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diff --git a/45074-8.txt b/45074-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index a6fe929..0000000 --- a/45074-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,15617 +0,0 @@ - THE VISION SPLENDID - - - - -This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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 -http://www.gutenberg.org/license. If you are not located in the United -States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are -located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The Vision Splendid -Author: D. K. Broster and G. W. Taylor -Release Date: March 08, 2014 [EBook #45074] -Reposted: August 17, 2015 [- text corrections] -Language: English -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VISION SPLENDID *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines. - - - - - - THE VISION SPLENDID - - - BY - - D. K. BROSTER AND G. W. TAYLOR - - - AUTHOR OF "CHANTEMERLE" - - - - LONDON: - JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W. - 1913 - - - - -BOOK I: CRAG AND TORRENT - -BOOK II: GARISH DAY - -BOOK III: LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT - -EPILOGUE: THE MORN - - - - - *THE - VISION SPLENDID* - - - *BOOK I* - - *CRAG AND TORRENT* - - - *CHAPTER I* - - - *(1)* - - -The broad faces of the sunflowers surveyed, with their eternal, -undiscriminating smile, the nape of Horatia's white neck, and were no -wiser. Her back was towards them, and they could not see what book was -in her lap. But the hollyhocks further down the border were probably -aware that she was not really reading anything. They swayed a little, -disturbing a blundering bee; and Horatia, turning her head towards the -flower-bed, glanced for a moment at those tall warriors en fête. - -A gust of perfume suddenly shook out at her from the border. Certainly -the summer seemed hardly within sight of its end, though on this Monday, -the thirtieth of August, 1830, much of the corn was cut already. - -Horatia's own summer was at the full, and it was now only old-fashioned -people who thought the single woman of twenty-four in peril of the -unblest autumn of perpetual maidenhood. For the sake of the red-gold -bunches of curls at her temples, the dazzling skin that goes with such -hair, the straight, wilful little nose, the mouth holding in its curves -some petulance and much sweetness, an admirer might well have been -sitting beside her in this agreeable old garden. Yet Horatia Grenville -was not accounted a beauty. She was neither statuesque nor drooping. -But part of the blame lay undeniably with the book on her lap, the -_Republic_ of Plato in the original. Horatia could and did read Greek -without too much difficulty; could not, or would not, occupy her fingers -for ever with embroidery or knitting, and was believed to despise -amateur performance upon the harp. In short she was "blue," and -therefore--at least in her own county--was not beautiful; she was -learned, and could not, in Berkshire, be lovely. - -Yes, she was twenty-four, and unmarried; a country parson's daughter, -but well-born and well-dowered; suspected (unjustly) of knowing Hebrew -as well as Greek, but always admirably dressed. She had never been in -love, and had never, to her knowledge, even desired to taste that -condition. Nor had she discovered in herself any aptitude for flirting. -She wished sometimes that she did not frighten young men by her real or -supposed intellectual attainments, but not for any plaudits of the -drawing-room would she have bartered all that was typified to her by the -Greek text on her knee. And she had no craving for domestic bliss. - -Indeed, she could have had that bliss had she desired it. At least two -decorous and (to her) entirely negligible requests had been made for her -hand. They had come from quite suitable personages, whom she had met -during her periodical sojourns with her various relations. Moreover, -here, at home, five years ago, the man who had known her from a child, -and was indeed a distant connection, had asked her to marry him. - -That episode had startled and distressed Horatia. Tristram Hungerford, -six years her senior, had always been a quasi-fraternal part of her -life. The boy who came over daily on his pony from Compton Parva, what -time a pony was still to her as an elephant, who was construing Livy -with her father while her own fingers created the tremulous pothook, who -climbed the Rectory apple-trees while her infant legs bore her but -precariously on terra firma--whom she welcomed home from Eton with -unrestrained joy and offerings of toffee, from Oxford as frankly but -less exuberantly--that this young man should suddenly propose to make -her his wife was absurd, and she did not like it at all. At nineteen, -Horatia Grenville had been singularly immature for her times. She had -no wish but that her playmate and friend should retain that rôle always; -why should he want to change it? She signified as much, and to her -great relief Tristram reverted with extraordinary completeness to his -former part, and had filled it for five more years. - -Miss Grenville had, however, taken no vow against matrimony. It was -merely that she could not bear the idea of so sudden a finality. Even -now she refused to picture herself sitting down, as she put it, to count -over forks and spoons. Indeed, having returned but two days ago from a -visit to a newly married friend, whose chief occupations, so it seemed -to her guest, were quoting "what Henry says," and trying to out-do other -young married women of her acquaintance in dress, she was still full of -an almost passionate wonder that people could shut down their lives to -that kind of thing. Yet, deep in her heart, perhaps she -realised--perhaps she did not--that in six or seven years' time, when -the fatuities of the recently-wed had dropped away from Henry and -Emilia, when there were children round them, they would have full lives, -whereas she... - -But Horatia greatly desired her life to be full. She wanted to express -herself somehow. Sitting there by the sunflowers and the phloxes, she -thought of the many women of the day who had succeeded in doing this. -She thought of Mrs. Somerville, of Miss Mitford, of Hannah More and of -Mrs. Fry; of Joanna Baillie and Miss Edgeworth; of Miss Jane Porter, -whose _Scottish Chiefs_ had delighted her childhood; and of Lady Morgan. -Most of these celebrated women were unmarried. And she considered also -the women of the past: Joan of Arc, St. Catherine of Siena, Madame de -Rambouillet, Lady Mary Wortley-Montagu. - -It was not that Horatia Grenville wished definitely either to lead a -nation to battle or to write plays, to be an astronomical genius, or to -sway the councils of princes. She wanted to do something, but knew not -what that something was. This afternoon she was more conscious than -usual both of her desire and of its vagueness. It occurred to her that -she was rather like the sleepy wasp who, having painfully climbed up the -skirt of her gown and attained the open page of the _Republic_, was now -starting discontentedly to crawl down again. - -"Really, I am getting morbid!" thought Miss Grenville; "and here is -Papa!" - -The Honourable and Reverend Stephen Grenville, Rector of Compton Regis, -was seen indeed to issue at that moment from the long window of the -drawing-room and to approach her over the grass, comfortable, benignant, -and of aristocratic appearance. He held a half-written letter in one -hand, and a quill pen in the other; his spectacles were pushed down his -nose. His daughter jumped up. - -"Do you want me, Papa?" - -"My dear, only for this," replied Mr. Grenville, holding up the letter. -"I am writing to your Aunt Julia, and you must really make up your mind -whether you will pay her a visit this autumn. In her last letter she -mentions the matter again." - -Horatia looked up at her parent. "Papa," she answered gravely, "I don't -like staying with people who disapprove of me." A sudden little smile -came about the corners of her mouth. "I shouldn't stay with _you_ if -you didn't appreciate me, you know!" - -The twinkle which was never far from the Rector's eyes came into them at -this pronouncement. "Of that I have no doubt, my child," he said. "But -it is a mercy that your aunt cannot hear your filial sentiments." - -Horatia caught at his arm. "Sit down, dearest Papa," she said half -imperiously, half coaxingly, "and let us discuss the visit to Aunt -Julia." - -The Honourable and Reverend Stephen, still holding paper and pen, -submitted to be placed in her chair. Horatia, with the grace that was -peculiarly hers, sat down upon the grass at his feet, her full skirt -spreading fanwise around her. - -"First," she began, taking hold of the letter, "we will see what you -have said about me." - -The Rector yielded it. "There is nothing at all about you as yet, my -dear," he remarked mildly. "Your Aunt is thinking of putting some money -into this new railroad between Manchester and Liverpool, and asks for my -advice." - -Horatia made a face and returned the letter. "Papa, you always have the -best of me! Now put down that pen--especially if there is still ink -upon it, as I suspect--and I will show you many reasons why I should not -pay Aunt Julia a visit. In the first place, she disapproves of me -because I do not make flannel petticoats for the poor; in the second -place, she wishes to see me married; in the third place she calls Plato -a heathen and Shakespeare 'waste of time.' In the fourth place, I am -but just returned from visits elsewhere; ... In the hundredth place--I -prefer to stop with you. One hundred reasons against Aunt Julia." And -she laid her fresh cheek upon the hand that held the letter. - -The Rector pinched the cheek. "'La Reine le veult,' as usual, I -suppose. Shall you always prefer to stop with me, Horatia?" - -"It is my duty, Papa," said Miss Grenville, without lifting her head. -The solemnity of her voice was too much for her father, and he broke, as -she had intended he should, into a chuckle. - -"That word on your lips!" he exclaimed. Then he put his hand gently on -the smooth and radiant head. "I could bear to see you go from me," he -said in a suddenly stirred voice, "if I knew you were going to a happy -home of your own." - -The head moved restlessly. "You know how much I dislike--how much I -wish you would not talk of that, Papa!" said the girl almost shortly, -and she raised herself. "Why must every woman get married? One would -think that you wanted to be rid of me." Her cheeks were a little -flushed. "But even if you did, I would not marry!" she added. "I -would--never mind what I would do." She flung her arms round her -father's neck and kissed him. "Do not speak of it again! You do not -deserve to have such a good daughter. Now go and tell Aunt Julia that I -cannot stay with her--say that I am translating Rousseau, that will make -her furious--and tell her that a Christian gentlewoman should not know -anything about investments!" - - - - *(2)* - - -Having thus dismissed her parent, Miss Horatia Grenville did not return -to her book or her reverie, but crossed the lawn, showing herself as -tall and generously made in her dress of thin mulberry-coloured silk -with the great puffed sleeves, trim waist and full short skirt of the -prevailing fashion. Catching up a flat basket and a pair of scissors, -she then walked up and down by the flower border, snipping off dead -blossoms and singing to herself snatches of _Deh vieni_. So occupied, -she heard the click of the garden gate. "Probably Tristram," she -thought to herself. "It is quite time that he came." - -And indeed a masculine figure was stooping to fasten the little gate at -the end of the short privet-walled path, by which it had just entered. -As it raised itself, and turned, it was revealed as that of a young man -of about thirty, in riding costume, darker in hair and eyes than the -majority of Englishmen, but none the less unmistakably English. -Pleasant to look at, and more than common tall, he would not however -have drawn the attention of a casual observer; a closer critic might -have become aware of something in the eyes not quite consonant with his -vigorous and every-day appearance. - -Horatia put down her basket and went towards him, holding out both -hands. - -"I am so glad that you have come," she said frankly. "How are you, -Tristram?" - -"As usual, very glad to see you," responded the young man, smiling. "I -wondered if you would be in. Where is the Rector?" - -"Papa is writing to Aunt Julia, about investments and about the -difficulty of getting me to leave home." - -"Before Martha has unpacked your trunks from this last visit, I suppose -you mean?" - -"Don't tease me, Tristram, when you have not seen me for so long! Come -and sit down on the lawn and talk sensibly. Papa will be out soon, I -expect. You will stay to dinner, of course?" - -"I shall be very pleased," responded the guest, and he looked as if he -were pleased too--as indeed he was--with his greeting. He walked beside -her to her chair on the grass, picked up Plato, lying there face -downwards, murmured "What shocking treatment for a philosopher!" fetched -himself another chair from a little distance, and, sitting down by Miss -Grenville, said "How did you enjoy your round of visits?" - -"Not at all," replied Horatia petulantly, half laughing. "I have not -said this to Papa, because it might make him conceited; but I will tell -_you_ that I am delighted to be home again." And she added, still more -confidentially, "Tristram, the newly-married bore me extremely! I shall -not visit Emilia Strangeways again for seven years at least." - -Tristram Hungerford laughed. "All the better for us! It is dull enough -without you." - -"O, what stories!" exclaimed Horatia. "You have not been dull. You -have had Mr. Dormer with you!" There was mockery in her eyes. "I know -all about it. Tell me the truth now! How long did he stay?" - -"A week, Horatia, only a week, and since then it has been duller than -ever." - -"That I can believe," retorted Miss Grenville; "but it has been dull -because Mr. Dormer has left you, and not because I have been away. You -have no one now to exult with over the increasing circulation of the -_Christian Year_, and no one to melt you with the sufferings of the -Non-Jurors--which _I_ think they brought on themselves. However, I must -not jest about Mr. Dormer, I know; he is sacrosanct. Tell me any news. -Tell me something interesting." - -The life, the vitality that responded to hers, dropped suddenly out of -Tristram Hungerford's face. - -"I have got some news," he said hesitatingly, "but I am not sure that -you will find it interesting. I have made up my mind at last, quite -definitely, to take Orders--that is, if the Bishop will have me." - -And at that Miss Grenville's face changed too, and after a moment's -pause she said, very seriously, "Why?" - -"Because," returned the young man almost guiltily, "I think that I may -be able to serve the Church better that way, and the time is coming when -we shall have to fight for her." - -Horatia did not try to conceal her feelings. "I thought you were -getting views of that sort," she said gloomily; "and I was afraid that -it would end in your taking Orders--in fact, I said so to Papa the other -day. Of course, in my opinion you are made for it; but I wish that you -were not." She sighed, and added inconsequently, "It must make a -difference." - -Tristram flushed and leant forward. "But, Horatia, what do you mean? I -shall never be any different--I never could be so to you!" The feeling -in his voice was almost ardour--and it was not the ardour of a friend. -Whether Miss Grenville were fully aware of this or no she pursued her -own thoughts aloud. - -"I wonder; I am not so sure. By taking Orders you will be throwing in -your lot for ever with all those Oriel people. That is what it means." - -"I cannot think," said the culprit, "why you dislike them so." - -"It isn't that I dislike them exactly," said Horatia, considering; "but -that there is something about them that I don't like. Even Mr. Keble, -although he lives in the country and writes poetry, can't be as harmless -as he seems, or they would not all pay him such deference. I have -nothing against Mr. Newman and Mr. Froude; in fact I liked Mr. Froude -when you brought him out here, which is more than I could ever say about -Mr. Dormer. He can make himself very charming, but he's steel -underneath, I'm quite certain.... Yes, they are all different, and yet -they are alike. They are only clergymen, as Papa is, but at his age -they won't be in the least like him. For one thing they won't be half -as nice. There is something about them that makes me shiver. They are -too absolute. I have the feeling that they will change you, that they -are changing you. O, I can't explain it; but I know what I mean--and, -Tristram, I could not bear that you should be different from what you -are?" - -She looked at him directly, earnestly, like a child pleading that -something it likes may not be taken away from it, and never noticed her -companion turn suddenly rather white. - -"Horatia, if you----" he began, and suddenly the Rector's voice cut -through his own--"What are you two discussing so warmly that you haven't -heard the dinner-bell?" it said, coming before its owner as he emerged -through the drawing-room window. "It's long after half-past five. -Tristram, my dear fellow, I am very glad to see you. You are staying, -of course?" - -And after a barely perceptible pause the young man got up and said that -he was. - - - - - *CHAPTER II* - - - *(1)* - - -"Papa has really no right to be hungry," observed Miss Grenville as they -sat down to table. "Saturday, you know, was our annual village feast, -and he acknowledges that he is obliged to eat a great deal on that -occasion." - -"How did it go off, Rector?" asked the guest. - -"Oh, quite successfully," replied Mr. Grenville, carving a leg of -mutton. "There was a good deal to eat, I must admit. I left, as I -always do, before the dancing; but not before I heard a swain (I think -it was one of Farmer Wilson's men) assuring his inamorata that he would -kiss her if she wished it." - -"The lady seems to have been forward," observed Horatia. "Papa, you are -not forgetting the plate of meat for old Mrs. Jenkins? You know you -promised to send in her dinner while she is ill." - -"No, my dear," returned her father, looking round. "I have not forgotten -the meat, but Sarah appears to have forgotten the plates." - -The handmaid fled and remedied her error. It was no unusual thing for -the Rectory crockery to go voyaging in the cause of charity. - -Horatia seemed in high though rather fitful spirits. She amused her -hearers with an account of her visits. At one house, she affirmed, she -was entertained to death; at the other her host and hostess only seemed -to want to be alone together, though they had pestered her to go there. - -"You will find us, as usual, very quiet," said Tristram, looking across -the table at her animated face. "I don't think anything has happened -since you went away.--Stay, though, something has taken place in -Oxfordshire. Rector, I suppose you have heard about the affair at -Otmoor on Saturday night?" - -Mr. Grenville had not. - -"Well, Otmoor, as you know, was drained under Act of Parliament in 1815, -and this proceeding has been a cause of discontent ever since, because -the embankments were thought to prevent the water draining away from the -land above. You remember the disturbances last June, and how the -farmers cut the banks, and were indicted for felony, but acquitted on -the ground that the embankments did do damage and were a nuisance?" - -"Yes, I recall the circumstance," said the Rector. - -"Well, the Otmoor people appear to have jumped to the conclusion that -the Act of Parliament was void, the enclosure of Otmoor consequently -illegal, and that they had a right to pull down the embankment. On -Saturday night, therefore, they started to do so, and I believe they -proceeded with the work last night also. They are said to have been -riotous. I wonder you had not heard of it." - -"Dear, dear," commented the Rector, "that is excessively serious! I am -afraid that there is indeed a spirit of unrest abroad at present. There -have been one or two rick fires lately that looked to me very -suspicious, very. And then there was that barn near Henley about a -fortnight ago." - -"Do you think, then, that we shall have a revolution in England like the -Days of July?" asked Horatia a little mischievously. - -"No, of course not, my dear! The Revolution in France the other day was -above all things dynastic--at least, so I read it--and no one wants to -turn out our new King, whom God preserve. But there is social -unrest..." - -"Good Heavens!" suddenly exclaimed Tristram Hungerford. "I had quite -forgotten, and your mentioning the Days of July has reminded me. I've -got a Frenchman, a Legitimist, coming to stay with me the day after -to-morrow. You remember how, when I was in Paris a few years ago, I -made the acquaintance of the sons of the Duc de la Roche-Guyon, the -First Gentleman of the Bedchamber? I stayed with the eldest at their -place in the country for a few days, and I asked them to come and see me -if ever they were in England." - -"But the Duc de la Roche-Guyon accompanied Charles the Tenth on his -flight over here, and is now with him at Lulworth, is he not?" asked -Horatia. "I remember seeing his name in the papers." - -"Yes," said Tristram, "the Duc is at Lulworth with the King, and Armand, -his younger and favourite son, has come over to pay him a visit. But I -fancy that the young gentleman has no intention of remaining buried in -Dorset; Lulworth is too dull for a person of his tastes, and he is -returning to more congenial scenes in Paris--even though it be an -Orleanist Paris. However, he has written from Dorset and suggested -paying me a short visit. I own that I am rather surprised, for I am -afraid that my chances of amusing him are not greater than those of his -exiled sovereign. Moreover, I really hardly know him. It was his elder -brother, the Marquis Emmanuel, of whom I saw more.... May I bring the -youth here to call?" - -"Do," said Miss Grenville. "Papa, did you know that Tristram considered -us a centre of gaiety? It is a flattering but a burdensome reputation. -If anyone expects me to sparkle I am tongue-tied on the instant. I had -better ask the Miss Baileys to come in." - -"My dear," said the Rector impressively, "I beg you will do nothing of -the sort. I cannot endure those young persons." - -"I know it," replied his daughter.--"But, Tristram, it is a good thing -that Mr. Dormer has left you. It is well known, is it not, that you may -not have other guests when he is with you?" - -A very slight colour came into Mr. Hungerford's face, and the Rector -said rather quickly, "Is Mr. Dormer going to be in college till term -begins?" - -"Yes," answered the young man. "It is quieter for him, and he is very -anxious to finish his book on the Non-Jurors. All the worry last term -with the Provost--though, not being a tutor, he was not actually -implicated--put him back in his work." - -"I have no sympathy with Mr. Dormer's sufferings," declared Horatia. -"You have told me before now, Tristram, that he has very high views -about the authority of the Church. Why doesn't he have high views about -the authority of the Provost?" - -"But, Horatia," said Tristram earnestly, "don't you see that it was a -matter of conscience? Newman and Wilberforce and Froude could not -without a protest see their chances of influencing their pupils vanish, -and themselves reduced to mere tutoring machines. If Keble had been -elected Provost instead of Hawkins, the situation would never have -arisen. Now they will have no more pupils after next year; and, as an -Oriel man, I can't help thinking that it will be Oriel's loss." - -"Don't argue with her, Tristram," said the Rector. "She is only teasing -you." - -"Not at all," returned Horatia. "My sympathies are with the Provost; -and so are yours, Papa. Speak up now, and tell the truth. Did your -tutor at Christ Church consider himself responsible for your soul?" - -"Well, no, I can't say that he did," admitted Mr. Grenville, remembering -that port-drinking divine. - -"There you are!" exclaimed his daughter. "And look at the result; could -it be better? Now these Oriel people want to make their pupils into -horrid prigs, and all the parents in England ought to be grateful to the -Provost for preventing it." - -"Horatia," said the Rector, "this levity is not at all becoming. I -don't myself agree entirely with either side. I have a great respect -for the Provost, and at the same time I admire the spirit and high sense -of duty of your friends, Tristram. Mr. Keble is of their opinion, and -although I cannot go as far as he does, I am bound to say that the -_Christian Year_ seems to me to combine sound scholarship with a proper -appreciation of our historic Church. Yes, they are good men, and I am -sorry they have been defeated." - -"And I," remarked Horatia impenitently, "am looking forward to seeing -each with his one ewe lamb. How they will cherish their last pupil!" - - - - *(2)* - - -When Tristram went, according to custom, into the Rector's study for a -talk after dinner, the door was hardly shut behind them before Mr. -Grenville said: - -"I had a feeling this afternoon, when it was too late, that I -interrupted you with Horatia at an unfortunate moment." - -"No, Sir," replied the young man. "I think, on the contrary, that you -saved me from making a blunder. One shock is enough for one afternoon." - -"Ah," said Mr. Grenville, making his way towards his favourite chair. -"You have told her then that you mean to take Orders?" - -"I told her that I had practically made up my mind to do so." - -"And what did she say?" - -"I gathered that she wasn't surprised, and that she wasn't altogether -pleased," returned Tristram with half a smile. - -"She is out of sympathy with your views," commented the Rector, tapping -with his foot. "And of course, as you know, I deplore extremes myself. -But in time you would settle down. Still, I know quite well Horatia's -dislike to what seem to be the growing views of the Oriel Common Room, -and she appears to me to be quite unable to discuss the matter on its -merits. She always says, 'Papa, dear, I do dislike Mr. Dormer so much, -and I'm not fond of any of those Oriel people. I cannot understand what -Tristram sees in them.' But I'll tell you what I think, my boy," -concluded the Rector mysteriously, "and that is, this dislike is a very -hopeful sign." - -"Why?" asked Tristram with gloom. - -"Well, to begin with, Horatia, unlike most women, can generally discuss -a subject impersonally, but in this matter she makes a personal -application, and she always attacks your friend Dormer, when she might -just as well select Mr. Newman or Mr. Froude. Why? Because I verily -believe she is jealous of him!" And the Honourable and Reverend Stephen -Grenville sat back in his chair to make the full effect of his words. - -"You don't really think that she cares--that she could ever...?" - -"I don't know, my dear boy; I can't say. Perhaps I oughtn't to raise -your hopes. Horatia is a very extraordinary young woman. Sometimes I -blame myself; I blame myself very severely. I gave her an education out -of the common." - -"You did everything that was right," interjected Tristram. - -"I hope so, Tristram, I hope so. Did I ever tell you that her aunt once -assured me she would either die an old maid or make a fool of herself? -Well, I did my best. Your mother, Tristram, was very fond of my girl, -and she told me more than once that she believed she had the makings of -a fine woman. If she had been here now, she would have advised us; for -I can't help feeling that we are at a parting of the ways. If we had -had her help these last few years it might have been different. I have -thought that you made a mistake in not trying again when you came back -from abroad. Persistence sometimes works wonders." - -"I cannot bear the idea of pestering a girl until she accepts an offer -out of sheer weariness," said Tristram with some heat. - -"No, I know, and I respect you, my dear fellow," said the Rector, -looking at him affectionately. Continuing to look at him, he went on: -"Of course, too, I have doubted whether I have been right to allow you -to see so much of her. But sometimes I thought you were getting over -it, and Horatia is so entirely at her ease with you that I feared to -interrupt a friendship which I always hoped might become something else. -But I believe it has been a strain on you, Tristram. I can see it all -now, and it must not go on. It is not fair to you. How long is it since -she refused you?" - -"Five years. I asked her in 1825, the summer before my mother died." - -"Well, well," said the Rector, sighing gently, "the sooner you try your -luck again the better. The child strikes me as unsettled, and a little -depressed perhaps. Anyhow, for your own sake, I do not think you ought -to wait. I could wish that this young friend of yours were not coming, -for it means that nothing can be done for a week or two. However, there -is the autumn before you, and if Horatia won't have you, you will soon -be taking Orders and wanting to settle down, and perhaps you will see -someone else. You are not the sort of man to have to wait long for a -living, and you will be lonely without a wife. If my girl is so foolish -as to refuse you again, well----" - -Tristram shook his head. "There is no 'well,' Mr. Grenville. It is -Horatia or nobody for me." - - - - - *CHAPTER III* - - - *(1)* - - -One of Tristram Hungerford's earliest recollections was of the smell of -sealskin, of its delicious softness, and of its singular utility, when -rubbed the wrong way, as a medium for tracing the journeys of the -children of Israel during Mr. Venn's long sermons in Clapham parish -church. His Mamma, as he sat snuggled up against her, never reproved -him for this ingenious use of her attire, and the stern, sad, greyhaired -man, on the other side of her, could not see his small son's occupation, -and would not have realised its significance if he had. For if at any -given moment John Hungerford was not attending to Mr. Venn, he was -thinking of the cause to which he had given his whole life and the -greater part of his substance--the abolition of the -slave-trade--thinking too, perhaps, of his English childhood, of his -youth and young manhood spent in Barbados as manager to that very rich -planter, his uncle, of his return to England a convinced champion of the -freedom of the negro, his untiring labours to that end, in Parliament -and out of it, his friendship with the like-minded group that held -Wilberforce and Stephen, the Thorntons, Lord Teignmouth and Hannah More, -and finally the meeting with Selina Heathcote, who now sat by his side, -and the healing of that fierce loneliness which had cut the lines in his -face that made people somewhat afraid of him. - -Tristram, however, was not one of these persons, though he had early -realised that Papa was not quite the same on Sundays as on other days, -connecting the fact with his known study of prophecy and with the -puzzling distinction that was drawn between walking across the Common to -church (which was permissible) and walking on the same portion of the -earth's surface after church (which was not). - -But, after all, Sunday (with its sealskin alleviations in winter) was -soon over, and thereafter Tristram was free, with his special friends -Robert Wilberforce, little John Venn, and Tom Macaulay, to play by the -Mount Pond and to explore the mysteries of the Common, or, if it was -wet, reinforced by other Wilberforces and Venns, to engage in endless -games of hide and seek up and down the big house, with its spreading -lawns and aged elms, to which, three years before the old century had -run out, John Hungerford had brought his bride. Mrs. Hungerford's chief -characteristic was a charity that knew no bounds, so that it was in her -drawing-room that Mr. Venn propounded his novel scheme of district -visiting, and in her spare bedrooms that the unfortunate African lads, -who were being educated as an experiment at Mr. Graves's school on the -Common, were nursed back to life after having nearly died of pneumonia. -And on a day in May, 1800, Tristram had made his own appearance under -its roof, and now he himself, clad in a blue coat with white collar and -ruffles, attended that academy with his small friends. - -Yet those earliest pictures of Evangelical Clapham, of his father pacing -up and down the lawn under the elms in earnest talk with Mr. -Wilberforce, of his mother smiling at her guests assembled round the -great mahogany dining table (to meet, perhaps, Mrs. Hannah More or Mr. -Gisborne of Yoxall, the famous preacher), were soon overlaid with -others. In 1808 John Hungerford's health, shaken by his exertions for -the General Abolition Act of the previous year, began to cause anxiety. -The doctors recommended change of scene, and air more bracing than that -of Clapham village, suggesting a temporary retirement to the -neighbourhood of the Sussex or the Berkshire Downs. Mrs. Hungerford -having a distant relative in the latter county--the young wife of the -Rector of Compton Regis--and a suitable house at Compton Parva, the next -village, falling vacant, this house was bought, the Hungerfords -intending to divide their time between Clapham and Berkshire. But John -Hungerford, worn out with his labours in the cause to which he had -sacrificed everything, died a few months later, and Mrs. Hungerford, -with her son, was left in circumstances considerably reduced. The large -West Indian income reverted, on her husband's death, to other hands, and -so the mansion at Clapham had to be sold, and the newly-acquired house -at Compton became their permanent home. But at Compton, too, death had -been busy, for the Rector was now a widower, almost inseparable from his -baby girl. At Mrs. Hungerford's request he undertook to prepare -Tristram for Eton. Herein he was carrying out her own wishes against -those of her friends of the Common, who were inclined to regard public -schools as nurseries of vice and Cambridge as the only tolerable -University. Already Mr. Wilberforce and Mr. Venn had urged tutors at -home in preference to this scheme, and Mr. Zachary Macaulay had -suggested that Tristram should accompany Tom to his private school in -preparation for Cambridge. But all the Heathcotes from time immemorial -had gone to Eton and Oxford, and Mrs. Hungerford, praying always against -the spirit of worldliness, intended Tristram to follow the tradition. - -And so for three years Tristram rode his pony to the Rectory, and learnt -to write Latin verse, while Mrs. Hungerford did her best to counteract -the Rector's educational plans for his little daughter. Disappointed in -his hopes of a son, Mr. Grenville said that there was no reason why -Horatia should not be as good a scholar as any boy, and to this end she -was to begin Latin at five and Greek at six, and meanwhile he gave her -everything she wanted. But before Horatia had mastered _Mensa, a -table_, the white pony had ceased its visits to the Rectory, for its -rider was in his first term at school. - -Save for one thing, Eton did not bulk very large in Tristram's -experience. He took with him there a questioning mind and a strong -body. The first he soon learnt to disguise; the second brought him the -thing that counted, his friend. Fond of all games, he gave himself -assiduously to rowing, a sport then rather winked at than formally -recognised by the authorities, and towards the end of his fourth year -had attained the position of a captain. When selecting a crew for the -Boats of the Fourth of June, he happened to cast his eye on a -delicate-looking boy of his own age, above him in class, whose brilliant -but rather uncertain oarsmanship he had once or twice observed, and, -though he rather doubted his staying power, resolved to include him. -Nor, when he asked him to take an oar in the _Defiance_, and Dormer, -flushing with pleasure, had accepted, stoutly denying the imputation -that he was not strong, had Tristram any idea that he himself had just -performed the most pregnant action, perhaps, of his life. - -The Fourth of June came, and Tristram's recruit did not belie his -promise, nor did he fail in the severer test of Election Saturday, when, -amid fireworks and bell-ringing, the _Defiance_ chased the _Mars_ round -and round Windsor Eyot and finally bumped her. It was not, indeed, -until they had landed that Tristram's well-earned triumph was somewhat -dashed by the news that Number Four had fainted, and that they could not -bring him to. He ran back to find that not all the Thames water which -was being ladled over his unconscious comrade was having any effect, -and, conscience-stricken, he picked him up and went off with him in -search of more skilled assistance, divided between alarm, admiration for -his pluck, and a certain protective sensation quite new to him. To the -end of his life he was always to entertain for Charles Dormer somewhat -similar feelings. - -The result of it all was a verdict that the boy had slightly strained -his heart and must pass a week in bed. The remorseful Tristram visited -him daily, and thus, in talks more intimate than they could probably -have compassed by other means, their friendship had its birth. Later, -Tristram took Dormer home with him for the holidays, and the -compassionate soul of Selina Hungerford was able to spend itself on the -boy, who, she felt secretly sure, had never had a real mother. - -The time came at last for Tristram to go up to Oxford. In the selection -of a college Mrs. Hungerford accepted the choice of Mr. Grenville, who -voted unhesitatingly for Oriel. Copleston, the Provost, he had known -and admired since undergraduate days, and he had followed the ascent of -Oriel, under Provost Eveleigh, towards her present pre-eminence. He had -seen her choose her Fellows for their intellectual promise rather than -for their social qualities, and he had seen her force upon a University -content hitherto with a farce, a system of real examination for the B.A. -degree. He had also seen (though without quite realising its import) -the gradual formation of that group of Fellows called the Noetics, who -were products of the French Revolution though they were ignorant of the -philosophy of the Continent, who, asking the why and the wherefore, -pulled everything to pieces, and who had the temerity to apply even to -religion itself the unfettered discussion meted out in Common Room to -all subjects alike. Into this atmosphere of liberal thought the Rector -was responsible for plunging the son of John Hungerford, born in the -sacred village of Clapham, and destined by his parents for the ministry. - -The son of John Hungerford, however, was the last to complain of his -immersion, especially as his friend, too, was entered at Oriel. That -questioning spirit, which he had learnt to disguise at Eton, now found a -suitable soil and blossomed accordingly. Tristram had, moreover, the -fortune to fall for instruction to the great Whately himself, the Noetic -of the Noetics, the "White Bear," who treated his pupils rather like the -host of dogs which he took with him on his walks round Christ Church -meadows, throwing stones for them into the Cherwell. With his -boisterous humanity, his disturbing habit of launching Socratic -questions, his almost equally disturbing habit of imparting information -lying full length on a sofa, he kept the minds of his disciples in a -continual ferment, and when, as in Tristram's case, the critical faculty -was already highly developed, the result was so stimulating that an apt -pupil might very well pass even beyond the ideas of his master. Above -all things, Whately hated shams; he repudiated all authority, whether of -the Church or of tradition, and held that there was nothing which should -not be submitted to reason. Yet, in an Erastian age, he upheld the -freedom of the Church from the State, though he denounced the priesthood -as an invasion of Christian equality. He reduced dogma to a residuum, -yet, for his able defence of that residuum, he might rank as a Christian -apologist. - -His views at first appealed very strongly to Tristram, who thought that -he was going to be able to reconcile reason, religion, learning, and the -general scheme of things. But after a while he discovered that this -process was not so easy, and Dormer, the High Churchman, was responsible -for making it harder still. And at the end of his time at Oxford he -found his opinions in such a state of flux that he determined to -postpone taking Orders. Mrs. Hungerford, rather to the surprise of the -conscience-stricken Rector, put no pressure on her son, and a noble lord -writing at this juncture in search of a tutor for his heir, Tristram was -glad to accept the post. - -Three years later, on his homeward way from the Continental tour which -rounded off his time with his pupil, when choosing, at Brussels, a piece -of lace for Horatia's approaching birthday (on which he had always given -her a present), Tristram realised with a curious dismay that it was the -eighteenth recurrence of this anniversary, that he had, of course, -always intended to marry her, that applications for her hand might -already have been made from other quarters--and accepted--and that he -must get back at once. His charge was perhaps equally dismayed at the -speed with which, next day, they resumed their homeward course. - -They need not have hastened. If the disappointed lover had not been -obliged to consider his mother's suddenly threatened health, it would -have gone even harder with him than it did. She who had always tended -now needed tending, and had her illness been voluntary her unrivalled -instinct for consolation could not have hit upon a means more healing. -Tristram took her away to Hastings, and there, after eight months, she -died. - -Doubly as the place was now painful to him, Tristram returned to -Compton. His loss, however, had this effect, that it made intercourse -with the Rectory more easy of resumption. Having sufficient means and -no definite object for his energies he was thrown back upon himself. He -had neither the money nor the inclination to stand for Parliament. His -father's passion for the interests of the negro had not descended to -him, but more and more the crying need of the English poor was forcing -itself upon his attention. He would have liked to be able to take -Orders and to immerse himself in activities in some growing town. As it -was he found a shadow of consolation in studying the problem of Poor Law -reform. He even wrote a pamphlet, "A remedy for the present distress," -and, as a justice of the peace, he was active in the emigration schemes -then so popular as a means of remedying the mischief caused by the -insane administration of the Poor Law. But every day seemed emptier -than the last. He saw Horatia frequently, but, disguise it as he might, -this privilege was not entirely pleasurable. He had lost the mother to -whom he was devoted, and now the Gospel according to Whately was -beginning to fail him. Slowly and bitterly it came to him that the -"manly, reasonable, moderate, not too other-worldly faith and practice" -which had once satisfied him had done so only because he was young, and -because things were going well with him. When he went in to Oxford to -see Dormer, now in Orders and Fellow of Oriel, he came across Whately -more than once, and felt the chill that one feels in meeting a person -the glamour of whose influence has departed. - -But more and more he found himself a constant visitor at Oriel, until, -as a privileged person, he came to be almost included in the circle of -Dormer's friends there. These, without, exception, belonged to the new -Oriel school, who were in reaction from speculation to authority, and, -like John Keble, their guide, boldly placed character above intellect. -Dormer never argued with him now, yet, imperceptibly, the leaven -worked.... In the end it was Tristram's own need and his feeling for the -needs of others which made him able to cut himself away from all -"liberal" trammels and to rank himself under the same banner with the -friend who had waited long and patiently for such a change of mind. -During the summer term of 1830 he told Dormer that there was now no -reason why he should not be ordained. - -He had told Dormer something else too--the something which he had been -discussing this very evening with Mr. Grenville, the something which was -engrossing his whole thoughts as he rode homewards under the infant -moon--his intention of again asking Horatia to marry him. There had -never been any other woman for him. He knew her very well; he was no -stranger even to her faults--little flecks making more beautiful a -beautiful flower, they seemed to him, for he had a profound belief in -her, a sort of intuitive faith in the real, secret Horatia whom -sometimes she seemed to delight in hiding up--the woman with a capacity -for great things. And the more he knew her the more he desired her. -The thought that, when the time seemed favourable, he was going to stake -his happiness on another throw, shook him. It haunted his sleep that -night in a harassing dream, relic of their conversation at supper, -wherein he was feverishly trying to build up a dyke against a flood of -water that poured and pushed upon it, and Horatia, dressed in the robes -of the Provost of Oriel, was laughing at him and telling him not to be -absurd, for the water had to come. Then, with her garden trowel, she -had herself made a little breach in the bank, and at that a smooth wave -had slipped over and carried her away, still laughing; and he woke, in a -horror for which he could scarcely account, and lay wakeful till dawn. - - - - - *CHAPTER IV* - - - *(1)* - - -There was a certain day in the year the advent of which always imbued -the Rector of Compton Regis with an irritability quite foreign to his -nature. It was that Sunday, usually occurring somewhere between Lammas -and Michaelmas, on which his conscience obliged him to preach a sermon -on eternal punishment. - -The Rector was not sound on Hell, and he knew it. Every year he sought -miserably for some formula which should reconcile what he felt with what -he believed, and he sat this afternoon at his study table surrounded by -old discourses on the subject, running one hand distractedly through his -thick grey hair while the other held the pen of an unready writer. -Every now and then his gaze sought help from his beloved little cases of -Romano-British coins, or from the backs of Camden and Dugdale, and once, -leaving his uncongenial task, he got up and wistfully fingered his -latest acquisition, the brass piece of Allectus, which lay waiting to be -put in its place with its numismatical peers. - -The Honourable and Reverend Stephen Grenville was one of those persons, -abounding in these islands, whose theories and practice do not match. -He stood, outwardly, for the union on equal terms of Church and State, -but in his heart he really assigned to the former a different and a -superior plane. His antiquarian leanings, very plainly manifested in -his study, were the cause alike of this inconsistency, and of the -measure of sympathy which, despite himself, he accorded to the "Oriel -young men" whose enthusiasm (a thing he feared and disliked) would, he -considered, wear off in time, and whose attachment to the historical -foundation of the Church commanded his entire approval. - -Aristocrat and Tory, the best-born gentleman in the neighbourhood (and -the least likely to lay stress on the fact), he was greatly respected, -and with reason. No dissenting chapel reared its head in the parish, -and there was not a single public-house. It was his custom to celebrate -Holy Communion at Christmas, Easter and Whitsun, and on the Sundays -immediately following those feasts, and to baptise and catechise on -Sunday afternoons. His reading in church was very impressive. He knew -every one of his flock personally; he endeavoured always to do his duty -as he conceived it, else had he not now been struggling, poor gentleman, -with an uncongenial topic.... - - -"Have you any letters for the carrier, dear?" asked Horatia, putting her -bonneted head in at the door. Sounds of impatient boundings and -whimperings behind her hinted at an accompanying presence. - -The Rector abandoned Hell for the moment. "There is the letter to your -Aunt Julia, my love. I had to keep it back to make some inquiries about -railroads ... and then this sermon ... Where have I put it?" Rumpling -his hair still more violently he reflected, and having searched among -the litter on his table, found what he sought and gave it to his -daughter. - -"Try and have your sermon finished when I come back in an hour's time, -there's a good Papa," suggested Horatia, kissing him. "I am sure what -you said last year would do quite well. I shall go round by Five-Acres -and back by the road." - -Outside the inn the Oxford carrier was just preparing to start, wrapped -in an old many-caped coat, which had probably once adorned a greater -luminary, some driver of the numerous London and Oxford coaches. -Horatia gave him the letter, acknowledged the landlord's respectful -greeting, and summoning her spaniel from some ravishing discovery in the -yard, turned along the road. - -Presently the carrier passed her, cracking his whip in emulation of the -_Magnet_ or the _Regulator_, and as she watched the lumbering covered -cart dwindle gradually in the distance, Horatia found her mind following -the odyssey of Aunt Julia's letter; saw it being trundled along the -miles of road, past Kingston Bagpuize and Besselsleigh and down the long -hill into Oxford; witnessed its transference next morning to the London -coach at the _Angel_, and finally pictured the postman delivering it at -Cavendish Square, and Aunt Julia receiving it at breakfast in the big, -handsome, gloomy dining-room. - -And because, not having any great love of that lady, she had seen little -of Aunt Julia since her childhood, she instinctively imaged her as she -had appeared in those days, with her smooth brown hair, her rich and -smooth brown dress; and she saw, round the breakfast table, her eight -cousins, all of the ages which were respectively theirs about the time -of the battle of Salamanca. (Horatia herself was born in Trafalgar year, -and owed her name to that fact.) Further, she recalled her -never-forgotten and scarcely forgiven stay under Aunt Julia's roof at -that epoch. - -She was six or seven, and she had been deposited in Aunt Julia's care on -account of an epidemic at Compton. Her nurse did not accompany her. -Mrs. Baird, a strict Evangelical, brought up her children very literally -in the fear of the Lord, and she believed in "breaking a child's will." -Yet she was kind and perfectly just, while her offspring were such -models of good behaviour that it seemed now to Horatia as if this -process could not have been painful to them. But the atmosphere of -compulsory religion, which attained its apogee on Sunday, caused Horatia -to look upon that day with a novel horror. Church in the morning, with -a long string of little be-pantalooned worshippers setting out in double -file towards Margaret Chapel, the two rearmost reciting to their father, -during that short transit, verses and hymns: after church more verses -and hymns, and then it three o'clock a heavy meal, at which all the -children dined with their parents. The conversation was instructive. -Uncle James never failed to quote with approval Mr. Wilberforce's -application of the text in Proverbs about the dinner of herbs and the -stalled ox, pointing out that his fortunate offspring enjoyed both the -better meal and the blessings of affection. Afterwards there was more -religious instruction, and family prayers, in the evening, of enormously -swollen bulk. The first Sunday of her stay, Horatia bore these -multiplied devotions because she was unaware, at any given moment, how -much was still to follow. On the second Sunday she restrained herself -until the evening. It was Aunt Julia's custom always to hear the -prayers of the younger children; but when Horatia in her turn was bidden -to kneel at that unyielding lap, she refused. She would not say any -more prayers: God, she announced, with confidence, must be tired; He had -been hearing them all day. And in this opinion she remained firm. - -Only having suffered the mildest reproofs for wrong-doing, Horatia was -not warned when the eulogy of the rod of correction taken from the Book -of Proverbs was chosen for the nightly reading, but when the other -children had been dismissed she suddenly experienced, at the lap she had -scorned, the practical effect of the wise man's teaching. Yet Aunt -Julia, though she had not spared for her crying, suffered defeat, for -Horatia did not say her prayers, and her visit was shortly afterwards -terminated lest she should contaminate the other children. Aunt Julia -indeed offered to undertake a course of "bringing the child to her -senses" at some future date, but the Rector declined the proposal, nor -did Horatia visit again in Cavendish Square until she was nearly grown -up. It was many a day, too, before she could be coaxed by her father to -resume the practice of prayer. - -Aunt Julia's hair was not so brown now, and of the eight daughters five -were prosperously married. Horatia knew that none of them considered -herself to have had a childhood other than happy. Perhaps it was a good -preparation for the state of matrimony, to have your "will broken" early -in life. If so, how far was she herself from possessing that desired -qualification! - -Horatia smiled at the thought as she walked along. Since the death of -the mother whom she could not remember, and the extinction of the hope -of a son (for Mr. Grenville had a feeling against second marriages), she -had been to her father almost everything that a son could have -been--with the added advantage that she was never obliged to leave him. -Latin and Greek and ancient history had been laid open to her as to a -boy; she was able to take an interest in the Rector's antiquarian -pursuits, and could have abstracted passages from the Fathers for him if -he had wanted them. All this Mr. Grenville had taught her himself, -turning a deaf ear to family representations on the necessity of a -governess, the use of the globes, and deportment. Music and Italian -masters, however, visited the Rectory from time to time, imparting -knowledge when their pupil was in the mood to receive it, but it was to -the old émigré priest settled at East Hendred, whom she loved, that she -owed her remarkably good knowledge and pronunciation of French, and her -interest in the history of his native land. For after all Horatia was -not a typical classical scholar; her acquaintance with Greek and Latin -authors was by no means extensive, and need not so much have alarmed her -neighbours. - - - - *(2)* - - -Decidedly it would, after all, soon be autumn in earnest. Only five -days ago, when she was in the garden among the flowers, Horatia had -scouted the thought, but there was less of summer here. Farmer Wilson's -beeches were actually beginning to turn. There was a tiny trail of -leaves along the side of Narrow Lane, as she could see by glancing down -it. The high road, less overshadowed, was clearer of these evidences of -mortality. How blue was the line of the Downs! - -A horseman overtook her, riding fast, and raising his hat as he passed, -but without looking at her. It was no one that she knew, yet, a good -rider herself, Horatia instinctively remarked his ease and grace, his -perfect seat. He was taking the same road as she, but long before she -got to the turn he had disappeared round it; and indeed she had -forgotten him even sooner, for Rover the spaniel suddenly went delirious -over a hedgehog which he just then discovered, and which he had to be -coerced into leaving behind. Horatia was still praising and scolding -her dog when she got to the turn--and when the sound of loud screaming -ahead caused her to hasten her steps. - -By the side of the road, a little way down, was a group composed of the -gentleman who had passed her, his horse, and a small child in a -pinafore. From this infant, seated upon the border of grass, proceeded -the loud wails which Horatia had heard; the rider, one buckskinned knee -upon the ground, was stooping over it and addressing it in tones that, -as Horatia came nearer, sounded alternately anxious and coaxing. - -"It is Tommy Wilson," thought Miss Grenville aghast. "He is always -playing in the road, and now he's been ridden over.... But it can't be -serious, or he would not be able to yell like that." Nevertheless she -hastened still more. The gentleman, absorbed in his blandishments, did -not hear her. - -"Leetle boy," she heard him say--"leetle boy, you are not hurt, not the -least in the world. You are frightened, soit, but you are not hurt. -See, here is a crown"--the yells ceased for a moment--"now rise and go -to your home. Quoi! you cannot stand upon your feet?" For he had -lifted the infant to a standing posture, which it instantly abandoned, -falling this time prone upon the ground, and emitting now perfect -shrieks of rage or terror. - -"Dieu! a-t-il des poumons!" exclaimed the young man despairingly to -himself. He made a gesture and rose; at the same instant heard -Horatia's step and, turning round, snatched off his hat. His mien -implored the succour which she would have rendered in any case. - -"Is the child really hurt, Sir?" she asked. As well pretend that she -took him for an Englishman, since he spoke the tongue so readily! - -"Mademoiselle," said the young man dramatically, "I swear to you that my -horse never passed within a foot of him. But he runs across the road in -front of me, and falls down; I dismount and pick him up--what else could -I do?--and since that time he ceases not to yell comme un démon!" - -His brilliant, speaking dark-blue eyes rested on her with a mixture of -humour, appeal, and (it was impossible not to recognise it) of -admiration. His black silk cravat was so high that his chin creased it; -his chamois-coloured cashmere waistcoat was fastened with buttons of -chased gold, and the cut of his greenish-bronze coat testified to an -ultra-fashionable tailor. Horatia looked at Tommy Wilson, now rolling -on the grass in a perfect luxury of woe. Bending over him she seized -him firmly by the arm. - -"Tommy," she commanded, "get up!" More successful than the Frenchman, -she restored him to some measure of equilibrium. "Now you are coming -with me to the doctor to show him where you are hurt. Come along!" - -Her voice, which he knew, had the effect of reducing the youth's -lamentations, but at her suggestion a fresh tide of alarm swept over his -round, smeared face. He resisted, ejaculating hoarsely: "No, Miss! No, -Miss 'Ratia! No, I 'ont!" - -"Very well then, I shall bring the doctor to you here," said Miss -Grenville firmly. "Now mind, Tommy, that you stay where you are without -moving till I come back with him. Do you hear?" She loosed her hold -and stood back, holding up a warning finger. - -A success almost startling rewarded her manoeuvre. For five seconds, -perhaps, Thomas Wilson stood blinking at her through his tears, his -mouth working woefully at the corners; then, with an expression of -forlorn determination, he turned, ran past the horse, and set off to -trot home at a pace which dispelled the least suspicion of injury. - - - - - *CHAPTER V* - - - *(1)* - - -Both Horatia and the stranger whom she had befriended looked after the -small vanishing figure with an amused relief; then the young man turned, -and, clasping his hat to his breast (for he was still bareheaded), made -her a graceful, formal bow. - -"Mademoiselle, I am your debtor to my dying day! Conceive how I am -alarmed by that so evil boy! Ma foi, I began to see myself in an -English prison for attempted murder." - -"Mr. Hungerford would soon have effected your release, Monsieur," said -Horatia, laughing. "May I ask, indeed, why he has left you to these -adventures?" For she would no longer pretend ignorance of his identity. - -The young man showed a marked surprise. "Is it possible that I have the -good fortune to be known to you?" he exclaimed. "But yes; I am the -guest of Mr. Hungerford, and, to make a clean breast of my sins, -Mademoiselle, I have lost him. He was taking me to pay a call upon M. -le Recteur of Compton Regis, and his daughter--cousins of Mr. -Hungerford, I believe--we parted half an hour ago, and I was to meet him -at some place whose name I have forgotten; then I have the contretemps -with the infant and have lost the way also. I am in despair, because I -have it in my mind that the cousine of Mr. Hungerford is une très belle -personne, and her father very instructed; and who knows now whether I -shall ever see them?" - -His air of regret and helplessness was rather attractive; but the -suspicion that he really had more than half an inkling who she was -restored to Miss Grenville's voice and manner something of the decorum -proper to the chance meeting of a young lady with a strange gentleman on -the road--a decorum already a good deal impaired by the feeling of -complicity in the business of Tommy Wilson. - -"I have no doubt," she said, "that you will find Mr. Hungerford already -at the Rectory, and I will direct you the shortest way thither. I am -myself Miss Grenville." - -M. le Comte de la Roche-Guyon smote himself lightly on the breast. "I -might have guessed it!" he said in an aside to Tristram's horse. -"Mademoiselle, I am more than ever your devoted servant ... Permit me!" -He kissed her gloved hand with a singular mixture of reverence and -fervour. "But ... if we are going the same way ... might I not have the -great honour of accompanying you, or would it not be considered -convenable, in England?" - -His tone, his innocent, pleading glance suggested that in his own less -conventional native land such a proceeding would be perfectly proper; -whereas Horatia knew the exact contrary to be the case. However, she -always thought that she despised convention; there was the chance that -he might get lost again, and meanwhile poor Tristram would be waiting -about Heaven knew where. So she said, with sufficient dignity, that she -should be very pleased, and they started homewards, conversing with -great propriety on such banal subjects as the weather, and with -Tristram's horse pacing beside them for chaperon. Yet the shade of -Tommy Wilson, hovering cherub-like above them, linked them in a -half-guilty alliance. - -And thus they came round by Five-Acres into Compton Regis, and at the -cross-roads by the farm found Tristram Hungerford, on his old horse, -looking for his missing guest. - -"My dear La Roche-Guyon, where have you been?" he demanded, as he -dismounted and saluted Horatia. - -"In Paradise," responded the young man audaciously. "Eh quoi, you were -anxious about me, mon ami? I found a guardian angel in the person of -Miss Grenville herself." - -"So I see," answered his host a trifle drily. "I rode back to Risley to -look for you." - -The Comte protested that he was desolated, at the same time managing to -convey to the girl beside him, without either speech or look, that, for -obvious reasons, he was nothing of the sort. But Miss Grenville, with a -heightened colour, walked on in silence between them. She had no taste -for exaggerated compliments; that foolish utterance about Paradise would -not have been at all in good taste for an Englishman. But, of course, -M. de la Roche-Guyon was a foreigner. - -She had yet to learn that M. de la Roche-Guyon, born and partially -educated as he had been in England, had a much less incomplete knowledge -of English usage than he found convenient, at times, to publish abroad. - - - - *(2)* - - -Armand-Maurice de la Roche-Guyon achieved, in the Rectory drawing-room, -the impression which he never failed to make in any society. Man or -woman, you wanted instinctively to be friends with him; he had so -engaging an air of expecting it. And Horatia noticed afresh how -intensely he was alive, and how little he tried to conceal the fact. -She thought of the wooden, controlled visages of some of her male -acquaintances, and contrasted them with his changing, vivid face, in -which every feature, from the clear eyebrows to the rather mocking -mouth, could express any shade of feeling from derision to adoration. -Such foreign accent as he retained lent a charm to his fluent English, -which, though apt to desert him at moments of crisis, carried him -gallantly in ordinary conversation, and only required occasional help -from a gesture or a French word. But, as he explained, he had been born -in England, and therefore the English "th," the shibboleth of his -countrymen, troubled him but little. - -"M. l'Abbé Dubayet, who taught my daughter, never learnt our language -properly, though he had been in England for a quarter of a century," -remarked the Rector, commenting on his visitor's proficiency. - -"So much the better for Mademoiselle, who speaks, I will wager, like a -Tourangelle," responded the young Frenchman, with a little bow in -Horatia's direction. - -"Yes, she does speak well," said the Rector. - -"Her friends complain, I believe, that they cannot follow her on that -account," murmured Tristram. - -"What nonsense!" exclaimed Horatia. "Do not think to flatter me into -talking French with M. de la Roche-Guyon. I shall ask him the -inevitable question in English: How do you like England, Monsieur?" - -"Mais, mon Dieu!" exclaimed the guest, "how am I to reply to that? If -you mean the country, Mademoiselle, it is not new to me; if you mean -John Bull, it would not be polite of me to tell you how much he -sometimes amuses me; if you mean the English ladies, you would think -what I should say too polite, and you would not believe me." - -"We had better let you off, La Roche-Guyon," said Tristram. "Far be it -from us to ask why John Bull amuses you." - -"You have seen Oxford, I suppose, Monsieur?" inquired the Rector. - -"Already twice," responded M. de la Roche-Guyon. "I find it -beautiful--but of a beauty! We have nothing like it; it must be the -wonder of the world, your University. Fortunate young men, to live in -those magnificent colleges, and disport themselves on those lawns! I -saw there--what did I not see? all the colleges, I think, certainly that -of Oriel, the nurse of Mr. Hungerford--and the theatre, with those heads -of Roman Emperors (but, indeed, I hope they were not really like that), -and the great library, superb, and a museum--I have forgotten its name, -where there was a jewel of Alfred, and the sword sent by the Pope to -your Henry VIII--he would not send one, I think, to William IV?--and a -horn which grew upon the head of a woman (but that I do not believe, -naturally) and a picture of the Christ carrying the cross made in the -feathers of the humming-bird. Yes, and I also saw in the library, I -think, a model of our Maison Carrée at Nîmes. But it is the whole city, -with its towers and gardens, which has most ravished me." - -"Ah, do you take an interest in Roman remains?" queried the Rector, -brightening. "We can't show you another Maison Carrée of course, but -there is a very fair Roman villa between here and Oxford, with a Roman -cemetery near it. Then there is Cherbury Camp, not far from us--though -that is probably pre-Roman, if not pre-British; it is egg-shaped, and -has three valla, with fosses outside each--very interesting. I should -have great pleasure in showing it to you, Monsieur, if you cared to see -it." - -"I am sure that M. le Comte will not care for that, Papa," interposed -Horatia. "I assure you, Monsieur, it is nothing but a few grassy banks, -all ploughed away except in one place. Imagination supplies the rest." - -"And what, Miss, supplies the Roman coins in my study, from Augustus to -Honorius, all found in this county?" demanded her father. "And the -cameo of Hermes with a cornucopia, and the very Anglo-Saxon fibula you -are wearing at this moment, ungrateful girl!" - -"You have found these things!" exclaimed the young Frenchman eagerly, -and his quick glance went to Horatia's neck. "De grace, Monsieur, -permit me to avail myself of your so kind offer! I have always desired -to behold the traces of our conquerors and yours. What a people, the -Romans!" - -The Rector, delighted at this responsive enthusiasm, said that he would -certainly conduct the visitor to Cherbury Camp next morning, and was -warmly thanked for his offer. Tristram, though a little surprised at -his guest's unexpected antiquarian zeal, was not ill-pleased at the -arrangement, for he had an article to finish. Miss Grenville, however, -continued to oppose her father's selection. - -"I have a much better idea than that," she announced. "Take M. de la -Roche-Guyon to see the White Horse, Papa." - -"The White Horse, what is that?" inquired the young man. "An old inn?" - -"It is a horse cut in the hillside by the Anglo-Saxons," Horatia -informed him. "It is said to have been made by command of Alfred to -commemorate his victory over the Danes. Papa does not believe that -theory, as everyone else does. But he will no doubt explain his -heretical ideas to you if you go with him to-morrow. At any rate, you -will get a magnificent view, and see something you have not the like of, -I suppose, in France." - -"But pardon," retorted the Frenchman, "in France we have the white horse -of M. de Lafayette, and that is already an animal--how do you say, -légendaire; and some day perhaps he will be laid out as a bed in the -gardens of the Tuileries. Oh, la belle idée!" - -Horatia laughed. But the mention of Lafayette reminded her of recent -events. - -"You were in the revolution, perhaps, Monsieur?" - -The young man's face darkened. "How do you mean, 'in it,' Mademoiselle? -You do not think that I am one of those scoundrelly revolutionaries?" - -"No, indeed! But you saw it--you fought in it, perhaps?" - -The Comte de la Roche-Guyon shrugged his shoulders. "Yes, I fought a -little. But I had bad luck." - -What this misfortune was he did not specify. He did not seem to wish to -talk about the Days of July, and Horatia liked him for it, feeling sure -that the long white seam which she suddenly espied on the back of his -right hand was an honourable memento of the occasion, and not realising -that the age of so well-healed a wound must be nearer two years than two -months. - -"Ah, a sad business," said Mr. Grenville sympathetically. "And you have -just come from Lulworth, I understand. How did you find the King?" - -"His Majesty is lodged tant bien que mal," responded their visitor. -"The Castle is out of repair and there is little state. The day before -I left I saw Madame la Dauphine and her lady driving out in the rain in -a shabby little open carriage drawn by a rough pony. They both had old -straw bonnets and Madame la Duchesse d'Angoulême a light brown shawl. I -believe that they were one day taken for servants, for housekeepers, at -a neighbouring château which they went to visit." - -"What unparalleled misfortunes have been hers!" said the Rector. "And -the Duchesse de Berry?" - -"Ah, she finds it too dull there; she goes visiting. Madame la Duchesse -de Berry will not stop at anything; she has the spirit of an Amazon. My -father tells me that on the way from Paris to Cherbourg she went armed -with pistols, and fired them off once, too, in the King's presence. His -Majesty was much annoyed." - -"It is her little son, is it not, who is the heir to the crown?" asked -Horatia. "How old is he?" - -"Henry V is this month ten years old," responded the Comte. - -"Britwell-Prior in Oxfordshire belongs to the Welds of Lulworth," said -the Rector musingly. "Oh, are you going, Tristram? Well, mind that you -spare me M. de la Roche-Guyon to-morrow morning. I will be ... let me -see--yes, I will be at the cross-roads at half-past ten, if he will join -me there, and we will go to the White Horse, if Robin, who is really -getting very fat, will carry me up the hill. And when shall I see you -again?" - -"At the Squire's on Saturday, I expect," said Tristram, adding that he -hoped himself to get up a little dinner-party next week, if he could -persuade M. de la Roche-Guyon to stay. He was beginning to take his -leave when Horatia interrupted him. - -"Before you go, Tristram, I want to show you this book which I picked up -in Oxford before I went away. Excuse me, M. le Comte." - -It is to be presumed that M. le Comte excused her, no other course being -open to him, but he bent interested eyes upon her as she and Tristram -stooped over the book together, eyes which had already opened wider than -their wont when he first heard the mutual use of the Christian name. - -"Pardon," he observed in a low voice to the Rector, "but Mademoiselle -your daughter and Mr. Hungerford are par--relations, I should say?" - -"A sort of cousins," replied Mr. Grenville. "Moreover Tristram -Hungerford is almost a son to me--an old pupil whom I have known since -he was a child." And wishing further to disarm possible foreign -criticism, he added, "Our English girls have much more liberty than -yours in France, you know." - -"For that reason I have always wished to be an Englishman," was M. de la -Roche-Guyon's reply to this. - - -"Your Miss Grenville is very pretty, to my mind," he observed to his -host as they rode homewards some twenty minutes later. "Has she many -admirers?" - -Mr. Hungerford thought this question decidedly impertinent--especially -as he could not answer it in the affirmative--but remembering, like -Horatia, that the speaker was a foreigner, abstained from an attempt to -snub him. He answered a little stiffly: - -"Miss Grenville is not concerned to see every man at her feet." - -"So I supposed," returned the young Frenchman. - -"She is docte, instruite. Nevertheless----" he broke off and shot a -long, keen and rather malicious glance at Tristram's -profile--"nevertheless, some day she will find it quite an amusing game. -They all do, in the end." - -Tristram pulled out his watch. "Shall we trot a little?" he suggested -pleasantly. "It is later than I thought." - - - - - *CHAPTER VI* - - - *(1)* - - -"But ... mille pardons ... it is not very resembling--it is not much -like a horse," said M. le Comte de la Roche-Guyon a little doubtfully. - -The wind of the Berkshire Downs blew through his dark hair as he stood, -hat on hip, one hand at his chin, and looked down on the strange beast -stretched at his feet on the chalky hillside turf. - -"It is not," confessed the Rector, holding on to his hat. "For one -thing the tail seems longer than the legs, does it not? (The whole -thing, I must tell you, is three hundred and seventy-four feet long, and -covers an acre of ground.) And yet the form of the horse's figure as -represented on ancient British coins is known to be a debased copy of -the elegant animals on the pieces struck by Philip of Macedon. And that -is one reason why I take the Horse to be of far older origin than the -victory of Ashdown in 871 which it is supposed to commemorate. I take -it to be of British, not of Saxon, times." - -"Really!" murmured his audience. - -"Yes," said Mr. Grenville with growing impressiveness, "it is to me -certain that the ceremonies connected with the quinquennial scouring of -the Horse, of which I will tell you presently, are religious in origin." -And he expanded this theory. - -If M. de la Roche-Guyon (as is highly probable) was supremely -indifferent to date and origin, and unmoved by the thought of the -ancient race to whom the Rector attributed the execution of the chalk -steed, he concealed it well. Considering that he was quite ignorant of -the pre-Conquest history of England his questions were remarkably -intelligent, and Mr. Grenville thoroughly enjoyed his own exposition. - -"Well, we must be going," he said regretfully at last, and they went to -the place where they had left their horses tethered a little lower down. -The descent was steep and stony, and before they had gone very far the -Frenchman pulled up with apologies; he feared that his horse, or rather -Mr. Hungerford's, had a stone in its shoe. Mr. Grenville whiled away the -delay by speaking of the very fine neolithic celt which he had found at -his favourite Cherbury, nor did it occur to him that the young man -tinkering at his horse's foot had not the remotest idea of what a celt -might be. On the contrary, the Comte smiled very pleasantly as he -remounted, and congratulated Mr. Grenville on possessing this object. -The Rector agreed that he was lucky. - -"It is fifteen years ago since I found it," he mused, "but I remember my -excitement as if it were yesterday. I must show it to you when we get -back--for, of course, Hungerford understands that you are returning to -luncheon with me?--Hold up, Robin! I should like also to show you my -coins." - -M. de la Roche-Guyon, it appeared, asked nothing better, and they -proceeded in the September sunshine. They were within a mile of Compton -when the Rector suddenly checked his fat cob. - -"I believe, M. le Comte, that your horse is losing a shoe. Hungerford's -man must be very careless, for I happen to know that the beast was shod -only last week. Or perhaps it was that stone? Fortunately we are only a -little way from home." - -Once again the young man dismounted. "It is true," he said. "It must -have been the stone. What a nuisance!" The Rector could not see him -biting his lips to hide a smile, nor hear him mutter "Peste! It was not -necessary, after all!" - - -"It does not in the least resemble the horse of M. de Lafayette," he -assured Horatia at luncheon, a meal which passed off with much gaiety, -but at the conclusion of which the Rector spoke again of his coins and -the famous celt. Horatia, though she could not bring herself to believe -the vivacious young Frenchman really interested in the contents of -Berkshire tumuli, had not the heart to try to prevent her father from -bringing out his treasures, and she watched M. de la Roche-Guyon being -borne off to the study with mingled amusement and compassion. It was -his own fault after all; and she was sure that Papa could not keep him -long--because he still had not finished that sermon. - -Half an hour later, sitting with some embroidery on the lawn, she knew -that the Rector must have returned to his task, for she beheld the Comte -to issue alone from the house. - -"M. le Recteur permits that I make my adieux," he said as he came -towards her. "Will Mademoiselle permit it also?" - -Horatia laid down her work. "Pray do not hurry away, Monsieur. Papa -has his sermon to finish, and I, as you see, have no serious occupation. -Will you not sit down for a little?" - -The young Frenchman complied readily enough. His glance went round the -garden, over the phloxes and sunflowers, rested a moment on a book lying -on the grass, and came back to Horatia. He gave a little, half-checked -sigh. - -"You cannot think, Mademoiselle," he said after a moment's silence, "how -delightful it is for an exile like myself to be admitted again into the -intimacy of home life. Not only is it beautiful and touching, but it is -unexpected; for in France we are told that you have no life of the -family to be compared with ours; and I have been used ... in the past -... to so much." - -His voice dropped, and he looked down. - -"We think, in England, that we have much of it too," said Horatia rather -softly. "But--an exile--why do you call yourself that, Monsieur le -Comte? Surely you are returning to France?" - -The young man raised his eyes, blue and laughing no longer. "Ah, yes, -Mademoiselle," he said with meaning, "my body returns indeed, but my -heart remains behind ... at Lulworth, with my King, with my father who -is privileged to be, for his sake, an exile in body as well. I go back -to my home in Paris, where my father's place will be for ever vacant; I -go back to take up my life of yesterday, to meet my friends, to laugh, -to talk, and ... if Heaven grant it, to plot for Henry V. That is all I -can do.... Yes, I go back, but I am no less an exile, though in my -native land. Surely you, Mademoiselle, can understand that?" - -Horatia bent her head over her embroidery. "Yes, I think I understand," -she said. But she was puzzled; the people she knew did not talk like -this. - -"Eh bien!" went on Armand de la Roche-Guyon more lightly, "it is Fate. -Our house has served the Lilies for a thousand years, and I suppose the -time has come to die with them. You can understand that too, you whose -ancestors fought for the Stuarts." - -None of Miss Grenville's ancestors--persons distinctly Hanoverian in -sympathy--had ever supported that romantic cause, but for the moment, -moved by the voice, she almost believed that they had. - -"But Louis-Philippe is a Bourbon," she suggested. "You would not----" - -"Serve the son of Egalité!" exclaimed the Comte. "Serve the man who has -usurped the throne of France! Sooner would I die!---- But I do not -wish to talk of my affairs. Tell me of yourself, Mademoiselle, of your -life here. It is vain that you try to disguise from me that you surpass -other women in intellect and character as you surpass them--pardon me -that I say it--in beauty. Chez nous, that superiority is recognised; -but with you, is it not, you must hide it from people that you do not -frighten them by your attainments. But we Frenchmen understand." - -His tone and manner were perfect; grave, respectful, sympathetic, quite -without commonplace gallantry. Horatia was amazed at his penetration. - -"You are quite right," she said, laying down her work. "It is very -ridiculous that my small accomplishments should have the effect of -walling me off, as it were, from the rest of the world, but so it is. I -am no cleverer than other girls, but, thanks to my kind father, I am -better educated. You cannot imagine, M. le Comte, how that fact hampers -me in ordinary life. When I stay with my cousins in Northamptonshire -they think it a joke to introduce me as a 'bluestocking,' as one who -knows Greek. Every man--every young man at least--that I meet is -frightened of me, or pretends to be so, which is sillier still; every -woman in her heart dislikes me. I suppose they think that I am -'superior.'" - -"Ah, the women, I can believe that," said Armand de la Roche-Guyon -quickly. "But the men, no, that I can never understand; no Frenchman -could understand it." - -In a flash Horatia was aware how intimately she had been talking to him. -But he went on: - -"You should have been born a Frenchwoman, Mademoiselle. In Paris you -would occupy your proper place, reigning at once by beauty and by wit, -as only our women do." - -Horatia coloured. "Do you then notice so much difference in England?" -she asked, for the sake of saying something. - -The young man cast up his eyes to heaven. "Mademoiselle, by the very -disposition of the chairs in an English drawing-room after dinner one -can see it! In a row on one side of the room are the ladies; in a row -on the other the gentlemen, perhaps looking at them indeed, but more -likely talking among themselves of hunting or of politics. Now with us -how different! It is to the ladies that the hour of the drawing-room is -consecrated; we pay them court, we cannot help it, it is in the blood -with us. Besides, have they not great influence on the situation of a -man of the world? But with you, suppose now that M. le mari is at his -club, eating a dinner that lasts for hours, and that then he goes to the -ballet at the Opera, and afterwards perhaps to supper, all this time his -unfortunate spouse must shut her doors to visitors, and, for all -amusement, may take a cup of tea tête-à-tête with his armchair--vous -savez, c'est du barbarisme!" - -He was quite excited, and it did not occur to Horatia, amused and rather -pleased, to wonder whether his indignation were on behalf of the -excluded visitor or the secluded lady. - -"You seem to know a great deal about it," she observed, smiling. - -But M. de la Roche-Guyon here got up rather suddenly and said that he -must be going. Horatia, could she have read his thoughts, might have -reassured him, and told him that the sound he had heard was not the -Rector opening the drawing-room window, with a view to sallying forth, -but the garden gate, which was loose on the latch. - -He had raised her hand in the graceful foreign fashion to his lips -before she said, "But shall I not see you to-morrow?" - -"To-morrow!" said he with enthusiasm. "Do you tell me that you, -Mademoiselle, will be at the dinner-party of the Squire to which I am -told I am bidden?" - -"Yes," said Miss Grenville. "And I shall be interested to observe -whether, after dinner, you follow the English fashion or the French." - -"After what you have told me, is there need to ask?" - - -Horatia went into the house singing. Something shining and vital seemed -to have brushed against her in passing to-day. - - - - *(2)* - - -The impression which Miss Grenville gained of M. de la Roche-Guyon at -the Squire's dinner-party next day was that, though separated from her -by the length of the table, many épergnes and piles of fruit, and though -something monopolised by the ladies on either side of him, he was always -looking in her direction if she happened to glance in his. It gave her -a curious and entirely novel sensation. - -In the drawing-room afterwards all the ladies were loud in his praises. -"So charming, and with such courtly manners--so distinguished, and O, so -handsome! How interesting, too, that he should be a friend of Mr. -Hungerford's--characters so totally unlike, and tastes too, one would -imagine. But evidently the Count knows how to be all things to all -men!" - -Horatia, to whom this last remark was made, stiffened a little on -Tristram's behalf. "I think it was very good of Mr. Hungerford to ask -him to stay with him," she said, "for he is only an acquaintance. It is -really M. de la Roche-Guyon's brother whom Mr. Hungerford knows." - -When the gentlemen came in from the dining-room, rather earlier than -they were expected, there was a knot of ladies in the centre of the -room, of which, however, Horatia was not a part. Into this circle M. de -la Roche-Guyon was immediately absorbed, and a buzz of laughter and -conversation at once arose. - -Tristram came over to Horatia smiling. "It's hopeless to get La -Roche-Guyon out, but no doubt he is enjoying himself. I do not think -his brother would be quite so much at home." - -"Why?" asked Horatia with interest. "What is his brother like? Is he -very different?" - -"Quite," responded Tristram laconically, sitting down beside her. - -"He is older, is he not?" - -"Yes, by nearly twenty years, I should think." - -"I can't imagine this M. de la Roche-Guyon twenty years older." - -"You need not try. They are not in the least replicas of each other. -Emmanuel de la Roche-Guyon was never like his brother, of that I am -sure." - -"It is sad for him to be practically an exile," observed Horatia. - -Tristram merely looked at her, then at the laughing group in the middle -of the room, and raised his eyebrows. Horatia smiled in spite of -herself. - -"I see what you mean. Well, I will bestow my sympathy better. It is -sad for the Duke to be in exile at Lulworth, with Charles X." - -Tristram lowered his voice. "My dear Horatia, there are compensations -even in banishment. Imagine living under the same roof with all the -relatives you ever had--with, say, your great-grandmother, your -grandmother, all your great-aunts, your brothers, your nephews.... That -is what the French generally mean by family life--a kind of hotel, with -the additional drawback of knowing intimately all the other occupants. -They have not our idea of the home that grows up round two people." - -Once again Horatia was conscious of that new quality in Tristram's -voice, once again she could disregard it, for before she had time to -make a reply of any sort she perceived that the Comte de la Roche-Guyon -was free, and was coming towards them. - -"Ah, here you are!" said Tristram, getting up. "Take my place, and talk -to Miss Grenville for a little." Going off, he crossed the room to -speak to a neglected spinster in a corner. - -M. de la Roche-Guyon sat down in his vacated place without more ado. He -gave one glance round the room, and said, "Si nous causions un peu en -français?" - -His eyes, as dancing and daring as they had been sad yesterday, -challenged her to more than conversation in a foreign tongue. And -something in Horatia's soul responded. - -"Volontiers, Monsieur. What shall we talk about?" - -The young man drew his chair a thought nearer. Conversation was rippling -all around them; they were isolated in a sea of chatter. - -"I will tell you a secret," he said. "I can tell you in French, but you -must promise me to forget it in English." - -"Very well, I promise." - -"You remember, Mademoiselle, that we were late yesterday, M. votre père -and I, because M. Hungerford's horse cast a shoe as we came back." - -Horatia nodded. - -"And how you blamed the groom of M. Hungerford or the blacksmith? Eh -bien, I alone was to blame!" - -Miss Grenville opened astonished eyes. "I do not understand you, -Monsieur. You did not shoe the horse; and you did not make the shoe -come off on purpose." - -"Mais si, si, si!" reiterated the young Frenchman, his eyes sparkling. -"_Peccavi nimis, cogitatione, verbo, et opere_. I loosened the nails -before I left the hillside!" - -"But why?" - -"I am not sure that I dare tell you, after all! But you have promised -me absolution. Eh bien, I wanted to make sure of ... in other words, I -thought I would force M. le Recteur to ask me to luncheon.... You are -not annoyed?" - -Certainly the emotion which shot through Miss Grenville, and which flew -its flag in her cheeks was not annoyance. She did not know what it was. - -"I should like to give M. Hungerford a golden horseshoe," proceeded the -Comte, watching her. "It is true that I need not have----" - -"Hush!" said Horatia, "Miss Bailey is going to sing." - -In the centre of the room a very blonde lady in white was already -displaying her arms to the harp, and her sister, similarly clad, shortly -gave commands, in a rather shrill soprano, to light up the festal bower -when the stars were gleaming deep, asserting that she had met the shock -of the Paynim spears as the mountain meets the sun, but asseverating -that naught to her were blood and tears, for her lovely bride was won. - -Under cover of the applause which greeted this statement, Tristram made -his way back to the couple. - -"La Roche-Guyon, be prepared to emulate the songstress. Your fate will -be upon you in a moment." - -"Misericorde!" exclaimed the young man, and at that moment, indeed, his -hostess was seen to be bearing down upon him. - -"M. le Comte, you will sing to us, will you not? Oh, I am sure you can -sing without your music--you foreigners are so gifted! Do, pray, favour -us!" And, other ladies joining in the request, M. le Comte, with none -of the self-consciousness of an Englishman similarly placed, seated -himself at the piano. "I shall sing to you, ladies," he announced after -a moment's thought, "a little old song that was a favourite with Marie -Antoinette." - -The fair listeners prepared to be affected, expecting regrets for -Trianon or sighs from the Temple. But M. de la Roche-Guyon broke into -the gallant impertinence of Joli Tambour, and very well he sang it. - -So the assembly heard that there was once a drummer boy returning from -the wars, from whom, as he passed under the palace window, the princess -asked his rose, but that, when he demanded her hand in marriage, the -king, her father, refused it, saying he was not rich enough. However, -when Joli Tambour replied that he was "fils d'Angleterre," with three -ships upon the sea, one full of gold, one of precious stones, and the -third to take his love a-sailing, the king said that he might have his -daughter. But Joli Tambour refused her, for there were fairer in his -own land: - - "Dans mon pays, y'en a de plus jolies, - Dans mon pays, y'en a de plus jolies, - Et ran, tan, plan!" - - -"Rather a slap in the face!" laughed a jolly dowager to Horatia. "The -young man evidently wishes to intimate that he is not for marrying any -of our daughters." - -"Oh, surely he had no such motive!" returned Miss Grenville. -"Besides----" she began, and stopped, for it had suddenly occurred to -her that she did not really know whether he were married or not. - -She had no further speech that evening with the singer, but he appeared, -mysteriously and unnecessarily to hand her into the carriage when it -came round to the steps, though the master of the house was there for -that purpose, and she had her father's assistance as well. But somehow, -when it came to the point, it was the Frenchman who put her in. - -"Thank you, thank you," said the Rector, as he shut the door. "I hope -we shall see you again soon." - -Armand de la Roche-Guyon bowed, and, stepping back into the circle of -flickering light thrown downwards by the cressets at the foot of the -steps, became for the second time that evening a disturbing picture. - - - - - *CHAPTER VII* - - - *(1)* - - -"And so, my dear friends," said the Rector, "terrible as is the idea of -the punishment reserved for the ungodly...." - -"Poor Papa!" thought Horatia, looking up out of the high Rectory pew at -his handsome, kindly face, now clouded with the delivery of the sermon -that cost him so much ingenuity. - -But she was not listening very attentively. Her gaze wandered on and up -to the huge Royal arms that rested on the beam over the chancel arch, -over the "When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness." What -stories she had told herself about the unicorn once! - -Beyond the top of the great three-decker pulpit there was not indeed -much that she could see, except the little square carpeted room without -a roof in which she sat, for since she had put away childish things she -no longer stood upon the seat which ran round three of its four sides. -But she knew exactly how the knees of the young men stuck through the -railings of the gallery at the end of the church, how red and shiny were -their faces, how plastered their Sunday hair. Moreover, she was sure -that in the space behind them, occupied by the singers and players, -William Bates was fidgetting with his flute, unscrewing it and putting -it together again, and the bassoonist was going to sleep. "I can't 'elp -it, your Reverence, I really can't; seems as if there was something in -this 'ere instrument," he was wont to plead. Horatia wondered whether -he would awake before the end of the discourse. - -And then, almost without knowing it, she found herself speculating upon -what Tristram and his guest were doing. She had hoped (she put it to -herself as "thought") that Tristram might have brought the latter over -here. But, of course, the Comte de la Roche-Guyon was a Roman Catholic. - -Her mind went back to last night. What an extraordinary knack he had of -appearing in a different light every time she met him--he seemed to be -almost a different person. She counted up the times.... It puzzled her, -but she was by now beginning to realise that it interested her too. And -what would he be like when he came to say good-bye? The week for which -she had understood him to be staying would be up next Wednesday, and -Tristram would be sure to bring him over before that. - -She wondered if he would ever come to England again.... - -The Rector was beginning to descend from his eminence, the clerk below -was clearing his throat before giving out "Thy dreadful anger, Lord, -restrain, and spare a wretch forlorn"--the metrical version of the sixth -Psalm--and of the end of the sermon Horatia had not heard a word. - - - - *(2)* - - -In the course of a week it had become abundantly clear to Tristram -Hungerford that the Comte de la Roche-Guyon, young as he was, had made a -close study of the fair sex, if, indeed, he did not consider himself an -authority upon it. It was therefore without surprise, if without -appreciation, that Tristram listened perforce, this Wednesday morning, -to a dissertation on the subject. The two were on their way to Compton -Rectory; their horses had dropped to a walk, and under the bright, windy -September sky the young Frenchman imparted to his host the fruit of ripe -reflection on the dames of Britain. - -"Every time that I am in England," he said, gesticulating with his -riding-whip, "I am struck afresh with the curious--how do you call -it--limitations of the English ladies. They have so much in their -favour, and yet--pardon me that I say it--if you desire the fresh -toilette, the graceful walk and gesture, ease in conversation, knowledge -of coquetry, you must seek for them in France, for a real Englishwoman -knows nothing of them." - -"But I thought that our English ladies were supposed to model themselves -nowadays on those of the Continent," objected Tristram, keeping the ball -rolling out of politeness. - -Armand de la Roche-Guyon nearly dropped his reins. "Mais, mon Dieu, that -makes it worse!" he exclaimed. "In a party of English ladies you can -indeed observe that each has taken a hint from the Continent for her -dress or her manner, and the result, ma foi, is often to make die of -laughter. I have seen ... but that would not interest you ... Tenez, -the way an Englishwoman sits down upon a chair, have you ever thought to -remark that? It is as if chance alone had caused her to fall there! -She sits down without paying the least attention to her dress. But the -care with which a Frenchwoman places herself in an armchair, taking hold -of her robe on either side, raising her arms gently as a bird spreads -its wings! Even if she should be exhausted by laughing or half-fainting -from emotion, still her dress will remain untumbled. It is worth -remarking, I assure you!" - -Certainly these observations would never have occurred to Mr. -Hungerford, and to judge by his expression, he had small wish even to -make them vicariously. His companion was instantly aware of this. - -"Forgive me, mon ami! I see that you think it is not convenable that I -should thus criticise your fair compatriots, whom, du reste, I admire -from the bottom of my heart. And let me assure you that I have no -criticisms for Miss Grenville; she is perfection itself." - -"You are very good," replied Tristram, without trying to suppress the -irony of his tone. - -The corners of the Comte's mouth twitched, and to Tristram's relief he -touched up his horse for a sign that the subject was done with. As -their hoofs rang sharply on the road the Englishman glanced once or -twice at the clear profile beside him, stamped so visibly with the mark -of race--and with what else? That was the question. Armand seemed to -him such a boy--but not an English boy. Well, he was very attractive, -but---- - -As they were fastening up their horses outside the Rectory, the subject -of these speculations suddenly said, with an air of great earnestness, -"Mon ami, I wish you would explain to me one trait in the English -character which I have never been able to understand. An Englishman is -so haughty, he has such high notions of what befits a gentleman, and yet -he will receive money from the man who has seduced his wife. If I had -run away with the wife of an Englishman, _I_ should expect to give him -the chance of putting a bullet into me, but _he_ would expect me to pay -him in bank notes the value of the lady--how one estimates that I know -not. Can you solve me this problem of the English character?" - -Though the Rectory drawing-room was empty, Tristram did not attempt to -elucidate this point, and his questioner, whose query was probably only -rhetorical, sat and gazed with deep and silent attention at a picture of -Daniel in the lions' den, worked in silks, which hung over the sofa. -Then the door opened, and admitted the Rector, looking rather worried. - -"Ah, M. de la Roche-Guyon, I am very glad to see you! Tristram, this -Otmoor business is disgraceful! I hear there was a riot in Oxford on -Monday night, and that the mob succeeded in releasing the prisoners." - -"It is true," returned Tristram. "We were in Oxford on Monday evening, -La Roche-Guyon and I, and saw it----" - -"Saw it! Well, was it as bad as I have heard?" - -"There was rather a scrimmage," admitted the young man. "The soldiers -had no chance against the mob. St. Giles's Fair was on, of course, and -it was in St. Giles that they rescued the Otmoor prisoners--about sixty -of them--from the waggons." - -"And what were the escort about, pray?" demanded Mr. Grenville -indignantly. "What were they, by the way?" - -"Oxfordshire Yeomanry. They held their own as well as they could, and -had rather the advantage, as far as we could see, till they turned down -Beaumont Street. Then the crowd got the better of them." - -The Rector shrugged his shoulders. "I cannot conceive what you must -think of us, M. le Comte," he said, turning to the Frenchman. "You will -imagine that the reign of law and order is coming to an end in England." - -"As in France," finished Armand good-humouredly. "Ma foi, M. le Recteur, -it has reminded me a little of the Days of July; I own that I have not -expected to see street fighting in England, and in a city so calm, so -academic as Oxford! But one never knows. There was one soldier--a -sergeant I think--who ceased not to fight till he was disabled. The -populace were fierce against him ... It is strange, how John Bull loves -not the military. I have remarked it before. (These observations are -harmless, mon ami, is it not?) John Bull thinks much more of the taxes -which he pays to keep up the army than he does of military glory. That -he calls _stuff_. Is not that so?" - -"What you say is profoundly true," answered Mr. Grenville, impressed; -but at that moment the door opened and Horatia came in. - -An "Oh!" of surprise escaped her, for she imagined the young Frenchman -to have gone, and without taking leave. - -"You are a ghost!" she said to him, recovering herself. "I thought you -were leaving us to-day." - -Tristram broke in. "I have persuaded M. de la Roche-Guyon to stay till -the beginning of next week, because I had the idea that he might care to -go to the Charity Ball which Lady Carte is getting up on Monday, and -also I thought of arranging my little dinner-party for this Saturday, if -the date suits you and the Rector? I know that it is all right for -Dormer." - -Miss Grenville looked at her father. "That will be charming. It will -do excellently for us. May we ask if there is to be anyone else besides -Mr. Dormer?" - -"Yes, I am going on now to ask the Edward Puseys; they are still at -Pusey with Lady Lucy, I believe." - -"I think they must be," corroborated Horatia, "for I met him driving his -wife over to call on the Mainwarings two or three days ago. He did not -look much as if he were thinking of what he was doing." - -"I am glad that you are going to ask them, Tristram," commented the -Rector, who had known the Pusey brothers since they were boys. "That -young man's learning is stupendous. Too much was made, in my opinion, -of his supposed sympathy with the new German theology, and I am glad -that he did get the Chair of Hebrew." - -"And I am glad too," added his daughter, "because they have such -comfortable lodgings at Christ Church. I hope I shall stay there again -some day. I like Mrs. Pusey, and it is so romantic to think that they -waited ten years for each other, but I am rather frightened of him." - -"Permit me to say that I don't believe you are really frightened of -anybody in the world," observed Tristram smiling. - -"Tristram, how can you say so! I am dust and ashes before Papa when he -is really cross--and terrified of you, when you are in your conscience -mood.--Is there anyone else?" - -"We are short of ladies, and I thought it would interest M. de la -Roche-Guyon to meet the Trenchards, who are staying just now with their -aunt, so I shall ask her to come and bring them." - -"Very nice," murmured the Rector. "Beautiful girls, if they are like -their elder sisters--though, of course, none of them could ever compare -with their step-sister, the French one." - -Horatia turned to Armand, who had been sitting unusually silent. -"Doesn't it flatter you, Monsieur, that Papa's ideal woman should be -French?" - -"Mademoiselle," returned the Comte instantly, with an inclination, "our -ideal women are always of another nationality than our own!" - -Tristram got up. "Well, we must be getting on, if that is settled, and -you can both come on Saturday." M. de la Roche-Guyon also rose, very -slowly. - -"No, Tristram," interjected the Rector, laying hold of his arm, "you -positively must stay ten minutes, because I've had this letter from -Liverpool about James Stack and his wife emigrating to Canada. I had -thought I should be able to get them off almost at once, but the -shipping company say--there, you'd better see it." He fumbled in his -pockets. "Horatia, suppose you take M. de la Roche-Guyon into the -garden for five minutes." - - -Horatia was preceding the guest down the path when he said softly behind -her: "There are advantages, after all, in Canada's having passed into -English hands. As a Frenchman, I never expected to admit them." - -"Why, what"--began Miss Grenville, stopping, and then suddenly finding -his meaning quite clear. She coloured, was angry with herself, and -tried to retrieve her slip by saying, "Papa has helped two or three of -the parish to emigrate out there." - -Armand was now walking beside her, along the line of flowers where -autumn had begun to lay a hand in the week that had passed since he had -sat there. But he showed no disposition to follow up his sally. On the -contrary he looked rather moody, almost cross. It was a new phase. And -after a moment or two he said, kicking a stone along the path: - -"I am not looking forward to this dinner-party, Mademoiselle. Mr. -Hungerford is too kind. What have you and I to do with these grave -persons? _I_ don't know Hebrew!" - -It was new to Horatia to be classed among the more frivolous portion of -an assembly, and classed there by, and in conjunction with, a young man. -"Ah, but you forget the Trenchard girls," she said lightly. "They do -not know Hebrew either, and they are very pretty. Their mother is -French; have you not heard about them?" - -"Mr. Hungerford told me something, but I am afraid I did not listen; I -was not interested." - -"But you ought to be interested. It is rather romantic. Their mother, -when she was quite young, was a lady-in-waiting to Madame Elisabeth. -She fled to England, and her lover--who was a Frenchman, of -course--fought through the Vendean war and came to England and married -her. But next year he went back with the expedition to Quiberon, and -was killed there. I can't remember his name. Then she married Mr. -Trenchard, a Suffolk squire, and had several children, I think about -eight--anyhow Trenchards have been staying here with Mrs. Willoughby, -who is Mr. Trenchard's sister, ever since I can remember. And once I -saw Mrs. Trenchard herself; somehow she did not look as if she had been -through all those things as a girl." - -Her hearer lent her sufficient interest, at any rate he was looking at -her, a tiny frown between his dark eyebrows. "But you spoke of another -daughter?" - -"The child of the Vendean--born after his death, I believe. I never saw -her. But Papa remembers her; more beautiful and gracious than one can -possibly imagine, he says. She went into a convent in Rome." - -M. de la Roche-Guyon said nothing, and having come to the end of the -path Horatia stooped to a late rose in the border. She was finding his -evident ill-humour oddly disturbing. - -"Let us speak of the ball on Monday--my last day," he said watching her. -"How many dances will you vouchsafe me--in the cause of charity?" - -And Miss Grenville, plucking the wet rose, found herself replying, to -her no small amazement: - -"That depends on Mr. Hungerford." - -"Comment!" exclaimed the young Frenchman, stepping backwards. "Mais, -juste ciel, il n'est pas votre fiancé!" His eyes blazed at her, and he -had quite perceptibly paled; it was obvious that he was unaware of his -lapse into his own tongue. - -"Certainly not," replied Horatia with dignity. (She had been right -about his eyes; they could look fury.) "But he is a very old friend and -kinsman, and we always arrange to dance so many together." - -Armand de la Roche-Guyon made a gesture, and smiled, quite sweetly. "I -understand--mais parfaitement! Comme vous êtes femme ... adorablement -femme!" He touched her hand a second, and Tristram and the Rector came -down the path. - - - - - *CHAPTER VIII* - - - *(1)* - - -Mr. Hungerford's little dinner-party had gone the way of all -dinner-parties. The Rector had pronounced it, from his point of view, a -decided success. "A most enjoyable evening, my dear," he said to -Horatia, as they were driving home. "Whatever else that man Dormer of -Oriel is or is not, he is a brilliant talker when he pleases. And I had -a good talk with Edward Pusey afterwards in the drawing-room. The -Arabic catalogue at the Bodleian is a colossal piece of work, but from -what he told me I think his plans are too ambitious--not beyond his -scholarship, mark you, but beyond his physical strength. He confessed -to me that he sometimes almost envied the bricklayers whom he saw at -work in the streets, the drudgery was so great." - -"But Mr. Pusey is a young man, and he needn't make Arabic catalogues -unless he wants to," Horatia had responded rather unsympathetically. -For she had not found the party so delightful. She had been taken in by -Mr. Pusey, and though Armand de la Roche-Guyon sat on her other hand, -his partner, Miss Arabella Trenchard, had talked to him a great deal, -and he had seemed to like it. It was quite natural, of course; he -probably liked everybody, and Miss Trenchard was very pretty, much -prettier than she herself; so that it was no wonder if M. de la -Roche-Guyon had been by no means as bored as he had predicted. But, at -all events, he had found his way straight to her in the drawing-room -afterwards, and chatted to her ... till Mr. Dormer, showing a most -unusual taste for her society, had come and made a third ... and, to be -quite just, had talked so delightfully that she almost forgave him the -intrusion, at the time. Afterwards, it rankled increasingly. - -But now it was Monday morning, the morning of the dance, and Horatia, in -the drawing-room putting some asters into a bowl, was aware of being in -a state of causeless and febrile excitement. She could not but ask -herself what there was in a dance so to excite her; she was not a young -girl any more; she had been to many such. Yet she was conscious that -this ball was clothed in her imagination with the glamour of an untasted -pleasure, and that the thought of it was like some splendid palace built -on the edge of a precipice, beyond which there was nothing. - -She had just carried the bowl to the mantel-shelf when, without warning, -M. de la Roche-Guyon was announced to her. Horatia was startled, almost -discomposed, and the vessel, which was "Wheatsheaf" Bow, narrowly -escaped destruction. - -"Mr. Hungerford sent me with a note," said the young Frenchman -apologetically. "That is my excuse for deranging you so early, -Mademoiselle; you must forgive me. It is about to-night." - -She took the letter and read: - -"My dear Horatia,-- - -"I am obliged to go into Oxford this evening to meet Mr. Rose, a man -from Cambridge, at Dormer's rooms, and cannot possibly return in time -for the Charity Ball; in fact I shall have to spend the night in Oxford. -Would you and the Rector be so kind as to consider M. de la Roche-Guyon -as of your party? There is of course no need for him actually to -accompany you. It is most unfortunate that this summons should have -come just now, and that I must reluctantly forgo an evening to which I -had looked forward with so much pleasure. I shall come to dinner, if I -may, when I am at liberty, and make my apologies to you in -person.--T.H." - -Miss Grenville, on reading these lines, stamped her foot. - -"How tiresome, O how tiresome! Why could not Tristram have gone to -Oxford any other night!" - -"You are sorry that Mr. Hungerford cannot come to the dance?" inquired -the Comte, who seemed already acquainted with the purport of the note. - -"Why, of course!" flashed Horatia, out of her burst of indignation. -"Are you, then, glad of it, Monsieur?" - -"In one sense, yes," replied M. de la Roche-Guyon coolly. "Because now -I can ask for the dances of your kinsman as well as for my own." - -Miss Grenville saw fit to take no notice of this sentiment, continuing -along her own line of thought. - -"How like Mr. Dormer! Everything must give way to what Mr. Dormer -arranges and wishes. I have no patience with it--I am sure you do not -like him either!" - -"Mon Dieu, I should think I did not," replied the young man warmly, -"considering that he spoilt my evening on Saturday! He might have left -us that quarter of an hour in the drawing-room. I could almost believe -that he did it on purpose.... No, Mr. Dormer does not amuse me." - -"You have seen a good deal of him," said Horatia, restored to good -humour, for she discerned a common feeling. - -Armand made something of a grimace. "Mr. Hungerford has been kind -enough to take me to see him twice. I do not like priests. They know -too much." - -"But Mr. Dormer is not a priest," returned Horatia, half amused. - -"Well, perhaps not, mais il en a l'air, and he needs only the ... what -is it, la soutane?--the cassock, yes, and the sash that the delusion -should be complete. Besides, he has the book." - -"What book?" asked Horatia, mystified. - -"The priest's book, the breviary. It was lying open on his table when -we went in to see him at the college of Oriel. Almost I fancied myself -chez Monsignor de la Roche-Guyon, my cousin." - -"Oh, I understand!" said Horatia. "He is translating some of the hymns -from the Paris Breviary--why, I don't know. I think I remember Tristram -telling me about it in the spring. Mr. Dormer and several of the other -Fellows at Oriel are what is known as High Church, and they are always -doing queer things." - -"High Church?" queried the young Frenchman, "what is that? And what -queer things is it that they do?" - -"Oh, it's so boring," said Miss Grenville wearily. "They think the -Church of England is in danger; I don't know why, for it has gone on -comfortably enough all these years without them. So they meet and talk -a great deal about it--in fact, that is no doubt why Tristram has so -tiresomely to go into Oxford this evening--fresh alarums and excursions, -I expect... Papa was very much shocked when he heard Mr. Froude say that -the Reformation was a mistake, but when I told him afterwards that I -thought they had better all turn Papists, and have done with it, he -didn't like that either ... O forgive me! What have I said!" The -colour rushed over her face. "I had forgotten for the moment; of course -you are a Catholic yourself." - -"But I had rather that you forgot it," exclaimed the young Frenchman, -with an expressive gesture. "I am a Catholic, it is true, -because--well, because one has to be. Royalism and the Church stand -together; but I am not devout--pray do not think so!" - -Horatia hastened to assure him that she had never suspected him of this, -and they both laughed. - -When he had gone she went upstairs and looked at the gown that she was -to wear that night to dance in the palace which would crumble to ruins -at daybreak. - - - - *(2)* - - -The aching elbows of the fiddlers had several times been eased by -surreptitious potations; the candles were beginning to gutter, -chaperons' heads to nod sleepily. A light dust hung in the air from the -action of so many pairs of twinkling feet upon the beeswax, and the Hon. -and Rev. Stephen Grenville was distinctly conscious of a desire for his -bed. Nor did the converse in which he was entangled with an elderly -entomologist staying in the neighbourhood really reconcile him to -sitting through so many quadrilles and country dances--to hearing -selections from _La Gazza Ladra_ give place to _Basque Roads_, _Der -Freischütz_ to _Drops of Brandy_. The Rector had no enthusiasm for -lepidoptera, and he could by no means get the collector of beetles to -listen to his own views on monoliths. Not inappropriately did the -entomologist discourse of the butterflies of Berkshire, its obscurer -moths, in this big room cleared for the Charity Ball and full of a -throng as bright and moving, but the scientific mind does not unbend to -these analogies, and it might have been conjectured that he did not even -see the fair guests had he not, during a waltz, suddenly inquired: - -"Who is that extremely attractive young lady dancing with the French -count--there, in yellow--a prodigious fine dancer?" - -Probably one of the Trenchard girls, thought the Rector, and looked. -But no! He pursed his lips. "That is my daughter," quoth he. - -"Dear, dear," observed the entomologist, human after all, and he put on -his glasses the better to observe the phenomenon. "My dear Mr. -Grenville, I congratulate you, I do indeed. A most charming girl." - -Flushed and smiling, Horatia whirled slowly past. No need to ask if she -found her partner congenial. The Rector's eyes followed the couple, and -it began to dawn upon him that he had been thus following them, -unconsciously, a good many times that evening. Was this really so? -Even as the question occurred to him, the Squire, beaming in his blue, -gilt-buttoned evening coat, appeared on his other side. - -"Hallo, Rector," he said cheerfully. "Going well, ain't it? That young -French spark seems to be enjoying himself. They make a fine couple, -eh?" - -"Who do?" asked Mr. Grenville rather unwisely, as the golden dress came -past again. - -"Why, your girl and he, of course," said the Squire, with all the effect -of a wink. "There they go. How would you like her as Madame de--what's -the fellow's name?" - -"Don't be ridiculous, Mainwaring," said the Rector rather tartly. "We -have had to be civil to the young man because he is Hungerford's friend, -and no doubt he finds my girl, who speaks French well, is easy to get on -with----" - -"Yes, especially as his own English is so bad," retorted the Squire -grinning. "Well, well, we're only young once. I remember when I first -met my wife.... You're not thinking of going before it's over, Rector?" - -Mr. Grenville put back his watch. "It is a good deal later than I -thought. I told Dawes to be here at twelve o'clock." - - -No consciousness of eyes paternal, entomological or matronly was on -Horatia during that last intoxicating waltz. She loved dancing, and she -had danced a good deal, but never with a partner like this. - -The music stopped (a little out of tune). - -"Are you giddy?" asked Armand tenderly. - -"A little," said Horatia, with truth. "It is so hot..." - -He drew her hand a little further through his arm. "Here is a doorway. -Where does it lead to? Voyons ... ah, the library, and empty. Quelle -chance! On est bien ici, n'est-ce pas? See, here is a chair; give me -your fan." - -But she would not sit down. - -"I must go back to Papa." - -"Not yet. He will have you all the days, and I have only these so few -moments more of you." - -"You are really leaving to-morrow?" asked Horatia in a conventional -tone. - -"Si fait. I return to Lulworth, and thence to Paris. And you will never -think of me again." - -Horatia did not answer this time, for she found she could not. - -Armand stopped fanning. "I shall have only this to remember you by, for -I mean to keep it," he said, looking down at the painted ivory in his -hand. "Mais il suffira. Yes, I hear them, the violins; il faut s'en -aller: il faut se dire adieu.... Nous ne danserons plus ensemble ... -Adieu, adieu, toute belle, adieu pour jamais!" - -He crushed her hands fiercely to his lips. Her head whirled a second; -then she tore them away. - -"Please go ... ask Papa to come and fetch me here ... I will not go back -into the room...." - -He looked at her strangely, almost wildly, but she would not meet his -eyes. "Please go," she reiterated faintly, and Armand, suddenly -dropping on one knee, put his lips to the hem of her dress--and was -gone. - -And loud through the strains of _The New-Rigged Ship_, now pouring under -the archway, she heard the heartless marching beat of _Joli Tambour_. - - "Dans mon pays, y'en a de plus jolies, - Dans mon pays, y'en a de plus jolies, - Et ran, tan, plan!" - - -Mr. Grenville hurried in almost immediately, his daughter's cloak on his -arm. Horatia was lying back in a big leather chair. She looked -curiously white, but roused at once. - -"Is that my cloak? Thank you, Papa, very much. It is time to go, is it -not, though it is not quite over." - -"That is what I was thinking, my dear," said the Rector, putting the -swansdown over her. "I believe we have been keeping Dawes waiting. -Have you got everything--your gloves, your fan?" - -"Everything I want, thank you, Papa." - -The old fat horses and the careful Dawes did not devour the five miles -that lay between them and home. After a few desultory remarks, both -father and daughter relapsed into silence, each in a corner of the -barouche. But Horatia had drawn off her gloves, and in the darkness was -pulling and twisting them into a rope, endeavouring to keep down the -sobs which rose chokingly in her throat. Had anything in the world ever -hurt like this? All the while the horses' hoofs beat out the refrain, -relentless, and so horribly gay. "Et ran, tan, plan. Et ran, tan, -plan!" With all her desperate fight for composure she only succeeded in -keeping back the main violence of the storm; the smaller rain-clouds -broke despite herself, and, quietly as she wept, the Rector was aware of -it. - -"My darling, what is it?" he said, putting out a hand to her. - -"Nothing," replied Horatia, swallowing the tears. "I am tired ... and -stupid ... I danced too much..." - - ("Dans mon pays y'en a de plus jolies, - Dans mon pays y'en a de plus jolies!") - - -"I thought you looked tired, my love," replied Mr. Grenville, -exceedingly alarmed but (he hoped) tactful. "I heard one or two people -saying that the floor was not good. Come, child, put your head here; -perhaps you will be more comfortable; and we shall soon be home." - -Whether or no he knew why she wept, Horatia could not resist the kind -voice, and all the rest of the way her elaborately dressed head lay -against her father's shoulder. - -She kissed him silently when they got in. No, she did not want her -maid. Again she repeated that she was only tired; she would be all -right in the morning, and so went to her room. - -Fool, fool, that he had been! But what had happened? At any rate they -had not come to an understanding; that was obvious. And, thank God, the -young man was going away to-morrow. But he could not bear to see her -suffer. Twice he went and listened shame-facedly at her door; she was -sobbing, sobbing as if her heart would break--she who never cried! At -dawn, when the birds were twittering, he went again; she was quiet. He -prayed God she slept. It was more than he could do. - - - - - *CHAPTER IX* - - - *(1)* - - -The Rector breakfasted alone next morning. Miss Horatia was very tired; -she might not be down till the afternoon; she would sleep if she could. -Recognising this as an indication that she did not wish for a visit from -him, Mr. Grenville with a heavy heart tried, in succession, to tackle -his next Sunday's sermon, to furbish up an old one, to read the violent -article on Clerical Farmers in the last number of the _Gentleman's -Magazine_, to compose an answer to it, and to rearrange some of his -coins. In the afternoon he had to attend a meeting of magistrates at a -distance. He wondered if he should see Horatia before he started. -Never before had a dance kept her in bed next morning. - -Just as the gig came round for him she appeared, wearing a hat and -carrying a basket. All traces of last night's emotion had vanished. - -"Good morning, or rather, good afternoon, dear Papa," she said very -cheerfully, kissing him. "Am I not late? But I was so tired last -night. Where are you going to? Oh, I had forgotten. _I_ am going to -old Mrs. Dawes; and if there are any blackberries ripe I shall take her -some. She says they are good for the rheumatics. I don't believe her. -Good-bye, darling...." - -The wheels of the gig grated on the drive, and Mr. Grenville turned -round to wave a farewell, but without his usual smile. He looked -worried, poor dear. How could she best efface the memory of last -night's self-betrayal from his mind? Obviously best by a cheerful, a -very cheerful demeanour, such as she had already attempted. She had -forgotten in truth that her father was going to this meeting; there was -then no need for her to leave the house this afternoon--her motive in so -doing being to gain a little respite before he should question her, as -he very well might. But since she had told him that she was going, go -she would. As well begin the usual life at once. Mrs. Dawes would -detail her symptoms at length, and that would serve as a temporary -distraction. - -This indeed the old dame did with much thoroughness and repetition, -after which she seemed disposed for general conversation. - -"That there French count, Miss; a likely young gentleman, I hears; he be -gone from these parts now, bain't he?" - -"I believe so," said Horatia. "But you were telling me about your -grandson?" - -"John, he seed him riding droo the village on Mr. 'Ungerford's 'orse," -pursued Mrs. Dawes, not to be turned aside. "He ride proper, John says; -and he wur surprised fit to bust hisself, John wur." - -"Why?" - -"The Count being a foreigner, Miss, and a Papist. I don't hold with no -foreigners; a bloody-minded set, I calls 'em. Look at that Bonyparty as -cut off the 'eads of the King and Queen of France. I mind how the year -that you was born, Miss 'Oratia..." - - -It was nearly six o'clock when Horatia emerged from Mrs. Dawes' cottage. -She was surprised to find the invasion of twilight already begun, and an -enormous yellow moon looking at her through the tree-trunks. Yet she -was in no haste to return home, but loitered along the road, picking a -few blackberries as she went. One or two villagers passed her, and -their evening salutations rang heartily on the still air. "Rector, -he'll be having a rare treat to-morrow," was the comment of one, but -Horatia overheard Whitehead, the smith, a melancholy personage, who -passed at the same time, opine that, "them berries was mortal bad for -the innards, and did get in atween a man's teeth like so much grit." - -After him there was silence; only a few far-away sounds from the village -reached her. The grass at the edge of the road was already damp. It -was time to return. - -In the Rectory the lamps would be lighted; her father would be back, and -he, who always heard her step, would come out of his study and say, -"Well, my dear, and how is Mrs. Dawes?" It would be chilly enough to -have a fire after supper, and she would sit with him, and talk to him; -or, if he had not finished his letters, she would go on with the last -series of _The Tales of a Grandfather_. And Dash, on the hearthrug, -would whimper in his sleep because he had dreams of rabbits which he -never caught.... - -And it would be the same to-morrow, and the next day. Once she had -loved it--that other Horatia only a few days dead, who seemed so strange -to her now, had chosen it. Now ... how should she bear it! how should -she bear it! - -She moved on very slowly. Strange, dim scents came out of the -hedgerows; a bird fluttered in an elder-bush. How early the moon was -rising! The sky just overhead seemed still the sky of day. It was -pain, this peace and beauty ... and it was not peace. The quiet country -lane, the pure, still sky, were all athrill with expectation. - -Or was it she herself? But what had she to expect? Nothing--nothing -again, for ever. - -... So they had noticed how well he rode--foolish, oddly comforting -reflection. She thought how he had passed her on Tristram's horse that -afternoon--only a fortnight ago--how he had ridden into her life, and -out of it again. That was a romantic phrase and delightful to read in a -book, but in real life it had no glamour; the fact enshrined in it was -too bitingly real. Unwanted, unsummoned, there came into her head-- - - "It was a' for our rightfu' King - We left fair Scotland's strand; - It was a' for our rightfu' King - We e'er saw Irish land, - My dear-- - We e'er saw Irish land. - - "He turn'd him right and round about - Upon the Irish shore; - And gae his bridle-reins a shake, - With, Adieu for evermore, - My dear-- - With, Adieu for evermore!" - -And on the heels of the lines, a mocking commentary, came floating Sir -Walter's version-- - - "A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, - A feather of the blue, - A doublet of the Lincoln green-- - No more of me ye knew, - My Love! - No more of me ye knew!" - -Yes, that was all she had known ... O, how foolish, foolish she was--a -silly sentimental girl of the kind that she most despised! Yet, if only -she had never seen him! - -And at that moment Armand de la Roche-Guyon came round the corner of the -road. - -Horatia stood still, petrified. It was as if her thoughts had taken -body, for he was gone--how could he be here ... walking rapidly towards -her like this, bareheaded--flesh and blood. Before her heart had -recovered its broken pulsations he was up to her. - -"What, are you not gone?" she faltered. - -"They told me you had walked this way," he said rapidly in his own -tongue. "I have been to the Rectory; you were not there. I could not -go--mon Dieu, I could not go.... Give me your basket; let us go back by -the field path; it is close here." - -She gave him the basket without a word, suffocated by the tumult in her -heart, and dominated by the change in him, by the ardour and purpose -which radiated from him, making him seem taller and even more desirable. -He had the air of a young conqueror; but he was unsmiling, which was -rare. Now she knew what the night had been trying to tell her.... - -They came in a moment to the gap in the hedge, by the oak-tree, an -unauthorised way of attaining the field-path. It seemed right that he -should know of it, though little less than a miracle. He held aside the -twigs and brambles so that she could pass. And when she had stepped -through everything was clear to her, and she knew that in entering the -shorn September field, lit with its low yellow moon, she had come into -another country, dazzlingly strange, but her inheritance, her home. She -half turned, and was caught in Armand's arms, her lips to his; and thus, -beneath a tree, in the gloaming, like any village girl, did Horatia -Grenville, who cared not for love, give and receive her first kiss. - -Behind her, for a wonder and a benediction, hung the great luminous -shield of the harvest moon, and the scattered blackberries lay among the -leaves and stubble, like a sacrifice to joys unfathomed. - - - - - *CHAPTER X* - - - *(1)* - - -The parting guest, unless he be a dear friend, is generally a persona -grata to his host. Tristram Hungerford was rather ashamed of the -sensation of relief with which he had faced his visitor at the breakfast -table this morning, for the Comte de la Roche-Guyon had proved himself -throughout his stay uniformly agreeable, lively, and anxious to please. -But the elder man was only too conscious of their slender basis of -common interests, and, though himself anything but taciturn, he was, -like most people who live alone, physically incapable of talking all day -without pause, and found the society of those persons so gifted (among -whom Armand de la Roche-Guyon appeared to be numbered) rather fatiguing. - -Moreover, he had not expected to find himself facing him at all this -morning across the coffee-cups. When he had returned from Oxford -yesterday morning, the morning after the dance, expecting to speed his -guest on his way, he had been met by the young man's apologetic request -to be allowed to stay another night if convenient to his host. He had -heard from his father and there were reasons ... Tristram made the only -answer open to him, premising however that, thinking he should be alone -that night, he had unfortunately engaged himself to dine at Faringdon, -and would not be home till late. Armand would consequently, he feared, -have a solitary dinner unless indeed he were to go over to Compton -Rectory. The Comte replied that he might conceivably walk over in the -afternoon to pay his respects, but that he did not expect to be asked to -dinner. And indeed he had set off in that direction a little before -Tristram started for Faringdon. - -But when Tristram returned from his dinner party, rather late in the -evening, he found that the Frenchman had already gone to bed, and being -himself tired, did not altogether regret this. And this morning, -whether from a sleepless night, or any other cause, Armand was much less -talkative than usual; he looked thoughtful and rather pale, and now, -when the after-breakfast ease of two males devoid of the cares of -housekeeping was about to descend upon them, he seemed unusually -preoccupied. - -"I am afraid, La Roche-Guyon, that you had a bad night," said Tristram, -as he rose from the table. "It was remiss of me not to have asked you -earlier. You were not indisposed yesterday evening, I trust?" - -"On the contrary," replied his guest somewhat cryptically. A gleam -passed over his face, but Tristram, who was hunting on the mantelpiece -for the key of the clock, did not see it. "I had the best night of my -life." - -"I am glad to hear it," replied his host. "But I am extremely sorry -that I cannot drive or send you into Oxford to catch the coach. I -pretty well knocked up both my horses yesterday." - -"Pray not to think of it," said Armand politely. "I have made -arrangements to post from the _Fox_. Already you have been too kind in -taking me so many times to Oxford.... And now I have to beg of you -another kindness." - -"I am at your service," said Tristram, finding and inserting the key. - -"Vous êtes bien bon," said the Comte, his English suddenly deserting -him. "C'est que----" He broke off, walked over to the window, and -there, taking hold of the tassel of the curtain-cord, said, with more -composure: - -"The fact is, that Miss Grenville has promised to marry me. And as M. -le Recteur, when I saw him yesterday evening, did not appear very much -to like the idea, I was obliged to refer him to you. I told him that -you could speak for me if you would--that you knew my family, and that I -am not a--what do you call it--impostor, as he seemed to think.... It -was that which I said to him." - -He ceased, and in Tristram's head the ticks of the half-resuscitated -clock rang like gongs. - -"I do not wonder that you are surprised," went on Armand, in his -pleasant voice, and in more and more shaky English. "But I am mad with -love of her since the day we meet--tiens, I have thought sometimes that -you remarked it--and she ... well, she has consented to be my wife. You -may guess if I think myself to be the most fortunate man on earth..." -He said more; Tristram did not hear it. But he at last forced himself -to turn round, and saw the speaker standing there against the window. - -"When did this happen?" he asked--or someone asked. - -"Yesterday evening. It was why I stayed--I must avow it to you, my -friend. First I go to the Rectory--no one is there; they tell me Miss -Grenville visits a cottage. I too go to the cottage, and meet her in -the lane----." - -"What do you want me to do?" - -Armand made a gesture. "To use your good offices for me with M. le -Recteur. He was not very polite. He thinks that I am not sufficient of -a parti. Mais, figurez-vous bien that on the contrary I shall have work -enough to persuade my father to a foreign marriage, even with so divine -a creature, and as well-born----" - -Tristram was never to know whether he would have succeeded in keeping -indefinitely his self-command, for at that moment his housekeeper -fortunately entered to tell them that the _Fox_ had just sent to say -that they had no post-horses this morning, there having been some -mistake about the order yesterday. - -Out of the maze of shock and anguish one thing was plain to Tristram, -that to have Armand's presence further inflicted upon him was -intolerable. "After all, my horses----" he began, but the Frenchman cut -him short. - -"No, not for worlds! I will go round to the _Fox_ at once myself. In -these cases of 'no post-horses' it is always only a question of money. -More than ever must I now go quickly to Lulworth--to get my father's -consent," he added in French for the sole benefit of his host, and -vanished. - -So _this_ was Horatia's choice! Tristram stumbled to a chair and -covered his face. Coffee-pot and empty cups witnessed the wreck of -hopes that might well have had a more tragic setting. - - - - *(2)* - - -The door opening noisily brought Tristram almost immediately after to -his feet. The intruder was the Hon. and Rev. Stephen Grenville, -unannounced, short of breath, and angry as Tristram had never seen him. - -He shut the door and looked round with positive ferocity. - -"Is that young scamp here?" - -Tristram regarded him dizzily. "No ... I don't think so," he answered, -as if he were not quite sure. - -"Do you know what has happened?" demanded Mr. Grenville. "Yes, I can -see that you do! That foreigner of yours had the impudence to walk into -my study last night and ask for my consent to his marriage with -Horatia--Horatia!" The Rector became momentarily speechless. "This -young adventurer, who has been here a fortnight, has the audacity to say -he is going to marry my daughter!" He flung himself down in a chair. - -"It was only last night, then, as he says?" - -"Yes, it happened last night, but it goes further back than that. My -eyes were opened after the dance the night before last, when she gave -him I don't know how many dances, and they disappeared together at the -end. Why on earth did you choose that evening to go to Oxford? I took -her home, and then in the carriage she began to cry--said she was tired. -I didn't sleep a wink that night, but I congratulated myself that the -spark was off yesterday. Imagine my surprise when they walked in -together yesterday evening, and he tells me as cool as you please that -it is natural I should be surprised, but that you would vouch for -him!--Why can't you say something, man?" - -"What does Horatia say?" asked Tristram, very white. - -"Don't speak to me about Horatia!" cried the irate parent. "I ought to -have shut her up with bread and water. I have spoilt her, and this is -the outcome of it. And as for you--I can't think why you ever brought a -Frenchman about the place!" - -Before Tristram could reply to this thrust the Frenchman in question -came hastily in, equipped, as was evident, for an immediate start, a -cloak over his arm, his hat in his hand. - -"I regret that I have to go at once--but at once!" he said to Tristram. -"Ah! pardon, M. le Recteur, I did not observe you"--though the bound -with which Mr. Grenville had quitted his chair must have rendered him -hard to overlook.--"Excuse me that I take leave of my kind host. It -seems," he went on, turning to that individual, "that the horses I have -procured are old and slow, and that to catch the coach from Oxford I -must start immediately. So, with a thousand apologies----" - -"Understand, Sir," interrupted the Rector in high wrath, "that I will -not entertain your proposal for an instant, and that I forbid you to -come near my house!" - -The Comte de la Roche-Guyon transferred his attention to the angry -cleric. "Mais parfaitement, Monsieur," he responded with a bland little -bow. "I should not dream of entering your house again until I have the -consent of my father to the alliance. I go at once to Lulworth in the -hope of obtaining that consent. It was not, indeed, what I should have -wished, to speak to your daughter before approaching you, but, as I had -the honour of telling you last night, Monsieur, I did seek to ask your -permission first, but you were out, and time was short. Enfin, when I -come again I trust it will be more en règle. Meanwhile, I am your -humble servant." He made the Rector another, more formal, valedictory -bow, and advanced upon Tristram. - -"I know that I leave my cause in good hands," he said gracefully. "Cher -ami, for that, as for your hospitality, I shall be your debtor for life. -But you English do not like speeches, I know, and time presses..." - -As much to prevent a second ebullition of Mr. Grenville's wrath as -because time pressed the cher ami hastened with his guest from the room. -A few last directions from himself, a smile or two from Armand, a shake -of the hand, and the man who had so lightly taken his happiness from him -was gone, confident, easy, and attractive to the last. - -When Tristram came back into the dining-room the Rector was still -standing thunderstruck on the hearth-rug. - -"Well!" he ejaculated pregnantly, "for sheer impudence commend me to one -of that nation!" - -Tristram sat wearily down without replying to this cry of the heart, and -there was silence, broken only by a sort of soliloquy on the Rector's -part, on the blindness which had been his--and Tristram's. - -"Couldn't you see it coming, Tristram?" he repeated. "Although I was -such a fool, couldn't _you_ see it. But there, they say Love is blind. -It must be, or you would never have ... have..." - -"Have thrown them together," finished Tristram bitterly. "Is there any -need to tell you that in my wildest moments I could never have conceived -of such a thing? I saw that he admired her and paid her compliments, as -he might any--perhaps every--woman, but to me he was ... just -negligible. He was welcome to pay court to her, if she liked it, -because ... because I could not dream that she..." - -"There's nothing in that!" said the Rector briefly. "With women you -never can tell. But, of course, it is impossible that it should be -allowed to go on. You must come back with me, Tristram. You at least -have influence with her. I have never yet forbidden her anything--it -has never been my way--and I would rather she came to it of herself." - -Colour shot into the younger man's face. "I would do anything to help -you, Sir, and much more to help Horatia; but I can't do that--not yet." - -Mr. Grenville looked away from him. "God bless my soul, what a selfish -brute I am ... But come now, my dear boy, once he's gone it will be all -right. Horatia will settle down. It's only a passing fancy; of that I -feel certain. I have never known her other than sensible. She will see -that it's out of the question.--You don't agree with me, eh?" - -"From what I know of Horatia, I am afraid that I don't." - -"But you are going to propose to her yourself!" said the Rector in -accents of amazement, slewing round in his chair. - -Out of his pain Tristram showed his own surprise. "No, not now; it's -impossible." - -"Stuff and nonsense!" said Mr. Grenville with great directness. "Then I -shall tell her myself." - -"Mr. Grenville, I beg of you, I implore you not to do such a thing!" -exclaimed the young man in agitation. "It is useless; worse than -useless. It would only grieve her kind heart. How little chance could -I have ever had! She has--she must have given her love with both hands; -I do not think so meanly of her as to imagine that she could ever -transfer it ... a gift so priceless," he added to himself. - -The Rector pressed his lips together and rose. "Well, I can't -understand the present generation. If I had been in your shoes I should -have been married to her any time these five years. These reticences -and delicacies are beyond me. If a man wants a girl, let him ask for -her!" - -Tristram smiled a rather dreary smile, thinking that even the successful -suitor was not finding this course altogether satisfactory. - -"You know I never held your views on persistent courtship, Sir. It -would have been better for me, perhaps, if I had ... But this I will do, -for Horatia's own sake: I will come over directly I can, and I will try -my best to show her that there are ... difficulties ... to take into -consideration. But I warn you that if I think it is for her happiness I -shall oppose you, Mr. Grenville. I would get her the moon if she wanted -it!" - -And the sudden passion of this last utterance left Horatia's father -dumb. - - - - - *CHAPTER XI* - - - *(1)* - - -Not only the slumber proper to the Long Vacation, but the particular -drowsy calm of the afternoon hung that day in sunlight over Oriel. In -his lodge at the gate the porter dozed peaceably over _Jackson's Oxford -Journal_; and, owing to this charmed sleep, a stray black spaniel, of an -architectural turn of mind, who had now for half an hour or so been -exploring both quadrangles, was at this moment seated quietly in the -outer, in front of that porch which distinguishes Oriel from all other -colleges, appearing to meditate, in the intervals of scratching himself, -on the characteristics of Oxford Gothic, or to admire the few plants in -pots, relics of the summer term, ranked down the steps against the wall. -Across this porch the September sun cut diagonally, so that half the -statue of the Virgin above it was in shade, and one of the two Kings -beneath her, and the shadow of the gables from the gateway front lay in -sloping battlements on the gravel. Merton tower, looking down over the -long roof with its air of being part of the same building, was still in -full sunlight, like the Provost's lodgings on the north side of the -quadrangle, but, save the slowly creeping shadows, the spaniel was the -only living thing visible in the sleepy peace which no undergraduate -clamour had disturbed for three months past. Such Fellows as were in -residence were out walking or riding--all but two. The porter, if -roused, could have told an inquirer--as he was shortly to tell -Tristram--that Mr. Dormer was in his rooms; that he was working very -hard, he believed, and had not been out of college, let alone on a -horse, for three days. Up the staircase on the right--not that he gave -this unnecessary indication to Mr. Hungerford. - -But at the present moment, though Tristram's friend was sitting at his -manuscript-strewn writing-table, he was not working; he was leaning back -in his tall chair, seeming not a little exhausted. Those who looked at -Charles Dormer's face only once were apt, on that first impression, to -think it refined to the point of femininity. But they never said so a -second time. Somewhat unnaturally thin for a young man of thirty, it -spoke of an early-learnt self-control, of ardour in leash and a very -sensitive endurance, the whole touched with a kind of angelic severity -and force. The eyes were kinder than the mouth, and if the expression -suggested possibilities of relentlessness, it indicated still more -clearly against whom that relentlessness would chiefly be -directed--probably for some years had already been directed--Charles -Dormer. But since to these less popular attributes the young Fellow -joined a general physical exterior of unusual distinction, he did not -meet with any marked success in his constant endeavour to make himself -out quite an ordinary person. People were only too ready to see in him -the ancestor who fell for the King at Newbury, and Tristram, when he -wished genuinely to annoy him, had merely to repeat the effusive remarks -on his appearance which he had the fortune to overhear from some fair -lips one Commemoration. Mr. Dormer of Oriel had no use for the -externals of romance. - - - - *(2)* - - -Axe, going leisurely through her pastures to the sea, had known -continually, as the old century died and the new was born, the laughter -and noise of a tribe of beautiful and healthy children, who raced in her -meadows, fished in her waters, and dwelt upon the banks of her daughter -Coly. All the Axe valley, indeed, knew Mr. Dormer of Colyton, and his -handsome sons. His beautiful and delicate wife they knew less. Mr. -Dormer, genial hard-riding gentleman that he was, came of Non-juring -stock, long since conformed to the Establishment; his wife, of like -origin, had all the piety and devotion proper to a spiritual descendant -of Andrewes and Ken, coupled with a strong tendency to mysticism. - -Mary Dormer, indeed, might in any other country or age have been a nun. -As it was, she had borne five children to the husband who reverenced her -as a saint, and only one quarter understood her. But as at last her -extreme and increasing delicacy shut her off from the more ordinary -family cares, she was able to lead in her seclusion a life not unlike -the cloistered. All her sons resembled their father in temperament and -shared his interests--all but one. Nature had bestowed on Mary Dormer's -youngest child a measure of her delicacy but even more of her spirit. -So when Henry, who intended to be a great soldier, like him of Blenheim -and Malplaquet, who had spent his boyhood here at Ashe House, when -Christopher, who would be a sailor, if he did not meanwhile drown -himself either in Axe or on Seaton shore, when Robert, the most -turbulent of all, who was destined for the Bar--when all these elder -brothers, brimming with spirits, set forth on some neck-breaking -expedition, little Charles was left contentedly with his mother. Mr. -Dormer would sometimes grumblingly predict that his youngest boy would -grow up a milksop, the others occasionally tease him for a mother's -darling, but since the child, when he was big enough, could sit a horse -rather better, if anything, than his elders, and was extraordinarily -lucky with a fishing-rod, his brothers were forced to render him the -tribute of a slightly grudging admiration for a prowess that cost him so -little pains. - -Yet, to the mind of the child who did these things with such ease and -gaiety, the world he knew was little different from the Garden of Eden, -or from that celestial city of which the particulars were familiar to -him from the old hymn, in the faded seventeenth century writing, which -his mother read to him till he knew it by heart. But there were -disparities. "Quite through the streets, with silver sound," said the -hymn with precision, yet the Coly put a circling arm around, not through -his home. Other resemblances were more exact, their own garden, for -instance, where grew, indubitably, the pleasantest flowers that could be -seen, and where at least the long straight path between the -laurels--"the gallant walk" as he called it,--was, as in Paradise, -always green. Still it was pleasant to think that in the heavenly city -no "dampish mists" would come up from the sea to prevent his going out -whenever he had a mind to, and that David, standing harp in hand as -master of the choir, would probably sing more sweetly than his present -prototype in Colyton Church. On the other hand it was plain that since -"no spider's web, no dirt, no dust, no filth may there be seen," the -garden tool-shed and similar attractive places could have no counterpart -above. - -Accompanied as the child was by his simple and joyous thoughts, it would -never have surprised him had he seen the Lord God walking in the garden -in the cool of the evening, or met an angel as he himself ran singing -through the grass and flowers on Coly's banks. Perhaps he did. And he -supposed that everybody else had the same expectations, but that -Christopher and Robert, for instance, did not speak of them because he -himself never spoke of them, save to his mother. Nor was he remarkable -for obedience. All his after-life he was to struggle with his own -masterful will. He fell into the stream by the weir, where he had been -straitly charged not to go, and was with difficulty rescued by a -brother; he would ride prohibited horses, consort occasionally with -forbidden companions; he was at once dreamy and wilful, sweet-tempered -and naughty. With all this he seemed to her who knew him best--and who -was to him, it must be confessed, more like an elder sister and -companion than a mother--such a child as Adam and Eve might have had -before the Fall, and it was almost with awe that, as he grew older, she -set about teaching him what she knew of Church doctrine, and in -particular that belief in the Real Presence which had been miraculously -preserved by the few in a materialistic age. Pathetically certain that -one day the Church would unearth her neglected treasure, she gave him -the Prayer-Book in which that treasure was enshrined, saying so -solemnly, "Never let anyone take that away from you, Charles," that for -years the boy kept it wrapped up in a silk handkerchief, and lived in -expectation of having to do battle for its retention. - -Mrs. Dormer died just when Charles was ready to go to school, and at -eleven, motherless, he was plunged into the rough and tumble of Eton -life. The Garden of Eden was gone for ever, and there was scarcely a -sign-post on the way to the Heavenly City. But the child of Mary Dormer -had his own pillar of fire to lead him through the wilderness.... -Towards the end of his schooldays he met his life-long friend, and -together, in 1818, they went up to Oriel. - -Though at Eton Dormer was considered odd and dreamy, it was known that -he possessed powers above the average, and great things were prophesied -of his University career. A great thing indeed awaited him at -Oxford--the influence of John Keble. If Oriel had a distinguished -reputation its most brilliant member had a more distinguished. Winner -of a Double First and of two University prizes, already for seven years -Fellow of a college that worshipped intellectual attainments, Keble was -himself the herald of reaction from the Noetic philosophy to the older -school of authority and tradition. Humility and otherworldliness had -little in common with "march of mind," nor a quiet confidence in the -Divine Commission of the Church with a speculation that was eventually -to issue in free thought. All Charles Dormer's longing for "the severe -sweetness of the life divine," all his ardent conviction that better -things were to come, seemed to find their vindication in the faith and -in the practice of this young man, not ten years older than himself, and -there soon sprang up between the two an appreciation as lasting as that -which a few years later was to unite John Keble and Richard Hurrell -Froude. Eton prognostications were nevertheless fulfilled when, in -1822, the same year as Newman, Dormer, having already taken a Double -First, won the coveted prize of an Oriel Fellowship. - -The new Fellow, now reading for Orders, was made welcome enough in -Common Room, but after Keble's departure from Oxford in the following -year he was rather lonely. He did not find real companionship among the -elder Fellows in residence, Hawkins, Tyler, or Dornford; with the -younger he often walked or rode, but Newman was an Evangelical, and of -the two whom he had known at Eton, Pusey was silent and depressed, Jelf -of too practical a temperament. Keble alone shared his ideals, for -though his own affection was given steadfastly to Tristram Hungerford, -the grief at Tristram's development which had haunted him through the -three years of their joint college life was sharpened rather than -assuaged when their time together was over, and Hungerford definitely -enlisted in the Latitudinarian or (in the phraseology of the day) the -Liberal camp. He had fought for his friend and lost. - -But the consequences of that defeat were far-reaching. Because of his -sympathy for Tristram and for others like him, who were honest in their -difficulties, Dormer tried, for the first time, to find the intellectual -reason for his own clear faith. First-class man and Fellow of Oriel as -he was, he could not. He had at last boldly to admit that his certainty -was not gained by reason, though it was reasonable, and that the most -his unaided intellect could do was to give him high probability. If -faith was then ultimately a gift, to be won by surrender to a Divine -Person, how great was the need of a Society in living communion with -that Person, a Society strong alike in learning and in spirituality! And -what of that Church of which he was a member? Was it because she fell so -far short of what she might be that the time seemed to be coming when -she would be swept away by the tide of unbelief which, since the days of -the French Revolution, had devastated the Continent? Indeed, unless she -made haste to seek out the credentials of her Divine commission and to -reforge the links which bound her to the Church of the first ages, would -she even be worth saving from that flood? - -And then the day came when Charles Dormer found that he was not alone in -these conclusions, for the same premisses were bringing together, in his -own college, a number of persons whose loyalty to the Church led them to -think not merely of defence but of reform. Dormer's rooms became -henceforward the scene of many a fervid discussion, many a stimulating -argument. In the end, even as Hurrell Froude, the youngest and most -ardent fighter of them all, had drawn in his Evangelical and Whatelyan -friend, so did Dormer insensibly win over the man for whom his affection -had first set him on this track. And to Charles Dormer, not -unnaturally, the adhesion of John Henry Newman was of vastly less -importance than that of Tristram Hungerford. - - - - *(3)* - - -Dormer's pen was still between his fingers. He roused himself, turned -once more to the table, added a final sentence to the last sheet, and -laid down the pen; then he leant back again with a long sigh. He was -tired, for he had been finishing his book at high pressure; but he was -more tired than he ought to have been, and he knew it. He supposed that -he would pay for the strain by a bout of the disabling headaches, whose -increasing frequency, during the last six months, had begun to make him -uneasy. - -And at this moment, just as Tristram in his need was riding towards him -up St. Aldate's, he put his head back against his chair and began to -think of him with peculiar affection. For fourteen years the bonds of -their friendship had only drawn the closer. Tristram at last had the -same cause at heart, and was about to take Orders. There was only one -thing which separated them. He himself would never marry, but Tristram -certainly would, and Dormer continually reproached himself with the -quite human regret which this reflection sometimes roused in him. With -his profound belief in the Providence of God, he felt that Tristram had -always been destined for home life, and that he belonged, or would -belong to the class of clergy who, in England at all events, seem able -to serve their people best by being one with them in actual experience -of the common life. For though Dormer would have wished that class to be -numerically the smaller, the idea of an enforced celibacy was abhorrent -to him. - -And hitherto he had encouraged Tristram to hope that the time might yet -come when Horatia would listen to him. But the results of his -observations at Tristram's dinner-party last week had been most -disturbing. Was it possible that this young Frenchman was carrying off -Miss Grenville's heart--he did not say her hand--under Tristram's very -eyes? This seemed scarcely credible, yet he had of set purpose -interrupted their conversation that evening, and had felt uneasy ever -since, for a reason that he could scarcely define. But perhaps he had -been mistaken; at any rate, he hoped so... - -He was at this point when a knock came at the door. - -"Come in," he said, opening his eyes to see the subject of his -meditations before him. He sprang up. "My dear fellow! I am delighted -to see you. Forgive this litter." - -"I hardly expected to find you in college at this hour," remarked -Tristram, glancing at the table. "I suppose this is the reason for it." - -Dormer nodded, and began gathering the sheets together. "The Non-jurors -must be got out of the way as soon as possible, now that I have promised -to undertake this work on the Councils for Rose. I've just been writing -to Keble about his proposals, for, adequately carried out, they might -provide almost a lifework for the person who undertook them." - -"But _you_ have promised definitely to undertake them." - -"Yes, I've accepted," said Dormer sitting down again with something like -a sigh. "It's rather a daunting prospect, you know, Tristram, and yet -it may be the work for which one has been waiting. I am so glad that -you managed to see Rose the other evening; I wanted you particularly to -meet him. He is the coming man." - -"Oh, is he?" replied Tristram not very enthusiastically. "Well, yes, I -was glad to meet him. He showed his sense in asking you to do this, -anyhow. But what about those headaches?" - -"Suppose you leave my headaches alone," retorted Dormer smiling. "You -look rather fagged yourself. Will you have some tea, or would you rather -have a glass of ale after your ride?--I seem to have been talking a -great deal about myself." - -If he had, the circumstance was so unusual--save perhaps in his present -company--as scarcely to call for apology. - -"Neither, thanks," answered Tristram, who was wandering restlessly round -the room, which he knew as well as his own. "I am not tired that I know -of... I like that drawing of Cologne Cathedral. Who gave it -you--Froude?" - -"No," said Dormer, watching him suddenly rather intently. "It was -Robert Wilberforce." - -Tristram strayed to a bookcase. "Hallo," he remarked, "here are these -Non-juring books of yours which I am always meaning to have a look at. -What is this--'Devotions for the Canonical Hours, to be used in the -houses of the clergy and by all religious societies where there is a -priest.' Surely that is strange!" - -"It always sounds to me like an eighteenth century Little Gidding," -answered his friend. "That copy belonged to Cartwright, the Shrewsbury -apothecary, and the last Non-juring Bishop. I had an older book, called -'A Companion for the Penitent, and for Persons troubled in mind,' but I -gave it to Keble." - -"I expect he was pleased with it," commented his visitor. He put back -the book and came and threw himself down in a chair. "Doesn't it seem -strange to have finished, after all this time?" - -"Yes," said Dormer, looking at his papers, "and I believe I am almost -sorry. But it would have been a pity to spend longer over the -Non-jurors, for I expect very few people will so much as glance at the -book." - -"When I was talking to Froude the other day he seemed to hold a -different opinion," said Tristram. - -"Ah, yes, but then you see he is almost as keen about the Non-jurors as -I am myself. I have heard him say that he was beginning to think that -they were the last of English divines, and that those since were -twaddlers." - -"Froude is almost too bold. He doesn't seem to care what he says." - -"But," continued Dormer, leaning back in his chair, "although I know, of -course, that it will be read by a few, what I mean is that it will -appeal chiefly to those already interested. And if this remark applies -to a modern book, how much more will it apply to what I am afraid will -be a rather dull work on the first centuries.--You know, Tristram, what -we want alongside of this sort of thing is some more arresting kind of -writing, some series of short essays in a popular form that could be -circulated among the country clergy--essays to prove the continuity of -the Church for instance. In this book I've been trying to show the -direct connection between Non-jurors, the Caroline divines, the ancient -Church of England, and the primitive Church. For the next five years or -so I shall be trying to point out, by means of the history of the -principal Councils, that the doctrine of the Church of England is that -of an undivided Christendom. I don't say my volumes won't be read, but -I do say that the same thing put in a cheaper and shorter form would be -more read." - -"Why shouldn't it be done, then?" - -"Well, it's an idea," admitted Dormer. "It is the country clergy that -we need to get hold of, for after all they are the people who really -count. I must talk to Newman about it. I fancy it might appeal to -him." - -"What might appeal to Newman?" asked a voice. The door was open, and in -the aperture stood a young man of twenty-seven or so, tall, thin to the -point of emaciation, with very bright eyes and an air of being intensely -alive. "I beg your pardon, gentlemen, for bursting in upon you; but the -only thing that appeals to Newman just now is his mother's furniture at -Rose Hill--at least I hope it is appealing to him, for he has gone to -Iffley with Wilberforce to inspect it." - -"Oh, come in, Froude," said Dormer. "If you had been eavesdropping a -moment or two earlier you would have heard Hungerford's opinion of you." - -Hurrell Froude smiled, and, shutting the door, half leant, half sat on -Dormer's writing-table. "I don't care in the least what Hungerford -thinks of me. I have just had a shock. Did you know that the first -Latitudinarians were Tories? I did not. It looks as if Whiggery has by -degrees taken up all the filth that has been secreted by human -thought--Puritanism, Latitudinarianism, Popery, infidelity, they have it -all!" - -Tristram laughed. "Is that the result of your studies at Dartington -last month, Froude? I thought you were working at the English -Reformers." - -"So I was," replied the intruder, "but their civilities to the smug -fellows on the Continent, added to the fact that the weather was rather -hot, stuck in my gizzard. Their odious Protestantism----" - -"Ah!" interrupted Dormer like lightning. "It was too hot for work at -Dartington, was it? We've got that admission at last! Have I not -always maintained that there was no air so far up the Dart? Now at -Colyton there is always the valley breeze either up or down the Axe." - -"Horrible!" ejaculated Froude, running his long thin hand through his -hair with a gesture of repulsion. "Like living in a perpetual draught! -Now at Dartington----" - -"O, for Heaven's sake!" cried Tristram. The interminable feud between -the two Devonians on the merits of their respective birthplaces and -rivers was one of the standing jokes of the Common Room, and Dormer had -just scored one by Froude's careless admission. - -Froude got off the table. "Out of regard for you, my dear Hungerford, -we will cease. I really came in to ask Dormer if he would ride with me -one afternoon this week. I have found a delightful little thirteenth -century church in Buckinghamshire with piscina, sedilia and all -complete, and I want him to see it." - -"I'll come with pleasure. But that reminds me," said Dormer, rummaging -in a drawer and getting out a little water-colour sketch of a church -tower. "What do you think of that?" - -The visitor took it and looked at it attentively for a moment. -"Charming," he pronounced. "Where is it? I sometimes think I like a -square tower better than a spire, especially when it has an elegant -lantern like this. It is nowhere near here, I am sure. Is----" He -broke off suspiciously, for Dormer was standing looking at him with a -mischievous smile. - -"That is Colyton church tower which you are pleased to admire," said he. - -Hurrell Froude flung down the sketch. "Villain!" he exclaimed, and -broke into a fit of coughing. "That was a traitor's trick," he said, as -soon as he could get breath. "I don't admire it at all, and I'm off. -You will end as a Whig, or something worse, if that is possible!" - -"Well, I must be getting back also," said Tristram, as the door closed. -"How did Froude get that cough, I wonder? I only came in to see how you -were." - -"Your guest has gone, I suppose?" - -"Went this morning," responded his friend, briefly. - -"Oh, I thought he was to leave yesterday." - -"He stayed another night. Good-bye; I must go." - -"Wait a moment," urged Dormer. "I want you to read that." And he -tossed a letter across the table. - -"From Habington," remarked Tristram, taking it up. "What has he got to -say?" - -"You read it and see," persisted Dormer. "I wish someone would tell -_me_ what to say. I haven't the knack of writing to people in his -interesting situation." - -Tristram read the letter as desired, Dormer studying him the while. -Something _had_ happened! - -"Habington engaged to be married!" exclaimed Tristram. "Well, I must -say I am surprised. I thought he was a convert to your celibate views." - -"I thought so once too, but, apart from Froude, and perhaps Newman, I -intend to believe in no man's constancy in future." - -"You're very fierce, Charles!" - -"Well, I am disappointed. Habington was doing good work here in Oxford; -now he must give up his Fellowship at Trinity and be a family man in a -country parsonage. He will do good and be an example whereever he is, -but he cannot be what he might have been." - -"Then," said Tristram slowly, "if I marry after I take Orders I shall -not be what I might have been?" - -A look that few people ever saw came into Charles Dormer's eyes. He -leant forward on the table, his elbows on his scattered manuscripts. -"Tristram," he said earnestly, "you know that you have always had my -good wishes, and you have them still. You are so obviously cut out for -the charities and the humanities...." He stopped and looked down at his -papers. "I don't think I am being a sawney about you, even when I want -you to be happy." - -Tristram was at the door, his hand on the handle. His voice came -jerkily. "I am afraid your good wishes are of no use to me now ... Yes, -I wanted you to know, but I can't tell you, after all ... I only hope I -shall do what is right." - -He was gone, and Dormer, half-risen from his chair, was left staring at -the closed door. - - -But as Tristram rode over Folly Bridge, where the river ran yellow in -the sunset, he knew that his course lay plain before him. - -Half way up the long hill he checked his horse, and from sheer habit -turned in the saddle. There stood the towers, orderly and lovely, in -the faint mist of the autumn day's ending. He almost fancied that he -could hear the bells of Magdalen. Many and many a time, riding into -Oxford on summer afternoons, on winter mornings, had he pretended to -himself that he was seeing the city for the first time, that its streets -were strange to him, its pinnacles a new delight. Now, without any -effort of the imagination, it seemed to him both that everything he had -ever loved lay below him, cruel and valedictory, never to greet him -again, and that it was a place in essence still unentered, an alien -city. So, by the mind's alchemy, were the town he had loved and the -woman he had lost made one, for a second, in his spirit. - -But his course was plain. He rode on up the hill. - - - - - *CHAPTER XII* - - - *(1)* - - -Tristram's plain course was to lead him, and he knew it, into the waste -places of the spirit. In such a desert he wrestled, two days later, -with a radiant Horatia, himself miserably conscious both of the -interpretation that the world would put upon his action, and of the -futility of his effort, and stabbed to the heart by her transfigured -personality, to him the surest evidence of what had happened. - -Yet she was the same Horatia, as kind, as generous as ever. She -listened very patiently to his exposition of the difficulties attendant -on a marriage with a man of a different race, of a different creed; she -seemed even to do homage to the motive which had prompted him to speech. -A lesser woman, so much in love as she, would, he thought, have sent him -about his business. - -She smiled at him divinely when he had finished. - -"Dear, dear Tristram," she said, and she put her hand on his. "You are -indeed, as you have always been, the best of friends. Everything you -say is true, and I know you have not liked to say it. But you see that -it is no good, and so I want you to be on my side in the fight I am -afraid that I am going to have with dearest Papa. Will you?" - -"I have already told him," said Tristram, "that if I thought the match -was for your happiness, I should uphold it." - -"_My happiness_! You cannot doubt that, can you, Tristram?" - -He did not answer. - -"Papa is in his study," she suggested. "Suppose you were to go now and -see what you can do with him?" - -"I will try," he answered. - -She came after him to the door, thanking him. He could not have borne -much more. - - - - *(2)* - - -The Rector was sitting at his study table. "Well," he said, as the -envoy entered. "What does she say? You have been my last hope of -persuading her to see things sensibly." - -Tristram crossed the room, and did not immediately answer. He had -already professed himself convinced of Horatia's determination, but hope -will lurk in such odd corners of the heart, that not till this moment -did he know how the frail thing had really ceased to flutter in him. - -"I am afraid," he said at last, "that I have been worse than useless, -for I have promised to try to persuade _you_." - -The Rector veered round in his chair to face him. "You, _you_, Tristram, -support her! Then the world has gone crazy!" He took off his glasses -and for a full half-minute gazed at the figure standing rather rigidly -before him. "You really mean to tell me that, knowing Horatia as you -do, you think I ought to take seriously this passing fancy?" - -"I'm afraid I do, Sir," said Tristram steadily; "but, then, I cannot -think it a passing fancy now that I have seen her and talked to her. -Horatia does not have whims. If she changes, she changes -whole-heartedly, and I confess I have never seen anyone so altered." -His voice wavered for a moment. "She has put her whole happiness in -Armand de la Roche-Guyon, and if you thwart her, you will be taking a -very heavy responsibility." - -"All the same," said the Rector stubbornly, "I shall take it. As you -probably know, under French law my consent is a very important matter, -and I shall certainly not give it. Allow my daughter to marry a -foreigner, and a Papist--a Papist, Tristram, do you realise that?" - -Tristram gave a little sigh. "I do, indeed, only too well. That is -what clinched the matter for me. I mean I thought, of course, that it -would be a serious obstacle to Horatia's mind, yet when I suggested it -as a difficulty, she only said, 'But I love him, what else matters?' -For Horatia, with her upbringing and her views that means a great deal. -I confess I hardly understand it." - -"Nor I," returned Mr. Grenville. "She has said the same to me, and even -when I told her that her children would have to be brought up as Roman -Catholics, she said that she did not like the idea, but she supposed -that people always had to pay for happiness. He has bewitched her! But -I shall save her from herself, Tristram. To throw herself away on the -first wandering foreigner!" - -"His father is a peer of France," said Tristram very quietly, "and -Horatia will be a great lady. She is not throwing herself away in that -sense." - -The Rector gave an impatient exclamation, and brought his hands down -violently on his knees. "To hear you talk, Tristram, anyone might -suppose that you had something to gain from her marriage! 'Pon my soul, -the young men of the present day are beyond me! A fortnight ago, in this -very room, you were telling me about your own feelings for Horatia, and -now here you are, as calm and cool as any lawyer, trying to argue me -into letting her marry this organ-grinder! Really I find it hard to -remember that not long ago you were a boy yourself, and a boy, too, whom -I had hoped to call my son!" - -It was the final turn of the screw. Tristram left him and went over to -the window. - -"I can't speak of that side of it," he said brokenly. "I have loved her -distractedly ... I still love her ... but there is her happiness to -think of, and if she ... if the Comte de la Roche-Guyon..." He could -get no further, but laid his head against the cold glass. - -"My dear boy, forgive me," exclaimed Mr. Grenville remorsefully. "I am -so upset I don't know what I am saying. I'm a selfish old man, and you -put me to shame ... you put me to shame...." - -Sighing heavily, he turned round his chair to the table. He felt -himself suddenly what he had often mendaciously declared himself to be, -an old man. Perhaps it was wrong to struggle against the young--to play -Providence overmuch. Yet this was Horatia's whole life at stake. -Still, the man who stood silent there at the window, in what bitter pain -he could guess, was able to see her go. He put out his hand, and took -up the brass of Allectus, lying neglected among a disarray of papers, -and, in the silence studied the galley on the reverse. At last he said -miserably: - -"What do you know about this young man?" - -Tristram told him about the family, while the Rector turned the coin -over and over. - -"Yes, that's all right, I suppose, but what about the young man -himself?" - -"Frankly, I don't know any more than you do." - -"But you have your suspicions, eh? Young Frenchmen don't bear a very -good character, and you know that." - -"Nor do all young Englishmen." - -Mr. Grenville refused to be drawn off. "When you were in Paris, or -wherever it was, Tristram, staying with his family, surely you must have -heard something about him." - -"No, not a rumour of the kind you mean." - -"And yet," said the Rector, "you share my feelings about him. I know -you do!" - -"We have not either of us any right to have 'feelings' about him," -retorted Tristram from the window. "We merely do not know. I would -tell you if there had been anything. He may be a blackguard or he may -be a hero. We don't know." - -"Very well, then," said the Rector judicially, laying down the coin with -precision. "I'll put it in another way. Do you consider him a fit -husband for Horatia?" - -Tristram started forward. "Mr. Grenville, don't drive me mad! You are -putting me in a horrible position. Armand confides his interests to my -hands; the first thing I do is to try to persuade Horatia not to marry -him. Now you want to make me blacken his character ... I beg your -pardon, Sir!" - -The Rector was on his feet. "It is for me to beg yours. My dear, dear -boy, do forgive me! I am behaving abominably; I am not only selfish but -mean--but if I do seem to have been trying to get you to say things -against a rival (as I suppose I have), remember I am also trying to save -Horatia from this ... this calamitous marriage, and you from your own -fantastic principles. It is all such a confusion, but I am really -trying for your own happiness as well as hers ... You know, Tristram, -I'm sure you could still have her if you tried, when she has forgotten -him.... But do say that you forgive me!" - -The young man took his outstretched hand. "As if I had anything to -forgive, Sir!" Then he went back with him to the table and sat down -beside him, and once again reiterated his conviction that Horatia would -not forget her lover, that he himself had no chance now, probably never -had, so that the case must be considered on its own merits, and that -perhaps, after all, the two were made for each other--though here, -indeed, the conviction sounded less sincere. - -"Well," said the Rector, looking at him with affection as he finished, -"however this turns out I am not likely to forget how you have behaved! -And perhaps (but don't say so to Horatia) I may have to think about the -possibility some day--but not yet ... no, not yet!" - - - - - *CHAPTER XIII* - - - *(1)* - - -The ostler of the Red Lion at Compton Regis and one of the stablemen, -who happened at the time to be conversing outside that hostelry, were -the only persons in the village privileged to behold a certain blue and -yellow postchaise draw up in front of the inn at dusk on an evening in -October. Scenting a guest of importance, and preparing to summon the -landlord, the ostler was, however, stayed by a curt inquiry from the -postilion-- - -"Be this the way to Little Compton?" - -"Straight on, first road to the left," responded the ostler, advancing -into one of the paths of radiance cut by the lamps in the damp autumn -air. "You're no Oxford man or you'd not ask." - -"Well, why should I be an Oxford man?" retorted the postilion. "I'm -from Salisbury, if you want to know, and damme, if that ain't as good as -Oxford----" - -But here a head was thrust out of the far window of the chaise, and a -voice with a trace of foreign accent--the voice of a young man--demanded -what the devil they had stopped for, and, grumbling, the postilion -shouted to the steaming horses. As the chaise rolled off the ostler -caught sight of a much older face, lit by the travelling lamp within the -carriage. He stared after the receding vehicle. - -"'Ere, Bill," he called, "I've seen a Dook. Strike me, but it's 'im -wot's going to stay with Mr. 'Ungerford down to Little Compton. 'Ear -the posty say 'e come from Salisbury? That the Dook, sure enough, the -old party. T'other'll be his son, the young spark wot was 'ere before." - -"Dook! Wot's a furrin Dook?" queried the exclusive Bill, and spat on -the ground. - - - - *(2)* - - -These worthies were quite right in their surmises, and Mr. Hungerford -down to Little Compton was at that moment awaiting, with what equanimity -he might, the visit of his all but successful rival and of his father, -to whom he had been forced to offer a hospitality which would probably -ensure that rival's complete triumph. Nor was Tristram unaware of the -ironical humour of the situation. - -A week had scarcely passed since Armand's departure for Dorset--a week -in which the transfigured Horatia had seemed to tread on air--when there -came to her a letter from her lover saying that his father absolutely -refused his consent to the match. Tristram did not like to think of the -days that had followed, when Horatia went about the house dimmed and -red-eyed--though she was generally invisible when he was at the -Rectory--and when the Rector (so curiously are human beings compounded) -raged alternately against Armand for his audacity and against the Duc de -la Roche-Guyon for his prohibition. Nothing in fact could have done so -much to forward the match, in so far as the Rector was concerned, as -this obstacle: and at last, late one evening, Mr. Grenville came over to -see Tristram quite broken, reiterating pitifully, "I am being driven to -it. I can't have the child going into a decline," and ending up: "As for -this Duke, it's preposterous! Who is he, I should like to know, to -behave as if my Horatia were not good enough for his younger son? As -you know, Tristram, I detest boasting of my connections, but if it comes -to that----" - -And since Mr. Grenville could indeed claim cousinship of varying degrees -with the Most Noble Richard Temple Nugent Brydges Chandos Grenville, -Duke of Buckingham, and his brother Lord Nugent, with the Marquis of -Chandos, and little Earl Temple, and old Lord Grenville, the Chancellor -of the University of Oxford, it was hardly surprising that he was -annoyed. - -Tristram could only suggest that the Duc might come round. "It seems so -strange," complained Mr. Grenville, "that he should be so opposed to his -son's wishes, when his son is not a minor--how old is he?--twenty-five -or twenty-six, I suppose.... You don't think," he said suddenly, "that -it's just a ruse on the young man's part to get out of marrying -her--that he is repenting of it--that it was only a passing fancy on -_his_ part? For if that should be so, Tristram, if he is capable of -anything so vile, it will kill my girl." His voice shook with -agitation. Gone for ever were the days when he would have hoped that -such was the suitor's intention. - -Tristram tried to reassure him, for he did not believe this to be the -case. After the Rector, somewhat comforted, had gone, there was nothing -left for him to do but to pray convulsively for Horatia's happiness. - -And when, two days later, he got a letter from Armand, saying that as -the King was moving to Holyrood in mid-October he had prevailed on his -father to break the journey northward and come with him to Compton -Regis, and that he, Armand, had hopes ... it was with real relief as -well as with repugnance that Tristram did what Armand obviously hoped he -would do, and invited his father and him to honour his roof during their -sojourn. And if anything could have nerved him this evening to endure -the position in which he had placed himself, it was the brief sight -which he had of Horatia that day when he went over to tell the Rector -that everything was arranged--of Horatia as she turned on him a sort of -rainbow look of gratitude. - -That was this morning. Now he was out in the dark and the damp to -welcome his guests, exchanging suitable greetings with the elder and -submitting to Armand's embrace. - -"Ah, mon cher, how amiable of you to receive us thus! We have had a dog -of a journey. Mon père, enter then, while I pay the postilion; you -should not expose yourself thus to the damp." - -"No, indeed," said Tristram. "If you will come in, M. le Duc..." - -In the hall, the face of M. le Duc de la Roche-Guyon appeared above the -high collar of his full cloak, old, pale, rather bleached-looking. He -was beginning a stately little speech when his son appeared, full of -solicitude and hurried him upstairs. And Armand in person reappeared -alone before dinner in order to get a few words with his host. Tristram -had been preparing himself for this. The young man professed profound -gratitude, was sure that if his father once saw the lady of his choice, -all would be well. He himself was more hopeful than he had been for -weeks past. - -"In fact," he went on, his eyes sparkling, "I believe the day is already -won. My grandmother supports me--and that will turn the scale. My -father has great respect for her wishes. Her letter arrived, praise the -saints, just before we left Lulworth." - -Tristram now remembered to have heard something of an autocratic old -Dowager Duchess, the Duke's mother. - -"She says--mais n'importe," went on the Comte. "Now, with your -permission, and if my father does not appear too tired, I will leave you -after dinner to yourselves." - -"You are trusting me with a good deal, La Roche-Guyon," Tristram was -moved to remark. - -"Parbleu, are you not my friend!" retorted the Frenchman. "Besides, you -are one of those people whom it is natural to trust." - -Although the Duc, when he appeared, was very plainly, if immaculately -attired, he somehow radiated from his person an air of courts and of -diplomacy very foreign to Tristram's dining-room and its solid British -furniture. He was grand seigneur to his finger-tips, polished, -melancholy, affable, and perfectly simple in his address; but it -required no effort to imagine the absent cordon bleu and stars on his -breast. Armand behaved towards him with a mingled air of deference and -affection which, while it amused Tristram--so far as he was capable of -being amused by anything--did not displease him, for it appeared genuine -and habitual. Apparently the young man considered the paternal health -equal to a discussion, for after one glass of port he very -unembarrassedly excused himself, and left the others still seated with -their wineglasses at the polished mahogany. - -The Duc looked after him with a little smile of amusement and affection -flitting across his delicate bloodless lips. - -"That is the signal for us to begin our 'conversations,' Monsieur. You -have plenipotentiary powers, I think?" - -"I--not in the least!" said Tristram, somewhat alarmed. "I have no--no -official position at all in the matter. It will be between yourself, M. -le Duc, and the lady's father. Anything that I can arrange, in the way -of a meeting between you, I shall be happy to do, and any information I -have is at your service. Beyond that I cannot go." - -The older man bowed. "You are a kinsman, I think, Monsieur?" - -"Distant," said Tristram. "I rather count myself an old friend." - -"Of M. Grenville or of Mademoiselle?" - -"Of both." - -"And--pardon me if I ask an impertinent question, but we must know where -we stand--as a kinsman and as an old friend, you have yourself no -objection to this alliance?" - -"I am solely desirous of Miss Grenville's happiness," responded -Tristram, his eyes on the foot of his wineglass. - -"And you think that the match with my son will ensure it?" - -"How can I possibly say? But I hope that it may take place." - -"Merci, Monsieur, for your courtesy," said the Duc, very courteously -himself. "Now I in my turn must make my position clear to you. I had -other views for my son--in fact I thought he ... had other views for -himself. I am, however, convinced that he is passionately in love with -this lady, whom I doubt not I shall find to be all and more than all -that he represents. But you know, Monsieur, that we French people do not -look with favour upon marriages of love. We prefer that love should -come after marriage. We find it better so. Then there is the -difference of race. To these young people that seems nothing now, but -it tells, Monsieur, it tells more and more through life. This objection -naturally applies on your side also; not so the former, for you are more -sentimental than we are." He was arranging two little groups of almonds -with fingers as blanched as they. - -"I seem to remember," commented Tristram, "that the Comte de Flahault, -coming over to England, fell in love with an English lady and married -her, and that they are living happily in Paris at this very moment." - -"Quite true," said the Duc, with the air of one acknowledging a point, -and he added another almond to the smaller pile. "But I cannot wholly -allow the parallel. M. de Flahault was an Imperialist--an aide-de-camp -of Napoleon in fact; he is now an Orleanist, and the lady, she was -titrée, noble in her own right, I believe, the Baroness Keats, or Keat, -il me semble." - -"Keith," said Tristram. "But surely I do not need to remind M. le Duc, -who has, I understand, lived much in England, that many of the members -of our best families bear no titles, that with us the grandson of an -earl, not being the heir, is plain Mr. So-and-so, and that some of the -oldest families have never had titles at all--have, indeed, refused -them." - -"That I know," conceded M. de la Roche-Guyon. "But it is not generally -understood in France." - -Tristram pushed away his wineglass. "You must not suspect me of -flattery, Sir, if I say that I should have thought your own ancient and -illustrious name capable of covering any disparity in station between -the parties, did such exist. But I should wish to remind you that Mr. -Grenville is by no means the ordinary country parson that you have -perhaps imagined. He is himself the younger son of a noble family; he -has connections among the highest of our English nobility, and he is no -pauper. I can sketch you his family tree if you wish.... As for the -lady herself, she would grace the most exalted rank, and, as a kinsman -and an old friend, I think I have the right to say that the man who wins -her is to be congratulated indeed." - -The Duc lifted his eyes from the almonds and shot him a keen, rather -disconcerting glance. "Ah, yes. You, Monsieur, the accredited -ambassador, have espoused the match with warmth. How is it that M. -Grenville then refused, in no uncertain terms, to entertain the thought -of it; indeed, so far as I could gather, forbade my son the house?" - -For a second Tristram was taken aback by this pertinent inquiry, for he -had really forgotten the Rector's one time vehement opposition. - -"I think," he said, "that you will find Mr. Grenville ... in short, that -that difficulty does not now exist." - -The Duc leant back in his chair. "Will you permit me, Monsieur, to say -(since I am a man so much older than you) that there is something in -you, I know not what, which pleases me very much. I will be franker -with you than I had meant to be. My mother, the Dowager Duchess, to -whose judgment I pay great deference, is in favour of this match. I -have learnt the fact but this morning. I own that I am surprised, but -Armand is her favourite grandson. There are reasons, with which I need -not trouble you, why her wishes should have great weight with me. I am, -therefore, little likely when I see this lady, by all accounts so -charming, to find her unsuitable. But what of M. son père? It will not -consort very well with my dignity (to which you must permit me to hold) -if I approve my son's choice only to find that M. Grenville does not -approve his daughter's." - -And in the gaze which he directed upon Tristram, in the tones of his -thin, well-bred voice, there peeped out something of the arrogance of an -ancient race. - -The younger man smiled. He felt suddenly very weary. - -"You need not apprehend anything on that score, I can assure you, Sir. -I saw Mr. Grenville this morning. When your son first asked for his -daughter's hand he was startled, greatly startled, and surprised. He -probably spoke words which he would have recalled afterwards. You will -find him, I think, more than reconciled to the idea." - -The Duke seemed to have fallen into a short reverie. - -"It is well to be young," he said at last, and there was faint regret in -his tone. "The fire of youth--who shall give us that again? When I -married my first wife, Emmanuel's mother, I was only twenty--but that -was a mariage de convenance. Armand's mother was very beautiful; I -loved her as Armand loves this lady, but he has the advantage of me ... -he has the advantage of me ... for then I was no longer young." He -sighed, and passed his handkerchief over his lips, and his face, deeply -marked, seemed to wither and grow older than its sixty-five years. "But -why am I talking thus to you, Monsieur, who still have that inestimable -gift of youth? Mais tout passe, tout lasse ... I will do myself the -honour of calling upon Mr. Grenville to-morrow morning at eleven, if you -think that hour will be convenient to him." - -And he flicked with one long, polished nail at the two heaps of almonds, -scattering them. - - - - *(3)* - - -Not being present next morning at the momentous interview between the -Duc and Mr. Grenville, Tristram could only guess at what happened. -Armand, on fire with restlessness, spent the time walking round and -round the not very extensive garden like a caged animal, and when -Tristram went out to say that his father had returned and would like to -see him in the study, he found the young man slashing with a stick at -his rose trees. - -"Oh, pardon if I have hurt them!" he exclaimed. "Mon Dieu, que je suis -énervé! Yes, I will go at once. I had better have borrowed one of your -horses and gone for a gallop.--He is in the study, you say, this good -father of mine?" - -The irony of Tristram's own position oppressed him the more in -proportion as his anxiety about Armand's intentions was relieved. -Neither the Duc nor his son said much when they emerged from their -conference, only the elder man informed his host that he was to dine -alone at the Rectory that evening, and that he hoped then to make the -acquaintance of Miss Grenville. As good luck so ordered, a colleague of -Tristram's on the bench turned up at dinner time and had to be asked to -stay. Never had Tristram so blessed his boring but steady flow of -conversation, nor so welcomed his presence, which effectually prevented -Armand from pouring out his own hopes and fears. - -There was no one, however, to save Tristram from the Duke's really -enthusiastic praises of Miss Grenville when he returned from the -Rectory, and expatiated on the gifts of heart and mind and person which -he discerned in her. - -"I shall keep that young rascal on tenterhooks a little longer," he -declared. "Another sleepless night will not do him any harm, if he has -had as many as he asserts. Besides, it is not absolutely arranged. With -your permission, Mr. Grenville will come over here to-morrow morning to -discuss matters with me. I will send Armand out; no doubt, even in this -misty weather, his flame will keep him warm." - -He kept his word, and next morning the Comte, refusing a horse, went -soberly off on foot in the direction of the Downs. Mr. Grenville -arrived; Tristram was unable, and did not indeed particularly desire, to -make an opportunity of seeing him alone before he left him and the Duc -to their discussion. The whole thing was getting dreamlike to him now, -losing the outlines of its reality as the Downs had lost theirs with the -death of summer. He would be glad when this whirl of conferences was -over, the result--already certain--announced, and Armand de la -Roche-Guyon no longer under his roof--not that he minded even his -presence very much. How he should get on afterwards, from day to day, -he did not know, but at present he seemed to himself a being without -passions, energy, or desires--a mere leaf whirled on the engulfing -stream of destiny, and the future was hardly worth speculating about. - -He walked in his little orchard, for it was a morning gilded with the -mellow brilliance of October, and noted the fallen apples. After a -while, turning, he saw the Duc de la Roche-Guyon, his son and the Rector -all coming over the grass towards him, conversing with an amiability -which could have only one meaning. And dream-enveloped though he felt -himself, leaf on the tide of fate though he might be, for a second -Tristram saw nothing at all, neither figures, nor grass, nor sky, nor -the bricks of his house; he was conscious only of a surging wave of -rebellion that blotted them all out. Then they reappeared, and Armand, -coming forward with both hands outstretched, said, in a voice of radiant -happiness: - -"Congratulate me, mon ami! And ah, how much I owe it to you!" - - -Next evening it was observed in Oriel Common Room that Dormer was -unusually quiet. He withdrew earlier even than his wont, and while -Newman and Hurrell Froude, going up their staircase, were commenting on -the absence of light from his windows on the other side of the -quadrangle, he was sitting by the fire, Tristram's read and re-read -letter on his knee, and the half-bitter postscript of it running in his -head, "Henceforward your fanatical ideas will easily carry the day with -me. I shall never marry now." What he had dreamed of had come to -pass--and his heart within him was desolate with pity. - - - - - *CHAPTER XIV* - - - *(1)* - - -Morning on the Downs, with the clean, the thrilling wind, intoxicating -even in autumn, the air that gives the sensation of a draught of the -barest and intensest life, the air of the world's morning. Add to this -youth, a good horse beneath you, and by your side, never henceforth to -leave it, that one person who to you sums up the spirit of all these -other things. What can Heaven give more? - -So, flashingly, thought Horatia, as she and Armand finished their -gallop, and her green veil, outstreaming from her tall hat, fell to a -position a little more composed. Laughing, a trifle breathless, "O, I -should like to ride like this for ever!" she exclaimed, as the horses -fell to a walk. "It was glorious!" - -Armand de la Roche-Guyon, sitting his big brown mare with the ease of -the born rider--a lover of whom any girl might be proud--bent on her a -long and smiling look. "We shall often ride in Brittany," he said. "If -the peasants know mythology--which I doubt--they will take you for Diane -chasseresse." - -Moving on, they came to the edge of the Downs, the great wind still -blowing steadily upon them. - -"There is Compton Regis, and there is Compton Parva," observed Horatia, -pointing with her whip. "Do they not seem low from here? And--do you -see?--that looks like Papa and Robin, deserting us and making off home." -For the Rector, having ridden with the affianced couple, for propriety's -sake, as far as the Downs, had refused to come any further. The -protestations which his action had drawn forth had been singularly -lacking in fervour. - -"I think," went on Horatia, "that before we have another gallop, you had -better tighten my girth for me, if you will.... But what are you -looking at, down there?" - -"I was trying to distinguish the road on which you first came to me, -like an angel of mercy," said the young man, swinging off. "And the -spot where Mr. Hungerford's horse so inexplicably cast a shoe! By the -way," he went on, pulling at the girth, "speaking of your cousin, ma -toute belle, reminds me that I have long wanted to ask you----" - -"My cousin!" broke in Horatia, laughing. "Whom do you mean?--That is -tight enough, I think." - -"Mais ce bon Tristram. He is your kinsman ... or have you all been -deceiving me?" - -"Certainly he is my kinsman, but a very distant one. His mother was my -mother's third cousin, or something of the sort. I never think of him -as a cousin, exactly; rather as a brother." - -"Not in any other capacity?" inquired Armand, his eyes mocking her as he -leant against her horse's neck. "I have no right to ask you, -perhaps--si, I think I have the right." He laughed. "If he were never -in love with you, he ought to have been." - -Horatia looked away from his amused, lazily penetrating glance. "To -tell you the truth," she said, flushing a little, "he was once--years -ago. But that is all over, and the proof is, that we have been very -good friends ever since." - -"Ah, I wondered. I am glad he had the good taste to be a soupirant -once. Were you very cruel to him? He is an original; but I am very -grateful to him. Had he been a rival I should have found things much -more difficult." - -"No, you would not," said Horatia suddenly. "He would have behaved just -the same, when he found that I really loved you." - -The Comte lifted his expressive eyebrows. "Forgive me, my angel, but I -am totally unable to follow you there. Men don't do those things -nowadays; we are not in the pages of Scudéry. You have a soul of the -most romantic, my Horatia, in spite of your Greek and Latin; but romance -is not in harmony with facts. Your 'cousin' is a capital fellow, but if -I believed him capable of that sort of thing, ma foi, I should be -inclined to recommend him for a madhouse. As it is, shall we ask him to -stay with us one day?" - -"If you like," said Horatia, looking at her horse's ears. There was a -vague trouble in her voice. - -"If _I_ like! But yes, that is perhaps what it comes to. I warn you, I -shall be like a tiger for jealousy, and you will turn every man's head -who sees you.... Par exemple, I am sure you must have had many more -victims than you will acknowledge. Passe Mr. Hungerford, but what of -that so dear friend of his at the college of Oriel?" - -Horatia looked absolutely horrified. "Mr. Dormer!" - -"Eh bien, why not? You shrink, my angel, as if I had suggested a thing -improper, as though he were a priest--one of our priests. But he is -not, and you must have met sometimes, and he is bel homme too, for all -that austere air of his. Why, now I come to think of it in Mr. -Hungerford's very drawing-room----" - -"I cannot conceive why he talked to me that evening," said Horatia. "I -have often thought of it since.... But I will not be catechised about -such absurdities. And suppose I were to insist on knowing how many fair -ladies have been in love with you, Monsieur?" - -"And pray, Mademoiselle, what would you think of me if I answered that -question?" asked her betrothed, regaining his saddle. "Ask me how many -I have admired, and some day--perhaps--I will tell you." - -They rode on, talking of the--to French eyes--daring honeymoon that they -were to spend, alone, at the Breton château, which had come to Armand -through his mother. For, since they were to be married in England, -nobody could prevent their going straight to Brittany after the tying, -by civil as well as by double religious rites, of the triple knot which -should, as Armand said, make the most beautiful hand in the world so -very securely his. - - - - *(2)* - - -Horatia was to stay in London with her aunt for some weeks previous to -her marriage. The day before her departure, Tristram rode over to say -good-bye. She was out when he arrived, but he was told that she would -return shortly, and he went, he did not quite know why, into the garden, -where he had so often sat and walked with her, where they had had so -many discussions, where--to go back into a life that now scarcely seemed -his own--he had run shouting as a boy, glad to escape from his lessons. - -Nothing remained of the glory of the summer, not even the corpses of the -hollyhocks and the great sunflowers. All had been tidily removed for -burial. It would have been more consonant with the wintry misery in his -heart that those flowers which had witnessed his happiness should have -been there still, black and withered, like his hopes. But the past -seemed to have been neatly obliterated, for the Rector's gardener was -very sedulous; the whole place had cast off its last guest and was ready -for a new--the winter. To welcome this a bush or two of Michaelmas -daisies was in flower, and a robin was singing. And it came into -Tristram's mind, a reminiscence of his year abroad, that in foreign -countries they would be keeping the festival of the dead, for it was the -second of November. - -The garden was intolerable to him, yet he stayed there, walking up and -down in the chilly twilight, because he was afraid that if he went in he -would find that she had returned, and the moment of farewell would be -upon him. For though he had promised her that he would be at her -wedding--her threefold wedding--in London, this was to him the real -parting. The other could not hurt after this. - -At last he saw the comfortable form of Mrs. Martha Kemblet, Horatia's -maid, coming towards him. - -"Miss Horatia has just come in, Sir; she's in the drawing-room." - -"Thank you," said Tristram. "By the way, you are going to France with -her, Mrs. Kemblet, are you not?" - -"Indeed I am, Sir," responded the faithful retainer with emphasis. She -had been nurserymaid in the days of Horatia's childhood, had returned to -the Rectory on her husband's death, and had successfully compassed the -airs of the old family nurse. "My lamb shall have someone English about -her in the midst of them jabbering foreigners." Evidently Mrs. Kemblet -was not a fervent of the French marriage. - -After all, their parting was unimaginably short. Perhaps he would not -have had it otherwise. - -She was standing in the drawing-room, when he got in, turning up a -newly-lit lamp. - -"Oh, my dear Tristram," she said, in a tone too matter-of-fact to be -natural. "I am afraid that you have been here a long time, waiting. I -am so sorry." - -"I was in the garden," he answered. "I could well wait..." - -"I shall see you in London?" asked Horatia needlessly, turning to the -lamp again. - -"Yes, without fail. But you will be so occupied then that I must tell -you now what I want to say. It is only this ... I want you to remember -that if ever, at any time, you need me to ... to do anything for you, I -am always ... I shall always..." Firmly as he had begun, he could not -finish. - -"You do not need to say that to me, Tristram," came her voice, very soft -and moved. She still had her back half turned to him; the lamplight -glanced through her hair. "I know it ... I am not worthy of it.... You -have been a friend more kind..." Then she too stopped, and put her -hands over her face. - -Tristram stood like a stone. He could not trust himself to go nearer. -Moreover, the dark room, with its island of light and her at the heart -of it, was threatening to turn round. Seconds passed; then he said more -steadily, "I should very much like a memento of you--something you have -worn. Is there anything you could spare?" - -He saw her drop her hands to her throat and unfasten -something--something which, still half turned away, she held out to him -without a word. He went forward to take it, and, dropping on one knee, -kissed the hand that gave it to him, the hand lost to him for ever. - -Then he found himself outside the room, and in his palm, warm from her -throat, the little gold fibula, saucer-shaped and delicately worked, -which she habitually wore. A thousand years ago it had clasped the -cloak over the breast of a woman as beloved, perhaps, as she, but the -heart that had once beat under it was not now more dust and ashes than -his own. - - - - - *BOOK II* - - - - *BOOK II* - - *GARISH DAY* - - - *CHAPTER I* - - - *(1)* - - -A great deal of wind made its entry with Armand and Horatia, and two dry -leaves, scurrying gleefully over the polished floor, hurled themselves -into oblivion under a chest. Roland the deerhound paced, very -dignified, across the hall, and let himself down in front of the fire -with a sigh. But his master and mistress lingered at the door, and when -the tails of old Jean's livery had disappeared, Armand took Horatia into -his arms and kissed her three times without a word. Then, hand in hand, -like lovers and like children, they also crossed the hall to the fire. - -"How I love coming in!" whispered Horatia. "Everyday it is different. -Yesterday it was not so dark, but the portraits looked rather -forbidding. To-day they are more friendly. Are they getting more used -to me, do you think?" Her eyes ran along the row of observers. - -"They are getting more jealous of you, I am afraid," said the young man, -devouring her face, all aglow from the wind. "Unfasten your furs--let -me do it. Not one of them was ever as beautiful as you." His hands -shook a little as he unclasped the pelerine of marten skins. "How could -they help but be jealous?" - -The heavy furs slipped to the ground. "Am I beautiful?" asked Horatia, -slim and straight and smiling. "I never used to be." She sat down in -the great carved chair in front of the fire, and pulled off her gloves. -"Tell me about them; tell me about her." She indicated the portrait -over the hearth--the lady in flowing draperies, half reclining in a -sylvan landscape, a Louis Quinze Diana, the goddess's crescent moon -shining in her close-dressed powdered hair, and on her lips a narrow -riddle of a smile that already haunted the newcomer. - -"Another day," answered Armand, kneeling beside her. "She is not lucky, -my great-great-grandmother. I think I will have her removed from here. -Besides, there is only one thing that I can possibly tell you--that I -love you, I love you ... and that none of them was ever loved so much!" -And, prisoning her hands, he kissed her. - -Ancestors and ancestresses round the half-dusk hall looked on unruffled, -having seen something like this not once nor twice in the centuries of -their vigils, having most of them enacted it themselves--except that -young man in wig and cuirass, faintly resembling Armand himself, who -fell at Fontenoy before he could bring home his bride. But Roland was -disturbed by something outside his comprehension, and getting up, he -tried to thrust his nose between the two. - -"O, Armand, he is licking me--he is eating me!" protested Horatia, who -could not lift a hand to keep off the intruder. "Let me go, dearest; I -must change my dress." - -"But I like you in your furs," answered Armand, raising his head. His -dark blue eyes sparkled. "I thought when we were walking together just -now that you should always wear them. They do something--I don't know -what--to that incomparable hair of yours." He touched it. "Will you -always wear your furs, to please me?" - -"Silly boy!" retorted his wife. "And only two or three years ago there -was such an outcry against the danger of wearing even cloth dresses -instead of muslins indoors! What is more foolish than a man?" - -"Nothing, indeed, but a woman," replied the Comte, gazing at her. -"Well, I shall at least come and prescribe what you are to wear for me -to-night." - -"For you, Monsieur!" exclaimed Horatia. "Learn that I dress entirely to -please myself! Adieu. Bring my furs." And slipping cleverly from her -chair she was round it before he could get from his knees. If she did -not actually run full-paced up the great staircase, at any rate she -flitted up it with little of the dignity of a new-made wife. Armand, -snatching up the pelerine, overtook her three stairs at a time. - - - - *(2)* - - -That was part of the charm of those wonderful days, that Horatia found -she could be a child, playing with another child. Armand was not only -the most fervent of lovers; he was an enchanting playmate as well. It -seemed to come naturally to him, like all he did, and Horatia was amazed -to find how naturally it came to her also, who had never played much in -her childhood, and who judged herself now, at twenty-four, so much too -old for such high spirits. But there was no one of their own condition -to witness them, and most of the servants were old and indulgent. - -And not Armand only, but the house itself seemed to conspire against -Horatia's gravity. Had her imagination been nourished, like that of -most of her contemporaries, on the pseudo-Gothic poetry of the Annuals, -on the _Mysteries of Udolpho_ or the _Tales of Terror and Wonder_, she -might have been disappointed to find, in the château of Kerfontaine, -neither drawbridge, portcullis, nor moat, neither battlements from which -the heroine could espy the approach of her chosen knight, nor dungeons -where a hero could languish, but only a residence of the time of Louis -XIII, symmetrical, many windowed, tall-chimneyed, steep-roofed, with an -atmosphere entirely unsuited to visors, palfreys, distressed damsels, -falchions, or jongleurs. But the history she knew was different; and -here, in this house which had its own harmony, she could place the -people who had really lived in it--ladies of the time of her admired -Arthénice, and of Madame de Sévigné, and men who had rhymed in Paris -with Voiture and fought with the great Condé at Rocroi. She was -enchanted with the odd nests of tiny rooms, dressing-rooms, powdering -closets, which squired all the bedrooms; with the tall white doors, with -the old pre-Revolution furniture, with the absence of carpets, with the -long narrow gallery hung with armour; with old Jean the butler, and -young Françoise the laundry-maid, with the dinner service of St. Cloud, -with the yellowed books on heraldry and hawking, with the thousand and -one things which Armand showed her when they explored their domain. And -she knew not whether she were most pleased to sit by the flaming -log-fire in the hall, or in the salon, which opened out by a double -flight of curving stone steps on to the lawn, a walk of cut lime-trees, -and a carefully contrived view of the little pièce d'eau, or whether she -preferred to walk in the garden, all dank and flowerless as it was, and -watch the leaves sailing on the surface of the water, the three decrepit -Tritons blowing their soundless horns, and the little Florentine boy in -the fountain pressing the captive dolphin which had not spouted for so -many years. - -And it was all hers, to do as she liked with. Sometimes she and Armand -planned alterations, chiefly for the pleasure of the planning alone, for -she would not rearrange even the drawing-room under the eyes--though -they were so like Armand's--of that beautiful mother of his who smiled -above the spinet, looking down over her shoulder in her yellow Empire -gown. And Armand promised her new furniture; but she did not want it. - -There was indeed only one thing on earth that he would not promise her -at present, and that was, not to go wolf-hunting. When first she heard -a rumour of the existence of this sport in Brittany she did not believe -it; surely there were no wolves nowadays, and if there were, he would -not be so unkind as to go after them and leave her. But she was doubly -mistaken; there were wolves, and savage wolves, as she discovered from -questioning not only him, but the servants, and her entreaties quite -failed to move him. He went... It was a day of long-drawn agony, and -she was almost speechless with apprehension when at nightfall he -returned, dirty, dishevelled, bloodstained, and full of the joyous -fatigue of the successful hunter. Sobbing and clinging to him she -reproached him with his cruelty to her; he only laughed and kissed her, -and next day she was able to admire his courage. - - - - *(3)* - - -Full intimation had been given to Armand de la Roche-Guyon from -headquarters--in other words from his grandmother the Duchesse--that he -and his bride must be in Paris for New Year's Day, that feast sacred to -the ties of kindred. Before they left Kerfontaine, Horatia and he felt -it incumbent on them to give a dinner-party for the neighbours on whom, -as a newly-married wife, she had called, and Horatia therefore sat one -morning in her boudoir writing out the invitations, while her husband, -leaning lazily against her escritoire, made appropriate comments on -each. A little snow had fallen, and lit up the room with its reflected -light; and Horatia, who loved snow, felt that only this was needed to -add the last touch of glamour to her home. - -"I think I know where everyone lives now," she said, putting down her -pen. "By the way, Armand, whose is that rather large château in the -classical style, which we passed when we were riding two or three days -ago? I forgot to ask you." - -"You mean the ugly building on the way to Lanvaudan?" inquired her -husband.-- "(Silly child, you have inked your fingers.)--That is -Saint-Clair, which belongs to the Vicomtesse de Vigerie. She is away at -present--in Italy, I believe." - -"A widow, I suppose," commented Horatia, trying to rub the dry ink off -her fingers. "Is she old or young? It is a large place. Why have you -never told me about her before?" - -"Because," answered Armand, with equal candour and cleverness, "I was -within an ace or two of marrying her." - -Horatia jumped. "O!" she exclaimed. Her eyes opened wide at him, and -she could find no more to say. - -"At least," went on the Comte, with entire tranquillity, "that is what -you will probably be told sooner or later. And, after all, it is better -that I should tell you myself." - -Horatia was dumb. The yellowing paint of the panel behind Armand's -head, with its impossible combinations of the flowers of every season, -seemed to intensify the feeling of unreality. - -"Did you ... did you...?" - -"No, I did not. And I doubt if she would have had me in any case.--No, -mon amie, your expression flatters me too much. But think, if I had! -However, Providence sent me over to England in time..." His glance set -Horatia's heart beating. - -"Think, my angel," went on Armand, ticking off the links on his fingers, -"think, if the King had not published the Ordonnances, there would not -have been a revolution; if there had not been a revolution, His Majesty -would not have fled to England; if he had not fled to England my father -would not have accompanied him thither; if my father had not accompanied -him I should not have gone over to see my father; if I had not gone over -to see him..." - -"O, did it need a revolution to bring us together!" cried Horatia, half -laughing, half serious, for indeed effect and cause did not seem at that -moment disproportionate. - -"Or think," continued Armand, "that if my brother Emmanuel had not got -to know that good Hungerford--what is it you call him, Tristan?--at the -Embassy Ball..." - -He went on developing his theme, but for a couple of seconds Horatia did -not hear him. It passed over her, swift as the wind, that she had never -so much as given a thought to Tristram since she left England--not so -much as one thought. - -"... So you see," she heard Armand concluding, "that it was very much an -affair of chance, was it not?" - -And, coming back fully to the present, she realised that the -half-jesting hypotheses were indeed playing round the fringes of truth. -So very little--and they had never met! - -"O my darling!" she cried with a shudder. - - - - *(4)* - - -Half-past five on her last day at Kerfontaine found Horatia, a trifle -nervous, receiving her guests of the dinner-party, all of that class of -country gentry forced by the modesty of their incomes to live on their -little estates, and able but rarely to afford a visit to Paris. The -ladies' modes were a little antiquated, and one old gentleman was even -wearing powder. It was evident that all were curious to see the English -bride. - -Among the somewhat crude tones of the women's dresses and the -old-fashioned coloured coats of the men, the village curé in his cassock -was easily discernible, and him, to Horatia's momentary surprise, she -found in the place of honour at her right hand when they were at last -seated round the table. He was a little, snuffy old man, very -noticeably of peasant origin, and not above relishing better fare than -ordinary, for he looked with an appreciative eye upon the large piece of -boiled beef in the middle of the table, and upon the other dishes round -it, the roast mutton, the sweetbreads, the pâtes de cervelle. He was -also, to Horatia's further surprise, served before any of the ladies, -and made good use of his start. - -"Madame la Comtesse is not Catholic?" he asked after a while, turning on -her a not unkindly gaze. - -"No," answered Horatia, flushing a little. "I am English, you know, M. -le Curé." - -"It will come, it will come," said the old man, and he polished his -plate strenuously with a bit of bread. Then, his utterance impeded by -the sodden morsel, he added, "No doubt M. le Comte will get Monsignor de -la Roche-Guyon to convert you." - -Armand, looking very handsome, gay and debonair at the other end of the -table, must have caught this stifled remark, for he flashed an amused -glance at his wife. But the subject was not pursued, and the old Baron -on Horatia's left hand, who had been all through the Chouannerie, and -had left two fingers in it, began to discourse on the battle of -Navarino, and after that the lady nearest to him desired to know of -Horatia the motion of a steam-packet; oh, of course Madame had not come -by Calais, but by sailing-vessel to St. Malo; and she actually preferred -the long voyage? Incredible! ... - - -The last couple had scarcely taken their leave before Armand gave a sigh -of relief. "Are they not strange old fossils?" he inquired. "I think -you can have nothing so curious in England. Some of these ladies have -never been to Paris in their lives.... You shall give me sixteen -kisses, one for each guest." - -The due was in course of payment when the young man suddenly drew away -with an ejaculation. "What, M. le Curé, are you still here?" For a -short, stout, cassocked figure was standing under the crystal chandelier -regarding them with approbation. - -"I wished," said the old priest benevolently, "to give my blessing to -you, M. le Comte, if you will permit it, and to Madame la Comtesse -also--though as yet a heretic--and so I retired until the others should -be gone. But I have not heard what you were saying to each other, only I -perceive that you are indeed a wedded pair, such as the Church approves, -and I will give you the Church's blessing on your union. May it be -sanctified with mutual love and regard, and made happy by many children, -and ended only by a Christian death--_Benedicat vos Pater et Filius et -Spiritus Sanctus_!" He cut the air crosswise with his not overclean -hand, and before the astonished couple could find speech, had hurried -from the room. - -"Mort de ma vie, he has an assurance, our old curé!" exclaimed Armand, -staring after him. "Darling, do not look so startled; it is a sort of -pious compliment. But I am glad that he had the tact to wait until the -rest had gone; not but what they would have been edified by it. Ces -dames are all as devout as even the heart of Prosper could desire." - -"Prosper?" questioned Horatia doubtfully. - -"My cousin the Monsignor, who is said to be going to convert you, little -heretic. Not that it is necessary; you would go straight to Heaven -anyhow; and there you would pray for your poor husband grilling in -Purgatory, would you not?--Come and sit by the fire in the hall and -confide to me the ideas of your Church on the future state. Ours, you -know, are very consoling to sinners like myself!" - - -Armand had long ago stopped talking nonsense, and lay silent on the -floor, his head in Horatia's lap. Her fingers wandered slowly among the -dark, fine, and waving hair. To come back to this dear intimacy after -the chatter was bliss too profound for speech. The fire began to sink; -the deerhound sighed, fixing melancholy eyes upon them, his nose along -his paws, and Horatia, with the weight of Armand's body against her, -felt that she should not know an hour more exquisite than this, which -the great clock was tolling so relentlessly into eternity. And again -she wondered why such happiness had been given to her, who had done so -little to deserve it; for surely no woman before her had known so -penetrating a joy! - -Then suddenly she felt the gaze of the lady over the hearth, and looked -up. - -"I, too, have known," the enigmatical, half-closed eyes said to -her--"and I have been dust and ashes these many years--and so shall you -be, and so shall he." O, it was awfully, cruelly true! "Please God I -die first!" she thought, and sliding her hand round Armand's neck kissed -the head on her knee to register the hope. - - -Next morning, amid all the clatter of an early departure, she bent -forward from the chaise for a last look at the place of so much -happiness. The transient snow had melted, and the château stood as she -had first seen it. - -"I wonder shall I ever be so happy anywhere," she murmured. "Good-bye, -dear house!" - -"It appears to me," said Armand gaily, "that my wife is on the way to -love the house better than its owner." - -No articulate response was, naturally, required to this accusation, but -after a moment Horatia said, still a little wistfully, "I wish it were -not all over!" - -"You belong to the Romantics, mon amie, that is clear," observed her -husband, laughing outright. "And it is only just beginning." He drew -her head down to his shoulder, and the horses sprang forward on the -first stage to Paris. - - - - - *CHAPTER II* - - - *(1)* - - -Chartres, encircling its jewel of stone, was gone like the dreams which -Horatia might have dreamed there the previous night if excitement had -not kept her wakeful, and now, Versailles, Sèvres, and Passy left in -turn behind the wheels of their chaise, she was entering Paris for the -first time in her life. This was really the Seine that they were -crossing, this river sparkling in the early afternoon sun of New Year's -Eve, and the golden dome glittering in front of them was the Invalides. -Streams of people were passing on the bridge as they crossed it. - -"Ah, but wait till to-morrow," said Armand. "Yes, it is cheerful, but -what an awful thing to look forward to is New Year's Day! Truly we -French are the last of idiots to have made this annual giving of -presents into a nightmare, as we have. And such presents, too! Last -year inkpots were all the rage--inkpots in the shape of mandarins, of -apples, of crayfishes--que sais-je? Everything you took up was an -inkpot. Mercifully you could not put any ink in them.... Look, mon -ange, there is one of the new omnibuses!--Here we are in the Rue St. -Dominique already!" - -But Horatia, instead of looking out, involuntarily closed her eyes. A -momentary fear raced through her. She was going to live with these -people who had hitherto only been names to her--that imperious old -Dowager Duchess whose fat money-bags kept up the position of the -ancient, impoverished family, and Emmanuel, the elder brother, the heir, -and his young son--and to make the acquaintance of the other relatives -of whom she had vaguely heard. This was the real beginning of her new -life.... - -"O, hold me close, Armand!" she whispered. - -The chaise slackened, turned, and passed under an archway into a -courtyard. Horatia had a fleeting impression of steps and a pilastered -doorway, then she found Armand helping her to alight, and passed, on his -arm, into a room of extraordinary loftiness and chill. A tall man was -standing in the middle; he came forward. - -"Ma soeur, soyez la bienvenue!" he said. "Tu permets, mon cher?" - -"Put up your veil," whispered Armand, and when Horatia had thrown back -the lace over her bonnet, the tall man kissed her on the cheek. -Evidently this was the Marquis Emmanuel. - -Armand looked a boy beside him. He had dark hair going grey, a rather -melancholy mouth, deeply furrowed at the corners, and eyes that were -both troubled and kind. - -"I hope that you will be very happy in this house, my sister," he said, -with real warmth in his voice. "Our grandmother anxiously awaits the -pleasure of your acquaintance, but she thought that you would prefer to -repose yourself a little before she receives you." - -There was consideration in this decree of the Duchesse's, but also some -suggestion of an awful ceremony to come. Horatia thanked her -brother-in-law. - -"Yes, that will be best," agreed Armand. "Come, mon amie, and we will -go to our apartments.--Tudieu Emmanuel, I was forgetting that I had not -seen you since August!" - -"And you are four months older!" said his brother, in a tone full of -delicate implications, as they embraced. - - - - *(2)* - - -When Horatia, supported in spirit, and also to a lesser degree in body, -by her husband, entered for the first time the apartments of the Duchess -Dowager, she knew that she had, in times past, rather over-estimated the -strength of her own self-possession. Her knees shook, while biting -phrases of his aged kinswoman's, repeated by Armand, came uncomfortably -into her mind. However, there was nothing for it; the visit had to be -gone through. - -Her first impression was that the room was suffocatingly hot; the -second, that it was not so large as she had expected; the third, that it -had a bed in it--rapidly and not surprisingly following on this, the -perception that the Duchesse was receiving, French fashion, in her -bedroom. And she had, fourthly, the conviction that Madame la Duchesse -Douairière de la Roche-Guyon was the most hideous object that she had -ever seen. - -The Dowager was enthroned in an armchair on the left-hand side of the -fireplace. She wore a quilted négligé of puce satin, very formless; but -on her head, whose scanty grey hair had been scraped up in the -latest--and most appalling--of fashions, à la Chinoise, towered two -enormous yellow ostrich feathers. Where the dressing-gown fell away -from her withered neck it revealed the fire of a perfect river of -diamonds, and she was painted in a style to recall the old days of the -Palais Royal; on her small hands were grey kid gloves. Some sort of a -dame de compagnie, sitting on the other side of the hearth, rose, laid -down the book in her hands, and melted away. - -"Tiens, tiens!" then said in a high voice this human parrot (for as such -she instantly struck Horatia). "So this is the English bride. Well, my -dear, I am very glad to see you." - -She held out her hand, and Horatia, rising from her reverence, supposed -she ought to salute its kid covering, but the old lady, pulling her -down, bestowed upon her a kiss. The tip of her large nose was -exceedingly cold. - -"Well, scapegrace," then observed Madame de la Roche-Guyon to her -grandson, as he too kissed her, "what have you to say for yourself?" - -"Only this," replied Armand smiling, and indicating Horatia. - -"You probably get your penchant for red hair from your grandfather," -remarked the Duchesse irrelevantly. "Sit down, ma fille; you must be -tired." Her voice, though high, was, thought Horatia, the least -disagreeable part of her. Armand pushed forward a chair, first removing -from it a pack of cards, and Horatia sat down. - -"And so you have been in solitary bliss, English fashion, at -Kerfontaine?" said the old lady. "Quite alone, eh? No one for either -of you to flirt with?" - -"No one," responded Armand. "It is early days to begin that, -grandmother." - -"Ah, but there is always an old flame or two to mourn our marriage, is -there not?" The malicious look which she shot at them with this remark -might have been intended for either, but the very expressive frown which -Armand bestowed on his jocular relative went unseen of Horatia, for he -was standing behind her. It had, however, the effect of shaking a -cackle of laughter out of the old lady. - -"I am sure, my dear," she said, addressing herself to Horatia, "that you -left a great many broken hearts behind you in England." - -"Alas, Madame, not one, I fear," said the bride. - -"Come, that is excellent, 'I fear,'" said the Dowager approvingly. "I -thought you might have said, 'Thank God!' Armand, my good child, I -think you might leave us. Madame la Comtesse and I will have a little -conversation." - -Armand came forward and kissed his ancestress's hand obediently, while -she murmured something inaudible into his ear; and he went out, giving -his wife a look that seemed to incite her to courage. - -The Duchesse studied her granddaughter-in-law for a moment with her -piercing eyes, and Horatia wondered in her turn how it was that, in -spite of her appearance, she did somehow give the effect of having -always been used to the very highest company. - -"You look strong and healthy, my child," was her first observation, and -so unmistakable was her meaning that Horatia blushed hot crimson. - -"La la!" ejaculated the Duchesse, "we must not be prudish. When -Armand's son is born he will be heir to my little estate in Burgundy. -There are circumstances which prevent my settling it upon Armand -himself. All my other property goes, of course, after his father, to -that poor Emmanuel, as the eldest son, and to his ill-fated child." - -(Why "poor" and "ill-fated," Horatia wondered.) - -"I do not say," continued the Duchesse, with an appalling frankness, -"that if you present Armand with sons I shall be able to provide for -them all. But we shall see. And, of course, he has his mother's money. -Did you like Kerfontaine?" - -"Very much indeed, Madame." - -"It will be considered exceedingly improper, your spending your -honeymoon alone there. But I," said the Duchesse, "did not raise any -objections. I move with the times--in some things. If you marry an -Englishwoman, you may, at the outset, be forgiven if you do as the -English do. You can regard me as your friend, my fille, for I never -opposed your marriage, as my son did." She showed her yellow teeth in a -brief smile. "A little fresh blood--However, we need not go into that. -By the way, you saw my son in England?" - -"Yes, I had the honour of being presented to M. le Duc," answered -Horatia. "He was also at my wedding." Did or did not this loquacious -antique look old enough to be the mother of that dignified elderly -gentleman? - -"Emmanuel's wife, as you probably know, is in a mad-house," proceeded -the Duchesse serenely, while Horatia literally and unbecomingly gaped. -"It is not of much consequence, for she was a person without stamp or -merit of any kind, but of course I am always expecting to hear that -Claude-Edmond has been brought home raving from the Lycée some -afternoon." - -In after days, when Horatia had made the acquaintance of that singularly -sane and demure child, she wondered how madness and he could be -mentioned in the same breath. Now she was not even quite sure who -Claude-Edmond was, and dared not ask. But the Marquis' melancholy mouth -was explained. - -"It was no fault on Emmanuel's part, I will say that for him," resumed -Madame de la Roche-Guyon. "He was almost too model a husband; I trust -Armand will make one half as good--but you must not expect too much of -him, ma fille." - -How little she knew Armand! But it was more politic not to show -indignation, and Horatia only murmured that she would remember. - -"That is well," said the old lady. "More ménages are wrecked by that -than by anything else in the world." She paused, scanning Horatia, and -the girl wondered what further gems of information or of counsel were -about to fall from her shrivelled, rose-red lips. Her next remark, -however, was the usual question: - -"You are not a Catholic, my child?" - -"No, Madame," answered Horatia, saying to herself, "Now she will bring -out the family Monsignor to convert me." - -But the Duchesse did not; she merely said, "Well, it is the best -religion to die in; but, meanwhile, there are other things more -amusing.... My dear, would you have the goodness to ring the bell for -my maid? ... No, I will get it myself. Wait here!" She got out of the -chair with no great difficulty, and, hobbling across the floor, -disappeared. - -Now that its chief ornament was removed, Horatia became conscious of -many other things in the room; of the little Italian greyhound in a -basket near the fire, hitherto hidden by the Duchesse's person; of two -very gallant, though scarcely indecent, coloured engravings of the last -century in a corner facing her, immediately above a print of one of -Rubens' Last Judgments--a singularly edifying conjunction. But the room -was so crowded with objects that it was hard to fix the eye on any one -in particular, and it took Horatia several visits before she knew that a -row of shrouded objects on short stands were Madame de la Roche-Guyon's -wigs--for she did not usually appear in her own hair--and that she -habitually kept her false teeth, when out of action, in the priceless -little box of Limoges enamel, representing the Flight into Egypt, which -now caught Horatia's attention on a side table. Her diamonds, on the -other hand, were frequently tied up in a soiled handkerchief. - -Then the Duchesse came back, and Horatia rose. The Dowager had perhaps -been rummaging in some obscure corner, for one of the feathers was very -much awry. But she possessed an awful majesty, short, ludicrous, and -(at the moment) amenable as she was. - -"Here, ma fille, is something for you," she said, putting into Horatia's -hands an old green leather case. "Open it!" - -The bride did so. Inside, on a dark and shabby lining, a row of -magnificent pearls made moonlight. - -"O, Madame," gasped Horatia. "I could not! they are too..." - -"Nonsense, child," said the old lady, pinching her arm. "You like them, -I see. You will not see any finer at the Tuileries--not that you'll -ever go there now. I always meant them for Armand's wife. They would -look well in that hair of yours, too. There are earrings, but I could -not put my hand on them. Try these on! They belonged to my sister, the -Comtesse de Craon, who was guillotined in '93, and I did not recover -them till the Restoration." - -"Guillotined!" exclaimed Horatia, startled. How was it possible to -speak about it in that matter-of-fact tone! And the pearls--in whose -hands had they been--round whose neck...? - -"Naturally," answered Madame de la Roche-Guyon calmly. "All my family -were. I was in prison myself till Thermidor. Well, perhaps you would -like Armand to put them on for you. You can tell him that you are to -have the emeralds when--you understand perfectly well what I mean!" - - - - *(3)* - - -Horatia wore the pearls, at her husband's request, for the family -gathering on New Year's Night. She said afterwards that they gave her -courage, as proving her an adopted member of the gens, but when, at the -conclusion of her toilet, Armand had clasped them round her neck, she -declared that she felt more anticipatory terrors than had ever their -owner on the way to the guillotine. - -"Very likely," said Armand, in high spirits, walking round her -approvingly. "If my lamented great-aunt was like my grandmother I do -not suppose that she was in the least afraid of La Veuve.... You look -charming; I like that dress." - -"Armand," said poor Horatia, "this is certainly worse than the -guillotine. Supposing Madame la Duchesse does not approve of me -to-night; supposing that all your relations think me foreign or dowdy. -I am sure their dresses will be quite different from mine." - -"Their coiffures may be," agreed the young man. "Some of them will wear -their hair à la Chinoise and look like Hurons; you must try not to -laugh. (And let me warn you, chère amie, that if I see you disfiguring -your beautiful hair by adopting that style, I shall desert you on the -instant.) Have you remembered all my other warnings? Do not forget -that though my aunt des Sablières is very deaf she cannot bear to be -shouted at; that if Charles X is mentioned, Madame de Camain will -probably burst into tears. Somewhere in the dim past the Comte d'Artois -was--well, flirted with her. Do not talk of English admirals, ships, or -sailors to the old Comte de Fezensac; he lost an eye at the siege of -Gibraltar in 1779. Above all remember to speak of the Duc de Bordeaux -as Henri V; you would do well to refer occasionally to the Duchesse de -Berry as the Regent, for my father writes that she will shortly be made -so. As you cannot disclose anything derogatory to Louis-Philippe you -had better not mention him at all. You must be friendly with my cousin -Eulalie de Beaulieu, for she will serve as your chaperon on occasions. -I think that is all." He pulled up his high cravat, glanced at himself -a moment critically in the long glass, and said to Horatia, "My darling, -a little fright becomes you amazingly.... Let us go to the scaffold!" - - - - - *CHAPTER III* - - - *(1)* - - -If Kerfontaine had been to Horatia a kind of fairy castle, the Faubourg -St. Germain resembled a land half savage, half enchanted, something -between the domains of Haroun al Raschid and the country round the -Niger, a place full of the oddest customs, and demanding considerable -intrepidity in the explorer. The tribal gathering on New Year's Day had -been alarming, but its members were kinder to her than she had expected. -Afterwards, her chief impressions were: of faded dowagers, condescending -or cold; of Madame la Marquise de Beaulieu, a cousin of Armand's and her -destined chaperon, a high blonde of thirty-five or so, coiffée à la -Minerve, wearing a sky-blue velvet dress encircled at the knees with a -row of pink feathers; of a little creeping old lady, as grey as dust, -Mlle Claire de la Roche-Guyon, some remote kinswoman of the Duke's, who -lived in the Hôtel; of men, old or middle-aged, and extremely courtly -and gallant; of two or three youths, and a small boy of eleven, -Claude-Edmond, the "ill-fated" heir, quiet and extraordinarily -self-possessed, who, oddly enough, did not live in the house, but -boarded with a tutor near the Lycée Louis-le-Grand--and of a tall, -grey-haired priest with a young face, Monsignor Prosper de la -Roche-Guyon, a striking figure in his cassock touched with purple, -though ecclesiastical garb had been unsafe to wear in the streets since -the Days of July. Dominating all was the Duchesse in her chair, crowned -with a toupée in lustre like sealskin, in hue like the pelt of a fox, -accepting graciously the offerings of her descendants--from one, the -latest clock, Queen Blanche in gold reclining on a seat, whereon were -marked the hours; from another, such an inkpot as Armand had described, -in the form of a crocodile; from an undiscriminating but inspired -great-nephew, one of the newest parasols with eye-glasses in the handle. -And, though the Dowager scarcely ever went out, she was pleased with -this gift; while a highly suitable foot-basket, lined with violet velvet -and trimmed with chinchilla, drew from her the snorting exclamation, -that the donor evidently regarded her as decrepit. It was a thoroughly -matriarchal scene ... - -Ere a couple of weeks had passed, Horatia had both learnt and done many -things. She had had, first of all, her visites de noces to pay; the -earliest of these had been to the oldest inhabitants of the Faubourg St. -Germain, the aged dowagers who never stirred from their armchairs, but -whose word was still a power. To them, as to some elders of a tribe, a -bride must always be taken for ten minutes' inspection; by them were the -frankest of opinions expressed on her looks and gait, on eyes and teeth. -Three of these ancients, in succession, having pronounced of Madame la -Comtesse de la Roche-Guyon that "elle était très bien," Horatia was -thenceforward established upon a proper footing. - -She soon learnt, also, how many more visits she would have had to pay -but for recent political events. (Those events, too, had disposed of -the question of her presentation at Court, which would otherwise have -taken precedence of all else.) Half the ladies of the Faubourg--or at -least of the ultra section of the Faubourg--had shut up their hôtels, -countermanded all their orders at the shops, and reclaiming from their -maids, so it was said, their last year's dresses and hats, had gone to -endure the martyrdom of a winter in their châteaux in the country, -hoping thereby to ruin an ungrateful and disloyal Paris. Of those -remaining Horatia found that she might only know the elect, the ultras, -the "Carlistes," the "Dames de la Résistance," those who, in the -expressive phrase of the day, were "sulking"--those who had not and -never would bow the knee to Baal in the person of Louis-Philippe and the -Orleanist monarchy. One or two former friends of the Duchesse's were -reported to be among the "Dames de l'Attente," those who waited to see -how the wind blew; they had already been scratched off that lady's -visiting list. And one--O horror!--had gone over to the "Dames du -Mouvement," and had been received in the house of Rimmon at the -Palais-Royal (for Louis-Philippe had not yet migrated to the Tuileries). -Of all objects in any way connected with her--her old visiting-cards, a -forgotten pair of gloves, and what not--there had been, so Armand -assured his wife, a solemn auto-da-fé in the Dowager's bedroom. - -But some of the receptions which she was allowed to attend were to -Horatia rather trying. Not Semiramis nor Catherine of Russia could have -presented a more imposing front, nor have swayed a more despotic -sceptre, than Madame la Princesse de Ligniville, with her little -red-bordered eyes, her false front of fair hair, her dropsical -corpulence, who, seated almost immoveably in her green damask armchair -in her famous library of lemon wood, and surrounded by a throng of -politicians, received her one evening. Madame de Ligniville could never -have had any pretensions to beauty, yet for years she had exercised an -absolute dominion. She was very well read, by no means religious, -lively and sarcastic, and devoured with a passion for politics. -Horatia, as well as being somewhat terrified of the great lady herself, -felt lost among these political lights, whose names she did not even -know. The lemon-wood library was not a salon--it was a throne-room. - -There was, indeed, one salon which surprised Horatia by its unlikeness -to the rest, that of the Duchesse de Montboissier. Here seven ladies of -varying ages, from eighty to eighteen, sat round a table lit by a -hanging lamp and did fancy work while they chattered to their -guests--and these were some of the bluest blood in France. The -conversation was lively, natural, and totally devoid of any intellectual -interest, circling round tales of the day and fashions, and interspersed -with scandal. The old Comtesse de Montboissier-Saligny, who presided, -contributed indeed anecdotes of a kind highly unsuited to the ears of -her youngest granddaughter. Horatia commented on this afterwards to the -Marquise de Beaulieu, her companion on this occasion. - -"Que voulez-vous?" asked that lady. "It was not the fashion to be -prudish at the time of the emigration, and the Comtesse, by all -accounts, was by no means averse to the society of the gallant abbés and -worldly prelates of the days before '93. But you must not think, ma -chère," she added, "when you hear these old dames telling racy stories, -that their own morals are questionable. The more free their tongues, -the more irreproachable, probably, their past conduct. One must have -some compensation. Our own respected grandmother, for instance, makes -even my hair stand on end sometimes. But I am sure she has always been -discretion itself." - -Horatia did not like the Marquise de Beaulieu. - - - - *(2)* - - -By the beginning of February, Horatia was beginning to feel much more at -home in her new surroundings. She knew what milliners to frequent, and -frequented them a good deal; she, whom the question of clothes had -always rather bored, and whose well-dressed appearance in the past had -been due chiefly to her father's wish and the excellence of her -dressmaker, now spent hours in choosing a hat, days in deciding between -the attractions of drap d'Algers and soie de chaméléon, between the -becomingness, as colours, of Poland earth, wood violet, lie de vin, and -souris. Rightly to accompany the fashionable hats, her hair must be -more elaborately dressed than Martha's fingers could accomplish, so -Martha made way in this respect for one Joséphine. Armand had admired -her pose, the turn of her hand and wrist one afternoon when he had found -her doing embroidery, so she gave herself assiduously to embroidery. -All these avocations took up an immense amount of time. Her days seemed -very full. She never opened a book, nor missed those once-constant -companions; the case of them which she had brought with her was not even -unpacked. If she had not Armand always to talk to, she had him to dress -for, for the hours she spent before her mirror, the afternoons she -fleeted in Herbault's shop, were far, very far, from being ends in -themselves. - -Horatia's was indeed the exaggerated fervour of the convert. She looked -back now on that blind and self-complacent person who, in the Rectory -garden, only a few months ago, had wondered about her married friends -"how can they!" Armand had come, and in a moment of time she had -realised "how they could." Like all converts she had turned against her -old life, and found nothing good in it at all. She would gladly have -burned that which she once adored. For this glorious thing was love, -and in her ignorance she had jeered at it; could a life-long repentance -and years vowed to the joys she had once derided ever atone for her -neglect? Her books, the tastes that she had shared with her father and -Tristram, all these things were hollow and useless, for love had called -to her, and she had answered. Henceforward she would go singing through -the world with Armand, always with Armand. Together they had found and -would keep the divine secret. - -Together, at least, they saw Paris. He showed her sometimes the Paris -of history in general, sometimes the Paris of his own history. For, -wonderful and almost terrible as it was to stand on the site of the -guillotine in the great Place, to shudder in the narrow cell of the -Conciergerie that had held Marie Antoinette, to walk down the street -where Henri IV had met his death, it was even more wonderful to think -that for twenty-six years this other self of hers had inhabited the -fortunate city--and that she had not known it. So her husband, laughing -at her, had to show her the haunts of his boyhood, the Lycée -Louis-le-Grand, where he had been an externe, the little private pension -in the Rue d'Enfer where he had boarded, even the academy at which he -had learnt to fence and to ride. Pursuing her researches into this -delightful region of the past, she discovered that Armand had previously -had a private tutor, who, in order more easily to lead an unruly pupil -in the paths of learning, had invented a method of combining amusement -and instruction on their walks abroad. Hence the Champs Elysées were -sacred to her because here the youthful Armand, taken to watch other -children playing at ball, learnt the laws of gravity, and she could not -see the old soldiers stooping at bowls under the trees of the Invalides -without remembering that this sight had served to illustrate, to his -childish mind, the double law governing the movements of a spherical -body propelled along the ground. - -When they drove or walked together, passers-by sometimes turned smiling -to bestow a glance on so much youth and happiness. Horatia was sure -that Armand's good looks were the magnet; he affirmed that it was hers, -or the fact that she was English. This she would deny, asserting that -she was now indistinguishable from a Frenchwoman. But one day, in a -perfumer's, before she could even open her mouth, the owner of the shop -had pushed forward divers bottles of English manufacture, had offered -her "Vindsor soap" and Hunt's blacking, and had shaken out before her a -silk handkerchief with a portrait of O'Connell in the middle of it. -Armand, delighted at her confusion, immediately led her to a -neighbouring pastry-cook's, displaying the legend "Here is to be had all -sorts of English pastry," and speaking, by notices in its windows, of -such insular delicacies as "hot mutton pies," "oyster patties," -"Devonshire cider," and "Whitbread's entire." "We are suffering from -Anglomania at present," he explained, "and everything English is deemed -'romantic,' so you need not, my angel, pretend to be French." - -The magic word brought to Horatia's memory a young man whom she had seen -a few days ago walking gloomily in the garden of the Luxembourg, a young -man evidently aspiring to the aspect of "l'homme fatal," with open shirt -collar, tumbled black hair, wild, melancholy eyes, and smile of -conscious bitterness, in whom she recognised a product of the new French -Byronism. Although she hoped in time to meet some of the adherents of -this school, she was secretly glad that Armand was not of its type. - -Thus they visited the Jardin des Plantes and the Boulevards, Notre Dame, -the still unfinished Arc de Triomphe, the pictures in the Louvre, and -(not altogether willingly on Armand's part) M. Sommerard's collection of -mediæval antiquities in the Rue Mesnars. - - - - *(3)* - - -Horatia was destined also to see Paris under a less smiling aspect. - -An air as mild as milk, a sun almost of May, saluted her on the morning -of the fourteenth of February, as Armand helped her from the family -coach outside St. Germain l'Auxerrois. She was going into that church, -of name ominous to Protestant ears, to hear her first Mass, and that a -Requiem--the Requiem for the Duc de Berry, murdered in 1820, and father -of the little boy whom all good Legitimists now regarded as their King. -The occasion was therefore gloomy, but it was also exciting; though -Horatia was clad in black she had no grief in her heart for an -assassinated prince whom she had never seen, and though during the drive -she had composed her features to a decent melancholy, she was secretly -attacked by mirth at the overpoweringly funereal aspect of the Duchesse. -It was an event when that lady left the Hôtel; and she had left it now -swathed in crape, a-dangle with jet chains, and--unprecedented mark of -mourning--devoid of her toupée. A large black rosary depended from her -wrist. Armand and the Marquis sat opposite. Emmanuel had his usual air -of sad patience; he was in fact the only one of the four who looked -perfectly appropriate to the occasion (since the Dowager was merely -ludicrous), yet Horatia knew that his Royalist sentiments were the least -strong of all his family. Armand, his head thrown back against the -brown silk lining of the vehicle, directed from time to time a glance at -Horatia between his half-closed lids. He looked very well in black. -From time to time also the Duchesse speculated on the likelihood of -there being a riot; it was true that nothing of the sort had occurred on -the 21st of January, the anniversary of the death of Louis XVI, when -there had also been a Requiem; moreover the Government was forewarned. -However, the fact that the ceremony had been forbidden to take place at -St. Roch looked, she said with some unction, suspicious. It was plain -that the old lady had no objection to the idea of a tumult, and perhaps -even pictured herself as a martyr to the throne and the altar. - -There were already two rows of emblazoned carriages on either side the -church; a few curious sightseers, the usual beggars. The portals were -hung with black. The Duchesse, on Emmanuel's arm, hobbled towards them; -the leather door squeaked, Armand caught it from his brother, and they -were inside. The Comte dipped his finger in the holy-water stoup and -held it out half-smiling to his wife; finding, however, that she had no -idea what he intended her to do, he crossed himself carelessly and -preceded her up the aisle. The Swiss (whose semi-martial appearance -Horatia supposed to be peculiar to this particular ceremony) having -found seats for the Dowager and the Marquis, waved them into two chairs -just behind. - -The church too was hung with black--Horatia had never imagined an effect -so gloomy. It was already nearly full of bowed, sable figures. In the -middle of the nave was a great black-draped catafalque surrounded by -enormous candles; the Bourbon arms glinted on the top, and at the end -hung a large wreath of immortelles. - -And the Mass began--but Horatia paid small attention to what, after all, -she could not follow. Rather she came increasingly to realise that this -was history. The old white-haired priest of whom she could catch -glimpses at the altar, had, so they said, taken the last consolations of -religion forty years ago to the murdered Queen; now he was praying (so -she supposed) for the soul of the murdered Prince, her nephew. "Dona ei -requiem," sang the choir, and it became impossible for her not to fancy -that the Duc de Berry's actual body lay under the pall. - - - - *(4)* - - -The Mass was finished, or nearly finished, Horatia conjectured, for -people were moving their chairs about, when something was passed from -hand to hand along the row in front of her--a paper of some kind. The -Duchesse, when it came to her, kissed it; the Marquis Emmanuel glanced -at it a moment and then, slightly turning, passed it to his brother -behind him. And Horatia, looking at it with her husband (and having -imagined it to be some holy relic) saw only a coloured lithograph of a -boy about ten years of age, wearing a crown and a royal mantle. - -"The Duc de Bordeaux--Henri V," whispered Armand, and he passed it on. -Evidently there were other copies going round the congregation, for a -moment or two later Horatia saw a young man in the uniform of the -National Guard walk up to the catafalque and affix one to the end, just -above the wreath of immortelles. A murmur rippled through the -congregation then chairs scraped in all directions, and half a dozen -ladies heavily veiled, and one or two men, were out of their places -detaching the flowers, which, after kissing, they placed in their bosoms -or their paroissiens. More came, till the catafalque was the centre of -a crowd, and it took Emmanuel a long time to get the flower for which -his grandmother asked him. Progress down the church was equally -difficult, and Armand and Horatia became separated from their elders, -who were in front. At the door there was difficulty in getting out and -a sound of loud voices, and when they did at length emerge it was into -the midst of a vociferating and hostile crowd. - -"Take tight hold of my arm!" said Armand. "No, it is all right--they -will not dare to touch us, the canaille!" And indeed they got through -to the coach without much difficulty, except for the press of bodies. -Threats were flying about, but nothing else, and Horatia was really more -thrilled than frightened. Emmanuel was at the door of the coach, and -opened it; Horatia, relinquishing Armand's arm, put her foot on the -step. A man, slipping at that moment round the horses' heads, shouted -something almost in her face; startled, she missed her footing on the -high step, slipped and half fell into Emmanuel's arms, and was by him -pushed into the coach, but not before she had a glimpse of Armand, white -with fury, striking out at the man's face. The man went down; she -stumbled into the coach, saw the Marquis catch his brother by the arm, -and somehow, in the midst of cries, the two men also were in, the door -was banged and the coach started. - -It had all happened in a moment, and here was Armand, with blazing blue -eyes, leaning forward with her hands in his, beseeching her to tell him -that she was not hurt, that the scoundrel had not really touched her. - -"No, no," reiterated Horatia. "He did not mean to, I am sure. It was -my stupidity ... I slipped." - -"Take my vinaigrette, child," said the Duchesse, fumbling among her -blackness and beads. - -"My sister was not frightened," observed the Marquis quietly. It was -true; but Armand continued to breathe out slaughter all the way home. - -"Well, it is over now," said the Dowager as they turned into the -courtyard, "and you need not work yourself into a fever, mon petit." - - -But it was not over, it was only beginning. Late that afternoon came -the news that the mob was breaking into St. Germain l'Auxerrois and -pillaging it, smashing the glass, the statues, the pictures, the -confessionals, all to the accompaniment of parodies of the services, in -the vestments of the church. The great iron cross with the three -fleurs-de-lis, which surmounted the building, was pulled down by order -of the mayor of the district, destroying the organ in its fall, and by -night one of the chef d'oeuvres of the Renaissance was merely bare walls -and a heap of debris. Thus did the people of Paris testify their -objection to the Legitimists. - -On the Legitimists fell also the displeasure of the government, who, -instead of proceeding against the rioters, arrested a prominent Royalist -or two and issued warrants against the Archbishop of Paris (who was in -hiding) and the curé of St. Germain l'Auxerrois. The Duchesse, not from -nervousness, but rather from the joy of battle, ordered the great gates -of the Hôtel de la Roche-Guyon to be closed and barricaded. But the -Faubourg was quite quiet, though hundreds were howling outside the -minister Dupin's house in the Rue Coq-Héron. And there were rumours -that the mob had publicly given itself rendez-vous for the next day -outside the Archbishop's palace. - -On the morrow, therefore, Armand, unmoved by his wife's entreaties, -sallied forth to see what was afoot. He was away about an hour and a -half, a time that seemed to Horatia as long as the whole day of the -wolf-hunt in Brittany. When, to her inexpressible relief, he returned, -he announced that there was not a stone left of the Archevêché, that -even the iron railings were gone, all the books and furniture in the -river, and that the rioters were threatening Notre-Dame itself. - -But it passed, that brief sirocco of popular fury, and Paris was gay -again--had in fact been gay all the time, after the manner of Paris -(seeing it was carnival-tide), though, or perhaps because, the richest -ecclesiastical library in France was voyaging down the Seine, and the -maskers on the quays were amusing themselves by trying to fish out the -Archbishop's furniture from the stream. - - - - - *CHAPTER IV* - - - *(1)* - - -"Then, if you please, Sir, will you have dinner at a quarter after six?" -suggested Mrs. Thwaites. "Mr. Dormer can hardly get here before six -o'clock." - -Tristram glanced at the leaden sky. "I am afraid that he will not be -here then if we have snow, as seems probable. We had better say -half-past. You will see that there is a good fire in his room, Mrs. -Thwaites? He is ill, you know." - -When she had withdrawn he got up from his writing-table and poked his -own fire. It was ten o'clock on a morning late in February. In eight -or nine hours Dormer would be here. And after dinner they would sit by -the fire, and, if his friend were not too tired by the journey, perhaps -he could have the relief of talking to him a little--or, if not that, at -any rate the comfort of being with him, as on that day at Oxford. He -was intensely anxious to see how he was, for about the beginning of -December Dormer's headaches had become of alarming severity, and he had -been ordered away from Oxford at a day or two's notice. Having spent -the vacation and more at his brother's house at Colyton, he had now been -to London to consult a well-known physician, and was at this moment on -his way to Compton Parva. - -Tristram stood a moment with his elbow on the mantelpiece, passed his -hand once or twice over his eyes, and with a short, quick sigh went back -to his letters. - -As a watcher by the crisis of fever is cut off from all else, untouched -by the life of every day that surges round the house but is powerless to -enter it, unconcerned at great calamities, unresponsive to great joys, -so, until Horatia's wedding-day, had it been with Tristram Hungerford. -He was watching the last moments, as it were, of the person he loved -best on earth. He did not care that the whole country was in a state of -ferment, that the agricultural riots were spreading all over the south, -and that men were being hanged for them, that there were tumults in -London, nor even that in mid-November Wellington and Peel resigned and -were succeeded by a Whig ministry under Lord Grey--which meant Reform. -If the strain reached its acutest point on the evening that he said -farewell to Horatia in the drawing-room at the Rectory, it was -nevertheless prolonged, with very little alleviation, until the day that -he stood behind her at the altar, and the vigil was over. Some means of -relief indeed he had, for he prayed as he had never prayed before, -fierce and desperate daily prayers for strength to endure; and he knew, -too, at any rate, that his own life and circumstances would be changed -by his ordination. More, he even saw, in the interval before the -wedding, when Horatia was gone from Compton, a real ray of comfort in -that prospect; there was still something he could do in life. - -Then had come the marriage in December, the triple marriage. And after -that a numbness and a merciful fatigue fell upon him for a while. He -had returned with Mr. Grenville to Berkshire and taken up his ordinary -occupation. Nearly every day he went over to see the old man, and -Horatia's spaniel leapt up at him, and he sat in the rooms which would -know her no more. It seemed to him sometimes that he was always there, -to such an extent did Mr. Grenville lean on him. But so mortal a -weariness had laid hold of him, body and mind, that he could not fully -taste the pain. He often fell asleep in the middle of the morning, -alarming Mrs. Thwaites. At night he slept long and almost dreamlessly. -One waking dream pursued him indeed, for once again he stood behind -Horatia in the little French Roman Catholic chapel in King Street, with -its memories of banished royalty and the emigration, and in front of him -was a figure in white silk and swansdown, with wired orange flowers, -that shook when she moved, upon her deep satin bonnet, and with the long -veil of a bride. At the time he had derived some self-control by -pretending that it was someone else. "_Ego conjungo vos in matrimonium, -in nomine..._" he heard the words, too, in the unfamiliar pronunciation -of the old French priest, and he saw the altar with its four pillars and -canopy and some dark picture that he could not distinguish, and the -strange little gallery beside it, and the Rector, looking old and bowed, -and the Duke ... and another figure. Neither the civil marriage at the -Embassy nor the more familiar ceremony at Margaret Chapel remained with -him like this ... and this, he supposed, would wear itself off his brain -in time; he was too tired to wrestle with it. - -This state of blurred consciousness continued till about the middle of -December. Then one day, quite suddenly, the fatigue, the mental mist, -seemed to lift, and brighter and sharper than before the picture shone -before him. And gradually it came to him what it meant. He was in love -with another man's wife. He could not present himself for Orders. The -straw of comfort to which he had clung was swept away, and now he saw, -or thought he saw, the tarnished motives which had made him look forward -to his entrance to the priesthood. It was not wonderful that Dormer's -coming meant much to him, for he could not write about these things--he -was not even sure that he could bring himself to talk about them. - - - - *(2)* - - -The two friends each suffered a shock at dinner, for Tristram saw, in -the full candle-light, how ill Dormer looked, and Dormer noticed that in -two months Tristram had begun to grow grey at the temples. - -But they talked during the meal of other things. Once settled in the -study before the fire, however, Tristram began without preamble. - -"Now, Charles, I want to hear exactly what the doctor says." - -"Oh, the usual silly sort of thing that can never be carried out," -replied Dormer with a weary smile. "If I were a farm labourer and lived -out of doors and did not use my brain, I should never have another -headache." - -"But, seriously, doesn't he think you any better for these weeks at -Colyton?" - -"Not permanently, if at all." Dormer stirred his coffee. "The worst of -it is that I'm almost afraid that he is right in what he says." - -"What does he say--beyond the farm labourer idea?" asked Tristram -anxiously. - -"He says that I cannot think of going back to work this term; that if I -do, I shall have a bad breakdown, and it may be years before I am able -to write another word." - -Tristram's heart sank. - -"Then what are you going to do?" - -"Well, there isn't much choice for me," responded his friend sighing. -"He recommends, I might say he orders, a voyage." - -And as Dormer struck Tristram as being extraordinarily submissive to -this decree, Tristram was proportionately alarmed. But he concealed -this fact, and merely said, "So he recommends a voyage, does he? Where -to?" - -"The Mediterranean." - -"That," said Tristram with decision, "is where I have wanted to go all -my life. I shall come with you." - -"You!" exclaimed Dormer, a gleam of animation on his face. "I only wish -it were possible. But how about your ordination? Would it be worth -while for you to come for part of the time? I admit I had thought of -you." - -And in this confession he was certainly not overstepping the mark, -having indeed schemed to get Tristram away at once from his present -surroundings, so full of painful memories, but not having hoped that -Tristram would himself jump at the idea. - -"Certainly it would be worth it," replied his friend. "Besides, there is -no hurry about my ordination ... This is a godsend to me. Now tell me -what you have done. What about Rose and the Councils?" - -"Rose is arranging for Newman to do them," replied Dormer. "He offered -to wait for me, but I should not like the work to be delayed on my -account. Newman knows as much about the subject as I do--probably more. -But there is a great deal of reading to be done, and I should not be fit -for that under a year. Of course I know that he is overworked as it is, -and doesn't sleep well, but as he sees the importance to the cause that -this particular book should not be delayed, he will drop something else. -So that is settled." - -Tristram vented his feelings without mercy on the fire. "I'm sorry to -hear it," he observed very shortly. "I think Rose might have waited." - -"I knew you would feel like that," said his friend with a half-amused -smile that ended, despite himself, in a sigh. "Let's leave it alone ... -About yourself--I don't understand what you said about your ordination?" - -"Oh, never mind that now," said Tristram, abandoning the poker. "I -never did like those Cambridge men!--Suppose we go to bed." - - -As Tristram, later, sat stretched out alone by the fire, he was -realising acutely what it must mean to Dormer to give up the work on -which he had entered with such hopes, and, quite unreasonably, he felt -that he hated Rose and Newman, although he knew quite well that Dormer -must have over-ridden both of them. It was just like him. Life was a -sorry place. As for his own troubles, how could he, with Charles -looking like that, risk keeping him awake by talking about them. It was -not his sympathy that he wanted, for that he knew he had always, under -its veil of more than ordinary reserve, but his counsel. So badly did -he want the latter that it seemed an aggravation to have him in the -house and to be silent, to know that if he went upstairs now he could -have it--at a price for the giver. But he had not so learned -friendship. - - - - *(3)* - - -Yet, after all, Dormer was not asleep. The fire to which Mrs. Thwaites -had paid special attention was burning with the disturbing brilliance -which comes to a fire when one is in bed and desires the dark, and, -lying wakeful, he watched it leaping on the faded chintzes. And he, too, -was going through a dark hour. - -The austerity of Charles Dormer's religion was the measure of its -passion. Knight and lover, he was set upon a quest, whereof the road -was holiness, and the end--God. And that he might not follow wandering -fires he had looked back for guidance to the first ages of the Church, -to the training of the confessors and martyrs, who had learnt of the -divine pattern from those who had themselves seen the Lord. In this -school of character he found no comfortable complacency, no sickly -sentimentality, but hardness, and reality and the cross. - -From a boy, just as he had been sure that he was called to serve God as -a priest, so had he been certain that he would never marry. It fitted -in, therefore, with his own instinct when he came to realise that the -Fathers had given honour to those who lived the life of sacrifice for -the kingdom of Heaven's sake, and that, taking literally the words of -their Master and of St. Paul, they had applied them in particular to the -priesthood. The memory that an almost renaissance love of the beautiful -had once entered into fierce conflict with this ideal disposed him to -follow still more closely the principles of asceticism. To observe the -primitive duty of fasting during the first decades of the nineteenth -century, and that in an Oxford college, might have seemed a task likely -to tax the highest ingenuity, but others besides Charles Dormer -accomplished it. Like his friend Hurrell Froude, though unknown to him, -he devised methods of self-chastisement which would have seemed morbid -and ludicrous not only to that generation but also to its descendants. -Of their extent Keble knew a little and Tristram guessed. And now -Dormer himself suspected--in fact he partly knew--that his own -self-discipline was partly responsible for his state of health. Had he -been right, or was it after all only some subtle form of pride or -self-will that had set him on this path? Perhaps he had been making an -idol both of his warfare with himself and of his work, and this was why -he was going to be taken away from both ... At any rate it was clearly -God's Will that he should be thus taken away, and therefore, however -hard, it was the best for him.... Tristram, too, was coming with him, -and he fell asleep, as the fire died down, wondering why it had been so -easy to persuade him to this course. - - -When he came downstairs next morning, after breakfasting, by orders, in -his room, Dormer discovered Tristram engaged with maps and guide-books, -in the business-like mood of one who intends to get things settled up at -once. They talked over plans for about an hour; after which, since -there was a gleam of sun, he was commanded to wrap up and come for a -walk. - -He laughed, and rallied Tristram on his despotism, but it was pleasant -enough, and he obeyed it. There had been no snow the previous day; it -was yet to come. They walked between the bare hedgerows, still talking -plans, discussing the rival attractions of Sicily and Corfu, settling -how, when Dormer was well enough, they would take the opportunity of -seeing Naples and Rome, and possibly Florence, and returning by sea, -perhaps, from Leghorn, if they got as far north. Animation grew upon -both of them as they realised the delightful possibilities of their -journey, and was not damped when a sudden storm of sleet, descending on -them, drove them into an open shed by the side of the road, where, -seated on the shafts of a hay-waggon, they continued for a while, -scarcely conscious of the change of place. - -At last, however, the subject suddenly ran dry, and Tristram, getting -up, went to the doorway to see if the storm were over. - -"I am afraid we must make up our minds to another quarter of an hour or -so," he reported. "I do trust that you are not cold, Charles. Pull -your cloak properly about you." - -Dormer obeyed, and then, still sitting on the shaft, he launched a -disturbing question. - -"What did you mean last night, Tristram, when you said that there was no -hurry for your ordination? Is it that you are glad to get away because -of all that has happened, or is there something else?" - -Tristram hesitated a second, then he took the plunge. "I am glad to get -away, but there is something else." - -"I thought so," said his friend quietly. "Do you mean to tell me about -it?" - -"Of course," replied Tristram. "I should have told you last night, but -I didn't want my affairs to keep you awake." - -"Well, what is it? I am awake now and am not going to bed for eight -hours at least, so this is a good opportunity to tell me," observed -Dormer, who was not troubled by incongruities of time or place. - -"Charles, I cannot be ordained!" - -The effort to get out these words was apparent; not so the effort which -it cost Dormer to hide the shock they gave him. He merely asked coolly, -"Why not?" - -"Because I'm thinking day and night of another man's wife. Charles, -Charles, it's unbearable! I see her always as she was on her -wedding-day, and ... I see him standing beside her, too. I picture them -in their own house. The Rector reads little things from her letters. -He does not say much, out of consideration for me perhaps--only I know -that she is happy so far--thank God!--very happy." - -Dormer looked at him compassionately as he sat, his head in his hands, -on a log near the door. "My poor Tristram!" he said gently. "I know. -I quite understand." And then he was silent. - -After a little he went on again. "All the same I hardly see how you -could expect it to be otherwise. Of course you see her. If one image -has been in a person's mind for many years, how can it be suddenly -expelled at a certain hour, on a certain day? God does not ask from us -impossibilities." - -"But I want her," said Tristram from between his hands, "more than I -have ever wanted her in my life ... and sometimes I think I could kill -him!" - -It appeared to Dormer that these statements might or might not be -serious. For the present he ignored them, and only said, "I'm thankful -you are coming away with me. You need to give yourself a rest." And -then, because, for Tristram's sake, he himself wanted time to think, he -got up and went to the door. "The storm is nearly over, isn't it?" - -It was not, but since the carrier's cart was at that moment descried -coming along the road, and since Tristram thought that Dormer looked -cold, he felt obliged to take the opportunity of getting him home -without further delay. After all, his own affairs could wait a little -longer. - - - - *(4)* - - -But Tristram's need was too pressing to let them wait for very long; and -this time he made the opening himself. It was after dinner, and they -were in the library again, and Dormer was not looking nearly as tired as -the night before. So he said, almost directly they had sat down: - -"Tell me what you think I should do, Charles. Surely you see that I -can't be ordained?" - -And Dormer, who had spent the afternoon in preparation for this -question, said, gazing at the fire, "My advice is that you should be -patient with yourself. You see you have been through a long strain. -You have acted, God knows. Anyone would say that you had given her up -absolutely, and you have certainly been a friend to both of them, to him -as well as to her. Give yourself time, and your feelings will follow." - -"Oh, yes, I've acted," said Tristram. "But what is that but a case of -necessity after all? All these years I have watched her and tried -ineffectually to do whatever small things I could for her, so that it -was impossible to fail her in a big thing." - -"Impossible for you, perhaps, but then you are one of the most unselfish -people I have ever met." - -"If you think I'm unselfish," returned Tristram rather bitterly, "how do -you explain that at this moment I hate Armand just because I know -Horatia to be blissfully happy with him? If she were unhappy I should -hate him still more, but that does not affect my present feeling." - -"My dear Tristram, don't put yourself to the trouble of telling me that -sort of thing! Of course it is wrong, utterly wrong, but if your will -is constant, if you hate and repudiate such thoughts, they only amount -to a suggestion of the Evil One." - -"I wish I could believe you." - -"I am sure," said Dormer, "that in time you will come to hold the same -view. And meanwhile I should just put away the idea of ordination. You -were going to wait till Lent anyhow if necessary, and you can wait till -June." - -Tristram looked straight at him to see if he could read anything more in -his expression. - -"I don't know that I can trust you, so to speak," he said slowly. "I -think you are too kind--to other people." - -Dormer raised his eyebrows with a little smile. "Am I?" - -"I know that I did what I could," went on Tristram in a sort of -outburst, "and it hurt all the time like a knife. But now I feel -swamped with a sense of failure, and I pray and go on praying, but there -is no comfort anywhere. Sometimes I begin to wonder if, apart from my -own feelings, I did right in helping on the marriage at all." And he -laughed, because he was conscious of his own habit of introspection, and -half ashamed to lay it bare. - -At that Dormer sat up a little in his chair, and turned a very -penetrating gaze upon him. "Now what do you mean exactly by that? I -thought you felt quite sure from the beginning?" - -"So I did," responded his friend, "and so I do, but--it's no use. I -cannot really trust Armand. I know nothing against him, but I have a -very shrewd suspicion that he only thinks of himself, and that he will -always put his own interests before Horatia's. And for all Horatia's -apparent independence she needs protection far more than many of her -sex." - -"Well?" - -"You see I know Horatia," pursued Tristram, "and I realised that if she -were once awakened, and then her hopes were frustrated, it might be a -very serious thing for her; and there was always the chance that Armand -might turn out better than I expected. Of course I put all that to the -Rector, and, as you know, by degrees he came round." - -"I quite understand. It would have been hard enough to resign her to a -man whom you knew and trusted, especially as it practically devolved on -you to plead your rival's cause, but it would have been easy compared -with this." - -"Yes, that's just it. It fairly breaks me to feel that I have given her -up, perhaps, only to sorrow and neglect." - -"You can't tell about that, Tristram," said Dormer very gravely. "When -you resigned her, you gave her absolutely into the hands of God, and -that means you gave her as you would give yourself, for joy or for -sorrow. It has always seemed to me that it is quite possible for -vicarious resignation to the Divine Will to be a higher thing than the -resignation of oneself; certainly it can be a harder.... And, besides," -he went on after a moment's pause, "I have something more to say. I -have a favourite theory of my own. That rather hackneyed phrase of two -people being made for one another is capable of another interpretation. -It may mean that from all eternity Providence has intended two souls to -meet to play upon each other, and that it is only through the discipline -of married life that they can become what God intended them to become. -I should never think of any two people as necessarily destined to -happiness, but as destined by their union to work out God's Will. After -all, what have any of us to do with happiness?" - -There was a long silence. Tristram lay back in his chair, and Dormer -looked as if he were thinking that the two souls in question would -perhaps be the better for any kind of discipline. But at last he said: - -"To go back to what you said this morning, that you wanted her more than -you have ever wanted her in your life--" - -"Yes?" - -"The more I think of it the more I believe you to be experiencing the -inevitable struggle _after_ the sacrifice has been made. Even our Lord -knew what that was." - -"What do you mean?" - -"Nothing was wanting to the completeness of the sacrifice when He -offered the Eucharist on Maundy Thursday, and yet--afterwards--came the -Agony in the Garden." - - - - *(5)* - - -That night again his bedroom fire was the companion of Dormer's vigil. -He sat long before it, thinking of all that Tristram had told him. He -had always had a high ideal for his friend, but now he had even a -higher, for he could not help the conviction that God was dealing -specially with him, and that disappointment meant that He had some -particular work for him to do. But he saw that Tristram had still a -hard fight before him, for though he was, perhaps, tormenting himself -unnecessarily about his feelings, yet if he was to become what Dormer -believed, more and more, that God meant him to be, his loss must be -turned from mere endurance into the painful joy of sacrifice. He -guessed that it was possible for a soul fully to submit, and yet to -fret, and that such an one would for the time lie beyond the reach of -consolation. - -Charles Dormer could never so much as think of consolation without the -memory of Mrs. Hungerford coming back to him. Yes, if anyone could have -comforted Tristram it would have been his own mother. This was her -room; Dormer had it always when he stayed here, and it seemed full of -her. Downstairs in the dining-room--he had glanced at it several times -to-day over Tristram's head--was a picture, representing her as standing -and looking down at her husband, seated at a table that bore a map of -the West Indies outspread upon its crimson cloth. Curtains of a darker -crimson, looped back to columns, and a vista of mixed landscape -completed the ill-painted composition, which was only made beautiful by -Mrs. Hungerford's expression. But, looking at that, Dormer knew why, as -boy and young man, he had told her so many things. - -It was impossible to think of her as anything else but a mother, and yet -she had not married till she was nearly forty, and she had only had one -child. To him she had always seemed the ideal of motherhood. That he -should think so was no disloyalty to his own mother, to whose memory he -still gave the almost awed worship of his childish days, for he saw now -how that mother, despite her early marriage and her five sons, had never -had just this gift which would always have been Mrs. Hungerford's, -married or single. He knew that Mrs. Hungerford had understood what his -own mother had been to him, as she understood everything else. Perhaps, -indeed, she understood about Tristram now.... - - - - - *CHAPTER V* - - - *(1)* - - -The pillaging of St. Germain l'Auxerrois, the fact that it now bore the -legend "Mairie of the Fourth Arrondissement" upon its doors had, of -course, no direct effect on Horatia--beyond teaching her of what the -Paris mob was capable, and how exiguous were the titles to respect of -the Laffitte ministry, already on its deathbed. Her places of worship -lay elsewhere--the Embassy chapel in the Rue du Faubourg St. Honoré, or -that of the Reverend Lewis Way in the Avenue de Neuilly. For the Hon. -and Rev. Stephen Grenville, if he wished to keep his daughter faithful -to the Church of her baptism, had done a very shrewd thing when he -extracted from her a promise to attend Morning Prayer every Sunday, when -possible, and, if not, to read it herself. Horatia kept her promise -faithfully. However bright the day, however alluring the prospect of -going out with Armand, she resisted the temptation, and set forth, -rather scandalised at the crowd of pleasure-seekers in the Tuileries -gardens or elsewhere. - -On the whole the service was pleasant to her, chiefly because it was a -link with all things English, and in particular with her home. However -commonplace and familiar "Dearly beloved brethren" might sound in -English sunoundings, Horatia found that it had power greatly to stir her -heart in a foreign land. It gave her, too, a sort of happy sadness to -displace the Evangelical minister by her father, and his chapel (which -had been a café) by Compton church. - -Armand could not accompany Horatia to church, nor could she go with -him--if he ever went there. This separation she had, of course, -anticipated from the first, and it did not seem really to be of great -importance. It mattered more to her that he did not care so much about -the things of the past as she did--a discovery which she was gradually -making, and which appeared to her all the more disconcerting because he, -by his ancestors, belonged to that past in a way that she never could. -But it interested him infinitely less, convinced and even fanatical -Legitimist that he was. - -She saw the thing clearly at last on the day that he drove her to -Versailles in his smart phaeton lined with blue flower-dotted piqué, -wherein, however, as a "fashionable" should, he sat upon so high a seat -that it was extremely difficult to talk to him. Besides, there was the -ridiculous little tiger behind, in his overcoat to the ankles, his -gaiters and his shiny hat, who could, Horatia imagined, hear everything -that they said. But she enjoyed the drive exceedingly, and looked -forward with keen pleasure to seeing the palace. Yet, when they got -there, Armand displayed small concern as to which part of the great pile -had stood in the days of Louis the Just, and which had been built by the -Grand Monarque, or on what balcony the King and Queen had showed -themselves to the mob on that wild day in October, 1789. She could not -but be disappointed, for she regarded her husband, quite justly, as the -scion of a long line of devoted royalists, and she remembered how he had -spoken, in England, of the Lilies. To her the deserted palace, -abandoned for want of means to keep it up and shortly, it was said, to -be converted into a museum, was heart-rending in its associations of -fallen glory. And Armand's ancestors had been among the very people who -had moved, gay and gallant, upon its wide terraces; in no point would he -have disgraced the cohort himself. But it was evident that the empty -basins of the royal fountains, the forlorn bosquets, roused in him no -pleasurable melancholy, and that the Allée d'Apollon was merely a place -where he could tell her, undisturbed, how charming she looked, and laugh -at her sad face. In the end he took her away before she had seen all -she desired, lest the drive back should not be accomplished without -rain, "and your pretty dress be spoiled." - - - - *(2)* - - -Horatia had reason to remember that day at Versailles, because of what -occurred on the following morning. - -She was paying her accustomed visit to her grandmother-in-law. The -Duchesse was sitting propped up in bed, looking unusually grim, and not -by any means beautified by the wrap in which she was enveloped. - -"My dear," said the old lady, after some desultory conversation, "I have -something to say to you which you probably will not like. You really -must not see so much of Armand." - -"Not ... not see so much of Armand!" gasped Horatia, stupefied. "Not -see so much of my husband!" - -"No," replied Madame de la Roche-Guyon emphatically, and the flaps on -her lace cap waggled. "You are always about with him, and it is not -convenable. I hear that you spent the whole day together at Versailles -yesterday." - -"But, Madame," ejaculated Horatia, scarcely believing her ears, "I don't -under----what can you possibly mean? If _I_ cannot spend the day with -Armand----" - -"Now listen, ma fille," said the Duchesse, not unkindly. "I do not know -how it may be with the bourgeoisie, but in our world it is not the thing -for a husband to be always dancing attendance on his wife. A man who -does so, after the first few weeks of marriage, is looked on as a -nincompoop, or a bore. He is, in fact, despised. And no one wants to -receive husband and wife together at their salons; it is gênant, it -destroys all wit and freedom of intercourse. Armand will naturally -attach himself to some salon, and you must not expect him to accompany -you to those which you frequent--nor, above all, to be constantly seen -about with you in public places. It is not the part of a galant homme. -And you have, for the present, the chaperon we have provided for you, -Eulalie de Beaulieu." - -A red spot came into Horatia's cheek. "But I do not like Madame de -Beaulieu. I do not wish to go about with her." - -Even the snort which the Dowager permitted herself did not destroy the -air of cold dignity with which she replied. "You seem to forget the -class of society into which you have married. It would be unheard of -for a bride to be seen about alone. When her husband does not accompany -her--and, as I say, the time for that is already long past--she must be -under the escort of her mother or her mother-in-law. You have neither. -Did my years and health permit I would myself fulfil the duty, but if -you do not wish to have my death at your door you will accept the -chaperonage of the Marquise de Beaulieu. When you have been married a -year--above all when you have had a child--you will be perfectly free to -go where you will, to receive whom you will----" - -"Even my own husband!" flashed Horatia. - -For a second or two the Duchesse seemed staggered by the interruption -and its bitterness; then, for she rather liked spirit, a slow smile -revealed the absence of her false teeth. - -"Let me tell you, my child," she riposted, "that if you do not take my -advice you will end by making Armand ridiculous. Perhaps--having known -him only so short a time--you have not yet discovered that there is -nothing in the world that he hates so much. I counsel you to remember -this." - -The victory--or at all events the last stroke in battle--undoubtedly -remained with Madame de la Roche-Guyon. - - - - *(3)* - - -"'The Tenth Muse'?" asked Horatia. "Who is she?" - -The opulent but sentimental-looking lady in purple who sat next her in -Madame de Chastenay's drawing-room lifted up her hands. "Is it -conceivable that you have never heard of Mademoiselle Delphine Gay?" she -exclaimed. "But I forgot that you were English. Mademoiselle Gay is the -literary prodigy of our sex; figure to yourself a young girl already -celebrated at eighteen for her verse, pensioned by His Majesty, and -crowned at twenty-three in the Capitol, by the Academy of the Tiber!" - -"And she is going to read us some of her poems now?" - -"To recite them. She has a divine voice and manner." - -Horatia looked round the room wherein, on this March evening, were -seated many ladies and a few men, awaiting the intellectual treat in the -midst of a light reflected with dazzling effect from the chandeliers, -lustres and chimney-ornaments of cut steel, with which the apartment had -lately been beautified. A little way off Armand was bending over the -chair of a lady whom she did not know; he was evidently laughing. More -than a week had passed since Horatia's passage of arms with the -Duchesse. For two days she had refused to go and see her, then, through -the agency of old Mademoiselle de la Roche-Guyon--a trembling -mediator--a truce was patched up between the combatants. But if the -affair appeared to have passed from the Dowager's mind it had not so -quitted Horatia's. She did not say a word about it to Armand. Once or -twice she was tempted to think the whole thing nonsense, the creation of -a malicious brain, and certainly this evening it tended so to appear to -her, for here was her husband with her at this salon, and a literary -salon too. It was the first of this class that Horatia had attended, -and devoutly did she hope that it might be the entry, at last, into that -heaven where Lamartine, Victor Hugo, Chateaubriand, Alfred de Vigny, and -so many constellations swam in glory. - -She was recalled from her musings by a stir. Two ladies entered the -room--the elder with an indescribable brio. Madame Gay had been a -celebrity of the Empire, and kept about her an extraordinary aroma of -those great days, a suggestion of staff-officers, mamelukes, the flash -of sabres in the sun and the dust cloud over wheeling squadrons, seeming -indeed as if she might at any moment break into "Partant pour la Syrie" -or some hymn to Glory and Victory. Mademoiselle Delphine gained by the -contrast with her parent. Tall, well-built, with a fine head -beautifully set on an equally fine neck, clad in a simple white -semi-classical dress wearing no ornaments, and with her abundant fair -hair hanging in ringlets, she had something of the air of a sibyl. She -looked about twenty-five, but was in reality a little older. - -Madame Gay settled herself, and the Tenth Muse was led to a chair -apart--an honourable chair, whose horse-hair seat was painted with roses -and camellias. She composed herself in a suitable attitude, brought her -beautiful bare arms to one side, clasped her hands loosely together, -and, looking up at the ceiling, began to recite in a grave, deep, almost -languorous voice, her poem on the last days of Pompeii, commemorating -the fate of Théora the priestess of Apollo, and the young warrior -Paulus, and recounting how, two thousand years after, - - "On trouva dans l'enceinte où le temple s'élève - Sur l'autel une lyre ... et près du seuil un glaive." - - -"Is it not touching!" said the purple lady to Horatia. The green plumes -in her headdress quivered, and she dabbed her eyes rather -ostentatiously. "Ces pauvres gens.... Ah, she is beginning again!" - -This time it was a Hymn to Ste Généviève. - - "Patronne de France, amour de nos aieux ..." - - -At the conclusion of this poem, amid the hum of applause, Madame Gay was -observed to approach her offspring, and to whisper something into her -ear. The poetess shook her head; then, seeming to relent, and smiling, -she announced - - "Le bonheur d'être belle. Dedicated to Madame - Récamier." - - "Quel bonheur d'être belle, alors qu'on est aimée! - Autrefois de mes yeux je n'étais pas charmée; - Je les croyais sans feu, sans douceur, sans regard; - Je me trouvais jolie un moment par hasard. - Maintenant ma beauté me parait admirable. - Je m'aime de lui plaire, et je me crois aimable.... - Il le dit si souvent! Je l'aime, et quand je vois - Ses yeux avec plaisir se reposer sur moi, - Au sentiment d'orgueil je ne suis point rebelle, - Je bénis mes parents de m'avoir fait si belle. - Mais ... pourquoi dans mon coeur ces subites alarmes?-- - Si notre amour tous deux nous trompait sur mes charmes: - Si j'étais laide enfin? Non ... il s'y connaît mieux! - D'ailleurs pour m'admirer je ne veux que ses yeux!-- - Bientôt il va venir! bientôt il va me voir! - Comme, en me regardant, il sera beau ce soir! - Le voilà! je l'entends, c'est sa voix amoureuse! - Quel bonheur d'être belle! Oh, que je suis heureuse!" - - -The extraordinary appropriateness of these verses to Horatia's own -attitude of mind during the past months made her forget to join in the -applause which followed their recitation. Yes, it had been exactly her -own case; she knew it, and Armand knew it too. He would tease her about -them going home. She looked round, with a little half-shy smile, for -her husband, but he was nowhere to be seen, and she remembered that -since Mademoiselle Gay's entrance she had been too much occupied to -notice his whereabouts. - -And then came his voice in her ear, sudden and by no means "amoureuse." - -"For God's sake let us go!" - -Horatia turned round, startled. "Certainly, if you wish it," she -responded, and, the recitation having apparently come to an end, she was -able to take her leave almost at once. Her first thought had been that -Armand was ill. - -"You were bored, I am afraid?" she hazarded, as the carriage started. - -"Mon Dieu!" answered her husband, throwing himself back in the corner, -"could one be otherwise? It was intolerable--to listen to all that stuff -about Pompeii and Ste. Généviève. Madame de Chastenay is preposterous -with her female phenomena. Don't ever ask me to go there again!" - -And, had it not been Armand who spoke, Horatia would have thought the -voice thoroughly bad-tempered. - -"But, my dear Armand," she protested, putting a hand on his arm, "I -would willingly have come away sooner if I had known. I thought you -were admiring the poetess; she is very pretty--no, she is beautiful." - -"Entendu. It is a woman's business to be beautiful, but not to declaim -wearisome verses. Don't ask me to go to any more of these functions -with you!" - -Horatia turned a little pale and drew back. Could it be true after all, -that incredible thing which the Duchess had said, that she would make -him ridiculous--that he himself thought it, feared it? - -Armand could not but perceive her shrink, and the lover conquered the -sulky male. He caught her hand. - -"My darling, forgive me! I didn't mean to hurt you. You know that there -is no greater pleasure for me than to be with you, but ... I _was_ so -bored!" - -Impossible to resist the half-humorous, half-pleading tone, and the look -in his eyes. As the carriage rolled under their own gateway she bent -forward and put a light kiss on his temple. - -"I forgive you," she said. - - -"Mademoiselle Gay did not then give you the canto of her poem on the -Magdalene where the devil, to tempt the saint, takes on the form of -Joseph of Arimathea?" inquired the Duchesse that evening. "That must, -ma foi, be very striking, and I regret that I have never even read it." - - - - - *CHAPTER VI* - - - *(1)* - - - "O temps, suspends ton vol, et vous, heures propices, - Suspendez votre cours! - Laissez-nous savourer les rapides délices - Des plus beaux de nos jours!" - ---sang M. Alphonse de Lamartine to the Comtesse Armand de la Roche-Guyon -from the beautifully bound copy of Les Meditations which, with his -just-published Harmonies, Horatia had found in her room. A line from -Emmanuel had asked her to please him by accepting them. And, having -turned over the new poems, she had reverted to that earlier and famous -elegy over past happiness, Le Lac, and its passion and melancholy had -sent her into a half reverie. - -How kind, how thoughtful, Emmanuel was! This gift could be but the -outcome of his knowledge of her desire for personal acquaintance with -the poet. He could not give her that, and Armand would not. - -"My dear child," the latter had said, "it is quite out of the question. -If you want to see M. Victor Hugo, Dumas, de Vigny, and this young de -Musset, you must go to the sort of club they have at Charles Nodier's, -the Cénacle I think they call it--and, of course, you cannot do that. -Comte Alfred de Vigny does belong to our world, it is true, but he -hardly goes anywhere. But as for these Gautiers and Balzacs, where do -you expect to find them? In some dingy lodgings in the Quarter, not -anywhere that you are likely to visit!" - -"But a great many ladies of your world, as you call them, have literary -salons, surely," pleaded Horatia. - -"Like the one the other day? No, not many are left now, and what there -are are mostly Orleanist." - -"What about Madame Récamier?" suggested Horatia. "Would not the -presence of Monsieur de Chateaubriand be a guarantee of right -principles?" - -Armand laughed. "I cannot deny that. Now that there is no monarch the -great Renæ is more of a monarchist than ever. Very well, little tease, -I will get you the entrée to the Abbaye-aux-Bois as soon as I can." - -And with that promise--as yet unfulfilled, Horatia was forced to be -content.... - -Her eyes went back to her book. - - "O temps, suspends ton vol----" - - -But the thoughts came bubbling up, displacing the flow of the verses. -She did not want the flight of time suspended this afternoon; rather the -contrary. Armand was away, and would not be back till to-morrow; the -flight of time was a mere crawl. - - "Laissez-nous savourer les rapides délices..." - - -But this was no fleet delight, to sit here in her boudoir, full of -flowers though it was, with nothing to do, and the rain falling outside. -Besides, if she went out, it must be with the Marquise. - -The last time they had driven out together, Madame de Beaulieu had taken -her to see the villa outside Paris which she was furnishing for a summer -retreat--the latest craze. This was no ancestral château, and -everything in it must be new, and, said the Marquise, marked by extreme -simplicity of taste. And in the drawing-room, where the blinds were -painted to resemble stained-glass windows, where the chairs, stools and -sofas were of bamboo and Persian-figured chintz, the ottomans and -floorcloths of split reeds, Madame de Beaulieu described the style of -dress which she had designed for herself when inhabiting this -seclusion--a plain white jacconet gown, with an apron of dove-coloured -gros de Naples, worked round with green foliage, the pockets cut en -coeur, the hair to be done smoothly with but one high bow and a comb, -and no ornaments whatsoever. - -It was after this expedition that Horatia had suddenly taken the -resolution of unpacking her books. She felt haunted by the -dove-coloured apron with green foliage and heart-shaped pockets, and -with Martha's assistance she brought the prisoners once more to the -light of day. Some had been among her childhood's treasures--_Robinson -Crusoe_, _Don Quixote_, a few sheets of the _Arabian Nights_, _The -Scottish Chiefs_, _Susan Gray_--and then there were all the favourites -of later years. She welcomed them with an almost guilty pleasure, and -there they were now, most of them in a bookcase under the window looking -out into the Rue Saint-Dominique, for under the other, which gave on to -the courtyard of the Hôtel, stood the Duchesse's New Year's gift to -her--a satinwood table inlaid with ebony, encumbered on every side with -drawers from which hung workbags of blue satin, stocked with the -requirements for a hundred and one useless handicrafts--with velvet to -make flowers, and gauze for painting upon. Horatia had just opened -these pouched drawers, no more, and at present used the table rather -ruthlessly for a sort of jardinière, so that the inlay was slowly -deteriorating under pots of camellias and baskets of violets in moss. - -She took up the other volume of Lamartine. Between the pages she had -put an old letter of her father's to mark the place, and idly she -unfolded this and read it again. The Rector spoke of many things; among -others of Tristram's tour in Italy with his friend; they were reported -to be enjoying themselves and Mr. Dormer's health was improving slowly. -A passage she had forgotten struck her again. - -"By the way, I have been having a correspondence with the Duke of -Devonshire, who is a very keen numismatist, about some coins of mine; in -the course of it he mentioned that he supposed you and Lady Granville -(who is, as you know, his sister) had made acquaintance with each other. -Thinking this over, I came to the conclusion that, from what you tell me -of the political views of your new relations, it is improbable that you -have been presented at the Embassy, but I cannot see any reason why you -should not call upon her privately if she has no objection, since you -are, after all, English by birth. I met her many years ago at -Devonshire House with Tom Grenville; I think she would remember me. The -Duke said he was going to write to Lady Granville about you; I do not -know if he has done so; perhaps you have heard from her." - -Horatia had not. The letter passed on to the projected Reform Bill -which, Mr. Grenville wrote, was occupying everybody to the exclusion of -anything else, and he heard that after dinner even ladies fell to at -Potwallopers, Outvoters and Rotten Boroughs! "Now it has once been -broached," went on the writer, "the rumpus if it is not carried will be -appalling, in fact I think immediate combustion will be the result. It -seems to me impossible now that the people could ever sit down quietly -without Reform, or that they should be content with less than they have -been promised; but the longer it is delayed the more exasperated they -will get. Your cousin Chandos is much exercised about it." - -Horatia looked at the date; it was the 9th of March. As she knew, since -those words were written, the first reading of the Bill had been carried -by a majority of one. But how little these great events seemed to touch -her here. - -The letter concluded, "I hope, my darling, that you are still very -happy. If you are, so is your old Papa." - -The letter fell on to _Les Harmonies_. Was she "still very happy?" .... -How could she ask herself the question! Of course she was, blissfully -happy--provided Armand were with her. But, of course, as she often told -herself--and thought how sensible she was for being able to do so--he -could not always be with her. Quite apart from the Dowager's odious -recommendations she was determined not to be a drag upon him. The time -had come when she must try to fill in her own life. That had been one -motive for the unpacking of her books. She attended, of her own -volition, one or two salons--that of the Marquise de Montglas, who -always received lying in a chaise longue, draped with shawls, for she -was a permanent invalid, though she held firmly the threads of -conversation in the circle which spread fanwise round her couch--and -that of her sister, Madame de Juvelcourt. The latter was deformed, a -fact of which Horatia had been warned; but she was hardly prepared to -find, as she did, a really hideous little dwarf, black and vivacious, -literally perched on cushions, dressed in the latest fashion, making no -attempt to hide her disadvantages, and not, indeed, seeming to mind them -in the least. She had received the English wife very kindly, and as she -was one of the Duchesse's rare visitors, Horatia felt more at home at -her receptions than at any others. She even managed to enjoy herself -there, and excited perhaps by Madame de Juvelcourt's own gaiety and wit, -to return full of spirits, but when she got in her first inquiry was -always for Armand. She was restless, feverishly restless, despite her -resolve, when she was not with him. And he had naturally his own -avocations, the usual diversions of a young man of fashion. She did not -expect to share these, she did not even question him about them, but as -the weeks went on, she could not but be aware that they seemed to claim -him much more than they had done. He was always charming to her, and -yet--and yet, she was conscious of something slipping. What was it, -this tiny foreboding at her heart, an asp in Eden? She could not tell. -Was it possible that there could be such a thing as over-sweetness, and -had he begun to feel it, was she herself beginning to feel it? ... - -Horatia came back to her present surroundings. Of course she did not -really think these things--they were treachery to her great love. But -one thought she did not drive away, a thought that was daily becoming -more pursuing, the realisation of how much she was in bondage in her own -house--if indeed it could be called her own. Marriage had not given her -liberty; she had been far freer in Berkshire--free to come and go, to -walk or ride--free to do, within reasonable limits, exactly as seemed -good to her. Here she was more or less in the position of a child in -the nursery. And when, as now, reflection on this topic ended by making -her angry, she would try to stifle her impatience with some occupation, -or to forget in Armand's society the price she was paying for it. With -an exclamation she arose from her chair, and went to the window to see -if it were still raining. - -Nothing was doing in the courtyard--nothing was ever doing there. The -little trees stood orderly in their tubs. A childish desire seized -Horatia to throw something down ... Someone went out; it was Monsignor -de la Roche-Guyon, summoned, probably to the Duchesse, who had an attack -of indigestion and devotion. She wished he had been to see her. She -liked him, and he interested her; she thought that he was probably of -that particular type of French piety represented by Fénelon. But she -knew very little about him, and after all he had made no attempt to -convert her. - -Certainly the rain was stopping, for the major-domo was now observed by -the watcher to go forth, armed with an enormous bunchy umbrella, which, -however he did not unfurl. Even he could go out, if not when he liked, -at least without being accompanied against his will! She would rather -stay in than go driving with the Marquise. - -But then the sun suddenly began to shine, and Horatia could withstand no -longer. She rang for her maid, ordered the carriage, changed her dress, -and drove round to Madame de Beaulieu's house in the Rue de -l'Universite"--a five minutes' drive. - -And there unexpected tidings greeted her ravished ears. "Madame la -Marquise is indisposed; she prays Madame la Comtesse to excuse her; she -cannot go out to-day." - -"And I am expected to go home again like a good child," thought Madame -la Comtesse. "Never! Very well," she said to the footman, "tell Jean to -drive me to Herbault's." - -The dome of the Invalides glittered again in the sun, but as she crossed -the river the giant statues on the Pont de la Concorde looked -threateningly at her. She drove across the great expanse of the Place -with the feeling of a child let out of school. The Rue Neuve St. -Augustin came all too soon. She had no intention of going into -Herbault's, and had only mentioned the famous shop because it would -necessitate crossing the Seine. When the carriage was drawing up she -leant forward and said that she had changed her mind, and would go to -Houbigant's in the Rue St. Honoré instead. - -At Houbigant's she went in and bought some essence de mousseline, -imagining that the other ladies making purchases looked at her -curiously. As the assistant was tying up the bottle of scent she racked -her brains to think what she could do next. Though her drives in the -Bois de Boulogne had not enchanted her, she would have gone thither, -since it would have been quiet, had she not known that Jean would -immediately say that it was too far for the horses--an opinion which he -shared or affected to share with other ancient coachmen of the Faubourg. - -Suddenly her father's old letter flashed into her mind. Was not the -English Embassy quite near, practically in the same street? and had not -the Duke of Devonshire said that he would write? This was certainly her -chance; she might never have such another. She could but be refused -entrance if the Ambassadress did did not wish to see her. In a few -moments she found herself in front of the house which had been Princess -Borghese's. - -The man admitted her and took her card, and returning said that Madame -l'Ambassadrice was in the serre and would receive her. He proceeded to -conduct her thither, and passing through a white and gold drawing-room -she came to a long gallery of a conservatory, filled with spring -flowers, where, on a divan in a little grove of orange-trees and lilacs -and double red camellias, a lady of about forty, wrapped in a shawl, was -taking farewell of a youth of French appearance, who was, however, -talking very good English to her. The young Frenchman passed Horatia, -tall, very young, good-looking. She was announced, and found herself -being warmly greeted. - -"And this is Stephen Grenville's daughter! My brother has just written -to me about you. My dear, I would like to kiss you, but I have a -horrible cold. Come and sit on the divan by me if you are not afraid of -catching it. I have gargled and blistered till I am sure there can be -no infection left!" - -So Horatia sat down by the side of this daughter of the beautiful -Duchess of Devonshire, who had not indeed inherited her mother's looks, -but who had to the full the Cavendish charm of voice and manner, and, as -she soon discovered, inexhaustible supplies both of humour and of wit. -Lady Granville assumed, rather to her visitor's dismay, that her new -relatives had "allowed" her to come, whereat Horatia, feeling something -like a truant schoolgirl, had to confess that such was not the case. -The Ambassadress looked grave, and Horatia was still more uncomfortable -when it transpired that Lady Granville had, for her sake, relaxed her -rule about formal presentations to herself. However, nobody could have -been more kind or amusing. Horatia being English born, Lady Granville -was able to permit herself some remarks on French society not untinged -with malice, asking her visitor if she had yet become acquainted with -"the type of woman made by Herbault, Victorine and Alexandre, the woman -who looks to see if you have six curls or five on the side of your -head," and whether it had yet been patronisingly said of her that no one -would take her for an Englishwoman--"just as I sometimes tell Charles de -Montalembert--that young man who was leaving as you came in--that he -will some day be taken for an Englishman. But then he is half English, -or rather Scotch. Yet no true Englishman would ever permit himself to -be so enthusiastic about the Church." - -"The Church!" exclaimed Horatia. "That young man! Oh, Lady Granville, -how ... how unusual! Is he going to be a priest?" - -"Oh no, my dear. He will be a peer of France when his father dies. He -is an angel, rather too good for this earth of ours, but enthusiastic to -the last degree! You have heard, I dare say, of Lamennais, the great -preacher? Well, he and some friends started last autumn a most violent -clerical paper, called _L'Avenir_, to which M. de Montalembert is one of -the chief contributors. They want an alliance between Catholics and the -people, they have alienated the Legitimists, hitherto the main -supporters of the Church, by saying they sacrificed their God to their -King, and now they are pressing the Bishops and clergy to give up all -their endowments and palaces, without thinking how the poor things are -to live. And the latest is that Charles and his great friend, a young -abbé named Lacordaire, are talking of opening a 'free school' next -month, and teaching in it themselves." - -"And all this excitement is about the Church?" said Horatia musingly. -"How strange, because in England too--at least at Oxford..." - -"My dear, _surely_ there are no Charles de Montalemberts at Oxford--of -all places! Besides, why should there be?" - -Horatia could not say, but the question had so vividly called up another -Charles--and his friend--that for a moment she hardly heard Lady -Granville discussing the prospects of the Reform Bill. - -When she took her leave, pressed by the Ambassadress to come soon on one -of her Mondays--her Fridays were so crowded--she drove home in the -highest spirits, feeling that she had really made a friend, and a most -delightful friend. - - - - - *CHAPTER VII* - - - *(1)* - - -Horatia drove with the Marquise next afternoon. The Champs Elysées were -very gay, and her spirits always went up when the sun shone. There was -the indefinable romance of spring, the eternal romance of Paris--and -Armand was coming back to-night. She was inclined to wonder at her -restlessness of yesterday. - -"Dear me," observed Madame de Beaulieu suddenly, "I smell essence de -mousseline. When have you been to Houbigant's?" And without waiting -for an answer she went on, "You are improving, ma chère. As a rule you -English have organs for which no odour is too strong, and no colour is -too striking. Lavender is the basis of all your perfumes, and the -rainbow of all your colours." - -As she spoke a very pretty woman, elaborately dressed in violet drap -d'Algers and swansdown, and extravagantly painted, passed them for the -third or fourth time in her carriage. She was alone, and was driving -very slowly; many glances, of which she seemed pleasurably conscious, -were cast at her from other carriages and by the male loungers under the -trees. Chiefly to avoid the subject of Houbigant's, Horatia asked who -she was. - -The Marquise put up her lorgnettes. "That?" she said carelessly--"oh, -Mademoiselle Blanchette Delmar of the Opera of course. Yes, she is -pretty, isn't she? Armand thought so once, too, but they apparently got -tired of each other very soon. I forget who is the favoured swain at -present." - -A curious sick coldness came over Horatia; yet the red mounted to her -cheeks. The Marquise observed it. - -"Ma chère," she said with a laugh, "surely you have not been placing -your husband on a pinnacle apart from other men! Armand as an -anchorite! Mon Dieu!" - -"No, of course not," said Horatia, battling for composure, "but..." - -"But!" repeated Madame de Beaulieu, "But what? The young person is very -well, in her way. And it is quite a year ago. Then you are shocked at -me for knowing about it? Well, I grant you that we are not supposed to -know these things, for it is not good taste for a gentleman to parade -his love-affairs. But pardon, for perhaps in England (though I had not -guessed it such an Eden of purity) these things do not exist, and I have -soiled your innocence unnecessarily. Forgive me!" - -All the distaste of Horatia's soul for the Marquise blossomed at this -moment into a sudden flower of hatred. She wanted to stop the carriage -and get out. What need to have told her! Her brain went on working -furiously as they continued to drive up and down and the Marquise -continued to talk. Horatia had heard a good many things since she came -to Paris, but they had never seemed to touch her--she had never imagined -that they could touch her.... It hurt; it burned like poison.... - - -When she got back to the Hôtel de la Roche-Guyon she was told, to her -surprise, that M. le Comte had already returned, and that he was waiting -for her in her boudoir. - -She had not expected him till night, and she went up the stairs very -slowly. Part of her was crying out for joy that he was back, would have -liked to run to him, to throw her arms round his neck and say to him, -"Darling, I don't think of it, now that you are here: it is past, it is -untrue." And part of her did not feel thus. - -If she had had any intention of referring to the subject she had not, in -the event, much chance of doing so. It was to be a day of shocks. -Armand was standing with his back to her, looking out of the window -giving on to the courtyard; evidently he had been watching her arrival. -He turned at her entrance, came forward and kissed her hand, her cheek, -and then said gravely, "Horatia, I am sorry to have to scold you." - -"What is it?" she asked, genuinely amazed. - -"You went yesterday to the English Embassy." - -"O, that!" she exclaimed, moved by the ludicrous disparity between this -enormity and what she had been hearing of him. And she began to walk -across the room, pulling off her gloves. - -"And is 'that' so small a thing to you?" demanded Armand angrily. "You -know that for nothing in the world would one of us be seen setting foot -in a house which is on intimate terms with the Palais Royal, which -receives the Orléans princes. Yet you choose a day when I am away, when -my cousin cannot accompany you..." - -Horatia turned round. "Please be careful what you are saying to me, -Armand! I think you cannot realise that you are accusing me--me--of -duplicity." - -"Eh bien, what is it then?" asked her husband. - -"Ignorance, stupidity, what you like, but not that," she said, "How was -I to know of these ... these petty restrictions? I am English, and Lady -Granville is English, and knew my father." - -"Pardon me, you are French now," retorted Armand. "Permit me to remind -you that you have duties towards the name which you honoured me by -accepting." - -His tone a little suggested that the honour was the other way round. -The caged feeling came over her for a moment. "I am the prisoner of the -tribe," she thought to herself. "Armand will never liberate me." She -said coldly, "Lady Granville enlightened me. I am sorry, very sorry, if -I have injured your prestige, but it was done in ignorance." With that -she turned her back on him once more, and went and sat down by the -window. Her husband followed her, biting his lip. - -"I beg your pardon for supposing that you knew what you were doing," he -said, still rather stiffly. "You see, Horatia, do you not--" - -"I see a great many things," she said. "I see that I am to have no -friends, no will, no identity of my own. I may not go out when I wish; I -may not see you when I wish..." - -Suddenly she heard her own voice; it sounded shrill. The ache, the -disgust of the afternoon swung back on her. Was she driving him to -that? She stopped; and, more electric than a lightning flash, it came -to her how most triumphantly she could end this situation. So, rising, -she laid her hand on his breast and, looking up at him, said very gently -and deliberately, - -"Are you really angry with me, Armand?" - -Her victory was instantaneous. - - - - *(2)* - - -Martha, pulling back her lamb's curtains next morning, was, all -unsuspecting, like the gaoler who rouses the captive. As the daylight -flooded the room Horatia woke more fully to the realisation of an -extraordinary weight on her spirits. While she lay there waiting for -her coffee the whole of yesterday's scene in the Champs Elysées played -itself through again. That woman with her laughing, reddened lips.... -There was time to taste shock, and yet she did not taste it fully; the -soreness at her heart had in it much more of the most primitive of all -passions--jealousy. - -Her coffee and rolls came; she could scarcely touch them. She wanted -Armand to enter; but he had been out late last night at the bal de -l'Opéra. He might not come for a long time. Tears began to well out -under her lashes; and presently Horatia de la Roche-Guyon, her head half -buried in the pillow, was sobbing like a child that cries for it knows -not what. - -"Bon jour, chère amie!" - -She had not heard his knock, nor his entrance. Hastily and stealthily -she dabbed at her eyes. - -"You are late this morning," observed the Comte cheerfully. "Look at -me, not home till three this morning, but already risen.... My darling, -what is the matter?" - -Horatia, her face nearly concealed by the pillow and the tumbled masses -of her hair, murmured something unintelligible. - -Armand sat down on the bed. "My angel, what is it? Is it because I -scolded you yesterday? But you forgave me.... Look at me, Horatia, and -tell me what is the matter." He had gently to draw away the hand which -held the handkerchief to her eyes. "Come, my darling--Bon Dieu, what -hair you have!" He took up a lock. - -"Madame de Beaulieu says it is hideous," sighed Horatia between two -little sobs. - -"That is because she cannot succeed in buying any like it, I expect," -retorted her husband. "Is that why you were crying, my child? Listen -then, and I will tell you a secret. The Duchesse is having a wig made -as nearly as possible the colour of your hair; she is going to wear it -on her fête or on the next saint's day. There's a compliment for you! -Do not mind, therefore, what my cousin says. All women are jealous of -one another.... Come now, take away that handkerchief and let me kiss -you!" - -She let him do so, and even clung to him. "Promise me, promise me, that -you will always love me, Armand!" - -"_The good old phrase again!_" whispered a little imp in the young man's -ear. "Foolish, foolish child," he said, smiling his delightful smile. -"What do you think I am made of then?" - -"You do really forgive me for yesterday?" she murmured, hiding her -tear-stained face in his breast. "It must never happen again. I could -not bear that anything should come between us.... As long as you are -with me, Armand, nothing can." - -"My darling," he said, and kissed the top of her head. - -"I am very, very sorry about Lady Granville," she went on after a -moment, and with a heavy sigh. "Is the Duchesse exceedingly angry with -me?" - -"Perhaps the slaughter she made of me yesterday will content her," -suggested her husband cheerfully. - -Horatia clasped him closer, "O poor Armand! I will never, never see Lady -Granville again! I will write to her to-day and say so." - -When, a few minutes later, Armand had gone, after assuring her again -that he would love her as long as the Seine ran through Paris, that she -was probably the one woman in the world who could look beautiful after -tears, and that he had found the bal de l'Opéra last night very dull -because he could not hope to come on a lock of her hair peeping out from -the hood of a domino, Horatia slipped out of bed and went to her mirror. -Was she beautiful, pale and heavy-eyed as she was? She propped her face -on her hands, her hair falling about her shoulders in a cloud of sunset, -and stared into the glass. As long as the Seine ran through Paris! -Would he love her just as much when her colour was not as clear and -fresh as now it was, when there were lines on her white forehead, when -her bright hair began to lose its lustre ... when, in short, she was no -longer young, and, as he called her now, beautiful? Would he? - -And would he love her just as much ... or more ... if, if-- - -She was still gazing, with a dream in her half-smiling eyes, when Martha -came to dress her. - - - - - *CHAPTER VIII* - - - *(1)* - - -Circumstances were beginning to prove, as usual, too strong for Armand -de la Roche-Guyon. For all his self-will he was generally at the mercy -of his surroundings; too light a bark to struggle with the stream, too -buoyant to be wholly swamped by it. In England Horatia had been his -circumstances; before her, Laurence de Vigerie; before her, not a few -other ladies; and now Paris, his friends, his family had enveloped him -again. For it was quite true, as the Duchesse had hinted, that his -friends were beginning to tease him about his devotion to his wife, -while on the other hand he suspected that his wife would soon come to -consider him not devoted enough. This morning's little scene was all -very well in its way, but a melancholy prescience whispered to him that -the day might dawn when he would find it a bore to keep on assuring -Horatia that he loved her. There was no excitement now in the -situation, and she was so entirely a captive that he felt his own -chains. A certain standard of behaviour was evidently going to be -demanded of him, whereas what he craved for was not obligations but -diversion. And that the two things he most held in horror, the -possibilities of becoming ridiculous and of being made uncomfortable, -should descend upon him at once, from different quarters, was rather -damnable. - -He was in this mood when he crossed the Pont Royal that afternoon, -turned to the left and began to walk beside the wall of the Tuileries -garden. It was two o'clock, the fashionable hour for promenaders -within, but Armand chose the comparative peace of the quay. The sun -shone; a little breeze blew off the Seine, and he walked along frowning, -no less handsome and attractive for his ill-temper, while two -soubrettes, linked arm in arm, turned to look after him speculating on -its cause. - -Diversion, excitement, a stimulating uncertainty as to his -reception--all these had been his at the hands of Madame de Vigerie. -Armand had long admired this young, fashionable, and widowed lady, had -paid her marked court, and had arrived last summer at the conclusion -that, if she would have him--which was by no means certain--he could not -do better than to marry her. Then had come his visit to England, and -the intrusion of a sudden, genuine passion. But his intention had -nevertheless held till the night of that ball in Berkshire. Afterwards -he had lain awake till morning fighting the new emotion with the -remembrance of the old, then, with a characteristic mixture of coolness -and impetuosity, had decided that the new was better. Probably it was, -yet he wished that he were at this moment on his way to the familiar -drawing room in the Rue de la Chaussée d'Antin, if only to have his -present irritation put to flight. - -So he walked, swinging his gold and tortoiseshell cane, and behind him, -in an open carriage, a lady in lie-de-vin and ermine was overtaking him. -With her furs she had a little parasol against the April sun; a boa was -wound twice round her neck. She was not pretty, but she was supremely -elegant. Leaning forward, she spoke to her coachman; the pace of her -horses was moderated, and thus, while still overtaking him, she was able -to contemplate at her leisure the figure of the young man to which she -drew near. And she did so with a smile on her lips, and her head a -little on one side. - -Abreast of Armand she called out softly, - -"Monsieur de la Roche-Guyon!" and the carriage drew up. - -Armand turned. It is always startling when the subject of one's -meditations suddenly appears before one, and the slowness with which his -hand went to his hat was sufficient proof of the degree to which he was -amazed. - -"You in Paris--you!" he exclaimed. - -"With your permission," said the Vicomtesse, smiling. "Or even, -Monsieur, without it." - -Armand, hat in hand, stared at her. - -"Where have you been all this while?" he asked at last. - -"In Italy," replied she. "And you?" - -"Further than that," returned the young man rather meaningly, coming -nearer to the carriage. He had now regained his composure, and looked -at her to see if she understood. "I have--but may I not come and tell -you about it?" - -"Mon Dieu, is it so tragic as all that?" asked Madame de Vigerie with -gravity. "But, my poor friend, I know all about it. You are in the -most serious of all scrapes. Yes, I know all about it. Nevertheless, -come and see me some day," She rearranged her furs; the coachman looked -round for orders. - -"When?" asked the Comte eagerly. "At the usual time--three?" - -Madame de Vigerie shook her head. "Oh no, not now! I am at home on -Tuesdays at eight.--Yes, to the Champs Elysées." - -She drove off. So she did not care the snap of a finger ... unless she -were dissembling very well. And she had relegated him to the hour of her -salon, where, for the sake of a sight of her, he would have to endure -all sorts of bores. - -Nevertheless, she was back, and Armand was conscious of a distinct -lightening of his spirits. - - - - *(2)* - - -It was, no doubt, a dark and shameful blot on the family blazon that the -heir of the house of La Roche-Guyon should be an amateur botanist of -some distinction. Not the tragic life-in-death of his wife, nor the -unmothered state of his only son was to be compared, in the eyes of the -Dowager Duchess, with the fact that Emmanuel, Marquis de la Roche-Guyon -was delivered over to a taste which she considered suitable enough in an -apothecary but unspeakably derogatory for a man of family. The Marquis, -however, never betrayed much discomposure at the sarcasms of his -venerable grand-parent. Forty-one years of a not very happy life had -taught him calm, and, kindly and unostentatiously courteous though he -was to everyone, he went his own way. Despite his name and connections, -he had done nothing in the world of politics or diplomacy, and never -would; he was merely an ineffective, reserved, tolerant and melancholy -gentleman who desired to lead the life of a recluse and did not always -succeed in doing it. - -It was in accordance with his habits that when he took his walks abroad -such exercises were likely sooner or later to lead him past the -bookstalls on the quays of the Seine--for he was something of a -bibliophile too. On a certain afternoon in April therefore, about ten -days after Armand's meeting with the Vicomtesse de Vigerie, he was -passing slowly along by the lidded boxes on the Quai Voltaire, when he -observed a fashionably dressed and elegant young man turning over the -old books at a stall a little further on, and recognised, to his no -small surprise, his own brother. Armand was humming a tune between his -teeth, and seemed gay above the ordinary; the lamentable old proprietor -of the box watched him with respect. - -"This is a new avocation for you, mon cher," observed the Marquis, -tapping him on the shoulder. - -"Just the person I wanted," retorted the young man, glancing up. "Find -me that, and I will never call you herbalist or bookworm again." He put -into the hand of his elder a slip of paper inscribed in a feminine -writing. Emmanuel looked at it and gave it back. - -"You are not in the least likely to find that here. It is rather rare." - -"Dame! so it seems. I have ruined a clean pair of gloves over the -search already. I must go to a bookseller's, I suppose." - -"Well, I was going to say that if you want it for yourself or for your -wife I have a copy, and would lend it you with pleasure." - -"A thousand thanks," replied Armand, turning away from the box. "But I -want it for someone else, so that would not do. I must try down the Rue -des Saints-Pères. Are you coming my way? No; au revoir then." - -He crossed the road; and the Marquis looked after his alert young back -with a certain wistfulness before he continued his peregrination. - -A little later Armand emerged from a second-hand bookshop in the Rue des -Saints-Pères with the coveted volume under his arm. As he did so he saw -himself presenting it to Madame de Vigerie. He had really taken a good -deal of trouble for her, and probably, in his ignorance, paid twice as -much as the book was worth. But that did not matter if Laurence was -pleased. He had seen her now three times since their meeting on the -Quai des Tuileries--never alone, it is true, nor had he succeeded in -penetrating to her real attitude of mind towards him. He intended to -make the book an excuse for calling at an hour different from that to -which he had been restricted. Since it was not a matter of life and -death to him he found it distinctly exciting not to know what she really -felt about him. But that was part of Laurence's attraction. Meditating -on the pleasant and even piquant prospect opening before him he reached -the Hôtel de la Roche-Guyon. - - -Horatia was sitting in the salon, wearing a gown in which he had once -expressly admired her--though, as he had already forgotten this fact, -the choice had no significance for him. A book lay open in her lap. But -as her husband came over to her and kissed her hand, uttering one of the -agreeable nothings that came so easily to him, he was instantly aware -that she had been waiting for him, that she was on tiptoe with -expectation about something. She was looking more than usually -beautiful. He told her so, sitting down beside her. - -She gave him in return a bright, soft glance, and closed the open book. -"I wanted to ask you something, dear," she said. "Do you think we could -go down to Brittany soon, next week perhaps.... I should like it so -much." - -"Tiens! what an odd idea!" said Armand. His voice sounded indolent and -vaguely caressing, but in his mind was surprise, considerable distaste, -and a premonition of conflict. - -"I don't think that it is odd," urged Horatia earnestly. "I enjoyed -Kerfontaine so much in the winter. We shall be going there in May, -shall we not? and it is nearly May now." - -"Yes, if you consider the middle of April to be nearly May," remarked -her husband, putting his hands behind his head and smiling at her with a -sort of easy indulgence. - -"No, that was a foolish thing to say. But surely it would not matter so -very much if we did go in April?" - -"I am afraid that it would." - -Horatia had been gripping the closed book with a curious intensity. -"Why would it matter, Armand? I do want so much to be there." - -Armand shifted uneasily. "My dear, I am very sorry----" - -"But, Armand, if you are really sorry surely you could arrange it? You -see, it is the first thing I have ever asked of you." - -She looked so lovely and pleading that the young man was annoyed with -destiny, for he would have liked to yield to her. But he had not the -slightest intention of losing the way he had already made in his -recovered friendship with Madame de Vigerie. He unclasped his hands, -sat up, and said firmly, "One has one's own engagements and plans, you -know, chère amie; it is impossible to put them off and alter them -without due cause. I am very sorry, as I said before, but I could not -do it." - -Horatia leant forward, two bright spots in her cheeks. "Would it then -be 'without due cause' if the reason you gave your friends was that I -had most particularly asked you to do it?" - -Armand raised his eyebrows. "My dear, I am afraid that is the last -reason I could ever give them." - -It took a second or two for the stinging though unintentional brutality -of this to penetrate, so composedly and gently did it slip out. All the -more had it the accent of truth.... The brilliant, wandering colour -went out of Horatia's face; she raised one hand a little uncertainly, -the book slipped from the other. Then she rose. - -"I am much obliged to you for being so outspoken," she said in a slow, -rather bewildered voice. "I thin. ... I think I rather admire it. It -is better to know. You see, I did not really believe what the Duchesse -said; now I do. Yes, it is better to know...." She ended vaguely, -turned, and began to move towards the door of her boudoir. - -"Know what?" asked Armand, uncomfortably conscious that he had struck -much harder than he intended. "Horatia, do not go like that. I----" - -Horatia did stop, and faced him. "She said that I should make you -ridiculous." The words seemed to be forced from her. Then, turning -away, and in a very different tone, she added, "But that is impossible, -is it not, when you take such good care of yourself!" - -"Horatia, listen to me! Do not be so foolish!" cried Armand, springing -after her, for she was at the door. But she went through, and he heard -the key turn in the lock. - - - - *(3)* - - -The Comtesse Armand de la Roche-Guyon had gathered in her boudoir all -the relics that she cared to preserve of Horatia Grenville, and in the -place of honour on the mantelpiece stood a silhouette of her father as a -young man, gazing straight in front of him with the spirited yet stony -gaze of its kind. And, having locked the door, Horatia went almost -mechanically towards it, and flinging herself down in the chair, gave -way to a tempest of tears--tears of rage, humiliation, and the bitterest -disappointment. - -While she had, unaided, put on this dress this afternoon, her hands -shaking with excitement, she had acted over the scene. Armand would -very naturally be surprised at her request, would raise objections -perhaps, but in the end--or at the beginning, for the matter of that--he -would ask her why she was so set on going to Kerfontaine. And then she -would tell him her secret.... - -And this was the realisation of that dream, this was the shallow pool to -which all the sea of rapture of the past had shrunk! "I love him--I -have given him everything--I am to bear his child, and he thinks more of -his friends' laughter than of me...." No use to fight that tiny doubt -that had been growing lately in her heart, that he did not love her as -she loved him.... But what did that matter, doubt or certainty, for she -did not love him any more. "I shall not tell him now," was her thought, -joined with that other, half vengeful, half wistful, "Ah, if he only -knew!" - -She looked up with swimming eyes at the silhouette on the mantelpiece. -What was her father doing, poor darling, without her? Oh, if she could -only have gone with her news to him! A passion of home-sickness came -over her; she was indeed alone in a strange land. She had always known -that she was setting out into exile, but by Armand's side it could never -have been real banishment. Now... - -A quarter of an hour later she passed into her bedroom, and, without -ringing for her maid, took off her dress, resolving that she would never -wear it again, bathed her eyes, put on a négligé and returned to her -boudoir. Then, with an heroic attempt at self-discipline, she selected -a stiff book from the case and sat down to read it. - - - - *(4)* - - -M. le Comte de la Roche-Guyon, when his wife's boudoir door was shut in -his face, gave a philosophical little shrug of his shoulders and turned -away without more ado. He proceeded to his own apartment, made some -changes in his attire, and taking up the book for Madame de Vigerie, set -out forthwith to bear it to that lady, trusting that on his return the -sky would have cleared. - -He did not, however, reach her house in the Rue de la Chaussée d'Antin, -for under the chestnut trees in the Tuileries garden he happened upon -the Vicomtesse herself, seated with two other ladies upon the -straw-bottomed chairs that stood there. He sat down beside her, and, -her companions being for the moment engrossed with their own -conversation, was able to say to her unheard, - -"I was coming to see you. I have got your book." - -"So soon?" said she. "You are a marvel; a thousand thanks!" And she -held out her hand. - -The young man shook his head, smiling. "I was coming to see you," he -repeated. - -Madame de Vigerie smiled too. "Very well," she said, "But not now, for -I am not going home. Come some afternoon next week." - -Armand's face fell a little. "That is very much deferred payment," he -observed. "And perhaps I may not be in Paris." - -"Indeed? And where are you going?" - -"My wife is absolutely set on going to Brittany at once." - -"But why?" - -"Heaven alone knows. I do not." - -The Vicomtesse considered a moment, the point of her parasol patterning -the gravel. Then a sort of flash passed over her countenance, "You will -go," she predicted. "So had you not better give me the book now?" - -Armand stared at her, nonplussed by the certainty of her tone and by the -mischievous amusement in her face. "Mark my words," she continued, "you -will not be here next week--though I am quite aware that you were only -using that possibility as a threat. Adieu; my friends, you see, are -waiting for me. We shall see who is right. I shall be at St. Clair in -June; I suppose I must resign myself to wait for the book till then." -And so she left him, outraged with the thought that she considered him -the plaything of a wife's idle wishes, and he returned, not too well -pleased, to the Rue St. Dominique. - -But no sooner had he set foot there than he received a message that the -Duchesse desired to see him immediately. Up to the Dowager's suite he -then mounted, to find his venerable relative playing piquet with her -dame de compagnie. - -"Aha! here you are at last!" said the Duchesse, evidently in high good -humour. "Masson, you can go. Well, my child, what have you to say for -yourself?" - -Was it possible--incredible though it seemed--that Horatia had been -complaining to Madame de la Roche-Guyon? If so, the old lady had -evidently not taken her part. - -"What do you want me to say?" enquired the Comte, cautiously. - -"What do I want you to say? Armand, you are unpayable!" And the -Dowager went off into a scream of laughter, causing the little Italian -greyhound to spring up shivering in his basket. "Sit down, and tell me -why you rushed out of the house directly you had heard the news. I was -waiting to send for you to congratulate you." - -"To congratulate me? ... On what?" Enlightenment came in the midst of -his wonder. "Juste ciel! So that was why----" - -"You don't mean to say that you really did not know--that she did not -tell you just now?" - -Armand sat down, feeling rather dizzy. "No, not a word. She only said -that she wanted to go to Brittany at once, and I---- What a fool I was -not to guess!" - -"In that sentiment," observed his grandmother, "I fully concur. And -what did you say about Brittany?" - -"I--well, I refused to go." - -The Duchesse appealed to the saints. "It is true, I have always known -that men were idiots, but I did think that in you, child, resided what -little sense there is in the family.... And you refused--you refused! -You, to whom she is to give an heir in December, refused her first -request!" More to the same effect was proceeding from the Dowager when -her grandson, who had made no attempt to defend himself, suddenly got -up. - -"I have been worse than a fool, I have been a brute," he said. He was -rather white. "Forgive me if I go to her now." And waiting neither for -further admonitions nor even for permission he hurriedly kissed her hand -and left the room. - - -So Horatia had not read more than four pages of "Locke on the Human -Understanding" (which she was finding, if not consoling, at least -astringent against tears) when she heard his knock. Upborne, probably, -by the philosopher (for it was the last thing that she wanted to do), -she rose, unlocked the door in silence, and returning to her place -without so much as looking at the intruder, stood there, one hand on the -marble mantelshelf. - -But Armand too came without a word to her side, and just when--still not -turning or looking at him--she imagined that he was going to speak, -perhaps to try to take her in his arms, he dropped on one knee, and -taking a fold of her négligé put it silently to his lips. - - - - - *CHAPTER IX* - - - *(1)* - - -In one of the enormous rooms of her château of St. Clair, which not even -her taste could make other than oppressive, Laurence-Héloïse de Vigerie -sat waiting for her carriage. The apartment, with its six great -windows, its consoles of alabaster, its porphyry vases and chandelier of -rock-crystal, still kept its air of pomp from the time of Louvois, -unsubdued by flowers or books. Even Madame de Vigerie herself had an -air of being in perpetual warfare with her stiff surroundings, an -appearance of being at this moment, in her pelisse of lemon-yellow silk -and her delicate white jacconet gown, something rather incongruous and -sylphlike shut up by mistake in a monument. - -Sitting near one of the great porphyry vases she looked impatiently at -the clock--monumental also--she tapped with her little foot in its lilac -cashmere boot; finally she took a rose out of a jardinière and began to -twirl it round and round. In a moment or two her lips parted in a -smile. The scent of the rose reminded her of something. - -This time last summer, chance having kept her late in Paris, some of -these very roses had been sent by her command from St. Clair. Armand de -la Roche-Guyon had been with her when, somewhat faded, they had arrived, -and he had asked for one. And she remembered how, afterwards, with the -fragrance of the dying roses round her, she had pondered for a little -time whether she would marry Armand if he asked her--a contingency -obviously likely to occur any day. She had his measure by heart; she -knew his fickleness, was perfectly aware that he was the slave of -caprice (his own or another's), but she knew, too, that he always came -back to her in the end. For her, with her connections, wealth and -position, it was no great match, perhaps, the younger son of an -impoverished though very ancient house. Yet sometimes ... Well, she had -never had to make up her mind! - -And, after all, he had fallen under the sway of an empire stronger, -momentarily, than hers. He had not come back to her! The news of his -English marriage had struck her, it is true, as an affront, but she was -persuaded that it was more of a wound to her pride than to her heart. -And he would have been so much trouble to keep! - -Yet he had some curious quality of charm. How easy, in spite of his -defection, it had been to take him back into favour. It was true that -she had caused him to feel anything but thoroughly reinstated.... And -now she was going to return his wife's visit.--Heigho, what an odd -world! - -Madame de Vigerie had not seen Horatia, having been out when the bride -had called, but Armand had described her. Evidently she was beautiful. -But that, in the Vicomtesse's experience, did not count for very much, -and certainly her own lack of beauty had never troubled her. Laurence -de Vigerie was a finished type of the belle laide, dowered with the -attraction which, once it has subjugated, can never lose its hold by the -mere passage of time. Her power came from other sources than her -complexion or her hair. Passing through life as she did, always a -little amused, apparently rather cold, and inclined to experiment, -elusive in her relations, absolutely without petty jealousy and very -nearly without malice, she had given no cause for scandal, and had -driven more men distracted than she cared, sometimes, to remember. - - - - *(2)* - - -Horatia put down her embroidery and rose. She was dreading this -interview. She was sure that she should not like Madame de Vigerie, and -she would probably have to see a good deal of her. - -Beneath the four upright ostrich plumes which topped her lemon-yellow -bonnet, beneath its wide brim lined with Adelaide-blue crepe, Horatia -saw the irregular features of the woman who might have been in her -place. And Laurence de Vigerie beheld the chosen bride, the woman -preferred before her, serious, rather pale, with a crown of red-gold -hair and a simple muslin gown. "She is but a child" was her first -thought (instantly corrected), and Horatia's, that the Vicomtesse was -not beautiful, not even pretty, as she had expected. Among her gifts -Madame de Vigerie possessed the double power of making the banalities of -ordinary intercourse sound interesting, and of getting them over -quickly, for in the course of a few minutes they had been left behind, -and the two were conversing on more interesting themes. - -"You read a great deal, Madame, do you not?" - -"I used to," answered Horatia rather wistfully. "I have always been -fond of reading French," she added. - -"Yes, indeed," said Madame de Vigerie, "it is easy to see that your -knowledge of our tongue is profound. Perhaps if you are not well -provided with French books, you would allow me to send you over a few, I -daresay the library at Kerfontaine is not very up to date. I know that -mine is not, and I have to bring books from Paris. Let me lend you the -new book of Hugo's which everyone is devouring, _Notre Dame de Paris_." - -Horatia thanked her warmly, and the visitor went on to admire the garden -and the fountain, "which I always envy so much," she said. - -Horatia, too, looked out of the window at the little figure. - -"I am very fond of it," she said, "and I wish I knew something of its -history, for I believe that an ancestor of my husband's brought it from -Italy, but I have never been able to find out for certain." - -Madame de Vigerie gave her a bright and friendly glance. "I can tell -you all about it," she was beginning, when the door opened and Armand -came in. - -He greeted her with composure. "Do not let me deprive my wife of the -information which you were about to give her, Vicomtesse," he said. -"Unless, indeed, it be some fashionable detail of which I am better left -ignorant." - -Madame de Vigerie's eyes, as they rested on him, held a little sprite of -mockery which he knew very well. "We were discussing Art," she said -gravely. "Since you permit it, Monsieur, I will continue. Madame la -Comtesse is doubtless aware that her fountain is a copy of Verrochio's -famous boy and dolphin at Florence. But you, Monsieur, have not told her -how, in the Italian wars of Louis XII, Raoul de Kerfontaine, your -grandfather heaven knows how many times removed on the mother's side, -being desirous of bringing a fairing to his lady, decided on this not -very portable mark of his affection; how it took so long to copy and to -convey, that when he got back to Brittany the lady was married to -another. So he set it up in his own garden and, I daresay, used often -to wander round it in the moonlight, poor gentleman, thinking sad -thoughts." - -"Vicomtesse," said Armand laughing, "you have made that up!" - -"Fi donc, Monsieur!" retorted the guest. "You do not know the history -of your own family!" - -"He is scandalously ignorant," agreed Horatia. "But, Madame, if I may -ask, how do you know it so well?" - -"Because," replied Madame de Vigerie, "by an odd chance, the lady of M. -de Kerfontaine's blighted affections happened to be an ancestress of my -husband's. I can show you the tale in a book at St. Clair--not of course -that St. Clair in its present state existed then.... And so M. le Comte -has never shown you, Madame, the inscription which the poor Raoul had -carved on the base of the statue?" - -"Never. But if you, Madame, would remedy his negligence?" - -"Willingly," responded the Vicomtesse. "I am never so happy as when I -am imparting information." - -Armand unfastened the window and followed them out. The visit was going -well. It was long since he had seen Horatia so animated. Feeling that -there might be a slight constraint in the situation, he had purposely -refrained from coming in until the two women should have broken the ice, -and even when he entered had thought it possible that he should find the -temperature below freezing point. But you could never tell about women, -for they seemed to have taken a fancy to each other. He followed the -yellow pelisse and the white muslin down between the lime-trees, -wondering what Laurence was thinking about. - -"You see," said Madame de Vigerie, "what the poor man thought of women." -She took off a glove and traced with a delicate finger the remains of -the eroded fettering round the base of the bronze. "_Cor muliebre his -aquis mutabilius_," she read, and Horatia fell an instant convert to the -continental mode of pronouncing Latin. - -"And was the faithless lady happy?" she asked. - -"Supremely, I regret to say. It was only sad for M. le Comte's unlucky -ancestor. Mais que voulez-vous? He should not have been so slow. And -you had never been told this moving tale?" - -"Certainly not," responded Armand. "It is derogatory to my ancestor, -and for my part I am little disposed to believe it now." - -"In the face of that evidence?" asked Madame de Vigerie, pointing to the -statue. - -"That inscription is a commonplace known to mankind since the days of -Horace," retorted the young man. "It is just as true to-day as then, and -is therefore no evidence at all." - -The Vicomtesse removed her gaze from him. "Madame, you must not let your -husband talk in this manner. But the real evidence is at St. Clair, and -if you will promise to come and see me soon I will hunt out the old -book.--M. le Comte, would you be good enough to see if my carriage is -there?" - -Armand went obediently, but when he returned, he found his wife and her -visitor strayed into the rose-garden, and talking of gardening matters. -Not even when putting the Vicomtesse into her carriage had he the -opportunity of a word alone with her, for Horatia accompanied them. She -had apparently been bidden to St. Clair next day. - -"I do not invite you, M. le Comte," was Madame de Vigerie's parting -remark. "Since you do not believe the legend, research would only bore -you, and I want no unwilling converts." - - - - *(3)* - - -Tristram Hungerford had been right; the Comte de la Roche-Guyon, young -as he was, did consider himself to be thoroughly versed in the ways of -women. But there were occasions during the next three or four weeks of -his sojourn in Brittany when the connoisseur found himself hopelessly -puzzled by the behaviour of the two nearest specimens of the sex, women, -too, of whose idiosyncrasies he might have been supposed to have an -intimate knowledge--his wife that was and his wife that might have been. -That these two, of characters so different, placed in a mutual -relationship not of the most comfortable, should become, not mere -acquaintances but, apparently, actual friends, was beyond him. And -since, in that short space of time, this miracle had happened; since two -days did not pass that Laurence did not come over to see Horatia, or -Horatia go driving with Laurence, and since miracles were not within his -sphere of belief, Armand refused to credit the evidence. He thought that -the two women were playing at being friends, for some reason unknown. - -But, since Armand had, along with the scepticism, the logical mind of -his race, he did not long occupy this position. He could not discover a -motive strong enough to produce so much dissimulation. Horatia had -nothing very much to gain from intimacy with Madame de Vigerie; she -would naturally be predisposed against the woman who might have had her -place. And as for the Vicomtesse, Armand was not fatuous enough to -imagine that she was consciously cultivating a friendship with the wife -in order that she might see more of the husband. Indeed, Madame de -Vigerie seemed to take especial care that no such flattering thought -should find even a momentary lodging in his mind. If he was not -definitely excluded from their society--which would in a sense have been -complimentary--he was made to feel that his presence or absence was -immaterial. His position began to be rather galling, and he strongly -suspected Laurence, with her diabolical intuition, of being pleasantly -aware of the fact. - -He never saw her alone--a consummation which could easily have been -brought about had she wished it. Already she had begun to have her -house full of guests; their own, chiefly members of the family, would -soon be upon them. But one day he got an opportunity when, coming home -from a ride, and going into the garden in search of Horatia he -perceived, seated by the fountain in a lilac muslin gown, not his wife, -but Madame de Vigerie. - -"At last!" said he, and approached. The Vicomtesse's large hat lay on -the ground by her side; the low sun struck gleams from her brown hair. -At his step she looked round. - -"How much I envy you this garden," she said, undisturbed. "Above all I -love this little green fountain." - -Armand sat down on the rim of the basin, facing her. - -"Permit me to offer it to you," he said. "It should have been yours -this four hundred years or more." - -"Ah, my fickle ancestress!" said Madame de Vigerie, dabbling her hand in -the water. Goldfish from all parts hurried towards it. - -"What a bait!" said Armand below his breath.... "Where is my wife?" - -"Showing a visitor round the garden. You should be there, too." - -"Doubtless," replied the Comte, without stirring. He crossed one booted -leg over the other, and looked at her. She withdrew her hand, and, -shaking it, dried it on her handkerchief. - -"Laurence," said the young man suddenly, "don't you think that you are -treating me very badly?" - -"O, I hope not!" said the Vicomtesse quite seriously. - -"We were friends once," said Armand. - -"And now--surely not enemies?" - -"On my soul, I had rather have you for an enemy than for--an -acquaintance!" - -"A compliment?" asked the Vicomtesse. "Yes, I suppose it is.... -Armand, I have fallen in love ... with your wife." - -"If that is, in return, a compliment to me, I thank you." - -"Really, I do not know whether it is or no. If you will permit me to -say so, I do not know how she came to marry you." - -"You find me not worthy?" he inquired. - -For the first time Madame de Vigerie smiled, shaking her head slightly. -"I will not mount into the pulpit, mon ami, however much you press me. -The day when I shall make you a homily is, I hope, distant. Meanwhile, I -wish you every happiness, and a son like his mother.... Here they are -returning." - -When the visitor had departed and Armand, too, had vanished, the two -friends walked up and down under the limes. - -"I have a house full to-morrow," said Madame de Vigerie. "When can you -come over and see me quietly, ma chère. Of course you will both dine -with us next week." - -"The Marquis is coming next week," said Horatia, "and Claude-Edmond. -And, rather to my horror, the Duchesse has expressed a desire to stay -here. It is a royal command." - -"You will be as busy as I for the next few weeks, then?" - -Horatia nodded. "Yes, except that this house is not so capacious as St. -Clair. I shall not be able to get much time for reading, I expect. I -have finished _Ourika_, however, and the other tales of Madame de Duras. -I did not admire them very much; perhaps I ought to have done so." - -"They had a vogue some years ago," said Madame de Vigerie, "probably -because she was a great lady. But I do not think that any woman who -keeps a famous salon, as she did, can do much else." - -"I do not want to write," said Horatia, "but it is a dream of mine to -have a little salon--a literary salon--some day. But my husband does -not encourage it." - -"Monsieur le Comte is quite right," responded Madame de Vigerie rather -unexpectedly. "To have a salon is a life in itself. It is true that -the possession of one is a Frenchwoman's ambition in youth, and her -glory in old age. But, mon Dieu, what sacrifices does it not entail on -her! She can be neither wife, mother, nor lover, and in friendship she -can have but one preference--for the most illustrious man whom she can -attract to her gatherings. To retain him there she must sacrifice -everything else; she and all her surroundings must be vowed to his cult. -If she cannot procure such a great man for the pivot of her circle she -must wear herself out in attentions to a host of lesser lights.--My -dear, you are too good for either of these rôles; do not regret your -lost salon!" - - - - *(4)* - - -Madame de Vigerie, being gifted with the seeing eye, found Horatia -pathetic. "She is losing him, and she knows it," was her verdict now. -In this she was perhaps attributing to the girl more clearness of vision -than she had yet attained to, but the tragedy of the situation she had -not overestimated. - -On arrival at Kerfontaine, Horatia had tried hard to pretend that things -were as they had been in January. But the very fact of the attempt had -slain the chance of its success. It was idle to wander round the -rose-garden, now in fullest leaf and soon to be ablaze; it had been -warmer there under the early snow. Something had gone out of the spirit -of the place, and not all the cajolery of May could bring back the -thrill of the bare boughs. And yet it was not that she wanted her -honeymoon over again. She had no yearnings for the romping happiness of -the winter. Then she had been a girl; now she was a woman. Even in -Paris she had realised that the time had come for her and Armand to pass -on to another stage--together, and now in the shadow of motherhood she -could understand much that had been dark to her before. Never again -could their love fail to satisfy, for it had found its fulfilment. - -Something of this she tried to hint to Armand one May evening in the -garden. He only said, "You amuse me when you look so serious, Horatia. -I don't understand what you are talking about. Those furs become you," -(it was a chilly evening,) "you had better wear them always." - -They were the words he had used in the winter, and she had thrilled then -to hear them. Now they were like a sacrilege. O, why would he not -understand! He must enter with her into this new world. She could not, -would not know its joys, and perhaps its fears, alone. - -She came one day into his sanctum, where he was doing something -absorbing with a fowling-piece. - -"Are you very busy, dear? Yes, I see you are. I will come another -time." - -She looked very animated and charming, so the young man laid down the -gun and said with a smile. "Of course I will, mon amie. What is it that -you want of me?" - -"I want you," replied Horatia, mysteriously sparkling, "to come upstairs -to the old armoury. I have something to ask you." - -He followed her up the staircase, looking at the little curls on the -back of her neck. She led him to the big, disused room on the first -floor which still held the remains of what had been a fine collection of -armour, until the tenantry of Armand's maternal grandfather had -ransacked it for weapons during the Revolution, the better to defend -him. - -"I do not know what you will say to my idea," began Horatia, standing in -the midst of the rusty accoutrements. "I thought--but, of course, you -will say if you do not like it--that all this armour could be cleaned, -and cleared out and arranged along the corridors. There is not very -much of it." - -"And then?" - -"Then ... if it were possible, this big room might be partitioned into -two, or even into three, for nurseries. But perhaps you would rather -not...." - -It was a delightful subject for discussion, and Horatia was quite ready -to discuss, even to give way altogether if he did not approve of her -scheme, for she thought it might seem to him rather revolutionary. - -"Mais, mon Dieu, for what do you take me?" asked her husband, laughing. -"Do you think that I care where these rusty old pots are put? Turn them -out anywhere you like, mon amie. It was not necessary to bring me up -here to ask that!" - -"But the partitioning----" - -"Of course. It is an excellent idea. Do just as you like." And he -turned to go. - -"But, Armand, I thought you would advise me about that. You see, if the -day nursery were at this side, where the sun ..." - -The faintest shade of impatience appeared on the young man's face. "My -angel," he said, "I am no expert on nurseries. You want a married -woman--and a mason. Get Thiébault's people down from Paris to do it -properly, if you like; or there is a good man at Rennes. I give you -carte blanche, only you must not expect me to arrange it for you. Will -you forgive me now--the gamekeeper is coming in a few minutes." - -And Armand's thought was, as he ran down the stairs, that of all people -he would least have expected Horatia Grenville to turn into a Martha of -domesticity. No doubt it was a good thing for the prospects of his -heir, but what if he were going to be pursued by entreaties for advice -about this and that detail! He was not in the least disappointed in his -marriage. He was a Frenchman; marriage was an affair of arrangement, -not of rapture. He had been luckier than most, for he had had the -rapture too. He possessed a beautiful wife, approved of by his family, -who might be trusted never to put him in the always ludicrous position -of the betrayed husband. He would also have an heir. If, now, his wife -would but consent to settle down, after their brief idyll of passion, -into the dignified mistress of his household, and would not make -uncomfortable claims upon him, he need never regret having lost his head -over her in Berkshire. Her perceptions must be much less acute than he -had imagined if she could not see that the bonds of matrimony in her -adoptive country held in a different fashion from those of her own. -However, no doubt everything would right itself in time; if would be a -good thing when the boy was born. - -Upstairs, among the plundered armour, Horatia stood with her head -against the window and cried. - - - - - *CHAPTER X* - - - *(1)* - - -Yet, three weeks later, on the eve of the arrival of her guests, Horatia -was banishing the paperers and plasterers from the nearly finished -nurseries. - -She had made a valiant effort, not only to hide from Armand the fact -that he had deeply wounded her by his lack of interest, but even to deny -it to herself. At any rate she would not give way to pique in the -matter; she would carry it through alone, and it was very kind of him -not to have raised difficulties. Henceforth she must try to accommodate -herself to him in every way, and she set forward almost with ardour on -this fatal course of submission--fatal because, if she had but realised -it, nothing appealed less to her husband than such an attitude. He -preferred something more spirited. Madame de Vigerie, had she consulted -her on this as on other matters, would have given her very different -advice on the management of men, but Horatia was too proud and too loyal -for such a course. She kept telling herself that she must make -allowances for differences of race; in which consideration it was not -given to her to see that if she herself had been French she would not -have taken the affair so seriously. - -And when she had got rid of the workmen she had to entertain her guests. -The Dowager Duchess had not been to Kerfontaine for many years. Her -coming was evidently designed as a great honour to the young couple. It -was certainly a stirring event. Armies of servants preceded and -accompanied her; she travelled in her own antiquated carriage. Jean had -wept in his mistress's presence at the news of her approach, but whether -from joy or terror or a mixture of both Horatia was not sure, and indeed -the house was moved to its foundations. Would the Duchesse find her -rooms cold, damp, or uncomfortable? It was some sort of a consolation -to feel certain that she was not likely, in that case, to suffer -silently. - -However, after a few days, Madame de la Roche-Guyon, finding her -quarters to her liking, commanded that her old friend the Comtesse de -Léridant should also be invited, and she came, an old lady of aggressive -piety, hung with medals, who cast up her eyes all day long at "dear -Monsignor de la Roche-Guyon" when the latter paid a flying visit. -Madame de Beaulieu also came, the family having intimated to Horatia -that she must ask her, and flirted with Armand under the nose of her -husband, whom she brought with her. The Marquis de Beaulieu, a -middle-aged, bald-headed and very uninteresting nobleman attempted -unsuccessfully to retaliate by flirting with Horatia. Finally, Emmanuel -and his son completed the party, and in the youngest of her guests -Horatia found an unexpected well of consolation. - -Claude-Edmond, solemn as ever, had always shown a disposition to attach -himself to his young aunt, and it sometimes occurred to Horatia that she -might try to make him less like a budding philosopher and more of an -ordinary boy. She had once or twice asked him what games he played at -the Lycée; no clear impression had resulted from his answers, and at any -rate he could not play alone. The only relaxation he seemed to permit -himself at Kerfontaine was a game of chess in the evening with his -father. And always it was, "Ma tante, if you are walking may I -accompany you?" "Ma tante, may I assist you to gather the flowers?" -Sometimes Horatia pitied him intensely; sometimes she could have shaken -him. - -Then one day, snatching a moment from her guests to go up and look at -the nurseries, she overtook Claude-Edmond slowly climbing the staircase -that led to them. - -"Where are you going, Claude?" she asked. "If you are looking for the -old armoury, you will not find it, I am afraid." - -The boy turned an amazed face to her. "Has it gone? What is there, -then?" - -"It has been turned into nurseries. Would you like to see them?" - -Mounting beside her, her nephew assented. "But for what purpose do you -need nurseries? I have not seen any baby." - -"There is no baby yet," returned Horatia gravely. "But I feel sure that -before very long the marchande des choux will bring me one, or perhaps I -shall find one under a cabbage in the garden, as you know, Claude, one -does find them. So I thought it best to begin getting things ready." - -"But certainly," agreed Claude-Edmond with his wisest air. "Though I -have been told that it is not the marchande des choux after all..." - -"Never mind," interrupted Horatia quickly. "Come in and see how the -room is altered. It is ready for the furniture now." - -No one would have dreamed that the rooms had once been an armoury. -Horatia had followed the new mode of a trellised paper covering not only -the walls but the ceiling also, so that the effect, as Madame de Vigerie -had remarked, was of a cage of flowers to imprison the angelic visitant. -But Horatia intended all the arrangements to be English, and this -design, which she had never told her husband, she now found herself -confiding to the small French boy who stood drinking in all she said -with such serious attentive eyes. - -"Nobody knows, Claude. Shall we keep it as our secret? When I was a -little girl at home, my bed stood here, as it were, and from it I could -see in the morning the birds hopping about in the trees outside--a -silver birch it was--and singing, singing..." - -Oh, home, home, and the unforgettable memories, bitter and sweet at -once, of those early mornings! - -"You are not crying, ma tante?" asked Claude-Edmond a little anxiously, -as she stopped. - -"No, no ... I was only wishing there were a birch tree here too." - -"We could easily find one and put it there," said the boy, at once -sympathetic. - -Horatia smiled through the mist in her eyes. "There is something I -should like almost better--a big screen such as I used to have at the -foot of my bed, all covered over with pictures from children's books." - -"But that we could make," suggested the practical Claude-Edmond. - -"Why, of course we could!" exclaimed his aunt, struck with the idea. -"Claude, you are a genius! There are plenty of screens in the house.... -We will do it up here, secretly, just we two--if you like, Claude." - -"_If I like!_" exclaimed the boy, enraptured. - -And that was why the mistress of the house often spent so much time in -reposing herself in the afternoon, and why Emmanuel sometimes sought his -son in vain at the same hour. Both absented might have been found, -surrounded by litter and paste, playing at being children again in the -nursery. - -Even Madame de Vigerie did not share their secret, for her great house -was now so full of guests that the informal intercourse of the early -summer was impossible, though visits of ceremony were exchanged on both -sides. Life at Kerfontaine was however less unsociable than in the -Hôtel de la Roche-Guyon, for in the evening all the inmates gathered -round the domestic hearth, playing bouts-rimés, cards or loto, or doing -fancy-work. On one such evening in mid-June all the company was thus -assembled in the salon: the Duchesse, Mme. de Léridant, Emmanuel and M. -de Beaulieu were playing cards, Claude-Edmond was deep in a book, while -Horatia and the Marquise de Beaulieu, the one embroidering, the other -painting on gauze, were listening to the gallantries of a superannuated -beau of the neighbourhood, who had been dining with them, when suddenly -the Vicomtesse de Vigerie was announced. - -She came in looking, for the first time, to Horatia's eyes, almost -beautiful, and having the effect of being at once pale and flushed, -breathless and collected. Horatia hurried to greet her, and Armand to -relieve her of the cloak about her shoulders. - -"I have news," said she, "news of the greatest importance. You have not -heard? ... I thought that perhaps M. le Duc... Let me pay my respects -first to the Duchesse." Smiling, excited, she curtsied to that -venerable dame, and then said, like a herald, "The Regent has left -England for Italy!" - - - - *(2)* - - -If Horatia was in any doubt as to the significance of Madame de -Vigerie's announcement that evening, and puzzled at the enthusiasm with -which it was received, the weeks that followed amply enlightened her. -That the Duchesse de Berry, Regent for her little son, should have left -her royal father-in-law at Holyrood, meant only one thing, that she was -meditating a bold stroke of some kind. Neapolitan by birth, she -gravitated naturally towards Italy, and for the next month, while she -was slowly traversing Holland, Germany and Switzerland, a continual -state of ferment reigned at Kerfontaine and St. Clair. Madame de -Vigerie was in exceptionally close touch with the princess, for she had -a cousin in her small retinue, and St. Clair became in consequence a -kind of Mecca for the Legitimists of the neighbourhood. The atmosphere -of intrigue grew still thicker when in mid-July the devotees heard that -Madame de Berry, arrived at Sestri, had opened direct communication with -some of the Legitimist leaders, settled there to that end, and was -proportionately agitated when, a little later, it was announced that -Carlo Alberto of Sardinia, under pressure from the French ambassador at -Turin, had intimated that the princess must leave his territory. -However, as the Duchesse did not fail piously to point out, good emerged -in this case from evil, for Marie-Caroline in consequence removed to -Massa, and here she could conspire in comfort, since its ruler had -refused to recognise Louis-Philippe. Hero indeed, cordially received, -and with the ducal palace at her disposal, she set up a little court, -and now the question was how best to prepare for the rising which was to -take place in the West when the Regent should set foot in France to -claim the heritage of her son. - -Before, however, this matter became at all pressing, Horatia's guests -had gradually drifted away--the Duchesse back to Paris, Emmanuel and his -son on another visit. M. and Mme. de Beaulieu were the last to leave. -Unknown to Horatia, the Marquise signalised her departure by a speech -which was not without its consequences. - -"A thousand thanks for your charming hospitality, my dear cousin," she -had said to Armand as they stood for a moment together on the steps. -"Now that I am no longer able to play guardian angel, do not make too -conspicuous use of your freedom and go to see a certain lady too often!" - -A dozen people might have said these words to Armand without offence, -but he had never loved his kinswoman, and his displeasure was instant on -his face. The Marquise laughed her high little laugh. - -"Touché?" she enquired. "Yes, I counsel you to be careful, Don Juan. I -have warned our dear Horatia not to put too much faith in these constant -political interviews at St. Clair." - -"I can hardly credit you with so much vulgarity," retorted Armand -freezingly, and the Marquise went unescorted down the steps. - -Although the departure of the Duchesse was a great relief, and although -Horatia always preferred Madame de Beaulieu's room to her company, it -was a little dull when the party had broken up. August was over the -land, hot and languid; the country had lost its freshness, the gardens -flagged. And since Madame de Vigerie, and Armand with her, had thrown -herself with ardour into the scheme for organising revolt in Brittany, -she was really too busy for Horatia to see much of her. Armand, too, -was always riding hither and thither. On one occasion he went as far as -Nantes, to interview the newly-formed Royalist committee there, and -talked sometimes of crossing the Loire into Vendée, where the embers of -the great insurrection of '93 were being fanned to flame. But though -these avocations took him so much away from her Horatia was not sorry. -She felt that she had misjudged him; he _was_ capable of enthusiasm for -a cause, and a losing cause, and his attitude about the Lilies had not -been a pose, as she had sometimes been tempted to think. That nothing -would ever come of these efforts (as she was convinced) did not -displease her, and she never imagined her husband paying any penalty for -conspiracy about which there seemed to be so much unguarded talk. - -She had therefore no protests for him when he announced, one morning at -the end of August, that he proposed to ride over to sound an old -gentleman living some miles away in the direction of Guéméné. This -person was a rich Royalist of an exceedingly miserly disposition, who, -could he be induced to unlock his coffers for the cause, would be worth -gaining. But Horatia felt more than usually lonely after her husband -had gone; it was now increasingly difficult for her to read, for she -seemed to have lost her powers of concentration, and the attempt made -her head ache. So in the afternoon she drove over to St. Clair to see -her friend--and had, on the way, a curious hallucination of seeing -Armand, or someone exactly like him and his horse, appear for a moment -on the road that crossed her own. But he was too far off for her -impression to be anything but a surmise, and she supposed she was -mistaken. - -Disappointment awaited her at St. Clair. Madame la Vicomtesse was not -receiving, and Horatia was fain to drive home again. Armand returned -from his expedition only in time to change his clothes for dinner. He -was very cheerful and conversational during the meal, and it was not -till the servants had left the room that Horatia asked suddenly, - -"Armand, have you a double in these parts?" - -"Not that I am aware of," responded her husband tranquilly, without -looking up from the apple that he was peeling. "Why?" - -"Because, when I went over to St. Clair this afternoon, I saw someone so -like you in the distance, and of course it could not have been -you--unless you changed your mind, and did not go to M. des Charnières -after all." - -"I do not know who it could have been, but it certainly was not I," -responded Armand, the apple-paring steadily growing in length. "So you -went to see Madame de Vigerie this afternoon?" - -"I went, but I did not see her. She was not receiving. Tell me about -your visit to M. des Charnières." - -"It was not a success," returned the emissary, shrugging his shoulders. -"The old gentleman is not going to part with his money for anything less -than absolute certainty. He is of a meanness that leads him into -curious extravagances. Conceive, ma chère, that when he goes to Paris, -he so hates paying hotel bills that he has bought and furnished a house -at each of the stages. Of course he has had to instal servants also, -but he can bear all that better than paying at the time for a night's -board and lodging. He received me politely enough, in the only -living-room of the château that he occupies, and, taking snuff the whole -time, he detailed to me the various reasons why the Regent could never -succeed in her attempt. I shall not waste my energies over him again." - - - - *(3)* - - -The long mirror in Madame de Vigerie's salon, which terminated not far -from the floor in a marble shelf supported on curved legs, held the -reflections of a Psyche in marble, many thin-legged gilt chairs, a fête -champêtre after Watteau, and of two persons seated, pen in hand, on -opposite sides of a chilly inlaid table, and sedulously bent over sheets -of paper. The scribes were the mistress of the house and Armand de la -Roche-Guyon, and for at least an hour they had been copying a list of -the names of persons willing to bear arms for the Duchesse de Berry in -the Pontivy division. - -The Comte finished his task the first, but Madame de Vigerie, following -with one taper finger the roll of names, proceeded with hers for a few -moments longer, though she could scarcely have been unconscious that the -young man opposite, leaning back in his chair, was gazing at her in a -manner not specially suggestive of political absorption. - -At last she too came to the end. - -"There are a hundred and forty more names in the other list," she said, -biting the feathers of the pen, and looking across at her fellow -copyist. - -"My fingers are quite stiff," protested Armand. "What yours must be I -cannot think." - -"I am afraid, mon ami, that yours are not used to the pen," remarked the -Vicomtesse. "Indeed, I do not know what they are used to." - -"Well, perhaps they will handle the sword one day," returned the Comte -unperturbed. "I know well that you do not think them capable of it, but -you will see Madame!" - -"You would never do for a soldier," said she. "You are too lazy and too -insubordinate.--De grâce, do not leave the table until you have put your -list into some sort of order! Then give it to me." - -"Insubordinate, forsooth!" muttered Armand, obeying her. "And lazy, ma -foi! Do not ask me to copy any more lists for you!" - -"I shall not have the opportunity of doing so," said the Vicomtesse, -taking the papers that he handed over. "I am thinking of returning to -Paris next week. - -"Great Heavens, why? Next week--it is only the beginning of September!" - -"I know," murmured Madame de Vigerie, busy with the papers. "But I have -to go.... One, two, three, five--where is page four?" - -"Confound page four! Laurence, cease being a conspirator and be a human -woman.... You cannot go suddenly like that!" - -"Four, five, six, seven, eight," finished the Vicomtesse. "Please give -me one of the pins at your elbow. I am not going to Paris for the -cause, but for my own affairs. I regret it, but I shall have to go. Do -not look so sulky; it is not polite." - -In answer to this Armand got up, and, turning his back on her with very -little ceremony, went to the window. Laurence de Vigerie immediately -stopped arranging her papers, and, had he but known it, there was a very -different expression in her eyes when his own gaze was removed from her, -and she looked at him unwitnessed. - -"I shall follow you to Paris," announced the Comte de la Roche-Guyon -after a moment's silence. - -"Indeed you will not," riposted Madame de Vigerie. "For one thing you -are not to leave your wife. I am sorry to deprive myself of her -company." - -"I wish," broke out the young man petulantly, swinging round from the -window, "that you would leave my wife out of this!" - -The Vicomtesse laid down the lists and rising went over to him. "Listen -to me, Armand," she said quietly. "We know each other very well ... at -least, I know you very well. I am your friend; you know that--but I -shall never be anything else to you. I have much feeling for your wife, -and I shall never permit you, if I can prevent it, to do anything that -may wound her. If you follow me to Paris, if you come here again, as -you did last Wednesday when you meant to go to see poor M. des -Charnières, I shall not admit you. When you return to Paris in the -ordinary course of events, with your wife, I shall be very glad if you -come and see me as usual; and she has been good enough to ask me to -visit her.... Now do not bear me malice for speaking plainly, and let us -be friends again." - -Armand looked down at the little hand which she laid for an instant on -his folded arms, but which, perceiving the tremor which ran through him -at her touch, she instantly withdrew. - -"I wonder," he said slowly, "if there is such a thing as a good devil? -If there is, you are it." - -"Merci! Well, now my homily is over, shall we copy the other list?" - -"Not now," said Armand, his eyes burning. "Give it to me and I will -copy it for you at home.... No, do not fear, I will not disturb the -mysteries of your preparations for departure by bringing it in person. I -will send it.... Good-bye, then, till Paris; I do not know when that -will be." He took her hand and kissed it coldly; and thereafter made -his exit with a good deal of dignity. - -And the mirror then reflected a curious thing; the little figure of -Madame de Vigerie sitting once more at the marble table with her hands -locked over her eyes--not at all the untouched moralist. Fickle, -selfish, worthless, she knew Armand to be all these, but directly he was -gone she wished him back. He was too light to be worth a moment's -serious thought; why, then, did she think of him so much? Sometimes, -when he had been with her, she had a vision of what he would be in -thirty years' time, a cynical viveur stained with the print of past and -present excesses; sometimes she wished that she could save him, but did -not see any way. Sometimes she had a strange maternal yearning towards -him. But now, this afternoon, when she had spoken so plainly, there was -something more in her heart--dismay, and a sense of conflict. - - -When the list of names arrived in a couple of days' time, it was -addressed in Horatia's writing and had no enclosure with it. - - - - - *CHAPTER XI* - - - *(1)* - - -It was at Chartres, on the homeward journey to Paris, that Armand's -ingenious idea first occurred to him, and that he matured it, pacing by -moonlight round the Place des Epars. During that promenade there was -fully revealed to him the means whereby he might break Madame de -Vigerie's friendship with his wife. - -The fortnight which had followed the Vicomtesse's departure from St. -Clair had given him ample time for reflection. That he should be -prevented from seeing as much as he wished of Laurence because Laurence -had entered upon a tiresome and totally unnecessary friendship with -Horatia, was preposterous. This friendship was evidently the cause of -Madame de Vigerie's very annoying attitude towards him. It behoved him -to take some step about it. Still more did he see the necessity of this -when he discovered part of the reason why Horatia was suddenly as -anxious to get back to Paris as she had been to come down to Brittany. -She missed Madame de Vigerie. - -And this, it seemed to Armand, was carrying matters too far. It was -ridiculous in itself; worse, it put him, in his own eyes at least, in a -ludicrous position. Moreover, Horatia's submissive attitude had finished -by getting on his nerves. Not that he was dissatisfied with his -bargain; every husband, he supposed, had something to put up with. Only -he intended to have what he wanted in another quarter to boot. - -Horatia was far enough from guessing the source of the preoccupation -which was visible in him during the last few days of their stay at -Kerfontaine, nor had she the faintest idea why he was in such good -spirits the morning that they left Chartres. He judged it wiser, -however, not to put his plan into operation for two or three days after -their return to the Hôtel de la Roche-Guyon, which still lacked the -presence of Emmanuel and his son, but which was re-adorned by that of -the Duchesse. On the fourth morning he came into Horatia's boudoir -looking unusually grave, with his hands full of papers. - -"I have something to tell you, my dear, which you will not like hearing, -I am afraid," he said, looking down at her as she sat at her writing -table, an unfinished letter to her father under her hand. - -Horatia's colour went. "No bad news from England, I hope?" she said, -and looking at her frail, startled face, Armand had a momentary pang of -remorse for what he was about to do. But it did not turn him from his -purpose, and he told her, gently, and with apparent consideration, that -all communication between the Hôtel and Madame de Vigerie must cease for -the present. The Government was opening a wakeful eye upon both parties -and was only waiting for some tangible evidence of conspiracy to move -against them. He had this information, he said, from an unimpeachable -source. - -Horatia said very little, only her eyes slowly filled with tears, and -seeing this Armand went away to the mantelpiece behind her. He was -enjoying his ingenuity less than he had expected. - -"Then I cannot write to her, for you will not be seeing her either?" -came his wife's voice after a moment. - -"No, certainly I shall not be seeing her," replied the Comte, studying -the Rector's coal-black profile, and wishing that this further sacrifice -to truth were not involved in his plan. "It would be very serious for -her if she became further suspect to the Government; it would be very -serious for me also. Even my friend might lose his place if it were -known that he had warned us. I daresay that it will only be for a -time.... Of course I need not ask for your promise, Horatia, that you -will not communicate with her in any way?" - -She made no answer, and looking round Armand saw that she had her -handkerchief to her eyes, though not a sound escaped her. He bit his -lip, hesitated, then went and bent over her. - -"My dear, I am so sorry," he said--and he _was_ sorry. "See, I must go -this evening and tell her--she does not know yet--and you would like to -write just this once to her, would you not? and I will take the letter -for you." - - - - *(2)* - - -Some compensation for the discomfort of this little scene was -undoubtedly afforded to its author by the reflection that the Vicomtesse -would not be so easy to dupe. Conceivably, even, he might fail to -persuade her of his good faith. The prospect of a battle of wits was -exhilarating, if momentous. - -But his star, good or evil, fought for Armand, putting into his pocket -Horatia's depressed note to her friend--convincing in that she, at -least, had no doubts--surrounding Madame de Vigerie that evening with an -unusually large circle of habitués, and thus giving the Comte de la -Roche-Guyon the opportunity of displaying in the midst of them so gloomy -and dejected an air that his hostess could not fail to observe it, and -yet was unable at once to penetrate to its cause. At last she beckoned -him aside into the embrasure of a window. - -"What on earth is the matter with you this evening?" she demanded. "You -look as if you had been to a funeral." - -Armand did not smile. On the contrary he told her his tale, garnishing -it, as was necessary for her more expert ear, with preciser details. -The Vicomtesse was plainly staggered. - -"But that is absurd!" she ejaculated. "The Government cannot possibly -connect--Tiens, I will ask M. de Chateaubriand before he goes." And she -looked across to where the great man, his fine white head supported on -his hand, was standing in a favourite attitude with his arm on the -chimney-piece, an elevation which his want of stature must have rendered -difficult of comfortable attainment. - -Armand laid a hand on her arm. "I implore you to do nothing of the -sort. It will ruin my friend if this gets about. It is far best to -submit, for prudence' sake, to precautions which may only be temporary. -Needless to say that I intend, however, to come and see you -sometimes--if you, too, will run the risk--but, of course, it cannot be -openly.... Meanwhile, here is a note which I promised my wife to bring; -but you must on no account communicate with her." - -"But if I am to see you occasionally, I can communicate through you," -protested Madame de Vigerie, still amazed. - -"This once, yes, for she knows that I am here, but in the future, to -avoid alarming her, I shall not tell her when I come. Perhaps, indeed, -it will be better for me not to come for a few weeks. It will depend on -what my friend says." - -But here the Vicomtesse, visibly perplexed, was reft from him by M. le -Vicomte de Chateaubriand, desiring to take his leave... And Armand's -luck held, for Chateaubriand, head as he was of the Royalist Committee -of Paris, strongly disapproved of the tendency to push matters to too -sudden an issue displayed by the younger and more extravagant spirits of -the party, and he cast a glance of disapproval upon the Comte de la -Roche-Guyon. - -"Do not, Madame," he said in a low tone, "commit any imprudence just -now. The time is not ripe, and the Government is on the watch." He -bowed over her hand, and passed on. - -After this unexpected reinforcement it seemed to the Comte more -diplomatic not to outstay the rest, as he often did, but of a prudence -more finished to leave Madame de Vigerie still under the empire of M. de -Chateaubriand's warning and his own unusual caution--his, who had often -been reproached by her for recklessness--and uneasy, perhaps, at the -possible cessation of his visits. But before he left the Vicomtesse had -found time to scribble a pencil note to Horatia (which he punctually -delivered) and to say that if it must be so, she could see him alone -next Friday, but that she did not wish him to run risks. To which he -replied with suitable gravity that if he considered it unwise, he would -not come, and so departed, having accomplished his object and gained to -boot the spice of clandestine intercourse. - -He had, moreover, the fortitude not to go on the appointed Friday after -all, and, when he appeared the following week in the Rue de la Chaussée -d'Antin, to come armed with so many statistics of the progress of -Royalism in the West, and to keep so strictly to conversation on the -Duchesse de Berry's plans, that Madame de Vigerie was thoroughly -deceived. But gradually, almost as imperceptibly as September merged -into October, and the scorched leaves said farewell to the trees of the -Luxembourg and the Tuileries, the stolen meetings lost something of the -political character which had given them birth. Laurence de Vigerie was -hardly conscious of the change, or, at least, she shut her eyes to it. -She only knew that she missed him when he did not come. And Armand came -more and more frequently. - - - - *(3)* - - -And so, after all, the object for which Horatia had wanted to return to -Paris--Laurence's society--was not to be hers. She did not seem to -desire that of anyone else, and yet she was very lonely. She went out -driving, perhaps, for an hour or two, but she neither paid nor received -calls now. Always once a day at least Armand would come to see her. He -was very bright and very polite, and almost punctilious in his enquiries -after her health, but it was apparent to her that, these courteous -formalities at an end he was anxious to make his exit, to pursue his own -avocations, whatever they might be. She did not attempt to detain him. -She would reply to him cheerfully, never admit that she had a headache -or felt tired, and he would kiss her hand and say, "Do not wear out your -eyes over that embroidery, my dear; why not go to the Rue Neuve des -Augustins and order as much as you want?" - -Once or twice when he had shut the door and gone out, and the great -house seemed settled into silence, she lay back on her couch and cried a -little. She was very homesick, A dreadful lassitude took possession of -her, and she began to feel afraid. Horatia was not used to illness. On -the few occasions when she had had a sore throat or some such slight -indisposition, the Rector had read to her by the hour, and enquiries -would come twice a day from Tristram, accompanied by flowers or grapes -or the latest "Edinburgh Review" which he had ridden into Oxford to -fetch for her. All this attention she had then taken for granted, almost -as her due, and now that she could not longer command it she seemed to -herself but a poor creature after all, for she had come to have only one -conscious wish, that some one should take care of her and understand. -It was not that these new relatives were not considerate, but that their -solicitude seemed to spring from a different source, and sometimes it -almost irritated her. She felt as if she were in a palace, stifled by -the precautions taken to ensure the safe entrance into the world of an -heir apparent. - -But at the worst she found always a spring of secret joy, and this was -in itself a surprise. Before her marriage she had never been able to -analyse her feelings about children. Just as she had supposed that in -some distant future she would marry (in spite of her protestations to -the contrary) so also she imagined that she would have children of her -own. But that she should ardently desire to hold her own child in her -arms was an astonishment. In the picture she had made of him he was -never a very small baby. He appeared to her always as a child of -eighteen months or two years, and he had red-gold curls and grey eyes. -It was only after some time that she realised she was thinking of a -miniature of herself which hung in her father's bedroom. It had never -so much as occurred to her that Maurice might be like Armand. For as -she had settled that the child would be a boy, so had she fixed upon the -English form of his name, by which she meant always to call him. He -would of course have a string of French names; she had heard them -several times: Maurice after his father, whose second name it was (and -fortunately Maurice was an English name as well, though her English -pronunciation of it would probably give offence), and Stanislas after -the Duc, and Victor after the Dowager (suppose he should be like the -Dowager!), and Etienne after her own father, and Marie, or Anne, or -Elisabeth, she had forgotten which, and probably Charles after the -dethroned monarch. - -Almost every day now mysterious cases and parcels arrived, addressed to -her and bearing an English postmark; a bath, painted on the outside with -a design of blue loops and knots, had recently found its way into the -Hôtel. In a fortnight an English nurse was expected, chosen by Aunt -Julia, and she would have plenty of time to become accustomed to the -ways of the house before her services would be needed. The married -ladies of the family made their own comments when they heard that all -the babyclothes which Horatia had not made herself had been sent direct -from England, and there was much hostile criticism on the proposed -addition of an English nurse to the household. However, Armand had let -it be known that his wife should not be thwarted, and as she did not -trouble him about arrangements he was only too glad for her to amuse -herself in such a harmless fashion. The nurseries had been decorated by -a well-known Paris firm, and Horatia was pleased with the cream -panelling of the walls, and the cream curtains with their sprays of pink -roses caught up with pale blue ribbons, and lined with deep rose pink to -give a warm glow to the room. - -The day that the painters and decorators left she had a sudden idea. -There was in her boudoir a copy in oils of that beautiful Madonna of -Raphael's, which Ferdinand III of Tuscany, discovering in a peasant's -cottage, so loved that it hung always over his bed. Some privileged -person apparently had obtained permission to have it copied; the copy -had somehow found its way to a dealer's, and the Duc de la Roche-Guyon, -on an Italian tour, had bought it and presented it to his wife, Armand's -mother. It had made little appeal to Horatia at first, but of late she -had come to love it, congratulating herself on being able to -discriminate between the natural beauty of this picture of a mother and -her child, and its superstitious associations. Her fancy now was to -have the work of art, in its heavy Florentine frame, removed from her -sitting-room and hung over the mantelpiece in the day nursery. In these -rather unusual surroundings it could reign alone, and later on it would -be company for her and Maurice. - -The order was executed by rather bewildered servants, who secretly -wondered what Madame la Comtesse would command to be done next, and -Horatia, in the growing dusk, went to look at the effect. The result -was beyond her expectations. - -She sat down and gazed for a long time at the simplicity, purity, and -calm of the fair face. Suddenly she bent forward, and, hardly knowing -what she was doing, held out her arms to it with an indescribable -gesture at once of entreaty and of offering, and then as suddenly leant -back in her chair, and covering her face with her hands began to cry. -She was terribly lonely. But it was not for long now. It was not for -long that she would hold out empty arms.... - - - - *(4)* - - -The next day it rained in torrents from an early hour, the persistent -rain of autumn. Armand was away, but this was nothing unusual. The -post brought her no fresh parcels, and it was too wet to go out driving, -and her boudoir without the familiar picture seemed forlorn. Seeking for -a diversion she told Martha to light the fire in the nursery. - -"Yes, certainly, my lady," responded Mrs. Kemblet, delighted, "and -perhaps you would like to count through the things Polly sent over -yesterday, and there is the christening robe to be put away." - -"Of course, I had forgotten," said Horatia. "We will be very busy, and -pretend we are at home in England." - -It was dusk before mistress and maid had finished their task, and the -last heap of small white garments had been arranged, and the last drawer -returned to its place in the wide press against the wall. Horatia gave -a sigh of satisfaction. The occupation had soothed her. - -"Now, Martha, if you will bring me a cushion I shall want nothing more. -Just put that easy chair by the fire, and a footstool, and I shall sit -here till dinner time. If anyone asks for me you can say I am resting." - -She was tired with the small extra exertion, but, for some reason -extraordinarily happy this afternoon. As a rule the hours between four -and six o'clock were the longest, but to-night they hardly seemed long -enough. She settled herself deeper in the chair, looked up once at the -picture, and closed her eyes. She had so much to think about. - - * * * * * - -An hour later and Armand's voice was saying, "Horatia, Horatia, what are -you doing here? It is very cold in this room; you will be chilled. I -cannot think what possessed you to come and sit in such a barn, though I -hardly liked to wake you, for you were smiling about something." - - - - - *CHAPTER XII* - - - *(1)* - - -Horatia had been so little in shops of late that it was quite a pleasure -to find herself again in Herbault's, whither, the day after this -episode, she had gone on her afternoon drive. Smiling assistants -hurried forward in the big mirrored room, and when they found that she -only required a few yards of fine lace to match a pattern, which she -drew from her reticule, they were just as eager to serve her as if she -had been ordering one of their most expensive hats. Would Madame la -Comtesse be seated, and they would see what could be done; was not the -original lace from the border of a hat frilling which Madame had of them -in the spring? It was, said Horatia, and she wanted some more if they -still had it. - -"Madame la Comtesse will permit me to observe that frillings round the -face are out of date now," said the assistant doubtfully. "As Madame -sees, we are not using any at present." She waved her hand at the rows -of hats and bonnets perched on their stands. - -Horatia smiled a little. "I want it for a different purpose--for a -small cap," she said. "I liked the pattern so much, and I thought that -if it would not give you too much trouble to find it..." - -Nothing was too much trouble to serve Madame, she was assured, and the -young milliner fluttered away. - -Horatia felt pleasantly languid, content to study the latest creations, -and to look at those who were trying them on. Not far away a customer -was viewing, with satisfaction, a béret of brilliant violet velvet, -trimmed with acanthus green, and quite close to her, on her left, was a -large gilt screen, behind which, to judge from the conversation which -flowed over it, two ladies were trying on canezous, or blouses, and -gossiping at the same time. Horatia heard that though some unnamed "she" -passed for one of the best dressed women in Paris, the speaker, for her -part, thought otherwise. The other lady laughed, and said, "Are you not -prejudiced, ma chère, because she would not receive your cousin after -his little affair--you know what I mean?" - -The first lady was plainly roused at this. "It was abominable of her!" -she exclaimed. "And poor Georges, he was terribly chagrined about it. -Besides, what business has she to set herself up as so much better than -her neighbours, when everybody knows that she is overfond of Florian?" - -"I thought that was only gossip," said the other. - -"Gossip! when she sees him nearly every day! Why, everybody knows it. -It began this summer when they were down in the country. I know that -for a fact; and now, if you doubt it, come and stay in my appartement -and you will see him go into her house every day as regular as -clockwork, at hours when she receives no one else. I will wager you he -is there now." - -"After all," remarked the second lady thoughtfully, "it would be rather -natural, when he was, as report says, so near marrying her. And -certainly it would be difficult to be hardhearted where he is concerned. -But it does not fall in with what we heard of his fondness for his wife. -Why, they were always about together at one time!" - -"Like Armand and me!" thought Horatia with a rather bitter amusement. -"What an offence it must have been! I wonder who is this too-attractive -'Florian.'" Here the milliner brought her a card of lace of the pattern -required, but a little too wide, intimating, however, her willingness to -go back and have another search for the narrower kind. - -By the time that the girl had gone off again on her errand there were -signs that the ladies on the other side of the screen were departing. -"Yes, send me those two canezous, the pink and the white ... I don't -think Herbault's cut is as good as it used to be ... Shall I drive you -anywhere, Elise? You are leaving your reticule.--By the way, I forgot -to tell you the cream of the business about Florian's poor wife, as you -call her, the Englishwoman. She and Madame de Vigerie were bosom -friends at one time--isn't it amusing?" They rustled away. - - -"Madame is ill!" said the young milliner anxiously. "Shall I get a glass -of water--some eau-de-vie? If Madame would but sit down again!" - -Horatia, as white as death, was standing up, supporting herself by the -back of her chair. Seeing that she did not even appear to understand -what was said to her, the girl hastily fetched an older assistant. -Horatia's maid was also summoned from her errands in another part of the -shop, but by the time she arrived her mistress appeared to have -recovered herself, and was able, in a few minutes, to return to her -carriage. - -Once there, deaf to the solicitous inquiries of Joséphine, and almost, -indeed, ignorant of her own purpose, Horatia gave the order to drive to -Madame de Vigerie's house in the Rue de la Chaussée d'Antin, She had no -conscious thoughts during the short transit. There was no time for -them--no room in her head, round which a piercing band seemed to be -drawn, suffocating them. But when the carriage began to slacken -something external to herself said: - -"You cannot go in. Ask at the porter's lodge if he is still there, and -say you have come to drive him home. Then you will know!" - -And she told the footman this. He disappeared under the archway. It -might yet all be a horrible lie. The concierge would be astonished, -would tell the man that M. de la Roche-Guyon never came there now. - -The footman came back to the carriage and said respectfully: - -"M. le Comte left about a quarter of an hour ago, Madame." - -"I am too late, then," said Horatia quietly. "Home, please." - - - - *(2)* - - -Four or five dried specimens of rare seaweeds, neatly fastened with -slips of paper to little cards, lay before the Marquis de la Roche-Guyon -on his writing-table, and he was agreeably occupied in identifying them, -for he was contemplating a monograph on the algæ of France. He would -shortly have to ring for a light, but, like all absorbed persons, he -preferred working under conditions which were momentarily becoming worse -to getting up to the bell. There is always a spark of hope, never -realised, that the decline of daylight will somehow be arrested. - -However, though Emmanuel would not interrupt himself, he was -interrupted, with the last seaweed under a magnifying glass, by a knock. - -"Come in," he called out, rather vexed. On removing his gaze from the -brown fronds, he beheld his sister-in-law. - -"O, come in, my dear sister," he said, springing to his feet. "Permit -me to clear you a chair. I fear there is not an empty one in the room. -It is rather dark--I will ring for lights." - -"Please do not trouble," returned Horatia. "I only wanted to ask you a -trifling question.--How far is the château of Rosdael from Kerfontaine?" - -Emmanuel, already on his way to the bell, stopped, looking surprised. -"Rosdael? Do you mean where old M. des Charnières used to live?" - -"Used to live!" repeated Horatia like a flash. "Why do you say 'used to -live'? Does he not live there now?" - -"He died recently," replied the Marquis, drifting back almost -unconsciously to his writing-table, the bell still unrung. "What an -extraordinary thing!" he continued with fresh interest, "that you should -mention him, for I have just been buying some early botanical works from -the sale of his library. They are somewhere here." He stooped to one -of the many piles of books on the floor. - -Horatia sank on the nearest chair, book-laden as it was. - -"What do you mean, Emmanuel, by 'recently'?" she asked. "Last -week--last month?" - -The Marquis raised himself, looking thoughtful and a little puzzled. "I -think it was in August, when I was with you at Kerfontaine, though I did -not hear of it till afterwards, and I was so sorry, because if I had -known I might have gone over and bought----" - -"Are you sure it was August?" interrupted Horatia leaning forward. - -"If you want to know the exact date," said Emmanuel beginning to hunt -about afresh, "I think I can find you the sale catalogue of his books. -He had a wonderful collection, mostly inherited. I remember having seen -him once. He was a great miser; nothing would induce him to pay his -night's lodging at a hotel, so he bought a house at every stage to -Paris." - -"Yes, I have heard that story before," said Horatia in a strange voice, -which the Marquis was too busy to notice. - -"Here it is," he said triumphantly. "You see, he died on August the -12th." And he handed her, over the writing-table, a thin ill-printed -little pamphlet, the catalogue of the library of M. Adolphe des -Charnières, chevalier de St. Louis, décedé le 12 Août 1831. - -"I am sure those books of his are here somewhere," he said, seeing the -fixity with which his sister-in-law was staring at the catalogue. "I -think they would interest you if I could only find them." And he made -another dive floorwards. - -"Please do not trouble--another time..." came in a breathless voice from -Horatia, and when Emmanuel turned, she had gone, taking the catalogue -with her. - -"Dear me," thought the Marquis, "I must tell her that it is no use -trying to buy any books from that list; they were all sold, every one." -And at last he rang for a light. - - - - *(3)* - - -With the catalogue of M. des Charnières' books still clutched tightly in -her hands, Horatia was standing perfectly still in the middle of the -half-furnished nursery. She did not know when Armand would return, nor -how much more she would have of this sick agony. Why she had carried it -to this place, where it seemed a thousand times more poignant, she did -not know. - -It was yesterday that she had sat here by the fire; yesterday that she -had had a happy dream; yesterday that Armand, out of solicitude, had -awakened her. On the table lay the pattern of the little cap for which -she had been to get the lace; over the mantel-piece the Madonna gazed -with absorbed, serene eyes at her Son.... - -Armand's step at the door--already. - -"They said you wanted to see me at once," said he, coming briskly in. -"I was sure I should find you here. But--whatever is the matter?" - -Horatia looked at his handsome, alert face, and did not hasten to -answer. Then she said, "I know now why Madame de Vigerie and I are -never to meet!" - -"But you have always known it!" exclaimed her husband, with every sign -of amazement, "Politics----" - -She checked him. "Don't say it again--spare me that! Politics! And I -have only to go into a milliner's to hear your 'politics' discussed!" - -A demeanour of kindly calm descended on Armand. "My dear, you ought not -to be standing. If you will only sit down we will go into this. I must -insist." He pushed forward the big armchair from the fire, and, partly -because she could indeed no longer stand, Horatia sank into it. "Now, -tell me what you have been hearing in the milliner's?" - -"What is the use," asked Horatia, "of being polite and considerate in -private and humiliating me in public? I, your wife, have only to enter -Herbault's to hear the whole story of your connection with Madame de -Vigerie, from its beginning in Brittany this summer, under my eyes--to -hear how you go to see her every day, how ... O, I don't know how I bore -it!" She buried her face in her shaking hands. - -Armand bent over her. "For Heaven's sake don't agitate yourself so, -Horatia! Everybody is gossipped about in Paris, you must know that, -surely! I give you my word of honour that it is false. I did not think -you were the sort of woman to listen to such things." - -"Nor did I think--once--that you were the sort of man to do them." - -"I have not," said he steadily. "Madame de Vigerie is of a reputation -as unsullied as you yourself." - -Horatia smiled very bitterly. "Do you usually leave her house as early -as you did this afternoon?" - -"Not being in the habit of going there regularly, I have naturally no -'usual' hour for leaving," countered Armand. - -"Ah, I forgot--you never go there now because of 'politics'; it is too -dangerous!" - -He was not to be caught so. "I did not say that I never went," he -replied coolly. "I have been occasionally. Affairs demanded it. As a -matter of fact I was there this afternoon." - -"I knew that," said Horatia. - -"I thought so," said her husband to himself. "May I ask how you knew -it?" - -"After what those women said, I came to see." - -The young man shrugged his shoulders. "In spite of all my adjurations -and your promise! Well, let us hope that nobody saw you!" - -Horatia gave a little gasp of anger. "And what of the people who have -seen you going there?" - -"A man must take some risks," replied the Comte indifferently. "I knew -that there was a certain amount of danger, but I did not expect that -you, of all people, would be the person to denounce me." - -His adroitness in constantly pushing her from her position was -maddening. "O, if I were only a man!" she broke out. "Do you really -think that I am still the dupe, as I have been so long, of your pitiful -'politics'? It is all lies--lies everywhere; they choke me--lies here, -lies in Brittany----did that woman ever really have any letters from the -Duchesse de Berry--were not all your interviews with her just a cloak? -Why, I could almost believe the Regent herself to be a lie, too--a lie -incarnate, as you are!" - -"Horatia, for God's sake control yourself," said Armand, rather -anxiously. "You do not know what you are saying, and this agitation is -very bad for you." - -"For the child, you mean! How can you pretend to care for me--except -that falsehood comes so easily to you? She helps you, I suppose, that -treacherous woman, to make up these plots for keeping me in the dark?" - -Armand stiffened. "Please do not speak of Madame de Vigerie like that! -You have no right--none whatever, on my soul." - -Horatia laughed. "It is your duty to champion her. Which of you -invented the story about your visit to Rosdael last August?" - -"Rosdael? I do not know what you mean," said Armand; but he looked -uneasy. - -"Is it possible that you have forgotten the interesting account you gave -me of your visit to old M. des Charnières, and how he received you, that -day when I thought I had seen you riding near St. Clair, and was fool -enough to believe you when you said you had not done so? Whichever of -you invented that tale to gull me with blundered badly, did they not, -when they arranged for you a political interview with a man who had been -dead for nearly a week? You had better take this to your accomplice -when next you 'run the risk' of seeing her!" - -The young man mechanically took the catalogue which she held out to him, -no doubt inwardly cursing the antiquarian tastes of his brother, and -there was silence for a moment while he looked frowningly at its date. - -"You cannot, I imagine," pursued Horatia, "say anything to that. It was -a pity that you did not know that he was dead; still, it was very -unlikely that I should ever find out." - -Armand lifted his head. "As a matter of fact," he said slowly, "I did -know that M. des Charnières was dead. I will tell you exactly what -happened. I started to ride to Rosdael, not knowing of his recent -decease, when I had gone two or three miles I heard of it, and turned -back. It was necessary, owing to this check to our plans, that I should -see Madame de Vigerie at once. I told you the lie--for I admit that it -was a lie ... you will misunderstand me, I know--but as a precaution." - -"Precaution!" exclaimed Horatia. "Precaution against what?" - -Armand made a gesture. "Ma chère, against the very attitude which you -are now taking up. It seems it was not unneeded." - -There was a touch of faint derision and of triumph in his tone. How was -it that he always got within her guard? Horatia's head swam for a -moment; it was like a duel, in which she knew her skill inferior. - -"No, I do not understand you. How could I ever need to be told a lie, -for any reason?" - -"Well, because---- Did Eulalie de Beaulieu, when she was at -Kerfontaine, ever put any ideas into your head about Madame de Vigerie -and me?" - -"Certainly not," replied Horatia haughtily. "And for one thing I should -not have listened to her." - -"No, you only listen to unknown scandalmongers in milliners' shops, is -it not?" riposted her husband like lightning. "It was against just such -lying tongues as those to whom you apparently gave this easy credence -that I was trying to protect Madame de Vigerie. But I was foolish in my -choice of weapons. It was senseless of me to lie to you that day, and I -sincerely ask your pardon." - -Horatia looked very fixedly at him. "A lie cannot be so easily wiped -out," she said. "You seem to hold them very lightly, so that I see you -will think nothing of telling me others--have told them, doubtless, -many, many times. Do not tell me another now, the greatest of all, for -I shall not believe it." - -Armand drew himself up, the pattern of slandered honour. - -"I cannot accuse myself of what I have not done," he said with quiet -dignity. "I admit that things look very black against me; but that is -chiefly due to my own incredible folly, and if you were generous you -would believe me when I swear to you, on the crucifix if you like--no, -that is nothing to you--that there is not, and never has been, anything -between me and Madame de Vigerie. If I cannot make you believe me I am -sorry, for your sake as well as mine; but it is the truth, -nevertheless." - -"The truth," exclaimed Horatia, "when day after day you have gone on -deceiving me, pretending that you never saw the Vicomtesse, pretending -that I must not see her--I do not know why you did that, since you seem -to have less sense of shame than I thought--pretending that you were so -concerned for my comfort..." - -She stopped abruptly, very white, with dilated eyes sind a hand at her -heart. - -"I begin to see," she said in a strangled voice. "You wanted an heir. -After that it did not matter. O, how I loathe myself...." And she began -to sob, putting her hands wildly to her head. "Take the picture down -... I don't want it there ... take the child away..." She struggled to -get up, but as Armand, greatly alarmed, bent over her to help her she -shrank back, trying to keep him off, and crying, "Don't touch me, don't -touch me! ... I hate you! ... I hate your child! I hate it, I hate it!" - -Armand had the sense to dash to the bell and to pull it furiously. - - -Maurice-Victor-Stanislas-Etienne-Marie-Charles de la Roche-Guyon was -born next day, at half past eleven in the morning. - - - - - *CHAPTER XIII* - - - *(1)* - - -Mrs. Martha Kemblet to her sister Mrs. Polly White, Paris, November -28th, 1831. - - -"My dear Polly, - -"Hoping this finds you quite well as it leaves me at present. I have -not had time these weeks so much as to send you a line, and now my head -is all in a whirl, and you were always one to want to know things from -the beginning. The precious babe is well, thank God, and in spite of -all their Popish goings-on, which are enough to scare a Christian woman. -Will you believe it, before that dear child was many hours old, with -Miss Horatia at death's door as you may say, they brought in that -Monsenior, as they call him, to christen him, and the beautiful -christening robe as I put away myself with his dear mother looking on, -not so much as two days before, all wasted. When his Reverence came -over I did think it would be done again properly, but no! A fine string -of names he has, poor mite, but I will not try to write them. Master -Maurice is enough for me, and it makes me wild to hear that Joséphine -speaking of Monsieur le Vicomte this and Monsieur le Vicomte that. - -"But Joséphine can't show off any of her airs now, for we are all put to -the right about by this Madam Carry. Even the old Madam was ready to go -down on her knees to her, and as for the Count I think he would have -given her a pound a minute. It was a pity to think that nice Mrs. Pole -hadn't come already, but who was to know that Miss Horatia was going to -take us all by surprise. Only the day before she was worrying her -pretty head counting over all them English baby clothes, with me, she -knowing nothing like, and she says to me, 'Martha, are you sure there is -enough?' and I says, 'Saving your presence, more than enough for twins -twice over.' And there they are, all lying just as we put them away, -and the sweet infant all bundled up in French ones, like any heathen -Indian. It's pitiful to see him. - -"The next day after we did this Miss Horatia went out driving to buy -some lace for a cap she had set her mind on, and I met her as she was -coming in, and said, 'Have you got the lace you wanted, Mam?' and she -says, looking strange, 'No, Martha,' and it seemed to me she had -forgotten all about it. Then I went for a turn myself, and when I came -in (it might be six o'clock or so) I found such a commotion as it might -have been St. Giles' Fair, and all of them jibbering and jabbering so -that I was put to it to know what had happened, but just then the old -Madam's lady came screaming for me, and I ran upstairs to my poor lamb. - - * * * * * - -"It was sixteen hours before the babe was born; then for three days she -was give over, and they sent a messenger to fetch his Reverence. I will -say that they spared no expense, and that they took on terrible. As you -know, the Count, for all his fair words, has never been a favourite of -mine, but I tell you I was sorry for that young man. He was scared -pretty nearly out of his life at first, and then it seemed to me that -the family looked pretty black at him, and it's my belief they had -cause. That Jackanapes Jules, the Count's valet, told me for gospel -that the Count and she were shut up for a long time in the nursery after -she came in that afternoon, and it's thought they had words. - -"Well, as I was saying, his Reverence arrived, and I took good care that -things should be to his liking, because, for all that the house is full -of duchesses and marquises as they call themselves, they don't know how -to make a body comfortable as _I_ call comfortable. The poor lamb seemed -to cling to him like, but I don't know that she ever so much as asked to -see the Count; so I drew my own conclusions. - -"But that's five weeks ago now, and his Reverence went home again, as -you know, and now, though the doctor says she may sit up on a couch a -little every day it seems as if she couldn't make the effort. She just -lies there, white as a lily, so that it's pitiful to see her and do you -know, what's worse, she won't take no notice of that pretty dear. And -here all these months she's been wearing herself to death getting the -nurseries ready as if he'd been a royal prince, and she, who never had a -needle in her hand, sewing all day at his little clothes. The Lord -knows best, I suppose, but it makes my heart ache." - - - - *(2)* - - -The planets of larger bulk which revolved round -Maurice-Victor-Stanislas-Etienne-Marie-Charles de la Roche-Guyon as -their central sun were disturbed in their courses, for Toinette, the -least of these luminaries, had just rushed into the nurseries to say -that M. le Comte was on his way thither. It was not the first time that -this comet had impinged upon their orbits, but it was the first time -that he had disturbed such a galaxy of subsidiary lights. Joséphine, -who had no business to be there at all, slipped out by a side door; -Toinette, blushing deeply, paused but to make a reverence and followed -her; but Martha, with merely the slightest sketch of a curtsey, folded -her arms and remained placidly in the background. The buxom Breton -nurse, rising majestically from her chair (the great consequence of the -burden in her arms warranting her in refraining from any movement of -respect) waited, as Armand approached, with the air of a smiling -priestess. - -The centre of the solar system was looking that morning more than -usually careworn. He was not asleep; on the contrary some knotty -problem of existence or pre-existence was engaging his whole mind. His -worried expression, however, slightly relaxed as his father bent to look -at him, and his puckered face broke into a different series of puckers. - -"Aha! he recognises M. le Comte!" said the Breton delightedly. "He -smiles at M. son père!" (This was a very free rendering of Maurice's -facial transformation.) "Let M. le Comte give him his finger, and he -will see how strong he is." - -The clutch of the tiny hand round Armand's forefinger seemed to please -him, for he said, "Tiens, Maurice, do not damage me for life!" - -"He resembles M. son père astonishingly," pursued Madame Carré. -"Probably his hair will be the hair of Madame la Comtesse, but who could -doubt that his eyes are those of M. le Comte?" - -The eyes in question, which were indeed more blue than grey, were now -staring up unwinkingly and rather disconcertingly at the young man. - -"Dost thou recognise me, Maurice?" asked Armand. "Thou art thyself -unlike anyone or anything that I have ever seen. Is it possible that I -am reminded of a monkey?" - -"M. le Comte would not wish to hold him?" suggested the nurse. - -"Si," answered Armand. "Give him to me. He will not break, hein?" - -He had the gift of doing everything deftly, and he held his son in a -manner to call forth praises from the guardian. Maurice still studied -him, and was carried over to Martha at the window. - -"Well, my good Martha," said Armand, "what do you think of him?" - -"He takes to you, Sir," responded Mrs. Kemblet weightily. (Never, -though she sometimes accorded her "lamb" a title, did she address the -source of that title otherwise.) "And there's no doubt he has your -eyes." - -"He has need to take to someone, has he not?" observed Armand. - -And though it had given Martha "a turn" to see the poor innocent in his -father's arms when he had never been in his mother's, she rose in -defence, knowing the Breton ignorant of English. - -"She'll be all right, Sir, my lady will, when she's stronger, you'll -see, and be as fond of him as never was, she as wanted him so badly.... -Will he go back to his Nana now, the precious?" - -"Martha," said the Comte, surrendering his offspring, "never buy your -bonnets at Herbault's. But you don't, I suppose." - -"Certainly not, Sir," responded Mrs. Kemblet, in some indignation. "I -makes them myself, Sir, not liking the French style, saving your -presence.... Here he is, Mrs. Carry." - -And, able then to ponder Armand's cryptic utterance, she stood staring -after him as he left the nursery, and thought, "Poor young gentleman, -it's pitiful! Well, wild oats, as the saying is, always come home to -roost." Nevertheless, from that day she had softer thoughts of "the -Count." - - - - *(3)* - - -All these agitations had, as may well be imagined, reverberated nowhere -more loudly than in the apartments of Victorine, Duchesse Douairière de -la Roche-Guyon. During the crisis she had performed the customary -miracle known as "rising to the occasion"; to her had come the terrified -Armand, the distressed Emmanuel, and from the top of the house she had -directed, as from a quarter-deck, the various manoeuvres which were to -guide the family ship once more into smooth water. Now, a veteran -admiral, she a little took her ease, though not relaxing her vigilance, -for, to change the metaphor, there was something savouring of a mutiny -below decks, and the mutineer was the English wife. - -The Dowager had been far too much occupied of late to pay attention to -that curious soul of hers, which seemed to crave for ghostly nourishment -only when her body had received too much of material, and Monsignor de -la Roche-Guyon, paying a call upon her this December morning, had not -found her desirous of spiritual intercourse. He sat there now by her -bedside, his fingers tapping gently on the box of Limoges enamel which -enshrined her false teeth--but this he did not know--his thin, refined -prelate's face a little flushed from the heat of the room after the cold -outside, while the Marquis, leaning rather gloomily against the -mantelpiece listened, like his cousin, to the venerable lady's -denunciation of her favourite grandson. - -"Not," said the Duchesse, with a fine liberality of view, "that I -pronounce judgment upon his affair with Madame de Vigerie--that is more -in your province, Prosper--but that I cannot conceive his not taking -sufficient precautions to prevent the slightest whisper of it coming to -Horatia's ears at this time. All Englishwomen are prudes, and he ought -to have known what the effect would be. Heaven knows we do not want -another secluded wife in the family ... No, Emmanuel, you know I do not -blame you in the least ... That she will scarcely speak to Armand is -natural, but it is not natural that she should refuse to take the -slightest interest in the child. (Prosper, do leave off tapping your -fingers like that!) As you know, it was never my wish that she should -nurse it, but though events have made that impossible, I should at least -desire----Ah, here is Armand himself. Good-morning, grandson!" - -"Good-morning, bonne maman," said the young man, saluting her extended -claw. "Good-morning, Prosper. I suppose you are sitting on my case as -usual?" - -"Do not be flippant, Armand," said the Duchesse with majesty. "You -ought to be on your knees thanking the saints that the child is as -healthy as it is, and that your wife is not in her grave." - -Armand sat down with an air of resignation, and looked across the bed at -Prosper. - -"If you could make some novel contribution to the joint sermon, cousin," -he said pleasantly, "I should be grateful. The old text is getting -threadbare." - -"I don't want to preach you a sermon, my dear Armand," replied the -priest. "I think recent events must have done that." - -"I will tell you what recent events have done for me," retorted the -young man with vigour. "They have shown me the truth of the English -saying, 'as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.' You drive me, -between you, to wish heartily that I were what you say I am, the lover -of the lady to whom you assign me. I should be no worse off--in fact -considerably better." - -"Armand!" protested his grandmother, with prudery so manifestly -histrionic that even Prosper turned away to hide a smile. - - - - *(4)* - - -"Is he a precious pet, then, and will he come to his Martha, and would -he like to go to his pretty Mamma?" crooned Martha, rocking a bundle to -and fro in her arms. Maurice, just extricated from the voluminous -embrace of his foster-mother, gurgled assent. - -"Has he had a nice walk then, and did he have a beautiful sleepy sleep?" -continued his faithful admirer, hurrying along the corridor in the -direction of her mistress's bedroom. Arrived there she stopped, -listened, and knocked. - -It was the hour for Horatia to be sitting up in an armchair. She did -this religiously, according to the doctor's orders, from three to four, -then wearily allowed herself to be put to bed again. Now she could -receive a few visitors. Members of the family, and connections, came to -offer their congratulations, but the conversation was extremely -one-sided, and Martha would not permit her charge even to say "Yes" and -"No" for longer than ten minutes at a time. Even the Duchesse, when she -paid her state visit, found herself, to her indignation, back again in -her own apartments almost as soon as she had left them, and so there was -nothing to do but to send the small parcel containing the promised -emeralds to Horatia, since she had not had time to make the presentation -in person. - -It was a good thing, perhaps, that a kind Providence had prevented this, -for her granddaughter-in-law, just glancing at the jewels, told Martha -to put them away and never to let her see them again. She had cried -after the episode, and for a week no further visits had been allowed. -Every day Armand came to kiss her hand. His appearance seemed to make no -difference one way or the other. Horatia would say, in answer to his -enquiries, "I am quite well, thank you," and turn her head, so that -there was nothing left for him to do but to go away. Her son she had -scarcely seen, and her indifference amounted to a positive distaste for -his society. - -Once or twice after his morning promenade the fat, jolly Breton woman, -to whom Maurice owed the preservation of his tiny life, was invited to -exhibit her charge, but Horatia refused so much as to look at him, and -merely said, "Please ask that woman to go away. I cannot bear her great -cap." Martha regretfully obeyed, and by evening was ready to agree to -the exclusion of the child altogether, when she saw how her mistress's -temperature had risen. That was three weeks earlier, and although -Horatia's bitterness and apathy continued the doctors had given it as -their opinion that there was a steady if slow improvement. They were -agreed that it would be a great step in the right direction if Madame la -Comtesse could be induced to take some interest in her baby. Martha had -asked and received permission to try again, and she now stood with -Maurice in her arms summoning up courage to enter. A fresh gurgle gave -the necessary impetus; she turned the handle of the door and went in. - -Horatia, as white as her dressing-gown, was sitting with her back to the -door, looking into the fire, her hands folded before her. - -"Would he like to go to his pretty mamma? and he shall then," said -Martha, laying down the bundle in Horatia's lap. Horatia started, but -with the child already on her knee it was impossible to resist. - -"Now, Miss Horatia, just put your hand under his little head and hold -him a moment for me while I poke the fire. He wouldn't cry, no, he -wouldn't, Mother's poppet," she went on, as the infant showed signs of -weeping. - -Horatia put her hand under his head as she was told, and awkwardly tried -to make a lap for the tiny creature, who decided at last that his -puckerings should end in a smile. The fire needed a great deal of -making up, and as soon as Mrs. Kemblet had finished she found that there -were handkerchiefs which that careless Joséphine had not yet put away. -Horatia appeared afraid to move, while Maurice clutched wildly at his -own thumbs, and seemed for the moment content with his rapid change of -quarters. - -"Martha," came at last the languid voice, "do you think he is my baby at -all?" - -"Why, Miss Horatia, how can you talk so! Whose else should he be, and -his forehead like his Reverence's own? Pick him up and cuddle him, my -lady; he might be a poor orphan, not so much as seeing his own mother." - -But Maurice at this point, probably feeling himself an orphan, began to -cry. In an instant the wily Martha had slipped out of the room, and -closed the door behind her. - -"My heart was thumping fit to burst," she afterwards wrote to Polly. -"But the precious did not cry for long." And indeed, when, a quarter of -an hour later, she cautiously opened the door, Horatia was bending over -the child in her lap. She half turned, and raised a warning finger. -Maurice was fast asleep. - - - - - *CHAPTER XIV* - - - *(1)* - - -It was New Year's Day, 1832, and the Duchesse was doing up a small -packet. She believed absolutely in a system of rewards and punishments, -and she thought that when people had done what was right they should be -suitably recompensed. This, therefore, was a present of five hundred -francs for Martha. - -The doctor called in to attend an attack which the Dowager now permitted -herself had given it as his opinion that the family of La Roche-Guyon -had to thank the English attendant for the recovery of Madame la -Comtesse. It was three weeks now since Martha's fortunate experiment, -and a marked change had taken place in its subject. Horatia was -beginning to be about again as usual. She drove out daily, and was -receiving visitors. She had entirely dropped her peculiar attitude -towards the child, and was behaving like a reasonable being, far more -reasonably, indeed, than the Duchesse could have expected. To the -Dowager her unnatural dislike of her son had been no more objectionable -than her absorption before his birth, her extravagant preparations for -his advent, her intention of having an English nurse for him. -Providence, however, had defeated the latter project, and had caused -that treasure Madame Carré to be installed. And the latitude which -Armand had allowed to Horatia's fancies for redecoration and upholstery -of the nurseries the Dowager had put down to his shrewdness, for which -she had a considerable respect. No doubt the young scamp was glad to -see his wife so harmlessly occupied, so long as he had his own freedom. -It was true that the consequences of his indulgence in that freedom had -been rather disastrous, but, though the Duchesse could not be got to -believe his protestations of innocence, she no longer treated him to -homilies on the subject, considering that the conditions of his ménage -were improving. For not only did Horatia, though she visited the -nursery daily, refrain from disturbing the régime established by the -Duchesse herself, but she had consented to appear publicly with Armand -next week, so, evidently, the breach was healed. Could anything be more -satisfactory? - -The old lady finished sealing up the packet for Martha. It then -occurred to her to reward the Blessed Virgin also, and she wrote an -order on her bank for one of Monsignor de la Roche-Guyon's charities. - - - - *(2)* - - -In reality the domestic affairs of the Comte and Comtesse were not -prospering as the dispenser of rewards upstairs believed. At the very -moment when the Duchesse was indulging in these reflections, Horatia was -on the point of doing something she had long intended to do. - -Armand had just come into her boudoir with his arms full of flowers. - -"I have brought you some lilac," he said, laying down a sheaf of white -blossoms, and with them, almost furtively, a leather case which, from -its shape, contained a necklace. "Here are some roses, too. I thought -you might like them as a New Year's gift for Maurice, It is his first -New Year's Day." - -"You are very kind," replied his wife evenly. "If you will ring for -Joséphine I will tell her to put them in the nursery." - -Armand walked across the room in silence to the bell. Then he moved away -without ringing it, murmuring something about taking the flowers to -Maurice himself. - -"Armand," said his wife, looking at the unopened case, "I think I would -rather that you did not give me presents. I am afraid that you do not -understand." - -"Understand what?" asked the young man uneasily. "I understand, my dear, -that you are getting better at last, and that you are more beautiful -than ever." - -Horatia motioned him back. "I am afraid that is not true," she said in -a very matter-of-fact way. "Will you sit down? I have been waiting to -be strong enough to have a talk with you." - -Armand did not sit down. "I see that you have not forgiven me for my -ever-to-be-regretted deception," he said, regarding her with some -apprehension. - -"I do not think that there is much question of forgiving, or of not -forgiving," replied Horatia. "I really do not mind if you deceive me or -no; I am past that now. Since my illness something has happened to -me--I am different. I believe that the last thing I said before I -fainted was that I hated you. I take that back; it is not true. One -cannot hate a ... a person who does not exist ... I would rather you -understood." - -"Merci, mon amie, you make yourself perfectly plain," said Armand with a -rather forced lightness. He had broken off a stem of the lilac and -holding it in his hand, was gazing at it. "But I assure you that I do -not regard myself as a ghost, ma foi, not in the least!" - -Suddenly he looked up and met her glance full. "Then you still do not -believe me?" - -"I cannot I am sorry," said his wife in a low voice, and, leaning back -in her chair, she closed her eyes. She was no longer, as before, a -duellist needing to see what parry her antagonist would next use; she -was a judge, pronouncing sentence. Armand said something under his -breath, breaking up the lilac stem. - -But in a moment Horatia reopened her eyes and sat up. "I have been so -humiliated already," she resumed, "that I cannot bear any more. Must I -make myself more explicit? Take your freedom; do what you like with it. -I shall ask no questions." - -"You are proposing, then, to make a scandal," returned her husband, -lifting angry eyes. "That will not do much to silence the other gossip, -which you found so objectionable, will it?" - -"That story does not touch me now," said Horatia. "And there shall be no -scandal, I promise you that. In public I shall be your wife. I will do -my duty by your child. When we have to appear together I do not think -you will have any cause to complain of me." - -Armand suddenly flung the tortured branch of lilac into the fire. "For -the last time, Horatia, will you believe me?" he said with passion. "I -have given you my word of honour; do you expect me to beg your -forgiveness for a fault which I have not committed? I have been -patient, for you have been very ill--you are ill now, or you would not -create this causeless and ridiculous situation." - -"O, do not delude yourself with that idea," returned his wife. "I am -quite well now, and I know what I am saying, and I mean it. I have not -been near death without learning many things. I am sorry if the -situation seems to you ridiculous; to me it is more than that. I do not -want you to speak any more about forgiveness. I can never believe you, -and that is the end of the matter." - -Armand was whiter even than she. But the armour of weakness and -weariness which, unrealising, she wore, was potent. He controlled -himself with obvious difficulty. - -"That is your last word, Horatia?" - -"Yes, I think so," said she wearily. "Would you mind going now, and -telling Martha to come to me." - -"Soit!" said the Comte between his teeth, and walked to the door. - -"There is one thing more," said the tired, even voice. "Would you be so -good as to explain matters to Madame de Vigerie. She has called twice -to see me. Naturally I shall not receive her, and I have not yet learned -how to lie." - -It is enormously to Armand's credit that he did not bang the door. - - - - *(3)* - - -As soon as her husband's footsteps had died away Horatia got up rather -unsteadily from her chair and turned the key in the lock. Somehow or -other victory had intensified rather than relieved the misery of life. -She had got what she wanted, and she was frightened at her own success. -She was not accustomed to compromise with her conscience, and she had an -uneasy feeling that she was not acting quite rightly--and yet how -otherwise could she go on living in the same house with Armand? He -ought to be thankful that she had not insisted on returning to her -father. Now, of course, he would go at once to that woman! - -It was curious that her jealous hate should still be mixed with pain, -and that the treachery of her friend should still have power to wound -her, when greater things than friendship were at stake, but she had been -very near loving the Vicomtesse, and she had trusted her from the first -time that she had seen her. For no other woman before had she ever had -quite the same feeling.... Well, it only proved that even liars could -sometimes speak the truth, for Armand had said over and over again that -no woman could be true to another. So that was the last of her -illusions. There was nothing left to live for, and every day she was -getting stronger. - -A door opened and shut at the end of the corridor, but in the short -interval there came the cry of an infant. Horatia sat up intent and -listening--half rose, and leant back again. She was determined not to -yield to the absurd weakness of being unable to sit still and hear -Maurice cry. There were plenty of people to quiet him, and besides, in -such a world he might as well get used to crying ... It was no good. -She got up, unlocked her door, and listened. The sound had ceased. - -Horatia was very far now from feeling any kind of repulsion for the -baby. All the strange obsession of her illness had vanished that -afternoon when Martha had had the temerity to leave him on her lap. The -living warmth of his tiny body had unsealed the frozen spring of -tenderness, and for that reason it was very seldom that she allowed -herself to take him in her arms. He was Armand's son, and she was -determined not to forget it--Armand's, who had deceived her and lied to -her from the beginning. With the shock of her husband's treachery, the -realisation that the unborn child was his as well as hers, had seemed to -burn itself into her consciousness. It had wrung from her the cry, "I -hate you, I hate your child!" She did not hate Armand now, for, as she -had told him, he was dead to her, and she did not hate Maurice, but he -was not the child of her dreams. He was Armand's son, a stranger and a -foreigner, a captive already to the family tradition. He would grow up -French in nurture, French in thought; he would grow up like his father. -And this was the child who was to have been welcomed into a world wholly -English, prepared for him by his mother. She could hardly bear to enter -the nursery now, to hear French spoken, where only English was to have -been, and to know that the press against the wall remained closed, -because his nurses could not or would not dress him in the English -babyclothes laid there lovingly so short a time before. The beautiful -copy of the Raphael Madonna was all that remained to remind her of a -child and his mother, and a nursery that might have been. - - - - *(4)* - - -The reason for the abrupt cessation of Armand's visits at the end of -October was not known to Madame de Vigerie for some days. Then she had -a note from him telling her the news, but without any hint of what had -occasioned the premature arrival of his heir. The Vicomtesse was -greatly perturbed on Horatia's account (though understanding that she -was now out of danger), and she went herself to the Hôtel de la -Roche-Guyon to inquire, and sent her flowers, more than once or twice, -having no suspicion how those flowers would have been received had -Armand allowed them to reach his wife's sick-room. When Madame de -Vigerie heard that Horatia was well enough to receive an intimate friend -for a few minutes she called again, fully expecting to be admitted, -since she was well aware that she herself was the only friend with the -slightest claim to real intimacy with the English girl. Much to her -disappointment a message was brought that Madame la Comtesse was too -tired to see her that day. There was, however, no hope expressed that -she would call again, and Laurence de Vigerie drove away feeling rather -dashed. - -Possibly, she told herself, Horatia was shocked at her temerity in -venturing to the house in spite of Armand's prohibition. As a matter of -fact the Vicomtesse considered that she had disposed of that -prohibition, about the necessity of which she had more than once had -doubts. She was sure now, from what she had heard, that the reason for -the secrecy of Armand's visits had gone--but with its vanishing had -ceased the visits, too. For nine weeks she neither saw him nor heard -from him. And it was during those weeks that she learnt to miss him more -and more intensely, to hope that each succeeding winter's day might -bring him, as of old. - -The winter's day which brought him, at length, was the second of the New -Year. Paris was ringing with the festivities of the season, and Madame -de Vigerie's salon was full of gifts and flowers. Into this warm, -lamplit, scented atmosphere, when her other visitors had departed, came -at last Armand de la Roche-Guyon, pale, almost grim, and empty-handed. - -Laurence de Vigerie's heart moved in her breast to meet him, and she -made no attempt to disguise that she was glad. - -"My dear friend," she exclaimed, giving him both her hands, "where have -you been these years--these centuries? And how is Horatia?" - -"She is better, thank you," replied Armand in a curious tone, as he -lifted her hands to his lips. "And I ... O, I have been playing the -devoted husband ... to very small purpose." - -After so explicit an avowal the extraction of the whole story was not -difficult. Laurence de Vigerie sat motionless while, pacing restlessly -to and fro, the young man unfolded it to her. All his bitterly hurt -self-esteem was in the tale. - -"I have lied to Horatia and I have lied to you," he ended. "You see -what wreckage I have made. I have alienated my wife for ever; I have -involved you in a scandal. It seems to me that there is nothing left -but to blow my brains out, or to slip into the Seine." - -"I think Horatia should have believed you," said Madame de Vigerie in -rather a hard voice. - -"I had lied too much," answered Armand, and there was silence. A petal -from a hothouse flower fell on the shining table at the Vicomtesse's -elbow. She took it up and began to twist it in her fingers. At the -other side of the room, Armand sat on a couch with his head in his -hands. - -"If I had been seeing her as I used to do it could never have happened. -Why did you make up that story to keep us apart?" - -The young man gave a sound like a groan. "Must you know the real -reason?" - -"If I am ever to forgive you." - -"It was because I wanted you so madly, and because I saw that I had no -chance while you were her friend. You were too honourable. It was a -base trick ... but I would have stooped to anything ... I suppose you -will never have anything to do with me again, and I have nothing but my -own cursed folly to thank for it. If I had not been blinded I should -have seen long ago that you were the only woman in the universe for -me--Laurence, Laurence, you could have made something of me ... and I -have deceived you, and damaged your reputation. I will say good-bye, I -think, before you send me away." He got up. Madame de Vigerie had -buried her face in her hands. - -"Good-bye," he repeated. "Do not fear that I am going to shoot myself. -I am not worth such an heroic ending." He laughed unsteadily. "Will -you not even say good-bye, Laurence?" - -Never, in all his hours of gaiety and success had Armand de la -Roche-Guyon so appealed to Laurence de Vigerie as now. He _had_ made -wreckage, and he would be the first to suffer. She saw him swept to the -feet of the worthless. - -"O, I must save you!" she cried, more to herself than to him. "Armand, -my poor Armand, I do not cast off my friends like that..." She held out -her hands, her eyes full of tears. - - - - - *CHAPTER XV* - - - *(1)* - - -Ensconced on the Tuscan slope of the Apennines, on the road from Bologna -to Florence, stood an inn, frequented by travellers less for its -comforts than for its convenient situation, and here, under a pergola, -on a warm September morning of 1831, Tristram and Dormer were seated. -The road, visible from their present position, clung desperately to the -side of the mountain; down below was a torrent, faintly clamouring, and -opposite rose another mountain wall, green and thickly wooded. At this -wall Charles Dormer was now absently gazing, thinking of the spot, -further back, from which they had seen, vast and indistinct, the plain -of Lombardy, and beyond it, just visible above the horizon like a flock -of small clouds, the summits of the Alps. For it was out of the Alps, -after all, that they had come to see Florence. - -The voyage had done him good, but as soon as they landed and he had -begun to sightsee, his headaches came back again. Then he would abstain -for a little--and try once more. Matters came at last to a climax in -April, at Rome, and very unwillingly indeed he had obeyed the English -doctor whom Tristram called in, and gone up to Switzerland for the -summer. The air of the mountains and the quiet had worked something of -a miracle, and so, having promised themselves, during their exile, that -they would still fulfil their intention of seeing Florence, they had -recrossed the Alps, proposing, after seeing that city, to take ship at -Leghorn. But this morning Dormer, to whom this plan was chiefly due, -being in the mood when one can survey oneself with a rather cynical -amusement, was quite conscious that he was not now so burningly anxious -to see Florence as he had been, for he was beginning to chafe to get -back to Oxford. The long letter in his hand had not lessened that -anxiety. - -He looked across the table at Tristram, who was reading an old English -newspaper. If he himself had gained physical health from his travels -Tristram had equally come to a measure of spiritual. Dormer knew now -that what he had hoped was the true explanation of Tristram's perplexity -was indeed true, and that Tristram no longer felt a barrier between -himself and the priesthood; in fact he was going to be ordained at -Christmas. - -"In how many weeks shall we be home again, did you say?" he asked -suddenly. - -Tristram raised a bronzed face from his newspaper. "In about six, I -reckon. Why? Is anything the matter?" - -"Oh, no," returned his friend. "I was only wondering if we could just -get an idea of Florence in two or three days and then go on to Leghorn." - -"But you have been wanting all the summer to be in Florence," said -Tristram, laying down his paper. - -"Yes, I know, but..." - -"What has Newman been writing to you?" asked Tristram suspiciously. - -"An enthusiastic account of the woods of Dart. He has been staying with -Froude, you know." - -"We have seen better things than the Dart--or even the Axe--for that -matter," observed Tristram. "Anything else?" - -Dormer turned over the pages of his letter. "He sends me a tirade -against Liberalism and the anti-dogmatic principle, which makes me long -to be home. He says the Bill is bound to pass and the nation is for -revolution." - -"Well, I suppose we knew that," returned Tristram, unimpressed. "How is -he getting on with the Councils?" - -"Very well, I think. I told you, Tristram, that he was the right man." - -"Oh, I dare say he is good enough," was the grudging reply. - -"Listen to this," said Dormer. "'My work opens a grand and most -interesting field to me, but how I shall ever be able to make one -assertion, much less to write one page, I cannot tell.' That will be -all right." - -No response from Tristram. Dormer smiled to himself and, seeing the -mood he was in, omitted the rest of the page where Newman confided to -him his fear that he should be obliged to confine himself to the one -Council dealing with the Arian heresy. - -"Here is something about you. 'It seems very unlikely that Froude will -be able to join Mozley at St. Ebbe's. His father and Keble are both -against it, and he himself wants to try his hand first at the -Ecclesiastical history of the Middle Ages. What a pity it is not a year -later, when I suppose Hungerford would have been in priest's orders. It -would have been just the thing for him. Remember, anyhow, that Oxford -is the proper sphere for him and do not let him escape elsewhere. If, -as you say, he must have work amongst the poor, Keble agrees with me -that something must be found for him near at hand. The times are -troublous, and Oxford will want hot-headed men.'" - -"I am much obliged to Newman. No one has ever called me hot-headed -before." - -"Oh, you know what he means," said Dormer. - -"Anyhow, I can't see what good he thinks I am going to be to him. But -for the next few years I don't mind very much what I do. Eventually, of -course, I should like my parish to be a poor one, and as I shall never -marry I shall be able to live in it, however squalid it may be." - -"I quite agree," said Dormer conciliatingly, "that you are made for that -sort of thing, but for the time being, perhaps..." - -"These poor, ignorant, dirty priests are at least one with their -people," pursued Tristram unregarding, his eyes fixed on the road below -them. "I expect the mere fact of their being quite alone makes them -more accessible. Yes, there is a great deal, Charles, from the -practical standpoint, in your celibate views. I wish the accompaniments -of that state were not sometimes so ugly. I should have expected anyone -as fastidious as you to be the first to see that side of it. Look -there!" And he pointed to a snuffy, cassocked form toiling up the -slope. "If he had had a wife his clothes might have been mended, and -perhaps he might even have washed his face sometimes." - -"If you come to think of it," said Dormer in a matter-of-fact tone, "the -accompaniments of a martyrdom could never have been anything but ugly." - -"My dear fellow," retorted Tristram, smiling, "I think I have heard you -in that vein before. You are an idealist, and no doubt it's very -comforting. I have the misfortune to be unable to get away from facts. -Read about this boat race between Oxford and London amateurs which took -place in June. I must go and pack if we are to reach Florence -to-night." - -He threw Dormer the paper, stooped to pat the flea-ridden puppy of the -hotel, and went in. - - - - *(2)* - - -And they might have reached Florence that night if it had not been for -Giulia Barlozzi. - -To the human eye Giulia Barlozzi, sitting by the roadside to beg, -appeared little but a bundle of rags. To the equine perception she was -evidently something much more portentous, and the horses testified their -aversion in a very effective way. The postilion basely if prudently -contrived to slip off before the pace became impossible, and the -masterless animals tore unchecked down the steep Apennine road, the open -carriage swaying and banging behind them. The crash came at the bottom, -where, to make matters really final, there was a sharp turn and a stone -bridge. Tristram was flung clear, landing, slightly stunned, not six -inches from the parapet. When he picked himself up, half stupefied, -peasants, miraculously sprung from nowhere, had seized the horses and -were dragging Dormer, apparently dead, from beneath the shattered -carriage. - -Frenzied with apprehension, Tristram struggled across the road, but -before he got to his friend a curtain seemed to come down over his -vision. He heard excited, encouraging voices in his ears, arms -supported him, and, half carried, half led, he found himself, after an -uncertain interval, seated in a room with someone bathing his head. -Around him was a babel more awful than he had ever imagined could -proceed from the human tongue, lamentations, explanations, curses, cries -and prayers. And on a table in the middle of the room, white, dusty, -and bleeding a little from a cut on the temple, lay Dormer, very still. - -"Charles!" cried Tristram in a voice of anguish, springing to his feet. -Instantly the torrent of talk was turned on to him. - -"Non è morto! non è morto!" he was volubly assured a score of times -before he had satisfied himself that it was true. A pæan of inward -thanksgiving burst from him when he ascertained that Dormer, though -unconscious, was certainly breathing. Voices of commiseration and -intense sympathy surged round him as he bent over his friend, voices -appreciative of Dormer's appearance--"he has a face like San Giovanni -himself"--voices informing him that the priest had been sent for---- - -"A priest!" cried Tristram in his stumbling Italian. "It is a doctor -that is wanted!" But when he tried to explain that he and his friend -did not belong to their Church, a dirty hand waved before his eyes a -missal which Dormer had bought at Bologna, and which had been jerked out -of his pocket in the catastrophe, and he was assured that his friend was -a Christian, and that the parroco was coming as fast as he could. -However, when Tristram gathered that the medical skill of this -ecclesiastic--which was represented as being very great--was all that he -was likely to obtain that day, there being no doctor within many miles, -he was prepared to welcome him more warmly, especially as just at that -juncture he had made the unpleasant discovery that Dormer's right leg -was certainly broken. - -The parroco had not arrived, and discussion was still raging round the -table and its burden when Dormer came back to consciousness. Tristram, -who was wetting his lips with brandy at the time, stopped as he saw his -friend's eyes open, and said, in no very steady voice, "Thank God! ... -Charles, my dear fellow, I am afraid your leg is broken. But I thought -... O, thank God it is no worse." - -Dormer lay quiet a moment, his head on Tristram's arm. "This ... -reminds me ... of Eton, he said at last, faintly. And, sick with pain, -he added, very characteristically, "It is entirely my own fault ... for -insisting on returning ... to Florence." - - - - - *CHAPTER XVI* - - - *(1)* - - -That Tristram Hungerford, nearly four months later, should still be in -Italy, should, indeed, be walking up and down the Cascine at Florence, -among other promenaders, on a fine day in January, was due to the fact -that an obscure Italian parroco had received from art a shadowy -acquaintance with medicine and from nature, unbounded confidence -wherewith to make use of it. - -Never again was Tristram likely to allow a physician of souls to try his -hand at mending a body, least of all the body of a friend. Priestly -surgery, as it had been practised on Dormer, he would henceforth eschew -like the plague. For the result of the parroco's ministrations had been -disastrous, and his setting of the broken leg so bungling that at last -Tristram had Dormer removed to Florence and procured the services of a -first-class surgeon. The latter pulled a long face, and said that if -the English signor did not want to walk lame all his days the leg must -be re-set. At the stage then reached this involved breaking the bone -again. It is probable that Tristram, sitting in the next room with his -hands over his ears, suffered quite as much as the victim himself. The -surgeon indeed told him afterwards that, had not his friend been a -heretic, he might have thought he had been miraculously relieved, as -were sometimes the holy martyrs. Not, however, that when he saw Dormer -afterwards, Tristram could discern much evidence of alleviation of any -kind. - -However, in a week or ten days now they were going home. Dormer's -accident had not, at any rate, brought back his headaches; he affirmed, -on the contrary, that the long, enforced rest had done just what he -needed. He had borne the pain and tedium serenely, almost lightly; the -only thing that seemed to try him was his absence from Oxford, and the -fact that his misfortune had delayed his friend's ordination. Their -prolonged stay had brought them several acquaintances among the English -colony at Florence, and of late they had come to know an Italian -gentleman connected with the Court, a certain Signor della Torre -Vecchia, who had become smitten with an immense admiration for Dormer. -Tristram had indeed rather suffered from this worship, and so, though -the Italian had been exceedingly kind to them both, putting a carriage -at their disposal and doing his utmost to carry off Dormer from their -hotel to his villa at Fiesole, Tristram was not altogether sorry that -their benefactor was leaving Florence that very afternoon. For when -Signor della Torre Vecchia could get Tristram alone he did nothing but -talk about his dilettissimo amico, his charm, his looks ("one would say -a portrait by Van Dyck, signore"), his intellectual distinction. He -drove Tristram into promising him Dormer's book on the Non-Jurors, for -he had been in England and manifested a most inexplicable interest in -the English Church, though, despite their endeavours to prove to him -that she was a part of the Church Catholic--instancing the Catholicity -of her Prayer-Book, while admitting the Protestantism of her -practice--he persisted in regarding her as a phenomenon, and they never -got any further. Afterwards he would take Tristram aside and reiterate -his conviction that nobody like Dormer could possibly remain permanently -outside the True Church. The only consolation which Tristram derived -from these confidences was the power of chaffing Dormer unmercifully on -the effect produced by his "romantic appearance." - -Towards Horatia Tristram's feelings had changed. He would always, he -supposed, love her better than anyone else in the world, but he did not -love her now as a lover. Besides the fierce struggle of the past months -to tear from his heart what he regarded as sin, a struggle which had -slowly been successful, there was the knowledge, conveyed to him by the -Rector, that she was about to have a child. Unconsciously this made a -difference to him. He felt now as he imagined an elder brother might -feel towards a sister who had always been very dear to him, full of an -affection essentially protective. The time had been that, even though -the sense of sin had left him, he could not receive a letter from her -without being plunged in depression. But now he would have been very -glad of a letter, for, whether they were lost or delayed in the -notoriously uncertain Italian posts, or whether they were non-existent, -no communications from the Rector or from Horatia had reached him since -August, and he sometimes imagined horrible things, as that Horatia was -dead, for he did not know when her child was expected. - - -Another change, too, had gradually wrought in his spirit, He was, in a -sense, quite honest when he mocked at Dormer's idealisation of the -single life, though perhaps his mockery was due to the knowledge that -the ideas which he derided were not really so very alien to his mind. - -Now, indeed, if the truth were known, they had even begun to have a -curious attraction for him--a speculative attraction. What if to some -souls there did really come a call to win "that little coronet or -special reward which God hath prepared (extraordinary and beside the -great Crown of all faithful souls)" as the author of _Holy Living_ had -it, for those who had made the sacrifice of earthly affection and ties. -And persons _did_ make that sacrifice, in numbers--as witness the not -very attractive religious whom he saw about the streets of Florence. -Most of all, unforgettable, recurring again and again to his mind, there -was the great fresco in the monastery of San Marco, where S. Dominic, -kneeling at the foot of the Cross, embraces it in a passion of love and -pain, and the Crucified looks down at him. It had taken Tristram's -breath away when first he saw it at the end of the cloister. After some -time he went and looked at it again--and came away very sad. Its -message was not for him, whose obedience was loveless. All that the -picture's spiritual beauty could do for him now was to remind him -painfully of Keble's words, so applicable to himself, of the shame of -the thought-- - - "That souls in refuge, holding by the cross - Should wince and fret at this world's little loss." - -Yes, to walk among the lilies might be given to such an one as Dormer, -but not to a commonplace person like himself, who had been forced into -sacrifice. He had nothing to give of his own free-will. That he would -henceforth live without earthly ties was not because he had been smitten -by a vision from on high, but because the woman he loved had been taken -from him. It was enough for him if he could echo the close of those -same lines-- - - "Wash me, and dry these bitter tears, - O let my heart no further roam, - 'Tis Thine by vows and hopes and fears - Long since----" - - -Some way off a stir among the promenaders and the sight of the Ducal -livery, portending, probably, that the Grand Duke was taking the air, -reminded Tristram of Torre Vecchia, and his impending departure. -Pulling out his watch, he hurried off. - -As he entered the hotel he was stopped by the porter. - -"The post is in, Excellency, and there are two English letters for you." - -The letters were both addressed in Mr. Grenville's handwriting, and one -had been posted no less than three months before. - - - - *(2)* - - -Dormer crumpled up the paper on which he had been scribbling and pushed -it under his cushions, where he lay on a couch near a window looking out -on to the Arno. The translation which he had been making of a portion of -Andrewes' _Preces Privatae_ did not please his difficult taste, and he -took up instead the other book lying beside him--Serenus Cressy's -edition of Father Augustine Baker's _Sancta Sophia_, or _Directions for -the Prayer of Contemplation_, a relic of one of his Jacobite ancestors -who had afterwards become a Benedictine, which he had found, at his -mother's death, among her books. He glanced at the title page, where -the hand which more than a hundred years ago had written its owner's -name--and his--Carolus Dormer--had traced below a cross and the family -motto, 'Ciò che Dio vuole, io voglio--God's Will my will'; and began to -read the chapter "Of the Great Desolation." Perhaps because he lived -almost always in the conscious presence of God the description of "this -most sharp purgatory of love" had for him a curious fascination. - -"For what has a soul left to fear that can with a peaceable mind -support, yea, and make her benefit of the absence of God Himself." - -He closed the book and lay back, gazing out of the window, yet San -Miniato and its cypresses were nothing but a blur.... - - -The door opened, and the landlord admitted a tall, fair Italian, wrapped -in an ample cloak. - -"Do not rise, do not rise, my dear friend, I implore you!" exclaimed the -visitor, swooping down upon Dormer and seizing both his hands. "And how -do you find yourself this afternoon? Not in pain, I trust!" - -"But I am perfectly well," protested Dormer, laughing. Accustomed as he -was to these effusive greetings, he was always glad when Tristram was -not by to witness them. "In a few days we, too, shall be leaving -Florence." - -Standing over him in his great black cloak, Signor della Torre Vecchia -shook his head dolefully. "I doubt if it is wise--whether you will -really be fit to travel." - -At this point the landlord, with many apologies, desired to be permitted -to set down the coffee on the table near the couch, and the guest had to -make way for him. - -"Your Excellencies have everything they require?" asked he. "Signor -Ungerford is just come in; he reads his correspondence. The courier has -arrived, but there are no other letters." One overflowing smile, he -bowed himself out. - -"Pray sit down, Signore," said Dormer. "We will not wait for Mr. -Hungerford." And he stretched out his arm to the coffee. - -"Ah, but you must allow me, in the circumstances, to do that!" said -Torre Vecchia quickly, and he snatched away the tray. "With what -pleasure should I not have done this for you up at Fiesole," he observed -wistfully, as he poured out the coffee. "It will always be a life-long -regret to me that you would not permit me to remove you to Villa San -Giuliano." - -"As if I were not sufficiently indebted to you without that!" exclaimed -the Englishman. "For all your kindness to a stranger I can make no -return but to hope that, when you visit England again, you will come to -Oxford as my guest." - -Torre Vecchia gave him, with his coffee, a promise that he would do so, -and flowed on in a gentle but swift-running stream of converse, while -Dormer began to wonder why Tristram did not join them. Finally he -apologised for him, suggesting that he did not know of the Italian's -presence. Torre Vecchia made a large gesture that excused him. - -"We were told," said he, "that he is reading his letters, and who can -say whether there is not one from his betrothed. Pray do not have him -disturbed.... You know, Signore, that your Church is very fortunate in -possessing material of the type of Signor Hungerford for her -pastors--for I understand that he is about to enter that estate. Is it -not true that the English country gentleman has an equal, if not a -superior, in the parson, who is a man of the world, with a training of -the University, whereas ours are ... to put it delicately, not high -born, and seminary bred.... But here I am on this topic again--and I -hope, Signore, that in our most interesting conversation of yesterday, -when I said how much I disliked our system of enforced celibacy for the -clergy, I did not seem to be criticising Holy Church, of which I trust I -am a faithful son." - -Dormer relieved him of this apprehension, and he continued: - -"But there are these two points which, when I feel I shall not be -misunderstood, I cannot help deploring--most of all the enforced -celibacy." Torre Vecchia dropped his voice and looked round, apparently -to make sure that they were alone, ere he went on earnestly, "'Signore, -consider the isolated position of the ordinary priest, consider the -number of things enjoyed by his fellow-men that he must renounce--above -all, that great happiness, which our holy religion sanctifies for -others, but which it forbids him even to think of for himself. His life -may inspire respect, even admiration, but it excites--in me, at -least--regret for so much rigour, which is surely in contradiction with -what Nature and God Himself have implanted.... I find it so -extraordinary that you, a divine of the English Church, do not agree -with me!" - -"But I do, in a sense," retorted Dormer. "I rejoice that our clergy are -free to marry or not to marry; only I would wish to see the majority -unmarried." - -"You would deprive them then of those pure pleasures which your Church -allows, the pleasures of a home, of a wife, of children?" - -"I would not deprive them of these. But I would have the greater number -deprive themselves." - -Torre Vecchia lifted his hands and eyes to heaven. "But this is the -spirit of Catholic asceticism, and yet you are not a Catholic! I am -more puzzled than ever. You and your friends, you tell me, believe in -the Real Presence, in the apostolical succession, in the power of the -keys, and yet when I was in England last I never met a single person who -seemed even to have heard of such things!" - -"Perhaps not, but they will hear some day," said Dormer quietly, and at -that moment Tristram entered, full of apologies, which were met by -counter-apologies from the Italian, and finally merged into a scene of -leavetaking, as the latter discovered that it was later than he thought. - -"You must make amends for your absence now, Signore," he said, smiling -at Tristram, "by allowing me to call upon you when next I am in England. -And in spite of your friend's views (which never cease to astonish me) I -cannot help hoping that this will be in one of those delicious country -parsonages, embowered in roses, bright with wife and child, to which I -have before now been welcomed--at what you call the 'family-living,' in -short!" - -He left Tristram deprived of speech and once more bent over Dormer. -"And for you, my dear friend, how I wish I could have seen you restored -to perfect health before I left! I am putting a carriage at your entire -disposal. Every afternoon one of my people shall come round and see if -you need it. No, no thanks, I beg ... I must veritably fly. Addio, -caro amico; I trust I may say a rivederci." Uttering further swift and -polite phrases, and flinging his cloak round him with the art of the -South, he was gone. - -Almost ere the door had closed Dormer had rolled over like a boy and -buried his face in the sofa-cushions. "Why did you not come in before, -you wretch!" he ejaculated. "I have been having such a disquisition, -all to myself. What on earth were you doing? It was no time for -reading letters." Turning over again, as a thought struck him, he said -abruptly: "I hope that well-meaning blunderer did not hurt you?" - -"Of course not," answered his friend. "But ... I've just had bad news." -And he went and sat down in the Italian's vacant place. - -Dormer struggled off the sofa. "My dear fellow, what is it?" - -"She's been very ill. The Rector had to go over--her child was born -prematurely." - -Dormer gave an exclamation. "Did it live?" - -"She was in great danger for four days," said Tristram, running his -hands through his hair, "in great danger, and I never knew! It must -have been about the time that we got here. The letter was temporarily -lost, I suppose. Yes, the child lived. This second letter of the -Rector's, dated about a month ago, which has reached me at the same time -as the first, says that he is not satisfied with the reports he has of -her, and that he would be very glad if I could see her before crossing -the Channel." - - - - - *CHAPTER XVII* - - - *(1)* - - -A fortnight later they drove into Paris. - -Tristram had written to Horatia announcing the probable date of their -arrival, but, as in his trouble he had omitted to give their address, -there was no letter to greet him, no invitation to stay instead at the -Hôtel de la Roche-Guyon, as there would have been had she known where he -would be. He was rather glad when he realised, on arrival, what he had -done. It was late. Next day he sent a note by a messenger saying that -he and Dormer would call in the early afternoon. - -In the morning he went out by himself, and leaning over the Pont Royal -watched the Seine running to the sea. Much water had slipped under that -bridge since last he was in Paris. He smiled at the commonplaceness of -the thought; but it was true, nevertheless. Did Horatia ever cross the -bridge?--of course she must often do so. Paris was different from the -Paris of old--different from any other city in the world, now. - -One of the views of the world was before him, where up the stream Notre -Dame lay magnificently at anchor. In his lonely walks in Florence -Tristram had acquired the habit of going almost every day into some -church or other; the desire to enter one now came upon him, and he left -his post and made his way, not however to Notre Dame, but to the church -which was to him the most attractive in Paris, St. Etienne du Mont. - -The beautiful jubé burst on his senses with a new surprise; the splendid -windows blazed again. He knelt down, undisturbed by a couple of -tourists who were wandering round. The church was full of light; the -wonderful exultant lines of the screen caught up his spirit, and he saw -once more, not with the faint sense of regret which once he had, that -the most jewelled of the windows were set up high in the clerestory, -where the eye had to seek for them. St. Etienne meant that, then--the -rapture, the ardour, the flaming ecstasy of sacrifice--more, of -sacrifice that seemed uncalled for. Would he ever know it, or must he -always feel that he gave, not grudgingly indeed, but without a grain of -the incense of joy? - - - - *(2)* - - -He thought of the church as he and Dormer walked rather silently along -the Rue St. Dominique that afternoon and came at last to the gateway of -the Hôtel de la Roche-Guyon. Yes, he had made the sacrifice completely; -it could not be redemanded now, even though he was to see her, to touch -her hand. It was relief unspeakable to know this; nine months, six -months ago he could not have met her. Yet he had a quite ordinary dread -of the encounter, of its strangeness, of the feeling that something had -come down and shut her off. Would she be looking ill? - -He had said to Dormer that he rather anticipated being received in the -midst of a family gathering, since he was known to the Marquis as well, -and since Armand was indeed no little in his debt. He was pleased to -find that this was not the case. The lackey led them up the stairs to -Horatia's boudoir. Madame la Comtesse (how unfamiliar!) was expecting -them. - -At first sight, as Horatia rose to greet them, Tristram thought, "Yes, -she has been ill, she looks a woman, but she is the same." She had for -a moment all her old vivacity, her delightful smile, the same trick of -screwing her eyes up when she talked. She gave him just the welcome -that he might have had in Berkshire. He was even able to remember, as -she held out her hand to Dormer, all the hits she used to aim at his -friend. - -"I hope you are quite recovered from your accident, Mr. Dormer," she -said. "You must not stand a moment, I am sure. Let us all sit down, -and we can gossip comfortably." - -She waved them into chairs. The voice, the words, were just Horatia's -own; the air a little more assured, more mature--that of Madame la -Comtesse de la Roche-Guyon. No harm in that. - -She talked on lightly. Papa, she was certain, had been alarming -Tristram unnecessarily; she was as well as ever she had been in her -life. And why had not Tristram given her an address?--could they not -come and stay at the Hôtel now? Presently they must see her son, and -Armand would soon be in. - -And as she talked the sense of effort began to be apparent, the glow, -the first illusion faded. She was not the same Horatia; she was not -even the Comtesse de la Roche-Guyon, an Horatia ripened by her station, -she was somehow different. She had not the same vitality. This was -what her illness had done to her, thought Tristram--drained away some of -that almost childish and petulant animation which he used to love in -her. Spring had left those green boughs, perhaps not to revisit them. -He was sad; and sat a little silent while she talked, without telling -them much, about Armand, about this, that, and the other, about her own -pleasure in seeing them, ending at last by saying, "Perhaps we had -better be going now into the salon." - -So they followed her to that apartment where, throned in state on a -sofa, out of deference to the English prejudice against being received -in a bedroom, sat the Duchesse--and Tristram was momentarily startled to -perceive that her hair, as he innocently supposed it to be, was of -almost the same shade as Horatia's. Beside her, talking with great -animation, was a young and fashionably dressed woman, the Marquise de -Beaulieu. His old acquaintance Emmanuel was standing by these two, and -in a window a tall ecclesiastic whom he did not know was conversing with -a shrivelled little old lady equally unknown to him. - -"Aha!" said the Dowager, "so this is the celebrated M. Hungerford to -whom, I understand, our young couple owe their present felicity." And -she tendered her small aged hand with a smile that unmasked the full -battery of her false teeth. "I have also to thank you, Monsieur, for -your kind hospitality to my son, as well as to my grandson. And why, I -pray, are we to be given no opportunity of returning so many -obligations?" And while, with half-bantering condescension, she -proceeded in this vein, and Emmanuel greeted him again with genuine -pleasure, Tristram was conscious that Dormer, rescued from his momentary -fall into the clutches of Madame de Beaulieu, was borne off and -presented by Horatia to the priest in the window. Then Armand appeared, -with a smile for everybody, delighted to see his former host, very -gallant to his wife. _He_ had not altered. Eventually he separated -Tristram from the Duchesse and his brother, and began to make courteous -and tactful inquiries about his "old friends" at Compton, but all the -while Tristram's mind was busy trying to account for the change in -Horatia. He was beginning to think it due, not to her illness exactly, -but to the atmosphere in which she lived, to these over-many relations, -amongst whom her identity, once so strong, seemed almost lost. - -Presently further stir, and Maurice was borne in like a relic, and -deposited in a strange shrine, his great-grandmother's lap. Somewhat to -Tristram's surprise, Armand immediately went over to him and presented -his finger; the infant, whose face had assumed an anxious expression, -crowed loudly and seized it. - -"Small doubt that he is thy son, mauvais sujet," Tristram heard the -Duchesse to remark sotto voce to her grandson. "His eyes are more like -thine every day. Do not throw thyself about thus, little one; I have -held many children before thee." - -But Tristram, the prey of a curious fascination, remained where he was. -And all this while, too, Horatia was sitting leaning her head on her -hand, at the other side of the room, alone, almost unnoticed, except -that Dormer, though still talking to Monsignor de la Roche-Guyon, was -looking at her intently. It was true that Horatia's eyes were fixed -upon the group round the sofa, or rather upon its centre; their -expression was not to be read, but the weariness, the profound lassitude -of her pose was the ineffaceable thing which Tristram carried away from -the scene--that, and Armand's look as he stooped over their child. - - - - - *CHAPTER XVIII* - - - *(1)* - - -When Tristram and Dormer had departed, and the family party broken up, -the Comtesse de la Roche-Guyon went to her own apartments and wept -hysterically. The following Sunday she resumed her attendance at -Morning Prayer. - -The reason for her action was not far to seek. Of all the emotions -which the sight of Tristram had called up, homesickness was the most -piercing. She had not let him see it; she had not thought, before he -came, that she was capable of any more feeling. She had told herself, -when she got his letter from Italy, that she was far too miserable to -care whether he came or no. But when she talked with him, when the -sound of his voice had rekindled all the past years of happiness, she -desired passionately the things of home, more even than when her father -had come over, for then she had hardly strength for a wish of any kind. - -She had long been putting off going again to the Embassy chapel, on the -score that she was not well enough; on the same pretext she did not read -Morning Prayer with Martha either. It was only occasionally that she -said her own prayers. She told herself that probably there was no God -at all. But now, with Tristram's visit, there sprang up immediately the -desire for this renewal of contact with things English, because she felt -that there she could indulge in a very luxury of unhappiness. She went -with that intention. - -But the effect was wholly different from her anticipations. Morning -Prayer, both in its religious and national aspects, may be said to -produce an atmosphere if repeated often enough. It disposes the mind to -the ideals of duty, uprightness, and faithfulness. It does not move -immediately to the heights and depths of great sacrifices, as the Mass -will do, though in the end the result is perhaps the same. Horatia came -away that Sunday from the Embassy Chapel with a most uncomfortable doubt -whether she were really being, not a noble, injured, suffering wife, but -a rather ignominious and cowardly person. Would not her father be -shocked at her failure in wifely duty? Would not all the generations of -Grenvilles behind her have been shocked? - -The idea was so unpleasant that she strove with it, and, having actually -caught a slight cold during the week, absolved herself from attending -Divine Service for some time. - - - - *(2)* - - -Madame de Vigerie, since her astonishing reception of him at the New -Year, had been many times called by Armand de la Roche-Guyon his good -angel and his guiding star. And, in a political sense at least, she was -not unworthy of these appellations. Horatia never knew to whom she owed -it that her husband was not implicated in the conspiracy of the Rue des -Prouvaires to gain access to the Tuileries and assassinate the Royal -Family, the discovery of which, at the beginning of February, shook -Paris. The enterprise was not chivalrous enough for Laurence de -Vigerie's taste. There were more stirring plans afoot, for a rising on -which all was to be staked was now much more imminent than it had been -in the summer, and she was in even closer communication than before with -the Regent's little court at Massa, that combination of the Coblentz of -the emigration and the Paris of the Fronde. There was much to keep them -occupied, for there was division not only among Madame's immediate -counsellors, but also in the Royalist committees in France. That in -Paris wished the rising adjourned; those in the provinces desired it -immediately. These problems demanded daily intercourse, and, indeed, -now that his wife had disavowed all interest in his doings, Armand -considered himself free to visit the Rue de la Chaussée d'Antin as often -as he liked. To many a moth the light of a guiding star may well be -attractive above all others. - -February slipped away, with the discovery of the plot, the trials of the -implicated. The salons of the Faubourg were divided between those who, -denying the conspiracy, ridiculed Louis-Philippe's baseless fears, and -those who mourned its ill-success. Tristram Hungerford came and left, -March entered, and Lent; Maurice was producing his first tooth, and -George Sand her first novel. In England the Reform Bill passed the -Commons; and in France Horatia was combatting the influence of Morning -Prayer. - -But to Armand himself the most important event of the month was a little -conversation which occurred during its second week. He had sent Madame -de Vigerie flowers, as he constantly did, and came in one afternoon to -find her bending over some lilies of the valley. - -"I wonder who gave me these," she said. - -"Cannot you guess?" asked Armand. He took out a spray and held it -towards her. "They were meant for a better place than that vase." - -The Vicomtesse smiled and shook her head. "I never wear flowers, save -those that I pick myself." - -"I have noticed that you never wear mine," said Armand. - -"Nor anybody else's." - -"Why not?" - -"Just a whim," said Madame de Vigerie, turning away. - -"I believe I can read your mind," said Armand slowly. "Laurence, you -are like a bird of the woods. You will not come to any man's whistling, -and it means too much to you to wear a favour." - -She turned on him half grave, half gay. "Mon ami, you have guessed -right. But I love your flowers ... I love to have them near me. I will -do anything but wear them." - -"And some day," said the young man softly, "you will do that. Or am I -never to hope for it, Laurence?" - -"No," she said, "I shall never wear them." But she did not meet his -eyes. - -"But if you ever did..." - -"O, suppose that I wore the stars as a necklace!" cried she. "It is as -likely." - -"But if you ever did," persisted Armand. "Laurence, if you ever did..." - -"Yes," she said, turning very pale.... - - - - *(3)* - - -March had all but completed its course with dust and wind, and at its -extreme end Lent had come to a temporary pause for the Carnival. - -Armand de la Roche-Guyon had just finished dressing for a costume ball. -The long mirror in his dressing-room, reflected him, clad from head to -foot in white and gold, in ruff, doublet and hose, a gentleman of the -Valois court. The dress, blazing with jewels, had been copied from a -well-known picture of Charles IX. From the little flat cap with a -feather set on the side of his handsome head to his shoes the costume -suited him admirably, and his valet, standing by him, had just expressed -this opinion. - -"The mask, M. le Comte, and the domino?" - -"No dominos to-night, but I will take it for a cloak. At what time did I -order the carriage to be ready?" - -"Not for a quarter of an hour yet, M. le Comte." - -"Well, you can go. Give me the mask." - -The man departed, and Armand, humming an air, the mask dangling from his -hand, tried altering by at inch or two the position of the dagger at his -hip. Then he looked at the clock, and on what seemed a sudden impulse, -threw down the mask upon a sofa and went out of the room. - - -"He'll be frightened to death if he sees you like that, Sir," said -Martha, looking with disapprobation at the costume which had already -given her "a turn" in the corridor, where she now stood with its wearer. - -"But since he is asleep..." said Armand ingratiatingly. - -Mrs. Kemblet shook her head, but opening the door with infinite -precautions, allowed her master to enter, and watched from the doorway. - -"Extraordinary how fond he is of him, to be sure," thought she, to whom -the male heart was a perpetual mystery. Horatia very rarely came to say -Good-night to the child; and the female heart being an even profounder -riddle it was not given to Mrs. Kemblet nor to anyone else to know how -often she longed to do so. - -As it befell, however, this night the desire had been too strong for -her. - -Martha saw the Comtesse far down the corridor. She was in her -dressing-gown, her hair hanging in great plaits. Two courses were open -to Mrs. Kemblet; to prevent, by warning her mistress, a meeting which in -the circumstances might have softening consequences, or to further it by -removing herself. She chose the latter, and vanished before she could -be seen. - -The door, ajar and unguarded, surprised Horatia. Very gently, so as to -run no risk of waking the child, she pushed it a little wider. Her -eyes, accustomed to the brighter light of the corridor, took in slowly -the dim room, the shaded nightlight, and, by the side of the crib, a -slim silkclad figure stooped over the occupant, its dark head almost -touching the pillow. - -Without a sound Horatia looked; without a sound she moved away. - - - - *(4)* - - -At the door of the ballroom Armand paused a moment adjusted his mask, -and entered. - -Although everybody was masked none were wearing dominos, and provided a -guest's disguise were already known it was easy to identify him. But -there was so great a crowd that it was difficult to find a given person, -and Armand looked in vain among the throng of monks, courtiers, dancing -girls and devils, for the high headdress of Madame de Vigerie's -fourteenth century costume, in which, as he knew, she was impersonating -Jeanne de Flandre, the wife of Jean de Montfort, Duke of Brittany, as -she rode with him into Nantes in 1341. But at last he saw in a doorway, -above the sea of heads the peak of the hennin, with its floating veil of -golden gauze. It must be she. Before he could get through the crowd he -had to watch the hennin vanish without having seen the face beneath it, -and ere he could pursue it further he was seized upon by an acquaintance -and led up to a mask who represented Esmeralda, the heroine of Hugo's -successful novel of the previous year. The lady was lively, and he was -engaged in converse with her when, halfway down the long room, he caught -sight of the tall headdress again, in the company of a Dominican friar, -and he turned eagerly to look. - -Yes, it was Laurence, in a flowing dress of purple over gold. The room -suddenly filled with mist ... for on her breast, tucked into the high -golden girdle, lay two white roses, the flowers he had sent her that -afternoon.... - -"Beau masque, you are pale," said the voice of Esmeralda in his ear. -"What has disturbed you--you are ill, perhaps?" - -The violins struck up as, for answer, Armand seized her. "You shall see -if I am ill! Can you dance till daybreak, Esmeralda?" - -In the frenzy of rapture that possessed him he scarcely knew how his -partners changed. Now he was dancing deliriously with an odalisque, now -with a nun. His tongue ran riot like his blood; but he never came on -the gold and purple dress again, though once or twice he saw it in the -distance. Well, he could wait ... And at last, the pendulum swinging -from exultation into dreams, he escaped from the hot ballroom into the -quiet of the garden, and tried to think. - -When he came back, twenty minutes later, the dancing had ceased, though -the violins were still playing madly. On the shining floor of the great -room the dancers were broken up into groups, talking in low voices. -Many had unmasked, and showed faces oddly whitened; some were hurrying -away. At one end of the room a woman was screaming; near him another, -the odalisque, had fainted. No one was caring for her. What had -happened? He thought at first that Louis Philippe had been -assassinated, that the Duchesse de Berry was dead. - -Then he caught the awful whisper that was passing from mouth to mouth. -And hearing it, half-crazy with terror, he ran wildly out into the -street, in the direction of the Rue de la Chaussée d'Antin. - - - - *(5)* - - -The Marquis Emmanuel de la Roche-Guyon, never a very good sleeper, was -wakeful to-night. He had worked till nearly twelve o'clock at his -monograph on the seaweeds of France, now approaching completion. Then he -had sat a long time with his chin on his hand, thinking of the past, the -only person awake in the great house, where they kept early hours. The -lamp lit up his comfortable, untidy, prosperous surroundings, and the -little bits of feathered stuff from the deep on which he tried to -nourish a starved heart. - -After a while he sighed and stirred. The room seemed hot; he would take -a turn in the courtyard before retiring, and perhaps the fresh air would -bring him sleep. - -It was thus that he met his brother. Across the courtyard, lit by a -faint, clouded moon and by the single oil lamp that burnt all night, -there was coming, staggering, a figure which at first Emmanuel could not -believe in, much less recognise--a gallant of the court of the later -Valois, in ruff, doublet and hose. The Marquis almost rubbed his eyes; -was it a ghost? Then, as the apparition drew nearer, he saw that it was -his brother, with a face like death. - -"Armand, in God's name, what is the matter?" he cried, catching hold of -him as he lurched by. "Are you hurt? are you drunk?" - -Armand threw back his head. "They would not let me in!" he said between -his teeth. "They would not let me in, and she is dying ... Stand out of -the way! I am going to get my pistols." - -"Indeed you are not!" said his elder, understanding nothing of his -speech, but reading a very frenzy of desperation in his demeanour. He -seized him by the shoulders. "You do not go into the house until you -have explained yourself. Where have you been? Who is dying?" - -"Let me go, curse you!" exclaimed Armand, struggling in his grip. Then -the strength seemed suddenly to ebb from him. "It is Laurence, Madame -de Vigerie," he gasped. "She was at the ball--I saw her myself; then -she disappeared before I could speak to her ... and she was wearing my -flowers ... do you hear, Emmanuel, she was wearing my flowers! Then I -heard ... she was dying ... I went to her house ... I sat a long time on -the steps ... they would not let me in ... then I came here ... she was -wearing my roses ... and now she is dying----" - -"Dying!" ejaculated his brother. "And at the ball! What----" - -"The cholera!" said Armand in a choking voice. - -"O my God!" He freed himself from Emmanuel's loosened hold, and -throwing himself down on the steps lay there like one bereft of life, -his face hidden. - -So the pendent sword had descended! The cholera had been advancing on -France for years; this, Carnival-tide, was then its chosen time of -striking. The Marquis's first thought was of what was to come on Paris; -his second, of the immediate future. If Horatia were to see Armand in -this condition! ... - -He bent over the huddled form, plucking it by the short velvet cloak -whose flame-coloured lining showed pale in the faint light. - -"Armand, get up! You must not give way like this. Come with me, and I -will take you to our cousin's." - -He dragged his brother, unresisting, to his feet, and piloted him out -into the street, past the horrified concierge, and somehow, a little -later, they found themselves at Monsignor de la Roche-Guyon's door. -Prosper seemed to keep later hours than his secular kin, and they were -admitted without difficulty. Armand wandered unsteadily to a chair and -threw himself down in it, and at that moment the curtain at the end of -the long room was pulled aside, and Monsignor de la Roche-Guyon, looking -startlingly tall in his long cassock, came out of what was, in effect, -his private oratory. - -"Who is that?" he asked in surprise, pointing to the white figure. - -His cousin in a low voice gave him a short review of the situation. -"Can you keep him here, at least for the night?" he asked in conclusion. -"He is scarcely responsible, I think, for his actions." - -Prosper's keen, grave gaze ran over the details of costume; of face he -could see nothing. "Do you think he is likely to do himself an injury?" -he whispered. He too could act quickly on occasions. He went to his -cousin. "Armand!" he said, laying a hand on the bowed shoulders, while -with the other he successfully plucked from its sheath the jewelled -dagger at the young man's hip. This he held out behind his back to -Emmanuel, who took and concealed it. - -The Comte slowly lifted his head. "What do you want with me?" he asked -stupidly. "Are you come to bury her already?" - -"Armand," said his cousin, "could you not sleep a little? No one will -disturb you here, and in the morning..." - -"In the morning she will be dead. They will put my white roses on her -coffin. She should not have worn them ... Why are you staring at me -like that, Prosper? You had better get back to your candles and things -in there ... No, do not say that you will pray for her! She does not -want it--no, nor I, by God! I did not come here to be prayed over ... -though I suppose you would like to ... Yes, I suppose you would call it -the judgment of God. Isn't that so? Answer me, priest--though you are -my cousin!" - -Monsignor de la Roche-Guyon did not flinch. "I should call it the mercy -of God," he said very gently. - -An angry flush dyed Armand's pale face. For a second he looked as if he -were going to strike Prosper; then he changed his mind, and shrugging -his shoulders, he turned away. "Priests will be priests," he said with -a sneer. "Come, Emmanuel, I have had my benediction. Let us be going." - -"I think it is too late to go back," observed the Marquis quietly. -"Prosper will give us hospitality to-night." - -His brother gave a short scornful laugh. "So that was why you brought -me here! Very well--only for God's sake go away and don't stand staring -at me. I don't want a bed. Do you suppose I shall sleep?--Go, you -guardians of respectability!" - -They left him: there was nothing else to do. - -Towards dawn the Marquis came into the room again. All was quiet but the -fire, and at first he could not see his brother anywhere. Then for a -second or two his heart stood still, for he perceived Armand stretched -motionless on the floor in front of the hearth, and there was something -ominous in his attitude, in the pool of deep colour round his body, in -the living, moving stains of crimson on the breast of his doublet.... - -It was only a moment's illusion, gone as the elder man came quickly -towards the fire. Worn out with emotion, Armand had evidently flung -himself down there, had fallen profoundly asleep where he lay on the red -Eastern rug, and the firelight winked on the jewels of his masquerade. -Nevertheless, as he lay with sealed eyes at Emmanuel's feet, clad in the -dress of that period of violent deaths, with one arm outflung on the -parquet, his upturned face haggard and unfamiliar in the close-fitting -ruff, he looked so lifeless that the Marquis was glad to think that -Prosper had abstracted the poniard from its sheath. - -Though, indeed, he knew his brother too well to imagine that he would -ever dream of sacrificing his life, even for the person he loved best at -the moment. A faintly cynical but not untender smile came to Emmanuel's -lips as he stood there. "Sleep well, my brother," he said under his -breath, and went very quietly out of the room. - - - - *(6)* - - -"Cholera? Oh dear no, nor anything like it," said the doctor next -morning to the anxious cousins. "Nervous shock, a touch of fever. I -have let him blood. Keep him quiet and he will be all right in a couple -of days. I wish we were all as far from the grave. But, Messieurs, as -for the cholera, though M. le Comte has it not, we are all going to see -more of it, I doubt, than we shall like..." - -"You have told him, I suppose, that Madame de Vigerie is likely to -recover?" asked Monsignor de la Roche-Guyon as the doctor left the room. - -"Yes," said Emmanuel, "and also that it has already been arranged for my -sister and the children to go to Plaisance at once." - -He went in again to his brother, in the priest's own, narrow, cell-like -bedroom with its carved prie-dieu, its sacred prints and its agonised -ivory crucifix. Armand, pale, but no longer ghastly, was lying back in -an arm-chair without his doublet, his knees wrapped in a quilt, with a -bandaged left arm to testify to the doctor's activity. He smiled at his -visitor. - -"Mon vieux, what made you think I had the cholera? I was never so well -in my life--since your news, bien entendu. Do you think Prosper will -tell me how many candles I should put up to Our Lady--but perhaps St. -Roch or St. Sebastian would be more appropriate. Now that old butcher -has gone I must dress and go round to the Chaussée d'Antin; but I have -no clothes suitable to the streets in daylight. Will Prosper lend me a -cassock, think you? I believe I was rather rude to him last night, but -his duty as a Christian will oblige him to forgive me.... Sais-tu, -Emmanuel, that the cholera, if only it strike hard enough, may be the -best ally that Henri V could have? And how can I work for Henri V -sitting here in my shirt among these objects of piety? As well be a -sacristan...." - - - - - *CHAPTER XIX* - - - *(1)* - - -Out of a cloudless sky a hard, bright, metallic sun was shining upon -Paris, as it had shone, without variation, for the last five weeks, -looking down unwinking on a Terror worse than that of '93. And along -the deserted streets its companion, the glacial East wind, frolicked in -a dance of death, stirring the April dust, and fluttering, on the Pont -Neuf, the black flag which Henri Quatre held in his hands of stone. -Neither Charles X nor Louis-Philippe reigned in Paris now, but the -cholera. Long ago the supply of hearses had proved insufficient, and -there crawled along, to gather up the daily harvest of eight or nine -hundred dead, artillery waggons, furniture vans, even fiacres. Even so, -a sheeted corpse could often be seen in a doorway awaiting burial--to -receive it, perhaps, at the hands of that devoted company of young men -which numbered some of the first names of France. Yet the machinery of -life worked on as usual--the Chambers and the law courts sat, the Bourse -was open, professors lectured and the theatres were far from empty, -though not a soul had more than half a hope of seeing the sun rise next -day, and every time a man left his home he said farewell to wife and -child. - - -From an archway in the long Rue de Sèvres, literally a street of the -dead, for on one side at least there was not a single house unstricken, -came suddenly a tall priest in a cassock, a garb not seen till now, in -the streets of Paris, since the Days of July. His eyes, sunk in a -tired, strained face, blinked a little as they met the light, for it had -been dark in the garret where he had just confessed the dying man--the -fourth cholera patient whom he had visited that day. He pulled the -cloak he was wearing closer over his breast as he turned north-eastward -and met the wind. - -As he crossed the end of the Rue du Bac a fiacre passed him at a -lumbering trot, a coffin across the seat. Ere the noise and rattle had -died away in the sunny, silent street, the priest heard alert steps -behind him, and a voice that he knew well crying, "Prosper! Prosper! que -diable! stop a moment!" - -Monsignor de la Roche-Guyon slackened his pace and turned his head, but -did not stop. "I have just come from a case." - -Armand, arriving abreast of his cousin, sniffed at the saturated -handkerchief which he held. "Peste, so I supposed. (By the way, how -very apt is that expletive just now!) But everybody has either come -from a case, or is going to a case ... or is about to become a case, so -that is nothing. I will walk with you; I am going this way." - -"How is our grandmother?" asked the priest, as they fell into step -together. - -"Never better. Strange how she fears a cold and defies the plague. She -keeps her rooms inundated with camphor and chloride. But Madame de -Camain died last night, and the Comtesse de Montlivault, I hear this -morning, is 'prise.'". - -"God have mercy on them!" said Prosper, crossing himself. "It seems to -me that in the last few days the Faubourg St. Germain has suffered more -than the poorer quarters." - -"That is so, I believe," returned his cousin. "Figure to yourself that -the rabbit warren of the Palais-Royal is apparently more healthy than -our large houses with their gardens, for I am told that there has not -been a single case in those airless glass passages." - -They walked on in silence for a little, their footsteps echoing in the -deserted street, the icy wind cold on their faces, the sun fierce -overhead. Even Armand, untouched by the pest, by labours for the -stricken, or, apparently, by apprehension, looked ill, though he was -jauntily dressed in the new spring fashions, in a peacock-blue coat with -olive-green collar, a flowered waistcoat and white cashmere trousers. -The sight of a man hurrying past them, holding an onion to his nose, -struck him into speech again. - -"Heavens!" he exclaimed, "I had really rather have the cholera than -carry about a raw onion. You do not carry anything, I notice, Prosper; -not, I dare say, that it is much good.--By the way, I have long been -wanting to tell you that I regard you as the bravest man I know, and if -(as is probable) you have heard me say anything uncomplimentary about -priests I beg you will consider it unsaid. I am really proud to be your -kinsman.... Don't spoil it by saying that you are only doing your duty, -or tell me that the Archbishop of Paris has come out of hiding and the -Archbishop of Besançon returned from Rome to do the same as you are -doing, for I do not believe that even his Eminence of Rohan dislikes it -as much as you. Mort de ma vie, but you must have seen some horrible -things lately!" - -"The worst thing that I have seen," said Monsignor de la Roche-Guyon -sadly, "was not the visitation of the plague, but the outburst of the -vile passions of men, excited by fear, and played upon by the -unscrupulous." - -"You mean the murders, at the beginning of the outbreak, due to the -report that it was caused by poison? But what can you expect? There -was a man hanged on a lamp-post, as in the good old times, in one of -those very streets, for the same reason. And the Republican newspapers -have proclaimed that even the cholera is a scourge less cruel than the -government of Louis-Philippe. You remember how the Duc d'Orléans went -with the late Casimir Périer to the Hôtel-Dieu to visit the sick? Well, -they said that Louis-Philippe had sent his son there to gloat over the -misery of the people, and that the people would return his visit ... -after the manner of the Tenth of August and the Twenty-ninth of July!" - -The young man's tone was not free from satisfaction. The priest, aware -of the alliance between a certain section of the Legitimists and the -Extreme Left, turned and looked at him. - -"I hope," he said sternly, "that Madame's party does not stain their -cause by using such weapons." - -"We have no need," returned Armand with an air. "You will soon see the -gleam of the noblest weapon of all--the sword." - -"The sword, so be it!" said Monsignor de la Roche-Guyon. "But not the -dagger--not another conspiracy of the Rue des Prouvaires, I trust." - -They had come to the Place St. Sulpice, and stopped. - -"You speak as if I had been implicated in that," said his cousin, rather -aggrieved. "Or as if I were M. de Berthier, who tried to run over the -King and Queen. No, I am for a stroke of a different kind. Wait a -little, a very little, Prosper, and you will see the South in flames for -Marie-Caroline, and then the West, Brittany, and Vendée..." - -"And then?" - -"Then you will see Louis-Philippe, his large family and his umbrella, -disencumbering the Tuileries of their presence, and at Rheims a child--a -mother and child--crowned ... as you may see at this hour in there." He -pointed with one hand to the façade of St. Sulpice, while with the other -he tugged something from his pocket. - -"Cousin, you do not serve your cause by blasphemy!" said the priest -sharply. - -Armand looked innocent. "But I thought the idea would appeal to you! -It occurs to me, as an omen, every time I enter a church. _Mea culpa!_ -... Take this for your cholera cases, Monsignor, in expiation. I was -going to give it you in any case, but now it will atone, perhaps, for -comparing Marie-Caroline to Our Lady. Au revoir--if the Fates permit." -He thrust a roll of notes into his cousin's hand, lifted his hat, and -turned down the Rue du Pot-de-Fer towards the Luxembourg. - - - - *(2)* - - -It was not to admire the spring foliage of the trees in that now -deserted garden that Armand walked slowly eastwards along one of its -alleys. Yet he was engaged, rather strangely, in counting the trunks. -When he reached the thirty-fifth, he stopped, looked about for the -nearest seat, and sitting down upon it, pulled an opened letter from his -pocket and re-read it. - -It was from his wife at Plaisance, the family seat in Normandy, whither -she and the child had been sent for safety. It informed him merely that -she and Maurice were very well, and concluded by hoping that all at the -Hôtel de la Roche-Guyon were in the same condition. - -Armand made a slight grimace as he folded and refolded this epistle. -Stretched out on the seat, his eyes raised to the new leaves, it -occurred to him again to wish that his wife were a Catholic, and had a -director, who might perhaps prescribe to her a more conciliatory line of -conduct. Once, indeed, he had congratulated himself that in his -domestic affairs, at least, no priest could intermeddle; now he thought -regretfully of a certain friend of his acquaintance, a great deal more -culpable than he, whose wife, in obedience (he suspected) to her -confessor, was trying to win back her husband by a demeanour of -unvarying amiability. Well, that was certainly not Horatia's way at -present, nor was he sure that he would have liked it if it had been; but -it would have made things more comfortable. - -He had not set eyes on Laurence de Vigerie since the fatal night of the -masked ball a month ago. As soon as she could be moved she had been -hurried out of Paris under medical supervision, and she was now -completing her convalescence at Spa, whence she wrote to him every few -days. It had needed all her influence to keep him from following her -thither, indeed he had only been restrained by her express prohibition, -and the knowledge that if he left Paris at this juncture he cut himself -off from communication with the cause for which they were both working. -For, as Armand had hinted to his cousin, a crisis in Legitimist affairs -was very near now. Since February the Duchesse de Berry had definitely -resolved to come to France. The younger and more ardent spirits of her -party, impatient of delay, continually wrote urging her to hasten. Now, -with the cholera occupying the attention of the government, which had, -moreover, lost Casimir-Périer from its head, with the Republicans about -to rise, so it was rumoured, against Louis-Philippe, the favourable -moment seemed at last arrived. And Armand, deprived of his regular -channel of information through Madame de Vigerie, had come to this -peaceful resort in quest of news. - -He had not long to wait, for there presently approached along the -deserted avenue, from the opposite direction, another gilded youth of -about his own age, muffled almost up to his eyes in a cloak. He also -appeared to be counting the trees, and when he arrived opposite Armand's -seat came and sat down on it, without looking at its occupant. Then, -without warning, he suddenly shot out the word "Marie." - -"Caroline," responded Armand instantly. - -And they both looked at each other and laughed, for if these -conspirators resorted sometimes to the methods of opéra-bouffe, they did -not take them very seriously. - -"Any news this morning?" inquired Armand. - -"The best," answered the other. "Late last night the Committee received -a letter from Madame for transmission to the chiefs in the West, warning -them to be ready by the third of May. She has probably embarked by -now!" - -Armand stared at him a moment. Then he sprang to his feet, and lifting -his olive-green hat, cried aloud to the empty garden: "At last, at last! -Vive la guerre!" - - - - - *CHAPTER XX* - - - *(1)* - - -"But, my aunt," protested Claude-Edmond, "what is a 'calender'? It is -evidently not an almanac, but a person." - -Horatia laid down the "Arabian Nights" and laughed, a little laugh of -real enjoyment. "Do you know, Claude," she said, "that I have never -been quite sure myself. If you would find out for me I should be very -grateful to you." She slid her hand a moment over her nephew's head, -and Claude-Edmond, a Gallic child, caught and conveyed it with respect -and affection to his lips. - -It was impossible to be unhappy this morning. It was May. Behind -Horatia's back lay the great mass of Plaisance, all built in the style -of the stables of Chantilly, with flanking pavilions, chapel and -laundry, and in front the two immense lime-tree avenues, now gloriously -green, and the artificial pieces of water reminiscent of Versailles, -with stone urns of tortured design, and stone animals, wolves and lions. -On the grass by Claude-Edmond lay the rod with which he had been -unsuccessfully fishing for carp in these lakes, before his aunt began -her present occupation of reading the "Arabian Nights" to him in -English. A little way off Maurice was being slowly walked to and fro in -Martha's arms. And it was May. - -"With your permission, I should like to kiss my cousin," said -Claude-Edmond suddenly, indicating his infant relative. - -"I have the same desire myself," returned Horatia, and Martha, coming to -a stand, offered her charge for inspection. - -"Did I once have only two teeth--only one tooth?" inquired -Charles-Edmond. - -"No teeth at all, once," responded his aunt. - -Claude felt his existing dental arrangements. "There is one loose now," -he announced. "May I pull it out?" - -"Let me see," said Horatia; and, after inspection, "I should wait a -little if I were you, Claude. It will be looser yet. Besides, it will -hurt." - -"I know," said the child. "But one must learn to bear pain, must one -not?" - -"I wish you were not such a little prig," thought Horatia, and instantly -repented of the thought. "Yes," she said gently, "but we need not -inflict it on ourselves unnecessarily. Give Maurice to me for a little, -Martha. Claude, could you fetch my chair over here?" - -Delightedly the boy sped off. That his aunt should give him something -to do for her was the summit of his desires. When Horatia sat down he -stood by her, studying Maurice, who, sucking his fist, in his turn -studied the sky. - -"He does not remind me greatly of Uncle Armand," observed his cousin. -"His face is ... is..." He paused for a word. - -"Never mind," said Horatia. "I know what you mean." - -Claude Edmond sat down upon the grass at her feet. After a moment or two -of silence he said with solemnity, "Ma tante, I will confide to you my -great ambition. It is to grow up like Uncle Armand." - -Horatia made a movement. "You should desire to resemble your father." - -"But that goes without saying," returned the boy, rather shocked. "I -meant, in outward things, voyez-vous. I desire to have the learning of -Papa, and to be able to ride like Uncle Armand, to know about plants and -flowers and books--yes, and perhaps about animals--and to be able to -fence and shoot...." - -The child babbled on, but Horatia had fallen suddenly silent, and after -a few moments, seeing her for once unresponsive, and mindful of having -been warned by his father never to weary her, he tactfully announced -that he would return to his attempts on the carp, and went off. - -"I'll take the precious now, Mam, if you please," said Martha, bearing -down on her mistress. "I don't want you to tire yourself, when you are -getting some of your roses back again." - -"Oh, I'm not tired," said Horatia smiling, but she kissed and -surrendered her son, and having done so leant back in her chair and -watched the distant figure of Claude-Edmond, in the eternally hopeful -pose of the fisher, and trusted that he would not fall into the water. - -It was true, she was not tired. Six weeks in the air of Plaisance had -done wonders for her physical well-being. And something--could it have -been the power of dulness?--had healed her mind of much of its malady. -She was young and healthy, and she no longer troubled to make herself -remember that Maurice was Armand's son. Here he was hers. - -No doubt of Armand's guilt ever entered her mind. But Claude-Edmond's -words about him had roused a picture ... Was it possible that she had -behaved like a foolish girl? She had often heard Aunt Julia say, and -had been irritated by the dictum, that a woman could make what she liked -of her husband. And, though she had had everything in her favour, she -had given up the attempt at the first difficulty. If he had gone -straight to his mistress, it was largely her own fault. - -But if she were regretting that she had not disputed with the Vicomtesse -for Armand, that meant that Armand was worth fighting for, and over and -over again she had told herself that he was nothing to her now. But was -that quite true? If it were, how was it that she scanned so eagerly -what newspapers she could procure for accounts of the progress of the -cholera in Paris? His own short, polite notes to her told her little of -it, but the sight of them stirred her, she could not quite say how. - -Something else was stirring in her too. Suppose she had not merely -acted foolishly, but wrongly? - -The feelings which had surprised her that morning in the Embassy Chapel -had returned, but on a different plane. "We have erred and strayed ... -there is no health in us." What if the over-familiar words really had a -meaning, what if she herself, who uttered them so often and so lightly, -had actually done wrong, grave wrong? This conviction grew in her. It -was to Horatia the first vivid connection between the spiritual and -material worlds, and was bringing her to the resolve that, when she -returned, she would in some degree forgive Armand. She would admit that -she had been a little hard. And the thought of this great concession -pleased her; being in the future, it took on something of the glamour of -the noble things we mean to do one day. - - - - *(2)* - - -A week later a letter from the Duchesse announced that it was safe for -her and the children to return to Paris, where the scourge, though still -present, seemed to have spent its force. So they went back. - -An air of calamity still brooded over the capital, and as they stopped -at the barrier Horatia shuddered to see the street urchins playing at -"cholera morbus," dragging one of their companions, a simulated corpse, -along the ground. But her mind, after all, was full of a more personal -concern. As she drew nearer to the Hôtel de la Roche-Guyon, as -Claude-Edmond, looking out of the window of the post-chaise, announced, -"Here we are in the Place Vendôme," or, "Now we are turning into the Rue -de Rivoli," it did not seem so easy a matter to bestow a pardon to which -the culprit might now be indifferent. - -Emmanuel, not Armand, was on the steps to receive her. He came down and -helped her to alight. Claude-Edmond flung himself into his father's -arms. And all at once Horatia knew that she was bitterly hurt. That -Armand should not care whether she returned or no was one thing; that he -should affront her before her brother-in-law and the servants was quite -another. Too proud to make any remark at the moment on his absence, she -turned to busying herself over Maurice, but once inside she said to -Emmanuel, as lightly as she could, "I suppose that Armand was not -expecting me so early?" - -The Marquis looked disconcerted. "My dear sister, has the letter not -reached you? He went very suddenly, the day before yesterday, to join -Madame in Vendée." - - - - *(3)* - - -Not by the tragic words "Too late" was the situation thus created summed -up in Horatia's mind, for she had never been able to take the Duchesse -de Berry very seriously. And though she was told that the princess had -undoubtedly landed near Marseilles one dark night at the end of April, -the very fact that the conflagration in the South which was to spring up -at her appearance absolutely failed to emit a single spark only -confirmed the English girl in her conviction. Nor did Marie-Caroline's -romantic journey in disguise to Vendée (now matter of knowledge in -Royalist circles) impress Horatia; it seemed to her too much like Walter -Scott to be quite real, and she could not fancy that there would be -actual fighting round such a fantastic heroine. Emmanuel did not seem to -think so, either; at any rate he took no rosy views of her chances. The -Duchesse, on the other hand, was at once more sanguine and more -alarming, continually preaching with a mixture of resignation and -elation a sort of version of "Paris vaut une messe," thus conceived: "If -Henri V. cannot be set on the throne without the life-blood of one of -our family, then I am willing that it should be given." This attitude -seemed to Horatia so uncalled for that it irritated rather than dismayed -her. Nor could she help feeling a tinge of annoyance, even if she would -not confess it, at the check given by Armand's absence to her plan of -forgiveness, for now she could not set herself right with him. She must -wait till his return. - -Yet she had her hours of apprehension. As a fortnight, three weeks -passed without news these grew more frequent. And at last, when the -Republican riots of the 5th and 6th of June burst over Paris, what she -heard of the fierce street fighting, the stand at Saint-Merri, the eight -hundred slain, brought home to her the political passions of the time -with a horrible vividness, and she was at last nakedly afraid. The -Duchesse, incurable Frondeuse that she was, was pleased at anything that -shook or embarrassed the government, and declared that the news would be -very encouraging to Madame's party. - -When she made this declaration Madame's party as such no longer existed. -Two days later, Horatia, having said good-night to Maurice, found -Emmanuel, looking very grave, waiting for her in her boudoir. - -"Horatia," he said, "we have news at last. The whole rising has failed. -There have been several engagements, and Charette has been defeated. -They are all scattered; it is a sauve qui peut. My grandmother does not -know yet." - -"And Armand?" - -"We can only hope for the best. If he could cross the Loire he would go -and lie hidden at Kerfontaine. He told me that before he went." - -"There has been a battle, you say? But perhaps he was not in it ... you -do not even know that? ... O Emmanuel, have you no news of him?" - -"Absolutely none; it is impossible. We can only hope for the best, as I -say. I think that if he is alive he will probably succeed in making his -way up to Brittany." - -"I must go down there," she said feverishly. "I must go at once. -Emmanuel, you must help me!" - -"My dear," said the Marquis, rather amazed, "you cannot do any good by -going. Please God, Armand is alive. If he escapes, he escapes.... In -any case your presence at Kerfontaine cannot help him." - -"I must go," she repeated, twisting her hands together. "It is very -important. Emmanuel, you said you would do anything for me...." Her -voice began to break. - -Her brother-in-law did not fully understand, but he took her hands with -his accustomed kindness, and said that if she wished it, she should go, -and he would take her. And so, in spite of the vehement opposition of -the Duchesse, who was quite broken down by the bad news, but who finally -said, weeping, that they could at least bring back Armand's body if it -was found, they started early next morning on the road to Chartres. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXI* - - - *(1)* - - -There had been a time when Armand de la Roche-Guyon had certainly not -anticipated ever seeing Brittany again, yet here he was in Brittany -after all. - -When he left Paris in the middle of May he had gone straight down to -join Charette in Vendée, for he wanted to offer his sword in person to -Madame. He had done so; he had seen her, "Petit-Pierre," in her peasant -boy's attire, gay and indomitable, and had kissed her hand in a -farmhouse kitchen. Other young men like himself were there, full of -hope and ardour; though even then it was beginning to be apparent that -Vendée was not really ready to rise, and some of the chiefs did their -utmost to dissuade the princess at the eleventh hour from the scheme. -The fatal mistake was made of postponing the insurrection, already fixed -for the 24th of May, by a counter order, circulated only two days -beforehand. When the fourth of June came, much of the fervour of the -peasants had evaporated and the Philippistes were on the alert. -Nevertheless, two days afterwards, at the hamlet of Le Chêne, Armand had -been one of the little band, only two hundred and twenty strong, who, -splashing through the ford or firing (in the old manner) from behind the -orchard hedges, had beaten off two bodies of Government troops, only to -be routed by a third. Nor was theirs the only defeat. It was over, the -chance of a restoration, and, disillusioned but unhurt, Armand had, with -difficulty and danger, made his way across the Loire. - -Yet for prudence' sake he had come back, not to Kerfontaine itself, but -to the tiny shooting-box in the wood of St. Clair, and therein, this -June evening, the day before Horatia's arrival at Kerfontaine, he lay at -full length on a settle, his hands behind his head, and thoughtfully -surveyed the unceiled rafters, where the twilight was beginning to weave -a veil. - -The shooting-box belonged to the château of St. Clair, and stood on the -edge of a little clearing in the forest; it consisted only of one room, -but a portion had been partitioned off as a kitchen. Armand had known -it full of sportsmen. On the table in the centre lay, at this moment, -his pistols, in company with a half empty bottle of wine, a loaf of -bread, and a ham; for the place had been provisioned against his coming. -He had kicked off his long boots, and flung his cloak on a chair. It was -very odd to be, not only without a valet, but without a cook; it did not -amuse him, for he was both tired and bored. Already, since his arrival -in the early morning, he was beginning to think his concealment absurd. -He had heard vague rumours of the presence of soldiers, but since the -nearest (and abortive) rising was twenty miles away, he was not disposed -to believe them. At any rate, as soon as it was darker he was going to -venture out. - -For he was back near Laurence de Vigerie, and all that the past week had -held of death and broken hopes was shrivelled up in that knowledge. She -was at St. Clair, and they, who had never seen each other since the -night when she had worn the tell-tale roses in the masquerade, would -meet at last. No problematic peril was likely to keep him from her. - -The cobwebs of twilight, dropping lower and lower from the rafters, -began to reach the young man where he lay on the settle. Surely he -could go now. He pulled himself off the hard couch, drew on his boots, -picked up his cloak, then, remembering prudence, removed, with visible -annoyance, the remains of his meal, and, locking the door behind him, -stepped out into the evening. - -The wood was sinking into sleep. A gust of subtle, heady scent -immediately assailed him, and he saw, on the other side of the little -clearing by the hut, a thicket of tall elderbushes, intruders in the -ranks of forest trees. The over-fragrant smell seemed to be blown after -him down the twilight ride; it was still in his nostrils when he came, -twenty minutes later, on the great mass of the château of St. Clair. He -jumped down into the fosse, climbed up on the other side, and began -cautiously to make his way through the rose garden towards the one -lighted window on the ground floor, a long window hung over only with -some thin blind or curtain. It was that of Madame de Vigerie's smaller -salon, and since there was a light she must be there. Probably, indeed, -she was expecting him. - -Had the window been open he might have walked in upon her, but since it -was closed and he could not see through, she might not be alone. The -traditional method of summons would serve him as well as any. He caught -up a handful of gravel from the path and flung it sharply against the -glass. Almost immediately the light within was extinguished; then a -hasp was heard to turn, and the window opened outward, the panes -shimmering a little in the dim light. A figure slipped out. - -"Who is it?" asked Madame de Vigerie. But there was that in her voice -which made the question unnecessary. - -Armand gave no answer at all, but taking a step or two forward, caught -both her hands. Then, with a sob of laughter, she was in his arms, and -he was kissing her lips, her hair.... Was she not given back to him -from the grave? - -In a little they were wandering among the dew-drenched roses. Roses and -nightingales after the reddened swamps of Le Chêne--it was like a dream. -For he, too, had been through his baptism of fire, and bore the singe of -it, to make him for the moment to the woman by his side what he had -never been before--stronger than she. - -"You are at the shooting-box, then?" she said at last. "It is well -provisioned? I gave orders." - -"It wants only one thing." - -"What is that?" - -"You." - -"I cannot come there," said Madame de Vigerie. "Not now, I know. I -would not ask it. But to-morrow ... in the afternoon, when the sun is -getting low, you will come...?" - -She did not answer, but he could feel her tremble. - -"I am starving, Laurence. If anyone should see you, it is easy to -explain. I am a fugitive--you are a conspirator, too." - -"I was not counting _that_ cost," she said in a low voice. "O Armand, -Armand, why will you not go away and leave me in peace!" - -"Because, at last, you love me." - -And she made no denial, but breaking from his hold, stood in the midst -of the roses with her face in her hands. - -"There is the nightingale," said Armand softly. "It sings for us. -There are no nightingales in the forest, nor roses. But if you came to -me there, Laurence, in the little hut, it would not lack either. O my -world, my rose ... I have waited so long, so patiently! ... Has not -death itself spared us for this...?" - - -Half an hour later he was groping his way across the hut. It was -foolish to strike a light, so, wrapping himself in his cloak, he lay -down in the dark on the settle. But his brain was on fire, and -phantasmagoric figures danced before his eyes--Charette, and the little -princess in her boy's clothes, and he heard himself saying, as he had -said to Marie-Caroline, when he had kissed that royal, adventurous hand, -"I would gladly die for you, Madame." But in the half-dream Madame had -the face of Laurence de Vigerie. - -He came back from it. The settle was confoundedly hard, as hard as a -coffin. Then he remembered having seen, lying dead on a couch just like -this, in a peasant's cottage at Le Chêne, before the engagement began, a -young man shot by an Orleanist patrol. He had been sorry for him then; -he was sorrier now, for perhaps the blood had once raced and pounded in -his veins as now in his own, and he, too, had thought, perhaps, -"To-morrow! to-morrow...." - - - - *(2)* - - -That night, the last of her journey, the cloud of apprehension lifted -from Horatia's mind, and sitting by her window in the inn at Ploermel, -she had a clear conviction that Armand was alive, and had escaped from -Vendée. She would not be too late. She would forgive him; she would -even ask him to forgive her the hardness she had shown him. And--who -knew--they might perhaps take up their life together again where it had -been broken off, for she had experience now. - -But who knows when the cup of experience is fully drained? - -When Kerfontaine came in sight next morning she could hardly control -herself. Would he have had any word of her approach; was he there at -all? ... - -"Yes, we know for certain that M. le Comte has escaped from Vendée, -praise the saints," said old Jean to Horatia and Emmanuel. "But he has -not been here, and we think he is probably in hiding in the wood for a -day or two. Then he will come here. It was arranged so." - -"He might come any time--to-day even?" - -"Yes, Madame la Comtesse, any time, when it is safe. And M. le Comte -was never one to be over-cautious." - -"But there are no soldiers about here, surely?" asked Emmanuel. - -"We have not seen any, Monsieur le Marquis, but there are reported to be -some in Pontivy." - -Emmanuel drew his sister-in-law aside. "I think I will ride over to -Pontivy," he said, "and see if I can get any information. I am not -known in these parts, and I may be able to find out something." - -So, after déjeuner, he set out. The afternoon crawled slowly on. -Horatia went over the château, most of which was shut up. The nurseries -were still unfurnished, and behind the screen which she and -Claude-Edmond had made a year ago she found a heap of dusty pictures and -a pot with dried relics of paste. After supper she sat in the salon. -The suspense was beginning to tell on her--not the suspense about -Armand's safety, for as he had succeeded in getting away from Vendée he -must be out of danger now--but the suspense about his entrance. At any -moment he might come in. Would he be surprised to see her there? She -could not picture their meeting; she would not try to; she must trust -that with the moment would come the right words. - -About nine o'clock she wandered out into the hall. What time would -Emmanuel be back? The sardonic smile of the ancestress over the hearth -followed her, as on that night when Armand had lain there, his head on -her knee, and she had hoped to be the first to die. Nothing now could -ever restore the perfume of that rapture; but the broken vase, which -once held it, might yet be pieced together.... - -... Surely that was a horse's hoofs in the avenue, the hoofs of a horse -approaching at breakneck pace. If it was Emmanuel he evidently had -important news. Horatia ran to the door and opened it herself. A -mounted man was tearing up between the trees, had flung himself off his -panting horse and dashed up the steps, a little square of white in his -hand. - -"For Madame la Comtesse de la Roche-Guyon," he said, thrusting it into -her hold. "Give it to her at once!" And she was aware that he wore -Madame de Vigerie's livery. How strange; she had not known that she was -here! - -She read the letter in the hall. It was very short. When she had done -so she put her hands over her eyes, read it again, and hurried to the -bell-pull. - -"Jean," she said, "order the carriage at once! I am going to St. Clair. -There is not a moment to lose.... Give this letter to Monsieur le -Marquis directly he returns." - - - - *(3)* - - -It was six o'clock in the evening of the longest day that Armand de la -Roche-Guyon had ever spent. He had hardly slept all night; at dawn he -had risen and gone out, but since that time he had been a -self-constituted prisoner. If, at any time, there was risk in his being -seen--which he could not bring himself to believe--that risk was much -greater in the day-time. Besides, he had Laurence to think of. - -So he sat before the fireless hearth, he paced up and down, he flung -himself on the settle, he examined over and over again all the heads of -beasts upon the walls, the only ornaments of the place. The hut was -very tidy, but he could not deck it as befitted the guest. He had told -her last night that there were no roses, but it now occurred to him that -he might at least have gathered this morning a branch of something green -and living--a branch, for instance, of the flowering elder just outside. -Thinking of these bushes, but without any intention of going out to -rifle them, his restless feet carried him to the little half-shuttered -window. Yes, there they stood, with their broad flat masses of blossom. -How strong the scent had been last night! She would smell it as she -came; she would hear the birds beginning their vespers. This golden sun -would shine on her; would she ride or walk? - -Leaning idly by the window, Armand looked at his watch. Half an hour -still. He glanced at the elder-bushes again ... and suddenly even -Laurence was forgotten, and the little trees were everything in the -world to him. For among the leaves he had caught sight of a leaf of -other kind, thin and shining. It was a bayonet. - -Armand stood a moment incapable of thought or movement. Then the truth -stabbed him with a cold and sickening pang. He looked again. Further -along they had scarcely troubled to take cover; he could see the -uniforms among the tree-trunks. He went a little white round the mouth, -and moving away sank into a chair by the table and hid his face in his -hands. - -What he had thought so absurd, so incredible, had happened! He had been -tracked or betrayed, and they were waiting to shoot him as he came out. -They did not mean to force an entrance, that was obvious, or they would -have done so by now. They had no intention, the careful Philippistes, -of running any risks. They would wait there in ambush until he came -out.... - -... Or till he came in. It might be that they were watching for his -entrance, not knowing that he was there already. And that was, after -all, a more likely explanation of their present inaction. More than -that, it gave him a chance, a feeble glimmering chance, for his life. -It was just conceivable that, seeing no one enter, they would go away -without searching the hut. It was a chance, a chance ... O God! it was a -chance.... - -But even as his mind caught at that slender hope, embracing it fiercely, -the very heart in his body stopped beating. _Seeing no one enter_! -Why, in half an hour Laurence would come along the clearing, and then -... He heard the report, saw her writhing on the ground... Why should -they hesitate because she was a woman the men who could shoot a girl of -sixteen in cold blood. She was a Carliste. It might even be she that -they were expecting. - -Armand raised his face, grown old and haggard. On him lay the burden of -her coming there; it was for him to avert, if by any means he could, so -horrible a thing. They must be sent away before she came. And there was -only one way of doing that. It might not be successful. That he would -never know. But he had to do it; he had to do it. - -He pressed his hands tightly round his head, where the whirling thoughts -drove like bees, and where the remembrance of Horatia, and his -courtship, and Maurice, and the consciousness of the sunshine outside, -the knowledge that in an incredibly short space of time he would lie out -in it and neither feel nor see it, clear and vehement in themselves, -were all subordinated to a vision of Laurence coming along the forest -path. He looked once more at his watch. Twenty-five minutes--not a -second to lose, since they must be gone some distance before she came, -and they would probably spend some time in searching his body and the -hut before they left. His brain had suddenly become as clear as ice. -He stood up, turned out his pockets, put his money and watch on the -table, took up his pistols, which were loaded; then laid them down -again. It would waste time, and be quite useless. For a moment more he -stood looking round the room which had been so irradiated by the thought -of her presence, where--it was his last prayer--she would never come -now. - -And then, since with whatever of less worthy commingled, there ran in -his veins the blood of a long line that had never stayed for mortal -peril, Armand de la Roche-Guyon set his teeth, and, opening the door, -walked out to death. - - * * * * * - -The two wood pigeons on the roof, who had been frightened away by the -noise of the volley, had returned, and their sleepy, liquid notes melted -into the peace of the summer afternoon as Madame de Vigerie came riding -in her green amazone through the wood. As the hut came into sight she -dropped into a walk. At first she merely noticed, though with an -instant surprise, that the door stood open. - -But her horse knew, before she did, and stopped, trembling. Laurence de -Vigerie gave a broken scream, and put her hands instinctively over her -eyes. The next moment she had slid to the ground, and catching up the -folds of her long habit, was running to him. - -Armand lay face downwards on the woodland grass, about ten paces from -the open door, in an attitude not wholly unlike a sleeper's. Except by -one shoulder, there was little sign of blood, till, tugging at him, she -had turned him over. But his head, when she raised it, fell back inert -on her arm, the face uninjured, but of a mortal greyness, the half open -eyes rolled upwards almost out of sight. A thin scarlet stream had -trickled down from one corner of his mouth; his right hand clutched a -tuft of grass. Three or four patches of wet blood on his clothes, his -left sleeve, soaked from shoulder to wrist--the arm was broken and the -hand shot through--and the one pool on the ground which was already -crimsoning her habit, were more than enough to show her what had -happened. Yet she tore off his neck-cloth and unfastened his coat and -shirt before she knew, shuddering, that here was ruin beyond human -repairing, And she caught the riddled body in her arms, crying to him, -kissing him, while the pigeons cooed in the sun, and, to windward of the -evidence of slaughter, her horse grazed reassured. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXII* - - - *(1)* - - -The brilliance of the hall at St. Clair dazzled Horatia. Someone took -her gently by the arm, and led her up the great staircase into a little -room full of books. Not till she got there did she realise even the sex -of the person, and found that her conductor was a grey-haired man. - -"Madame," he said, "I am the surgeon, and I must tell you the truth ... -if you are strong enough to bear it?" - -"I am strong enough," said Horatia. - -"Your husband is dying. He was shot by the Philippistes in the forest -about six this evening; he was found an hour later unconscious but -alive, and brought here as soon as possible. But--I should be doing you -a great injury to deceive you--he cannot live till morning.... Will you -see him now?" - -"Can't you do _anything_?" asked Horatia, passionately. - -He shook his head. "It is a miracle that he is still alive, -Madame--with eight bullet wounds. Madame de Vigerie did not know that -you were here; as soon as she heard she sent for you." He paused at the -door, and looking at her with the same stern pity, said, "Remember, -Madame, if he talks wildly, that he is still in great pain. I have -given him what opiates I dared, but they have little effect, I fear. He -will know you now, but later on he may become delirious, so that you -should see him at once. There is nothing to do; only do not lift him -up. I shall be outside the door, within call." He preceded her out of -the room. - -A priest was going down the stairs--the old curé who had given them his -blessing. Where was Madame de Vigerie? - -She forgot to think of her when she was inside. Was that really Armand? -All the shadows in the big, lofty room seemed centred in his face, so -sharp and incredibly grey against the white of the bed-linen. He lay on -his back in the great sculptured bed; one pillow only out of its many -supported him; the rest had been thrown in a heap on the floor. His -eyes were closed; he had only a sheet over him, and under it his -motionless body had a sinister rigidity. A table with basins, with -cloths and lint trailing over it had been pushed, only half out of -sight, behind a curtain, and a chair near it bore his blood-soaked -clothes, cast there just as they had been cut off him. - -She saw all these details, grasped their full meaning, but had thought -only for one thing, and going round the foot of the bed, entered the -sanctuary of the screen that kept off the candle-light. Armand's right -hand, the fingers twitching a little, lay on the edge of the bed. -Horatia fell on her knees beside him. - -And Armand opened dark, misty eyes upon her. He seemed to consider for -a moment, and then there came about his ashen lips a phantom of the -smile that had once charmed her, and he lifted his hand a little way, -pointing. - -"Your hair ... makes a light," he said faintly. The candles were behind -her. - -"Armand----" she began, choking. - -"Yes," he said with more strength, "I know. It is ... a long business, -it seems. They do not shoot very straight, the Orleanists ... I should -like to see you better ... if you would move a candle ... Merci." He -relapsed into French. "My dear, you would make a beautiful angel, you -who believe in the angels. I shall not see a fairer ... Oh, do not be -anxious; M. le Curé ... has arranged all that." - -She saw now that he was in deadly pain, and the bantering words went -past her in a passion of pity and remorse. Her scalding tears fell on -his cold hand, and on her own, that clasped it. - -"Armand, Armand, forgive me!" - -"Ma chère, for what? I thought it was to be ... the other way." A -little tortured laugh came from him. "You, to make the ... the -conventional death-bed scene! Was that why ... you came all this -distance?" - -"I came when I heard that the rising had failed ... when I thought ... O -Armand, cannot _something_ be done!" - -"You were really too kind, mon amie. It is such a long way ... Did you -have a ... good journey?" - -"Armand, for God's sake!" cried Horatia, agonised at the tone. But he -had closed his eyes again; perhaps he did not even hear her. And lying -there helpless, broken, ghastly, he was suddenly once more all that he -had ever been to her--the lover, triumphant and adorable, who had kissed -her in the field of stubble, the married lover of those days in Brittany -... But it was too late now, she saw that; not only too late to save his -body, but to make any appeal to the spirit that was leaving it. The -time for that was past. - -He spoke again, without opening his eyes, very faintly but just as -politely. "That glass on the table ... if I might trouble you..." When -she stooped over him with it she remembered the doctor's injunction, -and, slipping her hand with all possible precaution under his head, -raised it only a little way. Even at that movement a contraction passed -over his face, and he shut his teeth on a groan. Then he drank, and she -lowered his head to the pillow. She longed to touch his hair again, and -dared not. - -"Thank you," said Armand, and lay silent for a moment, the sweat -gathering on his forehead. Then, with an effort, he began again. "I -should like, ... while I can ... to speak about the boy.... Perhaps ... -an English school ... I believe I put that ... in my will the other day -... but I cannot remember.... He will be like ... you ... when he grows -up." - -"Oh, I hope not!" was torn, in a whisper, from Horatia. - -The expressive eyebrows lifted a fraction. "Mais ... you surely ... do -not wish him ... like ... me ... And you ... will marry again, ma chère -... you might marry ce bon Tristan..." - -Another pause; and his voice had grown almost inaudible when he added, -"I would give you my ... benediction, the benediction ... of a ghost ... -It is not long ago ... you told me I ... I did not exist ... you had the -gift ... of prophecy..." - -This time the pause was longer still. At the foot of the bed, where his -last speech had cast her, Horatia was pressing a handful of the sheet -against her mouth, lest she should cry out in her own pain. She did not -know whether she was saying anything; only she was aware of the thought -that these were perhaps the last words she should ever hear from him... - -Suddenly, however, quite changed in tone, the voice said--and she was -not sure whether it was addressing her or someone else, "Mais, -voyez-vous, I am not at all content to be a ghost ... at my age ... -except that it is the only way ... to be rid of these damnable bullets -... But if the curé tells you that I was resigned ... do not believe -him..." - -And with these words, in which youth and strength and the soul which had -so lightly companioned them, made their last protest against the -wrecking of their habitation, Armand de la Roche-Guyon's head rolled -slowly over to one side. - - - - *(2)* - - -The next thing that Horatia knew was that, somehow the surgeon was in -the room again, bending over the bed. "I expected this," she heard him -mutter. Then he turned to her abruptly. - -"He has only fainted," he said. "He must have tried to move. I shall -not revive him, Madame; it is cruel kindness." He stood a moment -looking down at the unconscious face. "Poor boy," he added to himself, -"he will not die easily.... Now, Madame, I think you had better come -away. He will not know you again, I think, and I will stay with him." - -"No, no!" exclaimed Horatia, clinging to the pillar of the bed as if she -feared to be removed by force. "I will stay--I insist--it is my right! -He is quite quiet; I will call you if I need you. Be outside the door! -I must stay!" - -So he went, and, sitting there, Horatia began her vigil. It was very -still. Breaths of the scented June night, poignant of jasmine, came now -and then through the open windows, and stirred the candle-flames. For a -long time Armand lay without moving; she could only hear his difficult -breathing. The screen by the bed was worked with landscapes in silk, -autumn scenes of bright brown, amber and gold, like the trees under -which they had first met ... But between that first meeting and this---- -How could it be that life was so shorn across? She had pictured long -years of estrangement, or, perhaps, years when after forgiving him she -had tried with a heavy heart to do her duty--and there was this instead. -O, if God would only give her those imagined years! And -forgiveness--what had that word to do here.... - -And suddenly in the garden a nightingale began to sing, and that magic -voice, with all its thrilling burden of pain and passion, the voice -which can never be heard without a stirring of the heart, pierced her -like a sword. Crouching down in the chair, her arms across her face to -stifle the sound, she wept. - -She did not weep for long. As if the bird, or her sobs, had roused him, -Armand was drifting back to consciousness; she heard him moan. She -sprang up. She would have given everything in the world to speak to him -again, but she did not want him to come back to bodily anguish. -"Armand, do not wake!" she whispered, the tears streaming down her face. -"Sleep, my darling, sleep; do not wake again!" With all her will she -strove to push him back; and since he was hers more certainly in -unconsciousness, since he could not look at her now with eyes that held -mockery and too much remembrance, she bent and kissed him many times, -and her tears fell on his hair. - -It was vain, for another phantom was flitting before him in the mists of -death, drawing him from peace. In a little she knew it. "Laurence, why -do you not come?" he began restlessly, and went on begging her at one -moment to disregard her scruples, at another not to leave him to die -alone, since he had give his life for her. And Horatia, kneeling, -frozen, by the bed, learnt from the broken, pregnant sentences all the -truth. Whatever his desires, he had never been Laurence's lover. She -had to believe him now. Her own name was mingled in the stream. -"Horatia does not believe me," said the failing voice. "Leave your -scruples, Laurence; she does not believe me." And again, "Why do you -send for Horatia? She would not care ... I am nothing to her now ... -she told me so." - -But chiefly, and with a growing and dangerous agitation, he implored -Laurence to come to him, seeming to imagine that he was lying in the -wood, that it was dark, and that she would not come. Hardly knowing -what she said, stunned by the revelations which at the moment she was -not able fully to grasp, Horatia tried to soothe him, calling upon him -by all the names of their brief happiness; but to all her efforts he -merely responded by crying more insistently for Laurence, Laurence, -Laurence, till the name seemed to eat into her brain in letters of fire. -At last, at the end of endurance, she got up from the bedside and went -dizzily towards a window, towards the air. That Madame de Vigerie's -presence might really have power to quiet him never occurred to her; she -was too agonised for thought. - -Until that moment Armand had not betrayed the slightest consciousness of -her, looking always with haunted eyes beyond her for the figure which -was not there. But directly she moved away a change came over him, and -he seemed suddenly enveloped by a cloud from the past thicker than those -in which he wandered. He began to struggle. - -"Let me go to her--she is dying ... they have shut the door and will not -let me in. Let me go, Emmanuel! I tell you she is dying ... and she -was wearing my flowers..." - -He tried, ineffectually, to raise himself in the bed, and as Horatia -hurried towards him there sprang out on the white sheet, just over his -breast, a little crimson patch. For the second or two that she stared -at it, terrified, it grew larger, bright and menacing. Gasping, she ran -to the door and flung it open, expecting to find the surgeon outside. -There was no one there. - -To get help, from any quarter, was the sole clamorous idea in Horatia's -brain. Opposite her was a door; light streamed from beneath it. In an -instant she was across the landing, and had opened it. Only then did -she realise whose room she had entered. - -Madame de Vigerie was sitting motionless, relaxed, in a chair by the -elaborate bed. She had the air of having sat thus for hours. She was -still in her riding-habit, stiff, in one place, with Armand's blood; her -head was thrown back against the rose-coloured satin of the hangings. - -"You must come at once!" cried Horatia. "He is dying!" - -Madame de Vigerie rose stiffly, as if she were cramped; her face was -absolutely colourless and almost without expression. - -"Go back," she said dully. "It is your place. I have no right there." - -Horatia fell on her knees, sobbing out, "For God's sake, come! You do -not understand--I implore you, I, his wife ... I think a wound has -opened ... blood..." - -A noisy darkness came down on her; she sank sideways to the floor. - - * * * * * - -Did it really happen, or was it a vision? She seemed to be back in the -room where Armand had taken his farewell of life. It was very quiet -now. The oasis of candle-light at the far side of the bed was beginning -to be flooded out by the cold waves of dawn; the first birds were -already chirping. Armand was where he had craved to be, for Madame de -Vigerie had him in her arms. She had lifted him away from the pillow, -and his head was lying back on her shoulder. Laurence de Vigerie's own -head was bent; she did not move either, but there was that in her -attitude which was piercingly maternal--the mother, not the lover, with -her dead. For that Armand was gone Horatia was instinctively sure. -Billows of mist broke over her, and she seemed to fall... - - - - *(3)* - - -Long, long afterwards--and yet she knew that it was only next -morning--Horatia stood by Emmanuel's side and looked down at what had -been Armand. She had shrunk a little from going in, remembering the -gloomy catafalque at St. Germain l'Auxerrois, and fearing the sable -French palls besprinkled with tears and skulls. It was hard to -associate things like that with Armand. She need not have been afraid. -The windows were closely curtained, and there were great candles burning -at the foot of the bed, and between them a prie-dieu, but nothing of -gloom. Even the conventional white flowers were not there; for Horatia -slowly realised, with an under-current of wonder, that the spotless -drapery of the bed was splashed with trails and mounds of crimson roses. - -And Armand lay in the midst of them indifferent and serene, all the -traces of his difficult dying smoothed away, the shadow of a smile round -his mouth--but as far removed from the lover and husband she had known -as from the tortured stranger of last night. The fingers of his -uninjured right hand, which alone lay on his breast, held, not the usual -crucifix, but a tiny sprig of laurel. Only she who had put it there, -and she who now gazed at it, knew why. - -The candles were blurred in tears. Emmanuel stooped and kissed the -tranquillised dead face. - -"Sleep well, my brother," he whispered, using the words he had uttered, -with a different thought, not long ago. - -Horatia slipped to her knees, and her head sank forward among the roses. - - - - - *BOOK III* - - - - *BOOK III* - - *LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT* - - - *CHAPTER I* - - - *(1)* - - -The strains of the violin lingered and died away in the October -twilight, and the musician, sitting on the deep window-seat of Dormer's -rooms at Oriel, took the instrument from under his chin. - -"Go on," said his listener, who lay full length on the sofa. But the -player shook his head. - -"Music is the worst trade under the sun in a blow-up," he observed. -"The lyre is only heard in feasts." - -Dormer moved. "My dear fellow, you sound gloomy! The present is not a -feast, granted, but neither is it a blow-up." - -John Henry Newman said nothing, but, with a little sigh, laid the violin -and the bow carefully on the window-seat. The fading light gleamed for -a moment on his tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, and threw up, as he -turned, the great nose and the rather prominent underlip of his lean -face. - -"I could wish, after all," he said, "that I had not fallen in with the -Froudes' plan. I do not really want to leave England just now. I -grudge the time, the expense, the trouble. Then suppose I were to fall -ill, too. It is quite enough that Hurrell should be an invalid. And -yet I suppose it may be a duty to consult for one's health, to enlarge -one's ideas, to break one's studies, and to have the name of a travelled -man." - -"Yet a few weeks ago," commented Dormer, undisturbed, "you seemed -pleased about it." - -"So I was; in fact, the prospect fairly unsettled me. I remember feeling -quite ashamed to be so excited, for it showed me how little real -stability of mind I had yet attained.--But I shall go, of course, when -term is over." - -"It will do you good, now that the Arians are off your hands," said -Dormer--"provided that you don't meet with a mishap like mine. Still -more, must we hope, will it do Froude good." - -"Indeed, we must hope that," answered Froude's friend very gravely, and -in the darkening room the shadow of a great apprehension seemed to float -for a moment between the two men. - -"I wish I were not going to be away from England when the Reformed -Parliament meets," resumed the silver-clear voice. "Reform apparently -connoting nowadays change at any price, without regard to its direction, -we need have no delusions that the threats against the Church which have -been dinned into our ears for so long will not be put into execution. I -know that Keble is preaching the duty of passivity for us clergy until -the Liturgy itself is actually attacked, but if that is what he is -waiting for, I don't think he will have to wait long. Revenues to-day, -creeds to-morrow. I really incline to the hope that the Whig spirit -will keep in, and the Church be set adrift. If this were the case we -should be so very independent of things temporal, for we only, as -individuals, should suffer." - -"You will probably be confirmed in that hope, then," remarked his -friend, "when you get abroad and see with your own eyes, as I did, the -whole Western Catholic world suffering from the same lack of power -because it has compromised with the State for the sake of its -endowments." - -"That was what struck you in Italy?" - -"That, and the infidelity of most of the thinking laity." - -"It seems sometimes," said Newman despondently, "as if the gift of truth -once lost was lost for ever, and that, with so much infidelity and -profaneness, the whole world is tending towards some dreadful crisis." - -"Yes," said Dormer, "one is rather tempted to think so sometimes. But -perhaps that feeling is an incentive, if we needed one, to set our own -house in order." - -Newman sighed. "I do believe what you say, in my heart, but there are -times, as you know, when it looks as if the Almighty had forsaken His -habitation." - -Dormer got off the sofa, and came and sat down by him on the -window-seat. "You know that you do not really think that, Neander. You -are only tired and overworked. I will show you that you don't think it. -What was it that you wrote to me in July when the cholera was at its -worst here? You said, if I remember rightly, that one's time had come, -or it had not come, and that in your case you were sure that it had not, -because you felt you were destined for some work which you had not yet -accomplished. Do you remember writing that?" - -Looking at him, Newman seemed to rouse himself. "I do remember. It was -a strong impression that I had just after the fatal case of cholera at -Littlemore. I know that a strong impression is not a good argument, yet -I have the feeling still at times. But why do you ask me?" - -"Because what you feel about yourself--and feel, I am convinced, most -rightly--I feel about the English Church. I think that God, instead of -leaving His sanctuary, is about to come into it with power. I think -that this will mean purgation and suffering for all of us, but that we -have deserved. Do you remember the profession of faith that Bishop Ken -made in his will?" - -"No, I was not brought up on Ken; as I know you were." - -"Well, I know it by heart," said Dormer. "'I die in the Holy Catholic -and Apostolic Faith, professed by the whole Church before the disunion -of East and West, more particularly I die in the communion of the Church -of England as it stands distinguished from all papal and puritan -innovations, and as it adheres to the doctrine of the Cross.' That -seems to me to be not only a profession of belief, but a vision of what -the Church of England might be if she awoke to the knowledge of what it -is really to possess the Holy Catholic and Apostolic Faith." - -"Yes, it is a vision, and a 'vision splendid,'" assented Newman, -"but--since I have used the phrase--you know how Mr. Wordsworth -continues, how-- - - 'At length the man perceives it die away - And fade into the light of common day.'" - - -"It has not really faded; it cannot fade. It is our eyes that have -forgotten how to look at it. No," went on Dormer with a sudden smile, -"I would rather think that the vision seems to have faded because its -guardians have shrouded it up, and then gone to sleep." - -"You think, then," said Newman, with an answering smile, "that it is for -us to wake them up?" - -"Yes," confessed his friend, "or, if that is impossible, to break -through ourselves and unveil the vision." - -"Sometimes you remind me of Froude," said Newman musingly, "except that -he has more of the schoolboy about him.... I think you have the real -light, and I only a glimmer that comes and goes, and gives me just -enough guidance for the day's journey and no more.... But as to these -slumbering guardians," he continued, rousing himself from his own -reflections, "have you ever thought any more about that idea of yours, -the publishing something in a cheap short form--a sort of tracts--to -stir people up?" - -"No," said Dormer, "I made a present of it to you. In fact I have been -wondering if you had thought of it again. It's not in my line, you -know." - -"My dear fellow, what nonsense! Yes, it did occur to me the other day -how it would be exactly the kind of thing that a group of friends like -ourselves might manage very well--sharpshooting, as it were. I will -talk seriously of it to Froude when we meet. I have another scheme, -however, that is more feasible at present. Now that Rose has started -the 'British Magazine' I thought we might have a poetical section in it -to rouse people to realise that there is a crisis. I am going to look -for recruits. We will get Keble to write for it, of course, and you and -I, and Isaac Williams, and I shall enlist Rogers if I can--and what -about your friend Hungerford?" - -"Tristram may have his faults," said Dormer, laughing, "but of the crime -of writing verses he is, so far as I know, absolutely guiltless." - -"Oh, anybody can write verses," pronounced Newman cheerfully, taking up -his violin. - - -When Newman had gone Dormer lit a lamp and sat down to his translation -of Andrewes (having the habit of forcing himself, regardless of his own -inclinations, to work at stated hours). But he had not got very far -before he suddenly pushed books and papers away, and flinging out his -arms on the table, buried his face in them. How dared he think that he -was worthy to set his hand to the unveiling of that shrouded vision! And -yet, and yet... - - -Later, he was standing looking out of the window across the dark -quadrangle, where, against a clear sky already pierced with one or two -stars, Merton tower lifted its crown of pinnacles. He felt rather -lonely, and wished that Tristram would come in. But Tristram was in -London. Then he remembered, with pleasure, that they would meet -to-morrow at Compton, where he himself was going over to preach for Mr. -Grenville, and where Tristram also had arranged to spend a couple of -nights on his homeward journey to Oxford. - -He went back to his writing-table, but he was still thinking of the same -person. Since Tristram, having yielded to Keble's and Newman's wish -that he should not leave Oxford, was working in the parish of S. -Thomas's he had taken his place naturally among the little group of -Oriel friends. Yet, in spite of all this, Dormer felt that somehow or -other he knew less about him. He could not but observe that he seemed -happier and more settled, and when, after the death of Horatia's -husband, he heard him discussing with Froude the idea of a college of -unmarried priests he was not so very greatly surprised. He wished that -Tristram would talk sometimes about his own affairs, but he would -comfort himself with the thought that Tristram could always now, if he -desired it, have access to that guide and inspiration of them all, John -Keble. - - - - - *CHAPTER II* - - - *(1)* - - -A sort of holiday feeling not very difficult to account for enveloped -Tristram Hungerford as he walked over the Downs this September afternoon -with his face set towards Compton Regis. His short sojourn in London -with relatives of his father's had made him feel, as usual, the gulf -between himself and these good and pious people, which had sprung into -existence when he was sent to a public school, had widened when he went -to Oxford, and was fairly yawning now that he had become a High -Churchman. It was not unnatural that he should look forward to his -stay, with Dormer, in a more congenial atmosphere, rather as a schoolboy -looks forward to an exeat, and it chimed with his mood that he must -leave the coach at Lambourn and walk to Compton over the Downs. It was -good to have the short springy grass once more underfoot, to breathe -again that light intoxicating air, to see the great rolling distances -which had been his inheritance since boyhood. Oxford and work were -good, but this was good too. - -Tristram had been rather happy these last months, for Keble had told him -that, contrary to what he himself felt, he had much to offer, and so at -his ordination as deacon he at last took the step from which only an -obstinate humility had been holding him back, and, in his own mind, -dedicated himself to the single life. - -He had also been very busy. St. Thomas's, the most populous and the -most degraded parish in Oxford, lay, a beggar full of sores, almost at -the gates of Christ Church, in whose gift was the living. Its -incumbent, who was also precentor of the Cathedral, did not reside in -the parish; indeed it would have been hard to find, in that huddle of -old houses, a suitable dwelling. Dirt, squalor, and vice reigned -everywhere. The little twelfth century church, dedicated to St. Thomas -of Canterbury, was damp and in ill-repair, though it had recently been -repewed; during the flood its aisle was often under water. It was -opened only for service on Sundays. Tristram Hungerford resolved that -there should be a parson in the parish, and, letting his house at -Compton Parva, he took rooms in Hollybush Row, undismayed by the open -ditch which ran along in front of his window. His coming was not looked -upon with favour in a district given over to thieves and prostitutes. -It was not without considerable personal risk that he visited the narrow -winding passages between the dirty old seventeenth century houses; the -men who lurked there regarded him as a spy, the women screamed abuse. -He was more than once warned of plans to set on him some dark night. -The warning had only the effect of making him more determined to remain -where he was; he had no objection at all to the idea of a scuffle, and -it may have been this evident readiness, joined to the appearance which -he bore of being a man of his hands, which secured him against actual -molestation. - -He had also another ally, the cholera, which, starting in June with two -fatal cases at the Castle gaol, in the parish of St. Thomas's itself, -swept the south-west quarter of Oxford before it migrated to the -north-west, and the suburb of St. Clement's. For the lost three months -Tristram had been to the district doctor, nurse--and friend. - - -And was it, he sometimes wondered, because he moved daily in activity -and peril, or was he so profoundly changed that the news of Armand's -death--amazing in its sudden tragedy--had so little effect upon him? He -was indeed deeply grieved for Horatia. He thought of her as -heart-broken. For after he had seen her in Paris he had come definitely -to the conclusion, already dawning on him there, that the change in her -was not due in any way to Armand, but to her new relatives. He still -had an uneasiness for which he could not account, but Mr. Grenville -having, by the exercise of great discretion and self-restraint, kept -Horatia's secret, there was nothing to make him suspect the real state -of affairs. Hence when, only about a fortnight ago, the Rector had -suddenly told him most of the truth about Armand he was divided between -anger and pity, but the revelation did not seem to affect him -personally. He was curiously absorbed in his work; since his services -during the cholera he had been very differently received in the dens of -St. Thomas's, and had even had a transient success when, (encouraged by -the fact that during the epidemic the Senior Proctor had provided daily -Morning and Evening Prayer in the House of Observation in St. Aldate's), -he began to read it in the church, hoping that it might attract those -who had escaped or recovered from the scourge. At first he had a -sprinkling of people, then two or three, then he read the service in an -echoing silence, but, having begun, he continued to read it. - -He nourished indeed a hope that one day this little fast-closed church, -named for an English saint and so typically English with its quiet -graveyard and its ancient yew, might mean something to those who lived -round it, that it might be a home to them, like the always-open churches -he had seen in Italy. More, having now a practical experience of the -bitter spiritual needs of the poor in a small neglected town parish, he -indulged sometimes in what he felt to be an almost chimerical vision, of -a church, spacious and beautiful as it might be, set in some great -manufacturing town where life was thickly pent and had no hope or -outlet--a church for the poor, served by the poor. When he was tired, -which was not unseldom, he used to think of this dream structure of his, -even picturing some of its architectural details. Of late he had -admitted Dormer to the same occupation, and though to the latter the -grimy surroundings of the imaginary fabric were clearly not an -attraction, as they were to its original designer, the idea gained -substance from his participation in it. Having ruled out galleries, -family pews and the Royal arms, settled that the holy table should not -only be fenced off from desecration, but that it should be restored to -the position at present usurped by the pulpit, they--or rather -Dormer--had even gone so far as to decide on the dedication. Hence at -this very moment, while his eyes were fixed on a great white bastion of -cloud rising exultant over the sky-line, Tristram was thinking that if -his dining-room table at Compton, relic of the solid hospitality of -Clapham days, was to be used in the refectory of the attached college of -priests, the said college would have to be built on a more generous -scale than Dormer seemed to think necessary; he should tell him so this -evening. It would be a waste to sell that table. - -He began to walk faster, exulting in the wind that resisted him, in the -song of the larks above him, in the great cloud, in the wonderful -feeling both of loneliness and of life at the highest pitch. Scraps of -that incomparable Te Deum, the hundred and forty-eighth Psalm, came into -his mind--"Praise the Lord upon earth, ye dragons and all deeps; fire -and hail, snow and vapours; wind and storm, fulfilling his word; -mountains and all hills, fruitful trees and all cedars..." - -At this point he perceived, rather to his astonishment, that he was not -alone upon the Downs. About a quarter of a mile off two people had -emerged upon the smooth curve of the hill that rose before him, walking -swiftly, a sheep-dog heralding their way. They must have come up by the -old track in the hollow to have remained hidden until that moment, -thought Tristram as he idly watched them. They were too far off for him -to see anything distinctive; he could make no guess at their identity, -only, by their movements, they were young, and they were man and woman. -But as he looked a curious interest seized upon him. It seemed to him -almost as if the pulsing life around had centred in these two figures, -instinct with joy and youth. - -They reached the summit of the hill. A lark rose in the sky, a tiny -speck against the cloud; the wind fluttered the woman's dress. Suddenly -they stopped, turned, and kissed each other. There was no trace of -courting or of timidity in the action; it was beautiful and fitting, as -though the sun and wind had met together and praised God for the fulness -of joy. The dog leapt round them barking. In another instant they were -walking on as quickly as before, till they were swallowed up in a dip of -the Downs. - -Tristram had stopped too. In less time than it takes a pebble to fall -from a cliff, the sun, the wind, the clouds, the very grass were clothed -in a new significance. This, the close of the great Psalm, this was the -highest thing that existence had to offer, and he was putting it by--he -was putting by deliberately, with the hand of a madman, the draught -which it was no longer sin to contemplate. Those two figures! He flung -himself down on the ground, the lark's song beating in his brain, and -prayed passionately to know the same joy before life was done. - - - - *(2)* - - -Two hours later, as he drew near Compton Rectory, he saw down the long -road a horseman cantering towards him on the wayside grass. In all his -life Tristram had known only two men who sat a horse with so supreme an -ease; one was his friend, the other his rival. And at that moment he -could have wished it were Armand risen, from his bloody grave. - -Dormer came on; drew rein and bent down. "I thought it was you," he -said as they shook hands. "I guess that you left the coach at Lambourn -and walked over the Downs." - -"I did," answered Tristram. - -"That must have been delightful," remarked the other, and Tristram, -without answering, opened the Rectory gate and watched him pass in. - -There was no denying that the Rector had aged during the past year, but -to-night he was quite rejuvenated. - -"I am really not without hopes of having Horatia home for Christmas," he -announced, as they sat down to dinner. "Of course you know, Mr. Dormer, -that I lost my son-in-law last June under very tragic circumstances. He -took part in the rising organised by that misguided woman the Duchesse -de Berry, and was shot, poor boy, by the soldiers of the Government. A -dreadful business; he died in my daughter's arms. The shock completely -prostrated her, as you may imagine; she was ill for some time, then -there were endless legal formalities, and it is only now that she talks -of being able to come over and pay me a long visit at Christmas." - -"Does she not intend to make her home in England?" asked Dormer. - -"She wishes to, naturally," replied Mr. Grenville, "and by French law -she can do as she likes, but whether poor Armand's relatives will bring -pressure to bear to keep her in France I don't know. I try not to meet -trouble half-way. At any rate she will be here for Christmas. There -will be a child in the house again; Christmas seems to demand that. And -to think that you have both seen my grandson since I have!" - -Neither of the young men waxed communicative on the subject of the -infant; Dormer, indeed, had suddenly become rather thoughtful. - -"Tristram, you will have to come over here at Christmas-time," went on -the Rector. "We must hang up a stocking for Maurice. They don't keep -Christmas in France, I understand." - -Tristram murmured something about being busy at Christmas, and that he -would be taking his priest's orders just before that festival. - -"Oh, I daresay you'll be able to manage it," said the Rector easily. "A -few days in the country now and then would set you up, living as you do -in that plague-spot. By the way, I hear you exposed yourself very -unnecessarily in the cholera there--most laudable of course, but you -young men are so rash. It's just the same with this foolish and -shocking idea of throwing over the supremacy of the State which you have -got into your heads. Church and State, to any right-thinking mind, are -as inseparable as body and soul, and it will be a black day for England -if they are ever torn apart. How you, Mr. Dormer, with your ultra-Tory -ancestry ... but there, I suppose it is just because they _were_ -Non-jurors that the idea is not as repugnant to you as it ought to be." - -"Dormer's not a Tory, Rector," remarked Tristram. "He's a Radical, like -me, now." - -"Oh, indeed," returned Mr. Grenville, not much perturbed. "Well, I -won't upset your convictions; but, Tories or Radicals, I don't fancy you -will welcome this new Parliament of ours when we get it." - -"Why not, Mr. Grenville?" asked Dormer. - -"Because, if ever there was a middle-class measure, it is this Reform -Act! You mark my words, it will be worse, not better, for the poor man -now than under the old state of things." - -"I fully agree with you," observed Dormer. - -"It is quite pathetic," pursued the Rector, "to see how every class -thinks the Millennium is coming because of the extension of the -franchise. Wages are going to rise, and the price of corn is going to -fall.... No, what is really wanted is Poor Law reform. Am I not right, -Tristram?" - -Tristram wearily agreed. It seemed to him that the evening would never -end. He only desired one thing, to be alone. In the study after dinner -the Rector rallied him once or twice on his silence, and he was half -afraid to meet Dormer's eyes, which always saw so much. Yet when at -last Mr. Grenville, taking up his own candlestick, had said paternally, -"Now don't you young men stay talking here till the small hours," and -himself departed to bed, Tristram sat down again by the fire, lest the -abrupt exit which he longed to make should either wound his friend or -give him cause for speculation. And he then embarked on such an -unnecessarily detailed account of the pressing need of better drainage, -not only in the parish of St. Thomas's but also in St. Clement's, in -fact throughout the whole of Oxford, that his somewhat unresponsive -listener came to the conclusion that he was thoroughly overdone oy the -cholera, and suggested of his own accord that they should go to bed. - - - - - *CHAPTER III* - - - *(1)* - - -Great things were vouchsafed on Saturday, the 14th of December, 1832, to -Mrs. Polly White, sister and correspondent of Mrs. Martha Kemblet, for, -it being the day on which she went to "do" at the Rectory, she was -enabled to combine the fine drawing of a tablecloth (an art in which she -was proficient) with the sight of the arrival of Miss Horatia and the -Rector, the precious babe and her own sister. Mr. Grenville had gone to -Dover to meet the packet, and the party was expected from Oxford, by -chaise, some time in the afternoon. - -The village was all agog about Horatia's return, and some spirits, -lacking delicacy rather than enthusiasm, had entertained the idea of an -evergreen arch across the Rectory gate, to bear the words "Welcome -Home," and to be adorned with such decorations as had survived from the -Coronation festivities fifteen months before. The impropriety of so -receiving a newly-made widow having been pointed out, gossip had then -spent itself in speculations as to how Miss 'Ratia would look, not only -in her weeds, poor dear, but in the status of a French countess, or -whatever she was, for it was felt that in some way she would be a -different person from the Miss 'Ratia they had known. One old man, -however, dratting them all, announced his unalterable intention of -putting a couple of lighted candles in his window, for if his darter had -taken and married a Frenchy, and had come home again after so disastrous -a step, widder or no widder, he should consider it a clear case of "This -my darter wur dead, and be alive again; and wur lost and be found." -Such was indeed the general feeling in Compton Regis, where only a few -impressionable damsels were found to remark that Miss 'Ratia's husband -had been a proper young man, and that 'twas a gurt pity he had been -killed in them foreign wars. - -Mrs. White deplored all this chatter though she would fain have -contributed to it. When, therefore, about four o'clock, Ellen rushed -into the room where she was working to say that the chaise was turning -in at the gate, she flew with the rest of the domestics to the front -door. And thus, curtseying like them, she was privileged to see the -black and yellow post-chaise from the _Angel_ at Oxford draw up at the -steps, to behold the Rector emerge and assist to alight, first a lady in -the deepest mourning, a long crape veil such as Mrs. White had never -seen covering her from head to foot, secondly, a foreign-looking nurse -or nursemaid (disliked by Mrs. White on the spot, though bearing a -priceless burden), and lastly her own dear comfortable, capable sister, -not changed a bit. And she saw the Comtesse put back her long veil, and -come up the steps on her father's arm, looking that sweet, but so sad! -The Rector, poor dear gentleman, seemed moved, as who wouldn't be. Miss -'Ratia, when you saw her in the light, was older, a little, and thin in -the cheeks, but the weeds set off her hair and complexion beautiful. As -for the lovely infant, he was asleep, and Mrs. White preferred in any -case to view him when Martha could act as show-woman. And so, as the -party mounted the stairs, she returned to her napery, hoping that her -sister would shortly appear. - -But Martha was indeed unchanged, and it was not until things were "to -her liking," the nurse properly installed, the child in bed, her -mistress's trunks unpacked, and her mistress at table with his -Reverence, that she permitted herself to seek out and to embrace her -sister. Then, due greeting and inquiries having passed, Mrs. Kemblet, -seated in a restful chair, began her desired narration. - -"I wish I could have got my lamb to go to bed at once, and have her -dinner there. However, she's a sight stronger than she was, and has -stood the journey wonderful, considering. Rough it was, too, and the -packet rolling something horrible. But here we all are safely, thanks -to One Above, and the infant none the worse, though a trifle fractious, -bless his heart!" - -"Ah, but what _she_ must have been through, Martha!" said Mrs. White -feelingly. - -This was a whip to a willing horse. "You may well say that, Polly," -responded her sister. "What with being fetched like that all sudden at -night, to find the poor young gentleman weltering in an agony--for he -was shot something terrible, they said--and him dying in her arms (all -unprepared, too, I'm afraid), and then going back to Paris with his -body, and the household off their heads, and the funeral--I don't know -what we should have done without the elder one, the Marquis as they call -him..." - -"Dear, dear!" ejaculated Mrs. White, as the narrator paused for breath. -"And where was the poor young man buried, then?" - -"At the grand family place where we was during the cholera time.... -Well, to go back to the dreadful occurrence" (impossible to deny that -there was relish in Mrs. Kemblet's tone over these words) "when Miss -Horatia gets this letter and rushes off to this place, St. Clair, -without even telling me where she was going, we couldn't none of us do -anything till the Marquis comes back next morning early. Off he goes -then to St. Clair; then he comes back and says his brother is lying dead -in the big house there, having been shot in the wood by the Government -soldiers, and that he is going to have him brought away, and to fetch -Miss Horatia too. And, by and by, they brought him, carrying him on a -bier with a flag over him, not that red, white, and blue thing they use -now in France, but the old one, the white one. And they laid him in the -chapel at his own place, where we was, with candles all burning; hardly -Christian in a way, not being in a coffin, but I must say he looked -beautiful, and when I went in to see him, I cried like a baby; for -though I always begrudged him having Miss Horatia, and never trusted -him, it did seem dreadful him being cut off like that, so young; and I -daresay he would have settled down if he had been spared." - -Mrs. White wiped her sympathetic eyes, but caught at the last words. -"He wasn't what you'd call a good husband to Miss Horatia then?" - -"I don't say that," returned Martha, slightly stiffening. "All them -young men over there are wild," she explained, with an air of profound -acquaintance with Gallic youth. "The less said about it the better, -that's my motto. And really I begun to wonder if I'd not been mistook, -seeing the state my poor lamb was in after he was killed. For weeks -after we got back to Paris she could not sleep without I was in the -little room off hers--always seeing him in her dreams she was, and -calling out that he was bleeding to death, and begging him to forgive -her--the Lord knows why--and imploring someone to go to him. She -fainted on the day of the funeral; a grand funeral it was, with a Bishop -to bury him, and a sermon saying he was a martyr for the altar and the -throne, whatever that meant. The old Madam nearly went out of her mind -over it all, she was that fond of the Count. Then when she--the old -one--was quieted down a bit nothing would serve but she must be having -the child up in her nasty stuffy bedroom at all hours of the day, saying -it was all that was left her, and things like that." - -"But surely Miss Horatia had something to say to that?" - -Martha leant forward very impressively. "You mark my words, Polly, -there's going to be a tussle over that child! You and me thinks he's -English, bless him, because he's Miss Horatia's, but by law he's French, -and belongs over there, and you wouldn't believe the difficulty there's -been about our leaving Paris. I've not been told, and it's not for me -to ask, whether we're coming here on long visits, or whether my Lady -will make her home here. But this I do say, they've got their eye on -him, the poor innocent, and it'll be worse as he grows up." - -"What a shame!" said Mrs. White indignantly. "And he no older than my -Harriet's Willy!" - -Mrs. Kemblet rose with majesty, and with majesty she replied, "That's as -it may be, but I don't think you realise, Polly, that when the old Duke -and his son dies, there'll be only one life between the Count asleep -upstairs and the dukedom." - -"Lor!" ejaculated Mrs. White. - - -And by the child upstairs there stood his grandfather and his mother, -looking down at him in his rosy abandonment of slumber. - -"Papa, he was very fond of him," said Horatia at last, and turning, she -threw herself weeping into her father's arms. - - - - - *CHAPTER IV* - - - *(1)* - - -All through the falling of the leaves--the creeper leaves that dropped -slowly, resplendent in death, from college walls, the narrow willow -leaves that were whirled floating on to the streams, the leaves that -made a carpet, the leaves that were like rain, the leaves that laughed -as they fell, the leaves that fluttered to the ground like wounded -birds--Tristram wrestled with the angel of bewilderment. - -Not even Dormer could help him. He had known that from the night at the -Rectory. The matter was too intimately between himself and God; he must -struggle through alone. And though, when he was back in Oxford, Dormer -had come and sought him out in his lodgings, in order to tell him that -he thought he was overworking, and ought to spare himself a little more, -Tristram merely said that he was quite well, and let him go without a -sign. - -He was in a mist of anguish and perplexity. If he could only see the -path, he told himself, he was ready to follow it, however sharp its -flints. But where lay his road? If that reawakened desire of his, -hidden from his own eyes till the wind of the Downs had rent the -curtain, were sin, then he would cut it from him, at whatever cost. For -even then the self that prayed with such intensity for happiness was so -much the captive of a surrendered will that at the last it had struggled -towards obedience with _Non voluntas mea_.... - -But how could his desire be sin? He was not a Roman Catholic priest; he -was a member of a body where marriage was almost expected. Even if, at -his ordination, his intention had been plain to himself, he had taken no -formal vow of celibacy. Newman, in spite of his ascetic views, thought -that vows were foolish, and showed a lack of trust in Providence. -Moreover, might not Horatia's sudden liberation be a sign that she was -meant for him after all? And how could she hinder him in his work?--she -would be a help to any man. He thought of what she might be as a -companion, as an inspiration. And he wanted her for herself; he wanted -the warm and ordered joys of home. Was that wrong? How could such -desires be wrong, when God Himself had implanted them? Had not Jeremy -Taylor called marriage "the nursery of heaven?" - -But he knew now that this very exaltation of marriage by the Christian -Church was only the other side of her exaltation of virginity. This -lost truth, the heart of early asceticism--positive offence though it -was even to persons who prided themselves on taking literally every -other Gospel precept--he had learnt unwillingly enough. He too had -found it a hard saying, but like his friends at Oriel, having once -admitted it, he could not conveniently forget it. And though these men, -because of their intense belief in the Divine plan for every individual -life, would never presume to demand from him that he should not marry, -yet, with their severe ideals, they would certainly expect that he -should not go back on a line once chosen. And he had chosen; no use to -deny that. He knew, if no other human being knew, how deeply he was -committed to the idea of the life without ties. It was impossible for -him to blink the fact that, had Horatia not become free, he would have -gone on in the direction in which his mind was set. This present -hesitation meant, then, that when, in his heart, he had made a -dedication of his life to God, it was only because the one woman he -wanted had been taken from him--an offering, as he had always felt, but -little worth, though the best that he could bring. But now, now that -the offering was to cost him more dear, he was desirous of taking it -back again. And he reflected how such conduct would appear in worldly -matters. It did not seem to him that its transference to another plane -of values would render it any the more creditable. - -Yes, said another voice, but you cannot set your relations with the -Almighty on a sort of business footing. Do you imagine that the -Architect of the Universe keeps a strict ledger account with the dust he -has called into being, that he does not know the weak and childish heart -of it, and accept its poor offerings, not like a merchant, but like a -king? - -To and fro went the warring armies in his soul, while his body carried -him about his business among the poor of St. Thomas's. But all the time -the tide of combat was setting in one direction, and at last he knew it. - -There was a certain old woman in one of the courts to whom he used to -read every day. Though dirty and illiterate she was methodical and -self-willed, and, oblivious of the lessons of the day, selected what -book of the Bible she pleased to be read straight through to her. In -this way, after a course of Deuteronomy, she had pitched upon St. Mark. - -"You was reading yesterday, Sir, how we should cut off our 'ands and -feet and cast them into 'ell fire," she observed one morning as Tristram -sat down in her little room. "It seems a 'ard thing to be told to do, -don't it?" - -Scarcely encouraged by this result of his ministrations, Tristram -promptly turned to the end of the ninth chapter and re-read the passage, -trying to explain as simply as possible its meaning. But the attitude -of the old dame was that of one taking her stand on the rock of the -Word--"the Good Book says so, and it don't become us to say -otherwise"--and after a while, seeing that his exegesis was making no -impression, he desisted, and went on to the tenth chapter. He was -reading it, truth to tell, without attending much to the words, his mind -occupied half unconsciously with the eternal conflict, when he found -that he was in the midst of the story of the young ruler, and that his -lips were repeating the familiar words, "One thing thou lackest ... sell -whatsoever thou hast, and give to the poor ... and come, take up the -cross, and follow Me." - -All the rest of the day the story kept running in his head. He could -not quite think why, except that it was one of those scenes in the -Gospel, dealing with an individual, which had always interested him. -With his mother's charity he had often hoped that the young ruler came -back after all. He remembered once having a talk with Dormer, who said -that there was some sort of tradition that he returned, but that he, -Dormer, thought there was very little ground for such a hope. On the -same occasion he had enunciated a theory which Tristram had thought -rather austere--that certain people, often good people, who had kept the -commandments from their youth up, could only be saved at all by enduring -hardness. Such people were constantly asked to make decisions involving -sacrifice, and whereas others seemed able to compass the heavenly ascent -by a tolerably easy road, they, if they were to reach the same summit, -must climb by a very different path. - -And somehow Tristram began to apply these conditions to himself. He had -kept the commandments, he had great possessions--friends, enough to live -upon, perhaps the possession that he had coveted all these years. What -if he were in the position of the young ruler, although he had already -begun to obey the command. He had thought that God was perhaps calling -him to the single life because he could serve the poor better in that -state. He had found how happy he could be at St. Thomas's, and -experience had convinced him that for such work a man must be single. -It was not just the fact of marrying Horatia. He would have -responsibilities which would clash with what he hoped to do. He could -not take her to live in the midst of dirt and poverty to risk her -health, and the health of their children. If he married her he would be -turning his back on his work. According to Dormer's theory he might be -turning his back on Christ. - -And so, in no romantic surroundings but among the trying adornments of -his little room in Hollybush Row--the waxen bouquets springing from -woolwork mats and shrined under domes of glass, the very bad engraving -of the entry of the Allies into Paris, the lustre jugs, the framed -announcement of the Oxford coaches and the wall-paper that oppressed the -very soul--he fought his way through to the conclusion that Horatia was -not for him now any more than she had been two years ago. He must take -the harder path, he must go on as he had begun. - -The stuffed parrot in the centre of his mantelpiece, at which, -unknowing, he had been staring fixedly for the last hour, regarded him -with a cynical and leering eye. "_So this is religion!_" it seemed to -say. "_And this is a man!_" - -Tristram, though appreciating the taunt, got up and put the critic -outside the door. - - - - *(2)* - - -Three weeks later, at two o'clock in the afternoon of Christmas Eve, he -was stepping into the post-chaise which was to take him out to Compton -Regis to see Horatia for the first time since her return. He had been -ordained priest only yesterday. The Rector had been in the Cathedral, -and Tristram, touched by his presence, had accepted his urgent -invitation to come over to Compton on the morrow, Christmas Eve though -it was. For this summons he had, indeed, been preparing himself, since -whatever course he should afterwards decide upon, he must at least go -out and see Horatia once. - -Yesterday afternoon, amid the frightful Christmas bustle outside the -_Mitre_, in the clamour of departing coaches laden with geese and -turkeys, he had said farewell to Dormer, who had stayed thus late in -Oxford for his sake, and was posting to Whitchurch, where he would catch -the London and Exeter mail in the morning. Even so his expectant -nephews and nieces at Colyton would all be in bed long before he reached -his brother's house on Christmas Eve. Tristram had deprecated this -sacrifice, but Dormer had insisted on staying to see him ordained. - -Down past the front of Christ Church went the chaise, over the river, -and towards the hill--ways so familiar. But the self that travelled them -to-day was different. The tortures of indecision were over. Yesterday -had put the seal on his dedication. Wonderfully, unbelievably, the -choice had been offered to him after all--the reality of sacrifice, not -mere acquiescence in past suffering, and because his attitude was no -more that of a loveless obedience, he almost longed to feel the pain -which he knew was before him. And, even if there was combat to come, he -would know now on which side he fought, he would not go away sorrowful. - - -The drawing-room at Compton Rectory was not empty, as he had at first -thought, for in a chair before the fire, with her back to him, was -seated Horatia herself. On a fold of her black dress lay some immature -woolly object which he could not identify, and in the crook of her right -arm rested a little motionless head clothed, none too thickly, with -curling rings of bronze-gold hair. - -Tristram stopped in his advance. And at that she lifted her head and -spoke. - -"Tristram! Is that you already? He is asleep. Come round here, if you -will." He came to her other side, and his lips met the wedding ring on -the hand which she tendered to him, smiling. - -"Dear Tristram!" she said, in the same soft tones of welcome, looking up -at him. "How kind of you to come! Will you get yourself a chair?" - -He obeyed, still rather speechless, and when he had sat down she asked -him if he had ridden or driven, whether the Rector knew that he was -there, all in a quiet and unembarrassed manner. Then she suddenly bent -her head and said, "Maurice, it is time that you woke up and spoke to -this gentleman." - -Long lashes as black as night lay on the cheeks of -Maurice-Victor-Stanislas de la Roche-Guyon, and one hand grasped firmly -a string of jet beads hanging from his mother's neck. His slumber was -profound and determined. Tristram gazed at him, his mind in something -of a whirl. - -"He got tired, playing with his lamb," vouchsafed Horatia, and as she -looked down at the sleeping child a most divine little smile came over -her face. - -The revelation of that look, and the presence of her son somehow almost -deprived Tristram of the power to ask her the thousand questions about -herself that were on his lips. He got out a few, in a lowered tone, and -then, with little warning but a sudden drowsy stretching, Maurice awoke, -and out of Armand's eyes: but bluer and more innocent, looked up -straight at the visitor. - -The effect was disconcerting to both. Tristram disguised his feelings, -but the younger person, giving way to whatever emotion he may have felt, -silently buried his head in his mother's arm. - -Horatia smiled that new smile of hers, and put a kiss on the curls. - -"I was so sorry that I could not come to your ordination yesterday, -Tristram," she was beginning. "Papa would not let me take the long -drive, but I wished very much to come..." - -But just then the Rector entered, and the talk became general, even, on -Horatia's side, rather disjointed, for the Comte de la Roche-Guyon, -demanding to be put down, crawled meanwhile with an extraordinary -rapidity about the floor, addressing in obscure terms every object that -he encountered on his route, footstools, hearthrug, even the flora of -the carpet. Finally he embraced with fervour one of Tristram's legs, -and Tristram, after a moment or two, stooped and lifted him on to his -knee. After all, he might as well accustom himself to children, though -he would rather have gone to school with the child of someone else. -Maurice smiled. - -"Up!" he observed pertinently, and kicked out his feet with happy -vigour, somewhat endangering his balance. - -"He doesn't often take to people like that!" observed his mother and -grandfather simultaneously, and with the usual amount of truth... - - -It was over. And as the post-chaise jolted him back in the darkness to -Oxford, Tristram's whole heart was so swamped with the thought of -Horatia, what she must have gone through, how miraculously she had -changed, that there was little room for the contemplation of himself. -She had now what she wanted; he was sure of it; she held it in her arms. -The great surprise of it, after Paris, only made him the more convinced. -God had given her compensation for what she had suffered. Yet the more -he thought, with all a man's touch of sentiment, about the little group -in the firelight, the more that it seemed to him wonderful, beautiful, -and, for Horatia, consummatory, the more did he realise the cost of -selling that great possession which he might have had. Just as he had -stood and looked on at mother and child this evening, so must he always -stand now and look on--no more--at the sanctities of home. - -And he had a sudden vision, too, of Dormer, surrounded to-morrow in -church by the fair heads of his brother's many children, kneeling in the -midst of a bevy who were none of his. He had once told Tristram of the -whispered communications that were wont to be made to him in -service-time, of the happy terror in the eyes that would follow the -small pointing finger up "Little Choke-a-bone Alley" to the tomb of the -girl of royal lineage choked, hundreds of years ago, "by a fish-bone, -Uncle Charles!"--to the effigy which had thrilled him himself as a -boy.... There are veils which the hand of a close friend is the last to -touch, and whether Dormer had ever suffered as he had suffered, or -whether the vision which he had always followed shone with a light so -effulgent that no other joys had radiance, Tristram could never pity -him. But, remembering his long patience and hope, he desired suddenly -to give him a Christmas gift, and though the letter could not reach him -on the feast itself, and though it cost him something to do it, he sat -down, when he got back, and told him what he had kept from him -yesterday, that he had indeed, at last, sold whatsoever he had. - -And, when he offered the Eucharist for the first time on Christmas -morning, he made his own oblation, mingled of pain and joy. - - - - - *CHAPTER V* - - - *(1)* - - -The Rector had just closed the door of his study on the retreating form -of Mary Straker, a blushing village damsel who had come to impart to him -the news of approaching matrimony. Mr. Grenville had a peculiar -interest in the announcement, for some three years previously he had -intervened to shield her inamorato from the consequences of a poaching -adventure, and had emigrated him up to Yorkshire as a groom. The -grateful swain had now written to his betrothed to inform her that he -had saved enough money to marry upon, and that he intended to return -this spring for the ceremony, and would Mary please tell his Reverence -so, and he hoped, with his best respects, as his Reverence would say the -words over them come Easter. - -Mr. Grenville was pleased, and went smiling to the window. Drumming on -the pane a moment, he looked out at the young green of March, and hoped -Tom Hollings and little Polly would be happy. In his parish the Rector -was something of a matchmaker. He had an obscure conviction that one -had only to put two people together and they would hit it off somehow; -in fact he had always taken a rosy view of marriage--until the marriage -of his own daughter. He thought of that now, and, suddenly sighing, -came away from the window. - -He was really worried about Horatia, in spite of the fact that she -looked distinctly better since her return three months ago. But she -seemed sometimes as if she would never recover from her sadness. She -had lost her habit of teasing him; she was, for her, rather too sweetly -reasonable. And yet he could not help her. Poor darling! he could not -bear to think that she knew so much of evil, and had grown so much older -in such a short time. In some ways the thing that he most resented in -the whole unhappy affair was the smirching of her innocence. While he -was in Paris he had been really shocked at the Duchesse's broad views -when, with her accustomed frankness, she had laid before him the reason -for his grandson's premature arrival, emphasising the fact that she was -annoyed not with Armand's conduct in itself, but with his carelessness. -And though he was half unwilling to listen to Martha, there were things -which she insisted on telling him, prefacing them with "And I think you -ought to know, Sir." - -But because Armand was dead he thought of him now as "that poor young -man," and, to his mind, his tragic removal somehow whitewashed his -conduct and made it "better not to think of it." At the same time he -did not fail, in his inmost heart, to feel that removal a direct work of -Providence, and was deeply ashamed of this feeling, especially when he -considered Maurice's fatherless condition. Often, indeed, watching him -with his mother, was Mr. Grenville struck with the pathos of the -situation. He loved to see them together, especially when Horatia did -not know that he was looking at them; she seemed to him so beautifully -maternal, and he could hardly believe that there had been a time when -she did not care for the child. - -Mr. Grenville began to pace up and down, his hands behind his back, and -not for the first time did he wonder whether the comfort which he was -powerless to give Horatia might not, after all, come from another -quarter. He had, for his part, a distinct objection to second marriages, -and had acted on it in his own case, but he would be easier to Horatia -than he had been to himself. Horatia was still so young, the fatherless -Maurice so tiny, her married life--her unhappy married life--had been so -short ... eighteen months! Then the presence of Tristram, still -unmarried and, as far as he knew, unchanged in his feelings towards -Horatia, seemed to him almost providential. Tristram Hungerford indeed -was steadfastness incarnate; he could not conceive of his changing. -But, of course, he did not know what Tristram thought of second -marriages. In any case, however, his present attitude was very proper, -not intruding upon Horatia's grief. Besides, he was probably waiting -till he had a living. Yet, second marriages... - -Mr. Grenville stopped in his promenade, and with a look on his face as -of one about to drink medicine, took down Jeremy Taylor from a shelf and -turned over the pages till he came to that divine's remarks on the -widowed state. Tightening his lips, he shut up the book after a moment -with something like a bang, and replaced it. Yes, second marriages ... -But, after all, he was going on rather fast. - - - - *(2)* - - -When the Rector returned, late that afternoon, from visiting his -parishioners, he was rather surprised to find Horatia sitting on a stool -in front of his study fire, which had only just been lit. As soon as he -had sat down beside her she put her head on his knee, and said, with the -directness of a child, - -"Papa, dear, I want to talk to you. I am so unhappy! I must talk to -someone." - -The Rector put his hand on her hair, half alarmed, half pleased that she -had come to him. "What is it, my love?" he said tenderly. "Only this -morning I was thinking of you and wishing I could comfort you." - -"O Papa, I can't say it to you. I am so wicked!" And she began to cry. - -"My dearest child," said the Rector, astonished, "what do you mean? How -can you have been wicked? Come, then, tell me all about it. There is -nothing you cannot say to me. I can understand how you loved him in -spite--in spite of many things." - -"But that is just it," answered Horatia, sobbing. "I did not really love -him." Then she went on in an outburst, "You think now that I'm grieving -for him because I loved him. It isn't true. I'm grieving just because -I didn't love him. I want to say to people, Don't be sorry for me, -don't look at my black dress! I am a wicked woman, I did not love my -husband. I did not even do my duty." - -Mr. Grenville put an arm round his daughter's shoulders and bent over -her. "My child, you mustn't talk like this. We know that poor Armand -was not all that he might have been to you, and I daresay I know more -than you think. You married him for better or for worse, and in some -ways ... for although he is dead we must face facts ... I have little -doubt it was for worse. It was a shock to your innocence to find out -much that you ought never to have known. I ought to have warned you -more, to have told you more. My darling child, your old father has been -greatly to blame. If only your dear mother had been alive!" - -"Papa, you did warn me," she said, drying her eyes. "I was very wilful; -I thought I knew best. But it seemed then as if Armand came and opened -a new world to me, and I thought it was love ... but it could not have -been ... and then I began to hear things ... and before Maurice was -born..." - -"I know, my dear," said the Rector, smoothing her hair. - -"And Maurice, the darling, I was so wicked I would not look at him ... -and as for Armand, I believe I almost hated him ... and I told him he -was dead to me ... and now he is dead really ... and how can I say I -loved him!" - -The Rector reflected a little before replying. - -"I would not think too much, Horatia, of whether you loved him or did -not love him. I understand that you are trying to be honest with -yourself, but now you have told me do not fret about that part of it. -You made mistakes, and it is all very sad, but try to remember that we -are in the hands of a merciful Creator. 'He knoweth whereof we are made; -He remembereth that we are but dust." - -"If only I could be like you, Papa, and could have your trust! It -frightens me to think about him." - -"Tell me, my dear." - -"O, he did not want to die. He was so young, and he loved life. He -said one thing that I shall never forget: 'If they tell you that I was -resigned, do not believe them.'" - -"Poor boy, poor boy!" murmured the Rector huskily. - -"And the way he died was so dreadful! I had never seen anyone die -before, and I did not know how awful it could be. O, I have been so -frightened!" said Horatia, now almost incoherent. "I see him always -with the blood spreading through the linen, and I hear him always -calling in that terrible voice, 'Laurence, Laurence! ..." - -"Ah!" said the Rector, compressing his lips. He made an effort to -control himself. "Don't go on, Horatia; don't distress yourself! I -know all about it. We must try not to judge the dead--and may God have -mercy on us all!" - -There was a pause, during which Mr. Grenville blew his nose violently. - -"Dear, dear," he resumed at length, "you ought never to have suffered -this--and to think of your being alone at such a time! I have been much -to blame, much to blame! ... There, there, my child, you will stay with -me, now, and you are young, and in time you will forget----" - -"Never, never!" exclaimed Horatia, raising her head. - -"No; well, perhaps, I should not say that, but the old know that we must -forget even if we do not want to, and as I said, you are young, and -there is Maurice. He can help you more than anyone else.--You will stay -with me, Horatia?" - -She flung her arms tightly round his neck. "Oh, yes. Papa, if you will -keep me. Two or three months every year I must go back to France, but -for the rest there is no reason why I should not stay with you if you -will have me." She sat still for a moment, leaning against her father's -knee, and when she was a little calmer, went on, "You remember that I -wrote and told you about the will, that Armand wished Maurice to go to -an English school. He was very fond of him, Papa." - -"Yes, my dear." - -A pause. - -"The more I think of it, Horatia," began Mr. Grenville solemnly, "the -more I believe that you ought to find your comfort in this provision of -your husband's will. It seems to me to prove that, far from doubting -your affection, he felt that he owed something to you, and that this was -the way he tried to make up to you. Poor young man, there was much good -in him! Try to think of this, my love, and say your prayers and do your -duty--and now, dear me, it is nearly dinner-time!" - - - - - *CHAPTER VI* - - - *(1)* - - -"Want!" observed the Comte de la Roche-Guyon, stretching out a fat hand -from his wheeled bassinette towards the huge red poppy nodding in the -flowerbed beside him. "Want, want, want!" he repeated beating with the -same member upon the satin coverlet. - -Grimes the gardener, clipping the hedge near by, looked round. "And so -you shall, my pretty!" quoth he. Turning, he broke off the object of -Maurice's desires, and presented it to him, and Maurice, after tearing -off the flaming petals, inserted the fascinating remainder into his -mouth. - -He had not time, however, to try his newest teeth upon the green dainty -before it was torn from him and flung whirling into the bed as -Martha--who had but left her charge for a moment--emptied the vials of -her wrath upon the luckless donor. "And you a married man not to know -better than that! You might have poisoned the precious child under his -mother's very eyes! Come away, my beautiful ... now don't cry after the -nasty thing!" - -As the hand of indignation wheeled Maurice away from the vicinity of the -unworthy Grimes it removed him also out of Horatia's field of vision, -where she sat under the acacia tree on the lawn, a book on her lap and a -workbasket by her side. Horatia flew something of her old colour in her -cheeks. Her father, after her outburst in the spring, had told her to -say her prayers and to do her duty. To do her duty, or what she knew -that her father would conceive to be her duty, was easy--anything was -easy that served to take her mind off herself. She did all she could -for Maurice, and was unaware that Martha generally did it all over -again. She paid visits and went to local shows, proceedings that before -her marriage had been very distasteful to her. The Rector thought her -so brave, and wonderfully softened, for now she seemed to suffer fools -gladly. She did, for any company was better than her own. - -But to say her prayers was a different matter, for though she repeated a -form of words she could not pray, and she hated being in church, for -there her mind invariably became clear, and all that she had shut away -in a box marked "Paris" would emerge, and be, not a dream of the past, -but a present reality. At any moment this box was not over-securely -fastened. Inside were remorse and hatred. Every letter from France -shook the lid--though such letters were not very frequent--one or two -melancholy epistles from the Duc, a few kind notes from Emmanuel, some, -not so benevolent, from the Dowager, and one malicious communication -from the Marquise de Beaulieu, informing her that Madame de Vigerie had -not been seen in society this year, and that every one was wondering -why.... How she hated the Vicomtesse! It was she who had cast the -first poisoned fruit into their Eden, it was she who had deceived her -with a show of friendship, she who had caused her to condemn Armand -innocent, she who had lured him on--lured him on to his death. Merely -to think of her was to revive, in its fadeless colours, that picture or -dream of him, lying dead in her arms.... - -Better than saying her prayers or doing her duty were Tristram's visits. - -She did not take them as a matter of course, but looked forward to them -almost eagerly, comparing them with the many times he had come in old -days. She was changed, she knew, but so was he. The fact of his -becoming a clergyman might have been expected to make him more sedate, -but it had had the opposite effect. At times he was quite lighthearted -and full of hope, and seemed to find no little enjoyment in the prospect -of a fight to come. The hope and the joy of battle were for the Church, -for the Church was in danger, and yet Horatia no longer wanted to laugh -at him or to tease him. He would tell her that he and his friends at -Oriel were conspirators, and that one day the conspiracy would break -out, that Oxford was going to lead another hope, and not a forlorn one. -In July he had said that they only waited for Newman to come back from -Italy, that Froude was full of fire, and that if Keble could only be got -to move he would be more potent than anyone. - -Horatia had watched eagerly to see what the Reformed Parliament would -do, and, when the bill for the suppression of the Irish bishoprics was -introduced, she was pleasurably thrilled at the thought then presented -to her that perhaps an era of persecution had really begun. She was -full of elation when Mr. Keble preached his stirring Assize sermon in -July and of regret that she herself had not heard it. In August she -felt the futility of the meeting at Hadleigh, and she was as convinced -as Tristram could have wished that no great movement was ever -successfully conducted by an association; she was sure that it must be -the work of individuals. And now she was waiting for the appearance of -the first-fruits of that idea--the projected series of Tracts. - -It was like an exciting game, for Horatia's interest was, after all, -purely intellectual. And her instinct told her that even if Mr. Froude -could speak jestingly of a conspiracy, and the friends could use, out of -reverence for holy things, a "little language" which to the outsider -appeared merely flippant, there was within them a spirit which made her -shrink. She knew that they had a profound belief in Providence, that -they believed they had a work to do, and were but tools for its -execution. This alone was a disturbing thought. And she perceived in -them a moral force, a severity and a relentlessness which she had never -met before. If, as people said, they wished to copy the Roman Catholics, -she was at a loss to know where in that body, as she knew it, they had -found their exemplar, for not even in Monsignor de la Roche-Guyon, -reputed and sincerely believed by her to be a saint, had she seen any -trace of this spirit. But it was to be found, no doubt, in the -religious orders. It also occurred to Horatia that this reformation of -the Church for which Tristram's friends were so eager would mean a -change in the lives of the clergy. It would mean the disappearance of -the hunting parson, of the prosperous rector of the "three-bottle -school," even, she supposed, of the fashionable Evangelical preacher. -But it might mean, too, a change in the people who were taught by the -clergy.... She much preferred not to hear about this sort of thing from -Tristram, and yet he was so eager, when once set on to talk, that she -often started him for the mere pleasure of watching him. She could -laugh at its absurdity, yet she felt a lurking sympathy with Lord -Melbourne's plaint, that things were coming to a pretty pass if religion -was to invade the affairs of daily life, for thought hovering round this -connection was apt to become personal in its application, and that which -served generally as a diversion would end by making her conscience still -more uneasy. - -Tristram might come any day now in his round of distributing these new -Tracts. As Maurice was wheeled away Horatia took up the August number -of the "British Magazine" on her knee to look at the "Lyra Apostolica" -for that month, which she had not yet read. It would be interesting to -see whether she could guess the authorship of each of these unsigned -poems, and to tell Tristram her surmise. She suspected Mr. Newman, who -edited them, of writing most of them himself. - -There were only three poems under that heading last month, she found, -and they all referred in some way or other to "the Golden Keys." The -first, short and somewhat cryptic, was called "The Three Absolutions." - -What were the three absolutions? Two she knew of; a little note said -that the third was to be found in the Office for the Visitation of the -Sick. She must look it up one day.... Then, suddenly remembering that -there was an old Prayer Book somewhere in her workbasket, she stopped -and found it, and, turning up the place, suffered considerable -amazement.... - -She looked again at the poem-- - - "Full of the past, all shuddering thought, - Man waits his hour with upward eye-- - The Golden Keys in love are brought - That he may hold by them and die." - - -In her own Church then she could have Absolution if she were dying. She -felt that when she came to die she would like to have it, and remembered -that there had been a time when she had thought that, if she were to go -on living, she must have it, a time when she had not excused herself, -but when, in the first weeks of horror and misery, she had taken all the -blame, had been too much overwhelmed with self-accusation and remorse -even to taste perfectly her hatred of Madame de Vigerie. - -And with the thought the gates opened, and the whole tide of memory -burst upon her, full-waved, bearing her out of the safe and quiet -English garden to a little church in Paris, holding a warm -incense-burdened air, and flooded with a soft dusk in which the winking -light before the altar seemed doubly alive and significant, and the -irregular concourse of candles by the statue of the Madonna burnt with a -speaking radiance. And she was kneeling in a rush-bottomed -kneeling-chair, weighed down by her deep mourning, unable to pray, her -mind a maze of inarticulate pain, not knowing how or why she had strayed -into this place, except that it was peaceful. A few persons scattered -about among the disordered chairs got up one by one, moved away, and -after a while knelt down again, and there was a murmur of voices. In a -moment or two Horatia realised that they were making their confessions, -an idea which had once been full of a fascinated horror. Now it -suddenly seemed reasonable. That woman, for instance, a widow like -herself, coming back from the confessional to her place, what had she -been saying, what had she been told to do, what was she feeling like -now? Supposing it had been she herself ... for no one could say hard -enough things to her, nor could any penance equal the anguish that it -would be to put her self-accusation into words, and to acknowledge her -wrongdoing. Yet anguish she would have welcomed. Had she been of the -faith of these people she could have comfort too.... But that was -impossible. - -And there came for the hundredth time the vision of Armand going in -bitterness and agony down the slope to death, with the ironic little -smile on his wryed mouth, the livid circles round the eyes which once -had held for her all the light in the world. For she knew now--and the -knowledge was only an added pang--that the reawakened feeling of that -terrible night was only a transient emotion. She buried her face in her -hands, and the heartrending pity of it surged over her, the horror and -the tragedy of death, of his death, young and reluctant. Kneeling -there, her face hidden, every voice of her soul went out suddenly to -plead for him, though she knew not what to plead... "O God, it was my -doing! The blame was not his, not his, O God.... He was kind to me, -always. Have mercy, have mercy...." - -So, after many days, had she prayed--but not for herself. - - -Horatia came back as one wakens from a painful dream, and, as sometimes -in such an awakening, there were tears on her cheeks. She sprang up -wildly from her chair. No, it was past, and here was reality, and -comfort, and things of the safe, ordinary life--the sound of the -gardener's shears, the smell of cut box, a horse trotting along the -road, someone opening a window in an upper storey, the voice of Dash in -the kitchen garden yelping after a bird. She drew a long breath, and -put out a hand to touch something palpable and present, the rough trunk -of the acacia-tree. - -"Please, ma'am, Reverend 'Ungerford," said the voice of Ellen behind -her. - -"Ask him to come out here," said Horatia. Going back to her chair she -passed her handkerchief quickly over her eyes, and snatched a small -garment and needle and thread from her basket. - -And Tristram, looking unusually elated, almost boyish, and also rather -hot, approached her over the grass pulling something from a wallet. - -"I'm too dusty to come near you," he said, coming nevertheless. "This -is the sixth parsonage I've descended on this afternoon. I think I may -say without vanity that 'the dun deer's hide on fleeter foot was never -tied'--except that the foot in question belongs to a livery stable." He -almost threw into her lap a small bundle of pamphlets, and crossed the -lawn to get another chair. - -Horatia looked at his back with a curious expression, but when he turned -her gaze was on the uppermost Tract. - -"_Fellow-Labourers_," began the first of its four small pages, "_I am -but one of yourselves--a Presbyter...._" - -"Newman's," said Tristram, sitting down beside her. "We're going to -make a row in the world at last!" - - - - *(2)* - - -For the next six weeks or so, while various persons, clerical and lay, -of the same opinions as Tristram Hungerford were riding about the -country to the same end, or packing up for distribution large parcels of -the new _Tracts for the Times by Residents in Oxford_, while the clergy -thus bombarded were recovering from the shock of being told by "A -Presbyter" of their apostolical descent, while Hurrell Froude, ordered -to Barbados in the vain pursuit of health, was showing, as usual, his -daring spirit by urging Newman to break an impossible alliance with the -conservative High Church--while all these portents were taking place -Horatia de la Roche-Guyon was paying a number of visits. Though sorry -to leave the neighbourhood of Oxford just as the fiery cross was going -round, she did not altogether regret the change of scene, for she was -beginning to wonder whither these pleasant conversations with Tristram -were leading, and she thought that absence might enable her to gain a -clearer view of the situation. - -By the end of October she found herself staying with her friend Emilia -Strangways (whom once she had declared she would not go to see again for -seven years) at the house in Devonshire to which her husband had -succeeded on the death of an uncle. Only one more visit remained, a -short sojourn with the Puseys at Oxford on her way home. Maurice, who -had accompanied her on her first visits nearer Compton, had not been -brought so far, but, with or without her son, Horatia was now able to -bear an honoured part in the continual and detailed conversations on the -uprearing of children (Emilia being by now the parent of a boy and girl) -and threw herself with zest into discussions on the dangers of teething -and the proper thickness of infantile winter clothing, feeling sure, -with something of her old insight, that Mrs. Strangways commented to her -husband upon "the improvement in dear Horatia." On the wheels of these -domestic conferences the visit passed away, uneventful until its last -day, when Henry Strangways descended to breakfast with a set face, and a -saucer upon which reposed a minute fleck of something flabby and green. - -"In my shaving water, Emilia," he said in a tense voice. "I have -questioned the servants most closely. They are positive that it did not -occur in the kitchen. So that means it has all begun again!" - -Emilia rose with concern from behind the coffee cups, while Horatia -lightly asked the nature of the intruder. - -"I think," replied her host very seriously, bringing round the saucer -for her inspection, "that it is cabbage. At least I fear that it is -cabbage. Having in the first place been cooked, and having also been a -long time in the water, it is not readily distinguishable. Whatever it -is fever will probably come of it. And the Mother Superior promised me -most solemnly that it should not happen again." - -Horatia lifted puzzled eyes from the sodden speck. - -"The nuns up at the Manor, dear," explained Emilia. "Our water comes -through the Manor grounds, and they will throw things from the kitchen -into it. Henry has written twice; at last he went himself and had an -interview with the Mother Superior. Since then it has been better." - -"I think I shall see the Lord Lieutenant about it," said Mr. Strangways. -"That I and my family should succumb to fever because these misguided -women--foreigners, too, most of them--have been brought up without the -most elementary notions of sanitation is preposterous. The whole thing -is preposterous, that they should be established in this country at all, -polluting at once our water supply and the faith of the villagers!" - -"But you will write again, Henry, will you not?" urged his wife. "Or -perhaps you would go again and see the Mother?" - -"No, I shall not consent to another interview of that kind," returned -Mr. Strangways. "I shall now put the matter in the hands of the proper -authorities. _Mother_, indeed! But I shall certainly write as well, and -at once. I think I shall enclose this ... this vegetable matter. Would -it not be rather to the point, Emilia, if I sent up the saucer with my -compliments, and nothing else?" - -Horatia burst out laughing, and then perceived that she had done the -wrong thing. Her host did not mean to be funny; he never did. Finally -it was settled that he should write a letter of protestation, and that, -instead of its being sent by a menial hand, Emilia and her guest should -walk up with it. - -"I thought you might like to see the outside of the Manor," said Mrs. -Strangways, as they started out over the fallen leaves. "You see, it -once belonged to Henry's uncle, and he most unfortunately sold it, at -the time of the French Revolution, to these nuns. As Henry says, he -ought not to have been allowed to do it. The grounds are rather fine, -much better than ours, and I don't know what they can want with them, -for they never go out, and it is really very terrible to feel that they -are throwing all sorts of refuse into the water, and might any day -poison the children." - -"But the convents I have seen in France were so very clean," objected -Horatia. "And these are French nuns, you say? Why do they not go -back?" - -"I don't know," replied her informant. "I suppose they find themselves -better off here. Besides, it may not be clean inside; nobody knows, for -no one is allowed further than the parlour. I daresay awful things go -on, for they are said to be a very severe order. I have heard that they -sleep on plank beds, and hardly ever speak, and live on bread and -water...." - -"And cabbage!" - -"Yes, I suppose so. Anyhow it is a fact that no meat ever goes in -there. And they do nothing but pray--I mean, they don't embroider, or -make lace, or anything useful, but just pray all day long. But Henry -says it isn't tedious to them because, of course, after a few months of -it, they go out of their minds." - -"What do they pray for?" asked Horatia. - -A shade of enjoyable horror appeared on the fair face under the beaver -bonnet. "They call it Perpetual Intercession. That means praying for -wicked people. I know they pray for the dead too--think of that, -Horatia! Henry says it's worse than idolatry." - -And on this theological dictum of Mr. Strangways they turned through a -wide gateway and saw before them, through a fading glory of beech-trees, -a large Elizabethan house of mellowed brick. To its left stood the -chapel, an incongruous late Georgian building, and up to the main -entrance led an ugly covered way of still more modern construction, -topped by a statue of the Virgin and Child. Along this way Emilia -preceded her guest, for it was barred only by a low oaken gate, which at -the moment stood open, perhaps because a novice was scrubbing the stone -floor within. Horatia glanced curiously as she passed at the grey-clad -figure on its hands and knees, noticing that the hands in question were -very small and white, and seemed to have had no past connection with -bristles or soapsuds. She would rather have liked to see what sort of a -face went with those hands. - -The aged portress who took the note from Emilia revealed, as she opened -the door, a glimpse of the square Tudor hall that had once known song -and carousing but was now lamentably bare and empty. Facing all who -entered, and stretching up from the floor against the whitewashed -panelling, was a gigantic crucifix in relief, rather more than -life-size, of the most startling realism, a realism that had gone so far -as to suggest that the base of the cross was sunk in the floor of the -hall, for it appeared to be fixed there with large wedges. A skull lay -at its foot. - -"Is it not horrible?" whispered Emilia as the door shut once more. "The -first time I saw it I had nightmare.... I think it is so _wrong_ to -remind oneself like that ... Oh, merci, ma soeur!" - -For the novice, who had now reached the middle of the passage had risen -from her knees, and, removing her bucket out of their way, stood aside -with downcast eyes for them to pass. And so Horatia's idle wish was -gratified, and she saw her face--the face of Laurence de Vigerie. - - - - - *CHAPTER VII* - - - *(1)* - - -"More particularly am I bound to pray for the good estate of Oriel -College, and herein for the Reverend the Provost, Fellows, Clerks, and -all other members of that society...." - -It was not the first time that Horatia had listened to the bidding -prayer which prefaces a sermon before the University of Oxford, nor even -the first time that she had heard mentioned therein "the munificence of -founders and benefactors, such as were King Edward the Second, the -Founder of Oriel College, Adam de Brome, his almoner, and other -benefactors of the same." But it was the first occasion on which she -had heard the prayer from the lips of the preacher who, two mornings -afterwards, occupied the pulpit of St. Mary-the-Virgin. And as she sat -down by Mrs. Pusey's side, behind the Heads and Doctors in their scarlet -and crimson, and looked up at Charles Dormer, she felt a curious -accession of interest, as though she had never seen him before. In the -black gown and bands he seemed, she thought, absurdly young to be -addressing that august assembly. Then she remembered that, being just -Tristram's age, he must be a year older than the Vicar of St. Mary's, -who so often addressed them. But he did not look it. - -The congregation settled down in the peculiarly arranged nave, and in -rather a low voice Dormer gave out his text, "Blessed are the pure in -heart, for they shall see God." - -And Horatia's momentarily excited interest sank again. She felt that -she knew the kind of sermon which would be preached on that text, and -she did not want to hear it. She wished with all her heart that she -were not in church at all. She had not wanted to come to hear Mr. -Dormer; she had only done so to fulfil a promise made to Tristram. If -it had been Mr. Newman now--or Mr. Keble preaching his Assize -sermon--she would have listened.... Laurence de Vigerie scrubbing a -stone floor.... In the coach, at the Puseys at Christ Church, here now -in St. Mary's--Laurence, the shapeless figure, the veil, the rough -dress.... - -A miracle had happened to Horatia, and she hardly knew it for a miracle. -What religion and conscience could not bring about, human feeling and -Protestant indignation had accomplished. That one moment's contact with -a--to her--shocking reality had swept away, on a flood of horrified -pity, not only her hatred but even the thought of forgiveness as a duty. -She knew nothing of either now, only that her heart (preparing as it was -to welcome a happiness of its own) was aching with compassion. Why was -Laurence doing this awful thing? It was not right to punish herself -like that, why had she not spoken to her! "_Laurence, I am so sorry. -It was more his fault than yours; I know it. Don't, don't make yourself -so unhappy. It is all wrong ... all a mistake...._" - -Her brain worked on, and the tears came hot into her eyes. She must -concentrate her mind on something else, or she would really cry. -Definite words in a clear voice came to her, and she remembered that she -was supposed to be listening to Mr. Dormer, and that he must be three -parts through by now. She looked up at him again, over the -distinguished heads in front of her, this man not so very much older -than herself, who was Tristram's greatest friend, and whom she had never -liked, as he stood, using no gestures, in the new wooden pulpit that -reared itself up against a slender column of nave, the rows of Masters -of Arts below. A pillar in front of her, somewhat to her left, and the -edge of the north gallery for undergraduates, beneath which she sat, -made two sides of a square to frame him, as if for herself alone. She -listened. - -"What is a pure heart? A German mystic has said that it is a heart -which finds its whole and only satisfaction in God, whose thoughts and -intents are ever occupied with God, which makes all joys and griefs, all -outward cares and anxieties work together for the glory of God. - -"How far does such a temper of mind seem to be from all of us who call -ourselves Christians! and yet our Lord has definitely contemplated a -class of persons who are capable of this peculiar consecration, and to -whom is as definitely promised the vision of Him Whom the saints desire -to see. This same teacher, taking St. John as the type of the pure in -heart, would seem to indicate that all Christians are given the -opportunity of making by degrees a gradual and more perfect response to -the Divine Call, and that, as our Lord revealed Himself to the beloved -disciple in a threefold manner, as His Master, his Friend, and his God, -so He still shows Himself to those who surrender themselves, not only to -the joy of His friendship but also to the fellowship of His sufferings. - -"As our Lord thus called St. John, He calls us out of the world. And, -like His beloved disciple, the darlings of His love, sheltered in the -life of the Church, hear a gracious invitation, and so abide with Him -that day and many days. But there are others with the same capacity for -purity of heart, who, in sin or unbelief, have wandered far from their -true home, and for these a different call is needed. - -"In the frustration of hopes and ambitions, in the sudden fear that for -us life has no meaning, in the realisation that death is coming, and -after death the judgment, God is calling to us. We have gone on for a -long way in our loves and hates, our vanities and pleasures, our -imaginations and our sins, and one day the road crumbles beneath us. -The beloved is dead, youth is dead, pleasure is dead. Nothing matters -now. Why plan for the morrow, when the only reality is death?" - -Dormer paused, moved a little, and said, still more quietly, "It is true -that for us this is the only reality--the death of the soul." - -There was no doubt about Horatia's interest now. How was it that he knew -the very horror that gripped her, the fear of death, the fear of life? -She held her hands tightly together in her muff, wishing with all her -heart that she had listened earlier. He went on, speaking of the ways -that God uses to save a soul from death, but, because of her very -anxiety to hear, his utterance, exquisite as it was, dulled for a moment -or two to a mere buzz in her ears. Then her senses cleared, and she -heard him say: - -"And, to save us from this death, it may be that God will use, as His -last weapon, loneliness. In loneliness He asks us, 'What seek ye?' In -loneliness we confess that we do not know His dwelling-place; in -loneliness, at last, we can no longer escape the challenge of His -merciful displeasure that bids us 'Come and see.' If still we hesitate, -it may be our very honesty that makes us afraid to go and see where He -dwells, for if we go with Him we must admit His claim, we must -acknowledge our fault, we must forgive the friend who has done us -irreparable wrong, we can never be as we were before. - -"But if in the Divine mercy we yield ourselves captives to His love, and -loosed from sin we know Him in Whom we have believed, yet we may not -rest in this, the first sight of Jesus, for, like St. John, we are -called to a yet more intimate knowledge--the friendship of the Lord. -And here sincerity that is to become purity will pass into singleness of -heart. For if the surrender of ourselves to the Divine Will has to be -made over and over again before God can be glorified in us, still our -intention must be pure, our purpose must be sincere. He calls us, -indeed, to communion with Himself in sacrament and prayer while as yet -the work of transformation is hardly begun. And those who live with Him -day by day may still be a prey to resentment and to pride, to jealousy -and to ambition, and those who rest on His heart may fail to watch with -Him, may even forsake Him when wicked men lay hold on Him. But if, like -St. John, greatly, though dimly, desiring the Beatific Vision, they -grasp the cup of His Passion, crying out that they are able to drink of -it, our Lord, it may be, will take them at their word, and the power of -His Cross shall do for them what the joy of His Presence could never do. - -"Who are the pure in heart, and whence came they? These are they which -came out of great tribulation and have washed their robes and made them -white in the Blood of the Lamb." - - - - *(2)* - - -Horatia emerged with her hostess between the twisted pillars of the -porch into the High, to a crowd of people, and the prospect of an Oxford -Sunday such as she loved. But she would have given anything to go back, -alone, into the emptying church, to pray to this new Christ, who had -called her--_her_--and to Whom she had not come. But she would come, -she would come, if only she could find the way.... "Where dwellest -Thou?" - -"Excuse me a moment," said Mrs. Pusey, stopping to speak to someone, and -Horatia, waiting in the momentary press, heard one gentleman commoner -say to another, "Couldn't make anything of the sermon. Are all your -Fellows as unintelligible as that?" To which his companion, evidently -an Oriel man, responded, "I don't often hear them. But I can stand -'Mercy and Judgment' because he is at least short.--By Gad, there he is, -with Mr. Denison!" And he capped the two Fellows as they crossed the -street. Dormer was smiling as he returned the salute. - -Horatia followed them with her eyes. Did he then know the friendship of -the Lord, walking in sober academic garb along an Oxford street? Could -people other than those in stained glass windows, dressed in reds and -blues against a background of palm-tree and lake, hear His call, know -His friendship, carry His cross? ... - -"Pray forgive me!" said Mrs. Pusey's voice at her side. "Shall we go -past Oriel; it is shortest. No doubt we shall encounter Edward on his -way to meet us, if Cathedral is over, as I should guess it to be. Then -we might perhaps take a turn in the Broad Walk. It will do Edward good, -for his health is so precarious just now that I do not know how he is to -get on to the end of term." - -As Horatia murmured her sympathy the two gowns disappeared under Oriel -gateway. - - -"Where dwellest Thou?" All through the remainder of the day the -question persisted, wrecking everything she did in the pleasant, -dignified atmosphere of Mr. Pusey's house. Were these kind, learned -people who sat round the Sunday dinner-table, were they the captives of -His love; had they been loosed from sin? She wished that Tristram could -have been there, sitting opposite to her. His familiar presence would -have steadied her. Even if he knew the meaning of all these phrases -there was nothing disturbing about him. - -Later in the afternoon she watched Mr. Newman, the friend of the family, -sitting with the two elder children on his knee, while he put his -spectacles on their noses, or told them a story. What would happen if -she suddenly interrupted the story with her insistent question--"Do -_you_ know where He dwells?" - -The interminable day came to an end at last, and she was alone in her -room. Without waiting to undress she flung herself down beside the bed. -"Where dwellest Thou, where dwellest Thou?" There was no one to answer, -nothing to see, only the rose and jasmine of the wall-paper, distorted -through the rain of tears. - - -She woke next morning in a very different frame of mind, more than a -little ashamed of her emotion of the day before. She might have been a -Methodist! It was not for her, this enthusiasm, and she ought not to -have been so discomposed. To have been carried away, against her will, -by the words of a man whom she disliked! She disliked, too, some of -what he had said, now that more of it came back to her. Life was made -for happiness; though sorrow intruded it was an incident to be -forgotten, not to be dwelt upon. Comfortably eating her breakfast in -her well-appointed room she felt sure of this, and knew that she, who -was certainly not ignorant of suffering, did not approve of its -glorification. What did Mr. Dormer know about it? - -And yet ... she knew that she should not forget St. Mary's. - - - - - *CHAPTER VIII* - - - *(1)* - - -Mr. Dormer of Oriel was accustomed to assert that he felt no ill effects -from his Italian carriage accident, but, as a matter of fact, he never -went up or down any prolonged flight of stairs without being reminded of -the slight muscular weakness which it had left. So that when, about six -weeks after his sermon at St. Mary's, he came rather fast down the -sixty-five steps of the Bodleian library, and at the end of every group -of five arrived with some force upon his injured leg, he was so -reminded. - -Outside, in the archway facing the Radcliffe and St. Mary's, their gowns -blown about by the wind which commonly sweeps through that passage, he -came on Newman and his curate, Isaac Williams, in converse with Mr. -Pusey. - -"Wait a minute, Dormer," exclaimed the first-named, catching at him as -he was about to pass. "We are having a most interesting conversation." - -"I was just saying to Mr. Newman," said the Canon, smiling and wrapping -his gown round him after a habit he had, "that I think you are all too -hard upon the Evangelicals. You should conciliate the Peculiars, as you -would call them. I am thinking of writing a letter myself for that -purpose." - -"Were you!" exclaimed Newman. "Well, suppose you let us have that for -one of the Tracts?" - -The young Regius Professor smiled his particularly sweet smile. "Oh, -no!" he replied, "I will not be one of you!" and they all moved out of -the archway together, Dormer taking the opportunity to ask Isaac -Williams for news of Keble. - -Meanwhile Newman seemed to be arguing with his friend, and at last, as -they stood on the steps, he could be heard saying, "Suppose you let us -have that letter of yours, which you intend writing, and attach your own -name or signature to it? You would then not be mixed up with us, or be -in any way responsible for the Tracts." - -"Well," said Pusey after a little hesitation, "if you will let me do -that I will." - -He gave them a smiling farewell, and went off, in his usual rather -abstracted fashion, down Brasenose Lane. - -"Come out with me to Littlemore, Dormer," urged Newman. "It is a -beautiful day. Isaac has some business of his own, I don't know what, -in Oxford. Come along, and we will sing pæans of thanksgiving for the -great victory obtained by the Apostolicals over the Regius Professor of -Hebrew." - -And he set out with his curious swift gait, as if walking in heelless -slippers, along the side of All Souls, where two years ago a daring hand -had painted "No Bristol Riots." - -"I must write to Froude at once," he continued. "How I wish we dared -take his advice and throw the Establishment men overboard! I am sure -that if he knew the trouble I have had with that good Palmer, on the -question of continuing the Tracts, he would pity me." - -"If Pusey should end by casting in his lot with us," observed Dormer -thoughtfully, "it might make a difference." - -"You mean that if we had him we could venture to row our own little -boat, because he could be all that Rose might be?" - -"Well, yes, with his influence and his easy relations with the -University authorities.--Excuse me a moment, there's Mr. Grenville of -Compton Regis. I must just go across." - -For they had by this time come abreast of the Angel in High Street, -where an elderly cleric was about to enter a post-chaise. - -"Ah, Mr. Dormer," said the Rector heartily, "That's very kind of you to -come and speak to an old man. I'm just returned from a jaunt, I suppose -you may call it, to London, to my sister-in-law's. Oxford is looking -its best this morning. Yes, thanks, I'm very well, too, although I am -so bombarded with these Tracts--rather a turning of the tables, you -know, for we clergy are more accustomed to distributing than to -receiving such things. And I ought to obtain a meed of praise from you, -too, for I have just arranged a meeting next week, to get signatures to -the address to the Archbishops--though I think it rather a -milk-and-water thing myself ... Well, good-day." - -"I hope Madame de la Roche-Guyon is well," observed Dormer, in the tones -of convention, as he opened the chaise door for him. - -"Yes, quite well, thank you," replied the Rector, his foot on the step. -He hesitated, withdrew that member, and glancing round lowered his voice -to a confidential tone: "When I see how she welcomes _our friend's_ -visits, I really begin to hope that it will all come right in the end! -So perhaps what has happened has been for the best!" His face beamed. -"How little we trust in Providence, Mr. Dormer! But there, I mustn't -keep you. Good-day!" - -John Henry Newman had a rather silent companion on his walk to -Littlemore. - - - - *(2)* - - -The chaise conveying Mr. Grenville from Oxford to Compton was, unknown -to Tristram, but a few miles in advance of him as he trotted along the -frosty Berkshire lanes that afternoon, revolving in his mind the points -in his tract on "The Church the Home of the Poor," of which he had left -the proofs with Horatia--proofs which he was going to reclaim before he -left next week for a "missionary tour" in Northamptonshire on business -connected with the Tracts. - -Last Christmas, when he had come to think over his afternoon at Compton, -he knew that he would rather not see Horatia often. And a gradual -abstention would have been possible, though a little awkward, but the -Rector had insisted so much on the cheering effect of his visits, and -the necessity for Horatia of some outside interest that, as always where -she was concerned, he allowed his own feelings to be overridden. This -was not the time to consider himself, when she was in a situation so -poignantly pathetic, and when, for the first time in his life, he was -really able to be of some use to her. That there should be any talk in -the neighbourhood about his going to the Rectory seemed very unlikely, -seeing that it had been a second home to him since boyhood. Had he -suddenly kept away, there might have been something to talk about. And -that there should be any wrong impression left upon her mind was quite -unthinkable after he had once seen her. Never, in her teasing days, had -she seemed so remote as now in her kindness, and her sadness and her -motherhood. Nearly always, when he got back to Oxford, one or other of -the different strands of pain would ache almost unbearably, but since -the call to arms in July, and still more since the forging of weapons -was begun in September, this great interest which she shared with him -had made things easier for him. His going out there was no longer an -emotional strain, but almost a soldier's visit to a comrade at an -outpost, woman though she was. And this was indeed the spirit in which -he rode out to her to-day to reclaim his proofs. - -But Mr. Grenville, blowing his nose very hard, met him in the hall. -"Horatia is greatly distressed," he said huskily. "She has had sad news -from France. I've only just got back myself and heard it. That -child--but there, I think you had better go in to her." - -In the dining-room, her head on the table, which was strewn with sewing -materials, Horatia was crying as if her heart would break. - -"It is poor little Claude-Edmond," she said between her sobs. "He's -dead ... poor darling ... poor dear little boy..." And she broke into -fresh weeping. - -"Dead!" exclaimed Tristram horrified. "Emmanuel's son--that little -fellow! How..." - -She could give him no answer for a moment, and in that pause, rent with -sobbing, he knew without acknowledging it that the sight of her grief -meant immeasurably more to him than its cause. He could not bear to see -her cry! - -After a moment she raised her head and dabbed at her eyes, and lifted -them, all reddened and swollen, to his. - -"You remember him, Tristram--such a dear little boy, so solemn and -polite? He was riding in the Bois de Boulogne a few days ago when his -horse took fright, and he was thrown--against a tree ... He only lived a -few hours.... O Tristram, when I think ... and he was such a comfort to -me once ... and they say he asked for me ... I can't bear it!" - -And during this short recital of that almost intolerable tragedy, a -child's death, every vestige of colour ebbed from Tristram's face. -Before she had ended he had turned it from her. - -"And does this ... this very sad news ... will it make any difference to -you, Horatia?" - -"Any difference?" repeated she, not catching his real meaning, so -completely was she absorbed in thoughts of the dead boy. "Oh, you mean -Maurice being the heir now." Utterance failed her and she began to cry -again. "O, I can't bear to think of it!" - -"Yes," said Tristram's voice, curiously insistent and toneless, "but -will it make any difference to you personally ... will you have to go -away--to live in France? I thought perhaps..." - -"No, O, no, I don't think so." She sighed heavily. "I can do as I -please, I think. I suppose I shall be there more often, perhaps ... O -Tristram, why is God so cruel?" - -He did not take up the challenge, but he looked at her very gravely. - -"I do not know," he said. "I ... I must go back and write to poor -Emmanuel. I will come for those proofs again, or you can send them. I -am going away next week ... when I come back, perhaps..." - - -The Oxford road saw that evening the return of a man who, in all good -faith, had attempted a task beyond his strength, and who was now paying -bitterly enough for the discovery. - - - - - *CHAPTER IX* - - - *(1)* - - -From the bottom of Maurice's crib, wherein he lay fast asleep, his -favourite rag soldier, sitting propped against the rails, stared at him -reproachfully, for the little boy had taken to bed with him, against all -precedent, an old black and white wooden horse, long discarded, whose -hairless head now lay nose to nose on the pillow with his own. The rag -soldier probably felt his world tumbling around him. - -And, indeed, the whole night-nursery was rather topsy-turvy. Maurice's -bath things were not cleared away, though the water was long cold, and -in the midst of downflung towels, soap, sponge and powder-puffs, sat his -mother herself, doing nothing. It was she who was responsible for the -disorder, for that dislocation in fact of the whole day which had been -so pleasant to Maurice. He was certainly not likely to complain when, -after breakfast, Mamma had sent Martha away and announced that she was -going to have him to herself, for a special reason. The reason was less -than nothing to Maurice, but the fact was delightful, implying a free -hand with the coal-box, while Mamma, instead of wanting to change his -frock, kept herself quiet with a piece of paper covered with black -marks, on which she from time to time let fall those tears which Maurice -himself could produce, though seldom so silently. The culmination of -being bathed by Mamma had led to a great deal of splashing, and to the -exhibition, which Martha would never let him complete, of his powers of -drinking water from his sponge. That his mother was quite incapable of -clearing up the mess which he and she had made together was not likely -to trouble him either, indeed he fell asleep too soon to realise this -deficiency. - -And Horatia sat in the midst of the confusion, her eyes full of tears, -her chin on her hand, watching the sleeping child. She could not get -poor little Claude-Edmond out of her head. Most clearly of all she -remembered him at Plaisance, confiding to her his desire to resemble -Armand, to be able to ride, to fence.... Now they would neither of them -ever ride again.... And the death of the little boy had thrown across -her own life a shadow not only of regret, but of menace. For in her lap -lay the testimony to the triumph of the indomitable spirit of an old -lady over the Code Napoléon, under whose ægis Horatia had fondly -imagined herself and Maurice to be sheltering. - -The letter had come yesterday morning, the third day after her interview -with Tristram. It was quite simple. The Duchesse's lawyer wrote that -his venerable client was about to make her will for the last time, a -course necessitated by the recent unfortunate death of the little heir. -As Madame la Comtesse was no doubt aware, the ancient and noble family -of La Roche-Guyon was extremely impoverished. Nothing indeed but the -great private fortune of the Dowager Duchess had enabled it to keep up -the appearance due to its rank. The bulk of this fortune the Duchesse -was now proposing to settle upon the child of her late dearly-beloved -younger grandson--on one condition. Madame la Comtesse must renounce -entirely her plan of bringing him up in England; with or without her he -must return to France by the time he was five--though in deference to -the last wishes of her dear grandson he should be allowed to pass some -years at an English school. But he must be brought up as a Frenchman, -as the heir of the family which he would one day represent, and Madame -la Comtesse was to signify her willingness to return to Paris for three -or four months as early as possible in the New Year. If she refused to -comply with these conditions the Duchesse's money, after the deaths of -her son and elder grandson, would be left to distant relatives of her -own family, and the future Duc de la Roche-Guyon would find himself the -almost penniless inheritor of his great name and position. - -Stunning though this ultimatum was, it had not taken Horatia long to -decide that Maurice must go. She could not be the means of beggaring her -child. He must go--but was she to go too? It was true that the Duchesse -had not had the brutality to suggest an immediate separation from his -mother, but the two years and ten months which lay between him and his -fifth birthday would soon pass. If she went, good-bye to all her old -home life, taken up again and found so peaceful and so dear; good-bye to -her father who had recovered her with so much joy. - -And good-bye to Tristram..... - -But if she stayed, good-bye to that head of curls on the pillow. O no, -no, she could never do that! She slipped to her knees and clutched at -the cot rails. "My darling! I could not! I could not!" - -And yet, on the other side of the crib seemed to stand Tristram, looking -at her as he had looked three mornings ago, his voice fallen to that -strange tone, "Will it make any difference to you, Horatia?" the only -real evidence that she had of his wanting her--since his visits and his -obvious pleasure in them could all be accounted for by their long -friendship--but evidence enough. Yes, it had actually come to the -choice, all unforeseen, between her child and the man ... she loved. -The issue must be decided, too, within a week, for the Duchesse insisted -on an immediate answer. This was why she had spent the day with Maurice, -"to help her to decide"--a proceeding not free from the charge of -indulgence in sentiment. - - - - *(2)* - - -And yet she had not made up her mind when she heard her father, who had -been out all day, coming heavily up the nursery stairs. - -"My dear," he said, astonished, "why are you up here alone? Martha is -wandering about outside waiting to come in to you. It is too much for -you to do all this for the child by yourself, and why should you?" - -To which his daughter responded, in an appealing tone not far from -tears, "O Papa, I can't leave him, I can't leave him!" - -"Well, my dear," remarked Mr. Grenville, approaching the crib, "you can -leave him now, at any rate, for he is fast asleep, and Martha can sit -with him instead of catching cold on the landing. Come, come, we will -go down into the library and leave her to clear up. Yes, come in!" And -as Martha entered and fell to work on the disorder he put Horatia's hand -through his arm and led her out. - -In the library she settled down in her favourite attitude on a stool at -his feet, and for a time nothing much was said, except that the Rector, -as he stroked her hair, would mutter, "It is very hard, very difficult, -my love," and, at intervals, "I should never have expected it of them, -never!" - -At last Horatia broke out passionately, "I can't let Maurice be a -pauper! He will have to go, and I--I think I must go with him." With -that she escaped from her father's caress, and putting her head in her -hands began to cry. - -The Rector got up, found a box of Prometheans, went successfully through -the process of pinching out the sulphuric acid, at the end, on to the -chlorate of potash and sugar (in which he generally burnt his fingers), -obtained a flame and lit a couple of candles. Then he sighed heavily, -sat down again, and drawing his chair up close to Horatia took hold of a -hand and made her rest her head on his knee. - -"Now, my dearest child," he began, "I am going to speak very plainly to -you. I do not think these tears are for me. No, don't say anything -about that! It's all quite right. I should not wish them to be. I -think Tristram is at the bottom of this." - -For answer he saw her getting crimson behind the ears, and heard her -murmur faintly, "O Papa!" - -"Well, my dear, it's very right and natural, and nothing to be ashamed -of. I have thought that I have seen signs, for some time, and I have -been very thankful, very thankful. He is the right husband for you." - -"I thought, Papa," came a stifled voice, "that you did not approve of -second marriages." - -"Perhaps not," replied the Rector, "but this is different, and Tristram -has wanted you all his life." - -"But how do I know that he wants me now?" - -"That," said the Rector with conviction, "is very apparent; in fact, I -was on the verge of speaking to him about it last week." - -"Papa!" ejaculated his daughter, sitting up. - -"Yes, we understand one another," went on Mr. Grenville, smiling, for -there was unmistakably more pleasure than horror in her protest. "I -have known more about all this, my dear, than you have. You never knew, -because Tristram would not allow me to tell you, but he was going to -propose to you, the very week that poor Armand came to visit him." - -"Tristram was going to propose to me again," said Horatia slowly, "and -yet he made the way easy for me to marry Armand!" - -"One of his extraordinary notions, my dear. 'If she wanted the moon, I -would get it for her,' he said. I have often thought that it was not -for nothing that he had a fanatic for a father. He is one in a -thousand, but of course, before now, he has seemed to me unnecessarily -quixotic. I have meant to tell you this, Horatia, but I thought things -were best without my interference. Still it is but right, now that the -crisis has come, for you to know all that I do. It is my belief that -Tristram is only hindered at this very moment from speaking by some idea -of propriety. Or perhaps he feels that his prospects are not yet -assured. Still, it is clear that he must declare himself in the near -future, unless he wants to lose you altogether. If only it were -possible to give him a little encouragement!" - -"_I_ couldn't give him encouragement!" exclaimed Horatia in a tone of -horror. - -"I was not suggesting such a thing for a moment, my love. I was only -saying if it were possible. I feel something could be done, ought to be -done ... Let me see, how much time have we?" - -Horatia had twisted round on her footstool and was now facing him with -flushed cheeks. "A week. And, O Papa, even if he did ... if he wanted -me to marry him, how could I let Maurice go without me?" - -The Rector bent forward. He had the air of thorough and pleasurable -mastery of the situation. - -"My dear, let us be quite clear about that anyhow! I'm as fond of the -boy as if he were my own, but I think you would do very wrong to deprive -him of a stepfather like Tristram. After all, if you take him to France -for a few months next year you may keep him until he is five years old. -It was the Jesuits who said, 'Give us a child until he is five and we -will make anything of him.' (No, now I come to think of it, it is -'until he is seven,' but no matter.) Very well then, until that age you -and Tristram can bring him up, and you see already how he takes to -Tristram. After that the parting will be hard for you, I do not doubt, -but the time will soon come for him to return to England to school, and, -if you agree in the main to the conditions, the Duchesse is not likely -to wish to drive such a hard bargain that you cannot occasionally have -him for his holidays ... Besides, we may hope that you will have other -children." - -"Papa, do you really mean all this?" asked Horatia thoughtfully. "I -have never looked at it in that light." - -"I do indeed mean it, but the question is, what is to be done? There is -not too much time," said the Rector, pursing his lips. "This needs -careful consideration." And, apparently, he considered, and Horatia -too. At any rate she was silent, looking into the fire. - -Finally Mr. Grenville gave an exclamation. "I have it! Did you not -say, my dear, that you had to send back a proof of Tristram's to him? -What more natural than to enclose the letter from the Duchesse's lawyer, -and say that you would value his advice, or something of the sort?" - -Horatia turned over and over the locket with the little curl of -Maurice's hair that she wore. - -Then she said, very quietly, "Yes, I will do it." - - - - *(3)* - - -"My dear Horatia, - -"I feel with you very much in the difficulty of the decision. It will -be hard for the Rector to part with you again so soon, but I know you -both too well to imagine that you can hesitate for long where Maurice's -interests are concerned. - -"For myself, I need not say how, after this year of renewed friendship, -I shall miss your help and sympathy, but I have come to feel that my -life is not my own. Wherever you go, whatever you do, may God bless you -always!--T.H." - - -This was the letter which Horatia received at breakfast four mornings -later, and which lay in her pocket all through that meal and for some -time afterwards, not because she did not wish her father to see it, -since he was away for the night, but because she dared not open it. In -her own room, the door locked, she read it at last, once not -understanding, the second time unbelieving, the third time understanding -too well. - -Then it dropped from the hands which she raised to hide the scorching -blush that, though she was alone, spread itself from the nape of her -neck to the roots of her hair, and that seemed to run like a wave of -fire over her whole body. He had refused her! Under the guise of -asking advice from a friend, she, Horatia de la Roche-Guyon--Horatia -Grenville--had, practically, offered herself to a man, and he had -refused her! And this man was Tristram! - -After a few minutes, red and white by turns, she took up the letter -again, and, reading it for the fourth time, she received yet a new -impression. This did not seem to be Tristram at all who wrote to her; -it was like the voice of someone else, or, rather, it was as though a -veil hung between her and the man who had penned those words--words -which, as she could see, had been chosen to spare her, words which made -no reference to what the writer must have known was in her mind. But -they were final enough, in all conscience! - -She put the letter down on her dressing-table. Yes, that was what it -was like--a dictated letter, a letter which another person had made him -write.... - -There was something that she did not understand. She got up and began to -walk about the room, the first biting shame of the repulse a little -blunted by contact with her own imperious temper and by a certain -bewilderment. She had a feeling that there was, somewhere, what her -father would have called "hokey-pokey." And, as she arrived at that -conclusion, she saw it all in a flash, and wondered how she could have -been so stupid. Tristram had of course been "got hold of" by the Oriel -people and had swallowed their ridiculous ideas on celibacy. That was -what he meant by writing that he had come to feel his life not his own. -That was, no doubt, the sort of thing they said, and that they had -taught him to say; it was all a part of that miserable glorification of -suffering as a part of Christianity at which her whole soul revolted. - -Horatia stopped, her eyes shining with anger. Illogically enough, though -she had endured many qualms since sending her letter, the receipt of his -refusal made her quite sure that the real Tristram himself wanted to -marry her, that "they" were preventing him. Well, they should see! - -She carried this fighting mood about with her for an hour or so while -she ordered the household and visited Maurice, who this morning was -greatly intrigued by the presence of frost on the window-pane, a -phenomenon, like many others, still strange to him. But all the while -she was conscious that the spirit of resistance was slowly slipping away -from her. At half-past ten she returned to her room, took out the -letter and read it again, and thereafter sat a long time thinking. - -No, it was not so simple. Something much more was here than the -combatting of the influence of others. One thing, if one alone in life, -the most ardent fighter should shrink from lifting sword against, a -man's conscience. Had she not recently felt the reawakened stirrings of -her own? And in this matter, however it came there, was some deep -conviction of Tristram's. He could not, otherwise, have written so. - -And a great and sad tenderness fell on her as, thinking of him whom she -knew so well, she began to realise what he must be suffering at having -to answer her thus. She forgot for a time her own shame and anger, and -thought only of his long, unwavering, selfless devotion, that would do -anything in the world for her, so as it was not against his conscience. -Could not she, then, who had never, perhaps, been anything but a source -of pain to him, could not she do something for him--take the disturbing -element of herself out of his life, because, for his real happiness, she -would be better gone, and go, without an attempt to hold him, to that -other life where duty was calling her? ... The way was open, if she were -strong enough to follow it. - -But she must be sure that such a renunciation would be for Tristram's -happiness. She must be sure that he really had this conviction. In her -present mood she could almost have gone and asked Tristram himself, had -she not known that he was away from Oxford. And the time was drawing -very near when she must answer the Duchesse's letter. - -But there was one person who could probably tell her as well as Tristram -himself--Mr. Dormer, if he had not gone down. She could not write to -him on such a matter. She would have to go and see him. The unusualness -of the step gave her only a momentary pause. Even though it were not -proper for her, a young woman--if a widow--to go and call on an -unmarried man in his College rooms she did not care. At the worst she -could get the Puseys to ask him to Christ Church and she could talk to -him there. But she knew that only the most direct method would really -satisfy her. The matter was too pressing and too desperate to admit of -considering the proprieties. - - -Nevertheless, some three hours later, as she followed the porter across -the quadrangle at Oriel, she was already regretting her precipitancy, -and it was with a throbbing heart that she heard him announce her name -in the mangled fashion to which she was becoming accustomed in England. - -But the room was empty. It was undeniable relief, and had the porter, -apologising for his mistake, not adjured her to take a seat, as Mr. -Dormer could not be long, she would have brought out the words of excuse -already on her lips and fled. But that everyday form--its visage not -untouched by curiosity--was a barrier to escape more effectual than any -sword-girt angel, and she obeyed. - -So she was left, with a sulky little fire for company, to wait. For -some time she was too restless to sit down, and wandered between the -fireplace and the window. The room did not strike her as uncomfortable, -and it was very orderly, except for the big table in the middle, which -was strewn with books and papers, as if the occupant had been -interrupted in his work. There was a good deal of old furniture, some -of it beautiful, and the walls could not look bare, for they were almost -completely lined with books. Indeed the only picture that she noticed -was an engraving over the hearth of Velasquez' Christ on the Cross, -straight and stark against its background of more than night, the face -shadowed by the falling hair. Horatia felt suddenly afraid, she knew -not of what, and going as far as possible from the print, sat down by -the window. - -The only thing that comforted her was the sight of some Christmas roses -in a saucer, standing among the books and papers, close to their owner's -chair. - - - - - *CHAPTER X* - - - *(1)* - - -Dormer, in academical dress, was entering under Oriel gateway when the -porter accosted him. - -"If you please, Sir, there's a lady waiting to see you in your rooms. -She asked for you, and thinking you was there I showed her up. A French -name, I fancy." - -The young Fellow mechanically took the card held out to him. "A French -name" could announce only one lady. But on what errand had she come? -For the first time in his life he was afraid. Then he set his face like -a flint and crossed the quadrangle towards his staircase. - -And in his sitting-room, in the low chair by the window where, in his -time at least, no woman had ever sat, very pale, clad in black but -wearing costly furs, with the light on her hair, was the woman who had -wasted Tristram's years, and whose happiness was always to be bought at -the cost of his. - -"I must apologise for keeping you waiting, Madam," he said coldly, as he -closed the door. "Please do not move! The porter told me you were -here." He laid his cap on the table. "There is something particular -that you wish to see me about?" - -"Yes," said Horatia, "there is something that I have come to ask you." -She turned her head and glanced out of the window, and then looked again -at her host, standing with exceeding stiffness in his gown and hood. -"But now that I am here I hardly know how to put it into words." - -"If I can be of any assistance please do not hesitate," observed Dormer -with icy politeness, and then, seeing that she did not speak, he sat -down by the side of his big table and looked away. He felt miserably -sure that she had come to say something about Tristram, but that, being -a lady, she would not reach the point for another half-hour or so. He -was therefore entirely taken by surprise when he heard her say, after a -moment: - -"I am going to ask you a very extraordinary question, Mr. Dormer. I -want you to tell me if Tristram--if Mr. Hungerford has come to think -that it is better for the clergy not to marry?" - -Startled though he was, Dormer fell instantly on guard. "Is not that a -question, Madam," he returned, "which it would be better for you to ask -Mr. Hungerford himself?" - -"Could I bring myself to that," assented Horatia, "it would be better." - -"He is not in Oxford at present, I know," suggested Dormer, "but he will -be back by the sixteenth." - -"I must know before that," said Horatia gravely. - -And Dormer had a sudden temptation. He felt more sure than ever that -Tristram had got himself into a tangle. Here and now he could probably -cut it for him. But he would not play Providence. It was one thing to -warn Tristram, quite another to extricate him behind his back and -without his consent ... So his tone was even colder than before as he -said, "If the matter is urgent I regret that I cannot help you, but I -think you can understand that I am unwilling to discuss my friend's -affairs, even with another of his friends." And he rose, as if to -intimate that the interview was over. - -But his visitor did not rise. On the contrary she said, with warmth, -"Yes, I quite see that, but..." She bit her lip. "If you knew, you -would not be so punctilious, Mr. Dormer. Will you not let me tell you?" - -"Really," said Dormer, hesitating a trifle, "I hardly know what to say, -but I would much rather not be the recipient of any confidences. -Surely, Madam, the matter is not so pressing but that you can wait for -Tristram's return." - -Horatia laughed rather bitterly. - -"Mr. Dormer, you need not be so much afraid. We will not speak of -Tristram then. If you will tell me your own views on the subject it -will be quite enough. It is not easy for me to come to you--you must -know that! I only do it because ... O, well, that does not matter." - -Dormer sat down with a resigned sigh by the side of the table, and said -briefly, "Please tell me anything you wish." - -"Thank you," said Horatia; collected herself and started. "I am afraid -I must trouble you with some personal details. You probably know that a -good many years ago Tristram asked me to marry him. I was singularly -young and foolish, and I refused him. You may also know that, as I have -learnt quite recently, he was on the verge of asking me again in the -autumn of 1830." Dormer inclined his head. "What my answer would have -been I do not know. But shortly afterwards I married my late husband. -Our marriage was an unhappy one." - -Here she came to a full stop, and got no help from her listener, who was -looking down at an ink-pot. - -"It was largely my own fault, but I have suffered, and if ever anyone -wanted to forget the past I have wanted to forget it." For a second her -voice trembled, then it recovered. "In my old home again, with my -father, it seemed sometimes as if I should succeed. And although -Tristram was changed, yet he was the same, and latterly it has seemed to -me that he was indeed the same, and that ... it is very difficult for me -to tell you..." - -Dormer looked up. "I think I can understand," he said, with something -different in his voice. - -"Thank you. I was right ... and I was wrong. I cannot explain it, but -I must just ask you to believe that I was not utterly blinded by vanity, -and on the other hand that Tristram did and said nothing that could not -be accounted for by his long and extraordinary friendship." - -"That is quite easy for me to believe," replied Dormer; but he seemed to -have a slight difficulty in speaking. - -"The end came a week ago," pursued Horatia. And she explained, as -shortly as she could, the bombshell which the Dowager Duchesse had cast -into her plans, finishing by saying, "I felt almost confident that -Tristram only waited for some sign from me ... and yet I could not bring -myself to give it. But time was pressing, and I must decide about the -boy. My father urged me to send the letter I had received to Tristram, -and to ask his advice. It ... it was ... unusual, I know ... but I did -so--and this morning I received his answer. I think you had better read -it." - -Dormer got up and took with obvious reluctance the paper which she held -out to him. He read it, flushed violently, and became very pale. - -"I don't want you to say anything," said Horatia hurriedly. "When I got -this letter this morning I saw it all in a flash. It has only needed -your hesitation to make me quite sure that I was right. From time to -time I have heard the views of his friends here at Oriel about the -marriage of the clergy, but somehow--it was stupid of me--it never -occurred to me that he shared them. But that of course is the key to -the situation. He is bound by some vow not to marry." - -Her hearer during this speech had stationed himself by the fire, his -head bent, with a hand on the high mantelshelf; his arm, in consequence, -hid his face. She could not even see it now, as he said, in a voice -noticeably less hostile. "There I think you are wrong. As I see now -that it is quite unnecessary for me to keep anything from you, I can -tell you that, to my knowledge, he has never taken any kind of vow, but -that, even before his ordination as priest, he had a solemn intention to -embrace the life of sacrifice to the glory of God. But it was a solemn -intention, not a vow." - -"Intention or vow," returned Horatia, "it would be all the same to -Tristram. And please do not speak to me of sacrifice and the glory of -God! I do not believe that the Creator is glorified by the -self-inflicted suffering of His creatures. But if you speak to me of -Tristram's happiness, or of his conscience, which is more than happiness -to him, then I can understand you." - -"You are right about Tristram's conscience," said Tristram's friend. - -"Yet I believe that I can still bring him back to me if I choose to," -said Horatia rather defiantly. The challenge drew from Charles Dormer a -bow which was more eloquent than many words. - -"But I do not mean to try," she finished. "I am quite sure that -Tristram is deluded, yet if this delusion has become a matter of -conscience with him, he would not long remain happy with me. What I -want to find out is how firmly he is fixed in this idea, and how he -would look at his action later on if he married me. This is where you -can help me, Mr. Dormer, for I know that you are his second self. In -the end he would come to think as you think now. I want you to tell me, -first, if in your opinion it would ever be right to go back upon what -you call a solemn intention?" - -Dormer saw now that he was being forced into the position which he had a -short time ago rejected almost with regret--that of an executioner. -Now, strangely enough, he hated it. - -"Yes," he said, "from our point of view it would be right ... under -certain circumstances." - -"And would you think," asked Horatia, looking down and hesitating, -"would you consider the fact that I have become a widow since his -resolve was taken an exceptional circumstance?" - -"I am afraid," replied Dormer reluctantly, "that it would entirely -depend on how far Tristram had committed himself already to the idea of -the single life. You see it is impossible for me to discuss this from -any but what I am sure you would call a fanatical standpoint." He -smiled fleetingly, without mirth. - -"But supposing he was committed very far ... would it be right to ... to -go back?" - -It had to be done. "No," said Dormer in a low voice. "No, I am afraid -it would not." - - - - *(2)* - - -Across the silence there came a faint clattering sound, probably a tray -from the buttery being taken to someone's rooms. Stillness fell again. -Then the voice of an undergraduate not yet gone down was heard inquiring -in a shout what that ass Simpson had done with his carpet bag. Horatia -got up from her chair and began to pull down her veil. - -"I do not think you need be afraid of me any longer," she said with a -sort of smile. "There is only one way for me to answer the Duchesse's -letter. Thank you for speaking so plainly to me. You have been very -patient, and I am more than grateful. Would you have the goodness to -send to see if my carriage is at the gate?" - -She stooped for her muff, which had slipped to the floor, but, hearing -no movement, glanced round and saw Dormer still standing between the -table and the hearth, blocking her exit, his eyes fixed on her. And as -with a faint surprise she gazed at him he seemed to alter. The -sternness had gone from his face; it looked, if possible, still more -sad, but she could hardly believe that this was the man against whom, -for the last half-hour, she had been fighting. And she heard him say, -with singular gentleness-- - -"'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for -his friends.' May our Lord of His great mercy comfort you!" - -"Don't, don't say that sort of thing to me!" exclaimed Horatia. "I am -doing nothing at all heroic. It is only necessity. It has nothing to -do with God or religion, or because I believe for one moment in -Tristram's foolish ideas--it is because ... because..." It was -impossible to go on, for his voice had touched some secret spring in -her, some deep-buried self which, suddenly released, was struggling to -respond--as once before, at the same voice, it had struggled in St. -Mary's. She sat down again and hid her face in her hands. - -"Because," said Dormer, still more gently, "you have found out the -secret of love--the willingness to go without the beloved for the -beloved's sake." - -"I do not know what I have found out," said Horatia after a moment, -passing her handkerchief over her eyes. "I am only following an -instinct. I mean to go back to France, and after that ... I don't care -much what happens." She paused again. "With Tristram I should have -been safe. He was my hope. I know I have done wrong, very wrong, but -am I never to be forgiven, never to be allowed to forget the past?--O!" -she broke out passionately, "your God is a cruel God! He is cruel to -Tristram and to me. I don't believe what you said in your sermon about -suffering--I can't believe it and I won't believe it! ... Why are you -making me talk to you?" - -"Because I want to help you. Will you not let me try--for Tristram's -sake?" - -Horatia looked at him for a moment, then she rose and went to the -window. When she turned round again, some three minutes later, the -buried self had won, and, not ungenerous in victory, had given her -composure for its purpose. - -"You are the only person who could help me," she said very simply. "But -it is such a long story, and I ought not to take up your time." - -"I have plenty of time," replied Dormer with equal simplicity. "If you -will sit down, and tell me what you can, I daresay I can fill in the -gaps." - -"I thought my marriage was the ... the 'vision splendid,'" began Horatia -after a little, "I was mistaken; but there was still something -remaining, only I was exacting and foolish, and refused to make the best -of what I had ... At last I heard two miserable women speaking of the -infidelity of my husband, and the name coupled with his was ... that of -my greatest friend. There were proofs with which I need not trouble you -... I taxed him with it, but he denied it. I would not believe him. I -told him I hated him and his child. It was then that Maurice was born. -For many weeks I visited my hatred of my husband on the child. For a -long time I would not let them bring my baby near me ... and I -definitely refused to believe my husband, who still protested his -innocence, or to have anything more to do with him. I"--her voice began -to falter--"practically drove him from me to do the very thing of which -I had falsely accused him.... I think I lost all faith in God, and I -believe that I wished to die." - -"It would be at that time," asked Dormer, to help her, "that Tristram -and I came to see you?" - -"Yes ... and that was somehow ... a turning point for me. During the -cholera I was away with Maurice, and it was then that I began to be a -little sorry. I think I meant to take Armand back into favour by -degrees. But when I returned to Paris he had already left for Vendée. -Soon afterwards I heard that the rising had proved a failure, and that -he was in hiding. I followed as quickly as I could to our house in the -country ... and it was there that the news was brought to me that he had -been shot." - -"By the Orleanists?" - -"Yes." Horatia hesitated. "He ... he was shot in saving the life of -that lady ... who was never what I thought her. His death prevented -that." - -"How do you know this?" - -"Because in his delirium I heard everything." - -"You were with him when he died?" - -Horatia made a great effort. "Yes. My friend ... whom he loved ... -whom he would have married had he not met me ... took him dying to her -house ... and sent for me to be with him at the last." - -"Yes?" said Dormer. - -And Horatia went on, more and more agitated. "I shall see him lying in -that bed fighting with death until I die ... and it was I who sent him -to his death ... it was my hardness that drove him to someone who really -loved him.... And ... and," she choked down a sob, "it was for her that -he died ... not for me." - -She came to a full stop. - -"Yes, I see," said the priest, but in the tone of one who thinks there -is more to come. - -Horatia went on again, almost inaudibly. "I hear him crying out, in the -night when I wake, 'Leave your scruples, Laurence, she does not believe -me,' and then again, 'Why do you send for Horatia ... she would not care -... I am nothing to her now; she told me so.'" - -Her listener had himself put his hand over his eyes, but he gave no -sign, and at last Horatia finished. - -"He would not forgive me ... he said there was nothing to forgive ... -and I have felt--I still feel--that God has not forgiven me, that He has -punished me, and that He will go on punishing me." - -She had been speaking in a very low voice, and there was now hardly a -sound outside. Inside the room there was the sort of silence that could -be cut. It might have been lasting for centuries or for -seconds--Horatia could not tell--when Dormer broke it. - -"I will not ask you if you have been able to forgive that unhappy lady, -who you say was once your friend, but are you able sometimes to feel -compassion for her?" - -"I doubt if I know what you mean by forgiveness," answered Horatia. "I -only know that once, perhaps, I hoped that she might suffer, because I -had suffered so much, and that now I cannot bear to think of what she is -doing at this moment." - -"What do you mean?" - -"Oh, I did not tell you. I was staying some weeks ago with a friend in -Devonshire, and we had to take a letter to a convent near, a convent of -French nuns. There was a novice scrubbing some flags; she did not see -me, but I saw her, and it was Laurence, Laurence whom I had not seen -since ... since..." - -"I understand." - -"Laurence," went on Horatia fiercely, "who was more sinned against than -sinning.... Yes, I know that now! I have always known it, but I tried -to excuse my husband. Laurence was rich and admired, and could have -everything she wanted, and now she has not enough to eat, and she does -menial work, and spends hours in prayer--and all for Armand's soul. It -is an order of perpetual intercession. And I who was his wife--I am -feeling that life holds very little for me because I cannot marry -Tristram! What is there to forgive now!" - -"I should not be quite prepared to say that," replied Dormer, looking -rather staggered, "but I am quite certain of one thing. If you have -been able to forgive so wholeheartedly the irreparable injury done to -you, I do not think that you will have long to wait for the assurance of -your own forgiveness." He hesitated, as if he were not sure whether he -should say more, and taking up one of the Christmas roses from the -saucer, looked at it intently for a moment. Then he went on, "You -understand, do you not, that the power of the keys is in the Church of -England, and that those who cannot quiet their own consciences (as the -Exhortation says) have a right to avail themselves of it. I think you -should do so. That God has forgiven you I have no doubt, but even if -after absolution you should have to wait for that conviction, you will -be able to take it as your penance, remembering that the forgiven soul -does not want to escape, it longs for the cleansing fires which alone -can fit it for the presence of its Lord." - -"I should deserve to wait for the feeling of forgiveness, but am I to -think that this also is the penalty of sin, that God is pursuing me and -tracking me down? He is taking Tristram from me; what more does He -want?" - -Dormer leant forward, and spoke very quietly, but with great intensity. -"It is you yourself that He wants. He is stripping you of everything -because by love or by fear He will save you. From all eternity you have -belonged to the God Who died for you. Everything in your life and in -your circumstances has existed in order to bring you nearer to Him. -Even now, when you have misused His gifts, your sin and your suffering -can be turned by His mercy into the means of bringing you back to Him. -But it is on one condition. You must submit. You must give up your -will to Him." - -"But how can I give up my will, when all my life I have followed my own -way?" - -"Our Lord will show you how, if you ask Him. He will teach you by -degrees, do not doubt that." - -"I think I hardly understand what you mean," said Horatia with great -hesitation, "but if I pray to be able to do this, will He--will our Lord -save me from myself, and shall I in the end find rest?" - -Dormer did not answer at once. He looked up (it seemed to Horatia -unconsciously) at the print over the hearth, and she heard him sigh. - -"Yes, He will save you, but it will be by the Cross; for it is only in -the Cross that there is safety, and in the Cross that there is rest. If -you go back to France, and bring up your son in the best traditions of -his family, your life will be full, and not empty. That is where you -must look for comfort. Think of what it means to have a child, your own -child, to give back to God. It is a high vocation and peace waits for -you. I think God has sent you a child to show you where to find it." - - -As he went to open the door for her she said, "Mr. Dormer, there is -something else ... I should like you to feel that you can say -anything--I mean that you can tell Tristram anything about me which you -think can help him. It is worse for him than for me. I shall write to -him, of course, but you will know what to say.... He will be so ... so -hurt." - - - - - *CHAPTER XI* - - - *(1)* - - -The stone-rimmed basin in the old Physic Garden, fringed with a few -yellowing reeds, held water that seemed as black as night, water that -reflected, clear and blacker still, the bare interlaced boughs of a -great tree beside it. And in this dark net, like a silver fish -entangled in waterweeds, lay the shining half-moon, brilliant already, -though it was only half-past four of a December afternoon. It was an -afternoon, too, of extraordinary radiance, as if to mark that herald day -of Christmas when the longing of the Church, no more to be suppressed, -bursts through the monitory thoughts of Advent, in pure joy and -expectation, with the first of the great antiphons of Magnificat, and -hails as the Eternal Wisdom the Child so soon to come. - -But there was nothing of this in the heart of the man who sat, his head -in his hands, on a seat by the little pond. Reading, an hour ago, in -his lodgings, the letter which he had just returned from -Northamptonshire to find, he had felt that he must get out, -away--anywhere--and pushing up the narrow, screaming High Street of St. -Thomas's, past the Castle keep, had come, through St. Ebbe's, full on to -the front of Christ Church, looking, in the golden light, like the -battlements of an ethereal city. But he had gone blindly forward, and -found himself, at last, in the old walled garden which had seen so many -generations of flower and seed. - -Horatia's letter had been quite ordinary, speaking of the child, of his -future, the necessity of her care, the joy that he was to her. But, of -course, she understood ... And three years ago he would willingly have -died for her; now he could not even live for her! As for his own letter -of last week, he could not think how he had ever brought himself to -write it--and yet were it to write again, he must have said the same. -He belonged, now, body and soul, to a force whose demands on some lives -were so exorbitant as to come into mortal conflict even with the best -and holiest human claims. - -He ought never to have gone to Compton; he ought to have left Oxford, at -whatever cost of unkindness. He could not say that it had been only pain -to go and see her, and since he could not even now accuse himself of -having done or said anything amiss, it must have been that his pleasure -was visible.... He felt an outcast, a pariah. How deeply he had sinned -against God he could not fathom, but he had sinned, it seemed to him -irretrievably, against the code in which he had been brought up. For if -he was a Christian and a priest he was a gentleman, too ... or had been. - -The thought of Dormer came into his mind as he sat there. Dormer would -understand--he would despise him, no doubt, but he would understand. He -could never tell him. He was sitting among his books in that well-known -room scarcely a quarter of a mile away, yet a thousand miles might be -between them. He could never tell him, because of Horatia. Besides, he -had lost the habit of close intercourse. - -And in his misery he did not know that Dormer was at that moment -standing on the other side of the basin, looking at him, across the -drowned moon, with the profoundest tenderness, wondering whether he -could speak to him now. Only, after a while, he was conscious of -someone on the seat beside him, and felt an arm laid across his -shoulders. - -"Tristram, Tristram, don't sit here in the cold like this.... Come to -my rooms.... I know all about it--she has told me; I have seen her and -she wants me to tell you that she understands.... You must not take it -so hardly; it is all quite simple, and ... and wonderful, it seems to -me.... My dear, dear fellow, I don't want to pester you, but if you -would only come away..." Dormer's voice, ordinarily so cool and -restrained, broke suddenly. - -There was a silence; Tristram did not move. A London coach rolled over -the bridge; the chimes of Magdalen struck a quarter to five. Dormer -slowly took away his arm. - -And at that Tristram removed one of his hands from his face, and put it -out gropingly towards him. - -"Carissime..." - - - - *(2)* - - -The actual writing of the letter to Tristram had not cost Horatia the -effort that she had anticipated. She hardly felt, indeed, what she was -renouncing, for everything was swallowed up in the sense of rest, a -feeling that was partly a physical reaction, due to the intensity of the -emotional strain of her interview with Dormer. She seemed to be floating -in a sea of such mental and spiritual relief as she had not known for -years. Such peace as she had compassed in the summer--she knew it -now--had only been a drugged peace after all. - -She had had to tell her father. That had not been easy. Yet she had, -somehow, dominated his bitter disappointment. She did not show him -Tristram's letter, but she did not keep from him the fact that she had -been to Oriel. Perfectly calm, and not, apparently, in an exalted -state, she yet produced on the Rector the impression of some change so -profound as to make her seem another person. He was, if the truth be -told, a little alarmed. - -But it was the letter which, two days later, she was obliged to write to -the Duchesse that really showed Horatia what she was losing. Madame de -la Roche-Guyon had said that she should have her own establishment if -she wished. It occurred to Horatia, rather bitterly, how much to be -envied she would seem to her friends--young, titled, rich, her own -mistress, with the entrée to the most exclusive society in the world; -and yet--and yet, even with the child, all these advantages were as a -pinch of dust. Better to be by Tristram's side in some tiny parsonage, -in some dull village... - -And when this really came home to her she suddenly threw down the pen -and covered her face, an action which was the cause of the straggling -blot on the page which, later, drew forth from the Duchesse strictures -on the untidiness of the English. - -But Horatia, neglecting the blot, took up the pen again and went on -without flinching to the end. In spite of the sense of suffering, she -had something which she had not before. For the first time in her life -she could really pray. And already, on this and the days that followed, -she had some inkling of what Dormer had meant, some taste of the peace -that truly comes to the resigned will. In this ocean of rest she lived -for some days, thinking sometimes how wonderful it was that it should -have enclosed her, with all her turbulent desires, in so sudden a -gentleness, but not unconscious that its waves broke quietly over a rock -of regret. - - - - *(3)* - - -"Darling, what are you doing?" she exclaimed, coming suddenly into the -study, and surprising her father on his hands and knees on the -hearthrug, surrounded by a medley of objects, and trying to stuff -something into a large stocking--trying also, with incomplete success, -to hide from her both stocking and litter. - -"Well, my dear, Christmas will be upon us before very long, and I -thought I would try whether they will go in," said the Rector, -attempting to pull out the bulky object, which, having refused to enter -the stocking now equally refused to be extracted. - -He looked ten years older than he had done at the time of their -conversation in the night nursery a few days ago. Horatia's heart smote -her as--not for the first time--she realised the change, and her eyes -were full of tears when, kneeling down by him she put her arms round him -and kissed the white hair by his temple. - -"Dearest Papa, you can't be going to give him all those toys; it will be -so bad for him! Keep some of them for next Christmas." - -She had said it without thinking. - -"And where ... where will he be then?" asked her father rather gulpily. -A single tear splashed on to the drum which he had succeeded in pulling -from the stocking. Horatia bit her lip hard. - -"I think, dear, that we shall always come home for Christmas. Or else -you will come to us. You will have a curate soon; you know we discussed -it the other day, and then you will be so free.--What a splendid drum! -Where did you get all these things, you secretive old Papa? Surely not -in Oxford?" - -"I bought them when I was in London the other day, at the Soho Bazaar. -I was thinking that we should have such a pleasant Christmas...." - -A stab went through Horatia's heart. That broken vision of his was in -her mind too--the Christmas hearth, Tristram with the child in his arms, -prefigurement of what should be henceforward ... and what would now -never be. - -"It will be Maurice's third Christmas," went on the Rector, with an -attempt at cheerfulness, thinking from her silence and averted face that -he had been too cruel. "I made up my mind last Christmas that he should -have----" - -A knock caused him to scramble hastily from his unwonted position. -Horatia jumped up and went to the door. Martha stood there. - -"Please, Mam, would you come to the nursery. I don't think Master -Maurice seems quite himself." - -Horatia was gone before the Rector had got to his chair. She was back -in a few minutes. - -"Papa, if I may I shall send Sam Dawes for the doctor. I don't think it -is anything serious, at least I hope not, but he seems so drowsy and -feverish, and he has been very sick, poor darling." - -"He was quite well this morning," observed the Rector, astonished. -"Indeed, he was making such a great noise in here that I could hardly -get on with my sermon." - - - - *(4)* - - -Maurice de la Roche-Guyon, who was to have a drum and many other -delights on his third Christmas Day, did not seem likely to receive -these now, though as he lay, flushed and brilliant-eyed, chattering to -himself, his rambling talk ran sometimes on his small possessions. - -"A child to give back to God." All through the two long agonising -nights and days the words echoed in Horatia's head, with those others -"He is stripping you of everything." Every few hours the doctor came, -and there was never any change, except that Maurice's breathing seemed -to get more and more rapid as his lungs consolidated. And Horatia could -do nothing, for now she could not even pray. - -"He is stripping you of everything." Then He wanted from her the last -thing, the best thing, the thing incomparably the dearest, not the baby -she had refused to look at, not the baby who had been a delightful toy -at Plaisance, a growing interest in England, but her own child, her very -own, to hold through the years against sorrow and change, to be, not her -comfort but her existence, not a consolation for what she had lost, but -life itself. And set against it all, inexorable, "a child to give back -to God"--not hers at all, but only a treasure lent... - -"O God, save Maurice--take the rest, take everything, I give it -willingly, only save Maurice! I will give him back to You in the end, -only leave him a little longer!" But she believed that her prayers -could not pierce the thick cloud that hung now between her and the -Christ she had so lately come to know, though she never doubted that -prayer could reach Him--the prayer of a heart that prayed always... - -Downstairs were the floods of toys, the half-filled stocking, the holly -and the mistletoe; up here the gift of gifts was going away from her. - -"O God, make me so that I can pray to You...." - -But there was only Maurice asking, in his shrunk little voice of -delirium, for something to drink. - - - - *(5)* - - -It was always rather dark in St. Thomas's, and what daylight remained to -the December afternoon hung nearly vanquished in the little church. It -had been much lighter when Tristram, unlocking the door, had come in -over the planks laid along the aisle for a causeway in time of flood, -and, passing the disproportionate pulpit, had entered the chancel and -knelt down at the altar rails. - -Many hours had he spent there during the last two days, holding up -before God not his own suffering but that of the woman who suffered for -him. Now he could pray no more, but he still knelt, a suppliant at the -door of the Divine Pity, a beggar at the Heavenly Gate. - -But as the light withdrew itself more and more from the sanctuary, till -at last the bare table itself was scarcely visible, he became gradually -conscious that this church was not more still than that inner place into -which he found himself somehow to have passed, a place of great -quietness, of which he had never before possessed the key--the innermost -room in the house of his soul. He did not know how he had gained -entrance to it--perhaps because he had ceased to strive--he only knew -that he was there, that he could never again lose the way thither, and -that this chamber held for him that open vision which he had sought so -often and never found. - - -As he left St. Thomas's he remembered that he must go to Christ Church -and ask if the Precentor, who was indisposed, was likely to be well -enough to preach the charity sermon on Christmas Day, or whether he -wished him to do it. So he walked once more up the way of sorrows that -he had traversed three or four days ago, and came out in just the same -manner on the front of Christ Church. Lights were beginning to twinkle -there, and down the narrow dusk of St. Aldate's, along which he had so -often ridden. In Tom Quad he met Mr. Pusey, who responded to his -salutation by wishing him a happy Christmas, passed on and then turned -back. - -"By the way, Mr. Hungerford," he said, "I am afraid the Grenvilles at -Compton Regis are in sad trouble--but perhaps you know it? I heard from -my brother this morning that the little boy, Madame de la Roche-Guyon's -child, is very ill--dying, they fear." - -The pain in his voice and eyes (his own little Katharine's death being -only a year-old wound) was lost on Tristram who, after a moment's -horror, forgetful alike of his errand and of himself, had turned and -hurried back into St. Aldate's to the nearest livery-stable for a horse. - -He probably galloped most of the fifteen miles on the hard December -road, for he got there by half-past six. Anyhow the hack came down with -him in the dark just outside Compton village, and Tristram, merciful man -though he was, left it to the two or three yokels who had collected and -hastened on, oblivious of a slightly wrenched knee. Sick at the thought -of what he might hear he rang the bell at the Rectory. Mr. Grenville -himself answered it. - -"O, my dear Tristram!" he exclaimed, his eyes brimming with tears. -"Have you heard--is that why you have come? ... No, the child is alive -... the doctor is here now.--Forgive me, come in...." - -"Is that Tristram?" exclaimed a breathless voice, and behind her father -suddenly appeared Horatia herself. She almost pushed the Rector aside, -and seized Tristram by the wrist. "O, thank God, thank God that you -have come!" And, the ghost of herself, she fairly dragged him across -the hall into the drawing-room and shut the door. - -"Tristram, our Lord has sent you! Listen, for you can save -Maurice--only pray, pray as you never prayed before! It is the crisis. -He will listen to you--I know He will!" - -And, as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone. - - * * * * * - -The stable clock struck nine. Steps came down the stairs, and voices; -the outer door shut. - -The Rector appeared at the drawing-room door, mopping his eyes. He -beckoned and Tristram, with a sinking heart, followed him out of the -room and up the stairs. Half-way up Mr. Grenville put away his -handkerchief, and it was then obvious that his tears were tears of joy. -He gripped Tristram's arm. - -"He will live, my dear boy, he will live, thank God!" - -He continued to ascend, and Tristram, hardly knowing why, went after -him. They came to the nursery floor. A door was ajar. The Rector -stood aside, but Tristram did not enter. - -From the threshold he saw, as in a frame, part of the room within, and -the little crib against the wall by which Horatia was kneeling, with -bowed head. Over her shoulders was a shawl of Chinese silk, blue as -lapis-lazuli, studded with the golden eyes of dragons, and glorified, -like the shining auburn of her hair, by the mingled light of lamp and -fire. For him the picture seemed to hold the love and pain of years, -his own and hers, barren and fruitful both, and he did not know that he -could look any more.... - -The child stirred. Horatia rose from her knees, and bending over him -began very gently to rearrange a pillow. The change of position gave -Tristram to her sight, and so he went softly in and stood by her side, -looking down with her at him. - -Maurice lay fast asleep, breathing quietly, and more natural of hue--a -frail bark rejected by the great tide that washes so hungrily round the -shores of the little island of life, and whose receding is nearly as -full of awe as its oncoming. To the man and the woman looking at him -the spray of that ocean seemed still wet in his curls. - -"You have given him back to me," said Horatia in a voice less than a -whisper, and, to herself, more faintly still, "God did not ask _all_." - -For answer Tristram stooped and kissed her son. - - -In the doorway he looked back, and at last the toll levied on human -nerves by days of so much strain and anguish was demanded of him. A -momentary hallucination of the senses--nothing but that, he knew it--but -all his life it was to remain with him, in mysterious consolation, that -for one heart-beat he saw there, in Horatia's place, a Woman wrapped, -like her, in a blue mantle glinting with light, kneeling in adoration of -a Child. - - - - - *EPILOGUE* - - - - *EPILOGUE* - - -The barrel-organ which was grinding out "Keemo Kimo" changed with a -hiccough to "Bobbing Around," and the ring of tattered dancers likewise -made some alteration in their steps. Five very dirty little girls -composed the corps de ballet, and a small boy industriously kicking an -empty can along the gutter added further orchestral harmony. This youth -had already rejected the offer of his peers to "play at the Relief of -Lucknow," having learnt by experience that the rôle of a Sepoy was -unenviable, that it was vain ever to aspire to the part of Sir Colin -Campbell, and still retaining, in this autumn of 1859, unpleasant -recollections of the massacre of Cawnpore, as staged by the same players -in a certain backyard two years ago. - -Had it been daylight this long street of the great seaport town would -have showed for what it was, a slum, but the evening darkness of the -last day of October veiled some of its worst features, while it caused -the radiance pouring from the _Dockers' Arms_, half-way along it, to -gain tenfold in attraction. Outside this resort two sailors were -engaged in a muddled argument, not sufficiently foreshadowing blows to -recall the now scattered impersonators of the Indian Mutiny, but -interesting enough to cause the pensive child with the can to direct his -football towards them with a gleam of hope. He was rewarded otherwise -than he had foreseen, and, after a moment's delighted gazing along the -vista beyond the public-house, abandoned his tin and ran back towards -the dancers. - -"Victorier! Victorier! there's a swell coming! I seen 'im--coming -this way!" - -The conviction in her brother's tone detached Victorier from her -pirouetting. She followed his finger and saw that his imagination had -not betrayed him, as sometimes, into falsehood, for a figure answering -indubitably to his description came at that moment into the light of the -_Dockers' Arms_, the half-drunken sailors made way for it, and, in a -moment or two, the organ, now ploughing mournfully through "Poor Dog -Tray," had lost its fascination, and Victorier's fellow-artistes, were -all standing at gaze. - -The newcomer was a tall young man in a greatcoat, palpably a gentleman; -to any instructed eye a soldier, but not--though this would have taken -some discernment to detect--an Englishman. To the children he was -merely a swell, and his passage heralded as such by cries that rang -along the street, bringing a slatternly woman or two from an alley, and -rousing occasional comment from male loungers. But the young man -exhibited no sign of embarrassment at these attentions, and, stranger -still, he seemed to know his way in his surroundings. Indeed, on the -open-mouthed Victorier he bestowed, so she declared for days afterwards, -"a lovely smile" and a "Time you were in bed, little girl," ere he -passed out of sight into the ill-lighted gloom. - -As the street left the _Dockers' Arms_ behind, it became slightly more -respectable, and signs of some agency at work began to appear, for -though the uninformed might not have known that a nondescript building -on the left was a school, no one could have mistaken that it was a -Sister of Mercy who suddenly emerged from one of the houses near. But -the swell evidently did not need these tokens to guide him towards his -objective, and, indeed, as the street turned a little, it was before -him--a big church, lighted up. When he realised this latter fact the -young man hesitated a moment; then he made his way, as one who knows his -whereabouts, to a small door, and pushing it cautiously open, went -through. - - -An intense, almost strained silence reigned within, so that for a moment -it was difficult to realise how large a congregation was there, and how -varied--clerks, dockers, women with shawls over their heads, women in -fashionable bonnets, ragged boys, a few sailors. The great gilt cross -suspended from the roof over the chancel steps glimmered faintly in the -lowered lights. From the screened-off door by which he had entered, -Maurice de la Roche-Guyon could have seen a section of the great raised -choir, and half the altar, severe and simple, even on a festival, but it -was not in this direction that he looked. He looked at the pulpit. - -He saw there a spare, rather shrunken figure that rested both thin -hands--and not without a suggestion of leaning for physical support--on -the edge of the stone. Then he checked an exclamation. Not since the -days after Balaclava had he seen anything like this. Across the -preacher's forehead, from grey hair to eyebrow, ran a terrible scar, red -and puckered, straight as a swordcut but not so clean-edged, showing the -worn and thoughtful face to be as much that of a soldier as of a priest. - -"_Children_," said the slow, very clear voice, "_I commend you from the -bottom of my heart into the captivity of the Cross of our Lord Jesus -Christ._" The tension was lifted, the lights went up, and the voice -that Maurice was waiting for gave out the first lines of a hymn; - - "Spouse of Christ, in arms contending - O'er each clime beneath the sun..." - - -So he _was_ there! The young Frenchman slipped out, and went round to -the clergy-house. - - -Mrs. Squire, the housekeeper, a small wiry lady of varied, and -especially of conversational gifts, opened the door herself. - -"Lor bless me!" she exclaimed exhibiting much surprise. "Well, I never! -Fancy you poppin' in like this, Sir, and all the way from foreign parts, -too, I suppose. They're all in the church, Sir; been at it this long -time.--But come in; I hope you're well, Sir--your Grace, as I should -say. You must be tired, and want some supper, I'm sure." - -"Thank you, Mrs. Squire, I am very well, and I've had supper," responded -the young man, following her into the narrow hall. "But I do want a bed -for the night, and to-morrow night, too, if you have a room." - -"You can't 'ave the guest-room, Sir," said Mrs. Squire, opening a door, -"seein' as the Vicar's sleepin' there, because he would have Mr. Dormer -put in _his_ room, but Mr. Johnson he's away, and I'll have 'is room -ready in 'alf-an-hour. If you'll please to step in here, Sir." - -A lamp was already burning in the study, but the fire demanded her -attention. The visitor meanwhile began to divest himself of his -greatcoat. The light showed him pleasant to look upon, fair rather than -dark, with a small sunburnt moustache and a very lively expression, -while the removal of his outer garment revealed a tiny scrap of red -ribbon in his buttonhole. - -"Now, Sir, you make yourself comfortable here, and I'll have a snack of -something ready for you when they come in." At this point a thought -appeared to strike Mrs. Squire, for she shut the door and advanced -mysteriously on the young man. - -"I think I ought to warn you, Sir, that when you see Mr. Dormer, you may -have a shock." - -"I've had it!" said Maurice with a little grimace. "I saw him in the -church. Tell me about it quickly, before he comes in. It was an -accident, I suppose? My mother heard that he had not been well, but no -more than that." - -Mrs. Squire sniffed. "That's what they told her Ladyship, no doubt, and -that's what they told more than one! Mr. Dormer he hates to have it -mentioned, but he'll carry the mark to his dying day. Nothing to be -ashamed of, rather the opposite, I says, but you know what Mr. Dormer -is. Nor I wouldn't say nothing about it to the Vicar, Sir, if I was -you--Not well, indeed, and 'im unconscious for twenty-four hours, and -the Vicar, when 'e 'eard about it, in such a taking as I've never seen -'im, and off up to London at once, and..." - -"But what was it, Mrs. Squire?" - -"A brick, Sir." - -"A brick!" repeated Maurice, mystified. "Do you mean off a house?" - -"Thrown at 'im, Sir, and cruel hard! Ah, there's wicked people in this -world! In London it was, at one of them nasty places by the docks, St. -George's-in-the-East. They've got what they calls a mission there, and -there was dreadful disturbances going on all summer, even in the church -itself, if you'll believe me, so that they could 'ardly 'old their -services. A very low lot, Sir, and paid to do it, roughs 'ired by them -as keeps bad 'ouses thereabouts and the like, so I've 'eard. Well, Mr. -Dormer goes there in August to preach for them, and coming out of the -church there was a terrible riot. Fancy 'im alone in an 'owlin' mob -without so much as an umberella in 'is 'and!--not, I'm sure, that 'e'd -'ave used anything if 'e'd 'ad it. A pity you wasn't there, Sir, with -them queer baggy soldiers of yours. Well, the end of it was one of -these villains throws a brick at 'im--pretty near did for 'im -altogether, I believe. This 'ere's the first time he've preached -since." Mrs. Squire paused, and then added judicially, "Of course I -don't deny we've 'ad trouble 'ere before now, as your Grace knows, -though not for a long time, and I can't say as I approves of all the -'igh Church goings on. Not that I'm saying anything against the Vicar, -for I wouldn't leave him not if he was to turn Papist to-morrow. Where -'e goes I goes, if it's to the Pope of Rome 'imself--the Lord forgive me -for saying so." - -She went to the windows and gave a twitch to the already drawn curtains, -as Maurice digested this information, and also had a sudden little -memory of a gory combat waged by him in boyish days with an urchin who -asseverated that that ---- parson was a ---- Papist, the champion only -remembering at its victorious close that he was a Papist himself. - -"Between you and me, Sir," resumed Mrs. Squire confidentially, "I shan't -be sorry when Mr. Dormer's gone back, for I shouldn't like a death in -the 'ouse, and it's my belief 'e's not long for this world. Not fit for -this preachin', any'ow, and don't eat 'ardly nothin'.... But 'ow I do -run on. I daresay the Vicar won't be late, Mr. Dormer being 'ere, -though sometimes, if you'll believe me, he ain't in from church till -after compline. It gets worse, Sir; selfish, I calls it, keeping 'im -out of bed with their sins, and then all this getting up early in the -morning. The Vicar is strong, thanks be, but he ain't so young as he -was, and it tells on him. Can't see, meself, as the Almighty asks so -much of us. Where's your bag, if you please, Sir?" - -The news that it was being brought up from the railway station and might -arrive any moment, put a term to Mrs. Squire's volubility, and she -departed. - - -Maurice de la Roche-Guyon looked round the room thus left to him with a -smile of recognition. Of fair size, though somewhat choked up with -furniture, much of which belonged to a past decade of the Mahogany Age, -it was spotlessly clean and possessed a sort of shabby comfort. There -was little to mark it as the room of a priest, since any person with a -large correspondence might have had so littered a writing-table--the -sight of whose contents filled the beholder with wonder and thankfulness -that he should ever have received a reply to a letter--and the pictures -were mostly views of Oxford, the High, Oriel, and a couple of Dighton's -caricatures. Only in a corner of the room was a little water-colour -drawing of average execution, representing the Madonna kneeling by the -child Christ in the manger. On the window-sill were several flower-pots -containing forlorn geranium stems, green tips with yellow leaves at the -base. Maurice did not know if the pathetic hope of preserving geraniums -through the winter had ever been realised, but he supposed that it had, -since the pots persevered. They had been in exactly the same depressed -condition when he was here a year ago. - -He threw himself into one of the armchairs by the fire. The spring was -broken, so he exchanged it for another. Tristram's chairs were given to -broken springs. It was either the same chair, never mended, or else -succeeding occupants were heavy. He stretched out his legs and smiled -to himself, thinking of the great news he brought and of Tristram's -pleasure in hearing it. Most important events in his life had been -unfolded to Tristram, since the occasion on which he had first sat in a -springless chair and waited for him. Not that he had smiled then.... - -It had been in dull quarters in the next street, before the clergy-house -was built, that Maurice had first sat in a broken-springed chair and -wished that chair and remaining springs and he might sink into the -earth. He was in his first year at Eton, and his adored English -grandfather having recently died he had begged to be allowed to spend -Christmas (it was that of 1844) with Tristram, before going for the rest -of the holidays to his mother's cousins in Cavendish Square. It was a -curious preference for a small boy brought up in stately surroundings, -to go into a dingy habitation in the neighbourhood of docks, but to -Maurice it was an adventure of the wildest nature. Although he could -not have explained it, to be with Tristram at all meant a feeling of -freedom. There were so many things which, according to Tristram's code, -did not seem to matter; but the fact that he was not punished for -spilling ink and tearing his clothes only convinced him that really to -transgress might be very uncomfortable indeed. - -Maurice, though he was an only child, had been brought up by an almost -military discipline to an exact obedience, even to the acceptance -without question of those mixed ecclesiastical surroundings which had -always puzzled him. Maman, though she prayed so much, never went with -him to Mass. M. le Curé, in the country, when pressed would shake his -head and say that Madame la Comtesse was Anglicane et très dévote, and -although not a Catholic not quite a Protestant. As if to excuse this -enlightened view he would add that she believed in the Real Presence, -that she had a crucifix in her oratory, and that Mr. Dormer, for whose -learning he had a great respect, was her director. Yet this very -director (whose infrequent appearances were vaguely disliked by Maurice) -seemed to be on the best of terms with his own kinsman Prosper de la -Roche-Guyon, and though one was a Bishop of the Catholic Church and the -other a Protestant pastor, they looked, to the son of Armand, very much -alike--except that he was somewhat afraid of Mr. Dormer and not at all -of His Grandeur. His mother herself would say, "Mon fils, you are a -Catholic and a Frenchman. Monseigneur de Troyes will tell you what you -ought to think." The Bishop's explanation, if painstaking, was -unintelligible, and left Maurice with the responsibility of praying for -the conversion of his mother, his grandfather Grenville, his "Uncle" -Tristram Hungerford, Mr. Dormer, and a quantity of persons at Oxford of -whom he had never heard. After this he abandoned for a time his pursuit -of knowledge. - -But Eton had revived and intensified his bewilderment, and it suddenly -came to him that now was the chance of asking Uncle Tristram. He knew -that Tristram was the curé of this great parish, that the church which -could be seen from the windows would soon be finished, but he was -forbidden to enter a Protestant temple, and an Anglican church was -certainly not Catholic, so it must be Protestant. Partly because of the -prohibition he had an enormous desire to see the inside of this edifice, -and as there seemed no possibility of its being gratified, he added to -his nightly petitions for the conversion of Tristram to the Roman -obedience, the turning of the Church of the Passion into a Catholic -place of worship. - -Christmas Day came. Maurice set off, lonely, to the Catholic chapel not -far away for Mass. As he came back he had to pass the Mission church, -which was used until the completion of the permanent building. It was -mid-day, and the bell stopped ringing a little before he reached the -door. He listened; a harmonium was playing _Venite adoremus_. Why -should he not peep inside; no one would see. He yielded to the -temptation and slipped in, to find himself almost touching Uncle -Tristram's surpliced back at the end of the procession which, with some -difficulty, was squeezing round the small building. He decided to stay. - -The church was decked with holly and flowers, and the tiny sanctuary was -hung with red. Maurice was much interested, especially as his ideas of -Protestant worship were extremely vague, so that he was surprised to see -what was clearly an altar (though it seemed to him, with only two -lighted candles and a cross, very bare), and to listen to a service -which, for all its lack of Latin, of bells, and of inaudibility, was -presumably some kind of a mass. But gradually his interest waned. He -began to see clearly what he had done. He had not only been -disobedient, but had dealt a wound to that implicit trust which he -always felt that Tristram reposed in him, and the delicacy of Tristram's -position was quite plain to the half-French boy. At the communion of -the people he went out. The rest of Christmas Day, spent at the house -of a churchwarden with a large family, lacked enjoyment. Nothing was -said on his return, and he felt pretty sure that Tristram had not seen -him. But next day, after breakfast, he waited for him in a -broken-springed chair. - -"I was at the Mass yesterday." - -"I know," said Tristram. - -"I mean I was at your Mass." - -"I know," said Tristram again. "I've been waiting for you to tell me." -There was a silence. - -"You have my pocket-money," suggested a miserable voice, for Maurice -always associated misdeeds with an immediate penalty, and anything was -better than suspense. But he looked up from the floor to find that -Tristram was smiling. - -"My son," said the latter, "for your punishment I am going to explain to -you the Anglican position. I have always disagreed with your mother in -not trying to make this clear to you before." - -It was not punishment to Maurice. Sin had brought him what had never -been granted to virtuous behaviour. He listened with the most rapt -attention, until Tristram, leaning back in his chair, said "Do you -understand now, my boy, why you are forbidden to attend an Anglican -service? It is for this reason that you must regard me as a heretic, -though _I_ can believe myself and you to belong equally to the Catholic -Church. Perhaps you can understand, too, how hard it has been for your -mother, so ardently devoted to her own faith, to bring you up in a -religion which must of necessity separate you from her. Not that she -ever hesitated." - -He got up. "Come with me, Maurice. I am going to show you something." -And, leading him to a little room at the top of the house, he unlocked a -chest. "I won't take them out, but you can see what they are--the full -Eucharistic dress of a priest." - -"Oh, Mass vestments," said Maurice, looking in. - -"They have been given, but they cannot be worn yet." He unlocked -another case and showed the boy the sacramental plate, still -unconsecrated. One of the chalices was studded with large pearls, the -other with different stones. - -"What fine pearls!" observed Maurice. "I have never seen such large -ones, except on a rope that Maman used to wear. Now she hardly wears -any jewels." - -"These were your mother's," said Tristram. "She wished to give all her -personal jewels--all except those belonging to your family, which will -come one day to your wife." (He always spoke to Maurice in a -matter-of-fact way, as though Maurice were grown up.) "And here, you -see, set in the paten, is a little old Anglo-Saxon brooch that she used -to wear as a girl, and which she gave to me long ago.--Now I'll show you -the church." - -Maurice bore away from that visit an impression of surprising dignity, -simplicity, and space. He had seen the raised chancel, the still more -raised sanctuary, the stone altar, which it was doubtful if the Bishop -would consecrate, and the beautiful marble font, a memorial to his -grandfather Grenville, set in almost equal honour in the apse at the -west end. He had been told that there would be no galleries or pews, -that the church was to be quite free and always open, and that one day a -great cross or crucifix would hang from the roof. As they left he -caught sight of a little inscription on a stone let into the wall near -the door--"Pray for the sinner who built this church." - -Going through the porch he said, reflectively, "I suppose that as it is -such a large church he was a very wicked man." - -But Tristram gave no answer. - - -Maurice had looked forward to his next Christmas in the new -clergy-house, and next Christmas had, indeed, found him there, but in -company with Mr. Dormer and great gloom--unwelcome circumstances which -it took him some time to connect with a certain notable conversion to -his own communion in the previous October. But what mattered to Maurice -was much less that the Church of England had lost John Henry Newman, -than that the Church of the Passion was now offering a haven among its -priests to its founder, and that the centre of interest at the -clergy-house had shifted from him, Maurice, to the man who was mourning -not only the defection of a leader but the loss of a friend. - -But when next he came to scale the church roof and plague the curates, -Mr. Dormer seemed to have gone, not to Oxford but to London, and careful -cross-questioning of the new deacon elicited facts which, to Maurice's -mind, could only mean that Mr. Dormer would perhaps one day become a -monk. How this could be, even in the Church of England as explained by -Tristram, was a mystery, but since such a calling presupposed a fixed -abode, and, for the time being, Mr. Dormer was certainly settled in -London, Maurice had got all the information that he wanted. There was -no cloud now upon a visit to Uncle Tristram, and one delightful summer -even brought his mother to stay at the hotel in the fashionable quarter -of the town. By a coincidence, which Maurice was not able to -appreciate, the arrival of the French comtesse was recorded in close -proximity to "More Popish Practices of a Puseyite Priest." - - -A kind of sporting interest in the Tractarian Movement was a curious -possession for a French soldier and a sound Catholic. Yet, just when -the English newspapers were full of the battle of the Alma, the post -bore to Tristram, recently inhibited for hearing confessions, a letter -from the seat of war adjuring him to stick to his guns, and this from a -young man who knew that an Anglican clergyman cannot bind or loose, -whatever the opinions of his bishop. - -At this moment, however, the writer of that epistle had some grounds for -wishing that the inhibition had not been removed, or that Tristram's -invalid absolutions were not sought at such a late hour. Looking round -for something to occupy him, the Duc de la Roche-Guyon caught sight of a -heap of _Punches_ in a corner. He guessed why they were there. Mr. -Punch was strongly, even rabidly, "anti-Puseyite," and it was -characteristic of Tristram cheerfully to preserve the numbers in which -this guardian of public morals had also constituted himself Defender of -the Faith. Here, for instance, was the succession of last year's -cartoons dealing with the alleged Romanist tendencies of "Soapy Samuel," -the Bishop of Oxford, and the Puseyite cleric being kicked downstairs by -the united boots of Mr. Punch and John Bull. After what he had just -heard about St. George's-in-the-East, Maurice was not greatly surprised -to find Mr. Punch warning "reverend gents who think fit to make images, -figures, or guys of themselves" to beware of an "iconoclastic spirit" -which plainly had his approval. In the current number itself, the -Rector of St. George's, in a notice headed "Nathan's Clerical Costumes," -addressed to "sacristans, footmen of the superior Roman Catholic clergy -and others," was made to express himself desirous of purchasing "any -amount of the left-off vestments of priests" and to offer "a liberal -allowance for holy candle ends and waste incense." - -Maurice put down the paper with a shrug, but as he stooped to pick up a -number which had fallen open on the floor, his eye was caught by the -words "Margaret Street" and "All Saints":-- - - "The All Saints crows his Lordship pets, - And, hoping against hope, forgets - The many birds that thence have come, - Fled to the rookery of Rome. - - * * * * * - - "Can it be right to consecrate - The new church in Street Margaret, - Which looks more Puseyite by far - Than English churches elsewhere are?" - - -He read these lines with interest, because he knew that the famous -Tractarian church had once been Margaret Chapel, where his mother had -been married. Then he laughed, and threw the paper away. - -What a devil of a time they were in coming! He got up and looked at the -photograph of a young man in uniform on the mantelpiece, one of -Tristram's lads. Five years ago, at Inkerman, after his regiment had -carried, at the point of the bayonet, the seven times captured and -recaptured Sandbag Battery, the young lieutenant of Zouaves had happened -to address a word or two in English to one of the rescued men of the -95th, and thus, amid the carnage, had made the surprising discovery of a -common friend in an English clergy-house... - -Maurice put his elbows on the chimney-piece. Four years more of -soldiering, encounters with Kabyles in Africa, even this summer's guns -of Magenta and Solferino, had done little to efface the memory of -Sebastopol, its horror and its glory. Still, in dreams, he led his men -through the iron hail up to the Malakoff; still, sometimes, felt again -the shock and blankness when that hail had scorched him too, and he -fell, not knowing that he had outdone the daring even of his own most -daring corps. More pleasant to dream of was the waking in hospital and -the finding, pinned to the sheet, the red-ribboned, five-pointed star, -the Cross of the Legion of Honour, which they had doubted if he would -live to receive. Most pleasant of all, the putting it into his mother's -hands. - -The Crimea had won him that, and his step as captain. Last July had -brought him more promotion; last month still more. But last week had -given him---- he smiled and pulled at his ridiculous moustache. Grand -Dieu! what had he done to deserve such happiness? - - -Here they were at last! The young man deliberately went out of the -lamplight into a corner and stood with his back to any who should enter. -The door opened. - -"You know, Charles," the well-remembered voice was saying, "that unless -you obey me in this I shan't allow you to preach at all to-morrow." - -And the other voice, palpably tired, but very quiet and even, replied: -"If I were you, Tristram, I would not utter threats before witnesses. -Look there!" - -Maurice turned slowly round and faced the two priests, but the blur of -shadow hid the smile on his face. - -"There is nothing the matter?" asked the taller, a note of sharp alarm -in his tone. "Horatia--your mother is not ill?" - -"No, no!" cried Maurice, instantly repenting of his jest. "No--there is -nothing the matter--only good news!" And, flinging himself at Tristram -Hungerford, he embraced him in French fashion.--"How do you do, Mr. -Dormer? I heard your sermon--that is to say the end of it." - -"I saw you," said Dormer, smiling, as he shook hands, and Tristram -exclaimed, "Oh, were you there, my dear boy? Come and sit down, -Charles, and then we must hear this good news. Supper will be up in a -moment--but I hope you have had something more substantial, Maurice?" -And, evidently torn between a desire to pilot his friend to the most -comfortable chair and eagerness to hear the promised tidings, he -accomplished the first before taking hold of Maurice and saying "Well?" - -And then it burst out. - -"Solange will marry me, and what is more, will marry me in three weeks' -time!" - -"At last!" exclaimed Tristram. "My boy, I am so glad! But why is it so -very sudden?" - -A sort of struggle between satisfaction and sadness was visible in the -young soldier's manner as he replied, "Because I am ordered to Algeria -next month, and must sail from Marseilles on the 25th. You see, they -have made me lieutenant-colonel." - -Tristram gave an exclamation, and Maurice went on quickly. "Solange is -so wonderful; she has given up all idea of a great wedding. She said at -once that if she was to marry a soldier she could be ready in three -weeks." - -"What did her mother say?" asked Tristram. - -"Oh, Maman arranged all that," returned Maurice, sitting down astride a -chair. "She is almost as pleased as I am that it has come all right." - -"Or as I am," said Tristram. "How long can you stay, Maurice?" - -"Only long enough to tell you all about it. I told Maman I might sleep -here two nights if there was room. Will you let me, mon père?" - -"My dear boy, what a question! So you came all this way just to tell -me--you left Mademoiselle Solange and your mother, who has you now for -such a short time, for that?" - -"Mademoiselle Solange sent you a message that she remembered you -perfectly, that next time she would not allow me to leave her, and that -she should come with me to visit you. As for Maman, when did she ever -think of herself? Of course she wanted me to come and tell you. -Besides, what a fuss about nothing! Who came over to see me when I was -invalided home after the Crimea?" - -"Hasn't this promotion followed very quickly on that which you got after -the Italian campaign this summer?" asked Dormer, breaking in for the -first time. - -"You know I have always been luckier than my deserts!" explained the -young man laughing. "Tiens! someone at the door!" - -It was Mrs. Squire with a tray, and so, in a moment or two Maurice, -drinking his coffee, was able to take a swift survey of his companions. -There were a few more threads of grey in Tristram's dark, grizzled hair, -a line or two more on his face, but yes, he was looking well, and young -for his years. But Mr. Dormer--no, for the last twelve years or so he -had looked much older than Tristram, and now, not ill exactly, but -fragile in the extreme. Everything that was not spirit seemed to have -ebbed away from his face, where, by reason of its bloodlessness, the -angry line of the great scar was all the more noticeable. Indeed, it -was hard to keep one's eyes off it, hard too, to avoid surprising the -anxious glances cast by Tristram at his friend, who was evidently very -tired. - -Voices in altercation had been heard for some time in the hall, and now, -as the simple meal drew to its close, reached a climax. - -"Whatever is that noise?" exclaimed the visitor. "Not, surely, more -ri----" He stopped himself in time. - -"I think I had better go and see," said Tristram, getting up. - -Maurice laid a hand on his arm. "Let them fight it out, mon père! It -is my first night, and I have only two." - -Outside a child's voice was raised in a dismal howl. Tristram gently -extricated himself. "I must go," he repeated. At the some moment there -was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Squire appeared, in some agitation. -The little hall seemed entirely blocked up with people, a young cleric -among them. Tristram closed the door behind him. - -"What a place to live in! What a life--never a moment's peace!" -exclaimed the young Frenchman. - -"Tristram is wanted by everybody all day long," said Dormer. - -"I'm not surprised," returned Maurice; "but I wanted him to-night." - -Dormer shook his head as if it were hopeless. Then he said: - -"Have I congratulated you, Maurice, as I should do? I don't think I -have. I am most sincerely glad about Mademoiselle de Béthisy. Your -mother has wished for it so long--and I have hoped for it, too. Then -there is your rapid promotion. I suppose, my dear boy, that one can -hardly congratulate you enough!" - -He smiled, a very sweet and human smile that made him look suddenly -years younger, and held out his hand, just as the door opened and -Tristram reappeared, glancing down at someone behind him. - -"Come in, Jack! You shall have some hot coffee, and be quick about it, -and then I will come with you." - -A thin, ragged boy of about twelve, all eyes, shyly followed him. In -Tristram's arms, wrapped round with an old red shawl, was a rosy little -girl, not much more than a baby, from whose cheeks Tristram was -removing, presumably with his own handkerchief, a few remaining tears. - -"Pour out some coffee, Maurice, will you?" he said. "No, Mary had better -have milk only." - -"There are no cups," observed Dormer, making to ring the bell. - -"Here is mine," said Tristram, seizing it with his free hand. "Jack and -Mary won't mind, and there is no time to lose." - -"You are not going out again!" exclaimed Maurice in dismay. - -"My dear boy, I'm afraid I must! I'm so sorry." He put the infant down -in his chair, but as she immediately started to howl he picked her up -again, and began to pour the milk down her throat himself. "You see, -their mother has refused to have her baby christened. Now it is dying, -and Jack has brought a message that if the Vicar would come himself she -would have it 'done.' Mrs. Squire, who I am afraid is getting ideas of -her own about who is and who is not to see me, has been trying to -persuade them to take Wilmot or French, but the boy knew it would be -useless, and seems to have been arguing with them all for the last ten -minutes. That was what we heard. So I must go myself; I can't help -it." - -"You never could," said Maurice, getting up and stretching himself. "I -shall come with you, mon père. Is it far?" - -"Yes, it's right down by the docks. Now, Jack, ready?" He shouldered -the drowsy bundle. "Charles, don't sit up, I beg of you! It is a dark -night, and we shall be at least an hour." - -They went out, Tristram in his shabby cassock, the head of curls on his -shoulder, the ragged boy's hand in his, and Maurice, Duc de la -Roche-Guyon, Zouave of the Guard. - - -But Dormer sat motionless in his chair, his hands laid along the arms. -"When did she ever think of herself?" Jack and Mary had cause to say -the same, had they but known their debt to a greyhaired and crinolined -French lady, the envied mother of a soldier one day to be famous. Yet -it was not greyhaired and crinolined that Horatia de la Roche-Guyon came -to the door of the priest's memory to-night, but as he had once seen her -in a Parisian drawing-room, a few years after her return to France, -still young, laughing, admired--marked nevertheless, to his eyes, with a -sacrifice so deep that no one, perhaps for that very reason, could have -guessed at its existence. There were times, he knew, when not even her -child could comfort her. But from that aching loneliness the captivity -of the Cross had long since set her free. - -Yet Tristram, whose outward life was hard, had suffered less, for from -the beginning it seemed as if the promise had been fulfilled to him, an -hundredfold now in this time, houses, and brethren, and sisters, and -mothers, and children, and lands, with persecutions. Tristram, who had -been almost the last to see the vision which had called to his friends -in the streets and gardens of Oxford, was, after all, one of the first -to interpret it to others. Of those friends he who, among the shining -spires, had seen it most clearly, was come many years since to the city -whose builder and maker is God. But though the inspiration of his ardour -was so early taken from them, though some were scattered, some -disheartened, Hurrell Froude lived on in those who fought and suffered -with unwavering hope. To these the vision splendid still beckoned, but -for their leader, the brother of his spirit, it had faded into the light -of common day. And so, haunted by his dream, John Henry Newman had gone -out from among his own people, and for him another vision dawned. - -But Charles Dormer was not unfaithful to his early vision. For though -he too had not found,--though he no longer looked for--a perfect Church, -he had seen amazingly disclosed, in his own communion, the treasures of -a real if forgotten Catholicity. He had seen the slaves in the -prison-house of sin free servants in the palace of a King, Who Himself -struck off their fetters, and, clothing them in the garments of His -righteousness, led them by the steep stairs of penitence to the -protection of the angels, the companionship of the saints, that they -might sit, even with the princes of His household, guests at the banquet -of His love. Henceforward disappointment, failure, persecution, -defection were to the Tractarian but proofs that the Church of England -was indeed a part of the Body of Christ, for, all unworthy, she bore the -marks of the Passion of her Lord. - -And now the vision of the Light Divine, drawing him always out of the -battle and the conflict, luring him still further into the way of -prayer, had brought him at last to a dark place where he lay so close to -God that he could no longer see Him, where, in the tomb of life, he -waited the first rays of the Resurrection Glory. - - - - - - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VISION SPLENDID *** - - - - -A Word from Project Gutenberg - - -We will update this book if we find any errors. - -This book can be found under: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/45074 - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so -the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. -Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this -license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg(tm) -electronic works to protect the Project Gutenberg(tm) concept and -trademark. 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