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diff --git a/old/53995-0.txt b/old/53995-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index c94c7a6..0000000 --- a/old/53995-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6285 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Study In Shadows, 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: A Study In Shadows - -Author: William J. Locke - -Release Date: January 18, 2017 [EBook #53995] -Last Updated: March 12, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A STUDY IN SHADOWS *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - -A STUDY IN SHADOWS - -By William J. Locke - -London: John Lane - -MCMVIII - - - - -CHAPTER I.--THE LONE WOMEN. - -|Felicia Graves was puzzled. The six weeks she had spent at the Pension -Boccard had confused many of her conceptions and brought things before -her judgment for which her standards were inadequate. Not that a girl -who had passed the few years of her young womanhood in the bubbling life -of a garrison town could be as unsophisticated as village innocence in -the play; but her fresh, virginal experience had been limited to what -was seemly, orthodox, and comfortable. She was shrewd enough in the -appreciation of superficial vanities, rightly esteeming their value as -permanent elements; but the baser follies of human nature had not been -reached by her young eyes. Her whole philosophy of life had been bound -up in well-ordered family systems, in which the men were honest and -well-bred, and the women either comfortable matrons or fresh-minded, -companionable girls like herself. She knew vaguely that sorrows and -bitterness and broken lives existed in the world, but hitherto she had -never reckoned upon coming into contact with them. They all lay in -the dim sphere where crime and immorality held sway, whose internal -upheavals affected her as little as dynastic commotions in China. The -lives and habits and opinions therefore of the six lonely women who, -with one old gentleman, formed her sole daily companions in the Pension -Boccard, were a subject of much puzzled and half-frightened speculation -on the part of the young English girl. - -She was forced to speculate, not only because she was brought into -intimate touch with the unfamiliar, but also because there was little -else to do. The Pension Boccard was neither gay nor stimulating in -winter. Its life was dependent, first upon the ever-changing current of -guests, and secondly upon such public distractions as Geneva offers. In -the summer it was bright enough. The house was full from top to bottom -with eager, laughing holiday-makers, bringing with them the vitality and -freshness of the outside world. There were dances, flirtations, picnics. -New ideas, scraps of gossip and song from London, Paris, St. Petersburg -filled dining-room and salons. The pleasant friction of nationalities -alone was stimulating. The town, too, was gay. The streets were bright -with the cosmopolitan crowd of pleasure-seekers, the _cafés_ alive with -customers, the shop windows gay with jewellery and quaint curios to -dazzle the eyes of the reckless tourist. At the Kursaal were weekly -balls, entertainments, _petits chevaux_. Bands played in the public -gardens, and all the _cafés_ offered evening concerts gratis to their -customers. There were pleasant trips to be made on the lake to Nyon, -Lausanne, Montreux, Chillon. No one need be dull in summer time at -Geneva. But in the winter, when all the public festivities were over and -week after week passed without a stranger bringing a fresh personality -to the dinner-table, the Pension Boccard was an abode of drear -depression. If it had been chipped off from the earth's surface by the -tail of a careless comet and sent whirling through space on an ecliptic -of its own, it could not have been less in relation with external -influences. It was thrown entirely on its own resources, which only too -often gave way, as it were, beneath it. - -There was nothing to do save reading and needlework and gossip. It -was while pursuing the last avocation that Felicia gathered her chief -materials for speculation. These women, what were they? Their names -were Mrs. Stapleton, Miss Bunter, Frau Schultz, Frâulein Klinkhardt, and -Madame Popea. American, English, German, Roumanian respectively. Yet in -spite of wide divergencies in creed, nationality, and character, they -all seemed strangely to belong to one class. They were apparently -isolated, selfcentred, without ties or aims or hopes. Each had travelled -through Europe from pension to pension--a weary pilgrimage. Their lives -were for the most part spent in listless idleness, only saved now and -then from inanition by the nerving influences of petty bickerings, -violent intimacies, sordid jealousies. All had moods of kindness -alternating with moods of cynical disregard of susceptibilities. Now and -then a wave of hysteria would pass through the atmosphere of depression, -when feminine velvet would be rudely thrust back and spiteful claws -exposed to view. Even Mrs. Stapleton would occasionally break through -her habitual restraint and be goaded into mordant expression. It was the -isolation of these women, their vague references to the sheltering home -of years ago, their cynical exposition and criticism of undreamed of -facts, that made Felicia look upon her surroundings with a child's alarm -at the unfamiliar. - -Sometimes she felt home-sick and miserable, wished that her uncle and -aunt, with whom her home had been for many years since the death of her -parents, had taken her out with them to Bermuda. But they, worthy souls, -when Colonel Graves was ordered abroad with the regiment, had thought -that a year's continental life would be a treat for the girl, and -had sent her, in consequence, to the care of Mme. Boccard, a distant -kinswoman, whose prospectus read like a synopsis of Eden. They had so -set their hearts upon her enjoyment, that, now they were thousands of -miles away, she felt it would be ungracious to complain. But she was -very unhappy. - -“Mon Dieu! This is getting terrible!” said Mme. Popea, one evening. - -Dinner was over, and some of the ladies were passing the usual dreary -evening in the salon. - -“It is enough to drive you mad. It would be livelier in a convent. One -would have Matins and Vespers and Compline--a heap of little duties. One -could go to one's bed tired, and sleep. Here one sleeps all day, so that -when night comes, one can't shut an eye.” - -“Why don't you go to the convent, Mme. Popea?” asked Mrs. Stapleton, -mildly, looking up from her needlework. - -“Ah! one cannot always choose,” replied Mme. Popea, with a sigh. -“Besides,” she added, “one would have to be so good!” - -“Yes; there is some truth in that,” said Mrs. Stapleton. “It is better -to be a serene sinner than a depressed saint! And sometimes we sinners -have our hours of serenity.” - -“Not after such a dinner as we had tonight,” remarked Frau Schultz, in -German, with strident irritability. “The food is getting dreadful--and -the wine! It is not good for the health. My stomach--” - -“You should drink water, as Miss Graves and I do,” said Mrs. Stapleton. - -“Ah, you American and English women can drink water. We are not -accustomed to it. In my home I never drank wine that cost less than -four marks a bottle. I am not used to this. I shall complain to Mme. -Boccard.” - -“It is bad,” said Mme. Popea, “but it isn't as bad as it might be. At -the Pension Schmidt we couldn't drink it without sugar.” She was a plump -little woman, with a predisposition to cheerfulness. Besides, as she -owed Mme. Boccard some two months' board and lodging, she could afford -a little magnanimity. But Frau Schultz, who was conscious of scrupulous -payment up to date, had no such delicacy of feeling. She pursued -the subject from her own standpoint, that of her own physiological -peculiarities. By the time her tirade was ended, she had worked herself -up into a fit state to give battle to Mme. Boccard, on which errand she -incontinently proceeded. - -“What a dreadful woman!” said Mrs. Stapleton, as the door slammed behind -her. - -“Ah, yes. Those Germans,” said Mme. Popea, “they are always so -unrefined. They think of nothing but eating and drinking. Herr -Schleiermacher came to see me this afternoon. He has been to Hanover to -see his _fiancée_, whom he can't marry. He was telling me about it. 'Ach!' -he said, 'the last evening it was so grievous. She did hang round my -neck for dree hours, so that I could not go out to drink beer with my -vriendts!' Animal! All men are bad. But I think German men--ugh!” - -She gave her shoulders' an expressive shrug, and resumed her reading of -an old copy of _Le Journal Amusant_, which she had brought down from her -room. - -“Where are the others?” asked Felicia, dropping her book wearily on to -her lap. It was a much-thumbed French translation of “The Chaplet of -Pearls,” which Mme. Boccard had procured for her from the circulating -library in the Rue du Rhone. Felicia found it languid reading. - -“Miss Bunter is tending her canary, which is moulting, or else she is -writing to her _fiance_ in Burmah,” replied Mrs. Stapleton. - -“Is she _engaged_?” - -Miss Bunter was some seven and thirty, thin and faded, the last person -in the world, according to Felicia's ideas, to have a lover. Both ladies -laughed at her astonishment. - -“Yes. Hasn't she told you?” cried Mme. Popea. “She tells everyone--in -confidence. They have been engaged for fifteen years. And they write -each other letters--such fat packages--thick as that--every mail. Ah, -_mon Dieu!_ If a man treated me in that way--kept me waiting, waiting--” - -She threw up her plump little hands with a half-threatening gesture. - -“What would you have done?” asked Mrs. Stapleton. - -“I should have consoled myself--_en attendant_. Oh, yes, I should have -gone on writing; but I would not have let myself become a poor old maid -for any man in the world. That is one thing I admire about Frâulein -Klinkhardt. You were asking where she was to-night. I know, but I -won't be indiscreet. She is _fiancee_ too. She is not getting less -young--_mais elle s'amuse, elle--en attendant_.” - -Felicia did not grasp the full significance of Mme. Popea's -insinuations, but she caught enough to set her cheeks burning, and she -cast an appealing glance at Mrs. Stapleton. - -“Won't you play us something?” said the latter, kindly, in response to -the appeal. - -“Ah, do!” said Mme. Popea, serenely. “You play so charmingly.” - -Felicia went to the piano, and ran her fingers over the keys. She did -not feel in a mood for playing; music with her was an accomplishment, -not an art to which she could instinctively bring bruised and quivering -fibres to be soothed. She played mechanically, thinking of other things. - -Once she struck a false note, and her ear caught a little indrawn hiss -from Madame Popea, which brought her wandering attention sharply back. -But her heart was not in it. She was thinking of poor little Miss -Bunter, and the weary years of waiting, and how sad she must have been -as, year by year, she had seen the youth dying out of her eyes and the -bloom fading from her cheek. Frâulein Klinkhardt, too, who was amusing -herself--_en attendant_; she felt as if something impure had touched -her. - -At the next false note, Mme. Popea rose softly, and went to Mrs. -Stapleton. - -“I am going to bed,” she whispered. “These English girls are charming; -but they should have dumb pianos made for them, that would speak only to -their own souls.” - -When Felicia heard the click of the closing door, she started round on -the music-stool. - -“I hope I haven't driven Mme. Popea away with my strumming,” she said, -guiltily. - -“Oh, no, dear,” replied Mrs. Stapleton, with cheerful assurance. “She is -a lazy little body that always goes to bed early.” - -Felicia rose, took up _Le Journal Amusant_, which Mme. Popea had left -behind, and sitting down, began to look through it. A few seconds later, -however, she crumpled it fiercely, and threw it on the ground with a cry -of disgust. - -“How can ladies read such things?” she exclaimed. - -She had never seen such a picture before, never conceived that the -like could even have been visualized by the imagination. Its cynical -immodesty, its obscene suggestion, gave her a sickening sensation of -loathing. - -Mrs. Stapleton picked up the offending journal, and skimmed over its -pages with calm eyes and a contemptuous curl of the lip. - -“Oh, how can you?” cried Felicia, writhing. - -The other smiled, and, opening the door of the great porcelain stove, -thrust the paper in amongst the glowing coals, and closed the door -again. Then she came quickly up to the couch where Felicia was, and -sitting down by her side, took her hand. - -“My poor child,” she said, “I hope you are not too unhappy here.” - -The elder woman's voice was so soft, her manner was so gentle and -feminine, that the girl's heart, that had been longing for six weeks, -with a greater hunger day after day, for womanly sympathy, leapt towards -her, and her eyes filled with tears. - -“It is so strange here,” she said, piteously, “and I feel so lost, -without my friends and occupations, and--and--” - -“Well? Tell me. Perhaps I may be able to help you.” - -The girl turned away her head. - -“Other things. Sometimes I feel frightened. To-night--that -newspaper--what Mme. Popea was saying--it seemed to scorch me.” - -Mrs. Stapleton registered a mental resolution to talk pointedly to Mme. -Popea on the morrow. If English girls should have dumb pianos, it was -only fair that Roumanian widows should have invisible indecent pictures. - -She smoothed the back of Felicia's hot hands. Her own were cool and -soft, and their touch was very grateful to Felicia. - -“My poor child,” she said, “my poor child.” - -She herself had suffered. She knew from sad tasting the bitterness of -many fruits that grow in the garden of life. Like many women, she judged -the flavour of another's future experiences by the aftertaste of her -own past. There were many, many Dead Sea apples that a woman had to eat -before the grave closed over her. The sight of the young soul shrinking -at the foretaste filled her with a sense of infinite pathos. - -“I wonder if you would let me call you by your name sometimes when we -are alone,” she said, gently. - -The girl flashed a grateful glance. - -“Would you really? It is Felicia.” - -“And mine is Katherine. I wonder how it would sound?” - -“Katherine?” echoed Felicia, with a puzzled smile. “What do you mean?” - -“I have not heard it for very many years. To everybody I have known I -have been Mrs. Stapleton. I should like to be called by my own name once -again. Would you do so?” - -“Oh! yes--gladly. But how sad! How very, very lonely you must be. I -think I should pine away with loneliness. There must be quite a hundred -people who call me Felicia.” - -“Then you must give us poor forlorn creatures some of your happiness,” - said Katherine, with a smile. “You must make allowances for us. Do not -judge us too harshly.” - -“Oh! you must not compare yourself with the others,” said Felicia; “you -are quite different from--Mme. Popea, for instance.” - -“Ah, no, not very much,” said Katherine, with a touch of bitterness. -“We only differ a little through the circumstances of our upbringing, -nationality, and so on. We are all the same at heart, weary of -ourselves, of life, of each other. Most women have their homes, their -children, their pleasant circle of friends. None of us has. We are -failures. Either we have sought to get too much from life and heaven -has punished us for presumption, or circumstance has been against us--we -have been too poor to conquer it. Ah, no, my dear child, don't think -that we are merely a set of selfish, coarse, ill-tempered women. Each of -us knows in her own heart that she is a failure, and she knows that all -the others know it.” - -A flush of colour bad come into her delicate cheek as she said this, -and her lips closed rather tightly, showing fine, almost imperceptible -vertical lines. Yet her eyes looked kindly at Felicia and smoothed any -rough impression her words may have made. - -The other's eyes met hers rather wonderingly. The tragedy that underlay -this commonplace pension life was a new conception. - -“I'll try to think more kindly of them,” she said. - -“And what about poor me?” - -“Ah, you! I have never thought unkindly about you. In fact, I have -wanted to know you, but you have always been so distant and reserved, -until this evening; you and Mr. Chetwynd. He is so clever, and so -old--and I am only a girl--that I am afraid of boring him.” - -Katherine laughed at her naïve confusion. “Why, Mr. Chetwynd is the -kindest and most courteous old man in the world! I'll tell you what -we'll do. I will get your seat moved up to our end of the table--away -from Mme. Boccard, who has had you long enough--and then you can sit -next to him. Would you like that?” - -Felicia assented gladly. Mme. Boccard was a rather oppressive neighbour. -Her conversation was as chaff before the wind, both in substance and -utterance; and the few straws that Felicia, with her schoolgirl's -knowledge of French, was able to seize, did not afford her much -satisfaction. - -“How can I thank you for being so kind to me?” she said, a little later, -before they parted for the night. - -“By calling me Katherine sometimes,” said the other. “I am not so very, -very old, you know; and, my dear child, it would comfort me.” - -Felicia went to sleep that night happier than she had done since her -arrival in Geneva. But she pondered many things before her eyes closed. -She was ready to pity Mme. Popea for being a failure, but Mrs. Stapleton -had failed to explain to her the necessary connection between an unhappy -life and _Le Journal Amusant_. If the latter was a necessary solace, it -brought fresh terrors to the anticipation of sorrow. - - - - -CHAPTER II.--KATHERINE. - -|Don't waste your pity upon me,” wrote old Mr. Chetwynd to his son -Raine, an Oxford don. “This is not the Euxine, and even if it were, -there would be compensation. - -I have fallen in love in my old age. She is a little brown-haired, -brown-eyed, fresh-coloured English girl, who has come lately to sit -by me at table. Owing to her, a change has come o'er the spirit of my -meals. - -I say and do all kinds of foolish things. I caught myself yesterday -brushing my coat before coming down to dinner. I shall be wearing -a flower in my buttonhole before long. I am already supplied with -bouquets. - -“My young lady's ignorance is fascinating; it forms a bond between us. -The Oxford young ladies, who will tell you of their charming talk with -the dear professor, little know what wicked satirical thoughts they have -left behind in the dear professor's breast. But this one actually does -not want to teach me anything. Think of it! She is Homeric. I told her -she reminded me of Nausicaa. Instead of taking the allusion as a text to -preach the newest theories of female education, she asked me sweetly who -Nausicaa was. It is wonderful! In brief, my dear Raine, if you value -the place you hold in your poor old daddy's heart, you must pay me your -promised visit with the utmost celerity.” - -He was a striking figure in the pension, this old scholar, whose -heart Felicia had won. All the ladies knew that he was a professor, -wonderfully learned, and that he was writing a learned book, in which -pursuit he spent half his days among the musty manuscripts in the Geneva -University Library. In consequence, they looked upon him with a certain -awe. They saw very little of him, except at meals, and then only those -who were within easy conversational distance profited much by his -society. Now and then, on rare occasions, he came into the salon after -dinner, where he would take a hand at piquet with Mme. Popea, whose -conspicuously best behaviour on these occasions was a subject of -satirical pleasure to the others. But as a general rule he retired to -his own room and his private avocations. - -As a matter of fact, he was an Oxford scholar of considerable repute, -honoured and welcomed in every Common Room. In his middle age he had -filled a professorial chair in a Scotch University, which after some -years he had resigned for reasons of climate and failing health. -At present he was engaged on critical work dealing with the Swiss -Reformers, and involving accurate documentary research. He had already -spent the latter part of the summer at Zürich, examining the Zwinglius -MSS., and now he was busy with the Calvinistic treasures of Geneva. How -long his task would last would depend upon his rate of progress. But as -he had let his small house in Oxford for a year, and as the quiet of the -Pension Boccard suited him, he had decided upon staying at Geneva for a -considerable time. - -A strange anomaly, with his learning and industry, in the midst of the -heterogeneous feminine idleness of the Pension. In a vague way all -the women felt it. His appearance, too, was strikingly suggestive of a -personality inaccessible to the trivialities round which their own souls -centred. Once a strong, thick-set man, he retained at seventy-two, great -breadth of bent shoulders. His hair, scanty at the top and long, was -still black, as were his heavy eyebrows, beneath which gleamed lustrous -black eyes. The sombre depth of the latter and the deep furrowings on -his dark, square face gave it, in moments of repose, a stern expression -but when a smile or the play of fancy or interest lit it up, it was -like the sunshine breaking upon a granite scaur. The very magic of -the change had in it something eerie, incomprehensible. And a rare -tenderness could sometimes well from the heart into the eyes, making the -old face beautiful; but that was not displayed for the benefit of the -ladies of the Pension. - -The fresh instincts of the young girl, however, divined the underlying -tenderness and brought it to the surface. It was a natural intimacy, -which cheered both lives. The old scholar's genial humour, delicate, -playful fancy, evoked in Felicia spontaneity of merry thought and -speech. The meals, which once had been such ordeals, when eaten under -the whirlwind of Mme. Boccard's half-intelligible platitudes, became -invested with a rare charm. Instead of sitting shy and silent, she -laughed and jested with the inconsequence of twenty. The change was so -marked, that one day, when a mock quarrel arose between the old man and -herself, over the exact halving of a pear, Mme. Popea elevated surprised -eyebrows, and nudged Frau Schultz her neighbour. - -“_Voilà bien les femmes!_ a man--a mummy will suffice--but let it be -masculine!” - -“And the men, they are all the same,” said Frau Schultz, in her thick -South German. “Give them a pretty face, and no matter how old, they are -on fire.” - -Frau Schultz applied herself again seriously to her meal, whilst Madame -Popea repeated her own observation to Madame Boccard, who laughed, and -prophesied a wedding in the pension. But as all this was whispered, it -did not reach the ears of the parties concerned, at the other end of the -table. - -Mrs. Stapleton listened amusedly to the light talk between Mr. Chetwynd -and Felicia, though with a certain surprise and wistfulness. Charming -and courteous as the old man was when the mood for conversation was on -him, she had never been able to open in him that light playful vein. -What Frau Schultz had expressed coarsely, Katherine, with a finer -nature, felt delicately. It was Felicia's fresh maidenhood that had -instinctively gladdened the old man--a possession she herself had lost -for ever, with which she could gladden no man's heart. She looked across -the table and smiled at her own thought. What did it matter, after all? -She had had the roses and lilies in her time, and they had not brought -her any great happiness. Her life had been lived. Still, a woman -of thirty mourns her lost youth--all the more if it has been a -failure--just as an older woman mourns the death of a scrapegrace son. -And though Katherine smiled at herself, she wished for some of it back, -even to charm such an old, old man as Mr. Chetwynd. There will ever be -much that is feminine in woman. - -“You haye made a conquest,” she said soon afterwards to Felicia. - -“Haven't I?” laughed the girl. “He is so sweet. Do you know, I think -sweet people, when they grow very, very old, become quite young again.” - -“Or, in this case, more accurately, isn't it that extremes touch?” - -“Do you think I am so very young?” asked Felicia, seizing the objective. -“I am twenty.” - -“Happy girl,” said Katherine, smiling. “But what I meant was, that if -you were thirty and he was fifty, you probably would have fewer points -of contact.” - -“Or, if I were ten and he were eighty, we would play together like -kittens,” said Felicia, with girlish irreverence. “Well, it doesn't -matter. He is the dearest old man in the world, and it was very nice of -you to arrange for me to sit next to him.” - -“It seems to have brightened you, Felicia.” - -“Oh, yes, wonderfully. I was getting so bored and dull and miserable. It -is not very gay now, but I have something to look forward to every day. -And your letting me talk to you has made a great difference.” - -“I am afraid I am not very entertaining,” said Katherine. - -“Sometimes you are so sad,” said Felicia, sympathetically. “I wish I -could help you.” - -“I am afraid you would have to upheave the universe, my dear.” - -Felicia looked at her with such wonderful gravity in her brown eyes that -Katherine broke into a laugh. - -“Well, you can do it gradually. Begin with my work-basket, will you? and -find me a spool of No. 100 thread.” - -Without overstepping the bounds of kindly friendship, they saw much of -each other. An imperceptible shadow of reserve in Katherine's manner, -a certain variability of mood, a vein of hardness in her nature ever -liable to be exposed by a chance thought, checked in the young girl the -impulses of a more generous affection. Katherine was conscious of this; -conscious, too, of no efforts to win more from the girl. Now and then -she sounded a note of explanation. - -Once they were talking of the pension's dreariness--an endless topic. It -happened that Felicia was disposed to take a cheerful view. - -“Every cloud has a silver lining,” she said. - -“By way of heightening its blackness, my dear,” said Katherine. -“Besides, the lining is turned to heaven and the blackness to earth, so -it does not help us much.” - -“Oh, why are you so bitter?” - -“Bitter?” echoed Katherine, musingly. “Oh, no! I am not, really. But -perhaps it were better that you should think so.” - -But for all her refusal to admit Felicia any deeper into her heart, -Katherine welcomed her companionship frankly. She had looked forward -almost shudderingly to the dreary isolation of the winter. Whom could -she choose as a companion, to exchange a thought with beyond those of -ordinary civility? By a process of elimination she had arrived at -little Miss Bunter, with her canaries, her _Family Herald_ and _Modern -Society_, her mild spinsterish chit-chat. It was a depressing prospect; -but Felicia had saved her. Her society relieved the monotony of those -terrible dreary, idle days, took her out of herself, stilled for a few -odd hours the yearnings for a bright full life--yearnings all the more -inwardly gnawing by reason of the ever exerted strain to check their -outward expression. - -She was standing before her glass one morning brushing her hair. She had -shaken it back loose; it was fair, long, and thick, and she had taken -up the brush languidly. She was not feeling well. Frau Schultz had -unsuccessfully tried to provoke a quarrel the night before; a little -graceful experiment in philanthropy that had engaged her attention of -late had ignominiously failed; the rain was pouring in torrents outside; -the day contained no hope; a crushing sense of the futility of things -came over her like a pall. She had roused herself, given her hair a -determined shake, and commenced to brush vigorously, looking at herself -sideways in the glass. But a weak pity for the weary, delicate face she -saw there filled her eyes with tears. Her arm seemed heavy and tired. -She dropped the brush and sank down on a chair, and spreading her arms -on the toilet-table, buried her face in them. - -“Oh I can't, I can't!” she cried, with a kind of moan. “What is the -good? Why should I get up day after day and go through this weariness? -Oh, my God! What a life! Some day it will drive me mad! I wish I were -dead.” - -The sobs came and shook her shoulders, hidden by the spreading mass of -hair. She could not help the pity for herself. - -Suddenly there was a knock at the door. She sprang to her feet, -glanced hurriedly at the glass, and touched her face quickly with the -powder-puff. In a moment she had recovered. - -Felicia entered in response to her acknowledgment of the knock. She had -been out in the rain; her cheeks were glowing above the turned-up collar -of her jacket. - -“Oh, you are only just dressing. I have been up and about for ages. See, -I have brought you some flowers. Where shall I put them?” - -Katherine felt gladdened by the little act of kindness. She thanked -Felicia, and went about the room collecting a few vases. - -“Arrange them for me, dear, whilst I finish my hair.” - -She returned to the looking-glass, and Felicia remained by the table -busy with the flowers. - -“I went as far as the library with Mr. Chetwynd,” said Felicia. “I told -him he ought not to go out to-day, but he would go. When 'Raine,' as -he calls him, comes, I shall have to talk to him seriously about his -father.” - -“The son has definitely settled to come, then?” asked Katherine, with a -hair-pin between her lips. - -“Oh, yes. Mr. Chetwynd can talk of nothing else. He will be here quite -soon.” - -“It will be a good thing,” said Katherine. - -“Yes; it will do the dear old man good.” - -Ordinarily Katherine would have smiled at the ingenuousness of the -reply; but this morning her nerves were unstrung. - -“I wasn't thinking of him. I was thinking of ourselves--us women.” - -“I wonder what he'll be like,” said Felicia. - -“What does it matter? He will be a man.” - -“Oh, it does matter. If he is not nice--” - -“My dear child,” said Katherine, wheeling round, “it does not signify -whether he has the face of an ogre and the manners of a bear. He will be -a man; and it is a man that we want among us!” - -The girl shrank away. To look upon mankind as necessary elements in life -had never before occurred to her. She would have been quite as excited -if a nice girl had been expected at the pension. - -“But surely--” she stammered. - -Katherine divined her thought; but she was too much under the power of -her mood to laugh it away. - -“No!” she cried, with a scorn that she felt to be unjust--and that very -consciousness made her accent more passionate. - -“We don't want a man to come so that one of us can marry him by force! -God forbid! Most of us have had enough of marrying and giving in -marriage. Heaven help me, I am not as bad as that yet, to throw myself -into the arms of the first man who came, so that he could carry me away -from this Aceldama. But we want a man here to make us feel ashamed of -the meannesses and pettinesses that we women display before each other, -and to make us hide them, and appear before each other as creatures to -respect. Women are the lesser race; we cannot exist by ourselves; we -become flaccid and backboneless and small--oh, so small and feeble! -I get to despise my sex, to think there is nothing, nothing in us; -no reserve of strength, nothing but a mass of nerves and soft, flabby -flesh. Oh, my dear child, you don't know it yet--let us hope you never -will know it--this craving for a man, the self-contempt of it, to crave -for nothing more but just to touch the hem of his garment to work the -miracle of restoring you to the dignity of your womanhood. Ah!” - -She waved her arms in a passionate gesture and walked about the room -with clenched hands. Felicia arranged the flowers mechanically. These -things were new to her philosophy. She felt troubled by them, but she -kept silent. Katherine continued her parable, the pent-up disgusts and -wearinesses of months finding vehement expression. - -“Yes, a man, a man. It is good that he is coming. A being without -jangling nerves, and with a fresh, broad mind that only sees things in -bulk and does not dissect the infinitely little. He will come here like -a sea breeze. It is a physical need among us, a man's presence now -and then, with his heavy frame and deep voice and resonant laugh, his -strength, his rough ways, his heavy tread, his great hands. Ah! you are -young; you think I am telling you dreadful things; you may never know -it. It is only women who live alone that can know what it is to yearn -to have a man's strong arm, brother or father or husband, to close round -you as you cry your poor weak woman's heart out, and the more humble, -self-abasing longing, just to long for a man's voice. What does it -matter what the man is like?” - -There was a few moments' silence. Katherine went on with her dressing. -The words had relieved her heart, yet she felt ashamed at having spoken -so bitterly before the young girl. _Maxime debetur_--. She thought of -the maxim and bit her lip. But was she not young too? Were they so far -apart in age that they could not meet on common grounds? She looked -in the glass. Her charm had not yet gone. Yet she wished she had not -spoken. - -Felicia finished arranging the flowers, and disposed the four little -vases about the room. Then she went up to Katherine and put her arm -round her waist. - -“I am sorry.” - -It was all the girl could say, but it made Katherine turn and kiss her -cheek. - -“I expect Mr. Chetwynd is going to be very nice if he is anything like -his father,” she said in her natural tones. “Forgive me for having been -disagreeable. I woke up like it. Sometimes this pension gets on one's -nerves.” - -“It is frightfully dull,” assented Felicia. “But you are the busiest of -anybody. You are always working or reading or going out to nurse poor -sick people. I wish I did anything half as useful.” - -“Well, you have made me more cheerful than I was, if that is anything,” - replied Katherine. - -A little later the old man announced to her the speedy arrival of his -son Raine. Katherine listened, made a few polite inquiries, learned the -functions of a college tutor, and the difference between a lecturer and -a professor. - -“He is a great big fellow,” said the old man. “He would make about ten -of me. So don't expect to see a thin, doubled up, elderly young man in -spectacles!” - -“Is your son married?” asked Frâulein Klinkhardt, who sat next to -Felicia. - -She was a fair, florid woman of over thirty, with strongly hewn features -and a predisposition for bold effects of attire. The old man, who did not -like her, said that her hats were immoral. A glint of gold on one of -her front teeth gave a peculiar effect, in the way of suggestion, to her -speech. - -“He has never told me,” said the old man, with his most courtly smile. - -“You will see, she will try to marry him when he comes,” whispered Frau -Schultz to Mme. Boccard. - -But Frâulein Klinkhardt laughed at the old man's reply. - -“That is a pity, for married men--whom one knows to be married--are -always more agreeable.” - -“And women, too,” said Mme. Popea with a little grimace of satisfaction. - -“A bachelor is generally more chivalrous,” said Miss Bunter, who always -took things seriously. “He acts more in accordance with his ideals of -women.” - -“Is Saul also among the prophets?” asked Katherine with a smile, “Miss -Bunter among the cynics?” - -“Oh, dear! I hope not,” replied Miss Bunter in alarm; “I did not mean -that, but a bachelor always seems more romantic. What do you think, Miss -Graves?” - -“I don't know,” said Felicia, laughing; “I like all men when they are -nice, and it doesn't seem to make any difference whether they are -married or not. Perhaps it may with very young men,” she added -reflectively. “But then very young men are different. For instance, all -the young subs in my uncle's regiment; it would seem as ridiculous to -call them bachelors as to call me a spinster.” - -“But you are a spinster, Miss Graves,” said Miss Bunter, mildly -platitudinous. - -“Oh, please!--” laughed Felicia. “A spinster is--” she paused in some -confusion, “An old maid,” she was going to add, but she remembered it -might be a tender point with Miss Bunter. Frau Schultz, however, struck -in with her harsh voice,-- - -“At what age does a woman begin to be a spinster, Miss Graves?” - -Frau Schultz's perverted sense of tact was of the quality of genius. Old -Mr. Chetwynd came to the rescue of the maiden ladies. - -“In England, when their first banns of marriage are published,” he said. - -Mme. Boccard turned to Mme. Popea to have the reply translated into -French. Then she explained it volubly to the table. - -The question at issue, the relative merits of bachelors and married men, -was never beaten out; for at this juncture, the meal being over, old Mr. -Chetwynd rose, turned, and hobbled out of the room, taking Felicia with -him. - -An hour later Katherine was picking her way through the mud up the long -unsightly street in the old part of the town that leads to the Hotel de -Ville. At the ill-kept gateway of a great decayed house, she stopped, -and entering, descended the steps at a side doorway beneath to a room -on the basement, whose lunette window was on a level with the roadway. A -very old woman opened the door to her knock, and welcomed her with an-- - -“_Ah, Madame! C'est encore vous!_” and led her in with many expressions -of delight. - -It was a poor, squalid enough room, very dark, ill-kept, littered with -cooking utensils, cookery, and strange articles of clothing. An old man -lay in the great wooden bedstead, his face barely visible in the dim -light which was further obscured by the dingy white curtains running on -a rope, fixed over the bed. - -“Jean-Marie.” cried the old woman, “here is Madame come to read to you. -Will Madame give herself the trouble to sit down? My daughter has not -come in yet, so the room is still unmade.” - -The old man raised himself on his elbow and grinned at Katherine. - -“One would say it was an angel when Madame comes.” - -The old woman broke out again in welcome. It was so good of Madame to -come. Jean-Marie could do nothing but talk of her. Really Jean-Marie was -right, and she was an angel. - -Katherine took the venerable wooden armchair that was placed for her -near the stove, accepted graciously the pillow that the old woman took -from the bed to make her more comfortable, and after a few minutes' -gossip opened the book she had brought with her and began to read. The -old man turned so that he could fix his eyes upon her. His old wife sat -on a straight-backed chair at the foot of the bed and listened in deep -attention. Katherine read on amid a rapt silence, only broken now and -then by an “oh, la! la!” muttered under the breath, at which she -could scarcely repress a smile. She was happier now. Her best, kindest, -tenderest self only was shown to this poor, broken-down old couple who -seemed to worship her. - -There was a humour blended with pathos, too, in the situation -that appealed to her. For the book in which their whole souls were -concentrated was a French translation of “Robinson Crusoe.” - - - - -CHAPTER III.--LOST IN THE SNOW - -|IT was the middle of January. Felicia stood at the salon window and -looked out at the snow falling, falling in the deserted street. She was -oppressed by the dead silence of things. There was not even a cheerful -fire to crackle in the room, which was heated by the cold white -porcelain stove in the corner. All the ladies had retired to their -rooms, for their usual afternoon siesta, and there was not a sound in -the house. She caught sight of a cab passing down the street, but it -moved with a deathlike noiselessness over the snow. She half wished the -driver would crack his whip, although she hated the maniacal pastime, -dear to Genevese cabmen, as much as Schopenhauer himself. But he passed -on, a benumbed, silent spectre, huddled up on his box. - -Nothing but stillness, dreariness, and desolation. The house seemed -empty, the street empty, the world empty. - -Raine Chetwynd had come and gone. For a brief season his hearty voice -and cheery face had gladdened the little pension. He had come with -his robustness of moral fibre, his culture, his broad knowledge of the -world, and his vigorous manhood, and the pulse of the community seemed -to beat stronger for it. In spite of the old man's warning, they had -all expected to see in the young “professor” a pale image of his father, -minus the softening charm of age. But, instead, they had been presented -with a type of blond, Anglo-Saxon comeliness--tall, deep-chested, -fresh-coloured, with an open, attractive face, blue-eyed and -fair-moustached, which, at first sight, seemed to belong to a thousand -men who rowed and cricketed, and lived honest, unparticularized lives, -but on closer examination showed itself to be that of a man who could -combine thought and action, the scholar and the athlete, the man of -intellectual breath and refinement, and the cheery, practical man of the -world. He was a man, in the specific feminine sense. He had brought into -the pension the influence that Mrs. Stapleton had insisted on, with such -passionate bitterness, as being needful in a woman's life. Each of the -women had brightened under it, exhibiting instinctively the softer -side of her nature. Mme. Popea had kept hidden from view the shapeless -wrapper, adorned with cheap soiled lace, in which, much to Frau -Schultz's annoyance, she would now and then appear at déjeuner, and had -tidied and curled her hair betimes, instead of leaving it till the late -afternoon. In Frau Schultz a dignified urbanity had taken the place of -peevish egotism. Little Miss Bunter had perked up like a frozen sparrow -warmed into life, and had chirruped merrily to her canaries. The only -friction that his presence had caused, had arisen between Mme. Boccard -and Frâulein Klinkhardt, who had broadly hinted a request to be placed -next to him at table. A pretty quarrel had resulted from Mme. Boccard's -refusal; after which Frâulein Klinkhardt went to bed for a day, and -Mme. Boccard called her softly, under her breath, a German crane, which -appeared to afford her much relief. - -It had been pleasant and comfortable to see a man again in the salon. It -had broken the sense of isolation they carried with them, like lead in -their hearts, all through the winter. Then, too, he had been a man whom -one and all could honestly respect. He had been open-hearted, frank with -them all, showing, in a younger, fresher way, the charm of courtesy that -distinguished his father. But naturally he had brought himself nearer -to them, had not seemed placed in such remote moral and intellectual -spheres. - -Besides, there had been a few festivities. Old Mr. Chetwynd had given, -in honour of his son's visit, a Christmas dinner, which had won him the -heart of Frau Schultz. Frâulein Klinkhardt and herself had lavished more -than their usual futile enthusiasm on a Christmas tree, which, owing to -Raine, had something better than its customary _succès d'estime_. He had -taken them to the theatre, made up skating parties at Villeneuve, at -the other side of the lake. Some friends of his at Lausanne had given -a large dance, to which he had managed to escort Felicia and Katherine, -under his father's protection. A couple of undergraduates of his own -college were there; they came a few days afterwards to Geneva to see -him; and that was another merry evening at the pension. - -Katherine Stapleton had brightened, too, under the gaiety, and her eyes -had lost for the time the touch of weariness that saddened her face in -her gentler moods, and her laugh had rung true and fresh. There were -many evident points of contact between herself and him, much that was -complementary in each to the other. - -One day he had said to her laughingly,-- - -“I have come round to the opinion---which I had not at first--that you -are the most incomprehensibly feminine thing I know.” - -“And I,” she had replied, “to the after-opinion that you are the most -comprehensibly masculine one.” - -“Is that why we get on so well together?” - -“That is what I had meant to convey,” she had answered with a light -laugh. - -The rest of which conversation lingered long after his departure in -Katherine's memory. - -Now he had gone, and life at the pension resumed its dreary, monotonous -round. Raine Chetwynd would have been surprised had he known the change -wrought by his departure. - -Felicia obviously shared in the general depression, and, like -Katherine, had memories of bright hours in which the sun seemed to -shine exclusively for her own individual benefit. She thought of them -wretchedly, as she stood by the window watching the flakes fall through -the grey air. - -A voice behind her caused her to start, though the words seemed to come -out of some far distance. It was old Mr. Chetwynd. He had been somewhat -ailing the last day or two, unable to go out. In a fit of restlessness, -he had wandered down to the salon. - -“Lost in the snow?” he asked, coming to her side. - -“Yes,” she replied, with a half sigh. “I think so. Quite. I was -beginning to doubt whether I should find my way safe home again, and to -grow almost tearful.” - -“You have no business with low spirits, my dear,” he replied, with a -smile. “You should leave that to old people. Their hearts get lost in -the snow sometimes, and when they feel them gradually getting stone-cold -and frozen, then they may be excused for despairing.” - -“What is to prevent it from being the same with young hearts?” - -“The warm blood of their youth.” - -“That may keep them warm, but it doesn't prevent their being lost,” - said Felicia, argumentatively. - -“Well, what does it signify if you do go out of your way a little, when -your legs are strong and your blood circulates vigorously?” he said -cheerfully. - -“But the young heart _can_ get lost,” said Felicia. - -“I won't chop logic with you, young lady. I am trying to teach you that -youth is a glorious thing and ought to be its own happiness. I suppose -it is attempting to teach the unlearnable. Ah me! How beautiful it would -be to be three and thirty again!” - -“Three and thirty! Why, that is quite old!” - -He looked at her with a touch of sadness and amusement, his head on one -side. - -“I suppose it is for you. I was forgetting. To me it is youth, the full -prime of a man's life, when the world is at his feet. Later on he begins -to feel it is on his shoulders. But at thirty-three--I was thinking of -Raine. That is his age.” - -“Have you heard from Mr. Chetwynd?” asked Felicia, after a longish -pause. - -“Oh, yes. He never keeps me long without news of him. There are only the -two of us.” - -“You seem very fond of one another,” said Felicia. - -“I am proud of my son, my dear, and he is foolish enough to be proud of -his poor old daddy.” - -His voice had grown suddenly very soft, and he spoke with the simplicity -of old age. - -His eyes looked out into the distance, their brightness veiled with a -strange tenderness. Felicia was touched, felt strongly drawn to him. She -lost sense of the scholar of profound learning in that of the old man -leaning on his son's strong arm. And the son's manhood grew in her eyes -as the father's waned. - -“It is not many men,” he continued musingly, “that would have given up a -Christmas vacation and come all this way just to see an old, broken-down -fellow like me.” - -Felicia stared out of the window, but she no longer saw the snow. - -“You must miss him dreadfully.” - -“I always do. We are much together in Oxford. He always gives me at -least a few minutes of his day.” - -“How good of him. It must be beautiful for you.” - -“A great happiness--yes, a great happiness!” - -He too was looking out of the window, by Felicia's side, his hands -behind his back, and likewise saw nothing. A spell of wistfulness was -over them both--bound them unconsciously together. - -“A tender-hearted fellow,” said the old man. “Wonderfully sympathetic.” - -“He seems to understand everyone so.” - -“Yes; that is Raine's way--he gets behind externals. I have missed him -sadly since he left.” - -“Yes,” said Felicia, softly. - -“And I have been wishing for him all day.” - -“So have I!” said Felicia, under the spell. - -Her tone suddenly awakened the old man. His eyes flashed into -intelligence as a darkened theatre can leap into light. The girl -met them, recoiled a step at their brilliance, and shrank as if a -search-light had laid bare her soul. - -She had scarcely known what she had been saying. A quivering second. Was -there time to recover? She struggled desperately. If the tears had not -come, she would have won. But they rose in a flood, and she turned away -her head sharply, burning with shame. - -The old man laid his thin hand on her shoulder, and bent round to look -into her face. - -“My dear little girl--my poor child!” he said gently, patting her -shoulder. - -For all her shrinking, she felt the tenderness of the touch. To have -withdrawn from it would have been to repulse. But it added to her -wretchedness. She could not speak, only cry, with the helpless -consciousness that every second's silence and every tear were issues -whence oozed more and more of her secret. - -“Does Raine know?” whispered the old man. - -Then she turned quickly, her brown eyes glistening, and found speech. - -“He know? Know what? Oh, you must never tell him--never, never, never! -He would think--and I couldn't bear him to, although he will never -see me again. And, please, Mr. Chetwynd, don't think I have told you -anything--I haven't. Of course, I only miss him--as every one does.” - -Felicia moved softly towards the door, longing for retreat. The old man -followed at her side. - -“Forgive me, my dear,” he said, with a shadow of a smile round his lips. -“I have been indiscreet, and leapt to wrong conclusions. Raine is so -bright that we all miss him--equally.” - -She glanced at him. The smile found a watery reflection in her eyes. In -another moment she was on the stairs, fleeing to the comfort of her own -room. - -The old man, left to himself, kicked open the door of the stove, drew up -a chair, and spread his hands out before the glow. - -“Louis Chetwynd,” he said to himself, “you are no better than an old -fool.” - -The subject was never touched upon again, but it seemed always -afterwards to be in their thoughts when together. At first Felicia was -shy--felt the blood rise to her cheeks whenever the old man's bright -eyes were fixed upon her. But her involuntary admission had stirred a -great tenderness in his heart. Somehow he had always thought sadly of -the possibility of Raine marrying, although he had urged him to it many -times. Up to now he had been the first--or thought he had, which comes -to the same thing--in Raine's affections, and he could not yield that -first place without a pang. And it would be to a woman not good enough -for Raine; that was certain. If he could only choose for him the paragon -that was his equal, then the surrender would be less hard. But Raine -would choose for himself. It was a way even the most loving of sons -had--one of the perversities of the scheme of things. Now, Felicia's -confession and his own feelings towards her supplied him with a happy -solution to this vexed question. Why should not Raine marry Felicia? - -He used to argue it out with himself when his intellectual conscience -told him he ought to be criticizing Calvin's condemnation of Servetus, -and pulverizing the learned Beza. But he soothed it by reflecting -that he was pursuing a philosophical method of inquiry. He put it -syllogistically. Girls do not fall in love with a man until he has given -them good reason. Felicia was in love with Raine. Therefore he had given -her good reason. Again, an honourable man does not give a girl such -reasons unless he loves her. - -Raine was an honourable man. Therefore he loved her. Which was extremely -satisfactory; and had it not been for the uneasy suspicion of a fallacy -in his first major, he would have written off to Raine there and then. -In spite of the fallacy, however, he wove his old man's web of romance, -saw Felicia married to Raine, and surrendered his first place with great -gladness. For he would be second in the hearts of two, which common -arithmetic shows to be equal to first in the heart of one. And when he -had definitely settled all this in his mind, he revoked the judgment he -had previously passed upon himself, and felt distinctly gratified at his -own tact and shrewdness. So the liking that he had conceived for Felicia -developed into a tenderer sentiment, of whose existence she gradually -became aware, though naturally she remained in ignorance of its cause. - -She fought fierce battles with herself during the next few weeks. If she -were ever going to see him again, there would have been a fearful joy, -a strange mingling of shame and dizzying hope to keep her heart excited. -But as he had gone for ever out of her path, her common sense coming to -the aid of her ashamedness strove to crush her futile fancies. They took -a great deal of killing, however, especially as she found the friendship -between Raine's father and herself growing daily stronger. She longed -for the day of her release to come, when she could join her uncle and -aunt in Bermuda. - - - - -CHAPTER IV.--“WHERE THE BROOK AND RIVER MEET.” - - -|Will you come for a walk this beautiful morning, Miss Graves?” asked -Frau Schultz. - -Felicia had intended to pursue her study of scientific dressmaking under -Mrs. Stapleton's tuition, but she acceded graciously enough. She had -considered it her duty to like Frau Schultz; yet Frau Schultz remained -her pet aversion. Although she still winced under Mme. Popea's -innuendoes and Fraulein Klinkhardt's pretty free theories of life, yet -she managed to find something likeable in each. But Frau Schultz's red, -weather-beaten face, coarse habits and spiteful tongue, jarred upon her. -She smiled pleasantly, however, when she came down in her fur-trimmed -jacket, hat and muff, and met Frau Schultz on the landing outside the -salon. - -“It will do you good. You sit too much in the house,” said Frau Schultz -magisterially. - -It seemed a lovely day when the sunshine was looked at from the windows -of a warm room, but outside, the _bise_ was blowing, and caught the face -like a million razor-edges. Felicia put up her muff with a little cry, -as soon as they emerged into the open air. “Oh! this dreadful _bise!_” - -“Ach! It is nothing,” said the other, who prided herself on her -pachydermaty. “You English girls would sacrifice everything to your -complexions. If your skin cracks you can put on some cold cream. But you -will have had your exercise.” - -Frau Schultz wore an imitation sealskin jacket, a new crape hat with -broad strings tied under her chin, and thick grey woollen gloves. -Felicia wondered, with not unpardonable vindictiveness, how many cracks -would do her appreciable damage. - -“I don't care a little bit about my complexion,” she replied stoutly, -resolved, for the honour of her countrywomen, to face a blizzard, if -called upon. “I have felt worse east winds than this in England.” - -“Ah, your England! It is a wonderful place,” said Frau Schultz. - -They walked along by the end of the Jardin Anglais, crossed the bridge -and proceeded by the Quai du Mont Blanc in the direction of the Kursaal. -Frau Schultz was evidently in an atrabiliar mood. Felicia began to be -rather grateful to the _bise_, which does not favour conversation. But -she had not reckoned with Frau Schultz's voice. As soon as it had found -the right pitch, by means of desultory remarks, it triumphed over mere -wind, and shrieked continuously. - -“I asked you to come out because I wanted to talk to you.” - -“Perhaps she prefers talking in a hurricane,” thought Felicia in comic -desperation. But all she said was,-- - -“Oh?” - -“Yes. You are so young and inexperienced that I have thought it my duty -to advise you. Mme. Boccard is too busy. I am a mother. I brought up my -Lottchen excellently, and she married last year. I am clearly the only -one in the pension who knows what is suitable for a young girl and what -isn't.” - -Felicia looked at her in some astonishment from under the wind depressed -hat brim. - -“I am sure I am getting on very well.” - -“Ah, you think so. But you are wrong. You cannot touch pitch without -stinking.” Frau Schultz's English was apt to fail her now and then. - -“Really, I don't understand at all, Frau Schultz.” - -“I will make myself quite plain. You have become too great a friend with -Mrs. Stapleton. She is the pitch.” - -Felicia stopped short, her eyes watering with wind and indignation. - -“If you say such things of my friends, Frau Schultz, I shall go home -again.” - -“I did not hear,” said Frau Schultz coming closer. - -Felicia repeated her observation, with an irritated little patting of -her foot. - -“_Ach!_” cried the other impatiently, “I come to talk with you out -of motherly kindness, for your own good, and you get angry. It is -not polite either, as I am so much older than you. I repeat that Mrs. -Stapleton is a bad woman. If you do not like to walk with me, I will -walk with myself. But I have done my duty. Are you going to stand, Miss -Graves, or will you proceed?” - -Felicia, in spite of her indignant resentment of Frau Schultz's tone, -hesitated for a moment. She had seen too many sordid squabbles in the -pension, in consequence of which women would not speak to each other for -a week, and asked each other vicariously to pass the salt, not to feel -a wholesome horror at the prospect of finding herself involved in one. -Hitherto she had escaped. So she checked her outburst of wrath. - -“I shall be happy to go on, Frau Schultz, if you will drop the subject,” - she said. - -“_Ach, so!_” replied Frau Schultz, enigmatically, and they continued -their walk. But after this, conversation was not cordial. At the Kursaal -they turned and retraced their steps. - -On the Quai du Mont Blanc, where the steamers lay at their moorings, -Frau Schultz stopped and looked at the view. Things were vivid in their -spring freshness, and stood out clear in the wind-swept air. The larches -in Rousseau's Island had put on their green, and so had the clustering -limes in the Jardin Anglais, at the other end of the bridge. Above the -white, tree-hidden shops and cafés on the Grand Quai, the old town rose -sharply defined, around the grim cathedral. Straight in front was the -ever sea-blue lake, its fringe of trees on the other side, just hiding -the villas at the foot of the hills; and away in the intense distance -behind them rose the crest of Mont Blanc, shimmering like frosted silver -against the blue sky. - -At the sight of the latter, Frau Schultz drew a long, rapt breath. - -“_Wunderschon!_” - -She would not trust herself to speak English. She looked at Felicia for -responsive enthusiasm. But Felicia was angry, and she could not help -feeling a little resentment against Mont Blanc, for affording Frau -Schultz pleasurable sensations. But she replied politely that it was -very pretty. - -“How few of you English have any soul!” said Frau Schultz, as they went -on again. - -“I think it is that we are not sentimental,” said Felicia. - -“I never could quite understand what that 'sentimental' is, that you are -all so afraid of.” - -“It is making the same fuss about little emotions as one only could -about big ones.” - -“So you think I am sentimental because I admire the glorious nature?” - -“I did not say so, Frau Schultz.” - -“Ah, but you thought so. It is the way you all have. Nothing is good but -what you put your seal to.” - -It was decidedly not a pleasant walk. Frau Schultz took up the parable -of the narrow-minded Englishman, and expounded it through the _bise_. -Felicia longed for home. To try to turn the conversation into a calmer -channel, she took advantage of a lull, and inquired after Frau Schultz's -daughter. The ingenious device succeeded. - -Lottchen's early history lasted until they reached their own street. -Felicia did not know whether to hate Lottchen for being such a paragon, -or to pity her for being so parented. At last she made a rash remark. - -“I don't think you gave Frâulein Schultz much chance of doing anything -wrong.” - -“I was her mother,” replied Frau Schultz with dignity, “and in Germany -young girls obey their mothers and respect the mothers of other young -girls. If I had spoken to a German girl as I did to you this morning, -she would have been grateful.” - -“I am very sorry, Frau Schultz, but I don't like to hear my friends -spoken ill of.” - -“I wanted to save you from those friends. I say again, Mrs. Stapleton is -not the person I should let my innocent daughter associate with.” - -Felicia fired up. They were within a few yards of the entrance to the -pension. “You know nothing whatever against Mrs. Stapleton. I think it -very unkind of you.” - -“_So!_ Ask her where her husband is.” - -“She is a widow.” - -Frau Schultz looked at her and broke into derisive laughter. It jarred -through the girl as if she had trodden upon an electric eel. She left -Frau Schultz at the foot of the staircase, and ran up by herself, -tingling with anger and disgust. - -Six months ago she would scarcely have divined Frau Schultz's -insinuations. Now she did. Her mental range had widened considerably -since she had lived in the pension. A less refined nature might have -been to some extent coarsened by the experience, but her knowledge only -brought her keener repugnance. She was no longer puzzled or frightened, -but disgusted--sometimes revolted. It seemed as if she could never get -free from the taint. Even Katherine, whose society, since they had -grown more intimate, she had sought more and more, and to whom she had -gone for comfort and pure breath, when the air had been close with lax -talk or unsavoury recrimination--even Katherine was now declared by this -vulgar, domineering woman to be infected by what, in the girl's eyes, -was the same leprosy. She did not believe it. In other matters Felicia -had seen Frau Schultz convicted as a liar. But the imputation seemed -like a foul hand laid upon their friendship. - -It was a relief when she went into Katherine's room and saw the -welcome on the quiet, delicate face that looked up from the needlework. -Katherine's room, too, always cheered her. Like Katherine herself, it -was different from the others. Mme. Popea's, for instance, struck one -with a pervading sense of soiled dressing-gowns; Miss Bunter's was all -primness, looking as if made to match the stiff wires of her canary -cages. But this sunny little retreat, with all its bedroom suggestions -curtained off, and cosy with piano and comfortable easy chairs and rugs, -was essentially a lady's room that had assimilated some of the charm of -its owner. By the time the gong went for _déjeuner_, Felicia was -cheered and comforted, and she entered the dining-room, her arm around -Katherine's waist, darting a rebellious glance at Frau Schultz. - -The days went on uneventfully. The only incident was the return of old -Mr. Chetwynd from a month's holiday in Italy, when the whole pension -united to do him honour and welcome him. On the day of his arrival -Felicia laid a pair of slippers she had worked for him in his room, -which delighted the old man so much that he came down to the salon in -the evening to offer them for general admiration. But otherwise there -was no departure, no arrival all the spring. Every one sighed for -the summer and fresh faces. They looked forward with the longing that -chrysalises must have for butterflydom. Felicia joined in the general -anticipation. She had not forgotten Raine, though he gradually grew -to be but a wistful memory. But she felt convinced, with the fervid -conviction of twenty, that she could never love any man again. - -The whole course of her thoughts was altered on one morning in May. The -hour for _dejeuner_ had been put earlier than usual, for some domestic -reason, and the English post arrived during the meal. Mr. Chetwynd -glanced over his envelopes, selected one, and courteously asked -Katherine and Felicia permission to open it. His eyes sparkled as he -read. - -“I have had pleasant news,” he said radiantly, laying down the letter -and addressing Mme. Boccard at the other end of the table. “My son is -coming here for the first part of the Long Vacation.” - -There was a general chorus of satisfaction. Tongues were set on the wag. -Mme. Popea and Frau Schultz conversed with simultaneous unmodulation. -Mme. Boccard explained volubly to Mr. Chetwynd the pleasure he would -derive from his son's visit. But all was a distant buzz in Felicia's -ears. The announcement was like an electric shock, vivifying the fading -love into instant life. Her heart gave a great leap, and things swam -before her eyes, causing her to close them for a second. She opened -them to a revelation--Katherine's face, which was as white as paper, and -Katherine's eyes fixed upon her with an almost terrified intelligence. -The exchanged glance told each the other's secret. But all was so sudden -that only they two knew. - -Katherine recovered her composure instantly, and the reaction brought -the blood back into her cheeks. She said with a smile to the old -man,--“It will be charming to see Mr. Chetwynd again.” - -Felicia envied her. She could not have trusted her voice whatever had -been at stake. - -When they rose from the table, the old man motioned to Felicia to come -with him on to the balcony, which ran continuously past the dining-room -and salon windows. - -“Is it not good news?” - -She hung her head, and faltered out,-- - -“Yes.” - -“Will you still be glad to see Raine again?” - -“You know--how can I tell you?” - -“My dear child,” he said, laying his hand on hers, as it rested on the -iron balustrade, “do you know what I hope Raine is coming for?” - -Felicia shook her head. - -“Oh, I dare not think it--we must not speak of it. I don't think I shall -be able to meet him.” - -“Can I help you?” asked the old man, tenderly. “You can tell an old man -things without shame that you cannot tell a young one. I have grown very -fond of you, my child. To part with you would be a great wrench. And -that this other should be has become one of the dearest wishes of my -life.” - -“Ah! you are good--dear, and good, and kind,” replied the girl; “but--” - -“Well, perhaps you can explain a little enigma in Raine's letter!” - -She looked up at him quickly. For the first time, her cheek flushed with -a ray of hope. - -“Can you explain this?” he asked, taking the letter from his pocket, and -placing it so that they both could read as they leant over the balcony. - -He pointed to a sentence. - -_“I am coming on my own account as well as yours. This, so that you -should not be conceited, and think you are the only magnet in Geneva -that draws_ - -_Your loving_ - -_“Raine.”_ - -“There!” he said, hastily withdrawing it. “Perhaps I ought not to have -shown it to you. But Raine never talks idly; and I have ventured to -believe that Miss Felicia Graves is the magnet in question. Goodbye, my -dear. I think I have committed enough indiscretion for one day.” - -She gave his hand a little caressing squeeze, and, when he had gone, -remained a long time on the balcony, deep in troubled thoughts. Who was -the magnet--she or Katherine? - -She strove not to think of it, to busy herself with whatever interests -she could find to hand. With this end in view, she took out for a long -walk little Miss Bunter, who had been in low spirits for some days. She -strove to cheer her. But Miss Bunter folded her drapery of depression -all the more closely around her, and poured into Felicia's ears the -history of her engagement with the man in Burmah. - -“Our marriage has just been put off for another year,” she said. “I -thought I had come to the end of my waiting. But he can't afford it yet; -and you have no idea how expensive living is there.” - -“Oh! I shouldn't have thought so,” said Felicia. - -“My dear!” said Miss Bunter, straightening her thin shoulders -reproachfully, “Mr. Dotterel says so, and he has been living there -fifteen years.” - -“It is strange that you have remained so fond of one another all this -long time.” - -“Do you think so? Oh, no!” replied Miss Bunter, with a convinced shake -of her head. “When one loves really, it lasts for ever. But,” she added, -sighing, “it has been a long engagement.” - -So Felicia parted with Miss Bunter rather more depressed than before. -She had thought to get outside the range of such things, but she had -been brought only the closer within it. - -She could not sleep that night. Many things troubled her, causing her -cheek to burn in the darkness--the sudden rekindling within her of -feelings against which her young maiden pride had ever revolted; the -shame at having revealed them for the second time; the hope suggested by -Raine's letter, to which it seemed a joy and a humiliation to cling; the -discovery of Katherine's love. - -She buried her face in her pillow, trying to hide from herself her -self-abasement. So does it happen to many women, when their sudden -investiture of womanhood comes to them, with its thoughts and sorrows, -and, unaware, they still regard it with the eyes of a young girl. - - - - -CHAPTER V.--THE PUZZLE OF RAINE CHETWYND. - - -|Then you won't join us?” said the Junior Dean. - -“I can't say definitely,” replied Raine Chetwynd, rubbing his meerschaum -bowl on his coat-sleeve. - -“You had better,” urged the other. “We can make our arrangements fit -into yours, if you'll give us timely notice. Put aside a fortnight in -July or August, and we will keep all the plums for then. You see we must -have dates beforehand, on account of the guides.” - -“Quite so,” Raine assented; “and it's very good of you, Rogers. But -somehow I shouldn't care to tie myself down. I am not certain how long -I may be likely to stay in Switzerland; and I have half promised the -Professor to take him away somewhere, if he has had enough of Geneva. -No; you fellows make your own arrangements without reference to me. Tell -me your dates, and I'll very probably happen upon you and take my chance -of what's going.” - -The Junior Dean did not press the matter. Chetwynd was not a man to be -governed by caprice, and doubtless had excellent reasons for not -wishing to make a specific engagement. But Raine thought it necessary to -apologize. He got up, and walked to the open window. - -“Don't think me a disagreeable beast.” - -The Junior Dean, laughed, and came and leant on the sill by his side. - -“No one could be disagreeable on a day like this.” - -The window gave upon the College Gardens. The lawn was flooded with -sunlight, save for the splashes of shade under the two flowering -chestnut-trees. The fresh voices of some girls up for Commemoration rose -through the quiet afternoon air; the faint tinkle of a piano was heard -from some rooms in the grey pile on the left that stood cool in shadow. - -The two men stood side by side for a long time without speaking, Raine -leaning on his elbow, blowing great puffs of smoke that curled lazily -outwards in the stillness, and the Junior Dean with his hands behind his -back. - -“We ought to be accounted happy,” said the latter, meditatively. “This -life of ours--” - -“Yes, it approaches Euthanasia sometimes,” replied Raine, -allusively--“or it would, if one gave way to it.” - -“I can't see that,” rejoined the other. “A life of scholarly ease is -not death--the charm of it lies in its perfect mingling of cloistered -seclusion with the idyllic. Here, for instance”--with a wave of a -delicate hand--“is Arden without its discomforts.” - -“I am afraid I am not so 'deep-contemplative' as you,” said Raine, with -a smile, “and the idyllic always strikes me as a bit flimsy. I never -could lie under a tree and pretend to read Theocritus. I'd sooner read -Rabelais over a fire.” - -“I think you're ungrateful, Chetwynd. Where, out of Oxford--Cambridge, -perhaps--could you get a scene like this? And not the scene alone, but -the subtle spirit of it? It seems always to me thought-haunted. We have -grown so used to it that we do not appreciate sufficiently the perfect -conditions around us for the development of all that is spiritual in -us--apart from 'the windy ways of men.'” - -“The 'windy ways of men' are very much better for us, if you ask me,” - replied Raine. “I mean 'men' really and not technically,” he added, with -a smile and a thought of undergraduate vanity. - -“Ah, but with this as a haven of refuge--the grey walls, the cool -cloisters, the peaceful charm of rooms like these looking out on to -these beautiful, untroubled gardens.” - -“I don't know,” said Raine. “Loving Oxford as I do, I sometimes breathe -more freely out of it. There is too much intellectual _mise en scène_ in -all this. If you get it on your mind that you are expected to live up -to it, you are rapidly qualifying yourself for the newest undergraduate -culture-society, at a college that shall be nameless. Many a man is -ruined by it.” - -“But, my dear Chetwynd,” said the Junior Dean, “there is a difference -between loving 'to walk the studious cloysters pale' and intellectual -priggishness.” - -“Doubtless. But it isn't everyone who can walk honestly. The danger -lies in finding another fellow doing the same. Then the two of you join -together and say how beautiful it is, and you call in a third to share -the sensation, and you proceed to admire yourselves as being vastly -superior meditative persons. Then finally, according to modern instinct, -you throw it into a Pale Cloyster Company, Limited, which is Anathema.” - -“Switzerland will do you good, Chetwynd,” remarked the Junior -Dean quickly. “Particularly as your mind is so disorganized as to -misinterpret Milton.” - -Raine laughed, stretched himself lazily after the manner of big men, and -lounged back on the window-sill, his hands in his pockets. - -“I don't care. I'd misinterpret anybody--even you. I've had enough of -Oxford for a time. You see I have had a long spell since January. There -were Entrance Scholarships and a lot of bursarial work for Evans to be -done that kept me up nearly all the Easter vacation. I suppose you are -right. I want a change.” - -“The mountain air would be better for you than a stuffy town.” - -“Oh, good gracious!” laughed Raine, swelling out his deep chest, “I am -healthy enough. You don't presume to say I am pale with overwork!” - -“No,” said the Junior Dean, mentally contrasting his own spare form with -his colleague's muscular development. “You have a constitution like an -ox. But you would get better air into your lungs and better rest in your -mind.” - -“Well, perhaps you are right,” said Raine. “Anyhow, if Geneva gets too -hot for me, I can come to you and sit on the top of the Jungfrau with -some snow on my head and get cool.” - -The Junior Dean, in spite of his sentiment, was a man of the world, -and he scented a metaphor in Raine's speech. He glanced at him keenly -through his _pince-nez_. Whereupon Raine burst out laughing and took him -by the arm. - -“Look here, are you going to put in an appearance at the St. John's -garden-party?” - -“Yes.” - -“Well, time is getting on. Let us go.” - -And on their way thither down the Broad, they discussed the Masonic -Ball, the results of the Schools, the prospects of the cricket match, -and kindred subjects, such as are dear to the hearts of dons in summer -time. - -The first person that Raine met at the Garden Party was his cousin, Mrs. -Monteith. She skilfully disposed of a couple of pretty nieces she was -chaperoning to some passing undergraduates, and walked up and down the -lawn by his side. - -She was a small, pretty, keen-faced woman, some two or three years his -senior. Once upon a time she had fostered a conviction that Raine and -herself had been born for one another, and had sought to share his -soul's secrets. As long as she depended upon his initiative, all went -well; but one day, having forced open a scrupulously locked apartment, -she recoiled in pained surprise. Whereupon she decided that she had -mistaken the intentions of the Creator, and forthwith married Dr. -Monteith, whose soul's secrets were as neatly docketed and catalogued -as the slips of his unfinished Homeric Lexicon. But she always claimed -a vested interest in Raine's welfare, which he, in a laughing, contented -way, was pleased to allow. - -“So you're off to Switzerland,” she said. “What are you going to do -there, besides seeing Uncle Louis?” - -“Rest,” he replied. “Live in a pension and rest.” - -“You'll find it dismally uninteresting. How long are you going to stay -there?” - -“Possibly most of the Long.” - -Mrs. Monteith opened her eyes and stopped twirling her parasol. - -“My dear Raine! In Geneva?” - -“My dear Nora, I really don't see anything in that to create such -surprise. I've just had Rogers expressing himself on the subject. Why -shouldn't I live in Geneva? What objection have you?” - -“If you talk to me in that vehement way you will make people fancy you -are declaring a hopeless passion for me.” - -“Let them,” said Raine, “they won't be greater fools than I am.” - -“What on earth do you mean?” - -“Oh, don't be alarmed. I am not going to declare myself. I wonder -whether you would laugh at me, if I told you something.” - -“It would depend whether it were funny or not.” - -“That would be a matter of opinion,” he replied with a smile. - -“Well, first let me know in what capacity I am to listen to it.” - -“As guide, philosopher, and friend,” he said. “Let us get out of the way -of these people. There are the Kennets bearing down upon us.” - -They found a garden seat in a secluded corner under a tree, and sat -down. Mrs. Monteith laid her gloved fingers on his arm. - -“Don't tell me it's about a woman, please.” - -“How did you know it's about a woman?” - -“My dear boy, you wouldn't drag me to this sequestered wilderness if it -were about a man! Of course it's a woman. You have it written all over -your face. Well?” - -“If you are not sympathetic I shan't tell you.” - -“Oh, Raine!” - -She moved a little nearer to him, and settled her skirts. When a woman -settles her skirts by a man's side it impresses him with a sense of -confidential relations. - -“Nora,” he said, “when a man doesn't know whether he is in love or not, -what is the best thing he can do?” - -“The best thing is to make up his mind that he isn't. The next best is -to find out.” - -“Then I am going to do the next best thing. I am going to Geneva to find -out.” - -“And how long have you been like this?” - -“Since January.” - -“Why didn't you tell me before?” - -“Because I did not relish telling it to myself. Now I have acknowledged -it, I have been pulling the petals off the marguerite, in a kind of -inverse way, for months, and the pastime has palled. The dear old man -thinks I am going solely for his sake, and I feel rather a humbug. But -of course--well--” - -“Most of us are.” - -“What?” - -“Humbugs,” replied the lady sweetly. “Come, honour bright. Don't you -know whether you are in love or not?” - -“No.” - -“Would you like to be?” - -“I don't quite know. That's the irritating part about it.” - -“Oh, I see! Then it's a question of the lady's desirability. Oh, Raine, -I know these pensions. I hope it isn't a Polish countess with two -poodles and a past. Tell me, what is she like?” - -“Well, to tell you the truth,” he replied, with a strange conjuncture -of a humorous twinkle in his eyes and a deprecatory smile, “it is -impossible to say.” - -“Why?” - -“Because she isn't one, but two.” - -“Two what?” - -“Two individuals.” - -“And you don't know which one to fall in love with?” - -Raine nodded, lounging with arms extended along the back of the seat. - -Mrs. Monteith looked at him in silence for a few moments, and then broke -into rippling laughter. - -“This is delicious. [Greek 3098-1] like the warrior in Anacreon!” - -“Don't quote, Nora,” said Raine. “It is one of your bad habits. You -are trying enough with your list of first lines of Horace; but you know -nothing at all about Anacreon.” - -“I do!” she cried, wheeling round to face him. “Joshua was correcting -the proofs of his edition during our honeymoon. I used to make him -translate them--it was a way of getting him to make love to me. There! -Now I'll repeat it:” [Greek 3098-2] - -“Oh, my dear Raine, it is too delicious! You, of all people in the -world!” - -“Then your verdict is that I am supremely ridiculous?” - -“I am afraid I must say it strikes me in that light.” - -“Thanks,” said Raine serenely. “That was what I was trying to get at. -I have been jesting a little, but there is a substratum of truth in my -confession. You confirm me in my own opinion--I am supremely ridiculous. -I like to make certain of things. It is so futile to have this -complicated state of mind--I hate it.” - -“Do you?” said Mrs. Monteith. “How different from a woman; there is -nothing she enjoys more.” - -After Raine had taken her back to her charges, he remained to exchange -a few civilities with the St. John's people and their wives, and then -strolled back to his own college. He mounted his staircase, with a smile -on his lips, recalling his conversation with his cousin. How far had he -been in earnest? He could scarcely tell. Certainly both Katherine and -Felicia had attracted him during his Christmas visit. He had been thrown -into more intimate contact with them than he usually was with women. -Perhaps that was the reason that they stood out distinct against the -half-known feminine group whom he was accustomed to meet at the crowded -afternoon receptions to which Oxford society is addicted. Perhaps, too, -the fact of his going from Oxford, where men are a glut in the market, -to the Pension Boccard, where they are at an extravagant premium, -had something to do with it. Some unsuspected index in his robust -organization was sensitive to the sudden leap in values. Whatever was -the reason, he retained a vivid impression of the two personalities, -and, as he had written to his father--in the same half-jesting strain -as he had talked with his cousin--he found himself bound to admit that -filial duty was not the only magnet that attracted him to Geneva. As -for his disinclination to bind himself to a definite mountaineering -engagement with Rogers and his party, he was glad of these nebulous -fancies as affording him a conscientious reason. The Junior Dean was -an excellent fellow and an Alpine enthusiast, but he was apt to be -academic, even on the top of the Jungfrau. - -These considerations were running lightly through his mind as he sat -down to his desk to finish off some tutorial work before dinner, in the -little inner room which he made his sanctuary, whither undergraduates -only penetrated for strictly business purposes. The outer keeping-room -was furnished with taste and comfort for the general eye, but here -Raine kept such things as were nearly connected with his own life. As -he wrote, he idly took up an ivory paper-knife in his left hand, and -pressed it against his cheek. - -He paused to think, looked mechanically at the paper-knife, and then -lost himself in a day-dream. For the bit of ivory had taken him back -many years--to the days when he had just entered on his manhood. - -He started, threw down his pen, and leant back in his chair, a shadow of -earnestness over his face. - -“That was the boy,” he said, half aloud. “What would it be for the man? -If this foolishness is serious--as the other--” - -And, after a few seconds, he clapped both hands down on the leather arms -of his chair. - -“It _is_ both equally--it must be--I'll swear that it is! And so there's -nothing in it.” - -He pushed aside his unfinished schedule, and took a sheet of note-paper -from the stationery-case. - -_“My dear Nora,” he wrote, “I have been thinking you may have -misunderstood my rubbish this afternoon. So don't think I propose -anything so idiotic as a search for a wife. Remember there are two, and -there is safety in numbers. If you will go over to Geneva and make a -third attraction, you may be absolutely unconcerned as to the safety of_ - -_“Your affectionate cousin,_ - -_“Raine Chetwynd.”_ - -When he had tossed the letter into the tray for the next post, he felt -relieved, and went on with his work. - -But the next morning he received a note by hand from Mrs. Monteith, -which he tore up wrathfully into little pieces and threw into the -waste-paper basket. - -It ran:-- - -“My dear Raine,--Men are the funniest creatures! I laughed over your -letter till I cried. - -“Your affectionate cousin, - -“Nora Monteith.” - -Which shows how a woman can know your mind from a sample, when you -yourself are in doubt with the whole piece before you. - - - - -CHAPTER VI.--SUMMER CHANGES. - -|From the moment of mutual revelation, the relations between Katherine -and Felicia underwent a change, not the less appreciable for being -subtle. This was inevitable. In fact, Felicia had dreaded the first -confidential talk as much as she dreaded the arrival of Raine. But these -things are infinitely simpler than we are apt to imagine, by reason of -the mere habit of human intercourse. The hours that they spent together -at first, passed outwardly as pleasantly as before. But Katherine was -more reserved, limited the conversation as much as possible to the -ephemeral concrete, and Felicia, keeping a guard over herself, lost -somewhat in simplicity of manner. Imperceptibly, however, they drifted -apart, and saw less of one another. A tendency towards misjudgment of -Katherine was a necessary consequence of the sense of indelicacy under -which the girl chafed. The rare utterances of feeling or opinion that -the other gave vent to, instead of awakening her sympathy, aroused -undefined instincts of antagonism. She sought the old scholar's society -more and more, boldly put into execution a project she had long rather -tremulously contemplated, and established herself as his amanuensis. - -When he saw her, with inky fingers and ruffled hair, copying out his -crabbed manuscript, he would thank her for her self-sacrifice. But -Felicia would look up fervently and shake her head. - -“You can't tell what a blessed relief it is, Mr. Chetwynd.” - -So the old man accepted her services gratefully; though, if the truth -were known, the trained man of letters, who was accustomed to do -everything himself with minute care, was sorely put to it at times as -to how to occupy his fair secretary--especially as she, with the -conscientiousness of her sex, insisted on scrupulously filling up every -moment of the time she devoted to his service. - -But Katherine smiled sadly and comprehendingly at Felicia's ingenuous -strategical movement. - -“It seems rather a pity you never thought of it before,” she said, one -day, kindly. “Regular occupation is a great blessing; it prevents one -from growing lackadaisical.” - -“Yes,” replied Felicia, falling in with her tone; “I am afraid I was -beginning to get into evil ways.” - -With the advent of summer, there was much bustle in the pension, -bringing relations into greater harmony. The chatter of millinery filled -the air. Ladies ran up against each other in shops, rendered mutual -advice, and grew excited over the arrival of each other's parcels. - -“One touch of _chiffon_ makes the whole world kin,” said Katherine, who -looked upon matters with a satirical, yet kindly eye. - -She was drawn perforce into the movement, being consulted on all -sides as to matching of shades and the suitability of hats. She bought -outright an entire wardrobe for Miss Bunter, who begged her to go -shopping with her, and then sat helpless by the counter, fingering -mountains of materials. Even Frau Schultz was softened. But she was -the only one who did not consult Katherine. She took Felicia into -her confidence, and exhibited, among other seasonable vestments, a -blood-coloured blouse, covered with mauve spots as large as two-franc -pieces, which she pronounced to be very genteel. Every one had something -new to wear for the summer. Mme. Popea scattered scraps of stuff about -her room, in a kind of libationary joy. The little dressmaker, bristling -with pins, haunted the landings, when not within the little cabinet -assigned to her, from outside whose door could be unceasingly heard the -sharp tearing of materials and the droning buzz of the sewing-machine. - -Summer changes took place in the pension itself. The storey above, which -was let unfurnished during the winter, was incorporated, as usual, into -the general establishment. There was a week of cleaning, during which -the house was given over to men in soft straw hats and blue blouses. And -then a week of straightening, when new curtains were put up, and floors -rewaxed, and dingy coverings removed from chairs and sofas, which burst -out resplendent in bright green velvet. The latter proceedings were -superintended by an agile young man in alpaca sleeves and green baize -apron. It was the summer waiter, who had emerged from the mysterious -limbo where summer waiters hibernate, and was resuming his duties, -apparently at the point he had left them at the end of the previous -season. Mme. Boccard and he conversed at vast distances, which was -trying to those who did not see how the welfare of the pension was being -thereby furthered. In her quiet moments, the good lady was busy -sending out prospectuses and answering replies to advertisements and -applications. She went about smiling perspiringly at the prospect of a -successful season. - -The first new guests to arrive were M. le Commandant Porniclion and -his wife. He was a stout-hearted old Gascon, a veteran of Solferino and -Gravelotte, who talked in a great voice and with alarming gestures of -blood and battles, and obeyed his little brown wife like a lamb. His -friend, Colonel Cazet, was coming with his wife later on. For some years -they had been regular summer boarders of Mme. Boccard. The next arrival -was a middle-aged man, called Skeogh, who had commercial business in -Geneva. At the first he caused disappointment through adding up figures -in a little black book at meal times. But Frau Schultz found him a most -superior person, after listening to a confidential account of the jute -market, in which commodity she seemed to have been vaguely interested at -one period of her life. Whereupon she talked to him about Lottchen, and -he put away the black book. - -“_Quelle Sirène!_” cried Mme. Popea, in wicked exultation. - -The next to come was Raine Chetwynd. The old man went to the -railway-station in the morning to meet him, and bore him back in triumph. - -“Oh, Raine, my dear, dear boy,” he said, watching him consuming the -coffee and _petit pain_ he had ordered up to his room, “you can't tell -how I have longed to see you again.” - -“Well, you shall not exile yourself any longer,” said Raine, heartily. -“I am going to carry you back to Oxford. The place is a howling -wilderness without you. If I could remember the names of all who sent -appealing messages to you, it would be a list as long as Leporello's. -And you mustn't live away from me again, dad.” - -“No,” replied the old man; “but you see I couldn't have done this work -as well in Oxford, could I?” - -“It's a noble work,” said Raine, with the scholar's instinct. - -“Yes,” replied the old man with a sigh; “it wanted doing, it wanted -doing. And I think I have done it very well.” - -“I must overhaul your scrip, while I am here. Let me have a look at it.” - -“Don't bother about it yet, my boy. Finish your coffee. Let me ring for -some more. You must be tired after your long journey.” - -“Tired?” laughed Raine. “Oh dear no, and I can go on quite well till -breakfast. I only want to see what kind of stuff you have been doing -since I have been away.” - -The professor went to his drawer and pulled out the manuscript, his -heart glowing at Raine's loving interest in his work--a never-failing -source of pride and comfort. - -“Here it is, nearly finished.” - -Raine took the scrip from him and turned over the pages, with a running -commentary on the scope within which the subject was treated. At last he -uttered an exclamation of surprise, laid the book on his knee and looked -up at his father. - -“Hullo! what is all this?” - -The old man peeped over his shoulder. - -“That is my secretary's writing,” he explained; “Miss Graves, you -remember her, don't you?” - -“Of course; but--” - -“Well, she will insist upon it, Raine; she comes in for a couple of -hours a day. It pleases her, really, and I can't help it.” - -“What a dear little soul she must be,” said Raine. - -“Ah! she is, my boy; every day she seems to wind a fresh thread round my -heart. We shall have to take her back to Oxford with us, eh, Raine?” - -He laughed softly, took up the manuscript and put it tenderly away again -in the drawer, while Raine lit his pipe. The latter did not suspect the -hint that his father had meant to convey, but he took advantage of the -short pause that followed to change the conversation. - -It was Mme. Boccard's arrangement that Raine should take Katherine's -place next to his father, and thus have her as his neighbour. It would -disappoint M. le Professeur if he were separated from his _petite amie_, -Miss Graves, and she was sure that Mrs. Stapleton would not mind. - -“Make any arrangement you please,” Katherine had replied, with some -demureness. - -Whereupon Mme. Boccard thanked her, and wished that everybody was as -gentle and easy to deal with, and Katherine had smiled inwardly, at the -same time despising herself a little for doing so, as is the way with -women. - -As for Felicia, the disposition of seats caused her painful -embarrassment. She dared not look at Katherine, lest she should read the -welcome in her eyes; she dared not look at Raine, lest the trouble in -her own should betray her. She kept them downcast, listening to Raine's -voice with a burning cheek and beating heart. Only when the meal was -over, and the old man detained her in conversation by the window, and -Raine came up to them, did she summon up courage to meet his glance -fully. - -“So the professor has caught you in his dusty web, Miss Graves,” he -said, smiling. “You were very sweet to let yourself be caught.” - -“Oh! I walked in of my own accord, I assure you,” replied Felicia, -“and you have no idea what trouble I had. He wants to dismiss me at -the present moment. Do plead for me, Mr. Chetwynd. Of course, I know -I should be in the way in the professor's room now--oh! yes, I should, -that is quite settled--but I want him to give me something to do by -myself.” - -“I will try my best for you, Miss Graves,” said Raine; “but you don't -know what an unnatural, hard-hearted--” - -“Oh, Mr. Chetwynd!” said Felicia. - -“Well, my dear,” said the old man, “you must have your way. It was only -for your own sake I suggested it. I am always so afraid of making you -weary--and it is very, very dry stuff--but your help is invaluable, my -dear. It will be the same as usual, then. Only I think I shall cut down -the time to half, as I, too, am going to be lazy now.” - -“Now you will see what real laziness is, Miss Graves,” said Raine. “Do -you know my father's idea of leisure?--what remains of a day after nine -hours' work. Seven he calls laziness; six is abject sloth.” - -“Ah! not now, Raine,” said the old man, “not now.” - -He turned to go. The two younger people's eyes met, both touched by the -same thing--the pathos of old age that sounded in the old man's words. - -“How you must love him!” said Felicia, in a low voice. - -“I do,” replied Raine, earnestly; “and it makes me happy to see that he -has not been unloved during my absence. I feel more about what you have -done for him than I can say.” - -He smiled, involuntarily put out his hand, and pressed hers that she -gave him. Then they parted, he to follow his father, she to go to her -room serener and happier than she had been for many days, and to weave a -wondrous web out of a few gracious words, a smile, and a pressure of the -hand. If it were possible--if it were only possible! There would be -no shame then--or only just that of it to raise joy with a leaven of -tremulousness. - -Meanwhile Raine sat in his father's room, and continued the interrupted -gossip. But towards three o'clock the old man's eyes grew heavy, as he -leaned his head back in the armchair. He struggled to keep them open for -Raine's sake, but at last the latter rose with a smile. - -“Why, you are sleepy, dad!” - -“Yes,” murmured the old man, apologetically. “It's a new habit I have -contracted--I must break myself of it gradually. I suppose I am getting -old, Raine. You won't think it unkind of me will you? Just forty winks, -Raine.” - -“Have your nap out comfortably,” said the young man. - -He fetched a footstool, arranged a cushion with singular tenderness -behind the old man, and left him to his sleep. Then he went out for a -stroll through the town. - -It was a hot, sunny day. At the end of the street, the gate of the -Jardin Anglais stood invitingly open. Raine entered, and came upon the -enclosed portion of the Quai that forms the promenade, pleasant with its -line of shady seats under the trees on one side, and the far-stretching -lake on the other. He paused for awhile, and leant over the balustrade -to light a cigarette and to admire the view--the cloudless sky, the -deep blue water flecked with white sails, the imposing mass of the -hotels on the Quai du Mont Blanc, the busy life on the bridge, beneath -which the Rhone flows out of the lake. He drew in a long breath. Somehow -it was more exhilarating than his college gardens. The place was not -crowded, as the tourist season had not yet set in. But the usual number -of nurses and children scattered themselves promiscuously along the -path, and filled the air with shrill voices. Raine, continuing his -stroll, had not gone many steps when he perceived, far ahead, a lady -start from her seat and run to pick up a child that had fallen down. On -advancing farther, he saw that it was Mrs. Stapleton, who had got the -child on her knees and was tenderly wiping the little gravel-scratched -hands, while the nurse, who had come up, stood by phlegmatic. - -It was a pretty sight, instinct with feminine charm, and struck -gratefully on the man's senses. Katherine looked very fresh and delicate -in her sprigged lilac blouse, plain serge skirt, and simple black straw -hat, and the attitude in which she bent down to the chubby, tearful face -under the white sun-bonnet was very graceful and womanly. She kissed the -child and handed it to its nurse as Raine came up. She greeted him with -a smile. - -“Quite a catastrophe--but she will forget all about it in half an hour. -It must be delightful to be a child.” - -“If all hurts are so promptly and tenderly healed, I should think it -must be,” said Raine. - -“Thank you,” she said, with an upward glance; “that is a pretty -compliment.” Raine bowed, laughed his acknowledgments, and with a word -of request, sat down by her side. - -“Is this a haunt of yours?” he asked. - -“Yes, I suppose it is. It is so near the pension--and I love the open -air.” - -“So do I. That is another point of contact. We discovered a good many, -if you remember, at Christmas. What have you been doing since then?” - -“Forgetting a good many old lessons, and trying to teach myself a few -new ones. Or, if you like, making bricks without straw--trying to live a -life without incidents.” - -“Which less epigrammatically means that you have had a dull, cheerless -time. I am sorry. You have been here all the winter and spring?” - -“Yes. Where else should I have been?” - -“In a happier place,” said Raine. “You don't seem made to lead this -monotonous existence.” - -“Oh! I suppose I am, since I am leading it. Human beings, like water, -find their own level. The Pension Boccard seems to be mine.” - -“You smile, as if you liked it,”, he said, rather puzzled. - -“Would you have me cry to you?” - -“Perhaps not on the day of my coming, but afterwards, I wish you would.” - -She flashed a glance at him, the lightning reconnoitre of woman ever -on the defensive. But the sight of his strong, frank face and kind eyes -reassured her. She was silent for a moment, dreaming a vivid day-dream. -She was taking him at his word, crying with her face on his shoulder -and his arm around her. It was infinite comfort. But she quickly roused -herself. - -“Don't you know your Burton? A kind man once pointed it out to me--'As -much pity is to be taken of a woman weeping, as of a goose going -barefoot.' It was the same that told me a woman cried to hide her -feelings.” - -“That kind of epigram can be made like match-boxes at twopence farthing -a gross,” said Raine, impatiently. “You have only to dress up an old -adage with a mask of spite.” - -“You haven't changed,” she said with a smile. “You are just the same as -when you left.” - -“More so,” he said, enigmatically. “Much more so. Then I thought it -would do you good to cry. Now I wish you would. I suppose it seems odd I -should say this to you. You must forgive me.” - -“But why should I cry when I have no trouble?” she asked, disregarding -his apology. “Besides, I don't go about bewailing my lot in life. Do you -think I am unhappy?” - -“Yes,” he replied, bluntly, “I do. I'll tell you what made me first -think so. It was at the theatre at Christmas, when we saw 'Denise.' I -was watching your face in repose.” - -“It is a painful play,” she said, quietly, but her lip quivered a -little, and a faint flush came into her cheek. “Besides, I was very -happy that evening.” - -He was sitting sideways on the bench, watching her with some earnestness. -She was drawing scrawls on the gravel with the point of her parasol. -Both started when they heard a harsh voice addressing them. - -“Ach! You are here. Is it not a beautiful afternoon?” - -It was Frau Schultz who spoke. Felicia was by her side. Raine rose -to his feet, took off his hat, and uttered a pleasant commonplace of -greeting. But Frau Schultz put her hand on Felicia's arm and moved away. - -“We will not detain you. I am going to the dentist, and Miss Graves is -accompanying me.” - -So Raine lifted his hat again and resumed his seat. - -“That is rough on Miss Graves,” he said, watching their retiring figures -and noting the contrast between the girl's slim waist and the elder -woman's broad, red and mauve spotted back. “But she is a sweet-natured -girl. Isn't she?” - -“Yes,” assented Katherine. “He will be a happy man who wins her.” - -“You are right there,” he replied in his downright way, unconscious of -the questioning pain that lay behind the woman's calm grey eyes. “Few -people, I should think, could know her without loving her. Life is -touching to see the relations between herself and my father.” - -“You will see a great deal of her, for that reason.” - -“I hope so,” he said, brightly. - -Again Katherine kept down the question that struggled to leap into her -eyes. There was a short silence, during which she turned idly over the -leaves of the book that was in her lap. It was “Diana of the Crossways.” - -“A noble book,” he said, glancing at the title. “But I never quite -understand how Diana sold the secret.” - -“No?” said Katherine, “I think I can tell you.” - -And so she gave him of her woman's knowledge of her sex, and the time -passed pleasantly, till she judged it prudent to bid him farewell. - - - - -CHAPTER VII.--KATHERINE'S HOUR - -“Ach so!” said Frau Schultz as soon as they were out of earshot, “she -has begun already. It is not decent. In a little while he will become -quite entangled.” - -Felicia looked away and did not speak. The other went on,-- - -“She might have waited a fortnight, a week, and done it gradually. But -the very first day--” - -“Please don't let us discuss it,” said Felicia wearily. - -“But I will discuss it; I am a virtuous woman, and I don't like to -see such things. He is too good to fall a victim. I shall speak to the -professor.” - -“Do you think a gentleman like the professor would listen to you, Frau -Schultz?” asked Felicia, scarcely veiling her disgust. - -This was a new idea to Frau Schultz. She turned it over with some -curiosity, and metaphorically sniffed at it. Then she left it alone, -to Felicia's relief, and the rest of their conversation passed without -allusion to the subject. - -But her comments upon the meeting in the Jardin Anglais made an -unpleasant impression upon the girl, revived the memory of the previous -indictment of Katherine which she had rebutted with such indignation. -But now, she could not regard Katherine with the same feelings of -loyalty. On the contrary, the growing distrust and antagonism seemed to -have come to a head. The instinct of combat was aroused in her for the -first time, and she began to dislike Katherine with a younger woman's -strong, active dislike. - -Unconsciously to herself, the atmosphere of the pension had tainted the -purity of her judgment. She had learned that little knowledge of things -evil which is so dangerous. Katherine was not to her merely a rival, -loving Raine Chetwynd with a fair, pure love like her own, but a -scheming woman, one of those to whom love is a pastime, occupation, -vanity--she knew not what--but still a thing unhonoured and conferring -no honour on the man. And, as the days went on, this attitude became -more definite, gaining stability in measure as the woman within her took -the place of the child. The thought, too, took shape: why should she not -use maidenly means to keep him by her side, when Katherine used unworthy -ones? And with the thought her ashamedness wore off, and she began to -battle bravely for her love. - -Katherine could not help noticing these signs of active rivalry. At -first she was hurt. She would have dearly liked to retain Felicia's -friendship. But what could she do? - -She was in her room one morning when the sound of a carriage drawing -up in the street below, struck upon her ear. Out of idle curiosity she -stepped upon the little balcony and looked down. Old Mr. Chetwynd, -Raine and Felicia were going out for a drive. She watched them settle -themselves laughingly in their places, and smiled not unkindly at -Felicia's young radiant face. But as they drove off, Felicia glanced -up, caught sight of her, and the expression changed. Its triumph smote -Katherine with a sense of pain. She retired from the balcony wearily. A -vague fancy came to her to go away from Geneva, to leave the field -open for Felicia. She dallied with it for a moment. And then the fierce -reaction set in. - -No. A thousand times no. Why should she be quixotic? Whoever in the -world had acted quixotically towards her? Her life had been wrecked--up -to now, without one gleam of light in any far-off haven. She had been -tossed about by the waves, an idle derelict. Only lately had hope come. -It was a wild, despairing hope, at the best--but it had kept her -alive for the past six months Why should she give way to this young -girl--untouched, untroubled save by this one first girlish fancy? All -the world was before her, waiting with its tributes to throw at the feet -of her youth and fairness and charm. In a few months she would go out -into it again, leave the Pension Boccard and its narrowing life for -ever. In a year it would be but a memory, Raine Chetwynd but a blushing -episode. Many men would love her. She would have her pick of the -noblest. Why should she herself then yield her single frail hope to her -who had so many fair ones? - -She clung with passionate insistence to this self-justification. -Since her lot of loneliness had fallen upon her, she had accepted it -implicitly, never sought to form ties of even the most delicate and -ephemeral nature. She had contemplated the grey, loveless, lonely -stretch of future years as the logical consequence of the past, and -sometimes its stern inevitableness crushed her. Life for life, which had -the greater need of joy--her own or that of the young girl? The law of -eternal justice seemed to ring answer in her heart--as it has rung in -the heart of every daughter of Hagar since the world began. - -Late that evening she was standing on the balcony outside the salon. -They had passed a merry evening. A concert-singer from London, who -had arrived the day before, had good-naturedly sung for them. Old Mr. -Chetwynd had been witty and charming. Commandant Pornichon had told, -with Gascon verve, stories of camp and war. Raine had talked and laughed -in his wholehearted way. Everyone had been gay, good-tempered. Felicia -had been in buoyant mood, adding her fresh note to the talk; had even -addressed to her a few laughing words. One by one all had left the -salon. The last had been Mme. Popea, who had remained for a quiet -chatter with her about the events of the evening. She was alone now, -in the moonlight, feeling less at war with herself than during the day. -Laughter and song are good for the heart. She leant her cheek on her -elbow and mused. Perhaps she was a wicked woman to try to come between a -girl and her happiness. After all, would not the sacrifice of self be a -noble thing? - -But suddenly she heard the salon door open and an entering footstep that -caused her heart to leap within her. With an incontrollable impulse she -moved and showed herself at the window. - -“How delightful to find you!” exclaimed Raine. “I came almost on a -forlorn hope.” - -“I stayed to sentimentalize a little in the moonlight,” said Katherine. -“I thought you had gone to the _café_.” - -“No; I have been sitting with my father,” he said, pulling a chair on -to the balcony and motioning her to it. “And then, when I left him, I -thought it would be pleasant to talk to you--so I came. I have not had a -word with you all day.” - -“I have missed our argument too,” admitted Katherine. “So you had a -pleasant expedition?” - -“Very,” said Raine. “But I wished you had been there.” - -“You had your father and Felicia.” - -“That was the worst of it,” he said laughingly. “They are so much in -love with one another, that I was the third that makes company nought.” - -He talked about the drive to Vevey, the habits and customs of the -Swiss, digressed into comparisons between the peasant classes of various -countries. Katherine, who had wandered over most of the beaten track in -Europe, supplied his arguments with illustrations. She loved to hear him -talk. His knowledge was wide and accurate, his criticisms vigorous. -The strength of his intellectual fibre alone differentiated him, in her -eyes, from ordinary men. His vision was so clear, his touch upon all -subjects so firm, and yet, at need, so delicate; she felt herself so -infinitely little of mind compared with him. They talked on till past -midnight; but long ere that the conversation had drifted around things -intimately subjective. - -As they parted for the night at the end of Katherine's corridor, she -could not help saying to him somewhat humbly,-- - -“Thank you for the talks. You do not know how I value them. They lift me -into a different atmosphere.” - -Raine looked at her a little wonderingly. Her point of view had never -occurred to him. Thoroughly honest and free from vanity of every kind, -he could not even now quite comprehend it. - -“It is you who raise me,” he replied. “To talk with you is an education -in all fine and delicate things. How many women do you think there are -like you?” - -His words rang soothingly in her ear until she slept. In the morning she -seemed to wake to a newer conception of life. - -And as the days went by, and their talks alone together on the balcony, -in the Jardin Anglais, and where not, deepened in intimacy, and the -nature of the man she loved unfolded itself gradually like a book before -her perceptive feminine vision, this conception broadened into bolder, -clearer definition. Hitherto she had been fiercely maintaining her -inalienable right to whatever chance of happiness offered itself in her -path. Now she felt humbled, unworthy, a lesser thing than he, and her -abasement brought her a sweet, pure happiness. At first she had loved -him, she scarce knew why, because he was he, because her heart had leapt -towards him. But now the self-chastening brought into being a higher -love, tender and worshipping, such as she had dreamed over in a lonely -woman's wistful reveries. She lost the sense of rivalry with Felicia, -strove in unobtrusive ways to win back her friendship. But Felicia, -sweet and effusive to others, to Katherine remained unapproachable. - -At last a great womanly pity arose in Katherine's heart. The victory -that she was ever becoming more conscious of gaining awakened all her -generous impulses and tendernesses. Her love for Raine had grown too -beautiful a thing to allow of unworthy thrills of triumph. - -For the rest, it was a happy sunlit time. The past faded into dimness. -She lived from day to day blinded to all but the glowing radiance of her -love. - -Raine met her one day going with a basket on her arm up the streets of -the old town by the cathedral. He had fallen into the habit of joining -her with involuntary unceremoniousness when she was alone, and it did -not occur to her as anything but natural that he should join her now and -walk by her side. At the door of the basement where Jean-Marie and his -wife dwelt, she paused. - -“This is the end of my journey. My old people live here.” - -“I am quite envious of them,” said Raine. - -He had scarcely spoken, when the old woman hobbled across the road -from one of the opposite houses, and came up to Katherine with smiling -welcome in the wrinkles of her old, lined face. - -She had not expected madame so soon after her last visit. It was -Jean-Marie who was going to be happy. Would Madame enter? And Monsieur? -Was he the brother of Madame? - -Katherine explained, with a bright flush on either cheek and a quick -little glance of embarrassment at Raine, who laughed and added his word -of explanation. He was a great friend of Madame's. She had often spoken -to him of Jean-Marie. - -The old woman looked at him, the eternal feminine in her not dulled by -years, and liked his smiling face. - -“If I could dare to ask Monsieur if he would condescend to enter with -Madame--?” - -He sought a permissive glance from Katherine, and accepted the -invitation. - -“I did not mean--” began Katherine in a low voice as they were following -the old woman down the dark stairs. - -“It will delight me,” replied Raine. “Besides, I shall envy them no -longer.” - -After a few moments her embarrassment wore off, as she saw the old -paralytic's first Swiss shyness melt away under Raine's charm. It was -Raine's way, as the old professor had said once to Felicia, to get -behind externals and to set himself in sympathy with all whom he met. -And Katherine, though she had not heard this formulated, felt the truth -unconsciously. He talked as if he had known Jean-Marie from infancy. To -listen to him one would have thought it was the simplest thing in the -world to entertain an ignorant old Swiss peasant. Katherine had never -loved him so much as she did that hour. - -She was full of the sense of it when they were in the street again--of -his tenderness, simplicity, human kindness. - -“How they adore you!” he said suddenly. - -The words and tone startled her. The aspect she herself had presented -was the last thing in her thoughts. The tribute, coming from him in the -midst of her silent adoration of him himself, brought swiftly into play -a range of complex feelings and the tears to her eyes. He could not help -noticing their moisture. - -“What a tender heart you have!” he said in his kind way, falling into -inevitable error. - -“It is silly of me,” she replied with a bright smile. - -She could not undeceive him. Often a woman by reason of her sex has to -receive what she knows is not her due. But she compensates the eternal -justice of things by giving up more of her truest self to the man. A -few moments later, however, on their homeward walk, she tried to be -conscientious. - -“I cannot bear you to praise me--as you do sometimes.” - -“Why?” - -A man, even the most sympathetic, is seldom satisfied unless he has -reasons for everything. Katherine, in spite of her seriousness, smiled -at the masculine directness. She replied somewhat earnestly,-- - -“Because I do not deserve it in the first place, and in the second, it -means so much more, coming from you.” - -“I said that those old folks adore you, and that you are -tender-hearted,” he answered conclusively; “and both facts are true, and -it would be a bad day for anyone but yourself who gainsaid them.” - - - - -CHAPTER VIII.--A POOR LITTLE TRAGEDY. - -“Of the development of human phenomena, two truisms may be stated. -First, a man can seldom gauge its progress, the self of to-day differing -so infinitely little from the self of yesterday. And secondly, the -climax is seldom reached by a man's own initiative. He seems blindly -and unconsciously to depend upon that law of averages which assigns an -indefinite number of external contingencies to act upon and to complete -any given process.” - -Raine had jotted down this among some rough notes for a series of -lectures in Metaphysics he was preparing, when his father's voice broke -a silence that had lasted nearly an hour. - -“I am reading that letter you wrote to ----.” - -“Which letter?” asked Raine. - -As the old man did not reply at first, but continued reading the letter -which he held out before him, Raine closed his note-book, and went round -behind his father's chair, and looked over his shoulder. - -“Oh, that one. You must have thought me idiotic. I half fancy I did it -to puzzle you.” - -“I wasn't puzzled, my dear boy. I guessed. And does the magnet still -attract?” - -It was the first time he had referred to the matter. His voice was a -little husky as he asked the question--it seemed to be a liberty that he -was taking with Raine. He looked up at him deprecatingly, touching the -hand that was on his shoulder. - -“Don't think me an inquisitive old man,” he added, smiling to meet the -affectionate look on his son's face. - -“Yes, I am attracted--very much,” said Raine. “More than I had conceived -possible.” - -“I am so glad--she too is drawn to you, Raine.” - -“I think so too--sometimes. At others she baffles me.” - -“You would like to know for certain?” - -“Of course,” said Raine with a laugh. There seemed a humorous side to -the discussion. The loved old face wore an expression of such concern. - -“Then, Raine--if you really love her--I can tell you--she has given you -her heart, my son. I had it from her own lips.” - -The laugh died away from Raine's eyes. With a quick movement, he came -from behind his father and stood facing him, his brows knitted. - -“What do you mean, father?” he asked very earnestly. - -“Felicia--she is only waiting, Raine.” - -“Felicia!” - -“Yes. Who else?” - -Raine passed his hand through his hair and walked to and fro about the -room, his hands dug deep in his pockets. The old man followed him with -his eyes, anxiously, not comprehending. - -Suddenly Raine stopped short before him. - -“Father, I haven't been a brute. I haven't trifled with her. I never -suspected it. I liked her for her own sake, because she is a bright, -likeable girl--and I am fond of her for your sake. But I have never, to -my knowledge, led her to suppose--believe me.” - -And then the old man saw his plans for Raine's future fall in desolation -round him like a house of cards. - -“I don't understand,” he said rather piteously, “if she is the -attraction--” - -“It is not little Felicia.” - -“Ah!” said the old man, with the bitter pang of disappointment. - -He rested his head on his hand, dejectedly. - -“I had set my heart upon it. That was why, the first day you came, I -spoke of her coming back to Oxford with us. Poor little girl! Heaven -knows what will happen to her, when I tell her.” - -“Tell her! You mustn't do that, dad. She must learn it for herself. It -will be best for her. I will be very careful--very careful--she will -see--and her pride will come to her help. I'll tell you what I'll do. -I'll go away--for an indefinite time. Rogers and three men are -climbing in Switzerland. I shall pack up my things and go and join them -to-morrow; I have a list of their dates.” - -He searched for it among the papers in his pocket-book. - -“Chamonix! Their being so close will be a good excuse. When I come -back--it will only be for a short time--this break will make it easier -to modify my attitude.” - -“Let us think what would be best,” said the professor with an old man's -greater slowness of decision. - -“I have made up my mind,” said Raine. “I go to-morrow.” - -Just then a rap was heard at the door, and a moment afterwards Felicia -appeared, bringing her daily task of copy. She handed the professor the -manuscript--and while he looked through it mechanically, she stood like -a school-girl before her master, with clasped hands, waiting pleasurably -for the little word of praise. - -“There is going to be a specially gorgeous _fête_ on the lake to-night, -Mr. Chetwynd,” she said brightly, turning to Raine. - -“Won't it be like the other one?” - -“Oh, much more so! There is a royal Duke of somewhere or other staying -at the National, and the municipality mean to show him what they can do. -I am so fond of these _fêtes venétiennes_. You're coming, aren't you, -professor?” - -“I don't know, my dear,” replied the old man. “The night air isn't good -for me.” Then he added, closing the manuscript, “It is beautifully done. -I shall grudge giving it to the printers.” - -“But you'll get it all back again,” said Felicia. “Send it to me -afterwards, and I'll bind it up beautifully with blue ribbon.” - -She gave them each a little nod of farewell and tripped lightly out of -the room. The two men looked at each other, rather sadly. - -“Oh, Raine--is it too late? Couldn't you?” - -“No, dad,” said Raine. “I am afraid other things are too serious.” - -Later in the day he opened his note-book and his eye fell upon the last -fragment he had scribbled. He threw it upon his dressing-table with an -exclamation of impatience. The personal application of his aphorisms was -too sudden and obvious to be pleasant. - -There was no doubt now in his mind as to the face that attracted him to -Geneva. It had vanished on the first day of his arrival, when he had -seen Katherine comforting the hurt child. He was conscious too that it -had been Katherine all along, at Oxford, whose memory had haunted -him, that he had only evoked that of Felicia in order to enable him -to deceive himself. He had practised the self-delusion systematically, -whenever his thoughts had drifted away from the work and interests that -surrounded him. He had made light of the matter, treated it jestingly, -grown angry when it obtruded itself seriously on his thoughts. For he -had shrunk, with the instinctive fear of a man of strong nature, from -exposing to the touch a range of feelings which had once brought -him great sorrow. To love meant to bring into play a man's emotions, -infinitely deeper than those of a boy, and subject to far more -widely-reaching consequences. For this reason he had mocked at the idea -of being in love with Katherine, had forced himself, since the power -that drew him to Geneva could not be disregarded, to consider Felicia -as an equal component, and at the time of his light confidence to -Mrs. Monteith, had almost persuaded himself that he was indulging in a -whimsical holiday fancy. - -But he could delude himself no longer. From the first meeting he knew -that it was not the young girl, but the older, deeper-natured woman that -had stirred him. He had felt kindly and grateful to her for his father's -sake; but there his feelings had stopped. Whereas, with Katherine, -he had been drifting, he knew not whither. The process of subjective -development had been brought suddenly to its climax by his father's -words. He realized that he loved Katherine. - -To fly away from Geneva at this moment was particularly -unpleasant--necessitating almost the rending of his heart-strings. But -as he had decided, he sent a telegram to Rogers at Chamonix, secured a -place in the next morning's diligence, and packed his Gladstone-bag and -knapsack. He was sincerely sorry for Felicia. No decent, honest man can -learn that a girl has given him her heart in vain, without a certain -amount of pain and perplexity. - -“And to think that I have been such a blind idiot as never even to -suspect it?” he exclaimed with a vicious jerk of the bag-strap, which -burst it, and thereby occasioned a temporary diversion. - -“I passed you this afternoon and you did not see me,” said Felicia as -they were going in to dinner. “You were in the diligence office.” - -“Yes,” said Raine, “I was engaging a seat to Chamonix. I am going -climbing with some Oxford people.” - -“When do you start?” - -“To-morrow,” said Raine. “I think I may be away some weeks.” - -He could not help noticing the look of disappointment in her eyes, -and the little downward droop of her lips. He felt himself a brute for -telling her so abruptly. However, he checked the impulse, which many -men, in a similar position, have obeyed, out of mistaken kindness, to -add a few consoling words as to his return, and took advantage of the -general bustle of seat-taking to leave her and go to his place at the -opposite side of the table. - -Many new arrivals had come to the pension during the last few days. -Colonel Cazet and his wife had joined their friends the Pornichons; -several desultory tourists, whose names no one knew, made their -appearance at meal-times, and vanished immediately afterwards. When -questioned concerning them, Mme. Boccard would reply: - -“_Oh, des Américains!_” as if that explained everything. - -In addition to these, Mr. Skeogh, the commercial gentleman who had -surrendered to Frau Schultz's seductions, had this evening introduced -a friend who was passing through Geneva. By virtue of his position as -visitor of a guest, Mme. Boccard placed him at the upper end of the -table between Frâulein Klinkhardt and Mme. Popea, instead of giving him -a seat at the foot, by herself, where new arrivals sat, and whence, by -the rules of the pension, they worked their way upwards, according to -seniority. - -There were twenty-one guests that night. Mme. Boccard turned a red, -beaming face to them, disguising with smiles the sharp directing glances -kept ever upon the summer waiter and his assistant. The air was filled -with a polyglot buzz, above which could be heard the great voices of -the old soldiers and the shrill accents of the Americans fresh from -the discovery of Chillon. At the head of the table, however, where -the older house-party were gathered, reigned a greater calm. Both Mr. -Chetwynd and Felicia were silent. Raine conversed in low tones with -Katherine, on America, where she had lived most of her younger life. She -very rarely alluded to her once adopted nationality, preferring to be -recognized as an Englishwoman, but Raine was recording his impressions -of a recent visit to New York, and her comments upon his criticisms were -necessary. Around them the general topic was the _fête venétienne_ that -was to take place on the lake. To Mr. Skeogh, who had never seen one, -Frau Schultz gave hyperbolic description. Mr. Wanless, a grizzled and -tanned middle-aged man, with a cordless eyeglass and a dark straggling -moustache, who had travelled apparently all over the world, rather -pooh-poohed the affair as childish, and, in a lull in the talk, was -heard describing a Nautch-dance to Mme. Popea. - -It seemed commonplace enough, this pension dinner-party. Hundreds such -were at that moment in progress all through Switzerland, differing -from each other as little as the loads of any two consecutive London -omnibuses on the same route. Yet to more than one person it was ever -memorable. - -Little Miss Bunter, who sat next to Felicia, had grown happier of -late. The summer had warmed her blood. Also she had lately received an -eight-page letter from Burmah which had brought her much consolation. -There was a possibility, it hinted, of the marriage taking place in the -spring. She had already consulted Katherine as to the trousseau, and had -made cuttings from _Modern Society_ of the description of fashionable -weddings during the past two months. Having these hopes within her, and -one of the new dresses chosen by Katherine, without, she looked much -fresher than usual this evening. Her sandy hair seemed less -lifeless, her complexion less sallow. She did not speak much, being -constitutionally timid. Her opinions were such weak, frail things, -that she was afraid of sending them forth into the rough world. But she -listened with animated interest to the various conversations. Raine's -talk particularly interested her. She had a vague idea that she was -improving her mind. - -“It struck me,” Raine was saying, “that culture in America was chiefly -in the hands of the women--more so even than it is in our own strictly -business circles. And nearly all New York is one great business circle.” - -“Were you long in the States, sir?” asked Mr. Skeogh, who had been -silent for some time. - -“Oh no,” said Raine, looking over towards him, “only a few weeks. My -remarks are from the merest superficial impressions.” - -“It is a fine country,” said Mr. Skeogh. - -Raine acquiesced politely. - -“I do not like the country,” said Frau Schultz, thus making the topic a -fairly general one. “There is no family life. The women are idle. They -are not to my taste.” - -“What a blessing!” murmured Katherine in a low voice, to which Raine -replied by an imperceptible smile. But aloud she said: “I don't think -American women are idle. They give their wits and not their souls to -housekeeping. So they order their husbands' dinners and see to the -washing of their babies just as well as other women; but they think that -these are duties that any rational creature can perform without letting -them absorb their whole interests in life.” - -“A woman's duty is to be a good housewife,” said Frau Schultz -dictatorially, in her harshest accent. “In Germany it is so.” - -“But is not the party of progress in Germany trying to improve the -position of women?” asked Mr. Wanless with a securing grip of his -eyeglass. - -“It cannot be improved,” said Frau Schultz. - -“That is a matter of opinion,” replied Mr. Wanless. “When elegant ladies -have _Damen-lectüre_ especially written for them, and when peasant women -are harnessed to a cart by the side of the cow, while the husband walks -behind smoking his cigar--I think a little improvement is necessary -somewhere.” - -He spoke in a clear, authoritative voice, commanding attention. - -“Have you been in Germany?” asked Frau Schultz. - -“I have been all over the world--travelled continuously for twenty -years. Somehow the position of women has interested me. It is an index -to the sociology of a country.” - -“Which is the most interesting one you know from that point of view?” - asked old Mr. Chetwynd, who had been following the conversation. - -“Burmah,” replied Mr. Wanless. “It is the anomaly of the East. Germany -could learn many lessons from her.” - -“Is the position of women very high there?” asked Miss Bunter, timidly, -the mention of Burmah having stimulated her interest to the pitch of -speaking. - -“Oh yes!” returned Mr. Wanless, laughing. “A wife is the grey mare there -with a vengeance.” - -A faint flush came into Miss Bunter's cheek. - -“But it does not matter to the English people who live there, does it?” - -Mr. Wanless assured her, amid the general smile, that English people -carried their own laws and customs with them. Miss Bunter relapsed into -a confused yet pleased silence. The talk continued, became detached and -desultory again. Miss Bunter no longer listened, but nerved herself up -to a great effort. At last, when a lull came, she moistened her lips -with some wine, and leant across the table, catching the traveller's -eye. - -“Have you lived long in Burmah?” - -“Yes. I have just come from an eighteen-months' stay there.” - -“I wonder if you ever met a Mr. Dotterel there?” - -“I know a man of that name,” said Mr. Wanless, smiling. “But Burmah is -an enormous place, you know. My friend is an F. J. Dotterel--Government -appointment--stationed at Bhamo!” - -“That's him,” cried Miss Bunter, in suppressed and ungrammatical -excitement. “How extraordinary you should know him! He is a great friend -of mine.” - -“A very good fellow,” said Mr. Wanless. “His wife and himself were very -kind to me.” - -“I beg your pardon,” said Miss Bunter. “His wife? It can't be the -same--my friend is not married.” - -“Oh yes he is,” laughed the traveller pleasantly. “There is only one F. -J. Dotterel in the Government service at Bhamo. Married out there. Got -three or four jolly little children.” - -She looked at him for a moment haggardly, and grew white to the lips. -The loss of blood made her face look pinched and death-like. She tried -to utter some words, but only a few inarticulate sounds came from her -throat. There was a moment's intense silence, every one around her -knowing what had happened. Then she swayed sideways, and Felicia caught -her in her arms. - -She had fainted. The table rose in confusion. Amid a hubbub of voices -was heard Mme. Popea's explaining to Mr. Wanless the nature of his -indiscretion. - -“I will carry her to her room,” said Raine, lifting her thin body in his -arms. “Come and help me,” he added, signing with his head to Felicia and -Katherine. - -They followed him out and upstairs. He laid her down on her bed. - -“You know what to do, don't you?” he said to Katherine, as he left the -two with the unconscious lady. - -“Poor thing. It will break her heart,” whispered Katherine, as she -busied herself with the hooks and eyes and laces. - -“I don't much believe in the fragility of women's hearts,” said Felicia. - -“Why do you say that, Felicia?” said Katherine gently. “You know that -you don't mean it.” - -“Oh!” said Felicia with a little inflexion of superciliousness, “I -generally say what I mean.” - -Katherine did not reply, reading her well enough by her own general -knowledge of human nature. We often contradict our own common sense and -better impulses, for the unprofitable satisfaction of contradicting our -enemy. - -So when poor Miss Bunter opened her eyes and recovered consciousness, -feeling sick and giddy and cold, and, seizing Felicia's hand, broke into -miserable crying and sobbing, Katherine judged it wiser to leave the -two of them alone together, without any further offer to share Felicia's -ministrations. - -When she entered the salon a little later, she found most of the party -preparing to go out to see the illuminations. The little tragedy was -still being discussed, and Katherine was beset by questioners. Little -Miss Bunter's love story had long been common property in the pension, -as she had told it to each of the ladies in the very strictest -confidence. - -The exodus of the guests began. Mme. Popea ran out of the room and -quickly returned to Katherine's side. - -“Mademoiselle Graves will not come,” she said, buttoning her glove. -“Could not you go and persuade her?” - -“I fear I should be of no use, Mme. Popea,” said Katherine. “I will ask -Mr. Chetwynd.” - -“Ah! Then she will come,” laughed Mme. Popea--and she hurried out after -the Pornichons, who had asked her to accompany them. - -Katherine passed by the few remaining people, chiefly ladies, standing -about the room in hats and wraps, to meet Raine, who was just coming in -from the balcony, where he had been smoking. - -“I hear that Felicia won't go to the _fête_. Don't you think you could -persuade her? It would do her good. She has been looking forward to it -so much.” - -But Raine shook his head and looked down at her, tugging his blonde -moustache. It was an embarrassing request. Katherine half divined, and -forbore to press the matter. She had already somewhat sacrificed her -tact to her conscience. - -“But you, yourself? Are you not coming?” he asked. - -“No; I think I'll stay in. I feel rather too sorry for that poor little -body.” - -“You had better come. The brightness will cheer you.” - -“I don't think I should care for it,” she replied, with her hand to her -bosom, fingering a dark red rose in her dress. - -Suddenly the flower fell from its stalk to the ground. She started -slightly, from the unexpectedness, and, when Raine stooped and picked -it up, held out her hand for it, palm upwards. But he disregarded her -action and retained the rose. - -“Do come!” he pleaded. - -She glanced at him, met his eyes. A wave of emotion passed through her, -seeming for the moment to lift her off her feet. Why should she refuse? -She knew perfectly well that she would give her soul to go with him -through fire and water to the ends of the earth. But she dreaded lest he -should know it. - -“Would you really like me to come?” - -“You know I should.” - -She went to put on her things. Raine stepped on to the balcony to wait -for her. He could see the pale reflection of the illuminations, and -hear the noise of the people, and the faint sound of music broken by -the cracking of a cabman's whip in the street below. For a moment his -surroundings seemed to him unreal, as they do to a man gliding over the -edge of a precipice. - -“I wonder what is going to happen?” he said to himself. - - - - -CHAPTER IX.--VARIOUS ELEMENTS HAVE THEIR SAY. - -|It was a sultry night. Not a breath of air was stirring. They had -escaped from the crowd on the quays and were being rowed about the lake -in a little boat gaily hung with Chinese lanterns. The glare fell on -their faces, confusing their view, and making all dark objects around -them invisible. Their eyes caught nothing but a phantasmagoria of -coloured lights. The water swarmed with them. Scores of similarly -illuminated craft darted hither and thither, crossed and recrossed each -other on all sides, with the dazzling effect of myriads of fireflies. -All around, fixed amid the moving lights, blazed the lamps on quays, -bridges and jetties. Now and then, through a momentary vista, could be -seen the gas devices on the fronts of the great hotels on the _Quai -du Mont Blanc_. Now and then, too, they neared the looming hull of the -great steamer, a mass of festoons of coloured lamps. The strains of -the band on board broke through the roar of many voices, with a strange -effect, and died away in the general hubbub as the steamer moved slowly -off. - -“I am glad I came,” said Katherine. “It was nice of you to think of this -boat. It is fresher on the water.” - -She was happy; he was by her side. The little canopy of lanterns above -their heads seemed to draw them together, isolate them from the outer -world. The lights whirled around her as in a dream. Raine too, for all -his man's lesser emotional impressibility, felt a slight exaltation, -a continuance of the strange sense of the unreality of things. As the -moments passed, this common mood grew in intensity. - -They spoke of the incident of the dinner-table, but like other things -it seemed to lose perspective. Meanwhile the old wizened boatman, -apparently far away in the bows, rowed stolidly round and round within -the basin formed by the quays and jetties. - -“It is a mad story,” said Katherine. “Almost fantastic. What object had -he? Was he a fiend, or a coward, or what?” - -“Both,” said Raine. “With a soft sentimental heart. A fiend that is half -a fool is ever the blackest of fiends. He is irresponsible for his own -hell.” - -“Are all men like that who make life a hell for women?” - -“In a way. Men are blind to the consequences of their own actions. Apply -the truism specially. Or else they see only their own paths before them. -Sometimes men seem 'a little brood.' I often wonder how women can love -them.” - -“Do you? Would you include yourself?” - -“Yes. I suppose so.” - -“Do you think you could ever be cruel to a woman?” - -“I could never lie to her, if you mean that. The woman who loves me -will find me straight, however much of an inferior brute I might be -otherwise.” - -“Don't,” said Katherine. “You frighten me--the suggestion--” - -“But you asked me whether I could be cruel.” - -“A woman's thoughts and speech are never so intense as a man's. You -throw a lurid light on my words and I shrink from them. Forgive me. I -know that you could be nothing but what was good and true-hearted.” - -Raine looked at her. Her face was delicate in its strength, very pure in -its sadness. The dim light by which it was visible suggested infinite -things beyond that could be revealed in a greater brightness. He felt -wonderfully drawn to her. - -“Men have been cruel to you. That is why you ask.” - -“Ah no!” she said, turning away her head quickly. “I will never call men -cruel. I have suffered. Who has not? The greatest suffering--it is the -greatest suffering in life--that which comes between man and woman.” - -“It is true,” replied Raine musingly. “As it can be the greatest joy. -Once I could not bear to think of it, for the pain. It is strange--” - -“What is strange?” asked Katherine in a low voice. - -He was scarcely conscious how he had come to strike the chord of his own -life. It seemed natural at the moment. - -“It is strange how like a dream it all appears now; as if another than -I--a bosom friend, whose secrets I shared--had gone through it.” - -She put her hand lightly on his arm, and he felt the touch to his heart. - -“Would you care for me to tell you? I should like to. It would seem a -way of laying a ghost peacefully and reverently. It has never passed out -of me yet--not even to my father.” - -“Tell me,” murmured Katherine. - -“Both are dead--twelve years ago.” - -“Both?” - -“Yes; mother and child. I was little else than a boy--an undergraduate. -She was little else than a girl--yet she had been married--then deserted -by her husband and utterly alone and friendless when I met her--in -London. She was a dresser at a theatre--educated though, and -refined far above her class. At first I helped her--then loved her--we -couldn't marry--she offered--at first I refused. But then--well, you can -end it. We loved each other dearly. If she had lived, I should have been -true to her till this day--I should have married her, for she would soon -have become a widow. When the child was born, I was one-and-twenty--she -nineteen. We were wildly, ecstatically happy. Three months afterwards -the child caught diphtheria--she caught it too from the baby--first the -little one died--then the mother died in my arms. I seemed to have lived -all my life before I had entered upon it. It was a heavy burthen for a -lad.” - -“And since?” asked Katherine gently. - -“I have shrunk morbidly from risking such torture a second time.” - -“Yours is a nature to love altogether if it loves at all.” - -“I reverence love too highly to treat it lightly,” he said. “Tell me,” - he added, “do you think my punishment came upon me rightly? There are -those that would. Are you one?” - -“God forbid,” she replied in a low voice. “God forbid that I of all -creatures should dare to judge others.” - -The earnestness in her tone startled him. He caught a side-view of her -face. It wore the same look of sadness as on the night they had seen -“Denise” together in the winter. She had suffered. A great yearning pity -for her rose in his heart. - -“It is well that the past can be the past,” he said. “We live, and -gather to ourselves fresh personalities. A little gradual change, a -little daily hardening or softening, weakening or strengthening--and -at the end of a few years we are different entities. Things become -memories--reflections without life. That was why I said it was strange. -Now all that time is only a vague memory, and it mingles with the -far-off memory of my mother, who died when I was a tiny boy. And now I -have put it to rest for ever--for it was a ghost until I knew you. Do -you believe in idle fancies?” - -“I live in a great many,” said Katherine. - -“I fancied--that by telling you, I should be free to give myself up to a -new, strange, wonderful world that I saw ready to open for me.” - -“Could I ever say 'I thank you' for telling me?” replied Katherine. “I -take all that you have said to my heart.” - -There was a long silence. He put his hand down by her side and it rested -upon hers. She made a movement to withdraw it, but his touch tightened -into a clasp. She allowed it to remain, surrendering herself to the -happiness. Each felt the subtle communion of spirit too precious to be -broken by speech. The lantern-hung boats passed backwards and forwards. -One party, just as they came abreast, struck up an attempt at a jodeling -song: “_Juch hol-dio hol-di-ai-do hol-di-a hol-dio_.” - -The suddenness startled them. Katherine drew away her hand hastily as he -looked round. - -“Why did you?” he asked. - -“Because--because the little dream-time came to an end.” - -“Why should it?” - -“It is the nature of dreams.” - -“Why, then, should it be a dream?” - -“Because it can never be a reality.” - -“It can. If you cared.” - -The words were low, scarcely audible, but they stirred the woman's soul -to its depths. She remained for a moment spellbound, gazing away from -him, down at the fantastically flecked water. A yearning, passionate -desire shook her. One glance, one touch, one little murmured word, and -she would unlock the flood-gates of a love that her whole being cried -aloud for. Often she had given herself up to the tremulous joy of -anticipation. Now the moment had come. It depended upon her to give -a sign. But she could not. She dared not. A sign would make it all a -reality in sober fact. She shrank from it now that she was brought face -to face with it. With a woman's instinct she sought to temporize. But -what could she say? If she cared! To deny was beyond her strength. -Meanwhile the pause was growing embarrassing. She felt that his eyes -were fixed upon her--that he was awaiting an answer. - -“What I have said has pained you.” - -She turned her head to reply desperately, she scarce knew how. But the -first syllable died upon her lips. A flash of lightning quivered -across the space, bringing into view for a vivid, dazzling second the -semicircle of the quay, the old clustering city, the Salèves; and almost -simultaneously a terrific peal of thunder broke above their heads. -Katherine was not a nervous woman, but the flash and the peal were so -sudden, that she instinctively gave a little cry and grasped Raine's -arm. Before the rumble had died away, great drops of rain fell. In -another moment it came down as from a water-spout. - -The evening had been close, but they had not thought of a storm. -Katherine had only a light wrap to put over her thin dress. The gay -lanterns swinging above their heads and before their eyes--now they -were a lightless mass of wet paper--had prevented them from noticing the -gradual clouding over of the sky. They were in the middle of the basin. -Amid the roar of the rain and the shouts from the boats around them, -they could hear the dull noise of the crowd on the quays scampering away -to shelter. - -“My poor child, you will get wet through,” cried Raine, “put this round -you. Let us get in as quickly as we can.” - -He pulled off his rough tweed coat and threw it over her shoulders; -and then, before either Katherine or the old boatman were aware of -his intentions, he had dispossessed the latter of his place, taken the -sculls, and was pulling for shore with a vigour that the little boat had -never before felt in its rowlocks. - -Drenched, blinded, bewildered by the avalanche of water, Katherine felt -a triumphal glow of happiness. The heavens seemed to have come to her -rescue, to have given her another chance of life. She was pleased too -at having his coat about her, at having heard the rough, protecting -tenderness in his voice. It pleased her to feel herself borne along by -his strong arms. She could just distinguish his outline in the pitch -darkness, and the shimmer of his white shirt-sleeves. There was nothing -particularly heroic in his action, but it was supremely that of a man, -strong, prompt, and helpful. Another flash as vivid as the first showed -him a smile on her face. He shouted a cheery word as the swift darkness -fell again, and rowed on vigorously, delighted at the transient vision. - -In a few moments they were by the Grand Quai, amidst a confusion of -boats hurriedly disgorging their loads. Experienced in many a river -crush, Raine skilfully brought his boat to the landing-place, paid -the old boatman, and assisted Katherine to land. It was still pouring -violently. When they reached the top of the quay, Raine paused for a -moment to take his bearings. - -“It is ridiculous to think of a cab or shelter,” he said, “We must dash -home as quickly as we can. Come along.” - -He passed her arm through his hurriedly, and set off at a smart pace. - -“Don't take off that,” he cried, preventing an attempt on her part to -remove the coat from her shoulders. - -“But you--oh--I can't!” - -“You must,” he said, authoritatively. - -And Katherine found it sweet to yield to his will. - -They walked rapidly homewards, speaking very little, owing to the -exigencies of the situation, but feeling very close to one another. Even -the touch of grotesqueness in this unconventional flight through the -rain made them laugh happily together, as they stumbled along in their -haste. - -“It is very sweet of you not to mind,” he said. - -She gave his arm a little pressure for reply, and laughed -light-heartedly. - -At the _porte-cochere_ of the pension, Katherine paused before mounting -the stairs, to take breath and to restore Raine his coat. - -The gas-lamp by the door threw its light upon them and for the first -time they saw each other clearly. They were drenched to the skin. A -simultaneous exclamation rose to the lips of each. - -“I earnestly hope you have taken no hurt,” added Raine in a tone of -concern. - -“Oh no! One never takes hurt when one is happy.” - -The glow on her wet cheeks and the light in her eyes confirmed the -statement as far as the happiness went. - -They entered at the door; he gave her his hand to help her up the -stairs. - -“When do you start to-morrow?” - -“At seven.” - -“Must you go?” - -“Yes. There seems to be no help for it. But I shall come back. You know -that. I hate going away from you.” - -They stopped at the end of the little corridor where her room was -situated. He detained the parting hand she gave him. - -“Tell me. Were you pained at what I said--the last thing, in the boat?” - -“Pained? No.” - -“Then you do care?” - -She was silent. But she lifted her eyes to him and he read there what -she could not speak. With a sudden impulse he threw his arm around her, -dripping as she was, and kissed her. Then she broke away and fled to her -room. - -Raine's first act on reaching his room was to summon a servant and send -Katherine a glass of cherry-brandy, which he poured from a flask he had -brought with him for mountaineering chances, together with a scribbled -line: “Drink this, at once.” - -Then he changed his dripping garments for comfortable flannels, and went -in search of his father. But the old man, though he smiled at Raine's -account of his adventure, was still depressed. - -“It will be wretched without you,” he said. “Yet you must go away for a -time. Make it as short as you can, Raine. I shall think in the meantime -of a way out of the difficulty.” - -“Couldn't you take Felicia somewhere?” suggested Raine. “To Lucerne. You -might start a few days before my return. I must come back for a little -while. Afterwards, I might join you, when you have parted from Felicia, -and go back to Oxford with you.” - -“I will see,” replied the old man a little wearily. - -“Poor old dad,” said Raine. - -“Man is ever poor,” said his father. “He will never learn the lesson -of life. Even with one foot in the grave he plants the other upon the -ladder of illusion.” - - - - -CHAPTER X.--A TOUCH OF NATURE. - -Raine sat smoking his pipe for a long time before going to bed. The -events of the day had crowded so fast upon one another, that he had -scarcely had time to estimate their relative importance. His mind was -not yet perfectly balanced. The first kiss of a new love disturbs fine -equilibrium. - -It was characteristic of him that he at once put aside all temptations -to postpone his departure. He could not meet Katherine again, except as -a declared lover. To parade such relations before Felicia's eyes, -seemed to his simple experience in such things a cynical cruelty. Yet he -devoutly hoped that fate would decide and the destinies decree that he -should return as quickly as possible. There was a peculiar irritation -in the position in which he found himself. The sense of it grew in -intensity as things assumed juster proportions. After all, what had been -said? He was going away with everything unasked, everything unspoken. -A question, a glance, a kiss; sufficient for the glowing moment--but -painfully inadequate for after-hours of longing. With almost grotesque -irritation he broke into an exclamation of anger against the storm that -had interrupted the outburst of his gathering passion. But for a saving -sense of humour he would have felt humiliated by the remembrance of -the sudden check. He could not help chafing under the feeling of -incompleteness. - -Unlike the woman, who had taken the kiss to her heart of hearts and -nursed it there wilfully forgetful, for the first delicious after-hours, -of aught else in the wide world, Raine gnawed his spirit with impatient -regret that circumstances had granted him no more. If the fulness of -revelation were to come on the morrow, it would have been different; but -he was going away--without seeing her--for days and days--leaving her -with this unsatisfying expression of his love. For he loved her, deeply, -truly, with the strength of his simple, manly nature. She had roused -in him every instinct of pitying protection, her delicate grace had -captivated his senses, her wide experience of life, sad in its wisdom, -had harmonized subtly with his robust masculine faith. Without being -intellectual, she had the fine judgments of a cultured, thoughtful -woman. On deep questions of ethics they met on common ground; could -view the world together, and be stirred by the same sympathies. Her -companionship had grown intensely dear to him. The sadness that seemed -to overspread her life had appealed to his chivalry, compelled him -irresistibly to her side. The sweet womanliness of her nature had been -gradually revealed to him by a thousand little acts, each one weaving -its charm about him, Jean-Marie, too, and his wife had drawn him within -the area of their worship. - -Hitherto her sadness had been attributed in his mind to no definite -cause. She was a widow, had passed through much suffering, was intensely -lonely, uncared for. For him that had been enough. He had scarcely -thought of speculating further. But tonight the remembrance of agitated -tones in her voice forced him to a surmise. He pondered over her -self-accusing cry when he had submitted to her judgment the ethical side -of the poor tragedy of his early manhood. - -“God forbid that I of all creatures should dare to judge others.” - -Women do not utter such words lightly, least of all women like -Katherine. He fitted them as a key-stone into the grey, vague arch of -the past. His face grew stern and thoughtful as he lay back in his -seat, and passed his hand heavily through his hair, contemplating the -apparition. For a time it loomed as a shadow between himself and her. -And then--was it the ghost that he had laid that evening, come back as -the eternal spirit of love, or was it merely his strong human faith? A -light seemed to pour down from above, and Katherine emerged serene and -radiant from the mist, which spread behind her thin and formless. - -He sprang to his feet, rubbed his eyes and laughed to himself. His love -for her thrilled buoyantly through him. He loved her for what she had -shown herself to be; a woman fair and brave and womanly--and one who -loved him; that he had seen in her eyes as he had kissed her. - -At half-past six on the following morning, the porter came to convey his -luggage to the diligence, which starts from the Grand Quai, and a little -later he himself left the house. He did so very wistfully. His quixotic -flight caused him a greater pang even than he had anticipated. In the -street he could not forbear giving a regretful glance upwards at the -pension. To his delight, Katherine was standing on the little balcony -outside her window. - -The bright morning sunlight fell upon her. She was wearing a -cream-coloured wrapper; a pale blue scarf about her head half covered -her fair hair. Seen through the clear, pure atmosphere, she looked the -incarnation of the morning. Her face flushed red all over, as she met -the gladness in his eyes. She had risen early, unable to sleep; had -dressed herself with elaborate care, searching earnestly in her glass -for the accusing lines of her thirty years. She would send a note, she -had thought, by the waiter who would bring up his coffee, saying that -she was astir and could see him in the salon before he started. But she -had only got as far as biting the end of a pencil before a blank sheet -of paper. All her preparations and fluttering of heart had ended in her -going on to the balcony, to see him walk twenty yards before he turned -the corner of the street. And there she had wished tremulously against -her will that he would look up as he crossed the road. He had done so, -was standing below her. She blushed like a young girl. But he only stood -for a moment. With an eager sign he motioned her inwards, and ran back -to the house. - -They met outside the salon door. He rushed up to her, a little -breathless from his race up the stairs, and drew her with him into the -room. - -“You--up at this hour--just to see me start!--are you an angel?” - -He was rapturously incoherent. Her act seemed to him to be truly -angelic. In the early stages of love a man rarely takes the woman's -passionate cravings into account. Acts that proceed from desires as -self-centred as his own he puts down to pure, selfless graciousness -towards him. And perhaps as a general principle this is just as well. -The woman loves the tribute; and one of her fairest virtues is none the -less fair through being won under false pretences. - -Katherine looked up at him with strange shyness. He had the power of -evoking that which was sweetest and most womanly in her. - -“You see that I do care--greatly.” - -His arms were about her before the soundwave had passed his ear. A flood -of burning words burst impatiently from his lips. She leant back her -head, in the joy of surrender. - -“I have loved you from the first--since last Christmas. You came to me -as nothing else has ever come to me--brave and strong above all men.” - -The words fell from her in a murmur strung to passion-pitch. One such -radiant moment eclipsed the waste of grey years. She would have sold her -soul for it. - -She disengaged herself gently. - -“I must not make you late.” - -“You will write to me?” - -“If you write.” - -“Every hour, beloved, till I come back.” - -“Oh, let it be soon.” - -“How great is your trust in me. Another than you might have reproached -me for going--at such a time.” - -She looked at him, her eyes and lips one smile. - -“I can guess the reason. I honour you for it. I would not keep you. But -oh! it will be long till I see you again.” - -“And to me. I am not one of those to whom waiting is easy. But I take -away all, all yourself with me.” - -“All.” - -“Good-bye--Katherine,” he whispered. “You haye never called me by my -name. Let me hear it from you.” - -“Raine!” - -Again their lips met. In another moment he was speeding to catch the -diligence. She went on to the balcony, kissed both hands to him as he -turned the corner. Then she went slowly back up the stairs, holding by -the hand-rail, and shaken with joy and fear. - -When Raine arrived at Chamonix, instead of finding Rogers and his party -at the Hotel Royale as he had expected, he found a telegram awaiting -him. - -“Accident to Bryce. Party broken up. Letter to follow.” - -On inquiring of the manager, Raine learned that his telegram of the day -before had been forwarded on to Rogers to Courmayeur, whence the latter -had written to the hotel countermanding the rooms he had ordered. And -by the next post came a letter giving details of the accident. Bryce -had slipped down a crevasse and injured himself, perhaps fatally. All -thoughts of further climbing were abandoned. Raine was somewhat shocked -at the news. He did not know Bryce, who was a Cambridge friend of the -junior Dean's, but he was sincerely concerned at the tragic end of the -expedition. - -The point, however, that touched him practically was that he found -himself stranded at Chamonix. He eagerly scanned the long table-d'hote -in the hope of discovering a familiar face. But not one was visible. He -was alone in that crowded resort which only exists as a rallying point -for excursionists and climbers. The sole distraction the place afforded -were glaciers which he derived little interest in contemplating, and -peaks which he had not the remotest desire to scale. It would have been -different, if he had met a cheerful party. He had bargained with himself -for their society. It was part of the contract. Now that he was forced -to depend on the Alps alone for companionship, he felt aggrieved, -and began to dislike them cordially. The notion, however, of going on -solitary mountaineering excursions entirely against his will, appealed -to his sense of humour. - -“The relations between us are simply ridiculous,” he said, -apostrophizing the mighty snow-clad pile. - -But as there was no help for it, he prepared, like Mahomet, to go the -mountain cheerfully. So he secured a guide to the Tête Noire for the -following day. - -That done, he gave himself up entirely to the new sweetness that had -come into his life. - -The few moments of the morning's meeting had lit up the day. Much still -remained unspoken, but there was no longer the irritating sense of -incompleteness that had filled him the night before. Yet all the deeper, -subtler pulsations of his love craved immediate expression. He sat in -his hotel bedroom far into the night, writing her his first letter. - -For the next few days he occupied himself strenuously with the sights of -Chamonix. He joined a party over the Mer de Glace, took one day over -the Grands Mulets, ascended the Aiguille Verte, and then rested with a -feeling of well-earned repose. His great event of the day was the Geneva -post. He had received two letters from Katherine. One she had written -a few hours after his departure--he put it to his lips. The second, for -which he waited with a lover's impatience, was in answer to the first he -had written. At first he read it with a slight shade of disappointment. -It seemed to lack the spontaneity of the other. But Raine, by nature -chivalrous towards women, and holding them as creatures with emotions -more delicately balanced than men and subject to a thousand undreamed-of -shynesses, quickly assigned to such causes the restraint he had noticed, -and, reading in, as it were a touch of passion into every touch of -tenderness, satisfied the longings of his heart. There were letters too -from his father. The first stated that he had mooted the plan to Felicia -of the little jaunt to Lucerne, and that she had acceded to it joyfully, -but in the second the old man complained of sudden poorliness. From the -third Raine learned that he was in bed with a bad cold, and that Lucerne -had been postponed indefinitely. - -The news depressed him slightly. No letter from Katherine had -accompanied it, to cheer him. On the evening of his day of rest, -therefore, he was less in love with Chamonix than ever. By way of -compensation the weather was bright and clear, and the sunny seat -under the firs in the hotel gardens, whither he had retired with his -travelling edition of “Tristram Shandy,” was warm and reposeful. He was -speculating over the Rabelaisian humour of Mr. Shandy's domestic -concerns, and enjoying the incongruity between it and the towering -masses of rock and glacier and snow on the other side of the valley, -when a man sauntered up the gravelled path, stopped before him, and -asked for a light. - -Raine looked up, and recognizing the newcomer as one with whom he had -exchanged casual remarks during the last few days, readily complied with -his request. - -He was a thin, wiry man of about seven and thirty, with a clean-shaven -face which bore a curious expression of mingled simplicity and -shrewdness. His thin lips seemed to smile at the deception practised by -his guileless pale-blue eyes. Unlike Raine, who wore the Englishman's -Norfolk jacket, knickerbockers and heavy heather-mixture stockings, he -was attired in grey summer trousers and a black jacket. A soft felt hat -of the Tyrolese shape, a pair of field-glasses slung over his -shoulder, a great gold solitaire fastening his shirt-cuff, which showed -conspicuously as he lit his cigar, suggested the nationality that was -confirmed by his speech. - -He was an American, his name was Hockmaster, and he was visiting Europe -for the first time. With these facts he had already acquainted Raine on -a previous occasion. - -When the American had returned the match-box, he sat down on the bench -by Raine's side. - -“If you want to be alone, you've only got to tell me and I'll -evaporate,” he said cheerfully. “But I've been getting somewhat lonesome -in this valley. Nature's a capital thing in mixed society, but when you -have got her all to yourself, she is a thundering dull companion.” - -The remark so exactly echoed Raine's sentiments of the past few days -that he burst out laughing, closed “Tristram Shandy,” and prepared to -gossip sympathetically with his new acquaintance. - -“You are not ecstatic over all this,” he said with a wave of his hand. - -“Only within reasonable limits,” replied the American. “It's very -pretty, and when you see it for the first time it fetches you in the pit -of your stomach. Some folks say it touches the soul, but I don't -take much stock of souls anyway. Well, then you get over it, like -sea-sickness, and it doesn't fetch you any more. But I'm glad I've seen -it. That is what I came over for.” - -“To see the Alps?” - -“Well, no. Not exactly. But to sample Europe generally. To get a -bird's-eye view of all the salient features. It is very interesting. -America is a fine country, but it's not the microcosm of the universe.” - -“But you have scenery much more grandiose than this, in the Californian -Sierras,” said Raine. - -“We may. I don't know. And I hope I shall never know, for mountains -and glaciers are not my strong point. But if they were fifty times as -sublime, American mountains could not have the glamour and sentiment -that brings thousands of my countrymen to gape at Mount Blanc. Other -mountains may do business on a larger scale, but the Alps is an -old-established firm. They have the connection, and people stick to -them. Mount Blanc, too, is a sort of Westminister Abbey to Americans, -and the Rigi a Stratford-on-Avon. They like to feel they have a share -in it. I don't say these are my views personally. I am afraid I take my -glamour neat and get it over quickly.” - -As Raine had nothing particular to reply to this philosophy, and as he -saw that Mr. Hockmaster would be more entertaining as a talker than as a -listener, he uttered a polite commonplace by way of antistrophe, and the -American again took up his parable. He spoke well and fluently. Behind -the ingenuousness of his remarks there generally lurked a touch of -incisiveness, which stimulated his listener's interest. His manners were -those of a gentleman. Raine began to like him. - -“What part of England do you come from?” he asked at length. - -“Oxford.” - -“The University?” - -“Yes.” - -“I haven't been there yet. I've been through Cambridge. But Oxford I -am keeping until I get back. Your English institutions interest me more -than anything in Europe. It's a cumbrous old bit of machinery, and won't -stand comparison with ours; but we seem to live for the sake of our -institutions, whereas you let yours rip and make use of them when they -serve your purpose.” - -He lit another cigar from the stump of the old one, and continued,-- - -“I come from Chicago. It is a go-ahead place, and, if it were near the -sea, could become the capital of the world, when Universal -Federation sets in. I love it, as perhaps you love Oxford. You have -literature--'_literae humaniores_' you call it at Oxford--in your blood, -and I have business in mine. I am a speculator in a small way. I have -just floated a company--got it shipshape before I sailed--for a patent -process of making white lead. Now, I am as keen upon that white lead as -if it were a woman. It has kept me awake at nights, and danced before -my eyes during the day. I have dreamed of every ship flying American -colours painted with my white lead. To make a pile out of it was quite -secondary to the poetry of it. Now I bet you don't see any poetry at all -in a patent white lead process--in making the land hum with it.” - -“What about the neat glamour?” asked Raine, smiling. - -“Ah! There's a difference. I have got this all out of my own head. -It is a bit of _me_. Whereas the Alps aren't--” He stared at them -innocently--“Not a little bit.” - -The sound of the gong for the mid-day meal reached them, resonant -through the rarefied air. They rose and walked together towards the -hotel. - -“I guess I'll come and sit next to you, if you have no objection,” said -Mr. Hockmaster. - -“Do,” replied Raine cordially, “I shall be delighted.” - -They lunched together, and in the afternoon walked to the Boissons and -back, a pleasant three hours' excursion. Raine did not wish to absent -himself from the hotel for a longer time, being anxious concerning -posts. But no letters came for him, save a couple of business -communications from Oxford. He was troubled about his father's health, -and longing for a line from Katherine. He began to reflect that perhaps, -after all, he had come on a fool's errand to Chamonix. Poor little -Felicia would have to be disillusioned sooner or later. If the Lucerne -plan had fallen through, owing to his father's illness, there was no -chance of sparing her the ultimate revelation of the love between -himself and Katherine. He could not remain at Chamonix indefinitely; to -take up other quarters at Geneva would only set the whole pension -speculating; and Raine knew full well that the speculation of a whole -pension is perilous to the most Calphurnian reputation. - -He decided, however, to be guided by the next day's letters. - - - - -CHAPTER XI.--“THE WOMAN WHO DELIBERATES.” - -“Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself,” is an excellent maxim. Its -only fault is its capacity of a too wide extension. If a saying -clause had been added with reference to its non-application to one's -neighbour's business, it would have been perfect. But, perhaps, after -all, in its faultiness lies its excellence, for counsels of perfection -are of no great use to mankind, which, in its ethical systems, loves -disguised loopholes for original sin. - -However little the inmates of the Pension Boccard may have observed the -maxim itself, they obeyed its extension to a nicety. Not only because -they were women. Sometimes communities of men have been known to gossip -about each other's affairs. It is but human to speculate upon events -around us, and speculation, anticipating Paine's fear, was rife at the -Pension Boccard. - -In the first place, the dramatic ending of poor Miss Bunter's romance -kept wits and tongues exercised for days. And secondly, certain facts -had become common property which pointed to interesting relations -between Mrs. Stapleton and Raine Chetwynd. The chief of these facts was -the early morning interview. The summer waiter reported it to the cook, -who informed Madame Boccard, who mentioned it in confidence to Madame -Popea, who in her satirical way described it to Frâulein Klinkhardt. -From the latter it passed to Frau Schultz, who barbed it carefully in -accordance with her own spite against Katherine, and sent it round on -its travels again. In this form it reached Felicia. - -The girl found herself just in the humour of bitterness to accept it. -After the heartless, systematic deception that had been practised on -Miss Bunter for fifteen years, it seemed possible to credit humanity -with anything. Not that she felt any resentment against Raine Chetwynd -on her own score. She was bound to confess to herself, with tears of -self-scorn, that he had never treated her with anything but the most -brotherly frankness and courtesy. But in her dislike of Katherine, she -certainly credited him with a commonplace amour, and thereby set him -down lower in her estimation. Then her pride came, speciously to her -rescue, but really, after the way of pride in women's hearts, to -embitter the struggle that was taking place within her. One bright, pure -feeling, however, rose above the turmoil--an intense pity for the poor -frail creature out of whom had been crushed the hope of life. To have -stood by as witness and comforter during that agony of despair had been -one of those lurid experiences that set in motion the springs of -infinitely reaching sympathies. - -When old Mr. Chetwynd proposed the trip to Lucerne she sprang at it -eagerly. It would be a relief to leave the pension and its associations. -For the whole of the day she busied herself feverishly with -preparations. It was a keen disappointment when the old man fell ill and -the trip had to be indefinitely postponed. She longed passionately for -October, when she was to join her uncle and aunt in Bermuda. Meanwhile -she copied out manuscript assiduously, nursed the old man as far as he -would allow her, and devoted the rest of her time to whatever gaieties -were afoot in the pension. - -Katherine lived in a fool's paradise after Raine had gone, for a couple -of days. His kiss was on her lips, the pressure of his arms lingered -round her, the vibrating words rang in her ear. If unbidden thoughts -came, she put them aside with a passionately rebellious will. The long -morning passed like a dream. The day and evening in an intoxicated sense -of happiness. In the night she slept and waked, alternately, heedless -of the hours. She had won his love. It had been given to her in -full, overflowing measure. It flooded her presence with sunlight. She -surrendered herself to the delicious joy that it was to feel, instead of -to think. - -On the evening of the second day, however, came Raine's letter. She sat -by her window, reading it with a beating heart. At times the words swam -before her. Until then she had not realized the wholeness, the simple -nobility of his love. To her it was more than a love-letter. It was the -revelation of a strong, high soul that was given her, to companion -and illuminate the rest of her days upon earth. She, who in her -self-abasement before him, felt unworthy to kiss the hem of his raiment, -saw herself revered, worshipped, filling a holy of holies in his heart. -She was to be his wife. - -She read the letter through twice. Then a great fear chilled her. Its -premonitions had come that evening on the lake, just before the -thunder broke, and through all her after-intoxication it had loomed -threateningly. Only her will had staved it off. Now it held her in its -grip. - -His wife. The words stared her in the face, repeated over and over again -with every surrounding of passion, tenderness, and devotion. She grew -cold. A lump rose in her throat. She walked across the room, poured -herself out a glass of water, and sat down again. The dream, the -illusion, the joy, all was over. A great pain was in her eyes as she -gazed sightlessly straight in front of her. - -As she gazed, a temptation crept insidiously into her heart, relaxed -and soothed for a moment her tense nerves. Why should she tell him that -which she knew his fine nature would never ask? All her future to all -eternity was his. What mattered the past? - -Her eyes fell upon his letter on her lap, caught a few chance phrases. -Then a shudder passed through her like a wave of self-contempt and -revulsion, and, leaning forward, she buried her face in her hands and -cried. - -He was too noble to be deceived--to be entrapped as by a common -adventuress. The thought scorched her. Silence would be metal too base -to repay the pure gold of his love. A million times sooner speak and -lose him than keep him with a lie. All that was pure and true and -womanly in her revolted at the temptation. - -For a long time she remained with bowed head, her thoughts whirling -round the means whereby she was to deal the death-blow at her happiness. -The moments passed quickly, and the shadows gathered as the afternoon -began to melt into evening. A message from Mme. Boccard, asking her -whether she was coming down to dinner, was the first thing that made her -conscious of the flight of time. She sent down word that she was poorly. -A plate of soup brought up to her would be all that she required. Then -she fell back into her despairing thoughts. The cry wrung from the soul -of Denise hummed in her ears until it became a meaningless burthen. -Since that night in January when she had seen the play with Raine, she -had morbidly applied that cry to herself--“_Je suis de celles qu'on -aime, mais qu'on n'epouse pas._” - -A faint ray of hope shot across the darkness. He had told her his own -story. To him it was a sacred memory. The girl that he had loved, the -mother of his child, was in his eyes the purest of women. Would not that -mitigate the judgment he would have to pass on her? She clung to the -hope revealed, as she lost grip of herself. He would not despise her. He -would still love her. She would be to him what that other had been. Her -thoughts for a while grew hysterical. - -The effort she was forced to make when the servant entered with her -meal, and the physical strength given her by the warm soup, restored -calm and order in her mind. She read Raine's letter through once more. -It inspired her with sad, despairing courage. She became for the time -the Katherine she had been so long, hopeless, resigned, fatalistic. -Before she crept broken and exhausted into bed, she had written him -a long calm letter telling him all. She did not spare herself, hiding -behind sophistries, neither did she blacken herself like a remorseful -Magdalen. She wrote it with her heart's blood, at the dictates of her -highest self. Only once perhaps in a lifetime is the power given to -human beings to lay thus bare their souls as they appear before the eyes -of the high gods. It was a higher Katherine than she wot of, that had -written that letter. - -But in the morning, the human woman yearning dumbly for happiness beheld -it, addressed, stamped, ready for post, and her heart was ice within -her. She stood for a moment holding it in her hand, irresolute whether -to break the seal and read it over again. Perhaps, she weakly thought, -something in it might be better expressed. Her finger mechanically -sought the flap corner of the envelope, and she tore it slowly. Then she -went back to bed with the letter. Nothing could be altered. She would -readdress it and despatch it that day. - -Whilst dressing she paused at her reflection in the glass, with a -feminine catch at the heart. She looked pale, old, faded, she thought; -faint lines were around the corners of her eyes; her features seemed -pinched. She shivered slightly--hurried foolishly over her hair, so that -she could be spared the sight of her face as soon as possible. - -“After all,” she said to herself, bitterly, “what does it matter? When -that letter has gone, who in the world will care whether you look old or -young?” - -Life seemed to end for her from the moment the letter would fall from -her hands into the letter-box. She kept it by her all day, unable to -cut herself adrift. The small extra effort required to address a fresh -envelope just raised the task above her strength. Once during the day -she flung herself on the bed in a fit of sobbing. She could not send it. -It would spoil his trip. She would wait till he returned, till she had -seen his eye light up once more as he looked at her, and heard, for one -last time, the throb in his voice that she was never to hear again. Just -one more hour of happiness. Then she would give him the letter, stay by -him as he read it, as a penance for her present pusillanimity. Feeling -miserably guilty, yet glad of the respite, she wrote him the second -letter that he had received. The one that she was to have sent she -carried about with her in her pocket, until the outside grew soiled and -dogs-eared. - -They were not happy days. But she moved about the pension outwardly -calm and serene, to all appearances her own self. The feeling of -self-reproach for her cowardice wore off. She resigned herself to her -lot. One sight of his face--and then the end of all things. She -knew, with the knowledge of herself given by years of solitude and -self-repression, that she would not falter in her second resolution. - -So centred, however, were her thoughts in the tragic side of her -relations with Raine that she gave no heed to the possibility of -gossip. None reached her ears. Her long sustained attitude of reserve, a -superiority of personality, a certain dignity of manner and conduct, -had won for her the respect, if not the love, of the pension. Even -Frau Schultz, who hated her, found it impossible to utter the spiteful -innuendo that trembled on her lips. But Mme. Popea, who was the -chartered libertine of the pension, by reason of her good-nature and -unblushing liberty of speech, summoned up courage one day to tread upon -the ice. - -“Mon Dieu,” she said, as if by way of invoking the deity's aid in her -venture, “it is getting dull again. I long to see Mr. Chetwynd back. - -“He makes himself missed,” replied Katherine calmly, continuing her -sewing. - -Mme. Popea had come into her room with the ostensible purpose of -borrowing a stiletto. It was one of her ways to stock her work-basket -with loans. - -“If the dear professor grows worse, he will return soon, I suppose. -They are like women to each other, those two--good ones, in the _vie de -famille_ of novels. I hear the professor is much worse to-day.” - -“Who told you?” - -“Miss Graves. She is nursing him. What a charming girl! Her devotion -to him is touching. It would be quite a romance if she married Monsieur -Raine. He is so handsome.” - -Katherine regarded the plump, irresponsible lady with placid gravity. - -“You seem to take a romantic interest in them, Madame Popea.” - -“Mon Dieu, yes. Anything that concerns love is interesting, especially -the idyllic. But you, Madame, would you be surprised if on his return -they were betrothed?” - -“_Il ne faut jamais s'étonner de rien_,” quoted Katherine, smiling -imperturbably. - -“I once thought he had a _tendresse_ for Madame,” ventured Mme. Popea -archly. - -“Oh, Madame Popea,” laughed Katherine. “You know what men are--and we -women ought never to tell each other our impressions. If I told you the -flattering remarks I have heard about you this last fortnight, your head -would be turned.” - -“Ah, who has spoken of me?” - -Katherine rose, took out a bonnet from a drawer and somewhat -ostentatiously unrolled a veil, while she returned a laughing answer. - -“I am too old not to have learned discretion. It is my one vice.” - -And Mme. Popea, seeing that Katherine was not to be surprised into -any admission, lingered a moment idly, and then took her departure. -Katherine, who read through Mme. Popea, smiled to herself somewhat -sadly. But her visitor's announcement regarding the old professor gave -her subject for reflection. If his father grew worse, Raine would have -to return at once. For a moment she half wished he would delay his -coming. Her heart throbbed painfully in anticipation of what lay before -her. - -The announcement was true. The old man had taken a severe chill. The -doctor had just spoken rather alarmingly to Felicia. She determined that -Raine should be summoned. - -“You must let me send a telegram to Chamonix,” she said, standing by the -bedside, while the old man drank his tisane. “It would cheer you to see -him, wouldn't it?” - -The old man shook his head. - -“Not yet.” - -“Why?” - -“It would be such a pity. He is enjoying himself.” - -“I should think he would not be sorry to come back,” said Felicia. - -An unwonted sub-acidity in her tone surprised him. He paused, with the -cup at his lips, his eyes luminous. Her glance fell beneath his, and she -coloured. - -“I don't think he went away to enjoy himself,” she said, giving -expression to vague conjectures that had been taking shape in her mind -the last few days. “Besides, his friends have left him in the lurch--not -their fault--unhappily--but still he is alone. He would be glad to come -back if you sent for him.” - -The old man was perplexed. He was also weakened by his attack of cold. - -“Do you think that I sent him away, Felicia?” he asked. - -Felicia was feminine enough to perceive his admission. She was sure -of her guess now. Katherine was at the bottom of the matter. The -proceedings, however, struck her as particularly futile. As they were, -actually, on the real grounds. She took the empty cup from his hands, -smoothed his pillow deftly, and as he laid his head back, she bent over -him and whispered,-- - -“He went away to please you--and he will return to please you. Let me -telegraph to him.” - -“But you--my dear child--how could you bear--?” - -“I?” asked Felicia in surprise. “What have I to do with it?” - -“Oh, Mr. Chetwynd!” she added after a moment's silence. “You must not -remember any foolish things I told you once--I think I must have been a -child then. I am ashamed of them now. I have grown older,”--she struggled -bravely--“and I have got over those silly feelings. I would not wish to -be anything more than friends--ever--so it would make no difference to -me, if he were here--except as a friend.” - -The old man reached out his thin hand, took hers, and laid it against -his cheek. - -“Then there was no need at all of his going away, since you knew?” - -Felicia gave a little involuntary cry, and twitched her hand, as the -revelation burst upon her. The blood flooded her cheeks and sang in her -ears. The former shame was nothing to this new one. - -“He went away because he saw that I cared for him?” she asked chokingly. - -“My poor little darling,” said the old man tenderly, “we did it all for -the best.” - -She stood by him in silence for a long time, while he petted her hand. -At last she gathered strength. - -“Tell him,” she said, “that it was all a mistake--that he acted nobly -and generously and delicately--but that I smiled when I heard it. Tell -him that I smiled, won't you, dear professor? See, I am smiling--quite -gaily, like the Felicia you spoil. And now,”--she withdrew her hand -gently--“I am going to telegraph to him. He and I together will soon -bring you round again--but I alone am not sufficient.” - -She administered a few feminine touches to the things on the table -beside him, and went upon her self-imposed errand. - -_“I should like you to return as quickly as possible._ - -_“Chetwynd.”_ - -She composed the wording of the telegram on her way to the office. It -kept her from thinking of other things. - -“There,” she said to herself as she wrote. - -“That will not alarm him.” - -Meanwhile the invalid was sorely puzzled. - -“I have made a mess of it from beginning to end,” he murmured wearily. -“And yet I don't think it can be dotage yet awhile. Let me reason it all -out.” - -His eyes closed. He had put the argument into a syllogism in _Barbara_, -when his brain refused to act, and he fell asleep. - - - - -CHAPTER XII.--ELECTRICITY IN THE AIR. - -The waiter who brought Felicia's telegram into the smoking-room -found Raine walking up and down, pipe in mouth, in a state of caged -irritation. A fine, penetrating rain was falling outside, the wet -dribbled down the windows, the air was impregnated with mist, and great -rolls of fog hid the mountains. The guides had prophesied a clearing up -of the weather at midday, but it was half-past eleven, and the prospect -was growing drearier every minute. Hockmaster was yawning over a cigar -and a battered copy of the _Louisville Guardian_ which some compatriot -had bequeathed to the hotel. - -Raine seized the telegram eagerly, read it, crumpled it into his pocket -in some excitement, and turned to the waiter. - -“There is a diligence to Cluses--when does it start?” - -“At 12.15, Monsieur.” - -“And the train to Geneva?” - -“At 5.50.” - -“Good. Secure me a seat in the diligence, and have my bill made out.” - -The waiter bowed and departed. - -“I am sorry to break our engagement to-day, Hockmaster,” said Raine to -the American, who had been watching the effect of the telegram with some -curiosity, “but I must start for Geneva at once.” - -“I like that,” replied Hockmaster; “it's slick. Nothing like making up -your mind in a minute. It's the way to do business. I guess I'll come -too.” - -“You'll have a disgusting drive,” said Raine, viewing the proposal with -less than his usual cordiality. - -“That's so,” retorted the other imperturbably, “I wasn't expecting the -sun to shine just because I choose to travel. I am a modest man.” - -“Well, hurry up,” said Raine, seeing that the American was decided. -“Perhaps you're wise in getting out of this.” - -“I should have done so a couple of days ago, if it had not been for you. -You seem to have a sort of way of pushing the lonesomeness off people's -shoulders.” - -There was an ingenuous frankness, an artless simplicity in the man's -tone, that touched a soft spot in Raine's nature. - -“That's devilish good of you,” he replied, with an Englishman's -awkwardness of acknowledgment. “You have done me a good turn too. Come -along.” - -In spite of Hockmaster's special efforts towards entertainment, the -drive to Cluses was particularly dreary. The rain never ceased falling, -the damp hung thick upon leaves and branches, and clustered like wool -among the pine stems. The mountains loomed vague and indistinct, fading -away into mist in the middle-distance. The Arve, as the road approached -it, seethed below, a muddy torrent. The desolate district beyond St. -Martin heaved like an Aceldama of mud and detritus oozing through the -fog. - -Besides external depression, certain anxieties lay on Raine's mind. His -father's health was never very strong. A dangerous illness was to be -dreaded. His deep affection for his father magnified his fears. There -was Katherine, too. His heart yearned towards her. He closed his eyes -to the hopeless landscape, and evoked her picture as she stood in pale -saffron and sapphire and a dash of pale gold, the morning's colours, in -the morning sunlight. But why had she left him so long without news of -her? A lover's question, which he sought to answer lover-wise. - -Cluses at last, the little watchmakers' town; an hour's wait for the -train. They went into a _café_ and sat down. After a while Hockmaster -rose, went up to an old plate-glass mirror on one side of the room, -smoothed his thin sandy hair with his fingers, arranged his cravat, and -then returned. With the exception of two elderly townsmen playing -at dominoes in the corner, while the host sat looking on in his -shirtsleeves, they were the only customers. They conversed in desultory -fashion on the rain, the journey, the forlorn aspect of the place. - -“If we had a town with an industry like this one in America,” said -Hockmaster, after his second _petit verre_ from the carafe in front of -him, “we should hitch it on to Wall Street and make a go-ahead city of -it in a fortnight, and manufacture timepieces for half the universe.” - -“That would be rather rough on the universe,” said Raine idly. “American -watches--” - -“The very tip-topest articles in the world!” interrupted Hockmaster -warmly. “Just look at this!” - -He drew from his pocket a magnificent gold watch, opened all its cases -rapidly, and displayed the works before Raine's eyes. - -“There! See whether that can be beaten in Europe. Made, every bit of it, -in Chicago. That watch cost me 450 dollars. It did that.” - -Raine admired the watch, mollified the owner, who drank another glass of -_fine champagne_ on the strength of his country's reputation. Then with -an inconsequence that was one of the quaint features of his conversation: - -“Mr. Chetwynd,” he said, lighting a fresh cigar, “I am about tired to -death of these gilded saloons in continental hotels. Imitation palaces -are not in my line. I should like something homier. I was thinking, if -you could recommend me a snug sort of boarding-house in Geneva, it would -be very good of you.” - -“Why not come to the one I am staying at?” said Raine good-naturedly. -“There is a very companionable set of people there.” - -“Right,” replied Hockmaster. “That's real kind of you. When you come -to Chicago, you track straight for Joseph K. Hockmaster. You'll find -gratitude.” - -“My dear fellow!” laughed Raine deprecatingly. - -“No,” said the other in his serious way. “I repeat, it's real kind. Most -of your countrymen would have shunted me off to another establishment. I -think I tire folks by talking. I am always afraid. That's why I tell you -to mention when you grow weary of conversation. It won't offend me. It's -as natural for me to talk as it is for a slug to leave his slime behind -him. I think I'm chock full of small ideas and they overflow in a liquid -kind of way. Now big ideas are solider and roll out more slowly--like -yours.” - -And he poured himself out the last glass of _fine champagne_ that -remained in the decanter. - -They reached the pension at half-past seven. Mme. Boccard appeared at -Raine's summons, wreathed in smiles, welcomed Hockmaster graciously and -assigned him a room. Dinner had just begun, she had put it back half an -hour, in compliment to Mr. Chetwynd. It was charming of him to have sent -her a private telegram. Everyone was well; the professor had taken a -turn for the better during the day. - -Raine went straight up to his father, and, to his intense relief, found -his fears of a dangerous illness to be almost groundless. - -“And Felicia?” he asked, after the first affectionate questionings. - -“Well,” replied the old man--“very bonny. Do you know, Raine, I think -we may have made a mistake. It has been all my fault. It would be the -greatest kindness to forget--and to forgive your meddling old father.” - -Raine laughed in his kind way, reassuring the old man. - -“It was not I that sent for you,” continued the latter. “It was Felicia. -There was no longer any reason for you to stop away--and she insisted. -Girls' hearts are mysterious books. Don't search into hers, Raine. -Forget it--seek your happiness where it is truest, my son--and then it -will be mine.” - -Raine did not press the subject. He was somewhat puzzled, but he -gathered that she had spoken and that silence would be the more delicate -part. He postponed further consideration of the matter; for which he may -be forgiven, as the longing for Katherine was tugging at his heart- -strings. Besides, he was honestly very hungry, and dinner was in -progress. - -After a hurried toilet he went down to the dining-room. The first sound -that struck his ear, as he entered, was the pop of a champagne cork and -the voice of Hockmaster, who was sitting at the lower end, with his back -to the door, next to Mme. Boccard. The waiter was in the act of filling -his glass from a large bottle of champagne. The blaze of light after the -darkness of the corridors dazzled Raine, and he paused for a second -on the threshold, glancing up the table. He was greeted by two rows of -welcoming faces turned towards him and a chorus of kind salutations. -The old commandant stretched up his hand behind his chair and gave a -vigorous handshake. Mme. Popea looked up at him, with a smile over -her good-natured face, as he passed along. But he had eyes only for -Katherine. A curious little spasm passed through him, as he met her -glance. It seemed to contain a world of fears. She was looking pale and -ill. - -Mme. Boccard, in her high-pitched voice, directed him to take the -professor's place at the head of the table. He found himself thus -between Felicia and Katherine. Felicia greeted him naturally. Katherine -gave him a cold, trembling hand, and an almost furtive look. Evidently -something had happened during his absence, of whose nature he was -ignorant. She was no longer the same woman. Mere feminine shyness would -not account for this suppressed agitation. The food on her plate had -remained untouched. For a moment he lost sense of the scene round him. -The universe consisted in this woman with the ashen face and quickly -heaving bosom. He bent towards her,--“Are you ill?” he whispered, his -emotion expressing itself by the first chance commonplace. - -“No,” she returned hurriedly, in the same tone. “A sudden faintness--my -heart, perhaps. Don't notice me--for heaven's sake! I shall be better -soon.” - -Question and answer passed too quickly to attract attention. Raine -recovered his balance, and turned to Felicia. - -“My father seems to be getting on nicely, thanks to you,” he said -kindly. - -“Ca, not to me. To you. Since your reply came to-day.” - -“I am always so nervous when he gets seedy. He is not strong, I have -been full of direful imaginations all the afternoon.” - -Felicia sketched the history of the case, touched on the abandoned trip -to Lucerne, condoled with Raine on the disappointment at not meeting -his friends at Chamonix. She talked bravely, all the pride of her -young-womanhood up in arms to help her. Perhaps she could convince him -that he had made a mistake. She devoted to the task all her energies. -Her modesty and intuitive tact saved her from over-acting. Her -concentration, however, prevented her from realizing the silent -agitation of Katherine. She attributed it to embarrassment at meeting -Raine after his absence, and felt a little thrill of gratified vanity -at the inversion of parts. It used to be Katherine who was outwardly -at perfect ease and self-contained, and herself who was embarrassed and -tongue-tied. - -It seemed a little victory in the handling of life. - -Raine spoke brightly enough of his adventures at Chamonix, including -Miss Bunter, who was sitting very subdued and wan next to Felicia, in -the conversation, and drew from her an account of a far-off visit to the -Mer de Glace. But he was feeling low at heart. If he addressed a chance -remark to Katherine, she greeted it with a forced smile, which he felt -like a stab. He could see from the very fear in her eyes that it was -not merely sudden faintness. He noticed that on trying to lift her -wine-glass, which he had accidentally refilled too full, her hand shook -so much that she abandoned the attempt. He silently poured some wine -into one that he had not used and exchanged glasses with her. She -acknowledged the act with a bow of her head and drank the wine somewhat -feverishly. - -“My American friend seems to be enjoying himself,” said Raine to -Felicia, as Hockmaster's somewhat sharply pitched voice was heard -expounding his artlessly paradoxical philosophy of life to those around -him. - -Felicia leant forward, so as to catch a glimpse of him down the long -table. - -“You must introduce him,” she said. - -“With pleasure. He will amuse you. I think if Bret Harte had known him, -he would not have asked whether the Caucasian was played out. He is as -childlike and bland as Ah Sin himself. But he is a capital fellow.” - -They paused for a moment to catch what he was saying. Raine saw him -leaning across the table and addressing a new arrival, evidently a -compatriot. - -“No. I am not a married man. But I am fond of ladies' society. To get -along without ladies is like washing your hands without soap.” - -There was laughter at the remark, which was increased by his attempts to -convey his meaning in French to Mme. Boccard. - -Felicia looked at Raine and laughed too. Then out of kindly impulse, by -chance catching Katherine's eye,-- - -“Mr. Chetwynd has brought us quite an acquisition, don't you think so?” - -Katherine forced a smile and uttered a semi-articulate “yes.” Then her -eyelids closed for a few seconds and quivered, as in a nervous attack. -This sign of agitation could not escape Felicia's notice. She became -aware that something was happening. A suspicion of a tragic element in -the relations between the man she loved and the woman she hated, flitted -in the twilight of her mind. The laugh died from her lips, as she looked -more keenly at Katherine. She turned her glance towards Raine, saw his -eyes fix themselves for a moment on Katherine with an indescribable -expression of pain and longing. It was the first time she had seen for -herself that he loved her. The pang of it gripped her heart. But she -disregarded it. Again she remembered Frau Schultz's innuendoes and -tittle-tattle, and involuntarily brought them to bear on the present -situation. The impression left on her mind by the tragedy in the life of -the poor little lady by her side had not yet been effaced. It aided in -the suggestion of another tragedy in the lives of these two others. The -strain upon herself had also somewhat exalted her system and produced -a certain nervous sensitiveness. Something was happening--something -fateful or tragic. A feeling akin to awe came over her young mind, and -suppressed her own simpler girlish fancies. A silence fell upon her, -as it had fallen upon Raine and Katherine. The constraint began to grow -painful, the meal seemed endless. Hockmaster's voice in the distance -began to irritate her nerves. - -At last the dinner was over. There was the usual scuffling of chairs and -_frou-frou_ of skirts, as the guests rose. With a common impulse Raine -and Katherine moved a step aside. - -“Katherine!” - -She put one hand up to her bosom, and steadied herself with the other on -the back of her chair. - -“I am feeling very ill,” she said, thickly. “Don't think me cruel--I -can't see you tonight. To-morrow. I shall be better then. You have -seen I am not myself--this last hour has been martyrdom--forgive -me--good-night.” - -“Don't forget that I love you, dear--let that give you strength,” said -Raine, in a low voice. - -A cry came involuntarly to her lips, wrung from her suffering. - -“Ah, don't!” - -She turned quickly, and followed the departing guests. Raine stood -bewildered, looking with contracted brow at her receding form. -Hockmaster was standing at the door, his dinner napkin over his arm, -a few yards away from the group of men who had remained to smoke. He -opened the door a little wider for her. But she passed out like an -automaton, looking neither to right nor left. - -The American closed the door, and came up to Raine. - -“Say, Chetwynd, can one get a liqueur brandy here?” - -“The waiter will be here in a minute for orders,” replied Raine. “How -are you getting on?” - -“First class. Liveliest meal I've had since I dined on a burning ship -sailing from New York to Cuba. Did I ever tell you the story?--My hell! -It was a hot time! Have a cigar.” - -“No, thanks,” replied Raine. “I must go and fetch my pipe. When I come -back you can tell me.” - -Deeply troubled about Katherine, he was not in the humour for -Hockmaster's stories, and he seized eagerly at the excuse for being free -from him for a time. He went out on to the balcony, with the intention -of passing through to the drawing-room, where he expected to find -Felicia. An idea had occurred to him which he was anxious to put into -execution. But after passing two or three ladies, he discovered Felicia -alone in the dimness of the furthest end of the balcony. - -“Felicia,'” he said, calling her for the first time by her Christian -name, “you are a dear good girl--you will help me if you can. Has -Katherine been ill during my absence?” - -The direct, frank appeal touched the girl to the heart. It seemed to -raise her with one great leap in her own esteem, above all the burning -shame she had suffered. Raine's vigorous, sympathetic instinct had -pierced through externals to the innermost of her maidenhood. She -answered his question gently. - -“No. She has been quite as usual all the time. But I think she has -looked sadder these last few days.” - -“She has not been looking ill--as at dinner to-night?” - -“No. That was sudden.” - -And then with a strange, absolutely new, almost delicious sense of the -strong man weakly depending upon her for comfort, she said timidly,-- - -“You mustn't be unhappy. She may have been longing for you to come -back--for she loves you--and this evening--she is very delicate, you -know. Sometimes when I am with her, she seems so fragile--she will be -better to-morrow--and you will be happy.” - -“Ah! Thank you, Felicia,” said Raine, greatly moved. “I wish--I wish you -would let me kiss you for it.” - -“Yes,” she whispered. - -He stooped, and touched her cheek with his lips, and then strode away -feeling somehow stronger and serener. - -And Felicia remained on the balcony deep in thought, her girlish love -purified by the brotherly kiss. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII.--THE SOILING OF A PAGE. - -It was the large room in the Kursaal assigned to the _Cercle de -Genève_. Of the two long green tables, one was deserted and in darkness, -and the other, brilliantly lighted from overhanging green shades, was -surrounded by a fair number of men. Except at short intervals between -the hands, a decorous silence prevailed, broken only by the stereotyped -phrases, _une carte, sept, neuf, baccara_, marking the progress of the -game. But when the hand was over, voices rose, and above them was heard -the sharp click of the mother-of-pearl counters and the chink of gold -and silver, as the croupier, in the middle of the table, opposite the -banker, settled losses and gains. Then the croupier,--“_Quarante louis -dans la banque, vingt à chaque tableau. Faites vos jeux, messieurs. A -cheval? Bien, monsieur. Bien, monsieur. Rien ne va plus!_” - -And then silence again while the hand was being played. - -The company was cosmopolitan; two or three elderly Genevese citizens, -a sprinkling of Germans and Russians, two or three of nondescript -nationality, speaking English, French, and German with equal fluency, of -the swarthy, Israelitish type familiar at Monte Carlo and Aix-les-Bains, -and a few English and Americans. Among the latter were Raine and -Hockmaster. The American was winning heavily. When the hand had come to -him, he had “passed” seven, nine, and twelve times respectively, and a -little mountain of notes, _fiches_ and gold lay before him. On a small -table by his side was a tumbler of brandy and water which he replenished -at intervals from the customary graduated decanter and a carafe of iced -water. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes unnaturally bright, and his -speech, when the croupier's spoon deposited his winnings in front of -him, was somewhat exuberant and excited. - -Raine, who had played very little, was neither winning nor losing. -He had accompanied Hockmaster, purely for the sake of distraction, -intending to while away an hour or two before bedtime. The pleasant walk -along the quays to and from the Kursaal had also been an inducement. But -he had sat there next to Hockmaster for several hours, interested in the -game and in his companion's astonishing luck. For the wholesome-minded -person, with a keen sense of life and a broad sympathy with its -interests, there is ever a fascination in watching the chances of a -gaming table. Fortune seems to come down and give a private exhibition -of her wheel. The great universe seems to stand still for a while, and -only this microcosm to be subjected to its chances. - -At last he grew tired, however, and suggested to Hockmaster the -reasonableness of retiring. Besides, the increasing excitement of the -American led him to reflect, for the first time, upon the quantity of -drink that he had consumed. - -“I guess I'm going to clear out all these boys,” replied Hockmaster. - -“In that case,” said Raine, rising, “I'm going home.” - -The other caught him by his coat. - -“Half an hour more.” - -“No. I have had enough. So have you.” - -“Just the end of this new bank, then.” - -The croupier was crying a new bank--putting it up to auction. - -“_La banque est aux enchères. Combien la banque?_” - -“I'll wait till you have had just one stake,” said Raine, by way of -compromise. - -Bids were made for the bank. Ten louis, twenty louis, thirty. - -“Fifty,” cried Hockmaster, suddenly, with his elbows on the table. Raine -clapped him on the shoulder. - -“That's not in the bargain.” - -“A hundred,” cried a fat German at the end of the other _tableau_, who -had been losing persistently. - -“You wait if you want to see fun,” said Hockmaster. “Two hundred.” - -Murmurs began to arise. Play seldom ran so high in the _cercle_. It was -too much. - -“_Assez, assez,_” growled the Genevese citizens. - -But the rest of the table was athrill with excitement. - -“Two hundred and fifty,” cried the German. - -“Four hundred,” said Hockmaster. - -“Five!” screamed the German. - -“The gentleman can have that bank,” drawled Hockmaster. “And I'll go -_banco_.” - -Which means that he would play one hand against the new banker for the -whole amount of the bank--£400. - -There was a death-like silence. The German, looking pallid and flabby, -took his seat. The stakes were deposited on the table. The croupier -placed the fresh packs on the rest before the new banker. With trembling -fingers the German slipped the two cards apiece to Hockmaster and -himself. The American allowed his cards to remain in front of him for a -moment as he looked up at Raine, who was standing behind him, also under -the spell of the general excitement. - -“If I lose this, I take the next tramcar back to Chicago.” - -“Take up your cards,” grumbled an impatient voice. - -Hockmaster picked them up. They were a 6 and a 4, which making 10, -according to the principles of the game where tens and multiples of ten -count as nothing, were valueless. - -“_Une carte?_” asked the German. - -“Yes.” - -“The card was an ace. The beads of perspiration formed on the American's -forehead. Only a miracle could save him--that of the banker drawing -tens. For if the banker's pips totted up, subtracting multiples of ten, -to any number between 2 and 9, Hockmaster lost. The banker displayed his -cards. Two queens. The chances were now 9 to 4 in the banker's favour. -He drew a card slowly from the top. It was the ten of diamonds. - -“_Baccara!_” he gasped. - -“One!” cried Hockmaster, throwing down his cards. - -A hubbub of eager voices arose at the sensational victory. The German -retired from the table and left the room without saying a word. -Hockmaster wiped his forehead and stowed away the bank-notes and gold in -his pockets. - -“I reckon I've had enough too,” he exclaimed in a thick, unsteady voice. -“Good-night, gentlemen.” - -He rose, stretched himself, laid hold of Raine's arm, and the two went -out together. As they reached the front steps of the Kursaal, they heard -the German driving away in a cab that had been waiting. - -“I wish there was another one,” said Hockmaster, reeling. - -The fresh night air struck him like an electric shock. He lurched -heavily against Raine, and laughed stupidly. - -“I guess I'm as drunk as a boiled owl.” Raine was surprised, angry and -disgusted. The modern Englishman sees nothing funny in drunkenness. -If he had suspected that Hockmaster was drinking to the degree of -intoxication, he would have left the Kursaal long before. But the -motionlessness of his position and the intense excitement of the game -had combined to check temporarily the effects of the alcohol. There was -no help for it, however; he must give the drunken man his arm and convey -him home. - -They soon emerged on to the quay. It was a superb moonlit night. The -lake slumbered peacefully below, the bright expanse sweeping away from -the shadows of the town, scarcely broken by a ripple. At that hour not a -soul was stirring. Hockmaster's excited talk struck with sharp -resonance on the lonely air. As soon as he had realized his condition of -leg-helplessness, he trusted to his companion's support, and, thinking -no more about it, talked volubly of the game, his winnings, his late -adversary's piteous grimace, when the only losing card he could draw -turned up. Then he broke out into loud laughter. - -“Stop that!” cried Raine, somewhat savagely, jerking his arm. - -Hockmaster ceased, looked up at him with lack-lustre eye. - -“I guess I'm drunk. Let's sit down a minute. It's my legs that don't -realize their responsibility.” - -He pitched sideways in the direction of a seat on the quay, dragging -Raine a step with him. Raine, not sorry to be free of his weight for a -few moments, agreed to sit down. Perhaps the rest in the fresh air would -sober him a little; at least enough to enable him to accomplish unaided -the remainder of his walk home. Having lit his meerschaum, Raine gave -himself up philosophically to the situation. It was just as pleasant and -as profitable to be sitting there under the stars, in front of the magic -of the lake, as to be fretting through anxious hours in his bedroom, -longing for the morrow. For a time he forgot Hockmaster, who sprawled -silently by him, his incapable legs stretched out compass-wise, and his -hands in his pockets. His mind hovered around Katherine, lost itself in -mingling memories of doubts and hopes; wandered back to Oxford and his -uncertainties, returned to Geneva, to their first talk in the Jardin -Anglais, to stray moments when they had drifted into close contact, to -the glow of the first kiss, and finally settled in the gloom that her -agitation that evening had spread about him. Then, with a start, he -remembered the American, whose silence was alarming. - -“Look here. You are not going to sleep!” - -“All right, sonny. Don't you be alarmed,” replied Hockmaster with -drunken gravity. “I am all right sitting, anyway. I've been fixing -up something in my mind, and it's like shaving on board ship in a -hurricane. Say, you're my friend, aren't you? If you thought I was a -darned skunk, you'd tell me. - -“You have soaked too much brandy, my friend,” replied Raine. “That -doesn't require much 'fixing up.' Anyhow, the next time you want to go -on the drink, please do it when I am not there.” - -“Quite right,” said Hockmaster, rolling his head towards him with a -portentous air. “You're disgusted at my being drunk--so'm I--But thatsh -not the question. I felt sort of mean, like the chewed end of a cigar, -and I tried to gargle the feeling away. But it wasn't my fault.” - -“Well, never mind,” said Raine, with a smile. “Don't do it again.” - -“You bet your bottom dollar I don't. The man who puts his head twice -into the Divorce Court deserves to be shot sitting.” - -Raine was startled. What was the man driving at? - -“You see, I guess I ought to have married her afterwards,” continued -Hockmaster. “But those mines I told you of carried me down to Mexico. -Now when a man's got a blaze at a million of dollars he can't afford to -be fooling around after a woman. She can wait, but the dollars won't. -That's what I was trying to fix up to tell you--as a real friend.” - -“Tell me to-morrow,” said Raine, preparing to rise. “Let us get home -now.” - -He had no desire to hear the tipsy details of Hockmaster's past life. -But the American put detaining hands on his arm and shoulders, in -familiar confidence. - -“I want your opinion--I seduced her from her husband, and didn't marry -her after the divorce, and when I saw her this evening for the first -time after eight years--” - -Raine leaped to his feet with a horrible surmise. - -“What the devil are you talking about? Whom do you mean?” - -“Yes,” said Hockmaster, nodding in a melancholy way. “I thought I was a -mean skunk. You are disgusted.” - -Raine seized him by the collar and shook him. - -“Answer my question--which lady do you mean?” - -“Oh!” said Hockmaster, “of course. You don't know. Why, the sweetest, -prettiest woman there, sitting next to you. I guess she was upset at -seeing me.” - -He went on talking. But Raine heard no more. His brain was in a whirl, a -nausea was at his heart. His prized meerschaum fell from his hand, and, -knocking against the seat, dropped broken on to the ground; but he was -unconscious of it. Everything blazed before him in a livid light. A -horrible repulsion from the inert, ignoble figure sprawling beneath him -grew into a loathing anger. His fingers thrilled to seize the American -again by the collar and shake the life out of him like a rat. - -“You damned little cad--betraying her to a stranger--you infernal, -drunken little cad!” - -Controlling his rage with a great effort, he turned, and strode away -with set teeth. He heard the American's voice calling him, but he went -on. - -“Hallo! Chetwynd!” cried Hockmaster, rising with difficulty to his feet. -“Chetwy--ynd!” - -He staggered forward a couple of paces and then fell prone. After a -few ineffectual efforts to get up, he abandoned the attempt, and lay -quiescent. - -Raine walked about fifty yards. He had heard the fall. At first it was a -grim satisfaction to let him lie there--all night if need were. But then -it struck him with unpleasant suddenness that Hockmaster was carrying -about his person an immense sum of money in notes and gold. To leave -him to the risk of being robbed and perhaps knocked on the head was -impossible. He conquered his repugnance and turned, back. - -“Get up.” - -“Eh? All right. I think I'll go to shleep.” - -Raine lifted him to his feet, shook him to a degree of soberness, and -with one arm around him, marched again homewards. - -He loathed the man. To be condemned to hug him close to his person set -jarring every nerve of physical repulsion. Raine did not handle him -tenderly in that moonlight walk. Whilst sitting on the bench, the -American had been coherent in his speech, but his fall and resignation -to slumber on the pavement had relaxed the tension of his mind, and he -grew maudlin and inarticulate. Now and then he remonstrated with -his protector for hurrying him along so fast. In fact, Raine, in -his passionate desire to shake himself free of the incubus, was -unconsciously exerting his great strength almost to carry him bodily. - -In the middle of the bridge, Hockmaster laughed softly to himself. - -“To think I should see her again. Dear little Kitty.” - -A horrible wave of disgust swept through Raine. He gripped the man -viciously. - -“Damn you! If you mention her name again, I'll pitch you into the lake.” - -“That would be a pity,” murmured the American in a panting murmur. “I -can't swim.” - -Raine increased his pace, so that speech became for the American a -physical impossibility. In the midst of his disgust came the memory of -the last time he had come homewards across that bridge. Then, too, he -had hurried blindly, anxious to reach the pension. The cynical irony of -the parallel smote him. A clock struck two as they reached the corner of -the street. Hockmaster was limply happy, comfortably breathless. Raine -propped him against the wall as he waited for the _concierge_ to open to -his ring. The door was soon swung open, and Raine dragged the American -up the dark staircase. When they reached the latter's bedroom, he flung -him in unceremoniously and left him to himself. - -Then, when he was alone, rid of the man's body, Raine pieced the story -together more calmly. It was sickening. His fair pure Katherine to have -given herself to that little drunken cad, to have wrecked her life for -him--it was sickening. - -There are times in a man's career when the poetry of life seems to be -blotted out, and its whole story nothing but ignoble prose. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV.--THE WEAKER SIDE. - -Raine had judged her very gently. He had rightly guessed that she had -fallen upon the thorns wherewith society strews the land outside its -own beaten paths. His insight into the depths of her nature had awakened -within him a strong man's yearning pity. In his eyes she was the frail -tender thing that had been torn and wounded, and he had taken to his -heart the joy of the knowledge that his arms would give her rest and -peace at the last. - -Although Hockmaster's revelation had jarred through his whole being, -he judged her gently now. He was honest-souled enough to disintegrate -æsthetic disgust from abiding emotion. He was keenly sensible of the -agony she had endured at dinner, and he suffered with her truly -and loyally. But the ignobleness attendant on all the conditions of -Hockmaster's drunken confidence spread itself for the time like a foul -curtain over finer feelings. He could not help wishing that she had -told him her story. That the consciousness of her position as a divorced -woman had been the cause of the constraint of her letters, he could -no longer doubt. That she intended to make all clear to him before -she definitely pledged herself to him as his wife, he was absolutely -certain. His nature was too loyal for him to suspect otherwise. There he -read her truly. But why had she waited? It would have made his present -course of action so much more simple, had the spoken confidence between -them enabled him to take the initiative. Now his hands were tied. He -could do nothing but wait until she made the sign. Thus the thought, in -calmer, nobler moments. But then the common story of seduction, with its -vulgar stigma of the divorce court, and the personality of the reeling, -hiccoughing man, sent a shiver through his flesh. - -In the morning he spent an hour with his father, forgetting for the -while his own troubles in endeavours to cheer and amuse. On his way -out, he met Mme. Boccard, who greeted him with plaintive volubility. -His American friend had paid his bill and left orders for his bag to -be given to the porter from the Hôtel National. She was sorry her -establishment had not been to his liking. What did Monsieur Chetwynd -think of the dinner? What had been lacking? And the bed? It was a -beautiful bed--as it happened, the best in all the pension. Raine -consoled her, as best he could, for the American's defection, but in his -heart he was grimly pleased at this sign of grace in his late friend. -He had some idea, at least, when sober, of common decency. Mme. Boccard -enquired concernedly after the professor, was delighted to hear that he -was mending. - -“Ah, that is good,” she said, “it would not be suitable if too many -people were ill. The pension would get a bad name. That poor Mme. -Stapleton is still suffering this morning. It is Mr. Chetwynd who will -be sorry.” - -“Nothing serious?” asked Raine, in some alarm. - -“Oh no--_une crise des nerfs. Que voulez-vous? Les dames sont comme -cela._” - -In spite of this information, however, he looked into his room, on his -way out, in the vague hope of finding a note from Katherine. But there -was none. He felt himself in a cruelly false position. Yet he could do -nothing. Like a wise man he resolved to await events and in the meantime -to proceed with his usual habits. In accordance therefore with the -latter, he walked up the Grand Quai and sat down at one of the tables -outside the Café du Nord, where he had been accustomed, before his -absence at Chamonix, to read the _Journal de Geneve_ and the previous -day's _Figaro_. It was pleasant to get back to a part of the former way -of life, when Hockmaster was undreamed of. The retirement of his late -friend from the pension was a relief to him. He felt he could breathe -more freely. If he could be assured that Hockmaster would retire from -Geneva as well, and vanish into the Unknown whence he came, he would -have been almost happy. He wanted never to set eyes on his face -again. - -But the particularly undesired invariably happens. He was trying to -concentrate his mind upon the literary supplement of the _Figaro_, when -the ingenuous but now detested voice fell upon his ear. - -“I was just on my way to ransack the town of Geneva for you.” - -Raine looked up frowningly. Hockmaster was standing by his side, -sprucely attired, clean-shaven, the pink of freshness. His shirt cuffs -were immaculately conspicuous, he wore patent-leather boots and carried -a new pair of gloves in his hand. His pale-blue eyes looked as innocent -as if they had never gazed upon liquid stronger than a pellucid lake. -Immediately after he had spoken he sat down and airily waved away the -waiter, who was hovering near for orders. - -“Did you particularly desire to see me?” asked Raine, stiffly. - -“I do. Particularly. I guess I riled you considerably last night, and my -mind would not be easy until I apologized. For anything I did last night -and anything I said, I apologize most humbly. I know,” he added with one -of his child-like smiles, “that I fell by a long chalk from the image of -my Maker, and I can't expect you to forgive me all at once--but if you -were to do it by degrees, beginning from now, you would make me feel -that I am gradually approximating to it again.” - -There was a quaint charm in the manner of this astonishing man, to -which Raine could not help being susceptible, in spite of his dislike. -Besides, the ordinary conventions of life bound him to accept an apology -so amply tendered. - -“You did put me to some trouble,” he said gravely, “and for that I most -cordially accept your excuses. For the rest--” he completed the sense -with a gesture.. - -But Hockmaster looked pained. - -“I see, Mr. Chetwynd. What you can't do is to pal on to a man who has -betrayed a woman's honour.” - -Raine felt embarrassed. He was aware that he had been disingenuous -in shifting the whole weight of his disgust and anger on to that -one particular point. The direct appeal did not lack manliness, was -evidently sincere. It stirred within him the sense of justice. He tried -to realize his attitude towards Hockmaster in the case of Katherine -being merely a chance acquaintance. Obviously all the complex feelings -centering round his love for her ought to go for nothing in his judgment -of Hockmaster. Raine was an honourable man, who hated hypocrisy and -prejudice and unfair dealing, and the detection of them in himself -brought with it an irritating sense of shame. - -“I have the privilege of the friendship of the lady in question,” he -replied to the American, “and therefore felt a personal resentment of -your confidence last night.” - -“Mr. Chetwynd,” returned Hockmaster, leaning forward earnestly with his -elbows on the table, “there is only one way in which I can make things -square, and that is to take you into my confidence still further.” - -“Oh, for God's sake, man, let us drop the subject!” - -“No. For I think you'll be pleased. You are a straight, honourable man, -and I want to act in a straight, honourable way. Do you see that?” - -“Perfectly,” said Raine. “But don't you also see that this is a matter -that cannot be discussed? A woman's name cannot be bandied about by two -men. Come, we will let bygones be bygones.” - -He rose, grasping his stick, as if to depart, and held out his hand. -But the American, somewhat to Raine's astonishment, made a deprecating -gesture and also rose to his feet. - -“No. Not yet,” he said blandly. “Not before you feel sure I am doing the -straight thing. You called me a cad, last night, didn't you?” - -“Yes. But perhaps I was hasty.” - -“Oh no. I own up. Honest Injun, as we say in America. I was a cad. -Only, having called your friend a cad, you owe it to him to allow him to -retrieve his character in your eyes.” - -“Why should you be so anxious to do so?” asked Raine, struck with the -man's earnestness. - -“Because I've got sort of fond of you,” replied the American. “Will you -listen to me for two minutes?” - -“Certainly.” - -“Then I'll tell you that I'm going direct, this very minute, to ask that -lady to marry me. - -“To marry you?” cried Raine, with the blood in his cheeks. “It would be -an insult!” - -“It's a pity you think so,” returned Hockmaster reflectively. “I wish I -could unmake my mind, but you see it's all fixed up already.” - -“What's fixed up?” - -“That I should ask her. Mr. Chetwynd, this is the first chance I have -had. For eight years I have lost every trace of her. If you know a more -honourable way of repairing the wrong, you just tell me.” - -“Man alive! leave Geneva and never let her hear of you again.” - -“I will, if she refuses me. That's fixed up too. I must be going.” - -“Mrs. Stapleton is ill, and can't see you this morning,” said Raine -desperately. - -“I have an appointment with her in five minutes' time,” replied the -other imperturbably. “Now, Mr. Chetwynd, I shall be proud to shake hands -with you.” - -He extended his hand, which Raine, thrown off his balance for the -moment, took mechanically; and then he gave him a parting nod, jerked -forward his shirt-cuffs, squared his shoulders and marched away, -evidently pleased with himself. - -Raine sat down again by the marble table, took a mouthful of the -vermouth in front of him, and tried to recover his equilibrium. -Katherine was going to see this man, to listen to a proposal of -marriage. A spasm of pain shot through him. Perhaps the older love had -smouldered through the years and had burst forth again. His hand shook -as he put the glass to his lips again. - -People came and went in the _café_, sat down to their bock or absinthe -and departed. The busy life of Geneva passed by on the sunny pavement; -brown-cheeked, pale-eyed Swiss peasants, blue-bloused workmen, tourists -with veils and puggarees and Baedekers. Barefooted children, spying -the waiter's inattention, whined forward with decrepit bunches of -edelweiss. Smart flower-sellers, in starched white sleeves, displayed -their great baskets to the idlers. Cabs, hired by family parties of -Germans or Americans, drove off with raucous shouts and cracking of -whips, from the rank in the shade opposite, by the garden railings. The -manager of the _café_, in correct frock-coat, stood under the awning in -the gangway, and smiled benignly on his customers. The time passed. But -Raine sat there chin in hand, staring at the blue veins of the marble, -his thoughts and emotions as inchoate as they. - -At last he became aware that someone looked at him and bowed. Rousing -himself from his daze he recognized Felicia, who was advancing along the -pavement by the outer row of chairs. With a sudden impulse, he rose, and -leaving some money for the waiter, went out and greeted her. - -“Isn't it a lovely day?” she said brightly. “I couldn't stay in the -pension after déjeuner, so I came out to do some shopping.” - -“Déjeuner!” cried Raine, “Do you mean to say it is over?” - -“Why, of course. Haven't you had any?” - -“No--the time has passed. However, I am not very hungry. Do you mind if -I go shopping with you?” - -“I should feel flattered, Mr. Chetwynd.” She laughed up at him from -under her red parasol. The sight of her, fresh in her youthful colouring -and dainty white dress, seemed to soothe the man's somewhat weary -senses. A feeling of restfulness in her company stole over his heart, as -he walked by her side. - -“What are you going to buy?” he asked as they passed by the shops. - -“I really don't know. I must consider. Perhaps some needles and tape. -But you must stay outside.” - -“Oh no. I will come with you and see how it is done,” said Raine with a -smile. - -“Then I'll have to buy something important that I don't want,” said -Felicia. - -A laughing argument, which lasted until the needles and tape were -purchased. Then they continued their walk down the Rue de la Corraterie -and came to the Bastion gardens, where they sat down under the trees. -Felicia was happy. The brotherly kiss of the previous evening had -restored to her the self-respect that her maidenhood seemed to have -lost. He was still the prince of her girl's heart, she could serve him -now, she felt, without shame or shrinking. The growing woman in her -divined his mood and strove to cheer him with her most lightsome self. - -Womanhood divined the mood, but inexperience was blind to its -dangerousness. Unconsciously her sweet charm of youth drew Raine nearer -to her. When they parted, he felt that he had gone within an ace of -making love to her, and committing a base action. The thought stung -him. He had not reckoned upon such weakness in himself. Spurred by -an impatient scorn of his cowardice, his heart turned all the more -passionately to Katherine. - - - - -CHAPTER XV.--THE SIGNING OF A DEATH WARRANT. - -The balcony outside Katherine's room baked in the morning sun. A tiny -patch of sunshine stood on the threshold of the open window like a -hesitating guest. A cool breeze entered the room, fluttering the gay -ribbons of a tambourine hanging against the wall. - -Hockmaster had gone. She did not know whether it was the relief of his -absence or the rush of air caused by the opening of the door that sent -a fierce momentary thrill through her frame. Her eyes were burning, her -throat parched, her body quivering in a passion of anger. She stood for -a few seconds, with parted lips, breathing great draughts of the -cool air, and mechanically unloosened the neck of her dress; it was -strangling her. Then she turned, looking from right to left, like a -caged creature panting for escape. Her glance fell upon the chair where -Hockmaster had just sat. The edge of the rug at the feet was curled, the -cushion flattened, the tidy disarranged--all hatefully suggestive -of his continued presence. With a passionate movement, she rushed -and restored the things to order, shaking the cushion with childish -fierceness, till not a wrinkle was left. While the action lasted, it -relieved her. - -She crossed the room, sat for a moment. But every pulse in her throbbed. -Motionlessness was impossible. She sprang to her feet and paced the -room, moving her arms in passionate gestures. - -Forgive him! Never--never in this world or the next. To have betrayed -her--to Raine of all men. The thought in its fiery agony was almost -unthinkable. The drawling, plaintive tone in which he had made his -confession maddened her. The echo of his words pierced her brain. - -The sudden meeting the night before had shaken her. After the ordeal of -the dinner her nerves had given way, and she had lain awake all night -with throbbing temples. She had risen, faint and ill, to read his note -beseeching an interview. She had strung herself to go through with it. -As the hours passed she had grown more self-possessed; while waiting, -had put some extra tidying touches to her room, rearranged some flowers -she had bought the day before. She had even smiled to herself. After -all, what claim had this man upon her? - -He had come, trim, point-device in his attire, looking scarcely a day -older than when she had forsaken all for him. He had pleaded, owned -himself a scoundrel, strengthening his cause by his very weakness. - -“I was going to marry you, Kitty. Before God I was! On my return from -Mexico. I thought I was going to make millions--become one of the little -gods of the earth. No man living would have let go the chance. I guess I -was to have made you more powerful than the ordinary run of queens. -Who could have told those mines were a fraud? Van Hoetmann himself was -deceived. I came back at once. You were gone. I tried to trace you. I -lost you. And all these years I have been kind of haunted by it. Before -I left Chicago, a man was bragging he had never brought a cloud upon -a woman's life. I said to him: 'Sir, go down on your bended knees and -thank Almighty God for it.'” - -She had listened, at first rather sceptically. But gradually his -earnestness had convinced her of his sincerity. She had loved him, as -she had understood love in those far-off days, when her young shadowed -nature had expanded like a plant to the light. A little tenderness -remained, called from forgotten depths to the surface. She had spoken -very gently to him, forgiven him, the sweeter woman prompting her. - -And then he had urged marriage. - -“It is what I have come to tell you, Kitty. Let me make amends for -the past by devoting my life to your happiness. I am not right bad all -through. I'll begin again to love you as I did when first I saw you in -that white dress, among the roses of the verandah.” - -She had smiled, shaken her head, it could never be. She was quite happy. -He had done his part, she was satisfied with his intentions. But the -amends she claimed was that he should never seek to see her again. Only -on that condition, that he left Geneva at once, looking upon this as a -final parting, could she give him her full, unqualified forgiveness. He -had insisted, wearying her. She had risen, held out her hand to him. - -“You must go. It is a generous impulse that urges you to make reparation -in this manner, not love--” - -She paused for a breath, instinctively trying him with a touchstone, and -smiling as it failed to draw the response of passion. - -“Let your conscience be easy. You wish to serve me--you have a trust--my -honour--you can cherish it.” - -And then the element of grotesque folly, that underlay this man's -nature, had prompted him to satisfy the childlike craving for plenary -shrift and absolution. He told her that he had confessed in an unguarded -moment to Chetwynd, taken him further into his confidence. At first she -had scarcely understood him--the suggestion had stunned, paralyzed her -for a few seconds, during which his words seemed to strike her senses -dimly, like rain in the night. The complete realization came with a -rush--the shame, the degradation--the abyss that he had opened at her -feet. Sudden overpowering hate of him had flooded her senses and burst -all barriers of reserve and self-control. - -He had committed the Unpardonable Sin, in a woman's eyes--the crime -against her honour. To have won her, kissed her, cast her aside--that is -in the heart of a woman to forgive. But not the other. He had betrayed -her. Not only that, but he had stabbed to the very soul of her love. The -sight of the weak man, who had added this crowning outrage to the -havoc he had wrought in her life, goaded her into madness. The very -tenderness, with which she had but lately regarded him, made the -revulsion all the stronger. - -“Oh God! I could kill you! I could kill you!” she had cried. - -He had turned white to the lips, scared at the transformation of the -calm, subdued woman into the fierce, quivering creature with glittering -eyes and passion-strung words. The eternal, wild, savage woman, -repressed for years in the depths of her soul, had leapt out upon him -to rend him in her mad anger. She had pointed to the door, stamping her -foot, driven him out of her sight. At the door he had paused, and looked -at her with a strange mingling of manhood and submission in his eyes. - -“I deserve my punishment--but I am not all bad. And so help me God, -Kitty, my offer will hold good at any moment of my life!” - -He had gone. She was alone, pacing the room, still shaken with the storm -of elemental fury. - -At last exhaustion weakened her. She drew aside the curtain before her -bed, and threw herself down shivering with the shame that was eating -into her bones. - -“Oh, my God!” she moaned, “Oh, my God! That he should have learned--from -him--” - -She drew the sides of the pillow tight about her face. It was agony -of degradation. Her body shuddered at the thought of his contempt, the -shattering of his faith in her, the man's revolt at the brutality of the -revelation. She had been dragged through the mire before his eyes. In -her degradation she saw herself the object of his loathing. - -The sharp striking of the little Swiss clock on her writing-table roused -her. She raised a drawn face and looked in its direction. It was only -eleven. She had thought hours had passed while she had lain there -shivering. A little sense of dismay crept over her. If those few minutes -had passed like hours, what would be the length of the hours themselves -that had to be lived through that day? - -If only she had sent him that letter, she thought bitterly. She -might have fallen in his eyes, but not to those depths. He would have -understood. The tremulous hope that his love would remain unclouded had -sustained her. If only she could have spoken. A cynical irony seemed to -govern the world. - -She went to the window and looked into the street. A sudden impulse -to go out of doors into the open air came over her and as quickly died -away. She could not bear to walk along the street or in the public -gardens--before hundreds of human eyes. Her soul felt naked and ashamed. -If it had been country, where she could have gone and hidden herself in -a quiet far-off corner, and laid her face upon the grass, and let the -tree-branches whisper to her alone, it would have been different. She -shrank from the contact of men and women--and yet her heart sank with a -despairing sense of loneliness. - -The consciousness of it came with a shock, as to one, who, on a North -Country fell, suddenly finds himself isolated from outer things by an -impenetrable mist. She hurried away from the window, sat down, through -sheer physical weariness, on the chair by her writing-table, and buried -her face in her hands. - -A servant brought up a note. A fearful pang shot through her that -it might be from Raine. The first glance showed her Hockmaster's -handwriting. The envelope bore the printed heading of one of the -_cafés_. - -“If you have any pity, forgive me,”--it ran. “That I told you of my fault -is proof of my earnest desire to begin a new life as regards you. I -would give years of my life to win a kind word from you. All that -was best and straightest in me spoke to you, Kitty. I am intensely -miserable.” - -She crumpled up the note and threw it aside. His misery indeed! - -She looked at the clock. Half-past eleven. The thought came to her that -all her life was to drag along at this pace, endless minutes to each -hour. - -The heat of her resentment against Hockmaster cooled down, but the -poignancy of her shame remained. The impulsive hope that had risen at -the first sight of the letter left a train of new reflections. How could -she ever meet Raine again? - -She rose once more, and resumed her weary, restless movements about the -room. - -“Never, never!” she cried. “His eyes would kill me--he would be kind--Oh -God! I couldn't bear it. I would rather have him curse me! I would -rather have him strike me! Oh, Raine, Raine, my darling, my love! I -would have told you all--and you would have judged me from my own lips. -You would not have put me from you. But this degradation--” - -She was carrying death in her heart. She could not conceive the survival -of his love. Men--unlike women--could not love, when once love had -been turned to scorn. If they met, he would be considerate, kind, even -pitiful. The thought of his contemptuous pity scorched her. The picture -of him rose before her, frank, generous, honourable. She stopped short, -as an agitating possibility occurred to her. - -Might not quixotism lead him to renew his offer? - -The idea haunted her, and gathering strength from her knowledge and her -idealized conception of his nature, grew into a conviction. For a moment -she gave herself up to the temptation of taking him at his word. She -loved him with every yearning fibre in her body. Without him life was an -appalling waste. It would be enough for her merely to be with him, seek -now and then a caress from his hand. - -But then came the passionate recoil. She shuddered, put up her hands -before her face. - -“Never!” she cried again. “I would rather die! My ignominy in his eyes -is eternal. It would drag him down. He is too good to have a millstone -like that tied around his neck.” - -Yet the longing swept through her again, and her mind swayed to and -fro. The hours crept on. She refused an offer of food made her by the -servant. She felt as if it would choke her. She would ring if she wanted -any later. - -What was she to do? Her aching head throbbed as if it would burst. -Hockmaster's note met her glance. She read it again. And this time -she smoothed it out and replaced it slowly on the table. Her anger was -dulled by despair. Nothing remained of her vehement indignation. It was -the back-swing of the pendulum. - -What was she to do? Raine she could never meet face to face. Yet the -whole woman in her yearned to meet him. She must cut herself adrift, -vanish wholly from his life. Destiny seemed to point out the course she -must follow. She sat down, her chin in her hands, brooding over it until -the sense of fatefulness numbed her mind. Fate had brought her back this -other from the dark back ward of time. He had changed her life once. Was -it not meant that he should fulfil the work he had begun? She must marry -him. Raine would be saved. It would be a life of sadness, self-sacrifice. -But then women were born for it. - -Like many another woman, she was driven by an hour's despair to commit -herself to a life-long unhappiness. She had counted the cost, and, -unlike a man, blindly resolved to pay it. It is part of a woman's nature -to trust herself to the irreparable. Katherine went to her table -and wrote two letters--one to each man. The pen flew quickly, her -intelligence illuminated by a false light. She sealed them, rang the -bell, despatched them by the servant. It was done. She had burned her -ships, committed herself irrevocably. A period of dull calm followed, -during which she pretended to eat some food that she ordered, and read -unintelligently an article in a review. But at last the words swam -before her eyes. The review fell to the ground. The agony of her life -came upon her, and she broke down utterly. - -Felicia in the next room was humming an air. She had returned from her -walk with Raine and was taking off her things. If she had been called -upon suddenly to name the air, it would have slipped like a waking dream -from her memory. The mingled altruistic and personal feelings of the -past two hours had lifted her into an exalted mood, which was not -altogether joyous. She was passing through one of those rare moments, -when a young impressionable girl lives spiritually, without definite -consciousness of personal needs, in a certain music of the soul. A -sexual manifestation transcendentalized, if one pushes inquiry to the -root of things. The magic of her sex had drawn the pain from a strong -man's eyes and had touched his inner self. - -Suddenly a sound struck upon her ear and the song died upon her lips. -She listened, puzzled. It came again, a moan and a choking sob. Already -somewhat overwrought, she held her breath, instinctively seeking some -clue of association. She grasped it with a rush of emotion. Once she -had heard that cry before, from a woman's depths, on the evening of poor -little Miss Bunter's tragedy. - -It was Katherine, on the other side of the wooden partition, crying her -heart out. Fibres within the girl were strangely stirred, filling her -with a great, yearning pity. At some moments of their lives women -can touch the stars. Moved by an uncontrollable impulse she went out, -knocked at Katherine's door and entered. - -Katherine rose, looked at her half-bewildered; then the magnetism of the -sympathy in Felicia's eyes and impulsively outstretched arms attracted -her involuntarily. She made a step forward, and, with a little cry, -half-sob, half-welcome, gave herself up to Felicia's clasp. - -“I heard you. I had to come,” said Felicia. Katherine did not reply. For -a long time they sat together without speaking, the elder woman's misery -turned to sadness by the sweet and sudden tenderness. She cried softly -in the girl's arms. - -“It was good of you to come,” she said at last. “I had broken down-- -utterly broken down.” - -“I felt it,” answered Felicia gently. She smoothed Katherine's ruffled -fair hair with a light touch and kissed her forehead. - -“It will come right in time, dear.” - -But Katherine shook her head. - -“Some things are final, irrevocable. The sun goes out of one's heart for -ever and ever.” - -“Could I do nothing for you? Practically I mean. You see, I know--a -word--it might be in my power--” - -She hesitated, touching upon delicate ground. Katherine lifted a -tear-stained face, and looked at her curiously. - -“You love him--and yet you would help me?” - -“Because he loves you, dear,” said Felicia. “And because it has come -upon me that I have been doing you a great wrong--in thinking badly of -you.” - -“What has made you think better of me?” - -“Intuition, I suppose--and when I seemed to realize what his love for -you meant. He could only love what was worthy of him.” - -“That is why he can love me no more,” said Katherine in a low voice. - -She paused for a moment, her breath coming quickly. Then she continued -hurriedly, twining her fingers in a nervous clasp: “Things have happened -that make it impossible for him to care for me--I shall never see -him again. I am going away this afternoon--see,”--she pointed to a -dressing-bag packed, but still open, lying on the table. “And I shall -pass out of his life altogether.” - -“But I don't understand!” cried Felicia, in grieved dismay. “What could -make him cease to love you?” - -“I have not been what the world calls a good woman, Felicia. God knows -I have paid the penalty already--but the bitterest penalty of all is yet -to be paid--the surrender of the longed-for Paradise, that only a woman -who has lived as I have done can long for. Oh, my child, my dear, tender -little girl, the way of the world is made hard for women sometimes.” - -“Why should the women always suffer?” asked Felicia. - -“Why? God knows. It is life.” - -“If I were a man,” said Felicia, with a glow in her eyes, “I would think -it dastardly to let a woman suffer, if I loved her.” - -“There are some things that kill love,” replied Katherine bitterly. - -“Has Raine told you so?” - -“Ah, no. He is too generous.” - -“Then how do you know?” - -“My dear, when you leave a cut flower in the sun you know it will be -withered up. There is no need for you to watch it to make sure.” - -“But--if he still loves you? He did last night--he did this morning.” - -Katherine gently laid her hand on the girl's lips. - -“Hush! I told you. What I have done can't be undone.” - -“But you love him, Katherine,” Felicia burst out impetuously. - -“Don't you see I am signing my death-warrant?” cried Katherine. - -Her voice vibrated and she looked at Felicia with shining eyes--“I shall -love him till I die, as the best and wisest man of men that has ever -walked the earth.” - -She rose, crossed the room, came back and laid her hands upon Felicia's -shoulders, and looked into her young, wondering eyes. - -“Dear,” she said, “I shall always remember what you have done for -me to-day. When you came in, I thought my heart was broken--but your -tenderness stole over me like a charm--and now you see I can talk -quite sensibly, and smile, just like my own self again. You must bid -me good-bye, dear. I must go soon. But what I want to tell you is this. -Think kindly of me--ah, don't you cry, child--there has been enough of -tears to-day--think of me, dear, as a sister-woman, who stepped aside -once out of the beaten track and for whom fate has been too much. And, -Felicia dear, when I am gone--it will take very, very little to make -Raine love you--” - -“Ah, no!” cried Felicia passionately. - -But Katherine smiled her sad, self-controlled smile. - -“All, yes! He cannot help loving you--and so God give you happiness.” - -“I can't bear you to go like this. I can't bear it!” cried Felicia. - -“We all have to work out our destiny,” said Katherine. “Now good-bye, -dear--God bless you.” - -A few moments later, Katherine was alone again, finishing her -preparations for departure. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI.--FELICIA VICTRIX. - -“What you have learned about me,” Katherine had written to Raine, “I was -to have told you last night. I had written to you a long letter, but I -was too weak to send it. I resolved to tell it to your own ears. But it -was impossible for me to speak to you last night for I was suffering too -much. - -“My story is a simple one. Married to a man many years my -senior--treated with a mild gravity which my girlish wilfulness took for -harshness--a great many tears--a great longing for the tenderness that -never came--a gay, buoyant nature meeting mine, changing, it seemed, my -twilight into sunshine--and then--what you know. - -“Do not judge me harshly, Raine. But forget me. Forget that I came and -troubled your life. Even were my name free from blemish, I am not good -enough to be your wife. Forget me, and take to your heart one who will -make you happier than I could have done--one younger, sweeter, purer. -And she loves you. Let her win you. - -“I have suffered much to be able to write this. It is a farewell. To -meet you would be too great pain for us both. This morning, as you know, -I saw Mr. Hockmaster, and I have promised to marry him. Fate rules -these things for us. To the day of my death I shall pray for your -happiness.--K.S.” - -Raine's face grew hard as he read the letter. A man quickly wearies of -successive emotions. His self-pride asserts itself and makes him -rebel against falling into weaknesses of feeling. He had been angry at -allowing himself to be drawn towards Felicia, and a natural reaction -of loyalty to Katherine had followed. Now this was checked by her calm, -unimpassioned words and the astounding intelligence of her engagement -to Hockmaster. He was completely staggered. To his dismay, he became -conscious of an awful void in his life. It seemed to be filled with -purposeless shadows. He set his teeth and wrapped his strong man's pride -about him. The thought of himself as John a' Dreams was a lash to his -spirit. He crumpled up the paper in his hands and strode to and fro in -his room. - -She was to marry Hockmaster. It was incredible, preposterous, except -on one hypothesis--the recrudescence of the old passion that had swept -aside the social barriers for this man's sake. It was the most galling -thought of all, it racked him, drew him down to a lower plane of -feeling, blinded his clear insight into delicate things. Perhaps if a -man did not sink lower than himself on some occasions, he could not rise -higher than himself on others. - -He drew a chair to the open French window. The room, being on the top -storey, had no balcony, but a wrought-iron balustrade fixed on the -outside of the jambs. He leant his arms over it and looked into the -familiar street. He hated it. Geneva was intolerable. As soon as his -father was able to travel, he would shake the dust of it from off his -feet. A bantering letter had come that morning from his cousin, Mrs. -Monteith, at Oxford. A phrase or two passed through his mind. Was he -going to bring back two brides or half a one? - -“How damned vulgar women can be at times!” he exclaimed angrily, and he -rose with impatience from his chair, as if to drive Mrs. Monteith from -his thoughts. - -He unrolled Katherine's crumpled letter and read it through again. Then -he thrust it into his pocket and decided to go and sit with his father. - -But, before he could reach the door, a knock was heard. He opened it, -and to his surprise found Felicia. - -“You--is my father--?” - -“No. I want to speak to you. Can I?” - -“Do you mind coming in? It is not very untidy.” - -He held the door for her to pass in, then he closed it and came up to -her enquiringly. Felicia stood in the middle of the room, with her hands -behind her back, a favourite attitude. Her dark cheeks were flushed and -her sensitive lips were parted, quivering slightly. - -“It's about Katherine!” she burst out suddenly. “Please let me talk, or -I shall not be able to say what I want to. Since last night--when you -kissed me--I have thought I might come to you--as your sister might--and -because I care for you like that, I feel I can tell you. I have just -been with Katherine. She is going away this afternoon.” - -“At once?” asked Raine, startled at the apparent rapidity of events. - -“Yes. Are you sending her away?” - -“I? Oh no.” - -“But why must she go, Raine? Tell me; need she go?” - -“Katherine is mistress of her own actions.” - -“Then you don't care?” - -She looked at him earnestly, with moist eyes. There was a note of -passion in her voice, to which Raine, sympathetic, found himself -responding. - -“What is the use of my caring, since she is going of her own accord -without a word from me?” - -“But a word from you would make her stay.” - -“What do you know about all this?” he asked abruptly. - -“I know that you have broken her heart,” said Felicia. “Oh! knowing -her--and loving her--it is hard not to forgive.” - -“There is no question of forgiveness,” replied Raine. “Did she tell you -I would not forgive her?” - -“No. A woman does not need to be _told_ these things--she knows them and -feels them. Must a woman always, always, always suffer? Why can't a man -be great and noble sometimes--like Christ who forgave?” - -“But, my dear child, you are talking wildly,” cried Raine earnestly. -“God knows there is nothing to forgive. I knew long ago a shadow had -been cast over her life--and I loved her. A strange freak of destiny -brought the man here--last night, accidentally, he told me the -details--and I loved her. I have not seen her. It is not I who drive her -away. Read that, and you can see it is not I.” - -He thrust the letter into her hand, and watched her as she read. -Four-and-twenty hours ago, he would as soon have thought of crying his -heart's secrets aloud in the public streets, as of delivering them into -the keeping of this young girl. But now it seemed natural. Her exalted -mood had infected him, lifted him on to an unconventional plane. - -The blood rushed to her cheeks as she read the lines in which reference -was made to herself. When she had finished, she looked at him with a -strange light in her eyes. - -“And you are satisfied with this?” she said quickly. - -“I am dumfounded by it. She has promised to marry this man.” - -“And can't you see why? Isn't it as clear to you as the noonday?” - -“The old love is stronger, I suppose.” - -“Raine!” cried the girl, in ringing reproach. “How dare you say that, -think it even? Can't you see the agony that letter has cost her? To -me it is quivering in every line. Why did you let that man go to her -instead of yourself? Oh, heavens! if I were a man, and such a thing -had happened regarding the woman I loved, I should have lain outside her -door all night to guard her--I should have seen her, if hell-fire had -been between us. But you let her suffer. You put your pride above your -love, like a man--you were silent. You let her hear from this man that -you knew--you left her to grapple with her shame alone.” - -Felicia walked about the room like a young lioness. The words came in -a flood. In the championing of her sister-woman she lost sense -of conventional restrictions. Raine was no longer Raine, but the -typefication of a sex against which she was battling for her own. - -“Can't you read into it all?” she continued. “Can't you see the -degradation she seemed to have fallen into in your eyes? But you only -think of yourself--of _your_ pride--of the bloom brushed off from _your_ -ideal. Never a thought for her--of the god hurled from her heaven. She -would marry this man to cut herself adrift from you, to get out of your -life without further troubling it--to ease your conscience, lest it -should ever prick you for having left her. She is marrying him because -her heart is broken--who else but a noble, high-souled woman could have -written this letter? I better than she! Oh, Raine--if you have a spark -of love for her left--go and throw yourself at her knees, before it is -too late.” - -Her voice broke towards the end. The strain was telling on her. She -sank for rest upon the chair by the window, and laid her burning cheek -against the iron balustrade. Raine came to her side. - -“You can thrash me a little more, if you like.” - -But the familiar, kindly tone suddenly awoke Felicia to the sense of -their relations. She hung her head, confused. - -“Forgive me,” she said. “I ought not to have spoken like that to you--I -lost control over myself. You mustn't think of what I have said.” - -“I'll think of it all through my life, Felicia,” said Raine. - -A silence fell upon them. The girl was shaken and weary. Raine was -confronting a new hope, that made his heart beat. - -“Raine,” she said, after a while. - -He did not reply. She looked up, and saw him staring into the street. - -“By God!” he cried, suddenly, and before Felicia could realize what he -was doing, he had seized his hat from the table and had rushed from the -room, leaving the door open. - -Felicia leant over the balustrade, and looked down. Katherine was there, -near the corner, in the act of giving over her dressing-bag to a lad in -a blue blouse, who had offered his services. Felicia watched until she -saw Raine emerge beneath the archway, stride like a man possessed after -Katherine, catch her up, and lay his hand upon her arm, as she turned -a startled face towards him. Then the tears came into her eyes, and she -left the window and went down to her own room, where she locked herself -in and cried miserably. Such is the apparently inconsequent way of -women. - -“Katherine,” said Raine, when he came up with her. She stopped, and -looked at him speechlessly. - -“I have just caught you in time,” he said, with masculine brusqueness. -“We must talk together. Come into the Gardens.” - -“I can't,” she replied, hurriedly. “My train--” - -“You can miss your train. Where are you going?” - -“Lausanne,” she answered, weakly, with lowered eyes. - -“There are quantities of trains. Come.” He drew her arm gently. She -obeyed, powerless to resist. He found a seat away from the promenade. -An old peasant was dozing at one end, and a mongrel was stretched at his -feet. They were practically alone. The old man in his time had seen many -English and innumerable pairs of lovers. Neither interested him. He did -not even deign to turn a lustreless eye in their direction. The boy with -the dressing-bag had meekly followed them, and stood by, politely, cap -in hand. Did madame want him to wait with the bag? - -“No,” replied Raine, pulling a franc from his pocket. “Take it to the -_concierge_ at the Pension Boccard.” - -Katherine half rose, agitated. - -“No, no. I must go to Lausanne. You mustn't keep me.” - -But the boy had dashed off, clutching his franc-piece. Raine bent down -till the ends of his moustache nearly brushed her veil. - -“I will keep you, Katherine, until you tell me you love me no longer.” - -“Don't torture me,” she said, piteously. “That is why I tried to avoid -meeting--to spare us both. I knew your generosity.” - -“My generosity,” echoed Raine, with effective interruption. “My longing, -my needs, the happiness of my life! If you care for me, it is not -torturing you to tell you I love you--I can't live a man's life without -you. When I first read your letter, it crushed the soul out of me. I did -not understand; afterwards I did. Some day you shall learn how. I love -you, Katherine, need you, yearn for you.” - -His passion grew as he looked at her, watching the faint colour come and -go on the face beneath the veil. She seemed too fragile and delicate -for the rude buffetings of the world. An immense wave of emotion swept -through him. It was his indefeasible right to protect her, cherish her, -hold her in his arms, close to him. - -And Katherine was trembling, every chord in her vibrated. She could not -speak. She flashed on him a quick, sidelong, feminine glance, and -met his eyes fixed upon her. They were blue and strong, half-fierce, -half-tender. The man's will and longing were in them. She shrank, and yet -she looked again, loving him for their intensity. Raine spoke on as -he had never known it had been in his power to speak. The old peasant -dozed, regardless of their presence or of that of a little dusty child -who squatted down by him to play with the dog. Through the trees and -shrubs in front could be seen glimpses of white dresses, scraps of the -passers-by on the path along the quay. But this quiet, somewhat unkempt -corner remained undisturbed. - -“I can't, I can't,” said Katherine, at last. - -“I have pledged myself--I can't go back.” - -“I will settle that matter,” he replied, with a half smile. “Leave it -to me. Men understand one another. You are mine, Katherine, my darling, -mine, my wife--if you love me.” - -The tenderness of his voice thrilled through her. She raised her eyes to -his, this time to be held there. - -“Love you!” - -He read her lips rather than heard them. - -“And nothing again shall part us? You will marry me, Katherine?” - -All the woman in her cried “yes,” but it also held her back. - -“Will you love me in after years as now, Raine? Will you never come to -think that this shame that has come to me was deserved? Think of it, -dear, in your clear, honest way. You will never come to feel that you -have given all your wealth for what, like most men, you should have -trodden under foot? Your life's happiness--mine--depend upon your -answering it from your heart of hearts, dear. Judge me now for ever and -ever.” - -“As God hears me,” said Raine, with the love in his voice. “To me you -are ever the purest and the noblest and tenderest of women. You love me -with a woman's love and I with a man's; and we will love soul to soul, -dear, till we die. Our love, dear, is as sacred to me as the ghost -I buried in it a few weeks ago. All this will be like a troubled -dream--all the past, darling, in both our lives as shadows. Thank God!” - -He put his arms suddenly round her, drew her to him, and kissed her. -For both of them the world stood still, and the commonplace gardens were -Eden, and the old peasant nodded his weatherbeaten head, and the mongrel -and the dusty child looked on unastonished, like the beasts when the -first apple was eaten. - -Raine went, an hour or so after, to the Hôtel National and found -Hockmaster outside, cultivating a dinner appetite with sherry and -bitters. He jumped up when he perceived his visitor, and came towards -him. - -“Hello, Chetwynd! This is real friendly of you. Come and sit down--join -me.” - -Raine accepted the seat, but declined the sherry. - -“Do you mind my asking you a very intimate question?” asked Raine. - -“As many as you like,” said Hockmaster, with naïve effusion. “I have -given you a sort of right to be familiar. Of course, whether I answer it -is a matter for my discretion.” - -“Precisely. But I hope you will. Are your feelings very deeply engaged -in this affair with Mrs. Stapleton?” - -“Sir,” said Hockmaster. “I've repaired a wrong that has set at rest a -damned uneasy conscience.” - -“From which I gather you have obeyed your conscience rather than your -heart,” said Raine. - -“I am going to be married,” replied Hockmaster, between the first puffs -of a cigar he was lighting. “Perhaps you may not know that. So I guess -I'd better fall back upon discretion. It is best in affairs between man -and wife.” - -“Yes, but suppose it was broken off?” - -“What? My marriage?” - -He stretched himself out in a comfortable attitude, his hands behind his -head, and regarded Raine placidly. - -“What sort of interest can the concerns of a worm like me have for you?” - -“Every interest in the world,” replied Raine, flushing. “If it's merely -a question of conscience on your part, I have no scruple in asking you -to release Mrs. Stapleton from her engagement.” - -“Did she send you?” - -“Yes.” - -“Tell you any reason?” - -Hockmaster's tone irritated Raine. He rose quickly, thrusting his straw -hat to the back of his head, and stood over the recumbent American, with -his hands on his hips. - -“Yes, she did. Mrs. Stapleton is going to marry me.” - -The words brought the other to his feet with a force that nearly upset -the small table in front of him. - -“God alive, man!” he cried, realizing the whole situation in a rush. -“Why on earth didn't you tell me before?” - -The two men looked into one another's eyes. It was Raine who was first -disconcerted. The intense distress of the other was too genuine for him -not to feel touched. - -“You're the first man for years,” said Hockmaster, “that I have felt -drawn to in friendship; and I have been powerfully drawn to you. I would -have cut off my head sooner than said or done anything to pain you Why -didn't you stop me this morning?” - -“I tried to dissuade you.” - -Hockmaster threw away his extinct cigar, and put his hands in his -pockets dejectedly. - -“Yes, you did so; and I went on running knives into you. Why didn't you -pitch me into the lake last night? I wish to God you'd do it now.” - -“We will forget all that,” said Raine, kindly. - -“You may, but I shan't. And she--for heaven's sake, ask her to forgive -me. I was trying to do my best. You believe that, don't you?” - -“With all my heart,” said Raine. - -“And I'll tell you, Chetwynd,” continued Hockmaster, with a truer ring -of feeling in his voice than Raine had ever perceived, “I meant to be a -good man to her, to put down my cloak over every puddle in life for her -to walk upon, to make her just as happy as I could. But I guess I've -been a blamed fool. I've been a blamed fool all my life. First thing I -remember was running away from school to live in the woods. At first it -was glorious. Then it rained all night, and I crawled back next morning -sick and miserable, and was put to bed for a month. I reckon I'll go -home. My White Lead Company's going to burst like all the other bubbles. -I heard this morning. An hour ago I thought, 'Anyway, I've found a good -friend and a wife in Europe.' Now that's gone. But she'll be happy. -You're worth twenty million of me. You won't see me again. I suppose I'm -the sorriest man standing on the earth at the present moment; but you -won't think worse of me than I am, will you?” - -He looked sideways at Raine, in his odd, appealing way. - -“Upon my soul,” cried Raine, in an outburst of generous feeling, -grasping him by the shoulder, “I don't know whether you are not one of -the most lovable men I have ever met!” - -Raine walked back to the pension with love in his heart towards all -mankind. God was in his heaven. All was right with the world. - -He found Katherine and Felicia in the salon waiting for dinner, in -company with Mme. Popea and Frau Schultz. Mme. Popea cried out on seeing -him,--“Another happy one! What has made you all look so beatified?” - -“The eternal beauty of humanity,” returned Raine, with a smile. - -“And you have caught the plague of epigrams,” said Frau Schultz. “I -asked Miss Graves why she had such a colour, and she said, 'because the -world seemed wider to-day.' It's a new language.” - -“It is the turn of madame,” said Mme. Popea, in her vivacious way. - -Katherine laughed. - -“This is not a parlour game, you know. But perhaps it is because I am -going to dine.” - -Raine's heart leapt at the little touch of gaiety. His eyes showed her -his gladness. A stream of the other guests entered. She took advantage -of the sudden filling of the salon to draw him to her side. A glance -asked a tremulous question. He reassured her with a whisper, and they -went out on to the balcony. - -“I have told my father,” said Raine. “He will love you, dear.” - -She pressed his arm for answer. There was a long silence, which Raine, -half divining her mood, would not break. At last he said, lover-wise,-- - -“Tell me your thoughts, beloved.” - -“I was thinking that I have lived thirty-one years, and I have never -known till now what even freedom from care was. I seemed blinded by the -light, like the prisoners let out from the Bastille. There is something -awful in such happiness.” - -“It shall be with you to the end,” said Raine. - -“I know it,” she replied. - -Then, after a pause,-- - -“I have told Felicia. Do you mind?” - -“We owe her a great debt,” said Raine. “She came to me this afternoon, -after leaving you.” - -The blood rose in Katherine's cheeks, and she looked up timidly into his -face. - -“I think I shall bring her here to you. You will know what to say to -her.” - -She disappeared for a moment by the open window, and then returned with -Felicia, whom she left with Raine. He came forward, and took both her -hands in his. - -“How can I ever repay you?” - -“You have done too much for me already,” said Felicia. - -There was a little combat of generous words. - -The dinner-gong sounded the end of the talk. - -“And the Pension Boccard,” he said; “you will have some pleasant -memories of it?” - -“Ah, yes. I owe too much to it.” - -“How?” asked Raine. - -“You may think it an odd thing to say, but it seems to have changed me -from a girl into a woman.” - -“Does that bring you happiness?” - -“I don't know,” replied Felicia, musingly. - -And then, after a pause,-- - -“I think so.” - -THE END. - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Study In Shadows, by William J. 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