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diff --git a/old/53994-0.txt b/old/53994-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 76606c1..0000000 --- a/old/53994-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12581 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Stella Maris, by William J. Locke - -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 -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Stella Maris - -Author: William J. Locke - -Illustrator: Frank Wiles - -Release Date: January 18, 2017 [EBook #53994] -Last Updated: March 12, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STELLA MARIS *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - -STELLA MARIS - -By William J. Locke - -Illustrated by Frank Wiles - -London: John Lane - -MCMXIII - - - -[Illustration: 0001] - -[Illustration: 0009] - -[Illustration: 0010] - - - - -STELLA MARIS - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -STELLA MARIS--Star of the Sea! - -That was not her real name. No one could have christened an inoffensive -babe so absurdly. Her mother had, indeed, through the agency of -godfathers and godmothers, called her Stella after a rich old maiden -aunt, thereby showing her wisdom; for the maiden aunt died gratefully -a year after the child was born, and bequeathed to her a comfortable -fortune. Her father had given her the respectable patronymic of Blount, -which, as all the world knows, or ought to know, is not pronounced as it -is spelled. - -It is not pronounced “Maris,” however, as, in view of the many vagaries -of British nomenclature, it might very well be, but “Blunt.” It was -Walter Herold, the fantastic, who tacked on the Maris to her Christian -name, and ran the two words together so that to all and sundry the poor -child became Stellamaris, and to herself a baptismal puzzle, never being -quite certain whether Stella was not a pert diminutive, and whether she -ought to subscribe herself in formal documents as “Stellamaris Blount.” - -The invention of this title must not be regarded as the supreme effort -of the imagination of Walter Herold. It would have been obvious to -anybody with a bowing acquaintance with the Latin tongue. - -Her name was Stella, and she passed her life by the sea--passed it away -up on top of a cliff on the South coast; passed it in one big, beautiful -room that had big windows south and west; passed it in bed, flat on her -back, with never an outlook on the outside world save sea and sky. And -the curtains of the room were never drawn, and in the darkness a lamp -always shone in the western window; so that Walter Herold, at the foot -of the cliff, one night of storm and dashing spray, seeing the light -burning steadily like a star, may be excused for a bit of confusion of -thought when he gripped his friend John Risca's arm with one hand and, -pointing with the other, cried: - -“Stella Maris! What a name for her!” - -And when he saw her the next morning--she was twelve years old at the -time and had worked out only a short term of her long imprisonment--he -called her Stellamaris to her face, and she laughed in a sweet, elfin -way, and Herold being the Great High Favourite of her little court (a -title conferred by herself), she issued an edict that by that style and -quality was it her pleasure henceforth to be designated. John Risca, -in his capacity of Great High Belovedest, obeyed the ukase without -question; and so did His Great High Excellency, her uncle, Sir Oliver -Blount, and Her Most Exquisite Auntship, Lady Blount, his wife and first -cousin to John Risca. - -The events in the life of Stella Blount which this chronicle will -attempt to record did not take place when she was a child of twelve. But -we meet her thus, at this age, ruling to a certain extent the lives of -grown-up men and women by means of a charm, a mystery, a personality -essentially gay and frank, yet, owing to the circumstances of her life, -invested with a morbid, almost supernatural atmosphere. The trouble -in the upper part of her spine, pronounced incurable by the faculty, -compelled a position rigidly supine. Her bed, ingeniously castored, -could be wheeled about the great room. Sometimes she lay enthroned -in the centre; more often it was brought up close to one of the two -windows, so that she could look out to sea and feed her fancy on the -waves, and the ships passing up and down the Channel, and the white -sea-gulls flashing their wings in mid air. But only this unvibrating -movement was permitted. For all the splints and ambulance contrivances -in the world, she could not be carried into another room, or into the -pleasant, sloping garden of the Channel House, for a jar would have -been fatal. The one room, full of air and sunlight and sweet odours and -exquisite appointments, was the material kingdom in which she ruled with -sweet autocracy; the welter of sea and sky was her kingdom, too, -the gulls and spring and autumn flights of migratory birds were her -subjects, the merchants and princes traversing the deep in ships, her -tributaries. - -But this was a kingdom of Faerie, over which she ruled by the aid of -Ariels and Nereids and other such elemental and intangible ministers. -The latter had a continuous history, dreamy and romantic, episodes of -which she would in rare moments relate to her Great High Belovedest and -her Great High Favourite; but ordinarily the two young men were admitted -only into the material kingdom, where, however, they bent the knee with -curious humility. To them, all she seemed to have of human semblance -was a pair of frail arms, a daintily curved neck, a haunting face, and -a mass of dark hair encircling it on the pillow like a nimbus. The face -was small, delicately featured, but the strong sea air maintained a -tinge of colour in it; her mouth, made for smiles and kisses, justified -in practice its formation; her eyes, large and round and of deepest -brown, sometimes glowed with the laughter of the child, sometimes seemed -to hold in their depths holy mysteries, gleams of things hidden and -divine, unsealed revelations of another world, before which the two -young men, each sensitive in his peculiar fashion, bowed their young -and impressionable heads. When they came down to commonplace, it was her -serene happiness that mystified them. She gave absolute acceptance to -the conditions of her existence, as though no other conditions were -desirable or acceptable. She was delicate joyousness just incarnate and -no more--“the music from the hyacinth bell,” said Herold. In the early -days of his acquaintance with Stellamaris, Herold was young, fresh -from the university, practising every one of the arts with feverish -simultaneousness and mimetic in each; so when he waxed poetical, he made -use of Shelley. - -Stella was an orphan, both her parents having died before the obscure -spinal disease manifested itself. To the child they were vague, far-off -memories. In _loco parentium_, and trustees of her fortune, were -the uncle and aunt above mentioned. Sir Oliver, as a young man, had -distinguished himself so far in the colonial service as to obtain his -K.C.M.G. As a man nearing middle age, he had so played the fool with a -governorship as to be recalled and permanently shelved. To the end -of his days Sir Oliver was a man with a grievance. His wife, publicly -siding with him, and privately resentful against him, was a woman with -two grievances. Now, one grievance on one side and two on the other, -instead of making three, according to the rules of arithmetic, made -legion, according to the law of the multiplication of grievances. Even -Herold, the Optimist, introduced by his college friend John Risca into -the intimacies of the household, could not call them a happy couple. -In company they treated each other with chilling courtesy; before the -servants they bickered very slightly; when they wanted to quarrel, they -retired, with true British decorum, to their respective apartments and -quarreled over the house telephone. - -There was one spot on the earth, however, which by common consent -they regarded as a sanctuary,--on whose threshold grievances and -differences and bickerings and curses (his imperial career had given Sir -Oliver an imperial vocabulary) and tears and quarrelings were left -like the earth-stained shoes of the Faithful on the threshold of -a mosque,--and that was the wide sea-chamber of Stellamaris. That -threshold crossed, Sir Oliver became bluff and hearty; on Julia, -Lady Blount, fell a mantle of tender womanhood. They “my-deared” and -“my-darlinged” each other until the very dog (the Lord High -Constable), a Great Dane, of vast affection and courage, but of limited -intelligence, whose post of duty was beside Stella's couch, would raise -his head for a disgusted second and sniff and snort from his deep lungs. -But dogs are dogs, and in their doggy way see a lot of the world which -is a sealed book to humans, especially to those who pass their lives in -a room on the top of a cliff overlooking the sea. - -It was the unwritten law of the house: Stella's room was sacrosanct. An -invisible spirit guarded the threshold and forbade entrance to anything -evil or mean or sordid or even sorrowful, and had inscribed on the -portal in unseen, but compelling, characters - - Never harm nor spell nor charm - - Come our lovely lady nigh. - -Whence came the spirit, from Stella herself or from the divine lingering -in the faulty folks who made her world, who can tell? There never was -an invisible spirit guarding doors and opening hearts, since the -earth began, who had not a human genesis. From man alone, in this -myriad-faceted cosmos, can a compassionate God, in the form of angels -and ministering spirits, he reflected. Perhaps the radiant spirit of -the child herself, triumphing over disastrous circumstances, instilled -a sacred awe in those who surrounded her; perhaps the pathos of her -lifelong condemnation stirred unusual depths of pity. At all events, the -unwritten law was irrefragable. Outside Stella's door the wicked must -cast their evil thoughts, the gloomy shed their cloak of cloud, and -the wretched unpack their burden of suffering. Whether it was for the -ultimate welfare of Stellamaris to live in this land of illusion is -another matter. - -“Save her from knowledge of pain and from suspicion of evil,” John Risca -would cry, when discussing the matter. “Let us make sure of one perfect -flower in this poisonous fungus garden of a world.” - -“Great High Belovedest,” Stellamaris would say when they were alone -together, “what about the palace to-day?” - -And the light would break upon the young man's grim face, and he would -tell her of the palace in which he dwelt in the magic city of London. - -“I have got a beautiful new Persian carpet,” he would say, “with blues -in it like that band of sea over there, for the marble floor of the -vestibule.” - -“I hope it matches the Gobelin tapestry.” - -“You couldn't have chosen it better yourself, Stellamaris.” - -The great eyes looked at him in humorous dubiety. He was wearing a faded -mauve shirt and a flagrantly blue tie. - -“I am not so sure of your eye for colour, Great High Belovedest, and it -would be a pity to have the beautiful palace spoiled.” - -“I assure you that East and West in this instance are blended in perfect -harmony.” - -“And how are Lilias and Niphetos?” - -Lilias and Niphetos were two imaginary Angora cats, nearly the size of -the Lord High Constable, who generally sat on the newel-posts of the -great marble staircase. They were fed on chickens' livers and Devonshire -cream. - -“Arachne,” he replied gravely, referring to a mythical attendant of -Circassian beauty--“Arachne thought they were suffering from ennui, and -so she brought them some white mice--and what do you think happened?” - -“Why, they gobbled them up, of course.” - -“That's where you 're wrong, Stellamaris. Those aristocratic cats turned -up their noses at them. They looked at each other pityingly, as if to -say, 'Does the foolish woman really think we can be amused by white -mice?'” - -Stella laughed. “Don't they ever have any kittens?” - -“My dear,” said Risca, “they would die if I suggested such a thing to -them.” - -It had been begun long ago, this fabulous history of the palace, and the -beauty and luxury with which he was surrounded; and Stella knew it -all to its tiniest detail--the names of the roses in his gardens, the -pictures on his walls, the shapes and sizes of the ornaments on his -marquetry writing-table; and as her memory was tenacious and he dared -not be caught tripping, his wonder-house gradually crystallized in his -mind to the startling definiteness of a material creation. Its suites -of apartments and corridors, the decoration and furniture of each room, -became as vividly familiar as the dreary abode in which he really had -his being. He could wander about through house and grounds with unerring -certainty of plan. The phantom creatures with whom he had peopled -the domain had become invested with clear-cut personalities; he had -visualized them until he could conjure up their faces at will. - -He had begun the building of the dream palace first with the mere object -of amusing a sick child and hiding from her things forlorn and drab; -gradually, in the course of years, it had grown to be almost a refuge -for the man himself. When the child developed into the young girl he -did not undeceive her. More and more was it necessary, if their sweet -comradeship was to last, that he should extend the boundaries of her -Land of Illusion; for the high ambitions which had made him laugh at -poverty remained unsatisfied, the promise of life had been hopelessly -broken, and he saw before him nothing but a stretch of dull, laborious -years unlit by a gleam of joy. Only in the sea-chamber of Stellamaris -was life transformed into a glowing romance. Only there could he inhabit -a palace and walk the sweet, music-haunted, fragrant streets of an -apocalyptic London, where all women were fair and true, and all men were -generous, and all work, even his own slavery at the press, was noble and -inspired by pure ideals. - -“What exactly is your work, Belovedest?” she asked one day. - -He replied: “I teach the great and good men who are the King's ministers -of state how to govern the country. I show philanthropists how to spend -their money. I read many books and tell people how beautiful and wise -the books are, so that people should read them and become beautiful and -wise, too. Sometimes I preach to foreign sovereigns on the way in which -their countries should be ruled. I am what is called a journalist, -dear.” - -“It must be the most wonderful work in the world,” cried Stella, aglow -with enthusiasm, “and they must pay you lots and lots of money.” - -“Lots and lots.” - -“And how you must love it--the work, I mean!” - -“Every hour spent in the newspaper-office is a dream of delight,” said -Risca. - -Walter Herold, who happened to be present during this conversation, -remarked, with a shake of his head, as soon as they had left the room: - -“God forgive you, John, for an amazing liar!” - -Risca shrugged his round, thick shoulders. - -“He will,” said he, “if He has a sense of humour.” Then he turned upon -his friend somewhat roughly. “What would you have me tell the child?” - -“My dear fellow,” said Herold, “if you would only give the world at -large some of the imaginative effort you expend in that room, you would -not need to wear your soul to shreds in a newspaper-office.” - -“What is the good of telling me that?” growled Risca, the deep lines -of care returning to his dark, loose-featured face. “Don't I know it -already? It's just the irony of things. There's an artist somewhere -about me. If there was n't, why should I have wanted to write novels -and plays and poetry ever since I was a boy? It's a question of -outlet. There are women I know who can't do a blessed thing except write -letters; there they find their artistic outlet. I can find my artistic -outlet only in telling lies to Stella. Would you deny me that?” - -“Not at all,” said Herold, with a gay laugh. “The strain of having to -remember another fellow's lies, in addition to one's own, is heavy, I -admit, but for friendship's sake I can bear it. Only the next time -you add on a new wing to that infernal house and fill it with majolica -vases, for Heaven's sake tell me.” - -For Herold, being Risca's intimate, had, for corroborative purposes, -to be familiar with the dream palace, and when Risca made important -additions or alterations without informing him, was apt to be sore beset -with perplexities during his next interview with Stellamaris. But being -an actor by profession (at the same time being an amateur in all other -arts), he was quick to interpret another man's dream, and once, -being rather at a loss, improved on his author and interpolated a -billiard-room, much to Risca's disgust. Where the deuce, he asked, in -angry and childlike seriousness, was there a place for a billiard-room -in his palace? Did n't he know the whole lay-out of the thing by this -time? It was inexcusable impertinence! - -“Then why did n't you tell me about the music-room?” cried Herold, -hotly, on this particular occasion. “How should I guess that an -unmusical dog like you would want a music-room? In order not to give -you away, I had to invent the billiard-room. A rotten house without a -billiard-room!” - -“I suppose you think it's a commodious mansion, with five -reception-rooms, fourteen bedrooms and baths, hot and cold.” - -The two men nearly quarreled. - -But no hard words followed the discussion of Risca's rose-coloured and -woefully ironical description of his work. Herold knew what pains of -hell had got round about the man he loved, and strove to mitigate them -with gaiety and affection. And while the Great High Belovedest and the -Great High Favourite were grappling together with a tragedy not referred -to in speech between them, and as remote from Stella's purview of life -as the Lupanaria of Hong-Kong, she, with her white hand on the head of -the blue Great Dane, who regarded her with patient, topaz eyes, looked -out from her western window, over the channel, on the gold and crimson -lake and royal purple of the sunset, and built out of the masses of -gloried cloud and streaks of lapis lazuli and daffodil gem a castle of -dreams compared with which poor John Risca's trumpery palace, with its -Arachnes and Liliases and Niphetoses, was only a vulgar hotel in a new -and perky town. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -THE judge pronounced sentence: three years' penal servitude. The -condemned woman, ashen-cheeked, thin-lipped, gave never a glance to right -or left, and disappeared from the dock like a ghost. - -John Risca, the woman's husband, who had been sitting at the solicitor's -table, rose, watched her disappear, and then, the object of all curious -eyes, with black brow and square jaw strode out of the court. Walter -Herold, following him, joined him in the corridor, and took his arm in a -protective way and guided him down the great staircase into the -indifferent street. Then he hailed a cab. - -“'May I come with you?” - -Risca nodded assent. It was a comfort to feel by his side something -human in this pandemonium of a world. - -“Eighty-four Fenton Square, Westminster.” Herold gave the address of -Risca's lodgings, and entered the cab. During the journey through the -wide thoroughfares hurrying with London's afternoon traffic neither -spoke. There are ghastly tragedies in life for which words, however -sympathetic and comprehending, are ludicrously inadequate. Now and then -Herold glanced at the heavy, set face of the man who was dear to him and -cursed below his breath. Of course nothing but morbid pig-headedness in -the first fatal instance had brought him to this disaster. But, after -all, is pig-headedness a crime meriting so overwhelming a punishment? -Why should fortune favour some, like himself, who just danced lightly -upon life, and take a diabolical delight in breaking others upon her -wheel? Was it because John Risca could dance no better than a bull, and, -like a bull, charged through life insensately, with lowered horns and -blundering hoofs? This lunatic marriage, six years ago, when Risca was -three and twenty, with a common landlady's commoner pretty vixen of a -daughter, he himself had done his best to prevent. He had pleaded with -the tongue of an angel and vituperated in the vocabulary of a bargee. He -might as well have played “Home, Sweet Home,” on the flute or recited -Bishop Ernulphus's curse to the charging bull. But still, however -unconsidered, honourable marriage ought not of itself to bring down from -heaven the doom of the house of Atreus. This particular union was bound -to be unhappy; but why should it have been Æschylean in its catastrophe? - -As Risca uttered no word, Herold, with the ultimate wisdom of despair, -held his peace. - -At last they arrived at the old-world, dilapidated square, where Risca -lodged. Children, mostly dirty-faced, those of the well-to-do being -distinguished at this post-tea hour of the afternoon by a circle of -treacle encrusting like gems the circumambient grime about their little -mouths, squabbled shrilly on the pavement. Torn oilcloth and the smell -of the sprats fried the night before last for the landlord's supper -greeted him who entered the house. Risca, the aristocrat of the -establishment, rented the drawing-room floor. Herold, sensitive artist, -successful actor, appreciated by dramatic authors and managers and the -public as a Meissonier of small parts, and therefore seldom out of an -engagement, who had created for himself a Queen Anne gem of a tiny house -in Kensington, could never enter Risca's home without a shiver. To him -it was horror incarnate, the last word of unpenurious squalor. There -were material shapes to sit down upon, to sit at, it is true, things -on the walls (_terribilia visu_) to look upon, such as “The Hunter's -Return,” and early portraits of Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort, -and the floor was covered with a red-and-green imitation Oriental -carpet; but there was no furniture, as Herold understood the word, -nothing to soothe or to please. One of the chairs was of moth-eaten -saddle-bag, another of rusty leather. A splotch of grease, the -trace left by a far-distant storm of gravy that had occurred on a -super-imposed white cloth, and a splotch of ink gave variety to a faded -old table-cover. A litter of books and papers and unemptied ash-trays -and pipes and slippers disfigured the room. The place suggested chaos -coated with mildew. - -“Ugh!” said Herold, on entering, “it 's as cold as charity. Do you mind -if I light the fire?” - -It was a raw day in March, and the draughts from the staircase and -windows played spitefully about the furniture. Risca nodded, threw his -hat on a leather couch against the wall, and flung himself into his -writing-chair. Hot or cold, what did it matter to him? What would -anything in the world matter to him in the future? He sat, elbows on -table, his hands clutching his coarse, black hair, his eyes set in a -great agony. And there he stayed for a long time, silent and motionless, -while Herold lit the fire, and, moving noiselessly about the room, gave -to its disarray some semblance of comfort. He was twenty-nine. It was -the end of his career, the end of his life. No mortal man could win -through such devastating shame. It was a bath of vitriol eating through -nerve and fibre to the heart itself. He was a dead man--dead to all -the vital things of life at nine-and-twenty. An added torture was his -powerlessness to feel pity for the woman. For the crime of which she had -been convicted, the satiating of the lust of cruelty, mankind finds -no extenuation. She had taken into her house, as a slut of all work, a -helpless child from an orphanage. Tales had been told in that court at -which men grew physically sick and women fainted. Her counsel's plea of -insanity had failed. She was as sane as any creature with such a lust -could be. She was condemned to three years' penal servitude. - -It was his wife, the woman whom he, John Risca, had married six years -before, the woman whom, in his passionate, obstinate, growling way, he -had thought he loved. They had been parted for over four years, it is -true, for she had termagant qualities that would have driven away any -partner of her life who had not a morbid craving for Phlegethon as -a perpetual environment; but she bore his name, an honoured one (he -thanked God she had given him no child to bear it, too), and now that -name was held up to the execration of all humanity. For the name's sake, -when the unimagined horror had first broken over him, he had done his -utmost to shield her. He had met her in the prison, for the first time -since their parting, and she had regarded him with implacable hatred, -though she accepted the legal assistance he provided, as she had -accepted the home from which he had been driven and the half of his poor -earnings. - -Murder, clean and final, would have been more easily borne than this, -the deliberate, systematically planned torture of a child. There is some -sort of tragic dignity in murder. It is generally preceded by conflict, -and the instinct of mankind recognizing in conflict, no matter how -squalid and sordid, the essence of drama, very often finds sympathy with -the protagonist of the tragedy, the slayer himself. How otherwise to -account for the petitions for the reprieve of a popular murderer, a -curious phenomenon not to be fully explained by the comforting word -hysteria? But in devilish cruelty, unpreceded by conflict; there is no -drama, there is nothing to touch the imagination; it is perhaps the only -wickedness with which men have no lingering sympathy. It transcends all -others in horror. - -“Murder would have been better than this,” he said aloud, opening and -shutting his powerful fists. “My soul has been dragged through a sewer.” - -He rose and flung the window open and breathed the raw air with full -lungs. A news-urchin's cry caused him to look down into the street. The -boy, expectant, held out a paper, and pointed with it to the yellow bill -which he carried apronwise in front of him. On the bill was printed in -large capitals: “The Risca Torture Case. Verdict and Sentence.” Risca -beckoned Herold to the window, and clutched him heavily on the shoulder. - -“Look!” said he. “That is to be seen this afternoon in every street in -London. To-night the news will be flashed all round the world. To-morrow -the civilized press will reek with it. Come away!” He dragged Herold -back, and brought down the window with a crash. “It's blazing hell!” he -said. - -“Every man has to pass through it at least once in his life,” said -Herold, glad that the relief of speech had come to his friend. “That is, -if he 's to be any good in the world.” - -Risca uttered a grim sound in the nature of a mirthless laugh. “ 'As -gold is tried by the fire, so souls are tried by pain,' “ he quoted with -a sneer. Was ever a man consoled by such drivelling maxims? And they -are lies. No man can be better for having gone through hell. It blasts -everything that is good in one. Besides, what do you know? You've never -been through it.” - -Herold, standing by the fire, broke a black mass of coal with the heel -of his boot. The flames sprang up, and in the gathering twilight threw -strange gleams over his thin, eager face. - -“I shall, one of these days,” said he--“a very bad hell.” - -“Good God! Wallie,” cried Risca, “are you in trouble, too?” - -“Not yet,” Herold replied, with a smile, for he saw that the instinct of -friendship, at any rate, had not been consumed. “I 've walked on roses -all my life. That 's why I 've never done anything great. But my hell is -before me. How can I escape it?” The smile faded from his face, and he -looked far away into the gray sky. “Sometimes my mother's Celtic nature -seems to speak and prophesy within me. It tells me that my roses -shall turn into red-hot ploughshares and my soul shall be on fire. The -curtains of the future are opened for an elusive fraction of a second--” - He broke off suddenly. “I'm talking rot, John. At least it's not all -rot. I was only thinking that in my bad time I should have a great, -strong friend to stand by my side.” - -“If you mean me,” said Risca, “you know I shall. But, in the meanwhile -I pray to God to spare you a hell like mine. Sometimes I wonder,” he -continued after a gloomy pause, “whether this would have happened if I -had stuck by her. I could have seen which way things were tending, and I -would have stepped in. After all, I am strong enough to have borne it.” - -“You were talking about murder just now,” said Herold. “If you had -stayed with her, there would have been murder done or something precious -near it.” - -Risca sighed. He was a big, burly man, with a heavy, intellectual face, -prematurely furrowed, and a sigh shook his loose frame somewhat oddly. -“I don't know,” said he, after a lumbering turn or so up and down the -room. “How can any man know? She was impossible enough, but I never -dreamed of such developments. And now that I reflect, I remember signs. -Once we had a little dog--no, I have no right to tell you. Damn it! -man,” he cried fiercely, “I have no right to keep you here in this -revolting atmosphere.” He picked up Herold's hat. “Go away, Wallie, and -leave me to myself. You 're good and kind and all that, but I 've no -right to make your life a burden to you.” - -Herold rescued his hat and deliberately put it down. “Oh, yes, you -have,” said he, with smiling seriousness. “You have every right. Have -you ever considered the ethics of friendship? Few people do consider -them nowadays. Existence has grown so complicated that such a simple, -primitive thing as friendship is apt to be neglected in the practical -philosophy of life. Our friendship, John, is something I could no more -tear out of me than I could tear out my heart itself. It's one of the -few vital, real things--indeed, it's perhaps the only tremendous thing -in my damfool of a life. I believe in friendship. If a man hath not a -friend, let him quit the stage. Old Bacon had sense: a man has every -right over his friend, every claim upon him, except the right of -betrayal. My purse is yours, your purse is mine. My time is yours, and -yours mine. My joys and sorrows are yours, and yours mine. But a friend -may not supplant a friend either in material ambition or in the love of -a woman. That is the unforgivable sin, high treason against friendship. -Don't talk folly about having no right.” - -He lit with nervous fingers the cigarette he was about to light when he -began his harangue. Risca gripped him by the arm. - -“God knows I don't want you to go. I 'm pretty tough, and I 'm not going -to cave in, but it's God's comfort to have you here. If I'm not a merry -companion to you, what the devil do you think I am to myself?” - -He walked up and down the dreary room, on which the dark of evening -had fallen. At last he paused by his writing-table, and then a sudden -thought flashing on him, he smote his temples with his hands. - -“I must send you away, Wallie. It's necessary. I have my column to write -for The Herald. It must be in by eleven. I had forgotten all about it. -They won't want my name,--it would damn the paper,--but I suppose -they 're counting on the column, and I don't want to leave them in the -lurch.” - -“They don't want your column this week, at any rate,” said Herold. “Oh, -don't begin to bellow. I went to see Ferguson yesterday. He's as kind as -can be, and of course wants you to go on as usual. But no one except a -raving idiot would expect stuff from you to-day. And as for your silly -old column, I've written it myself. I suggested it to Ferguson, and he -jumped at it.” - -“You wrote my column?” said Risca, in a softened voice. - -“Of course I did, and a devilish good column, too. Do you think I can -only paint my face and grin through a horse-collar?” - -“What made you think of it? I did n't.” - -“That's precisely why I did,” said Herold. - -Risca sat down, calmer in mood, and lit a pipe. Herold, the sensitive, -accepted this action as an implication of thanks. Risca puffed his -tobacco for a few moments in silence, apparently absorbed in enjoyment -of the fragrant subtleties of the mixture of honeydew and birdseye and -latakia and the suspicion of soolook that gives mystery to a blend. At -last he spoke. - -“I shall arrange to keep on that house in Smith Street, and put in a -caretaker, so that she shall have a home when she comes out. What will -happen then, God Almighty knows. Perhaps she will have changed. We need -n't discuss it. But, at any rate, while I 'm away, I want you to see -to it for me. It's a ghastly task, but some one must undertake it. Will -you?” - -“Of course,” said Herold. “But what do you mean by being 'away'?” - -“I am going to Australia,” said Risca. - -“For how long?” - -“For the rest of my life,” said Risca. - -Herold leaped from his chair and threw his cigarette into the fire. It -was only John Risca who, without giving warning, would lower his head -and charge at life in that fashion. - -“This is madness.” - -“It's my only chance of sanity,” said Risca. “Here I am a dead man. The -flames are too much for me. Perhaps in another country, where I 'm not -known, some kind of a phoenix called John Smith or Robinson may rise out -of the ashes. Here it can't. Here the ashes would leave a stench that -would asphyxiate any bird, however fabulous. It's my one chance--to -begin again.” - -“What will you do?” - -“The same as here. If I can make a fair living in London, I ought n't to -starve in Melbourne.” - -“It's monstrous!” cried Herold. “It's not to be thought of.” - -“Just so,” replied Risca. “It's got to be done.” - -Herold glanced at the gloomy face, and threw up his hands in despair. -When John Risca spoke in that stubborn way there was no moving him. He -had taken it into his head to go to Australia, and to Australia he would -go despite all arguments and beseechings. Yet Herold argued and -besought. It was monstrous that a man of John's brilliant attainments -and deeply rooted ambitions should surrender the position in London -which he had so hardly won. London was generous, London was just; in the -eyes of London he was pure and blameless. Not an editor would refuse him -work, not an acquaintance would refuse him the right hand of fellowship. -The heart of every friend was open to him. As for the agony of his soul, -he would carry that about with him wherever he went. He could not escape -from it by going to the antipodes. It was more likely to be conjured -away in England by the love of those about him. - -“I 'm aware of all that, but I 'm going to Melbourne,” said Risca, -doggedly. “If I stay here, I'm dead.” - -“When do you propose to start?” - -“I shall take my ticket to-morrow on the first available boat.” - -Herold laid his nervous hand on the other's burly shoulder. - -“Is it fair in this reckless way to spring such a tremendous decision on -those who care for you?” - -“Who on God's earth really cares for me except yourself? It will be a -wrench parting from you, but it has to be.” - -“You've forgotten Stellamaris,” said Herold. - -“I have n't,” replied Risca, morosely; “but she 's only a child. She -looks upon me as a creature out of a fairy-tale. Realities, thank God! -have no place in that room of hers. I 'll soon fade out of her mind.” - -“Stella is fifteen, not five,” said Herold. - -“Age makes no difference, I 'm not going to see her again,” said he. - -“What explanation is to be given her?” - -“I 'll write the necessary fairy-story.” - -“You are not going to see her before you sail?” - -“No,” said Risca. - -“Then you 'll be doing a damnably cowardly thing,” cried Herold, with -flashing eyes. - -Risca rose and glared at his friend. - -“You fool! Do you suppose I don't care for her? Do you suppose I would -n't cut off my hand to save her pain?” - -“Then cut off some of your infernal selfishness and save her the pain -she's going to feel if you don't bid her good-bye.” - -Risca clenched his fists, and turned to the window, and stood with his -back to the room. - -“Take care what you 're saying. It 's dangerous to quarrel with me -to-day.” - -“Danger be hanged!” said Herold. “I tell you it will be selfish and -cowardly not to see her.” - -There was a long silence. At last Risca wheeled round abruptly. - -“I'm neither selfish nor cowardly. You don't seem to realize what I 've -gone through'. I 'm not fit to enter her presence. I 'm polluted. I 'm -a walking pestilence. I told you my soul had been dragged through a -sewer.” - -“Then go and purify it in the sea-wind that blows through Stella's -window, John,” said Herold, seeing that he had subdued his anger. “I am -not such a fool as to ask you to give up your wretched idea of exile for -the sake of our friendship; but this trivial point, in the name of our -friendship, I ask you to concede to me. Just grant me this, and I 'll -let you go to Melbourne or Trincomalee or any other Hades you choose -without worrying you.” - -“Why do you insist upon it? How can a sick child's fancies count to a -man in such a position?” - -His dark eyes glowered at Herold from beneath lowering brows. Herold met -the gaze steadily, and with his unclouded vision he saw far deeper into -Risca than Risca saw into him. He did not answer the question, for he -penetrated, through the fuliginous vapours whence it proceeded, into the -crystal regions of the man's spirit. It was he, after a while, who held -Risca with his eyes, and it was all that was beautiful and spiritual -in Risca that was held. And then Herold reached out his hand slowly and -touched him. - -“We go down to Southcliff together.” - -Risca drew a deep breath. - -“Let us go this evening,” said he. - -A few hours afterward when the open cab taking them from the station -to the Channel House came by the sharp turn of the road abruptly to the -foot of the cliff, and the gusty southwest wind brought the haunting -smell of the seaweed into his nostrils, and he saw the beacon-light in -the high west window shining like a star, a gossamer feather from the -wings of Peace fell upon the man's tortured soul. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -IT will be remembered that Stellamaris was a young person of bountiful -fortune. She had stocks and shares and mortgages and landed property -faithfully administered under a deed of trust. The Channel House and -all that therein was, except Sir Oliver and Lady Blount's grievances, -belonged to her. She knew it; she had known it almost since infancy. -The sense of ownership in which she had grown up had its effect on her -character, giving her the equipoise of a young reigning princess, calm -and serene in her undisputed position. In her childish days her material -kingdom was limited to the walls of her sea-chamber but as the child -expanded into the young girl, so expanded her conception of the limits -of her kingdom. And with this widening view came gradually and curiously -the consciousness that though her uncle and aunt were exquisitely -honoured and beloved agents who looked to the welfare of her realm, -yet they could not relieve her of certain gracious responsibilities. -Instinctively, and with imperceptible gradations, she began to make -her influence felt in the house itself. But it was an influence in the -spiritual and not material sense of the word; the hovering presence and -not the controlling hand. - -When, shortly after the arrival of the two men, Walter Herold went up to -his room, he found a great vase of daffodils on his dressing-table and -a pencilled note from Stella in her unformed handwriting, for one cannot -learn to write copper-plate when one lies forever on the flat of one's -back. - -_Great High Favourite: Here are some daffodils, because they laugh and -dance like you. Stellamaris._ - -And on his dressing-table John Risca found a mass of snowdrops and a -note: - -_Great High Belovedest: A beautiful white silver cloud came to my window -to-day, and I wished I could tear it in half and save you a bit for the -palace. But snowdrops are the nearest things I could think of instead. -Your telegram was a joy. Love. S._ - -Beside the bowl of flowers was another note: - -_I heard the wheels of your chariot, but Her Serene High-and-Mightiness -[her trained nurse] says I am tucked up for the night and can have no -receptions, levees, or interviews. I tell her she will lose her title -and become the Kommon Kat; but she does n't seem to mind. Oh, it's just -lovely to feel that you 're in the house again. S._ - -Risca looked round the dainty room, his whenever he chose to occupy it, -and knew how much, especially of late, it held of Stellamaris. It had -been redecorated a short while before, and the colours and the patterns -and all had been her choice and specification. - -The castle architect, a young and fervent soul called Wratislaw, a -member of the Art Workers' Guild, and a friend of Herold's, who had -settled in Southcliff-on-Sea, and was building, for the sake of a -precarious livelihood, hideous bungalows which made his own heart sick, -but his clients' hearts rejoice, had been called in to advise. With -Stellamaris, sovereign lady of the house, aged fifteen, he had spent -hours of stupefied and aesthetic delight. He had brought her armfuls of -designs, cartloads of illustrated books; and the result of it all was -that, with certain other redecorations in the house with which for -the moment we have no concern, Risca's room was transformed from -late-Victorian solidity into early-Georgian elegance. The Adam Brothers -reigned in ceiling and cornice, and the authentic spirit of Sheraton, -thanks to the infatuated enterprise of Wratislaw, pervaded the -furniture. Yet, despite Wratislaw, although through him she had spoken, -the presence of Stellamaris pervaded the room. On the writing-table lay -a leather-covered blotter, with his initials, J. R., stamped in gold. In -desperate answer to a childish question long ago, he had described the -bedspread on his Parian marble bed in the palace as a thing of rosebuds -and crinkly ribbons tied up in true-lovers' knots. On his bed in -Stella's house lay a spread exquisitely Louis XV in design. - -Risca looked about the room. Yes, everything was Stella. And behold -there was one new thing, essentially Stella, which he had not noticed -before. Surely it had been put there since his last visit. - -In her own bedroom had hung since her imprisonment a fine reproduction -of Watt's “Hope,” and, child though she was, she had divined, in a -child's unformulative way, the simple yet poignant symbolism of the -blindfold figure seated on this orb of land and sea, with meek head -bowed over a broken lyre, and with ear strained to the vibration of -the one remaining string. She loved the picture, and with unconscious -intuition and without consultation with Wratislaw, who would have -been horrified at its domination of his Adam room, had ordained that a -similar copy should be hung on the wall facing the pillow of her Great -High Belovedest's bed. - -The application of the allegory to his present state of being was -startlingly obvious. Risca knitted a puzzled brow. The new thing was -essentially Stella, yet why had she caused it to be put in his room this -day of all disastrous days? Was it not rather his cousin Julia's doing? -But such delicate conveyance of sympathy was scarcely Julia's way. -A sudden dread stabbed him. Had Stella herself heard rumours of the -tragedy? He summoned Herold, who had a prescriptive right to the -adjoining room. - -“If any senseless fools have told her, I 'll murder them,” he cried. - -“The creatures of the sunset told her--at least as much as it was good -for her to know,” said Herold. - -“Do you mean that she did it in pure ignorance?” - -“In the vulgar acceptance of the word, yes,” smiled Herold. “Do you -think that the human brain is always aware of the working of the divine -spirit?” - -“If it's as you say, it's uncanny,” said Risca, unconvinced. - -Yet when Sir Oliver and Julia both assured him that Stella never doubted -his luxurious happiness, and that the ordering of the picture was due to -no subtle suggestion, he had to believe them. - -“You always make the mistake, John, of thinking Stellamaris mortal,” - said Herold, at the supper-table, for, on receipt of the young men's -telegram, the Blounts had deferred their dinner to the later hour of -supper. “You are utterly wrong,” said he. “How can she be mortal when -she talks all day to winds and clouds and the sea-children in their cups -of foam? She's as elemental as Ariel. When she sleeps, she's really away -on a sea-gull's back to the Isles of Magic. That's why she laughs at the -dull, clumsy old world from which she is cut off in her mortal guise. -What are railway-trains and omnibuses to her? What would they be to -you, John, if you could have a sea-gull's back whenever you wanted to go -anywhere? And she goes to places worth going to, by George! What could -she want with Charing Cross or the Boulevard des Italians? Fancy the -nymph Syrinx at a woman writers' dinner!” - -“I don't know what you 're talking about, Walter,” said Lady Blount, -whose mind was practical. - -“Syrinx,” said Sir Oliver, oracularly (he was a little, shrivelled man, -to whose weak face a white moustache and an imperial gave a false air -of distinction)--“Syrinx,” said he, “was a nymph beloved of Pan,--it's a -common legend in Greek mythology,--and Pan turned her into a reed.” - -“And then cut the reed up into Pan-pipes,” cried Herold, eagerly, “and -made immortal music out of them--just as he makes immortal music out of -Stellamaris. You see, John, it all comes to the same thing. Whether you -call her Ariel, or Syrinx, or a Sprite of the Sea, or a Wunderkind whose -original trail of glory-cloud has not faded into the light of common -day, she belongs to the Other People. You must believe in the Other -People, Julia; you can't help it.” - -Lady Blount turned to him severely. Despite her affection for him, -she more than suspected him of a pagan pantheism, which she termed -atheistical. His talk about belief in spirits and hobgoblins irritated -her. She kept a limited intelligence together by means of formulas, as -she kept her scanty reddish-gray hair together by means of a rigid false -front. - -“I believe in God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost,” she -said, with an air of cutting reproof. - -Sir Oliver pushed his plate from him, but not the fraction of a -millimetre beyond that caused by the impatient push sanctioned by good -manners. - -“Don't be a fool, Julia!” - -“I don't see how a Christian woman declaring the elements of her faith -can be a fool,” said Lady Blount, drawing herself up. - -“There are times and seasons for everything,” said Sir Oliver. “If you -were having a political argument, and any one asked you whether you -believed in tariff reform, and you glared at him and said, I believe in -Pontius Pilate,' you'd be professing Christianity, but showing yourself -an idiot.” - -“But I don't believe in Pontius Pilate,” retorted Lady Blount. - -“Oh, don't you?” cried Sir Oliver, in sinister exultation. “Then your -whole historical fabric of the Crucifixion must fall to the ground.” - -“I don't see why you need be irreverent and blasphemous,” said Lady -Blount. - -Herold laid his hand on Lady Blount's and looked at her, with his head -on one side. - -“But do you believe in Stellamaris, Julia.” - -His smile was so winning, with its touch of mockery, that she grew -mollified. - -“I believe she has bewitched all of us,” she said. - -Which shows how any woman may be made to eat her words just by a little -kindness. - -So the talk went back to Stella and her ways and her oddities, and the -question of faith in Pontius Pilate being necessary for salvation was -forgotten. A maid, Stella's own maid, came in with a message. Miss -Stella's compliments, and were Mr. Risca and Mr. Herold having a good -supper? She herself was about to drink her egg beaten up in sherry, and -would be glad if the gentlemen would take a glass of wine with her. -The young men, accordingly, raised their glasses toward the ceiling and -drank to Stella, in the presence of the maid, and gave her appropriate -messages to take back to her mistress. - -[Illustration: 0046] - -It was a customary little ceremony, but in Risca's eyes it never lost -its grace and charm. To-night it seemed to have a deeper significance, -bringing Stella with her elfin charm into the midst of them, and thus -exorcising the spirits of evil that held him in their torturing grip. -He spoke but little at the meal, content to listen to the talk about -Stella, and curiously impatient when the conversation drifted into other -channels. Of his own tragedy no one spoke. On his arrival, Lady Blount, -with unwonted demonstration of affection, had thrown her arms round his -neck, and Sir Oliver had wrung his hand and mumbled the stiff Briton's -incoherences of sympathy. He had not yet told them of his decision to go -to Australia. - -He broke the news later, in the drawing-room, abruptly and apropos of -nothing, as was his manner, firing his bombshell with the defiant air of -one who says, “There, what do you think of it?” - -“I'm going to Australia next week, never to come back again,” said he. - -There was a discussion. Sir Oliver commended him. The great dependencies -of the empire were the finest field in the world for a young man, -provided he kept himself outside the radius of the venomous blight of -the Colonial Office. To that atrophied branch of the imperial service -the white administrator was merely a pigeon-holed automaton; the native, -black or bronze or yellow, a lion-hearted human creature. All the -murder, riot, rapine, arson, and other heterogeneous devilry that -the latter cared to indulge in proceeded naturally from the noble -indignation of his generous nature. If the sensible man who was -appointed by the Government to rule over this scum of the planet called -out the military and wiped out a few dozen of them for the greater glory -and safety of the empire, the pusillanimous ineptitudes in second-rate -purple and cheap linen of the Colonial Office, for the sake of currying -favour with Labour members and Socialists and Radicals and Methodists -and Anti-vivisectionists and Vegetarians and other miserable -Little-Englanders, denounced him as a Turk, an assassin, a -seventeenth-century Spanish _conquistador_ of the bloodiest type, and -held him up to popular execration, and recalled him, and put him on a -beggarly pension years before he had reached his age limit. He could -tell them stories which seemed (and in truth deserved to be) incredible. - -“John,” said Lady Blount, “has heard all this a thousand times,”--as -indeed he had,--“and must be sick to death of it. He is not going out to -Australia as governor-general.” - -“Who said he was, my dear?” said Sir Oliver. - -“If you did n't imply it, you were talking nonsense, Oliver,” Lady -Blount retorted. - -“Anyhow, Oliver, do you think John is taking a wise step?” Herold -hastily interposed. - -“I do,” said he; “a very wise step.” - -“I don't agree with you at all,” said Lady Blount, with a snap of -finality. - -“Your remark, my dear,” replied Sir Oliver, “does not impress me in the -least. When did you ever agree with me?” - -“Never, my dear Oliver,” said Lady Blount, with the facial smile of -the secretly hostile fencer. “And I thank Heaven for it. I may not be a -brilliant woman, but I am endowed with common sense.” - -Sir Oliver looked at her for a moment, with lips parted, as if to -speak; but finding nothing epigrammatic enough to say--and an epigram -alone would have saved the situation--he planted a carefully cut cigar -between the parted lips aforesaid, and deliberately struck a match. - -“Your idea, John,” said Lady Blount, aware of victory, “is preposterous. -What would Stella do without you?” - -“Yes,” said Sir Oliver, after lighting his cigar; “Stella has to be -considered before everything.” - -Risca frowned on the unblushing turncoat. Stella! Stella! Everything -was Stella. Here were three ordinary, sane, grown-up people seriously -putting forward the proposition that he had no right to go and mend his -own broken life in his own fashion because he happened to be the favored -playmate of a little invalid girl! - -On the one side was the driving force of Furies of a myriad hell-power, -and on the other the disappointment of Stella Blount. It was ludicrous. -Even Walter Herold, who had a sense of humour, did not see the grotesque -incongruity. Risca frowned upon each in turn--upon three serene faces -smilingly aware of the absurd. Was it worth while trying to convince -them? - -“Our dear friends are quite right, John,” said Herold. “What would -become of Stella if you went away?” - -“None of you seems to consider what would happen to me if I stayed,” - said John, in the quiet tone of a man who is talking to charming but -unreasonable children. “It will go to my heart to leave Stella, more -than any of you can realize; but to Australia I go, and there's an end -of it.” - -Lady Blount sighed. What with imperial governments that wrecked the -career of men for shooting a few murderous and fire-raising blacks, and -with lowborn vixens of women who ruined men's careers in other ways, -life was a desperate puzzle. She was fond of her cousin John Risca. She, -too, before she married Sir Oliver, had borne the name, and the disgrace -that had fallen upon it affected her deeply. It was horrible to think -of John's wife, locked up that night in the stone cell of a gaol. She -leaned back in her chair in silence while the men talked--Sir Oliver, -by way of giving Risca hints on the conduct of life in Melbourne, was -narrating his experiences of forty years ago in the West Indies--and -stared into the fire. Her face, beneath the front of red hair that -accused so pitifully the reddish gray that was her own, looked very old -and faded. What was a prison like? She shuddered. As governor's wife, -she had once or twice had occasion to visit a colonial prison. But the -captives were black, and they grinned cheerily; their raiment, save for -the unæsthetic decoration of the black arrow, was not so very different -from that which they wore in a state of freedom; neither were food, -bedding, and surroundings so very different; and the place was flooded -with air and blazing sunshine. She could never realize that it was -a real prison. It might have been a prison of musical comedy. But an -English prison was the real, unimaginable abode of grim, gray horror. -She had heard of the prison taint. She conceived it as a smell--that of -mingled quicklime and the corruption it was to destroy--which lingered -physically forever after about the persons of those who had been -confined within prison-walls. A gaol was a place of eternal twilight, -eternal chill, eternal degradation for the white man or woman; and a -white woman, the wife of one of her own race, was there. It was almost -as if the taint hung about her own lavender-scented self. She shivered, -and drew her chair a few inches nearer the fire. - -Was it so preposterous, after all, on John Risca's part to fly from the -shame into a wider, purer air? Her cry had been unthinking, instinctive, -almost a cry for help. She was growing old and soured and worn by -perpetual conjugal wranglings. John, her kinsman, counted for a great -deal in a life none too rich. John and Stella were nearest to her in the -world--first Stella, naturally, then John. To the woman of over fifty -the man of under thirty is still a boy. For many years she had nursed -the two together in her heart. And now he was going from her. What -would she, what would Stella, do without him? Her husband's direct -interpellation aroused her from her reverie. - -“Julia, what was the name of the chap we met in St. Kitts who had been -sheep-farming in Queensland?” - -They had sailed away from St. Kitts in 1878. Lady Blount reminded -him tartly of the fact while professing her oblivion of the man from -Queensland. They sparred for a few moments. Then she rose wearily and -said she was going to bed. Sir Oliver looked at his watch. - -“Nearly twelve. Time for us all to go.” - -“As soon as I' ve written my morning letter to Stellamaris,” said -Herold. - -“I must write, too,” said Risca. - -For it was a rule of the house that every visitor should write -Stellamaris a note overnight, to be delivered into her hands the first -thing in the morning. The origin of the rule was wrapped in the mists of -history. - -So John Risca sat down at Sir Oliver's study-table in order to indite -his letter to Stellamaris. But for a long time he stared at the white -paper. He, the practised journalist, who could dash off his thousand -words on any subject as fast as pen could travel, no matter what torture -burned his brain, could not find a foolish message for a sick child. At -last he wrote like a school-boy: - -_Darling: The flowers were beautiful, and so is the new picture, and I -want to see you early in the morning. I hope you are well. John Risca._ - -And he had to tear the letter out of its envelope and put it into a -fresh one because he had omitted to add the magic initials “G. H. B.” to -his name. Compared with his usual imaginative feats of correspondence, -this was a poverty-stricken epistle. She would wonder at the change. -Perhaps his demand for an immediate interview would startle her, and -shocks were dangerous. He tore up the letter and envelope, and went to -his own room. It was past two o'clock when he crept downstairs again to -lay his letter on the hall table. - -At the sight of him the next morning the color deepened in the delicate -cheeks of Stellamaris, and her dark eyes grew bright. She held out a -welcoming hand. - -“Ah, Belovedest, I 've been longing to see you ever since dawn. I woke -up then and could n't go to sleep again because I was so excited.” - -He took the chair by her bedside, and her fingers tapped affectionately -on the back of the great hand that lay on the coverlid. - -“I suppose I was excited, too,” said he, “for I was awake at dawn.” - -“Did you look out of window?” - -“Yes,” said John. - -“Then we both saw the light creeping over the sea like a monstrous -ghost. And it all lay so pallid and still,--did n't it?--as if it were -a sea in a land of death. And then a cheeky little thrush began to -twitter.” - -“I heard the thrush,” replied John. “He said, 'Any old thing! Any old -thing!' ” - -He mimicked the bird's note. Stella laughed. “That's just what he -said--as though a sea in a land of death or the English Channel was all -the same to him. I suppose it was.” - -“It must be good to be a thrush,” said Risca. “There 's a _je m'en -fich'isme_ about his philosophy which must be very consoling.” - -“I know what that is in English,” cried Stellamaris. “It is -'don't-care-a-damativeness.' “ Her lips rounded roguishly over the -naughty syllable. - -“Where did you learn that?” - -“Walter told me.” - -“Walter must be clapped into irons, and fed on bread and water, and -seriously spoken to.” - -Unconsciously he had drifted into his usual manner of speech with her. -She laughed with a child's easy gaiety. - -“It's delightful to be wicked, is n't it?” - -“Why?” he asked. - -“It must be such an adventure. It must make you hold your breath and -your heart beat.” - -John wondered grimly whether a certain doer of wickedness had felt this -ecstatic rapture. She, too, must have seen the gray dawn, but creeping -through prison-bars into her cell. God of Inscrutability! Was it -possible that these two co-watchers of the dawn, both so dominant in his -life, were of the same race of beings? If the one was a woman born of -woman, what in the name of mystery was Stellamaris? - -“Don't look so grave, Great High Belovedest,” she said, squeezing a -finger. “I only spoke in fun. It must really be horrid to be wicked. -When I was little I had a book about Cruel Frederick--I think it -belonged to grandmama. It had awful pictures, and there were rhymes-- - - He tore the wings off little flies, - - And then poked out their little eyes. - -And there was a picture of his doing so. I used to think him a -detestable boy. It made me unhappy and kept me awake when I was quite -small, but now I know it's all nonsense. People don't do such things, do -they?” - -Risca twisted his glum face into a smile, remembering the Unwritten Law. -“Of course not, Stellamaris,” said he. “Cruel Frederick is just as much -of a mythical personage as the Giant Fee-fo-fum, who said: - - I smell the blood of an Englishman, - - And be he alive or be he dead, - - I 'll grind his bones to make my bread.” - -“Why do people frighten children with stories of ogres and wicked -fairies and all the rest of it, when the real world they live in is so -beautiful?” - -“Pure cussedness,” answered John, unable otherwise to give a -satisfactory explanation. - -“Cussedness is silly,” said Stellamaris. - -There was a little pause. Then she put both her hands on his and pressed -it. - -“Oh, it's lovely to have you here again, Great High Belovedest; and I -have n't thanked you for your letter. It's the most heavenly one you've -ever written to me.” - -It might well have been. He had taken two hours to write it. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -THE most heavenly of all letters,” Stellamaris repeated, as Risca made -no reply. “I loved it because it showed me you were very happy.” - -“Have you ever doubted it?” he asked. - -The Great Dane, the Lord High Constable, who was stretched out on -his side, with relaxed, enormous limbs, on the hearth-rug, lifted his -massive head for a second and glanced at John. Then with a half-grunt, -half-sigh, he dropped his head, and twitched his limbs and went to sleep -again. - -“Now and then when you 're not looking at me,” said Stellamaris, “there -is a strange look in your eyes: it is when you 're not speaking and you -stare out of window without seeming to see anything.” - -For a moment Risca was assailed by a temptation to break the Unwritten -Law and tell her something of his misery. She, with her superfine -intelligence, would understand, and her sympathy would be sweet. But he -put the temptation roughly from him. - -“I am the happiest fellow in the world, Stellamaris,” said he. - -“It would be difficult not to be happy in such a world.” - -She pointed out to sea. The blustering wind of the day before had -fallen, and a light breeze shook the tips of the waves to the -morning sunshine, which turned them into diamonds. The sails of the -fishing-fleet of the tiny port flashed merrily against the kindly blue. -On the horizon a great steamer was visible steaming up Channel. The -salt air came in through the open windows. The laughter of fishermen's -children rose faintly from the beach far below. - -“And there's spring, too, dancing over everything,” she said. “Don't you -feel it?” - -He acknowledged the vernal influence, and, careful lest his eyes should -betray him, talked of the many things she loved. He had not seen her for -a fortnight, so there were the apocryphal doings of Lilias and Niphetos -to record,--Cleopatras of cats, whom age could not wither, and whose -infinite variety custom could not stale,--and there was the approaching -marriage of Arachne with a duke to report. And he told her of his -gay, bright life in London and of the beautiful Belinda Molyneux, an -imaginary Egeria, who sometimes lunched with the queen. The effort of -artistic creation absorbed him, as it always had done, under the spell -of Stellamaris's shining eyes. The foolish world of his imagination -became real, and for the moment hung like a veil before his actual world -of tragedy. It was in the nature of a shock to him when Stella's maid -entered and asked him if he could speak to Mr. Herold outside the door.. - -“Tell him to come in,” said Stellamaris. - -“He says he will, Miss, after he has seen Mr. Risca.” - -Risca found Herold on the landing. - -“Well?” - -“Well?” said John. - -“What has happened? How did she take it?” - -John looked away, and thrust his hands into his pockets. - -“I 've not told her yet.” - -Walter drew a breath. “But you 're going to?” - -“Of course,” said John. “Do you think it 's so damned easy?” - -“You had better be quick, if you 're coming back to town with me. I'm -due at rehearsal at twelve.” - -“I'll go and tell her now,” said John. - -“Let me just say how d' ye do to her first. I won't stay a minute.” - -The two men entered the sea-chamber together. Stella welcomed her Great -High Favourite and chatted gaily for a while. Then she commanded him to -sit down. - -“I 'm afraid I can't stay, Stellamaris. I have to go back to London.” - -Stella glanced at the clock. “Your train does n't go for an hour.” She -was jealously learned in trains. - -“I think John wants to talk to you.” - -“He has been talking to me quite beautifully for a long time,” said -Stella, “and I want to talk to you.” - -“He has something very particular to say, Stellamaris.” - -“What is it, Belovedest?” Her eyes sparkled, and she clasped her hands -over her childish bosom. “You are not going to marry Belinda Molyneux?” - -“No, dear,” said John; “I'm not going to marry anybody.” - -“I'm so glad.” She turned to Herold. “Are you going to get married?” - -“No,” smiled Herold. - -Stella laughed. “What a relief! People do get married, you know, and I -suppose both of you will have to one of these days, when you get older; -but I don't like to think of it.” - -“I don't believe I shall ever marry, Stellamaris,” said Herold. - -“Why?” - -Herold looked out to sea for a wistful instant. “Because one can't marry -a dream, my dear.” - -“I've married hundreds,” said Stella, softly. - -If they had been alone together, they would have talked dreams and -visions and starshine and moonshine, and their conversation would -have been about as sensible and as satisfactory to each other and as -intelligible to a third party as that of a couple of elves sitting on -adjacent toadstools; but elves don't talk in the presence of a third -party, even though he be John Risca and Great High Belovedest. And -Stellamaris, recognizing this instinctively, turned her eyes quickly to -Risca. - -“And you, dear--will you ever marry?” - -“Never, by Heaven!” cried John, with startling fervency. - -Stella reached out both her hands to the two men who incorporated the -all in all of her little life, and each man took a hand and kissed it. - -“I don't want to be horrid and selfish,” she said; “but if I lost either -of you, I think it would break my heart.” - -The men exchanged glances. John repeated his query: “Do you think it's -so damned easy?” - -“Tell us why you say that, Stellamaris,” said Herold. - -John rose suddenly and stood by the west window, which was closed. -Stella's high bed had been drawn next to the window open to the south. -The room was warm, for a great fire blazed in the tall chimneypiece. He -rose to hide his eyes from Stella, confounding Herold for a marplot. Was -this the way to make his task easier? He heard Stella say in her sweet -contralto: - -“Do you imagine it 's just for silly foolishness I call you Great High -Belovedest and Great High Favourite? You see, Walter dear, I gave John -his title before I knew you, so I had to make some difference in yours. -But they mean everything to me. I live in the sky such a lot, and it's -a beautiful life; but I know there 's another life in the great world--a -beautiful life, too.” She wrinkled her forehead. “Oh, it 's so difficult -to explain! It's so hard to talk about feelings, because the moment you -begin to talk about them, the feelings become so vague. It's like trying -to tell any one the shape of a sunset.” She paused for a moment or two; -Herold smiled at her and nodded encouragingly. Presently she went on: -“I 'll try to put it this way. Often a gull, you see, comes hovering -outside here and looks in at me, oh, for a long time, with his round, -yellow eyes; and my heart beats, and I love him, for he tells me all -about the sea and sky and clouds, where I'll never go,--not really,--and -I live the sky life through him, and more than ever since you sent me -that poem--I know it by heart--about the sea-gull. Who wrote it?” - -“Swinburne,” said Herold. - -“Did he write anything else?” - -“One or two other little things,” replied Herold, judiciously. “I 'll -copy them out and bring them to you. But go on.” - -“Well,” she said, “yesterday afternoon a little bird--I don't know what -kind of bird it was--came and sat on the window-sill, and turned his -head this way and looked at me, and turned his head that way and looked -at me, and I did n't move hand or foot, and I said, 'Cheep, cheep!' And -he hopped on the bed and stayed there such a long time. And I talked -to him, and he hopped about and looked at me and seemed to tell me all -sorts of wonderful things. But he did n't somehow, although he came from -the sky, and was a perfect dear. He must have known all about it, but he -did n't know how to tell me. Now, you and John come from the beautiful -world and tell me wonderful things about it; and I shall never go there -really, but I can live in it through you.” - -Constable, the Great Dane, known by this abbreviated title in familiar -life, rose, stretched himself, and went and snuggled his head beneath -John's arm. John turned, his arm round the hound's neck. - -“But you can live in it through anybody, dear,” said he--“your Uncle -Oliver, your Aunt Julia, or anybody who comes to see you.” - -Stellamaris looked at Herold for a characteristically sympathetic -moment, and then at John. She sighed. - -“I told you it was hard to explain. But don't you see, Belovedest? You -and Walter are like my gull. Everybody else is like the little bird. You -know how to tell me and make me live. The others are darlings, but they -don't seem to know how to do it.” - -John scratched his head. - -“I see what you mean,” said he. - -“I should hope so,” said Herold. - -He looked at his watch and jumped to his feet. “Star of the Sea,” said -he, “to talk with you is the most fascinating occupation on earth; but -managers are desperate fellows, and I 'll get into boiling water if I -miss my rehearsal.” He turned to John. “I don't see how you are going to -catch this train.” - -“Neither do I,” said John. “I shall go by the one after.” - -Herold took his leave, promising to run down for the week-end. Constable -accompanied him to the door in a dignified way, and this ceremony of -politeness accomplished, stalked back to the hearth-rug, where he threw -himself down, his head on his paws, and his faithful eyes fixed on his -mistress. John sat down again by the bedside. There was a short silence -during which Stellamaris smiled at him and he smiled at Stellamaris. - -“Does n't the Great High Belovedest want to smoke?” - -“Badly,” said John. - -She held out her hand for the pipe and tobacco-pouch. He gave them to -her, and she filled the pipe. For a while he smoked peacefully. From -where he sat all he could see of the outside world was the waste of -sun-kissed waters stretching away and melting into a band of pearly -cloud on the horizon. He might have been out at sea. Possibly this time -next week he would be, and the salt air would be playing, as now, about -his head. But on board that ship would be no spacious sea-chamber like -this, so gracious in its appointments--its old oak and silver, its -bright chintzes, its quiet old engravings, its dainty dressing-table -covered with fairy-like toilet-articles, its blue delft bowls full of -flowers, its atmosphere so dearly English, yet English of the days when -Sir Bedivere threw Excalibur into the mere. In no other spot on the -globe could be found such a sea-chamber, with its high bed, on which lay -the sweet, elfin face, half child's, half woman's, framed in the soft, -brown hair. - -Risca smoked on, and Stellamaris, seeing him disinclined to talk, gazed -happily out to her beloved Channel, and dreamed her dreams. They had -often sat like this for an hour together, both feeling that they were -talking to each other all the time; and often Stella would break the -silence by telling him to listen. At such times, so people said, -an angel was passing. And he would listen, but could not hear. He -remembered Walter Herold once agreeing with her, and saying: - -“There's a special little angel told off to come here every day and -beat his wings about the room so as to clear the air of all troubling -things.” - -In no other spot on the globe could be found such a sea-chamber, -wing-swept, spirit-haunted, where pain ceased magically and the burden -of intolerable suffering grew light. No other haven along all the coasts -of the earth was a haven of rest such as this. - -And the Furies were driving him from it! But here the Furies ceased from -driving. Here he had delicious ease. Here a pair of ridiculously frail -hands held him a lotus-fed prisoner. He smoked on. At last he resisted -the spell. The whole thing was nonsensical. His pipe, only lightly -packed by the frail hands, went out. He stuffed it in his pocket, and -cleared his throat. He would say then and there what he had come to say. - -Stellamaris turned her head and laughed; and when Stellamaris laughed, -the sea outside and the flowers in the delft bowl laughed, too. - -“The angel has been having a good time.” - -John cleared his throat again. - -“My dear,” said he, and then he stopped short. All the carefully -prepared exordiums went out of his head. How now to break the news to -her he did not know. - -“Are you very tired?” she asked. - -“Not a bit,” said John. - -“Then be a dear, and read me something. Read me 'Elaine.' ” - -The elevated and sophisticated and very highly educated may learn -with surprise that “The Idylls of the King” still appeal to ingenuous -fifteen. Thank God there are yet remaining also some sentimentalists of -fifty who can read them with pleasure and profit! - -“But that is so sad, Stellamaris,” said John. “You don't want to be sad -this beautiful spring morning.” - -Which was a very inconsistent remark to make, seeing that he was about -to dash the young sun from her sky altogether. - -“I like being sad sometimes, especially when the world is bright. -And Lancelot was such a dear,”--here spoke ingenuous fifteen,--“and -Elaine--oh, do read it!” - -So John, secretly glad of a respite, drew from the bookcase which held -her scrupulously selected and daintily bound library the volume of -Tennyson and read aloud the idyll of Lancelot and Elaine. And the -sea-wind blew about his head and fluttered the brown hair on the pillow, -and the log-fire blazed in the chimney, and the great dog slept, and a -noontide hush was over all things. And Risca read the simple poem with -the heart of the girl of fifteen, and forgot everything else in the -world. - -When he had finished, the foolish eyes of both were moist. “The dead -oar'd by the dumb,” with the lily in her hand,--dead for the love of -Lancelot,--affected them both profoundly. - -“I think I should die, too, like that, Great High; Belovedest,” said -Stellamaris, “if any one I loved left me.” - -“But what Lancelot is going to leave you, dear?” said John. - -She shook the thistledown of sadness from her brow and laughed. - -“You and Walter are the only Lancelots I've got.” - -“The devil 's in the child to-day,” said Risca to himself. - -There was a short pause. Then Stella said: - -“Belovedest dear, what was the particular thing that Walter said you had -to tell me?” - -“It 's of no consequence,” said John. “It will do to-morrow or the day -after.” - -Stella started joyously,--as much as the rigid discipline of years would -allow her,--and great gladness lit her face. - -“Darling! Are you going to stay here to-day and to-morrow and the next -day?” - -“My dear,” said John, “I've got to get up to town this morning.” - -“You won't do that,” said Stella. “Look at the clock.” - -It was a quarter to one. He had spent the whole morning with her, and -the hours had flown by like minutes. - -“Why did n't you tell me that I ought to be catching my train?” - -She regarded him in demure mischief. - -“I had no object in making you catch your train.” - -And then Her Serene High-and-Mightiness, the nurse (who had been called -in for Stella when first she was put to bed in the sea-chamber, and, -falling under her spell, had stayed on until she had grown as much -involved in the web of her life as Sir Oliver and Lady Julia and -Constable and Herold and Risca), came into the room and decreed the end -of the morning interview. - -Risca went down-stairs, his purpose unaccomplished. He walked about the -garden and argued with himself. Now, when a man argues with himself, he, -being only the extraneous eidolon of himself, invariably gets the worst -of the argument, and this makes him angry. John was angry; to such a -point that, coming across Sir Oliver, who had just returned from an -inexplicably disastrous game of golf and began to pour a story of -bunkered gloom into his ear, he gnashed his teeth and tore his hair and -told Sir Oliver to go to the devil with his lugubrious and rotten game, -and dashed away to the solitude of the beach until the luncheon-bell -summoned him back. - -“I'm going by the 3:50,” said he at the luncheon-table. - -At three o'clock Stella was free to see him again. He went up to her -room distinctly determined to shut his heart against folly. The sun -had crept round toward the west and flooded the head and shoulders of -Stellamaris and the dainty bedspread with pale gold, just as it flooded -the now still and smiling sea. Again paralysis fell upon John. The words -he was to speak were to him, as well as to her, the words of doom, and -he could not utter them. They talked of vain, childish things. Then -Stellamaris's clock chimed the three-quarters. There are some chimes -that are brutal, others ironic; but Stellamaris's chimes (the clock was -a gift from John himself) were soft, and pealed a soothing mystery, like -a bell swung in a deep sea-cave. - -It was a quarter to four, and he had missed his train once more. Well, -the train could go to--to London, as good a synonym for Tophet as any -other. So he stayed, recklessly surrendering himself to the pale, sunlit -peace of the sea-chamber, till he was dislodged by Lady Blount. - -An attempt to catch a six o'clock train was equally unsuccessful. He did -not return to town that night. Why should a sorely bruised man reject -the balm that healed? To-morrow he would be stronger and more serene, -abler to control the driving force of the Furies, and therefore fitted -to announce in gentler wise the decrees of destiny. So Risca went to bed -and slept easier, and the room which Stellamaris had made for him became -the enchanted bower of a Fair Lady of All Mercy. - -In their simple human way Sir Oliver and Lady Blount besought him to -stay for his health's sake in the fresh sea-air; and when he yielded, -they prided themselves, after the manner of humans, on their own powers -of persuasion. One morning Sir Oliver asked him point-blank: - -“When are you going to Australia?” - -“I don't know,” said John. “There 's no immediate hurry.” - -“I hope, dear,” said Julia, “you 'll give up the idea altogether.” - -“Have n't I told you that I've made up my mind?” said John, in his gruff -tone of finality. - -“When are you going to break the news to Stella?” asked Sir Oliver. - -“Now,” said John, who had begun to loathe the mention of the doomful -subject; and he stalked away--the three were strolling in the garden -after breakfast--and went to Stella's room, and of course made no -mention of it whatsoever. - -Then Herold came down for the week-end, and when he heard of Risca's -pusillanimity he threw back his head and laughed for joy; for he knew -that John would never go to Australia without telling Stellamaris, and -also that if he could not tell Stellamaris in the first madness of his -agony, he would never be able to tell her at all. - -And so, in fact, the fantastically absurd prevailed. Before the -Unwritten Law, mainly promulgated and enforced by Risca himself, which -guarded the sea-chamber against pain and sorrow, the driving Furies -slunk with limp wing and nerveless claw. And one day Risca was surprised -at finding himself undriven. Indeed, he was somewhat disconcerted. He -fell into a bad temper. The Furies are highly aristocratic divinities -who don't worry about Tom, Dick, or Harry, but choose an Orestes at -least for their tormenting; so that, when they give up their pursuit -of a Risca, he may excusably regard it as a personal slight. It was the -morose and gloomy nature of the man. - -“I know I 'm a fool,” he said to Herold, when every one had gone to bed, -“but I can't help it. Any normal person would regard me as insane if -I told him I was stopped from saving the wreck of my career by -consideration for the temporary comfort of a bedridden chit of a girl -half my age, who is absolutely nothing to me in the world (her uncle -married my first cousin. If that is anything of a family tie, I'm weak -on family feeling); but that's God's truth. I'm tied by her to this -accursed country. She just holds me down in the hell of London, and I -can't wriggle away. It's senseless, I know it is. Sometimes when I 'm -away from her, walking on the beach, I feel I 'd like to throw the whole -of this confounded house into the sea; and then I look up and see the -light in her room, and--I--I just begin to wonder whether she 's asleep -and what she's dreaming of. There 's some infernal witchcraft about the -child.” - -“There is,” said Herold. - -“Rot!” said Risca, his pugnacious instincts awakened by the check on -his dithyrambics. “The whole truth of the matter is that I'm simply a -sentimental fool.” - -“All honour to you, John,” said Herold. - -“If you talk like that, I 'll wring your neck,” said Risca, pausing for -à second in his walk up and down Sir Oliver's library, and glaring down -at his friend, who reclined on the sofa and regarded him with a smile -exasperatingly wise. “You know I'm a fool, and why can't you say it? A -man at my time of life! Do you realize that I am twice her age?” - -And he went on, inveighing now against the pitifully human conventions -that restrained him from hurting the chit of a child, and now against -the sorcery with which she contrived to invest the chamber wherein she -dwelt. - -“And at my age, too, when I 've run the whole gamut of human misery, -the whole discordant thing--_toute la lyre_--when I've finished with the -blighting illusion that men call life; when, confound it! I 'm thirty.” - -Sir Oliver, unable to sleep, came into the room in dressing-gown and -slippers. He looked very fragile and broken. - -“Here 's John,” laughed Herold, “saying that he 's thirty, and an old, -withered man, and he 's not thirty. He 's nine-and-twenty.” - -Sir Oliver looked at John, as only age, with awful wistfulness, can -look at youth, and came and laid his hand upon the young man's broad -shoulders. - -“My lad,” said he, “you've had a bad time; but you 're young. You've -the whole of your life before you. Time, my dear boy, is a marvellous -solvent of human perplexity. Once in a new world, once in that -astonishing continent of Australia--” - -John threw a half-finished cigar angrily into the fire. - -“I'm not going to the damned continent,” said he. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -THUS it came to pass that, for the sake of Stellamaris, Risca remained -in London and fought with beasts in Fenton Square. Sometimes he got the -better of the beasts, and sometimes the beasts got the better of him. On -the former occasions he celebrated the victory by doing an extra turn of -work; on the latter he sat idly growling at defeat. - -At this period of his career he was assistant-editor of a weekly review, -in charge of the book-column of an evening newspaper, the contributor of -a signed weekly article on general subjects to the “Daily Herald,” and -of a weekly London letter to an American syndicate. From this it will -be seen that for a man not yet thirty he had achieved a position in -journalism envied by many who had grown gray-headed in the game. But as -Risca had written three or four novels which had all been rejected by -all the publishers in London, he chose to regard himself as a man foiled -in his ambitions. He saw himself doomed to failure. For him was the -eternal toil of ploughing the sand; the Garden of Delight cultivated by -the happy Blest--such as Fawcus of the club, who boasted of making over -a thousand pounds for every novel he wrote, and of being able to take -as much holiday as he chose--had its gilded gates closed against him -forever. That the man of nine-and-twenty should grow embittered because -he was not accepted by the world as a brilliant novelist is a matter for -the derision of the middle-aged and for the pitying smile of the hoary; -but it is a matter of woeful concern to twenty-nine, especially if -twenty-nine be a young man of a saturnine temperament whom fate has -driven to take himself seriously. In Risca's life there were misfortunes -the reality of the pain of which was independent of age; others which -were relative, as inseparable from youth as the tears for a bumped head -are inseparable from childhood. Yet to the man they were all equally -absolute. It is only in after-years, when one looks back down the vista, -that one can differentiate. - -For all that he ought to have given himself another decade before crying -himself a failure, yet a brilliant young journalist who has not found -a publisher for one of four novels has reasonable excuse for serious -cogitation. There are scores of brilliant young journalists who have -published masterpieces of fiction before they are thirty, and at forty -have gone on their knees and thanked kind, gentle Time for his effacing -fingers; yet the novels have had some quality of the novel warranting -their publication. At any rate, the brilliant young journalists have -believed in them. They have looked upon their Creation and found that -it was good. But Risca, looking on his Creation, found that it was -wood. His people were as wooden as Mr. and Mrs. Ham in a Noah's Ark; his -scenery was as wooden as the trees and mountain in a toy Swiss -village; his dialogue as wooden as the conversation-blocks used by -the philosophers of Laputa. He had said, in an outburst of wrathful -resentment, that he found his one artistic outlet in aiding to create -Stella's Land of Illusion; and he was right. He was despairingly -aware of the lack of the quick fancy; the power of visualization; the -sublimated faculty of the child's make-believe, creating out of trumpery -bits and pieces a glowing world of romance; the keen, instinctive -knowledge of the general motives of human action; the uncanny insight -into the hearts and feelings of beings of a sex, class, or type -different from his own; the gift of evolving from a tiny broken bone of -fact a perfect creature indisputably real, colouring it with the hues of -actuality and breathing into it the breath of life--the lack, indeed, of -all the essential qualities, artistic and therefore usually instinctive, -that go to the making of a novelist. Yet Risca was doggedly determined -to be a novelist and a poet. It was pathetic. How can a man who cannot -distinguish between “God Save the King” and “Yankee Doodle” hope to -write a world-shaking sonata? Risca knew that he was crying for the -moon, and it is only because he cried so hard for it that he deserved -any serious commiseration. - -When he did come to death-grapple with the absolute, the beasts above -mentioned, he stood out a tragic young figure, fiercely alone in the -arena, save for Herold. - -His name, uncommon and arresting, had one connotation in London--the -Case, the appalling and abominable Case. Even Ferguson of the “Daily -Herald,” who had evinced such sympathy for him at first, shrank from the -name at the head of the weekly column and suggested the temporary use of -a pseudonym. Had it not been for Herold's intervention, Risca would have -told Ferguson to go to the devil and would have refused to work for his -Philistine paper. He swallowed the insult, which did him no good. He -refused to carry the accursed name into the haunts of men. - -“Come to the club, at any rate,” Herold urged. “Every man there is loyal -to you.” - -“And every man as he looks at me will have on his retina not a picture -of me, but a picture of what went on in that house in Smith Street.” - -“Oh, go and buy a serviceable epidermis,” cried Herold. Argument was -useless. - -So Risca worked like a mole at anonymous journalism in his shabby -lodgings where Lilias and Niphetos were suggested only by a mangy tabby -who occasionally prowled into his sitting-room, and Arachne presided, -indeed, but in the cobwebs about the ceiling in the guise which she had -been compelled to take by the angry god when the world was young. Only -when his attendance at the office of the weekly review was necessary, -such as on the day when it went to press, did he mingle with the busy -world. - -“If you go on in this way,” said Herold, “you 'll soon have as much idea -of what's going on in London as a lonely dog tied up in a kennel.” - -“What does it matter,” growled John, “to any of the besotted fools who -read newspapers, provided I bark loud enough?” - -There was one thing going on in London, however, in which he took a grim -interest, and that was the convalescence of the little maid-of-all-work -who had been taken back, a maimed lamb, to the cheerless fold where -she had been reared. Thither he went to make inquiries as soon as he -returned from Southcliff-on-Sea. He found the Orphanage of St. Martha -at Willesden, a poverty-stricken building, a hopeless parallelogram of -dingy, yellow brick, standing within a walled inclosure. There were no -trees or flowers, for the yard was paved. His ring at the front door was -answered by an orphan in a light print dress, her meagre hair clutched -up tight in a knob at the back. He asked for the superintendent and -handed his card. The orphan conducted him to a depressing parlour, and -vanished. Presently appeared a thin, weary woman, dressed in the black -robes of a Sister of Mercy, who, holding the card tight in nervous -fingers, regarded him with an air of mingled fright and defiance. - -“Your business?” she asked. - -Despite the torture of it all, John could not help smiling. If he had -been armed with a knout, his reception could not have been more hostile. - -“I must beg of you to believe,” said he, “that I come as a friend and -not as an enemy.” - -She pointed to a straight-backed chair. - -“Will you be seated?” - -“It is only human,” said he, “to call and see you, and ask after that -unhappy child.” - -“She is getting on,” said the Sister superintendent, frostily, “as well -as can be expected.” - -“Which means? Please tell me. I am here to know.” - -“She will take some time to recover from her injuries, and of course her -nerve is broken.” - -“I'm afraid,” said John, “your institution can't afford many invalid's -luxuries.” - -“None at all,” replied the weary-faced woman. “She gets proper care and -attention, however.” - -John drew out a five-pound note. “Can you buy her any little things -with this? When you have spent it, if you will tell me, I 'll send you -another.” - -“It's against our rules,” said the Sister, eying the money. “If you like -to give it as a subscription to the general funds, I will accept it.” - -“Are you badly off?” asked John. - -“We are very slenderly endowed.” - -John pushed the note across the small table near which they were -sitting. - -“In return,” said he, “I hope you will allow me to send in some jellies -and fruits, or appliances, or whatever may be of pleasure or comfort to -the child.” - -“Whatever you send her that is practical shall be applied to her use,” - said the Sister superintendent. - -She was cold, unemotional; no smile, no ghost even of departed smiles, -seemed ever to visit the tired, gray eyes or the corners of the rigid -mouth; coif and face and thin hands were spotless. She did not even -thank him for his forced gift to the orphanage. - -“I should like to know,” said John, regarding her beneath frowning -brows, “whether any one here loves the unhappy little wretch.” - -“These children,” replied the Sister superintendent, “have naturally a -hard battle to fight when they go from here into the world. They come -mostly from vicious classes. Their training is uniformly kind, but it -has to be austere.” - -John rose. “I will bring what things I can think of to-morrow.” - -The Sister superintendent rose, too, and bowed icily. “You are at -liberty to do so, Mr. Risca; but I assure you there is no reason for -your putting yourself to the trouble. In the circumstances I can readily -understand your solicitude; but again I say you have no cause for it.” - -“Madam,” said he, “I see that I have more cause than ever.” - -The next day he drove to the orphanage in a cab, with a hamper of -delicacies and a down pillow. The latter the Sister superintendent -rejected. Generally, it was against the regulations and, particularly, -it was injudicious. Down pillows would not be a factor in Unity Blake's -after-life. - -“Besides,” she remarked, “she is not the only orphan in the infirmary.” - -“Why not call it a sick-room or sick-ward instead of that prison term?” - asked John. - -“It's the name given to it by the governing body,” she replied. - -After this John became a regular visitor. Every time he kicked his heels -for ten minutes in the shabby and depressing parlour and every time he -was received with glacial politeness by the Sister superintendent. -By blunt questioning he learned the history of the institution. The -Sisterhood of Saint Martha was an Angelican body with headquarters in -Kent, which existed for meditation and not for philanthropic purposes. -The creation and conduct of the orphanage had been thrust upon the -sisterhood by the will of a member long since deceased. It was unpopular -with the sisterhood, who resented it as an excrescence, but bore it as -an affliction decreed by divine Providence. Among the cloistered inmates -of the Kentish manor-house there was no fanatical impulse towards -Willesden. - -They were good, religious women; but they craved retirement, and not -action, for the satisfying of their spiritual needs. Otherwise they -would have joined some other sisterhood in which noble lives are spent -in deeds of charity and love. But there are angels of wrath, angels of -mercy, and mere angels. These were mere angels. The possibility of being -chosen by the Mother Superior to go out into the world again and take -charge of the education, health, and morals of twenty sturdy and squalid -little female orphans lived an abiding terror in their gentle breasts. A -shipwrecked crew casting lots for the next occupant of the kettle could -suffer no greater pangs of apprehension than did the Sisters of Saint -Martha on the imminence of an appointment to the orphanage. They had -taken vows of obedience. The Mother Superior's selection was final. -The unfortunate nominee had to pack up her slender belongings and go -to Willesden. Being a faulty human being (and none but a faulty, -unpractical, unsympathetic human being can want, in these days of -enlightenment, to shut herself up in a nunnery for the rest of her life, -with the avowed intention of never doing a hand's turn for any one of -God's creatures until the day of her death), she invariably regarded -herself as a holy martyr and ruled the poor little devils of orphans for -the greater glory of God (magnified entirely, be it understood, by her -own martyrdom) than for the greater happiness of the poor little devils. - -Sister Theophila--in entering into religion the Protestant Sisters -changed the names by which they were known in the world, according to -the time-honoured tradition of an alien church--Sister Theophila, with -the temperament of the recluse, had been thrust into this position -of responsibility against her will. She performed her duties with -scrupulous exactitude and pious resignation. Her ideal of life was the -ascetic, and to this ideal the twenty orphans had to conform. She did -not love the orphans. - -Her staff consisted of one matron, a married woman of a much humbler -class than her own. Possibly she might have loved the orphans had -she not seen such a succession of them, and her own work been less -harassing. Twenty female London orphans from disreputable homes are -a tough handful. When you insist on their conformity with the ascetic -ideal, they become tougher. They will not allow themselves to be loved. - -“And ungrateful!” exclaimed the matron, one day when she was taking -Risca round the institution. He had expressed to Sister Theophila his -desire to visit it, and she, finding him entirely unsympathetic, had -handed him over to her subordinate. “None of them know what gratitude -is. As soon as they get out of here, they forget everything that has -been done for them; and as for coming back to pay their respects, or -writing a letter even, they never think of it.” - -Kitchen, utensils, floors, walls, dormitory, orphans--all were -spotlessly clean, the orphans sluiced and scrubbed from morning to -night; but of things that might give a little hint of the joy of life -there was no sign. - -“This is the infirmary,” said the matron, with her hand on the -door-knob. - -“I should like to see it,” said John. - -They entered. An almost full-grown orphan, doing duty as nurse, rose -from her task of plain sewing and bobbed a curtsy. The room was clean, -comfortless, dark, and cold. Two pictures, prints of the Crucifixion -and the Martyrdom of St. Stephen, hung on the walls. There were three -narrow, hard beds, two of which were occupied. Some grapes on a chair -beside one of them marked the patient in whom he was interested. John -noticed angrily that some flowers which he had sent the day before had -been confiscated. - -“This is the gentleman who has been so kind to you,” said the matron. - -Unity Blake looked wonderingly into the dark, rugged face of the man who -stood over her and regarded her with mingled pain and pity. They had not -told her his name. This, then, was the unknown benefactor whose image, -like that of some elusive Apollo, Giver of Things Beautiful, had haunted -her poor dreams. - -“Can't you say, 'Thank you?' “ said the matron. - -“Thank you, sir,” said Unity Blake. - -Even in those three words her accent was unmistakably cockney--as -unmistakably cockney as the coarse-featured, snub-nosed, common little -face. In happier, freer conditions she would have done her skimpy hair -up in patent curlers and worn a hat with a purple feather, and joined -heartily in the raucous merriment of her comrades at the pickle-factory. -Here, however, she was lying, poor little devil, thought Risca, warped -from childhood by the ascetic ideal, and wrecked body and spirit by -unutterable cruelty. In her eyes flickered the patient apprehension of -the ill-treated dog. - -“I hope you will soon get better,” he said, with sickening knowledge of -that which lay hidden beneath the rough bedclothes. - -“Yes, sir,” said Unity. - -“It 's chiefly her nerves now,” said the matron. “She hollers out of -nights, so she can't be put into the dormitory.” - -“Do you like the things I send you?” asked John. - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Is there anything special you'd like to have?” - -“No, sir.” - -But he caught a certain wistfulness in her glance. - -“She does n't want anything at all,” said the matron, and the girl's -eyelids fluttered. “She's being spoiled too much as it is already.” - -John bent his heavy brows on the woman. She spoke not shrewishly, not -unkindly, merely with lack of love and understanding. He repressed the -bitter retort that rose to his lips. But at the same time a picture rose -before him of another sick-room, a dainty sea-chamber open to sun -and sky, where pillows of down were not forbidden, where flowers and -exquisite colours and shapes gladdened the eye, where Love, great and -warm and fulfilling, hovered over the bed. No gulls with round, yellow -eyes came to the windows of this whitewashed prison with messages -from the world of air and sea; no Exquisite Auntship, no Great High -Favourite, no Lord High Constable, executed their high appointed -functions; no clock with chimes like a bell swung in a sea-cave told -the hours to this orphan child of misery. He realized in an odd way -that Stellamaris, too, was an orphan. And he remembered, from the awful -evidence, that this child was just over fifteen--Stella's age. -Again rose the picture of the cherished one in her daintily ribboned -dressing-jacket, as filmy and unsubstantial as if made of sea-foam, -with her pure, happy face, her mysterious, brown pools of eyes, her -hair lovingly brushed to caressing softness; and he looked down on Unity -Blake. Man though he was, the bit of clean sail-cloth that did duty as a -nightgown moved his compassion. - -He did his best to talk with her awhile; but it was a one-sided -conversation, as the child could reply only in monosyllables. The matron -fidgeted impatiently, and he said good-bye. Her wistful glance followed -him to the door. Outside he turned. - -“There is just one thing I want to say to her.” - -He left the matron and darted back into the room. - -“I'm sure there must be something you would like me to bring you,” he -whispered. “Don't be afraid. Any mortal thing.” - -The child's lips twitched and she looked nervously from side to side. - -“What is it? Tell me.” - -“Oh, sir,” she pleaded breathlessly, “might I have some peppermint -bull's-eyes.” - - - -When Herold returned to his dressing-room after the first act,--the -piece for which he had been rehearsing had started a successful -career,--he found Risca sitting in a straight-backed chair and smoking a -pipe. - -“Hallo, John! I did n't know you were in front. Why did n't you tell me? -It's going splendidly, is n't it?” - -He glowed with the actor's excited delight in an audience's enthusiastic -reception of a new play. His glow sat rather oddly upon him, for he was -made up as a decrepit old man, with bald wig, and heavy, blue patches -beneath his eyes. - -“No, I'm not in front,” said John. - -“I see now,” smiled Herold, glancing at his friend's loose tweed suit. -No clothes morning or evening ever fitted Risca. Herold called him “The -Tailors' Terror.” - -“I want to talk to you, Wallie,” said he. - -“Have a drink? No? I sha' n't want anything, Perkins,” said he to -the waiting dresser. “Call me when I 'm on in the second act. I don't -change,” he explained. - -“I know,” said John. “That 's why I 've come now.” - -“What's the matter?” Herold asked, sitting in the chair before the -dressing-table, bright with mirrors and electric lights and sticks of -grease paint and silver-topped pots and other paraphernalia. - -“Nothing particular. Only hell, just as usual. I saw that child to-day.” - -Herold lit a cigarette. - -“Have you ever speculated on what becomes of the victims in cases of -this kind?” asked John. - -“Not particularly,” said Herold, seeing that John wanted to talk. - -“What do you think can become of a human creature in the circumstances -of this poor little wretch? Her childhood is one vista of bleak -ugliness. Never a toy, never a kiss, not even the freedom of the gutter. -Unless you 've been there, you can't conceive the soul-crushing despair -of that infernal orphanage. She leaves it and goes into the world. -She goes out of a kind of dreary Greek hades into a Christian hell. It -lasted for months. She was too ignorant and spiritless to complain, and -to whom was she to complain? Now she's sent back again, just like a sick -animal, to hades. Fancy, they would n't let her have a few flowers in' -the room! It makes me mad to think of it. And when she gets well again, -she 'll have to earn her living as a little slave in some squalid -Household. But what's going to become of that human creature morally and -spiritually? That's what I want to know.” - -“It's an interesting problem,” said Herold. “She may be either a -benumbed half-idiot or a vicious, vindictive she-brute.” - -“Just so,” said John. “That is, if she goes to slave in some squalid -household. But suppose she were transferred to different surroundings -altogether? Suppose she had ease of life, loving care, and all the rest -of it?” - -The senile travesty of Herold laughed. - -“You want me to say that she may develop into some sort of flower of -womanhood.” - -“Do you think she might?” John asked seriously. “My dear fellow,” said -Herold, “there are Heaven knows how many hundred million human beings -on the face of the earth, and every one of them is different from the -others. How can one tell what any particular young woman whom one does -n't know might or might not do in given circumstances? But if you want -me to say whether I think it right for you to step in and look after the -poor little devil's future, then I do say it's right. It 's stunning of -you. It's the very best thing you can do. It will give the poor little -wretch a chance, at any rate, and will give you something outside -yourself to think of.” - -“I was going to do it whether you thought it right or not,” said Risca. - -Herold laughed again. “For a great, hulking bull of a man you 're -sometimes very feminine, John.” - -“I wanted to tell you about it, that 's all,” said Risca. “I made up my -mind this afternoon. The only thing is what the deuce am I to do with a -child of fifteen in Fenton Square?” - -“Is she pretty?” - -“Lord, no. Coarse, undersized little cockney, ugly as sin.” - -“Anyhow,” said Herold, extinguishing his cigarette in the ash-tray, -“it's out of the question.” He rose from his chair. “Look here,” he -cried with an air of inspiration, “why not send her down to The Channel -House?” - -“I'm not going to shift responsibilities on to other people's -shoulders,” John growled in his obstinate way. “This child 's my -responsibility. I 'm going to see her through somehow. As to Southcliff, -you must be crazy to suggest it. What's to prevent her, one fine -day, from getting into Stella's room and talking? My God! it would be -appalling!” - -Herold agreed. He had spoken thoughtlessly. - -“I should just think so,” said Risca. “The idea of such a tale of horror -being told in that room--” - -The dresser entered. “Miss Mercier has just gone on, sir.” - -“Well, just think out something else till I come back,” said Herold. “At -any rate, Fenton Square won't do.” - -He left John to smoke and meditate among the clothes hanging up on pegs -and the framed photographs on the walls and the array of grease paints -on the dressing-table. John walked up and down the narrow space in great -perplexity of mind. Herold was right. He could not introduce Unity Blake -into lodgings, saying that he had adopted her. Landladies would not -stand it. Even if they would, what in the world could he do with her? -Could he move into a house or a flat and persuade a registry-office -to provide him with a paragon of a housekeeper? That would be more -practicable. But, even then, what did he know of the training, moral and -spiritual, necessary for a girl of fifteen? He was not going to employ -her as a servant. On that he was decided. What sort of a position she -should have he did not know; but her floor-scrubbing, dish-scraping days -were over. She should have ease of life and loving care--his own phrase -stuck in his head--especially loving care; and he was the only person in -the world who could see that she got it. She must live under his roof. -That was indisputable. But how? In lodgings or a flat? He went angrily -round and round the vicious circle. - -When Herold returned, he dragged him round and round, too, until Perkins -appeared to help him to change for the third act. Then John had to stop. -He clapped on his hat. He must go and work. - -“And you have n't a single suggestion to make?” he asked. - -“I have one,” said Herold, fastening his shirt-studs while Perkins was -buttoning his boots. “But it's so commonplace and unromantic that you 'd -wreck the dressing-room if I made it.” - -“Well, what is it?” He stood, his hand on the door-knob. - -“You 've got a maiden aunt somewhere, have n't you?” - -“Oh, don't talk rot!” said John. “I'm dead serious.” - -And he went out and banged the door behind him. He walked the streets -furiously angry with Herold. He had gone to consult him on a baffling -problem. Herold had suggested a maiden aunt as a solution. He had but -one, his mother's sister. Her name was Gladys. What was a woman of over -fifty doing with such an idiot name? His Aunt Gladys lived at Croydon -and spent her time solving puzzles and following the newspaper accounts -of the doings of the royal family. She knew nothing. He remembered when -he was a boy at school coming home for the holidays cock-a-whoop at -having won the high jump in the school athletics sports. His Aunt -Gladys, while professing great interest, had said, “But what I don't -understand, dear, is--what do you get on to jump down from?” He had -smiled and explained, but he had felt cold in the pit of his stomach. A -futile lady. His opinion of her had not changed. In these days John was -rather an intolerant fellow. - -Chance willed it, however, that when he reached Fenton Square he found -a letter which began “My dearest John” and ended “Your loving Aunt -Gladys.” And it was the letter of a very sweet-natured gentlewoman. - -John sat down at his desk to work, but ideas would not come. At last -he lit his pipe, threw himself into a chair in front of the fire, and -smoked till past midnight, with his heavy brows knitted in a tremendous -frown. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -THE same frown darkened Risca's brow the next day as he waited for -admittance at his Aunt Gladys's door. It was such a futile little door -to such a futile little house; he could have smashed in the former with -a blow of his fist, and he could have jumped into the latter through the -first-floor windows. With his great bulk he felt himself absurdly out -of scale. The tragedy looming huge in his mind was also absurdly out -of scale with his errand. The house was one of a row of twenty -perky, gabled, two-storied little villas, each coyly shrinking to -the farthermost limit of its tiny front garden, and each guarding the -privacy of its interior by means of muslin curtains at the windows, tied -back by ribbons, the resultant triangle of transparency being obscured -by a fat-leafed plant. The terrace bore the name of “Tregarthion -Villas,” and the one inhabited by Miss Lindon was called “The Oaks.” It -was a sham little terrace full of sham little gentilities. John hated -it. What could have induced his mother's sister to inhabit such a sphere -of flimsiness? - -Flimsiness, also, met him inside, when he was shown through a -bamboo-furnished passage into a gimcrack little drawing-room. He tried -several chairs dubiously with his hand, shook his head, and seated -himself on a couch. Everything in the room seemed flimsy and futile. -He had the impression that everything save a sham spinning-wheel and a -half-solved jig-saw puzzle on the little table was draped in muslin and -tied up with pink ribbons. A decrepit black-and-tan terrier, disturbed -in his slumbers in front of the fire, barked violently. A canary in a -cage by the window sang in discordant emulation. John poised his hat and -stick on the curved and slippery satin-covered couch, and they fell with -a clatter to the floor. The frown deepened on his brow. Why had he come -to this distracting abode of mindlessness? He wished he had brought -Herold gyved and manacled. What with the dog and the canary and the -doll's-house furniture, the sensitive and fastidious one would have gone -mad. He would have gloated over his ravings. It would have served him -right. - -The door opened suddenly, the draught blowing down a fan and a -photograph-frame, and Miss Lindon entered. - -“My dear John, how good of you to come and see me!” - -She was a fat, dumpy woman of fifty, lymphatic and, at first sight, -characterless. She lacked colour. Her eyes were light, but neither blue -nor green nor hazel; her straight hair was of the nondescript hue of -light-brown hair turning gray. Her face was fleshy and sallow, marked by -singularly few lines. She had lived a contented life, unscarred by care -and unruffled by desire. Her dreams of the possibilities of existence -did not pierce beyond the gimcrackeries of Tregarthion Villas. As -for the doings of the great world,--wars, politics, art, social -upheavals,--she bestowed on them, when they were obtruded on her notice, -the same polite and unintelligent interest as she had bestowed on her -nephew's athletic feats in the days gone by. - -However, she smiled very amiably at John, and reached up to kiss him -on both cheeks, her flabby, white hands lightly resting on each -coat-sleeve. Having done this, she caught up the barking dog, who -continued to growl from the soft shelter of arm and bosom with the -vindictiveness of pampered old age. - -“Naughty Dandy! I hope you were n't frightened at him, John. He never -really does bite.” - -“What does he do then? Sting?” John asked with gruff sarcasm. - -“Oh, no,” said Miss Lindon, round-eyed; “he 's quite harmless, I assure -you. Don't you remember Dandy? But it's a long time since you 've been -to see me, John. It must be three or four years. What have you been -doing all this time?” - -Her complacency irritated him. The canary never ceased his ear-splitting -noise. The canary is a beautiful, gentle bird--stuffed; alive, he is -pestilence made vocal. Risca lost his temper. - -“Surely you must know, Aunt Gladys. I 've been wandering through hell -with a pack of little devils at my heels.” - -Startled, she lifted up her arms and dropped Dandy, who slithered down -her dress and sought a morose shelter under the table. - -“My dear John!” she exclaimed. - -“I'm very sorry; I did n't mean to use strong language,” said he, -putting his hands to his ears. “It's all that infernal canary.” - -“Oh, poor Dickie! Don't you like to hear Dickie sing? He sings so -beautifully. The gas-man was here the other day and said that, if I -liked, he would enter him for a competition, and he was sure he would -get first prize. But if you don't like to hear him, dear--though I -really can't understand why--I can easily make him stop.” She drew a -white napkin from the drawer of the table on which the cage was placed -and threw it over the top. The feathered steam-whistle swallowed his din -in an angry gurgle or two and became silent “Poor Dickie, he thinks it -'s a snowstorm! What were we talking about, John? Do sit down.” - -John resumed his seat on the slippery couch, and Miss Lindon, having -snatched Dandy from his lair, sat by his side, depositing the dog -between them. - -“You asked me what I had been doing for the last few years,” said he. - -“Ah, yes. That 's why I wrote to you yesterday, dear.” - -She had written to him, in fact, every month for many years, long, -foolish letters in which everything was futile save the genuine -affection underlying them, and more often than not John had taken -them as read and pitched them into the waste-paper basket. His few -perfunctory replies, however, had been treasured and neatly docketed and -pigeon-holed in the bureau in her bedroom, together with the rest of her -family archives and other precious documents. Among them was a famous -recipe for taking mulberry stains out of satin. That she prized -inordinately. - -“I should n't like to drift apart from dear Ellen's boy,” she said with -a smile. - -“And I should n't like to lose touch with you, my dear aunt,” said John, -with more graciousness. “And that is why I've come to see you to-day. -I've had rather a bad time lately.” - -“I know--that awful case in the papers.” She shivered. “Don't let us -talk of it. You must try to forget it. I wrote to you how shocked I was. -I asked you to come and stay with me, and said I would do what I could -to comfort you. I believe in the ties of kinship, my dear, and I did n't -like to think of you bearing your trouble alone.” - -“That was very kind indeed of you,” said John, who had missed the -invitation hidden away in the wilderness of the hastily scanned -sixteen-page letter. He flushed beneath his dark skin, aware of -rudeness. After all, when a lady invites you to her house, it is boorish -to ignore the offered hospitality. It is a slight for which one can -scarcely apologize. But she evidently bore him no malice. - -“It was only natural on my part,” she said amiably. “I shall never -forget when poor Flossie died. You remember Flossie, don't you? She used -to look so pretty, with her blue bow in her hair, and no one will ever -persuade me that she was n't poisoned by the people next door; they were -dreadful people. I wish I could remember their name; it was something -like Blunks. Anyhow, I was inconsolable, and Mrs. Tawley asked me to -stay with her to get over it. I shall never forget how grateful I -was. I'm sure you 're looking quite poorly, John,” she added in her -inconsequent way. “Let me get you a cup of tea. It will do you good.” - -John declined. He wanted to accomplish his errand, but the longer he -remained in the company of this lady devoid of the sense of values, the -more absurd did that errand seem. A less obstinate man than he would -have abandoned it, but John had made up his mind to act on Herold's -suggestion, although he mentally bespattered the suggester with varied -malediction. He rose and, making his way between the flimsy chairs and -tables, stood on the hearth-rug, his hands in his pockets. Unconsciously -he scowled at his placid and smiling aunt, who remained seated on the -couch, her helpless hands loosely folded on her lap. - -“Did you ever hear of a child called Unity Blake?” - -“Was that the girl--” - -“Yes.” - -“What an outlandish name! I often wonder how people come to give such -names to children.” - -“Never mind her name, my dear aunt,” said John, gruffly. “I want to tell -you about her.” - -He told her--he told her all he knew. She listened, horror-stricken, -regarding him with open mouth and streaming eyes. - -“And what do you think is my duty?” asked John, abruptly. - -Miss Lindon shook her head. “I 'm sure I don't know what to advise -you, dear. I 'll try to find out some kind Christian people who want a -servant.” - -“I don't want any kind Christian people at all,” said John. “I'm going -to make up in ease and happiness for all the wrongs that humanity has -inflicted on her. I am going to adopt her, educate her, fill her up with -the good things of life.” - -“That's very fine of you, John,” said Miss Lindon. “Some people are -as fond of their adopted children as of their own. I remember Miss -Engleshaw adopted a little child. She was four, if I remember right, -and she used to dress her so prettily. I used to go and help her choose -frocks. Really they were quite expensive. Now I come to think of -it, John, I could help you that way with little Unity. I don't think -gentlemen have much experience in choosing little girls' frocks. How old -is she?” - -“Nearly sixteen,” said John. - -“That's rather old,” said Miss Lindon, from whose mind this new interest -seemed to have driven the tragic side of the question. “It's a pity you -could n't have begun when she was four.” - -“It is,” said John. - -“Only if you had begun with her at four, you would n't be wanting to -adopt her now,” said Miss Lindon, with an illuminating flash of logic. - -“Quite so,” replied John. - -There was a span of silence. John mechanically drew his pipe from his -pocket, eyed it with longing, and replaced it. Miss Lindon took the aged -black-and-tan terrier in her arms and whispered to it in baby language. -She was a million leagues from divining the object of her nephew's -visit. John looked at her despairingly. Had she not a single grain of -common sense? At last he strode across the room, a Gulliver in a new -Lilliput, and sat down again by her side. - -“Look here, 'Aunt Gladys,” he said desperately, “if I adopt a young -woman of sixteen, I must have another woman in the house--a lady, one -of my own family. I could n't have people saying horrid things about her -and me.” - -Miss Lindon assented to the proposition. John was far too young and -good-looking (“Oh, Lord!” cried John)--yes, he was--to pose as the -father of a pretty, grown-up young woman. - -“The poor child is n't pretty,” said he. - -“It does n't matter,” replied Miss Lindon. “Beauty is only skin deep, -and I 've known plain people who are quite fascinating. There was -Captain Brownlow's wife--do you remember the Brownlows? Your poor mother -was so fond of them--” - -“Yes, yes,” said John, impatiently. “He had wet hands, and used to mess -my face about when I was a kid. I hated it. The question is, however, -whom am I going to get to help me with Unity Blake?” - -“Ah, yes, to be sure. Poor little Unity! You must bring her to see me -sometimes. Give me notice, and I 'll make her some of my cream-puffs. -Children are always so fond of them. _You_ ought to remember my -cream-puffs.” - -“Good heavens!” he cried, with a gesture that set the dog barking. -“There 's no question of cream-puffs. Can't you see what I'm driving at? -I want you to come and keep house for me and help me to look after the -child.” - -He rose, and his great form towered so threateningly over her that Dandy -barked at him with a toy terrier's furious and impotent rage. - -“I come and live with you?” gasped Miss Lindon. - -[Illustration: 0094] - -“Yes,” said John, turning away and lumbering back to the fireplace. The -dog, perceiving that he had struck terror into the heart of his enemy, -dismissed him with a scornful snarl, and curled himself up by the side -of his stupefied mistress. - -It was done; the proposal had been made, according to the demands of his -pig-headedness. Now that he had made it, he realized its insanity. He -contrasted this home of flim-flammeries and its lap-dogs and canaries -and old-maidish futilities with his own tobacco-saturated and -paper-littered den; this life of trivialities with his own fighting -career; this incapacity to grasp essentials with his own realization of -the conflict of world-forces. The ludicrous incongruity of a partnership -between the two of them in so fateful a business as the healing of a -human soul appealed to his somewhat dull sense of humour. The whole idea -was preposterous. In his saturnine way he laughed. - -“It's rather a mad notion, is n't it?” - -“I don't think so at all,” replied Miss Lindon in a most disconcertingly -matter-of-fact tone. “The only thing is that since poor papa died I've -had so little to do with gentlemen, and have forgotten their ways. -You see, dear, you have put me quite in a flutter. How do I know, for -instance, what you would like to have for breakfast? Your dear -grandpapa used to have only one egg boiled for two minutes--he was -most particular--and a piece of dry toast; whereas I well remember -Mrs. Brownlow telling me that her husband used to eat a hearty meal of -porridge and eggs and bacon, with an underdone beefsteak to follow. So -you see, dear, I have no rule which I could follow; you would have to -tell me.” - -“That's quite a detail,” said John, rather touched by her unselfish, -if tangential, dealing with the proposal. “The main point is,” said he, -moving a step or two forward, “would you care to come and play propriety -for me and this daughter of misery?” - -“Do you really want me to?” - -“Naturally, since I 've asked you.” - -She rose and came up to him. “My dear boy,” she said with wet eyes, “I -know I'm not a clever woman, and often when clever people like you talk, -I don't in the least understand what they 're talking about; but I did -love your dear mother with all my heart, and I would do anything in the -wide world for her son.” - -John took her hand and looked down into her foolish, kind face, which -wore for the moment the dignity of love. “I'm afraid it will mean an -uprooting of all your habits,” said he, in a softened voice. - -She smiled. “I can bring them with me,” she said cheerfully. “You won't -mind Dandy, will you? He'll soon get used to you. And as for Dickie,” - she added, with a touch of wistfulness, “I 'm sure I can find a nice -home for him.” - -John put his arm round her shoulder and gave her the kiss of a shy bear. - -“My good soul,” he cried, “bring fifty million Dickies if you like.” He -laughed. “There's nothing like the song of birds for the humanizing of -the cockney child.” - -He looked around and beheld the little, gimcrack room with a new vision. -After all, it was as much an expression of her individuality, and as -genuine in the eyes of the high gods, as Herold's exquisitely furnished -abode was of Herold's, or the untidy jumble of the room in Fenton Square -was of his own. And all she had to live upon was a hundred and fifty -pounds a year, and no artistic instincts or antecedents whatsoever. - -“I feel a brute in asking you to give up this little place now that -you've made it so pretty,” he said. - -Her face brightened at the praise. “It is pretty, is n't it?” Then she -sighed as her eyes rested fondly on her possessions. “I suppose it would -be too tiny for us all to live here.” - -“I'm afraid it would,” said John. “Besides, we must live in London, on -account of my work.” - -“In London?” - -Miss Lindon's heart sank. She had lived in suburbs all her life, and -found Croydon--the Lord knows why--the most delectable of them all. She -had sat under Mr. Moneyfeather of Saint Michael's for many years--such -a dear, good man who preached such eloquent sermons! You could always -understand him, too, which was a great comfort. And the church was just -round the corner. In London folks had to go to church by omnibus, a most -unpleasant and possibly irreverent prelude to divine worship. Besides, -when you did get to the sacred edifice, you found yourself in a -confusing land where all the clergy, even to the humblest deacon, -were austere and remote strangers, who looked at members of their -congregation with glassy and unsympathetic eyes when they passed them -in the street. Here, in Croydon, on the contrary, when she met Mr. -Moneyfeather in public places, he held her hand and patted it and -inquired affectionately after Dandy's health. With a London vicar she -could not conceive the possibility of such privileged terms of intimacy. -London, where you did not know your next-door neighbor, and where you -took no interest in the births of babies over the way; where no one -ran in for a gossip in the mornings; where every street was a clashing, -dashing High Street. - -But though her face pictured her dismay, she was too generous to -translate it into words. John never guessed her sacrifice. - -“We 'll go somewhere quiet,” said he, after a while. - -“We 'll go wherever you like, dear,” replied Miss Lindon, meekly, and -she rang the bell for tea. - -The main point decided, they proceeded to discuss the details of the -scheme, the minds of each suffused in a misty wonder. If John had told -the simple lady that she could serve him by taking command of a cavalry -regiment, she would have agreed in her unselfish fashion, but she would -have been not a whit more perplexed at the prospect. As for John he had -the sensation of living in a fantastic dream. A child of six would have -been a more practical ally. In the course of befogged conversation, -however, it was arranged that Miss Lindon should transfer to the new -house her worldly belongings, of which she was to give him an inventory, -including Dandy and Dickie and her maid Phoebe, a most respectable -girl of Baptist upbringing, who had been cruelly jilted by a prosperous -undertaker in the neighborhood, whom, if you had seen him conducting a -funeral, you would have thought as serious and God-fearing a man as the -clergyman himself; which showed how hypocritical men could be, and how -you ought never to trust to appearances. It was also settled that, as -soon as Unity could be rescued from the guardianship of the orphanage -authorities and comfortably installed in a convalescent home by the -seaside, Miss Lindon would journey thither in order to make her ward's -acquaintance. In the meanwhile John would go house-hunting. - -“Walter Herold will help me,” said John. - -“That's your friend who acts, is n't it?” said Miss Lindon. “I have n't -any objection to theatres myself. In fact, I often used to go to see -Irving when I was young. You meet quite a nice class of people in the -dress-circle. But I don't think ladies ought to go on the stage. I hope -Mr. Herold won't put such an idea into Unity's head.” - -“I don't think he will,” said John. - -“Young girls are sometimes so flighty. My old friend Mrs. Willcox had -a daughter who went on the stage, and she married an actor, and now has -twelve children, and lives in Cheshire. I was hearing about her only the -other day. I suppose Unity will have to be taught music and drawing and -French like any other young lady.” - -“We might begin,” replied John, “with more elementary accomplishments.” - -“I could teach her botany,” said Miss Lindon, pensively. “I got first -prize for it at school. I still have the book in a cupboard, and I -could read it up. And I'm so glad I have kept my two volumes of pressed -flowers. It's quite easy to learn, I assure you.” - -“I'm afraid, my dear,” said John, “you 'll first have to teach her to -eat and drink like a Christian, and blow her nose, and keep her face -clean.” - -“Ah, that reminds me. My head's in a maze, and I can't think of -everything at once, like some clever people. What kind of soap do -gentlemen use? I 'll have to know, so as to supply you with what you -like.” - -“Any old stuff that will make a lather,” said John, rising. - -“But some soaps are so bad for the skin,” she objected anxiously. - -“Vitriol would n't hurt my rhinoceros hide.” - -He laughed, and held out his hand. Further discussion was useless. - -Miss Lindon accompanied him to the front gate and watched him stride -down the perky terrace until he disappeared round the corner. Then she -went slowly into the house and uncovered the canary, who blinked at her -in oblique sullenness, and did not respond to her friendly “cheep” and -the scratching of her finger against the rails of his cage. She turned -to Dandy, who, snoring loud, was equally unresponsive. Feeling lonely -and upset, she rang the bell. - -“Phoebe,” she said, when the angular and jilted maid appeared, “we are -going to keep house for my nephew, Mr. Risca, and a young lady whom -he has adopted. Will you tell me one thing? Is the lady of the house -supposed to clean the gentlemen's pipes?” - -“My father is a non-smoker, as well as a teetotaler, miss,” replied -Phoebe. - -“Dear me!” murmured Miss Lindon. “It's going to be a great puzzle.” - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -IT was a puzzle to John as much as to the palpitating lady, and in the -maze of his puzzledom the gleam of humour that visited him during -their interview lost its way. Walter Herold's eyes, however, twinkled -maliciously when he heard John's account at once rueful and pig-headed. -Then he grew serious. - -“It will be comic opera all the time. It can't be done.” - -“It 's going to be done,” said John, obstinately. “There's nothing else -to do. If I were a rich man, I could work wonders with a scratch in my -cheque-book. I could hire an unexceptionable colonel's or clergyman's -widow to do the business. But I'm not. How I'm going to get the house -together, as it is, I don't know. Besides,” he added, turning with some -savageness on his friend, “if you think it a comic-opera idea, kindly -remember it was you who started it.” - -Though Herold was silenced for the moment, to the back of his mind still -clung the first suggestion he had made. It was the common-sense -idea that, given a knowledge of John's relations with the Southcliff -household, would have occurred to anybody. John had it in his power to -befriend the unhappy child without trying the rash experiment of raising -her social status. Wherein lay the advantage of bringing her up as -a lady? A pampered maid in a luxurious home does not drag out the -existence of a downtrodden slave. Such have been known to smile and -sing, even to bless their stars, and finally to marry a prince in -grocer's disguise, and to live happy ever afterwards. With John's -description of the girl's dog-like eyes in his memory, Herold pictured -her as a devoted handmaiden to Stellamaris, a romantic, mediaeval -appanage of the sea-chamber. What more amazingly exquisite destiny could -await not only one bred in the gutter, but any damsel far more highly -born? Her silence as to the past could be insured under ghastly -penalties which would have no need of imagination for their appeal. That -of course would be an ultimate measure. He felt certain that a couple -of months' probation in the atmosphere of the Channel House would compel -any human being not a devil incarnate to unthinking obedience to the -Unwritten Law. By following this scheme, Unity would achieve salvation, -Stellamaris acquire a new interest in life, and John himself be saved -not only from financial worries, but from grotesquely figuring in comic -opera. As for Miss Lindon, he felt certain that she would fall down on -her knees and offer up thanksgivings to the God of her grandmothers. - -But of this scheme John would hear no word. He bellowed his disapproval -like an angry bull, rushed out, as it were, with lowered head, into the -thick of house-agents, and before Herold could catch him in a milder -humour he had signed the lease of a little house in Kilburn, overlooking -the Paddington Recreation Ground. By the time it was put in order and -decorated, he declared, Unity would be in a fit condition to take up her -abode there with Miss Lindon and himself. - -“Where is this convalescent home you 're going to send her to?” asked -Herold. - -John did not know. A man could not attend to everything at once. But -there were thousands. He would find one. Then, it being the end of the -week, he went down to the Channel House, where, by the midnight train on -Saturday, Herold joined him. - -It was Herold who laid John's rash project before Sir Oliver and Lady -Blount. - -“Why in the world,” cried the latter, checking the hospitable flow -of tea from the teapot and poising it in mid air--they were at -breakfast--“why in the world does n't he send the child to us?” - -John, in desperation, went over his arguments. The discussion grew -heated. Sir Oliver, with a twirl of his white moustache, gave him to -understand that to take folks out of the station to which it had pleased -God to call them was an act of impiety to which he, Sir Oliver, would -not be a party. His wife, irritated by her husband's dictatorial manner, -demurred to the proposition. John had every right to do as he liked. If -you adopted a child, you brought it up as a matter of course in your -own rank in life. Why adopt it? Why not? They bickered as usual. At last -John got up in a fume and went to cool his head in the garden. It was -outrageous that he should never be allowed to mismanage his own affairs. -There was the same quarreling interference when he proposed to go to -Australia. He lit his pipe and puffed at it furiously. After a while -Lady Blount joined him. She declared herself to be on his side; but, as -in most sublunary things, there was a compromise. - -“At any rate, my dear John, give your friends a little chance of helping -you,” she said. “If you set your face against Walter's plan, at least -you can send the child down here to recuperate. Nurse Holroyd will keep -a trained eye on her, and she can play about the garden and on the beach -as much as she likes. I do understand what you 're afraid of with regard -to Stella--” - -“Oliver and Walter are wooden-headed dolts,” cried John. - -She smiled wifely agreement. “There need be no danger, I assure you. We -can give the child a room in the other wing, and forbid her the use of -Stella's side of the house. Stella's room will be guarded. You may trust -me. Have I ever failed yet? And Stella need never know of her presence -in the place. After all,” she continued, touching his coat-sleeve, “I -think I am a bit nearer to your life than your Aunt Gladys.” - -John laughed at the flash of jealousy. - -“If you put it that way, it's very hard to refuse.” - -“Then you 'll send her?” - -He knocked the ashes out of his pipe against the heel of his boot, thus -hiding the annoyance on his face, but he yielded. “For her convalescence -only.” - -The touch on his arm deepened into a squeeze. - -“If you had said no, I should have been so hurt, dear.” - -“I only want to do what's decently right,” said he. - -“I think you 're acting nobly,” she said. - -“My dear Julia,” said he, “I'm not going to listen to infatuated -rubbish.” - -He cast off her hand somewhat roughly, but continued to walk with her -up and down the terrace, talking intimately of his plans concerning the -adopted child and the psychological problem she presented. No man, in -his vain heart of hearts, really resents a woman calling him a noble -fellow, be she ten years old or his great-great-grandmother. They parted -soon afterward, Lady Blount to prepare herself for church, which Sir -Oliver and she attended with official regularity, and John to worship -in his own way--one equally acceptable, I should imagine, to the -Almighty--in the sea-chamber of Stellamaris. - -He found Herold there, in the midst of a dramatic entertainment, with -Stellamaris and Constable for audience. How familiar and unchanging was -the scene! The great, bright room, the wood fire blazing merrily up the -chimney, the huge dog lifting his eyes and stirring his tail in welcome, -and against the background of sea and sky the fairy head on its low -pillow. Stella smiled, put a finger to her lips, and pointed to a chair. - -“Go on,” she said to Herold. - -“We 're in the middle of the first act, just before my exit,” said the -latter. - -John became aware, as he listened, that Herold was sketching the piece -in which he was playing, a fragrant comedy full of delicate sentiment -and humour. His own scenes he acted in full, taking all the parts. -Stella lay entranced, and fixed on him glorious eyes of wonder. How -could he do it? At one astonishing moment he was a young girl, at -another her sailor sweetheart, at another a palsied, mumbling old man. -And when, as the old man, he took the weeping girl under his arm -and hobbled away on his stick, leaving the young fellow baffled and -disappointed, it seemed an optical illusion, so vivid was the picture. -He recrossed the room, smiling, the real Walter Herold again; Stella -clapped her hands. - -“Is n't he perfectly lovely!” - -“Stunning,” said John, who had often witnessed similar histrionic -exhibitions in that room, and had always been impressed with their -exquisite art. “I wish you could see the real thing, dear.” - -Stella glanced out to sea for a moment and glanced back at him. - -“I don't think I do,” she said. “It would be too real.” - -“What do you mean by that?” - -Herold clapped John on the shoulder. “Can't you see what a subtle little -artistic soul she has?” he cried enthusiastically. “She has evolved for -herself the fundamental truth, the vital essence of all art--suggestion. -She means that, in order that the proper harmony should be established -between the artist and the person to whom he is making his appeal, -the latter must go a certain way to meet him. He must exercise his -imagination, too, on the same lines. The measure of your appreciation, -say, of Turner, is the length of the imaginative journey you make toward -him. When a thing needs no imaginative effort to get hold of it, it's -not a work of art. You have n't got to go half way to the housemaid -to realize a slice of bread and butter. That's where so-called realism -fails. Stella 's' afraid that if she saw us all in flesh and blood on -the stage, nothing would be left to her imagination. She's right in -essence.” - -Stella smiled on him gratefully. “That 's exactly how I feel, but I -could n't have expressed it. How do you manage to know all these funny -things that go on inside me?” - -“I wish I did,” said Herold, with a touch of wistfulness. - -“But you do.” She turned to John. “Does n't he, Belovedest?” - -Herold glanced at the clock. “I must run. I promised Sir Oliver to go to -church. We 'll have the rest of the play this afternoon.” - -“Why don't you go to church, too?” Stella asked when Herold had gone. - -“I 'm not so good as Walter,” he replied. - -“You are,” she cried warmly. - -He shook his head. He knew that Herold's churchgoing was not an act of -great spiritual devotion; for the Southcliff service was dull, and -the vicar, good, limited man, immeasurably duller. It was an act of -characteristic unselfishness: he went so as to be a buffer between -Sir Oliver and his wife, who invariably quarreled during their sedate, -official walk to and from morning service, and on this particular -occasion, with fresh contentious matter imported from the outside, were -likely to hold discourse with each other more than usually acrimonious. - -“Walter's a sort of saint,” said he, “who can hear the music of -the spheres. I can't. I just jog along the ground and listen to -barrel-organs.”, - -They argued the point for a while, then drifted back to Herold's acting, -thence to the story of the play. - -“I wonder what 's going to happen,” said Stellamaris. “If Dorothy does -n't marry her sailor, I shall never get over it.” - -John laughed. “Suppose the sailor turns out to be a dark, double-dyed, -awful villain?” - -“Oh, he can't; he's young and beautiful.” - -“Don't you believe that beautiful people can be villains?” - -“No,” said Stella; “it 's silly.” She looked for a while out to her -familiar sea, the source of all her inspiration, and her brows were -delicately knitted. “I may as well tell you,” she said at last with -great solemnity, “a conclusion I've come to after lots of thought--yes, -dear Belovedest, I lie here and think lots and lots--I don't believe the -Bible is true.” - -“My dear Stella!” he cried, scandalized. He himself did not believe -in the Jonah and whale story or in many other things contained in Holy -Writ, and did not go to church, and was sceptical as to existence of -anthropomorphous angels; but he held the truly British conviction of the -necessity of faith in the young and innocent. Stella having been bred -in the unquestioning calm of Anglican orthodoxy, her atheistical -pronouncement was staggering. “My dear Stella!” he cried. “The Bible not -true?” - -She flushed. “Oh, I believe it's all true as far as it goes,” she -exclaimed quickly. “But it 's not true about people to-day. All those -dreadful things that are told in it--the cruelty of Joseph's brethren, -for instance--did happen; but they happened so long, long ago. People -have had lots and lots of time to grow better. Have n't they?” - -“They certainly have, my dear,” said John. - -“And then Christ came to wash away everybody's sins.” - -“He did,” said John. - -“So it seems to me we can disregard a great deal of religion. It does -n't affect us. We are n't good like the angels, I know,” she remarked -with the seriousness of a young disputant in the school of Duns Scotus; -“but men don't kill each other, or rob each other, or be cruel to the -weak, and nobody tells horrible lies, do they?” - -“I think we 've improved during the last few thousand years,” said John. - -“So,” said Stellamaris, continuing her argument, “as the fathers have -no particular sins, they can't be visited much on the children. And -if there are no wicked people to go to hell, hell must be empty, and -therefore useless. So it's no good believing in it.” - -“Not the slightest good in the world,” said John, fervently. - -“And now that everybody loves God,” she went on, “I don't see what's the -good of religion. I love you, Great High Belovedest, but there's no need -for me to get a form of words to say 'I love you,' 'I love you,' all day -long. One's heart says it.” - -“What 's your idea of God, Stella dear?” he asked in a curiously husky -voice. - -She beckoned to him. He drew his chair nearer and bent toward her. She -waved her fragile arms bare to the elbow. - -“I think we breathe God,” she said. - - - -John Risca went back to Fenton Square and breathed the ghosts of the -night-before-last's sprats, and he journeyed to the Orphanage of Saint -Martha at Willesden and breathed the prison taint of that abode of -hopelessness, and he wrote hard at night in a tiny room breathing -the hot, electric atmosphere of a newspaper-office; and ever horribly -dominant in his mind was the woman whom once he had held in his arms, -who now performed degrading tasks in shameful outward investiture, and -inwardly lashed at him with malignant hatred through the distorted prism -of her soul, and he breathed the clammy dungeon atmosphere of his own -despair; and sitting at his writing-table one night, after having spent -the day in court listening to the loathsome details of a sickening -murder, a _crime passionnel_, with the shock of which the wide world was -ringing,--his American syndicate insisted on a vivid story, and he had -to earn the journalist's daily bread,--the ignorant, fanciful words of -Stellamaris flashed through his mind--“I think we breathe God.” He threw -back his head and laughed aloud, and then let it drop upon his arms, -folded over his wet page of copy, and sobbed in a man's dry-eyed agony -of spirit. - -And as the prophet Elijah, when sore beset, found the Lord neither in -the wind nor in the earthquake nor in the fire, so did John Risca find -Him not in all these daily things through which he had passed. Life -was fierce, inhuman, a devastating medley of blind forces, making human -effort a vain thing, human aspiration a derision, faith in mankind a -grotesque savage Ju-ju superstition. There was no God, no beneficent -influence making order out of chaos; for it was all chaos. Jezebel and -her lusts and cruelties ruled the world--this cloaca of a world. Man -argues ever from particular to general, instinctively flying to the -illogic on which the acceptance of human life is based. To Risca, -at nine and twenty, his pain translated itself into terms of the -world-pain; and so will it happen to all generations of all the sons and -daughters of men. - -After a while, as he sat there motionless, he grew aware of something -delicately soft touching his ear and hair. For a moment he had the -absurd fancy that Stellamaris stood beside him with caressing fingers. -It became so insistent that he dallied with it, persuaded himself that -she was there; he would have only to turn to see her in her childish -grace. He heard a sound as of murmured speech. She seemed to whisper of -quiet, far-off things. And then he seemed to hear the words: “The door -is open. Go out into the wide spaces under heaven.” He roused himself -with a start, and, looking about him, perceived that the door of his -sitting-room was indeed ajar, the ill-fitting old lock having slipped, -thus causing a draught, which poured over his head and shoulders. He -rose and clapped on his hat and went down-stairs. A ten-minutes' trudge -on the pavements would clear his head for the work that had to be -accomplished. But on his doorstep he halted. Away above the housetops on -the other side of the dingy square sailed the full moon, casting a wake -of splendour along the edge of a rack of cloud. And below it swam a -single star. - -He caught himself repeating stupidly, “Stella Maris, Star of the Sea.” - With an impatient shake of the shoulders he went his way through the -narrow streets and emerged upon the broad and quiet thoroughfares -about the Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. On Westminster Bridge the -startling silver of the moonlit river brought him to a stand. The same -glory was overspreading the mild sea below the windows of the Channel -House. Perhaps Stella even then lay awake, as she often did of nights, -and was watching it and was “breathing God.” A great longing arose -within him to stand on the beach beneath her window in the wide spaces -under heaven. So he walked on, thinking vaguely of Stellamaris and her -ways and mysteries, and reached his home again in a chastened mood. Like -Elijah, he had found God neither in the wind nor in the earthquake nor -in the fire; but who can tell whether he had not been brought into touch -with something of the divine by the still, small voice that came through -the draught of the crazy door? - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -THINGS happened as John and Lady Blount had planned them. Sister -Theophila, having satisfied herself that Unity Blake was not a second -time being thrown to the wolves--Lady Blount herself undertook the -negotiations--surrendered her without many regretful pangs. Unity Blake, -fatalistic child of circumstance, surrendered herself without coherent -thought. World authorities, vague in their nature, but irresistibly -compelling in their force, had governed her life from her earliest -years. The possibility of revolt, of assertion of her own individuality, -was undreamed of in her narrow philosophy. She had the outlook on life -of the slave; not the slave of the mettlesome temperament depicted by -the late Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe and the late Mr. Longfellow, but the -unaspiring deaf-mute of a barbaric harem. It is true that Lady Blount -asked her whether she would like to go away to a nice house by the -seaside, and afterward live for ever and ever with the kind gentleman -who gave her peppermint bull's-eyes and the kind lady who had visited -her one day, bringing her a pair of woollen mittens, and that Unity, -after the manner of her class, had said, “Yes, ma'am”; but the -consultation of Unity's wishes had been a pure formality. She had no -idea of what the seaside meant, having never seen the sea or speculated -on its nature. She could form no notion of her future life with the kind -lady and gentleman, save perhaps that the pokers of the establishment -might have other uses than as instruments of chastisement and that, at -any rate, they might be applied cold and not red-hot. If they had taken -her up without a word, and put her in an open coffin, and lowered -her into an open grave, and left her there, Unity would have made no -complaint, having at once no standard whereby to assess the right and -wrong done to her, and no tribunal to which she could appeal higher -than the vague world authorities above mentioned. The instinctive animal -might have clambered out of the pit and wandered about the country-side -in search of food and shelter, but that would have been all. The fervent -human soul would have played but a small part. - -So one day the matron came and dressed her in the parody of attire which -she had worn during her lamentable excursion into the world, and men -carried her, a creature of no volition, down-stairs, and put her into -a cab with Lady Blount, and the two journeyed in a train for an hour or -so, Unity lying flat on her back along one side of the carriage, and the -lady sitting opposite, reading a magazine. The jolting of the train hurt -her, but that was not the lady's fault. Sometimes the lady spoke to her, -and she said, “Yes, ma'am,” and, “No, ma'am,” as she had been taught to -do at the orphanage; but what the lady was saying she did not very well -understand. She grasped, however, the lady's kindness of intention; and -now and then the lady, looking up from her magazine, smiled and nodded -encouragingly, an unfathomably mysterious proceeding, but curiously -comforting. On the opposite side of the compartment was the most -beautiful picture she had ever seen--lovely ladies in gorgeous raiment -and handsome gentlemen sitting at little lamp-lit tables, eating a -meal which chiefly consisted of scarlet birds; and there were other -gentlemen, not quite so handsome, hovering about with dishes and bottles -of wine; and the pillars of the hall were of pure marble, and the tops -of them gold, and the ceiling was golden, too. In the foreground sat -a peculiarly lovely lady in a red, low-cut frock, and an entrancingly -handsome gentleman, and they were bending over the table and he held -a wine-glass in his hand. Below she read the legend, “Supper at the -Coliseum Hotel.” She could scarcely keep her eyes off the picture. Lady -Blount, noticing her rapt gaze, questioned her, and from her answers it -was obvious that it was only the details that attracted her--the lovely -ladies, the handsome men, the glitter and colour of the preposterously -gaudy scene. The essence of it she did not grasp; her spirit was not -transported into the shoddy fairy-land; her imagination was untouched by -the potentialities of life which to a mind a little, a very little, more -awakened it might, with all its vulgar crudity, have suggested. - -After the railway journey she was lifted into another cab, and taken -into a big house with wonderfully soft carpets and pictures on the -walls. They carried her into a pretty room that looked like a bower of -roses,--it had a rose-pattern wall-paper,--and from the window she could -see trees and a great rolling expanse of country. She wondered why the -place had no streets. They undressed her. A maid-servant, so trim and -spruce that she addressed her as “ma'am,” pointed to the heap of poor -garments and asked: - -“What are we to do with these, my lady?” - -“Bury them,” said Lady Blount. - -“Ain't I never going out again, ma'am?” Unity inquired humbly. - -“Of course, child. But we'll give you some decent clothes,” said Lady -Blount. - -They put her in a bath and washed her. The soap smelled so good that -surreptitiously she got hold of the cake and nosed it like a young dog. -They dried her in warm towels, and slipped a night-dress over her meagre -shoulders. It was then, perhaps, that fingering the gossamer thing, -taking up a bunch of stuff in her fist and slowly letting it go, in a -dreamy wonder, she first began to realize that she was on the threshold -of a new life. Not even the soft bed or the delicious chicken-broth that -was brought later eclipsed the effect produced by the night-dress. It -had embroidery and all sorts of blue ribbons--an epoch-making garment. - -Some time later, the maid, having drawn the curtains and smoothed her -pillow and tucked her in, said: - -“If you want anything in the night, just touch that bell, and I 'll come -to you.” - -Unity looked at her half comprehendingly. “Ring a bell? I should n't -dare.” - -“Why?” - -“It's only missuses that ring bells.” - -“Those are Lady Blount's orders, anyway,” laughed the maid. “'Ere,” said -Unity, with a beckoning finger. “What are they treating me like this -for?” - -So might a succulently fed sailor have suspiciously interrogated one of -a cannibal tribe. - -“How else would you want them to treat you?” asked the unpercipient -maid. “You 've come down here to get well, have n't you?” She bent down -and tied a loosened ribbon in a bow. “I declare if you have n't got on -one of Miss Stella's nighties!” - -“Who is Miss Stella?” asked Unity. - -“Miss Stella?” The maid stared. To be in the Channel House and not know -who Miss Stella was! “Miss Stella?” she repeated blankly. “Why, Miss -Stella, of course.” - -The days passed quickly, and in the pure, strong air and under the -generous treatment Unity began to mend. She also began to form a dim -conception of Miss Stella. It was gradually borne in upon her mind that -not only the household, but the whole cosmic scheme, revolved round Miss -Stella. Sometimes they called her by another name, Stellamaris, which -sounded queer, like the names of princesses in the fairy-tales they had -given her to read. Perhaps this Miss Stella was a fairy-princess. Why -not? Thus it came to pass that even in the darkened mind of this child -of wretchedness Stellamaris began to shine with a lambent glow of -mystery. - -Now and then the kind gentleman came to visit her, with gifts of -chocolates (as became her new estate), which she accepted meekly, -though in her heart she regretted the peppermint bull's-eyes of fuller -and more satisfying flavour. She learned in course of time that he was -the husband of the woman whose image still brought sweating fright into -her dreams. To save her from waking terror, Lady Blount spent much time -and tact, enlisting her sympathy for John by convincing her that he -himself had received barbarous usage from the same abhorred hands. -Unity, whose habit of mind was to translate conceptions into terms of -the objective, wondered what form of physical torture was applied to -John. She pitied him immensely, but consoled herself by the reflection -that as he was very big and strong, his probable sufferings were not -inordinate. That so big and strong a man, however, should have suffered -unresistingly she could not understand. - -“Why did n't he wipe her over the 'ed, m' lady?” she asked simply. The -“m' lady” was the result of the maid's instructions. - -Lady Blount administered the necessary linguistic corrections, and, -proceeding to the sociological side, informed her that gentlemen never -struck women, no matter how great the provocation. Unity was quick to -apply the proposition personally. - -“Then Mr. Risca will never beat me, even if I do wrong?” - -“Good Heavens! no, child,” cried Lady Blount, horrified. “Mr. Risca is -as gentle as a kitten. You should see him with Miss Stella.” - -“Miss Stella loves him very much, m' lady?” - -“Of course she does.” - -“And he loves her, too?” - -“Everybody loves her,” said Lady Blount, tenderly. The next time that -John came to Southcliff he found a convalescent Unity. Dressmakers and -other fabricators of feminine raiment had been at work, and she was clad -in blouse and short serge skirt and her scanty, brown hair, instead of -being screwed up in a diminutive bun at the back of her head, was combed -and brushed and secured, after the manner of hair of young persons of -sixteen, with bows of ribbon. She stood gawkily before him, confused in -her own metamorphosis. At the orphanage she had worn the same uniform -from early childhood. During her excursion into the world she had -masqueraded as the grown woman. In the conventional attire of the -English school-girl she did not recognize herself. Her coarse hands, -scarcely refined by illness, hung awkwardly by her side. An appeal for -mercy hovered at the back of her dull and patient eyes. Despite the -trim dress and hair, she looked hopelessly unprepossessing, with -her snub nose, wide mouth, weak chin, and bulgy and shiny forehead. -Scragginess, too, had marked her for its own. - -“Well, Unity,” said John, “so you 're up at last. Have you been in the -garden?” - -She made the bob taught at the orphanage. - -“Yes, sir.” - -“And you 're feeling well and strong?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“And don't you think it's a very lovely place?” - -“Yes, sir,” said Unity. - -They were always shy in each other's company, question and answer being -the form of their conversation. John, who could talk all day long to -Stella, felt curiously constrained in the presence of this unfamiliar -type of humanity; and Unity, regarding him at the same time as a god who -had delivered her out of the House of Bondage and as a fellow-victim at -the hands of the Unspeakable, scarcely found breath for the utterance of -her monosyllables. - -“Sit down and go on with your work,” said he. He had come upon her -as she sat by the window of her room sewing some household linen. She -obeyed meekly. He watched her busy, skilful fingers for some time. - -“Do you like sewing?” - -“Yes, sir; can sew beautiful.” - -John lounged about the rose-covered room. What could he say next. On -previous visits he had discoursed on their proposed life together, and -she had been singularly unresponsive. He had also plugged her mind full, -as he hoped, of moral precepts which should be of great value hereafter. -But being no original aphorist, he had exhausted his ready-made stock. -He thrust his hands into his pockets and looked out of the window. The -little town of Southcliff lay hidden below the bluff, and all that he -saw was the Sussex weald lit by the May sunshine and rolling lazily -in pasture and woodland into the hazy distance. Within, the monotonous -scrabble of the needle going in and out of stiff material alone broke -the silence. - -Presently the maid came in. - -“Miss Stella's compliments, sir, and if you 're disengaged, she would -like to speak to you for a minute.” - -She had a habit of summoning thus politely, but autocratically, her high -ministers of state. - -“I will come to Miss Stella immediately,” said John. He turned to Unity. -“Now that you can get about again, I suppose Lady Blount has told you -not to go to the other side of the house.” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Do you understand why?” - -She raised her eyebrows. Having lived under the despotism of the world -authorities, she had never dreamed of questioning the why and wherefore -of any ordinance. - -“It 's forbidden, sir.” - -“No one goes there without express invitation from Miss Stella,” said -John, indiscreetly. “If any one did, I don't know what would happen to -him.” - -He left her with a new idea in her confused little brain. Mr. Risca was -obviously speaking the truth, as he himself had just been summoned by -the mysterious princess. Unity knew that she was very beautiful and -lay all her life on a bed looking out to sea; that she was an angel of -goodness; that she was worshipped by the whole household, even by -the humbler members of the servants' hall, who had never seen her. A -kitchen-maid summoned into the presence for the first time--it was a -question of the carriage of coal--decked herself out in her trimmest and -cleanest and departed on her errand with the beating heart of one who -approaches royalty. There was a tradition, too, that Miss Stella was -magically endowed with a knowledge of everything that went on in the -house and that nothing was done without her bidding and guidance. -Special flowers in the garden were grown for Miss Stella. Special fowls -in the poultry-yard laid eggs exclusively for Miss Stella. A day was -bright because Miss Stella had requested the sun to shine. Unity knew -all this, and when John went out, her heart began to flutter with a wild -hope. She laid her sewing in her lap and pictured the scene: the maid -would open the door. “Unity, Miss Stella desires to see you.” The -fairy-books said that you kissed a princess's hand. I think this must -have been Unity Blake's first day-dream. It was a sign of a spirit's -emancipation. - -The days passed, however, without the dream coming true. But she was -very humble. Why should Miss Stella want to see any one so ugly -and unimportant? Besides, the garden, with its walks and lawns and -shrubberies and great, green trees; the unimagined sea rolling from, -the purple rim far away, to dash itself in spray upon the shingle of -the beach; the almost terrifying freedom; the young animal's unconscious -exultation in returning health; the feminine, instinctive delight in -tasteful dress; the singular absence of harsh, cold speech; the curious -privilege of satiating her young hunger at every meal--all these new -joys combined to protect her from disappointment. There was Constable, -too. At her first meeting with the great dog in the garden, she -was paralyzed with fright. He stood some way off, watching her with -pricked-up ears; then he walked slowly up to her, and smelled her all -over with awful gravity. She felt his cold nose touch her cheek. She -could not run. Every instant she expected him to open his huge mouth -and devour her. But after an eternity he turned away with a sniff, and -suddenly began to roll on his back, writhing his neck and body in -odd contortions and throwing up his great feet in the air. A gardener -appeared from a shrubbery close by, and Unity made a wild rush for -his protection. The man saw that she was frightened and reassured her. -Constable had only wanted to make certain that she was not a wicked -person come with intent to harm Miss Stella. He was Miss Stella's own -dog, her bodyguard, who saw to it that no unauthorized person came into -her presence. - -“He would be fierce then?” she asked. - -The gardener was amused. “He 'd gobble you up like winking.” He called -the dog, who rose in a dignified way from his gambol. - -“Just pat him on the head, and don't look afraid,” counselled the -gardener. - -So Unity, taking courage, did as she was bidden, and Constable, -searching her soul with his wise eyes, admitted her to his friendship. -From that time she looked forward to her casual meetings with the dog, -although she always felt a certain awe at his strength and bulk, even -when he allowed her to be most familiar. And he was invested with a -human significance that also made for reverence. Gambol though he might, -like the friskiest and least responsible of lambs, he filled, in -the workaday hours of life, a post of extraordinary honour and -responsibility. He had his being in that inner shrine of mystery where -the fairy-princess dwelt; he guarded her most sacred body; he was her -most intimate friend and servant. Sometimes, holding the dog's face -between her hands, she would ask a child's question. - -“What does she talk to you about? Why don't you tell me?” And she would -whisper messages in his ear. Once she stuck a dandelion in his collar, -and bade him give it to his mistress with her love. Then frightened at -her own temerity, she took it back. The dream did not come true, but -Constable became a very substantial and comforting part of its fabric. - -Then there was Walter Herold. He had the faculty of getting through -the deep-encrusted shell of apathy which baffled her other friends. His -quick, laughing eyes and sensitive face compelled confidence. He did not -wrap himself in the gloomy majesty of her protector, nor was he abrupt -and disconcerting like Sir Oliver. The iron repression of her life had -kept her dumb. Even now, when she took the initiative in conversation, -making a statement or asking a question instead of answering one, -instinct jerked her eyes from her interlocutor to space around, as -though in apprehension of the fall of an audacity-avenging thunderbolt. -Ignorant and inarticulate, she now had unjustly a reputation for -sullenness in the household. Keen and sympathetic as were Lady Blount -and the nurse, who had undertaken to give her elementary instruction in -personal and table manners, they could elicit nothing but commonplaces -from the chaotic mind. To Herold alone could the child that she was -chatter freely. She told him of her life at the orphanage, the daily -routine, the squabbles with school-mates. She spoke of her five-months' -inferno. - -“But why did n't you run out into the street and tell the first -policeman you met?” - -“I was always 'fraid of p'licemen. And 'ow was I to know that was n't -the regular thing in service? Where I came from, before I went to the -orphanage, everybody used to knock each other about. And sometimes they -used to beat us at the orphanage, but more often they put us in the cell -on bread and water. Most of the girls 'drather to be licked. When I was -at Smith Street, I thought the cell heaven.” She paused for a moment, -and her eyes hardened evilly. “I'm jolly glad she's in quod, though. -Will they beat her there?” - -“No, my dear,” said Herold; “they 're trying to make her good.” - -She laughed scornfully. “'Er good? If I 'd known then what I know now, I -'d 'ave poured scaldin' water over her. S'welp me!” - -“I'm very glad you did n't, for you and I would n't be sitting here now -by this beautiful sea.” He put his hand gently on her head. “Do you know -how you can repay all these people who are so kind to you?” - -“No,” said Unity. - -“By trying to forget everything that happened to you in the past. Don't -think of it.” - -“I must,” she replied in a dull, concentrated tone. “I should like to -have her 'ere now and cut her throat.” Herold remonstrated, and talked -perhaps more platitudinously than was his wont. When he reported this -interview to John, for it was from Herold that he learned most of the -psychology of Unity Blake, John frowned. - -“That's a bad trait.” - -“It will pass,” said Herold. “She has come from the dungeons into the -garden of life. She is for the first time just beginning to realize -herself as a human being. Naturally the savage peeps out. That will be -tamed. She has wonderful latent capacities for good. Already she has -invented a kind of religion with Stellamaris as divinity.” - -“What does she know about Stella?” John asked roughly. - -“Virtually everything,” laughed Herold. “We talk Stella interminably. -When she spoke of throat-cutting, I brought in Stella with great effect. -I made her go down on her knees on the big rock and look up at the -window and say, 'Princess Stellamaris, I am a bad and wicked girl, and -I am very sorry.' She looked so penitent, poor little kid, that I kissed -her.” - -John laughed half contemptuously and then looked glum. “I can never get -a word out of her.” - -“That's not her fault,” said Herold. “She confuses you, in some way, -with God. And if you stand over her like an early Hebrew Jah in his -most direful aspect, you can't expect the poor child to chirrup like a -grasshopper.” - -“I 'll be glad when I get her under my own control,” said John. - -And all this time, while she was being deified, Stellamaris remained -tranquilly unaware of the existence of her new devotee. The discipline -of the house was so rigid that not a hint or whisper reached the -sea-chamber. Perhaps Constable in his wistful, doggy way may have tried -to convey Unity's messages, but how can a whine and a shake of the head -and a touch of the paw express such a terribly complicated thing as the -love of one human being for another? If only Unity had let the dandelion -remain, or had slipped a note under his collar, Constable would have -done his best to please. At any rate, as the days went on, he showed -himself more and more gracious to Unity. - -Now it happened one Saturday morning that Stellamaris was wearing a -brand-new dressing-jacket. It was a wondrous affair of pale, shot silk -that shimmered like mother-of-pearl, and it had frills and sleeves of -filmy old Buckingham lace. More than ever did she look like some rare -and sweet sea-creature. The jacket had come home during the week, but -though it had been the object of her feminine delight, she had reserved -the great first wearing for Saturday and the eyes of her Great High -Belovedest. Her chances for coquetry were few. She surveyed herself in a -hand-mirror, and saw that she was fair. - -“Constable,” she said, “if he does n't think it perfectly ravishingly -beautiful, I shall die. You think it beautiful, don't you?” - -Constable, thus appealed to, rose from the hearthrug, stretched himself, -and, approaching, laid his head against his mistress's cheek. Then, a -favourite habit, he put his forepaws on the edge of the bed, and stood -towering over the sacred charge and gazed with wrinkled brow across the -channel, as though scanning the horizon for hostile ships. He had done -this a thousand times with no mishap. He would as soon have thought -of biting her as of putting a heavy paw on beloved body or limb. But on -this particular occasion the edge of the bed gave treacherous footing. -To steady himself, he shifted his left paw an inch nearer her arm, and -happened to strike the Buckingham lace. - -“Down, Constable!” she cried. - -He obeyed; but his claw caught in the lace, and away it ripped from the -shoulder. - -“Oh, darling, you 've ruined my beautiful jacket!” - -Constable wagged his tail, and came up to be petted. A man would have -confounded himself in apologies, and made matters worse. In such a -circumstance the way of the dog may be recommended. - -Stella rang the bell. The maid entered. Her Serene High-and-Mightiness -the nurse was summoned. Dismay reigned in the sea-chamber. The dressing -and undressing of Stellamaris was a tragic matter. - -“If it 's not mended before Mr. Risca comes, my heart will break,” she -said. - -The maid took the dressing-jacket and the torn lace down-stairs. -Inspecting them, she found the damage not irreparable. The rents might -be temporarily concealed from the unseeing eyes of man. But it would -take time. She was busy, in the midst of some work for her mistress. -Human nature asserting itself, she dratted Constable. On her way to her -room she glanced out of a window that overlooked the lawn. There, in the -May sunshine, sat Unity, hemming dusters. Now, Unity was made for higher -things of the needle than dusters. She had a genius for needlework. The -maid knew it. In a few moments, therefore, Unity had exchanged the dull -duster for the exquisite and thrilling garment, warm from the sweet body -of the Lady of Mystery herself. The maid brought the necessary battery -of implements with which such delicate repairs are executed, and left an -enraptured orphan on a rustic bench. - -Unity set to work. The mending of torn lace is a ticklish affair under -the most prosaic of conditions: when goddesses and fairy-princesses and -Stellamarises are mixed up in it, the occupation absorbs mind and soul. -Unity's first awakening to the fact of an outside world was effected by -a huge, grayish blue head thrust between her face and her needle. It was -Constable, who had been let loose for his morning frisk. She pushed him -away. Even the most majestic of Great Danes is moist about the jowl. -Suppose he dribbled on the sacred vesture! Marrow-freezing possibility! -She held his head at arm's length, and bade him begone. But Constable -broke through her puny restraint and sniffed at the dressing-jacket. -He sniffed at it in so insistent and truculent a manner that Unity grew -frightened. She held the dressing-jacket high in the air. - -“Just you clear out!” she cried and jerked the arm in an indiscreet -gesture. Whimsical fate decreed that it should slip through her fingers. -It fell on the lawn. She pounced. Constable pounced. He pounced first, -caught the jacket in his mouth, and trotted across the lawn. She -pursued. The trot became a loping gallop. She ran, she called. The -gutter child's vernacular came to her aid; she called him unrecordable -things. Constable, whose ears had never been so shocked before, galloped -the faster. He bolted into the house, head erect, the body of the jacket -in his mouth, and a forlorn sleeve trailing on the ground. Unity pursued -breathless, in the awful excitement of despair. She had no idea -of place. Here was a horrible dog--he had lapsed utterly from -grace--robbing her of the only thing in her life that had been precious. -Her childish soul was concentrated on the rescue of the holy garment. -Constable darted with scrabbling pads up the stairs. On the landing he -halted for a moment, and, panting, looked down on her at the bottom of. -the flight. She crept up slowly, using hypocritical terms of endearment. -He cocked derisive ears. When she had reached half way, he tossed his -head and loped on down a corridor, up more stairs. In the house not a -soul was stirring, not a sound was heard save the dull thud of the dog's -pads on the carpet. Outside a cuckoo expressed ironical views on the -situation. Once Unity nearly caught the robber, but he sprang beyond her -grasp. - -At last he butted a door open with his head, and vanished. Unity -followed blindly, and stood transfixed a yard or two beyond the -threshold of the room. - -It was a vast chamber, apparently all window and blue sky, and on a bed -by a window was a face framed in a mass of brown hair--the face of a -girl with beautiful eyes that looked at you like stars. To Unity it -seemed two or three miles from where she stood to the bedside. Constable -was there already, and he had surrendered the jacket. His tail wagged -slowly, and his head, with cocked ears, was on one side. - -“Oh, Constable, it 's very good of you, but now you've done for my -jacket altogether! Why will you try to be a lady's maid?” - -It was the most exquisite voice in the world. Unity stood spellbound. -She realized that she had unwittingly penetrated into the Holy of -Holies. It was the princess herself. - -“Who are you, my dear?” asked Stellamaris. - -[Illustration: 0128] - -Unity's heart was beating. Her lips were dry; she licked them. She -made the orphan's bob. Something stuck in her throat. Her head was in a -whirl. - -“Unity, m' lady,” she gasped. - -A peal of little golden bells seemed to dance from corner to corner of -the vast room: it was Stellamaris laughing. - -“I'm not 'my lady.' Only Aunt Julia is 'my lady.' But I've never seen -you before, dear. Where do you come from?” - -Unity pointed. “Constable--the jacket--I was mending of it.” - -Stellamaris at once appreciated the theatrical side of the situation. -She gripped the Great Dane by the dewlap in her fragile fingers. - -“Oh, you silly dear Lord High Constable! It 's his scent,” she -explained. “Anything he finds in the house that I've worn, he always -brings me. Susan has to lock her door against him. You were mending my -lace?” - -“In the garden.” - -Stella laughed again. “Foolish Constable, I can see it all. What did you -say your name was, my dear?” - -“Unity, m' lady.” - -“Then come here, Unity, and let us see whether Constable has utterly -ruined the jacket. I did so want to wear it this afternoon.” - -Unity walked the two or three miles to the bedside, and took the jacket, -and held it up for the inspection of four rueful eyes. There were great -wet marks on it, of course, but these would dry. Otherwise no damage -was done, Constable having carried it as tenderly as a retriever does a -partridge. - -“How old are you, Unity?” asked Stella. - -“Nearly sixteen, m' lady.” - -“So am I. But how clever you must be to mend this! Now, when I try to -sew, I make great big stitches that every one laughs at.” She examined -the repairs that Unity had already executed. “I don't know when I've -seen such beautiful work.” - -Unity's cheeks burned. Her heart was full. She could utter no word of -reply to such graciousness. Tears started into her eyes. Her nose began -to water; she wiped it with the back of her hand. - -There was a swish of stiff skirts at the door. Unity turned guiltily and -beheld the nurse. Then, losing her head, she grabbed the dressing-jacket -and bolted like a frightened hare. - -“What was that child doing in your room, darling?” - -Stellamaris explained more or less to the nurse's satisfaction. - -“But who is she?” - -Faithful to the Unwritten Law, the nurse lied. - -“Just a little girl from the village who has come in for the day to help -with the sewing.” - -“I should like to see her again,” said Stella. - -“I'm sorry you can't, darling.” - -“Why?” - -“She is going to London for good this afternoon.” - -“I'm sorry,” said Stella. - -And the word of the lie went forth, and to it were bound the entire -household from Sir Oliver to the kitchen-maid and John and Herold, when -they arrived for the week-end. Herold had no choice but the bondage, but -he sighed. It would have been better, he said, to bind Unity herself to -silence. Any fabric built of lies offended his fine sense. Beauty was -beauty, the highest good; but it must have truth as its foundation. -Beauty reared in falsehood was doomed to perish. The exquisiteness of -the Trianon ended in the tumbrils. The Tuileries fell in the cataclysm -of Sedan. Sometimes Herold played Cassandra, and on such occasions no -one paid any attention to his prophecies. He was disregarded now. For -the rest of her stay at the Channel House, Unity, as far as Stella was -concerned, had vanished into the unknown. No summons came to her from -the sea-chamber; but she had met her goddess face to face for a few -throbbing moments, and she fed on the blissful memory for many a long -day afterwards. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -MISS LINDON moved her goods and chattels, together with Dandy, Dickie, -and Phoebe, into the little house at Kilburn. John and Unity followed -with the furniture he had procured on the hire-purchase system for their -respective rooms, and the curtain was rung up on the comic opera. - -Herold had vainly tried to guide his friend in the matter of furnishing; -but their ideas being in hopeless conflict, he had given up in despair. -John, by way of proving how far superior his methods were to Herold's, -rushed into a vast emporium, selected the insides of two bedrooms and -a library complete (as per advertisement), and the thing was done in -a couple of minutes. He girded triumphantly at Herold, who would have -taken two years. Miss Lindon approved his choice, everything was so -clean and shiny. She especially admired the library carpet (advertised -as Axminster), a square of amazing hues, mustard and green and magenta -predominant, the ruins of an earthquake struck by lightning. It gave, -she said, such brightness and colour to the room. To the bedrooms she -herself added the finishing touch and proudly led John up-stairs to -inspect them. He found his bed, wash-stand, toilet-table, and chairs -swathed in muslin and pink ribbon. His heart sank. This was a mania. If -she had owned a dromedary, she would have fitted it out with muslin and -ribbon. He glanced apprehensively at the water-jug; that alone stood in -its modest nudity. Miss Lindon beamed. Was n't the room more homelike? -He had not the heart to do otherwise than assent. - -“There 's one thing, my dear Miss Lindon, that John 's very particular -about,” said Herold, gravely, when he, in his turn, was shown over the -premises, with pomp and circumstance; “you must n't put ribbons in his -pyjamas.” - -Unity, whose early-discovered gift of the needle was requisitioned -for this household millinery, thought it all mighty fine. It had been -impressed upon her that she was no longer a guest, as at Southcliff, but -an inmate of the house, with a definite position. She had passed from -the legal guardianship of the Sisters of Saint Martha to that of Mr. -Risca. The house was her home, which she shared on equal terms with him -and Miss Lindon. She was no longer to call them “Sir” and “Ma'am.” Miss -Lindon took the child to her warm heart and became “Aunt Gladys.” She -suggested the analogous title for her nephew; but he put his foot down -firmly and declined to be called “Uncle John.” He said it was farcical, -subversive of the tragic dignity of the situation. She yielded -complacently without in the least understanding what he meant. - -“But you must have some name, dear,” she pleaded. “Suppose she found -that the house was on fire: it might be burned to the ground before she -could settle how to call you.” - -“Oh, let her call me Demosthenes,” he cried in desperation, taking up -his pen,--he had been interrupted in the middle of an article,--“and -also tell her, my dear aunt, that, fire or no fire, if she comes into -this room while I 'm writing, I 'll make her drink the ink-pot.” - -It was eventually decided that to Unity he should be “guardian.” The -sacrosanctity of his library was also theoretically established. Unity, -accustomed to discipline, paid scrupulous observance to the taboo; but -Miss Lindon could never understand it. She would tap very gently at -John's door, sometimes three or four times before he heard. At his “Come -in,” she would enter, manipulating the door-knob so as to make no noise, -and would creep on tiptoe across the resplendent carpet. - -“Now, I'm not going to disturb you, dear. Please go on writing. I only -want to say that I'm ordering some tooth-stuff for Unity, and I don't -know whether to buy paste or powder.” - -“Give her what you use yourself, my dear aunt.” - -Then would follow a history of her dentist. Such a gentlemanly man; in -great trouble, too; he had just lost his fourth wife. John glared at -his copy. “Careless fellow!” he growled. Many of his witticisms were at -second hand. - -“Indeed he's not. He's most careful, I assure you. I would recommend him -to anybody.” - -And so forth and so forth, until John would rise and, taking her by -her plump shoulders and luring her across the threshold, lock the door -against her. - -“She will drive me into a mad-house,” he complained to Herold. “I want -to murder her and hug her at the same instant.” - -In its primitive essentials, however, the comic-opera life was not -impossible to the man of few material demands: he slept in a comfortable -bed, his bath was filled in the mornings, wholesome food, not too -fantastic, was set before him. The austere and practical Phoebe saw -to these important matters. It was in the embroidery of life that the -irresponsible grotesque entered. It took many weeks to persuade Miss -Lindon that it was not her duty, if he was out of an evening, to wait -up until his return. It was for her to look after his well-being. Before -going to bed he might want hot cocoa, or bread and milk, or a cheery -chat. How could he, in loneliness, procure these comforts at three -o'clock in the morning? It was no trouble at all to her to sit up, she -pleaded. When Dandy was ill, she had sat up whole nights together. John -prayed to Heaven to deliver him from illness. Another feature of the -masculine existence that passed her understanding was the systematic -untidiness of the library. Books, papers, pipes, pens, paper-clips, and -what not seemed to have been poured out of a sack, and then kicked in -detail to any chance part of the room. When she restored order out of -chaos, and sat with a complacent smile amid her prim gimcrackeries, -John would be dancing about in a foaming frenzy. Where were his long -envelopes? Where had that dear magpie of a woman secreted them? Her -ingenuity in finding hiding-places amounted to genius. Then in impatient -wrath he would take out drawers and empty their contents on the floor -until the missing objects came to light. Miss Lindon sighed when she -tidied up after him, not at the work to do all over again, but at the -baffling mystery of man. - -For a long time Unity regarded the feckless lady with some suspicion, -sniffed at her, so to speak, like a dog confronted with a strange order -of being. For the first time in her young life she had met an elder in -only nominal authority over her. Of Phoebe, stern and Calvinistic, -with soul-searching eye, who by some social topsyturvydom was put into -subjection under her, she lived in mortal terror; but for “Aunt Gladys” - she had a wondering contempt. - -“Unity,” said Miss Lindon one morning, in the early days, “when you've -finished writing your copy for your guardian, you had better learn a -chapter. Bring me your Bible, and I 'll find one. In my time all young -ladies learned chapters,”--so do orphans still in convents, until -orphans hate chapters with bitter hatred; but this the good lady did not -know,--“and then you might, like a dear girl, run off the hems of the -new sheets on the sewing-machine.” - -“I dunno 'ow to work a sewing-machine.” - -“Then tell Phoebe to give you a lesson at once. It's a most useful -accomplishment. You have such a tremendous lot to learn, my dear. -There's the piano and French, and embroidery and drawing, and nowadays I -suppose young ladies must learn politics. Perhaps you had better begin. -There 's a leading article on free trade--or the Young Turks, I forget -which--in the 'Daily Telegraph.' I'm sure it must be very clever. You -had better take away the paper and read it carefully,”--she handed the -paper to the bewildered child,--“and when you 've read it, come and tell -me all about it. It will save me the trouble of going through it, and -so both of us will be benefited. And, Unity dear,” she added as the girl -was leaving the drawing-room, “it's such a beautiful day, so in an hour's -time be ready to come out with me. We 'll take the omnibus to the Marble -Arch and walk in the park.” - -Unity went into the dining-room, where in working-hours she was supposed -to have her being, and stared at her avalanche of duties: her copy and -the one or two easy lessons set by John; the chapter of the Bible; the -instruction on the sewing-machine, involving the tackling of a busy and -irritable Phoebe; the long column of print in the newspaper; and the -preparation of herself for walking abroad--all to be accomplished within -the space of one hour. For the first time in her life she encountered -orders which had not the doomful backing of the world authorities. - -The copy and the lessons for her guardian were, however, matters of high -import. They filled her hour. At the end of it she put on her hat. A -ride in an omnibus was still novelty enough to be a high adventure. On -the way to the Marble Arch, Miss Lindon in her amiable way asked how -she had spent her morning, and hoped that she had not been getting into -mischief. Of Bible chapter, sewing-machine, or leader on free trade (or -Young Turks) she appeared to have remembered nothing. The result of -this flabbiness of command was lamentable. The next time Miss Lindon -dismissed her to the execution of certain behests, Unity, after closing -the door behind her, stuck out her tongue. It was ungenteel, it was -ungrateful, it was un-anything-you-like, but the act gave her a thrill -of joy, a new sensation. It was the first definite assertion of her -individuality. The red tongue thus vulgarly flaunted was a banner of -revolt against the world authorities. - -It was a long time before she could accustom herself to taking her meals -at the table with Miss Lindon and her guardian. Such table manners as -had been inculcated at the orphanage had been lost in Smith Street, and -the chief point of orphanage etiquette was not to throw food about, -a useless injunction, for obvious reasons. Accordingly, despite her -probationary period at the Channel House, Unity regarded the shining -knives and forks and china and glass with malevolent dislike. The -restrictions on so simple a matter as filling herself with nourishment -were maddening in their complexity. Why could n't she bite into her hunk -of bread instead of breaking off a mouthful? Why could n't she take up -her fish in her fingers? Why could n't she spit out bones without the -futile intermediary of the fork? Why could n't she wipe the gravy from -her plate with soft crumb? Why could n't she use her knife for the -consumption of apple tart? And how difficult the art of mastication -with closed lips! She did not revolt. She humbly tried to follow the -never-ending instructions; but their multiplicity confused her, making -her shy and painfully nervous. Drink had a devilish habit of going the -wrong way. It never went the wrong way with her two companions. Unity -wondered why. - -Then at the table sat her guardian, gloomy, preoccupied, Olympian in -the eyes of the child; and Aunt Gladys, weaving corrections, polite -instructions, reminiscences, and irrelevant information into an -inextricable tangle of verbiage; while Phoebe hovered about, fixing -her always, no matter what she was doing, with a relentless, glassy eye -which no solecism escaped. - -There were also a myriad other external matters which caused her great -perplexity--the correct use of a handkerchief (one's sleeve was so much -handier when one's nose watered), a tooth-brush, nail-scissors. The last -she could not understand. Why, then, did God give people teeth to bite -with? The question of speech presented extraordinary difficulties. It -was months before her ear could even distinguish between _O_ and _aow_, -between _a_ and _i_, between _ou_ and _ah_; and the mysteries of the -aspirate became a terror. She grew afraid to speak. Thus her progress in -the graces of polite society was but slow. - -John, not fired by enthusiasm, but intent on working out his scheme of -indemnification, gave up an hour or so a day to her mental culture. He -was not an unskilful teacher, but her undeveloped mind had to begin -at the beginning of things. She learned painfully. The great world had -revealed itself to her with blinding suddenness. For months she was -simply stupid. - -“How are things shaping?” asked Herold one day. He had been lunching -at Kilburn, and Unity, feeling, that she was expected to be on her -very best behaviour before him, had been more than usually awkward and -ungenteel. This time a fish-bone had stuck in her throat. - -John frowned. “You saw. Shapelessly. It's hopeless.” - -“You 're absolutely wrong,” said Herold. “There are vast possibilities -in Unity.” - -“Not one,” said John. - -“Are you trying the right way? Do you remember what the old don said -when he came across two undergraduates vainly persuading the college -tortoise to eat lettuce: 'Gentlemen, are you quite sure you are trying -at the right end?' ” - -“What do you mean?” - -“Can't you try by the way of the heart?” - -John flared up. “You 're talking rot. The child has n't had a harsh word -since she has been here. I'm not honey-tongued as a rule, but to her -I've been a female saint with a lily in my hand. And my aunt, with all -her maddening ways, would not hurt the feelings of a black beetle.” - -“Quite so,” said Herold. “But all that's negative. Why can't you try -something positive? Give Unity love, and you 'll be astonished at the -result.” - -“Love,” said John, impatiently. “You 're a sentimentalist.” - -This time Herold flared up. “If I am,” he cried, “I thank the good God -who made me. This affectation of despising sentiment, this cant that -a lot of you writing fellows talk, makes me sick. If a bowelless devil -makes a photograph of a leprous crew in a thieves' kitchen, you say: -'Ha! Ha! Here 's the real thing. There 's no foolish sentiment here. -This is LIFE!' Ugh! Of all the rotten poses of the superior young ass, -this is the rottenest. Everything noble, beautiful, and splendid that -has ever been written, sung, painted, or done since the world began, has -been born in sentiment, has been carried through by sentiment, has been -remembered and reverenced by sentiment. I hate to hear an honest man -like you sneering at sentiment. You yourself took on this job through -sentiment. And now when I tell you in a few simple words, 'Love -that child whose destiny you 've made yourself responsible for,' you -pooh-pooh the staring common sense of the proposition and call me a -sentimentalist--by which you mean an infernal fool.” - -John, who had bent heavy brows upon him during this harangue, took his -pipe from his mouth. - -“It's you who are feeding the tortoise at the wrong end,” he said -unhumorously. “This is not a matter of sentiment, but of duty. I do -my best to be good to the child. I 'll do the utmost I can to make -reparation for what she has suffered. But as for loving her--I suppose -you know what love means? As for loving this poor little slut, with her -arrested development and with the torture the sight of her means to me, -why, my good man, you 're talking monkey gibberish!” - -Herold lit a cigarette with nervous fingers. The animation in his thin, -sensitive face had not yet died away. - -“I'm not talking gibberish,” he replied; “I'm talking sense.” - -“Pooh!”--or something like it--said John. - -“Well, super-sense, then,” cried Herold, who did not quite know what he -meant, but felt certain that for the instant the term would floor his -adversary. “And you 're as blind as an owl. Deep down in that poor -little slut is a spark of the divine fire--love in its purest, the -transcendental flame. I know it 's there. I know it as a water-finder -knows there's water when the twig bends in his hands. Get at it. Find -it. Fan it into a blaze. You 'll never regret it all your life long.” - -John's frown deepened. “If you 're suggesting the usual asinine romance, -Walter, between ward and guardian--” - -Herold caught up his hat. - -“Of all the dunderheaded asses! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I -can't talk to you.” - -And in a very rare fury he sped from the house, slamming doors after -him, leaving John foolishly frowning in the middle of the violent -Axminster carpet. - - - -Unity, for all her fingers' nimbleness with needle and thread, was -clumsy with her hands. Glasses, bowls, vases, whatever she touched, -seemed to be possessed by an imp of spontaneous disruption. Hitherto -her code of morals with regard to breakage had been, first, to hide the -pieces; secondly, to deny guilt if questioned; thirdly, if found out, -to accept punishment with sullen apathy: for chastisement had followed -discovered breakage as inevitably as the night the day. Accordingly when -she broke a bowl of gold-fish in the drawing-room, she obeyed ingrained -tradition. She threw the fish out of the window, mopped up the water, -put a hassock on the wet patch on the carpet, and threw the shards of -the bowl into the dust-bin. Miss Lindon, entering soon afterward, missed -her gold-fish, bought only a few days before from an itinerant vendor. -Unity disclaimed knowledge of their whereabouts. Phoebe, being summoned, -took the parts of principal witness, counsel for the prosecution, judge, -and jury all in one. Unity stood convicted. The maid was sent back to -her work. “Now,” thought Unity, “I'm going to catch it,” and she stood -with her eyes on the floor, stubbornly awaiting the decree of doom. An -unaccustomed sound met her ear, and looking up, she beheld the gentle -lady weeping bitterly. - -“I should n't have minded your breaking the bowl, though I should like -to know what has become of the poor little fishes,--they must be real -fish out of water, poor dears! and one of them I called Jacky was just -beginning to know me,--but why did you tell me a story about it?” - -Unity, not having the wit to retort truthfully that it seemed the -natural thing to do, maintained a stolid silence. - -Miss Lindon, profoundly upset by this depravity, read her a moral -lecture on the sin of lying, in which she quoted the Book of Revelation, -related the story of George Washington and an irrelevant episode in her -far-away childhood, and finally asserting that John would be furiously -angry if he heard of her naughtiness, bade her go and find the -gold-fish, which must be panting their little hearts out. And that was -the last Unity heard of the matter. She thought Aunt Gladys a fool. -Thenceforward she felt cynically indifferent toward accidental breakages -of Aunt Gladys's property. - -But one day during John's absence she upset a Dresden china -shepherd,--such a brave, saucy shepherd,--that stood on his -writing-desk, and, to her dismay, the head rolled apart from the body. -It was one of his few dainty possessions. She knew that he set an -incomprehensible value on the thing. Even Aunt Gladys touched it with -extraordinary reverence. She turned white with fear. Her guardian was -a far different being from Aunt Gladys. His wrath would be terrible. -Herold was not far wrong in likening John Risca, as conceived by the -child, to a Hebraic Jehovah. His dread majesty overwhelmed her, and she -had not the courage to face his anger. With trembling fingers she stood -the poor decapitated shepherd on his feet and delicately poised the head -on the broken neck. She gazed at him for a moment, his sauciness and -bravery apparently unaffected by the accident, and then she fled, and -endured hours of misery. - -The inevitable came to pass, John discovered the breakage, instituted -an elementary court of inquiry, and summoned the delinquent into his -presence. - -“Did you break this, Unity?” - -“No,” said Unity. - -The lie irritated him. He raised his fist in a denunciatory gesture. -With a cry of terror, like a snared rabbit's, she clapped her hands to -her face and shrank, cowering, to the farther corner of the room. - -“My God!” cried John, aghast at the realization of what had happened. -“Did you think I was going to hit you?” - -He stood staring at the little, undeveloped, rawboned, quivering -creature. Her assumption of his right to strike her, of his capability -of striking her, of the certainty that he would strike her, held him in -amazed horror. The phantasmagorical to him was the normal to her. He had -to wait a few moments before recovering command of his faculties. Then -he went up to her. - -“Unity, my dear--” - -He put his arm about her, led her to his writing-chair, and kept his arm -round her when he sat down. - -“There, there, my child,” said he, clutching at her side nervously in -his great grasp, “you misunderstood entirely.” In his own horrified -dismay he had forgotten for the moment her wickedness. He could find no -words save incoherences of reassurance. She made no response, but kept -her hands before her face, her finger-tips pressed with little livid -edges of flesh into her forehead. And thus for a long while they -remained. - -“I was n't going to punish you for breaking the figure,” he explained at -last. “You did n't do it on purpose, did you?” - -She shook her head. - -“What made me angry was your telling me a lie; but I never dreamed of -hurting you. I would sooner kill myself than hurt you,” he said, with a -shudder. Then, with an intuition that came from the high gods, he added, -“I would just as soon think of hurting Miss Stella, who gave me the -little shepherd you broke.” - -To John's amazement,--for what does a man know of female orphans, or of -female anything, for the matter of that?--Unity tore herself away from -him and, falling in a poor little lump on the floor, burst into a wild -passion of tears and sobs. John, not knowing what else to do, stooped -down and patted her shoulders in an aimless way. Then with a vague -consciousness that she were best alone, he went softly out of the room. - -It was thus that, in the unwonted guise of ministering spirits, shame -and remorse came to Unity Blake. - - - -She had broken a sacred idol. He had not been angry. She had told a -lie, and instead of punishing her,--of his horror-stricken motives she -had no idea,--he had held her tight in kind arms and spoken softly. He -had not actually wept, but he had been sorry at her lie, even as Aunt -Gladys had been. Now he, being what to her mind was a kind of fusion of -Jah and Zeus and Odin,--three single deities rolled into one,--was not a -fool. Dimly through the mists of her soul dawned the logical conclusion: -perhaps Aunt Gladys, in her sorrowful and non-avenging attitude towards -her mendacities and other turpitudes, was not a fool either. - -The bewildering truth also presented itself that lies, being unnecessary -as a means of self-protection, were contemptible. In the same way she -realized that if folks had no intention of punishing her for destroying -their valuable property, even sacred gifts of fairy-princesses, but, -instead, smiled on her their sweet forgiveness, they must have in -them something of the divine which had hitherto been obscured from her -vision. She had proved to herself that they could not be fools; rather, -then, they were angels. They certainly could not enjoy the destruction -of their belongings; therefore her clumsiness must cause them pain. Now, -why should she inflict pain on people who were doing their utmost to -make her happy? Why? - -She began to ask herself questions; and when once an awakening human -soul begins to do that, it goes on indefinitely. Some of the simplest -ones she propounded to Miss Lindon, who returned answers simple -in essence, though perhaps complex in expression; some her growing -experience of life enabled her to answer for herself; some of the more -difficult she reserved for her rare talks with Herold. But although -the awfulness of John's majesty was mitigated by the investiture of an -archangel's iridescent and merciful wings, she could never go to him -with her problems. Never again since that memorable occasion did he put -his arm around her; he held her gently aloof as before. But he had put -his arm around her once, and the child's humility dared not hope for -more. - -Thus in a series of shocks, bewildering flashes of truth, followed -by dark spaces of ignorance, was Unity's development initiated, and, -indeed, continued. Her nature, deadened by the chill years, was -not responsive to the little daily influences by which character is -generally moulded. Only the great things, trivial in themselves, but -great in her little life--for to an ant-hill the probing of a child's -stick means earthquake, convulsion, and judgment-day cataclysm--only the -great things, definite and arresting, produced perceptible change. But -they left their mark. She was too dull to learn much in the ordinary -routine of lessons; but once a fact or an idea could be made to appeal -to her emotions or her imagination, it was there for all time. Not all -the pains and teaching of her two protectors, for instance, could alter -one inflection of her harsh cockney twang. - -But one day after luncheon, Herold being present, Miss Lindon ordered -her to recite “The Wreck of the Hesperus,” which artless poem she had -learned unintelligently by heart, at Miss Lindon's suggestion, in order -to give pleasure to her guardian. To give him pleasure she would have -learned pages of the army list or worn tin tacks in her boots. After a -month's vast labour she had accomplished the prodigious task. - -Very shy, she repeated the poem in the child's singsong, and ended up on -the “reef of Norman's Waow”. - -John, not having been made a party to the “surprise” eagerly contrived -by Miss Lindon, nodded, said it was very good, and commended Unity for -a good girl. Herold kicked him surreptitiously, and applauded with much -vigour. - -“By Jove!” said he, impelled by queer instinct, “I used to know that. I -wonder if I could recite it, too.” - -He rose and began; and as he continued, his wonderful art held the child -spell-bound. The meaningless words resolved themselves into symbols of -vast significance. She saw the little daughter, her cheeks like the -dawn of day, a vision of Stellamaris, and felt the moonless dark of the -stormy night and the hissing snow and the stinging blast, and she -shivered at the awful sight of the skipper frozen at the wheel, and a -hush fell upon her soul as the maiden prayed, and the tears fell fast -from her eyes as the picture of the fisherman finding the maiden fair -lashed to the drifting mast was flashed before her by the actor's magic. - -“Now, Unity dear, don't you wish you could say it like that?” Aunt -Gladys remarked. - -Unity, scarcely hearing, made perfunctory answer; but as soon as she -could, she fled to her bedroom, her ears reverberating with the echoes -of the beautiful voice, and her soul shaken with the poignant drama, and -crudely copying Herold's gestures and intonations, recited the poem over -and over again. - -The result of this was not a sudden passion for romance or histrionics, -but it was remarkable enough. It awoke her sense of vowel sounds and -aspirates. Henceforward she discriminated between “lady” and “lidy,” - between “no” and “naow,” and although she never acquired a pure accent, -her organs of speech refusing to obey her will, she was acutely aware of -the wrong sounds that escaped from her lips. - -As with this, so with other stages of development, both in things -external and things spiritual. Scales had to be torn from her eyes -before she saw; then she saw with piercing vision. Plugs had to be -wrenched from her ears before she heard; then she heard the horns of -Elfland. Her heart had to be plucked from her bosom before she felt; -then her whole being quivered with an undying emotion. - -So the weeks and the months passed and grew into years, and Miss Lindon -said that she was a well-behaved and Christian child, and that it was a -pity she was so plain; and Risca, forgetful, after a while, of her agony -of tears and of Herold's angry diagnosis, retained his opinion that she -was just dull and stupid, though well-meaning, and, having his head full -of other things, took her at last for granted, together with his Aunt -Gladys, as a normal feature in his sometimes irritating, though on the -whole exceedingly comfortable, comic-opera household. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -ONE evening by the last post John received a letter bearing the prison -stamp and addressed to him under the care of the firm of solicitors who -had defended his wife. It ran: - -_I am coming out on Wednesday, the thirteenth. I suppose I shall have -somewhere to go to and not be expected to walk the streets. Louisa Anne -Risca._ - -That was all--neither _ave_ nor _vale_. It was the only letter she had -written. She knew well enough that the house in Smith Street was being -maintained and that her allowance would be resumed as soon as she -regained her freedom, having been so informed by the solicitors, on -John's instructions; but a reference to this explicit statement would -have discounted the snarl. Prison had not chastened her. - -John sat back in his writing-chair, the ignoble letter in front of him. -He made a rapid calculation of dates. It was two years and three months -since the trial. She had worked out three fourths of her sentence, -the remaining fourth evidently having been remitted on account of good -conduct, in the ordinary course. Two years and three months! He had -scarcely realized the swift flight of time. Of late his life had been -easier. Distracted London had forgotten the past. He had sought and -found, at his club, the society of his fellow-men. His printed name no -longer struck horror into a reader's soul. At times he himself almost -forgot. The woman had faded into a shadow in some land beyond the tomb. -But now, a new and grim Alcestis, she had come back to upper earth. -There was nothing trans-Stygian about the two or three cutting lines. -She was alive, luridly alive, and on Wednesday, the thirteenth, she -would be free, a force let loose, for good or evil, in the pleasant -places of the world. At the prospect of the prison doors closing behind -her, however, he felt great relief. At any rate, that horror would soon -be over and done with. The future must take care of itself. - -Presently he wrote: - -_Dear Louisa:_ - -_I am unfeignedly thankful to hear your news. I shall be waiting for you -at the gate on the morning of the thirteenth and shall take you to Smith -Street, which you will find quite ready to receive you._ - -_Yours,_ - -_John Risca._ - -Then he went out and posted the letter. - -“I 'm glad you 're going to meet her yourself instead of sending a -solicitor's clerk,” said Herold, when they discussed the matter next -day. - -“I'm not one to shirk disagreeable things,” replied John. - -“It may touch some human chord in her.” - -“I never thought of that,” said John. - -“Well, think of it. Think of it as much as you can.” - -“'You may as well use question with the wolf,'” growled John. - -“I don't believe it,” said Herold. “Anyhow, try kindness.” - -“Of course I 'm going to do so,” said John, with the impatience he -usually manifested when accepting a new point of view from Herold. “You -don't suppose I'm going to stand outside with a club!” - - - -On the appointed day he waited, with a four-wheeled cab, by the prison -gate. The early morning sunshine of midsummer flooded the world with -pale glory, its magic even softening the grim, forbidding walls. A light -southwest wind brought the pure scents of the down from many a sleeping -garden and woodland far away. The quiet earth sang its innocence, for -wickedness was not yet abroad to scream down the song. Even John Risca, -anti-sentimentalist, was stirred. What sweeter welcome, what gladder -message of hope, could greet one issuing into the upper air from the -gloomy depths of Hades? How could such a one help catching at her breath -for joy? - -The gate swung open, casting a shadow in the small yard beyond, and in -the middle of the shadow a black, unjoyous figure stood for a moment -irresolute. Then she slowly came out into sunshine and freedom. She was -ashen-coloured, thin-lipped, and not a gleam of pleasure lit her eyes -as they rested with hard remorselessness on the man who advanced with -outstretched hand to meet her. Of the hand she took no notice. - -“Is this my cab?” - -“Yes,” said John. - -She entered. He followed, giving the address to the driver. She sat -looking neither to left nor right, staring stubbornly in front of her. -The sunshine and the scent of summer gardens far away failed to bring -their message. Though it was high summer, she wore the heavy coat which -she had worn in the wintry weather at the time of her trial. - -“I am very glad indeed to see you, Louisa,” said John. “'Unfeignedly -thankful!'” She chewed the literary phrase and spat it out venomously. -“You--liar!” - -John winced at the abominable word; but he spoke softly. - -“You can't suppose it has been happiness for me to think of you in -there.” - -“What does it matter to me? What the hell are you to me, anyhow?” - -“I 'm your husband in the eyes of the law,” said John, “and I once cared -for you.” - -“Oh, stow that!” - -“I will. But I want you to believe that I am utterly thankful that -this--this unhappy chapter is closed--” - -She interrupted him with a swift and vicious glance. - -“'Unhappy chapter!' Get off it! You make me sick. Talk English, if you -must talk.” - -“Very well,” said he. “I 'm glad my legal wife is not in gaol. I want -her to believe that I 'll do my best to forget it; also, that, as far as -my means allow, she will have comfort and opportunity to try to forget -it, too.” - -Not a muscle of her drawn face relaxed. - -“I'm not going to have you or any one else fooling round where I live,” - she said. “I'm not going to be preached to or converted. I 've had -enough of it where I've come from. As for you, I hate you. I've always -hated you, and if you have any decency, you 'll never let me see your -face again.” - -“I won't,” said John, shortly, and with this the edifying conversation -came to an end. - -The cab lumbered through the sunny thoroughfares of the great city, -now busy with folks afoot, in trams and omnibuses, going forth to their -labour; and John, looking out of the window, fancied they were all -touched by the glamour of the summer morning. Every human soul save -the woman beside him seemed glad to be alive. She sat rigid, apart from -him--as physically apart as the seat would allow, and apart from the -whole smiling world. She had her being in terrible isolation, hate -incarnate. When by any chance their eyes happened to meet, he turned his -aside swiftly and shivered with unconquerable repulsion. - -When the cab drew up at the house in Smith Street, the door was opened, -and a pleasant-faced woman and a man stood smiling in the passage. Mrs. -Risca brushed past them into the dining-room, bright with daintily -laid breakfast table and many flowers. The latter, John, at Herold's -suggestion, had sent in the evening before. - -“You see,” said John, entering, “we 've tried to prepare for you.” - -She deigned no glance, but slammed the door. - -“Who are those people?” - -“A married couple whom I have engaged to live here. The woman, Mrs. -Bence, will do for you. The man goes out to his work during the day.” - -“Warder and wardress, eh? They can jolly well clear out. I'm not going -to have 'em.” - -Then John's patience broke. He brought his fist down on the table with a -crash. - -“By heavens,” he cried, “you shall have whomever I put here. You 've -behaved yourself for two years, and you 're going on behaving yourself.” - He flung open the door. “Mrs. Bence, help Mrs. Risca off with her coat -and bring in her breakfast.” - -Cowed, she submitted with malevolent meekness. Prison discipline does -not foster the heroic qualities. Mrs. Bence took hat and coat and -disappeared. - -“Sit down at the table.” - -She obeyed. He laid some money beside her. - -“This is your allowance. On the thirteenth of every month you will -receive the same amount from my bankers. If you prefer, after a time, to -live in the country, we may be able to arrange it. In the meanwhile you -must stay here.” - -She neither touched the coins nor thanked him. There was a silence hard -and deadly. John stood in the sunshine of the window, bending on her -his heavy brows. Now and then she glanced at him furtively from beneath -lowered eyelids, like a beast subdued, but not tamed. A dominant will -was all that could control her now. He thanked an unusually helpful -Providence that had sent him the Bences in the very nick of his -emergency. Before marriage, Mrs. Bence had been under-attendant at a -county lunatic asylum, and John had heard of her through Wybrow, the -medical superintendent, a club friend, who had helped him before when -the defense had set up the plea of insanity, and whom, with an idea of -trained service in his head, he had again consulted. No more torturing -of Unitys, if he could help it. Wybrow spoke highly of Mrs. Bence and -deplored the ruin of a great career as a controller of she-devils; but -as a cat will after kind, so must she after an honest but impecunious -plumber. John had sought her and come to terms at once. For once in -their courses, he thought grimly, the stars were not fighting against -him. He had not told Herold of this arrangement. Herold had counselled -kindness. The flowers, for instance, would be sure to make their -innocent appeal. Tears could not fail to fill her eyes. Tears of -sentiment in those eyes! Little Herold knew of the world of realities -with which he was at death-grips. - -Presently Mrs. Bence came in with coffee, hot rolls, a dish of bacon -and eggs. The fragrant smell awakened the animal instinct of the woman -at the table. She raised her head and followed the descent of dish and -plate. Then a queer noise broke from her throat, and she fell upon the -food. John left her. - -Mrs. Bence followed him into the passage and opened the front door. - -“I've been used to it, sir.” - -“She must never guess that,” said he. - -He walked homeward through the parks, breathing in great gulps of the -sweet morning air. He felt that he had been in contact with something -unclean. Not only his soul, but his very body, craved purification. -In the woman he had left he had found no remorse, no repentance, no -sensibility to any human touch. Prison had broken her courage; but in -its sunless atmosphere of the underground, all the fungoid growths of -her nature had flourished in mildewed exuberance. He shuddered at the -thought of her, a poisonous thing, loathsome in its abnormality. As some -women dwell in an aura of sweet graciousness, so dwelt she in mephitic -fumes of devildom. Implacable hatred, deadly venom, relentless -vengeance, were the constituents of her soul. Relentless vengeance--He -sat for a moment on a bench in Hyde Park, feeling chilled to the bone, -although the perspiration beaded on his forehead. She would not strike -him, of that he was oddly assured. Her way would be to strike at -him through those near and dear to him. In the full sunshine of gay -midsummer, with the trees waving their green and lusty bravery over -his head, and the flower-beds rioting in the joy of the morning, he was -shaken by an unreasoning nightmare terror. He saw the woman creep with -snaky movements into the sea-chamber at Southcliff, and a pair of starry -eyes become wells of awful horror as the murderous thing approached the -bed. And he was held rigid by dream paralysis. - -After a second or two--it had seemed many minutes of agony--he sprang to -his feet with what he thought was a great cry, and looked dazedly about -him. A nurse-maid, undistracted from her novelette, and wheeling a -perambulator in which reposed an indifferent infant, passed him by. He -shook himself like a great, rough dog, and went his way, ashamed of his -fears. It was a practical world, he told himself, and he was a match for -any mad-woman. - -Unity was watering flowers in the tiny patch of front garden where he -swung through the iron gate. She had grown a little during the last two -years, but still was undeveloped; a healthier colour had come into her -cheeks and a more confident expression into her common, snub-nosed face. -Her movements were less awkward, and as she was eighteen, she wore her -hair done up with a comb and the long skirts appropriate to her age. - -She set down her watering-pot and stood at a kind of absurd attention, -her usual attitude in the presence of John. - -“Please, guardian,” she said,--she could never rid herself of the -school-child's exordium,--“have you had your breakfast?” - -“No,” said John, realizing for the first time that emptiness of stomach -may have had something to do with his momentary faintness in the park. - -“Aunt Gladys has been in such a state,” said Unity. “She has made Phoebe -cook three breakfasts already, and each has been spoiled by being kept -in the oven, and I think now she is cooking the fourth.” - -In this announcement rang none of the mischievous mirth of eighteen over -an elder's harmless foibles. Humour, which had undoubtedly presided at -her birth, for like many another glory-trailing babe, she had crowed -with glee at the haphazard coupling of which she was the result, had -fled for good from her environment ever since the day when, at a very -tender age, she had seen her mother knocked insensible by a drunken -husband and had screamed single-mindedly for unobtainable nourishment. -She had no sense of glorious futility, of the incongruous relativity -of facts. Each fact was absolute. Three breakfasts had been cooked and -spoiled. The fourth was in the cooking. She narrated simply what had -taken place. - -“Run and tell Phoebe I'm hungry enough to eat all four,” said John. - -They entered the house. Unity hurried off on her errand. The meal was -soon served. Miss Lindon, with many inquiries as to the reason for his -early start, which he answered with gruff evasiveness, hovered about -him as he ate, watching him in loving wonder. His big frame needed -much nourishment, and now sheer hunger was being satisfied. To her -acquaintance she spoke of his appetite with as much pride as of his -literary achievements. It was Unity, however, who took charge of the -practical service, removed his plates and poured out his tea, silent, -submissive, and yet with a subtle air of protection. There were certain -offices she would not allow Aunt Gladys or even Phoebe to perform for her -guardian. She was jealous, for instance, like a dog, of any one touching -the master's clothes. This morning, when Miss Lindon absent-mindedly -grasped the handle of the teapot, the faintest gleam of anger appeared -in her eyes, and her lips grew instinctively tense, and with a quick, -authoritative gesture she unloosed the fat, helpless fingers and took -possession of the sacred vessel. John liked her to wait upon him. She -was deft and noiseless; she anticipated his wants in an odd, instinctive -way and seldom made suggestions. Now, of suggestions his aunt was -a living fount. They poured from her all day long. He had a vague -consciousness that Unity, by tactful interposition, dammed the flood, -so that he could go on his way undrenched. For this he felt grateful, -especially this morning when his nerves were on edge. Yet this morning -he felt grateful also to Miss Lindon, and suffered her disconnected -ministrations kindly. To-day the queer home that he had made assumed a -new significance. - -When Miss Lindon fluttered out of the room, bound on a suddenly -remembered duty--fresh groundsel for Dickie--John looked up from the -newspaper which Unity had silently folded and laid beside him. - -“Come here, my child,” he said, after a few moments' thought. - -She approached and stood dutifully by his chair. - -“Unity, I don't think it right for you to remain in ignorance of -something that has happened. I don't see how it can really affect you, -but it 's better that you should learn it from me than from anybody -else. Do you remember--” he paused--“that woman?” - -It was the first reference he had ever made to her. Unity drew a quick, -sharp breath. - -“Yes, guardian.” - -“She was let out of prison this morning.” - -She kept her eyes full on him, and for a while neither spoke. - -“I don't care,” she said at last. - -“I thought it might cause you some anxiety.” - -“What have I to be afraid of when I've got you?” she asked simply. - -John twisted round in his chair and reached out his hand--a rare -demonstration of affection--and took hers. - -“It's to assure you, my dear, that you've nothing to fear that I 've -told you.” - -“She can't hurt _me_,” said Unity. - -“By heaven, she sha'n't!” he cried, unconsciously wrenching her arm so -that he caused her considerable pain, which she bore without the flicker -of an eyelid. “You 're a fine, brave girl, Unity, and I'm proud of you. -And you 're a good girl, too. I hope you 're happy here; are you?” - -“Happy?” Her voice quavered on the word. Her mouth twitched, and the -tears started from her eyes. He smiled on her, one of his rare smiles, -known to few besides Stellamaris, which lit up his heavy features, and -revealed a guardian far different from the inaccessible Olympian. - -“Yes, my dear, I hope so. I want you to be happy all your life long.” - -She uttered a little sobbing laugh and fell crouching to his feet, still -clinging to his hand, which she rubbed against her cheek. How could she -tell him otherwise? - -“I think you are,” said John. - -“I 've just remembered I put the groundsel--” began Miss Lindon, coming -into the room. Then she stopped, petrified at the unusual spectacle. - -John laughed rather foolishly, and Unity, flushing scarlet, rushed out. - -“I was only asking her whether we were treating her nicely,” said John, -rising and stretching his loose limbs. - -“What a question to ask the child!” - -“Well, she answered it like that, you see,” said John. - -“But what a way to answer a simple question! She forgets sometimes that -she is a young lady of eighteen, an age when manners ought to be formed. -But manners,” she continued, hunting about the room, “are not what they -were when I was young. I declare, I sometimes see young women in the -streets with woollen caps and hockey-sticks--” - -John took a salad-bowl from the mantelpiece. “Is that Dickie's -groundsel?” - -“Oh, how clever of you! Where did you find it? Dickie has been so angry. -He's just like a man when his dinner's late. I don't mean you. You 're a -perfect saint, dear.” - -“Which reminds me,” said John, with a laugh, “that I've mislaid my halo -and I must go and find it.” - -With an exultant sense of comfort he went into his library. The -women-folk of his household had never before seemed so near to him, so -dependent on him, such organic factors of his life. He stood for a long -time on his hearth-rug, scowling terribly, with the air of a wild beast -standing at the entrance to its lair in defiant defence of the female -and whelps within. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -JOHN RISCA, at thirty-four, with a ward of twenty, and with the normal -hope of a man's life withered at the root, regarded himself as an -elderly man. He looked older than his years. Ragged streaks of gray -appeared in his black hair, and the lines deepened on his heavy brow. -There are some men who, no matter what their circumstances may be, never -take themselves happily. To do so is a gift; and it was denied to John -Risca. - -Two years had passed since his wife's release. During the years of their -separation before her imprisonment, she had counted for little in his -thoughts save as a gate barring the way to happiness. She had never -molested him, never stood in the way of his ordinary life. In her prison -she had begun by being a horror haunting his dreams; gradually she -had dwindled into a kind of paralyzed force, had faded into a shadow -incapable of action. But since her return to the living world he had -felt her hatred as an influence, vague, but active, let loose upon -the earth. He dreaded contact with her, however indirect, and through -whatever agency; but contact was inevitable. Whereas formerly she -had been content to live according to the terms of their agreement on -separation, now she made demands. One of them, however, he considered -reasonable. In Smith Street, the scene of her misdeeds, she led the life -of a pariah dog. She was friendless. Her own relatives had cast her off. - -The tradespeople round about supplied her reluctantly with necessaries -and refused to exchange words with her when she entered their shops. -Children hooted her in the streets. John, foreseeing unpleasantness, had -offered to find her a home in the country. But this, being town-bred, -she had declined. Let her change her name, she urged, and seek other -London quarters. He agreed. She adopted the name of Rawlings and moved -to a flat off the Fulham Road. To the suggestion of a different part -of London altogether she turned a deaf ear. She had lived in that -neighbourhood all her days and would feel lost elsewhere. The common -Londoner has almost the local instinct of a villager. She would also, -she said, be near her mother, who still let lodgings in Brompton. - -“If your mother refuses to see you,” said John, when they were -discussing the matter, “I see no reason for your being near her.” - -She counselled him, in her vernacular, to mind his own business. - -“So long as I don't come and live next to you, what have you got to do -with it?” - -“I certainly am not called upon to protect your mother,” said he. He -smiled grimly, remembering the hard-bitten veteran of a thousand fights -with impecunious and recalcitrant lodgers. She could very well look -after herself. - -The Bences, much against her will, though she dared not openly rebel, -accompanied her to the flat. Her installation was expensive. He paid -readily enough. But then came demands for money, insidious enough at -first for his compliance, then monstrous, vindictive. She incurred -reckless debts; not those of a woman who desires to make a show in the -world by covering herself with costly dresses and furs and jewels or by -dashing about in expensive equipages. - -That side of life was unfamiliar to her, and class instinct quenched the -imagination to crave it. She had been bred to regard cabs as luxuries -of the idle rich, and it never occurred to her to travel in London -otherwise than by omnibus or rail. Her wilful extravagance was of a -different nature. She ran up bills with the petty tradesmen of the -neighbourhood for articles for which she had no use; for flowers which -she deliberately threw into the dust-bin; for ready-made raiment which -she never wore,--jackets at three pounds, ten and six, and hats at ten -shillings,--cheap jewelry, watches, and trinkets which she stored away -in boxes. There was a gaudy set of furniture with which she bought a -kind of reconciliation with her mother. When county-court summonses came -in, she demanded money from John. When he refused, she posted him the -summonses. - -Meanwhile he found that she had struck up acquaintance with some -helter-skelter, though respectable, folks in the flat below. The -discovery pleased him. It is good for no human being, virtuous or -depraved, to sit from month's end to month's end in stark loneliness. -She forced him to the threat of revealing her identity to her new -friends if she did not mend her ways. She mended them; but he felt his -hands soiled by the ignoble weapons with which he had to fight. - -After that she was quiet for months. Then one rainy afternoon, as he -was walking downward with bent head, he ran into her in Maida Vale, the -broad thoroughfare that merges into Kilburn. She started back with a -quick gasp of fear. - -“What are you doing in this part of London?” he asked angrily. - -She plucked up courage. “I'm free to walk where I like, and just you -jolly well don't try to stop me.”' - -“You were going to my house.” - -“I was n't. But supposing I was. What have you got to hide from me? My -successor? Some little tuppenny-ha'penny piece of damaged goods you 've -picked up cheap? Think I want to see her? What do you suppose I care? -Just let me pass.” - -He thrust aside the wet umbrella which she pushed rudely into his face. - -“First tell me what you are doing here. Fulham people don't come to -Maida Vale just to take a walk in the rain.” - -“I was going to see some friends,” she replied sulkily. - -A motor-omnibus came surging down toward them. At his hail it stopped. - -“Get into that at once, or it will be the worse for you.” - -He took her arm in his powerful grip and dragged her to the curb. - -“You bullying brute!” she hissed through her thin lips. - -But she entered the 'bus. John watched it until it whizzed into space, -and then retracing his steps, he went home and mounted guard by the -window of his aunt's gimcrack drawing-room, to the huge delight of -its unsuspecting mistress. But his wife did not double back, as he -anticipated; nor did he see her again in the neighbourhood. - -Thenceforward, save for irritating pin-pricks reminding him of her -existence, such as futile revolts against the supervision of the Bences -and occasional demands for money, she ceased to worry him. But since the -day when he caught her about to spy on his home-life, her shadow, like -that of some obscene bird, hovered over him perpetually. What she -had tried to do then she might have already done, she might do in the -future. The horrible sense of insecurity oppressed him: it is that which -ages a man who cannot take himself happily. - -Otherwise the two years had passed with no great stir. The recurrence -of seasons alone surprised him now and then into a realization of the -flight of time. He had succeeded to the editorship of the weekly review -of which he had been assistant editor; he had published a little book -on the “Casual Ward of Workhouses,” a despised hash of journalistic -articles which had brought him considerable recognition; leader writers -had quoted him flatteringly, and his publishers clamoured for another -book on a cognate subject; the President of the Local Government Board -had invited him to a discussion of the matter, with a view to possible -legislation; honours fell thick upon him; but, if it had been a shower -of frogs, his disgust could not have been greater. For about the same -time he had published a chunky, doughy novel destined to set the world -aflame, which sold about a couple of hundred copies. He had cursed -all things cursable and uncursable without in any way affecting the -heartless rhythm of life. The world went on serenely, and in his glum -fashion he found himself going on with the world. - -Unity mended his socks and poured out his tea day after day, unchanging -in her dull and common scragginess. Neither fine clothes, nor jewels, -nor Aunt Gladys's maxims could turn her into a young lady. Miss Lindon -sighed, Unity's inability to purr genteelly at tea-parties, the breath -of female autumn's being, was the main sorrow in the mild lady's heart. -She used to dream of the swelling pride with which she might have -listened to Unity playing the “Liederohne Worte” or Stephen Heller or -“The Brook” (such a pretty piece!), before the ladies purring on the -gim-crack chairs. But the dream was poignantly vain. She had striven -with vast goodness to teach Unity to play the piano, and the girl had -honestly tried to learn; but as her brain could not master the mystery -of the various keys, and as her ear was not acute enough to enable her -to sing “Sun of my soul, thou Saviour dear,” in tune, the study of music -had to be struck out of her curriculum. And she could not talk to the -faded gentlewomen who came to the house, and to whose houses Miss Lindon -took her. The ordeal always made her perspire, and little beads settled -on her snub nose, and she knew it was not ladylike. Such a thing, said -Miss Lindon, ought never to happen. But it did, in defiance of all -the laws of gentility. So Miss Lindon sighed. But none of these things -wrecked the peace of the home. Uneventful serenity reigned in the little -house at Kilburn. - -Walter Herold went on playing his exquisite miniatures of parts, and, -in theatrical terminology, he became very expensive, and prospered -exceedingly in his profession; his relations with John remained -unaltered; Miss Lindon loved him, first because he was John's intimate, -secondly (and here was a reason which she did not avow) because he -had the gift of making her feel that, despite seven and fifty years of -spinsterhood, she was still the most fascinating of her sex, and thirdly -because he reminded her of poor Captain Featherstone, killed in the Zulu -War, who was such a very clever amateur conjurer, and could act charades -in a way that would make you die of laughing. And Unity came to him with -her problems; and, as they both loved John Risca and Stellamaris, of -whom (a thing undreamed of by John, for he rarely mentioned the fairy -princess's name to Unity) they talked inordinately, the bond between -them was strengthened by links ever freshly forged. And finally, in -the sea-chamber at Southcliff, Herold maintained his rank of Great High -Favourite, and companioned his august mistress on her fairy vagabondage -along the roads that led no whither in the Land That Never Was. - -And Stellamaris herself? She was twenty. John, still Great High -Belovedest, still finding his perfect rest from care, his enchanted -haven, in the great, wide-windowed room looking out to sea, wondered at -the commonplace fact. Not long ago, it seemed to him, she had been but -the fragile wraith of a child, with arms that you might pass through -a signet-ring, and hands no bigger than an acacia-leaf. He had sat but -yesterday full on the bed, without danger to the tiny feet which were -far away from him. And now the little child had passed into the woman. -Thanks to devotion, the world's learning, the resources of the -civilized earth, the life-giving air of the sea, her malady had scarcely -interfered with bodily growth. And the child's beauty had not been -fleeting. It had remained, and matured into that of the woman. -Unconsciously John had drifted away from childish things in his long and -precious talks with her. - -One day she rebuked him. - -“Great High Belovedest,” she said, “you have n't told me of the palace -and Lilias and Niphetos for months and months. Or is it years?” - -He laughed. “It must be years. You don't realize that you 're grown up.” - -“So every one says. I often wonder what it really means.” - -“You 've developed,” said he. - -“How?” she persisted. - -“You've got longer and broader and--” - -She laughed to hide a swift, pink confusion. “I know that, you silly -dear. The doctor's always taking measurements of me and making funny -calculations--cubing out the contents, as Mr. Wratislaw used to say. I -know I'm enormous. That's an external matter of yards and feet,”--she -spoke as if her proportions were Brobdingnagian,--“but I 'm referring to -inner things. How am I different, in myself, from what I was four years -ago?” - -John scratched a somewhat puzzled head. How could he explain to her -that of which he himself was not quite certain? In the normal case -the phenomenon of manhood or womanhood, apart from the physical -side,--allowing for the moment that the physical side can be set -apart,--is a matter of a wider experience of life, of a million -observations unconsciously correlated by a fully developed brain. It -implies a differentiation between the facts and fancies of existence. -The adult of twenty-one who takes seriously the make-believe of the -dolls' house, and, sticking a paper crown on her head, asks you to -recognize her as a queen, is merely an imbecile. The sane adult plays at -mock tea-parties and crowns itself monarch in obedience to a different -set of impulses altogether, either through sheer gaiety of heart, -frankly making unto itself no illusions, or using make-believe as a -symbol of the highest expression of life--videlicet, art--of which the -human mind is capable. And, although we know very well that there are -adults, many of advanced years, whom circumstances have so perverted -that the Alpha and Omega of their lives is the pursuit either of a -little ball or of a verminous animal over the surface of God's arresting -earth, or else, it may be, a series of conjectures as to the comparative -velocities of unimportant quadrupeds, yet none of them (at loose on -society) would have the lunacy or the depravity to maintain that such -pursuit or conjecture is a vital element in the scheme of existence. -Even these who appear still to dwell in the play-world of the child -have the essential faculty of discrimination. They have, in dull -intervals between round or ride, encountered sorrow and pain and passion -and wickedness and fierce struggle and despair. To them the sordid -tragedies of criminal courts, the bestial poverty of slums, are -commonplaces of knowledge. Any one of them can reel off a dozen -instances of the treachery of false friends, the faithlessness of -women, the corruption of commercial or political life. To them are also -revealed splendours of heroism and self-sacrifice. They have a million -data whence to deduce a serviceable philosophy. They are beyond all -question grown up. But what wider experience of life had Stellamaris -gained in the four years between the ages of sixteen and twenty? What -fresh facts of existence had been presented to her for observation and -correlation? What data had she for that deduction of a philosophy which -marks the adult? Neither harm nor spell nor charm had come the lovely -lady any nearer during the last four years than during those of her -childhood. The Unwritten Law had prevailed as strong as ever. The -routine of the sea-chamber had remained unchanged. Her reading, -jealously selected, had brought her no closer to the sad core of many -human things. The gulls and the waves and the golden sunset clouds were -still her high companions. What did people mean when they said she had -grown up? John continued for some time to scratch a puzzled head. - -“Are you not aware of any change in yourself?” he asked. - -She reflected for a moment. “No,” she replied seriously. “Of course -I know more. I can speak French and Italian--” Professors of these -tongues, duly hedged about with ceremonial, had for a long time past -attended in the sea-chamber--“and I know lots more of history and -geography and geology and astronomy and zoology--oh, Belovedest dear, -I 'm dying to see a giraffe! Do you think if he stood on the beach -he could stick his head through the window and look at me? And a -hippopotamus--can't you bring one in on a string? Or do you think -Constable would bite him?” - -John expounded the cases of the giraffe and the hippopotamus with great -gravity. Her eyebrows contracted ever so little, and a spark danced in -her eyes as she waited for the end of the lecture. - -“Oh, dear, can't you see a joke?” - -“Joke?” - -“Why, yes. Don't you think I know all about hippopotamuses?” - -“Four years ago,” said John, “if I had told you that a wyvern and a -unicorn were coming to tea, you would have believed me. Now you would -n't. You 've grown up. That's what I meant.” - -“I see,” said Stellamaris. - -But she did n't; for she turned the conversation back to the palace. - -“I'm afraid, dear,” said he, “that the cats are dead and Arachne has -married a stock-broker, and I 've been so busy that the palace has run -to seed.” - -“I thought she was going to marry a duke,” said Stella, whose memory for -unimportant detail was femininely tenacious. - -“The duke was caught by Miss Cassandra P. Wurgles,” said John, once more -launched on the sea of romance. - -“What a funny name,” said Stella. - -“It's the kind of name,” he replied, “always given in English fiction to -the heiresses of the Middle West of America.” - -“Was she an heiress?” - -“Worth billions. After they were married they do say she would n't let -the duke wipe his razor on anything less valuable than a thousand-dollar -bill.” - -“I don't think that's quite true,” laughed Stella. - -“I don't know,” said John. “Anyhow, Arachne fell back on a stock-broker -named Maclsaac, and now there's no one to look after the palace.” - -“No one at all?” Her voice was full of pity. - -“Not a soul,” said he. - -A tragic pause followed this forlorn declaration. “Dear Belovedest,” - said Stella, very seriously, “I do wish I could come and set it right -for you.” - -Their eyes met. John sighed. - -“I wish you could,” said he. “There 's a fairy wand standing in the -corner which no one but you can touch. It gives every one else an -electric shock that sends them head over heels. But if you could get -it and wave it about the place, you would make all sorts of dead things -come to glorious life, and fill all the garden walks with flowers, and -make the waters live again in the fountains.” - -It was the John Risca whom she had always known that spoke, the John -Risca of whom Herold had occasional flashes, so that he could discount -his usual gloomy petulance and love the essential man, the John Risca -whose hand poor dumb, little Unity Blake had laid against her cheek--the -best and purest John Risca, a will-o'-the-wisp gleam to all his nearest -save Stellamaris; but to Stellamaris just the ordinary, commonplace, -unaltering, and unalterable John Risca, the Great High Belovedest of her -earliest memories. He had said things like this a hundred thousand times -before. Yet now the colour rose once more into her cheeks, and a mist -such as might surround a dewdrop veiled her eyes. - -“What makes you think I could do all that for you?” she asked. - -“I don't know, my dear,” said John. “You seem to belong to another -world.” He stumbled. “You 're just a fairy sort of creature.” - -The answer did not satisfy the instinctive innermost whence sprang the -question; but it served. Woman since the beginning of things has had to -content herself with half-answers from man, seeing that she vouchsafes -him scarcely any answers at all. She smiled and stretched out her hand. -John took it in his clumsy fingers. It was whiter than any hand in the -world, veined with the faintest of faint blue. - -“Anyhow,” she said, “you ought n't to have neglected the palace.” - -“What was I to do?” he asked whimsically. “You 've been so busy growing -up that you've had no time to help me to run it.” - -“Oh!” she said. She withdrew her hand. “Oh, Belovedest, how can you say -such a thing!” - -“You yourself,” laughed John, “asked whether it was months or years -since we talked of it.” - -“I 've never stopped thinking about it,” she protested, and she went on -protesting. But, like the Shakspearian lady, she protested too much. - -“You've grown up, Stellamaris,” said John. - -But how much of the old fairy-tale she still believed in he could -not gauge. He went away, man with the muck-rake that he was, with the -uncomfortable conviction that the roots of her child's faith survived. - -And yet she had grown up, and John, for the life of him, could not -understand it. He was puzzled, because the sweet reverence of the man -for the thing of sea-foam and cloud mystery that she had been to him -all his man's life could not dream of physiological development. She -was longer and broader; that met the eye. Living in her extraordinary -seclusion from the multitudinous winds of earth, she could feel no -breath of the storms that shake humanity into the myriad moulds of -character. The physical side (other than mere linear and cubical -expansion) apart, there was no possibility of change from childhood -to womanhood. But John counted without his host--Nature, the host who -claims reckoning from us all, kick though we may against her tyrannies; -Nature, with her frank indecencies, her uncompromising, but loving, -realism. The physical side in the development of any human being cannot -be set apart. That passage of every maiden across the ford where brook -and river meet is accomplished without a good, careless man's knowledge -or conjecture. He kisses her to-day, as he has kissed her since she -toddled with bare legs, and she responds, and it means little more to -her than an acidulated drop. He shall kiss her to-morrow, and she shall -grow as red as any turkey-cock, and cast down her eyes, and go through -all the pretty antics characteristic, since the beginning of time, of a -self-conscious sex. And the man shall go away scratching his head in a -deuce of a puzzle. - - - -Another year passed. Stella was twenty-one. The routine of the Channel -House, of the house at Kilburn, of the Fulham flat, went on unchanged -and unchanging. Time seems unimportant as a positive agent in human -affairs. It is the solvent of sorrow, but it cannot create joy. From its -benumbing influence no drama seems to spring. It is events--and events, -too, no matter how trivial--that have their roots mysteriously deep in -time that shake the world and make the drama which we call history. And -it was an event, apparently trivial, but sudden, unlooked for, amazing, -that shook the lives whose history is here recorded. - -One morning, in obedience to a peremptory telegram from Sir Oliver -Blount, John Risca met him at the Imperial Club. The old man rose from -his seat near the entrance of the smoking-room into which John was -shown, and excitedly wrung both his hands. “My dear boy, you must come -to Southcliff at once.” Two or three times before he had been brought -down post-haste by Sir Oliver, only to find himself needed as a mediator -between husband and wife. He shook himself free. - -“Out of the question, Oliver. I 'm overwhelmed with work. I 've got my -syndicate article to do, and the review goes to press to-night.” - -“You don't understand. It 's our darling Stella. This morning she lifted -her head from the pillow.” - -“But that's her death-warrant,” cried John, quickly. “It's her -life-warrant. The fatal thing we've been warned against all these years -is no longer fatal. She can move her head easily, painlessly. Don't you -see?” The weak old eyes were wet. - -“My God!” said John. His breath came fast, and he clapped his great -hand on the other's lean shoulders. “But that means--great God in -heaven!”.--his voice shook--“what may it not mean?” - -“It may mean everything,” said Sir Oliver. - -From time to time throughout Stella's life the great magicians of -science had entered the sea-chamber and departed thence, shaking sad -and certain heads. With proper care, they said, Stellamaris might -live--might live, indeed, until her hair turned white and her young -cheeks shrivelled with age; but of leaving that bed by the window and -going forth into the outer world there was no hope or question. Still, -Nature, the inscrutable, the whimsical, might be cozened by treatment -into working a miracle. At any rate, no harm would be done by trying, -and her guardians would have the consoling assurance that nothing -had been left undone. They prescribed after their high knowledge, and -pocketed their high fees, and went their way. Dr. Ransome, Stella's -lifelong doctor and worshipper, carried out each great magician's -orders, and, as prophesied, nothing ever happened either for good or -harm. - -But, six months ago, a greater magician than all, one Wilhelm von -Pfeiler of Vienna, who by working miracles on his own account with newly -discovered and stupendous forces had begun to startle scientific Europe, -happened to be in England, and was summoned to the sea-chamber. He was a -dark, silky-bearded man in whose eyes brooded perpetual melancholy. He, -too, shook his head and said “Perhaps.” Ransome, who had seized with -high hopes on the wandering magician, found him vastly depressing. His -“Perhaps” was more mournfully hopeless than the others' “No.” He spoke -little, for he knew no English, and Ransome's German, like that of -Stella's household, was scanty; but Ransome understood him to croak -platitudes about time and youth and growth and nature being factors in -the case. As to his newly discovered treatment, well, it might have some -effect; he was certain of nothing; as yet no sure deductions could be -drawn from his experiments; everything concerning the application of -these new forces was at the empirical stage. So profound a melancholy -rang in his utterances that he left Lady Blount weeping bitterly, and -convinced that he had passed death-sentence on their beloved being. Then -a near-sighted, taciturn young man, a budding magician who had sat at -Von Pfeiler's feet in Vienna, came down from London with apparatus worth -a hundred times its weight in gold. And nothing happened or seemed about -to happen. Stella called him the gnome. - -All this John knew. Like the rest of Stella's satellites, accustomed for -years to the unhesitating pronouncements of the great specialists and -to their unhealing remedies, he had little faith in Von Pfeiler. The -taciturn young surgeon who had been administering the treatment kept his -own counsel and gave no encouragement to questioners. John had agreed -with Sir Oliver that it was a waste of time and money--a fabulous amount -of money; but the treatment amused Stella, and she liked the gnome, whom -every one else detested, because he loved dogs, and cured Constable, -now growing old and rheumatic, of a stiff leg. So every one suffered the -gnome patiently. - -And now the miracle had been worked. Stella had lifted her head from the -pillow. The two men sat tremulous with hope. - -“I 've been so upset,” said Sir Oliver, “and so has Julia. We had words. -Why, I don't know. I love our darling quite as much as she does; but -Julia is trying. Waiter! Get me a brandy and soda. What will you have? -Nothing? I don't usually drink spirits in the morning, John; but I feel -I need it. I'm getting old and can't stand shocks.” - -“What does Ransome say?” - -“He 's off his head. Every one 's off his head. The very dog is rushing -about like a lunatic. Nearly knocked me down in the garden.” - -“And Cassilis?” - -Cassilis was the gnome. - -“Ransome has telegraphed him to come down at once. But I thought I'd run -up and tell you. We might go together to see him and fetch him back with -us. You 'll come, won't you?” - -“Come? Why, of course I'll come. What do you think I 'll do? Stay in -London at such a time and send her a post-card to say I'm glad?” - -“You said something about seeing your review through the press.” - -“Oh, confound the review! It can go to the devil!” cried John. - -London ablaze with revolution would have been a small matter compared -with this world-shaking event, the lifting of a girl's head. - -“It will be such a comfort to me,” said the old man. “I don't know -what to do. I can't rest. My mind's in a maze. It's like the raising of -Jairus's daughter.” - -“Let us do some telephoning,” said John. - -They went out together. John rang up Cassilis. He had been out all the -morning and would not be returning for another hour. John rang up Herold -at a theatre where he knew him to be rehearsing, and gave him the glad -news. They returned to the smoking-room. Sir Oliver drank off his brandy -and soda at one gulp. - -“And Stella herself? What does she make of it?” - -“The only one not upset in the house. That little girl 's an angel, -John.” He blew his nose violently. “It appears she was stretching out -her arm to pat the old dog's chaps, overreached herself a bit, and -mechanically her head came away from the pillow. She called out to -nurse, 'Nurse, I 've lifted my head.' Nurse flew up to her. 'What do you -mean, darling?' She showed her. She showed her, by God! Nurse forbade -her to do it any more, and flew down-stairs like a wildcat to tell us. -Then we telephoned to Ransome. He saw her; she did it for him; then -he came to us white and shaking all over. Naturally I wanted to see the -darling child do it, too. Julia interfered. Stella must n't do it again -till Cassilis came. Then we had the words. She said I was eaten through -with egotism--I! Now, am I, John?” - -Presently Herold dashed, in, aflame with excitement. The story, such as -it was, had to be told anew. - -“I 'll come with you to Cassilis, and then on to Southcliff.” - -“But your rehearsal?” said John. - -Herold confounded the rehearsal, even as John had confounded his review. -In the presence of this thrilling wonder, trivialities had no place. - -Cassilis received this agitated and unusual deputation without a flicker -of surprise. He was a baldheaded, prematurely old young man, with great, -round spectacles. He gave one the air of an inhuman custodian of awful -secrets. - -“I presume you have called with reference to this,” said he, indicating -a telegram which he held in his hand. “I've just opened it.” - -“Yes,” said Sir Oliver. “Is n't it wonderful? You must come down with us -at once.” - -“It's very inconvenient for me to leave London.” - -“My dear sir, you must throw over every engagement.” - -The shadow of a smile passed over the young man's features. - -“If you press the point, I'll come.” - -“But are n't you astounded at what has occurred? Don't you understand -Ransome's message?” - -“Perfectly,” said Cassilis. “I 've already written to Dr. von Pfeiler--a -week: ago--detailing the progress and full success of the case.” - -“Then you know all about it?” asked John. “Naturally. I've been -practising her at it for the last fortnight, though she did n't realize -what I was doing.” - -“Then why on earth did n't you tell us?” - -“I had arranged to tell you to-morrow,” said Cassilis. - -“I don't think you've acted rightly, sir,” cried Sir Oliver. - -“Never mind that,” said Herold. “Mr. Cassilis doubtless has his -excellent reasons. The main thing is, Will her cure go beyond this? Will -she get well and strong? Will she be able to walk about God's earth like -anybody else?” - -The little gnome-like man straightened with his toe a rucked corner -of the hearth-rug. He paused deliberately before replying, apparently -unmoved by the anxious eyes bent on him. There was a span of agonized -silence. Then he spoke: - -“This time next year she will be leading a woman's normal life.” - -[Illustration: 0180] - -The words fell clear-cut on the quiet of the room. The three men uttered -not a word. Cassilis, asking their leave to make some small preparations -for his journey, left them. Then, relieved of his presence, they drew -together and pressed one another's hands and stood speechless, like -children suddenly brought to the brink of some new wonderland. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -Thenceforward a humming confusion reigned in the Channel House. The -story of the miraculous recovery spread through Southcliff. Sir -Oliver and Lady Blount held a little court every day to receive -congratulations. A few privileged well-wishers were admitted to the -sea-chamber, where Stella still lay enthroned by the window. She had not -realized the extent of her fame among the inhabitants until a garrulous -visitor told her that she was one of the pet traditions of the place and -that her great-windowed room at the top of the house on the cliff was -always pointed out with pride to the tourist. - -In her mysterious seclusion she had become a local celebrity. This -interest of the little world grouped about the Channel House added a joy -to her anticipation of mingling with it. The affection in which she was -held by butcher and baker, to say nothing of the mayor and corporation, -cemented her faith (in which she had been so jealously bred) in the -delightful perfection of mankind. - -Meanwhile she progressed daily towards recovery, very slowly, but with -magical sureness. Cassilis continued his treatment. Queer apparatuses -were fitted to her so that she could go through queer muscular -exercises. She was being put into training, as it were, for life. Every -new stage in her progress was marked by fêtes and rejoicings. The first -time that her bed could be wheeled into a room on the other side of the -house was a solemn occasion. It was July, and the rolling hills, rich in -corn-fields and forest greenery, were flooded with sunlight. The -earth proclaimed its fruitful plenty, and laughed in the joy of its -loveliness. - -That which to those with her was a commonplace of beauty stretched -before Stellamaris's vision as a new and soul-arresting wonder. She had -only elusive, childish memories of the actual earth; for before she had -been laid upon her back never to rise again, she had been a delicate, -invalid child. She had seen thousands of pictures, so that she was at -no intellectual loss to account for the spectacle; but, for all her life -that counted, sea and sky in their myriad changes had been her intimate -conception of the world. And it had been her world--the only world that -her eyes would ever rest upon; and as it had never entered her head -to hope for another, it had sufficed her soul's needs. Indeed, it -had overwhelmed them with its largess, until, as Herold declared, -she herself had become a creature of cloud and wave. This sudden -presentation of a new and unrealized glory set her heart beating madly; -her cheeks grew white, and tears rolled down them. - -“Now, is n't that a beautiful view?” said Lady Blount. - -“Soon we 'll hire a motor, until you can buy one for yourself, and go -and explore it all, my dear,” said Sir Oliver. - -“Southcliff lies just below there on the left,” said the nurse. - -“See that red roof there between the trees? That's where our old friend -Colonel Dukes lives. Devilish good house; though, if he had taken my -advice when he was building it, it would have been much better.” - -“And just over there,” said Lady Blount, pointing-, “is the railway that -takes you to London.” - -“You 're quite wrong, Julia,” said Sir Oliver; “that's a bit of the -south coast line. Is n't it, John?” - -“Oliver is right. You can't see the London line from here,” said John. - -They went on talking, but Stella, in a rapture of vision, heeded them -not. Herold, who stood quite close to her, was silent. She held his -hand, and gripped it almost convulsively. John, with rare observation, -noticed that her knuckles were white. Her face was set in an agony -of adoration too poignant for speech. John, curiously sensitive where -Stella was concerned, realized that these two hand in hand were close -together on a plane of feeling too high for the profane. With a little -movement of deprecation which neither Herold nor Stella perceived, he -pushed the others toward the door and, following them out of the room, -closed it behind them. - -“Better leave her alone with Walter,” said he. - -“Quite so,” said Sir Oliver. “Just what I told you, Julia. We must let -her go slow for a bit and not excite her.” - -“I don't remember you ever saying anything of the kind,” retorted Lady -Blount. “It was Walter.” - -“Well, Oliver agreed with him, which comes to the same thing,” said -John, acting peacemaker. - -But they wrangled all down the corridor, and when the two men were left -alone, Sir Oliver shook his head. - -“A trying woman, John; very trying.” - -Meanwhile Stella and Herold remained for a long time in the quiet room -without the utterance of a word. As soon as the others went, her grasp -relaxed. Herold drew a chair gently to her side and waited patiently -for her to speak; for he saw that her soul was at grips with the new -glory of the earth. At last a quivering sigh shook her, and she turned -her wet eyes away from the window and looked at him with a smile. - -“Well?” said he. - -“I feel that it is all too beautiful.” - -“It makes you sad.” - -“Yes; vaguely, but exquisitely. How did you guess?” - -“Your eyes have been streaming, Stellamaris.” - -“Foolish, is n't it?” - -“I suppose it 's the finite realizing itself unconsciously before the -infinite. Is it too much for you?” - -She shook her head. “I should like to stay here and gaze at this forever -till I drank it all, all in.” - -“Have you ever read the life of St. Brigit?” he asked. “There's one -little episode in it which comes to my mind.” - -“Tell me,” said Stella. - -“She founded convents, you know, in Ireland. Now, there was one nun -dearly loved by St. Brigit, and she had been blind from birth; and one -evening they were sitting on one of the Wicklow Hills, and St. Brigit -described to her all the beauties of the green valleys below, and the -silver streams and the purple mountains beyond, melting into the happy -sky. And the nun said, 'Sister, pray to God to work a miracle and give -me sight so that I can see it and glorify Him.' So St. Brigit prayed, -and God heard her prayer, and the eyes of the nun were opened, and she -looked upon the world, and her senses were ravished by its glory. And -then she fell to weeping and trembling and she sank on her knees before -St. Brigit and said, I have seen, but I beseech thee pray that my sight -be taken again from me, for I fear that in the beauty of the world I may -forget God.' And St. Brigit prayed again, and God heard her, and the -nun's sight was taken from her. And they both lifted their voices to -heaven and glorified the Lord.” - -Stella sighed when he had ended, and quiet fell upon them. She looked -dreamily out of the window. Herold watched her face, with a pang at his -heart. It was as pure as a little child's. - -“It's a lovely legend,” she said at last. “But the nun was wrong. The -beauty of this world ought to bring one nearer to God instead of making -one forget Him.” - -Herold smiled. “Certainly it ought to,” said he. - -“Why did you tell me the story?” - -“Because it came into my head.” - -“There was some other reason.” - -He could not deny, for in her candid eyes he saw assurance; yet he dared -not tell her that which dimmed the crystal of his gladness. He saw the -creature of cloud and foam gasping in the tainted atmosphere of the -world of men; the dewdrop on the star exposed to the blazing sun. What -would happen? - -“I am going to get well,” she continued, seeing that he did not answer, -“and walk out soon into the gardens and the streets and see all -the wonderful, wonderful things you and Belovedest have told me of. -And”--she pressed her hands to her bosom--“I can't contain myself for -joy. And yet, Walter dear, you seem to think I should be better off if I -remained as I am--or was. I can't understand it.” - -“My dear,” said Herold reluctantly, wishing he had never heard of St. -Brigit, “so long as you see God through the beauties and vanities of -the world, as you've seen Him through the sea-mists and the dawn and the -sunset, all will be well. But that takes a brave spirit--braver than St. -Brigit's nun. She feared lest she might see the world, and nothing but -the world, and nothing divine shining through. People who do that lose -their souls.” - -“Then you think,” said Stellamaris, wrinkling her smooth brow--“you -think that the blind have the truer vision.” - -“Truer than that of the weak, perhaps, but not as true as the strong -spirits who dare see fearlessly.” - -“Do you think I am weak or strong?” she asked, with a woman's relentless -grip on the personal. - -“What else but a strong spirit,” he replied half disingenuously, “could -have triumphed, as you have done, over a lifelong death?” - -“Death?” She opened her eyes wide. “Death? But I've lived every hour of -my life, and it has been utterly happy.” - -“The strong spirit, dear,” said Herold. - -“Great High Favourite dear, what else could you say?” - -She laughed, but the tenderness in her eyes absolved the laugh and the -feminine speech from coquetry. - -“I might talk to you as John Knox did to Mary, Queen of Scots.” - -Just as life had been translated to the hapless Miss Kilmansegg of the -Golden Leg into terms of gold, so had it been translated to Stella into -terms of beauty. History had been translated, accordingly, into terms -of romance. She had heard, indeed, of Mary Stuart, but as a being of -legendary and unnaughty loveliness. At the stem image of the grave -Calvinist she shrank. - -“John Knox was a horrid, croaking raven,” she emphatically declared, -“and nobody could possibly talk like that nowadays.” - -Herold laughed and turned the conversation into lighter channels. The -Unwritten Law prevailed over his instinctive impulse to warn her against -the deceptive glamour of the world. Then the hour struck for an item -in the invalid's routine, and the nurse came in, and Stella was wheeled -back to her high chamber. - -Many days of her convalescence after this were marked with red stones. -There was the first day when, carried down-stairs, she presided from her -high couch at a dinner-party given in her honour, the guests being John -Risca and Walter Herold, Wratislaw and the nurse, Dr. Ransome and his -wife, and the gnomeheaded and spectacled Cassilis. - -It was a merry party, and towards the end of dinner, when the port went -round, Stella's own maid coached for the part, at a sign from Sir Oliver -who commanded silence, spoke in a falsetto voice sticking in a nervous -throat the familiar words: “Miss Stella's compliments, and would the -gentlemen take a glass of wine with her.” And they all rose and drank -and made a great noise, and the tears rolled down John Risca's cheeks -and fell upon his bulging shirt-front, and Sir Oliver blew his nose -loudly and made a speech. - -A great day, too, was her first progress in her wheel-chair about the -grounds of the Channel House. All was wonder and wild delight to the -girl who had never seen, or had seen so long ago that she had forgotten, -the velvet of smooth turf; the glory of roses growing in their heyday -insolence; the alluring shade of leafy chestnuts; the pansies clinging -to dear Mother Earth; the fairy spray of water from a hose-pipe over -thirsty beds; the crisp motion, explaining the mysterious echo of years, -of the grass-mower driven over the lawn; the ivy tapestry of walls; the -bewildering masses of sweet-peas; the apples, small and green though -they were, actually hanging from boughs; the real live fowls, jaunty in -prosperous plumage, so different from the apologetic naked shapes--fowls -hitherto to her, which Morris, the maid, had carved for her meals at -a side table in the sea-chamber, the cabbages brave in crinkled leaf, -unaware of their doom of ultimate hot agglutination, the tender green -bunches of grapes in glass-houses drinking wine from the mother founts -of the sun, the quiet cows on the gently sloping pasture-land. - -At last she put her hands over her eyes, and Herold made a sign, and -they wheeled the chair back to the house; and only when they halted in -the wide, cool drawing-room, with windows opening to the south, did she -look at outer things; and then, while all stood by in a hush, she drew -a few convulsive breaths and rested her overwrought spirit on the calm, -familiar sea. - -A day of days, too, when, still in glorious summer weather, they hired -an enormous limousine from the great watering-place a few miles off, -and took her all but prone, and incased in the appliances of science, -through the gates of the Channel House into the big world. They drove -over the Sussex Downs, along chalk roads, between crisp grass-lands -dotted with sheep, through villages,--gleams of paradises compact of -thatched roof, rambler roses, blue and white garments hung out on lines -to laugh in the sunshine, flashing new stucco cottages, labelled “County -Police” (a puzzle to Stellamaris), ramshackle shops, with odd wares, -chiefly sweets, exposed in tiny casement windows, old inns flaunting -brave signs, “The Five Alls,” “The Leather Bottell,” away from the road, -with a forecourt containing rude bench and table and trough for horses, -young women, with the cheeks of the fresh, and old women, with the -cheeks of the withered apple, and sun-tanned men, and children of -undreamed-of chubbiness. And to Stellamaris all was a wonderland of joy. - -During most of the month of August the rain fell heavily and outdoor -excursions became rare events, and the world as seen from windows was -a gray and dripping spectacle. But Stella, accustomed to the vast -dreariness of wintry seas, found fresh beauties in the rain-swept earth. -The patter of drops on leaves played new and thrilling melodies; a slant -of sunshine across wet grass offered magical harmonies of colour; the -unfamiliar smell of the reeking soil was grateful to her nostrils. And -had she not the captivating indoor life among pleasant rooms in which -she had hitherto dwelt only in fancy? Hopes in the process of fulfilment -gilded the glad days. - -She talked unceasingly to those about her of the happy things to come. - -“Soon we 'll be teaching you to walk,” said John. - -She glowed. “That's going to be the most glorious adventure of my life.” - -“I 've never regarded putting one foot before another in that light,” he -said with a laugh. Then suddenly realizing what he had said, he felt a -wave of pity and love surge through his heart. What child of man assured -of a bird's power of flight would not be thrilled at the prospect of -winging his way through space? It would be indeed a glorious adventure. - -“My poor darling!” said he, very tenderly. - -As usual, she disclaimed the pity. There was no one happier than herself -in the wide universe. - -“But I often have wondered what it would feel like.” - -“To walk?” - -“Yes. To have the power of moving yourself from one place to another. It -seems so funny. Of course I did walk once, but I've forgotten all about -it. They tell me I shall have to learn from the beginning, just like a -little baby.” - -“You 'll have to learn lots of things from the beginning,” said John, -rather sadly. - -“What kind of things?” - -“All sorts.” - -“Tell me,” she insisted, for ever so small a cloud passed over his face. - -“Taking your place as a woman in the whirl of life,” said he. - -She turned on him the look of untroubled sapience that proceeds from the -eyes of child saints in early Italian paintings. - -“I don't think that will be very difficult, Belovedest. I'm not quite -a little ignoramus, and Aunt Julia has taught me manners. I have always -been able to talk to people when sick, and I don't see why I should be -afraid of them when I'm well. I 've thought quite a lot about it, and -talked to Aunt Julia.” - -“And what does she say?” - -“She assures me,” she cried gaily, “that I am bound to make a sensation -in society.” - -“You 'll have all mankind at your feet, dear,” said John. “But,” he -added in a change of tone, “I was referring to more vital things than -success in drawing-rooms.” - -She laid her hand lightly on his.. - -“Do you know, Belovedest, what Walter said some time ago? He said that -if I looked at the world and saw God through it, all would be well.” - -“I can add nothing more to that,” said John, and, thinking that Herold -had been warning her of dangers, held his peace for the occasion. - -Then there came a day, not long afterward, when she made the speech -which in some form or other he had been expecting and dreading. - -“The next glorious adventure will be when you take me over the palace.” - -He laughed awkwardly. “I remember telling you that the palace has run to -seed.” - -“But you still live in it.” - -“No, dear,” said he. - -“Oh!” said Stellamaris in a tone of deep disappointment. “Oh, why, why?” - -John felt ridiculously unhappy. She believed, after all, in the -incredible fairy-tale. - -“Perhaps it was n't such a gorgeous palace as I made out,” he confessed -lamely. “As the cooks say, my hand was rather heavy with the gold and -marble.” She laughed, to his intense relief. “I have felt since that -there was a little poetic exaggeration somewhere. But it must be a -beautiful place, all the same.” His spirits sank again. “I could walk -about it blindfold, although we have n't talked of it for so long. Who -is living there now?” - -“I 've sold it, dear, to some king of the Cannibal Islands,” he declared -in desperate and ponderous jest. - -“So there's no more palace?” - -“No more,” said he. - -“I 'm sorry,” said Stellamaris--“so sorry.” She smiled at him, but the -tears came into her eyes. “I was looking forward so to seeing it. You -see, dear, I've lived in it for such a long, long time!” - -“There are hundreds of wonder-houses for you to see when you get -strong,” said John, by way of consolation, yet hating himself. - -“Westminster Abbey and Windsor Castle, and so on. Yes,” said Stella, -“but they 've none of them been part of me.” - -So he discovered that, at one-and-twenty, on the eve of her entrance -into the world of reality, the being most sacred to him still dwelt in -her Land of Illusion. Two or three frank words would have been enough to -bring down to nothingness the baseless fabric of his castle in the -air, his palace of dreams; but he dreaded the shock of such seismic -convulsion. He had lied for years, putting all that was godlike of his -imperfect humanity into his lies, so as to bring a few hours' delight -into the life of this fragile creature whom he worshiped, secure in the -conviction that the lies would live for ever and ever as vital truths, -without chance of detection. And now that chance, almost the certainty, -had come. - -John Risca was a strong man, as men count strength. He faced the -grim issues of life undaunted, and made his own terms. He growled when -wounded, but he bared his teeth and snarled with defiance at his foes. -In a bygone age he would have stood like his Celtic ancestors, doggedly -hacking amid a ring of slain until the curtain of death was drawn before -his blood-shot eyes and he fell, idly smiting the air. In the modern -conflict in which, fortunately, human butchery does not come within the -sphere of the ordinary man's activities, he could stand with the same -moral constancy. But here, when it was a mere question of tearing a -gossamer veil from before a girl's eyes, his courage failed him. Such -brute dealing, he argued, might be salutary for common clay; but for -Stellamaris it would be dangerous. Let knowledge of the fact that there -had never been a palace come to her gradually. Already he had prepared -the way. Thus he consoled himself, and, in so doing, felt a mean and -miserable dog. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -STELLA loved the garden, even when autumn came and flowers were rare; -for still there was the gold and russet glory of the trees. Also the -garden was a bit of her Promised Land; the road beyond the gate ran into -the heart of the world. And the open air brought strength. On sunny days -her wheel-chair was brought down and set on a gravel path, and there, -wrapped in furs, she sat, generally alone save for the old hound always -on guard beside her. She read, and dreamed her innocent dreams, and -looked up at the ever-novel canopy of the sky, exulting quietly in her -freedom. Those around her knew her needs and gave her at such times the -familiar solitude which she craved. - -“Don't be left alone, darling, a moment longer than you want,” said Lady -Blount. “Too much of that sort of thing is n't good for you.” - -And Stella, trying to interpret herself, would reply, “I just want to -make friends with nature.” - -“I wish I could understand you, dear, like Walter,” said Lady Blount. -“What exactly do you mean?” - -Stella laughed, and said truthfully that she did not know. Perhaps, it -was that, the sea having taken her to its heart, she feared lest earth -might not be so kindly, and she sought conciliation. But such -flutterings of the spirit are not to be translated into words. A day or -two before she had driven through a glade of blazing beech, carpeted -deep brown, and the shadows twisted themselves into dim shapes, stealing -through the mystery of the slender trunks, and the longing to be left -alone among them and hear the message of the woodland had smitten her -like pain. - -One morning she sat warmly wrapped up, a fur toque on her head, in the -pale autumn sunshine, with Constable by her side, when a draggled-tailed -woman, carrying a draggled-bodied infant, paused by the front gate, -taking stock of the place in the tramp's furtive way; and, spying the -gracious figure of the girl at a turn of the gravel path, walked boldly -in. Before she had advanced half-way, Constable, hidden by Stella's -chair, rose to his feet, his ears cocked, and growled threateningly. The -woman came to a scared halt. Stella looked up and saw her. Quickly she -laid her hand on the dog's head, and rated him for a silly fellow and -bade him lie down and not move till she gave the order. Constable, like -an old dog who knew his place, but felt bound to protest, grumblingly -obeyed. He had lived for eleven years under the fixed conviction that -though female tramps with babies were permitted by some grotesque -authority to wander on sufferance along the road, they could enter the -gates of the Channel House only under penalty of instant annihilation. -His goddess, however, through some extraordinary caprice ordaining them -to live, the matter was taken out of his hands. Let them live, then, and -see what came of it. It was beyond his comprehension. - -“Don't be afraid,” cried Stella in her clear voice. “The dog won't hurt -you.” - -“Sure, Miss?” - -“Quite sure.” She smiled bountiful assurance. The draggled-tailed woman -approached. “What do you want?” - -The woman, battered, dirty, and voluble, began the tramp's tale. She had -started from Dover and was bound for Plymouth, where she was to meet her -husband, a sailor, whose ship would arrive to-morrow. What she had been -doing in Dover, except that she had been in 'orspital (which did not -account for the child's movements), she did not state. But she had -slept under hedges since she had started, and had no money, and a kind -gentleman, Gawd bless him! had given her a hunk of bread and cheese -the day before, and that was all the food they had had for twenty-four -hours. - -As she talked, Stella's unaccustomed eyes gradually took in the -scarecrow details of her person: the blowzy hat, with its broken -feathers; the greasy ropes of hair; the unclean rags of raiment; the -broken and shapeless boots; the huddled defilement of the staring, -unwholesome child; and she began to tremble through all her body. For -a while the sense of sight was so overwhelming in its demands that she -lost the sense of hearing. What was this creature of loathsome ugliness -doing in her world of beauty? To what race did she belong? From what -planet had she fallen? For what eccentric reason did she choose to -present this repulsive aspect to mankind? - -At last, when her sight was more or less familiarized with the spectacle -of squalor, the significance of the woman's words came to her as to one -awaking from a dream. - -“Not a bit of food has passed my lips since yesterday at twelve o'clock, -Miss, and Gawd strike me dead, Miss, if I ain't telling the blessed -truth.” - -“But why have n't you bought food?” asked Stella. - -The woman stared at her. How could she understand Stellamaris? - -“I have n't a penny in the world, Miss. The day afore yesterday a lady -give me twopence, and I spent it in milk for the child. S'welp me, I -did, Miss.” - -“Do you mean to tell me,” said Stella, whose face had grown tense and -white, “that it's impossible for you to get food for yourself and your -baby?” - -“Indeed I do, Miss.” - -“That the two of you might die of starvation?” - -“We 're a-dying of it now, Miss,” said the woman. - -God knows that she lied. The tramp's life is not a path of roses, and it -is not one suitable for the rearing of tender babes, and the fact of its -possibility is a blot on our civilization; but the hard-bitten vagabond -of the highroad has his or her well-defined means of livelihood. This -was a mistress of mumpery. - -She had passed the night in the comfortable casual ward of a workhouse -five miles away, and had slept the dead sleep of the animal, and she and -her baby had started the day with a coarse, though sustaining, meal. She -was wandering on and on, aimlessly from workhouse to workhouse, as -she had wandered from infancy, begging a sixpence here, and a plate of -victuals there, impeded in her stray-cat freedom only by the brat in -her arms, yet fiercely fond of it and regardful of its needs. She was -a phenomenon that in our civilization ought not to exist. She was -acquainted with hunger and thirst and privation; she was anything of -misery that you like to describe; but she was not dying or likely to die -of starvation. - -The sociology of the tramp, however, was leagues outside the knowledge -of Stellamaris. She looked at the woman in awful horror until her -delicate face seemed to fade into a pair of great God-filled eyes. - -“And you have no roof to shelter you from the cold and rain?” - -After the manner of her kind the woman assured her that such was the -fact. She put her head on one side, wheedling in the time-honoured way. - -“If you would help a poor woman with a shilling or two, kind lady--” - -“A shilling or two?” Stella's voice broke into a cracked falsetto. -“You shall have pounds and pounds. I 'll see that you don't die of -starvation. I have no money to give you,--I've scarcely ever seen -any,--but I have thousands of pounds in the house, and you shall have -them all. If I could only walk, I would ask some one to fetch them to -you. But I can't walk. I've never been able to walk all my life. You -see, I 'm tied here till my maid comes for me. What can I do?” She wrung -her hands, desperately, stirred to the roots of her being. - -“Never walked?” said the woman, taken aback, the elementary human fact -appealing more to her dulled senses than the phantasmagorical promise of -wealth. “Lor'! Poor young lady! I 'd sooner be as I am, Miss, than not -be able to walk. And such a sweet young lady!” Then the gleam of the -divine being spent, she said, “Can't you call anybody, Miss?” - -But there was no need to call anybody; for one of the maids, having -caught sight of the intruder through a window of the house, came flying -down the path, a protecting flutter of apron-strings. - -“What do you mean by coming in here? Go away at once! We have nothing to -do with tramps. Be off with you!” - -She was breathless, excited, indignant. - -“Hold your tongue, Mary!” cried Stella in a tone so unfamiliar that it -petrified the simple maid. “How dare you interfere between me and the -person I am talking to?” It must be remembered that Stella was of mortal -clay. She had her faults, like the rest of us. She was born and bred -a princess, an autocrat, a despot, a tyrant. And here was one of the -white-hot moments of life when the princess was the princess and the -tyrant the tyrant. The new commotion brought the old dog again to his -feet. For the only time in her life she struck him in anger, though -physically he felt it as much as the fall of an autumn leaf. - -“Down, Constable, down!” And turning to the maid: “Wheel my chair into -the drawing-room and ask Lady Blount to come to me. You follow us!” she -commanded the tramp. - -The bewildered Mary obeyed. The procession was formed: Stella, in her -chair; Mary; Constable, head down, wondering like an old dog at the -queer, newfangled ways of the world; and the bedraggled woman, with her -pallid and staring baby. - -The chair was wheeled across the threshold of the drawing-room. The -tramp paused irresolute. Bidden to enter and sit down, she chose a -straight-backed chair near the door. Mary sped to fetch her mistress -to deal with the appalling situation. In a moment or two Lady Blount -hurried in. The woman rose and sketched a vague curtsy. - -Lady Blount began: - -“My darling Stella--” - -But Stella checked her, stretching out passionate hands. - -“Aunt Julia, give me two or three thousand pounds at once, please, -please!” - -“My dear, what for?” asked the amazed lady. - -“To give to this poor woman. She and her baby are dying of starvation. -They are dressed in rags. They have no home. It 's dreadful, horrible! -Can you conceive it?” - -Lady Blount turned to the woman. - -“Go round to the kitchen entrance, and they will give you some food. I -'ll see you myself later.” - -The woman thanked her and blessed her, and disappeared. - -“My dearest,” said Lady Blount, gently, “you can't give such people vast -sums of money.” - -“Why not? She has none. We have a lot. How can we live in comfort when -she and her baby are wandering about penniless. They will die. Don't you -understand? They will die.” - -“We can't provide for them for the rest of their lives, dear.” - -“But we must,” she cried. “How can you be so cruel?” - -“Cruel? My dearest, if I give her a plate of food, and some milk for the -baby, and send her away with a shilling, she will be hugely delighted. A -woman like that is not a very deserving object for charity.” - -Stella's bosom rose and fell, and she regarded Lady Blount in sudden, -awful surmise. - -“Auntie darling, what do you mean? Why are n't you horrified?” - -“She's only a tramp. Neither she nor the baby is going to die of -starvation. And, darling, you must n't let folks like that come near -you. Goodness knows what horrible diseases they may be suffering from.” - -“But that makes it all the worse. If she is ill, we must help her to get -well.” - -“My poor innocent lamb,” said Lady Blount, “there are thousands like -her. They are the dregs of our civilization. We could n't possibly -keep them all in luxury, could we? Now, don't be distressed, dear,” she -added, bending down and kissing the girl's cheek. - -“I 'll go and have a word with the woman. I 'll treat her quite -generously, for your sake, you may be assured.” - -She smiled, and went out of the room, leaving Stella crushed beneath an -avalanche of knowledge. Filthy, starving shreds of humanity were common -objects in the beautiful world--so common as to arouse little or no -compassion in the hearts of kind women like the maid Mary and her -Aunt Julia. All they had thought of was of her, Stella, her danger -and possible contamination. Toward the woman they were callous, almost -cruel. What did it mean? Her chivalrous anger died down; reaction came. -She looked about her beautiful world piteously, and then for the first -time in her life she wept tears of bitter sorrow. - -They told her afterward of the tramp's wayward, wandering life, of the -various charities that existed for the regeneration of such people, of -the free hospitals for the sick, of the workhouse system, and they -gave her John Risca's famous little book to read. Eventually she was -convinced that it was quixotic folly to bestow a fortune on the first -beggar that came along, and she acquitted her aunt of cruelty. But a -cloud hung heavy for a long time over her spirits, and a stain soiled -the beauty of the garden, so that it never more was the perfect -paradise. And, henceforward, when she drove through the streets of the -great watering-place near by, and through the villages which still held -something of their summer enchantment, her eyes were opened to sights of -sorrow and pain to which they had been happily blind before. - -Winter came, and the routine of her life went on, despite revolutionary -changes of habit. Her heart had learned not to be affected by the -transition from the prone to the sitting posture. No longer did -beholders realize her as nothing but a head and neck and graceful arms, -and no longer was a dressing-jacket the only garment into which she -could throw her girlish coquetry. Her hair was done up on the top of her -head in the manner prescribed by fashion, and she wore the whole raiment -of womankind. - -John, when he first saw her reclining in her invalid chair, dressed in -a soft gray ninon gown, a gleam of silk stocking peeping between the -hem and a dainty-shoe, hung back for a second or two from a feeling of -shyness. It was a shock to find that Stella had feet like anybody -else, and very prettily shaped, adorable little feet. It seemed almost -indelicate to look at them, as it would be to inspect too curiously the -end of a mermaid's tail. She held out both hands to greet him, laughing -and blushing. - -“How do you like me?” she asked. - -The lights of the drawing-room were dim, and the firelight danced -caressingly over her young beauty. - -“I 've never seen anything so lovely,” said John, looking at her in -stupid admiration until her eyes dropped in confusion. - -“I did n't mean me, you silly Belovedest. I meant my new dress, my -general get-up. Don't you think it's pretty?” - -“I do,” said John, fervently. - -But what cared he, or what would have cared any man worth the name of -man, for the details of her feminine upholstery, when the revelation of -her complete deliciousness burst upon him? It was then that he realized -her as woman. It was from that moment that she haunted his dreams not as -Stellamaris, star of the sea, child of cloud and mystery, but as a sweet -and palpitating wonder in a marvel of flesh and blood. - -Despite dangers, and through the stress of tradition, the Unwritten -Law still prevailed. The episode of the tramp caused her to ask many -questions; but they answered them discreetly. Even when she grew strong -enough to take her active share in the world's doings her life -would still be a sheltered one. Knowledge would come gradually and -unconsciously. Why wantonly give her the shocks of pain? But even a -guarded house and garden could not be the sanctuary of the sea-chamber. -Breaths of evil and sighs of sorrowful things come on the winds of the -earth into most of the habitations of man. The newsboy alone flings into -every household his reeking record of sin. This last did not penetrate -into the sea-chamber; but lying about the rooms, it could not escape a -girl's natural curiosity. - -“Young ladies don't read newspapers, dear,” said Lady Blount, asking -Heaven's forgiveness for her lie. - -“Why?” A natural question. - -“They contain accounts of things which are not fit reading for young -girls.” - -Stella pondered over this reason for some time; but one day she said: - -“I am no longer a young girl. I am a grown-up woman. I want to know what -the world is like. I hear every one talking of parliament and politics -and foreign countries, and I am ignorant of it all, my dear Exquisite -Auntship. I have a right to know everything about life. You must let me -read the newspapers.” - -“Well, wait just a little, dearest,” said Lady Blount. - -And the next time John Risca and Walter Herold came down, she took -counsel of them, and they reluctantly agreed that no longer could -the old régime of the Unwritten Law be enforced. Stella must have her -newspaper. Thenceforward, every morning, the portentous package of “The -Times” (none of your sensational half-penny shockers!) was laid upon -Stella's lap, and she read, poor child, the foreign news, and the -leaders, and all the solemn and harmless and unimportant matters in big -print until she yawned her pretty head off, in vast disappointment with -newspapers. It all seemed to her ingenuous mind such a wordy fuss about -nothing. Still, she read conscientiously about tariff reform and naval -armaments and female suffrage and the pronouncements of the German -Emperor and home rule for Ireland, in the puzzled assurance that thereby -she was fitting herself for her future place in the great world. - -But one day Lady Blount, going into the pleasant morning room where -Stella now usually had her being, found her sitting with tragic face, -staring out of the window, the decorous “Times” lying a tousled, -crumpled mass on the floor. She was alarmed. - -“Darling, what's the matter?” - -“Oh, it's hateful! It's unthinkable! Why did n't you tell me that such -things happened nowadays?” - -“What things?” - -Stella pointed to the outraged organ of British respectability. - -“A day or two ago--it 's all true that 's in the newspaper, is n't -it? It's not made up? It all happens?--a day or two ago, while we -were laughing here, a man took a knife and killed his wife and three -children. It's incredible that there can be such monsters in the world.” - -“My darling, when you know a little more,” faltered Lady Blount, “you -will learn that there are abnormal people who do these dreadful things -and get reported in the newspapers. But they have nothing to do with us. -You must n't be frightened. We never come across them. Our life is quite -different.” - -“But what does that matter?” cried the girl, with agonized eyes. “They -exist. They are among us, whether we happen to meet them or not. They -are like the tramps.” - -The world-worn woman, lined and faded, her red hair turned almost gray -now, put her arms around the girl, and sought physically to bring the -comfort that her intelligence was not acute enough to convey in speech. -Stella hid her face against the kind bosom and sobbed. - -“Auntie dear, I'm frightened, so frightened!” - -“Of what, darling?” - -“Of ugliness and wickedness and horror.” - -“Nothing of that, dear, can ever come our way. It does n't come the way -of decent folk. People like us don't have anything to do with that side -of life.” - -Stella still sobbed. The words brought no conviction. Lady Blount -continued her unenlightened consolation. Let the precious ostrich stick -her head in a bush, and that which she could not see could by no chance -happen. - -“But men are out there--” she waved her arm vaguely--“who kill women and -little children.” - -“But we never meet the men,” cried poor Lady Blount, insistently. “Our -lives are free from all that.” - -She preached her narrow gospel. There was a class of beings in the -world who did all kinds of ferocious, criminal, cruel, mean, and vulgar -things; but they were a class apart. In the world in which she herself -and Stella and John and Walter dwelt all was beauty and refinement. -Stella dried her eyes. At one-and-twenty one cannot weep forever. She -allowed herself to be half persuaded of the truth of her Aunt Julia's -sophistries. But the little, impish devil who stage-manages the comedies -of life arranged a day or two afterward a sardonic situation. - -It was the mildest of December mornings. Old Autumn humped a brave and -kindly shoulder against Winter's onrush. A faint south-west wind crept -warmly over the Channel, and sweet odours came from the moist, unsmitten -earth. A pale sun clothed the nakedness of the elms and chestnuts in -the garden, and brightened to early spring beauty the laurels and firs. -Stella, with Constable near by, sat in the sunshine, by the ivy-clad -north-eastern front of the old Channel House, and her chair was beneath -the window of the morning-room. Now that she could sit upright, she -had learned to use her hands in many ways. She could knit. She was -knitting now, vaguely and tremulously hoping that the result might be a -winter waistcoat for her Great High Belovedest, intent on her counting, -one, two, three, four, pearl one, when suddenly voices in altercation -broke upon her ear. - -It was merely an unhappy, ignoble quarrel such as for many years had -marred that house of sweet-seeming. Fierce hatred and uncharitableness -were unchained and sped their clamorous and disastrous way. Bitter words -uttered in strident and unnatural tones wounded the quiet air. The -woman lost her dignity in vain recrimination. The man snarled savage -and common oaths. Suddenly the door slammed violently, and there was the -silence of death. The scene had lasted only a few moments. Sir Oliver, -in his foolish anger, had evidently followed his wife into the morning -room and left her abruptly. But the few moments were enough for Stella, -who had heard everything. Her heart seemed frost-bitten, and her blood -turned to ice. - -The cruel, vulgar, and hideous things of life were not the appanages of -a class apart. They entered into her own narrowed world. Her beautiful -world! Her hateful, horrible terror of a world! - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -IN midwinter the shadow that hung over John gathered into storm-cloud. - -Miss Lindon, in pathetic despair, had abandoned her notion of turning -Unity into a young lady of young-ladylike accomplishments. She could -perform whatever marvels of exquisite sewing Miss Lindon could imagine, -but there her proficiency in the elegances came to an end. The girl's -tastes, Miss Lindon lamented, were so plebeian! She would sooner make -puddings than afternoon calls; she would sooner sweep and dust and -polish than read instructive or entertaining literature. In her -child-of-the-people's practical way, she had ousted Miss Lindon from the -management of the household, thereby coming into conflict with the stern -Phoebe, no longer feared, who hitherto had carried out, according to her -own fancy, the kind lady's nebulous directions. Miss Lindon sighed, -and surrendered her keys, inwardly thankful to be relieved of crushing -responsibilities. She had never known how to order dinner for John. If, -after agonized searching, she had decided on lamb, and sweet peas and -grouse and asparagus, it was only to be told that some or all of them -were out of season. And she could never check the laundry-list, so -eternally mysterious were the garments worn by man. - -Unity was a born economist. As soon as she took over the seals of -office, she abolished the easy and expensive system of tradesmen calling -for orders. She herself marketed, and that was her great joy. Every -day she took her market-bag and busied herself among the shops in the -Kilburn High Road, choosing her meat with an uncanny sureness of vision, -knocking extortionate pennies off the prices of vegetables, and -seeing generally that she had good value for her money. Miss Lindon, -accompanying her on one or two of these excursions, was shocked and -scared at her temerity. How dared she talk like that to the greengrocer? -Unity replied that she would talk to him until he did n't know himself -if he gave her any more of his nonsense. She was n't going to allow her -guardian to be robbed by any of them, not she; she was up to all their -tricks. - -“I suppose you thought that was a good lettuce, Auntie?” - -“I am no judge, dear,” said Miss Lindon; “but surely you ought n't to -have hurt his feelings by saying that its proper place was the dust-bin, -and not a respectable shop.” - -“He understands me all right,” laughed Unity. - -All the tradesmen did, and they respected the shrewdness of the -businesslike little plebeian, whom they recognized and treated as one of -their own class; and Unity saved her beloved guardian many shillings a -week, which was a matter of proud gratification. She held her head high -nowadays. She had found herself. - -Once chatting casually with Herold, John said with the air of Sir -Oracle: - -“Unity has got quite a strong character.” - -Herold laughed. “Did n't I tell you so nearly three years ago? You would -n't believe me.” - -“You talked some nonsense about love,” growled John. - -“Well, have n't you given it to her in your bearish way? What would you -do in this house without her? You'd be utterly miserable.” - -“I suppose I should,” said John. “But I wish you would get out of the -infernal habit of always being in the right.” - -One afternoon--it was the Saturday before Christmas--Unity took the -market-bag and went out to do her shopping. Evening had fallen on a -thin, black fog. The busy thoroughfare was a bewildering fusion of flare -and gloom. The Christmas crowd, eager to purchase or to gladden their -eyes with good things unpurchaseable, thronged the pavements--an -ordinary, crowd of middle-class folk, careless of the foggy air, -enjoying the Christmas promise in shops almost vulgarly replete. A -hundred rosetted carcasses in a butcher's shop where ten hung the day -before is marvel enough to attract the comfortable loiterer, and the -happy butcher's “Buy! Buy!” as he stands in a blaze of light sharpening -his knife, is an attraction peculiarly fascinating. What with the stream -entering and issuing from shops, the wedges of loiterers glued to shop -windows, the two main currents of saunterers, progress was difficult. -In the murky roadway motor-omnibuses and carts flashed mysteriously by -in endless traffic. All was uproar and ant-heap confusion. - -Unity, resolute, squat little figure, made her purchases, and, having -made them, lingered, joyously in the throbbing street, her hereditary -element. She was never so happy as when rubbing shoulders with her kind. -The whistling shop-boy and the giggling work-girl were her congeners. -For the sake of her guardian and Aunt Gladys she never spoke to such -ungenteel persons, but in their swiftly passing company she had a sense -of comfort and comradeship. Often she went out without knowing why. The -street called her. - -The sights and sounds of it provided an ever-changing, ever-exciting -drama. A street accident, a fallen horse, a drunken man, held her -fascinated. And tonight the abnormal life of the street afforded an -extra thrill of exhilaration; there was so much to see. At last she -found her progress blocked by a crowd hanging about a confectioner's -window. She wormed her way through, and was rewarded by the enthralling -spectacle of a huge clock-work figure of Father Christmas, who drew -from his wallet the shop's special plum-pudding at ninepence-halfpenny -a pound. It was mighty fine, and Unity never heeded the tossing and -buffeting of the admiring crowd..The light shone hard on the ring -of pink faces framed by the blackness beyond. Then eager sight-seers -jostled her into the background. - -Suddenly she felt a sharp and awful pain in her side. She shrieked aloud -and turned. The baffling figure of a woman in black hurrying into the -maw of the darkness met her eyes before the startled crowd closed about -her. She put her hand instinctively to the tortured spot, and drew out -from her flesh a long hat-pin; then she fainted. - -An assistant in the shop, coming out to know the cause of the hubbub, -recognized her and had her brought indoors. The policeman on the beat -soon shouldered his way in. They put poor Unity on a shutter, covered -her with rugs, and, followed by a tail of idlers, bore her to the house. - -John came home soon afterwards and found an agitated Aunt Gladys in -process of being reassured by a kindly doctor that Unity was not dead. -The wound, though ugly and painful, was little more than flesh deep. -The hat-pin had glanced off a corset bone and penetrated obliquely. -Straightly driven, however, it would have been a deadly thrust. Of the -murderous intent there could hardly be any doubt. A sergeant of police -was also waiting for John; but John let him wait, and rushed in his -bull-like way upstairs. - -Unity, who had long since recovered consciousness, lay in bed, her wound -tended, a cheerful fire lit, and Phoebe in attendance. John dismissed -the latter with a gesture and flung himself on his knees by the head of -the bed. - -“'My God! child, what has happened?” - -For all the difference of surroundings,--the pretty room and fine -linen,--the common little face on the pillow was singularly like that -which he had seen in the orphanage infirmary. But there was a deeper -trust in the girl's eyes, for they were lit with a flash of joy at his -great distress. - -She recounted simply what had occurred. - -“You saw the woman disappear?” - -“I think so. It was all so quick.” - -It was a woman's stab. What man would use a hat-pin? And there could be -only one woman alive who would stab Unity. - -“Did you recognize her?” - -His voice was hoarse, and his rugged face full of pain. She regarded him -steadily. - -“No, Guardian.” - -“It was not--she?” - -“No,” said Unity. - -“Are you sure?” - -Unity clenched her hands and turned away, and her eyes grew hard. - -“If it was, I should have known her.” - -John rose to his feet and stood over her, his arms folded, and looked -at her from beneath his heavy brows. Unity met his gaze. And so they -remained for a second or two, and each knew that the other knew who had -dealt the blow. - -“It was n't her,” said Unity. - -The words were stamped with finality. John, meeting the girl's set -gaze, had a glimpse of rocky strata far beneath. No process of question -invented by man would induce her to unsay the words. - -“There's a police sergeant downstairs,” said he. - -“I did n't see no woman either,” said Unity, significantly. - -And John did not notice her unusual relapse into orphanage speech. - -Soon afterward he left her and joined the sergeant in the hall. The -policeman asked the stereotyped questions. John replied that Miss -Blake--it was, as far as he knew, the first time he had given Unity her -full style and title, and the name sounded odd in his ears--that Miss -Blake had seen nothing of her assailant and could give no information -whatever. - -“You suspect nobody?” - -“Nobody at all,” said John, decisively. “You need n't trouble to pursue -the matter any further, for the wound luckily is trifling, and in any -case I should not prosecute.” - -“As you please, sir,” said the Sergeant. - -“Good evening, and thank you,” said John. - -“This is the hat-pin, sir.” - -“You can leave it with me,” said John. - -He went into his study and examined the thing. It was of common make, -the head being a ball of black glass. A million such are sold in cheap -shops. - -He had no doubt as to the owner. She had spied upon him craftily, bided -her time, and had then struck. He had not seen her since the day they -had met in Maida Vale and he had unceremoniously packed her home, -and for the last few months she had not molested him. Now came this -unforeseen, dastardly attack. - -He rang for Phoebe, gave a message for Miss Lindon, and went out with an -ugly look on his face. A taxicab whirled him swiftly across London to -Amelia Mansions in the Fulham Road. Mrs. Bence answered his ring. -He stepped into the hall, and in his blundering way strode down the -passage. The woman checked him. - -“Mrs. Rawlings is n't in, sir. She is with Mrs. Oscraft, the lady -down-stairs.” - -He turned abruptly. - -“Has she been out this afternoon?” - -“She went out to lunch with Mrs. Oscraft and came back with her an hour -ago.” - -He drew the hat-pin from the inside of his overcoat, where he had stuck -it. “Do you recognize this?” - -The woman looked puzzled. “No, sir,” she said. “Mrs. Rawlings has n't -any like it?” - -Mrs. Bence inspected the pin. “No, I'm sure. If she had, I would have -known.” She saw the trouble in his face. “What has happened, sir?” - -He told her briefly. The woman knitted a perplexed brow. - -“I don't see how it could have been her, sir,” she said. “She's nearly -always with Mrs. Oscraft, and very seldom goes out by herself, and -to-day, as I 've said, she went out and came back with her. And I'm sure -she has n't had a hat-pin like that in use.” - -“What exactly is this Mrs. Oscraft?” he asked. Mrs. Bence added to his -vague knowledge. Her husband was a book-maker, very often absent from -home, having to frequent race-meetings and taverns and other such -resorts of his trade. She had many friends, male and female, of the same -kidney, a crew rowdy and vulgar, but otherwise harmless. She and Mrs. -Rawlings had become inseparable. - -“I 'll go down and see her,” said John. - -Mrs. Oscraft, an overblown blonde, floppily attired, opened the door of -her flat. - -“Hello! Who are you?” she asked. - -He explained that he was the husband of Mrs. Rawlings. - -“So you are. She 's got a portrait of you. Besides, I 've seen you here. -She 's in the drawing-room. Come along in and have a whisky and soda or a -glass of champagne.” - -He declined. “I owe you a thousand apologies for intruding,” said he, -“but if you would answer me just one question, I should be greatly -obliged.” - -“Fire away,” said the lady. “Won't you really come in?” - -“No, thank you,” said John. “Will you tell me where my wife has been -this afternoon?” - -“With me all the time,” said Mrs. Oscraft, promptly. “We 've been doing -Christmas shopping in Kensington High Street, and only just got back.” - -“She did n't go near Kilburn?” - -“Lord bless you, no!” said the lady. “Look here, would you like to see -her?” - -“No,” said John. He apologized again, and bade her good evening. He -descended the stone stairs with a bewildered feeling that he had made a -fool of himself; and Mrs. Oscraft, as soon as the door was shut, put her -thumb to her nose and twiddled her fingers in the traditional gesture of -derision. - -John went away sore and angry, like a bull that, charging at a man, -unexpectedly butts up against a stone wall. He had no reason for -disbelieving Mrs. Oscraft, and the hat-pin was not his wife's. Yet -who but his wife could have been the aggressor? It might have been an -accident. It might have been a man--such cases are not uncommon--with -the stabbing and cutting mania. Unity's fleeting glimpse of the woman -in black might have been a trick of shadow in the lamplit fog. Yet in -the deed he felt the hand of the revengeful and cruel woman. He was -baffled. - -On his way home he called on Herold, whom he found at dinner. - -“I shall never know a moment's peace of mind,” he said gloomily, after -they had discussed the matter, “until she is put under restraint. If -she did n't do it, as you make out--” Herold held to the theory that a -person could not be in two places, Kensington and Kilbum, at the same -time--“she is quite capable of it.” - -“It's a mercy,” said Herold, “that you did not see her and tax her with -the offence, and so put the idea into her head.” - -“I believe she did it all the same,” said John, obstinately. - -“But why should Mrs. Oscraft have lied? Mrs. Bence saw them go out and -come in together. You can't suppose the other woman was an accomplice. -It's absurd.” - -“I know it is,” said John. “But the absurd often turns up in a -churchwarden's unhumorous kit of reality in this Bedlam of a world.” - -They argued until it was time for Herold to go to his theatre, when John -went home and ate a belated dinner in such a black mood that Miss Lindon -dared not question him. - -And that was the end of the matter. Unity's wound healed after a few -days, and sturdily refusing Phoebe's protection on her walks abroad, -she resumed her marketing in the Kilburn High Road. John called on the -district inspector of police and obtained the ready promise that folks -running amuck with hatpins should be summarily arrested and that his -house and ward should be placed under special supervision. - -It was characteristic of the terms of dumb confidence on which John and -Unity lived together that neither of them referred again to the possible -perpetrator of the outrage. When she became aware that the policemen in -this district always kept her respectfully in sight and, on passing her, -saluted, she knew that her guardian had so ordained things. One day in -the New Year she entered his study, and stood at attention. - -“Please, Guardian, may I have half-a-crown?” - -He fished the coin out of his trousers' pocket and handed it to her. - -“I don't want it for myself,” she said. - -She had her allowance for pin-money, which she was too proud to exceed. -As a matter of fact, she hoarded her pennies in the top of an old -coffee-pot and out of her savings bought not only finery for herself, -but startling birthday and Christmas presents for her guardian and Aunt -Gladys. It was astonishing what Unity could do with elevenpence three -farthings. - -John, knowing her ways, smiled. - -“What do you want it for, then?” - -“I'm going to give it to my best policeman,” she said, and marched out -of the room. - -That was her only acknowledgement of her appreciation of the measures he -had taken to ensure her safety. He understood, and, when telling Herold -of the incident, called her, after the loose way of man, “a rum kid.” Of -the obvious he was aware, and it pleased him; but subtler manifestations -escaped his notice. It never occurred to him that it was more than a -pleasing accident of domestic life when, on letting himself into the -house with his latch-key, he should find Unity, drab and stolid, her -cheeks and snub nose and prominent forehead shining in the unladylike -way deplored by Miss Lindon, as if polished with yellow soap, and her -skimpy hair bunched up ungracefully, with patient, unchanging eyes, -awaiting him in the little hall, her hands already outstretched to take -hat and stick and to help him off with his overcoat. Yet ninety-nine -times out of a hundred it happened. He did not notice the orderly -confusion wrought by the ingenuity of sleepless nights out of the -chaos of his study. Wishes--just the poor, commonplace little wishes -of household life--what could poor, commonplace little Unity, with her -limited soul-horizon, do more for him? wishes vaguely formulated in -his mind he found quickly and effectively realized, and worried, -hard-working, honest man that he was, he took the practical comforts -sometimes as a matter of course, now and then with a careless word of -thanks, and never dreamed--how could he?--of the passionate endeavour -whereby these poor, commonplace little things came to pass. - -There can be as much beautiful expenditure of soul--as beautiful in -the eyes of God, to whom, as to any philosopher with a working idea of -infinity, the fall of a rose-petal must be as important as the fall of -an empire--in the warming of a man's slippers before the fire by the -woman who loves him as in all the heroisms of all the Joans of Arc and -the Charlotte Cordays and the window-breaking, policeman-scratching, -forcibly fed female martyrs of modern London that have ever existed. It -is a proposition as incontrovertible as any elementary theorem of Euclid -you please; but so essentially unphilosophic is man, to say nothing of -woman,--for a man would sooner break stones, play bridge, go bankrupt, -slaughter his wife and family, or wear a straw hat with a frock-coat -than brace his mind to think--that this self-evident truth passes him by -unrecognized, unperceived, unguessed. - -The volcanic forces of life--essentially such as act and react -between man and woman--lie hidden deep down in the soul's unknown and -unsuspected cauldron, and their outward manifestations are only here and -there a puff of smoke so fine and blue that it merges at once into the -caressing air. The good, easy man plants his vines on the mountain-side. -The sky is serene, the sun fills his grapes with joyousness. Then comes -eruption, and the smiling slope is smitten into the grin of a black -death's-head. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -WINTER came and melted into spring. Physically Stella had progressed -beyond all hopes. Like the Lady in “The Sensitive Plant,” she walked -a ruling grace about the garden of the Channel House, and nursed the -daffodils and narcissi and tulips with tender hands. In these she took -a passionate joy curiously exceeding that in other revelations of the -great world. Indeed, during most of the winter, she had shrunk from -mingling with humanity. Her zest for the new life had been dulled. She -found excuses for not going beyond the garden gate, and of her own free -will did not seek the society of those dear to her. The windows of her -sea-chamber once more afforded her the accustomed outlook, and the gulls -wheeling high in the wintry gusts again became her companions. - -The Blounts let her have her way,--was she not autocrat?--putting down -her hesitations and cravings for solitude to a young girl's delicate -whimsies of which they could not divine the motive; for she, who had -once been expansive, now had grown strangely reticent. Even Herold, who -used to accompany her into the Land That Never Was, did not gain her -confidence. Into those mystic regions she could admit him freely; but -the Threatening Land that lay beyond the threshold of her sea-chamber a -heart-gripping shyness forced her to tread alone. - -“Life has frightened you,” he said one day. - -“How do you know that?” she asked, with a quick glance. - -He smiled. - -“You are like an Æolian harp set in the wind, my dear.” - -“Only you can hear it.” - -“Every one hears it.” - -She shook her head. - -“No; only you.” - -“That's as may be,” he said, with a laugh. “Anyhow, something has -frightened you. What is it?” - -Stella rose--she had learned to walk; the hours of her exercises had -been the gayest in her day--and touched him lightly with her fingers on -the shoulder, and went and stood by the great window of the drawing-room -and looked out at her sky and sea. The Great High Favourite, with his -uncanny insight, had read her truly. Womanlike, she did not know whether -to resent his surprising of her innermost secret or to love him for it. -She was understood; that was balm. Yet what right had he to understand? -The question was a drop of gall. The pure spirit of her flew to the -chosen companion of her dreams; something--the nature of which she was -unaware--sex-instinct--forbade too close an intimacy in things real and -tangible. And there was a touch of resentment, too, in an outer circle -of her mind. Why had he given her no warning of the Threatening Land? He -had allowed her to step ignorantly upon its thorns, and her feet still -bled. - -Herold turned in his chair and glanced at her slim figure framed by the -window. Then he went softly to her side. - -“Stellamaris, you are dearer to me than anything on God's earth. Tell me -what frightens you. Maybe I can help you.” - -But Stella shook her head. She had been accustomed from childhood to -lavish terms of endearment from her little band of intimates, and her -woman's nature was as yet not enough awakened to catch the new and -subtle appeal. A girl's pride froze her. The wounds that he had allowed -her to receive she would cure by herself. She touched his hand, however, -to show that she appreciated his affection. The touch sent a thrill to -his heart. - -“Stella, dear!” he whispered. - -Then, as a note struck on a piano causes the harmonic on the violin to -vibrate, so did his tone stir a chord in the girl's nature, occasioning -an absurd little flutter of trepidation. She laughed, and threw wide the -folding-doors that opened upon the lawn. - -“Don't let us talk of bogies on such a beautiful day. I want to show you -my crocuses.” - -It was her sovereign pleasure to break off the conversation. He dared -not press her. She took him out among her crocuses and daffodils, and -became the Stella he had always known, with the exception that now she -dwelt in a spring flower's bloom instead of in a bit of silver in -the flying scud. They talked eternal verities concerning the souls of -flowers. - -After this unsatisfactory and, to, a certain extent, baffling -visit, Herold went back to London with a heartache, which induced an -unaccustomed moodiness. At the theatre that night, Miss Leonora Gurney -took him to task. Now, Miss Gurney (Mrs. Hetherington in private life; -she had divorced the disreputable Hetherington years ago, and had not -remarried) was a very important and captivating person. She was a woman -of genius, a favourite of the London public, a figure of society, -in management on her own account, wherein she showed shrewd business -ability, and very much in love with Walter Herold, wherein she showed -much of the weakness of Eve. This season Herold was her leading man. - -To say that Herold had wrapped himself up in his Joseph's garment (not -the one of many colours, but the other one equally famous) during all -his stage career would be mendacious folly. Many a ball had come to him -at the bound, and he had returned it gaily. He had laughed an honest way -through innumerable love-affairs--things of the moment, things of -the fancy, things of no importance whatsoever. Many maidens, and some -matrons, had wept for him, but none bitterly. He had established a -reputation for lack of seriousness in matters of the heart. His bright, -blue eyes would flash at you, and his low, musical voice would murmur -no matter what, even were it the Lord's Prayer backward, and you caught -your breath, and lost your head, and were perfectly ready to say if -he asked you, and sometimes even if he did n't ask you: “Take me, I am -yours.” But whatever he did, he never rose to the passionate height, -or sank to the unromantic depth, of the situation. Which things were a -mystery. - -To qualify what might appear to be a sweeping proposition, it may be -stated that there are certain phases in certain women's lives when -they make straight for the mystery surrounding a man, as moth does for -candle, and singe their wings in so doing. Thus singed were the chaste -and charming wings of Leonora Gurney. Herold, no more aware of an aura -of mystery than of a halo, received the lady's advances in his frank, -laughing way. She had the raven hair, dark, blue eyes, and white skin -of an Irish ancestry. She was exceedingly attractive. She played her -love-scenes with him--his part in the piece was that of a broken-down -solicitor's clerk who entertained an angel unawares--with an artistic -sympathy that is the rare joy of the actor, when he feels, like one who -has the perfect partner in a waltz, that he merges his own individuality -into a divine union. At the end of the third act the curtain came down -on the angel bending over his chair, her hand in his. It remained there, -a warm and human thing, and her breath was on his cheek, for a -long time, while the curtain went up and down. It was by no means -disagreeable to hold Leonora's hand and feel her breath on his cheek, -after the common emotion of the swinging scene. Hundreds of men would -have given their ears to have done the same without any swinging scene -at all. - -Herold certainly took the lady by the tips of her fingers and adventured -with her into the Land of Tenderness--the _Pays du Tendre_ of the old -French romanticists. How could mortal man help it? The theatre and the -theatrical world clacked with gossip. The unapproachable Leonora, the -elusive Herold: it was brilliant high-comedy marriage. Already those -not bound by romance criticized the possibilities of a joint management. -Could he always play lead to her? Was not his scope, exquisite in it -though he was, too limited? She was the Juliet of her generation. Would -he be content to play the Apothecary? Sooner or later there would be -the devil to pay. To the onlookers who see most of the game and to the -overhearers who hear ever so much more, the affair between the two was -a concluded matter; but the parties to the supposed contract still -wandered in the sweet pastures of the indefinite. And this was through -no fault of the lady. She did her best, as far as lay in the power of -modest woman, to lead him to the precise highroad; but Herold remained -as elusive as a will-o'-the-wisp. - -“You 're not very responsive to-night, Walter,” she said during a wait -in the first act, which they generally spent on the stairs leading from -stage to dressing-rooms. - -In the intimate world of the theatre the use of the Christian name is a -commonplace signifying nothing; but a trick of voice may make it signify -a great deal. Herold, sensitive, caught her tone and bit his lip. - -“The actor's Monday slackness,” said he. - -“Where have you been week-ending?” - -“Nowhere in particular.” - -“And you refused Lady Luxmore's invitation, knowing that I was to be -there, in order to go nowhere in particular?” - -“The floor of that house is littered with duchesses,” said he. “Its -untidiness gets on my nerves.” - -“That's too flippant, Walter. Why not say at once that you went to -Southcliff?” - -“That's nowhere in particular,” said he. “It's my second home.” - -“And you come back from it as merry as a young gentleman in a Hauptmann -play. You are barely civil.” - -“My dear Leonora!” he protested. - -She looked him straight in the eye and shook her head. - -“Barely civil. What have I done to you?” - -“You have always shown yourself to be the sweetest of women,” said he. - -“Then why not treat me as such?” - -She stood near him on the narrow stair, alluring, reproachful, menacing, -yet ready to be submissive. Despite her make-up, her proud beauty shone -replendent. If she had been a wise woman, she would have let him answer -the challenge. But a woman in love is an idiot; Heaven forbid that she -should be otherwise! So is a man, for the matter of that; but he obeys -an elementary instinct of self-protection. Woman essentially disobedient -(_cf. Rex Mundi vs. Eve_) does not. Hence storms and tempests and -cataclysms. Seeing him hesitate, she added jealously: - -“I believe there is more attraction in the shadow-child at Southcliff -than I have been led to suppose.” A man of the world, he ignored the -challenge, and turned off the innuendo with a laugh. - -“Who can say what is shadow and what is substance here below? Kant will -tell you that nothing exists save as an idea in our minds.” - -“I don't seem to exist in yours at all.” - -“There you wrong me,” he cried. - -They fenced as they had fenced before; but on her mention of -Stellamaris, Herold had closed against her the outer court of his heart -into which she had stepped, and, looking at her, had become frozenly -aware that the dark Irish eyes, and the raven hair on a stately head, -and the curved, promising lips, and the queenly figure, and the genius -and rich womanhood of which these were the investiture of flesh, meant -to him nothing and less than nothing. The woman read her sentence in his -eyes, and abruptly left him, and stood in the wings until her entrance. -And Herold, manlike, gave her no thought; for his head was in a whirl, -and his heart afire, with a new and consuming knowledge. The splendour -of all the Leonora Gurneys, of all the splendid women of the earth, -faded into a pale glimmer before the starry eyes of one girl. - -As a wonder-child, as a thing of sea-foam and sunset cloud, she had -crept into his soul and had taken up therein her everlasting habitation. -She was the very music of his being, an indissoluble essence of himself. -He wondered, as men untouched by love do wonder, why no woman had done -more than stir the surface of emotion. Now he knew. He had loved her in -her exquisite ideality with a love that was more than love. Now, in her -magical transformation, he loved her with love itself. - -Stella Maris, star of the sea! Stella Herold, star of that which is -greater than all the multitudinous seas of earth, the soul of a man! - -He dreamed his dreams, and gave that evening an exceedingly bad -performance. - - - -Soon afterwards, with drums playing and colours flying, Stella came -with her retinue to London. She had rooms in a magnificent hostelry, -a magnificent hired motor-car to transport her, and as magnificent -raiment, chosen by her own delicate self, as any young woman could -desire. But despite all this magnificence, she wept over many a lost -illusion. Where were the music-haunted streets, the golden pavements, -the gorgeous castles, the joyous throngs of which John, years ago, had -fed the swift imagination of the child? - -On their way from Victoria' Station they passed through St. James's -Park. - -“That's Buckingham Palace,” said Sir Oliver, with more pride than if he -owned it. - -“That?” - -Her heart sank like a stone dropped down a well: That dingy, -black barrack the stately home of the king? And when they swung up -Constitution Hill and lined up in the traffic by Hyde Park Corner, -“This,” said Sir Oliver, “is Piccadilly.” - -What she had expected, poor child, to find in Piccadilly, she scarcely -knew; but from infancy, the name had a sweet and mystic significance. -It connoted beauty and grandeur; it was associated in her mind with silk -and gold and marble. It was what a street in the New Jerusalem might -have been had John of Patmos had the training of a star reporter. Poor -Piccadilly! To the Englishman the most beauteous, the most seductive, -the fullest of meaning of all the thoroughfares of the cities of the -world, to the disillusioned girl it was only a dismal, clattering, -shrieking ravine. Why had they lied to her? She could not understand. - -The first evening she was overstrained, and went to bed early; but the -next night they took her to see the play in which Herold was acting. - -“I 'll bring her round between the acts,” said John to Herold, during a -discussion of the adventure. - -“You 'll do nothing of the sort,” said Herold. - -“It will interest her tremendously to go behind.” - -“And see all the tinsel and make-believe? What a fool you are, John!” - -“Well, anyhow, we 'll come and see you in your dressing-room,” said -John, who recognized some reason in his friend's objection. “We can get -round without crossing the stage.” - -Herold put his hands on John's great shoulders. - -“My dear John,” said he, “I love my profession very dearly, but there's -one thing in it which I loathe, and that is having to paint my face.” - -He said no more; but John understood, though he thought it somewhat -finicking of Herold to shrink from meeting Stella in his make-up. He -had seen him talk thus to dames and damsels of the most exalted station -without a shadow of false shame. - -So Stella went to the play without peeping behind the scenes; and then, -indeed, she once more lived in her Land of Illusion. The hushed house, -spectral in the dim light, seemed part of a dream-world. On the stage, -life real and vibrating passed before her enraptured eyes. During the -first part of the play she squeezed John's hand tight, and during the -intervals said very little. She did not question the means by which -Herold transformed himself into the broken-down solicitor's clerk. -He was the solicitor's clerk, and no longer Herold. His love for -the beautiful woman, at first so hopeless, wrung her heart. Then the -response of the woman set her pulses throbbing. The third act, an -admirable piece of crescendo, reached a height of passion which held her -tense. Love the Conqueror, the almighty, spread his compelling pinions -over the breathless house. It was a revelation. She had never suspected -the existence of such a tumultuous phenomenon. Love she had heard of, -the love of Prince Charming for Princess Rose; but it had meant no more -to her than the loves of butterflies. This was different. It explained -things she had not understood in music. It opened up the world that had -lain hidden beyond the crimson of her sunsets. - -When the curtain came down on the end of the great love-scene she was -too much overwrought to applaud. She sat pale, shaken, limp, with only -one great desire--that all surroundings would vanish and that she could -find herself by her window looking out over the moonlit sea. There, she -felt, she could weep her heart out; here her eyes were intolerably dry. - -Sir Oliver rose and stretched himself at the back of the box. - -“Devilish good! Splendid! Never thought Walter could touch it. Miss -Gurney, too, immense. Puts one in mind of Adelaide Neilson. Best Juliet -there has ever been. Before your time, John. Jolly good job, however, -people don't go on like that in real life.” - -Stella turned her head quickly. - -“What do you mean, Uncle?” - -“People go a bit quieter, my dear,” he laughed. - -“Gad! If that sort of thing became popular, it would tear us all to -bits.” - -He went out to smoke, dragging John with him. Stella put a wistful -little gloved hand on Lady Blount's knee. - -“Is that true, Auntie?” - -Lady Blount sighed. Such storms of emotion had not come her way. She -looked backward over the dreary vista of sixty barren years. One such -hour of madness, and what a difference in her memories! - -“I can't tell you, darling. Perhaps not, if two people love each other -very, very dearly; but they must do that--and love is n't given to every -one.” - -An ingenuous question rose to the girl's lips, but it died there, -poisoned by the remembrance of vile words of hatred. Instead, she asked: - -“How many people, then, love like those two in the play?” - -“About one in a million,” replied Lady Blount. - -And Stella, with the young girl's sweet and natural wonder whether she -might possibly be one of the million, felt the hot blood rise to neck -and cheek. Ashamed, she held her fan before her face and, leaning over -the front of the box, watched the shimmering stalls. - -The play over, they drove home in the magnificent motor-car. Supper -awaited them in their sitting-room, where Herold was to join them later. -Stella lay back on the luxurious seat, nestling by Lady Blount, languid, -with closed eyes. The others, thinking that she was physically fatigued, -said little. They did not realize the soul-shaking effect of the -revelation of human passion on their pure star of the sea. It was not -given them to divine the tempest--such a one, perhaps, as that which -rocks the bee on its flower, though a storm all the same--that raged -beneath the mask of the delicate face. They thought she was fatigued, -and because they loved her they did not weary her with speech. - -She was indeed tired, desperately tired, by the time they arrived at the -hotel. She could scarcely walk up the steps. John supported her to the -lift. When they reached their landing, he took her bodily in his arms -and carried her down the corridor, Sir Oliver and Lady Blount hurrying -on in front, so as to open the sitting-room door and turn on the lights. -Stella's head lay on John's shoulder, an arm, for security's sake, -instinctively round his neck. The way was long, the lift serving the -wing wherein their apartments were situated being out of working order, -and John lingered on the delicious journey. - -“Poor darling! We 've exhausted you,” he whispered. - -She shook her head and smiled wanly. “It was wonderful.” And after -a second she said: “And this is wonderful, too. How strong you are, -Belovedest.” - -“Do you like me to carry you?” - -She opened her eyes and they looked dreamily into his. He laughed, and -bent his head, and kissed her. He had kissed her thousands of times -before, but this time her soft lips met his for an instant, and when -they parted, her eyes closed again, and she lay back very white in his -arms. And John, too, was shaken, and held the delicate body very tight -against him and quickened his pace. - -He laid her gently on a couch in the sitting-room. Lady Blount was all -for her going then and there to bed; but she pleaded for a sight of -Herold. He came in a few moments afterwards. She roused herself, thanked -him in her gracious way for the evening of delight. - -“To-morrow, dear, I 'll tell you all about it. I am just a little bit -dazed now.” - -“Has it been a great adventure?” he asked, with a laugh. - -Involuntarily she glanced at John and saw his eyes fixed on her. She -flushed slightly. - -“Perhaps the greatest of all,” she said. - -The men walked together the common part of their homeward journey. John -slipped his arm through his friend's, a rare demonstration of affection. - -“Wallie, old man,” said he, “I 'm in hell again. I 've got to get out. I -must n't see any more of Stella.” - -“Why not?” - -“Just that. I must get out of her life somehow. Things have changed. -It's too horrible to think of.” Herold shook himself free and halted. - -“My God!” he cried, “you?” - -John threw up his arms in a gesture of despair. “Can I help it? It is -n't given to man to help these things.” - -“And Stella?” - -“I must get out of her life,” said John. - -“It will be difficult.” - -“What can you suggest?” - -“Nothing,” said Herold--“nothing now.” - -They moved on, and walked in dead silence to the parting of their ways. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -THE making and the executing of a good resolution are two entirely -different actions. The former is a process as instantaneous as you -please--one born of passion, heaven-sent inspiration, alcohol, or New -Year hysteria; the latter one of practical handling conditioned by the -entanglement of a thousand circumstances. If a man carried out with -lightning rapidity every good resolution he formed, he would inevitably -make marmalade of his affairs, and clog therein the feet and bodies of -many innocent people as though they were wasps. With evil resolutions it -is another matter. You want to play the devil, and the sooner and more -completely you do it, the nearer do you approximate to your ideal. But -it is very dangerous to do good, and involves a vast amount of weary -thought and trouble. - -It was all very well for John Risca to resolve to go out of the life -of Stellamaris, but how could he do so without committing the manifest -absurdity of taking a ticket for equatorial Africa? He was beset by -forbidding circumstances. There was his work; there was Unity; there was -his aunt; there was Stellamaris herself; and, chief of all, there was -the baleful figure of the woman who went about with murderous hatpins. -Thus in an ironical way did history repeat herself. Six years before -he was all for flying to the antipodes on account of his wife, and was -restrained by consideration of Stellamaris; and now, when it would -be the heroical proceeding to fly to the ends of the earth from -Stellamaris, he was restrained by considerations in which his wife was a -most important factor. - -He lay stark awake all night, wondering how he could carry out his -resolve. At dawn he came to the only sane conclusion. He could not carry -it out at all, at least in no desperate or brutal fashion. When he got -up and faced the daylight world, he scorned himself for a fool. The soft -clinging of her lips had transmuted the worship of years into the fine -gold of love. That was true, maddeningly true. His being was aflame with -the new and wondrous thing. But Stellamaris? To her the kiss that she -gave had been one of gratitude, affection, trust, weariness. She had -lain in his arms and had felt safe and sheltered, and so had kissed him, -the Great High Belovedest of her childhood. To her the kiss had meant -nothing. How could it? How could passion touch the creature of sea-foam -and cloud? And even allowing such an extravagant possibility, how could -he, great, rough, elderly, ugly bear that he was, inspire such a -feeling in a young girl's heart? He a romantic figure! He, with the -pachydermatous mug that offended his eyes as he shaved! He denounced the -monstrous insolence of his overnight fancy. He would keep tight grip on -himself. She should never know. As far as the infinitely precious one -was concerned, all would be well. So argued the human ostrich. - -After his morning's work at the office of the weekly review, he went -to the Carlton, where the party of intimates had arranged to lunch. He -arrived early, but found Herold, who was earlier, waiting in the palm -court. - -“Look here, old man,” said he as he sat down by his side, “forget the -fool nonsense I talked last night.” - -“Did n't you mean it?” asked Herold. - -“Yes,” said John, bluntly. “I did n't sleep a wink. But forget it all -the same. Things have got to go on outwardly just as they are.” - -“As you like,” said Herold. He lit a cigarette, and after a whiff or -two, added: “I must repeat what I hinted at and what you seemed to reply -to. What about Stella?” - -“It's absurd to think of her suspecting,” said John. - -Herold's nervous fingers snapped the cigarette in two. - -“She must never suspect,” said he. - -“Do you think I'm a devil?” said John. - -“No. You 're a good fellow. Who knows it better than I? But you 're -passionate and impulsive. You must be on your guard--not for the next -two or three days, but for ever and ever.” - -“All right,” said John. “Now put the matter out of your mind.” - -Herold nodded, squeezed the burning end of his broken cigarette into an -ash-tray, and lit another. - -“You 're looking fagged out, Wallie,” said John, after a while. “What -have you been doing?” - -“Nothing in particular. This part is rather trying, and I've not had -a holiday for a couple of years. I want one rather badly. I don't -complain,” he added, with a smile, glad to get away from the torturing -talk of Stellamaris. “During the two years I 've been working, scores -of better actors than I have n't been able to get an engagement. I'm -a spoilt child of fortune. My time will come, I suppose, when they no -longer want me.” - -The talk drifted to the precariousness of the actor's calling. Even men -in demand from every management found a difficulty in making a living. -Herold instanced Brownlow, one of the few _jeunes premiers_ of the -stage, who had slaved every day for a year, and having been in four or -five successive failures, found himself, at the end of it, the recipient -of three months' salary. Six weeks' slavery at rehearsal for nothing, -and a two weeks' run! The system ought to be changed. John agreed, as he -had agreed to the same argument a thousand times before. - -“But I don't like to see you so pulled down,” said he, affectionately. - -Herold smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He, too, had not slept; but -he did not inform John of the fact. It was a significant aspect of their -friendship, if not of their respective temperaments, that John received -few of Herold's confidences. The essential sympathizers among men are -mute as to their own cares. Divine selfishness or a pride equally noble -seals their lips. John Risca, with a cut finger, would have held it up -for the commiseration of Herold, cursing heft and blade, and everything -cursable connected with the knife; but Herold, with a broken heart, -would have held his smiling peace. - -For a moment he was convinced of John's faith in Stella's ignorance; but -only for a moment. When she entered the palm court with Sir Oliver and -Lady Blount, and he saw her eyes, dewy with a new happiness, rest on -John, he felt that, awakened or unawakened, Stellamaris loved not -him, Herold, but his friend. And when she came up to him in her frank, -gracious way, and let her gloved little hand linger in his, he laughed -and praised her radiance with a jest, and not one of the four dreamed of -the pain in the man's heart. - -They took their seats in the gay and crowded restaurant. - -“This is really a palace!” cried Stella, in great delight. “Why can't -every place be as beautiful as this?” - -She had recovered from the emotional fatigue of the night before, -having slept the sound sleep of happy girlhood, and awakened to the shy -consciousness of impending change. The pink of health was in her cheeks. - -Sir Oliver replied to her question. - -“It takes a deuce of a lot of money to run such a concern.” - -“But why has n't every one got money?” - -“That's what these confounded socialist fellows are asking,” replied Sir -Oliver, helping himself largely to anchovies and mayonnaise of egg. - -But Stella scarcely heard. She remembered the tramp who had not a penny -and the misery that had met her eyes during her rides abroad, and a -momentary shadow fell on her. - -“I think there 's a great deal to be said for the socialists,” remarked -Lady Julia. - -Sir Oliver laid down his fork and stared less at his wife than at the -blasphemy. - -“There 's nothing to be said for 'em; nothing at all.” - -“You 'll admit the uneven distribution of wealth,” said Lady Blount, -drawing herself up. She was rather proud of the phrase. - -“Lazy dogs--all to get and nothing to do. You ought to be ashamed of -yourself, Julia.” - -“Oh, darlings, don't get cross with me!” cried Stella, in distress. The -observance of the Unwritten Law had imperceptibly grown less strict as -the influence of the sea-chamber had waned, and the poor quarrelsome -pair were not at their old pains to hide their differences. “I never -meant to talk socialism.” - -“My precious dove!” cried Sir Oliver, “who in the world said you did? It -was your aunt.” - -“I believe it's John who is at the bottom of it, because he 's wearing a -red tie,” Herold interposed, with a laugh. “Oh, John, where did you find -it?” - -“I think it suits him beautifully,” declared Stella, quick to follow -the red herring of a cravat. “It 's when he wears mauve or light blue or -green striped with yellow that he goes wrong. Belovedest,--” she turned -to him tenderly; she was placed between him and Sir Oliver,--“now that -I am like everybody else,”--her favorite euphemism,--“do let me choose -your ties for you.” - -“Of course, dear; of course,” said John, who had been eating _hors -d'ouvre_ in glum silence. “Who is there with taste like you?” - -It would be entrancingly delectable to wear ties chosen by Stellamaris. -Why, it would be coiling her sweet thoughts about his neck! This -concession at least was harmless. Then suddenly he remembered that for -the last two or three years Unity had taken charge of such details of -his wardrobe, and he had sufficient glimmering of insight into feminine -nature to know that between Unity with her domestic rights and a tigress -with cubs there was remarkably little difference. How was he to abrogate -one of her privileges? The gadfly question worried him. With such -trumpery concerns are the deepest emotions of human life complicated. He -who does not recognize them has no sense of values. - -The conjugal wrangle having been checked, the meal proceeded gaily -enough. Stella spoke of the play and praised Herold's acting, but with -curious shyness avoided discussion of the theme. Herold noticed her -adroit detours. He also noticed, with a sensitive man's pain, many other -little things indicative of the awakening of Stellamaris. Once he saw -her lay her hand impulsively on John's, as she had been wont to do -since her childhood, and draw it quickly away, while a flush, like a -rose-edged fairy cloud, came and went in her cheek. He also caught her -glancing covertly at John, her brow knitted in a tiny frown, as though -she wondered at his unusual silence. - -When the party broke up, John leaving early, owing to pressure of work -at the office, she said: - -“I shall see you to-night, of course?” - -“I'm afraid not. I have to see the review through the press.” - -Her face fell piteously. - -“Oh, Belovedest!” she cried. “And I can't have Walter, because he's tied -to his theatre.” - -But the disappointment was on account of John, not on account of Herold. - -“You 'll have Walter most of the afternoon,” remarked Lady Blount. - -Stella laughed. “But I want everybody always,” she said disingenuously. - -It had been arranged that while Sir Oliver should go to his longed-for -and seldom-used club, and Lady Blount visit certain cronies, Herold -should take Stella to the Zoological Gardens. - -She turned to John. - -“Are you quite sure you can't come too, dear?” - -He shook his head. “A newspaper office is a remorseless machine--just -like a theatre. I must work.” - -“I'm beginning to be frightfully jealous of work,” she said, with a -laugh. - -“It 's the noblest thing a man can do,” said Sir Oliver. - -At the zoo, Stella found a world of wonder, which drove disappointment -from her mind, and in her childlike gaiety and enthusiasm Herold forgot -his heartache for a while. Sufficient for the moment was the joy of -her exquisite presence, of her animated cheeks and dancing eyes, of -her beautiful voice rippling into exclamations of rapture at monkey or -secretary-bird or hippopotamus. - -“These are springbok,” said Herold, in front of an inclosure. - -Stella's brows knitted themselves into their customary network of -perplexity. - -“But I 've read that men go out to shoot springboks.” - -“I'm afraid they do,” said Herold. - -“Men deliberately kill these beautiful, harmless things, with their -melting eyes?” Her own filled with moisture. “Oh, Walter! How can men -be so vile?” She knelt on the ground, and spoke to one, which poked its -sensitive nose through the railing. “Oh, you dear! Oh, you perfectly -lovely dear!” - -Then she rose and took Herold by the arm, and a little shiver ran -through her shoulders. “I suppose men kill everything. I 've found out -they even kill one another. Would you or John kill creatures that did -you no harm?” - -She looked at him straight, with the searching candour of a spotless -soul. - -“I've shot birds which were afterwards eaten,” he replied uncomfortably. -“You see, dear, you eat partridges and pheasants, don't you? Well, they -have to be killed, just like sheep or oxen. Often in South Africa men's -lives depend on the supply of springbok meat they can obtain.” - -“And does John shoot little birds?” - -“John has n't had the opportunity of going about to shooting parties. -All his life he has had to work too hard.” - -“I'm glad,” said Stella, curtly, and for a while she walked on in -silence, and poor Herold felt like an unhanged wallower in innocent -gore. - -At last she said, “Are n't there any lions and tigers?” - -“Of course.” - -“Why have n't we seen them?” - -“They roar dreadfully, and they're rather fierce and terrible, -Stellamaris.” - -“Are you afraid of them?” - -He noted the feminine, quasi-logical touch of scorn, and laughed with a -wry face. - -“They 're behind bars, dear. But I thought they might possibly frighten -you.” - -“Frighten me? Let us go and see them.” - -So, seeing that Stellamaris was a young woman of intrepid and imperious -disposition, Herold dutifully took her to the Great Cat's House, where -again the child in her was enraptured by the splendour of the striped -and tawny brutes. She lingered in front of the lion's cage. The -four-o'clock meal was over. The lioness lay asleep in the corner, but -her mate sat up, with his head near to the bars, an enormous, cleaned -bone between his paws. The absurd and useless animal had struck a -photographic pose at which Herold, with a more sophisticated companion, -would have laughed. But Stellamaris took the lion too seriously. He -fulfilled all her dreams of a lion. She looked in breathless admiration -at the lion, and the lion, choke-full of food, regarded her with grave -benevolence. Again she pressed Herold's arm. - -“How noble! How kingly!” - -He assented. The lion was certainly doing his best to warrant the -impression. - -“He is just like John,” said Stellamaris. - -“Something,” said Herold, leading her out into the fresh air and -sunshine. - -“That fearless, royal look,” said Stella--“don't you think so?” - -Before replying, he took her to a shady bench where they both sat -down. - -“John's the finest and the best and the bravest fellow in the world,” - said he, loyally. - -Her eyes shone. She put out her gloved little hand in her familiar, -caressing way and pressed his gently. Her maidenhood did not glow at the -sisterly touch. - -“I 'm so happy, my Great High Favourite, dear,” she said. - -“Why? Why now more than usual?” He smiled wistfully. - -The sky was blue, and the trees were heavy with leafage, and she had -just seen the king of beasts in his most kingly aspect, and he reminded -her of the man she loved, and her heart was young and innocent. Herold -once more became her chosen companion in the Land That Never Was. She -dropped her voice to a whisper, for staring people strolled along the -path ten yards away. Besides, there are times when the sound of one's -own voice is embarrassing. - -“You love John, don't you, dear? You love him dearly, dearly, dearly, as -he deserves to be loved?” - -“I would lay down my life for him,” said Herold, gravely. - -She gripped his hand. “I know. He would do the same for you. Do you -think, Walter dear--” she paused and lowered her eyelids, “do you think -there's a more splendid man than John in the world?” - -“I am his friend, Stellamaris, and I'm prejudiced,--Love is blind, you -know,--but I don't think so.” - -She leaned back in her seat and meditated. Then she said: - -“I wish you and I were sitting by my window. You and I understand each -other, but I miss the sea. You and I and the sea understand one another -better. Can't you see it this lovely afternoon? It 's quite calm, but -there 's a little kissing breath of wind, which makes it dance and -sparkle in the sun. It 's laughing with gladness. Trees are beautiful, -but they don't laugh.” - -“They whisper eternal things,” said Herold. - -“What?” - -“The rhythm of life--fulfilment, as now, winter's decay, and the -everlasting rebirth of spring.” - -“They don't tell me that. I don't understand their language,” replied -Stella. “To-day I want the sea, just with you--just you and I and the -sea.” - -“And then you think I should understand all that the pink sea-shell that -is you is trying to tell me?” - -She laughed. “I could tell the sea, and the sea could tell you.” - -_Secret de Polichitielle!_ Had she not been telling him all the time, -as implicitly as maidenhood could tell man, of the great and wonderful -adventure of her soul? He was exquisitely near,--that he knew,--nearer, -indeed, to the roots of her being than the leonine hero of her dreams. -He alone of mortals was privileged to receive and treasure the overflow -of her heart. With him as joint trustee was the eternal ocean. He winced -at the irony of it all. - -Presently she asked: - -“Have you ever loved any one?” - -He answered as he had done years before: - -“I have loved dreams.” - -She retorted in his own words: - -“One can't marry a dream.” He shrugged his shoulders. - -“You will love some one some day, and then you will want to marry her,” - she continued, with her direct simplicity. “And when you do, you 'll -come and tell me, dear, for I shall understand.” - -“I 'll tell you, Stellamaris,” he promised. Then he sprang to his feet. -The pain had grown intolerable, “We have n't seen the giraffes,” said -he. - -The child in her once more came to the surface. “I 've longed to see a -giraffe all my life,” she cried, and she accompanied him blissfully. - -After leaving her at the hotel, Herold went home and suffered the -torments of a soul on fire. Tragedy lay ahead. Stellamaris, star of the -sea, steadfast as a star--he knew her. Love had come to her not in the -fluttering Cupid guise in which he visits most of the sweet maidens -among mortals, but in the strong, godlike essence in which alone he dare -approach the great ones. The sea-foam and mist formed but a garment -for this creature of infinite sky and eternal sea. They but shrouded or -touched to glamour the elemental strength. - -She had given her love to John Risca, her Great High Belovedest. God -knows what dreams she had woven about him; the man's fine loyalty -asserted his friend's worthiness of any woman's dreams. The only, and -the hideous, consideration was the fact of John being tied for life to -the unspeakable. Himself and the pain of his love he put aside. What -were the unimportant sufferings of a thousand such as he compared with -one pang that might shoot through the bosom of Stellamaris? What could -be done to avert the tragedy? His faith in John Risca was absolute. But -John had shut his eyes to the glory shimmering in front of them. His -eyes must be opened. Stellamaris must be told. All foundations of the -Unwritten Law would have to be swept away, and she would survey in -terror the piteous wreckage of the whole fabric of her life. - -How could he save her? How could he save her from inevitable pain? - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -THE next morning Stella was putting on her hat, a foamy thing of white -tulle and pink roses, before her mirror, when an audacious thought came -dancing into her head. It dizzied her for a moment, and took away her -breath. With throbbing heart, she stood looking into her own wide eyes, -which were filled with delicious excitement. - -It would be a great adventure. Why should she not embark on it? She -was free till luncheon, her uncle and aunt having gone out on their own -errands and left her to the rest they supposed she needed. But she -felt strong, pulsatingly strong. She looked out of the window. The June -sunshine allured her. Why should she sit indoors on such a morning? -There was not the faintest shadow of a reason. But how should she reach -her destination? Her mind worked swiftly. Sir Oliver had set out on -foot, bound for Bond Street and Piccadilly. Lady Blount had declared -her intention to renew the joys of her youth, and go about in a hansom, -which had been procured for her with some difficulty by the magnificent -commissionnaire. The motor was at Stella's service. She had only -to order it, and it would come to the front door and carry her -whithersoever she desired. - -It would be a wild adventure to feel herself alone and independent in -this welter of London, and then, more thrilling still, to burst in upon -her Great High Belovedest, not in his palace,--that, alas! he had given, -up,--but in his Great High Mansion at Kilburn. - -Where Kilburn was she had not the remotest idea; but it was somewhere in -Fairy-land. The chauffeur would know; he seemed to know everything. -The temptation overpowered her. She yielded. Orders were given to a -bewildered and protesting maid. What would Lady Blount say? - -“That 's a matter between Lady Blount and myself,” said Stella. - -“Can't I come with you, miss?” - -“I am going alone, Morris.” She had the gracious, but imperative, way -of princesses. Morris dared argue no more. She attended her mistress to -the door of the motor, and saw her driven away in prodigious state. - -It was a glorious adventure. How could she have spoiled it by allowing -the protection of a prosaic serving-maid? Hitherto she had not strayed -alone beyond the confines of the gardens of the Channel House. Now she -had the thrill of the first mariner who lost sight of land. She was on -an unknown sea, bound for a port of dreams. Of the port she knew nothing -definite. Since the dispersion of the apocryphal palace household, John -had told her little of his domestic life. The old habit of deception had -been too strong, and her other intimates had entered into the conspiracy -of silence. Why trouble her with accounts of his Aunt Gladys, of whom -she had never heard; of Unity, of whom it were best that she should not -hear; of the poor, little, economical establishment,--Unity at the head, -watching the pennies--which, together with the one in Fulham, was all -that his means allowed him to maintain? All her life he had been to -Stellamaris the prince eating off gold plate. _Cui bono_, to whose -advantage and to what end, should he break the illusion and confess to -chipped earthenware? Although she now recognized (to her sadness) the -palace story as overlapping the fable, and set Lilias and Niphetos side -by side with the cat Bast and the dog Anubis in the shrine of myth, yet -her ingenuous fancy still pictured Risca as the writer of compelling -utterances which caused ministers of state to clutch their salaries -with trembling fingers and potentates to quake on their thrones. And -she still imagined a fitting environment for such a magnifico. On his -private life during the week, outside his work, she scarcely speculated. -For her it was spent at Southcliff from Saturday to Monday. It was -difficult to realize that Southcliff was not the world. - -The car sped like an Arabian-Nights carpet through wide thoroughfares -thronged with traffic, up the wider, more peaceful, and leafy Maida -Vale, passing broad avenues to right and left, and then, making a sudden -turn, halted before the shabbiest of a row of shabby, detached little -villas. The chauffeur descended, and opened the door of the car. - -“Why have you stopped here?” - -“It's the address you gave me, miss.” - -“Are you sure?” - -“Quite sure, miss,” smiled the chauffeur. “Fairmount, Ossington Road, -Kilburn, London, NorthWest.” - -Fairmont had been to her a mount of beauty on the summit of which -stretched the abode of her Belovedest. The chauffeur, still -smiling,--for who could talk sour-faced to Stellamaris?--pointed to the -gate. - -“There it is written, miss,--'Fairmont.' ” - -She alighted, tears very near her eyes, and passing through the -gates and tiny front garden, rang the bell. The door was opened by -a common-looking, undersized girl of about her own age, dressed in a -tartan blouse and a brown stuff skirt. Her nose was snub, her mouth -wide, her forehead bulged, and her skimpy hair was buckled up tight with -combs on the top of her head. There was a moment's breathless silence -as the two girls stared at each other. At last Unity's face broke into -a miracle of gladness, which transfigured her plain features. She -retreated a step or two along the passage. - -“Miss Stella! Miss Stella!” she gasped, and as Stella, still more amazed -and bewildered, said nothing, she drew nearer. “It is Miss Stella, is -n't it?” she asked. - -“Yes,” Stella answered. She paused; then, recovering herself, went on -rather hurriedly: “I 've seen you before. You are the girl who came once -into my room--I remember--Constable tore my jacket--you were mending -it--” - -“Yes, miss,” said the other, forgetful, in the sudden excitement of -again seeing her goddess face to face, of the precepts of gentility in -which Miss Lindon had trained her. - -“It all comes back, though it was long, long ago--ever so many years -ago. Your name is Unity.” - -“Yes, Miss Stella.” - -“But what in the world are you doing here?” - -“Mr. Risca is my guardian. I keep house for him--I and Aunt Gladys.” - -“Aunt Gladys?” - -“Mr. Risca's aunt, Miss Stella.” It was sweet to pronounce the beautiful -name. - -Stella's knees grew weak, and she leaned against the wall. Here were -mysteries of which John had left her in ignorance. She felt guilty of -unwarrantable intrusion. The joy of her adventure was blotted out. The -shabby villa; the poverty-stricken passage; the glimpse through an open -door into a gimcrack parlour, all bamboo and ribbons; Unity, the little -sewing-girl who was John's ward; the unheard of Aunt Gladys--all was -shock, sending dreams into limbo, startling an unready mind into a -whirling chaos of conjecture. Too late she realized that, had he wanted -her there, he would have invited her. He would be vexed at her coming. -Her cheeks burned. - -“Is he at home?” she faltered. - -She heard with incredible relief that he had gone into town on business. -Miss Lindon happening to be in bed with a slight cold, the duties of -hospitality devolved on Unity. - -“Won't you come in and sit down for a minute, Miss Stella?” - -“I am afraid I must n't.” - -“Oh, why? Do come.” - -Unity stretched out her hand timidly. The gesture and the pleading in -the girl's eyes made a strong appeal. Youth also called to youth. - -“Just for a minute. It would make me so happy.” - -Stella could not refuse. They entered the little drawing-room. Stella -had never seen such a funny, prim room before. She sat down on the -slippery sofa. Unity fixed on her the eyes of a spaniel brought into the -presence of a long-lost mistress. - -“I think you 're even more beautiful than when I saw you before,” she -said, abruptly. - -Somewhat confused, Stella smiled. “I am well now, like other people, so -that's perhaps why I look better.” - -“When I heard of it, I cried with joy.” - -“You, my dear? Why?” - -“I 'd been thinking of you all the time--all the time.” - -And Stella had never given a thought to Unity, though dramatic incidents -at the Channel House had not been so frequent that the sight of Unity -had not, brought back to her mind the circumstances of the episode. -Stay, had she remembered all the circumstances? - -“My dear,” she said, moved by the girl's almost passionate sincerity, “I -remember you well. I wanted you so much to come back and talk to me, -and I asked for you; but they told me that you went away that afternoon. -What were you doing at the Channel House?” - -“I had been ill, and my guardian asked her ladyship to let me stay there -for a bit.” - -“But they told me,” cried Stella, the missing circumstance coming in a -flash, “that you were a village girl who had been brought in for a day's -sewing.” - -Unity flushed brick-red, realizing her indiscretion. She knew well -enough now why she had been forbidden the sea-chamber. - -“I was a noisy, horrid, badly-brought-up child,” she said, “and they -were afraid I should worry you. That was why,” she said, with a slight -air of defiance. - -Stella was not convinced; the story lacked the ring of truth that -characterized Unity's other statements. She felt that for some unknown -reason they had lied to her, and that in order to bear them out Unity -was lying. Her loyalty and delicacy forbade her questioning Unity -further. - -“If you were horrid, you would n't have remembered me all this time,” - she said, with a smile. - -“That 's just how you looked when I called you 'my lady,' “ said Unity. -“How do you think one could forget you? Besides, Mr. Herold is always -talking about you.” - -Stella opened her eyes. “Do you know Mr. Herold, too?” - -“Of course. He's my guardian's dearest friend.” - -Stella's heart sank lower. Her Great High Favourite, too, was in this -conspiracy of concealment. - -“Does--does your guardian ever speak of me?” - -“Why should he?” asked Unity. - -The queer retort puzzled Stella. - -The other, seeing the implied question in her glance, continued: “I -should n't dare to ask him. He's too great and wonderful.” Again the -transfiguring light swept over her coarse features. “It 's beautiful of -him to let me do things for him.” - -“What do you do?” - -“I look after his clothes, mend and darn and buy things for him, and -I dust his books and see that he has what he likes to eat and, oh, -hundreds of things--just so that he sha'n't have any worry at all.” - -A new pain began to creep round Stella's heart, one she had never felt -before, one that frightened her. - -“Tell me some more,” she said. - -And Unity, her tongue loosened as it was with no one else in the world -save Walter Herold, talked of the trivial round of her days and the -Olympian majesty of John Risca. - -“You must love him very much,” said Stella. - -A glow came into her patient eyes as she nodded and fixed them on -Stellamaris; and then a tear started. - -“Does n't everybody love him?” - -She rose abruptly. “Would you like me to show you his room, Miss -Stella--the room he works in?” - -Stella rose, too. “He might not like it,” she said. - -This was a point of view incomprehensible to Unity. Even the all-great -master must bow to the sanctification brought into the house by Stella's -feet. She said softly: - -“He worships the ground you tread on. Don't you know that?” - -Stella flushed, and evaded the question. - -“You think that if I'm afraid to go into his room, I don't care for him? -It is n't that. I--I love him more than anything else in the world. I--” - she stopped short, and the flush deepened, for she realized what she was -saying. “It is something I can't quite explain to you,” she continued, -after a pause. “In fact, I ought n't to stay any longer.” - -Despite unregenerate Fatima temptation, despite a girl's romantic desire -to see the table at which the dear one writes his immortal prose, she -could pry no further into her Great Belovedest's home. She had pried too -much already for her peace of mind. - -She put out her hand. Unity took it, and, holding it, looked up into her -face. She was squat and undersized; Stella was slim and tall. - -“I thought I should never see you again,” she said, in a low voice. - -“I hope now we shall see each other often,” replied Stella, and drawn -toward the girl by the magnetism of her love, she kissed her on both -cheeks. - -But she drove away in the magnificent limousine very heavy-hearted, out -of tune with life. She seemed to be living in an atmosphere of lies, -from which her candid soul passionately revolted. She met them at every -turn. Once more the world became the Threatening Land full of hidden -ugliness, only awaiting opportunity to be revealed. The glamour of -the last day or two in London had gone. When John Risca, truly her -belovedest, when Walter Herold, whom in her simplicity she had regarded -all her life less as a man than as a kind of Adonaïs spirit, when all, -all she loved had lied to her persistently for years, to whom and to -what could she pin her faith? Who would guide her through this land of -which she was so ignorant, this land so thickly set with cruel traps? - -John was poor and struggling and lived in a shabby little house. Had she -known it, the fact would have made him all the dearer. But why had he -given her to believe that he lived in fantastic luxury? Why had he lied? -Why had he not told her of Unity--Unity who was so interwoven in his -life, Unity who looked after his very clothes? A sudden thought smote -her, and a scalding wave of shame lapped her from head to foot. She had -proposed to buy his ties. She hated herself for the proposal, and she -hated herself for starting on this lamentable adventure of indiscretion. -She became aware that the new, frightening pain that had crept round her -heart was jealousy, and she hated herself for the ignoble passion. She -felt it like a stain upon her. - -A slight smirch upon a gown of gray (such as most of us wear) escapes -notice; but on a robe of white it stands out in hideous accusation. - -The butterfly that had left the hotel so gaily returned with sorry wings -from which the gossamer had been rubbed. She crept into her bedroom, -where Lady Blount, coming in a while later, found her lying somewhat -feverish on the bed. At the sight of her aunt, she sprang up to make -instant and spirited confession. - -“Do you know what I 've done this morning? I thought I would give John -a surprise and I took the car to Kilburn. He was not at home, but I saw -the girl Unity, his ward.” - -Lady Blount looked at her in terrible dismay. - -“My darling, you ought n't to have done it.” - -“I know, Auntie. And when you see John, will you tell him how sorry I -am, and give him my apologies.” - -“Apologies?” - -“Yes. It was ill-breeding on my part. He has a perfect right to keep -his home affairs to himself, and I should not have intruded. You must -apologize for me.” - -It was a very proud and dignified Stella that spoke, a spot of red -burning on each cheek, and her slim figure held very erect. - -“I hope, my darling,” said Lady Blount, longing to ask a more direct -question--“I hope that girl was n't rude to you.” - -“Unity rude?” Stella knitted her brow. The idea was ludicrous. “On the -contrary, like the rest of you, she is far too fond of me. I don't know -why; it 's very odd. And she is devoted body and soul to John. She has a -fine, great, generous nature.” - -The stain of jealousy should be wiped away, if she could possibly manage -it. - -“I believe she is a very good girl, though I have n't seen her--” - -“Since she stayed at Southcliff?” said Stella with steady eyes. - -“I--I was just going to say so,” Lady Blount stammered. The situation -was perplexing. “And John does n't often speak of her.” She made rather -a failure of a smile. “And what did the two of you talk about?” - -The bitter knowledge of good and evil was coming fast to Stellamaris. -A little while ago her innocence would have taken the question at its -face-value; now, perhaps for the first time in her life to suspect -disingenuousness, she penetrated to the poor little diplomacy lying -beneath. - -“Chiefly of John and myself--of nothing very particular,” she replied. -“I did n't stay long.” - -She saw the repression of Lady Blount's sigh of relief. Swiftly she drew -her deductions. They were all concealing something from her, and the -fact of their concealment proved it to be something shameful and -abominable. Her bosom rose in revolt against the world. Lift but a -corner of the fairest thing in life, and you found the ugliness below. - -She sat on the bed by the foot-rail, and rested her throbbing head on -her hand. - -“Your little escapade has upset you, darling,” said Lady Blount, weakly; -“but it was nothing very serious, after all. If John's furious when -he hears of it, it 'll only be because he was not there to welcome you -himself.” - -“I 'm not afraid of John being furious, Auntie,” said Stella. “It 's not -that at all. You don't understand.” - -“I don't think I do, dear,” said poor Lady Blount. She sat down beside -the girl and put a loving arm round her. “Tell me what it is.” - -But this was more than Stella could do. To speak would be to accuse and -reproach, and she could not accuse or reproach any of her dear ones. -Yet she needed the comfort like any other young and suffering soul. She -surrendered to the elder woman's caress, feeling very weary. - -“Perhaps I 'm not as strong as I thought I was, Auntie,” she said. - -The confession stirred all the mothering instincts in Lady Blount. With -physical things she could grapple. She tended her with her thin, deft -hands and persuaded her to lie down. - -“My poor lamb, London is too much for you. Never mind. We 're going home -to-morrow.” - -“I shall never want to leave home again,” said Stella. - -It was half-past one. Sir Oliver was lunching and spending the afternoon -at his club. A tray was brought to Stella's bed, and Lady Blount pecked -at a flustered woman's meal in the sitting-room. - -“What about John and the pictures, darling?” she asked when she rejoined -Stella. It had been arranged for John to call for them at three o'clock -and take them to the Royal Academy. - -“I don't think I feel equal to it,” said Stella, truly. She was not -yet quite “like every one else.” Her sensitive nature also shrank from -meeting John. Before him she would shrivel up with shame. “You go with -him, Auntie; I 'll rest here and read.” - -On the stroke of three came John, who, having been detained on his -business in town, had not gone home for luncheon. It was therefore from -Lady Blount that he heard of Stella's adventure. He listened with his -heavy frown, moving restlessly about the room, his hands in his pockets. - -“I would give a thousand pounds for it not to have happened,” said he. - -“It's done now. We must make the best of it.” - -“Unity was discreet? Are you sure?” - -“Quite sure.” - -He walked about for a while in silence. - -“Perhaps it's just as well Stella should know so much,” he conceded, -“though I would rather she had learned it differently. I suppose she was -somewhat upset?” - -“She's still delicate,” said Lady Blount, “and she's all -sensitiveness--always has been, as you know. I have made her lie down.” - -He swung round sharply. - -“She's not ill?” he asked. - -“No, not ill; but exertion easily tires her. And she's afraid you 'll -be angry with her, and miserable because she thinks she did an ill-bred -thing in intruding on your privacy. She 's deeply ashamed; she feels -acutely. She's not like other girls. We've got to realize it. She wants -me to apologize to you--” - -“Stella apologize to me! Stella!” he shouted in amazement and -indignation. “We 'll soon see about that!” - -He strode toward the door leading into Stella's room. Lady Blount -checked him. - -“Don't, John. I would n't see her now.” - -“Do you think I 'd leave her a minute to suffer fear and misery and -shame?” - -“You exaggerate, dear.” - -“Those were your words. No, Julia. I must set this right.” - -Stellamaris suffering, afraid of him, miserable, and ashamed! As well -say Stella beaten, Stella thumb-screwed, Stella thrown to wolves! It was -intolerable. He forgot his resolutions. - -With rough gentleness he thrust Lady Blount aside and, opening the door, -slightly ajar, caught sight of Stella lying, wrapper-clad, upon the bed. -He entered in his impetuous fashion and slammed the door behind him. - -“Darling, don't worry. Julia has told me. It 's only you that could have -had the beautiful idea of coming to see me. I love you for it, and I -could kick myself for not being at home.” - -Instinctively and unthinkingly, as if he had been in the sea-chamber, -he sat down heavily beside her and took her two hands. Her brown eyes -looked piteously into his. - -“Stella, darling, it 's I that must ask for forgiveness for not having -prepared you. Years ago, when you were little, I began the silly story -of the palace to amuse and interest you; and I had a lot of troubles, -dear, and it helped me to bear them to come to you and live with you in -a fairy-tale. And then it was so hard to undeceive you when I found you -believed it. I tried--you must remember.” - -“Yes, dear,” she said, feeling very weak and foolishly comforted by the -nervous grasp of his great hands. “Yes, I remember.” - -“You were there on your bed by the window,” he continued, “and every one -thought you would never rise from it. So what was the good of telling -you just the weary prose of life? What place could it have in the poetry -of yours? And I was selfish, Stella darling; I used to come to you for -something sweet and pure and lovely that the wide wide world could n't -give me. And I got it, and it sent me away strong for the battle; and I -'ve had to fight, dear--to fight hard sometimes. And when you got -well and came out into the world, I felt it was necessary to tell you -something more about myself--that there never had been a palace; that -I was just a poor, hard-working journalist; that I had adopted a little -girl called Unity, whose life had not been of the happiest; that she -and an old aunt of mine kept house for me: but our old life went on so -smoothly, and I still got the help and courage and faith I needed -from you, that I put off telling you from week to week. That's the -explanation, darling. And now I'm glad, more than glad, you came to-day. -Don't you believe me?” - -“Yes, Belovedest,” she sighed. “I believe you.” - -He went on, finding in her presence his old power of artistic -expression. In the overwhelming desire to bring back the laughter to -those wonderful eyes that met his he forgot prudence, forgot the fact -that he was making a passionate appeal. He was pleading her cause with -happiness, not his own. It was the purest in the love of the man that -spoke. Again he wound up by claiming her faith. And again, this time -with soft, melting eyes, she said, “Yes, Belovedest, I believe you.” - -What else could she say, poor child? Here was her hero among men -belittling himself just for her glorification. Here was his strong, -beloved face wrought into an intensity of pleading. Here he was -using tones of his deep voice that made every chord in her vibrate. -Cloud-compeller, he cleared her overcast horizon to radiance. Is there -a woman breathing, be she never so cynical, who, in the sunshine of her -heart, does not believe in the sun? - -She laughed and drew his hands to her face. “So you think I 've been -making mountains out of molehills?” - -“Out of molecules,” said he. - -She laughed one of her adorable, childish little laughs. But the woman -whispered, “Forgive me, Belovedest.” - -Time has invented but one proof of forgiveness in such a case, and -eternity will not find a substitute. Obeying the everlasting law, he -proved his forgiveness; but he mastered himself sufficiently to draw -back the moment their lips had touched. He rose to his feet. - -“Now we 're quite happy, are n't we?” - -A little murmur signified assent. Then she sat up, and swung her legs -daintily over the side of the bed, and, flushed, happy, and adorably -dishevelled, looked at him. - -[Illustration: 0260] - -“And now,” she cried gaily, “if you 'll let me put on my frock, I 'll -come with you and auntie to see the pictures.” - -He remonstrated. She was tired out; she must rest. But she stood up and -faced him. - -“I want to be happy to-day. Tiredness does n't count. I shall be at the -Channel House to-morrow, and I can rest for a month.” - -She put her hand on his shoulder and led him to the door. In the next -room Lady Blount was anxiously awaiting him. He took her lean shoulders -in his bear's hug. - -“All right, Julia. She's perfectly happy, and she's coming with us to -the Royal Academy.” - -So once more that day was the limousine ordered to the hotel entrance, -and once more Stellamaris entered it with a sense of high, but now -delectably safe, adventure, this time helped in by John as tenderly as -though she were a thing of spun glass and moonbeams. And they drove away -joyously to see one of the most beautiful, but at the same time, one of -the saddest sights of the world--the aspiring, yet fettered, souls, -the unrealized dreams, the agonized hopes, individually concrete, of -thousands of God's elect on this imperfect earth. - -John Risca, absorbed in the laughter he had brought back to precious -eyes, did not see a thin-lipped woman dressed in black slip behind one -of the porphyry columns of the portico as they drove out. And the woman -meant that he should not see, as she had meant it hundreds of times -before during the last six years. Had he done so, there would have been -an end to the intense, relentless, and diabolically patient purpose of -her life. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - -CONSTABLE, dragging the feet of an old hound, mounted the stairs behind -Stellamaris and followed her into the sea-chamber, and to the south -window, whither she went instinctively to gaze out over her beloved -sea, now gray and choppy, as the sky was overcast and a fresh breeze was -blowing. He had been the most unhappy dog alive, they told her, during -her absence. Since his dim, far-away puppy-hood not a day had passed -without his spending hours in her company. She had been the reason of -his existence. The essential one gone, there was nothing to live for; so -at first he had wandered round in a bewildered way looking for her, -and then, not finding her, he had refused food and pined, and, had she -stayed away much longer, would have died of a broken heart, after the -manner of deep-natured dogs. When she arrived, he was at the gate -to meet her. At her magical appearance he tried to prance as in his -youthful days, and lashed the whip of his tail against the iron railings -so that it bled. Sobered by age, he had not had what Stella used to call -a “bluggy” tail (the disability of his race) for years. But as prancing -and tail-lashing and whinnying do not accord with the muscles and wind -of an old dog, and as his heart was full, he had lain down at her feet, -his snout beyond his paws, trembling all through his great bulk. And it -was only after she had knelt on the ground beside him, thereby blocking -the path to Sir Oliver and Lady Blount, to say nothing of Morris, the -maid, and Simmons, the gardener, and the hand luggage, and had caressed -and kissed him, that he had found strength to stagger to his feet and -make way for his fellow-humans. After that he had not left her for a -second. Who could tell but that she might vanish again into thin air, -this time not to be reincarnated? Descartes, who said that the lower -animals were automata, could never have known the wonder of a dog's -love. - -Constable followed Stella to the window and snuggled his great head into -the curve of her waist. Her arm, soft and precious, drooped about -his neck. Constable and the sea and herself had been secret-sharing -companions since the world was young. So she stood for a long time by -the open window, drinking in the salt of the sea-breeze, and communing, -in her own way, with the elemental spirit of the waters. Presently she -turned with a sigh, bent down, and took the old hound's slobbering chaps -between her hands and looked into his patient eyes. - -“Are you glad I'm back, dear High Constable darling? Very glad? Not -gladder than I am, dear. No; you can't be. You've never been to London. -Oh, you would hate it. It pretends to be a beautiful place, but it -is n't. It 's a sham, dear. I'm sure you 've never heard of a whited -sepulchre; but that's what it is. And London's the world, my precious, -and the world is n't a bit like what you and I were led to expect. It -'s full of ugliness and wickedness, and nobody can get at the truth of -anything.” Still fondling him, she sat on the window-seat. “Yes; you and -I are very much better off here. If you went abroad, you 'd be such a -miserable Constable. You would, darling.” She looked tragically at him, -and he, responsive to the doleful tones of her voice, regarded her in -mournful sympathy. - -Then she laughed, and kissed him between the eyes. - -“But I do so want to be happy. I 'll tell you a secret--oh, a great, -great secret--that no one knows.” She lifted the velvet flap of his -ear and whispered something below her breath, which Constable must have -understood, for he laid his cheek against hers; and so they stayed until -Morris, intent on unpacking, disturbed their peace. - -Then came a day or two of rest during which she strove to reconcile -the irreconcilable,--her dreams in the sea-chamber and the realities -outside,--using her newly found love for talisman. And just as she was -trying to forget the ugliness of the world, a domestic incident cast her -back into gloom and doubt. - -One morning she entered the morning-room on a scene of tragedy. Sir -Oliver stood with his back to the fire, looking weakly fierce and -twirling his white moustache; Lady Blount sat stern and upright in -a chair. A bulky policeman, bare-headed, stood at attention in the -corner,--there is something terrifically intimate about an unhelmeted -policeman,--while, in front of them all, a kitchen-maid in a pink cotton -dress sobbed bitterly into a smudgy apron. - -Stella paused astonished on the threshold. “Why--” she began. - -“My dear,” said Sir Oliver, “will you kindly leave us?” - -But Stella; advanced into the room. “What is Mr. Withers doing here?” - -Mr. Withers was the policeman, and a valued acquaintance of Stellamaris. - -“Go away, darling,” said Lady Blount. “This has nothing to do with you.” - -But Stella had been accustomed to rule in that house. Anything that -happened in it was her concern. Besides, she would have ugly things -hidden away from her no longer; and here was obviously an ugly thing. - -“No, my dears,” she said in her clear voice; “I must stay. Tell me, why -is Eliza crying?” - -“She's a wicked thief,” said Lady Blount. - -Then Stella caught sight of a couple of rings and a brooch and a -five-pound note lying on a table. - -“Did she steal those?” - -Sir Oliver explained. The articles had been stolen during their absence -in town. He had applied to the police, with the result that the theft -had been traced to Eliza. - -So that was a thief--that miserable, broad-faced girl. Stella looked at -her with fearful curiosity. She had heard of thieves and conceived them -to be desperate outcasts herding in the sunless alleys of great cities, -their hideous faces pitted with crime, as with smallpox; she never -imagined that they came into sheltered homes. - -“What is Mr. Withers going to do with her?” - -“Take her to prison,” said Sir Oliver, whereat the culprit wailed -louder. - -“What is prison?” asked Stella. - -“A place where they lock you up for months, sometimes for years, in -a stone cell, and make you sleep on a plank bed, and you have to pick -oakum all day long, and are known by a number, and--er--” - -“Please, Oliver!” remonstrated Lady Blount. - -“I want to know, Auntie,” said Stella, a gracious, white-clad figure -standing in the midst of them. She turned to the policeman. - -“Are you going to take her to prison?” - -“If Sir Oliver charges her, miss.” - -“Of course I 'm going to charge her,” cried Sir Oliver. “It 's my duty.” - He drew himself up. “I should be failing in it if I did n't.” - -“Then it depends on you, Uncle, whether she is locked up or goes free?” - -“That's so, miss,” replied the policeman. “I can't arrest her unless -some one charges her.” - -“What do you say, Auntie?” - -“It 's very painful, dear. That is why I did n't want you to come in. -But people who do these things have to be punished.” - -“But why have they to be punished?” Stella asked, feeling curiously calm -and remote from them all. - -“They must be made examples of, dear. They must n't be let loose on -society,” said Sir Oliver. “It's a duty to one's country, a duty to -one's neighbours. I 'm afraid you don't understand, Stella. I implore -you to leave this matter in our hands.” - -It was strange how the girl whom they had reared in blank ignorance of -life remained supreme arbiter of the situation. She said: - -“You are afraid that if she were set free, she would rob somebody else?” - -“Of course she would,” said Sir Oliver, testily. - -“Would you, Eliza?” asked Stellamaris. - -Thus appealed to, the guilty little wretch threw herself on the ground, -in horrible abasement, at Stella's feet. - -“Oh, Miss Stella, don't let them put me in prison! For God's sake! don't -let them put me in prison! I 'll never do it again. I swear I won't. -Save me, Miss Stella!”--She clutched the white skirts--“Don't let them -send me to prison.” - -She continued in terrified reiteration. Stella felt an icicle in her -bosom in place of a heart. She had never before seen humanity lowered to -the depths. - -“Why did you do it?” - -The crouching thing did not know. The drawer of the dressing-table had -been left unlocked. She had been tempted. It was the first time she had -stole anything. She would never do it again. And then she cried again, -“Don't let them send me to prison!” - -“Julia, can't you prevent her making such a noise?” said Sir Oliver. - -The bulky policeman, desiring to carry out Sir Oliver's wishes, came -forward and laid his hand on the girl's shoulder. She screamed. Stella -touched him on the arm, and he stood up straight. Then she opened the -door. - -“Thank you very much, Mr. Withers, for your trouble; but we are not -going to have this girl put in prison.” - -The kitchen-maid lay a huddled, sobbing mass on the floor. - -“You 're doing a very foolish thing, Stella,” said Sir Oliver. - -“You had much better let your uncle and me deal with this,” said Lady -Blount. - -“My dears,” said Stella, very white, very dispassionate, cold steel from -head to foot, “if you put this girl in prison, I shall go mad. All -the things you have taught me would have no meaning. We say every day, -'Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against -us.' ” - -“But, my darling child, that's quite different,” said Sir Oliver. “That -'s a form of words referring to spiritual things. This is practical -life.” - -“Is that true, Auntie?” - -“No, dear, not quite. It's most difficult to know how to act,” replied -Lady Blount, resting her weary old head on her hand. “Do as you like, -child. What you do can't be wrong.” - -Stella turned to the policeman, who had been looking from one to the -other and wondering from whom he should take his final instructions. - -“We sha'n't need you any more, Mr. Withers.” - -“Very good, miss.” - -He saluted and went away. Stella shook the girl by the arm. - -“Get up,” she commanded, “and go to your room. Don't speak. I can't bear -it. Go.” - -The maid picked herself up and rushed out of the room. Stella confronted -the two old people. The morning sun streamed through the casement -window, and the light fell full on Sir Oliver's wrinkled old face -and spare form, and Stella, through the semi-military jauntiness and -aristocratic air of command produced by the thin features and white -moustache and imperial, saw, as by means of X-rays, all the weakness, -the foolishness, the pomposity, the vanity, that lay beneath. And yet -she knew that he loved her more dearly than any one in the world. She -looked at her aunt, and, in the awful flash of revelation that at times -sweeps through the young soul, she knew her to be a woman of little -intelligence, of narrow judgment, of limited sympathies; and yet, she, -too, loved her more dearly than any one in the world. Over them, she, -Stella, had achieved a tranquil victory. Ashamed and hurt to her inmost -heart by the stabbing consciousness of the humiliation she must have -brought on these two poor ones so dear to her, she had not a word -to say. Nor could they speak a word. There was a tense silence. Then -reaction came. All the love of a lifetime flooded Stella's heart, and -she threw herself by the side of Lady Blount and, her head in the old -woman's lap, burst into a passion of tears. Sir Oliver, with a palsied -gesture of his hand, left the women to themselves. - -Once more poor Lady Blount, with her commonplace little platitudes, -preaching obedience to the law, tried to comfort Stellamaris, whose -intelligence had been scrupulously trained to the understanding of -nothing but obedience to the spirit. And once more Stellamaris went away -uncomforted. Guilt must be punished--a proposition which she found -it hard to accept; but, accepted as a basis of argument, was it -not punishment enough to reduce a human being to such grovelling -degradation? Did not the declared intention of sending that wretched -girl to prison imply pitilessness? Thenceforward hardness and suspicion -began to creep into Stella's judgments. Dreams of evil began to haunt -her sleep, and brooding by her window, she began to lose the consolation -of the sea. - -Three week-ends passed, and John did not come to the Channel House, -making varied excuses for his defection. He wrote cheerily enough, but -Stella, with poor human longing for the magic word that would set her -heart beating, found a lack of something, she scarce knew what, in his -letters. Her own, once so spontaneous, so sparkling with bubbles of -fancy, grew constrained and self-conscious. John seemed to be eluding -her. One of the Sundays Herold came down. The Blounts told him of the -episode of the kitchen-maid and of the way in which Stella had taken the -law into her own hands. - -“I never imagined she had such a spirit,” Sir Oliver declared. “Egad! -she stood up against us all like a little reigning princess.” - -“But she broke down afterward, poor darling!” said Lady Blount. - -Herold tried to question Stella on the subject, but met with no -response. - -“Let us talk of pleasant things,” she pleaded. - -He went away sorrowful, knowing the conflict in her soul--knowing, too, -that the strong soul has to fight its battles unaided. - -Meanwhile Stella put on a smiling face to the world,--for, after all, -the world smiled on her,--and she was gentle with Sir Oliver and Lady -Blount. She mingled in such social life as the neighbourhood afforded--a -luncheon party, a garden party, where young men fell at her feet in -polite adoration, and young women put their arms round her waist and -talked to her of hats. She liked them all well enough, but shyly -evaded intimacy. They belonged to a race of beings with whom she was -unfamiliar, having passed their lives in a different spiritual sphere. -They frightened her ever so little; why, she did not know, for her -unused power of self-analysis was not sufficiently strong to enable her -to realize the instinctive shrinking from those, strangers to her, -who had been drenched from childhood in the mysterious and dreadful -knowledge of evil. She met them only on the common ground of youth and -talked of superficial things, fearing to inquire more deeply into their -thoughts and lives. - -“I love to see her enjoying herself,” said Lady Blount. - -Sir Oliver rubbed his hands, and agreed for once with his wife. - -“There's nothing like a little harmless gaiety for a girl,” said he. -“She has been shut up with us old fogies too long.” - -“She's beginning to realize now,” said Lady Blount, “the happiness that -lies before her in the new condition of things.” - - - -ONE day when Stella was returning, unattended, from a small shopping -excursion in the village, a thin-lipped woman in black crossed the -road just before the turn that led to the gate to the Channel House and -accosted her. - -“Miss Blount?” - -“Yes,” said Stella, coming to a halt. - -She had noticed the woman for some little time walking on the opposite -side of the way, and had been struck by a catlike stealthiness in her -gait. Now, face to face with the woman, she met a pair of pale-green, -almost expressionless eyes fixed on her with an odd relentlessness. The -woman's lips were twisted into the convention of a smile. - -“Could I have the pleasure of a few words with you?” - -“Certainly,” said Stella. “Will you come into the house with me? We are -almost there.” - -“If you will excuse me, Miss Blount,” said the woman, holding up a -deprecating hand,--she was well-gloved and was dressed like a lady,--“I -would rather not go in with you. I have my reasons. I must speak with -you entirely in private. If we go round here, there is a comfortable -seat.” - -Near the point at which they were standing the road up the cliff -diverged into two forks. The upper fork led to the gate of the Channel -House. The lower one was a pathway round the breast of the cliff. The -woman pointed to the latter. Stella hesitated. - -“What have you so private to tell me that we can't talk in the garden?” - -“It's something about John Risca,” said the woman with the thin lips. - -Stella put her hand to her heart. “John--Mr. Risca? What is the matter? -Has anything happened to him?” - -“Oh, he's in perfect health. Don't be alarmed. I only don't want us to -be interrupted by Sir Oliver or Lady Blount. Do come with me. I assure -you it's something quite important.” - -She moved in the direction of the lone path, and Stella, drawn against -her will, followed. They, reached the seat. Below sank sheer cliff to -the rocks on the shore. Above sheer cliff rose to the crest on which -stood the Channel House. The sea sparkled in the sunshine. In the far -distance a great steamer, her two funnels plumed with gray, sped -majestically down Channel. The woman looked about her with nervous -swiftness. They were out of sight of human creature. Then she turned, -and the cold face changed, and Stella shrank from its sudden malignity. -The woman clutched the girl by her arm. - -“Now, my lady, do you know who I am?” - -“No,” said Stella, shrinking back terrified, and striving to wrench -herself free. - -“I am John Risca's wife.” - -Stella looked at her for an agonized moment, then, as white as paper, -collapsed on the seat, the woman still gripping her arm. - -“John--married--you--his wife!” she stammered incoherently. - -Louisa Risca bent down and scrutinized the white face. - -“Do you mean to say you did n't know?” - -Stella shook her head in frightened negation. Her ignorance was obvious, -even to the criminal woman now on the point of carrying out the fixed -idea of years. Gradually the grasp on her arm relaxed, and the woman -stood upright. - -“You did n't know he was a rotter, did you?” - -The word smote Stellamaris like a foul thing. She shivered. Mrs. Risca -kept her eyes fixed on her for a few seconds until, as it were, some -inspired thought flashed into them a gleam of joy. - -“It 's jolly lucky for you that you did n't know. There 's a nice little -drop from here down to the rocks. I 've been here often before.” - -Stella sprang to her feet and thrust her hands against the woman's -breast. . - -“Let me pass! Let me pass!” she cried wildly. - -But the woman barred the downward path. A few steps beyond the bench it -narrowed quickly upward until it merged into the cliff-side. - -“I'm not going to. You've got to stay here,” said Mrs. Risca, seizing -Stella's wrists in a grip in which the girl's frail strength was -powerless. “If you struggle and make a fuss, you 'll have us both -chucked over. Don't be silly.” - -Then Stella, calling to her aid her pride and courage, drew herself up -and looked the evil woman in the face. - -“Very well. Say what you have to say. I will listen to you.” - -“That 's sensible,” said Mrs. Risca, dropping her wrists. “I don't see -why you should have gone on so. I only wanted to speak to you for your -good and your happiness. You sit down there, and I 'll sit here, and we -'ll have a nice, long talk about John.” - -Stella sat on the extreme upper edge of the bench, Mrs. Risca on the -lower, and smiled on her victim, who drew a convulsive breath. - -“He has been making love to you, has n't he?” she asked, enjoying the -flicker of pain that passed over the delicate features. - -“Go on, if I must hear,” said Stella. - -“And all the while he's been a married man, and I'm his shamefully -neglected and deserted wife.” - -“How am I to know that you 're his wife?” said Stella. - -“I thought you'd ask that, so I've brought proof.” - -She drew two papers from a little bag slung over her arm, and handed one -to Stella. It was a certified copy of the marriage-certificate. Stella -glanced over it. Ignorant as she was in things of the world, she -recognized the genuineness of the official document. Her eyes were too -dazed, however, to appreciate the date. She passed the slip of blue -paper back without a word. - -“Here's something else.” - -Mrs. Risca gave her a discoloured letter, one which she had kept, Heaven -knows why, perhaps in the vague hope that it might one day be turned -into an instrument against her husband. It was an old, old, violently -passionate love-letter. Stella's eyes met a few flaming words in John's -unmistakable handwriting, and with a shudder she threw the letter, like -something unclean, away from her. Mrs. Risca picked it up from the path -and restored it, with the marriage-certificate, to her bag. - -“He 's a pretty fellow, is n't he? Fancy his kidding you all the time -that he was a single man. And you believed him and thought him such a -noble gentleman. Oh, he can come the noble gentleman when he likes. I -know him. I 'm his wife. He wants to be taken for a rough diamond, he -does. And he's never tired of showing you what a diamond he is. And -for all his rough diamondness, he 's as vain as a peacock. Have n't you -noticed it, darling?” - -She paused, and smiled horribly on Stellamaris. Stellamaris, from whose -brown pools of eyes all translucency had gone, looked at her steadily. -The girl's face was pinched into a haggard mask. - -“I don't think you need tell me any more. Will you please let me go.” - -“I have n't nearly finished, darling,” replied Mrs. Risca, finding a -keener and purer delight in this vista of exquisite torture that in the -half-confessed intention of throwing the innocent interloper over the -cliff. “I want to be your friend and warn you against our dear John. He -'s the kind of male brute, dear, that any silly young girl falls in love -with. I know I did. He has a way of putting his great arms around you -and hugging you, so that your senses are all in a whirl and you think -him some godlike animal.” - -Stella shuddered through all her frame at a memory hitherto holy, and -clenched her teeth so that no cry could escape. But the woman gloated -over the setting of the jaw and the tense silence. - -“That 's John, my pretty pet. And he likes us young. He took me young, -and because I would n't hear of anything but marriage, he married me, -and then threw me over, and deserted me, and brought me into terrible -trouble, and all that he or any one else may say against me is a lie. -Oh! I know all about you. This is n't the first time I've been to -Southcliff. And as soon as you could get up and go about,--he knew all -along that you would n't lie on your back forever--trust him,--he comes -and makes love to you and kisses you, does n't he? And he can't marry -you, because he's already married.” - -Stella rose, and straightened her slim figure, and threw up her delicate -head. - -“I have heard enough. I order you to let me pass.” But the woman laughed -at the childish imperiousness. She knew herself to be of wiry physical -strength. To catch up that light body and send it hurtling into space -would be as easy as kicking a Yorkshire terrier over the edge of a pier. -She had once done that. - -“You 'd make your fortune as a tragedy queen. Why don't you ask Mr. -Herold to get you on the stage? Sit down again, darling, and don't be a -little fool. I've got lots more to tell you.” - -“I prefer to stand,” said Stella. - -“It does n't matter to me whether you stand or sit, my precious pet,” - said Mrs. Risca. “I only want to tell you all about your dearly beloved -John. Oh, he 's a daisy! They 'll tell you all sorts of things about -me--about me and Unity--” - -“Unity?” cried Stella, taken off her guard. - -“Yes, darling. You went and saw her the other day, did n't you? Oh, no -matter how I know. I only mention it to let you see that I 'm telling -the truth. They 'll tell you all sorts of things about me and her; but -they 're all lying. What do you think of our friend John's relations -with Unity?” - -“Mr. Risca is Unity's guardian,” said Stella in a cold voice. - -The woman laughed again. “You little fool! She's his mistress.” - -Unity again, with the baffling mystery surrounding her! The woman -spoke directly, as if in complete revelation. Yet Stella was still in -darkness, and the uncontrollable feminine groped toward the light. - -“I don't understand what you mean,” she said haughtily. - -“You mean to tell me you don't understand what a man's mistress is?” - -It took her a few moments to appreciate the virginal innocence of the -white and rigid thing in woman's guise. When she did appreciate it, she -laughed aloud. - -“You pretty lamb, don't you know what a wife is?” - -Stella stood, the cliff above her, the cliff below, midway between her -sky and her beloved and dancing sea, a hard-eyed statue. The supreme and -deliciously unexpected moment of the criminal woman's life had come. She -rose and held Stellamaris with her pale-green eyes, and in a few brutal -words she scorched her soul. - - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - -A WHISTLING youth who lumbered up the path saved Stellamaris. There was -nothing about him suggestive of the dragon-slaying and princess-rescuing -hero of the fairy-tale, nor did he at any time thereafter dream that he -had played the part of one; but at the sight of him the she-dragon fled, -her ultimate purpose unfulfilled. Stella sank quivering on the bench. -The knight-errant touched his cloth cap, and, unaccustomed to the -company of princesses, lounged in awkward self-consciousness a few yards -away, with his hands in his pockets and pretended to admire the -view. Stella, aware of deliverance from physical danger, drank in the -unutterable comfort of his presence. After a while he turned and was -moving off, when a cry from her checked him. - -“Please don't go!” - -He advanced a step or two. “Is anything the matter, miss?” - -She reflected for a moment. “I came over rather faint,” she said. “I -don't know whether I can get down to the house alone.” She was too proud -to confess to fear of the evil woman. . - -The youth offered help. He could easily carry her home. To have carried -the mysterious lady of the Channel House would make him the envy of the -village. Such aid, however, she declined. - -“Shall I tell them at the house, miss?” - -She sprang to unsteady feet. - -“No, don't do that! See, I can walk. You go in front, and if I want you, -I 'll tell you.” - -The youth, somewhat disappointed, lounged ahead, and Stella followed, -with shaking knees; so had she progressed during her early lessons in -the art of walking. At the turn of the path Stella held her breath, -dreading to come upon the woman; but no woman was in sight. She walked -more freely. At last they reached the gate of the Channel House, which -the youth held open for her. She thanked him, and once within the -familiar shelter of the garden she sped into the house and up the stairs -into her room, where she fell exhausted on the bed. - -The sensation of physical peril was gone,--of that she felt only the -weakness of reaction,--but the woman had scorched her soul, shrivelled -her brain, burnt up the fount of tears. The elfin child of sea-foam and -cloud lay a flaming horror. - -They found her there, and saw that she was suffering, and tended her -lovingly, with many anxious inquiries; but she could not speak. The -touch of ministering hands was torture, almost defilement. All humanity -seemed to be unclean. Dr. Ransome, summoned in haste, diagnosed fever, -a touch of the sun, and prescribed sedatives. For aught she cared, -he might have diagnosed a fractured limb. Of objective things she was -barely aware. Figures moved around her like the nightmare shapes of a -dream, all abhorrent. She heard their voices dimly. If only they would -go! If only they would leave her alone! - -Her High-and-Mightiness, the nurse, long since relieved of her -occupation, was telegraphed for from London. She came and bent over the -familiar bed and put her hand on the hot forehead. But Stella withdrew -from the once-cooling touch, and closed her ears to the gentle words, -for they seemed to be the touch and the words of the woman with the -pale, cruel eyes and the thin lips. All night long she could not sleep, -tormented by the presence of the watcher in the room. Outside the night -was dark, and a fine rain fell. Within, the lamp of Stellamaris burned -in the western window of the sea-chamber. For the first time in her life -she longed for the blackness; but she could not speak to the watching -shape, and she clenched her teeth. Her brain, on fire, conceived the -notion that she was caught in one of the Cities of the Plain, and far -above her floated a little, dazzling, white cloud, which mockingly -invited her to mount on its back and soar with it into the infinite -blue. - -After the dawn had broken, she fell asleep exhausted, and the sun was -high when she awoke. - -The nurse, who had been watching her, bent down. - -“Are you feeling better, dear?” - -She smiled at the well-known face. - -“Yes, High-and-Mightiness,” she said. They were the first words she had -spoken since the day before. - -She raised her head, and suddenly memory awoke, too, and the horror -swooped down upon her like a vast-winged, evil bird. She sank again on -the pillow and hid her eyes with her hand. - -“The light too strong, dear?” - -Stella nodded. Words and shapes were now clearly defined. The nurse took -her temperature. It was virtually normal. - -“It must have been a touch of the sun, darling, as the doctor said,” - remarked the nurse. “But, thank heavens! you 're better. You gave us all -such a fright.” - -“I'm sorry,” said Stella. “It was n't my fault.” - - - -IT was a new and baffling Stellamaris that entered the world again. -She went about the house silent and preoccupied. Joy was quenched in her -eyes, and her features hardened. The lifelong terms of endearment from -the two old people met with no response. Their morning and evening -kisses she endured passively. They had become to her as strangers, -having gradually undergone a curious metamorphosis from the Great High -Excellency and Most Exquisite Auntship of her childhood into a -certain Sir Oliver and Lady Blount, personages of bone and flesh of an -abominable world, in whom she could place no trust. - -One evening before going up-stairs, she picked up a French novel which -Sir Oliver had left in the drawing-room. - -“Don't read that, Stella dear,” said Lady Blount. - -“Why?” asked Stella. - -“I don't think it's suitable for young girls.” - -“Is it unclean?” - -“My darling, what an extraordinary word!” said Lady Blount. - -“Is it unclean?” Stella persisted. - -“It deals with a certain side of life that is not wholesome for young -girls to dwell upon.” - -“You have n't answered my question, Auntie.” - -“The fact that your uncle and I have read it is an answer, dear,” said -Lady Blount, with some dignity. - -“Then I will read it, too,” said Stella. - -She took it up to her room and opened it in the middle; but after a few -pages her cheeks grew hot and her heart cold, and she threw the book far -out of the window. - -It was a foul, corrupt world, and all the inhabitants thereof save -herself gazed upon its foulness, and took part in its corruption, not -only without a shudder, but positively with zest. In the sane lucidity -of her mind, humanity was scarcely less intolerable than in the -nightmare of her day and night of horror. - -To perform an act of ethical judgment, no matter how rough and -elementary, one must have a standard. The fact, too, of ethical judgment -being inherent in the conditions of human existence, implies faultiness -in those conditions. In an ideal state of being, such as the evangelical -heaven, where there is no faultiness, there can be no possible process -of judgment, and thereby no standard whereby to measure right and wrong. -If a dweller about the Throne were to visit the earth, and even limit -his visit to Cheltenham or a New England township, the record of his -impressions would be, from our point of view, both grotesque and unjust. -He would have no standard, save the infinite purity of the Godhead (and -an infinite standard is a contradiction in terms) whereby to measure -human actions. He would be a lost and horrified seraph. His opinions -would not be a criticism, but an utterly valueless denunciation of life. - -Stellamaris, for all the imperfections inseparable from humanity, had -been a dweller about the Throne in her mystical Land of Illusion. Evil, -or the whisper of evil, or the thought of evil, had, by the Unwritten -Law, never been allowed to enter the sea-chamber. She issued therefrom, -like the unfortunate seraph, without a standard. Her impressions of life -(from our worldly point of view) were grotesque and unjust. John was -condemned by her unheard. Like the seraph, she was lost and horrified. -But, unlike the seraph--and here lies the tragedy, for no one of us -would break his heart over the horrification of a seraph, as he has only -to fly back whence he came to be perfectly happy--unlike the seraph, -Stellamaris was just poor human clay, and she could not fly back to her -Land of Illusion, because it did not exist. It was her fate to lead the -common life of imperfect mortals, feeling the common human physical -and spiritual pangs, with all the delicate tendrils of her nature -inextricably intertwined in human things, and to focus the myriad -sensations afforded by the bewildering panorama of life from the false -and futile point of view of the seraph. In consequence, she suffered -agonies inconceivable--agonies all the more torturing because she could -not turn for alleviation to any human being. She shrank from contact -with her kind, wandered lonely in the garden, save for the attendance of -the old dog, and sat for hours by the window of the sea-chamber looking -with yearning eyes at sea and sky. - -But no more could sea and sky, cloud and sunset, foam and mist, take -Stellamaris into their communion. She had put on mortality, and they had -cast her out from their elemental sphere. The sea-gulls flashed their -wings in the sun and circled up the cliff and hovered at her window, -fixing her with their round, yellow eyes, but they were no longer the -interpreting angels of wind and wave. The glory of all the mysteries had -faded into the light of common day, and the memory of them was only -the confused and unrecallable tangle of a dream. And Stellamaris cried -passionately in her heart for the days when she had not set foot in -the world of men, and when she lived somewhere out there in the salt -sea-spray, and felt her soul flooded with happiness great and exquisite. -But such days could never dawn again. She, too, had become bone and -flesh of an abominable world. - -Herold came down again, and found her white and pinched, with dark lines -beneath her eyes. She scarcely spoke, replied in monosyllables, only -made such appearances as the conventions of life demanded, and craftily -avoided meeting him alone. She was no longer Stellamaris. - -“What 's the matter with her, for pity's sake?” asked Herold. - -“She has not yet got over that touch of the sun,” said Sir Oliver. - -“This has nothing to do with the sun,” Herold declared. - -Lady Blount sighed. “Perhaps it 's a phase. Young girls often pass -through it, though earlier. But Stella is different.” - -Herold saw that they did not understand, and, knowing their limitations, -felt that even if they were enlightened, they would do more harm than -good. As soon as he returned to town he tracked John to his office. John -looked up from proof-sheets. - -“Just back? I nearly ran down yesterday. I should have done so if I had -n't promised my aunt to go to church with her.” - -“You've quite taken to church-going lately,” said Herold, dryly. - -John laughed. “It pleases the old soul.” - -“And keeps you in Kilburn,” said Herold. - -“It might be something worse,” John growled. Then he banged the table -with his fist. “Can you realize what it means to keep away from her? I -think of her all day long, and I can't sleep at night for thinking of -her. It 's idiotic, weak, disgraceful, wicked, any damned thing you -like, but it's so.” And he glowered up into Herold's face. “I am eating -myself out for her.” - -“What about Stella?” Herold asked. - -“That you can tell me. You've just come from her. I don't know. I 've -kept away scrupulously enough, Heaven knows, and my letters are just -footling things. But I've not heard from her for over a week. I waylay -the postman and look over my letters like a silly ass of a boy.” - -“Have you told her about your marriage?” - -“Not yet.” - -Herold drew a deep breath and turned away and pretended to study a proof -of the contents-bill of the next number of the Review that was pinned -against the wall. He had come there to ask that question. He had half -expected and wholly hoped for an answer in the affirmative. Stella's -knowledge might have accounted for her metamorphosis. - -“She must be told at once,” he said, returning to the table. - -“Why?” - -“Because she loves you. You fool!” he exclaimed, “have n't I seen it? -Has n't she all but told me so herself? And she has told you, in some -sort of way, only you have made up your mind not to listen. Let me put -matters plain before you. She says good-bye to you here in London, -and goes home full of happiness and looks forward to your coming down -invested in a new halo, and to your letters,--you know what sort of -letters a man writes to the woman he loves,--and instead of all that -you never go near her and you write her footling notes. What do you -imagine she's thinking and feeling? What do you think any ordinary -decent girl would think and feel in the circumstances?” - -“Stella is n't an ordinary girl,” said John, leaning back in his -writing-chair and looking at Herold from beneath his heavy brows. - -“For that reason she thinks and feels a thousand times more acutely. -She's ill, she's changed, she's the shadow of herself,” he went on -fiercely, “and it's all through you.” - -He broke off and, as John said nothing, he put both hands on the table -and leaned over and looked into John's eyes. - -“I 'll tell you another thing. The whole lot of us have caused her -endless misery. We 've fed her all her life on lies. God knows how I -hated them! Her coming out in the world has been a gradual discovery -of them. She has had shock after shock. She has n't told me,--she's too -proud,--but I know, I can read it in her face, in her eyes, in the tone -of her voice. And now she's going through the biggest disillusion of -all--you.” - -“Do you mean,” said John, frowning heavily, “that she thinks I'm a -blackguard because I seem--you put the phrase in my head by talking of -the ordinary young woman--because I seem to have thrown her over?” - -“She's wondering whether you are a lie, like most other things. And it's -killing her.” - -“What am I to do?” - -“Tell her straight. You ought to have done so from the first.” - -“If she feels it as deeply as you say, it might kill her outright.” - -“It won't,” said Herold. “She 's made of metal too fine. But even if it -did, it were better so, for she would die knowing you to be an honest -man.” - -John put his elbows on the table and tugged at his hair with his big -fingers. He could not resent Herold's fiery speech, for he felt that he -spoke with the tongue of an archangel. Presently he raised a suffering -face. - -“You 're right, Wallie. It has got to be done; but I feel as if I'm -taking a knife to her.” - -He rose and pushed away the pile of proofs. “All this,” said he, “is -going to the devil. I 've got to work through it over and over again, -because I can't concentrate my mind on anything.” He walked about the -room and then came down with both hands on Herold's shoulders. - -“For God's sake, Wallie, tell me that you understand how it has all come -about! Heaven knows she has had the purest and the highest I've had to -give her. I 'm a rough, selfish brute, but for all those years she stood -to me for something superhuman, a bit of God fallen on the earth, if you -like. And then she came out in woman's form and walked about among us--I -could n't help it. Say that you understand.” - -“I can quite understand you falling in love with her,” said Herold, -quietly. - -“And you 'll help to set me right with her--as far as this damnable -matter can be set right?” - -“You two are dearer to me than anything in life,” said Herold. “There is -nothing too difficult for me to undertake for you; but whether I succeed -is another question.” - -“I wish I were like you,” said John. He shook him with rough tenderness -and turned away. “God! It is n't the first time I've wished it.” - -“In what way like me?” - -“You've kept your old, high ideals. She's still to you Stellamaris--the -bit of God. You have n't wanted to drag her down to--to flesh and -blood--as I have.” - -Herold grew white to the lips and took up his hat and stick. “Never -mind about me,” he said, steadying his voice. “I don't count. She's all -that matters. What are you going to do? See her or write?” - -“I 'll write,” said John. - -Herold went out, carrying with him the memory of words he had spoken to -John many years before--words of which afterwards he had been ashamed, -for no man likes to think that he has spoken foolishly, but words which -now had come true: “I have walked on, roses all my life; but my hell is -before me... my roses shall turn into red-hot ploughshares, and my -soul shall be on fire.” And he remembered how he had spoken of the -unforgivable sin--high treason against friendship. But in one respect -his words had not come true. He had said that in his evil hour he would -have a great, strong friend to stand by his side. He was walking over -the ploughshares alone. And that evening, in their wait on the stairs -during the first act, in retort to some jesting reply, Leonora Gurney -said: - -“I believe you 're the chilliest-natured and most heartless thing that -ever walked the earth, and how you can play that love-scene in the third -act will always be a mystery to me.” - -“Perhaps that's the very reason I can play it,” said Herold. - -His heart wrung in a vice, John wrote the letter to Stellamaris. He was -“killing the thing he loved.” Good men, and even some bad ones, who have -done it, do not like to dwell upon the memory. He posted the letter on -his way home from the office. It dropped into the letter-box with the -dull thud of the first clod of earth thrown upon a coffin. At dinner -Miss Lindon talked in her usual discursive way on the warm weather and -sun-spots and the curious phenomenon observable on the countenance of -a pious curate friend of her youth, who had spots, not sun-spots, but -birth-marks, on brow, chin, and cheeks, making a perfect sign of the -cross. But the dear fellow unfortunately was afflicted with a red tip -to his nose, wherefore a profane uncle--“your great-uncle Randolph, -dear”--used to call him the five of diamonds. - -“But he was a great gambler--your uncle, I mean. I remember his once -losing thirty shillings at whist at a sitting.” - -To all of which irrelevant chatter John made replies equally irrelevant. -And Unity dumbly watched him. She had been at great pains to prepare a -savoury dish that he loved. He, ordinarily of Gargantuan appetite, as -befitted the great-framed man that he was, scarcely touched it. Unity -was distressed. - -“Is n't it all right, Guardian?” she asked. - -“Yes, dear; delicious.” - -Yet he did not eat, and Unity knew that his heart was not in his food. -It was elsewhere. He was unhappy. He had been unhappy for some time. Two -lines had come between the corners of his lips and his chin, and -there was a queer, pained look in his eyes. A far lesser-hearted and -weaker-brained thing in petticoats than Unity would have known that John -loved the radiant princess of Wonderland. Unity dreamed of it--the love -between her king and her princess. Of herself she scarcely thought. Her -humility--not without its pride and beauty--placed her far beneath them -both. Her king was suffering. The feminine in her put aside such -reasons as would have occurred to the unintuitive male--business cares, -disappointed ambition, internal pain, or discomfort. He was suffering; -he went about with a mountain of care on his brow that made her heart -ache; he answered remarks at random; he had no appetite for the dish he -adored--lamb-chops _en casserole_, which she had learned to make from -a recipe in “The Daily Mirror.” He was pining away for love of -Stellamaris. - -So deeply engaged was Unity with these thoughts that it was not until -she had switched on the light in her bedroom and was preparing to -undress that she remembered, with a pang of dismay, that the Olympian -tobacco box (old pewter, a present years ago from Herold), one of her -own peculiar and precious cares, was empty. She went down-stairs to the -store-cupboard, where she hoarded the tobacco and, with it in her hand, -she proceeded to the study, and opened the door softly. - -Her guardian, her king of men, her beginning and end of existence, sat -in his writing-chair, his head bowed on his arms, folded on the table. -A blank sheet of paper lay on the blotter. She saw that his great -shoulders shook. As he did not hear her enter, she stole on tiptoe to -the table, and laid the packet of tobacco on the corner. She tiptoed -back to the door, and turned and stayed there for a moment, watching -him, soul-racked with futile longing to bring him comfort. - -She caught muffled words. She knew in her heart that nothing she could -do would be of any avail. In an instinctive gesture she stretched out -her hands piteously toward the bowed head and went out of the room, -noiselessly closing the door behind her. - -That night, she cried as she had never cried before, not even when hot -irons had seared her flesh. - -An hour or so afterwards John Risca put out the lights in his study and -went up-stairs to bed. He could not sleep, and he thought, after the -poor, but human, manner of men, not so much of the killing of the thing -he loved, as of the unimaginable, intolerable blank in his own life when -the thing he loved should be killed. - -In the morning he said to himself, “She has got my letter,” and fell -into a frenzy of speculation. - -That day he watched the post for an answer, and the next day and the -next and the next; but no answer came. For the irony of fate had so -ordained that, as with the other unanswered letters, Stellamaris, -her finger-tips quivering with shame and horror at contact with the -envelope, had destroyed it unopened. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - -UNITY watched the beloved being as only a woman can watch man or a -sailor can watch sea and sky. To each, signs and portents are vital -matters. She noted every shadow on his face, every deepening line, every -trick of his eyes, every mouthful that he ate, and the very working of -his throat as he swallowed. She noted the handwriting on envelopes and -unfinished manuscript, the ashes knocked out of pipes, the amount -of evening whisky consumed, and the morning muddle of pillow and -bedclothes. She was alive to his every footstep in the house. She knew, -without entering the study, whether he was working, or sitting morose in -his old leather arm-chair, or pacing the room. She knew whether he slept -or was restless of nights. - -One day she made a discovery, and in consequence took the first -opportunity of private use of the telephone, and rang up Herold. She -was anxious about her guardian. Could she see Herold as soon as possible -without Aunt Gladys or guardian knowing? They arranged a meeting just -inside the park, by the Marble Arch. - -Herold, who knew Unity to be a young woman of practical common sense, -had readily assented to her proposal, and in considerable perturbation -of mind started from his home in Kensington. He arrived punctually at -the Marble Arch end of the park, but found her already there, a patient, -undistinguished little figure in her tartan blouse and nondescript hat -adorned with impossible roses. The latter article of attire was her -best hat. She had bought it already trimmed for seven-and-six, which had -seemed a reckless expenditure of her guardian's money. - -She was sitting on a bench of the broad carriage-drive, watching with -a London child's interest, despite her preoccupation, the gorgeous -equipages, carriages, and automobiles transporting the loveliest ladies -(save one) in the world, ravishingly raimented, from one strange haunt -of joyousness to another. For it was half-past three of the clock on -a beautiful day in the height of the London season, and, as everybody -knows, Hyde Park is a royal park, and along that stretch of road from -Hyde Park Corner to the marble arch no cart or omnibus or hackney cab or -pretentious taxi is allowed under penalty of instant annihilation. -Only the splendour (in eyes such as Unity's) of plutocratically owned -vehicles meets the enraptured vision. Pedestrian fashion, however, does -not haunt that end of the road, which is mostly given up to nurse-maids -and drab members of the proletariat; but the flowerbeds make -compensation by blazing with colour, and the plane-trees wave their -greenery over everything. - -Herold raised his hat, shook hands, and sat down by Unity's side. - -“It _was_ good of you to come, Mr. Herold. I scarcely dared ask you, -but--” - -“What's gone wrong?” he asked, with a smile. - -She began her tale: how her guardian neither ate nor slept, how he tore -up page after page of copy,--he who used to write straight ahead; she -found the pieces in the waste paper basket,--how he was growing gloomy -and haggard and ill. Her woman's mind laid pathetic stress on these -outward and visible signs. - -“You must have noticed the difference in him, Mr. Herold,” she said -tearfully. - -He nodded. John took trouble badly, which was one of the reasons -that endeared Herold to him. In some aspects he was nothing but a -Pantagruelian infant; but it was no use discoursing on this to Unity. - -“He feels things very deeply,” he said instead. - -“Would n't you, if you loved Miss Stella, and never saw or heard from -her?” - -“I should,” said he, with a smile. - -“And she loves him. I know it. And she feels deeply, too.” - -He acquiesced. “She, too, is very unhappy.” - -“And they 're separated forever because they can't marry?” - -“That is so, Unity,” said he. - -“Why can't he get rid of her--the other woman I mean?” cried Unity, -fiercely. - -“She has given him no grounds for divorce.” - -Unity twisted her handkerchief in her hands. “I suppose there comes a -time,” she said, “when people can't stand any more suffering, and they -break down or do something dreadful.” - -“Your guardian is too strong for that,” replied Herold. - -“I don't know. I don't know.” The mothering instinct spoke. “That 's -what I 've come to ask you about. I'm frightened.” - -[Illustration: 0294] - -She turned on him a miserable, scared face and told him of her -discovery. She had gone into her guardian's study that morning in order -to tidy up, and had seen that he had left the key in the lock of his -private drawer, with the rest of the bunch hanging from it. She had -opened the drawer and found, lying on top of some documents one of which -was a sealed envelope endorsed “My Will,” a loaded revolver and a case -of cartridges. She knew that the revolver was loaded because she had -examined it. Then, hearing his step, she had shut the drawer, and gone -on with her dusting. He had entered, locked the drawer, put the bunch in -his pocket, and gone out without a word. - -Herold looked grave. More in order to gain time for reflection than to -administer a moral lesson, he said: - -“You should n't have searched his private drawer, Unity.” - -“I'd search anything, if only I could find a way of helping him,” she -replied impetuously. “When I see him suffer and can't do anything for -him, I feel crazy. I can't sleep sometimes, and stand outside his door -in the middle of the night. It does n't matter whether I ought n't to -have done it or not,” she cried with an awkward and impatient gesture; -“I did it, and I found what I found. What I want to know is, Why should -my guardian make his will and keep a loaded revolver in his room unless -he thought that--that he was going to die?” - -Her eyes filled with tears. Herold, alarmed by her news and touched by -her devotion, took her cheap-gloved hand and pressed it. Occupants of -the dazzling equipages stared at the elegantly attired gentleman and the -dowdy little girl love-making on the public seat. He tried to reassure -her. - -“Every man with folks depending on him makes a will, so we can dismiss -that; and I know heaps of men who keep revolvers.” - -“But why should the will be dated two days ago?” asked Unity. - -“Was it?” - -“The date was written on the envelope, with 'My Will' and his name.” - -“In all probability,” said Herold, “the cloud that has come between him -and Stellamaris has made him decide to make a fresh will. I know he made -one some years ago.” - -“But why the revolver?” - -“He spoke to me, also some years ago, about getting one. There had been -one or two burglaries and an ugly murder--don't you remember?--in the -neighbourhood. He must have got it then.” - -“It looks too new,” said Unity. - -“Those things keep new for ever so long, if they 're not used,” he -argued. - -“Then you think there 's no danger?” she askeds with both her hands on -his wrist. - -“Not at present,” he said, with a smile. “Look after him as closely -as you can and keep up your brave little heart, or we 'll have you too -going about with hollow eyes and gaunt cheeks, and we can't afford it.” - -“Me?” She sniffed derisively. “I'm as tough as a horse. And what do I -matter?” - -“Your guardian would have a pretty poor time of it if he had only Aunt -Gladys to look after him.” - -The shadow of a grin flickered over Unity's face. - -“I suppose he would,” she said. - -She went away half-comforted. She had shared her terrifying secret with -Herold, which was a good and consoling thing; but she had not been -quite convinced by his easy arguments. And Herold went away entirely -unconvinced. He knew John as no one, not even Unity, who had made him -the passionate study of her life, could know him. It was his peculiarity -to pursue his right-headed ideas with far less obstinacy than his -wrong-headed ones. In the former case he had a child's (and sometimes -a naughty child's) hesitations, and was amenable to argument; but when -bent on a course of folly, he charged blindly, and could be stopped -only with great difficulty. Herold walked through the park in anxious -thought, and, at a loose end for an hour or two, took a taxi to the club -to which both he and John belonged. Avoiding the lounge and its cheery -talk, he mounted to the deserted morning-room, and, having ordered tea, -settled down to an evening newspaper, the pages of which he stared at, -but did not read. - -Presently, to his surprise, John, who had avoided the club for some -little time, burly and gloomy, entered the room. - -“I thought I'd come in for a quiet talk with somebody; but there's that -ass Simmons down-stairs. He makes me sick.” - -Simmons was the wit and brilliant raconteur of the club. - -“You can have a quiet talk with me, if I'm good enough,” said Herold. -“I 've been wanting to see you. What line are you going to take in the -'Review' on this latest freak of the censor?” - -The prohibition of a famous Continental play had aroused the usual storm -in the theatrical and journalistic world. Every one who wrote turned his -back on the harmless and ridiculously situated man, and in cuttlefish -fashion squirted ink at him. But John Risca took no interest in the -question, and stated the fact with unnecessary violence. He, on his -side, had wanted to see Herold. He had taken his advice and written to -Stella and had received no reply. More than a week had passed. The whole -thing was driving him mad. - -Herold made a proposal which had been vaguely in his head for some days, -and to which Unity's communication had given definiteness. - -“Come away with me on a sea-voyage--a couple of months--South Africa, -anywhere you like. I'm tired out. As for the piece, it's near the end of -the run, and it 'll hurt no one if I go out and let Brooke play my part. -I have n't had a holiday for two years. It would be an act of charity. -You can get away; no man is indispensable, and you can afford it. If you -stay here, you 'll lose your balance and very likely commit some act of -idiotic folly. By our return, time will have done its soothing work, and -the relations between Stella and yourself will have been readjusted.” - -Such was the substance of that which for a solid hour he strove to nail -into John's armour-clad mind. His efforts were vain. In the first place, -John was not going to accept such a quixotic sacrifice of professional -interests from any man, even from Herold; secondly, he could n't get -away from London, and did n't want to; thirdly, if he were being driven -mad within a journey of an hour or so from Stellamaris, he would become -a raving maniac if he were separated from her by half the length of the -earth; fourthly, he was in perfect health and perfect command of his -faculties, and the only meaning he could attach to Herold's insinuation -regarding idiotic folly was that he might forget himself so far as to -go down to Southcliff and make a scene with Stellamaris, thereby acting -with insensate cruelty toward her: all of which was ludicrous, and it -was insulting on Herold's part to make such a suggestion. - -Herold called him a fool and said that he did not mean that at all. - -“Then what did you mean?” - -“When a man loses control over himself and lets himself be obsessed by -a fixed idea, his brain 's not right, and he's capable of anything. The -only chance for him is change of scene and interests, and that's why -I've been imploring you to come away with me.” - -“And that's why I'm going to do nothing of the kind,” said John, rising -and looking down upon his friend with blood-shot eyes. “I'm pretty -miserable, I own. Lots of men are, and they have to keep their mouths -shut, because they have n't any one before whom they 're not ashamed to -let off steam. I've got you. I've had you all my man's life. I've told -you everything. Somehow I've not been ashamed to tell you things I -would n't dream of breathing to any other man living. There 's a kind of -woman, I believe, whom I might have talked to as I do to you. I've -not met her, so I've got into the habit of coming to you with whatever -worries me; and you 've never failed me. And I've come to you now. But -there are limits beyond which even a friend like you has no right to -go. You've no right to tell me I'm going out of my mind and to warn me -against behaving like the inmate of a lunatic asylum. You've no right. I -resent it. I'm not going to stand it.” - -Herold's reply was checked by the creaking of the door and the entrance -of the bent figure of an old member, a county court judge who, on his -way to a writing-table by the window, nodded courteously to the two -younger men and remarked that it was a fine day. - -“I suppose most people would call it so,” said John. - -“Don't you?” - -“I hate it,” cried John. “I wish it would rain. I wish it would rain -like the devil. I would give my ears for a pea-soup fog. Sunshine is too -blightingly ironical in this country.” - -The old judge lifted his eyebrows. “The metaphysics of meteorology are -beyond me,” he said, with a smile and a bow, and sat down to write. - -John lingered for a second or two by the side of his friend, tracing -the pattern of the Turkey carpet with the toe of his boot; then he swung -round abruptly. - -“Excuse me,” said he. “I 've got to look at Baxter's imbecile article in -'The Contemporary.' ” - -He went to the table where the current magazines and reviews were tidily -displayed, and Herold, sitting in an arm-chair some distance away, with -his back to the table, pondered over the discussion that had just taken -place. But for the rumble and clatter of London that came through the -open windows, the ceaseless choric ode to all the drama of the vast -city, there was silence in the spacious room, broken only by the -scratching of the old judge's quill pen. Herold resumed his aimless -skimming of the evening newspaper. What further appeal could he make to -John in his contradictory and violent mood? - -At last the old judge, having scribbled his note, got up and left the -room. Herold turned and found himself alone. John had gone without drum -or trumpet. In the lounge down-stairs there was no John, and in the hall -the porter told him that Mr. Risca had left the club. - -He went home to his actor's six o'clock dinner, and found a letter from -Lady Blount imploring him to come to Southcliff at once. Stella was -getting worse day by day. Sir Oliver and she were in despair, Dr. -Ransome was at his wits' ends. In a woman's frantic helplessness she -adjured him to come and work a miracle. Now, it so happened that on the -early afternoon of the next day he had a very important appointment. -It was a question of his going into nominal management in the autumn. -Suitable pieces, a theatre, and financial backers, obscure but vital -elements in theatrical business, had been found, and it was with these -last that the morrow's all-important interview was to take place. He -turned up the railway time-table, and saw that by leaving London by the -first train in the morning, and probably skipping lunch, he could -spend a couple of hours in Southcliff and get back in time for his -engagement. He telegraphed to Lady Blount, dined, and went to the -theatre. For perhaps the first time in his pleasant life he was -overwhelmed that evening by the sense of the futility of his work, which -every artist, actor, painter, and poet is doomed to feel at times. -The painted faces of his colleagues, the vain canvas of the sets, the -stereotyped words, gestures, inflections, repeated without variation for -more than the two hundredth time, the whole elaborate make-believe of -life that at once is, and is not, the theatre,--all this oppressed him, -filled him with shame and disgust. It had no meaning. It was an idle -show. He had given to inanity a life that might have been devoted to the -pursuit of noble ideals. - -Folks are apt to imagine that, when the pains of the actual world get -round about an artist's soul, the supreme moment has arrived for him to -deliver himself in immortal utterances. This is untrue. He does n't so -deliver himself. On the contrary, he cuts up his canvas, smashes his -piano, and kicks his manuscript about the room. What interpretation -of life, however celestially inspired, can have the all-annihilating -poignancy of life itself? Your poet may write an immortal lyric by the -death-bed of his mistress; but it is a proof that he did not care a -brass farthing for the lady: he is expressing the grief that he might -have felt if he had loved her. For the suffering artist, at grips with -the great realities, art is only a trumpery matter. It is only when -he is getting, or has got, better, that he composes his masterpieces -working - - ... the world to sympathy - - With hopes and fears it heeded not. - -So Herold, instinctively obeying the common law, as all poor humans -in one way or another have to do, grew heartsick at the vanity of his -calling, and, after a mechanically perfect performance, wondered how an -honest man could live such a life of shameless fraud. - -After a night and dawn of rain the sun shone from a blue sky when he -reached the Channel House next morning. Sir Oliver and Lady Blount -received him in the dining-room. They looked very old and careworn. -Like Constable, they had nothing to live for save Stellamaris; and now -Stellamaris, stricken by an obscure but mortal malady, was dying before -their eyes. So, antiphonally, and at first with singularly little -bickering, they told Herold their story of despair. It added little -to his knowledge. The symptoms of which he was already aware had -intensified; that was all. But the two guardians had altered their -opinion as to the cause. Sir Oliver ruefully discarded the theory of -the touch of the sun, and his wife now realized that the state of -Stellamaris was not merely the morbid phase through which most maidens -are supposed to pass. Dr. Ransome, with intuition none too miraculous, -had emitted the theory that she had something on her mind. “But what -could the poor darling innocent child have on her mind?” cried Sir -Oliver. - -“What, indeed,” echoed Lady Blount, “unless her mind is affected?” - -“Don't be a fool, Julia,” said Sir Oliver. - -“I'm not such a fool as you think, Oliver. Stella has n't lived a normal -life, and who knows but what the change of the last year may have done -harm? Dr. Ransome himself said that if we could cure the mind, we could -cure the body, and advised us to take her abroad so that she could be -distracted by fresh scenes.” - -“He hinted nothing about insanity. You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” - said Sir Oliver, with querulous asperity. - -Then Herold saw that the truth must be told. - -“Has it never struck you that John may be the cause of it all?” - -Sir Oliver jerked himself round in his chair. “John? What do you mean?” - -“Why, I wrote to John at the same time that I did to you,” said Lady -Blount, “begging him to come down in almost the same words; for you -know, dear Walter, I 'm not a clever woman and can't say the same thing -in two different ways. She does n't know I did so, for she's so strange -and won't talk to any one alone, if she can help it. I thought John -and you might succeed in getting something out of her. But John has n't -replied at all. I can't understand it.” - -“Does n't that bear out what I say?” asked Herold. - -“But John--what do you mean?” Sir Oliver repeated. - -“Yes, dear, what do you mean? Of course John has behaved in an -extraordinary way lately. He has n't been to see us for ever so -long. But the dear fellow has explained. He is overwhelmed with -work, especially at week-ends. He writes me charming letters, and he -corresponds regularly with Stella. I don't see--“. - -“Oh, for heaven's sake, Julia, let Walter put in a word!” cried -Sir Oliver, rising and throwing his cigarette-end into the bank of -flowering-plants that filled the summer fireplace, a domestic outrage -that always irritated Lady Blount, and even now caused her to wince and -dart an angry glance at the perpetrator. “Go on. Tell us what you mean.” - -“Has it never occurred to you that Stella and John may have fallen -in love with each other--with the ghastly barrier of the wife between -them?” - -The two old people looked at him wide-eyed and drooping-mouthed. That -Stellamaris, their fragile, impalpable child of mystery, more precious -to them than a child of their own bodies, over whom they might have -quarrelled--that Stellamaris should be a grown woman, capable of a grown -woman's passions, was a proposition bewilderingly preposterous. Sir -Oliver found speech first. - -“Stella in love with John? It 's absurd; it's ludicrous. Why, bless -my soul! you might just as well say she was in love with me! It's -nonsense--ridiculous nonsense.” - -He walked up and down beside the dining-room table, with arms -outstretched, shaking his thin hands in protest. - -Lady Blount, her elbow resting on the table, looked at Walter. - -“The barrier of the wife? Who could have told her?” - -“John himself.” - -“How much?” - -“I don't know.” - -Sir Oliver brought himself to an abrupt standstill by the side of his -wife. - -“He ought n't to have done anything of the kind. Such things are not fit -for her to hear.” - -“That's the dreadful mistake we've made all along, my dear Oliver,” said -Herold, sadly; and he disclosed to them probabilities of which they had -not dreamed. - -Lady Blount began to cry silently, and her husband laid his hand on her -shoulder. She put up her own and clasped it. They looked very forlorn, -robbed of the darling they loved. The new Stellamaris was alien to their -conservatism. They did not know her. They were lost. Like children they -clasped hands, and their hearts were united at last in common dismay. - -Herold turned and looked out of the window. Presently he said: - -“She 's in the garden. I 'll go and talk to her, if she will let me.” - -“Do, Walter dear. Try to make her speak. It's that awful silence that we -can't bear.” - -“She has always been devilish fond of you,” said Sir Oliver. - -Herold went out and came upon her, escorted by Constable, in a -path bordered on each side by Canterbury bells and fox-gloves and -sweet-william. She drew herself up as he approached, and looked at him -like some wraith or White Lady caught in the daylight, with no gleam -of welcome in her glance. The old dog, however, pushed by her to greet -Herold, whom he held in vast approbation. Then, aware of being relieved -from duty, he wandered down the path, where he lay down and, like a -kindly elder, suffered the frisky impudence of a stray kitten of the -household. - -“I suppose they 've sent for you because they think I am ill,” Stella -began suspiciously. - -“You are ill, dearest,” he replied in a quiet voice, “and it's causing -us all very deep grief.” - -“I'm not ill,” she retorted. “But every one's worrying me. I wish you -would tell them to leave me alone.” - -He took a nerveless, unresponsive hand and put it to his lips. -“Stellamaris, Stella darling, don't you know how we all love you? How we -would give everything, life itself, to make you happy?” - -She withdrew her hand. “Don't talk of happiness. It's a delusion.” - -“Every living thing can be happy after its kind,” said Herold. “Look at -this great bumble-bee swinging in the campanula.” - -“You were n't sent here to talk to me about bumble-bees,” she said with -an air of defiance. - -“No. I came to speak to you about John.” - -It was a thrust of the scalpel. It hurt him cruelly to deal it, but it -had to be dealt. He closely watched its effect. Her wan face grew even -whiter, and her lips grew white, and she held herself rigid. Her eyes -were hard. - -“I forbid you to mention his name to me.” - -“I must disobey you. No, my dearest,” said he, gently barring the path, -“you must listen. John is as unhappy and as ill as you yourself. He is -suffering greatly. I don't know what to do with him. He 's going on like -a madman. You must not be unjust.” - -“I 'm not unjust. I know the truth at last, and I judge accordingly.” - -“You are hard, Stella. Perhaps that's the first unkind word anybody has -ever spoken to you--and I've got to speak it, worse luck! John would -have told you long ago of the unhappy things in his life if he had -thought they could possibly concern you. As soon as he found that they -might do so, he told you frankly.” - -“He has told me nothing,” said Stella, icily. - -“He wrote to you about his marriage over a week ago.” - -“I did n't read the letter. I never read his letters. I don't take them -out of the envelopes. I destroy them.” - -Herold stared in amazement. “Then how,” he cried, “do you know what you -call the truth? What do you know?” - -“He married a woman who is still alive. I know a great deal more,” she -added, ingenuous still in her cold disdain. - -“More?” His brain worked against baffling conjecture. Who could have -told her? Suddenly his eyes caught the shadow of tragedy. He made a -step forward and closed his hands on her arms, and even then he felt -the shock and pain of their fragility. In London, a short time ago, they -were round and delicately full. - -“Stellamaris darling, tell me. It is I, Walter, who have loved you all -your life, and to whom you have always told everything. Something none -of us know has happened. What is it?” - -She swayed back from him, and half closed her eyes. - -“Let me go,” she said faintly. “Such things are not to be spoken of. -They are not to be thought of. They only come in horrible dreams one -can't help.” - -He put an arm round her instinctively to save her from falling. - -“Who told you? You must speak.” - -She wrenched herself free and stood rigid again. - -“She told me, his wife herself.” - -“His wife!” His head reeled. - -“His deserted wife, a woman with green eyes and thin lips. I suppose you -know her. She came down here to tell me.” - -“My God!” cried Herold. “My God in heaven!” - -And for the first time Stella saw a man in white, shaking anger, showing -his teeth and shaking his fists. - -“When was it?” - -She told him. He controlled the riot within him and questioned her -further, almost hectoringly, masterfully, and she replied like a woman -compelled to obey, yet flinging her answers defiantly. And he went on -unrelenting, fighting not her, but the devil that had got possession of -her, until she told him all, even the final horror, as far as he could -wring confession from her virgin fierceness; for, in the white-hot -passion of his anger he had challenged her knowledge of evil almost as -directly as the woman had done. - -“And you believe her?” he cried. “You, Stellamaris, believe that -murderous thing of infamy, when you 've known John Risca and his love -and his tenderness all your life? You believe it possible--John and -Unity? Good God! It 's monstrous! It 's hellish!” - -He planted himself on the path before her, hands on hips, his sensitive -face set, his blue eyes aflame, and looked at her as no man or woman -had ever yet looked at Stellamaris. And she met his look, and her eyes, -despite the battle her proud soul was fighting, lost their hardness, and -new light flashed into them, as though they had changed from agate to -diamond. - -“She loves him, body and soul,” she said. “I ought to have recognized it -in London. I did n't know the meaning of things then. I do now.” - -“Yes, she does love him; she loves him as I love you,”--and, unrealized -by him, there came into his voice the vibrating notes of passion that -had stirred Stellamaris to the depths at the theatre,--“with every -quivering fibre, heart and spirit, body and soul.” He flung both hands -before his face,--these were words of madness,--and went on hurriedly: -“She loves him as John loves you, as the great souls of the earth can -love, without thought of hope, just because they love.” - -She looked at him, and he looked at her, and they stood, as they had -been standing all the time, in the pathway, between the gay borders of -flowers; and the sky was blue overhead, and the noonday sun caressed the -ivy and lichens on the Georgian front of the Channel House, which basked -peacefully on the farther side of the lawn. The kitten had frisked away -with feline inconsequence, and Constable sprawled stiffly asleep on the -gravel, like a dead dog. - -“You say you love me like that?” said Stellamaris. - -“You command love. Unity herself loves you like that,” replied Herold, -loyally. - -“What reason should she have for loving me? She should be jealous of -me, as I was of her. And who is she? Who is Unity?” she asked with an -imperious little stamp. “I 've been lied to about her for many years. -She too lied. Will you explain her? If she's not what that woman said, -what is she?” - -“I 'll tell you,” he said. - -He spared her nothing. It was not the hour for glossing over unpleasant -things. Let her judge out of the fullness of knowledge. At his tale of -the torturing--he gave her the details--she shrank back, covering her -eyes and uttered a sobbing cry. - -“It 's too horrible! I can't bear it; I can't believe it.” - -He waited a while to give her time for recovery. - -“It's true,” said he. - -“I don't believe it,” she cried, facing him again. “The woman warned me -against lies that were being told about her--lies to screen Unity.” - -“It 's true,” he repeated. “If you want proofs, I could get you the -newspaper reports of the trial. She was put into prison for three years. -Then John swore that Unity should never suffer again, and, by way of -reparation, adopted her as his own daughter. He came like a god and -lifted her from misery to happiness. That 's why she loves him, as you -say, body and soul.” - -“And he loves her.” - -Her tone staggered him. “He loves her as a father loves a daughter.” - -“And she as a woman loves a lover. I'm no longer a child. I know what I -'m talking about.” - -Then he saw how deep the poison had gone. It was a ghastly travesty of -Stellamaris that spoke. - -“You are talking wickedness, Stellamaris,” he said sternly. “Go on your -knees and pray to God for forgiveness.” - -She threw back her head. “There is n't a God, or He would not allow such -foulness and horror to be on His earth. I believe in nothing. I believe -nobody. I would just as soon believe that woman as you. At least she did -n't pretend to be good. She rejoiced in her vileness. She hid nothing, -as every one else hides things. And now--” her voice dropped to a tone -of great weariness--“don't you think you've tortured me enough?” - -The word was a sword through his heart. He stretched out reproachful -hands. - -“Stella, dearest, dearest--” - -“Forgive me,” she said. “Sometimes I hardly know what I'm saying.” - -“If you would only trust me!” - -She shook her head sadly. - -“I can trust no one, not even you. Let me go now.” - -He saw that she was at the end of her strength. Any concession that she -might make now would be for him a Pyrrhic victory. And it was true that -he had tortured her--tortured her, as his whole being asserted, for her -soul's welfare. But he could probe her no further. - -They walked in silence toward the house. Constable, as soon as they -had passed, rose and followed them. It is for the greater happiness of -big-hearted dogs that they do not understand all things human. - -At the foot of the staircase leading to Stella's wing they parted. - -“Stella, darling,” said he, taking her hand, “if you will believe -nothing else, believe this: all our hearts are breaking for you.” - -She looked at him for a long, odd moment, with the diamond glitter in -her eyes. - -“Mine is broken,” she said. - -He stood and watched her wearily mounting the stairs until she -disappeared at the turn of the landing, the old hound scrabbling up -behind her. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - -HEROLD caught his train. He had accomplished his mission; Stella had -spoken. In a few words he had enlightened Stella's unhappy guardians. - -“Be gentle with her,” he had recommended. “Don't try to force her -confidence. Don't let Ransome feel her pulse too often or give her -physic. Talk about the tropics, and try to stimulate her interest and -make her think she would like to go on a sea-voyage. Or, if you can get -hold of a lost baby, stick it in the garden where she can find it.” - -He had talked bravely to the old people, who would have cut off each -other's heads--and their own, for the matter of that--to bring back the -Stellamaris of a year ago. They clung to him pathetically. If he had -counselled them to shut Stella in a room and read the minor prophets -aloud to her, they would have obeyed him with unquestioning meekness. -With a smile on his lips, he had put heart into them. Lady Blount had -kissed him, and Sir Oliver, watery-eyed, had wrung his hand. - -In the empty carriage of the train he gave way, as your highly strung, -sensitive man must do, if he would avoid disaster. He did not think. -To think implies an active process. But thoughts came tumultuous, and -without a struggle he let them assail him. He felt that if he attempted -to put into logical order the intricacies of passionate emotion in which -he and John and Stella and Unity were involved, if he attempted to -gage the effect on all their lives of this new horror brought therein -by the murderous devil-woman, if he allowed himself to think of Stella's -challenge, “You say you love me like that?” he would go mad. Let the -burning thoughts sear his brain as they listed; his sanity demanded -passive surrender. - -At Victoria Station he collected his wits so as to deal with -the commonplace routine of life. He looked at the clock, rapidly -calculating. He would have time to go home, bolt some food and drink, -and go off to keep his appointment with the men of money. He drove to -his house in Kensington in a taxicab, and, telling the driver to wait, -let himself in with his latchkey. His man met him in the hall. - -“A lady waiting to see you, sir.” - -“I have no time to see ladies. Tell her I'm very sorry, and bring me a -sandwich and a whisky and soda.” - -He thought she was some persistent actress in search of an engagement. -Such phenomena are not infrequent in the overcrowded theatrical world. - -“It 's a Miss Blake, sir, Mr. Risca's ward. She telephoned this morning, -and asked when you would be likely to be in--” - -“Miss Blake?” - -He stood amazed. What was Unity doing in his house? It was only -yesterday that he had seen her. What had happened? - -“Where is she?” - -“In the library, sir.” - -He ran up the stairs. As he entered the room, Unity rose from the -straight-backed chair in which she had been sitting and rushed to meet -him. She was an eager and anxious Unity, still wearing the tartan -blouse, but not the gorgeous hat of yesterday. A purple tam-o'-shanter -hastily secured by a glass-headed pin, had taken the place of that -extravagant creation. - -“Oh, Mr. Herold, do you know anything about guardian?” - -The eagerness faded from her face as she saw the perplexity on his. - -“What do you mean, dear?” - -“He went out last night about seven o'clock, and has n't come back -since.” She wrung her hands. “I thought you might be able to tell me -something.” - -He could only look at her in blank dismay, and question her as to John's -latest known movements. There was very little to tell. - -“He had an appointment in town after lunch, which was the last time I -saw him. I heard him come in about a quarter to seven and go straight -into his study--” - -“He left me about half-past five--at the club,” said Herold. “He was all -nerves and crazy-headedness. He almost quarrelled with me. He said he -had n't slept for weeks.” - -“He has n't,” said Unity. “That's what makes me so frightened.” - -“Well, go on.” - -“I heard him come in. I was in the kitchen helping Phoebe. A few minutes -afterward I heard him walk down the passage--you know his quick, heavy -tread--and go out again, slamming the street door. We waited dinner for -ever so long, and he did n't come. And then it was bedtime. Aunt Gladys -was n't anxious, because nothing that guardian did now would surprise -her. She's like that, you know. And I did n't think very much about it -at first, because he's always irregular. But when it came to two and -three and four o'clock in the morning--I can never go to sleep till I -hear him come in, you know,” she explained simply--“then I was terribly -anxious--” - -“Why did n't you ring me up during the night?” Herold asked. - -“I thought of it; but I did n't like to disturb you. I did early this -morning, but your servant said you had already gone down to Southcliff. -Oh, I was so hoping,” she sighed, “that he had gone to Southcliff, too! -There was a letter waiting for him--” - -“Good Lord!” cried Herold, with a flash of memory, “so there was! From -Lady Blount.” - -“Do you know what was in it?” she asked quickly. - -“Lady Blount told me. She said that Stellamaris was very ill, going to -die,--an alarming letter,--and begged him to go down at once.” - -“And he went out, but he did n't go down,” said Unity. - -Their eyes met, and the same fear froze them. “Did you look--” - -“No; how could I? The drawer was locked.” - -“It must be broken open,” said Herold. - -The man-servant came in to ask whether he should pay and dismiss the -waiting driver of the taxi. - -“Yes,” said Herold, after a moment's reflection. “And, Ripley, you might -telephone to Mr. Bowers of Temple Chambers and say that I'm detained; -that I don't know whether I 'll be able to come at all.” - -It was impossible to transact business beneath this lowering cloud of -tragedy. The men of money could wait till John was found, dead or alive. -Suddenly he remembered that a taxicab was the one thing necessary. He -recalled Ripley. - -“Let the cab wait.” He turned to Unity as soon as the man had closed the -door. - -“It must be broken open, and at once. I 'll come with you and do it. I -'ll take the responsibility.” - -“Yes,” said Unity. “Let us know the worst.” - -“I 'll go and fetch a couple of bunches of keys. We may find one to -fit.” - -He went out and soon afterward returned, the keys jingling in his -pocket. Ripley was at the hall telephone as they passed. - -“I 'm going up to Mr. Risca's,” said Herold. - -In a few moments they were speeding across London. Unity sat very tense, -her red hands clenched together till the knuckles showed white. - -“The house first, and then Scotland Yard,” he said. - -“We must know first,” she assented. - -He glanced at her admiringly. - -“You 're one of the bravest girls I 've ever met.” - -She shrugged her shoulders. “It is n't a time for playing the fool and -going into hysterics,” she said bluntly. - -Many girls of her mongrel origin would have broken down under the -strain, shed wild tears, uttered incoherences of terror. Not so Unity. -“She is the kind that walks through fire,” thought Herold. - -They spoke little. He grew sick with anxiety. Lady Blount's letter had -been the determining cause of John's flight from home. Of this there -could be no question. It had not been a sane man who raved at him -yesterday. He was primed for any act of madness. The letter was the -spark. Stella ill, fading away to a ghost and as silent as one, victim -to an obscure and wasting disease that baffled them all; Stella dying -before their eyes--the unhappy picture of the beloved was poignant in -its artlessness. It would have stirred to grief any friend of -Stellamaris. What emotions, then, had it not aroused in the breast of -the man who loved her desperately, and whose very love had brought her -to this pitch of suffering, to this imminence of dissolution? And the -appeal for help, for the immediate presence of the rock and tower of -strength of the household, with what ironic force had that battered at -the disordered brain? There were only three courses for a man situated -like Risca, and gifted or afflicted with Risca's headstrong and gloomy -temperament, to pursue: to surrender to the appeal, which he had not -done; to find his friend and bid him stand by while he cursed the day he -was born and the God who made him and the devil-ruled welter of infamy -which called itself a world, which likewise he had not done; or, in a -paroxysm of despair and remorse, to fling himself beyond reach of human -touch and seek a refuge for himself in the darkness. The conclusion that -he had taken this last course forced itself with diabolical logic on -Herold's mind. The very key to the door of darkness had lain ready to -his hand, hidden in the study drawer. Before the eyes of the imaginative -man, strung tight almost to breaking-point by the morning's emotions, -flashed vivid pictures of tragic happenings--so vivid that they could -not but be true: the reading of the letter; John standing by the study -table; the letter dropping from his hands, which, in familiar gesture, -went to the crisp, grizzly hair; the bloodshot eyes,--he had noted them -yesterday,--the heavy jaw momentarily hanging loose, then snapping tight -with a grating of the teeth; the unlocking of the drawer; the snatching -up of the evil, glittering thing; the exit along the passage, with “his -quick, heavy tread.” - -Did he remember to lock the drawer again? The vision was elusive. The -question became insistent. - -“Did you try the drawer?” he asked suddenly. - -“No,” said Unity. - -It was unlocked. He felt sure that it was unlocked. He recalled the -moving picture, bade it stay while he concentrated his soul on the -drawer. And one instant it was shut, and another it did not seem flush -with the framing-table and a crack, a sixteenth of an inch, was visible. - -He strove to carry on the vision beyond the house-door; but in vain. He -saw John Risca going out grim into the soft and clouded summer evening, -and then the figure disappeared into lucent but impenetrable space. - -Unity gripped his hand. Her common little face was like marble. - -“Supposing he's dead!” - -“I won't suppose such a thing,” said Herold. - -“You must. Why not face things?” - -“All right. Let us face them.” - -“Supposing he's dead. Do you think he 's wicked?” - -“Certainly not. Do you?” - -“You know I don't,” said Unity. - -“Of course I know,” said Herold. - -“I could die for her myself, and I'm not a man,” said Unity. - -“Is n't it best, however, to live for those one loves, even at the cost -of suffering?” - -“Not if you can do them good by dying.” - -“Supposing he 's dead,” asked Herold,--clean direct souls can ask each -other such questions,--“what will you do?” - -Her grip grew fierce as she turned up to him her snub-nosed little -cockney face. “There 'll be no need for me to kill myself. I 'll die all -right. Don't make any mistake about that.” - -“But supposing he is alive, and supposing the barrier were removed--I -mean, supposing the woman--you know whom--were no longer there, and he -married--what would you do?” - -“What would you?” - -“I?” - -“You don't think you can fool me,” said Unity. “You love Miss Stella as -much as he does.” - -“How do you know?” - -Unity flung her hand to the outer air. “How do I know that's an -omnibus?” - -“You 're right, my dear, I do love her. You 're one of the few human -beings in this world who know what love means, and I 've told you what -I 've told to no one living. But if she married John to-morrow, I would -strangle everything wrong in me and devote my life to watching over -their happiness.” - -“Don't you think I'd do the same?” - -“I know you would.” - -“Then what 's the good of asking me what I 'd do?” said Unity. - -“Talk like this helps.” - -Unity sought his hand again. - -“It does,” she said gently. - -There was silence for a while. The white, wall-inclosed houses of Maida -Vale, gay in the sunshine, flashed by them. She gripped his hand harder. - -“But supposing he 's dead, supposing he 's dead.” - -“Let us suppose nothing, my dear,” said Herold. - -The cab stopped at Fairmont, Ossington Road. Herold gave Unity his hand -to alight, and together they went through the tiny front garden, now -bright with geraniums and petunias and pansies, into the house. - -Miss Lindon, who had been watching all day for John by the drawing-room -window, greeted them in the passage, her eyes red, and her cap askew on -her white hair. - -“Oh, Mr. Herold, have you found him? Where is he? I 'm sure he 's been -run over by a motor-omnibus,” she continued, on learning that Herold -brought no news. “The way they whizz upon you when you 're not looking -is so bewildering. The old days of horses were bad enough, although I do -remember his poor father being upset out of a rowing-boat at Ramsgate.” - -“You may be quite sure, dear Miss Lindon,” said Herold, gently, “that -John has n't met with a street accident. The police would have told us -long ago.” - -“But what could have happened to him? I know I 've thought of -everything.” - -“Very likely he went down to spend the night in the East End, so as to -write a descriptive article for the review,” said Herold. “You have n't -thought of that.” - -Miss Lindon admitted she had not, but tearfully held to the -motor-omnibus theory. He tried to reassure her. Unity clenched her -teeth, half mad with anxiety to get to the fateful drawer. At last -Herold led the dear but delaying lady into the drawing-room. - -“I am going to examine John's papers. Very likely I shall find something -to put me on the track. You don't mind if I go in alone--with Unity to -tell me where things are?” - -“I'm sure, if you really try, you 'll find him. You are so clever,” she -replied. - -He kissed her hand and left her sitting by the window, the tears running -down her cheeks. In the passage Unity caught him by the hand. - -“Come along!” - -They ran down the passage into the study and locked the door. - -“Which is the drawer?” - -“The writing-table--the one to the right.” - -Herold flew to it and tried it. His vision had been false: it was -locked. He sat down in John's worn leather writing-chair and pulled out -his bunches of keys. One after another he tried them. Some were too -large, others too small. Now and then one fitted into the keyhole and -turned slightly in the wards. - -“It 's coming.” - -“Yes--no.” - -“Let me try; it won't do.” - -The perspiration streamed upon their faces, and their fingers shook. -Sometimes the tried keys slid back into the bunch, and all had to be -tried over again. A piano organ which had been playing maddeningly in -front of the house ceased suddenly, and there was the silence of -death in the room, broken only by the rattle of the keys and the tense -breathing of the two. - -At last they assured themselves that none of the keys would fit. They -tried to wrench the drawer open by the handles, but the workmanship -was stout. It was clattering discord. They searched the room for some -instrument to pick or break open the lock. They rummaged among unlocked -drawers filled with papers, old letters, bits of sealing-wax, forgotten -pipes thrown together haphazard after the fashion of an untidy man. They -found many rusty keys, which they tried in vain. - -“We must break it open,” said Herold. - -He sent Unity for a screw-driver, and during her short absence looked -through the papers in the baskets on the table; but they gave no clue. -Unity returned, and locked the door again behind her. Once more they -wrenched and jerked the drawer, and this time it gave sufficiently for -the edge of the screw-driver to be inserted. And at last the woodwork -broke away from the lock and the drawer flew open, and there lay the -bright revolver on the sealed envelope just as Unity had described. - -Herold sank into the writing-chair, and Unity steadied herself, her -hands behind her, against the table. - -They regarded each other for a while, pale, panting, breathless. - -“Thank God!” he whispered. - -“Yes, thank God!” - -So they remained, recovering from their almost intolerable relief. John -Risca had not killed himself. It was a conclusion logical enough. The -probability was that he was alive. But where? What had become of him? -With what frenzied intention had he fled from the house? - -Presently Unity drew up her squat little figure and closed the mutilated -drawer. - -“Can she have anything to do with it?” she asked, looking at him -steadily. - -“She?” - -“Yes.” - -There was no need of explanation. “She” was the incarnation in woman of -all evil. He rose from the chair, putting his hand to his forehead. He -had not thought of her in connection with John's disappearance; judged -in the light of the morning's revelation, the connection was more than -possible. Of no ingenuity of fiendishness was the woman incapable. - -“What made you think of her?” - -“How can I help thinking of her?” said Unity. - -“It is the she-devil,” he cried excitedly. “She has been at work -already. My God! I have it!” He smote his palm with the fist of the -other hand. “She has told him.” - -“What?” - -“She went down to Southcliff and saw Stellamaris. She poisoned her ears -with hideous things. She was going to throw her over the cliff.” - -Unity, a queer light behind her patient eyes, crept up close to him, and -an ugly look accentuated the coarseness of her features. - -“She dared? She dared to speak to my precious one? What did she say? -Tell me.” - -“She told her she was John's deserted wife, and that you--” he hesitated -for a moment, and saw that he was not dealing with a young girl, but -with a tragic woman--“and that you were his mistress.” - -Unity closed her eyes for a moment and swallowed the horror. Then she -looked at him again. - -“And what else?” - -“She gave to her innocent soul to understand what a mistress was. She -taunted her and jeered at her. She had her at her mercy.” - -“When did you learn this?” - -“This morning, from Stellamaris herself. I told her the whole truth from -beginning to end, but, God help her! her soul is so poisoned that she -does n't know whether to believe the woman or me.” - -“If he knew that--if he knew that,” said Unity, slowly, “he would murder -her.” - -“Would to God she were murdered!” cried Herold in a shrill voice. “Would -to God she were dead! She should be killed outright like a wild beast. -But not by him, oh, not by him! It would be whirling catastrophe and -chaos.” He walked wildly and uttered senseless things. Then he halted. -“But why should he know? Why should she tell him? Why should she invite -her own destruction? No, she can't have told him.” He took her by her -shoulders. “Unity, he must never know. He would kill her. It's a hanging -matter. It's unthinkable. Swear you will never tell him.” - -“I 'll never tell him,” said Unity. - -“He must be saved,” continued Herold, on the same note, his sensitive -face pinched and his eyes eager. “And she must be saved. All this is -killing them both--both of those who matter all the world to you and me. -This thing of infamy is standing between them and blasting their lives. -She will live, and they will be destroyed.” - -“If she were dead, would they come together?” asked Unity. - -“Why not? What's to prevent them? Time and love would clear up clouds. -But she--the unutterable--she will live. She will work in the dark, as -she did that night when she stabbed you.” - -“I'm not thinking of that,” said Unity. - -“But I am.” He waved her disclaimer aside, not appreciating for the -moment how immeasurably was she lifted above the plane of personal -desire for vengeance. “I am,” he repeated. “She is walking murder. She -meant to murder you. She meant to murder Stellamaris. Think of it!” He -threw out his arms in a wide gesture. “There's a path down there--round -the face of the cliff--” - -“I know it,” said Unity. “There 's a bench. I used to sit there.” - -“She lured her there. You know--it's sheer above and sheer below and -rocks beneath. She played with her, cat and mouse, would have thrown her -over, dashed her down, Unity--dashed that precious, beautiful body down -on to the rocks! But she did n't. God sent somebody to save her--to save -her life that time. But she failed. She will try again. She will work -her devilishness against her--against him--against you.” - -“I tell you, I don't care what she does to me,” she interrupted -roughly. “What the hell does it matter what she does to me?”--It was the -aboriginal gutter transcendentalized that spoke--'“Leave me and her out -of it. I 've nothing against her. I 'm not a silly fool. If it had n't -been for her, I should n't be here living like a lady. I ain't a -lady, but I'm supposed to be one. And I should n't have known him, and -I should n't have loved him. And I should n't have known my precious -one--and I should n't have known you. I should have scrubbed floors and -washed up plates in a lodging-house--all I was fit for. I 've nothing -against her--nothing. She can do what she likes with me; but with him -and her--” She broke off on the up-note. - -“Yes, you and I don't matter. We can put our foot on the neck of our own -little devils, can't we?” - -Somehow he found his hands round Unity's cheeks and his eyes looking -into hers; she suffered the nervous clasp gladly, knowing, in her pure -girl's heart, that he was a good man, that he loved Stellamaris as she -loved John, and that he loved John as she loved Stellamaris. Brother -and sister, in a spiritual relation singularly perfect in this imperfect -world, they stood, the gentleman of birth and breeding, the artist, the -finely fibred man of wide culture, and Unity Blake, whose mother had -died of drink in a slum in Notting Hill Gate a year after her father had -died in prison, and of whom Miss Lindon despaired of ever making a lady. - -There came a twisting of the door handle. They fell apart. Then came a -tapping at the door. Herold turned the key and opened. It was Phoebe, -elderly and gaunt. She clasped her hands tight in front of her. - -“Oh, sir! oh, sir!” she said. - -“What's the matter?” - -“Master--he's found. Your servant has just telephoned. Mr. Risca 's met -with an accident and is at your house, and will you please go there at -once?” - - - -THEY found him lying on the sofa, a pitiable object, the whole of his -head from the back of his neck to his eyebrows swathed in bandages. His -clothes were mere limp and discoloured wrappings. They looked as though -they had been wet through, for the red of his tie had run into his -shirt-front and collar. The coarse black sprouts on pallid cheek and -upper lip gave him an appearance of indescribable grime. His eyes were -sunken and feverish. - -Unity uttered a little cry as she saw him, but checked it quickly, and -threw herself on her knees by his side. - -“Thank God you 're alive!” - -He put his hand on her head. - -“I 'm all right,” he said faintly; “but you should n't have come. That -'s why I did n't go straight home. I did n't want to frighten you. I 'm -a ghastly sight, and I should have scared your aunt out of her wits.” - -“But how, in Heaven's name, man,” said Herold, “did you get into this -state?” - -“Something hit me over the head, and I spent the night in rain and -sea-water on the rocks.” - -“On the rocks? Where? At Southcliff?” - -“Yes,” said John, “at Southcliff. I was a fool to go down, but I 've -been a fool all my life, so a bit more folly does n't matter.” He closed -his eyes. “Give me a drink, Wallie--some brandy.” - -Herold went into the dining-room, which adjoined the library, and -returned with decanter, syphon, and glasses. He poured out a brandy and -soda for John and watched him drink it; then he realized that he, too, -would be the better for stimulant. With an abstemious man's idea of -taking brandy as medicine, he poured out for himself an extravagant -dose, mixed a little soda-water with it, and gulped it down. - -“That 'll do me good,” said John; but on saying it he fell to shivering, -despite the heat of the summer afternoon. - -“You 've caught a chill,” cried Unity. She counselled home and bed at -once. - -“Not yet,” he murmured. “It was all I could do to get here. Let me rest -for a couple of hours. I shall be all right. I'm not going to bed,” - he declared with sudden irritability; “I 've never gone to bed in the -daytime in my life. I've never been ill, and I'm not going to be ill -now. I'm only stiff and tired.” - -“You 'll go to bed here right away,” said Herold. - -John protested. Herold insisted. - -“Those infernal clothes--you must get them off at once,” said he. John -being physically weak, his natural obstinacy gave way. Unity saw the -sense of the suggestion; but it was giving trouble. - -“Not a bit,” said Herold. “There 's a spare bedroom. John can have mine, -which is aired. Mrs. Ripley will see to it.” - -He went out to give the necessary orders. Unity busied herself with -unlacing and taking off the stiffened boots. Herold returned, beckoned -to Unity, and whispered that he had telephoned for a doctor. Then he -said to John: - -“How are you feeling, dear old man?” - -“My head's queer, devilish queer. Something fell on it last night and -knocked me out of time. It was raining, and I was sheltering under the -cliff on the beach, the other side of the path, where you can see the -lights of the house, when down came the thing. I must have recovered -just before dawn, for I remember staggering about in a dazed way. I must -have taken the road round the cliff, thinking it the upper road, and -missed my footing and fallen down. I came to about nine this morning, on -the rocks, the tide washing over my legs. I 'm black and blue all over. -Wonder I did n't break my neck. But I 'm tough.” - -“Thank God you 're alive!” said Unity again. - -He passed his hands over his eyes. “Yes. You must have thought all -manner of things, dear. I did n't realize till Ripley told me that I -had n't let you know. I went out, meaning to catch the 7:15 and come -back by the last train. But this thing knocked all memory out of me. I'm -sorry.” - -Herold looked in bewilderment at the stricken giant. Even now he had not -accounted for the lunatic and almost tragic adventure. What was he doing -on the beach in the rain? What were the happenings subsequent to his -recovering consciousness at nine o'clock? - -“Does it worry you to talk?” he asked. - -“No. It did at first--I mean this morning. But I'm all right now--nearly -all right. I'd like to tell you. I picked myself up, all over blood, -a devil of a mess, and crawled to the doctor's--not Ransome; the other -chap, Theed. He 's the nearest; and, besides, I did n't want to go to -Ransome. I don't think any one saw me. Theed took me in and fixed me up -and dried my clothes. Of course he wanted to drag me to the Channel -House, but I would n't let him. I made him swear not to tell them. I -don't want them to know. Neither of you must say anything. He also tried -to fit me out. But, you know, he 's about five foot nothing; it was -absurd. As soon as I could manage it, he stuck me in a train, much -against his will, and I came on here. That 's all.” - -“If only I had known!” said Herold. “I was down there all the morning.” - -“You?” - -“I had a letter from Julia, summoning me.” - -“So had I.” He closed his eyes again for a moment. Then he asked, “How -is Stella?” - -“I had a long talk with her. I may have straightened things out a bit. -She 'll come round. There's no cause for worry for the present. Julia -is a good soul, but she has no sense of proportion, and where Stella is -concerned she exaggerates.” - -When a man has had rocks fall on his head, and again has fallen on his -head upon rocks, it is best to soothe what is left of his mind. And -after Walter had partly soothed it,--a very difficult matter, first, -because it was in a troubled and despairing state, and, secondly, -because, John, never having taken Unity into his confidence, references -had to be veiled,--he satisfied the need of another brandy and soda. -Then Ripley came in to announce that the room was ready. - -“Ripley and I will see to him,” said Herold to Unity. “You had better go -and fetch him a change of clothes and things he may want.” - -“May n't I wait till the doctor comes?” she pleaded. - -“Of course, my dear. There 's no hurry,” said Herold. - -The two men helped Risca to his feet, and, taking him to the bedroom, -undressed him, clothed him in warm pyjamas, and put him into the bed, -where a hot-water bottle diffused grateful heat. Herold had seen the -livid bruises on his great, muscular limbs. - -“Any one but you,” said he, with forced cheeriness, “would have been -smashed to bits, like an egg.” - -“I tell you I'm tough,” John growled. “It's only to please you that I -submit to this silly foolery of going to bed.” - -As soon as Ripley was dismissed, he called Herold to his side. - -“I would like to tell you everything, Wallie. I could n't in the other -room. Unity, poor child, knows nothing at all about things. Naturally. -I had been worried all the afternoon. I thought I saw her--you -know--hanging about outside the office. It was just before I met you at -the club. I did n't tell you,--perhaps I ought to,--but that was why -I was so upset. But you 'll forgive me. You 've always forgiven me. -Anyway, I thought I saw her. It was just a flash, for she, if it was -she, was swallowed up in the traffic of Fleet Street. After leaving the -club, I went back to the office--verification in proofs of something -in Baxter's article. I found odds and ends to do. Then I went home, and -Julia's letter lay on my table. I've been off my head of late, Wallie. -For the matter of that, I'm still off it. I've hardly slept for weeks. I -found Julia's letter. I looked at my watch. There was just time to catch -the 7:15. I ran out, jumped into a taxi, and caught it just as it -was starting. But as I passed by a third-class carriage,--in fact, I -realized it only after I had gone several yards beyond; one rushes, you -know,--I seemed to see her face--those thin lips and cold eyes--framed -in the window. The guard pitched me into a carriage. I looked out for -her at all the stations. At Tring Bay the usual crowd got out. I did -n't see her. No one like her got out at Southcliff. What 's the matter, -Wallie?” He broke off suddenly. - -“Nothing, man; nothing,” said Herold, turning away and fumbling for his -cigarette-case. - -“You looked as if you had seen a ghost. It was I who saw the ghost.” - He laughed. And the laugh, coming from the haggard face below the -brow-reaching white bandage, was horrible. - -“Your brain was playing you tricks,” said Herold. “You got to -Southcliff. What happened?” - -“I felt a fool,” said John. “Can't you see what a fool a man feels when -he knows he has played the fool?” - -Bit by bit he revealed himself. At the gate of the Channel House he -reflected. He had not the courage to enter. Stella would be up and -about. He resolved to wait until she went to bed. He wandered down -to the beach. The rain began to fall, fine, almost imperceptible. -The beacon-light in the west window threw a vanishing shaft into the -darkness. - -“We saw it once--don't you remember?--years ago when you gave her the -name--Stellamaris. I sat like a fool and watched the window. How long I -don't know. My God! Wallie, you don't know what it is to be shaken and -racked by the want of a woman--” - -“By love for a woman, you mean,” said Herold. - -“It 's the same thing. At last I saw her. She stood defiant in the -light. She had changed. I cried out toward her like an idiot,”--the -rugged, grim half face visible beneath the bandage was grotesque, a -parody of passion,--“and I stayed there, watching, after she had gone -away. How long I don't know. It was impossible to ring at the door and -see Oliver and Julia.” - -He laughed again. “You must have some sense of humour, my dear man. -Fancy Oliver and Julia! What could I have said to them? What could they -have said to me? I sat staring up at her window. The rain was falling. -Everything was still. It was night. You know how quiet everything is -there. Then I seemed to hear footsteps and I turned, and a kind of -shape--a woman's--disappeared. I know I was off my head, but I began to -think. I had a funny experience once--I 've never told you. It was the -day she came out of prison. I sat down in St. James's Park and fell half -asleep,--that sort of dog sleep one has when one's tired,--and I -thought I saw her going for Stella--Stella in her bed at the Channel -House--going to strangle her. This came into my mind, and then -something hit me,--a chunk of overhanging cliff loosened by the rain, I -suppose,--and, as I 've told you, it knocked me out. But it's devilish -odd that she should be mixed up in it.” - -“As I said, your brain was playing you tricks,” said Herold, outwardly -calm; but within himself he shuddered. The woman was like a foul spirit -hovering unseen about those he loved. - -Presently the doctor, a young man with a cheery face, came in and made -his examination. There was no serious damage done. The only thing -to fear was the chill. If the patient's temperature went down in the -morning, he could quite safely be moved to his own home. For the present -rest was imperative, immediate sleep desirable. He wrote a prescription, -and with pleasant words went away. Then Unity, summoned to the room, -heard the doctor's comforting opinion. - -“I 'll be with you to-morrow,” said John. - -“You don't mind leaving him to Mrs. Ripley and me just for one night?” - asked Herold. - -“He 's always safe with you,” Unity replied, her eyes fixed not on him, -but on John Risca. “Good-bye, Guardian dear.” - -John drew an arm from beneath the bedclothes and put it round her thin -shoulders. “Good-by, dear. Forgive me for giving you such a fright, and -make my peace with auntie. You 'll be coming back with my things, won't -you?” - -“Of course; but you 'll be asleep then.” - -“I should n't wonder,” said John. - -She made him cover up his arm again and tucked the bedclothes snugly -about him, her finger-tips lingering by his cheeks. - -“I 'll leave you, too. Try and get to sleep,” said Herold. - -They went together out of the room and back to the library. - -“Has he said anything more?” - -He stood before her trembling all over. - -“What is the matter?” - -He burst into an uncontrollable cry. “It 's that hellish woman again! -He saw her spying on him outside his office, he saw her in a railway -carriage on the train he took. Because she disappeared each time, he -thinks it was an hallucination; and somehow he was aware of her presence -just before the piece of rock came down.” - -Unity's face beneath the skimpy hair and rubbishy tam-o'-shanter was -white and strained. - -“She threw it. I knew she threw it.” - -“So do I. He saw her. She disappeared as she did that night in the fog. -A woman like that is n't human. She has the power of disappearing at -will. You can't measure her cunning.” - -“What did he go down for?” - -He told her. Unity's lips twitched. - -“And he sat there in the rain just looking at her window?” - -She put out her hand. “Good-bye, Mr. Herold. When you see Miss -Stellamaris, you 'll tell her I'm a good girl--in that way, you -know--and that I love her. She has been a kind of beautiful angel -to me--has always been with me. It's funny; I can't explain. But you -understand. If you'd only let her see that, I'd be so happy--and perhaps -she'd be happier.” - -“I 'll do my utmost,” said Herold. - -He accompanied her down-stairs, and when she had gone, he returned to -the library and walked about. The horror of the woman was upon him. -He drank another brandy and soda. After a while Ripley came in with -a soiled card on a tray. He looked at it stupidly--“Mr. Edwin -Travers”--and nodded. - -“Shall I show the gentleman up?” - -He nodded again, thinking of the woman. - -When the visitor came in he vaguely recognized him as a broken-down -actor, a colleague of early days. As in a dream he bade the man sit -down, and gave him cigarettes and drink, and heard with his outer ears -an interminable tale of misfortune. At the end of it he went to his desk -and wrote out a cheque, which he handed to his guest. - -“I can't thank you, old man. I don't know how to. But as soon as I can -get an engagement--hello, old man,” he cried, glancing at the cheque, -“you've made a funny mistake--the name!” - -Herold took the slip of paper, and saw that he had made the sum payable -not to Edwin Travers, but to Louisa Risca. It was a shock, causing -him to brace his faculties. He wrote out another cheque, and the man -departed. - -He went softly into John's room and found him sleeping peacefully. - -Soon afterward Ripley announced that dinner was ready. It was past six -o'clock. - -“Great Heavens!” he cried aloud, “I've got to play to-night.” - -After a hurried wash he went into the dining-room and sat down at the -table, but the sight and smell of food revolted him. He swallowed a few -mouthfuls of soup; the rest of the dinner he could not touch. The horror -of the woman had seized him again. He drank some wine, pushed back his -chair, and threw down his table-napkin. - -“I don't want anything else. I 'm going for a walk. I 'll see you later -at the theatre.” - -The old-fashioned Kensington street, with its double line of Queen Anne -houses slumbering in the afternoon sunshine, was a mellow blur before -his eyes. Whither he was going he knew: what he was going to do he knew -not. The rigid self-control of the day, relaxed at times, but always -kept within grip, had at last escaped him. Want of food and the -unaccustomed drink had brought about an abnormal state of mind. He was -aware of direction, aware, too, of the shadow-shapes of men and women -passing him by, of traffic in the roadway. He walked straight, -alert, his gait and general demeanour unaffected, his outer senses -automatically alive. He walked down the narrow, shady Church Street, -and paused for a moment or two by the summer greenery of Kensington -Churchyard until there was an opportunity of crossing the High Street, -now at the height of its traffic. He strode westward past the great -shops, a lithe man in the full vigour of his manhood. Here and there -a woman lingering in front of displays of millinery recognized the -well-known actor and nudged her companion. - -The horror within him had grown to a consuming thing of flame. Instead -of the quiet thoroughfares down which he turned, he saw picture after -shuddering picture--the woman and Stellamaris, the woman and John -Risca. She attacked soul as well as body. The pictures took the forms of -horrible grotesques. Within, his mind worked amazingly, like a machine -escaped from human control and running with blind relentlessness. He had -said years ago that he would pass through his hell-fire. He was passing -through it now. - -The destroyer must be kept from destroying or be destroyed. Which of -these should be accomplished through his agency? One or the other. Of -one thing he was certain, with an odd, undoubting certainty: that he -would find her, and finding her, that he would let loose upon her the -wrath of God. She should be chained up forever or he would strangle her. -Shivering thrills diabolically delicious ran through him at the thought. -Supposing he strangled her as he would a mad cat? That were better. -She would be out of the world. He would be fulfilling his destiny of -sacrifice. For the woman he loved and for the man he loved why should -he not do this thing? What but a legal quibble could call it murder? -Stellamaris's words rang in his ears: “You say you love me like that?” - -“Yes, I love you like that. I love you like that,” he cried below his -breath as he walked on. - -He knew where she lived, the name by which she passed. John had told -him many times. There were few things in John's life he did not know. He -knew of the Bences, of Mrs. Oscraft, the fluffy-haired woman who lived -in the flat below. Amelia Mansions, he was aware, were in the Fulham -Road. But when he reached that thoroughfare, he stood dazed and -irresolute, realizing that he did not know which way to turn. A passing -postman gave him the necessary information. The trivial contact with -the commonplace restored in a measure his mental balance. He went on. By -Brompton Cemetery he felt sick and faint and clung for a minute or two -to the railings. He had eaten nothing since early morning, and then only -a scrap of bacon and toast; he had drunk brandy and wine, and he had -lived through the day in which the maddening stress of a lifetime had -been concentrated. - -One or two passers-by stared at him, for he was as white as a sheet. -A comfortable, elderly woman, some small shop-keeper's wife, addressed -him. Was he ill? Could she do anything for him? The questioning was -a lash. He drew himself up, smiled, raised his hat, thanked her -courteously. It was nothing. He went on, loathing himself as men do when -the flesh fails beneath the whip of the spirit. - -He was well now, his mind clear. He was going to the woman. He would -save those he loved. If it were necessary to kill her, he would kill -her. On that point his brain worked with startling clarity. If he did -not kill her, she would be eventually killed by John; for John, he -argued, could not remain in ignorance forever. If John killed her, he -would be hanged. Much better that he, Walter Herold, whom Stellamaris -did not love, should be hanged than John--much better. And what the -deuce did it matter to anybody whether he were hanged or not? He laughed -at the elementary logic of the proposition. The solution of all the -infernally intricate problems of life is, if people only dared face -it, one of childish simplicity. It was laughable. Walter Herold laughed -aloud in the Fulham Road. - -It was so easy, so uncomplicated. He would see her. He would do what he -had to do. Then he would take a taxi-cab to the theatre. He must play -to-night. Of course he would. There was no reason why he should n't. -Only he hoped that Leonora Gurney would n't worry him. He would manage -to avoid her during that confounded wait in the first act, when she -always tried to get him to talk. He would play the part all right. He -was a man and not a stalk of wet straw. After the performance he would -give himself up. No one would be inconvenienced. He would ask the -authorities to hurry on matters and give him a short shrift and a long -rope; but the length of the rope did n't matter these days, when they -just broke your neck. There was no one dependent on him. His brothers -and sisters, many years his seniors,--he had not seen them since he was -a child,--had all gone after their father's death to an uncle in New -Zealand. They were there still. The mother, who had remained with him, -the Benjamin, in England, had died while he was at Cambridge. He was -free from family-ties. And women? He was free, too. There had only been -one woman in his life, the child of cloud and sea foam. - -Stellamaris, star of the sea, now dragged through the mire of mortal -things! She should go back. She should go back to her firmament, shining -down upon, and worshipped by, the man she loved. And he, God!--he should -be spared the terrifying agony of it. - -Thus worked the brain which Walter Herold told himself was crystal -clear. - -It was clear enough, however, to follow the postman's directions. He -took the turning indicated and found the red-brick block, with the name -“Amelia Mansions” carved in stone over the entrance door. The by-street -seemed to be densely populated. He went into the entrance-hall and -mechanically looked at the list of names. Mrs. Rawlings's name was -followed by No. 7. He mounted the stairs. On the landing of No. 7 there -were a couple of policemen, and the flat door was open, and the length -of the passage was visible. Herold was about to enter when they stopped -him. - -“You can't go in, sir.” - -“I want Mrs. Rawlings.” - -“No one can go in.” - -He stood confused, bewildered. An elderly, buxom, woman, with a -horrified face, who just then happened to come out of a room near the -doorway, saw him and came forward. - -“You are Mr. Herold,” she asked. - -“Yes; I want to see Mrs. Rawlings.” - -“It 's all right, constable,” she said in a curiously cracked voice. -“Let this gentleman pass. Come in, sir. I am Mrs. Bence.” - -He entered the passage. She spoke words to him the import of which he -did not catch. His brain was perplexed by the guard of policemen and the -open flat. She led him a short distance down the passage. He stumbled -over a packed kit-bag. She threw open a door. He crossed the threshold -of a vulgarly furnished drawing-room, the electric lights turned on -despite the daylight of the July evening. There were four figures in -the room. Standing and scribbling in note-books were two men, one in the -uniform of a sergeant of police, the other in a frock-coat, obviously -a medical man. On the floor were two women, both dead. One was John -Risca's wife, and the other was Unity. And near by them lay a new, -bright revolver. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - -IN after-time Herold's memory of that disastrous night and the -succeeding days was that of a peculiarly lucid nightmare in which he -seemed to have acted without volition or consciousness of motive. -He ate, dressed, drove through the streets on unhappy missions, gave -orders, directions, consoled, like an automaton, and sometimes slept -exhaustedly. So it seemed to him, looking back. He spared John the first -night of misery. The man with his bandaged head slept like a log, and -Herold did not wake him. All that could be done he himself had done. It -was better for John to gather strength in sleep to face the tragedy on -the morrow. And when the morrow came, and Herold broke the news to him, -the big man gave way under the shock, and became gentle, and obeyed -Herold like a child. Thereafter, for many days, he sat for the hour -together with his old aunt, curiously dependent on her; and she, through -her deep affection for him, grew singularly silent and practical. - -In her unimaginative placidity lay her strength. She mourned for Unity -as for her own flesh and blood; but the catastrophe did not shake her -even mind, and when John laid his head in her lap and sobbed, all that -was beautiful in the woman flowed through the comforting tips of her -helpless fingers. - -From Herold he learned the unsuspected reason of Unity's crime and -sacrifice; and from Unity, too, for a poor little pencil scrawl found -in her pocket and addressed to him told him of her love and of her -intention to clear the way for his happiness. And when the inquest was -over and Unity's body was brought to Kilburn and laid in its coffin in -her little room, he watched by it in dumb stupor of anguish. - -Herold roused him now and then. Action--nominal action at least--had -to be taken by him as surviving protagonist of the tragedy. The morning -after the deed the newspapers shrieked the news, giving names in full, -raking up memories of the hideous case. They dug, not deep, for motive, -and found long-smouldering vengeance. Unity was blackened. John -responded to Herold's lash. This must not be. Unity must not go to her -grave in public dishonour; truth must be told. So at the inquest, John -wild, uncouth, with great strips of sticking-plaster on his head, told -truth, and gave a romantic story to a hungry press. It was hateful to -lay bare the inmost sacredness and the inmost suffering of his soul to -the world's cold and curious gaze, but it had to be done. Unity's name -was cleared. When he sat down by Herold's side, the latter grasped his -hand, and it was clammy and cold, and he shook throughout his great -frame. - -Then Herold, driven to mechanical action, as it seemed to him afterward, -by a compelling force, dragged John to an inquiry into the evil woman's -life. It was Mrs. Oscraft, the full-blown, blowzy bookmaker's wife, the -woman's intimate associate for many years, who gave the necessary clue. -Horrified by the discovery of the identity of her friend and by the -revelation of further iniquities, she lost her head when the men sternly -questioned her. She had used her intimacy with Mrs. Risca to cover from -her own husband an intrigue of many years' standing. In return, Mrs. -Risca had confessed to an intrigue of her own, and demanded, and readily -obtained, Mrs. Oscraft's protection. The women worked together. They -were inseparable in their outgoings and incomings, but abroad each went -her separate way. That was why, ignorant of the truth, Mrs. Oscraft had -lied loyally when John Risca had burst into her flat long ago. She had -thought she was merely shielding her fellow-sinner from the wrath of a -jealous husband. Thus for years, with her cunning, Mrs. Risca had thrown -dust in the eyes both of her friend and of the feared and hated wardress -whom John had set over her. Under the double cloak she had used her -hours of liberty to carry out the set, relentless purpose of her life. -To spy on him with exquisite craft had been her secret passion, to -strike when the time came the very meaning of her criminal existence. - -“And for the last two or three years she gave no trouble and was as -gentle as a lamb, so how could I suspect?” Mrs. Bence lamented. - -“It 's all over,” said John, stupidly; “it's all over. Nothing matters -now.” - -To Herold, in after-time, the memories of these days were as those of -the doings of another man in his outer semblance. His essential self -had been the crazy being who had marched through the mellow Kensington -streets with fantastic dreams of murder in his head. At the sight of -Unity and the woman lying ghastly on the floor something seemed to snap -in his brain, and all the cloudy essence that was he vanished, and a -perfect mechanism took its place. When John with wearisome reiteration -said: “God bless you, Wallie! God knows what I should have done without -you,” it was hard to realize that he had done anything deserving thanks. -He was inclined to regard himself--when he had a fugitive moment to -regard himself--with abhorrence. He had talked; Unity had acted. And -deep down in his soul, only once afterwards in his life to be confessed, -dwelt an awful remorse for his responsibility in the matter of Unity's -death. But in simple fact no man in times of great convulsion knows -himself. He looks back on the man who acted and wonders. The man, -surviving the wreck of earthquake, if he be weak, lies prone and calls -on God and man to help him; if he be strong, he devotes the intensity of -his faculties to the work of rescue, of clearing up debris, of temporary -reconstruction, and has no time for self-analysis. It is in reality the -essential man in his vigour and courage and nobility and disdain who -acts, and the bruised and shattered about him who profit by his help -look rightly upon him as a god. - -It was only after John had visited the house of death, where, according -to law, the bodies both of slayer and slain had to lie, and had seen the -pinched, common face, swathed in decent linen, of the girl who for his -sake had charged her soul with murder and taken her own life, and after -he had driven away, stunned with grief and carrying with him, at his -feet in the taxi-cab, the useless kit-bag packed by the poor child -with Heaven knows what idea of its getting to its destination, and had -staggered to the comfort of the foolish old lady's outstretched arms -and received her benediction, futilely spoken, divinely unspoken--it -was only then that, raising haggard eyes, all the more haggard under the -brow-reaching bandage he still wore, he asked the question: - -“What about Stella? She is bound to learn.” - -“I wrote to her last night,” said Herold. “I prepared her for the shock -as best I could.” - -A gleam of rational thought flitted across John Risca's mind. - -“You remembered her at such a time, with all you had to do? You 're a -wonderful man, Wallie. No one else would have done it.” - -“Are you in a fit state of mind,” said Herold, “to understand what -has happened? I tried to tell you this morning,”--as he had done -fitfully,--“but it was no use. You grasped nothing.” - -“Go on now,” said John. “I 'm listening.” - -So Herold, amid the fripperies of Miss Lindon's drawing-room, told the -story of his summons to the Channel House some time ago--Good God!--He -caught himself up sharply--it was only yesterday! and of his talk with -Stellamaris in the garden, and of her encounter with the evil woman, and -of the poison that had crept to the roots of Stella's being. - -John shivered, and clenched impotent fists. Stella left alone on the -cliff-edge with that murderous hag! Stella's ears polluted by that -infamous tale! If only he had known it! Why did she hide it from him? - -It was well the murderess was dead, but, merciful Heaven, at what a -price! - -“Listen,” said Herold, gravely, checking his outburst; and he told of -his meetings with Unity,--it was essential that John should know,--of -her almost mystical worship of Stellamaris, of their discovery of the -revolver-- - -“Poor child!” cried John, “I bought it soon after I went to Kilburn. I -took it out the other day and played with a temptation I knew I should -n't succumb to. I should never have had the pluck.” - -Herold continued, telling him all he knew--all save that of which he -stood self-accused, and which for the present was a matter between him -and his Maker. And Miss Lindon, fondling on her lap a wheezy pug, the -successor to the Dandy of former days who had been gathered to his -fathers long ago, listened in placid bewilderment to the strange story -of love and crime. - -“I 'm sure I don't understand how people think of such things, let alone -do them,” she sighed. - -“You must accept the fact, dear Miss Lindon,” said Herold, gently. - -“God's will be done,” she murmured, which in the circumstances was -as relevant a thing as the poor lady could have uttered. But John sat -hunched up in a bamboo chair that creaked under his weight, and scarcely -spoke a word. He felt very unimportant by the side of Unity--Unity with -whose strong, passionate soul he had dwelt in blind ignorance. And Unity -was dead, lying stark and white in the alien house. - -After a long silence he roused himself. - -“You wrote to Stella, you said?” - -“Yes,” replied Herold. - -“What will happen to her?” - -“I don't know.” - -John groaned. “If only I had protected her as I ought to have done! If -only I had protected both of them!” - -He relapsed again into silence, burying his face in his hands. Presently -Miss Lindon put the pug tenderly on the ground, rose, and stood by his -chair. - -“My poor boy,” she said, “do you love her so much?” - -“She's dead,” said John. - -Herold shook him by the shoulder. “Nonsense, man. Pull yourself -together.” - -John raised a drawn face. - -“What did you ask? I was thinking about Unity.” - - - -That day, the day after the tragedy, Stellamaris faced life, in its -nakedness, stripped, so it appeared to her, of every rag of mystery. - -She had breakfasted as usual in her room, bathed and dressed, and looked -wistfully over her disowning sea. Then, as she was preparing to -go downstairs, Morris had brought in Herold's letter, scribbled so -nervously and shakenly that at first she was at a loss to decipher it. -Gradually it became terribly clear: Unity was dead; the woman was dead; -Unity had killed the woman and then killed herself. - -“Details of everything but the truth will be given in the morning -papers,” Herold wrote; “but you must know the truth from the first--as -I know it. Unity has given her life to save those she loved--you and -John--from the woman. She has laid down her life for you. Never forget -that as long as you live.” - -She sat for some moments quite still, paralyzed by the new horror that -had sprung from this false, flower-decked earth to shake her by the -throat. The world was terrifyingly relentless. She read the awful words -again. Bit by bit feeling returned. Her flesh was constricted in a cold -and finely wrought net. She grew faint, put her hand to her brow and -found it damp. She stumbled to her bed by the great west window and -threw herself down. Constable, lying on the hearth-rug, staggered to his -feet and thrust his old head on her bosom and regarded her with mournful -and inquiring eyes. She caressed him mechanically. Suddenly she sprang -up as a swift memory smote her. Once she lay there by the window, and -the dog was there by the bed, and there by the door stood the ungainly -figure of a girl of her own age. Was it possible that that ungainly -child whom she had seen and talked to then, whom a few weeks ago she had -kissed, could have committed this deed of blood? She rose again to her -feet, pushed the old dog aside blindly, and hid her eyes from the light -of day. The girl was human, utterly human at those two meetings. Of what -unknown, devastating forces, were human beings, then, composed? - -She took up the letter again. “Unity has given her life to save those -she loved--you and John--from the woman. She has laid down her life for -you. Never forget that as long as you live.” - -Walter Herold said that. It must be true. Through all of yesterday's -welter of misery, after he had left her, she had clung despairingly -to him. There was no God, but there was Walter Herold. Her pride had -dismissed him with profession of disbelief, but in her heart she had -believed him. Not that she had pardoned John Risca, not that she had -recovered her faith in him, not that she had believed in Unity. Her -virginal soul, tainted by the woman, had shrunk from thoughts of the -pair; but despite her fierce determination to believe in neither God -nor man, she had been compelled to believe in Herold. She had stood up -against him and fought with him and had bitten and rent him, and he had -conquered, and she had felt maddenedly angered, triumphantly glad. The -whole world could be as false as hell, but in it there was one clear -spirit speaking truth. - -She went to the southern window, rested her elbows on the sill, and -pressed the finger-tips of both hands against her forehead. The soft -south-west wind, bringing the salt from the dancing sea, played about -her hair. Unity had laid down her life to save those she loved. So had -Christ done--given his life for humanity. But Christ had not killed a -human being, no matter how murderous, and had not taken his own life. -No, no; she must not mix up things irreconcilable. She faced the room -again. What did people do when they killed? What were the common, -practical steps that they took to gain their ends? Her mind suddenly -grew vague. Herold had spoken of newspapers. She must see them; she -must know everything. Life was deadly conflict, and knowledge the only -weapon. For a few seconds she stood in the middle of the room, her -young bosom heaving, her dark eyes wide with the diamond glints in their -depths. Life was a deadly conflict. She would fight, she would conquer. -Others miserably weaker than herself survived. Pride and race and -splendid purity of soul sheathed her in cold armour. A jingle, separated -from context, came into her mind, and in many ways it was a child's -mind: - - Then spake Sir Thomas Howard, - - “ 'Fore God, I am no coward.” - -“'Fore God, I am no coward,” she repeated, and with her delicate head -erect she went out and down the stairs and entered the dining-room. - -There she found Sir Oliver and Lady Blount sitting at a neglected -breakfast. The old faces strove pitifully to smile. Stella kissed them -in turn, and with her hand lingering on the old man's arm, she gave him -Herold's letter. - -“Is it in the newspapers?” she asked. - -“What, what, my dear?” said Sir Oliver, adjusting his glasses on his -nose with fumbling fingers. - -She looked from one to the other. Then her eyes fell on the morning -papers lying on the table. They were folded so that a great head-line -stared hideously. - -“Oh, darling, don't read it--for Heaven's sake do n't read it,” cried -Lady Blount, clutching the nearer newspaper. - -But Stella took up the other. “I must, dearest,” she said very gently. -“Walter has written to me; but he could not tell me everything.” - -She moved to the window that overlooked the pleasant garden, and with -steady eyes read the vulgar and soul-withering report, while the two old -people, head to head, puzzled out Herold's scrawl. - -When she had finished, she laid the paper quietly at the foot of -the table and came and stood between them, revolted by the callous -publication of names, almost physically sickened by the realistic -picture of the scene, her head whirling. She caught hold of the back of -Sir Oliver's chair. - -“The newspaper lies,” she said, “but it does n't know any better. Walter -tells us why she did it.” - -Sir Oliver, elbow on table, held the letter in his shaking grasp. It -dropped, and his head sank on his hand. - -“It's too horrible!” he said in a weak voice. “I don't understand -anything at all about it. I don't understand what Walter means. And all -that old beastly story revived. It's damnable!” - -He looked quite broken, his querulous self-assertion gone. Lady Blount, -too, gave way, and stretched out an imploring and pathetic arm, which, -as Stella moved a step or two toward her, fell around the slim, standing -figure. She laid her cheek against Stella and cried miserably. - -“O my darling, my precious one, if we could only spare you all this! -Walter should n't have written. O my darling, what are we to do! What -are we to do!” - -And then Stellamaris saw once more that Great High Excellency and Most -Exquisite Auntship, for all their love of her, were of the weak ones -of the world, and she looked down with a new and life-giving feeling of -pity upon the bowed gray heads. - -[Illustration: 0350] - -Once,--was it yesterday or weeks or months or years ago? She could not -tell,--but once, to her later pain and remorse, she had commanded, -and they had obeyed; now she knew that she had to comfort, protect, -determine. And in a bewildering flash came the revelation that knowledge -was a weapon not only to fight her own way through the evil of the -world, but to defend the defenceless. - -“I wish Walter was here,” she whispered, her hand against the withered, -wet cheek. - -“Why Walter, dear?” - -“He is strong and true,” said Stellamaris. - -“Why not John, darling?” - -Yes, why not John? Stella drew a sharp breath. Sir Oliver saved her an -answer. - -“John has enough to look to, poor chap. He has got everything about his -ears. Stella's right. We want Walter. He's young. He's a good fellow, is -Walter. I must be getting old, my dear,--” He raised his face, and, with -a sudden forlorn hope of dignity, twirled his white moustache,--“A -year ago I should n't have wanted Walter or anybody. It 's only you, my -child, that your aunt and I are thinking of. We've tried to do our duty -by you, have n't we, Julia? And God knows we love you. You 're the only -thing in the world left to us. It is n't our fault that you are -drawn into this ghastliness. It is n't, God knows it is n't. Only, my -dear,”--there was a catch in his voice,--“you 're not able to bear it. -For us old folks who have knocked about the world--well, we 're used -to--to this sort of thing. I 've had to send men to the gallows in my -time--once twenty men to be shot. The paltry fellows at the Colonial -Office did n't see things as I did, but that's another matter. We 're -used to these things, dear; we 're hardened--” - -“If I have got to live in the world, dear Excellency,” said Stella, -feeling that there were some sort of flood-gates between the tumultuous -flow of her being and the still waters of pity in which for the moment -her consciousness acted, “it seems that I must get used to it, like -every one else.” - -“But what shall we do, darling?” cried Lady Blount, clinging -pathetically to the child of sea foam, from whom all knowledge of the -perilous world had been hidden. - -“Anything but worry Walter to come down here.” - -“I thought you wanted him?” - -“I do,” said Stella, with her hand on her bosom; “but that is only -selfishness. He is needed more in London. I think we ought to go up and -see if we can help in any way.” - -“Go up to London!” echoed Sir Oliver. - -“Yes, if you 'll take me, Uncle dear.” - -The old man looked at his wife, who looked helplessly at him. Through -the open window came the late, mellow notes of a thrush and the sunshine -that flooded the summer garden. - -“I am going to send Walter a telegram,” said Stella, moving gently away. - -She left the room with the newly awakened consciousness that she was -absolute mistress of her destiny. Love, devotion, service, anything -she might require from the two old people, were hers for the -claiming--anything in the world but guidance and help. She stood alone -before the dragons of a world, no longer the vague Threatening Land, -but a world of fierce passions and bloody deeds. Herold's words flamed -before her: “Unity had given her life for those she loved.” Had she, -Stellamaris, a spirit so much weaker than Unity's? - -She advanced an eager step or two along the garden walk, clenching her -delicate fists, and the fiery dragons retreated backward. She could -give, too, as well as Unity, her life if need be. If that was not -required, at least whatever could be demanded of her for those she -loved. Again she read the letter. Underlying it was tenderest anxiety -lest she should be stricken down by the ghastly knowledge. With -the personal motive, the intense and omnipotent motive of her sex, -unconsciously dominating her, she murmured half articulately: - -“He thinks I'm a weak child. I 'll show him that I am a woman. He shall -see that I'm not afraid of life.” - -So when Walter Herold went home late that night,--the theatre being out -of the question, he had stayed at Kilburn until John had been persuaded -to go to bed,--he found a telegram from Stellamaris. - -“Coming to London to see if I can be of any help. My dear love to John -in his terrible trouble. Tell me when I had better come.” - -The next day, when they met before the inquest, he showed the telegram -to John, who, after glancing at it, thrust it back into his hand with a -deprecating gesture. - -“No; let her stay there. What is she to do in this wilderness of -horror?” - -“I have already written,” said Herold. - -“To keep away?” - -“To come.” - -“You know best,” said John, hopelessly. “At any rate the news has n't -killed her. I feared it would. I had long letters from Oliver and Julia -this morning.” - -“What do they say?” - -John put his hand to his head. “I forget,” said he. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - -OUTSIDE the house in Kilbum were stationed a hearse and two carriages, -stared at by a knot of idlers. Within was felt the pervasive presence -of a noiselessly moving, black-attired man of oiled tongue. Up-stairs in -the little room rested on its trestles the flower-covered coffin wherein -all that remained of Unity lay. The blinds of the gimcrack drawing-room -were lowered, and the company sat waiting--John, Miss Lindon, and -Herold, Sir Oliver, Lady Blount, and Stellamaris. - -Although Stella had been in London for a day or two, this was the first -time that John had seen her since the riotous June day when he had waved -farewell to the train carrying her back to Southcliff. He had gone to -the front gate to meet her in his ill-fitting, outgrown frock-coat, -sticking-plaster still hiding the wounds on his scalp, and his heavy -face white and drawn. She, in her black dress, looked a startling -lily enveloped by night; her great eyes had softened from diamond into -starshine. Behind her came the old people, attendant ghosts. John folded -her hand in his. - -“Stella dear, how good of you to come!” - -She said in a low voice: - -“It is to ask forgiveness from you and her.” - -He bowed over her hand. She passed into the house, where Miss Lindon -received her. - -“My dear,” she said, holding Stella's hand. “I think our poor darling -will go to her grave very happy. She was always talking of you, ever -since she came to live here, and if you wonder what has become of the -beautiful lilies you sent, it's because I have put them inside with her, -knowing that there's where she would wish them to be. And now you 've -come yourself, and I'm sure she would n't ask for more.” - -The weak mouth, set in the full, foolish face crowned with white hair, -worked dolorously. Stella, with a sudden movement, threw her arm -round her neck and broke into uncontrollable sobbing. A soul pure and -beautiful beyond question spoke to Stellamaris in simple words and -in silly yet exquisite sentiment. She clung very close,--why, the -unsuspecting and innocent lady never guessed,--but it made her broad -bosom swell with an emotion hitherto unknown to have a girl lay her head -there and sob and seem to find comfort; and, as she clung, the lingering -poison of the evil woman melted forever from Stella's heart, and she -knew that the place whereon she stood, where Unity and she had talked, -that gimcrack, tawdry, bamboo drawing-room, was holy ground. - -She had come, poor child, full of her fierce and jealous maiden -pride--she was only twenty, and life had been revealed to her of late as -a tumultuous conflict of men with devils,--she had come highly wrought -for battles with the Apollyons that straddled across the path; she had -come with high hopes of bringing help to the faint-hearted, solace to -the afflicted, of proving to her tiny world that she was the help-giver -instead of the help-seeker; she had come on the wings of conquest; and -she fluttered down like a tired bird to the surrender of herself on -the bosom of the simplest and, in the eyes of men, the least important -creature on God's earth. - -She drew gently away and dried her eyes, and while Miss Lindon spoke a -few words to Lady Blount, she went somewhat shyly up to John. - -“You should have let me know Miss Lindon long ago,” she said. - -“I should have done many things long ago,” he replied. “But I myself -have known my aunt only the last few days.” - -She regarded him somewhat incredulously. - -“Yes,” he said, “it's true. The last few days have taught me all kinds -of things. I never knew what she was”--he made a vague gesture--“until -it was too late. I think, Stella dear, I have gone through life with my -heart shut.” - -“Except to me,” said Stellamaris. - -“That's different,” he said, with a turn of his great shoulders. - -He left her abruptly and joined the group of the three elders by the -window. She came to Herold, who had been standing with his back against -the empty fire-place. - -“You must be very tired.” - -He saw her brows knit in their familiar little fairy wrinkles as she -anxiously scanned his face. Indeed, he was very weary, and his eyes and -cheeks showed it. - -“There has been a lot not only to do, but to feel of late,” he said. - -She put out a timid hand and touched his sleeve. - -“You must n't do and feel too much, or you 'll break down.” - -“Why should I, if you have n't?” he asked with a faint smile. - -“I think it cowardly to break down when one ought to be strong,” she -said. - -“Are you afraid of my being a coward, Stella?” - -She uttered a little cry, and her touch became a grasp. - -“You! Oh, no! You? You 've _been_ strong. There 's no need for you to -do any more. You 've got to live your own life and not that of other -people--” - -“The only life left to me,” he said in a low voice, “is that of those -dear to me.” - -John lumbered up gloomily. “You must persuade him to take a rest, -Stella. He has been driving himself to death.” He laid a heavy hand -on his friend. “God knows what I should have done without him all this -time. Wait,” he said suddenly, with the other hand uplifted. - -And all were silent when to a scuffle of feet succeeded a measured tramp -of steps descending the stairs. The bearers passed along the passage by -the door of the drawing-room. Unity was going forth on her last journey -through the familiar Kilburn streets. - -The little crowd on the pavement had swelled. The case and all about it -had been manna to hungry July reporters, and all the world knew of Unity -and judged her this way and that, according to individual prejudice. -But the male part of the crowd uncovered as the coffin and afterward the -little group of mourners passed through. John and Miss Lindon and Lady -Blount went in the first carriage; Stella, Sir Oliver, and Herold in -the second. Sir Oliver, as is the way of Sir Olivers all the world over, -spoke of funerals he had attended in years and latitudes both remote. -Poor Roddy Greenwood--best fellow that ever lived--it was in Berbice, -Demerara--God bless his soul, it was in '68--he had left him at six in -the morning after a night's loo--good game loo; no one ever played it -these days--and he had followed him to his grave that day before sunset. -Then there was Freddy Nicol--they brought it in accidental because he -was cleaning his gun--there were the rags and oil and things about him; -but it was odd, devilish odd, that it should have happened the day after -Kitty Green married that fellow What 's-his-name? Tut! tut! he would -remember it in a minute. Now, what the Dickens was the name of the -fellow Kitty Green married? But as Kitty Green and her obscure and -unremembered spouse were young in the days when Sir Oliver was young, -and at the best and happiest were both wrinkled, uninteresting ancients, -the baffling question did not stir the pulses of his hearers. - -“Anyhow,” said Sir Oliver, summing up, “death is a devilish funny -business. I 've seen lots of it.” - -“And you who have seen so much of it, dear,” said Stellamaris, very -seriously, “what do you think of death?” - -“I 've told you, my child; I 've told you. It 's devilish -funny--odd--here to-day and gone to-morrow. Devilish funny.” - -They arrived at the cemetery. In the bare mortuary chapel Stella knelt -and heard for the first time in her life the beautiful words of the -service for the burial of the dead. And there in front of her, covered -with poor, vain flowers, was the coffin containing the clay of one whom -man with his opportunist laws against murder and self-slaughter was -powerless to judge. At the appointed time they went out into the summer -air and walked in forlorn procession behind the hearse, through the -startling city in whose tenements of stone and marble no mortal could -dwell; in which there was no fevered strife as in the cities of men; -in which all the inhabitants slept far beneath their stately domes or -humble monoliths, at peace with mankind, themselves, and God. And green -grass grew between the graves, and sweet flowers bloomed and seemed to -say, “Why weep, since we are here?” But for the faint grinding of the -hearse wheels on the gravelled path and the steps of the followers all -was still. Stellamaris clung to Herold's arm. - -“I can't believe they are all dead,” she whispered. “The whole place -seems alive. I think they are waiting for Unity. They will take her by -the hand and make her one of themselves.” - -“And bow down before her,” said Herold. “It is only the dead that know -the great souls that pass from the earth.” - -They reached the graveside. The surpliced chaplain stood a pace or -two apart. The dismal men in black deposited the coffin by the yellow, -upturned earth. The group of six gathered close together. The July -sunshine streamed down, casting a queer projection of shadow from the -coffin-end. - -“Man, that is born of a woman, hath but a short time to live, and is -full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth -as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.” - -Stella heard the chaplain's voice as in a dream. The rattle of the -earth on the coffin-lid--“Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust -to dust”--roused her with a shock. Below, deep in the grave, lay -Unity--Unity, who had taken a human life, and had taken her own for the -sake of those she loved; Unity, who in the approach to her murderous and -suicidal end was all but unfathomable to her; Unity, whom she had read -and thought enough to know to be condemned by the general judgment of -mankind. There, in that oak coffin, lay all that remained of the common -little girl, with the lilies she herself had sent on her bosom. The -lilies she had seen, pure white, with their pistils of golden hope; the -dead white face she had not seen. Yet her lilies were looking into the -dead face, and the dead face was near the lilies, down there, underneath -the baffling, oaken coffin-lid.... She became aware of words sharp and -clear cutting the still air. - -“Who shall change our vile body that it may be like unto his glorious -body; according to the mighty working whereby he is able to subdue -all things to Himself.... I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me, -Write, From henceforth blessed are the dead which die in the Lord: even -so saith the Spirit; for they rest from their labours.” - -Stellamaris stood tense until the end. A great peace had fallen upon -her. “Blessed are those that die in the Lord.” The simple words held -a mystic significance. They reiterated themselves in her brain. Young, -emotional, inexperienced, overwhelmed by the shattering collapse of -the exquisite, cloud-capped towers of her faith, she found in them an -unquestioned truth. By that grave-side, in the sacred presence of -the dead, not only of “the dear sister here departed,” but of the -inhabitants of all the gleaming stone and marble tenements around, there -could be no lying; such was the unargued conviction of her candid soul. -A voice, coming not from the commonplace, white-robed man, but from the -blue vault of heaven, proclaimed that Unity had died in the Lord and -that she was blessed. The message was one of unutterable consolation. -Unity had died in the Lord. The comforting acceptance of the message -indicated the restoration of Stella's faith in God. - -The mind of the child-woman is a warp of innocence shot with the woof of -knowledge, and the resultant fabric is a thing no man born can seize -and put upon canvas, and, for the matter of that, no woman, when she has -ceased to be a child. - -John stood for a while looking down into the grave, and gently dropped a -wreath which he held in his hand. Then he turned gloomily away, and the -others followed him, and the grave-diggers' spadefuls of earth rattled -down on the coffin with a sound of dreadful finality. - - - -STELLA's heart had softened toward John. Herold had told her how he had -nearly come by his death on the rocks below the Channel House. It had -moved her to the depths. And now she saw that he was bowed down with -grief for Unity. All resentment against him had died. She recovered her -faith, not perhaps in the wonder of the Great High Belovedest of the -past, but in the integrity of the suffering man. When they reached and -had re-entered the house, she took an opportunity of being alone with -him. The two elder ladies were up-stairs, and Walter and Sir Oliver had -gone out to smoke in the little front garden. Then she said with shy -gentleness: - -“This must be very desolate for you, dear. Won't Miss Lindon and you -come down with us to Southcliff? I have fallen in love with her. I -wonder whether I dare ask her. The sea air would do her good.” - -“She would be delighted, I'm sure; but would you like me to come, too?” - he said, bending his heavy brows. - -“Of course,” replied Stella. She flushed slightly and lowered her eyes. - -“I'm afraid I'm not a very gay companion, Stella. In fact, I don't think -I ever was one--except in the days when I used to tell you fairy-tales -about the palace--” - -“Oh, don't!” She could not restrain the quick little cry and gesture. -“We must n't talk about that any more. We 've got the future to think -of. Reconstruction--is n't that what they call it? We have got to look -at things as they are, and laugh sometimes.” - -“I feel,” said he, “as though I could never laugh again.” - -“Yet Unity meant to make you happy and not miserable,” said Stella. - -“I know,” said he, “and that's the devil of it.” - -He paused for a moment, his hands thrust deep in his trousers' -pockets, and his heel on the fender. At last he said: “It would be the -best thing in the world for the dear old lady. And God knows it will be -good for me. So if you 'll have us for a week or two, we 'll be glad to -get away from here.” - -“I 'll ask Miss Lindon when she comes down.” - -And Miss Lindon, coming down soon afterwards with Lady Blount, received -and accepted the invitation. Sir Oliver, summoned from the garden, -expressed his approval. - -“My boy,” said he, “we've been perfectly wretched without you. Make him -put in a long time with us, Miss Lindon. We three old folks will join -forces.” - -Stella slipped out by the front door and stood by Herold, who was -leaning over the gate. Of course he too must come to the Channel House. -He smiled rather wearily and shook his head. - -“Not just now, dear,” said he. “I have a week's business to do in -London, settling my autumn arrangements--I'm going into management, you -know--and then I must run away for a bit--abroad somewhere, a little -mild climbing in Switzerland, perhaps.” - -Stella's face fell. “Going abroad?” she echoed. “For how long?” - -“A month or so, if I can manage it. I want a rest rather badly.” - -“Of course you do; but I was hoping,” she faltered, “that you could find -rest at Southcliff.” - -“It's good of you, dear,” said he, “to think of me. For Heaven knows -how many years I've looked upon the Channel House as a second home; you -can never realize what it has meant to me. But I need a complete change, -a sort of medicine I must take, no matter how nasty it may be. Besides,” - he added with a smile, “you will have John now.” - -“John is John, and you are you,” said Stella. There was a little pause. -Then after a glance at his tired face, she said in a low voice: “You -'re right, Walter; you must go away and get strong again. I spoke very -selfishly. I 've not been accustomed to think much of other people.” - -“Stellamaris dear,” he said, “if I thought I could serve you by staying, -I would stay. But there's nothing for me to do, is there? The--the what -shall I say--the veil between John and you has been cut in twain, as it -were, by a flaming sword. Perhaps Unity did it. But there's no veil now. -The only thing that has to be done is to bring back the sunshine into -John's life. That's for you to do, not for me.” - -She looked at him queerly. Her face was so white, her dress so black. -The only gleam about her was in her eyes. - -“I know that,” she said. “But who is going to bring back the sunshine -into your life?” - -He leaned against the wooden gate and gripped the top bar tight. What -did she mean? Was she a woman or, after all, only the old fancied child -of sea-foam and cloud? - -“When I can eat like a pig and sleep like a dog,” he said lightly, “and -feel physically fit, I shall be all right.” He smiled, and took her -black-gloved hand. “And when I see the roses in your cheeks and hear you -laugh as you used to laugh--that fascinating little laugh like a peal of -low silver bells--that I 'll be the Princess Stellamaris's court jester -again.” - -She smiled wanly. “You were never court jester; you were Great High -Favourite.” She sighed. “How far off those childish days are!” - -“They 'll return as soon as you 're happy.” - -“Life is too full of pain for me to find happiness in superficial -things,” said Stella. - -For all his wretchedness he could have laughed, with a man's sweet pity, -at the tone of conviction in her philosophic but childish utterance. - -“You must look for it and find it in the deep things,” said he. - -She made no reply, but stood thoughtfully by his side, and drew with her -fingers little lines in the summer dust on the upper surface of the bar -of the gate. - -“There 's something silly I want to say to you, Walter,” she murmured -at last, “and I don't quite know how to say it. It 's about the sea. -I think you can understand. You always used to. Our long talks--you -remember? Since all this has happened, the sea seems to have no meaning -for me.” - -“It will all come back, dear,” said Herold, “with your faith in God and -the essential beauty of the world.” - -“But what is the essential beauty of the world?” - -“My dear,” he laughed, “you must n't ask a poor man such conundrums and -expect an instantaneous answer. I should say roughly it was strength and -sacrifice and love.” He took a cigarette from his case and lit it. “You -'ll find the comfort of the sea again. I think it will have quite a new -meaning for you, a deeper meaning, when you sit by it with the man whom -you love and who loves you, as you know he loves you, and all the past -has become sacred, and there's no longer a shadow between you.” - -“Are you sure?” - -“Quite sure. You see, Stellamaris dear,” he added after a second or two, -“you don't need me any longer. Your happiness, as well as John's -happiness, is in your own hands. I can go away with an easy mind. And -when I come back--” - -“Yes? And when you come back?” - -Pain started through his eyes. When he came back? What would be left -for him? His art, his ambitions? What were they? A child's vain toys -cumbering his feet. His soul was set on the slip of pale girlhood, -startlingly black and white, with her mass of soft hair beneath the -plain, black hat, and her great pools of eyes, no longer agates -or diamonds, but aglow with remote flames, who, in poor common -earthliness, stood by his side, but in maddening reality was pinnacled -on inaccessible heights by the love between her and the man they both -loved. He felt that the pure had an unsuspected power of torture. - -“When I come back? Well--” he broke off lamely. And they looked at each -other without speaking until they became aware of a human presence. They -turned and saw John, his huge bulk in the frame of the doorway, watching -them dully beneath his heavy brows. - - - -AT the Channel House Stella's health began to mend. The black shadows -disappeared from beneath her eyes, and her lips caught the lost trick -of a smile. She no longer wandered desolate about house and garden, but -sought the companionship of those about her. The old folks discussed and -wrangled over the change. - -“One would have thought,” said Lady Blount, “that this terrible affair -would have crushed her altogether.” - -“Any one who did n't know her might have thought so,” replied Sir -Oliver; “but I 've watched her. I sized her up long ago. It 's -astonishing how little you know of her, Julia. She has lots of -pluck--the right stuff in her. And now John 's free and he 's down here. -What more can she want?” - -“Poor fellow! He does n't seem to be much the happier for it.” - -“You don't expect him to go about grinning as if nothing had happened, -do you?” said Sir Oliver. “Can't you understand that the man has had a -devil of a shock? He 'll get over it one of these days.” - -“I don't want him to grin; but I'd like him to look a little more -cheerful,” said Lady Blount. - -But cheerfulness and John Risca were strangers. Even when he and -Stellamaris were alone together, looking at the moonlit sea from the -terrace outside the drawing-room windows, or in the sunshine of the -sweet cliff garden, the cloud did not lift from his brow. Unless they -talked of Unity,--and it relieved his heart to do so, and Stellamaris -loved to listen to the brave little chronicles of her life,--long -silences marked their intercourse. To get back to the old plane was -impossible. They could find no new one on which to meet. She gave him -all her pity, for he was a man who had suffered greatly, and in a way it -was she herself who had brought the suffering on him. Her heart ached -to say or do something that would rekindle the old light in his rugged -face; but an unconquerable shyness held her back. If he had thrown his -great arm around her and held her tight and uttered broken words of -love, pity would have flamed passionate in surrender. If he had pleaded -for comfort, pity would have melted warm over his soul. But he made no -appeal. Both were burningly aware that Unity had died so that they -could be free, no barrier between them. Yet barrier there seemed to be, -invisible, inscrutable. - -Once Sir Oliver, who had joined them in the garden, asked: - -“What are your plans for the future, my boy?” - -“Plans? I have none. Just the same old round of work.” - -“I mean your domestic arrangements.” - -“I 'll go on living with my old aunt. We 're a queer couple, I suppose, -but we understand each other.” - -“Humph!” grunted Sir Oliver, and he went away to tie up a drooping rose. - -They walked on in dead silence, which was broken at last by John, who -made a remark as to Constable's growing infirmities. - -So the visit came to an end without a word having been said, and John -went back to his desolate house, physically rested and able to take up -the routine of his working life. Herold in Switzerland wrote letters -about snows and glaciers and crystal air. The calm tenor of existence -was resumed at the Channel House. Incidentally Stella found an -occupation. Old Dr. Ransome, in casual talk, mentioned a case of great -poverty and sickness in the village. Stella, followed by Morris -bearing baskets of luxuries, presented herself at the poor house in the -character of Lady Bountiful. At the sight that met her eyes she wept and -went away sorrowful, and then it dawned upon her inexperienced soul -that gifts costing her nothing, although they had their use, might be -supplemented by something vastly more efficacious. She consulted the -hard-worked district nurse, and, visiting the house again, learned how -to tend the sick woman and wash the babies and bring cleanliness and air -and comfort into the miserable place. And having made in this way the -discovery that all through her life she had accepted service from all -and sundry and had never done a hand's turn for anybody, she plunged -with young shame and enthusiasm into the new work. - -Afraid lest convalescence on the part of the patient would throw her -back into idleness, she ingenuously asked the nurse if there were other -poor people in Southcliff who needed help. The nurse smiled. Even at -Southcliff there was enough work among the poor and needy for every day -in the week the whole year round. - -“I 'm glad,” said Stellamaris. Then she checked herself. “No, I -can't be. I 'm dreadfully sorry.” The little lines of complexity knit -themselves on her brow. “It 's a confusing world, is n't it?” - -The state of mind of Stellamaris at this period may be best described -as one of suspended judgment. It was a confusing world. She could not -pronounce a more definite opinion. The Land of Illusion was a lost -Atlantis of which not a speck remained. On the other hand, the world was -no longer the mere abode of sin and ugliness and horror to which she -had gradually awakened. Unity had taught her that. What, then, was this -mysterious complication of life in which she found herself involved? It -no longer frightened her. It interested her curiously. - -“Excellency dear,” she said one day, “are there any books about life?” - -He stared at her, covering his non-comprehension with the usual military -twirl of his moustache. - -“Millions. What kind of life?” - -“Life itself. The meaning of it.” - -“Religious books? I'm afraid they 're not in my line, my dear.” - -“I don't think it 's religious books I want,” said Stella. - -“Philosophy, then. Kant, Schopenhauer,--um--er,”--he hooked a name from -the depths of his memory--“Bain, and all those fellows. I could never -make head or tail of them myself, so I don't suppose you could, dear.” - -“Did you say Kant? I think I've seen a book of his in the library.” - -She pulled down a dusty volume of the “Critique of Pure Reason” from a -top shelf and puzzled her young brains over it. It seemed to be dealing -with vital questions, but, like Sir Oliver, she was hopelessly befogged. -She asked the old doctor. He had a glimmering of her meaning. “The best -book in the world, my dear,”--he waved a hand,--“is life itself.” - -“But I can't read it without a dictionary, Doctor,” she objected. - -“Your heart, my child,” said he. - -This was pretty, but not satisfactory. “Walter could tell me,” she said -to herself, and forthwith wrote him a long letter. - -She lived in a state not only of suspended judgment, but also of -suspended emotion. The latter hung in the more delicate balance. Her -maidenhood realized it vaguely. She had half expected John to speak -of his love for her; at the same time she had dreaded the moment of -declaration; and, at the same time also, she had felt that beneath the -shadow of the wings of death it behoved mortal passion to lie still and -veiled. The anguish of the weeks preceding the tragedy had passed away. -She had no pain save that of yearning pity for an agonized world. The -old people in their dependence on her and in the pathos of their limited -vision once more became inexpressibly dear. The childish titles -were invested in a new beauty. Her pretty labours in sorrow-stricken -cottages, amateurish as they were, held a profound significance. Unlike -the thousands of sweet English girls up and down the land who are bred -in the practice of philanthropy and think no more of it than of its -concomitant tennis-parties and flirtations, she had come upon it -unawares, and it had all the thrill of a discovery. It was one little -piece fitted certainly into the baffling puzzle of life. - -John came down again for the week-end. Stella found him gentle, less -gloomy, but oddly remote from her--remoter even than when he lay -crushed beneath the tragedy. Now and again she caught him looking at her -wistfully, whereupon she turned her eyes away in a distress which -she could not explain. Gradually she became aware that the Great High -Belovedest of the past had vanished into nothingness, with so many other -illusory things. The awakening kiss that he had given her as he carried -her in his arms faded into the far-off dreamland. On the Sunday night -they lingered in the drawing-room for a moment after the old people had -retired to bed. - -“I must be going back by the early train in the morning, and sha'n't see -you,” said he, “so I 'll say good-by now.” - -“I'm sorry, dear.” She put out her hand. “I hope the little change has -done you good.” - -For answer he bent down and touched her forehead with his lips. Then he -held the door open for her to pass out. - -“God bless you, dear,” said he. - -She went up-stairs, feeling in a half-scared way that something, she -knew not what, had happened, and she cried herself to sleep. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV, - -IT was a sullen night in mid-August, following a breathless day and an -angry sunset that had shed a copper-coloured glow above a bank of cloud. -The great windows of the drawing-room of the Channel House were flung -open wide, and on the terrace beneath the starless heaven sat the little -group of intimates, which now included the placid lady of the little -Kilburn house. Walter Herold, who had returned from Switzerland tanned -and strong, told his adventures to Sir Oliver and Dr. Ransome, while -John and Stella, a little way apart, listened idly. Lady Blount and Miss -Lindon murmured irrelevancies concerning the curates of long ago and the -present price of beef. They had many points at which the curves of their -natures touched, such as mathematicians, with unique spasm of romance, -call points of osculation. - -But for the voices all was still. From below, at the base of the cliff, -came the lazy lapping of the sea against the rocks. Outside the glow of -light cast by the illuminated drawing-room the world was pitch black. -The air grew more and more oppressive. - -“I think there's going to be thunder,” said Lady Blount. - -“I hope not,” said Miss Lindon. “I know John thinks it foolish, but I'm -terribly afraid of thunder.” - -“So does Sir Oliver; but I don't care. Whenever there's a thunder-storm, -I go up to my room and put my head under the bedclothes until it 's -over.” - -“Now is n't that remarkable, my dear,” said Miss Lindon--“I do exactly -the same! I draw down the blinds, and hide scissors away in a drawer, -and throw a woollen shawl over the steel fender, and then I put my head -under the blankets. My Aunt Margery, I remember, invariably used to go -and sit in the coal-cellar. But she was a strong-minded woman, and would -put her foot on a black beetle as soon as look at it. I hope I'm fond -of most of God's creatures, but a black beetle frightens me out of my -wits.” - -“What do you think of thunder-storms, Stella?” John asked, knocking the -ashes out of his pipe. - -“I'm rather frightened,” she confessed. “Not because I think they 'll -hurt me.” She paused and sighed. “I never could understand them.” - -“What do you mean by understanding a thunderstorm?” he asked. - -“I don't know,” she answered. “You either understand things or you -don't.” - -Herold broke in to spare her further explanation. “There was a splendid -one the week before last in the mountains--a real _Walpurgisnacht_. It -seemed as though hell had broken loose.” - -He described it in his vivid way. The elderly ladies looked at the -glimmer of white shirt-front and the glowing cigarette-end by which -alone he was revealed, and wondered at the heroical, or, as it seemed in -the unconfessed depths of their souls, the God-defying qualities of male -humanity. A few resounding splashes fell from the sky. The party rose -hurriedly. - -“Gad! we 're in for it,” cried Sir Oliver. “Let us get indoors.” - -A flash of lightning rent the southern sky, and a clap of thunder broke -over the Channel, and the rain came down like a waterspout. In the -drawing-room Lady Blount put her hand before her eyes. - -“You must all forgive me. I can't stand it. I must go up-stairs. -Besides, it 's late, very near bedtime, My dear Miss Lindon, shall we -go?” - -The two old ladies, after hasty good nights, retired to the protection -of their respective bedclothes. A great wind arose and swept through -the room, blowing over a vase of flowers on the piano. Dr. Ransome, who -happened to be standing near, mopped up the water with his handkerchief. -Herold sprang to the window and shut it. Stella was by his side. Another -flash sped through the blackness, and the thunder followed. They drew -near together and waited for the next. - -Sir Oliver hospitably pushed John and the old doctor toward the -drawing-room door. “There are drinks in the library. It 'll be cosier -there, on the other side of the house, away from this confounded racket. -Come along, Walter. Stella, darling, you had better go to bed. It 's the -best place for little girls in a thunder-storm.” - -She turned, the breadth of the drawing-room separating Walter Herold and -herself from the others. - -“I 'll stay up a little longer and look at it, dear Excellency,” she -said, with a smile. “I 'll come into the library later and tell you all -good night.” - -At this announcement, and Stellamaris's announcements had ever been -sovereign decrees, John and Dr. Ransome, standing by the open door, -obeyed the courteous wave of Sir Oliver's hand. The old man waited for -Herold, who advanced a pace or two. - -“I suppose you 're dying for whisky and soda,” said Stella, resignedly. - -He stopped short. “Not in the least. I would far rather look at -this,”--he flung a hand toward the window,--“if you would let me.” - -“Only for five minutes, Favourite, dear; then I 'll send you away.” - -Sir Oliver went out, shutting the door behind him. Herold and -Stellamaris were alone in the spacious room. There came another flash -and the thunder peal, and the rain spattered hard on the stone terrace. - -“Why should n't we sit down?” he asked, and drew a small settee to the -window. - -She stood, expectant of the lightning. It came and lit up a suddenly -tempestuous sea. With her eyes straining at the blackness, she said in a -low, voice: - -“Turn out the lights. This is all that matters.” He went to the door, -snapped the electric switches, and the darkness was so absolute that he -waited for the next flash to see his way across the room. They sat -down together side by side. A flash of vehement and reiterated radiance -revealed a God's wrath of spindrift scattered from mountainous waves -that tossed in the middle distance the three-masted skeleton of a ship, -and blasted the chalk-cliffed promontory to the west into a leprous -tongue. They watched in silence for a long, long time. Save for the -lightning, pitch blackness enveloped them. The rain swished heavily -against the windows, and the surf roared on the rocks below. After -a livid revelation of elemental welter and the deafening crash of -cataclysm, she clutched his arm. When the peal had rolled away into an -angry rumble, he whispered: - -“Are you frightened?” - -“No,” she replied, also below her breath, “not frightened. It excites -me, it makes me feel, it makes me think. I seem to be understanding -things I never understood before. Don't let us speak.” - -To remove impression of rebuke, her hand slid down his arm, found his -hand, and held it. Neither spoke. After a while he scanned her face -by the lightning. It was set, as though she saw a vision, her eyes -gleaming, her lips parted. At the thunderclap her grasp involuntarily -tightened. Again and again her face was startlingly visible. Herold's -mind went back down the years. He had seen that rapt expression times -without number when she lay by the window of her sea-chamber and looked -out into the mysteries of sea and sky; and times without number she -had held his hand while her spirit, as he had loved fantastically to -believe, went forth to dance with her sisters of the foam or to walk -secure through the gates of the sunset. And he had loved to believe, -too, that his own spirit, in some blind, attendant way, though lagging -far behind, followed hers over the borders of the Land That Never Was. -Sensitive to her moods, he felt now a strange excitement. She had become -once more the Stellamaris of the cloudless and mystical years. The -sea that had rejected her had again claimed her for its own, and was -delivering into her keeping mysteries such as it had withheld from -her even then; for she had found no message in the war of elements, -mysteries deep and magnificent. He returned her tense pressure, and -followed her spirit out into the vastness. - -The storm grew fiercer. Every few moments spasms of livid daylight rent -the darkness and dazzlingly illuminated the eager faces of the pair, the -window-jambs and transoms, the terrace, the howling waste beyond, the -skeleton ship tossing grimly, the promontory, the pitch black of the -sky; and the thunder burst in awful detonations over their heads. -Unconsciously and instinctively Stellamaris had drawn nearer to him, and -her arm rested against his. After a long time, in the stillness of the -dark, he spoke like one in a dream: - -“The terrible splendour of life, that is the secret--the terrible -splendour.” - -She awoke almost with a shock, and, turning round, shook him by the -lapel of his coat. - -“How did you know, Walter? How did you know?” - -Her voice quavered; he felt that she was trembling. A flash showed her -straining her eyes into his face. They waited for the thunderclap during -a second of intensity. - -“What?” he asked. - -“Those words. Those very words had just come to me, the meaning of -everything--The terrible splendour of life. How did you know?” - -“It was our souls that were going together through the storm.” - -She released him, and withdrew a little. - -“Did you know all that I was thinking?” - -“Or all that the sea was telling you?” - -“Did you feel that, too?” she asked breathlessly. - -“I think so,” he replied. - -“It was strange,” she said. “I hardly knew that I was here. I seemed to -be away in the midst of it all, but I don't think I lost consciousness. -I had adventures--curious adventures.” She paused abruptly, then she -continued: “They seemed to be definite then, but they are all a blur -now. It was a kind of battle between man and evil forces, and I think I -felt a voice speaking through it, and saying that the splendour of man -would never be subdued; and the impression I 've got is, that I saw -something, whether it was a shape or a scene I don't know, but something -great and grand and fierce and heroic, and the voice told me it was -life. The only thing I have clear is the words, 'the terrible splendour -of life,' the words you plucked out of me.” - -“It is the great secret,” he said. - -“Yes.” - -There was another silence. The storm began to pass gradually away. -The lightning became rarer, and the intervals longer between flash and -thunder. - -“It is beginning to be clear,” she said at last. “All that has troubled -me. All that you guessed I was feeling, and that I told you of only when -you compelled me. You have been right. Once--do you remember?--you said -that if I saw God through the beauty and the vanity of the world all -would be well.” - -“I ought to have told you to see Him through the pain of the world,” - said Herold. - -“You have told me that, in other words, ever since; and I was deaf.” - -“Not I, dear,” said Herold. - -“Yes, you. Now I understand.” She drew a deep breath. “Now, I -understand. It's like an open book. That woman--Unity--wait,” she -paused, and put her two hands to her head in the darkness. “I have a -glimmer of a memory--it's so illusive. It seems that I saw Unity just -now. I understand all that she was, all that she meant.” A flash showed -the sea. “Yes, I was out there,” she cried excitedly, and pointed. “Just -out there.” Darkness engulfed them. “I forget,” she faltered, “I -forget.” - -“But the sea has taken you back at last, Stellamaris,” said Herold. - -She seized his hand and held it during the peal. Then she cried in a -tone of sudden terror: - -“Walter!” - -“Yes?” - -“What you said--your prophesy--the comfort of the sea--the deeper -meaning--” - -He leaped to his feet. - -“Don't think anything more of it. They were just foolish words to -comfort you. You and I seem to have been on the Edge of Beyond and -looked over, and we 're not quite normal. We must get down now to -practical things. I 'm just what I always was, dear, a fantastic person -who rode with you into fairyland. I am still. Nothing more.” - -“Are you quite sure?” suddenly asked a deep voice out of the blackness -of the room. - -Stella with a little cry of fright sprang to Herold for protection. For -a second or two they were still. In their exaltation the question seemed -to come from some vast depth of the abysm of time. Their hearts beat -fast, and they clung together, listening, and there was not a sound. -Then the lightning played its dancing daylight about the room, and they -saw John Risca standing by the door. They sprang apart. - -In another moment the room was flooded with electric light. The -drawing-room, for all its beauty, looked mean and unimportant. -The lights showed up glaringly an old Florentine tapestry over the -chimney-piece. It seemed to have singularly little relation to life. It -jarred impertinently. - -“I came in to find Walter,” said John; “I did n't think Stella was -still up. It's late. You did n't hear me. I'm sorry I inadvertently -overheard.” - -“There 's nothing, my dear John, that you could not have heard,” said -Herold. - -John came forward in his lumbering way. - -“I know that, Walter.” - -For a minute or two no one spoke. The three stood stock-still, their -hearts thumping. Outside, the rain fell pitilessly on the flags of the -terrace, and the waning storm flashed and growled. John's burning eyes -looked at Herold beneath heavy, knitted brows. At last he said: - -“You love Stella. You have loved her always. You never told me.” - -“That is not so,” said Herold. “You have found us in a foolishly false -position. A thunder-storm is an emotional piece of business. My old -intimacy with Stella has its privileges. I 'll leave you. Stella will -speak for herself.” - -John stretched out a detaining arm. “No, my friend; stay. We three must -have a talk together. It was bound to come sooner or later. Let it be -now.” He spoke quietly, with dignity and authority. “There is nothing -for us to talk about,” said Herold,--Stellamaris stood clutching the -back of an armchair, and looking from one man to the other,--“the words -you overheard ought to tell you that. And in answer to your question, I -can say that I am quite sure.” - -“You lie,” said John, quietly. “You lie out of the loyalty of your -heart--” he raised his great hand to check the other's outburst--“God -Almighty in Heaven knows I'm not accusing you. If ever man had deep and -devoted and unselfish love from another, I've had it from you. And I -have it still. It's a matter not of reproach, but of reparation.” - -“Don't you think,” said Herold, “we might continue this extraordinary -conversation in the library--by ourselves?” - -“No,” said John in the obstinate tone that Herold had known for many -years. “You and I are two men, and Stella is a woman, and a hell-mess -just like that--” he pointed to the tempest--“has upset our lives. It's -time to put them to rights again.” - -“I don't know what you 're talking about,” said Herold. “It 's a pity -you have chosen to-night. Things are a bit abnormal. Let us go to bed, -and talk to-morrow, if you like, in the light of common sense.” - -John folded his arms. “I'm going to talk to-night. I want you calmly to -consider the position.” - -“I do,” said Herold. “Stop,”---as John was about, to interrupt,--“let me -speak.” - -“Yes,” said Stella, breaking silence for the first time; “let Walter -speak.” - -But she stood apart, fascinated by this strange duel, as her primitive -ancestress might have done when two males fought for her with -flint-headed axes. - -“What I feel as regards Stella is neither here nor there. I 've never -told her that I loved her. I 've never told you. Both you and she have -told me that you love each other. That was enough for me. I joined with -Unity in seeking to remove the obstacle in the path of your happiness. -If Unity had not forestalled me, I--well, God knows what I should have -done! I left you asleep that evening, and went, half crazy, to the flat, -and there I found what I found. But, anyhow, Unity committed murder and -suicide to set the two of you free. If you want strong, blatant words, -there you have them. A girl, one of God's chosen, has laid down her life -for the two of you.” He stood between them and threw up his hands. “Take -each other. It is a sacrament.” - -Stella, her arms still on the back of the chair, hung her head and -stared downward. John cast a quick glance at her and then, a thing which -he rarely did, drew his great frame up to its full height and challenged -his friend. - -“If you don't love her, she loves you. I know.” - -Herold said: - -“You two belong to each other.” - -“Then Stella must decide,” said John. - -She threw out a flutter of delicate fingers and covered her face. “No, -no!” she gasped. - -The lightning flickered mildly in the well-lit room, and the eventual -thunder reverberated in distant anger. - -John again came close to Herold. “This may be an extraordinary -conversation, but it has to be. If Stella loved me, do you think she -would stand like that?” - -Stella dropped to her knees, her face and arms huddled against the -chair. - -“My dear old man, I 've learned many things of late. I can't tell you -exactly. I'm not good at that sort of thing. But Unity has been too big -for me.” - -Stella raised a white face. - -“What do you mean? Say exactly what you mean.” - -“I mean--oh, God knows what I mean.” He strode blindly across the -room, returned, and faced the two, still near together. “Can't you -understand?” he cried, with a wide gesture. “I'm infinitesimal sand -beneath that child's feet. I'm a blind mole in comparison with her -transcendent vision. I 'm in the dust. Oh, God!” He turned away. - -Stella rose, and, clasping hands to her bosom, went to him. - -“Belovedest, for Christ's sake, what is the end of all this?” - -He halted and took her hands. - -“Not shadows, not lies. Once I thought--indeed, I knew--you loved me. -That was when you were an ignorant child. You loved some one you thought -was me. Now your eyes are opened. You have passed through flames. -Knowledge has come to you. You see me as I am, and your love has gone. I -know, too, what I am. Unity has taught me. You can't--you don't love me, -Stella. That I know. I've known it ever since that day when we put her -into her grave.” - -Herold came between them imploringly. “My dear man--my dear fellow--what -is the use of this wild talk? You two love each other. Unity gave her -life for the two of you. If you two don't come together, it 's all -overwhelming, blasting irony. I could n't believe in God after it. It -would be hellishly cynical. Stella, in God's name, tell him that you -are bound by Unity's sacrifice--that you love him and will marry him and -make his life happy!” - -Stella, very pale, looked at John. “If you want me, I will marry you,” - she said in a clear voice. - -John waved her aside. “I will not take you, my dear,” said he. - -Spurned sex winced involuntarily. - -“If you have stopped caring for me--” - -“I stopped caring? I? Merciful God, I've never loved you so much. But -you love a better man. What's the good of saying the same things over -and over again? But I 'll tell you this, both of you, that if Unity had -not given her life, and if I had been free, I should have fought for you -and had you despite everything. That 's my accursed nature. But Unity -has not died in vain, and it's because of that child's death, the beauty -and heroism of it, that I'm able to stand here and tear my heart out -and throw it away. Don't make any mistake,”--he turned fiercely on -Herold,--“it's not I who am giving her up. It's Unity.” - -“Very well,” said Herold. “Let us put it at that. It's your point of -view. You also force me to speak. It would be grotesque to keep silence -any longer. Yes, I do love her. She is the beginning and end of life -to me. If she had lain on her back all her days, I should never have -married another woman. There! You have it now.” - -The two men's eyes held each other for a space. Stellamaris looked -at the pair with a fearful admiration. They were men. Herold she had -divined and known long ago; this, on his part, was only the supreme -fulfilment of promise. But John Risca, who had passed through the -illusion and disillusion of her soul, stood before her in new strength, -a great and moving figure. - -At last John drew a deep breath, turned to Stellamaris very gently, and -smiled. - -“And you?” - -The smile sent swift pain through her heart. She made a step or two, and -fell sobbing on his breast. - -“O Belovedest, I am sorry! You have guessed right. Forgive me!” - -He caressed the bowed head tenderly for an instant, then releasing -himself, he clapped his hand on Herold's shoulder and shook it with -rough affection. - -“I 'm going to bed,” said he. He moved to the door. There he paused -to nod a good night; but at sight of them both looking sadly at him he -walked back a couple of paces. - -“Don't worry about me. I'm at peace with myself for the first time for -years. There 's lots of happiness in the world left.” He smiled again. -“Enough for the three of us--and for Unity.” - -He left them, and went to bed in the room which Stellamaris had -furnished for him long ago, and fell into the sleep of the man who -has found rest at last in the calm and certain knowledge of spiritual -things. Unity had not died in vain. And Stellamaris, sitting once more -by Herold's side in the wide bay of the window, and talking with him in -a hushed voice of the wondrous things that had come to pass, knew that -John Risca had spoken a great truth. It had been God's will that so -should the terrible splendour of the world be made manifest. - -Herold asked for the million-billionth time in the history of mankind: - -“When did you first find that you loved me?” - -She replied, perhaps more truly than most maidens: - -“There was never a time when I did n't love you. I mean--I don't quite -know what I mean,” she said confusedly. “You see, I 've lived a strange -life, dear,” she went on. “You seem to have been a part of me ever since -I can remember what is worth remembering. You have always understood -things that went on inside me almost before I could tell them to you. I -always wanted you to explain foolishness that I could n't speak of to -any one else.” - -“That's very beautiful,” Herold interrupted, “but love is a different -matter. When did the real love come to you?” - -“I think it was that morning in the garden when you almost whipped me,” - said Stella. She started an inch or two away from him. “And I 'm sure -you knew it,” she said. - -And he remembered, as he had often remembered in his great struggle, -her eyes, turning from agates to diamonds and her words, “Do you love me -like that?” - -“Heaven knows, Stellamaris dear; I did not mean to betray myself.” - -She laughed the enigmatic laugh of a woman's contentment, and Herold was -too wise to ask why. - -They spoke of deepest things. “There is something I must tell you,” said -he, “which up to now I have had to keep secret, and it is right that you -should know.” - -And he told Her the story of Unity and himself--the revolver, their -talk of the evil woman, their parting words, his crazed adventure -through the sunny streets. - -She listened, her body leaning forward, her hands clasped on her knee. -When he had finished, she sat without change of attitude. - -“You did that so that another man could marry the woman you loved. Unity -did that so that the man she loved could marry another woman. John came -in to-night to sacrifice himself and give us both happiness. The three -of you have done terrible and splendid things. I am the only one of us -four who has done nothing.” - -Herold rose, took a nervous pace or two. What she said needed more than -a lover's sophistical reassurance. He could speak a thousand words of -comfort; but he knew that her soul required a supreme answer, a clue to -the dark labyrinth through which she had worked. What could he say? He -looked through the window, and suddenly saw that which to him was an -inspiration. He threw the folding-doors wide. It had stopped raining -long ago, though neither had noticed. - -“Come out on the terrace,” said he. - -She followed him into the gusty air. The sea still roared resentfully at -the late disturbance of its quiet. The southwest wind that had brought -up the storm had driven the great rack of black cloud above the horizon, -and there below the rack was a band of dark but cloudless sky, and in it -one star hung serene. Herold pointed to it. - -“What have you done, dear?” His voice broke in a catch of exultation, -and his usually nimble wit failed to grasp the lunatic falsity of the -analogy. “You have done what that has done--come through the storm pure -and steadfast.” - -“Not I, dear,” she said, “but my faith in the God we breathe.” - -“No; you yourself.” He put his arm around her, and all his love spoke. -“You. The living mystery of beauty that is you.” He whispered into her -lips. “You--Stellamaris--Star of the Sea.” - - -THE END - - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Stella Maris, by William J. 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