pass, and when -she considered it was time at last, she asked the newsagent in which -direction Finchley lay. She omitted to mention that she had to walk -there, but she obtained sufficient information about a tram-route to -guide her up to Hampstead Heath, where of course she could inquire -again. - -The sun gave no promise of shining, and a bleak wind, tossing the -rubbish of the gutters into little whirlpools, made pedestrianism -exceedingly unpleasant. She was dismayed to find on how long a journey -she was bound; she arrived at the tram-terminus already tired, and then -learnt that she was not half-way to Finchley. It was nothing but a name -to her, and steadily trudging along a road that extended itself before -her eternally she began to fear that she would never reach her goal at -all. To add to the discomfort, it was snowing slightly now, and she -grew less sanguine with every hundred yards. The vision of the smiling -lady, the buoyancy of her own glib sentences, faded from her, and the -thought of the utter abjectness that would come of refusal made the -salvation of acceptance appear much too wonderful to occur. - -When she reached it, "Trebartha" proved to be a stunted villa in red -brick. It was one of a row, each of the other stunted villas being -similarly endowed with a name befitting, a domain; and suspense -catching discouragement from the most extraneous details, Mary's heart -sank as the housemaid disclosed the badly-lighted passage. - -She was ushered into the sitting-room; and the woman who entered -presently had been suggested by it. She seemed the natural complement -of the haggard prints, of the four cumbersome chairs in a line against -the wall, of the family Bible on the crochet tablecover. She wore silk, -dark and short--plain, except for three narrow bands of velvet at the -hem. She wore a gold watch-chain hanging round her neck, garlanded -over her portly bosom. She said she was the invalid lady's married -daughter, and her tone implied a consciousness of that higher merit -which the woman whose father has left her comfortably off feels over -the woman whose father hasn't. - -"You've called about my mother's advertisement for a companion?" she -said. - -"Yes; I've had a long experience of nursing. I think I should be able -to do all you require." - -"Have you ever lived as companion?" - -"No," said Mary, "I have never done that, but--but I think I'm -companionable; I don't think I'm difficult to get on with." - -"What was your--won't you sit down?--what was your last place?" - -Mary moistened her lips. - -"I am," she said, "rather awkwardly situated. I may as well tell you -at once that I am a stranger here, and--do you know--I find that's -a great bar in the way of my getting employment? Not being known, -I've, of course, no friends I can refer people to, and--well, people -always seem to think the fact of being a stranger in a city is rather -a discreditable thing. I have found that! They do." She looked for a -gleam of response in the stolid countenance, but it was as void of -expression as the furniture. "As I say, I have had a lengthy experience -of nursing; I--it sounds conceited--but I should be exceedingly -useful. It's just the thing I am fitted for." - -The married daughter asked: "You have been a nurse, you say? But not -here?" - -"Not here," said Mary, "no. Of course, that doesn't detract from----" - -"Oh, quite so. We've had several young women here already to-day. Do -I understand you to mean there is nobody at all you can give as a -reference?" - -"Yes, that unfortunately is so. I do hope you don't consider it an -insuperable difficulty? You know you take servants without 'characters' -sometimes when----" - -"I _never_ take a servant without a 'character.' I have never done such -a thing in my life." - -"I did not mean you personally," said Mary, with hasty deprecation; "I -was speaking----" - -"I'm most particular on the point; my mother is most particular, too." - -"Generally speaking. I meant people do take servants without -'characters' occasionally when they are hard pushed." - -"Our own servants are only too wishful to remain with us. My mother has -had her present cook eight years, and the last one was only induced -to leave because a young man--a young man in quite a fair way of -business--made her an offer of marriage. She had been here even longer -than eight years--twelve I think it was, or thirteen. It was believed -at the time that what first attracted the young man's attention to her -was the many years that my mother had retained her in our household. -I'm sure there are no circumstances under which my mother 'd consent to -receive a young person who could give no proof of her trustworthiness -and good conduct." - -"Do you mean that you can't engage me? It--it's a matter of life and -death to me," exclaimed Mary; "pray let me see the lady!" - -"Your manner," said the married daughter, "is strange. Quite -authoritative for your position!" She rose. "You'll find it helpful to -be less haughty when you speak, less opinionated; your manner is very -much against you. Oh, my word! no violence, if you please, miss!" - -"Violence?" gasped Mary; "I'm not violent. It was my last hope, that's -all, and it's over. I wish you good-day." - -So much had happened in a few minutes--inside and out--that the roads -were whitening rapidly and the flutter of snow had developed into a -steady fall. At first she was scarcely sensible of it; the anger in -her heart kept the cold out, and carried her along in a semi-rush. -Words broke from her breathlessly. She felt that she had fallen from -a high estate; that the independence of her life with Carew had been -a period of dignity and power; that erstwhile she could have awed the -dull-witted philistine who had humbled her. "The hateful woman! Oh, -the wretch! To have to sue to a creature like that!" Well, she would -starve now, she supposed, her excitement spending itself. She would die -of starvation, like characters in fiction, or the people one read of -in the newspapers; the newspapers called it "exposure," but it was the -same thing; "exposure" sounded less offensive to the other people who -read about it, that was all. The force of education is so strong that, -much as she insisted on such a death, and close as she had approached -to it, she was unable to realise its happening to her. She told herself -that it must; the world was of a sudden horribly wide and empty; but -for Mary Brettan actually to die like that had an air of exaggeration -about it still. Pushing forward, she pondered on it, and the fact came -close; the sensation of the world's widening about her grew stronger. -She felt alone in the midst of illimitable space. There seemed nothing -around her, nothing tangible, nothing to catch at. O God! how tired she -was! she couldn't go on much further. - -The snow whirled against her in gusts, clinging to her hair, and -filling her eyes and nostrils. Exhaustion was overpowering her. And -still how many miles? Each of the benches that she passed was a fresh -temptation; and at last she dropped on one, too tired to stand, wet and -shivering, and shielding her face from the storm. - -She dropped on it like any tramp or stray. Having held out to the -uttermost, she did not know whether she would ever get up again--did -not think about it, and did not care. Her limbs ached for relief, and -she seized it on the high-road because relief on the high-road was the -only kind attainable. - -And it was while she cowered there that another figure appeared in the -twilight, the figure of a tall old man carrying a black bag. He came -smartly down a footpath, gazing to right and left as for something that -should be waiting for him. Not seeing it, he whistled, and Mary looked -up. A trap was backed from the corner of the road. Then the man with -the bag stared at her, and after an instant of hesitation, he spoke. - -"It's a dirty nicht," he said, "for ye tae be sittin' there. I'm -thinking ye're no' weel?" - -"Not very," she said. - -He inspected her undecidedly. - -"An' ye'll tak' your death o' cold if ye dinna get up, it's verra -certain. Hoots! ye're shakin' wi' it noo! Bide a wee, an' I'll put some -warmth intae ye, young leddy." - -Without any more ado, he deposited the bag at her side and opened it. -And, astonishing to relate, the black bag was fitted with a number of -little bottles, one of which he extracted, with a glass. - -"Is it medicine?" she asked wonderingly. - -"Medicine?" he echoed; "nae, it's nae medicine; it's 'Four Diamonds -S.O.P.' I'm gi'en ye. It's a braw sample o' Pilcher's S.O.P., ma -lassie; nothin' finer in the trade, on the honour o' Macpheerson! Noo -ye drink that doon; it's speerit, an' it'll dae ye guid." - -She took his advice, gulping the spirit while he watched her -approvingly. Its strength diffused itself through her in ripples of -heat, raising her courage, and yet, oddly enough, making her want to -cry. - -Mr. Macpherson contemplated the little bottle solemnly, shaking his -head at it with something that sounded like a sigh. - -"An' whaur may ye be goin'?" he queried, replacing the cork. - -"I am going to town," she answered. "I was walking home, only the -storm----" - -"Tae toon? Will ye no' ha'e a lift along o' me an' the lad? I'll drive -ye intae toon." - -"Have you to go there?" she asked, over-joyed. - -"There'd be th' de'il tae pay if I stayed awa'. Ay, I ha'e tae gang -there, and as fast as the mare can trot. Will ye let me help ye in?" - -"Yes," she said; "thank you very much." - -He hoisted her up. And she and her strange companion, accompanied by an -urchin who never uttered a word, made a brisk start. - -"I am so much obliged to you," she murmured, rejoicing; "you don't -know!" - -"There's nae call for ony obleegation; it's verra welcome ye are. I'm -thinkin' the sample did ye a lot o' guid, eh?" - -"It did indeed; it has made me feel a different woman." - -"Eh, but it's a gran' speerit!" said the old gentleman with reviving -ardour. "There's nae need to speak for it, an' that's a fact; your ain -tongue sings its perfection to ye as ye sup it doon. Ye may get ither -houses to serve ye cheaper, I'm no' denyin' that; but tae them that can -place the rale article there's nae house like Pilcher's. And Pilcher's -best canna be beaten in the trade. I ha'e nae interest tae lie tae -ye, ye ken; nor could I tak' ye in wi' the wines and speerits had I -the mind. There's the advantage wi' the wines and speerits; ye canna -deceive! Ye ha'e the sample, an' ye ha'e the figure--will I book the -order or will I no'?" - -"It's your business then, Mr.----?" - -"Will ye no' tak' my card?" he said, producing a large one; "there, put -it awa'. Should ye ever be in need, ma lassie, a line to Macpheerson, -care o' the firm----" - -"How kind of you!" she exclaimed. - -"No' a bit," he said; "ye never can tell what may happen, and whether -it's for yoursel' ye need it, or a recommendation, ye'll ken ye're -buying at the wholesale price." - -She glanced at him with surprise, and looked away again. And they -drove for several minutes in silence. - -"Maybe ye ken some family whaur I'd be likely tae book an order noo?" -remarked Mr. Macpherson incidentally. "Sherry? dae ye no' ken o' a -family requirin' sherry? I can dae them sherry at a figure that'll -tak' th' breath frae them. Ye canna suspect the profit--th' weecked -ineequitous profit--that sherry's retailed at; wi' three quotations tae -the brand often eno', an' a made-up wine at that! Noo, I could supply -your frien's wi' 'Crossbones'--the finest in the trade, on the honour -of Macpheerson--if ye happen tae ha'e ony who----" - -"I don't," she said, "happen to have any." - -"There's the family whaur ye're workin', we'll say; a large family -maybe, wi' a cellar. For a large family tae be supplied at the -wholesale figure----" - -"I am sorry, but I don't work." - -"Ye don't work, an' ye ha'e no frien's?" He peered at her curiously. -"Then, ma dear young leddy, ye'll no' think me impertinent if I ax ye -how th' de'il ye live?" - -The wild idea shot into her brain that perhaps he might be able to put -her into the way of something--somewhere--somehow! - -"I'm a stranger in London," she answered, "looking for -employment--quite alone." - -"Eh," said Mr. Macpherson, "that's bad, that's verra bad!" - -He whipped up the horse, and after the momentary comment lapsed into -reverie. She called herself a fool for her pains, and stared dumbly -across the melancholy fields. - -"Whauraboots are ye stayin'?" he demanded, after they had passed the -Swiss Cottage. - -She told him. "Please don't let me take you out of your way," she added. - -"Ye're no' verra far frae ma ain house," he declared. "Ye had best come -in an' warm before ye gang on hame. Ye are in nae hurry, I suppose?" - -"No, but----" - -"Oh, the mistress will nae mind it. Ye just come in wi' me!" - -Their conversation progressed by fits and starts till his domicile was -reached. Leaving the trap to the care of the boy, who might have been -a mute for any indication he had given to the contrary, Mr. Macpherson -led her into a parlour, where a kettle steamed invitingly on the hob. - -He was greeted by a little woman, evidently the wife referred to; and a -rosy offspring, addressed as Charlotte, brought her progenitor a pair -of slippers. His introduction of Mary to his family circle was brief. - -"'Tis a young leddy," he said, "I gave a lift to. But I dinna ken your -name?" - -"My name is Brettan," she replied. Then, turning to the woman: "Your -husband was kind enough to save me from walking home from Finchley, and -now he has made me come in with him." - -"It was a braw nicht for a walk," opined Macpherson. - -"I'm sure I'm glad to see you, miss," responded the woman in cheery -Cockney. "Come to the fire and dry yourself a bit, do!" - -The initial awkwardness was very slight, for Mary's experiences in -bohemia were serviceable here. The people were well-intentioned, too, -and, meeting with no embarrassment to hamper their heartiness, they -grew speedily at ease. It reminded the guest of some of her arrivals on -tour; of one in particular, when the previous week's company had not -left and she and Tony had traversed half Oldham in search of rooms, -finally sitting down with their preserver to bread-and-cheese in her -kitchen! It was loathsome how Tony kept recurring to her, and always in -episodes when he had been jolly and affectionate! - -"Your husband tells me he is in the wine business," she observed at the -tea-table. - -"He is, miss; and never you marry a man who travels in that line," -returned the woman, "or the best part of your life you won't know for -rights if you're married or not!" - -"He's away a good deal, you mean?" - -"Away? He's just home about two months in the year--a fortnight at the -time, that's what he is! All the rest of it traipsing about from place -to place like a wandering gipsy. Charlotte says time and again, 'Ma, -have I got a pa, or 'aven't I?'--don't yer, Charlotte?" - -"Pa's awful!" said Charlotte, with her mouth full of -bread-and-marmalade. "Never mind, pa, you can't help it!" - -"Eh, it's a sad pursuit!" rejoined her father gloomily. In the glow -of his own fireside Mary perceived with surprise that his enthusiasm -for "his wines and speerits" had vanished. "Awa' frae your wife an' -bairn, pandering tae th' veecious courses that ruin the immortal soul! -Every heart kens its ain bitterness, young leddy; and Providence in its -mysteerious wisdom never meant me for the wine-and-speerit trade." - -"Oh lor," said Charlotte, "ma's done it!" - -"It was na your mither," said Mr. Macpherson; "it's ma ain conscience, -as well ye ken! Dae I no' see the travellers themselves succumb tae th' -cussed sippin' and tastin' frae mornin' till nicht? There was Burbage, -I mind weel, and there was Broun; guid men both--no better men on th' -road! Whaur's Burbage noo--whaur's Broun?" - -"Fly away, Peter, fly away, Paul!" interpolated Charlotte. - -"Gone!" continued Mr. Macpherson, responding to his own inquiry -with morbid unction. "Deed! The Lord be praised, I ha'e the guid -sense tae withstand th' infeernal tipplin' masel'. Mony's the time, -when I'm talkin' tae a mon in the way o' business, ye ken, I turn -the damned glass upside down when he is na lookin'. But there's the -folk I sell tae, an' the ithers; what o' them? It's ma trade to -praise the evil--tae tak' it into the world, spreadin' it broadcast -for the destruction o' monkind. Eh, ma responsibeelity is awfu' tae -contemplate." - -"I'm sure, James, you mean first class," said the little woman weakly. -"Come, light your pipe comfortable, now, and don't worrit, there's a -good man!" - -The traveller waved the pipe aside. - -"There's a still sma' voice," he said, "ye canna silence wi' 'bacca; -ye canna silence it wi' herbs nor wi' fine linen. It's wi' me noo, -axin' queestions. It says: 'Macpheerson, how dae ye justeefy thy -wilfu' conduct? Why dae ye gloreefy the profeets o' th' airth above -thy speeritual salvation, mon? Dae ye no ken that orphans are goin' -dinnerless through thy eloquence, an' widows are prodigal wi' curses on -a' thy samples an' thy ways?' I canna answer. There are nichts when the -voice will na let me sleep, ye're weel aware; there are nichts----" - -"There are nights when you're most trying, James, I know." - -"Woman, it's the warnin' voice that comes tae a sinner in his -transgreession! Are there no' viseetations eno' about me, an' dae I -no' turn ma een frae them; hardenin' ma heart, and pursuin' ma praise -o' Pilcher's wi' a siller tongue? There was a mon are day at the -Peacock--a mon in ma ain inseedious line--an' he swilled his bottle -o' sherry, an' he called for his whusky-an'-watter, and he got up -on his feet speechify in', after the commercial dinner. 'The Queen, -gentlemen!' he cries, liftin' his glass; an' wi' that he dropped deed, -wi' the name o' the royal leddy on his lips! He was a large red mon--he -would ha' made twa o' me." - -He seemed to regard the circumference of the deceased as additionally -ominous. His arms were extended in representation of it, and he waved -them aloft as if to intimate that Charlotte might detect Nemesis in the -vicinity preparing for a swoop. - -"You take the thing too seriously," said Mary. "Nine people out of ten -have to be what they can, you know; it is only the tenth who can be -what he likes." - -The little woman inquired what her own calling was. - -"I am very sorry to say I haven't any," she answered. "I'm doing -nothing." - -There was a moment's constraint. - -"Unfortunately I know nobody here," she went on; "it's very hard to -get anything when there's no one to speak for you." - -"It must be! But, lor! you must bear up. It's a long lane that has no -turning, as they say." - -"Only there is no telling where the turning may lead; a lane is better -than a bog." - -"Wouldn't she do for Pattenden's?" suggested the woman musingly. - -"For whom?" exclaimed Mary. "Do you think I can get something? Who are -they?" - -"James?" - -"Pattenden's?" he repeated. "An' what; would she dae at Pattenden's?" - -"Why, be agent, to be sure--same as you were!" - -Mary glanced from one to the other with; anxiety. - -"Weel, noo, that isn't at a' a bad idea," said Mr. Macpherson -meditatively; "dae ye fancy ye could sell books, young leddy, on -commeession--a hauf-sovereign, say, for every order ye took? I'm -thinkin' a young woman micht dae a verra fair trade at it." - -"Oh yes," she replied; "I'm sure I could. Half a sovereign each one? -Where do I go? Will they take me?" - -"I dinna anteecipate ye'll fin' much deefficulty aboot them takin' ye: -they dinna risk onythin' by that! I'll gi'e ye the address. They are -publishers, and ye just ax for their Mr. Collins when ye go there; tell -him ye're wishful tae represent them wi' ane o' their publeecations. -If ye like I'll write your name on ane o' ma ain cards; an' ye can send -it in tae him." - -"Oh, do!" she said. - -"Ye must na imagine it's a fortune ye'll be makin'," he observed; "it's -different tae ma ain position wi' the wines an' speerits, ye ken: wi' -Pilcher's it's a fixed salary, an' Pilcher's pay ma expenses." - -"Pilcher's pay _our_ expenses!" affirmed Charlotte the thoughtful. - -"They dae," acquiesced the traveller; "there's a sicht o' saving oot -o' sax-and-twenty shillin's a day tae an economical parent. But wi' -Pattenden's it's precarious; are week guid, an' anither week bad." - -"I am not afraid," said Mary boldly; "whatever I do, it is better than -nothing! I'll go there to-morrow, the first thing. Very many thanks; -and to you too, Mrs. Macpherson, for thinking of it." - -"I'm sure I'm glad I did; there's no saying but what you may be doing -first-rate after a bit. It's a beginning for you, any way." - -"That it is! But why can't the publishers pay a salary, the same as -your husband's firm?" - -"Ah! they don't; anyhow, not at the beginning. Besides, James has been -with Pilcher's ten years now; he wasn't earning so much when he started -with them." - -"'Spect one reason is because such a heap more people buy spirits than -books!" said Charlotte. "Pa!" - -"Eh, ma lassie?" - -"The lady's going to be an agent----" - -"Weel?" - -"Then, pa," said Charlotte, "won't we all drink to the lady's luck in a -sample?" - -"Ye veecious midget," ejaculated her father wrathfully, "are ye no' -ashamed tae mak' sic a proposeetion? Ye'll no' drink a sample, will ye, -young leddy?" - -"I will not indeed!" answered Mary. - -"No' but what ye're welcome." - -"Thanks," she said; "I will not, really." - -"Eh, but ye will, then," he exclaimed; "a sma' sample, ye an' Mrs. -Macpheerson! Whaur's ma bag?" - -In spite of her protestations he drew a bottle out, and the hostess -produced a couple of glasses from the cupboard. - -"Port!" he said. "The de'il's liquors a' o' them; but, if there's a -disteenction, maybe a wee drappie o' the 'Four Grape Balance' deserves -mon's condemnation least." His conflicting emotions delayed the toast -for some time. "The de'il's liquors!" he groaned again, fingering -the bottle irresolutely. "Eh, but it's the 'Four Grape Balance,'" he -murmured with reluctant admiration, eyeing the sample against the -light. "There! Ye may baith o' ye drink it doon! But masel', I wouldna -touch a drap. An' as for ye, ye wee Cockney bairn, if I catch ye -tastin' onything stronger a than tea in a' your days, or knowin' the -flavour o' the perneecious stuff it's your affleected father's duty tae -lure the unsuspeecious minds wi'--temptin' the frail tae their eternal -ruin, an' servin' the de'il when his sicht is on the Lord--I'll leather -ye!" - -Charlotte giggled nervously--Figaro-wise, that she might not be obliged -to weep; and Mrs. Macpherson, raising the glass to her lips, said -"Luck!" - -"Luck!" they all echoed. - -And Mary, conscious that the career would be no heroic one, was also -conscious she was not a heroine. "I am," she said to herself, "just a -real unhappy woman, in very desperate straits. So let me do whatever -turns up, and be profoundly grateful that anything can be done at all." - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -The wealth of Messrs. Pattenden and Sons, which was considerable, was -not indicated by the arrangement of their London branch. A flight of -narrow stairs, none too clean, led to a pair of doors respectively -painted "Warehouse" and "Private"; and having performed the superfluous -ceremony of knocking at the former, Mary found herself in front of a -rough counter, behind which two or three young men were busily engaged -in stacking books. There were books in profusion, books in virginity, -books tempting and delightful to behold. Volume upon volume, crisp in -cover and shiny of edge, they were piled on the table and heaped on the -floor; and the young men handled them with as little concern as if they -had been grocery. Such is the force of custom. - -In response to her inquiry, her name and the card were despatched to -Mr. Collins by a miniature boy endowed with a gape that threatened to -lift his head off, and, pending the interview, she attempted to subdue -her nervousness. - -A man with a satchel bustled in, and made hurried reference to "Vol. -two of the _Dic_." and "The fourth of the _Ency_." Against the window -an accountant with a fresh complexion and melancholy mien totted up -columns. - -Seeing that everybody--the melancholy accountant not excepted--favoured -her with a gratified stare, she concluded that women were infrequently -employed here, and she trembled with the fear that her application -might be refused. She assured herself that the Scotsman would never -have spoken so confidently of a favourable issue if it had not been -reasonable to expect it, but the doubt having entered her head, it was -difficult to dispel. It occurred to her that she could astonish the -accountant by telling him that she was on the brink of destitution. The -perspiring young packers, sure of their dinners by-and-by, looked to -her individuals to be felicitated on their prosperity, and, luckless -as they were, it is a fact that a person's lot is seldom so poor but -that another person worse off can be found to envy it. The book-keeper -who has grown haggard in the firm's employ at a couple of pounds a -week is the envy of the clerk who lives on eighteen shillings, and the -wight who sweeps the office daily thinks how happy he would be in the -place of the clerk. The urchin who hawks matches in the rain envies the -sheltered office-boy, and the waif without coppers to invest envies the -match-seller. The grades of misery are so infinite, and the instinct of -envy is so ingrained, that when two vagrants crouched under a bridge -have tightened their belts to still the gnawings of their hunger, one -of the pair will find something to be envious of in the rags of the -outcast suffering at his side. - -Messrs. Pattenden's youngster reappeared, and, with a yawn so -tremendous that it eclipsed his previous effort, said: - -"Miss Brettan!" - -Mr. Collins was seated in a compartment just large enough to contain a -desk and two chairs. He signed Mary to the vacant one, and gave her a -steady glance of appreciation. A man who had risen to the position of -conducting the travelling department of a firm that published on the -subscription plan, he was something of a reader of temperament; a man -who had risen to the position by easy stages while yet young, he was -kindly and had not lost his generosity on the way. - -"Good-morning," he said; "what can I do for you?" - -"I want to represent you with one of your publications," she answered. -"Mr. Macpherson was good enough to offer me the introduction, and he -thought you would be able to arrange with me." The nervousness was -scarcely visible. She had entered well, and spoke without hesitancy, -in a musical voice. All these things Mr. Collins noted. Before she -had explained her desire he had wished that she might have it. The -book-agent is of many types, and skilful advertisements hinting at -noble earnings, without being explicit about the nature of the pursuit, -had brought penurious professional men and reduced gentlewomen on to -that chair time and again. But these applicants had generally cooled -visibly when the requirements of the vocation were insinuated; and here -was one, as refined as any of them, who came comprehending that she -would have to canvass, and prepared to do it! Mr. Collins nearly rubbed -his hands. - -"What experience have you had?" - -"In--as an agent? None. But I suppose with a fair amount of -intelligence that doesn't matter very much?" - -"Not at all." For once he was almost at a loss. As a rule it was he who -advocated the attempt, and the novice on the chair who grew reluctant. - -"I take it," said Miss Brettan, concealing rapture, "that the art of -the business is to sell books to people who don't want to buy them?" - -"Just so; tact, and the ability to talk about your specimen is what is -wanted. Always watch the face of the person you are showing it to and -don't look at the specimen itself. You must know that by heart." - -"Oh!" - -"Suppose you're showing an encyclopedia! As you turn over the plates, -you should be able to tell by his eyes when you have come to one that -illustrates a subject that he is interested in. Then talk about that -subject--how fully it is dealt with. See?" - -"I see." - -"If you think he looks like a married man and is old enough to have a -family, say how useful an encyclopedia is for general reference in a -household--how valuable it is for children when they are writing essays -and things." - -"Are you going to engage me for an encyclopedia?" - -He smiled. - -"You're in a hurry, Miss----" - -"Brettan. Am I in too much of a hurry?" - -"Well, you have to be patient, you know, with possible subscribers. If -_you_ rush, _they_ will, too, and the easiest reply to give in a hurry -is 'No.' I'm not sure about sending you out with the _Ency_.; after a -while, perhaps! How would you like trying a new work that has never -been canvassed, for a beginning?" - -"Would it be better?" - -"Yes; there's less in it to learn, and you needn't be afraid of -hearing, 'Oh, I have one already!'" - -"I didn't think of that. What is it, Mr. Collins?" - -He touched a bell, and told the boy to bring in a specimen of the -_Album_. - -"Four half-volumes at twelve and sixpence each," he said, turning -to her, "_The Album of Inventions_. It gives the history of all the -principal inventions, with a brief biography of the inventors. You want -to know who invented the watch--look it up under W; the telephone--turn -to T. It's a history of the progress of science and civilisation. 'The -origin of the inventions, and the voids they fill,' that's the idea. -Ah, here it is! Now look at that, and tell me if you think you could do -any good with it." - -She took a slim crimson-bound book from its case, and glanced through -it. - -"Oh, I certainly think I could," she said; "I should like to try, -anyhow." - -"Very well, you shall be the first agent to canvass the _Album_ for us." - -"And how about terms?" she questioned. - -"The terms, Miss Brettan, ought to be to you in a very little while -about five or six pounds a week. You may do more; we have travellers -with us who are making their twenty. But for a start say five or six." - -"You mean that that would be my commencing salary?" she asked calmly. - -"No, not as salary," he said, carelessly too. "I mean your commissions -would amount to that." By his tone one might have supposed that -formality obliged him to distinguish between these sources of income, -but that it was practically a distinction without a difference. "On -every order you bring us for the Album we allow you half a guinea. -Saturdays you needn't go out--it's a bad day, especially to catch -professional men. But saying you make twelve calls five days a week, -and out of every dozen calls you book two orders, there is your five -guineas a week for you as regular as clockwork! I'll tell you what I'll -do: just give me a receipt for the specimen, and go home this morning -and study it. To-morrow come in to me again at ten o'clock. And every -day I'll make out a short list for you of people who've already been -subscribers of ours for some work or another--I can pick out addresses -that lie close together; and then you'll have the advantage of knowing -you're waiting on buyers, and not wasting your time." - -"Thank you very much," she said. - -"Here's the order-book. You see they have to fill up a form. Every one -you bring filled-in means half a guinea to you. You have no further -trouble--a deliverer takes the volumes round and collects the money. -Just get the order signed, and your responsibility is over. Is that all -right?" - -"That's all right." - -He rose and shook hands with her. - -"At ten o'clock," he repeated. "So long!" - -She descended the dirty stairs excitedly. The aspect of the world -had changed for her in a quarter of an hour. And to think, she -would never have dreamt of trying Pattenden's--never have heard of -the occupation--if she had not met Mr. Macpherson, had not gone to -Finchley, had not been so tired that, having parted with her last penny -at the news-room---- - -The remembrance of her present penury rushed back to her. With five -guineas a week coming in directly, she had no money to go on with -in the meanwhile. To walk about the streets all day, without even a -biscuit between the scanty meals at home, would be impossible. She -questioned desperately what there remained to her to pawn--what she was -to do. Gaining her room, she eyed her little bag of linen forlornly; -she did not think she could borrow anything on articles like these, -neither could she spare any of them, nor summon the courage to put them -on a counter. Suddenly the inspiration came to her that there was the -bag itself. And at dusk she went out with it. This time the pawnbroker -omitted to inquire if she had a halfpenny; he deducted the cost of the -ticket from the amount of the loan. Taking the bull by the horns, she -next sought the landlady, and said that she would be unable to pay the -impending bill when it came up, but that she would pay that and the -next one together. - -"I've found work," she said, feeling like a housemaid. "If you wouldn't -mind letting it stand over----" - -Mrs. Shuttleworth dried her fingers on her apron, and agreed with less -hesitation than her lodger had feared. - -Convinced that her specimen was mastered--she had rehearsed two -or three little gusts of eulogy which she thought would sound -spontaneous--Mary now considered calling on the Macphersons to inform -them of the result of their suggestion. Reluctant to intrude, she had -half decided to write, but with her limited means, the stamp was an -object, and besides, she was uncertain of the number. She determined on -the visit. - -The door was opened by Charlotte, and hastily explaining the motive for -the call, Mary followed her inside. She found the parlour in a state of -confusion, and gathered from the trio in a breath that destiny, in the -form of Pilcher's, had ordered that Mr. Macpherson should be torn from -his family a week earlier than the severance had been anticipated. - -"He's going to Leeds to-morrow," exclaimed the little woman -distractedly, oppressed by an armful of shirts that fell from her one -by one as she moved; "and it wasn't till this afternoon we heard a word -about it. Oh dear! oh dear! how many's that, James?" - -"'Tis thirty-three," said the traveller, "an', as ye weel ken, it -should be thirty-sax! I canna see the use o' a body havin' thirty-sax -shirts if they can never be found." - -"I'm afraid I'm in the way," murmured Mary; "I just looked in to say -it's all satisfactory, and to tell you how much obliged I am. I won't -stop." - -"You're not in the way at all. You've got one on, James: that's -thirty-four! My dear, would you mind counting these shirts for me? I -declare my head's going round!" - -She held the bundle out to Mary feebly, and, dropping on to the -traveller's box, watched her with harassed eyes. - -"Pa has three dozen of 'em," said Charlotte with pride, "'cos of the -trouble of getting 'em washed when he goes about so much. I think, -though, you lose 'em on the road, pa." - -"It's a silly thought that's like ye," returned her parent shortly. -"Young leddy, what dae ye mak' it?". - -"There are only thirty-three here," replied Mary, struggling with a -laugh, "and---and one is thirty-four!" - -"Thirty-three," exclaimed Mr. Macpherson, "and are is thirty-four! Twa -shirts missin', twa shirts at five and saxpence apiece wasted--lost -through repreheensible carelessness!" He sat down on the box by his -wife's side, and contemplated her severely. "Aweel," he said at last, -sociable under difficulties, "an' Collins was agreeable, ye tell me?" - -"He was very nice indeed." - -"Hoh!" he sighed, "ye will na mak' a penny by it. But the pursuit may -serve tae occupy ye!" - -"Not make a penny by it?" she ejaculated. - -"Don't you mind him," said his partner; "he's got the 'ump, that's -what's the matter with him!" - -"It may serve tae occupy your mind," repeated Mr. Macpherson -funereally; "'tis pleasant walkin' in the fine weather. Now mind ye, -'oman, I dinna leave withoot ma twa shirts. I canna banish them frae ma -memory." - -"Bless and save us, James, haven't I rummaged every drawer in the -place?" - -"I am for ever replenishing that thirty-sax, an' it is for ever short," -he complained; "will ye no' look in the keetchen?" - -She was absent some time on the quest, and Charlotte questioned Mary -about the details of her interview at Messrs. Pattenden's. She said she -knew that "Pa had been with them for several years," so the business -could not be so unprofitable as he had just pretended. Appealed to -for support, however, her pa sighed again, and it was obvious that he -was impelled towards an unusually pessimistic view of everything that -night. A brief reference to a "sink o' ineequity" was accepted as a -comment upon the "wine-and-speerit" trade, but he had nothing cheerful -to say of books, either; and, recognising the futility of attempting a -graceful retreat, the visitor got up abruptly and wished them good-bye. -Mrs. Macpherson joined her in the passage, without the shirts. - -"Good-night, miss," she murmured; "don't be down in the mouth. Have -plenty of cheek, and you'll get along like a house afire! As for me, -I'm going back to the kitchen and mean to stop there." - -At Mary's third step she called to her to come back. - -"Never," she added, "go and settle down with a traveller. You're -likely to fetch 'em, but don't do it!" She jerked her head towards the -parlour. "A good man, my dear, but his shirts were my cross from our -wedding-day!" - -Mary assured her that the warning should be borne in mind, and left -the little person wiping her brow. The remark about marrying, idle as -it was, distressed her. Last night too there had been a mention of -the possibility, and, knowing that she could never be any man's wife, -the suggestion shook her painfully. How she had wrecked her life, she -reflected, and for a man who had cared nothing for her! - -The assertion that he cared nothing for her was bitterer to her soul -than the knowledge that she had wrecked her life. To have a love -despised is always a keener torture to a woman than to a man; for -a woman surrenders herself less easily, thinks the more of what -she is bestowing, and counts the treasures at her disposal over and -over--ultimately for the sake of delighting in the knowledge of how -much she is going to give. If one of the pearls that she has laid so -reverently at her master's feet is left to lie there, she exonerates -him and accuses herself. But his caresses never quite fill the -unsuspected wound. If it happens that he neglects them all, then the -woman, beggared and unthanked, wonders why the sun shines, and how -people can laugh. Some women can take back a misdirected love, erase -the superscription, and address it over again. Others cannot. Mary -could not. She had lain in Seaton's arms and kissed him; pride bade her -be ashamed of the memory; her heart found food in it. It was all over, -all terrible, all a thing that she ought to shiver and revolt at. But -the depth of her devotion had been demonstrated by the magnitude of her -sin, and she was not able, because the sacrifice had been misprized, to -say, "Therefore, in everything except my misery, it shall be as if I -had never made it." - -She could not, continually as she put its fever from her, wrench the -tenderness out of her being, recall her guilt and forget its motive. -The sin of her life had been caused by her love, and, come weal, come -woe, come gratitude or callousness, a love that had been responsible -for such a thing as that was not a sentiment to be plucked out and -destroyed at the dictates of common-sense. It was not a thing that -Carew could kill with baseness. She could have looked him in the face -and sworn she hated him; she felt that, though that might not be quite -true, she could never touch his hand nor sit in a room with him again. -But neither her contempt for him nor for her own weakness could blot -out the recollection of the hours of passion, the years of communion, -when if one of them had said, "I should like," the other had replied, -"Say _we_ should!" - -It was well for her that the exigencies of her situation were supplying -anxieties which to a great extent penned her thoughts within more -wholesome bounds. On the morrow her chief idea was to distinguish -herself on her preliminary expedition. Mr. Collins, true to his -promise, had prepared a list for her. The houses were all in the -neighbourhood of the Abbey, and mostly, he informed her, the offices -of civil engineers. He said civil engineers were a "likely class," the -principal objection to them being that they were "so beastly irregular -in their movements." When she had "worked Westminster," he added, he -would start her among barristers and clergy-men. - -"Come in, when you've done, and tell me how you've got on," he said -pleasantly. "I suppose you haven't a pocket large enough to hold your -specimen? Never mind! Keep it out of sight as much as you can when you -ask for people; and ask for them as if you were going to give them a -commission to build a bridge." - -She smiled confidently; and, allaying the qualms of peddlery with the -balm of prospective riches, on which she could advertise for other -employment should this prove very uncongenial, she proceeded to the -office marked "1." - -It was in Victoria Street, and the name of the gentleman upon whom -she was to intrude was painted, among a string of others, on a black -board at the entrance. She paused and inspected this board longer than -was necessary, so long that a porter in livery asked her whom she -wanted? She told him, "Mr. Gregory Hatch"; to which he replied, "Third -floor," evidently with the supposition that she would make use of the -lift. She profited by this supposition of his, and felt an impostor -to begin with. The name of "Gregory Hatch," with initials after it -which conveyed no meaning to her, confronted her on a door as the lift -stopped; and with a further decrease of ardour, she walked quickly in. - -There were several consequential young men acting as clerks behind a -stretch of mahogany, and, perceiving her, one of these lordly beings -lounged forward, and descended from his high estate sufficiently to -inquire, "What can I do for yer?" His bored and haughty glance took in -the specimen. - -"Is Mr. Hatch in?" - -"I'll see," drawled the youth; he looked suspiciously at the specimen -now, and it began to be cumbersome. - -"Er, what name?" - -"Miss Brettan." - -He strolled into the apartment marked "Private," and a sickening -certainty that, if she were admitted to it, the youth would be summoned -directly afterwards to eject her, made her yearn to take flight before -he reappeared. She was debating what excuse for a hurried departure she -could offer, when the door was re-opened and he requested her to "step -in, please." - -An old gentleman of preoccupied aspect was busy at a desk; he and she -were alone in the room. - -"Miss--Brettan?" he said interrogatively. "Take a chair, madam." - -He put his papers down, and waited, she was convinced, for his -commission for a bridge. She took the seat that he had indicated, -because she was too much embarrassed to decline it, and she immediately -felt that this was going to be regarded as an additional piece of -impertinence. - -"I have called," she stammered--in her rehearsals she had never -practised an introductory speech, and she abominated herself for the -omission--"I have called, Mr.----" his name had suddenly sailed away -from her--"with regard to a book I've been asked to show you by -Messrs. Pattenden. If you'll allow me----" - -She drew the specimen from the case and put it on the desk before him. - -She was relieved to find him much less astonished than she had -anticipated. He even fingered the thing tentatively, and she began to -collect her wits. To take it into her hands, however, and expatiate on -its merits leaf by leaf, was beyond her. She soothed her conscience by -remarking it was a very nice book, really. - -"It seems so," said the old gentleman. "_The Album of Inventions_, dear -me! A new work?" - -"Oh yes," she said, "new. It's quite new, it's quite a new work." She -felt idiotic to keep repeating how new it was, but she could not think -of anything else to say. - -"Dear me!" said the old gentleman again. He appeared to be growing -interested by the examination, and it looked within the regions of -possibility that he might give an order. Up to that moment all her -ambition had been to find herself in the street again without having -been abused. - -"The beauty of the work is," she said, "er--that it is so pithy. One so -often wants to know something that one has forgotten about something: -who thought of it, and how the other people managed before he did. I'm -sure, Mr. Pattenden, that if you----" - -"Hatch, madam--my name is Hatch!" - -"I beg your pardon," she said--"I meant to say 'Mr. Hatch.' I was going -to say that, if you care to take a copy of it, it is very cheap." - -"And what may the price be?" he asked. - -"It is in four volumes at twelve and sixpence," said Mary melodiously. - -"The four?" - -"Oh no--each! Thick volumes they are; do you think it's dear?" - -"No," he said; "oh no!--a very valuable book, I've no doubt." - -"Then perhaps you will give me an order for it?" she inquired, scarcely -able to contain her elation. - -"No," he said, still perusing an article, "I will not give an order for -it; I have so many books." - -She stared at him in blank disappointment while he read placidly to the -end of a page. - -"There," he said benevolently; "a capital work! It deserves to sell -largely; the publishers should be hopeful of it. The plates are bold, -and the matter seems to me of a high degree of excellence. The fault -I usually condemn in such illustrations is the mistake of making -'pictures' of them, to the detriment of their usefulness; clearness -is always the grand desideratum in an illustration of a mechanical -contrivance. With this, the customary blunder has been avoided; in -looking through the specimen I've scarcely detected one instance where -I would suggest an alteration. And, though I wouldn't promise"--he -laughed good-humouredly--"but what on a more careful inspection I might -be forced to temper praise with blame, I'm inclined, on the whole, to -give the book my hearty commendation." - -"But will you buy it?" demanded Miss Brettan. - -"No," said the old gentleman, "thank you; I never buy books--I have so -many. No trouble at all; I am very pleased to have seen it. Allow me!" - -He bowed her out with genial ceremony, and seemed to be under the -impression that he had conferred a favour. - -The next gentleman that she wanted to see was dead. Number 3 had gone -on a trial-trip; and two other gentlemen were out of town. Number 6, -on reference to her paper, proved to be a "Mr. Crespigny." His outer -office much resembled that of Mr. Hatch, and more supercilious young -men were busy behind a counter. - -She waited while her name was taken in to him. On Mr. Collins's theory, -this, the sixth venture, ought to result in half a guinea to her. She -had by now arranged a little overture, and was ready to introduce -herself in coherent phrases. Instead of her being admitted to the inner -room, however, Mr. Crespigny came out, in the wake of his clerk, and -it devolved upon her to explain her business publicly. He was a tall -man with a pointed beard, and he advanced towards her in interrogative -silence, flicking a cigarette. Her heart was thudding. - -"Good-morning," she said; "Messrs. Pattenden, the publishers, have -asked me to wait upon you with a specimen of a new work that----" - -Mr. Crespigny deliberately turned his back, and walked to the threshold -of the private office without a word. Regaining it, he spoke to the -hapless clerk. - -"Pshaw!" he exclaimed, "don't you know a book-agent yet when you see -one?" - -He slammed the door behind him, and, with a sensation akin to having -been slapped in the face, she hurried away. Her cheeks were hot; no -retort occurred to her even when she stood on the pavement. She _was_ -a book-agent, a pest whose intrusion was always liable to be ridiculed -or resented according to the bent of the person importuned. Oh, how -hateful it was to be poor--"poor" in the fullest meaning of the term; -to be compelled to cringe to cads, and swallow insults, and call it -"wisdom" that one showed no spirit! An hour passed before she could -nerve herself to make another attempt; Mr. Crespigny had taken all the -pluck out of her. And when she repaired to Pattenden's her report was a -chronicle of failures. - -The exact answers obtained she had in many cases forgotten, and Mr. -Collins advised her to jot down brief memoranda of the interviews in -future, that he might be able to point out to her where her line of -conduct had been at fault. - -"Now, that set speech of yours was a mistake," he said. "What you want -to do at the start is to get the man's attention--to surprise him -into listening. Perhaps he has had half a dozen travellers bothering -him already, all trying for an order for something or another, and -all beginning the same way. Go in brightly. Don't let him know your -business till you've got the specimen open under his nose. Cry, 'Well, -Mr. So-and-So, here it is, out at last!' Say anything that comes into -your head, but startle him at the beginning. He may think you're mad, -but he'll listen from astonishment, and when you've woke him up you can -show him that you're not." - -"It's so awful," she said dejectedly. - -"Awful?" exclaimed Mr. Collins. "Do you know the great Napoleon was a -book-agent? Do you know that when he was a lieutenant without a red -cent he travelled with a work called _L'Histoire de la Révolution_? My -dear young lady, if you go to Paris you can see his canvasser's outfit -under a glass case in the Louvre, and the list of orders he succeeded -in collaring!" - -"I don't suppose he liked it." - -"He liked the money it brought in; and you'll like yours directly. You -don't imagine I expected you to do any good right off? I should have -been much surprised if you'd come in with any different account this -afternoon, I can tell you! No, no, you mustn't be disheartened because -you aren't lucky at the start; and as to that Victoria Street fellow -who was in a bad temper, what of him? He has to make his living, and -you have to make yours; remember you're just as much in your rights as -the man you're talking to when you make a call anywhere." - -"Very good," said Mary; "if you are satisfied, _I_ am. I don't pretend -my services are being clamoured for. You may be sure I want to do well -with the thing. If, by putting my pride in my pocket, I can put an -income there too, I'm ready to do it." - -It became a regular feature of her afternoon visit at the publishers' -for Mr. Collins to encourage her with prophecies of good fortune; -and her anxiety was frequently assuaged by his consideration. On the -first few occasions when she returned with her notes of "Out; Out; -Doesn't need it; Never reads; Too busy to look," etc., she dreaded -the additional chagrin of being rebuked for incompetence; but Mr. -Collins was always complaisant, and perpetually assured her that she -was enduring only the disappointments inevitable to a beginner. In -his own mind he began to doubt her fitness for the occupation, but he -liked her, and knowing that, in the trade phrase, some orders "booked -themselves," he was willing to afford her the chance of making a trifle -as long as she desired to avail herself of it. They were terrible -days to Mary Brettan, wearing away without result, while her pitiful -store of cash grew less and less; and since each day was so drearily -long, it was amazing that a week passed so quickly. This is an anomaly -especially conspicuous to lodgers, and when her bill was due again she -beheld her landlady with despair. - -"Mrs. Shuttle worth," she said, "I have done nothing; I hoped to pay -you, and I can't. I'm not a cheat, though it looks like it; I am agent -for a firm of publishers, and I haven't earned a single commission." -Mrs. Shuttleworth scrutinised her grimly, and she held her breath. She -might be commanded to leave, and as omnibus fares were an item of her -expenditure now, no more than a shilling remained of the sum raised on -the handbag. "What do you say?" she faltered. - -"Well," said the other, "it's like this: I'm not 'ard and I don't -say as I'd care to go and turn a respectable girl into the streets, -for I know what I'd be doing. But I can't afford to lay out for your -breakfas' and your tea with never a farthing coming back for it. Keep -the room a bit, and the rent can wait; but I must ask you to get all -your meals outside till we're straight again." - -A lodger on sufferance; left with nothing to pawn, and possessed of a -shilling to sustain life till she gained an order for _The Album of -Inventions_, Mary toiled up staircases with the specimen. To economise -on remaining pounds may be managed with refinement; to be frugal -of the last silver is possible with decency; but to be reduced to -the depths of pence means a devilish hunger whose cravings cannot be -stilled for more than an hour at a time, and a weakness that mounts -from limbs to brain till the throat contracts, and the eyeballs ache -from exhaustion. However fatigued her fruitless expeditions might have -made her now, she went back to the publishing-house enduringly afoot, -grudging every halfpenny, husbanding the meagre sum with the tenacity -of deadly fear. The windows of the foreign restaurants with viands -temptingly displayed and tastefully garnished, the windows of the -English cook-shops, into which the meats were thrown, enchanted her -eye as she would never have believed that food could have the power to -do. She understood what starvation was; began to understand how people -could be brought to thieve by it, and exculpated them for doing so. -Without her clothes becoming abruptly shabby, the aspect of the woman -deteriorated from her internal consciousness. She carried herself -less confidently; she lost the indefinable air that distinguishes the -freight from the flotsam on the sea of life. Little things sent the -fact home to her. Drivers ceased to lift an inquiring fore-finger when -she passed a cab-rank, and once, when an address on her list proved to -be a private house, the servant asked her "Who from?" instead of "What -name?" - -Inch by inch she fought for the ground that was slipping under her, -affecting cheerfulness when the specimen was exhibited, and hiding -desperation when she restored it, a failure, to its case. The sight -of Victoria Street and its neighbourhood came to be loathsome to her. -Often her instructions took her on to different floors of the same -building day after day; and, fancying that the hall-porters divined why -she reappeared so often, she entered with the misgiving that they might -forbid her to ascend. - -It was no shock to her at last to issue from the lodging beggared. She -had felt so long that the situation was inevitable that she accepted -its coming almost apathetically. She faced the usual day, mounting the -flights of stairs, and drooping down them, a shade the weaker for the -absence of the pitiful breakfast. It was not until one o'clock that the -hopelessness of routine was admitted. Then, the prospect of the journey -to reach her room again was intimidating enough; she did not even -return to Pattenden's; she went slowly back and lay down on the bed, -managing to forget her hunger intermittently in snatches of sleep. - -Towards evening the pangs faded altogether. But incidents of years ago -recurred to her without any effort of the will, impelling her to cry -feebly at the recollection of some unkind answer that she had once -given, at a hurt expression that she saw again on her father's face. -During the night her troubles were reflected in her dreams, and at -morning she woke hollow-eyed. - -It was labour to her to dress. But she did not feel hungry, she felt -only dazed. She drank a glassful of water from the bottle on the -wash-hand-stand, and, driven to exertion by necessity, took her way to -the publishers', moving among the crowd torpidly, not acutely conscious -of her surroundings. - -Mr. Collins exclaimed at her appearance and strongly advised her to go -home and rest. - -"You don't look the thing at all," he said with genuine concern. "Stay -indoors to-day; you won't do any good if you're not well." - -She smiled wistfully at his idea that staying indoors would improve -matters. - -"I shan't be any better for not going out," she said. "Yes, give me the -list. Only don't expect me to come in and report; I shan't feel much -like doing that." - -He wrote a few names for her. - -"I shan't give you many to-day," he said. "Here are half a dozen; try -these!" - -"Thank you," said Mary; "I'll try these." She went down, and out into -the street once more. The rattle of the traffic roared in her ears; the -jam and jostle of the pavements confused her. She felt like a child -buffeted by giants, and could have lifted her arms, wailing to God to -let the end be now--to let her die quickly and quietly, and without -much pain. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -On the third floor of a house in Delahay Street there used to be a room -which was at once sitting-room and "workshop." A blue plate here and -there over the mirror, the shabby arm-chair on the hearth, and a modest -collection of books on the wall, gave it an air of home. The long -white table, littered with plans and paints, before the window, and a -theodolite in the corner, showed that it served for office too. - -A man familiar with that interior had just entered the passage, and as -he began to ascend the stairs a smile of anticipated welcome softened -the rigidity of his face. He was a tall, loosely-built man, who was -generally credited with five more years than the two-and-thirty he had -really seen; a man who, a physiognomist would have asserted, formed -few friendships and was a stanch friend. Possibly it was the gauntness -of the face that caused him to appear older than he was, possibly its -gravity. He did not look as if he laughed readily, as if he saw much in -life to laugh at. He did not look impulsive, or emotional, or a man to -be imagined singing a song. He could be pictured the one cool figure -in a scene of panic with greater facility than participating in the -enthusiasm of a grand-stand. Not that you found his aspect heroic, but -that you could not conceive him excited. - -He turned the handle as he knocked at the door, and strode into the -room without awaiting a response. The occupant dropped his T-square -with a clatter, giving a quick halloa: - -"Philip! Dear old chap!" - -Dr. Kincaid gripped the outstretched hand. - -"How are you?" he said. - -Walter Corri pushed him into the shabby chair, and lounged against the -mantelpiece, smiling down at him. - -"How are you?" repeated Dr. Kincaid. - -"All right. When did you come up?" - -"Yesterday afternoon." - -"Going to stay long?" - -"Only a day or two." - -"Pipe?" - -"Got a cigar; try one!" - -"Thanks." - -Corri pulled out a chair for himself. "Well, what's the news?" he said. - -"Nothing particular; anything fresh with you?" - -"No. How's your mother?" - -"Tolerably well; she came up with me." - -"Did she! Where are you?" - -"Some little hotel. I'm charged with a lot of messages----" - -"That you don't remember!" - -"I remember one of them: you're to come and see her." - -"Thanks, I shall." - -"Come and dine to-night, if you've nothing on. We have a room to -ourselves, and----" - -"I'd like to. What are you going to do during the day?" - -"There are two or three things that won't take very long, but I was -obliged to come. What are _you_ doing?" - -"I've an appointment outside at twelve; I shall be back in about an -hour, and then I could stick a paper on the door without risking an -independence." - -"You can go about with me?" - -"If you'll wait." - -"Good! Where do you keep your matches?" - -"Matches are luxuries. Tear up _The Times_!" - -"Corri's economy! Throw me _The Times_, then!" - -Kincaid lit his cigar to his satisfaction, and stretched his long legs -before the fire. Both men puffed placidly. - -"Well," said Corri, "and how's the hospital? How do you like it?" - -"My mother doesn't like it; she finds it so lonely at home by herself. -I thought she'd get used to it in a couple of months--I go round to -her as often as I can--but she complains as much as she did at the -beginning. She's taken up the original idea again, and of course it is -dull for her. And she's not strong, either." - -"No, I know." - -"Tell her I'm going to be a successful man by-and-by, Wally, and cheer -her up. It enlivens her to believe it." - -"I always do." - -"I know you do; whenever she's seen you, she looks at me proudly for -a week and tells me what a 'charming young man' Mr. Corri is--'how -clever!' The only fault she finds with you is that you haven't got -married." - -"Tell her that I have what the novelists call an 'ideal.'" - -"When did you catch it?" - -"Last year. A fellow I know married the 'Baby'--an adoring daughter -that thought all her family unique." - -"And----?" - -"My ideal is the blessing who is still unappropriated at twenty-eight. -She'll have discovered by then that her mother isn't infallible; that -her brothers aren't the first living authorities on wines, the fine -arts, horseflesh, and the sciences; and that the 'happy home' isn't -incapable of improvement. In fact, she'll have got a little tired of -it." - -"You've the wisdom of a relieved widower." - -"I have seen," said Corri widely. "The fellow, you know! Married -fellows are an awfully 'liberal education.' This one has been turned -into a nurse--among the several penalties of his selection. The -treasure is for ever dancing on to wet pavements in thin shoes and -sandwiching imbecilities between colds on the chest. He swears you may -move the Himalayas sooner than teach a girl of twenty to take care of -herself. He told me so with tears in his eyes. I mean to be older than -my wife, and she has got to be twenty-eight, so it's necessary to wait -a few years. I may be able to support her, too, by then; that's another -thing in favour of delay." - -"I'll represent the matter in the proper light for you on the next -occasion." - -"Do; it's extraordinary that every woman advocates matrimony for every -man excepting her own son." - -"She makes up for it by her efforts on behalf of her own daughter." - -"Is that from experience?" - -"Not in the sense you mean; I'm no catch to be chased myself; but I've -seen enough to make you sick. The friends see the ceremonies--I see the -sequels." - -"'There are worse occupations in this world than feeling a woman's -pulse.' But Yorick was an amateur! I should say a horrid profession, -in one way; it can't leave a scrap of illusion. What's a complexion to -a man who knows all that's going on underneath? I suppose when a girl -gives a blush you see a sort of chart of her muscles and remember what -produces it." - -"I knew a physician who used to say he had never cared for any woman -who hadn't a fatal disease," replied Kincaid; "how does that go with -your theory? She was generally consumptive, I believe." - -"Do you understand it?" - -"Pity, I dare say, first. Doctors are men." - -"Yes, I suppose they are; but somehow one doesn't think of them that -way. Between the student and the doctor there's such an enormous gap. -It's a stupid idea, but one feels that a doctor marries, as he goes to -church on Sunday--because the performance is respectable and expected. -Some professions don't make any difference to the man himself; you -don't think of an engineer as being different from anybody else; but -with Medicine----" - -"It's true," said Kincaid, "that hardly anybody but a doctor can -realise how a doctor feels; his friends don't know. The only writer who -ever drew one was George Eliot." - -"If you're a typical----" - -"Oh, I wasn't talking about myself; don't take me! When a man's -thoughts mean worries, he acquires the habit of keeping them to himself -very soon; that is, if he isn't a fool. It isn't calculated to make him -popular, but it prevents him becoming a bore." - -"Out comes your old bugbear! Isn't it possible for you to believe a -man's pals may listen to his worries without being bored?" - -"How many times?" - -"Oh, damn, whenever they're there!" - -"No," said Kincaid meditatively, "it isn't. They'd hide the boredom, of -course, but he ought to hide the worries. Let a man do his cursing in -soliloquies, and grin when it's conversation." - -"Would it be convenient to mention exactly what you do find it possible -to believe in?" - -"In work, and grit, and Walter Corri. In doing your honest best in -the profession you've chosen for the sake of the profession, not in -the hope of what it's going to do for you. You can't, quite--that's -the devil of it! Your own private ambitions _will_ obtrude themselves -sometimes; but they're only vanity, when all's said and done--just -meant for the fuel. What does nine out of ten men's success do for -anyone but the nine men? Leaving out the great truths, the discoveries -that benefit the human race for all time, what more good does a man -effect in his success than he did in his obscurity? Who wants to see -him succeed, excepting perhaps his mother--who's dead before he does -it? Who's the better for his success? who does he think will be any -better off for it? Nobody but No. 1! Then, whenever the vanity's sore -and rubbed the wrong way, you'd have him go to his friends and take it -out of them. What a selfish beast!" - -"Bosh!" said Corri. "Oh, I know it isn't argument, but 'bosh!'" - -"My dear fellow----" - -"My dear fellow, you had a rough time of it yourself for any number of -years, and----" - -"And they've left their mark. Very naturally! What then?" - -"Simply that now you want to stunt all humanity in the unfortunate -mould that was clapped on _you_. You understand the right of every pain -to shriek excepting mental pain. You'd sit up all night pitying the -whimpers of a child with a splintered finger, but if a man made a moan -because his heart was broken, you'd call him a 'selfish beast'!" - -Kincaid ejected a circlet of smoke, and watched it sail away before he -answered. - -"'Weak,'" he said, "I think I should call that 'weak.' It was a very -good sentence, though, if not quite accurate. This reminds me of old -times; it takes me back ten years to sit in your room and have you -bully me. There's something in it, Corri; circumstances are responsible -for a deuce of a lot, and we're all of us accidents. I'm a bad case, -you tell me; I dare say it's true. You're a good chap to put up with -me." - -"Don't be a fool," said Corri. - -The "fool" stared into the coals, nursing his big knee. He seemed to -be considering his chum's accusation. - -"When I was sixteen," he said, still nursing the knee and contemplating -the fire, "I was grown up. In looking back, I never see any transition -from childhood to maturity. I was a kid, and then I was a man. I was -a man when I went to school; I never had larks out of hours; I went -there understanding I was sent to learn as much, and as quickly as I -could. Then from school I was put into an office, and was a man who -already had to hide what he felt; my people knew I wanted to make this -my profession, and they couldn't afford it. If I had let the poor old -governor see--well, he didn't see; I affected contentment, I said a -clerkship was 'rather jolly'! Good Lord! I said it was 'jolly'! The -abasement of it! The little hypocritical cur it makes of you, that -life, where a gape is regarded as a sign of laziness and you're forced -to hide the natural thing behind an account-book or the lid of your -desk; when the knowledge that you mustn't lay down your pen for five -minutes under your chief's eyes teaches you to sneak your leisure when -he turns his back, and to sham uninterrupted industry at the sound -of--his return. With the humbug, and the 'Yes, sirs,' and the 'No, -sirs,' you're a schoolboy over again as a clerk, excepting that in an -office you're paid." - -"My clerk has yet to come!" said Corri, grimacing. - -"Yes, he's being demoralised somewhere else. How I thanked God one -night when my father told me if I hadn't outgrown my desire he could -manage to gratify it! The words took me out of hell. But when I did -become a student I couldn't help being conscious that to study was an -extravagance. The knowledge was with me all the time, reminding me of -my responsibility--although it wasn't till the governor died that I -knew how great an extravagance it must have seemed to him. And I never -spreed with the fellows as a student any more than I had enjoyed myself -with the lads in the playground. Altogether, I haven't rollicked, -Corri. Such youth as I have had has been snatched at between troubles." - -"Poor old beggar!" - -Kincaid smiled quickly. - -"There's more feeling in 'you poor old beggar!' than in a letter piled -up with condolence. It's hard lines one can't write 'poor old beggar' -to every acquaintance who has a bereavement." The passion that had -crept into his strong voice while speaking of his earlier life to the -one person in the world to whom he could have brought himself to speak -so, had been repressed; his tone was again the impassive one that was -second-nature to him. - -"Believe me," he said, harking back after a pause, "that idea of the -medical profession, that 'respectable and expected' idea of yours, -is quite wrong. Oh, it isn't yours alone, it's common? enough; every -little comic paragraphist thinks himself justified in turning out a -number of ignorant jokes at the profession's expense in the course of -the year; every twopenny-halfpenny caricaturist has to thank us for a -number of his dinners. No harm's meant, and nobody minds; but people -who actually know something of the subject that these funny men are so -constant to can tell you that there's more nobility and self-sacrifice -in the medical profession than in any under the sun, not excepting the -Church. Yes, and more hardships too! The chat on the weather and the -fee for remarking it's a fine day isn't every medical man's life; the -difficulty is to get the fees in return for loyal attendance. Nobody's -reverenced like the family doctor in time of sickness. In the days of -their child's recovery the parents love the doctor almost as fervently -as they do the child; but the fervour's got cold when Christmas comes -and the gratitude's forgotten. And they know a doctor can't dun them; -so he has to wait for his account and pretend the money's of no -consequence when he bows to them, though the butcher and the baker and -the grocer don't pretend to _him_, but look for _their_ bills to be -settled every week. I could give you instances----" - -He gave instances. Corri spoke of difficulties, too. They smoked their -cigars to the stumps, talking leisurely, until Corri declared that he -must go. - -"In an hour, then, I'll call back for you," said Kincaid; "you won't be -longer?" - -"I don't think so. But why not wait? You can make yourself comfortable; -there's plenty of _The Times_ left to read." - -"I will. I want to write a couple of letters--can I?" - -"There's a desk! Have I got everything? Yes, that's all. Well, I'll be -as quick as I can, but if I _should_ be detained I shall find you here?" - -"You'll find me here," said Kincaid, "don't be alarmed." - -The other's departure did not send him to the desk immediately, -however. Left alone, it was manifest how used the man had been to -living alone. It was manifest in his composure, in his deliberation, in -the earnestness he devoted to the task when at last he attacked it. He -had just reached the foot of the second page when somebody knocked at -the door. - -"Come in," he said abstractedly. - -The knock was repeated. It occurred to him that Corri had omitted to -provide for the contingency of a client's calling. "Come in!" he cried -more loudly, annoyed at the interruption. - -He glanced over his shoulder, and saw that the intruder was a woman, -with something in her hand. - -"Mr. Corri?" - -"Mr. Corri's not in," he replied, fingering the pen; "he'll be back -by-and-by." - -Mary lingered irresolutely. Her temples throbbed, and in her weakness -the sight of a chair magnetised her. - -"Shall I wait?" she murmured; "perhaps he won't be very long?" - -"Eh?" said Kincaid. "Oh, wait if you like, madam." - -She sank into a seat mutely. The response had not sounded encouraging, -but it permitted her to rest, and rest was what she yearned for now. -How indifferent the world was! how mercilessly little anybody cared -for anybody else! "Wait, if you like, madam"--go and die, if you like, -madam--go and lay your bones in the gutter, madam, so long as you -don't bother me! She watched the big hand hazily as it shifted to and -fro across the paper. The man probably had money in his pocket that -signified nothing to him, and to her it would have been salvation. He -lived in comfort while she was starving; he did not know that she was -starving, but how much would it affect him if he did know? She wondered -whether she could induce him to give an order for the book; perhaps he -was just as likely to order it as the other man? Then she would take a -cab back to Mr. Collins and ask him for her commission at once, and go -and eat something--if she were able to eat any longer. - -She roused herself with an effort, and crossed the room to where he sat. - -"I came to see Mr. Corri from Messrs. Pattenden," she faltered, "about -a new work they're publishing. I've brought a specimen. If I am not -disturbing you----?" - -She put it down as she spoke, and stood a pace or two behind him, -watching the effect. - -"Is this woman very nervous?" said Kincaid to himself. "So she's a -book-agent! I thought she had something to sell. Good Lord, what a -life!" - -"Thanks," he answered. "I'm very busy just now, and I never buy my -books on the subscription plan." - -"You could have it sent in to you when it's complete," she suggested. - -He drummed his fingers on the title-page. "I don't want it." - -"Perhaps Mr. Corri----?" - -"I can't speak for Mr. Corri; but don't wait for him, on my advice. I'm -afraid it would be patience wasted." - -He shut the _Album_ up, intimating that he had done with it. But the -woman made no movement to withdraw it, and he invited this movement by -pushing the thing aside. He drew the blotting-pad forward to resume -his letter; and still she did not remove her obnoxious specimen from -the desk. He was beginning to feel irritated. - -"If you choose to wait, madam, take a seat," he said.... "I say -take----" - -He turned, questioning her continued silence, and sprang to his feet -in dismay. The book-agent's head was lolling on her bosom; and his -arm--extended to support her--was only out in time to catch her as she -fell. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -"Now," said Kincaid, when she opened her eyes, "what's the matter with -you? No nonsense; I'm a doctor; you mustn't tell lies to me! What's the -matter with you?" - -There are some things a woman cannot say; this was one of them. - -"You're very exhausted?" - -"Oh," she said weakly, "I--just a little." - -"When had you food last?" - -She gave no answer. He scrutinised her persistently, noting her -hesitation, and shot his next question straight at the mark. - -"Are you hungry?" - -The eyes closed again, and her lips quivered. - -"Boor!" he said to himself, "she's starving, and you wouldn't buy her -book. Beast! she's starving, and you tried to turn her out." - -But his sympathy was hardly communicated by his voice; indeed, in her -shame she thought him rather rough. - -"You stop here a minute," he continued; "don't you go and faint again, -because I forbid it! I'm going to order a prescription for you. Your -complaint isn't incurable--I've had it myself." - -He left her in quest of the housekeeper, whom he interrogated on the -subject of eggs and coffee. A shilling brightened her wits. - -"Mr. Corri's room; hurry!" - -His patient was sitting in the arm-chair when he went back; he saw -tear-stains on her cheek, though she turned away her face at his -approach. - -"The prescription's being made up," he said. "Would you like the window -shut again? No? All right, we'll keep it open. Don't talk if you'd -rather not; there's no need--I know all you want to say." - -He ignored her ostentatiously till the tray appeared, and then, -receiving it at the doorway, brought it over to her himself. - -"Come," he said, "try that--slowly." - -"Oh!" she murmured, shrinking. - -"Don't be silly; do as I tell you! There's nothing to be bashful about; -I know you're not an angel--your having an appetite doesn't astonish -me." - -"How good you are!" she muttered; "what must you think of me?" - -"Eat," commanded Kincaid; "ask me what I think of you afterwards." - -She was evidently in no danger of committing the mistake that he had -looked for--his difficulty was, not to restrain, but to persuade her; -nor was her reluctance the outcome of embarrassment alone. - -"It has gone," she said, shaking her head; "I am really not hungry now." - -He encouraged her till she began. Then he retired behind the newspaper, -to distress her as little as might be by his presence. At the end of a -quarter of an hour he put _The Times_ down. The eggshells were empty, -and he stretched himself and addressed her: - -"Better?" - -"Much better," she said, with a ghost of a smile. - -"Have you been having a long experience of this sort of thing?" - -"N--no," she returned nervously, "not very." - -He caressed his moustache; she was ceasing to be a patient and becoming -a woman, and he didn't quite know what he was to do with her. Somehow, -despite her situation, the offer of a sovereign looked as if it would -be coarse. Mary divined his dilemma, and made as if to rise. - -"Sit down," he said authoritatively. "When you're well enough to go -I'll tell you; till I do, stay where you are!" - -She felt that she ought to say something, proffer some explanation, but -she was at a loss how to begin. There was a pause. And then: - -"Is there any likelihood of this business of yours improving?" inquired -Kincaid. "Suppose you were able to hold out--is there anything to look -forward to?" - -"No," she said; "I don't think there is. I'm afraid I am no use at it." - -"Was it an attractive career, that you made the attempt?" - -"Not in the least; but it was a chance." - -"I see!" - -He saw also that she was a gentlewoman fitted for more refined -pursuits. How had she reached this pass? he wondered. Would she -volunteer the information, or should he ask her? He failed to perceive -what assistance he could render if he knew; yet if he did not help her -she would go away and die, and he would know that she was going away to -die as he let her out. - -"I was introduced to the firm by a very old connection of theirs. I -couldn't find anything to do, and he fancied that as I was--well, that -as I was a lady--it sounds rather odd under the circumstances to speak -of being a lady, doesn't it----?" - -"I don't see anything odd about it," he said. - -"He fancied I might do rather well. But I think it's a drawback, on the -contrary. It's not easy to me to decline to take 'No' for an answer; -and nobody can do any good at work she's ashamed of." - -"But you shouldn't be ashamed," he said; "it's honest enough." - -"That's what the manager tells me. Only when la woman has to go into a -stranger's office and bother him, and be snubbed for her pains, the -honesty doesn't prevent her feeling uncomfortable. You must have found -me a nuisance yourself." - -"I'm afraid I was rather brusque," he said quickly. "I was busy; I hope -I wasn't rude?" - -Her colour rose. - -"I didn't mean that at all," she stammered; "I shouldn't be very -grateful to remind you of it even if you had been!" - -"I should have thought a book of that sort would have been tolerably -easy to sell. It's a useful work of reference. What's the price?" - -"Two pounds ten altogether. It isn't dear, but people won't buy it, all -the same." - -"Yes, it's got up well," he said, taking it from the desk and turning -the leaves. "How many volumes, did you say?" - -"Four." - -She made a little tentative movement to recover it, but he went on as -if the gesture had escaped him. - -"If it's not too late I'll change my mind and subscribe for a copy. Put -my name down, please, will you?" - -She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. - -"No," she said, "thank you, I'd rather not." - -"Why?" - -"You don't want the book, I know you don't. You've fed me and done -enough for me already; I won't take your money too; I can't!" - -Her bosom began to swell tempestuously. He saw by the widened eyes -fixed upon the fire that she was struggling not to cry again. - -"There," he said gently, "don't break down! Let's talk about something -else." - -"Oh!"--she sneaked a tear away--"I'm not used ... don't think----" - -"No, no," he said, "_I_ know, _I_ understand. Poke it for me, will you? -let's have a blaze." - -She took the poker up, and prolonged the task a minute while she hung -her head. - -Remarked Kincaid: - -"It's awful to be hard up, isn't it? I've been through all the stages; -it's abominable!" - -"_You_ have?" - -"Oh yes; I know all about it. So I don't tell you that 'money's the -least thing.' Only people who have always had enough say that." - -"One wants so little in the world to relieve anxiety," she said; "it -does seem cruel that so few can get enough for ease." - -"What do you mean by 'ease'?" - -"Oh, I should call employment 'ease' now." - -"Did you ask for more once, then?" - -"Yes, I used to be more foolish. 'Experience teaches fools.'" - -"No, it doesn't," said Kincaid. "Experience teaches intelligent people; -fools go on blundering to the end. 'Once----?' I interrupted you." - -"Well, it used to mean a home of my own, and relations to care for me, -and money enough to settle the bills without minding if they came to -five shillings more than I had expected. It's a beautiful regulation -that the less we have, the less we can manage with. But the horse -couldn't live on the one straw." - -"How did you come to this?" asked Kincaid; "couldn't you get different -work before the last straw?" - -"If you knew how I tried! I haven't any friends here; that was my -difficulty. I wanted a situation as a companion, but I had to give the -idea up at last, and it ended in my going to Pattenden's. Don't think -they know! I mean, don't imagine they guess the straits I'm in: that -would be unfair. They have been very kind to me." - -"You've never been a companion, I suppose?" - -"No; but I hoped, for all that. Everything has to be done for the first -time; every adept was a novice once.". - -"That's true, but there are so many adepts in everything to-day that -the novices haven't much chance." - -"Then how are they to qualify?" - -"That's the novices' affair. You can't expect people to pay -incompetence when skilled labour is loafing at the street corners." - -"I expect nothing," she answered; "my expectations are all dead and -buried. We've only a certain capacity for expectation, I think; under -favourable conditions it wears well and we say, 'While there's life -there's hope;' but; when it's strained too much, it gives out." - -"And you drift without a fight in you?" - -"A woman can't do more than fight till she's beaten." - -"She shouldn't acknowledge to being beaten." - -"Theory!" she said between her teeth; "the breakfast-tray is fact!" - -"What do you reckon is going to become of; you?" - -"I don't anticipate at all." - -"Oh, that's all rubbish! Answer straight!" - -"I shall starve, then," she said. - -"Sss! You know it?" - -"I know it, and I'm resigned to it. If I weren't resigned to it, it -would be much harder. There's nothing that can happen to provide -for me; there isn't a soul in the world I can--'will,' to be -accurate--appeal to for help. You've delayed it a little by your -kindness, but you can't prevent its coming. Oh, I've hoped and -struggled till I am worn out!" she went on, her; voice shaking. "If -there were a prospect, I could rouse myself, weak as I am, to reach -it; but there isn't a prospect, not the glimmer of a prospect! I'm not -cowardly; I'm only rational. I admit what is; I've finished duping -myself." - -She could express her despair, this woman; she had education and -manner. He contemplated her attentively; she interested him. - -"You speak like a fatalist, for all that," he said to her. - -"I speak like a woman who has reached the lowest rung of destitution -and been fed on charity. I----Oh, don't, _don't_ keep forcing me to -make a child of myself like this; let me go! Perhaps you're quite -right--things 'll improve." - -"You shall go presently; not yet--not till I say you may." - -There was silence between them once more. He lay back, with his hands -thrust deep into his trouser-pockets, and his feet crossed, pondering. - -"You weren't brought up to anything, of course?" he said abruptly. -"Never been trained to anything? You can't do anything, or make -anything, that has any market value?" - -"I lived at home." - -"And now you're helpless! What rot it is! Why didn't your father teach -you to use your hands?" - -"I think you said you were a doctor?" she returned, lifting her head. - -"Eh? Yes, my name is 'Kincaid.'" - -"My father was Dr. Anthony Brettan; he never expected his daughter to -be in such want." - -"You don't say so--your father was one of us? I'm glad to make your -acquaintance. Is it 'Miss Brettan'?" - -She nodded, warming with an impulse to go further and cry, "Also I have -been a nurse: you are a doctor, can't you get me something to do?" -But if she did, he would require corroboration, and, in the absence -of her certificate, institute inquiries at the hospital; and then the -whisper would circulate that "Brettan was no longer living with her -husband"--they would soon ascertain that he had not died--and from -that point to the truth would be the veriest step. "Never married at -all--the disgrace! Of course, an actor, but fancy _her_!" She could see -their faces, the astonishment of their contempt. Narrow circle as it -was, it had been her world--she could not do it! - -"But surely, Miss Brettan," he said, "there must be someone who -can serve you a little--someone who can put you in the way of an -occupation?" - -Immediately she regretted having proclaimed so much as she had. - -"My father lived very quietly, and socially he was hardly a popular -man. For several reasons I wouldn't like my distress to be talked about -by people who knew him." - -"Those people are your credentials, though," he urged; "you can't -afford to turn your back on them. If you'll be guided by advice, you -will swallow your pride." - -"I couldn't; I made the resolve to stand alone, and I shall stick to -it. Besides, you are wrong in supposing that any one of them would -exert himself for me to any extent; my father did not have--was not -intimate enough with anybody." - -A difficult woman to aid, thought Kincaid pityingly. A notion had -flashed across his mind, at her reference to the kind of employment she -had desired, and the announcement of her parentage was strengthening -it; but there must be something to go upon, something more than mere -assertion. - -"If a post turned up, who is there to speak for you?" - -"Messrs. Pattenden; I believe they'd speak for me willingly." - -"Anybody else?" - -"No; but the manager would see anyone who went to him about me, I'm -almost sure." - -"You need friends, you know," he said; "you're very awkwardly placed -without any." - -"Oh, I do know! To have no friends is a crime; one's helpless without -them. And a woman's helplessness is the best of reasons why no help -should be extended to her. But it sounds a merciless argument, -doctor--horribly merciless, at the beginning!" - -"It's a merciless life. Look here, Miss Brettan, I don't want to beat -about the bush: you're in a beastly hole, and if I can pull you out of -it I shall be glad--for your own sake, and for the sake of your dead -father. It's like this, though; the only thing I can see my way to -involves the comfort of someone else. You were talking about a place as -companion; I can't live at home now, and my mother wants one." - -"Doctor!" - -She caught her breath. - -"If I were to take the responsibility of recommending you, it's -probable she'd engage you; I think you'd suit her, but----Well, it's -rather a large order!" - -"Oh, you should never be sorry!" she cried. "You shall never be sorry -for trusting me, if you will!" - -"You see, it's not easy. It's not usual to go engaging a lady one meets -for the first time." - -"Why, you wouldn't meet anybody else oftener," she pleaded eagerly; -"if you advertised, you'd take the woman after the one interview. You -wouldn't exchange a lot of visits and get friendly before you engaged -her." - -He pulled at his moustache again. - -"But of course she wouldn't--wouldn't be starving," she added; "she -wouldn't have fainted in your room. It'd be no more judicious, but it -would be more conventional." - -"You argue neatly," he said with a smile. - -The smile encouraged her. She smiled response. He could not smile if he -were going to refuse her, she felt. - -"Dr. Kincaid----" - -"One minute," he said; "I hear someone coming, I think. Excuse me!" - -It was Corri; he met him as he turned the handle, and drew him outside. - -"There's a woman in there," he said, "and a breakfast-tray. Come down -on to the next landing; I want to speak to you." - -"What on earth----" said Corri. "Are you giving a party? What do -you mean by a woman and a breakfast-tray? Did the woman bring the -breakfast-tray?" - -"No, she brought a book. It's serious." - -They leant over the banisters conferring, while Mary, in the arm-chair, -remained trembling with suspense. The vista opened by Kincaid's words -had shown her how tenaciously she still clung to life, how passionately -she would clutch at a chance of prolonging it. Awhile ago her one -prayer had been to die speedily; now, with a possibility of rescue -dangled before her eyes, her prayer was only for the possibility to be -fulfilled. Would he be satisfied, or would he send her away? Her fate -swung on the decision. She did not marvel at the tenacity; it seemed to -her so natural that she did not question it at all. Yet it is of all -things the oddest--the love of living which the most life-worn preserve -in their hearts. Every day they long for sleep, and daily the thought -of death alarms them--terrifies their inconsistent souls, though few -indeed believe there is a Hell, and everybody who is good enough to -believe in Heaven believes also that he is good enough to go to it. - -"O God," she whispered, "make him take me! Forgive me what I did; don't -let me suffer any more, God! You know how I loved him--how I loved him!" - -"Well," said Corri, on the landing, "and what are you going to do?" - -"I'm thinking," said Kincaid, "of letting my mother go to see her." - -"It's wildly philanthropic, isn't it?" - -"It looks wild, of course." He mused a moment. "But, after all, one -knows where she comes from; her father was a professional man; she's a -lady." - -"What was her father's name, again?" - -"Brettan--Anthony." - -"Ever heard it before?" - -"If there wasn't such a person, one can find it out in five minutes. -Besides, my mother would have to decide for herself. I should tell her -all about it, and if an interview left her content, why----" - -"Well," said Corri, "go back to the Bench and sum up! You'll find me on -the bed. By the way, if you could hand my pipe out without offending -the young lady, I should take it as a favour." - -"You've smoked enough. Wait! here's a last cigar; go and console -yourself with that!" - -Kincaid returned to the room; but he was not prepared to sum up at -the moment. Mary looked at him anxiously, striving to divine, by his -expression, the result of the consultation on the stairs. The person -consulted had been Mr. Corri, she concluded, the man that she had been -sent to importune. Old or young? easy-going or morose? On which side -had he cast the weight of his opinion--this man that she had never seen? - -"We were talking about the companion's place, Miss Brettan," began -Kincaid. "Now, what do you say?" - -Instantly she glowed with gratitude towards the unknown personage, who, -in reality, had done nothing. - -"Never should you regret it, Dr. Kincaid, never!" - -"Understand, I couldn't guarantee the engagement in any case," he said -hastily. "The most I could do would be to mention the matter; the rest -would depend on my mother's own feelings." - -"I should be just as thankful to you if she objected. Don't think I -under-estimate my draw-backs--I know that for you even to consider -engaging me is generous. But----Oh, I'd do my best!--I would indeed! -The difficulty's as clear to me as to you," she went on rapidly, "I see -it every bit as plainly. See it? It has barred me from employment again -and again! I'm a stranger, I've no credentials; I can only look you in -the face and say: 'I have told you the truth; if I were able to take -your advice and pocket my pride, I could _prove_ that I have told you -the truth,' And what's that?--anybody might say it and be lying! Oh -yes, I know! Doctor, my lack of references has made me suspected till -I could have cried blood. Doors have been shut against me, not because -I was ineligible in myself, but because I was a woman who hadn't -had employers to say, 'I found her a satisfactory person.' Things I -should have done for have been given to other women because they had -'characters,' and I hadn't. At the beginning I thought my tones would -carry conviction--I thought I could say: 'Honestly, this tale is -true,' and someone--one in a dozen, perhaps, one in twenty--would be -found to believe me. What a mistake, to hope to be believed! Why, in -all London, there's no creature so forsaken as a gentleman's daughter -without friends. A servant may be taken on trust; an educated woman, -never!" - -"She may sometimes," said Kincaid. "Hang it! it isn't so bad as all -that. What I can do for you I will! Very likely my mother will call on -you this afternoon. Where are you staying?" - -A hansom had just discharged a fare at one; of the opposite houses, and -he hailed it from the window. - -"The best thing you can do now is to go home and rest, and try not to -worry. Cheer up, and hope for the best, Miss Brettan--care killed a -cat!" - -She swallowed convulsively. - -"That is the address," she said. "God bless you, Dr. Kincaid!" - -He led the way down to the passage, and put her into the cab. It was, -perhaps, superfluous to show her that he remembered that cabs were -beyond her means; yet she might be harassed during the drive by a dread -of the man's demand, and he paid him so that she should see. - -The occurrence had swelled his catalogue of calls. He told Corri they -had better drop in at Guy's, and glance at a medical directory; but in -passing a second-hand bookstall they noticed an old copy exposed for -sale, and examined that one. He found Anthony Brettan's name in the -provincial section with gladness, and remarked, moreover, that Brettan -had been a student of his own college. - -"'Brettan' is going up!" he observed cheerfully. "Now step it, my son!" - -Mary's arrival at the lodging was an event of local interest. Mrs. -Shuttleworth, who stood at the door conversing with a neighbour, -watched her descent agape. Two children playing on the pavement -suspended their game. She told Mrs. Shuttleworth that a lady might ask -for her during the day, and, mounting to the garret, shut herself in to -wrestle unsuccessfully with her fears of being refused, or forgotten -altogether. Would this mother come or not? If not--she shivered; -she had been so near to ignominious death that the smell of it had -reached her nostrils--if not, the devilish gnawing would be back again -directly, and the faint sick craving would follow it; and then there -would be a fading of consciousness for the last time, and they would -talk about her as "it" and be afraid. - -But the mother did come. It seemed so wonderful that, even when -she sat beside her in the attic, and everything was progressing -favourably, Mary could scarcely realise that it was true. She came, -and the engagement was made. There are some women who are essentially -women's women; Mary was one of them. Mrs. Kincaid, who came already -interested, sure that her Philip could make no mistake and wishful to -be satisfied, was charmed with her. The pleading tones, the repose of -manner, the--for so she described it later--"Madonna face," if they -did not go "straight to her heart," mightily pleased her fancy. And of -course Mary liked her; what more natural? She was gentle of voice, she -had the softest blue eyes that ever beamed mildly under white hair, -and--culminating attraction--she obviously liked Mary. - -"I'm a lonely old woman now my son's been appointed medical officer at -the hospital," she said. "It'll be very quiet for you, but you'll bear -that, won't you? I do think you'll be comfortable with me, and I'm sure -I shall want to keep you." - -"Quiet for me!" said Mary. "Oh, Mrs. Kincaid, you speak as if you were -asking a favour of me, but your son must have told you that--what----I -suppose he saved my life!" - -"That's his profession," answered the old lady brightly; "that's what -he had to learn to do." - -"Ah, but not with hot breakfasts," Mary smiled. "I accept your offer -gratefully; I'll come as soon as you like." - -"Can you manage to go back with us the day after to-morrow? Don't if it -inconveniences you; but if you can be ready----" - -"I can; I shall be quite ready." - -"Good girl!" said Mrs. Kincaid. "Now you must let me advance you a -small sum, or--I daresay you have things to get--perhaps we had better -make it this! There, there! it's your own money, not a present; there's -nothing to thank me for. Good-afternoon, Miss Brettan; I will write -letting you know the train." - -"This" was a five-pound note. When she was alone again Mary picked it -up, and smoothed it out, and quivered at the crackle. These heavenly -people! their tenderness, their consideration! Oh, how beautiful it -would be if they knew all about her and there were no reservations! She -did wish she could have, revealed all to them--they had been so nice -and kind. - -She sought the landlady and paid her debt--the delight she felt in -paying her debt!--and said that she would be giving up her room after -the next night. She went forth to a little foreign restaurant in Gray's -Inn Road, where she dined wholesomely and well, treating herself to -cutlets, bread-crumbed and brown, and bordered with tomatoes, to -pudding and gruyere, and a cup of black coffee, all for eighteenpence, -after tipping the waiter. She returned to the attic--glorified attic! -it would never appal her any more--and abandoned herself to meditating -upon the "things." There was this, and there was that, and there -was the other. Yes, and she must have a box! She would have had her -initials painted on the box, only the paint would look so curiously -new. Should she have her initials on it? No, she decided that she would -not. Then there were her watch, and the bag to be redeemed at the -pawnbroker's, and she must say good-bye to Mr. Collins. What a busy day -would be the morrow! what a dawn of new hope, new peace, new life! Her -anxieties were left behind; before her lay shelter and rest. Yet on -a sudden the pleasure faded from her features, and her lips twitched -painfully. - -"Tony!" she murmured. - -She stood still where she had risen. A sob, a second sob, a torrent of -tears. She was on her knees beside the bed, gasping, shuddering, crying -out on God and him: - -"O Tony, Tony, Tony!" - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -The sun shone bright when she met Mrs. Kincaid at Euston. The doctor -was there, lounging loose-limbed and bony, by his mother's side. He -shook Mary's hand and remarked that it was a nice day for travelling. -She had been intending to say something grateful on greeting him, but -his manner did not invite it, so she tried to throw her thanks into -a look instead. She suffered at first from slight embarrassment, not -knowing if she should take her own ticket, nor what assistance was -expected of a companion at a railway-station. Perhaps she ought to -select the compartment, and superintend the labelling of the luggage? -Fortunately the luggage was not heavy, her own being by far the larger -portion; and the tickets, she learnt directly, he had already got. - -Her employer lived in Westport, a town that Mary had never visited, and -a little conversation arose from her questions about it. She did not -say much--she spoke very diffidently, in fact; the consciousness that -she was being paid to talk and be entertaining weighted her tongue. She -was relieved when, shortly after they started, Mrs. Kincaid imitated -her son's example, who lay back in his corner with his face hidden -behind _The Lancet_. - -They travelled second class, and it was not till a stoppage occurred -at some junction that their privacy was invaded. Then a large woman, -oppressed by packages and baskets, entered; and, as the new-comer -belonged to the category of persons who regard a railway journey as a -heaven-sent opportunity to eat an extra meal, her feats with sandwiches -had a fascination that rivalled the interest of the landscape. - -Of course, three hours later, when the train reached Westport, Mary -felt elated. Of course she gazed eagerly from the platform over the -prospect. It was new and pleasant and refreshing. There was a little -winding road with white palings, and a cottage with a red roof. A bell -tolled softly across the meadows, and somebody standing near her said -he supposed "that was for five o'clock service." To have exchanged the -jostle of London for a place where people had time to remember service -on a week-day, to be able to catch the chirp of the birds between the -roll of the wheels, was immediately exhilarating. Then, too, as they -drove to the house she scented in the air the freshness of tar that -bespoke proximity to the sea. Her bosom lifted. "The blessed peace of -it all!" she thought; "how happy I ought to be!" - -But she was not happy. That first evening there came to her the -soreness and sickness of recollection. She was left alone with Mrs. -Kincaid, and in the twilight they sat in the pretty little parlour, -chatting fitfully. How different was this arrival from those that she -was used to! No unpacking of photographs; no landlady to chatter of -the doings of last week's company; no stroll after tea with Tony just -to see where the theatre was. How funny! She said "how funny!" but -presently she meant "how painful!" And then it came upon her as a shock -that the old life was going on still without her. Photographs were -still being unpacked and set forth on mantelpieces; landladies still -waxed garrulous of last week's business; Tony was still strolling about -the towns on Sunday evenings, as he had done when she was with him. And -he was going to be Miss Westland's husband, while _she_ was here! How -hideous, how frightful and unreal, it seemed! - -She got up, and went over to the flower-stand in the window. - -"Are you tired, Miss Brettan? Perhaps you would like to go to your room -early to-night?" - -"No," she said, "thank you; I'm afraid I feel a trifle strange as yet, -that's all." - -At the opposite corner was a hoarding, and a comic-opera poster shone -among the local shopkeepers' advertisements. The sudden sight of -theatrical printing was like a welcome to her; she stood looking at it, -thrilling at it, with the past alive and warm again in her heart. - -"You'll soon feel at home," Mrs. Kincaid said after a pause; "I'm sure -I can understand your finding it rather uncomfortable at first." - -"Oh, not uncomfortable," Mary explained quickly; "it is queer a little, -just that! I mean, I don't know what I ought to do, and I'm afraid of -seeming inattentive. What is a companion's work, Mrs. Kincaid?" - -"Well, I've never had one," the old lady said with a laugh. "I think -you and I will get on best, do you know, if we forget you've come as -companion--if you talk when you like, and keep quiet when you like. You -see, it is literally a companion I want, not somebody to ring the bell -for me, and order the dinner, and make herself useful. This isn't a big -house, and I'm not a fashionable person; I want a woman who'll keep me -from moping, and be nice." - -Her answer expressed her requirements, and Mary found little expected -of her in return for the salary; so little that she wondered sometimes -if she earned it, small as it was. Excepting that she was continually -conscious that she must never be out of temper, and was frequently -obliged to read aloud when she would rather have sat in reverie, she -was practically her own mistress. Even, as the days went by she found -herself giving utterance to a thought as it came to her, without -pausing to conjecture its reception; speaking with the spontaneity -which, with the paid companion, is the last thing to be acquired. - -Few pleasures are shorter-lived than the one of being restored to -enough to eat; and in a week her sense of novelty had almost worn -away. They walked together; sometimes to the sea, but more often in -the town, for the approach to the sea tired Mrs. Kincaid. Westport was -not a popular watering-place; and in the summer Mary discovered that -the population of fifty thousand was not very greatly increased. From -Laburnum Lodge it took nearly twenty minutes to reach the shore, and -a hill had to be climbed. At the top of the incline the better-class -houses came to an end; and after some scattered cottages, an expanse -of ragged grass, with a bench or two, sloped to the beach. Despite its -bareness, Mary thought the spot delightful; its quietude appealed to -her. She often wished that she could go there by herself. - -Of the doctor they saw but little. Now and again he came round for an -hour or so, and at first she absented herself on these occasions. But -Mrs. Kincaid commented on her retirement and said it was unnecessary; -and thenceforward she remained. - -She did not chance to be out alone until she had been here nearly -three months; and when Mrs. Kincaid inquired one afternoon if she would -mind choosing a novel at the circulating library for her she went forth -gladly. A desire to see _The Era_ and ascertain Carew's whereabouts, -had grown too strong to be subdued. - -She crossed the interlying churchyard, and made her way along the High -Street impatiently; and, reaching the railway bookstall, bought a copy -of the current issue. It was with difficulty she restrained herself -from opening it on the platform, but she waited until she had turned -down the little lane at the station's side, and reached the gate where -the coal-trucks came to an end and a patch of green began. She doubted -whether the company would be touring so long, but the paper would -tell her something of his doings anyhow. She ran her eye eagerly down -the titles headed "On the Road." No, _The Foibles_ evidently was not -out now. Had the tour broken up for good, she wondered, or was there -merely a vacation? She could quickly learn by Tony's professional card. -How well she knew the sheet! The sheet! she knew the column, its very -number in the column--knew it followed "Farrell" and came before "de -Vigne." She even recalled the week when he had abandoned the cheaper -advertisements in alphabetical order; he had been cast for a part in a -production. She remembered she had said, - -"Now you're going to create," and, laughing, he had answered, "Oh, I -must have half a crown's worth 'to create'!" He had been lying on the -sofa--how it all came back to her! What was he doing now? She found the -place in an instant: - - "MR. SEATON CAREW, - - RESTING, - -Assumes direction of Miss Olive Westland's Tour, Aug. 4th. - - See 'Companies' page." - -They were married! She could not doubt it. "Oh," she muttered, "how he -has walked over me, that man! For the sake of two or three thousand -pounds, just for the sake of her money!" She sought weakly for the -company advertisement referred to, but the paragraphs swam together, -and it was several minutes before she could find it. Yes, here it -was: "_The Foibles of Fashion_ and Répertoire, opening August 4th." -_Camille_, eh? She laughed bitterly. He was going to play Armand; -he had always wanted to play Armand; now he could do it! "Under the -direction of Mr. Seaton Carew. Artists respectfully informed the -company is complete. All communications to be addressed: Mr. Seaton, -Carew, Bath Hotel, Bournemouth." Oh, my God! - -To think that while she had been starving in that attic he had -proceeded with his courtship, to reflect that in one of those terrible -hours that she had passed through he must have been dressing himself -for his wedding, wrung her heart. And now, while she stood here, he -was calling the other woman "Olive," and kissing her. She gripped the -bar with both hands, her breast heaved tumultuously; it seemed to her -that her punishment was more than she had power to bear. Wasn't his -sin worse than her own? she questioned; yet what price would he ever -be called upon to pay for it? At most, perhaps, occasional discontent! -Nobody would-blame him a bit; his offence was condoned already by a -decent woman's hand. In the wife's eyes she, Mary, was of course an -adventuress who had turned his weakness to account until the heroine -appeared on the scene to reclaim him. How easy it was to be the heroine -when one had a few thousand pounds to offer for a wedding-ring! - -She let the paper lie where it had fallen, and went to the library. -In leaving it she met Kincaid on his way to the Lodge. He was rather -glad of the meeting, the man to whom women had been only patients; he -had felt once or twice of late that it was agreeable to talk to Miss -Brettan. - -"Hallo," he said, in that voice of his that had so few inflexions; -"what have you been doing? Going home?" - -"I've been to get a book for Mrs. Kincaid," she answered. "She was -hoping you'd come round to-day." - -"I meant to come yesterday. Well, how are you getting on? Still -satisfied with Westport? Not beginning to tire of it yet?" - -"I like it very much," she said, "naturally. It's a great change from -my life three months ago; I shouldn't be very grateful if I weren't -satisfied." - -"That's all right. Your coming was a good thing; my mother was saying -the other evening it was a slice of luck." - -"Oh, I'm so glad! I have wanted to know whether I--did!" - -"You 'do' uncommonly; I haven't seen her so content for a long while. -You don't look very bright; d'ye feel well?" - -"It's the heat," she said; "yes, I'm quite well, thank you; I have a -headache this afternoon, that's all." - -She was wondering if her path and Carew's would ever cross again. How -horrible if chance brought him to the theatre here and she came face to -face with him in the High Street! - -"Hasn't my mother been out to-day herself? She ought to make the most -of the fine weather." - -"I left her in the garden; I think she likes that better than taking -walks." - -And it might happen so easily! she reflected. Why not _that_ company, -among the many companies that came to Westport? She'd be frightened to -leave the house. - -"I suppose when you first heard there was a garden you expected to see -apple-trees and strawberry-beds, didn't you?" - -"Oh, I don't know. It's not a bad little garden. We had tea in it last -night." - -She might be walking with Mrs. Kincaid, and Tony and his wife -would come suddenly round a corner. And "Miss Westland" would look -contemptuous, and Tony would start, and--and if she turned white, she'd -loathe herself! - -"Did you? You must enliven the old lady? a good deal if she goes in for -that sort of thing!" - -"Oh, it was stuffy indoors, and we thought that tea outside would be -nicer. I daresay I'm better than no one; it must have been rather dull -for her alone." - -"Is that the most you find to say of yourself--'better than no one'?" - -"Well, I haven't high spirits; some women are always laughing. We sit -and read, or do needlework; or she talks about you, and----" - -"And you're bored? That's a mother's privilege, you know, to bore -everybody about her son; you mustn't be hard on her." - -"I am interested; I think it's always interesting to hear of a man's -work in a profession. And, then, Medicine was my father's." - -"Were you the only child?" - -"Yes. I wasn't much of a child, though! My mother died when I was very -young, and I was taught a lot through that. The practice wasn't very -good--very remunerative, that's to say--and if a girl's father isn't -well off she becomes a woman early. If I had had a brother now----" - -"If you had had a brother--what?" - -"I was thinking it might have vmade a difference. Nothing particular. I -don't suppose he'd have been of any monetary assistance; there wouldn't -have been anything to give him a start with. But I should have liked a -brother--one older than I am." - -"You'd have made the right kind of man of him, I believe." - -"I was thinking of what he'd have made of me. A brother must be such a -help; a boy gets experience, and a girl has only instinct." - -"It's a pretty good thing to go on with." - -"It needs education, doctor, surely?" - -"It needs educating by a mother. Half the women who have children are -no more fit to be mothers than----And one comes across old maids with -just the qualities! Fine material allowed to waste!" - -The entrance to a cottage that they were passing stood open, and she -could see into the parlour. There were teacups on the table, and a mug -of wild flowers. On a garden-gate a child in a pink pinafore was slowly -swinging. The brilliance of the day had subsided, and the town lay -soft and yellow in the restfulness of sunset. A certain liquidity was -assumed by the rugged street in the haze that hung over it; a touch of -transparence gilded its flights of steps, the tiles of the house-tops, -and the homely faces of the fisher-folk where they loitered before -their doors. There a girl sat netting among the hollyhocks, withholding -confession from the youth who lounged beside her, yet lifting at times -to him a smile that had not been wakened by the net. The melody of the -hour intensified the discord in the woman's soul. - -"Don't you think----" said Kincaid. - -He turned to her, strolling with his hands behind him. He talked to -her, and she answered him, until they reached the house. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -Slowly there stole into Kincaid's life a new zest. He began to be -more eager to walk round to the Lodge; was often reluctant to rise -and say "good-night"; even found the picture of the little lamplit -room lingering with him after the front door had closed. Formerly the -visits had been rather colourless. Despite her affection for her son, -Mrs. Kincaid was but tepidly interested in the career that engrossed -him. She was vaguely proud to have a doctor for a son, but she felt -that his profession supplied them with little to talk about when he -came; and the man felt that his mother's inquiries about his work were -perfunctory. A third voice had done much for the visits, quickened the -accustomed questions, the stereotyped replies into the vitality of -conversation. - -Kincaid did not fail to give Miss Brettan credit for the brighter -atmosphere of the villa. But winter was at hand before he admitted -that much of the pleasure that he took in going there was inspired by -a hearty approval of Miss Brettan. The cosiness of the room, with two -women smiling at him when he entered--always with a little, surprise, -for the time of his coming was uncertain--and getting things for him, -and being sorry when he had to leave had had a charm that he did not -analyse. It was by degrees that he realised how many of his opinions -were directed to her. His one friendship hitherto had been for Corri; -and Corri was not here. The months when his cordial liking for Mary was -clear to him, and possessed of a fascination due very largely to its -unexpectedness, were perhaps the happiest that he had known. - -The development was not so happy; but it was fortunately slow. He had -gone to the house earlier than usual, and the women were preparing -for a walk. Mary stood by the mantelpiece. There was something they -had meant to do; she said she would go alone to do it. He lay back in -the depths of an arm-chair, and watched her while she spoke to his -mother, watched the play of her features and the quick turn of her -cheek. Then--it was the least significant of trivialities--she plucked -a hairpin from her hair, and began to button her glove. It was revealed -to him as he contemplated her that she was eminently lovable. His eyes -dwelt on the tender curve of her figure, displayed by the flexion of -her arm; he remarked the bend of the head, and the delicate modelling -of her ear and neck. These things were quite new to him. He was stirred -abruptly by the magic of her sex. The admiration did not last ten -seconds, and before he saw her again he recollected it only once, quite -suddenly. But the development had begun. - -In his next visit he looked to see these beauties, and found them. This -time, being voluntary, the admiration lasted longer. It was recurrent -all the evening. He discovered a novel excellence in her performance of -the simplest acts, and an additional enjoyment in talking with her. - -Thoughts of her came to him now while he sat at night in his room. -The bare little room witnessed all the phases of the man's love--its -brightness, and then its misgivings. He had no confidant to prose to; -he could never have spoken of the strange thing that had happened to -him, if he had had a confidant. He used to sit alone and think of her, -wondering if God would put it into her heart to care for him, wondering -in all humility if it could be ordained that he should ever hold this -dear woman in his arms and call her "wife." - -He would not be in a position to give her luxury, and for a couple of -years certainly he could not marry at all; but he believed primarily -that he could at least make her content; and in reflecting what she -would make of life for him, he smiled. The salary that he drew from his -post was not a very large one, but his mother's means sufficed for her -requirements, and he was able to lay almost the whole of it aside. He -thought that when a couple of years had gone by, he would be justified -in furnishing a small house, and that he might reasonably expect, -through the introductions procured by his appointment, to establish a -practice. It would be rather pinched for them at first, of course, but -she wouldn't mind that much if she were fond of him. "Fond" of him! -Could it be possible? he asked himself--Miss Brettan fond of him! She -was so composed, so quiet, she seemed such a long way off now that he -wanted her for his own. Would it really ever happen that the woman -whose hand had merely touched him in courtesy would one day be uttering -words of love for him and saying "my husband"? - -He wrestled long with his tenderness; the misgivings came quickly. -After all, she was comfortable as she was--she was provided for, she -had no pecuniary cares here. Had he the right to beg her to relinquish -this comparative ease and struggle by his side oppressed by the worries -of a precarious income? Then he told himself that they might take in -patients: that would augment the income. And she was a dependant now; -if she married him she would be her own mistress. - -He weighed all the pros and cons; he was no boy to call the -recklessness of self-indulgence the splendour of devotion. He balanced -the arguments on either side long and carefully. If he asked her -to come to him, it should be with the conviction he was doing her -no wrong. He saw how easy it would be to deceive himself, to feel -persuaded that the fact of her being in a situation made matrimony -an advance to her, whether she married well or ill. He would not act -impatiently and perhaps spoil her life. But he was very impatient. -Through months he used to come away from the Lodge striving to discern -importance in some answer she had made him, some question she had put -to him. It appeared to him that he had loved her much longer than he -had; and he had made no progress. There were moments when he upbraided -himself for being clumsy and stupid; some men in his place, he thought, -would have divined long ago what her feelings were. - -He never queried the wisdom of marrying her on his own account; the -privilege of cherishing her in health and nursing her in sickness, of -having her head pillowed on his breast, and confiding his hopes to -her sympathy; of going through life with her in a union in which she -would give to him all her sacred and withheld identity, looked to him -a joy for which he could never be less than intensely grateful while -life endured. He ceased to marvel at the birth of his love, it looked -natural now; she seemed to belong to Westport so wholly by this time. -He no longer contrasted the present atmosphere of the villa with the -duller atmosphere that she had banished. He had forgotten that duller -atmosphere. She was there--it was as if she had always been there. To -reflect that there had been a period when he had known no Mary Brettan -was strange. He wondered that he had not felt the want of her. The day -that he had met her in Corri's office appeared to him dim in the mists -of at least five years. The exterior of the man, and the yearnings -within him--Kincaid as he knew himself, and the doctor as he was known -to the hospital--were so at variance that the incongruity would have -been ludicrous if it had not been beautiful. - -When Mary saw that he had begun to care for her, it was with the -greatest tremor of insecurity that she had experienced since the date -of her arrival. She had foretasted many disasters in the interval, -been harassed by many fears, but that Dr. Kincaid might fall in love -with her was a contingency that had never entered her head. It was so -utterly unexpected that for a week she had discredited the evidence -of her senses, and when the truth was too palpable to be blinked any -longer, her remaining hope was that he might decide never to speak. -Here the meditations of the man and the woman were concerned with the -same theme--both revolved the claims of silence; but from different -standpoints. His consideration was whether avowal was unjust to her; -she sustained herself by attributing to him a reluctance to commit -himself to a woman of whom he knew so little. She clung to this haven -that she had found; her refusal, if indeed he did propose to her, would -surely necessitate her relinquishing it. Mrs. Kincaid might not desire -to see her companion marry her son, but still less would she desire to -retain a companion who had rejected him. It had been as peaceful here -as any place could be for her now, felt Mary; the thought of being -driven forth to do battle with the world again terrified her. She -wondered if Mrs. Kincaid had "noticed anything"; it was hard to believe -she could have avoided it; but she had evinced no sign of suspicion: -her manner was the same as usual. - -With the complication that had arisen to disturb her, the woman -perceived how prematurely old she was. Her courage had all gone, she -told herself; she said she had passed the capability for any sustained -effort; and it was a fact that the uneventful tenor of the life that -she had been leading, congenial because it demanded no energy, had -done much to render her lassitude permanent. Her pain, the rawness -of it, had dulled--she could touch the wound now without writhing; -but it had left her wearied unto death. To attempt to forget had been -beyond her; recollection continued to be her secret luxury; and the -inertia permitted by her position lent itself so thoroughly to a dual -existence that, to her own mind, she often seemed to be living more -acutely in her reminiscences than in her intercourse with her employer. - -From the commencement of the tour, which had started in the autumn of -the preceding year, she had kept herself posted in Carew's movements -as regularly as was practicable. It was frequently very difficult for -her to gain access to a theatrical paper; but generally she contrived -to see one somehow, if not on the day that it reached the town, then -later. She knew what parts he played, and where he played them. It -was a morbid fascination, but to be able to see his name mentioned -nearly every week made her glad that he was an actor. If he could have -gone abroad or died, without her being aware of it, she thought her -situation would have been too hideous for words. To steal that weekly -glimpse of the paper was her weekly flicker of sensation; sometimes the -past seemed to stir again; momentarily she was in the old surroundings. - -There had been only two tours. After the second, she had watched his -"card" anxiously. Three months had slipped away, and between his and -his agent's name nothing had been added but the "Resting." - -At last, after reading from the London paper to Mrs. Kincaid one day, -she derived some further news. A word of the theatrical gossip had -caught her eye, and unperceived by the lady, she started violently. -She had seen "Seaton Carew." For a minute she could not quell her -agitation sufficiently to pick the paper up; she sat staring down at -it and deciphering nothing. Then she learnt that Miss Olive Westland, -and her husband, Mr. Seaton Carew, encouraged by their successes in -the provinces, had completed arrangements to open the Boudoir Theatre -at the end of the following month. It was added that this of late -unfortunate house had been much embellished, and a reference to an -artist, or two already engaged showed Mary that Carew was playing with -big stakes. - -Henceforth she had had a new source of information, and one attainable -without trouble, for the London paper was delivered at the Lodge daily. -As the date for the production drew near, her impatience to hear the -verdict had grown so strong that the walls of the country parlour -cooped her; she saw through them into the city beyond--saw on to a -draughty stage where Carew was conducting a rehearsal. - -The piece had failed. On the morning when she learned that it had -failed, she participated dumbly in the chagrin of the failure. "Yes" -and "No" she had answered, and seen with the eyes of her heart the -gloom of a face that used to be pressed against her own. She did not -care, she vowed; her sole feeling with regard to the undertaking had -been curiosity. If it had been more than curiosity she would despise -herself! - -But she looked at the Boudoir advertisement every day. And it was -not long before she saw that another venture was in preparation. And -she held more skeins of wool, and watched with veiled eagerness this -advertisement develop like its predecessor. Recently the play had been; -produced, and she had read the notice in Mrs. Kincaid's presence. -When she finished it she guessed that Carew's hopes were over; unless -he had a great deal more money than she supposed, the experiment at -the Boudoir would see; it exhausted. There was not much said for his -performance, either; he was dismissed in an indifferent sentence, -like his wife. High praise of his acting might have led to London -engagements, but his hopes seemed to have miscarried as manager and as -actor too. - -When Kincaid went round to the house one evening, the servant told him -his mother had; gone to her room, and that Miss Brettan was sitting -with her. - -"Say I'm here, please, and ask if I may go up." Mary came down the -stairs as he spoke. - -"Ah, doctor," she said; "Mrs. Kincaid has gone to bed." - -"So I hear. What's the matter with her?" - -"Only neuralgia; she has had it all day. She has just fallen asleep." - -"Then I had better not go up to see her?" - -"I don't think I would. I have just come down to get a book." - -"Are you going to sit with her?" - -"Yes; she may wake and want something." - -They stood speaking in the hall, outside the parlour door. - -"Where is your book?" he said. - -"Inside. I am sorry you have come round for nothing; she'll be so -disappointed when she hears about it. May I tell her you'll come again -to-morrow?" - -"Yes, I'll look in some time during the day, if it's only for a moment. -I think I'll sit down awhile before I go." - -"Will you?" she said. "I beg your pardon." She opened the door, and he -followed her into the room. - -"You won't mind my leaving you?" she asked; "I don't want to stay away, -in case she does wake." - -It was nearly dark in the parlour; the lamp had not been lighted, and -the fire was low. A little snow whitened the laburnum-tree that was -visible through the window. It was an evening in January, and Mary had -been in Westport now nearly two years. - -"Can you see to find it?" he said. "Where did you leave it?" - -"It was on the sideboard; Ellen must have moved it, I suppose. I'll -ask her where she's put it." - -"No, don't do that; I'll light the lamp." - -She lifted the globe while he struck a match. It was his last, and it -went out. - -"Never mind," he said; "we'll get a light from the fire." - -"Oh," she exclaimed, "but I'm giving you so much trouble; you had -better let me call the girl!" - -A dread of what might happen in this darkness was coming over her. "You -had better let me call the girl," she repeated. - -"Try if you can get a light with this first," he said--"try there, -where it's red." - -She bent over the grate, the twist of paper in one hand, and the other -resting on the mantelpiece. He leant beside her, stirring the ashes -with his foot. - -It flashed back at her how Tony had stood stirring the ashes with his -foot that night in Leicester, while he broke his news. A sickening -anxiety swept through her to get away from Kincaid before he could have -a chance to touch her. The paper charred and curled, without catching -flame, and in her impatience she hated him for the delay. She hated -herself for being here, lingering in the twilight with a man who dared -to feel about her in the same way as Tony had once felt. - -She rose. - -"It's no use, doctor; Ellen will have to do it, after all." - -"Don't go just yet," he said; "I want to speak to you, Miss Brettan." - -"I can't stay any longer," she said. "I----" - -"You'll give me a minute? There's something I have been waiting to say -to you; I've been waiting a long while." - -She raised her face to him. In the shadows filling the room, he could -see little more than her eyes. - -"Don't say it. I think I can guess, perhaps.... Don't say it, Dr. -Kincaid!" - -"Yes," he insisted, "I must say it; I'm bound to tell you before I take -your answer, Mary. My dear, I love you." - -Memory gave her back the scene where Tony had said that for the first -time. - -"If you can't care for me, you have only to tell me so to-night; it -shall never be a worry to I you--I don't want my love to become a worry -to you, to make you wish I weren't here. But if you can care a little -... if you think that when I'm able to ask you to come to me you could -come.... Oh, my dear, all my life I'll be tender to you--all my life!" - -He could not see her eyes any longer; her head was bowed, and in her -silence the big man trembled. - -The servant came in with the taper, and let down the blinds. They stood -on the hearth, watching her dumbly. When the blinds were lowered, she -turned up the lamp; and the room was bright. Kincaid saw that Mary was -very pale. - -"Is there anything else, miss?" - -"No, Ellen, thank you; that's all." - -"Mary?" - -"I'm so sorry. You don't know how sorry I am!" - -"You could never care--not ever so little--for me?" - -"Not in that way: no." - -He looked away from her--looked at the engraving of Wellington and -Blucher meeting on the field of Waterloo; stared at the filter on -the sideboard, through which the water fell drop by drop. A heavy -weight seemed to have come down upon him, so that he breathed under -it laboriously. He wanted to curtail the pause, which he understood -must be trying to her; but he could not think of anything to say, nor -could he shake his brain clear of her last words, which appeared to -him incessantly reiterated. He felt as if his hope of her had been -something vital and she had stamped it out, to leave him confronted by -a new beginning--a beginning so strange that time must elapse before -he could realise how wholly strange it was going to be. Even while he -strove to address her it was difficult to feel that she was still very -close to him. Her tones lingered; her dress emphasised itself upon his -consciousness more and more; but from her presence he had a curious -sense of being remote. - -"Good-night," he said abruptly. "You mustn't let this trouble you, you -know. I shall always be glad I'm fond of you; I shall always be glad I -told you so--I was hoping, and now I understand. It's so much better to -understand than to go on hoping for what can never come." - -She searched pityingly for something kind; but the futility of phrases -daunted her. - -"I had better close the door after you," she murmured, "or it will make -a noise." - -They went out into the passage, and stood together on the step. - -"It's beginning to snow," he said; "it looks as if we were going to -have a heavy fall." - -"Yes," she said dully, glancing at the sky. - -She put out her hand, and it lay for an instant in his. - -"Well, good-night, again." - -"Good-night, Dr. Kincaid." - -As he turned, she was silhouetted against the gaslight of the -hall. Then her figure was with-drawn, and the view of the interior -narrowed--until, while he looked back, the brightness vanished -altogether and the door was shut. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -And so it was all over. - -"All over," he said to himself--"over and done with, Philip. Steady on, -Philip; take it fighting!" - -But they were only words--as yet he could not "take it fighting." Nor -was the knowledge that he was never to hold her quite all the grief -that lay upon him as he made his way along the ill-lit streets. There -was, besides, a very cruel smart--the abstract pain of being such a -little to one who was so much to him. - -He visited the patients who were still awake, and dressed such wounds -as needed to be dressed. He heard the little peevish questions and the -dull complaints just as he had done the night before. The nurse walked -softly past the sleepers with her shaded lamp, and once or twice he -spoke to her. And when, the doctor's duties done, the man had gained -his room, he thought of his hopes the night before, and sat with elbows -on the table while the hours struck, remembering what had happened -since. - -The necessity for returning to the house so speedily, to see his -mother, was eminently distasteful; he longed to escape it. And -then suddenly he warmed towards her in self-reproach, thinking it -had been very hard of him to wish to neglect his mother in order to -spare awkwardness to another woman. His repugnance to the task was -deep-rooted, all the same, and it did not lessen as the afternoon -approached. But for the fact of yesterday's indisposition, he could -never have brought himself to overcome it. - -The embarrassment that he had feared, however, was averted by Miss -Brettan's absence. - -Mrs. Kincaid said that she was quite well again to-day; Mary had told -her of his call the previous evening; how long was it he had stopped? - -"Oh, not very long," he said; "has the neuralgia quite gone?" - -"I feel a little weary after it, that's all. Is there anything fresh, -Philip?" - -"Fresh?" he answered vaguely. "No, dear. I don't know that there's -anything very fresh." - -"You look tired yourself," she said; "I thought that perhaps you were -troubled?" - -She thought, too, that Miss Brettan had looked troubled, and instinct -pointed to something having occurred. A conviction that her son was -getting fond of her companion had been unspoken in her mind for some -time, and under her placid questions now rankled a little wistfulness, -in feeling that she was not held dear enough for confidence. She -wanted to say to him outright: "Philip, did you tell Miss Brettan you -were fond of her when I was upstairs last night?" but was reluctant -to seem inquisitive. He, with never an inkling that she could suspect -his love, meanwhile reflected that for Mary's continued peace it was -desirable that his mother should never conjecture he had been refused. - -It is doubtful whether he had ever felt so wholly tender towards her -as he did in these moments while he admitted that it was imperative -to keep the secret from her; and perhaps the mother's heart had never -turned so far aside from him as while she perceived that she was never -to be told. - -They exchanged commonplaces with the one grave subject throbbing in -the minds of both. Of the two, the woman was the more laboured; and -presently he noticed what uphill work it was, and sighed. She heard the -sigh, and could have echoed it, thinking sadly that the presence of -her companion was required now to make her society endurable to him. -But she would not refer to Mary. She bent over her wool-work, and the -needle went in and out with feeble regularity, while she maintained a -wounded silence, which the man was regarding as an unwillingness to -talk. - -He said at last that he must go, and she did not offer to detain him. - -"I want to hurry back this afternoon; you won't mind?" - -"No," she murmured; "you know what you have to do, Philip, better than -I." - -He stooped and kissed her. For the first time in her life she did not -return his kiss. She gave him her cheek, and rested one hand a little -tremulously on his shoulder. - -"Good-bye," she said; her tone was so gentle that he did not remark the -absence of the caress. "Don't go working too hard, Phil!" - -He patted the hand reassuringly, and let himself out. Then the hand -crept slowly up to her eyes, and she wiped some tears away. The -wool-work drooped to her lap, and she sat recalling a little boy who -had been used to talk of the wondrous things he was going to do for -"mother" when he became a man, and who now had become a man, living for -a strange woman, and full of a love which "mother" might only guess. - -She could not feel quite so cordial to Mary as she had done. To think -of her holding her son's confidence, while she herself was left -to speculate, made the need for surmises seem harder. And Philip -was unhappy: her companion must be indifferent to him; nothing but -that could account for the unhappiness, or for the reservation. She -could have forgiven her engrossing his affections--in time; but her -indifference was more than she could forgive. - -Still, this was the woman he loved--and she endeavoured to hide her -resentment, as she had hidden her suspicions. Their intercourse -during the next week was less free than usual, nevertheless. Perhaps -the resentment was less easy to hide, or perhaps Mary's nervousness -made her unduly sensitive, but there were pauses which seemed to her -significant of condemnation. She was exceedingly uncomfortable during -this week. Sometimes she was only deterred from proclaiming what had -happened and appealing to the other's fairness to exonerate her, by -the recollection that it was, after all, just possible that the avowal -might have the effect of transforming a bush into an officer. - -She could not venture to repeat the retirement to her room the next -time the doctor came. Nearly a fortnight had gone by. And she forced -herself to turn to him with a few remarks. He was not the man to -disguise his feelings successfully by a flow of small-talk; his life -had not qualified him for it; and it was an ordeal to him to sit there -in the presence of Mary and witness attempts in which he perceived -himself unqualified to co-operate. His knowledge that the simulated -ease should have originated with himself rather than with her made his -ineptitude seem additionally ungracious, and he feared she must think -him boorish, and disposed to parade his disappointment for the purpose -of exciting her compassion. - -Strongly, therefore, as he had wished to avoid a break in the social -routine, his subsequent visits were made at longer intervals, and more -often than not curtailed on the plea of work. It was, as yet at all -events, impossible for him to behave towards her as if nothing untoward -had happened, and to shun the house awhile looked to him a wiser course -than to haunt it with discomposure patent. Thus the restraint that -Mrs. Kincaid was imposing on herself had a further burden to bear: -Miss Brettan was keeping her son from her side. The pauses became more -frequent, and, to Mary, more than ever ominous. Indeed, while the -mother mused mournfully on the consequences of her engagement, the -companion herself was questioning how long she could expect to retain -it. She began to consider whether she should relinquish it, to elude -the indignity of a dismissal. And even if Mrs. Kincaid did fail to -suspect the reason for her son's absenting himself, the responsibility -was the same, she reflected. It was she who divided the pair, she who -was accountable for the hurt expression that the old lady's face so -often wore now. She felt wearily that women had a great deal to endure -in life, what with the men they cared for, and the men for whom they -did not care. There seemed no privileges pertaining to their sex; being -feminine only amplified the scope for vexation. A fact which she did -not see was that one of the most pathetic things in connection with -the unloved lover is the irritability with which the woman so often -thinks about him. - -With what sentiments she might have listened to Kincaid had she met -him prior to her intimacy with Carew one may only conjecture. Now he -touched her not at all; but the intimacy had been an experience which -engulfed so much of her sensibility, that she had emerged from it a -different being. Kincaid's rival, in truth, was the most powerful one -that can ever oppose a lover; the rival of constant remembrance--always -a doughty antagonist, and never so impregnable as when the woman is -instinctively a virtuous woman and has fallen for the man that she -remembers. - -It occurred to Mary to seek an opportunity for letting the doctor know -that he was paining his mother by so rarely coming now; but such an -opportunity was not easy to gain, for when he did come his mother of -course was present. She thought of writing, but by word of mouth a hint -would suffice, while a letter, in the circumstances, would have its -awkwardness. - -More than two months had gone by when Mrs. Kincaid made her plaint. It -was on a Sunday morning. Mary was standing before the window, looking -out, while the elder woman sat moodily in her accustomed seat.-- - -"Are we going to church?" asked Mary. - -"Yes, I suppose so; there's plenty of time, isn't there?" - -"Oh, yes, it's early yet--not ten. What a lovely day! The spring has -begun." - -"Yes," assented the other absently. - -There was a short silence, and then: - -"I shan't run any risk of missing Dr. Kincaid by going out; I needn't -be afraid of that!" she added. - -Her voice had in it so much more of pathos than of testiness, that -after the instant's dismay her companion felt acutely sorry for her. - -"A doctor's time is scarcely his own, is it?" she murmured, turning. - -Mrs. Kincaid did not reply immediately, and the delay seemed to Mary to -accentuate the feebleness of her answer. - -"I mean," she said, "that it isn't as if he were able to leave the -hospital whenever he liked. There may be cases----" - -"He used to be able to come often; why shouldn't he be able now?" - -"Yes----" faltered Mary. - -"I haven't asked him; it is a good reason that keeps him from me, of -course. But it's hard, when you're living in the same town as your son, -not to have him with you more than an hour in a month. I don't see much -more of him than that, lately. The last time he came, he stayed twenty -minutes. The time before, he said he was in a hurry before he said, -'How do you do?' He never put his hat down--you may have; noticed it?" - -"Yes, I noticed it," Mary admitted. - -"You know; oh, you do know!" she cried inwardly, with a sinking of the -heart. "_Now_, what am I to do?" - -"Don't imagine I am blaming him," went on Mrs. Kincaid, "I am not -blaming anybody; the reason may be very strong indeed. Only it seems -rather unfair that I should have to suffer for it, considering that I -don't hear what it is." - -"Then why not speak to Dr. Kincaid? If he understood that you felt his -absence so keenly, you may be sure he'd try to come oftener. Why don't -you tell him that you miss him?" - -"I shall never sue to my son for his visits," said the old lady with a -touch of dignity, "nor shall I ask him why he stays away. That is quite -his own affair. At my age we begin to see that our children have rights -we mustn't intrude into--secrets that must be told to us freely, or not -told at all. We begin to see it, only we are old to learn. There, my -dear, don't let us talk about it; it's not a pleasant subject. I think -we had better go and dress." - -Mary looked at her helplessly; there was a finality in her tone which -precluded the possibility of any advance. It was more than ever -manifest that the task of remonstrating with him devolved upon Mary -herself, and she decided to write to him that afternoon. Shortly after -dinner Mrs. Kincaid went into the garden, and, left to her own devices -in the parlour, Mary drew her chair to the escritoire. She would write -a few lines, she thought, however clumsy, and send them at once. -Still, they were not easy lines to produce, and she nibbled her pen a -good deal in the course of their composition; the self-consciousness -that invaded some of the sentences was too glaring. When the note was -finished at last, she slipped it into her pocket, and told Mrs. Kincaid -she would like to go for a walk. - -"Oh, by all means; why not?" - -"I thought perhaps you might want me." - -"No," said Mrs. Kincaid; "I shall get along very well--I'm gardening." - -She was, indeed, more cheerful than she had been for some time, busying -herself among the violets, and stooping over the crocuses to clear the -soil away. - -"Go along," she added, nodding across her shoulder; "a walk will do you -good!" - -Though the wish had been expressed only to avoid giving the letter to a -servant, Mary thought that she might as well profit by the chance; and -from the post-office she sauntered as far as the beach. Then it struck -her that the doctor might pay his overdue visit this afternoon, and she -was sorry that she had gone out. The laboured letter might have been -dispensed with--she might have had a word with him before he joined his -mother in the garden! She turned back at once--and as she neared the -Lodge, she saw him leaving it. They met not fifty yards from the door. - -"Well, have you enjoyed your walk--you haven't been very far?" he said. - -"Not very," said she; "I changed my mind. How did you find your mother?" - -"She had been pottering about on the wet ground, which wasn't any too -wise of her. Why do you ask?" - -"Oh, I ... She has been missing you a little, I think; she wants you -there more often." - -"Oh?" he said; "I'm very sorry. Are you sure?" - -"Yes, I am sure; it is more than a little she misses you. As a matter -of fact, I have just written to you, Dr. Kincaid." - -"To me? What--about this?" - -"Yes." - -"I didn't know," he said; "I never supposed she'd miss me like that. It -was very kind of you." - -"I wanted to speak to you about it before. I have seen for some time -she was distressed." - -"Has she said anything?" - -"She only mentioned it this morning, but I've noticed." - -"It was very kind of you," he repeated; "I'm much obliged." - -Both suffered slightly from the consciousness of suppression; and after -a few seconds she said boldly: - -"Dr. Kincaid, if you're staying away with any idea of sparing -embarrassment to me, I beg that you won't." - -"Well, of course," he said, "I thought you'd rather I didn't come." - -"But do you suppose I can consent to keep you from your mother's house? -You must see ... the responsibility of it! What I should like to know -is, are you staying away solely for my sake?" - -"I didn't wish to intrude my trouble on you." - -"No," she said; "that isn't what I mean. I am glad I have met you; I -want to speak to, you plainly. I have thought that perhaps it hurt you -to come; that my being there reminded--that you didn't like it? If -that's so----" - -"I think you're exaggerating the importance of the thing! It is very -nice and womanly of you, but you are making yourself unhappy for -nothing. I have had a good deal to occupy me of late--in future I'll go -oftener." - -"I feel very guilty," she answered. "If I am right in thinking it would -be pleasanter for you to stay away than to go there and see me, my -course is clear. It's not my home, you know; I'm in a situation, and it -can be given up." - -"You mustn't talk like that. I must have blundered very badly to give -you such an idea. Don't let's stand here! Do you mind turning back a -little way? If what I said to you obliged you to leave Westport, I -should reproach myself for it bitterly." - -They strolled slowly down the street; and during a minute each of the -pair sought phrases. - -"It's certain," she said abruptly, "that my being your mother's -companion is quite wrong! If I weren't in the house you'd go there the -same as you used to. I can't help feeling that." - -"But I _will_ go there the same as I used to. I have said so." - -"Yes," she murmured. - -"Doesn't that satisfy you?" - -"You'll go, but the fact remains that you'd rather not; and the cause -of your reluctance is my presence there." - -"It is you who are insisting on the reluctance," he fenced; "_I've_ -not said I am reluctant. I thought you'd prefer me to avoid you for a -while; personally----" - -"Oh!" she said, "do you think I've not seen? I know very well the -position is a false one!" - -"I told you I'd never become a worry to you," he said humbly; "I've -been trying to keep my word." - -"You've been everything that is considerate; the fault is my own. I -ought to have resigned the place the day after you spoke to me." - -"I don't think that would have helped me much. You must understand that -a change like that was the very last thing I wanted my love to effect." - -At the word "love" the woman flinched a little, and he himself had not -been void of sensation in uttering it. The sound of it was loud to both -of them. But to her it added to the sense of awkwardness, while to the -man it seemed to bring them nearer. - -"It was very dense of me," he went on; "but with all the consequences -of speaking to you that I foresaw I never took into account the one -that has happened. I wondered if I was justified in asking you to give -up a comfortable living for such a home as I could offer; I considered -half a dozen things; but that I might be making the house unbearable to -you I overlooked. Now, with your interest at heart all the time, I've -injured you! I can't tell you how sorry I am to learn it." - -"It's not unbearable," she said; "'unbearable' is much too strong. But -I do see my duty, and I know the right thing is for me to go away; your -mother would have you then as she ought to have you. While I stop, it -can never be really free for either of you. And of course she knows!" - -"Do you think she does?" he exclaimed. - -"Are women blind? Of course she knows! And what can she feel towards -me? It's only the affection she has for you that prevents her -discharging me." - -"Oh, don't!" he said. "'Discharging' you!" - -"What am I? I'm only her servant. Don't blink facts, Dr. Kincaid; I'm -your mother's companion, a woman you had never seen two years ago. It -would have been a good deal better for you if you had never seen me at -all!" - -"You can't say what would have been best for _me_," he returned -unsteadily; "I'd rather have known you as I do than that we hadn't met. -For yourself, perhaps----" - -"Hush!" she interrupted; "we can neither of us forget what our meeting -was. For myself, I owe my very life to meeting you; that's why the -result of it is so abominable--such a shame! I haven't said much, but I -remember every day what I owe you. I know I owe you the very clothes I -wear." - -"Oh, for God's sake!" he muttered. - -"And my repayment is to make you unhappy--and her unhappy. It's noble!" - -Her pace quickened, and to see her excited acted upon him very -strongly. He longed to comfort her, and because this was impossible by -reason of the disparity of their sentiments, the sight of her emotion -was more painful. He had never felt the hopelessness of his attachment -so heavy on him as now that he saw her disturbed on account of it, -and realised at the same time that it debarred him from offering her -consolation. They walked along, gazing before them fixedly into the -vista of the shut-up shops and Sunday quietude, until at last he said -with an effort: - -"If you did go you'd make me unhappier than ever." - -She did not reply to this; and after a glance at the troubled profile: - -"I am ready to do whatever you want," he added; "whatever will make the -position easiest to you. It seems that, with the best intentions, I've -only succeeded in giving annoyance to you both. But the wrong to my -mother can be remedied; and if I drive you away I shall have done some -lasting harm.... Why don't you say that you'll remain?" - -"Because I'm not sure about it. I can't determine." - -"Your objection was the fancy that you were responsible for my seeing -her so seldom; I've promised to see her as often as I can." - -She bit her lip. She said nothing. - -"I can't do any more--can I?" - -"No," she confessed. - -"Then, what's the matter?" - -"The matter is that----" - -"What?" - -"You show me more plainly every minute that I _ought_ to go." - -Something in the dumbness with which the announcement was received told -her how unexpected it had been. And, indeed, to hear that his love, -unperceived by himself, had been fighting against him was the hardest -thing that he had had to bear. Sensible that every remonstrance that -escaped him would estrang them further, the man felt helpless. They -were crossing the churchyard now, and she said something about the -impracticability of her going any further. - -"Well, as you'll come oftener, our talk hasn't been useless!" - -"Wait a second," he said. He paused by the porch, and looked at her. "I -can't leave you like this. Mary----!" - -"Oh!" she faltered, "don't say anything--don't!" - -"I must. What's the good?--I keep back everything, and you still know! -You'll always know. Nothing could have been more honestly meant than -my assurance that I'd never bring distress to you, and I've brought -distress. Let's look the thing squarely in the eyes: you, won't be my -wife, but you needn't go away. What would you do? Whom do you know? -Leaving my loss of you out of the question, think of my self-reproach!" - -Inside the church an outburst of children's voices, muffled somewhat by -the shut door, but still too near to be wholly beautiful, rose suddenly -in a hymn. She stood with averted face, staring over the rankness of -the grass that the wind was stirring lightly among the gravestones. - -"Let's look at the thing squarely for once," he said again. "We're -both remembering I love you--there's nothing gained by pretending. If -the circumstances were different, if you had somewhere to go I should -have less right to interfere; but as it is, your leaving would mean a -constant shame to me. All the time I should be thinking: 'She was at -peace in a home, and you drove her out from it!' To see the woman he -cares for go away, unprotected, among strangers, to want perhaps for -the barest necessaries--what sort of man could endure it? should feel -as if I had turned you out of doors." A sudden tremor seized her; she -shivered. - -"Sit down," he said authoritatively. "We must come to an understanding!" - -But his protest was not immediately continued, and in the shelter of -the porch both were thoughtful. She was the first to speak again, after -all. - -"You're persuading me to be a great coward," she said; "and I am not a -very brave woman at the best. If I do what is right, I may give you -pain for a little while, but I shall spare you the unhappiness you'll -have if you go on meeting me." - -"You consider my happiness and her happiness, but not your own. And -why?--you'd spare me nothing." - -"You'll never be satisfied. Oh, yes, let us be honest with each -other, you're right! Your misgivings about me are true enough; but -you are principally anxious for me to stop that you may still see me. -And what'll come of it? I can never marry you, never; and you'll be -wretched. If I gave you a chance to forget----" - -"I shall never forget, whether you stop or whether you go." - -"You _must_ forget!" she cried. "You must forget me till it is as if -you had never known me. I won't be burdened with the knowledge that I'm -spoiling your life. I won't!" - -"Mary!" he said appealingly. - -"Oh," she exclaimed, "it's cruel! I wish to God I had died before you -loved me!" - -"You don't know what you're saying! You make me feel----Why," he -demanded, under his breath--"why could it never be--in time, if you -stay? I'll never speak of it any more till you permit it, not a -sign shall tell you I'm waiting; but by-and-by--will it be always -impossible? Dearest, it holds me so fast, my love of you. Don't be -harsher than you need; it's so real, so deep. Don't refuse me the right -to hope--in secret, by myself; it's all I have, all I'll ask of you for -years, if you like--the right to think that you may be my wife some -day. Leave me that!" - -"I can't," she said thickly; "it would be a lie." - -"You could never care for me--not so much as to let _me_ care for -_you_?" - -A movement answered him, and his head was lowered. He sat, his chin -supported by his palm, watching the restless working of her hands in -her lap. The closing words of the hymn came out distinctly to them -both, and they listened till the hush fell, without knowing that they -listened. - -"May I ask you one thing? You know I shall respect your confidence. Is -it because you care for some other man?" - -"No, no," she said vehemently, "I do not care!" - -"Thank God for that! While there's no one you like better, you'll be -the woman I want and wait for to the end." - -Her hands lay still; the compulsion for avowal was confronting her at -last. To hear this thing and sanction it by leaving him unenlightened -would be a wrong that she dared not contemplate; and under the -necessity for proclaiming that her sentiments could never affect the -matter, she turned cold and damp. Twice she attempted the finality -required, and twice her lips parted without sound. - -"Dr. Kincaid----" - -He raised his eyes to her, and the courage faded. - -"Don't think," he said, "that I shall ever make you sorry for telling -me that. You've simply removed a dread. I'm grateful to you." - -"Oh," she murmured, in a suffocating voice, "it makes no difference. -How am I to explain the--why don't you understand?" - -"What is it I should understand?" - -"You mustn't be grateful; you're mistaken. Never in the world, so long -as we live! There was someone else; I----" - -"Be open with me," he said sternly; "in common fairness, let us have -clearness and truth! You just declared that you didn't care for anyone?" - -"No," she gasped, "I did say that--I meant I didn't care. I don't--we -neither care; he doesn't know if I am alive, but ... there used to be -another man, and----" - -"Oh, my God, you are going to tell me you are married?" - -She shook her head. His eyes were piercing her; she felt them on her -wherever she looked. - -"Then speak and be done! 'There was another man.' What more?" - -Suddenly the first fear had entered his veins, and, though he was -conscious only of a vague oppression, he was already terrified by the -anticipation of what he was going to hear. - -"'There was another man,'" he repeated hoarsely. "What of him?" - -She was leaning forward, stooping so that her face was completely -hidden. With the silence that had fallen inside the church, the scene -was quieter than it had been, and the stillness in the air intensified -her difficulty of speech. She struggled to evolve from her confusion -the phrase to express her impurity, but all the terms looked shameless -and unutterable alike; and the travail continued until, faint with the -tension of the pause and the violent beating of her heart, she said -almost inaudibly: - -"I lived with him three years." - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -She heard him catch his breath, and then they sat motionless for a long -while, just as they had been sitting when she spoke. Now that she had -wrenched the fact out, the poignancy of her suffering subsided; even -by degrees she realised that, after this, her leaving the town was -inevitable, and her thoughts began to concern themselves vaguely with -her future. In him consciousness could never waver from the sound of -what she had said. She was impure. She had known passion and shame--she -herself! The landscape lost its proportion as he stared; the clouds of -the sky and the hue of the distance, everything had altered--she was -impure. - -The laboured minutes passed; he turned and looked slowly down at her -averted profile. The curve of cheek was colourless; her hands were -still lying clasped on her knee. He watched her for a moment, striving -to connect the woman with her words. Something seemed bearing on his -brain, so that it did not feel quite near. It did not feel so alive, -nor so much his own, as before the vileness of this thing was uttered. - -"I have never told you a falsehood," she murmured, "I didn't tell you -any falsehood in London. Don't think me all deceit--every word of what -I said that day was true." - -"I dare say," he answered dully; "I have not accused you." - -The change in his tone was pregnant with condemnation to her, and she -wondered if he was believing her; but, indeed, he hardly recognised -that she had said anything requiring belief. Her assurance appeared -juvenile to him, incongruous. There was an air almost of unreality -about their being seated here as they were, gazing at the blur of -churchyard. Something never to be undone had happened and she was -strange. - -The service had ended, and, trooping out, the Sunday-school pupils -clattered past their feet, shiny and clamorous, and eyeing them with -sidelong inquisition. She rose nervously, and, rousing himself, he went -with her through the crowd of children as far as the gate. There their -steps flagged to a standstill, and for a few seconds they remained -looking down the lane in silence. - -To her, stunned by no shock to make reality less real, these final -seconds held the condensed humiliation of the hour. The rigidity -with which the man waited beside her seemed eloquent of disgust, and -she mused bitterly on what she had done, how she had abased herself -and destroyed his respect; she longed to be free of his reproachful -presence. On the gravel behind them one of the bigger girls whispered -to another, and the other giggled. - -She made a slight movement, and he responded with something impossible -to catch. She did not offer her hand; she did not immediately pity him. -Had a stranger told him this thing of her, she would have pitied and -understood; told him by herself, she understood only that she was being -despised. They separated with a mechanical "good-afternoon," quietly -and slowly. The two girls, who watched them with precocious eagerness, -debated their relationship. - -The road lay before him long and bare, and lethargically he took it. -He continued to hear her words, "There used to be another man," but he -did not know he heard them--he did not actively pursue any train of -thought. It was only in momentary intervals that he became aware that -he was thinking. The sense of there being something numbed within him -still endured, and as yet his condition was more of stupor than of pain. - -"There used to be another man!" The sentence hummed in his ears, and as -he went along he awoke to it, the persistence of it touched him; and -he began to repeat it--mentally, difficultly, trying to spur his mind -into comprehension of it and take it in. He did not suffer acutely -even then. There was nothing acute in his feelings whatever. He found -it hard to realise, albeit he did not doubt. She was what she had said -she was; he knew it. But he could not see her so; he could not imagine -her the woman that she had said she used to be. He saw her always as -she had been to him, composed and self-contained. The demeanour had -been a mask, yet it clung to his likeness of her, obscuring the true -identity from him still. He strove to conceive her in her past life, -contemning himself because he could not; he wanted to remember that he -had been loving a disguise; he wanted to obliterate it. The fact of its -having been a disguise and never she all the time was so hard to grasp. -He tried to look upon her laughing in dishonour, but the picture would -not live; it appeared unnatural. It was the inception of his agony: the -feeling that he had known her so very little that it was her real self -which seemed the impossible. - -And that other man had known it all--seen every mood of her, learned -her in every phase! - -"Mary!" he muttered; and was lost in the consciousness that actually he -had never known "Mary." - -He perceived that the man was moving through his thoughts as a dark -man, short and suave, and he wondered how the fancy had arisen. -Vaguely he began to wonder what he had been like indeed. It was too -soon to question who he was--he wondered only how he looked, in a dim -mental searching for the presence to associate her with. Next, the -impression vanished, and sudden recollections came to him of men he was -accustomed to meet. - -The manner and mien of these riveted his attention. It was not by his -own will that he considered them; the personalities were insistent. -He did not suppose that any one of them had been her lover; he knew -that it was chimerical to view any one of them as such; but his brain -had been groping for a man, and these familiar men obtruded themselves -vividly. The lurking horror of her defilement materialised, so that the -sweat burst out on him; the significance of what he had heard flared -red upon his vision. To think that it had pleased her to lend herself -for the toy of a man's leisure, that some man had been free to make her -the boast of his conceit, twisted his heart-strings. - -The solidity of the hospital confronted him on the slope that he had -begun to mount. Beneath him stretched the herbage of cottage gardens -somnolent in Sabbath calm. Out of the silence came the quick yapping of -a shop-boy's dog, the shrillness of a shop-boy's whistle. They were the -only sounds. Then he went in. - -That evening Miss Brettan told Mrs. Kincaid that she wished to leave -her. - -The old lady received the announcement without any mark of surprise. - -"You know your own mind best," she said meditatively; "but I'm sorry -you are going--very sorry." - -"Yes," said Mary; "I must go. I'm sorry too, but I can't help myself. -I----" - -"I used to think you'd stop with me always; we got on so well together." - -"You've been more than kind to me from the very first day; I shall -never forget how kind you have been! If it were only possible. But it -isn't; I----" - -Once more the pronoun as the stumbling-block on delicate ground. - -"I can't stop!" she added thickly; "I hope you'll be luckier with your -next companion." - -"I shan't have another; changes upset me. And you must go when it -suits you best, you know; don't stay on to give me time to make fresh -arrangements, as I haven't any to make. Study your own convenience -entirely." - -"This week?" - -"Yes, very well; let it be this week." - -They said no more then. But the following afternoon, Mrs. Kincaid -broached the subject abruptly. - -"What are you going to do, Miss Brettan?" she inquired. "Have you -anything else in view?" - -"No," said Mary hesitatingly; "not yet." - -The suppression of her motive made plain speaking difficult to both. - -"I've no doubt, though," she added, "that I shall be all right." - -"What a pity it is! What a pity it is, to be sure!" - -"Oh, you mustn't grieve about me!" she exclaimed; "it isn't worth that; -_I'm_ not worth it. You know--you know, so many women in the world have -to make a living; and they do make it, somehow. It's only one more." - -"And so many women find they can't! Tell me, _must_ you go? Are you -quite sure you're not exaggerating the necessity? I don't ask you your -reasons, I never meddle in people's private affairs. But are you sure -you aren't looking on anything in a false light and going to extremes?" - -"Oh!" responded Mary, carried into sudden candour, "do you suppose I -don't shiver at the prospect? Do you suppose it attracts me? I'm not a -girl, I'm not quixotic; I _can't_ stop here!" - -The elder woman sighed. - -"Why couldn't you care for such a good fellow as my son?" she thought. -"Then there would have been none of this bother for any of us!" - -"I hope you'll be fortunate," she said gently. "Anything I can do to -help you, of course, I will!" - -"Thank you," said Mary. - -"I mean, you mustn't scruple to refer to me; it's your only chance. -Without any references----" - -"Yes, I know too well how indispensable they are; but----" - -"You have been here two years. I shall say I should have liked it to -remain your home." - -"Thank you," said Mary, again. But she was by no means certain that -she could avail herself of this recommendation given in ignorance of -the truth. It was precisely the matter that she had been debating. If -she attempted to avail herself of it, the doctor might have something -to say; and she was loath to be indebted for testimony from the mother -which the son would know to be undeserved, whether he interfered, or -not; she wanted her renunciation to be complete. Yet, without this -source of aid----She trembled. How speedily the few pounds in her -possession would vanish! how soon there would be a revival of her past -experience, with all its heartlessness and squalor! In imagination she -was already footsore, adrift in the London streets. - -"Mrs. Kincaid----" she cried. A passionate impulse seized her to -declare everything. If she had been seventeen, she would have knelt at -the old woman's feet, for it is not so much the vehemence of our moods -that diminishes with time as the power of restraint that increases. - -"Mrs. Kincaid, you must know? You must guess why----" - -"I know nothing," said the old woman, quickly; "I don't guess!" The -colour sank from her face, and Mary had never heard her speak with so -much energy. "My son shall tell me--I have a son--I will not hear from -you!" - -"I beg your pardon," said Mary; and they were silent. - -The same evening Mrs. Kincaid sent a message to the hospital, asking -her son to come round to see her. - -She had not mentioned that she was going to do so, and it was with a -little shock that Mary heard the order given. She supposed, however, -that it was given in her presence by way of a hint, and when the -time-approached for him to arrive, she withdrew. - -He came with misgivings and with relief. The last twenty-four hours had -inclined him to the state of tension in which the unexpected is always -the portentous, but in which one waits, nevertheless, for something -unlooked-for to occur. He did not know what he dreaded to hear, but the -summons alarmed him, even while he welcomed it for permitting him to -go to the house. - -He threw a rapid glance round the parlour, and replied to his mother's -greeting with quick interrogation. - -"What has happened?" - -"Nothing of grave importance has happened. I want to speak to you." - -"I was afraid something was the matter," he said, more easily. "What is -it?" - -He took the seat opposite to her, and she was dismayed to observe the -alteration in him. She contemplated him a few seconds irresolutely. - -"Philip," she said, "this afternoon Miss Brettan was anxious to tell -me something; she was anxious to make me her confidant. And I wouldn't -listen to her." - -"Oh?" he said.... "And you wouldn't listen to her?" - -"No, I wouldn't listen to her. I said, 'My son shall tell me, or I -won't hear.' This afternoon I had no more idea of sending for you than -you had of coming. But I have been thinking it over; she's in your -mother's house, and she's the woman you love. You do love her, Philip?" - -"I asked her to be my wife," he answered simply. - -"I thought so. And she refused you?" - -"Yes, she refused me. If I haven't told you before, it was because -she refused me. To have spoken of it to you would have been to give -pain--needless pain--to you and to her." - -Mrs. Kincaid considered. - -"You are quite right," she admitted; "your mistake was to suppose I -shouldn't see it for myself." She turned her eyes from him and looked -ostentatiously in another direction. "Now," she added, "she is going -away! Perhaps you already knew, but----" - -"No," he replied, "I didn't know; I thought it likely, but I didn't -know. I understand why you sent for me." - -He got up and went across to her, and kissed her on the brow. - -"I understand why it was you sent for me," he repeated. "What a tender -little mother it is! And to lose her companion, too!" - -Where he leant beside her, she could not see how white his face had -grown. - -"Are we going to let her go, Phil?" - -He stroked her hand. - -"I am afraid we must let her go, mother, as she doesn't want to stop." - -"You don't mean to interfere, then? You won't do anything to prevent -it?" - -"I am not able to prevent it," he rejoined coldly. "I have no -authority." - -"Indeed?" murmured Mrs. Kincaid. "It seems I might have spared my -pains." - -"No," said her son; "your pains were well taken. I'm very glad you -have spoken to me--or rather I'm very glad to have spoken to you--for -you know now I meant no wrong by my silence." - -"But--but, Philip----" - -"But Miss Brettan must go mother, because she wishes to!" - -"I don't understand you," exclaimed Mrs. Kincaid, bewildered. "I never -thought you would care for any woman at all--you never struck me as the -sort of man, somehow; but now that you do care, you can't surely mean -that you think it right for the woman to leave the only place where she -has any friends and go out into the world by herself? Don't you say you -are in love with her?" - -"I asked Miss Brettan to marry me," he answered. "Since you put the -question, I do think it right for her to leave the place; I think every -woman would wish to leave in the circumstances. I think it would be -indelicate to restrain her." - -"Your sense of delicacy is very acute for a lover," said the old lady -grimly; "much too fine a thing to be comfortable. And I'll tell you -what is greater still--your pride. Don't imagine you take me in for a -moment; look behind you in the glass and ask yourself if it's likely!" - -He had moved apart from her now and was lounging on the hearth, but he -did not attempt to follow her advice. Nor did he deny the implication. - -"I look pretty bad," he acknowledged, "I know. But you're mistaken, for -all that; my pride has nothing to do with it." - -"You're making yourself ill at the prospect of losing her, and yet you -won't----Not but what she must be mad to reject you, certainly I am -not standing up for her, don't think it! I don't say I wanted to see -you fond of her--I should have preferred to see you marry someone who -would have been of use to you and helped you in your career. You might -have done a great deal better; and I am sure I understand your having a -proper pride in the matter and objecting to beg her to remain. But, for -all that, if you do find so much in this particular woman that you are -going to be miserable without her, why, _I_ can say something to induce -her to stop!" - -"To the woman you would prefer me not to marry?" he said wearily. "But -you mustn't do it, mother." - -"I do want to see you marry her, Philip; I want to see you happy. You -don't follow me a bit. Since the dread of her loss can make you look -like that, you mustn't lose her; that's what I say." - -"I _have_ lost her," he returned; "I follow you very well. You think I -might have married a princess, and you would have viewed that with a -little pang too. You would give me to Miss Brettan with a big pang, but -you'd give me to her because you think I want her." - -"That is it--not a very big pang, either; I know every man is the best -judge of his own life. Indeed, it oughtn't to be a pang at all; I don't -think it is a pang, only a tiny A sweet-heart is always a mother's -rival just at first, Phil; and I suppose it's always the mother's -fault. But one day, when you're married to Mary, and a boy of your own -falls in love with a strange girl, your wife will tell you how she -feels. She'll explain it to you better that I can, and then you'll know -how _your_ mother felt and it won't seem so unnatural." - -"Oh," he said, "hush! Don't! I shall never be married to Mary." - -"Yes," she declared, "you will. When you say that, you're not the 'best -judge' any longer; it isn't judgment, it's pique, and I'm not going to -have your life spoiled by pique and want of resolution. Phil, Phil, -you're the last man I should have thought would have allowed a thing he -wanted to slip through his fingers. And a woman--women often say 'no,' -to begin with. It's not the girls who are to be had for the asking who -make the best wives; the ones who are hardest to win are generally the -worthiest to hold. Don't accept her answer, Phil! I'll persuade her -to stay on, and at first you needn't come very often--I won't mind any -more, I shall know what it means; and when you do come, I'll help you -and tell you what to do. She _shall_ get fond of you; you _shall_ have -the woman you want--I promise her to you!" - -"Mother," he said--the pallor had touched his lips--"don't say that! -Don't go on talking of what can't be. It's no misunderstanding to be -made up; it isn't any courtship to be aided. I tell you you can no more -give me Mary Brettan for my wife than you can give my childhood back to -me out of eternity." - -"And I tell you I will!" said she. "'Faint-heart----' But you _shall_ -have your 'fair lady'! Yes, instead of--you remember what we used to -say to you when you were a little boy? 'There's a monkey up your back, -Phil!'--you shall have your fair lady instead of the monkey that's up -your back. It's a full-grown monkey to-night and you're too obstinate -to listen to reason. By-and-by you'll see you were wrong. She is suited -to you; the more I think about it, the more convinced I am she would -make you comfortable. You might have thrown yourself away on some silly -girl without a thought beyond her hats and frocks! And she's interested -in your profession; you've always been able to talk to her about it; -she understands these things better than I do." - -"Listen," exclaimed Kincaid with repressed passion, "listen, and -remember what you said just now--that I am a man, to judge for myself! -You mustn't ask Miss Brettan to stay, and you are not to think that it -is her going that makes me unhappy. My hope is over. Between her and me -there would never be any marriage if she remained for years. Everything -was said, and it was answered, and it is done." - -He bit the end from a cigar, and smoked a little before he spoke any -more. When he did speak, his tones were under control; anyone from whom -his face had been hidden would have pronounced the words stronger than -the feeling that dictated them. - -"Something else: after to-night don't talk to me about her. I don't -want to hear; it's not pleasant to me. If you want to prove your -affection, prove it by that! While she's here I can't see you; when -she's gone, let us talk as if she had never been!" - -The aspect of the man showed of what a tremendous strain this affected -calmness was the outcome. Indeed, the deliberateness of the words, even -more than the words themselves, hushed her into a conviction of his -sincerity, which was disquieting because she found it so inexplicable. -She smoothed the folds of her dress, casting at him, from time to time, -glances full of wistfulness and pity; and at last she said, in the -voice of a person who resigns herself to bewilderment: - -"Well, of course I'll do as you wish. But you have both very queer -notions of what is right, that's certain; help seems equally repugnant -to the pair of you." - -"Why do you say that?" inquired Kincaid. "What help has Miss Brettan -declined?" - -"She was reluctant to refer anybody to me, I thought, when I mentioned -the matter to-day. I suppose that was another instance of delicacy over -my head." - -"The reference? She won't make use of it?" - -"She seemed very doubtful of doing so. I said: 'Without any reference, -what on earth will become of you?' And she said, 'Yes, she understood, -but----' But something; I forget exactly what it was now." - -"But that's insane!" he said imperatively. - -"She'll be helpless without it. She has been your companion, and you -have had no fault to find with her; you can conscientiously say so." - -He rose, and shook his coat clear of the ash that had fallen in a lump -from the cigar. - -"Nothing that has passed between Miss Brettan and me can affect her -right to your testimony to the two years that she has lived with you; I -should like her to know I said so." - -"I will tell her," affirmed his mother. "What are you going to do?" - -"It's getting late.... By the way, there's another thing. It will be -a long while before she finds another home, at the best; she mustn't -think I have anything to do with it, but I want her to take some money -before she goes, to keep her from distress.... Where did I leave my -hat?" - -"You want me to persuade her to take some money, as if it were from me?" - -"Yes, as if it were from you--fifty pounds--to keep her from -distress.... Did I hang it up outside?" - -His mother went across to him and wound her arms about his neck. - -"Can you spare so much, Philip?" - -"I have been putting by," he said, "for some time." - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -Mary had spent the evening very anxiously. The formless future was a -terror that she could not banish; she could evolve no definite line of -action to sustain a hope. - -She awoke from a troubled sleep with a startled sense of something -having happened. After a few seconds, the cause was repeated. The -silence was broken by the jangling of a bell, and nervous investigation -proved it to be Mrs. Kincaid's. - -The old lady explained that she was feeling very unwell--an explanation -that was corroborated by her voice--and, striking a light, Mary saw -that she was shivering violently. - -"I can't stop it; and I'm so cold. I don't know what it is; it's like -cold water running down my back." - -Her companion looked at her quickly. "We'll put some more blankets on -the bed. Wait a minute while I run upstairs!" - -She returned with the bedclothes from her own room. - -"You'll be much warmer before long," she said; "you must have taken a -slight chill." - -Mrs. Kincaid lay mute awhile. - -"I've such a pain!" she murmured. "How could I have taken a chill?" - -"Where is your pain?" - -"In my side--a sharp, stabbing pain." - -The servant appeared now, alarmed by the disturbance, and Mary told her -to bring some coals, and then to dress herself as speedily as she could. - -"Is there any linseed? Or oatmeal will do. I must make a poultice." - -"I'll see, miss. There's some linseed, I think, but----" - -"Fetch it, and a kettle. We'll light the fire at once; then I can make -it up here." - -The old lady moaned and shivered by turns; and some difficulty was -experienced in getting the fire to burn. Mary held a newspaper before -it, and the servant advanced theories on the subject of the chimney. - -At last, when it was possible for the poultice to be applied, Mary sent -her down for a hot-water bottle and the whisky. - -"You'll be quite comfortable directly," she said to the invalid. -"Something warm to drink, and the hot flannel to your feet 'll make a -lot of difference." - -"So cold I am, it's bitter--and the pain! I can't think what it can be." - -"Let me put this on for you, then; it's all ready. It won't--is that -it?... There! How's that?" - -"Oh!" faltered Mrs. Kincaid, "oh, thank you! Ah! you do it very nicely." - -"See, here we have the rest of the luxuries!" She mixed the stimulant, -and took it to her. "Just raise your head," she murmured; "I'll hold -the glass for you, so that you won't have to sit up. Take this, now, -and while you're sipping it, Ellen will get the bottle ready." - -"There isn't much in the kettle," said Ellen. "I don't----" - -"Use what there is, and fill it up again. Then see if you can find me -any brown paper." - -In quest of brown paper, Ellen was gone some time; and, having set down -the empty tumbler and made the bed tidier, Mary proceeded to search for -some herself. - -She found a sheet lining a drawer, and rolling it into the form of a -tube, fixed it to the kettle spout, to direct the steam into the room. -She had not long done so when the girl returned disconsolate to say -there was no brown paper in the house. Mary drew her outside. - -"Are you going to sit in there all night, miss?" - -"Speak lower! Yes, I shall sit up. What time is it?" - -The girl said that she had just been astonished to see by the kitchen -clock that it was half-past four; it had seemed to her that she had -not long fallen asleep when the bell rang. - -"I want you to go and fetch Dr. Kincaid, Ellen; I'm afraid Mrs. Kincaid -is going to be ill." - -"Do you mean I'm to go at once?" - -"Yes. Tell him his mother isn't well, and it would be better for him to -see her. Bring him back with you. You aren't frightened to go out--it -must be getting light?" - -They drew up the blind of the landing window, and saw daylight creeping -over the next-door yard. - -"Do you think she's going to be very bad, miss?" - -"I don't know; I can't tell. Hurry, Ellen, there's a good girl! get -back as quickly as you can!" - -A deep flush had overspread the face on the pillow. The eyes yearned, -and an agonised expression strengthened Mary's belief in the gravity of -the seizure; she feared it to be the beginning of inflammation of the -lungs. Three-quarters of an hour must be allowed for Kincaid to arrive, -and, conscious that she could now do nothing but wait, the time lagged -dreadfully. The silence, banished at the earlier pealing of the bell, -had regained its dynasty, and once more a wide hush settled upon the -house, indicated by the occasional clicking of a cinder on the fender. -At intervals the sick woman uttered a tremulous sigh, and met Mary's -gaze with a look of appeal, as if she recognised in her presence a kind -of protective sympathy; but she had ceased to complain, and the watcher -abstained from any active demonstration. In the globe beside the mirror -the gas flared brightly, and this, coupled with the heat of the fire, -filled the room with a moist radiance, against which the narrow line -of dawn above the window-sill grew slowly more defined. The advent had -been long expected, when sharp footfalls on the pavement smote Mary's -ear, and, forgetting that Kincaid had his own key, she sprang up to -let him in. The hall-door swung back, and she paused with her hand on -the banisters. He came swiftly forward and passed her with a hurried -salutation on the stairs. - -There was, however, no anxiety visible on his face as he approached the -bed. Merely a little genial concern was to be seen. His questions were -put encouragingly; when a reply was given, he listened with an air of -confidence confirmed. - -"Am I very ill?" she gasped. - -"You _feel_ very ill, I dare say, dear; but don't go persuading -yourself you _are_, or that'll be a real trouble!" - -His fingers were on her pulse, and he was smiling as he spoke. Yet he -knew that her life was in danger. The worthiest acting is done where -there is no applause--it is the acting of a clever medical man in a -sick-room. - -Mary stood on the threshold watching him. - -"Who put that funnel on the kettle?" he inquired, without turning. He -had not appeared to notice it. - -"I did," she answered. "Am I to take it off?" - -"No." - -He signed to her to go below, and after a few minutes followed her into -the parlour. - -"Give me a pen and ink, Miss Brettan, please." - -"I've put them ready for you," she said. - -He wrote hastily, and rose with the prescription held out. - -"Where's Ellen?" - -"Here, waiting to take it." - -A trace of surprise escaped him. He said curtly: - -"You're thoughtful. Was it you who put on that poultice?" - -Her tone was as distant as his. - -"We did all we could before you came; _I_ put on the poultice. Did I do -right?" - -"Quite right. I asked because of the way it was put on." - -With that expression of approval he left her and returned to his -mother. Mary, unable to complete her toilette, not knowing from minute -to minute when she might be called, occupied herself in righting the -disorder of the room. She had thrown on a loosely-fitting morning dress -of cashmere, one of the first things that she had made after she was -installed here. An instant; she had snatched to dip her face in water, -but she had been able to do little to her hair, the coil of which still -retained much of the scattered; softness of the night, and after Ellen -came back from the chemist's she sent her upstairs for some; hairpins. -She stood on the hearth, before the looking-glass, shaking the mass of -hair about her shoulders, and then with uplifted arms winding it deftly -on her head. The supple femininity of the attitude, so suggestive of -recent rising, harmonised with the earliness of the sunshine that -tinged the parlour; and when Kincaid reentered and found her so, he -could not but be sensible of the impression, though he was indisposed -to dwell upon it. - -She looked round quickly: - -"How is Mrs. Kincaid, doctor?" - -"I'm very uneasy about her. I'm going back to the hospital now to -arrange to stay here." - -"What do you think has caused it?" - -"I'm afraid she got damp and cold in the garden on Sunday." - -"And it has gone to the lungs?" - -"It has affected the left lung, yes." - -She dropped the last hairpin, and as she stooped for it the swirl of -the gown displayed a bare instep. - -"I can help to nurse her, unless you'd rather send someone else?" - -"You'll do very well, I think," he said; and he proceeded to give her -some instructions. - -She fulfilled these instructions with a capability he found -astonishing. Before the day had worn through he perceived that, however -her training had been acquired, he possessed in her a coadjutrix -reliable and adroit. To herself, she was once more within her native -province, but to him it was as if she had become suddenly voluble in a -foreign tongue. He had no inclination to meditate upon her skill--to -meditate about her was the last thing that he desired now--but there -were moments when her performance of some duty supplied fresh food for -wonder notwithstanding, and he noted her dexterity with curious eyes. -He had, though, refrained from any further praise. The gratitude that -he might have spoken was checked by the aloofness of her manner; and, -in the closer association consequent upon the illness, the formality -that had sprung up between them suffered no decrease. Indeed it became -permanent in this contact, which both would have shunned. - -After the one scene in which she left the choice to him, she had -afforded him no chance to resume their earlier relations had he wished -it, and the studied politeness of her address was a persistent reminder -that she directed herself to him in his medical capacity alone. She -held the present conditions the least exacting attainable, since -the distastefulness of renewed intercourse was not to be avoided -altogether; but she in nowise exonerated him for imposing them, and -she considered that by having done so he had made her a singularly -ungracious return for the humiliation of her avowal. She sustained the -note he had struck; the key was in a degree congenial to her. But she -resented while she concurred, and even more than to her judgment her -acquiescence was attributable to her pride. - -On the day following there were recurrences of pain, but on Wednesday -this subsided, though the temperature remained high. Mary saw that -his anxiety was, if anything, keener than it had been, and by degrees -a latent admiration began to mingle with her bitterness. In the -atmosphere of the sick-room the man and the woman were equally new -to each other, and up to a certain point he was as great a surprise -to her as was she to him. She saw him now professionally for the -first time, and she recognised his resources, his despatch, with -an appreciation quickened by experience. The visitor whom she had -known lounging, loose-limbed and conversational, in an arm-chair had -disappeared; the suppliant for a tenderness that she did not feel had -become an authority whom she obeyed. Here, like this, the man was a -power, and the change within him had its physical expression. His -figure was braced, his movements had a resolution and a vigour that -gave him another personality. He even awed her slightly. She thought -that he must look more masterful to all the world in the exercise of -his profession, but she thought also that everyone in the world would -approve the difference. - -The confidence that he inspired in her was so strong that on Thursday, -when he told her that he intended to have a consultation, she heard him -with a shock. - -"You think it advisable?" - -"I fear the worst, Miss Brettan; I can't neglect any chance." - -She had some violets in her hand--it was her custom to brighten the -view from the bed as much as she could every morning--and suddenly -their scent was very strong. - -"The worst?" - -"God grant my opinion's wrong!" he said. "Will you ask the girl to take -the wire for me?" - -It was to a physician in the county town he had decided to telegraph, -one whose prestige was gradually widening, and whose reputation had -been built on something trustier than a chance summons to the couch -of a notability. Mary had heard the name before, and she strove to -persuade herself that his view of the case might prove more promising. -The day that had opened so gloomily, however, offered during the -succeeding hours small food for faith. Towards noon the sufferer -became abruptly restless, and the united efforts of doctor and nurse -were required to soothe her. She was fired by a passionate longing to -get up, and pleaded piteously for permission. To "walk about a little -while" was her one appeal, and the strenuousness of the entreaty was -rendered more pathetic by her obvious belief that they refused because -they failed to comprehend the violence of the desire. She endeavoured -with failing energy to make it known, and--prevailed upon to desist at -last--lay back with a look that was a lamentation of her helplessness. -Later, she was slightly delirious and rambled in confused phrases of -her son and her companion--his courtship and Mary's indifference. -The man and the woman sat on either side, of her, but their gaze -no longer met. At the first reference to his attachment Mary had -started painfully, but now by a strong effort her nervousness had been -suppressed, and from time to time she moved to wipe the fevered lips -and brow with a semblance of self-possession. As the daylight waned, -the disjointed sentences grew rarer. Kincaid went down. Except for -the deep breathing, silence fell again, until, as dusk gathered, the -sudden words "I feel much better" were uttered in a tone of restored -tranquillity. Turning quickly, Mary saw that her ears had not deceived -her. The assurance was repeated with a feeble smile; the features had -gained a touch of the cheerfulness that had been so remarkable in the -voice. Soon afterwards the eyes closed in what appeared to be sleep. - -Kincaid was striding to and fro in the parlour, his arms locked across -his breast. As Mary ran in, his head was lifted sharply. - -"She feels much better," she exclaimed; "she has fallen asleep!" - -He stood there, without speaking--and she shrank back with a stifled -cry. - -"Oh! I didn't know.... Is it _that_?". - -"Yes," he said, scarcely above a whisper. And she understood that what -she had told him was the presage of death. - -After this, both knew it to be but a matter of time. The arrival of the -physician served merely to confirm despondence. He pronounced the case -hopeless, and reluctantly accepted a fee to defray the expenses of the -journey. - -"I wish we could have met in happier circumstances," he said.... -"You've the comfort of knowing that you did everything that could be -done." - -A page with a message of inquiry came up the steps as he left; such -messages had been delivered daily. But on Saturday, when the baker's -man brought the bread to Laburnum Lodge, he found the blinds down; and -within a few minutes of his handing the loaf to the weeping servant -through the scullery window, the news circulated in Westport that Mrs. -Kincaid had died unconscious at seven o'clock that morning. - -While the baker's man derived this intelligence from the housemaid, -Mary was behind the lowered blinds on the first floor, crying. She -had just descended from her bedroom; seeing how deeply Kincaid was -affected, she had retired there soon after the end. He had not shed -tears, but that he was strongly moved was evident by the muscles of -his mouth; and the quivering face of which she had had a glimpse kept -recurring to her vividly. - -He came in while she sat there. He was very pale, but now his face was -under control again. - -She rose, and advanced towards him irresolutely. "I'm so sorry! She was -a very kind friend to me." - -He put out his hand. For the first time since she had met him after -posting the note, hers lay in it. - -"Thank you," he said. "Thank you, too, for all you did for her; I shall -always remember it gratefully, Miss Brettan." - -He seemed to be at the point of adding something, but checked himself. -Presently he made reference to the arrangements that must be seen to. -That night he reoccupied his quarters in the hospital, and excepting -in odd minutes, she did not see him again during the day. She found -space, however, to mention that she purposed remaining until the -funeral, and to this announcement he bowed, though he refrained from -any inquiry as to her plans afterwards. "Plans," indeed, would have -been a curious misnomer for the thoughts in her brain. The question -that she had revolved earlier had been settled effectually by the -death; now that all possibility of Mrs. Kincaid's recommending her had -been removed, her plight admitted of nothing but conjecture. - -In her solitude in the house of mourning, unbroken save for -interruptions which emphasised the tragedy, or for some colloquy with -the red-eyed servant, she passed her hours lethargic and weary. The -week of suspense and insufficient rest had tired her out, and she no -longer even sought to consider. Her mind drifted. A fancy that came to -her was, that it would be delightful to be lying in a cornfield in hot -sunshine, with a vault of blue above her. The picture was present more -often than her thought of the impending horrors of London. - -How much the week had held! what changes it had seen! She sat musing on -this the next evening, listening to the church bells, and remembering -that a Sunday ago the dead woman had been beside her. Last Sunday there -was still a prospect of Westport continuing to be her home for years. -Last Sunday it was that, in the churchyard, she had confessed her past. -Only a week--how full, how difficult to realise! She was half dozing -when she heard the hall-door unlocked, and Kincaid greeted her as she -roused herself. - -"Did I disturb you? were you asleep?" - -"No; I was thinking, that's all." - -He sighed, and dropped into the opposite chair. She noted his harassed -aspect, and pitied him. The Sunday previous she had not been sensible -of any pity at all. She understood his loss of his mother; the loss of -his faith had represented much less to her, its being a faith on which -she personally had set small store. - -"There's plenty to think of!" he said wearily. - -"You haven't seen Ellen, doctor, have you? She has been asking for you." - -"Has she? what does she want?" - -"She is anxious to know how long she'll be kept. Her sister is in -service somewhere and the family want a parlourmaid on the first of the -month. I am sorry to bother you with trifles now, but she asked me to -speak to you." - -"I must talk to her. Of course the house 'll be sold off; there's no -one to keep it on for.... How fagged you look! are you taking proper -care of yourself again?" - -"Oh yes; it is just the reaction, nothing but what'll soon pass." - -"You didn't have the relief you ought to have had; you worked like two -women." - -He paused, and his gaze dwelt on her questioningly. She read the -question with such clearness that, when he spoke, the words seemed but -an echo of the pause. - -"How did you know so much?" he asked. - -"After I lost my father I was a nurse in the Yaughton Hospital for some -years." - -The answer was direct, but it was brief. Half a dozen queries sprang to -his lips, and were in turn repressed. Her past was her own; he confined -his inquiries to her future. - -"And what do you mean to do now?" - -"I'm going to London." - -"Do you expect to meet with any difficulties in the way of taking up -nursing again?" - -"I think you know that there _were_ difficulties in the way." - -"I have no wish to force your confidence----" he said, with a note of -inquiry in his voice. - -"I haven't my certificate." - -"You can refer to the Matron." - -"I know I can; I will not. I told you two years ago there were persons -I could refer to, but I wouldn't do it." - -"May I ask why you should have any objection to referring to this one?" - -She was silent. - -"Won't you tell me?" - -"I think you might understand," she said in a very low voice. "I -went there after my father's death. I am not the woman who left the -Yaughton Hospital." - -His eyes fell, and he stared abstractedly at the grate. When he raised -them he saw that hers had closed. He looked at her lingeringly till -they opened. - -"Now that _she_ is gone," he exclaimed unsteadily, "your position is -not so easy! Have you any prospect that you don't mention?" - -She shook her head. - -"Well, is there anything you can suggest?" he asked. "Any way out of -the difficulty that occurs to you? Believe me----" - -"No," she said, "I can see nothing that is practicable; I----" - -"Would you be willing to come on the nursing-staff here? We're -short-handed in the night work. It is an opening, and it might lead to -a permanent appointment." - -Her heart began to beat rapidly; for an instant she did not reply. - -"It is very considerate of you, very generous; but I am afraid that -wouldn't do." - -"Why not?" - -"It wouldn't do, because--well, I should have left Westport in any -case." - -"You meant to, I know. But between the way you'd have left Westport if -my mother had lived, and the way you'd leave it now, there is a vast -difference." - -"I must leave it, all the same." - -"Pardon me," he said, "I can't permit you to do so. I wouldn't let -any woman go out into the world with the knowledge that she went to -meet certain distress. Your hospital experience appears to solve -the problem. You could come on next week. If your reluctance is -attributable to myself--hear me out, I must speak plainly!--if you -refuse because what has passed between us makes further conversation -with me a pain to you, you've only to remember that conversation -between us in the hospital will necessarily be of the briefest kind. -All that I remember is that I've asked you to be my wife and you don't -care for me--I'm the man you've rejected. I wish to be something more -serviceable, though; I wish to be your friend. In the hospital I shall -have little chance, for there, to all intents and purposes, we shall be -as much divided as if you went to London. While the chance does exist -I want to use it; I want to advise you strongly to take the course I -propose. It needn't prevent your attempting to find a post elsewhere, -you know; on the contrary, it would facilitate your obtaining one." - -Her hand had shaded her brow as she listened; now it sank slowly to her -lap. - -"I need hardly tell you I'm grateful," she said, in tones that -struggled to be firm. "Anyone would be grateful; to me the offer is -very--is more than good." Her composure broke down. "I know what I -must seem to you--you have heard nothing but the worst of me!" she -exclaimed. - -"I would hear nothing that it hurt you to say," he answered; and for a -minute neither of them said any more. There had been a gentleness in -his last words that touched her keenly; the appeal in hers had gone -home to him. Neither spoke, but the man's breath rose eagerly, and; the -woman's head drooped lower and lower on her breast. - -"Let me!" she said at last in a whisper that his pulses leaped to -meet. "It was there--when I was a nurse. He was a patient. Before he -left, he asked me to marry him. When I went to him he told me he was -married already. Till then there had been no hint, not the faintest -suspicion--I went to him, with the knowledge of them all, to be his -wife." - -"Thank God!" said Kincaid in his throat. - -"She was--she had been on the streets; he hadn't seen her for years. He -prayed to me, implored me----Oh, I'm trying to exonerate! myself, I'm -not trying to shift the sin on to him, I but if the truest devotion of -her life can plead I for a woman, Heaven knows that plea was mine!" - -"And at the end of the three years?" - -"There was news of her death, and he married someone else." - -She got up abruptly, and moved to the window, looking out behind the -blind. - -"I can't tell you how I feel for you," he said huskily. "I can't give -you an idea how deeply, how earnestly I sympathise!" - -"Don't say anything," she murmured; "you needn't try; I think I -understand to-night--you proved your sympathy while my claim on it was -least." - -"And you'll let me help you?" - -The slender figure stood motionless; behind her the man was gripping -the leather of his chair. - -"If I may," she said constrainedly, "if I can go there like--as -you----Ah, if the past can all be buried and there needn't be any -reminder of what has been?" - -"I'll be everything you wish, everything you'd have me seem!" - -He took a sudden step towards her. She turned, her eyes humid with -tears, with thankfulness--with entreaty. He stopped short, drew back, -and resumed his seat. - -"Now, what is it you were saying about Ellen?" he asked shortly. - -And perhaps it was the most eloquent avowal he had ever made her of his -love. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -So it happened that Mary Brettan did not leave Westport the next week. -And after a few months she was more than ever doubtful if she would -leave it at all. The suggested vacancy on the permanent staff had -occurred before then, and, once having accepted the post, there seemed -to be no inducement to woo anxiety by resigning it. - -At first the resumption of routine after years of indolence was irksome -and exhausting. The six o'clock rising, the active duties commencing -while she still felt tired, the absence of anything like privacy, -excepting in the two hours allotted to each nurse for leisure--all -these things fretted her. Even the relief that she derived from her -escape into the open air was alloyed by the knowledge that outdoor -exercise during one of the hours was compulsory. Then, too, it was -inevitable that a costume worn once more should recall the emotions -with which she had laid aside her last; inevitable that she should ask -herself what the years had done for her since last she stood within a -hospital and bade it farewell with the belief she was never to enter -one again. The failure of the interval was accentuated. Her heart had -contracted when, directed to the strange apartment above the wards, -she beheld the print dress provided for her use lying limp on a chair. -An unutterable forlornness filled her soul as, proceeding to put it -on, she surveyed her reflection in the narrow glass. Yet she grew -accustomed to the change, and the more easily for its being a revival. - -The speed with which the sense of novelty wore off indeed astonished -her. Primarily dismaying, and a continuous burden upon which she -condoled with herself every day, it was, next, as if she had lost it -one night in her sleep. She had forgotten it until the lightness with -which she was fulfilling the work struck her with swift surprise. -Little by little a certain enjoyment was even felt. She contemplated -some impending task with interest. She took her walk with zest in lieu -of relief. She returned to the doors exhilarated instead of depressed. -The bohemian, the lady-companion, had become a sick-nurse anew, and -because the primary groove of life is the one which cuts the deepest -lines, her existence rolled along the recovered rut with smoothness. -The scenes between which it lay were not beautiful, but they were -familiar; the view it commanded was monotonous, but she no longer -sought to travel. - -Socially the conditions had been favoured by her introduction. The -position that she had occupied in Laburnum Lodge gave her a factitious -value, and gained her the friendliness of the Matron, a functionary who -has the power to make the hospital-nurse distinctly uncomfortable, and -who has on occasion been known to use it. It commended her also to the -other nurses, two of whom were gentlewomen, insomuch as it promised -an agreeable variety to conversation in the sitting-room. She was by -no means unconscious of the extent of her debt to Kincaid, and her -gratitude as time went on increased rather than diminished. Certainly -the environment was conducive to a perception of his merits--more -conducive even than had been the period of his medical attendance at -the villa. The king is nowhere so attractive as at his court; the -preacher nowhere so impressive as in the pulpit. Ashore the captain may -bore us, but we all like to smoke our cigars with him on his ship. The -poorest pretender assumes importance in the circle of his adherents, -and poses with authority on some small platform, if it be only his -mother's hearthrug. Here where the doctor was the guiding spirit, and -Mary found his praises on every tongue, the glow of gratitude was -fanned by the breath of popularity. Had he deliberately planned a means -of raising himself in her esteem, he could have devised none better -than this of placing her in the miniature kingdom where he ruled. In -remembering that he had wanted to marry her, she was sensible one day -of a thrill of pride: nothing like regret, nothing like arrogance, but -a momentary pride. She felt more dignity in the moment. - -If he remembered it too, however, no word that he spoke evinced such -recollection. The promise that he had made to her had been kept to the -letter, and the past was never alluded to between them. As doctor and -nurse their colloquies were brief and practical. It was the demeanour -that he adopted towards her from the day of her instatement that added -the first fuel to her thankfulness; and if, withal, she was inclined -to review his generosity rather than to regard it, it was because he -had established the desired relations on so firm a footing that she had -ceased to believe that the pursuance of it cost him any pains. That she -had held his love after the story of her shame she was aware; but that -on reflection he could still want her for his wife she did not for an -instant suppose; and she often thought that by degrees his attitude had -become the one most natural to him. - -By what a denial of nature, by what rigid self-restraint, the idea had -been conveyed, nobody but the man himself could have told. No one else -knew the bitterness of the suffering that had been endured to give her -that feeling of right to remain; what impulses had been curbed and -crushed back, that no scruples or misgivings should cross her peace. -The circumstances in which they met now helped him much, or he; would -have failed, despite his efforts; and to fail, he understood, would be -to prove unworthy of, her trust--it would be to see her go out from his -life for ever. Still want her? So intensely, so devoutly did he want -her, that, shadowed by sin as she was, she was holier to him than any -other woman upon earth--fairer than any other gift at God's bestowal. -He would have taken her to his heart with as profound a reverence as if -no shame had ever touched her. If all the world had been cognizant of -her disgrace, he would have triumphed to cry "My wife!" in the ears; of -all the world. A baser love might well have; thirsted for her too, but -it would have had its hours of hesitation. Kincaid's had none. No flood -of passion blinded his higher judgment and urged him on; no qualms -of convention intervened and gave him pause. It was with his higher -judgment that he prayed for her. His love burned steadily, clearly. -The situation lacked only one essential for the ideal: the love of -the penitent whom he longed to raise. The complement was missing. The -fallen woman who had confessed her guilt, the man's devotion that had -withstood the test--these were there. But the devotion was unreturned, -the constancy was not desired. He could only wait, and try to hope; -wondering if her tenderness would waken in the end, wondering how he -would learn it if it did. - -To break his word by pleading again was a thing that he could do -only in the belief that she would listen to him with happiness. If -he misread her mind and spoke too soon, he not merely committed a -wrong--he destroyed the slender link that there was between them, for -he made it impossible for her to stay on. And yet, how to divine? how, -without speaking, to ascertain? What could be gathered from the deep -grey eyes, the serious face, the slim-robed figure, as he sometimes -stood beside her, guarding his every look and schooling his voice? -How could he tell if she cared for him unless he asked her? how -could he ask her unless he had reason to suppose that she did? The -nature of their association seemed to him to impose an insurmountable -barrier between them; in freer parlance a ray of the truth might be -discernible. When she had been here a year he determined to gain an -opportunity to talk with her alone. He would talk, if not on matters -nearest to him, at least on topics less formal than those to which -their conversation was limited in the ward! - -Such an opportunity, however, did not lie to his hand. It was difficult -to compass without betraying himself, and, in view of the present -difficulties, he appeared to have had so many advantages earlier that -he marvelled at his having turned them to so little account. Their -acquaintance at the villa during his mother's lifetime appeared to -him, by comparison, to have afforded every facility that he was to-day -denied, and he frequently recalled the period with passionate regret; -he thought that he had never appreciated it at its worth, though, -indeed, he had only failed to benefit by it. The villa now was tenanted -by a lady with two children; and Mary often passed it, recalling the -period also, albeit with a melancholy vaguer than his. One morning, as -she went by, the door was open--the children were coming out--and she -had a glimpse of the hall. - -They came down the steps, carrying spades and pails, bound for the -beach, like herself. The elder of them might have been nine years old, -and, belonging to the familiar house, they held a little sad interest -for her. She wondered, as they preceded her along the pavement, in -which of the rooms they slept, and if the different furniture had -altered the aspect of it much. She thought she would like to speak to -them when the sands were reached, and----Then she saw Seaton Carew! Her -heart jerked to her throat. Her gaze was riveted on him; she couldn't -withdraw it. They were advancing towards each other; he was looking at -her. She saw recognition flash across his features, and turned her -head. The people to right and left swayed a little--and she had passed -him. It had taken just fifteen seconds, but she could not remember what -she had been thinking of when she saw him. The fifteen seconds had held -for her more emotion than the last twelve months. - -Her knees trembled. She supposed he must be at the theatre this week. -But, when she saw a playbill outside the music-seller's, she was -afraid to examine it lest he might be staring after her. She walked on -excitedly. She was filled with a tremulous elation, which she cared -neither to define nor to acknowledge. She reflected that she had left -the hospital a few minutes earlier than usual, and that otherwise -she might have missed him. "Missed" was the word of her reflection. -She wondered where he was staying--in which streets the professional -lodgings were. She felt suddenly strange in the town not to know. She -had been here three years, and she did not know--how odd! In turning -a corner she saw another advertisement of the theatre, this time on a -hoarding. The day was Monday, and the paper was still shiny with the -bill-sticker's paste. She was screened from observation, and for a -moment she paused, devouring the cast with a rapid glance. His wife's -name didn't appear, so it wasn't their own company. She hurried on -again. The sight of him had acted on her like a strong stimulant. -Without knowing why, she was exhilarated. The air was sweeter, life -was keener; she was athirst to reach the shore and, in her favourite -spot, to yield herself up wholly to sensation. - -And how little he had changed! He seemed scarcely to have changed -at all. He looked just as he used to look, though he must have gone -through much since the night they parted. Ah, how could she forget -that parting--how allow the fires of it to wane? It was pitiful that, -feeling things so intensely when they happened, one was unable to keep -the intensity alive. The waste! The puerility of loving or hating, of -mourning or rejoicing so violently in life, when the passage of time, -the interposition of irrelevant incident, would smear the passion that -was all-absorbing into an experience that one called to mind! - -She sank on to a bench upon the slope of ragged grass that merged into -the shingles and the sand. The sea, vague and unruffled, lay like a -sheet of oil, veiled in mist except for one bright patch on the horizon -where it quivered luminously. She bent her eyes upon the sea, and saw -the past. His voice struck her soul before she heard his footstep. -"Mary!" he said, and she knew that he had followed her. - -She did not speak, she did not move. The blood surged to her temples, -and left her body cold. She struggled for self-command; for the -ability to conceal her agitation; for the power she yearned to gather -of blighting him with the scorn she craved to feel. - -"Won't you speak to me?" he said. He came round to her side, and stood -there, looking down at her. "Won't you speak?" he repeated--"a word?" - -"I have nothing to say to you," she murmured. "I hoped I should never -see you any more." - -He waited awkwardly, kicking the soil with the point of his boot, his -gaze wandering from her over the ocean--from the ocean back to her. - -"I have often thought about you," he said at last in a jerk. "Do you -believe that?" - -She kept silent, and then made as if to rise. - -"Do you believe that I have thought about you?" he demanded quickly. -"Answer me!" - -"It is nothing to me whether you have thought or not. I dare say you -have been ashamed when you remembered your disgrace--what of it?" - -"Yes," he said, "I have been ashamed. You were always too good for me; -I ought never to have had anything to do with a woman like you." - -She had not risen; she was still in the position in which he had -surprised her; and she was sensible now of a dull pain at the -unexpectedness of his conclusion. - -"Why have you followed me?" she said coldly. "What for?" - -"What for? I didn't know you were in the town, I hadn't an idea--and I -saw you suddenly. I wanted to speak to you." - -"What is it you want to say?" - -"Mary!" - -"Yes; what do you want to say? I'm not your friend; I'm not your -acquaintance: what have you got to speak to me about?" - -"I meant," he stammered--"I wanted to ask you if it was possible -that--that you could ever forgive the way I behaved to you." - -"Is that all?" she asked in a hard voice. - -"How you have altered!... Yes, I don't know that there's anything else." - -She did not reply, and he regarded her irresolutely. - -"Can you?" - -"No," she said. "Why should I forgive you--because time has gone by? -Is that any merit of yours? You treated me brutally, infamously. The -most that a woman can do for a man I did for you; the worst that a man -can do to a woman you did to me. You meet me accidentally and expect me -to forgive? You must be a great deal less worldly-wise than you were -three years ago." - -She turned to him for the first time since he had joined her, and his -eyes fell. - -"I didn't expect," he said; "I only asked. So you're a nurse again, eh?" - -"Yes." - -He gave an impatient sigh, the sigh of a man; who realises the -discordancy of life and imperfectly resigns himself to it. - -"We're both what we used to be, and we're both older. Well, I'm the -worse off of the two, if that's any consolation to you. A woman's -always getting opportunities for new beginnings." - -She checked the retort that sprang to her lips, eager to glean some -knowledge of his affairs, though she could not bring herself to put a -question; and after a moment she rejoined indifferently: - -"You got the chance you were so anxious for. I understood your marriage -was all that was necessary to take you to London." - -"I was in London--didn't you hear?" He was startled into naturalness, -the actor's naive astonishment when he finds his movements are unknown -to anyone. "We had a season at the Boudoir, and opened with _The Cast -of the Die_. It was a frost; and then we put on a piece of Sargent's. -That might have been worked into a success if there had been money -enough left to run it at a loss for a few weeks, but there wasn't. -The mistake was not to have opened with it, instead. And the capital -was too small altogether for a London show; the exes were awful! It -would have been better to have been satisfied with management in the -provinces if one had known how things were going to turn out. Now it's -the provinces under somebody else's management. I suppose you think I -have been rightly served?" - -"I don't see that you're any worse off than you used to be." - -"Don't you? You've no interest to see. I'm a lot worse off, for I've a -wife and child to keep." - -"A child! You've a child?" she said. - -"A boy. I don't grumble about that, though; I'm fond of the kid, -although I dare say you think I can't be very fond of anyone. But---- -Oh, I don't know why I tell you about it--what do you care!" - -They were silent again. The sun, a disc in grey heavens, smeared the -vapour with a shaft of pale rose, and on the water this was glorified -and enriched, so that the stain on the horizon had turned a deep -red. Nearer land, the sea, voluptuously still, and by comparison -colourless, had yet some of the translucence of an opal, a thousand -elusive subtleties of tint which gleamed between the streaks of -darkness thrown upon its surface from the sky. A thin edge of foam -unwound itself dreamily along the shore. A rowing-boat passed blackly -across the crimsoned distance, gliding into the obscurity where sky -and sea were one. To their right the shadowy form of a fishing-lugger -loomed indistinctly through the mist. The languor of the scene had, -in contemplation, something emotional in it, a quality that acted on -the senses like music from a violin. She was stirred with a mournful -pleasure that he was here--a pleasure of which the melancholy was -a part. The delight of union stole through her, more exquisite for -incompletion. - -"It's nothing to you whether I do badly or well," he said gloomily. And -the dissonance of the complaint jarred her back to common-sense. "Yet -it isn't long ago that we--good Lord! how women can forget; now it's -nothing to you!" - -"Why should it be anything?" she exclaimed. "How can you dare to remind -me of what we used to be? 'Forget'?--yes, I have prayed to forget! To -forget I was ever foolish enough to believe in you; to forget I was -ever debased enough to like you. I wish I _could_ forget it; it's my -punishment to remember. Not because I sinned--bad as it is, that's -less--but because I sinned for _you_! If all the world knew what I had -done, nobody could despise me for it as I despise myself, or understand -how I despise myself. The only person who should is you, for you know -what sort of man I did it for!" - -"I was carried away by a temptation--by ambition. You make me out as -vile as if it had been all deliberately planned. After you had gone----" - -"After I had gone you married your manageress. If you had been in love -with her, even, I could make excuses for you; but you weren't--you -were in love only with yourself. You deserted a woman for money. Your -'temptation' was the meanest, the most contemptible thing a man ever -yielded to. 'Ambition'? God knows I never stood between you and that. -Your ambition was mine, as much mine as yours, something we halved -between us. Has anybody else understood it and encouraged it so well? -I longed for your success as fervently as you did; if it had come, I -should have rejoiced as much as you. When you were disappointed, whom -did you turn to for consolation? But I could only give you sympathy; -and _she_ could give you power. And everything of mine _had_ been -given; you had had it. That was the main point." - -"Call me a villain and be done--or a man! Will reproaches help either -of us now?" - -"Don't deceive yourself--there are noble men in the world. I tell you -now, because at the time I would say nothing that you could regard as -an appeal. It only wanted that to complete my indignity--for me to -plead to you to change your mind!" - -"I wish to Heaven you had done anything rather than go, and that's the -truth!" - -"_I_ don't; I am glad I went--glad, glad, glad! The most awful thing I -can imagine is to have remained with you after I knew you for what you -were. The most awful thing for you as well: knowing that I knew, the -sight of me would have become a curse." - -"One mistake," he muttered, "one injustice, and all the rest, all that -came before, is blotted out; you refuse to remember the sweetest years -of both our lives!" - -She gazed slowly round at him with lifted head, and during a few -seconds each looked in the other's face, and tried to read the history -of, the interval in it. Yes, he had altered, after all. The eyes were -older. Something had gone from him, something of vivacity, of hope. - -"Are you asking me to remember?" she said. - -"You seem to forget what the injustice was done for." - -"Mary, if you knew how wretched I am!" - -"Ah," she murmured half sadly, half wonderingly, "what an egotist you -always are! You meet me again--after the way we parted--and you begin -by talking about yourself!" - -He made a gesture--dramatic because it expressed the feeling that he -desired to convey--and turned aside. - -"May I question you?" he asked lamely the next minute. "Will you -answer?" - -"What is it that you care to hear?" - -"Are you at the hospital?" - -"Yes." - -"For long? I mean, is it long since you came to Westport?" - -"I have been here nearly all the time." - -"And do--how--is it comfortable?" - -"Oh," she said, with a movement that she was unable to repress, "let us -keep to you, if we must talk at all. You'll find it easier." - -"Why will you be so cruel?" he exclaimed. "It is you who are unjust -now. If I'm awkward, it is because you're so curt. You have all the -right on your side, and I have the weight of the past on me. You asked -me why I spoke to you: if you had been less to me than you were--if, -I had thought about you less than I have--I shouldn't have spoken. -You might understand the position is a very hard one for me; I am -altogether at your mercy, and you show me none." - -The hands in her lap trembled a little, and after a pause she said in a -low voice: - -"You expect more from me than is possible; I've suffered too much." - -"My trouble has been worse. Ah! don't smile like that; it has been far -worse! You've, anyhow, had the solace of knowing you've been illused; -_I've_ felt all the time that my bed was of my own making and that I -behaved like a blackguard. Whatever I have to put up with I deserve, -I'm quite aware of it; but the knowledge makes it all the beastlier. My -life isn't idyllic, Mary; if it weren't for the child----Upon my soul, -the only moments I get rid of my worries are when I'm playing with the -child, or when I'm drunk!" - -"Your marriage hasn't been happy?" - -He shrugged his shoulders. - -"We don't fight; we don't throw the furniture at each other and have -the landlady up, like--what was their name?--the Whittacombes. But we -don't find the days too short to say all we've got to tell each other, -she and I; and----Oh, you can't think what a dreadful thing it is to -be in front of a woman all day long that you haven't got anything to -say to--it's awful! And she can't act and she doesn't get engagements, -and it makes her peevish. She might get shopped along with me for small -parts--in fact, she did once or twice--but that doesn't satisfy her; -she wants to go on playing lead, and now that the money's gone she -can't. She thinks I mismanaged the damned money and advised her badly. -She hadn't been doing anything for a year till the spring, and then she -went out with Laura Henderson to New York. Poor enough terms they are -for America! But she's been grumbling so much that I believe she'd go -on as an Extra now, rather than nothing, so long as I wasn't playing -lead to another woman in the same crowd." - -She traced an imaginary pattern with her finger on the seat. He was -still standing, and suddenly his face lighted up. - -"There's Archie!" he said. - -"Archie?" - -"The boy." - -A child of two years, in charge of a servant-girl, was at the gate of -one of the cottages behind them. - -"You take him about with you?" - -"He was left with some people in town; I've just had him down, that's -all. We finish on Saturday, and there's the sea; I thought two or three -weeks of it would do him good. Will you--may he come over to you?" - -He held out his arms, and the child, released from the servant's clasp, -toddled smilingly across the grass, a plump little body in pelisse and -cape. The gaitered legs covered the ground slowly, and she watched his -child running towards him for what seemed a long time before Carew -caught him up. - -"This is Archie," he said diffidently; "this is he." - -"Oh," she said, in constrained tones, "this is he?" - -The man stood him on the bench, with a pretence of carelessness that -was ill done, and righted his hat quickly, as if afraid that the action -was ridiculous. The sight of him in this association had something -infinitely strange to her--something that sharpened the sense of -separation, and made the past appear intensely old and ended. - -"Put him down," she said; "he isn't comfortable." - -"Do you think he looks strong?" - -"Yes, of course, very. Why?" - -"I've wondered--I thought you'd know more about it than I do. Is Archie -a good boy?" - -"Yes," answered the child. "Mamma!" - -"Don't talk nonsense--mamma's over there!" He pointed to the sea. "He -talks very well, for his age, as a rule; now he's stupid." - -"Oh, let him be," she said, looking at the baby-face with deep eyes; -"he's shy, that's all." - -"Mamma!" repeated the mite insistently, and laid a hand on her long -cloak. - -"The thumb's wrong," she murmured after a pause in which the man and -woman were both embarrassed; "see, it isn't in!" - -She drew the tiny glove off, and put it on once more, taking the -fragile fingers in her own, and parting with them slowly. A feeling -complex and wonderful crept into her heart at the voice of Tony's -child; a feeling of half-reluctant tenderness, coupled with an aching -jealousy of the woman that had borne one to him. - -They made a group to which any glance would have reverted--the -old-young man, who was obviously the father, the baby, and the -thoughtful woman, whose costume proclaimed her to be a nurse. The -costume, indeed, was not without its influence on Carew. It reminded -him of the days of his first acquaintance with her--days since which -they had been together, and separated, and drifted into different -channels. Having essayed matrimony as a means to an end, and proved -it a cul-de-sac, he blamed the woman with whom he had blundered very -ardently, and would have been gratified to descant on his mistake to -the other one, who was more than ever attractive because she had ceased -to belong to him. The length of veil falling below her waist had, to -his fancy, a cloistral suggestion which imparted to his allusions to -their intimacy an additional fascination; and Archie's presence had -seldom occupied his attention so little. Yet he was fonder of this -offshoot of himself than he had been of her even in the period that -the dress recalled; and it was because she dimly understood the fact -that the child touched her so nearly. Like almost every man in whom -the cravings of ambition have survived the hope of their fulfilment, -he dwelt a great deal on the future of his; son; longed to see his -boy achieve the success; which he had come to realise would never be -attained by himself, and lost in the interest of fatherhood some of the -poignancy of failure. The desire to talk to her of these and many other -things was strong in him, but she roused herself from reverie and said -good-bye, as if on impulse, just as he was meaning to speak. - -"I shall see you again?" - -"I think not." - -Then he would have asked if they parted in peace, but her leave-taking -was too abrupt even for him to frame the inquiry. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -It surprised him, and left him vaguely disappointed. To break off their -interview thus sharply seemed to him motiveless. He could see no reason -for it, and his gaze followed her receding figure with speculative -regret. When she was out of sight he picked the child up, and, carrying -him into the cottage parlour, sat down beside the open window, smoking, -and thinking of her. - -It was a small room, poorly furnished, and, fretted by its limitations, -the child became speedily fractious. A slipshod landlady pottered -around, setting forth the crockery for dinner, while the little -servant, despatched with the boy from town, mashed his dinner into -an unappetising compound on a plate. From time to time she turned to -soothe him with some of the loud-voiced facetiæ peculiar to the little -servant species in its dealings with fretful childhood, and at these -moments Carew suspended his meditations on his quondam mistress to -wish for the presence of his wife. It was only the second, day of his -son's visit to him, and his unfamiliarity with the arrangement was not -without its effect upon his nerves. - -Always dissatisfied with the present time, his capacity for enjoying -the past was correspondingly keen. Reflectively consuming a chop, in -full view of the unappetising compound and infancy's vagaries with a -spoon, he proceeded to re-live it, discerning in the process a thousand -charms to which the reality had seen him blind. - -He was unable to shake off the influence of the meeting when dinner -was done. Fancifully, while the child scrambled in a corner with some -toys, he installed Mary in the room; imagining his condition if he had -married her, and moodily watching the curls of tobacco smoke as they -sailed across the dirty dishes. "Damn it!" he exclaimed, rising. But -for the conviction that it would be futile, he would have gone out to -search for her. - -That he would see her again before he left the place he was determined. -But he failed to do so both on the morrow and the next day, though he -extended his promenade beyond its usual limits. He did not, in these -excursions, fail to remark that a town sufficiently large to divide one -hopelessly from the face one seeks, can yet be so small that the same -strangers' countenances are recurrent at nearly every turn. A coloured -gentleman he anathematised especially for his iteration. - -Though he doubted the possibility of the thing, he could not rid -himself of the idea that she would be at the theatre some evening, -impelled by the temptation to look upon him without his knowledge; and -he played his best now on the chance that she might be there. As often -as was practicable, he scanned the house during the progress of the -piece, and between the acts inspected it through the peep-hole in the -curtain. - -Noting his observations one night, a pretty girl in the wings asked -jocularly if "_she_ had promised to wait outside for him." - -"No, Kitty, my darling, she hasn't; she won't have anything to do with -me!" he answered, and would have liked to stop and flirt with her. His -brain was hot at the instant, and one woman or another just then---- - -If Mary had been waiting, he could have talked to her as sentimentally -as before; and have felt as much sentiment, too. All compunction for -his lapses he could assuage by a general condemnation of masculine -nature. - -The pretty girl had no part in the play. She was the daughter -of a good-looking woman who was engaged in the dual capacity of -"chamber-maid" and wardrobe-mistress; but although she had only -just left boarding-school, it was a foregone conclusion that, like -her mother, she would be connected with the lower branches of the -profession before long. Already she had acquired very perfectly, in -private, the burlesque lady's tone of address, and was familiar with -the interior of provincial bars, where her mother took a "tonic" after -the performance. - -Carew ran across them both, among a group of the male members of the -company, in the back-parlour of a public-house an hour later. Kitty, -innocent enough as yet to find "darling" a novelty, welcomed him with -a flash of her eyes; but he made no response, and, gulping his whisky, -sat glum. The others commented on his abstraction. He replied morosely, -and called for "the same again." It was not unusual for him to drink to -excess now--he was accustomed to excuse the weakness by compassionating -himself upon his dreary life--and to-night he lay back on the settee -sipping whisky till he grew garrulous. - -They remained at the table long after the closing hour, the landlady, -who was a friend of Kitty's mamma, enjoining them to quietude. She was -not averse from joining the party herself when the lights in the window -had been extinguished nor did Kitty decline to take a glass of wine -when Carew at last pressed her to be sociable. - -"Because you're growing up," he said with a foolish laugh--"'getting a -big girl now'!" - -She swept him a mock obeisance in the centre of the floor, shaking back -the hair that was still worn loose about her shoulders. - -"Sherry," she said, "if mother says her popsy may? Because I'm 'getting -a big girl now,' mother!" - -The bar was in darkness, and this necessitated investigation with a box -of matches. When the bottle was produced, it proved to be empty; the -girl's pantomime of despair was received with loud guffaws. Everybody -had drunk more than was advisable, and the proprietress again attempted -to restrain the hilarity by feeble allusions to her licence. - -"The sherry's in the cupboard down the passage," she exclaimed; "won't -you have something else instead? Now, do make less noise, there's good -boys; you'll get me into trouble!" - -"I'll go and get it," said Kitty, breaking into a momentary step-dance, -with uplifted arms. "Trust me with the key?" - -"And _I_'ll go and see she doesn't rob you," cried Carew. "Come along, -Kit!" - -"No you won't," said her mother; "she'll do best alone!" But the -remonstrance was unheeded, and, as the girl ran out into the passage, -he followed; and, as they reached the cupboard and stood fumbling at -the lock, he caught her round the waist and kissed her. - -They came back with the bottle together, in the girl's bearing an -assertion of complacent womanhood evoked by the indignity. Carew -applied himself to the liquor with renewed diligence; and by the time -the party dispersed circumspectly through the private door, his eyes -were glazed. - -The sleeping town stretched before his uncertain footsteps blanched in -moonlight as he bade the others a thick "good-night." His apartments -were a mile, and more, distant, and, muddled by drink, he struck into -the wrong road, pursuing and branching from it impetuously, till -Westport wound about him in the confusion of a maze. Once he halted, in -the thought that he heard someone approaching. But the sound receded; -and feeling dizzier every minute, he wandered on again, ultimately -with no effort to divine his situation. The sun was rising when, -partially sobered, he passed through the cottage-gate. The sea lapped -the sand gently under a flushing sky; but in the bedroom a candle still -burned, and it was in the flare of the candle that the little servant -confronted him with a frightened face. - -"Master Archie, sir!" she faltered; "I've been up with him all -night--he's ill!" - -"Ill?" He stood stupidly on the threshold. "What do you mean by ill? -What is it?" - -"I don't know; I don't know what I ought to do; I think he ought to -have a doctor." - -He pushed past her, with a muttered ejaculation, to the bed where the -child lay whimpering. - -"What's the matter, Archie? What is it, little chap?" - -"It's his neck he complains of," she said; "you can see, it's all -swollen. He can't eat anything." - -Carew looked at it dismayed. A sudden fear of losing the child, a -sudden terror of his own incompetence seized him. - -"Fetch a doctor," he stammered, "bring him back with you. You should -have gone before; it wasn't necessary to wait for me to come in to tell -you that if the child was taken ill, he needed a doctor! Go on, girl, -hurry! You'll find one somewhere in the damned place. Wait a minute, -ask the landlady--wake her up and ask which the nearest doctor is! Tell -him he must come at once. If he won't, ring up another--a delay may -make all the difference. Good God! why did I have him down here?" - -The waiting threatened to be endless. A basin of water was on the -washhand-stand, and he plunged his head into it. The stir of awakening -life was heard in the quietude. Through the window came the clatter -of feet in a neighbouring yard, the rattle of a pail on stone. He -contemplated the child, conscience-stricken by his own condition, and -strove to allay his anxiety by repeated questions, to which he obtained -peevish and unsatisfactory replies. - -It was more than two hours before the girl returned. She was -accompanied by a medical man who seemed resentful. Carew watched his -examination breathlessly. - -"Is it serious?" - -"It looks like diphtheria; it's early yet to say. He's got a first-rate -constitution; that's one thing. Mother a good physique?... So I should -have thought! Are you a resident?" - -"I'm an actor; I'm in an engagement here; my wife's abroad. Why do you -ask?" - -"The child had better be removed--there's danger of infection with -diphtheria; lodgings won't do. Take him to the hospital, and have him -properly looked after. It'll be best for him in every way." - -"I'm much obliged for your advice," said Carew. But the idea was -intimidating. "I shall be here, myself, for another week at least," he -added, in allusion to the fee. "Is it safe to move him, do you think?" - -"Oh yes, no need to fear that. Wrap him up, and take him away in a fly -this morning. The sooner the better.... That's all right. Good-day." - -He departed briskly, with an appetite for breakfast. - -"Archie will have a nice drive," said Carew in a tone of dreary -encouragement--"a nice drive in a carriage with papa." - -"I'm sleepy," said the child. - -"A nice drive in the sunshine, and see the sea. Nursie will put on your -clothes." - -"I don't want!" - -His efforts to resist strengthened Carew's dislike to the proposed -arrangement. It was not in the first few minutes that this abrupt -presentment of the hospital recalled to the man's mind Mary's -connection with it; and when the connection flashed upon him his -spirits lightened. If the boy had to be laid up, away from his mother's -relatives in London, the mischance could hardly occur under happier -conditions than where----The reflection faded to a question-point. -_Would_ she be of use? Could he expect, or dare to ask for tenderness -from Mary Brettan--and to the other woman's child? He doubted it. - -In the revulsion of feeling that followed that leaping hope, he almost -determined to withhold the request. Many children were safe in a -hospital; why not his own child? He would pay for everything. And then -the thought of Archie forsaken among strangers made him tremble; and -the little form seemed to him, in its lassitude, to have become smaller -still, more fragile. - -Again and again, in the jolting cab, he debated an appeal to Mary, -wrestling with shame for the sake of his boy. Without knowing what she -could do, he was sensible that her interest would be of value. He clung -passionately to the idea of leaving the hospital with the knowledge -that it contained a friend, an individual who would spare to the child -something more than the patient's purchased and impartial due. - -The cab stopped with a jerk, and he carried him into the empty -waiting-room. It was a gaunt, narrow apartment on the ground-floor, -with an expanse of glass, like the window of a shop, overlooking -the street. He put him in a corner of one of the forms against the -walls, and, pending the appearance of the house-surgeon, murmured -encouragement. The minutes lagged. It occurred to him that the ailment -might be pronounced trivial, but the hope deserted him almost as it -came, banished by the surroundings. The bare melancholy of the walls -chilled him anew, and the suggestion of poverty about the place -intensified his misgivings. He thought he would speak to her. If she -refused, it would have done no harm. And she would not refuse, she was -too good. Yes, she had always been a good woman. He remembered---- - -The door-knob turned, and he rose in the presence of Kincaid. The eyes -of the two men met questioningly. - -"Your child?" said Kincaid, advancing. - -"Yes; it's his neck. I was advised to bring him here, because I'm only -in lodgings. I'd like----" - -"Let me see!" - -Carew resumed his seat. His gaze hung on the doctor's movements; -every detail twanged his nerves. A nurse was called in to take the -temperature. He watched her with suspense, and smiled feebly at the -child across her arm. - -"Diphtheritic throat. We'll put him to bed at once. Take him away, -Nurse--put him into a special ward." - -"I should like----" said Carew huskily; "I know one of the nurses here. -Might I see her?" - -"Yes, certainly. Which one?" - -"Her name is 'Brettan--Mary Brettan.'" He stooped to pat the tearful -face, and missed Kincaid's surprise. "If I might see her now----?" - -"Ask if Nurse Brettan can come down, please! Say she is wanted in the -waiting-room." - -A brief pause ensued. The closing of the door left them alone. The -father's imagination pursued the figures that had disappeared; -Kincaid's was busy with the fact of the man's being an acquaintance -of Mary's--the only acquaintance that had crossed his path. Surprise -suggested his opening remark: - -"You're a visitor here, you say? Your little son's sickness has come at -an unfortunate time for you." - -"It has--yes, very. I'm at the theatre--and my apartments are none too -good." - -He mentioned the address; the doctor made some formal inquiries. Carew -asked how often he would be permitted to see the boy; and when this was -arranged, silence fell again. - -It was broken in a few seconds. The sound of a footstep on the stairs -was caught by them simultaneously. Simultaneously both men looked -round. The footsteps were succeeded by the faint rustle of a skirt, and -Nurse Brettan crossed the threshold. She started visibly--controlled -herself, and acknowledged Carew's greeting by a slight bow. - -Kincaid, in a manner, presented him to her--courteously, constrainedly. - -"This gentleman has been waiting to see you. I'll wish you -good-morning, sir." - -Mary moved to the window, and stood there without speaking. In the -print and linen costume of the house she recalled with increased force -to Carew the time when he had seen her first. - -"Archie has got diphtheria," he said; "he's just been taken upstairs." - -"I'm sorry," she said. "Why have you asked for me?" - -"They told me I couldn't keep him at home--that I must bring him -here.... Mary, you will do what you can for him?" - -She raised her head calmly. - -"He is sure of careful nursing," she answered; "no patient is -neglected." - -"I know. I know all that. I thought that you----" - -"I'm not in the children's ward," she said; "there isn't anything _I_ -can do." - -He looked at her dumbly. Mere indifference his agitation would have -found vent in combating, but the conclusiveness of the reply left him -nothing to urge. - -"I must be satisfied without you, then," he said at last. "I thought of -you directly." - -"He'll have every attention; you needn't doubt that." - -"Such a little chap--among strangers!" - -"We have very young children in the wards." - -"And perhaps to be dangerously ill!" - -"You must try to hope for the best." - -"Ah, you speak like the hospital nurse to me!" he cried; "I was -remembering the woman." - -"I speak as what I am," she returned coldly; "I am one of the nurses. I -have no remembrances, myself." - -"You could remember this week, when we met again. And once you wouldn't -have found it so impossible to spare a minute's kindness to my boy!" - -She moved towards the door, paler, but self-contained. - -"I must go now," she said; "I can't stay away long." - -"You choose to forget only when something is asked of you!" - -"I have told you," she said, turning, "that it is out of my power to do -anything." - -"And you are glad you can say it!" - -"Perhaps. No reminder of my old disgrace is pleasant to me." - -"Your reformation is very complete," he answered bitterly; "the woman I -used to know would have been unable to retaliate upon a helpless child." - -The sting of the retort roused her to refutation. Her hand, extended -towards the door, dropped to her side; she faced him swiftly. - -"You find me what you made me," she said with white lips. "I neither -retaliate nor pity. What is your wife's child to me, that you ask me to -care for it? If I'm hard, it was you who taught me to be hard before he -was born." - -"It's _my_ child I asked you to care for. And I brought myself to ask -it because he's my dearest thing on earth. I thank God to learn he -won't be in your charge!" - -She shivered, and for a moment looked at him intently. Then her eyelids -drooped, and she left him without a word. - -She went out into the corridor--her hand was pressed against her -breast. But her duties were not immediately resumed. She made her way -into the children's wing, moving with nothing of indecision in her -manner, but like one who proceeds to fulfil a purpose. The two rows of -beds left a passage down the floor, and she scanned the faces till she -reached the nurses' table. - -By chance, she spoke to the nurse that Kincaid had summoned. - -"There's a boy just been brought in with diphtheria, Sophie; do you -know where he is?" - -"Yes, I'm going back to him in a minute. He's in a special ward." - -"Let me see him!" - -"Have you got permission?" - -"No." - -Nurse Gay hesitated. - -"I shall get into trouble," she said. "Why don't you ask for it?" - -"I don't want to wait; I want to see him now." - -"I've been in hot water once this week already----" - -"Sophie, I know the mite, and--and his people. I _must_ go in to him!" - -The girl glanced at her keenly. - -"Oh, if it's like that!" she said. "It's only a wigging--go!" And she -told her where he was. - -He lay alone in the simple room, when Mary entered--a diminutive -patient for whom the narrow cot looked large. The nurse had been -showing him a picture-book, and this yawned loosely on the quilt, where -it had slid from his listless hold. At the sound of Mary's approach, -he turned. But he did not recognise her. A doubtful gaze appraised her -intentions. - -At first she did not speak. She stooped over the pillow, smoothing and -re-smoothing it mechanically, a hand trembling closer to the disordered -curls. Her own gaze deepened and hung upon him; her lips parted. Her -hands crept timidly nearer. Her face was bent till her mouth was -yielding kisses on his cheek. She yearned over him through wet lashes, -a wondering smile always on her face. - -"Archie," she murmured; "Archie, baby-boy, is it comfy for you? Won't -you see the pictures--all the pretty people in the book?" - -"Not nice pictures," he complained. - -"You shall have nicer ones this afternoon," she said; "this afternoon, -when I go out. Let me show you these now! Look, here's a little boy in -bed, like you! His name was 'Archie,' too; and one day his papa took -him to a big house, where papa had friends, and---- - -"Papa! I _want_ papa!" - -"Oh, my darling," she said, "papa is coming! He'll come very, very -soon. The other little boy wanted papa as well, and he wasn't happy at -first at all. But in the big house everybody was so kind, and glad to -have Archie there, that presently he thought it a treat to stop. It was -so nice directly that it was better than being at home. They gave him -toys, lots and lots of toys; and there were oranges and puddings--it -was beautiful!" - -She could not remain, she was needed elsewhere; and when Kincaid made -his round she was on duty. But she ascertained developments throughout -the day, and by twilight she knew that the child was grievously ill. -She did not marvel at her interest; it engrossed her to the exclusion -of astonishment. If she was surprised at all, it was that Carew could -have believed in her neutrality. Yet she was thankful that he had -believed in it; and at the same time, rejoiced that his first impulse -had been to put faith in her good heart. She did not analyse her -sympathy, ashamed of the cause from which it sprang. When she had -gazed, during the intervening years, at the faded photograph, she had -reproached herself and wept; now it all seemed natural. She sought -neither to reason nor to euphemise. The feeling was spontaneous, and -she went with it. She called it by no wrong word, because she called -it nothing. She was borne as it carried her, blindly, unresistingly, -without pausing to name it, or to define its source. It seemed natural. -She inquired about Archie when she had risen next morning, and a little -later, contrived another flying visit to the room. But he was now too -ill to notice her. - -In the afternoon, Carew came again. She learnt it while he was there, -and gathered something of his wretchedness. She heard how he besieged -the nurse with questions: "Had she seen so bad a case before--well, -often before? Had those who recovered been so young as Archie? Was -there nothing else that could be tried?" She listened, with her head -bowed, imagining the scene that she could not enter; deploring, -remembering, re-living--praying for "Tony's child." - -Not till the man had gone, however, was everything related to her. -She was sitting at the extremity of the ward, sewing, shortly to be -free for the night. It was the hour when the quiet of the hospital -deepened into the hush that preluded the extinction of the patients' -lights. The supper-trays had long since been removed from the bedsides. -Through the apertures of curtain, a few patients, loath to waive -the privilege while they held it, were to be seen reading books and -magazines; others were asleep already, and even the late-birds of the -ward who dissipated in wheel-chairs, to the envy of the rest, had made -their final excursion for the day. The Major had stopped his chair to -utter his last wish for "a comfortable night, sir." The chess champion -had concluded his conquest on a recumbent adversary's quilt. Where -breakfast comes at six o'clock, grown men resume some of the customs -of their infancy, and the day that begins so early closes soon. It was -very peaceful, very still; and she was sitting in the lamp-rays, sewing. - -She looked round as the Matron joined her. It was known that the case -interested her, and in subdued tones they spoke of it. - -"How is he?" - -"He's been dreadfully bad. The worst took place before the father left; -Dr. Kincaid had to come up." - -"What?--tell me!" - -"He had to perform tracheotomy. The father was there all the time; Dr. -Kincaid told him what was going to be done, but he wouldn't go. The -child was blue in the face and there wasn't any stopping to argue. When -the cut in the throat was made and the tube put in, I thought the man -was going to faint. He was standing just by me. 'Good God! Is this an -experiment?' he said. I told him it was the only way for the child to -breathe, but he didn't seem to hear me. And when the fit of coughing -came--oh, my goodness! You know what the coughing's like?" - -"Go on!" - -"He made sure it was all over; he burst out sobbing, and the doctor -ordered him out of the room. 'If you're fond of your child, keep quiet -here, sir,' he said, 'or go and compose yourself outside!' I think he -was sorry he'd spoken so sternly afterwards, though he was quite right, -for----" - -"Oh!" shuddered Mary. "Did you see him again?" - -"Yes; I told him he'd had no business to stop. He said, 'If the worst -happens, I shall think it right I was there.' I said he must try to -believe that only the best would happen now; though whether I ought to -have said it I don't know. When it comes to tracheotomy in diphtheria, -the child's chance is slim. Still, this one's as fine a little chap as -ever I saw; he's got the strength of many a pair we get here--and the -man was in such a state. He's coming back to-night--he's to see _me_, -anyhow; he had to hurry off to the theatre to act. I can't imagine how -he'll get through." - -"I must go! I must go to the ward!" She rose, clasping her hands -convulsively. "I can, can't I? It's Nurse Mainwaring's time to relieve -me--why isn't she here?" - -The Matron calmed her. - -"Hush! you can go as soon as she comes. Don't take on like that, or -I shall be sorry I told you. Nurse Bradley has complained of feeling -ill--I expect that's what it is." - -Mary raised a faint smile, deprecating her vehemence. - -"I'm very fond of the boy," she said, with apology in her voice. "It -was very kind of you to tell me; I thank you very much." - -Nurse Mainwaring appeared now. - -"Nurse Bradley can't get up, madam," she announced. - -"Nonsense! what is it?" - -"A sick-headache; she can't see out of her eyes." - -It was the moment of dismay in which a hospital realises that its -staff, too, is flesh and blood--the hitch in the human machinery. - -"Then we're short-handed to-night. You relieve here, Nurse Mainwaring?" - -"Yes, madam." - -"And Nurse Gay--who should relieve her?" - -"Nurse Bradley." - -"_I'll_ relieve her," cried Mary; "I'd like to!" - -"You need your night's rest as much as most. And there's no napping -with trachy--it means watching all the time." - -"I shan't nap; I shan't want to. Somebody must lose her night's -rest--why not I?" - -"I think we can manage without you." - -"It'll be a favour to me--I'm thankful for the chance." - -"Well, then, you shall halve it with someone. You can take the first -half, and----" - -"No, no," she urged, "that's rough on the other and not enough for me. -Give it me all!" - -The Matron yielded: - -"Nurse Brettan relieves Nurse Gay!" - -In the room the boy lay motionless as if already dead. From the mouth -breath no longer passed; only by holding a hand before the orifice of -the tube inserted in the throat could one detect that he now breathed -at all. As Mary took the seat by his side, the force of professional -training was immediately manifest. She had begged for the extra work -with almost feverish excitement; she entered upon it collected and -self-controlled. A stranger would have said: "A conscientious woman, -but experience has blunted her sensibilities." - -On the table were some feathers. With these, from time to time -throughout the night, she had to keep the tube free from obstruction. -Even the briefest indulgence to drowsiness was impossible. Unwavering -attention to the state of the passage that admitted air to the lungs -was not merely important, the necessity was vital. A continuous, an -inflexible vigilance was required. It was to this that the nurse, -already worn by the usual duties of the day, had pledged herself in -place of the absentee. - -At half-past nine she had cleansed the tube twice. At ten o'clock -Kincaid came in. - -"I am relieving Nurse Gay," she said, rising; "Nurse Bradley's head is -very bad." - -He went to the bed and ascertained that all was well. - -"It'll be very trying for you; wasn't there anyone to divide the work?" - -"I wanted to do it all myself." - -"Ah, yes, I understand; you know the father." - -It was the only reference that he had made to the father's asking for -her, and she was sensible of inquiry in his tone. She nodded. And, -alone together for the first time since her appointment, they stood -looking at Carew's child. - -She had no wish to speak. On him the situation imposed restraint. -But to be with her thus had a charm, for all that. It was not to be -uttered, not to be dwelt on, but, due in part to the prevailing silence -of the house, there was an illusion of confidential intercourse that he -had not felt with her here before. - -While they looked, the boy gave a quick gasp. The tube had become -clogged. - -She started and threw out her hand towards the feathers. But Kincaid -had picked one up already, favoured by his position. - -"All right!" he said; "I'll free it." - -He leant over the pillow, feather in hand. She watched him with eyes -widening in terror, for she saw that his endeavours were futile and he -could not free it. - -The waxen placidity of the upturned face vanished as she watched. -It regained the signs of life to struggle with the gripe of -death--distorted in an instant, and distorted frightfully. The average -woman would have wept aloud. The nurse, to all intents and purposes, -preserved her calmness still. - -It was Kincaid who gave the first token of despondence. - -"The thing's blocked!" he exclaimed; "I can't clear it!" - -His voice had the repressed despair of a surgeon, who is an enthusiast, -too, opposed by a higher force. Under the test of his defeat her -composure broke down. Confronted by a danger in which her interest was -vivid and personal she--as the father had done before her--became -agitated and unstrung. - -"You must," she said. "Doctor, for Heaven's sake!" - -He was trying still, but with scant success. - -"I'm doing my best; it seems no good." - -"You must save this life," she repeated. - -"You will?" - -"I tell you I can't do any more." - -"You will--you shall!" she persisted wildly. The very passion of -motherhood suffused her features. "Doctor, it is _his_ child!" - -He looked at her--their gaze met, even then. It was only in a flash. -Abruptly the gasps of the dying baby became horrible to witness. The -eyeballs rolled hideously, and seemed as if they would spring from -their sockets. The tiny chest heaved and fell in agonising efforts to -gain air, while in its convulsive battle against suffocation the frail -body almost lifted itself from the mattress. - -"Go away," said the man; "there's nothing you can do." - -She refused to stir. She appealed to him frantically. - -"Help him!" she stammered. - -"There's no way." - -"You, the doctor, tell me there's no way?" - -"None." - -"But _I_ know there _is_ a way," she cried; "I can suck that tube!" - -"Mary! My God! it might kill you!" - -She flung forward, but the conflict ceased as he pulled her back. A -small quantity of the mucus had been dislodged by the paroxysm that -it had produced. Nature had done--imperfectly, but still done--what -science had failed to effect. The boy breathed. - -The outbreak was followed by complete exhaustion, and again it seemed -that life was extinct. Kincaid assured himself that it lingered still, -and turned to her gravely. - -"You were about to do a wicked, and a foolish thing. After what it has -gone through, nothing under Heaven can save the child; you ought to -know as much as that. At best you could only hope to prolong life for -two or three hours." - -Tears were dripping down her cheeks. - -"'Only!'" she said; "do you think that's nothing to me? An hour longer, -and his father will be here--to find him living, or dead. Do you -suppose I can't imagine--do you suppose I can't feel--what _he_ feels, -there on the stage, counting the seconds to release? In an hour the -curtain 'll be down and he'll have rushed here praying to be in time. -If it were revealed that I should do nothing but prolong the life by -sacrificing my own, I'd sacrifice it! Gladly, proudly--yes, proudly, as -God hears! You could never have prevented me--nothing should prevent -me. I'd risk my life ten times rather than he should arrive too late." - -"This," drearily murmured the man who loved her, "is the return you -would make for his sin?" - -"No," she said; "it is the atonement I would offer for mine." - -He stood dumbly at the head of the cot; the woman trembled at the foot. -But they saw the change next minute simultaneously. Once more the -passage had become hopelessly clogged. With a broken cry, she rushed to -the cot's vacant side. This time he could not pull her back. He spoke. - -"Stop! Nurse Brettan, I order you to leave the ward!" - -The voice was imperative, and an instant she wavered; but it was the -merest instant. The woman had vanquished the nurse, and the woman -was the stronger now. A glance she threw of mingled supplication and -defiance, and, casting herself on the bed, she set her lips to the -tube. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -It was the work of a moment. Almost as he started forward to restrain -her, she had raised herself, and, burying her face in a handkerchief, -leant, shaking, against the wall. - -Kincaid gazed at her, white and stern, and a tense silence followed, -broken by her. - -"You can have me dismissed," she said--"he will see his child!" - -He answered nothing. The cruelty of the speech which ignored and -perverted everything outside the interests of the man by whom she -had been wronged seemed the last blow that his pain could have to -bear. A sense of the inequality and injustice of life's distribution -overwhelmed him. Viewed in the light of her defeated enemy, he felt as -broken, as far from power or dignity, as if the imputation had been -just. - -She resumed her seat; and, waiting as long as duty still required, he -at last made some remark. She replied constrainedly. The intervention -of the pause was demonstrated by their tones, which sounded flat and -dull. He was thankful when he could go; and his departure was not less -welcome to the woman. To her reactionary weakness the removal of -supervision came as balm. He went from her heavily, and she drew her -chair yet closer to the bedside. - -Tony would see his boy! She had no other settled thought, excepting the -reluctant one that she would meet him when he came. The reflection that -he would hear of her share in the matter gladdened her scarcely at all; -indeed, when she contemplated his enlightenment, she was perturbed. He -would learn that his initial faith in her had been justified, and he -would be sorry, piteously sorry, for all the hard words that he had -used. But by _her_ there was little to be gained; what she had done -had been for him. She found it even a humiliation that her act would -be known to him--a humiliation which his gratitude would do nothing to -decrease. She looked at the watch that she had pawned for the rent of -her garret after his renunciation of her, and determined the length of -time before he could arrive. - -The stress of the last few minutes could not be suffered to beget any -abatement of wariness. But by degrees, as the reverberation of the -outburst faded, she felt more tranquil than she had done since the -Matron joined her earlier in the evening; and the vigil was continued -with undiminished care. Archie would die, but now Tony would be -present. The closing moments would not pass while he was simulating -misery or mirth on a stage. Horror of the averted fate, more dreadful -to a woman's mind even than to the father's own, made the brief -protraction appear an almost priceless boon. - -It was possible for him to be here already; not likely, perhaps, so -soon as this, but possible, supposing that the piece "played quick" and -that a cab had been ordered to await him at the door. She listened for -the roll of wheels in the distance, but the silence was undisturbed. -Archie was lying as calm as when she had entered. If no further -impediment occurred, to exhaust the remaining strength more speedily, -it seemed safe to think that he might last two hours. - -Her misgivings as to her risk were slight. The danger she had run -might prove fatal; but the thing had been done with impunity at least -once before--she remembered hearing of it. While we have our health, -the contingency of sickness appears to us more remote from ourselves -than from our neighbours; in her own case, a serious result looked -exceedingly improbable. She regarded the benefit of her temerity as -cheaply bought. None knew better than she, however, how much completive -attention was called for, what alertness of eye and hand was essential -afterwards; and, sitting there, her gaze was fastened on the boy as if -she sought to hearken to every flutter of his pulse. - -Now a cab did approach; she held her breath as it rattled near. It -stopped, she fancied, before the hospital gate. Still with her stare -riveted on the unconscious child, she strained her ears for the -confirmatory tread. The seconds ticked away, swelling to minutes, but -no footstep fell. The hope had been a false one! Presently the cab -was heard again, driving away. She began to be distressed, alarmed. -Making allowance for a too sanguine calculation, it was time that -he was here!... The delay was unaccountable; no conjecture could be -formed as to its extent. Her fingers were laced and unlaced in her -lap nervously. She imagined the rumble of wheels in the soughing of -the wind, alternately intent and discomfited. The faint slamming of -a cottage-door startled her to expectation. In the profundity of the -hush that spread with every subsidence of sound, she seemed to hear the -throbbing of her heart. - -Out in the town a clock struck twelve, and apprehension verged upon -despair. The eyes fixed on the boy were desperate now; she leant over -him to contest the advent of the end shade by shade. So far no change -was shown; Tony's fast dwindling chance was not yet lost. "God, God! -Send him quick!" she prayed. Racked with impatience, tortured by the -fear that what she had done might, after all, be unavailing, she strove -to devise some theory to uphold her. Debarred from venting her suspense -in action, she found the constraint of her posture almost physical -pain. - -The clock boomed the hour of one. It swept suddenly across her mind -that the Matron had been doubtful of letting him proceed to the ward on -his return: he must have come and gone! She had been reaching forward, -and her arm remained extended vaguely. Consternation engulfed her. If -during ten seconds she thought of anything but her neglect to ensure -his being admitted, she thought she felt the blood in her freezing -from head to foot. He had come and gone!--she was thwarted by her own -oversight. Defeat paralysed the woman.... Her exploit now assumed an -aspect of grievous hazard, enhanced by its futility. She lifted herself -faint at soul. Her services were instinctive, mechanical; she resumed -them, she was assiduous and watchful; but she appeared to be prompted -by some external influence, with her brain benumbed. - -All at once a new thought thrilled her stupor. She heard the stroke of -three, and the boy was still alive! The ungovernable hope shook her -back to sensation. She told herself that the hope was wild, fantastic, -that she would be mad to harbour it, but excitement shivered in her; -she was strung with the intensity of what she hesitated to own. Every -second that might bring the end and yet withheld it, fanned the hope -feebly; the passage of each slow, dragging minute stretched suspense -more taut. She dreaded the quiver of her lashes that veiled his face -from view, as if the spark of life might vanish as her eyelids fell. -Between eternities, the distant clock rang forth the quarters of the -hour across the sleeping town, and at every quarter she gasped "Thank -God!" and wondered would she thank Him by the next. Hour trailed into -hour. The boy lingered still. Haggard, she tended and she watched. The -dreariness of daybreak paled the blind before the bed. The blind grew -more transparent, and hope trembled on. There was the stir of morning, -movement in the street; dawn touched them wanly, and hope held her yet. -And sunrise showed him breathing peacefully once more--and then she -knew that Heaven had worked a miracle and the child would live. - - * * * * * - -Among the staff that case is cited now and still the nurses tell how -Mary Brettan saved his life. The local _Examiner_ gave the matter a -third of a column, headed "Heroism of a Hospital Nurse." And, cut down -to five lines, it was mentioned in the London papers. Mr. Collins, of -Pattenden's, glanced at the item, having despatched the youth of the -prodigious yawn with a halfpenny, and--remembering how the surname was -familiar--wondered for a moment what the woman was doing who could -never sell their books. - -It was later in the morning that Carew entered the hospital, as Kincaid -crossed the hall. The porter heard the doctor's answer to a stammered -question: - -"Your child is out of danger. I'm sorry to say Nurse Brettan risked her -life for him." - -Then the visitor started, and stopped short hysterically, and the -doctor moved by, with his jaw set hard. - -To Mary he had said little. He was confronted by a recovery that it had -been impossible to foresee, but his predominant emotion was terror of -its cost. From the Matron she heard of Carew's gratitude, and received -his message of entreaty to be allowed to see her. It was not delivered, -however, till she woke, and then he had gone; and by the morrow her -reluctance to have an interview had deepened. She contented herself -with the note that he sent: one written to say that he "could not -write--that in a letter he was unable to find words." She read it very -slowly, and it drooped to her lap, and she sat gazing at the wall. She -brushed the mist from her eyes, and read the lines again, and yet again ---long after she knew them all by heart. - -Next day she rose with a strange stiffness in her throat. With her -descent to the ward, it increased. And she was frightened. But at first -she would not mention it, because she was loath for Kincaid to know. -She felt it awkward to draw breath; by noon the difficulty was not to -be concealed. She went to bed--protesting, but by Kincaid's command. - -Nurse Brettan had become a patient. She said how queer it was to be -in the familiar room in this unfamiliar way. The nurse whose watch of -Archie she had relieved was chosen to attend on her; and Mary chaffed -her weakly on her task. - -"It ought to be a good patient this spell, Sophie! If I'm a nuisance, -you may shake me." - -But to Kincaid she spoke more earnestly now the danger-signal was -displayed. - -"You did all you could to stop me, doctor. Whatever happens, you'll -remember that! You did everything that was right, and so did I." - -"Don't talk rubbish about 'happenings,' Nurse!" he said; "we shall want -you to be up and at work again directly." - -Nevertheless, she grew worse as the child grew stronger; and for a -fortnight the man who loved her suffered fiercer pain each time he -answered "Rubbish!" And the man whom she loved sought daily tidings of -her when he called to view the progress of his boy. She used to hear of -his inquiries and turn her face on the pillow, and lie for a long while -very quiet. Her distaste to meeting him had gone and she craved for him -to come to her. But now she could not bring herself to let him do it, -because her neck and face were so swollen and unsightly, and her voice -had dwindled to a whisper that was not nice to hear. - -Then all hope was at an end--it was known that she was dying. And one -morning the nurse said to her: - -"Perhaps this afternoon you'd like to see him? He has asked again." - -"This afternoon?" Momentarily her eyes brightened, but the shame of -her unloveliness came back to her, and she sighed. "Give me ... the -glass, Sophie ... there's a dear!" She looked up at her reflection in -the narrow mirror held aslant over the bed. "No," she said feebly, "not -this afternoon. Perhaps tor morrow." - -The girl put back the glass without speaking. And a gaze followed her -questioningly till she left. - -When Kincaid came in, Mary asked him how long she had to live. - -He was worn with a night of agony--a night whose marks the staff had -observed and wondered at. - -"How long?" she asked; "I know I can't get better. When's it going to -be?" He clenched his teeth to curb the twitching of his mouth. "It -isn't _now_?" - -"No, no," he said. "You shouldn't, you _mustn't_ frighten yourself like -this!" - -"To-day?" - -"Not to-day," he answered hoarsely, "I honestly believe." - -"To-morrow?" - -"Mary!" - -"To-morrow?" she pleaded in the same painful whisper. "Tell me the -truth. What to-morrow?" - -"I think--to-morrow you may know how much I loved you." - -She did not move; and he had turned aside. He noticed it was raining -and how the drops spattered on the window-sill. - -"I didn't see," she murmured; "I thought-you--had--forgotten." - -"No," he said; "you never saw. It doesn't matter; I know now it would -never have been any use. Hush, dear; don't talk; it's so bad for you!" - -"I'm sorry. But I was _his_ before you came. I couldn't. Could I?" - -"No, of course. Don't worry; don't, for God's sake! There's nothing -to be sorry about. I must go to the next ward; I shall see you this -afternoon. Try to sleep a little, won't you?" - -He went out, with a word to the nurse, who came back; and Mary lay -silent. - -Presently she said: - -"Sophie--yes, this afternoon," - -Something in the voice startled; the girl gulped before she spoke: - -"All right! he shall hear as soon as he comes." - -"Don't forget." - -"I won't forget, chummy; you can feel quite sure about it." - -"Thanks, Sophie. I'm so tired." - -The rain was falling still. She heard it blowing against the panes, -and lay listening to it, wondering if it would keep him away. Then her -thoughts drifted; and she slept. - -When Kincaid returned he took Sophie's place, and sat watching till the -figure stirred. The eyes opened at him vaguely. - -"I've been asleep?" - -"Yes." - -"Is it very late?" - -"It's about three, I think.... Just three." - -"Ah!" she said with relief. - -She closed her eyes again, and there was a long pause. He covered her -nerveless hand with his own. - -"Don't grieve," she whispered; "it doesn't hurt." - -"Oh, my dear, my dear! You, and my mother, too--helpless with both!" - -"The many," she said faintly, "think of the many you've pulled through. -You've ... been very good to me ... very good." - -To his despair it seemed that ever since they met she had been telling -him that. It was the dole that she had yielded, the atom that his -devotion had ever wrung from her--she found him "good"! - -And even as she said it, her eagerness caught the footfall, that she -had been waiting for; and she nestled lower on the pillow, trying to -hide her disfigurement from view. - -"Mary," said Kincaid, "you didn't care for me; but will you let me kiss -you on the forehead--while you know?" - -A smile--a smile of tenderness wonderfully new and strange to him -irradiated her face; and, turning, he saw the other man had come in. - - -THE END - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Man Who Was Good, by Leonard Merrick - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO WAS GOOD *** - -***** This file should be named 43837-8.txt or 43837-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/8/3/43837/ - -Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org -(Scans generously made available by the Internet Archive -- University of Toronto, Robarts Library.) - - -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. 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diff --git a/43837.txt b/43837.txt deleted file mode 100644 index f2f5a01..0000000 --- a/43837.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8127 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Man Who Was Good, by Leonard Merrick - -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 - - -Title: The Man Who Was Good - With an Introduction by J.K. Prothero - -Author: Leonard Merrick - -Commentator: J.K. Prothero - -Release Date: September 28, 2013 [EBook #43837] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO WAS GOOD *** - - - - -Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org -(Scans generously made available by the Internet Archive -- University of Toronto, Robarts Library.) - - - - - -THE MAN IS WHO WAS GOOD - -BY - -LEONARD MERRICK - -WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY - -J.K. PROTHERO - -HODDER & STOUGHTON - -LONDON--NEW YORK--TORONTO - -1921 - - - - -"That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true; -Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows. -If you loved only what were worth your love, -Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you." - - James Lee's Wife. - - - - -INTRODUCTION - - -There is a rare refreshment in the works of Leonard Merrick; gracious -yet distinctive, his style has a polished leisure seldom enjoyed these -days when perfection of literary form is at a discount. His art is -impossible of label; almost alone amongst the writers of to-day he has -the insight and the courage at once to admit the pitiless facts of life -and to affirm despite them--through hunger and loneliness, injustice -and disappointment--the spirit can and does remain unbroken; that if -there be no assurance of success, neither is there certainty of failure. - -There is no sentimental weakness in the method he employs. A rare -genius for humour tempers all his work; he can record the progressive -starvation of an actor out of work in an economy of phrase that leaves -no room for gratuitous appeal, trace the long-drawn efforts to outpace -persistent poverty of pence with a simplicity that enforces conviction. -His pen is never so poignant or restrained as when he shows us a woman -sharpened and coarsened by cheap toil. But throughout the tale of -struggle and triumph, defeat and attainment, there persists that sense -of eternal quest which shortens the hardest road. Do you starve to-day? -Opportunity of plenty may wait at the street corner, the chance of a -lifetime alight from the next bus; for Leonard Merrick is not concerned -with people of large incomes and small problems; the men and women of -whom he writes earn their own living. - -His most marked successes deal with stage life, indeed he is one of the -very few authors who convince one of the actuality of theatrical folk. -He shows us the chorus girl in her lodgings, in the Strand bars, at -the dramatic agency; we understand her ambitions, become familiar with -her unconquerable pluck and capacity for comradeship, even acquire a -liking for the smell of grease-paint. We meet the same girl out of an -engagement, follow her pilgrimage from Bloomsbury to Brixton seeking -an ever cheaper lodging; we watch the mud and wet of the streets soak -her inadequate boots, endure with her the pangs of hunger ill-allayed -by a fugitive bun. We accompany her to the pawnbroker's, and experience -the joys of combat with a recalcitrant "uncle" who refuses to lend more -than eighteenpence on a silk blouse. And still the sense of adventure -persists, the reality of romance endures, the joy of laughter remains. -We realise the compensation of precarious tenure on sufficiency, -appreciate the great truth that the adversity of to-day is lightened by -the uncertainty of to-morrow, that no matter how grim the struggle, how -sharp the hardship--and the hunger--the sense of adventure companions -and consoles. Authors who concern themselves only with men and women -of assured position and regular incomes have forgotten the truth which -Leonard Merrick so triumphantly affirms. Romance is no respecter of -persons. The freedom of the open road, its promise, its pitfalls, -sudden ecstasies and fugitive glamours is not a preserve of the rich -but the heritage of the people. - -His psychological methods allure one by their seeming simplicity; -quietly, with a delicate deliberation, he emphasises the outline of -his characters until with sudden swift decision, in the utterance of -a phrase, the doing of some one of those small things that are life's -real revelations, he shows you the soul of the man or woman whose -externals he has so carefully portrayed. Half-forgotten words and acts -crowd in on the memory, as in _The Man who was Good_ when Carew appeals -to Mary to save his child--and her rival's. It needed the genius of -Merrick to make one realise that the high-water mark of betrayal was -reached not by the man's desertion of the woman who loved him, but by -his pitiful exploitation of that love. - -I know of no author with a more subtle understanding of woman, her -generosity and meanness, her strange reticence, amazing candours. Mary -Brettan, that tragedy of invincible fidelity, could only have been -portrayed by a man able to sense feminine capacity for dumb fortitude. -One feels that had she made even a gesture of revolt, Mary would have -been freed of the paralysis of sterile constancy; and one knows that -women of her type can never make the ultimate defiance. - -Leonard Merrick has the inimitable gift of inducing his readers to -experience the emotions he portrays. The zest of adventure grips -you, as it grips the hero of _Conrad in Quest of his Youth_, perhaps -the greatest of his triumphs. We share with that perfect lover his -mellow regrets and his anticipatory ardours; we wait in tremulous -expectancy outside the little restaurant in Soho for his delightful -Lady Parlington, falling, with him-from light-hearted confidence to -sickening uncertainty as time wears on and still she does not come. The -same emotional buoyancy stirs in all his work; his incomparable humour -endears to us the least of his creations. His adorable landladies -become our friends, his "walking gentlemen" our close acquaintance. I -do not know to this day whether I have met certain of these heavenly -creatures in life or in Mr. Merrick's novels, and it is difficult to -enter a theatrical lodging without feeling that you are living the -last story in _The Man who Understood Women_, or revisiting the first -beginnings of Peggy Harper. - -London has many lovers, none so intimate with her allurements as -Leonard Merrick. He knows the glamour of her midnight pavements, the -hunger of her clamant streets, and the enchantments of her grey river -have drawn him. He has felt the deciduous charm of her luxury, the -abiding pleasure of her leafy spaces, and the intriguing alleys of -Fleet Street are to him familiar and dear. For the suburbs he has an -infinite kindness, and has companioned adventure on many a questing -tram. - -It has long been a matter of insuperable difficulty to obtain Mr. -Merrick's novels; for years I have essayed to find a copy of _Conrad_, -and from every bookseller have been sent empty away. In a moment of -folly I lent my own copy to a neighbour--I cannot call him friend--who -forthwith adopted the volume as his most invaluable possession, and, -undeterred by savagery or threats, refused to give it up. And now after -long waiting, I am made glad by a reissue of these incomparable works, -and the knowledge that an ever-increasing public, too long denied the -opportunity of their acquaintance, will share my delight. Far removed -from the nightmare of the problem novel, his books centre on simple -human things savoured with the rare salt of his humour; and whether in -the suburbs or the slums, in Soho or the Strand, whether prosperous or -starving, the men and women of whom he writes are touched with that -high courage, that fine comradeship, which is the very essence of -romance. - -J.K. PROTHERO. - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -There were three women in the dressing-room. Little Miss Macy, who -played a subaltern, was pulling off her uniform; and the "Duchess," -divested of velvet, stood brushing the powder out of her hair. The -third woman was doing nothing. In a chair by the theatrical hamper -labelled "Miss Olive Westland's Tour: 'The Foibles of Fashion' Co.," -she sat regarding the others, her hands idle in her lap. She was -scarcely what is called "beautiful," much less was she what ought to be -called "pretty"; perhaps "womanly" came nearer to suggesting her than -either. Her eyes were not large, but they were so pensive; her mouth -was not small, but it curved so tenderly; the face was not regular, but -it looked so deliciously soft. Somebody had once said that it "made -him admire God"; in watching her, it seemed such a perfect thing that -there should be a low white brow, and hair to shade it; it seemed such -an exquisite and consummate thing that there should be lips where the -Maker put lips, and a chin where the chin is modelled. Her age might -have been twenty-seven, also it might have been thirty. The wise man -does not question the nice woman's age--he just thanks Heaven she -lives; and she in the chair by the hamper was decidedly nice. Other -women said so. - -"Have you been in front, Mrs. Carew?" asked the "Duchess." - -She answered that she had. "I came round at the end. It was a very good -house; the business is improving." - -"I should think," remarked the "subaltern," reaching for her skirt, -"you must know every line of the piece, the times you've seen it! But, -of course, you've nothing else to do." - -"No, it isn't lively sitting alone all the evening in lodgings; and -it's more comfortable in the circle than behind. How you people manage -to get dressed in some of the theatres puzzles me; I look at you from -the front, remembering where your things were put on, and marvel. If -I were in the profession, my salary wouldn't keep me in the frocks I -ruined." - -"I wonder Carew has never wanted you to go into it." - -The nice woman laughed. - -"Go into the profession!" she exclaimed--"I? Good gracious, what an -idea! No; Tony has a very flattering opinion of his wife's abilities, -but I don't think even he goes the length of fancying I could act." - -"You'd be as good as a certain leading lady we know of, at any rate. -Nobody could be much worse than our respected manageress, I'll take my -oath!" - -"Jeannie," said the "Duchess" sharply, "don't quarrel with your -bread-and-butter!" - -"I'm not," said the girl; "I'm criticising it--a very different matter, -my dear. I hate these amateurs with money, even if they do take out -companies and give shops to us pros. She queers the best line I've got -in the piece every night because she won't speak up and nobody knows -what it's an answer to. The real type of the 'confidential actress' is -Miss Westland; no danger of _her_ allowing anyone in the audience to -overhear what she says!" - -"Tony believes she'll get on all right," said Mrs. Carew, "when she has -had more experience. You do, too, don't you, Mrs. Bowman?" - -The "Duchess" replied vaguely that "experience did a great deal." She -had profited by her own, and at the "aristocratic mother" period of her -career no longer canvassed in dressing-rooms the capabilities of the -powers that paid the treasury. - -"Get on?" echoed Jeannie Macy, struggling into her jacket, "of course -she'll get on; she has oof! If it's very much she's got, you'll see -her by-and-by with a theatre of her own in London. Money, influence, -or talent, you must have one of the three in the profession, and for -a short-cut give me either of the first two. Sweet dreams, both of -you; I've got a hot supper waiting for me, and I can smell it spoiling -from here!" The door banged behind her; and Mrs. Carew turned to the -"Duchess" with a smile. - -"You're coming round to us afterwards, aren't you?" she said. - -"Yes, Carew asked the husband in the morning: I hope he's got some -coppers; I reminded him. It's such a bother having to keep an account -of how we stand after every deal. We'll be round about half-past -twelve. Are you going?" - -"I should think Tony ought to be ready by now. You remember our number?" - -"Nine?" - -"Nine; opposite the baker's." - -Mrs. Carew hummed a little tune, and made her way down the stairs. The -stage, of which she had a passing view, was dark, for the foot-lights -were out, and in the T-piece only one gas-jet flared bluely between the -bare expanse of boards and the blackness of the empty auditorium. In -the passage, a man, hastening from the star-room, almost ran against -her; Mr. Seaton Carew still wore the clothes in which he finished the -play, and he had not removed his make-up yet. - -"What!" she cried, "haven't you changed? How's that? What have you been -doing?" - -"I've been talking to Miss Westland," he explained hurriedly. "There -was something she wanted to see me about. Don't wait any longer, Mary; -I've got to go up to her lodgings with her." - -She hesitated a moment, surprised. - -"Is it so important?" she asked. - -"Yes," he said; "I'll tell you about it later on; I want to have a talk -with you afterwards. I shan't be long." - -Whenever she came to the theatre, which was four or five times a week, -they, naturally, returned together, and she enjoyed the stroll in the -fresh air, "after the show," with Tony. Three years' familiarity with -the custom had not destroyed its charm to her. To-night she went out -into the Leicester streets a shade disconsolately. The gas was already -lighted when she reached the house, and a fire--for the month was -March--burnt clearly in the grate. The accommodation was not extensive: -a small ground-floor parlour, and a bedroom at the back. On the parlour -mantelpiece were some faded photographs of people who had stayed there ---Mr. Delancey as the Silver King; Miss Ida Ryan, smoking a cigarette, -as Sam Willoughby. She took off her coat, and, turning her back on the -supper-table, wondered what the conference with Miss Westland was about. - -The tedium of the delay began to tell upon her. The landlady had -brought in her book of testimonials during the afternoon, to ask Mr. -and Mrs. Carew for theirs; and fetching it from where it lay, she began -listlessly to turn the leaves. These books were abominated by Carew, -for he never knew what to write; and, perusing the comments in this -one, she mentally agreed with him that it was not easy to find a medium -between curtness and exaggeration. Some she recognised, knowing before -she looked what signatures were appended. The "Stay but a little, I -will come again" quotation she had seen above the same name in a score -of lodgings, and there were two or three "impromptus" in rhyme that she -had met before. - -She had been very happy this time at Leicester. They had arrived on -the anniversary of her and Tony's first meeting, and she had felt -additionally tender towards him all the week. The landlady had not -effected the happiness certainly, but her lodger was quite willing to -give her some of the benefit of it. She dipped the pen in the ink, -and wrote in a bold, upright hand, "The week spent in Mrs. Liddy's -apartments will always be a pleasant remembrance to Mr. and Mrs. Seaton -Carew." Then she put the date underneath. - -She had just finished when Mrs. Liddy entered with the beer. The -Irishwoman said that she was going to bed, but that Mrs. Carew would -find more glasses in the cupboard when her friends came. She supposed -that that was all? - -It was now twelve o'clock, and Mrs. Carew, with an occasional glance -at the cold beef and the corner of rice pudding, began to walk about -the room. Presently she stopped and listened. A whistle had reached her -from outside--the whistle of eight notes that is the actor's call. She -surmised that young Dolliver had forgotten their number, as he did in -every town. She drew aside the blind and let the light shine out. Young -Dolliver it was. - -"I've been whistling all up and down the road," he said, aggrieved; -"what were you doing?" - -"Well, that isn't bad," she laughed. "Why don't you remember addresses -like anybody else?" - -"Can't," he declared; "never could! Never know where I'm staying myself -if I don't make a note of it as soon as I go in. In Jarrow, one Monday, -I had to wander all over the place for three' mortal hours in the -pouring rain, looking for someone in the company to tell me where I -lived. Hallo! where's Carew?" - -"He'll be in directly," she said. "Sit down." - -"Oh! I'm awfully sorry to have come so early," he exclaimed; "why, you -haven't fed or anything." - -He was a bright-faced boy, with a cheery flow of chatter, and she was -glad he had appeared. - -"I expect the Bowmans any minute," she assured him; "you aren't early. -Do sit down, there's a good child, and don't stand fiddling your hat -about; put it on the piano! Have you banqueted yourself?" - -"To repletion. What did you think of Carew's notice in the Great -Sixpennyworth on Saturday? Wasn't it swagger? 'The role finds an ideal -exponent in Mr. Seaton Carew, an actor who is rapidly making his way -into the foremost ranks of his profession'!" - -"A line and a half," she said, "by a provincial correspondent! I shan't -be satisfied till----well!" - -"I know--till you see him with sixteen lines all to himself in the -_Telegraph_! No more will he, I fancy. He's red-hot on success, is -Carew--do anything for it. So'm I; I should like to play Claude." - -"Claude?" she exclaimed. "Why, you're funny!" - -"Not by disposition," he declared. "Miss Westland is responsible for -my being funny. When they said 'a small comedy-part is still vacant,' -I said small comedy-parts are my forte of fortes! Had it been an 'old -man' that was wanted, I should have professed myself born to dodder. -But if it comes to choice--to the secret tendency of the sacred fire--I -am lead, I am romantic, I have centre-entrances in the limelight. Look -here: 'A deep vale, shut out by Alpine----' No, wait a minute; you -do the Langtry business and let the flowers fall, while I 'paint the -home.' Do you know, my private opinion is that Claude only took those -lessons so that the widow shouldn't be put to any expense doing up the -home. Haven't got any flowers? Anything else then--where are the cards?" - -He found the pack on the sideboard, and pushed a few into her hand. - -"These'll do for the flowers," he said; "finger 'em lovingly; think -you're holding a good nap." - -"Don't be so ridiculous!" - -"I'm not," said Dolliver, with dignity; "I really want to hear your -views on my reading. Where was I--er--er---- - - "'Near a clear lake margin'd by fruits of gold - And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies - As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows.... - As I would have thy fate.' - -"You see I make a pause after 'shadows'--I'm natural. I gaze -hesitatingly at the floats, and the borders, and a kid in the pit. Then -I meet the eyes of the fair Pauline, and conclude with 'As I would have -thy fate,' smiling dreamily at the excellence of the comparison. That's -a new point, I take it?" - -He was seriously enamoured of his "new point," and was still -expatiating on it when they heard Carew unlocking the street-door. - -It was a man much of the woman's own age who came in. His face was -clean-shaven, and his hair was worn a trifle longer than the hair of -most men. Now that he was seen in a good light, it was plain that he -was disturbed; but he shook Dolliver by the hand as if relieved to find -him there. - -"What, not had supper? You must be starving, Mary?" - -"I _am_ pretty hungry," she admitted; "aren't you?" - -"Well, I've had something--still, I'll come to the table." She had -looked disappointed, and he drew his chair up. "Dolliver?" - -"Nothing for me, thanks. Oh! a glass of beer--I don't object to that." - -Despite her assertion, Mary made no great progress with her supper, -and Carew's evident disquietude even damped the garrulity of the boy. -It was not until the Bowmans arrived and a game of napoleon had been -begun, that the faint restraint caused by his manner wore away. - -Mr. Bowman, mindful of his wife's injunction, had provided himself with -several shillings'-worth of coppers, and, profiting by his forethought, -each of the party started with a rouleau of pence. These occasional -card parties after the performance had become an institution in "The -Foibles of Fashion" company, and it was seldom that anyone found them -expensive. Mary's capital, coppers included, was half a sovereign, and -to have won or lost such a sum as that at a sitting would have been -the subject of allusion for a month. To-night, however, the luck was -curiously unequal, and, to the surprise of all, Dolliver found himself -losing seven shillings before he had been playing half an hour. Much -sympathy was expressed for Dolliver. - -"Never mind, dear boy; it's always a mistake to win early in the -evening," said Carew. "There's plenty of time. I pass!" - -"Pass," said the "Duchess." - -Mary called three, and made them. - -"How do you stand, Mrs. Carew?" asked Bowman. - -"I'm just about the same as when we began. Tony, Mr. Bowman has nothing -to drink.--Oh, what a shame, Dolliver!--thanks! Fill up your own, won't -you?--He's a perfect martyr, this boy," she went on; "he cleared the -table before you two people came in--didn't you?" - -"Four!" cried Dolliver. "Yes; I cleared it beautifully. Utility is my -line of business." - -"Since when? I thought just now----" - -"Oh, confidences, Mrs. Carew!" He turned scarlet. "Don't give me -away!... Now, Mrs. Bowman, which is it to be?" - -She played trumps, and led with a king. - -A breathless moment, crowned by an unsuspected "little one" from -Dolliver. His "four" were safe, and he leant back radiant. - -The "Duchess" prepared to deal. - -"Who's got an address for the next town?" she inquired. - -"Haven't you written yet?" - -"No, we haven't got a place to write to; hateful, isn't it? If there's -a thing I loathe, it's having to look for rooms after we get in. We've ---pass!--always stayed in the same house, and--everybody to put in the -kitty again!--and now the woman's left, or something. My! isn't the -kitty getting big--look at all those sixpences underneath. Somebody -count it!" - -"Now then, Carew, don't go to sleep!" - -Carew, thus adjured, gathered up the cards. Fitfully he was almost -himself again, and only Mary was really sure that anything was amiss. - -"There's a little hotel I've stopped at there," he said. "Not at all -bad--they find you everything for twenty-five bob the week; for two -people there'd be a reduction, too. Remind me, and I'll give you the -name; I have it in my book. Bowman, you to call!" - -Bowman called nothing; everybody passed again, and the kitty was -augmented once more. - -"What time do we travel Sunday--anybody know?" - -"You can be precious sure," said Bowman, "that it will be at some -unearthly hour. I've had a good many years' experience in the -profession, but I never in my life was in a company where they did -so many night journeys as they do in this one. I believe that little -outsider arranges it on purpose!" - -"A daisy of an acting-manager, isn't he? I once knew another fellow -much the--two, I call two--and then, at the end of the tour, hanged if -they didn't rush us for a presentation to him!" - -"So they will for this chap. Presentations in the profession, upon my -soul, are the----" - -"Three," said the "Duchess." - -"And when the time comes, not a member of the crowd will have the pluck -to refuse. You see!" - -"Did you ever know an actor who had, when he was asked?" - -Dolliver flushed excitedly. - -"Nap!" he exclaimed. - -"Oh, oh, oh! Dolliver goes nap!" - -"No; d'ye mean it? Very well, fire ahead, then; play up!" - -There was two minutes' silence, and the youngster smacked down his last -card, preparing a smile for defeat. - -"He's made it! Mrs. Bowman, you threw it away; if you'd played hearts, -instead----" - -"No, no, she couldn't help it. She had to follow suit." - -"Of course!"--the "Duchess" caught feebly at the explanation--"I had -to follow suit. What a haul! good gracious!" - -"That puts you right again, eh, dear boy?" - -"'I am once more the great house of Lyons!'" remarked Dolliver, piling -up the pennies. "Six, seven, eight! Look at the silver, great Scott! -Mrs. Carew, there's the ninepence I owe you." - -"'I have paid this woman, and I owe her nothing,'" quoted Carew. -"Dolliver, you've ruined me, you beggar! Where's the 'bacca?" - -At something to three there was a murmur about its being late, but the -loser now was Mrs. Bowman, and as her shillings had drifted into the -possession of Mary, the hostess said it really was not late at all.' -This disposed of the breaking-up question for half an hour. Then Bowman -began to talk of concluding the game after a couple of rounds. When -two such arrangements had been made and set at naught, the "Duchess" -proposed that they should finish at the next "nap." To "finish at the -next nap" was a euphemism for continuing for a good: long while, and -the resolution was carried unanimously. - -The clock had struck four when the nap was made, and the winner was -Mary. She had won more than six shillings, and the "Duchess," who was -the poorer by the amount, smiled with sleepy resignation. - -"You had the luck after all, Mrs. Carew," laughed Dolliver. -"Good-night." - -"Yes," she said carelessly; "I've made something between me and the -workhouse, anyhow! Good-night." - -She loitered about the room, putting little aimless touches to things, -while Carew saw the trio to the door. She heard him shut it behind -them, and heard their steps growing fainter on the pavement. He was -slow returning, queerly slow. Dolliver's voice reached her, taking -leave of the Bowmans at the corner, and still he had not come in. - -"Tony!" she called. - -He rejoined her almost as she spoke. - -"Don't go to bed, Mary," he said huskily; "I've something to say to -you." - -"What is it?" she asked. - -He hesitated for an instant, seeking an introductory phrase. The -agitation that he had been fighting all the night had conquered him. - -"My release has come at last," he answered. "My wife is dead." - -"Dead?" - -She stood gazing at him with dilated eyes, the colour ebbing from her -cheeks. - -"She was ill some time. Drink it was, I hear; I daresay! Anyhow, she's -gone; the mistake is finished. I've paid for it dearly enough, Lord -knows!" - -He had paused midway between her and the hearth, and he moved to the -hearth. She was sensible of a vague pang as he did so. A tense silence -followed his words. In thoughts that she had been unable to escape, -the woman who had paid for his mistake more dearly still had sometimes -imagined such a moment as this--had sometimes foreseen him crying to -her that he was free. Perhaps, now that the moment was here, it was a -little wanting--a little barer than the announcement of freedom that -she had pictured. - -"You're bound to feel the shock of it," she said, almost inaudibly. -"It's always a shock, the news of death." But she felt that the burden -of speech should be his. "Were you--used you to be very fond of her? -Does it come back?" - -"I was twenty. 'Fond'? I don't know. I wasn't with her three months -when----She had walked Liverpool; I never saw her from the day I found -it out. She didn't want me; the money was enough for her--to be sure of -it every week!" - -His attitude remained unchanged, his hands thrust deep into his -trouser-pockets. Opposite each other, both reviewed the past. She -waited for him to come to her--to touch her. Yes, the reality was barer -than the picture that she had seen. - -"When was it?" she murmured. - -"It was some weeks ago." - -"So long?" - -He left the hearth moodily, and began to pace the room from end to end. -The woman did not stir. The memory was with her of the morning that -he had avowed this marriage--of the agony that had wept to her for -pity--of the clasp that would not let her go. She looked abstractedly -at the fire; but in her heart she saw his every step, and counted the -turns that kept him from her side. - -"It makes a great difference!" he said abruptly. - -The consciousness of the difference was flooding her reason, yet she -did not speak. It should not be by her that the sanctification of her -sacrifice was broached. The wish, the reminder, the reparation, all -should be his! She nodded assent. - -"A great difference," he repeated hoarsely. He smeared the dampness -from his mouth and chin. "If--if my reputation were made now, Mary, I -should ask you to be my wife." - -And then she did not speak. There was an instant in which the wall swam -before her in a haze, and the floor lurched. In the next, she was still -fronting the fireplace; she was staring at it with the same intentness -of regard; and his voice was sounding again, though she heard it dully: - -"--while a poor due can't choose! I would--I'd ask you to marry me. -I know what you've been to me--I don't forget--I know very well! But, -as it is, it'd be madness--it'd be putting a rope round my own neck. -I want you to hear how I'm situated. I want you to listen to the -circumstances----" - -"You won't ... make amends?" - -"I tell you I'm not my own master." - -"You tell me that--that we're to part! We can't remain together any -longer unless I'm your wife." - -"We can't remain together any longer at all; that's what I'm coming -to." He went back to the mantelpiece, and leant his elbows on it, -kicking the half-hot coals. "I'm going to marry Miss Westland!" - -He had said it; the echo of the utterance sung in his ears. Behind -him her figure was motionless--its its--stillness frightened him. -Intensified by the riotous ticking of the clock, through which his -pulses were strained for the relief of a rustle, a breath, the pause -grew unendurable. - -"For God's sake, why don't you say something?" he exclaimed. He faced -her impetuously, and they looked at each other across the table. "Mary, -it's my chance in life! She cares for me, don't you see? You think me a -scoundrel--don't you see what a chance it is? What can I come to as I -am? With her--she'll get on, she has money--I shall rise, I shall be a -manager, I shall get to London in time. Mary!" - -"You're going to ... marry Miss Westland?" - -"I must," he said. - -For the veriest second it was as if she struggled to understand. Then -she threw out her hands dizzily, crying out. - -"That is what your love was, then--a lie, a shameful lie?" - -"It wasn't; no, Mary, it was real! I cared for you--I did; the thing is -forced on me!" - -"'Cared'? when you use your liberty like this? You 'cared'? And I -pitied you--you wrung the soul of me with your despair--I forgave you -keeping back the tale so long. I came to you to be your wife, and you -went down on your knees and vowed you hadn't had the courage to tell -me before, but your wife was living--some awful woman you couldn't -divorce. I gave myself to you, I became the thing you can turn out of -doors, all because I loved you, all because I believed in your love -for me." She caught at her throat. "You deserved it, didn't you?--you -justify it now so nobly, the faith that has made me a ----" - -"Mary!" - -"Oh, I can say it!" she burst forth hysterically. "I _am_, you know; -you have made me one--you and your 'love'! Why shouldn't I say it?" - -"I told you the truth; if I had been free at that time----" - -"When did you hear the news of the death? Answer me--it wasn't -to-night?" - -"What's the difference," he muttered, "when I heard?" - -"Oh!" she moaned, "go away from me, don't come near me! You coward!" - -She sank on to the edge of the sofa, rocking herself to and fro. The -man roamed aimlessly around. Once or twice he glanced across at her, -but she paid no heed. His pipe was on the sideboard; he filled it -clumsily, and drew at it in nervous pulls. - -He was the first to speak again. - -"I know I seem a hound, I know it all looks very bad; but I don't -suppose there's a man in five hundred who would refuse such an -opportunity, for all that. No, nor one in five thousand, either! You -won't see it in an unprejudiced light, of course; but it seems to -me--yes, it does, and I can't help saying so--that if you were really -as fond of me as you think, if my interests were really dear to you, -you yourself 'd counsel me to leap at the chance, and, what's more, -feel honestly glad that a prospect of success had come in my way.... -You know what it means to me," he went on querulously; "you have been -in the profession--at least, as good as in the profession--three years; -you know that, in the ordinary course of events, I should never get any -higher than I am, never play in London in my life. You know I've gone -as far as I can ever expect to go without influence to back me, that -in ten years' time I should be exactly what I am now, a leading-man -for second-rate tours; and that ten years later I should be playing -heavy fathers, or Lord knows what, still on the road, and done for--the -fire all spent, wasted and worn out in the provinces. That's what it -would be; you've heard me say it again and again; and I should go on -seeing Miss Somebody's son, and Mr. Somebody-else's-daughter, with -their parents' names to get them the engagements, playing prominent -business in London theatres before they've learnt how to walk across -a stage. Miss Westland's a fine-looking girl, and she knows a lot of -Society people in town; and she has money enough to take a theatre -there when she's lost her amateurishness a bit. Right off I shall be -somebody, too--I shall manage her affairs. I'll have a big ad. in _The -Era_ every week: 'For vacant dates apply to Mr. Seaton Carew!' Oh, -Mary, it's such a chance, such a lift! I _am_ fond of you, you know I -am; I care more for your little finger than for that woman's body and -soul. Don't think me callous; it's damnable I've got to behave so--it -takes all the light, all the luck, out of the thing that the way to it -is so hard. I wish you could know what I'm feeling." - -"I think I do know," she said bitterly--"better than you, perhaps. -You're remembering how easily you could have taken the luck if your -prayers to me had failed. And you're angered at me in your heart -because the shame you feel spoils so much of the pleasure now." - -He was humiliated to recognise that this was true. Her words described -a mean nature, and his resentment deepened. - -"When did you tell Miss Westland?" she faltered. - -"Tell her?" - -"What I am. That I'm not----When was it?" - -"This evening. It won't make any awkwardness for you; I mean, she won't -speak of it to any of the others. Nobody will know for----" - -"The whole company may know to-morrow!" she answered, drying her eyes. -"Seeing that I shall be gone, they may as well know to-morrow as later. -Oh, how they will talk, all of them, how they'll talk about me--the -Bowmans, and that boy, too!" - -"You'll be gone to-morrow--what do you say?" - -"Do you suppose----" - -"Mary, there are--I must make some--good heavens! how will you -go?--where? Mary, listen: by-and-by, when something is settled, in--in -a month or more--I want to arrange to send--I couldn't let you want for -money, don't you see!" - -"I would not take a penny from you," she said, "not the value of a -penny, if I were dying. I wouldn't, as Christ hears me! Our life -together is over--I am going away." - -He looked at her aghast. - -"Now," he ejaculated, "at once? In the middle of the night?" - -"Now at once--in the middle of the night." - -"Be reasonable"--he caught her fingers, and held them in miserable -expostulation--"wait till day, at any rate. You're beside yourself, -there's nothing to be gained by it. In the morning, if you _must_----" - -"Oh!" she choked, "did you think I would stop here an hour after this? -Did you--did you think so? You man! Yes, I should be no worse to you -I but to me, the lowness of it! All in a moment the lowness of it! -I've tried to feel that we were married; I always believed it was your -trouble that I had to be what I was. If you had ever heard--as soon -as it was possible, I thought every minute 'd have been a burden to -you till you had made it all real and right. To stop with you now, the -thing I am--despised--on sufferance----" - -She dragged her hand from him and stumbled into the bedroom. There it -was quite dark, and, shaking, she groped about for matches and the -candle. A small bag, painted with the initials of "Mary Brettan," -her own name, was under the toilet-table. She pulled it out, and, -dropping on her knees before the trunk that held her clothes, hastily -pushed in a little of the top-most linen. As she did so, her eyes -fell on the wedding-ring that she wore. Painful at all times, the -sight of it now was horrible. She strangled a sob, and, lifting the -candlestick, peered stupidly around. By the parlour grate she could -hear Tony knocking his pipe out on the bars. Above the washhand-stand -a holland "tidy" contained her brushes; she rolled it up and crammed -the bundle among the linen. In fastening the bag she hesitated, -and looked irresolutely at the trunk. Going over to it, she paused -again--left it; returned to it. She plunged her arm suddenly into its -depths, and thrust the debated thing into her bag as if it burnt her. -Across the photographer's address was written, "Yours ever, Tony." Her -preparations for leaving him had not occupied ten minutes. Then she -went back. - -Her coat and hat lay by the piano where she had cast them when she came -in from the theatre. The man watched her put them on. - -"Here's your ring!" she said. - -The tears were running down her cheeks; she dabbed at them with a -handkerchief as she spoke. The baseness of it all was eating into him. -Though the ardour of his earlier passion was gone and his protestations -of affection had been insults, her loss and her aversion served -to display the growth of a certain attachment to her of which her -possession and her constancy had left him unaware. Twice a plea to -her to remain rose to his lips, and twice his tongue was heavy from -self-interest, and from shame. He followed her instinctively into the -passage; his limbs quaked, and his soul was cowed. She had already -opened the door and set her foot on the step. - -"Mary!" he gasped. - -It was just beginning to get light. Under the faint paling of the sky -the pavements gleamed cold and grey, forlornly visible in the darkness. - -"Mary, don't go!" - -A rush of chill air swept out of the silence, raising the hair from -her brow. The coat fell about her loosely in thick folds. He put -out nervous hands to touch her, and nothing but these folds seemed -assailable; they enveloped and denied her to him. - -"Don't go," he stammered; "stay--forget what I've done!" - -She saw the impulse at its worth, but she was grateful for its -happening. She knew that he would regret it if she listened, knew that -he knew he would regret it. And yet, knowing and disdaining as she did, -the gladfulness and thankfulness were there that he had spoken. - -"I couldn't," she said--her voice was gentler; "there can never be -anything between you and me any more. Good-bye, Tony." - -She walked from him firmly. The receding figure was -distinct--uncertain--merged in gloom. He stood gazing after it till it -was gone---- - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -The town lay around her desolate. Her footsteps smote the -wretchedly-laid street, and echoed on the loneliness. A cold wind blew -in fitful gusts, nipping her cheeks and hands. On the vagueness of -the market-place the gilded statue, with its sheen obscured, loomed -shapeless as she passed. She heard the lumber and creak of a wagon -straining out of sight; the quaver of a cock-crow, then one shriller -and more prolonged; two or three thin screams in quick succession from -a distant train. She knew, rather than decided, that she would go to -London, though there would not be a familiar face to greet her in all -its leagues of houses, not a door among its countless doors to reveal -a friend. She would go there because she was adrift in England and -"England" meant a blur of names equally unpitying, and London, somehow, -seemed the natural place to book to. - -Few persons' ruin leaves them alone at once; the crash generally sees -some friends who prove loyal beneath the shock of the catastrophe and -drop away only afterwards under the wearisomeness of the worries. It is -the situation of few to emerge from the wreck of a home without any -personality dominating their consciousness as the counsellor to whom -they must turn for aid. But it was the situation of Mary Brettan to be -without a soul to turn to in the world; and briefly it had happened -thus. - -Her father had been a country doctor with a large practice among -patients who could not afford to pay. From the standpoint of humanity -his conduct was admirable; regarded from the domestic hearthstone -perhaps it was a little less. The practitioner who neglected the wife -of the Mayor in order to attend a villager, because the villager's -condition was more critical, offered small promise of leaving his child -provided for, and before Mary was sixteen the problems of the rent -and butcher's book were as familiar to her as the surgery itself. The -exemplary doctor and unpractical parent struggled along more or less -placidly by means of the girl's surveillance. Had he survived her, it -is difficult to determine what would have become of him; but, dying -first, he had her protection to the end. She found herself after the -funeral with a crop of bills, some shabby furniture, and the necessity -for earning a living. The furniture and the bills were easy to dispose -of; they represented a sum in division with nothing over. The problem -was, what was she fitted to do? She knew none of those things which -used to be called "accomplishments," and which are to-day the elements -of education. Her French was the French of "Le Petit Precepteur"; in -German she was still bewildered by the article. And, a graver drawback, -since the selling-price of education is an outrage on its cost--she -had not been brought up to any trade. She belonged, in fact, and -circumstances had caused her to discover it, to the ranks of refined -incompetence: the incompetence that will not live by menial labour, -because it is refined; the refinement that cannot support itself by -any brain work, because it is incompetent. It was suggested that she -might possibly enter the hospital of a neighbouring town and try to -qualify for a nurse. She said, "Very well." By-and-by she was told that -she could be admitted to the hospital, and that if she proved herself -capable, that would be the end of her troubles. She said "Very well" -again--and this time, "thank you." - -She had a good constitution, and she saw that if she failed here she -might starve at her leisure before any further efforts were put forth -on her behalf; so she gave satisfaction in her probation, and became at -last a nurse like the others, composed and reliable. When that stage -arrived, she owned to having fainted and suppressed the fact, after an -early experience of the operating-room; her reputation was established, -and it didn't matter now. The surgeon smiled. - -Miss Brettan had been Nurse Brettan several years, when an actor who -had met with an accident was brought into the hospital. The mishap had -cost him his engagement, and he bewailed his fate to everyone who would -listen. The person who heard most was she, since it was she who had -the most to do for him, and she began by feeling sympathetic. He was a -paying patient, or he would have had to limp away much sooner; as it -was, it was many weeks before he was pronounced well enough to leave. -And during those weeks she remembered what in the years of routine she -had forgotten--that she was a woman capable of love. - -One evening she learnt that the man really cared for her; he asked her -to marry him. She stooped, and across the supper-tray, they kissed. -Then she went upstairs, and cried with joy, and there was no happier -woman in or out of any hospital in Christendom. - -He talked to her about himself more than ever after this, suppressing -only the one fact that he lacked the courage to avow. And when at last -he went away their engagement was made public, and it was settled that -she should join him in London as soon as he was able to write for her -to come. - -There were many expressions of good-will heaped upon Nurse Brettan on -the summer morning that she bade the Yaughton Hospital good-bye; a -joint wedding-gift from the other nurses was presented, and everybody -shook her hand and wished her a life of happiness, for she was popular. -Carew met her at Euston. He had written that he had dropped into a good -part, anti that they would shortly be starting together on the tour, -but that in the meanwhile they were to be married in town. It was the -first time she had been to London. He took her to lodgings in Guilford -Street, and here occurred their great scene. - -He confessed that when he was a boy he had made a wild marriage; he had -not set eyes on the woman since he discovered her past, but the law -would not annul his blunder. He was bound to a harlot, and he loved -Mary. Would she forgive his deception and be his wife in everything -except the ceremony that could not be performed? - -It was a very terrible scene indeed. For a long while he believed her -lost to him; she could be brought to give ear to his entreaties only by -force, and he upbraided himself for not having disclosed his position -in the first instance. He had excused his cowardice by calling it -"expedience," but, to do him justice, he did not do justice to himself. -The delay had been due far less to his sense of its expedience than to -the tremors of his cowardice. Now he suffered scarcely less than she. - -Had his plea been based on any but the insuperable obstacle that it -was, it would have failed to a certainty; but his helplessness gave -the sophistry of both full play. He harped on the "grandeur of the -sacrifice" she would be making for him, and the phrase pierced her -misery. He cried to her that it would be a heroism, and she wondered -dully if it really would. She queried if there was indeed a higher duty -than denial--if her virtue could be merely selfishness in disguise. -His insistence on the nobility of consent went very far with her; it -did seem a beautiful thing to let sunshine into her lover's life at -the cost of her own transgression. And then, in the background, burnt -a hot shame at the thought of being questioned and commiserated when -she returned to the hospital with a petition to be reinstalled. The -arguments of both were very stale, and equally they blinked the fact -that the practical use of matrimony is to protect woman against the -innate fickleness of man. He demanded why, from a rational point of -view, the comradeship of two persons should be any more sacred because -a third person in a surplice said it was; and she, with his arms round -her, began to persuade herself that he was a martyr, who had broken his -leg that she might cross his path and give him consolation. Ultimately -he triumphed; and a fortnight later she burst into a tempest of -sobs--in suddenly realising how happy she was. - -He introduced her to everybody as his wife; their "honeymoon" was -spent in the, to her, unfamiliar atmosphere of a theatrical tour. -One of the first places that the company visited was West Hartlepool, -and he and she had lodgings outside the town in a little sea-swept -village--a stretch of sand, and a lane or two, with a sprinkling of -cottages--called Seaton Carew, from which, he told her, he had borrowed -his professional name. She said, "Dear Seaton Carew!" and felt in a -silly minute that she longed to strain the sunny prospect against her -heart. - -In the rawness of dawn a clock struck five, and she stood forsaken in -the streets. - -The myriad clocks of Leicester took up the burden, and the air was -beaten with their din. The way to the station appeared endless; yards -were preternaturally lengthened; and ever pressing on, yet ever with -a lonely vista to be covered, the walk began to be charged with the -oppression of a nightmare, in which she pursued some illimitable road, -seeking a destination that had vanished. - -At last the building loomed before her, ponderously still, and she -passed in over the cob-stones. There were no indications of life -about the place; the booking-office was fast shut, and between the -dimly-burning lamps, the empty track of rails lay blue. For all she -knew to the contrary, she would have to wait some hours. - -By-and-by, however, a sleepy-eyed porter lounged into sight, and she -learnt that there would be a train in a few minutes. Shortly after -his advent she was able to procure a ticket--a third-class ticket, -which diminished the little sum in her possession by eight shillings -and a halfpenny; and returning to the custody of her bag, she waited -miserably till the line of carriages thundered into view. - -It was a wretched journey--a ghastly horror of a journey--but it did -not seem particularly long; with nothing to look forward to, she had no -cause to be impatient. Intermittently she dozed, waking with a start as -the train jerked to a standstill and the name of a station was bawled. -When St. Pancras was reached, her limbs were cramped as she descended -among the groups of dreary-faced passengers, and the load on her mind -lay like a physical weight. She had not washed since the previous -evening, and she made her way to the waiting-room, where a dejected -attendant charged her twopence. Then, having paid twopence more to -leave the bag behind her, she went out to search for a room. - -A coffee-bar, with a quantity of stale pastry heaped in the window, -reminded her that she needed breakfast. A man with blue shirt-sleeves -rolled over red arms brought her tea and bread-and-butter at a sloppy -table. The repast, if not enjoyable, served to refresh her and was -worth the fourpence that she could very ill afford. Some of the -faintness passed; when she stood in the fresh air again her head was -clearer; the vagueness with which she had thought and spoken was gone. - -It was not quite five minutes to eight; she wished she had rested -in the waiting-room. To be seeking a lodging at five minutes to -eight would look strange. Still, she could not reconcile herself to -going back; and she was eager, besides, to find a home as quickly as -possible, yearning to be alone with a door shut and a pillow. - -She turned down Judd Street, forlornly scanning the intersecting -squalor. The tenements around her were not attractive. On the -parlour-floor, limp chintz curtains hid the interiors, but the steps -and the areas, and here and there a frouzy head and arm protruding -for a milkcan, were strong in suggestion of slatternly discomfort. In -Brunswick Square the aspect was more cheerful, but the rooms here were -obviously above her means. She walked along, and came unexpectedly -into Guilford Street, almost opposite the house where she had given -herself to Tony. The sudden sight of it was not the shock that she -would have imagined it would prove; indeed, she was sensible of a dull -sort of wonder at the absence of sensation. But for the veranda and -confirmatory number, the outside would have borne no significance to -her; yet it had been in that house----What a landmark in her life's -history was represented by that house!' What emotions had flooded her -soul behind the stolid frontage that she had nearly passed without -recognising it; how she had wept and suffered, and prayed and joyed -within the walls that would have borne no significance to her but for -a veranda and the number that proclaimed it was so! The thoughts were -deliberate; the past was not flashed back at her, she retraced it half -tenderly in the midst of her trouble. None the less, the idea of taking -up her quarters on the spot was eminently repugnant, and she turned -several corners before she permitted herself to ring a bell. - -Her summons was answered by a flurried servant-girl, who on hearing -that she wanted a lodging, became helplessly incoherent--as is the -manner of servant-girls where lodgings are let--and fled to the -basement, calling "missis." - -Mary contemplated the hat-stand until the "missis" advanced towards -her along the passage. There was a flavour of abandoned breakfast -about missis, an air of interruption; and when she perceived that the -stranger on the threshold was a young woman, and a charming woman, -and a woman by herself, the air of interruption that she had been -struggling to conceal all the way up the kitchen-stairs began to be -coupled with an expression of defensive virtue. - -"I am looking for a room," said Mary. - -"Yes," said the householder, eyeing her askance. - -"You have one to let, I think, by the card?" - -"Yes, there's a room." - -She made no movement to show it, however; she stood on the mat nursing -her elbows. - -"Can you let me see it--if it isn't inconvenient so early?" - -"Oh, I suppose so," said the landlady. She preceded her to the -top-floor, but with no alacrity. "This is it," she said. - -It was a back attic of the regulation pattern: brown drugget, yellow -chairs, and a bed of parti-coloured clothing. Nevertheless, it seemed -to be clean, and Mary was prepared to take anything. - -"What is the rent?" she asked wearily. - -"Did you say your husband would be joining you?" - -"My husband? No, I'm a widow." - -There was a glance shot at her hand. She wore gloves, but saw that it -would have been wiser to have told the truth and said "I am unmarried." - -"As a single room, the rent is seven shillings. You'd be able to give -me references, of course?" - -"I'm afraid I couldn't do that," she said, not a little surprised. -"I've only just arrived; my luggage is at the station." - -"What do you work at?" - -"Really!" she exclaimed; "I am looking for a room. You want references; -well, I will pay you in advance!" - -"I don't take single ladies," answered the woman bluntly. - -Mary looked at her bewildered; she thought that she had not made -herself understood. - -"I should be quite willing to pay in advance," she repeated. "I'm a -stranger in London, so I can't refer you to anyone here; but I will pay -for the first week now, if you like?" - -"I don't take ladies; I must ask you to look somewhere else, please." - -They went down in silence. Virtue turned the handle with its backbone -stiff, and Mary passed out, giving a quiet "Good-day." Her blood -was tingling under the inexplicable insolence of the treatment she -had received, and she had yet to learn that it is possible for an -unaccompanied woman to seek a lodging until she falls exhausted on -the pavement; the unaccompanied woman being to the London landlady an -improper person--inadmissible not because she is improper, but because -her impropriety is presumably not monopolised. - -During the next hour, repulse followed repulse. Sometimes, with the -curt assertion that they didn't take ladies, the door was shut in her -face; frequently she was conducted to a room, only to be cross-examined -and refused, as with her first venture, just when she was at the point -of engaging it. Sometimes a room was displayed indifferently, and there -were no questions put at all, but in these cases the terms asked were -so exorbitant that she came out astounded, not realising the nature of -the house. - -It occurred to her to try the places where she would be known--not -the one in Guilford Street, the associations of that would be -unendurable--but some of the apartments that Carew and she had occupied -when they had come to town between the tours. None of these addresses -was in the neighbourhood, however, and the notion was too distasteful -to be adopted save on impulse. - -She set her teeth, and pulled bell after bell. Along Southampton Row, -through Cosmo Place into Queen Square, she wandered, while the day -grew brighter and brighter; down Devonshire Street into Theobald's -Road, past the Holborn Town Hall. Amid these reiterated demands for -references a sudden terror seized her; she remembered the need for the -certificate that she had had when she quitted the hospital. She had -never thought about it since. It might be lying crushed in a corner -of the trunk that she had left behind in Leicester; it might long ago -have got destroyed--she did not know. It had never occurred to her -that the resumption of her former calling would one day present itself -as her natural resource. In ordinary circumstances the loss would have -been a trifle; but she felt it an impossibility to refer directly to -the Matron, because to do so would lead to the exposure of what had -happened in the interval. The absence of a certificate therefore meant -the absence of all testimony to her being a qualified nurse. As the -helplessness of her plight rushed in upon her she trembled. How long -must she not expect to wait for employment when she had nothing to -speak for her? To go back to nursing would be more difficult than to -earn a living in a capacity that she had never essayed. And she could -wait so short a time for anything, so horribly short a time! She would -starve if she did not find something soon! - -Busses jogged by her laden with sober-faced men and women, bound for -the vocations that sustained the white elephant of life. Shops already -gave evidence of trade, and children with uncovered heads sped along -the curb with a "ha'porth o' milk," or mysterious breakfasts folded -in scraps of newspaper. Each atom of the awakening bustle passed her -engrossed by its own existence, operated by its separate interests, -revolving in its individual world. London looked to her a city without -mercy or impulse, populated to brimfulness, and flowing over. Every -chink and crevice seemed stocked with its appointed denizens, and the -hope of finding bread here which nobody's hand was clutching appeared -presumption. - -Eleven o'clock had struck--that is to say, she had been walking for -more than three hours--when she saw a card with "Furnished Room to -Let" suspended from a blind, and her efforts to gain shelter succeeded -at last. It was an unpretentious little house, in an unpretentious -turning; and a sign on the door intimated that it was the residence of -"J. Shuttleworth, mason." - -A hard-featured woman was evoked by the dispirited knock. Seeing a -would-be lodger who was dressed like a lady, she added eighteenpence to -the rent that she usually asked. She asked five shillings a week, and -the applicant agreed to it and was grateful. - -"About your meals, miss?" said Mrs. Shuttleworth, when Mary had sunk on -the upright wooden chair at the head of the truckle-bed-stead. "Dinners -I can't do for yer, but as far as breakfas', and a cup o' tea in the -evening goes, you can 'ave a bit of something brought up when we 'as -our own. I suppose that'll suit you, won't it?" - -"A cup of tea and some bread-and-butter," answered Mary, "in the -morning and afternoon, if you can manage it, will do very nicely, thank -you." She roused herself to the exigencies of the occasion. "How much -will that be?" - -"Oh, well, we shan't break yer! You'll pay the first week now?" - -The rent was forthcoming, and one more superfluity in the jostle of -existence profited by the misfortunes of another: going back to the -wash-tub cheerful. - -Upstairs the lodger remained motionless; she was so tired that it was -a luxury to sit still, and for awhile she was more alive to the bodily -relief than the mental burden. It was afternoon by the time she faced -the necessity for returning to St. Pancras for her bag; and, pushing up -the rickety window to admit some air during her absence, she proceeded -to the basement, to ascertain the nearest route. - -She learnt that she was much nearer to the station than she had -supposed, and in a little while she had her property in her possession -again. Her head felt oddly light, and she was puzzled by the dizziness -until she remembered she had had nothing to eat since eight o'clock. -The thought of food was sickening, though; and it was not till five -o'clock, when the tea was furnished, with a hunch of bread, and a slap -of butter in the middle of a plate, that she attempted to break her -fast. - -And now ensued a length of dreary hours, an awful purposeless evening, -of which every minute was weighted with despair. Fortunately the -weather was not very cold, so the absence of a fire was less a hardship -than a lack of company; but the fatigue, which had been acting as a -partial opiate to her trouble, gradually passed, and her brain ached -with the torture of reflection. With nothing to do but think, she sat -in the upright chair, staring at the empty grate and picturing Tony -during the familiar waits at the theatre. An evil-smelling lamp burned -despondently on the table; outside, the street was discordant with the -cries of children. To realise that it was only this morning that the -blow had fallen upon her was impossible; an interval of several days -appeared to roll between the poky attic and her farewell; the calamity -seemed already old. "Oh, Tony!" she murmured. She got out his likeness. -"Yours ever"--the mockery of it! She did not hate him, she did not -even tell herself that she did; she contemplated the faded photograph -quite gently, and held it before her a long time. It had been taken -in Manchester, and she recalled the afternoon that it was done. All -sorts of trivialities in connection with it recurred to her. He was -wearing a lawn tie, and she remembered that it had been the last clean -one and had got mislaid. Their search for it, and comic desperation at -its loss, all came back to her quite clearly. "Oh, Tony!" Her fancies -projected themselves into his future, and she saw him in a score of -different scenes, but always famous, and in his greatness with the -memory of her flitting across his mind. Then she wondered what she -would have done if she had borne him a child--whether the child would -have been in the garret with her. But no, if he had been a father this -wouldn't have happened! he was always fond of children; to have given -him a child of his own would have kept, his love for her aglow. - -Presently a diversion was effected by the home-coming of Mr. Shuttle -worthy evidently drunk, and abusing his wife with disjointed violence. -Next the woman's voice arose shrieking recrimination, the babel -subsiding amid staccato passages, alternately gruff and shrill. - -The disturbance tended to obtrude the practical side of her dilemma, -and the importance of obtaining work of some sort speedily, no matter -what sort, appalled her. The day was Wednesday, and on the Wednesday -following, unless she was to go forth homeless, there would be the -lodging to pay for again, and the breakfasts and teas supplied in the -meanwhile. She would have to spend money outside as well; she had to -dine, however poorly, and there were postage-stamps, and perhaps train -fares, to be considered: some of the advertisers to whom she applied -might live beyond walking distance. Altogether, she certainly required -a pound. And she had towards it--with a sinking of her heart she -emptied her purse to be sure--exactly two and ninepence. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -Next morning her efforts were begun. It rained, and she began to -understand what it means to the unemployed to tramp a city where two -days of every four are wet. - -To buy papers, and examine them at home was out of the question; but -she was aware that there were news-rooms where for a penny she could -see them all. Directed to such an institution by a speckled boy, -conspicuous for his hat and ears, she found several dejected-looking -women turning over a heap of periodicals at a table. The "dailies" were -spread on stands against the walls, and at a smaller table under the -window lay a number of slips, with pens and ink, for the convenience of -customers wishing to make memoranda of the vacant situations. She went -first to The Times, because it was on the stand nearest to her, and -proceeded from one paper to another until she had made a tour of the -lot. - -The "Wanted" columns were of the customary order; the needy -endeavouring to gull the necessitous with speqious phrases, and the -well-established prepared to sweat them without any disguise at all. A -drapery house had a vacancy for a young woman "to dress fancy windows, -and able to trim hats, etc., when desired"--salary fifteen pounds. -There was a person seeking a general servant willing to pay twenty -pounds a year for the privilege of doing the work. This advertisement -was headed "Home offered to a Lady," and a few seconds were required -to grasp the stupendous impudence of it. A side-street stationer, in -want of a sales-woman, advertised for an "Apprentice at a moderate -premium"; and the usual percentage of City firms dangled the decaying -bait of "An opportunity to learn the trade." Her knowledge of the glut -of experienced actresses enabled her to smile at the bogus theatrical -managers who had "immediate salaried engagements waiting for amateurs -of good appearance"; but some of the "home employment" swindles took -her in, and, discovering nothing better, she jotted these addresses -down. - -From the news-room she went to a dairy, and dined on a glass of milk -and a bun. And after an inevitable outlay on stamps and stationery, she -returned to the lodging a shilling poorer than she had gone out. - -Unacquainted with the wiles of the impostors she was answering, the -thought of her applications sustained her somewhat; it seemed to her -that out of the several openings one at least should be practicable. -She did not fail to make the calculation that most novices make in such -circumstances; she reduced the promised earnings by half, and believed -that she was viewing the prospect in a sober light which, if mistaken -at all, erred on the side of pessimism. - -The envelopes that she had enclosed came back to her late the following -afternoon; and the circulars varied mainly in colour and in the prices -of the materials that they offered for sale. In all particulars -essential to prove them frauds to everybody excepting the piteous fools -who must exist, to explain the advertisements' longevity, they were the -same. - -With the extinction of the hope, the darkness of her outlook was -intensified, and henceforth she eschewed the offers of "liberal -incomes" and confined her attention to the illiberal wages. Day after -day she resorted to the news-room--one stray more whom the proprietor -saw regularly--resolved not to relinquish her access to the papers -while a coin remained to her to pay for admission. She wrote many -letters, and spent her evenings vainly listening for the postman's -knock. She attributed her repeated failures to there being no mention -of references in her replies; they were so concise and nicely written -that she felt sure they could not have failed from any other reason. -Probably her nicely-written notes were never read: merely tossed with -scores of others, all unopened, into the wastepaper basket, after a -selection had been made from the top thirty. This is the fate of most -of the nicely-written notes that go in reply to advertisements in the -newspapers; only, the people who compose them and post them with little -prayers, fortunately do not suspect it. If they suspected it, they -would lose the twenty-four hours' comfort of hugging a false hope to -their souls; and an oasis of hope may be a desirable thing at the cost -of a postage-stamp. - -One evening an answer did come, and an answer in connection with a -really beautiful "Wanted." When it was handed to her, she hardly dared -to hope that it related to that particular situation at all. The -advertisement had run: - -"Secretary required by a Literary Lady. Must be sociable, and have no -objection to travel on the Continent. Apply in own handwriting to C.B., -care of Messrs. Furnival," etc. - -The signature, however, was not "C.B.'s." The communication was from -Messrs. Furnival. They wrote that they judged by Miss Brettan's -application that she would suit their client; and that on receipt of -a half-crown--their usual booking fee--they would forward the lady's -address. - -If she had had a half-crown to send, she might have sent it; as it was, -instead of remitting to Messrs. Furnival's office, she called there. - -It proved to be a very small and very dark back room on the -ground-floor, and Messrs. Furnival were represented by a stout -gentleman of shabby apparel and mellifluous manner. Mary began -by saying that she was the applicant who had received his letter -about "C.B.'s" advertisement; but as this announcement did not seem -sufficiently definite to enable the stout gentleman to converse on the -subject with fluency and freedom, she added that "C.B." was a literary -lady who stood in need of a secretary. - -On this he became very vivacious indeed. He told her that her chance -of securing the post was an excellent one. No, it was not a certainty, -as she appeared to have understood, but he did not think she had much -occasion for misgiving; her speed in shorthand was in excess of the -rate for which their client had stipulated. - -She said: "Why, I especially stated that if she wanted someone who knew -shorthand, I should be no use!" - -He said: "So you did! I meant to say, your type-writing was your -recommendation." - -"Mr. Furnival," she exclaimed, "I wrote, 'I do not know shorthand, and -I am not a typist'! You must be confusing me with someone else. Perhaps -you have answered another application as well?" - -Perhaps he had. - -"You're my first experience of an applicant for a secretaryship who -hasn't learnt shorthand or type-writing," he said in an injured tone. -"Of course, if you don't know either, you'd be no good at all--not a -bit." - -"Then," she said, "why did you ask me to send you half a crown?" - -Before he could spare time to enlighten her as to his reason for this -line of action, they were interrupted by an urchin who deposited an -armful of letters on the table. The gentleman seemed pleased to see -them, and she came away wondering how many of the women who Messrs. -Furnival "judged would suit their client" enclosed postal-orders to pay -the "fee." - -Quite ineffectually she visited some legitimate agencies, and once -she walked to Battersea in time to learn that the berth that was the -object of her journey had just been filled. Even when one walks to -Battersea, and dines for twopence, however, the staying-powers of -two-and-ninepence are very limited; and the dawning of the dreaded date -for the bill found her capital exhausted. - -Among her scanty possessions, the only article that she could suggest -converting into money was a silver watch that she wore attached to a -guard. It had belonged to her as a girl; she had worn it as a nurse; -it had travelled with her on tour during her life with Carew. What a -pawnbroker would lend her on it she did not know, but she supposed -a sovereign. Had she been better off, she would have supposed two -sovereigns, for she was as ignorant of its value as of the method -of pledging it; but being destitute, a pound looked to her a very -substantial amount. She made her way heavily into the street. She felt -that her errand was printed on her face, and when she reached and -paused beneath the sign of the three balls, all the passers-by seemed -to be watching her. - -The window offered a pretext for hesitation. She stood inspecting the -collection behind the glass; perhaps anyone who saw her go in might -imagine it was with the intention of buying something! She was nerving -herself to the necessary pitch when, giving a final glance over her -shoulder, she saw a bystander looking at her steadily. Her courage took -flight, and she sauntered on, deciding to explore for a shop in a more -secluded position. - -Though she was ashamed of her retreat, the respite was a relief to her. -It was not until she came to three more balls that she perceived that -the longer she delayed, the worse she would feel. She went hurriedly -in. There was a row of narrow doors extending down a passage, and, -pulling one open, she found the tiny compartment occupied by a woman -and a bundle. Starting back, she adventured the next partition, which -proved to be vacant; and standing away from the counter, lest her -profile should be detected by her neighbour in distress, she waited -for someone to come to her. - -Nobody taking any notice, she rapped to attract attention. A young man -lounged along, and she put the watch down. - -"How much?" he said. - -"A pound." - -He caught it up and withdrew, conveying the impression that he thought -very little of it. She thought very little of it herself directly it -was in his hand. His hand was a masterpiece of expression, whereas his -voice never wavered from two notes. - -"Ten shillings," he said, reappearing. - -"Ten shillings is very little," she murmured. "Surely it's worth more -than that?" - -"Going to take it?" - -He slid the watch across to her. - -"Thank you," she said; "yes." - -A doubt whether it would be sufficient crept over her the instant she -had agreed, and she wished she had declined the offer. To call him -back, however, was beyond her; and when he returned it was with the -ticket. - -"Name and address?" - -New to the requirements of a pawnbroker, she stammered the true one, -convinced that the woman with the bundle would overhear and remember. -Even then she was dismayed to find the transaction wasn't concluded; -he asked her for a halfpenny, and, with the blood in her face, she -signified that she had no change. At last though, she was free to -depart, with a handful of silver and coppers; and guiltily transferring -the money to her purse when the shop was well behind, she reverted to -routine. - -It was striking five when she mounted to the attic, and she saw that -Mrs. Shuttleworth, with the punctuality peculiar to cheap landladies -when the lodger is out, had already brought up the tray. On the plate -was her bill; she snatched at it anxiously, and was relieved to find it -ran thus: - - s. d. - Bred 1 2 - Butter.... 10 - Milk 3 1/2 - Tea 6 - Oil 2 - Shuger.... 2 1/2 - To room til next Wensday 5 0 - - 8 2 - -So far, then, she had been equal to emergencies, and another week's -shelter was assured. The garret began to assume almost an air of -comfort, refined by her terror of losing it. When she reflected that -the week divided her from actual starvation, she cried that she must -find something to do--she must! Then she realised that she could -find it no more easily because it was a case of "must" than if it -had been simply expedient, and the futility of the feminine "must," -when she was already doing all she could do, served to accentuate her -helplessness. She prayed passionately, without being able to feel much -confidence in the efficacy of prayer, and told herself that she did -not deserve that God should listen to her, because she was guilty, and -sinful, and bad. She did not seek consolation in repeating that it was -always darkest before dawn, nor strive to fortify herself with any -other of the aphorisms belonging to the vocabulary of sorrow for other -people. The position being her own, she looked it straight in the eyes, -and admitted that the chances were in favour of her being very shortly -without a bed to lie on. - -Each night she came a few pence nearer to the end; each night now she -sat staring from the window, imagining the sensations of wandering -homeless. And at last the day broke--a sunless and chilly day--when she -rose and went out possessed of one penny, without any means of adding -to it. This penny might be reserved to diminish the hunger that would -seize her presently, or she might give herself a final chance among the -newspapers. Having breakfasted, she decided on the final chance. - -As she turned the pages her hands trembled, and for a second the -paragraphs swam together. The next instant, standing out clearly from -the sea of print, she saw an advertisement like the smile of a friend: - -"Useful Companion wanted to elderly lady; one with some experience of -invalids preferred. Apply personally, between 3 and 5, 'Trebartha,' N. -Finchley." - -If it had been framed for her, it could hardly have suited her better. -The wish for personal application was itself an advantage, for in -conversation, she felt, the obstacle of having no references could be -surmounted with far less trouble than by letter. A string of frank -allusions to the difficulty, a dozen easy phrases, leapt into her -mind, so that, in fancy, the interview was already in progress, and -terminating with pleasant words in the haven of engagement. - -She searched no further, and it was not till she was leaving that she -remembered the miles that she would have to walk. To start so early, -however, would be useless, so on second thoughts she determined to pass -the morning where she was. - -She was surprised to discover that she was not singular in this -decision, and she wondered if all; the clients that stayed so long had -anywhere else to go. Many of them never turned a leaf, but sat at the -table dreamily eyeing a journal; as if they had forgotten that it was -there. She; watched the people coming in, noting the unanimity with -which they made for the advertisement-sheets first, and speculating as -to the nature of the work they sought. - -There was a woman garbed in black, downcast and precise; she was a -governess, manifestly. Once, when she had been young, and insolent with -the courage of youth, she would have mocked a portrait looking as she -looked now; there was little enough mockery left in her this morning. -She quitted the "dailies" unrewarded, and proceeded to the table, her -thin-lipped mouth set a trifle harder than before. A girl with magenta -feathers in her hat bounced in, tracing her way down the columns -with a heavy fore-finger, and departing nonchalantly with a blotted -list. This was a domestic servant, Mary understood. A shabby man of -sinister expression covered an area of possibilities: a broken-down -tutor perhaps, a professional man gone to the bad. He looked like -Mephistopheles in the prompter's clothes, she thought, contemplating -him with languid curiosity. The reflections flitted across the central -idea while she sat nervously waiting for the hours to pass, and when -she considered it was time at last, she asked the newsagent in which -direction Finchley lay. She omitted to mention that she had to walk -there, but she obtained sufficient information about a tram-route to -guide her up to Hampstead Heath, where of course she could inquire -again. - -The sun gave no promise of shining, and a bleak wind, tossing the -rubbish of the gutters into little whirlpools, made pedestrianism -exceedingly unpleasant. She was dismayed to find on how long a journey -she was bound; she arrived at the tram-terminus already tired, and then -learnt that she was not half-way to Finchley. It was nothing but a name -to her, and steadily trudging along a road that extended itself before -her eternally she began to fear that she would never reach her goal at -all. To add to the discomfort, it was snowing slightly now, and she -grew less sanguine with every hundred yards. The vision of the smiling -lady, the buoyancy of her own glib sentences, faded from her, and the -thought of the utter abjectness that would come of refusal made the -salvation of acceptance appear much too wonderful to occur. - -When she reached it, "Trebartha" proved to be a stunted villa in red -brick. It was one of a row, each of the other stunted villas being -similarly endowed with a name befitting, a domain; and suspense -catching discouragement from the most extraneous details, Mary's heart -sank as the housemaid disclosed the badly-lighted passage. - -She was ushered into the sitting-room; and the woman who entered -presently had been suggested by it. She seemed the natural complement -of the haggard prints, of the four cumbersome chairs in a line against -the wall, of the family Bible on the crochet tablecover. She wore silk, -dark and short--plain, except for three narrow bands of velvet at the -hem. She wore a gold watch-chain hanging round her neck, garlanded -over her portly bosom. She said she was the invalid lady's married -daughter, and her tone implied a consciousness of that higher merit -which the woman whose father has left her comfortably off feels over -the woman whose father hasn't. - -"You've called about my mother's advertisement for a companion?" she -said. - -"Yes; I've had a long experience of nursing. I think I should be able -to do all you require." - -"Have you ever lived as companion?" - -"No," said Mary, "I have never done that, but--but I think I'm -companionable; I don't think I'm difficult to get on with." - -"What was your--won't you sit down?--what was your last place?" - -Mary moistened her lips. - -"I am," she said, "rather awkwardly situated. I may as well tell you -at once that I am a stranger here, and--do you know--I find that's -a great bar in the way of my getting employment? Not being known, -I've, of course, no friends I can refer people to, and--well, people -always seem to think the fact of being a stranger in a city is rather -a discreditable thing. I have found that! They do." She looked for a -gleam of response in the stolid countenance, but it was as void of -expression as the furniture. "As I say, I have had a lengthy experience -of nursing; I--it sounds conceited--but I should be exceedingly -useful. It's just the thing I am fitted for." - -The married daughter asked: "You have been a nurse, you say? But not -here?" - -"Not here," said Mary, "no. Of course, that doesn't detract from----" - -"Oh, quite so. We've had several young women here already to-day. Do -I understand you to mean there is nobody at all you can give as a -reference?" - -"Yes, that unfortunately is so. I do hope you don't consider it an -insuperable difficulty? You know you take servants without 'characters' -sometimes when----" - -"I _never_ take a servant without a 'character.' I have never done such -a thing in my life." - -"I did not mean you personally," said Mary, with hasty deprecation; "I -was speaking----" - -"I'm most particular on the point; my mother is most particular, too." - -"Generally speaking. I meant people do take servants without -'characters' occasionally when they are hard pushed." - -"Our own servants are only too wishful to remain with us. My mother has -had her present cook eight years, and the last one was only induced -to leave because a young man--a young man in quite a fair way of -business--made her an offer of marriage. She had been here even longer -than eight years--twelve I think it was, or thirteen. It was believed -at the time that what first attracted the young man's attention to her -was the many years that my mother had retained her in our household. -I'm sure there are no circumstances under which my mother 'd consent to -receive a young person who could give no proof of her trustworthiness -and good conduct." - -"Do you mean that you can't engage me? It--it's a matter of life and -death to me," exclaimed Mary; "pray let me see the lady!" - -"Your manner," said the married daughter, "is strange. Quite -authoritative for your position!" She rose. "You'll find it helpful to -be less haughty when you speak, less opinionated; your manner is very -much against you. Oh, my word! no violence, if you please, miss!" - -"Violence?" gasped Mary; "I'm not violent. It was my last hope, that's -all, and it's over. I wish you good-day." - -So much had happened in a few minutes--inside and out--that the roads -were whitening rapidly and the flutter of snow had developed into a -steady fall. At first she was scarcely sensible of it; the anger in -her heart kept the cold out, and carried her along in a semi-rush. -Words broke from her breathlessly. She felt that she had fallen from -a high estate; that the independence of her life with Carew had been -a period of dignity and power; that erstwhile she could have awed the -dull-witted philistine who had humbled her. "The hateful woman! Oh, -the wretch! To have to sue to a creature like that!" Well, she would -starve now, she supposed, her excitement spending itself. She would die -of starvation, like characters in fiction, or the people one read of -in the newspapers; the newspapers called it "exposure," but it was the -same thing; "exposure" sounded less offensive to the other people who -read about it, that was all. The force of education is so strong that, -much as she insisted on such a death, and close as she had approached -to it, she was unable to realise its happening to her. She told herself -that it must; the world was of a sudden horribly wide and empty; but -for Mary Brettan actually to die like that had an air of exaggeration -about it still. Pushing forward, she pondered on it, and the fact came -close; the sensation of the world's widening about her grew stronger. -She felt alone in the midst of illimitable space. There seemed nothing -around her, nothing tangible, nothing to catch at. O God! how tired she -was! she couldn't go on much further. - -The snow whirled against her in gusts, clinging to her hair, and -filling her eyes and nostrils. Exhaustion was overpowering her. And -still how many miles? Each of the benches that she passed was a fresh -temptation; and at last she dropped on one, too tired to stand, wet and -shivering, and shielding her face from the storm. - -She dropped on it like any tramp or stray. Having held out to the -uttermost, she did not know whether she would ever get up again--did -not think about it, and did not care. Her limbs ached for relief, and -she seized it on the high-road because relief on the high-road was the -only kind attainable. - -And it was while she cowered there that another figure appeared in the -twilight, the figure of a tall old man carrying a black bag. He came -smartly down a footpath, gazing to right and left as for something that -should be waiting for him. Not seeing it, he whistled, and Mary looked -up. A trap was backed from the corner of the road. Then the man with -the bag stared at her, and after an instant of hesitation, he spoke. - -"It's a dirty nicht," he said, "for ye tae be sittin' there. I'm -thinking ye're no' weel?" - -"Not very," she said. - -He inspected her undecidedly. - -"An' ye'll tak' your death o' cold if ye dinna get up, it's verra -certain. Hoots! ye're shakin' wi' it noo! Bide a wee, an' I'll put some -warmth intae ye, young leddy." - -Without any more ado, he deposited the bag at her side and opened it. -And, astonishing to relate, the black bag was fitted with a number of -little bottles, one of which he extracted, with a glass. - -"Is it medicine?" she asked wonderingly. - -"Medicine?" he echoed; "nae, it's nae medicine; it's 'Four Diamonds -S.O.P.' I'm gi'en ye. It's a braw sample o' Pilcher's S.O.P., ma -lassie; nothin' finer in the trade, on the honour o' Macpheerson! Noo -ye drink that doon; it's speerit, an' it'll dae ye guid." - -She took his advice, gulping the spirit while he watched her -approvingly. Its strength diffused itself through her in ripples of -heat, raising her courage, and yet, oddly enough, making her want to -cry. - -Mr. Macpherson contemplated the little bottle solemnly, shaking his -head at it with something that sounded like a sigh. - -"An' whaur may ye be goin'?" he queried, replacing the cork. - -"I am going to town," she answered. "I was walking home, only the -storm----" - -"Tae toon? Will ye no' ha'e a lift along o' me an' the lad? I'll drive -ye intae toon." - -"Have you to go there?" she asked, over-joyed. - -"There'd be th' de'il tae pay if I stayed awa'. Ay, I ha'e tae gang -there, and as fast as the mare can trot. Will ye let me help ye in?" - -"Yes," she said; "thank you very much." - -He hoisted her up. And she and her strange companion, accompanied by an -urchin who never uttered a word, made a brisk start. - -"I am so much obliged to you," she murmured, rejoicing; "you don't -know!" - -"There's nae call for ony obleegation; it's verra welcome ye are. I'm -thinkin' the sample did ye a lot o' guid, eh?" - -"It did indeed; it has made me feel a different woman." - -"Eh, but it's a gran' speerit!" said the old gentleman with reviving -ardour. "There's nae need to speak for it, an' that's a fact; your ain -tongue sings its perfection to ye as ye sup it doon. Ye may get ither -houses to serve ye cheaper, I'm no' denyin' that; but tae them that can -place the rale article there's nae house like Pilcher's. And Pilcher's -best canna be beaten in the trade. I ha'e nae interest tae lie tae -ye, ye ken; nor could I tak' ye in wi' the wines and speerits had I -the mind. There's the advantage wi' the wines and speerits; ye canna -deceive! Ye ha'e the sample, an' ye ha'e the figure--will I book the -order or will I no'?" - -"It's your business then, Mr.----?" - -"Will ye no' tak' my card?" he said, producing a large one; "there, put -it awa'. Should ye ever be in need, ma lassie, a line to Macpheerson, -care o' the firm----" - -"How kind of you!" she exclaimed. - -"No' a bit," he said; "ye never can tell what may happen, and whether -it's for yoursel' ye need it, or a recommendation, ye'll ken ye're -buying at the wholesale price." - -She glanced at him with surprise, and looked away again. And they -drove for several minutes in silence. - -"Maybe ye ken some family whaur I'd be likely tae book an order noo?" -remarked Mr. Macpherson incidentally. "Sherry? dae ye no' ken o' a -family requirin' sherry? I can dae them sherry at a figure that'll -tak' th' breath frae them. Ye canna suspect the profit--th' weecked -ineequitous profit--that sherry's retailed at; wi' three quotations tae -the brand often eno', an' a made-up wine at that! Noo, I could supply -your frien's wi' 'Crossbones'--the finest in the trade, on the honour -of Macpheerson--if ye happen tae ha'e ony who----" - -"I don't," she said, "happen to have any." - -"There's the family whaur ye're workin', we'll say; a large family -maybe, wi' a cellar. For a large family tae be supplied at the -wholesale figure----" - -"I am sorry, but I don't work." - -"Ye don't work, an' ye ha'e no frien's?" He peered at her curiously. -"Then, ma dear young leddy, ye'll no' think me impertinent if I ax ye -how th' de'il ye live?" - -The wild idea shot into her brain that perhaps he might be able to put -her into the way of something--somewhere--somehow! - -"I'm a stranger in London," she answered, "looking for -employment--quite alone." - -"Eh," said Mr. Macpherson, "that's bad, that's verra bad!" - -He whipped up the horse, and after the momentary comment lapsed into -reverie. She called herself a fool for her pains, and stared dumbly -across the melancholy fields. - -"Whauraboots are ye stayin'?" he demanded, after they had passed the -Swiss Cottage. - -She told him. "Please don't let me take you out of your way," she added. - -"Ye're no' verra far frae ma ain house," he declared. "Ye had best come -in an' warm before ye gang on hame. Ye are in nae hurry, I suppose?" - -"No, but----" - -"Oh, the mistress will nae mind it. Ye just come in wi' me!" - -Their conversation progressed by fits and starts till his domicile was -reached. Leaving the trap to the care of the boy, who might have been -a mute for any indication he had given to the contrary, Mr. Macpherson -led her into a parlour, where a kettle steamed invitingly on the hob. - -He was greeted by a little woman, evidently the wife referred to; and a -rosy offspring, addressed as Charlotte, brought her progenitor a pair -of slippers. His introduction of Mary to his family circle was brief. - -"'Tis a young leddy," he said, "I gave a lift to. But I dinna ken your -name?" - -"My name is Brettan," she replied. Then, turning to the woman: "Your -husband was kind enough to save me from walking home from Finchley, and -now he has made me come in with him." - -"It was a braw nicht for a walk," opined Macpherson. - -"I'm sure I'm glad to see you, miss," responded the woman in cheery -Cockney. "Come to the fire and dry yourself a bit, do!" - -The initial awkwardness was very slight, for Mary's experiences in -bohemia were serviceable here. The people were well-intentioned, too, -and, meeting with no embarrassment to hamper their heartiness, they -grew speedily at ease. It reminded the guest of some of her arrivals on -tour; of one in particular, when the previous week's company had not -left and she and Tony had traversed half Oldham in search of rooms, -finally sitting down with their preserver to bread-and-cheese in her -kitchen! It was loathsome how Tony kept recurring to her, and always in -episodes when he had been jolly and affectionate! - -"Your husband tells me he is in the wine business," she observed at the -tea-table. - -"He is, miss; and never you marry a man who travels in that line," -returned the woman, "or the best part of your life you won't know for -rights if you're married or not!" - -"He's away a good deal, you mean?" - -"Away? He's just home about two months in the year--a fortnight at the -time, that's what he is! All the rest of it traipsing about from place -to place like a wandering gipsy. Charlotte says time and again, 'Ma, -have I got a pa, or 'aven't I?'--don't yer, Charlotte?" - -"Pa's awful!" said Charlotte, with her mouth full of -bread-and-marmalade. "Never mind, pa, you can't help it!" - -"Eh, it's a sad pursuit!" rejoined her father gloomily. In the glow -of his own fireside Mary perceived with surprise that his enthusiasm -for "his wines and speerits" had vanished. "Awa' frae your wife an' -bairn, pandering tae th' veecious courses that ruin the immortal soul! -Every heart kens its ain bitterness, young leddy; and Providence in its -mysteerious wisdom never meant me for the wine-and-speerit trade." - -"Oh lor," said Charlotte, "ma's done it!" - -"It was na your mither," said Mr. Macpherson; "it's ma ain conscience, -as well ye ken! Dae I no' see the travellers themselves succumb tae th' -cussed sippin' and tastin' frae mornin' till nicht? There was Burbage, -I mind weel, and there was Broun; guid men both--no better men on th' -road! Whaur's Burbage noo--whaur's Broun?" - -"Fly away, Peter, fly away, Paul!" interpolated Charlotte. - -"Gone!" continued Mr. Macpherson, responding to his own inquiry -with morbid unction. "Deed! The Lord be praised, I ha'e the guid -sense tae withstand th' infeernal tipplin' masel'. Mony's the time, -when I'm talkin' tae a mon in the way o' business, ye ken, I turn -the damned glass upside down when he is na lookin'. But there's the -folk I sell tae, an' the ithers; what o' them? It's ma trade to -praise the evil--tae tak' it into the world, spreadin' it broadcast -for the destruction o' monkind. Eh, ma responsibeelity is awfu' tae -contemplate." - -"I'm sure, James, you mean first class," said the little woman weakly. -"Come, light your pipe comfortable, now, and don't worrit, there's a -good man!" - -The traveller waved the pipe aside. - -"There's a still sma' voice," he said, "ye canna silence wi' 'bacca; -ye canna silence it wi' herbs nor wi' fine linen. It's wi' me noo, -axin' queestions. It says: 'Macpheerson, how dae ye justeefy thy -wilfu' conduct? Why dae ye gloreefy the profeets o' th' airth above -thy speeritual salvation, mon? Dae ye no ken that orphans are goin' -dinnerless through thy eloquence, an' widows are prodigal wi' curses on -a' thy samples an' thy ways?' I canna answer. There are nichts when the -voice will na let me sleep, ye're weel aware; there are nichts----" - -"There are nights when you're most trying, James, I know." - -"Woman, it's the warnin' voice that comes tae a sinner in his -transgreession! Are there no' viseetations eno' about me, an' dae I -no' turn ma een frae them; hardenin' ma heart, and pursuin' ma praise -o' Pilcher's wi' a siller tongue? There was a mon are day at the -Peacock--a mon in ma ain inseedious line--an' he swilled his bottle -o' sherry, an' he called for his whusky-an'-watter, and he got up -on his feet speechify in', after the commercial dinner. 'The Queen, -gentlemen!' he cries, liftin' his glass; an' wi' that he dropped deed, -wi' the name o' the royal leddy on his lips! He was a large red mon--he -would ha' made twa o' me." - -He seemed to regard the circumference of the deceased as additionally -ominous. His arms were extended in representation of it, and he waved -them aloft as if to intimate that Charlotte might detect Nemesis in the -vicinity preparing for a swoop. - -"You take the thing too seriously," said Mary. "Nine people out of ten -have to be what they can, you know; it is only the tenth who can be -what he likes." - -The little woman inquired what her own calling was. - -"I am very sorry to say I haven't any," she answered. "I'm doing -nothing." - -There was a moment's constraint. - -"Unfortunately I know nobody here," she went on; "it's very hard to -get anything when there's no one to speak for you." - -"It must be! But, lor! you must bear up. It's a long lane that has no -turning, as they say." - -"Only there is no telling where the turning may lead; a lane is better -than a bog." - -"Wouldn't she do for Pattenden's?" suggested the woman musingly. - -"For whom?" exclaimed Mary. "Do you think I can get something? Who are -they?" - -"James?" - -"Pattenden's?" he repeated. "An' what; would she dae at Pattenden's?" - -"Why, be agent, to be sure--same as you were!" - -Mary glanced from one to the other with; anxiety. - -"Weel, noo, that isn't at a' a bad idea," said Mr. Macpherson -meditatively; "dae ye fancy ye could sell books, young leddy, on -commeession--a hauf-sovereign, say, for every order ye took? I'm -thinkin' a young woman micht dae a verra fair trade at it." - -"Oh yes," she replied; "I'm sure I could. Half a sovereign each one? -Where do I go? Will they take me?" - -"I dinna anteecipate ye'll fin' much deefficulty aboot them takin' ye: -they dinna risk onythin' by that! I'll gi'e ye the address. They are -publishers, and ye just ax for their Mr. Collins when ye go there; tell -him ye're wishful tae represent them wi' ane o' their publeecations. -If ye like I'll write your name on ane o' ma ain cards; an' ye can send -it in tae him." - -"Oh, do!" she said. - -"Ye must na imagine it's a fortune ye'll be makin'," he observed; "it's -different tae ma ain position wi' the wines an' speerits, ye ken: wi' -Pilcher's it's a fixed salary, an' Pilcher's pay ma expenses." - -"Pilcher's pay _our_ expenses!" affirmed Charlotte the thoughtful. - -"They dae," acquiesced the traveller; "there's a sicht o' saving oot -o' sax-and-twenty shillin's a day tae an economical parent. But wi' -Pattenden's it's precarious; are week guid, an' anither week bad." - -"I am not afraid," said Mary boldly; "whatever I do, it is better than -nothing! I'll go there to-morrow, the first thing. Very many thanks; -and to you too, Mrs. Macpherson, for thinking of it." - -"I'm sure I'm glad I did; there's no saying but what you may be doing -first-rate after a bit. It's a beginning for you, any way." - -"That it is! But why can't the publishers pay a salary, the same as -your husband's firm?" - -"Ah! they don't; anyhow, not at the beginning. Besides, James has been -with Pilcher's ten years now; he wasn't earning so much when he started -with them." - -"'Spect one reason is because such a heap more people buy spirits than -books!" said Charlotte. "Pa!" - -"Eh, ma lassie?" - -"The lady's going to be an agent----" - -"Weel?" - -"Then, pa," said Charlotte, "won't we all drink to the lady's luck in a -sample?" - -"Ye veecious midget," ejaculated her father wrathfully, "are ye no' -ashamed tae mak' sic a proposeetion? Ye'll no' drink a sample, will ye, -young leddy?" - -"I will not indeed!" answered Mary. - -"No' but what ye're welcome." - -"Thanks," she said; "I will not, really." - -"Eh, but ye will, then," he exclaimed; "a sma' sample, ye an' Mrs. -Macpheerson! Whaur's ma bag?" - -In spite of her protestations he drew a bottle out, and the hostess -produced a couple of glasses from the cupboard. - -"Port!" he said. "The de'il's liquors a' o' them; but, if there's a -disteenction, maybe a wee drappie o' the 'Four Grape Balance' deserves -mon's condemnation least." His conflicting emotions delayed the toast -for some time. "The de'il's liquors!" he groaned again, fingering -the bottle irresolutely. "Eh, but it's the 'Four Grape Balance,'" he -murmured with reluctant admiration, eyeing the sample against the -light. "There! Ye may baith o' ye drink it doon! But masel', I wouldna -touch a drap. An' as for ye, ye wee Cockney bairn, if I catch ye -tastin' onything stronger a than tea in a' your days, or knowin' the -flavour o' the perneecious stuff it's your affleected father's duty tae -lure the unsuspeecious minds wi'--temptin' the frail tae their eternal -ruin, an' servin' the de'il when his sicht is on the Lord--I'll leather -ye!" - -Charlotte giggled nervously--Figaro-wise, that she might not be obliged -to weep; and Mrs. Macpherson, raising the glass to her lips, said -"Luck!" - -"Luck!" they all echoed. - -And Mary, conscious that the career would be no heroic one, was also -conscious she was not a heroine. "I am," she said to herself, "just a -real unhappy woman, in very desperate straits. So let me do whatever -turns up, and be profoundly grateful that anything can be done at all." - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -The wealth of Messrs. Pattenden and Sons, which was considerable, was -not indicated by the arrangement of their London branch. A flight of -narrow stairs, none too clean, led to a pair of doors respectively -painted "Warehouse" and "Private"; and having performed the superfluous -ceremony of knocking at the former, Mary found herself in front of a -rough counter, behind which two or three young men were busily engaged -in stacking books. There were books in profusion, books in virginity, -books tempting and delightful to behold. Volume upon volume, crisp in -cover and shiny of edge, they were piled on the table and heaped on the -floor; and the young men handled them with as little concern as if they -had been grocery. Such is the force of custom. - -In response to her inquiry, her name and the card were despatched to -Mr. Collins by a miniature boy endowed with a gape that threatened to -lift his head off, and, pending the interview, she attempted to subdue -her nervousness. - -A man with a satchel bustled in, and made hurried reference to "Vol. -two of the _Dic_." and "The fourth of the _Ency_." Against the window -an accountant with a fresh complexion and melancholy mien totted up -columns. - -Seeing that everybody--the melancholy accountant not excepted--favoured -her with a gratified stare, she concluded that women were infrequently -employed here, and she trembled with the fear that her application -might be refused. She assured herself that the Scotsman would never -have spoken so confidently of a favourable issue if it had not been -reasonable to expect it, but the doubt having entered her head, it was -difficult to dispel. It occurred to her that she could astonish the -accountant by telling him that she was on the brink of destitution. The -perspiring young packers, sure of their dinners by-and-by, looked to -her individuals to be felicitated on their prosperity, and, luckless -as they were, it is a fact that a person's lot is seldom so poor but -that another person worse off can be found to envy it. The book-keeper -who has grown haggard in the firm's employ at a couple of pounds a -week is the envy of the clerk who lives on eighteen shillings, and the -wight who sweeps the office daily thinks how happy he would be in the -place of the clerk. The urchin who hawks matches in the rain envies the -sheltered office-boy, and the waif without coppers to invest envies the -match-seller. The grades of misery are so infinite, and the instinct of -envy is so ingrained, that when two vagrants crouched under a bridge -have tightened their belts to still the gnawings of their hunger, one -of the pair will find something to be envious of in the rags of the -outcast suffering at his side. - -Messrs. Pattenden's youngster reappeared, and, with a yawn so -tremendous that it eclipsed his previous effort, said: - -"Miss Brettan!" - -Mr. Collins was seated in a compartment just large enough to contain a -desk and two chairs. He signed Mary to the vacant one, and gave her a -steady glance of appreciation. A man who had risen to the position of -conducting the travelling department of a firm that published on the -subscription plan, he was something of a reader of temperament; a man -who had risen to the position by easy stages while yet young, he was -kindly and had not lost his generosity on the way. - -"Good-morning," he said; "what can I do for you?" - -"I want to represent you with one of your publications," she answered. -"Mr. Macpherson was good enough to offer me the introduction, and he -thought you would be able to arrange with me." The nervousness was -scarcely visible. She had entered well, and spoke without hesitancy, -in a musical voice. All these things Mr. Collins noted. Before she -had explained her desire he had wished that she might have it. The -book-agent is of many types, and skilful advertisements hinting at -noble earnings, without being explicit about the nature of the pursuit, -had brought penurious professional men and reduced gentlewomen on to -that chair time and again. But these applicants had generally cooled -visibly when the requirements of the vocation were insinuated; and here -was one, as refined as any of them, who came comprehending that she -would have to canvass, and prepared to do it! Mr. Collins nearly rubbed -his hands. - -"What experience have you had?" - -"In--as an agent? None. But I suppose with a fair amount of -intelligence that doesn't matter very much?" - -"Not at all." For once he was almost at a loss. As a rule it was he who -advocated the attempt, and the novice on the chair who grew reluctant. - -"I take it," said Miss Brettan, concealing rapture, "that the art of -the business is to sell books to people who don't want to buy them?" - -"Just so; tact, and the ability to talk about your specimen is what is -wanted. Always watch the face of the person you are showing it to and -don't look at the specimen itself. You must know that by heart." - -"Oh!" - -"Suppose you're showing an encyclopedia! As you turn over the plates, -you should be able to tell by his eyes when you have come to one that -illustrates a subject that he is interested in. Then talk about that -subject--how fully it is dealt with. See?" - -"I see." - -"If you think he looks like a married man and is old enough to have a -family, say how useful an encyclopedia is for general reference in a -household--how valuable it is for children when they are writing essays -and things." - -"Are you going to engage me for an encyclopedia?" - -He smiled. - -"You're in a hurry, Miss----" - -"Brettan. Am I in too much of a hurry?" - -"Well, you have to be patient, you know, with possible subscribers. If -_you_ rush, _they_ will, too, and the easiest reply to give in a hurry -is 'No.' I'm not sure about sending you out with the _Ency_.; after a -while, perhaps! How would you like trying a new work that has never -been canvassed, for a beginning?" - -"Would it be better?" - -"Yes; there's less in it to learn, and you needn't be afraid of -hearing, 'Oh, I have one already!'" - -"I didn't think of that. What is it, Mr. Collins?" - -He touched a bell, and told the boy to bring in a specimen of the -_Album_. - -"Four half-volumes at twelve and sixpence each," he said, turning -to her, "_The Album of Inventions_. It gives the history of all the -principal inventions, with a brief biography of the inventors. You want -to know who invented the watch--look it up under W; the telephone--turn -to T. It's a history of the progress of science and civilisation. 'The -origin of the inventions, and the voids they fill,' that's the idea. -Ah, here it is! Now look at that, and tell me if you think you could do -any good with it." - -She took a slim crimson-bound book from its case, and glanced through -it. - -"Oh, I certainly think I could," she said; "I should like to try, -anyhow." - -"Very well, you shall be the first agent to canvass the _Album_ for us." - -"And how about terms?" she questioned. - -"The terms, Miss Brettan, ought to be to you in a very little while -about five or six pounds a week. You may do more; we have travellers -with us who are making their twenty. But for a start say five or six." - -"You mean that that would be my commencing salary?" she asked calmly. - -"No, not as salary," he said, carelessly too. "I mean your commissions -would amount to that." By his tone one might have supposed that -formality obliged him to distinguish between these sources of income, -but that it was practically a distinction without a difference. "On -every order you bring us for the Album we allow you half a guinea. -Saturdays you needn't go out--it's a bad day, especially to catch -professional men. But saying you make twelve calls five days a week, -and out of every dozen calls you book two orders, there is your five -guineas a week for you as regular as clockwork! I'll tell you what I'll -do: just give me a receipt for the specimen, and go home this morning -and study it. To-morrow come in to me again at ten o'clock. And every -day I'll make out a short list for you of people who've already been -subscribers of ours for some work or another--I can pick out addresses -that lie close together; and then you'll have the advantage of knowing -you're waiting on buyers, and not wasting your time." - -"Thank you very much," she said. - -"Here's the order-book. You see they have to fill up a form. Every one -you bring filled-in means half a guinea to you. You have no further -trouble--a deliverer takes the volumes round and collects the money. -Just get the order signed, and your responsibility is over. Is that all -right?" - -"That's all right." - -He rose and shook hands with her. - -"At ten o'clock," he repeated. "So long!" - -She descended the dirty stairs excitedly. The aspect of the world -had changed for her in a quarter of an hour. And to think, she -would never have dreamt of trying Pattenden's--never have heard of -the occupation--if she had not met Mr. Macpherson, had not gone to -Finchley, had not been so tired that, having parted with her last penny -at the news-room---- - -The remembrance of her present penury rushed back to her. With five -guineas a week coming in directly, she had no money to go on with -in the meanwhile. To walk about the streets all day, without even a -biscuit between the scanty meals at home, would be impossible. She -questioned desperately what there remained to her to pawn--what she was -to do. Gaining her room, she eyed her little bag of linen forlornly; -she did not think she could borrow anything on articles like these, -neither could she spare any of them, nor summon the courage to put them -on a counter. Suddenly the inspiration came to her that there was the -bag itself. And at dusk she went out with it. This time the pawnbroker -omitted to inquire if she had a halfpenny; he deducted the cost of the -ticket from the amount of the loan. Taking the bull by the horns, she -next sought the landlady, and said that she would be unable to pay the -impending bill when it came up, but that she would pay that and the -next one together. - -"I've found work," she said, feeling like a housemaid. "If you wouldn't -mind letting it stand over----" - -Mrs. Shuttleworth dried her fingers on her apron, and agreed with less -hesitation than her lodger had feared. - -Convinced that her specimen was mastered--she had rehearsed two -or three little gusts of eulogy which she thought would sound -spontaneous--Mary now considered calling on the Macphersons to inform -them of the result of their suggestion. Reluctant to intrude, she had -half decided to write, but with her limited means, the stamp was an -object, and besides, she was uncertain of the number. She determined on -the visit. - -The door was opened by Charlotte, and hastily explaining the motive for -the call, Mary followed her inside. She found the parlour in a state of -confusion, and gathered from the trio in a breath that destiny, in the -form of Pilcher's, had ordered that Mr. Macpherson should be torn from -his family a week earlier than the severance had been anticipated. - -"He's going to Leeds to-morrow," exclaimed the little woman -distractedly, oppressed by an armful of shirts that fell from her one -by one as she moved; "and it wasn't till this afternoon we heard a word -about it. Oh dear! oh dear! how many's that, James?" - -"'Tis thirty-three," said the traveller, "an', as ye weel ken, it -should be thirty-sax! I canna see the use o' a body havin' thirty-sax -shirts if they can never be found." - -"I'm afraid I'm in the way," murmured Mary; "I just looked in to say -it's all satisfactory, and to tell you how much obliged I am. I won't -stop." - -"You're not in the way at all. You've got one on, James: that's -thirty-four! My dear, would you mind counting these shirts for me? I -declare my head's going round!" - -She held the bundle out to Mary feebly, and, dropping on to the -traveller's box, watched her with harassed eyes. - -"Pa has three dozen of 'em," said Charlotte with pride, "'cos of the -trouble of getting 'em washed when he goes about so much. I think, -though, you lose 'em on the road, pa." - -"It's a silly thought that's like ye," returned her parent shortly. -"Young leddy, what dae ye mak' it?". - -"There are only thirty-three here," replied Mary, struggling with a -laugh, "and---and one is thirty-four!" - -"Thirty-three," exclaimed Mr. Macpherson, "and are is thirty-four! Twa -shirts missin', twa shirts at five and saxpence apiece wasted--lost -through repreheensible carelessness!" He sat down on the box by his -wife's side, and contemplated her severely. "Aweel," he said at last, -sociable under difficulties, "an' Collins was agreeable, ye tell me?" - -"He was very nice indeed." - -"Hoh!" he sighed, "ye will na mak' a penny by it. But the pursuit may -serve tae occupy ye!" - -"Not make a penny by it?" she ejaculated. - -"Don't you mind him," said his partner; "he's got the 'ump, that's -what's the matter with him!" - -"It may serve tae occupy your mind," repeated Mr. Macpherson -funereally; "'tis pleasant walkin' in the fine weather. Now mind ye, -'oman, I dinna leave withoot ma twa shirts. I canna banish them frae ma -memory." - -"Bless and save us, James, haven't I rummaged every drawer in the -place?" - -"I am for ever replenishing that thirty-sax, an' it is for ever short," -he complained; "will ye no' look in the keetchen?" - -She was absent some time on the quest, and Charlotte questioned Mary -about the details of her interview at Messrs. Pattenden's. She said she -knew that "Pa had been with them for several years," so the business -could not be so unprofitable as he had just pretended. Appealed to -for support, however, her pa sighed again, and it was obvious that he -was impelled towards an unusually pessimistic view of everything that -night. A brief reference to a "sink o' ineequity" was accepted as a -comment upon the "wine-and-speerit" trade, but he had nothing cheerful -to say of books, either; and, recognising the futility of attempting a -graceful retreat, the visitor got up abruptly and wished them good-bye. -Mrs. Macpherson joined her in the passage, without the shirts. - -"Good-night, miss," she murmured; "don't be down in the mouth. Have -plenty of cheek, and you'll get along like a house afire! As for me, -I'm going back to the kitchen and mean to stop there." - -At Mary's third step she called to her to come back. - -"Never," she added, "go and settle down with a traveller. You're -likely to fetch 'em, but don't do it!" She jerked her head towards the -parlour. "A good man, my dear, but his shirts were my cross from our -wedding-day!" - -Mary assured her that the warning should be borne in mind, and left -the little person wiping her brow. The remark about marrying, idle as -it was, distressed her. Last night too there had been a mention of -the possibility, and, knowing that she could never be any man's wife, -the suggestion shook her painfully. How she had wrecked her life, she -reflected, and for a man who had cared nothing for her! - -The assertion that he cared nothing for her was bitterer to her soul -than the knowledge that she had wrecked her life. To have a love -despised is always a keener torture to a woman than to a man; for -a woman surrenders herself less easily, thinks the more of what -she is bestowing, and counts the treasures at her disposal over and -over--ultimately for the sake of delighting in the knowledge of how -much she is going to give. If one of the pearls that she has laid so -reverently at her master's feet is left to lie there, she exonerates -him and accuses herself. But his caresses never quite fill the -unsuspected wound. If it happens that he neglects them all, then the -woman, beggared and unthanked, wonders why the sun shines, and how -people can laugh. Some women can take back a misdirected love, erase -the superscription, and address it over again. Others cannot. Mary -could not. She had lain in Seaton's arms and kissed him; pride bade her -be ashamed of the memory; her heart found food in it. It was all over, -all terrible, all a thing that she ought to shiver and revolt at. But -the depth of her devotion had been demonstrated by the magnitude of her -sin, and she was not able, because the sacrifice had been misprized, to -say, "Therefore, in everything except my misery, it shall be as if I -had never made it." - -She could not, continually as she put its fever from her, wrench the -tenderness out of her being, recall her guilt and forget its motive. -The sin of her life had been caused by her love, and, come weal, come -woe, come gratitude or callousness, a love that had been responsible -for such a thing as that was not a sentiment to be plucked out and -destroyed at the dictates of common-sense. It was not a thing that -Carew could kill with baseness. She could have looked him in the face -and sworn she hated him; she felt that, though that might not be quite -true, she could never touch his hand nor sit in a room with him again. -But neither her contempt for him nor for her own weakness could blot -out the recollection of the hours of passion, the years of communion, -when if one of them had said, "I should like," the other had replied, -"Say _we_ should!" - -It was well for her that the exigencies of her situation were supplying -anxieties which to a great extent penned her thoughts within more -wholesome bounds. On the morrow her chief idea was to distinguish -herself on her preliminary expedition. Mr. Collins, true to his -promise, had prepared a list for her. The houses were all in the -neighbourhood of the Abbey, and mostly, he informed her, the offices -of civil engineers. He said civil engineers were a "likely class," the -principal objection to them being that they were "so beastly irregular -in their movements." When she had "worked Westminster," he added, he -would start her among barristers and clergy-men. - -"Come in, when you've done, and tell me how you've got on," he said -pleasantly. "I suppose you haven't a pocket large enough to hold your -specimen? Never mind! Keep it out of sight as much as you can when you -ask for people; and ask for them as if you were going to give them a -commission to build a bridge." - -She smiled confidently; and, allaying the qualms of peddlery with the -balm of prospective riches, on which she could advertise for other -employment should this prove very uncongenial, she proceeded to the -office marked "1." - -It was in Victoria Street, and the name of the gentleman upon whom -she was to intrude was painted, among a string of others, on a black -board at the entrance. She paused and inspected this board longer than -was necessary, so long that a porter in livery asked her whom she -wanted? She told him, "Mr. Gregory Hatch"; to which he replied, "Third -floor," evidently with the supposition that she would make use of the -lift. She profited by this supposition of his, and felt an impostor -to begin with. The name of "Gregory Hatch," with initials after it -which conveyed no meaning to her, confronted her on a door as the lift -stopped; and with a further decrease of ardour, she walked quickly in. - -There were several consequential young men acting as clerks behind a -stretch of mahogany, and, perceiving her, one of these lordly beings -lounged forward, and descended from his high estate sufficiently to -inquire, "What can I do for yer?" His bored and haughty glance took in -the specimen. - -"Is Mr. Hatch in?" - -"I'll see," drawled the youth; he looked suspiciously at the specimen -now, and it began to be cumbersome. - -"Er, what name?" - -"Miss Brettan." - -He strolled into the apartment marked "Private," and a sickening -certainty that, if she were admitted to it, the youth would be summoned -directly afterwards to eject her, made her yearn to take flight before -he reappeared. She was debating what excuse for a hurried departure she -could offer, when the door was re-opened and he requested her to "step -in, please." - -An old gentleman of preoccupied aspect was busy at a desk; he and she -were alone in the room. - -"Miss--Brettan?" he said interrogatively. "Take a chair, madam." - -He put his papers down, and waited, she was convinced, for his -commission for a bridge. She took the seat that he had indicated, -because she was too much embarrassed to decline it, and she immediately -felt that this was going to be regarded as an additional piece of -impertinence. - -"I have called," she stammered--in her rehearsals she had never -practised an introductory speech, and she abominated herself for the -omission--"I have called, Mr.----" his name had suddenly sailed away -from her--"with regard to a book I've been asked to show you by -Messrs. Pattenden. If you'll allow me----" - -She drew the specimen from the case and put it on the desk before him. - -She was relieved to find him much less astonished than she had -anticipated. He even fingered the thing tentatively, and she began to -collect her wits. To take it into her hands, however, and expatiate on -its merits leaf by leaf, was beyond her. She soothed her conscience by -remarking it was a very nice book, really. - -"It seems so," said the old gentleman. "_The Album of Inventions_, dear -me! A new work?" - -"Oh yes," she said, "new. It's quite new, it's quite a new work." She -felt idiotic to keep repeating how new it was, but she could not think -of anything else to say. - -"Dear me!" said the old gentleman again. He appeared to be growing -interested by the examination, and it looked within the regions of -possibility that he might give an order. Up to that moment all her -ambition had been to find herself in the street again without having -been abused. - -"The beauty of the work is," she said, "er--that it is so pithy. One so -often wants to know something that one has forgotten about something: -who thought of it, and how the other people managed before he did. I'm -sure, Mr. Pattenden, that if you----" - -"Hatch, madam--my name is Hatch!" - -"I beg your pardon," she said--"I meant to say 'Mr. Hatch.' I was going -to say that, if you care to take a copy of it, it is very cheap." - -"And what may the price be?" he asked. - -"It is in four volumes at twelve and sixpence," said Mary melodiously. - -"The four?" - -"Oh no--each! Thick volumes they are; do you think it's dear?" - -"No," he said; "oh no!--a very valuable book, I've no doubt." - -"Then perhaps you will give me an order for it?" she inquired, scarcely -able to contain her elation. - -"No," he said, still perusing an article, "I will not give an order for -it; I have so many books." - -She stared at him in blank disappointment while he read placidly to the -end of a page. - -"There," he said benevolently; "a capital work! It deserves to sell -largely; the publishers should be hopeful of it. The plates are bold, -and the matter seems to me of a high degree of excellence. The fault -I usually condemn in such illustrations is the mistake of making -'pictures' of them, to the detriment of their usefulness; clearness -is always the grand desideratum in an illustration of a mechanical -contrivance. With this, the customary blunder has been avoided; in -looking through the specimen I've scarcely detected one instance where -I would suggest an alteration. And, though I wouldn't promise"--he -laughed good-humouredly--"but what on a more careful inspection I might -be forced to temper praise with blame, I'm inclined, on the whole, to -give the book my hearty commendation." - -"But will you buy it?" demanded Miss Brettan. - -"No," said the old gentleman, "thank you; I never buy books--I have so -many. No trouble at all; I am very pleased to have seen it. Allow me!" - -He bowed her out with genial ceremony, and seemed to be under the -impression that he had conferred a favour. - -The next gentleman that she wanted to see was dead. Number 3 had gone -on a trial-trip; and two other gentlemen were out of town. Number 6, -on reference to her paper, proved to be a "Mr. Crespigny." His outer -office much resembled that of Mr. Hatch, and more supercilious young -men were busy behind a counter. - -She waited while her name was taken in to him. On Mr. Collins's theory, -this, the sixth venture, ought to result in half a guinea to her. She -had by now arranged a little overture, and was ready to introduce -herself in coherent phrases. Instead of her being admitted to the inner -room, however, Mr. Crespigny came out, in the wake of his clerk, and -it devolved upon her to explain her business publicly. He was a tall -man with a pointed beard, and he advanced towards her in interrogative -silence, flicking a cigarette. Her heart was thudding. - -"Good-morning," she said; "Messrs. Pattenden, the publishers, have -asked me to wait upon you with a specimen of a new work that----" - -Mr. Crespigny deliberately turned his back, and walked to the threshold -of the private office without a word. Regaining it, he spoke to the -hapless clerk. - -"Pshaw!" he exclaimed, "don't you know a book-agent yet when you see -one?" - -He slammed the door behind him, and, with a sensation akin to having -been slapped in the face, she hurried away. Her cheeks were hot; no -retort occurred to her even when she stood on the pavement. She _was_ -a book-agent, a pest whose intrusion was always liable to be ridiculed -or resented according to the bent of the person importuned. Oh, how -hateful it was to be poor--"poor" in the fullest meaning of the term; -to be compelled to cringe to cads, and swallow insults, and call it -"wisdom" that one showed no spirit! An hour passed before she could -nerve herself to make another attempt; Mr. Crespigny had taken all the -pluck out of her. And when she repaired to Pattenden's her report was a -chronicle of failures. - -The exact answers obtained she had in many cases forgotten, and Mr. -Collins advised her to jot down brief memoranda of the interviews in -future, that he might be able to point out to her where her line of -conduct had been at fault. - -"Now, that set speech of yours was a mistake," he said. "What you want -to do at the start is to get the man's attention--to surprise him -into listening. Perhaps he has had half a dozen travellers bothering -him already, all trying for an order for something or another, and -all beginning the same way. Go in brightly. Don't let him know your -business till you've got the specimen open under his nose. Cry, 'Well, -Mr. So-and-So, here it is, out at last!' Say anything that comes into -your head, but startle him at the beginning. He may think you're mad, -but he'll listen from astonishment, and when you've woke him up you can -show him that you're not." - -"It's so awful," she said dejectedly. - -"Awful?" exclaimed Mr. Collins. "Do you know the great Napoleon was a -book-agent? Do you know that when he was a lieutenant without a red -cent he travelled with a work called _L'Histoire de la Revolution_? My -dear young lady, if you go to Paris you can see his canvasser's outfit -under a glass case in the Louvre, and the list of orders he succeeded -in collaring!" - -"I don't suppose he liked it." - -"He liked the money it brought in; and you'll like yours directly. You -don't imagine I expected you to do any good right off? I should have -been much surprised if you'd come in with any different account this -afternoon, I can tell you! No, no, you mustn't be disheartened because -you aren't lucky at the start; and as to that Victoria Street fellow -who was in a bad temper, what of him? He has to make his living, and -you have to make yours; remember you're just as much in your rights as -the man you're talking to when you make a call anywhere." - -"Very good," said Mary; "if you are satisfied, _I_ am. I don't pretend -my services are being clamoured for. You may be sure I want to do well -with the thing. If, by putting my pride in my pocket, I can put an -income there too, I'm ready to do it." - -It became a regular feature of her afternoon visit at the publishers' -for Mr. Collins to encourage her with prophecies of good fortune; -and her anxiety was frequently assuaged by his consideration. On the -first few occasions when she returned with her notes of "Out; Out; -Doesn't need it; Never reads; Too busy to look," etc., she dreaded -the additional chagrin of being rebuked for incompetence; but Mr. -Collins was always complaisant, and perpetually assured her that she -was enduring only the disappointments inevitable to a beginner. In -his own mind he began to doubt her fitness for the occupation, but he -liked her, and knowing that, in the trade phrase, some orders "booked -themselves," he was willing to afford her the chance of making a trifle -as long as she desired to avail herself of it. They were terrible -days to Mary Brettan, wearing away without result, while her pitiful -store of cash grew less and less; and since each day was so drearily -long, it was amazing that a week passed so quickly. This is an anomaly -especially conspicuous to lodgers, and when her bill was due again she -beheld her landlady with despair. - -"Mrs. Shuttle worth," she said, "I have done nothing; I hoped to pay -you, and I can't. I'm not a cheat, though it looks like it; I am agent -for a firm of publishers, and I haven't earned a single commission." -Mrs. Shuttleworth scrutinised her grimly, and she held her breath. She -might be commanded to leave, and as omnibus fares were an item of her -expenditure now, no more than a shilling remained of the sum raised on -the handbag. "What do you say?" she faltered. - -"Well," said the other, "it's like this: I'm not 'ard and I don't -say as I'd care to go and turn a respectable girl into the streets, -for I know what I'd be doing. But I can't afford to lay out for your -breakfas' and your tea with never a farthing coming back for it. Keep -the room a bit, and the rent can wait; but I must ask you to get all -your meals outside till we're straight again." - -A lodger on sufferance; left with nothing to pawn, and possessed of a -shilling to sustain life till she gained an order for _The Album of -Inventions_, Mary toiled up staircases with the specimen. To economise -on remaining pounds may be managed with refinement; to be frugal -of the last silver is possible with decency; but to be reduced to -the depths of pence means a devilish hunger whose cravings cannot be -stilled for more than an hour at a time, and a weakness that mounts -from limbs to brain till the throat contracts, and the eyeballs ache -from exhaustion. However fatigued her fruitless expeditions might have -made her now, she went back to the publishing-house enduringly afoot, -grudging every halfpenny, husbanding the meagre sum with the tenacity -of deadly fear. The windows of the foreign restaurants with viands -temptingly displayed and tastefully garnished, the windows of the -English cook-shops, into which the meats were thrown, enchanted her -eye as she would never have believed that food could have the power to -do. She understood what starvation was; began to understand how people -could be brought to thieve by it, and exculpated them for doing so. -Without her clothes becoming abruptly shabby, the aspect of the woman -deteriorated from her internal consciousness. She carried herself -less confidently; she lost the indefinable air that distinguishes the -freight from the flotsam on the sea of life. Little things sent the -fact home to her. Drivers ceased to lift an inquiring fore-finger when -she passed a cab-rank, and once, when an address on her list proved to -be a private house, the servant asked her "Who from?" instead of "What -name?" - -Inch by inch she fought for the ground that was slipping under her, -affecting cheerfulness when the specimen was exhibited, and hiding -desperation when she restored it, a failure, to its case. The sight -of Victoria Street and its neighbourhood came to be loathsome to her. -Often her instructions took her on to different floors of the same -building day after day; and, fancying that the hall-porters divined why -she reappeared so often, she entered with the misgiving that they might -forbid her to ascend. - -It was no shock to her at last to issue from the lodging beggared. She -had felt so long that the situation was inevitable that she accepted -its coming almost apathetically. She faced the usual day, mounting the -flights of stairs, and drooping down them, a shade the weaker for the -absence of the pitiful breakfast. It was not until one o'clock that the -hopelessness of routine was admitted. Then, the prospect of the journey -to reach her room again was intimidating enough; she did not even -return to Pattenden's; she went slowly back and lay down on the bed, -managing to forget her hunger intermittently in snatches of sleep. - -Towards evening the pangs faded altogether. But incidents of years ago -recurred to her without any effort of the will, impelling her to cry -feebly at the recollection of some unkind answer that she had once -given, at a hurt expression that she saw again on her father's face. -During the night her troubles were reflected in her dreams, and at -morning she woke hollow-eyed. - -It was labour to her to dress. But she did not feel hungry, she felt -only dazed. She drank a glassful of water from the bottle on the -wash-hand-stand, and, driven to exertion by necessity, took her way to -the publishers', moving among the crowd torpidly, not acutely conscious -of her surroundings. - -Mr. Collins exclaimed at her appearance and strongly advised her to go -home and rest. - -"You don't look the thing at all," he said with genuine concern. "Stay -indoors to-day; you won't do any good if you're not well." - -She smiled wistfully at his idea that staying indoors would improve -matters. - -"I shan't be any better for not going out," she said. "Yes, give me the -list. Only don't expect me to come in and report; I shan't feel much -like doing that." - -He wrote a few names for her. - -"I shan't give you many to-day," he said. "Here are half a dozen; try -these!" - -"Thank you," said Mary; "I'll try these." She went down, and out into -the street once more. The rattle of the traffic roared in her ears; the -jam and jostle of the pavements confused her. She felt like a child -buffeted by giants, and could have lifted her arms, wailing to God to -let the end be now--to let her die quickly and quietly, and without -much pain. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -On the third floor of a house in Delahay Street there used to be a room -which was at once sitting-room and "workshop." A blue plate here and -there over the mirror, the shabby arm-chair on the hearth, and a modest -collection of books on the wall, gave it an air of home. The long -white table, littered with plans and paints, before the window, and a -theodolite in the corner, showed that it served for office too. - -A man familiar with that interior had just entered the passage, and as -he began to ascend the stairs a smile of anticipated welcome softened -the rigidity of his face. He was a tall, loosely-built man, who was -generally credited with five more years than the two-and-thirty he had -really seen; a man who, a physiognomist would have asserted, formed -few friendships and was a stanch friend. Possibly it was the gauntness -of the face that caused him to appear older than he was, possibly its -gravity. He did not look as if he laughed readily, as if he saw much in -life to laugh at. He did not look impulsive, or emotional, or a man to -be imagined singing a song. He could be pictured the one cool figure -in a scene of panic with greater facility than participating in the -enthusiasm of a grand-stand. Not that you found his aspect heroic, but -that you could not conceive him excited. - -He turned the handle as he knocked at the door, and strode into the -room without awaiting a response. The occupant dropped his T-square -with a clatter, giving a quick halloa: - -"Philip! Dear old chap!" - -Dr. Kincaid gripped the outstretched hand. - -"How are you?" he said. - -Walter Corri pushed him into the shabby chair, and lounged against the -mantelpiece, smiling down at him. - -"How are you?" repeated Dr. Kincaid. - -"All right. When did you come up?" - -"Yesterday afternoon." - -"Going to stay long?" - -"Only a day or two." - -"Pipe?" - -"Got a cigar; try one!" - -"Thanks." - -Corri pulled out a chair for himself. "Well, what's the news?" he said. - -"Nothing particular; anything fresh with you?" - -"No. How's your mother?" - -"Tolerably well; she came up with me." - -"Did she! Where are you?" - -"Some little hotel. I'm charged with a lot of messages----" - -"That you don't remember!" - -"I remember one of them: you're to come and see her." - -"Thanks, I shall." - -"Come and dine to-night, if you've nothing on. We have a room to -ourselves, and----" - -"I'd like to. What are you going to do during the day?" - -"There are two or three things that won't take very long, but I was -obliged to come. What are _you_ doing?" - -"I've an appointment outside at twelve; I shall be back in about an -hour, and then I could stick a paper on the door without risking an -independence." - -"You can go about with me?" - -"If you'll wait." - -"Good! Where do you keep your matches?" - -"Matches are luxuries. Tear up _The Times_!" - -"Corri's economy! Throw me _The Times_, then!" - -Kincaid lit his cigar to his satisfaction, and stretched his long legs -before the fire. Both men puffed placidly. - -"Well," said Corri, "and how's the hospital? How do you like it?" - -"My mother doesn't like it; she finds it so lonely at home by herself. -I thought she'd get used to it in a couple of months--I go round to -her as often as I can--but she complains as much as she did at the -beginning. She's taken up the original idea again, and of course it is -dull for her. And she's not strong, either." - -"No, I know." - -"Tell her I'm going to be a successful man by-and-by, Wally, and cheer -her up. It enlivens her to believe it." - -"I always do." - -"I know you do; whenever she's seen you, she looks at me proudly for -a week and tells me what a 'charming young man' Mr. Corri is--'how -clever!' The only fault she finds with you is that you haven't got -married." - -"Tell her that I have what the novelists call an 'ideal.'" - -"When did you catch it?" - -"Last year. A fellow I know married the 'Baby'--an adoring daughter -that thought all her family unique." - -"And----?" - -"My ideal is the blessing who is still unappropriated at twenty-eight. -She'll have discovered by then that her mother isn't infallible; that -her brothers aren't the first living authorities on wines, the fine -arts, horseflesh, and the sciences; and that the 'happy home' isn't -incapable of improvement. In fact, she'll have got a little tired of -it." - -"You've the wisdom of a relieved widower." - -"I have seen," said Corri widely. "The fellow, you know! Married -fellows are an awfully 'liberal education.' This one has been turned -into a nurse--among the several penalties of his selection. The -treasure is for ever dancing on to wet pavements in thin shoes and -sandwiching imbecilities between colds on the chest. He swears you may -move the Himalayas sooner than teach a girl of twenty to take care of -herself. He told me so with tears in his eyes. I mean to be older than -my wife, and she has got to be twenty-eight, so it's necessary to wait -a few years. I may be able to support her, too, by then; that's another -thing in favour of delay." - -"I'll represent the matter in the proper light for you on the next -occasion." - -"Do; it's extraordinary that every woman advocates matrimony for every -man excepting her own son." - -"She makes up for it by her efforts on behalf of her own daughter." - -"Is that from experience?" - -"Not in the sense you mean; I'm no catch to be chased myself; but I've -seen enough to make you sick. The friends see the ceremonies--I see the -sequels." - -"'There are worse occupations in this world than feeling a woman's -pulse.' But Yorick was an amateur! I should say a horrid profession, -in one way; it can't leave a scrap of illusion. What's a complexion to -a man who knows all that's going on underneath? I suppose when a girl -gives a blush you see a sort of chart of her muscles and remember what -produces it." - -"I knew a physician who used to say he had never cared for any woman -who hadn't a fatal disease," replied Kincaid; "how does that go with -your theory? She was generally consumptive, I believe." - -"Do you understand it?" - -"Pity, I dare say, first. Doctors are men." - -"Yes, I suppose they are; but somehow one doesn't think of them that -way. Between the student and the doctor there's such an enormous gap. -It's a stupid idea, but one feels that a doctor marries, as he goes to -church on Sunday--because the performance is respectable and expected. -Some professions don't make any difference to the man himself; you -don't think of an engineer as being different from anybody else; but -with Medicine----" - -"It's true," said Kincaid, "that hardly anybody but a doctor can -realise how a doctor feels; his friends don't know. The only writer who -ever drew one was George Eliot." - -"If you're a typical----" - -"Oh, I wasn't talking about myself; don't take me! When a man's -thoughts mean worries, he acquires the habit of keeping them to himself -very soon; that is, if he isn't a fool. It isn't calculated to make him -popular, but it prevents him becoming a bore." - -"Out comes your old bugbear! Isn't it possible for you to believe a -man's pals may listen to his worries without being bored?" - -"How many times?" - -"Oh, damn, whenever they're there!" - -"No," said Kincaid meditatively, "it isn't. They'd hide the boredom, of -course, but he ought to hide the worries. Let a man do his cursing in -soliloquies, and grin when it's conversation." - -"Would it be convenient to mention exactly what you do find it possible -to believe in?" - -"In work, and grit, and Walter Corri. In doing your honest best in -the profession you've chosen for the sake of the profession, not in -the hope of what it's going to do for you. You can't, quite--that's -the devil of it! Your own private ambitions _will_ obtrude themselves -sometimes; but they're only vanity, when all's said and done--just -meant for the fuel. What does nine out of ten men's success do for -anyone but the nine men? Leaving out the great truths, the discoveries -that benefit the human race for all time, what more good does a man -effect in his success than he did in his obscurity? Who wants to see -him succeed, excepting perhaps his mother--who's dead before he does -it? Who's the better for his success? who does he think will be any -better off for it? Nobody but No. 1! Then, whenever the vanity's sore -and rubbed the wrong way, you'd have him go to his friends and take it -out of them. What a selfish beast!" - -"Bosh!" said Corri. "Oh, I know it isn't argument, but 'bosh!'" - -"My dear fellow----" - -"My dear fellow, you had a rough time of it yourself for any number of -years, and----" - -"And they've left their mark. Very naturally! What then?" - -"Simply that now you want to stunt all humanity in the unfortunate -mould that was clapped on _you_. You understand the right of every pain -to shriek excepting mental pain. You'd sit up all night pitying the -whimpers of a child with a splintered finger, but if a man made a moan -because his heart was broken, you'd call him a 'selfish beast'!" - -Kincaid ejected a circlet of smoke, and watched it sail away before he -answered. - -"'Weak,'" he said, "I think I should call that 'weak.' It was a very -good sentence, though, if not quite accurate. This reminds me of old -times; it takes me back ten years to sit in your room and have you -bully me. There's something in it, Corri; circumstances are responsible -for a deuce of a lot, and we're all of us accidents. I'm a bad case, -you tell me; I dare say it's true. You're a good chap to put up with -me." - -"Don't be a fool," said Corri. - -The "fool" stared into the coals, nursing his big knee. He seemed to -be considering his chum's accusation. - -"When I was sixteen," he said, still nursing the knee and contemplating -the fire, "I was grown up. In looking back, I never see any transition -from childhood to maturity. I was a kid, and then I was a man. I was -a man when I went to school; I never had larks out of hours; I went -there understanding I was sent to learn as much, and as quickly as I -could. Then from school I was put into an office, and was a man who -already had to hide what he felt; my people knew I wanted to make this -my profession, and they couldn't afford it. If I had let the poor old -governor see--well, he didn't see; I affected contentment, I said a -clerkship was 'rather jolly'! Good Lord! I said it was 'jolly'! The -abasement of it! The little hypocritical cur it makes of you, that -life, where a gape is regarded as a sign of laziness and you're forced -to hide the natural thing behind an account-book or the lid of your -desk; when the knowledge that you mustn't lay down your pen for five -minutes under your chief's eyes teaches you to sneak your leisure when -he turns his back, and to sham uninterrupted industry at the sound -of--his return. With the humbug, and the 'Yes, sirs,' and the 'No, -sirs,' you're a schoolboy over again as a clerk, excepting that in an -office you're paid." - -"My clerk has yet to come!" said Corri, grimacing. - -"Yes, he's being demoralised somewhere else. How I thanked God one -night when my father told me if I hadn't outgrown my desire he could -manage to gratify it! The words took me out of hell. But when I did -become a student I couldn't help being conscious that to study was an -extravagance. The knowledge was with me all the time, reminding me of -my responsibility--although it wasn't till the governor died that I -knew how great an extravagance it must have seemed to him. And I never -spreed with the fellows as a student any more than I had enjoyed myself -with the lads in the playground. Altogether, I haven't rollicked, -Corri. Such youth as I have had has been snatched at between troubles." - -"Poor old beggar!" - -Kincaid smiled quickly. - -"There's more feeling in 'you poor old beggar!' than in a letter piled -up with condolence. It's hard lines one can't write 'poor old beggar' -to every acquaintance who has a bereavement." The passion that had -crept into his strong voice while speaking of his earlier life to the -one person in the world to whom he could have brought himself to speak -so, had been repressed; his tone was again the impassive one that was -second-nature to him. - -"Believe me," he said, harking back after a pause, "that idea of the -medical profession, that 'respectable and expected' idea of yours, -is quite wrong. Oh, it isn't yours alone, it's common? enough; every -little comic paragraphist thinks himself justified in turning out a -number of ignorant jokes at the profession's expense in the course of -the year; every twopenny-halfpenny caricaturist has to thank us for a -number of his dinners. No harm's meant, and nobody minds; but people -who actually know something of the subject that these funny men are so -constant to can tell you that there's more nobility and self-sacrifice -in the medical profession than in any under the sun, not excepting the -Church. Yes, and more hardships too! The chat on the weather and the -fee for remarking it's a fine day isn't every medical man's life; the -difficulty is to get the fees in return for loyal attendance. Nobody's -reverenced like the family doctor in time of sickness. In the days of -their child's recovery the parents love the doctor almost as fervently -as they do the child; but the fervour's got cold when Christmas comes -and the gratitude's forgotten. And they know a doctor can't dun them; -so he has to wait for his account and pretend the money's of no -consequence when he bows to them, though the butcher and the baker and -the grocer don't pretend to _him_, but look for _their_ bills to be -settled every week. I could give you instances----" - -He gave instances. Corri spoke of difficulties, too. They smoked their -cigars to the stumps, talking leisurely, until Corri declared that he -must go. - -"In an hour, then, I'll call back for you," said Kincaid; "you won't be -longer?" - -"I don't think so. But why not wait? You can make yourself comfortable; -there's plenty of _The Times_ left to read." - -"I will. I want to write a couple of letters--can I?" - -"There's a desk! Have I got everything? Yes, that's all. Well, I'll be -as quick as I can, but if I _should_ be detained I shall find you here?" - -"You'll find me here," said Kincaid, "don't be alarmed." - -The other's departure did not send him to the desk immediately, -however. Left alone, it was manifest how used the man had been to -living alone. It was manifest in his composure, in his deliberation, in -the earnestness he devoted to the task when at last he attacked it. He -had just reached the foot of the second page when somebody knocked at -the door. - -"Come in," he said abstractedly. - -The knock was repeated. It occurred to him that Corri had omitted to -provide for the contingency of a client's calling. "Come in!" he cried -more loudly, annoyed at the interruption. - -He glanced over his shoulder, and saw that the intruder was a woman, -with something in her hand. - -"Mr. Corri?" - -"Mr. Corri's not in," he replied, fingering the pen; "he'll be back -by-and-by." - -Mary lingered irresolutely. Her temples throbbed, and in her weakness -the sight of a chair magnetised her. - -"Shall I wait?" she murmured; "perhaps he won't be very long?" - -"Eh?" said Kincaid. "Oh, wait if you like, madam." - -She sank into a seat mutely. The response had not sounded encouraging, -but it permitted her to rest, and rest was what she yearned for now. -How indifferent the world was! how mercilessly little anybody cared -for anybody else! "Wait, if you like, madam"--go and die, if you like, -madam--go and lay your bones in the gutter, madam, so long as you -don't bother me! She watched the big hand hazily as it shifted to and -fro across the paper. The man probably had money in his pocket that -signified nothing to him, and to her it would have been salvation. He -lived in comfort while she was starving; he did not know that she was -starving, but how much would it affect him if he did know? She wondered -whether she could induce him to give an order for the book; perhaps he -was just as likely to order it as the other man? Then she would take a -cab back to Mr. Collins and ask him for her commission at once, and go -and eat something--if she were able to eat any longer. - -She roused herself with an effort, and crossed the room to where he sat. - -"I came to see Mr. Corri from Messrs. Pattenden," she faltered, "about -a new work they're publishing. I've brought a specimen. If I am not -disturbing you----?" - -She put it down as she spoke, and stood a pace or two behind him, -watching the effect. - -"Is this woman very nervous?" said Kincaid to himself. "So she's a -book-agent! I thought she had something to sell. Good Lord, what a -life!" - -"Thanks," he answered. "I'm very busy just now, and I never buy my -books on the subscription plan." - -"You could have it sent in to you when it's complete," she suggested. - -He drummed his fingers on the title-page. "I don't want it." - -"Perhaps Mr. Corri----?" - -"I can't speak for Mr. Corri; but don't wait for him, on my advice. I'm -afraid it would be patience wasted." - -He shut the _Album_ up, intimating that he had done with it. But the -woman made no movement to withdraw it, and he invited this movement by -pushing the thing aside. He drew the blotting-pad forward to resume -his letter; and still she did not remove her obnoxious specimen from -the desk. He was beginning to feel irritated. - -"If you choose to wait, madam, take a seat," he said.... "I say -take----" - -He turned, questioning her continued silence, and sprang to his feet -in dismay. The book-agent's head was lolling on her bosom; and his -arm--extended to support her--was only out in time to catch her as she -fell. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -"Now," said Kincaid, when she opened her eyes, "what's the matter with -you? No nonsense; I'm a doctor; you mustn't tell lies to me! What's the -matter with you?" - -There are some things a woman cannot say; this was one of them. - -"You're very exhausted?" - -"Oh," she said weakly, "I--just a little." - -"When had you food last?" - -She gave no answer. He scrutinised her persistently, noting her -hesitation, and shot his next question straight at the mark. - -"Are you hungry?" - -The eyes closed again, and her lips quivered. - -"Boor!" he said to himself, "she's starving, and you wouldn't buy her -book. Beast! she's starving, and you tried to turn her out." - -But his sympathy was hardly communicated by his voice; indeed, in her -shame she thought him rather rough. - -"You stop here a minute," he continued; "don't you go and faint again, -because I forbid it! I'm going to order a prescription for you. Your -complaint isn't incurable--I've had it myself." - -He left her in quest of the housekeeper, whom he interrogated on the -subject of eggs and coffee. A shilling brightened her wits. - -"Mr. Corri's room; hurry!" - -His patient was sitting in the arm-chair when he went back; he saw -tear-stains on her cheek, though she turned away her face at his -approach. - -"The prescription's being made up," he said. "Would you like the window -shut again? No? All right, we'll keep it open. Don't talk if you'd -rather not; there's no need--I know all you want to say." - -He ignored her ostentatiously till the tray appeared, and then, -receiving it at the doorway, brought it over to her himself. - -"Come," he said, "try that--slowly." - -"Oh!" she murmured, shrinking. - -"Don't be silly; do as I tell you! There's nothing to be bashful about; -I know you're not an angel--your having an appetite doesn't astonish -me." - -"How good you are!" she muttered; "what must you think of me?" - -"Eat," commanded Kincaid; "ask me what I think of you afterwards." - -She was evidently in no danger of committing the mistake that he had -looked for--his difficulty was, not to restrain, but to persuade her; -nor was her reluctance the outcome of embarrassment alone. - -"It has gone," she said, shaking her head; "I am really not hungry now." - -He encouraged her till she began. Then he retired behind the newspaper, -to distress her as little as might be by his presence. At the end of a -quarter of an hour he put _The Times_ down. The eggshells were empty, -and he stretched himself and addressed her: - -"Better?" - -"Much better," she said, with a ghost of a smile. - -"Have you been having a long experience of this sort of thing?" - -"N--no," she returned nervously, "not very." - -He caressed his moustache; she was ceasing to be a patient and becoming -a woman, and he didn't quite know what he was to do with her. Somehow, -despite her situation, the offer of a sovereign looked as if it would -be coarse. Mary divined his dilemma, and made as if to rise. - -"Sit down," he said authoritatively. "When you're well enough to go -I'll tell you; till I do, stay where you are!" - -She felt that she ought to say something, proffer some explanation, but -she was at a loss how to begin. There was a pause. And then: - -"Is there any likelihood of this business of yours improving?" inquired -Kincaid. "Suppose you were able to hold out--is there anything to look -forward to?" - -"No," she said; "I don't think there is. I'm afraid I am no use at it." - -"Was it an attractive career, that you made the attempt?" - -"Not in the least; but it was a chance." - -"I see!" - -He saw also that she was a gentlewoman fitted for more refined -pursuits. How had she reached this pass? he wondered. Would she -volunteer the information, or should he ask her? He failed to perceive -what assistance he could render if he knew; yet if he did not help her -she would go away and die, and he would know that she was going away to -die as he let her out. - -"I was introduced to the firm by a very old connection of theirs. I -couldn't find anything to do, and he fancied that as I was--well, that -as I was a lady--it sounds rather odd under the circumstances to speak -of being a lady, doesn't it----?" - -"I don't see anything odd about it," he said. - -"He fancied I might do rather well. But I think it's a drawback, on the -contrary. It's not easy to me to decline to take 'No' for an answer; -and nobody can do any good at work she's ashamed of." - -"But you shouldn't be ashamed," he said; "it's honest enough." - -"That's what the manager tells me. Only when la woman has to go into a -stranger's office and bother him, and be snubbed for her pains, the -honesty doesn't prevent her feeling uncomfortable. You must have found -me a nuisance yourself." - -"I'm afraid I was rather brusque," he said quickly. "I was busy; I hope -I wasn't rude?" - -Her colour rose. - -"I didn't mean that at all," she stammered; "I shouldn't be very -grateful to remind you of it even if you had been!" - -"I should have thought a book of that sort would have been tolerably -easy to sell. It's a useful work of reference. What's the price?" - -"Two pounds ten altogether. It isn't dear, but people won't buy it, all -the same." - -"Yes, it's got up well," he said, taking it from the desk and turning -the leaves. "How many volumes, did you say?" - -"Four." - -She made a little tentative movement to recover it, but he went on as -if the gesture had escaped him. - -"If it's not too late I'll change my mind and subscribe for a copy. Put -my name down, please, will you?" - -She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. - -"No," she said, "thank you, I'd rather not." - -"Why?" - -"You don't want the book, I know you don't. You've fed me and done -enough for me already; I won't take your money too; I can't!" - -Her bosom began to swell tempestuously. He saw by the widened eyes -fixed upon the fire that she was struggling not to cry again. - -"There," he said gently, "don't break down! Let's talk about something -else." - -"Oh!"--she sneaked a tear away--"I'm not used ... don't think----" - -"No, no," he said, "_I_ know, _I_ understand. Poke it for me, will you? -let's have a blaze." - -She took the poker up, and prolonged the task a minute while she hung -her head. - -Remarked Kincaid: - -"It's awful to be hard up, isn't it? I've been through all the stages; -it's abominable!" - -"_You_ have?" - -"Oh yes; I know all about it. So I don't tell you that 'money's the -least thing.' Only people who have always had enough say that." - -"One wants so little in the world to relieve anxiety," she said; "it -does seem cruel that so few can get enough for ease." - -"What do you mean by 'ease'?" - -"Oh, I should call employment 'ease' now." - -"Did you ask for more once, then?" - -"Yes, I used to be more foolish. 'Experience teaches fools.'" - -"No, it doesn't," said Kincaid. "Experience teaches intelligent people; -fools go on blundering to the end. 'Once----?' I interrupted you." - -"Well, it used to mean a home of my own, and relations to care for me, -and money enough to settle the bills without minding if they came to -five shillings more than I had expected. It's a beautiful regulation -that the less we have, the less we can manage with. But the horse -couldn't live on the one straw." - -"How did you come to this?" asked Kincaid; "couldn't you get different -work before the last straw?" - -"If you knew how I tried! I haven't any friends here; that was my -difficulty. I wanted a situation as a companion, but I had to give the -idea up at last, and it ended in my going to Pattenden's. Don't think -they know! I mean, don't imagine they guess the straits I'm in: that -would be unfair. They have been very kind to me." - -"You've never been a companion, I suppose?" - -"No; but I hoped, for all that. Everything has to be done for the first -time; every adept was a novice once.". - -"That's true, but there are so many adepts in everything to-day that -the novices haven't much chance." - -"Then how are they to qualify?" - -"That's the novices' affair. You can't expect people to pay -incompetence when skilled labour is loafing at the street corners." - -"I expect nothing," she answered; "my expectations are all dead and -buried. We've only a certain capacity for expectation, I think; under -favourable conditions it wears well and we say, 'While there's life -there's hope;' but; when it's strained too much, it gives out." - -"And you drift without a fight in you?" - -"A woman can't do more than fight till she's beaten." - -"She shouldn't acknowledge to being beaten." - -"Theory!" she said between her teeth; "the breakfast-tray is fact!" - -"What do you reckon is going to become of; you?" - -"I don't anticipate at all." - -"Oh, that's all rubbish! Answer straight!" - -"I shall starve, then," she said. - -"Sss! You know it?" - -"I know it, and I'm resigned to it. If I weren't resigned to it, it -would be much harder. There's nothing that can happen to provide -for me; there isn't a soul in the world I can--'will,' to be -accurate--appeal to for help. You've delayed it a little by your -kindness, but you can't prevent its coming. Oh, I've hoped and -struggled till I am worn out!" she went on, her; voice shaking. "If -there were a prospect, I could rouse myself, weak as I am, to reach -it; but there isn't a prospect, not the glimmer of a prospect! I'm not -cowardly; I'm only rational. I admit what is; I've finished duping -myself." - -She could express her despair, this woman; she had education and -manner. He contemplated her attentively; she interested him. - -"You speak like a fatalist, for all that," he said to her. - -"I speak like a woman who has reached the lowest rung of destitution -and been fed on charity. I----Oh, don't, _don't_ keep forcing me to -make a child of myself like this; let me go! Perhaps you're quite -right--things 'll improve." - -"You shall go presently; not yet--not till I say you may." - -There was silence between them once more. He lay back, with his hands -thrust deep into his trouser-pockets, and his feet crossed, pondering. - -"You weren't brought up to anything, of course?" he said abruptly. -"Never been trained to anything? You can't do anything, or make -anything, that has any market value?" - -"I lived at home." - -"And now you're helpless! What rot it is! Why didn't your father teach -you to use your hands?" - -"I think you said you were a doctor?" she returned, lifting her head. - -"Eh? Yes, my name is 'Kincaid.'" - -"My father was Dr. Anthony Brettan; he never expected his daughter to -be in such want." - -"You don't say so--your father was one of us? I'm glad to make your -acquaintance. Is it 'Miss Brettan'?" - -She nodded, warming with an impulse to go further and cry, "Also I have -been a nurse: you are a doctor, can't you get me something to do?" -But if she did, he would require corroboration, and, in the absence -of her certificate, institute inquiries at the hospital; and then the -whisper would circulate that "Brettan was no longer living with her -husband"--they would soon ascertain that he had not died--and from -that point to the truth would be the veriest step. "Never married at -all--the disgrace! Of course, an actor, but fancy _her_!" She could see -their faces, the astonishment of their contempt. Narrow circle as it -was, it had been her world--she could not do it! - -"But surely, Miss Brettan," he said, "there must be someone who -can serve you a little--someone who can put you in the way of an -occupation?" - -Immediately she regretted having proclaimed so much as she had. - -"My father lived very quietly, and socially he was hardly a popular -man. For several reasons I wouldn't like my distress to be talked about -by people who knew him." - -"Those people are your credentials, though," he urged; "you can't -afford to turn your back on them. If you'll be guided by advice, you -will swallow your pride." - -"I couldn't; I made the resolve to stand alone, and I shall stick to -it. Besides, you are wrong in supposing that any one of them would -exert himself for me to any extent; my father did not have--was not -intimate enough with anybody." - -A difficult woman to aid, thought Kincaid pityingly. A notion had -flashed across his mind, at her reference to the kind of employment she -had desired, and the announcement of her parentage was strengthening -it; but there must be something to go upon, something more than mere -assertion. - -"If a post turned up, who is there to speak for you?" - -"Messrs. Pattenden; I believe they'd speak for me willingly." - -"Anybody else?" - -"No; but the manager would see anyone who went to him about me, I'm -almost sure." - -"You need friends, you know," he said; "you're very awkwardly placed -without any." - -"Oh, I do know! To have no friends is a crime; one's helpless without -them. And a woman's helplessness is the best of reasons why no help -should be extended to her. But it sounds a merciless argument, -doctor--horribly merciless, at the beginning!" - -"It's a merciless life. Look here, Miss Brettan, I don't want to beat -about the bush: you're in a beastly hole, and if I can pull you out of -it I shall be glad--for your own sake, and for the sake of your dead -father. It's like this, though; the only thing I can see my way to -involves the comfort of someone else. You were talking about a place as -companion; I can't live at home now, and my mother wants one." - -"Doctor!" - -She caught her breath. - -"If I were to take the responsibility of recommending you, it's -probable she'd engage you; I think you'd suit her, but----Well, it's -rather a large order!" - -"Oh, you should never be sorry!" she cried. "You shall never be sorry -for trusting me, if you will!" - -"You see, it's not easy. It's not usual to go engaging a lady one meets -for the first time." - -"Why, you wouldn't meet anybody else oftener," she pleaded eagerly; -"if you advertised, you'd take the woman after the one interview. You -wouldn't exchange a lot of visits and get friendly before you engaged -her." - -He pulled at his moustache again. - -"But of course she wouldn't--wouldn't be starving," she added; "she -wouldn't have fainted in your room. It'd be no more judicious, but it -would be more conventional." - -"You argue neatly," he said with a smile. - -The smile encouraged her. She smiled response. He could not smile if he -were going to refuse her, she felt. - -"Dr. Kincaid----" - -"One minute," he said; "I hear someone coming, I think. Excuse me!" - -It was Corri; he met him as he turned the handle, and drew him outside. - -"There's a woman in there," he said, "and a breakfast-tray. Come down -on to the next landing; I want to speak to you." - -"What on earth----" said Corri. "Are you giving a party? What do -you mean by a woman and a breakfast-tray? Did the woman bring the -breakfast-tray?" - -"No, she brought a book. It's serious." - -They leant over the banisters conferring, while Mary, in the arm-chair, -remained trembling with suspense. The vista opened by Kincaid's words -had shown her how tenaciously she still clung to life, how passionately -she would clutch at a chance of prolonging it. Awhile ago her one -prayer had been to die speedily; now, with a possibility of rescue -dangled before her eyes, her prayer was only for the possibility to be -fulfilled. Would he be satisfied, or would he send her away? Her fate -swung on the decision. She did not marvel at the tenacity; it seemed to -her so natural that she did not question it at all. Yet it is of all -things the oddest--the love of living which the most life-worn preserve -in their hearts. Every day they long for sleep, and daily the thought -of death alarms them--terrifies their inconsistent souls, though few -indeed believe there is a Hell, and everybody who is good enough to -believe in Heaven believes also that he is good enough to go to it. - -"O God," she whispered, "make him take me! Forgive me what I did; don't -let me suffer any more, God! You know how I loved him--how I loved him!" - -"Well," said Corri, on the landing, "and what are you going to do?" - -"I'm thinking," said Kincaid, "of letting my mother go to see her." - -"It's wildly philanthropic, isn't it?" - -"It looks wild, of course." He mused a moment. "But, after all, one -knows where she comes from; her father was a professional man; she's a -lady." - -"What was her father's name, again?" - -"Brettan--Anthony." - -"Ever heard it before?" - -"If there wasn't such a person, one can find it out in five minutes. -Besides, my mother would have to decide for herself. I should tell her -all about it, and if an interview left her content, why----" - -"Well," said Corri, "go back to the Bench and sum up! You'll find me on -the bed. By the way, if you could hand my pipe out without offending -the young lady, I should take it as a favour." - -"You've smoked enough. Wait! here's a last cigar; go and console -yourself with that!" - -Kincaid returned to the room; but he was not prepared to sum up at -the moment. Mary looked at him anxiously, striving to divine, by his -expression, the result of the consultation on the stairs. The person -consulted had been Mr. Corri, she concluded, the man that she had been -sent to importune. Old or young? easy-going or morose? On which side -had he cast the weight of his opinion--this man that she had never seen? - -"We were talking about the companion's place, Miss Brettan," began -Kincaid. "Now, what do you say?" - -Instantly she glowed with gratitude towards the unknown personage, who, -in reality, had done nothing. - -"Never should you regret it, Dr. Kincaid, never!" - -"Understand, I couldn't guarantee the engagement in any case," he said -hastily. "The most I could do would be to mention the matter; the rest -would depend on my mother's own feelings." - -"I should be just as thankful to you if she objected. Don't think I -under-estimate my draw-backs--I know that for you even to consider -engaging me is generous. But----Oh, I'd do my best!--I would indeed! -The difficulty's as clear to me as to you," she went on rapidly, "I see -it every bit as plainly. See it? It has barred me from employment again -and again! I'm a stranger, I've no credentials; I can only look you in -the face and say: 'I have told you the truth; if I were able to take -your advice and pocket my pride, I could _prove_ that I have told you -the truth,' And what's that?--anybody might say it and be lying! Oh -yes, I know! Doctor, my lack of references has made me suspected till -I could have cried blood. Doors have been shut against me, not because -I was ineligible in myself, but because I was a woman who hadn't -had employers to say, 'I found her a satisfactory person.' Things I -should have done for have been given to other women because they had -'characters,' and I hadn't. At the beginning I thought my tones would -carry conviction--I thought I could say: 'Honestly, this tale is -true,' and someone--one in a dozen, perhaps, one in twenty--would be -found to believe me. What a mistake, to hope to be believed! Why, in -all London, there's no creature so forsaken as a gentleman's daughter -without friends. A servant may be taken on trust; an educated woman, -never!" - -"She may sometimes," said Kincaid. "Hang it! it isn't so bad as all -that. What I can do for you I will! Very likely my mother will call on -you this afternoon. Where are you staying?" - -A hansom had just discharged a fare at one; of the opposite houses, and -he hailed it from the window. - -"The best thing you can do now is to go home and rest, and try not to -worry. Cheer up, and hope for the best, Miss Brettan--care killed a -cat!" - -She swallowed convulsively. - -"That is the address," she said. "God bless you, Dr. Kincaid!" - -He led the way down to the passage, and put her into the cab. It was, -perhaps, superfluous to show her that he remembered that cabs were -beyond her means; yet she might be harassed during the drive by a dread -of the man's demand, and he paid him so that she should see. - -The occurrence had swelled his catalogue of calls. He told Corri they -had better drop in at Guy's, and glance at a medical directory; but in -passing a second-hand bookstall they noticed an old copy exposed for -sale, and examined that one. He found Anthony Brettan's name in the -provincial section with gladness, and remarked, moreover, that Brettan -had been a student of his own college. - -"'Brettan' is going up!" he observed cheerfully. "Now step it, my son!" - -Mary's arrival at the lodging was an event of local interest. Mrs. -Shuttleworth, who stood at the door conversing with a neighbour, -watched her descent agape. Two children playing on the pavement -suspended their game. She told Mrs. Shuttleworth that a lady might ask -for her during the day, and, mounting to the garret, shut herself in to -wrestle unsuccessfully with her fears of being refused, or forgotten -altogether. Would this mother come or not? If not--she shivered; -she had been so near to ignominious death that the smell of it had -reached her nostrils--if not, the devilish gnawing would be back again -directly, and the faint sick craving would follow it; and then there -would be a fading of consciousness for the last time, and they would -talk about her as "it" and be afraid. - -But the mother did come. It seemed so wonderful that, even when -she sat beside her in the attic, and everything was progressing -favourably, Mary could scarcely realise that it was true. She came, -and the engagement was made. There are some women who are essentially -women's women; Mary was one of them. Mrs. Kincaid, who came already -interested, sure that her Philip could make no mistake and wishful to -be satisfied, was charmed with her. The pleading tones, the repose of -manner, the--for so she described it later--"Madonna face," if they -did not go "straight to her heart," mightily pleased her fancy. And of -course Mary liked her; what more natural? She was gentle of voice, she -had the softest blue eyes that ever beamed mildly under white hair, -and--culminating attraction--she obviously liked Mary. - -"I'm a lonely old woman now my son's been appointed medical officer at -the hospital," she said. "It'll be very quiet for you, but you'll bear -that, won't you? I do think you'll be comfortable with me, and I'm sure -I shall want to keep you." - -"Quiet for me!" said Mary. "Oh, Mrs. Kincaid, you speak as if you were -asking a favour of me, but your son must have told you that--what----I -suppose he saved my life!" - -"That's his profession," answered the old lady brightly; "that's what -he had to learn to do." - -"Ah, but not with hot breakfasts," Mary smiled. "I accept your offer -gratefully; I'll come as soon as you like." - -"Can you manage to go back with us the day after to-morrow? Don't if it -inconveniences you; but if you can be ready----" - -"I can; I shall be quite ready." - -"Good girl!" said Mrs. Kincaid. "Now you must let me advance you a -small sum, or--I daresay you have things to get--perhaps we had better -make it this! There, there! it's your own money, not a present; there's -nothing to thank me for. Good-afternoon, Miss Brettan; I will write -letting you know the train." - -"This" was a five-pound note. When she was alone again Mary picked it -up, and smoothed it out, and quivered at the crackle. These heavenly -people! their tenderness, their consideration! Oh, how beautiful it -would be if they knew all about her and there were no reservations! She -did wish she could have, revealed all to them--they had been so nice -and kind. - -She sought the landlady and paid her debt--the delight she felt in -paying her debt!--and said that she would be giving up her room after -the next night. She went forth to a little foreign restaurant in Gray's -Inn Road, where she dined wholesomely and well, treating herself to -cutlets, bread-crumbed and brown, and bordered with tomatoes, to -pudding and gruyere, and a cup of black coffee, all for eighteenpence, -after tipping the waiter. She returned to the attic--glorified attic! -it would never appal her any more--and abandoned herself to meditating -upon the "things." There was this, and there was that, and there -was the other. Yes, and she must have a box! She would have had her -initials painted on the box, only the paint would look so curiously -new. Should she have her initials on it? No, she decided that she would -not. Then there were her watch, and the bag to be redeemed at the -pawnbroker's, and she must say good-bye to Mr. Collins. What a busy day -would be the morrow! what a dawn of new hope, new peace, new life! Her -anxieties were left behind; before her lay shelter and rest. Yet on -a sudden the pleasure faded from her features, and her lips twitched -painfully. - -"Tony!" she murmured. - -She stood still where she had risen. A sob, a second sob, a torrent of -tears. She was on her knees beside the bed, gasping, shuddering, crying -out on God and him: - -"O Tony, Tony, Tony!" - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -The sun shone bright when she met Mrs. Kincaid at Euston. The doctor -was there, lounging loose-limbed and bony, by his mother's side. He -shook Mary's hand and remarked that it was a nice day for travelling. -She had been intending to say something grateful on greeting him, but -his manner did not invite it, so she tried to throw her thanks into -a look instead. She suffered at first from slight embarrassment, not -knowing if she should take her own ticket, nor what assistance was -expected of a companion at a railway-station. Perhaps she ought to -select the compartment, and superintend the labelling of the luggage? -Fortunately the luggage was not heavy, her own being by far the larger -portion; and the tickets, she learnt directly, he had already got. - -Her employer lived in Westport, a town that Mary had never visited, and -a little conversation arose from her questions about it. She did not -say much--she spoke very diffidently, in fact; the consciousness that -she was being paid to talk and be entertaining weighted her tongue. She -was relieved when, shortly after they started, Mrs. Kincaid imitated -her son's example, who lay back in his corner with his face hidden -behind _The Lancet_. - -They travelled second class, and it was not till a stoppage occurred -at some junction that their privacy was invaded. Then a large woman, -oppressed by packages and baskets, entered; and, as the new-comer -belonged to the category of persons who regard a railway journey as a -heaven-sent opportunity to eat an extra meal, her feats with sandwiches -had a fascination that rivalled the interest of the landscape. - -Of course, three hours later, when the train reached Westport, Mary -felt elated. Of course she gazed eagerly from the platform over the -prospect. It was new and pleasant and refreshing. There was a little -winding road with white palings, and a cottage with a red roof. A bell -tolled softly across the meadows, and somebody standing near her said -he supposed "that was for five o'clock service." To have exchanged the -jostle of London for a place where people had time to remember service -on a week-day, to be able to catch the chirp of the birds between the -roll of the wheels, was immediately exhilarating. Then, too, as they -drove to the house she scented in the air the freshness of tar that -bespoke proximity to the sea. Her bosom lifted. "The blessed peace of -it all!" she thought; "how happy I ought to be!" - -But she was not happy. That first evening there came to her the -soreness and sickness of recollection. She was left alone with Mrs. -Kincaid, and in the twilight they sat in the pretty little parlour, -chatting fitfully. How different was this arrival from those that she -was used to! No unpacking of photographs; no landlady to chatter of -the doings of last week's company; no stroll after tea with Tony just -to see where the theatre was. How funny! She said "how funny!" but -presently she meant "how painful!" And then it came upon her as a shock -that the old life was going on still without her. Photographs were -still being unpacked and set forth on mantelpieces; landladies still -waxed garrulous of last week's business; Tony was still strolling about -the towns on Sunday evenings, as he had done when she was with him. And -he was going to be Miss Westland's husband, while _she_ was here! How -hideous, how frightful and unreal, it seemed! - -She got up, and went over to the flower-stand in the window. - -"Are you tired, Miss Brettan? Perhaps you would like to go to your room -early to-night?" - -"No," she said, "thank you; I'm afraid I feel a trifle strange as yet, -that's all." - -At the opposite corner was a hoarding, and a comic-opera poster shone -among the local shopkeepers' advertisements. The sudden sight of -theatrical printing was like a welcome to her; she stood looking at it, -thrilling at it, with the past alive and warm again in her heart. - -"You'll soon feel at home," Mrs. Kincaid said after a pause; "I'm sure -I can understand your finding it rather uncomfortable at first." - -"Oh, not uncomfortable," Mary explained quickly; "it is queer a little, -just that! I mean, I don't know what I ought to do, and I'm afraid of -seeming inattentive. What is a companion's work, Mrs. Kincaid?" - -"Well, I've never had one," the old lady said with a laugh. "I think -you and I will get on best, do you know, if we forget you've come as -companion--if you talk when you like, and keep quiet when you like. You -see, it is literally a companion I want, not somebody to ring the bell -for me, and order the dinner, and make herself useful. This isn't a big -house, and I'm not a fashionable person; I want a woman who'll keep me -from moping, and be nice." - -Her answer expressed her requirements, and Mary found little expected -of her in return for the salary; so little that she wondered sometimes -if she earned it, small as it was. Excepting that she was continually -conscious that she must never be out of temper, and was frequently -obliged to read aloud when she would rather have sat in reverie, she -was practically her own mistress. Even, as the days went by she found -herself giving utterance to a thought as it came to her, without -pausing to conjecture its reception; speaking with the spontaneity -which, with the paid companion, is the last thing to be acquired. - -Few pleasures are shorter-lived than the one of being restored to -enough to eat; and in a week her sense of novelty had almost worn -away. They walked together; sometimes to the sea, but more often in -the town, for the approach to the sea tired Mrs. Kincaid. Westport was -not a popular watering-place; and in the summer Mary discovered that -the population of fifty thousand was not very greatly increased. From -Laburnum Lodge it took nearly twenty minutes to reach the shore, and -a hill had to be climbed. At the top of the incline the better-class -houses came to an end; and after some scattered cottages, an expanse -of ragged grass, with a bench or two, sloped to the beach. Despite its -bareness, Mary thought the spot delightful; its quietude appealed to -her. She often wished that she could go there by herself. - -Of the doctor they saw but little. Now and again he came round for an -hour or so, and at first she absented herself on these occasions. But -Mrs. Kincaid commented on her retirement and said it was unnecessary; -and thenceforward she remained. - -She did not chance to be out alone until she had been here nearly -three months; and when Mrs. Kincaid inquired one afternoon if she would -mind choosing a novel at the circulating library for her she went forth -gladly. A desire to see _The Era_ and ascertain Carew's whereabouts, -had grown too strong to be subdued. - -She crossed the interlying churchyard, and made her way along the High -Street impatiently; and, reaching the railway bookstall, bought a copy -of the current issue. It was with difficulty she restrained herself -from opening it on the platform, but she waited until she had turned -down the little lane at the station's side, and reached the gate where -the coal-trucks came to an end and a patch of green began. She doubted -whether the company would be touring so long, but the paper would -tell her something of his doings anyhow. She ran her eye eagerly down -the titles headed "On the Road." No, _The Foibles_ evidently was not -out now. Had the tour broken up for good, she wondered, or was there -merely a vacation? She could quickly learn by Tony's professional card. -How well she knew the sheet! The sheet! she knew the column, its very -number in the column--knew it followed "Farrell" and came before "de -Vigne." She even recalled the week when he had abandoned the cheaper -advertisements in alphabetical order; he had been cast for a part in a -production. She remembered she had said, - -"Now you're going to create," and, laughing, he had answered, "Oh, I -must have half a crown's worth 'to create'!" He had been lying on the -sofa--how it all came back to her! What was he doing now? She found the -place in an instant: - - "MR. SEATON CAREW, - - RESTING, - -Assumes direction of Miss Olive Westland's Tour, Aug. 4th. - - See 'Companies' page." - -They were married! She could not doubt it. "Oh," she muttered, "how he -has walked over me, that man! For the sake of two or three thousand -pounds, just for the sake of her money!" She sought weakly for the -company advertisement referred to, but the paragraphs swam together, -and it was several minutes before she could find it. Yes, here it -was: "_The Foibles of Fashion_ and Repertoire, opening August 4th." -_Camille_, eh? She laughed bitterly. He was going to play Armand; -he had always wanted to play Armand; now he could do it! "Under the -direction of Mr. Seaton Carew. Artists respectfully informed the -company is complete. All communications to be addressed: Mr. Seaton, -Carew, Bath Hotel, Bournemouth." Oh, my God! - -To think that while she had been starving in that attic he had -proceeded with his courtship, to reflect that in one of those terrible -hours that she had passed through he must have been dressing himself -for his wedding, wrung her heart. And now, while she stood here, he -was calling the other woman "Olive," and kissing her. She gripped the -bar with both hands, her breast heaved tumultuously; it seemed to her -that her punishment was more than she had power to bear. Wasn't his -sin worse than her own? she questioned; yet what price would he ever -be called upon to pay for it? At most, perhaps, occasional discontent! -Nobody would-blame him a bit; his offence was condoned already by a -decent woman's hand. In the wife's eyes she, Mary, was of course an -adventuress who had turned his weakness to account until the heroine -appeared on the scene to reclaim him. How easy it was to be the heroine -when one had a few thousand pounds to offer for a wedding-ring! - -She let the paper lie where it had fallen, and went to the library. -In leaving it she met Kincaid on his way to the Lodge. He was rather -glad of the meeting, the man to whom women had been only patients; he -had felt once or twice of late that it was agreeable to talk to Miss -Brettan. - -"Hallo," he said, in that voice of his that had so few inflexions; -"what have you been doing? Going home?" - -"I've been to get a book for Mrs. Kincaid," she answered. "She was -hoping you'd come round to-day." - -"I meant to come yesterday. Well, how are you getting on? Still -satisfied with Westport? Not beginning to tire of it yet?" - -"I like it very much," she said, "naturally. It's a great change from -my life three months ago; I shouldn't be very grateful if I weren't -satisfied." - -"That's all right. Your coming was a good thing; my mother was saying -the other evening it was a slice of luck." - -"Oh, I'm so glad! I have wanted to know whether I--did!" - -"You 'do' uncommonly; I haven't seen her so content for a long while. -You don't look very bright; d'ye feel well?" - -"It's the heat," she said; "yes, I'm quite well, thank you; I have a -headache this afternoon, that's all." - -She was wondering if her path and Carew's would ever cross again. How -horrible if chance brought him to the theatre here and she came face to -face with him in the High Street! - -"Hasn't my mother been out to-day herself? She ought to make the most -of the fine weather." - -"I left her in the garden; I think she likes that better than taking -walks." - -And it might happen so easily! she reflected. Why not _that_ company, -among the many companies that came to Westport? She'd be frightened to -leave the house. - -"I suppose when you first heard there was a garden you expected to see -apple-trees and strawberry-beds, didn't you?" - -"Oh, I don't know. It's not a bad little garden. We had tea in it last -night." - -She might be walking with Mrs. Kincaid, and Tony and his wife -would come suddenly round a corner. And "Miss Westland" would look -contemptuous, and Tony would start, and--and if she turned white, she'd -loathe herself! - -"Did you? You must enliven the old lady? a good deal if she goes in for -that sort of thing!" - -"Oh, it was stuffy indoors, and we thought that tea outside would be -nicer. I daresay I'm better than no one; it must have been rather dull -for her alone." - -"Is that the most you find to say of yourself--'better than no one'?" - -"Well, I haven't high spirits; some women are always laughing. We sit -and read, or do needlework; or she talks about you, and----" - -"And you're bored? That's a mother's privilege, you know, to bore -everybody about her son; you mustn't be hard on her." - -"I am interested; I think it's always interesting to hear of a man's -work in a profession. And, then, Medicine was my father's." - -"Were you the only child?" - -"Yes. I wasn't much of a child, though! My mother died when I was very -young, and I was taught a lot through that. The practice wasn't very -good--very remunerative, that's to say--and if a girl's father isn't -well off she becomes a woman early. If I had had a brother now----" - -"If you had had a brother--what?" - -"I was thinking it might have vmade a difference. Nothing particular. I -don't suppose he'd have been of any monetary assistance; there wouldn't -have been anything to give him a start with. But I should have liked a -brother--one older than I am." - -"You'd have made the right kind of man of him, I believe." - -"I was thinking of what he'd have made of me. A brother must be such a -help; a boy gets experience, and a girl has only instinct." - -"It's a pretty good thing to go on with." - -"It needs education, doctor, surely?" - -"It needs educating by a mother. Half the women who have children are -no more fit to be mothers than----And one comes across old maids with -just the qualities! Fine material allowed to waste!" - -The entrance to a cottage that they were passing stood open, and she -could see into the parlour. There were teacups on the table, and a mug -of wild flowers. On a garden-gate a child in a pink pinafore was slowly -swinging. The brilliance of the day had subsided, and the town lay -soft and yellow in the restfulness of sunset. A certain liquidity was -assumed by the rugged street in the haze that hung over it; a touch of -transparence gilded its flights of steps, the tiles of the house-tops, -and the homely faces of the fisher-folk where they loitered before -their doors. There a girl sat netting among the hollyhocks, withholding -confession from the youth who lounged beside her, yet lifting at times -to him a smile that had not been wakened by the net. The melody of the -hour intensified the discord in the woman's soul. - -"Don't you think----" said Kincaid. - -He turned to her, strolling with his hands behind him. He talked to -her, and she answered him, until they reached the house. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -Slowly there stole into Kincaid's life a new zest. He began to be -more eager to walk round to the Lodge; was often reluctant to rise -and say "good-night"; even found the picture of the little lamplit -room lingering with him after the front door had closed. Formerly the -visits had been rather colourless. Despite her affection for her son, -Mrs. Kincaid was but tepidly interested in the career that engrossed -him. She was vaguely proud to have a doctor for a son, but she felt -that his profession supplied them with little to talk about when he -came; and the man felt that his mother's inquiries about his work were -perfunctory. A third voice had done much for the visits, quickened the -accustomed questions, the stereotyped replies into the vitality of -conversation. - -Kincaid did not fail to give Miss Brettan credit for the brighter -atmosphere of the villa. But winter was at hand before he admitted -that much of the pleasure that he took in going there was inspired by -a hearty approval of Miss Brettan. The cosiness of the room, with two -women smiling at him when he entered--always with a little, surprise, -for the time of his coming was uncertain--and getting things for him, -and being sorry when he had to leave had had a charm that he did not -analyse. It was by degrees that he realised how many of his opinions -were directed to her. His one friendship hitherto had been for Corri; -and Corri was not here. The months when his cordial liking for Mary was -clear to him, and possessed of a fascination due very largely to its -unexpectedness, were perhaps the happiest that he had known. - -The development was not so happy; but it was fortunately slow. He had -gone to the house earlier than usual, and the women were preparing -for a walk. Mary stood by the mantelpiece. There was something they -had meant to do; she said she would go alone to do it. He lay back in -the depths of an arm-chair, and watched her while she spoke to his -mother, watched the play of her features and the quick turn of her -cheek. Then--it was the least significant of trivialities--she plucked -a hairpin from her hair, and began to button her glove. It was revealed -to him as he contemplated her that she was eminently lovable. His eyes -dwelt on the tender curve of her figure, displayed by the flexion of -her arm; he remarked the bend of the head, and the delicate modelling -of her ear and neck. These things were quite new to him. He was stirred -abruptly by the magic of her sex. The admiration did not last ten -seconds, and before he saw her again he recollected it only once, quite -suddenly. But the development had begun. - -In his next visit he looked to see these beauties, and found them. This -time, being voluntary, the admiration lasted longer. It was recurrent -all the evening. He discovered a novel excellence in her performance of -the simplest acts, and an additional enjoyment in talking with her. - -Thoughts of her came to him now while he sat at night in his room. -The bare little room witnessed all the phases of the man's love--its -brightness, and then its misgivings. He had no confidant to prose to; -he could never have spoken of the strange thing that had happened to -him, if he had had a confidant. He used to sit alone and think of her, -wondering if God would put it into her heart to care for him, wondering -in all humility if it could be ordained that he should ever hold this -dear woman in his arms and call her "wife." - -He would not be in a position to give her luxury, and for a couple of -years certainly he could not marry at all; but he believed primarily -that he could at least make her content; and in reflecting what she -would make of life for him, he smiled. The salary that he drew from his -post was not a very large one, but his mother's means sufficed for her -requirements, and he was able to lay almost the whole of it aside. He -thought that when a couple of years had gone by, he would be justified -in furnishing a small house, and that he might reasonably expect, -through the introductions procured by his appointment, to establish a -practice. It would be rather pinched for them at first, of course, but -she wouldn't mind that much if she were fond of him. "Fond" of him! -Could it be possible? he asked himself--Miss Brettan fond of him! She -was so composed, so quiet, she seemed such a long way off now that he -wanted her for his own. Would it really ever happen that the woman -whose hand had merely touched him in courtesy would one day be uttering -words of love for him and saying "my husband"? - -He wrestled long with his tenderness; the misgivings came quickly. -After all, she was comfortable as she was--she was provided for, she -had no pecuniary cares here. Had he the right to beg her to relinquish -this comparative ease and struggle by his side oppressed by the worries -of a precarious income? Then he told himself that they might take in -patients: that would augment the income. And she was a dependant now; -if she married him she would be her own mistress. - -He weighed all the pros and cons; he was no boy to call the -recklessness of self-indulgence the splendour of devotion. He balanced -the arguments on either side long and carefully. If he asked her -to come to him, it should be with the conviction he was doing her -no wrong. He saw how easy it would be to deceive himself, to feel -persuaded that the fact of her being in a situation made matrimony -an advance to her, whether she married well or ill. He would not act -impatiently and perhaps spoil her life. But he was very impatient. -Through months he used to come away from the Lodge striving to discern -importance in some answer she had made him, some question she had put -to him. It appeared to him that he had loved her much longer than he -had; and he had made no progress. There were moments when he upbraided -himself for being clumsy and stupid; some men in his place, he thought, -would have divined long ago what her feelings were. - -He never queried the wisdom of marrying her on his own account; the -privilege of cherishing her in health and nursing her in sickness, of -having her head pillowed on his breast, and confiding his hopes to -her sympathy; of going through life with her in a union in which she -would give to him all her sacred and withheld identity, looked to him -a joy for which he could never be less than intensely grateful while -life endured. He ceased to marvel at the birth of his love, it looked -natural now; she seemed to belong to Westport so wholly by this time. -He no longer contrasted the present atmosphere of the villa with the -duller atmosphere that she had banished. He had forgotten that duller -atmosphere. She was there--it was as if she had always been there. To -reflect that there had been a period when he had known no Mary Brettan -was strange. He wondered that he had not felt the want of her. The day -that he had met her in Corri's office appeared to him dim in the mists -of at least five years. The exterior of the man, and the yearnings -within him--Kincaid as he knew himself, and the doctor as he was known -to the hospital--were so at variance that the incongruity would have -been ludicrous if it had not been beautiful. - -When Mary saw that he had begun to care for her, it was with the -greatest tremor of insecurity that she had experienced since the date -of her arrival. She had foretasted many disasters in the interval, -been harassed by many fears, but that Dr. Kincaid might fall in love -with her was a contingency that had never entered her head. It was so -utterly unexpected that for a week she had discredited the evidence -of her senses, and when the truth was too palpable to be blinked any -longer, her remaining hope was that he might decide never to speak. -Here the meditations of the man and the woman were concerned with the -same theme--both revolved the claims of silence; but from different -standpoints. His consideration was whether avowal was unjust to her; -she sustained herself by attributing to him a reluctance to commit -himself to a woman of whom he knew so little. She clung to this haven -that she had found; her refusal, if indeed he did propose to her, would -surely necessitate her relinquishing it. Mrs. Kincaid might not desire -to see her companion marry her son, but still less would she desire to -retain a companion who had rejected him. It had been as peaceful here -as any place could be for her now, felt Mary; the thought of being -driven forth to do battle with the world again terrified her. She -wondered if Mrs. Kincaid had "noticed anything"; it was hard to believe -she could have avoided it; but she had evinced no sign of suspicion: -her manner was the same as usual. - -With the complication that had arisen to disturb her, the woman -perceived how prematurely old she was. Her courage had all gone, she -told herself; she said she had passed the capability for any sustained -effort; and it was a fact that the uneventful tenor of the life that -she had been leading, congenial because it demanded no energy, had -done much to render her lassitude permanent. Her pain, the rawness -of it, had dulled--she could touch the wound now without writhing; -but it had left her wearied unto death. To attempt to forget had been -beyond her; recollection continued to be her secret luxury; and the -inertia permitted by her position lent itself so thoroughly to a dual -existence that, to her own mind, she often seemed to be living more -acutely in her reminiscences than in her intercourse with her employer. - -From the commencement of the tour, which had started in the autumn of -the preceding year, she had kept herself posted in Carew's movements -as regularly as was practicable. It was frequently very difficult for -her to gain access to a theatrical paper; but generally she contrived -to see one somehow, if not on the day that it reached the town, then -later. She knew what parts he played, and where he played them. It -was a morbid fascination, but to be able to see his name mentioned -nearly every week made her glad that he was an actor. If he could have -gone abroad or died, without her being aware of it, she thought her -situation would have been too hideous for words. To steal that weekly -glimpse of the paper was her weekly flicker of sensation; sometimes the -past seemed to stir again; momentarily she was in the old surroundings. - -There had been only two tours. After the second, she had watched his -"card" anxiously. Three months had slipped away, and between his and -his agent's name nothing had been added but the "Resting." - -At last, after reading from the London paper to Mrs. Kincaid one day, -she derived some further news. A word of the theatrical gossip had -caught her eye, and unperceived by the lady, she started violently. -She had seen "Seaton Carew." For a minute she could not quell her -agitation sufficiently to pick the paper up; she sat staring down at -it and deciphering nothing. Then she learnt that Miss Olive Westland, -and her husband, Mr. Seaton Carew, encouraged by their successes in -the provinces, had completed arrangements to open the Boudoir Theatre -at the end of the following month. It was added that this of late -unfortunate house had been much embellished, and a reference to an -artist, or two already engaged showed Mary that Carew was playing with -big stakes. - -Henceforth she had had a new source of information, and one attainable -without trouble, for the London paper was delivered at the Lodge daily. -As the date for the production drew near, her impatience to hear the -verdict had grown so strong that the walls of the country parlour -cooped her; she saw through them into the city beyond--saw on to a -draughty stage where Carew was conducting a rehearsal. - -The piece had failed. On the morning when she learned that it had -failed, she participated dumbly in the chagrin of the failure. "Yes" -and "No" she had answered, and seen with the eyes of her heart the -gloom of a face that used to be pressed against her own. She did not -care, she vowed; her sole feeling with regard to the undertaking had -been curiosity. If it had been more than curiosity she would despise -herself! - -But she looked at the Boudoir advertisement every day. And it was -not long before she saw that another venture was in preparation. And -she held more skeins of wool, and watched with veiled eagerness this -advertisement develop like its predecessor. Recently the play had been; -produced, and she had read the notice in Mrs. Kincaid's presence. -When she finished it she guessed that Carew's hopes were over; unless -he had a great deal more money than she supposed, the experiment at -the Boudoir would see; it exhausted. There was not much said for his -performance, either; he was dismissed in an indifferent sentence, -like his wife. High praise of his acting might have led to London -engagements, but his hopes seemed to have miscarried as manager and as -actor too. - -When Kincaid went round to the house one evening, the servant told him -his mother had; gone to her room, and that Miss Brettan was sitting -with her. - -"Say I'm here, please, and ask if I may go up." Mary came down the -stairs as he spoke. - -"Ah, doctor," she said; "Mrs. Kincaid has gone to bed." - -"So I hear. What's the matter with her?" - -"Only neuralgia; she has had it all day. She has just fallen asleep." - -"Then I had better not go up to see her?" - -"I don't think I would. I have just come down to get a book." - -"Are you going to sit with her?" - -"Yes; she may wake and want something." - -They stood speaking in the hall, outside the parlour door. - -"Where is your book?" he said. - -"Inside. I am sorry you have come round for nothing; she'll be so -disappointed when she hears about it. May I tell her you'll come again -to-morrow?" - -"Yes, I'll look in some time during the day, if it's only for a moment. -I think I'll sit down awhile before I go." - -"Will you?" she said. "I beg your pardon." She opened the door, and he -followed her into the room. - -"You won't mind my leaving you?" she asked; "I don't want to stay away, -in case she does wake." - -It was nearly dark in the parlour; the lamp had not been lighted, and -the fire was low. A little snow whitened the laburnum-tree that was -visible through the window. It was an evening in January, and Mary had -been in Westport now nearly two years. - -"Can you see to find it?" he said. "Where did you leave it?" - -"It was on the sideboard; Ellen must have moved it, I suppose. I'll -ask her where she's put it." - -"No, don't do that; I'll light the lamp." - -She lifted the globe while he struck a match. It was his last, and it -went out. - -"Never mind," he said; "we'll get a light from the fire." - -"Oh," she exclaimed, "but I'm giving you so much trouble; you had -better let me call the girl!" - -A dread of what might happen in this darkness was coming over her. "You -had better let me call the girl," she repeated. - -"Try if you can get a light with this first," he said--"try there, -where it's red." - -She bent over the grate, the twist of paper in one hand, and the other -resting on the mantelpiece. He leant beside her, stirring the ashes -with his foot. - -It flashed back at her how Tony had stood stirring the ashes with his -foot that night in Leicester, while he broke his news. A sickening -anxiety swept through her to get away from Kincaid before he could have -a chance to touch her. The paper charred and curled, without catching -flame, and in her impatience she hated him for the delay. She hated -herself for being here, lingering in the twilight with a man who dared -to feel about her in the same way as Tony had once felt. - -She rose. - -"It's no use, doctor; Ellen will have to do it, after all." - -"Don't go just yet," he said; "I want to speak to you, Miss Brettan." - -"I can't stay any longer," she said. "I----" - -"You'll give me a minute? There's something I have been waiting to say -to you; I've been waiting a long while." - -She raised her face to him. In the shadows filling the room, he could -see little more than her eyes. - -"Don't say it. I think I can guess, perhaps.... Don't say it, Dr. -Kincaid!" - -"Yes," he insisted, "I must say it; I'm bound to tell you before I take -your answer, Mary. My dear, I love you." - -Memory gave her back the scene where Tony had said that for the first -time. - -"If you can't care for me, you have only to tell me so to-night; it -shall never be a worry to I you--I don't want my love to become a worry -to you, to make you wish I weren't here. But if you can care a little -... if you think that when I'm able to ask you to come to me you could -come.... Oh, my dear, all my life I'll be tender to you--all my life!" - -He could not see her eyes any longer; her head was bowed, and in her -silence the big man trembled. - -The servant came in with the taper, and let down the blinds. They stood -on the hearth, watching her dumbly. When the blinds were lowered, she -turned up the lamp; and the room was bright. Kincaid saw that Mary was -very pale. - -"Is there anything else, miss?" - -"No, Ellen, thank you; that's all." - -"Mary?" - -"I'm so sorry. You don't know how sorry I am!" - -"You could never care--not ever so little--for me?" - -"Not in that way: no." - -He looked away from her--looked at the engraving of Wellington and -Blucher meeting on the field of Waterloo; stared at the filter on -the sideboard, through which the water fell drop by drop. A heavy -weight seemed to have come down upon him, so that he breathed under -it laboriously. He wanted to curtail the pause, which he understood -must be trying to her; but he could not think of anything to say, nor -could he shake his brain clear of her last words, which appeared to -him incessantly reiterated. He felt as if his hope of her had been -something vital and she had stamped it out, to leave him confronted by -a new beginning--a beginning so strange that time must elapse before -he could realise how wholly strange it was going to be. Even while he -strove to address her it was difficult to feel that she was still very -close to him. Her tones lingered; her dress emphasised itself upon his -consciousness more and more; but from her presence he had a curious -sense of being remote. - -"Good-night," he said abruptly. "You mustn't let this trouble you, you -know. I shall always be glad I'm fond of you; I shall always be glad I -told you so--I was hoping, and now I understand. It's so much better to -understand than to go on hoping for what can never come." - -She searched pityingly for something kind; but the futility of phrases -daunted her. - -"I had better close the door after you," she murmured, "or it will make -a noise." - -They went out into the passage, and stood together on the step. - -"It's beginning to snow," he said; "it looks as if we were going to -have a heavy fall." - -"Yes," she said dully, glancing at the sky. - -She put out her hand, and it lay for an instant in his. - -"Well, good-night, again." - -"Good-night, Dr. Kincaid." - -As he turned, she was silhouetted against the gaslight of the -hall. Then her figure was with-drawn, and the view of the interior -narrowed--until, while he looked back, the brightness vanished -altogether and the door was shut. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -And so it was all over. - -"All over," he said to himself--"over and done with, Philip. Steady on, -Philip; take it fighting!" - -But they were only words--as yet he could not "take it fighting." Nor -was the knowledge that he was never to hold her quite all the grief -that lay upon him as he made his way along the ill-lit streets. There -was, besides, a very cruel smart--the abstract pain of being such a -little to one who was so much to him. - -He visited the patients who were still awake, and dressed such wounds -as needed to be dressed. He heard the little peevish questions and the -dull complaints just as he had done the night before. The nurse walked -softly past the sleepers with her shaded lamp, and once or twice he -spoke to her. And when, the doctor's duties done, the man had gained -his room, he thought of his hopes the night before, and sat with elbows -on the table while the hours struck, remembering what had happened -since. - -The necessity for returning to the house so speedily, to see his -mother, was eminently distasteful; he longed to escape it. And -then suddenly he warmed towards her in self-reproach, thinking it -had been very hard of him to wish to neglect his mother in order to -spare awkwardness to another woman. His repugnance to the task was -deep-rooted, all the same, and it did not lessen as the afternoon -approached. But for the fact of yesterday's indisposition, he could -never have brought himself to overcome it. - -The embarrassment that he had feared, however, was averted by Miss -Brettan's absence. - -Mrs. Kincaid said that she was quite well again to-day; Mary had told -her of his call the previous evening; how long was it he had stopped? - -"Oh, not very long," he said; "has the neuralgia quite gone?" - -"I feel a little weary after it, that's all. Is there anything fresh, -Philip?" - -"Fresh?" he answered vaguely. "No, dear. I don't know that there's -anything very fresh." - -"You look tired yourself," she said; "I thought that perhaps you were -troubled?" - -She thought, too, that Miss Brettan had looked troubled, and instinct -pointed to something having occurred. A conviction that her son was -getting fond of her companion had been unspoken in her mind for some -time, and under her placid questions now rankled a little wistfulness, -in feeling that she was not held dear enough for confidence. She -wanted to say to him outright: "Philip, did you tell Miss Brettan you -were fond of her when I was upstairs last night?" but was reluctant -to seem inquisitive. He, with never an inkling that she could suspect -his love, meanwhile reflected that for Mary's continued peace it was -desirable that his mother should never conjecture he had been refused. - -It is doubtful whether he had ever felt so wholly tender towards her -as he did in these moments while he admitted that it was imperative -to keep the secret from her; and perhaps the mother's heart had never -turned so far aside from him as while she perceived that she was never -to be told. - -They exchanged commonplaces with the one grave subject throbbing in -the minds of both. Of the two, the woman was the more laboured; and -presently he noticed what uphill work it was, and sighed. She heard the -sigh, and could have echoed it, thinking sadly that the presence of -her companion was required now to make her society endurable to him. -But she would not refer to Mary. She bent over her wool-work, and the -needle went in and out with feeble regularity, while she maintained a -wounded silence, which the man was regarding as an unwillingness to -talk. - -He said at last that he must go, and she did not offer to detain him. - -"I want to hurry back this afternoon; you won't mind?" - -"No," she murmured; "you know what you have to do, Philip, better than -I." - -He stooped and kissed her. For the first time in her life she did not -return his kiss. She gave him her cheek, and rested one hand a little -tremulously on his shoulder. - -"Good-bye," she said; her tone was so gentle that he did not remark the -absence of the caress. "Don't go working too hard, Phil!" - -He patted the hand reassuringly, and let himself out. Then the hand -crept slowly up to her eyes, and she wiped some tears away. The -wool-work drooped to her lap, and she sat recalling a little boy who -had been used to talk of the wondrous things he was going to do for -"mother" when he became a man, and who now had become a man, living for -a strange woman, and full of a love which "mother" might only guess. - -She could not feel quite so cordial to Mary as she had done. To think -of her holding her son's confidence, while she herself was left -to speculate, made the need for surmises seem harder. And Philip -was unhappy: her companion must be indifferent to him; nothing but -that could account for the unhappiness, or for the reservation. She -could have forgiven her engrossing his affections--in time; but her -indifference was more than she could forgive. - -Still, this was the woman he loved--and she endeavoured to hide her -resentment, as she had hidden her suspicions. Their intercourse -during the next week was less free than usual, nevertheless. Perhaps -the resentment was less easy to hide, or perhaps Mary's nervousness -made her unduly sensitive, but there were pauses which seemed to her -significant of condemnation. She was exceedingly uncomfortable during -this week. Sometimes she was only deterred from proclaiming what had -happened and appealing to the other's fairness to exonerate her, by -the recollection that it was, after all, just possible that the avowal -might have the effect of transforming a bush into an officer. - -She could not venture to repeat the retirement to her room the next -time the doctor came. Nearly a fortnight had gone by. And she forced -herself to turn to him with a few remarks. He was not the man to -disguise his feelings successfully by a flow of small-talk; his life -had not qualified him for it; and it was an ordeal to him to sit there -in the presence of Mary and witness attempts in which he perceived -himself unqualified to co-operate. His knowledge that the simulated -ease should have originated with himself rather than with her made his -ineptitude seem additionally ungracious, and he feared she must think -him boorish, and disposed to parade his disappointment for the purpose -of exciting her compassion. - -Strongly, therefore, as he had wished to avoid a break in the social -routine, his subsequent visits were made at longer intervals, and more -often than not curtailed on the plea of work. It was, as yet at all -events, impossible for him to behave towards her as if nothing untoward -had happened, and to shun the house awhile looked to him a wiser course -than to haunt it with discomposure patent. Thus the restraint that -Mrs. Kincaid was imposing on herself had a further burden to bear: -Miss Brettan was keeping her son from her side. The pauses became more -frequent, and, to Mary, more than ever ominous. Indeed, while the -mother mused mournfully on the consequences of her engagement, the -companion herself was questioning how long she could expect to retain -it. She began to consider whether she should relinquish it, to elude -the indignity of a dismissal. And even if Mrs. Kincaid did fail to -suspect the reason for her son's absenting himself, the responsibility -was the same, she reflected. It was she who divided the pair, she who -was accountable for the hurt expression that the old lady's face so -often wore now. She felt wearily that women had a great deal to endure -in life, what with the men they cared for, and the men for whom they -did not care. There seemed no privileges pertaining to their sex; being -feminine only amplified the scope for vexation. A fact which she did -not see was that one of the most pathetic things in connection with -the unloved lover is the irritability with which the woman so often -thinks about him. - -With what sentiments she might have listened to Kincaid had she met -him prior to her intimacy with Carew one may only conjecture. Now he -touched her not at all; but the intimacy had been an experience which -engulfed so much of her sensibility, that she had emerged from it a -different being. Kincaid's rival, in truth, was the most powerful one -that can ever oppose a lover; the rival of constant remembrance--always -a doughty antagonist, and never so impregnable as when the woman is -instinctively a virtuous woman and has fallen for the man that she -remembers. - -It occurred to Mary to seek an opportunity for letting the doctor know -that he was paining his mother by so rarely coming now; but such an -opportunity was not easy to gain, for when he did come his mother of -course was present. She thought of writing, but by word of mouth a hint -would suffice, while a letter, in the circumstances, would have its -awkwardness. - -More than two months had gone by when Mrs. Kincaid made her plaint. It -was on a Sunday morning. Mary was standing before the window, looking -out, while the elder woman sat moodily in her accustomed seat.-- - -"Are we going to church?" asked Mary. - -"Yes, I suppose so; there's plenty of time, isn't there?" - -"Oh, yes, it's early yet--not ten. What a lovely day! The spring has -begun." - -"Yes," assented the other absently. - -There was a short silence, and then: - -"I shan't run any risk of missing Dr. Kincaid by going out; I needn't -be afraid of that!" she added. - -Her voice had in it so much more of pathos than of testiness, that -after the instant's dismay her companion felt acutely sorry for her. - -"A doctor's time is scarcely his own, is it?" she murmured, turning. - -Mrs. Kincaid did not reply immediately, and the delay seemed to Mary to -accentuate the feebleness of her answer. - -"I mean," she said, "that it isn't as if he were able to leave the -hospital whenever he liked. There may be cases----" - -"He used to be able to come often; why shouldn't he be able now?" - -"Yes----" faltered Mary. - -"I haven't asked him; it is a good reason that keeps him from me, of -course. But it's hard, when you're living in the same town as your son, -not to have him with you more than an hour in a month. I don't see much -more of him than that, lately. The last time he came, he stayed twenty -minutes. The time before, he said he was in a hurry before he said, -'How do you do?' He never put his hat down--you may have; noticed it?" - -"Yes, I noticed it," Mary admitted. - -"You know; oh, you do know!" she cried inwardly, with a sinking of the -heart. "_Now_, what am I to do?" - -"Don't imagine I am blaming him," went on Mrs. Kincaid, "I am not -blaming anybody; the reason may be very strong indeed. Only it seems -rather unfair that I should have to suffer for it, considering that I -don't hear what it is." - -"Then why not speak to Dr. Kincaid? If he understood that you felt his -absence so keenly, you may be sure he'd try to come oftener. Why don't -you tell him that you miss him?" - -"I shall never sue to my son for his visits," said the old lady with a -touch of dignity, "nor shall I ask him why he stays away. That is quite -his own affair. At my age we begin to see that our children have rights -we mustn't intrude into--secrets that must be told to us freely, or not -told at all. We begin to see it, only we are old to learn. There, my -dear, don't let us talk about it; it's not a pleasant subject. I think -we had better go and dress." - -Mary looked at her helplessly; there was a finality in her tone which -precluded the possibility of any advance. It was more than ever -manifest that the task of remonstrating with him devolved upon Mary -herself, and she decided to write to him that afternoon. Shortly after -dinner Mrs. Kincaid went into the garden, and, left to her own devices -in the parlour, Mary drew her chair to the escritoire. She would write -a few lines, she thought, however clumsy, and send them at once. -Still, they were not easy lines to produce, and she nibbled her pen a -good deal in the course of their composition; the self-consciousness -that invaded some of the sentences was too glaring. When the note was -finished at last, she slipped it into her pocket, and told Mrs. Kincaid -she would like to go for a walk. - -"Oh, by all means; why not?" - -"I thought perhaps you might want me." - -"No," said Mrs. Kincaid; "I shall get along very well--I'm gardening." - -She was, indeed, more cheerful than she had been for some time, busying -herself among the violets, and stooping over the crocuses to clear the -soil away. - -"Go along," she added, nodding across her shoulder; "a walk will do you -good!" - -Though the wish had been expressed only to avoid giving the letter to a -servant, Mary thought that she might as well profit by the chance; and -from the post-office she sauntered as far as the beach. Then it struck -her that the doctor might pay his overdue visit this afternoon, and she -was sorry that she had gone out. The laboured letter might have been -dispensed with--she might have had a word with him before he joined his -mother in the garden! She turned back at once--and as she neared the -Lodge, she saw him leaving it. They met not fifty yards from the door. - -"Well, have you enjoyed your walk--you haven't been very far?" he said. - -"Not very," said she; "I changed my mind. How did you find your mother?" - -"She had been pottering about on the wet ground, which wasn't any too -wise of her. Why do you ask?" - -"Oh, I ... She has been missing you a little, I think; she wants you -there more often." - -"Oh?" he said; "I'm very sorry. Are you sure?" - -"Yes, I am sure; it is more than a little she misses you. As a matter -of fact, I have just written to you, Dr. Kincaid." - -"To me? What--about this?" - -"Yes." - -"I didn't know," he said; "I never supposed she'd miss me like that. It -was very kind of you." - -"I wanted to speak to you about it before. I have seen for some time -she was distressed." - -"Has she said anything?" - -"She only mentioned it this morning, but I've noticed." - -"It was very kind of you," he repeated; "I'm much obliged." - -Both suffered slightly from the consciousness of suppression; and after -a few seconds she said boldly: - -"Dr. Kincaid, if you're staying away with any idea of sparing -embarrassment to me, I beg that you won't." - -"Well, of course," he said, "I thought you'd rather I didn't come." - -"But do you suppose I can consent to keep you from your mother's house? -You must see ... the responsibility of it! What I should like to know -is, are you staying away solely for my sake?" - -"I didn't wish to intrude my trouble on you." - -"No," she said; "that isn't what I mean. I am glad I have met you; I -want to speak to, you plainly. I have thought that perhaps it hurt you -to come; that my being there reminded--that you didn't like it? If -that's so----" - -"I think you're exaggerating the importance of the thing! It is very -nice and womanly of you, but you are making yourself unhappy for -nothing. I have had a good deal to occupy me of late--in future I'll go -oftener." - -"I feel very guilty," she answered. "If I am right in thinking it would -be pleasanter for you to stay away than to go there and see me, my -course is clear. It's not my home, you know; I'm in a situation, and it -can be given up." - -"You mustn't talk like that. I must have blundered very badly to give -you such an idea. Don't let's stand here! Do you mind turning back a -little way? If what I said to you obliged you to leave Westport, I -should reproach myself for it bitterly." - -They strolled slowly down the street; and during a minute each of the -pair sought phrases. - -"It's certain," she said abruptly, "that my being your mother's -companion is quite wrong! If I weren't in the house you'd go there the -same as you used to. I can't help feeling that." - -"But I _will_ go there the same as I used to. I have said so." - -"Yes," she murmured. - -"Doesn't that satisfy you?" - -"You'll go, but the fact remains that you'd rather not; and the cause -of your reluctance is my presence there." - -"It is you who are insisting on the reluctance," he fenced; "_I've_ -not said I am reluctant. I thought you'd prefer me to avoid you for a -while; personally----" - -"Oh!" she said, "do you think I've not seen? I know very well the -position is a false one!" - -"I told you I'd never become a worry to you," he said humbly; "I've -been trying to keep my word." - -"You've been everything that is considerate; the fault is my own. I -ought to have resigned the place the day after you spoke to me." - -"I don't think that would have helped me much. You must understand that -a change like that was the very last thing I wanted my love to effect." - -At the word "love" the woman flinched a little, and he himself had not -been void of sensation in uttering it. The sound of it was loud to both -of them. But to her it added to the sense of awkwardness, while to the -man it seemed to bring them nearer. - -"It was very dense of me," he went on; "but with all the consequences -of speaking to you that I foresaw I never took into account the one -that has happened. I wondered if I was justified in asking you to give -up a comfortable living for such a home as I could offer; I considered -half a dozen things; but that I might be making the house unbearable to -you I overlooked. Now, with your interest at heart all the time, I've -injured you! I can't tell you how sorry I am to learn it." - -"It's not unbearable," she said; "'unbearable' is much too strong. But -I do see my duty, and I know the right thing is for me to go away; your -mother would have you then as she ought to have you. While I stop, it -can never be really free for either of you. And of course she knows!" - -"Do you think she does?" he exclaimed. - -"Are women blind? Of course she knows! And what can she feel towards -me? It's only the affection she has for you that prevents her -discharging me." - -"Oh, don't!" he said. "'Discharging' you!" - -"What am I? I'm only her servant. Don't blink facts, Dr. Kincaid; I'm -your mother's companion, a woman you had never seen two years ago. It -would have been a good deal better for you if you had never seen me at -all!" - -"You can't say what would have been best for _me_," he returned -unsteadily; "I'd rather have known you as I do than that we hadn't met. -For yourself, perhaps----" - -"Hush!" she interrupted; "we can neither of us forget what our meeting -was. For myself, I owe my very life to meeting you; that's why the -result of it is so abominable--such a shame! I haven't said much, but I -remember every day what I owe you. I know I owe you the very clothes I -wear." - -"Oh, for God's sake!" he muttered. - -"And my repayment is to make you unhappy--and her unhappy. It's noble!" - -Her pace quickened, and to see her excited acted upon him very -strongly. He longed to comfort her, and because this was impossible by -reason of the disparity of their sentiments, the sight of her emotion -was more painful. He had never felt the hopelessness of his attachment -so heavy on him as now that he saw her disturbed on account of it, -and realised at the same time that it debarred him from offering her -consolation. They walked along, gazing before them fixedly into the -vista of the shut-up shops and Sunday quietude, until at last he said -with an effort: - -"If you did go you'd make me unhappier than ever." - -She did not reply to this; and after a glance at the troubled profile: - -"I am ready to do whatever you want," he added; "whatever will make the -position easiest to you. It seems that, with the best intentions, I've -only succeeded in giving annoyance to you both. But the wrong to my -mother can be remedied; and if I drive you away I shall have done some -lasting harm.... Why don't you say that you'll remain?" - -"Because I'm not sure about it. I can't determine." - -"Your objection was the fancy that you were responsible for my seeing -her so seldom; I've promised to see her as often as I can." - -She bit her lip. She said nothing. - -"I can't do any more--can I?" - -"No," she confessed. - -"Then, what's the matter?" - -"The matter is that----" - -"What?" - -"You show me more plainly every minute that I _ought_ to go." - -Something in the dumbness with which the announcement was received told -her how unexpected it had been. And, indeed, to hear that his love, -unperceived by himself, had been fighting against him was the hardest -thing that he had had to bear. Sensible that every remonstrance that -escaped him would estrang them further, the man felt helpless. They -were crossing the churchyard now, and she said something about the -impracticability of her going any further. - -"Well, as you'll come oftener, our talk hasn't been useless!" - -"Wait a second," he said. He paused by the porch, and looked at her. "I -can't leave you like this. Mary----!" - -"Oh!" she faltered, "don't say anything--don't!" - -"I must. What's the good?--I keep back everything, and you still know! -You'll always know. Nothing could have been more honestly meant than -my assurance that I'd never bring distress to you, and I've brought -distress. Let's look the thing squarely in the eyes: you, won't be my -wife, but you needn't go away. What would you do? Whom do you know? -Leaving my loss of you out of the question, think of my self-reproach!" - -Inside the church an outburst of children's voices, muffled somewhat by -the shut door, but still too near to be wholly beautiful, rose suddenly -in a hymn. She stood with averted face, staring over the rankness of -the grass that the wind was stirring lightly among the gravestones. - -"Let's look at the thing squarely for once," he said again. "We're -both remembering I love you--there's nothing gained by pretending. If -the circumstances were different, if you had somewhere to go I should -have less right to interfere; but as it is, your leaving would mean a -constant shame to me. All the time I should be thinking: 'She was at -peace in a home, and you drove her out from it!' To see the woman he -cares for go away, unprotected, among strangers, to want perhaps for -the barest necessaries--what sort of man could endure it? should feel -as if I had turned you out of doors." A sudden tremor seized her; she -shivered. - -"Sit down," he said authoritatively. "We must come to an understanding!" - -But his protest was not immediately continued, and in the shelter of -the porch both were thoughtful. She was the first to speak again, after -all. - -"You're persuading me to be a great coward," she said; "and I am not a -very brave woman at the best. If I do what is right, I may give you -pain for a little while, but I shall spare you the unhappiness you'll -have if you go on meeting me." - -"You consider my happiness and her happiness, but not your own. And -why?--you'd spare me nothing." - -"You'll never be satisfied. Oh, yes, let us be honest with each -other, you're right! Your misgivings about me are true enough; but -you are principally anxious for me to stop that you may still see me. -And what'll come of it? I can never marry you, never; and you'll be -wretched. If I gave you a chance to forget----" - -"I shall never forget, whether you stop or whether you go." - -"You _must_ forget!" she cried. "You must forget me till it is as if -you had never known me. I won't be burdened with the knowledge that I'm -spoiling your life. I won't!" - -"Mary!" he said appealingly. - -"Oh," she exclaimed, "it's cruel! I wish to God I had died before you -loved me!" - -"You don't know what you're saying! You make me feel----Why," he -demanded, under his breath--"why could it never be--in time, if you -stay? I'll never speak of it any more till you permit it, not a -sign shall tell you I'm waiting; but by-and-by--will it be always -impossible? Dearest, it holds me so fast, my love of you. Don't be -harsher than you need; it's so real, so deep. Don't refuse me the right -to hope--in secret, by myself; it's all I have, all I'll ask of you for -years, if you like--the right to think that you may be my wife some -day. Leave me that!" - -"I can't," she said thickly; "it would be a lie." - -"You could never care for me--not so much as to let _me_ care for -_you_?" - -A movement answered him, and his head was lowered. He sat, his chin -supported by his palm, watching the restless working of her hands in -her lap. The closing words of the hymn came out distinctly to them -both, and they listened till the hush fell, without knowing that they -listened. - -"May I ask you one thing? You know I shall respect your confidence. Is -it because you care for some other man?" - -"No, no," she said vehemently, "I do not care!" - -"Thank God for that! While there's no one you like better, you'll be -the woman I want and wait for to the end." - -Her hands lay still; the compulsion for avowal was confronting her at -last. To hear this thing and sanction it by leaving him unenlightened -would be a wrong that she dared not contemplate; and under the -necessity for proclaiming that her sentiments could never affect the -matter, she turned cold and damp. Twice she attempted the finality -required, and twice her lips parted without sound. - -"Dr. Kincaid----" - -He raised his eyes to her, and the courage faded. - -"Don't think," he said, "that I shall ever make you sorry for telling -me that. You've simply removed a dread. I'm grateful to you." - -"Oh," she murmured, in a suffocating voice, "it makes no difference. -How am I to explain the--why don't you understand?" - -"What is it I should understand?" - -"You mustn't be grateful; you're mistaken. Never in the world, so long -as we live! There was someone else; I----" - -"Be open with me," he said sternly; "in common fairness, let us have -clearness and truth! You just declared that you didn't care for anyone?" - -"No," she gasped, "I did say that--I meant I didn't care. I don't--we -neither care; he doesn't know if I am alive, but ... there used to be -another man, and----" - -"Oh, my God, you are going to tell me you are married?" - -She shook her head. His eyes were piercing her; she felt them on her -wherever she looked. - -"Then speak and be done! 'There was another man.' What more?" - -Suddenly the first fear had entered his veins, and, though he was -conscious only of a vague oppression, he was already terrified by the -anticipation of what he was going to hear. - -"'There was another man,'" he repeated hoarsely. "What of him?" - -She was leaning forward, stooping so that her face was completely -hidden. With the silence that had fallen inside the church, the scene -was quieter than it had been, and the stillness in the air intensified -her difficulty of speech. She struggled to evolve from her confusion -the phrase to express her impurity, but all the terms looked shameless -and unutterable alike; and the travail continued until, faint with the -tension of the pause and the violent beating of her heart, she said -almost inaudibly: - -"I lived with him three years." - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -She heard him catch his breath, and then they sat motionless for a long -while, just as they had been sitting when she spoke. Now that she had -wrenched the fact out, the poignancy of her suffering subsided; even -by degrees she realised that, after this, her leaving the town was -inevitable, and her thoughts began to concern themselves vaguely with -her future. In him consciousness could never waver from the sound of -what she had said. She was impure. She had known passion and shame--she -herself! The landscape lost its proportion as he stared; the clouds of -the sky and the hue of the distance, everything had altered--she was -impure. - -The laboured minutes passed; he turned and looked slowly down at her -averted profile. The curve of cheek was colourless; her hands were -still lying clasped on her knee. He watched her for a moment, striving -to connect the woman with her words. Something seemed bearing on his -brain, so that it did not feel quite near. It did not feel so alive, -nor so much his own, as before the vileness of this thing was uttered. - -"I have never told you a falsehood," she murmured, "I didn't tell you -any falsehood in London. Don't think me all deceit--every word of what -I said that day was true." - -"I dare say," he answered dully; "I have not accused you." - -The change in his tone was pregnant with condemnation to her, and she -wondered if he was believing her; but, indeed, he hardly recognised -that she had said anything requiring belief. Her assurance appeared -juvenile to him, incongruous. There was an air almost of unreality -about their being seated here as they were, gazing at the blur of -churchyard. Something never to be undone had happened and she was -strange. - -The service had ended, and, trooping out, the Sunday-school pupils -clattered past their feet, shiny and clamorous, and eyeing them with -sidelong inquisition. She rose nervously, and, rousing himself, he went -with her through the crowd of children as far as the gate. There their -steps flagged to a standstill, and for a few seconds they remained -looking down the lane in silence. - -To her, stunned by no shock to make reality less real, these final -seconds held the condensed humiliation of the hour. The rigidity -with which the man waited beside her seemed eloquent of disgust, and -she mused bitterly on what she had done, how she had abased herself -and destroyed his respect; she longed to be free of his reproachful -presence. On the gravel behind them one of the bigger girls whispered -to another, and the other giggled. - -She made a slight movement, and he responded with something impossible -to catch. She did not offer her hand; she did not immediately pity him. -Had a stranger told him this thing of her, she would have pitied and -understood; told him by herself, she understood only that she was being -despised. They separated with a mechanical "good-afternoon," quietly -and slowly. The two girls, who watched them with precocious eagerness, -debated their relationship. - -The road lay before him long and bare, and lethargically he took it. -He continued to hear her words, "There used to be another man," but he -did not know he heard them--he did not actively pursue any train of -thought. It was only in momentary intervals that he became aware that -he was thinking. The sense of there being something numbed within him -still endured, and as yet his condition was more of stupor than of pain. - -"There used to be another man!" The sentence hummed in his ears, and as -he went along he awoke to it, the persistence of it touched him; and -he began to repeat it--mentally, difficultly, trying to spur his mind -into comprehension of it and take it in. He did not suffer acutely -even then. There was nothing acute in his feelings whatever. He found -it hard to realise, albeit he did not doubt. She was what she had said -she was; he knew it. But he could not see her so; he could not imagine -her the woman that she had said she used to be. He saw her always as -she had been to him, composed and self-contained. The demeanour had -been a mask, yet it clung to his likeness of her, obscuring the true -identity from him still. He strove to conceive her in her past life, -contemning himself because he could not; he wanted to remember that he -had been loving a disguise; he wanted to obliterate it. The fact of its -having been a disguise and never she all the time was so hard to grasp. -He tried to look upon her laughing in dishonour, but the picture would -not live; it appeared unnatural. It was the inception of his agony: the -feeling that he had known her so very little that it was her real self -which seemed the impossible. - -And that other man had known it all--seen every mood of her, learned -her in every phase! - -"Mary!" he muttered; and was lost in the consciousness that actually he -had never known "Mary." - -He perceived that the man was moving through his thoughts as a dark -man, short and suave, and he wondered how the fancy had arisen. -Vaguely he began to wonder what he had been like indeed. It was too -soon to question who he was--he wondered only how he looked, in a dim -mental searching for the presence to associate her with. Next, the -impression vanished, and sudden recollections came to him of men he was -accustomed to meet. - -The manner and mien of these riveted his attention. It was not by his -own will that he considered them; the personalities were insistent. -He did not suppose that any one of them had been her lover; he knew -that it was chimerical to view any one of them as such; but his brain -had been groping for a man, and these familiar men obtruded themselves -vividly. The lurking horror of her defilement materialised, so that the -sweat burst out on him; the significance of what he had heard flared -red upon his vision. To think that it had pleased her to lend herself -for the toy of a man's leisure, that some man had been free to make her -the boast of his conceit, twisted his heart-strings. - -The solidity of the hospital confronted him on the slope that he had -begun to mount. Beneath him stretched the herbage of cottage gardens -somnolent in Sabbath calm. Out of the silence came the quick yapping of -a shop-boy's dog, the shrillness of a shop-boy's whistle. They were the -only sounds. Then he went in. - -That evening Miss Brettan told Mrs. Kincaid that she wished to leave -her. - -The old lady received the announcement without any mark of surprise. - -"You know your own mind best," she said meditatively; "but I'm sorry -you are going--very sorry." - -"Yes," said Mary; "I must go. I'm sorry too, but I can't help myself. -I----" - -"I used to think you'd stop with me always; we got on so well together." - -"You've been more than kind to me from the very first day; I shall -never forget how kind you have been! If it were only possible. But it -isn't; I----" - -Once more the pronoun as the stumbling-block on delicate ground. - -"I can't stop!" she added thickly; "I hope you'll be luckier with your -next companion." - -"I shan't have another; changes upset me. And you must go when it -suits you best, you know; don't stay on to give me time to make fresh -arrangements, as I haven't any to make. Study your own convenience -entirely." - -"This week?" - -"Yes, very well; let it be this week." - -They said no more then. But the following afternoon, Mrs. Kincaid -broached the subject abruptly. - -"What are you going to do, Miss Brettan?" she inquired. "Have you -anything else in view?" - -"No," said Mary hesitatingly; "not yet." - -The suppression of her motive made plain speaking difficult to both. - -"I've no doubt, though," she added, "that I shall be all right." - -"What a pity it is! What a pity it is, to be sure!" - -"Oh, you mustn't grieve about me!" she exclaimed; "it isn't worth that; -_I'm_ not worth it. You know--you know, so many women in the world have -to make a living; and they do make it, somehow. It's only one more." - -"And so many women find they can't! Tell me, _must_ you go? Are you -quite sure you're not exaggerating the necessity? I don't ask you your -reasons, I never meddle in people's private affairs. But are you sure -you aren't looking on anything in a false light and going to extremes?" - -"Oh!" responded Mary, carried into sudden candour, "do you suppose I -don't shiver at the prospect? Do you suppose it attracts me? I'm not a -girl, I'm not quixotic; I _can't_ stop here!" - -The elder woman sighed. - -"Why couldn't you care for such a good fellow as my son?" she thought. -"Then there would have been none of this bother for any of us!" - -"I hope you'll be fortunate," she said gently. "Anything I can do to -help you, of course, I will!" - -"Thank you," said Mary. - -"I mean, you mustn't scruple to refer to me; it's your only chance. -Without any references----" - -"Yes, I know too well how indispensable they are; but----" - -"You have been here two years. I shall say I should have liked it to -remain your home." - -"Thank you," said Mary, again. But she was by no means certain that -she could avail herself of this recommendation given in ignorance of -the truth. It was precisely the matter that she had been debating. If -she attempted to avail herself of it, the doctor might have something -to say; and she was loath to be indebted for testimony from the mother -which the son would know to be undeserved, whether he interfered, or -not; she wanted her renunciation to be complete. Yet, without this -source of aid----She trembled. How speedily the few pounds in her -possession would vanish! how soon there would be a revival of her past -experience, with all its heartlessness and squalor! In imagination she -was already footsore, adrift in the London streets. - -"Mrs. Kincaid----" she cried. A passionate impulse seized her to -declare everything. If she had been seventeen, she would have knelt at -the old woman's feet, for it is not so much the vehemence of our moods -that diminishes with time as the power of restraint that increases. - -"Mrs. Kincaid, you must know? You must guess why----" - -"I know nothing," said the old woman, quickly; "I don't guess!" The -colour sank from her face, and Mary had never heard her speak with so -much energy. "My son shall tell me--I have a son--I will not hear from -you!" - -"I beg your pardon," said Mary; and they were silent. - -The same evening Mrs. Kincaid sent a message to the hospital, asking -her son to come round to see her. - -She had not mentioned that she was going to do so, and it was with a -little shock that Mary heard the order given. She supposed, however, -that it was given in her presence by way of a hint, and when the -time-approached for him to arrive, she withdrew. - -He came with misgivings and with relief. The last twenty-four hours had -inclined him to the state of tension in which the unexpected is always -the portentous, but in which one waits, nevertheless, for something -unlooked-for to occur. He did not know what he dreaded to hear, but the -summons alarmed him, even while he welcomed it for permitting him to -go to the house. - -He threw a rapid glance round the parlour, and replied to his mother's -greeting with quick interrogation. - -"What has happened?" - -"Nothing of grave importance has happened. I want to speak to you." - -"I was afraid something was the matter," he said, more easily. "What is -it?" - -He took the seat opposite to her, and she was dismayed to observe the -alteration in him. She contemplated him a few seconds irresolutely. - -"Philip," she said, "this afternoon Miss Brettan was anxious to tell -me something; she was anxious to make me her confidant. And I wouldn't -listen to her." - -"Oh?" he said.... "And you wouldn't listen to her?" - -"No, I wouldn't listen to her. I said, 'My son shall tell me, or I -won't hear.' This afternoon I had no more idea of sending for you than -you had of coming. But I have been thinking it over; she's in your -mother's house, and she's the woman you love. You do love her, Philip?" - -"I asked her to be my wife," he answered simply. - -"I thought so. And she refused you?" - -"Yes, she refused me. If I haven't told you before, it was because -she refused me. To have spoken of it to you would have been to give -pain--needless pain--to you and to her." - -Mrs. Kincaid considered. - -"You are quite right," she admitted; "your mistake was to suppose I -shouldn't see it for myself." She turned her eyes from him and looked -ostentatiously in another direction. "Now," she added, "she is going -away! Perhaps you already knew, but----" - -"No," he replied, "I didn't know; I thought it likely, but I didn't -know. I understand why you sent for me." - -He got up and went across to her, and kissed her on the brow. - -"I understand why it was you sent for me," he repeated. "What a tender -little mother it is! And to lose her companion, too!" - -Where he leant beside her, she could not see how white his face had -grown. - -"Are we going to let her go, Phil?" - -He stroked her hand. - -"I am afraid we must let her go, mother, as she doesn't want to stop." - -"You don't mean to interfere, then? You won't do anything to prevent -it?" - -"I am not able to prevent it," he rejoined coldly. "I have no -authority." - -"Indeed?" murmured Mrs. Kincaid. "It seems I might have spared my -pains." - -"No," said her son; "your pains were well taken. I'm very glad you -have spoken to me--or rather I'm very glad to have spoken to you--for -you know now I meant no wrong by my silence." - -"But--but, Philip----" - -"But Miss Brettan must go mother, because she wishes to!" - -"I don't understand you," exclaimed Mrs. Kincaid, bewildered. "I never -thought you would care for any woman at all--you never struck me as the -sort of man, somehow; but now that you do care, you can't surely mean -that you think it right for the woman to leave the only place where she -has any friends and go out into the world by herself? Don't you say you -are in love with her?" - -"I asked Miss Brettan to marry me," he answered. "Since you put the -question, I do think it right for her to leave the place; I think every -woman would wish to leave in the circumstances. I think it would be -indelicate to restrain her." - -"Your sense of delicacy is very acute for a lover," said the old lady -grimly; "much too fine a thing to be comfortable. And I'll tell you -what is greater still--your pride. Don't imagine you take me in for a -moment; look behind you in the glass and ask yourself if it's likely!" - -He had moved apart from her now and was lounging on the hearth, but he -did not attempt to follow her advice. Nor did he deny the implication. - -"I look pretty bad," he acknowledged, "I know. But you're mistaken, for -all that; my pride has nothing to do with it." - -"You're making yourself ill at the prospect of losing her, and yet you -won't----Not but what she must be mad to reject you, certainly I am -not standing up for her, don't think it! I don't say I wanted to see -you fond of her--I should have preferred to see you marry someone who -would have been of use to you and helped you in your career. You might -have done a great deal better; and I am sure I understand your having a -proper pride in the matter and objecting to beg her to remain. But, for -all that, if you do find so much in this particular woman that you are -going to be miserable without her, why, _I_ can say something to induce -her to stop!" - -"To the woman you would prefer me not to marry?" he said wearily. "But -you mustn't do it, mother." - -"I do want to see you marry her, Philip; I want to see you happy. You -don't follow me a bit. Since the dread of her loss can make you look -like that, you mustn't lose her; that's what I say." - -"I _have_ lost her," he returned; "I follow you very well. You think I -might have married a princess, and you would have viewed that with a -little pang too. You would give me to Miss Brettan with a big pang, but -you'd give me to her because you think I want her." - -"That is it--not a very big pang, either; I know every man is the best -judge of his own life. Indeed, it oughtn't to be a pang at all; I don't -think it is a pang, only a tiny A sweet-heart is always a mother's -rival just at first, Phil; and I suppose it's always the mother's -fault. But one day, when you're married to Mary, and a boy of your own -falls in love with a strange girl, your wife will tell you how she -feels. She'll explain it to you better that I can, and then you'll know -how _your_ mother felt and it won't seem so unnatural." - -"Oh," he said, "hush! Don't! I shall never be married to Mary." - -"Yes," she declared, "you will. When you say that, you're not the 'best -judge' any longer; it isn't judgment, it's pique, and I'm not going to -have your life spoiled by pique and want of resolution. Phil, Phil, -you're the last man I should have thought would have allowed a thing he -wanted to slip through his fingers. And a woman--women often say 'no,' -to begin with. It's not the girls who are to be had for the asking who -make the best wives; the ones who are hardest to win are generally the -worthiest to hold. Don't accept her answer, Phil! I'll persuade her -to stay on, and at first you needn't come very often--I won't mind any -more, I shall know what it means; and when you do come, I'll help you -and tell you what to do. She _shall_ get fond of you; you _shall_ have -the woman you want--I promise her to you!" - -"Mother," he said--the pallor had touched his lips--"don't say that! -Don't go on talking of what can't be. It's no misunderstanding to be -made up; it isn't any courtship to be aided. I tell you you can no more -give me Mary Brettan for my wife than you can give my childhood back to -me out of eternity." - -"And I tell you I will!" said she. "'Faint-heart----' But you _shall_ -have your 'fair lady'! Yes, instead of--you remember what we used to -say to you when you were a little boy? 'There's a monkey up your back, -Phil!'--you shall have your fair lady instead of the monkey that's up -your back. It's a full-grown monkey to-night and you're too obstinate -to listen to reason. By-and-by you'll see you were wrong. She is suited -to you; the more I think about it, the more convinced I am she would -make you comfortable. You might have thrown yourself away on some silly -girl without a thought beyond her hats and frocks! And she's interested -in your profession; you've always been able to talk to her about it; -she understands these things better than I do." - -"Listen," exclaimed Kincaid with repressed passion, "listen, and -remember what you said just now--that I am a man, to judge for myself! -You mustn't ask Miss Brettan to stay, and you are not to think that it -is her going that makes me unhappy. My hope is over. Between her and me -there would never be any marriage if she remained for years. Everything -was said, and it was answered, and it is done." - -He bit the end from a cigar, and smoked a little before he spoke any -more. When he did speak, his tones were under control; anyone from whom -his face had been hidden would have pronounced the words stronger than -the feeling that dictated them. - -"Something else: after to-night don't talk to me about her. I don't -want to hear; it's not pleasant to me. If you want to prove your -affection, prove it by that! While she's here I can't see you; when -she's gone, let us talk as if she had never been!" - -The aspect of the man showed of what a tremendous strain this affected -calmness was the outcome. Indeed, the deliberateness of the words, even -more than the words themselves, hushed her into a conviction of his -sincerity, which was disquieting because she found it so inexplicable. -She smoothed the folds of her dress, casting at him, from time to time, -glances full of wistfulness and pity; and at last she said, in the -voice of a person who resigns herself to bewilderment: - -"Well, of course I'll do as you wish. But you have both very queer -notions of what is right, that's certain; help seems equally repugnant -to the pair of you." - -"Why do you say that?" inquired Kincaid. "What help has Miss Brettan -declined?" - -"She was reluctant to refer anybody to me, I thought, when I mentioned -the matter to-day. I suppose that was another instance of delicacy over -my head." - -"The reference? She won't make use of it?" - -"She seemed very doubtful of doing so. I said: 'Without any reference, -what on earth will become of you?' And she said, 'Yes, she understood, -but----' But something; I forget exactly what it was now." - -"But that's insane!" he said imperatively. - -"She'll be helpless without it. She has been your companion, and you -have had no fault to find with her; you can conscientiously say so." - -He rose, and shook his coat clear of the ash that had fallen in a lump -from the cigar. - -"Nothing that has passed between Miss Brettan and me can affect her -right to your testimony to the two years that she has lived with you; I -should like her to know I said so." - -"I will tell her," affirmed his mother. "What are you going to do?" - -"It's getting late.... By the way, there's another thing. It will be -a long while before she finds another home, at the best; she mustn't -think I have anything to do with it, but I want her to take some money -before she goes, to keep her from distress.... Where did I leave my -hat?" - -"You want me to persuade her to take some money, as if it were from me?" - -"Yes, as if it were from you--fifty pounds--to keep her from -distress.... Did I hang it up outside?" - -His mother went across to him and wound her arms about his neck. - -"Can you spare so much, Philip?" - -"I have been putting by," he said, "for some time." - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -Mary had spent the evening very anxiously. The formless future was a -terror that she could not banish; she could evolve no definite line of -action to sustain a hope. - -She awoke from a troubled sleep with a startled sense of something -having happened. After a few seconds, the cause was repeated. The -silence was broken by the jangling of a bell, and nervous investigation -proved it to be Mrs. Kincaid's. - -The old lady explained that she was feeling very unwell--an explanation -that was corroborated by her voice--and, striking a light, Mary saw -that she was shivering violently. - -"I can't stop it; and I'm so cold. I don't know what it is; it's like -cold water running down my back." - -Her companion looked at her quickly. "We'll put some more blankets on -the bed. Wait a minute while I run upstairs!" - -She returned with the bedclothes from her own room. - -"You'll be much warmer before long," she said; "you must have taken a -slight chill." - -Mrs. Kincaid lay mute awhile. - -"I've such a pain!" she murmured. "How could I have taken a chill?" - -"Where is your pain?" - -"In my side--a sharp, stabbing pain." - -The servant appeared now, alarmed by the disturbance, and Mary told her -to bring some coals, and then to dress herself as speedily as she could. - -"Is there any linseed? Or oatmeal will do. I must make a poultice." - -"I'll see, miss. There's some linseed, I think, but----" - -"Fetch it, and a kettle. We'll light the fire at once; then I can make -it up here." - -The old lady moaned and shivered by turns; and some difficulty was -experienced in getting the fire to burn. Mary held a newspaper before -it, and the servant advanced theories on the subject of the chimney. - -At last, when it was possible for the poultice to be applied, Mary sent -her down for a hot-water bottle and the whisky. - -"You'll be quite comfortable directly," she said to the invalid. -"Something warm to drink, and the hot flannel to your feet 'll make a -lot of difference." - -"So cold I am, it's bitter--and the pain! I can't think what it can be." - -"Let me put this on for you, then; it's all ready. It won't--is that -it?... There! How's that?" - -"Oh!" faltered Mrs. Kincaid, "oh, thank you! Ah! you do it very nicely." - -"See, here we have the rest of the luxuries!" She mixed the stimulant, -and took it to her. "Just raise your head," she murmured; "I'll hold -the glass for you, so that you won't have to sit up. Take this, now, -and while you're sipping it, Ellen will get the bottle ready." - -"There isn't much in the kettle," said Ellen. "I don't----" - -"Use what there is, and fill it up again. Then see if you can find me -any brown paper." - -In quest of brown paper, Ellen was gone some time; and, having set down -the empty tumbler and made the bed tidier, Mary proceeded to search for -some herself. - -She found a sheet lining a drawer, and rolling it into the form of a -tube, fixed it to the kettle spout, to direct the steam into the room. -She had not long done so when the girl returned disconsolate to say -there was no brown paper in the house. Mary drew her outside. - -"Are you going to sit in there all night, miss?" - -"Speak lower! Yes, I shall sit up. What time is it?" - -The girl said that she had just been astonished to see by the kitchen -clock that it was half-past four; it had seemed to her that she had -not long fallen asleep when the bell rang. - -"I want you to go and fetch Dr. Kincaid, Ellen; I'm afraid Mrs. Kincaid -is going to be ill." - -"Do you mean I'm to go at once?" - -"Yes. Tell him his mother isn't well, and it would be better for him to -see her. Bring him back with you. You aren't frightened to go out--it -must be getting light?" - -They drew up the blind of the landing window, and saw daylight creeping -over the next-door yard. - -"Do you think she's going to be very bad, miss?" - -"I don't know; I can't tell. Hurry, Ellen, there's a good girl! get -back as quickly as you can!" - -A deep flush had overspread the face on the pillow. The eyes yearned, -and an agonised expression strengthened Mary's belief in the gravity of -the seizure; she feared it to be the beginning of inflammation of the -lungs. Three-quarters of an hour must be allowed for Kincaid to arrive, -and, conscious that she could now do nothing but wait, the time lagged -dreadfully. The silence, banished at the earlier pealing of the bell, -had regained its dynasty, and once more a wide hush settled upon the -house, indicated by the occasional clicking of a cinder on the fender. -At intervals the sick woman uttered a tremulous sigh, and met Mary's -gaze with a look of appeal, as if she recognised in her presence a kind -of protective sympathy; but she had ceased to complain, and the watcher -abstained from any active demonstration. In the globe beside the mirror -the gas flared brightly, and this, coupled with the heat of the fire, -filled the room with a moist radiance, against which the narrow line -of dawn above the window-sill grew slowly more defined. The advent had -been long expected, when sharp footfalls on the pavement smote Mary's -ear, and, forgetting that Kincaid had his own key, she sprang up to -let him in. The hall-door swung back, and she paused with her hand on -the banisters. He came swiftly forward and passed her with a hurried -salutation on the stairs. - -There was, however, no anxiety visible on his face as he approached the -bed. Merely a little genial concern was to be seen. His questions were -put encouragingly; when a reply was given, he listened with an air of -confidence confirmed. - -"Am I very ill?" she gasped. - -"You _feel_ very ill, I dare say, dear; but don't go persuading -yourself you _are_, or that'll be a real trouble!" - -His fingers were on her pulse, and he was smiling as he spoke. Yet he -knew that her life was in danger. The worthiest acting is done where -there is no applause--it is the acting of a clever medical man in a -sick-room. - -Mary stood on the threshold watching him. - -"Who put that funnel on the kettle?" he inquired, without turning. He -had not appeared to notice it. - -"I did," she answered. "Am I to take it off?" - -"No." - -He signed to her to go below, and after a few minutes followed her into -the parlour. - -"Give me a pen and ink, Miss Brettan, please." - -"I've put them ready for you," she said. - -He wrote hastily, and rose with the prescription held out. - -"Where's Ellen?" - -"Here, waiting to take it." - -A trace of surprise escaped him. He said curtly: - -"You're thoughtful. Was it you who put on that poultice?" - -Her tone was as distant as his. - -"We did all we could before you came; _I_ put on the poultice. Did I do -right?" - -"Quite right. I asked because of the way it was put on." - -With that expression of approval he left her and returned to his -mother. Mary, unable to complete her toilette, not knowing from minute -to minute when she might be called, occupied herself in righting the -disorder of the room. She had thrown on a loosely-fitting morning dress -of cashmere, one of the first things that she had made after she was -installed here. An instant; she had snatched to dip her face in water, -but she had been able to do little to her hair, the coil of which still -retained much of the scattered; softness of the night, and after Ellen -came back from the chemist's she sent her upstairs for some; hairpins. -She stood on the hearth, before the looking-glass, shaking the mass of -hair about her shoulders, and then with uplifted arms winding it deftly -on her head. The supple femininity of the attitude, so suggestive of -recent rising, harmonised with the earliness of the sunshine that -tinged the parlour; and when Kincaid reentered and found her so, he -could not but be sensible of the impression, though he was indisposed -to dwell upon it. - -She looked round quickly: - -"How is Mrs. Kincaid, doctor?" - -"I'm very uneasy about her. I'm going back to the hospital now to -arrange to stay here." - -"What do you think has caused it?" - -"I'm afraid she got damp and cold in the garden on Sunday." - -"And it has gone to the lungs?" - -"It has affected the left lung, yes." - -She dropped the last hairpin, and as she stooped for it the swirl of -the gown displayed a bare instep. - -"I can help to nurse her, unless you'd rather send someone else?" - -"You'll do very well, I think," he said; and he proceeded to give her -some instructions. - -She fulfilled these instructions with a capability he found -astonishing. Before the day had worn through he perceived that, however -her training had been acquired, he possessed in her a coadjutrix -reliable and adroit. To herself, she was once more within her native -province, but to him it was as if she had become suddenly voluble in a -foreign tongue. He had no inclination to meditate upon her skill--to -meditate about her was the last thing that he desired now--but there -were moments when her performance of some duty supplied fresh food for -wonder notwithstanding, and he noted her dexterity with curious eyes. -He had, though, refrained from any further praise. The gratitude that -he might have spoken was checked by the aloofness of her manner; and, -in the closer association consequent upon the illness, the formality -that had sprung up between them suffered no decrease. Indeed it became -permanent in this contact, which both would have shunned. - -After the one scene in which she left the choice to him, she had -afforded him no chance to resume their earlier relations had he wished -it, and the studied politeness of her address was a persistent reminder -that she directed herself to him in his medical capacity alone. She -held the present conditions the least exacting attainable, since -the distastefulness of renewed intercourse was not to be avoided -altogether; but she in nowise exonerated him for imposing them, and -she considered that by having done so he had made her a singularly -ungracious return for the humiliation of her avowal. She sustained the -note he had struck; the key was in a degree congenial to her. But she -resented while she concurred, and even more than to her judgment her -acquiescence was attributable to her pride. - -On the day following there were recurrences of pain, but on Wednesday -this subsided, though the temperature remained high. Mary saw that -his anxiety was, if anything, keener than it had been, and by degrees -a latent admiration began to mingle with her bitterness. In the -atmosphere of the sick-room the man and the woman were equally new -to each other, and up to a certain point he was as great a surprise -to her as was she to him. She saw him now professionally for the -first time, and she recognised his resources, his despatch, with -an appreciation quickened by experience. The visitor whom she had -known lounging, loose-limbed and conversational, in an arm-chair had -disappeared; the suppliant for a tenderness that she did not feel had -become an authority whom she obeyed. Here, like this, the man was a -power, and the change within him had its physical expression. His -figure was braced, his movements had a resolution and a vigour that -gave him another personality. He even awed her slightly. She thought -that he must look more masterful to all the world in the exercise of -his profession, but she thought also that everyone in the world would -approve the difference. - -The confidence that he inspired in her was so strong that on Thursday, -when he told her that he intended to have a consultation, she heard him -with a shock. - -"You think it advisable?" - -"I fear the worst, Miss Brettan; I can't neglect any chance." - -She had some violets in her hand--it was her custom to brighten the -view from the bed as much as she could every morning--and suddenly -their scent was very strong. - -"The worst?" - -"God grant my opinion's wrong!" he said. "Will you ask the girl to take -the wire for me?" - -It was to a physician in the county town he had decided to telegraph, -one whose prestige was gradually widening, and whose reputation had -been built on something trustier than a chance summons to the couch -of a notability. Mary had heard the name before, and she strove to -persuade herself that his view of the case might prove more promising. -The day that had opened so gloomily, however, offered during the -succeeding hours small food for faith. Towards noon the sufferer -became abruptly restless, and the united efforts of doctor and nurse -were required to soothe her. She was fired by a passionate longing to -get up, and pleaded piteously for permission. To "walk about a little -while" was her one appeal, and the strenuousness of the entreaty was -rendered more pathetic by her obvious belief that they refused because -they failed to comprehend the violence of the desire. She endeavoured -with failing energy to make it known, and--prevailed upon to desist at -last--lay back with a look that was a lamentation of her helplessness. -Later, she was slightly delirious and rambled in confused phrases of -her son and her companion--his courtship and Mary's indifference. -The man and the woman sat on either side, of her, but their gaze -no longer met. At the first reference to his attachment Mary had -started painfully, but now by a strong effort her nervousness had been -suppressed, and from time to time she moved to wipe the fevered lips -and brow with a semblance of self-possession. As the daylight waned, -the disjointed sentences grew rarer. Kincaid went down. Except for -the deep breathing, silence fell again, until, as dusk gathered, the -sudden words "I feel much better" were uttered in a tone of restored -tranquillity. Turning quickly, Mary saw that her ears had not deceived -her. The assurance was repeated with a feeble smile; the features had -gained a touch of the cheerfulness that had been so remarkable in the -voice. Soon afterwards the eyes closed in what appeared to be sleep. - -Kincaid was striding to and fro in the parlour, his arms locked across -his breast. As Mary ran in, his head was lifted sharply. - -"She feels much better," she exclaimed; "she has fallen asleep!" - -He stood there, without speaking--and she shrank back with a stifled -cry. - -"Oh! I didn't know.... Is it _that_?". - -"Yes," he said, scarcely above a whisper. And she understood that what -she had told him was the presage of death. - -After this, both knew it to be but a matter of time. The arrival of the -physician served merely to confirm despondence. He pronounced the case -hopeless, and reluctantly accepted a fee to defray the expenses of the -journey. - -"I wish we could have met in happier circumstances," he said.... -"You've the comfort of knowing that you did everything that could be -done." - -A page with a message of inquiry came up the steps as he left; such -messages had been delivered daily. But on Saturday, when the baker's -man brought the bread to Laburnum Lodge, he found the blinds down; and -within a few minutes of his handing the loaf to the weeping servant -through the scullery window, the news circulated in Westport that Mrs. -Kincaid had died unconscious at seven o'clock that morning. - -While the baker's man derived this intelligence from the housemaid, -Mary was behind the lowered blinds on the first floor, crying. She -had just descended from her bedroom; seeing how deeply Kincaid was -affected, she had retired there soon after the end. He had not shed -tears, but that he was strongly moved was evident by the muscles of -his mouth; and the quivering face of which she had had a glimpse kept -recurring to her vividly. - -He came in while she sat there. He was very pale, but now his face was -under control again. - -She rose, and advanced towards him irresolutely. "I'm so sorry! She was -a very kind friend to me." - -He put out his hand. For the first time since she had met him after -posting the note, hers lay in it. - -"Thank you," he said. "Thank you, too, for all you did for her; I shall -always remember it gratefully, Miss Brettan." - -He seemed to be at the point of adding something, but checked himself. -Presently he made reference to the arrangements that must be seen to. -That night he reoccupied his quarters in the hospital, and excepting -in odd minutes, she did not see him again during the day. She found -space, however, to mention that she purposed remaining until the -funeral, and to this announcement he bowed, though he refrained from -any inquiry as to her plans afterwards. "Plans," indeed, would have -been a curious misnomer for the thoughts in her brain. The question -that she had revolved earlier had been settled effectually by the -death; now that all possibility of Mrs. Kincaid's recommending her had -been removed, her plight admitted of nothing but conjecture. - -In her solitude in the house of mourning, unbroken save for -interruptions which emphasised the tragedy, or for some colloquy with -the red-eyed servant, she passed her hours lethargic and weary. The -week of suspense and insufficient rest had tired her out, and she no -longer even sought to consider. Her mind drifted. A fancy that came to -her was, that it would be delightful to be lying in a cornfield in hot -sunshine, with a vault of blue above her. The picture was present more -often than her thought of the impending horrors of London. - -How much the week had held! what changes it had seen! She sat musing on -this the next evening, listening to the church bells, and remembering -that a Sunday ago the dead woman had been beside her. Last Sunday there -was still a prospect of Westport continuing to be her home for years. -Last Sunday it was that, in the churchyard, she had confessed her past. -Only a week--how full, how difficult to realise! She was half dozing -when she heard the hall-door unlocked, and Kincaid greeted her as she -roused herself. - -"Did I disturb you? were you asleep?" - -"No; I was thinking, that's all." - -He sighed, and dropped into the opposite chair. She noted his harassed -aspect, and pitied him. The Sunday previous she had not been sensible -of any pity at all. She understood his loss of his mother; the loss of -his faith had represented much less to her, its being a faith on which -she personally had set small store. - -"There's plenty to think of!" he said wearily. - -"You haven't seen Ellen, doctor, have you? She has been asking for you." - -"Has she? what does she want?" - -"She is anxious to know how long she'll be kept. Her sister is in -service somewhere and the family want a parlourmaid on the first of the -month. I am sorry to bother you with trifles now, but she asked me to -speak to you." - -"I must talk to her. Of course the house 'll be sold off; there's no -one to keep it on for.... How fagged you look! are you taking proper -care of yourself again?" - -"Oh yes; it is just the reaction, nothing but what'll soon pass." - -"You didn't have the relief you ought to have had; you worked like two -women." - -He paused, and his gaze dwelt on her questioningly. She read the -question with such clearness that, when he spoke, the words seemed but -an echo of the pause. - -"How did you know so much?" he asked. - -"After I lost my father I was a nurse in the Yaughton Hospital for some -years." - -The answer was direct, but it was brief. Half a dozen queries sprang to -his lips, and were in turn repressed. Her past was her own; he confined -his inquiries to her future. - -"And what do you mean to do now?" - -"I'm going to London." - -"Do you expect to meet with any difficulties in the way of taking up -nursing again?" - -"I think you know that there _were_ difficulties in the way." - -"I have no wish to force your confidence----" he said, with a note of -inquiry in his voice. - -"I haven't my certificate." - -"You can refer to the Matron." - -"I know I can; I will not. I told you two years ago there were persons -I could refer to, but I wouldn't do it." - -"May I ask why you should have any objection to referring to this one?" - -She was silent. - -"Won't you tell me?" - -"I think you might understand," she said in a very low voice. "I -went there after my father's death. I am not the woman who left the -Yaughton Hospital." - -His eyes fell, and he stared abstractedly at the grate. When he raised -them he saw that hers had closed. He looked at her lingeringly till -they opened. - -"Now that _she_ is gone," he exclaimed unsteadily, "your position is -not so easy! Have you any prospect that you don't mention?" - -She shook her head. - -"Well, is there anything you can suggest?" he asked. "Any way out of -the difficulty that occurs to you? Believe me----" - -"No," she said, "I can see nothing that is practicable; I----" - -"Would you be willing to come on the nursing-staff here? We're -short-handed in the night work. It is an opening, and it might lead to -a permanent appointment." - -Her heart began to beat rapidly; for an instant she did not reply. - -"It is very considerate of you, very generous; but I am afraid that -wouldn't do." - -"Why not?" - -"It wouldn't do, because--well, I should have left Westport in any -case." - -"You meant to, I know. But between the way you'd have left Westport if -my mother had lived, and the way you'd leave it now, there is a vast -difference." - -"I must leave it, all the same." - -"Pardon me," he said, "I can't permit you to do so. I wouldn't let -any woman go out into the world with the knowledge that she went to -meet certain distress. Your hospital experience appears to solve -the problem. You could come on next week. If your reluctance is -attributable to myself--hear me out, I must speak plainly!--if you -refuse because what has passed between us makes further conversation -with me a pain to you, you've only to remember that conversation -between us in the hospital will necessarily be of the briefest kind. -All that I remember is that I've asked you to be my wife and you don't -care for me--I'm the man you've rejected. I wish to be something more -serviceable, though; I wish to be your friend. In the hospital I shall -have little chance, for there, to all intents and purposes, we shall be -as much divided as if you went to London. While the chance does exist -I want to use it; I want to advise you strongly to take the course I -propose. It needn't prevent your attempting to find a post elsewhere, -you know; on the contrary, it would facilitate your obtaining one." - -Her hand had shaded her brow as she listened; now it sank slowly to her -lap. - -"I need hardly tell you I'm grateful," she said, in tones that -struggled to be firm. "Anyone would be grateful; to me the offer is -very--is more than good." Her composure broke down. "I know what I -must seem to you--you have heard nothing but the worst of me!" she -exclaimed. - -"I would hear nothing that it hurt you to say," he answered; and for a -minute neither of them said any more. There had been a gentleness in -his last words that touched her keenly; the appeal in hers had gone -home to him. Neither spoke, but the man's breath rose eagerly, and; the -woman's head drooped lower and lower on her breast. - -"Let me!" she said at last in a whisper that his pulses leaped to -meet. "It was there--when I was a nurse. He was a patient. Before he -left, he asked me to marry him. When I went to him he told me he was -married already. Till then there had been no hint, not the faintest -suspicion--I went to him, with the knowledge of them all, to be his -wife." - -"Thank God!" said Kincaid in his throat. - -"She was--she had been on the streets; he hadn't seen her for years. He -prayed to me, implored me----Oh, I'm trying to exonerate! myself, I'm -not trying to shift the sin on to him, I but if the truest devotion of -her life can plead I for a woman, Heaven knows that plea was mine!" - -"And at the end of the three years?" - -"There was news of her death, and he married someone else." - -She got up abruptly, and moved to the window, looking out behind the -blind. - -"I can't tell you how I feel for you," he said huskily. "I can't give -you an idea how deeply, how earnestly I sympathise!" - -"Don't say anything," she murmured; "you needn't try; I think I -understand to-night--you proved your sympathy while my claim on it was -least." - -"And you'll let me help you?" - -The slender figure stood motionless; behind her the man was gripping -the leather of his chair. - -"If I may," she said constrainedly, "if I can go there like--as -you----Ah, if the past can all be buried and there needn't be any -reminder of what has been?" - -"I'll be everything you wish, everything you'd have me seem!" - -He took a sudden step towards her. She turned, her eyes humid with -tears, with thankfulness--with entreaty. He stopped short, drew back, -and resumed his seat. - -"Now, what is it you were saying about Ellen?" he asked shortly. - -And perhaps it was the most eloquent avowal he had ever made her of his -love. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -So it happened that Mary Brettan did not leave Westport the next week. -And after a few months she was more than ever doubtful if she would -leave it at all. The suggested vacancy on the permanent staff had -occurred before then, and, once having accepted the post, there seemed -to be no inducement to woo anxiety by resigning it. - -At first the resumption of routine after years of indolence was irksome -and exhausting. The six o'clock rising, the active duties commencing -while she still felt tired, the absence of anything like privacy, -excepting in the two hours allotted to each nurse for leisure--all -these things fretted her. Even the relief that she derived from her -escape into the open air was alloyed by the knowledge that outdoor -exercise during one of the hours was compulsory. Then, too, it was -inevitable that a costume worn once more should recall the emotions -with which she had laid aside her last; inevitable that she should ask -herself what the years had done for her since last she stood within a -hospital and bade it farewell with the belief she was never to enter -one again. The failure of the interval was accentuated. Her heart had -contracted when, directed to the strange apartment above the wards, -she beheld the print dress provided for her use lying limp on a chair. -An unutterable forlornness filled her soul as, proceeding to put it -on, she surveyed her reflection in the narrow glass. Yet she grew -accustomed to the change, and the more easily for its being a revival. - -The speed with which the sense of novelty wore off indeed astonished -her. Primarily dismaying, and a continuous burden upon which she -condoled with herself every day, it was, next, as if she had lost it -one night in her sleep. She had forgotten it until the lightness with -which she was fulfilling the work struck her with swift surprise. -Little by little a certain enjoyment was even felt. She contemplated -some impending task with interest. She took her walk with zest in lieu -of relief. She returned to the doors exhilarated instead of depressed. -The bohemian, the lady-companion, had become a sick-nurse anew, and -because the primary groove of life is the one which cuts the deepest -lines, her existence rolled along the recovered rut with smoothness. -The scenes between which it lay were not beautiful, but they were -familiar; the view it commanded was monotonous, but she no longer -sought to travel. - -Socially the conditions had been favoured by her introduction. The -position that she had occupied in Laburnum Lodge gave her a factitious -value, and gained her the friendliness of the Matron, a functionary who -has the power to make the hospital-nurse distinctly uncomfortable, and -who has on occasion been known to use it. It commended her also to the -other nurses, two of whom were gentlewomen, insomuch as it promised -an agreeable variety to conversation in the sitting-room. She was by -no means unconscious of the extent of her debt to Kincaid, and her -gratitude as time went on increased rather than diminished. Certainly -the environment was conducive to a perception of his merits--more -conducive even than had been the period of his medical attendance at -the villa. The king is nowhere so attractive as at his court; the -preacher nowhere so impressive as in the pulpit. Ashore the captain may -bore us, but we all like to smoke our cigars with him on his ship. The -poorest pretender assumes importance in the circle of his adherents, -and poses with authority on some small platform, if it be only his -mother's hearthrug. Here where the doctor was the guiding spirit, and -Mary found his praises on every tongue, the glow of gratitude was -fanned by the breath of popularity. Had he deliberately planned a means -of raising himself in her esteem, he could have devised none better -than this of placing her in the miniature kingdom where he ruled. In -remembering that he had wanted to marry her, she was sensible one day -of a thrill of pride: nothing like regret, nothing like arrogance, but -a momentary pride. She felt more dignity in the moment. - -If he remembered it too, however, no word that he spoke evinced such -recollection. The promise that he had made to her had been kept to the -letter, and the past was never alluded to between them. As doctor and -nurse their colloquies were brief and practical. It was the demeanour -that he adopted towards her from the day of her instatement that added -the first fuel to her thankfulness; and if, withal, she was inclined -to review his generosity rather than to regard it, it was because he -had established the desired relations on so firm a footing that she had -ceased to believe that the pursuance of it cost him any pains. That she -had held his love after the story of her shame she was aware; but that -on reflection he could still want her for his wife she did not for an -instant suppose; and she often thought that by degrees his attitude had -become the one most natural to him. - -By what a denial of nature, by what rigid self-restraint, the idea had -been conveyed, nobody but the man himself could have told. No one else -knew the bitterness of the suffering that had been endured to give her -that feeling of right to remain; what impulses had been curbed and -crushed back, that no scruples or misgivings should cross her peace. -The circumstances in which they met now helped him much, or he; would -have failed, despite his efforts; and to fail, he understood, would be -to prove unworthy of, her trust--it would be to see her go out from his -life for ever. Still want her? So intensely, so devoutly did he want -her, that, shadowed by sin as she was, she was holier to him than any -other woman upon earth--fairer than any other gift at God's bestowal. -He would have taken her to his heart with as profound a reverence as if -no shame had ever touched her. If all the world had been cognizant of -her disgrace, he would have triumphed to cry "My wife!" in the ears; of -all the world. A baser love might well have; thirsted for her too, but -it would have had its hours of hesitation. Kincaid's had none. No flood -of passion blinded his higher judgment and urged him on; no qualms -of convention intervened and gave him pause. It was with his higher -judgment that he prayed for her. His love burned steadily, clearly. -The situation lacked only one essential for the ideal: the love of -the penitent whom he longed to raise. The complement was missing. The -fallen woman who had confessed her guilt, the man's devotion that had -withstood the test--these were there. But the devotion was unreturned, -the constancy was not desired. He could only wait, and try to hope; -wondering if her tenderness would waken in the end, wondering how he -would learn it if it did. - -To break his word by pleading again was a thing that he could do -only in the belief that she would listen to him with happiness. If -he misread her mind and spoke too soon, he not merely committed a -wrong--he destroyed the slender link that there was between them, for -he made it impossible for her to stay on. And yet, how to divine? how, -without speaking, to ascertain? What could be gathered from the deep -grey eyes, the serious face, the slim-robed figure, as he sometimes -stood beside her, guarding his every look and schooling his voice? -How could he tell if she cared for him unless he asked her? how -could he ask her unless he had reason to suppose that she did? The -nature of their association seemed to him to impose an insurmountable -barrier between them; in freer parlance a ray of the truth might be -discernible. When she had been here a year he determined to gain an -opportunity to talk with her alone. He would talk, if not on matters -nearest to him, at least on topics less formal than those to which -their conversation was limited in the ward! - -Such an opportunity, however, did not lie to his hand. It was difficult -to compass without betraying himself, and, in view of the present -difficulties, he appeared to have had so many advantages earlier that -he marvelled at his having turned them to so little account. Their -acquaintance at the villa during his mother's lifetime appeared to -him, by comparison, to have afforded every facility that he was to-day -denied, and he frequently recalled the period with passionate regret; -he thought that he had never appreciated it at its worth, though, -indeed, he had only failed to benefit by it. The villa now was tenanted -by a lady with two children; and Mary often passed it, recalling the -period also, albeit with a melancholy vaguer than his. One morning, as -she went by, the door was open--the children were coming out--and she -had a glimpse of the hall. - -They came down the steps, carrying spades and pails, bound for the -beach, like herself. The elder of them might have been nine years old, -and, belonging to the familiar house, they held a little sad interest -for her. She wondered, as they preceded her along the pavement, in -which of the rooms they slept, and if the different furniture had -altered the aspect of it much. She thought she would like to speak to -them when the sands were reached, and----Then she saw Seaton Carew! Her -heart jerked to her throat. Her gaze was riveted on him; she couldn't -withdraw it. They were advancing towards each other; he was looking at -her. She saw recognition flash across his features, and turned her -head. The people to right and left swayed a little--and she had passed -him. It had taken just fifteen seconds, but she could not remember what -she had been thinking of when she saw him. The fifteen seconds had held -for her more emotion than the last twelve months. - -Her knees trembled. She supposed he must be at the theatre this week. -But, when she saw a playbill outside the music-seller's, she was -afraid to examine it lest he might be staring after her. She walked on -excitedly. She was filled with a tremulous elation, which she cared -neither to define nor to acknowledge. She reflected that she had left -the hospital a few minutes earlier than usual, and that otherwise -she might have missed him. "Missed" was the word of her reflection. -She wondered where he was staying--in which streets the professional -lodgings were. She felt suddenly strange in the town not to know. She -had been here three years, and she did not know--how odd! In turning -a corner she saw another advertisement of the theatre, this time on a -hoarding. The day was Monday, and the paper was still shiny with the -bill-sticker's paste. She was screened from observation, and for a -moment she paused, devouring the cast with a rapid glance. His wife's -name didn't appear, so it wasn't their own company. She hurried on -again. The sight of him had acted on her like a strong stimulant. -Without knowing why, she was exhilarated. The air was sweeter, life -was keener; she was athirst to reach the shore and, in her favourite -spot, to yield herself up wholly to sensation. - -And how little he had changed! He seemed scarcely to have changed -at all. He looked just as he used to look, though he must have gone -through much since the night they parted. Ah, how could she forget -that parting--how allow the fires of it to wane? It was pitiful that, -feeling things so intensely when they happened, one was unable to keep -the intensity alive. The waste! The puerility of loving or hating, of -mourning or rejoicing so violently in life, when the passage of time, -the interposition of irrelevant incident, would smear the passion that -was all-absorbing into an experience that one called to mind! - -She sank on to a bench upon the slope of ragged grass that merged into -the shingles and the sand. The sea, vague and unruffled, lay like a -sheet of oil, veiled in mist except for one bright patch on the horizon -where it quivered luminously. She bent her eyes upon the sea, and saw -the past. His voice struck her soul before she heard his footstep. -"Mary!" he said, and she knew that he had followed her. - -She did not speak, she did not move. The blood surged to her temples, -and left her body cold. She struggled for self-command; for the -ability to conceal her agitation; for the power she yearned to gather -of blighting him with the scorn she craved to feel. - -"Won't you speak to me?" he said. He came round to her side, and stood -there, looking down at her. "Won't you speak?" he repeated--"a word?" - -"I have nothing to say to you," she murmured. "I hoped I should never -see you any more." - -He waited awkwardly, kicking the soil with the point of his boot, his -gaze wandering from her over the ocean--from the ocean back to her. - -"I have often thought about you," he said at last in a jerk. "Do you -believe that?" - -She kept silent, and then made as if to rise. - -"Do you believe that I have thought about you?" he demanded quickly. -"Answer me!" - -"It is nothing to me whether you have thought or not. I dare say you -have been ashamed when you remembered your disgrace--what of it?" - -"Yes," he said, "I have been ashamed. You were always too good for me; -I ought never to have had anything to do with a woman like you." - -She had not risen; she was still in the position in which he had -surprised her; and she was sensible now of a dull pain at the -unexpectedness of his conclusion. - -"Why have you followed me?" she said coldly. "What for?" - -"What for? I didn't know you were in the town, I hadn't an idea--and I -saw you suddenly. I wanted to speak to you." - -"What is it you want to say?" - -"Mary!" - -"Yes; what do you want to say? I'm not your friend; I'm not your -acquaintance: what have you got to speak to me about?" - -"I meant," he stammered--"I wanted to ask you if it was possible -that--that you could ever forgive the way I behaved to you." - -"Is that all?" she asked in a hard voice. - -"How you have altered!... Yes, I don't know that there's anything else." - -She did not reply, and he regarded her irresolutely. - -"Can you?" - -"No," she said. "Why should I forgive you--because time has gone by? -Is that any merit of yours? You treated me brutally, infamously. The -most that a woman can do for a man I did for you; the worst that a man -can do to a woman you did to me. You meet me accidentally and expect me -to forgive? You must be a great deal less worldly-wise than you were -three years ago." - -She turned to him for the first time since he had joined her, and his -eyes fell. - -"I didn't expect," he said; "I only asked. So you're a nurse again, eh?" - -"Yes." - -He gave an impatient sigh, the sigh of a man; who realises the -discordancy of life and imperfectly resigns himself to it. - -"We're both what we used to be, and we're both older. Well, I'm the -worse off of the two, if that's any consolation to you. A woman's -always getting opportunities for new beginnings." - -She checked the retort that sprang to her lips, eager to glean some -knowledge of his affairs, though she could not bring herself to put a -question; and after a moment she rejoined indifferently: - -"You got the chance you were so anxious for. I understood your marriage -was all that was necessary to take you to London." - -"I was in London--didn't you hear?" He was startled into naturalness, -the actor's naive astonishment when he finds his movements are unknown -to anyone. "We had a season at the Boudoir, and opened with _The Cast -of the Die_. It was a frost; and then we put on a piece of Sargent's. -That might have been worked into a success if there had been money -enough left to run it at a loss for a few weeks, but there wasn't. -The mistake was not to have opened with it, instead. And the capital -was too small altogether for a London show; the exes were awful! It -would have been better to have been satisfied with management in the -provinces if one had known how things were going to turn out. Now it's -the provinces under somebody else's management. I suppose you think I -have been rightly served?" - -"I don't see that you're any worse off than you used to be." - -"Don't you? You've no interest to see. I'm a lot worse off, for I've a -wife and child to keep." - -"A child! You've a child?" she said. - -"A boy. I don't grumble about that, though; I'm fond of the kid, -although I dare say you think I can't be very fond of anyone. But---- -Oh, I don't know why I tell you about it--what do you care!" - -They were silent again. The sun, a disc in grey heavens, smeared the -vapour with a shaft of pale rose, and on the water this was glorified -and enriched, so that the stain on the horizon had turned a deep -red. Nearer land, the sea, voluptuously still, and by comparison -colourless, had yet some of the translucence of an opal, a thousand -elusive subtleties of tint which gleamed between the streaks of -darkness thrown upon its surface from the sky. A thin edge of foam -unwound itself dreamily along the shore. A rowing-boat passed blackly -across the crimsoned distance, gliding into the obscurity where sky -and sea were one. To their right the shadowy form of a fishing-lugger -loomed indistinctly through the mist. The languor of the scene had, -in contemplation, something emotional in it, a quality that acted on -the senses like music from a violin. She was stirred with a mournful -pleasure that he was here--a pleasure of which the melancholy was -a part. The delight of union stole through her, more exquisite for -incompletion. - -"It's nothing to you whether I do badly or well," he said gloomily. And -the dissonance of the complaint jarred her back to common-sense. "Yet -it isn't long ago that we--good Lord! how women can forget; now it's -nothing to you!" - -"Why should it be anything?" she exclaimed. "How can you dare to remind -me of what we used to be? 'Forget'?--yes, I have prayed to forget! To -forget I was ever foolish enough to believe in you; to forget I was -ever debased enough to like you. I wish I _could_ forget it; it's my -punishment to remember. Not because I sinned--bad as it is, that's -less--but because I sinned for _you_! If all the world knew what I had -done, nobody could despise me for it as I despise myself, or understand -how I despise myself. The only person who should is you, for you know -what sort of man I did it for!" - -"I was carried away by a temptation--by ambition. You make me out as -vile as if it had been all deliberately planned. After you had gone----" - -"After I had gone you married your manageress. If you had been in love -with her, even, I could make excuses for you; but you weren't--you -were in love only with yourself. You deserted a woman for money. Your -'temptation' was the meanest, the most contemptible thing a man ever -yielded to. 'Ambition'? God knows I never stood between you and that. -Your ambition was mine, as much mine as yours, something we halved -between us. Has anybody else understood it and encouraged it so well? -I longed for your success as fervently as you did; if it had come, I -should have rejoiced as much as you. When you were disappointed, whom -did you turn to for consolation? But I could only give you sympathy; -and _she_ could give you power. And everything of mine _had_ been -given; you had had it. That was the main point." - -"Call me a villain and be done--or a man! Will reproaches help either -of us now?" - -"Don't deceive yourself--there are noble men in the world. I tell you -now, because at the time I would say nothing that you could regard as -an appeal. It only wanted that to complete my indignity--for me to -plead to you to change your mind!" - -"I wish to Heaven you had done anything rather than go, and that's the -truth!" - -"_I_ don't; I am glad I went--glad, glad, glad! The most awful thing I -can imagine is to have remained with you after I knew you for what you -were. The most awful thing for you as well: knowing that I knew, the -sight of me would have become a curse." - -"One mistake," he muttered, "one injustice, and all the rest, all that -came before, is blotted out; you refuse to remember the sweetest years -of both our lives!" - -She gazed slowly round at him with lifted head, and during a few -seconds each looked in the other's face, and tried to read the history -of, the interval in it. Yes, he had altered, after all. The eyes were -older. Something had gone from him, something of vivacity, of hope. - -"Are you asking me to remember?" she said. - -"You seem to forget what the injustice was done for." - -"Mary, if you knew how wretched I am!" - -"Ah," she murmured half sadly, half wonderingly, "what an egotist you -always are! You meet me again--after the way we parted--and you begin -by talking about yourself!" - -He made a gesture--dramatic because it expressed the feeling that he -desired to convey--and turned aside. - -"May I question you?" he asked lamely the next minute. "Will you -answer?" - -"What is it that you care to hear?" - -"Are you at the hospital?" - -"Yes." - -"For long? I mean, is it long since you came to Westport?" - -"I have been here nearly all the time." - -"And do--how--is it comfortable?" - -"Oh," she said, with a movement that she was unable to repress, "let us -keep to you, if we must talk at all. You'll find it easier." - -"Why will you be so cruel?" he exclaimed. "It is you who are unjust -now. If I'm awkward, it is because you're so curt. You have all the -right on your side, and I have the weight of the past on me. You asked -me why I spoke to you: if you had been less to me than you were--if, -I had thought about you less than I have--I shouldn't have spoken. -You might understand the position is a very hard one for me; I am -altogether at your mercy, and you show me none." - -The hands in her lap trembled a little, and after a pause she said in a -low voice: - -"You expect more from me than is possible; I've suffered too much." - -"My trouble has been worse. Ah! don't smile like that; it has been far -worse! You've, anyhow, had the solace of knowing you've been illused; -_I've_ felt all the time that my bed was of my own making and that I -behaved like a blackguard. Whatever I have to put up with I deserve, -I'm quite aware of it; but the knowledge makes it all the beastlier. My -life isn't idyllic, Mary; if it weren't for the child----Upon my soul, -the only moments I get rid of my worries are when I'm playing with the -child, or when I'm drunk!" - -"Your marriage hasn't been happy?" - -He shrugged his shoulders. - -"We don't fight; we don't throw the furniture at each other and have -the landlady up, like--what was their name?--the Whittacombes. But we -don't find the days too short to say all we've got to tell each other, -she and I; and----Oh, you can't think what a dreadful thing it is to -be in front of a woman all day long that you haven't got anything to -say to--it's awful! And she can't act and she doesn't get engagements, -and it makes her peevish. She might get shopped along with me for small -parts--in fact, she did once or twice--but that doesn't satisfy her; -she wants to go on playing lead, and now that the money's gone she -can't. She thinks I mismanaged the damned money and advised her badly. -She hadn't been doing anything for a year till the spring, and then she -went out with Laura Henderson to New York. Poor enough terms they are -for America! But she's been grumbling so much that I believe she'd go -on as an Extra now, rather than nothing, so long as I wasn't playing -lead to another woman in the same crowd." - -She traced an imaginary pattern with her finger on the seat. He was -still standing, and suddenly his face lighted up. - -"There's Archie!" he said. - -"Archie?" - -"The boy." - -A child of two years, in charge of a servant-girl, was at the gate of -one of the cottages behind them. - -"You take him about with you?" - -"He was left with some people in town; I've just had him down, that's -all. We finish on Saturday, and there's the sea; I thought two or three -weeks of it would do him good. Will you--may he come over to you?" - -He held out his arms, and the child, released from the servant's clasp, -toddled smilingly across the grass, a plump little body in pelisse and -cape. The gaitered legs covered the ground slowly, and she watched his -child running towards him for what seemed a long time before Carew -caught him up. - -"This is Archie," he said diffidently; "this is he." - -"Oh," she said, in constrained tones, "this is he?" - -The man stood him on the bench, with a pretence of carelessness that -was ill done, and righted his hat quickly, as if afraid that the action -was ridiculous. The sight of him in this association had something -infinitely strange to her--something that sharpened the sense of -separation, and made the past appear intensely old and ended. - -"Put him down," she said; "he isn't comfortable." - -"Do you think he looks strong?" - -"Yes, of course, very. Why?" - -"I've wondered--I thought you'd know more about it than I do. Is Archie -a good boy?" - -"Yes," answered the child. "Mamma!" - -"Don't talk nonsense--mamma's over there!" He pointed to the sea. "He -talks very well, for his age, as a rule; now he's stupid." - -"Oh, let him be," she said, looking at the baby-face with deep eyes; -"he's shy, that's all." - -"Mamma!" repeated the mite insistently, and laid a hand on her long -cloak. - -"The thumb's wrong," she murmured after a pause in which the man and -woman were both embarrassed; "see, it isn't in!" - -She drew the tiny glove off, and put it on once more, taking the -fragile fingers in her own, and parting with them slowly. A feeling -complex and wonderful crept into her heart at the voice of Tony's -child; a feeling of half-reluctant tenderness, coupled with an aching -jealousy of the woman that had borne one to him. - -They made a group to which any glance would have reverted--the -old-young man, who was obviously the father, the baby, and the -thoughtful woman, whose costume proclaimed her to be a nurse. The -costume, indeed, was not without its influence on Carew. It reminded -him of the days of his first acquaintance with her--days since which -they had been together, and separated, and drifted into different -channels. Having essayed matrimony as a means to an end, and proved -it a cul-de-sac, he blamed the woman with whom he had blundered very -ardently, and would have been gratified to descant on his mistake to -the other one, who was more than ever attractive because she had ceased -to belong to him. The length of veil falling below her waist had, to -his fancy, a cloistral suggestion which imparted to his allusions to -their intimacy an additional fascination; and Archie's presence had -seldom occupied his attention so little. Yet he was fonder of this -offshoot of himself than he had been of her even in the period that -the dress recalled; and it was because she dimly understood the fact -that the child touched her so nearly. Like almost every man in whom -the cravings of ambition have survived the hope of their fulfilment, -he dwelt a great deal on the future of his; son; longed to see his -boy achieve the success; which he had come to realise would never be -attained by himself, and lost in the interest of fatherhood some of the -poignancy of failure. The desire to talk to her of these and many other -things was strong in him, but she roused herself from reverie and said -good-bye, as if on impulse, just as he was meaning to speak. - -"I shall see you again?" - -"I think not." - -Then he would have asked if they parted in peace, but her leave-taking -was too abrupt even for him to frame the inquiry. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -It surprised him, and left him vaguely disappointed. To break off their -interview thus sharply seemed to him motiveless. He could see no reason -for it, and his gaze followed her receding figure with speculative -regret. When she was out of sight he picked the child up, and, carrying -him into the cottage parlour, sat down beside the open window, smoking, -and thinking of her. - -It was a small room, poorly furnished, and, fretted by its limitations, -the child became speedily fractious. A slipshod landlady pottered -around, setting forth the crockery for dinner, while the little -servant, despatched with the boy from town, mashed his dinner into -an unappetising compound on a plate. From time to time she turned to -soothe him with some of the loud-voiced facetiae peculiar to the little -servant species in its dealings with fretful childhood, and at these -moments Carew suspended his meditations on his quondam mistress to -wish for the presence of his wife. It was only the second, day of his -son's visit to him, and his unfamiliarity with the arrangement was not -without its effect upon his nerves. - -Always dissatisfied with the present time, his capacity for enjoying -the past was correspondingly keen. Reflectively consuming a chop, in -full view of the unappetising compound and infancy's vagaries with a -spoon, he proceeded to re-live it, discerning in the process a thousand -charms to which the reality had seen him blind. - -He was unable to shake off the influence of the meeting when dinner -was done. Fancifully, while the child scrambled in a corner with some -toys, he installed Mary in the room; imagining his condition if he had -married her, and moodily watching the curls of tobacco smoke as they -sailed across the dirty dishes. "Damn it!" he exclaimed, rising. But -for the conviction that it would be futile, he would have gone out to -search for her. - -That he would see her again before he left the place he was determined. -But he failed to do so both on the morrow and the next day, though he -extended his promenade beyond its usual limits. He did not, in these -excursions, fail to remark that a town sufficiently large to divide one -hopelessly from the face one seeks, can yet be so small that the same -strangers' countenances are recurrent at nearly every turn. A coloured -gentleman he anathematised especially for his iteration. - -Though he doubted the possibility of the thing, he could not rid -himself of the idea that she would be at the theatre some evening, -impelled by the temptation to look upon him without his knowledge; and -he played his best now on the chance that she might be there. As often -as was practicable, he scanned the house during the progress of the -piece, and between the acts inspected it through the peep-hole in the -curtain. - -Noting his observations one night, a pretty girl in the wings asked -jocularly if "_she_ had promised to wait outside for him." - -"No, Kitty, my darling, she hasn't; she won't have anything to do with -me!" he answered, and would have liked to stop and flirt with her. His -brain was hot at the instant, and one woman or another just then---- - -If Mary had been waiting, he could have talked to her as sentimentally -as before; and have felt as much sentiment, too. All compunction for -his lapses he could assuage by a general condemnation of masculine -nature. - -The pretty girl had no part in the play. She was the daughter -of a good-looking woman who was engaged in the dual capacity of -"chamber-maid" and wardrobe-mistress; but although she had only -just left boarding-school, it was a foregone conclusion that, like -her mother, she would be connected with the lower branches of the -profession before long. Already she had acquired very perfectly, in -private, the burlesque lady's tone of address, and was familiar with -the interior of provincial bars, where her mother took a "tonic" after -the performance. - -Carew ran across them both, among a group of the male members of the -company, in the back-parlour of a public-house an hour later. Kitty, -innocent enough as yet to find "darling" a novelty, welcomed him with -a flash of her eyes; but he made no response, and, gulping his whisky, -sat glum. The others commented on his abstraction. He replied morosely, -and called for "the same again." It was not unusual for him to drink to -excess now--he was accustomed to excuse the weakness by compassionating -himself upon his dreary life--and to-night he lay back on the settee -sipping whisky till he grew garrulous. - -They remained at the table long after the closing hour, the landlady, -who was a friend of Kitty's mamma, enjoining them to quietude. She was -not averse from joining the party herself when the lights in the window -had been extinguished nor did Kitty decline to take a glass of wine -when Carew at last pressed her to be sociable. - -"Because you're growing up," he said with a foolish laugh--"'getting a -big girl now'!" - -She swept him a mock obeisance in the centre of the floor, shaking back -the hair that was still worn loose about her shoulders. - -"Sherry," she said, "if mother says her popsy may? Because I'm 'getting -a big girl now,' mother!" - -The bar was in darkness, and this necessitated investigation with a box -of matches. When the bottle was produced, it proved to be empty; the -girl's pantomime of despair was received with loud guffaws. Everybody -had drunk more than was advisable, and the proprietress again attempted -to restrain the hilarity by feeble allusions to her licence. - -"The sherry's in the cupboard down the passage," she exclaimed; "won't -you have something else instead? Now, do make less noise, there's good -boys; you'll get me into trouble!" - -"I'll go and get it," said Kitty, breaking into a momentary step-dance, -with uplifted arms. "Trust me with the key?" - -"And _I_'ll go and see she doesn't rob you," cried Carew. "Come along, -Kit!" - -"No you won't," said her mother; "she'll do best alone!" But the -remonstrance was unheeded, and, as the girl ran out into the passage, -he followed; and, as they reached the cupboard and stood fumbling at -the lock, he caught her round the waist and kissed her. - -They came back with the bottle together, in the girl's bearing an -assertion of complacent womanhood evoked by the indignity. Carew -applied himself to the liquor with renewed diligence; and by the time -the party dispersed circumspectly through the private door, his eyes -were glazed. - -The sleeping town stretched before his uncertain footsteps blanched in -moonlight as he bade the others a thick "good-night." His apartments -were a mile, and more, distant, and, muddled by drink, he struck into -the wrong road, pursuing and branching from it impetuously, till -Westport wound about him in the confusion of a maze. Once he halted, in -the thought that he heard someone approaching. But the sound receded; -and feeling dizzier every minute, he wandered on again, ultimately -with no effort to divine his situation. The sun was rising when, -partially sobered, he passed through the cottage-gate. The sea lapped -the sand gently under a flushing sky; but in the bedroom a candle still -burned, and it was in the flare of the candle that the little servant -confronted him with a frightened face. - -"Master Archie, sir!" she faltered; "I've been up with him all -night--he's ill!" - -"Ill?" He stood stupidly on the threshold. "What do you mean by ill? -What is it?" - -"I don't know; I don't know what I ought to do; I think he ought to -have a doctor." - -He pushed past her, with a muttered ejaculation, to the bed where the -child lay whimpering. - -"What's the matter, Archie? What is it, little chap?" - -"It's his neck he complains of," she said; "you can see, it's all -swollen. He can't eat anything." - -Carew looked at it dismayed. A sudden fear of losing the child, a -sudden terror of his own incompetence seized him. - -"Fetch a doctor," he stammered, "bring him back with you. You should -have gone before; it wasn't necessary to wait for me to come in to tell -you that if the child was taken ill, he needed a doctor! Go on, girl, -hurry! You'll find one somewhere in the damned place. Wait a minute, -ask the landlady--wake her up and ask which the nearest doctor is! Tell -him he must come at once. If he won't, ring up another--a delay may -make all the difference. Good God! why did I have him down here?" - -The waiting threatened to be endless. A basin of water was on the -washhand-stand, and he plunged his head into it. The stir of awakening -life was heard in the quietude. Through the window came the clatter -of feet in a neighbouring yard, the rattle of a pail on stone. He -contemplated the child, conscience-stricken by his own condition, and -strove to allay his anxiety by repeated questions, to which he obtained -peevish and unsatisfactory replies. - -It was more than two hours before the girl returned. She was -accompanied by a medical man who seemed resentful. Carew watched his -examination breathlessly. - -"Is it serious?" - -"It looks like diphtheria; it's early yet to say. He's got a first-rate -constitution; that's one thing. Mother a good physique?... So I should -have thought! Are you a resident?" - -"I'm an actor; I'm in an engagement here; my wife's abroad. Why do you -ask?" - -"The child had better be removed--there's danger of infection with -diphtheria; lodgings won't do. Take him to the hospital, and have him -properly looked after. It'll be best for him in every way." - -"I'm much obliged for your advice," said Carew. But the idea was -intimidating. "I shall be here, myself, for another week at least," he -added, in allusion to the fee. "Is it safe to move him, do you think?" - -"Oh yes, no need to fear that. Wrap him up, and take him away in a fly -this morning. The sooner the better.... That's all right. Good-day." - -He departed briskly, with an appetite for breakfast. - -"Archie will have a nice drive," said Carew in a tone of dreary -encouragement--"a nice drive in a carriage with papa." - -"I'm sleepy," said the child. - -"A nice drive in the sunshine, and see the sea. Nursie will put on your -clothes." - -"I don't want!" - -His efforts to resist strengthened Carew's dislike to the proposed -arrangement. It was not in the first few minutes that this abrupt -presentment of the hospital recalled to the man's mind Mary's -connection with it; and when the connection flashed upon him his -spirits lightened. If the boy had to be laid up, away from his mother's -relatives in London, the mischance could hardly occur under happier -conditions than where----The reflection faded to a question-point. -_Would_ she be of use? Could he expect, or dare to ask for tenderness -from Mary Brettan--and to the other woman's child? He doubted it. - -In the revulsion of feeling that followed that leaping hope, he almost -determined to withhold the request. Many children were safe in a -hospital; why not his own child? He would pay for everything. And then -the thought of Archie forsaken among strangers made him tremble; and -the little form seemed to him, in its lassitude, to have become smaller -still, more fragile. - -Again and again, in the jolting cab, he debated an appeal to Mary, -wrestling with shame for the sake of his boy. Without knowing what she -could do, he was sensible that her interest would be of value. He clung -passionately to the idea of leaving the hospital with the knowledge -that it contained a friend, an individual who would spare to the child -something more than the patient's purchased and impartial due. - -The cab stopped with a jerk, and he carried him into the empty -waiting-room. It was a gaunt, narrow apartment on the ground-floor, -with an expanse of glass, like the window of a shop, overlooking -the street. He put him in a corner of one of the forms against the -walls, and, pending the appearance of the house-surgeon, murmured -encouragement. The minutes lagged. It occurred to him that the ailment -might be pronounced trivial, but the hope deserted him almost as it -came, banished by the surroundings. The bare melancholy of the walls -chilled him anew, and the suggestion of poverty about the place -intensified his misgivings. He thought he would speak to her. If she -refused, it would have done no harm. And she would not refuse, she was -too good. Yes, she had always been a good woman. He remembered---- - -The door-knob turned, and he rose in the presence of Kincaid. The eyes -of the two men met questioningly. - -"Your child?" said Kincaid, advancing. - -"Yes; it's his neck. I was advised to bring him here, because I'm only -in lodgings. I'd like----" - -"Let me see!" - -Carew resumed his seat. His gaze hung on the doctor's movements; -every detail twanged his nerves. A nurse was called in to take the -temperature. He watched her with suspense, and smiled feebly at the -child across her arm. - -"Diphtheritic throat. We'll put him to bed at once. Take him away, -Nurse--put him into a special ward." - -"I should like----" said Carew huskily; "I know one of the nurses here. -Might I see her?" - -"Yes, certainly. Which one?" - -"Her name is 'Brettan--Mary Brettan.'" He stooped to pat the tearful -face, and missed Kincaid's surprise. "If I might see her now----?" - -"Ask if Nurse Brettan can come down, please! Say she is wanted in the -waiting-room." - -A brief pause ensued. The closing of the door left them alone. The -father's imagination pursued the figures that had disappeared; -Kincaid's was busy with the fact of the man's being an acquaintance -of Mary's--the only acquaintance that had crossed his path. Surprise -suggested his opening remark: - -"You're a visitor here, you say? Your little son's sickness has come at -an unfortunate time for you." - -"It has--yes, very. I'm at the theatre--and my apartments are none too -good." - -He mentioned the address; the doctor made some formal inquiries. Carew -asked how often he would be permitted to see the boy; and when this was -arranged, silence fell again. - -It was broken in a few seconds. The sound of a footstep on the stairs -was caught by them simultaneously. Simultaneously both men looked -round. The footsteps were succeeded by the faint rustle of a skirt, and -Nurse Brettan crossed the threshold. She started visibly--controlled -herself, and acknowledged Carew's greeting by a slight bow. - -Kincaid, in a manner, presented him to her--courteously, constrainedly. - -"This gentleman has been waiting to see you. I'll wish you -good-morning, sir." - -Mary moved to the window, and stood there without speaking. In the -print and linen costume of the house she recalled with increased force -to Carew the time when he had seen her first. - -"Archie has got diphtheria," he said; "he's just been taken upstairs." - -"I'm sorry," she said. "Why have you asked for me?" - -"They told me I couldn't keep him at home--that I must bring him -here.... Mary, you will do what you can for him?" - -She raised her head calmly. - -"He is sure of careful nursing," she answered; "no patient is -neglected." - -"I know. I know all that. I thought that you----" - -"I'm not in the children's ward," she said; "there isn't anything _I_ -can do." - -He looked at her dumbly. Mere indifference his agitation would have -found vent in combating, but the conclusiveness of the reply left him -nothing to urge. - -"I must be satisfied without you, then," he said at last. "I thought of -you directly." - -"He'll have every attention; you needn't doubt that." - -"Such a little chap--among strangers!" - -"We have very young children in the wards." - -"And perhaps to be dangerously ill!" - -"You must try to hope for the best." - -"Ah, you speak like the hospital nurse to me!" he cried; "I was -remembering the woman." - -"I speak as what I am," she returned coldly; "I am one of the nurses. I -have no remembrances, myself." - -"You could remember this week, when we met again. And once you wouldn't -have found it so impossible to spare a minute's kindness to my boy!" - -She moved towards the door, paler, but self-contained. - -"I must go now," she said; "I can't stay away long." - -"You choose to forget only when something is asked of you!" - -"I have told you," she said, turning, "that it is out of my power to do -anything." - -"And you are glad you can say it!" - -"Perhaps. No reminder of my old disgrace is pleasant to me." - -"Your reformation is very complete," he answered bitterly; "the woman I -used to know would have been unable to retaliate upon a helpless child." - -The sting of the retort roused her to refutation. Her hand, extended -towards the door, dropped to her side; she faced him swiftly. - -"You find me what you made me," she said with white lips. "I neither -retaliate nor pity. What is your wife's child to me, that you ask me to -care for it? If I'm hard, it was you who taught me to be hard before he -was born." - -"It's _my_ child I asked you to care for. And I brought myself to ask -it because he's my dearest thing on earth. I thank God to learn he -won't be in your charge!" - -She shivered, and for a moment looked at him intently. Then her eyelids -drooped, and she left him without a word. - -She went out into the corridor--her hand was pressed against her -breast. But her duties were not immediately resumed. She made her way -into the children's wing, moving with nothing of indecision in her -manner, but like one who proceeds to fulfil a purpose. The two rows of -beds left a passage down the floor, and she scanned the faces till she -reached the nurses' table. - -By chance, she spoke to the nurse that Kincaid had summoned. - -"There's a boy just been brought in with diphtheria, Sophie; do you -know where he is?" - -"Yes, I'm going back to him in a minute. He's in a special ward." - -"Let me see him!" - -"Have you got permission?" - -"No." - -Nurse Gay hesitated. - -"I shall get into trouble," she said. "Why don't you ask for it?" - -"I don't want to wait; I want to see him now." - -"I've been in hot water once this week already----" - -"Sophie, I know the mite, and--and his people. I _must_ go in to him!" - -The girl glanced at her keenly. - -"Oh, if it's like that!" she said. "It's only a wigging--go!" And she -told her where he was. - -He lay alone in the simple room, when Mary entered--a diminutive -patient for whom the narrow cot looked large. The nurse had been -showing him a picture-book, and this yawned loosely on the quilt, where -it had slid from his listless hold. At the sound of Mary's approach, -he turned. But he did not recognise her. A doubtful gaze appraised her -intentions. - -At first she did not speak. She stooped over the pillow, smoothing and -re-smoothing it mechanically, a hand trembling closer to the disordered -curls. Her own gaze deepened and hung upon him; her lips parted. Her -hands crept timidly nearer. Her face was bent till her mouth was -yielding kisses on his cheek. She yearned over him through wet lashes, -a wondering smile always on her face. - -"Archie," she murmured; "Archie, baby-boy, is it comfy for you? Won't -you see the pictures--all the pretty people in the book?" - -"Not nice pictures," he complained. - -"You shall have nicer ones this afternoon," she said; "this afternoon, -when I go out. Let me show you these now! Look, here's a little boy in -bed, like you! His name was 'Archie,' too; and one day his papa took -him to a big house, where papa had friends, and---- - -"Papa! I _want_ papa!" - -"Oh, my darling," she said, "papa is coming! He'll come very, very -soon. The other little boy wanted papa as well, and he wasn't happy at -first at all. But in the big house everybody was so kind, and glad to -have Archie there, that presently he thought it a treat to stop. It was -so nice directly that it was better than being at home. They gave him -toys, lots and lots of toys; and there were oranges and puddings--it -was beautiful!" - -She could not remain, she was needed elsewhere; and when Kincaid made -his round she was on duty. But she ascertained developments throughout -the day, and by twilight she knew that the child was grievously ill. -She did not marvel at her interest; it engrossed her to the exclusion -of astonishment. If she was surprised at all, it was that Carew could -have believed in her neutrality. Yet she was thankful that he had -believed in it; and at the same time, rejoiced that his first impulse -had been to put faith in her good heart. She did not analyse her -sympathy, ashamed of the cause from which it sprang. When she had -gazed, during the intervening years, at the faded photograph, she had -reproached herself and wept; now it all seemed natural. She sought -neither to reason nor to euphemise. The feeling was spontaneous, and -she went with it. She called it by no wrong word, because she called -it nothing. She was borne as it carried her, blindly, unresistingly, -without pausing to name it, or to define its source. It seemed natural. -She inquired about Archie when she had risen next morning, and a little -later, contrived another flying visit to the room. But he was now too -ill to notice her. - -In the afternoon, Carew came again. She learnt it while he was there, -and gathered something of his wretchedness. She heard how he besieged -the nurse with questions: "Had she seen so bad a case before--well, -often before? Had those who recovered been so young as Archie? Was -there nothing else that could be tried?" She listened, with her head -bowed, imagining the scene that she could not enter; deploring, -remembering, re-living--praying for "Tony's child." - -Not till the man had gone, however, was everything related to her. -She was sitting at the extremity of the ward, sewing, shortly to be -free for the night. It was the hour when the quiet of the hospital -deepened into the hush that preluded the extinction of the patients' -lights. The supper-trays had long since been removed from the bedsides. -Through the apertures of curtain, a few patients, loath to waive -the privilege while they held it, were to be seen reading books and -magazines; others were asleep already, and even the late-birds of the -ward who dissipated in wheel-chairs, to the envy of the rest, had made -their final excursion for the day. The Major had stopped his chair to -utter his last wish for "a comfortable night, sir." The chess champion -had concluded his conquest on a recumbent adversary's quilt. Where -breakfast comes at six o'clock, grown men resume some of the customs -of their infancy, and the day that begins so early closes soon. It was -very peaceful, very still; and she was sitting in the lamp-rays, sewing. - -She looked round as the Matron joined her. It was known that the case -interested her, and in subdued tones they spoke of it. - -"How is he?" - -"He's been dreadfully bad. The worst took place before the father left; -Dr. Kincaid had to come up." - -"What?--tell me!" - -"He had to perform tracheotomy. The father was there all the time; Dr. -Kincaid told him what was going to be done, but he wouldn't go. The -child was blue in the face and there wasn't any stopping to argue. When -the cut in the throat was made and the tube put in, I thought the man -was going to faint. He was standing just by me. 'Good God! Is this an -experiment?' he said. I told him it was the only way for the child to -breathe, but he didn't seem to hear me. And when the fit of coughing -came--oh, my goodness! You know what the coughing's like?" - -"Go on!" - -"He made sure it was all over; he burst out sobbing, and the doctor -ordered him out of the room. 'If you're fond of your child, keep quiet -here, sir,' he said, 'or go and compose yourself outside!' I think he -was sorry he'd spoken so sternly afterwards, though he was quite right, -for----" - -"Oh!" shuddered Mary. "Did you see him again?" - -"Yes; I told him he'd had no business to stop. He said, 'If the worst -happens, I shall think it right I was there.' I said he must try to -believe that only the best would happen now; though whether I ought to -have said it I don't know. When it comes to tracheotomy in diphtheria, -the child's chance is slim. Still, this one's as fine a little chap as -ever I saw; he's got the strength of many a pair we get here--and the -man was in such a state. He's coming back to-night--he's to see _me_, -anyhow; he had to hurry off to the theatre to act. I can't imagine how -he'll get through." - -"I must go! I must go to the ward!" She rose, clasping her hands -convulsively. "I can, can't I? It's Nurse Mainwaring's time to relieve -me--why isn't she here?" - -The Matron calmed her. - -"Hush! you can go as soon as she comes. Don't take on like that, or -I shall be sorry I told you. Nurse Bradley has complained of feeling -ill--I expect that's what it is." - -Mary raised a faint smile, deprecating her vehemence. - -"I'm very fond of the boy," she said, with apology in her voice. "It -was very kind of you to tell me; I thank you very much." - -Nurse Mainwaring appeared now. - -"Nurse Bradley can't get up, madam," she announced. - -"Nonsense! what is it?" - -"A sick-headache; she can't see out of her eyes." - -It was the moment of dismay in which a hospital realises that its -staff, too, is flesh and blood--the hitch in the human machinery. - -"Then we're short-handed to-night. You relieve here, Nurse Mainwaring?" - -"Yes, madam." - -"And Nurse Gay--who should relieve her?" - -"Nurse Bradley." - -"_I'll_ relieve her," cried Mary; "I'd like to!" - -"You need your night's rest as much as most. And there's no napping -with trachy--it means watching all the time." - -"I shan't nap; I shan't want to. Somebody must lose her night's -rest--why not I?" - -"I think we can manage without you." - -"It'll be a favour to me--I'm thankful for the chance." - -"Well, then, you shall halve it with someone. You can take the first -half, and----" - -"No, no," she urged, "that's rough on the other and not enough for me. -Give it me all!" - -The Matron yielded: - -"Nurse Brettan relieves Nurse Gay!" - -In the room the boy lay motionless as if already dead. From the mouth -breath no longer passed; only by holding a hand before the orifice of -the tube inserted in the throat could one detect that he now breathed -at all. As Mary took the seat by his side, the force of professional -training was immediately manifest. She had begged for the extra work -with almost feverish excitement; she entered upon it collected and -self-controlled. A stranger would have said: "A conscientious woman, -but experience has blunted her sensibilities." - -On the table were some feathers. With these, from time to time -throughout the night, she had to keep the tube free from obstruction. -Even the briefest indulgence to drowsiness was impossible. Unwavering -attention to the state of the passage that admitted air to the lungs -was not merely important, the necessity was vital. A continuous, an -inflexible vigilance was required. It was to this that the nurse, -already worn by the usual duties of the day, had pledged herself in -place of the absentee. - -At half-past nine she had cleansed the tube twice. At ten o'clock -Kincaid came in. - -"I am relieving Nurse Gay," she said, rising; "Nurse Bradley's head is -very bad." - -He went to the bed and ascertained that all was well. - -"It'll be very trying for you; wasn't there anyone to divide the work?" - -"I wanted to do it all myself." - -"Ah, yes, I understand; you know the father." - -It was the only reference that he had made to the father's asking for -her, and she was sensible of inquiry in his tone. She nodded. And, -alone together for the first time since her appointment, they stood -looking at Carew's child. - -She had no wish to speak. On him the situation imposed restraint. -But to be with her thus had a charm, for all that. It was not to be -uttered, not to be dwelt on, but, due in part to the prevailing silence -of the house, there was an illusion of confidential intercourse that he -had not felt with her here before. - -While they looked, the boy gave a quick gasp. The tube had become -clogged. - -She started and threw out her hand towards the feathers. But Kincaid -had picked one up already, favoured by his position. - -"All right!" he said; "I'll free it." - -He leant over the pillow, feather in hand. She watched him with eyes -widening in terror, for she saw that his endeavours were futile and he -could not free it. - -The waxen placidity of the upturned face vanished as she watched. -It regained the signs of life to struggle with the gripe of -death--distorted in an instant, and distorted frightfully. The average -woman would have wept aloud. The nurse, to all intents and purposes, -preserved her calmness still. - -It was Kincaid who gave the first token of despondence. - -"The thing's blocked!" he exclaimed; "I can't clear it!" - -His voice had the repressed despair of a surgeon, who is an enthusiast, -too, opposed by a higher force. Under the test of his defeat her -composure broke down. Confronted by a danger in which her interest was -vivid and personal she--as the father had done before her--became -agitated and unstrung. - -"You must," she said. "Doctor, for Heaven's sake!" - -He was trying still, but with scant success. - -"I'm doing my best; it seems no good." - -"You must save this life," she repeated. - -"You will?" - -"I tell you I can't do any more." - -"You will--you shall!" she persisted wildly. The very passion of -motherhood suffused her features. "Doctor, it is _his_ child!" - -He looked at her--their gaze met, even then. It was only in a flash. -Abruptly the gasps of the dying baby became horrible to witness. The -eyeballs rolled hideously, and seemed as if they would spring from -their sockets. The tiny chest heaved and fell in agonising efforts to -gain air, while in its convulsive battle against suffocation the frail -body almost lifted itself from the mattress. - -"Go away," said the man; "there's nothing you can do." - -She refused to stir. She appealed to him frantically. - -"Help him!" she stammered. - -"There's no way." - -"You, the doctor, tell me there's no way?" - -"None." - -"But _I_ know there _is_ a way," she cried; "I can suck that tube!" - -"Mary! My God! it might kill you!" - -She flung forward, but the conflict ceased as he pulled her back. A -small quantity of the mucus had been dislodged by the paroxysm that -it had produced. Nature had done--imperfectly, but still done--what -science had failed to effect. The boy breathed. - -The outbreak was followed by complete exhaustion, and again it seemed -that life was extinct. Kincaid assured himself that it lingered still, -and turned to her gravely. - -"You were about to do a wicked, and a foolish thing. After what it has -gone through, nothing under Heaven can save the child; you ought to -know as much as that. At best you could only hope to prolong life for -two or three hours." - -Tears were dripping down her cheeks. - -"'Only!'" she said; "do you think that's nothing to me? An hour longer, -and his father will be here--to find him living, or dead. Do you -suppose I can't imagine--do you suppose I can't feel--what _he_ feels, -there on the stage, counting the seconds to release? In an hour the -curtain 'll be down and he'll have rushed here praying to be in time. -If it were revealed that I should do nothing but prolong the life by -sacrificing my own, I'd sacrifice it! Gladly, proudly--yes, proudly, as -God hears! You could never have prevented me--nothing should prevent -me. I'd risk my life ten times rather than he should arrive too late." - -"This," drearily murmured the man who loved her, "is the return you -would make for his sin?" - -"No," she said; "it is the atonement I would offer for mine." - -He stood dumbly at the head of the cot; the woman trembled at the foot. -But they saw the change next minute simultaneously. Once more the -passage had become hopelessly clogged. With a broken cry, she rushed to -the cot's vacant side. This time he could not pull her back. He spoke. - -"Stop! Nurse Brettan, I order you to leave the ward!" - -The voice was imperative, and an instant she wavered; but it was the -merest instant. The woman had vanquished the nurse, and the woman -was the stronger now. A glance she threw of mingled supplication and -defiance, and, casting herself on the bed, she set her lips to the -tube. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -It was the work of a moment. Almost as he started forward to restrain -her, she had raised herself, and, burying her face in a handkerchief, -leant, shaking, against the wall. - -Kincaid gazed at her, white and stern, and a tense silence followed, -broken by her. - -"You can have me dismissed," she said--"he will see his child!" - -He answered nothing. The cruelty of the speech which ignored and -perverted everything outside the interests of the man by whom she -had been wronged seemed the last blow that his pain could have to -bear. A sense of the inequality and injustice of life's distribution -overwhelmed him. Viewed in the light of her defeated enemy, he felt as -broken, as far from power or dignity, as if the imputation had been -just. - -She resumed her seat; and, waiting as long as duty still required, he -at last made some remark. She replied constrainedly. The intervention -of the pause was demonstrated by their tones, which sounded flat and -dull. He was thankful when he could go; and his departure was not less -welcome to the woman. To her reactionary weakness the removal of -supervision came as balm. He went from her heavily, and she drew her -chair yet closer to the bedside. - -Tony would see his boy! She had no other settled thought, excepting the -reluctant one that she would meet him when he came. The reflection that -he would hear of her share in the matter gladdened her scarcely at all; -indeed, when she contemplated his enlightenment, she was perturbed. He -would learn that his initial faith in her had been justified, and he -would be sorry, piteously sorry, for all the hard words that he had -used. But by _her_ there was little to be gained; what she had done -had been for him. She found it even a humiliation that her act would -be known to him--a humiliation which his gratitude would do nothing to -decrease. She looked at the watch that she had pawned for the rent of -her garret after his renunciation of her, and determined the length of -time before he could arrive. - -The stress of the last few minutes could not be suffered to beget any -abatement of wariness. But by degrees, as the reverberation of the -outburst faded, she felt more tranquil than she had done since the -Matron joined her earlier in the evening; and the vigil was continued -with undiminished care. Archie would die, but now Tony would be -present. The closing moments would not pass while he was simulating -misery or mirth on a stage. Horror of the averted fate, more dreadful -to a woman's mind even than to the father's own, made the brief -protraction appear an almost priceless boon. - -It was possible for him to be here already; not likely, perhaps, so -soon as this, but possible, supposing that the piece "played quick" and -that a cab had been ordered to await him at the door. She listened for -the roll of wheels in the distance, but the silence was undisturbed. -Archie was lying as calm as when she had entered. If no further -impediment occurred, to exhaust the remaining strength more speedily, -it seemed safe to think that he might last two hours. - -Her misgivings as to her risk were slight. The danger she had run -might prove fatal; but the thing had been done with impunity at least -once before--she remembered hearing of it. While we have our health, -the contingency of sickness appears to us more remote from ourselves -than from our neighbours; in her own case, a serious result looked -exceedingly improbable. She regarded the benefit of her temerity as -cheaply bought. None knew better than she, however, how much completive -attention was called for, what alertness of eye and hand was essential -afterwards; and, sitting there, her gaze was fastened on the boy as if -she sought to hearken to every flutter of his pulse. - -Now a cab did approach; she held her breath as it rattled near. It -stopped, she fancied, before the hospital gate. Still with her stare -riveted on the unconscious child, she strained her ears for the -confirmatory tread. The seconds ticked away, swelling to minutes, but -no footstep fell. The hope had been a false one! Presently the cab -was heard again, driving away. She began to be distressed, alarmed. -Making allowance for a too sanguine calculation, it was time that -he was here!... The delay was unaccountable; no conjecture could be -formed as to its extent. Her fingers were laced and unlaced in her -lap nervously. She imagined the rumble of wheels in the soughing of -the wind, alternately intent and discomfited. The faint slamming of -a cottage-door startled her to expectation. In the profundity of the -hush that spread with every subsidence of sound, she seemed to hear the -throbbing of her heart. - -Out in the town a clock struck twelve, and apprehension verged upon -despair. The eyes fixed on the boy were desperate now; she leant over -him to contest the advent of the end shade by shade. So far no change -was shown; Tony's fast dwindling chance was not yet lost. "God, God! -Send him quick!" she prayed. Racked with impatience, tortured by the -fear that what she had done might, after all, be unavailing, she strove -to devise some theory to uphold her. Debarred from venting her suspense -in action, she found the constraint of her posture almost physical -pain. - -The clock boomed the hour of one. It swept suddenly across her mind -that the Matron had been doubtful of letting him proceed to the ward on -his return: he must have come and gone! She had been reaching forward, -and her arm remained extended vaguely. Consternation engulfed her. If -during ten seconds she thought of anything but her neglect to ensure -his being admitted, she thought she felt the blood in her freezing -from head to foot. He had come and gone!--she was thwarted by her own -oversight. Defeat paralysed the woman.... Her exploit now assumed an -aspect of grievous hazard, enhanced by its futility. She lifted herself -faint at soul. Her services were instinctive, mechanical; she resumed -them, she was assiduous and watchful; but she appeared to be prompted -by some external influence, with her brain benumbed. - -All at once a new thought thrilled her stupor. She heard the stroke of -three, and the boy was still alive! The ungovernable hope shook her -back to sensation. She told herself that the hope was wild, fantastic, -that she would be mad to harbour it, but excitement shivered in her; -she was strung with the intensity of what she hesitated to own. Every -second that might bring the end and yet withheld it, fanned the hope -feebly; the passage of each slow, dragging minute stretched suspense -more taut. She dreaded the quiver of her lashes that veiled his face -from view, as if the spark of life might vanish as her eyelids fell. -Between eternities, the distant clock rang forth the quarters of the -hour across the sleeping town, and at every quarter she gasped "Thank -God!" and wondered would she thank Him by the next. Hour trailed into -hour. The boy lingered still. Haggard, she tended and she watched. The -dreariness of daybreak paled the blind before the bed. The blind grew -more transparent, and hope trembled on. There was the stir of morning, -movement in the street; dawn touched them wanly, and hope held her yet. -And sunrise showed him breathing peacefully once more--and then she -knew that Heaven had worked a miracle and the child would live. - - * * * * * - -Among the staff that case is cited now and still the nurses tell how -Mary Brettan saved his life. The local _Examiner_ gave the matter a -third of a column, headed "Heroism of a Hospital Nurse." And, cut down -to five lines, it was mentioned in the London papers. Mr. Collins, of -Pattenden's, glanced at the item, having despatched the youth of the -prodigious yawn with a halfpenny, and--remembering how the surname was -familiar--wondered for a moment what the woman was doing who could -never sell their books. - -It was later in the morning that Carew entered the hospital, as Kincaid -crossed the hall. The porter heard the doctor's answer to a stammered -question: - -"Your child is out of danger. I'm sorry to say Nurse Brettan risked her -life for him." - -Then the visitor started, and stopped short hysterically, and the -doctor moved by, with his jaw set hard. - -To Mary he had said little. He was confronted by a recovery that it had -been impossible to foresee, but his predominant emotion was terror of -its cost. From the Matron she heard of Carew's gratitude, and received -his message of entreaty to be allowed to see her. It was not delivered, -however, till she woke, and then he had gone; and by the morrow her -reluctance to have an interview had deepened. She contented herself -with the note that he sent: one written to say that he "could not -write--that in a letter he was unable to find words." She read it very -slowly, and it drooped to her lap, and she sat gazing at the wall. She -brushed the mist from her eyes, and read the lines again, and yet again ---long after she knew them all by heart. - -Next day she rose with a strange stiffness in her throat. With her -descent to the ward, it increased. And she was frightened. But at first -she would not mention it, because she was loath for Kincaid to know. -She felt it awkward to draw breath; by noon the difficulty was not to -be concealed. She went to bed--protesting, but by Kincaid's command. - -Nurse Brettan had become a patient. She said how queer it was to be -in the familiar room in this unfamiliar way. The nurse whose watch of -Archie she had relieved was chosen to attend on her; and Mary chaffed -her weakly on her task. - -"It ought to be a good patient this spell, Sophie! If I'm a nuisance, -you may shake me." - -But to Kincaid she spoke more earnestly now the danger-signal was -displayed. - -"You did all you could to stop me, doctor. Whatever happens, you'll -remember that! You did everything that was right, and so did I." - -"Don't talk rubbish about 'happenings,' Nurse!" he said; "we shall want -you to be up and at work again directly." - -Nevertheless, she grew worse as the child grew stronger; and for a -fortnight the man who loved her suffered fiercer pain each time he -answered "Rubbish!" And the man whom she loved sought daily tidings of -her when he called to view the progress of his boy. She used to hear of -his inquiries and turn her face on the pillow, and lie for a long while -very quiet. Her distaste to meeting him had gone and she craved for him -to come to her. But now she could not bring herself to let him do it, -because her neck and face were so swollen and unsightly, and her voice -had dwindled to a whisper that was not nice to hear. - -Then all hope was at an end--it was known that she was dying. And one -morning the nurse said to her: - -"Perhaps this afternoon you'd like to see him? He has asked again." - -"This afternoon?" Momentarily her eyes brightened, but the shame of -her unloveliness came back to her, and she sighed. "Give me ... the -glass, Sophie ... there's a dear!" She looked up at her reflection in -the narrow mirror held aslant over the bed. "No," she said feebly, "not -this afternoon. Perhaps tor morrow." - -The girl put back the glass without speaking. And a gaze followed her -questioningly till she left. - -When Kincaid came in, Mary asked him how long she had to live. - -He was worn with a night of agony--a night whose marks the staff had -observed and wondered at. - -"How long?" she asked; "I know I can't get better. When's it going to -be?" He clenched his teeth to curb the twitching of his mouth. "It -isn't _now_?" - -"No, no," he said. "You shouldn't, you _mustn't_ frighten yourself like -this!" - -"To-day?" - -"Not to-day," he answered hoarsely, "I honestly believe." - -"To-morrow?" - -"Mary!" - -"To-morrow?" she pleaded in the same painful whisper. "Tell me the -truth. What to-morrow?" - -"I think--to-morrow you may know how much I loved you." - -She did not move; and he had turned aside. He noticed it was raining -and how the drops spattered on the window-sill. - -"I didn't see," she murmured; "I thought-you--had--forgotten." - -"No," he said; "you never saw. It doesn't matter; I know now it would -never have been any use. Hush, dear; don't talk; it's so bad for you!" - -"I'm sorry. But I was _his_ before you came. I couldn't. Could I?" - -"No, of course. Don't worry; don't, for God's sake! There's nothing -to be sorry about. I must go to the next ward; I shall see you this -afternoon. Try to sleep a little, won't you?" - -He went out, with a word to the nurse, who came back; and Mary lay -silent. - -Presently she said: - -"Sophie--yes, this afternoon," - -Something in the voice startled; the girl gulped before she spoke: - -"All right! he shall hear as soon as he comes." - -"Don't forget." - -"I won't forget, chummy; you can feel quite sure about it." - -"Thanks, Sophie. I'm so tired." - -The rain was falling still. She heard it blowing against the panes, -and lay listening to it, wondering if it would keep him away. Then her -thoughts drifted; and she slept. - -When Kincaid returned he took Sophie's place, and sat watching till the -figure stirred. The eyes opened at him vaguely. - -"I've been asleep?" - -"Yes." - -"Is it very late?" - -"It's about three, I think.... Just three." - -"Ah!" she said with relief. - -She closed her eyes again, and there was a long pause. He covered her -nerveless hand with his own. - -"Don't grieve," she whispered; "it doesn't hurt." - -"Oh, my dear, my dear! You, and my mother, too--helpless with both!" - -"The many," she said faintly, "think of the many you've pulled through. -You've ... been very good to me ... very good." - -To his despair it seemed that ever since they met she had been telling -him that. It was the dole that she had yielded, the atom that his -devotion had ever wrung from her--she found him "good"! - -And even as she said it, her eagerness caught the footfall, that she -had been waiting for; and she nestled lower on the pillow, trying to -hide her disfigurement from view. - -"Mary," said Kincaid, "you didn't care for me; but will you let me kiss -you on the forehead--while you know?" - -A smile--a smile of tenderness wonderfully new and strange to him -irradiated her face; and, turning, he saw the other man had come in. - - -THE END - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Man Who Was Good, by Leonard Merrick - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO WAS GOOD *** - -***** This file should be named 43837.txt or 43837.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/8/3/43837/ - -Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org -(Scans generously made available by the Internet Archive -- University of Toronto, Robarts Library.) - - -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. 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Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm -concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared -with anyone. For forty 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: - - 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. - diff --git a/43837.zip b/43837.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 097d78c..0000000 --- a/43837.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/43837-8.txt b/old/43837-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 24c12d6..0000000 --- a/old/43837-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8127 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Man Who Was Good, by Leonard Merrick - -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 - - -Title: The Man Who Was Good - With an Introduction by J.K. Prothero - -Author: Leonard Merrick - -Commentator: J.K. Prothero - -Release Date: September 28, 2013 [EBook #43837] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO WAS GOOD *** - - - - -Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org -(Scans generously made available by the Internet Archive -- University of Toronto, Robarts Library.) - - - - - -THE MAN IS WHO WAS GOOD - -BY - -LEONARD MERRICK - -WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY - -J.K. PROTHERO - -HODDER & STOUGHTON - -LONDON--NEW YORK--TORONTO - -1921 - - - - -"That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true; -Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows. -If you loved only what were worth your love, -Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you." - - James Lee's Wife. - - - - -INTRODUCTION - - -There is a rare refreshment in the works of Leonard Merrick; gracious -yet distinctive, his style has a polished leisure seldom enjoyed these -days when perfection of literary form is at a discount. His art is -impossible of label; almost alone amongst the writers of to-day he has -the insight and the courage at once to admit the pitiless facts of life -and to affirm despite them--through hunger and loneliness, injustice -and disappointment--the spirit can and does remain unbroken; that if -there be no assurance of success, neither is there certainty of failure. - -There is no sentimental weakness in the method he employs. A rare -genius for humour tempers all his work; he can record the progressive -starvation of an actor out of work in an economy of phrase that leaves -no room for gratuitous appeal, trace the long-drawn efforts to outpace -persistent poverty of pence with a simplicity that enforces conviction. -His pen is never so poignant or restrained as when he shows us a woman -sharpened and coarsened by cheap toil. But throughout the tale of -struggle and triumph, defeat and attainment, there persists that sense -of eternal quest which shortens the hardest road. Do you starve to-day? -Opportunity of plenty may wait at the street corner, the chance of a -lifetime alight from the next bus; for Leonard Merrick is not concerned -with people of large incomes and small problems; the men and women of -whom he writes earn their own living. - -His most marked successes deal with stage life, indeed he is one of the -very few authors who convince one of the actuality of theatrical folk. -He shows us the chorus girl in her lodgings, in the Strand bars, at -the dramatic agency; we understand her ambitions, become familiar with -her unconquerable pluck and capacity for comradeship, even acquire a -liking for the smell of grease-paint. We meet the same girl out of an -engagement, follow her pilgrimage from Bloomsbury to Brixton seeking -an ever cheaper lodging; we watch the mud and wet of the streets soak -her inadequate boots, endure with her the pangs of hunger ill-allayed -by a fugitive bun. We accompany her to the pawnbroker's, and experience -the joys of combat with a recalcitrant "uncle" who refuses to lend more -than eighteenpence on a silk blouse. And still the sense of adventure -persists, the reality of romance endures, the joy of laughter remains. -We realise the compensation of precarious tenure on sufficiency, -appreciate the great truth that the adversity of to-day is lightened by -the uncertainty of to-morrow, that no matter how grim the struggle, how -sharp the hardship--and the hunger--the sense of adventure companions -and consoles. Authors who concern themselves only with men and women -of assured position and regular incomes have forgotten the truth which -Leonard Merrick so triumphantly affirms. Romance is no respecter of -persons. The freedom of the open road, its promise, its pitfalls, -sudden ecstasies and fugitive glamours is not a preserve of the rich -but the heritage of the people. - -His psychological methods allure one by their seeming simplicity; -quietly, with a delicate deliberation, he emphasises the outline of -his characters until with sudden swift decision, in the utterance of -a phrase, the doing of some one of those small things that are life's -real revelations, he shows you the soul of the man or woman whose -externals he has so carefully portrayed. Half-forgotten words and acts -crowd in on the memory, as in _The Man who was Good_ when Carew appeals -to Mary to save his child--and her rival's. It needed the genius of -Merrick to make one realise that the high-water mark of betrayal was -reached not by the man's desertion of the woman who loved him, but by -his pitiful exploitation of that love. - -I know of no author with a more subtle understanding of woman, her -generosity and meanness, her strange reticence, amazing candours. Mary -Brettan, that tragedy of invincible fidelity, could only have been -portrayed by a man able to sense feminine capacity for dumb fortitude. -One feels that had she made even a gesture of revolt, Mary would have -been freed of the paralysis of sterile constancy; and one knows that -women of her type can never make the ultimate defiance. - -Leonard Merrick has the inimitable gift of inducing his readers to -experience the emotions he portrays. The zest of adventure grips -you, as it grips the hero of _Conrad in Quest of his Youth_, perhaps -the greatest of his triumphs. We share with that perfect lover his -mellow regrets and his anticipatory ardours; we wait in tremulous -expectancy outside the little restaurant in Soho for his delightful -Lady Parlington, falling, with him-from light-hearted confidence to -sickening uncertainty as time wears on and still she does not come. The -same emotional buoyancy stirs in all his work; his incomparable humour -endears to us the least of his creations. His adorable landladies -become our friends, his "walking gentlemen" our close acquaintance. I -do not know to this day whether I have met certain of these heavenly -creatures in life or in Mr. Merrick's novels, and it is difficult to -enter a theatrical lodging without feeling that you are living the -last story in _The Man who Understood Women_, or revisiting the first -beginnings of Peggy Harper. - -London has many lovers, none so intimate with her allurements as -Leonard Merrick. He knows the glamour of her midnight pavements, the -hunger of her clamant streets, and the enchantments of her grey river -have drawn him. He has felt the deciduous charm of her luxury, the -abiding pleasure of her leafy spaces, and the intriguing alleys of -Fleet Street are to him familiar and dear. For the suburbs he has an -infinite kindness, and has companioned adventure on many a questing -tram. - -It has long been a matter of insuperable difficulty to obtain Mr. -Merrick's novels; for years I have essayed to find a copy of _Conrad_, -and from every bookseller have been sent empty away. In a moment of -folly I lent my own copy to a neighbour--I cannot call him friend--who -forthwith adopted the volume as his most invaluable possession, and, -undeterred by savagery or threats, refused to give it up. And now after -long waiting, I am made glad by a reissue of these incomparable works, -and the knowledge that an ever-increasing public, too long denied the -opportunity of their acquaintance, will share my delight. Far removed -from the nightmare of the problem novel, his books centre on simple -human things savoured with the rare salt of his humour; and whether in -the suburbs or the slums, in Soho or the Strand, whether prosperous or -starving, the men and women of whom he writes are touched with that -high courage, that fine comradeship, which is the very essence of -romance. - -J.K. PROTHERO. - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -There were three women in the dressing-room. Little Miss Macy, who -played a subaltern, was pulling off her uniform; and the "Duchess," -divested of velvet, stood brushing the powder out of her hair. The -third woman was doing nothing. In a chair by the theatrical hamper -labelled "Miss Olive Westland's Tour: 'The Foibles of Fashion' Co.," -she sat regarding the others, her hands idle in her lap. She was -scarcely what is called "beautiful," much less was she what ought to be -called "pretty"; perhaps "womanly" came nearer to suggesting her than -either. Her eyes were not large, but they were so pensive; her mouth -was not small, but it curved so tenderly; the face was not regular, but -it looked so deliciously soft. Somebody had once said that it "made -him admire God"; in watching her, it seemed such a perfect thing that -there should be a low white brow, and hair to shade it; it seemed such -an exquisite and consummate thing that there should be lips where the -Maker put lips, and a chin where the chin is modelled. Her age might -have been twenty-seven, also it might have been thirty. The wise man -does not question the nice woman's age--he just thanks Heaven she -lives; and she in the chair by the hamper was decidedly nice. Other -women said so. - -"Have you been in front, Mrs. Carew?" asked the "Duchess." - -She answered that she had. "I came round at the end. It was a very good -house; the business is improving." - -"I should think," remarked the "subaltern," reaching for her skirt, -"you must know every line of the piece, the times you've seen it! But, -of course, you've nothing else to do." - -"No, it isn't lively sitting alone all the evening in lodgings; and -it's more comfortable in the circle than behind. How you people manage -to get dressed in some of the theatres puzzles me; I look at you from -the front, remembering where your things were put on, and marvel. If -I were in the profession, my salary wouldn't keep me in the frocks I -ruined." - -"I wonder Carew has never wanted you to go into it." - -The nice woman laughed. - -"Go into the profession!" she exclaimed--"I? Good gracious, what an -idea! No; Tony has a very flattering opinion of his wife's abilities, -but I don't think even he goes the length of fancying I could act." - -"You'd be as good as a certain leading lady we know of, at any rate. -Nobody could be much worse than our respected manageress, I'll take my -oath!" - -"Jeannie," said the "Duchess" sharply, "don't quarrel with your -bread-and-butter!" - -"I'm not," said the girl; "I'm criticising it--a very different matter, -my dear. I hate these amateurs with money, even if they do take out -companies and give shops to us pros. She queers the best line I've got -in the piece every night because she won't speak up and nobody knows -what it's an answer to. The real type of the 'confidential actress' is -Miss Westland; no danger of _her_ allowing anyone in the audience to -overhear what she says!" - -"Tony believes she'll get on all right," said Mrs. Carew, "when she has -had more experience. You do, too, don't you, Mrs. Bowman?" - -The "Duchess" replied vaguely that "experience did a great deal." She -had profited by her own, and at the "aristocratic mother" period of her -career no longer canvassed in dressing-rooms the capabilities of the -powers that paid the treasury. - -"Get on?" echoed Jeannie Macy, struggling into her jacket, "of course -she'll get on; she has oof! If it's very much she's got, you'll see -her by-and-by with a theatre of her own in London. Money, influence, -or talent, you must have one of the three in the profession, and for -a short-cut give me either of the first two. Sweet dreams, both of -you; I've got a hot supper waiting for me, and I can smell it spoiling -from here!" The door banged behind her; and Mrs. Carew turned to the -"Duchess" with a smile. - -"You're coming round to us afterwards, aren't you?" she said. - -"Yes, Carew asked the husband in the morning: I hope he's got some -coppers; I reminded him. It's such a bother having to keep an account -of how we stand after every deal. We'll be round about half-past -twelve. Are you going?" - -"I should think Tony ought to be ready by now. You remember our number?" - -"Nine?" - -"Nine; opposite the baker's." - -Mrs. Carew hummed a little tune, and made her way down the stairs. The -stage, of which she had a passing view, was dark, for the foot-lights -were out, and in the T-piece only one gas-jet flared bluely between the -bare expanse of boards and the blackness of the empty auditorium. In -the passage, a man, hastening from the star-room, almost ran against -her; Mr. Seaton Carew still wore the clothes in which he finished the -play, and he had not removed his make-up yet. - -"What!" she cried, "haven't you changed? How's that? What have you been -doing?" - -"I've been talking to Miss Westland," he explained hurriedly. "There -was something she wanted to see me about. Don't wait any longer, Mary; -I've got to go up to her lodgings with her." - -She hesitated a moment, surprised. - -"Is it so important?" she asked. - -"Yes," he said; "I'll tell you about it later on; I want to have a talk -with you afterwards. I shan't be long." - -Whenever she came to the theatre, which was four or five times a week, -they, naturally, returned together, and she enjoyed the stroll in the -fresh air, "after the show," with Tony. Three years' familiarity with -the custom had not destroyed its charm to her. To-night she went out -into the Leicester streets a shade disconsolately. The gas was already -lighted when she reached the house, and a fire--for the month was -March--burnt clearly in the grate. The accommodation was not extensive: -a small ground-floor parlour, and a bedroom at the back. On the parlour -mantelpiece were some faded photographs of people who had stayed there ---Mr. Delancey as the Silver King; Miss Ida Ryan, smoking a cigarette, -as Sam Willoughby. She took off her coat, and, turning her back on the -supper-table, wondered what the conference with Miss Westland was about. - -The tedium of the delay began to tell upon her. The landlady had -brought in her book of testimonials during the afternoon, to ask Mr. -and Mrs. Carew for theirs; and fetching it from where it lay, she began -listlessly to turn the leaves. These books were abominated by Carew, -for he never knew what to write; and, perusing the comments in this -one, she mentally agreed with him that it was not easy to find a medium -between curtness and exaggeration. Some she recognised, knowing before -she looked what signatures were appended. The "Stay but a little, I -will come again" quotation she had seen above the same name in a score -of lodgings, and there were two or three "impromptus" in rhyme that she -had met before. - -She had been very happy this time at Leicester. They had arrived on -the anniversary of her and Tony's first meeting, and she had felt -additionally tender towards him all the week. The landlady had not -effected the happiness certainly, but her lodger was quite willing to -give her some of the benefit of it. She dipped the pen in the ink, -and wrote in a bold, upright hand, "The week spent in Mrs. Liddy's -apartments will always be a pleasant remembrance to Mr. and Mrs. Seaton -Carew." Then she put the date underneath. - -She had just finished when Mrs. Liddy entered with the beer. The -Irishwoman said that she was going to bed, but that Mrs. Carew would -find more glasses in the cupboard when her friends came. She supposed -that that was all? - -It was now twelve o'clock, and Mrs. Carew, with an occasional glance -at the cold beef and the corner of rice pudding, began to walk about -the room. Presently she stopped and listened. A whistle had reached her -from outside--the whistle of eight notes that is the actor's call. She -surmised that young Dolliver had forgotten their number, as he did in -every town. She drew aside the blind and let the light shine out. Young -Dolliver it was. - -"I've been whistling all up and down the road," he said, aggrieved; -"what were you doing?" - -"Well, that isn't bad," she laughed. "Why don't you remember addresses -like anybody else?" - -"Can't," he declared; "never could! Never know where I'm staying myself -if I don't make a note of it as soon as I go in. In Jarrow, one Monday, -I had to wander all over the place for three' mortal hours in the -pouring rain, looking for someone in the company to tell me where I -lived. Hallo! where's Carew?" - -"He'll be in directly," she said. "Sit down." - -"Oh! I'm awfully sorry to have come so early," he exclaimed; "why, you -haven't fed or anything." - -He was a bright-faced boy, with a cheery flow of chatter, and she was -glad he had appeared. - -"I expect the Bowmans any minute," she assured him; "you aren't early. -Do sit down, there's a good child, and don't stand fiddling your hat -about; put it on the piano! Have you banqueted yourself?" - -"To repletion. What did you think of Carew's notice in the Great -Sixpennyworth on Saturday? Wasn't it swagger? 'The rôle finds an ideal -exponent in Mr. Seaton Carew, an actor who is rapidly making his way -into the foremost ranks of his profession'!" - -"A line and a half," she said, "by a provincial correspondent! I shan't -be satisfied till----well!" - -"I know--till you see him with sixteen lines all to himself in the -_Telegraph_! No more will he, I fancy. He's red-hot on success, is -Carew--do anything for it. So'm I; I should like to play Claude." - -"Claude?" she exclaimed. "Why, you're funny!" - -"Not by disposition," he declared. "Miss Westland is responsible for -my being funny. When they said 'a small comedy-part is still vacant,' -I said small comedy-parts are my forte of fortes! Had it been an 'old -man' that was wanted, I should have professed myself born to dodder. -But if it comes to choice--to the secret tendency of the sacred fire--I -am lead, I am romantic, I have centre-entrances in the limelight. Look -here: 'A deep vale, shut out by Alpine----' No, wait a minute; you -do the Langtry business and let the flowers fall, while I 'paint the -home.' Do you know, my private opinion is that Claude only took those -lessons so that the widow shouldn't be put to any expense doing up the -home. Haven't got any flowers? Anything else then--where are the cards?" - -He found the pack on the sideboard, and pushed a few into her hand. - -"These'll do for the flowers," he said; "finger 'em lovingly; think -you're holding a good nap." - -"Don't be so ridiculous!" - -"I'm not," said Dolliver, with dignity; "I really want to hear your -views on my reading. Where was I--er--er---- - - "'Near a clear lake margin'd by fruits of gold - And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies - As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows.... - As I would have thy fate.' - -"You see I make a pause after 'shadows'--I'm natural. I gaze -hesitatingly at the floats, and the borders, and a kid in the pit. Then -I meet the eyes of the fair Pauline, and conclude with 'As I would have -thy fate,' smiling dreamily at the excellence of the comparison. That's -a new point, I take it?" - -He was seriously enamoured of his "new point," and was still -expatiating on it when they heard Carew unlocking the street-door. - -It was a man much of the woman's own age who came in. His face was -clean-shaven, and his hair was worn a trifle longer than the hair of -most men. Now that he was seen in a good light, it was plain that he -was disturbed; but he shook Dolliver by the hand as if relieved to find -him there. - -"What, not had supper? You must be starving, Mary?" - -"I _am_ pretty hungry," she admitted; "aren't you?" - -"Well, I've had something--still, I'll come to the table." She had -looked disappointed, and he drew his chair up. "Dolliver?" - -"Nothing for me, thanks. Oh! a glass of beer--I don't object to that." - -Despite her assertion, Mary made no great progress with her supper, -and Carew's evident disquietude even damped the garrulity of the boy. -It was not until the Bowmans arrived and a game of napoleon had been -begun, that the faint restraint caused by his manner wore away. - -Mr. Bowman, mindful of his wife's injunction, had provided himself with -several shillings'-worth of coppers, and, profiting by his forethought, -each of the party started with a rouleau of pence. These occasional -card parties after the performance had become an institution in "The -Foibles of Fashion" company, and it was seldom that anyone found them -expensive. Mary's capital, coppers included, was half a sovereign, and -to have won or lost such a sum as that at a sitting would have been -the subject of allusion for a month. To-night, however, the luck was -curiously unequal, and, to the surprise of all, Dolliver found himself -losing seven shillings before he had been playing half an hour. Much -sympathy was expressed for Dolliver. - -"Never mind, dear boy; it's always a mistake to win early in the -evening," said Carew. "There's plenty of time. I pass!" - -"Pass," said the "Duchess." - -Mary called three, and made them. - -"How do you stand, Mrs. Carew?" asked Bowman. - -"I'm just about the same as when we began. Tony, Mr. Bowman has nothing -to drink.--Oh, what a shame, Dolliver!--thanks! Fill up your own, won't -you?--He's a perfect martyr, this boy," she went on; "he cleared the -table before you two people came in--didn't you?" - -"Four!" cried Dolliver. "Yes; I cleared it beautifully. Utility is my -line of business." - -"Since when? I thought just now----" - -"Oh, confidences, Mrs. Carew!" He turned scarlet. "Don't give me -away!... Now, Mrs. Bowman, which is it to be?" - -She played trumps, and led with a king. - -A breathless moment, crowned by an unsuspected "little one" from -Dolliver. His "four" were safe, and he leant back radiant. - -The "Duchess" prepared to deal. - -"Who's got an address for the next town?" she inquired. - -"Haven't you written yet?" - -"No, we haven't got a place to write to; hateful, isn't it? If there's -a thing I loathe, it's having to look for rooms after we get in. We've ---pass!--always stayed in the same house, and--everybody to put in the -kitty again!--and now the woman's left, or something. My! isn't the -kitty getting big--look at all those sixpences underneath. Somebody -count it!" - -"Now then, Carew, don't go to sleep!" - -Carew, thus adjured, gathered up the cards. Fitfully he was almost -himself again, and only Mary was really sure that anything was amiss. - -"There's a little hotel I've stopped at there," he said. "Not at all -bad--they find you everything for twenty-five bob the week; for two -people there'd be a reduction, too. Remind me, and I'll give you the -name; I have it in my book. Bowman, you to call!" - -Bowman called nothing; everybody passed again, and the kitty was -augmented once more. - -"What time do we travel Sunday--anybody know?" - -"You can be precious sure," said Bowman, "that it will be at some -unearthly hour. I've had a good many years' experience in the -profession, but I never in my life was in a company where they did -so many night journeys as they do in this one. I believe that little -outsider arranges it on purpose!" - -"A daisy of an acting-manager, isn't he? I once knew another fellow -much the--two, I call two--and then, at the end of the tour, hanged if -they didn't rush us for a presentation to him!" - -"So they will for this chap. Presentations in the profession, upon my -soul, are the----" - -"Three," said the "Duchess." - -"And when the time comes, not a member of the crowd will have the pluck -to refuse. You see!" - -"Did you ever know an actor who had, when he was asked?" - -Dolliver flushed excitedly. - -"Nap!" he exclaimed. - -"Oh, oh, oh! Dolliver goes nap!" - -"No; d'ye mean it? Very well, fire ahead, then; play up!" - -There was two minutes' silence, and the youngster smacked down his last -card, preparing a smile for defeat. - -"He's made it! Mrs. Bowman, you threw it away; if you'd played hearts, -instead----" - -"No, no, she couldn't help it. She had to follow suit." - -"Of course!"--the "Duchess" caught feebly at the explanation--"I had -to follow suit. What a haul! good gracious!" - -"That puts you right again, eh, dear boy?" - -"'I am once more the great house of Lyons!'" remarked Dolliver, piling -up the pennies. "Six, seven, eight! Look at the silver, great Scott! -Mrs. Carew, there's the ninepence I owe you." - -"'I have paid this woman, and I owe her nothing,'" quoted Carew. -"Dolliver, you've ruined me, you beggar! Where's the 'bacca?" - -At something to three there was a murmur about its being late, but the -loser now was Mrs. Bowman, and as her shillings had drifted into the -possession of Mary, the hostess said it really was not late at all.' -This disposed of the breaking-up question for half an hour. Then Bowman -began to talk of concluding the game after a couple of rounds. When -two such arrangements had been made and set at naught, the "Duchess" -proposed that they should finish at the next "nap." To "finish at the -next nap" was a euphemism for continuing for a good: long while, and -the resolution was carried unanimously. - -The clock had struck four when the nap was made, and the winner was -Mary. She had won more than six shillings, and the "Duchess," who was -the poorer by the amount, smiled with sleepy resignation. - -"You had the luck after all, Mrs. Carew," laughed Dolliver. -"Good-night." - -"Yes," she said carelessly; "I've made something between me and the -workhouse, anyhow! Good-night." - -She loitered about the room, putting little aimless touches to things, -while Carew saw the trio to the door. She heard him shut it behind -them, and heard their steps growing fainter on the pavement. He was -slow returning, queerly slow. Dolliver's voice reached her, taking -leave of the Bowmans at the corner, and still he had not come in. - -"Tony!" she called. - -He rejoined her almost as she spoke. - -"Don't go to bed, Mary," he said huskily; "I've something to say to -you." - -"What is it?" she asked. - -He hesitated for an instant, seeking an introductory phrase. The -agitation that he had been fighting all the night had conquered him. - -"My release has come at last," he answered. "My wife is dead." - -"Dead?" - -She stood gazing at him with dilated eyes, the colour ebbing from her -cheeks. - -"She was ill some time. Drink it was, I hear; I daresay! Anyhow, she's -gone; the mistake is finished. I've paid for it dearly enough, Lord -knows!" - -He had paused midway between her and the hearth, and he moved to the -hearth. She was sensible of a vague pang as he did so. A tense silence -followed his words. In thoughts that she had been unable to escape, -the woman who had paid for his mistake more dearly still had sometimes -imagined such a moment as this--had sometimes foreseen him crying to -her that he was free. Perhaps, now that the moment was here, it was a -little wanting--a little barer than the announcement of freedom that -she had pictured. - -"You're bound to feel the shock of it," she said, almost inaudibly. -"It's always a shock, the news of death." But she felt that the burden -of speech should be his. "Were you--used you to be very fond of her? -Does it come back?" - -"I was twenty. 'Fond'? I don't know. I wasn't with her three months -when----She had walked Liverpool; I never saw her from the day I found -it out. She didn't want me; the money was enough for her--to be sure of -it every week!" - -His attitude remained unchanged, his hands thrust deep into his -trouser-pockets. Opposite each other, both reviewed the past. She -waited for him to come to her--to touch her. Yes, the reality was barer -than the picture that she had seen. - -"When was it?" she murmured. - -"It was some weeks ago." - -"So long?" - -He left the hearth moodily, and began to pace the room from end to end. -The woman did not stir. The memory was with her of the morning that -he had avowed this marriage--of the agony that had wept to her for -pity--of the clasp that would not let her go. She looked abstractedly -at the fire; but in her heart she saw his every step, and counted the -turns that kept him from her side. - -"It makes a great difference!" he said abruptly. - -The consciousness of the difference was flooding her reason, yet she -did not speak. It should not be by her that the sanctification of her -sacrifice was broached. The wish, the reminder, the reparation, all -should be his! She nodded assent. - -"A great difference," he repeated hoarsely. He smeared the dampness -from his mouth and chin. "If--if my reputation were made now, Mary, I -should ask you to be my wife." - -And then she did not speak. There was an instant in which the wall swam -before her in a haze, and the floor lurched. In the next, she was still -fronting the fireplace; she was staring at it with the same intentness -of regard; and his voice was sounding again, though she heard it dully: - -"--while a poor due can't choose! I would--I'd ask you to marry me. -I know what you've been to me--I don't forget--I know very well! But, -as it is, it'd be madness--it'd be putting a rope round my own neck. -I want you to hear how I'm situated. I want you to listen to the -circumstances----" - -"You won't ... make amends?" - -"I tell you I'm not my own master." - -"You tell me that--that we're to part! We can't remain together any -longer unless I'm your wife." - -"We can't remain together any longer at all; that's what I'm coming -to." He went back to the mantelpiece, and leant his elbows on it, -kicking the half-hot coals. "I'm going to marry Miss Westland!" - -He had said it; the echo of the utterance sung in his ears. Behind -him her figure was motionless--its its--stillness frightened him. -Intensified by the riotous ticking of the clock, through which his -pulses were strained for the relief of a rustle, a breath, the pause -grew unendurable. - -"For God's sake, why don't you say something?" he exclaimed. He faced -her impetuously, and they looked at each other across the table. "Mary, -it's my chance in life! She cares for me, don't you see? You think me a -scoundrel--don't you see what a chance it is? What can I come to as I -am? With her--she'll get on, she has money--I shall rise, I shall be a -manager, I shall get to London in time. Mary!" - -"You're going to ... marry Miss Westland?" - -"I must," he said. - -For the veriest second it was as if she struggled to understand. Then -she threw out her hands dizzily, crying out. - -"That is what your love was, then--a lie, a shameful lie?" - -"It wasn't; no, Mary, it was real! I cared for you--I did; the thing is -forced on me!" - -"'Cared'? when you use your liberty like this? You 'cared'? And I -pitied you--you wrung the soul of me with your despair--I forgave you -keeping back the tale so long. I came to you to be your wife, and you -went down on your knees and vowed you hadn't had the courage to tell -me before, but your wife was living--some awful woman you couldn't -divorce. I gave myself to you, I became the thing you can turn out of -doors, all because I loved you, all because I believed in your love -for me." She caught at her throat. "You deserved it, didn't you?--you -justify it now so nobly, the faith that has made me a ----" - -"Mary!" - -"Oh, I can say it!" she burst forth hysterically. "I _am_, you know; -you have made me one--you and your 'love'! Why shouldn't I say it?" - -"I told you the truth; if I had been free at that time----" - -"When did you hear the news of the death? Answer me--it wasn't -to-night?" - -"What's the difference," he muttered, "when I heard?" - -"Oh!" she moaned, "go away from me, don't come near me! You coward!" - -She sank on to the edge of the sofa, rocking herself to and fro. The -man roamed aimlessly around. Once or twice he glanced across at her, -but she paid no heed. His pipe was on the sideboard; he filled it -clumsily, and drew at it in nervous pulls. - -He was the first to speak again. - -"I know I seem a hound, I know it all looks very bad; but I don't -suppose there's a man in five hundred who would refuse such an -opportunity, for all that. No, nor one in five thousand, either! You -won't see it in an unprejudiced light, of course; but it seems to -me--yes, it does, and I can't help saying so--that if you were really -as fond of me as you think, if my interests were really dear to you, -you yourself 'd counsel me to leap at the chance, and, what's more, -feel honestly glad that a prospect of success had come in my way.... -You know what it means to me," he went on querulously; "you have been -in the profession--at least, as good as in the profession--three years; -you know that, in the ordinary course of events, I should never get any -higher than I am, never play in London in my life. You know I've gone -as far as I can ever expect to go without influence to back me, that -in ten years' time I should be exactly what I am now, a leading-man -for second-rate tours; and that ten years later I should be playing -heavy fathers, or Lord knows what, still on the road, and done for--the -fire all spent, wasted and worn out in the provinces. That's what it -would be; you've heard me say it again and again; and I should go on -seeing Miss Somebody's son, and Mr. Somebody-else's-daughter, with -their parents' names to get them the engagements, playing prominent -business in London theatres before they've learnt how to walk across -a stage. Miss Westland's a fine-looking girl, and she knows a lot of -Society people in town; and she has money enough to take a theatre -there when she's lost her amateurishness a bit. Right off I shall be -somebody, too--I shall manage her affairs. I'll have a big ad. in _The -Era_ every week: 'For vacant dates apply to Mr. Seaton Carew!' Oh, -Mary, it's such a chance, such a lift! I _am_ fond of you, you know I -am; I care more for your little finger than for that woman's body and -soul. Don't think me callous; it's damnable I've got to behave so--it -takes all the light, all the luck, out of the thing that the way to it -is so hard. I wish you could know what I'm feeling." - -"I think I do know," she said bitterly--"better than you, perhaps. -You're remembering how easily you could have taken the luck if your -prayers to me had failed. And you're angered at me in your heart -because the shame you feel spoils so much of the pleasure now." - -He was humiliated to recognise that this was true. Her words described -a mean nature, and his resentment deepened. - -"When did you tell Miss Westland?" she faltered. - -"Tell her?" - -"What I am. That I'm not----When was it?" - -"This evening. It won't make any awkwardness for you; I mean, she won't -speak of it to any of the others. Nobody will know for----" - -"The whole company may know to-morrow!" she answered, drying her eyes. -"Seeing that I shall be gone, they may as well know to-morrow as later. -Oh, how they will talk, all of them, how they'll talk about me--the -Bowmans, and that boy, too!" - -"You'll be gone to-morrow--what do you say?" - -"Do you suppose----" - -"Mary, there are--I must make some--good heavens! how will you -go?--where? Mary, listen: by-and-by, when something is settled, in--in -a month or more--I want to arrange to send--I couldn't let you want for -money, don't you see!" - -"I would not take a penny from you," she said, "not the value of a -penny, if I were dying. I wouldn't, as Christ hears me! Our life -together is over--I am going away." - -He looked at her aghast. - -"Now," he ejaculated, "at once? In the middle of the night?" - -"Now at once--in the middle of the night." - -"Be reasonable"--he caught her fingers, and held them in miserable -expostulation--"wait till day, at any rate. You're beside yourself, -there's nothing to be gained by it. In the morning, if you _must_----" - -"Oh!" she choked, "did you think I would stop here an hour after this? -Did you--did you think so? You man! Yes, I should be no worse to you -I but to me, the lowness of it! All in a moment the lowness of it! -I've tried to feel that we were married; I always believed it was your -trouble that I had to be what I was. If you had ever heard--as soon -as it was possible, I thought every minute 'd have been a burden to -you till you had made it all real and right. To stop with you now, the -thing I am--despised--on sufferance----" - -She dragged her hand from him and stumbled into the bedroom. There it -was quite dark, and, shaking, she groped about for matches and the -candle. A small bag, painted with the initials of "Mary Brettan," -her own name, was under the toilet-table. She pulled it out, and, -dropping on her knees before the trunk that held her clothes, hastily -pushed in a little of the top-most linen. As she did so, her eyes -fell on the wedding-ring that she wore. Painful at all times, the -sight of it now was horrible. She strangled a sob, and, lifting the -candlestick, peered stupidly around. By the parlour grate she could -hear Tony knocking his pipe out on the bars. Above the washhand-stand -a holland "tidy" contained her brushes; she rolled it up and crammed -the bundle among the linen. In fastening the bag she hesitated, -and looked irresolutely at the trunk. Going over to it, she paused -again--left it; returned to it. She plunged her arm suddenly into its -depths, and thrust the debated thing into her bag as if it burnt her. -Across the photographer's address was written, "Yours ever, Tony." Her -preparations for leaving him had not occupied ten minutes. Then she -went back. - -Her coat and hat lay by the piano where she had cast them when she came -in from the theatre. The man watched her put them on. - -"Here's your ring!" she said. - -The tears were running down her cheeks; she dabbed at them with a -handkerchief as she spoke. The baseness of it all was eating into him. -Though the ardour of his earlier passion was gone and his protestations -of affection had been insults, her loss and her aversion served -to display the growth of a certain attachment to her of which her -possession and her constancy had left him unaware. Twice a plea to -her to remain rose to his lips, and twice his tongue was heavy from -self-interest, and from shame. He followed her instinctively into the -passage; his limbs quaked, and his soul was cowed. She had already -opened the door and set her foot on the step. - -"Mary!" he gasped. - -It was just beginning to get light. Under the faint paling of the sky -the pavements gleamed cold and grey, forlornly visible in the darkness. - -"Mary, don't go!" - -A rush of chill air swept out of the silence, raising the hair from -her brow. The coat fell about her loosely in thick folds. He put -out nervous hands to touch her, and nothing but these folds seemed -assailable; they enveloped and denied her to him. - -"Don't go," he stammered; "stay--forget what I've done!" - -She saw the impulse at its worth, but she was grateful for its -happening. She knew that he would regret it if she listened, knew that -he knew he would regret it. And yet, knowing and disdaining as she did, -the gladfulness and thankfulness were there that he had spoken. - -"I couldn't," she said--her voice was gentler; "there can never be -anything between you and me any more. Good-bye, Tony." - -She walked from him firmly. The receding figure was -distinct--uncertain--merged in gloom. He stood gazing after it till it -was gone---- - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -The town lay around her desolate. Her footsteps smote the -wretchedly-laid street, and echoed on the loneliness. A cold wind blew -in fitful gusts, nipping her cheeks and hands. On the vagueness of -the market-place the gilded statue, with its sheen obscured, loomed -shapeless as she passed. She heard the lumber and creak of a wagon -straining out of sight; the quaver of a cock-crow, then one shriller -and more prolonged; two or three thin screams in quick succession from -a distant train. She knew, rather than decided, that she would go to -London, though there would not be a familiar face to greet her in all -its leagues of houses, not a door among its countless doors to reveal -a friend. She would go there because she was adrift in England and -"England" meant a blur of names equally unpitying, and London, somehow, -seemed the natural place to book to. - -Few persons' ruin leaves them alone at once; the crash generally sees -some friends who prove loyal beneath the shock of the catastrophe and -drop away only afterwards under the wearisomeness of the worries. It is -the situation of few to emerge from the wreck of a home without any -personality dominating their consciousness as the counsellor to whom -they must turn for aid. But it was the situation of Mary Brettan to be -without a soul to turn to in the world; and briefly it had happened -thus. - -Her father had been a country doctor with a large practice among -patients who could not afford to pay. From the standpoint of humanity -his conduct was admirable; regarded from the domestic hearthstone -perhaps it was a little less. The practitioner who neglected the wife -of the Mayor in order to attend a villager, because the villager's -condition was more critical, offered small promise of leaving his child -provided for, and before Mary was sixteen the problems of the rent -and butcher's book were as familiar to her as the surgery itself. The -exemplary doctor and unpractical parent struggled along more or less -placidly by means of the girl's surveillance. Had he survived her, it -is difficult to determine what would have become of him; but, dying -first, he had her protection to the end. She found herself after the -funeral with a crop of bills, some shabby furniture, and the necessity -for earning a living. The furniture and the bills were easy to dispose -of; they represented a sum in division with nothing over. The problem -was, what was she fitted to do? She knew none of those things which -used to be called "accomplishments," and which are to-day the elements -of education. Her French was the French of "Le Petit Précepteur"; in -German she was still bewildered by the article. And, a graver drawback, -since the selling-price of education is an outrage on its cost--she -had not been brought up to any trade. She belonged, in fact, and -circumstances had caused her to discover it, to the ranks of refined -incompetence: the incompetence that will not live by menial labour, -because it is refined; the refinement that cannot support itself by -any brain work, because it is incompetent. It was suggested that she -might possibly enter the hospital of a neighbouring town and try to -qualify for a nurse. She said, "Very well." By-and-by she was told that -she could be admitted to the hospital, and that if she proved herself -capable, that would be the end of her troubles. She said "Very well" -again--and this time, "thank you." - -She had a good constitution, and she saw that if she failed here she -might starve at her leisure before any further efforts were put forth -on her behalf; so she gave satisfaction in her probation, and became at -last a nurse like the others, composed and reliable. When that stage -arrived, she owned to having fainted and suppressed the fact, after an -early experience of the operating-room; her reputation was established, -and it didn't matter now. The surgeon smiled. - -Miss Brettan had been Nurse Brettan several years, when an actor who -had met with an accident was brought into the hospital. The mishap had -cost him his engagement, and he bewailed his fate to everyone who would -listen. The person who heard most was she, since it was she who had -the most to do for him, and she began by feeling sympathetic. He was a -paying patient, or he would have had to limp away much sooner; as it -was, it was many weeks before he was pronounced well enough to leave. -And during those weeks she remembered what in the years of routine she -had forgotten--that she was a woman capable of love. - -One evening she learnt that the man really cared for her; he asked her -to marry him. She stooped, and across the supper-tray, they kissed. -Then she went upstairs, and cried with joy, and there was no happier -woman in or out of any hospital in Christendom. - -He talked to her about himself more than ever after this, suppressing -only the one fact that he lacked the courage to avow. And when at last -he went away their engagement was made public, and it was settled that -she should join him in London as soon as he was able to write for her -to come. - -There were many expressions of good-will heaped upon Nurse Brettan on -the summer morning that she bade the Yaughton Hospital good-bye; a -joint wedding-gift from the other nurses was presented, and everybody -shook her hand and wished her a life of happiness, for she was popular. -Carew met her at Euston. He had written that he had dropped into a good -part, anti that they would shortly be starting together on the tour, -but that in the meanwhile they were to be married in town. It was the -first time she had been to London. He took her to lodgings in Guilford -Street, and here occurred their great scene. - -He confessed that when he was a boy he had made a wild marriage; he had -not set eyes on the woman since he discovered her past, but the law -would not annul his blunder. He was bound to a harlot, and he loved -Mary. Would she forgive his deception and be his wife in everything -except the ceremony that could not be performed? - -It was a very terrible scene indeed. For a long while he believed her -lost to him; she could be brought to give ear to his entreaties only by -force, and he upbraided himself for not having disclosed his position -in the first instance. He had excused his cowardice by calling it -"expedience," but, to do him justice, he did not do justice to himself. -The delay had been due far less to his sense of its expedience than to -the tremors of his cowardice. Now he suffered scarcely less than she. - -Had his plea been based on any but the insuperable obstacle that it -was, it would have failed to a certainty; but his helplessness gave -the sophistry of both full play. He harped on the "grandeur of the -sacrifice" she would be making for him, and the phrase pierced her -misery. He cried to her that it would be a heroism, and she wondered -dully if it really would. She queried if there was indeed a higher duty -than denial--if her virtue could be merely selfishness in disguise. -His insistence on the nobility of consent went very far with her; it -did seem a beautiful thing to let sunshine into her lover's life at -the cost of her own transgression. And then, in the background, burnt -a hot shame at the thought of being questioned and commiserated when -she returned to the hospital with a petition to be reinstalled. The -arguments of both were very stale, and equally they blinked the fact -that the practical use of matrimony is to protect woman against the -innate fickleness of man. He demanded why, from a rational point of -view, the comradeship of two persons should be any more sacred because -a third person in a surplice said it was; and she, with his arms round -her, began to persuade herself that he was a martyr, who had broken his -leg that she might cross his path and give him consolation. Ultimately -he triumphed; and a fortnight later she burst into a tempest of -sobs--in suddenly realising how happy she was. - -He introduced her to everybody as his wife; their "honeymoon" was -spent in the, to her, unfamiliar atmosphere of a theatrical tour. -One of the first places that the company visited was West Hartlepool, -and he and she had lodgings outside the town in a little sea-swept -village--a stretch of sand, and a lane or two, with a sprinkling of -cottages--called Seaton Carew, from which, he told her, he had borrowed -his professional name. She said, "Dear Seaton Carew!" and felt in a -silly minute that she longed to strain the sunny prospect against her -heart. - -In the rawness of dawn a clock struck five, and she stood forsaken in -the streets. - -The myriad clocks of Leicester took up the burden, and the air was -beaten with their din. The way to the station appeared endless; yards -were preternaturally lengthened; and ever pressing on, yet ever with -a lonely vista to be covered, the walk began to be charged with the -oppression of a nightmare, in which she pursued some illimitable road, -seeking a destination that had vanished. - -At last the building loomed before her, ponderously still, and she -passed in over the cob-stones. There were no indications of life -about the place; the booking-office was fast shut, and between the -dimly-burning lamps, the empty track of rails lay blue. For all she -knew to the contrary, she would have to wait some hours. - -By-and-by, however, a sleepy-eyed porter lounged into sight, and she -learnt that there would be a train in a few minutes. Shortly after -his advent she was able to procure a ticket--a third-class ticket, -which diminished the little sum in her possession by eight shillings -and a halfpenny; and returning to the custody of her bag, she waited -miserably till the line of carriages thundered into view. - -It was a wretched journey--a ghastly horror of a journey--but it did -not seem particularly long; with nothing to look forward to, she had no -cause to be impatient. Intermittently she dozed, waking with a start as -the train jerked to a standstill and the name of a station was bawled. -When St. Pancras was reached, her limbs were cramped as she descended -among the groups of dreary-faced passengers, and the load on her mind -lay like a physical weight. She had not washed since the previous -evening, and she made her way to the waiting-room, where a dejected -attendant charged her twopence. Then, having paid twopence more to -leave the bag behind her, she went out to search for a room. - -A coffee-bar, with a quantity of stale pastry heaped in the window, -reminded her that she needed breakfast. A man with blue shirt-sleeves -rolled over red arms brought her tea and bread-and-butter at a sloppy -table. The repast, if not enjoyable, served to refresh her and was -worth the fourpence that she could very ill afford. Some of the -faintness passed; when she stood in the fresh air again her head was -clearer; the vagueness with which she had thought and spoken was gone. - -It was not quite five minutes to eight; she wished she had rested -in the waiting-room. To be seeking a lodging at five minutes to -eight would look strange. Still, she could not reconcile herself to -going back; and she was eager, besides, to find a home as quickly as -possible, yearning to be alone with a door shut and a pillow. - -She turned down Judd Street, forlornly scanning the intersecting -squalor. The tenements around her were not attractive. On the -parlour-floor, limp chintz curtains hid the interiors, but the steps -and the areas, and here and there a frouzy head and arm protruding -for a milkcan, were strong in suggestion of slatternly discomfort. In -Brunswick Square the aspect was more cheerful, but the rooms here were -obviously above her means. She walked along, and came unexpectedly -into Guilford Street, almost opposite the house where she had given -herself to Tony. The sudden sight of it was not the shock that she -would have imagined it would prove; indeed, she was sensible of a dull -sort of wonder at the absence of sensation. But for the veranda and -confirmatory number, the outside would have borne no significance to -her; yet it had been in that house----What a landmark in her life's -history was represented by that house!' What emotions had flooded her -soul behind the stolid frontage that she had nearly passed without -recognising it; how she had wept and suffered, and prayed and joyed -within the walls that would have borne no significance to her but for -a veranda and the number that proclaimed it was so! The thoughts were -deliberate; the past was not flashed back at her, she retraced it half -tenderly in the midst of her trouble. None the less, the idea of taking -up her quarters on the spot was eminently repugnant, and she turned -several corners before she permitted herself to ring a bell. - -Her summons was answered by a flurried servant-girl, who on hearing -that she wanted a lodging, became helplessly incoherent--as is the -manner of servant-girls where lodgings are let--and fled to the -basement, calling "missis." - -Mary contemplated the hat-stand until the "missis" advanced towards -her along the passage. There was a flavour of abandoned breakfast -about missis, an air of interruption; and when she perceived that the -stranger on the threshold was a young woman, and a charming woman, -and a woman by herself, the air of interruption that she had been -struggling to conceal all the way up the kitchen-stairs began to be -coupled with an expression of defensive virtue. - -"I am looking for a room," said Mary. - -"Yes," said the householder, eyeing her askance. - -"You have one to let, I think, by the card?" - -"Yes, there's a room." - -She made no movement to show it, however; she stood on the mat nursing -her elbows. - -"Can you let me see it--if it isn't inconvenient so early?" - -"Oh, I suppose so," said the landlady. She preceded her to the -top-floor, but with no alacrity. "This is it," she said. - -It was a back attic of the regulation pattern: brown drugget, yellow -chairs, and a bed of parti-coloured clothing. Nevertheless, it seemed -to be clean, and Mary was prepared to take anything. - -"What is the rent?" she asked wearily. - -"Did you say your husband would be joining you?" - -"My husband? No, I'm a widow." - -There was a glance shot at her hand. She wore gloves, but saw that it -would have been wiser to have told the truth and said "I am unmarried." - -"As a single room, the rent is seven shillings. You'd be able to give -me references, of course?" - -"I'm afraid I couldn't do that," she said, not a little surprised. -"I've only just arrived; my luggage is at the station." - -"What do you work at?" - -"Really!" she exclaimed; "I am looking for a room. You want references; -well, I will pay you in advance!" - -"I don't take single ladies," answered the woman bluntly. - -Mary looked at her bewildered; she thought that she had not made -herself understood. - -"I should be quite willing to pay in advance," she repeated. "I'm a -stranger in London, so I can't refer you to anyone here; but I will pay -for the first week now, if you like?" - -"I don't take ladies; I must ask you to look somewhere else, please." - -They went down in silence. Virtue turned the handle with its backbone -stiff, and Mary passed out, giving a quiet "Good-day." Her blood -was tingling under the inexplicable insolence of the treatment she -had received, and she had yet to learn that it is possible for an -unaccompanied woman to seek a lodging until she falls exhausted on -the pavement; the unaccompanied woman being to the London landlady an -improper person--inadmissible not because she is improper, but because -her impropriety is presumably not monopolised. - -During the next hour, repulse followed repulse. Sometimes, with the -curt assertion that they didn't take ladies, the door was shut in her -face; frequently she was conducted to a room, only to be cross-examined -and refused, as with her first venture, just when she was at the point -of engaging it. Sometimes a room was displayed indifferently, and there -were no questions put at all, but in these cases the terms asked were -so exorbitant that she came out astounded, not realising the nature of -the house. - -It occurred to her to try the places where she would be known--not -the one in Guilford Street, the associations of that would be -unendurable--but some of the apartments that Carew and she had occupied -when they had come to town between the tours. None of these addresses -was in the neighbourhood, however, and the notion was too distasteful -to be adopted save on impulse. - -She set her teeth, and pulled bell after bell. Along Southampton Row, -through Cosmo Place into Queen Square, she wandered, while the day -grew brighter and brighter; down Devonshire Street into Theobald's -Road, past the Holborn Town Hall. Amid these reiterated demands for -references a sudden terror seized her; she remembered the need for the -certificate that she had had when she quitted the hospital. She had -never thought about it since. It might be lying crushed in a corner -of the trunk that she had left behind in Leicester; it might long ago -have got destroyed--she did not know. It had never occurred to her -that the resumption of her former calling would one day present itself -as her natural resource. In ordinary circumstances the loss would have -been a trifle; but she felt it an impossibility to refer directly to -the Matron, because to do so would lead to the exposure of what had -happened in the interval. The absence of a certificate therefore meant -the absence of all testimony to her being a qualified nurse. As the -helplessness of her plight rushed in upon her she trembled. How long -must she not expect to wait for employment when she had nothing to -speak for her? To go back to nursing would be more difficult than to -earn a living in a capacity that she had never essayed. And she could -wait so short a time for anything, so horribly short a time! She would -starve if she did not find something soon! - -Busses jogged by her laden with sober-faced men and women, bound for -the vocations that sustained the white elephant of life. Shops already -gave evidence of trade, and children with uncovered heads sped along -the curb with a "ha'porth o' milk," or mysterious breakfasts folded -in scraps of newspaper. Each atom of the awakening bustle passed her -engrossed by its own existence, operated by its separate interests, -revolving in its individual world. London looked to her a city without -mercy or impulse, populated to brimfulness, and flowing over. Every -chink and crevice seemed stocked with its appointed denizens, and the -hope of finding bread here which nobody's hand was clutching appeared -presumption. - -Eleven o'clock had struck--that is to say, she had been walking for -more than three hours--when she saw a card with "Furnished Room to -Let" suspended from a blind, and her efforts to gain shelter succeeded -at last. It was an unpretentious little house, in an unpretentious -turning; and a sign on the door intimated that it was the residence of -"J. Shuttleworth, mason." - -A hard-featured woman was evoked by the dispirited knock. Seeing a -would-be lodger who was dressed like a lady, she added eighteenpence to -the rent that she usually asked. She asked five shillings a week, and -the applicant agreed to it and was grateful. - -"About your meals, miss?" said Mrs. Shuttleworth, when Mary had sunk on -the upright wooden chair at the head of the truckle-bed-stead. "Dinners -I can't do for yer, but as far as breakfas', and a cup o' tea in the -evening goes, you can 'ave a bit of something brought up when we 'as -our own. I suppose that'll suit you, won't it?" - -"A cup of tea and some bread-and-butter," answered Mary, "in the -morning and afternoon, if you can manage it, will do very nicely, thank -you." She roused herself to the exigencies of the occasion. "How much -will that be?" - -"Oh, well, we shan't break yer! You'll pay the first week now?" - -The rent was forthcoming, and one more superfluity in the jostle of -existence profited by the misfortunes of another: going back to the -wash-tub cheerful. - -Upstairs the lodger remained motionless; she was so tired that it was -a luxury to sit still, and for awhile she was more alive to the bodily -relief than the mental burden. It was afternoon by the time she faced -the necessity for returning to St. Pancras for her bag; and, pushing up -the rickety window to admit some air during her absence, she proceeded -to the basement, to ascertain the nearest route. - -She learnt that she was much nearer to the station than she had -supposed, and in a little while she had her property in her possession -again. Her head felt oddly light, and she was puzzled by the dizziness -until she remembered she had had nothing to eat since eight o'clock. -The thought of food was sickening, though; and it was not till five -o'clock, when the tea was furnished, with a hunch of bread, and a slap -of butter in the middle of a plate, that she attempted to break her -fast. - -And now ensued a length of dreary hours, an awful purposeless evening, -of which every minute was weighted with despair. Fortunately the -weather was not very cold, so the absence of a fire was less a hardship -than a lack of company; but the fatigue, which had been acting as a -partial opiate to her trouble, gradually passed, and her brain ached -with the torture of reflection. With nothing to do but think, she sat -in the upright chair, staring at the empty grate and picturing Tony -during the familiar waits at the theatre. An evil-smelling lamp burned -despondently on the table; outside, the street was discordant with the -cries of children. To realise that it was only this morning that the -blow had fallen upon her was impossible; an interval of several days -appeared to roll between the poky attic and her farewell; the calamity -seemed already old. "Oh, Tony!" she murmured. She got out his likeness. -"Yours ever"--the mockery of it! She did not hate him, she did not -even tell herself that she did; she contemplated the faded photograph -quite gently, and held it before her a long time. It had been taken -in Manchester, and she recalled the afternoon that it was done. All -sorts of trivialities in connection with it recurred to her. He was -wearing a lawn tie, and she remembered that it had been the last clean -one and had got mislaid. Their search for it, and comic desperation at -its loss, all came back to her quite clearly. "Oh, Tony!" Her fancies -projected themselves into his future, and she saw him in a score of -different scenes, but always famous, and in his greatness with the -memory of her flitting across his mind. Then she wondered what she -would have done if she had borne him a child--whether the child would -have been in the garret with her. But no, if he had been a father this -wouldn't have happened! he was always fond of children; to have given -him a child of his own would have kept, his love for her aglow. - -Presently a diversion was effected by the home-coming of Mr. Shuttle -worthy evidently drunk, and abusing his wife with disjointed violence. -Next the woman's voice arose shrieking recrimination, the babel -subsiding amid staccato passages, alternately gruff and shrill. - -The disturbance tended to obtrude the practical side of her dilemma, -and the importance of obtaining work of some sort speedily, no matter -what sort, appalled her. The day was Wednesday, and on the Wednesday -following, unless she was to go forth homeless, there would be the -lodging to pay for again, and the breakfasts and teas supplied in the -meanwhile. She would have to spend money outside as well; she had to -dine, however poorly, and there were postage-stamps, and perhaps train -fares, to be considered: some of the advertisers to whom she applied -might live beyond walking distance. Altogether, she certainly required -a pound. And she had towards it--with a sinking of her heart she -emptied her purse to be sure--exactly two and ninepence. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -Next morning her efforts were begun. It rained, and she began to -understand what it means to the unemployed to tramp a city where two -days of every four are wet. - -To buy papers, and examine them at home was out of the question; but -she was aware that there were news-rooms where for a penny she could -see them all. Directed to such an institution by a speckled boy, -conspicuous for his hat and ears, she found several dejected-looking -women turning over a heap of periodicals at a table. The "dailies" were -spread on stands against the walls, and at a smaller table under the -window lay a number of slips, with pens and ink, for the convenience of -customers wishing to make memoranda of the vacant situations. She went -first to The Times, because it was on the stand nearest to her, and -proceeded from one paper to another until she had made a tour of the -lot. - -The "Wanted" columns were of the customary order; the needy -endeavouring to gull the necessitous with speqious phrases, and the -well-established prepared to sweat them without any disguise at all. A -drapery house had a vacancy for a young woman "to dress fancy windows, -and able to trim hats, etc., when desired"--salary fifteen pounds. -There was a person seeking a general servant willing to pay twenty -pounds a year for the privilege of doing the work. This advertisement -was headed "Home offered to a Lady," and a few seconds were required -to grasp the stupendous impudence of it. A side-street stationer, in -want of a sales-woman, advertised for an "Apprentice at a moderate -premium"; and the usual percentage of City firms dangled the decaying -bait of "An opportunity to learn the trade." Her knowledge of the glut -of experienced actresses enabled her to smile at the bogus theatrical -managers who had "immediate salaried engagements waiting for amateurs -of good appearance"; but some of the "home employment" swindles took -her in, and, discovering nothing better, she jotted these addresses -down. - -From the news-room she went to a dairy, and dined on a glass of milk -and a bun. And after an inevitable outlay on stamps and stationery, she -returned to the lodging a shilling poorer than she had gone out. - -Unacquainted with the wiles of the impostors she was answering, the -thought of her applications sustained her somewhat; it seemed to her -that out of the several openings one at least should be practicable. -She did not fail to make the calculation that most novices make in such -circumstances; she reduced the promised earnings by half, and believed -that she was viewing the prospect in a sober light which, if mistaken -at all, erred on the side of pessimism. - -The envelopes that she had enclosed came back to her late the following -afternoon; and the circulars varied mainly in colour and in the prices -of the materials that they offered for sale. In all particulars -essential to prove them frauds to everybody excepting the piteous fools -who must exist, to explain the advertisements' longevity, they were the -same. - -With the extinction of the hope, the darkness of her outlook was -intensified, and henceforth she eschewed the offers of "liberal -incomes" and confined her attention to the illiberal wages. Day after -day she resorted to the news-room--one stray more whom the proprietor -saw regularly--resolved not to relinquish her access to the papers -while a coin remained to her to pay for admission. She wrote many -letters, and spent her evenings vainly listening for the postman's -knock. She attributed her repeated failures to there being no mention -of references in her replies; they were so concise and nicely written -that she felt sure they could not have failed from any other reason. -Probably her nicely-written notes were never read: merely tossed with -scores of others, all unopened, into the wastepaper basket, after a -selection had been made from the top thirty. This is the fate of most -of the nicely-written notes that go in reply to advertisements in the -newspapers; only, the people who compose them and post them with little -prayers, fortunately do not suspect it. If they suspected it, they -would lose the twenty-four hours' comfort of hugging a false hope to -their souls; and an oasis of hope may be a desirable thing at the cost -of a postage-stamp. - -One evening an answer did come, and an answer in connection with a -really beautiful "Wanted." When it was handed to her, she hardly dared -to hope that it related to that particular situation at all. The -advertisement had run: - -"Secretary required by a Literary Lady. Must be sociable, and have no -objection to travel on the Continent. Apply in own handwriting to C.B., -care of Messrs. Furnival," etc. - -The signature, however, was not "C.B.'s." The communication was from -Messrs. Furnival. They wrote that they judged by Miss Brettan's -application that she would suit their client; and that on receipt of -a half-crown--their usual booking fee--they would forward the lady's -address. - -If she had had a half-crown to send, she might have sent it; as it was, -instead of remitting to Messrs. Furnival's office, she called there. - -It proved to be a very small and very dark back room on the -ground-floor, and Messrs. Furnival were represented by a stout -gentleman of shabby apparel and mellifluous manner. Mary began -by saying that she was the applicant who had received his letter -about "C.B.'s" advertisement; but as this announcement did not seem -sufficiently definite to enable the stout gentleman to converse on the -subject with fluency and freedom, she added that "C.B." was a literary -lady who stood in need of a secretary. - -On this he became very vivacious indeed. He told her that her chance -of securing the post was an excellent one. No, it was not a certainty, -as she appeared to have understood, but he did not think she had much -occasion for misgiving; her speed in shorthand was in excess of the -rate for which their client had stipulated. - -She said: "Why, I especially stated that if she wanted someone who knew -shorthand, I should be no use!" - -He said: "So you did! I meant to say, your type-writing was your -recommendation." - -"Mr. Furnival," she exclaimed, "I wrote, 'I do not know shorthand, and -I am not a typist'! You must be confusing me with someone else. Perhaps -you have answered another application as well?" - -Perhaps he had. - -"You're my first experience of an applicant for a secretaryship who -hasn't learnt shorthand or type-writing," he said in an injured tone. -"Of course, if you don't know either, you'd be no good at all--not a -bit." - -"Then," she said, "why did you ask me to send you half a crown?" - -Before he could spare time to enlighten her as to his reason for this -line of action, they were interrupted by an urchin who deposited an -armful of letters on the table. The gentleman seemed pleased to see -them, and she came away wondering how many of the women who Messrs. -Furnival "judged would suit their client" enclosed postal-orders to pay -the "fee." - -Quite ineffectually she visited some legitimate agencies, and once -she walked to Battersea in time to learn that the berth that was the -object of her journey had just been filled. Even when one walks to -Battersea, and dines for twopence, however, the staying-powers of -two-and-ninepence are very limited; and the dawning of the dreaded date -for the bill found her capital exhausted. - -Among her scanty possessions, the only article that she could suggest -converting into money was a silver watch that she wore attached to a -guard. It had belonged to her as a girl; she had worn it as a nurse; -it had travelled with her on tour during her life with Carew. What a -pawnbroker would lend her on it she did not know, but she supposed -a sovereign. Had she been better off, she would have supposed two -sovereigns, for she was as ignorant of its value as of the method -of pledging it; but being destitute, a pound looked to her a very -substantial amount. She made her way heavily into the street. She felt -that her errand was printed on her face, and when she reached and -paused beneath the sign of the three balls, all the passers-by seemed -to be watching her. - -The window offered a pretext for hesitation. She stood inspecting the -collection behind the glass; perhaps anyone who saw her go in might -imagine it was with the intention of buying something! She was nerving -herself to the necessary pitch when, giving a final glance over her -shoulder, she saw a bystander looking at her steadily. Her courage took -flight, and she sauntered on, deciding to explore for a shop in a more -secluded position. - -Though she was ashamed of her retreat, the respite was a relief to her. -It was not until she came to three more balls that she perceived that -the longer she delayed, the worse she would feel. She went hurriedly -in. There was a row of narrow doors extending down a passage, and, -pulling one open, she found the tiny compartment occupied by a woman -and a bundle. Starting back, she adventured the next partition, which -proved to be vacant; and standing away from the counter, lest her -profile should be detected by her neighbour in distress, she waited -for someone to come to her. - -Nobody taking any notice, she rapped to attract attention. A young man -lounged along, and she put the watch down. - -"How much?" he said. - -"A pound." - -He caught it up and withdrew, conveying the impression that he thought -very little of it. She thought very little of it herself directly it -was in his hand. His hand was a masterpiece of expression, whereas his -voice never wavered from two notes. - -"Ten shillings," he said, reappearing. - -"Ten shillings is very little," she murmured. "Surely it's worth more -than that?" - -"Going to take it?" - -He slid the watch across to her. - -"Thank you," she said; "yes." - -A doubt whether it would be sufficient crept over her the instant she -had agreed, and she wished she had declined the offer. To call him -back, however, was beyond her; and when he returned it was with the -ticket. - -"Name and address?" - -New to the requirements of a pawnbroker, she stammered the true one, -convinced that the woman with the bundle would overhear and remember. -Even then she was dismayed to find the transaction wasn't concluded; -he asked her for a halfpenny, and, with the blood in her face, she -signified that she had no change. At last though, she was free to -depart, with a handful of silver and coppers; and guiltily transferring -the money to her purse when the shop was well behind, she reverted to -routine. - -It was striking five when she mounted to the attic, and she saw that -Mrs. Shuttleworth, with the punctuality peculiar to cheap landladies -when the lodger is out, had already brought up the tray. On the plate -was her bill; she snatched at it anxiously, and was relieved to find it -ran thus: - - s. d. - Bred 1 2 - Butter.... 10 - Milk 3 1/2 - Tea 6 - Oil 2 - Shuger.... 2 1/2 - To room til next Wensday 5 0 - - 8 2 - -So far, then, she had been equal to emergencies, and another week's -shelter was assured. The garret began to assume almost an air of -comfort, refined by her terror of losing it. When she reflected that -the week divided her from actual starvation, she cried that she must -find something to do--she must! Then she realised that she could -find it no more easily because it was a case of "must" than if it -had been simply expedient, and the futility of the feminine "must," -when she was already doing all she could do, served to accentuate her -helplessness. She prayed passionately, without being able to feel much -confidence in the efficacy of prayer, and told herself that she did -not deserve that God should listen to her, because she was guilty, and -sinful, and bad. She did not seek consolation in repeating that it was -always darkest before dawn, nor strive to fortify herself with any -other of the aphorisms belonging to the vocabulary of sorrow for other -people. The position being her own, she looked it straight in the eyes, -and admitted that the chances were in favour of her being very shortly -without a bed to lie on. - -Each night she came a few pence nearer to the end; each night now she -sat staring from the window, imagining the sensations of wandering -homeless. And at last the day broke--a sunless and chilly day--when she -rose and went out possessed of one penny, without any means of adding -to it. This penny might be reserved to diminish the hunger that would -seize her presently, or she might give herself a final chance among the -newspapers. Having breakfasted, she decided on the final chance. - -As she turned the pages her hands trembled, and for a second the -paragraphs swam together. The next instant, standing out clearly from -the sea of print, she saw an advertisement like the smile of a friend: - -"Useful Companion wanted to elderly lady; one with some experience of -invalids preferred. Apply personally, between 3 and 5, 'Trebartha,' N. -Finchley." - -If it had been framed for her, it could hardly have suited her better. -The wish for personal application was itself an advantage, for in -conversation, she felt, the obstacle of having no references could be -surmounted with far less trouble than by letter. A string of frank -allusions to the difficulty, a dozen easy phrases, leapt into her -mind, so that, in fancy, the interview was already in progress, and -terminating with pleasant words in the haven of engagement. - -She searched no further, and it was not till she was leaving that she -remembered the miles that she would have to walk. To start so early, -however, would be useless, so on second thoughts she determined to pass -the morning where she was. - -She was surprised to discover that she was not singular in this -decision, and she wondered if all; the clients that stayed so long had -anywhere else to go. Many of them never turned a leaf, but sat at the -table dreamily eyeing a journal; as if they had forgotten that it was -there. She; watched the people coming in, noting the unanimity with -which they made for the advertisement-sheets first, and speculating as -to the nature of the work they sought. - -There was a woman garbed in black, downcast and precise; she was a -governess, manifestly. Once, when she had been young, and insolent with -the courage of youth, she would have mocked a portrait looking as she -looked now; there was little enough mockery left in her this morning. -She quitted the "dailies" unrewarded, and proceeded to the table, her -thin-lipped mouth set a trifle harder than before. A girl with magenta -feathers in her hat bounced in, tracing her way down the columns -with a heavy fore-finger, and departing nonchalantly with a blotted -list. This was a domestic servant, Mary understood. A shabby man of -sinister expression covered an area of possibilities: a broken-down -tutor perhaps, a professional man gone to the bad. He looked like -Mephistopheles in the prompter's clothes, she thought, contemplating -him with languid curiosity. The reflections flitted across the central -idea while she sat nervously waiting for the hours to pass, and when -she considered it was time at last, she asked the newsagent in which -direction Finchley lay. She omitted to mention that she had to walk -there, but she obtained sufficient information about a tram-route to -guide her up to Hampstead Heath, where of course she could inquire -again. - -The sun gave no promise of shining, and a bleak wind, tossing the -rubbish of the gutters into little whirlpools, made pedestrianism -exceedingly unpleasant. She was dismayed to find on how long a journey -she was bound; she arrived at the tram-terminus already tired, and then -learnt that she was not half-way to Finchley. It was nothing but a name -to her, and steadily trudging along a road that extended itself before -her eternally she began to fear that she would never reach her goal at -all. To add to the discomfort, it was snowing slightly now, and she -grew less sanguine with every hundred yards. The vision of the smiling -lady, the buoyancy of her own glib sentences, faded from her, and the -thought of the utter abjectness that would come of refusal made the -salvation of acceptance appear much too wonderful to occur. - -When she reached it, "Trebartha" proved to be a stunted villa in red -brick. It was one of a row, each of the other stunted villas being -similarly endowed with a name befitting, a domain; and suspense -catching discouragement from the most extraneous details, Mary's heart -sank as the housemaid disclosed the badly-lighted passage. - -She was ushered into the sitting-room; and the woman who entered -presently had been suggested by it. She seemed the natural complement -of the haggard prints, of the four cumbersome chairs in a line against -the wall, of the family Bible on the crochet tablecover. She wore silk, -dark and short--plain, except for three narrow bands of velvet at the -hem. She wore a gold watch-chain hanging round her neck, garlanded -over her portly bosom. She said she was the invalid lady's married -daughter, and her tone implied a consciousness of that higher merit -which the woman whose father has left her comfortably off feels over -the woman whose father hasn't. - -"You've called about my mother's advertisement for a companion?" she -said. - -"Yes; I've had a long experience of nursing. I think I should be able -to do all you require." - -"Have you ever lived as companion?" - -"No," said Mary, "I have never done that, but--but I think I'm -companionable; I don't think I'm difficult to get on with." - -"What was your--won't you sit down?--what was your last place?" - -Mary moistened her lips. - -"I am," she said, "rather awkwardly situated. I may as well tell you -at once that I am a stranger here, and--do you know--I find that's -a great bar in the way of my getting employment? Not being known, -I've, of course, no friends I can refer people to, and--well, people -always seem to think the fact of being a stranger in a city is rather -a discreditable thing. I have found that! They do." She looked for a -gleam of response in the stolid countenance, but it was as void of -expression as the furniture. "As I say, I have had a lengthy experience -of nursing; I--it sounds conceited--but I should be exceedingly -useful. It's just the thing I am fitted for." - -The married daughter asked: "You have been a nurse, you say? But not -here?" - -"Not here," said Mary, "no. Of course, that doesn't detract from----" - -"Oh, quite so. We've had several young women here already to-day. Do -I understand you to mean there is nobody at all you can give as a -reference?" - -"Yes, that unfortunately is so. I do hope you don't consider it an -insuperable difficulty? You know you take servants without 'characters' -sometimes when----" - -"I _never_ take a servant without a 'character.' I have never done such -a thing in my life." - -"I did not mean you personally," said Mary, with hasty deprecation; "I -was speaking----" - -"I'm most particular on the point; my mother is most particular, too." - -"Generally speaking. I meant people do take servants without -'characters' occasionally when they are hard pushed." - -"Our own servants are only too wishful to remain with us. My mother has -had her present cook eight years, and the last one was only induced -to leave because a young man--a young man in quite a fair way of -business--made her an offer of marriage. She had been here even longer -than eight years--twelve I think it was, or thirteen. It was believed -at the time that what first attracted the young man's attention to her -was the many years that my mother had retained her in our household. -I'm sure there are no circumstances under which my mother 'd consent to -receive a young person who could give no proof of her trustworthiness -and good conduct." - -"Do you mean that you can't engage me? It--it's a matter of life and -death to me," exclaimed Mary; "pray let me see the lady!" - -"Your manner," said the married daughter, "is strange. Quite -authoritative for your position!" She rose. "You'll find it helpful to -be less haughty when you speak, less opinionated; your manner is very -much against you. Oh, my word! no violence, if you please, miss!" - -"Violence?" gasped Mary; "I'm not violent. It was my last hope, that's -all, and it's over. I wish you good-day." - -So much had happened in a few minutes--inside and out--that the roads -were whitening rapidly and the flutter of snow had developed into a -steady fall. At first she was scarcely sensible of it; the anger in -her heart kept the cold out, and carried her along in a semi-rush. -Words broke from her breathlessly. She felt that she had fallen from -a high estate; that the independence of her life with Carew had been -a period of dignity and power; that erstwhile she could have awed the -dull-witted philistine who had humbled her. "The hateful woman! Oh, -the wretch! To have to sue to a creature like that!" Well, she would -starve now, she supposed, her excitement spending itself. She would die -of starvation, like characters in fiction, or the people one read of -in the newspapers; the newspapers called it "exposure," but it was the -same thing; "exposure" sounded less offensive to the other people who -read about it, that was all. The force of education is so strong that, -much as she insisted on such a death, and close as she had approached -to it, she was unable to realise its happening to her. She told herself -that it must; the world was of a sudden horribly wide and empty; but -for Mary Brettan actually to die like that had an air of exaggeration -about it still. Pushing forward, she pondered on it, and the fact came -close; the sensation of the world's widening about her grew stronger. -She felt alone in the midst of illimitable space. There seemed nothing -around her, nothing tangible, nothing to catch at. O God! how tired she -was! she couldn't go on much further. - -The snow whirled against her in gusts, clinging to her hair, and -filling her eyes and nostrils. Exhaustion was overpowering her. And -still how many miles? Each of the benches that she passed was a fresh -temptation; and at last she dropped on one, too tired to stand, wet and -shivering, and shielding her face from the storm. - -She dropped on it like any tramp or stray. Having held out to the -uttermost, she did not know whether she would ever get up again--did -not think about it, and did not care. Her limbs ached for relief, and -she seized it on the high-road because relief on the high-road was the -only kind attainable. - -And it was while she cowered there that another figure appeared in the -twilight, the figure of a tall old man carrying a black bag. He came -smartly down a footpath, gazing to right and left as for something that -should be waiting for him. Not seeing it, he whistled, and Mary looked -up. A trap was backed from the corner of the road. Then the man with -the bag stared at her, and after an instant of hesitation, he spoke. - -"It's a dirty nicht," he said, "for ye tae be sittin' there. I'm -thinking ye're no' weel?" - -"Not very," she said. - -He inspected her undecidedly. - -"An' ye'll tak' your death o' cold if ye dinna get up, it's verra -certain. Hoots! ye're shakin' wi' it noo! Bide a wee, an' I'll put some -warmth intae ye, young leddy." - -Without any more ado, he deposited the bag at her side and opened it. -And, astonishing to relate, the black bag was fitted with a number of -little bottles, one of which he extracted, with a glass. - -"Is it medicine?" she asked wonderingly. - -"Medicine?" he echoed; "nae, it's nae medicine; it's 'Four Diamonds -S.O.P.' I'm gi'en ye. It's a braw sample o' Pilcher's S.O.P., ma -lassie; nothin' finer in the trade, on the honour o' Macpheerson! Noo -ye drink that doon; it's speerit, an' it'll dae ye guid." - -She took his advice, gulping the spirit while he watched her -approvingly. Its strength diffused itself through her in ripples of -heat, raising her courage, and yet, oddly enough, making her want to -cry. - -Mr. Macpherson contemplated the little bottle solemnly, shaking his -head at it with something that sounded like a sigh. - -"An' whaur may ye be goin'?" he queried, replacing the cork. - -"I am going to town," she answered. "I was walking home, only the -storm----" - -"Tae toon? Will ye no' ha'e a lift along o' me an' the lad? I'll drive -ye intae toon." - -"Have you to go there?" she asked, over-joyed. - -"There'd be th' de'il tae pay if I stayed awa'. Ay, I ha'e tae gang -there, and as fast as the mare can trot. Will ye let me help ye in?" - -"Yes," she said; "thank you very much." - -He hoisted her up. And she and her strange companion, accompanied by an -urchin who never uttered a word, made a brisk start. - -"I am so much obliged to you," she murmured, rejoicing; "you don't -know!" - -"There's nae call for ony obleegation; it's verra welcome ye are. I'm -thinkin' the sample did ye a lot o' guid, eh?" - -"It did indeed; it has made me feel a different woman." - -"Eh, but it's a gran' speerit!" said the old gentleman with reviving -ardour. "There's nae need to speak for it, an' that's a fact; your ain -tongue sings its perfection to ye as ye sup it doon. Ye may get ither -houses to serve ye cheaper, I'm no' denyin' that; but tae them that can -place the rale article there's nae house like Pilcher's. And Pilcher's -best canna be beaten in the trade. I ha'e nae interest tae lie tae -ye, ye ken; nor could I tak' ye in wi' the wines and speerits had I -the mind. There's the advantage wi' the wines and speerits; ye canna -deceive! Ye ha'e the sample, an' ye ha'e the figure--will I book the -order or will I no'?" - -"It's your business then, Mr.----?" - -"Will ye no' tak' my card?" he said, producing a large one; "there, put -it awa'. Should ye ever be in need, ma lassie, a line to Macpheerson, -care o' the firm----" - -"How kind of you!" she exclaimed. - -"No' a bit," he said; "ye never can tell what may happen, and whether -it's for yoursel' ye need it, or a recommendation, ye'll ken ye're -buying at the wholesale price." - -She glanced at him with surprise, and looked away again. And they -drove for several minutes in silence. - -"Maybe ye ken some family whaur I'd be likely tae book an order noo?" -remarked Mr. Macpherson incidentally. "Sherry? dae ye no' ken o' a -family requirin' sherry? I can dae them sherry at a figure that'll -tak' th' breath frae them. Ye canna suspect the profit--th' weecked -ineequitous profit--that sherry's retailed at; wi' three quotations tae -the brand often eno', an' a made-up wine at that! Noo, I could supply -your frien's wi' 'Crossbones'--the finest in the trade, on the honour -of Macpheerson--if ye happen tae ha'e ony who----" - -"I don't," she said, "happen to have any." - -"There's the family whaur ye're workin', we'll say; a large family -maybe, wi' a cellar. For a large family tae be supplied at the -wholesale figure----" - -"I am sorry, but I don't work." - -"Ye don't work, an' ye ha'e no frien's?" He peered at her curiously. -"Then, ma dear young leddy, ye'll no' think me impertinent if I ax ye -how th' de'il ye live?" - -The wild idea shot into her brain that perhaps he might be able to put -her into the way of something--somewhere--somehow! - -"I'm a stranger in London," she answered, "looking for -employment--quite alone." - -"Eh," said Mr. Macpherson, "that's bad, that's verra bad!" - -He whipped up the horse, and after the momentary comment lapsed into -reverie. She called herself a fool for her pains, and stared dumbly -across the melancholy fields. - -"Whauraboots are ye stayin'?" he demanded, after they had passed the -Swiss Cottage. - -She told him. "Please don't let me take you out of your way," she added. - -"Ye're no' verra far frae ma ain house," he declared. "Ye had best come -in an' warm before ye gang on hame. Ye are in nae hurry, I suppose?" - -"No, but----" - -"Oh, the mistress will nae mind it. Ye just come in wi' me!" - -Their conversation progressed by fits and starts till his domicile was -reached. Leaving the trap to the care of the boy, who might have been -a mute for any indication he had given to the contrary, Mr. Macpherson -led her into a parlour, where a kettle steamed invitingly on the hob. - -He was greeted by a little woman, evidently the wife referred to; and a -rosy offspring, addressed as Charlotte, brought her progenitor a pair -of slippers. His introduction of Mary to his family circle was brief. - -"'Tis a young leddy," he said, "I gave a lift to. But I dinna ken your -name?" - -"My name is Brettan," she replied. Then, turning to the woman: "Your -husband was kind enough to save me from walking home from Finchley, and -now he has made me come in with him." - -"It was a braw nicht for a walk," opined Macpherson. - -"I'm sure I'm glad to see you, miss," responded the woman in cheery -Cockney. "Come to the fire and dry yourself a bit, do!" - -The initial awkwardness was very slight, for Mary's experiences in -bohemia were serviceable here. The people were well-intentioned, too, -and, meeting with no embarrassment to hamper their heartiness, they -grew speedily at ease. It reminded the guest of some of her arrivals on -tour; of one in particular, when the previous week's company had not -left and she and Tony had traversed half Oldham in search of rooms, -finally sitting down with their preserver to bread-and-cheese in her -kitchen! It was loathsome how Tony kept recurring to her, and always in -episodes when he had been jolly and affectionate! - -"Your husband tells me he is in the wine business," she observed at the -tea-table. - -"He is, miss; and never you marry a man who travels in that line," -returned the woman, "or the best part of your life you won't know for -rights if you're married or not!" - -"He's away a good deal, you mean?" - -"Away? He's just home about two months in the year--a fortnight at the -time, that's what he is! All the rest of it traipsing about from place -to place like a wandering gipsy. Charlotte says time and again, 'Ma, -have I got a pa, or 'aven't I?'--don't yer, Charlotte?" - -"Pa's awful!" said Charlotte, with her mouth full of -bread-and-marmalade. "Never mind, pa, you can't help it!" - -"Eh, it's a sad pursuit!" rejoined her father gloomily. In the glow -of his own fireside Mary perceived with surprise that his enthusiasm -for "his wines and speerits" had vanished. "Awa' frae your wife an' -bairn, pandering tae th' veecious courses that ruin the immortal soul! -Every heart kens its ain bitterness, young leddy; and Providence in its -mysteerious wisdom never meant me for the wine-and-speerit trade." - -"Oh lor," said Charlotte, "ma's done it!" - -"It was na your mither," said Mr. Macpherson; "it's ma ain conscience, -as well ye ken! Dae I no' see the travellers themselves succumb tae th' -cussed sippin' and tastin' frae mornin' till nicht? There was Burbage, -I mind weel, and there was Broun; guid men both--no better men on th' -road! Whaur's Burbage noo--whaur's Broun?" - -"Fly away, Peter, fly away, Paul!" interpolated Charlotte. - -"Gone!" continued Mr. Macpherson, responding to his own inquiry -with morbid unction. "Deed! The Lord be praised, I ha'e the guid -sense tae withstand th' infeernal tipplin' masel'. Mony's the time, -when I'm talkin' tae a mon in the way o' business, ye ken, I turn -the damned glass upside down when he is na lookin'. But there's the -folk I sell tae, an' the ithers; what o' them? It's ma trade to -praise the evil--tae tak' it into the world, spreadin' it broadcast -for the destruction o' monkind. Eh, ma responsibeelity is awfu' tae -contemplate." - -"I'm sure, James, you mean first class," said the little woman weakly. -"Come, light your pipe comfortable, now, and don't worrit, there's a -good man!" - -The traveller waved the pipe aside. - -"There's a still sma' voice," he said, "ye canna silence wi' 'bacca; -ye canna silence it wi' herbs nor wi' fine linen. It's wi' me noo, -axin' queestions. It says: 'Macpheerson, how dae ye justeefy thy -wilfu' conduct? Why dae ye gloreefy the profeets o' th' airth above -thy speeritual salvation, mon? Dae ye no ken that orphans are goin' -dinnerless through thy eloquence, an' widows are prodigal wi' curses on -a' thy samples an' thy ways?' I canna answer. There are nichts when the -voice will na let me sleep, ye're weel aware; there are nichts----" - -"There are nights when you're most trying, James, I know." - -"Woman, it's the warnin' voice that comes tae a sinner in his -transgreession! Are there no' viseetations eno' about me, an' dae I -no' turn ma een frae them; hardenin' ma heart, and pursuin' ma praise -o' Pilcher's wi' a siller tongue? There was a mon are day at the -Peacock--a mon in ma ain inseedious line--an' he swilled his bottle -o' sherry, an' he called for his whusky-an'-watter, and he got up -on his feet speechify in', after the commercial dinner. 'The Queen, -gentlemen!' he cries, liftin' his glass; an' wi' that he dropped deed, -wi' the name o' the royal leddy on his lips! He was a large red mon--he -would ha' made twa o' me." - -He seemed to regard the circumference of the deceased as additionally -ominous. His arms were extended in representation of it, and he waved -them aloft as if to intimate that Charlotte might detect Nemesis in the -vicinity preparing for a swoop. - -"You take the thing too seriously," said Mary. "Nine people out of ten -have to be what they can, you know; it is only the tenth who can be -what he likes." - -The little woman inquired what her own calling was. - -"I am very sorry to say I haven't any," she answered. "I'm doing -nothing." - -There was a moment's constraint. - -"Unfortunately I know nobody here," she went on; "it's very hard to -get anything when there's no one to speak for you." - -"It must be! But, lor! you must bear up. It's a long lane that has no -turning, as they say." - -"Only there is no telling where the turning may lead; a lane is better -than a bog." - -"Wouldn't she do for Pattenden's?" suggested the woman musingly. - -"For whom?" exclaimed Mary. "Do you think I can get something? Who are -they?" - -"James?" - -"Pattenden's?" he repeated. "An' what; would she dae at Pattenden's?" - -"Why, be agent, to be sure--same as you were!" - -Mary glanced from one to the other with; anxiety. - -"Weel, noo, that isn't at a' a bad idea," said Mr. Macpherson -meditatively; "dae ye fancy ye could sell books, young leddy, on -commeession--a hauf-sovereign, say, for every order ye took? I'm -thinkin' a young woman micht dae a verra fair trade at it." - -"Oh yes," she replied; "I'm sure I could. Half a sovereign each one? -Where do I go? Will they take me?" - -"I dinna anteecipate ye'll fin' much deefficulty aboot them takin' ye: -they dinna risk onythin' by that! I'll gi'e ye the address. They are -publishers, and ye just ax for their Mr. Collins when ye go there; tell -him ye're wishful tae represent them wi' ane o' their publeecations. -If ye like I'll write your name on ane o' ma ain cards; an' ye can send -it in tae him." - -"Oh, do!" she said. - -"Ye must na imagine it's a fortune ye'll be makin'," he observed; "it's -different tae ma ain position wi' the wines an' speerits, ye ken: wi' -Pilcher's it's a fixed salary, an' Pilcher's pay ma expenses." - -"Pilcher's pay _our_ expenses!" affirmed Charlotte the thoughtful. - -"They dae," acquiesced the traveller; "there's a sicht o' saving oot -o' sax-and-twenty shillin's a day tae an economical parent. But wi' -Pattenden's it's precarious; are week guid, an' anither week bad." - -"I am not afraid," said Mary boldly; "whatever I do, it is better than -nothing! I'll go there to-morrow, the first thing. Very many thanks; -and to you too, Mrs. Macpherson, for thinking of it." - -"I'm sure I'm glad I did; there's no saying but what you may be doing -first-rate after a bit. It's a beginning for you, any way." - -"That it is! But why can't the publishers pay a salary, the same as -your husband's firm?" - -"Ah! they don't; anyhow, not at the beginning. Besides, James has been -with Pilcher's ten years now; he wasn't earning so much when he started -with them." - -"'Spect one reason is because such a heap more people buy spirits than -books!" said Charlotte. "Pa!" - -"Eh, ma lassie?" - -"The lady's going to be an agent----" - -"Weel?" - -"Then, pa," said Charlotte, "won't we all drink to the lady's luck in a -sample?" - -"Ye veecious midget," ejaculated her father wrathfully, "are ye no' -ashamed tae mak' sic a proposeetion? Ye'll no' drink a sample, will ye, -young leddy?" - -"I will not indeed!" answered Mary. - -"No' but what ye're welcome." - -"Thanks," she said; "I will not, really." - -"Eh, but ye will, then," he exclaimed; "a sma' sample, ye an' Mrs. -Macpheerson! Whaur's ma bag?" - -In spite of her protestations he drew a bottle out, and the hostess -produced a couple of glasses from the cupboard. - -"Port!" he said. "The de'il's liquors a' o' them; but, if there's a -disteenction, maybe a wee drappie o' the 'Four Grape Balance' deserves -mon's condemnation least." His conflicting emotions delayed the toast -for some time. "The de'il's liquors!" he groaned again, fingering -the bottle irresolutely. "Eh, but it's the 'Four Grape Balance,'" he -murmured with reluctant admiration, eyeing the sample against the -light. "There! Ye may baith o' ye drink it doon! But masel', I wouldna -touch a drap. An' as for ye, ye wee Cockney bairn, if I catch ye -tastin' onything stronger a than tea in a' your days, or knowin' the -flavour o' the perneecious stuff it's your affleected father's duty tae -lure the unsuspeecious minds wi'--temptin' the frail tae their eternal -ruin, an' servin' the de'il when his sicht is on the Lord--I'll leather -ye!" - -Charlotte giggled nervously--Figaro-wise, that she might not be obliged -to weep; and Mrs. Macpherson, raising the glass to her lips, said -"Luck!" - -"Luck!" they all echoed. - -And Mary, conscious that the career would be no heroic one, was also -conscious she was not a heroine. "I am," she said to herself, "just a -real unhappy woman, in very desperate straits. So let me do whatever -turns up, and be profoundly grateful that anything can be done at all." - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -The wealth of Messrs. Pattenden and Sons, which was considerable, was -not indicated by the arrangement of their London branch. A flight of -narrow stairs, none too clean, led to a pair of doors respectively -painted "Warehouse" and "Private"; and having performed the superfluous -ceremony of knocking at the former, Mary found herself in front of a -rough counter, behind which two or three young men were busily engaged -in stacking books. There were books in profusion, books in virginity, -books tempting and delightful to behold. Volume upon volume, crisp in -cover and shiny of edge, they were piled on the table and heaped on the -floor; and the young men handled them with as little concern as if they -had been grocery. Such is the force of custom. - -In response to her inquiry, her name and the card were despatched to -Mr. Collins by a miniature boy endowed with a gape that threatened to -lift his head off, and, pending the interview, she attempted to subdue -her nervousness. - -A man with a satchel bustled in, and made hurried reference to "Vol. -two of the _Dic_." and "The fourth of the _Ency_." Against the window -an accountant with a fresh complexion and melancholy mien totted up -columns. - -Seeing that everybody--the melancholy accountant not excepted--favoured -her with a gratified stare, she concluded that women were infrequently -employed here, and she trembled with the fear that her application -might be refused. She assured herself that the Scotsman would never -have spoken so confidently of a favourable issue if it had not been -reasonable to expect it, but the doubt having entered her head, it was -difficult to dispel. It occurred to her that she could astonish the -accountant by telling him that she was on the brink of destitution. The -perspiring young packers, sure of their dinners by-and-by, looked to -her individuals to be felicitated on their prosperity, and, luckless -as they were, it is a fact that a person's lot is seldom so poor but -that another person worse off can be found to envy it. The book-keeper -who has grown haggard in the firm's employ at a couple of pounds a -week is the envy of the clerk who lives on eighteen shillings, and the -wight who sweeps the office daily thinks how happy he would be in the -place of the clerk. The urchin who hawks matches in the rain envies the -sheltered office-boy, and the waif without coppers to invest envies the -match-seller. The grades of misery are so infinite, and the instinct of -envy is so ingrained, that when two vagrants crouched under a bridge -have tightened their belts to still the gnawings of their hunger, one -of the pair will find something to be envious of in the rags of the -outcast suffering at his side. - -Messrs. Pattenden's youngster reappeared, and, with a yawn so -tremendous that it eclipsed his previous effort, said: - -"Miss Brettan!" - -Mr. Collins was seated in a compartment just large enough to contain a -desk and two chairs. He signed Mary to the vacant one, and gave her a -steady glance of appreciation. A man who had risen to the position of -conducting the travelling department of a firm that published on the -subscription plan, he was something of a reader of temperament; a man -who had risen to the position by easy stages while yet young, he was -kindly and had not lost his generosity on the way. - -"Good-morning," he said; "what can I do for you?" - -"I want to represent you with one of your publications," she answered. -"Mr. Macpherson was good enough to offer me the introduction, and he -thought you would be able to arrange with me." The nervousness was -scarcely visible. She had entered well, and spoke without hesitancy, -in a musical voice. All these things Mr. Collins noted. Before she -had explained her desire he had wished that she might have it. The -book-agent is of many types, and skilful advertisements hinting at -noble earnings, without being explicit about the nature of the pursuit, -had brought penurious professional men and reduced gentlewomen on to -that chair time and again. But these applicants had generally cooled -visibly when the requirements of the vocation were insinuated; and here -was one, as refined as any of them, who came comprehending that she -would have to canvass, and prepared to do it! Mr. Collins nearly rubbed -his hands. - -"What experience have you had?" - -"In--as an agent? None. But I suppose with a fair amount of -intelligence that doesn't matter very much?" - -"Not at all." For once he was almost at a loss. As a rule it was he who -advocated the attempt, and the novice on the chair who grew reluctant. - -"I take it," said Miss Brettan, concealing rapture, "that the art of -the business is to sell books to people who don't want to buy them?" - -"Just so; tact, and the ability to talk about your specimen is what is -wanted. Always watch the face of the person you are showing it to and -don't look at the specimen itself. You must know that by heart." - -"Oh!" - -"Suppose you're showing an encyclopedia! As you turn over the plates, -you should be able to tell by his eyes when you have come to one that -illustrates a subject that he is interested in. Then talk about that -subject--how fully it is dealt with. See?" - -"I see." - -"If you think he looks like a married man and is old enough to have a -family, say how useful an encyclopedia is for general reference in a -household--how valuable it is for children when they are writing essays -and things." - -"Are you going to engage me for an encyclopedia?" - -He smiled. - -"You're in a hurry, Miss----" - -"Brettan. Am I in too much of a hurry?" - -"Well, you have to be patient, you know, with possible subscribers. If -_you_ rush, _they_ will, too, and the easiest reply to give in a hurry -is 'No.' I'm not sure about sending you out with the _Ency_.; after a -while, perhaps! How would you like trying a new work that has never -been canvassed, for a beginning?" - -"Would it be better?" - -"Yes; there's less in it to learn, and you needn't be afraid of -hearing, 'Oh, I have one already!'" - -"I didn't think of that. What is it, Mr. Collins?" - -He touched a bell, and told the boy to bring in a specimen of the -_Album_. - -"Four half-volumes at twelve and sixpence each," he said, turning -to her, "_The Album of Inventions_. It gives the history of all the -principal inventions, with a brief biography of the inventors. You want -to know who invented the watch--look it up under W; the telephone--turn -to T. It's a history of the progress of science and civilisation. 'The -origin of the inventions, and the voids they fill,' that's the idea. -Ah, here it is! Now look at that, and tell me if you think you could do -any good with it." - -She took a slim crimson-bound book from its case, and glanced through -it. - -"Oh, I certainly think I could," she said; "I should like to try, -anyhow." - -"Very well, you shall be the first agent to canvass the _Album_ for us." - -"And how about terms?" she questioned. - -"The terms, Miss Brettan, ought to be to you in a very little while -about five or six pounds a week. You may do more; we have travellers -with us who are making their twenty. But for a start say five or six." - -"You mean that that would be my commencing salary?" she asked calmly. - -"No, not as salary," he said, carelessly too. "I mean your commissions -would amount to that." By his tone one might have supposed that -formality obliged him to distinguish between these sources of income, -but that it was practically a distinction without a difference. "On -every order you bring us for the Album we allow you half a guinea. -Saturdays you needn't go out--it's a bad day, especially to catch -professional men. But saying you make twelve calls five days a week, -and out of every dozen calls you book two orders, there is your five -guineas a week for you as regular as clockwork! I'll tell you what I'll -do: just give me a receipt for the specimen, and go home this morning -and study it. To-morrow come in to me again at ten o'clock. And every -day I'll make out a short list for you of people who've already been -subscribers of ours for some work or another--I can pick out addresses -that lie close together; and then you'll have the advantage of knowing -you're waiting on buyers, and not wasting your time." - -"Thank you very much," she said. - -"Here's the order-book. You see they have to fill up a form. Every one -you bring filled-in means half a guinea to you. You have no further -trouble--a deliverer takes the volumes round and collects the money. -Just get the order signed, and your responsibility is over. Is that all -right?" - -"That's all right." - -He rose and shook hands with her. - -"At ten o'clock," he repeated. "So long!" - -She descended the dirty stairs excitedly. The aspect of the world -had changed for her in a quarter of an hour. And to think, she -would never have dreamt of trying Pattenden's--never have heard of -the occupation--if she had not met Mr. Macpherson, had not gone to -Finchley, had not been so tired that, having parted with her last penny -at the news-room---- - -The remembrance of her present penury rushed back to her. With five -guineas a week coming in directly, she had no money to go on with -in the meanwhile. To walk about the streets all day, without even a -biscuit between the scanty meals at home, would be impossible. She -questioned desperately what there remained to her to pawn--what she was -to do. Gaining her room, she eyed her little bag of linen forlornly; -she did not think she could borrow anything on articles like these, -neither could she spare any of them, nor summon the courage to put them -on a counter. Suddenly the inspiration came to her that there was the -bag itself. And at dusk she went out with it. This time the pawnbroker -omitted to inquire if she had a halfpenny; he deducted the cost of the -ticket from the amount of the loan. Taking the bull by the horns, she -next sought the landlady, and said that she would be unable to pay the -impending bill when it came up, but that she would pay that and the -next one together. - -"I've found work," she said, feeling like a housemaid. "If you wouldn't -mind letting it stand over----" - -Mrs. Shuttleworth dried her fingers on her apron, and agreed with less -hesitation than her lodger had feared. - -Convinced that her specimen was mastered--she had rehearsed two -or three little gusts of eulogy which she thought would sound -spontaneous--Mary now considered calling on the Macphersons to inform -them of the result of their suggestion. Reluctant to intrude, she had -half decided to write, but with her limited means, the stamp was an -object, and besides, she was uncertain of the number. She determined on -the visit. - -The door was opened by Charlotte, and hastily explaining the motive for -the call, Mary followed her inside. She found the parlour in a state of -confusion, and gathered from the trio in a breath that destiny, in the -form of Pilcher's, had ordered that Mr. Macpherson should be torn from -his family a week earlier than the severance had been anticipated. - -"He's going to Leeds to-morrow," exclaimed the little woman -distractedly, oppressed by an armful of shirts that fell from her one -by one as she moved; "and it wasn't till this afternoon we heard a word -about it. Oh dear! oh dear! how many's that, James?" - -"'Tis thirty-three," said the traveller, "an', as ye weel ken, it -should be thirty-sax! I canna see the use o' a body havin' thirty-sax -shirts if they can never be found." - -"I'm afraid I'm in the way," murmured Mary; "I just looked in to say -it's all satisfactory, and to tell you how much obliged I am. I won't -stop." - -"You're not in the way at all. You've got one on, James: that's -thirty-four! My dear, would you mind counting these shirts for me? I -declare my head's going round!" - -She held the bundle out to Mary feebly, and, dropping on to the -traveller's box, watched her with harassed eyes. - -"Pa has three dozen of 'em," said Charlotte with pride, "'cos of the -trouble of getting 'em washed when he goes about so much. I think, -though, you lose 'em on the road, pa." - -"It's a silly thought that's like ye," returned her parent shortly. -"Young leddy, what dae ye mak' it?". - -"There are only thirty-three here," replied Mary, struggling with a -laugh, "and---and one is thirty-four!" - -"Thirty-three," exclaimed Mr. Macpherson, "and are is thirty-four! Twa -shirts missin', twa shirts at five and saxpence apiece wasted--lost -through repreheensible carelessness!" He sat down on the box by his -wife's side, and contemplated her severely. "Aweel," he said at last, -sociable under difficulties, "an' Collins was agreeable, ye tell me?" - -"He was very nice indeed." - -"Hoh!" he sighed, "ye will na mak' a penny by it. But the pursuit may -serve tae occupy ye!" - -"Not make a penny by it?" she ejaculated. - -"Don't you mind him," said his partner; "he's got the 'ump, that's -what's the matter with him!" - -"It may serve tae occupy your mind," repeated Mr. Macpherson -funereally; "'tis pleasant walkin' in the fine weather. Now mind ye, -'oman, I dinna leave withoot ma twa shirts. I canna banish them frae ma -memory." - -"Bless and save us, James, haven't I rummaged every drawer in the -place?" - -"I am for ever replenishing that thirty-sax, an' it is for ever short," -he complained; "will ye no' look in the keetchen?" - -She was absent some time on the quest, and Charlotte questioned Mary -about the details of her interview at Messrs. Pattenden's. She said she -knew that "Pa had been with them for several years," so the business -could not be so unprofitable as he had just pretended. Appealed to -for support, however, her pa sighed again, and it was obvious that he -was impelled towards an unusually pessimistic view of everything that -night. A brief reference to a "sink o' ineequity" was accepted as a -comment upon the "wine-and-speerit" trade, but he had nothing cheerful -to say of books, either; and, recognising the futility of attempting a -graceful retreat, the visitor got up abruptly and wished them good-bye. -Mrs. Macpherson joined her in the passage, without the shirts. - -"Good-night, miss," she murmured; "don't be down in the mouth. Have -plenty of cheek, and you'll get along like a house afire! As for me, -I'm going back to the kitchen and mean to stop there." - -At Mary's third step she called to her to come back. - -"Never," she added, "go and settle down with a traveller. You're -likely to fetch 'em, but don't do it!" She jerked her head towards the -parlour. "A good man, my dear, but his shirts were my cross from our -wedding-day!" - -Mary assured her that the warning should be borne in mind, and left -the little person wiping her brow. The remark about marrying, idle as -it was, distressed her. Last night too there had been a mention of -the possibility, and, knowing that she could never be any man's wife, -the suggestion shook her painfully. How she had wrecked her life, she -reflected, and for a man who had cared nothing for her! - -The assertion that he cared nothing for her was bitterer to her soul -than the knowledge that she had wrecked her life. To have a love -despised is always a keener torture to a woman than to a man; for -a woman surrenders herself less easily, thinks the more of what -she is bestowing, and counts the treasures at her disposal over and -over--ultimately for the sake of delighting in the knowledge of how -much she is going to give. If one of the pearls that she has laid so -reverently at her master's feet is left to lie there, she exonerates -him and accuses herself. But his caresses never quite fill the -unsuspected wound. If it happens that he neglects them all, then the -woman, beggared and unthanked, wonders why the sun shines, and how -people can laugh. Some women can take back a misdirected love, erase -the superscription, and address it over again. Others cannot. Mary -could not. She had lain in Seaton's arms and kissed him; pride bade her -be ashamed of the memory; her heart found food in it. It was all over, -all terrible, all a thing that she ought to shiver and revolt at. But -the depth of her devotion had been demonstrated by the magnitude of her -sin, and she was not able, because the sacrifice had been misprized, to -say, "Therefore, in everything except my misery, it shall be as if I -had never made it." - -She could not, continually as she put its fever from her, wrench the -tenderness out of her being, recall her guilt and forget its motive. -The sin of her life had been caused by her love, and, come weal, come -woe, come gratitude or callousness, a love that had been responsible -for such a thing as that was not a sentiment to be plucked out and -destroyed at the dictates of common-sense. It was not a thing that -Carew could kill with baseness. She could have looked him in the face -and sworn she hated him; she felt that, though that might not be quite -true, she could never touch his hand nor sit in a room with him again. -But neither her contempt for him nor for her own weakness could blot -out the recollection of the hours of passion, the years of communion, -when if one of them had said, "I should like," the other had replied, -"Say _we_ should!" - -It was well for her that the exigencies of her situation were supplying -anxieties which to a great extent penned her thoughts within more -wholesome bounds. On the morrow her chief idea was to distinguish -herself on her preliminary expedition. Mr. Collins, true to his -promise, had prepared a list for her. The houses were all in the -neighbourhood of the Abbey, and mostly, he informed her, the offices -of civil engineers. He said civil engineers were a "likely class," the -principal objection to them being that they were "so beastly irregular -in their movements." When she had "worked Westminster," he added, he -would start her among barristers and clergy-men. - -"Come in, when you've done, and tell me how you've got on," he said -pleasantly. "I suppose you haven't a pocket large enough to hold your -specimen? Never mind! Keep it out of sight as much as you can when you -ask for people; and ask for them as if you were going to give them a -commission to build a bridge." - -She smiled confidently; and, allaying the qualms of peddlery with the -balm of prospective riches, on which she could advertise for other -employment should this prove very uncongenial, she proceeded to the -office marked "1." - -It was in Victoria Street, and the name of the gentleman upon whom -she was to intrude was painted, among a string of others, on a black -board at the entrance. She paused and inspected this board longer than -was necessary, so long that a porter in livery asked her whom she -wanted? She told him, "Mr. Gregory Hatch"; to which he replied, "Third -floor," evidently with the supposition that she would make use of the -lift. She profited by this supposition of his, and felt an impostor -to begin with. The name of "Gregory Hatch," with initials after it -which conveyed no meaning to her, confronted her on a door as the lift -stopped; and with a further decrease of ardour, she walked quickly in. - -There were several consequential young men acting as clerks behind a -stretch of mahogany, and, perceiving her, one of these lordly beings -lounged forward, and descended from his high estate sufficiently to -inquire, "What can I do for yer?" His bored and haughty glance took in -the specimen. - -"Is Mr. Hatch in?" - -"I'll see," drawled the youth; he looked suspiciously at the specimen -now, and it began to be cumbersome. - -"Er, what name?" - -"Miss Brettan." - -He strolled into the apartment marked "Private," and a sickening -certainty that, if she were admitted to it, the youth would be summoned -directly afterwards to eject her, made her yearn to take flight before -he reappeared. She was debating what excuse for a hurried departure she -could offer, when the door was re-opened and he requested her to "step -in, please." - -An old gentleman of preoccupied aspect was busy at a desk; he and she -were alone in the room. - -"Miss--Brettan?" he said interrogatively. "Take a chair, madam." - -He put his papers down, and waited, she was convinced, for his -commission for a bridge. She took the seat that he had indicated, -because she was too much embarrassed to decline it, and she immediately -felt that this was going to be regarded as an additional piece of -impertinence. - -"I have called," she stammered--in her rehearsals she had never -practised an introductory speech, and she abominated herself for the -omission--"I have called, Mr.----" his name had suddenly sailed away -from her--"with regard to a book I've been asked to show you by -Messrs. Pattenden. If you'll allow me----" - -She drew the specimen from the case and put it on the desk before him. - -She was relieved to find him much less astonished than she had -anticipated. He even fingered the thing tentatively, and she began to -collect her wits. To take it into her hands, however, and expatiate on -its merits leaf by leaf, was beyond her. She soothed her conscience by -remarking it was a very nice book, really. - -"It seems so," said the old gentleman. "_The Album of Inventions_, dear -me! A new work?" - -"Oh yes," she said, "new. It's quite new, it's quite a new work." She -felt idiotic to keep repeating how new it was, but she could not think -of anything else to say. - -"Dear me!" said the old gentleman again. He appeared to be growing -interested by the examination, and it looked within the regions of -possibility that he might give an order. Up to that moment all her -ambition had been to find herself in the street again without having -been abused. - -"The beauty of the work is," she said, "er--that it is so pithy. One so -often wants to know something that one has forgotten about something: -who thought of it, and how the other people managed before he did. I'm -sure, Mr. Pattenden, that if you----" - -"Hatch, madam--my name is Hatch!" - -"I beg your pardon," she said--"I meant to say 'Mr. Hatch.' I was going -to say that, if you care to take a copy of it, it is very cheap." - -"And what may the price be?" he asked. - -"It is in four volumes at twelve and sixpence," said Mary melodiously. - -"The four?" - -"Oh no--each! Thick volumes they are; do you think it's dear?" - -"No," he said; "oh no!--a very valuable book, I've no doubt." - -"Then perhaps you will give me an order for it?" she inquired, scarcely -able to contain her elation. - -"No," he said, still perusing an article, "I will not give an order for -it; I have so many books." - -She stared at him in blank disappointment while he read placidly to the -end of a page. - -"There," he said benevolently; "a capital work! It deserves to sell -largely; the publishers should be hopeful of it. The plates are bold, -and the matter seems to me of a high degree of excellence. The fault -I usually condemn in such illustrations is the mistake of making -'pictures' of them, to the detriment of their usefulness; clearness -is always the grand desideratum in an illustration of a mechanical -contrivance. With this, the customary blunder has been avoided; in -looking through the specimen I've scarcely detected one instance where -I would suggest an alteration. And, though I wouldn't promise"--he -laughed good-humouredly--"but what on a more careful inspection I might -be forced to temper praise with blame, I'm inclined, on the whole, to -give the book my hearty commendation." - -"But will you buy it?" demanded Miss Brettan. - -"No," said the old gentleman, "thank you; I never buy books--I have so -many. No trouble at all; I am very pleased to have seen it. Allow me!" - -He bowed her out with genial ceremony, and seemed to be under the -impression that he had conferred a favour. - -The next gentleman that she wanted to see was dead. Number 3 had gone -on a trial-trip; and two other gentlemen were out of town. Number 6, -on reference to her paper, proved to be a "Mr. Crespigny." His outer -office much resembled that of Mr. Hatch, and more supercilious young -men were busy behind a counter. - -She waited while her name was taken in to him. On Mr. Collins's theory, -this, the sixth venture, ought to result in half a guinea to her. She -had by now arranged a little overture, and was ready to introduce -herself in coherent phrases. Instead of her being admitted to the inner -room, however, Mr. Crespigny came out, in the wake of his clerk, and -it devolved upon her to explain her business publicly. He was a tall -man with a pointed beard, and he advanced towards her in interrogative -silence, flicking a cigarette. Her heart was thudding. - -"Good-morning," she said; "Messrs. Pattenden, the publishers, have -asked me to wait upon you with a specimen of a new work that----" - -Mr. Crespigny deliberately turned his back, and walked to the threshold -of the private office without a word. Regaining it, he spoke to the -hapless clerk. - -"Pshaw!" he exclaimed, "don't you know a book-agent yet when you see -one?" - -He slammed the door behind him, and, with a sensation akin to having -been slapped in the face, she hurried away. Her cheeks were hot; no -retort occurred to her even when she stood on the pavement. She _was_ -a book-agent, a pest whose intrusion was always liable to be ridiculed -or resented according to the bent of the person importuned. Oh, how -hateful it was to be poor--"poor" in the fullest meaning of the term; -to be compelled to cringe to cads, and swallow insults, and call it -"wisdom" that one showed no spirit! An hour passed before she could -nerve herself to make another attempt; Mr. Crespigny had taken all the -pluck out of her. And when she repaired to Pattenden's her report was a -chronicle of failures. - -The exact answers obtained she had in many cases forgotten, and Mr. -Collins advised her to jot down brief memoranda of the interviews in -future, that he might be able to point out to her where her line of -conduct had been at fault. - -"Now, that set speech of yours was a mistake," he said. "What you want -to do at the start is to get the man's attention--to surprise him -into listening. Perhaps he has had half a dozen travellers bothering -him already, all trying for an order for something or another, and -all beginning the same way. Go in brightly. Don't let him know your -business till you've got the specimen open under his nose. Cry, 'Well, -Mr. So-and-So, here it is, out at last!' Say anything that comes into -your head, but startle him at the beginning. He may think you're mad, -but he'll listen from astonishment, and when you've woke him up you can -show him that you're not." - -"It's so awful," she said dejectedly. - -"Awful?" exclaimed Mr. Collins. "Do you know the great Napoleon was a -book-agent? Do you know that when he was a lieutenant without a red -cent he travelled with a work called _L'Histoire de la Révolution_? My -dear young lady, if you go to Paris you can see his canvasser's outfit -under a glass case in the Louvre, and the list of orders he succeeded -in collaring!" - -"I don't suppose he liked it." - -"He liked the money it brought in; and you'll like yours directly. You -don't imagine I expected you to do any good right off? I should have -been much surprised if you'd come in with any different account this -afternoon, I can tell you! No, no, you mustn't be disheartened because -you aren't lucky at the start; and as to that Victoria Street fellow -who was in a bad temper, what of him? He has to make his living, and -you have to make yours; remember you're just as much in your rights as -the man you're talking to when you make a call anywhere." - -"Very good," said Mary; "if you are satisfied, _I_ am. I don't pretend -my services are being clamoured for. You may be sure I want to do well -with the thing. If, by putting my pride in my pocket, I can put an -income there too, I'm ready to do it." - -It became a regular feature of her afternoon visit at the publishers' -for Mr. Collins to encourage her with prophecies of good fortune; -and her anxiety was frequently assuaged by his consideration. On the -first few occasions when she returned with her notes of "Out; Out; -Doesn't need it; Never reads; Too busy to look," etc., she dreaded -the additional chagrin of being rebuked for incompetence; but Mr. -Collins was always complaisant, and perpetually assured her that she -was enduring only the disappointments inevitable to a beginner. In -his own mind he began to doubt her fitness for the occupation, but he -liked her, and knowing that, in the trade phrase, some orders "booked -themselves," he was willing to afford her the chance of making a trifle -as long as she desired to avail herself of it. They were terrible -days to Mary Brettan, wearing away without result, while her pitiful -store of cash grew less and less; and since each day was so drearily -long, it was amazing that a week passed so quickly. This is an anomaly -especially conspicuous to lodgers, and when her bill was due again she -beheld her landlady with despair. - -"Mrs. Shuttle worth," she said, "I have done nothing; I hoped to pay -you, and I can't. I'm not a cheat, though it looks like it; I am agent -for a firm of publishers, and I haven't earned a single commission." -Mrs. Shuttleworth scrutinised her grimly, and she held her breath. She -might be commanded to leave, and as omnibus fares were an item of her -expenditure now, no more than a shilling remained of the sum raised on -the handbag. "What do you say?" she faltered. - -"Well," said the other, "it's like this: I'm not 'ard and I don't -say as I'd care to go and turn a respectable girl into the streets, -for I know what I'd be doing. But I can't afford to lay out for your -breakfas' and your tea with never a farthing coming back for it. Keep -the room a bit, and the rent can wait; but I must ask you to get all -your meals outside till we're straight again." - -A lodger on sufferance; left with nothing to pawn, and possessed of a -shilling to sustain life till she gained an order for _The Album of -Inventions_, Mary toiled up staircases with the specimen. To economise -on remaining pounds may be managed with refinement; to be frugal -of the last silver is possible with decency; but to be reduced to -the depths of pence means a devilish hunger whose cravings cannot be -stilled for more than an hour at a time, and a weakness that mounts -from limbs to brain till the throat contracts, and the eyeballs ache -from exhaustion. However fatigued her fruitless expeditions might have -made her now, she went back to the publishing-house enduringly afoot, -grudging every halfpenny, husbanding the meagre sum with the tenacity -of deadly fear. The windows of the foreign restaurants with viands -temptingly displayed and tastefully garnished, the windows of the -English cook-shops, into which the meats were thrown, enchanted her -eye as she would never have believed that food could have the power to -do. She understood what starvation was; began to understand how people -could be brought to thieve by it, and exculpated them for doing so. -Without her clothes becoming abruptly shabby, the aspect of the woman -deteriorated from her internal consciousness. She carried herself -less confidently; she lost the indefinable air that distinguishes the -freight from the flotsam on the sea of life. Little things sent the -fact home to her. Drivers ceased to lift an inquiring fore-finger when -she passed a cab-rank, and once, when an address on her list proved to -be a private house, the servant asked her "Who from?" instead of "What -name?" - -Inch by inch she fought for the ground that was slipping under her, -affecting cheerfulness when the specimen was exhibited, and hiding -desperation when she restored it, a failure, to its case. The sight -of Victoria Street and its neighbourhood came to be loathsome to her. -Often her instructions took her on to different floors of the same -building day after day; and, fancying that the hall-porters divined why -she reappeared so often, she entered with the misgiving that they might -forbid her to ascend. - -It was no shock to her at last to issue from the lodging beggared. She -had felt so long that the situation was inevitable that she accepted -its coming almost apathetically. She faced the usual day, mounting the -flights of stairs, and drooping down them, a shade the weaker for the -absence of the pitiful breakfast. It was not until one o'clock that the -hopelessness of routine was admitted. Then, the prospect of the journey -to reach her room again was intimidating enough; she did not even -return to Pattenden's; she went slowly back and lay down on the bed, -managing to forget her hunger intermittently in snatches of sleep. - -Towards evening the pangs faded altogether. But incidents of years ago -recurred to her without any effort of the will, impelling her to cry -feebly at the recollection of some unkind answer that she had once -given, at a hurt expression that she saw again on her father's face. -During the night her troubles were reflected in her dreams, and at -morning she woke hollow-eyed. - -It was labour to her to dress. But she did not feel hungry, she felt -only dazed. She drank a glassful of water from the bottle on the -wash-hand-stand, and, driven to exertion by necessity, took her way to -the publishers', moving among the crowd torpidly, not acutely conscious -of her surroundings. - -Mr. Collins exclaimed at her appearance and strongly advised her to go -home and rest. - -"You don't look the thing at all," he said with genuine concern. "Stay -indoors to-day; you won't do any good if you're not well." - -She smiled wistfully at his idea that staying indoors would improve -matters. - -"I shan't be any better for not going out," she said. "Yes, give me the -list. Only don't expect me to come in and report; I shan't feel much -like doing that." - -He wrote a few names for her. - -"I shan't give you many to-day," he said. "Here are half a dozen; try -these!" - -"Thank you," said Mary; "I'll try these." She went down, and out into -the street once more. The rattle of the traffic roared in her ears; the -jam and jostle of the pavements confused her. She felt like a child -buffeted by giants, and could have lifted her arms, wailing to God to -let the end be now--to let her die quickly and quietly, and without -much pain. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -On the third floor of a house in Delahay Street there used to be a room -which was at once sitting-room and "workshop." A blue plate here and -there over the mirror, the shabby arm-chair on the hearth, and a modest -collection of books on the wall, gave it an air of home. The long -white table, littered with plans and paints, before the window, and a -theodolite in the corner, showed that it served for office too. - -A man familiar with that interior had just entered the passage, and as -he began to ascend the stairs a smile of anticipated welcome softened -the rigidity of his face. He was a tall, loosely-built man, who was -generally credited with five more years than the two-and-thirty he had -really seen; a man who, a physiognomist would have asserted, formed -few friendships and was a stanch friend. Possibly it was the gauntness -of the face that caused him to appear older than he was, possibly its -gravity. He did not look as if he laughed readily, as if he saw much in -life to laugh at. He did not look impulsive, or emotional, or a man to -be imagined singing a song. He could be pictured the one cool figure -in a scene of panic with greater facility than participating in the -enthusiasm of a grand-stand. Not that you found his aspect heroic, but -that you could not conceive him excited. - -He turned the handle as he knocked at the door, and strode into the -room without awaiting a response. The occupant dropped his T-square -with a clatter, giving a quick halloa: - -"Philip! Dear old chap!" - -Dr. Kincaid gripped the outstretched hand. - -"How are you?" he said. - -Walter Corri pushed him into the shabby chair, and lounged against the -mantelpiece, smiling down at him. - -"How are you?" repeated Dr. Kincaid. - -"All right. When did you come up?" - -"Yesterday afternoon." - -"Going to stay long?" - -"Only a day or two." - -"Pipe?" - -"Got a cigar; try one!" - -"Thanks." - -Corri pulled out a chair for himself. "Well, what's the news?" he said. - -"Nothing particular; anything fresh with you?" - -"No. How's your mother?" - -"Tolerably well; she came up with me." - -"Did she! Where are you?" - -"Some little hotel. I'm charged with a lot of messages----" - -"That you don't remember!" - -"I remember one of them: you're to come and see her." - -"Thanks, I shall." - -"Come and dine to-night, if you've nothing on. We have a room to -ourselves, and----" - -"I'd like to. What are you going to do during the day?" - -"There are two or three things that won't take very long, but I was -obliged to come. What are _you_ doing?" - -"I've an appointment outside at twelve; I shall be back in about an -hour, and then I could stick a paper on the door without risking an -independence." - -"You can go about with me?" - -"If you'll wait." - -"Good! Where do you keep your matches?" - -"Matches are luxuries. Tear up _The Times_!" - -"Corri's economy! Throw me _The Times_, then!" - -Kincaid lit his cigar to his satisfaction, and stretched his long legs -before the fire. Both men puffed placidly. - -"Well," said Corri, "and how's the hospital? How do you like it?" - -"My mother doesn't like it; she finds it so lonely at home by herself. -I thought she'd get used to it in a couple of months--I go round to -her as often as I can--but she complains as much as she did at the -beginning. She's taken up the original idea again, and of course it is -dull for her. And she's not strong, either." - -"No, I know." - -"Tell her I'm going to be a successful man by-and-by, Wally, and cheer -her up. It enlivens her to believe it." - -"I always do." - -"I know you do; whenever she's seen you, she looks at me proudly for -a week and tells me what a 'charming young man' Mr. Corri is--'how -clever!' The only fault she finds with you is that you haven't got -married." - -"Tell her that I have what the novelists call an 'ideal.'" - -"When did you catch it?" - -"Last year. A fellow I know married the 'Baby'--an adoring daughter -that thought all her family unique." - -"And----?" - -"My ideal is the blessing who is still unappropriated at twenty-eight. -She'll have discovered by then that her mother isn't infallible; that -her brothers aren't the first living authorities on wines, the fine -arts, horseflesh, and the sciences; and that the 'happy home' isn't -incapable of improvement. In fact, she'll have got a little tired of -it." - -"You've the wisdom of a relieved widower." - -"I have seen," said Corri widely. "The fellow, you know! Married -fellows are an awfully 'liberal education.' This one has been turned -into a nurse--among the several penalties of his selection. The -treasure is for ever dancing on to wet pavements in thin shoes and -sandwiching imbecilities between colds on the chest. He swears you may -move the Himalayas sooner than teach a girl of twenty to take care of -herself. He told me so with tears in his eyes. I mean to be older than -my wife, and she has got to be twenty-eight, so it's necessary to wait -a few years. I may be able to support her, too, by then; that's another -thing in favour of delay." - -"I'll represent the matter in the proper light for you on the next -occasion." - -"Do; it's extraordinary that every woman advocates matrimony for every -man excepting her own son." - -"She makes up for it by her efforts on behalf of her own daughter." - -"Is that from experience?" - -"Not in the sense you mean; I'm no catch to be chased myself; but I've -seen enough to make you sick. The friends see the ceremonies--I see the -sequels." - -"'There are worse occupations in this world than feeling a woman's -pulse.' But Yorick was an amateur! I should say a horrid profession, -in one way; it can't leave a scrap of illusion. What's a complexion to -a man who knows all that's going on underneath? I suppose when a girl -gives a blush you see a sort of chart of her muscles and remember what -produces it." - -"I knew a physician who used to say he had never cared for any woman -who hadn't a fatal disease," replied Kincaid; "how does that go with -your theory? She was generally consumptive, I believe." - -"Do you understand it?" - -"Pity, I dare say, first. Doctors are men." - -"Yes, I suppose they are; but somehow one doesn't think of them that -way. Between the student and the doctor there's such an enormous gap. -It's a stupid idea, but one feels that a doctor marries, as he goes to -church on Sunday--because the performance is respectable and expected. -Some professions don't make any difference to the man himself; you -don't think of an engineer as being different from anybody else; but -with Medicine----" - -"It's true," said Kincaid, "that hardly anybody but a doctor can -realise how a doctor feels; his friends don't know. The only writer who -ever drew one was George Eliot." - -"If you're a typical----" - -"Oh, I wasn't talking about myself; don't take me! When a man's -thoughts mean worries, he acquires the habit of keeping them to himself -very soon; that is, if he isn't a fool. It isn't calculated to make him -popular, but it prevents him becoming a bore." - -"Out comes your old bugbear! Isn't it possible for you to believe a -man's pals may listen to his worries without being bored?" - -"How many times?" - -"Oh, damn, whenever they're there!" - -"No," said Kincaid meditatively, "it isn't. They'd hide the boredom, of -course, but he ought to hide the worries. Let a man do his cursing in -soliloquies, and grin when it's conversation." - -"Would it be convenient to mention exactly what you do find it possible -to believe in?" - -"In work, and grit, and Walter Corri. In doing your honest best in -the profession you've chosen for the sake of the profession, not in -the hope of what it's going to do for you. You can't, quite--that's -the devil of it! Your own private ambitions _will_ obtrude themselves -sometimes; but they're only vanity, when all's said and done--just -meant for the fuel. What does nine out of ten men's success do for -anyone but the nine men? Leaving out the great truths, the discoveries -that benefit the human race for all time, what more good does a man -effect in his success than he did in his obscurity? Who wants to see -him succeed, excepting perhaps his mother--who's dead before he does -it? Who's the better for his success? who does he think will be any -better off for it? Nobody but No. 1! Then, whenever the vanity's sore -and rubbed the wrong way, you'd have him go to his friends and take it -out of them. What a selfish beast!" - -"Bosh!" said Corri. "Oh, I know it isn't argument, but 'bosh!'" - -"My dear fellow----" - -"My dear fellow, you had a rough time of it yourself for any number of -years, and----" - -"And they've left their mark. Very naturally! What then?" - -"Simply that now you want to stunt all humanity in the unfortunate -mould that was clapped on _you_. You understand the right of every pain -to shriek excepting mental pain. You'd sit up all night pitying the -whimpers of a child with a splintered finger, but if a man made a moan -because his heart was broken, you'd call him a 'selfish beast'!" - -Kincaid ejected a circlet of smoke, and watched it sail away before he -answered. - -"'Weak,'" he said, "I think I should call that 'weak.' It was a very -good sentence, though, if not quite accurate. This reminds me of old -times; it takes me back ten years to sit in your room and have you -bully me. There's something in it, Corri; circumstances are responsible -for a deuce of a lot, and we're all of us accidents. I'm a bad case, -you tell me; I dare say it's true. You're a good chap to put up with -me." - -"Don't be a fool," said Corri. - -The "fool" stared into the coals, nursing his big knee. He seemed to -be considering his chum's accusation. - -"When I was sixteen," he said, still nursing the knee and contemplating -the fire, "I was grown up. In looking back, I never see any transition -from childhood to maturity. I was a kid, and then I was a man. I was -a man when I went to school; I never had larks out of hours; I went -there understanding I was sent to learn as much, and as quickly as I -could. Then from school I was put into an office, and was a man who -already had to hide what he felt; my people knew I wanted to make this -my profession, and they couldn't afford it. If I had let the poor old -governor see--well, he didn't see; I affected contentment, I said a -clerkship was 'rather jolly'! Good Lord! I said it was 'jolly'! The -abasement of it! The little hypocritical cur it makes of you, that -life, where a gape is regarded as a sign of laziness and you're forced -to hide the natural thing behind an account-book or the lid of your -desk; when the knowledge that you mustn't lay down your pen for five -minutes under your chief's eyes teaches you to sneak your leisure when -he turns his back, and to sham uninterrupted industry at the sound -of--his return. With the humbug, and the 'Yes, sirs,' and the 'No, -sirs,' you're a schoolboy over again as a clerk, excepting that in an -office you're paid." - -"My clerk has yet to come!" said Corri, grimacing. - -"Yes, he's being demoralised somewhere else. How I thanked God one -night when my father told me if I hadn't outgrown my desire he could -manage to gratify it! The words took me out of hell. But when I did -become a student I couldn't help being conscious that to study was an -extravagance. The knowledge was with me all the time, reminding me of -my responsibility--although it wasn't till the governor died that I -knew how great an extravagance it must have seemed to him. And I never -spreed with the fellows as a student any more than I had enjoyed myself -with the lads in the playground. Altogether, I haven't rollicked, -Corri. Such youth as I have had has been snatched at between troubles." - -"Poor old beggar!" - -Kincaid smiled quickly. - -"There's more feeling in 'you poor old beggar!' than in a letter piled -up with condolence. It's hard lines one can't write 'poor old beggar' -to every acquaintance who has a bereavement." The passion that had -crept into his strong voice while speaking of his earlier life to the -one person in the world to whom he could have brought himself to speak -so, had been repressed; his tone was again the impassive one that was -second-nature to him. - -"Believe me," he said, harking back after a pause, "that idea of the -medical profession, that 'respectable and expected' idea of yours, -is quite wrong. Oh, it isn't yours alone, it's common? enough; every -little comic paragraphist thinks himself justified in turning out a -number of ignorant jokes at the profession's expense in the course of -the year; every twopenny-halfpenny caricaturist has to thank us for a -number of his dinners. No harm's meant, and nobody minds; but people -who actually know something of the subject that these funny men are so -constant to can tell you that there's more nobility and self-sacrifice -in the medical profession than in any under the sun, not excepting the -Church. Yes, and more hardships too! The chat on the weather and the -fee for remarking it's a fine day isn't every medical man's life; the -difficulty is to get the fees in return for loyal attendance. Nobody's -reverenced like the family doctor in time of sickness. In the days of -their child's recovery the parents love the doctor almost as fervently -as they do the child; but the fervour's got cold when Christmas comes -and the gratitude's forgotten. And they know a doctor can't dun them; -so he has to wait for his account and pretend the money's of no -consequence when he bows to them, though the butcher and the baker and -the grocer don't pretend to _him_, but look for _their_ bills to be -settled every week. I could give you instances----" - -He gave instances. Corri spoke of difficulties, too. They smoked their -cigars to the stumps, talking leisurely, until Corri declared that he -must go. - -"In an hour, then, I'll call back for you," said Kincaid; "you won't be -longer?" - -"I don't think so. But why not wait? You can make yourself comfortable; -there's plenty of _The Times_ left to read." - -"I will. I want to write a couple of letters--can I?" - -"There's a desk! Have I got everything? Yes, that's all. Well, I'll be -as quick as I can, but if I _should_ be detained I shall find you here?" - -"You'll find me here," said Kincaid, "don't be alarmed." - -The other's departure did not send him to the desk immediately, -however. Left alone, it was manifest how used the man had been to -living alone. It was manifest in his composure, in his deliberation, in -the earnestness he devoted to the task when at last he attacked it. He -had just reached the foot of the second page when somebody knocked at -the door. - -"Come in," he said abstractedly. - -The knock was repeated. It occurred to him that Corri had omitted to -provide for the contingency of a client's calling. "Come in!" he cried -more loudly, annoyed at the interruption. - -He glanced over his shoulder, and saw that the intruder was a woman, -with something in her hand. - -"Mr. Corri?" - -"Mr. Corri's not in," he replied, fingering the pen; "he'll be back -by-and-by." - -Mary lingered irresolutely. Her temples throbbed, and in her weakness -the sight of a chair magnetised her. - -"Shall I wait?" she murmured; "perhaps he won't be very long?" - -"Eh?" said Kincaid. "Oh, wait if you like, madam." - -She sank into a seat mutely. The response had not sounded encouraging, -but it permitted her to rest, and rest was what she yearned for now. -How indifferent the world was! how mercilessly little anybody cared -for anybody else! "Wait, if you like, madam"--go and die, if you like, -madam--go and lay your bones in the gutter, madam, so long as you -don't bother me! She watched the big hand hazily as it shifted to and -fro across the paper. The man probably had money in his pocket that -signified nothing to him, and to her it would have been salvation. He -lived in comfort while she was starving; he did not know that she was -starving, but how much would it affect him if he did know? She wondered -whether she could induce him to give an order for the book; perhaps he -was just as likely to order it as the other man? Then she would take a -cab back to Mr. Collins and ask him for her commission at once, and go -and eat something--if she were able to eat any longer. - -She roused herself with an effort, and crossed the room to where he sat. - -"I came to see Mr. Corri from Messrs. Pattenden," she faltered, "about -a new work they're publishing. I've brought a specimen. If I am not -disturbing you----?" - -She put it down as she spoke, and stood a pace or two behind him, -watching the effect. - -"Is this woman very nervous?" said Kincaid to himself. "So she's a -book-agent! I thought she had something to sell. Good Lord, what a -life!" - -"Thanks," he answered. "I'm very busy just now, and I never buy my -books on the subscription plan." - -"You could have it sent in to you when it's complete," she suggested. - -He drummed his fingers on the title-page. "I don't want it." - -"Perhaps Mr. Corri----?" - -"I can't speak for Mr. Corri; but don't wait for him, on my advice. I'm -afraid it would be patience wasted." - -He shut the _Album_ up, intimating that he had done with it. But the -woman made no movement to withdraw it, and he invited this movement by -pushing the thing aside. He drew the blotting-pad forward to resume -his letter; and still she did not remove her obnoxious specimen from -the desk. He was beginning to feel irritated. - -"If you choose to wait, madam, take a seat," he said.... "I say -take----" - -He turned, questioning her continued silence, and sprang to his feet -in dismay. The book-agent's head was lolling on her bosom; and his -arm--extended to support her--was only out in time to catch her as she -fell. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -"Now," said Kincaid, when she opened her eyes, "what's the matter with -you? No nonsense; I'm a doctor; you mustn't tell lies to me! What's the -matter with you?" - -There are some things a woman cannot say; this was one of them. - -"You're very exhausted?" - -"Oh," she said weakly, "I--just a little." - -"When had you food last?" - -She gave no answer. He scrutinised her persistently, noting her -hesitation, and shot his next question straight at the mark. - -"Are you hungry?" - -The eyes closed again, and her lips quivered. - -"Boor!" he said to himself, "she's starving, and you wouldn't buy her -book. Beast! she's starving, and you tried to turn her out." - -But his sympathy was hardly communicated by his voice; indeed, in her -shame she thought him rather rough. - -"You stop here a minute," he continued; "don't you go and faint again, -because I forbid it! I'm going to order a prescription for you. Your -complaint isn't incurable--I've had it myself." - -He left her in quest of the housekeeper, whom he interrogated on the -subject of eggs and coffee. A shilling brightened her wits. - -"Mr. Corri's room; hurry!" - -His patient was sitting in the arm-chair when he went back; he saw -tear-stains on her cheek, though she turned away her face at his -approach. - -"The prescription's being made up," he said. "Would you like the window -shut again? No? All right, we'll keep it open. Don't talk if you'd -rather not; there's no need--I know all you want to say." - -He ignored her ostentatiously till the tray appeared, and then, -receiving it at the doorway, brought it over to her himself. - -"Come," he said, "try that--slowly." - -"Oh!" she murmured, shrinking. - -"Don't be silly; do as I tell you! There's nothing to be bashful about; -I know you're not an angel--your having an appetite doesn't astonish -me." - -"How good you are!" she muttered; "what must you think of me?" - -"Eat," commanded Kincaid; "ask me what I think of you afterwards." - -She was evidently in no danger of committing the mistake that he had -looked for--his difficulty was, not to restrain, but to persuade her; -nor was her reluctance the outcome of embarrassment alone. - -"It has gone," she said, shaking her head; "I am really not hungry now." - -He encouraged her till she began. Then he retired behind the newspaper, -to distress her as little as might be by his presence. At the end of a -quarter of an hour he put _The Times_ down. The eggshells were empty, -and he stretched himself and addressed her: - -"Better?" - -"Much better," she said, with a ghost of a smile. - -"Have you been having a long experience of this sort of thing?" - -"N--no," she returned nervously, "not very." - -He caressed his moustache; she was ceasing to be a patient and becoming -a woman, and he didn't quite know what he was to do with her. Somehow, -despite her situation, the offer of a sovereign looked as if it would -be coarse. Mary divined his dilemma, and made as if to rise. - -"Sit down," he said authoritatively. "When you're well enough to go -I'll tell you; till I do, stay where you are!" - -She felt that she ought to say something, proffer some explanation, but -she was at a loss how to begin. There was a pause. And then: - -"Is there any likelihood of this business of yours improving?" inquired -Kincaid. "Suppose you were able to hold out--is there anything to look -forward to?" - -"No," she said; "I don't think there is. I'm afraid I am no use at it." - -"Was it an attractive career, that you made the attempt?" - -"Not in the least; but it was a chance." - -"I see!" - -He saw also that she was a gentlewoman fitted for more refined -pursuits. How had she reached this pass? he wondered. Would she -volunteer the information, or should he ask her? He failed to perceive -what assistance he could render if he knew; yet if he did not help her -she would go away and die, and he would know that she was going away to -die as he let her out. - -"I was introduced to the firm by a very old connection of theirs. I -couldn't find anything to do, and he fancied that as I was--well, that -as I was a lady--it sounds rather odd under the circumstances to speak -of being a lady, doesn't it----?" - -"I don't see anything odd about it," he said. - -"He fancied I might do rather well. But I think it's a drawback, on the -contrary. It's not easy to me to decline to take 'No' for an answer; -and nobody can do any good at work she's ashamed of." - -"But you shouldn't be ashamed," he said; "it's honest enough." - -"That's what the manager tells me. Only when la woman has to go into a -stranger's office and bother him, and be snubbed for her pains, the -honesty doesn't prevent her feeling uncomfortable. You must have found -me a nuisance yourself." - -"I'm afraid I was rather brusque," he said quickly. "I was busy; I hope -I wasn't rude?" - -Her colour rose. - -"I didn't mean that at all," she stammered; "I shouldn't be very -grateful to remind you of it even if you had been!" - -"I should have thought a book of that sort would have been tolerably -easy to sell. It's a useful work of reference. What's the price?" - -"Two pounds ten altogether. It isn't dear, but people won't buy it, all -the same." - -"Yes, it's got up well," he said, taking it from the desk and turning -the leaves. "How many volumes, did you say?" - -"Four." - -She made a little tentative movement to recover it, but he went on as -if the gesture had escaped him. - -"If it's not too late I'll change my mind and subscribe for a copy. Put -my name down, please, will you?" - -She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. - -"No," she said, "thank you, I'd rather not." - -"Why?" - -"You don't want the book, I know you don't. You've fed me and done -enough for me already; I won't take your money too; I can't!" - -Her bosom began to swell tempestuously. He saw by the widened eyes -fixed upon the fire that she was struggling not to cry again. - -"There," he said gently, "don't break down! Let's talk about something -else." - -"Oh!"--she sneaked a tear away--"I'm not used ... don't think----" - -"No, no," he said, "_I_ know, _I_ understand. Poke it for me, will you? -let's have a blaze." - -She took the poker up, and prolonged the task a minute while she hung -her head. - -Remarked Kincaid: - -"It's awful to be hard up, isn't it? I've been through all the stages; -it's abominable!" - -"_You_ have?" - -"Oh yes; I know all about it. So I don't tell you that 'money's the -least thing.' Only people who have always had enough say that." - -"One wants so little in the world to relieve anxiety," she said; "it -does seem cruel that so few can get enough for ease." - -"What do you mean by 'ease'?" - -"Oh, I should call employment 'ease' now." - -"Did you ask for more once, then?" - -"Yes, I used to be more foolish. 'Experience teaches fools.'" - -"No, it doesn't," said Kincaid. "Experience teaches intelligent people; -fools go on blundering to the end. 'Once----?' I interrupted you." - -"Well, it used to mean a home of my own, and relations to care for me, -and money enough to settle the bills without minding if they came to -five shillings more than I had expected. It's a beautiful regulation -that the less we have, the less we can manage with. But the horse -couldn't live on the one straw." - -"How did you come to this?" asked Kincaid; "couldn't you get different -work before the last straw?" - -"If you knew how I tried! I haven't any friends here; that was my -difficulty. I wanted a situation as a companion, but I had to give the -idea up at last, and it ended in my going to Pattenden's. Don't think -they know! I mean, don't imagine they guess the straits I'm in: that -would be unfair. They have been very kind to me." - -"You've never been a companion, I suppose?" - -"No; but I hoped, for all that. Everything has to be done for the first -time; every adept was a novice once.". - -"That's true, but there are so many adepts in everything to-day that -the novices haven't much chance." - -"Then how are they to qualify?" - -"That's the novices' affair. You can't expect people to pay -incompetence when skilled labour is loafing at the street corners." - -"I expect nothing," she answered; "my expectations are all dead and -buried. We've only a certain capacity for expectation, I think; under -favourable conditions it wears well and we say, 'While there's life -there's hope;' but; when it's strained too much, it gives out." - -"And you drift without a fight in you?" - -"A woman can't do more than fight till she's beaten." - -"She shouldn't acknowledge to being beaten." - -"Theory!" she said between her teeth; "the breakfast-tray is fact!" - -"What do you reckon is going to become of; you?" - -"I don't anticipate at all." - -"Oh, that's all rubbish! Answer straight!" - -"I shall starve, then," she said. - -"Sss! You know it?" - -"I know it, and I'm resigned to it. If I weren't resigned to it, it -would be much harder. There's nothing that can happen to provide -for me; there isn't a soul in the world I can--'will,' to be -accurate--appeal to for help. You've delayed it a little by your -kindness, but you can't prevent its coming. Oh, I've hoped and -struggled till I am worn out!" she went on, her; voice shaking. "If -there were a prospect, I could rouse myself, weak as I am, to reach -it; but there isn't a prospect, not the glimmer of a prospect! I'm not -cowardly; I'm only rational. I admit what is; I've finished duping -myself." - -She could express her despair, this woman; she had education and -manner. He contemplated her attentively; she interested him. - -"You speak like a fatalist, for all that," he said to her. - -"I speak like a woman who has reached the lowest rung of destitution -and been fed on charity. I----Oh, don't, _don't_ keep forcing me to -make a child of myself like this; let me go! Perhaps you're quite -right--things 'll improve." - -"You shall go presently; not yet--not till I say you may." - -There was silence between them once more. He lay back, with his hands -thrust deep into his trouser-pockets, and his feet crossed, pondering. - -"You weren't brought up to anything, of course?" he said abruptly. -"Never been trained to anything? You can't do anything, or make -anything, that has any market value?" - -"I lived at home." - -"And now you're helpless! What rot it is! Why didn't your father teach -you to use your hands?" - -"I think you said you were a doctor?" she returned, lifting her head. - -"Eh? Yes, my name is 'Kincaid.'" - -"My father was Dr. Anthony Brettan; he never expected his daughter to -be in such want." - -"You don't say so--your father was one of us? I'm glad to make your -acquaintance. Is it 'Miss Brettan'?" - -She nodded, warming with an impulse to go further and cry, "Also I have -been a nurse: you are a doctor, can't you get me something to do?" -But if she did, he would require corroboration, and, in the absence -of her certificate, institute inquiries at the hospital; and then the -whisper would circulate that "Brettan was no longer living with her -husband"--they would soon ascertain that he had not died--and from -that point to the truth would be the veriest step. "Never married at -all--the disgrace! Of course, an actor, but fancy _her_!" She could see -their faces, the astonishment of their contempt. Narrow circle as it -was, it had been her world--she could not do it! - -"But surely, Miss Brettan," he said, "there must be someone who -can serve you a little--someone who can put you in the way of an -occupation?" - -Immediately she regretted having proclaimed so much as she had. - -"My father lived very quietly, and socially he was hardly a popular -man. For several reasons I wouldn't like my distress to be talked about -by people who knew him." - -"Those people are your credentials, though," he urged; "you can't -afford to turn your back on them. If you'll be guided by advice, you -will swallow your pride." - -"I couldn't; I made the resolve to stand alone, and I shall stick to -it. Besides, you are wrong in supposing that any one of them would -exert himself for me to any extent; my father did not have--was not -intimate enough with anybody." - -A difficult woman to aid, thought Kincaid pityingly. A notion had -flashed across his mind, at her reference to the kind of employment she -had desired, and the announcement of her parentage was strengthening -it; but there must be something to go upon, something more than mere -assertion. - -"If a post turned up, who is there to speak for you?" - -"Messrs. Pattenden; I believe they'd speak for me willingly." - -"Anybody else?" - -"No; but the manager would see anyone who went to him about me, I'm -almost sure." - -"You need friends, you know," he said; "you're very awkwardly placed -without any." - -"Oh, I do know! To have no friends is a crime; one's helpless without -them. And a woman's helplessness is the best of reasons why no help -should be extended to her. But it sounds a merciless argument, -doctor--horribly merciless, at the beginning!" - -"It's a merciless life. Look here, Miss Brettan, I don't want to beat -about the bush: you're in a beastly hole, and if I can pull you out of -it I shall be glad--for your own sake, and for the sake of your dead -father. It's like this, though; the only thing I can see my way to -involves the comfort of someone else. You were talking about a place as -companion; I can't live at home now, and my mother wants one." - -"Doctor!" - -She caught her breath. - -"If I were to take the responsibility of recommending you, it's -probable she'd engage you; I think you'd suit her, but----Well, it's -rather a large order!" - -"Oh, you should never be sorry!" she cried. "You shall never be sorry -for trusting me, if you will!" - -"You see, it's not easy. It's not usual to go engaging a lady one meets -for the first time." - -"Why, you wouldn't meet anybody else oftener," she pleaded eagerly; -"if you advertised, you'd take the woman after the one interview. You -wouldn't exchange a lot of visits and get friendly before you engaged -her." - -He pulled at his moustache again. - -"But of course she wouldn't--wouldn't be starving," she added; "she -wouldn't have fainted in your room. It'd be no more judicious, but it -would be more conventional." - -"You argue neatly," he said with a smile. - -The smile encouraged her. She smiled response. He could not smile if he -were going to refuse her, she felt. - -"Dr. Kincaid----" - -"One minute," he said; "I hear someone coming, I think. Excuse me!" - -It was Corri; he met him as he turned the handle, and drew him outside. - -"There's a woman in there," he said, "and a breakfast-tray. Come down -on to the next landing; I want to speak to you." - -"What on earth----" said Corri. "Are you giving a party? What do -you mean by a woman and a breakfast-tray? Did the woman bring the -breakfast-tray?" - -"No, she brought a book. It's serious." - -They leant over the banisters conferring, while Mary, in the arm-chair, -remained trembling with suspense. The vista opened by Kincaid's words -had shown her how tenaciously she still clung to life, how passionately -she would clutch at a chance of prolonging it. Awhile ago her one -prayer had been to die speedily; now, with a possibility of rescue -dangled before her eyes, her prayer was only for the possibility to be -fulfilled. Would he be satisfied, or would he send her away? Her fate -swung on the decision. She did not marvel at the tenacity; it seemed to -her so natural that she did not question it at all. Yet it is of all -things the oddest--the love of living which the most life-worn preserve -in their hearts. Every day they long for sleep, and daily the thought -of death alarms them--terrifies their inconsistent souls, though few -indeed believe there is a Hell, and everybody who is good enough to -believe in Heaven believes also that he is good enough to go to it. - -"O God," she whispered, "make him take me! Forgive me what I did; don't -let me suffer any more, God! You know how I loved him--how I loved him!" - -"Well," said Corri, on the landing, "and what are you going to do?" - -"I'm thinking," said Kincaid, "of letting my mother go to see her." - -"It's wildly philanthropic, isn't it?" - -"It looks wild, of course." He mused a moment. "But, after all, one -knows where she comes from; her father was a professional man; she's a -lady." - -"What was her father's name, again?" - -"Brettan--Anthony." - -"Ever heard it before?" - -"If there wasn't such a person, one can find it out in five minutes. -Besides, my mother would have to decide for herself. I should tell her -all about it, and if an interview left her content, why----" - -"Well," said Corri, "go back to the Bench and sum up! You'll find me on -the bed. By the way, if you could hand my pipe out without offending -the young lady, I should take it as a favour." - -"You've smoked enough. Wait! here's a last cigar; go and console -yourself with that!" - -Kincaid returned to the room; but he was not prepared to sum up at -the moment. Mary looked at him anxiously, striving to divine, by his -expression, the result of the consultation on the stairs. The person -consulted had been Mr. Corri, she concluded, the man that she had been -sent to importune. Old or young? easy-going or morose? On which side -had he cast the weight of his opinion--this man that she had never seen? - -"We were talking about the companion's place, Miss Brettan," began -Kincaid. "Now, what do you say?" - -Instantly she glowed with gratitude towards the unknown personage, who, -in reality, had done nothing. - -"Never should you regret it, Dr. Kincaid, never!" - -"Understand, I couldn't guarantee the engagement in any case," he said -hastily. "The most I could do would be to mention the matter; the rest -would depend on my mother's own feelings." - -"I should be just as thankful to you if she objected. Don't think I -under-estimate my draw-backs--I know that for you even to consider -engaging me is generous. But----Oh, I'd do my best!--I would indeed! -The difficulty's as clear to me as to you," she went on rapidly, "I see -it every bit as plainly. See it? It has barred me from employment again -and again! I'm a stranger, I've no credentials; I can only look you in -the face and say: 'I have told you the truth; if I were able to take -your advice and pocket my pride, I could _prove_ that I have told you -the truth,' And what's that?--anybody might say it and be lying! Oh -yes, I know! Doctor, my lack of references has made me suspected till -I could have cried blood. Doors have been shut against me, not because -I was ineligible in myself, but because I was a woman who hadn't -had employers to say, 'I found her a satisfactory person.' Things I -should have done for have been given to other women because they had -'characters,' and I hadn't. At the beginning I thought my tones would -carry conviction--I thought I could say: 'Honestly, this tale is -true,' and someone--one in a dozen, perhaps, one in twenty--would be -found to believe me. What a mistake, to hope to be believed! Why, in -all London, there's no creature so forsaken as a gentleman's daughter -without friends. A servant may be taken on trust; an educated woman, -never!" - -"She may sometimes," said Kincaid. "Hang it! it isn't so bad as all -that. What I can do for you I will! Very likely my mother will call on -you this afternoon. Where are you staying?" - -A hansom had just discharged a fare at one; of the opposite houses, and -he hailed it from the window. - -"The best thing you can do now is to go home and rest, and try not to -worry. Cheer up, and hope for the best, Miss Brettan--care killed a -cat!" - -She swallowed convulsively. - -"That is the address," she said. "God bless you, Dr. Kincaid!" - -He led the way down to the passage, and put her into the cab. It was, -perhaps, superfluous to show her that he remembered that cabs were -beyond her means; yet she might be harassed during the drive by a dread -of the man's demand, and he paid him so that she should see. - -The occurrence had swelled his catalogue of calls. He told Corri they -had better drop in at Guy's, and glance at a medical directory; but in -passing a second-hand bookstall they noticed an old copy exposed for -sale, and examined that one. He found Anthony Brettan's name in the -provincial section with gladness, and remarked, moreover, that Brettan -had been a student of his own college. - -"'Brettan' is going up!" he observed cheerfully. "Now step it, my son!" - -Mary's arrival at the lodging was an event of local interest. Mrs. -Shuttleworth, who stood at the door conversing with a neighbour, -watched her descent agape. Two children playing on the pavement -suspended their game. She told Mrs. Shuttleworth that a lady might ask -for her during the day, and, mounting to the garret, shut herself in to -wrestle unsuccessfully with her fears of being refused, or forgotten -altogether. Would this mother come or not? If not--she shivered; -she had been so near to ignominious death that the smell of it had -reached her nostrils--if not, the devilish gnawing would be back again -directly, and the faint sick craving would follow it; and then there -would be a fading of consciousness for the last time, and they would -talk about her as "it" and be afraid. - -But the mother did come. It seemed so wonderful that, even when -she sat beside her in the attic, and everything was progressing -favourably, Mary could scarcely realise that it was true. She came, -and the engagement was made. There are some women who are essentially -women's women; Mary was one of them. Mrs. Kincaid, who came already -interested, sure that her Philip could make no mistake and wishful to -be satisfied, was charmed with her. The pleading tones, the repose of -manner, the--for so she described it later--"Madonna face," if they -did not go "straight to her heart," mightily pleased her fancy. And of -course Mary liked her; what more natural? She was gentle of voice, she -had the softest blue eyes that ever beamed mildly under white hair, -and--culminating attraction--she obviously liked Mary. - -"I'm a lonely old woman now my son's been appointed medical officer at -the hospital," she said. "It'll be very quiet for you, but you'll bear -that, won't you? I do think you'll be comfortable with me, and I'm sure -I shall want to keep you." - -"Quiet for me!" said Mary. "Oh, Mrs. Kincaid, you speak as if you were -asking a favour of me, but your son must have told you that--what----I -suppose he saved my life!" - -"That's his profession," answered the old lady brightly; "that's what -he had to learn to do." - -"Ah, but not with hot breakfasts," Mary smiled. "I accept your offer -gratefully; I'll come as soon as you like." - -"Can you manage to go back with us the day after to-morrow? Don't if it -inconveniences you; but if you can be ready----" - -"I can; I shall be quite ready." - -"Good girl!" said Mrs. Kincaid. "Now you must let me advance you a -small sum, or--I daresay you have things to get--perhaps we had better -make it this! There, there! it's your own money, not a present; there's -nothing to thank me for. Good-afternoon, Miss Brettan; I will write -letting you know the train." - -"This" was a five-pound note. When she was alone again Mary picked it -up, and smoothed it out, and quivered at the crackle. These heavenly -people! their tenderness, their consideration! Oh, how beautiful it -would be if they knew all about her and there were no reservations! She -did wish she could have, revealed all to them--they had been so nice -and kind. - -She sought the landlady and paid her debt--the delight she felt in -paying her debt!--and said that she would be giving up her room after -the next night. She went forth to a little foreign restaurant in Gray's -Inn Road, where she dined wholesomely and well, treating herself to -cutlets, bread-crumbed and brown, and bordered with tomatoes, to -pudding and gruyere, and a cup of black coffee, all for eighteenpence, -after tipping the waiter. She returned to the attic--glorified attic! -it would never appal her any more--and abandoned herself to meditating -upon the "things." There was this, and there was that, and there -was the other. Yes, and she must have a box! She would have had her -initials painted on the box, only the paint would look so curiously -new. Should she have her initials on it? No, she decided that she would -not. Then there were her watch, and the bag to be redeemed at the -pawnbroker's, and she must say good-bye to Mr. Collins. What a busy day -would be the morrow! what a dawn of new hope, new peace, new life! Her -anxieties were left behind; before her lay shelter and rest. Yet on -a sudden the pleasure faded from her features, and her lips twitched -painfully. - -"Tony!" she murmured. - -She stood still where she had risen. A sob, a second sob, a torrent of -tears. She was on her knees beside the bed, gasping, shuddering, crying -out on God and him: - -"O Tony, Tony, Tony!" - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -The sun shone bright when she met Mrs. Kincaid at Euston. The doctor -was there, lounging loose-limbed and bony, by his mother's side. He -shook Mary's hand and remarked that it was a nice day for travelling. -She had been intending to say something grateful on greeting him, but -his manner did not invite it, so she tried to throw her thanks into -a look instead. She suffered at first from slight embarrassment, not -knowing if she should take her own ticket, nor what assistance was -expected of a companion at a railway-station. Perhaps she ought to -select the compartment, and superintend the labelling of the luggage? -Fortunately the luggage was not heavy, her own being by far the larger -portion; and the tickets, she learnt directly, he had already got. - -Her employer lived in Westport, a town that Mary had never visited, and -a little conversation arose from her questions about it. She did not -say much--she spoke very diffidently, in fact; the consciousness that -she was being paid to talk and be entertaining weighted her tongue. She -was relieved when, shortly after they started, Mrs. Kincaid imitated -her son's example, who lay back in his corner with his face hidden -behind _The Lancet_. - -They travelled second class, and it was not till a stoppage occurred -at some junction that their privacy was invaded. Then a large woman, -oppressed by packages and baskets, entered; and, as the new-comer -belonged to the category of persons who regard a railway journey as a -heaven-sent opportunity to eat an extra meal, her feats with sandwiches -had a fascination that rivalled the interest of the landscape. - -Of course, three hours later, when the train reached Westport, Mary -felt elated. Of course she gazed eagerly from the platform over the -prospect. It was new and pleasant and refreshing. There was a little -winding road with white palings, and a cottage with a red roof. A bell -tolled softly across the meadows, and somebody standing near her said -he supposed "that was for five o'clock service." To have exchanged the -jostle of London for a place where people had time to remember service -on a week-day, to be able to catch the chirp of the birds between the -roll of the wheels, was immediately exhilarating. Then, too, as they -drove to the house she scented in the air the freshness of tar that -bespoke proximity to the sea. Her bosom lifted. "The blessed peace of -it all!" she thought; "how happy I ought to be!" - -But she was not happy. That first evening there came to her the -soreness and sickness of recollection. She was left alone with Mrs. -Kincaid, and in the twilight they sat in the pretty little parlour, -chatting fitfully. How different was this arrival from those that she -was used to! No unpacking of photographs; no landlady to chatter of -the doings of last week's company; no stroll after tea with Tony just -to see where the theatre was. How funny! She said "how funny!" but -presently she meant "how painful!" And then it came upon her as a shock -that the old life was going on still without her. Photographs were -still being unpacked and set forth on mantelpieces; landladies still -waxed garrulous of last week's business; Tony was still strolling about -the towns on Sunday evenings, as he had done when she was with him. And -he was going to be Miss Westland's husband, while _she_ was here! How -hideous, how frightful and unreal, it seemed! - -She got up, and went over to the flower-stand in the window. - -"Are you tired, Miss Brettan? Perhaps you would like to go to your room -early to-night?" - -"No," she said, "thank you; I'm afraid I feel a trifle strange as yet, -that's all." - -At the opposite corner was a hoarding, and a comic-opera poster shone -among the local shopkeepers' advertisements. The sudden sight of -theatrical printing was like a welcome to her; she stood looking at it, -thrilling at it, with the past alive and warm again in her heart. - -"You'll soon feel at home," Mrs. Kincaid said after a pause; "I'm sure -I can understand your finding it rather uncomfortable at first." - -"Oh, not uncomfortable," Mary explained quickly; "it is queer a little, -just that! I mean, I don't know what I ought to do, and I'm afraid of -seeming inattentive. What is a companion's work, Mrs. Kincaid?" - -"Well, I've never had one," the old lady said with a laugh. "I think -you and I will get on best, do you know, if we forget you've come as -companion--if you talk when you like, and keep quiet when you like. You -see, it is literally a companion I want, not somebody to ring the bell -for me, and order the dinner, and make herself useful. This isn't a big -house, and I'm not a fashionable person; I want a woman who'll keep me -from moping, and be nice." - -Her answer expressed her requirements, and Mary found little expected -of her in return for the salary; so little that she wondered sometimes -if she earned it, small as it was. Excepting that she was continually -conscious that she must never be out of temper, and was frequently -obliged to read aloud when she would rather have sat in reverie, she -was practically her own mistress. Even, as the days went by she found -herself giving utterance to a thought as it came to her, without -pausing to conjecture its reception; speaking with the spontaneity -which, with the paid companion, is the last thing to be acquired. - -Few pleasures are shorter-lived than the one of being restored to -enough to eat; and in a week her sense of novelty had almost worn -away. They walked together; sometimes to the sea, but more often in -the town, for the approach to the sea tired Mrs. Kincaid. Westport was -not a popular watering-place; and in the summer Mary discovered that -the population of fifty thousand was not very greatly increased. From -Laburnum Lodge it took nearly twenty minutes to reach the shore, and -a hill had to be climbed. At the top of the incline the better-class -houses came to an end; and after some scattered cottages, an expanse -of ragged grass, with a bench or two, sloped to the beach. Despite its -bareness, Mary thought the spot delightful; its quietude appealed to -her. She often wished that she could go there by herself. - -Of the doctor they saw but little. Now and again he came round for an -hour or so, and at first she absented herself on these occasions. But -Mrs. Kincaid commented on her retirement and said it was unnecessary; -and thenceforward she remained. - -She did not chance to be out alone until she had been here nearly -three months; and when Mrs. Kincaid inquired one afternoon if she would -mind choosing a novel at the circulating library for her she went forth -gladly. A desire to see _The Era_ and ascertain Carew's whereabouts, -had grown too strong to be subdued. - -She crossed the interlying churchyard, and made her way along the High -Street impatiently; and, reaching the railway bookstall, bought a copy -of the current issue. It was with difficulty she restrained herself -from opening it on the platform, but she waited until she had turned -down the little lane at the station's side, and reached the gate where -the coal-trucks came to an end and a patch of green began. She doubted -whether the company would be touring so long, but the paper would -tell her something of his doings anyhow. She ran her eye eagerly down -the titles headed "On the Road." No, _The Foibles_ evidently was not -out now. Had the tour broken up for good, she wondered, or was there -merely a vacation? She could quickly learn by Tony's professional card. -How well she knew the sheet! The sheet! she knew the column, its very -number in the column--knew it followed "Farrell" and came before "de -Vigne." She even recalled the week when he had abandoned the cheaper -advertisements in alphabetical order; he had been cast for a part in a -production. She remembered she had said, - -"Now you're going to create," and, laughing, he had answered, "Oh, I -must have half a crown's worth 'to create'!" He had been lying on the -sofa--how it all came back to her! What was he doing now? She found the -place in an instant: - - "MR. SEATON CAREW, - - RESTING, - -Assumes direction of Miss Olive Westland's Tour, Aug. 4th. - - See 'Companies' page." - -They were married! She could not doubt it. "Oh," she muttered, "how he -has walked over me, that man! For the sake of two or three thousand -pounds, just for the sake of her money!" She sought weakly for the -company advertisement referred to, but the paragraphs swam together, -and it was several minutes before she could find it. Yes, here it -was: "_The Foibles of Fashion_ and Répertoire, opening August 4th." -_Camille_, eh? She laughed bitterly. He was going to play Armand; -he had always wanted to play Armand; now he could do it! "Under the -direction of Mr. Seaton Carew. Artists respectfully informed the -company is complete. All communications to be addressed: Mr. Seaton, -Carew, Bath Hotel, Bournemouth." Oh, my God! - -To think that while she had been starving in that attic he had -proceeded with his courtship, to reflect that in one of those terrible -hours that she had passed through he must have been dressing himself -for his wedding, wrung her heart. And now, while she stood here, he -was calling the other woman "Olive," and kissing her. She gripped the -bar with both hands, her breast heaved tumultuously; it seemed to her -that her punishment was more than she had power to bear. Wasn't his -sin worse than her own? she questioned; yet what price would he ever -be called upon to pay for it? At most, perhaps, occasional discontent! -Nobody would-blame him a bit; his offence was condoned already by a -decent woman's hand. In the wife's eyes she, Mary, was of course an -adventuress who had turned his weakness to account until the heroine -appeared on the scene to reclaim him. How easy it was to be the heroine -when one had a few thousand pounds to offer for a wedding-ring! - -She let the paper lie where it had fallen, and went to the library. -In leaving it she met Kincaid on his way to the Lodge. He was rather -glad of the meeting, the man to whom women had been only patients; he -had felt once or twice of late that it was agreeable to talk to Miss -Brettan. - -"Hallo," he said, in that voice of his that had so few inflexions; -"what have you been doing? Going home?" - -"I've been to get a book for Mrs. Kincaid," she answered. "She was -hoping you'd come round to-day." - -"I meant to come yesterday. Well, how are you getting on? Still -satisfied with Westport? Not beginning to tire of it yet?" - -"I like it very much," she said, "naturally. It's a great change from -my life three months ago; I shouldn't be very grateful if I weren't -satisfied." - -"That's all right. Your coming was a good thing; my mother was saying -the other evening it was a slice of luck." - -"Oh, I'm so glad! I have wanted to know whether I--did!" - -"You 'do' uncommonly; I haven't seen her so content for a long while. -You don't look very bright; d'ye feel well?" - -"It's the heat," she said; "yes, I'm quite well, thank you; I have a -headache this afternoon, that's all." - -She was wondering if her path and Carew's would ever cross again. How -horrible if chance brought him to the theatre here and she came face to -face with him in the High Street! - -"Hasn't my mother been out to-day herself? She ought to make the most -of the fine weather." - -"I left her in the garden; I think she likes that better than taking -walks." - -And it might happen so easily! she reflected. Why not _that_ company, -among the many companies that came to Westport? She'd be frightened to -leave the house. - -"I suppose when you first heard there was a garden you expected to see -apple-trees and strawberry-beds, didn't you?" - -"Oh, I don't know. It's not a bad little garden. We had tea in it last -night." - -She might be walking with Mrs. Kincaid, and Tony and his wife -would come suddenly round a corner. And "Miss Westland" would look -contemptuous, and Tony would start, and--and if she turned white, she'd -loathe herself! - -"Did you? You must enliven the old lady? a good deal if she goes in for -that sort of thing!" - -"Oh, it was stuffy indoors, and we thought that tea outside would be -nicer. I daresay I'm better than no one; it must have been rather dull -for her alone." - -"Is that the most you find to say of yourself--'better than no one'?" - -"Well, I haven't high spirits; some women are always laughing. We sit -and read, or do needlework; or she talks about you, and----" - -"And you're bored? That's a mother's privilege, you know, to bore -everybody about her son; you mustn't be hard on her." - -"I am interested; I think it's always interesting to hear of a man's -work in a profession. And, then, Medicine was my father's." - -"Were you the only child?" - -"Yes. I wasn't much of a child, though! My mother died when I was very -young, and I was taught a lot through that. The practice wasn't very -good--very remunerative, that's to say--and if a girl's father isn't -well off she becomes a woman early. If I had had a brother now----" - -"If you had had a brother--what?" - -"I was thinking it might have vmade a difference. Nothing particular. I -don't suppose he'd have been of any monetary assistance; there wouldn't -have been anything to give him a start with. But I should have liked a -brother--one older than I am." - -"You'd have made the right kind of man of him, I believe." - -"I was thinking of what he'd have made of me. A brother must be such a -help; a boy gets experience, and a girl has only instinct." - -"It's a pretty good thing to go on with." - -"It needs education, doctor, surely?" - -"It needs educating by a mother. Half the women who have children are -no more fit to be mothers than----And one comes across old maids with -just the qualities! Fine material allowed to waste!" - -The entrance to a cottage that they were passing stood open, and she -could see into the parlour. There were teacups on the table, and a mug -of wild flowers. On a garden-gate a child in a pink pinafore was slowly -swinging. The brilliance of the day had subsided, and the town lay -soft and yellow in the restfulness of sunset. A certain liquidity was -assumed by the rugged street in the haze that hung over it; a touch of -transparence gilded its flights of steps, the tiles of the house-tops, -and the homely faces of the fisher-folk where they loitered before -their doors. There a girl sat netting among the hollyhocks, withholding -confession from the youth who lounged beside her, yet lifting at times -to him a smile that had not been wakened by the net. The melody of the -hour intensified the discord in the woman's soul. - -"Don't you think----" said Kincaid. - -He turned to her, strolling with his hands behind him. He talked to -her, and she answered him, until they reached the house. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -Slowly there stole into Kincaid's life a new zest. He began to be -more eager to walk round to the Lodge; was often reluctant to rise -and say "good-night"; even found the picture of the little lamplit -room lingering with him after the front door had closed. Formerly the -visits had been rather colourless. Despite her affection for her son, -Mrs. Kincaid was but tepidly interested in the career that engrossed -him. She was vaguely proud to have a doctor for a son, but she felt -that his profession supplied them with little to talk about when he -came; and the man felt that his mother's inquiries about his work were -perfunctory. A third voice had done much for the visits, quickened the -accustomed questions, the stereotyped replies into the vitality of -conversation. - -Kincaid did not fail to give Miss Brettan credit for the brighter -atmosphere of the villa. But winter was at hand before he admitted -that much of the pleasure that he took in going there was inspired by -a hearty approval of Miss Brettan. The cosiness of the room, with two -women smiling at him when he entered--always with a little, surprise, -for the time of his coming was uncertain--and getting things for him, -and being sorry when he had to leave had had a charm that he did not -analyse. It was by degrees that he realised how many of his opinions -were directed to her. His one friendship hitherto had been for Corri; -and Corri was not here. The months when his cordial liking for Mary was -clear to him, and possessed of a fascination due very largely to its -unexpectedness, were perhaps the happiest that he had known. - -The development was not so happy; but it was fortunately slow. He had -gone to the house earlier than usual, and the women were preparing -for a walk. Mary stood by the mantelpiece. There was something they -had meant to do; she said she would go alone to do it. He lay back in -the depths of an arm-chair, and watched her while she spoke to his -mother, watched the play of her features and the quick turn of her -cheek. Then--it was the least significant of trivialities--she plucked -a hairpin from her hair, and began to button her glove. It was revealed -to him as he contemplated her that she was eminently lovable. His eyes -dwelt on the tender curve of her figure, displayed by the flexion of -her arm; he remarked the bend of the head, and the delicate modelling -of her ear and neck. These things were quite new to him. He was stirred -abruptly by the magic of her sex. The admiration did not last ten -seconds, and before he saw her again he recollected it only once, quite -suddenly. But the development had begun. - -In his next visit he looked to see these beauties, and found them. This -time, being voluntary, the admiration lasted longer. It was recurrent -all the evening. He discovered a novel excellence in her performance of -the simplest acts, and an additional enjoyment in talking with her. - -Thoughts of her came to him now while he sat at night in his room. -The bare little room witnessed all the phases of the man's love--its -brightness, and then its misgivings. He had no confidant to prose to; -he could never have spoken of the strange thing that had happened to -him, if he had had a confidant. He used to sit alone and think of her, -wondering if God would put it into her heart to care for him, wondering -in all humility if it could be ordained that he should ever hold this -dear woman in his arms and call her "wife." - -He would not be in a position to give her luxury, and for a couple of -years certainly he could not marry at all; but he believed primarily -that he could at least make her content; and in reflecting what she -would make of life for him, he smiled. The salary that he drew from his -post was not a very large one, but his mother's means sufficed for her -requirements, and he was able to lay almost the whole of it aside. He -thought that when a couple of years had gone by, he would be justified -in furnishing a small house, and that he might reasonably expect, -through the introductions procured by his appointment, to establish a -practice. It would be rather pinched for them at first, of course, but -she wouldn't mind that much if she were fond of him. "Fond" of him! -Could it be possible? he asked himself--Miss Brettan fond of him! She -was so composed, so quiet, she seemed such a long way off now that he -wanted her for his own. Would it really ever happen that the woman -whose hand had merely touched him in courtesy would one day be uttering -words of love for him and saying "my husband"? - -He wrestled long with his tenderness; the misgivings came quickly. -After all, she was comfortable as she was--she was provided for, she -had no pecuniary cares here. Had he the right to beg her to relinquish -this comparative ease and struggle by his side oppressed by the worries -of a precarious income? Then he told himself that they might take in -patients: that would augment the income. And she was a dependant now; -if she married him she would be her own mistress. - -He weighed all the pros and cons; he was no boy to call the -recklessness of self-indulgence the splendour of devotion. He balanced -the arguments on either side long and carefully. If he asked her -to come to him, it should be with the conviction he was doing her -no wrong. He saw how easy it would be to deceive himself, to feel -persuaded that the fact of her being in a situation made matrimony -an advance to her, whether she married well or ill. He would not act -impatiently and perhaps spoil her life. But he was very impatient. -Through months he used to come away from the Lodge striving to discern -importance in some answer she had made him, some question she had put -to him. It appeared to him that he had loved her much longer than he -had; and he had made no progress. There were moments when he upbraided -himself for being clumsy and stupid; some men in his place, he thought, -would have divined long ago what her feelings were. - -He never queried the wisdom of marrying her on his own account; the -privilege of cherishing her in health and nursing her in sickness, of -having her head pillowed on his breast, and confiding his hopes to -her sympathy; of going through life with her in a union in which she -would give to him all her sacred and withheld identity, looked to him -a joy for which he could never be less than intensely grateful while -life endured. He ceased to marvel at the birth of his love, it looked -natural now; she seemed to belong to Westport so wholly by this time. -He no longer contrasted the present atmosphere of the villa with the -duller atmosphere that she had banished. He had forgotten that duller -atmosphere. She was there--it was as if she had always been there. To -reflect that there had been a period when he had known no Mary Brettan -was strange. He wondered that he had not felt the want of her. The day -that he had met her in Corri's office appeared to him dim in the mists -of at least five years. The exterior of the man, and the yearnings -within him--Kincaid as he knew himself, and the doctor as he was known -to the hospital--were so at variance that the incongruity would have -been ludicrous if it had not been beautiful. - -When Mary saw that he had begun to care for her, it was with the -greatest tremor of insecurity that she had experienced since the date -of her arrival. She had foretasted many disasters in the interval, -been harassed by many fears, but that Dr. Kincaid might fall in love -with her was a contingency that had never entered her head. It was so -utterly unexpected that for a week she had discredited the evidence -of her senses, and when the truth was too palpable to be blinked any -longer, her remaining hope was that he might decide never to speak. -Here the meditations of the man and the woman were concerned with the -same theme--both revolved the claims of silence; but from different -standpoints. His consideration was whether avowal was unjust to her; -she sustained herself by attributing to him a reluctance to commit -himself to a woman of whom he knew so little. She clung to this haven -that she had found; her refusal, if indeed he did propose to her, would -surely necessitate her relinquishing it. Mrs. Kincaid might not desire -to see her companion marry her son, but still less would she desire to -retain a companion who had rejected him. It had been as peaceful here -as any place could be for her now, felt Mary; the thought of being -driven forth to do battle with the world again terrified her. She -wondered if Mrs. Kincaid had "noticed anything"; it was hard to believe -she could have avoided it; but she had evinced no sign of suspicion: -her manner was the same as usual. - -With the complication that had arisen to disturb her, the woman -perceived how prematurely old she was. Her courage had all gone, she -told herself; she said she had passed the capability for any sustained -effort; and it was a fact that the uneventful tenor of the life that -she had been leading, congenial because it demanded no energy, had -done much to render her lassitude permanent. Her pain, the rawness -of it, had dulled--she could touch the wound now without writhing; -but it had left her wearied unto death. To attempt to forget had been -beyond her; recollection continued to be her secret luxury; and the -inertia permitted by her position lent itself so thoroughly to a dual -existence that, to her own mind, she often seemed to be living more -acutely in her reminiscences than in her intercourse with her employer. - -From the commencement of the tour, which had started in the autumn of -the preceding year, she had kept herself posted in Carew's movements -as regularly as was practicable. It was frequently very difficult for -her to gain access to a theatrical paper; but generally she contrived -to see one somehow, if not on the day that it reached the town, then -later. She knew what parts he played, and where he played them. It -was a morbid fascination, but to be able to see his name mentioned -nearly every week made her glad that he was an actor. If he could have -gone abroad or died, without her being aware of it, she thought her -situation would have been too hideous for words. To steal that weekly -glimpse of the paper was her weekly flicker of sensation; sometimes the -past seemed to stir again; momentarily she was in the old surroundings. - -There had been only two tours. After the second, she had watched his -"card" anxiously. Three months had slipped away, and between his and -his agent's name nothing had been added but the "Resting." - -At last, after reading from the London paper to Mrs. Kincaid one day, -she derived some further news. A word of the theatrical gossip had -caught her eye, and unperceived by the lady, she started violently. -She had seen "Seaton Carew." For a minute she could not quell her -agitation sufficiently to pick the paper up; she sat staring down at -it and deciphering nothing. Then she learnt that Miss Olive Westland, -and her husband, Mr. Seaton Carew, encouraged by their successes in -the provinces, had completed arrangements to open the Boudoir Theatre -at the end of the following month. It was added that this of late -unfortunate house had been much embellished, and a reference to an -artist, or two already engaged showed Mary that Carew was playing with -big stakes. - -Henceforth she had had a new source of information, and one attainable -without trouble, for the London paper was delivered at the Lodge daily. -As the date for the production drew near, her impatience to hear the -verdict had grown so strong that the walls of the country parlour -cooped her; she saw through them into the city beyond--saw on to a -draughty stage where Carew was conducting a rehearsal. - -The piece had failed. On the morning when she learned that it had -failed, she participated dumbly in the chagrin of the failure. "Yes" -and "No" she had answered, and seen with the eyes of her heart the -gloom of a face that used to be pressed against her own. She did not -care, she vowed; her sole feeling with regard to the undertaking had -been curiosity. If it had been more than curiosity she would despise -herself! - -But she looked at the Boudoir advertisement every day. And it was -not long before she saw that another venture was in preparation. And -she held more skeins of wool, and watched with veiled eagerness this -advertisement develop like its predecessor. Recently the play had been; -produced, and she had read the notice in Mrs. Kincaid's presence. -When she finished it she guessed that Carew's hopes were over; unless -he had a great deal more money than she supposed, the experiment at -the Boudoir would see; it exhausted. There was not much said for his -performance, either; he was dismissed in an indifferent sentence, -like his wife. High praise of his acting might have led to London -engagements, but his hopes seemed to have miscarried as manager and as -actor too. - -When Kincaid went round to the house one evening, the servant told him -his mother had; gone to her room, and that Miss Brettan was sitting -with her. - -"Say I'm here, please, and ask if I may go up." Mary came down the -stairs as he spoke. - -"Ah, doctor," she said; "Mrs. Kincaid has gone to bed." - -"So I hear. What's the matter with her?" - -"Only neuralgia; she has had it all day. She has just fallen asleep." - -"Then I had better not go up to see her?" - -"I don't think I would. I have just come down to get a book." - -"Are you going to sit with her?" - -"Yes; she may wake and want something." - -They stood speaking in the hall, outside the parlour door. - -"Where is your book?" he said. - -"Inside. I am sorry you have come round for nothing; she'll be so -disappointed when she hears about it. May I tell her you'll come again -to-morrow?" - -"Yes, I'll look in some time during the day, if it's only for a moment. -I think I'll sit down awhile before I go." - -"Will you?" she said. "I beg your pardon." She opened the door, and he -followed her into the room. - -"You won't mind my leaving you?" she asked; "I don't want to stay away, -in case she does wake." - -It was nearly dark in the parlour; the lamp had not been lighted, and -the fire was low. A little snow whitened the laburnum-tree that was -visible through the window. It was an evening in January, and Mary had -been in Westport now nearly two years. - -"Can you see to find it?" he said. "Where did you leave it?" - -"It was on the sideboard; Ellen must have moved it, I suppose. I'll -ask her where she's put it." - -"No, don't do that; I'll light the lamp." - -She lifted the globe while he struck a match. It was his last, and it -went out. - -"Never mind," he said; "we'll get a light from the fire." - -"Oh," she exclaimed, "but I'm giving you so much trouble; you had -better let me call the girl!" - -A dread of what might happen in this darkness was coming over her. "You -had better let me call the girl," she repeated. - -"Try if you can get a light with this first," he said--"try there, -where it's red." - -She bent over the grate, the twist of paper in one hand, and the other -resting on the mantelpiece. He leant beside her, stirring the ashes -with his foot. - -It flashed back at her how Tony had stood stirring the ashes with his -foot that night in Leicester, while he broke his news. A sickening -anxiety swept through her to get away from Kincaid before he could have -a chance to touch her. The paper charred and curled, without catching -flame, and in her impatience she hated him for the delay. She hated -herself for being here, lingering in the twilight with a man who dared -to feel about her in the same way as Tony had once felt. - -She rose. - -"It's no use, doctor; Ellen will have to do it, after all." - -"Don't go just yet," he said; "I want to speak to you, Miss Brettan." - -"I can't stay any longer," she said. "I----" - -"You'll give me a minute? There's something I have been waiting to say -to you; I've been waiting a long while." - -She raised her face to him. In the shadows filling the room, he could -see little more than her eyes. - -"Don't say it. I think I can guess, perhaps.... Don't say it, Dr. -Kincaid!" - -"Yes," he insisted, "I must say it; I'm bound to tell you before I take -your answer, Mary. My dear, I love you." - -Memory gave her back the scene where Tony had said that for the first -time. - -"If you can't care for me, you have only to tell me so to-night; it -shall never be a worry to I you--I don't want my love to become a worry -to you, to make you wish I weren't here. But if you can care a little -... if you think that when I'm able to ask you to come to me you could -come.... Oh, my dear, all my life I'll be tender to you--all my life!" - -He could not see her eyes any longer; her head was bowed, and in her -silence the big man trembled. - -The servant came in with the taper, and let down the blinds. They stood -on the hearth, watching her dumbly. When the blinds were lowered, she -turned up the lamp; and the room was bright. Kincaid saw that Mary was -very pale. - -"Is there anything else, miss?" - -"No, Ellen, thank you; that's all." - -"Mary?" - -"I'm so sorry. You don't know how sorry I am!" - -"You could never care--not ever so little--for me?" - -"Not in that way: no." - -He looked away from her--looked at the engraving of Wellington and -Blucher meeting on the field of Waterloo; stared at the filter on -the sideboard, through which the water fell drop by drop. A heavy -weight seemed to have come down upon him, so that he breathed under -it laboriously. He wanted to curtail the pause, which he understood -must be trying to her; but he could not think of anything to say, nor -could he shake his brain clear of her last words, which appeared to -him incessantly reiterated. He felt as if his hope of her had been -something vital and she had stamped it out, to leave him confronted by -a new beginning--a beginning so strange that time must elapse before -he could realise how wholly strange it was going to be. Even while he -strove to address her it was difficult to feel that she was still very -close to him. Her tones lingered; her dress emphasised itself upon his -consciousness more and more; but from her presence he had a curious -sense of being remote. - -"Good-night," he said abruptly. "You mustn't let this trouble you, you -know. I shall always be glad I'm fond of you; I shall always be glad I -told you so--I was hoping, and now I understand. It's so much better to -understand than to go on hoping for what can never come." - -She searched pityingly for something kind; but the futility of phrases -daunted her. - -"I had better close the door after you," she murmured, "or it will make -a noise." - -They went out into the passage, and stood together on the step. - -"It's beginning to snow," he said; "it looks as if we were going to -have a heavy fall." - -"Yes," she said dully, glancing at the sky. - -She put out her hand, and it lay for an instant in his. - -"Well, good-night, again." - -"Good-night, Dr. Kincaid." - -As he turned, she was silhouetted against the gaslight of the -hall. Then her figure was with-drawn, and the view of the interior -narrowed--until, while he looked back, the brightness vanished -altogether and the door was shut. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -And so it was all over. - -"All over," he said to himself--"over and done with, Philip. Steady on, -Philip; take it fighting!" - -But they were only words--as yet he could not "take it fighting." Nor -was the knowledge that he was never to hold her quite all the grief -that lay upon him as he made his way along the ill-lit streets. There -was, besides, a very cruel smart--the abstract pain of being such a -little to one who was so much to him. - -He visited the patients who were still awake, and dressed such wounds -as needed to be dressed. He heard the little peevish questions and the -dull complaints just as he had done the night before. The nurse walked -softly past the sleepers with her shaded lamp, and once or twice he -spoke to her. And when, the doctor's duties done, the man had gained -his room, he thought of his hopes the night before, and sat with elbows -on the table while the hours struck, remembering what had happened -since. - -The necessity for returning to the house so speedily, to see his -mother, was eminently distasteful; he longed to escape it. And -then suddenly he warmed towards her in self-reproach, thinking it -had been very hard of him to wish to neglect his mother in order to -spare awkwardness to another woman. His repugnance to the task was -deep-rooted, all the same, and it did not lessen as the afternoon -approached. But for the fact of yesterday's indisposition, he could -never have brought himself to overcome it. - -The embarrassment that he had feared, however, was averted by Miss -Brettan's absence. - -Mrs. Kincaid said that she was quite well again to-day; Mary had told -her of his call the previous evening; how long was it he had stopped? - -"Oh, not very long," he said; "has the neuralgia quite gone?" - -"I feel a little weary after it, that's all. Is there anything fresh, -Philip?" - -"Fresh?" he answered vaguely. "No, dear. I don't know that there's -anything very fresh." - -"You look tired yourself," she said; "I thought that perhaps you were -troubled?" - -She thought, too, that Miss Brettan had looked troubled, and instinct -pointed to something having occurred. A conviction that her son was -getting fond of her companion had been unspoken in her mind for some -time, and under her placid questions now rankled a little wistfulness, -in feeling that she was not held dear enough for confidence. She -wanted to say to him outright: "Philip, did you tell Miss Brettan you -were fond of her when I was upstairs last night?" but was reluctant -to seem inquisitive. He, with never an inkling that she could suspect -his love, meanwhile reflected that for Mary's continued peace it was -desirable that his mother should never conjecture he had been refused. - -It is doubtful whether he had ever felt so wholly tender towards her -as he did in these moments while he admitted that it was imperative -to keep the secret from her; and perhaps the mother's heart had never -turned so far aside from him as while she perceived that she was never -to be told. - -They exchanged commonplaces with the one grave subject throbbing in -the minds of both. Of the two, the woman was the more laboured; and -presently he noticed what uphill work it was, and sighed. She heard the -sigh, and could have echoed it, thinking sadly that the presence of -her companion was required now to make her society endurable to him. -But she would not refer to Mary. She bent over her wool-work, and the -needle went in and out with feeble regularity, while she maintained a -wounded silence, which the man was regarding as an unwillingness to -talk. - -He said at last that he must go, and she did not offer to detain him. - -"I want to hurry back this afternoon; you won't mind?" - -"No," she murmured; "you know what you have to do, Philip, better than -I." - -He stooped and kissed her. For the first time in her life she did not -return his kiss. She gave him her cheek, and rested one hand a little -tremulously on his shoulder. - -"Good-bye," she said; her tone was so gentle that he did not remark the -absence of the caress. "Don't go working too hard, Phil!" - -He patted the hand reassuringly, and let himself out. Then the hand -crept slowly up to her eyes, and she wiped some tears away. The -wool-work drooped to her lap, and she sat recalling a little boy who -had been used to talk of the wondrous things he was going to do for -"mother" when he became a man, and who now had become a man, living for -a strange woman, and full of a love which "mother" might only guess. - -She could not feel quite so cordial to Mary as she had done. To think -of her holding her son's confidence, while she herself was left -to speculate, made the need for surmises seem harder. And Philip -was unhappy: her companion must be indifferent to him; nothing but -that could account for the unhappiness, or for the reservation. She -could have forgiven her engrossing his affections--in time; but her -indifference was more than she could forgive. - -Still, this was the woman he loved--and she endeavoured to hide her -resentment, as she had hidden her suspicions. Their intercourse -during the next week was less free than usual, nevertheless. Perhaps -the resentment was less easy to hide, or perhaps Mary's nervousness -made her unduly sensitive, but there were pauses which seemed to her -significant of condemnation. She was exceedingly uncomfortable during -this week. Sometimes she was only deterred from proclaiming what had -happened and appealing to the other's fairness to exonerate her, by -the recollection that it was, after all, just possible that the avowal -might have the effect of transforming a bush into an officer. - -She could not venture to repeat the retirement to her room the next -time the doctor came. Nearly a fortnight had gone by. And she forced -herself to turn to him with a few remarks. He was not the man to -disguise his feelings successfully by a flow of small-talk; his life -had not qualified him for it; and it was an ordeal to him to sit there -in the presence of Mary and witness attempts in which he perceived -himself unqualified to co-operate. His knowledge that the simulated -ease should have originated with himself rather than with her made his -ineptitude seem additionally ungracious, and he feared she must think -him boorish, and disposed to parade his disappointment for the purpose -of exciting her compassion. - -Strongly, therefore, as he had wished to avoid a break in the social -routine, his subsequent visits were made at longer intervals, and more -often than not curtailed on the plea of work. It was, as yet at all -events, impossible for him to behave towards her as if nothing untoward -had happened, and to shun the house awhile looked to him a wiser course -than to haunt it with discomposure patent. Thus the restraint that -Mrs. Kincaid was imposing on herself had a further burden to bear: -Miss Brettan was keeping her son from her side. The pauses became more -frequent, and, to Mary, more than ever ominous. Indeed, while the -mother mused mournfully on the consequences of her engagement, the -companion herself was questioning how long she could expect to retain -it. She began to consider whether she should relinquish it, to elude -the indignity of a dismissal. And even if Mrs. Kincaid did fail to -suspect the reason for her son's absenting himself, the responsibility -was the same, she reflected. It was she who divided the pair, she who -was accountable for the hurt expression that the old lady's face so -often wore now. She felt wearily that women had a great deal to endure -in life, what with the men they cared for, and the men for whom they -did not care. There seemed no privileges pertaining to their sex; being -feminine only amplified the scope for vexation. A fact which she did -not see was that one of the most pathetic things in connection with -the unloved lover is the irritability with which the woman so often -thinks about him. - -With what sentiments she might have listened to Kincaid had she met -him prior to her intimacy with Carew one may only conjecture. Now he -touched her not at all; but the intimacy had been an experience which -engulfed so much of her sensibility, that she had emerged from it a -different being. Kincaid's rival, in truth, was the most powerful one -that can ever oppose a lover; the rival of constant remembrance--always -a doughty antagonist, and never so impregnable as when the woman is -instinctively a virtuous woman and has fallen for the man that she -remembers. - -It occurred to Mary to seek an opportunity for letting the doctor know -that he was paining his mother by so rarely coming now; but such an -opportunity was not easy to gain, for when he did come his mother of -course was present. She thought of writing, but by word of mouth a hint -would suffice, while a letter, in the circumstances, would have its -awkwardness. - -More than two months had gone by when Mrs. Kincaid made her plaint. It -was on a Sunday morning. Mary was standing before the window, looking -out, while the elder woman sat moodily in her accustomed seat.-- - -"Are we going to church?" asked Mary. - -"Yes, I suppose so; there's plenty of time, isn't there?" - -"Oh, yes, it's early yet--not ten. What a lovely day! The spring has -begun." - -"Yes," assented the other absently. - -There was a short silence, and then: - -"I shan't run any risk of missing Dr. Kincaid by going out; I needn't -be afraid of that!" she added. - -Her voice had in it so much more of pathos than of testiness, that -after the instant's dismay her companion felt acutely sorry for her. - -"A doctor's time is scarcely his own, is it?" she murmured, turning. - -Mrs. Kincaid did not reply immediately, and the delay seemed to Mary to -accentuate the feebleness of her answer. - -"I mean," she said, "that it isn't as if he were able to leave the -hospital whenever he liked. There may be cases----" - -"He used to be able to come often; why shouldn't he be able now?" - -"Yes----" faltered Mary. - -"I haven't asked him; it is a good reason that keeps him from me, of -course. But it's hard, when you're living in the same town as your son, -not to have him with you more than an hour in a month. I don't see much -more of him than that, lately. The last time he came, he stayed twenty -minutes. The time before, he said he was in a hurry before he said, -'How do you do?' He never put his hat down--you may have; noticed it?" - -"Yes, I noticed it," Mary admitted. - -"You know; oh, you do know!" she cried inwardly, with a sinking of the -heart. "_Now_, what am I to do?" - -"Don't imagine I am blaming him," went on Mrs. Kincaid, "I am not -blaming anybody; the reason may be very strong indeed. Only it seems -rather unfair that I should have to suffer for it, considering that I -don't hear what it is." - -"Then why not speak to Dr. Kincaid? If he understood that you felt his -absence so keenly, you may be sure he'd try to come oftener. Why don't -you tell him that you miss him?" - -"I shall never sue to my son for his visits," said the old lady with a -touch of dignity, "nor shall I ask him why he stays away. That is quite -his own affair. At my age we begin to see that our children have rights -we mustn't intrude into--secrets that must be told to us freely, or not -told at all. We begin to see it, only we are old to learn. There, my -dear, don't let us talk about it; it's not a pleasant subject. I think -we had better go and dress." - -Mary looked at her helplessly; there was a finality in her tone which -precluded the possibility of any advance. It was more than ever -manifest that the task of remonstrating with him devolved upon Mary -herself, and she decided to write to him that afternoon. Shortly after -dinner Mrs. Kincaid went into the garden, and, left to her own devices -in the parlour, Mary drew her chair to the escritoire. She would write -a few lines, she thought, however clumsy, and send them at once. -Still, they were not easy lines to produce, and she nibbled her pen a -good deal in the course of their composition; the self-consciousness -that invaded some of the sentences was too glaring. When the note was -finished at last, she slipped it into her pocket, and told Mrs. Kincaid -she would like to go for a walk. - -"Oh, by all means; why not?" - -"I thought perhaps you might want me." - -"No," said Mrs. Kincaid; "I shall get along very well--I'm gardening." - -She was, indeed, more cheerful than she had been for some time, busying -herself among the violets, and stooping over the crocuses to clear the -soil away. - -"Go along," she added, nodding across her shoulder; "a walk will do you -good!" - -Though the wish had been expressed only to avoid giving the letter to a -servant, Mary thought that she might as well profit by the chance; and -from the post-office she sauntered as far as the beach. Then it struck -her that the doctor might pay his overdue visit this afternoon, and she -was sorry that she had gone out. The laboured letter might have been -dispensed with--she might have had a word with him before he joined his -mother in the garden! She turned back at once--and as she neared the -Lodge, she saw him leaving it. They met not fifty yards from the door. - -"Well, have you enjoyed your walk--you haven't been very far?" he said. - -"Not very," said she; "I changed my mind. How did you find your mother?" - -"She had been pottering about on the wet ground, which wasn't any too -wise of her. Why do you ask?" - -"Oh, I ... She has been missing you a little, I think; she wants you -there more often." - -"Oh?" he said; "I'm very sorry. Are you sure?" - -"Yes, I am sure; it is more than a little she misses you. As a matter -of fact, I have just written to you, Dr. Kincaid." - -"To me? What--about this?" - -"Yes." - -"I didn't know," he said; "I never supposed she'd miss me like that. It -was very kind of you." - -"I wanted to speak to you about it before. I have seen for some time -she was distressed." - -"Has she said anything?" - -"She only mentioned it this morning, but I've noticed." - -"It was very kind of you," he repeated; "I'm much obliged." - -Both suffered slightly from the consciousness of suppression; and after -a few seconds she said boldly: - -"Dr. Kincaid, if you're staying away with any idea of sparing -embarrassment to me, I beg that you won't." - -"Well, of course," he said, "I thought you'd rather I didn't come." - -"But do you suppose I can consent to keep you from your mother's house? -You must see ... the responsibility of it! What I should like to know -is, are you staying away solely for my sake?" - -"I didn't wish to intrude my trouble on you." - -"No," she said; "that isn't what I mean. I am glad I have met you; I -want to speak to, you plainly. I have thought that perhaps it hurt you -to come; that my being there reminded--that you didn't like it? If -that's so----" - -"I think you're exaggerating the importance of the thing! It is very -nice and womanly of you, but you are making yourself unhappy for -nothing. I have had a good deal to occupy me of late--in future I'll go -oftener." - -"I feel very guilty," she answered. "If I am right in thinking it would -be pleasanter for you to stay away than to go there and see me, my -course is clear. It's not my home, you know; I'm in a situation, and it -can be given up." - -"You mustn't talk like that. I must have blundered very badly to give -you such an idea. Don't let's stand here! Do you mind turning back a -little way? If what I said to you obliged you to leave Westport, I -should reproach myself for it bitterly." - -They strolled slowly down the street; and during a minute each of the -pair sought phrases. - -"It's certain," she said abruptly, "that my being your mother's -companion is quite wrong! If I weren't in the house you'd go there the -same as you used to. I can't help feeling that." - -"But I _will_ go there the same as I used to. I have said so." - -"Yes," she murmured. - -"Doesn't that satisfy you?" - -"You'll go, but the fact remains that you'd rather not; and the cause -of your reluctance is my presence there." - -"It is you who are insisting on the reluctance," he fenced; "_I've_ -not said I am reluctant. I thought you'd prefer me to avoid you for a -while; personally----" - -"Oh!" she said, "do you think I've not seen? I know very well the -position is a false one!" - -"I told you I'd never become a worry to you," he said humbly; "I've -been trying to keep my word." - -"You've been everything that is considerate; the fault is my own. I -ought to have resigned the place the day after you spoke to me." - -"I don't think that would have helped me much. You must understand that -a change like that was the very last thing I wanted my love to effect." - -At the word "love" the woman flinched a little, and he himself had not -been void of sensation in uttering it. The sound of it was loud to both -of them. But to her it added to the sense of awkwardness, while to the -man it seemed to bring them nearer. - -"It was very dense of me," he went on; "but with all the consequences -of speaking to you that I foresaw I never took into account the one -that has happened. I wondered if I was justified in asking you to give -up a comfortable living for such a home as I could offer; I considered -half a dozen things; but that I might be making the house unbearable to -you I overlooked. Now, with your interest at heart all the time, I've -injured you! I can't tell you how sorry I am to learn it." - -"It's not unbearable," she said; "'unbearable' is much too strong. But -I do see my duty, and I know the right thing is for me to go away; your -mother would have you then as she ought to have you. While I stop, it -can never be really free for either of you. And of course she knows!" - -"Do you think she does?" he exclaimed. - -"Are women blind? Of course she knows! And what can she feel towards -me? It's only the affection she has for you that prevents her -discharging me." - -"Oh, don't!" he said. "'Discharging' you!" - -"What am I? I'm only her servant. Don't blink facts, Dr. Kincaid; I'm -your mother's companion, a woman you had never seen two years ago. It -would have been a good deal better for you if you had never seen me at -all!" - -"You can't say what would have been best for _me_," he returned -unsteadily; "I'd rather have known you as I do than that we hadn't met. -For yourself, perhaps----" - -"Hush!" she interrupted; "we can neither of us forget what our meeting -was. For myself, I owe my very life to meeting you; that's why the -result of it is so abominable--such a shame! I haven't said much, but I -remember every day what I owe you. I know I owe you the very clothes I -wear." - -"Oh, for God's sake!" he muttered. - -"And my repayment is to make you unhappy--and her unhappy. It's noble!" - -Her pace quickened, and to see her excited acted upon him very -strongly. He longed to comfort her, and because this was impossible by -reason of the disparity of their sentiments, the sight of her emotion -was more painful. He had never felt the hopelessness of his attachment -so heavy on him as now that he saw her disturbed on account of it, -and realised at the same time that it debarred him from offering her -consolation. They walked along, gazing before them fixedly into the -vista of the shut-up shops and Sunday quietude, until at last he said -with an effort: - -"If you did go you'd make me unhappier than ever." - -She did not reply to this; and after a glance at the troubled profile: - -"I am ready to do whatever you want," he added; "whatever will make the -position easiest to you. It seems that, with the best intentions, I've -only succeeded in giving annoyance to you both. But the wrong to my -mother can be remedied; and if I drive you away I shall have done some -lasting harm.... Why don't you say that you'll remain?" - -"Because I'm not sure about it. I can't determine." - -"Your objection was the fancy that you were responsible for my seeing -her so seldom; I've promised to see her as often as I can." - -She bit her lip. She said nothing. - -"I can't do any more--can I?" - -"No," she confessed. - -"Then, what's the matter?" - -"The matter is that----" - -"What?" - -"You show me more plainly every minute that I _ought_ to go." - -Something in the dumbness with which the announcement was received told -her how unexpected it had been. And, indeed, to hear that his love, -unperceived by himself, had been fighting against him was the hardest -thing that he had had to bear. Sensible that every remonstrance that -escaped him would estrang them further, the man felt helpless. They -were crossing the churchyard now, and she said something about the -impracticability of her going any further. - -"Well, as you'll come oftener, our talk hasn't been useless!" - -"Wait a second," he said. He paused by the porch, and looked at her. "I -can't leave you like this. Mary----!" - -"Oh!" she faltered, "don't say anything--don't!" - -"I must. What's the good?--I keep back everything, and you still know! -You'll always know. Nothing could have been more honestly meant than -my assurance that I'd never bring distress to you, and I've brought -distress. Let's look the thing squarely in the eyes: you, won't be my -wife, but you needn't go away. What would you do? Whom do you know? -Leaving my loss of you out of the question, think of my self-reproach!" - -Inside the church an outburst of children's voices, muffled somewhat by -the shut door, but still too near to be wholly beautiful, rose suddenly -in a hymn. She stood with averted face, staring over the rankness of -the grass that the wind was stirring lightly among the gravestones. - -"Let's look at the thing squarely for once," he said again. "We're -both remembering I love you--there's nothing gained by pretending. If -the circumstances were different, if you had somewhere to go I should -have less right to interfere; but as it is, your leaving would mean a -constant shame to me. All the time I should be thinking: 'She was at -peace in a home, and you drove her out from it!' To see the woman he -cares for go away, unprotected, among strangers, to want perhaps for -the barest necessaries--what sort of man could endure it? should feel -as if I had turned you out of doors." A sudden tremor seized her; she -shivered. - -"Sit down," he said authoritatively. "We must come to an understanding!" - -But his protest was not immediately continued, and in the shelter of -the porch both were thoughtful. She was the first to speak again, after -all. - -"You're persuading me to be a great coward," she said; "and I am not a -very brave woman at the best. If I do what is right, I may give you -pain for a little while, but I shall spare you the unhappiness you'll -have if you go on meeting me." - -"You consider my happiness and her happiness, but not your own. And -why?--you'd spare me nothing." - -"You'll never be satisfied. Oh, yes, let us be honest with each -other, you're right! Your misgivings about me are true enough; but -you are principally anxious for me to stop that you may still see me. -And what'll come of it? I can never marry you, never; and you'll be -wretched. If I gave you a chance to forget----" - -"I shall never forget, whether you stop or whether you go." - -"You _must_ forget!" she cried. "You must forget me till it is as if -you had never known me. I won't be burdened with the knowledge that I'm -spoiling your life. I won't!" - -"Mary!" he said appealingly. - -"Oh," she exclaimed, "it's cruel! I wish to God I had died before you -loved me!" - -"You don't know what you're saying! You make me feel----Why," he -demanded, under his breath--"why could it never be--in time, if you -stay? I'll never speak of it any more till you permit it, not a -sign shall tell you I'm waiting; but by-and-by--will it be always -impossible? Dearest, it holds me so fast, my love of you. Don't be -harsher than you need; it's so real, so deep. Don't refuse me the right -to hope--in secret, by myself; it's all I have, all I'll ask of you for -years, if you like--the right to think that you may be my wife some -day. Leave me that!" - -"I can't," she said thickly; "it would be a lie." - -"You could never care for me--not so much as to let _me_ care for -_you_?" - -A movement answered him, and his head was lowered. He sat, his chin -supported by his palm, watching the restless working of her hands in -her lap. The closing words of the hymn came out distinctly to them -both, and they listened till the hush fell, without knowing that they -listened. - -"May I ask you one thing? You know I shall respect your confidence. Is -it because you care for some other man?" - -"No, no," she said vehemently, "I do not care!" - -"Thank God for that! While there's no one you like better, you'll be -the woman I want and wait for to the end." - -Her hands lay still; the compulsion for avowal was confronting her at -last. To hear this thing and sanction it by leaving him unenlightened -would be a wrong that she dared not contemplate; and under the -necessity for proclaiming that her sentiments could never affect the -matter, she turned cold and damp. Twice she attempted the finality -required, and twice her lips parted without sound. - -"Dr. Kincaid----" - -He raised his eyes to her, and the courage faded. - -"Don't think," he said, "that I shall ever make you sorry for telling -me that. You've simply removed a dread. I'm grateful to you." - -"Oh," she murmured, in a suffocating voice, "it makes no difference. -How am I to explain the--why don't you understand?" - -"What is it I should understand?" - -"You mustn't be grateful; you're mistaken. Never in the world, so long -as we live! There was someone else; I----" - -"Be open with me," he said sternly; "in common fairness, let us have -clearness and truth! You just declared that you didn't care for anyone?" - -"No," she gasped, "I did say that--I meant I didn't care. I don't--we -neither care; he doesn't know if I am alive, but ... there used to be -another man, and----" - -"Oh, my God, you are going to tell me you are married?" - -She shook her head. His eyes were piercing her; she felt them on her -wherever she looked. - -"Then speak and be done! 'There was another man.' What more?" - -Suddenly the first fear had entered his veins, and, though he was -conscious only of a vague oppression, he was already terrified by the -anticipation of what he was going to hear. - -"'There was another man,'" he repeated hoarsely. "What of him?" - -She was leaning forward, stooping so that her face was completely -hidden. With the silence that had fallen inside the church, the scene -was quieter than it had been, and the stillness in the air intensified -her difficulty of speech. She struggled to evolve from her confusion -the phrase to express her impurity, but all the terms looked shameless -and unutterable alike; and the travail continued until, faint with the -tension of the pause and the violent beating of her heart, she said -almost inaudibly: - -"I lived with him three years." - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -She heard him catch his breath, and then they sat motionless for a long -while, just as they had been sitting when she spoke. Now that she had -wrenched the fact out, the poignancy of her suffering subsided; even -by degrees she realised that, after this, her leaving the town was -inevitable, and her thoughts began to concern themselves vaguely with -her future. In him consciousness could never waver from the sound of -what she had said. She was impure. She had known passion and shame--she -herself! The landscape lost its proportion as he stared; the clouds of -the sky and the hue of the distance, everything had altered--she was -impure. - -The laboured minutes passed; he turned and looked slowly down at her -averted profile. The curve of cheek was colourless; her hands were -still lying clasped on her knee. He watched her for a moment, striving -to connect the woman with her words. Something seemed bearing on his -brain, so that it did not feel quite near. It did not feel so alive, -nor so much his own, as before the vileness of this thing was uttered. - -"I have never told you a falsehood," she murmured, "I didn't tell you -any falsehood in London. Don't think me all deceit--every word of what -I said that day was true." - -"I dare say," he answered dully; "I have not accused you." - -The change in his tone was pregnant with condemnation to her, and she -wondered if he was believing her; but, indeed, he hardly recognised -that she had said anything requiring belief. Her assurance appeared -juvenile to him, incongruous. There was an air almost of unreality -about their being seated here as they were, gazing at the blur of -churchyard. Something never to be undone had happened and she was -strange. - -The service had ended, and, trooping out, the Sunday-school pupils -clattered past their feet, shiny and clamorous, and eyeing them with -sidelong inquisition. She rose nervously, and, rousing himself, he went -with her through the crowd of children as far as the gate. There their -steps flagged to a standstill, and for a few seconds they remained -looking down the lane in silence. - -To her, stunned by no shock to make reality less real, these final -seconds held the condensed humiliation of the hour. The rigidity -with which the man waited beside her seemed eloquent of disgust, and -she mused bitterly on what she had done, how she had abased herself -and destroyed his respect; she longed to be free of his reproachful -presence. On the gravel behind them one of the bigger girls whispered -to another, and the other giggled. - -She made a slight movement, and he responded with something impossible -to catch. She did not offer her hand; she did not immediately pity him. -Had a stranger told him this thing of her, she would have pitied and -understood; told him by herself, she understood only that she was being -despised. They separated with a mechanical "good-afternoon," quietly -and slowly. The two girls, who watched them with precocious eagerness, -debated their relationship. - -The road lay before him long and bare, and lethargically he took it. -He continued to hear her words, "There used to be another man," but he -did not know he heard them--he did not actively pursue any train of -thought. It was only in momentary intervals that he became aware that -he was thinking. The sense of there being something numbed within him -still endured, and as yet his condition was more of stupor than of pain. - -"There used to be another man!" The sentence hummed in his ears, and as -he went along he awoke to it, the persistence of it touched him; and -he began to repeat it--mentally, difficultly, trying to spur his mind -into comprehension of it and take it in. He did not suffer acutely -even then. There was nothing acute in his feelings whatever. He found -it hard to realise, albeit he did not doubt. She was what she had said -she was; he knew it. But he could not see her so; he could not imagine -her the woman that she had said she used to be. He saw her always as -she had been to him, composed and self-contained. The demeanour had -been a mask, yet it clung to his likeness of her, obscuring the true -identity from him still. He strove to conceive her in her past life, -contemning himself because he could not; he wanted to remember that he -had been loving a disguise; he wanted to obliterate it. The fact of its -having been a disguise and never she all the time was so hard to grasp. -He tried to look upon her laughing in dishonour, but the picture would -not live; it appeared unnatural. It was the inception of his agony: the -feeling that he had known her so very little that it was her real self -which seemed the impossible. - -And that other man had known it all--seen every mood of her, learned -her in every phase! - -"Mary!" he muttered; and was lost in the consciousness that actually he -had never known "Mary." - -He perceived that the man was moving through his thoughts as a dark -man, short and suave, and he wondered how the fancy had arisen. -Vaguely he began to wonder what he had been like indeed. It was too -soon to question who he was--he wondered only how he looked, in a dim -mental searching for the presence to associate her with. Next, the -impression vanished, and sudden recollections came to him of men he was -accustomed to meet. - -The manner and mien of these riveted his attention. It was not by his -own will that he considered them; the personalities were insistent. -He did not suppose that any one of them had been her lover; he knew -that it was chimerical to view any one of them as such; but his brain -had been groping for a man, and these familiar men obtruded themselves -vividly. The lurking horror of her defilement materialised, so that the -sweat burst out on him; the significance of what he had heard flared -red upon his vision. To think that it had pleased her to lend herself -for the toy of a man's leisure, that some man had been free to make her -the boast of his conceit, twisted his heart-strings. - -The solidity of the hospital confronted him on the slope that he had -begun to mount. Beneath him stretched the herbage of cottage gardens -somnolent in Sabbath calm. Out of the silence came the quick yapping of -a shop-boy's dog, the shrillness of a shop-boy's whistle. They were the -only sounds. Then he went in. - -That evening Miss Brettan told Mrs. Kincaid that she wished to leave -her. - -The old lady received the announcement without any mark of surprise. - -"You know your own mind best," she said meditatively; "but I'm sorry -you are going--very sorry." - -"Yes," said Mary; "I must go. I'm sorry too, but I can't help myself. -I----" - -"I used to think you'd stop with me always; we got on so well together." - -"You've been more than kind to me from the very first day; I shall -never forget how kind you have been! If it were only possible. But it -isn't; I----" - -Once more the pronoun as the stumbling-block on delicate ground. - -"I can't stop!" she added thickly; "I hope you'll be luckier with your -next companion." - -"I shan't have another; changes upset me. And you must go when it -suits you best, you know; don't stay on to give me time to make fresh -arrangements, as I haven't any to make. Study your own convenience -entirely." - -"This week?" - -"Yes, very well; let it be this week." - -They said no more then. But the following afternoon, Mrs. Kincaid -broached the subject abruptly. - -"What are you going to do, Miss Brettan?" she inquired. "Have you -anything else in view?" - -"No," said Mary hesitatingly; "not yet." - -The suppression of her motive made plain speaking difficult to both. - -"I've no doubt, though," she added, "that I shall be all right." - -"What a pity it is! What a pity it is, to be sure!" - -"Oh, you mustn't grieve about me!" she exclaimed; "it isn't worth that; -_I'm_ not worth it. You know--you know, so many women in the world have -to make a living; and they do make it, somehow. It's only one more." - -"And so many women find they can't! Tell me, _must_ you go? Are you -quite sure you're not exaggerating the necessity? I don't ask you your -reasons, I never meddle in people's private affairs. But are you sure -you aren't looking on anything in a false light and going to extremes?" - -"Oh!" responded Mary, carried into sudden candour, "do you suppose I -don't shiver at the prospect? Do you suppose it attracts me? I'm not a -girl, I'm not quixotic; I _can't_ stop here!" - -The elder woman sighed. - -"Why couldn't you care for such a good fellow as my son?" she thought. -"Then there would have been none of this bother for any of us!" - -"I hope you'll be fortunate," she said gently. "Anything I can do to -help you, of course, I will!" - -"Thank you," said Mary. - -"I mean, you mustn't scruple to refer to me; it's your only chance. -Without any references----" - -"Yes, I know too well how indispensable they are; but----" - -"You have been here two years. I shall say I should have liked it to -remain your home." - -"Thank you," said Mary, again. But she was by no means certain that -she could avail herself of this recommendation given in ignorance of -the truth. It was precisely the matter that she had been debating. If -she attempted to avail herself of it, the doctor might have something -to say; and she was loath to be indebted for testimony from the mother -which the son would know to be undeserved, whether he interfered, or -not; she wanted her renunciation to be complete. Yet, without this -source of aid----She trembled. How speedily the few pounds in her -possession would vanish! how soon there would be a revival of her past -experience, with all its heartlessness and squalor! In imagination she -was already footsore, adrift in the London streets. - -"Mrs. Kincaid----" she cried. A passionate impulse seized her to -declare everything. If she had been seventeen, she would have knelt at -the old woman's feet, for it is not so much the vehemence of our moods -that diminishes with time as the power of restraint that increases. - -"Mrs. Kincaid, you must know? You must guess why----" - -"I know nothing," said the old woman, quickly; "I don't guess!" The -colour sank from her face, and Mary had never heard her speak with so -much energy. "My son shall tell me--I have a son--I will not hear from -you!" - -"I beg your pardon," said Mary; and they were silent. - -The same evening Mrs. Kincaid sent a message to the hospital, asking -her son to come round to see her. - -She had not mentioned that she was going to do so, and it was with a -little shock that Mary heard the order given. She supposed, however, -that it was given in her presence by way of a hint, and when the -time-approached for him to arrive, she withdrew. - -He came with misgivings and with relief. The last twenty-four hours had -inclined him to the state of tension in which the unexpected is always -the portentous, but in which one waits, nevertheless, for something -unlooked-for to occur. He did not know what he dreaded to hear, but the -summons alarmed him, even while he welcomed it for permitting him to -go to the house. - -He threw a rapid glance round the parlour, and replied to his mother's -greeting with quick interrogation. - -"What has happened?" - -"Nothing of grave importance has happened. I want to speak to you." - -"I was afraid something was the matter," he said, more easily. "What is -it?" - -He took the seat opposite to her, and she was dismayed to observe the -alteration in him. She contemplated him a few seconds irresolutely. - -"Philip," she said, "this afternoon Miss Brettan was anxious to tell -me something; she was anxious to make me her confidant. And I wouldn't -listen to her." - -"Oh?" he said.... "And you wouldn't listen to her?" - -"No, I wouldn't listen to her. I said, 'My son shall tell me, or I -won't hear.' This afternoon I had no more idea of sending for you than -you had of coming. But I have been thinking it over; she's in your -mother's house, and she's the woman you love. You do love her, Philip?" - -"I asked her to be my wife," he answered simply. - -"I thought so. And she refused you?" - -"Yes, she refused me. If I haven't told you before, it was because -she refused me. To have spoken of it to you would have been to give -pain--needless pain--to you and to her." - -Mrs. Kincaid considered. - -"You are quite right," she admitted; "your mistake was to suppose I -shouldn't see it for myself." She turned her eyes from him and looked -ostentatiously in another direction. "Now," she added, "she is going -away! Perhaps you already knew, but----" - -"No," he replied, "I didn't know; I thought it likely, but I didn't -know. I understand why you sent for me." - -He got up and went across to her, and kissed her on the brow. - -"I understand why it was you sent for me," he repeated. "What a tender -little mother it is! And to lose her companion, too!" - -Where he leant beside her, she could not see how white his face had -grown. - -"Are we going to let her go, Phil?" - -He stroked her hand. - -"I am afraid we must let her go, mother, as she doesn't want to stop." - -"You don't mean to interfere, then? You won't do anything to prevent -it?" - -"I am not able to prevent it," he rejoined coldly. "I have no -authority." - -"Indeed?" murmured Mrs. Kincaid. "It seems I might have spared my -pains." - -"No," said her son; "your pains were well taken. I'm very glad you -have spoken to me--or rather I'm very glad to have spoken to you--for -you know now I meant no wrong by my silence." - -"But--but, Philip----" - -"But Miss Brettan must go mother, because she wishes to!" - -"I don't understand you," exclaimed Mrs. Kincaid, bewildered. "I never -thought you would care for any woman at all--you never struck me as the -sort of man, somehow; but now that you do care, you can't surely mean -that you think it right for the woman to leave the only place where she -has any friends and go out into the world by herself? Don't you say you -are in love with her?" - -"I asked Miss Brettan to marry me," he answered. "Since you put the -question, I do think it right for her to leave the place; I think every -woman would wish to leave in the circumstances. I think it would be -indelicate to restrain her." - -"Your sense of delicacy is very acute for a lover," said the old lady -grimly; "much too fine a thing to be comfortable. And I'll tell you -what is greater still--your pride. Don't imagine you take me in for a -moment; look behind you in the glass and ask yourself if it's likely!" - -He had moved apart from her now and was lounging on the hearth, but he -did not attempt to follow her advice. Nor did he deny the implication. - -"I look pretty bad," he acknowledged, "I know. But you're mistaken, for -all that; my pride has nothing to do with it." - -"You're making yourself ill at the prospect of losing her, and yet you -won't----Not but what she must be mad to reject you, certainly I am -not standing up for her, don't think it! I don't say I wanted to see -you fond of her--I should have preferred to see you marry someone who -would have been of use to you and helped you in your career. You might -have done a great deal better; and I am sure I understand your having a -proper pride in the matter and objecting to beg her to remain. But, for -all that, if you do find so much in this particular woman that you are -going to be miserable without her, why, _I_ can say something to induce -her to stop!" - -"To the woman you would prefer me not to marry?" he said wearily. "But -you mustn't do it, mother." - -"I do want to see you marry her, Philip; I want to see you happy. You -don't follow me a bit. Since the dread of her loss can make you look -like that, you mustn't lose her; that's what I say." - -"I _have_ lost her," he returned; "I follow you very well. You think I -might have married a princess, and you would have viewed that with a -little pang too. You would give me to Miss Brettan with a big pang, but -you'd give me to her because you think I want her." - -"That is it--not a very big pang, either; I know every man is the best -judge of his own life. Indeed, it oughtn't to be a pang at all; I don't -think it is a pang, only a tiny A sweet-heart is always a mother's -rival just at first, Phil; and I suppose it's always the mother's -fault. But one day, when you're married to Mary, and a boy of your own -falls in love with a strange girl, your wife will tell you how she -feels. She'll explain it to you better that I can, and then you'll know -how _your_ mother felt and it won't seem so unnatural." - -"Oh," he said, "hush! Don't! I shall never be married to Mary." - -"Yes," she declared, "you will. When you say that, you're not the 'best -judge' any longer; it isn't judgment, it's pique, and I'm not going to -have your life spoiled by pique and want of resolution. Phil, Phil, -you're the last man I should have thought would have allowed a thing he -wanted to slip through his fingers. And a woman--women often say 'no,' -to begin with. It's not the girls who are to be had for the asking who -make the best wives; the ones who are hardest to win are generally the -worthiest to hold. Don't accept her answer, Phil! I'll persuade her -to stay on, and at first you needn't come very often--I won't mind any -more, I shall know what it means; and when you do come, I'll help you -and tell you what to do. She _shall_ get fond of you; you _shall_ have -the woman you want--I promise her to you!" - -"Mother," he said--the pallor had touched his lips--"don't say that! -Don't go on talking of what can't be. It's no misunderstanding to be -made up; it isn't any courtship to be aided. I tell you you can no more -give me Mary Brettan for my wife than you can give my childhood back to -me out of eternity." - -"And I tell you I will!" said she. "'Faint-heart----' But you _shall_ -have your 'fair lady'! Yes, instead of--you remember what we used to -say to you when you were a little boy? 'There's a monkey up your back, -Phil!'--you shall have your fair lady instead of the monkey that's up -your back. It's a full-grown monkey to-night and you're too obstinate -to listen to reason. By-and-by you'll see you were wrong. She is suited -to you; the more I think about it, the more convinced I am she would -make you comfortable. You might have thrown yourself away on some silly -girl without a thought beyond her hats and frocks! And she's interested -in your profession; you've always been able to talk to her about it; -she understands these things better than I do." - -"Listen," exclaimed Kincaid with repressed passion, "listen, and -remember what you said just now--that I am a man, to judge for myself! -You mustn't ask Miss Brettan to stay, and you are not to think that it -is her going that makes me unhappy. My hope is over. Between her and me -there would never be any marriage if she remained for years. Everything -was said, and it was answered, and it is done." - -He bit the end from a cigar, and smoked a little before he spoke any -more. When he did speak, his tones were under control; anyone from whom -his face had been hidden would have pronounced the words stronger than -the feeling that dictated them. - -"Something else: after to-night don't talk to me about her. I don't -want to hear; it's not pleasant to me. If you want to prove your -affection, prove it by that! While she's here I can't see you; when -she's gone, let us talk as if she had never been!" - -The aspect of the man showed of what a tremendous strain this affected -calmness was the outcome. Indeed, the deliberateness of the words, even -more than the words themselves, hushed her into a conviction of his -sincerity, which was disquieting because she found it so inexplicable. -She smoothed the folds of her dress, casting at him, from time to time, -glances full of wistfulness and pity; and at last she said, in the -voice of a person who resigns herself to bewilderment: - -"Well, of course I'll do as you wish. But you have both very queer -notions of what is right, that's certain; help seems equally repugnant -to the pair of you." - -"Why do you say that?" inquired Kincaid. "What help has Miss Brettan -declined?" - -"She was reluctant to refer anybody to me, I thought, when I mentioned -the matter to-day. I suppose that was another instance of delicacy over -my head." - -"The reference? She won't make use of it?" - -"She seemed very doubtful of doing so. I said: 'Without any reference, -what on earth will become of you?' And she said, 'Yes, she understood, -but----' But something; I forget exactly what it was now." - -"But that's insane!" he said imperatively. - -"She'll be helpless without it. She has been your companion, and you -have had no fault to find with her; you can conscientiously say so." - -He rose, and shook his coat clear of the ash that had fallen in a lump -from the cigar. - -"Nothing that has passed between Miss Brettan and me can affect her -right to your testimony to the two years that she has lived with you; I -should like her to know I said so." - -"I will tell her," affirmed his mother. "What are you going to do?" - -"It's getting late.... By the way, there's another thing. It will be -a long while before she finds another home, at the best; she mustn't -think I have anything to do with it, but I want her to take some money -before she goes, to keep her from distress.... Where did I leave my -hat?" - -"You want me to persuade her to take some money, as if it were from me?" - -"Yes, as if it were from you--fifty pounds--to keep her from -distress.... Did I hang it up outside?" - -His mother went across to him and wound her arms about his neck. - -"Can you spare so much, Philip?" - -"I have been putting by," he said, "for some time." - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -Mary had spent the evening very anxiously. The formless future was a -terror that she could not banish; she could evolve no definite line of -action to sustain a hope. - -She awoke from a troubled sleep with a startled sense of something -having happened. After a few seconds, the cause was repeated. The -silence was broken by the jangling of a bell, and nervous investigation -proved it to be Mrs. Kincaid's. - -The old lady explained that she was feeling very unwell--an explanation -that was corroborated by her voice--and, striking a light, Mary saw -that she was shivering violently. - -"I can't stop it; and I'm so cold. I don't know what it is; it's like -cold water running down my back." - -Her companion looked at her quickly. "We'll put some more blankets on -the bed. Wait a minute while I run upstairs!" - -She returned with the bedclothes from her own room. - -"You'll be much warmer before long," she said; "you must have taken a -slight chill." - -Mrs. Kincaid lay mute awhile. - -"I've such a pain!" she murmured. "How could I have taken a chill?" - -"Where is your pain?" - -"In my side--a sharp, stabbing pain." - -The servant appeared now, alarmed by the disturbance, and Mary told her -to bring some coals, and then to dress herself as speedily as she could. - -"Is there any linseed? Or oatmeal will do. I must make a poultice." - -"I'll see, miss. There's some linseed, I think, but----" - -"Fetch it, and a kettle. We'll light the fire at once; then I can make -it up here." - -The old lady moaned and shivered by turns; and some difficulty was -experienced in getting the fire to burn. Mary held a newspaper before -it, and the servant advanced theories on the subject of the chimney. - -At last, when it was possible for the poultice to be applied, Mary sent -her down for a hot-water bottle and the whisky. - -"You'll be quite comfortable directly," she said to the invalid. -"Something warm to drink, and the hot flannel to your feet 'll make a -lot of difference." - -"So cold I am, it's bitter--and the pain! I can't think what it can be." - -"Let me put this on for you, then; it's all ready. It won't--is that -it?... There! How's that?" - -"Oh!" faltered Mrs. Kincaid, "oh, thank you! Ah! you do it very nicely." - -"See, here we have the rest of the luxuries!" She mixed the stimulant, -and took it to her. "Just raise your head," she murmured; "I'll hold -the glass for you, so that you won't have to sit up. Take this, now, -and while you're sipping it, Ellen will get the bottle ready." - -"There isn't much in the kettle," said Ellen. "I don't----" - -"Use what there is, and fill it up again. Then see if you can find me -any brown paper." - -In quest of brown paper, Ellen was gone some time; and, having set down -the empty tumbler and made the bed tidier, Mary proceeded to search for -some herself. - -She found a sheet lining a drawer, and rolling it into the form of a -tube, fixed it to the kettle spout, to direct the steam into the room. -She had not long done so when the girl returned disconsolate to say -there was no brown paper in the house. Mary drew her outside. - -"Are you going to sit in there all night, miss?" - -"Speak lower! Yes, I shall sit up. What time is it?" - -The girl said that she had just been astonished to see by the kitchen -clock that it was half-past four; it had seemed to her that she had -not long fallen asleep when the bell rang. - -"I want you to go and fetch Dr. Kincaid, Ellen; I'm afraid Mrs. Kincaid -is going to be ill." - -"Do you mean I'm to go at once?" - -"Yes. Tell him his mother isn't well, and it would be better for him to -see her. Bring him back with you. You aren't frightened to go out--it -must be getting light?" - -They drew up the blind of the landing window, and saw daylight creeping -over the next-door yard. - -"Do you think she's going to be very bad, miss?" - -"I don't know; I can't tell. Hurry, Ellen, there's a good girl! get -back as quickly as you can!" - -A deep flush had overspread the face on the pillow. The eyes yearned, -and an agonised expression strengthened Mary's belief in the gravity of -the seizure; she feared it to be the beginning of inflammation of the -lungs. Three-quarters of an hour must be allowed for Kincaid to arrive, -and, conscious that she could now do nothing but wait, the time lagged -dreadfully. The silence, banished at the earlier pealing of the bell, -had regained its dynasty, and once more a wide hush settled upon the -house, indicated by the occasional clicking of a cinder on the fender. -At intervals the sick woman uttered a tremulous sigh, and met Mary's -gaze with a look of appeal, as if she recognised in her presence a kind -of protective sympathy; but she had ceased to complain, and the watcher -abstained from any active demonstration. In the globe beside the mirror -the gas flared brightly, and this, coupled with the heat of the fire, -filled the room with a moist radiance, against which the narrow line -of dawn above the window-sill grew slowly more defined. The advent had -been long expected, when sharp footfalls on the pavement smote Mary's -ear, and, forgetting that Kincaid had his own key, she sprang up to -let him in. The hall-door swung back, and she paused with her hand on -the banisters. He came swiftly forward and passed her with a hurried -salutation on the stairs. - -There was, however, no anxiety visible on his face as he approached the -bed. Merely a little genial concern was to be seen. His questions were -put encouragingly; when a reply was given, he listened with an air of -confidence confirmed. - -"Am I very ill?" she gasped. - -"You _feel_ very ill, I dare say, dear; but don't go persuading -yourself you _are_, or that'll be a real trouble!" - -His fingers were on her pulse, and he was smiling as he spoke. Yet he -knew that her life was in danger. The worthiest acting is done where -there is no applause--it is the acting of a clever medical man in a -sick-room. - -Mary stood on the threshold watching him. - -"Who put that funnel on the kettle?" he inquired, without turning. He -had not appeared to notice it. - -"I did," she answered. "Am I to take it off?" - -"No." - -He signed to her to go below, and after a few minutes followed her into -the parlour. - -"Give me a pen and ink, Miss Brettan, please." - -"I've put them ready for you," she said. - -He wrote hastily, and rose with the prescription held out. - -"Where's Ellen?" - -"Here, waiting to take it." - -A trace of surprise escaped him. He said curtly: - -"You're thoughtful. Was it you who put on that poultice?" - -Her tone was as distant as his. - -"We did all we could before you came; _I_ put on the poultice. Did I do -right?" - -"Quite right. I asked because of the way it was put on." - -With that expression of approval he left her and returned to his -mother. Mary, unable to complete her toilette, not knowing from minute -to minute when she might be called, occupied herself in righting the -disorder of the room. She had thrown on a loosely-fitting morning dress -of cashmere, one of the first things that she had made after she was -installed here. An instant; she had snatched to dip her face in water, -but she had been able to do little to her hair, the coil of which still -retained much of the scattered; softness of the night, and after Ellen -came back from the chemist's she sent her upstairs for some; hairpins. -She stood on the hearth, before the looking-glass, shaking the mass of -hair about her shoulders, and then with uplifted arms winding it deftly -on her head. The supple femininity of the attitude, so suggestive of -recent rising, harmonised with the earliness of the sunshine that -tinged the parlour; and when Kincaid reentered and found her so, he -could not but be sensible of the impression, though he was indisposed -to dwell upon it. - -She looked round quickly: - -"How is Mrs. Kincaid, doctor?" - -"I'm very uneasy about her. I'm going back to the hospital now to -arrange to stay here." - -"What do you think has caused it?" - -"I'm afraid she got damp and cold in the garden on Sunday." - -"And it has gone to the lungs?" - -"It has affected the left lung, yes." - -She dropped the last hairpin, and as she stooped for it the swirl of -the gown displayed a bare instep. - -"I can help to nurse her, unless you'd rather send someone else?" - -"You'll do very well, I think," he said; and he proceeded to give her -some instructions. - -She fulfilled these instructions with a capability he found -astonishing. Before the day had worn through he perceived that, however -her training had been acquired, he possessed in her a coadjutrix -reliable and adroit. To herself, she was once more within her native -province, but to him it was as if she had become suddenly voluble in a -foreign tongue. He had no inclination to meditate upon her skill--to -meditate about her was the last thing that he desired now--but there -were moments when her performance of some duty supplied fresh food for -wonder notwithstanding, and he noted her dexterity with curious eyes. -He had, though, refrained from any further praise. The gratitude that -he might have spoken was checked by the aloofness of her manner; and, -in the closer association consequent upon the illness, the formality -that had sprung up between them suffered no decrease. Indeed it became -permanent in this contact, which both would have shunned. - -After the one scene in which she left the choice to him, she had -afforded him no chance to resume their earlier relations had he wished -it, and the studied politeness of her address was a persistent reminder -that she directed herself to him in his medical capacity alone. She -held the present conditions the least exacting attainable, since -the distastefulness of renewed intercourse was not to be avoided -altogether; but she in nowise exonerated him for imposing them, and -she considered that by having done so he had made her a singularly -ungracious return for the humiliation of her avowal. She sustained the -note he had struck; the key was in a degree congenial to her. But she -resented while she concurred, and even more than to her judgment her -acquiescence was attributable to her pride. - -On the day following there were recurrences of pain, but on Wednesday -this subsided, though the temperature remained high. Mary saw that -his anxiety was, if anything, keener than it had been, and by degrees -a latent admiration began to mingle with her bitterness. In the -atmosphere of the sick-room the man and the woman were equally new -to each other, and up to a certain point he was as great a surprise -to her as was she to him. She saw him now professionally for the -first time, and she recognised his resources, his despatch, with -an appreciation quickened by experience. The visitor whom she had -known lounging, loose-limbed and conversational, in an arm-chair had -disappeared; the suppliant for a tenderness that she did not feel had -become an authority whom she obeyed. Here, like this, the man was a -power, and the change within him had its physical expression. His -figure was braced, his movements had a resolution and a vigour that -gave him another personality. He even awed her slightly. She thought -that he must look more masterful to all the world in the exercise of -his profession, but she thought also that everyone in the world would -approve the difference. - -The confidence that he inspired in her was so strong that on Thursday, -when he told her that he intended to have a consultation, she heard him -with a shock. - -"You think it advisable?" - -"I fear the worst, Miss Brettan; I can't neglect any chance." - -She had some violets in her hand--it was her custom to brighten the -view from the bed as much as she could every morning--and suddenly -their scent was very strong. - -"The worst?" - -"God grant my opinion's wrong!" he said. "Will you ask the girl to take -the wire for me?" - -It was to a physician in the county town he had decided to telegraph, -one whose prestige was gradually widening, and whose reputation had -been built on something trustier than a chance summons to the couch -of a notability. Mary had heard the name before, and she strove to -persuade herself that his view of the case might prove more promising. -The day that had opened so gloomily, however, offered during the -succeeding hours small food for faith. Towards noon the sufferer -became abruptly restless, and the united efforts of doctor and nurse -were required to soothe her. She was fired by a passionate longing to -get up, and pleaded piteously for permission. To "walk about a little -while" was her one appeal, and the strenuousness of the entreaty was -rendered more pathetic by her obvious belief that they refused because -they failed to comprehend the violence of the desire. She endeavoured -with failing energy to make it known, and--prevailed upon to desist at -last--lay back with a look that was a lamentation of her helplessness. -Later, she was slightly delirious and rambled in confused phrases of -her son and her companion--his courtship and Mary's indifference. -The man and the woman sat on either side, of her, but their gaze -no longer met. At the first reference to his attachment Mary had -started painfully, but now by a strong effort her nervousness had been -suppressed, and from time to time she moved to wipe the fevered lips -and brow with a semblance of self-possession. As the daylight waned, -the disjointed sentences grew rarer. Kincaid went down. Except for -the deep breathing, silence fell again, until, as dusk gathered, the -sudden words "I feel much better" were uttered in a tone of restored -tranquillity. Turning quickly, Mary saw that her ears had not deceived -her. The assurance was repeated with a feeble smile; the features had -gained a touch of the cheerfulness that had been so remarkable in the -voice. Soon afterwards the eyes closed in what appeared to be sleep. - -Kincaid was striding to and fro in the parlour, his arms locked across -his breast. As Mary ran in, his head was lifted sharply. - -"She feels much better," she exclaimed; "she has fallen asleep!" - -He stood there, without speaking--and she shrank back with a stifled -cry. - -"Oh! I didn't know.... Is it _that_?". - -"Yes," he said, scarcely above a whisper. And she understood that what -she had told him was the presage of death. - -After this, both knew it to be but a matter of time. The arrival of the -physician served merely to confirm despondence. He pronounced the case -hopeless, and reluctantly accepted a fee to defray the expenses of the -journey. - -"I wish we could have met in happier circumstances," he said.... -"You've the comfort of knowing that you did everything that could be -done." - -A page with a message of inquiry came up the steps as he left; such -messages had been delivered daily. But on Saturday, when the baker's -man brought the bread to Laburnum Lodge, he found the blinds down; and -within a few minutes of his handing the loaf to the weeping servant -through the scullery window, the news circulated in Westport that Mrs. -Kincaid had died unconscious at seven o'clock that morning. - -While the baker's man derived this intelligence from the housemaid, -Mary was behind the lowered blinds on the first floor, crying. She -had just descended from her bedroom; seeing how deeply Kincaid was -affected, she had retired there soon after the end. He had not shed -tears, but that he was strongly moved was evident by the muscles of -his mouth; and the quivering face of which she had had a glimpse kept -recurring to her vividly. - -He came in while she sat there. He was very pale, but now his face was -under control again. - -She rose, and advanced towards him irresolutely. "I'm so sorry! She was -a very kind friend to me." - -He put out his hand. For the first time since she had met him after -posting the note, hers lay in it. - -"Thank you," he said. "Thank you, too, for all you did for her; I shall -always remember it gratefully, Miss Brettan." - -He seemed to be at the point of adding something, but checked himself. -Presently he made reference to the arrangements that must be seen to. -That night he reoccupied his quarters in the hospital, and excepting -in odd minutes, she did not see him again during the day. She found -space, however, to mention that she purposed remaining until the -funeral, and to this announcement he bowed, though he refrained from -any inquiry as to her plans afterwards. "Plans," indeed, would have -been a curious misnomer for the thoughts in her brain. The question -that she had revolved earlier had been settled effectually by the -death; now that all possibility of Mrs. Kincaid's recommending her had -been removed, her plight admitted of nothing but conjecture. - -In her solitude in the house of mourning, unbroken save for -interruptions which emphasised the tragedy, or for some colloquy with -the red-eyed servant, she passed her hours lethargic and weary. The -week of suspense and insufficient rest had tired her out, and she no -longer even sought to consider. Her mind drifted. A fancy that came to -her was, that it would be delightful to be lying in a cornfield in hot -sunshine, with a vault of blue above her. The picture was present more -often than her thought of the impending horrors of London. - -How much the week had held! what changes it had seen! She sat musing on -this the next evening, listening to the church bells, and remembering -that a Sunday ago the dead woman had been beside her. Last Sunday there -was still a prospect of Westport continuing to be her home for years. -Last Sunday it was that, in the churchyard, she had confessed her past. -Only a week--how full, how difficult to realise! She was half dozing -when she heard the hall-door unlocked, and Kincaid greeted her as she -roused herself. - -"Did I disturb you? were you asleep?" - -"No; I was thinking, that's all." - -He sighed, and dropped into the opposite chair. She noted his harassed -aspect, and pitied him. The Sunday previous she had not been sensible -of any pity at all. She understood his loss of his mother; the loss of -his faith had represented much less to her, its being a faith on which -she personally had set small store. - -"There's plenty to think of!" he said wearily. - -"You haven't seen Ellen, doctor, have you? She has been asking for you." - -"Has she? what does she want?" - -"She is anxious to know how long she'll be kept. Her sister is in -service somewhere and the family want a parlourmaid on the first of the -month. I am sorry to bother you with trifles now, but she asked me to -speak to you." - -"I must talk to her. Of course the house 'll be sold off; there's no -one to keep it on for.... How fagged you look! are you taking proper -care of yourself again?" - -"Oh yes; it is just the reaction, nothing but what'll soon pass." - -"You didn't have the relief you ought to have had; you worked like two -women." - -He paused, and his gaze dwelt on her questioningly. She read the -question with such clearness that, when he spoke, the words seemed but -an echo of the pause. - -"How did you know so much?" he asked. - -"After I lost my father I was a nurse in the Yaughton Hospital for some -years." - -The answer was direct, but it was brief. Half a dozen queries sprang to -his lips, and were in turn repressed. Her past was her own; he confined -his inquiries to her future. - -"And what do you mean to do now?" - -"I'm going to London." - -"Do you expect to meet with any difficulties in the way of taking up -nursing again?" - -"I think you know that there _were_ difficulties in the way." - -"I have no wish to force your confidence----" he said, with a note of -inquiry in his voice. - -"I haven't my certificate." - -"You can refer to the Matron." - -"I know I can; I will not. I told you two years ago there were persons -I could refer to, but I wouldn't do it." - -"May I ask why you should have any objection to referring to this one?" - -She was silent. - -"Won't you tell me?" - -"I think you might understand," she said in a very low voice. "I -went there after my father's death. I am not the woman who left the -Yaughton Hospital." - -His eyes fell, and he stared abstractedly at the grate. When he raised -them he saw that hers had closed. He looked at her lingeringly till -they opened. - -"Now that _she_ is gone," he exclaimed unsteadily, "your position is -not so easy! Have you any prospect that you don't mention?" - -She shook her head. - -"Well, is there anything you can suggest?" he asked. "Any way out of -the difficulty that occurs to you? Believe me----" - -"No," she said, "I can see nothing that is practicable; I----" - -"Would you be willing to come on the nursing-staff here? We're -short-handed in the night work. It is an opening, and it might lead to -a permanent appointment." - -Her heart began to beat rapidly; for an instant she did not reply. - -"It is very considerate of you, very generous; but I am afraid that -wouldn't do." - -"Why not?" - -"It wouldn't do, because--well, I should have left Westport in any -case." - -"You meant to, I know. But between the way you'd have left Westport if -my mother had lived, and the way you'd leave it now, there is a vast -difference." - -"I must leave it, all the same." - -"Pardon me," he said, "I can't permit you to do so. I wouldn't let -any woman go out into the world with the knowledge that she went to -meet certain distress. Your hospital experience appears to solve -the problem. You could come on next week. If your reluctance is -attributable to myself--hear me out, I must speak plainly!--if you -refuse because what has passed between us makes further conversation -with me a pain to you, you've only to remember that conversation -between us in the hospital will necessarily be of the briefest kind. -All that I remember is that I've asked you to be my wife and you don't -care for me--I'm the man you've rejected. I wish to be something more -serviceable, though; I wish to be your friend. In the hospital I shall -have little chance, for there, to all intents and purposes, we shall be -as much divided as if you went to London. While the chance does exist -I want to use it; I want to advise you strongly to take the course I -propose. It needn't prevent your attempting to find a post elsewhere, -you know; on the contrary, it would facilitate your obtaining one." - -Her hand had shaded her brow as she listened; now it sank slowly to her -lap. - -"I need hardly tell you I'm grateful," she said, in tones that -struggled to be firm. "Anyone would be grateful; to me the offer is -very--is more than good." Her composure broke down. "I know what I -must seem to you--you have heard nothing but the worst of me!" she -exclaimed. - -"I would hear nothing that it hurt you to say," he answered; and for a -minute neither of them said any more. There had been a gentleness in -his last words that touched her keenly; the appeal in hers had gone -home to him. Neither spoke, but the man's breath rose eagerly, and; the -woman's head drooped lower and lower on her breast. - -"Let me!" she said at last in a whisper that his pulses leaped to -meet. "It was there--when I was a nurse. He was a patient. Before he -left, he asked me to marry him. When I went to him he told me he was -married already. Till then there had been no hint, not the faintest -suspicion--I went to him, with the knowledge of them all, to be his -wife." - -"Thank God!" said Kincaid in his throat. - -"She was--she had been on the streets; he hadn't seen her for years. He -prayed to me, implored me----Oh, I'm trying to exonerate! myself, I'm -not trying to shift the sin on to him, I but if the truest devotion of -her life can plead I for a woman, Heaven knows that plea was mine!" - -"And at the end of the three years?" - -"There was news of her death, and he married someone else." - -She got up abruptly, and moved to the window, looking out behind the -blind. - -"I can't tell you how I feel for you," he said huskily. "I can't give -you an idea how deeply, how earnestly I sympathise!" - -"Don't say anything," she murmured; "you needn't try; I think I -understand to-night--you proved your sympathy while my claim on it was -least." - -"And you'll let me help you?" - -The slender figure stood motionless; behind her the man was gripping -the leather of his chair. - -"If I may," she said constrainedly, "if I can go there like--as -you----Ah, if the past can all be buried and there needn't be any -reminder of what has been?" - -"I'll be everything you wish, everything you'd have me seem!" - -He took a sudden step towards her. She turned, her eyes humid with -tears, with thankfulness--with entreaty. He stopped short, drew back, -and resumed his seat. - -"Now, what is it you were saying about Ellen?" he asked shortly. - -And perhaps it was the most eloquent avowal he had ever made her of his -love. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -So it happened that Mary Brettan did not leave Westport the next week. -And after a few months she was more than ever doubtful if she would -leave it at all. The suggested vacancy on the permanent staff had -occurred before then, and, once having accepted the post, there seemed -to be no inducement to woo anxiety by resigning it. - -At first the resumption of routine after years of indolence was irksome -and exhausting. The six o'clock rising, the active duties commencing -while she still felt tired, the absence of anything like privacy, -excepting in the two hours allotted to each nurse for leisure--all -these things fretted her. Even the relief that she derived from her -escape into the open air was alloyed by the knowledge that outdoor -exercise during one of the hours was compulsory. Then, too, it was -inevitable that a costume worn once more should recall the emotions -with which she had laid aside her last; inevitable that she should ask -herself what the years had done for her since last she stood within a -hospital and bade it farewell with the belief she was never to enter -one again. The failure of the interval was accentuated. Her heart had -contracted when, directed to the strange apartment above the wards, -she beheld the print dress provided for her use lying limp on a chair. -An unutterable forlornness filled her soul as, proceeding to put it -on, she surveyed her reflection in the narrow glass. Yet she grew -accustomed to the change, and the more easily for its being a revival. - -The speed with which the sense of novelty wore off indeed astonished -her. Primarily dismaying, and a continuous burden upon which she -condoled with herself every day, it was, next, as if she had lost it -one night in her sleep. She had forgotten it until the lightness with -which she was fulfilling the work struck her with swift surprise. -Little by little a certain enjoyment was even felt. She contemplated -some impending task with interest. She took her walk with zest in lieu -of relief. She returned to the doors exhilarated instead of depressed. -The bohemian, the lady-companion, had become a sick-nurse anew, and -because the primary groove of life is the one which cuts the deepest -lines, her existence rolled along the recovered rut with smoothness. -The scenes between which it lay were not beautiful, but they were -familiar; the view it commanded was monotonous, but she no longer -sought to travel. - -Socially the conditions had been favoured by her introduction. The -position that she had occupied in Laburnum Lodge gave her a factitious -value, and gained her the friendliness of the Matron, a functionary who -has the power to make the hospital-nurse distinctly uncomfortable, and -who has on occasion been known to use it. It commended her also to the -other nurses, two of whom were gentlewomen, insomuch as it promised -an agreeable variety to conversation in the sitting-room. She was by -no means unconscious of the extent of her debt to Kincaid, and her -gratitude as time went on increased rather than diminished. Certainly -the environment was conducive to a perception of his merits--more -conducive even than had been the period of his medical attendance at -the villa. The king is nowhere so attractive as at his court; the -preacher nowhere so impressive as in the pulpit. Ashore the captain may -bore us, but we all like to smoke our cigars with him on his ship. The -poorest pretender assumes importance in the circle of his adherents, -and poses with authority on some small platform, if it be only his -mother's hearthrug. Here where the doctor was the guiding spirit, and -Mary found his praises on every tongue, the glow of gratitude was -fanned by the breath of popularity. Had he deliberately planned a means -of raising himself in her esteem, he could have devised none better -than this of placing her in the miniature kingdom where he ruled. In -remembering that he had wanted to marry her, she was sensible one day -of a thrill of pride: nothing like regret, nothing like arrogance, but -a momentary pride. She felt more dignity in the moment. - -If he remembered it too, however, no word that he spoke evinced such -recollection. The promise that he had made to her had been kept to the -letter, and the past was never alluded to between them. As doctor and -nurse their colloquies were brief and practical. It was the demeanour -that he adopted towards her from the day of her instatement that added -the first fuel to her thankfulness; and if, withal, she was inclined -to review his generosity rather than to regard it, it was because he -had established the desired relations on so firm a footing that she had -ceased to believe that the pursuance of it cost him any pains. That she -had held his love after the story of her shame she was aware; but that -on reflection he could still want her for his wife she did not for an -instant suppose; and she often thought that by degrees his attitude had -become the one most natural to him. - -By what a denial of nature, by what rigid self-restraint, the idea had -been conveyed, nobody but the man himself could have told. No one else -knew the bitterness of the suffering that had been endured to give her -that feeling of right to remain; what impulses had been curbed and -crushed back, that no scruples or misgivings should cross her peace. -The circumstances in which they met now helped him much, or he; would -have failed, despite his efforts; and to fail, he understood, would be -to prove unworthy of, her trust--it would be to see her go out from his -life for ever. Still want her? So intensely, so devoutly did he want -her, that, shadowed by sin as she was, she was holier to him than any -other woman upon earth--fairer than any other gift at God's bestowal. -He would have taken her to his heart with as profound a reverence as if -no shame had ever touched her. If all the world had been cognizant of -her disgrace, he would have triumphed to cry "My wife!" in the ears; of -all the world. A baser love might well have; thirsted for her too, but -it would have had its hours of hesitation. Kincaid's had none. No flood -of passion blinded his higher judgment and urged him on; no qualms -of convention intervened and gave him pause. It was with his higher -judgment that he prayed for her. His love burned steadily, clearly. -The situation lacked only one essential for the ideal: the love of -the penitent whom he longed to raise. The complement was missing. The -fallen woman who had confessed her guilt, the man's devotion that had -withstood the test--these were there. But the devotion was unreturned, -the constancy was not desired. He could only wait, and try to hope; -wondering if her tenderness would waken in the end, wondering how he -would learn it if it did. - -To break his word by pleading again was a thing that he could do -only in the belief that she would listen to him with happiness. If -he misread her mind and spoke too soon, he not merely committed a -wrong--he destroyed the slender link that there was between them, for -he made it impossible for her to stay on. And yet, how to divine? how, -without speaking, to ascertain? What could be gathered from the deep -grey eyes, the serious face, the slim-robed figure, as he sometimes -stood beside her, guarding his every look and schooling his voice? -How could he tell if she cared for him unless he asked her? how -could he ask her unless he had reason to suppose that she did? The -nature of their association seemed to him to impose an insurmountable -barrier between them; in freer parlance a ray of the truth might be -discernible. When she had been here a year he determined to gain an -opportunity to talk with her alone. He would talk, if not on matters -nearest to him, at least on topics less formal than those to which -their conversation was limited in the ward! - -Such an opportunity, however, did not lie to his hand. It was difficult -to compass without betraying himself, and, in view of the present -difficulties, he appeared to have had so many advantages earlier that -he marvelled at his having turned them to so little account. Their -acquaintance at the villa during his mother's lifetime appeared to -him, by comparison, to have afforded every facility that he was to-day -denied, and he frequently recalled the period with passionate regret; -he thought that he had never appreciated it at its worth, though, -indeed, he had only failed to benefit by it. The villa now was tenanted -by a lady with two children; and Mary often passed it, recalling the -period also, albeit with a melancholy vaguer than his. One morning, as -she went by, the door was open--the children were coming out--and she -had a glimpse of the hall. - -They came down the steps, carrying spades and pails, bound for the -beach, like herself. The elder of them might have been nine years old, -and, belonging to the familiar house, they held a little sad interest -for her. She wondered, as they preceded her along the pavement, in -which of the rooms they slept, and if the different furniture had -altered the aspect of it much. She thought she would like to speak to -them when the sands were reached, and----Then she saw Seaton Carew! Her -heart jerked to her throat. Her gaze was riveted on him; she couldn't -withdraw it. They were advancing towards each other; he was looking at -her. She saw recognition flash across his features, and turned her -head. The people to right and left swayed a little--and she had passed -him. It had taken just fifteen seconds, but she could not remember what -she had been thinking of when she saw him. The fifteen seconds had held -for her more emotion than the last twelve months. - -Her knees trembled. She supposed he must be at the theatre this week. -But, when she saw a playbill outside the music-seller's, she was -afraid to examine it lest he might be staring after her. She walked on -excitedly. She was filled with a tremulous elation, which she cared -neither to define nor to acknowledge. She reflected that she had left -the hospital a few minutes earlier than usual, and that otherwise -she might have missed him. "Missed" was the word of her reflection. -She wondered where he was staying--in which streets the professional -lodgings were. She felt suddenly strange in the town not to know. She -had been here three years, and she did not know--how odd! In turning -a corner she saw another advertisement of the theatre, this time on a -hoarding. The day was Monday, and the paper was still shiny with the -bill-sticker's paste. She was screened from observation, and for a -moment she paused, devouring the cast with a rapid glance. His wife's -name didn't appear, so it wasn't their own company. She hurried on -again. The sight of him had acted on her like a strong stimulant. -Without knowing why, she was exhilarated. The air was sweeter, life -was keener; she was athirst to reach the shore and, in her favourite -spot, to yield herself up wholly to sensation. - -And how little he had changed! He seemed scarcely to have changed -at all. He looked just as he used to look, though he must have gone -through much since the night they parted. Ah, how could she forget -that parting--how allow the fires of it to wane? It was pitiful that, -feeling things so intensely when they happened, one was unable to keep -the intensity alive. The waste! The puerility of loving or hating, of -mourning or rejoicing so violently in life, when the passage of time, -the interposition of irrelevant incident, would smear the passion that -was all-absorbing into an experience that one called to mind! - -She sank on to a bench upon the slope of ragged grass that merged into -the shingles and the sand. The sea, vague and unruffled, lay like a -sheet of oil, veiled in mist except for one bright patch on the horizon -where it quivered luminously. She bent her eyes upon the sea, and saw -the past. His voice struck her soul before she heard his footstep. -"Mary!" he said, and she knew that he had followed her. - -She did not speak, she did not move. The blood surged to her temples, -and left her body cold. She struggled for self-command; for the -ability to conceal her agitation; for the power she yearned to gather -of blighting him with the scorn she craved to feel. - -"Won't you speak to me?" he said. He came round to her side, and stood -there, looking down at her. "Won't you speak?" he repeated--"a word?" - -"I have nothing to say to you," she murmured. "I hoped I should never -see you any more." - -He waited awkwardly, kicking the soil with the point of his boot, his -gaze wandering from her over the ocean--from the ocean back to her. - -"I have often thought about you," he said at last in a jerk. "Do you -believe that?" - -She kept silent, and then made as if to rise. - -"Do you believe that I have thought about you?" he demanded quickly. -"Answer me!" - -"It is nothing to me whether you have thought or not. I dare say you -have been ashamed when you remembered your disgrace--what of it?" - -"Yes," he said, "I have been ashamed. You were always too good for me; -I ought never to have had anything to do with a woman like you." - -She had not risen; she was still in the position in which he had -surprised her; and she was sensible now of a dull pain at the -unexpectedness of his conclusion. - -"Why have you followed me?" she said coldly. "What for?" - -"What for? I didn't know you were in the town, I hadn't an idea--and I -saw you suddenly. I wanted to speak to you." - -"What is it you want to say?" - -"Mary!" - -"Yes; what do you want to say? I'm not your friend; I'm not your -acquaintance: what have you got to speak to me about?" - -"I meant," he stammered--"I wanted to ask you if it was possible -that--that you could ever forgive the way I behaved to you." - -"Is that all?" she asked in a hard voice. - -"How you have altered!... Yes, I don't know that there's anything else." - -She did not reply, and he regarded her irresolutely. - -"Can you?" - -"No," she said. "Why should I forgive you--because time has gone by? -Is that any merit of yours? You treated me brutally, infamously. The -most that a woman can do for a man I did for you; the worst that a man -can do to a woman you did to me. You meet me accidentally and expect me -to forgive? You must be a great deal less worldly-wise than you were -three years ago." - -She turned to him for the first time since he had joined her, and his -eyes fell. - -"I didn't expect," he said; "I only asked. So you're a nurse again, eh?" - -"Yes." - -He gave an impatient sigh, the sigh of a man; who realises the -discordancy of life and imperfectly resigns himself to it. - -"We're both what we used to be, and we're both older. Well, I'm the -worse off of the two, if that's any consolation to you. A woman's -always getting opportunities for new beginnings." - -She checked the retort that sprang to her lips, eager to glean some -knowledge of his affairs, though she could not bring herself to put a -question; and after a moment she rejoined indifferently: - -"You got the chance you were so anxious for. I understood your marriage -was all that was necessary to take you to London." - -"I was in London--didn't you hear?" He was startled into naturalness, -the actor's naive astonishment when he finds his movements are unknown -to anyone. "We had a season at the Boudoir, and opened with _The Cast -of the Die_. It was a frost; and then we put on a piece of Sargent's. -That might have been worked into a success if there had been money -enough left to run it at a loss for a few weeks, but there wasn't. -The mistake was not to have opened with it, instead. And the capital -was too small altogether for a London show; the exes were awful! It -would have been better to have been satisfied with management in the -provinces if one had known how things were going to turn out. Now it's -the provinces under somebody else's management. I suppose you think I -have been rightly served?" - -"I don't see that you're any worse off than you used to be." - -"Don't you? You've no interest to see. I'm a lot worse off, for I've a -wife and child to keep." - -"A child! You've a child?" she said. - -"A boy. I don't grumble about that, though; I'm fond of the kid, -although I dare say you think I can't be very fond of anyone. But---- -Oh, I don't know why I tell you about it--what do you care!" - -They were silent again. The sun, a disc in grey heavens, smeared the -vapour with a shaft of pale rose, and on the water this was glorified -and enriched, so that the stain on the horizon had turned a deep -red. Nearer land, the sea, voluptuously still, and by comparison -colourless, had yet some of the translucence of an opal, a thousand -elusive subtleties of tint which gleamed between the streaks of -darkness thrown upon its surface from the sky. A thin edge of foam -unwound itself dreamily along the shore. A rowing-boat passed blackly -across the crimsoned distance, gliding into the obscurity where sky -and sea were one. To their right the shadowy form of a fishing-lugger -loomed indistinctly through the mist. The languor of the scene had, -in contemplation, something emotional in it, a quality that acted on -the senses like music from a violin. She was stirred with a mournful -pleasure that he was here--a pleasure of which the melancholy was -a part. The delight of union stole through her, more exquisite for -incompletion. - -"It's nothing to you whether I do badly or well," he said gloomily. And -the dissonance of the complaint jarred her back to common-sense. "Yet -it isn't long ago that we--good Lord! how women can forget; now it's -nothing to you!" - -"Why should it be anything?" she exclaimed. "How can you dare to remind -me of what we used to be? 'Forget'?--yes, I have prayed to forget! To -forget I was ever foolish enough to believe in you; to forget I was -ever debased enough to like you. I wish I _could_ forget it; it's my -punishment to remember. Not because I sinned--bad as it is, that's -less--but because I sinned for _you_! If all the world knew what I had -done, nobody could despise me for it as I despise myself, or understand -how I despise myself. The only person who should is you, for you know -what sort of man I did it for!" - -"I was carried away by a temptation--by ambition. You make me out as -vile as if it had been all deliberately planned. After you had gone----" - -"After I had gone you married your manageress. If you had been in love -with her, even, I could make excuses for you; but you weren't--you -were in love only with yourself. You deserted a woman for money. Your -'temptation' was the meanest, the most contemptible thing a man ever -yielded to. 'Ambition'? God knows I never stood between you and that. -Your ambition was mine, as much mine as yours, something we halved -between us. Has anybody else understood it and encouraged it so well? -I longed for your success as fervently as you did; if it had come, I -should have rejoiced as much as you. When you were disappointed, whom -did you turn to for consolation? But I could only give you sympathy; -and _she_ could give you power. And everything of mine _had_ been -given; you had had it. That was the main point." - -"Call me a villain and be done--or a man! Will reproaches help either -of us now?" - -"Don't deceive yourself--there are noble men in the world. I tell you -now, because at the time I would say nothing that you could regard as -an appeal. It only wanted that to complete my indignity--for me to -plead to you to change your mind!" - -"I wish to Heaven you had done anything rather than go, and that's the -truth!" - -"_I_ don't; I am glad I went--glad, glad, glad! The most awful thing I -can imagine is to have remained with you after I knew you for what you -were. The most awful thing for you as well: knowing that I knew, the -sight of me would have become a curse." - -"One mistake," he muttered, "one injustice, and all the rest, all that -came before, is blotted out; you refuse to remember the sweetest years -of both our lives!" - -She gazed slowly round at him with lifted head, and during a few -seconds each looked in the other's face, and tried to read the history -of, the interval in it. Yes, he had altered, after all. The eyes were -older. Something had gone from him, something of vivacity, of hope. - -"Are you asking me to remember?" she said. - -"You seem to forget what the injustice was done for." - -"Mary, if you knew how wretched I am!" - -"Ah," she murmured half sadly, half wonderingly, "what an egotist you -always are! You meet me again--after the way we parted--and you begin -by talking about yourself!" - -He made a gesture--dramatic because it expressed the feeling that he -desired to convey--and turned aside. - -"May I question you?" he asked lamely the next minute. "Will you -answer?" - -"What is it that you care to hear?" - -"Are you at the hospital?" - -"Yes." - -"For long? I mean, is it long since you came to Westport?" - -"I have been here nearly all the time." - -"And do--how--is it comfortable?" - -"Oh," she said, with a movement that she was unable to repress, "let us -keep to you, if we must talk at all. You'll find it easier." - -"Why will you be so cruel?" he exclaimed. "It is you who are unjust -now. If I'm awkward, it is because you're so curt. You have all the -right on your side, and I have the weight of the past on me. You asked -me why I spoke to you: if you had been less to me than you were--if, -I had thought about you less than I have--I shouldn't have spoken. -You might understand the position is a very hard one for me; I am -altogether at your mercy, and you show me none." - -The hands in her lap trembled a little, and after a pause she said in a -low voice: - -"You expect more from me than is possible; I've suffered too much." - -"My trouble has been worse. Ah! don't smile like that; it has been far -worse! You've, anyhow, had the solace of knowing you've been illused; -_I've_ felt all the time that my bed was of my own making and that I -behaved like a blackguard. Whatever I have to put up with I deserve, -I'm quite aware of it; but the knowledge makes it all the beastlier. My -life isn't idyllic, Mary; if it weren't for the child----Upon my soul, -the only moments I get rid of my worries are when I'm playing with the -child, or when I'm drunk!" - -"Your marriage hasn't been happy?" - -He shrugged his shoulders. - -"We don't fight; we don't throw the furniture at each other and have -the landlady up, like--what was their name?--the Whittacombes. But we -don't find the days too short to say all we've got to tell each other, -she and I; and----Oh, you can't think what a dreadful thing it is to -be in front of a woman all day long that you haven't got anything to -say to--it's awful! And she can't act and she doesn't get engagements, -and it makes her peevish. She might get shopped along with me for small -parts--in fact, she did once or twice--but that doesn't satisfy her; -she wants to go on playing lead, and now that the money's gone she -can't. She thinks I mismanaged the damned money and advised her badly. -She hadn't been doing anything for a year till the spring, and then she -went out with Laura Henderson to New York. Poor enough terms they are -for America! But she's been grumbling so much that I believe she'd go -on as an Extra now, rather than nothing, so long as I wasn't playing -lead to another woman in the same crowd." - -She traced an imaginary pattern with her finger on the seat. He was -still standing, and suddenly his face lighted up. - -"There's Archie!" he said. - -"Archie?" - -"The boy." - -A child of two years, in charge of a servant-girl, was at the gate of -one of the cottages behind them. - -"You take him about with you?" - -"He was left with some people in town; I've just had him down, that's -all. We finish on Saturday, and there's the sea; I thought two or three -weeks of it would do him good. Will you--may he come over to you?" - -He held out his arms, and the child, released from the servant's clasp, -toddled smilingly across the grass, a plump little body in pelisse and -cape. The gaitered legs covered the ground slowly, and she watched his -child running towards him for what seemed a long time before Carew -caught him up. - -"This is Archie," he said diffidently; "this is he." - -"Oh," she said, in constrained tones, "this is he?" - -The man stood him on the bench, with a pretence of carelessness that -was ill done, and righted his hat quickly, as if afraid that the action -was ridiculous. The sight of him in this association had something -infinitely strange to her--something that sharpened the sense of -separation, and made the past appear intensely old and ended. - -"Put him down," she said; "he isn't comfortable." - -"Do you think he looks strong?" - -"Yes, of course, very. Why?" - -"I've wondered--I thought you'd know more about it than I do. Is Archie -a good boy?" - -"Yes," answered the child. "Mamma!" - -"Don't talk nonsense--mamma's over there!" He pointed to the sea. "He -talks very well, for his age, as a rule; now he's stupid." - -"Oh, let him be," she said, looking at the baby-face with deep eyes; -"he's shy, that's all." - -"Mamma!" repeated the mite insistently, and laid a hand on her long -cloak. - -"The thumb's wrong," she murmured after a pause in which the man and -woman were both embarrassed; "see, it isn't in!" - -She drew the tiny glove off, and put it on once more, taking the -fragile fingers in her own, and parting with them slowly. A feeling -complex and wonderful crept into her heart at the voice of Tony's -child; a feeling of half-reluctant tenderness, coupled with an aching -jealousy of the woman that had borne one to him. - -They made a group to which any glance would have reverted--the -old-young man, who was obviously the father, the baby, and the -thoughtful woman, whose costume proclaimed her to be a nurse. The -costume, indeed, was not without its influence on Carew. It reminded -him of the days of his first acquaintance with her--days since which -they had been together, and separated, and drifted into different -channels. Having essayed matrimony as a means to an end, and proved -it a cul-de-sac, he blamed the woman with whom he had blundered very -ardently, and would have been gratified to descant on his mistake to -the other one, who was more than ever attractive because she had ceased -to belong to him. The length of veil falling below her waist had, to -his fancy, a cloistral suggestion which imparted to his allusions to -their intimacy an additional fascination; and Archie's presence had -seldom occupied his attention so little. Yet he was fonder of this -offshoot of himself than he had been of her even in the period that -the dress recalled; and it was because she dimly understood the fact -that the child touched her so nearly. Like almost every man in whom -the cravings of ambition have survived the hope of their fulfilment, -he dwelt a great deal on the future of his; son; longed to see his -boy achieve the success; which he had come to realise would never be -attained by himself, and lost in the interest of fatherhood some of the -poignancy of failure. The desire to talk to her of these and many other -things was strong in him, but she roused herself from reverie and said -good-bye, as if on impulse, just as he was meaning to speak. - -"I shall see you again?" - -"I think not." - -Then he would have asked if they parted in peace, but her leave-taking -was too abrupt even for him to frame the inquiry. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -It surprised him, and left him vaguely disappointed. To break off their -interview thus sharply seemed to him motiveless. He could see no reason -for it, and his gaze followed her receding figure with speculative -regret. When she was out of sight he picked the child up, and, carrying -him into the cottage parlour, sat down beside the open window, smoking, -and thinking of her. - -It was a small room, poorly furnished, and, fretted by its limitations, -the child became speedily fractious. A slipshod landlady pottered -around, setting forth the crockery for dinner, while the little -servant, despatched with the boy from town, mashed his dinner into -an unappetising compound on a plate. From time to time she turned to -soothe him with some of the loud-voiced facetiæ peculiar to the little -servant species in its dealings with fretful childhood, and at these -moments Carew suspended his meditations on his quondam mistress to -wish for the presence of his wife. It was only the second, day of his -son's visit to him, and his unfamiliarity with the arrangement was not -without its effect upon his nerves. - -Always dissatisfied with the present time, his capacity for enjoying -the past was correspondingly keen. Reflectively consuming a chop, in -full view of the unappetising compound and infancy's vagaries with a -spoon, he proceeded to re-live it, discerning in the process a thousand -charms to which the reality had seen him blind. - -He was unable to shake off the influence of the meeting when dinner -was done. Fancifully, while the child scrambled in a corner with some -toys, he installed Mary in the room; imagining his condition if he had -married her, and moodily watching the curls of tobacco smoke as they -sailed across the dirty dishes. "Damn it!" he exclaimed, rising. But -for the conviction that it would be futile, he would have gone out to -search for her. - -That he would see her again before he left the place he was determined. -But he failed to do so both on the morrow and the next day, though he -extended his promenade beyond its usual limits. He did not, in these -excursions, fail to remark that a town sufficiently large to divide one -hopelessly from the face one seeks, can yet be so small that the same -strangers' countenances are recurrent at nearly every turn. A coloured -gentleman he anathematised especially for his iteration. - -Though he doubted the possibility of the thing, he could not rid -himself of the idea that she would be at the theatre some evening, -impelled by the temptation to look upon him without his knowledge; and -he played his best now on the chance that she might be there. As often -as was practicable, he scanned the house during the progress of the -piece, and between the acts inspected it through the peep-hole in the -curtain. - -Noting his observations one night, a pretty girl in the wings asked -jocularly if "_she_ had promised to wait outside for him." - -"No, Kitty, my darling, she hasn't; she won't have anything to do with -me!" he answered, and would have liked to stop and flirt with her. His -brain was hot at the instant, and one woman or another just then---- - -If Mary had been waiting, he could have talked to her as sentimentally -as before; and have felt as much sentiment, too. All compunction for -his lapses he could assuage by a general condemnation of masculine -nature. - -The pretty girl had no part in the play. She was the daughter -of a good-looking woman who was engaged in the dual capacity of -"chamber-maid" and wardrobe-mistress; but although she had only -just left boarding-school, it was a foregone conclusion that, like -her mother, she would be connected with the lower branches of the -profession before long. Already she had acquired very perfectly, in -private, the burlesque lady's tone of address, and was familiar with -the interior of provincial bars, where her mother took a "tonic" after -the performance. - -Carew ran across them both, among a group of the male members of the -company, in the back-parlour of a public-house an hour later. Kitty, -innocent enough as yet to find "darling" a novelty, welcomed him with -a flash of her eyes; but he made no response, and, gulping his whisky, -sat glum. The others commented on his abstraction. He replied morosely, -and called for "the same again." It was not unusual for him to drink to -excess now--he was accustomed to excuse the weakness by compassionating -himself upon his dreary life--and to-night he lay back on the settee -sipping whisky till he grew garrulous. - -They remained at the table long after the closing hour, the landlady, -who was a friend of Kitty's mamma, enjoining them to quietude. She was -not averse from joining the party herself when the lights in the window -had been extinguished nor did Kitty decline to take a glass of wine -when Carew at last pressed her to be sociable. - -"Because you're growing up," he said with a foolish laugh--"'getting a -big girl now'!" - -She swept him a mock obeisance in the centre of the floor, shaking back -the hair that was still worn loose about her shoulders. - -"Sherry," she said, "if mother says her popsy may? Because I'm 'getting -a big girl now,' mother!" - -The bar was in darkness, and this necessitated investigation with a box -of matches. When the bottle was produced, it proved to be empty; the -girl's pantomime of despair was received with loud guffaws. Everybody -had drunk more than was advisable, and the proprietress again attempted -to restrain the hilarity by feeble allusions to her licence. - -"The sherry's in the cupboard down the passage," she exclaimed; "won't -you have something else instead? Now, do make less noise, there's good -boys; you'll get me into trouble!" - -"I'll go and get it," said Kitty, breaking into a momentary step-dance, -with uplifted arms. "Trust me with the key?" - -"And _I_'ll go and see she doesn't rob you," cried Carew. "Come along, -Kit!" - -"No you won't," said her mother; "she'll do best alone!" But the -remonstrance was unheeded, and, as the girl ran out into the passage, -he followed; and, as they reached the cupboard and stood fumbling at -the lock, he caught her round the waist and kissed her. - -They came back with the bottle together, in the girl's bearing an -assertion of complacent womanhood evoked by the indignity. Carew -applied himself to the liquor with renewed diligence; and by the time -the party dispersed circumspectly through the private door, his eyes -were glazed. - -The sleeping town stretched before his uncertain footsteps blanched in -moonlight as he bade the others a thick "good-night." His apartments -were a mile, and more, distant, and, muddled by drink, he struck into -the wrong road, pursuing and branching from it impetuously, till -Westport wound about him in the confusion of a maze. Once he halted, in -the thought that he heard someone approaching. But the sound receded; -and feeling dizzier every minute, he wandered on again, ultimately -with no effort to divine his situation. The sun was rising when, -partially sobered, he passed through the cottage-gate. The sea lapped -the sand gently under a flushing sky; but in the bedroom a candle still -burned, and it was in the flare of the candle that the little servant -confronted him with a frightened face. - -"Master Archie, sir!" she faltered; "I've been up with him all -night--he's ill!" - -"Ill?" He stood stupidly on the threshold. "What do you mean by ill? -What is it?" - -"I don't know; I don't know what I ought to do; I think he ought to -have a doctor." - -He pushed past her, with a muttered ejaculation, to the bed where the -child lay whimpering. - -"What's the matter, Archie? What is it, little chap?" - -"It's his neck he complains of," she said; "you can see, it's all -swollen. He can't eat anything." - -Carew looked at it dismayed. A sudden fear of losing the child, a -sudden terror of his own incompetence seized him. - -"Fetch a doctor," he stammered, "bring him back with you. You should -have gone before; it wasn't necessary to wait for me to come in to tell -you that if the child was taken ill, he needed a doctor! Go on, girl, -hurry! You'll find one somewhere in the damned place. Wait a minute, -ask the landlady--wake her up and ask which the nearest doctor is! Tell -him he must come at once. If he won't, ring up another--a delay may -make all the difference. Good God! why did I have him down here?" - -The waiting threatened to be endless. A basin of water was on the -washhand-stand, and he plunged his head into it. The stir of awakening -life was heard in the quietude. Through the window came the clatter -of feet in a neighbouring yard, the rattle of a pail on stone. He -contemplated the child, conscience-stricken by his own condition, and -strove to allay his anxiety by repeated questions, to which he obtained -peevish and unsatisfactory replies. - -It was more than two hours before the girl returned. She was -accompanied by a medical man who seemed resentful. Carew watched his -examination breathlessly. - -"Is it serious?" - -"It looks like diphtheria; it's early yet to say. He's got a first-rate -constitution; that's one thing. Mother a good physique?... So I should -have thought! Are you a resident?" - -"I'm an actor; I'm in an engagement here; my wife's abroad. Why do you -ask?" - -"The child had better be removed--there's danger of infection with -diphtheria; lodgings won't do. Take him to the hospital, and have him -properly looked after. It'll be best for him in every way." - -"I'm much obliged for your advice," said Carew. But the idea was -intimidating. "I shall be here, myself, for another week at least," he -added, in allusion to the fee. "Is it safe to move him, do you think?" - -"Oh yes, no need to fear that. Wrap him up, and take him away in a fly -this morning. The sooner the better.... That's all right. Good-day." - -He departed briskly, with an appetite for breakfast. - -"Archie will have a nice drive," said Carew in a tone of dreary -encouragement--"a nice drive in a carriage with papa." - -"I'm sleepy," said the child. - -"A nice drive in the sunshine, and see the sea. Nursie will put on your -clothes." - -"I don't want!" - -His efforts to resist strengthened Carew's dislike to the proposed -arrangement. It was not in the first few minutes that this abrupt -presentment of the hospital recalled to the man's mind Mary's -connection with it; and when the connection flashed upon him his -spirits lightened. If the boy had to be laid up, away from his mother's -relatives in London, the mischance could hardly occur under happier -conditions than where----The reflection faded to a question-point. -_Would_ she be of use? Could he expect, or dare to ask for tenderness -from Mary Brettan--and to the other woman's child? He doubted it. - -In the revulsion of feeling that followed that leaping hope, he almost -determined to withhold the request. Many children were safe in a -hospital; why not his own child? He would pay for everything. And then -the thought of Archie forsaken among strangers made him tremble; and -the little form seemed to him, in its lassitude, to have become smaller -still, more fragile. - -Again and again, in the jolting cab, he debated an appeal to Mary, -wrestling with shame for the sake of his boy. Without knowing what she -could do, he was sensible that her interest would be of value. He clung -passionately to the idea of leaving the hospital with the knowledge -that it contained a friend, an individual who would spare to the child -something more than the patient's purchased and impartial due. - -The cab stopped with a jerk, and he carried him into the empty -waiting-room. It was a gaunt, narrow apartment on the ground-floor, -with an expanse of glass, like the window of a shop, overlooking -the street. He put him in a corner of one of the forms against the -walls, and, pending the appearance of the house-surgeon, murmured -encouragement. The minutes lagged. It occurred to him that the ailment -might be pronounced trivial, but the hope deserted him almost as it -came, banished by the surroundings. The bare melancholy of the walls -chilled him anew, and the suggestion of poverty about the place -intensified his misgivings. He thought he would speak to her. If she -refused, it would have done no harm. And she would not refuse, she was -too good. Yes, she had always been a good woman. He remembered---- - -The door-knob turned, and he rose in the presence of Kincaid. The eyes -of the two men met questioningly. - -"Your child?" said Kincaid, advancing. - -"Yes; it's his neck. I was advised to bring him here, because I'm only -in lodgings. I'd like----" - -"Let me see!" - -Carew resumed his seat. His gaze hung on the doctor's movements; -every detail twanged his nerves. A nurse was called in to take the -temperature. He watched her with suspense, and smiled feebly at the -child across her arm. - -"Diphtheritic throat. We'll put him to bed at once. Take him away, -Nurse--put him into a special ward." - -"I should like----" said Carew huskily; "I know one of the nurses here. -Might I see her?" - -"Yes, certainly. Which one?" - -"Her name is 'Brettan--Mary Brettan.'" He stooped to pat the tearful -face, and missed Kincaid's surprise. "If I might see her now----?" - -"Ask if Nurse Brettan can come down, please! Say she is wanted in the -waiting-room." - -A brief pause ensued. The closing of the door left them alone. The -father's imagination pursued the figures that had disappeared; -Kincaid's was busy with the fact of the man's being an acquaintance -of Mary's--the only acquaintance that had crossed his path. Surprise -suggested his opening remark: - -"You're a visitor here, you say? Your little son's sickness has come at -an unfortunate time for you." - -"It has--yes, very. I'm at the theatre--and my apartments are none too -good." - -He mentioned the address; the doctor made some formal inquiries. Carew -asked how often he would be permitted to see the boy; and when this was -arranged, silence fell again. - -It was broken in a few seconds. The sound of a footstep on the stairs -was caught by them simultaneously. Simultaneously both men looked -round. The footsteps were succeeded by the faint rustle of a skirt, and -Nurse Brettan crossed the threshold. She started visibly--controlled -herself, and acknowledged Carew's greeting by a slight bow. - -Kincaid, in a manner, presented him to her--courteously, constrainedly. - -"This gentleman has been waiting to see you. I'll wish you -good-morning, sir." - -Mary moved to the window, and stood there without speaking. In the -print and linen costume of the house she recalled with increased force -to Carew the time when he had seen her first. - -"Archie has got diphtheria," he said; "he's just been taken upstairs." - -"I'm sorry," she said. "Why have you asked for me?" - -"They told me I couldn't keep him at home--that I must bring him -here.... Mary, you will do what you can for him?" - -She raised her head calmly. - -"He is sure of careful nursing," she answered; "no patient is -neglected." - -"I know. I know all that. I thought that you----" - -"I'm not in the children's ward," she said; "there isn't anything _I_ -can do." - -He looked at her dumbly. Mere indifference his agitation would have -found vent in combating, but the conclusiveness of the reply left him -nothing to urge. - -"I must be satisfied without you, then," he said at last. "I thought of -you directly." - -"He'll have every attention; you needn't doubt that." - -"Such a little chap--among strangers!" - -"We have very young children in the wards." - -"And perhaps to be dangerously ill!" - -"You must try to hope for the best." - -"Ah, you speak like the hospital nurse to me!" he cried; "I was -remembering the woman." - -"I speak as what I am," she returned coldly; "I am one of the nurses. I -have no remembrances, myself." - -"You could remember this week, when we met again. And once you wouldn't -have found it so impossible to spare a minute's kindness to my boy!" - -She moved towards the door, paler, but self-contained. - -"I must go now," she said; "I can't stay away long." - -"You choose to forget only when something is asked of you!" - -"I have told you," she said, turning, "that it is out of my power to do -anything." - -"And you are glad you can say it!" - -"Perhaps. No reminder of my old disgrace is pleasant to me." - -"Your reformation is very complete," he answered bitterly; "the woman I -used to know would have been unable to retaliate upon a helpless child." - -The sting of the retort roused her to refutation. Her hand, extended -towards the door, dropped to her side; she faced him swiftly. - -"You find me what you made me," she said with white lips. "I neither -retaliate nor pity. What is your wife's child to me, that you ask me to -care for it? If I'm hard, it was you who taught me to be hard before he -was born." - -"It's _my_ child I asked you to care for. And I brought myself to ask -it because he's my dearest thing on earth. I thank God to learn he -won't be in your charge!" - -She shivered, and for a moment looked at him intently. Then her eyelids -drooped, and she left him without a word. - -She went out into the corridor--her hand was pressed against her -breast. But her duties were not immediately resumed. She made her way -into the children's wing, moving with nothing of indecision in her -manner, but like one who proceeds to fulfil a purpose. The two rows of -beds left a passage down the floor, and she scanned the faces till she -reached the nurses' table. - -By chance, she spoke to the nurse that Kincaid had summoned. - -"There's a boy just been brought in with diphtheria, Sophie; do you -know where he is?" - -"Yes, I'm going back to him in a minute. He's in a special ward." - -"Let me see him!" - -"Have you got permission?" - -"No." - -Nurse Gay hesitated. - -"I shall get into trouble," she said. "Why don't you ask for it?" - -"I don't want to wait; I want to see him now." - -"I've been in hot water once this week already----" - -"Sophie, I know the mite, and--and his people. I _must_ go in to him!" - -The girl glanced at her keenly. - -"Oh, if it's like that!" she said. "It's only a wigging--go!" And she -told her where he was. - -He lay alone in the simple room, when Mary entered--a diminutive -patient for whom the narrow cot looked large. The nurse had been -showing him a picture-book, and this yawned loosely on the quilt, where -it had slid from his listless hold. At the sound of Mary's approach, -he turned. But he did not recognise her. A doubtful gaze appraised her -intentions. - -At first she did not speak. She stooped over the pillow, smoothing and -re-smoothing it mechanically, a hand trembling closer to the disordered -curls. Her own gaze deepened and hung upon him; her lips parted. Her -hands crept timidly nearer. Her face was bent till her mouth was -yielding kisses on his cheek. She yearned over him through wet lashes, -a wondering smile always on her face. - -"Archie," she murmured; "Archie, baby-boy, is it comfy for you? Won't -you see the pictures--all the pretty people in the book?" - -"Not nice pictures," he complained. - -"You shall have nicer ones this afternoon," she said; "this afternoon, -when I go out. Let me show you these now! Look, here's a little boy in -bed, like you! His name was 'Archie,' too; and one day his papa took -him to a big house, where papa had friends, and---- - -"Papa! I _want_ papa!" - -"Oh, my darling," she said, "papa is coming! He'll come very, very -soon. The other little boy wanted papa as well, and he wasn't happy at -first at all. But in the big house everybody was so kind, and glad to -have Archie there, that presently he thought it a treat to stop. It was -so nice directly that it was better than being at home. They gave him -toys, lots and lots of toys; and there were oranges and puddings--it -was beautiful!" - -She could not remain, she was needed elsewhere; and when Kincaid made -his round she was on duty. But she ascertained developments throughout -the day, and by twilight she knew that the child was grievously ill. -She did not marvel at her interest; it engrossed her to the exclusion -of astonishment. If she was surprised at all, it was that Carew could -have believed in her neutrality. Yet she was thankful that he had -believed in it; and at the same time, rejoiced that his first impulse -had been to put faith in her good heart. She did not analyse her -sympathy, ashamed of the cause from which it sprang. When she had -gazed, during the intervening years, at the faded photograph, she had -reproached herself and wept; now it all seemed natural. She sought -neither to reason nor to euphemise. The feeling was spontaneous, and -she went with it. She called it by no wrong word, because she called -it nothing. She was borne as it carried her, blindly, unresistingly, -without pausing to name it, or to define its source. It seemed natural. -She inquired about Archie when she had risen next morning, and a little -later, contrived another flying visit to the room. But he was now too -ill to notice her. - -In the afternoon, Carew came again. She learnt it while he was there, -and gathered something of his wretchedness. She heard how he besieged -the nurse with questions: "Had she seen so bad a case before--well, -often before? Had those who recovered been so young as Archie? Was -there nothing else that could be tried?" She listened, with her head -bowed, imagining the scene that she could not enter; deploring, -remembering, re-living--praying for "Tony's child." - -Not till the man had gone, however, was everything related to her. -She was sitting at the extremity of the ward, sewing, shortly to be -free for the night. It was the hour when the quiet of the hospital -deepened into the hush that preluded the extinction of the patients' -lights. The supper-trays had long since been removed from the bedsides. -Through the apertures of curtain, a few patients, loath to waive -the privilege while they held it, were to be seen reading books and -magazines; others were asleep already, and even the late-birds of the -ward who dissipated in wheel-chairs, to the envy of the rest, had made -their final excursion for the day. The Major had stopped his chair to -utter his last wish for "a comfortable night, sir." The chess champion -had concluded his conquest on a recumbent adversary's quilt. Where -breakfast comes at six o'clock, grown men resume some of the customs -of their infancy, and the day that begins so early closes soon. It was -very peaceful, very still; and she was sitting in the lamp-rays, sewing. - -She looked round as the Matron joined her. It was known that the case -interested her, and in subdued tones they spoke of it. - -"How is he?" - -"He's been dreadfully bad. The worst took place before the father left; -Dr. Kincaid had to come up." - -"What?--tell me!" - -"He had to perform tracheotomy. The father was there all the time; Dr. -Kincaid told him what was going to be done, but he wouldn't go. The -child was blue in the face and there wasn't any stopping to argue. When -the cut in the throat was made and the tube put in, I thought the man -was going to faint. He was standing just by me. 'Good God! Is this an -experiment?' he said. I told him it was the only way for the child to -breathe, but he didn't seem to hear me. And when the fit of coughing -came--oh, my goodness! You know what the coughing's like?" - -"Go on!" - -"He made sure it was all over; he burst out sobbing, and the doctor -ordered him out of the room. 'If you're fond of your child, keep quiet -here, sir,' he said, 'or go and compose yourself outside!' I think he -was sorry he'd spoken so sternly afterwards, though he was quite right, -for----" - -"Oh!" shuddered Mary. "Did you see him again?" - -"Yes; I told him he'd had no business to stop. He said, 'If the worst -happens, I shall think it right I was there.' I said he must try to -believe that only the best would happen now; though whether I ought to -have said it I don't know. When it comes to tracheotomy in diphtheria, -the child's chance is slim. Still, this one's as fine a little chap as -ever I saw; he's got the strength of many a pair we get here--and the -man was in such a state. He's coming back to-night--he's to see _me_, -anyhow; he had to hurry off to the theatre to act. I can't imagine how -he'll get through." - -"I must go! I must go to the ward!" She rose, clasping her hands -convulsively. "I can, can't I? It's Nurse Mainwaring's time to relieve -me--why isn't she here?" - -The Matron calmed her. - -"Hush! you can go as soon as she comes. Don't take on like that, or -I shall be sorry I told you. Nurse Bradley has complained of feeling -ill--I expect that's what it is." - -Mary raised a faint smile, deprecating her vehemence. - -"I'm very fond of the boy," she said, with apology in her voice. "It -was very kind of you to tell me; I thank you very much." - -Nurse Mainwaring appeared now. - -"Nurse Bradley can't get up, madam," she announced. - -"Nonsense! what is it?" - -"A sick-headache; she can't see out of her eyes." - -It was the moment of dismay in which a hospital realises that its -staff, too, is flesh and blood--the hitch in the human machinery. - -"Then we're short-handed to-night. You relieve here, Nurse Mainwaring?" - -"Yes, madam." - -"And Nurse Gay--who should relieve her?" - -"Nurse Bradley." - -"_I'll_ relieve her," cried Mary; "I'd like to!" - -"You need your night's rest as much as most. And there's no napping -with trachy--it means watching all the time." - -"I shan't nap; I shan't want to. Somebody must lose her night's -rest--why not I?" - -"I think we can manage without you." - -"It'll be a favour to me--I'm thankful for the chance." - -"Well, then, you shall halve it with someone. You can take the first -half, and----" - -"No, no," she urged, "that's rough on the other and not enough for me. -Give it me all!" - -The Matron yielded: - -"Nurse Brettan relieves Nurse Gay!" - -In the room the boy lay motionless as if already dead. From the mouth -breath no longer passed; only by holding a hand before the orifice of -the tube inserted in the throat could one detect that he now breathed -at all. As Mary took the seat by his side, the force of professional -training was immediately manifest. She had begged for the extra work -with almost feverish excitement; she entered upon it collected and -self-controlled. A stranger would have said: "A conscientious woman, -but experience has blunted her sensibilities." - -On the table were some feathers. With these, from time to time -throughout the night, she had to keep the tube free from obstruction. -Even the briefest indulgence to drowsiness was impossible. Unwavering -attention to the state of the passage that admitted air to the lungs -was not merely important, the necessity was vital. A continuous, an -inflexible vigilance was required. It was to this that the nurse, -already worn by the usual duties of the day, had pledged herself in -place of the absentee. - -At half-past nine she had cleansed the tube twice. At ten o'clock -Kincaid came in. - -"I am relieving Nurse Gay," she said, rising; "Nurse Bradley's head is -very bad." - -He went to the bed and ascertained that all was well. - -"It'll be very trying for you; wasn't there anyone to divide the work?" - -"I wanted to do it all myself." - -"Ah, yes, I understand; you know the father." - -It was the only reference that he had made to the father's asking for -her, and she was sensible of inquiry in his tone. She nodded. And, -alone together for the first time since her appointment, they stood -looking at Carew's child. - -She had no wish to speak. On him the situation imposed restraint. -But to be with her thus had a charm, for all that. It was not to be -uttered, not to be dwelt on, but, due in part to the prevailing silence -of the house, there was an illusion of confidential intercourse that he -had not felt with her here before. - -While they looked, the boy gave a quick gasp. The tube had become -clogged. - -She started and threw out her hand towards the feathers. But Kincaid -had picked one up already, favoured by his position. - -"All right!" he said; "I'll free it." - -He leant over the pillow, feather in hand. She watched him with eyes -widening in terror, for she saw that his endeavours were futile and he -could not free it. - -The waxen placidity of the upturned face vanished as she watched. -It regained the signs of life to struggle with the gripe of -death--distorted in an instant, and distorted frightfully. The average -woman would have wept aloud. The nurse, to all intents and purposes, -preserved her calmness still. - -It was Kincaid who gave the first token of despondence. - -"The thing's blocked!" he exclaimed; "I can't clear it!" - -His voice had the repressed despair of a surgeon, who is an enthusiast, -too, opposed by a higher force. Under the test of his defeat her -composure broke down. Confronted by a danger in which her interest was -vivid and personal she--as the father had done before her--became -agitated and unstrung. - -"You must," she said. "Doctor, for Heaven's sake!" - -He was trying still, but with scant success. - -"I'm doing my best; it seems no good." - -"You must save this life," she repeated. - -"You will?" - -"I tell you I can't do any more." - -"You will--you shall!" she persisted wildly. The very passion of -motherhood suffused her features. "Doctor, it is _his_ child!" - -He looked at her--their gaze met, even then. It was only in a flash. -Abruptly the gasps of the dying baby became horrible to witness. The -eyeballs rolled hideously, and seemed as if they would spring from -their sockets. The tiny chest heaved and fell in agonising efforts to -gain air, while in its convulsive battle against suffocation the frail -body almost lifted itself from the mattress. - -"Go away," said the man; "there's nothing you can do." - -She refused to stir. She appealed to him frantically. - -"Help him!" she stammered. - -"There's no way." - -"You, the doctor, tell me there's no way?" - -"None." - -"But _I_ know there _is_ a way," she cried; "I can suck that tube!" - -"Mary! My God! it might kill you!" - -She flung forward, but the conflict ceased as he pulled her back. A -small quantity of the mucus had been dislodged by the paroxysm that -it had produced. Nature had done--imperfectly, but still done--what -science had failed to effect. The boy breathed. - -The outbreak was followed by complete exhaustion, and again it seemed -that life was extinct. Kincaid assured himself that it lingered still, -and turned to her gravely. - -"You were about to do a wicked, and a foolish thing. After what it has -gone through, nothing under Heaven can save the child; you ought to -know as much as that. At best you could only hope to prolong life for -two or three hours." - -Tears were dripping down her cheeks. - -"'Only!'" she said; "do you think that's nothing to me? An hour longer, -and his father will be here--to find him living, or dead. Do you -suppose I can't imagine--do you suppose I can't feel--what _he_ feels, -there on the stage, counting the seconds to release? In an hour the -curtain 'll be down and he'll have rushed here praying to be in time. -If it were revealed that I should do nothing but prolong the life by -sacrificing my own, I'd sacrifice it! Gladly, proudly--yes, proudly, as -God hears! You could never have prevented me--nothing should prevent -me. I'd risk my life ten times rather than he should arrive too late." - -"This," drearily murmured the man who loved her, "is the return you -would make for his sin?" - -"No," she said; "it is the atonement I would offer for mine." - -He stood dumbly at the head of the cot; the woman trembled at the foot. -But they saw the change next minute simultaneously. Once more the -passage had become hopelessly clogged. With a broken cry, she rushed to -the cot's vacant side. This time he could not pull her back. He spoke. - -"Stop! Nurse Brettan, I order you to leave the ward!" - -The voice was imperative, and an instant she wavered; but it was the -merest instant. The woman had vanquished the nurse, and the woman -was the stronger now. A glance she threw of mingled supplication and -defiance, and, casting herself on the bed, she set her lips to the -tube. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -It was the work of a moment. Almost as he started forward to restrain -her, she had raised herself, and, burying her face in a handkerchief, -leant, shaking, against the wall. - -Kincaid gazed at her, white and stern, and a tense silence followed, -broken by her. - -"You can have me dismissed," she said--"he will see his child!" - -He answered nothing. The cruelty of the speech which ignored and -perverted everything outside the interests of the man by whom she -had been wronged seemed the last blow that his pain could have to -bear. A sense of the inequality and injustice of life's distribution -overwhelmed him. Viewed in the light of her defeated enemy, he felt as -broken, as far from power or dignity, as if the imputation had been -just. - -She resumed her seat; and, waiting as long as duty still required, he -at last made some remark. She replied constrainedly. The intervention -of the pause was demonstrated by their tones, which sounded flat and -dull. He was thankful when he could go; and his departure was not less -welcome to the woman. To her reactionary weakness the removal of -supervision came as balm. He went from her heavily, and she drew her -chair yet closer to the bedside. - -Tony would see his boy! She had no other settled thought, excepting the -reluctant one that she would meet him when he came. The reflection that -he would hear of her share in the matter gladdened her scarcely at all; -indeed, when she contemplated his enlightenment, she was perturbed. He -would learn that his initial faith in her had been justified, and he -would be sorry, piteously sorry, for all the hard words that he had -used. But by _her_ there was little to be gained; what she had done -had been for him. She found it even a humiliation that her act would -be known to him--a humiliation which his gratitude would do nothing to -decrease. She looked at the watch that she had pawned for the rent of -her garret after his renunciation of her, and determined the length of -time before he could arrive. - -The stress of the last few minutes could not be suffered to beget any -abatement of wariness. But by degrees, as the reverberation of the -outburst faded, she felt more tranquil than she had done since the -Matron joined her earlier in the evening; and the vigil was continued -with undiminished care. Archie would die, but now Tony would be -present. The closing moments would not pass while he was simulating -misery or mirth on a stage. Horror of the averted fate, more dreadful -to a woman's mind even than to the father's own, made the brief -protraction appear an almost priceless boon. - -It was possible for him to be here already; not likely, perhaps, so -soon as this, but possible, supposing that the piece "played quick" and -that a cab had been ordered to await him at the door. She listened for -the roll of wheels in the distance, but the silence was undisturbed. -Archie was lying as calm as when she had entered. If no further -impediment occurred, to exhaust the remaining strength more speedily, -it seemed safe to think that he might last two hours. - -Her misgivings as to her risk were slight. The danger she had run -might prove fatal; but the thing had been done with impunity at least -once before--she remembered hearing of it. While we have our health, -the contingency of sickness appears to us more remote from ourselves -than from our neighbours; in her own case, a serious result looked -exceedingly improbable. She regarded the benefit of her temerity as -cheaply bought. None knew better than she, however, how much completive -attention was called for, what alertness of eye and hand was essential -afterwards; and, sitting there, her gaze was fastened on the boy as if -she sought to hearken to every flutter of his pulse. - -Now a cab did approach; she held her breath as it rattled near. It -stopped, she fancied, before the hospital gate. Still with her stare -riveted on the unconscious child, she strained her ears for the -confirmatory tread. The seconds ticked away, swelling to minutes, but -no footstep fell. The hope had been a false one! Presently the cab -was heard again, driving away. She began to be distressed, alarmed. -Making allowance for a too sanguine calculation, it was time that -he was here!... The delay was unaccountable; no conjecture could be -formed as to its extent. Her fingers were laced and unlaced in her -lap nervously. She imagined the rumble of wheels in the soughing of -the wind, alternately intent and discomfited. The faint slamming of -a cottage-door startled her to expectation. In the profundity of the -hush that spread with every subsidence of sound, she seemed to hear the -throbbing of her heart. - -Out in the town a clock struck twelve, and apprehension verged upon -despair. The eyes fixed on the boy were desperate now; she leant over -him to contest the advent of the end shade by shade. So far no change -was shown; Tony's fast dwindling chance was not yet lost. "God, God! -Send him quick!" she prayed. Racked with impatience, tortured by the -fear that what she had done might, after all, be unavailing, she strove -to devise some theory to uphold her. Debarred from venting her suspense -in action, she found the constraint of her posture almost physical -pain. - -The clock boomed the hour of one. It swept suddenly across her mind -that the Matron had been doubtful of letting him proceed to the ward on -his return: he must have come and gone! She had been reaching forward, -and her arm remained extended vaguely. Consternation engulfed her. If -during ten seconds she thought of anything but her neglect to ensure -his being admitted, she thought she felt the blood in her freezing -from head to foot. He had come and gone!--she was thwarted by her own -oversight. Defeat paralysed the woman.... Her exploit now assumed an -aspect of grievous hazard, enhanced by its futility. She lifted herself -faint at soul. Her services were instinctive, mechanical; she resumed -them, she was assiduous and watchful; but she appeared to be prompted -by some external influence, with her brain benumbed. - -All at once a new thought thrilled her stupor. She heard the stroke of -three, and the boy was still alive! The ungovernable hope shook her -back to sensation. She told herself that the hope was wild, fantastic, -that she would be mad to harbour it, but excitement shivered in her; -she was strung with the intensity of what she hesitated to own. Every -second that might bring the end and yet withheld it, fanned the hope -feebly; the passage of each slow, dragging minute stretched suspense -more taut. She dreaded the quiver of her lashes that veiled his face -from view, as if the spark of life might vanish as her eyelids fell. -Between eternities, the distant clock rang forth the quarters of the -hour across the sleeping town, and at every quarter she gasped "Thank -God!" and wondered would she thank Him by the next. Hour trailed into -hour. The boy lingered still. Haggard, she tended and she watched. The -dreariness of daybreak paled the blind before the bed. The blind grew -more transparent, and hope trembled on. There was the stir of morning, -movement in the street; dawn touched them wanly, and hope held her yet. -And sunrise showed him breathing peacefully once more--and then she -knew that Heaven had worked a miracle and the child would live. - - * * * * * - -Among the staff that case is cited now and still the nurses tell how -Mary Brettan saved his life. The local _Examiner_ gave the matter a -third of a column, headed "Heroism of a Hospital Nurse." And, cut down -to five lines, it was mentioned in the London papers. Mr. Collins, of -Pattenden's, glanced at the item, having despatched the youth of the -prodigious yawn with a halfpenny, and--remembering how the surname was -familiar--wondered for a moment what the woman was doing who could -never sell their books. - -It was later in the morning that Carew entered the hospital, as Kincaid -crossed the hall. The porter heard the doctor's answer to a stammered -question: - -"Your child is out of danger. I'm sorry to say Nurse Brettan risked her -life for him." - -Then the visitor started, and stopped short hysterically, and the -doctor moved by, with his jaw set hard. - -To Mary he had said little. He was confronted by a recovery that it had -been impossible to foresee, but his predominant emotion was terror of -its cost. From the Matron she heard of Carew's gratitude, and received -his message of entreaty to be allowed to see her. It was not delivered, -however, till she woke, and then he had gone; and by the morrow her -reluctance to have an interview had deepened. She contented herself -with the note that he sent: one written to say that he "could not -write--that in a letter he was unable to find words." She read it very -slowly, and it drooped to her lap, and she sat gazing at the wall. She -brushed the mist from her eyes, and read the lines again, and yet again ---long after she knew them all by heart. - -Next day she rose with a strange stiffness in her throat. With her -descent to the ward, it increased. And she was frightened. But at first -she would not mention it, because she was loath for Kincaid to know. -She felt it awkward to draw breath; by noon the difficulty was not to -be concealed. She went to bed--protesting, but by Kincaid's command. - -Nurse Brettan had become a patient. She said how queer it was to be -in the familiar room in this unfamiliar way. The nurse whose watch of -Archie she had relieved was chosen to attend on her; and Mary chaffed -her weakly on her task. - -"It ought to be a good patient this spell, Sophie! If I'm a nuisance, -you may shake me." - -But to Kincaid she spoke more earnestly now the danger-signal was -displayed. - -"You did all you could to stop me, doctor. Whatever happens, you'll -remember that! You did everything that was right, and so did I." - -"Don't talk rubbish about 'happenings,' Nurse!" he said; "we shall want -you to be up and at work again directly." - -Nevertheless, she grew worse as the child grew stronger; and for a -fortnight the man who loved her suffered fiercer pain each time he -answered "Rubbish!" And the man whom she loved sought daily tidings of -her when he called to view the progress of his boy. She used to hear of -his inquiries and turn her face on the pillow, and lie for a long while -very quiet. Her distaste to meeting him had gone and she craved for him -to come to her. But now she could not bring herself to let him do it, -because her neck and face were so swollen and unsightly, and her voice -had dwindled to a whisper that was not nice to hear. - -Then all hope was at an end--it was known that she was dying. And one -morning the nurse said to her: - -"Perhaps this afternoon you'd like to see him? He has asked again." - -"This afternoon?" Momentarily her eyes brightened, but the shame of -her unloveliness came back to her, and she sighed. "Give me ... the -glass, Sophie ... there's a dear!" She looked up at her reflection in -the narrow mirror held aslant over the bed. "No," she said feebly, "not -this afternoon. Perhaps tor morrow." - -The girl put back the glass without speaking. And a gaze followed her -questioningly till she left. - -When Kincaid came in, Mary asked him how long she had to live. - -He was worn with a night of agony--a night whose marks the staff had -observed and wondered at. - -"How long?" she asked; "I know I can't get better. When's it going to -be?" He clenched his teeth to curb the twitching of his mouth. "It -isn't _now_?" - -"No, no," he said. "You shouldn't, you _mustn't_ frighten yourself like -this!" - -"To-day?" - -"Not to-day," he answered hoarsely, "I honestly believe." - -"To-morrow?" - -"Mary!" - -"To-morrow?" she pleaded in the same painful whisper. "Tell me the -truth. What to-morrow?" - -"I think--to-morrow you may know how much I loved you." - -She did not move; and he had turned aside. He noticed it was raining -and how the drops spattered on the window-sill. - -"I didn't see," she murmured; "I thought-you--had--forgotten." - -"No," he said; "you never saw. It doesn't matter; I know now it would -never have been any use. Hush, dear; don't talk; it's so bad for you!" - -"I'm sorry. But I was _his_ before you came. I couldn't. Could I?" - -"No, of course. Don't worry; don't, for God's sake! There's nothing -to be sorry about. I must go to the next ward; I shall see you this -afternoon. Try to sleep a little, won't you?" - -He went out, with a word to the nurse, who came back; and Mary lay -silent. - -Presently she said: - -"Sophie--yes, this afternoon," - -Something in the voice startled; the girl gulped before she spoke: - -"All right! he shall hear as soon as he comes." - -"Don't forget." - -"I won't forget, chummy; you can feel quite sure about it." - -"Thanks, Sophie. I'm so tired." - -The rain was falling still. She heard it blowing against the panes, -and lay listening to it, wondering if it would keep him away. Then her -thoughts drifted; and she slept. - -When Kincaid returned he took Sophie's place, and sat watching till the -figure stirred. The eyes opened at him vaguely. - -"I've been asleep?" - -"Yes." - -"Is it very late?" - -"It's about three, I think.... Just three." - -"Ah!" she said with relief. - -She closed her eyes again, and there was a long pause. He covered her -nerveless hand with his own. - -"Don't grieve," she whispered; "it doesn't hurt." - -"Oh, my dear, my dear! You, and my mother, too--helpless with both!" - -"The many," she said faintly, "think of the many you've pulled through. -You've ... been very good to me ... very good." - -To his despair it seemed that ever since they met she had been telling -him that. It was the dole that she had yielded, the atom that his -devotion had ever wrung from her--she found him "good"! - -And even as she said it, her eagerness caught the footfall, that she -had been waiting for; and she nestled lower on the pillow, trying to -hide her disfigurement from view. - -"Mary," said Kincaid, "you didn't care for me; but will you let me kiss -you on the forehead--while you know?" - -A smile--a smile of tenderness wonderfully new and strange to him -irradiated her face; and, turning, he saw the other man had come in. - - -THE END - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Man Who Was Good, by Leonard Merrick - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO WAS GOOD *** - -***** This file should be named 43837-8.txt or 43837-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/8/3/43837/ - -Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org -(Scans generously made available by the Internet Archive -- University of Toronto, Robarts Library.) - - -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. 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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 - - -Title: The Man Who Was Good - With an Introduction by J.K. Prothero - -Author: Leonard Merrick - -Commentator: J.K. Prothero - -Release Date: September 28, 2013 [EBook #43837] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO WAS GOOD *** - - - - -Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org -(Scans generously made available by the Internet Archive -- University of Toronto, Robarts Library.) - - - - - - -</pre> - - - - - -<h1>THE MAN WHO WAS GOOD</h1> - -<h3>BY</h3> - -<h2>LEONARD MERRICK</h2> - -<h4>WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY</h4> - -<h4>J.K. PROTHERO</h4> - -<h5>HODDER & STOUGHTON</h5> - -<h5>LONDON—NEW YORK—TORONTO</h5> - -<h5>1921</h5> - - - -<hr class="full" /> -<p style="margin-left: 35%;"> -"That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true;<br /> -Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows.<br /> -If you loved only what were worth your love,<br /> -Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you." -</p> -<p> -<span style="margin-left: 65%;">James Lee's Wife.</span><br /> -</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h4>INTRODUCTION</h4> - - -<p>There is a rare refreshment in the works of Leonard Merrick; gracious -yet distinctive, his style has a polished leisure seldom enjoyed these -days when perfection of literary form is at a discount. His art is -impossible of label; almost alone amongst the writers of to-day he has -the insight and the courage at once to admit the pitiless facts of life -and to affirm despite them—through hunger and loneliness, injustice -and disappointment—the spirit can and does remain unbroken; that if -there be no assurance of success, neither is there certainty of failure.</p> - -<p>There is no sentimental weakness in the method he employs. A rare -genius for humour tempers all his work; he can record the progressive -starvation of an actor out of work in an economy of phrase that leaves -no room for gratuitous appeal, trace the long-drawn efforts to outpace -persistent poverty of pence with a simplicity that enforces conviction. -His pen is never so poignant or restrained as when he shows us a woman -sharpened and coarsened by cheap toil. But throughout the tale of -struggle and triumph, defeat and attainment, there persists that sense -of eternal quest which shortens the hardest road. Do you starve to-day? -Opportunity of plenty may wait at the street corner, the chance of a -lifetime alight from the next bus; for Leonard Merrick is not concerned -with people of large incomes and small problems; the men and women of -whom he writes earn their own living.</p> - -<p>His most marked successes deal with stage life, indeed he is one of the -very few authors who convince one of the actuality of theatrical folk. -He shows us the chorus girl in her lodgings, in the Strand bars, at -the dramatic agency; we understand her ambitions, become familiar with -her unconquerable pluck and capacity for comradeship, even acquire a -liking for the smell of grease-paint. We meet the same girl out of an -engagement, follow her pilgrimage from Bloomsbury to Brixton seeking -an ever cheaper lodging; we watch the mud and wet of the streets soak -her inadequate boots, endure with her the pangs of hunger ill-allayed -by a fugitive bun. We accompany her to the pawnbroker's, and experience -the joys of combat with a recalcitrant "uncle" who refuses to lend more -than eighteenpence on a silk blouse. And still the sense of adventure -persists, the reality of romance endures, the joy of laughter remains. -We realise the compensation of precarious tenure on sufficiency, -appreciate the great truth that the adversity of to-day is lightened by -the uncertainty of to-morrow, that no matter how grim the struggle, how -sharp the hardship—and the hunger—the sense of adventure companions -and consoles. Authors who concern themselves only with men and women -of assured position and regular incomes have forgotten the truth which -Leonard Merrick so triumphantly affirms. Romance is no respecter of -persons. The freedom of the open road, its promise, its pitfalls, -sudden ecstasies and fugitive glamours is not a preserve of the rich -but the heritage of the people.</p> - -<p>His psychological methods allure one by their seeming simplicity; -quietly, with a delicate deliberation, he emphasises the outline of -his characters until with sudden swift decision, in the utterance of -a phrase, the doing of some one of those small things that are life's -real revelations, he shows you the soul of the man or woman whose -externals he has so carefully portrayed. Half-forgotten words and acts -crowd in on the memory, as in <i>The Man who was Good</i> when Carew appeals -to Mary to save his child—and her rival's. It needed the genius of -Merrick to make one realise that the high-water mark of betrayal was -reached not by the man's desertion of the woman who loved him, but by -his pitiful exploitation of that love.</p> - -<p>I know of no author with a more subtle understanding of woman, her -generosity and meanness, her strange reticence, amazing candours. Mary -Brett an, that tragedy of invincible fidelity, could only have been -portrayed by a man able to sense feminine capacity for dumb fortitude. -One feels that had she made even a gesture of revolt, Mary would have -been freed of the paralysis of sterile constancy; and one knows that -women of her type can never make the ultimate defiance.</p> - -<p>Leonard Merrick has the inimitable gift of inducing his readers to -experience the emotions he portrays. The zest of adventure grips -you, as it grips the hero of <i>Conrad in Quest of his Youth</i>, perhaps -the greatest of his triumphs. We share with that perfect lover his -mellow regrets and his anticipatory ardours; we wait in tremulous -expectancy outside the little restaurant in Soho for his delightful -Lady Parlington, falling, with him-from light-hearted confidence to -sickening uncertainty as time wears on and still she does not come. The -same emotional buoyancy stirs in all his work; his incomparable humour -endears to us the least of his creations. His adorable landladies -become our friends, his "walking gentlemen" our close acquaintance. I -do not know to this day whether I have met certain of these heavenly -creatures in life or in Mr. Merrick's novels, and it is difficult to -enter a theatrical lodging without feeling that you are living the -last story in <i>The Man who Understood Women</i>, or revisiting the first -beginnings of Peggy Harper.</p> - -<p>London has many lovers, none so intimate with her allurements as -Leonard Merrick. He knows the glamour of her midnight pavements, the -hunger of her clamant streets, and the enchantments of her grey river -have drawn him. He has felt the deciduous charm of her luxury, the -abiding pleasure of her leafy spaces, and the intriguing alleys of -Fleet Street are to him familiar and dear. For the suburbs he has an -infinite kindness, and has companioned adventure on many a questing -tram.</p> - -<p>It has long been a matter of insuperable difficulty to obtain Mr. -Merrick's novels; for years I have essayed to find a copy of <i>Conrad</i>, -and from every bookseller have been sent empty away. In a moment of -folly I lent my own copy to a neighbour—I cannot call him friend—who -forthwith adopted the volume as his most invaluable possession, and, -undeterred by savagery or threats, refused to give it up. And now after -long waiting, I am made glad by a reissue of these incomparable works, -and the knowledge that an ever-increasing public, too long denied the -opportunity of their acquaintance, will share my delight. Far removed -from the nightmare of the problem novel, his books centre on simple -human things savoured with the rare salt of his humour; and whether in -the suburbs or the slums, in Soho or the Strand, whether prosperous or -starving, the men and women of whom he writes are touched with that -high courage, that fine comradeship, which is the very essence of -romance.</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 75%; font-size: 0.8em;">J.K. PROTHERO.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> - - -<p>There were three women in the dressing-room. Little Miss Macy, who -played a subaltern, was pulling off her uniform; and the "Duchess," -divested of velvet, stood brushing the powder out of her hair. The -third woman was doing nothing. In a chair by the theatrical hamper -labelled "Miss Olive Westland's Tour: 'The Foibles of Fashion' Co.," -she sat regarding the others, her hands idle in her lap. She was -scarcely what is called "beautiful," much less was she what ought to be -called "pretty"; perhaps "womanly" came nearer to suggesting her than -either. Her eyes were not large, but they were so pensive; her mouth -was not small, but it curved so tenderly; the face was not regular, but -it looked so deliciously soft. Somebody had once said that it "made -him admire God"; in watching her, it seemed such a perfect thing that -there should be a low white brow, and hair to shade it; it seemed such -an exquisite and consummate thing that there should be lips where the -Maker put lips, and a chin where the chin is modelled. Her age might -have been twenty-seven, also it might have been thirty. The wise man -does not question the nice woman's age—he just thanks Heaven she -lives; and she in the chair by the hamper was decidedly nice. Other -women said so.</p> - -<p>"Have you been in front, Mrs. Carew?" asked the "Duchess."</p> - -<p>She answered that she had. "I came round at the end. It was a very good -house; the business is improving."</p> - -<p>"I should think," remarked the "subaltern," reaching for her skirt, -"you must know every line of the piece, the times you've seen it! But, -of course, you've nothing else to do."</p> - -<p>"No, it isn't lively sitting alone all the evening in lodgings; and -it's more comfortable in the circle than behind. How you people manage -to get dressed in some of the theatres puzzles me; I look at you from -the front, remembering where your things were put on, and marvel. If -I were in the profession, my salary wouldn't keep me in the frocks I -ruined."</p> - -<p>"I wonder Carew has never wanted you to go into it."</p> - -<p>The nice woman laughed.</p> - -<p>"Go into the profession!" she exclaimed—"I? Good gracious, what an -idea! No; Tony has a very flattering opinion of his wife's abilities, -but I don't think even he goes the length of fancying I could act."</p> - -<p>"You'd be as good as a certain leading lady we know of, at any rate. -Nobody could be much worse than our respected manageress, I'll take my -oath!"</p> - -<p>"Jeannie," said the "Duchess" sharply, "don't quarrel with your -bread-and-butter!"</p> - -<p>"I'm not," said the girl; "I'm criticising it—a very different matter, -my dear. I hate these amateurs with money, even if they do take out -companies and give shops to us pros. She queers the best line I've got -in the piece every night because she won't speak up and nobody knows -what it's an answer to. The real type of the 'confidential actress' is -Miss Westland; no danger of <i>her</i> allowing anyone in the audience to -overhear what she says!"</p> - -<p>"Tony believes she'll get on all right," said Mrs. Carew, "when she has -had more experience. You do, too, don't you, Mrs. Bowman?"</p> - -<p>The "Duchess" replied vaguely that "experience did a great deal." She -had profited by her own, and at the "aristocratic mother" period of her -career no longer canvassed in dressing-rooms the capabilities of the -powers that paid the treasury.</p> - -<p>"Get on?" echoed Jeannie Macy, struggling into her jacket, "of course -she'll get on; she has oof! If it's very much she's got, you'll see -her by-and-by with a theatre of her own in London. Money, influence, -or talent, you must have one of the three in the profession, and for -a short-cut give me either of the first two. Sweet dreams, both of -you; I've got a hot supper waiting for me, and I can smell it spoiling -from here!" The door banged behind her; and Mrs. Carew turned to the -"Duchess" with a smile.</p> - -<p>"You're coming round to us afterwards, aren't you?" she said.</p> - -<p>"Yes, Carew asked the husband in the morning: I hope he's got some -coppers; I reminded him. It's such a bother having to keep an account -of how we stand after every deal. We'll be round about half-past -twelve. Are you going?"</p> - -<p>"I should think Tony ought to be ready by now. You remember our number?"</p> - -<p>"Nine?"</p> - -<p>"Nine; opposite the baker's."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Carew hummed a little tune, and made her way down the stairs. The -stage, of which she had a passing view, was dark, for the foot-lights -were out, and in the T-piece only one gas-jet flared bluely between the -bare expanse of boards and the blackness of the empty auditorium. In -the passage, a man, hastening from the star-room, almost ran against -her; Mr. Seaton Carew still wore the clothes in which he finished the -play, and he had not removed his make-up yet.</p> - -<p>"What!" she cried, "haven't you changed? How's that? What have you been -doing?"</p> - -<p>"I've been talking to Miss Westland," he explained hurriedly. "There -was something she wanted to see me about. Don't wait any longer, Mary; -I've got to go up to her lodgings with her."</p> - -<p>She hesitated a moment, surprised.</p> - -<p>"Is it so important?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"Yes," he said; "I'll tell you about it later on; I want to have a talk -with you afterwards. I shan't be long."</p> - -<p>Whenever she came to the theatre, which was four or five times a week, -they, naturally, returned together, and she enjoyed the stroll in the -fresh air, "after the show," with Tony. Three years' familiarity with -the custom had not destroyed its charm to her. To-night she went out -into the Leicester streets a shade disconsolately. The gas was already -lighted when she reached the house, and a fire—for the month was -March—burnt clearly in the grate. The accommodation was not extensive: -a small ground-floor parlour, and a bedroom at the back. On the parlour -mantelpiece were some faded photographs of people who had stayed there -—Mr. Delancey as the Silver King; Miss Ida Ryan, smoking a cigarette, -as Sam Willoughby. She took off her coat, and, turning her back on the -supper-table, wondered what the conference with Miss Westland was about.</p> - -<p>The tedium of the delay began to tell upon her. The landlady had -brought in her book of testimonials during the afternoon, to ask Mr. -and Mrs. Carew for theirs; and fetching it from where it lay, she began -listlessly to turn the leaves. These books were abominated by Carew, -for he never knew what to write; and, perusing the comments in this -one, she mentally agreed with him that it was not easy to find a medium -between curtness and exaggeration. Some she recognised, knowing before -she looked what signatures were appended. The "Stay but a little, I -will come again" quotation she had seen above the same name in a score -of lodgings, and there were two or three "impromptus" in rhyme that she -had met before.</p> - -<p>She had been very happy this time at Leicester. They had arrived on -the anniversary of her and Tony's first meeting, and she had felt -additionally tender towards him all the week. The landlady had not -effected the happiness certainly, but her lodger was quite willing to -give her some of the benefit of it. She dipped the pen in the ink, -and wrote in a bold, upright hand, "The week spent in Mrs. Liddy's -apartments will always be a pleasant remembrance to Mr. and Mrs. Seaton -Carew." Then she put the date underneath.</p> - -<p>She had just finished when Mrs. Liddy entered with the beer. The -Irishwoman said that she was going to bed, but that Mrs. Carew would -find more glasses in the cupboard when her friends came. She supposed -that that was all?</p> - -<p>It was now twelve o'clock, and Mrs. Carew, with an occasional glance -at the cold beef and the corner of rice pudding, began to walk about -the room. Presently she stopped and listened. A whistle had reached her -from outside—the whistle of eight notes that is the actor's call. She -surmised that young Dolliver had forgotten their number, as he did in -every town. She drew aside the blind and let the light shine out. Young -Dolliver it was.</p> - -<p>"I've been whistling all up and down the road," he said, aggrieved; -"what were you doing?"</p> - -<p>"Well, that isn't bad," she laughed. "Why don't you remember addresses -like anybody else?"</p> - -<p>"Can't," he declared; "never could! Never know where I'm staying myself -if I don't make a note of it as soon as I go in. In Jarrow, one Monday, -I had to wander all over the place for three' mortal hours in the -pouring rain, looking for someone in the company to tell me where I -lived. Hallo! where's Carew?"</p> - -<p>"He'll be in directly," she said. "Sit down."</p> - -<p>"Oh! I'm awfully sorry to have come so early," he exclaimed; "why, you -haven't fed or anything."</p> - -<p>He was a bright-faced boy, with a cheery flow of chatter, and she was -glad he had appeared.</p> - -<p>"I expect the Bowmans any minute," she assured him; "you aren't early. -Do sit down, there's a good child, and don't stand fiddling your hat -about; put it on the piano! Have you banqueted yourself?"</p> - -<p>"To repletion. What did you think of Carew's notice in the Great -Sixpennyworth on Saturday? Wasn't it swagger? 'The rôle finds an ideal -exponent in Mr. Seaton Carew, an actor who is rapidly making his way -into the foremost ranks of his profession'!"</p> - -<p>"A line and a half," she said, "by a provincial correspondent! I shan't -be satisfied till—— well!"</p> - -<p>"I know—till you see him with sixteen lines all to himself in the -<i>Telegraph</i>! No more will he, I fancy. He's red-hot on success, is -Carew—do anything for it. So'm I; I should like to play Claude."</p> - -<p>"Claude?" she exclaimed. "Why, you're funny!"</p> - -<p>"Not by disposition," he declared. "Miss Westland is responsible for -my being funny. When they said 'a small comedy-part is still vacant,' -I said small comedy-parts are my forte of fortes! Had it been an 'old -man' that was wanted, I should have professed myself born to dodder. -But if it comes to choice—to the secret tendency of the sacred fire—I -am lead, I am romantic, I have centre-entrances in the limelight. Look -here: 'A deep vale, shut out by Alpine——' No, wait a minute; you -do the Langtry business and let the flowers fall, while I 'paint the -home.' Do you know, my private opinion is that Claude only took those -lessons so that the widow shouldn't be put to any expense doing up the -home. Haven't got any flowers? Anything else then—where are the cards?"</p> - -<p>He found the pack on the sideboard, and pushed a few into her hand.</p> - -<p>"These'll do for the flowers," he said; "finger 'em lovingly; think -you're holding a good nap.</p> - -<p>"Don't be so ridiculous!"</p> - -<p>"I'm not," said Dolliver, with dignity; "I really want to hear your -views on my reading. Where was I—er—er——</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 30%;"> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">"'Near a clear lake margin'd by fruits of gold</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows....</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">As I would have thy fate.'</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>"You see I make a pause after 'shadows'—I'm natural. I gaze -hesitatingly at the floats, and the borders, and a kid in the pit. Then -I meet the eyes of the fair Pauline, and conclude with 'As I would have -thy fate,' smiling dreamily at the excellence of the comparison. That's -a new point, I take it?"</p> - -<p>He was seriously enamoured of his "new point," and was still -expatiating on it when they heard Carew unlocking the street-door.</p> - -<p>It was a man much of the woman's own age who came in. His face was -clean-shaven, and his hair was worn a trifle longer than the hair of -most men. Now that he was seen in a good light, it was plain that he -was disturbed; but he shook Dolliver by the hand as if relieved to find -him there.</p> - -<p>"What, not had supper? You must be starving, Mary?"</p> - -<p>"I <i>am</i> pretty hungry," she admitted; "aren't you?"</p> - -<p>"Well, I've had something—still, I'll come to the table." She had -looked disappointed, and he drew his chair up. "Dolliver?"</p> - -<p>"Nothing for me, thanks. Oh! a glass of beer—I don't object to that."</p> - -<p>Despite her assertion, Mary made no great progress with her supper, -and Carew's evident disquietude even damped the garrulity of the boy. -It was not until the Bowmans arrived and a game of napoleon had been -begun, that the faint restraint caused by his manner wore away.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bowman, mindful of his wife's injunction, had provided himself with -several shillings'-worth of coppers, and, profiting by his forethought, -each of the party started with a rouleau of pence. These occasional -card parties after the performance had become an institution in "The -Foibles of Fashion" company, and it was seldom that anyone found them -expensive. Mary's capital, coppers included, was half a sovereign, and -to have won or lost such a sum as that at a sitting would have been -the subject of allusion for a month. To-night, however, the luck was -curiously unequal, and, to the surprise of all, Dolliver found himself -losing seven shillings before he had been playing half an hour. Much -sympathy was expressed for Dolliver.</p> - -<p>"Never mind, dear boy; it's always a mistake to win early in the -evening," said Carew. "There's plenty of time. I pass!"</p> - -<p>"Pass," said the "Duchess."</p> - -<p>Mary called three, and made them.</p> - -<p>"How do you stand, Mrs. Carew?" asked Bowman.</p> - -<p>"I'm just about the same as when we began. Tony, Mr. Bowman has nothing -to drink.—Oh, what a shame, Dolliver!—thanks! Fill up your own, won't -you?—He's a perfect martyr, this boy," she went on; "he cleared the -table before you two people came in—didn't you?"</p> - -<p>"Four!" cried Dolliver. "Yes; I cleared it beautifully. Utility is my -line of business."</p> - -<p>"Since when? I thought just now——"</p> - -<p>"Oh, confidences, Mrs. Carew!" He turned scarlet. "Don't give me -away!... Now, Mrs. Bowman, which is it to be?"</p> - -<p>She played trumps, and led with a king.</p> - -<p>A breathless moment, crowned by an unsuspected "little one" from -Dolliver. His "four" were safe, and he leant back radiant.</p> - -<p>The "Duchess" prepared to deal.</p> - -<p>"Who's got an address for the next town?" she inquired.</p> - -<p>"Haven't you written yet?"</p> - -<p>"No, we haven't got a place to write to; hateful, isn't it? If there's -a thing I loathe, it's having to look for rooms after we get in. We've -—pass!—always stayed in the same house, and—everybody to put in the -kitty again!—and now the woman's left, or something. My! isn't the -kitty getting big—look at all those sixpences underneath. Somebody -count it!"</p> - -<p>"Now then, Carew, don't go to sleep!"</p> - -<p>Carew, thus adjured, gathered up the cards. Fitfully he was almost -himself again, and only Mary was really sure that anything was amiss.</p> - -<p>"There's a little hotel I've stopped at there," he said. "Not at all -bad—they find you everything for twenty-five bob the week; for two -people there'd be a reduction, too. Remind me, and I'll give you the -name; I have it in my book. Bowman, you to call!"</p> - -<p>Bowman called nothing; everybody passed again, and the kitty was -augmented once more.</p> - -<p>"What time do we travel Sunday—anybody know?"</p> - -<p>"You can be precious sure," said Bowman, "that it will be at some -unearthly hour. I've had a good many years' experience in the -profession, but I never in my life was in a company where they did -so many night journeys as they do in this one. I believe that little -outsider arranges it on purpose!"</p> - -<p>"A daisy of an acting-manager, isn't he? I once knew another fellow -much the—two, I call two—and then, at the end of the tour, hanged if -they didn't rush us for a presentation to him!"</p> - -<p>"So they will for this chap. Presentations in the profession, upon my -soul, are the——"</p> - -<p>"Three," said the "Duchess."</p> - -<p>"And when the time comes, not a member of the crowd will have the pluck -to refuse. You see!"</p> - -<p>"Did you ever know an actor who had, when he was asked?"</p> - -<p>Dolliver flushed excitedly.</p> - -<p>"Nap!" he exclaimed.</p> - -<p>"Oh, oh, oh! Dolliver goes nap!"</p> - -<p>"No; d'ye mean it? Very well, fire ahead, then; play up!"</p> - -<p>There was two minutes' silence, and the youngster smacked down his last -card, preparing a smile for defeat.</p> - -<p>"He's made it! Mrs. Bowman, you threw it away; if you'd played hearts, -instead——"</p> - -<p>"No, no, she couldn't help it. She had to follow suit."</p> - -<p>"Of course!"—the "Duchess" caught feebly at the explanation—"I had -to follow suit. What a haul! good gracious!"</p> - -<p>"That puts you right again, eh, dear boy?"</p> - -<p>"'I am once more the great house of Lyons!'" remarked Dolliver, piling -up the pennies. "Six, seven, eight! Look at the silver, great Scott! -Mrs. Carew, there's the ninepence I owe you."</p> - -<p>"'I have paid this woman, and I owe her nothing,'" quoted Carew. -"Dolliver, you've ruined me, you beggar! Where's the 'bacca?"</p> - -<p>At something to three there was a murmur about its being late, but the -loser now was Mrs. Bowman, and as her shillings had drifted into the -possession of Mary, the hostess said it really was not late at all.' -This disposed of the breaking-up question for half an hour. Then Bowman -began to talk of concluding the game after a couple of rounds. When -two such arrangements had been made and set at naught, the "Duchess" -proposed that they should finish at the next "nap." To "finish at the -next nap" was a euphemism for continuing for a good: long while, and -the resolution was carried unanimously.</p> - -<p>The clock had struck four when the nap was made, and the winner was -Mary. She had won more than six shillings, and the "Duchess," who was -the poorer by the amount, smiled with sleepy resignation.</p> - -<p>"You had the luck after all, Mrs. Carew," laughed Dolliver. -"Good-night."</p> - -<p>"Yes," she said carelessly; "I've made something between me and the -workhouse, anyhow! Good-night."</p> - -<p>She loitered about the room, putting little aimless touches to things, -while Carew saw the trio to the door. She heard him shut it behind -them, and heard their steps growing fainter on the pavement. He was -slow returning, queerly slow. Dolliver's voice reached her, taking -leave of the Bowmans at the corner, and still he had not come in.</p> - -<p>"Tony!" she called.</p> - -<p>He rejoined her almost as she spoke.</p> - -<p>"Don't go to bed, Mary," he said huskily; "I've something to say to -you."</p> - -<p>"What is it?" she asked.</p> - -<p>He hesitated for an instant, seeking an introductory phrase. The -agitation that he had been fighting all the night had conquered him.</p> - -<p>"My release has come at last," he answered. "My wife is dead."</p> - -<p>"Dead?"</p> - -<p>She stood gazing at him with dilated eyes, the colour ebbing from her -cheeks.</p> - -<p>"She was ill some time. Drink it was, I hear; I daresay! Anyhow, she's -gone; the mistake is finished. I've paid for it dearly enough, Lord -knows!"</p> - -<p>He had paused midway between her and the hearth, and he moved to the -hearth. She was sensible of a vague pang as he did so. A tense silence -followed his words. In thoughts that she had been unable to escape, -the woman who had paid for his mistake more dearly still had sometimes -imagined such a moment as this—had sometimes foreseen him crying to -her that he was free. Perhaps, now that the moment was here, it was a -little wanting—a little barer than the announcement of freedom that -she had pictured.</p> - -<p>"You're bound to feel the shock of it," she said, almost inaudibly. -"It's always a shock, the news of death." But she felt that the burden -of speech should be his. "Were you—used you to be very fond of her? -Does it come back?"</p> - -<p>"I was twenty. 'Fond'? I don't know. I wasn't with her three months -when——She had walked Liverpool; I never saw her from the day I found -it out. She didn't want me; the money was enough for her—to be sure of -it every week!"</p> - -<p>His attitude remained unchanged, his hands thrust deep into his -trouser-pockets. Opposite each other, both reviewed the past. She -waited for him to come to her—to touch her. Yes, the reality was barer -than the picture that she had seen.</p> - -<p>"When was it?" she murmured.</p> - -<p>"It was some weeks ago."</p> - -<p>"So long?"</p> - -<p>He left the hearth moodily, and began to pace the room from end to end. -The woman did not stir. The memory was with her of the morning that -he had avowed this marriage—of the agony that had wept to her for -pity—of the clasp that would not let her go. She looked abstractedly -at the fire; but in her heart she saw his every step, and counted the -turns that kept him from her side.</p> - -<p>"It makes a great difference!" he said abruptly.</p> - -<p>The consciousness of the difference was flooding her reason, yet she -did not speak. It should not be by her that the sanctification of her -sacrifice was broached. The wish, the reminder, the reparation, all -should be his! She nodded assent.</p> - -<p>"A great difference," he repeated hoarsely. He smeared the dampness -from his mouth and chin. "If—if my reputation were made now, Mary, I -should ask you to be my wife."</p> - -<p>And then she did not speak. There was an instant in which the wall swam -before her in a haze, and the floor lurched. In the next, she was still -fronting the fireplace; she was staring at it with the same intentness -of regard; and his voice was sounding again, though she heard it dully:</p> - -<p>"—while a poor due can't choose! I would—I'd ask you to marry me. -I know what you've been to me—I don't forget—I know very well! But, -as it is, it'd be madness—it'd be putting a rope round my own neck. -I want you to hear how I'm situated. I want you to listen to the -circumstances——"</p> - -<p>"You won't ... make amends?"</p> - -<p>"I tell you I'm not my own master."</p> - -<p>"You tell me that—that we're to part! We can't remain together any -longer unless I'm your wife."</p> - -<p>"We can't remain together any longer at all; that's what I'm coming -to." He went back to the mantelpiece, and leant his elbows on it, -kicking the half-hot coals. "I'm going to marry Miss Westland!"</p> - -<p>He had said it; the echo of the utterance sung in his ears. Behind -him her figure was motionless—its its—stillness frightened him. -Intensified by the riotous ticking of the clock, through which his -pulses were strained for the relief of a rustle, a breath, the pause -grew unendurable.</p> - -<p>"For God's sake, why don't you say something?" he exclaimed. He faced -her impetuously, and they looked at each other across the table. "Mary, -it's my chance in life! She cares for me, don't you see? You think me a -scoundrel—don't you see what a chance it is? What can I come to as I -am? With her—she'll get on, she has money—I shall rise, I shall be a -manager, I shall get to London in time. Mary!"</p> - -<p>"You're going to ... marry Miss Westland?"</p> - -<p>"I must," he said.</p> - -<p>For the veriest second it was as if she struggled to understand. Then -she threw out her hands dizzily, crying out.</p> - -<p>"That is what your love was, then—a lie, a shameful lie?"</p> - -<p>"It wasn't; no, Mary, it was real! I cared for you—I did; the thing is -forced on me!"</p> - -<p>"'Cared'? when you use your liberty like this? You 'cared'? And I -pitied you—you wrung the soul of me with your despair—I forgave you -keeping back the tale so long. I came to you to be your wife, and you -went down on your knees and vowed you hadn't had the courage to tell -me before, but your wife was living—some awful woman you couldn't -divorce. I gave myself to you, I became the thing you can turn out of -doors, all because I loved you, all because I believed in your love -for me." She caught at her throat. "You deserved it, didn't you?—you -justify it now so nobly, the faith that has made me a ——"</p> - -<p>"Mary!"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I can say it!" she burst forth hysterically. "I <i>am</i>, you know; -you have made me one—you and your 'love'! Why shouldn't I say it?"</p> - -<p>"I told you the truth; if I had been free at that time——"</p> - -<p>"When did you hear the news of the death? Answer me—it wasn't -to-night?"</p> - -<p>"What's the difference," he muttered, "when I heard?"</p> - -<p>"Oh!" she moaned, "go away from me, don't come near me! You coward!"</p> - -<p>She sank on to the edge of the sofa, rocking herself to and fro. The -man roamed aimlessly around. Once or twice he glanced across at her, -but she paid no heed. His pipe was on the sideboard; he filled it -clumsily, and drew at it in nervous pulls.</p> - -<p>He was the first to speak again.</p> - -<p>"I know I seem a hound, I know it all looks very bad; but I don't -suppose there's a man in five hundred who would refuse such an -opportunity, for all that. No, nor one in five thousand, either! You -won't see it in an unprejudiced light, of course; but it seems to -me—yes, it does, and I can't help saying so—that if you were really -as fond of me as you think, if my interests were really dear to you, -you yourself 'd counsel me to leap at the chance, and, what's more, -feel honestly glad that a prospect of success had come in my way.... -You know what it means to me," he went on querulously; "you have been -in the profession—at least, as good as in the profession—three years; -you know that, in the ordinary course of events, I should never get any -higher than I am, never play in London in my life. You know I've gone -as far as I can ever expect to go without influence to back me, that -in ten years' time I should be exactly what I am now, a leading-man -for second-rate tours; and that ten years later I should be playing -heavy fathers, or Lord knows what, still on the road, and done for—the -fire all spent, wasted and worn out in the provinces. That's what it -would be; you've heard me say it again and again; and I should go on -seeing Miss Somebody's son, and Mr. Somebody-else's-daughter, with -their parents' names to get them the engagements, playing prominent -business in London theatres before they've learnt how to walk across -a stage. Miss Westland's a fine-looking girl, and she knows a lot of -Society people in town; and she has money enough to take a theatre -there when she's lost her amateurishness a bit. Right off I shall be -somebody, too—I shall manage her affairs. I'll have a big ad. in <i>The -Era</i> every week: 'For vacant dates apply to Mr. Seaton Carew!' Oh, -Mary, it's such a chance, such a lift! I <i>am</i> fond of you, you know I -am; I care more for your little finger than for that woman's body and -soul. Don't think me callous; it's damnable I've got to behave so—it -takes all the light, all the luck, out of the thing that the way to it -is so hard. I wish you could know what I'm feeling."</p> - -<p>"I think I do know," she said bitterly—"better than you, perhaps. -You're remembering how easily you could have taken the luck if your -prayers to me had failed. And you're angered at me in your heart -because the shame you feel spoils so much of the pleasure now."</p> - -<p>He was humiliated to recognise that this was true. Her words described -a mean nature, and his resentment deepened.</p> - -<p>"When did you tell Miss Westland?" she faltered.</p> - -<p>"Tell her?"</p> - -<p>"What I am. That I'm not——When was it?"</p> - -<p>"This evening. It won't make any awkwardness for you; I mean, she won't -speak of it to any of the others. Nobody will know for——"</p> - -<p>"The whole company may know to-morrow!" she answered, drying her eyes. -"Seeing that I shall be gone, they may as well know to-morrow as later. -Oh, how they will talk, all of them, how they'll talk about me—the -Bowmans, and that boy, too!"</p> - -<p>"You'll be gone to-morrow—what do you say?"</p> - -<p>"Do you suppose——"</p> - -<p>"Mary, there are—I must make some—good heavens! how will you -go?—where? Mary, listen: by-and-by, when something is settled, in—in -a month or more—I want to arrange to send—I couldn't let you want for -money, don't you see!"</p> - -<p>"I would not take a penny from you," she said, "not the value of a -penny, if I were dying. I wouldn't, as Christ hears me! Our life -together is over—I am going away."</p> - -<p>He looked at her aghast.</p> - -<p>"Now," he ejaculated, "at once? In the middle of the night?"</p> - -<p>"Now at once—in the middle of the night."</p> - -<p>"Be reasonable"—he caught her fingers, and held them in miserable -expostulation—"wait till day, at any rate. You're beside yourself, -there's nothing to be gained by it. In the morning, if you <i>must</i>——"</p> - -<p>"Oh!" she choked, "did you think I would stop here an hour after this? -Did you—did you think so? You man! Yes, I should be no worse to you -I but to me, the lowness of it! All in a moment the lowness of it! -I've tried to feel that we were married; I always believed it was your -trouble that I had to be what I was. If you had ever heard—as soon -as it was possible, I thought every minute 'd have been a burden to -you till you had made it all real and right. To stop with you now, the -thing I am—despised—on sufferance——"</p> - -<p>She dragged her hand from him and stumbled into the bedroom. There it -was quite dark, and, shaking, she groped about for matches and the -candle. A small bag, painted with the initials of "Mary Brettan," -her own name, was under the toilet-table. She pulled it out, and, -dropping on her knees before the trunk that held her clothes, hastily -pushed in a little of the top-most linen. As she did so, her eyes -fell on the wedding-ring that she wore. Painful at all times, the -sight of it now was horrible. She strangled a sob, and, lifting the -candlestick, peered stupidly around. By the parlour grate she could -hear Tony knocking his pipe out on the bars. Above the washhand-stand -a holland "tidy" contained her brushes; she rolled it up and crammed -the bundle among the linen. In fastening the bag she hesitated, -and looked irresolutely at the trunk. Going over to it, she paused -again—left it; returned to it. She plunged her arm suddenly into its -depths, and thrust the debated thing into her bag as if it burnt her. -Across the photographer's address was written, "Yours ever, Tony." Her -preparations for leaving him had not occupied ten minutes. Then she -went back.</p> - -<p>Her coat and hat lay by the piano where she had cast them when she came -in from the theatre. The man watched her put them on.</p> - -<p>"Here's your ring!" she said.</p> - -<p>The tears were running down her cheeks; she dabbed at them with a -handkerchief as she spoke. The baseness of it all was eating into him. -Though the ardour of his earlier passion was gone and his protestations -of affection had been insults, her loss and her aversion served -to display the growth of a certain attachment to her of which her -possession and her constancy had left him unaware. Twice a plea to -her to remain rose to his lips, and twice his tongue was heavy from -self-interest, and from shame. He followed her instinctively into the -passage; his limbs quaked, and his soul was cowed. She had already -opened the door and set her foot on the step.</p> - -<p>"Mary!" he gasped.</p> - -<p>It was just beginning to get light. Under the faint paling of the sky -the pavements gleamed cold and grey, forlornly visible in the darkness.</p> - -<p>"Mary, don't go!"</p> - -<p>A rush of chill air swept out of the silence, raising the hair from -her brow. The coat fell about her loosely in thick folds. He put -out nervous hands to touch her, and nothing but these folds seemed -assailable; they enveloped and denied her to him.</p> - -<p>"Don't go," he stammered; "stay—forget what I've done!"</p> - -<p>She saw the impulse at its worth, but she was grateful for its -happening. She knew that he would regret it if she listened, knew that -he knew he would regret it. And yet, knowing and disdaining as she did, -the gladfulness and thankfulness were there that he had spoken.</p> - -<p>"I couldn't," she said—her voice was gentler; "there can never be -anything between you and me any more. Good-bye, Tony."</p> - -<p>She walked from him firmly. The receding figure was -distinct—uncertain—merged in gloom. He stood gazing after it till it -was gone——</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> - - -<p>The town lay around her desolate. Her footsteps smote the -wretchedly-laid street, and echoed on the loneliness. A cold wind blew -in fitful gusts, nipping her cheeks and hands. On the vagueness of -the market-place the gilded statue, with its sheen obscured, loomed -shapeless as she passed. She heard the lumber and creak of a wagon -straining out of sight; the quaver of a cock-crow, then one shriller -and more prolonged; two or three thin screams in quick succession from -a distant train. She knew, rather than decided, that she would go to -London, though there would not be a familiar face to greet her in all -its leagues of houses, not a door among its countless doors to reveal -a friend. She would go there because she was adrift in England and -"England" meant a blur of names equally unpitying, and London, somehow, -seemed the natural place to book to.</p> - -<p>Few persons' ruin leaves them alone at once; the crash generally sees -some friends who prove loyal beneath the shock of the catastrophe and -drop away only afterwards under the wearisomeness of the worries. It is -the situation of few to emerge from the wreck of a home without any -personality dominating their consciousness as the counsellor to whom -they must turn for aid. But it was the situation of Mary Brettan to be -without a soul to turn to in the world; and briefly it had happened -thus.</p> - -<p>Her father had been a country doctor with a large practice among -patients who could not afford to pay. From the standpoint of humanity -his conduct was admirable; regarded from the domestic hearthstone -perhaps it was a little less. The practitioner who neglected the wife -of the Mayor in order to attend a villager, because the villager's -condition was more critical, offered small promise of leaving his child -provided for, and before Mary was sixteen the problems of the rent -and butcher's book were as familiar to her as the surgery itself. The -exemplary doctor and unpractical parent struggled along more or less -placidly by means of the girl's surveillance. Had he survived her, it -is difficult to determine what would have become of him; but, dying -first, he had her protection to the end. She found herself after the -funeral with a crop of bills, some shabby furniture, and the necessity -for earning a living. The furniture and the bills were easy to dispose -of; they represented a sum in division with nothing over. The problem -was, what was she fitted to do? She knew none of those things which -used to be called "accomplishments," and which are to-day the elements -of education. Her French was the French of "Le Petit Précepteur"; in -German she was still bewildered by the article. And, a graver drawback, -since the selling-price of education is an outrage on its cost—she -had not been brought up to any trade. She belonged, in fact, and -circumstances had caused her to discover it, to the ranks of refined -incompetence: the incompetence that will not live by menial labour, -because it is refined; the refinement that cannot support itself by -any brain work, because it is incompetent. It was suggested that she -might possibly enter the hospital of a neighbouring town and try to -qualify for a nurse. She said, "Very well." By-and-by she was told that -she could be admitted to the hospital, and that if she proved herself -capable, that would be the end of her troubles. She said "Very well" -again—and this time, "thank you."</p> - -<p>She had a good constitution, and she saw that if she failed here she -might starve at her leisure before any further efforts were put forth -on her behalf; so she gave satisfaction in her probation, and became at -last a nurse like the others, composed and reliable. When that stage -arrived, she owned to having fainted and suppressed the fact, after an -early experience of the operating-room; her reputation was established, -and it didn't matter now. The surgeon smiled.</p> - -<p>Miss Brettan had been Nurse Brettan several years, when an actor who -had met with an accident was brought into the hospital. The mishap had -cost him his engagement, and he bewailed his fate to everyone who would -listen. The person who heard most was she, since it was she who had -the most to do for him, and she began by feeling sympathetic. He was a -paying patient, or he would have had to limp away much sooner; as it -was, it was many weeks before he was pronounced well enough to leave. -And during those weeks she remembered what in the years of routine she -had forgotten—that she was a woman capable of love.</p> - -<p>One evening she learnt that the man really cared for her; he asked her -to marry him. She stooped, and across the supper-tray, they kissed. -Then she went upstairs, and cried with joy, and there was no happier -woman in or out of any hospital in Christendom.</p> - -<p>He talked to her about himself more than ever after this, suppressing -only the one fact that he lacked the courage to avow. And when at last -he went away their engagement was made public, and it was settled that -she should join him in London as soon as he was able to write for her -to come.</p> - -<p>There were many expressions of good-will heaped upon Nurse Brettan on -the summer morning that she bade the Yaughton Hospital good-bye; a -joint wedding-gift from the other nurses was presented, and everybody -shook her hand and wished her a life of happiness, for she was popular. -Carew met her at Euston. He had written that he had dropped into a good -part, anti that they would shortly be starting together on the tour, -but that in the meanwhile they were to be married in town. It was the -first time she had been to London. He took her to lodgings in Guilford -Street, and here occurred their great scene.</p> - -<p>He confessed that when he was a boy he had made a wild marriage; he had -not set eyes on the woman since he discovered her past, but the law -would not annul his blunder. He was bound to a harlot, and he loved -Mary. Would she forgive his deception and be his wife in everything -except the ceremony that could not be performed?</p> - -<p>It was a very terrible scene indeed. For a long while he believed her -lost to him; she could be brought to give ear to his entreaties only by -force, and he upbraided himself for not having disclosed his position -in the first instance. He had excused his cowardice by calling it -"expedience," but, to do him justice, he did not do justice to himself. -The delay had been due far less to his sense of its expedience than to -the tremors of his cowardice. Now he suffered scarcely less than she.</p> - -<p>Had his plea been based on any but the insuperable obstacle that it -was, it would have failed to a certainty; but his helplessness gave -the sophistry of both full play. He harped on the "grandeur of the -sacrifice" she would be making for him, and the phrase pierced her -misery. He cried to her that it would be a heroism, and she wondered -dully if it really would. She queried if there was indeed a higher duty -than denial—if her virtue could be merely selfishness in disguise. -His insistence on the nobility of consent went very far with her; it -did seem a beautiful thing to let sunshine into her lover's life at -the cost of her own transgression. And then, in the background, burnt -a hot shame at the thought of being questioned and commiserated when -she returned to the hospital with a petition to be reinstalled. The -arguments of both were very stale, and equally they blinked the fact -that the practical use of matrimony is to protect woman against the -innate fickleness of man. He demanded why, from a rational point of -view, the comradeship of two persons should be any more sacred because -a third person in a surplice said it was; and she, with his arms round -her, began to persuade herself that he was a martyr, who had broken his -leg that she might cross his path and give him consolation. Ultimately -he triumphed; and a fortnight later she burst into a tempest of -sobs—in suddenly realising how happy she was.</p> - -<p>He introduced her to everybody as his wife; their "honeymoon" was -spent in the, to her, unfamiliar atmosphere of a theatrical tour. -One of the first places that the company visited was West Hartlepool, -and he and she had lodgings outside the town in a little sea-swept -village—a stretch of sand, and a lane or two, with a sprinkling of -cottages—called Seaton Carew, from which, he told her, he had borrowed -his professional name. She said, "Dear Seaton Carew!" and felt in a -silly minute that she longed to strain the sunny prospect against her -heart.</p> - -<p>In the rawness of dawn a clock struck five, and she stood forsaken in -the streets.</p> - -<p>The myriad clocks of Leicester took up the burden, and the air was -beaten with their din. The way to the station appeared endless; yards -were preternaturally lengthened; and ever pressing on, yet ever with -a lonely vista to be covered, the walk began to be charged with the -oppression of a nightmare, in which she pursued some illimitable road, -seeking a destination that had vanished.</p> - -<p>At last the building loomed before her, ponderously still, and she -passed in over the cob-stones. There were no indications of life -about the place; the booking-office was fast shut, and between the -dimly-burning lamps, the empty track of rails lay blue. For all she -knew to the contrary, she would have to wait some hours.</p> - -<p>By-and-by, however, a sleepy-eyed porter lounged into sight, and she -learnt that there would be a train in a few minutes. Shortly after -his advent she was able to procure a ticket—a third-class ticket, -which diminished the little sum in her possession by eight shillings -and a halfpenny; and returning to the custody of her bag, she waited -miserably till the line of carriages thundered into view.</p> - -<p>It was a wretched journey—a ghastly horror of a journey—but it did -not seem particularly long; with nothing to look forward to, she had no -cause to be impatient. Intermittently she dozed, waking with a start as -the train jerked to a standstill and the name of a station was bawled. -When St. Pancras was reached, her limbs were cramped as she descended -among the groups of dreary-faced passengers, and the load on her mind -lay like a physical weight. She had not washed since the previous -evening, and she made her way to the waiting-room, where a dejected -attendant charged her twopence. Then, having paid twopence more to -leave the bag behind her, she went out to search for a room.</p> - -<p>A coffee-bar, with a quantity of stale pastry heaped in the window, -reminded her that she needed breakfast. A man with blue shirt-sleeves -rolled over red arms brought her tea and bread-and-butter at a sloppy -table. The repast, if not enjoyable, served to refresh her and was -worth the fourpence that she could very ill afford. Some of the -faintness passed; when she stood in the fresh air again her head was -clearer; the vagueness with which she had thought and spoken was gone.</p> - -<p>It was not quite five minutes to eight; she wished she had rested -in the waiting-room. To be seeking a lodging at five minutes to -eight would look strange. Still, she could not reconcile herself to -going back; and she was eager, besides, to find a home as quickly as -possible, yearning to be alone with a door shut and a pillow.</p> - -<p>She turned down Judd Street, forlornly scanning the intersecting -squalor. The tenements around her were not attractive. On the -parlour-floor, limp chintz curtains hid the interiors, but the steps -and the areas, and here and there a frouzy head and arm protruding -for a milkcan, were strong in suggestion of slatternly discomfort. In -Brunswick Square the aspect was more cheerful, but the rooms here were -obviously above her means. She walked along, and came unexpectedly -into Guilford Street, almost opposite the house where she had given -herself to Tony. The sudden sight of it was not the shock that she -would have imagined it would prove; indeed, she was sensible of a dull -sort of wonder at the absence of sensation. But for the veranda and -confirmatory number, the outside would have borne no significance to -her; yet it had been in that house——What a landmark in her life's -history was represented by that house!' What emotions had flooded her -soul behind the stolid frontage that she had nearly passed without -recognising it; how she had wept and suffered, and prayed and joyed -within the walls that would have borne no significance to her but for -a veranda and the number that proclaimed it was so! The thoughts were -deliberate; the past was not flashed back at her, she retraced it half -tenderly in the midst of her trouble. None the less, the idea of taking -up her quarters on the spot was eminently repugnant, and she turned -several corners before she permitted herself to ring a bell.</p> - -<p>Her summons was answered by a flurried servant-girl, who on hearing -that she wanted a lodging, became helplessly incoherent—as is the -manner of servant-girls where lodgings are let—and fled to the -basement, calling "missis."</p> - -<p>Mary contemplated the hat-stand until the "missis" advanced towards -her along the passage. There was a flavour of abandoned breakfast -about missis, an air of interruption; and when she perceived that the -stranger on the threshold was a young woman, and a charming woman, -and a woman by herself, the air of interruption that she had been -struggling to conceal all the way up the kitchen-stairs began to be -coupled with an expression of defensive virtue.</p> - -<p>"I am looking for a room," said Mary.</p> - -<p>"Yes," said the householder, eyeing her askance.</p> - -<p>"You have one to let, I think, by the card?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, there's a room."</p> - -<p>She made no movement to show it, however; she stood on the mat nursing -her elbows.</p> - -<p>"Can you let me see it—if it isn't inconvenient so early?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I suppose so," said the landlady. She preceded her to the -top-floor, but with no alacrity. "This is it," she said.</p> - -<p>It was a back attic of the regulation pattern: brown drugget, yellow -chairs, and a bed of parti-coloured clothing. Nevertheless, it seemed -to be clean, and Mary was prepared to take anything.</p> - -<p>"What is the rent?" she asked wearily.</p> - -<p>"Did you say your husband would be joining you?"</p> - -<p>"My husband? No, I'm a widow."</p> - -<p>There was a glance shot at her hand. She wore gloves, but saw that it -would have been wiser to have told the truth and said "I am unmarried."</p> - -<p>"As a single room, the rent is seven shillings. You'd be able to give -me references, of course?"</p> - -<p>"I'm afraid I couldn't do that," she said, not a little surprised. -"I've only just arrived; my luggage is at the station."</p> - -<p>"What do you work at?"</p> - -<p>"Really!" she exclaimed; "I am looking for a room. You want references; -well, I will pay you in advance!"</p> - -<p>"I don't take single ladies," answered the woman bluntly.</p> - -<p>Mary looked at her bewildered; she thought that she had not made -herself understood.</p> - -<p>"I should be quite willing to pay in advance," she repeated. "I'm a -stranger in London, so I can't refer you to anyone here; but I will pay -for the first week now, if you like?"</p> - -<p>"I don't take ladies; I must ask you to look somewhere else, please."</p> - -<p>They went down in silence. Virtue turned the handle with its backbone -stiff, and Mary passed out, giving a quiet "Good-day." Her blood -was tingling under the inexplicable insolence of the treatment she -had received, and she had yet to learn that it is possible for an -unaccompanied woman to seek a lodging until she falls exhausted on -the pavement; the unaccompanied woman being to the London landlady an -improper person—inadmissible not because she is improper, but because -her impropriety is presumably not monopolised.</p> - -<p>During the next hour, repulse followed repulse. Sometimes, with the -curt assertion that they didn't take ladies, the door was shut in her -face; frequently she was conducted to a room, only to be cross-examined -and refused, as with her first venture, just when she was at the point -of engaging it. Sometimes a room was displayed indifferently, and there -were no questions put at all, but in these cases the terms asked were -so exorbitant that she came out astounded, not realising the nature of -the house.</p> - -<p>It occurred to her to try the places where she would be known—not -the one in Guilford Street, the associations of that would be -unendurable—but some of the apartments that Carew and she had occupied -when they had come to town between the tours. None of these addresses -was in the neighbourhood, however, and the notion was too distasteful -to be adopted save on impulse.</p> - -<p>She set her teeth, and pulled bell after bell. Along Southampton Row, -through Cosmo Place into Queen Square, she wandered, while the day -grew brighter and brighter; down Devonshire Street into Theobald's -Road, past the Holborn Town Hall. Amid these reiterated demands for -references a sudden terror seized her; she remembered the need for the -certificate that she had had when she quitted the hospital. She had -never thought about it since. It might be lying crushed in a corner -of the trunk that she had left behind in Leicester; it might long ago -have got destroyed—she did not know. It had never occurred to her -that the resumption of her former calling would one day present itself -as her natural resource. In ordinary circumstances the loss would have -been a trifle; but she felt it an impossibility to refer directly to -the Matron, because to do so would lead to the exposure of what had -happened in the interval. The absence of a certificate therefore meant -the absence of all testimony to her being a qualified nurse. As the -helplessness of her plight rushed in upon her she trembled. How long -must she not expect to wait for employment when she had nothing to -speak for her? To go back to nursing would be more difficult than to -earn a living in a capacity that she had never essayed. And she could -wait so short a time for anything, so horribly short a time! She would -starve if she did not find something soon!</p> - -<p>Busses jogged by her laden with sober-faced men and women, bound for -the vocations that sustained the white elephant of life. Shops already -gave evidence of trade, and children with uncovered heads sped along -the curb with a "ha'porth o' milk," or mysterious breakfasts folded -in scraps of newspaper. Each atom of the awakening bustle passed her -engrossed by its own existence, operated by its separate interests, -revolving in its individual world. London looked to her a city without -mercy or impulse, populated to brimfulness, and flowing over. Every -chink and crevice seemed stocked with its appointed denizens, and the -hope of finding bread here which nobody's hand was clutching appeared -presumption.</p> - -<p>Eleven o'clock had struck—that is to say, she had been walking for -more than three hours—when she saw a card with "Furnished Room to -Let" suspended from a blind, and her efforts to gain shelter succeeded -at last. It was an unpretentious little house, in an unpretentious -turning; and a sign on the door intimated that it was the residence of -"J. Shuttleworth, mason."</p> - -<p>A hard-featured woman was evoked by the dispirited knock. Seeing a -would-be lodger who was dressed like a lady, she added eighteenpence to -the rent that she usually asked. She asked five shillings a week, and -the applicant agreed to it and was grateful.</p> - -<p>"About your meals, miss?" said Mrs. Shuttleworth, when Mary had sunk on -the upright wooden chair at the head of the truckle-bed-stead. "Dinners -I can't do for yer, but as far as breakfas', and a cup o' tea in the -evening goes, you can 'ave a bit of something brought up when we 'as -our own. I suppose that'll suit you, won't it?"</p> - -<p>"A cup of tea and some bread-and-butter," answered Mary, "in the -morning and afternoon, if you can manage it, will do very nicely, thank -you." She roused herself to the exigencies of the occasion. "How much -will that be?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, well, we shan't break yer! You'll pay the first week now?"</p> - -<p>The rent was forthcoming, and one more superfluity in the jostle of -existence profited by the misfortunes of another: going back to the -wash-tub cheerful.</p> - -<p>Upstairs the lodger remained motionless; she was so tired that it was -a luxury to sit still, and for awhile she was more alive to the bodily -relief than the mental burden. It was afternoon by the time she faced -the necessity for returning to St. Pancras for her bag; and, pushing up -the rickety window to admit some air during her absence, she proceeded -to the basement, to ascertain the nearest route.</p> - -<p>She learnt that she was much nearer to the station than she had -supposed, and in a little while she had her property in her possession -again. Her head felt oddly light, and she was puzzled by the dizziness -until she remembered she had had nothing to eat since eight o'clock. -The thought of food was sickening, though; and it was not till five -o'clock, when the tea was furnished, with a hunch of bread, and a slap -of butter in the middle of a plate, that she attempted to break her -fast.</p> - -<p>And now ensued a length of dreary hours, an awful purposeless evening, -of which every minute was weighted with despair. Fortunately the -weather was not very cold, so the absence of a fire was less a hardship -than a lack of company; but the fatigue, which had been acting as a -partial opiate to her trouble, gradually passed, and her brain ached -with the torture of reflection. With nothing to do but think, she sat -in the upright chair, staring at the empty grate and picturing Tony -during the familiar waits at the theatre. An evil-smelling lamp burned -despondently on the table; outside, the street was discordant with the -cries of children. To realise that it was only this morning that the -blow had fallen upon her was impossible; an interval of several days -appeared to roll between the poky attic and her farewell; the calamity -seemed already old. "Oh, Tony!" she murmured. She got out his likeness. -"Yours ever"—the mockery of it! She did not hate him, she did not -even tell herself that she did; she contemplated the faded photograph -quite gently, and held it before her a long time. It had been taken -in Manchester, and she recalled the afternoon that it was done. All -sorts of trivialities in connection with it recurred to her. He was -wearing a lawn tie, and she remembered that it had been the last clean -one and had got mislaid. Their search for it, and comic desperation at -its loss, all came back to her quite clearly. "Oh, Tony!" Her fancies -projected themselves into his future, and she saw him in a score of -different scenes, but always famous, and in his greatness with the -memory of her flitting across his mind. Then she wondered what she -would have done if she had borne him a child—whether the child would -have been in the garret with her. But no, if he had been a father this -wouldn't have happened! he was always fond of children; to have given -him a child of his own would have kept, his love for her aglow.</p> - -<p>Presently a diversion was effected by the home-coming of Mr. Shuttle -worthy evidently drunk, and abusing his wife with disjointed violence. -Next the woman's voice arose shrieking recrimination, the babel -subsiding amid staccato passages, alternately gruff and shrill.</p> - -<p>The disturbance tended to obtrude the practical side of her dilemma, -and the importance of obtaining work of some sort speedily, no matter -what sort, appalled her. The day was Wednesday, and on the Wednesday -following, unless she was to go forth homeless, there would be the -lodging to pay for again, and the breakfasts and teas supplied in the -meanwhile. She would have to spend money outside as well; she had to -dine, however poorly, and there were postage-stamps, and perhaps train -fares, to be considered: some of the advertisers to whom she applied -might live beyond walking distance. Altogether, she certainly required -a pound. And she had towards it—with a sinking of her heart she -emptied her purse to be sure—exactly two and ninepence.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> - - -<p>Next morning her efforts were begun. It rained, and she began to -understand what it means to the unemployed to tramp a city where two -days of every four are wet.</p> - -<p>To buy papers, and examine them at home was out of the question; but -she was aware that there were news-rooms where for a penny she could -see them all. Directed to such an institution by a speckled boy, -conspicuous for his hat and ears, she found several dejected-looking -women turning over a heap of periodicals at a table. The "dailies" were -spread on stands against the walls, and at a smaller table under the -window lay a number of slips, with pens and ink, for the convenience of -customers wishing to make memoranda of the vacant situations. She went -first to The Times, because it was on the stand nearest to her, and -proceeded from one paper to another until she had made a tour of the -lot.</p> - -<p>The "Wanted" columns were of the customary order; the needy -endeavouring to gull the necessitous with speqious phrases, and the -well-established prepared to sweat them without any disguise at all. A -drapery house had a vacancy for a young woman "to dress fancy windows, -and able to trim hats, etc., when desired"—salary fifteen pounds. -There was a person seeking a general servant willing to pay twenty -pounds a year for the privilege of doing the work. This advertisement -was headed "Home offered to a Lady," and a few seconds were required -to grasp the stupendous impudence of it. A side-street stationer, in -want of a sales-woman, advertised for an "Apprentice at a moderate -premium"; and the usual percentage of City firms dangled the decaying -bait of "An opportunity to learn the trade." Her knowledge of the glut -of experienced actresses enabled her to smile at the bogus theatrical -managers who had "immediate salaried engagements waiting for amateurs -of good appearance"; but some of the "home employment" swindles took -her in, and, discovering nothing better, she jotted these addresses -down.</p> - -<p>From the news-room she went to a dairy, and dined on a glass of milk -and a bun. And after an inevitable outlay on stamps and stationery, she -returned to the lodging a shilling poorer than she had gone out.</p> - -<p>Unacquainted with the wiles of the impostors she was answering, the -thought of her applications sustained her somewhat; it seemed to her -that out of the several openings one at least should be practicable. -She did not fail to make the calculation that most novices make in such -circumstances; she reduced the promised earnings by half, and believed -that she was viewing the prospect in a sober light which, if mistaken -at all, erred on the side of pessimism.</p> - -<p>The envelopes that she had enclosed came back to her late the following -afternoon; and the circulars varied mainly in colour and in the prices -of the materials that they offered for sale. In all particulars -essential to prove them frauds to everybody excepting the piteous fools -who must exist, to explain the advertisements' longevity, they were the -same.</p> - -<p>With the extinction of the hope, the darkness of her outlook was -intensified, and henceforth she eschewed the offers of "liberal -incomes" and confined her attention to the illiberal wages. Day after -day she resorted to the news-room—one stray more whom the proprietor -saw regularly—resolved not to relinquish her access to the papers -while a coin remained to her to pay for admission. She wrote many -letters, and spent her evenings vainly listening for the postman's -knock. She attributed her repeated failures to there being no mention -of references in her replies; they were so concise and nicely written -that she felt sure they could not have failed from any other reason. -Probably her nicely-written notes were never read: merely tossed with -scores of others, all unopened, into the wastepaper basket, after a -selection had been made from the top thirty. This is the fate of most -of the nicely-written notes that go in reply to advertisements in the -newspapers; only, the people who compose them and post them with little -prayers, fortunately do not suspect it. If they suspected it, they -would lose the twenty-four hours' comfort of hugging a false hope to -their souls; and an oasis of hope may be a desirable thing at the cost -of a postage-stamp.</p> - -<p>One evening an answer did come, and an answer in connection with a -really beautiful "Wanted." When it was handed to her, she hardly dared -to hope that it related to that particular situation at all. The -advertisement had run:</p> - -<p>"Secretary required by a Literary Lady. Must be sociable, and have no -objection to travel on the Continent. Apply in own handwriting to C.B., -care of Messrs. Furnival," etc.</p> - -<p>The signature, however, was not "C.B.'s." The communication was from -Messrs. Furnival. They wrote that they judged by Miss Brettan's -application that she would suit their client; and that on receipt of -a half-crown—their usual booking fee—they would forward the lady's -address.</p> - -<p>If she had had a half-crown to send, she might have sent it; as it was, -instead of remitting to Messrs. Furnival's office, she called there.</p> - -<p>It proved to be a very small and very dark back room on the -ground-floor, and Messrs. Furnival were represented by a stout -gentleman of shabby apparel and mellifluous manner. Mary began -by saying that she was the applicant who had received his letter -about "C.B.'s" advertisement; but as this announcement did not seem -sufficiently definite to enable the stout gentleman to converse on the -subject with fluency and freedom, she added that "C.B." was a literary -lady who stood in need of a secretary.</p> - -<p>On this he became very vivacious indeed. He told her that her chance -of securing the post was an excellent one. No, it was not a certainty, -as she appeared to have understood, but he did not think she had much -occasion for misgiving; her speed in shorthand was in excess of the -rate for which their client had stipulated.</p> - -<p>She said: "Why, I especially stated that if she wanted someone who knew -shorthand, I should be no use!"</p> - -<p>He said: "So you did! I meant to say, your type-writing was your -recommendation."</p> - -<p>"Mr. Furnival," she exclaimed, "I wrote, 'I do not know shorthand, and -I am not a typist'! You must be confusing me with someone else. Perhaps -you have answered another application as well?"</p> - -<p>Perhaps he had.</p> - -<p>"You're my first experience of an applicant for a secretaryship who -hasn't learnt shorthand or type-writing," he said in an injured tone. -"Of course, if you don't know either, you'd be no good at all—not a -bit."</p> - -<p>"Then," she said, "why did you ask me to send you half a crown?"</p> - -<p>Before he could spare time to enlighten her as to his reason for this -line of action, they were interrupted by an urchin who deposited an -armful of letters on the table. The gentleman seemed pleased to see -them, and she came away wondering how many of the women who Messrs. -Furnival "judged would suit their client" enclosed postal-orders to pay -the "fee."</p> - -<p>Quite ineffectually she visited some legitimate agencies, and once -she walked to Battersea in time to learn that the berth that was the -object of her journey had just been filled. Even when one walks to -Battersea, and dines for twopence, however, the staying-powers of -two-and-ninepence are very limited; and the dawning of the dreaded date -for the bill found her capital exhausted.</p> - -<p>Among her scanty possessions, the only article that she could suggest -converting into money was a silver watch that she wore attached to a -guard. It had belonged to her as a girl; she had worn it as a nurse; -it had travelled with her on tour during her life with Carew. What a -pawnbroker would lend her on it she did not know, but she supposed -a sovereign. Had she been better off, she would have supposed two -sovereigns, for she was as ignorant of its value as of the method -of pledging it; but being destitute, a pound looked to her a very -substantial amount. She made her way heavily into the street. She felt -that her errand was printed on her face, and when she reached and -paused beneath the sign of the three balls, all the passers-by seemed -to be watching her.</p> - -<p>The window offered a pretext for hesitation. She stood inspecting the -collection behind the glass; perhaps anyone who saw her go in might -imagine it was with the intention of buying something! She was nerving -herself to the necessary pitch when, giving a final glance over her -shoulder, she saw a bystander looking at her steadily. Her courage took -flight, and she sauntered on, deciding to explore for a shop in a more -secluded position.</p> - -<p>Though she was ashamed of her retreat, the respite was a relief to her. -It was not until she came to three more balls that she perceived that -the longer she delayed, the worse she would feel. She went hurriedly -in. There was a row of narrow doors extending down a passage, and, -pulling one open, she found the tiny compartment occupied by a woman -and a bundle. Starting back, she adventured the next partition, which -proved to be vacant; and standing away from the counter, lest her -profile should be detected by her neighbour in distress, she waited -for someone to come to her.</p> - -<p>Nobody taking any notice, she rapped to attract attention. A young man -lounged along, and she put the watch down.</p> - -<p>"How much?" he said.</p> - -<p>"A pound."</p> - -<p>He caught it up and withdrew, conveying the impression that he thought -very little of it. She thought very little of it herself directly it -was in his hand. His hand was a masterpiece of expression, whereas his -voice never wavered from two notes.</p> - -<p>"Ten shillings," he said, reappearing.</p> - -<p>"Ten shillings is very little," she murmured. "Surely it's worth more -than that?"</p> - -<p>"Going to take it?"</p> - -<p>He slid the watch across to her.</p> - -<p>"Thank you," she said; "yes."</p> - -<p>A doubt whether it would be sufficient crept over her the instant she -had agreed, and she wished she had declined the offer. To call him -back, however, was beyond her; and when he returned it was with the -ticket.</p> - -<p>"Name and address?"</p> - -<p>New to the requirements of a pawnbroker, she stammered the true one, -convinced that the woman with the bundle would overhear and remember. -Even then she was dismayed to find the transaction wasn't concluded; -he asked her for a halfpenny, and, with the blood in her face, she -signified that she had no change. At last though, she was free to -depart, with a handful of silver and coppers; and guiltily transferring -the money to her purse when the shop was well behind, she reverted to -routine.</p> - -<p>It was striking five when she mounted to the attic, and she saw that -Mrs. Shuttleworth, with the punctuality peculiar to cheap landladies -when the lodger is out, had already brought up the tray. On the plate -was her bill; she snatched at it anxiously, and was relieved to find it -ran thus:</p> - -<div class="center"> -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left">s.</td><td align="right">d.</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">Bred</td><td align="left">1</td><td align="right">2</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">Butter....</td><td></td><td align="left">10</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">Milk</td><td></td><td align="right">3</td><td align="left">1/2</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">Tea</td><td></td><td align="right">6</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">Oil</td><td></td><td align="right">2</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">Shuger....</td><td></td><td align="right">2</td><td align="left">1/2</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">To room til next Wensday</td><td align="left">5</td><td align="right">0</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left">8</td><td align="right">2</td></tr> -</table></div> - -<p>So far, then, she had been equal to emergencies, and another week's -shelter was assured. The garret began to assume almost an air of -comfort, refined by her terror of losing it. When she reflected that -the week divided her from actual starvation, she cried that she must -find something to do—she must! Then she realised that she could -find it no more easily because it was a case of "must" than if it -had been simply expedient, and the futility of the feminine "must," -when she was already doing all she could do, served to accentuate her -helplessness. She prayed passionately, without being able to feel much -confidence in the efficacy of prayer, and told herself that she did -not deserve that God should listen to her, because she was guilty, and -sinful, and bad. She did not seek consolation in repeating that it was -always darkest before dawn, nor strive to fortify herself with any -other of the aphorisms belonging to the vocabulary of sorrow for other -people. The position being her own, she looked it straight in the eyes, -and admitted that the chances were in favour of her being very shortly -without a bed to lie on.</p> - -<p>Each night she came a few pence nearer to the end; each night now she -sat staring from the window, imagining the sensations of wandering -homeless. And at last the day broke—a sunless and chilly day—when she -rose and went out possessed of one penny, without any means of adding -to it. This penny might be reserved to diminish the hunger that would -seize her presently, or she might give herself a final chance among the -newspapers. Having breakfasted, she decided on the final chance.</p> - -<p>As she turned the pages her hands trembled, and for a second the -paragraphs swam together. The next instant, standing out clearly from -the sea of print, she saw an advertisement like the smile of a friend:</p> - -<p>"Useful Companion wanted to elderly lady; one with some experience of -invalids preferred. Apply personally, between 3 and 5, 'Trebartha,' N. -Finchley."</p> - -<p>If it had been framed for her, it could hardly have suited her better. -The wish for personal application was itself an advantage, for in -conversation, she felt, the obstacle of having no references could be -surmounted with far less trouble than by letter. A string of frank -allusions to the difficulty, a dozen easy phrases, leapt into her -mind, so that, in fancy, the interview was already in progress, and -terminating with pleasant words in the haven of engagement.</p> - -<p>She searched no further, and it was not till she was leaving that she -remembered the miles that she would have to walk. To start so early, -however, would be useless, so on second thoughts she determined to pass -the morning where she was.</p> - -<p>She was surprised to discover that she was not singular in this -decision, and she wondered if all; the clients that stayed so long had -anywhere else to go. Many of them never turned a leaf, but sat at the -table dreamily eyeing a journal; as if they had forgotten that it was -there. She; watched the people coming in, noting the unanimity with -which they made for the advertisement-sheets first, and speculating as -to the nature of the work they sought.</p> - -<p>There was a woman garbed in black, downcast and precise; she was a -governess, manifestly. Once, when she had been young, and insolent with -the courage of youth, she would have mocked a portrait looking as she -looked now; there was little enough mockery left in her this morning. -She quitted the "dailies" unrewarded, and proceeded to the table, her -thin-lipped mouth set a trifle harder than before. A girl with magenta -feathers in her hat bounced in, tracing her way down the columns -with a heavy fore-finger, and departing nonchalantly with a blotted -list. This was a domestic servant, Mary understood. A shabby man of -sinister expression covered an area of possibilities: a broken-down -tutor perhaps, a professional man gone to the bad. He looked like -Mephistopheles in the prompter's clothes, she thought, contemplating -him with languid curiosity. The reflections flitted across the central -idea while she sat nervously waiting for the hours to pass, and when -she considered it was time at last, she asked the newsagent in which -direction Finchley lay. She omitted to mention that she had to walk -there, but she obtained sufficient information about a tram-route to -guide her up to Hampstead Heath, where of course she could inquire -again.</p> - -<p>The sun gave no promise of shining, and a bleak wind, tossing the -rubbish of the gutters into little whirlpools, made pedestrianism -exceedingly unpleasant. She was dismayed to find on how long a journey -she was bound; she arrived at the tram-terminus already tired, and then -learnt that she was not half-way to Finchley. It was nothing but a name -to her, and steadily trudging along a road that extended itself before -her eternally she began to fear that she would never reach her goal at -all. To add to the discomfort, it was snowing slightly now, and she -grew less sanguine with every hundred yards. The vision of the smiling -lady, the buoyancy of her own glib sentences, faded from her, and the -thought of the utter abjectness that would come of refusal made the -salvation of acceptance appear much too wonderful to occur.</p> - -<p>When she reached it, "Trebartha" proved to be a stunted villa in red -brick. It was one of a row, each of the other stunted villas being -similarly endowed with a name befitting, a domain; and suspense -catching discouragement from the most extraneous details, Mary's heart -sank as the housemaid disclosed the badly-lighted passage.</p> - -<p>She was ushered into the sitting-room; and the woman who entered -presently had been suggested by it. She seemed the natural complement -of the haggard prints, of the four cumbersome chairs in a line against -the wall, of the family Bible on the crochet tablecover. She wore silk, -dark and short—plain, except for three narrow bands of velvet at the -hem. She wore a gold watch-chain hanging round her neck, garlanded -over her portly bosom. She said she was the invalid lady's married -daughter, and her tone implied a consciousness of that higher merit -which the woman whose father has left her comfortably off feels over -the woman whose father hasn't.</p> - -<p>"You've called about my mother's advertisement for a companion?" she -said.</p> - -<p>"Yes; I've had a long experience of nursing. I think I should be able -to do all you require."</p> - -<p>"Have you ever lived as companion?"</p> - -<p>"No," said Mary, "I have never done that, but—but I think I'm -companionable; I don't think I'm difficult to get on with."</p> - -<p>"What was your—won't you sit down?—what was your last place?"</p> - -<p>Mary moistened her lips.</p> - -<p>"I am," she said, "rather awkwardly situated. I may as well tell you -at once that I am a stranger here, and—do you know—I find that's -a great bar in the way of my getting employment? Not being known, -I've, of course, no friends I can refer people to, and—well, people -always seem to think the fact of being a stranger in a city is rather -a discreditable thing. I have found that! They do." She looked for a -gleam of response in the stolid countenance, but it was as void of -expression as the furniture. "As I say, I have had a lengthy experience -of nursing; I—it sounds conceited—but I should be exceedingly -useful. It's just the thing I am fitted for."</p> - -<p>The married daughter asked: "You have been a nurse, you say? But not -here?"</p> - -<p>"Not here," said Mary, "no. Of course, that doesn't detract from——"</p> - -<p>"Oh, quite so. We've had several young women here already to-day. Do -I understand you to mean there is nobody at all you can give as a -reference?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, that unfortunately is so. I do hope you don't consider it an -insuperable difficulty? You know you take servants without 'characters' -sometimes when——"</p> - -<p>"I <i>never</i> take a servant without a 'character.' I have never done such -a thing in my life."</p> - -<p>"I did not mean you personally," said Mary, with hasty deprecation; "I -was speaking——"</p> - -<p>"I'm most particular on the point; my mother is most particular, too."</p> - -<p>"Generally speaking. I meant people do take servants without -'characters' occasionally when they are hard pushed."</p> - -<p>"Our own servants are only too wishful to remain with us. My mother has -had her present cook eight years, and the last one was only induced -to leave because a young man—a young man in quite a fair way of -business—made her an offer of marriage. She had been here even longer -than eight years—twelve I think it was, or thirteen. It was believed -at the time that what first attracted the young man's attention to her -was the many years that my mother had retained her in our household. -I'm sure there are no circumstances under which my mother 'd consent to -receive a young person who could give no proof of her trustworthiness -and good conduct."</p> - -<p>"Do you mean that you can't engage me? It—it's a matter of life and -death to me," exclaimed Mary; "pray let me see the lady!"</p> - -<p>"Your manner," said the married daughter, "is strange. Quite -authoritative for your position!" She rose. "You'll find it helpful to -be less haughty when you speak, less opinionated; your manner is very -much against you. Oh, my word! no violence, if you please, miss!"</p> - -<p>"Violence?" gasped Mary; "I'm not violent. It was my last hope, that's -all, and it's over. I wish you good-day."</p> - -<p>So much had happened in a few minutes—inside and out—that the roads -were whitening rapidly and the flutter of snow had developed into a -steady fall. At first she was scarcely sensible of it; the anger in -her heart kept the cold out, and carried her along in a semi-rush. -Words broke from her breathlessly. She felt that she had fallen from -a high estate; that the independence of her life with Carew had been -a period of dignity and power; that erstwhile she could have awed the -dull-witted philistine who had humbled her. "The hateful woman! Oh, -the wretch! To have to sue to a creature like that!" Well, she would -starve now, she supposed, her excitement spending itself. She would die -of starvation, like characters in fiction, or the people one read of -in the newspapers; the newspapers called it "exposure," but it was the -same thing; "exposure" sounded less offensive to the other people who -read about it, that was all. The force of education is so strong that, -much as she insisted on such a death, and close as she had approached -to it, she was unable to realise its happening to her. She told herself -that it must; the world was of a sudden horribly wide and empty; but -for Mary Brettan actually to die like that had an air of exaggeration -about it still. Pushing forward, she pondered on it, and the fact came -close; the sensation of the world's widening about her grew stronger. -She felt alone in the midst of illimitable space. There seemed nothing -around her, nothing tangible, nothing to catch at. O God! how tired she -was! she couldn't go on much further.</p> - -<p>The snow whirled against her in gusts, clinging to her hair, and -filling her eyes and nostrils. Exhaustion was overpowering her. And -still how many miles? Each of the benches that she passed was a fresh -temptation; and at last she dropped on one, too tired to stand, wet and -shivering, and shielding her face from the storm.</p> - -<p>She dropped on it like any tramp or stray. Having held out to the -uttermost, she did not know whether she would ever get up again—did -not think about it, and did not care. Her limbs ached for relief, and -she seized it on the high-road because relief on the high-road was the -only kind attainable.</p> - -<p>And it was while she cowered there that another figure appeared in the -twilight, the figure of a tall old man carrying a black bag. He came -smartly down a footpath, gazing to right and left as for something that -should be waiting for him. Not seeing it, he whistled, and Mary looked -up. A trap was backed from the corner of the road. Then the man with -the bag stared at her, and after an instant of hesitation, he spoke.</p> - -<p>"It's a dirty nicht," he said, "for ye tae be sittin' there. I'm -thinking ye're no' weel?"</p> - -<p>"Not very," she said.</p> - -<p>He inspected her undecidedly.</p> - -<p>"An' ye'll tak' your death o' cold if ye dinna get up, it's verra -certain. Hoots! ye're shakin' wi' it noo! Bide a wee, an' I'll put some -warmth intae ye, young leddy."</p> - -<p>Without any more ado, he deposited the bag at her side and opened it. -And, astonishing to relate, the black bag was fitted with a number of -little bottles, one of which he extracted, with a glass.</p> - -<p>"Is it medicine?" she asked wonderingly.</p> - -<p>"Medicine?" he echoed; "nae, it's nae medicine; it's 'Four Diamonds -S.O.P.' I'm gi'en ye. It's a braw sample o' Pilcher's S.O.P., ma -lassie; nothin' finer in the trade, on the honour o' Macpheerson! Noo -ye drink that doon; it's speerit, an' it'll dae ye guid."</p> - -<p>She took his advice, gulping the spirit while he watched her -approvingly. Its strength diffused itself through her in ripples of -heat, raising her courage, and yet, oddly enough, making her want to -cry.</p> - -<p>Mr. Macpherson contemplated the little bottle solemnly, shaking his -head at it with something that sounded like a sigh.</p> - -<p>"An' whaur may ye be goin'?" he queried, replacing the cork.</p> - -<p>"I am going to town," she answered. "I was walking home, only the -storm——"</p> - -<p>"Tae toon? Will ye no' ha'e a lift along o' me an' the lad? I'll drive -ye intae toon."</p> - -<p>"Have you to go there?" she asked, over-joyed.</p> - -<p>"There'd be th' de'il tae pay if I stayed awa'. Ay, I ha'e tae gang -there, and as fast as the mare can trot. Will ye let me help ye in?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," she said; "thank you very much."</p> - -<p>He hoisted her up. And she and her strange companion, accompanied by an -urchin who never uttered a word, made a brisk start.</p> - -<p>"I am so much obliged to you," she murmured, rejoicing; "you don't -know!"</p> - -<p>"There's nae call for ony obleegation; it's verra welcome ye are. I'm -thinkin' the sample did ye a lot o' guid, eh?"</p> - -<p>"It did indeed; it has made me feel a different woman."</p> - -<p>"Eh, but it's a gran' speerit!" said the old gentleman with reviving -ardour. "There's nae need to speak for it, an' that's a fact; your ain -tongue sings its perfection to ye as ye sup it doon. Ye may get ither -houses to serve ye cheaper, I'm no' denyin' that; but tae them that can -place the rale article there's nae house like Pilcher's. And Pilcher's -best canna be beaten in the trade. I ha'e nae interest tae lie tae -ye, ye ken; nor could I tak' ye in wi' the wines and speerits had I -the mind. There's the advantage wi' the wines and speerits; ye canna -deceive! Ye ha'e the sample, an' ye ha'e the figure—will I book the -order or will I no'?"</p> - -<p>"It's your business then, Mr.——?"</p> - -<p>"Will ye no' tak' my card?" he said, producing a large one; "there, put -it awa'. Should ye ever be in need, ma lassie, a line to Macpheerson, -care o' the firm——"</p> - -<p>"How kind of you!" she exclaimed.</p> - -<p>"No' a bit," he said; "ye never can tell what may happen, and whether -it's for yoursel' ye need it, or a recommendation, ye'll ken ye're -buying at the wholesale price."</p> - -<p>She glanced at him with surprise, and looked away again. And they -drove for several minutes in silence.</p> - -<p>"Maybe ye ken some family whaur I'd be likely tae book an order noo?" -remarked Mr. Macpherson incidentally. "Sherry? dae ye no' ken o' a -family requirin' sherry? I can dae them sherry at a figure that'll -tak' th' breath frae them. Ye canna suspect the profit—th' weecked -ineequitous profit—that sherry's retailed at; wi' three quotations tae -the brand often eno', an' a made-up wine at that! Noo, I could supply -your frien's wi' 'Crossbones'—the finest in the trade, on the honour -of Macpheerson—if ye happen tae ha'e ony who——"</p> - -<p>"I don't," she said, "happen to have any."</p> - -<p>"There's the family whaur ye're workin', we'll say; a large family -maybe, wi' a cellar. For a large family tae be supplied at the -wholesale figure——"</p> - -<p>"I am sorry, but I don't work."</p> - -<p>"Ye don't work, an' ye ha'e no frien's?" He peered at her curiously. -"Then, ma dear young leddy, ye'll no' think me impertinent if I ax ye -how th' de'il ye live?"</p> - -<p>The wild idea shot into her brain that perhaps he might be able to put -her into the way of something—somewhere—somehow!</p> - -<p>"I'm a stranger in London," she answered, "looking for -employment—quite alone."</p> - -<p>"Eh," said Mr. Macpherson, "that's bad, that's verra bad!"</p> - -<p>He whipped up the horse, and after the momentary comment lapsed into -reverie. She called herself a fool for her pains, and stared dumbly -across the melancholy fields.</p> - -<p>"Whauraboots are ye stayin'?" he demanded, after they had passed the -Swiss Cottage.</p> - -<p>She told him. "Please don't let me take you out of your way," she added.</p> - -<p>"Ye're no' verra far frae ma ain house," he declared. "Ye had best come -in an' warm before ye gang on hame. Ye are in nae hurry, I suppose?"</p> - -<p>"No, but——"</p> - -<p>"Oh, the mistress will nae mind it. Ye just come in wi' me!"</p> - -<p>Their conversation progressed by fits and starts till his domicile was -reached. Leaving the trap to the care of the boy, who might have been -a mute for any indication he had given to the contrary, Mr. Macpherson -led her into a parlour, where a kettle steamed invitingly on the hob.</p> - -<p>He was greeted by a little woman, evidently the wife referred to; and a -rosy offspring, addressed as Charlotte, brought her progenitor a pair -of slippers. His introduction of Mary to his family circle was brief.</p> - -<p>"'Tis a young leddy," he said, "I gave a lift to. But I dinna ken your -name?"</p> - -<p>"My name is Brettan," she replied. Then, turning to the woman: "Your -husband was kind enough to save me from walking home from Finchley, and -now he has made me come in with him."</p> - -<p>"It was a braw nicht for a walk," opined Macpherson.</p> - -<p>"I'm sure I'm glad to see you, miss," responded the woman in cheery -Cockney. "Come to the fire and dry yourself a bit, do!"</p> - -<p>The initial awkwardness was very slight, for Mary's experiences in -bohemia were serviceable here. The people were well-intentioned, too, -and, meeting with no embarrassment to hamper their heartiness, they -grew speedily at ease. It reminded the guest of some of her arrivals on -tour; of one in particular, when the previous week's company had not -left and she and Tony had traversed half Oldham in search of rooms, -finally sitting down with their preserver to bread-and-cheese in her -kitchen! It was loathsome how Tony kept recurring to her, and always in -episodes when he had been jolly and affectionate!</p> - -<p>"Your husband tells me he is in the wine business," she observed at the -tea-table.</p> - -<p>"He is, miss; and never you marry a man who travels in that line," -returned the woman, "or the best part of your life you won't know for -rights if you're married or not!"</p> - -<p>"He's away a good deal, you mean?"</p> - -<p>"Away? He's just home about two months in the year—a fortnight at the -time, that's what he is! All the rest of it traipsing about from place -to place like a wandering gipsy. Charlotte says time and again, 'Ma, -have I got a pa, or 'aven't I?'—don't yer, Charlotte?"</p> - -<p>"Pa's awful!" said Charlotte, with her mouth full of -bread-and-marmalade. "Never mind, pa, you can't help it!"</p> - -<p>"Eh, it's a sad pursuit!" rejoined her father gloomily. In the glow -of his own fireside Mary perceived with surprise that his enthusiasm -for "his wines and speerits" had vanished. "Awa' frae your wife an' -bairn, pandering tae th' veecious courses that ruin the immortal soul! -Every heart kens its ain bitterness, young leddy; and Providence in its -mysteerious wisdom never meant me for the wine-and-speerit trade."</p> - -<p>"Oh lor," said Charlotte, "ma's done it!"</p> - -<p>"It was na your mither," said Mr. Macpherson; "it's ma ain conscience, -as well ye ken! Dae I no' see the travellers themselves succumb tae th' -cussed sippin' and tastin' frae mornin' till nicht? There was Burbage, -I mind weel, and there was Broun; guid men both—no better men on th' -road! Whaur's Burbage noo—whaur's Broun?"</p> - -<p>"Fly away, Peter, fly away, Paul!" interpolated Charlotte.</p> - -<p>"Gone!" continued Mr. Macpherson, responding to his own inquiry -with morbid unction. "Deed! The Lord be praised, I ha'e the guid -sense tae withstand th' infeernal tipplin' masel'. Mony's the time, -when I'm talkin' tae a mon in the way o' business, ye ken, I turn -the damned glass upside down when he is na lookin'. But there's the -folk I sell tae, an' the ithers; what o' them? It's ma trade to -praise the evil—tae tak' it into the world, spreadin' it broadcast -for the destruction o' monkind. Eh, ma responsibeelity is awfu' tae -contemplate."</p> - -<p>"I'm sure, James, you mean first class," said the little woman weakly. -"Come, light your pipe comfortable, now, and don't worrit, there's a -good man!"</p> - -<p>The traveller waved the pipe aside.</p> - -<p>"There's a still sma' voice," he said, "ye canna silence wi' 'bacca; -ye canna silence it wi' herbs nor wi' fine linen. It's wi' me noo, -axin' queestions. It says: 'Macpheerson, how dae ye justeefy thy -wilfu' conduct? Why dae ye gloreefy the profeets o' th' airth above -thy speeritual salvation, mon? Dae ye no ken that orphans are goin' -dinnerless through thy eloquence, an' widows are prodigal wi' curses on -a' thy samples an' thy ways?' I canna answer. There are nichts when the -voice will na let me sleep, ye're weel aware; there are nichts——"</p> - -<p>"There are nights when you're most trying, James, I know."</p> - -<p>"Woman, it's the warnin' voice that comes tae a sinner in his -transgreession! Are there no' viseetations eno' about me, an' dae I -no' turn ma een frae them; hardenin' ma heart, and pursuin' ma praise -o' Pilcher's wi' a siller tongue? There was a mon are day at the -Peacock—a mon in ma ain inseedious line—an' he swilled his bottle -o' sherry, an' he called for his whusky-an'-watter, and he got up -on his feet speechify in', after the commercial dinner. 'The Queen, -gentlemen!' he cries, liftin' his glass; an' wi' that he dropped deed, -wi' the name o' the royal leddy on his lips! He was a large red mon—he -would ha' made twa o' me."</p> - -<p>He seemed to regard the circumference of the deceased as additionally -ominous. His arms were extended in representation of it, and he waved -them aloft as if to intimate that Charlotte might detect Nemesis in the -vicinity preparing for a swoop.</p> - -<p>"You take the thing too seriously," said Mary. "Nine people out of ten -have to be what they can, you know; it is only the tenth who can be -what he likes."</p> - -<p>The little woman inquired what her own calling was.</p> - -<p>"I am very sorry to say I haven't any," she answered. "I'm doing -nothing."</p> - -<p>There was a moment's constraint.</p> - -<p>"Unfortunately I know nobody here," she went on; "it's very hard to -get anything when there's no one to speak for you."</p> - -<p>"It must be! But, lor! you must bear up. It's a long lane that has no -turning, as they say."</p> - -<p>"Only there is no telling where the turning may lead; a lane is better -than a bog."</p> - -<p>"Wouldn't she do for Pattenden's?" suggested the woman musingly.</p> - -<p>"For whom?" exclaimed Mary. "Do you think I can get something? Who are -they?"</p> - -<p>"James?"</p> - -<p>"Pattenden's?" he repeated. "An' what; would she dae at Pattenden's?"</p> - -<p>"Why, be agent, to be sure—same as you were!"</p> - -<p>Mary glanced from one to the other with; anxiety.</p> - -<p>"Weel, noo, that isn't at a' a bad idea," said Mr. Macpherson -meditatively; "dae ye fancy ye could sell books, young leddy, on -commeession—a hauf-sovereign, say, for every order ye took? I'm -thinkin' a young woman micht dae a verra fair trade at it."</p> - -<p>"Oh yes," she replied; "I'm sure I could. Half a sovereign each one? -Where do I go? Will they take me?"</p> - -<p>"I dinna anteecipate ye'll fin' much deefficulty aboot them takin' ye: -they dinna risk onythin' by that! I'll gi'e ye the address. They are -publishers, and ye just ax for their Mr. Collins when ye go there; tell -him ye're wishful tae represent them wi' ane o' their publeecations. -If ye like I'll write your name on ane o' ma ain cards; an' ye can send -it in tae him."</p> - -<p>"Oh, do!" she said.</p> - -<p>"Ye must na imagine it's a fortune ye'll be makin'," he observed; "it's -different tae ma ain position wi' the wines an' speerits, ye ken: wi' -Pilcher's it's a fixed salary, an' Pilcher's pay ma expenses."</p> - -<p>"Pilcher's pay <i>our</i> expenses!" affirmed Charlotte the thoughtful.</p> - -<p>"They dae," acquiesced the traveller; "there's a sicht o' saving oot -o' sax-and-twenty shillin's a day tae an economical parent. But wi' -Pattenden's it's precarious; are week guid, an' anither week bad."</p> - -<p>"I am not afraid," said Mary boldly; "whatever I do, it is better than -nothing! I'll go there to-morrow, the first thing. Very many thanks; -and to you too, Mrs. Macpherson, for thinking of it."</p> - -<p>"I'm sure I'm glad I did; there's no saying but what you may be doing -first-rate after a bit. It's a beginning for you, any way."</p> - -<p>"That it is! But why can't the publishers pay a salary, the same as -your husband's firm?"</p> - -<p>"Ah! they don't; anyhow, not at the beginning. Besides, James has been -with Pilcher's ten years now; he wasn't earning so much when he started -with them."</p> - -<p>"'Spect one reason is because such a heap more people buy spirits than -books!" said Charlotte. "Pa!"</p> - -<p>"Eh, ma lassie?"</p> - -<p>"The lady's going to be an agent——"</p> - -<p>"Weel?"</p> - -<p>"Then, pa," said Charlotte, "won't we all drink to the lady's luck in a -sample?"</p> - -<p>"Ye veecious midget," ejaculated her father wrathfully, "are ye no' -ashamed tae mak' sic a proposeetion? Ye'll no' drink a sample, will ye, -young leddy?"</p> - -<p>"I will not indeed!" answered Mary.</p> - -<p>"No' but what ye're welcome."</p> - -<p>"Thanks," she said; "I will not, really."</p> - -<p>"Eh, but ye will, then," he exclaimed; "a sma' sample, ye an' Mrs. -Macpheerson! Whaur's ma bag?"</p> - -<p>In spite of her protestations he drew a bottle out, and the hostess -produced a couple of glasses from the cupboard.</p> - -<p>"Port!" he said. "The de'il's liquors a' o' them; but, if there's a -disteenction, maybe a wee drappie o' the 'Four Grape Balance' deserves -mon's condemnation least." His conflicting emotions delayed the toast -for some time. "The de'il's liquors!" he groaned again, fingering -the bottle irresolutely. "Eh, but it's the 'Four Grape Balance,'" he -murmured with reluctant admiration, eyeing the sample against the -light. "There! Ye may baith o' ye drink it doon! But masel', I wouldna -touch a drap. An' as for ye, ye wee Cockney bairn, if I catch ye -tastin' onything stronger a than tea in a' your days, or knowin' the -flavour o' the perneecious stuff it's your affleected father's duty tae -lure the unsuspeecious minds wi'—temptin' the frail tae their eternal -ruin, an' servin' the de'il when his sicht is on the Lord—I'll leather -ye!"</p> - -<p>Charlotte giggled nervously—Figaro-wise, that she might not be obliged -to weep; and Mrs. Macpherson, raising the glass to her lips, said -"Luck!"</p> - -<p>"Luck!" they all echoed.</p> - -<p>And Mary, conscious that the career would be no heroic one, was also -conscious she was not a heroine. "I am," she said to herself, "just a -real unhappy woman, in very desperate straits. So let me do whatever -turns up, and be profoundly grateful that anything can be done at all."</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3> - - -<p>The wealth of Messrs. Pattenden and Sons, which was considerable, was -not indicated by the arrangement of their London branch. A flight of -narrow stairs, none too clean, led to a pair of doors respectively -painted "Warehouse" and "Private"; and having performed the superfluous -ceremony of knocking at the former, Mary found herself in front of a -rough counter, behind which two or three young men were busily engaged -in stacking books. There were books in profusion, books in virginity, -books tempting and delightful to behold. Volume upon volume, crisp in -cover and shiny of edge, they were piled on the table and heaped on the -floor; and the young men handled them with as little concern as if they -had been grocery. Such is the force of custom.</p> - -<p>In response to her inquiry, her name and the card were despatched to -Mr. Collins by a miniature boy endowed with a gape that threatened to -lift his head off, and, pending the interview, she attempted to subdue -her nervousness.</p> - -<p>A man with a satchel bustled in, and made hurried reference to "Vol. -two of the <i>Dic</i>." and "The fourth of the <i>Ency</i>." Against the window -an accountant with a fresh complexion and melancholy mien totted up -columns.</p> - -<p>Seeing that everybody—the melancholy accountant not excepted—favoured -her with a gratified stare, she concluded that women were infrequently -employed here, and she trembled with the fear that her application -might be refused. She assured herself that the Scotsman would never -have spoken so confidently of a favourable issue if it had not been -reasonable to expect it, but the doubt having entered her head, it was -difficult to dispel. It occurred to her that she could astonish the -accountant by telling him that she was on the brink of destitution. The -perspiring young packers, sure of their dinners by-and-by, looked to -her individuals to be felicitated on their prosperity, and, luckless -as they were, it is a fact that a person's lot is seldom so poor but -that another person worse off can be found to envy it. The book-keeper -who has grown haggard in the firm's employ at a couple of pounds a -week is the envy of the clerk who lives on eighteen shillings, and the -wight who sweeps the office daily thinks how happy he would be in the -place of the clerk. The urchin who hawks matches in the rain envies the -sheltered office-boy, and the waif without coppers to invest envies the -match-seller. The grades of misery are so infinite, and the instinct of -envy is so ingrained, that when two vagrants crouched under a bridge -have tightened their belts to still the gnawings of their hunger, one -of the pair will find something to be envious of in the rags of the -outcast suffering at his side.</p> - -<p>Messrs. Pattenden's youngster reappeared, and, with a yawn so -tremendous that it eclipsed his previous effort, said:</p> - -<p>"Miss Brettan!"</p> - -<p>Mr. Collins was seated in a compartment just large enough to contain a -desk and two chairs. He signed Mary to the vacant one, and gave her a -steady glance of appreciation. A man who had risen to the position of -conducting the travelling department of a firm that published on the -subscription plan, he was something of a reader of temperament; a man -who had risen to the position by easy stages while yet young, he was -kindly and had not lost his generosity on the way.</p> - -<p>"Good-morning," he said; "what can I do for you?"</p> - -<p>"I want to represent you with one of your publications," she answered. -"Mr. Macpherson was good enough to offer me the introduction, and he -thought you would be able to arrange with me." The nervousness was -scarcely visible. She had entered well, and spoke without hesitancy, -in a musical voice. All these things Mr. Collins noted. Before she -had explained her desire he had wished that she might have it. The -book-agent is of many types, and skilful advertisements hinting at -noble earnings, without being explicit about the nature of the pursuit, -had brought penurious professional men and reduced gentlewomen on to -that chair time and again. But these applicants had generally cooled -visibly when the requirements of the vocation were insinuated; and here -was one, as refined as any of them, who came comprehending that she -would have to canvass, and prepared to do it! Mr. Collins nearly rubbed -his hands.</p> - -<p>"What experience have you had?"</p> - -<p>"In—as an agent? None. But I suppose with a fair amount of -intelligence that doesn't matter very much?"</p> - -<p>"Not at all." For once he was almost at a loss. As a rule it was he who -advocated the attempt, and the novice on the chair who grew reluctant.</p> - -<p>"I take it," said Miss Brettan, concealing rapture, "that the art of -the business is to sell books to people who don't want to buy them?"</p> - -<p>"Just so; tact, and the ability to talk about your specimen is what is -wanted. Always watch the face of the person you are showing it to and -don't look at the specimen itself. You must know that by heart."</p> - -<p>"Oh!"</p> - -<p>"Suppose you're showing an encyclopedia! As you turn over the plates, -you should be able to tell by his eyes when you have come to one that -illustrates a subject that he is interested in. Then talk about that -subject—how fully it is dealt with. See?"</p> - -<p>"I see."</p> - -<p>"If you think he looks like a married man and is old enough to have a -family, say how useful an encyclopedia is for general reference in a -household—how valuable it is for children when they are writing essays -and things."</p> - -<p>"Are you going to engage me for an encyclopedia?"</p> - -<p>He smiled.</p> - -<p>"You're in a hurry, Miss——"</p> - -<p>"Brettan. Am I in too much of a hurry?"</p> - -<p>"Well, you have to be patient, you know, with possible subscribers. If -<i>you</i> rush, <i>they</i> will, too, and the easiest reply to give in a hurry -is 'No.' I'm not sure about sending you out with the <i>Ency</i>.; after a -while, perhaps! How would you like trying a new work that has never -been canvassed, for a beginning?"</p> - -<p>"Would it be better?"</p> - -<p>"Yes; there's less in it to learn, and you needn't be afraid of -hearing, 'Oh, I have one already!'"</p> - -<p>"I didn't think of that. What is it, Mr. Collins?"</p> - -<p>He touched a bell, and told the boy to bring in a specimen of the -<i>Album</i>.</p> - -<p>"Four half-volumes at twelve and sixpence each," he said, turning -to her, "<i>The Album of Inventions</i>. It gives the history of all the -principal inventions, with a brief biography of the inventors. You want -to know who invented the watch—look it up under W; the telephone—turn -to T. It's a history of the progress of science and civilisation. 'The -origin of the inventions, and the voids they fill,' that's the idea. -Ah, here it is! Now look at that, and tell me if you think you could do -any good with it."</p> - -<p>She took a slim crimson-bound book from its case, and glanced through -it.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I certainly think I could," she said; "I should like to try, -anyhow."</p> - -<p>"Very well, you shall be the first agent to canvass the <i>Album</i> for us."</p> - -<p>"And how about terms?" she questioned.</p> - -<p>"The terms, Miss Brettan, ought to be to you in a very little while -about five or six pounds a week. You may do more; we have travellers -with us who are making their twenty. But for a start say five or six."</p> - -<p>"You mean that that would be my commencing salary?" she asked calmly.</p> - -<p>"No, not as salary," he said, carelessly too. "I mean your commissions -would amount to that." By his tone one might have supposed that -formality obliged him to distinguish between these sources of income, -but that it was practically a distinction without a difference. "On -every order you bring us for the Album we allow you half a guinea. -Saturdays you needn't go out—it's a bad day, especially to catch -professional men. But saying you make twelve calls five days a week, -and out of every dozen calls you book two orders, there is your five -guineas a week for you as regular as clockwork! I'll tell you what I'll -do: just give me a receipt for the specimen, and go home this morning -and study it. To-morrow come in to me again at ten o'clock. And every -day I'll make out a short list for you of people who've already been -subscribers of ours for some work or another—I can pick out addresses -that lie close together; and then you'll have the advantage of knowing -you're waiting on buyers, and not wasting your time."</p> - -<p>"Thank you very much," she said.</p> - -<p>"Here's the order-book. You see they have to fill up a form. Every one -you bring filled-in means half a guinea to you. You have no further -trouble—a deliverer takes the volumes round and collects the money. -Just get the order signed, and your responsibility is over. Is that all -right?"</p> - -<p>"That's all right."</p> - -<p>He rose and shook hands with her.</p> - -<p>"At ten o'clock," he repeated. "So long!"</p> - -<p>She descended the dirty stairs excitedly. The aspect of the world -had changed for her in a quarter of an hour. And to think, she -would never have dreamt of trying Pattenden's—never have heard of -the occupation—if she had not met Mr. Macpherson, had not gone to -Finchley, had not been so tired that, having parted with her last penny -at the news-room——</p> - -<p>The remembrance of her present penury rushed back to her. With five -guineas a week coming in directly, she had no money to go on with -in the meanwhile. To walk about the streets all day, without even a -biscuit between the scanty meals at home, would be impossible. She -questioned desperately what there remained to her to pawn—what she was -to do. Gaining her room, she eyed her little bag of linen forlornly; -she did not think she could borrow anything on articles like these, -neither could she spare any of them, nor summon the courage to put them -on a counter. Suddenly the inspiration came to her that there was the -bag itself. And at dusk she went out with it. This time the pawnbroker -omitted to inquire if she had a halfpenny; he deducted the cost of the -ticket from the amount of the loan. Taking the bull by the horns, she -next sought the landlady, and said that she would be unable to pay the -impending bill when it came up, but that she would pay that and the -next one together.</p> - -<p>"I've found work," she said, feeling like a housemaid. "If you wouldn't -mind letting it stand over——"</p> - -<p>Mrs. Shuttleworth dried her fingers on her apron, and agreed with less -hesitation than her lodger had feared.</p> - -<p>Convinced that her specimen was mastered—she had rehearsed two -or three little gusts of eulogy which she thought would sound -spontaneous—Mary now considered calling on the Macphersons to inform -them of the result of their suggestion. Reluctant to intrude, she had -half decided to write, but with her limited means, the stamp was an -object, and besides, she was uncertain of the number. She determined on -the visit.</p> - -<p>The door was opened by Charlotte, and hastily explaining the motive for -the call, Mary followed her inside. She found the parlour in a state of -confusion, and gathered from the trio in a breath that destiny, in the -form of Pilcher's, had ordered that Mr. Macpherson should be torn from -his family a week earlier than the severance had been anticipated.</p> - -<p>"He's going to Leeds to-morrow," exclaimed the little woman -distractedly, oppressed by an armful of shirts that fell from her one -by one as she moved; "and it wasn't till this afternoon we heard a word -about it. Oh dear! oh dear! how many's that, James?"</p> - -<p>"'Tis thirty-three," said the traveller, "an', as ye weel ken, it -should be thirty-sax! I canna see the use o' a body havin' thirty-sax -shirts if they can never be found."</p> - -<p>"I'm afraid I'm in the way," murmured Mary; "I just looked in to say -it's all satisfactory, and to tell you how much obliged I am. I won't -stop."</p> - -<p>"You're not in the way at all. You've got one on, James: that's -thirty-four! My dear, would you mind counting these shirts for me? I -declare my head's going round!"</p> - -<p>She held the bundle out to Mary feebly, and, dropping on to the -traveller's box, watched her with harassed eyes.</p> - -<p>"Pa has three dozen of 'em," said Charlotte with pride, "'cos of the -trouble of getting 'em washed when he goes about so much. I think, -though, you lose 'em on the road, pa."</p> - -<p>"It's a silly thought that's like ye," returned her parent shortly. -"Young leddy, what dae ye mak' it?".</p> - -<p>"There are only thirty-three here," replied Mary, struggling with a -laugh, "and—-and one is thirty-four!"</p> - -<p>"Thirty-three," exclaimed Mr. Macpherson, "and are is thirty-four! Twa -shirts missin', twa shirts at five and saxpence apiece wasted—lost -through repreheensible carelessness!" He sat down on the box by his -wife's side, and contemplated her severely. "Aweel," he said at last, -sociable under difficulties, "an' Collins was agreeable, ye tell me?"</p> - -<p>"He was very nice indeed."</p> - -<p>"Hoh!" he sighed, "ye will na mak' a penny by it. But the pursuit may -serve tae occupy ye!"</p> - -<p>"Not make a penny by it?" she ejaculated.</p> - -<p>"Don't you mind him," said his partner; "he's got the 'ump, that's -what's the matter with him!"</p> - -<p>"It may serve tae occupy your mind," repeated Mr. Macpherson -funereally; "'tis pleasant walkin' in the fine weather. Now mind ye, -'oman, I dinna leave withoot ma twa shirts. I canna banish them frae ma -memory."</p> - -<p>"Bless and save us, James, haven't I rummaged every drawer in the -place?"</p> - -<p>"I am for ever replenishing that thirty-sax, an' it is for ever short," -he complained; "will ye no' look in the keetchen?"</p> - -<p>She was absent some time on the quest, and Charlotte questioned Mary -about the details of her interview at Messrs. Pattenden's. She said she -knew that "Pa had been with them for several years," so the business -could not be so unprofitable as he had just pretended. Appealed to -for support, however, her pa sighed again, and it was obvious that he -was impelled towards an unusually pessimistic view of everything that -night. A brief reference to a "sink o' ineequity" was accepted as a -comment upon the "wine-and-speerit" trade, but he had nothing cheerful -to say of books, either; and, recognising the futility of attempting a -graceful retreat, the visitor got up abruptly and wished them good-bye. -Mrs. Macpherson joined her in the passage, without the shirts.</p> - -<p>"Good-night, miss," she murmured; "don't be down in the mouth. Have -plenty of cheek, and you'll get along like a house afire! As for me, -I'm going back to the kitchen and mean to stop there."</p> - -<p>At Mary's third step she called to her to come back.</p> - -<p>"Never," she added, "go and settle down with a traveller. You're -likely to fetch 'em, but don't do it!" She jerked her head towards the -parlour. "A good man, my dear, but his shirts were my cross from our -wedding-day!"</p> - -<p>Mary assured her that the warning should be borne in mind, and left -the little person wiping her brow. The remark about marrying, idle as -it was, distressed her. Last night too there had been a mention of -the possibility, and, knowing that she could never be any man's wife, -the suggestion shook her painfully. How she had wrecked her life, she -reflected, and for a man who had cared nothing for her!</p> - -<p>The assertion that he cared nothing for her was bitterer to her soul -than the knowledge that she had wrecked her life. To have a love -despised is always a keener torture to a woman than to a man; for -a woman surrenders herself less easily, thinks the more of what -she is bestowing, and counts the treasures at her disposal over and -over—ultimately for the sake of delighting in the knowledge of how -much she is going to give. If one of the pearls that she has laid so -reverently at her master's feet is left to lie there, she exonerates -him and accuses herself. But his caresses never quite fill the -unsuspected wound. If it happens that he neglects them all, then the -woman, beggared and unthanked, wonders why the sun shines, and how -people can laugh. Some women can take back a misdirected love, erase -the superscription, and address it over again. Others cannot. Mary -could not. She had lain in Seaton's arms and kissed him; pride bade her -be ashamed of the memory; her heart found food in it. It was all over, -all terrible, all a thing that she ought to shiver and revolt at. But -the depth of her devotion had been demonstrated by the magnitude of her -sin, and she was not able, because the sacrifice had been misprized, to -say, "Therefore, in everything except my misery, it shall be as if I -had never made it."</p> - -<p>She could not, continually as she put its fever from her, wrench the -tenderness out of her being, recall her guilt and forget its motive. -The sin of her life had been caused by her love, and, come weal, come -woe, come gratitude or callousness, a love that had been responsible -for such a thing as that was not a sentiment to be plucked out and -destroyed at the dictates of common-sense. It was not a thing that -Carew could kill with baseness. She could have looked him in the face -and sworn she hated him; she felt that, though that might not be quite -true, she could never touch his hand nor sit in a room with him again. -But neither her contempt for him nor for her own weakness could blot -out the recollection of the hours of passion, the years of communion, -when if one of them had said, "I should like," the other had replied, -"Say <i>we</i> should!"</p> - -<p>It was well for her that the exigencies of her situation were supplying -anxieties which to a great extent penned her thoughts within more -wholesome bounds. On the morrow her chief idea was to distinguish -herself on her preliminary expedition. Mr. Collins, true to his -promise, had prepared a list for her. The houses were all in the -neighbourhood of the Abbey, and mostly, he informed her, the offices -of civil engineers. He said civil engineers were a "likely class," the -principal objection to them being that they were "so beastly irregular -in their movements." When she had "worked Westminster," he added, he -would start her among barristers and clergy-men.</p> - -<p>"Come in, when you've done, and tell me how you've got on," he said -pleasantly. "I suppose you haven't a pocket large enough to hold your -specimen? Never mind! Keep it out of sight as much as you can when you -ask for people; and ask for them as if you were going to give them a -commission to build a bridge."</p> - -<p>She smiled confidently; and, allaying the qualms of peddlery with the -balm of prospective riches, on which she could advertise for other -employment should this prove very uncongenial, she proceeded to the -office marked "1."</p> - -<p>It was in Victoria Street, and the name of the gentleman upon whom -she was to intrude was painted, among a string of others, on a black -board at the entrance. She paused and inspected this board longer than -was necessary, so long that a porter in livery asked her whom she -wanted? She told him, "Mr. Gregory Hatch"; to which he replied, "Third -floor," evidently with the supposition that she would make use of the -lift. She profited by this supposition of his, and felt an impostor -to begin with. The name of "Gregory Hatch," with initials after it -which conveyed no meaning to her, confronted her on a door as the lift -stopped; and with a further decrease of ardour, she walked quickly in.</p> - -<p>There were several consequential young men acting as clerks behind a -stretch of mahogany, and, perceiving her, one of these lordly beings -lounged forward, and descended from his high estate sufficiently to -inquire, "What can I do for yer?" His bored and haughty glance took in -the specimen.</p> - -<p>"Is Mr. Hatch in?"</p> - -<p>"I'll see," drawled the youth; he looked suspiciously at the specimen -now, and it began to be cumbersome.</p> - -<p>"Er, what name?"</p> - -<p>"Miss Brettan."</p> - -<p>He strolled into the apartment marked "Private," and a sickening -certainty that, if she were admitted to it, the youth would be summoned -directly afterwards to eject her, made her yearn to take flight before -he reappeared. She was debating what excuse for a hurried departure she -could offer, when the door was re-opened and he requested her to "step -in, please."</p> - -<p>An old gentleman of preoccupied aspect was busy at a desk; he and she -were alone in the room.</p> - -<p>"Miss—Brettan?" he said interrogatively. "Take a chair, madam."</p> - -<p>He put his papers down, and waited, she was convinced, for his -commission for a bridge. She took the seat that he had indicated, -because she was too much embarrassed to decline it, and she immediately -felt that this was going to be regarded as an additional piece of -impertinence.</p> - -<p>"I have called," she stammered—in her rehearsals she had never -practised an introductory speech, and she abominated herself for the -omission—"I have called, Mr.——" his name had suddenly sailed away -from her—"with regard to a book I've been asked to show you by -Messrs. Pattenden. If you'll allow me——"</p> - -<p>She drew the specimen from the case and put it on the desk before him.</p> - -<p>She was relieved to find him much less astonished than she had -anticipated. He even fingered the thing tentatively, and she began to -collect her wits. To take it into her hands, however, and expatiate on -its merits leaf by leaf, was beyond her. She soothed her conscience by -remarking it was a very nice book, really.</p> - -<p>"It seems so," said the old gentleman. "<i>The Album of Inventions</i>, dear -me! A new work?"</p> - -<p>"Oh yes," she said, "new. It's quite new, it's quite a new work." She -felt idiotic to keep repeating how new it was, but she could not think -of anything else to say.</p> - -<p>"Dear me!" said the old gentleman again. He appeared to be growing -interested by the examination, and it looked within the regions of -possibility that he might give an order. Up to that moment all her -ambition had been to find herself in the street again without having -been abused.</p> - -<p>"The beauty of the work is," she said, "er—that it is so pithy. One so -often wants to know something that one has forgotten about something: -who thought of it, and how the other people managed before he did. I'm -sure, Mr. Pattenden, that if you——"</p> - -<p>"Hatch, madam—my name is Hatch!"</p> - -<p>"I beg your pardon," she said—"I meant to say 'Mr. Hatch.' I was going -to say that, if you care to take a copy of it, it is very cheap."</p> - -<p>"And what may the price be?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"It is in four volumes at twelve and sixpence," said Mary melodiously.</p> - -<p>"The four?"</p> - -<p>"Oh no—each! Thick volumes they are; do you think it's dear?"</p> - -<p>"No," he said; "oh no!—a very valuable book, I've no doubt."</p> - -<p>"Then perhaps you will give me an order for it?" she inquired, scarcely -able to contain her elation.</p> - -<p>"No," he said, still perusing an article, "I will not give an order for -it; I have so many books."</p> - -<p>She stared at him in blank disappointment while he read placidly to the -end of a page.</p> - -<p>"There," he said benevolently; "a capital work! It deserves to sell -largely; the publishers should be hopeful of it. The plates are bold, -and the matter seems to me of a high degree of excellence. The fault -I usually condemn in such illustrations is the mistake of making -'pictures' of them, to the detriment of their usefulness; clearness -is always the grand desideratum in an illustration of a mechanical -contrivance. With this, the customary blunder has been avoided; in -looking through the specimen I've scarcely detected one instance where -I would suggest an alteration. And, though I wouldn't promise"—he -laughed good-humouredly—"but what on a more careful inspection I might -be forced to temper praise with blame, I'm inclined, on the whole, to -give the book my hearty commendation."</p> - -<p>"But will you buy it?" demanded Miss Brettan.</p> - -<p>"No," said the old gentleman, "thank you; I never buy books—I have so -many. No trouble at all; I am very pleased to have seen it. Allow me!"</p> - -<p>He bowed her out with genial ceremony, and seemed to be under the -impression that he had conferred a favour.</p> - -<p>The next gentleman that she wanted to see was dead. Number 3 had gone -on a trial-trip; and two other gentlemen were out of town. Number 6, -on reference to her paper, proved to be a "Mr. Crespigny." His outer -office much resembled that of Mr. Hatch, and more supercilious young -men were busy behind a counter.</p> - -<p>She waited while her name was taken in to him. On Mr. Collins's theory, -this, the sixth venture, ought to result in half a guinea to her. She -had by now arranged a little overture, and was ready to introduce -herself in coherent phrases. Instead of her being admitted to the inner -room, however, Mr. Crespigny came out, in the wake of his clerk, and -it devolved upon her to explain her business publicly. He was a tall -man with a pointed beard, and he advanced towards her in interrogative -silence, flicking a cigarette. Her heart was thudding.</p> - -<p>"Good-morning," she said; "Messrs. Pattenden, the publishers, have -asked me to wait upon you with a specimen of a new work that——"</p> - -<p>Mr. Crespigny deliberately turned his back, and walked to the threshold -of the private office without a word. Regaining it, he spoke to the -hapless clerk.</p> - -<p>"Pshaw!" he exclaimed, "don't you know a book-agent yet when you see -one?"</p> - -<p>He slammed the door behind him, and, with a sensation akin to having -been slapped in the face, she hurried away. Her cheeks were hot; no -retort occurred to her even when she stood on the pavement. She <i>was</i> -a book-agent, a pest whose intrusion was always liable to be ridiculed -or resented according to the bent of the person importuned. Oh, how -hateful it was to be poor—"poor" in the fullest meaning of the term; -to be compelled to cringe to cads, and swallow insults, and call it -"wisdom" that one showed no spirit! An hour passed before she could -nerve herself to make another attempt; Mr. Crespigny had taken all the -pluck out of her. And when she repaired to Pattenden's her report was a -chronicle of failures.</p> - -<p>The exact answers obtained she had in many cases forgotten, and Mr. -Collins advised her to jot down brief memoranda of the interviews in -future, that he might be able to point out to her where her line of -conduct had been at fault.</p> - -<p>"Now, that set speech of yours was a mistake," he said. "What you want -to do at the start is to get the man's attention—to surprise him -into listening. Perhaps he has had half a dozen travellers bothering -him already, all trying for an order for something or another, and -all beginning the same way. Go in brightly. Don't let him know your -business till you've got the specimen open under his nose. Cry, 'Well, -Mr. So-and-So, here it is, out at last!' Say anything that comes into -your head, but startle him at the beginning. He may think you're mad, -but he'll listen from astonishment, and when you've woke him up you can -show him that you're not."</p> - -<p>"It's so awful," she said dejectedly.</p> - -<p>"Awful?" exclaimed Mr. Collins. "Do you know the great Napoleon was a -book-agent? Do you know that when he was a lieutenant without a red -cent he travelled with a work called <i>L'Histoire de la Révolution</i>? My -dear young lady, if you go to Paris you can see his canvasser's outfit -under a glass case in the Louvre, and the list of orders he succeeded -in collaring!"</p> - -<p>"I don't suppose he liked it."</p> - -<p>"He liked the money it brought in; and you'll like yours directly. You -don't imagine I expected you to do any good right off? I should have -been much surprised if you'd come in with any different account this -afternoon, I can tell you! No, no, you mustn't be disheartened because -you aren't lucky at the start; and as to that Victoria Street fellow -who was in a bad temper, what of him? He has to make his living, and -you have to make yours; remember you're just as much in your rights as -the man you're talking to when you make a call anywhere."</p> - -<p>"Very good," said Mary; "if you are satisfied, <i>I</i> am. I don't pretend -my services are being clamoured for. You may be sure I want to do well -with the thing. If, by putting my pride in my pocket, I can put an -income there too, I'm ready to do it."</p> - -<p>It became a regular feature of her afternoon visit at the publishers' -for Mr. Collins to encourage her with prophecies of good fortune; -and her anxiety was frequently assuaged by his consideration. On the -first few occasions when she returned with her notes of "Out; Out; -Doesn't need it; Never reads; Too busy to look," etc., she dreaded -the additional chagrin of being rebuked for incompetence; but Mr. -Collins was always complaisant, and perpetually assured her that she -was enduring only the disappointments inevitable to a beginner. In -his own mind he began to doubt her fitness for the occupation, but he -liked her, and knowing that, in the trade phrase, some orders "booked -themselves," he was willing to afford her the chance of making a trifle -as long as she desired to avail herself of it. They were terrible -days to Mary Brettan, wearing away without result, while her pitiful -store of cash grew less and less; and since each day was so drearily -long, it was amazing that a week passed so quickly. This is an anomaly -especially conspicuous to lodgers, and when her bill was due again she -beheld her landlady with despair.</p> - -<p>"Mrs. Shuttle worth," she said, "I have done nothing; I hoped to pay -you, and I can't. I'm not a cheat, though it looks like it; I am agent -for a firm of publishers, and I haven't earned a single commission." -Mrs. Shuttleworth scrutinised her grimly, and she held her breath. She -might be commanded to leave, and as omnibus fares were an item of her -expenditure now, no more than a shilling remained of the sum raised on -the handbag. "What do you say?" she faltered.</p> - -<p>"Well," said the other, "it's like this: I'm not 'ard and I don't -say as I'd care to go and turn a respectable girl into the streets, -for I know what I'd be doing. But I can't afford to lay out for your -breakfas' and your tea with never a farthing coming back for it. Keep -the room a bit, and the rent can wait; but I must ask you to get all -your meals outside till we're straight again."</p> - -<p>A lodger on sufferance; left with nothing to pawn, and possessed of a -shilling to sustain life till she gained an order for <i>The Album of -Inventions</i>, Mary toiled up staircases with the specimen. To economise -on remaining pounds may be managed with refinement; to be frugal -of the last silver is possible with decency; but to be reduced to -the depths of pence means a devilish hunger whose cravings cannot be -stilled for more than an hour at a time, and a weakness that mounts -from limbs to brain till the throat contracts, and the eyeballs ache -from exhaustion. However fatigued her fruitless expeditions might have -made her now, she went back to the publishing-house enduringly afoot, -grudging every halfpenny, husbanding the meagre sum with the tenacity -of deadly fear. The windows of the foreign restaurants with viands -temptingly displayed and tastefully garnished, the windows of the -English cook-shops, into which the meats were thrown, enchanted her -eye as she would never have believed that food could have the power to -do. She understood what starvation was; began to understand how people -could be brought to thieve by it, and exculpated them for doing so. -Without her clothes becoming abruptly shabby, the aspect of the woman -deteriorated from her internal consciousness. She carried herself -less confidently; she lost the indefinable air that distinguishes the -freight from the flotsam on the sea of life. Little things sent the -fact home to her. Drivers ceased to lift an inquiring fore-finger when -she passed a cab-rank, and once, when an address on her list proved to -be a private house, the servant asked her "Who from?" instead of "What -name?"</p> - -<p>Inch by inch she fought for the ground that was slipping under her, -affecting cheerfulness when the specimen was exhibited, and hiding -desperation when she restored it, a failure, to its case. The sight -of Victoria Street and its neighbourhood came to be loathsome to her. -Often her instructions took her on to different floors of the same -building day after day; and, fancying that the hall-porters divined why -she reappeared so often, she entered with the misgiving that they might -forbid her to ascend.</p> - -<p>It was no shock to her at last to issue from the lodging beggared. She -had felt so long that the situation was inevitable that she accepted -its coming almost apathetically. She faced the usual day, mounting the -flights of stairs, and drooping down them, a shade the weaker for the -absence of the pitiful breakfast. It was not until one o'clock that the -hopelessness of routine was admitted. Then, the prospect of the journey -to reach her room again was intimidating enough; she did not even -return to Pattenden's; she went slowly back and lay down on the bed, -managing to forget her hunger intermittently in snatches of sleep.</p> - -<p>Towards evening the pangs faded altogether. But incidents of years ago -recurred to her without any effort of the will, impelling her to cry -feebly at the recollection of some unkind answer that she had once -given, at a hurt expression that she saw again on her father's face. -During the night her troubles were reflected in her dreams, and at -morning she woke hollow-eyed.</p> - -<p>It was labour to her to dress. But she did not feel hungry, she felt -only dazed. She drank a glassful of water from the bottle on the -wash-hand-stand, and, driven to exertion by necessity, took her way to -the publishers', moving among the crowd torpidly, not acutely conscious -of her surroundings.</p> - -<p>Mr. Collins exclaimed at her appearance and strongly advised her to go -home and rest.</p> - -<p>"You don't look the thing at all," he said with genuine concern. "Stay -indoors to-day; you won't do any good if you're not well."</p> - -<p>She smiled wistfully at his idea that staying indoors would improve -matters.</p> - -<p>"I shan't be any better for not going out," she said. "Yes, give me the -list. Only don't expect me to come in and report; I shan't feel much -like doing that."</p> - -<p>He wrote a few names for her.</p> - -<p>"I shan't give you many to-day," he said. "Here are half a dozen; try -these!"</p> - -<p>"Thank you," said Mary; "I'll try these." She went down, and out into -the street once more. The rattle of the traffic roared in her ears; the -jam and jostle of the pavements confused her. She felt like a child -buffeted by giants, and could have lifted her arms, wailing to God to -let the end be now—to let her die quickly and quietly, and without -much pain.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h3>CHAPTER V</h3> - - -<p>On the third floor of a house in Delahay Street there used to be a room -which was at once sitting-room and "workshop." A blue plate here and -there over the mirror, the shabby arm-chair on the hearth, and a modest -collection of books on the wall, gave it an air of home. The long -white table, littered with plans and paints, before the window, and a -theodolite in the corner, showed that it served for office too.</p> - -<p>A man familiar with that interior had just entered the passage, and as -he began to ascend the stairs a smile of anticipated welcome softened -the rigidity of his face. He was a tall, loosely-built man, who was -generally credited with five more years than the two-and-thirty he had -really seen; a man who, a physiognomist would have asserted, formed -few friendships and was a stanch friend. Possibly it was the gauntness -of the face that caused him to appear older than he was, possibly its -gravity. He did not look as if he laughed readily, as if he saw much in -life to laugh at. He did not look impulsive, or emotional, or a man to -be imagined singing a song. He could be pictured the one cool figure -in a scene of panic with greater facility than participating in the -enthusiasm of a grand-stand. Not that you found his aspect heroic, but -that you could not conceive him excited.</p> - -<p>He turned the handle as he knocked at the door, and strode into the -room without awaiting a response. The occupant dropped his T-square -with a clatter, giving a quick halloa:</p> - -<p>"Philip! Dear old chap!"</p> - -<p>Dr. Kincaid gripped the outstretched hand.</p> - -<p>"How are you?" he said.</p> - -<p>Walter Corri pushed him into the shabby chair, and lounged against the -mantelpiece, smiling down at him.</p> - -<p>"How are you?" repeated Dr. Kincaid.</p> - -<p>"All right. When did you come up?"</p> - -<p>"Yesterday afternoon."</p> - -<p>"Going to stay long?"</p> - -<p>"Only a day or two."</p> - -<p>"Pipe?"</p> - -<p>"Got a cigar; try one!"</p> - -<p>"Thanks."</p> - -<p>Corri pulled out a chair for himself. "Well, what's the news?" he said.</p> - -<p>"Nothing particular; anything fresh with you?"</p> - -<p>"No. How's your mother?"</p> - -<p>"Tolerably well; she came up with me."</p> - -<p>"Did she! Where are you?"</p> - -<p>"Some little hotel. I'm charged with a lot of messages——"</p> - -<p>"That you don't remember!"</p> - -<p>"I remember one of them: you're to come and see her."</p> - -<p>"Thanks, I shall."</p> - -<p>"Come and dine to-night, if you've nothing on. We have a room to -ourselves, and——"</p> - -<p>"I'd like to. What are you going to do during the day?"</p> - -<p>"There are two or three things that won't take very long, but I was -obliged to come. What are <i>you</i> doing?"</p> - -<p>"I've an appointment outside at twelve; I shall be back in about an -hour, and then I could stick a paper on the door without risking an -independence."</p> - -<p>"You can go about with me?"</p> - -<p>"If you'll wait."</p> - -<p>"Good! Where do you keep your matches?"</p> - -<p>"Matches are luxuries. Tear up <i>The Times</i>!"</p> - -<p>"Corri's economy! Throw me <i>The Times</i>, then!"</p> - -<p>Kincaid lit his cigar to his satisfaction, and stretched his long legs -before the fire. Both men puffed placidly.</p> - -<p>"Well," said Corri, "and how's the hospital? How do you like it?"</p> - -<p>"My mother doesn't like it; she finds it so lonely at home by herself. -I thought she'd get used to it in a couple of months—I go round to -her as often as I can—but she complains as much as she did at the -beginning. She's taken up the original idea again, and of course it is -dull for her. And she's not strong, either."</p> - -<p>"No, I know."</p> - -<p>"Tell her I'm going to be a successful man by-and-by, Wally, and cheer -her up. It enlivens her to believe it."</p> - -<p>"I always do."</p> - -<p>"I know you do; whenever she's seen you, she looks at me proudly for -a week and tells me what a 'charming young man' Mr. Corri is—'how -clever!' The only fault she finds with you is that you haven't got -married."</p> - -<p>"Tell her that I have what the novelists call an 'ideal.'"</p> - -<p>"When did you catch it?"</p> - -<p>"Last year. A fellow I know married the 'Baby'—an adoring daughter -that thought all her family unique."</p> - -<p>"And——?"</p> - -<p>"My ideal is the blessing who is still unappropriated at twenty-eight. -She'll have discovered by then that her mother isn't infallible; that -her brothers aren't the first living authorities on wines, the fine -arts, horseflesh, and the sciences; and that the 'happy home' isn't -incapable of improvement. In fact, she'll have got a little tired of -it."</p> - -<p>"You've the wisdom of a relieved widower."</p> - -<p>"I have seen," said Corri widely. "The fellow, you know! Married -fellows are an awfully 'liberal education.' This one has been turned -into a nurse—among the several penalties of his selection. The -treasure is for ever dancing on to wet pavements in thin shoes and -sandwiching imbecilities between colds on the chest. He swears you may -move the Himalayas sooner than teach a girl of twenty to take care of -herself. He told me so with tears in his eyes. I mean to be older than -my wife, and she has got to be twenty-eight, so it's necessary to wait -a few years. I may be able to support her, too, by then; that's another -thing in favour of delay."</p> - -<p>"I'll represent the matter in the proper light for you on the next -occasion."</p> - -<p>"Do; it's extraordinary that every woman advocates matrimony for every -man excepting her own son."</p> - -<p>"She makes up for it by her efforts on behalf of her own daughter."</p> - -<p>"Is that from experience?"</p> - -<p>"Not in the sense you mean; I'm no catch to be chased myself; but I've -seen enough to make you sick. The friends see the ceremonies—I see the -sequels."</p> - -<p>"'There are worse occupations in this world than feeling a woman's -pulse.' But Yorick was an amateur! I should say a horrid profession, -in one way; it can't leave a scrap of illusion. What's a complexion to -a man who knows all that's going on underneath? I suppose when a girl -gives a blush you see a sort of chart of her muscles and remember what -produces it."</p> - -<p>"I knew a physician who used to say he had never cared for any woman -who hadn't a fatal disease," replied Kincaid; "how does that go with -your theory? She was generally consumptive, I believe."</p> - -<p>"Do you understand it?"</p> - -<p>"Pity, I dare say, first. Doctors are men."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I suppose they are; but somehow one doesn't think of them that -way. Between the student and the doctor there's such an enormous gap. -It's a stupid idea, but one feels that a doctor marries, as he goes to -church on Sunday—because the performance is respectable and expected. -Some professions don't make any difference to the man himself; you -don't think of an engineer as being different from anybody else; but -with Medicine——"</p> - -<p>"It's true," said Kincaid, "that hardly anybody but a doctor can -realise how a doctor feels; his friends don't know. The only writer who -ever drew one was George Eliot."</p> - -<p>"If you're a typical——"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I wasn't talking about myself; don't take me! When a man's -thoughts mean worries, he acquires the habit of keeping them to himself -very soon; that is, if he isn't a fool. It isn't calculated to make him -popular, but it prevents him becoming a bore."</p> - -<p>"Out comes your old bugbear! Isn't it possible for you to believe a -man's pals may listen to his worries without being bored?"</p> - -<p>"How many times?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, damn, whenever they're there!"</p> - -<p>"No," said Kincaid meditatively, "it isn't. They'd hide the boredom, of -course, but he ought to hide the worries. Let a man do his cursing in -soliloquies, and grin when it's conversation."</p> - -<p>"Would it be convenient to mention exactly what you do find it possible -to believe in?"</p> - -<p>"In work, and grit, and Walter Corri. In doing your honest best in -the profession you've chosen for the sake of the profession, not in -the hope of what it's going to do for you. You can't, quite—that's -the devil of it! Your own private ambitions <i>will</i> obtrude themselves -sometimes; but they're only vanity, when all's said and done—just -meant for the fuel. What does nine out of ten men's success do for -anyone but the nine men? Leaving out the great truths, the discoveries -that benefit the human race for all time, what more good does a man -effect in his success than he did in his obscurity? Who wants to see -him succeed, excepting perhaps his mother—who's dead before he does -it? Who's the better for his success? who does he think will be any -better off for it? Nobody but No. 1! Then, whenever the vanity's sore -and rubbed the wrong way, you'd have him go to his friends and take it -out of them. What a selfish beast!"</p> - -<p>"Bosh!" said Corri. "Oh, I know it isn't argument, but 'bosh!'"</p> - -<p>"My dear fellow——"</p> - -<p>"My dear fellow, you had a rough time of it yourself for any number of -years, and——"</p> - -<p>"And they've left their mark. Very naturally! What then?"</p> - -<p>"Simply that now you want to stunt all humanity in the unfortunate -mould that was clapped on <i>you</i>. You understand the right of every pain -to shriek excepting mental pain. You'd sit up all night pitying the -whimpers of a child with a splintered finger, but if a man made a moan -because his heart was broken, you'd call him a 'selfish beast'!"</p> - -<p>Kincaid ejected a circlet of smoke, and watched it sail away before he -answered.</p> - -<p>"'Weak,'" he said, "I think I should call that 'weak.' It was a very -good sentence, though, if not quite accurate. This reminds me of old -times; it takes me back ten years to sit in your room and have you -bully me. There's something in it, Corri; circumstances are responsible -for a deuce of a lot, and we're all of us accidents. I'm a bad case, -you tell me; I dare say it's true. You're a good chap to put up with -me."</p> - -<p>"Don't be a fool," said Corri.</p> - -<p>The "fool" stared into the coals, nursing his big knee. He seemed to -be considering his chum's accusation.</p> - -<p>"When I was sixteen," he said, still nursing the knee and contemplating -the fire, "I was grown up. In looking back, I never see any transition -from childhood to maturity. I was a kid, and then I was a man. I was -a man when I went to school; I never had larks out of hours; I went -there understanding I was sent to learn as much, and as quickly as I -could. Then from school I was put into an office, and was a man who -already had to hide what he felt; my people knew I wanted to make this -my profession, and they couldn't afford it. If I had let the poor old -governor see—well, he didn't see; I affected contentment, I said a -clerkship was 'rather jolly'! Good Lord! I said it was 'jolly'! The -abasement of it! The little hypocritical cur it makes of you, that -life, where a gape is regarded as a sign of laziness and you're forced -to hide the natural thing behind an account-book or the lid of your -desk; when the knowledge that you mustn't lay down your pen for five -minutes under your chief's eyes teaches you to sneak your leisure when -he turns his back, and to sham uninterrupted industry at the sound -of—his return. With the humbug, and the 'Yes, sirs,' and the 'No, -sirs,' you're a schoolboy over again as a clerk, excepting that in an -office you're paid."</p> - -<p>"My clerk has yet to come!" said Corri, grimacing.</p> - -<p>"Yes, he's being demoralised somewhere else. How I thanked God one -night when my father told me if I hadn't outgrown my desire he could -manage to gratify it! The words took me out of hell. But when I did -become a student I couldn't help being conscious that to study was an -extravagance. The knowledge was with me all the time, reminding me of -my responsibility—although it wasn't till the governor died that I -knew how great an extravagance it must have seemed to him. And I never -spreed with the fellows as a student any more than I had enjoyed myself -with the lads in the playground. Altogether, I haven't rollicked, -Corri. Such youth as I have had has been snatched at between troubles."</p> - -<p>"Poor old beggar!"</p> - -<p>Kincaid smiled quickly.</p> - -<p>"There's more feeling in 'you poor old beggar!' than in a letter piled -up with condolence. It's hard lines one can't write 'poor old beggar' -to every acquaintance who has a bereavement." The passion that had -crept into his strong voice while speaking of his earlier life to the -one person in the world to whom he could have brought himself to speak -so, had been repressed; his tone was again the impassive one that was -second-nature to him.</p> - -<p>"Believe me," he said, harking back after a pause, "that idea of the -medical profession, that 'respectable and expected' idea of yours, -is quite wrong. Oh, it isn't yours alone, it's common? enough; every -little comic paragraphist thinks himself justified in turning out a -number of ignorant jokes at the profession's expense in the course of -the year; every twopenny-halfpenny caricaturist has to thank us for a -number of his dinners. No harm's meant, and nobody minds; but people -who actually know something of the subject that these funny men are so -constant to can tell you that there's more nobility and self-sacrifice -in the medical profession than in any under the sun, not excepting the -Church. Yes, and more hardships too! The chat on the weather and the -fee for remarking it's a fine day isn't every medical man's life; the -difficulty is to get the fees in return for loyal attendance. Nobody's -reverenced like the family doctor in time of sickness. In the days of -their child's recovery the parents love the doctor almost as fervently -as they do the child; but the fervour's got cold when Christmas comes -and the gratitude's forgotten. And they know a doctor can't dun them; -so he has to wait for his account and pretend the money's of no -consequence when he bows to them, though the butcher and the baker and -the grocer don't pretend to <i>him</i>, but look for <i>their</i> bills to be -settled every week. I could give you instances——"</p> - -<p>He gave instances. Corri spoke of difficulties, too. They smoked their -cigars to the stumps, talking leisurely, until Corri declared that he -must go.</p> - -<p>"In an hour, then, I'll call back for you," said Kincaid; "you won't be -longer?"</p> - -<p>"I don't think so. But why not wait? You can make yourself comfortable; -there's plenty of <i>The Times</i> left to read."</p> - -<p>"I will. I want to write a couple of letters—can I?"</p> - -<p>"There's a desk! Have I got everything? Yes, that's all. Well, I'll be -as quick as I can, but if I <i>should</i> be detained I shall find you here?"</p> - -<p>"You'll find me here," said Kincaid, "don't be alarmed."</p> - -<p>The other's departure did not send him to the desk immediately, -however. Left alone, it was manifest how used the man had been to -living alone. It was manifest in his composure, in his deliberation, in -the earnestness he devoted to the task when at last he attacked it. He -had just reached the foot of the second page when somebody knocked at -the door.</p> - -<p>"Come in," he said abstractedly.</p> - -<p>The knock was repeated. It occurred to him that Corri had omitted to -provide for the contingency of a client's calling. "Come in!" he cried -more loudly, annoyed at the interruption.</p> - -<p>He glanced over his shoulder, and saw that the intruder was a woman, -with something in her hand.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Corri?"</p> - -<p>"Mr. Corri's not in," he replied, fingering the pen; "he'll be back -by-and-by."</p> - -<p>Mary lingered irresolutely. Her temples throbbed, and in her weakness -the sight of a chair magnetised her.</p> - -<p>"Shall I wait?" she murmured; "perhaps he won't be very long?"</p> - -<p>"Eh?" said Kincaid. "Oh, wait if you like, madam."</p> - -<p>She sank into a seat mutely. The response had not sounded encouraging, -but it permitted her to rest, and rest was what she yearned for now. -How indifferent the world was! how mercilessly little anybody cared -for anybody else! "Wait, if you like, madam"—go and die, if you like, -madam—go and lay your bones in the gutter, madam, so long as you -don't bother me! She watched the big hand hazily as it shifted to and -fro across the paper. The man probably had money in his pocket that -signified nothing to him, and to her it would have been salvation. He -lived in comfort while she was starving; he did not know that she was -starving, but how much would it affect him if he did know? She wondered -whether she could induce him to give an order for the book; perhaps he -was just as likely to order it as the other man? Then she would take a -cab back to Mr. Collins and ask him for her commission at once, and go -and eat something—if she were able to eat any longer.</p> - -<p>She roused herself with an effort, and crossed the room to where he sat.</p> - -<p>"I came to see Mr. Corri from Messrs. Pattenden," she faltered, "about -a new work they're publishing. I've brought a specimen. If I am not -disturbing you——?"</p> - -<p>She put it down as she spoke, and stood a pace or two behind him, -watching the effect.</p> - -<p>"Is this woman very nervous?" said Kincaid to himself. "So she's a -book-agent! I thought she had something to sell. Good Lord, what a -life!"</p> - -<p>"Thanks," he answered. "I'm very busy just now, and I never buy my -books on the subscription plan."</p> - -<p>"You could have it sent in to you when it's complete," she suggested.</p> - -<p>He drummed his fingers on the title-page. "I don't want it."</p> - -<p>"Perhaps Mr. Corri——?"</p> - -<p>"I can't speak for Mr. Corri; but don't wait for him, on my advice. I'm -afraid it would be patience wasted."</p> - -<p>He shut the <i>Album</i> up, intimating that he had done with it. But the -woman made no movement to withdraw it, and he invited this movement by -pushing the thing aside. He drew the blotting-pad forward to resume -his letter; and still she did not remove her obnoxious specimen from -the desk. He was beginning to feel irritated.</p> - -<p>"If you choose to wait, madam, take a seat," he said.... "I say -take——"</p> - -<p>He turned, questioning her continued silence, and sprang to his feet -in dismay. The book-agent's head was lolling on her bosom; and his -arm—extended to support her—was only out in time to catch her as she -fell.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h3>CHAPTER VI</h3> - - -<p>"Now," said Kincaid, when she opened her eyes, "what's the matter with -you? No nonsense; I'm a doctor; you mustn't tell lies to me! What's the -matter with you?"</p> - -<p>There are some things a woman cannot say; this was one of them.</p> - -<p>"You're very exhausted?"</p> - -<p>"Oh," she said weakly, "I—just a little."</p> - -<p>"When had you food last?"</p> - -<p>She gave no answer. He scrutinised her persistently, noting her -hesitation, and shot his next question straight at the mark.</p> - -<p>"Are you hungry?"</p> - -<p>The eyes closed again, and her lips quivered.</p> - -<p>"Boor!" he said to himself, "she's starving, and you wouldn't buy her -book. Beast! she's starving, and you tried to turn her out."</p> - -<p>But his sympathy was hardly communicated by his voice; indeed, in her -shame she thought him rather rough.</p> - -<p>"You stop here a minute," he continued; "don't you go and faint again, -because I forbid it! I'm going to order a prescription for you. Your -complaint isn't incurable—I've had it myself."</p> - -<p>He left her in quest of the housekeeper, whom he interrogated on the -subject of eggs and coffee. A shilling brightened her wits.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Corri's room; hurry!"</p> - -<p>His patient was sitting in the arm-chair when he went back; he saw -tear-stains on her cheek, though she turned away her face at his -approach.</p> - -<p>"The prescription's being made up," he said. "Would you like the window -shut again? No? All right, we'll keep it open. Don't talk if you'd -rather not; there's no need—I know all you want to say."</p> - -<p>He ignored her ostentatiously till the tray appeared, and then, -receiving it at the doorway, brought it over to her himself.</p> - -<p>"Come," he said, "try that—slowly."</p> - -<p>"Oh!" she murmured, shrinking.</p> - -<p>"Don't be silly; do as I tell you! There's nothing to be bashful about; -I know you're not an angel—your having an appetite doesn't astonish -me."</p> - -<p>"How good you are!" she muttered; "what must you think of me?"</p> - -<p>"Eat," commanded Kincaid; "ask me what I think of you afterwards."</p> - -<p>She was evidently in no danger of committing the mistake that he had -looked for—his difficulty was, not to restrain, but to persuade her; -nor was her reluctance the outcome of embarrassment alone.</p> - -<p>"It has gone," she said, shaking her head; "I am really not hungry now."</p> - -<p>He encouraged her till she began. Then he retired behind the newspaper, -to distress her as little as might be by his presence. At the end of a -quarter of an hour he put <i>The Times</i> down. The eggshells were empty, -and he stretched himself and addressed her:</p> - -<p>"Better?"</p> - -<p>"Much better," she said, with a ghost of a smile.</p> - -<p>"Have you been having a long experience of this sort of thing?"</p> - -<p>"N—no," she returned nervously, "not very."</p> - -<p>He caressed his moustache; she was ceasing to be a patient and becoming -a woman, and he didn't quite know what he was to do with her. Somehow, -despite her situation, the offer of a sovereign looked as if it would -be coarse. Mary divined his dilemma, and made as if to rise.</p> - -<p>"Sit down," he said authoritatively. "When you're well enough to go -I'll tell you; till I do, stay where you are!"</p> - -<p>She felt that she ought to say something, proffer some explanation, but -she was at a loss how to begin. There was a pause. And then:</p> - -<p>"Is there any likelihood of this business of yours improving?" inquired -Kincaid. "Suppose you were able to hold out—is there anything to look -forward to?"</p> - -<p>"No," she said; "I don't think there is. I'm afraid I am no use at it."</p> - -<p>"Was it an attractive career, that you made the attempt?"</p> - -<p>"Not in the least; but it was a chance."</p> - -<p>"I see!"</p> - -<p>He saw also that she was a gentlewoman fitted for more refined -pursuits. How had she reached this pass? he wondered. Would she -volunteer the information, or should he ask her? He failed to perceive -what assistance he could render if he knew; yet if he did not help her -she would go away and die, and he would know that she was going away to -die as he let her out.</p> - -<p>"I was introduced to the firm by a very old connection of theirs. I -couldn't find anything to do, and he fancied that as I was—well, that -as I was a lady—it sounds rather odd under the circumstances to speak -of being a lady, doesn't it——?"</p> - -<p>"I don't see anything odd about it," he said.</p> - -<p>"He fancied I might do rather well. But I think it's a drawback, on the -contrary. It's not easy to me to decline to take 'No' for an answer; -and nobody can do any good at work she's ashamed of."</p> - -<p>"But you shouldn't be ashamed," he said; "it's honest enough."</p> - -<p>"That's what the manager tells me. Only when la woman has to go into a -stranger's office and bother him, and be snubbed for her pains, the -honesty doesn't prevent her feeling uncomfortable. You must have found -me a nuisance yourself."</p> - -<p>"I'm afraid I was rather brusque," he said quickly. "I was busy; I hope -I wasn't rude?"</p> - -<p>Her colour rose.</p> - -<p>"I didn't mean that at all," she stammered; "I shouldn't be very -grateful to remind you of it even if you had been!"</p> - -<p>"I should have thought a book of that sort would have been tolerably -easy to sell. It's a useful work of reference. What's the price?"</p> - -<p>"Two pounds ten altogether. It isn't dear, but people won't buy it, all -the same."</p> - -<p>"Yes, it's got up well," he said, taking it from the desk and turning -the leaves. "How many volumes, did you say?"</p> - -<p>"Four."</p> - -<p>She made a little tentative movement to recover it, but he went on as -if the gesture had escaped him.</p> - -<p>"If it's not too late I'll change my mind and subscribe for a copy. Put -my name down, please, will you?"</p> - -<p>She clasped her hands tightly in her lap.</p> - -<p>"No," she said, "thank you, I'd rather not."</p> - -<p>"Why?"</p> - -<p>"You don't want the book, I know you don't. You've fed me and done -enough for me already; I won't take your money too; I can't!"</p> - -<p>Her bosom began to swell tempestuously. He saw by the widened eyes -fixed upon the fire that she was struggling not to cry again.</p> - -<p>"There," he said gently, "don't break down! Let's talk about something -else."</p> - -<p>"Oh!"—she sneaked a tear away—"I'm not used ... don't think——"</p> - -<p>"No, no," he said, "<i>I</i> know, <i>I</i> understand. Poke it for me, will you? -let's have a blaze."</p> - -<p>She took the poker up, and prolonged the task a minute while she hung -her head.</p> - -<p>Remarked Kincaid:</p> - -<p>"It's awful to be hard up, isn't it? I've been through all the stages; -it's abominable!"</p> - -<p>"<i>You</i> have?"</p> - -<p>"Oh yes; I know all about it. So I don't tell you that 'money's the -least thing.' Only people who have always had enough say that."</p> - -<p>"One wants so little in the world to relieve anxiety," she said; "it -does seem cruel that so few can get enough for ease."</p> - -<p>"What do you mean by 'ease'?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I should call employment 'ease' now."</p> - -<p>"Did you ask for more once, then?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I used to be more foolish. 'Experience teaches fools.'"</p> - -<p>"No, it doesn't," said Kincaid. "Experience teaches intelligent people; -fools go on blundering to the end. 'Once——?' I interrupted you."</p> - -<p>"Well, it used to mean a home of my own, and relations to care for me, -and money enough to settle the bills without minding if they came to -five shillings more than I had expected. It's a beautiful regulation -that the less we have, the less we can manage with. But the horse -couldn't live on the one straw."</p> - -<p>"How did you come to this?" asked Kincaid; "couldn't you get different -work before the last straw?"</p> - -<p>"If you knew how I tried! I haven't any friends here; that was my -difficulty. I wanted a situation as a companion, but I had to give the -idea up at last, and it ended in my going to Pattenden's. Don't think -they know! I mean, don't imagine they guess the straits I'm in: that -would be unfair. They have been very kind to me."</p> - -<p>"You've never been a companion, I suppose?"</p> - -<p>"No; but I hoped, for all that. Everything has to be done for the first -time; every adept was a novice once.".</p> - -<p>"That's true, but there are so many adepts in everything to-day that -the novices haven't much chance."</p> - -<p>"Then how are they to qualify?"</p> - -<p>"That's the novices' affair. You can't expect people to pay -incompetence when skilled labour is loafing at the street corners."</p> - -<p>"I expect nothing," she answered; "my expectations are all dead and -buried. We've only a certain capacity for expectation, I think; under -favourable conditions it wears well and we say, 'While there's life -there's hope;' but; when it's strained too much, it gives out."</p> - -<p>"And you drift without a fight in you?"</p> - -<p>"A woman can't do more than fight till she's beaten."</p> - -<p>"She shouldn't acknowledge to being beaten."</p> - -<p>"Theory!" she said between her teeth; "the breakfast-tray is fact!"</p> - -<p>"What do you reckon is going to become of; you?"</p> - -<p>"I don't anticipate at all."</p> - -<p>"Oh, that's all rubbish! Answer straight!"</p> - -<p>"I shall starve, then," she said.</p> - -<p>"Sss! You know it?"</p> - -<p>"I know it, and I'm resigned to it. If I weren't resigned to it, it -would be much harder. There's nothing that can happen to provide -for me; there isn't a soul in the world I can—'will,' to be -accurate—appeal to for help. You've delayed it a little by your -kindness, but you can't prevent its coming. Oh, I've hoped and -struggled till I am worn out!" she went on, her; voice shaking. "If -there were a prospect, I could rouse myself, weak as I am, to reach -it; but there isn't a prospect, not the glimmer of a prospect! I'm not -cowardly; I'm only rational. I admit what is; I've finished duping -myself."</p> - -<p>She could express her despair, this woman; she had education and -manner. He contemplated her attentively; she interested him.</p> - -<p>"You speak like a fatalist, for all that," he said to her.</p> - -<p>"I speak like a woman who has reached the lowest rung of destitution -and been fed on charity. I——Oh, don't, <i>don't</i> keep forcing me to -make a child of myself like this; let me go! Perhaps you're quite -right—things 'll improve."</p> - -<p>"You shall go presently; not yet—not till I say you may."</p> - -<p>There was silence between them once more. He lay back, with his hands -thrust deep into his trouser-pockets, and his feet crossed, pondering.</p> - -<p>"You weren't brought up to anything, of course?" he said abruptly. -"Never been trained to anything? You can't do anything, or make -anything, that has any market value?"</p> - -<p>"I lived at home."</p> - -<p>"And now you're helpless! What rot it is! Why didn't your father teach -you to use your hands?"</p> - -<p>"I think you said you were a doctor?" she returned, lifting her head.</p> - -<p>"Eh? Yes, my name is 'Kincaid.'"</p> - -<p>"My father was Dr. Anthony Brettan; he never expected his daughter to -be in such want."</p> - -<p>"You don't say so—your father was one of us? I'm glad to make your -acquaintance. Is it 'Miss Brettan'?"</p> - -<p>She nodded, warming with an impulse to go further and cry, "Also I have -been a nurse: you are a doctor, can't you get me something to do?" -But if she did, he would require corroboration, and, in the absence -of her certificate, institute inquiries at the hospital; and then the -whisper would circulate that "Brettan was no longer living with her -husband"—they would soon ascertain that he had not died—and from -that point to the truth would be the veriest step. "Never married at -all—the disgrace! Of course, an actor, but fancy <i>her</i>!" She could see -their faces, the astonishment of their contempt. Narrow circle as it -was, it had been her world—she could not do it!</p> - -<p>"But surely, Miss Brettan," he said, "there must be someone who -can serve you a little—someone who can put you in the way of an -occupation?"</p> - -<p>Immediately she regretted having proclaimed so much as she had.</p> - -<p>"My father lived very quietly, and socially he was hardly a popular -man. For several reasons I wouldn't like my distress to be talked about -by people who knew him."</p> - -<p>"Those people are your credentials, though," he urged; "you can't -afford to turn your back on them. If you'll be guided by advice, you -will swallow your pride."</p> - -<p>"I couldn't; I made the resolve to stand alone, and I shall stick to -it. Besides, you are wrong in supposing that any one of them would -exert himself for me to any extent; my father did not have—was not -intimate enough with anybody."</p> - -<p>A difficult woman to aid, thought Kincaid pityingly. A notion had -flashed across his mind, at her reference to the kind of employment she -had desired, and the announcement of her parentage was strengthening -it; but there must be something to go upon, something more than mere -assertion.</p> - -<p>"If a post turned up, who is there to speak for you?"</p> - -<p>"Messrs. Pattenden; I believe they'd speak for me willingly."</p> - -<p>"Anybody else?"</p> - -<p>"No; but the manager would see anyone who went to him about me, I'm -almost sure."</p> - -<p>"You need friends, you know," he said; "you're very awkwardly placed -without any."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I do know! To have no friends is a crime; one's helpless without -them. And a woman's helplessness is the best of reasons why no help -should be extended to her. But it sounds a merciless argument, -doctor—horribly merciless, at the beginning!"</p> - -<p>"It's a merciless life. Look here, Miss Brettan, I don't want to beat -about the bush: you're in a beastly hole, and if I can pull you out of -it I shall be glad—for your own sake, and for the sake of your dead -father. It's like this, though; the only thing I can see my way to -involves the comfort of someone else. You were talking about a place as -companion; I can't live at home now, and my mother wants one."</p> - -<p>"Doctor!"</p> - -<p>She caught her breath.</p> - -<p>"If I were to take the responsibility of recommending you, it's -probable she'd engage you; I think you'd suit her, but——Well, it's -rather a large order!"</p> - -<p>"Oh, you should never be sorry!" she cried. "You shall never be sorry -for trusting me, if you will!"</p> - -<p>"You see, it's not easy. It's not usual to go engaging a lady one meets -for the first time."</p> - -<p>"Why, you wouldn't meet anybody else oftener," she pleaded eagerly; -"if you advertised, you'd take the woman after the one interview. You -wouldn't exchange a lot of visits and get friendly before you engaged -her."</p> - -<p>He pulled at his moustache again.</p> - -<p>"But of course she wouldn't—wouldn't be starving," she added; "she -wouldn't have fainted in your room. It'd be no more judicious, but it -would be more conventional."</p> - -<p>"You argue neatly," he said with a smile.</p> - -<p>The smile encouraged her. She smiled response. He could not smile if he -were going to refuse her, she felt.</p> - -<p>"Dr. Kincaid——"</p> - -<p>"One minute," he said; "I hear someone coming, I think. Excuse me!"</p> - -<p>It was Corri; he met him as he turned the handle, and drew him outside.</p> - -<p>"There's a woman in there," he said, "and a breakfast-tray. Come down -on to the next landing; I want to speak to you."</p> - -<p>"What on earth——" said Corri. "Are you giving a party? What do -you mean by a woman and a breakfast-tray? Did the woman bring the -breakfast-tray?"</p> - -<p>"No, she brought a book. It's serious."</p> - -<p>They leant over the banisters conferring, while Mary, in the arm-chair, -remained trembling with suspense. The vista opened by Kincaid's words -had shown her how tenaciously she still clung to life, how passionately -she would clutch at a chance of prolonging it. Awhile ago her one -prayer had been to die speedily; now, with a possibility of rescue -dangled before her eyes, her prayer was only for the possibility to be -fulfilled. Would he be satisfied, or would he send her away? Her fate -swung on the decision. She did not marvel at the tenacity; it seemed to -her so natural that she did not question it at all. Yet it is of all -things the oddest—the love of living which the most life-worn preserve -in their hearts. Every day they long for sleep, and daily the thought -of death alarms them—terrifies their inconsistent souls, though few -indeed believe there is a Hell, and everybody who is good enough to -believe in Heaven believes also that he is good enough to go to it.</p> - -<p>"O God," she whispered, "make him take me! Forgive me what I did; don't -let me suffer any more, God! You know how I loved him—how I loved him!"</p> - -<p>"Well," said Corri, on the landing, "and what are you going to do?"</p> - -<p>"I'm thinking," said Kincaid, "of letting my mother go to see her."</p> - -<p>"It's wildly philanthropic, isn't it?"</p> - -<p>"It looks wild, of course." He mused a moment. "But, after all, one -knows where she comes from; her father was a professional man; she's a -lady."</p> - -<p>"What was her father's name, again?"</p> - -<p>"Brettan—Anthony."</p> - -<p>"Ever heard it before?"</p> - -<p>"If there wasn't such a person, one can find it out in five minutes. -Besides, my mother would have to decide for herself. I should tell her -all about it, and if an interview left her content, why——"</p> - -<p>"Well," said Corri, "go back to the Bench and sum up! You'll find me on -the bed. By the way, if you could hand my pipe out without offending -the young lady, I should take it as a favour."</p> - -<p>"You've smoked enough. Wait! here's a last cigar; go and console -yourself with that!"</p> - -<p>Kincaid returned to the room; but he was not prepared to sum up at -the moment. Mary looked at him anxiously, striving to divine, by his -expression, the result of the consultation on the stairs. The person -consulted had been Mr. Corri, she concluded, the man that she had been -sent to importune. Old or young? easy-going or morose? On which side -had he cast the weight of his opinion—this man that she had never seen?</p> - -<p>"We were talking about the companion's place, Miss Brettan," began -Kincaid. "Now, what do you say?"</p> - -<p>Instantly she glowed with gratitude towards the unknown personage, who, -in reality, had done nothing.</p> - -<p>"Never should you regret it, Dr. Kincaid, never!"</p> - -<p>"Understand, I couldn't guarantee the engagement in any case," he said -hastily. "The most I could do would be to mention the matter; the rest -would depend on my mother's own feelings."</p> - -<p>"I should be just as thankful to you if she objected. Don't think I -under-estimate my draw-backs—I know that for you even to consider -engaging me is generous. But——Oh, I'd do my best!—I would indeed! -The difficulty's as clear to me as to you," she went on rapidly, "I see -it every bit as plainly. See it? It has barred me from employment again -and again! I'm a stranger, I've no credentials; I can only look you in -the face and say: 'I have told you the truth; if I were able to take -your advice and pocket my pride, I could <i>prove</i> that I have told you -the truth,' And what's that?—anybody might say it and be lying! Oh -yes, I know! Doctor, my lack of references has made me suspected till -I could have cried blood. Doors have been shut against me, not because -I was ineligible in myself, but because I was a woman who hadn't -had employers to say, 'I found her a satisfactory person.' Things I -should have done for have been given to other women because they had -'characters,' and I hadn't. At the beginning I thought my tones would -carry conviction—I thought I could say: 'Honestly, this tale is -true,' and someone—one in a dozen, perhaps, one in twenty—would be -found to believe me. What a mistake, to hope to be believed! Why, in -all London, there's no creature so forsaken as a gentleman's daughter -without friends. A servant may be taken on trust; an educated woman, -never!"</p> - -<p>"She may sometimes," said Kincaid. "Hang it! it isn't so bad as all -that. What I can do for you I will! Very likely my mother will call on -you this afternoon. Where are you staying?"</p> - -<p>A hansom had just discharged a fare at one; of the opposite houses, and -he hailed it from the window.</p> - -<p>"The best thing you can do now is to go home and rest, and try not to -worry. Cheer up, and hope for the best, Miss Brettan—care killed a -cat!"</p> - -<p>She swallowed convulsively.</p> - -<p>"That is the address," she said. "God bless you, Dr. Kincaid!"</p> - -<p>He led the way down to the passage, and put her into the cab. It was, -perhaps, superfluous to show her that he remembered that cabs were -beyond her means; yet she might be harassed during the drive by a dread -of the man's demand, and he paid him so that she should see.</p> - -<p>The occurrence had swelled his catalogue of calls. He told Corri they -had better drop in at Guy's, and glance at a medical directory; but in -passing a second-hand bookstall they noticed an old copy exposed for -sale, and examined that one. He found Anthony Brettan's name in the -provincial section with gladness, and remarked, moreover, that Brettan -had been a student of his own college.</p> - -<p>"'Brettan' is going up!" he observed cheerfully. "Now step it, my son!"</p> - -<p>Mary's arrival at the lodging was an event of local interest. Mrs. -Shuttleworth, who stood at the door conversing with a neighbour, -watched her descent agape. Two children playing on the pavement -suspended their game. She told Mrs. Shuttleworth that a lady might ask -for her during the day, and, mounting to the garret, shut herself in to -wrestle unsuccessfully with her fears of being refused, or forgotten -altogether. Would this mother come or not? If not—she shivered; -she had been so near to ignominious death that the smell of it had -reached her nostrils—if not, the devilish gnawing would be back again -directly, and the faint sick craving would follow it; and then there -would be a fading of consciousness for the last time, and they would -talk about her as "it" and be afraid.</p> - -<p>But the mother did come. It seemed so wonderful that, even when -she sat beside her in the attic, and everything was progressing -favourably, Mary could scarcely realise that it was true. She came, -and the engagement was made. There are some women who are essentially -women's women; Mary was one of them. Mrs. Kincaid, who came already -interested, sure that her Philip could make no mistake and wishful to -be satisfied, was charmed with her. The pleading tones, the repose of -manner, the—for so she described it later—"Madonna face," if they -did not go "straight to her heart," mightily pleased her fancy. And of -course Mary liked her; what more natural? She was gentle of voice, she -had the softest blue eyes that ever beamed mildly under white hair, -and—culminating attraction—she obviously liked Mary.</p> - -<p>"I'm a lonely old woman now my son's been appointed medical officer at -the hospital," she said. "It'll be very quiet for you, but you'll bear -that, won't you? I do think you'll be comfortable with me, and I'm sure -I shall want to keep you."</p> - -<p>"Quiet for me!" said Mary. "Oh, Mrs. Kincaid, you speak as if you were -asking a favour of me, but your son must have told you that—what——I -suppose he saved my life!"</p> - -<p>"That's his profession," answered the old lady brightly; "that's what -he had to learn to do."</p> - -<p>"Ah, but not with hot breakfasts," Mary smiled. "I accept your offer -gratefully; I'll come as soon as you like."</p> - -<p>"Can you manage to go back with us the day after to-morrow? Don't if it -inconveniences you; but if you can be ready——"</p> - -<p>"I can; I shall be quite ready."</p> - -<p>"Good girl!" said Mrs. Kincaid. "Now you must let me advance you a -small sum, or—I daresay you have things to get—perhaps we had better -make it this! There, there! it's your own money, not a present; there's -nothing to thank me for. Good-afternoon, Miss Brettan; I will write -letting you know the train."</p> - -<p>"This" was a five-pound note. When she was alone again Mary picked it -up, and smoothed it out, and quivered at the crackle. These heavenly -people! their tenderness, their consideration! Oh, how beautiful it -would be if they knew all about her and there were no reservations! She -did wish she could have, revealed all to them—they had been so nice -and kind.</p> - -<p>She sought the landlady and paid her debt—the delight she felt in -paying her debt!—and said that she would be giving up her room after -the next night. She went forth to a little foreign restaurant in Gray's -Inn Road, where she dined wholesomely and well, treating herself to -cutlets, bread-crumbed and brown, and bordered with tomatoes, to -pudding and gruyere, and a cup of black coffee, all for eighteenpence, -after tipping the waiter. She returned to the attic—glorified attic! -it would never appal her any more—and abandoned herself to meditating -upon the "things." There was this, and there was that, and there -was the other. Yes, and she must have a box! She would have had her -initials painted on the box, only the paint would look so curiously -new. Should she have her initials on it? No, she decided that she would -not. Then there were her watch, and the bag to be redeemed at the -pawnbroker's, and she must say good-bye to Mr. Collins. What a busy day -would be the morrow! what a dawn of new hope, new peace, new life! Her -anxieties were left behind; before her lay shelter and rest. Yet on -a sudden the pleasure faded from her features, and her lips twitched -painfully.</p> - -<p>"Tony!" she murmured.</p> - -<p>She stood still where she had risen. A sob, a second sob, a torrent of -tears. She was on her knees beside the bed, gasping, shuddering, crying -out on God and him:</p> - -<p>"O Tony, Tony, Tony!"</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h3>CHAPTER VII</h3> - - -<p>The sun shone bright when she met Mrs. Kincaid at Euston. The doctor -was there, lounging loose-limbed and bony, by his mother's side. He -shook Mary's hand and remarked that it was a nice day for travelling. -She had been intending to say something grateful on greeting him, but -his manner did not invite it, so she tried to throw her thanks into -a look instead. She suffered at first from slight embarrassment, not -knowing if she should take her own ticket, nor what assistance was -expected of a companion at a railway-station. Perhaps she ought to -select the compartment, and superintend the labelling of the luggage? -Fortunately the luggage was not heavy, her own being by far the larger -portion; and the tickets, she learnt directly, he had already got.</p> - -<p>Her employer lived in Westport, a town that Mary had never visited, and -a little conversation arose from her questions about it. She did not -say much—she spoke very diffidently, in fact; the consciousness that -she was being paid to talk and be entertaining weighted her tongue. She -was relieved when, shortly after they started, Mrs. Kincaid imitated -her son's example, who lay back in his corner with his face hidden -behind <i>The Lancet</i>.</p> - -<p>They travelled second class, and it was not till a stoppage occurred -at some junction that their privacy was invaded. Then a large woman, -oppressed by packages and baskets, entered; and, as the new-comer -belonged to the category of persons who regard a railway journey as a -heaven-sent opportunity to eat an extra meal, her feats with sandwiches -had a fascination that rivalled the interest of the landscape.</p> - -<p>Of course, three hours later, when the train reached Westport, Mary -felt elated. Of course she gazed eagerly from the platform over the -prospect. It was new and pleasant and refreshing. There was a little -winding road with white palings, and a cottage with a red roof. A bell -tolled softly across the meadows, and somebody standing near her said -he supposed "that was for five o'clock service." To have exchanged the -jostle of London for a place where people had time to remember service -on a week-day, to be able to catch the chirp of the birds between the -roll of the wheels, was immediately exhilarating. Then, too, as they -drove to the house she scented in the air the freshness of tar that -bespoke proximity to the sea. Her bosom lifted. "The blessed peace of -it all!" she thought; "how happy I ought to be!"</p> - -<p>But she was not happy. That first evening there came to her the -soreness and sickness of recollection. She was left alone with Mrs. -Kincaid, and in the twilight they sat in the pretty little parlour, -chatting fitfully. How different was this arrival from those that she -was used to! No unpacking of photographs; no landlady to chatter of -the doings of last week's company; no stroll after tea with Tony just -to see where the theatre was. How funny! She said "how funny!" but -presently she meant "how painful!" And then it came upon her as a shock -that the old life was going on still without her. Photographs were -still being unpacked and set forth on mantelpieces; landladies still -waxed garrulous of last week's business; Tony was still strolling about -the towns on Sunday evenings, as he had done when she was with him. And -he was going to be Miss Westland's husband, while <i>she</i> was here! How -hideous, how frightful and unreal, it seemed!</p> - -<p>She got up, and went over to the flower-stand in the window.</p> - -<p>"Are you tired, Miss Brettan? Perhaps you would like to go to your room -early to-night?"</p> - -<p>"No," she said, "thank you; I'm afraid I feel a trifle strange as yet, -that's all."</p> - -<p>At the opposite corner was a hoarding, and a comic-opera poster shone -among the local shopkeepers' advertisements. The sudden sight of -theatrical printing was like a welcome to her; she stood looking at it, -thrilling at it, with the past alive and warm again in her heart.</p> - -<p>"You'll soon feel at home," Mrs. Kincaid said after a pause; "I'm sure -I can understand your finding it rather uncomfortable at first."</p> - -<p>"Oh, not uncomfortable," Mary explained quickly; "it is queer a little, -just that! I mean, I don't know what I ought to do, and I'm afraid of -seeming inattentive. What is a companion's work, Mrs. Kincaid?"</p> - -<p>"Well, I've never had one," the old lady said with a laugh. "I think -you and I will get on best, do you know, if we forget you've come as -companion—if you talk when you like, and keep quiet when you like. You -see, it is literally a companion I want, not somebody to ring the bell -for me, and order the dinner, and make herself useful. This isn't a big -house, and I'm not a fashionable person; I want a woman who'll keep me -from moping, and be nice."</p> - -<p>Her answer expressed her requirements, and Mary found little expected -of her in return for the salary; so little that she wondered sometimes -if she earned it, small as it was. Excepting that she was continually -conscious that she must never be out of temper, and was frequently -obliged to read aloud when she would rather have sat in reverie, she -was practically her own mistress. Even, as the days went by she found -herself giving utterance to a thought as it came to her, without -pausing to conjecture its reception; speaking with the spontaneity -which, with the paid companion, is the last thing to be acquired.</p> - -<p>Few pleasures are shorter-lived than the one of being restored to -enough to eat; and in a week her sense of novelty had almost worn -away. They walked together; sometimes to the sea, but more often in -the town, for the approach to the sea tired Mrs. Kincaid. Westport was -not a popular watering-place; and in the summer Mary discovered that -the population of fifty thousand was not very greatly increased. From -Laburnum Lodge it took nearly twenty minutes to reach the shore, and -a hill had to be climbed. At the top of the incline the better-class -houses came to an end; and after some scattered cottages, an expanse -of ragged grass, with a bench or two, sloped to the beach. Despite its -bareness, Mary thought the spot delightful; its quietude appealed to -her. She often wished that she could go there by herself.</p> - -<p>Of the doctor they saw but little. Now and again he came round for an -hour or so, and at first she absented herself on these occasions. But -Mrs. Kincaid commented on her retirement and said it was unnecessary; -and thenceforward she remained.</p> - -<p>She did not chance to be out alone until she had been here nearly -three months; and when Mrs. Kincaid inquired one afternoon if she would -mind choosing a novel at the circulating library for her she went forth -gladly. A desire to see <i>The Era</i> and ascertain Carew's whereabouts, -had grown too strong to be subdued.</p> - -<p>She crossed the interlying churchyard, and made her way along the High -Street impatiently; and, reaching the railway bookstall, bought a copy -of the current issue. It was with difficulty she restrained herself -from opening it on the platform, but she waited until she had turned -down the little lane at the station's side, and reached the gate where -the coal-trucks came to an end and a patch of green began. She doubted -whether the company would be touring so long, but the paper would -tell her something of his doings anyhow. She ran her eye eagerly down -the titles headed "On the Road." No, <i>The Foibles</i> evidently was not -out now. Had the tour broken up for good, she wondered, or was there -merely a vacation? She could quickly learn by Tony's professional card. -How well she knew the sheet! The sheet! she knew the column, its very -number in the column—knew it followed "Farrell" and came before "de -Vigne." She even recalled the week when he had abandoned the cheaper -advertisements in alphabetical order; he had been cast for a part in a -production. She remembered she had said,</p> - -<p>"Now you're going to create," and, laughing, he had answered, "Oh, I -must have half a crown's worth 'to create'!" He had been lying on the -sofa—how it all came back to her! What was he doing now? She found the -place in an instant:</p> - -<p class="center"> -"MR. SEATON CAREW,<br /> -RESTING,<br /> -Assumes direction of Miss Olive Westland's Tour, Aug. 4th.<br /> -See 'Companies' page."<br /> -</p> - -<p>They were married! She could not doubt it. "Oh," she muttered, "how he -has walked over me, that man! For the sake of two or three thousand -pounds, just for the sake of her money!" She sought weakly for the -company advertisement referred to, but the paragraphs swam together, -and it was several minutes before she could find it. Yes, here it -was: "<i>The Foibles of Fashion</i> and Répertoire, opening August 4th." -<i>Camille</i>, eh? She laughed bitterly. He was going to play Armand; -he had always wanted to play Armand; now he could do it! "Under the -direction of Mr. Seaton Carew. Artists respectfully informed the -company is complete. All communications to be addressed: Mr. Seaton, -Carew, Bath Hotel, Bournemouth." Oh, my God!</p> - -<p>To think that while she had been starving in that attic he had -proceeded with his courtship, to reflect that in one of those terrible -hours that she had passed through he must have been dressing himself -for his wedding, wrung her heart. And now, while she stood here, he -was calling the other woman "Olive," and kissing her. She gripped the -bar with both hands, her breast heaved tumultuously; it seemed to her -that her punishment was more than she had power to bear. Wasn't his -sin worse than her own? she questioned; yet what price would he ever -be called upon to pay for it? At most, perhaps, occasional discontent! -Nobody would-blame him a bit; his offence was condoned already by a -decent woman's hand. In the wife's eyes she, Mary, was of course an -adventuress who had turned his weakness to account until the heroine -appeared on the scene to reclaim him. How easy it was to be the heroine -when one had a few thousand pounds to offer for a wedding-ring!</p> - -<p>She let the paper lie where it had fallen, and went to the library. -In leaving it she met Kincaid on his way to the Lodge. He was rather -glad of the meeting, the man to whom women had been only patients; he -had felt once or twice of late that it was agreeable to talk to Miss -Brettan.</p> - -<p>"Hallo," he said, in that voice of his that had so few inflexions; -"what have you been doing? Going home?"</p> - -<p>"I've been to get a book for Mrs. Kincaid," she answered. "She was -hoping you'd come round to-day."</p> - -<p>"I meant to come yesterday. Well, how are you getting on? Still -satisfied with Westport? Not beginning to tire of it yet?"</p> - -<p>"I like it very much," she said, "naturally. It's a great change from -my life three months ago; I shouldn't be very grateful if I weren't -satisfied."</p> - -<p>"That's all right. Your coming was a good thing; my mother was saying -the other evening it was a slice of luck."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I'm so glad! I have wanted to know whether I—did!"</p> - -<p>"You 'do' uncommonly; I haven't seen her so content for a long while. -You don't look very bright; d'ye feel well?"</p> - -<p>"It's the heat," she said; "yes, I'm quite well, thank you; I have a -headache this afternoon, that's all."</p> - -<p>She was wondering if her path and Carew's would ever cross again. How -horrible if chance brought him to the theatre here and she came face to -face with him in the High Street!</p> - -<p>"Hasn't my mother been out to-day herself? She ought to make the most -of the fine weather."</p> - -<p>"I left her in the garden; I think she likes that better than taking -walks."</p> - -<p>And it might happen so easily! she reflected. Why not <i>that</i> company, -among the many companies that came to Westport? She'd be frightened to -leave the house.</p> - -<p>"I suppose when you first heard there was a garden you expected to see -apple-trees and strawberry-beds, didn't you?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I don't know. It's not a bad little garden. We had tea in it last -night."</p> - -<p>She might be walking with Mrs. Kincaid, and Tony and his wife -would come suddenly round a corner. And "Miss Westland" would look -contemptuous, and Tony would start, and—and if she turned white, she'd -loathe herself!</p> - -<p>"Did you? You must enliven the old lady? a good deal if she goes in for -that sort of thing!"</p> - -<p>"Oh, it was stuffy indoors, and we thought that tea outside would be -nicer. I daresay I'm better than no one; it must have been rather dull -for her alone."</p> - -<p>"Is that the most you find to say of yourself—'better than no one'?"</p> - -<p>"Well, I haven't high spirits; some women are always laughing. We sit -and read, or do needlework; or she talks about you, and——"</p> - -<p>"And you're bored? That's a mother's privilege, you know, to bore -everybody about her son; you mustn't be hard on her."</p> - -<p>"I am interested; I think it's always interesting to hear of a man's -work in a profession. And, then, Medicine was my father's."</p> - -<p>"Were you the only child?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. I wasn't much of a child, though! My mother died when I was very -young, and I was taught a lot through that. The practice wasn't very -good—very remunerative, that's to say—and if a girl's father isn't -well off she becomes a woman early. If I had had a brother now——"</p> - -<p>"If you had had a brother—what?"</p> - -<p>"I was thinking it might have vmade a difference. Nothing particular. I -don't suppose he'd have been of any monetary assistance; there wouldn't -have been anything to give him a start with. But I should have liked a -brother—one older than I am."</p> - -<p>"You'd have made the right kind of man of him, I believe."</p> - -<p>"I was thinking of what he'd have made of me. A brother must be such a -help; a boy gets experience, and a girl has only instinct."</p> - -<p>"It's a pretty good thing to go on with."</p> - -<p>"It needs education, doctor, surely?"</p> - -<p>"It needs educating by a mother. Half the women who have children are -no more fit to be mothers than——And one comes across old maids with -just the qualities! Fine material allowed to waste!"</p> - -<p>The entrance to a cottage that they were passing stood open, and she -could see into the parlour. There were teacups on the table, and a mug -of wild flowers. On a garden-gate a child in a pink pinafore was slowly -swinging. The brilliance of the day had subsided, and the town lay -soft and yellow in the restfulness of sunset. A certain liquidity was -assumed by the rugged street in the haze that hung over it; a touch of -transparence gilded its flights of steps, the tiles of the house-tops, -and the homely faces of the fisher-folk where they loitered before -their doors. There a girl sat netting among the hollyhocks, withholding -confession from the youth who lounged beside her, yet lifting at times -to him a smile that had not been wakened by the net. The melody of the -hour intensified the discord in the woman's soul.</p> - -<p>"Don't you think——" said Kincaid.</p> - -<p>He turned to her, strolling with his hands behind him. He talked to -her, and she answered him, until they reached the house.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h3>CHAPTER VIII</h3> - - -<p>Slowly there stole into Kincaid's life a new zest. He began to be -more eager to walk round to the Lodge; was often reluctant to rise -and say "good-night"; even found the picture of the little lamplit -room lingering with him after the front door had closed. Formerly the -visits had been rather colourless. Despite her affection for her son, -Mrs. Kincaid was but tepidly interested in the career that engrossed -him. She was vaguely proud to have a doctor for a son, but she felt -that his profession supplied them with little to talk about when he -came; and the man felt that his mother's inquiries about his work were -perfunctory. A third voice had done much for the visits, quickened the -accustomed questions, the stereotyped replies into the vitality of -conversation.</p> - -<p>Kincaid did not fail to give Miss Brettan credit for the brighter -atmosphere of the villa. But winter was at hand before he admitted -that much of the pleasure that he took in going there was inspired by -a hearty approval of Miss Brettan. The cosiness of the room, with two -women smiling at him when he entered—always with a little, surprise, -for the time of his coming was uncertain—and getting things for him, -and being sorry when he had to leave had had a charm that he did not -analyse. It was by degrees that he realised how many of his opinions -were directed to her. His one friendship hitherto had been for Corri; -and Corri was not here. The months when his cordial liking for Mary was -clear to him, and possessed of a fascination due very largely to its -unexpectedness, were perhaps the happiest that he had known.</p> - -<p>The development was not so happy; but it was fortunately slow. He had -gone to the house earlier than usual, and the women were preparing -for a walk. Mary stood by the mantelpiece. There was something they -had meant to do; she said she would go alone to do it. He lay back in -the depths of an arm-chair, and watched her while she spoke to his -mother, watched the play of her features and the quick turn of her -cheek. Then—it was the least significant of trivialities—she plucked -a hairpin from her hair, and began to button her glove. It was revealed -to him as he contemplated her that she was eminently lovable. His eyes -dwelt on the tender curve of her figure, displayed by the flexion of -her arm; he remarked the bend of the head, and the delicate modelling -of her ear and neck. These things were quite new to him. He was stirred -abruptly by the magic of her sex. The admiration did not last ten -seconds, and before he saw her again he recollected it only once, quite -suddenly. But the development had begun.</p> - -<p>In his next visit he looked to see these beauties, and found them. This -time, being voluntary, the admiration lasted longer. It was recurrent -all the evening. He discovered a novel excellence in her performance of -the simplest acts, and an additional enjoyment in talking with her.</p> - -<p>Thoughts of her came to him now while he sat at night in his room. -The bare little room witnessed all the phases of the man's love—its -brightness, and then its misgivings. He had no confidant to prose to; -he could never have spoken of the strange thing that had happened to -him, if he had had a confidant. He used to sit alone and think of her, -wondering if God would put it into her heart to care for him, wondering -in all humility if it could be ordained that he should ever hold this -dear woman in his arms and call her "wife."</p> - -<p>He would not be in a position to give her luxury, and for a couple of -years certainly he could not marry at all; but he believed primarily -that he could at least make her content; and in reflecting what she -would make of life for him, he smiled. The salary that he drew from his -post was not a very large one, but his mother's means sufficed for her -requirements, and he was able to lay almost the whole of it aside. He -thought that when a couple of years had gone by, he would be justified -in furnishing a small house, and that he might reasonably expect, -through the introductions procured by his appointment, to establish a -practice. It would be rather pinched for them at first, of course, but -she wouldn't mind that much if she were fond of him. "Fond" of him! -Could it be possible? he asked himself—Miss Brettan fond of him! She -was so composed, so quiet, she seemed such a long way off now that he -wanted her for his own. Would it really ever happen that the woman -whose hand had merely touched him in courtesy would one day be uttering -words of love for him and saying "my husband"?</p> - -<p>He wrestled long with his tenderness; the misgivings came quickly. -After all, she was comfortable as she was—she was provided for, she -had no pecuniary cares here. Had he the right to beg her to relinquish -this comparative ease and struggle by his side oppressed by the worries -of a precarious income? Then he told himself that they might take in -patients: that would augment the income. And she was a dependant now; -if she married him she would be her own mistress.</p> - -<p>He weighed all the pros and cons; he was no boy to call the -recklessness of self-indulgence the splendour of devotion. He balanced -the arguments on either side long and carefully. If he asked her -to come to him, it should be with the conviction he was doing her -no wrong. He saw how easy it would be to deceive himself, to feel -persuaded that the fact of her being in a situation made matrimony -an advance to her, whether she married well or ill. He would not act -impatiently and perhaps spoil her life. But he was very impatient. -Through months he used to come away from the Lodge striving to discern -importance in some answer she had made him, some question she had put -to him. It appeared to him that he had loved her much longer than he -had; and he had made no progress. There were moments when he upbraided -himself for being clumsy and stupid; some men in his place, he thought, -would have divined long ago what her feelings were.</p> - -<p>He never queried the wisdom of marrying her on his own account; the -privilege of cherishing her in health and nursing her in sickness, of -having her head pillowed on his breast, and confiding his hopes to -her sympathy; of going through life with her in a union in which she -would give to him all her sacred and withheld identity, looked to him -a joy for which he could never be less than intensely grateful while -life endured. He ceased to marvel at the birth of his love, it looked -natural now; she seemed to belong to Westport so wholly by this time. -He no longer contrasted the present atmosphere of the villa with the -duller atmosphere that she had banished. He had forgotten that duller -atmosphere. She was there—it was as if she had always been there. To -reflect that there had been a period when he had known no Mary Brettan -was strange. He wondered that he had not felt the want of her. The day -that he had met her in Corri's office appeared to him dim in the mists -of at least five years. The exterior of the man, and the yearnings -within him—Kincaid as he knew himself, and the doctor as he was known -to the hospital—were so at variance that the incongruity would have -been ludicrous if it had not been beautiful.</p> - -<p>When Mary saw that he had begun to care for her, it was with the -greatest tremor of insecurity that she had experienced since the date -of her arrival. She had foretasted many disasters in the interval, -been harassed by many fears, but that Dr. Kincaid might fall in love -with her was a contingency that had never entered her head. It was so -utterly unexpected that for a week she had discredited the evidence -of her senses, and when the truth was too palpable to be blinked any -longer, her remaining hope was that he might decide never to speak. -Here the meditations of the man and the woman were concerned with the -same theme—both revolved the claims of silence; but from different -standpoints. His consideration was whether avowal was unjust to her; -she sustained herself by attributing to him a reluctance to commit -himself to a woman of whom he knew so little. She clung to this haven -that she had found; her refusal, if indeed he did propose to her, would -surely necessitate her relinquishing it. Mrs. Kincaid might not desire -to see her companion marry her son, but still less would she desire to -retain a companion who had rejected him. It had been as peaceful here -as any place could be for her now, felt Mary; the thought of being -driven forth to do battle with the world again terrified her. She -wondered if Mrs. Kincaid had "noticed anything"; it was hard to believe -she could have avoided it; but she had evinced no sign of suspicion: -her manner was the same as usual.</p> - -<p>With the complication that had arisen to disturb her, the woman -perceived how prematurely old she was. Her courage had all gone, she -told herself; she said she had passed the capability for any sustained -effort; and it was a fact that the uneventful tenor of the life that -she had been leading, congenial because it demanded no energy, had -done much to render her lassitude permanent. Her pain, the rawness -of it, had dulled—she could touch the wound now without writhing; -but it had left her wearied unto death. To attempt to forget had been -beyond her; recollection continued to be her secret luxury; and the -inertia permitted by her position lent itself so thoroughly to a dual -existence that, to her own mind, she often seemed to be living more -acutely in her reminiscences than in her intercourse with her employer.</p> - -<p>From the commencement of the tour, which had started in the autumn of -the preceding year, she had kept herself posted in Carew's movements -as regularly as was practicable. It was frequently very difficult for -her to gain access to a theatrical paper; but generally she contrived -to see one somehow, if not on the day that it reached the town, then -later. She knew what parts he played, and where he played them. It -was a morbid fascination, but to be able to see his name mentioned -nearly every week made her glad that he was an actor. If he could have -gone abroad or died, without her being aware of it, she thought her -situation would have been too hideous for words. To steal that weekly -glimpse of the paper was her weekly flicker of sensation; sometimes the -past seemed to stir again; momentarily she was in the old surroundings.</p> - -<p>There had been only two tours. After the second, she had watched his -"card" anxiously. Three months had slipped away, and between his and -his agent's name nothing had been added but the "Resting."</p> - -<p>At last, after reading from the London paper to Mrs. Kincaid one day, -she derived some further news. A word of the theatrical gossip had -caught her eye, and unperceived by the lady, she started violently. -She had seen "Seaton Carew." For a minute she could not quell her -agitation sufficiently to pick the paper up; she sat staring down at -it and deciphering nothing. Then she learnt that Miss Olive Westland, -and her husband, Mr. Seaton Carew, encouraged by their successes in -the provinces, had completed arrangements to open the Boudoir Theatre -at the end of the following month. It was added that this of late -unfortunate house had been much embellished, and a reference to an -artist, or two already engaged showed Mary that Carew was playing with -big stakes.</p> - -<p>Henceforth she had had a new source of information, and one attainable -without trouble, for the London paper was delivered at the Lodge daily. -As the date for the production drew near, her impatience to hear the -verdict had grown so strong that the walls of the country parlour -cooped her; she saw through them into the city beyond—saw on to a -draughty stage where Carew was conducting a rehearsal.</p> - -<p>The piece had failed. On the morning when she learned that it had -failed, she participated dumbly in the chagrin of the failure. "Yes" -and "No" she had answered, and seen with the eyes of her heart the -gloom of a face that used to be pressed against her own. She did not -care, she vowed; her sole feeling with regard to the undertaking had -been curiosity. If it had been more than curiosity she would despise -herself!</p> - -<p>But she looked at the Boudoir advertisement every day. And it was -not long before she saw that another venture was in preparation. And -she held more skeins of wool, and watched with veiled eagerness this -advertisement develop like its predecessor. Recently the play had been; -produced, and she had read the notice in Mrs. Kincaid's presence. -When she finished it she guessed that Carew's hopes were over; unless -he had a great deal more money than she supposed, the experiment at -the Boudoir would see; it exhausted. There was not much said for his -performance, either; he was dismissed in an indifferent sentence, -like his wife. High praise of his acting might have led to London -engagements, but his hopes seemed to have miscarried as manager and as -actor too.</p> - -<p>When Kincaid went round to the house one evening, the servant told him -his mother had; gone to her room, and that Miss Brettan was sitting -with her.</p> - -<p>"Say I'm here, please, and ask if I may go up." Mary came down the -stairs as he spoke.</p> - -<p>"Ah, doctor," she said; "Mrs. Kincaid has gone to bed."</p> - -<p>"So I hear. What's the matter with her?"</p> - -<p>"Only neuralgia; she has had it all day. She has just fallen asleep."</p> - -<p>"Then I had better not go up to see her?"</p> - -<p>"I don't think I would. I have just come down to get a book."</p> - -<p>"Are you going to sit with her?"</p> - -<p>"Yes; she may wake and want something."</p> - -<p>They stood speaking in the hall, outside the parlour door.</p> - -<p>"Where is your book?" he said.</p> - -<p>"Inside. I am sorry you have come round for nothing; she'll be so -disappointed when she hears about it. May I tell her you'll come again -to-morrow?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I'll look in some time during the day, if it's only for a moment. -I think I'll sit down awhile before I go."</p> - -<p>"Will you?" she said. "I beg your pardon." She opened the door, and he -followed her into the room.</p> - -<p>"You won't mind my leaving you?" she asked; "I don't want to stay away, -in case she does wake."</p> - -<p>It was nearly dark in the parlour; the lamp had not been lighted, and -the fire was low. A little snow whitened the laburnum-tree that was -visible through the window. It was an evening in January, and Mary had -been in Westport now nearly two years.</p> - -<p>"Can you see to find it?" he said. "Where did you leave it?"</p> - -<p>"It was on the sideboard; Ellen must have moved it, I suppose. I'll -ask her where she's put it."</p> - -<p>"No, don't do that; I'll light the lamp."</p> - -<p>She lifted the globe while he struck a match. It was his last, and it -went out.</p> - -<p>"Never mind," he said; "we'll get a light from the fire."</p> - -<p>"Oh," she exclaimed, "but I'm giving you so much trouble; you had -better let me call the girl!"</p> - -<p>A dread of what might happen in this darkness was coming over her. "You -had better let me call the girl," she repeated.</p> - -<p>"Try if you can get a light with this first," he said—"try there, -where it's red."</p> - -<p>She bent over the grate, the twist of paper in one hand, and the other -resting on the mantelpiece. He leant beside her, stirring the ashes -with his foot.</p> - -<p>It flashed back at her how Tony had stood stirring the ashes with his -foot that night in Leicester, while he broke his news. A sickening -anxiety swept through her to get away from Kincaid before he could have -a chance to touch her. The paper charred and curled, without catching -flame, and in her impatience she hated him for the delay. She hated -herself for being here, lingering in the twilight with a man who dared -to feel about her in the same way as Tony had once felt.</p> - -<p>She rose.</p> - -<p>"It's no use, doctor; Ellen will have to do it, after all."</p> - -<p>"Don't go just yet," he said; "I want to speak to you, Miss Brettan."</p> - -<p>"I can't stay any longer," she said. "I——"</p> - -<p>"You'll give me a minute? There's something I have been waiting to say -to you; I've been waiting a long while."</p> - -<p>She raised her face to him. In the shadows filling the room, he could -see little more than her eyes.</p> - -<p>"Don't say it. I think I can guess, perhaps.... Don't say it, Dr. -Kincaid!"</p> - -<p>"Yes," he insisted, "I must say it; I'm bound to tell you before I take -your answer, Mary. My dear, I love you."</p> - -<p>Memory gave her back the scene where Tony had said that for the first -time.</p> - -<p>"If you can't care for me, you have only to tell me so to-night; it -shall never be a worry to I you—I don't want my love to become a worry -to you, to make you wish I weren't here. But if you can care a little -... if you think that when I'm able to ask you to come to me you could -come.... Oh, my dear, all my life I'll be tender to you—all my life!"</p> - -<p>He could not see her eyes any longer; her head was bowed, and in her -silence the big man trembled.</p> - -<p>The servant came in with the taper, and let down the blinds. They stood -on the hearth, watching her dumbly. When the blinds were lowered, she -turned up the lamp; and the room was bright. Kincaid saw that Mary was -very pale.</p> - -<p>"Is there anything else, miss?"</p> - -<p>"No, Ellen, thank you; that's all."</p> - -<p>"Mary?"</p> - -<p>"I'm so sorry. You don't know how sorry I am!"</p> - -<p>"You could never care—not ever so little—for me?"</p> - -<p>"Not in that way: no."</p> - -<p>He looked away from her—looked at the engraving of Wellington and -Blucher meeting on the field of Waterloo; stared at the filter on -the sideboard, through which the water fell drop by drop. A heavy -weight seemed to have come down upon him, so that he breathed under -it laboriously. He wanted to curtail the pause, which he understood -must be trying to her; but he could not think of anything to say, nor -could he shake his brain clear of her last words, which appeared to -him incessantly reiterated. He felt as if his hope of her had been -something vital and she had stamped it out, to leave him confronted by -a new beginning—a beginning so strange that time must elapse before -he could realise how wholly strange it was going to be. Even while he -strove to address her it was difficult to feel that she was still very -close to him. Her tones lingered; her dress emphasised itself upon his -consciousness more and more; but from her presence he had a curious -sense of being remote.</p> - -<p>"Good-night," he said abruptly. "You mustn't let this trouble you, you -know. I shall always be glad I'm fond of you; I shall always be glad I -told you so—I was hoping, and now I understand. It's so much better to -understand than to go on hoping for what can never come."</p> - -<p>She searched pityingly for something kind; but the futility of phrases -daunted her.</p> - -<p>"I had better close the door after you," she murmured, "or it will make -a noise."</p> - -<p>They went out into the passage, and stood together on the step.</p> - -<p>"It's beginning to snow," he said; "it looks as if we were going to -have a heavy fall."</p> - -<p>"Yes," she said dully, glancing at the sky.</p> - -<p>She put out her hand, and it lay for an instant in his.</p> - -<p>"Well, good-night, again."</p> - -<p>"Good-night, Dr. Kincaid."</p> - -<p>As he turned, she was silhouetted against the gaslight of the -hall. Then her figure was with-drawn, and the view of the interior -narrowed—until, while he looked back, the brightness vanished -altogether and the door was shut.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h3>CHAPTER IX</h3> - - -<p>And so it was all over.</p> - -<p>"All over," he said to himself—"over and done with, Philip. Steady on, -Philip; take it fighting!"</p> - -<p>But they were only words—as yet he could not "take it fighting." Nor -was the knowledge that he was never to hold her quite all the grief -that lay upon him as he made his way along the ill-lit streets. There -was, besides, a very cruel smart—the abstract pain of being such a -little to one who was so much to him.</p> - -<p>He visited the patients who were still awake, and dressed such wounds -as needed to be dressed. He heard the little peevish questions and the -dull complaints just as he had done the night before. The nurse walked -softly past the sleepers with her shaded lamp, and once or twice he -spoke to her. And when, the doctor's duties done, the man had gained -his room, he thought of his hopes the night before, and sat with elbows -on the table while the hours struck, remembering what had happened -since.</p> - -<p>The necessity for returning to the house so speedily, to see his -mother, was eminently distasteful; he longed to escape it. And -then suddenly he warmed towards her in self-reproach, thinking it -had been very hard of him to wish to neglect his mother in order to -spare awkwardness to another woman. His repugnance to the task was -deep-rooted, all the same, and it did not lessen as the afternoon -approached. But for the fact of yesterday's indisposition, he could -never have brought himself to overcome it.</p> - -<p>The embarrassment that he had feared, however, was averted by Miss -Brettan's absence.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kincaid said that she was quite well again to-day; Mary had told -her of his call the previous evening; how long was it he had stopped?</p> - -<p>"Oh, not very long," he said; "has the neuralgia quite gone?"</p> - -<p>"I feel a little weary after it, that's all. Is there anything fresh, -Philip?"</p> - -<p>"Fresh?" he answered vaguely. "No, dear. I don't know that there's -anything very fresh."</p> - -<p>"You look tired yourself," she said; "I thought that perhaps you were -troubled?"</p> - -<p>She thought, too, that Miss Brettan had looked troubled, and instinct -pointed to something having occurred. A conviction that her son was -getting fond of her companion had been unspoken in her mind for some -time, and under her placid questions now rankled a little wistfulness, -in feeling that she was not held dear enough for confidence. She -wanted to say to him outright: "Philip, did you tell Miss Brettan you -were fond of her when I was upstairs last night?" but was reluctant -to seem inquisitive. He, with never an inkling that she could suspect -his love, meanwhile reflected that for Mary's continued peace it was -desirable that his mother should never conjecture he had been refused.</p> - -<p>It is doubtful whether he had ever felt so wholly tender towards her -as he did in these moments while he admitted that it was imperative -to keep the secret from her; and perhaps the mother's heart had never -turned so far aside from him as while she perceived that she was never -to be told.</p> - -<p>They exchanged commonplaces with the one grave subject throbbing in -the minds of both. Of the two, the woman was the more laboured; and -presently he noticed what uphill work it was, and sighed. She heard the -sigh, and could have echoed it, thinking sadly that the presence of -her companion was required now to make her society endurable to him. -But she would not refer to Mary. She bent over her wool-work, and the -needle went in and out with feeble regularity, while she maintained a -wounded silence, which the man was regarding as an unwillingness to -talk.</p> - -<p>He said at last that he must go, and she did not offer to detain him.</p> - -<p>"I want to hurry back this afternoon; you won't mind?"</p> - -<p>"No," she murmured; "you know what you have to do, Philip, better than -I."</p> - -<p>He stooped and kissed her. For the first time in her life she did not -return his kiss. She gave him her cheek, and rested one hand a little -tremulously on his shoulder.</p> - -<p>"Good-bye," she said; her tone was so gentle that he did not remark the -absence of the caress. "Don't go working too hard, Phil!"</p> - -<p>He patted the hand reassuringly, and let himself out. Then the hand -crept slowly up to her eyes, and she wiped some tears away. The -wool-work drooped to her lap, and she sat recalling a little boy who -had been used to talk of the wondrous things he was going to do for -"mother" when he became a man, and who now had become a man, living for -a strange woman, and full of a love which "mother" might only guess.</p> - -<p>She could not feel quite so cordial to Mary as she had done. To think -of her holding her son's confidence, while she herself was left -to speculate, made the need for surmises seem harder. And Philip -was unhappy: her companion must be indifferent to him; nothing but -that could account for the unhappiness, or for the reservation. She -could have forgiven her engrossing his affections—in time; but her -indifference was more than she could forgive.</p> - -<p>Still, this was the woman he loved—and she endeavoured to hide her -resentment, as she had hidden her suspicions. Their intercourse -during the next week was less free than usual, nevertheless. Perhaps -the resentment was less easy to hide, or perhaps Mary's nervousness -made her unduly sensitive, but there were pauses which seemed to her -significant of condemnation. She was exceedingly uncomfortable during -this week. Sometimes she was only deterred from proclaiming what had -happened and appealing to the other's fairness to exonerate her, by -the recollection that it was, after all, just possible that the avowal -might have the effect of transforming a bush into an officer.</p> - -<p>She could not venture to repeat the retirement to her room the next -time the doctor came. Nearly a fortnight had gone by. And she forced -herself to turn to him with a few remarks. He was not the man to -disguise his feelings successfully by a flow of small-talk; his life -had not qualified him for it; and it was an ordeal to him to sit there -in the presence of Mary and witness attempts in which he perceived -himself unqualified to co-operate. His knowledge that the simulated -ease should have originated with himself rather than with her made his -ineptitude seem additionally ungracious, and he feared she must think -him boorish, and disposed to parade his disappointment for the purpose -of exciting her compassion.</p> - -<p>Strongly, therefore, as he had wished to avoid a break in the social -routine, his subsequent visits were made at longer intervals, and more -often than not curtailed on the plea of work. It was, as yet at all -events, impossible for him to behave towards her as if nothing untoward -had happened, and to shun the house awhile looked to him a wiser course -than to haunt it with discomposure patent. Thus the restraint that -Mrs. Kincaid was imposing on herself had a further burden to bear: -Miss Brettan was keeping her son from her side. The pauses became more -frequent, and, to Mary, more than ever ominous. Indeed, while the -mother mused mournfully on the consequences of her engagement, the -companion herself was questioning how long she could expect to retain -it. She began to consider whether she should relinquish it, to elude -the indignity of a dismissal. And even if Mrs. Kincaid did fail to -suspect the reason for her son's absenting himself, the responsibility -was the same, she reflected. It was she who divided the pair, she who -was accountable for the hurt expression that the old lady's face so -often wore now. She felt wearily that women had a great deal to endure -in life, what with the men they cared for, and the men for whom they -did not care. There seemed no privileges pertaining to their sex; being -feminine only amplified the scope for vexation. A fact which she did -not see was that one of the most pathetic things in connection with -the unloved lover is the irritability with which the woman so often -thinks about him.</p> - -<p>With what sentiments she might have listened to Kincaid had she met -him prior to her intimacy with Carew one may only conjecture. Now he -touched her not at all; but the intimacy had been an experience which -engulfed so much of her sensibility, that she had emerged from it a -different being. Kincaid's rival, in truth, was the most powerful one -that can ever oppose a lover; the rival of constant remembrance—always -a doughty antagonist, and never so impregnable as when the woman is -instinctively a virtuous woman and has fallen for the man that she -remembers.</p> - -<p>It occurred to Mary to seek an opportunity for letting the doctor know -that he was paining his mother by so rarely coming now; but such an -opportunity was not easy to gain, for when he did come his mother of -course was present. She thought of writing, but by word of mouth a hint -would suffice, while a letter, in the circumstances, would have its -awkwardness.</p> - -<p>More than two months had gone by when Mrs. Kincaid made her plaint. It -was on a Sunday morning. Mary was standing before the window, looking -out, while the elder woman sat moodily in her accustomed seat.—</p> - -<p>"Are we going to church?" asked Mary.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I suppose so; there's plenty of time, isn't there?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes, it's early yet—not ten. What a lovely day! The spring has -begun."</p> - -<p>"Yes," assented the other absently.</p> - -<p>There was a short silence, and then:</p> - -<p>"I shan't run any risk of missing Dr. Kincaid by going out; I needn't -be afraid of that!" she added.</p> - -<p>Her voice had in it so much more of pathos than of testiness, that -after the instant's dismay her companion felt acutely sorry for her.</p> - -<p>"A doctor's time is scarcely his own, is it?" she murmured, turning.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kincaid did not reply immediately, and the delay seemed to Mary to -accentuate the feebleness of her answer.</p> - -<p>"I mean," she said, "that it isn't as if he were able to leave the -hospital whenever he liked. There may be cases——"</p> - -<p>"He used to be able to come often; why shouldn't he be able now?"</p> - -<p>"Yes——" faltered Mary.</p> - -<p>"I haven't asked him; it is a good reason that keeps him from me, of -course. But it's hard, when you're living in the same town as your son, -not to have him with you more than an hour in a month. I don't see much -more of him than that, lately. The last time he came, he stayed twenty -minutes. The time before, he said he was in a hurry before he said, -'How do you do?' He never put his hat down—you may have; noticed it?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I noticed it," Mary admitted.</p> - -<p>"You know; oh, you do know!" she cried inwardly, with a sinking of the -heart. "<i>Now</i>, what am I to do?"</p> - -<p>"Don't imagine I am blaming him," went on Mrs. Kincaid, "I am not -blaming anybody; the reason may be very strong indeed. Only it seems -rather unfair that I should have to suffer for it, considering that I -don't hear what it is."</p> - -<p>"Then why not speak to Dr. Kincaid? If he understood that you felt his -absence so keenly, you may be sure he'd try to come oftener. Why don't -you tell him that you miss him?"</p> - -<p>"I shall never sue to my son for his visits," said the old lady with a -touch of dignity, "nor shall I ask him why he stays away. That is quite -his own affair. At my age we begin to see that our children have rights -we mustn't intrude into—secrets that must be told to us freely, or not -told at all. We begin to see it, only we are old to learn. There, my -dear, don't let us talk about it; it's not a pleasant subject. I think -we had better go and dress."</p> - -<p>Mary looked at her helplessly; there was a finality in her tone which -precluded the possibility of any advance. It was more than ever -manifest that the task of remonstrating with him devolved upon Mary -herself, and she decided to write to him that afternoon. Shortly after -dinner Mrs. Kincaid went into the garden, and, left to her own devices -in the parlour, Mary drew her chair to the escritoire. She would write -a few lines, she thought, however clumsy, and send them at once. -Still, they were not easy lines to produce, and she nibbled her pen a -good deal in the course of their composition; the self-consciousness -that invaded some of the sentences was too glaring. When the note was -finished at last, she slipped it into her pocket, and told Mrs. Kincaid -she would like to go for a walk.</p> - -<p>"Oh, by all means; why not?"</p> - -<p>"I thought perhaps you might want me."</p> - -<p>"No," said Mrs. Kincaid; "I shall get along very well—I'm gardening."</p> - -<p>She was, indeed, more cheerful than she had been for some time, busying -herself among the violets, and stooping over the crocuses to clear the -soil away.</p> - -<p>"Go along," she added, nodding across her shoulder; "a walk will do you -good!"</p> - -<p>Though the wish had been expressed only to avoid giving the letter to a -servant, Mary thought that she might as well profit by the chance; and -from the post-office she sauntered as far as the beach. Then it struck -her that the doctor might pay his overdue visit this afternoon, and she -was sorry that she had gone out. The laboured letter might have been -dispensed with—she might have had a word with him before he joined his -mother in the garden! She turned back at once—and as she neared the -Lodge, she saw him leaving it. They met not fifty yards from the door.</p> - -<p>"Well, have you enjoyed your walk—you haven't been very far?" he said.</p> - -<p>"Not very," said she; "I changed my mind. How did you find your mother?"</p> - -<p>"She had been pottering about on the wet ground, which wasn't any too -wise of her. Why do you ask?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I ... She has been missing you a little, I think; she wants you -there more often."</p> - -<p>"Oh?" he said; "I'm very sorry. Are you sure?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I am sure; it is more than a little she misses you. As a matter -of fact, I have just written to you, Dr. Kincaid."</p> - -<p>"To me? What—about this?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"I didn't know," he said; "I never supposed she'd miss me like that. It -was very kind of you."</p> - -<p>"I wanted to speak to you about it before. I have seen for some time -she was distressed."</p> - -<p>"Has she said anything?"</p> - -<p>"She only mentioned it this morning, but I've noticed."</p> - -<p>"It was very kind of you," he repeated; "I'm much obliged."</p> - -<p>Both suffered slightly from the consciousness of suppression; and after -a few seconds she said boldly:</p> - -<p>"Dr. Kincaid, if you're staying away with any idea of sparing -embarrassment to me, I beg that you won't."</p> - -<p>"Well, of course," he said, "I thought you'd rather I didn't come."</p> - -<p>"But do you suppose I can consent to keep you from your mother's house? -You must see ... the responsibility of it! What I should like to know -is, are you staying away solely for my sake?"</p> - -<p>"I didn't wish to intrude my trouble on you."</p> - -<p>"No," she said; "that isn't what I mean. I am glad I have met you; I -want to speak to, you plainly. I have thought that perhaps it hurt you -to come; that my being there reminded—that you didn't like it? If -that's so——"</p> - -<p>"I think you're exaggerating the importance of the thing! It is very -nice and womanly of you, but you are making yourself unhappy for -nothing. I have had a good deal to occupy me of late—in future I'll go -oftener."</p> - -<p>"I feel very guilty," she answered. "If I am right in thinking it would -be pleasanter for you to stay away than to go there and see me, my -course is clear. It's not my home, you know; I'm in a situation, and it -can be given up."</p> - -<p>"You mustn't talk like that. I must have blundered very badly to give -you such an idea. Don't let's stand here! Do you mind turning back a -little way? If what I said to you obliged you to leave Westport, I -should reproach myself for it bitterly."</p> - -<p>They strolled slowly down the street; and during a minute each of the -pair sought phrases.</p> - -<p>"It's certain," she said abruptly, "that my being your mother's -companion is quite wrong! If I weren't in the house you'd go there the -same as you used to. I can't help feeling that."</p> - -<p>"But I <i>will</i> go there the same as I used to. I have said so."</p> - -<p>"Yes," she murmured.</p> - -<p>"Doesn't that satisfy you?"</p> - -<p>"You'll go, but the fact remains that you'd rather not; and the cause -of your reluctance is my presence there."</p> - -<p>"It is you who are insisting on the reluctance," he fenced; "<i>I've</i> -not said I am reluctant. I thought you'd prefer me to avoid you for a -while; personally——"</p> - -<p>"Oh!" she said, "do you think I've not seen? I know very well the -position is a false one!"</p> - -<p>"I told you I'd never become a worry to you," he said humbly; "I've -been trying to keep my word."</p> - -<p>"You've been everything that is considerate; the fault is my own. I -ought to have resigned the place the day after you spoke to me."</p> - -<p>"I don't think that would have helped me much. You must understand that -a change like that was the very last thing I wanted my love to effect."</p> - -<p>At the word "love" the woman flinched a little, and he himself had not -been void of sensation in uttering it. The sound of it was loud to both -of them. But to her it added to the sense of awkwardness, while to the -man it seemed to bring them nearer.</p> - -<p>"It was very dense of me," he went on; "but with all the consequences -of speaking to you that I foresaw I never took into account the one -that has happened. I wondered if I was justified in asking you to give -up a comfortable living for such a home as I could offer; I considered -half a dozen things; but that I might be making the house unbearable to -you I overlooked. Now, with your interest at heart all the time, I've -injured you! I can't tell you how sorry I am to learn it."</p> - -<p>"It's not unbearable," she said; "'unbearable' is much too strong. But -I do see my duty, and I know the right thing is for me to go away; your -mother would have you then as she ought to have you. While I stop, it -can never be really free for either of you. And of course she knows!"</p> - -<p>"Do you think she does?" he exclaimed.</p> - -<p>"Are women blind? Of course she knows! And what can she feel towards -me? It's only the affection she has for you that prevents her -discharging me."</p> - -<p>"Oh, don't!" he said. "'Discharging' you!"</p> - -<p>"What am I? I'm only her servant. Don't blink facts, Dr. Kincaid; I'm -your mother's companion, a woman you had never seen two years ago. It -would have been a good deal better for you if you had never seen me at -all!"</p> - -<p>"You can't say what would have been best for <i>me</i>," he returned -unsteadily; "I'd rather have known you as I do than that we hadn't met. -For yourself, perhaps——"</p> - -<p>"Hush!" she interrupted; "we can neither of us forget what our meeting -was. For myself, I owe my very life to meeting you; that's why the -result of it is so abominable—such a shame! I haven't said much, but I -remember every day what I owe you. I know I owe you the very clothes I -wear."</p> - -<p>"Oh, for God's sake!" he muttered.</p> - -<p>"And my repayment is to make you unhappy—and her unhappy. It's noble!"</p> - -<p>Her pace quickened, and to see her excited acted upon him very -strongly. He longed to comfort her, and because this was impossible by -reason of the disparity of their sentiments, the sight of her emotion -was more painful. He had never felt the hopelessness of his attachment -so heavy on him as now that he saw her disturbed on account of it, -and realised at the same time that it debarred him from offering her -consolation. They walked along, gazing before them fixedly into the -vista of the shut-up shops and Sunday quietude, until at last he said -with an effort:</p> - -<p>"If you did go you'd make me unhappier than ever."</p> - -<p>She did not reply to this; and after a glance at the troubled profile:</p> - -<p>"I am ready to do whatever you want," he added; "whatever will make the -position easiest to you. It seems that, with the best intentions, I've -only succeeded in giving annoyance to you both. But the wrong to my -mother can be remedied; and if I drive you away I shall have done some -lasting harm.... Why don't you say that you'll remain?"</p> - -<p>"Because I'm not sure about it. I can't determine."</p> - -<p>"Your objection was the fancy that you were responsible for my seeing -her so seldom; I've promised to see her as often as I can."</p> - -<p>She bit her lip. She said nothing.</p> - -<p>"I can't do any more—can I?"</p> - -<p>"No," she confessed.</p> - -<p>"Then, what's the matter?"</p> - -<p>"The matter is that——"</p> - -<p>"What?"</p> - -<p>"You show me more plainly every minute that I <i>ought</i> to go."</p> - -<p>Something in the dumbness with which the announcement was received told -her how unexpected it had been. And, indeed, to hear that his love, -unperceived by himself, had been fighting against him was the hardest -thing that he had had to bear. Sensible that every remonstrance that -escaped him would estrang them further, the man felt helpless. They -were crossing the churchyard now, and she said something about the -impracticability of her going any further.</p> - -<p>"Well, as you'll come oftener, our talk hasn't been useless!"</p> - -<p>"Wait a second," he said. He paused by the porch, and looked at her. "I -can't leave you like this. Mary——!"</p> - -<p>"Oh!" she faltered, "don't say anything—don't!"</p> - -<p>"I must. What's the good?—I keep back everything, and you still know! -You'll always know. Nothing could have been more honestly meant than -my assurance that I'd never bring distress to you, and I've brought -distress. Let's look the thing squarely in the eyes: you, won't be my -wife, but you needn't go away. What would you do? Whom do you know? -Leaving my loss of you out of the question, think of my self-reproach!"</p> - -<p>Inside the church an outburst of children's voices, muffled somewhat by -the shut door, but still too near to be wholly beautiful, rose suddenly -in a hymn. She stood with averted face, staring over the rankness of -the grass that the wind was stirring lightly among the gravestones.</p> - -<p>"Let's look at the thing squarely for once," he said again. "We're -both remembering I love you—there's nothing gained by pretending. If -the circumstances were different, if you had somewhere to go I should -have less right to interfere; but as it is, your leaving would mean a -constant shame to me. All the time I should be thinking: 'She was at -peace in a home, and you drove her out from it!' To see the woman he -cares for go away, unprotected, among strangers, to want perhaps for -the barest necessaries—what sort of man could endure it? should feel -as if I had turned you out of doors." A sudden tremor seized her; she -shivered.</p> - -<p>"Sit down," he said authoritatively. "We must come to an understanding!"</p> - -<p>But his protest was not immediately continued, and in the shelter of -the porch both were thoughtful. She was the first to speak again, after -all.</p> - -<p>"You're persuading me to be a great coward," she said; "and I am not a -very brave woman at the best. If I do what is right, I may give you -pain for a little while, but I shall spare you the unhappiness you'll -have if you go on meeting me."</p> - -<p>"You consider my happiness and her happiness, but not your own. And -why?—you'd spare me nothing."</p> - -<p>"You'll never be satisfied. Oh, yes, let us be honest with each -other, you're right! Your misgivings about me are true enough; but -you are principally anxious for me to stop that you may still see me. -And what'll come of it? I can never marry you, never; and you'll be -wretched. If I gave you a chance to forget——"</p> - -<p>"I shall never forget, whether you stop or whether you go."</p> - -<p>"You <i>must</i> forget!" she cried. "You must forget me till it is as if -you had never known me. I won't be burdened with the knowledge that I'm -spoiling your life. I won't!"</p> - -<p>"Mary!" he said appealingly.</p> - -<p>"Oh," she exclaimed, "it's cruel! I wish to God I had died before you -loved me!"</p> - -<p>"You don't know what you're saying! You make me feel——Why," he -demanded, under his breath—"why could it never be—in time, if you -stay? I'll never speak of it any more till you permit it, not a -sign shall tell you I'm waiting; but by-and-by—will it be always -impossible? Dearest, it holds me so fast, my love of you. Don't be -harsher than you need; it's so real, so deep. Don't refuse me the right -to hope—in secret, by myself; it's all I have, all I'll ask of you for -years, if you like—the right to think that you may be my wife some -day. Leave me that!"</p> - -<p>"I can't," she said thickly; "it would be a lie."</p> - -<p>"You could never care for me—not so much as to let <i>me</i> care for -<i>you</i>?"</p> - -<p>A movement answered him, and his head was lowered. He sat, his chin -supported by his palm, watching the restless working of her hands in -her lap. The closing words of the hymn came out distinctly to them -both, and they listened till the hush fell, without knowing that they -listened.</p> - -<p>"May I ask you one thing? You know I shall respect your confidence. Is -it because you care for some other man?"</p> - -<p>"No, no," she said vehemently, "I do not care!"</p> - -<p>"Thank God for that! While there's no one you like better, you'll be -the woman I want and wait for to the end."</p> - -<p>Her hands lay still; the compulsion for avowal was confronting her at -last. To hear this thing and sanction it by leaving him unenlightened -would be a wrong that she dared not contemplate; and under the -necessity for proclaiming that her sentiments could never affect the -matter, she turned cold and damp. Twice she attempted the finality -required, and twice her lips parted without sound.</p> - -<p>"Dr. Kincaid——"</p> - -<p>He raised his eyes to her, and the courage faded.</p> - -<p>"Don't think," he said, "that I shall ever make you sorry for telling -me that. You've simply removed a dread. I'm grateful to you."</p> - -<p>"Oh," she murmured, in a suffocating voice, "it makes no difference. -How am I to explain the—why don't you understand?"</p> - -<p>"What is it I should understand?"</p> - -<p>"You mustn't be grateful; you're mistaken. Never in the world, so long -as we live! There was someone else; I——"</p> - -<p>"Be open with me," he said sternly; "in common fairness, let us have -clearness and truth! You just declared that you didn't care for anyone?"</p> - -<p>"No," she gasped, "I did say that—I meant I didn't care. I don't—we -neither care; he doesn't know if I am alive, but ... there used to be -another man, and——"</p> - -<p>"Oh, my God, you are going to tell me you are married?"</p> - -<p>She shook her head. His eyes were piercing her; she felt them on her -wherever she looked.</p> - -<p>"Then speak and be done! 'There was another man.' What more?"</p> - -<p>Suddenly the first fear had entered his veins, and, though he was -conscious only of a vague oppression, he was already terrified by the -anticipation of what he was going to hear.</p> - -<p>"'There was another man,'" he repeated hoarsely. "What of him?"</p> - -<p>She was leaning forward, stooping so that her face was completely -hidden. With the silence that had fallen inside the church, the scene -was quieter than it had been, and the stillness in the air intensified -her difficulty of speech. She struggled to evolve from her confusion -the phrase to express her impurity, but all the terms looked shameless -and unutterable alike; and the travail continued until, faint with the -tension of the pause and the violent beating of her heart, she said -almost inaudibly:</p> - -<p>"I lived with him three years."</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h3>CHAPTER X</h3> - - -<p>She heard him catch his breath, and then they sat motionless for a long -while, just as they had been sitting when she spoke. Now that she had -wrenched the fact out, the poignancy of her suffering subsided; even -by degrees she realised that, after this, her leaving the town was -inevitable, and her thoughts began to concern themselves vaguely with -her future. In him consciousness could never waver from the sound of -what she had said. She was impure. She had known passion and shame—she -herself! The landscape lost its proportion as he stared; the clouds of -the sky and the hue of the distance, everything had altered—she was -impure.</p> - -<p>The laboured minutes passed; he turned and looked slowly down at her -averted profile. The curve of cheek was colourless; her hands were -still lying clasped on her knee. He watched her for a moment, striving -to connect the woman with her words. Something seemed bearing on his -brain, so that it did not feel quite near. It did not feel so alive, -nor so much his own, as before the vileness of this thing was uttered.</p> - -<p>"I have never told you a falsehood," she murmured, "I didn't tell you -any falsehood in London. Don't think me all deceit—every word of what -I said that day was true."</p> - -<p>"I dare say," he answered dully; "I have not accused you."</p> - -<p>The change in his tone was pregnant with condemnation to her, and she -wondered if he was believing her; but, indeed, he hardly recognised -that she had said anything requiring belief. Her assurance appeared -juvenile to him, incongruous. There was an air almost of unreality -about their being seated here as they were, gazing at the blur of -churchyard. Something never to be undone had happened and she was -strange.</p> - -<p>The service had ended, and, trooping out, the Sunday-school pupils -clattered past their feet, shiny and clamorous, and eyeing them with -sidelong inquisition. She rose nervously, and, rousing himself, he went -with her through the crowd of children as far as the gate. There their -steps flagged to a standstill, and for a few seconds they remained -looking down the lane in silence.</p> - -<p>To her, stunned by no shock to make reality less real, these final -seconds held the condensed humiliation of the hour. The rigidity -with which the man waited beside her seemed eloquent of disgust, and -she mused bitterly on what she had done, how she had abased herself -and destroyed his respect; she longed to be free of his reproachful -presence. On the gravel behind them one of the bigger girls whispered -to another, and the other giggled.</p> - -<p>She made a slight movement, and he responded with something impossible -to catch. She did not offer her hand; she did not immediately pity him. -Had a stranger told him this thing of her, she would have pitied and -understood; told him by herself, she understood only that she was being -despised. They separated with a mechanical "good-afternoon," quietly -and slowly. The two girls, who watched them with precocious eagerness, -debated their relationship.</p> - -<p>The road lay before him long and bare, and lethargically he took it. -He continued to hear her words, "There used to be another man," but he -did not know he heard them—he did not actively pursue any train of -thought. It was only in momentary intervals that he became aware that -he was thinking. The sense of there being something numbed within him -still endured, and as yet his condition was more of stupor than of pain.</p> - -<p>"There used to be another man!" The sentence hummed in his ears, and as -he went along he awoke to it, the persistence of it touched him; and -he began to repeat it—mentally, difficultly, trying to spur his mind -into comprehension of it and take it in. He did not suffer acutely -even then. There was nothing acute in his feelings whatever. He found -it hard to realise, albeit he did not doubt. She was what she had said -she was; he knew it. But he could not see her so; he could not imagine -her the woman that she had said she used to be. He saw her always as -she had been to him, composed and self-contained. The demeanour had -been a mask, yet it clung to his likeness of her, obscuring the true -identity from him still. He strove to conceive her in her past life, -contemning himself because he could not; he wanted to remember that he -had been loving a disguise; he wanted to obliterate it. The fact of its -having been a disguise and never she all the time was so hard to grasp. -He tried to look upon her laughing in dishonour, but the picture would -not live; it appeared unnatural. It was the inception of his agony: the -feeling that he had known her so very little that it was her real self -which seemed the impossible.</p> - -<p>And that other man had known it all—seen every mood of her, learned -her in every phase!</p> - -<p>"Mary!" he muttered; and was lost in the consciousness that actually he -had never known "Mary."</p> - -<p>He perceived that the man was moving through his thoughts as a dark -man, short and suave, and he wondered how the fancy had arisen. -Vaguely he began to wonder what he had been like indeed. It was too -soon to question who he was—he wondered only how he looked, in a dim -mental searching for the presence to associate her with. Next, the -impression vanished, and sudden recollections came to him of men he was -accustomed to meet.</p> - -<p>The manner and mien of these riveted his attention. It was not by his -own will that he considered them; the personalities were insistent. -He did not suppose that any one of them had been her lover; he knew -that it was chimerical to view any one of them as such; but his brain -had been groping for a man, and these familiar men obtruded themselves -vividly. The lurking horror of her defilement materialised, so that the -sweat burst out on him; the significance of what he had heard flared -red upon his vision. To think that it had pleased her to lend herself -for the toy of a man's leisure, that some man had been free to make her -the boast of his conceit, twisted his heart-strings.</p> - -<p>The solidity of the hospital confronted him on the slope that he had -begun to mount. Beneath him stretched the herbage of cottage gardens -somnolent in Sabbath calm. Out of the silence came the quick yapping of -a shop-boy's dog, the shrillness of a shop-boy's whistle. They were the -only sounds. Then he went in.</p> - -<p>That evening Miss Brettan told Mrs. Kincaid that she wished to leave -her.</p> - -<p>The old lady received the announcement without any mark of surprise.</p> - -<p>"You know your own mind best," she said meditatively; "but I'm sorry -you are going—very sorry."</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Mary; "I must go. I'm sorry too, but I can't help myself. -I——"</p> - -<p>"I used to think you'd stop with me always; we got on so well together."</p> - -<p>"You've been more than kind to me from the very first day; I shall -never forget how kind you have been! If it were only possible. But it -isn't; I——"</p> - -<p>Once more the pronoun as the stumbling-block on delicate ground.</p> - -<p>"I can't stop!" she added thickly; "I hope you'll be luckier with your -next companion."</p> - -<p>"I shan't have another; changes upset me. And you must go when it -suits you best, you know; don't stay on to give me time to make fresh -arrangements, as I haven't any to make. Study your own convenience -entirely."</p> - -<p>"This week?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, very well; let it be this week."</p> - -<p>They said no more then. But the following afternoon, Mrs. Kincaid -broached the subject abruptly.</p> - -<p>"What are you going to do, Miss Brettan?" she inquired. "Have you -anything else in view?"</p> - -<p>"No," said Mary hesitatingly; "not yet."</p> - -<p>The suppression of her motive made plain speaking difficult to both.</p> - -<p>"I've no doubt, though," she added, "that I shall be all right."</p> - -<p>"What a pity it is! What a pity it is, to be sure!"</p> - -<p>"Oh, you mustn't grieve about me!" she exclaimed; "it isn't worth that; -<i>I'm</i> not worth it. You know—you know, so many women in the world have -to make a living; and they do make it, somehow. It's only one more."</p> - -<p>"And so many women find they can't! Tell me, <i>must</i> you go? Are you -quite sure you're not exaggerating the necessity? I don't ask you your -reasons, I never meddle in people's private affairs. But are you sure -you aren't looking on anything in a false light and going to extremes?"</p> - -<p>"Oh!" responded Mary, carried into sudden candour, "do you suppose I -don't shiver at the prospect? Do you suppose it attracts me? I'm not a -girl, I'm not quixotic; I <i>can't</i> stop here!"</p> - -<p>The elder woman sighed.</p> - -<p>"Why couldn't you care for such a good fellow as my son?" she thought. -"Then there would have been none of this bother for any of us!"</p> - -<p>"I hope you'll be fortunate," she said gently. "Anything I can do to -help you, of course, I will!"</p> - -<p>"Thank you," said Mary.</p> - -<p>"I mean, you mustn't scruple to refer to me; it's your only chance. -Without any references——"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I know too well how indispensable they are; but——"</p> - -<p>"You have been here two years. I shall say I should have liked it to -remain your home."</p> - -<p>"Thank you," said Mary, again. But she was by no means certain that -she could avail herself of this recommendation given in ignorance of -the truth. It was precisely the matter that she had been debating. If -she attempted to avail herself of it, the doctor might have something -to say; and she was loath to be indebted for testimony from the mother -which the son would know to be undeserved, whether he interfered, or -not; she wanted her renunciation to be complete. Yet, without this -source of aid——She trembled. How speedily the few pounds in her -possession would vanish! how soon there would be a revival of her past -experience, with all its heartlessness and squalor! In imagination she -was already footsore, adrift in the London streets.</p> - -<p>"Mrs. Kincaid——" she cried. A passionate impulse seized her to -declare everything. If she had been seventeen, she would have knelt at -the old woman's feet, for it is not so much the vehemence of our moods -that diminishes with time as the power of restraint that increases.</p> - -<p>"Mrs. Kincaid, you must know? You must guess why——"</p> - -<p>"I know nothing," said the old woman, quickly; "I don't guess!" The -colour sank from her face, and Mary had never heard her speak with so -much energy. "My son shall tell me—I have a son—I will not hear from -you!"</p> - -<p>"I beg your pardon," said Mary; and they were silent.</p> - -<p>The same evening Mrs. Kincaid sent a message to the hospital, asking -her son to come round to see her.</p> - -<p>She had not mentioned that she was going to do so, and it was with a -little shock that Mary heard the order given. She supposed, however, -that it was given in her presence by way of a hint, and when the -time-approached for him to arrive, she withdrew.</p> - -<p>He came with misgivings and with relief. The last twenty-four hours had -inclined him to the state of tension in which the unexpected is always -the portentous, but in which one waits, nevertheless, for something -unlooked-for to occur. He did not know what he dreaded to hear, but the -summons alarmed him, even while he welcomed it for permitting him to -go to the house.</p> - -<p>He threw a rapid glance round the parlour, and replied to his mother's -greeting with quick interrogation.</p> - -<p>"What has happened?"</p> - -<p>"Nothing of grave importance has happened. I want to speak to you."</p> - -<p>"I was afraid something was the matter," he said, more easily. "What is -it?"</p> - -<p>He took the seat opposite to her, and she was dismayed to observe the -alteration in him. She contemplated him a few seconds irresolutely.</p> - -<p>"Philip," she said, "this afternoon Miss Brettan was anxious to tell -me something; she was anxious to make me her confidant. And I wouldn't -listen to her."</p> - -<p>"Oh?" he said.... "And you wouldn't listen to her?"</p> - -<p>"No, I wouldn't listen to her. I said, 'My son shall tell me, or I -won't hear.' This afternoon I had no more idea of sending for you than -you had of coming. But I have been thinking it over; she's in your -mother's house, and she's the woman you love. You do love her, Philip?"</p> - -<p>"I asked her to be my wife," he answered simply.</p> - -<p>"I thought so. And she refused you?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, she refused me. If I haven't told you before, it was because -she refused me. To have spoken of it to you would have been to give -pain—needless pain—to you and to her."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kincaid considered.</p> - -<p>"You are quite right," she admitted; "your mistake was to suppose I -shouldn't see it for myself." She turned her eyes from him and looked -ostentatiously in another direction. "Now," she added, "she is going -away! Perhaps you already knew, but——"</p> - -<p>"No," he replied, "I didn't know; I thought it likely, but I didn't -know. I understand why you sent for me."</p> - -<p>He got up and went across to her, and kissed her on the brow.</p> - -<p>"I understand why it was you sent for me," he repeated. "What a tender -little mother it is! And to lose her companion, too!"</p> - -<p>Where he leant beside her, she could not see how white his face had -grown.</p> - -<p>"Are we going to let her go, Phil?"</p> - -<p>He stroked her hand.</p> - -<p>"I am afraid we must let her go, mother, as she doesn't want to stop."</p> - -<p>"You don't mean to interfere, then? You won't do anything to prevent -it?"</p> - -<p>"I am not able to prevent it," he rejoined coldly. "I have no -authority."</p> - -<p>"Indeed?" murmured Mrs. Kincaid. "It seems I might have spared my -pains."</p> - -<p>"No," said her son; "your pains were well taken. I'm very glad you -have spoken to me—or rather I'm very glad to have spoken to you—for -you know now I meant no wrong by my silence."</p> - -<p>"But—but, Philip——"</p> - -<p>"But Miss Brettan must go mother, because she wishes to!"</p> - -<p>"I don't understand you," exclaimed Mrs. Kincaid, bewildered. "I never -thought you would care for any woman at all—you never struck me as the -sort of man, somehow; but now that you do care, you can't surely mean -that you think it right for the woman to leave the only place where she -has any friends and go out into the world by herself? Don't you say you -are in love with her?"</p> - -<p>"I asked Miss Brettan to marry me," he answered. "Since you put the -question, I do think it right for her to leave the place; I think every -woman would wish to leave in the circumstances. I think it would be -indelicate to restrain her."</p> - -<p>"Your sense of delicacy is very acute for a lover," said the old lady -grimly; "much too fine a thing to be comfortable. And I'll tell you -what is greater still—your pride. Don't imagine you take me in for a -moment; look behind you in the glass and ask yourself if it's likely!"</p> - -<p>He had moved apart from her now and was lounging on the hearth, but he -did not attempt to follow her advice. Nor did he deny the implication.</p> - -<p>"I look pretty bad," he acknowledged, "I know. But you're mistaken, for -all that; my pride has nothing to do with it."</p> - -<p>"You're making yourself ill at the prospect of losing her, and yet you -won't——Not but what she must be mad to reject you, certainly I am -not standing up for her, don't think it! I don't say I wanted to see -you fond of her—I should have preferred to see you marry someone who -would have been of use to you and helped you in your career. You might -have done a great deal better; and I am sure I understand your having a -proper pride in the matter and objecting to beg her to remain. But, for -all that, if you do find so much in this particular woman that you are -going to be miserable without her, why, <i>I</i> can say something to induce -her to stop!"</p> - -<p>"To the woman you would prefer me not to marry?" he said wearily. "But -you mustn't do it, mother."</p> - -<p>"I do want to see you marry her, Philip; I want to see you happy. You -don't follow me a bit. Since the dread of her loss can make you look -like that, you mustn't lose her; that's what I say."</p> - -<p>"I <i>have</i> lost her," he returned; "I follow you very well. You think I -might have married a princess, and you would have viewed that with a -little pang too. You would give me to Miss Brettan with a big pang, but -you'd give me to her because you think I want her."</p> - -<p>"That is it—not a very big pang, either; I know every man is the best -judge of his own life. Indeed, it oughtn't to be a pang at all; I don't -think it is a pang, only a tiny A sweet-heart is always a mother's -rival just at first, Phil; and I suppose it's always the mother's -fault. But one day, when you're married to Mary, and a boy of your own -falls in love with a strange girl, your wife will tell you how she -feels. She'll explain it to you better that I can, and then you'll know -how <i>your</i> mother felt and it won't seem so unnatural."</p> - -<p>"Oh," he said, "hush! Don't! I shall never be married to Mary."</p> - -<p>"Yes," she declared, "you will. When you say that, you're not the 'best -judge' any longer; it isn't judgment, it's pique, and I'm not going to -have your life spoiled by pique and want of resolution. Phil, Phil, -you're the last man I should have thought would have allowed a thing he -wanted to slip through his fingers. And a woman—women often say 'no,' -to begin with. It's not the girls who are to be had for the asking who -make the best wives; the ones who are hardest to win are generally the -worthiest to hold. Don't accept her answer, Phil! I'll persuade her -to stay on, and at first you needn't come very often—I won't mind any -more, I shall know what it means; and when you do come, I'll help you -and tell you what to do. She <i>shall</i> get fond of you; you <i>shall</i> have -the woman you want—I promise her to you!"</p> - -<p>"Mother," he said—the pallor had touched his lips—"don't say that! -Don't go on talking of what can't be. It's no misunderstanding to be -made up; it isn't any courtship to be aided. I tell you you can no more -give me Mary Brettan for my wife than you can give my childhood back to -me out of eternity."</p> - -<p>"And I tell you I will!" said she. "'Faint-heart——' But you <i>shall</i> -have your 'fair lady'! Yes, instead of—you remember what we used to -say to you when you were a little boy? 'There's a monkey up your back, -Phil!'—you shall have your fair lady instead of the monkey that's up -your back. It's a full-grown monkey to-night and you're too obstinate -to listen to reason. By-and-by you'll see you were wrong. She is suited -to you; the more I think about it, the more convinced I am she would -make you comfortable. You might have thrown yourself away on some silly -girl without a thought beyond her hats and frocks! And she's interested -in your profession; you've always been able to talk to her about it; -she understands these things better than I do."</p> - -<p>"Listen," exclaimed Kincaid with repressed passion, "listen, and -remember what you said just now—that I am a man, to judge for myself! -You mustn't ask Miss Brettan to stay, and you are not to think that it -is her going that makes me unhappy. My hope is over. Between her and me -there would never be any marriage if she remained for years. Everything -was said, and it was answered, and it is done."</p> - -<p>He bit the end from a cigar, and smoked a little before he spoke any -more. When he did speak, his tones were under control; anyone from whom -his face had been hidden would have pronounced the words stronger than -the feeling that dictated them.</p> - -<p>"Something else: after to-night don't talk to me about her. I don't -want to hear; it's not pleasant to me. If you want to prove your -affection, prove it by that! While she's here I can't see you; when -she's gone, let us talk as if she had never been!"</p> - -<p>The aspect of the man showed of what a tremendous strain this affected -calmness was the outcome. Indeed, the deliberateness of the words, even -more than the words themselves, hushed her into a conviction of his -sincerity, which was disquieting because she found it so inexplicable. -She smoothed the folds of her dress, casting at him, from time to time, -glances full of wistfulness and pity; and at last she said, in the -voice of a person who resigns herself to bewilderment:</p> - -<p>"Well, of course I'll do as you wish. But you have both very queer -notions of what is right, that's certain; help seems equally repugnant -to the pair of you."</p> - -<p>"Why do you say that?" inquired Kincaid. "What help has Miss Brettan -declined?"</p> - -<p>"She was reluctant to refer anybody to me, I thought, when I mentioned -the matter to-day. I suppose that was another instance of delicacy over -my head."</p> - -<p>"The reference? She won't make use of it?"</p> - -<p>"She seemed very doubtful of doing so. I said: 'Without any reference, -what on earth will become of you?' And she said, 'Yes, she understood, -but——' But something; I forget exactly what it was now."</p> - -<p>"But that's insane!" he said imperatively.</p> - -<p>"She'll be helpless without it. She has been your companion, and you -have had no fault to find with her; you can conscientiously say so."</p> - -<p>He rose, and shook his coat clear of the ash that had fallen in a lump -from the cigar.</p> - -<p>"Nothing that has passed between Miss Brettan and me can affect her -right to your testimony to the two years that she has lived with you; I -should like her to know I said so."</p> - -<p>"I will tell her," affirmed his mother. "What are you going to do?"</p> - -<p>"It's getting late.... By the way, there's another thing. It will be -a long while before she finds another home, at the best; she mustn't -think I have anything to do with it, but I want her to take some money -before she goes, to keep her from distress.... Where did I leave my -hat?"</p> - -<p>"You want me to persuade her to take some money, as if it were from me?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, as if it were from you—fifty pounds—to keep her from -distress.... Did I hang it up outside?"</p> - -<p>His mother went across to him and wound her arms about his neck.</p> - -<p>"Can you spare so much, Philip?"</p> - -<p>"I have been putting by," he said, "for some time."</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h3>CHAPTER XI</h3> - - -<p>Mary had spent the evening very anxiously. The formless future was a -terror that she could not banish; she could evolve no definite line of -action to sustain a hope.</p> - -<p>She awoke from a troubled sleep with a startled sense of something -having happened. After a few seconds, the cause was repeated. The -silence was broken by the jangling of a bell, and nervous investigation -proved it to be Mrs. Kincaid's.</p> - -<p>The old lady explained that she was feeling very unwell—an explanation -that was corroborated by her voice—and, striking a light, Mary saw -that she was shivering violently.</p> - -<p>"I can't stop it; and I'm so cold. I don't know what it is; it's like -cold water running down my back."</p> - -<p>Her companion looked at her quickly. "We'll put some more blankets on -the bed. Wait a minute while I run upstairs!"</p> - -<p>She returned with the bedclothes from her own room.</p> - -<p>"You'll be much warmer before long," she said; "you must have taken a -slight chill."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kincaid lay mute awhile.</p> - -<p>"I've such a pain!" she murmured. "How could I have taken a chill?"</p> - -<p>"Where is your pain?"</p> - -<p>"In my side—a sharp, stabbing pain."</p> - -<p>The servant appeared now, alarmed by the disturbance, and Mary told her -to bring some coals, and then to dress herself as speedily as she could.</p> - -<p>"Is there any linseed? Or oatmeal will do. I must make a poultice."</p> - -<p>"I'll see, miss. There's some linseed, I think, but——"</p> - -<p>"Fetch it, and a kettle. We'll light the fire at once; then I can make -it up here."</p> - -<p>The old lady moaned and shivered by turns; and some difficulty was -experienced in getting the fire to burn. Mary held a newspaper before -it, and the servant advanced theories on the subject of the chimney.</p> - -<p>At last, when it was possible for the poultice to be applied, Mary sent -her down for a hot-water bottle and the whisky.</p> - -<p>"You'll be quite comfortable directly," she said to the invalid. -"Something warm to drink, and the hot flannel to your feet 'll make a -lot of difference."</p> - -<p>"So cold I am, it's bitter—and the pain! I can't think what it can be."</p> - -<p>"Let me put this on for you, then; it's all ready. It won't—is that -it?... There! How's that?"</p> - -<p>"Oh!" faltered Mrs. Kincaid, "oh, thank you! Ah! you do it very nicely."</p> - -<p>"See, here we have the rest of the luxuries!" She mixed the stimulant, -and took it to her. "Just raise your head," she murmured; "I'll hold -the glass for you, so that you won't have to sit up. Take this, now, -and while you're sipping it, Ellen will get the bottle ready."</p> - -<p>"There isn't much in the kettle," said Ellen. "I don't——"</p> - -<p>"Use what there is, and fill it up again. Then see if you can find me -any brown paper."</p> - -<p>In quest of brown paper, Ellen was gone some time; and, having set down -the empty tumbler and made the bed tidier, Mary proceeded to search for -some herself.</p> - -<p>She found a sheet lining a drawer, and rolling it into the form of a -tube, fixed it to the kettle spout, to direct the steam into the room. -She had not long done so when the girl returned disconsolate to say -there was no brown paper in the house. Mary drew her outside.</p> - -<p>"Are you going to sit in there all night, miss?"</p> - -<p>"Speak lower! Yes, I shall sit up. What time is it?"</p> - -<p>The girl said that she had just been astonished to see by the kitchen -clock that it was half-past four; it had seemed to her that she had -not long fallen asleep when the bell rang.</p> - -<p>"I want you to go and fetch Dr. Kincaid, Ellen; I'm afraid Mrs. Kincaid -is going to be ill."</p> - -<p>"Do you mean I'm to go at once?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. Tell him his mother isn't well, and it would be better for him to -see her. Bring him back with you. You aren't frightened to go out—it -must be getting light?"</p> - -<p>They drew up the blind of the landing window, and saw daylight creeping -over the next-door yard.</p> - -<p>"Do you think she's going to be very bad, miss?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know; I can't tell. Hurry, Ellen, there's a good girl! get -back as quickly as you can!"</p> - -<p>A deep flush had overspread the face on the pillow. The eyes yearned, -and an agonised expression strengthened Mary's belief in the gravity of -the seizure; she feared it to be the beginning of inflammation of the -lungs. Three-quarters of an hour must be allowed for Kincaid to arrive, -and, conscious that she could now do nothing but wait, the time lagged -dreadfully. The silence, banished at the earlier pealing of the bell, -had regained its dynasty, and once more a wide hush settled upon the -house, indicated by the occasional clicking of a cinder on the fender. -At intervals the sick woman uttered a tremulous sigh, and met Mary's -gaze with a look of appeal, as if she recognised in her presence a kind -of protective sympathy; but she had ceased to complain, and the watcher -abstained from any active demonstration. In the globe beside the mirror -the gas flared brightly, and this, coupled with the heat of the fire, -filled the room with a moist radiance, against which the narrow line -of dawn above the window-sill grew slowly more defined. The advent had -been long expected, when sharp footfalls on the pavement smote Mary's -ear, and, forgetting that Kincaid had his own key, she sprang up to -let him in. The hall-door swung back, and she paused with her hand on -the banisters. He came swiftly forward and passed her with a hurried -salutation on the stairs.</p> - -<p>There was, however, no anxiety visible on his face as he approached the -bed. Merely a little genial concern was to be seen. His questions were -put encouragingly; when a reply was given, he listened with an air of -confidence confirmed.</p> - -<p>"Am I very ill?" she gasped.</p> - -<p>"You <i>feel</i> very ill, I dare say, dear; but don't go persuading -yourself you <i>are</i>, or that'll be a real trouble!"</p> - -<p>His fingers were on her pulse, and he was smiling as he spoke. Yet he -knew that her life was in danger. The worthiest acting is done where -there is no applause—it is the acting of a clever medical man in a -sick-room.</p> - -<p>Mary stood on the threshold watching him.</p> - -<p>"Who put that funnel on the kettle?" he inquired, without turning. He -had not appeared to notice it.</p> - -<p>"I did," she answered. "Am I to take it off?"</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>He signed to her to go below, and after a few minutes followed her into -the parlour.</p> - -<p>"Give me a pen and ink, Miss Brettan, please."</p> - -<p>"I've put them ready for you," she said.</p> - -<p>He wrote hastily, and rose with the prescription held out.</p> - -<p>"Where's Ellen?"</p> - -<p>"Here, waiting to take it."</p> - -<p>A trace of surprise escaped him. He said curtly:</p> - -<p>"You're thoughtful. Was it you who put on that poultice?"</p> - -<p>Her tone was as distant as his.</p> - -<p>"We did all we could before you came; <i>I</i> put on the poultice. Did I do -right?"</p> - -<p>"Quite right. I asked because of the way it was put on."</p> - -<p>With that expression of approval he left her and returned to his -mother. Mary, unable to complete her toilette, not knowing from minute -to minute when she might be called, occupied herself in righting the -disorder of the room. She had thrown on a loosely-fitting morning dress -of cashmere, one of the first things that she had made after she was -installed here. An instant; she had snatched to dip her face in water, -but she had been able to do little to her hair, the coil of which still -retained much of the scattered; softness of the night, and after Ellen -came back from the chemist's she sent her upstairs for some; hairpins. -She stood on the hearth, before the looking-glass, shaking the mass of -hair about her shoulders, and then with uplifted arms winding it deftly -on her head. The supple femininity of the attitude, so suggestive of -recent rising, harmonised with the earliness of the sunshine that -tinged the parlour; and when Kincaid reentered and found her so, he -could not but be sensible of the impression, though he was indisposed -to dwell upon it.</p> - -<p>She looked round quickly:</p> - -<p>"How is Mrs. Kincaid, doctor?"</p> - -<p>"I'm very uneasy about her. I'm going back to the hospital now to -arrange to stay here."</p> - -<p>"What do you think has caused it?"</p> - -<p>"I'm afraid she got damp and cold in the garden on Sunday."</p> - -<p>"And it has gone to the lungs?"</p> - -<p>"It has affected the left lung, yes."</p> - -<p>She dropped the last hairpin, and as she stooped for it the swirl of -the gown displayed a bare instep.</p> - -<p>"I can help to nurse her, unless you'd rather send someone else?"</p> - -<p>"You'll do very well, I think," he said; and he proceeded to give her -some instructions.</p> - -<p>She fulfilled these instructions with a capability he found -astonishing. Before the day had worn through he perceived that, however -her training had been acquired, he possessed in her a coadjutrix -reliable and adroit. To herself, she was once more within her native -province, but to him it was as if she had become suddenly voluble in a -foreign tongue. He had no inclination to meditate upon her skill—to -meditate about her was the last thing that he desired now—but there -were moments when her performance of some duty supplied fresh food for -wonder notwithstanding, and he noted her dexterity with curious eyes. -He had, though, refrained from any further praise. The gratitude that -he might have spoken was checked by the aloofness of her manner; and, -in the closer association consequent upon the illness, the formality -that had sprung up between them suffered no decrease. Indeed it became -permanent in this contact, which both would have shunned.</p> - -<p>After the one scene in which she left the choice to him, she had -afforded him no chance to resume their earlier relations had he wished -it, and the studied politeness of her address was a persistent reminder -that she directed herself to him in his medical capacity alone. She -held the present conditions the least exacting attainable, since -the distastefulness of renewed intercourse was not to be avoided -altogether; but she in nowise exonerated him for imposing them, and -she considered that by having done so he had made her a singularly -ungracious return for the humiliation of her avowal. She sustained the -note he had struck; the key was in a degree congenial to her. But she -resented while she concurred, and even more than to her judgment her -acquiescence was attributable to her pride.</p> - -<p>On the day following there were recurrences of pain, but on Wednesday -this subsided, though the temperature remained high. Mary saw that -his anxiety was, if anything, keener than it had been, and by degrees -a latent admiration began to mingle with her bitterness. In the -atmosphere of the sick-room the man and the woman were equally new -to each other, and up to a certain point he was as great a surprise -to her as was she to him. She saw him now professionally for the -first time, and she recognised his resources, his despatch, with -an appreciation quickened by experience. The visitor whom she had -known lounging, loose-limbed and conversational, in an arm-chair had -disappeared; the suppliant for a tenderness that she did not feel had -become an authority whom she obeyed. Here, like this, the man was a -power, and the change within him had its physical expression. His -figure was braced, his movements had a resolution and a vigour that -gave him another personality. He even awed her slightly. She thought -that he must look more masterful to all the world in the exercise of -his profession, but she thought also that everyone in the world would -approve the difference.</p> - -<p>The confidence that he inspired in her was so strong that on Thursday, -when he told her that he intended to have a consultation, she heard him -with a shock.</p> - -<p>"You think it advisable?"</p> - -<p>"I fear the worst, Miss Brettan; I can't neglect any chance."</p> - -<p>She had some violets in her hand—it was her custom to brighten the -view from the bed as much as she could every morning—and suddenly -their scent was very strong.</p> - -<p>"The worst?"</p> - -<p>"God grant my opinion's wrong!" he said. "Will you ask the girl to take -the wire for me?"</p> - -<p>It was to a physician in the county town he had decided to telegraph, -one whose prestige was gradually widening, and whose reputation had -been built on something trustier than a chance summons to the couch -of a notability. Mary had heard the name before, and she strove to -persuade herself that his view of the case might prove more promising. -The day that had opened so gloomily, however, offered during the -succeeding hours small food for faith. Towards noon the sufferer -became abruptly restless, and the united efforts of doctor and nurse -were required to soothe her. She was fired by a passionate longing to -get up, and pleaded piteously for permission. To "walk about a little -while" was her one appeal, and the strenuousness of the entreaty was -rendered more pathetic by her obvious belief that they refused because -they failed to comprehend the violence of the desire. She endeavoured -with failing energy to make it known, and—prevailed upon to desist at -last—lay back with a look that was a lamentation of her helplessness. -Later, she was slightly delirious and rambled in confused phrases of -her son and her companion—his courtship and Mary's indifference. -The man and the woman sat on either side, of her, but their gaze -no longer met. At the first reference to his attachment Mary had -started painfully, but now by a strong effort her nervousness had been -suppressed, and from time to time she moved to wipe the fevered lips -and brow with a semblance of self-possession. As the daylight waned, -the disjointed sentences grew rarer. Kincaid went down. Except for -the deep breathing, silence fell again, until, as dusk gathered, the -sudden words "I feel much better" were uttered in a tone of restored -tranquillity. Turning quickly, Mary saw that her ears had not deceived -her. The assurance was repeated with a feeble smile; the features had -gained a touch of the cheerfulness that had been so remarkable in the -voice. Soon afterwards the eyes closed in what appeared to be sleep.</p> - -<p>Kincaid was striding to and fro in the parlour, his arms locked across -his breast. As Mary ran in, his head was lifted sharply.</p> - -<p>"She feels much better," she exclaimed; "she has fallen asleep!"</p> - -<p>He stood there, without speaking—and she shrank back with a stifled -cry.</p> - -<p>"Oh! I didn't know.... Is it <i>that</i>?".</p> - -<p>"Yes," he said, scarcely above a whisper. And she understood that what -she had told him was the presage of death.</p> - -<p>After this, both knew it to be but a matter of time. The arrival of the -physician served merely to confirm despondence. He pronounced the case -hopeless, and reluctantly accepted a fee to defray the expenses of the -journey.</p> - -<p>"I wish we could have met in happier circumstances," he said.... -"You've the comfort of knowing that you did everything that could be -done."</p> - -<p>A page with a message of inquiry came up the steps as he left; such -messages had been delivered daily. But on Saturday, when the baker's -man brought the bread to Laburnum Lodge, he found the blinds down; and -within a few minutes of his handing the loaf to the weeping servant -through the scullery window, the news circulated in Westport that Mrs. -Kincaid had died unconscious at seven o'clock that morning.</p> - -<p>While the baker's man derived this intelligence from the housemaid, -Mary was behind the lowered blinds on the first floor, crying. She -had just descended from her bedroom; seeing how deeply Kincaid was -affected, she had retired there soon after the end. He had not shed -tears, but that he was strongly moved was evident by the muscles of -his mouth; and the quivering face of which she had had a glimpse kept -recurring to her vividly.</p> - -<p>He came in while she sat there. He was very pale, but now his face was -under control again.</p> - -<p>She rose, and advanced towards him irresolutely. "I'm so sorry! She was -a very kind friend to me."</p> - -<p>He put out his hand. For the first time since she had met him after -posting the note, hers lay in it.</p> - -<p>"Thank you," he said. "Thank you, too, for all you did for her; I shall -always remember it gratefully, Miss Brettan."</p> - -<p>He seemed to be at the point of adding something, but checked himself. -Presently he made reference to the arrangements that must be seen to. -That night he reoccupied his quarters in the hospital, and excepting -in odd minutes, she did not see him again during the day. She found -space, however, to mention that she purposed remaining until the -funeral, and to this announcement he bowed, though he refrained from -any inquiry as to her plans afterwards. "Plans," indeed, would have -been a curious misnomer for the thoughts in her brain. The question -that she had revolved earlier had been settled effectually by the -death; now that all possibility of Mrs. Kincaid's recommending her had -been removed, her plight admitted of nothing but conjecture.</p> - -<p>In her solitude in the house of mourning, unbroken save for -interruptions which emphasised the tragedy, or for some colloquy with -the red-eyed servant, she passed her hours lethargic and weary. The -week of suspense and insufficient rest had tired her out, and she no -longer even sought to consider. Her mind drifted. A fancy that came to -her was, that it would be delightful to be lying in a cornfield in hot -sunshine, with a vault of blue above her. The picture was present more -often than her thought of the impending horrors of London.</p> - -<p>How much the week had held! what changes it had seen! She sat musing on -this the next evening, listening to the church bells, and remembering -that a Sunday ago the dead woman had been beside her. Last Sunday there -was still a prospect of Westport continuing to be her home for years. -Last Sunday it was that, in the churchyard, she had confessed her past. -Only a week—how full, how difficult to realise! She was half dozing -when she heard the hall-door unlocked, and Kincaid greeted her as she -roused herself.</p> - -<p>"Did I disturb you? were you asleep?"</p> - -<p>"No; I was thinking, that's all."</p> - -<p>He sighed, and dropped into the opposite chair. She noted his harassed -aspect, and pitied him. The Sunday previous she had not been sensible -of any pity at all. She understood his loss of his mother; the loss of -his faith had represented much less to her, its being a faith on which -she personally had set small store.</p> - -<p>"There's plenty to think of!" he said wearily.</p> - -<p>"You haven't seen Ellen, doctor, have you? She has been asking for you."</p> - -<p>"Has she? what does she want?"</p> - -<p>"She is anxious to know how long she'll be kept. Her sister is in -service somewhere and the family want a parlourmaid on the first of the -month. I am sorry to bother you with trifles now, but she asked me to -speak to you."</p> - -<p>"I must talk to her. Of course the house 'll be sold off; there's no -one to keep it on for.... How fagged you look! are you taking proper -care of yourself again?"</p> - -<p>"Oh yes; it is just the reaction, nothing but what'll soon pass."</p> - -<p>"You didn't have the relief you ought to have had; you worked like two -women."</p> - -<p>He paused, and his gaze dwelt on her questioningly. She read the -question with such clearness that, when he spoke, the words seemed but -an echo of the pause.</p> - -<p>"How did you know so much?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"After I lost my father I was a nurse in the Yaughton Hospital for some -years."</p> - -<p>The answer was direct, but it was brief. Half a dozen queries sprang to -his lips, and were in turn repressed. Her past was her own; he confined -his inquiries to her future.</p> - -<p>"And what do you mean to do now?"</p> - -<p>"I'm going to London."</p> - -<p>"Do you expect to meet with any difficulties in the way of taking up -nursing again?"</p> - -<p>"I think you know that there <i>were</i> difficulties in the way."</p> - -<p>"I have no wish to force your confidence——" he said, with a note of -inquiry in his voice.</p> - -<p>"I haven't my certificate."</p> - -<p>"You can refer to the Matron."</p> - -<p>"I know I can; I will not. I told you two years ago there were persons -I could refer to, but I wouldn't do it."</p> - -<p>"May I ask why you should have any objection to referring to this one?"</p> - -<p>She was silent.</p> - -<p>"Won't you tell me?"</p> - -<p>"I think you might understand," she said in a very low voice. "I -went there after my father's death. I am not the woman who left the -Yaughton Hospital."</p> - -<p>His eyes fell, and he stared abstractedly at the grate. When he raised -them he saw that hers had closed. He looked at her lingeringly till -they opened.</p> - -<p>"Now that <i>she</i> is gone," he exclaimed unsteadily, "your position is -not so easy! Have you any prospect that you don't mention?"</p> - -<p>She shook her head.</p> - -<p>"Well, is there anything you can suggest?" he asked. "Any way out of -the difficulty that occurs to you? Believe me——"</p> - -<p>"No," she said, "I can see nothing that is practicable; I——"</p> - -<p>"Would you be willing to come on the nursing-staff here? We're -short-handed in the night work. It is an opening, and it might lead to -a permanent appointment."</p> - -<p>Her heart began to beat rapidly; for an instant she did not reply.</p> - -<p>"It is very considerate of you, very generous; but I am afraid that -wouldn't do."</p> - -<p>"Why not?"</p> - -<p>"It wouldn't do, because—well, I should have left Westport in any -case."</p> - -<p>"You meant to, I know. But between the way you'd have left Westport if -my mother had lived, and the way you'd leave it now, there is a vast -difference."</p> - -<p>"I must leave it, all the same."</p> - -<p>"Pardon me," he said, "I can't permit you to do so. I wouldn't let -any woman go out into the world with the knowledge that she went to -meet certain distress. Your hospital experience appears to solve -the problem. You could come on next week. If your reluctance is -attributable to myself—hear me out, I must speak plainly!—if you -refuse because what has passed between us makes further conversation -with me a pain to you, you've only to remember that conversation -between us in the hospital will necessarily be of the briefest kind. -All that I remember is that I've asked you to be my wife and you don't -care for me—I'm the man you've rejected. I wish to be something more -serviceable, though; I wish to be your friend. In the hospital I shall -have little chance, for there, to all intents and purposes, we shall be -as much divided as if you went to London. While the chance does exist -I want to use it; I want to advise you strongly to take the course I -propose. It needn't prevent your attempting to find a post elsewhere, -you know; on the contrary, it would facilitate your obtaining one."</p> - -<p>Her hand had shaded her brow as she listened; now it sank slowly to her -lap.</p> - -<p>"I need hardly tell you I'm grateful," she said, in tones that -struggled to be firm. "Anyone would be grateful; to me the offer is -very—is more than good." Her composure broke down. "I know what I -must seem to you—you have heard nothing but the worst of me!" she -exclaimed.</p> - -<p>"I would hear nothing that it hurt you to say," he answered; and for a -minute neither of them said any more. There had been a gentleness in -his last words that touched her keenly; the appeal in hers had gone -home to him. Neither spoke, but the man's breath rose eagerly, and; the -woman's head drooped lower and lower on her breast.</p> - -<p>"Let me!" she said at last in a whisper that his pulses leaped to -meet. "It was there—when I was a nurse. He was a patient. Before he -left, he asked me to marry him. When I went to him he told me he was -married already. Till then there had been no hint, not the faintest -suspicion—I went to him, with the knowledge of them all, to be his -wife."</p> - -<p>"Thank God!" said Kincaid in his throat.</p> - -<p>"She was—she had been on the streets; he hadn't seen her for years. He -prayed to me, implored me——Oh, I'm trying to exonerate! myself, I'm -not trying to shift the sin on to him, I but if the truest devotion of -her life can plead I for a woman, Heaven knows that plea was mine!"</p> - -<p>"And at the end of the three years?"</p> - -<p>"There was news of her death, and he married someone else."</p> - -<p>She got up abruptly, and moved to the window, looking out behind the -blind.</p> - -<p>"I can't tell you how I feel for you," he said huskily. "I can't give -you an idea how deeply, how earnestly I sympathise!"</p> - -<p>"Don't say anything," she murmured; "you needn't try; I think I -understand to-night—you proved your sympathy while my claim on it was -least."</p> - -<p>"And you'll let me help you?"</p> - -<p>The slender figure stood motionless; behind her the man was gripping -the leather of his chair.</p> - -<p>"If I may," she said constrainedly, "if I can go there like—as -you——Ah, if the past can all be buried and there needn't be any -reminder of what has been?"</p> - -<p>"I'll be everything you wish, everything you'd have me seem!"</p> - -<p>He took a sudden step towards her. She turned, her eyes humid with -tears, with thankfulness—with entreaty. He stopped short, drew back, -and resumed his seat.</p> - -<p>"Now, what is it you were saying about Ellen?" he asked shortly.</p> - -<p>And perhaps it was the most eloquent avowal he had ever made her of his -love.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h3>CHAPTER XII</h3> - - -<p>So it happened that Mary Brettan did not leave Westport the next week. -And after a few months she was more than ever doubtful if she would -leave it at all. The suggested vacancy on the permanent staff had -occurred before then, and, once having accepted the post, there seemed -to be no inducement to woo anxiety by resigning it.</p> - -<p>At first the resumption of routine after years of indolence was irksome -and exhausting. The six o'clock rising, the active duties commencing -while she still felt tired, the absence of anything like privacy, -excepting in the two hours allotted to each nurse for leisure—all -these things fretted her. Even the relief that she derived from her -escape into the open air was alloyed by the knowledge that outdoor -exercise during one of the hours was compulsory. Then, too, it was -inevitable that a costume worn once more should recall the emotions -with which she had laid aside her last; inevitable that she should ask -herself what the years had done for her since last she stood within a -hospital and bade it farewell with the belief she was never to enter -one again. The failure of the interval was accentuated. Her heart had -contracted when, directed to the strange apartment above the wards, -she beheld the print dress provided for her use lying limp on a chair. -An unutterable forlornness filled her soul as, proceeding to put it -on, she surveyed her reflection in the narrow glass. Yet she grew -accustomed to the change, and the more easily for its being a revival.</p> - -<p>The speed with which the sense of novelty wore off indeed astonished -her. Primarily dismaying, and a continuous burden upon which she -condoled with herself every day, it was, next, as if she had lost it -one night in her sleep. She had forgotten it until the lightness with -which she was fulfilling the work struck her with swift surprise. -Little by little a certain enjoyment was even felt. She contemplated -some impending task with interest. She took her walk with zest in lieu -of relief. She returned to the doors exhilarated instead of depressed. -The bohemian, the lady-companion, had become a sick-nurse anew, and -because the primary groove of life is the one which cuts the deepest -lines, her existence rolled along the recovered rut with smoothness. -The scenes between which it lay were not beautiful, but they were -familiar; the view it commanded was monotonous, but she no longer -sought to travel.</p> - -<p>Socially the conditions had been favoured by her introduction. The -position that she had occupied in Laburnum Lodge gave her a factitious -value, and gained her the friendliness of the Matron, a functionary who -has the power to make the hospital-nurse distinctly uncomfortable, and -who has on occasion been known to use it. It commended her also to the -other nurses, two of whom were gentlewomen, insomuch as it promised -an agreeable variety to conversation in the sitting-room. She was by -no means unconscious of the extent of her debt to Kincaid, and her -gratitude as time went on increased rather than diminished. Certainly -the environment was conducive to a perception of his merits—more -conducive even than had been the period of his medical attendance at -the villa. The king is nowhere so attractive as at his court; the -preacher nowhere so impressive as in the pulpit. Ashore the captain may -bore us, but we all like to smoke our cigars with him on his ship. The -poorest pretender assumes importance in the circle of his adherents, -and poses with authority on some small platform, if it be only his -mother's hearthrug. Here where the doctor was the guiding spirit, and -Mary found his praises on every tongue, the glow of gratitude was -fanned by the breath of popularity. Had he deliberately planned a means -of raising himself in her esteem, he could have devised none better -than this of placing her in the miniature kingdom where he ruled. In -remembering that he had wanted to marry her, she was sensible one day -of a thrill of pride: nothing like regret, nothing like arrogance, but -a momentary pride. She felt more dignity in the moment.</p> - -<p>If he remembered it too, however, no word that he spoke evinced such -recollection. The promise that he had made to her had been kept to the -letter, and the past was never alluded to between them. As doctor and -nurse their colloquies were brief and practical. It was the demeanour -that he adopted towards her from the day of her instatement that added -the first fuel to her thankfulness; and if, withal, she was inclined -to review his generosity rather than to regard it, it was because he -had established the desired relations on so firm a footing that she had -ceased to believe that the pursuance of it cost him any pains. That she -had held his love after the story of her shame she was aware; but that -on reflection he could still want her for his wife she did not for an -instant suppose; and she often thought that by degrees his attitude had -become the one most natural to him.</p> - -<p>By what a denial of nature, by what rigid self-restraint, the idea had -been conveyed, nobody but the man himself could have told. No one else -knew the bitterness of the suffering that had been endured to give her -that feeling of right to remain; what impulses had been curbed and -crushed back, that no scruples or misgivings should cross her peace. -The circumstances in which they met now helped him much, or he; would -have failed, despite his efforts; and to fail, he understood, would be -to prove unworthy of, her trust—it would be to see her go out from his -life for ever. Still want her? So intensely, so devoutly did he want -her, that, shadowed by sin as she was, she was holier to him than any -other woman upon earth—fairer than any other gift at God's bestowal. -He would have taken her to his heart with as profound a reverence as if -no shame had ever touched her. If all the world had been cognizant of -her disgrace, he would have triumphed to cry "My wife!" in the ears; of -all the world. A baser love might well have; thirsted for her too, but -it would have had its hours of hesitation. Kincaid's had none. No flood -of passion blinded his higher judgment and urged him on; no qualms -of convention intervened and gave him pause. It was with his higher -judgment that he prayed for her. His love burned steadily, clearly. -The situation lacked only one essential for the ideal: the love of -the penitent whom he longed to raise. The complement was missing. The -fallen woman who had confessed her guilt, the man's devotion that had -withstood the test—these were there. But the devotion was unreturned, -the constancy was not desired. He could only wait, and try to hope; -wondering if her tenderness would waken in the end, wondering how he -would learn it if it did.</p> - -<p>To break his word by pleading again was a thing that he could do -only in the belief that she would listen to him with happiness. If -he misread her mind and spoke too soon, he not merely committed a -wrong—he destroyed the slender link that there was between them, for -he made it impossible for her to stay on. And yet, how to divine? how, -without speaking, to ascertain? What could be gathered from the deep -grey eyes, the serious face, the slim-robed figure, as he sometimes -stood beside her, guarding his every look and schooling his voice? -How could he tell if she cared for him unless he asked her? how -could he ask her unless he had reason to suppose that she did? The -nature of their association seemed to him to impose an insurmountable -barrier between them; in freer parlance a ray of the truth might be -discernible. When she had been here a year he determined to gain an -opportunity to talk with her alone. He would talk, if not on matters -nearest to him, at least on topics less formal than those to which -their conversation was limited in the ward!</p> - -<p>Such an opportunity, however, did not lie to his hand. It was difficult -to compass without betraying himself, and, in view of the present -difficulties, he appeared to have had so many advantages earlier that -he marvelled at his having turned them to so little account. Their -acquaintance at the villa during his mother's lifetime appeared to -him, by comparison, to have afforded every facility that he was to-day -denied, and he frequently recalled the period with passionate regret; -he thought that he had never appreciated it at its worth, though, -indeed, he had only failed to benefit by it. The villa now was tenanted -by a lady with two children; and Mary often passed it, recalling the -period also, albeit with a melancholy vaguer than his. One morning, as -she went by, the door was open—the children were coming out—and she -had a glimpse of the hall.</p> - -<p>They came down the steps, carrying spades and pails, bound for the -beach, like herself. The elder of them might have been nine years old, -and, belonging to the familiar house, they held a little sad interest -for her. She wondered, as they preceded her along the pavement, in -which of the rooms they slept, and if the different furniture had -altered the aspect of it much. She thought she would like to speak to -them when the sands were reached, and——Then she saw Seaton Carew! Her -heart jerked to her throat. Her gaze was riveted on him; she couldn't -withdraw it. They were advancing towards each other; he was looking at -her. She saw recognition flash across his features, and turned her -head. The people to right and left swayed a little—and she had passed -him. It had taken just fifteen seconds, but she could not remember what -she had been thinking of when she saw him. The fifteen seconds had held -for her more emotion than the last twelve months.</p> - -<p>Her knees trembled. She supposed he must be at the theatre this week. -But, when she saw a playbill outside the music-seller's, she was -afraid to examine it lest he might be staring after her. She walked on -excitedly. She was filled with a tremulous elation, which she cared -neither to define nor to acknowledge. She reflected that she had left -the hospital a few minutes earlier than usual, and that otherwise -she might have missed him. "Missed" was the word of her reflection. -She wondered where he was staying—in which streets the professional -lodgings were. She felt suddenly strange in the town not to know. She -had been here three years, and she did not know—how odd! In turning -a corner she saw another advertisement of the theatre, this time on a -hoarding. The day was Monday, and the paper was still shiny with the -bill-sticker's paste. She was screened from observation, and for a -moment she paused, devouring the cast with a rapid glance. His wife's -name didn't appear, so it wasn't their own company. She hurried on -again. The sight of him had acted on her like a strong stimulant. -Without knowing why, she was exhilarated. The air was sweeter, life -was keener; she was athirst to reach the shore and, in her favourite -spot, to yield herself up wholly to sensation.</p> - -<p>And how little he had changed! He seemed scarcely to have changed -at all. He looked just as he used to look, though he must have gone -through much since the night they parted. Ah, how could she forget -that parting—how allow the fires of it to wane? It was pitiful that, -feeling things so intensely when they happened, one was unable to keep -the intensity alive. The waste! The puerility of loving or hating, of -mourning or rejoicing so violently in life, when the passage of time, -the interposition of irrelevant incident, would smear the passion that -was all-absorbing into an experience that one called to mind!</p> - -<p>She sank on to a bench upon the slope of ragged grass that merged into -the shingles and the sand. The sea, vague and unruffled, lay like a -sheet of oil, veiled in mist except for one bright patch on the horizon -where it quivered luminously. She bent her eyes upon the sea, and saw -the past. His voice struck her soul before she heard his footstep. -"Mary!" he said, and she knew that he had followed her.</p> - -<p>She did not speak, she did not move. The blood surged to her temples, -and left her body cold. She struggled for self-command; for the -ability to conceal her agitation; for the power she yearned to gather -of blighting him with the scorn she craved to feel.</p> - -<p>"Won't you speak to me?" he said. He came round to her side, and stood -there, looking down at her. "Won't you speak?" he repeated—"a word?"</p> - -<p>"I have nothing to say to you," she murmured. "I hoped I should never -see you any more."</p> - -<p>He waited awkwardly, kicking the soil with the point of his boot, his -gaze wandering from her over the ocean—from the ocean back to her.</p> - -<p>"I have often thought about you," he said at last in a jerk. "Do you -believe that?"</p> - -<p>She kept silent, and then made as if to rise.</p> - -<p>"Do you believe that I have thought about you?" he demanded quickly. -"Answer me!"</p> - -<p>"It is nothing to me whether you have thought or not. I dare say -you have been ashamed when you remembered your disgrace—what of -it?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," he said, "I have been ashamed. You were always too good for me; -I ought never to have had anything to do with a woman like you."</p> - -<p>She had not risen; she was still in the position in which he had -surprised her; and she was sensible now of a dull pain at the -unexpectedness of his conclusion.</p> - -<p>"Why have you followed me?" she said coldly. "What for?"</p> - -<p>"What for? I didn't know you were in the town, I hadn't an idea—and I -saw you suddenly. I wanted to speak to you."</p> - -<p>"What is it you want to say?"</p> - -<p>"Mary!"</p> - -<p>"Yes; what do you want to say? I'm not your friend; I'm not your -acquaintance: what have you got to speak to me about?"</p> - -<p>"I meant," he stammered—"I wanted to ask you if it was possible -that—that you could ever forgive the way I behaved to you."</p> - -<p>"Is that all?" she asked in a hard voice.</p> - -<p>"How you have altered!... Yes, I don't know that there's anything else."</p> - -<p>She did not reply, and he regarded her irresolutely.</p> - -<p>"Can you?"</p> - -<p>"No," she said. "Why should I forgive you—because time has gone by? -Is that any merit of yours? You treated me brutally, infamously. The -most that a woman can do for a man I did for you; the worst that a man -can do to a woman you did to me. You meet me accidentally and expect me -to forgive? You must be a great deal less worldly-wise than you were -three years ago."</p> - -<p>She turned to him for the first time since he had joined her, and his -eyes fell.</p> - -<p>"I didn't expect," he said; "I only asked. So you're a nurse again, eh?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>He gave an impatient sigh, the sigh of a man; who realises the -discordancy of life and imperfectly resigns himself to it.</p> - -<p>"We're both what we used to be, and we're both older. Well, I'm the -worse off of the two, if that's any consolation to you. A woman's -always getting opportunities for new beginnings."</p> - -<p>She checked the retort that sprang to her lips, eager to glean some -knowledge of his affairs, though she could not bring herself to put a -question; and after a moment she rejoined indifferently:</p> - -<p>"You got the chance you were so anxious for. I understood your marriage -was all that was necessary to take you to London."</p> - -<p>"I was in London—didn't you hear?" He was startled into naturalness, -the actor's naive astonishment when he finds his movements are unknown -to anyone. "We had a season at the Boudoir, and opened with <i>The Cast -of the Die</i>. It was a frost; and then we put on a piece of Sargent's. -That might have been worked into a success if there had been money -enough left to run it at a loss for a few weeks, but there wasn't. -The mistake was not to have opened with it, instead. And the capital -was too small altogether for a London show; the exes were awful! It -would have been better to have been satisfied with management in the -provinces if one had known how things were going to turn out. Now it's -the provinces under somebody else's management. I suppose you think I -have been rightly served?"</p> - -<p>"I don't see that you're any worse off than you used to be."</p> - -<p>"Don't you? You've no interest to see. I'm a lot worse off, for I've a -wife and child to keep."</p> - -<p>"A child! You've a child?" she said.</p> - -<p>"A boy. I don't grumble about that, though; I'm fond of the kid, -although I dare say you think I can't be very fond of anyone. But—— -Oh, I don't know why I tell you about it—what do you care!"</p> - -<p>They were silent again. The sun, a disc in grey heavens, smeared the -vapour with a shaft of pale rose, and on the water this was glorified -and enriched, so that the stain on the horizon had turned a deep -red. Nearer land, the sea, voluptuously still, and by comparison -colourless, had yet some of the translucence of an opal, a thousand -elusive subtleties of tint which gleamed between the streaks of -darkness thrown upon its surface from the sky. A thin edge of foam -unwound itself dreamily along the shore. A rowing-boat passed blackly -across the crimsoned distance, gliding into the obscurity where sky -and sea were one. To their right the shadowy form of a fishing-lugger -loomed indistinctly through the mist. The languor of the scene had, -in contemplation, something emotional in it, a quality that acted on -the senses like music from a violin. She was stirred with a mournful -pleasure that he was here—a pleasure of which the melancholy was -a part. The delight of union stole through her, more exquisite for -incompletion.</p> - -<p>"It's nothing to you whether I do badly or well," he said gloomily. And -the dissonance of the complaint jarred her back to common-sense. "Yet -it isn't long ago that we—good Lord! how women can forget; now it's -nothing to you!"</p> - -<p>"Why should it be anything?" she exclaimed. "How can you dare to remind -me of what we used to be? 'Forget'?—yes, I have prayed to forget! To -forget I was ever foolish enough to believe in you; to forget I was -ever debased enough to like you. I wish I <i>could</i> forget it; it's my -punishment to remember. Not because I sinned—bad as it is, that's -less—but because I sinned for <i>you</i>! If all the world knew what I had -done, nobody could despise me for it as I despise myself, or understand -how I despise myself. The only person who should is you, for you know -what sort of man I did it for!"</p> - -<p>"I was carried away by a temptation—by ambition. You make me out as -vile as if it had been all deliberately planned. After you had gone——"</p> - -<p>"After I had gone you married your manageress. If you had been in love -with her, even, I could make excuses for you; but you weren't—you -were in love only with yourself. You deserted a woman for money. Your -'temptation' was the meanest, the most contemptible thing a man ever -yielded to. 'Ambition'? God knows I never stood between you and that. -Your ambition was mine, as much mine as yours, something we halved -between us. Has anybody else understood it and encouraged it so well? -I longed for your success as fervently as you did; if it had come, I -should have rejoiced as much as you. When you were disappointed, whom -did you turn to for consolation? But I could only give you sympathy; -and <i>she</i> could give you power. And everything of mine <i>had</i> been -given; you had had it. That was the main point."</p> - -<p>"Call me a villain and be done—or a man! Will reproaches help either -of us now?"</p> - -<p>"Don't deceive yourself—there are noble men in the world. I tell you -now, because at the time I would say nothing that you could regard as -an appeal. It only wanted that to complete my indignity—for me to -plead to you to change your mind!"</p> - -<p>"I wish to Heaven you had done anything rather than go, and that's the -truth!"</p> - -<p>"<i>I</i> don't; I am glad I went—glad, glad, glad! The most awful thing I -can imagine is to have remained with you after I knew you for what you -were. The most awful thing for you as well: knowing that I knew, the -sight of me would have become a curse."</p> - -<p>"One mistake," he muttered, "one injustice, and all the rest, all that -came before, is blotted out; you refuse to remember the sweetest years -of both our lives!"</p> - -<p>She gazed slowly round at him with lifted head, and during a few -seconds each looked in the other's face, and tried to read the history -of, the interval in it. Yes, he had altered, after all. The eyes were -older. Something had gone from him, something of vivacity, of hope.</p> - -<p>"Are you asking me to remember?" she said.</p> - -<p>"You seem to forget what the injustice was done for."</p> - -<p>"Mary, if you knew how wretched I am!"</p> - -<p>"Ah," she murmured half sadly, half wonderingly, "what an egotist you -always are! You meet me again—after the way we parted—and you begin -by talking about yourself!"</p> - -<p>He made a gesture—dramatic because it expressed the feeling that he -desired to convey—and turned aside.</p> - -<p>"May I question you?" he asked lamely the next minute. "Will you -answer?"</p> - -<p>"What is it that you care to hear?"</p> - -<p>"Are you at the hospital?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"For long? I mean, is it long since you came to Westport?"</p> - -<p>"I have been here nearly all the time."</p> - -<p>"And do—how—is it comfortable?"</p> - -<p>"Oh," she said, with a movement that she was unable to repress, "let us -keep to you, if we must talk at all. You'll find it easier."</p> - -<p>"Why will you be so cruel?" he exclaimed. "It is you who are unjust -now. If I'm awkward, it is because you're so curt. You have all the -right on your side, and I have the weight of the past on me. You asked -me why I spoke to you: if you had been less to me than you were—if, -I had thought about you less than I have—I shouldn't have spoken. -You might understand the position is a very hard one for me; I am -altogether at your mercy, and you show me none."</p> - -<p>The hands in her lap trembled a little, and after a pause she said in a -low voice:</p> - -<p>"You expect more from me than is possible; I've suffered too much."</p> - -<p>"My trouble has been worse. Ah! don't smile like that; it has been far -worse! You've, anyhow, had the solace of knowing you've been illused; -<i>I've</i> felt all the time that my bed was of my own making and that I -behaved like a blackguard. Whatever I have to put up with I deserve, -I'm quite aware of it; but the knowledge makes it all the beastlier. My -life isn't idyllic, Mary; if it weren't for the child——Upon my soul, -the only moments I get rid of my worries are when I'm playing with the -child, or when I'm drunk!"</p> - -<p>"Your marriage hasn't been happy?"</p> - -<p>He shrugged his shoulders.</p> - -<p>"We don't fight; we don't throw the furniture at each other and have -the landlady up, like—what was their name?—the Whittacombes. But we -don't find the days too short to say all we've got to tell each other, -she and I; and——Oh, you can't think what a dreadful thing it is to -be in front of a woman all day long that you haven't got anything to -say to—it's awful! And she can't act and she doesn't get engagements, -and it makes her peevish. She might get shopped along with me for small -parts—in fact, she did once or twice—but that doesn't satisfy her; -she wants to go on playing lead, and now that the money's gone she -can't. She thinks I mismanaged the damned money and advised her badly. -She hadn't been doing anything for a year till the spring, and then she -went out with Laura Henderson to New York. Poor enough terms they are -for America! But she's been grumbling so much that I believe she'd go -on as an Extra now, rather than nothing, so long as I wasn't playing -lead to another woman in the same crowd."</p> - -<p>She traced an imaginary pattern with her finger on the seat. He was -still standing, and suddenly his face lighted up.</p> - -<p>"There's Archie!" he said.</p> - -<p>"Archie?"</p> - -<p>"The boy."</p> - -<p>A child of two years, in charge of a servant-girl, was at the gate of -one of the cottages behind them.</p> - -<p>"You take him about with you?"</p> - -<p>"He was left with some people in town; I've just had him down, that's -all. We finish on Saturday, and there's the sea; I thought two or three -weeks of it would do him good. Will you—may he come over to you?"</p> - -<p>He held out his arms, and the child, released from the servant's clasp, -toddled smilingly across the grass, a plump little body in pelisse and -cape. The gaitered legs covered the ground slowly, and she watched his -child running towards him for what seemed a long time before Carew -caught him up.</p> - -<p>"This is Archie," he said diffidently; "this is he."</p> - -<p>"Oh," she said, in constrained tones, "this is he?"</p> - -<p>The man stood him on the bench, with a pretence of carelessness that -was ill done, and righted his hat quickly, as if afraid that the action -was ridiculous. The sight of him in this association had something -infinitely strange to her—something that sharpened the sense of -separation, and made the past appear intensely old and ended.</p> - -<p>"Put him down," she said; "he isn't comfortable."</p> - -<p>"Do you think he looks strong?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, of course, very. Why?"</p> - -<p>"I've wondered—I thought you'd know more about it than I do. Is Archie -a good boy?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," answered the child. "Mamma!"</p> - -<p>"Don't talk nonsense—mamma's over there!" He pointed to the sea. "He -talks very well, for his age, as a rule; now he's stupid."</p> - -<p>"Oh, let him be," she said, looking at the baby-face with deep eyes; -"he's shy, that's all."</p> - -<p>"Mamma!" repeated the mite insistently, and laid a hand on her long -cloak.</p> - -<p>"The thumb's wrong," she murmured after a pause in which the man and -woman were both embarrassed; "see, it isn't in!"</p> - -<p>She drew the tiny glove off, and put it on once more, taking the -fragile fingers in her own, and parting with them slowly. A feeling -complex and wonderful crept into her heart at the voice of Tony's -child; a feeling of half-reluctant tenderness, coupled with an aching -jealousy of the woman that had borne one to him.</p> - -<p>They made a group to which any glance would have reverted—the -old-young man, who was obviously the father, the baby, and the -thoughtful woman, whose costume proclaimed her to be a nurse. The -costume, indeed, was not without its influence on Carew. It reminded -him of the days of his first acquaintance with her—days since which -they had been together, and separated, and drifted into different -channels. Having essayed matrimony as a means to an end, and proved -it a cul-de-sac, he blamed the woman with whom he had blundered very -ardently, and would have been gratified to descant on his mistake to -the other one, who was more than ever attractive because she had ceased -to belong to him. The length of veil falling below her waist had, to -his fancy, a cloistral suggestion which imparted to his allusions to -their intimacy an additional fascination; and Archie's presence had -seldom occupied his attention so little. Yet he was fonder of this -offshoot of himself than he had been of her even in the period that -the dress recalled; and it was because she dimly understood the fact -that the child touched her so nearly. Like almost every man in whom -the cravings of ambition have survived the hope of their fulfilment, -he dwelt a great deal on the future of his; son; longed to see his -boy achieve the success; which he had come to realise would never be -attained by himself, and lost in the interest of fatherhood some of the -poignancy of failure. The desire to talk to her of these and many other -things was strong in him, but she roused herself from reverie and said -good-bye, as if on impulse, just as he was meaning to speak.</p> - -<p>"I shall see you again?"</p> - -<p>"I think not."</p> - -<p>Then he would have asked if they parted in peace, but her leave-taking -was too abrupt even for him to frame the inquiry.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h3>CHAPTER XIII</h3> - - -<p>It surprised him, and left him vaguely disappointed. To break off their -interview thus sharply seemed to him motiveless. He could see no reason -for it, and his gaze followed her receding figure with speculative -regret. When she was out of sight he picked the child up, and, carrying -him into the cottage parlour, sat down beside the open window, smoking, -and thinking of her.</p> - -<p>It was a small room, poorly furnished, and, fretted by its limitations, -the child became speedily fractious. A slipshod landlady pottered -around, setting forth the crockery for dinner, while the little -servant, despatched with the boy from town, mashed his dinner into -an unappetising compound on a plate. From time to time she turned to -soothe him with some of the loud-voiced facetiæ peculiar to the little -servant species in its dealings with fretful childhood, and at these -moments Carew suspended his meditations on his quondam mistress to -wish for the presence of his wife. It was only the second, day of his -son's visit to him, and his unfamiliarity with the arrangement was not -without its effect upon his nerves.</p> - -<p>Always dissatisfied with the present time, his capacity for enjoying -the past was correspondingly keen. Reflectively consuming a chop, in -full view of the unappetising compound and infancy's vagaries with a -spoon, he proceeded to re-live it, discerning in the process a thousand -charms to which the reality had seen him blind.</p> - -<p>He was unable to shake off the influence of the meeting when dinner -was done. Fancifully, while the child scrambled in a corner with some -toys, he installed Mary in the room; imagining his condition if he had -married her, and moodily watching the curls of tobacco smoke as they -sailed across the dirty dishes. "Damn it!" he exclaimed, rising. But -for the conviction that it would be futile, he would have gone out to -search for her.</p> - -<p>That he would see her again before he left the place he was determined. -But he failed to do so both on the morrow and the next day, though he -extended his promenade beyond its usual limits. He did not, in these -excursions, fail to remark that a town sufficiently large to divide one -hopelessly from the face one seeks, can yet be so small that the same -strangers' countenances are recurrent at nearly every turn. A coloured -gentleman he anathematised especially for his iteration.</p> - -<p>Though he doubted the possibility of the thing, he could not rid -himself of the idea that she would be at the theatre some evening, -impelled by the temptation to look upon him without his knowledge; and -he played his best now on the chance that she might be there. As often -as was practicable, he scanned the house during the progress of the -piece, and between the acts inspected it through the peep-hole in the -curtain.</p> - -<p>Noting his observations one night, a pretty girl in the wings asked -jocularly if "<i>she</i> had promised to wait outside for him."</p> - -<p>"No, Kitty, my darling, she hasn't; she won't have anything to do with -me!" he answered, and would have liked to stop and flirt with her. His -brain was hot at the instant, and one woman or another just then——</p> - -<p>If Mary had been waiting, he could have talked to her as sentimentally -as before; and have felt as much sentiment, too. All compunction for -his lapses he could assuage by a general condemnation of masculine -nature.</p> - -<p>The pretty girl had no part in the play. She was the daughter -of a good-looking woman who was engaged in the dual capacity of -"chamber-maid" and wardrobe-mistress; but although she had only -just left boarding-school, it was a foregone conclusion that, like -her mother, she would be connected with the lower branches of the -profession before long. Already she had acquired very perfectly, in -private, the burlesque lady's tone of address, and was familiar with -the interior of provincial bars, where her mother took a "tonic" after -the performance.</p> - -<p>Carew ran across them both, among a group of the male members of the -company, in the back-parlour of a public-house an hour later. Kitty, -innocent enough as yet to find "darling" a novelty, welcomed him with -a flash of her eyes; but he made no response, and, gulping his whisky, -sat glum. The others commented on his abstraction. He replied morosely, -and called for "the same again." It was not unusual for him to drink to -excess now—he was accustomed to excuse the weakness by compassionating -himself upon his dreary life—and to-night he lay back on the settee -sipping whisky till he grew garrulous.</p> - -<p>They remained at the table long after the closing hour, the landlady, -who was a friend of Kitty's mamma, enjoining them to quietude. She was -not averse from joining the party herself when the lights in the window -had been extinguished nor did Kitty decline to take a glass of wine -when Carew at last pressed her to be sociable.</p> - -<p>"Because you're growing up," he said with a foolish laugh—"'getting a -big girl now'!"</p> - -<p>She swept him a mock obeisance in the centre of the floor, shaking back -the hair that was still worn loose about her shoulders.</p> - -<p>"Sherry," she said, "if mother says her popsy may? Because I'm 'getting -a big girl now,' mother!"</p> - -<p>The bar was in darkness, and this necessitated investigation with a box -of matches. When the bottle was produced, it proved to be empty; the -girl's pantomime of despair was received with loud guffaws. Everybody -had drunk more than was advisable, and the proprietress again attempted -to restrain the hilarity by feeble allusions to her licence.</p> - -<p>"The sherry's in the cupboard down the passage," she exclaimed; "won't -you have something else instead? Now, do make less noise, there's good -boys; you'll get me into trouble!"</p> - -<p>"I'll go and get it," said Kitty, breaking into a momentary step-dance, -with uplifted arms. "Trust me with the key?"</p> - -<p>"And <i>I</i>'ll go and see she doesn't rob you," cried Carew. "Come along, -Kit!"</p> - -<p>"No you won't," said her mother; "she'll do best alone!" But the -remonstrance was unheeded, and, as the girl ran out into the passage, -he followed; and, as they reached the cupboard and stood fumbling at -the lock, he caught her round the waist and kissed her.</p> - -<p>They came back with the bottle together, in the girl's bearing an -assertion of complacent womanhood evoked by the indignity. Carew -applied himself to the liquor with renewed diligence; and by the time -the party dispersed circumspectly through the private door, his eyes -were glazed.</p> - -<p>The sleeping town stretched before his uncertain footsteps blanched in -moonlight as he bade the others a thick "good-night." His apartments -were a mile, and more, distant, and, muddled by drink, he struck into -the wrong road, pursuing and branching from it impetuously, till -Westport wound about him in the confusion of a maze. Once he halted, in -the thought that he heard someone approaching. But the sound receded; -and feeling dizzier every minute, he wandered on again, ultimately -with no effort to divine his situation. The sun was rising when, -partially sobered, he passed through the cottage-gate. The sea lapped -the sand gently under a flushing sky; but in the bedroom a candle still -burned, and it was in the flare of the candle that the little servant -confronted him with a frightened face.</p> - -<p>"Master Archie, sir!" she faltered; "I've been up with him all -night—he's ill!"</p> - -<p>"Ill?" He stood stupidly on the threshold. "What do you mean by ill? -What is it?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know; I don't know what I ought to do; I think he ought to -have a doctor."</p> - -<p>He pushed past her, with a muttered ejaculation, to the bed where the -child lay whimpering.</p> - -<p>"What's the matter, Archie? What is it, little chap?"</p> - -<p>"It's his neck he complains of," she said; "you can see, it's all -swollen. He can't eat anything."</p> - -<p>Carew looked at it dismayed. A sudden fear of losing the child, a -sudden terror of his own incompetence seized him.</p> - -<p>"Fetch a doctor," he stammered, "bring him back with you. You should -have gone before; it wasn't necessary to wait for me to come in to tell -you that if the child was taken ill, he needed a doctor! Go on, girl, -hurry! You'll find one somewhere in the damned place. Wait a minute, -ask the landlady—wake her up and ask which the nearest doctor is! Tell -him he must come at once. If he won't, ring up another—a delay may -make all the difference. Good God! why did I have him down here?"</p> - -<p>The waiting threatened to be endless. A basin of water was on the -washhand-stand, and he plunged his head into it. The stir of awakening -life was heard in the quietude. Through the window came the clatter -of feet in a neighbouring yard, the rattle of a pail on stone. He -contemplated the child, conscience-stricken by his own condition, and -strove to allay his anxiety by repeated questions, to which he obtained -peevish and unsatisfactory replies.</p> - -<p>It was more than two hours before the girl returned. She was -accompanied by a medical man who seemed resentful. Carew watched his -examination breathlessly.</p> - -<p>"Is it serious?"</p> - -<p>"It looks like diphtheria; it's early yet to say. He's got a first-rate -constitution; that's one thing. Mother a good physique?... So I should -have thought! Are you a resident?"</p> - -<p>"I'm an actor; I'm in an engagement here; my wife's abroad. Why do you -ask?"</p> - -<p>"The child had better be removed—there's danger of infection with -diphtheria; lodgings won't do. Take him to the hospital, and have him -properly looked after. It'll be best for him in every way."</p> - -<p>"I'm much obliged for your advice," said Carew. But the idea was -intimidating. "I shall be here, myself, for another week at least," he -added, in allusion to the fee. "Is it safe to move him, do you think?"</p> - -<p>"Oh yes, no need to fear that. Wrap him up, and take him away in a fly -this morning. The sooner the better.... That's all right. Good-day."</p> - -<p>He departed briskly, with an appetite for breakfast.</p> - -<p>"Archie will have a nice drive," said Carew in a tone of dreary -encouragement—"a nice drive in a carriage with papa."</p> - -<p>"I'm sleepy," said the child.</p> - -<p>"A nice drive in the sunshine, and see the sea. Nursie will put on your -clothes."</p> - -<p>"I don't want!"</p> - -<p>His efforts to resist strengthened Carew's dislike to the proposed -arrangement. It was not in the first few minutes that this abrupt -presentment of the hospital recalled to the man's mind Mary's -connection with it; and when the connection flashed upon him his -spirits lightened. If the boy had to be laid up, away from his mother's -relatives in London, the mischance could hardly occur under happier -conditions than where——The reflection faded to a question-point. -<i>Would</i> she be of use? Could he expect, or dare to ask for tenderness -from Mary Brettan—and to the other woman's child? He doubted it.</p> - -<p>In the revulsion of feeling that followed that leaping hope, he almost -determined to withhold the request. Many children were safe in a -hospital; why not his own child? He would pay for everything. And then -the thought of Archie forsaken among strangers made him tremble; and -the little form seemed to him, in its lassitude, to have become smaller -still, more fragile.</p> - -<p>Again and again, in the jolting cab, he debated an appeal to Mary, -wrestling with shame for the sake of his boy. Without knowing what she -could do, he was sensible that her interest would be of value. He clung -passionately to the idea of leaving the hospital with the knowledge -that it contained a friend, an individual who would spare to the child -something more than the patient's purchased and impartial due.</p> - -<p>The cab stopped with a jerk, and he carried him into the empty -waiting-room. It was a gaunt, narrow apartment on the ground-floor, -with an expanse of glass, like the window of a shop, overlooking -the street. He put him in a corner of one of the forms against the -walls, and, pending the appearance of the house-surgeon, murmured -encouragement. The minutes lagged. It occurred to him that the ailment -might be pronounced trivial, but the hope deserted him almost as it -came, banished by the surroundings. The bare melancholy of the walls -chilled him anew, and the suggestion of poverty about the place -intensified his misgivings. He thought he would speak to her. If she -refused, it would have done no harm. And she would not refuse, she was -too good. Yes, she had always been a good woman. He remembered——</p> - -<p>The door-knob turned, and he rose in the presence of Kincaid. The eyes -of the two men met questioningly.</p> - -<p>"Your child?" said Kincaid, advancing.</p> - -<p>"Yes; it's his neck. I was advised to bring him here, because I'm only -in lodgings. I'd like——"</p> - -<p>"Let me see!"</p> - -<p>Carew resumed his seat. His gaze hung on the doctor's movements; -every detail twanged his nerves. A nurse was called in to take the -temperature. He watched her with suspense, and smiled feebly at the -child across her arm.</p> - -<p>"Diphtheritic throat. We'll put him to bed at once. Take him away, -Nurse—put him into a special ward."</p> - -<p>"I should like——" said Carew huskily; "I know one of the nurses here. -Might I see her?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, certainly. Which one?"</p> - -<p>"Her name is 'Brettan—Mary Brettan.'" He stooped to pat the tearful -face, and missed Kincaid's surprise. "If I might see her now——?"</p> - -<p>"Ask if Nurse Brettan can come down, please! Say she is wanted in the -waiting-room."</p> - -<p>A brief pause ensued. The closing of the door left them alone. The -father's imagination pursued the figures that had disappeared; -Kincaid's was busy with the fact of the man's being an acquaintance -of Mary's—the only acquaintance that had crossed his path. Surprise -suggested his opening remark:</p> - -<p>"You're a visitor here, you say? Your little son's sickness has come at -an unfortunate time for you."</p> - -<p>"It has—yes, very. I'm at the theatre—and my apartments are none too -good."</p> - -<p>He mentioned the address; the doctor made some formal inquiries. Carew -asked how often he would be permitted to see the boy; and when this was -arranged, silence fell again.</p> - -<p>It was broken in a few seconds. The sound of a footstep on the stairs -was caught by them simultaneously. Simultaneously both men looked -round. The footsteps were succeeded by the faint rustle of a skirt, and -Nurse Brettan crossed the threshold. She started visibly—controlled -herself, and acknowledged Carew's greeting by a slight bow.</p> - -<p>Kincaid, in a manner, presented him to her—courteously, constrainedly.</p> - -<p>"This gentleman has been waiting to see you. I'll wish you -good-morning, sir."</p> - -<p>Mary moved to the window, and stood there without speaking. In the -print and linen costume of the house she recalled with increased force -to Carew the time when he had seen her first.</p> - -<p>"Archie has got diphtheria," he said; "he's just been taken upstairs."</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry," she said. "Why have you asked for me?"</p> - -<p>"They told me I couldn't keep him at home—that I must bring him -here.... Mary, you will do what you can for him?"</p> - -<p>She raised her head calmly.</p> - -<p>"He is sure of careful nursing," she answered; "no patient is -neglected."</p> - -<p>"I know. I know all that. I thought that you——"</p> - -<p>"I'm not in the children's ward," she said; "there isn't anything <i>I</i> -can do."</p> - -<p>He looked at her dumbly. Mere indifference his agitation would have -found vent in combating, but the conclusiveness of the reply left him -nothing to urge.</p> - -<p>"I must be satisfied without you, then," he said at last. "I thought of -you directly."</p> - -<p>"He'll have every attention; you needn't doubt that."</p> - -<p>"Such a little chap—among strangers!"</p> - -<p>"We have very young children in the wards."</p> - -<p>"And perhaps to be dangerously ill!"</p> - -<p>"You must try to hope for the best."</p> - -<p>"Ah, you speak like the hospital nurse to me!" he cried; "I was -remembering the woman."</p> - -<p>"I speak as what I am," she returned coldly; "I am one of the nurses. I -have no remembrances, myself."</p> - -<p>"You could remember this week, when we met again. And once you wouldn't -have found it so impossible to spare a minute's kindness to my boy!"</p> - -<p>She moved towards the door, paler, but self-contained.</p> - -<p>"I must go now," she said; "I can't stay away long."</p> - -<p>"You choose to forget only when something is asked of you!"</p> - -<p>"I have told you," she said, turning, "that it is out of my power to do -anything."</p> - -<p>"And you are glad you can say it!"</p> - -<p>"Perhaps. No reminder of my old disgrace is pleasant to me."</p> - -<p>"Your reformation is very complete," he answered bitterly; "the woman I -used to know would have been unable to retaliate upon a helpless child."</p> - -<p>The sting of the retort roused her to refutation. Her hand, extended -towards the door, dropped to her side; she faced him swiftly.</p> - -<p>"You find me what you made me," she said with white lips. "I neither -retaliate nor pity. What is your wife's child to me, that you ask me to -care for it? If I'm hard, it was you who taught me to be hard before he -was born."</p> - -<p>"It's <i>my</i> child I asked you to care for. And I brought myself to ask -it because he's my dearest thing on earth. I thank God to learn he -won't be in your charge!"</p> - -<p>She shivered, and for a moment looked at him intently. Then her eyelids -drooped, and she left him without a word.</p> - -<p>She went out into the corridor—her hand was pressed against her -breast. But her duties were not immediately resumed. She made her way -into the children's wing, moving with nothing of indecision in her -manner, but like one who proceeds to fulfil a purpose. The two rows of -beds left a passage down the floor, and she scanned the faces till she -reached the nurses' table.</p> - -<p>By chance, she spoke to the nurse that Kincaid had summoned.</p> - -<p>"There's a boy just been brought in with diphtheria, Sophie; do you -know where he is?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I'm going back to him in a minute. He's in a special ward."</p> - -<p>"Let me see him!"</p> - -<p>"Have you got permission?"</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>Nurse Gay hesitated.</p> - -<p>"I shall get into trouble," she said. "Why don't you ask for it?"</p> - -<p>"I don't want to wait; I want to see him now."</p> - -<p>"I've been in hot water once this week already——"</p> - -<p>"Sophie, I know the mite, and—and his people. I <i>must</i> go in to him!"</p> - -<p>The girl glanced at her keenly.</p> - -<p>"Oh, if it's like that!" she said. "It's only a wigging—go!" And she -told her where he was.</p> - -<p>He lay alone in the simple room, when Mary entered—a diminutive -patient for whom the narrow cot looked large. The nurse had been -showing him a picture-book, and this yawned loosely on the quilt, where -it had slid from his listless hold. At the sound of Mary's approach, -he turned. But he did not recognise her. A doubtful gaze appraised her -intentions.</p> - -<p>At first she did not speak. She stooped over the pillow, smoothing and -re-smoothing it mechanically, a hand trembling closer to the disordered -curls. Her own gaze deepened and hung upon him; her lips parted. Her -hands crept timidly nearer. Her face was bent till her mouth was -yielding kisses on his cheek. She yearned over him through wet lashes, -a wondering smile always on her face.</p> - -<p>"Archie," she murmured; "Archie, baby-boy, is it comfy for you? Won't -you see the pictures—all the pretty people in the book?"</p> - -<p>"Not nice pictures," he complained.</p> - -<p>"You shall have nicer ones this afternoon," she said; "this afternoon, -when I go out. Let me show you these now! Look, here's a little boy in -bed, like you! His name was 'Archie,' too; and one day his papa took -him to a big house, where papa had friends, and——</p> - -<p>"Papa! I <i>want</i> papa!"</p> - -<p>"Oh, my darling," she said, "papa is coming! He'll come very, very -soon. The other little boy wanted papa as well, and he wasn't happy at -first at all. But in the big house everybody was so kind, and glad to -have Archie there, that presently he thought it a treat to stop. It was -so nice directly that it was better than being at home. They gave him -toys, lots and lots of toys; and there were oranges and puddings—it -was beautiful!"</p> - -<p>She could not remain, she was needed elsewhere; and when Kincaid made -his round she was on duty. But she ascertained developments throughout -the day, and by twilight she knew that the child was grievously ill. -She did not marvel at her interest; it engrossed her to the exclusion -of astonishment. If she was surprised at all, it was that Carew could -have believed in her neutrality. Yet she was thankful that he had -believed in it; and at the same time, rejoiced that his first impulse -had been to put faith in her good heart. She did not analyse her -sympathy, ashamed of the cause from which it sprang. When she had -gazed, during the intervening years, at the faded photograph, she had -reproached herself and wept; now it all seemed natural. She sought -neither to reason nor to euphemise. The feeling was spontaneous, and -she went with it. She called it by no wrong word, because she called -it nothing. She was borne as it carried her, blindly, unresistingly, -without pausing to name it, or to define its source. It seemed natural. -She inquired about Archie when she had risen next morning, and a little -later, contrived another flying visit to the room. But he was now too -ill to notice her.</p> - -<p>In the afternoon, Carew came again. She learnt it while he was there, -and gathered something of his wretchedness. She heard how he besieged -the nurse with questions: "Had she seen so bad a case before—well, -often before? Had those who recovered been so young as Archie? Was -there nothing else that could be tried?" She listened, with her head -bowed, imagining the scene that she could not enter; deploring, -remembering, re-living—praying for "Tony's child."</p> - -<p>Not till the man had gone, however, was everything related to her. -She was sitting at the extremity of the ward, sewing, shortly to be -free for the night. It was the hour when the quiet of the hospital -deepened into the hush that preluded the extinction of the patients' -lights. The supper-trays had long since been removed from the bedsides. -Through the apertures of curtain, a few patients, loath to waive -the privilege while they held it, were to be seen reading books and -magazines; others were asleep already, and even the late-birds of the -ward who dissipated in wheel-chairs, to the envy of the rest, had made -their final excursion for the day. The Major had stopped his chair to -utter his last wish for "a comfortable night, sir." The chess champion -had concluded his conquest on a recumbent adversary's quilt. Where -breakfast comes at six o'clock, grown men resume some of the customs -of their infancy, and the day that begins so early closes soon. It was -very peaceful, very still; and she was sitting in the lamp-rays, sewing.</p> - -<p>She looked round as the Matron joined her. It was known that the case -interested her, and in subdued tones they spoke of it.</p> - -<p>"How is he?"</p> - -<p>"He's been dreadfully bad. The worst took place before the father left; -Dr. Kincaid had to come up."</p> - -<p>"What?—tell me!"</p> - -<p>"He had to perform tracheotomy. The father was there all the time; Dr. -Kincaid told him what was going to be done, but he wouldn't go. The -child was blue in the face and there wasn't any stopping to argue. When -the cut in the throat was made and the tube put in, I thought the man -was going to faint. He was standing just by me. 'Good God! Is this an -experiment?' he said. I told him it was the only way for the child to -breathe, but he didn't seem to hear me. And when the fit of coughing -came—oh, my goodness! You know what the coughing's like?"</p> - -<p>"Go on!"</p> - -<p>"He made sure it was all over; he burst out sobbing, and the doctor -ordered him out of the room. 'If you're fond of your child, keep quiet -here, sir,' he said, 'or go and compose yourself outside!' I think he -was sorry he'd spoken so sternly afterwards, though he was quite right, -for——"</p> - -<p>"Oh!" shuddered Mary. "Did you see him again?"</p> - -<p>"Yes; I told him he'd had no business to stop. He said, 'If the worst -happens, I shall think it right I was there.' I said he must try to -believe that only the best would happen now; though whether I ought to -have said it I don't know. When it comes to tracheotomy in diphtheria, -the child's chance is slim. Still, this one's as fine a little chap as -ever I saw; he's got the strength of many a pair we get here—and the -man was in such a state. He's coming back to-night—he's to see <i>me</i>, -anyhow; he had to hurry off to the theatre to act. I can't imagine how -he'll get through."</p> - -<p>"I must go! I must go to the ward!" She rose, clasping her hands -convulsively. "I can, can't I? It's Nurse Mainwaring's time to relieve -me—why isn't she here?"</p> - -<p>The Matron calmed her.</p> - -<p>"Hush! you can go as soon as she comes. Don't take on like that, or -I shall be sorry I told you. Nurse Bradley has complained of feeling -ill—I expect that's what it is."</p> - -<p>Mary raised a faint smile, deprecating her vehemence.</p> - -<p>"I'm very fond of the boy," she said, with apology in her voice. "It -was very kind of you to tell me; I thank you very much."</p> - -<p>Nurse Mainwaring appeared now.</p> - -<p>"Nurse Bradley can't get up, madam," she announced.</p> - -<p>"Nonsense! what is it?"</p> - -<p>"A sick-headache; she can't see out of her eyes."</p> - -<p>It was the moment of dismay in which a hospital realises that its -staff, too, is flesh and blood—the hitch in the human machinery.</p> - -<p>"Then we're short-handed to-night. You relieve here, Nurse Mainwaring?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, madam."</p> - -<p>"And Nurse Gay—who should relieve her?"</p> - -<p>"Nurse Bradley."</p> - -<p>"<i>I'll</i> relieve her," cried Mary; "I'd like to!"</p> - -<p>"You need your night's rest as much as most. And there's no napping -with trachy—it means watching all the time."</p> - -<p>"I shan't nap; I shan't want to. Somebody must lose her night's -rest—why not I?"</p> - -<p>"I think we can manage without you."</p> - -<p>"It'll be a favour to me—I'm thankful for the chance."</p> - -<p>"Well, then, you shall halve it with someone. You can take the first -half, and——"</p> - -<p>"No, no," she urged, "that's rough on the other and not enough for me. -Give it me all!"</p> - -<p>The Matron yielded:</p> - -<p>"Nurse Brettan relieves Nurse Gay!"</p> - -<p>In the room the boy lay motionless as if already dead. From the mouth -breath no longer passed; only by holding a hand before the orifice of -the tube inserted in the throat could one detect that he now breathed -at all. As Mary took the seat by his side, the force of professional -training was immediately manifest. She had begged for the extra work -with almost feverish excitement; she entered upon it collected and -self-controlled. A stranger would have said: "A conscientious woman, -but experience has blunted her sensibilities."</p> - -<p>On the table were some feathers. With these, from time to time -throughout the night, she had to keep the tube free from obstruction. -Even the briefest indulgence to drowsiness was impossible. Unwavering -attention to the state of the passage that admitted air to the lungs -was not merely important, the necessity was vital. A continuous, an -inflexible vigilance was required. It was to this that the nurse, -already worn by the usual duties of the day, had pledged herself in -place of the absentee.</p> - -<p>At half-past nine she had cleansed the tube twice. At ten o'clock -Kincaid came in.</p> - -<p>"I am relieving Nurse Gay," she said, rising; "Nurse Bradley's head is -very bad."</p> - -<p>He went to the bed and ascertained that all was well.</p> - -<p>"It'll be very trying for you; wasn't there anyone to divide the work?"</p> - -<p>"I wanted to do it all myself."</p> - -<p>"Ah, yes, I understand; you know the father."</p> - -<p>It was the only reference that he had made to the father's asking for -her, and she was sensible of inquiry in his tone. She nodded. And, -alone together for the first time since her appointment, they stood -looking at Carew's child.</p> - -<p>She had no wish to speak. On him the situation imposed restraint. -But to be with her thus had a charm, for all that. It was not to be -uttered, not to be dwelt on, but, due in part to the prevailing silence -of the house, there was an illusion of confidential intercourse that he -had not felt with her here before.</p> - -<p>While they looked, the boy gave a quick gasp. The tube had become -clogged.</p> - -<p>She started and threw out her hand towards the feathers. But Kincaid -had picked one up already, favoured by his position.</p> - -<p>"All right!" he said; "I'll free it."</p> - -<p>He leant over the pillow, feather in hand. She watched him with eyes -widening in terror, for she saw that his endeavours were futile and he -could not free it.</p> - -<p>The waxen placidity of the upturned face vanished as she watched. -It regained the signs of life to struggle with the gripe of -death—distorted in an instant, and distorted frightfully. The average -woman would have wept aloud. The nurse, to all intents and purposes, -preserved her calmness still.</p> - -<p>It was Kincaid who gave the first token of despondence.</p> - -<p>"The thing's blocked!" he exclaimed; "I can't clear it!"</p> - -<p>His voice had the repressed despair of a surgeon, who is an enthusiast, -too, opposed by a higher force. Under the test of his defeat her -composure broke down. Confronted by a danger in which her interest was -vivid and personal she—as the father had done before her—became -agitated and unstrung.</p> - -<p>"You must," she said. "Doctor, for Heaven's sake!"</p> - -<p>He was trying still, but with scant success.</p> - -<p>"I'm doing my best; it seems no good."</p> - -<p>"You must save this life," she repeated.</p> - -<p>"You will?"</p> - -<p>"I tell you I can't do any more."</p> - -<p>"You will—you shall!" she persisted wildly. The very passion of -motherhood suffused her features. "Doctor, it is <i>his</i> child!"</p> - -<p>He looked at her—their gaze met, even then. It was only in a flash. -Abruptly the gasps of the dying baby became horrible to witness. The -eyeballs rolled hideously, and seemed as if they would spring from -their sockets. The tiny chest heaved and fell in agonising efforts to -gain air, while in its convulsive battle against suffocation the frail -body almost lifted itself from the mattress.</p> - -<p>"Go away," said the man; "there's nothing you can do."</p> - -<p>She refused to stir. She appealed to him frantically.</p> - -<p>"Help him!" she stammered.</p> - -<p>"There's no way."</p> - -<p>"You, the doctor, tell me there's no way?"</p> - -<p>"None."</p> - -<p>"But <i>I</i> know there <i>is</i> a way," she cried; "I can suck that tube!"</p> - -<p>"Mary! My God! it might kill you!"</p> - -<p>She flung forward, but the conflict ceased as he pulled her back. A -small quantity of the mucus had been dislodged by the paroxysm that -it had produced. Nature had done—imperfectly, but still done—what -science had failed to effect. The boy breathed.</p> - -<p>The outbreak was followed by complete exhaustion, and again it seemed -that life was extinct. Kincaid assured himself that it lingered still, -and turned to her gravely.</p> - -<p>"You were about to do a wicked, and a foolish thing. After what it has -gone through, nothing under Heaven can save the child; you ought to -know as much as that. At best you could only hope to prolong life for -two or three hours."</p> - -<p>Tears were dripping down her cheeks.</p> - -<p>"'Only!'" she said; "do you think that's nothing to me? An hour longer, -and his father will be here—to find him living, or dead. Do you -suppose I can't imagine—do you suppose I can't feel—what <i>he</i> feels, -there on the stage, counting the seconds to release? In an hour the -curtain 'll be down and he'll have rushed here praying to be in time. -If it were revealed that I should do nothing but prolong the life by -sacrificing my own, I'd sacrifice it! Gladly, proudly—yes, proudly, as -God hears! You could never have prevented me—nothing should prevent -me. I'd risk my life ten times rather than he should arrive too late."</p> - -<p>"This," drearily murmured the man who loved her, "is the return you -would make for his sin?"</p> - -<p>"No," she said; "it is the atonement I would offer for mine."</p> - -<p>He stood dumbly at the head of the cot; the woman trembled at the foot. -But they saw the change next minute simultaneously. Once more the -passage had become hopelessly clogged. With a broken cry, she rushed to -the cot's vacant side. This time he could not pull her back. He spoke.</p> - -<p>"Stop! Nurse Brettan, I order you to leave the ward!"</p> - -<p>The voice was imperative, and an instant she wavered; but it was the -merest instant. The woman had vanquished the nurse, and the woman -was the stronger now. A glance she threw of mingled supplication and -defiance, and, casting herself on the bed, she set her lips to the -tube.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h3>CHAPTER XIV</h3> - - -<p>It was the work of a moment. Almost as he started forward to restrain -her, she had raised herself, and, burying her face in a handkerchief, -leant, shaking, against the wall.</p> - -<p>Kincaid gazed at her, white and stern, and a tense silence followed, -broken by her.</p> - -<p>"You can have me dismissed," she said—"he will see his child!"</p> - -<p>He answered nothing. The cruelty of the speech which ignored and -perverted everything outside the interests of the man by whom she -had been wronged seemed the last blow that his pain could have to -bear. A sense of the inequality and injustice of life's distribution -overwhelmed him. Viewed in the light of her defeated enemy, he felt as -broken, as far from power or dignity, as if the imputation had been -just.</p> - -<p>She resumed her seat; and, waiting as long as duty still required, he -at last made some remark. She replied constrainedly. The intervention -of the pause was demonstrated by their tones, which sounded flat and -dull. He was thankful when he could go; and his departure was not less -welcome to the woman. To her reactionary weakness the removal of -supervision came as balm. He went from her heavily, and she drew her -chair yet closer to the bedside.</p> - -<p>Tony would see his boy! She had no other settled thought, excepting the -reluctant one that she would meet him when he came. The reflection that -he would hear of her share in the matter gladdened her scarcely at all; -indeed, when she contemplated his enlightenment, she was perturbed. He -would learn that his initial faith in her had been justified, and he -would be sorry, piteously sorry, for all the hard words that he had -used. But by <i>her</i> there was little to be gained; what she had done -had been for him. She found it even a humiliation that her act would -be known to him—a humiliation which his gratitude would do nothing to -decrease. She looked at the watch that she had pawned for the rent of -her garret after his renunciation of her, and determined the length of -time before he could arrive.</p> - -<p>The stress of the last few minutes could not be suffered to beget any -abatement of wariness. But by degrees, as the reverberation of the -outburst faded, she felt more tranquil than she had done since the -Matron joined her earlier in the evening; and the vigil was continued -with undiminished care. Archie would die, but now Tony would be -present. The closing moments would not pass while he was simulating -misery or mirth on a stage. Horror of the averted fate, more dreadful -to a woman's mind even than to the father's own, made the brief -protraction appear an almost priceless boon.</p> - -<p>It was possible for him to be here already; not likely, perhaps, so -soon as this, but possible, supposing that the piece "played quick" and -that a cab had been ordered to await him at the door. She listened for -the roll of wheels in the distance, but the silence was undisturbed. -Archie was lying as calm as when she had entered. If no further -impediment occurred, to exhaust the remaining strength more speedily, -it seemed safe to think that he might last two hours.</p> - -<p>Her misgivings as to her risk were slight. The danger she had run -might prove fatal; but the thing had been done with impunity at least -once before—she remembered hearing of it. While we have our health, -the contingency of sickness appears to us more remote from ourselves -than from our neighbours; in her own case, a serious result looked -exceedingly improbable. She regarded the benefit of her temerity as -cheaply bought. None knew better than she, however, how much completive -attention was called for, what alertness of eye and hand was essential -afterwards; and, sitting there, her gaze was fastened on the boy as if -she sought to hearken to every flutter of his pulse.</p> - -<p>Now a cab did approach; she held her breath as it rattled near. It -stopped, she fancied, before the hospital gate. Still with her stare -riveted on the unconscious child, she strained her ears for the -confirmatory tread. The seconds ticked away, swelling to minutes, but -no footstep fell. The hope had been a false one! Presently the cab -was heard again, driving away. She began to be distressed, alarmed. -Making allowance for a too sanguine calculation, it was time that -he was here!... The delay was unaccountable; no conjecture could be -formed as to its extent. Her fingers were laced and unlaced in her -lap nervously. She imagined the rumble of wheels in the soughing of -the wind, alternately intent and discomfited. The faint slamming of -a cottage-door startled her to expectation. In the profundity of the -hush that spread with every subsidence of sound, she seemed to hear the -throbbing of her heart.</p> - -<p>Out in the town a clock struck twelve, and apprehension verged upon -despair. The eyes fixed on the boy were desperate now; she leant over -him to contest the advent of the end shade by shade. So far no change -was shown; Tony's fast dwindling chance was not yet lost. "God, God! -Send him quick!" she prayed. Racked with impatience, tortured by the -fear that what she had done might, after all, be unavailing, she strove -to devise some theory to uphold her. Debarred from venting her suspense -in action, she found the constraint of her posture almost physical -pain.</p> - -<p>The clock boomed the hour of one. It swept suddenly across her mind -that the Matron had been doubtful of letting him proceed to the ward on -his return: he must have come and gone! She had been reaching forward, -and her arm remained extended vaguely. Consternation engulfed her. If -during ten seconds she thought of anything but her neglect to ensure -his being admitted, she thought she felt the blood in her freezing -from head to foot. He had come and gone!—she was thwarted by her own -oversight. Defeat paralysed the woman.... Her exploit now assumed an -aspect of grievous hazard, enhanced by its futility. She lifted herself -faint at soul. Her services were instinctive, mechanical; she resumed -them, she was assiduous and watchful; but she appeared to be prompted -by some external influence, with her brain benumbed.</p> - -<p>All at once a new thought thrilled her stupor. She heard the stroke of -three, and the boy was still alive! The ungovernable hope shook her -back to sensation. She told herself that the hope was wild, fantastic, -that she would be mad to harbour it, but excitement shivered in her; -she was strung with the intensity of what she hesitated to own. Every -second that might bring the end and yet withheld it, fanned the hope -feebly; the passage of each slow, dragging minute stretched suspense -more taut. She dreaded the quiver of her lashes that veiled his face -from view, as if the spark of life might vanish as her eyelids fell. -Between eternities, the distant clock rang forth the quarters of the -hour across the sleeping town, and at every quarter she gasped "Thank -God!" and wondered would she thank Him by the next. Hour trailed into -hour. The boy lingered still. Haggard, she tended and she watched. The -dreariness of daybreak paled the blind before the bed. The blind grew -more transparent, and hope trembled on. There was the stir of morning, -movement in the street; dawn touched them wanly, and hope held her yet. -And sunrise showed him breathing peacefully once more—and then she -knew that Heaven had worked a miracle and the child would live.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Among the staff that case is cited now and still the nurses tell how -Mary Brettan saved his life. The local <i>Examiner</i> gave the matter a -third of a column, headed "Heroism of a Hospital Nurse." And, cut down -to five lines, it was mentioned in the London papers. Mr. Collins, of -Pattenden's, glanced at the item, having despatched the youth of the -prodigious yawn with a halfpenny, and—remembering how the surname was -familiar—wondered for a moment what the woman was doing who could -never sell their books.</p> - -<p>It was later in the morning that Carew entered the hospital, as Kincaid -crossed the hall. The porter heard the doctor's answer to a stammered -question:</p> - -<p>"Your child is out of danger. I'm sorry to say Nurse Brettan risked her -life for him."</p> - -<p>Then the visitor started, and stopped short hysterically, and the -doctor moved by, with his jaw set hard.</p> - -<p>To Mary he had said little. He was confronted by a recovery that it had -been impossible to foresee, but his predominant emotion was terror of -its cost. From the Matron she heard of Carew's gratitude, and received -his message of entreaty to be allowed to see her. It was not delivered, -however, till she woke, and then he had gone; and by the morrow her -reluctance to have an interview had deepened. She contented herself -with the note that he sent: one written to say that he "could not -write—that in a letter he was unable to find words." She read it very -slowly, and it drooped to her lap, and she sat gazing at the wall. She -brushed the mist from her eyes, and read the lines again, and yet again -—long after she knew them all by heart.</p> - -<p>Next day she rose with a strange stiffness in her throat. With her -descent to the ward, it increased. And she was frightened. But at first -she would not mention it, because she was loath for Kincaid to know. -She felt it awkward to draw breath; by noon the difficulty was not to -be concealed. She went to bed—protesting, but by Kincaid's command.</p> - -<p>Nurse Brettan had become a patient. She said how queer it was to be -in the familiar room in this unfamiliar way. The nurse whose watch of -Archie she had relieved was chosen to attend on her; and Mary chaffed -her weakly on her task.</p> - -<p>"It ought to be a good patient this spell, Sophie! If I'm a nuisance, -you may shake me."</p> - -<p>But to Kincaid she spoke more earnestly now the danger-signal was -displayed.</p> - -<p>"You did all you could to stop me, doctor. Whatever happens, you'll -remember that! You did everything that was right, and so did I."</p> - -<p>"Don't talk rubbish about 'happenings,' Nurse!" he said; "we shall want -you to be up and at work again directly."</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, she grew worse as the child grew stronger; and for a -fortnight the man who loved her suffered fiercer pain each time he -answered "Rubbish!" And the man whom she loved sought daily tidings of -her when he called to view the progress of his boy. She used to hear of -his inquiries and turn her face on the pillow, and lie for a long while -very quiet. Her distaste to meeting him had gone and she craved for him -to come to her. But now she could not bring herself to let him do it, -because her neck and face were so swollen and unsightly, and her voice -had dwindled to a whisper that was not nice to hear.</p> - -<p>Then all hope was at an end—it was known that she was dying. And one -morning the nurse said to her:</p> - -<p>"Perhaps this afternoon you'd like to see him? He has asked again."</p> - -<p>"This afternoon?" Momentarily her eyes brightened, but the shame of -her unloveliness came back to her, and she sighed. "Give me ... the -glass, Sophie ... there's a dear!" She looked up at her reflection in -the narrow mirror held aslant over the bed. "No," she said feebly, "not -this afternoon. Perhaps tor morrow."</p> - -<p>The girl put back the glass without speaking. And a gaze followed her -questioningly till she left.</p> - -<p>When Kincaid came in, Mary asked him how long she had to live.</p> - -<p>He was worn with a night of agony—a night whose marks the staff had -observed and wondered at.</p> - -<p>"How long?" she asked; "I know I can't get better. When's it going to -be?" He clenched his teeth to curb the twitching of his mouth. "It -isn't <i>now</i>?"</p> - -<p>"No, no," he said. "You shouldn't, you <i>mustn't</i> frighten yourself like -this!"</p> - -<p>"To-day?"</p> - -<p>"Not to-day," he answered hoarsely, "I honestly believe."</p> - -<p>"To-morrow?"</p> - -<p>"Mary!"</p> - -<p>"To-morrow?" she pleaded in the same painful whisper. "Tell me the -truth. What to-morrow?"</p> - -<p>"I think—to-morrow you may know how much I loved you."</p> - -<p>She did not move; and he had turned aside. He noticed it was raining -and how the drops spattered on the window-sill.</p> - -<p>"I didn't see," she murmured; "I thought-you—had—forgotten."</p> - -<p>"No," he said; "you never saw. It doesn't matter; I know now it would -never have been any use. Hush, dear; don't talk; it's so bad for you!"</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry. But I was <i>his</i> before you came. I couldn't. Could I?"</p> - -<p>"No, of course. Don't worry; don't, for God's sake! There's nothing -to be sorry about. I must go to the next ward; I shall see you this -afternoon. Try to sleep a little, won't you?"</p> - -<p>He went out, with a word to the nurse, who came back; and Mary lay -silent.</p> - -<p>Presently she said:</p> - -<p>"Sophie—yes, this afternoon,"</p> - -<p>Something in the voice startled; the girl gulped before she spoke:</p> - -<p>"All right! he shall hear as soon as he comes."</p> - -<p>"Don't forget."</p> - -<p>"I won't forget, chummy; you can feel quite sure about it."</p> - -<p>"Thanks, Sophie. I'm so tired."</p> - -<p>The rain was falling still. She heard it blowing against the panes, -and lay listening to it, wondering if it would keep him away. Then her -thoughts drifted; and she slept.</p> - -<p>When Kincaid returned he took Sophie's place, and sat watching till the -figure stirred. The eyes opened at him vaguely.</p> - -<p>"I've been asleep?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"Is it very late?"</p> - -<p>"It's about three, I think.... Just three."</p> - -<p>"Ah!" she said with relief.</p> - -<p>She closed her eyes again, and there was a long pause. He covered her -nerveless hand with his own.</p> - -<p>"Don't grieve," she whispered; "it doesn't hurt."</p> - -<p>"Oh, my dear, my dear! You, and my mother, too—helpless with both!"</p> - -<p>"The many," she said faintly, "think of the many you've pulled through. -You've ... been very good to me ... very good."</p> - -<p>To his despair it seemed that ever since they met she had been telling -him that. It was the dole that she had yielded, the atom that his -devotion had ever wrung from her—she found him "good"!</p> - -<p>And even as she said it, her eagerness caught the footfall, that she -had been waiting for; and she nestled lower on the pillow, trying to -hide her disfigurement from view.</p> - -<p>"Mary," said Kincaid, "you didn't care for me; but will you let me kiss -you on the forehead—while you know?"</p> - -<p>A smile—a smile of tenderness wonderfully new and strange to him -irradiated her face; and, turning, he saw the other man had come in.</p> - - -<h4>THE END</h4> - - - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Man Who Was Good, by Leonard Merrick - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO WAS GOOD *** - -***** This file should be named 43837-h.htm or 43837-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/8/3/43837/ - -Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org -(Scans generously made available by the Internet Archive -- University of Toronto, Robarts Library.) - - -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. 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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 - - -Title: The Man Who Was Good - With an Introduction by J.K. Prothero - -Author: Leonard Merrick - -Commentator: J.K. Prothero - -Release Date: September 28, 2013 [EBook #43837] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO WAS GOOD *** - - - - -Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org -(Scans generously made available by the Internet Archive -- University of Toronto, Robarts Library.) - - - - - -THE MAN IS WHO WAS GOOD - -BY - -LEONARD MERRICK - -WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY - -J.K. PROTHERO - -HODDER & STOUGHTON - -LONDON--NEW YORK--TORONTO - -1921 - - - - -"That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true; -Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows. -If you loved only what were worth your love, -Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you." - - James Lee's Wife. - - - - -INTRODUCTION - - -There is a rare refreshment in the works of Leonard Merrick; gracious -yet distinctive, his style has a polished leisure seldom enjoyed these -days when perfection of literary form is at a discount. His art is -impossible of label; almost alone amongst the writers of to-day he has -the insight and the courage at once to admit the pitiless facts of life -and to affirm despite them--through hunger and loneliness, injustice -and disappointment--the spirit can and does remain unbroken; that if -there be no assurance of success, neither is there certainty of failure. - -There is no sentimental weakness in the method he employs. A rare -genius for humour tempers all his work; he can record the progressive -starvation of an actor out of work in an economy of phrase that leaves -no room for gratuitous appeal, trace the long-drawn efforts to outpace -persistent poverty of pence with a simplicity that enforces conviction. -His pen is never so poignant or restrained as when he shows us a woman -sharpened and coarsened by cheap toil. But throughout the tale of -struggle and triumph, defeat and attainment, there persists that sense -of eternal quest which shortens the hardest road. Do you starve to-day? -Opportunity of plenty may wait at the street corner, the chance of a -lifetime alight from the next bus; for Leonard Merrick is not concerned -with people of large incomes and small problems; the men and women of -whom he writes earn their own living. - -His most marked successes deal with stage life, indeed he is one of the -very few authors who convince one of the actuality of theatrical folk. -He shows us the chorus girl in her lodgings, in the Strand bars, at -the dramatic agency; we understand her ambitions, become familiar with -her unconquerable pluck and capacity for comradeship, even acquire a -liking for the smell of grease-paint. We meet the same girl out of an -engagement, follow her pilgrimage from Bloomsbury to Brixton seeking -an ever cheaper lodging; we watch the mud and wet of the streets soak -her inadequate boots, endure with her the pangs of hunger ill-allayed -by a fugitive bun. We accompany her to the pawnbroker's, and experience -the joys of combat with a recalcitrant "uncle" who refuses to lend more -than eighteenpence on a silk blouse. And still the sense of adventure -persists, the reality of romance endures, the joy of laughter remains. -We realise the compensation of precarious tenure on sufficiency, -appreciate the great truth that the adversity of to-day is lightened by -the uncertainty of to-morrow, that no matter how grim the struggle, how -sharp the hardship--and the hunger--the sense of adventure companions -and consoles. Authors who concern themselves only with men and women -of assured position and regular incomes have forgotten the truth which -Leonard Merrick so triumphantly affirms. Romance is no respecter of -persons. The freedom of the open road, its promise, its pitfalls, -sudden ecstasies and fugitive glamours is not a preserve of the rich -but the heritage of the people. - -His psychological methods allure one by their seeming simplicity; -quietly, with a delicate deliberation, he emphasises the outline of -his characters until with sudden swift decision, in the utterance of -a phrase, the doing of some one of those small things that are life's -real revelations, he shows you the soul of the man or woman whose -externals he has so carefully portrayed. Half-forgotten words and acts -crowd in on the memory, as in _The Man who was Good_ when Carew appeals -to Mary to save his child--and her rival's. It needed the genius of -Merrick to make one realise that the high-water mark of betrayal was -reached not by the man's desertion of the woman who loved him, but by -his pitiful exploitation of that love. - -I know of no author with a more subtle understanding of woman, her -generosity and meanness, her strange reticence, amazing candours. Mary -Brettan, that tragedy of invincible fidelity, could only have been -portrayed by a man able to sense feminine capacity for dumb fortitude. -One feels that had she made even a gesture of revolt, Mary would have -been freed of the paralysis of sterile constancy; and one knows that -women of her type can never make the ultimate defiance. - -Leonard Merrick has the inimitable gift of inducing his readers to -experience the emotions he portrays. The zest of adventure grips -you, as it grips the hero of _Conrad in Quest of his Youth_, perhaps -the greatest of his triumphs. We share with that perfect lover his -mellow regrets and his anticipatory ardours; we wait in tremulous -expectancy outside the little restaurant in Soho for his delightful -Lady Parlington, falling, with him-from light-hearted confidence to -sickening uncertainty as time wears on and still she does not come. The -same emotional buoyancy stirs in all his work; his incomparable humour -endears to us the least of his creations. His adorable landladies -become our friends, his "walking gentlemen" our close acquaintance. I -do not know to this day whether I have met certain of these heavenly -creatures in life or in Mr. Merrick's novels, and it is difficult to -enter a theatrical lodging without feeling that you are living the -last story in _The Man who Understood Women_, or revisiting the first -beginnings of Peggy Harper. - -London has many lovers, none so intimate with her allurements as -Leonard Merrick. He knows the glamour of her midnight pavements, the -hunger of her clamant streets, and the enchantments of her grey river -have drawn him. He has felt the deciduous charm of her luxury, the -abiding pleasure of her leafy spaces, and the intriguing alleys of -Fleet Street are to him familiar and dear. For the suburbs he has an -infinite kindness, and has companioned adventure on many a questing -tram. - -It has long been a matter of insuperable difficulty to obtain Mr. -Merrick's novels; for years I have essayed to find a copy of _Conrad_, -and from every bookseller have been sent empty away. In a moment of -folly I lent my own copy to a neighbour--I cannot call him friend--who -forthwith adopted the volume as his most invaluable possession, and, -undeterred by savagery or threats, refused to give it up. And now after -long waiting, I am made glad by a reissue of these incomparable works, -and the knowledge that an ever-increasing public, too long denied the -opportunity of their acquaintance, will share my delight. Far removed -from the nightmare of the problem novel, his books centre on simple -human things savoured with the rare salt of his humour; and whether in -the suburbs or the slums, in Soho or the Strand, whether prosperous or -starving, the men and women of whom he writes are touched with that -high courage, that fine comradeship, which is the very essence of -romance. - -J.K. PROTHERO. - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -There were three women in the dressing-room. Little Miss Macy, who -played a subaltern, was pulling off her uniform; and the "Duchess," -divested of velvet, stood brushing the powder out of her hair. The -third woman was doing nothing. In a chair by the theatrical hamper -labelled "Miss Olive Westland's Tour: 'The Foibles of Fashion' Co.," -she sat regarding the others, her hands idle in her lap. She was -scarcely what is called "beautiful," much less was she what ought to be -called "pretty"; perhaps "womanly" came nearer to suggesting her than -either. Her eyes were not large, but they were so pensive; her mouth -was not small, but it curved so tenderly; the face was not regular, but -it looked so deliciously soft. Somebody had once said that it "made -him admire God"; in watching her, it seemed such a perfect thing that -there should be a low white brow, and hair to shade it; it seemed such -an exquisite and consummate thing that there should be lips where the -Maker put lips, and a chin where the chin is modelled. Her age might -have been twenty-seven, also it might have been thirty. The wise man -does not question the nice woman's age--he just thanks Heaven she -lives; and she in the chair by the hamper was decidedly nice. Other -women said so. - -"Have you been in front, Mrs. Carew?" asked the "Duchess." - -She answered that she had. "I came round at the end. It was a very good -house; the business is improving." - -"I should think," remarked the "subaltern," reaching for her skirt, -"you must know every line of the piece, the times you've seen it! But, -of course, you've nothing else to do." - -"No, it isn't lively sitting alone all the evening in lodgings; and -it's more comfortable in the circle than behind. How you people manage -to get dressed in some of the theatres puzzles me; I look at you from -the front, remembering where your things were put on, and marvel. If -I were in the profession, my salary wouldn't keep me in the frocks I -ruined." - -"I wonder Carew has never wanted you to go into it." - -The nice woman laughed. - -"Go into the profession!" she exclaimed--"I? Good gracious, what an -idea! No; Tony has a very flattering opinion of his wife's abilities, -but I don't think even he goes the length of fancying I could act." - -"You'd be as good as a certain leading lady we know of, at any rate. -Nobody could be much worse than our respected manageress, I'll take my -oath!" - -"Jeannie," said the "Duchess" sharply, "don't quarrel with your -bread-and-butter!" - -"I'm not," said the girl; "I'm criticising it--a very different matter, -my dear. I hate these amateurs with money, even if they do take out -companies and give shops to us pros. She queers the best line I've got -in the piece every night because she won't speak up and nobody knows -what it's an answer to. The real type of the 'confidential actress' is -Miss Westland; no danger of _her_ allowing anyone in the audience to -overhear what she says!" - -"Tony believes she'll get on all right," said Mrs. Carew, "when she has -had more experience. You do, too, don't you, Mrs. Bowman?" - -The "Duchess" replied vaguely that "experience did a great deal." She -had profited by her own, and at the "aristocratic mother" period of her -career no longer canvassed in dressing-rooms the capabilities of the -powers that paid the treasury. - -"Get on?" echoed Jeannie Macy, struggling into her jacket, "of course -she'll get on; she has oof! If it's very much she's got, you'll see -her by-and-by with a theatre of her own in London. Money, influence, -or talent, you must have one of the three in the profession, and for -a short-cut give me either of the first two. Sweet dreams, both of -you; I've got a hot supper waiting for me, and I can smell it spoiling -from here!" The door banged behind her; and Mrs. Carew turned to the -"Duchess" with a smile. - -"You're coming round to us afterwards, aren't you?" she said. - -"Yes, Carew asked the husband in the morning: I hope he's got some -coppers; I reminded him. It's such a bother having to keep an account -of how we stand after every deal. We'll be round about half-past -twelve. Are you going?" - -"I should think Tony ought to be ready by now. You remember our number?" - -"Nine?" - -"Nine; opposite the baker's." - -Mrs. Carew hummed a little tune, and made her way down the stairs. The -stage, of which she had a passing view, was dark, for the foot-lights -were out, and in the T-piece only one gas-jet flared bluely between the -bare expanse of boards and the blackness of the empty auditorium. In -the passage, a man, hastening from the star-room, almost ran against -her; Mr. Seaton Carew still wore the clothes in which he finished the -play, and he had not removed his make-up yet. - -"What!" she cried, "haven't you changed? How's that? What have you been -doing?" - -"I've been talking to Miss Westland," he explained hurriedly. "There -was something she wanted to see me about. Don't wait any longer, Mary; -I've got to go up to her lodgings with her." - -She hesitated a moment, surprised. - -"Is it so important?" she asked. - -"Yes," he said; "I'll tell you about it later on; I want to have a talk -with you afterwards. I shan't be long." - -Whenever she came to the theatre, which was four or five times a week, -they, naturally, returned together, and she enjoyed the stroll in the -fresh air, "after the show," with Tony. Three years' familiarity with -the custom had not destroyed its charm to her. To-night she went out -into the Leicester streets a shade disconsolately. The gas was already -lighted when she reached the house, and a fire--for the month was -March--burnt clearly in the grate. The accommodation was not extensive: -a small ground-floor parlour, and a bedroom at the back. On the parlour -mantelpiece were some faded photographs of people who had stayed there ---Mr. Delancey as the Silver King; Miss Ida Ryan, smoking a cigarette, -as Sam Willoughby. She took off her coat, and, turning her back on the -supper-table, wondered what the conference with Miss Westland was about. - -The tedium of the delay began to tell upon her. The landlady had -brought in her book of testimonials during the afternoon, to ask Mr. -and Mrs. Carew for theirs; and fetching it from where it lay, she began -listlessly to turn the leaves. These books were abominated by Carew, -for he never knew what to write; and, perusing the comments in this -one, she mentally agreed with him that it was not easy to find a medium -between curtness and exaggeration. Some she recognised, knowing before -she looked what signatures were appended. The "Stay but a little, I -will come again" quotation she had seen above the same name in a score -of lodgings, and there were two or three "impromptus" in rhyme that she -had met before. - -She had been very happy this time at Leicester. They had arrived on -the anniversary of her and Tony's first meeting, and she had felt -additionally tender towards him all the week. The landlady had not -effected the happiness certainly, but her lodger was quite willing to -give her some of the benefit of it. She dipped the pen in the ink, -and wrote in a bold, upright hand, "The week spent in Mrs. Liddy's -apartments will always be a pleasant remembrance to Mr. and Mrs. Seaton -Carew." Then she put the date underneath. - -She had just finished when Mrs. Liddy entered with the beer. The -Irishwoman said that she was going to bed, but that Mrs. Carew would -find more glasses in the cupboard when her friends came. She supposed -that that was all? - -It was now twelve o'clock, and Mrs. Carew, with an occasional glance -at the cold beef and the corner of rice pudding, began to walk about -the room. Presently she stopped and listened. A whistle had reached her -from outside--the whistle of eight notes that is the actor's call. She -surmised that young Dolliver had forgotten their number, as he did in -every town. She drew aside the blind and let the light shine out. Young -Dolliver it was. - -"I've been whistling all up and down the road," he said, aggrieved; -"what were you doing?" - -"Well, that isn't bad," she laughed. "Why don't you remember addresses -like anybody else?" - -"Can't," he declared; "never could! Never know where I'm staying myself -if I don't make a note of it as soon as I go in. In Jarrow, one Monday, -I had to wander all over the place for three' mortal hours in the -pouring rain, looking for someone in the company to tell me where I -lived. Hallo! where's Carew?" - -"He'll be in directly," she said. "Sit down." - -"Oh! I'm awfully sorry to have come so early," he exclaimed; "why, you -haven't fed or anything." - -He was a bright-faced boy, with a cheery flow of chatter, and she was -glad he had appeared. - -"I expect the Bowmans any minute," she assured him; "you aren't early. -Do sit down, there's a good child, and don't stand fiddling your hat -about; put it on the piano! Have you banqueted yourself?" - -"To repletion. What did you think of Carew's notice in the Great -Sixpennyworth on Saturday? Wasn't it swagger? 'The role finds an ideal -exponent in Mr. Seaton Carew, an actor who is rapidly making his way -into the foremost ranks of his profession'!" - -"A line and a half," she said, "by a provincial correspondent! I shan't -be satisfied till----well!" - -"I know--till you see him with sixteen lines all to himself in the -_Telegraph_! No more will he, I fancy. He's red-hot on success, is -Carew--do anything for it. So'm I; I should like to play Claude." - -"Claude?" she exclaimed. "Why, you're funny!" - -"Not by disposition," he declared. "Miss Westland is responsible for -my being funny. When they said 'a small comedy-part is still vacant,' -I said small comedy-parts are my forte of fortes! Had it been an 'old -man' that was wanted, I should have professed myself born to dodder. -But if it comes to choice--to the secret tendency of the sacred fire--I -am lead, I am romantic, I have centre-entrances in the limelight. Look -here: 'A deep vale, shut out by Alpine----' No, wait a minute; you -do the Langtry business and let the flowers fall, while I 'paint the -home.' Do you know, my private opinion is that Claude only took those -lessons so that the widow shouldn't be put to any expense doing up the -home. Haven't got any flowers? Anything else then--where are the cards?" - -He found the pack on the sideboard, and pushed a few into her hand. - -"These'll do for the flowers," he said; "finger 'em lovingly; think -you're holding a good nap." - -"Don't be so ridiculous!" - -"I'm not," said Dolliver, with dignity; "I really want to hear your -views on my reading. Where was I--er--er---- - - "'Near a clear lake margin'd by fruits of gold - And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies - As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows.... - As I would have thy fate.' - -"You see I make a pause after 'shadows'--I'm natural. I gaze -hesitatingly at the floats, and the borders, and a kid in the pit. Then -I meet the eyes of the fair Pauline, and conclude with 'As I would have -thy fate,' smiling dreamily at the excellence of the comparison. That's -a new point, I take it?" - -He was seriously enamoured of his "new point," and was still -expatiating on it when they heard Carew unlocking the street-door. - -It was a man much of the woman's own age who came in. His face was -clean-shaven, and his hair was worn a trifle longer than the hair of -most men. Now that he was seen in a good light, it was plain that he -was disturbed; but he shook Dolliver by the hand as if relieved to find -him there. - -"What, not had supper? You must be starving, Mary?" - -"I _am_ pretty hungry," she admitted; "aren't you?" - -"Well, I've had something--still, I'll come to the table." She had -looked disappointed, and he drew his chair up. "Dolliver?" - -"Nothing for me, thanks. Oh! a glass of beer--I don't object to that." - -Despite her assertion, Mary made no great progress with her supper, -and Carew's evident disquietude even damped the garrulity of the boy. -It was not until the Bowmans arrived and a game of napoleon had been -begun, that the faint restraint caused by his manner wore away. - -Mr. Bowman, mindful of his wife's injunction, had provided himself with -several shillings'-worth of coppers, and, profiting by his forethought, -each of the party started with a rouleau of pence. These occasional -card parties after the performance had become an institution in "The -Foibles of Fashion" company, and it was seldom that anyone found them -expensive. Mary's capital, coppers included, was half a sovereign, and -to have won or lost such a sum as that at a sitting would have been -the subject of allusion for a month. To-night, however, the luck was -curiously unequal, and, to the surprise of all, Dolliver found himself -losing seven shillings before he had been playing half an hour. Much -sympathy was expressed for Dolliver. - -"Never mind, dear boy; it's always a mistake to win early in the -evening," said Carew. "There's plenty of time. I pass!" - -"Pass," said the "Duchess." - -Mary called three, and made them. - -"How do you stand, Mrs. Carew?" asked Bowman. - -"I'm just about the same as when we began. Tony, Mr. Bowman has nothing -to drink.--Oh, what a shame, Dolliver!--thanks! Fill up your own, won't -you?--He's a perfect martyr, this boy," she went on; "he cleared the -table before you two people came in--didn't you?" - -"Four!" cried Dolliver. "Yes; I cleared it beautifully. Utility is my -line of business." - -"Since when? I thought just now----" - -"Oh, confidences, Mrs. Carew!" He turned scarlet. "Don't give me -away!... Now, Mrs. Bowman, which is it to be?" - -She played trumps, and led with a king. - -A breathless moment, crowned by an unsuspected "little one" from -Dolliver. His "four" were safe, and he leant back radiant. - -The "Duchess" prepared to deal. - -"Who's got an address for the next town?" she inquired. - -"Haven't you written yet?" - -"No, we haven't got a place to write to; hateful, isn't it? If there's -a thing I loathe, it's having to look for rooms after we get in. We've ---pass!--always stayed in the same house, and--everybody to put in the -kitty again!--and now the woman's left, or something. My! isn't the -kitty getting big--look at all those sixpences underneath. Somebody -count it!" - -"Now then, Carew, don't go to sleep!" - -Carew, thus adjured, gathered up the cards. Fitfully he was almost -himself again, and only Mary was really sure that anything was amiss. - -"There's a little hotel I've stopped at there," he said. "Not at all -bad--they find you everything for twenty-five bob the week; for two -people there'd be a reduction, too. Remind me, and I'll give you the -name; I have it in my book. Bowman, you to call!" - -Bowman called nothing; everybody passed again, and the kitty was -augmented once more. - -"What time do we travel Sunday--anybody know?" - -"You can be precious sure," said Bowman, "that it will be at some -unearthly hour. I've had a good many years' experience in the -profession, but I never in my life was in a company where they did -so many night journeys as they do in this one. I believe that little -outsider arranges it on purpose!" - -"A daisy of an acting-manager, isn't he? I once knew another fellow -much the--two, I call two--and then, at the end of the tour, hanged if -they didn't rush us for a presentation to him!" - -"So they will for this chap. Presentations in the profession, upon my -soul, are the----" - -"Three," said the "Duchess." - -"And when the time comes, not a member of the crowd will have the pluck -to refuse. You see!" - -"Did you ever know an actor who had, when he was asked?" - -Dolliver flushed excitedly. - -"Nap!" he exclaimed. - -"Oh, oh, oh! Dolliver goes nap!" - -"No; d'ye mean it? Very well, fire ahead, then; play up!" - -There was two minutes' silence, and the youngster smacked down his last -card, preparing a smile for defeat. - -"He's made it! Mrs. Bowman, you threw it away; if you'd played hearts, -instead----" - -"No, no, she couldn't help it. She had to follow suit." - -"Of course!"--the "Duchess" caught feebly at the explanation--"I had -to follow suit. What a haul! good gracious!" - -"That puts you right again, eh, dear boy?" - -"'I am once more the great house of Lyons!'" remarked Dolliver, piling -up the pennies. "Six, seven, eight! Look at the silver, great Scott! -Mrs. Carew, there's the ninepence I owe you." - -"'I have paid this woman, and I owe her nothing,'" quoted Carew. -"Dolliver, you've ruined me, you beggar! Where's the 'bacca?" - -At something to three there was a murmur about its being late, but the -loser now was Mrs. Bowman, and as her shillings had drifted into the -possession of Mary, the hostess said it really was not late at all.' -This disposed of the breaking-up question for half an hour. Then Bowman -began to talk of concluding the game after a couple of rounds. When -two such arrangements had been made and set at naught, the "Duchess" -proposed that they should finish at the next "nap." To "finish at the -next nap" was a euphemism for continuing for a good: long while, and -the resolution was carried unanimously. - -The clock had struck four when the nap was made, and the winner was -Mary. She had won more than six shillings, and the "Duchess," who was -the poorer by the amount, smiled with sleepy resignation. - -"You had the luck after all, Mrs. Carew," laughed Dolliver. -"Good-night." - -"Yes," she said carelessly; "I've made something between me and the -workhouse, anyhow! Good-night." - -She loitered about the room, putting little aimless touches to things, -while Carew saw the trio to the door. She heard him shut it behind -them, and heard their steps growing fainter on the pavement. He was -slow returning, queerly slow. Dolliver's voice reached her, taking -leave of the Bowmans at the corner, and still he had not come in. - -"Tony!" she called. - -He rejoined her almost as she spoke. - -"Don't go to bed, Mary," he said huskily; "I've something to say to -you." - -"What is it?" she asked. - -He hesitated for an instant, seeking an introductory phrase. The -agitation that he had been fighting all the night had conquered him. - -"My release has come at last," he answered. "My wife is dead." - -"Dead?" - -She stood gazing at him with dilated eyes, the colour ebbing from her -cheeks. - -"She was ill some time. Drink it was, I hear; I daresay! Anyhow, she's -gone; the mistake is finished. I've paid for it dearly enough, Lord -knows!" - -He had paused midway between her and the hearth, and he moved to the -hearth. She was sensible of a vague pang as he did so. A tense silence -followed his words. In thoughts that she had been unable to escape, -the woman who had paid for his mistake more dearly still had sometimes -imagined such a moment as this--had sometimes foreseen him crying to -her that he was free. Perhaps, now that the moment was here, it was a -little wanting--a little barer than the announcement of freedom that -she had pictured. - -"You're bound to feel the shock of it," she said, almost inaudibly. -"It's always a shock, the news of death." But she felt that the burden -of speech should be his. "Were you--used you to be very fond of her? -Does it come back?" - -"I was twenty. 'Fond'? I don't know. I wasn't with her three months -when----She had walked Liverpool; I never saw her from the day I found -it out. She didn't want me; the money was enough for her--to be sure of -it every week!" - -His attitude remained unchanged, his hands thrust deep into his -trouser-pockets. Opposite each other, both reviewed the past. She -waited for him to come to her--to touch her. Yes, the reality was barer -than the picture that she had seen. - -"When was it?" she murmured. - -"It was some weeks ago." - -"So long?" - -He left the hearth moodily, and began to pace the room from end to end. -The woman did not stir. The memory was with her of the morning that -he had avowed this marriage--of the agony that had wept to her for -pity--of the clasp that would not let her go. She looked abstractedly -at the fire; but in her heart she saw his every step, and counted the -turns that kept him from her side. - -"It makes a great difference!" he said abruptly. - -The consciousness of the difference was flooding her reason, yet she -did not speak. It should not be by her that the sanctification of her -sacrifice was broached. The wish, the reminder, the reparation, all -should be his! She nodded assent. - -"A great difference," he repeated hoarsely. He smeared the dampness -from his mouth and chin. "If--if my reputation were made now, Mary, I -should ask you to be my wife." - -And then she did not speak. There was an instant in which the wall swam -before her in a haze, and the floor lurched. In the next, she was still -fronting the fireplace; she was staring at it with the same intentness -of regard; and his voice was sounding again, though she heard it dully: - -"--while a poor due can't choose! I would--I'd ask you to marry me. -I know what you've been to me--I don't forget--I know very well! But, -as it is, it'd be madness--it'd be putting a rope round my own neck. -I want you to hear how I'm situated. I want you to listen to the -circumstances----" - -"You won't ... make amends?" - -"I tell you I'm not my own master." - -"You tell me that--that we're to part! We can't remain together any -longer unless I'm your wife." - -"We can't remain together any longer at all; that's what I'm coming -to." He went back to the mantelpiece, and leant his elbows on it, -kicking the half-hot coals. "I'm going to marry Miss Westland!" - -He had said it; the echo of the utterance sung in his ears. Behind -him her figure was motionless--its its--stillness frightened him. -Intensified by the riotous ticking of the clock, through which his -pulses were strained for the relief of a rustle, a breath, the pause -grew unendurable. - -"For God's sake, why don't you say something?" he exclaimed. He faced -her impetuously, and they looked at each other across the table. "Mary, -it's my chance in life! She cares for me, don't you see? You think me a -scoundrel--don't you see what a chance it is? What can I come to as I -am? With her--she'll get on, she has money--I shall rise, I shall be a -manager, I shall get to London in time. Mary!" - -"You're going to ... marry Miss Westland?" - -"I must," he said. - -For the veriest second it was as if she struggled to understand. Then -she threw out her hands dizzily, crying out. - -"That is what your love was, then--a lie, a shameful lie?" - -"It wasn't; no, Mary, it was real! I cared for you--I did; the thing is -forced on me!" - -"'Cared'? when you use your liberty like this? You 'cared'? And I -pitied you--you wrung the soul of me with your despair--I forgave you -keeping back the tale so long. I came to you to be your wife, and you -went down on your knees and vowed you hadn't had the courage to tell -me before, but your wife was living--some awful woman you couldn't -divorce. I gave myself to you, I became the thing you can turn out of -doors, all because I loved you, all because I believed in your love -for me." She caught at her throat. "You deserved it, didn't you?--you -justify it now so nobly, the faith that has made me a ----" - -"Mary!" - -"Oh, I can say it!" she burst forth hysterically. "I _am_, you know; -you have made me one--you and your 'love'! Why shouldn't I say it?" - -"I told you the truth; if I had been free at that time----" - -"When did you hear the news of the death? Answer me--it wasn't -to-night?" - -"What's the difference," he muttered, "when I heard?" - -"Oh!" she moaned, "go away from me, don't come near me! You coward!" - -She sank on to the edge of the sofa, rocking herself to and fro. The -man roamed aimlessly around. Once or twice he glanced across at her, -but she paid no heed. His pipe was on the sideboard; he filled it -clumsily, and drew at it in nervous pulls. - -He was the first to speak again. - -"I know I seem a hound, I know it all looks very bad; but I don't -suppose there's a man in five hundred who would refuse such an -opportunity, for all that. No, nor one in five thousand, either! You -won't see it in an unprejudiced light, of course; but it seems to -me--yes, it does, and I can't help saying so--that if you were really -as fond of me as you think, if my interests were really dear to you, -you yourself 'd counsel me to leap at the chance, and, what's more, -feel honestly glad that a prospect of success had come in my way.... -You know what it means to me," he went on querulously; "you have been -in the profession--at least, as good as in the profession--three years; -you know that, in the ordinary course of events, I should never get any -higher than I am, never play in London in my life. You know I've gone -as far as I can ever expect to go without influence to back me, that -in ten years' time I should be exactly what I am now, a leading-man -for second-rate tours; and that ten years later I should be playing -heavy fathers, or Lord knows what, still on the road, and done for--the -fire all spent, wasted and worn out in the provinces. That's what it -would be; you've heard me say it again and again; and I should go on -seeing Miss Somebody's son, and Mr. Somebody-else's-daughter, with -their parents' names to get them the engagements, playing prominent -business in London theatres before they've learnt how to walk across -a stage. Miss Westland's a fine-looking girl, and she knows a lot of -Society people in town; and she has money enough to take a theatre -there when she's lost her amateurishness a bit. Right off I shall be -somebody, too--I shall manage her affairs. I'll have a big ad. in _The -Era_ every week: 'For vacant dates apply to Mr. Seaton Carew!' Oh, -Mary, it's such a chance, such a lift! I _am_ fond of you, you know I -am; I care more for your little finger than for that woman's body and -soul. Don't think me callous; it's damnable I've got to behave so--it -takes all the light, all the luck, out of the thing that the way to it -is so hard. I wish you could know what I'm feeling." - -"I think I do know," she said bitterly--"better than you, perhaps. -You're remembering how easily you could have taken the luck if your -prayers to me had failed. And you're angered at me in your heart -because the shame you feel spoils so much of the pleasure now." - -He was humiliated to recognise that this was true. Her words described -a mean nature, and his resentment deepened. - -"When did you tell Miss Westland?" she faltered. - -"Tell her?" - -"What I am. That I'm not----When was it?" - -"This evening. It won't make any awkwardness for you; I mean, she won't -speak of it to any of the others. Nobody will know for----" - -"The whole company may know to-morrow!" she answered, drying her eyes. -"Seeing that I shall be gone, they may as well know to-morrow as later. -Oh, how they will talk, all of them, how they'll talk about me--the -Bowmans, and that boy, too!" - -"You'll be gone to-morrow--what do you say?" - -"Do you suppose----" - -"Mary, there are--I must make some--good heavens! how will you -go?--where? Mary, listen: by-and-by, when something is settled, in--in -a month or more--I want to arrange to send--I couldn't let you want for -money, don't you see!" - -"I would not take a penny from you," she said, "not the value of a -penny, if I were dying. I wouldn't, as Christ hears me! Our life -together is over--I am going away." - -He looked at her aghast. - -"Now," he ejaculated, "at once? In the middle of the night?" - -"Now at once--in the middle of the night." - -"Be reasonable"--he caught her fingers, and held them in miserable -expostulation--"wait till day, at any rate. You're beside yourself, -there's nothing to be gained by it. In the morning, if you _must_----" - -"Oh!" she choked, "did you think I would stop here an hour after this? -Did you--did you think so? You man! Yes, I should be no worse to you -I but to me, the lowness of it! All in a moment the lowness of it! -I've tried to feel that we were married; I always believed it was your -trouble that I had to be what I was. If you had ever heard--as soon -as it was possible, I thought every minute 'd have been a burden to -you till you had made it all real and right. To stop with you now, the -thing I am--despised--on sufferance----" - -She dragged her hand from him and stumbled into the bedroom. There it -was quite dark, and, shaking, she groped about for matches and the -candle. A small bag, painted with the initials of "Mary Brettan," -her own name, was under the toilet-table. She pulled it out, and, -dropping on her knees before the trunk that held her clothes, hastily -pushed in a little of the top-most linen. As she did so, her eyes -fell on the wedding-ring that she wore. Painful at all times, the -sight of it now was horrible. She strangled a sob, and, lifting the -candlestick, peered stupidly around. By the parlour grate she could -hear Tony knocking his pipe out on the bars. Above the washhand-stand -a holland "tidy" contained her brushes; she rolled it up and crammed -the bundle among the linen. In fastening the bag she hesitated, -and looked irresolutely at the trunk. Going over to it, she paused -again--left it; returned to it. She plunged her arm suddenly into its -depths, and thrust the debated thing into her bag as if it burnt her. -Across the photographer's address was written, "Yours ever, Tony." Her -preparations for leaving him had not occupied ten minutes. Then she -went back. - -Her coat and hat lay by the piano where she had cast them when she came -in from the theatre. The man watched her put them on. - -"Here's your ring!" she said. - -The tears were running down her cheeks; she dabbed at them with a -handkerchief as she spoke. The baseness of it all was eating into him. -Though the ardour of his earlier passion was gone and his protestations -of affection had been insults, her loss and her aversion served -to display the growth of a certain attachment to her of which her -possession and her constancy had left him unaware. Twice a plea to -her to remain rose to his lips, and twice his tongue was heavy from -self-interest, and from shame. He followed her instinctively into the -passage; his limbs quaked, and his soul was cowed. She had already -opened the door and set her foot on the step. - -"Mary!" he gasped. - -It was just beginning to get light. Under the faint paling of the sky -the pavements gleamed cold and grey, forlornly visible in the darkness. - -"Mary, don't go!" - -A rush of chill air swept out of the silence, raising the hair from -her brow. The coat fell about her loosely in thick folds. He put -out nervous hands to touch her, and nothing but these folds seemed -assailable; they enveloped and denied her to him. - -"Don't go," he stammered; "stay--forget what I've done!" - -She saw the impulse at its worth, but she was grateful for its -happening. She knew that he would regret it if she listened, knew that -he knew he would regret it. And yet, knowing and disdaining as she did, -the gladfulness and thankfulness were there that he had spoken. - -"I couldn't," she said--her voice was gentler; "there can never be -anything between you and me any more. Good-bye, Tony." - -She walked from him firmly. The receding figure was -distinct--uncertain--merged in gloom. He stood gazing after it till it -was gone---- - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -The town lay around her desolate. Her footsteps smote the -wretchedly-laid street, and echoed on the loneliness. A cold wind blew -in fitful gusts, nipping her cheeks and hands. On the vagueness of -the market-place the gilded statue, with its sheen obscured, loomed -shapeless as she passed. She heard the lumber and creak of a wagon -straining out of sight; the quaver of a cock-crow, then one shriller -and more prolonged; two or three thin screams in quick succession from -a distant train. She knew, rather than decided, that she would go to -London, though there would not be a familiar face to greet her in all -its leagues of houses, not a door among its countless doors to reveal -a friend. She would go there because she was adrift in England and -"England" meant a blur of names equally unpitying, and London, somehow, -seemed the natural place to book to. - -Few persons' ruin leaves them alone at once; the crash generally sees -some friends who prove loyal beneath the shock of the catastrophe and -drop away only afterwards under the wearisomeness of the worries. It is -the situation of few to emerge from the wreck of a home without any -personality dominating their consciousness as the counsellor to whom -they must turn for aid. But it was the situation of Mary Brettan to be -without a soul to turn to in the world; and briefly it had happened -thus. - -Her father had been a country doctor with a large practice among -patients who could not afford to pay. From the standpoint of humanity -his conduct was admirable; regarded from the domestic hearthstone -perhaps it was a little less. The practitioner who neglected the wife -of the Mayor in order to attend a villager, because the villager's -condition was more critical, offered small promise of leaving his child -provided for, and before Mary was sixteen the problems of the rent -and butcher's book were as familiar to her as the surgery itself. The -exemplary doctor and unpractical parent struggled along more or less -placidly by means of the girl's surveillance. Had he survived her, it -is difficult to determine what would have become of him; but, dying -first, he had her protection to the end. She found herself after the -funeral with a crop of bills, some shabby furniture, and the necessity -for earning a living. The furniture and the bills were easy to dispose -of; they represented a sum in division with nothing over. The problem -was, what was she fitted to do? She knew none of those things which -used to be called "accomplishments," and which are to-day the elements -of education. Her French was the French of "Le Petit Precepteur"; in -German she was still bewildered by the article. And, a graver drawback, -since the selling-price of education is an outrage on its cost--she -had not been brought up to any trade. She belonged, in fact, and -circumstances had caused her to discover it, to the ranks of refined -incompetence: the incompetence that will not live by menial labour, -because it is refined; the refinement that cannot support itself by -any brain work, because it is incompetent. It was suggested that she -might possibly enter the hospital of a neighbouring town and try to -qualify for a nurse. She said, "Very well." By-and-by she was told that -she could be admitted to the hospital, and that if she proved herself -capable, that would be the end of her troubles. She said "Very well" -again--and this time, "thank you." - -She had a good constitution, and she saw that if she failed here she -might starve at her leisure before any further efforts were put forth -on her behalf; so she gave satisfaction in her probation, and became at -last a nurse like the others, composed and reliable. When that stage -arrived, she owned to having fainted and suppressed the fact, after an -early experience of the operating-room; her reputation was established, -and it didn't matter now. The surgeon smiled. - -Miss Brettan had been Nurse Brettan several years, when an actor who -had met with an accident was brought into the hospital. The mishap had -cost him his engagement, and he bewailed his fate to everyone who would -listen. The person who heard most was she, since it was she who had -the most to do for him, and she began by feeling sympathetic. He was a -paying patient, or he would have had to limp away much sooner; as it -was, it was many weeks before he was pronounced well enough to leave. -And during those weeks she remembered what in the years of routine she -had forgotten--that she was a woman capable of love. - -One evening she learnt that the man really cared for her; he asked her -to marry him. She stooped, and across the supper-tray, they kissed. -Then she went upstairs, and cried with joy, and there was no happier -woman in or out of any hospital in Christendom. - -He talked to her about himself more than ever after this, suppressing -only the one fact that he lacked the courage to avow. And when at last -he went away their engagement was made public, and it was settled that -she should join him in London as soon as he was able to write for her -to come. - -There were many expressions of good-will heaped upon Nurse Brettan on -the summer morning that she bade the Yaughton Hospital good-bye; a -joint wedding-gift from the other nurses was presented, and everybody -shook her hand and wished her a life of happiness, for she was popular. -Carew met her at Euston. He had written that he had dropped into a good -part, anti that they would shortly be starting together on the tour, -but that in the meanwhile they were to be married in town. It was the -first time she had been to London. He took her to lodgings in Guilford -Street, and here occurred their great scene. - -He confessed that when he was a boy he had made a wild marriage; he had -not set eyes on the woman since he discovered her past, but the law -would not annul his blunder. He was bound to a harlot, and he loved -Mary. Would she forgive his deception and be his wife in everything -except the ceremony that could not be performed? - -It was a very terrible scene indeed. For a long while he believed her -lost to him; she could be brought to give ear to his entreaties only by -force, and he upbraided himself for not having disclosed his position -in the first instance. He had excused his cowardice by calling it -"expedience," but, to do him justice, he did not do justice to himself. -The delay had been due far less to his sense of its expedience than to -the tremors of his cowardice. Now he suffered scarcely less than she. - -Had his plea been based on any but the insuperable obstacle that it -was, it would have failed to a certainty; but his helplessness gave -the sophistry of both full play. He harped on the "grandeur of the -sacrifice" she would be making for him, and the phrase pierced her -misery. He cried to her that it would be a heroism, and she wondered -dully if it really would. She queried if there was indeed a higher duty -than denial--if her virtue could be merely selfishness in disguise. -His insistence on the nobility of consent went very far with her; it -did seem a beautiful thing to let sunshine into her lover's life at -the cost of her own transgression. And then, in the background, burnt -a hot shame at the thought of being questioned and commiserated when -she returned to the hospital with a petition to be reinstalled. The -arguments of both were very stale, and equally they blinked the fact -that the practical use of matrimony is to protect woman against the -innate fickleness of man. He demanded why, from a rational point of -view, the comradeship of two persons should be any more sacred because -a third person in a surplice said it was; and she, with his arms round -her, began to persuade herself that he was a martyr, who had broken his -leg that she might cross his path and give him consolation. Ultimately -he triumphed; and a fortnight later she burst into a tempest of -sobs--in suddenly realising how happy she was. - -He introduced her to everybody as his wife; their "honeymoon" was -spent in the, to her, unfamiliar atmosphere of a theatrical tour. -One of the first places that the company visited was West Hartlepool, -and he and she had lodgings outside the town in a little sea-swept -village--a stretch of sand, and a lane or two, with a sprinkling of -cottages--called Seaton Carew, from which, he told her, he had borrowed -his professional name. She said, "Dear Seaton Carew!" and felt in a -silly minute that she longed to strain the sunny prospect against her -heart. - -In the rawness of dawn a clock struck five, and she stood forsaken in -the streets. - -The myriad clocks of Leicester took up the burden, and the air was -beaten with their din. The way to the station appeared endless; yards -were preternaturally lengthened; and ever pressing on, yet ever with -a lonely vista to be covered, the walk began to be charged with the -oppression of a nightmare, in which she pursued some illimitable road, -seeking a destination that had vanished. - -At last the building loomed before her, ponderously still, and she -passed in over the cob-stones. There were no indications of life -about the place; the booking-office was fast shut, and between the -dimly-burning lamps, the empty track of rails lay blue. For all she -knew to the contrary, she would have to wait some hours. - -By-and-by, however, a sleepy-eyed porter lounged into sight, and she -learnt that there would be a train in a few minutes. Shortly after -his advent she was able to procure a ticket--a third-class ticket, -which diminished the little sum in her possession by eight shillings -and a halfpenny; and returning to the custody of her bag, she waited -miserably till the line of carriages thundered into view. - -It was a wretched journey--a ghastly horror of a journey--but it did -not seem particularly long; with nothing to look forward to, she had no -cause to be impatient. Intermittently she dozed, waking with a start as -the train jerked to a standstill and the name of a station was bawled. -When St. Pancras was reached, her limbs were cramped as she descended -among the groups of dreary-faced passengers, and the load on her mind -lay like a physical weight. She had not washed since the previous -evening, and she made her way to the waiting-room, where a dejected -attendant charged her twopence. Then, having paid twopence more to -leave the bag behind her, she went out to search for a room. - -A coffee-bar, with a quantity of stale pastry heaped in the window, -reminded her that she needed breakfast. A man with blue shirt-sleeves -rolled over red arms brought her tea and bread-and-butter at a sloppy -table. The repast, if not enjoyable, served to refresh her and was -worth the fourpence that she could very ill afford. Some of the -faintness passed; when she stood in the fresh air again her head was -clearer; the vagueness with which she had thought and spoken was gone. - -It was not quite five minutes to eight; she wished she had rested -in the waiting-room. To be seeking a lodging at five minutes to -eight would look strange. Still, she could not reconcile herself to -going back; and she was eager, besides, to find a home as quickly as -possible, yearning to be alone with a door shut and a pillow. - -She turned down Judd Street, forlornly scanning the intersecting -squalor. The tenements around her were not attractive. On the -parlour-floor, limp chintz curtains hid the interiors, but the steps -and the areas, and here and there a frouzy head and arm protruding -for a milkcan, were strong in suggestion of slatternly discomfort. In -Brunswick Square the aspect was more cheerful, but the rooms here were -obviously above her means. She walked along, and came unexpectedly -into Guilford Street, almost opposite the house where she had given -herself to Tony. The sudden sight of it was not the shock that she -would have imagined it would prove; indeed, she was sensible of a dull -sort of wonder at the absence of sensation. But for the veranda and -confirmatory number, the outside would have borne no significance to -her; yet it had been in that house----What a landmark in her life's -history was represented by that house!' What emotions had flooded her -soul behind the stolid frontage that she had nearly passed without -recognising it; how she had wept and suffered, and prayed and joyed -within the walls that would have borne no significance to her but for -a veranda and the number that proclaimed it was so! The thoughts were -deliberate; the past was not flashed back at her, she retraced it half -tenderly in the midst of her trouble. None the less, the idea of taking -up her quarters on the spot was eminently repugnant, and she turned -several corners before she permitted herself to ring a bell. - -Her summons was answered by a flurried servant-girl, who on hearing -that she wanted a lodging, became helplessly incoherent--as is the -manner of servant-girls where lodgings are let--and fled to the -basement, calling "missis." - -Mary contemplated the hat-stand until the "missis" advanced towards -her along the passage. There was a flavour of abandoned breakfast -about missis, an air of interruption; and when she perceived that the -stranger on the threshold was a young woman, and a charming woman, -and a woman by herself, the air of interruption that she had been -struggling to conceal all the way up the kitchen-stairs began to be -coupled with an expression of defensive virtue. - -"I am looking for a room," said Mary. - -"Yes," said the householder, eyeing her askance. - -"You have one to let, I think, by the card?" - -"Yes, there's a room." - -She made no movement to show it, however; she stood on the mat nursing -her elbows. - -"Can you let me see it--if it isn't inconvenient so early?" - -"Oh, I suppose so," said the landlady. She preceded her to the -top-floor, but with no alacrity. "This is it," she said. - -It was a back attic of the regulation pattern: brown drugget, yellow -chairs, and a bed of parti-coloured clothing. Nevertheless, it seemed -to be clean, and Mary was prepared to take anything. - -"What is the rent?" she asked wearily. - -"Did you say your husband would be joining you?" - -"My husband? No, I'm a widow." - -There was a glance shot at her hand. She wore gloves, but saw that it -would have been wiser to have told the truth and said "I am unmarried." - -"As a single room, the rent is seven shillings. You'd be able to give -me references, of course?" - -"I'm afraid I couldn't do that," she said, not a little surprised. -"I've only just arrived; my luggage is at the station." - -"What do you work at?" - -"Really!" she exclaimed; "I am looking for a room. You want references; -well, I will pay you in advance!" - -"I don't take single ladies," answered the woman bluntly. - -Mary looked at her bewildered; she thought that she had not made -herself understood. - -"I should be quite willing to pay in advance," she repeated. "I'm a -stranger in London, so I can't refer you to anyone here; but I will pay -for the first week now, if you like?" - -"I don't take ladies; I must ask you to look somewhere else, please." - -They went down in silence. Virtue turned the handle with its backbone -stiff, and Mary passed out, giving a quiet "Good-day." Her blood -was tingling under the inexplicable insolence of the treatment she -had received, and she had yet to learn that it is possible for an -unaccompanied woman to seek a lodging until she falls exhausted on -the pavement; the unaccompanied woman being to the London landlady an -improper person--inadmissible not because she is improper, but because -her impropriety is presumably not monopolised. - -During the next hour, repulse followed repulse. Sometimes, with the -curt assertion that they didn't take ladies, the door was shut in her -face; frequently she was conducted to a room, only to be cross-examined -and refused, as with her first venture, just when she was at the point -of engaging it. Sometimes a room was displayed indifferently, and there -were no questions put at all, but in these cases the terms asked were -so exorbitant that she came out astounded, not realising the nature of -the house. - -It occurred to her to try the places where she would be known--not -the one in Guilford Street, the associations of that would be -unendurable--but some of the apartments that Carew and she had occupied -when they had come to town between the tours. None of these addresses -was in the neighbourhood, however, and the notion was too distasteful -to be adopted save on impulse. - -She set her teeth, and pulled bell after bell. Along Southampton Row, -through Cosmo Place into Queen Square, she wandered, while the day -grew brighter and brighter; down Devonshire Street into Theobald's -Road, past the Holborn Town Hall. Amid these reiterated demands for -references a sudden terror seized her; she remembered the need for the -certificate that she had had when she quitted the hospital. She had -never thought about it since. It might be lying crushed in a corner -of the trunk that she had left behind in Leicester; it might long ago -have got destroyed--she did not know. It had never occurred to her -that the resumption of her former calling would one day present itself -as her natural resource. In ordinary circumstances the loss would have -been a trifle; but she felt it an impossibility to refer directly to -the Matron, because to do so would lead to the exposure of what had -happened in the interval. The absence of a certificate therefore meant -the absence of all testimony to her being a qualified nurse. As the -helplessness of her plight rushed in upon her she trembled. How long -must she not expect to wait for employment when she had nothing to -speak for her? To go back to nursing would be more difficult than to -earn a living in a capacity that she had never essayed. And she could -wait so short a time for anything, so horribly short a time! She would -starve if she did not find something soon! - -Busses jogged by her laden with sober-faced men and women, bound for -the vocations that sustained the white elephant of life. Shops already -gave evidence of trade, and children with uncovered heads sped along -the curb with a "ha'porth o' milk," or mysterious breakfasts folded -in scraps of newspaper. Each atom of the awakening bustle passed her -engrossed by its own existence, operated by its separate interests, -revolving in its individual world. London looked to her a city without -mercy or impulse, populated to brimfulness, and flowing over. Every -chink and crevice seemed stocked with its appointed denizens, and the -hope of finding bread here which nobody's hand was clutching appeared -presumption. - -Eleven o'clock had struck--that is to say, she had been walking for -more than three hours--when she saw a card with "Furnished Room to -Let" suspended from a blind, and her efforts to gain shelter succeeded -at last. It was an unpretentious little house, in an unpretentious -turning; and a sign on the door intimated that it was the residence of -"J. Shuttleworth, mason." - -A hard-featured woman was evoked by the dispirited knock. Seeing a -would-be lodger who was dressed like a lady, she added eighteenpence to -the rent that she usually asked. She asked five shillings a week, and -the applicant agreed to it and was grateful. - -"About your meals, miss?" said Mrs. Shuttleworth, when Mary had sunk on -the upright wooden chair at the head of the truckle-bed-stead. "Dinners -I can't do for yer, but as far as breakfas', and a cup o' tea in the -evening goes, you can 'ave a bit of something brought up when we 'as -our own. I suppose that'll suit you, won't it?" - -"A cup of tea and some bread-and-butter," answered Mary, "in the -morning and afternoon, if you can manage it, will do very nicely, thank -you." She roused herself to the exigencies of the occasion. "How much -will that be?" - -"Oh, well, we shan't break yer! You'll pay the first week now?" - -The rent was forthcoming, and one more superfluity in the jostle of -existence profited by the misfortunes of another: going back to the -wash-tub cheerful. - -Upstairs the lodger remained motionless; she was so tired that it was -a luxury to sit still, and for awhile she was more alive to the bodily -relief than the mental burden. It was afternoon by the time she faced -the necessity for returning to St. Pancras for her bag; and, pushing up -the rickety window to admit some air during her absence, she proceeded -to the basement, to ascertain the nearest route. - -She learnt that she was much nearer to the station than she had -supposed, and in a little while she had her property in her possession -again. Her head felt oddly light, and she was puzzled by the dizziness -until she remembered she had had nothing to eat since eight o'clock. -The thought of food was sickening, though; and it was not till five -o'clock, when the tea was furnished, with a hunch of bread, and a slap -of butter in the middle of a plate, that she attempted to break her -fast. - -And now ensued a length of dreary hours, an awful purposeless evening, -of which every minute was weighted with despair. Fortunately the -weather was not very cold, so the absence of a fire was less a hardship -than a lack of company; but the fatigue, which had been acting as a -partial opiate to her trouble, gradually passed, and her brain ached -with the torture of reflection. With nothing to do but think, she sat -in the upright chair, staring at the empty grate and picturing Tony -during the familiar waits at the theatre. An evil-smelling lamp burned -despondently on the table; outside, the street was discordant with the -cries of children. To realise that it was only this morning that the -blow had fallen upon her was impossible; an interval of several days -appeared to roll between the poky attic and her farewell; the calamity -seemed already old. "Oh, Tony!" she murmured. She got out his likeness. -"Yours ever"--the mockery of it! She did not hate him, she did not -even tell herself that she did; she contemplated the faded photograph -quite gently, and held it before her a long time. It had been taken -in Manchester, and she recalled the afternoon that it was done. All -sorts of trivialities in connection with it recurred to her. He was -wearing a lawn tie, and she remembered that it had been the last clean -one and had got mislaid. Their search for it, and comic desperation at -its loss, all came back to her quite clearly. "Oh, Tony!" Her fancies -projected themselves into his future, and she saw him in a score of -different scenes, but always famous, and in his greatness with the -memory of her flitting across his mind. Then she wondered what she -would have done if she had borne him a child--whether the child would -have been in the garret with her. But no, if he had been a father this -wouldn't have happened! he was always fond of children; to have given -him a child of his own would have kept, his love for her aglow. - -Presently a diversion was effected by the home-coming of Mr. Shuttle -worthy evidently drunk, and abusing his wife with disjointed violence. -Next the woman's voice arose shrieking recrimination, the babel -subsiding amid staccato passages, alternately gruff and shrill. - -The disturbance tended to obtrude the practical side of her dilemma, -and the importance of obtaining work of some sort speedily, no matter -what sort, appalled her. The day was Wednesday, and on the Wednesday -following, unless she was to go forth homeless, there would be the -lodging to pay for again, and the breakfasts and teas supplied in the -meanwhile. She would have to spend money outside as well; she had to -dine, however poorly, and there were postage-stamps, and perhaps train -fares, to be considered: some of the advertisers to whom she applied -might live beyond walking distance. Altogether, she certainly required -a pound. And she had towards it--with a sinking of her heart she -emptied her purse to be sure--exactly two and ninepence. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -Next morning her efforts were begun. It rained, and she began to -understand what it means to the unemployed to tramp a city where two -days of every four are wet. - -To buy papers, and examine them at home was out of the question; but -she was aware that there were news-rooms where for a penny she could -see them all. Directed to such an institution by a speckled boy, -conspicuous for his hat and ears, she found several dejected-looking -women turning over a heap of periodicals at a table. The "dailies" were -spread on stands against the walls, and at a smaller table under the -window lay a number of slips, with pens and ink, for the convenience of -customers wishing to make memoranda of the vacant situations. She went -first to The Times, because it was on the stand nearest to her, and -proceeded from one paper to another until she had made a tour of the -lot. - -The "Wanted" columns were of the customary order; the needy -endeavouring to gull the necessitous with speqious phrases, and the -well-established prepared to sweat them without any disguise at all. A -drapery house had a vacancy for a young woman "to dress fancy windows, -and able to trim hats, etc., when desired"--salary fifteen pounds. -There was a person seeking a general servant willing to pay twenty -pounds a year for the privilege of doing the work. This advertisement -was headed "Home offered to a Lady," and a few seconds were required -to grasp the stupendous impudence of it. A side-street stationer, in -want of a sales-woman, advertised for an "Apprentice at a moderate -premium"; and the usual percentage of City firms dangled the decaying -bait of "An opportunity to learn the trade." Her knowledge of the glut -of experienced actresses enabled her to smile at the bogus theatrical -managers who had "immediate salaried engagements waiting for amateurs -of good appearance"; but some of the "home employment" swindles took -her in, and, discovering nothing better, she jotted these addresses -down. - -From the news-room she went to a dairy, and dined on a glass of milk -and a bun. And after an inevitable outlay on stamps and stationery, she -returned to the lodging a shilling poorer than she had gone out. - -Unacquainted with the wiles of the impostors she was answering, the -thought of her applications sustained her somewhat; it seemed to her -that out of the several openings one at least should be practicable. -She did not fail to make the calculation that most novices make in such -circumstances; she reduced the promised earnings by half, and believed -that she was viewing the prospect in a sober light which, if mistaken -at all, erred on the side of pessimism. - -The envelopes that she had enclosed came back to her late the following -afternoon; and the circulars varied mainly in colour and in the prices -of the materials that they offered for sale. In all particulars -essential to prove them frauds to everybody excepting the piteous fools -who must exist, to explain the advertisements' longevity, they were the -same. - -With the extinction of the hope, the darkness of her outlook was -intensified, and henceforth she eschewed the offers of "liberal -incomes" and confined her attention to the illiberal wages. Day after -day she resorted to the news-room--one stray more whom the proprietor -saw regularly--resolved not to relinquish her access to the papers -while a coin remained to her to pay for admission. She wrote many -letters, and spent her evenings vainly listening for the postman's -knock. She attributed her repeated failures to there being no mention -of references in her replies; they were so concise and nicely written -that she felt sure they could not have failed from any other reason. -Probably her nicely-written notes were never read: merely tossed with -scores of others, all unopened, into the wastepaper basket, after a -selection had been made from the top thirty. This is the fate of most -of the nicely-written notes that go in reply to advertisements in the -newspapers; only, the people who compose them and post them with little -prayers, fortunately do not suspect it. If they suspected it, they -would lose the twenty-four hours' comfort of hugging a false hope to -their souls; and an oasis of hope may be a desirable thing at the cost -of a postage-stamp. - -One evening an answer did come, and an answer in connection with a -really beautiful "Wanted." When it was handed to her, she hardly dared -to hope that it related to that particular situation at all. The -advertisement had run: - -"Secretary required by a Literary Lady. Must be sociable, and have no -objection to travel on the Continent. Apply in own handwriting to C.B., -care of Messrs. Furnival," etc. - -The signature, however, was not "C.B.'s." The communication was from -Messrs. Furnival. They wrote that they judged by Miss Brettan's -application that she would suit their client; and that on receipt of -a half-crown--their usual booking fee--they would forward the lady's -address. - -If she had had a half-crown to send, she might have sent it; as it was, -instead of remitting to Messrs. Furnival's office, she called there. - -It proved to be a very small and very dark back room on the -ground-floor, and Messrs. Furnival were represented by a stout -gentleman of shabby apparel and mellifluous manner. Mary began -by saying that she was the applicant who had received his letter -about "C.B.'s" advertisement; but as this announcement did not seem -sufficiently definite to enable the stout gentleman to converse on the -subject with fluency and freedom, she added that "C.B." was a literary -lady who stood in need of a secretary. - -On this he became very vivacious indeed. He told her that her chance -of securing the post was an excellent one. No, it was not a certainty, -as she appeared to have understood, but he did not think she had much -occasion for misgiving; her speed in shorthand was in excess of the -rate for which their client had stipulated. - -She said: "Why, I especially stated that if she wanted someone who knew -shorthand, I should be no use!" - -He said: "So you did! I meant to say, your type-writing was your -recommendation." - -"Mr. Furnival," she exclaimed, "I wrote, 'I do not know shorthand, and -I am not a typist'! You must be confusing me with someone else. Perhaps -you have answered another application as well?" - -Perhaps he had. - -"You're my first experience of an applicant for a secretaryship who -hasn't learnt shorthand or type-writing," he said in an injured tone. -"Of course, if you don't know either, you'd be no good at all--not a -bit." - -"Then," she said, "why did you ask me to send you half a crown?" - -Before he could spare time to enlighten her as to his reason for this -line of action, they were interrupted by an urchin who deposited an -armful of letters on the table. The gentleman seemed pleased to see -them, and she came away wondering how many of the women who Messrs. -Furnival "judged would suit their client" enclosed postal-orders to pay -the "fee." - -Quite ineffectually she visited some legitimate agencies, and once -she walked to Battersea in time to learn that the berth that was the -object of her journey had just been filled. Even when one walks to -Battersea, and dines for twopence, however, the staying-powers of -two-and-ninepence are very limited; and the dawning of the dreaded date -for the bill found her capital exhausted. - -Among her scanty possessions, the only article that she could suggest -converting into money was a silver watch that she wore attached to a -guard. It had belonged to her as a girl; she had worn it as a nurse; -it had travelled with her on tour during her life with Carew. What a -pawnbroker would lend her on it she did not know, but she supposed -a sovereign. Had she been better off, she would have supposed two -sovereigns, for she was as ignorant of its value as of the method -of pledging it; but being destitute, a pound looked to her a very -substantial amount. She made her way heavily into the street. She felt -that her errand was printed on her face, and when she reached and -paused beneath the sign of the three balls, all the passers-by seemed -to be watching her. - -The window offered a pretext for hesitation. She stood inspecting the -collection behind the glass; perhaps anyone who saw her go in might -imagine it was with the intention of buying something! She was nerving -herself to the necessary pitch when, giving a final glance over her -shoulder, she saw a bystander looking at her steadily. Her courage took -flight, and she sauntered on, deciding to explore for a shop in a more -secluded position. - -Though she was ashamed of her retreat, the respite was a relief to her. -It was not until she came to three more balls that she perceived that -the longer she delayed, the worse she would feel. She went hurriedly -in. There was a row of narrow doors extending down a passage, and, -pulling one open, she found the tiny compartment occupied by a woman -and a bundle. Starting back, she adventured the next partition, which -proved to be vacant; and standing away from the counter, lest her -profile should be detected by her neighbour in distress, she waited -for someone to come to her. - -Nobody taking any notice, she rapped to attract attention. A young man -lounged along, and she put the watch down. - -"How much?" he said. - -"A pound." - -He caught it up and withdrew, conveying the impression that he thought -very little of it. She thought very little of it herself directly it -was in his hand. His hand was a masterpiece of expression, whereas his -voice never wavered from two notes. - -"Ten shillings," he said, reappearing. - -"Ten shillings is very little," she murmured. "Surely it's worth more -than that?" - -"Going to take it?" - -He slid the watch across to her. - -"Thank you," she said; "yes." - -A doubt whether it would be sufficient crept over her the instant she -had agreed, and she wished she had declined the offer. To call him -back, however, was beyond her; and when he returned it was with the -ticket. - -"Name and address?" - -New to the requirements of a pawnbroker, she stammered the true one, -convinced that the woman with the bundle would overhear and remember. -Even then she was dismayed to find the transaction wasn't concluded; -he asked her for a halfpenny, and, with the blood in her face, she -signified that she had no change. At last though, she was free to -depart, with a handful of silver and coppers; and guiltily transferring -the money to her purse when the shop was well behind, she reverted to -routine. - -It was striking five when she mounted to the attic, and she saw that -Mrs. Shuttleworth, with the punctuality peculiar to cheap landladies -when the lodger is out, had already brought up the tray. On the plate -was her bill; she snatched at it anxiously, and was relieved to find it -ran thus: - - s. d. - Bred 1 2 - Butter.... 10 - Milk 3 1/2 - Tea 6 - Oil 2 - Shuger.... 2 1/2 - To room til next Wensday 5 0 - - 8 2 - -So far, then, she had been equal to emergencies, and another week's -shelter was assured. The garret began to assume almost an air of -comfort, refined by her terror of losing it. When she reflected that -the week divided her from actual starvation, she cried that she must -find something to do--she must! Then she realised that she could -find it no more easily because it was a case of "must" than if it -had been simply expedient, and the futility of the feminine "must," -when she was already doing all she could do, served to accentuate her -helplessness. She prayed passionately, without being able to feel much -confidence in the efficacy of prayer, and told herself that she did -not deserve that God should listen to her, because she was guilty, and -sinful, and bad. She did not seek consolation in repeating that it was -always darkest before dawn, nor strive to fortify herself with any -other of the aphorisms belonging to the vocabulary of sorrow for other -people. The position being her own, she looked it straight in the eyes, -and admitted that the chances were in favour of her being very shortly -without a bed to lie on. - -Each night she came a few pence nearer to the end; each night now she -sat staring from the window, imagining the sensations of wandering -homeless. And at last the day broke--a sunless and chilly day--when she -rose and went out possessed of one penny, without any means of adding -to it. This penny might be reserved to diminish the hunger that would -seize her presently, or she might give herself a final chance among the -newspapers. Having breakfasted, she decided on the final chance. - -As she turned the pages her hands trembled, and for a second the -paragraphs swam together. The next instant, standing out clearly from -the sea of print, she saw an advertisement like the smile of a friend: - -"Useful Companion wanted to elderly lady; one with some experience of -invalids preferred. Apply personally, between 3 and 5, 'Trebartha,' N. -Finchley." - -If it had been framed for her, it could hardly have suited her better. -The wish for personal application was itself an advantage, for in -conversation, she felt, the obstacle of having no references could be -surmounted with far less trouble than by letter. A string of frank -allusions to the difficulty, a dozen easy phrases, leapt into her -mind, so that, in fancy, the interview was already in progress, and -terminating with pleasant words in the haven of engagement. - -She searched no further, and it was not till she was leaving that she -remembered the miles that she would have to walk. To start so early, -however, would be useless, so on second thoughts she determined to pass -the morning where she was. - -She was surprised to discover that she was not singular in this -decision, and she wondered if all; the clients that stayed so long had -anywhere else to go. Many of them never turned a leaf, but sat at the -table dreamily eyeing a journal; as if they had forgotten that it was -there. She; watched the people coming in, noting the unanimity with -which they made for the advertisement-sheets first, and speculating as -to the nature of the work they sought. - -There was a woman garbed in black, downcast and precise; she was a -governess, manifestly. Once, when she had been young, and insolent with -the courage of youth, she would have mocked a portrait looking as she -looked now; there was little enough mockery left in her this morning. -She quitted the "dailies" unrewarded, and proceeded to the table, her -thin-lipped mouth set a trifle harder than before. A girl with magenta -feathers in her hat bounced in, tracing her way down the columns -with a heavy fore-finger, and departing nonchalantly with a blotted -list. This was a domestic servant, Mary understood. A shabby man of -sinister expression covered an area of possibilities: a broken-down -tutor perhaps, a professional man gone to the bad. He looked like -Mephistopheles in the prompter's clothes, she thought, contemplating -him with languid curiosity. The reflections flitted across the central -idea while she sat nervously waiting for the hours to pass, and when -she considered it was time at last, she asked the newsagent in which -direction Finchley lay. She omitted to mention that she had to walk -there, but she obtained sufficient information about a tram-route to -guide her up to Hampstead Heath, where of course she could inquire -again. - -The sun gave no promise of shining, and a bleak wind, tossing the -rubbish of the gutters into little whirlpools, made pedestrianism -exceedingly unpleasant. She was dismayed to find on how long a journey -she was bound; she arrived at the tram-terminus already tired, and then -learnt that she was not half-way to Finchley. It was nothing but a name -to her, and steadily trudging along a road that extended itself before -her eternally she began to fear that she would never reach her goal at -all. To add to the discomfort, it was snowing slightly now, and she -grew less sanguine with every hundred yards. The vision of the smiling -lady, the buoyancy of her own glib sentences, faded from her, and the -thought of the utter abjectness that would come of refusal made the -salvation of acceptance appear much too wonderful to occur. - -When she reached it, "Trebartha" proved to be a stunted villa in red -brick. It was one of a row, each of the other stunted villas being -similarly endowed with a name befitting, a domain; and suspense -catching discouragement from the most extraneous details, Mary's heart -sank as the housemaid disclosed the badly-lighted passage. - -She was ushered into the sitting-room; and the woman who entered -presently had been suggested by it. She seemed the natural complement -of the haggard prints, of the four cumbersome chairs in a line against -the wall, of the family Bible on the crochet tablecover. She wore silk, -dark and short--plain, except for three narrow bands of velvet at the -hem. She wore a gold watch-chain hanging round her neck, garlanded -over her portly bosom. She said she was the invalid lady's married -daughter, and her tone implied a consciousness of that higher merit -which the woman whose father has left her comfortably off feels over -the woman whose father hasn't. - -"You've called about my mother's advertisement for a companion?" she -said. - -"Yes; I've had a long experience of nursing. I think I should be able -to do all you require." - -"Have you ever lived as companion?" - -"No," said Mary, "I have never done that, but--but I think I'm -companionable; I don't think I'm difficult to get on with." - -"What was your--won't you sit down?--what was your last place?" - -Mary moistened her lips. - -"I am," she said, "rather awkwardly situated. I may as well tell you -at once that I am a stranger here, and--do you know--I find that's -a great bar in the way of my getting employment? Not being known, -I've, of course, no friends I can refer people to, and--well, people -always seem to think the fact of being a stranger in a city is rather -a discreditable thing. I have found that! They do." She looked for a -gleam of response in the stolid countenance, but it was as void of -expression as the furniture. "As I say, I have had a lengthy experience -of nursing; I--it sounds conceited--but I should be exceedingly -useful. It's just the thing I am fitted for." - -The married daughter asked: "You have been a nurse, you say? But not -here?" - -"Not here," said Mary, "no. Of course, that doesn't detract from----" - -"Oh, quite so. We've had several young women here already to-day. Do -I understand you to mean there is nobody at all you can give as a -reference?" - -"Yes, that unfortunately is so. I do hope you don't consider it an -insuperable difficulty? You know you take servants without 'characters' -sometimes when----" - -"I _never_ take a servant without a 'character.' I have never done such -a thing in my life." - -"I did not mean you personally," said Mary, with hasty deprecation; "I -was speaking----" - -"I'm most particular on the point; my mother is most particular, too." - -"Generally speaking. I meant people do take servants without -'characters' occasionally when they are hard pushed." - -"Our own servants are only too wishful to remain with us. My mother has -had her present cook eight years, and the last one was only induced -to leave because a young man--a young man in quite a fair way of -business--made her an offer of marriage. She had been here even longer -than eight years--twelve I think it was, or thirteen. It was believed -at the time that what first attracted the young man's attention to her -was the many years that my mother had retained her in our household. -I'm sure there are no circumstances under which my mother 'd consent to -receive a young person who could give no proof of her trustworthiness -and good conduct." - -"Do you mean that you can't engage me? It--it's a matter of life and -death to me," exclaimed Mary; "pray let me see the lady!" - -"Your manner," said the married daughter, "is strange. Quite -authoritative for your position!" She rose. "You'll find it helpful to -be less haughty when you speak, less opinionated; your manner is very -much against you. Oh, my word! no violence, if you please, miss!" - -"Violence?" gasped Mary; "I'm not violent. It was my last hope, that's -all, and it's over. I wish you good-day." - -So much had happened in a few minutes--inside and out--that the roads -were whitening rapidly and the flutter of snow had developed into a -steady fall. At first she was scarcely sensible of it; the anger in -her heart kept the cold out, and carried her along in a semi-rush. -Words broke from her breathlessly. She felt that she had fallen from -a high estate; that the independence of her life with Carew had been -a period of dignity and power; that erstwhile she could have awed the -dull-witted philistine who had humbled her. "The hateful woman! Oh, -the wretch! To have to sue to a creature like that!" Well, she would -starve now, she supposed, her excitement spending itself. She would die -of starvation, like characters in fiction, or the people one read of -in the newspapers; the newspapers called it "exposure," but it was the -same thing; "exposure" sounded less offensive to the other people who -read about it, that was all. The force of education is so strong that, -much as she insisted on such a death, and close as she had approached -to it, she was unable to realise its happening to her. She told herself -that it must; the world was of a sudden horribly wide and empty; but -for Mary Brettan actually to die like that had an air of exaggeration -about it still. Pushing forward, she pondered on it, and the fact came -close; the sensation of the world's widening about her grew stronger. -She felt alone in the midst of illimitable space. There seemed nothing -around her, nothing tangible, nothing to catch at. O God! how tired she -was! she couldn't go on much further. - -The snow whirled against her in gusts, clinging to her hair, and -filling her eyes and nostrils. Exhaustion was overpowering her. And -still how many miles? Each of the benches that she passed was a fresh -temptation; and at last she dropped on one, too tired to stand, wet and -shivering, and shielding her face from the storm. - -She dropped on it like any tramp or stray. Having held out to the -uttermost, she did not know whether she would ever get up again--did -not think about it, and did not care. Her limbs ached for relief, and -she seized it on the high-road because relief on the high-road was the -only kind attainable. - -And it was while she cowered there that another figure appeared in the -twilight, the figure of a tall old man carrying a black bag. He came -smartly down a footpath, gazing to right and left as for something that -should be waiting for him. Not seeing it, he whistled, and Mary looked -up. A trap was backed from the corner of the road. Then the man with -the bag stared at her, and after an instant of hesitation, he spoke. - -"It's a dirty nicht," he said, "for ye tae be sittin' there. I'm -thinking ye're no' weel?" - -"Not very," she said. - -He inspected her undecidedly. - -"An' ye'll tak' your death o' cold if ye dinna get up, it's verra -certain. Hoots! ye're shakin' wi' it noo! Bide a wee, an' I'll put some -warmth intae ye, young leddy." - -Without any more ado, he deposited the bag at her side and opened it. -And, astonishing to relate, the black bag was fitted with a number of -little bottles, one of which he extracted, with a glass. - -"Is it medicine?" she asked wonderingly. - -"Medicine?" he echoed; "nae, it's nae medicine; it's 'Four Diamonds -S.O.P.' I'm gi'en ye. It's a braw sample o' Pilcher's S.O.P., ma -lassie; nothin' finer in the trade, on the honour o' Macpheerson! Noo -ye drink that doon; it's speerit, an' it'll dae ye guid." - -She took his advice, gulping the spirit while he watched her -approvingly. Its strength diffused itself through her in ripples of -heat, raising her courage, and yet, oddly enough, making her want to -cry. - -Mr. Macpherson contemplated the little bottle solemnly, shaking his -head at it with something that sounded like a sigh. - -"An' whaur may ye be goin'?" he queried, replacing the cork. - -"I am going to town," she answered. "I was walking home, only the -storm----" - -"Tae toon? Will ye no' ha'e a lift along o' me an' the lad? I'll drive -ye intae toon." - -"Have you to go there?" she asked, over-joyed. - -"There'd be th' de'il tae pay if I stayed awa'. Ay, I ha'e tae gang -there, and as fast as the mare can trot. Will ye let me help ye in?" - -"Yes," she said; "thank you very much." - -He hoisted her up. And she and her strange companion, accompanied by an -urchin who never uttered a word, made a brisk start. - -"I am so much obliged to you," she murmured, rejoicing; "you don't -know!" - -"There's nae call for ony obleegation; it's verra welcome ye are. I'm -thinkin' the sample did ye a lot o' guid, eh?" - -"It did indeed; it has made me feel a different woman." - -"Eh, but it's a gran' speerit!" said the old gentleman with reviving -ardour. "There's nae need to speak for it, an' that's a fact; your ain -tongue sings its perfection to ye as ye sup it doon. Ye may get ither -houses to serve ye cheaper, I'm no' denyin' that; but tae them that can -place the rale article there's nae house like Pilcher's. And Pilcher's -best canna be beaten in the trade. I ha'e nae interest tae lie tae -ye, ye ken; nor could I tak' ye in wi' the wines and speerits had I -the mind. There's the advantage wi' the wines and speerits; ye canna -deceive! Ye ha'e the sample, an' ye ha'e the figure--will I book the -order or will I no'?" - -"It's your business then, Mr.----?" - -"Will ye no' tak' my card?" he said, producing a large one; "there, put -it awa'. Should ye ever be in need, ma lassie, a line to Macpheerson, -care o' the firm----" - -"How kind of you!" she exclaimed. - -"No' a bit," he said; "ye never can tell what may happen, and whether -it's for yoursel' ye need it, or a recommendation, ye'll ken ye're -buying at the wholesale price." - -She glanced at him with surprise, and looked away again. And they -drove for several minutes in silence. - -"Maybe ye ken some family whaur I'd be likely tae book an order noo?" -remarked Mr. Macpherson incidentally. "Sherry? dae ye no' ken o' a -family requirin' sherry? I can dae them sherry at a figure that'll -tak' th' breath frae them. Ye canna suspect the profit--th' weecked -ineequitous profit--that sherry's retailed at; wi' three quotations tae -the brand often eno', an' a made-up wine at that! Noo, I could supply -your frien's wi' 'Crossbones'--the finest in the trade, on the honour -of Macpheerson--if ye happen tae ha'e ony who----" - -"I don't," she said, "happen to have any." - -"There's the family whaur ye're workin', we'll say; a large family -maybe, wi' a cellar. For a large family tae be supplied at the -wholesale figure----" - -"I am sorry, but I don't work." - -"Ye don't work, an' ye ha'e no frien's?" He peered at her curiously. -"Then, ma dear young leddy, ye'll no' think me impertinent if I ax ye -how th' de'il ye live?" - -The wild idea shot into her brain that perhaps he might be able to put -her into the way of something--somewhere--somehow! - -"I'm a stranger in London," she answered, "looking for -employment--quite alone." - -"Eh," said Mr. Macpherson, "that's bad, that's verra bad!" - -He whipped up the horse, and after the momentary comment lapsed into -reverie. She called herself a fool for her pains, and stared dumbly -across the melancholy fields. - -"Whauraboots are ye stayin'?" he demanded, after they had passed the -Swiss Cottage. - -She told him. "Please don't let me take you out of your way," she added. - -"Ye're no' verra far frae ma ain house," he declared. "Ye had best come -in an' warm before ye gang on hame. Ye are in nae hurry, I suppose?" - -"No, but----" - -"Oh, the mistress will nae mind it. Ye just come in wi' me!" - -Their conversation progressed by fits and starts till his domicile was -reached. Leaving the trap to the care of the boy, who might have been -a mute for any indication he had given to the contrary, Mr. Macpherson -led her into a parlour, where a kettle steamed invitingly on the hob. - -He was greeted by a little woman, evidently the wife referred to; and a -rosy offspring, addressed as Charlotte, brought her progenitor a pair -of slippers. His introduction of Mary to his family circle was brief. - -"'Tis a young leddy," he said, "I gave a lift to. But I dinna ken your -name?" - -"My name is Brettan," she replied. Then, turning to the woman: "Your -husband was kind enough to save me from walking home from Finchley, and -now he has made me come in with him." - -"It was a braw nicht for a walk," opined Macpherson. - -"I'm sure I'm glad to see you, miss," responded the woman in cheery -Cockney. "Come to the fire and dry yourself a bit, do!" - -The initial awkwardness was very slight, for Mary's experiences in -bohemia were serviceable here. The people were well-intentioned, too, -and, meeting with no embarrassment to hamper their heartiness, they -grew speedily at ease. It reminded the guest of some of her arrivals on -tour; of one in particular, when the previous week's company had not -left and she and Tony had traversed half Oldham in search of rooms, -finally sitting down with their preserver to bread-and-cheese in her -kitchen! It was loathsome how Tony kept recurring to her, and always in -episodes when he had been jolly and affectionate! - -"Your husband tells me he is in the wine business," she observed at the -tea-table. - -"He is, miss; and never you marry a man who travels in that line," -returned the woman, "or the best part of your life you won't know for -rights if you're married or not!" - -"He's away a good deal, you mean?" - -"Away? He's just home about two months in the year--a fortnight at the -time, that's what he is! All the rest of it traipsing about from place -to place like a wandering gipsy. Charlotte says time and again, 'Ma, -have I got a pa, or 'aven't I?'--don't yer, Charlotte?" - -"Pa's awful!" said Charlotte, with her mouth full of -bread-and-marmalade. "Never mind, pa, you can't help it!" - -"Eh, it's a sad pursuit!" rejoined her father gloomily. In the glow -of his own fireside Mary perceived with surprise that his enthusiasm -for "his wines and speerits" had vanished. "Awa' frae your wife an' -bairn, pandering tae th' veecious courses that ruin the immortal soul! -Every heart kens its ain bitterness, young leddy; and Providence in its -mysteerious wisdom never meant me for the wine-and-speerit trade." - -"Oh lor," said Charlotte, "ma's done it!" - -"It was na your mither," said Mr. Macpherson; "it's ma ain conscience, -as well ye ken! Dae I no' see the travellers themselves succumb tae th' -cussed sippin' and tastin' frae mornin' till nicht? There was Burbage, -I mind weel, and there was Broun; guid men both--no better men on th' -road! Whaur's Burbage noo--whaur's Broun?" - -"Fly away, Peter, fly away, Paul!" interpolated Charlotte. - -"Gone!" continued Mr. Macpherson, responding to his own inquiry -with morbid unction. "Deed! The Lord be praised, I ha'e the guid -sense tae withstand th' infeernal tipplin' masel'. Mony's the time, -when I'm talkin' tae a mon in the way o' business, ye ken, I turn -the damned glass upside down when he is na lookin'. But there's the -folk I sell tae, an' the ithers; what o' them? It's ma trade to -praise the evil--tae tak' it into the world, spreadin' it broadcast -for the destruction o' monkind. Eh, ma responsibeelity is awfu' tae -contemplate." - -"I'm sure, James, you mean first class," said the little woman weakly. -"Come, light your pipe comfortable, now, and don't worrit, there's a -good man!" - -The traveller waved the pipe aside. - -"There's a still sma' voice," he said, "ye canna silence wi' 'bacca; -ye canna silence it wi' herbs nor wi' fine linen. It's wi' me noo, -axin' queestions. It says: 'Macpheerson, how dae ye justeefy thy -wilfu' conduct? Why dae ye gloreefy the profeets o' th' airth above -thy speeritual salvation, mon? Dae ye no ken that orphans are goin' -dinnerless through thy eloquence, an' widows are prodigal wi' curses on -a' thy samples an' thy ways?' I canna answer. There are nichts when the -voice will na let me sleep, ye're weel aware; there are nichts----" - -"There are nights when you're most trying, James, I know." - -"Woman, it's the warnin' voice that comes tae a sinner in his -transgreession! Are there no' viseetations eno' about me, an' dae I -no' turn ma een frae them; hardenin' ma heart, and pursuin' ma praise -o' Pilcher's wi' a siller tongue? There was a mon are day at the -Peacock--a mon in ma ain inseedious line--an' he swilled his bottle -o' sherry, an' he called for his whusky-an'-watter, and he got up -on his feet speechify in', after the commercial dinner. 'The Queen, -gentlemen!' he cries, liftin' his glass; an' wi' that he dropped deed, -wi' the name o' the royal leddy on his lips! He was a large red mon--he -would ha' made twa o' me." - -He seemed to regard the circumference of the deceased as additionally -ominous. His arms were extended in representation of it, and he waved -them aloft as if to intimate that Charlotte might detect Nemesis in the -vicinity preparing for a swoop. - -"You take the thing too seriously," said Mary. "Nine people out of ten -have to be what they can, you know; it is only the tenth who can be -what he likes." - -The little woman inquired what her own calling was. - -"I am very sorry to say I haven't any," she answered. "I'm doing -nothing." - -There was a moment's constraint. - -"Unfortunately I know nobody here," she went on; "it's very hard to -get anything when there's no one to speak for you." - -"It must be! But, lor! you must bear up. It's a long lane that has no -turning, as they say." - -"Only there is no telling where the turning may lead; a lane is better -than a bog." - -"Wouldn't she do for Pattenden's?" suggested the woman musingly. - -"For whom?" exclaimed Mary. "Do you think I can get something? Who are -they?" - -"James?" - -"Pattenden's?" he repeated. "An' what; would she dae at Pattenden's?" - -"Why, be agent, to be sure--same as you were!" - -Mary glanced from one to the other with; anxiety. - -"Weel, noo, that isn't at a' a bad idea," said Mr. Macpherson -meditatively; "dae ye fancy ye could sell books, young leddy, on -commeession--a hauf-sovereign, say, for every order ye took? I'm -thinkin' a young woman micht dae a verra fair trade at it." - -"Oh yes," she replied; "I'm sure I could. Half a sovereign each one? -Where do I go? Will they take me?" - -"I dinna anteecipate ye'll fin' much deefficulty aboot them takin' ye: -they dinna risk onythin' by that! I'll gi'e ye the address. They are -publishers, and ye just ax for their Mr. Collins when ye go there; tell -him ye're wishful tae represent them wi' ane o' their publeecations. -If ye like I'll write your name on ane o' ma ain cards; an' ye can send -it in tae him." - -"Oh, do!" she said. - -"Ye must na imagine it's a fortune ye'll be makin'," he observed; "it's -different tae ma ain position wi' the wines an' speerits, ye ken: wi' -Pilcher's it's a fixed salary, an' Pilcher's pay ma expenses." - -"Pilcher's pay _our_ expenses!" affirmed Charlotte the thoughtful. - -"They dae," acquiesced the traveller; "there's a sicht o' saving oot -o' sax-and-twenty shillin's a day tae an economical parent. But wi' -Pattenden's it's precarious; are week guid, an' anither week bad." - -"I am not afraid," said Mary boldly; "whatever I do, it is better than -nothing! I'll go there to-morrow, the first thing. Very many thanks; -and to you too, Mrs. Macpherson, for thinking of it." - -"I'm sure I'm glad I did; there's no saying but what you may be doing -first-rate after a bit. It's a beginning for you, any way." - -"That it is! But why can't the publishers pay a salary, the same as -your husband's firm?" - -"Ah! they don't; anyhow, not at the beginning. Besides, James has been -with Pilcher's ten years now; he wasn't earning so much when he started -with them." - -"'Spect one reason is because such a heap more people buy spirits than -books!" said Charlotte. "Pa!" - -"Eh, ma lassie?" - -"The lady's going to be an agent----" - -"Weel?" - -"Then, pa," said Charlotte, "won't we all drink to the lady's luck in a -sample?" - -"Ye veecious midget," ejaculated her father wrathfully, "are ye no' -ashamed tae mak' sic a proposeetion? Ye'll no' drink a sample, will ye, -young leddy?" - -"I will not indeed!" answered Mary. - -"No' but what ye're welcome." - -"Thanks," she said; "I will not, really." - -"Eh, but ye will, then," he exclaimed; "a sma' sample, ye an' Mrs. -Macpheerson! Whaur's ma bag?" - -In spite of her protestations he drew a bottle out, and the hostess -produced a couple of glasses from the cupboard. - -"Port!" he said. "The de'il's liquors a' o' them; but, if there's a -disteenction, maybe a wee drappie o' the 'Four Grape Balance' deserves -mon's condemnation least." His conflicting emotions delayed the toast -for some time. "The de'il's liquors!" he groaned again, fingering -the bottle irresolutely. "Eh, but it's the 'Four Grape Balance,'" he -murmured with reluctant admiration, eyeing the sample against the -light. "There! Ye may baith o' ye drink it doon! But masel', I wouldna -touch a drap. An' as for ye, ye wee Cockney bairn, if I catch ye -tastin' onything stronger a than tea in a' your days, or knowin' the -flavour o' the perneecious stuff it's your affleected father's duty tae -lure the unsuspeecious minds wi'--temptin' the frail tae their eternal -ruin, an' servin' the de'il when his sicht is on the Lord--I'll leather -ye!" - -Charlotte giggled nervously--Figaro-wise, that she might not be obliged -to weep; and Mrs. Macpherson, raising the glass to her lips, said -"Luck!" - -"Luck!" they all echoed. - -And Mary, conscious that the career would be no heroic one, was also -conscious she was not a heroine. "I am," she said to herself, "just a -real unhappy woman, in very desperate straits. So let me do whatever -turns up, and be profoundly grateful that anything can be done at all." - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -The wealth of Messrs. Pattenden and Sons, which was considerable, was -not indicated by the arrangement of their London branch. A flight of -narrow stairs, none too clean, led to a pair of doors respectively -painted "Warehouse" and "Private"; and having performed the superfluous -ceremony of knocking at the former, Mary found herself in front of a -rough counter, behind which two or three young men were busily engaged -in stacking books. There were books in profusion, books in virginity, -books tempting and delightful to behold. Volume upon volume, crisp in -cover and shiny of edge, they were piled on the table and heaped on the -floor; and the young men handled them with as little concern as if they -had been grocery. Such is the force of custom. - -In response to her inquiry, her name and the card were despatched to -Mr. Collins by a miniature boy endowed with a gape that threatened to -lift his head off, and, pending the interview, she attempted to subdue -her nervousness. - -A man with a satchel bustled in, and made hurried reference to "Vol. -two of the _Dic_." and "The fourth of the _Ency_." Against the window -an accountant with a fresh complexion and melancholy mien totted up -columns. - -Seeing that everybody--the melancholy accountant not excepted--favoured -her with a gratified stare, she concluded that women were infrequently -employed here, and she trembled with the fear that her application -might be refused. She assured herself that the Scotsman would never -have spoken so confidently of a favourable issue if it had not been -reasonable to expect it, but the doubt having entered her head, it was -difficult to dispel. It occurred to her that she could astonish the -accountant by telling him that she was on the brink of destitution. The -perspiring young packers, sure of their dinners by-and-by, looked to -her individuals to be felicitated on their prosperity, and, luckless -as they were, it is a fact that a person's lot is seldom so poor but -that another person worse off can be found to envy it. The book-keeper -who has grown haggard in the firm's employ at a couple of pounds a -week is the envy of the clerk who lives on eighteen shillings, and the -wight who sweeps the office daily thinks how happy he would be in the -place of the clerk. The urchin who hawks matches in the rain envies the -sheltered office-boy, and the waif without coppers to invest envies the -match-seller. The grades of misery are so infinite, and the instinct of -envy is so ingrained, that when two vagrants crouched under a bridge -have tightened their belts to still the gnawings of their hunger, one -of the pair will find something to be envious of in the rags of the -outcast suffering at his side. - -Messrs. Pattenden's youngster reappeared, and, with a yawn so -tremendous that it eclipsed his previous effort, said: - -"Miss Brettan!" - -Mr. Collins was seated in a compartment just large enough to contain a -desk and two chairs. He signed Mary to the vacant one, and gave her a -steady glance of appreciation. A man who had risen to the position of -conducting the travelling department of a firm that published on the -subscription plan, he was something of a reader of temperament; a man -who had risen to the position by easy stages while yet young, he was -kindly and had not lost his generosity on the way. - -"Good-morning," he said; "what can I do for you?" - -"I want to represent you with one of your publications," she answered. -"Mr. Macpherson was good enough to offer me the introduction, and he -thought you would be able to arrange with me." The nervousness was -scarcely visible. She had entered well, and spoke without hesitancy, -in a musical voice. All these things Mr. Collins noted. Before she -had explained her desire he had wished that she might have it. The -book-agent is of many types, and skilful advertisements hinting at -noble earnings, without being explicit about the nature of the pursuit, -had brought penurious professional men and reduced gentlewomen on to -that chair time and again. But these applicants had generally cooled -visibly when the requirements of the vocation were insinuated; and here -was one, as refined as any of them, who came comprehending that she -would have to canvass, and prepared to do it! Mr. Collins nearly rubbed -his hands. - -"What experience have you had?" - -"In--as an agent? None. But I suppose with a fair amount of -intelligence that doesn't matter very much?" - -"Not at all." For once he was almost at a loss. As a rule it was he who -advocated the attempt, and the novice on the chair who grew reluctant. - -"I take it," said Miss Brettan, concealing rapture, "that the art of -the business is to sell books to people who don't want to buy them?" - -"Just so; tact, and the ability to talk about your specimen is what is -wanted. Always watch the face of the person you are showing it to and -don't look at the specimen itself. You must know that by heart." - -"Oh!" - -"Suppose you're showing an encyclopedia! As you turn over the plates, -you should be able to tell by his eyes when you have come to one that -illustrates a subject that he is interested in. Then talk about that -subject--how fully it is dealt with. See?" - -"I see." - -"If you think he looks like a married man and is old enough to have a -family, say how useful an encyclopedia is for general reference in a -household--how valuable it is for children when they are writing essays -and things." - -"Are you going to engage me for an encyclopedia?" - -He smiled. - -"You're in a hurry, Miss----" - -"Brettan. Am I in too much of a hurry?" - -"Well, you have to be patient, you know, with possible subscribers. If -_you_ rush, _they_ will, too, and the easiest reply to give in a hurry -is 'No.' I'm not sure about sending you out with the _Ency_.; after a -while, perhaps! How would you like trying a new work that has never -been canvassed, for a beginning?" - -"Would it be better?" - -"Yes; there's less in it to learn, and you needn't be afraid of -hearing, 'Oh, I have one already!'" - -"I didn't think of that. What is it, Mr. Collins?" - -He touched a bell, and told the boy to bring in a specimen of the -_Album_. - -"Four half-volumes at twelve and sixpence each," he said, turning -to her, "_The Album of Inventions_. It gives the history of all the -principal inventions, with a brief biography of the inventors. You want -to know who invented the watch--look it up under W; the telephone--turn -to T. It's a history of the progress of science and civilisation. 'The -origin of the inventions, and the voids they fill,' that's the idea. -Ah, here it is! Now look at that, and tell me if you think you could do -any good with it." - -She took a slim crimson-bound book from its case, and glanced through -it. - -"Oh, I certainly think I could," she said; "I should like to try, -anyhow." - -"Very well, you shall be the first agent to canvass the _Album_ for us." - -"And how about terms?" she questioned. - -"The terms, Miss Brettan, ought to be to you in a very little while -about five or six pounds a week. You may do more; we have travellers -with us who are making their twenty. But for a start say five or six." - -"You mean that that would be my commencing salary?" she asked calmly. - -"No, not as salary," he said, carelessly too. "I mean your commissions -would amount to that." By his tone one might have supposed that -formality obliged him to distinguish between these sources of income, -but that it was practically a distinction without a difference. "On -every order you bring us for the Album we allow you half a guinea. -Saturdays you needn't go out--it's a bad day, especially to catch -professional men. But saying you make twelve calls five days a week, -and out of every dozen calls you book two orders, there is your five -guineas a week for you as regular as clockwork! I'll tell you what I'll -do: just give me a receipt for the specimen, and go home this morning -and study it. To-morrow come in to me again at ten o'clock. And every -day I'll make out a short list for you of people who've already been -subscribers of ours for some work or another--I can pick out addresses -that lie close together; and then you'll have the advantage of knowing -you're waiting on buyers, and not wasting your time." - -"Thank you very much," she said. - -"Here's the order-book. You see they have to fill up a form. Every one -you bring filled-in means half a guinea to you. You have no further -trouble--a deliverer takes the volumes round and collects the money. -Just get the order signed, and your responsibility is over. Is that all -right?" - -"That's all right." - -He rose and shook hands with her. - -"At ten o'clock," he repeated. "So long!" - -She descended the dirty stairs excitedly. The aspect of the world -had changed for her in a quarter of an hour. And to think, she -would never have dreamt of trying Pattenden's--never have heard of -the occupation--if she had not met Mr. Macpherson, had not gone to -Finchley, had not been so tired that, having parted with her last penny -at the news-room---- - -The remembrance of her present penury rushed back to her. With five -guineas a week coming in directly, she had no money to go on with -in the meanwhile. To walk about the streets all day, without even a -biscuit between the scanty meals at home, would be impossible. She -questioned desperately what there remained to her to pawn--what she was -to do. Gaining her room, she eyed her little bag of linen forlornly; -she did not think she could borrow anything on articles like these, -neither could she spare any of them, nor summon the courage to put them -on a counter. Suddenly the inspiration came to her that there was the -bag itself. And at dusk she went out with it. This time the pawnbroker -omitted to inquire if she had a halfpenny; he deducted the cost of the -ticket from the amount of the loan. Taking the bull by the horns, she -next sought the landlady, and said that she would be unable to pay the -impending bill when it came up, but that she would pay that and the -next one together. - -"I've found work," she said, feeling like a housemaid. "If you wouldn't -mind letting it stand over----" - -Mrs. Shuttleworth dried her fingers on her apron, and agreed with less -hesitation than her lodger had feared. - -Convinced that her specimen was mastered--she had rehearsed two -or three little gusts of eulogy which she thought would sound -spontaneous--Mary now considered calling on the Macphersons to inform -them of the result of their suggestion. Reluctant to intrude, she had -half decided to write, but with her limited means, the stamp was an -object, and besides, she was uncertain of the number. She determined on -the visit. - -The door was opened by Charlotte, and hastily explaining the motive for -the call, Mary followed her inside. She found the parlour in a state of -confusion, and gathered from the trio in a breath that destiny, in the -form of Pilcher's, had ordered that Mr. Macpherson should be torn from -his family a week earlier than the severance had been anticipated. - -"He's going to Leeds to-morrow," exclaimed the little woman -distractedly, oppressed by an armful of shirts that fell from her one -by one as she moved; "and it wasn't till this afternoon we heard a word -about it. Oh dear! oh dear! how many's that, James?" - -"'Tis thirty-three," said the traveller, "an', as ye weel ken, it -should be thirty-sax! I canna see the use o' a body havin' thirty-sax -shirts if they can never be found." - -"I'm afraid I'm in the way," murmured Mary; "I just looked in to say -it's all satisfactory, and to tell you how much obliged I am. I won't -stop." - -"You're not in the way at all. You've got one on, James: that's -thirty-four! My dear, would you mind counting these shirts for me? I -declare my head's going round!" - -She held the bundle out to Mary feebly, and, dropping on to the -traveller's box, watched her with harassed eyes. - -"Pa has three dozen of 'em," said Charlotte with pride, "'cos of the -trouble of getting 'em washed when he goes about so much. I think, -though, you lose 'em on the road, pa." - -"It's a silly thought that's like ye," returned her parent shortly. -"Young leddy, what dae ye mak' it?". - -"There are only thirty-three here," replied Mary, struggling with a -laugh, "and---and one is thirty-four!" - -"Thirty-three," exclaimed Mr. Macpherson, "and are is thirty-four! Twa -shirts missin', twa shirts at five and saxpence apiece wasted--lost -through repreheensible carelessness!" He sat down on the box by his -wife's side, and contemplated her severely. "Aweel," he said at last, -sociable under difficulties, "an' Collins was agreeable, ye tell me?" - -"He was very nice indeed." - -"Hoh!" he sighed, "ye will na mak' a penny by it. But the pursuit may -serve tae occupy ye!" - -"Not make a penny by it?" she ejaculated. - -"Don't you mind him," said his partner; "he's got the 'ump, that's -what's the matter with him!" - -"It may serve tae occupy your mind," repeated Mr. Macpherson -funereally; "'tis pleasant walkin' in the fine weather. Now mind ye, -'oman, I dinna leave withoot ma twa shirts. I canna banish them frae ma -memory." - -"Bless and save us, James, haven't I rummaged every drawer in the -place?" - -"I am for ever replenishing that thirty-sax, an' it is for ever short," -he complained; "will ye no' look in the keetchen?" - -She was absent some time on the quest, and Charlotte questioned Mary -about the details of her interview at Messrs. Pattenden's. She said she -knew that "Pa had been with them for several years," so the business -could not be so unprofitable as he had just pretended. Appealed to -for support, however, her pa sighed again, and it was obvious that he -was impelled towards an unusually pessimistic view of everything that -night. A brief reference to a "sink o' ineequity" was accepted as a -comment upon the "wine-and-speerit" trade, but he had nothing cheerful -to say of books, either; and, recognising the futility of attempting a -graceful retreat, the visitor got up abruptly and wished them good-bye. -Mrs. Macpherson joined her in the passage, without the shirts. - -"Good-night, miss," she murmured; "don't be down in the mouth. Have -plenty of cheek, and you'll get along like a house afire! As for me, -I'm going back to the kitchen and mean to stop there." - -At Mary's third step she called to her to come back. - -"Never," she added, "go and settle down with a traveller. You're -likely to fetch 'em, but don't do it!" She jerked her head towards the -parlour. "A good man, my dear, but his shirts were my cross from our -wedding-day!" - -Mary assured her that the warning should be borne in mind, and left -the little person wiping her brow. The remark about marrying, idle as -it was, distressed her. Last night too there had been a mention of -the possibility, and, knowing that she could never be any man's wife, -the suggestion shook her painfully. How she had wrecked her life, she -reflected, and for a man who had cared nothing for her! - -The assertion that he cared nothing for her was bitterer to her soul -than the knowledge that she had wrecked her life. To have a love -despised is always a keener torture to a woman than to a man; for -a woman surrenders herself less easily, thinks the more of what -she is bestowing, and counts the treasures at her disposal over and -over--ultimately for the sake of delighting in the knowledge of how -much she is going to give. If one of the pearls that she has laid so -reverently at her master's feet is left to lie there, she exonerates -him and accuses herself. But his caresses never quite fill the -unsuspected wound. If it happens that he neglects them all, then the -woman, beggared and unthanked, wonders why the sun shines, and how -people can laugh. Some women can take back a misdirected love, erase -the superscription, and address it over again. Others cannot. Mary -could not. She had lain in Seaton's arms and kissed him; pride bade her -be ashamed of the memory; her heart found food in it. It was all over, -all terrible, all a thing that she ought to shiver and revolt at. But -the depth of her devotion had been demonstrated by the magnitude of her -sin, and she was not able, because the sacrifice had been misprized, to -say, "Therefore, in everything except my misery, it shall be as if I -had never made it." - -She could not, continually as she put its fever from her, wrench the -tenderness out of her being, recall her guilt and forget its motive. -The sin of her life had been caused by her love, and, come weal, come -woe, come gratitude or callousness, a love that had been responsible -for such a thing as that was not a sentiment to be plucked out and -destroyed at the dictates of common-sense. It was not a thing that -Carew could kill with baseness. She could have looked him in the face -and sworn she hated him; she felt that, though that might not be quite -true, she could never touch his hand nor sit in a room with him again. -But neither her contempt for him nor for her own weakness could blot -out the recollection of the hours of passion, the years of communion, -when if one of them had said, "I should like," the other had replied, -"Say _we_ should!" - -It was well for her that the exigencies of her situation were supplying -anxieties which to a great extent penned her thoughts within more -wholesome bounds. On the morrow her chief idea was to distinguish -herself on her preliminary expedition. Mr. Collins, true to his -promise, had prepared a list for her. The houses were all in the -neighbourhood of the Abbey, and mostly, he informed her, the offices -of civil engineers. He said civil engineers were a "likely class," the -principal objection to them being that they were "so beastly irregular -in their movements." When she had "worked Westminster," he added, he -would start her among barristers and clergy-men. - -"Come in, when you've done, and tell me how you've got on," he said -pleasantly. "I suppose you haven't a pocket large enough to hold your -specimen? Never mind! Keep it out of sight as much as you can when you -ask for people; and ask for them as if you were going to give them a -commission to build a bridge." - -She smiled confidently; and, allaying the qualms of peddlery with the -balm of prospective riches, on which she could advertise for other -employment should this prove very uncongenial, she proceeded to the -office marked "1." - -It was in Victoria Street, and the name of the gentleman upon whom -she was to intrude was painted, among a string of others, on a black -board at the entrance. She paused and inspected this board longer than -was necessary, so long that a porter in livery asked her whom she -wanted? She told him, "Mr. Gregory Hatch"; to which he replied, "Third -floor," evidently with the supposition that she would make use of the -lift. She profited by this supposition of his, and felt an impostor -to begin with. The name of "Gregory Hatch," with initials after it -which conveyed no meaning to her, confronted her on a door as the lift -stopped; and with a further decrease of ardour, she walked quickly in. - -There were several consequential young men acting as clerks behind a -stretch of mahogany, and, perceiving her, one of these lordly beings -lounged forward, and descended from his high estate sufficiently to -inquire, "What can I do for yer?" His bored and haughty glance took in -the specimen. - -"Is Mr. Hatch in?" - -"I'll see," drawled the youth; he looked suspiciously at the specimen -now, and it began to be cumbersome. - -"Er, what name?" - -"Miss Brettan." - -He strolled into the apartment marked "Private," and a sickening -certainty that, if she were admitted to it, the youth would be summoned -directly afterwards to eject her, made her yearn to take flight before -he reappeared. She was debating what excuse for a hurried departure she -could offer, when the door was re-opened and he requested her to "step -in, please." - -An old gentleman of preoccupied aspect was busy at a desk; he and she -were alone in the room. - -"Miss--Brettan?" he said interrogatively. "Take a chair, madam." - -He put his papers down, and waited, she was convinced, for his -commission for a bridge. She took the seat that he had indicated, -because she was too much embarrassed to decline it, and she immediately -felt that this was going to be regarded as an additional piece of -impertinence. - -"I have called," she stammered--in her rehearsals she had never -practised an introductory speech, and she abominated herself for the -omission--"I have called, Mr.----" his name had suddenly sailed away -from her--"with regard to a book I've been asked to show you by -Messrs. Pattenden. If you'll allow me----" - -She drew the specimen from the case and put it on the desk before him. - -She was relieved to find him much less astonished than she had -anticipated. He even fingered the thing tentatively, and she began to -collect her wits. To take it into her hands, however, and expatiate on -its merits leaf by leaf, was beyond her. She soothed her conscience by -remarking it was a very nice book, really. - -"It seems so," said the old gentleman. "_The Album of Inventions_, dear -me! A new work?" - -"Oh yes," she said, "new. It's quite new, it's quite a new work." She -felt idiotic to keep repeating how new it was, but she could not think -of anything else to say. - -"Dear me!" said the old gentleman again. He appeared to be growing -interested by the examination, and it looked within the regions of -possibility that he might give an order. Up to that moment all her -ambition had been to find herself in the street again without having -been abused. - -"The beauty of the work is," she said, "er--that it is so pithy. One so -often wants to know something that one has forgotten about something: -who thought of it, and how the other people managed before he did. I'm -sure, Mr. Pattenden, that if you----" - -"Hatch, madam--my name is Hatch!" - -"I beg your pardon," she said--"I meant to say 'Mr. Hatch.' I was going -to say that, if you care to take a copy of it, it is very cheap." - -"And what may the price be?" he asked. - -"It is in four volumes at twelve and sixpence," said Mary melodiously. - -"The four?" - -"Oh no--each! Thick volumes they are; do you think it's dear?" - -"No," he said; "oh no!--a very valuable book, I've no doubt." - -"Then perhaps you will give me an order for it?" she inquired, scarcely -able to contain her elation. - -"No," he said, still perusing an article, "I will not give an order for -it; I have so many books." - -She stared at him in blank disappointment while he read placidly to the -end of a page. - -"There," he said benevolently; "a capital work! It deserves to sell -largely; the publishers should be hopeful of it. The plates are bold, -and the matter seems to me of a high degree of excellence. The fault -I usually condemn in such illustrations is the mistake of making -'pictures' of them, to the detriment of their usefulness; clearness -is always the grand desideratum in an illustration of a mechanical -contrivance. With this, the customary blunder has been avoided; in -looking through the specimen I've scarcely detected one instance where -I would suggest an alteration. And, though I wouldn't promise"--he -laughed good-humouredly--"but what on a more careful inspection I might -be forced to temper praise with blame, I'm inclined, on the whole, to -give the book my hearty commendation." - -"But will you buy it?" demanded Miss Brettan. - -"No," said the old gentleman, "thank you; I never buy books--I have so -many. No trouble at all; I am very pleased to have seen it. Allow me!" - -He bowed her out with genial ceremony, and seemed to be under the -impression that he had conferred a favour. - -The next gentleman that she wanted to see was dead. Number 3 had gone -on a trial-trip; and two other gentlemen were out of town. Number 6, -on reference to her paper, proved to be a "Mr. Crespigny." His outer -office much resembled that of Mr. Hatch, and more supercilious young -men were busy behind a counter. - -She waited while her name was taken in to him. On Mr. Collins's theory, -this, the sixth venture, ought to result in half a guinea to her. She -had by now arranged a little overture, and was ready to introduce -herself in coherent phrases. Instead of her being admitted to the inner -room, however, Mr. Crespigny came out, in the wake of his clerk, and -it devolved upon her to explain her business publicly. He was a tall -man with a pointed beard, and he advanced towards her in interrogative -silence, flicking a cigarette. Her heart was thudding. - -"Good-morning," she said; "Messrs. Pattenden, the publishers, have -asked me to wait upon you with a specimen of a new work that----" - -Mr. Crespigny deliberately turned his back, and walked to the threshold -of the private office without a word. Regaining it, he spoke to the -hapless clerk. - -"Pshaw!" he exclaimed, "don't you know a book-agent yet when you see -one?" - -He slammed the door behind him, and, with a sensation akin to having -been slapped in the face, she hurried away. Her cheeks were hot; no -retort occurred to her even when she stood on the pavement. She _was_ -a book-agent, a pest whose intrusion was always liable to be ridiculed -or resented according to the bent of the person importuned. Oh, how -hateful it was to be poor--"poor" in the fullest meaning of the term; -to be compelled to cringe to cads, and swallow insults, and call it -"wisdom" that one showed no spirit! An hour passed before she could -nerve herself to make another attempt; Mr. Crespigny had taken all the -pluck out of her. And when she repaired to Pattenden's her report was a -chronicle of failures. - -The exact answers obtained she had in many cases forgotten, and Mr. -Collins advised her to jot down brief memoranda of the interviews in -future, that he might be able to point out to her where her line of -conduct had been at fault. - -"Now, that set speech of yours was a mistake," he said. "What you want -to do at the start is to get the man's attention--to surprise him -into listening. Perhaps he has had half a dozen travellers bothering -him already, all trying for an order for something or another, and -all beginning the same way. Go in brightly. Don't let him know your -business till you've got the specimen open under his nose. Cry, 'Well, -Mr. So-and-So, here it is, out at last!' Say anything that comes into -your head, but startle him at the beginning. He may think you're mad, -but he'll listen from astonishment, and when you've woke him up you can -show him that you're not." - -"It's so awful," she said dejectedly. - -"Awful?" exclaimed Mr. Collins. "Do you know the great Napoleon was a -book-agent? Do you know that when he was a lieutenant without a red -cent he travelled with a work called _L'Histoire de la Revolution_? My -dear young lady, if you go to Paris you can see his canvasser's outfit -under a glass case in the Louvre, and the list of orders he succeeded -in collaring!" - -"I don't suppose he liked it." - -"He liked the money it brought in; and you'll like yours directly. You -don't imagine I expected you to do any good right off? I should have -been much surprised if you'd come in with any different account this -afternoon, I can tell you! No, no, you mustn't be disheartened because -you aren't lucky at the start; and as to that Victoria Street fellow -who was in a bad temper, what of him? He has to make his living, and -you have to make yours; remember you're just as much in your rights as -the man you're talking to when you make a call anywhere." - -"Very good," said Mary; "if you are satisfied, _I_ am. I don't pretend -my services are being clamoured for. You may be sure I want to do well -with the thing. If, by putting my pride in my pocket, I can put an -income there too, I'm ready to do it." - -It became a regular feature of her afternoon visit at the publishers' -for Mr. Collins to encourage her with prophecies of good fortune; -and her anxiety was frequently assuaged by his consideration. On the -first few occasions when she returned with her notes of "Out; Out; -Doesn't need it; Never reads; Too busy to look," etc., she dreaded -the additional chagrin of being rebuked for incompetence; but Mr. -Collins was always complaisant, and perpetually assured her that she -was enduring only the disappointments inevitable to a beginner. In -his own mind he began to doubt her fitness for the occupation, but he -liked her, and knowing that, in the trade phrase, some orders "booked -themselves," he was willing to afford her the chance of making a trifle -as long as she desired to avail herself of it. They were terrible -days to Mary Brettan, wearing away without result, while her pitiful -store of cash grew less and less; and since each day was so drearily -long, it was amazing that a week passed so quickly. This is an anomaly -especially conspicuous to lodgers, and when her bill was due again she -beheld her landlady with despair. - -"Mrs. Shuttle worth," she said, "I have done nothing; I hoped to pay -you, and I can't. I'm not a cheat, though it looks like it; I am agent -for a firm of publishers, and I haven't earned a single commission." -Mrs. Shuttleworth scrutinised her grimly, and she held her breath. She -might be commanded to leave, and as omnibus fares were an item of her -expenditure now, no more than a shilling remained of the sum raised on -the handbag. "What do you say?" she faltered. - -"Well," said the other, "it's like this: I'm not 'ard and I don't -say as I'd care to go and turn a respectable girl into the streets, -for I know what I'd be doing. But I can't afford to lay out for your -breakfas' and your tea with never a farthing coming back for it. Keep -the room a bit, and the rent can wait; but I must ask you to get all -your meals outside till we're straight again." - -A lodger on sufferance; left with nothing to pawn, and possessed of a -shilling to sustain life till she gained an order for _The Album of -Inventions_, Mary toiled up staircases with the specimen. To economise -on remaining pounds may be managed with refinement; to be frugal -of the last silver is possible with decency; but to be reduced to -the depths of pence means a devilish hunger whose cravings cannot be -stilled for more than an hour at a time, and a weakness that mounts -from limbs to brain till the throat contracts, and the eyeballs ache -from exhaustion. However fatigued her fruitless expeditions might have -made her now, she went back to the publishing-house enduringly afoot, -grudging every halfpenny, husbanding the meagre sum with the tenacity -of deadly fear. The windows of the foreign restaurants with viands -temptingly displayed and tastefully garnished, the windows of the -English cook-shops, into which the meats were thrown, enchanted her -eye as she would never have believed that food could have the power to -do. She understood what starvation was; began to understand how people -could be brought to thieve by it, and exculpated them for doing so. -Without her clothes becoming abruptly shabby, the aspect of the woman -deteriorated from her internal consciousness. She carried herself -less confidently; she lost the indefinable air that distinguishes the -freight from the flotsam on the sea of life. Little things sent the -fact home to her. Drivers ceased to lift an inquiring fore-finger when -she passed a cab-rank, and once, when an address on her list proved to -be a private house, the servant asked her "Who from?" instead of "What -name?" - -Inch by inch she fought for the ground that was slipping under her, -affecting cheerfulness when the specimen was exhibited, and hiding -desperation when she restored it, a failure, to its case. The sight -of Victoria Street and its neighbourhood came to be loathsome to her. -Often her instructions took her on to different floors of the same -building day after day; and, fancying that the hall-porters divined why -she reappeared so often, she entered with the misgiving that they might -forbid her to ascend. - -It was no shock to her at last to issue from the lodging beggared. She -had felt so long that the situation was inevitable that she accepted -its coming almost apathetically. She faced the usual day, mounting the -flights of stairs, and drooping down them, a shade the weaker for the -absence of the pitiful breakfast. It was not until one o'clock that the -hopelessness of routine was admitted. Then, the prospect of the journey -to reach her room again was intimidating enough; she did not even -return to Pattenden's; she went slowly back and lay down on the bed, -managing to forget her hunger intermittently in snatches of sleep. - -Towards evening the pangs faded altogether. But incidents of years ago -recurred to her without any effort of the will, impelling her to cry -feebly at the recollection of some unkind answer that she had once -given, at a hurt expression that she saw again on her father's face. -During the night her troubles were reflected in her dreams, and at -morning she woke hollow-eyed. - -It was labour to her to dress. But she did not feel hungry, she felt -only dazed. She drank a glassful of water from the bottle on the -wash-hand-stand, and, driven to exertion by necessity, took her way to -the publishers', moving among the crowd torpidly, not acutely conscious -of her surroundings. - -Mr. Collins exclaimed at her appearance and strongly advised her to go -home and rest. - -"You don't look the thing at all," he said with genuine concern. "Stay -indoors to-day; you won't do any good if you're not well." - -She smiled wistfully at his idea that staying indoors would improve -matters. - -"I shan't be any better for not going out," she said. "Yes, give me the -list. Only don't expect me to come in and report; I shan't feel much -like doing that." - -He wrote a few names for her. - -"I shan't give you many to-day," he said. "Here are half a dozen; try -these!" - -"Thank you," said Mary; "I'll try these." She went down, and out into -the street once more. The rattle of the traffic roared in her ears; the -jam and jostle of the pavements confused her. She felt like a child -buffeted by giants, and could have lifted her arms, wailing to God to -let the end be now--to let her die quickly and quietly, and without -much pain. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -On the third floor of a house in Delahay Street there used to be a room -which was at once sitting-room and "workshop." A blue plate here and -there over the mirror, the shabby arm-chair on the hearth, and a modest -collection of books on the wall, gave it an air of home. The long -white table, littered with plans and paints, before the window, and a -theodolite in the corner, showed that it served for office too. - -A man familiar with that interior had just entered the passage, and as -he began to ascend the stairs a smile of anticipated welcome softened -the rigidity of his face. He was a tall, loosely-built man, who was -generally credited with five more years than the two-and-thirty he had -really seen; a man who, a physiognomist would have asserted, formed -few friendships and was a stanch friend. Possibly it was the gauntness -of the face that caused him to appear older than he was, possibly its -gravity. He did not look as if he laughed readily, as if he saw much in -life to laugh at. He did not look impulsive, or emotional, or a man to -be imagined singing a song. He could be pictured the one cool figure -in a scene of panic with greater facility than participating in the -enthusiasm of a grand-stand. Not that you found his aspect heroic, but -that you could not conceive him excited. - -He turned the handle as he knocked at the door, and strode into the -room without awaiting a response. The occupant dropped his T-square -with a clatter, giving a quick halloa: - -"Philip! Dear old chap!" - -Dr. Kincaid gripped the outstretched hand. - -"How are you?" he said. - -Walter Corri pushed him into the shabby chair, and lounged against the -mantelpiece, smiling down at him. - -"How are you?" repeated Dr. Kincaid. - -"All right. When did you come up?" - -"Yesterday afternoon." - -"Going to stay long?" - -"Only a day or two." - -"Pipe?" - -"Got a cigar; try one!" - -"Thanks." - -Corri pulled out a chair for himself. "Well, what's the news?" he said. - -"Nothing particular; anything fresh with you?" - -"No. How's your mother?" - -"Tolerably well; she came up with me." - -"Did she! Where are you?" - -"Some little hotel. I'm charged with a lot of messages----" - -"That you don't remember!" - -"I remember one of them: you're to come and see her." - -"Thanks, I shall." - -"Come and dine to-night, if you've nothing on. We have a room to -ourselves, and----" - -"I'd like to. What are you going to do during the day?" - -"There are two or three things that won't take very long, but I was -obliged to come. What are _you_ doing?" - -"I've an appointment outside at twelve; I shall be back in about an -hour, and then I could stick a paper on the door without risking an -independence." - -"You can go about with me?" - -"If you'll wait." - -"Good! Where do you keep your matches?" - -"Matches are luxuries. Tear up _The Times_!" - -"Corri's economy! Throw me _The Times_, then!" - -Kincaid lit his cigar to his satisfaction, and stretched his long legs -before the fire. Both men puffed placidly. - -"Well," said Corri, "and how's the hospital? How do you like it?" - -"My mother doesn't like it; she finds it so lonely at home by herself. -I thought she'd get used to it in a couple of months--I go round to -her as often as I can--but she complains as much as she did at the -beginning. She's taken up the original idea again, and of course it is -dull for her. And she's not strong, either." - -"No, I know." - -"Tell her I'm going to be a successful man by-and-by, Wally, and cheer -her up. It enlivens her to believe it." - -"I always do." - -"I know you do; whenever she's seen you, she looks at me proudly for -a week and tells me what a 'charming young man' Mr. Corri is--'how -clever!' The only fault she finds with you is that you haven't got -married." - -"Tell her that I have what the novelists call an 'ideal.'" - -"When did you catch it?" - -"Last year. A fellow I know married the 'Baby'--an adoring daughter -that thought all her family unique." - -"And----?" - -"My ideal is the blessing who is still unappropriated at twenty-eight. -She'll have discovered by then that her mother isn't infallible; that -her brothers aren't the first living authorities on wines, the fine -arts, horseflesh, and the sciences; and that the 'happy home' isn't -incapable of improvement. In fact, she'll have got a little tired of -it." - -"You've the wisdom of a relieved widower." - -"I have seen," said Corri widely. "The fellow, you know! Married -fellows are an awfully 'liberal education.' This one has been turned -into a nurse--among the several penalties of his selection. The -treasure is for ever dancing on to wet pavements in thin shoes and -sandwiching imbecilities between colds on the chest. He swears you may -move the Himalayas sooner than teach a girl of twenty to take care of -herself. He told me so with tears in his eyes. I mean to be older than -my wife, and she has got to be twenty-eight, so it's necessary to wait -a few years. I may be able to support her, too, by then; that's another -thing in favour of delay." - -"I'll represent the matter in the proper light for you on the next -occasion." - -"Do; it's extraordinary that every woman advocates matrimony for every -man excepting her own son." - -"She makes up for it by her efforts on behalf of her own daughter." - -"Is that from experience?" - -"Not in the sense you mean; I'm no catch to be chased myself; but I've -seen enough to make you sick. The friends see the ceremonies--I see the -sequels." - -"'There are worse occupations in this world than feeling a woman's -pulse.' But Yorick was an amateur! I should say a horrid profession, -in one way; it can't leave a scrap of illusion. What's a complexion to -a man who knows all that's going on underneath? I suppose when a girl -gives a blush you see a sort of chart of her muscles and remember what -produces it." - -"I knew a physician who used to say he had never cared for any woman -who hadn't a fatal disease," replied Kincaid; "how does that go with -your theory? She was generally consumptive, I believe." - -"Do you understand it?" - -"Pity, I dare say, first. Doctors are men." - -"Yes, I suppose they are; but somehow one doesn't think of them that -way. Between the student and the doctor there's such an enormous gap. -It's a stupid idea, but one feels that a doctor marries, as he goes to -church on Sunday--because the performance is respectable and expected. -Some professions don't make any difference to the man himself; you -don't think of an engineer as being different from anybody else; but -with Medicine----" - -"It's true," said Kincaid, "that hardly anybody but a doctor can -realise how a doctor feels; his friends don't know. The only writer who -ever drew one was George Eliot." - -"If you're a typical----" - -"Oh, I wasn't talking about myself; don't take me! When a man's -thoughts mean worries, he acquires the habit of keeping them to himself -very soon; that is, if he isn't a fool. It isn't calculated to make him -popular, but it prevents him becoming a bore." - -"Out comes your old bugbear! Isn't it possible for you to believe a -man's pals may listen to his worries without being bored?" - -"How many times?" - -"Oh, damn, whenever they're there!" - -"No," said Kincaid meditatively, "it isn't. They'd hide the boredom, of -course, but he ought to hide the worries. Let a man do his cursing in -soliloquies, and grin when it's conversation." - -"Would it be convenient to mention exactly what you do find it possible -to believe in?" - -"In work, and grit, and Walter Corri. In doing your honest best in -the profession you've chosen for the sake of the profession, not in -the hope of what it's going to do for you. You can't, quite--that's -the devil of it! Your own private ambitions _will_ obtrude themselves -sometimes; but they're only vanity, when all's said and done--just -meant for the fuel. What does nine out of ten men's success do for -anyone but the nine men? Leaving out the great truths, the discoveries -that benefit the human race for all time, what more good does a man -effect in his success than he did in his obscurity? Who wants to see -him succeed, excepting perhaps his mother--who's dead before he does -it? Who's the better for his success? who does he think will be any -better off for it? Nobody but No. 1! Then, whenever the vanity's sore -and rubbed the wrong way, you'd have him go to his friends and take it -out of them. What a selfish beast!" - -"Bosh!" said Corri. "Oh, I know it isn't argument, but 'bosh!'" - -"My dear fellow----" - -"My dear fellow, you had a rough time of it yourself for any number of -years, and----" - -"And they've left their mark. Very naturally! What then?" - -"Simply that now you want to stunt all humanity in the unfortunate -mould that was clapped on _you_. You understand the right of every pain -to shriek excepting mental pain. You'd sit up all night pitying the -whimpers of a child with a splintered finger, but if a man made a moan -because his heart was broken, you'd call him a 'selfish beast'!" - -Kincaid ejected a circlet of smoke, and watched it sail away before he -answered. - -"'Weak,'" he said, "I think I should call that 'weak.' It was a very -good sentence, though, if not quite accurate. This reminds me of old -times; it takes me back ten years to sit in your room and have you -bully me. There's something in it, Corri; circumstances are responsible -for a deuce of a lot, and we're all of us accidents. I'm a bad case, -you tell me; I dare say it's true. You're a good chap to put up with -me." - -"Don't be a fool," said Corri. - -The "fool" stared into the coals, nursing his big knee. He seemed to -be considering his chum's accusation. - -"When I was sixteen," he said, still nursing the knee and contemplating -the fire, "I was grown up. In looking back, I never see any transition -from childhood to maturity. I was a kid, and then I was a man. I was -a man when I went to school; I never had larks out of hours; I went -there understanding I was sent to learn as much, and as quickly as I -could. Then from school I was put into an office, and was a man who -already had to hide what he felt; my people knew I wanted to make this -my profession, and they couldn't afford it. If I had let the poor old -governor see--well, he didn't see; I affected contentment, I said a -clerkship was 'rather jolly'! Good Lord! I said it was 'jolly'! The -abasement of it! The little hypocritical cur it makes of you, that -life, where a gape is regarded as a sign of laziness and you're forced -to hide the natural thing behind an account-book or the lid of your -desk; when the knowledge that you mustn't lay down your pen for five -minutes under your chief's eyes teaches you to sneak your leisure when -he turns his back, and to sham uninterrupted industry at the sound -of--his return. With the humbug, and the 'Yes, sirs,' and the 'No, -sirs,' you're a schoolboy over again as a clerk, excepting that in an -office you're paid." - -"My clerk has yet to come!" said Corri, grimacing. - -"Yes, he's being demoralised somewhere else. How I thanked God one -night when my father told me if I hadn't outgrown my desire he could -manage to gratify it! The words took me out of hell. But when I did -become a student I couldn't help being conscious that to study was an -extravagance. The knowledge was with me all the time, reminding me of -my responsibility--although it wasn't till the governor died that I -knew how great an extravagance it must have seemed to him. And I never -spreed with the fellows as a student any more than I had enjoyed myself -with the lads in the playground. Altogether, I haven't rollicked, -Corri. Such youth as I have had has been snatched at between troubles." - -"Poor old beggar!" - -Kincaid smiled quickly. - -"There's more feeling in 'you poor old beggar!' than in a letter piled -up with condolence. It's hard lines one can't write 'poor old beggar' -to every acquaintance who has a bereavement." The passion that had -crept into his strong voice while speaking of his earlier life to the -one person in the world to whom he could have brought himself to speak -so, had been repressed; his tone was again the impassive one that was -second-nature to him. - -"Believe me," he said, harking back after a pause, "that idea of the -medical profession, that 'respectable and expected' idea of yours, -is quite wrong. Oh, it isn't yours alone, it's common? enough; every -little comic paragraphist thinks himself justified in turning out a -number of ignorant jokes at the profession's expense in the course of -the year; every twopenny-halfpenny caricaturist has to thank us for a -number of his dinners. No harm's meant, and nobody minds; but people -who actually know something of the subject that these funny men are so -constant to can tell you that there's more nobility and self-sacrifice -in the medical profession than in any under the sun, not excepting the -Church. Yes, and more hardships too! The chat on the weather and the -fee for remarking it's a fine day isn't every medical man's life; the -difficulty is to get the fees in return for loyal attendance. Nobody's -reverenced like the family doctor in time of sickness. In the days of -their child's recovery the parents love the doctor almost as fervently -as they do the child; but the fervour's got cold when Christmas comes -and the gratitude's forgotten. And they know a doctor can't dun them; -so he has to wait for his account and pretend the money's of no -consequence when he bows to them, though the butcher and the baker and -the grocer don't pretend to _him_, but look for _their_ bills to be -settled every week. I could give you instances----" - -He gave instances. Corri spoke of difficulties, too. They smoked their -cigars to the stumps, talking leisurely, until Corri declared that he -must go. - -"In an hour, then, I'll call back for you," said Kincaid; "you won't be -longer?" - -"I don't think so. But why not wait? You can make yourself comfortable; -there's plenty of _The Times_ left to read." - -"I will. I want to write a couple of letters--can I?" - -"There's a desk! Have I got everything? Yes, that's all. Well, I'll be -as quick as I can, but if I _should_ be detained I shall find you here?" - -"You'll find me here," said Kincaid, "don't be alarmed." - -The other's departure did not send him to the desk immediately, -however. Left alone, it was manifest how used the man had been to -living alone. It was manifest in his composure, in his deliberation, in -the earnestness he devoted to the task when at last he attacked it. He -had just reached the foot of the second page when somebody knocked at -the door. - -"Come in," he said abstractedly. - -The knock was repeated. It occurred to him that Corri had omitted to -provide for the contingency of a client's calling. "Come in!" he cried -more loudly, annoyed at the interruption. - -He glanced over his shoulder, and saw that the intruder was a woman, -with something in her hand. - -"Mr. Corri?" - -"Mr. Corri's not in," he replied, fingering the pen; "he'll be back -by-and-by." - -Mary lingered irresolutely. Her temples throbbed, and in her weakness -the sight of a chair magnetised her. - -"Shall I wait?" she murmured; "perhaps he won't be very long?" - -"Eh?" said Kincaid. "Oh, wait if you like, madam." - -She sank into a seat mutely. The response had not sounded encouraging, -but it permitted her to rest, and rest was what she yearned for now. -How indifferent the world was! how mercilessly little anybody cared -for anybody else! "Wait, if you like, madam"--go and die, if you like, -madam--go and lay your bones in the gutter, madam, so long as you -don't bother me! She watched the big hand hazily as it shifted to and -fro across the paper. The man probably had money in his pocket that -signified nothing to him, and to her it would have been salvation. He -lived in comfort while she was starving; he did not know that she was -starving, but how much would it affect him if he did know? She wondered -whether she could induce him to give an order for the book; perhaps he -was just as likely to order it as the other man? Then she would take a -cab back to Mr. Collins and ask him for her commission at once, and go -and eat something--if she were able to eat any longer. - -She roused herself with an effort, and crossed the room to where he sat. - -"I came to see Mr. Corri from Messrs. Pattenden," she faltered, "about -a new work they're publishing. I've brought a specimen. If I am not -disturbing you----?" - -She put it down as she spoke, and stood a pace or two behind him, -watching the effect. - -"Is this woman very nervous?" said Kincaid to himself. "So she's a -book-agent! I thought she had something to sell. Good Lord, what a -life!" - -"Thanks," he answered. "I'm very busy just now, and I never buy my -books on the subscription plan." - -"You could have it sent in to you when it's complete," she suggested. - -He drummed his fingers on the title-page. "I don't want it." - -"Perhaps Mr. Corri----?" - -"I can't speak for Mr. Corri; but don't wait for him, on my advice. I'm -afraid it would be patience wasted." - -He shut the _Album_ up, intimating that he had done with it. But the -woman made no movement to withdraw it, and he invited this movement by -pushing the thing aside. He drew the blotting-pad forward to resume -his letter; and still she did not remove her obnoxious specimen from -the desk. He was beginning to feel irritated. - -"If you choose to wait, madam, take a seat," he said.... "I say -take----" - -He turned, questioning her continued silence, and sprang to his feet -in dismay. The book-agent's head was lolling on her bosom; and his -arm--extended to support her--was only out in time to catch her as she -fell. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -"Now," said Kincaid, when she opened her eyes, "what's the matter with -you? No nonsense; I'm a doctor; you mustn't tell lies to me! What's the -matter with you?" - -There are some things a woman cannot say; this was one of them. - -"You're very exhausted?" - -"Oh," she said weakly, "I--just a little." - -"When had you food last?" - -She gave no answer. He scrutinised her persistently, noting her -hesitation, and shot his next question straight at the mark. - -"Are you hungry?" - -The eyes closed again, and her lips quivered. - -"Boor!" he said to himself, "she's starving, and you wouldn't buy her -book. Beast! she's starving, and you tried to turn her out." - -But his sympathy was hardly communicated by his voice; indeed, in her -shame she thought him rather rough. - -"You stop here a minute," he continued; "don't you go and faint again, -because I forbid it! I'm going to order a prescription for you. Your -complaint isn't incurable--I've had it myself." - -He left her in quest of the housekeeper, whom he interrogated on the -subject of eggs and coffee. A shilling brightened her wits. - -"Mr. Corri's room; hurry!" - -His patient was sitting in the arm-chair when he went back; he saw -tear-stains on her cheek, though she turned away her face at his -approach. - -"The prescription's being made up," he said. "Would you like the window -shut again? No? All right, we'll keep it open. Don't talk if you'd -rather not; there's no need--I know all you want to say." - -He ignored her ostentatiously till the tray appeared, and then, -receiving it at the doorway, brought it over to her himself. - -"Come," he said, "try that--slowly." - -"Oh!" she murmured, shrinking. - -"Don't be silly; do as I tell you! There's nothing to be bashful about; -I know you're not an angel--your having an appetite doesn't astonish -me." - -"How good you are!" she muttered; "what must you think of me?" - -"Eat," commanded Kincaid; "ask me what I think of you afterwards." - -She was evidently in no danger of committing the mistake that he had -looked for--his difficulty was, not to restrain, but to persuade her; -nor was her reluctance the outcome of embarrassment alone. - -"It has gone," she said, shaking her head; "I am really not hungry now." - -He encouraged her till she began. Then he retired behind the newspaper, -to distress her as little as might be by his presence. At the end of a -quarter of an hour he put _The Times_ down. The eggshells were empty, -and he stretched himself and addressed her: - -"Better?" - -"Much better," she said, with a ghost of a smile. - -"Have you been having a long experience of this sort of thing?" - -"N--no," she returned nervously, "not very." - -He caressed his moustache; she was ceasing to be a patient and becoming -a woman, and he didn't quite know what he was to do with her. Somehow, -despite her situation, the offer of a sovereign looked as if it would -be coarse. Mary divined his dilemma, and made as if to rise. - -"Sit down," he said authoritatively. "When you're well enough to go -I'll tell you; till I do, stay where you are!" - -She felt that she ought to say something, proffer some explanation, but -she was at a loss how to begin. There was a pause. And then: - -"Is there any likelihood of this business of yours improving?" inquired -Kincaid. "Suppose you were able to hold out--is there anything to look -forward to?" - -"No," she said; "I don't think there is. I'm afraid I am no use at it." - -"Was it an attractive career, that you made the attempt?" - -"Not in the least; but it was a chance." - -"I see!" - -He saw also that she was a gentlewoman fitted for more refined -pursuits. How had she reached this pass? he wondered. Would she -volunteer the information, or should he ask her? He failed to perceive -what assistance he could render if he knew; yet if he did not help her -she would go away and die, and he would know that she was going away to -die as he let her out. - -"I was introduced to the firm by a very old connection of theirs. I -couldn't find anything to do, and he fancied that as I was--well, that -as I was a lady--it sounds rather odd under the circumstances to speak -of being a lady, doesn't it----?" - -"I don't see anything odd about it," he said. - -"He fancied I might do rather well. But I think it's a drawback, on the -contrary. It's not easy to me to decline to take 'No' for an answer; -and nobody can do any good at work she's ashamed of." - -"But you shouldn't be ashamed," he said; "it's honest enough." - -"That's what the manager tells me. Only when la woman has to go into a -stranger's office and bother him, and be snubbed for her pains, the -honesty doesn't prevent her feeling uncomfortable. You must have found -me a nuisance yourself." - -"I'm afraid I was rather brusque," he said quickly. "I was busy; I hope -I wasn't rude?" - -Her colour rose. - -"I didn't mean that at all," she stammered; "I shouldn't be very -grateful to remind you of it even if you had been!" - -"I should have thought a book of that sort would have been tolerably -easy to sell. It's a useful work of reference. What's the price?" - -"Two pounds ten altogether. It isn't dear, but people won't buy it, all -the same." - -"Yes, it's got up well," he said, taking it from the desk and turning -the leaves. "How many volumes, did you say?" - -"Four." - -She made a little tentative movement to recover it, but he went on as -if the gesture had escaped him. - -"If it's not too late I'll change my mind and subscribe for a copy. Put -my name down, please, will you?" - -She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. - -"No," she said, "thank you, I'd rather not." - -"Why?" - -"You don't want the book, I know you don't. You've fed me and done -enough for me already; I won't take your money too; I can't!" - -Her bosom began to swell tempestuously. He saw by the widened eyes -fixed upon the fire that she was struggling not to cry again. - -"There," he said gently, "don't break down! Let's talk about something -else." - -"Oh!"--she sneaked a tear away--"I'm not used ... don't think----" - -"No, no," he said, "_I_ know, _I_ understand. Poke it for me, will you? -let's have a blaze." - -She took the poker up, and prolonged the task a minute while she hung -her head. - -Remarked Kincaid: - -"It's awful to be hard up, isn't it? I've been through all the stages; -it's abominable!" - -"_You_ have?" - -"Oh yes; I know all about it. So I don't tell you that 'money's the -least thing.' Only people who have always had enough say that." - -"One wants so little in the world to relieve anxiety," she said; "it -does seem cruel that so few can get enough for ease." - -"What do you mean by 'ease'?" - -"Oh, I should call employment 'ease' now." - -"Did you ask for more once, then?" - -"Yes, I used to be more foolish. 'Experience teaches fools.'" - -"No, it doesn't," said Kincaid. "Experience teaches intelligent people; -fools go on blundering to the end. 'Once----?' I interrupted you." - -"Well, it used to mean a home of my own, and relations to care for me, -and money enough to settle the bills without minding if they came to -five shillings more than I had expected. It's a beautiful regulation -that the less we have, the less we can manage with. But the horse -couldn't live on the one straw." - -"How did you come to this?" asked Kincaid; "couldn't you get different -work before the last straw?" - -"If you knew how I tried! I haven't any friends here; that was my -difficulty. I wanted a situation as a companion, but I had to give the -idea up at last, and it ended in my going to Pattenden's. Don't think -they know! I mean, don't imagine they guess the straits I'm in: that -would be unfair. They have been very kind to me." - -"You've never been a companion, I suppose?" - -"No; but I hoped, for all that. Everything has to be done for the first -time; every adept was a novice once.". - -"That's true, but there are so many adepts in everything to-day that -the novices haven't much chance." - -"Then how are they to qualify?" - -"That's the novices' affair. You can't expect people to pay -incompetence when skilled labour is loafing at the street corners." - -"I expect nothing," she answered; "my expectations are all dead and -buried. We've only a certain capacity for expectation, I think; under -favourable conditions it wears well and we say, 'While there's life -there's hope;' but; when it's strained too much, it gives out." - -"And you drift without a fight in you?" - -"A woman can't do more than fight till she's beaten." - -"She shouldn't acknowledge to being beaten." - -"Theory!" she said between her teeth; "the breakfast-tray is fact!" - -"What do you reckon is going to become of; you?" - -"I don't anticipate at all." - -"Oh, that's all rubbish! Answer straight!" - -"I shall starve, then," she said. - -"Sss! You know it?" - -"I know it, and I'm resigned to it. If I weren't resigned to it, it -would be much harder. There's nothing that can happen to provide -for me; there isn't a soul in the world I can--'will,' to be -accurate--appeal to for help. You've delayed it a little by your -kindness, but you can't prevent its coming. Oh, I've hoped and -struggled till I am worn out!" she went on, her; voice shaking. "If -there were a prospect, I could rouse myself, weak as I am, to reach -it; but there isn't a prospect, not the glimmer of a prospect! I'm not -cowardly; I'm only rational. I admit what is; I've finished duping -myself." - -She could express her despair, this woman; she had education and -manner. He contemplated her attentively; she interested him. - -"You speak like a fatalist, for all that," he said to her. - -"I speak like a woman who has reached the lowest rung of destitution -and been fed on charity. I----Oh, don't, _don't_ keep forcing me to -make a child of myself like this; let me go! Perhaps you're quite -right--things 'll improve." - -"You shall go presently; not yet--not till I say you may." - -There was silence between them once more. He lay back, with his hands -thrust deep into his trouser-pockets, and his feet crossed, pondering. - -"You weren't brought up to anything, of course?" he said abruptly. -"Never been trained to anything? You can't do anything, or make -anything, that has any market value?" - -"I lived at home." - -"And now you're helpless! What rot it is! Why didn't your father teach -you to use your hands?" - -"I think you said you were a doctor?" she returned, lifting her head. - -"Eh? Yes, my name is 'Kincaid.'" - -"My father was Dr. Anthony Brettan; he never expected his daughter to -be in such want." - -"You don't say so--your father was one of us? I'm glad to make your -acquaintance. Is it 'Miss Brettan'?" - -She nodded, warming with an impulse to go further and cry, "Also I have -been a nurse: you are a doctor, can't you get me something to do?" -But if she did, he would require corroboration, and, in the absence -of her certificate, institute inquiries at the hospital; and then the -whisper would circulate that "Brettan was no longer living with her -husband"--they would soon ascertain that he had not died--and from -that point to the truth would be the veriest step. "Never married at -all--the disgrace! Of course, an actor, but fancy _her_!" She could see -their faces, the astonishment of their contempt. Narrow circle as it -was, it had been her world--she could not do it! - -"But surely, Miss Brettan," he said, "there must be someone who -can serve you a little--someone who can put you in the way of an -occupation?" - -Immediately she regretted having proclaimed so much as she had. - -"My father lived very quietly, and socially he was hardly a popular -man. For several reasons I wouldn't like my distress to be talked about -by people who knew him." - -"Those people are your credentials, though," he urged; "you can't -afford to turn your back on them. If you'll be guided by advice, you -will swallow your pride." - -"I couldn't; I made the resolve to stand alone, and I shall stick to -it. Besides, you are wrong in supposing that any one of them would -exert himself for me to any extent; my father did not have--was not -intimate enough with anybody." - -A difficult woman to aid, thought Kincaid pityingly. A notion had -flashed across his mind, at her reference to the kind of employment she -had desired, and the announcement of her parentage was strengthening -it; but there must be something to go upon, something more than mere -assertion. - -"If a post turned up, who is there to speak for you?" - -"Messrs. Pattenden; I believe they'd speak for me willingly." - -"Anybody else?" - -"No; but the manager would see anyone who went to him about me, I'm -almost sure." - -"You need friends, you know," he said; "you're very awkwardly placed -without any." - -"Oh, I do know! To have no friends is a crime; one's helpless without -them. And a woman's helplessness is the best of reasons why no help -should be extended to her. But it sounds a merciless argument, -doctor--horribly merciless, at the beginning!" - -"It's a merciless life. Look here, Miss Brettan, I don't want to beat -about the bush: you're in a beastly hole, and if I can pull you out of -it I shall be glad--for your own sake, and for the sake of your dead -father. It's like this, though; the only thing I can see my way to -involves the comfort of someone else. You were talking about a place as -companion; I can't live at home now, and my mother wants one." - -"Doctor!" - -She caught her breath. - -"If I were to take the responsibility of recommending you, it's -probable she'd engage you; I think you'd suit her, but----Well, it's -rather a large order!" - -"Oh, you should never be sorry!" she cried. "You shall never be sorry -for trusting me, if you will!" - -"You see, it's not easy. It's not usual to go engaging a lady one meets -for the first time." - -"Why, you wouldn't meet anybody else oftener," she pleaded eagerly; -"if you advertised, you'd take the woman after the one interview. You -wouldn't exchange a lot of visits and get friendly before you engaged -her." - -He pulled at his moustache again. - -"But of course she wouldn't--wouldn't be starving," she added; "she -wouldn't have fainted in your room. It'd be no more judicious, but it -would be more conventional." - -"You argue neatly," he said with a smile. - -The smile encouraged her. She smiled response. He could not smile if he -were going to refuse her, she felt. - -"Dr. Kincaid----" - -"One minute," he said; "I hear someone coming, I think. Excuse me!" - -It was Corri; he met him as he turned the handle, and drew him outside. - -"There's a woman in there," he said, "and a breakfast-tray. Come down -on to the next landing; I want to speak to you." - -"What on earth----" said Corri. "Are you giving a party? What do -you mean by a woman and a breakfast-tray? Did the woman bring the -breakfast-tray?" - -"No, she brought a book. It's serious." - -They leant over the banisters conferring, while Mary, in the arm-chair, -remained trembling with suspense. The vista opened by Kincaid's words -had shown her how tenaciously she still clung to life, how passionately -she would clutch at a chance of prolonging it. Awhile ago her one -prayer had been to die speedily; now, with a possibility of rescue -dangled before her eyes, her prayer was only for the possibility to be -fulfilled. Would he be satisfied, or would he send her away? Her fate -swung on the decision. She did not marvel at the tenacity; it seemed to -her so natural that she did not question it at all. Yet it is of all -things the oddest--the love of living which the most life-worn preserve -in their hearts. Every day they long for sleep, and daily the thought -of death alarms them--terrifies their inconsistent souls, though few -indeed believe there is a Hell, and everybody who is good enough to -believe in Heaven believes also that he is good enough to go to it. - -"O God," she whispered, "make him take me! Forgive me what I did; don't -let me suffer any more, God! You know how I loved him--how I loved him!" - -"Well," said Corri, on the landing, "and what are you going to do?" - -"I'm thinking," said Kincaid, "of letting my mother go to see her." - -"It's wildly philanthropic, isn't it?" - -"It looks wild, of course." He mused a moment. "But, after all, one -knows where she comes from; her father was a professional man; she's a -lady." - -"What was her father's name, again?" - -"Brettan--Anthony." - -"Ever heard it before?" - -"If there wasn't such a person, one can find it out in five minutes. -Besides, my mother would have to decide for herself. I should tell her -all about it, and if an interview left her content, why----" - -"Well," said Corri, "go back to the Bench and sum up! You'll find me on -the bed. By the way, if you could hand my pipe out without offending -the young lady, I should take it as a favour." - -"You've smoked enough. Wait! here's a last cigar; go and console -yourself with that!" - -Kincaid returned to the room; but he was not prepared to sum up at -the moment. Mary looked at him anxiously, striving to divine, by his -expression, the result of the consultation on the stairs. The person -consulted had been Mr. Corri, she concluded, the man that she had been -sent to importune. Old or young? easy-going or morose? On which side -had he cast the weight of his opinion--this man that she had never seen? - -"We were talking about the companion's place, Miss Brettan," began -Kincaid. "Now, what do you say?" - -Instantly she glowed with gratitude towards the unknown personage, who, -in reality, had done nothing. - -"Never should you regret it, Dr. Kincaid, never!" - -"Understand, I couldn't guarantee the engagement in any case," he said -hastily. "The most I could do would be to mention the matter; the rest -would depend on my mother's own feelings." - -"I should be just as thankful to you if she objected. Don't think I -under-estimate my draw-backs--I know that for you even to consider -engaging me is generous. But----Oh, I'd do my best!--I would indeed! -The difficulty's as clear to me as to you," she went on rapidly, "I see -it every bit as plainly. See it? It has barred me from employment again -and again! I'm a stranger, I've no credentials; I can only look you in -the face and say: 'I have told you the truth; if I were able to take -your advice and pocket my pride, I could _prove_ that I have told you -the truth,' And what's that?--anybody might say it and be lying! Oh -yes, I know! Doctor, my lack of references has made me suspected till -I could have cried blood. Doors have been shut against me, not because -I was ineligible in myself, but because I was a woman who hadn't -had employers to say, 'I found her a satisfactory person.' Things I -should have done for have been given to other women because they had -'characters,' and I hadn't. At the beginning I thought my tones would -carry conviction--I thought I could say: 'Honestly, this tale is -true,' and someone--one in a dozen, perhaps, one in twenty--would be -found to believe me. What a mistake, to hope to be believed! Why, in -all London, there's no creature so forsaken as a gentleman's daughter -without friends. A servant may be taken on trust; an educated woman, -never!" - -"She may sometimes," said Kincaid. "Hang it! it isn't so bad as all -that. What I can do for you I will! Very likely my mother will call on -you this afternoon. Where are you staying?" - -A hansom had just discharged a fare at one; of the opposite houses, and -he hailed it from the window. - -"The best thing you can do now is to go home and rest, and try not to -worry. Cheer up, and hope for the best, Miss Brettan--care killed a -cat!" - -She swallowed convulsively. - -"That is the address," she said. "God bless you, Dr. Kincaid!" - -He led the way down to the passage, and put her into the cab. It was, -perhaps, superfluous to show her that he remembered that cabs were -beyond her means; yet she might be harassed during the drive by a dread -of the man's demand, and he paid him so that she should see. - -The occurrence had swelled his catalogue of calls. He told Corri they -had better drop in at Guy's, and glance at a medical directory; but in -passing a second-hand bookstall they noticed an old copy exposed for -sale, and examined that one. He found Anthony Brettan's name in the -provincial section with gladness, and remarked, moreover, that Brettan -had been a student of his own college. - -"'Brettan' is going up!" he observed cheerfully. "Now step it, my son!" - -Mary's arrival at the lodging was an event of local interest. Mrs. -Shuttleworth, who stood at the door conversing with a neighbour, -watched her descent agape. Two children playing on the pavement -suspended their game. She told Mrs. Shuttleworth that a lady might ask -for her during the day, and, mounting to the garret, shut herself in to -wrestle unsuccessfully with her fears of being refused, or forgotten -altogether. Would this mother come or not? If not--she shivered; -she had been so near to ignominious death that the smell of it had -reached her nostrils--if not, the devilish gnawing would be back again -directly, and the faint sick craving would follow it; and then there -would be a fading of consciousness for the last time, and they would -talk about her as "it" and be afraid. - -But the mother did come. It seemed so wonderful that, even when -she sat beside her in the attic, and everything was progressing -favourably, Mary could scarcely realise that it was true. She came, -and the engagement was made. There are some women who are essentially -women's women; Mary was one of them. Mrs. Kincaid, who came already -interested, sure that her Philip could make no mistake and wishful to -be satisfied, was charmed with her. The pleading tones, the repose of -manner, the--for so she described it later--"Madonna face," if they -did not go "straight to her heart," mightily pleased her fancy. And of -course Mary liked her; what more natural? She was gentle of voice, she -had the softest blue eyes that ever beamed mildly under white hair, -and--culminating attraction--she obviously liked Mary. - -"I'm a lonely old woman now my son's been appointed medical officer at -the hospital," she said. "It'll be very quiet for you, but you'll bear -that, won't you? I do think you'll be comfortable with me, and I'm sure -I shall want to keep you." - -"Quiet for me!" said Mary. "Oh, Mrs. Kincaid, you speak as if you were -asking a favour of me, but your son must have told you that--what----I -suppose he saved my life!" - -"That's his profession," answered the old lady brightly; "that's what -he had to learn to do." - -"Ah, but not with hot breakfasts," Mary smiled. "I accept your offer -gratefully; I'll come as soon as you like." - -"Can you manage to go back with us the day after to-morrow? Don't if it -inconveniences you; but if you can be ready----" - -"I can; I shall be quite ready." - -"Good girl!" said Mrs. Kincaid. "Now you must let me advance you a -small sum, or--I daresay you have things to get--perhaps we had better -make it this! There, there! it's your own money, not a present; there's -nothing to thank me for. Good-afternoon, Miss Brettan; I will write -letting you know the train." - -"This" was a five-pound note. When she was alone again Mary picked it -up, and smoothed it out, and quivered at the crackle. These heavenly -people! their tenderness, their consideration! Oh, how beautiful it -would be if they knew all about her and there were no reservations! She -did wish she could have, revealed all to them--they had been so nice -and kind. - -She sought the landlady and paid her debt--the delight she felt in -paying her debt!--and said that she would be giving up her room after -the next night. She went forth to a little foreign restaurant in Gray's -Inn Road, where she dined wholesomely and well, treating herself to -cutlets, bread-crumbed and brown, and bordered with tomatoes, to -pudding and gruyere, and a cup of black coffee, all for eighteenpence, -after tipping the waiter. She returned to the attic--glorified attic! -it would never appal her any more--and abandoned herself to meditating -upon the "things." There was this, and there was that, and there -was the other. Yes, and she must have a box! She would have had her -initials painted on the box, only the paint would look so curiously -new. Should she have her initials on it? No, she decided that she would -not. Then there were her watch, and the bag to be redeemed at the -pawnbroker's, and she must say good-bye to Mr. Collins. What a busy day -would be the morrow! what a dawn of new hope, new peace, new life! Her -anxieties were left behind; before her lay shelter and rest. Yet on -a sudden the pleasure faded from her features, and her lips twitched -painfully. - -"Tony!" she murmured. - -She stood still where she had risen. A sob, a second sob, a torrent of -tears. She was on her knees beside the bed, gasping, shuddering, crying -out on God and him: - -"O Tony, Tony, Tony!" - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -The sun shone bright when she met Mrs. Kincaid at Euston. The doctor -was there, lounging loose-limbed and bony, by his mother's side. He -shook Mary's hand and remarked that it was a nice day for travelling. -She had been intending to say something grateful on greeting him, but -his manner did not invite it, so she tried to throw her thanks into -a look instead. She suffered at first from slight embarrassment, not -knowing if she should take her own ticket, nor what assistance was -expected of a companion at a railway-station. Perhaps she ought to -select the compartment, and superintend the labelling of the luggage? -Fortunately the luggage was not heavy, her own being by far the larger -portion; and the tickets, she learnt directly, he had already got. - -Her employer lived in Westport, a town that Mary had never visited, and -a little conversation arose from her questions about it. She did not -say much--she spoke very diffidently, in fact; the consciousness that -she was being paid to talk and be entertaining weighted her tongue. She -was relieved when, shortly after they started, Mrs. Kincaid imitated -her son's example, who lay back in his corner with his face hidden -behind _The Lancet_. - -They travelled second class, and it was not till a stoppage occurred -at some junction that their privacy was invaded. Then a large woman, -oppressed by packages and baskets, entered; and, as the new-comer -belonged to the category of persons who regard a railway journey as a -heaven-sent opportunity to eat an extra meal, her feats with sandwiches -had a fascination that rivalled the interest of the landscape. - -Of course, three hours later, when the train reached Westport, Mary -felt elated. Of course she gazed eagerly from the platform over the -prospect. It was new and pleasant and refreshing. There was a little -winding road with white palings, and a cottage with a red roof. A bell -tolled softly across the meadows, and somebody standing near her said -he supposed "that was for five o'clock service." To have exchanged the -jostle of London for a place where people had time to remember service -on a week-day, to be able to catch the chirp of the birds between the -roll of the wheels, was immediately exhilarating. Then, too, as they -drove to the house she scented in the air the freshness of tar that -bespoke proximity to the sea. Her bosom lifted. "The blessed peace of -it all!" she thought; "how happy I ought to be!" - -But she was not happy. That first evening there came to her the -soreness and sickness of recollection. She was left alone with Mrs. -Kincaid, and in the twilight they sat in the pretty little parlour, -chatting fitfully. How different was this arrival from those that she -was used to! No unpacking of photographs; no landlady to chatter of -the doings of last week's company; no stroll after tea with Tony just -to see where the theatre was. How funny! She said "how funny!" but -presently she meant "how painful!" And then it came upon her as a shock -that the old life was going on still without her. Photographs were -still being unpacked and set forth on mantelpieces; landladies still -waxed garrulous of last week's business; Tony was still strolling about -the towns on Sunday evenings, as he had done when she was with him. And -he was going to be Miss Westland's husband, while _she_ was here! How -hideous, how frightful and unreal, it seemed! - -She got up, and went over to the flower-stand in the window. - -"Are you tired, Miss Brettan? Perhaps you would like to go to your room -early to-night?" - -"No," she said, "thank you; I'm afraid I feel a trifle strange as yet, -that's all." - -At the opposite corner was a hoarding, and a comic-opera poster shone -among the local shopkeepers' advertisements. The sudden sight of -theatrical printing was like a welcome to her; she stood looking at it, -thrilling at it, with the past alive and warm again in her heart. - -"You'll soon feel at home," Mrs. Kincaid said after a pause; "I'm sure -I can understand your finding it rather uncomfortable at first." - -"Oh, not uncomfortable," Mary explained quickly; "it is queer a little, -just that! I mean, I don't know what I ought to do, and I'm afraid of -seeming inattentive. What is a companion's work, Mrs. Kincaid?" - -"Well, I've never had one," the old lady said with a laugh. "I think -you and I will get on best, do you know, if we forget you've come as -companion--if you talk when you like, and keep quiet when you like. You -see, it is literally a companion I want, not somebody to ring the bell -for me, and order the dinner, and make herself useful. This isn't a big -house, and I'm not a fashionable person; I want a woman who'll keep me -from moping, and be nice." - -Her answer expressed her requirements, and Mary found little expected -of her in return for the salary; so little that she wondered sometimes -if she earned it, small as it was. Excepting that she was continually -conscious that she must never be out of temper, and was frequently -obliged to read aloud when she would rather have sat in reverie, she -was practically her own mistress. Even, as the days went by she found -herself giving utterance to a thought as it came to her, without -pausing to conjecture its reception; speaking with the spontaneity -which, with the paid companion, is the last thing to be acquired. - -Few pleasures are shorter-lived than the one of being restored to -enough to eat; and in a week her sense of novelty had almost worn -away. They walked together; sometimes to the sea, but more often in -the town, for the approach to the sea tired Mrs. Kincaid. Westport was -not a popular watering-place; and in the summer Mary discovered that -the population of fifty thousand was not very greatly increased. From -Laburnum Lodge it took nearly twenty minutes to reach the shore, and -a hill had to be climbed. At the top of the incline the better-class -houses came to an end; and after some scattered cottages, an expanse -of ragged grass, with a bench or two, sloped to the beach. Despite its -bareness, Mary thought the spot delightful; its quietude appealed to -her. She often wished that she could go there by herself. - -Of the doctor they saw but little. Now and again he came round for an -hour or so, and at first she absented herself on these occasions. But -Mrs. Kincaid commented on her retirement and said it was unnecessary; -and thenceforward she remained. - -She did not chance to be out alone until she had been here nearly -three months; and when Mrs. Kincaid inquired one afternoon if she would -mind choosing a novel at the circulating library for her she went forth -gladly. A desire to see _The Era_ and ascertain Carew's whereabouts, -had grown too strong to be subdued. - -She crossed the interlying churchyard, and made her way along the High -Street impatiently; and, reaching the railway bookstall, bought a copy -of the current issue. It was with difficulty she restrained herself -from opening it on the platform, but she waited until she had turned -down the little lane at the station's side, and reached the gate where -the coal-trucks came to an end and a patch of green began. She doubted -whether the company would be touring so long, but the paper would -tell her something of his doings anyhow. She ran her eye eagerly down -the titles headed "On the Road." No, _The Foibles_ evidently was not -out now. Had the tour broken up for good, she wondered, or was there -merely a vacation? She could quickly learn by Tony's professional card. -How well she knew the sheet! The sheet! she knew the column, its very -number in the column--knew it followed "Farrell" and came before "de -Vigne." She even recalled the week when he had abandoned the cheaper -advertisements in alphabetical order; he had been cast for a part in a -production. She remembered she had said, - -"Now you're going to create," and, laughing, he had answered, "Oh, I -must have half a crown's worth 'to create'!" He had been lying on the -sofa--how it all came back to her! What was he doing now? She found the -place in an instant: - - "MR. SEATON CAREW, - - RESTING, - -Assumes direction of Miss Olive Westland's Tour, Aug. 4th. - - See 'Companies' page." - -They were married! She could not doubt it. "Oh," she muttered, "how he -has walked over me, that man! For the sake of two or three thousand -pounds, just for the sake of her money!" She sought weakly for the -company advertisement referred to, but the paragraphs swam together, -and it was several minutes before she could find it. Yes, here it -was: "_The Foibles of Fashion_ and Repertoire, opening August 4th." -_Camille_, eh? She laughed bitterly. He was going to play Armand; -he had always wanted to play Armand; now he could do it! "Under the -direction of Mr. Seaton Carew. Artists respectfully informed the -company is complete. All communications to be addressed: Mr. Seaton, -Carew, Bath Hotel, Bournemouth." Oh, my God! - -To think that while she had been starving in that attic he had -proceeded with his courtship, to reflect that in one of those terrible -hours that she had passed through he must have been dressing himself -for his wedding, wrung her heart. And now, while she stood here, he -was calling the other woman "Olive," and kissing her. She gripped the -bar with both hands, her breast heaved tumultuously; it seemed to her -that her punishment was more than she had power to bear. Wasn't his -sin worse than her own? she questioned; yet what price would he ever -be called upon to pay for it? At most, perhaps, occasional discontent! -Nobody would-blame him a bit; his offence was condoned already by a -decent woman's hand. In the wife's eyes she, Mary, was of course an -adventuress who had turned his weakness to account until the heroine -appeared on the scene to reclaim him. How easy it was to be the heroine -when one had a few thousand pounds to offer for a wedding-ring! - -She let the paper lie where it had fallen, and went to the library. -In leaving it she met Kincaid on his way to the Lodge. He was rather -glad of the meeting, the man to whom women had been only patients; he -had felt once or twice of late that it was agreeable to talk to Miss -Brettan. - -"Hallo," he said, in that voice of his that had so few inflexions; -"what have you been doing? Going home?" - -"I've been to get a book for Mrs. Kincaid," she answered. "She was -hoping you'd come round to-day." - -"I meant to come yesterday. Well, how are you getting on? Still -satisfied with Westport? Not beginning to tire of it yet?" - -"I like it very much," she said, "naturally. It's a great change from -my life three months ago; I shouldn't be very grateful if I weren't -satisfied." - -"That's all right. Your coming was a good thing; my mother was saying -the other evening it was a slice of luck." - -"Oh, I'm so glad! I have wanted to know whether I--did!" - -"You 'do' uncommonly; I haven't seen her so content for a long while. -You don't look very bright; d'ye feel well?" - -"It's the heat," she said; "yes, I'm quite well, thank you; I have a -headache this afternoon, that's all." - -She was wondering if her path and Carew's would ever cross again. How -horrible if chance brought him to the theatre here and she came face to -face with him in the High Street! - -"Hasn't my mother been out to-day herself? She ought to make the most -of the fine weather." - -"I left her in the garden; I think she likes that better than taking -walks." - -And it might happen so easily! she reflected. Why not _that_ company, -among the many companies that came to Westport? She'd be frightened to -leave the house. - -"I suppose when you first heard there was a garden you expected to see -apple-trees and strawberry-beds, didn't you?" - -"Oh, I don't know. It's not a bad little garden. We had tea in it last -night." - -She might be walking with Mrs. Kincaid, and Tony and his wife -would come suddenly round a corner. And "Miss Westland" would look -contemptuous, and Tony would start, and--and if she turned white, she'd -loathe herself! - -"Did you? You must enliven the old lady? a good deal if she goes in for -that sort of thing!" - -"Oh, it was stuffy indoors, and we thought that tea outside would be -nicer. I daresay I'm better than no one; it must have been rather dull -for her alone." - -"Is that the most you find to say of yourself--'better than no one'?" - -"Well, I haven't high spirits; some women are always laughing. We sit -and read, or do needlework; or she talks about you, and----" - -"And you're bored? That's a mother's privilege, you know, to bore -everybody about her son; you mustn't be hard on her." - -"I am interested; I think it's always interesting to hear of a man's -work in a profession. And, then, Medicine was my father's." - -"Were you the only child?" - -"Yes. I wasn't much of a child, though! My mother died when I was very -young, and I was taught a lot through that. The practice wasn't very -good--very remunerative, that's to say--and if a girl's father isn't -well off she becomes a woman early. If I had had a brother now----" - -"If you had had a brother--what?" - -"I was thinking it might have vmade a difference. Nothing particular. I -don't suppose he'd have been of any monetary assistance; there wouldn't -have been anything to give him a start with. But I should have liked a -brother--one older than I am." - -"You'd have made the right kind of man of him, I believe." - -"I was thinking of what he'd have made of me. A brother must be such a -help; a boy gets experience, and a girl has only instinct." - -"It's a pretty good thing to go on with." - -"It needs education, doctor, surely?" - -"It needs educating by a mother. Half the women who have children are -no more fit to be mothers than----And one comes across old maids with -just the qualities! Fine material allowed to waste!" - -The entrance to a cottage that they were passing stood open, and she -could see into the parlour. There were teacups on the table, and a mug -of wild flowers. On a garden-gate a child in a pink pinafore was slowly -swinging. The brilliance of the day had subsided, and the town lay -soft and yellow in the restfulness of sunset. A certain liquidity was -assumed by the rugged street in the haze that hung over it; a touch of -transparence gilded its flights of steps, the tiles of the house-tops, -and the homely faces of the fisher-folk where they loitered before -their doors. There a girl sat netting among the hollyhocks, withholding -confession from the youth who lounged beside her, yet lifting at times -to him a smile that had not been wakened by the net. The melody of the -hour intensified the discord in the woman's soul. - -"Don't you think----" said Kincaid. - -He turned to her, strolling with his hands behind him. He talked to -her, and she answered him, until they reached the house. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -Slowly there stole into Kincaid's life a new zest. He began to be -more eager to walk round to the Lodge; was often reluctant to rise -and say "good-night"; even found the picture of the little lamplit -room lingering with him after the front door had closed. Formerly the -visits had been rather colourless. Despite her affection for her son, -Mrs. Kincaid was but tepidly interested in the career that engrossed -him. She was vaguely proud to have a doctor for a son, but she felt -that his profession supplied them with little to talk about when he -came; and the man felt that his mother's inquiries about his work were -perfunctory. A third voice had done much for the visits, quickened the -accustomed questions, the stereotyped replies into the vitality of -conversation. - -Kincaid did not fail to give Miss Brettan credit for the brighter -atmosphere of the villa. But winter was at hand before he admitted -that much of the pleasure that he took in going there was inspired by -a hearty approval of Miss Brettan. The cosiness of the room, with two -women smiling at him when he entered--always with a little, surprise, -for the time of his coming was uncertain--and getting things for him, -and being sorry when he had to leave had had a charm that he did not -analyse. It was by degrees that he realised how many of his opinions -were directed to her. His one friendship hitherto had been for Corri; -and Corri was not here. The months when his cordial liking for Mary was -clear to him, and possessed of a fascination due very largely to its -unexpectedness, were perhaps the happiest that he had known. - -The development was not so happy; but it was fortunately slow. He had -gone to the house earlier than usual, and the women were preparing -for a walk. Mary stood by the mantelpiece. There was something they -had meant to do; she said she would go alone to do it. He lay back in -the depths of an arm-chair, and watched her while she spoke to his -mother, watched the play of her features and the quick turn of her -cheek. Then--it was the least significant of trivialities--she plucked -a hairpin from her hair, and began to button her glove. It was revealed -to him as he contemplated her that she was eminently lovable. His eyes -dwelt on the tender curve of her figure, displayed by the flexion of -her arm; he remarked the bend of the head, and the delicate modelling -of her ear and neck. These things were quite new to him. He was stirred -abruptly by the magic of her sex. The admiration did not last ten -seconds, and before he saw her again he recollected it only once, quite -suddenly. But the development had begun. - -In his next visit he looked to see these beauties, and found them. This -time, being voluntary, the admiration lasted longer. It was recurrent -all the evening. He discovered a novel excellence in her performance of -the simplest acts, and an additional enjoyment in talking with her. - -Thoughts of her came to him now while he sat at night in his room. -The bare little room witnessed all the phases of the man's love--its -brightness, and then its misgivings. He had no confidant to prose to; -he could never have spoken of the strange thing that had happened to -him, if he had had a confidant. He used to sit alone and think of her, -wondering if God would put it into her heart to care for him, wondering -in all humility if it could be ordained that he should ever hold this -dear woman in his arms and call her "wife." - -He would not be in a position to give her luxury, and for a couple of -years certainly he could not marry at all; but he believed primarily -that he could at least make her content; and in reflecting what she -would make of life for him, he smiled. The salary that he drew from his -post was not a very large one, but his mother's means sufficed for her -requirements, and he was able to lay almost the whole of it aside. He -thought that when a couple of years had gone by, he would be justified -in furnishing a small house, and that he might reasonably expect, -through the introductions procured by his appointment, to establish a -practice. It would be rather pinched for them at first, of course, but -she wouldn't mind that much if she were fond of him. "Fond" of him! -Could it be possible? he asked himself--Miss Brettan fond of him! She -was so composed, so quiet, she seemed such a long way off now that he -wanted her for his own. Would it really ever happen that the woman -whose hand had merely touched him in courtesy would one day be uttering -words of love for him and saying "my husband"? - -He wrestled long with his tenderness; the misgivings came quickly. -After all, she was comfortable as she was--she was provided for, she -had no pecuniary cares here. Had he the right to beg her to relinquish -this comparative ease and struggle by his side oppressed by the worries -of a precarious income? Then he told himself that they might take in -patients: that would augment the income. And she was a dependant now; -if she married him she would be her own mistress. - -He weighed all the pros and cons; he was no boy to call the -recklessness of self-indulgence the splendour of devotion. He balanced -the arguments on either side long and carefully. If he asked her -to come to him, it should be with the conviction he was doing her -no wrong. He saw how easy it would be to deceive himself, to feel -persuaded that the fact of her being in a situation made matrimony -an advance to her, whether she married well or ill. He would not act -impatiently and perhaps spoil her life. But he was very impatient. -Through months he used to come away from the Lodge striving to discern -importance in some answer she had made him, some question she had put -to him. It appeared to him that he had loved her much longer than he -had; and he had made no progress. There were moments when he upbraided -himself for being clumsy and stupid; some men in his place, he thought, -would have divined long ago what her feelings were. - -He never queried the wisdom of marrying her on his own account; the -privilege of cherishing her in health and nursing her in sickness, of -having her head pillowed on his breast, and confiding his hopes to -her sympathy; of going through life with her in a union in which she -would give to him all her sacred and withheld identity, looked to him -a joy for which he could never be less than intensely grateful while -life endured. He ceased to marvel at the birth of his love, it looked -natural now; she seemed to belong to Westport so wholly by this time. -He no longer contrasted the present atmosphere of the villa with the -duller atmosphere that she had banished. He had forgotten that duller -atmosphere. She was there--it was as if she had always been there. To -reflect that there had been a period when he had known no Mary Brettan -was strange. He wondered that he had not felt the want of her. The day -that he had met her in Corri's office appeared to him dim in the mists -of at least five years. The exterior of the man, and the yearnings -within him--Kincaid as he knew himself, and the doctor as he was known -to the hospital--were so at variance that the incongruity would have -been ludicrous if it had not been beautiful. - -When Mary saw that he had begun to care for her, it was with the -greatest tremor of insecurity that she had experienced since the date -of her arrival. She had foretasted many disasters in the interval, -been harassed by many fears, but that Dr. Kincaid might fall in love -with her was a contingency that had never entered her head. It was so -utterly unexpected that for a week she had discredited the evidence -of her senses, and when the truth was too palpable to be blinked any -longer, her remaining hope was that he might decide never to speak. -Here the meditations of the man and the woman were concerned with the -same theme--both revolved the claims of silence; but from different -standpoints. His consideration was whether avowal was unjust to her; -she sustained herself by attributing to him a reluctance to commit -himself to a woman of whom he knew so little. She clung to this haven -that she had found; her refusal, if indeed he did propose to her, would -surely necessitate her relinquishing it. Mrs. Kincaid might not desire -to see her companion marry her son, but still less would she desire to -retain a companion who had rejected him. It had been as peaceful here -as any place could be for her now, felt Mary; the thought of being -driven forth to do battle with the world again terrified her. She -wondered if Mrs. Kincaid had "noticed anything"; it was hard to believe -she could have avoided it; but she had evinced no sign of suspicion: -her manner was the same as usual. - -With the complication that had arisen to disturb her, the woman -perceived how prematurely old she was. Her courage had all gone, she -told herself; she said she had passed the capability for any sustained -effort; and it was a fact that the uneventful tenor of the life that -she had been leading, congenial because it demanded no energy, had -done much to render her lassitude permanent. Her pain, the rawness -of it, had dulled--she could touch the wound now without writhing; -but it had left her wearied unto death. To attempt to forget had been -beyond her; recollection continued to be her secret luxury; and the -inertia permitted by her position lent itself so thoroughly to a dual -existence that, to her own mind, she often seemed to be living more -acutely in her reminiscences than in her intercourse with her employer. - -From the commencement of the tour, which had started in the autumn of -the preceding year, she had kept herself posted in Carew's movements -as regularly as was practicable. It was frequently very difficult for -her to gain access to a theatrical paper; but generally she contrived -to see one somehow, if not on the day that it reached the town, then -later. She knew what parts he played, and where he played them. It -was a morbid fascination, but to be able to see his name mentioned -nearly every week made her glad that he was an actor. If he could have -gone abroad or died, without her being aware of it, she thought her -situation would have been too hideous for words. To steal that weekly -glimpse of the paper was her weekly flicker of sensation; sometimes the -past seemed to stir again; momentarily she was in the old surroundings. - -There had been only two tours. After the second, she had watched his -"card" anxiously. Three months had slipped away, and between his and -his agent's name nothing had been added but the "Resting." - -At last, after reading from the London paper to Mrs. Kincaid one day, -she derived some further news. A word of the theatrical gossip had -caught her eye, and unperceived by the lady, she started violently. -She had seen "Seaton Carew." For a minute she could not quell her -agitation sufficiently to pick the paper up; she sat staring down at -it and deciphering nothing. Then she learnt that Miss Olive Westland, -and her husband, Mr. Seaton Carew, encouraged by their successes in -the provinces, had completed arrangements to open the Boudoir Theatre -at the end of the following month. It was added that this of late -unfortunate house had been much embellished, and a reference to an -artist, or two already engaged showed Mary that Carew was playing with -big stakes. - -Henceforth she had had a new source of information, and one attainable -without trouble, for the London paper was delivered at the Lodge daily. -As the date for the production drew near, her impatience to hear the -verdict had grown so strong that the walls of the country parlour -cooped her; she saw through them into the city beyond--saw on to a -draughty stage where Carew was conducting a rehearsal. - -The piece had failed. On the morning when she learned that it had -failed, she participated dumbly in the chagrin of the failure. "Yes" -and "No" she had answered, and seen with the eyes of her heart the -gloom of a face that used to be pressed against her own. She did not -care, she vowed; her sole feeling with regard to the undertaking had -been curiosity. If it had been more than curiosity she would despise -herself! - -But she looked at the Boudoir advertisement every day. And it was -not long before she saw that another venture was in preparation. And -she held more skeins of wool, and watched with veiled eagerness this -advertisement develop like its predecessor. Recently the play had been; -produced, and she had read the notice in Mrs. Kincaid's presence. -When she finished it she guessed that Carew's hopes were over; unless -he had a great deal more money than she supposed, the experiment at -the Boudoir would see; it exhausted. There was not much said for his -performance, either; he was dismissed in an indifferent sentence, -like his wife. High praise of his acting might have led to London -engagements, but his hopes seemed to have miscarried as manager and as -actor too. - -When Kincaid went round to the house one evening, the servant told him -his mother had; gone to her room, and that Miss Brettan was sitting -with her. - -"Say I'm here, please, and ask if I may go up." Mary came down the -stairs as he spoke. - -"Ah, doctor," she said; "Mrs. Kincaid has gone to bed." - -"So I hear. What's the matter with her?" - -"Only neuralgia; she has had it all day. She has just fallen asleep." - -"Then I had better not go up to see her?" - -"I don't think I would. I have just come down to get a book." - -"Are you going to sit with her?" - -"Yes; she may wake and want something." - -They stood speaking in the hall, outside the parlour door. - -"Where is your book?" he said. - -"Inside. I am sorry you have come round for nothing; she'll be so -disappointed when she hears about it. May I tell her you'll come again -to-morrow?" - -"Yes, I'll look in some time during the day, if it's only for a moment. -I think I'll sit down awhile before I go." - -"Will you?" she said. "I beg your pardon." She opened the door, and he -followed her into the room. - -"You won't mind my leaving you?" she asked; "I don't want to stay away, -in case she does wake." - -It was nearly dark in the parlour; the lamp had not been lighted, and -the fire was low. A little snow whitened the laburnum-tree that was -visible through the window. It was an evening in January, and Mary had -been in Westport now nearly two years. - -"Can you see to find it?" he said. "Where did you leave it?" - -"It was on the sideboard; Ellen must have moved it, I suppose. I'll -ask her where she's put it." - -"No, don't do that; I'll light the lamp." - -She lifted the globe while he struck a match. It was his last, and it -went out. - -"Never mind," he said; "we'll get a light from the fire." - -"Oh," she exclaimed, "but I'm giving you so much trouble; you had -better let me call the girl!" - -A dread of what might happen in this darkness was coming over her. "You -had better let me call the girl," she repeated. - -"Try if you can get a light with this first," he said--"try there, -where it's red." - -She bent over the grate, the twist of paper in one hand, and the other -resting on the mantelpiece. He leant beside her, stirring the ashes -with his foot. - -It flashed back at her how Tony had stood stirring the ashes with his -foot that night in Leicester, while he broke his news. A sickening -anxiety swept through her to get away from Kincaid before he could have -a chance to touch her. The paper charred and curled, without catching -flame, and in her impatience she hated him for the delay. She hated -herself for being here, lingering in the twilight with a man who dared -to feel about her in the same way as Tony had once felt. - -She rose. - -"It's no use, doctor; Ellen will have to do it, after all." - -"Don't go just yet," he said; "I want to speak to you, Miss Brettan." - -"I can't stay any longer," she said. "I----" - -"You'll give me a minute? There's something I have been waiting to say -to you; I've been waiting a long while." - -She raised her face to him. In the shadows filling the room, he could -see little more than her eyes. - -"Don't say it. I think I can guess, perhaps.... Don't say it, Dr. -Kincaid!" - -"Yes," he insisted, "I must say it; I'm bound to tell you before I take -your answer, Mary. My dear, I love you." - -Memory gave her back the scene where Tony had said that for the first -time. - -"If you can't care for me, you have only to tell me so to-night; it -shall never be a worry to I you--I don't want my love to become a worry -to you, to make you wish I weren't here. But if you can care a little -... if you think that when I'm able to ask you to come to me you could -come.... Oh, my dear, all my life I'll be tender to you--all my life!" - -He could not see her eyes any longer; her head was bowed, and in her -silence the big man trembled. - -The servant came in with the taper, and let down the blinds. They stood -on the hearth, watching her dumbly. When the blinds were lowered, she -turned up the lamp; and the room was bright. Kincaid saw that Mary was -very pale. - -"Is there anything else, miss?" - -"No, Ellen, thank you; that's all." - -"Mary?" - -"I'm so sorry. You don't know how sorry I am!" - -"You could never care--not ever so little--for me?" - -"Not in that way: no." - -He looked away from her--looked at the engraving of Wellington and -Blucher meeting on the field of Waterloo; stared at the filter on -the sideboard, through which the water fell drop by drop. A heavy -weight seemed to have come down upon him, so that he breathed under -it laboriously. He wanted to curtail the pause, which he understood -must be trying to her; but he could not think of anything to say, nor -could he shake his brain clear of her last words, which appeared to -him incessantly reiterated. He felt as if his hope of her had been -something vital and she had stamped it out, to leave him confronted by -a new beginning--a beginning so strange that time must elapse before -he could realise how wholly strange it was going to be. Even while he -strove to address her it was difficult to feel that she was still very -close to him. Her tones lingered; her dress emphasised itself upon his -consciousness more and more; but from her presence he had a curious -sense of being remote. - -"Good-night," he said abruptly. "You mustn't let this trouble you, you -know. I shall always be glad I'm fond of you; I shall always be glad I -told you so--I was hoping, and now I understand. It's so much better to -understand than to go on hoping for what can never come." - -She searched pityingly for something kind; but the futility of phrases -daunted her. - -"I had better close the door after you," she murmured, "or it will make -a noise." - -They went out into the passage, and stood together on the step. - -"It's beginning to snow," he said; "it looks as if we were going to -have a heavy fall." - -"Yes," she said dully, glancing at the sky. - -She put out her hand, and it lay for an instant in his. - -"Well, good-night, again." - -"Good-night, Dr. Kincaid." - -As he turned, she was silhouetted against the gaslight of the -hall. Then her figure was with-drawn, and the view of the interior -narrowed--until, while he looked back, the brightness vanished -altogether and the door was shut. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -And so it was all over. - -"All over," he said to himself--"over and done with, Philip. Steady on, -Philip; take it fighting!" - -But they were only words--as yet he could not "take it fighting." Nor -was the knowledge that he was never to hold her quite all the grief -that lay upon him as he made his way along the ill-lit streets. There -was, besides, a very cruel smart--the abstract pain of being such a -little to one who was so much to him. - -He visited the patients who were still awake, and dressed such wounds -as needed to be dressed. He heard the little peevish questions and the -dull complaints just as he had done the night before. The nurse walked -softly past the sleepers with her shaded lamp, and once or twice he -spoke to her. And when, the doctor's duties done, the man had gained -his room, he thought of his hopes the night before, and sat with elbows -on the table while the hours struck, remembering what had happened -since. - -The necessity for returning to the house so speedily, to see his -mother, was eminently distasteful; he longed to escape it. And -then suddenly he warmed towards her in self-reproach, thinking it -had been very hard of him to wish to neglect his mother in order to -spare awkwardness to another woman. His repugnance to the task was -deep-rooted, all the same, and it did not lessen as the afternoon -approached. But for the fact of yesterday's indisposition, he could -never have brought himself to overcome it. - -The embarrassment that he had feared, however, was averted by Miss -Brettan's absence. - -Mrs. Kincaid said that she was quite well again to-day; Mary had told -her of his call the previous evening; how long was it he had stopped? - -"Oh, not very long," he said; "has the neuralgia quite gone?" - -"I feel a little weary after it, that's all. Is there anything fresh, -Philip?" - -"Fresh?" he answered vaguely. "No, dear. I don't know that there's -anything very fresh." - -"You look tired yourself," she said; "I thought that perhaps you were -troubled?" - -She thought, too, that Miss Brettan had looked troubled, and instinct -pointed to something having occurred. A conviction that her son was -getting fond of her companion had been unspoken in her mind for some -time, and under her placid questions now rankled a little wistfulness, -in feeling that she was not held dear enough for confidence. She -wanted to say to him outright: "Philip, did you tell Miss Brettan you -were fond of her when I was upstairs last night?" but was reluctant -to seem inquisitive. He, with never an inkling that she could suspect -his love, meanwhile reflected that for Mary's continued peace it was -desirable that his mother should never conjecture he had been refused. - -It is doubtful whether he had ever felt so wholly tender towards her -as he did in these moments while he admitted that it was imperative -to keep the secret from her; and perhaps the mother's heart had never -turned so far aside from him as while she perceived that she was never -to be told. - -They exchanged commonplaces with the one grave subject throbbing in -the minds of both. Of the two, the woman was the more laboured; and -presently he noticed what uphill work it was, and sighed. She heard the -sigh, and could have echoed it, thinking sadly that the presence of -her companion was required now to make her society endurable to him. -But she would not refer to Mary. She bent over her wool-work, and the -needle went in and out with feeble regularity, while she maintained a -wounded silence, which the man was regarding as an unwillingness to -talk. - -He said at last that he must go, and she did not offer to detain him. - -"I want to hurry back this afternoon; you won't mind?" - -"No," she murmured; "you know what you have to do, Philip, better than -I." - -He stooped and kissed her. For the first time in her life she did not -return his kiss. She gave him her cheek, and rested one hand a little -tremulously on his shoulder. - -"Good-bye," she said; her tone was so gentle that he did not remark the -absence of the caress. "Don't go working too hard, Phil!" - -He patted the hand reassuringly, and let himself out. Then the hand -crept slowly up to her eyes, and she wiped some tears away. The -wool-work drooped to her lap, and she sat recalling a little boy who -had been used to talk of the wondrous things he was going to do for -"mother" when he became a man, and who now had become a man, living for -a strange woman, and full of a love which "mother" might only guess. - -She could not feel quite so cordial to Mary as she had done. To think -of her holding her son's confidence, while she herself was left -to speculate, made the need for surmises seem harder. And Philip -was unhappy: her companion must be indifferent to him; nothing but -that could account for the unhappiness, or for the reservation. She -could have forgiven her engrossing his affections--in time; but her -indifference was more than she could forgive. - -Still, this was the woman he loved--and she endeavoured to hide her -resentment, as she had hidden her suspicions. Their intercourse -during the next week was less free than usual, nevertheless. Perhaps -the resentment was less easy to hide, or perhaps Mary's nervousness -made her unduly sensitive, but there were pauses which seemed to her -significant of condemnation. She was exceedingly uncomfortable during -this week. Sometimes she was only deterred from proclaiming what had -happened and appealing to the other's fairness to exonerate her, by -the recollection that it was, after all, just possible that the avowal -might have the effect of transforming a bush into an officer. - -She could not venture to repeat the retirement to her room the next -time the doctor came. Nearly a fortnight had gone by. And she forced -herself to turn to him with a few remarks. He was not the man to -disguise his feelings successfully by a flow of small-talk; his life -had not qualified him for it; and it was an ordeal to him to sit there -in the presence of Mary and witness attempts in which he perceived -himself unqualified to co-operate. His knowledge that the simulated -ease should have originated with himself rather than with her made his -ineptitude seem additionally ungracious, and he feared she must think -him boorish, and disposed to parade his disappointment for the purpose -of exciting her compassion. - -Strongly, therefore, as he had wished to avoid a break in the social -routine, his subsequent visits were made at longer intervals, and more -often than not curtailed on the plea of work. It was, as yet at all -events, impossible for him to behave towards her as if nothing untoward -had happened, and to shun the house awhile looked to him a wiser course -than to haunt it with discomposure patent. Thus the restraint that -Mrs. Kincaid was imposing on herself had a further burden to bear: -Miss Brettan was keeping her son from her side. The pauses became more -frequent, and, to Mary, more than ever ominous. Indeed, while the -mother mused mournfully on the consequences of her engagement, the -companion herself was questioning how long she could expect to retain -it. She began to consider whether she should relinquish it, to elude -the indignity of a dismissal. And even if Mrs. Kincaid did fail to -suspect the reason for her son's absenting himself, the responsibility -was the same, she reflected. It was she who divided the pair, she who -was accountable for the hurt expression that the old lady's face so -often wore now. She felt wearily that women had a great deal to endure -in life, what with the men they cared for, and the men for whom they -did not care. There seemed no privileges pertaining to their sex; being -feminine only amplified the scope for vexation. A fact which she did -not see was that one of the most pathetic things in connection with -the unloved lover is the irritability with which the woman so often -thinks about him. - -With what sentiments she might have listened to Kincaid had she met -him prior to her intimacy with Carew one may only conjecture. Now he -touched her not at all; but the intimacy had been an experience which -engulfed so much of her sensibility, that she had emerged from it a -different being. Kincaid's rival, in truth, was the most powerful one -that can ever oppose a lover; the rival of constant remembrance--always -a doughty antagonist, and never so impregnable as when the woman is -instinctively a virtuous woman and has fallen for the man that she -remembers. - -It occurred to Mary to seek an opportunity for letting the doctor know -that he was paining his mother by so rarely coming now; but such an -opportunity was not easy to gain, for when he did come his mother of -course was present. She thought of writing, but by word of mouth a hint -would suffice, while a letter, in the circumstances, would have its -awkwardness. - -More than two months had gone by when Mrs. Kincaid made her plaint. It -was on a Sunday morning. Mary was standing before the window, looking -out, while the elder woman sat moodily in her accustomed seat.-- - -"Are we going to church?" asked Mary. - -"Yes, I suppose so; there's plenty of time, isn't there?" - -"Oh, yes, it's early yet--not ten. What a lovely day! The spring has -begun." - -"Yes," assented the other absently. - -There was a short silence, and then: - -"I shan't run any risk of missing Dr. Kincaid by going out; I needn't -be afraid of that!" she added. - -Her voice had in it so much more of pathos than of testiness, that -after the instant's dismay her companion felt acutely sorry for her. - -"A doctor's time is scarcely his own, is it?" she murmured, turning. - -Mrs. Kincaid did not reply immediately, and the delay seemed to Mary to -accentuate the feebleness of her answer. - -"I mean," she said, "that it isn't as if he were able to leave the -hospital whenever he liked. There may be cases----" - -"He used to be able to come often; why shouldn't he be able now?" - -"Yes----" faltered Mary. - -"I haven't asked him; it is a good reason that keeps him from me, of -course. But it's hard, when you're living in the same town as your son, -not to have him with you more than an hour in a month. I don't see much -more of him than that, lately. The last time he came, he stayed twenty -minutes. The time before, he said he was in a hurry before he said, -'How do you do?' He never put his hat down--you may have; noticed it?" - -"Yes, I noticed it," Mary admitted. - -"You know; oh, you do know!" she cried inwardly, with a sinking of the -heart. "_Now_, what am I to do?" - -"Don't imagine I am blaming him," went on Mrs. Kincaid, "I am not -blaming anybody; the reason may be very strong indeed. Only it seems -rather unfair that I should have to suffer for it, considering that I -don't hear what it is." - -"Then why not speak to Dr. Kincaid? If he understood that you felt his -absence so keenly, you may be sure he'd try to come oftener. Why don't -you tell him that you miss him?" - -"I shall never sue to my son for his visits," said the old lady with a -touch of dignity, "nor shall I ask him why he stays away. That is quite -his own affair. At my age we begin to see that our children have rights -we mustn't intrude into--secrets that must be told to us freely, or not -told at all. We begin to see it, only we are old to learn. There, my -dear, don't let us talk about it; it's not a pleasant subject. I think -we had better go and dress." - -Mary looked at her helplessly; there was a finality in her tone which -precluded the possibility of any advance. It was more than ever -manifest that the task of remonstrating with him devolved upon Mary -herself, and she decided to write to him that afternoon. Shortly after -dinner Mrs. Kincaid went into the garden, and, left to her own devices -in the parlour, Mary drew her chair to the escritoire. She would write -a few lines, she thought, however clumsy, and send them at once. -Still, they were not easy lines to produce, and she nibbled her pen a -good deal in the course of their composition; the self-consciousness -that invaded some of the sentences was too glaring. When the note was -finished at last, she slipped it into her pocket, and told Mrs. Kincaid -she would like to go for a walk. - -"Oh, by all means; why not?" - -"I thought perhaps you might want me." - -"No," said Mrs. Kincaid; "I shall get along very well--I'm gardening." - -She was, indeed, more cheerful than she had been for some time, busying -herself among the violets, and stooping over the crocuses to clear the -soil away. - -"Go along," she added, nodding across her shoulder; "a walk will do you -good!" - -Though the wish had been expressed only to avoid giving the letter to a -servant, Mary thought that she might as well profit by the chance; and -from the post-office she sauntered as far as the beach. Then it struck -her that the doctor might pay his overdue visit this afternoon, and she -was sorry that she had gone out. The laboured letter might have been -dispensed with--she might have had a word with him before he joined his -mother in the garden! She turned back at once--and as she neared the -Lodge, she saw him leaving it. They met not fifty yards from the door. - -"Well, have you enjoyed your walk--you haven't been very far?" he said. - -"Not very," said she; "I changed my mind. How did you find your mother?" - -"She had been pottering about on the wet ground, which wasn't any too -wise of her. Why do you ask?" - -"Oh, I ... She has been missing you a little, I think; she wants you -there more often." - -"Oh?" he said; "I'm very sorry. Are you sure?" - -"Yes, I am sure; it is more than a little she misses you. As a matter -of fact, I have just written to you, Dr. Kincaid." - -"To me? What--about this?" - -"Yes." - -"I didn't know," he said; "I never supposed she'd miss me like that. It -was very kind of you." - -"I wanted to speak to you about it before. I have seen for some time -she was distressed." - -"Has she said anything?" - -"She only mentioned it this morning, but I've noticed." - -"It was very kind of you," he repeated; "I'm much obliged." - -Both suffered slightly from the consciousness of suppression; and after -a few seconds she said boldly: - -"Dr. Kincaid, if you're staying away with any idea of sparing -embarrassment to me, I beg that you won't." - -"Well, of course," he said, "I thought you'd rather I didn't come." - -"But do you suppose I can consent to keep you from your mother's house? -You must see ... the responsibility of it! What I should like to know -is, are you staying away solely for my sake?" - -"I didn't wish to intrude my trouble on you." - -"No," she said; "that isn't what I mean. I am glad I have met you; I -want to speak to, you plainly. I have thought that perhaps it hurt you -to come; that my being there reminded--that you didn't like it? If -that's so----" - -"I think you're exaggerating the importance of the thing! It is very -nice and womanly of you, but you are making yourself unhappy for -nothing. I have had a good deal to occupy me of late--in future I'll go -oftener." - -"I feel very guilty," she answered. "If I am right in thinking it would -be pleasanter for you to stay away than to go there and see me, my -course is clear. It's not my home, you know; I'm in a situation, and it -can be given up." - -"You mustn't talk like that. I must have blundered very badly to give -you such an idea. Don't let's stand here! Do you mind turning back a -little way? If what I said to you obliged you to leave Westport, I -should reproach myself for it bitterly." - -They strolled slowly down the street; and during a minute each of the -pair sought phrases. - -"It's certain," she said abruptly, "that my being your mother's -companion is quite wrong! If I weren't in the house you'd go there the -same as you used to. I can't help feeling that." - -"But I _will_ go there the same as I used to. I have said so." - -"Yes," she murmured. - -"Doesn't that satisfy you?" - -"You'll go, but the fact remains that you'd rather not; and the cause -of your reluctance is my presence there." - -"It is you who are insisting on the reluctance," he fenced; "_I've_ -not said I am reluctant. I thought you'd prefer me to avoid you for a -while; personally----" - -"Oh!" she said, "do you think I've not seen? I know very well the -position is a false one!" - -"I told you I'd never become a worry to you," he said humbly; "I've -been trying to keep my word." - -"You've been everything that is considerate; the fault is my own. I -ought to have resigned the place the day after you spoke to me." - -"I don't think that would have helped me much. You must understand that -a change like that was the very last thing I wanted my love to effect." - -At the word "love" the woman flinched a little, and he himself had not -been void of sensation in uttering it. The sound of it was loud to both -of them. But to her it added to the sense of awkwardness, while to the -man it seemed to bring them nearer. - -"It was very dense of me," he went on; "but with all the consequences -of speaking to you that I foresaw I never took into account the one -that has happened. I wondered if I was justified in asking you to give -up a comfortable living for such a home as I could offer; I considered -half a dozen things; but that I might be making the house unbearable to -you I overlooked. Now, with your interest at heart all the time, I've -injured you! I can't tell you how sorry I am to learn it." - -"It's not unbearable," she said; "'unbearable' is much too strong. But -I do see my duty, and I know the right thing is for me to go away; your -mother would have you then as she ought to have you. While I stop, it -can never be really free for either of you. And of course she knows!" - -"Do you think she does?" he exclaimed. - -"Are women blind? Of course she knows! And what can she feel towards -me? It's only the affection she has for you that prevents her -discharging me." - -"Oh, don't!" he said. "'Discharging' you!" - -"What am I? I'm only her servant. Don't blink facts, Dr. Kincaid; I'm -your mother's companion, a woman you had never seen two years ago. It -would have been a good deal better for you if you had never seen me at -all!" - -"You can't say what would have been best for _me_," he returned -unsteadily; "I'd rather have known you as I do than that we hadn't met. -For yourself, perhaps----" - -"Hush!" she interrupted; "we can neither of us forget what our meeting -was. For myself, I owe my very life to meeting you; that's why the -result of it is so abominable--such a shame! I haven't said much, but I -remember every day what I owe you. I know I owe you the very clothes I -wear." - -"Oh, for God's sake!" he muttered. - -"And my repayment is to make you unhappy--and her unhappy. It's noble!" - -Her pace quickened, and to see her excited acted upon him very -strongly. He longed to comfort her, and because this was impossible by -reason of the disparity of their sentiments, the sight of her emotion -was more painful. He had never felt the hopelessness of his attachment -so heavy on him as now that he saw her disturbed on account of it, -and realised at the same time that it debarred him from offering her -consolation. They walked along, gazing before them fixedly into the -vista of the shut-up shops and Sunday quietude, until at last he said -with an effort: - -"If you did go you'd make me unhappier than ever." - -She did not reply to this; and after a glance at the troubled profile: - -"I am ready to do whatever you want," he added; "whatever will make the -position easiest to you. It seems that, with the best intentions, I've -only succeeded in giving annoyance to you both. But the wrong to my -mother can be remedied; and if I drive you away I shall have done some -lasting harm.... Why don't you say that you'll remain?" - -"Because I'm not sure about it. I can't determine." - -"Your objection was the fancy that you were responsible for my seeing -her so seldom; I've promised to see her as often as I can." - -She bit her lip. She said nothing. - -"I can't do any more--can I?" - -"No," she confessed. - -"Then, what's the matter?" - -"The matter is that----" - -"What?" - -"You show me more plainly every minute that I _ought_ to go." - -Something in the dumbness with which the announcement was received told -her how unexpected it had been. And, indeed, to hear that his love, -unperceived by himself, had been fighting against him was the hardest -thing that he had had to bear. Sensible that every remonstrance that -escaped him would estrang them further, the man felt helpless. They -were crossing the churchyard now, and she said something about the -impracticability of her going any further. - -"Well, as you'll come oftener, our talk hasn't been useless!" - -"Wait a second," he said. He paused by the porch, and looked at her. "I -can't leave you like this. Mary----!" - -"Oh!" she faltered, "don't say anything--don't!" - -"I must. What's the good?--I keep back everything, and you still know! -You'll always know. Nothing could have been more honestly meant than -my assurance that I'd never bring distress to you, and I've brought -distress. Let's look the thing squarely in the eyes: you, won't be my -wife, but you needn't go away. What would you do? Whom do you know? -Leaving my loss of you out of the question, think of my self-reproach!" - -Inside the church an outburst of children's voices, muffled somewhat by -the shut door, but still too near to be wholly beautiful, rose suddenly -in a hymn. She stood with averted face, staring over the rankness of -the grass that the wind was stirring lightly among the gravestones. - -"Let's look at the thing squarely for once," he said again. "We're -both remembering I love you--there's nothing gained by pretending. If -the circumstances were different, if you had somewhere to go I should -have less right to interfere; but as it is, your leaving would mean a -constant shame to me. All the time I should be thinking: 'She was at -peace in a home, and you drove her out from it!' To see the woman he -cares for go away, unprotected, among strangers, to want perhaps for -the barest necessaries--what sort of man could endure it? should feel -as if I had turned you out of doors." A sudden tremor seized her; she -shivered. - -"Sit down," he said authoritatively. "We must come to an understanding!" - -But his protest was not immediately continued, and in the shelter of -the porch both were thoughtful. She was the first to speak again, after -all. - -"You're persuading me to be a great coward," she said; "and I am not a -very brave woman at the best. If I do what is right, I may give you -pain for a little while, but I shall spare you the unhappiness you'll -have if you go on meeting me." - -"You consider my happiness and her happiness, but not your own. And -why?--you'd spare me nothing." - -"You'll never be satisfied. Oh, yes, let us be honest with each -other, you're right! Your misgivings about me are true enough; but -you are principally anxious for me to stop that you may still see me. -And what'll come of it? I can never marry you, never; and you'll be -wretched. If I gave you a chance to forget----" - -"I shall never forget, whether you stop or whether you go." - -"You _must_ forget!" she cried. "You must forget me till it is as if -you had never known me. I won't be burdened with the knowledge that I'm -spoiling your life. I won't!" - -"Mary!" he said appealingly. - -"Oh," she exclaimed, "it's cruel! I wish to God I had died before you -loved me!" - -"You don't know what you're saying! You make me feel----Why," he -demanded, under his breath--"why could it never be--in time, if you -stay? I'll never speak of it any more till you permit it, not a -sign shall tell you I'm waiting; but by-and-by--will it be always -impossible? Dearest, it holds me so fast, my love of you. Don't be -harsher than you need; it's so real, so deep. Don't refuse me the right -to hope--in secret, by myself; it's all I have, all I'll ask of you for -years, if you like--the right to think that you may be my wife some -day. Leave me that!" - -"I can't," she said thickly; "it would be a lie." - -"You could never care for me--not so much as to let _me_ care for -_you_?" - -A movement answered him, and his head was lowered. He sat, his chin -supported by his palm, watching the restless working of her hands in -her lap. The closing words of the hymn came out distinctly to them -both, and they listened till the hush fell, without knowing that they -listened. - -"May I ask you one thing? You know I shall respect your confidence. Is -it because you care for some other man?" - -"No, no," she said vehemently, "I do not care!" - -"Thank God for that! While there's no one you like better, you'll be -the woman I want and wait for to the end." - -Her hands lay still; the compulsion for avowal was confronting her at -last. To hear this thing and sanction it by leaving him unenlightened -would be a wrong that she dared not contemplate; and under the -necessity for proclaiming that her sentiments could never affect the -matter, she turned cold and damp. Twice she attempted the finality -required, and twice her lips parted without sound. - -"Dr. Kincaid----" - -He raised his eyes to her, and the courage faded. - -"Don't think," he said, "that I shall ever make you sorry for telling -me that. You've simply removed a dread. I'm grateful to you." - -"Oh," she murmured, in a suffocating voice, "it makes no difference. -How am I to explain the--why don't you understand?" - -"What is it I should understand?" - -"You mustn't be grateful; you're mistaken. Never in the world, so long -as we live! There was someone else; I----" - -"Be open with me," he said sternly; "in common fairness, let us have -clearness and truth! You just declared that you didn't care for anyone?" - -"No," she gasped, "I did say that--I meant I didn't care. I don't--we -neither care; he doesn't know if I am alive, but ... there used to be -another man, and----" - -"Oh, my God, you are going to tell me you are married?" - -She shook her head. His eyes were piercing her; she felt them on her -wherever she looked. - -"Then speak and be done! 'There was another man.' What more?" - -Suddenly the first fear had entered his veins, and, though he was -conscious only of a vague oppression, he was already terrified by the -anticipation of what he was going to hear. - -"'There was another man,'" he repeated hoarsely. "What of him?" - -She was leaning forward, stooping so that her face was completely -hidden. With the silence that had fallen inside the church, the scene -was quieter than it had been, and the stillness in the air intensified -her difficulty of speech. She struggled to evolve from her confusion -the phrase to express her impurity, but all the terms looked shameless -and unutterable alike; and the travail continued until, faint with the -tension of the pause and the violent beating of her heart, she said -almost inaudibly: - -"I lived with him three years." - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -She heard him catch his breath, and then they sat motionless for a long -while, just as they had been sitting when she spoke. Now that she had -wrenched the fact out, the poignancy of her suffering subsided; even -by degrees she realised that, after this, her leaving the town was -inevitable, and her thoughts began to concern themselves vaguely with -her future. In him consciousness could never waver from the sound of -what she had said. She was impure. She had known passion and shame--she -herself! The landscape lost its proportion as he stared; the clouds of -the sky and the hue of the distance, everything had altered--she was -impure. - -The laboured minutes passed; he turned and looked slowly down at her -averted profile. The curve of cheek was colourless; her hands were -still lying clasped on her knee. He watched her for a moment, striving -to connect the woman with her words. Something seemed bearing on his -brain, so that it did not feel quite near. It did not feel so alive, -nor so much his own, as before the vileness of this thing was uttered. - -"I have never told you a falsehood," she murmured, "I didn't tell you -any falsehood in London. Don't think me all deceit--every word of what -I said that day was true." - -"I dare say," he answered dully; "I have not accused you." - -The change in his tone was pregnant with condemnation to her, and she -wondered if he was believing her; but, indeed, he hardly recognised -that she had said anything requiring belief. Her assurance appeared -juvenile to him, incongruous. There was an air almost of unreality -about their being seated here as they were, gazing at the blur of -churchyard. Something never to be undone had happened and she was -strange. - -The service had ended, and, trooping out, the Sunday-school pupils -clattered past their feet, shiny and clamorous, and eyeing them with -sidelong inquisition. She rose nervously, and, rousing himself, he went -with her through the crowd of children as far as the gate. There their -steps flagged to a standstill, and for a few seconds they remained -looking down the lane in silence. - -To her, stunned by no shock to make reality less real, these final -seconds held the condensed humiliation of the hour. The rigidity -with which the man waited beside her seemed eloquent of disgust, and -she mused bitterly on what she had done, how she had abased herself -and destroyed his respect; she longed to be free of his reproachful -presence. On the gravel behind them one of the bigger girls whispered -to another, and the other giggled. - -She made a slight movement, and he responded with something impossible -to catch. She did not offer her hand; she did not immediately pity him. -Had a stranger told him this thing of her, she would have pitied and -understood; told him by herself, she understood only that she was being -despised. They separated with a mechanical "good-afternoon," quietly -and slowly. The two girls, who watched them with precocious eagerness, -debated their relationship. - -The road lay before him long and bare, and lethargically he took it. -He continued to hear her words, "There used to be another man," but he -did not know he heard them--he did not actively pursue any train of -thought. It was only in momentary intervals that he became aware that -he was thinking. The sense of there being something numbed within him -still endured, and as yet his condition was more of stupor than of pain. - -"There used to be another man!" The sentence hummed in his ears, and as -he went along he awoke to it, the persistence of it touched him; and -he began to repeat it--mentally, difficultly, trying to spur his mind -into comprehension of it and take it in. He did not suffer acutely -even then. There was nothing acute in his feelings whatever. He found -it hard to realise, albeit he did not doubt. She was what she had said -she was; he knew it. But he could not see her so; he could not imagine -her the woman that she had said she used to be. He saw her always as -she had been to him, composed and self-contained. The demeanour had -been a mask, yet it clung to his likeness of her, obscuring the true -identity from him still. He strove to conceive her in her past life, -contemning himself because he could not; he wanted to remember that he -had been loving a disguise; he wanted to obliterate it. The fact of its -having been a disguise and never she all the time was so hard to grasp. -He tried to look upon her laughing in dishonour, but the picture would -not live; it appeared unnatural. It was the inception of his agony: the -feeling that he had known her so very little that it was her real self -which seemed the impossible. - -And that other man had known it all--seen every mood of her, learned -her in every phase! - -"Mary!" he muttered; and was lost in the consciousness that actually he -had never known "Mary." - -He perceived that the man was moving through his thoughts as a dark -man, short and suave, and he wondered how the fancy had arisen. -Vaguely he began to wonder what he had been like indeed. It was too -soon to question who he was--he wondered only how he looked, in a dim -mental searching for the presence to associate her with. Next, the -impression vanished, and sudden recollections came to him of men he was -accustomed to meet. - -The manner and mien of these riveted his attention. It was not by his -own will that he considered them; the personalities were insistent. -He did not suppose that any one of them had been her lover; he knew -that it was chimerical to view any one of them as such; but his brain -had been groping for a man, and these familiar men obtruded themselves -vividly. The lurking horror of her defilement materialised, so that the -sweat burst out on him; the significance of what he had heard flared -red upon his vision. To think that it had pleased her to lend herself -for the toy of a man's leisure, that some man had been free to make her -the boast of his conceit, twisted his heart-strings. - -The solidity of the hospital confronted him on the slope that he had -begun to mount. Beneath him stretched the herbage of cottage gardens -somnolent in Sabbath calm. Out of the silence came the quick yapping of -a shop-boy's dog, the shrillness of a shop-boy's whistle. They were the -only sounds. Then he went in. - -That evening Miss Brettan told Mrs. Kincaid that she wished to leave -her. - -The old lady received the announcement without any mark of surprise. - -"You know your own mind best," she said meditatively; "but I'm sorry -you are going--very sorry." - -"Yes," said Mary; "I must go. I'm sorry too, but I can't help myself. -I----" - -"I used to think you'd stop with me always; we got on so well together." - -"You've been more than kind to me from the very first day; I shall -never forget how kind you have been! If it were only possible. But it -isn't; I----" - -Once more the pronoun as the stumbling-block on delicate ground. - -"I can't stop!" she added thickly; "I hope you'll be luckier with your -next companion." - -"I shan't have another; changes upset me. And you must go when it -suits you best, you know; don't stay on to give me time to make fresh -arrangements, as I haven't any to make. Study your own convenience -entirely." - -"This week?" - -"Yes, very well; let it be this week." - -They said no more then. But the following afternoon, Mrs. Kincaid -broached the subject abruptly. - -"What are you going to do, Miss Brettan?" she inquired. "Have you -anything else in view?" - -"No," said Mary hesitatingly; "not yet." - -The suppression of her motive made plain speaking difficult to both. - -"I've no doubt, though," she added, "that I shall be all right." - -"What a pity it is! What a pity it is, to be sure!" - -"Oh, you mustn't grieve about me!" she exclaimed; "it isn't worth that; -_I'm_ not worth it. You know--you know, so many women in the world have -to make a living; and they do make it, somehow. It's only one more." - -"And so many women find they can't! Tell me, _must_ you go? Are you -quite sure you're not exaggerating the necessity? I don't ask you your -reasons, I never meddle in people's private affairs. But are you sure -you aren't looking on anything in a false light and going to extremes?" - -"Oh!" responded Mary, carried into sudden candour, "do you suppose I -don't shiver at the prospect? Do you suppose it attracts me? I'm not a -girl, I'm not quixotic; I _can't_ stop here!" - -The elder woman sighed. - -"Why couldn't you care for such a good fellow as my son?" she thought. -"Then there would have been none of this bother for any of us!" - -"I hope you'll be fortunate," she said gently. "Anything I can do to -help you, of course, I will!" - -"Thank you," said Mary. - -"I mean, you mustn't scruple to refer to me; it's your only chance. -Without any references----" - -"Yes, I know too well how indispensable they are; but----" - -"You have been here two years. I shall say I should have liked it to -remain your home." - -"Thank you," said Mary, again. But she was by no means certain that -she could avail herself of this recommendation given in ignorance of -the truth. It was precisely the matter that she had been debating. If -she attempted to avail herself of it, the doctor might have something -to say; and she was loath to be indebted for testimony from the mother -which the son would know to be undeserved, whether he interfered, or -not; she wanted her renunciation to be complete. Yet, without this -source of aid----She trembled. How speedily the few pounds in her -possession would vanish! how soon there would be a revival of her past -experience, with all its heartlessness and squalor! In imagination she -was already footsore, adrift in the London streets. - -"Mrs. Kincaid----" she cried. A passionate impulse seized her to -declare everything. If she had been seventeen, she would have knelt at -the old woman's feet, for it is not so much the vehemence of our moods -that diminishes with time as the power of restraint that increases. - -"Mrs. Kincaid, you must know? You must guess why----" - -"I know nothing," said the old woman, quickly; "I don't guess!" The -colour sank from her face, and Mary had never heard her speak with so -much energy. "My son shall tell me--I have a son--I will not hear from -you!" - -"I beg your pardon," said Mary; and they were silent. - -The same evening Mrs. Kincaid sent a message to the hospital, asking -her son to come round to see her. - -She had not mentioned that she was going to do so, and it was with a -little shock that Mary heard the order given. She supposed, however, -that it was given in her presence by way of a hint, and when the -time-approached for him to arrive, she withdrew. - -He came with misgivings and with relief. The last twenty-four hours had -inclined him to the state of tension in which the unexpected is always -the portentous, but in which one waits, nevertheless, for something -unlooked-for to occur. He did not know what he dreaded to hear, but the -summons alarmed him, even while he welcomed it for permitting him to -go to the house. - -He threw a rapid glance round the parlour, and replied to his mother's -greeting with quick interrogation. - -"What has happened?" - -"Nothing of grave importance has happened. I want to speak to you." - -"I was afraid something was the matter," he said, more easily. "What is -it?" - -He took the seat opposite to her, and she was dismayed to observe the -alteration in him. She contemplated him a few seconds irresolutely. - -"Philip," she said, "this afternoon Miss Brettan was anxious to tell -me something; she was anxious to make me her confidant. And I wouldn't -listen to her." - -"Oh?" he said.... "And you wouldn't listen to her?" - -"No, I wouldn't listen to her. I said, 'My son shall tell me, or I -won't hear.' This afternoon I had no more idea of sending for you than -you had of coming. But I have been thinking it over; she's in your -mother's house, and she's the woman you love. You do love her, Philip?" - -"I asked her to be my wife," he answered simply. - -"I thought so. And she refused you?" - -"Yes, she refused me. If I haven't told you before, it was because -she refused me. To have spoken of it to you would have been to give -pain--needless pain--to you and to her." - -Mrs. Kincaid considered. - -"You are quite right," she admitted; "your mistake was to suppose I -shouldn't see it for myself." She turned her eyes from him and looked -ostentatiously in another direction. "Now," she added, "she is going -away! Perhaps you already knew, but----" - -"No," he replied, "I didn't know; I thought it likely, but I didn't -know. I understand why you sent for me." - -He got up and went across to her, and kissed her on the brow. - -"I understand why it was you sent for me," he repeated. "What a tender -little mother it is! And to lose her companion, too!" - -Where he leant beside her, she could not see how white his face had -grown. - -"Are we going to let her go, Phil?" - -He stroked her hand. - -"I am afraid we must let her go, mother, as she doesn't want to stop." - -"You don't mean to interfere, then? You won't do anything to prevent -it?" - -"I am not able to prevent it," he rejoined coldly. "I have no -authority." - -"Indeed?" murmured Mrs. Kincaid. "It seems I might have spared my -pains." - -"No," said her son; "your pains were well taken. I'm very glad you -have spoken to me--or rather I'm very glad to have spoken to you--for -you know now I meant no wrong by my silence." - -"But--but, Philip----" - -"But Miss Brettan must go mother, because she wishes to!" - -"I don't understand you," exclaimed Mrs. Kincaid, bewildered. "I never -thought you would care for any woman at all--you never struck me as the -sort of man, somehow; but now that you do care, you can't surely mean -that you think it right for the woman to leave the only place where she -has any friends and go out into the world by herself? Don't you say you -are in love with her?" - -"I asked Miss Brettan to marry me," he answered. "Since you put the -question, I do think it right for her to leave the place; I think every -woman would wish to leave in the circumstances. I think it would be -indelicate to restrain her." - -"Your sense of delicacy is very acute for a lover," said the old lady -grimly; "much too fine a thing to be comfortable. And I'll tell you -what is greater still--your pride. Don't imagine you take me in for a -moment; look behind you in the glass and ask yourself if it's likely!" - -He had moved apart from her now and was lounging on the hearth, but he -did not attempt to follow her advice. Nor did he deny the implication. - -"I look pretty bad," he acknowledged, "I know. But you're mistaken, for -all that; my pride has nothing to do with it." - -"You're making yourself ill at the prospect of losing her, and yet you -won't----Not but what she must be mad to reject you, certainly I am -not standing up for her, don't think it! I don't say I wanted to see -you fond of her--I should have preferred to see you marry someone who -would have been of use to you and helped you in your career. You might -have done a great deal better; and I am sure I understand your having a -proper pride in the matter and objecting to beg her to remain. But, for -all that, if you do find so much in this particular woman that you are -going to be miserable without her, why, _I_ can say something to induce -her to stop!" - -"To the woman you would prefer me not to marry?" he said wearily. "But -you mustn't do it, mother." - -"I do want to see you marry her, Philip; I want to see you happy. You -don't follow me a bit. Since the dread of her loss can make you look -like that, you mustn't lose her; that's what I say." - -"I _have_ lost her," he returned; "I follow you very well. You think I -might have married a princess, and you would have viewed that with a -little pang too. You would give me to Miss Brettan with a big pang, but -you'd give me to her because you think I want her." - -"That is it--not a very big pang, either; I know every man is the best -judge of his own life. Indeed, it oughtn't to be a pang at all; I don't -think it is a pang, only a tiny A sweet-heart is always a mother's -rival just at first, Phil; and I suppose it's always the mother's -fault. But one day, when you're married to Mary, and a boy of your own -falls in love with a strange girl, your wife will tell you how she -feels. She'll explain it to you better that I can, and then you'll know -how _your_ mother felt and it won't seem so unnatural." - -"Oh," he said, "hush! Don't! I shall never be married to Mary." - -"Yes," she declared, "you will. When you say that, you're not the 'best -judge' any longer; it isn't judgment, it's pique, and I'm not going to -have your life spoiled by pique and want of resolution. Phil, Phil, -you're the last man I should have thought would have allowed a thing he -wanted to slip through his fingers. And a woman--women often say 'no,' -to begin with. It's not the girls who are to be had for the asking who -make the best wives; the ones who are hardest to win are generally the -worthiest to hold. Don't accept her answer, Phil! I'll persuade her -to stay on, and at first you needn't come very often--I won't mind any -more, I shall know what it means; and when you do come, I'll help you -and tell you what to do. She _shall_ get fond of you; you _shall_ have -the woman you want--I promise her to you!" - -"Mother," he said--the pallor had touched his lips--"don't say that! -Don't go on talking of what can't be. It's no misunderstanding to be -made up; it isn't any courtship to be aided. I tell you you can no more -give me Mary Brettan for my wife than you can give my childhood back to -me out of eternity." - -"And I tell you I will!" said she. "'Faint-heart----' But you _shall_ -have your 'fair lady'! Yes, instead of--you remember what we used to -say to you when you were a little boy? 'There's a monkey up your back, -Phil!'--you shall have your fair lady instead of the monkey that's up -your back. It's a full-grown monkey to-night and you're too obstinate -to listen to reason. By-and-by you'll see you were wrong. She is suited -to you; the more I think about it, the more convinced I am she would -make you comfortable. You might have thrown yourself away on some silly -girl without a thought beyond her hats and frocks! And she's interested -in your profession; you've always been able to talk to her about it; -she understands these things better than I do." - -"Listen," exclaimed Kincaid with repressed passion, "listen, and -remember what you said just now--that I am a man, to judge for myself! -You mustn't ask Miss Brettan to stay, and you are not to think that it -is her going that makes me unhappy. My hope is over. Between her and me -there would never be any marriage if she remained for years. Everything -was said, and it was answered, and it is done." - -He bit the end from a cigar, and smoked a little before he spoke any -more. When he did speak, his tones were under control; anyone from whom -his face had been hidden would have pronounced the words stronger than -the feeling that dictated them. - -"Something else: after to-night don't talk to me about her. I don't -want to hear; it's not pleasant to me. If you want to prove your -affection, prove it by that! While she's here I can't see you; when -she's gone, let us talk as if she had never been!" - -The aspect of the man showed of what a tremendous strain this affected -calmness was the outcome. Indeed, the deliberateness of the words, even -more than the words themselves, hushed her into a conviction of his -sincerity, which was disquieting because she found it so inexplicable. -She smoothed the folds of her dress, casting at him, from time to time, -glances full of wistfulness and pity; and at last she said, in the -voice of a person who resigns herself to bewilderment: - -"Well, of course I'll do as you wish. But you have both very queer -notions of what is right, that's certain; help seems equally repugnant -to the pair of you." - -"Why do you say that?" inquired Kincaid. "What help has Miss Brettan -declined?" - -"She was reluctant to refer anybody to me, I thought, when I mentioned -the matter to-day. I suppose that was another instance of delicacy over -my head." - -"The reference? She won't make use of it?" - -"She seemed very doubtful of doing so. I said: 'Without any reference, -what on earth will become of you?' And she said, 'Yes, she understood, -but----' But something; I forget exactly what it was now." - -"But that's insane!" he said imperatively. - -"She'll be helpless without it. She has been your companion, and you -have had no fault to find with her; you can conscientiously say so." - -He rose, and shook his coat clear of the ash that had fallen in a lump -from the cigar. - -"Nothing that has passed between Miss Brettan and me can affect her -right to your testimony to the two years that she has lived with you; I -should like her to know I said so." - -"I will tell her," affirmed his mother. "What are you going to do?" - -"It's getting late.... By the way, there's another thing. It will be -a long while before she finds another home, at the best; she mustn't -think I have anything to do with it, but I want her to take some money -before she goes, to keep her from distress.... Where did I leave my -hat?" - -"You want me to persuade her to take some money, as if it were from me?" - -"Yes, as if it were from you--fifty pounds--to keep her from -distress.... Did I hang it up outside?" - -His mother went across to him and wound her arms about his neck. - -"Can you spare so much, Philip?" - -"I have been putting by," he said, "for some time." - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -Mary had spent the evening very anxiously. The formless future was a -terror that she could not banish; she could evolve no definite line of -action to sustain a hope. - -She awoke from a troubled sleep with a startled sense of something -having happened. After a few seconds, the cause was repeated. The -silence was broken by the jangling of a bell, and nervous investigation -proved it to be Mrs. Kincaid's. - -The old lady explained that she was feeling very unwell--an explanation -that was corroborated by her voice--and, striking a light, Mary saw -that she was shivering violently. - -"I can't stop it; and I'm so cold. I don't know what it is; it's like -cold water running down my back." - -Her companion looked at her quickly. "We'll put some more blankets on -the bed. Wait a minute while I run upstairs!" - -She returned with the bedclothes from her own room. - -"You'll be much warmer before long," she said; "you must have taken a -slight chill." - -Mrs. Kincaid lay mute awhile. - -"I've such a pain!" she murmured. "How could I have taken a chill?" - -"Where is your pain?" - -"In my side--a sharp, stabbing pain." - -The servant appeared now, alarmed by the disturbance, and Mary told her -to bring some coals, and then to dress herself as speedily as she could. - -"Is there any linseed? Or oatmeal will do. I must make a poultice." - -"I'll see, miss. There's some linseed, I think, but----" - -"Fetch it, and a kettle. We'll light the fire at once; then I can make -it up here." - -The old lady moaned and shivered by turns; and some difficulty was -experienced in getting the fire to burn. Mary held a newspaper before -it, and the servant advanced theories on the subject of the chimney. - -At last, when it was possible for the poultice to be applied, Mary sent -her down for a hot-water bottle and the whisky. - -"You'll be quite comfortable directly," she said to the invalid. -"Something warm to drink, and the hot flannel to your feet 'll make a -lot of difference." - -"So cold I am, it's bitter--and the pain! I can't think what it can be." - -"Let me put this on for you, then; it's all ready. It won't--is that -it?... There! How's that?" - -"Oh!" faltered Mrs. Kincaid, "oh, thank you! Ah! you do it very nicely." - -"See, here we have the rest of the luxuries!" She mixed the stimulant, -and took it to her. "Just raise your head," she murmured; "I'll hold -the glass for you, so that you won't have to sit up. Take this, now, -and while you're sipping it, Ellen will get the bottle ready." - -"There isn't much in the kettle," said Ellen. "I don't----" - -"Use what there is, and fill it up again. Then see if you can find me -any brown paper." - -In quest of brown paper, Ellen was gone some time; and, having set down -the empty tumbler and made the bed tidier, Mary proceeded to search for -some herself. - -She found a sheet lining a drawer, and rolling it into the form of a -tube, fixed it to the kettle spout, to direct the steam into the room. -She had not long done so when the girl returned disconsolate to say -there was no brown paper in the house. Mary drew her outside. - -"Are you going to sit in there all night, miss?" - -"Speak lower! Yes, I shall sit up. What time is it?" - -The girl said that she had just been astonished to see by the kitchen -clock that it was half-past four; it had seemed to her that she had -not long fallen asleep when the bell rang. - -"I want you to go and fetch Dr. Kincaid, Ellen; I'm afraid Mrs. Kincaid -is going to be ill." - -"Do you mean I'm to go at once?" - -"Yes. Tell him his mother isn't well, and it would be better for him to -see her. Bring him back with you. You aren't frightened to go out--it -must be getting light?" - -They drew up the blind of the landing window, and saw daylight creeping -over the next-door yard. - -"Do you think she's going to be very bad, miss?" - -"I don't know; I can't tell. Hurry, Ellen, there's a good girl! get -back as quickly as you can!" - -A deep flush had overspread the face on the pillow. The eyes yearned, -and an agonised expression strengthened Mary's belief in the gravity of -the seizure; she feared it to be the beginning of inflammation of the -lungs. Three-quarters of an hour must be allowed for Kincaid to arrive, -and, conscious that she could now do nothing but wait, the time lagged -dreadfully. The silence, banished at the earlier pealing of the bell, -had regained its dynasty, and once more a wide hush settled upon the -house, indicated by the occasional clicking of a cinder on the fender. -At intervals the sick woman uttered a tremulous sigh, and met Mary's -gaze with a look of appeal, as if she recognised in her presence a kind -of protective sympathy; but she had ceased to complain, and the watcher -abstained from any active demonstration. In the globe beside the mirror -the gas flared brightly, and this, coupled with the heat of the fire, -filled the room with a moist radiance, against which the narrow line -of dawn above the window-sill grew slowly more defined. The advent had -been long expected, when sharp footfalls on the pavement smote Mary's -ear, and, forgetting that Kincaid had his own key, she sprang up to -let him in. The hall-door swung back, and she paused with her hand on -the banisters. He came swiftly forward and passed her with a hurried -salutation on the stairs. - -There was, however, no anxiety visible on his face as he approached the -bed. Merely a little genial concern was to be seen. His questions were -put encouragingly; when a reply was given, he listened with an air of -confidence confirmed. - -"Am I very ill?" she gasped. - -"You _feel_ very ill, I dare say, dear; but don't go persuading -yourself you _are_, or that'll be a real trouble!" - -His fingers were on her pulse, and he was smiling as he spoke. Yet he -knew that her life was in danger. The worthiest acting is done where -there is no applause--it is the acting of a clever medical man in a -sick-room. - -Mary stood on the threshold watching him. - -"Who put that funnel on the kettle?" he inquired, without turning. He -had not appeared to notice it. - -"I did," she answered. "Am I to take it off?" - -"No." - -He signed to her to go below, and after a few minutes followed her into -the parlour. - -"Give me a pen and ink, Miss Brettan, please." - -"I've put them ready for you," she said. - -He wrote hastily, and rose with the prescription held out. - -"Where's Ellen?" - -"Here, waiting to take it." - -A trace of surprise escaped him. He said curtly: - -"You're thoughtful. Was it you who put on that poultice?" - -Her tone was as distant as his. - -"We did all we could before you came; _I_ put on the poultice. Did I do -right?" - -"Quite right. I asked because of the way it was put on." - -With that expression of approval he left her and returned to his -mother. Mary, unable to complete her toilette, not knowing from minute -to minute when she might be called, occupied herself in righting the -disorder of the room. She had thrown on a loosely-fitting morning dress -of cashmere, one of the first things that she had made after she was -installed here. An instant; she had snatched to dip her face in water, -but she had been able to do little to her hair, the coil of which still -retained much of the scattered; softness of the night, and after Ellen -came back from the chemist's she sent her upstairs for some; hairpins. -She stood on the hearth, before the looking-glass, shaking the mass of -hair about her shoulders, and then with uplifted arms winding it deftly -on her head. The supple femininity of the attitude, so suggestive of -recent rising, harmonised with the earliness of the sunshine that -tinged the parlour; and when Kincaid reentered and found her so, he -could not but be sensible of the impression, though he was indisposed -to dwell upon it. - -She looked round quickly: - -"How is Mrs. Kincaid, doctor?" - -"I'm very uneasy about her. I'm going back to the hospital now to -arrange to stay here." - -"What do you think has caused it?" - -"I'm afraid she got damp and cold in the garden on Sunday." - -"And it has gone to the lungs?" - -"It has affected the left lung, yes." - -She dropped the last hairpin, and as she stooped for it the swirl of -the gown displayed a bare instep. - -"I can help to nurse her, unless you'd rather send someone else?" - -"You'll do very well, I think," he said; and he proceeded to give her -some instructions. - -She fulfilled these instructions with a capability he found -astonishing. Before the day had worn through he perceived that, however -her training had been acquired, he possessed in her a coadjutrix -reliable and adroit. To herself, she was once more within her native -province, but to him it was as if she had become suddenly voluble in a -foreign tongue. He had no inclination to meditate upon her skill--to -meditate about her was the last thing that he desired now--but there -were moments when her performance of some duty supplied fresh food for -wonder notwithstanding, and he noted her dexterity with curious eyes. -He had, though, refrained from any further praise. The gratitude that -he might have spoken was checked by the aloofness of her manner; and, -in the closer association consequent upon the illness, the formality -that had sprung up between them suffered no decrease. Indeed it became -permanent in this contact, which both would have shunned. - -After the one scene in which she left the choice to him, she had -afforded him no chance to resume their earlier relations had he wished -it, and the studied politeness of her address was a persistent reminder -that she directed herself to him in his medical capacity alone. She -held the present conditions the least exacting attainable, since -the distastefulness of renewed intercourse was not to be avoided -altogether; but she in nowise exonerated him for imposing them, and -she considered that by having done so he had made her a singularly -ungracious return for the humiliation of her avowal. She sustained the -note he had struck; the key was in a degree congenial to her. But she -resented while she concurred, and even more than to her judgment her -acquiescence was attributable to her pride. - -On the day following there were recurrences of pain, but on Wednesday -this subsided, though the temperature remained high. Mary saw that -his anxiety was, if anything, keener than it had been, and by degrees -a latent admiration began to mingle with her bitterness. In the -atmosphere of the sick-room the man and the woman were equally new -to each other, and up to a certain point he was as great a surprise -to her as was she to him. She saw him now professionally for the -first time, and she recognised his resources, his despatch, with -an appreciation quickened by experience. The visitor whom she had -known lounging, loose-limbed and conversational, in an arm-chair had -disappeared; the suppliant for a tenderness that she did not feel had -become an authority whom she obeyed. Here, like this, the man was a -power, and the change within him had its physical expression. His -figure was braced, his movements had a resolution and a vigour that -gave him another personality. He even awed her slightly. She thought -that he must look more masterful to all the world in the exercise of -his profession, but she thought also that everyone in the world would -approve the difference. - -The confidence that he inspired in her was so strong that on Thursday, -when he told her that he intended to have a consultation, she heard him -with a shock. - -"You think it advisable?" - -"I fear the worst, Miss Brettan; I can't neglect any chance." - -She had some violets in her hand--it was her custom to brighten the -view from the bed as much as she could every morning--and suddenly -their scent was very strong. - -"The worst?" - -"God grant my opinion's wrong!" he said. "Will you ask the girl to take -the wire for me?" - -It was to a physician in the county town he had decided to telegraph, -one whose prestige was gradually widening, and whose reputation had -been built on something trustier than a chance summons to the couch -of a notability. Mary had heard the name before, and she strove to -persuade herself that his view of the case might prove more promising. -The day that had opened so gloomily, however, offered during the -succeeding hours small food for faith. Towards noon the sufferer -became abruptly restless, and the united efforts of doctor and nurse -were required to soothe her. She was fired by a passionate longing to -get up, and pleaded piteously for permission. To "walk about a little -while" was her one appeal, and the strenuousness of the entreaty was -rendered more pathetic by her obvious belief that they refused because -they failed to comprehend the violence of the desire. She endeavoured -with failing energy to make it known, and--prevailed upon to desist at -last--lay back with a look that was a lamentation of her helplessness. -Later, she was slightly delirious and rambled in confused phrases of -her son and her companion--his courtship and Mary's indifference. -The man and the woman sat on either side, of her, but their gaze -no longer met. At the first reference to his attachment Mary had -started painfully, but now by a strong effort her nervousness had been -suppressed, and from time to time she moved to wipe the fevered lips -and brow with a semblance of self-possession. As the daylight waned, -the disjointed sentences grew rarer. Kincaid went down. Except for -the deep breathing, silence fell again, until, as dusk gathered, the -sudden words "I feel much better" were uttered in a tone of restored -tranquillity. Turning quickly, Mary saw that her ears had not deceived -her. The assurance was repeated with a feeble smile; the features had -gained a touch of the cheerfulness that had been so remarkable in the -voice. Soon afterwards the eyes closed in what appeared to be sleep. - -Kincaid was striding to and fro in the parlour, his arms locked across -his breast. As Mary ran in, his head was lifted sharply. - -"She feels much better," she exclaimed; "she has fallen asleep!" - -He stood there, without speaking--and she shrank back with a stifled -cry. - -"Oh! I didn't know.... Is it _that_?". - -"Yes," he said, scarcely above a whisper. And she understood that what -she had told him was the presage of death. - -After this, both knew it to be but a matter of time. The arrival of the -physician served merely to confirm despondence. He pronounced the case -hopeless, and reluctantly accepted a fee to defray the expenses of the -journey. - -"I wish we could have met in happier circumstances," he said.... -"You've the comfort of knowing that you did everything that could be -done." - -A page with a message of inquiry came up the steps as he left; such -messages had been delivered daily. But on Saturday, when the baker's -man brought the bread to Laburnum Lodge, he found the blinds down; and -within a few minutes of his handing the loaf to the weeping servant -through the scullery window, the news circulated in Westport that Mrs. -Kincaid had died unconscious at seven o'clock that morning. - -While the baker's man derived this intelligence from the housemaid, -Mary was behind the lowered blinds on the first floor, crying. She -had just descended from her bedroom; seeing how deeply Kincaid was -affected, she had retired there soon after the end. He had not shed -tears, but that he was strongly moved was evident by the muscles of -his mouth; and the quivering face of which she had had a glimpse kept -recurring to her vividly. - -He came in while she sat there. He was very pale, but now his face was -under control again. - -She rose, and advanced towards him irresolutely. "I'm so sorry! She was -a very kind friend to me." - -He put out his hand. For the first time since she had met him after -posting the note, hers lay in it. - -"Thank you," he said. "Thank you, too, for all you did for her; I shall -always remember it gratefully, Miss Brettan." - -He seemed to be at the point of adding something, but checked himself. -Presently he made reference to the arrangements that must be seen to. -That night he reoccupied his quarters in the hospital, and excepting -in odd minutes, she did not see him again during the day. She found -space, however, to mention that she purposed remaining until the -funeral, and to this announcement he bowed, though he refrained from -any inquiry as to her plans afterwards. "Plans," indeed, would have -been a curious misnomer for the thoughts in her brain. The question -that she had revolved earlier had been settled effectually by the -death; now that all possibility of Mrs. Kincaid's recommending her had -been removed, her plight admitted of nothing but conjecture. - -In her solitude in the house of mourning, unbroken save for -interruptions which emphasised the tragedy, or for some colloquy with -the red-eyed servant, she passed her hours lethargic and weary. The -week of suspense and insufficient rest had tired her out, and she no -longer even sought to consider. Her mind drifted. A fancy that came to -her was, that it would be delightful to be lying in a cornfield in hot -sunshine, with a vault of blue above her. The picture was present more -often than her thought of the impending horrors of London. - -How much the week had held! what changes it had seen! She sat musing on -this the next evening, listening to the church bells, and remembering -that a Sunday ago the dead woman had been beside her. Last Sunday there -was still a prospect of Westport continuing to be her home for years. -Last Sunday it was that, in the churchyard, she had confessed her past. -Only a week--how full, how difficult to realise! She was half dozing -when she heard the hall-door unlocked, and Kincaid greeted her as she -roused herself. - -"Did I disturb you? were you asleep?" - -"No; I was thinking, that's all." - -He sighed, and dropped into the opposite chair. She noted his harassed -aspect, and pitied him. The Sunday previous she had not been sensible -of any pity at all. She understood his loss of his mother; the loss of -his faith had represented much less to her, its being a faith on which -she personally had set small store. - -"There's plenty to think of!" he said wearily. - -"You haven't seen Ellen, doctor, have you? She has been asking for you." - -"Has she? what does she want?" - -"She is anxious to know how long she'll be kept. Her sister is in -service somewhere and the family want a parlourmaid on the first of the -month. I am sorry to bother you with trifles now, but she asked me to -speak to you." - -"I must talk to her. Of course the house 'll be sold off; there's no -one to keep it on for.... How fagged you look! are you taking proper -care of yourself again?" - -"Oh yes; it is just the reaction, nothing but what'll soon pass." - -"You didn't have the relief you ought to have had; you worked like two -women." - -He paused, and his gaze dwelt on her questioningly. She read the -question with such clearness that, when he spoke, the words seemed but -an echo of the pause. - -"How did you know so much?" he asked. - -"After I lost my father I was a nurse in the Yaughton Hospital for some -years." - -The answer was direct, but it was brief. Half a dozen queries sprang to -his lips, and were in turn repressed. Her past was her own; he confined -his inquiries to her future. - -"And what do you mean to do now?" - -"I'm going to London." - -"Do you expect to meet with any difficulties in the way of taking up -nursing again?" - -"I think you know that there _were_ difficulties in the way." - -"I have no wish to force your confidence----" he said, with a note of -inquiry in his voice. - -"I haven't my certificate." - -"You can refer to the Matron." - -"I know I can; I will not. I told you two years ago there were persons -I could refer to, but I wouldn't do it." - -"May I ask why you should have any objection to referring to this one?" - -She was silent. - -"Won't you tell me?" - -"I think you might understand," she said in a very low voice. "I -went there after my father's death. I am not the woman who left the -Yaughton Hospital." - -His eyes fell, and he stared abstractedly at the grate. When he raised -them he saw that hers had closed. He looked at her lingeringly till -they opened. - -"Now that _she_ is gone," he exclaimed unsteadily, "your position is -not so easy! Have you any prospect that you don't mention?" - -She shook her head. - -"Well, is there anything you can suggest?" he asked. "Any way out of -the difficulty that occurs to you? Believe me----" - -"No," she said, "I can see nothing that is practicable; I----" - -"Would you be willing to come on the nursing-staff here? We're -short-handed in the night work. It is an opening, and it might lead to -a permanent appointment." - -Her heart began to beat rapidly; for an instant she did not reply. - -"It is very considerate of you, very generous; but I am afraid that -wouldn't do." - -"Why not?" - -"It wouldn't do, because--well, I should have left Westport in any -case." - -"You meant to, I know. But between the way you'd have left Westport if -my mother had lived, and the way you'd leave it now, there is a vast -difference." - -"I must leave it, all the same." - -"Pardon me," he said, "I can't permit you to do so. I wouldn't let -any woman go out into the world with the knowledge that she went to -meet certain distress. Your hospital experience appears to solve -the problem. You could come on next week. If your reluctance is -attributable to myself--hear me out, I must speak plainly!--if you -refuse because what has passed between us makes further conversation -with me a pain to you, you've only to remember that conversation -between us in the hospital will necessarily be of the briefest kind. -All that I remember is that I've asked you to be my wife and you don't -care for me--I'm the man you've rejected. I wish to be something more -serviceable, though; I wish to be your friend. In the hospital I shall -have little chance, for there, to all intents and purposes, we shall be -as much divided as if you went to London. While the chance does exist -I want to use it; I want to advise you strongly to take the course I -propose. It needn't prevent your attempting to find a post elsewhere, -you know; on the contrary, it would facilitate your obtaining one." - -Her hand had shaded her brow as she listened; now it sank slowly to her -lap. - -"I need hardly tell you I'm grateful," she said, in tones that -struggled to be firm. "Anyone would be grateful; to me the offer is -very--is more than good." Her composure broke down. "I know what I -must seem to you--you have heard nothing but the worst of me!" she -exclaimed. - -"I would hear nothing that it hurt you to say," he answered; and for a -minute neither of them said any more. There had been a gentleness in -his last words that touched her keenly; the appeal in hers had gone -home to him. Neither spoke, but the man's breath rose eagerly, and; the -woman's head drooped lower and lower on her breast. - -"Let me!" she said at last in a whisper that his pulses leaped to -meet. "It was there--when I was a nurse. He was a patient. Before he -left, he asked me to marry him. When I went to him he told me he was -married already. Till then there had been no hint, not the faintest -suspicion--I went to him, with the knowledge of them all, to be his -wife." - -"Thank God!" said Kincaid in his throat. - -"She was--she had been on the streets; he hadn't seen her for years. He -prayed to me, implored me----Oh, I'm trying to exonerate! myself, I'm -not trying to shift the sin on to him, I but if the truest devotion of -her life can plead I for a woman, Heaven knows that plea was mine!" - -"And at the end of the three years?" - -"There was news of her death, and he married someone else." - -She got up abruptly, and moved to the window, looking out behind the -blind. - -"I can't tell you how I feel for you," he said huskily. "I can't give -you an idea how deeply, how earnestly I sympathise!" - -"Don't say anything," she murmured; "you needn't try; I think I -understand to-night--you proved your sympathy while my claim on it was -least." - -"And you'll let me help you?" - -The slender figure stood motionless; behind her the man was gripping -the leather of his chair. - -"If I may," she said constrainedly, "if I can go there like--as -you----Ah, if the past can all be buried and there needn't be any -reminder of what has been?" - -"I'll be everything you wish, everything you'd have me seem!" - -He took a sudden step towards her. She turned, her eyes humid with -tears, with thankfulness--with entreaty. He stopped short, drew back, -and resumed his seat. - -"Now, what is it you were saying about Ellen?" he asked shortly. - -And perhaps it was the most eloquent avowal he had ever made her of his -love. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -So it happened that Mary Brettan did not leave Westport the next week. -And after a few months she was more than ever doubtful if she would -leave it at all. The suggested vacancy on the permanent staff had -occurred before then, and, once having accepted the post, there seemed -to be no inducement to woo anxiety by resigning it. - -At first the resumption of routine after years of indolence was irksome -and exhausting. The six o'clock rising, the active duties commencing -while she still felt tired, the absence of anything like privacy, -excepting in the two hours allotted to each nurse for leisure--all -these things fretted her. Even the relief that she derived from her -escape into the open air was alloyed by the knowledge that outdoor -exercise during one of the hours was compulsory. Then, too, it was -inevitable that a costume worn once more should recall the emotions -with which she had laid aside her last; inevitable that she should ask -herself what the years had done for her since last she stood within a -hospital and bade it farewell with the belief she was never to enter -one again. The failure of the interval was accentuated. Her heart had -contracted when, directed to the strange apartment above the wards, -she beheld the print dress provided for her use lying limp on a chair. -An unutterable forlornness filled her soul as, proceeding to put it -on, she surveyed her reflection in the narrow glass. Yet she grew -accustomed to the change, and the more easily for its being a revival. - -The speed with which the sense of novelty wore off indeed astonished -her. Primarily dismaying, and a continuous burden upon which she -condoled with herself every day, it was, next, as if she had lost it -one night in her sleep. She had forgotten it until the lightness with -which she was fulfilling the work struck her with swift surprise. -Little by little a certain enjoyment was even felt. She contemplated -some impending task with interest. She took her walk with zest in lieu -of relief. She returned to the doors exhilarated instead of depressed. -The bohemian, the lady-companion, had become a sick-nurse anew, and -because the primary groove of life is the one which cuts the deepest -lines, her existence rolled along the recovered rut with smoothness. -The scenes between which it lay were not beautiful, but they were -familiar; the view it commanded was monotonous, but she no longer -sought to travel. - -Socially the conditions had been favoured by her introduction. The -position that she had occupied in Laburnum Lodge gave her a factitious -value, and gained her the friendliness of the Matron, a functionary who -has the power to make the hospital-nurse distinctly uncomfortable, and -who has on occasion been known to use it. It commended her also to the -other nurses, two of whom were gentlewomen, insomuch as it promised -an agreeable variety to conversation in the sitting-room. She was by -no means unconscious of the extent of her debt to Kincaid, and her -gratitude as time went on increased rather than diminished. Certainly -the environment was conducive to a perception of his merits--more -conducive even than had been the period of his medical attendance at -the villa. The king is nowhere so attractive as at his court; the -preacher nowhere so impressive as in the pulpit. Ashore the captain may -bore us, but we all like to smoke our cigars with him on his ship. The -poorest pretender assumes importance in the circle of his adherents, -and poses with authority on some small platform, if it be only his -mother's hearthrug. Here where the doctor was the guiding spirit, and -Mary found his praises on every tongue, the glow of gratitude was -fanned by the breath of popularity. Had he deliberately planned a means -of raising himself in her esteem, he could have devised none better -than this of placing her in the miniature kingdom where he ruled. In -remembering that he had wanted to marry her, she was sensible one day -of a thrill of pride: nothing like regret, nothing like arrogance, but -a momentary pride. She felt more dignity in the moment. - -If he remembered it too, however, no word that he spoke evinced such -recollection. The promise that he had made to her had been kept to the -letter, and the past was never alluded to between them. As doctor and -nurse their colloquies were brief and practical. It was the demeanour -that he adopted towards her from the day of her instatement that added -the first fuel to her thankfulness; and if, withal, she was inclined -to review his generosity rather than to regard it, it was because he -had established the desired relations on so firm a footing that she had -ceased to believe that the pursuance of it cost him any pains. That she -had held his love after the story of her shame she was aware; but that -on reflection he could still want her for his wife she did not for an -instant suppose; and she often thought that by degrees his attitude had -become the one most natural to him. - -By what a denial of nature, by what rigid self-restraint, the idea had -been conveyed, nobody but the man himself could have told. No one else -knew the bitterness of the suffering that had been endured to give her -that feeling of right to remain; what impulses had been curbed and -crushed back, that no scruples or misgivings should cross her peace. -The circumstances in which they met now helped him much, or he; would -have failed, despite his efforts; and to fail, he understood, would be -to prove unworthy of, her trust--it would be to see her go out from his -life for ever. Still want her? So intensely, so devoutly did he want -her, that, shadowed by sin as she was, she was holier to him than any -other woman upon earth--fairer than any other gift at God's bestowal. -He would have taken her to his heart with as profound a reverence as if -no shame had ever touched her. If all the world had been cognizant of -her disgrace, he would have triumphed to cry "My wife!" in the ears; of -all the world. A baser love might well have; thirsted for her too, but -it would have had its hours of hesitation. Kincaid's had none. No flood -of passion blinded his higher judgment and urged him on; no qualms -of convention intervened and gave him pause. It was with his higher -judgment that he prayed for her. His love burned steadily, clearly. -The situation lacked only one essential for the ideal: the love of -the penitent whom he longed to raise. The complement was missing. The -fallen woman who had confessed her guilt, the man's devotion that had -withstood the test--these were there. But the devotion was unreturned, -the constancy was not desired. He could only wait, and try to hope; -wondering if her tenderness would waken in the end, wondering how he -would learn it if it did. - -To break his word by pleading again was a thing that he could do -only in the belief that she would listen to him with happiness. If -he misread her mind and spoke too soon, he not merely committed a -wrong--he destroyed the slender link that there was between them, for -he made it impossible for her to stay on. And yet, how to divine? how, -without speaking, to ascertain? What could be gathered from the deep -grey eyes, the serious face, the slim-robed figure, as he sometimes -stood beside her, guarding his every look and schooling his voice? -How could he tell if she cared for him unless he asked her? how -could he ask her unless he had reason to suppose that she did? The -nature of their association seemed to him to impose an insurmountable -barrier between them; in freer parlance a ray of the truth might be -discernible. When she had been here a year he determined to gain an -opportunity to talk with her alone. He would talk, if not on matters -nearest to him, at least on topics less formal than those to which -their conversation was limited in the ward! - -Such an opportunity, however, did not lie to his hand. It was difficult -to compass without betraying himself, and, in view of the present -difficulties, he appeared to have had so many advantages earlier that -he marvelled at his having turned them to so little account. Their -acquaintance at the villa during his mother's lifetime appeared to -him, by comparison, to have afforded every facility that he was to-day -denied, and he frequently recalled the period with passionate regret; -he thought that he had never appreciated it at its worth, though, -indeed, he had only failed to benefit by it. The villa now was tenanted -by a lady with two children; and Mary often passed it, recalling the -period also, albeit with a melancholy vaguer than his. One morning, as -she went by, the door was open--the children were coming out--and she -had a glimpse of the hall. - -They came down the steps, carrying spades and pails, bound for the -beach, like herself. The elder of them might have been nine years old, -and, belonging to the familiar house, they held a little sad interest -for her. She wondered, as they preceded her along the pavement, in -which of the rooms they slept, and if the different furniture had -altered the aspect of it much. She thought she would like to speak to -them when the sands were reached, and----Then she saw Seaton Carew! Her -heart jerked to her throat. Her gaze was riveted on him; she couldn't -withdraw it. They were advancing towards each other; he was looking at -her. She saw recognition flash across his features, and turned her -head. The people to right and left swayed a little--and she had passed -him. It had taken just fifteen seconds, but she could not remember what -she had been thinking of when she saw him. The fifteen seconds had held -for her more emotion than the last twelve months. - -Her knees trembled. She supposed he must be at the theatre this week. -But, when she saw a playbill outside the music-seller's, she was -afraid to examine it lest he might be staring after her. She walked on -excitedly. She was filled with a tremulous elation, which she cared -neither to define nor to acknowledge. She reflected that she had left -the hospital a few minutes earlier than usual, and that otherwise -she might have missed him. "Missed" was the word of her reflection. -She wondered where he was staying--in which streets the professional -lodgings were. She felt suddenly strange in the town not to know. She -had been here three years, and she did not know--how odd! In turning -a corner she saw another advertisement of the theatre, this time on a -hoarding. The day was Monday, and the paper was still shiny with the -bill-sticker's paste. She was screened from observation, and for a -moment she paused, devouring the cast with a rapid glance. His wife's -name didn't appear, so it wasn't their own company. She hurried on -again. The sight of him had acted on her like a strong stimulant. -Without knowing why, she was exhilarated. The air was sweeter, life -was keener; she was athirst to reach the shore and, in her favourite -spot, to yield herself up wholly to sensation. - -And how little he had changed! He seemed scarcely to have changed -at all. He looked just as he used to look, though he must have gone -through much since the night they parted. Ah, how could she forget -that parting--how allow the fires of it to wane? It was pitiful that, -feeling things so intensely when they happened, one was unable to keep -the intensity alive. The waste! The puerility of loving or hating, of -mourning or rejoicing so violently in life, when the passage of time, -the interposition of irrelevant incident, would smear the passion that -was all-absorbing into an experience that one called to mind! - -She sank on to a bench upon the slope of ragged grass that merged into -the shingles and the sand. The sea, vague and unruffled, lay like a -sheet of oil, veiled in mist except for one bright patch on the horizon -where it quivered luminously. She bent her eyes upon the sea, and saw -the past. His voice struck her soul before she heard his footstep. -"Mary!" he said, and she knew that he had followed her. - -She did not speak, she did not move. The blood surged to her temples, -and left her body cold. She struggled for self-command; for the -ability to conceal her agitation; for the power she yearned to gather -of blighting him with the scorn she craved to feel. - -"Won't you speak to me?" he said. He came round to her side, and stood -there, looking down at her. "Won't you speak?" he repeated--"a word?" - -"I have nothing to say to you," she murmured. "I hoped I should never -see you any more." - -He waited awkwardly, kicking the soil with the point of his boot, his -gaze wandering from her over the ocean--from the ocean back to her. - -"I have often thought about you," he said at last in a jerk. "Do you -believe that?" - -She kept silent, and then made as if to rise. - -"Do you believe that I have thought about you?" he demanded quickly. -"Answer me!" - -"It is nothing to me whether you have thought or not. I dare say you -have been ashamed when you remembered your disgrace--what of it?" - -"Yes," he said, "I have been ashamed. You were always too good for me; -I ought never to have had anything to do with a woman like you." - -She had not risen; she was still in the position in which he had -surprised her; and she was sensible now of a dull pain at the -unexpectedness of his conclusion. - -"Why have you followed me?" she said coldly. "What for?" - -"What for? I didn't know you were in the town, I hadn't an idea--and I -saw you suddenly. I wanted to speak to you." - -"What is it you want to say?" - -"Mary!" - -"Yes; what do you want to say? I'm not your friend; I'm not your -acquaintance: what have you got to speak to me about?" - -"I meant," he stammered--"I wanted to ask you if it was possible -that--that you could ever forgive the way I behaved to you." - -"Is that all?" she asked in a hard voice. - -"How you have altered!... Yes, I don't know that there's anything else." - -She did not reply, and he regarded her irresolutely. - -"Can you?" - -"No," she said. "Why should I forgive you--because time has gone by? -Is that any merit of yours? You treated me brutally, infamously. The -most that a woman can do for a man I did for you; the worst that a man -can do to a woman you did to me. You meet me accidentally and expect me -to forgive? You must be a great deal less worldly-wise than you were -three years ago." - -She turned to him for the first time since he had joined her, and his -eyes fell. - -"I didn't expect," he said; "I only asked. So you're a nurse again, eh?" - -"Yes." - -He gave an impatient sigh, the sigh of a man; who realises the -discordancy of life and imperfectly resigns himself to it. - -"We're both what we used to be, and we're both older. Well, I'm the -worse off of the two, if that's any consolation to you. A woman's -always getting opportunities for new beginnings." - -She checked the retort that sprang to her lips, eager to glean some -knowledge of his affairs, though she could not bring herself to put a -question; and after a moment she rejoined indifferently: - -"You got the chance you were so anxious for. I understood your marriage -was all that was necessary to take you to London." - -"I was in London--didn't you hear?" He was startled into naturalness, -the actor's naive astonishment when he finds his movements are unknown -to anyone. "We had a season at the Boudoir, and opened with _The Cast -of the Die_. It was a frost; and then we put on a piece of Sargent's. -That might have been worked into a success if there had been money -enough left to run it at a loss for a few weeks, but there wasn't. -The mistake was not to have opened with it, instead. And the capital -was too small altogether for a London show; the exes were awful! It -would have been better to have been satisfied with management in the -provinces if one had known how things were going to turn out. Now it's -the provinces under somebody else's management. I suppose you think I -have been rightly served?" - -"I don't see that you're any worse off than you used to be." - -"Don't you? You've no interest to see. I'm a lot worse off, for I've a -wife and child to keep." - -"A child! You've a child?" she said. - -"A boy. I don't grumble about that, though; I'm fond of the kid, -although I dare say you think I can't be very fond of anyone. But---- -Oh, I don't know why I tell you about it--what do you care!" - -They were silent again. The sun, a disc in grey heavens, smeared the -vapour with a shaft of pale rose, and on the water this was glorified -and enriched, so that the stain on the horizon had turned a deep -red. Nearer land, the sea, voluptuously still, and by comparison -colourless, had yet some of the translucence of an opal, a thousand -elusive subtleties of tint which gleamed between the streaks of -darkness thrown upon its surface from the sky. A thin edge of foam -unwound itself dreamily along the shore. A rowing-boat passed blackly -across the crimsoned distance, gliding into the obscurity where sky -and sea were one. To their right the shadowy form of a fishing-lugger -loomed indistinctly through the mist. The languor of the scene had, -in contemplation, something emotional in it, a quality that acted on -the senses like music from a violin. She was stirred with a mournful -pleasure that he was here--a pleasure of which the melancholy was -a part. The delight of union stole through her, more exquisite for -incompletion. - -"It's nothing to you whether I do badly or well," he said gloomily. And -the dissonance of the complaint jarred her back to common-sense. "Yet -it isn't long ago that we--good Lord! how women can forget; now it's -nothing to you!" - -"Why should it be anything?" she exclaimed. "How can you dare to remind -me of what we used to be? 'Forget'?--yes, I have prayed to forget! To -forget I was ever foolish enough to believe in you; to forget I was -ever debased enough to like you. I wish I _could_ forget it; it's my -punishment to remember. Not because I sinned--bad as it is, that's -less--but because I sinned for _you_! If all the world knew what I had -done, nobody could despise me for it as I despise myself, or understand -how I despise myself. The only person who should is you, for you know -what sort of man I did it for!" - -"I was carried away by a temptation--by ambition. You make me out as -vile as if it had been all deliberately planned. After you had gone----" - -"After I had gone you married your manageress. If you had been in love -with her, even, I could make excuses for you; but you weren't--you -were in love only with yourself. You deserted a woman for money. Your -'temptation' was the meanest, the most contemptible thing a man ever -yielded to. 'Ambition'? God knows I never stood between you and that. -Your ambition was mine, as much mine as yours, something we halved -between us. Has anybody else understood it and encouraged it so well? -I longed for your success as fervently as you did; if it had come, I -should have rejoiced as much as you. When you were disappointed, whom -did you turn to for consolation? But I could only give you sympathy; -and _she_ could give you power. And everything of mine _had_ been -given; you had had it. That was the main point." - -"Call me a villain and be done--or a man! Will reproaches help either -of us now?" - -"Don't deceive yourself--there are noble men in the world. I tell you -now, because at the time I would say nothing that you could regard as -an appeal. It only wanted that to complete my indignity--for me to -plead to you to change your mind!" - -"I wish to Heaven you had done anything rather than go, and that's the -truth!" - -"_I_ don't; I am glad I went--glad, glad, glad! The most awful thing I -can imagine is to have remained with you after I knew you for what you -were. The most awful thing for you as well: knowing that I knew, the -sight of me would have become a curse." - -"One mistake," he muttered, "one injustice, and all the rest, all that -came before, is blotted out; you refuse to remember the sweetest years -of both our lives!" - -She gazed slowly round at him with lifted head, and during a few -seconds each looked in the other's face, and tried to read the history -of, the interval in it. Yes, he had altered, after all. The eyes were -older. Something had gone from him, something of vivacity, of hope. - -"Are you asking me to remember?" she said. - -"You seem to forget what the injustice was done for." - -"Mary, if you knew how wretched I am!" - -"Ah," she murmured half sadly, half wonderingly, "what an egotist you -always are! You meet me again--after the way we parted--and you begin -by talking about yourself!" - -He made a gesture--dramatic because it expressed the feeling that he -desired to convey--and turned aside. - -"May I question you?" he asked lamely the next minute. "Will you -answer?" - -"What is it that you care to hear?" - -"Are you at the hospital?" - -"Yes." - -"For long? I mean, is it long since you came to Westport?" - -"I have been here nearly all the time." - -"And do--how--is it comfortable?" - -"Oh," she said, with a movement that she was unable to repress, "let us -keep to you, if we must talk at all. You'll find it easier." - -"Why will you be so cruel?" he exclaimed. "It is you who are unjust -now. If I'm awkward, it is because you're so curt. You have all the -right on your side, and I have the weight of the past on me. You asked -me why I spoke to you: if you had been less to me than you were--if, -I had thought about you less than I have--I shouldn't have spoken. -You might understand the position is a very hard one for me; I am -altogether at your mercy, and you show me none." - -The hands in her lap trembled a little, and after a pause she said in a -low voice: - -"You expect more from me than is possible; I've suffered too much." - -"My trouble has been worse. Ah! don't smile like that; it has been far -worse! You've, anyhow, had the solace of knowing you've been illused; -_I've_ felt all the time that my bed was of my own making and that I -behaved like a blackguard. Whatever I have to put up with I deserve, -I'm quite aware of it; but the knowledge makes it all the beastlier. My -life isn't idyllic, Mary; if it weren't for the child----Upon my soul, -the only moments I get rid of my worries are when I'm playing with the -child, or when I'm drunk!" - -"Your marriage hasn't been happy?" - -He shrugged his shoulders. - -"We don't fight; we don't throw the furniture at each other and have -the landlady up, like--what was their name?--the Whittacombes. But we -don't find the days too short to say all we've got to tell each other, -she and I; and----Oh, you can't think what a dreadful thing it is to -be in front of a woman all day long that you haven't got anything to -say to--it's awful! And she can't act and she doesn't get engagements, -and it makes her peevish. She might get shopped along with me for small -parts--in fact, she did once or twice--but that doesn't satisfy her; -she wants to go on playing lead, and now that the money's gone she -can't. She thinks I mismanaged the damned money and advised her badly. -She hadn't been doing anything for a year till the spring, and then she -went out with Laura Henderson to New York. Poor enough terms they are -for America! But she's been grumbling so much that I believe she'd go -on as an Extra now, rather than nothing, so long as I wasn't playing -lead to another woman in the same crowd." - -She traced an imaginary pattern with her finger on the seat. He was -still standing, and suddenly his face lighted up. - -"There's Archie!" he said. - -"Archie?" - -"The boy." - -A child of two years, in charge of a servant-girl, was at the gate of -one of the cottages behind them. - -"You take him about with you?" - -"He was left with some people in town; I've just had him down, that's -all. We finish on Saturday, and there's the sea; I thought two or three -weeks of it would do him good. Will you--may he come over to you?" - -He held out his arms, and the child, released from the servant's clasp, -toddled smilingly across the grass, a plump little body in pelisse and -cape. The gaitered legs covered the ground slowly, and she watched his -child running towards him for what seemed a long time before Carew -caught him up. - -"This is Archie," he said diffidently; "this is he." - -"Oh," she said, in constrained tones, "this is he?" - -The man stood him on the bench, with a pretence of carelessness that -was ill done, and righted his hat quickly, as if afraid that the action -was ridiculous. The sight of him in this association had something -infinitely strange to her--something that sharpened the sense of -separation, and made the past appear intensely old and ended. - -"Put him down," she said; "he isn't comfortable." - -"Do you think he looks strong?" - -"Yes, of course, very. Why?" - -"I've wondered--I thought you'd know more about it than I do. Is Archie -a good boy?" - -"Yes," answered the child. "Mamma!" - -"Don't talk nonsense--mamma's over there!" He pointed to the sea. "He -talks very well, for his age, as a rule; now he's stupid." - -"Oh, let him be," she said, looking at the baby-face with deep eyes; -"he's shy, that's all." - -"Mamma!" repeated the mite insistently, and laid a hand on her long -cloak. - -"The thumb's wrong," she murmured after a pause in which the man and -woman were both embarrassed; "see, it isn't in!" - -She drew the tiny glove off, and put it on once more, taking the -fragile fingers in her own, and parting with them slowly. A feeling -complex and wonderful crept into her heart at the voice of Tony's -child; a feeling of half-reluctant tenderness, coupled with an aching -jealousy of the woman that had borne one to him. - -They made a group to which any glance would have reverted--the -old-young man, who was obviously the father, the baby, and the -thoughtful woman, whose costume proclaimed her to be a nurse. The -costume, indeed, was not without its influence on Carew. It reminded -him of the days of his first acquaintance with her--days since which -they had been together, and separated, and drifted into different -channels. Having essayed matrimony as a means to an end, and proved -it a cul-de-sac, he blamed the woman with whom he had blundered very -ardently, and would have been gratified to descant on his mistake to -the other one, who was more than ever attractive because she had ceased -to belong to him. The length of veil falling below her waist had, to -his fancy, a cloistral suggestion which imparted to his allusions to -their intimacy an additional fascination; and Archie's presence had -seldom occupied his attention so little. Yet he was fonder of this -offshoot of himself than he had been of her even in the period that -the dress recalled; and it was because she dimly understood the fact -that the child touched her so nearly. Like almost every man in whom -the cravings of ambition have survived the hope of their fulfilment, -he dwelt a great deal on the future of his; son; longed to see his -boy achieve the success; which he had come to realise would never be -attained by himself, and lost in the interest of fatherhood some of the -poignancy of failure. The desire to talk to her of these and many other -things was strong in him, but she roused herself from reverie and said -good-bye, as if on impulse, just as he was meaning to speak. - -"I shall see you again?" - -"I think not." - -Then he would have asked if they parted in peace, but her leave-taking -was too abrupt even for him to frame the inquiry. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -It surprised him, and left him vaguely disappointed. To break off their -interview thus sharply seemed to him motiveless. He could see no reason -for it, and his gaze followed her receding figure with speculative -regret. When she was out of sight he picked the child up, and, carrying -him into the cottage parlour, sat down beside the open window, smoking, -and thinking of her. - -It was a small room, poorly furnished, and, fretted by its limitations, -the child became speedily fractious. A slipshod landlady pottered -around, setting forth the crockery for dinner, while the little -servant, despatched with the boy from town, mashed his dinner into -an unappetising compound on a plate. From time to time she turned to -soothe him with some of the loud-voiced facetiae peculiar to the little -servant species in its dealings with fretful childhood, and at these -moments Carew suspended his meditations on his quondam mistress to -wish for the presence of his wife. It was only the second, day of his -son's visit to him, and his unfamiliarity with the arrangement was not -without its effect upon his nerves. - -Always dissatisfied with the present time, his capacity for enjoying -the past was correspondingly keen. Reflectively consuming a chop, in -full view of the unappetising compound and infancy's vagaries with a -spoon, he proceeded to re-live it, discerning in the process a thousand -charms to which the reality had seen him blind. - -He was unable to shake off the influence of the meeting when dinner -was done. Fancifully, while the child scrambled in a corner with some -toys, he installed Mary in the room; imagining his condition if he had -married her, and moodily watching the curls of tobacco smoke as they -sailed across the dirty dishes. "Damn it!" he exclaimed, rising. But -for the conviction that it would be futile, he would have gone out to -search for her. - -That he would see her again before he left the place he was determined. -But he failed to do so both on the morrow and the next day, though he -extended his promenade beyond its usual limits. He did not, in these -excursions, fail to remark that a town sufficiently large to divide one -hopelessly from the face one seeks, can yet be so small that the same -strangers' countenances are recurrent at nearly every turn. A coloured -gentleman he anathematised especially for his iteration. - -Though he doubted the possibility of the thing, he could not rid -himself of the idea that she would be at the theatre some evening, -impelled by the temptation to look upon him without his knowledge; and -he played his best now on the chance that she might be there. As often -as was practicable, he scanned the house during the progress of the -piece, and between the acts inspected it through the peep-hole in the -curtain. - -Noting his observations one night, a pretty girl in the wings asked -jocularly if "_she_ had promised to wait outside for him." - -"No, Kitty, my darling, she hasn't; she won't have anything to do with -me!" he answered, and would have liked to stop and flirt with her. His -brain was hot at the instant, and one woman or another just then---- - -If Mary had been waiting, he could have talked to her as sentimentally -as before; and have felt as much sentiment, too. All compunction for -his lapses he could assuage by a general condemnation of masculine -nature. - -The pretty girl had no part in the play. She was the daughter -of a good-looking woman who was engaged in the dual capacity of -"chamber-maid" and wardrobe-mistress; but although she had only -just left boarding-school, it was a foregone conclusion that, like -her mother, she would be connected with the lower branches of the -profession before long. Already she had acquired very perfectly, in -private, the burlesque lady's tone of address, and was familiar with -the interior of provincial bars, where her mother took a "tonic" after -the performance. - -Carew ran across them both, among a group of the male members of the -company, in the back-parlour of a public-house an hour later. Kitty, -innocent enough as yet to find "darling" a novelty, welcomed him with -a flash of her eyes; but he made no response, and, gulping his whisky, -sat glum. The others commented on his abstraction. He replied morosely, -and called for "the same again." It was not unusual for him to drink to -excess now--he was accustomed to excuse the weakness by compassionating -himself upon his dreary life--and to-night he lay back on the settee -sipping whisky till he grew garrulous. - -They remained at the table long after the closing hour, the landlady, -who was a friend of Kitty's mamma, enjoining them to quietude. She was -not averse from joining the party herself when the lights in the window -had been extinguished nor did Kitty decline to take a glass of wine -when Carew at last pressed her to be sociable. - -"Because you're growing up," he said with a foolish laugh--"'getting a -big girl now'!" - -She swept him a mock obeisance in the centre of the floor, shaking back -the hair that was still worn loose about her shoulders. - -"Sherry," she said, "if mother says her popsy may? Because I'm 'getting -a big girl now,' mother!" - -The bar was in darkness, and this necessitated investigation with a box -of matches. When the bottle was produced, it proved to be empty; the -girl's pantomime of despair was received with loud guffaws. Everybody -had drunk more than was advisable, and the proprietress again attempted -to restrain the hilarity by feeble allusions to her licence. - -"The sherry's in the cupboard down the passage," she exclaimed; "won't -you have something else instead? Now, do make less noise, there's good -boys; you'll get me into trouble!" - -"I'll go and get it," said Kitty, breaking into a momentary step-dance, -with uplifted arms. "Trust me with the key?" - -"And _I_'ll go and see she doesn't rob you," cried Carew. "Come along, -Kit!" - -"No you won't," said her mother; "she'll do best alone!" But the -remonstrance was unheeded, and, as the girl ran out into the passage, -he followed; and, as they reached the cupboard and stood fumbling at -the lock, he caught her round the waist and kissed her. - -They came back with the bottle together, in the girl's bearing an -assertion of complacent womanhood evoked by the indignity. Carew -applied himself to the liquor with renewed diligence; and by the time -the party dispersed circumspectly through the private door, his eyes -were glazed. - -The sleeping town stretched before his uncertain footsteps blanched in -moonlight as he bade the others a thick "good-night." His apartments -were a mile, and more, distant, and, muddled by drink, he struck into -the wrong road, pursuing and branching from it impetuously, till -Westport wound about him in the confusion of a maze. Once he halted, in -the thought that he heard someone approaching. But the sound receded; -and feeling dizzier every minute, he wandered on again, ultimately -with no effort to divine his situation. The sun was rising when, -partially sobered, he passed through the cottage-gate. The sea lapped -the sand gently under a flushing sky; but in the bedroom a candle still -burned, and it was in the flare of the candle that the little servant -confronted him with a frightened face. - -"Master Archie, sir!" she faltered; "I've been up with him all -night--he's ill!" - -"Ill?" He stood stupidly on the threshold. "What do you mean by ill? -What is it?" - -"I don't know; I don't know what I ought to do; I think he ought to -have a doctor." - -He pushed past her, with a muttered ejaculation, to the bed where the -child lay whimpering. - -"What's the matter, Archie? What is it, little chap?" - -"It's his neck he complains of," she said; "you can see, it's all -swollen. He can't eat anything." - -Carew looked at it dismayed. A sudden fear of losing the child, a -sudden terror of his own incompetence seized him. - -"Fetch a doctor," he stammered, "bring him back with you. You should -have gone before; it wasn't necessary to wait for me to come in to tell -you that if the child was taken ill, he needed a doctor! Go on, girl, -hurry! You'll find one somewhere in the damned place. Wait a minute, -ask the landlady--wake her up and ask which the nearest doctor is! Tell -him he must come at once. If he won't, ring up another--a delay may -make all the difference. Good God! why did I have him down here?" - -The waiting threatened to be endless. A basin of water was on the -washhand-stand, and he plunged his head into it. The stir of awakening -life was heard in the quietude. Through the window came the clatter -of feet in a neighbouring yard, the rattle of a pail on stone. He -contemplated the child, conscience-stricken by his own condition, and -strove to allay his anxiety by repeated questions, to which he obtained -peevish and unsatisfactory replies. - -It was more than two hours before the girl returned. She was -accompanied by a medical man who seemed resentful. Carew watched his -examination breathlessly. - -"Is it serious?" - -"It looks like diphtheria; it's early yet to say. He's got a first-rate -constitution; that's one thing. Mother a good physique?... So I should -have thought! Are you a resident?" - -"I'm an actor; I'm in an engagement here; my wife's abroad. Why do you -ask?" - -"The child had better be removed--there's danger of infection with -diphtheria; lodgings won't do. Take him to the hospital, and have him -properly looked after. It'll be best for him in every way." - -"I'm much obliged for your advice," said Carew. But the idea was -intimidating. "I shall be here, myself, for another week at least," he -added, in allusion to the fee. "Is it safe to move him, do you think?" - -"Oh yes, no need to fear that. Wrap him up, and take him away in a fly -this morning. The sooner the better.... That's all right. Good-day." - -He departed briskly, with an appetite for breakfast. - -"Archie will have a nice drive," said Carew in a tone of dreary -encouragement--"a nice drive in a carriage with papa." - -"I'm sleepy," said the child. - -"A nice drive in the sunshine, and see the sea. Nursie will put on your -clothes." - -"I don't want!" - -His efforts to resist strengthened Carew's dislike to the proposed -arrangement. It was not in the first few minutes that this abrupt -presentment of the hospital recalled to the man's mind Mary's -connection with it; and when the connection flashed upon him his -spirits lightened. If the boy had to be laid up, away from his mother's -relatives in London, the mischance could hardly occur under happier -conditions than where----The reflection faded to a question-point. -_Would_ she be of use? Could he expect, or dare to ask for tenderness -from Mary Brettan--and to the other woman's child? He doubted it. - -In the revulsion of feeling that followed that leaping hope, he almost -determined to withhold the request. Many children were safe in a -hospital; why not his own child? He would pay for everything. And then -the thought of Archie forsaken among strangers made him tremble; and -the little form seemed to him, in its lassitude, to have become smaller -still, more fragile. - -Again and again, in the jolting cab, he debated an appeal to Mary, -wrestling with shame for the sake of his boy. Without knowing what she -could do, he was sensible that her interest would be of value. He clung -passionately to the idea of leaving the hospital with the knowledge -that it contained a friend, an individual who would spare to the child -something more than the patient's purchased and impartial due. - -The cab stopped with a jerk, and he carried him into the empty -waiting-room. It was a gaunt, narrow apartment on the ground-floor, -with an expanse of glass, like the window of a shop, overlooking -the street. He put him in a corner of one of the forms against the -walls, and, pending the appearance of the house-surgeon, murmured -encouragement. The minutes lagged. It occurred to him that the ailment -might be pronounced trivial, but the hope deserted him almost as it -came, banished by the surroundings. The bare melancholy of the walls -chilled him anew, and the suggestion of poverty about the place -intensified his misgivings. He thought he would speak to her. If she -refused, it would have done no harm. And she would not refuse, she was -too good. Yes, she had always been a good woman. He remembered---- - -The door-knob turned, and he rose in the presence of Kincaid. The eyes -of the two men met questioningly. - -"Your child?" said Kincaid, advancing. - -"Yes; it's his neck. I was advised to bring him here, because I'm only -in lodgings. I'd like----" - -"Let me see!" - -Carew resumed his seat. His gaze hung on the doctor's movements; -every detail twanged his nerves. A nurse was called in to take the -temperature. He watched her with suspense, and smiled feebly at the -child across her arm. - -"Diphtheritic throat. We'll put him to bed at once. Take him away, -Nurse--put him into a special ward." - -"I should like----" said Carew huskily; "I know one of the nurses here. -Might I see her?" - -"Yes, certainly. Which one?" - -"Her name is 'Brettan--Mary Brettan.'" He stooped to pat the tearful -face, and missed Kincaid's surprise. "If I might see her now----?" - -"Ask if Nurse Brettan can come down, please! Say she is wanted in the -waiting-room." - -A brief pause ensued. The closing of the door left them alone. The -father's imagination pursued the figures that had disappeared; -Kincaid's was busy with the fact of the man's being an acquaintance -of Mary's--the only acquaintance that had crossed his path. Surprise -suggested his opening remark: - -"You're a visitor here, you say? Your little son's sickness has come at -an unfortunate time for you." - -"It has--yes, very. I'm at the theatre--and my apartments are none too -good." - -He mentioned the address; the doctor made some formal inquiries. Carew -asked how often he would be permitted to see the boy; and when this was -arranged, silence fell again. - -It was broken in a few seconds. The sound of a footstep on the stairs -was caught by them simultaneously. Simultaneously both men looked -round. The footsteps were succeeded by the faint rustle of a skirt, and -Nurse Brettan crossed the threshold. She started visibly--controlled -herself, and acknowledged Carew's greeting by a slight bow. - -Kincaid, in a manner, presented him to her--courteously, constrainedly. - -"This gentleman has been waiting to see you. I'll wish you -good-morning, sir." - -Mary moved to the window, and stood there without speaking. In the -print and linen costume of the house she recalled with increased force -to Carew the time when he had seen her first. - -"Archie has got diphtheria," he said; "he's just been taken upstairs." - -"I'm sorry," she said. "Why have you asked for me?" - -"They told me I couldn't keep him at home--that I must bring him -here.... Mary, you will do what you can for him?" - -She raised her head calmly. - -"He is sure of careful nursing," she answered; "no patient is -neglected." - -"I know. I know all that. I thought that you----" - -"I'm not in the children's ward," she said; "there isn't anything _I_ -can do." - -He looked at her dumbly. Mere indifference his agitation would have -found vent in combating, but the conclusiveness of the reply left him -nothing to urge. - -"I must be satisfied without you, then," he said at last. "I thought of -you directly." - -"He'll have every attention; you needn't doubt that." - -"Such a little chap--among strangers!" - -"We have very young children in the wards." - -"And perhaps to be dangerously ill!" - -"You must try to hope for the best." - -"Ah, you speak like the hospital nurse to me!" he cried; "I was -remembering the woman." - -"I speak as what I am," she returned coldly; "I am one of the nurses. I -have no remembrances, myself." - -"You could remember this week, when we met again. And once you wouldn't -have found it so impossible to spare a minute's kindness to my boy!" - -She moved towards the door, paler, but self-contained. - -"I must go now," she said; "I can't stay away long." - -"You choose to forget only when something is asked of you!" - -"I have told you," she said, turning, "that it is out of my power to do -anything." - -"And you are glad you can say it!" - -"Perhaps. No reminder of my old disgrace is pleasant to me." - -"Your reformation is very complete," he answered bitterly; "the woman I -used to know would have been unable to retaliate upon a helpless child." - -The sting of the retort roused her to refutation. Her hand, extended -towards the door, dropped to her side; she faced him swiftly. - -"You find me what you made me," she said with white lips. "I neither -retaliate nor pity. What is your wife's child to me, that you ask me to -care for it? If I'm hard, it was you who taught me to be hard before he -was born." - -"It's _my_ child I asked you to care for. And I brought myself to ask -it because he's my dearest thing on earth. I thank God to learn he -won't be in your charge!" - -She shivered, and for a moment looked at him intently. Then her eyelids -drooped, and she left him without a word. - -She went out into the corridor--her hand was pressed against her -breast. But her duties were not immediately resumed. She made her way -into the children's wing, moving with nothing of indecision in her -manner, but like one who proceeds to fulfil a purpose. The two rows of -beds left a passage down the floor, and she scanned the faces till she -reached the nurses' table. - -By chance, she spoke to the nurse that Kincaid had summoned. - -"There's a boy just been brought in with diphtheria, Sophie; do you -know where he is?" - -"Yes, I'm going back to him in a minute. He's in a special ward." - -"Let me see him!" - -"Have you got permission?" - -"No." - -Nurse Gay hesitated. - -"I shall get into trouble," she said. "Why don't you ask for it?" - -"I don't want to wait; I want to see him now." - -"I've been in hot water once this week already----" - -"Sophie, I know the mite, and--and his people. I _must_ go in to him!" - -The girl glanced at her keenly. - -"Oh, if it's like that!" she said. "It's only a wigging--go!" And she -told her where he was. - -He lay alone in the simple room, when Mary entered--a diminutive -patient for whom the narrow cot looked large. The nurse had been -showing him a picture-book, and this yawned loosely on the quilt, where -it had slid from his listless hold. At the sound of Mary's approach, -he turned. But he did not recognise her. A doubtful gaze appraised her -intentions. - -At first she did not speak. She stooped over the pillow, smoothing and -re-smoothing it mechanically, a hand trembling closer to the disordered -curls. Her own gaze deepened and hung upon him; her lips parted. Her -hands crept timidly nearer. Her face was bent till her mouth was -yielding kisses on his cheek. She yearned over him through wet lashes, -a wondering smile always on her face. - -"Archie," she murmured; "Archie, baby-boy, is it comfy for you? Won't -you see the pictures--all the pretty people in the book?" - -"Not nice pictures," he complained. - -"You shall have nicer ones this afternoon," she said; "this afternoon, -when I go out. Let me show you these now! Look, here's a little boy in -bed, like you! His name was 'Archie,' too; and one day his papa took -him to a big house, where papa had friends, and---- - -"Papa! I _want_ papa!" - -"Oh, my darling," she said, "papa is coming! He'll come very, very -soon. The other little boy wanted papa as well, and he wasn't happy at -first at all. But in the big house everybody was so kind, and glad to -have Archie there, that presently he thought it a treat to stop. It was -so nice directly that it was better than being at home. They gave him -toys, lots and lots of toys; and there were oranges and puddings--it -was beautiful!" - -She could not remain, she was needed elsewhere; and when Kincaid made -his round she was on duty. But she ascertained developments throughout -the day, and by twilight she knew that the child was grievously ill. -She did not marvel at her interest; it engrossed her to the exclusion -of astonishment. If she was surprised at all, it was that Carew could -have believed in her neutrality. Yet she was thankful that he had -believed in it; and at the same time, rejoiced that his first impulse -had been to put faith in her good heart. She did not analyse her -sympathy, ashamed of the cause from which it sprang. When she had -gazed, during the intervening years, at the faded photograph, she had -reproached herself and wept; now it all seemed natural. She sought -neither to reason nor to euphemise. The feeling was spontaneous, and -she went with it. She called it by no wrong word, because she called -it nothing. She was borne as it carried her, blindly, unresistingly, -without pausing to name it, or to define its source. It seemed natural. -She inquired about Archie when she had risen next morning, and a little -later, contrived another flying visit to the room. But he was now too -ill to notice her. - -In the afternoon, Carew came again. She learnt it while he was there, -and gathered something of his wretchedness. She heard how he besieged -the nurse with questions: "Had she seen so bad a case before--well, -often before? Had those who recovered been so young as Archie? Was -there nothing else that could be tried?" She listened, with her head -bowed, imagining the scene that she could not enter; deploring, -remembering, re-living--praying for "Tony's child." - -Not till the man had gone, however, was everything related to her. -She was sitting at the extremity of the ward, sewing, shortly to be -free for the night. It was the hour when the quiet of the hospital -deepened into the hush that preluded the extinction of the patients' -lights. The supper-trays had long since been removed from the bedsides. -Through the apertures of curtain, a few patients, loath to waive -the privilege while they held it, were to be seen reading books and -magazines; others were asleep already, and even the late-birds of the -ward who dissipated in wheel-chairs, to the envy of the rest, had made -their final excursion for the day. The Major had stopped his chair to -utter his last wish for "a comfortable night, sir." The chess champion -had concluded his conquest on a recumbent adversary's quilt. Where -breakfast comes at six o'clock, grown men resume some of the customs -of their infancy, and the day that begins so early closes soon. It was -very peaceful, very still; and she was sitting in the lamp-rays, sewing. - -She looked round as the Matron joined her. It was known that the case -interested her, and in subdued tones they spoke of it. - -"How is he?" - -"He's been dreadfully bad. The worst took place before the father left; -Dr. Kincaid had to come up." - -"What?--tell me!" - -"He had to perform tracheotomy. The father was there all the time; Dr. -Kincaid told him what was going to be done, but he wouldn't go. The -child was blue in the face and there wasn't any stopping to argue. When -the cut in the throat was made and the tube put in, I thought the man -was going to faint. He was standing just by me. 'Good God! Is this an -experiment?' he said. I told him it was the only way for the child to -breathe, but he didn't seem to hear me. And when the fit of coughing -came--oh, my goodness! You know what the coughing's like?" - -"Go on!" - -"He made sure it was all over; he burst out sobbing, and the doctor -ordered him out of the room. 'If you're fond of your child, keep quiet -here, sir,' he said, 'or go and compose yourself outside!' I think he -was sorry he'd spoken so sternly afterwards, though he was quite right, -for----" - -"Oh!" shuddered Mary. "Did you see him again?" - -"Yes; I told him he'd had no business to stop. He said, 'If the worst -happens, I shall think it right I was there.' I said he must try to -believe that only the best would happen now; though whether I ought to -have said it I don't know. When it comes to tracheotomy in diphtheria, -the child's chance is slim. Still, this one's as fine a little chap as -ever I saw; he's got the strength of many a pair we get here--and the -man was in such a state. He's coming back to-night--he's to see _me_, -anyhow; he had to hurry off to the theatre to act. I can't imagine how -he'll get through." - -"I must go! I must go to the ward!" She rose, clasping her hands -convulsively. "I can, can't I? It's Nurse Mainwaring's time to relieve -me--why isn't she here?" - -The Matron calmed her. - -"Hush! you can go as soon as she comes. Don't take on like that, or -I shall be sorry I told you. Nurse Bradley has complained of feeling -ill--I expect that's what it is." - -Mary raised a faint smile, deprecating her vehemence. - -"I'm very fond of the boy," she said, with apology in her voice. "It -was very kind of you to tell me; I thank you very much." - -Nurse Mainwaring appeared now. - -"Nurse Bradley can't get up, madam," she announced. - -"Nonsense! what is it?" - -"A sick-headache; she can't see out of her eyes." - -It was the moment of dismay in which a hospital realises that its -staff, too, is flesh and blood--the hitch in the human machinery. - -"Then we're short-handed to-night. You relieve here, Nurse Mainwaring?" - -"Yes, madam." - -"And Nurse Gay--who should relieve her?" - -"Nurse Bradley." - -"_I'll_ relieve her," cried Mary; "I'd like to!" - -"You need your night's rest as much as most. And there's no napping -with trachy--it means watching all the time." - -"I shan't nap; I shan't want to. Somebody must lose her night's -rest--why not I?" - -"I think we can manage without you." - -"It'll be a favour to me--I'm thankful for the chance." - -"Well, then, you shall halve it with someone. You can take the first -half, and----" - -"No, no," she urged, "that's rough on the other and not enough for me. -Give it me all!" - -The Matron yielded: - -"Nurse Brettan relieves Nurse Gay!" - -In the room the boy lay motionless as if already dead. From the mouth -breath no longer passed; only by holding a hand before the orifice of -the tube inserted in the throat could one detect that he now breathed -at all. As Mary took the seat by his side, the force of professional -training was immediately manifest. She had begged for the extra work -with almost feverish excitement; she entered upon it collected and -self-controlled. A stranger would have said: "A conscientious woman, -but experience has blunted her sensibilities." - -On the table were some feathers. With these, from time to time -throughout the night, she had to keep the tube free from obstruction. -Even the briefest indulgence to drowsiness was impossible. Unwavering -attention to the state of the passage that admitted air to the lungs -was not merely important, the necessity was vital. A continuous, an -inflexible vigilance was required. It was to this that the nurse, -already worn by the usual duties of the day, had pledged herself in -place of the absentee. - -At half-past nine she had cleansed the tube twice. At ten o'clock -Kincaid came in. - -"I am relieving Nurse Gay," she said, rising; "Nurse Bradley's head is -very bad." - -He went to the bed and ascertained that all was well. - -"It'll be very trying for you; wasn't there anyone to divide the work?" - -"I wanted to do it all myself." - -"Ah, yes, I understand; you know the father." - -It was the only reference that he had made to the father's asking for -her, and she was sensible of inquiry in his tone. She nodded. And, -alone together for the first time since her appointment, they stood -looking at Carew's child. - -She had no wish to speak. On him the situation imposed restraint. -But to be with her thus had a charm, for all that. It was not to be -uttered, not to be dwelt on, but, due in part to the prevailing silence -of the house, there was an illusion of confidential intercourse that he -had not felt with her here before. - -While they looked, the boy gave a quick gasp. The tube had become -clogged. - -She started and threw out her hand towards the feathers. But Kincaid -had picked one up already, favoured by his position. - -"All right!" he said; "I'll free it." - -He leant over the pillow, feather in hand. She watched him with eyes -widening in terror, for she saw that his endeavours were futile and he -could not free it. - -The waxen placidity of the upturned face vanished as she watched. -It regained the signs of life to struggle with the gripe of -death--distorted in an instant, and distorted frightfully. The average -woman would have wept aloud. The nurse, to all intents and purposes, -preserved her calmness still. - -It was Kincaid who gave the first token of despondence. - -"The thing's blocked!" he exclaimed; "I can't clear it!" - -His voice had the repressed despair of a surgeon, who is an enthusiast, -too, opposed by a higher force. Under the test of his defeat her -composure broke down. Confronted by a danger in which her interest was -vivid and personal she--as the father had done before her--became -agitated and unstrung. - -"You must," she said. "Doctor, for Heaven's sake!" - -He was trying still, but with scant success. - -"I'm doing my best; it seems no good." - -"You must save this life," she repeated. - -"You will?" - -"I tell you I can't do any more." - -"You will--you shall!" she persisted wildly. The very passion of -motherhood suffused her features. "Doctor, it is _his_ child!" - -He looked at her--their gaze met, even then. It was only in a flash. -Abruptly the gasps of the dying baby became horrible to witness. The -eyeballs rolled hideously, and seemed as if they would spring from -their sockets. The tiny chest heaved and fell in agonising efforts to -gain air, while in its convulsive battle against suffocation the frail -body almost lifted itself from the mattress. - -"Go away," said the man; "there's nothing you can do." - -She refused to stir. She appealed to him frantically. - -"Help him!" she stammered. - -"There's no way." - -"You, the doctor, tell me there's no way?" - -"None." - -"But _I_ know there _is_ a way," she cried; "I can suck that tube!" - -"Mary! My God! it might kill you!" - -She flung forward, but the conflict ceased as he pulled her back. A -small quantity of the mucus had been dislodged by the paroxysm that -it had produced. Nature had done--imperfectly, but still done--what -science had failed to effect. The boy breathed. - -The outbreak was followed by complete exhaustion, and again it seemed -that life was extinct. Kincaid assured himself that it lingered still, -and turned to her gravely. - -"You were about to do a wicked, and a foolish thing. After what it has -gone through, nothing under Heaven can save the child; you ought to -know as much as that. At best you could only hope to prolong life for -two or three hours." - -Tears were dripping down her cheeks. - -"'Only!'" she said; "do you think that's nothing to me? An hour longer, -and his father will be here--to find him living, or dead. Do you -suppose I can't imagine--do you suppose I can't feel--what _he_ feels, -there on the stage, counting the seconds to release? In an hour the -curtain 'll be down and he'll have rushed here praying to be in time. -If it were revealed that I should do nothing but prolong the life by -sacrificing my own, I'd sacrifice it! Gladly, proudly--yes, proudly, as -God hears! You could never have prevented me--nothing should prevent -me. I'd risk my life ten times rather than he should arrive too late." - -"This," drearily murmured the man who loved her, "is the return you -would make for his sin?" - -"No," she said; "it is the atonement I would offer for mine." - -He stood dumbly at the head of the cot; the woman trembled at the foot. -But they saw the change next minute simultaneously. Once more the -passage had become hopelessly clogged. With a broken cry, she rushed to -the cot's vacant side. This time he could not pull her back. He spoke. - -"Stop! Nurse Brettan, I order you to leave the ward!" - -The voice was imperative, and an instant she wavered; but it was the -merest instant. The woman had vanquished the nurse, and the woman -was the stronger now. A glance she threw of mingled supplication and -defiance, and, casting herself on the bed, she set her lips to the -tube. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -It was the work of a moment. Almost as he started forward to restrain -her, she had raised herself, and, burying her face in a handkerchief, -leant, shaking, against the wall. - -Kincaid gazed at her, white and stern, and a tense silence followed, -broken by her. - -"You can have me dismissed," she said--"he will see his child!" - -He answered nothing. The cruelty of the speech which ignored and -perverted everything outside the interests of the man by whom she -had been wronged seemed the last blow that his pain could have to -bear. A sense of the inequality and injustice of life's distribution -overwhelmed him. Viewed in the light of her defeated enemy, he felt as -broken, as far from power or dignity, as if the imputation had been -just. - -She resumed her seat; and, waiting as long as duty still required, he -at last made some remark. She replied constrainedly. The intervention -of the pause was demonstrated by their tones, which sounded flat and -dull. He was thankful when he could go; and his departure was not less -welcome to the woman. To her reactionary weakness the removal of -supervision came as balm. He went from her heavily, and she drew her -chair yet closer to the bedside. - -Tony would see his boy! She had no other settled thought, excepting the -reluctant one that she would meet him when he came. The reflection that -he would hear of her share in the matter gladdened her scarcely at all; -indeed, when she contemplated his enlightenment, she was perturbed. He -would learn that his initial faith in her had been justified, and he -would be sorry, piteously sorry, for all the hard words that he had -used. But by _her_ there was little to be gained; what she had done -had been for him. She found it even a humiliation that her act would -be known to him--a humiliation which his gratitude would do nothing to -decrease. She looked at the watch that she had pawned for the rent of -her garret after his renunciation of her, and determined the length of -time before he could arrive. - -The stress of the last few minutes could not be suffered to beget any -abatement of wariness. But by degrees, as the reverberation of the -outburst faded, she felt more tranquil than she had done since the -Matron joined her earlier in the evening; and the vigil was continued -with undiminished care. Archie would die, but now Tony would be -present. The closing moments would not pass while he was simulating -misery or mirth on a stage. Horror of the averted fate, more dreadful -to a woman's mind even than to the father's own, made the brief -protraction appear an almost priceless boon. - -It was possible for him to be here already; not likely, perhaps, so -soon as this, but possible, supposing that the piece "played quick" and -that a cab had been ordered to await him at the door. She listened for -the roll of wheels in the distance, but the silence was undisturbed. -Archie was lying as calm as when she had entered. If no further -impediment occurred, to exhaust the remaining strength more speedily, -it seemed safe to think that he might last two hours. - -Her misgivings as to her risk were slight. The danger she had run -might prove fatal; but the thing had been done with impunity at least -once before--she remembered hearing of it. While we have our health, -the contingency of sickness appears to us more remote from ourselves -than from our neighbours; in her own case, a serious result looked -exceedingly improbable. She regarded the benefit of her temerity as -cheaply bought. None knew better than she, however, how much completive -attention was called for, what alertness of eye and hand was essential -afterwards; and, sitting there, her gaze was fastened on the boy as if -she sought to hearken to every flutter of his pulse. - -Now a cab did approach; she held her breath as it rattled near. It -stopped, she fancied, before the hospital gate. Still with her stare -riveted on the unconscious child, she strained her ears for the -confirmatory tread. The seconds ticked away, swelling to minutes, but -no footstep fell. The hope had been a false one! Presently the cab -was heard again, driving away. She began to be distressed, alarmed. -Making allowance for a too sanguine calculation, it was time that -he was here!... The delay was unaccountable; no conjecture could be -formed as to its extent. Her fingers were laced and unlaced in her -lap nervously. She imagined the rumble of wheels in the soughing of -the wind, alternately intent and discomfited. The faint slamming of -a cottage-door startled her to expectation. In the profundity of the -hush that spread with every subsidence of sound, she seemed to hear the -throbbing of her heart. - -Out in the town a clock struck twelve, and apprehension verged upon -despair. The eyes fixed on the boy were desperate now; she leant over -him to contest the advent of the end shade by shade. So far no change -was shown; Tony's fast dwindling chance was not yet lost. "God, God! -Send him quick!" she prayed. Racked with impatience, tortured by the -fear that what she had done might, after all, be unavailing, she strove -to devise some theory to uphold her. Debarred from venting her suspense -in action, she found the constraint of her posture almost physical -pain. - -The clock boomed the hour of one. It swept suddenly across her mind -that the Matron had been doubtful of letting him proceed to the ward on -his return: he must have come and gone! She had been reaching forward, -and her arm remained extended vaguely. Consternation engulfed her. If -during ten seconds she thought of anything but her neglect to ensure -his being admitted, she thought she felt the blood in her freezing -from head to foot. He had come and gone!--she was thwarted by her own -oversight. Defeat paralysed the woman.... Her exploit now assumed an -aspect of grievous hazard, enhanced by its futility. She lifted herself -faint at soul. Her services were instinctive, mechanical; she resumed -them, she was assiduous and watchful; but she appeared to be prompted -by some external influence, with her brain benumbed. - -All at once a new thought thrilled her stupor. She heard the stroke of -three, and the boy was still alive! The ungovernable hope shook her -back to sensation. She told herself that the hope was wild, fantastic, -that she would be mad to harbour it, but excitement shivered in her; -she was strung with the intensity of what she hesitated to own. Every -second that might bring the end and yet withheld it, fanned the hope -feebly; the passage of each slow, dragging minute stretched suspense -more taut. She dreaded the quiver of her lashes that veiled his face -from view, as if the spark of life might vanish as her eyelids fell. -Between eternities, the distant clock rang forth the quarters of the -hour across the sleeping town, and at every quarter she gasped "Thank -God!" and wondered would she thank Him by the next. Hour trailed into -hour. The boy lingered still. Haggard, she tended and she watched. The -dreariness of daybreak paled the blind before the bed. The blind grew -more transparent, and hope trembled on. There was the stir of morning, -movement in the street; dawn touched them wanly, and hope held her yet. -And sunrise showed him breathing peacefully once more--and then she -knew that Heaven had worked a miracle and the child would live. - - * * * * * - -Among the staff that case is cited now and still the nurses tell how -Mary Brettan saved his life. The local _Examiner_ gave the matter a -third of a column, headed "Heroism of a Hospital Nurse." And, cut down -to five lines, it was mentioned in the London papers. Mr. Collins, of -Pattenden's, glanced at the item, having despatched the youth of the -prodigious yawn with a halfpenny, and--remembering how the surname was -familiar--wondered for a moment what the woman was doing who could -never sell their books. - -It was later in the morning that Carew entered the hospital, as Kincaid -crossed the hall. The porter heard the doctor's answer to a stammered -question: - -"Your child is out of danger. I'm sorry to say Nurse Brettan risked her -life for him." - -Then the visitor started, and stopped short hysterically, and the -doctor moved by, with his jaw set hard. - -To Mary he had said little. He was confronted by a recovery that it had -been impossible to foresee, but his predominant emotion was terror of -its cost. From the Matron she heard of Carew's gratitude, and received -his message of entreaty to be allowed to see her. It was not delivered, -however, till she woke, and then he had gone; and by the morrow her -reluctance to have an interview had deepened. She contented herself -with the note that he sent: one written to say that he "could not -write--that in a letter he was unable to find words." She read it very -slowly, and it drooped to her lap, and she sat gazing at the wall. She -brushed the mist from her eyes, and read the lines again, and yet again ---long after she knew them all by heart. - -Next day she rose with a strange stiffness in her throat. With her -descent to the ward, it increased. And she was frightened. But at first -she would not mention it, because she was loath for Kincaid to know. -She felt it awkward to draw breath; by noon the difficulty was not to -be concealed. She went to bed--protesting, but by Kincaid's command. - -Nurse Brettan had become a patient. She said how queer it was to be -in the familiar room in this unfamiliar way. The nurse whose watch of -Archie she had relieved was chosen to attend on her; and Mary chaffed -her weakly on her task. - -"It ought to be a good patient this spell, Sophie! If I'm a nuisance, -you may shake me." - -But to Kincaid she spoke more earnestly now the danger-signal was -displayed. - -"You did all you could to stop me, doctor. Whatever happens, you'll -remember that! You did everything that was right, and so did I." - -"Don't talk rubbish about 'happenings,' Nurse!" he said; "we shall want -you to be up and at work again directly." - -Nevertheless, she grew worse as the child grew stronger; and for a -fortnight the man who loved her suffered fiercer pain each time he -answered "Rubbish!" And the man whom she loved sought daily tidings of -her when he called to view the progress of his boy. She used to hear of -his inquiries and turn her face on the pillow, and lie for a long while -very quiet. Her distaste to meeting him had gone and she craved for him -to come to her. But now she could not bring herself to let him do it, -because her neck and face were so swollen and unsightly, and her voice -had dwindled to a whisper that was not nice to hear. - -Then all hope was at an end--it was known that she was dying. And one -morning the nurse said to her: - -"Perhaps this afternoon you'd like to see him? He has asked again." - -"This afternoon?" Momentarily her eyes brightened, but the shame of -her unloveliness came back to her, and she sighed. "Give me ... the -glass, Sophie ... there's a dear!" She looked up at her reflection in -the narrow mirror held aslant over the bed. "No," she said feebly, "not -this afternoon. Perhaps tor morrow." - -The girl put back the glass without speaking. And a gaze followed her -questioningly till she left. - -When Kincaid came in, Mary asked him how long she had to live. - -He was worn with a night of agony--a night whose marks the staff had -observed and wondered at. - -"How long?" she asked; "I know I can't get better. When's it going to -be?" He clenched his teeth to curb the twitching of his mouth. "It -isn't _now_?" - -"No, no," he said. "You shouldn't, you _mustn't_ frighten yourself like -this!" - -"To-day?" - -"Not to-day," he answered hoarsely, "I honestly believe." - -"To-morrow?" - -"Mary!" - -"To-morrow?" she pleaded in the same painful whisper. "Tell me the -truth. What to-morrow?" - -"I think--to-morrow you may know how much I loved you." - -She did not move; and he had turned aside. He noticed it was raining -and how the drops spattered on the window-sill. - -"I didn't see," she murmured; "I thought-you--had--forgotten." - -"No," he said; "you never saw. It doesn't matter; I know now it would -never have been any use. Hush, dear; don't talk; it's so bad for you!" - -"I'm sorry. But I was _his_ before you came. I couldn't. Could I?" - -"No, of course. Don't worry; don't, for God's sake! There's nothing -to be sorry about. I must go to the next ward; I shall see you this -afternoon. Try to sleep a little, won't you?" - -He went out, with a word to the nurse, who came back; and Mary lay -silent. - -Presently she said: - -"Sophie--yes, this afternoon," - -Something in the voice startled; the girl gulped before she spoke: - -"All right! he shall hear as soon as he comes." - -"Don't forget." - -"I won't forget, chummy; you can feel quite sure about it." - -"Thanks, Sophie. I'm so tired." - -The rain was falling still. She heard it blowing against the panes, -and lay listening to it, wondering if it would keep him away. Then her -thoughts drifted; and she slept. - -When Kincaid returned he took Sophie's place, and sat watching till the -figure stirred. The eyes opened at him vaguely. - -"I've been asleep?" - -"Yes." - -"Is it very late?" - -"It's about three, I think.... Just three." - -"Ah!" she said with relief. - -She closed her eyes again, and there was a long pause. He covered her -nerveless hand with his own. - -"Don't grieve," she whispered; "it doesn't hurt." - -"Oh, my dear, my dear! You, and my mother, too--helpless with both!" - -"The many," she said faintly, "think of the many you've pulled through. -You've ... been very good to me ... very good." - -To his despair it seemed that ever since they met she had been telling -him that. It was the dole that she had yielded, the atom that his -devotion had ever wrung from her--she found him "good"! - -And even as she said it, her eagerness caught the footfall, that she -had been waiting for; and she nestled lower on the pillow, trying to -hide her disfigurement from view. - -"Mary," said Kincaid, "you didn't care for me; but will you let me kiss -you on the forehead--while you know?" - -A smile--a smile of tenderness wonderfully new and strange to him -irradiated her face; and, turning, he saw the other man had come in. - - -THE END - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Man Who Was Good, by Leonard Merrick - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO WAS GOOD *** - -***** This file should be named 43837.txt or 43837.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/8/3/43837/ - -Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org -(Scans generously made available by the Internet Archive -- University of Toronto, Robarts Library.) - - -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. 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