diff options
Diffstat (limited to '45074-h/45074-h.html')
| -rw-r--r-- | 45074-h/45074-h.html | 17172 |
1 files changed, 0 insertions, 17172 deletions
diff --git a/45074-h/45074-h.html b/45074-h/45074-h.html deleted file mode 100644 index 3ea9a8b..0000000 --- a/45074-h/45074-h.html +++ /dev/null @@ -1,17172 +0,0 @@ -<?xml version='1.0' encoding='utf-8'?> -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC '-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.1//EN' 'http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml11/DTD/xhtml11.dtd'> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> -<head> -<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8" /> -<meta name="generator" content="Docutils 0.12: http://docutils.sourceforge.net/" /> -<style type="text/css"> -/* -Project Gutenberg common docutils stylesheet. - -This stylesheet contains styles common to HTML and EPUB. Put styles -that are specific to HTML and EPUB into their relative stylesheets. - -:Author: Marcello Perathoner (webmaster@gutenberg.org) -:Copyright: This stylesheet has been placed in the public domain. - -This stylesheet is based on: - - :Author: David Goodger (goodger@python.org) - :Copyright: This stylesheet has been placed in the public domain. - - Default cascading style sheet for the HTML output of Docutils. - -*/ - -/* ADE 1.7.2 chokes on !important and throws all css out. */ - -/* FONTS */ - -.italics { font-style: italic } -.no-italics { font-style: normal } - -.bold { font-weight: bold } -.no-bold { font-weight: normal } - -.small-caps { } /* Epub needs italics */ -.gesperrt { } /* Epub needs italics */ -.antiqua { font-style: italic } /* what else can we do ? */ -.monospaced { font-family: monospace } - -.smaller { font-size: smaller } -.larger { font-size: larger } - -.xx-small { font-size: xx-small } -.x-small { font-size: x-small } -.small { font-size: small } -.medium { font-size: medium } -.large { font-size: large } -.x-large { font-size: x-large } -.xx-large { font-size: xx-large } - -.text-transform-uppercase { text-transform: uppercase } -.text-transform-lowercase { text-transform: lowercase } -.text-transform-none { text-transform: none } - -.red { color: red } -.green { color: green } -.blue { color: blue } -.yellow { color: yellow } -.white { color: white } -.gray { color: gray } -.black { color: black } - -/* ALIGN */ - -.left { text-align: left } -.justify { text-align: justify } -.center { text-align: center; text-indent: 0 } -.centerleft { text-align: center; text-indent: 0 } -.right { text-align: right; text-indent: 0 } - -/* LINE HEIGHT */ - -body { line-height: 1.5 } -p { margin: 0; - text-indent: 2em } - -/* PAGINATION */ - -.title, .subtitle { page-break-after: avoid } - -.container, .title, .subtitle, #pg-header - { page-break-inside: avoid } - -/* SECTIONS */ - -body { text-align: justify } - -p.pfirst, p.noindent { - text-indent: 0 -} - -.boxed { border: 1px solid black; padding: 1em } -.topic, .note { margin: 5% 0; border: 1px solid black; padding: 1em } -div.section { clear: both } - -div.line-block { margin: 1.5em 0 } /* same leading as p */ -div.line-block.inner { margin: 0 0 0 10% } -div.line { margin-left: 20%; text-indent: -20%; } -.line-block.noindent div.line { margin-left: 0; text-indent: 0; } - -hr.docutils { margin: 1.5em 40%; border: none; border-bottom: 1px solid black; } -div.transition { margin: 1.5em 0 } - -.vfill, .vspace { border: 0px solid white } - -.title { margin: 1.5em 0 } -.title.with-subtitle { margin-bottom: 0 } -.subtitle { margin: 1.5em 0 } - -/* header font style */ -/* http://dev.w3.org/csswg/css3-fonts/#propdef-font-size */ - -h1.title { font-size: 200%; } /* for book title only */ -h2.title, p.subtitle.level-1 { font-size: 150%; margin-top: 4.5em; margin-bottom: 2em } -h3.title, p.subtitle.level-2 { font-size: 120%; margin-top: 2.25em; margin-bottom: 1.25em } -h4.title, p.subtitle.level-3 { font-size: 100%; margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em; font-weight: bold; } -h5.title, p.subtitle.level-4 { font-size: 89%; margin-top: 1.87em; margin-bottom: 1.69em; font-style: italic; } -h6.title, p.subtitle.level-5 { font-size: 60%; margin-top: 3.5em; margin-bottom: 2.5em } - -/* title page */ - -h1.title, p.subtitle.level-1, -h2.title, p.subtitle.level-2 { text-align: center } - -#pg-header, -h1.document-title { margin: 10% 0 5% 0 } -p.document-subtitle { margin: 0 0 5% 0 } - -/* PG header and footer */ -#pg-machine-header { } -#pg-produced-by { } - -li.toc-entry { list-style-type: none } -ul.open li, ol.open li { margin-bottom: 1.5em } - -.attribution { margin-top: 1.5em } - -.example-rendered { - margin: 1em 5%; border: 1px dotted red; padding: 1em; background-color: #ffd } -.literal-block.example-source { - margin: 1em 5%; border: 1px dotted blue; padding: 1em; background-color: #eef } - -/* DROPCAPS */ - -/* BLOCKQUOTES */ - -blockquote { margin: 1.5em 10% } - -blockquote.epigraph { } - -blockquote.highlights { } - -div.local-contents { margin: 1.5em 10% } - -div.abstract { margin: 3em 10% } -div.image { margin: 1.5em 0 } -div.caption { margin: 1.5em 0 } -div.legend { margin: 1.5em 0 } - -.hidden { display: none } - -.invisible { visibility: hidden; color: white } /* white: mozilla print bug */ - -a.toc-backref { - text-decoration: none ; - color: black } - -dl.docutils dd { - margin-bottom: 0.5em } - -div.figure { margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 3em } - -img { max-width: 100% } - -div.footer, div.header { - clear: both; - font-size: smaller } - -div.sidebar { - margin: 0 0 0.5em 1em ; - border: medium outset ; - padding: 1em ; - background-color: #ffffee ; - width: 40% ; - float: right ; - clear: right } - -div.sidebar p.rubric { - font-family: sans-serif ; - font-size: medium } - -ol.simple, ul.simple { margin: 1.5em 0 } - -ol.toc-list, ul.toc-list { padding-left: 0 } -ol ol.toc-list, ul ul.toc-list { padding-left: 5% } - -ol.arabic { - list-style: decimal } - -ol.loweralpha { - list-style: lower-alpha } - -ol.upperalpha { - list-style: upper-alpha } - -ol.lowerroman { - list-style: lower-roman } - -ol.upperroman { - list-style: upper-roman } - -p.credits { - font-style: italic ; - font-size: smaller } - -p.label { - white-space: nowrap } - -p.rubric { - font-weight: bold ; - font-size: larger ; - color: maroon ; - text-align: center } - -p.sidebar-title { - font-family: sans-serif ; - font-weight: bold ; - font-size: larger } - -p.sidebar-subtitle { - font-family: sans-serif ; - font-weight: bold } - -p.topic-title, p.admonition-title { - font-weight: bold } - -pre.address { - margin-bottom: 0 ; - margin-top: 0 ; - font: inherit } - -.literal-block, .doctest-block { - margin-left: 2em ; - margin-right: 2em; } - -span.classifier { - font-family: sans-serif ; - font-style: oblique } - -span.classifier-delimiter { - font-family: sans-serif ; - font-weight: bold } - -span.interpreted { - font-family: sans-serif } - -span.option { - white-space: nowrap } - -span.pre { - white-space: pre } - -span.problematic { - color: red } - -span.section-subtitle { - /* font-size relative to parent (h1..h6 element) */ - font-size: 100% } - -table { margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em; border-spacing: 0 } -table.align-left, table.align-right { margin-top: 0 } - -table.table { border-collapse: collapse; } - -table.table.hrules-table thead { border: 1px solid black; border-width: 2px 0 0 } -table.table.hrules-table tbody { border: 1px solid black; border-width: 2px 0 } -table.table.hrules-rows tr { border: 1px solid black; border-width: 0 0 1px } -table.table.hrules-rows tr.last { border-width: 0 } -table.table.hrules-rows td, -table.table.hrules-rows th { padding: 1ex 1em; vertical-align: middle } - -table.table tr { border-width: 0 } -table.table td, -table.table th { padding: 0.5ex 1em } -table.table tr.first td { padding-top: 1ex } -table.table tr.last td { padding-bottom: 1ex } -table.table tr.first th { padding-top: 1ex } -table.table tr.last th { padding-bottom: 1ex } - - -table.citation { - border-left: solid 1px gray; - margin-left: 1px } - -table.docinfo { - margin: 3em 4em } - -table.docutils { } - -div.footnote-group { margin: 1em 0 } -table.footnote td.label { width: 2em; text-align: right; padding-left: 0 } - -table.docutils td, table.docutils th, -table.docinfo td, table.docinfo th { - padding: 0 0.5em; - vertical-align: top } - -table.docutils th.field-name, table.docinfo th.docinfo-name { - font-weight: bold ; - text-align: left ; - white-space: nowrap ; - padding-left: 0 } - -/* used to remove borders from tables and images */ -.borderless, table.borderless td, table.borderless th { - border: 0 } - -table.borderless td, table.borderless th { - /* Override padding for "table.docutils td" with "!important". - The right padding separates the table cells. */ - padding: 0 0.5em 0 0 } /* FIXME: was !important */ - -h1 tt.docutils, h2 tt.docutils, h3 tt.docutils, -h4 tt.docutils, h5 tt.docutils, h6 tt.docutils { - font-size: 100% } - -ul.auto-toc { - list-style-type: none } -</style> -<style type="text/css"> -/* -Project Gutenberg HTML docutils stylesheet. - -This stylesheet contains styles specific to HTML. -*/ - -/* FONTS */ - -/* em { font-style: normal } -strong { font-weight: normal } */ - -.small-caps { font-variant: small-caps } -.gesperrt { letter-spacing: 0.1em } - -/* ALIGN */ - -.align-left { clear: left; - float: left; - margin-right: 1em } - -.align-right { clear: right; - float: right; - margin-left: 1em } - -.align-center { margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto } - -div.shrinkwrap { display: table; } - -/* SECTIONS */ - -body { margin: 5% 10% 5% 10% } - -/* compact list items containing just one p */ -li p.pfirst { margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0 } - -.first { margin-top: 0 !important; - text-indent: 0 !important } -.last { margin-bottom: 0 !important } - -span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 1 } -img.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.5em 0 0; max-width: 25% } -span.dropspan { font-variant: small-caps } - -.no-page-break { page-break-before: avoid !important } - -/* PAGINATION */ - -.pageno { position: absolute; right: 95%; font: medium sans-serif; text-indent: 0 } -.pageno:after { color: gray; content: '[' attr(title) ']' } -.lineno { position: absolute; left: 95%; font: medium sans-serif; text-indent: 0 } -.lineno:after { color: gray; content: '[' attr(title) ']' } -.toc-pageref { float: right } - -@media screen { - .coverpage, .frontispiece, .titlepage, .verso, .dedication, .plainpage - { margin: 10% 0; } - - div.clearpage, div.cleardoublepage - { margin: 10% 0; border: none; border-top: 1px solid gray; } - - .vfill { margin: 5% 10% } -} - -@media print { - div.clearpage { page-break-before: always; padding-top: 10% } - div.cleardoublepage { page-break-before: right; padding-top: 10% } - - .vfill { margin-top: 20% } - h2.title { margin-top: 20% } -} - -/* DIV */ -pre { font-family: monospace; font-size: 0.9em; white-space: pre-wrap } -</style> -<title>THE VISION SPLENDID</title> -<meta name="PG.Title" content="The Vision Splendid" /> -<meta name="PG.Id" content="45074" /> -<meta name="DC.Title" content="The Vision Splendid" /> -<meta name="DC.Language" content="en" /> -<meta name="PG.Released" content="2014-03-08" /> -<meta name="PG.Rights" content="Public Domain" /> -<meta name="DC.Created" content="1913" /> -<meta name="DC.Creator" content="D. K. Broster" /> -<meta name="DC.Creator" content="G. W. Taylor" /> -<link rel="coverpage" href="images/img-cover.jpg" /> -<meta name="PG.Reposted" content="2015-08-17 - text corrections" /> -<meta name="PG.Producer" content="Al Haines" /> - -<link rel="schema.DCTERMS" href="http://purl.org/dc/terms/" /> -<link rel="schema.MARCREL" href="http://id.loc.gov/vocabulary/relators/" /> -<meta name="DCTERMS.title" content="The Vision Splendid" /> -<meta name="DCTERMS.source" content="/home/ajhaines/vision/vision.rst" /> -<meta name="DCTERMS.language" scheme="DCTERMS.RFC4646" content="en" /> -<meta name="DCTERMS.modified" scheme="DCTERMS.W3CDTF" content="2015-08-17T16:17:07.447320+00:00" /> -<meta name="DCTERMS.publisher" content="Project Gutenberg" /> -<meta name="DCTERMS.rights" content="Public Domain in the USA." /> -<link rel="DCTERMS.isFormatOf" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/45074" /> -<meta name="DCTERMS.creator" content="D. K. Broster" /> -<meta name="DCTERMS.creator" content="G. W. Taylor" /> -<meta name="DCTERMS.created" scheme="DCTERMS.W3CDTF" content="2014-03-08" /> -<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width" /> -<meta name="generator" content="Ebookmaker 0.4.0a5 by Marcello Perathoner <webmaster@gutenberg.org>" /> -</head> -<body> -<div class="document" id="the-vision-splendid"> -<h1 class="center document-title level-1 pfirst title"><span class="x-large">THE VISION SPLENDID</span></h1> - -<!-- this is the default PG-RST stylesheet --> -<!-- figure and image styles for non-image formats --> -<!-- default transition --> -<!-- default attribution --> -<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> -<div class="clearpage"> -</div> -<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> -<div class="container language-en pgheader" id="pg-header" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>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 </span><a class="reference internal" href="#project-gutenberg-license">Project Gutenberg License</a><span> included with -this ebook or online at </span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/license">http://www.gutenberg.org/license</a><span>. 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.</span></p> -<p class="noindent pnext"></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<div class="container" id="pg-machine-header"> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>Title: The Vision Splendid -<br /> -<br />Author: D. K. Broster and G. W. Taylor -<br /> -<br />Release Date: March 08, 2014 [EBook #45074] -<br />Reposted: August 17, 2015 [- text corrections] -<br /> -<br />Language: English -<br /> -<br />Character set encoding: UTF-8</span></p> -</div> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst" id="pg-start-line"><span>*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK </span><span>THE VISION SPLENDID</span><span> ***</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst" id="pg-produced-by"><span>Produced by Al Haines.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span></span></p> -</div> -<div class="container titlepage"> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="x-large">THE VISION SPLENDID</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">BY</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="large">D. K. BROSTER AND G. W. TAYLOR</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">AUTHOR OF "CHANTEMERLE"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">LONDON: -<br />JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W. -<br />1913</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>BOOK I: </span><a class="reference internal" href="#crag-and-torrent">CRAG AND TORRENT</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>BOOK II: </span><a class="reference internal" href="#garish-day">GARISH DAY</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>BOOK III: </span><a class="reference internal" href="#lead-kindly-light">LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>EPILOGUE: </span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-morn">THE MORN</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="crag-and-torrent"><span class="bold x-large">THE -<br />VISION SPLENDID</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">BOOK I</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold large">CRAG AND TORRENT</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER I</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 -</span><em class="italics">Republic</em><span> 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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...</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 -</span><em class="italics">Scottish Chiefs</em><span> 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Republic</em><span>, was now -starting discontentedly to crawl down again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Really, I am getting morbid!" thought Miss -Grenville; "and here is Papa!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you want me, Papa?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">you</em><span> -if you didn't appreciate me, you know!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia caught at his arm. "Sit down, dearest -Papa," she said half imperiously, half coaxingly, "and -let us discuss the visit to Aunt Julia."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"First," she began, taking hold of the letter, "we -will see what you have said about me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Rector pinched the cheek. "'La Reine le veult,' -as usual, I suppose. Shall you always prefer to stop -with me, Horatia?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Deh vieni</em><span>. So occupied, she heard -the click of the garden gate. "Probably Tristram," she -thought to herself. "It is quite time that he came."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia put down her basket and went towards him, -holding out both hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am so glad that you have come," she said frankly. -"How are you, Tristram?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"As usual, very glad to see you," responded the -young man, smiling. "I wondered if you would be in. -Where is the Rector?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Papa is writing to Aunt Julia, about investments -and about the difficulty of getting me to leave -home."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Before Martha has unpacked your trunks from this -last visit, I suppose you mean?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">you</em><span> 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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram Hungerford laughed. "All the better for -us! It is dull enough without you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A week, Horatia, only a week, and since then it has -been duller than ever."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 -</span><em class="italics">Christian Year</em><span>, and no one to melt you with the -sufferings of the Non-Jurors—which </span><em class="italics">I</em><span> 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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The life, the vitality that responded to hers, dropped -suddenly out of Tristram Hungerford's face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And at that Miss Grenville's face changed too, and -after a moment's pause she said, very seriously, "Why?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I cannot think," said the culprit, "why you dislike -them so."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And after a barely perceptible pause the young man -got up and said that he was.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER II</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How did it go off, Rector?" asked the guest.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, my dear," returned her father, looking round. -"I have not forgotten the meat, but Sarah appears to -have forgotten the plates."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The handmaid fled and remedied her error. It was -no unusual thing for the Rectory crockery to go -voyaging in the cause of charity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Grenville had not.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I recall the circumstance," said the Rector.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you think, then, that we shall have a revolution -in England like the Days of July?" asked Horatia a -little mischievously.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear," said the Rector impressively, "I beg -you will do nothing of the sort. I cannot endure those -young persons."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't argue with her, Tristram," said the Rector. -"She is only teasing you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, no, I can't say that he did," admitted -Mr. Grenville, remembering that port-drinking divine.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">Christian Year</em><span> 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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I," remarked Horatia impenitently, "am -looking forward to seeing each with his one ewe lamb. -How they will cherish their last pupil!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I had a feeling this afternoon, when it was too late, -that I interrupted you with Horatia at an unfortunate -moment."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah," said Mr. Grenville, making his way towards -his favourite chair. "You have told her then that you -mean to take Orders?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I told her that I had practically made up my mind -to do so."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And what did she say?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I gathered that she wasn't surprised, and that she -wasn't altogether pleased," returned Tristram with half -a smile.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why?" asked Tristram with gloom.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You don't really think that she cares—that she -could ever...?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You did everything that was right," interjected -Tristram.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I cannot bear the idea of pestering a girl until she -accepts an offer out of sheer weariness," said Tristram -with some heat.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Five years. I asked her in 1825, the summer before -my mother died."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram shook his head. "There is no 'well,' -Mr. Grenville. It is Horatia or nobody for me."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER III</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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).</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Mensa, -a table</em><span>, the white pony had ceased its visits to the -Rectory, for its rider was in his first term at school.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Defiance</em><span>, 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Defiance</em><span> chased the </span><em class="italics">Mars</em><span> 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER IV</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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....</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Presently the carrier passed her, cracking his whip in -emulation of the </span><em class="italics">Magnet</em><span> or the </span><em class="italics">Regulator</em><span>, 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 </span><em class="italics">Angel</em><span>, and finally pictured the postman -delivering it at Cavendish Square, and Aunt Julia -receiving it at breakfast in the big, handsome, gloomy -dining-room.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER V</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear La Roche-Guyon, where have you been?" -he demanded, as he dismounted and saluted Horatia.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So I see," answered his host a trifle drily. "I rode -back to Risley to look for you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, she does speak well," said the Rector.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Her friends complain, I believe, that they cannot -follow her on that account," murmured Tristram.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We had better let you off, La Roche-Guyon," said -Tristram. "Far be it from us to ask why John Bull -amuses you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have seen Oxford, I suppose, Monsieur?" -inquired the Rector.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have a much better idea than that," she -announced. "Take M. de la Roche-Guyon to see the -White Horse, Papa."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The White Horse, what is that?" inquired the -young man. "An old inn?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia laughed. But the mention of Lafayette -reminded her of recent events.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You were in the revolution, perhaps, Monsieur?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, indeed! But you saw it—you fought in it, -perhaps?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Comte de la Roche-Guyon shrugged his shoulders. -"Yes, I fought a little. But I had bad luck."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, a sad business," said Mr. Grenville sympathetically. -"And you have just come from Lulworth, I -understand. How did you find the King?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What unparalleled misfortunes have been hers!" -said the Rector. "And the Duchesse de Berry?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is her little son, is it not, who is the heir to the -crown?" asked Horatia. "How old is he?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Henry V is this month ten years old," responded -the Comte.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Pardon," he observed in a low voice to the Rector, -"but Mademoiselle your daughter and Mr. Hungerford -are par—relations, I should say?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"For that reason I have always wished to be an -Englishman," was M. de la Roche-Guyon's reply -to this.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Miss Grenville is not concerned to see every man at -her feet."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So I supposed," returned the young Frenchman.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram pulled out his watch. "Shall we trot a -little?" he suggested pleasantly. "It is later than I -thought."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VI</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Really!" murmured his audience.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"M. le Recteur permits that I make my adieux," he -said as he came towards her. "Will Mademoiselle -permit it also?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His voice dropped, and he looked down.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But Louis-Philippe is a Bourbon," she suggested. -"You would not——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His tone and manner were perfect; grave, respectful, -sympathetic, quite without commonplace gallantry. -Horatia was amazed at his penetration.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In a flash Horatia was aware how intimately she had -been talking to him. But he went on:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia coloured. "Do you then notice so much -difference in England?" she asked, for the sake of -saying something.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You seem to know a great deal about it," she -observed, smiling.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He had raised her hand in the graceful foreign fashion -to his lips before she said, "But shall I not see you -to-morrow?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," said Miss Grenville. "And I shall be -interested to observe whether, after dinner, you follow -the English fashion or the French."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"After what you have told me, is there need to ask?"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Horatia went into the house singing. Something -shining and vital seemed to have brushed against her -in passing to-day.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why?" asked Horatia with interest. "What is his -brother like? Is he very different?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Quite," responded Tristram laconically, sitting -down beside her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He is older, is he not?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, by nearly twenty years, I should think."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't imagine this M. de la Roche-Guyon twenty -years older."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is sad for him to be practically an exile," -observed Horatia.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Volontiers, Monsieur. What shall we talk about?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The young man drew his chair a thought nearer. -Conversation was rippling all around them; they were -isolated in a sea of chatter.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I will tell you a secret," he said. "I can tell you in -French, but you must promise me to forget it in -English."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Very well, I promise."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia nodded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And how you blamed the groom of M. Hungerford -or the blacksmith? Eh bien, I alone was to blame!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mais si, si, si!" reiterated the young Frenchman, -his eyes sparkling. "</span><em class="italics">Peccavi nimis, cogitatione, verbo, et -opere</em><span>. I loosened the nails before I left the hillside!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But why?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I should like to give M. Hungerford a golden -horseshoe," proceeded the Comte, watching her. "It is true -that I need not have——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Hush!" said Horatia, "Miss Bailey is going to sing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Under cover of the applause which greeted this -statement, Tristram made his way back to the couple.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"La Roche-Guyon, be prepared to emulate the -songstress. Your fate will be upon you in a moment."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Misericorde!" exclaimed the young man, and at -that moment, indeed, his hostess was seen to be bearing -down upon him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"Dans mon pays, y'en a de plus jolies,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Dans mon pays, y'en a de plus jolies,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Et ran, tan, plan!"</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Thank you, thank you," said the Rector, as he shut -the door. "I hope we shall see you again soon."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"And so, my dear friends," said the Rector, "terrible -as is the idea of the punishment reserved for the -ungodly...."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She wondered if he would ever come to England -again....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are very good," replied Tristram, without -trying to suppress the irony of his tone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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——</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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, </span><em class="italics">I</em><span> should expect -to give him the chance of putting a bullet into me, but -</span><em class="italics">he</em><span> 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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is true," returned Tristram. "We were in -Oxford on Monday evening, La Roche-Guyon and I, and -saw it——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Saw it! Well, was it as bad as I have heard?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And what were the escort about, pray?" demanded -Mr. Grenville indignantly. "What were they, by the way?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 -</span><em class="italics">stuff</em><span>. Is not that so?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What you say is profoundly true," answered -Mr. Grenville, impressed; but at that moment the door -opened and Horatia came in.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>An "Oh!" of surprise escaped her, for she imagined -the young Frenchman to have gone, and without taking -leave.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are a ghost!" she said to him, recovering -herself. "I thought you were leaving us to-day."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I am going on now to ask the Edward Puseys; -they are still at Pusey with Lady Lucy, I believe."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Permit me to say that I don't believe you are really -frightened of anybody in the world," observed Tristram -smiling.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia turned to Armand, who had been sitting -unusually silent. "Doesn't it flatter you, Monsieur, that -Papa's ideal woman should be French?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mademoiselle," returned the Comte instantly, with -an inclination, "our ideal women are always of another -nationality than our own!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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? </span><em class="italics">I</em><span> don't -know Hebrew!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mr. Hungerford told me something, but I am afraid -I did not listen; I was not interested."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And Miss Grenville, plucking the wet rose, found -herself replying, to her no small amazement:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That depends on Mr. Hungerford."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VIII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She took the letter and read:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear Horatia,—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Miss Grenville, on reading these lines, stamped her -foot.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How tiresome, O how tiresome! Why could not -Tristram have gone to Oxford any other night!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are sorry that Mr. Hungerford cannot come to -the dance?" inquired the Comte, who seemed already -acquainted with the purport of the note.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, of course!" flashed Horatia, out of her burst -of indignation. "Are you, then, glad of it, Monsieur?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Miss Grenville saw fit to take no notice of this -sentiment, continuing along her own line of thought.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have seen a good deal of him," said Horatia, -restored to good humour, for she discerned a common -feeling.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But Mr. Dormer is not a priest," returned Horatia, -half amused.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What book?" asked Horatia, mystified.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"High Church?" queried the young Frenchman, -"what is that? And what queer things is it that they -do?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia hastened to assure him that she had never -suspected him of this, and they both laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">La Gazza Ladra</em><span> give place to -</span><em class="italics">Basque Roads</em><span>, </span><em class="italics">Der Freischütz</em><span> to </span><em class="italics">Drops of Brandy</em><span>. 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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who is that extremely attractive young lady -dancing with the French count—there, in yellow—a -prodigious fine dancer?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Probably one of the Trenchard girls, thought the -Rector, and looked. But no! He pursed his lips. -"That is my daughter," quoth he.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who do?" asked Mr. Grenville rather unwisely, as -the golden dress came past again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The music stopped (a little out of tune).</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you giddy?" asked Armand tenderly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A little," said Horatia, with truth. "It is so hot..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But she would not sit down.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I must go back to Papa."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not yet. He will have you all the days, and I have -only these so few moments more of you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are really leaving to-morrow?" asked -Horatia in a conventional tone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Si fait. I return to Lulworth, and thence to Paris. -And you will never think of me again."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia did not answer this time, for she found she -could not.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He crushed her hands fiercely to his lips. Her head -whirled a second; then she tore them away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Please go ... ask Papa to come and fetch me -here ... I will not go back into the room...."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And loud through the strains of </span><em class="italics">The New-Rigged -Ship</em><span>, now pouring under the archway, she heard the -heartless marching beat of </span><em class="italics">Joli Tambour</em><span>.</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"Dans mon pays, y'en a de plus jolies,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Dans mon pays, y'en a de plus jolies,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Et ran, tan, plan!"</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is that my cloak? Thank you, Papa, very much. -It is time to go, is it not, though it is not quite over."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Everything I want, thank you, Papa."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My darling, what is it?" he said, putting out a -hand to her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nothing," replied Horatia, swallowing the tears. -"I am tired ... and stupid ... I danced too -much..."</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>("Dans mon pays y'en a de plus jolies,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Dans mon pays y'en a de plus jolies!")</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER IX</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Gentleman's -Magazine</em><span>, 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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. </span><em class="italics">I</em><span> 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...."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This indeed the old dame did with much thoroughness -and repetition, after which she seemed disposed for -general conversation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That there French count, Miss; a likely young -gentleman, I hears; he be gone from these parts now, -bain't he?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I believe so," said Horatia. "But you were telling -me about your grandson?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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..."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">The Tales of a -Grandfather</em><span>. And Dash, on the hearthrug, would -whimper in his sleep because he had dreams of rabbits -which he never caught....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Or was it she herself? But what had she to expect? -Nothing—nothing again, for ever.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>... 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—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"It was a' for our rightfu' King</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>We left fair Scotland's strand;</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>It was a' for our rightfu' King</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>We e'er saw Irish land,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>My dear—</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>We e'er saw Irish land.</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>"He turn'd him right and round about</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Upon the Irish shore;</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>And gae his bridle-reins a shake,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>With, Adieu for evermore,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>My dear—</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>With, Adieu for evermore!"</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>And on the heels of the lines, a mocking commentary, -came floating Sir Walter's version—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>A feather of the blue,</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>A doublet of the Lincoln green—</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>No more of me ye knew,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>My Love!</span></div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>No more of me ye knew!"</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And at that moment Armand de la Roche-Guyon -came round the corner of the road.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What, are you not gone?" she faltered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER X</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Pray not to think of it," said Armand politely. "I -have made arrangements to post from the </span><em class="italics">Fox</em><span>. Already -you have been too kind in taking me so many times to -Oxford.... And now I have to beg of you another -kindness."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am at your service," said Tristram, finding and -inserting the key.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He ceased, and in Tristram's head the ticks of the -half-resuscitated clock rang like gongs.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When did this happen?" he asked—or someone asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you want me to do?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Fox</em><span> had just sent to say that they -had no post-horses this morning, there having been some -mistake about the order yesterday.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, not for worlds! I will go round to the </span><em class="italics">Fox</em><span> 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So </span><em class="italics">this</em><span> 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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He shut the door and looked round with positive -ferocity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is that young scamp here?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram regarded him dizzily. "No ... I don't -think so," he answered, as if he were not quite sure.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It was only last night, then, as he says?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What does Horatia say?" asked Tristram, very white.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When Tristram came back into the dining-room the -Rector was still standing thunderstruck on the hearth-rug.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well!" he ejaculated pregnantly, "for sheer -impudence commend me to one of that nation!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Couldn't you see it coming, Tristram?" he -repeated. "Although I was such a fool, couldn't </span><em class="italics">you</em><span> see -it. But there, they say Love is blind. It must be, or -you would never have ... have..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"From what I know of Horatia, I am afraid that I don't."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But you are going to propose to her yourself!" -said the Rector in accents of amazement, slewing round -in his chair.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Out of his pain Tristram showed his own surprise. -"No, not now; it's impossible."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Stuff and nonsense!" said Mr. Grenville with great -directness. "Then I shall tell her myself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram smiled a rather dreary smile, thinking that -even the successful suitor was not finding this course -altogether satisfactory.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And the sudden passion of this last utterance left -Horatia's father dumb.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XI</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Jackson's Oxford Journal</em><span>; -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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(3)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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...</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was at this point when a knock came at the door.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But </span><em class="italics">you</em><span> have promised definitely to undertake them."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>If he had, the circumstance was so unusual—save -perhaps in his present company—as scarcely to call -for apology.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," said Dormer, watching him suddenly rather -intently. "It was Robert Wilberforce."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When I was talking to Froude the other day he -seemed to hold a different opinion," said Tristram.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Froude is almost too bold. He doesn't seem to care -what he says."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why shouldn't it be done, then?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram laughed. "Is that the result of your studies -at Dartington last month, Froude? I thought you were -working at the English Reformers."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That is Colyton church tower which you are pleased -to admire," said he.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your guest has gone, I suppose?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Went this morning," responded his friend, briefly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I thought he was to leave yesterday."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He stayed another night. Good-bye; I must go."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wait a moment," urged Dormer. "I want you to -read that." And he tossed a letter across the table.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"From Habington," remarked Tristram, taking it -up. "What has he got to say?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You read it and see," persisted Dormer. "I wish -someone would tell </span><em class="italics">me</em><span> what to say. I haven't the knack -of writing to people in his interesting situation."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram read the letter as desired, Dormer studying -him the while. Something </span><em class="italics">had</em><span> happened!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Habington engaged to be married!" exclaimed -Tristram. "Well, I must say I am surprised. I thought -he was a convert to your celibate views."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I thought so once too, but, apart from Froude, and -perhaps Newman, I intend to believe in no man's -constancy in future."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're very fierce, Charles!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then," said Tristram slowly, "if I marry after I -take Orders I shall not be what I might have been?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was gone, and Dormer, half-risen from his chair, -was left staring at the closed door.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>But as Tristram rode over Folly Bridge, where the -river ran yellow in the sunset, he knew that his course -lay plain before him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But his course was plain. He rode on up the hill.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She smiled at him divinely when he had finished.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have already told him," said Tristram, "that if -I thought the match was for your happiness, I should -uphold it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">My happiness</em><span>! You cannot doubt that, can you, -Tristram?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He did not answer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Papa is in his study," she suggested. "Suppose -you were to go now and see what you can do with him?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I will try," he answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She came after him to the door, thanking him. He -could not have borne much more.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am afraid," he said at last, "that I have been -worse than useless, for I have promised to try to -persuade </span><em class="italics">you</em><span>."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Rector veered round in his chair to face him. -"You, </span><em class="italics">you</em><span>, 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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was the final turn of the screw. Tristram left him -and went over to the window.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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...."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you know about this young man?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram told him about the family, while the Rector -turned the coin over and over.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, that's all right, I suppose, but what about the -young man himself?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Frankly, I don't know any more than you do."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But you have your suspicions, eh? Young Frenchmen -don't bear a very good character, and you know that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nor do all young Englishmen."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, not a rumour of the kind you mean."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And yet," said the Rector, "you share my feelings -about him. I know you do!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XIII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Be this the way to Little Compton?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dook! Wot's a furrin Dook?" queried the -exclusive Bill, and spat on the ground.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">his</em><span> -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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, indeed," said Tristram. "If you will come in, -M. le Duc..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram now remembered to have heard something -of an autocratic old Dowager Duchess, the Duke's -mother.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are trusting me with a good deal, La Roche-Guyon," -Tristram was moved to remark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Parbleu, are you not my friend!" retorted the -Frenchman. "Besides, you are one of those people -whom it is natural to trust."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Duc looked after him with a little smile of amusement -and affection flitting across his delicate bloodless -lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That is the signal for us to begin our 'conversations,' -Monsieur. You have plenipotentiary powers, I think?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The older man bowed. "You are a kinsman, I -think, Monsieur?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Distant," said Tristram. "I rather count myself -an old friend."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of M. Grenville or of Mademoiselle?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of both."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am solely desirous of Miss Grenville's happiness," -responded Tristram, his eyes on the foot of his wineglass.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you think that the match with my son will -ensure it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How can I possibly say? But I hope that it may -take place."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That I know," conceded M. de la Roche-Guyon. -"But it is not generally understood in France."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For a second Tristram was taken aback by this -pertinent inquiry, for he had really forgotten the -Rector's one time vehement opposition.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think," he said, "that you will find Mr. Grenville -... in short, that that difficulty does not now exist."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The younger man smiled. He felt suddenly very weary.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Duke seemed to have fallen into a short reverie.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And he flicked with one long, polished nail at the two -heaps of almonds, scattering them.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(3)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Congratulate me, mon ami! And ah, how much I -owe it to you!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XIV</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Moving on, they came to the edge of the Downs, the -great wind still blowing steadily upon them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My cousin!" broke in Horatia, laughing. "Whom -do you mean?—That is tight enough, I think."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mais ce bon Tristram. He is your kinsman ... or -have you all been deceiving me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, you would not," said Horatia suddenly. "He -would have behaved just the same, when he found that -I really loved you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If you like," said Horatia, looking at her horse's -ears. There was a vague trouble in her voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If </span><em class="italics">I</em><span> 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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia looked absolutely horrified. "Mr. Dormer!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At last he saw the comfortable form of Mrs. Martha -Kemblet, Horatia's maid, coming towards him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Miss Horatia has just come in, Sir; she's in the -drawing-room."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Thank you," said Tristram. "By the way, you -are going to France with her, Mrs. Kemblet, are you -not?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>After all, their parting was unimaginably short. -Perhaps he would not have had it otherwise.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was standing in the drawing-room, when he got -in, turning up a newly-lit lamp.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I was in the garden," he answered. "I could well -wait..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shall see you in London?" asked Horatia -needlessly, turning to the lamp again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="garish-day"><span class="bold large">BOOK II</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">BOOK II</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold large">GARISH DAY</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER I</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Mysteries of Udolpho</em><span> or the </span><em class="italics">Tales of -Terror and Wonder</em><span>, 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(3)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Because," answered Armand, with equal candour -and cleverness, "I was within an ace or two of marrying -her."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia jumped. "O!" she exclaimed. Her eyes -opened wide at him, and she could find no more to say.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did you ... did you...?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"... So you see," she heard Armand concluding, -"that it was very much an affair of chance, was it not?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"O my darling!" she cried with a shudder.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(4)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Madame la Comtesse is not Catholic?" he asked -after a while, turning on her a not unkindly gaze.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," answered Horatia, flushing a little. "I am -English, you know, M. le Curé."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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! ...</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—</span><em class="italics">Benedicat -vos Pater et Filius et Spiritus Sanctus</em><span>!" He -cut the air crosswise with his not overclean hand, -and before the astonished couple could find speech, had -hurried from the room.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Prosper?" questioned Horatia doubtfully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then suddenly she felt the gaze of the lady over the -hearth, and looked up.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wonder shall I ever be so happy anywhere," she -murmured. "Good-bye, dear house!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It appears to me," said Armand gaily, "that my -wife is on the way to love the house better than its owner."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER II</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"O, hold me close, Armand!" she whispered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ma soeur, soyez la bienvenue!" he said. "Tu -permets, mon cher?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you are four months older!" said his brother, -in a tone full of delicate implications, as they embraced.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, scapegrace," then observed Madame de la -Roche-Guyon to her grandson, as he too kissed her, -"what have you to say for yourself?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Only this," replied Armand smiling, and indicating -Horatia.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No one," responded Armand. "It is early days to -begin that, grandmother."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am sure, my dear," she said, addressing herself to -Horatia, "that you left a great many broken hearts -behind you in England."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Alas, Madame, not one, I fear," said the bride.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You look strong and healthy, my child," was her -first observation, and so unmistakable was her -meaning that Horatia blushed hot crimson.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>(Why "poor" and "ill-fated," Horatia wondered.)</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Very much indeed, Madame."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>How little she knew Armand! But it was more -politic not to show indignation, and Horatia only -murmured that she would remember.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are not a Catholic, my child?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, Madame," answered Horatia, saying to herself, -"Now she will bring out the family Monsignor to convert -me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Here, ma fille, is something for you," she said, -putting into Horatia's hands an old green leather case. -"Open it!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The bride did so. Inside, on a dark and shabby -lining, a row of magnificent pearls made moonlight.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"O, Madame," gasped Horatia. "I could not! they -are too..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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...?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(3)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER III</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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 ...</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia did not like the Marquise de Beaulieu.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(3)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Horatia was destined also to see Paris under a less -smiling aspect.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(4)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, no," reiterated Horatia. "He did not mean to, -I am sure. It was my stupidity ... I slipped."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Take my vinaigrette, child," said the Duchesse, -fumbling among her blackness and beads.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My sister was not frightened," observed the Marquis -quietly. It was true; but Armand continued to breathe -out slaughter all the way home.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER IV</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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. "</span><em class="italics">Ego conjungo vos -in matrimonium, in nomine...</em><span>" 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But they talked during the meal of other things. -Once settled in the study before the fire, however, -Tristram began without preamble.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now, Charles, I want to hear exactly what the -doctor says."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But, seriously, doesn't he think you any better for -these weeks at Colyton?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What does he say—beyond the farm labourer -idea?" asked Tristram anxiously.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram's heart sank.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then what are you going to do?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, there isn't much choice for me," responded -his friend sighing. "He recommends, I might say he -orders, a voyage."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Mediterranean."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That," said Tristram with decision, "is where I -have wanted to go all my life. I shall come with you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, never mind that now," said Tristram, abandoning -the poker. "I never did like those Cambridge -men!—Suppose we go to bed."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(3)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At last, however, the subject suddenly ran dry, and -Tristram, getting up, went to the doorway to see if the -storm were over.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Dormer obeyed, and then, still sitting on the shaft, -he launched a disturbing question.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram hesitated a second, then he took the plunge. -"I am glad to get away, but there is something else."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I thought so," said his friend quietly. "Do you -mean to tell me about it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course," replied Tristram. "I should have told -you last night, but I didn't want my affairs to keep you -awake."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Charles, I cannot be ordained!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(4)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tell me what you think I should do, Charles. -Surely you see that I can't be ordained?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Impossible for you, perhaps, but then you are one -of the most unselfish people I have ever met."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wish I could believe you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram looked straight at him to see if he could -read anything more in his expression.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know that I can trust you, so to speak," he -said slowly. "I think you are too kind—to other people."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Dormer raised his eyebrows with a little smile. "Am I?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, that's just it. It fairly breaks me to feel that -I have given her up, perhaps, only to sorrow and -neglect."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"To go back to what you said this morning, that you -wanted her more than you have ever wanted her in your -life—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The more I think of it the more I believe you to be -experiencing the inevitable struggle </span><em class="italics">after</em><span> the sacrifice -has been made. Even our Lord knew what that was."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you mean?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(5)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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....</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER V</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Horatia had reason to remember that day at -Versailles, because of what occurred on the following -morning.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not ... not see so much of Armand!" gasped -Horatia, stupefied. "Not see so much of my husband!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But, Madame," ejaculated Horatia, scarcely believing -her ears, "I don't under——what can you possibly -mean? If </span><em class="italics">I</em><span> cannot spend the day with Armand——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Even my own husband!" flashed Horatia.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The victory—or at all events the last stroke in -battle—undoubtedly remained with Madame de la Roche-Guyon.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(3)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"'The Tenth Muse'?" asked Horatia. "Who is she?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And she is going to read us some of her poems now?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"To recite them. She has a divine voice and manner."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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,</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"On trouva dans l'enceinte où le temple s'élève</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Sur l'autel une lyre ... et près du seuil un glaive."</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This time it was a Hymn to Ste Généviève.</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"Patronne de France, amour de nos aieux ..."</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"Le bonheur d'être belle. Dedicated to Madame</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Récamier."</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -<div class="line"><span>"Quel bonheur d'être belle, alors qu'on est aimée!</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Autrefois de mes yeux je n'étais pas charmée;</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Je les croyais sans feu, sans douceur, sans regard;</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Je me trouvais jolie un moment par hasard.</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Maintenant ma beauté me parait admirable.</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Je m'aime de lui plaire, et je me crois aimable....</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Il le dit si souvent! Je l'aime, et quand je vois</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Ses yeux avec plaisir se reposer sur moi,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Au sentiment d'orgueil je ne suis point rebelle,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Je bénis mes parents de m'avoir fait si belle.</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Mais ... pourquoi dans mon coeur ces subites alarmes?—</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Si notre amour tous deux nous trompait sur mes charmes:</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Si j'étais laide enfin? Non ... il s'y connaît mieux!</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>D'ailleurs pour m'admirer je ne veux que ses yeux!—</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Bientôt il va venir! bientôt il va me voir!</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Comme, en me regardant, il sera beau ce soir!</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Le voilà! je l'entends, c'est sa voix amoureuse!</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Quel bonheur d'être belle! Oh, que je suis heureuse!"</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And then came his voice in her ear, sudden and by -no means "amoureuse."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"For God's sake let us go!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You were bored, I am afraid?" she hazarded, as -the carriage started.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And, had it not been Armand who spoke, Horatia -would have thought the voice thoroughly bad-tempered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Armand could not but perceive her shrink, and the -lover conquered the sulky male. He caught her hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">was</em><span> so bored!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I forgive you," she said.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VI</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<!-- --> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"O temps, suspends ton vol, et vous, heures propices,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Suspendez votre cours!</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>Laissez-nous savourer les rapides délices</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Des plus beaux de nos jours!"</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>—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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But a great many ladies of your world, as you call -them, have literary salons, surely," pleaded Horatia.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Like the one the other day? No, not many are left -now, and what there are are mostly Orleanist."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What about Madame Récamier?" suggested -Horatia. "Would not the presence of Monsieur de -Chateaubriand be a guarantee of right principles?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And with that promise—as yet unfulfilled, Horatia -was forced to be content....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her eyes went back to her book.</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"O temps, suspends ton vol——"</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"Laissez-nous savourer les rapides délices..."</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span><em class="italics">Robinson -Crusoe</em><span>, </span><em class="italics">Don Quixote</em><span>, a few sheets of the -</span><em class="italics">Arabian Nights</em><span>, </span><em class="italics">The Scottish Chiefs</em><span>, </span><em class="italics">Susan Gray</em><span>—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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The letter concluded, "I hope, my darling, that you -are still very happy. If you are, so is your old -Papa."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The letter fell on to </span><em class="italics">Les Harmonies</em><span>. 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? ...</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Church!" exclaimed Horatia. "That young -man! Oh, Lady Granville, how ... how unusual! -Is he going to be a priest?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">L'Avenir</em><span>, -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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And all this excitement is about the Church?" -said Horatia musingly. "How strange, because in -England too—at least at Oxford..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear, </span><em class="italics">surely</em><span> there are no Charles de -Montalemberts at Oxford—of all places! Besides, why -should there be?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A curious sick coldness came over Horatia; yet the -red mounted to her cheeks. The Marquise observed it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, of course not," said Horatia, battling for -composure, "but..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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....</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What is it?" she asked, genuinely amazed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You went yesterday to the English Embassy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Eh bien, what is it then?" asked her husband.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I beg your pardon for supposing that you knew -what you were doing," he said, still rather stiffly. "You -see, Horatia, do you not—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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,</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you really angry with me, Armand?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her victory was instantaneous.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Bon jour, chère amie!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She had not heard his knock, nor his entrance. -Hastily and stealthily she dabbed at her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia, her face nearly concealed by the pillow and -the tumbled masses of her hair, murmured something -unintelligible.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Madame de Beaulieu says it is hideous," sighed -Horatia between two little sobs.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She let him do so, and even clung to him. "Promise -me, promise me, that you will always love me, Armand!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">The good old phrase again!</em><span>" 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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My darling," he said, and kissed the top of her head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Perhaps the slaughter she made of me yesterday -will content her," suggested her husband cheerfully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And would he love her just as much ... or more ... if, if—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was still gazing, with a dream in her half-smiling -eyes, when Martha came to dress her.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VIII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Abreast of Armand she called out softly,</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Monsieur de la Roche-Guyon!" and the carriage -drew up.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You in Paris—you!" he exclaimed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"With your permission," said the Vicomtesse, -smiling. "Or even, Monsieur, without it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Armand, hat in hand, stared at her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Where have you been all this while?" he asked at -last.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In Italy," replied she. "And you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When?" asked the Comte eagerly. "At the usual -time—three?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Madame de Vigerie shook her head. "Oh no, not -now! I am at home on Tuesdays at eight.—Yes, to the -Champs Elysées."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Nevertheless, she was back, and Armand was -conscious of a distinct lightening of his spirits.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"This is a new avocation for you, mon cher," -observed the Marquis, tapping him on the shoulder.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are not in the least likely to find that here. -It is rather rare."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He crossed the road; and the Marquis looked after -his alert young back with a certain wistfulness before -he continued his peregrination.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, that was a foolish thing to say. But surely it -would not matter so very much if we did go in April?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am afraid that it would."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia had been gripping the closed book with a -curious intensity. "Why would it matter, Armand? -I do want so much to be there."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Armand shifted uneasily. "My dear, I am very -sorry——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Armand raised his eyebrows. "My dear, I am -afraid that is the last reason I could ever give them."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Know what?" asked Armand, uncomfortably -conscious that he had struck much harder than he -intended. "Horatia, do not go like that. I——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(3)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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...</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(4)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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,</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I was coming to see you. I have got your book."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So soon?" said she. "You are a marvel; a thousand -thanks!" And she held out her hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The young man shook his head, smiling. "I was -coming to see you," he repeated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Madame de Vigerie smiled too. "Very well," she -said, "But not now, for I am not going home. Come -some afternoon next week."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Armand's face fell a little. "That is very much -deferred payment," he observed. "And perhaps I -may not be in Paris."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Indeed? And where are you going?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My wife is absolutely set on going to Brittany at once."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But why?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Heaven alone knows. I do not."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you want me to say?" enquired the -Comte, cautiously.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"To congratulate me? ... On what?" Enlightenment -came in the midst of his wonder. "Juste -ciel! So that was why——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You don't mean to say that you really did not -know—that she did not tell you just now?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In that sentiment," observed his grandmother, -"I fully concur. And what did you say about Brittany?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I—well, I refused to go."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER IX</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You read a great deal, Madame, do you not?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I used to," answered Horatia rather wistfully. "I -have always been fond of reading French," she added.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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, </span><em class="italics">Notre Dame de Paris</em><span>."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia thanked her warmly, and the visitor went on -to admire the garden and the fountain, "which I always -envy so much," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia, too, looked out of the window at the little -figure.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Vicomtesse," said Armand laughing, "you have -made that up!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Fi donc, Monsieur!" retorted the guest. "You -do not know the history of your own family!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He is scandalously ignorant," agreed Horatia. -"But, Madame, if I may ask, how do you know it so -well?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Never. But if you, Madame, would remedy his -negligence?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Willingly," responded the Vicomtesse. "I am -never so happy as when I am imparting information."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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. "</span><em class="italics">Cor muliebre -his aquis mutabilius</em><span>," she read, and Horatia fell an -instant convert to the continental mode of pronouncing -Latin.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And was the faithless lady happy?" she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Certainly not," responded Armand. "It is -derogatory to my ancestor, and for my part I am little -disposed to believe it now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In the face of that evidence?" asked Madame de -Vigerie, pointing to the statue.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(3)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How much I envy you this garden," she said, undisturbed. -"Above all I love this little green fountain."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Armand sat down on the rim of the basin, facing her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Permit me to offer it to you," he said. "It should -have been yours this four hundred years or more."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, my fickle ancestress!" said Madame de -Vigerie, dabbling her hand in the water. Goldfish from -all parts hurried towards it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What a bait!" said Armand below his breath.... -"Where is my wife?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Showing a visitor round the garden. You should -be there, too."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Laurence," said the young man suddenly, "don't -you think that you are treating me very badly?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"O, I hope not!" said the Vicomtesse quite seriously.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We were friends once," said Armand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And now—surely not enemies?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"On my soul, I had rather have you for an enemy -than for—an acquaintance!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A compliment?" asked the Vicomtesse. "Yes, -I suppose it is.... Armand, I have fallen in love -... with your wife."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If that is, in return, a compliment to me, I thank -you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You find me not worthy?" he inquired.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When the visitor had departed and Armand, too, had -vanished, the two friends walked up and down under -the limes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You will be as busy as I for the next few weeks, then?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Ourika</em><span>, -however, and the other tales of Madame de Duras. I -did not admire them very much; perhaps I ought -to have done so."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(4)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She came one day into his sanctum, where he was -doing something absorbing with a fowling-piece.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you very busy, dear? Yes, I see you are. I -will come another time."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I want you," replied Horatia, mysteriously sparkling, -"to come upstairs to the old armoury. I have -something to ask you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And then?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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...."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But the partitioning——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course. It is an excellent idea. Do just as you -like." And he turned to go.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But, Armand, I thought you would advise me about -that. You see, if the day nursery were at this side, -where the sun ..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Upstairs, among the plundered armour, Horatia -stood with her head against the window and cried.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER X</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Where are you going, Claude?" she asked. "If -you are looking for the old armoury, you will not find -it, I am afraid."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The boy turned an amazed face to her. "Has it -gone? What is there, then?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It has been turned into nurseries. Would you like -to see them?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mounting beside her, her nephew assented. "But -for what purpose do you need nurseries? I have not -seen any baby."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But certainly," agreed Claude-Edmond with his -wisest air. "Though I have been told that it is not the -marchande des choux after all..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Never mind," interrupted Horatia quickly. "Come -in and see how the room is altered. It is ready for -the furniture now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Oh, home, home, and the unforgettable memories, -bitter and sweet at once, of those early mornings!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are not crying, ma tante?" asked Claude-Edmond -a little anxiously, as she stopped.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, no ... I was only wishing there were a -birch tree here too."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We could easily find one and put it there," said -the boy, at once sympathetic.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But that we could make," suggested the practical -Claude-Edmond.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">If I like!</em><span>" exclaimed the boy, enraptured.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can hardly credit you with so much vulgarity," -retorted Armand freezingly, and the Marquise went -unescorted down the steps.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">was</em><span> 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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,</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Armand, have you a double in these parts?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not that I am aware of," responded her husband -tranquilly, without looking up from the apple that he -was peeling. "Why?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I went, but I did not see her. She was not receiving. -Tell me about your visit to M. des Charnières."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(3)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At last she too came to the end.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My fingers are quite stiff," protested Armand. -"What yours must be I cannot think."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Insubordinate, forsooth!" muttered Armand, -obeying her. "And lazy, ma foi! Do not ask me to -copy any more lists for you!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Great Heavens, why? Next week—it is only the -beginning of September!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know," murmured Madame de Vigerie, busy -with the papers. "But I have to go.... One, -two, three, five—where is page four?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Confound page four! Laurence, cease being a -conspirator and be a human woman.... You -cannot go suddenly like that!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shall follow you to Paris," announced the Comte -de la Roche-Guyon after a moment's silence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wish," broke out the young man petulantly, -swinging round from the window, "that you would -leave my wife out of this!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wonder," he said slowly, "if there is such a -thing as a good devil? If there is, you are it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Merci! Well, now my homily is over, shall we -copy the other list?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XI</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then I cannot write to her, for you will not be -seeing her either?" came his wife's voice after a -moment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear, I am so sorry," he said—and he </span><em class="italics">was</em><span> -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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What on earth is the matter with you this evening?" -she demanded. "You look as if you had been to a -funeral."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But if I am to see you occasionally, I can -communicate through you," protested Madame de Vigerie, -still amazed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(3)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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....</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(4)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course, I had forgotten," said Horatia. "We -will be very busy, and pretend we are at home in -England."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Nothing was too much trouble to serve Madame, she -was assured, and the young milliner fluttered away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I thought that was only gossip," said the other.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The footman came back to the carriage and said -respectfully:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"M. le Comte left about a quarter of an hour ago, -Madame."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am too late, then," said Horatia quietly. "Home, -please."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>However, though Emmanuel would not interrupt -himself, he was interrupted, with the last seaweed under -a magnifying glass, by a knock.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come in," he called out, rather vexed. On removing -his gaze from the brown fronds, he beheld his sister-in-law.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Please do not trouble," returned Horatia. "I only -wanted to ask you a trifling question.—How far is the -château of Rosdael from Kerfontaine?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Emmanuel, already on his way to the bell, stopped, -looking surprised. "Rosdael? Do you mean where -old M. des Charnières used to live?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Used to live!" repeated Horatia like a flash. "Why -do you say 'used to live'? Does he not live there -now?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia sank on the nearest chair, book-laden as -it was.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you mean, Emmanuel, by 'recently'?" -she asked. "Last week—last month?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you sure it was August?" interrupted Horatia -leaning forward.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I have heard that story before," said Horatia -in a strange voice, which the Marquis was too busy to -notice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(3)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Armand's step at the door—already.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But you have always known it!" exclaimed her -husband, with every sign of amazement, "Politics——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nor did I think—once—that you were the sort -of man to do them."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have not," said he steadily. "Madame de -Vigerie is of a reputation as unsullied as you yourself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia smiled very bitterly. "Do you usually leave -her house as early as you did this afternoon?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not being in the habit of going there regularly, I -have naturally no 'usual' hour for leaving," countered -Armand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, I forgot—you never go there now because of -'politics'; it is too dangerous!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I knew that," said Horatia.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I thought so," said her husband to himself. "May -I ask how you knew it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"After what those women said, I came to see."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The young man shrugged his shoulders. "In spite -of all my adjurations and your promise! Well, let us -hope that nobody saw you!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia gave a little gasp of anger. "And what of -the people who have seen you going there?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Armand stiffened. "Please do not speak of Madame -de Vigerie like that! You have no right—none -whatever, on my soul."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia laughed. "It is your duty to champion her. -Which of you invented the story about your visit to -Rosdael last August?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Rosdael? I do not know what you mean," said -Armand; but he looked uneasy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Precaution!" exclaimed Horatia. "Precaution -against what?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Armand made a gesture. "Ma chère, against the -very attitude which you are now taking up. It seems -it was not unneeded."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, I do not understand you. How could I ever -need to be told a lie, for any reason?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, because—— Did Eulalie de Beaulieu, when -she was at Kerfontaine, ever put any ideas into your -head about Madame de Vigerie and me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Certainly not," replied Horatia haughtily. "And -for one thing I should not have listened to her."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Armand drew himself up, the pattern of slandered -honour.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She stopped abruptly, very white, with dilated eyes -sind a hand at her heart.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Armand had the sense to dash to the bell and to -pull it furiously.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Maurice-Victor-Stanislas-Etienne-Marie-Charles de la -Roche-Guyon was born next day, at half past eleven -in the morning.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XIII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Mrs. Martha Kemblet to her sister Mrs. Polly White, -Paris, November 28th, 1831.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"My dear Polly,</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">I</em><span> 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The eyes in question, which were indeed more -blue than grey, were now staring up unwinkingly -and rather disconcertingly at the young man.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"M. le Comte would not wish to hold him?" suggested -the nurse.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Si," answered Armand. "Give him to me. He -will not break, hein?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, my good Martha," said Armand, "what do -you think of him?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He has need to take to someone, has he not?" -observed Armand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Martha," said the Comte, surrendering his -offspring, "never buy your bonnets at Herbault's. -But you don't, I suppose."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(3)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Armand sat down with an air of resignation, and -looked across the bed at Prosper.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't want to preach you a sermon, my dear -Armand," replied the priest. "I think recent events -must have done that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Armand!" protested his grandmother, with prudery -so manifestly histrionic that even Prosper turned -away to hide a smile.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(4)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia, as white as her dressing-gown, was sitting -with her back to the door, looking into the fire, her -hands folded before her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Martha," came at last the languid voice, "do you -think he is my baby at all?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XIV</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Armand had just come into her boudoir with his arms -full of flowers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are very kind," replied his wife evenly. "If -you will ring for Joséphine I will tell her to put them -in the nursery."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Suddenly he looked up and met her glance full. "Then -you still do not believe me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That is your last word, Horatia?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I think so," said she wearily. "Would you -mind going now, and telling Martha to come to me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Soit!" said the Comte between his teeth, and -walked to the door.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It is enormously to Armand's credit that he did not -bang the door.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(3)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(4)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Laurence de Vigerie's heart moved in her breast to -meet him, and she made no attempt to disguise that she -was glad.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear friend," she exclaimed, giving him both -her hands, "where have you been these years—these -centuries? And how is Horatia?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think Horatia should have believed you," said -Madame de Vigerie in rather a hard voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The young man gave a sound like a groan. "Must -you know the real reason?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If I am ever to forgive you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Never, in all his hours of gaiety and success had -Armand de la Roche-Guyon so appealed to Laurence de -Vigerie as now. He </span><em class="italics">had</em><span> made wreckage, and he -would be the first to suffer. She saw him swept to the -feet of the worthless.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XV</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In how many weeks shall we be home again, did -you say?" he asked suddenly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram raised a bronzed face from his newspaper. -"In about six, I reckon. Why? Is anything the matter?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But you have been wanting all the summer to be in -Florence," said Tristram, laying down his paper.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I know, but..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What has Newman been writing to you?" asked -Tristram suspiciously.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"An enthusiastic account of the woods of Dart. He -has been staying with Froude, you know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We have seen better things than the Dart—or even -the Axe—for that matter," observed Tristram. "Anything else?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, I suppose we knew that," returned Tristram, -unimpressed. "How is he getting on with the -Councils?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Very well, I think. I told you, Tristram, that he -was the right man."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I dare say he is good enough," was the grudging -reply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am much obliged to Newman. No one has ever -called me hot-headed before."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, you know what he means," said Dormer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I quite agree," said Dormer conciliatingly, "that -you are made for that sort of thing, but for the time -being, perhaps..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He threw Dormer the paper, stooped to pat the -flea-ridden puppy of the hotel, and went in.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>And they might have reached Florence that night if -it had not been for Giulia Barlozzi.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Charles!" cried Tristram in a voice of anguish, -springing to his feet. Instantly the torrent of talk was -turned on to him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XVI</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Holy -Living</em><span> had it, for those who had made the sacrifice of -earthly affection and ties. And persons </span><em class="italics">did</em><span> 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—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"That souls in refuge, holding by the cross</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Should wince and fret at this world's little loss."</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"Wash me, and dry these bitter tears,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>O let my heart no further roam,</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>'Tis Thine by vows and hopes and fears</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Long since——"</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As he entered the hotel he was stopped by the porter.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The post is in, Excellency, and there are two -English letters for you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The letters were both addressed in Mr. Grenville's -handwriting, and one had been posted no less than three -months before.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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' </span><em class="italics">Preces Privatae</em><span> 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 </span><em class="italics">Sancta Sophia</em><span>, or </span><em class="italics">Directions for the Prayer of -Contemplation</em><span>, 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He closed the book and lay back, gazing out of the -window, yet San Miniato and its cypresses were nothing -but a blur....</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The door opened, and the landlord admitted a tall, -fair Italian, wrapped in an ample cloak.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Pray sit down, Signore," said Dormer. "We will -not wait for Mr. Hungerford." And he stretched out -his arm to the coffee.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Dormer relieved him of this apprehension, and he -continued:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You would deprive them then of those pure pleasures -which your Church allows, the pleasures of a -home, of a wife, of children?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I would not deprive them of these. But I would -have the greater number deprive themselves."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Dormer struggled off the sofa. "My dear fellow, -what is it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She's been very ill. The Rector had to go -over—her child was born prematurely."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Dormer gave an exclamation. "Did it live?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XVII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>A fortnight later they drove into Paris.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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. </span><em class="italics">He</em><span> 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XVIII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wonder who gave me these," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Vicomtesse smiled and shook her head. "I -never wear flowers, save those that I pick myself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have noticed that you never wear mine," said Armand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nor anybody else's."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why not?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Just a whim," said Madame de Vigerie, turning away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And some day," said the young man softly, "you -will do that. Or am I never to hope for it, Laurence?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," she said, "I shall never wear them." But -she did not meet his eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But if you ever did..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"O, suppose that I wore the stars as a necklace!" -cried she. "It is as likely."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But if you ever did," persisted Armand. "Laurence, -if you ever did..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," she said, turning very pale....</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(3)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The mask, M. le Comte, and the domino?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No dominos to-night, but I will take it for a cloak. -At what time did I order the carriage to be ready?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not for a quarter of an hour yet, M. le Comte."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, you can go. Give me the mask."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But since he is asleep..." said Armand ingratiatingly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Kemblet shook her head, but opening the door -with infinite precautions, allowed her master to enter, -and watched from the doorway.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As it befell, however, this night the desire had been -too strong for her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Without a sound Horatia looked; without a sound -she moved away.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(4)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>At the door of the ballroom Armand paused a moment -adjusted his mask, and entered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Beau masque, you are pale," said the voice of -Esmeralda in his ear. "What has disturbed you—you -are ill, perhaps?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The violins struck up as, for answer, Armand seized -her. "You shall see if I am ill! Can you dance till -daybreak, Esmeralda?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(5)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dying!" ejaculated his brother. "And at the -ball! What——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The cholera!" said Armand in a choking voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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! ...</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He bent over the huddled form, plucking it by the -short velvet cloak whose flame-coloured lining showed -pale in the faint light.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Armand, get up! You must not give way like this. -Come with me, and I will take you to our cousin's."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who is that?" he asked in surprise, pointing to the -white figure.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Comte slowly lifted his head. "What do you -want with me?" he asked stupidly. "Are you come -to bury her already?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Armand," said his cousin, "could you not sleep a -little? No one will disturb you here, and in the -morning..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Monsignor de la Roche-Guyon did not flinch. "I -should call it the mercy of God," he said very gently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think it is too late to go back," observed the -Marquis quietly. "Prosper will give us hospitality -to-night."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They left him: there was nothing else to do.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(6)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," said Emmanuel, "and also that it has already -been arranged for my sister and the children to go to -Plaisance at once."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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...."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XIX</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Monsignor de la Roche-Guyon slackened his pace and -turned his head, but did not stop. "I have just come -from a case."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How is our grandmother?" asked the priest, as -they fell into step together.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.'".</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I hope," he said sternly, "that Madame's party -does not stain their cause by using such weapons."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We have no need," returned Armand with an air. -"You will soon see the gleam of the noblest weapon of -all—the sword."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They had come to the Place St. Sulpice, and stopped.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And then?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Cousin, you do not serve your cause by blasphemy!" -said the priest sharply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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. </span><em class="italics">Mea culpa!</em><span> ... 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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Caroline," responded Armand instantly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Any news this morning?" inquired Armand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XX</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"But, my aunt," protested Claude-Edmond, "what -is a 'calender'? It is evidently not an almanac, but -a person."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"With your permission, I should like to kiss my -cousin," said Claude-Edmond suddenly, indicating his -infant relative.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have the same desire myself," returned Horatia, -and Martha, coming to a stand, offered her charge for -inspection.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did I once have only two teeth—only one tooth?" -inquired Charles-Edmond.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No teeth at all, once," responded his aunt.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Claude felt his existing dental arrangements. "There -is one loose now," he announced. "May I pull it out?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know," said the child. "But one must learn to -bear pain, must one not?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He does not remind me greatly of Uncle Armand," -observed his cousin. "His face is ... is..." He -paused for a word.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Never mind," said Horatia. "I know what you mean."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia made a movement. "You should desire to -resemble your father."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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...."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Something else was stirring in her too. Suppose she -had not merely acted foolishly, but wrongly?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(3)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And Armand?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I must go down there," she said feverishly. "I -must go at once. Emmanuel, you must help me!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXI</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who is it?" asked Madame de Vigerie. But there -was that in her voice which made the question -unnecessary.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are at the shooting-box, then?" she said at -last. "It is well provisioned? I gave orders."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It wants only one thing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What is that?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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...?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She did not answer, but he could feel her tremble.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am starving, Laurence. If anyone should see -you, it is easy to explain. I am a fugitive—you are a -conspirator, too."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I was not counting </span><em class="italics">that</em><span> cost," she said in a low -voice. "O Armand, Armand, why will you not go -away and leave me in peace!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Because, at last, you love me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And she made no denial, but breaking from his hold, -stood in the midst of the roses with her face in her hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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...?"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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...."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But who knows when the cup of experience is fully -drained?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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? ...</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He might come any time—to-day even?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, Madame la Comtesse, any time, when it is -safe. And M. le Comte was never one to be over-cautious."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But there are no soldiers about here, surely?" -asked Emmanuel.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We have not seen any, Monsieur le Marquis, but -there are reported to be some in Pontivy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>... 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(3)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>... 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....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But even as his mind caught at that slender hope, -embracing it fiercely, the very heart in his body stopped -beating. </span><em class="italics">Seeing no one enter</em><span>! 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XXII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Madame," he said, "I am the surgeon, and I must -tell you the truth ... if you are strong enough to -bear it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am strong enough," said Horatia.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Can't you do </span><em class="italics">anything</em><span>?" asked Horatia, passionately.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A priest was going down the stairs—the old curé -who had given them his blessing. Where was Madame -de Vigerie?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your hair ... makes a light," he said faintly. -The candles were behind her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Armand——" she began, choking.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Armand, Armand, forgive me!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I came when I heard that the rising had failed -... when I thought ... O Armand, cannot </span><em class="italics">something</em><span> be -done!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You were really too kind, mon amie. It is such a -long way ... Did you have a ... good journey?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I hope not!" was torn, in a whisper, from -Horatia.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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...</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You must come at once!" cried Horatia. "He is dying!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Madame de Vigerie rose stiffly, as if she were cramped; -her face was absolutely colourless and almost without -expression.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Go back," she said dully. "It is your place. I -have no right there."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A noisy darkness came down on her; she sank -sideways to the floor.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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...</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(3)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The candles were blurred in tears. Emmanuel stooped -and kissed the tranquillised dead face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sleep well, my brother," he whispered, using the -words he had uttered, with a different thought, not long -ago.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia slipped to her knees, and her head sank -forward among the roses.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="lead-kindly-light"><span class="bold large">BOOK III</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">BOOK III</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold large">LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER I</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Go on," said his listener, who lay full length on the -sofa. But the player shook his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Music is the worst trade under the sun in a blow-up," -he observed. "The lyre is only heard in feasts."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Dormer moved. "My dear fellow, you sound -gloomy! The present is not a feast, granted, but -neither is it a blow-up."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yet a few weeks ago," commented Dormer, undisturbed, -"you seemed pleased about it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That was what struck you in Italy?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That, and the infidelity of most of the thinking -laity."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, I was not brought up on Ken; as I know you were."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>'At length the man perceives it die away</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>And fade into the light of common day.'"</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You think, then," said Newman, with an answering -smile, "that it is for us to wake them up?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," confessed his friend, "or, if that is impossible, -to break through ourselves and unveil the vision."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram may have his faults," said Dormer, -laughing, "but of the crime of writing verses he is, -so far as I know, absolutely guiltless."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, anybody can write verses," pronounced -Newman cheerfully, taking up his violin.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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...</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER II</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I did," answered Tristram.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That must have been delightful," remarked the -other, and Tristram, without answering, opened the -Rectory gate and watched him pass in.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was no denying that the Rector had aged -during the past year, but to-night he was quite -rejuvenated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Does she not intend to make her home in England?" -asked Dormer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Neither of the young men waxed communicative on -the subject of the infant; Dormer, indeed, had -suddenly become rather thoughtful.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram murmured something about being busy at -Christmas, and that he would be taking his priest's -orders just before that festival.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">were</em><span> Non-jurors that the idea is not as repugnant -to you as it ought to be."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dormer's not a Tory, Rector," remarked Tristram. -"He's a Radical, like me, now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why not, Mr. Grenville?" asked Dormer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I fully agree with you," observed Dormer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER III</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Angel</em><span> -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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, but what </span><em class="italics">she</em><span> must have been through, Martha!" -said Mrs. White feelingly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dear, dear!" ejaculated Mrs. White, as the narrator -paused for breath. "And where was the poor young -man buried, then?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But surely Miss Horatia had something to say to that?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What a shame!" said Mrs. White indignantly. -"And he no older than my Harriet's Willy!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Lor!" ejaculated Mrs. White.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>And by the child upstairs there stood his grandfather -and his mother, looking down at him in his rosy -abandonment of slumber.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Papa, he was very fond of him," said Horatia at -last, and turning, she threw herself weeping into her -father's arms.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER IV</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Non voluntas -mea</em><span>....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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. -"</span><em class="italics">So this is religion!</em><span>" it seemed to say. "</span><em class="italics">And this is -a man!</em><span>"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram, though appreciating the taunt, got up and -put the critic outside the door.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yesterday afternoon, amid the frightful Christmas -bustle outside the </span><em class="italics">Mitre</em><span>, 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram stopped in his advance. And at that she -lifted her head and spoke.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia smiled that new smile of hers, and put a kiss -on the curls.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Up!" he observed pertinently, and kicked out his -feet with happy vigour, somewhat endangering his -balance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He doesn't often take to people like that!" observed -his mother and grandfather simultaneously, and -with the usual amount of truth...</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And, when he offered the Eucharist for the first time -on Christmas morning, he made his own oblation, -mingled of pain and joy.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER V</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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...</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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,</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Papa, dear, I want to talk to you. I am so -unhappy! I must talk to someone."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"O Papa, I can't say it to you. I am so wicked!" And -she began to cry.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know, my dear," said the Rector, smoothing her -hair.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Rector reflected a little before replying.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If only I could be like you, Papa, and could have -your trust! It frightens me to think about him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tell me, my dear."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Poor boy, poor boy!" murmured the Rector huskily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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! ..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was a pause, during which Mr. Grenville blew -his nose violently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Never, never!" exclaimed Horatia, raising her head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, my dear."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A pause.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VI</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Better than saying her prayers or doing her duty -were Tristram's visits.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She looked again at the poem—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"Full of the past, all shuddering thought,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Man waits his hour with upward eye—</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>The Golden Keys in love are brought</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>That he may hold by them and die."</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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...."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So, after many days, had she prayed—but not for -herself.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Please, ma'am, Reverend 'Ungerford," said the -voice of Ellen behind her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And Tristram, looking unusually elated, almost -boyish, and also rather hot, approached her over the -grass pulling something from a wallet.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia looked at his back with a curious expression, -but when he turned her gaze was on the uppermost -Tract.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Fellow-Labourers</em><span>," began the first of its four small -pages, "</span><em class="italics">I am but one of yourselves—a Presbyter....</em><span>"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Newman's," said Tristram, sitting down beside -her. "We're going to make a row in the world at last!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Tracts for the Times by Residents in Oxford</em><span>, -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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Emilia rose with concern from behind the coffee -cups, while Horatia lightly asked the nature of the -intruder.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia lifted puzzled eyes from the sodden speck.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But you will write again, Henry, will you not?" -urged his wife. "Or perhaps you would go again and -see the Mother?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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. -</span><em class="italics">Mother</em><span>, 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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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...."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And cabbage!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do they pray for?" asked Horatia.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">wrong</em><span> to remind oneself -like that ... Oh, merci, ma soeur!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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...."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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! "</span><em class="italics">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....</em><span>"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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—</span><em class="italics">her</em><span>—and to Whom she -had not come. But she would come, she would come, -if only she could find the way.... "Where -dwellest Thou?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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? ...</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As Horatia murmured her sympathy the two gowns -disappeared under Oriel gateway.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">you</em><span> know where He dwells?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And yet ... she knew that she should not forget St. Mary's.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VIII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wait a minute, Dormer," exclaimed the first-named, -catching at him as he was about to pass. "We -are having a most interesting conversation."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Were you!" exclaimed Newman. "Well, suppose -you let us have that for one of the Tracts?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well," said Pusey after a little hesitation, "if you -will let me do that I will."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He gave them a smiling farewell, and went off, in his -usual rather abstracted fashion, down Brasenose Lane.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If Pusey should end by casting in his lot with us," -observed Dormer thoughtfully, "it might make a -difference."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I hope Madame de la Roche-Guyon is well," observed -Dormer, in the tones of convention, as he opened -the chaise door for him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">our friend's</em><span> -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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>John Henry Newman had a rather silent companion -on his walk to Littlemore.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In the dining-room, her head on the table, which was -strewn with sewing materials, Horatia was crying as if -her heart would break.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dead!" exclaimed Tristram horrified. "Emmanuel's -son—that little fellow! How..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>After a moment she raised her head and dabbed at -her eyes, and lifted them, all reddened and swollen, to his.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And does this ... this very sad news ... will -it make any difference to you, Horatia?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He did not take up the challenge, but he looked at -her very gravely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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..."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER IX</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And good-bye to Tristram.....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For answer he saw her getting crimson behind the -ears, and heard her murmur faintly, "O Papa!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I thought, Papa," came a stifled voice, "that you -did not approve of second marriages."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Perhaps not," replied the Rector, "but this is -different, and Tristram has wanted you all his life."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But how do I know that he wants me now?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That," said the Rector with conviction, "is very -apparent; in fact, I was on the verge of speaking to him -about it last week."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Papa!" ejaculated his daughter, sitting up.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram was going to propose to me again," said -Horatia slowly, "and yet he made the way easy for me -to marry Armand!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">I</em><span> couldn't give him encouragement!" exclaimed -Horatia in a tone of horror.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Rector bent forward. He had the air of thorough -and pleasurable mastery of the situation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Papa, do you really mean all this?" asked Horatia -thoughtfully. "I have never looked at it in that light."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia turned over and over the locket with the -little curl of Maurice's hair that she wore.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then she said, very quietly, "Yes, I will do it."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(3)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"My dear Horatia,</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER X</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Dormer, in academical dress, was entering under Oriel -gateway when the porter accosted him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Could I bring myself to that," assented Horatia, -"it would be better."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He is not in Oxford at present, I know," suggested -Dormer, "but he will be back by the sixteenth."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I must know before that," said Horatia gravely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia laughed rather bitterly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Dormer sat down with a resigned sigh by the side of -the table, and said briefly, "Please tell me anything -you wish."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Here she came to a full stop, and got no help from her -listener, who was looking down at an ink-pot.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Dormer looked up. "I think I can understand," he -said, with something different in his voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That is quite easy for me to believe," replied -Dormer; but he seemed to have a slight difficulty in -speaking.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are right about Tristram's conscience," said -Tristram's friend.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he said, "from our point of view it would be -right ... under certain circumstances."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But supposing he was committed very far ... would -it be right to ... to go back?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It had to be done. "No," said Dormer in a low voice. -"No, I am afraid it would not."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Because I want to help you. Will you not let me -try—for Tristram's sake?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It would be at that time," asked Dormer, to help -her, "that Tristram and I came to see you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"By the Orleanists?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How do you know this?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Because in his delirium I heard everything."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You were with him when he died?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes?" said Dormer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She came to a full stop.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I see," said the priest, but in the tone of one -who thinks there is more to come.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her listener had himself put his hand over his eyes, -but he gave no sign, and at last Horatia finished.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you mean?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I understand."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But how can I give up my will, when all my life I -have followed my own way?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Our Lord will show you how, if you ask Him. He -will teach you by degrees, do not doubt that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XI</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(1)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And at that Tristram removed one of his hands from -his face, and put it out gropingly towards him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Carissime..."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(2)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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...</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(3)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She had said it without thinking.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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...."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A knock caused him to scramble hastily from his -unwonted position. Horatia jumped up and went to -the door. Martha stood there.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Please, Mam, would you come to the nursery. I -don't think Master Maurice seems quite himself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Horatia was gone before the Rector had got to his -chair. She was back in a few minutes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(4)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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...</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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...</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"O God, make me so that I can pray to You...."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But there was only Maurice asking, in his shrunk -little voice of delirium, for something to drink.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">(5)</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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...."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And, as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The stable clock struck nine. Steps came down the -stairs, and voices; the outer door shut.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He will live, my dear boy, he will live, thank God!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">all</em><span>."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For answer Tristram stooped and kissed her son.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-morn"><span class="bold large">EPILOGUE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold medium">EPILOGUE</span></p> -<!-- center large bold - -THE MORN --> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Dockers' Arms</em><span>, 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Victorier! Victorier! there's a swell coming! I -seen 'im—coming this way!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Dockers' Arms</em><span>, 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As the street left the </span><em class="italics">Dockers' Arms</em><span> 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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Children</em><span>," said the slow, very clear voice, "</span><em class="italics">I -commend you from the bottom of my heart into the -captivity of the Cross of our Lord Jesus Christ.</em><span>" The -tension was lifted, the lights went up, and the voice that -Maurice was waiting for gave out the first lines of a hymn;</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"Spouse of Christ, in arms contending</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>O'er each clime beneath the sun..."</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>So he </span><em class="italics">was</em><span> there! The young Frenchman slipped out, -and went round to the clergy-house.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Mrs. Squire, the housekeeper, a small wiry lady of -varied, and especially of conversational gifts, opened -the door herself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">his</em><span> -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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think I ought to warn you, Sir, that when you see -Mr. Dormer, you may have a shock."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But what was it, Mrs. Squire?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A brick, Sir."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A brick!" repeated Maurice, mystified. "Do you -mean off a house?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Venite adoremus</em><span>. 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I was at the Mass yesterday."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know," said Tristram.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I mean I was at your Mass."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know," said Tristram again. "I've been waiting -for you to tell me." There was a silence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">I</em><span> 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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Mass vestments," said Maurice, looking in.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Going through the porch he said, reflectively, "I -suppose that as it is such a large church he was a very -wicked man."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Tristram gave no answer.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Punches</em><span> 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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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":—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"The All Saints crows his Lordship pets,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>And, hoping against hope, forgets</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>The many birds that thence have come,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Fled to the rookery of Rome.</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>* * * * *</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>"Can it be right to consecrate</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>The new church in Street Margaret,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Which looks more Puseyite by far</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Than English churches elsewhere are?"</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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...</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Maurice turned slowly round and faced the two -priests, but the blur of shadow hid the smile on his -face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is nothing the matter?" asked the taller, a -note of sharp alarm in his tone. "Horatia—your -mother is not ill?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And then it burst out.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Solange will marry me, and what is more, will -marry me in three weeks' time!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"At last!" exclaimed Tristram. "My boy, I am so -glad! But why is it so very sudden?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What did her mother say?" asked Tristram.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Or as I am," said Tristram. "How long can you -stay, Maurice?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You know I have always been luckier than my -deserts!" explained the young man laughing. -"Tiens! someone at the door!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Whatever is that noise?" exclaimed the visitor. -"Not, surely, more ri——" He stopped himself in time.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think I had better go and see," said Tristram, -getting up.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Maurice laid a hand on his arm. "Let them fight it -out, mon père! It is my first night, and I have only two."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What a place to live in! What a life—never a -moment's peace!" exclaimed the young Frenchman.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram is wanted by everybody all day long," -said Dormer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm not surprised," returned Maurice; "but I -wanted him to-night."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Dormer shook his head as if it were hopeless. Then -he said:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come in, Jack! You shall have some hot coffee, -and be quick about it, and then I will come with -you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Pour out some coffee, Maurice, will you?" he said. -"No, Mary had better have milk only."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There are no cups," observed Dormer, making to -ring the bell.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Here is mine," said Tristram, seizing it with his -free hand. "Jack and Mary won't mind, and there is -no time to lose."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are not going out again!" exclaimed Maurice -in dismay.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You never could," said Maurice, getting up and -stretching himself. "I shall come with you, mon -père. Is it far?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 6em"> -</div> -<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> -<div class="backmatter"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst" id="pg-end-line"><span>*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK </span><span>THE VISION SPLENDID</span><span> ***</span></p> -<div class="cleardoublepage"> -</div> -<div class="language-en level-2 pgfooter section" id="a-word-from-project-gutenberg" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> -<span id="pg-footer"></span><h2 class="level-2 pfirst section-title title"><span>A Word from Project Gutenberg</span></h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span>We will update this book if we find any errors.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This book can be found under: </span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/45074"><span>http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/45074</span></a></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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™ -electronic works to protect the Project Gutenberg™ concept and -trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be -used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific -permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, -complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for -nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, -performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given -away – you may do practically </span><em class="italics">anything</em><span> in the United States with -eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject -to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.</span></p> -<div class="level-3 section" id="the-full-project-gutenberg-license"> -<span id="project-gutenberg-license"></span><h3 class="level-3 pfirst section-title title"><span>The Full Project Gutenberg License</span></h3> -<p class="pfirst"><em class="italics">Please read this before you distribute or use this work.</em></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project -Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at -</span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/license">http://www.gutenberg.org/license</a><span>.</span></p> -<div class="level-4 section" id="section-1-general-terms-of-use-redistributing-project-gutenberg-electronic-works"> -<h4 class="level-4 pfirst section-title title"><span>Section 1. General Terms of Use & Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works</span></h4> -<p class="pfirst"><strong class="bold">1.A.</strong><span> By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by -the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person -or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.B.</strong><span> “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement -and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic -works. See paragraph 1.E below.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.C.</strong><span> The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the -Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free -access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works -in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project -Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with -the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format -with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it -without charge with others.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"></p> -<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.D.</strong><span> The copyright laws of the place where you are located also -govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most -countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the -United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms -of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country outside the United States.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.E.</strong><span> Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.E.1.</strong><span> The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work -on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the -phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed:</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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 </span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org">http://www.gutenberg.org</a><span> . 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.</span></p> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><strong class="bold">1.E.2.</strong><span> If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project -Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.E.3.</strong><span> If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is -posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and -distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and -any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted -with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of -this work.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.E.4.</strong><span> Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project -Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a -part of this work or any other work associated with Project -Gutenberg™.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.E.5.</strong><span> Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute -this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg™ License.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.E.6.</strong><span> You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other -than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ web site -(</span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org">http://www.gutenberg.org</a><span>), you must, at no additional cost, fee or -expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a -means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original -“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include -the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.E.7.</strong><span> Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.E.8.</strong><span> You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided -that</span></p> -<ul class="open"> -<li><p class="first pfirst"><span>You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from -the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you -already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to -the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to -donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 -days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally -required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments -should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, -“Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation.”</span></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first pfirst"><span>You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies -you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he -does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ -License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all -copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue -all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ -works.</span></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first pfirst"><span>You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of -any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the -electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of -receipt of the work.</span></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first pfirst"><span>You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free -distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.</span></p> -</li> -</ul> -<p class="pfirst"><strong class="bold">1.E.9.</strong><span> If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The -Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ -trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3. below.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.F.</strong></p> -<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.F.1.</strong><span> Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend -considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe -and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating -the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be -stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, -incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a -copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or -damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that -damage or cannot be read by your equipment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.F.2.</strong><span> LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES – Except for the -“Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the -Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the -Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a -Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.F.3.</strong><span> LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND – If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.F.4.</strong><span> Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set -forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS,’ WITH -NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.F.5.</strong><span> Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><strong class="bold">1.F.6.</strong><span> INDEMNITY – You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, -the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance -with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any -Defect you cause.</span></p> -</div> -<div class="level-4 section" id="section-2-information-about-the-mission-of-project-gutenberg"> -<h4 class="level-4 pfirst section-title title"><span>Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™</span></h4> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™'s -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain -freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To -learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and -how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the -Foundation web page at </span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.pglaf.org">http://www.pglaf.org</a><span> .</span></p> -</div> -<div class="level-4 section" id="section-3-information-about-the-project-gutenberg-literary-archive-foundation"> -<h4 class="level-4 pfirst section-title title"><span>Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation</span></h4> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at -</span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/pglaf">http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/pglaf</a><span> . Contributions to the -Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to -the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the -mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its -volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous -locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt -Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email </span><a class="reference external" href="mailto:business@pglaf.org">business@pglaf.org</a><span>. Email -contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the -Foundation's web site and official page at </span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.pglaf.org">http://www.pglaf.org</a></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For additional contact information:</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>Dr. Gregory B. Newby</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Chief Executive and Director</span></div> -<div class="line"><a class="reference external" href="mailto:gbnewby@pglaf.org">gbnewby@pglaf.org</a></div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -</div> -<div class="level-4 section" id="section-4-information-about-donations-to-the-project-gutenberg-literary-archive-foundation"> -<h4 class="level-4 pfirst section-title title"><span>Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation</span></h4> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without wide spread -public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing -the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely -distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest array of -equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to -$5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status -with the IRS.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit </span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate">http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate</a></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: </span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate">http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate</a></p> -</div> -<div class="level-4 section" id="section-5-general-information-about-project-gutenberg-electronic-works"> -<h4 class="level-4 pfirst section-title title"><span>Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works.</span></h4> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ -concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared -with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project -Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Each eBook is in a subdirectory of the same number as the eBook's -eBook number, often in several formats including plain vanilla ASCII, -compressed (zipped), HTML and others.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Corrected </span><em class="italics">editions</em><span> of our eBooks replace the old file and take over -the old filename and etext number. The replaced older file is -renamed. </span><em class="italics">Versions</em><span> based on separate sources are treated as new -eBooks receiving new filenames and etext numbers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search -facility:</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org">http://www.gutenberg.org</a></p> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including -how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive -Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe -to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.</span></p> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</body> -</html> |